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wind-becomes-lightning · 2 years

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Home for the Holidays

This is for the Hidden Shinobi Hideout Holiday exchange! <3 My gift goes to @kankuroplease!! I was soo lucky to draw my dear dear friend. Merry Christmas!

Dearest C. I'm so happy I had you for this end of year exchange so i can give you one last gift before the year ends! I am so very fortunate that you decided to conatct me in March and work with me, when I was until then just a big fan from afar. I used to be so intimidated by you and so scared to even send you messages even after we started collaborating. It is weird that I thought you are too proud to talk to most people and that I would just be abother, when in reality you really just want to be nerdy with other people. I had so much fun with you this year, when we were 3 and now that we are only 2 still. I am so proud to have you as a friend, so thankful to be able to rant to you for whatever I want to rant about, for every little drawing you've made for me during this year, for your company and support. I wish you a great Christmas Day today and hope we continue this friendship into the next year (and beyond!) Cant wait for our art collab and whatever we cook up together next. I love you, sending you many hugs. Thank you for being in my life.

Set in KPZ's Tattoo Shop / Yakuza AU

Aburame Shino X OC

very very brief mention of naru x saku x sasu and kaka x obi x rin

Rated T (alcohol mention)

6246 words

Back from her world travels in Japan Katsura runs into an old friend she hasn't seen in a while.

When Katsura opened the door and the little jingle went off to alert the members inside of another visitor, she couldn’t help but sigh at the wave of nostalgia radiating from the view of what was inside. The tattoo parlour looked exactly the way she had last seen it, down to the black and red leather interior. This felt more like coming home than stepping foot into Konoha had.

What was different, however, was how empty it was. There was nothing of the usual hustle that came with clients, usually yakuza members, entering and leaving the parlour, demanding this tattoo or that. Katsura hadn’t been here often while she still lived in this part of the city, but often enough to get used to it.

Now there was only Sai sitting at his usual place, deeply focused on cleaning his usual work tools. Katsura didn’t know much about him, not beyond what Sakura had told her. Sai hadn’t gone to school with them and since she had mainly been travelling since graduation, she had never really met him except for in passing.

Most of the year Katsura found herself in the hot and humid climate of the south american rainforest or in the dry, cold and stormy mountains in north america. Sometimes she hiked through thick dark forests in central Europe and then, on occasion, she was also back in Asia like right now. And when she was in Asia, she often took at least one detour to Japan, until it took her to another continent again. Someone had to check up on her sister sometime, especially since she was living in such a dangerous territory.

“Hi,” Katsura said and stepped next to Sai. “Uh- ‘s Sakura around?”

Sai looked up and closed his eyes to a smile. “In the back,” he pointed to the door at the back of the studio. “But I would not go there right now.”

She considered this. On one hand the very limited things she knew about Sai told her that he was not going to lie about stuff like that. Sakura had said several times over the phone that the Sai was almost too brutally honest for his own good. If he wasn’t under Yamato’s and by extension Kakashi’s protection it could have landed him in a hotbed several times before. On the other hand Sakura had asked Katsura to come round at this exact time and might just be in the back getting ready to go out.

It was worth trying it out, she decided and nodded to Sai: “I’ll check anyway.” The other just shrugged his shoulders and went back to cleaning his tools.

The door to the backroom was only leaning and Katsura could easily push it open with a few fingers. She heard things before she saw them. The low hums and moans, the sucking noise that reminded her of a vacuum cleaner, the whispered words. Right then her fight or flight reflex kicked in and her brain violently went forward and back between just turning around or seeing what was going on.

If only the flight reflex had won. If only. Instead, she felt compelled to check. Katsura pushed the door open just a little more, a few more inches so she could look easier through it and then let out a gasp at the image in front of her eyes. Sakura was there indeed, sandwiched in the middle of what seemed to be Sasuke and Naruto. One had his head buried in her neck and one at her throat on the front.

The gasp had been louder than she had intended to and Sakura’s eyes flew open and to the door, but Katsura had already turned on her heel. “I told you,” Sai said calmly as she ran by, but she didn’t feel it dignified an answer.

She was angry, flying with rage and shame. Sakura had been her friend since childhood, for years! She had told Katsura to come by at this time so they could play catchup, and then decided to engage in such things with those guys. Naruto especially always gave Katsura this ick that she could not explain. He was too excited for his own good, too oblivious at the world around him, naive to a fault.

Uh, she should have known that these people knew no shame. When she was young, Katsura had stayed away from this parlour which was then owned by Naruto’s parents. They had already been notorious for the shady stuff that was going on there, so of course the new owner just let this business continue. It was also no surprise to her that the employees would be doing such disgusting things at the workplace, since they lacked any structure.

What was it with people and their excessive need to be horny all the time anyway? She had travelled all over the world and never met anyone that she felt incredibly drawn toward. Men could be handsome and women could be beautiful, but nobody was “I wish I could undress this person in a public place”- handsome or beautiful.

She stomped out of the store and back into the snow that lay heavy and thick in front of it. It was cold here in Konoha, way too cold for her that had just returned from South America without an adequate winter jacket. But in her defence, she did think that she was just meeting a friend for a lunch date and that would most likely happen inside. She didn’t think that she would have to spend so much time outside.

Distracted by her own anger she saw the wall only when her head was already crashing into it. A big, grey wall that had appeared right in the middle of the sidewalk. Katsura stumbled backward and then found herself steadied by an arm before her feet could slip on the ice.

“I’m sorry, you seem to have crashed into me,” a male voice said in a low timber and Katsura looked up to realise the wall was not a wall at all, but just a very tall human man in a grey long coat. She hummed and then went back onto her feet with a mumbled thank you.

It took her a moment to recognise him, or better said, she only recognised him when she followed his chin up to the sunglasses on his nose. There was only one person she’d ever known who wore sunglasses inside the house. Well, two, him and his father.

“Oh – It is you Shino,” she said and put her head on her neck to look up to him. Had he always been this incredibly tall? He seemed twice her height.

She couldn’t see his eyes moving underneath his shades but she imagined them narrowing as he scanned the length of her. “Katsura.” He said it like he had just decided on that name for her. Then: “Nice to see that you are back.”

Katsura waved with her hand. Shino and her had always had a very peculiar relationship. They had both been obsessed with bugs since they were kids, cataloguing and analysing them and hunting and freeing them and most of all defending them from annoying bug-haters. But he had slighted her as a kid, which she had never really forgiven him, no matter how nice he had turned out to be later.

“I was in Brazil”, she said. “Got myself a tan and a new tropical ladybug species.” She grinned. She couldn’t help but brag.

He let out a low chuckle, which took her completely by surprise. “I’ve seen your pictures on social media. Congratulations, that was a great find.”

Despite the cold her cheeks warmed. “T-Thanks.” She didn’t know what else to say.

“I’ve become an Entomologist too, but I specialise in Greater Japan or rather this area. Preservation rather than exploration.” A smile appeared on his face. “Though I can’t help but be a little jealous. That butterfly you found in the Rocky Mountains? Outstanding grey colours.”

Katsura huffed and shook her head. “Oh, I’m sure what you do is great too. Though - that butterfly really was incredibly interesting. Did you know it can survive even at lower altitudes?”

“I do now.” Shino put his hands in his pocket. She watched as she waved her arms to explain to him how this species specifically had adjusted so well to its surroundings and how it was- in fact - masterful in what it did.

After a while her hands felt so cold that she shuddered, which did not escape his keen eyes, sunglasses or not. “I would love to hear more,” he said softly, “but maybe we should go inside. What do you think about going to a cafe?”

Caught off guard a little she stammered: “Uh- Uh, I had- a thing…” but then she remembered what Sakura was doing right now instead of their meeting and her eyes hardened for a moment. “Sure, I’d love to. I have all the time in the world.”

Shino picked a cafe at the very border of Uchiha territory, just a street down the Hyuuga were ruling the underworld. It was run by a local that Katsura did not know and was cosy enough to feel warm and homely even on a snowy, cold day like this.

“Wow, what a lucky pick!” she said as she sat down in the big red seats. “A place like this is a real find.”

He took his coat off. “Yes, it is beautiful. I thought it would be perfect.”

Well any cafe would have been perfect really, she thought but didn’t say anything.

Instead, she ordered a triple latte coffee because she really needed it after the day she’d had so far and all the jetlag still kind of pulled her underwater. Then she folded her fingers in front of her face and said: “Now, tell me about your job. What is your education? Did you go to University? What bugs are you raising?”

Shino smiled again at her barrage of questions and then he did something she had almost never seen him do: He took his sunglasses off.

This felt like that one time she had seen Kakashi-san without his surgical mask. This revelation that this part of Shino’s body actually existed and that the shades were not a permanent fixture on his face. Just that this time it felt a hundred times more incredible then when she had seen Kakashi.

His eyes were this deep, chocolate kind of brown, almost too incredible brown to be real. The light of the candle on the table was reflected in them like a mirage of light and Katsura had to immediately think of the million fireflies she had once seen on a tour in China. He was handsome with his hair combed back, the kind smile on his face and the shining eyes.

“Is everything alright?” he asked and put his head to the side a little.

Katsura realised her mouth was hanging a little open and closed it quickly. “Yes, sorry..” She didn’t know what got into her. It took her more willpower than she wanted to admit to pull away from his face and remember what questions she had asked him. “So…”

“Right, about my education and work.” He smiled a little to himself, tipping lightly against the porcelain cup in front of him. “I am mostly working locally. We are growing some nearly extinct stag beetle species on our family compound, but so far the amount is still too little for them to be released into the wild…”

His low, calm voice and interesting topic of conversation lulled her a little, especially now that she felt warm and safe. While she was still intently listening, she wondered if he had always been this handsome or if he had just grown up to be. Shino had always been a person she had wanted to be close with, because his family was known to be specialists in insects, but for one reason or another it had never worked out. Mostly because he had slighted her as a kid and she could not forgive.

Turns out Shino did go to university and he had come out with a degree. This was not usual, especially not in their little, yakuza infested city. People often took up a trade that needed no education or straight up did crime. Katsura herself, as she told Shino as soon as he had finished telling his story, had left Konoha without any degree and just started travelling the world on her own merits. Working to earn money locally and then moving on. This way she had seen much more than she had ever planned.

“I’ve always wanted to go.” Shino said with a sigh. “It is incredible to work here where I am from and get to know more and more corners and such. But when I hear your stories it makes me feel like I want to get out more.”

Katsura took a sip of her coffee: “You could always join me on the next expedition.”

He smiled and she almost choked on her coffee accidentally. “I would love to go,” he said calmly. “But I don’t think it's possible.”

They had two more cups of coffee, way too much coffee if one was honest, and then Shino paid -for both of them. The weirdly intimate gesture had Katsura blush and when he held the door open so she could leave before him into the dark evening, she suddenly wondered if this entire thing had been something like a date.

“I can walk you home still, if you want,” Shino offered and closed the zipper of his long coat. The shades were hiding his eyes again.

Katsura had never had a date before. Katsura had not even thought about dating before this But now Shino had invited her for coffee, he had brought her to a cosy place and asked her whereabouts and now he was trying to walk her home? That sure sounded like the end of a date.

She panicked. “Not necessary, I can find my way.” Her eyes avoided his face as much as they could while looking too suspicious. “T-Thanks for the coffee. Maybe I’ll see you around before I leave again.”

“Yes, hopefully,” she heard Shino say from behind as she was already walking away sternly, her heart hamming loud against her chest.

Katsura walked back to her sister's apartment. For a moment she had wondered if she should go back and check the tattoo shop again, to see if Sakura had repented from letting her friend down in such a way as she had, but then Katsura decided against it.

Aori also lived right at the border between Uchiha and Hyuuga district and worked on both sides of the metaphorical fence. Katsura felt like her hands were falling off from the cold as she entered the hallway and turned the key to get inside. Though she was rarely at home, Aori had obviously provided her with her own key anyway. More symbolic than practical.

There was noise coming from the kitchen. The slightly messy, stumbling steps of her sister were mixed up with the low, but always so incredibly loud voice of her boyfriend Might Gai, who, to Katsura’s endless misery, was around most of the evenings now.

It was not like Katsura hated Gai, he was connected enough to keep her sister safe enough and he was kind, and good to her, but his never relenting energy was a drag that Katsura was glad to flee from 96% of the year.

“Hello, young lady!” he waved at her as if she was a street away and not just standing right in front of him. “How was your meeting with your precious friend?”

Katsura let herself fall onto the tatami floor and put her feet under a blanket to warm them up. “She was busy,” she said shortly. “So I met with another old classmate of mine instead.”

She took a mini muffin from the table in front of her. Other than bugs, Katsura loved baking and since Aori could do a lot, but not that, she had spent the morning making muffins for all of them. Yes, even for Gai.

“Wonderful!” Gai let out. “It is great that you are still connected to all the people here. It is important to never forget your youth!”

Aori must have caught Katsura’s frown, because she interjected: “Which friend?”

“Aburame Shino.” Katsura bit into yet another muffin, most definitely spoiling her stomach for dinner, especially after the cakes she had had at the cafe.

“Oh, he is so nice.” Aori put her fingers together. “In summer he sometimes comes to the kindergarten I work at and instructs the children about fireflies and the like. He is really good at that. Very forthcoming and friendly…”

“And he looks quite good too..” Katsura mumbled.

“What?”

Katsura shook herself. “Nothing.”

Gai unfortunately apparently had ears like a bat and so he said: “I think Katsura just commented on the way young Shino has grown up quite handsome indeed.”

“Ah, really, Katsura?” Her sister couldn’t help but grin.

Katsura wasn’t going to take a lecture from Mrs has-a-crush-on-weird-guys so she shoved a few of her own made muffins into the pockets of her hoodie and got up with a “I’m not hungry right now.”

Aori yelled after her that they’d leave the stuff for her on the stove so she could eat later, but Katsura had already disappeared in the room that was currently her bedroom.

At night she dreamed about Shino, which was a bother.

In her dream, Shino took his sunglasses off again to look at her with the chocolate creamy eyes of his to ask her if he could accompany her on her travels. The her that was in the dream had blushed harder than Aori did when Gai gave her a compliment and had accepted with a loud stutter. Both things that were very unlike Katsura in many ways and when she woke up she was annoyed at herself.

Additionally, there were about 40 text messages from Sakura on her phone when she rolled over and picked it up. At least 30 “I’m sorry-s” and then 8 more messages asking Katsura for a new meetup time. The last two contained “I will just come by Aori-nee’s house in the morning before my shift” and then the last “I’ll be there at 10.”

Katsura looked at the clock on her phone. It was 9.50.

She peeled herself out of bed and took the quickest shower known to man to be ready on the couch with the tv running when the door opened and Sakura walked in. Her friend looked a little distressed.

“I’m so sorry!” Sakura said before she even said hello and threw herself down next to Katsura. “You know that feeling, when you think you can remember something without writing it down, but then you don’t remember? Well, that is not an excuse, but it is an explanation and I want you to know how deeply sorry I am.”

That had been about the gist of the 30 text messages too. Katsura let out a sigh. “It’s alright, I noticed you were - busy.”

When Sakura was shy she blushed like a school girl in a rom com, but when she was embarrassed her whole face turned red, right under the line of her cherry blossom hair. “The guys..” she mumbled, “... can be pretty distracting if there is nothing else to do. Especially when the adults are gone. I’m sure you get it.”

Katsura did not get it. What was so special about Uchiha Sasuke and especially Uzumaki Naruto that made them so irresistible? She had never understood how people in this town seemingly had such hots for each other all the time. She shook her head and then shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t, but it’s ok,”

Of course it was not ok for Sakure, who still looked very worried. “Sai told me only hours after you left. When I yelled at him and wanted to know why he didn’t tell me earlier, he said it was because I didn’t ask about it.” Sakura’s eyes hardened. “I will have to tell on him to Ino.”

“But in the end you were the one who forgot anyway. It’s not his fault.” Katsura raised a brow.

Sakura’s face fell once more. “You said you accept my apology.” She grabbed Katsura’s hand again and looked a little teary eyed.

Feeling like she had teased her old friend enough, Katsura smiled. “I do. I do. Look, you are here now and I see you are sorry. I mean, I ended up having a nice afternoon anyway.”

“Oh with Aori-nee?” Sakura also was smiling again.

“No, not with her. I ran into Shino.”

Sakura’s eyes widened a little. “Oh”, she said and it sounded like there was more weight behind the sound.

“Oh?” Katsura asked.

Her friend blinked and then found her usual friendly and calm facial expression again. “Oh I’m just surprised that it was him you ran into.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Did you do something nice?”

“He asked if I wanted to go to a cafe and we did. It was a tiny place, but very nice. We just talked and - why are you looking like this?” Sakura*s calm smile had somehow turned into a grin.

“It’s just… you know, Shino - his interests are so similar to yours, we always kind of thought you should be…close.” Though Sakura had used much more diplomatic words, Katsura knew instantly what she meant with “close.” “But you just didn’t seem interested like that, which is of course alright. I have to admit though, that sometimes I felt like maybe he was.”

Katsura’s lip curled. Shino’s eyes appeared in her mind again, looking at her over the table, the way he had smiled while she talked, taking everything in with a calm she had never seen of anyone else. Had he possibly brought her there for some sort of date after all?

“Impossible,” she said, more to conclude her thoughts than as a reply.

Sakura shrugged her shoulders again. “I just think you guys would match, so maybe it is kind of wishful thinking on my part.”

“Seems like,” Katsura said, trying not to look into her friends’ face while her heartbeat felt so loud in her ears. “I mean its is like you said, I’m just not that kind of person.”

Christmas eve Katsura found herself squished between Aori and Sakura in a karaoke room that seemed way too small for the amount of people inside. In true cross generation fashion, Gai had invited all his friends, mostly Kakashi, his partners and Yamato, while Katsura had invited Sakura, who then had brought Sai, Naruto and Sasuke along. There were too many people in this hot room.

Alcohol had been flowing freely and now Gai, who had one arm wrapped around Aori, was singing passionately, his voice only lightly hitting the right notes. Katsura flinched each time his voice raised a little and wished it could just be Yamato signing again. She did not know the man well, but from the way he behaved and sounded he liked karaoke well enough and was good at it at least to some degree.

There was too much going on and it was hot plus the alcohol started to get to Katsura’s head too. When in foreign countries she sometimes drank with the locals, but not quite as much beer as here and not without eating a ton beforehand. She felt dizzy and tapped Sakura on the shoulder as if to say she was going to take a breather outside.

The room they were in was one of the largest of this newly opened karaoke place. It was in the centre of Uchiha district, not two streets from the tattoo shop Sakura worked at and was allegedly directly operated by Uchiha Shisui, who by all means would become Uchiha clan head someday. Katsura had asked Uchiha Obito, one of Kakashi’s partners, why Shisui, who had a reputation to be rather brutal in his underground activity, had decided to buy a karaoke place, but Obito had only shrugged and said: “Because he felt like it.”

Maybe it was a front for money laundering or whatever, Katsura thought and once again reminded herself not to stick her nose into things that weren’t hers to know. She wasn’t like Aori, who’s sense of righteousness made it almost impossible for her to turn a blind eye to injustice. Having Gai, who was strong, as a partner helped her only so much. Her good relations with Naruto and in extension Kakashi (also through Gai) kept her mostly safe.

Upstairs were the smaller rooms and Katsura came to a stop in front of one of them. Inside someone was passionately singing “Who let the dogs out” and howling in tune with the dog barks of the song. It made her laugh and with the alcohol having lowered her limit for embarrassment she stopped for a bit and howled along with the person singing inside.

She didn’t notice that the door had opened until a big figure suddenly threw a shadow on her face: “I didn’t know you were such a passionate singer.” It was Shino.

Katsura almost choked on her own spit trying to close her mouth fast. Of course, there was only one person that would passionately sing a song about dogs and howl along, Kiba, and if Shino was here now then that meant that the other person inside was probably Hinata. A Hyuuga deep in Uchiha territory. Times have really been peaceful lately.

“No, I just… thought it's a fun song,” she replied, feeling very suddenly and very unnecessarily hot.

He smiled. “I didn’t know you were here either.”

“We are downstairs. I was just on my way to get some air.”

“So was I. Can I join you?” He gestured to the door and though she felt uneasy, Katsura nodded and then went ahead outside into the icy cold.

Shino was wearing his long coat again and though it was night out the sunglasses were right there on his eyes. Katsura caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the door and knew she looked a little red, but this could be put down to alcohol and heat, so there was nothing to worry about.

“You smoke?” He asked and took a lighter out of his pocket.

Katsura shook her head. “You?”

“No, I just have a lighter, if in case.” He let it sink back into his coat.

Then they both went quiet.

She sucked in the fresh air and tried to clear her mind a little, but despite the cold she could feel her fingers sweating. Shino leaned right next to her against the building wall, shoulder to shoulder, and somehow that made her more nervous than standing up and singing karaoke in front of Aori’s friends had.

“When will you leave again?” Shino asked friendly.

Katsura suddenly remembered the dream she had had, about him asking to come along. She pulled her shoulders up. “Day after tomorrow.”

“Where to this time?”

Katsura weighed her head: “Australia.”

Shino huffed in admiration. “Wow, there is so much to see there, I am a little envious of you for that.”

She really wanted to offer him to come along again, like she had that time in the cafe. But she remembered that he had said it was impossible and so why do it again anyway? Just to hear the same reply again? So instead of reaching out to him a second time she just hummed in agreement.

For a moment she could feel his eyes rest on the side of her face as if he was thinking of something intensely. In her mind she hoped that the blush she felt could pass up as her being cold. Then Shino laughed a little quietly: “But, well, the next few days I will spend time with my parents and siblings instead. Also not too bad.”

Somehow she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was disappointed.

Gai was still asleep the next morning when Katsura and Aori sat opposite to each other at the breakfast table. He had a little much to drink the night before and needed a little more rest than the two women, not that Katsura’s head wasn’t also hammering violently.

She had just finished telling Aori of the encounter she had had the night before at the karaoke bar, which she had no time to talk about the night before. She was hesitating to tell her sister about her wish to ask Shino to come along with her on her travels. The sisters shared a lot with each other, but this seemed so weirdly personal.

“Hm, you keep running into Shino. Almost feels like destiny wants to tell you something.” Aori took a sip from her tea.

Katsura could feel the heat in her face again and looked away, hoping her sister hadn’t noticed. But Aori knew her sister too well to miss it. “Oh.” Aori chuckled.

“‘Oh’ again.” Katsura said, a little annoyed. “People keep saying that when I talk about Shino. It’s rude, you know.”

Her sister grinned: “Well, I guess there are other people who realise you have a crush on the guy.” Aori stopped exactly long enough so that Katsura’s cheeks could redden even deeper. “It’s no surprise really. You guys really would match well.” She made a face. “You have similar interests.”

“I don’t have a crush on him. He is just nice to me.”

Aori laughed. “Well if you want to live in denial.”

Katsura put her cup down, a little more aggressive than maybe necessary. “Just because you now have a - well - “boyfriend”, does not mean you are the expert on love. You can’t even talk to him right when he compliments you.”

Now Aori was red too, but more of anger than embarrassment. She raised a brow in question. “Alright then Katsura.”

“Besides,” Katsura continued. “I’m leaving tomorrow. It is not like I would see him very often. Who knows when I’ll be back. And I can’t just ask him to come along so I can get to know him better.” She was rambling.

“Why not?” Aori asked, trying to hide her grin behind the cup of tea again.

“Because!” she shot back. “He told me he couldn't come with me the first time I asked and so how could I ask again? He is busy, he has his students and his work and - and I don’t think he would be willing to spend time with me so I can figure my feelings- ”

She stopped mid sentence, suddenly very aware of what she had just said out loud.

Aori finally set the cup back down. “So you have feelings for him.”

“I don’t know!” Katsura folded her arms in front of her body and pouted.

Her sister sighed. “I think you should ask him if he wants to come along with you. Or at least ask him why he said it’s impossible for him to come. So you understand if your feelings are returned or not.” She reached out her hand and pressed Katsura’s. “But, of course, I am just your lame older sister that can’t talk to the guy that is her boyfriend.” Katsura laughed.

“Do you really think he might return these feelings?” Katsura pressed Aori’s hand now too.

“No choice but to ask him.

“Shino”, Katsura yelled after him, hands pressed into her burning sides.

The man exchanged a look with his father and mother and then stopped while his parents walked on. It was heavily snowing now, Katsura could barely see him through the thick flakes.

“Did you run here?” He seemed worried.

She forced herself to look up: “It was no big deal.” Shino only raised his eyebrows at that, especially since she still couldn’t catch her breath.

The ice stung in her lungs. “I think I lost my -” she touched her throat and yes, her scarf was gone, but then she shook herself, “- Doesn’t matter, I have more important things to ask about.”

As she stood to regain her breath and her conviction she noticed that Shino had taken a step towards her so that he towered over her. Suddenly she felt something warm on her neck and when she looked up she realised that Shino had tied the ends of his own scarf around her back.

“You should keep warm otherwise you might get sick and miss your flight,” he said kindly.

Katsura felt her heart clench again and shuddered a little. “Th-Thanks.”

She straightened her back out, which didn’t help in any way because she was still much smaller than Shino was. He was so close to her now that she could feel his breathing on her face and it made her so uneasy that she felt like running away from him. But no, she reminded herself, Aori had told her this was all normal.

“Uh- Shino,” Katsura began trying to find the right words to say, “I wanted to ask you something.”

Shino smiled: “Go ahead.”

It wasn’t easy putting into words what she was feeling. To say “I have a crush on you” right now, especially after just having seen him for a few days, seemed so stupid and childish, even if it was true. She couldn’t be sure that he felt similar and that would just break her heart. She thought again how much easier her life had been when romantic feelings were just something that other people engaged in.

“Do- do you…” she stammered. “Do you maybe - uh -” His scarf next to her nose smelled like him and for a moment Katsura got sidetracked from the scent. Then she shook her head to ground herself back in reality: “If you would like to come with me to - to Australia, I would not m-mind working with you.”

That was by far the most diplomatic way she could have asked that without giving away too much of her feelings.

He seemed a little surprised, his mouth opening slightly and then closing just to open to a smile again. “That's a little spontaneous.”

“Yes, I know, I know. I wanted to ask you - before, but I c-couldn’t.” She looked at her feet again. “And last time you said it was impossible for you, so I didn’t want to be a bother…”

When she looked up she saw snow all over his hair, colouring the dark brown with white points like little bugs swarming around his head. He was also looking at her, as far as she could tell from where his shades were aimed at. Her fingers felt cold in the air but also sweaty with nerves. Nothing, he said nothing, as if he was trying to consider as carefully as he could.

But then he lifted his head to push snowflakes out of her hair. The intimate touch made her feel dizzy. “I have always wanted to leave this place,” he said without looking at her. “I always wanted to travel and see the world and research, but - more than that, I’ve for a long time wanted to travel with you.”

“W- -me?!” She wasn’t sure she had heard him right.

Shino chuckled again. That low rumble in his voice that she had heard at night in her dreams. He didn’t repeat what he said, instead he zipped down his coat and then drew Katsura in, pressing her against his own beating heart and wrapping her up in his arms.

“That is why I at first said it would be impossible for me to go with you,” he explained. “Not when you don’t feel the way I do.”

That was when she realised that no, these feeling weren’t one sided at all

The snow had let up outside, but the world was still coated in white. “Here you go,” Shino said and handed Katsura a cup of coffee that she eagerly took into her hands. The airport was heated of course, but just watching the cold world outside made her feel cold too.

He settled in next to her and put his feet up over his on board luggage in front of him, his nose once again deeply in a magazine about newly published academy papers. KAtsura had teased him about it earlier in the day, that he was like a professor and Shino had only shrugged his shoulders and said that he was considering becoming a teacher, yes.

“I can’t believe you actually convinced your family to let you go”; Katsura said, for what felt like the 50th time today. It was true, she could hardly believe it.

Shino hummed. He seemed too tired now to repeat the line he had said all day when she had brought it up. “I’m an adult, they can’t stop me.”

Instead he reached out his hand to Katsura and found hers to wrap his fingers around. Her heart skipped a beat for a second, not yet used to this being a normal occurrence. Dating someone brought many new experiences.

“I’m glad it all worked out though,” he said finally, with his usual quiet smile. “I’m glad I get to go with you.”

Katsura leaned over, against his shoulder: “I’m happy you get to go with me.”

#fanfiction things #moots ocs #aburame shino #shino aburame #shino x oc #I HAD THIS IDEA BEOFRE YOU INFODUMBED THE TATTOO SHOP AU TO ME I SWEAR #it HELPED A LOT THO #also shino x katsura forever im so in love with them ahh

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theteej · 2 years

Text

Saying Goodbye

I didn’t plan to leave things. But I did.

I think of the now so oft-repeated phrase from Nina Simone, well worn and frayed to the point of being nearly threadbare: “You have got to get up from the table when love is no longer being served.”

And so I did. Three times.

It’s a bit of a weird headspace to be in, the realization that for me walking away from things required a sense of security or stability to do so. I left two professional organizations and a spiritual home, all because they couldn’t and wouldn’t reckon with their own anti-blackness, and because I was now in a secure and stable enough position to do so. I had tenure and a sense of general security in my career that I could tell the American Historical Association and the African Studies Associations that they were contemptible, or more accurately, no longer a place that I would no longer shrink parts of myself down to attend. Then I left my own church, a place I had struggled to make home, that I had poured parts of myself in and generally receiving white entitlement and constant disappointment. So I left places, institutions really, that I wanted to love me, or to at least see me. Perhaps it’s foolish to expect that from entities. But I tried anyway.

As I look back on it, I keep thinking about the heartbreaking ballad “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” first made popular by Bonnie Raitt. Indeed, I’ve joked before that when I’m in a particularly bad place I like to listen to the Raitt version just to hurt my own feelings. Sure, it has a weird valence into eighteen months of singledom and a year of trying to seek romantic companionship, but really there’s a more powerful riff to be felt right now in the slow unfolding of heartbreak when a space that was supposed to be a harbor or a space for you, isn’t anything like it at all. The Bonnie Raitt version is the definitive classic, but lately I’ve found myself gravitating to the cover by Black queer musician Joy Oladokun, who brings a different melancholy to it, an ache of feeling abandoned more broadly than by a lover. Her version has played repeatedly in my brain this year when I think of my three departures.

Turn down the lights Turn down the bed Turn down these voices inside my head Lay down with me Tell me no lies Just hold me close, don't patronize Don't patronize me

I first started attending the African Studies Association as a graduate student, and found it to be a largely generative space—I mean, if you teach anything about the African continent, you are well used to being one of the only people in your university who does. If you’re lucky, there’s a historian, maybe a social scientist, or if you’re lucky a literature scholar or musician. Maybe. The ASA exists in a way to help you see people who think about the same things you do, who rehearse the same stakes, who hold the same things in tension, and like most associations it provides an annual chance to check in. For a few years I co-led the subfield of Queer African Studies, and I tired desperately to feel like I was making headway in a space like that.

But there’s always, always been a problem with ASA. From its inception as an area studies discipline at the height of the Cold War, it has been a reserve for white North American scholars to ‘discover’ truths about Africa, to mine its intellectual and cultural offerings for larger understandings about the human condition, to provide flavour to the North, and to provide a sense of meaning or distinction for the (usually) well-intentioned white folks who bring this hidden knowledge. It is often caricatured as a place where there are unfortunate caftan/boubou/dashiki choices on melanin-free bodies, but it goes beyond that. With the exception of a few amazing Black mentors, the vast majority of the people I encountered, learned from, or deciphered the academy with, were white. Painfully so. As someone who came into African studies as an African-American and staunch anti colonialist who wanted to return to and recenter the dignity of Black voices and bodies, influenced by my hero Keletso Atkins, I was always going to run into trouble. At previous years I’d encountered racist aggression from book editors, panel organizers, or South African historian colleagues. But that felt like the price of doing business, especially as a junior scholar who needed to be established and to make this all work. But I got tenure in 2021, and two things happened.

First, right before then, at the height of Black reckonings in 2020, the then-editor of The African Studies Review, Benjamin Lawrance, made a particularly crude and thoughtless joke about slavery to me, and did not quickly grasp how joking about a history I’d inherited and my ancestors experienced, was not appropriate in the least. Lawrance felt himself still entitled to be the major gatekeeper of the Association’s academic journal, and I realized more and more that ASA was a space for white colleagues to feel comfortable, in Black language, lands, culture. It always had been. My white Africanist colleagues tutted, shook their heads, and largely did nothing. They felt bad, but they also knew what I knew—they were taking up space from Black thinkers and writers, they were mining Black stories for their own careers. They were very often petty versions of Rhodes and Lugard and Faidherbe, and even when they were nice and well-intentioned, they were still occupying. They were setting the terms for what was acceptable or recognizable for the field, and demanded Black people in the diaspora and from the continent comply, and generally felt comfortable with them solely as informants, even if they treated them nicely and cited them.

This all came to a head in May of 2022, when the ASR published an article on auto-ethnography written by two white women, Kathryn Mara and Katrina Daly Thompson. While the article was largely a literature review on auto-ethnography, there were particularly troubling moments where both women demonstrated a profound sense of largesse and entitlement. Mara talked about her comfort regained by talking about being a white foreigner in sessions at the ASA, Thompson demonstrated an astonishing lack of self-reflection when writing about the perils of ‘going native’ in Swahili marital practices that came dangerously close to culture-vulturing. In short, these white women wrote a piece that was clumsy and self-centering and for Black scholars, revealed what we’d known all along: Africa was not for us. It was for white knowledge and centering. And Thompson’s supercilious and victimizing response to criticism only underlined this.

A group of incredibly brave African junior scholars wrote an open letter underlining their anguish, their continued frustration, and the fury at being spoken of, yet again, in the abstract in the premiere journal of our field. And of course, the editorial board, largely white, chose to admonish them and call them unruly and undisciplined. Then after a resultant furor, invited them, condescendingly to submit to ASR, a turn of phrase notable in its demands for power and recognition, and one that continued to gatekeep. Thompson remained defiant and unapologetic. Lawrance doubled-down and asserted he should stay at the head of the journal. He just received a Fulbright to teach about Africa on the continent. And the junior scholars? They were largely attacked online, insulted, and threatened. The white women were never in danger, but felt aggrieved and used their power to remind us all that the African Studies Association is a white playground for white people to feel comfortable and entitled to our knowledge and selves. As I sat in the last few weeks of running an inaugural Africana Studies minor at a predominantly white institution, I cried. I felt warm hot tears spill from my eyes on an afternoon walk, the hot June wind whipping at my face. I thought about how I tried to make space in a discipline that wasn’t for me, in a field that always imagined me as a curiosity at best, and a distraction from ‘real work’ more often. I thought of the frequent insults from senior white colleagues at a Southern African historical writing workshop over the years held…in Vermont, of course. I thought of my very kind, very nice colleagues my age in my field at other universities. I thought about how these white American scholars taught African history, anthropology, sociology, theatre, politics. And yet, the pain of slavery wasn’t theirs. They didn’t feel the cut in their heart when teaching their largely white student bodies about African lives and didn’t feel the same painful necessity of advocating for the very humanity of your people who are always consigned to the background, erased, seen as obstacles. They could, in fact, do this job with more ease than me, because at the end of the day it was an abstract thought experiment about disciplinary interest, and not a project of humanity or recovery. It was a colonial structure that allowed them comfort in Black lives and stories, and the whole game was rigged against us, always.

I sagged onto a bus bench and sobbed, breath ragged. How could I make something love me that was ultimately designed to make me an implement? How could I charm or cajole or threaten or convince that I was human and that I and other Black people deserved the center space of the story? I grimaced to realize that I’d been trying for a decade. And so I simply walked away. I walked away from my planned panel, I walked away from an organization I tried to work within and feel love from. And I let the white people in their dashikis continue to play their games. “Your absence was felt this year,” white colleagues told me when the conference came and went in November. And yet that wasn’t enough for me. I can’t build something that won’t acknowledge its bloody brokenness.

‘Cause I can't make you love me if you don't You can't make your heart feel something it won't Here in the dark, in these final hours I will lay down my heart and I'll feel the power But you won't, no you won't ‘Cause I can't make you love me, if you don't

When I returned from Aotearoa/New Zealand in August right before the new school year, I thought all I had to think about was last minute class planning. Until the president of the American Historical Association, the main professional organization for historians in the United States, decided to publish an opinion piece in our main publication, Perspectives.

In the September 2022 issue, James H. Sweet argued that History was in danger of becoming too presentist, devoid of argumentation of meaning and being suited for small political agendas aside from the larger work of analysis. This was not a particularly novel argument (it’d been made more thoughtfully twenty years earlier by Lynn Hunt), but it attempted to link this to Republican anti-historical arguments against ‘critical race theory’ or negative US history….and to African-American historicizing of enslavement with the 1619 project.

This is where Sweet’s argument got particularly shocking. Sweet began by saying that he, a white historian of Africa, had been to Ghana that summer and had observed an African-American family holding a copy of the 1619 Project while also touring Ghanaian slave castles. Ghanaian tour guides spoke of the slave diaspora to Black American onlookers and they interpreted this information—incorrectly to Sweet’s eyes.

Without speaking to any of the Black people themselves, Sweet opined:

“As I reflected on breakfast earlier that morning, I could only imagine the affirmation and bonding experienced by the large African American family—through the memorialization of ancestors lost to slavery at Elmina Castle, but also through the story of African American resilience, redemption, and the demand for reparations in The 1619 Project. Yet as a historian of Africa and the African diaspora, I am troubled by the historical erasures and narrow politics that these narratives convey.”

This is the heart of what is fucked up about Sweet. Sweet argued for a history that wasn’t distorted for immediate ends. But he also assumed his own authority to speak over what would be a singular and important experience explicitly for African-Americans reckoning with their own historic disaffection and disconnection within a history of enslavement and destruction. Sweet did not even stop to think about how he spoke over and for Black people. He did not stop to speak to them. They were abstract ideas marshalled for an argumentative point that he felt he had the objective authority to explain. Sweet declared that as a white American historian of Africa he knew more and more importantly he knew exactly what Black American visitors to Elmina castle in Ghana would be thinking and doing. Let me be clear what this felt like as a Black person. We were not fully autonomous people to James Sweet. We were abstract ideas to be moved about. We did not have interior thoughts or ideas—we were instead easily knowable. He didn’t speak to Black people, but he could and did “imagine the affirmation and bonding experienced” by people who had endured histories of dehumanizing structural enslavement. The arrogance is breathtaking. The arrogance was why I left the ASA. The reason came back again.

I and others wrote back, furiously, against this piece. The AHA reached out to me specifically and asked me to write a rebuttal. I was furious. I couldn’t believe that I’d been asked to give my time and labor to respond and submit to a journal that had just denied my full humanity and once again used my labor to legitimate itself. I was aghast. And tenured. And didn’t have to stay. I’m a historian. My discipline is important to me as a specific scholar. But the organization had never felt like home. I’d shivered in an ill-fitting suit a decade ago hoping for a job, pretended to belong amid countless panels, none of which cared much for Africa. I’d written for them twice, but still never felt like what I did mattered in the sea of white entitlement. And Sweet’s election was supposed to mean some form of inclusion for Africa! After all of this, conservative columnist David Frum reached out multiple times, trying to needle me for responses to why I would be so mean to a good-hearted scholar like Sweet. After the ASA, I didn’t cry. Instead, I felt something seize up in me, oxidize, harden. The living tissues within me became stiff, unyielding. My heart encased itself in ice. I did not give a fuck if Sweet apologized or the AHA became better, because the organization could not see me. Could not see me as a person. And so I left.

I'll close my eyes, then I won't see The love you don't feel when you're holding me

And of course, between both of these exits, I left my church.

I first attended First Lutheran Church in San Diego when I was looking for an apartment in San Diego in June 2018. I’d joined a Lutheran Church formally in 2015 while living in rural Virginia, and had been heartened as a congregation examined its long-held ideas and struggles, and became a formally-affirming church for LGBTQ+ people. They fought white supremacy. They…made pancakes and did weird German shit. I loved them. And so I joined First Lutheran, which had an active homeless food ministry, social justice credentials, and was also a queer-affirming congregation. I had a friend who already went, and it was a great place to go. The interim pastor, a man named Darryl, was a thoughtful and powerful preacher of social justice and openly queer. He challenged the largely older and affluent white congregation to see beyond themselves, and I left inspired. Unfortunately, Darryl left in 2019 to join a permanent posting, and our church eventually chosen a perfectly pleasant but none-too challenging or critical clergyman named Kurt. He was a genial white man who looked like every white person’s Midwestern uncle who loved football and being nice. Multiple times I had to talk to Kurt after services and say talking about “Navajo white paint” without any critical thought about that color might mean, or saying “I’m glad that formal racism against Black people ended with Martin Luther King” was WILDLY inappropriate. Kurt always nodded gravely and asked for help, and sat with me giving him instruction, but was never around when I specifically asked for counsel, or said I was struggling and needed support. But I was needed to read scripture every few weeks, or to lead Juneteenth celebrations, or to talk about Black church history, all of which I did for free without exception.

The end came in June of 2022. During finals week in late May, I’d been asked to give a talk about Juneteenth for the church’s event, organized by Kurt’s wife. I agreed, although to be honest I was tired and frustrated that I was always asked to talk about this. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a heritage descendant of Juneteenth celebrants, and my grandfather’s great-grandparents were freed on June 19th, 1865 in Texas. It’s important to me. But when I didn’t respond with a talk title the day I was asked, the pastor’s wife informed me via email that I was going to be dropped from the program and they’d find someone to talk about some other event and make it more broadly about June events.

I was livid. First Lutheran is 95% white, and its leadership entirely so. And yet they’d decided that they knew what Juneteenth was and wasn’t, and disinvited me, a professional historian and a direct heritage celebrant of the holiday, from presenting.

That was the last straw. I couldn’t keep going somewhere that didn’t want me, that didn’t have me. That couldn’t have me. And to be honest, no one cared much I left. If they felt sad that one of two Black congregants left, I heard little tell of it. My white friends who I had brunch with after church and discussed issues, all looked uneasy at the idea of themselves leaving, which would mess with their comfort or their potential idea of ‘challenging’ a church uninterested in Black input. And there were no other Lutheran churches in the area that were queer-affirming. It has been a profoundly shattering experience to find that a space that should’ve been for you wasn’t.

While I’ve felt a level of peace about leaving all three places, it still fucking sucks. It’s worse than not being wanted—these people want you if you are sanded down enough to fit a space that they deem appropriate. It’s being deemed acceptable if and only if you can endure the denial of your importance or value. When the amazing African junior scholars said enough in May, I realized I had to do the same. I couldn’t just keep taking it. But there’s something profoundly saddening about learning that a place that could love you, that really could….it won’t. And I’ve years of therapy and parental abandonment issues to know exactly why it hurts like a sharp pain between my ribs, this feeling of the love never reaching you, the sense that you will never be cared for.

And I’m so grateful I’m grown enough to leave. But I wish I’d been loved instead.

Morning will come and I'll do what's right Just give me till then to give up this fight And I will give up this fight

#tallie2022stories

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alsjeblieft-zeg · 2 years

Text

218 of 2023

Do you prefer running or yoga?

No.

Do you prefer Zumba or pilates?

Nah.

What is your favorite time of day to run, if you’re a runner?

Nope.

What is your favorite store to buy planners from?

Etsy, but I use printables as well. And calendars from Hema.

Are you jealous of anyone right now?

No, I’m not jealous of anyone.

Do you like spicy food?

I love spicy food.

Do you prefer Asian or Mexican food?

I’m not familiar with Mexican food, but you Americans don’t know much about foreign cuisines, do you?

What continent would you most like to visit?

South Amecica.

Have you ever played Truth or Dare at 3am?

No. Not that late.

Does your local library have a summer reading program?

I’ve never heard of something like that.

Do you take selfies every day?

I see no point, it’s stupid. Once a month for body checks maybe, but not always.

Who knows everything about you?

No one, but Nielsje and my husband know the most.

What color is your sleeping bag?

I don’t have any, never did.

When was the last time you used a sleeping bag?

Never.

What is your favorite sleepover game?

I don’t have sleepovers.

What was your favorite Bratz doll?

I’ve never played with dolls, I’m not a girl.

What was your favorite American Girl doll?

No.

Did you have a Barbie doll with your hair color?

Never had any Barbie.

Are you ok?

After reading these questions, I’m not.

How many months until your next birthday?

Two and a half.

Do you have a best friend?

More than one.

Are you bothered by your past?

Quite so, but I learned to live with it.

Do you like drawing or painting better?

Drawing, but my strongest point is photography.

What did you always want to do as a kid but were never allowed to do?

Climbing the trees and fences and roofs. But I did it anyway :P

Have you ever wondered if someone was an alien?

We’re all aliens.

Have you ever wondered if someone was an angel?

I know some people are. Just as Nielsje, he is a true angel.

Have you ever been asked if you were an angel?

Lol no. It’s cringy.

Have you ever been asked if you were an alien?

Lmao.

Do you need new boots this year?

No, bought some already.

Do you have Christmas lights up in your room?

No, never did.

What states have you been to?

None.

Does your heart hurt right now?

Not literally.

Mermaids or dolphins?

Both. What’s the comparison anyway.

Do you get bullied?

Not anymore.

Do your parents love you?

I’m pretty sure they do.

Do you know what the Bible’s definition of religion is?

I couldn’t care less.

Do you feel alone?

No, definitely not.

What season do you like best in?

Summer.

Do you want to start a business?

I kinda have one.

What did you go to college for?

Electrical engineering.

Are you a dog or cat person?

Cat, definitely.

What do you hate?

Injustice and inequality.

#survey #q&a survey #random survey

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alpacaparkaseok · 4 years

Text

Mine

3. Stalk me all you want, just bring refreshments.

Genre: Yoongi x OC

Warnings: some stalking lol

Word Count: 3.1k

We’ve made it to Paris by the time the first stalker finds me.

The past week has been spent in England popping in and out of interviews and press conferences. For the most part, it’s been pretty quiet. Granted, each interview never fails to bring up BTS, one even going so far as to pull up a quiz to see how similar I am to Suga.

I got 62%.

Sebastian demanded to take it as well. He got 43%. I still can’t tell if he was relieved or upset. Either way, things have been a little strange between us ever since that morning when he woke me up post panic attack. I can’t tell if it’s just because we’ve both got a lot of things on our minds or the fact that we’re back in civilization now, but I find myself seeking out the company of friends through phone calls and facetimes more often.

Stacey has been working nonstop to deflate the situation as much as possible. Truly, I owe her everything. She’s quick to remind me just that as I make my way to my hotel room.

“You know, this is very different from any other case I’ve had before. This fanbase is hard to get around.”

I roll my eyes even though she can’t see me from the other end of the phone. “You really have to stop referring to this as a case. It sounds like I’m some type of criminal.”

Sebastian passes me to go to his room while I fumble with my keycard. Stacey is in the middle of explaining the reasoning behind calling this a case when I finally open up the door and nearly drop the phone at the sight before me.

A girl sits on the edge of the bed, phone held up and hat low on her head. She stands up, walking over to me.

“Look who it is! Cara Richie!” For her surprised tone, I know she isn’t surprised at all. Stacey pauses on the phone as she picks up on the other voice. I remain frozen in the doorway, utterly confused. Did I get the wrong room?

Sebastian is the first one to react. “Keep your head down Car, and walk over here. Come into my room, I’ll get security.”

I do as he says, hesitating only a moment longer before turning my head down and heading down the hall. Stacey is demanding answers in my ear, but I can’t bring myself to answer her. Not as the girl is rushing out the door in an attempt to capture more footage.

“You think just because you’re a pretty face that Yoongi would be interested in you? He probably felt bad for your sorry excuse of a career and wanted to help. How do you feel about being a pity case?”

The words fling themselves at my back, but I focus on putting one step in front of the other. Sebastian is speaking quickly on the phone, motioning for me to walk faster.

“C’mon, c’mon…” He mutters under his breath, opening his door wide.

“I think you should know that this is live on Instagram. You look like a coward. Why would he like a coward like you?”

My feet refuse to move faster, my measly pace being the only thing I can manage. There’s a piece of me that really wants to turn around and give her a piece of my mind, but I know that’s the last move I should take. Not when she’s filming. Not when we’re just beginning promotions and my career is already barely hanging in there.

When I’m within arm’s reach, Sebastian grabs me and hauls me into the room. I just glimpse the dark clothing of security bursting out of the stairwell before Sebastian closes the door behind us.

“What was that?” Stacey demands to know. I watch as Sebastian scours the room, checking the bathroom and even under the covers for any unwanted visitors. Once he gives me a thumbs-up, I finally speak.

“I...I think that girl was stalking me.”

🌙

To say the least, Paris and I don’t get along well. Yes, the world-famous city of love. The irony of it all isn’t lost on me. I’m stuck in the city of love all the while trying my best to avoid crazed would-be lovers of some man I’ve only ever seen through a screen.

On the bright side, people who work for the tabloids are having a heyday. I haven’t managed to get my hands on any of the magazines they’re working for, but I do have a phone and said phone is in a constant state of buzzing and ringing.

One the down side I still have no clue how I’m supposed to make it through these promotions in one piece. A part of me hopes that BTS will step in and basically tell everyone to knock it off, but I have no way of knowing how their PR teams works. Either way, they seem to be very good at keeping things on their side very quiet while my side is barely holding the barricade.

We’re driving back from an interview when my phone rings yet again. Sebastian looks at me.

“You gonna answer that?”

Sighing, I yank my phone out of my pocket. No doubt it’s yet another nosy friend or reporter that got my number from a nosy friend.

“Oh!” I gasp. It’s an actual friend. “Bong-Cha!” I all but scream into the phone. It’s my crazy roommate from my senior year in college that convinced me to pursue another degree with her in Seoul.

“Wow, you actually sound happy to hear from me,” my friend teases.

“There’s a first time for everything. How are you?” It feels like it’s been years since we’ve last spoken.

Sebastian looks at me with a puzzled expression as I slip into Korean. I’ve never spoken it around him, but I’ve never had a reason to. In fact, it’s about time I got a call from my friend. I need to keep practicing.

“I’m...great.”

I furrow my brows as I study the Parisian streets we pass. “Are you sure about that?”

Bong-cha’s sigh carries through the phone. “Yeah, I think so. It’s just...remember when I told you before you left for the Congo that I had a really big gig coming up? Like, really big?”

The conversation we had less than a week before I left for the Congo comes back to my mind. Bong-cha and I originally went into the university to study acting. When we were both accepted to a prestigious school in Seoul she was elated and I was confused. I didn’t apply to the school. I didn’t even speak the language, why would I apply? Bong-cha took things into her own hands and filled out the application for me. It took a lot of puppy eyes and convincing, but eventually I realized that a fresh start on a new continent and even with a new language would be exactly what I needed.

The program took two years, but it only took Bong-cha six months to realize that she wanted to focus more on the music part of filming rather than the actual acting. The little punk switched programs, but we still lived together for the duration of the two years. Looking back, she made the right decision. She can weave and create a soundtrack that puts people under a spell. She even helped with the soundtrack for one of my very first indie flicks.

Thanks to her I had something of an advantage going into the world of cinema with both American and Korean acting experience. But the best part of it all was the building up a friendship that will last for decades.

“Yeah,” I come out of my walk down memory lane. Paris somehow makes me nostalgic. “What happened with that? How did it go?”

“Well, it went well...it wasn’t exactly for a movie, though.”

“What was it for, then?” I can sense the hesitation in her tone and urge her forward. “Are you releasing a mixtape or something?” We both chuckle at the notion.

“No, not that. Although I would take the world by storm if I decided to drop a mixtape. It would be pure genius.”

“Yeah, yeah. What was it for? Now you’ve made me curious.”

Another sigh. “I was working on a comeback trailer for BTS.”

My heart stutters for a moment. “You- you what?”

“I know, and I should have told you all of this-”

“Daebak!” I shout into the car, Sebastian jumping a little at my sudden exclamation. “That’s so cool, Bong-cha! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me before!”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, it is amazing, isn’t it? They’re kind of going for this intense dystopian feel and somebody recommended me to them because they’d seen ‘True Lies’, isn’t that great? I still can’t believe it.”

Bong-cha deserves every ounce of credit that comes her way, I couldn’t be happier for her. Then I remember my current situation, and the questions I’m dying to ask her are all jumping for attention. I bite them down, reminding myself that this isn’t about me.

“I told you that the soundtrack for ‘True Lies’ was perfect, didn’t I? See, you should listen to me more often.”

A half-hearted chuckle from the other end of the phone. “I guess I should. But Cara, that’s not the only reason I called. I think I may have screwed something up.”

If my heart keeps stuttering I may die. Trying not to jump to any conclusions, I struggle to keep the apprehension out of my voice. “Ok...what happened?”

“Well...I worked a lot with all the boys, they’re very hands on in the whole process.”

“Ok.”

“I especially worked a lot with Suga because he’s very talented at producing music and all that, so he had a lot of say in the overall vibe and feel of the piece. Anyways, as you can imagine, we had to spend a lot of time together and we actually became pretty good friends...”

A yellow bike is being parked in a bike rack painted with red flowers and vines. It’s outside of the kind of cafe you only see in movies, and a young woman sits by the window with a book in hand. She’s lost in thought, no longer looking down at her book but instead watching the cars as they pass by. One hand rests idly around her drink which is still full. We make eye contact for a single second before I speed by, and I know that I’ll never see her again but I can’t help but wish I was her.

If I were her I could sit there calmly, not worried about much except for not spilling my drink on my novel. I would admire the yellow bike in the rack, and think up bike routes that I could enjoy. I would pack my book in the little basket between the handlebars and I would wait for a sunny day to go out and read.

Just my bike, book, and me.

Jumping a little as we pass over a speed bump I’m ripped from my alternate reality and drink in the words that Bong-cha speaks as delicately as possible.

“...we talked a lot, and eventually I started talking about my friends. You know, pretty normal, isn’t it? Everyone talks about their best friends. I mentioned you, of course. Explained how we lived together for however long, like what, four years? Two in the states and two in Seoul? Anyways, I was going on about you because ‘Under Nine’ has been so huge and it’s like you finally had your big break.”

Coaxing my jaw to move from its stiff position, I form a sentence. “Bong-cha, just tell me.”

There’s a two second pause before she dives back in. “He’d seen the film, said that you seemed cool. And I just started thinking about it and I thought that you two would be so cute together. And he just seems...lonely. Is that weird? And you’re always so stressed with trying to find the next big project so I just talked you up but...I- I didn’t tell him to date you or anything, I swear! I just said that you two should be friends. That’s all, I swear.”

Somehow the spike in heart rate I was expecting never comes. Instead, I almost feel more at ease. At least I’m starting to understand how this got started. It all seemed too disconnected before, like he just picked my name out of a hat and decided to have some fun with it.

“So...do you know why he said those things in the interview? Because that wasn’t exactly a call for friendship. At least, if that’s how he meant it, he failed. Big time. And now I’m paying the price.”

I can’t keep the bite out of my voice toward the end, and Sebastian doesn’t need to be fluent in the language to understand that tone.

‘You ok?’ he mouths. I nod and roll my neck in an attempt to relax. I don’t want Bong-cha to think that I’m mad at her. If anything, I’m flattered that she even thought to act as a sponsor for me to one of the most famous rappers in the world, however misguided her intentions.

“I know. I know, trust me, I talked to him about it.”

I wasn’t expecting that. They must be pretty good friends if Bong-cha feels comfortable calling him out on this. “You did?”

She chuckles. “I know, shocking. I just feel partially responsible for all of this. Then when I saw that video in your hotel room-”

“Wait, you saw that? I thought they were able to take that down in time.”

“Well, it was live when she was filming it. So she had to stop the filming but it was already out in the world. If it makes you feel any better, most people feel bad for you. You reacted really well in the video. Didn’t even say anything. Yoongi felt horrible when-”

“Hold up, hold up.” The words tumble from my mouth before she can continue. “You’re telling me that he actually saw that? And you talked to him about all of this? What is he saying?”

“I would tell you if you would quit interrupting me.”

“Sorry.” A hint of a smile tugs at my lips, the head strong Bong-cha I know so well reappearing.

“Anyways, as I was saying he felt horrible once he saw the video. Obviously we knew that it was probably a little crazy for you, especially with interviews and stuff. But I think even the guys were surprised to hear about you having stalkers and stuff.”

“The guys as in…”

“As in the guys. Jin and Jimin and-”

“Yeah. Yep. Got it.” I’m not sure whether I should laugh or cry, so I settle for shock.

“I talked to Yoongi about it, though. They all feel horrible about it, really. I guess after I talked about you so much he got curious and started doing some research and trying to figure out who you were. You know, kind of like friend shopping.”

“Is that a thing?”

“Sure, when you’re that crazy famous it is. You have to make sure the person you want to befriend isn’t some psycho in disguise.”

I snort. “I am a psycho, though. I don’t even try to hide it.”

Bong-cha chuckles, in full agreement with me. “Trust me, I know. But I don’t know, maybe he thinks it’s endearing? I mean, look at his closest friends. Compared to the rest of the members, you’re pretty tame. They’re all nuts.”

Just from the way Bong-cha speaks about the band I can tell that she really loved spending her time working with them. It would appear they all became fast friends. I can’t say that surprises me; she’s always had a knack for making friends.

“Alright, if you say so.”

“Anyways, I guess the guys were just giving him a hard time because he was always watching your stuff. Everyone took it too far in that interview. I mean, honestly speaking, I think they want him to get a girlfriend as badly as I do, but,” she keeps chattering away as she senses my impending interruption, “they realize that this wasn’t the best way to go about everything. Trust me when I say that their agency practically skinned them alive when the interview went viral.”

I suppose it makes sense to a certain point, but there’s still one outlier in all this information. If this is purely just an innocent mistake, then why on earth would Yoongi fan the flame by inviting us to the film festival in Seoul? And publicly RSVP?

I ask Bong-cha as much, the skepticism thick in my voice. “I just don’t get it, I guess.”

Bong-cha curses on the other side, and I can practically see her rolling her eyes. “That is precisely why all of the boys have basically been in time out for the past couple of weeks. Remember when I said that the other boys want Yoongi to get moving as much as I do?”

“Yeah? I don’t follow…”

Bong-cha laughs at the situation, the sound of it only worrying me more. “That wasn’t Yoongi that invited you guys and RSVPd.”

I nearly choke at the new information. The anger I feel is red-hot. Somebody really is trying to sabotage my career, aren’t they? “W-who? Who would do that? Why haven’t they said anything about that? Clearly someone is trying to ruin my career, and possibly his as well. Wouldn’t BigHit do someth-”

“Hey! Listen to me you psycho!” Bong-cha yells through the phone, barely able to get me to shut up for more than two seconds. “Are you even listening to me at all? I just said that the others are pushing for you and Yoongi, too. Nobody is trying to destroy your career.” She pauses, and for once I don’t interrupt her. Instead I wait with bated breath for her to continue. “You should have seen Yoongi’s face when Jin told him what he did.”

Jin? Kim Seokjin? What did he do?

“What do you mean? What did Jin do?”

A sigh of long-suffering. “He’s the one that invited you guys. And made sure Yoongi would have to be there to face you by publicly RSVPing him. Got it?”

“Why would he do that?” I ask myself the question more than anything. Bong-cha still responds though, the smirk evident in her tone.

“You’ll just have to ask him in person when you get here, won’t you? Make sure you save me a seat. I want to be there for this.”

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buckstaposition · 4 years

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Shower - Zach Wellison x f!Reader

first part of the Handyman ‘verse

Zach Wellison x non-American, non-native English speaker!Reader

summary: new apartment, new job, unruly shower with bad timing, unexpectedly cute building manager to the rescue ;-)

rating: T

warnings: wet tee-shirts, partial nudity, mildly horny thoughts

words: 2841

Shower

This was not how you had envisioned your first day on the new job. Hell, you hadn’t even made it to the job yet! Instead you stood in the bathroom of the apartment you’d properly moved into just days prior, frantically trying to contain the flooding with one hand while dialing the building manager’s number with the other, praying that he’d pick up even though it was just after six in the morning.

“Hello?” a groggy voice answered on the fifth or sixth ring, and the huskiness of it makes your mind blank for a hot second.

“Hello??” it comes again, sounding more annoyed this time. It snaps you out of your reverie and reminds you that you are currently soaking wet and probably going to be late. On your first day at work.

“Umm yes sorry, this is apartment 4B. My, umm…” you wrack your brain for the words in the foreign language a moment, before deciding that there’s really no elegant way to say it. “My shower has kind of…exploded? I can’t get it to stop.” Help me please, you add mentally.

A groan and the creaking of mattress springs, then “I’m on my way.”

You breathe a sigh of relief, letting go of the busted pipe and drenching yourself anew in the process. Cursing loudly, you whipped off the towel you’d haphazardly slung around yourself and tied it around the pipe, hoping to soak up at least some of the pouring water while you rushed to pull on some actual clothes.

There was a knock on the door just as you were pulling a sweatshirt over your head. You run headlong to the door, yanking it open, only to come face to face with a guy who can’t be much older than you. Why you expected him to be, you don’t know. Perhaps in your mind people who looked after whole apartment blocks were just supposed to be closer to your dad’s age. Perhaps it was the fact that you’d only been told that Mr Wellison was responsible for any repairs and the name had sounded like it should belong to someone more mature. But this one wasn’t. Sleep-rumpled and with a somewhat grumpy expression on his face, yes, but… really he was what your mother would call ‘ideal marriageable age’. Usually while not-so-subtly nudging you. If she wasn’t giving you more overt judgement over her lack of grandchildren, that is.

“Shower you said?” You just blink. His voice is even deeper without the distortion of a phone, rumbling deep and morning-rough. He gestures past you where the shower is still audibly gurgling. “May I come in?”

“Of course!” You jump aside to let him pass. Get distracted by his broad shoulders under a tee-shirt so thin it’s basically transparent, also somewhat rumpled but soft-looking, like it’s the first thing he pulled on after being so rudely awoken by your watery emergency. Or what he slept in. You trail after him, suddenly self-conscious about the as-yet-not-unpacked boxes everywhere. You had only moved in the Friday before, and then the moving company had messed up something with their scheduling or whatever and your stuff had only gotten here late on Saturday, and you’d spent the rest of the weekend putting up the furniture.

He sets his toolbox down by the tub, frowns deeply at the steady spray in multiple directions. You hover awkwardly in the doorframe.

“Okay, first we need to turn off the main water supply.” He straightens, tool in one hand while the other cautiously unwinds your makeshift towel tourniquet, only to receive a jet of water straight to the face.

“The um, what?” You blink.

“Main water supply. For your apartment. Should be a valve in the kitchen, left from the sink.” He explains patiently, wiping wet hair from his forehead. At least you’re not the only one getting soaked here.

“Right.” You bolt into the kitchen, crouching down beside the cabinets. You have to shove aside two boxes full of pots, pans, and crockery but you manage to wedge yourself into the tiny corner just enough to reach the valve and you turn it until the sound of water gushing from the bathroom subsides. You rush back anxiously, stopping dead in your tracks upon seeing him again. He’s standing in your tub barefoot, tee-shirt partially wet and clinging to his lean torso, but what really stuns you is the way his profile is illuminated by the early morning sun coming in through the small, high windows. Brow furrowed in concentration, an aquiline nose and a strong chin, jawline dusted with what likely was just a five-o’clock-shadow yesterday, and his dark hair still sleep-tousled, curling against his neck, especially behind the ears. It looks soft. He is striking, and you can only stare at him dumbly as he works.

“I need to replace this. It’s busted beyond repair.” He taps the offending pipe, or rather the remains of it, seeing as it’s split down the middle.

“Okay?”

“I have the parts here, too. I can do it now or later if you’d prefer to be there.” He fidgets with a wrench, throws it in the air and catches it without looking, which only directs your attention to his hands which are, of course, just as gorgeous. There’s a small circular tattoo just by the root of his thumb that captivates you beyond reason. All in all it would be great if your brain could remember that it belongs to a smart, accomplished person who graduated from a top university both back at home and here. A person who moved countries (continents even!) to pursue their dreams of professional fulfillment. A person who landed their dream job against a whole slew of competitors. A person who is going to be late on the first day of said job if you don’t get your head screwed on straight pronto. Your eyes zip to the clock, back to him, back to the clock again because your brain didn’t actually register the numbers. Still before seven. You let out a breath in relief.

“I need to leave for work in an hour at the latest. It’s my first day.” You explain, wringing your hands while you do the mental math of getting ready and getting there.

“Alright,” he says slowly. “You probably want to get ready for that. I need to run up and get the parts anyway. Do you want me- are you comfortable with me finishing this up while you’re away or would you rather be there? I can come back when you’re back from work.”

His consideration makes you smile and the tension seep from your neck. “No that’s alright. Do you need my spare key?” Your parents would high key freak out to know you’re letting a man into your apartment unsupervised, but he is the building super, and he gives you no heebie-jeebies whatsoever. In fact, the way he smiles at your answer gives you quite a different feeling in your stomach.

“No, I have a master key. For emergencies.” He straightens, lifting the hem of his shirt to unstick the wet spots from his chest and of course that also draws your eyes to where they have no business ogling. “Right, I’ll just be a moment. I’ll ring, okay?”

“Okay.” You breathe softly, stepping aside to let him pass. He smiles again, apologetic as he squeezes by, but you’re too distracted by the appearance of a lone dimple on his cheek. You watch him cross your apartment in a daze, unmoving until he opens the door and turns around one last time, giving you a little salute before he closes the door behind him.

You get ready and dressed in record time, thanking your past self for thinking to put coffee on before you had to cut the water supply to your place. You’re just fixing yourself a cup when the doorbell rings. You stand frozen to the spot until it rings again, and that propels you forward, yanking the door open.

“I thought you had a key.” You ask, confused. He smiles bashfully, the hand not holding the replacement pipe coming up to rub at the back of his neck.

“Yeah, but I didn’t just want to barge in. Didn’t know if you were done getting ready after all.”

“Oh.” You say, ever the eloquent one. You feel your cheeks warm, touched by his consideration for your privacy. “Mr Wellison, I-“

“Please, just Zach is fine.”

“Zach.” You repeat like on autopilot, and it makes him duck his head and clear his throat, hand scrubbing nervously through hair that looks significantly less messy than it had about half an hour ago. What an interesting reaction. It suddenly occurs to you that the two of you are still standing in your doorway, so you step aside to let Mr Well- …Zach inside. He hurries past you and into the bathroom, not missing a beat in climbing into the tub and starting to remove your busted pipe. You check your watch again, relieved that you still have a little while before you need to leave.

Ever the good host your parents raised, you fill a mug with coffee and carry it over to him.

“Do you take sugar in your coffee? I have milk, too, or sweetener if you prefer.” You announce as you enter. There’s really no good spot to set the mug down so that he could reach it, so you keep it in your hands, hovering awkwardly again. His mesmerizing dark gaze turns upon you in surprise.

“Oh um, black is fine thanks.” Both hands fully engaged, he hesitates a moment before stuffing the wrench into his back pocket and taking the mug from you while saying “You didn’t have to.”

“Oh nonsense, the least I could do is offer you a cup of coffee after waking you up so early.” You smile, and he smiles back, and then your hands brush upon handover because of course they do. There is no spark or shock of electricity, because this isn’t some silly rom-com dammit, but there is a gentle tingle that spreads up your hand at the brief contact.

You check your watch, relieved to find that you have time still. Getting up with the sun suddenly seems inspired rather than just nervous. And as you lean on the frame of your bathroom door, sipping coffee and making light chit-chat with the unreasonably gorgeous man currently standing barefoot in your bathtub, you feel your nervousness for the day dissipating. After all, how much worse could it get than what’s already happened, and not turning out half bad after all?

Zach is polite yet gently curious. Usually he’d have been there for the handover alongside the owner of the building, but a broken sink on the fifth floor had kept him away.

“Seems to be a recurring theme. Should I be worried? Perhaps look into finding another place?” You joke and he starts and stops for just a millisecond, then starts again wrenching at the misbehaving pipe. He’s almost got it.

“No! No, I mean… that won’t be necessary. I can get it fixed, if something breaks. That’s my job after all.”

“Oh relax, I was-“ it’s at this precise moment that he gets the pipe loose finally, only it dislodges something and what looks like a bucket’s worth of water pours out and over poor Zach, drenching him completely. You yelp and jump out of the way on instinct, despite being far enough to only catch a few tiny droplets.

Zach breathes deeply a moment, hands on his hips as he considers his sopping wet hair, his now dripping clothes. The thin tee-shirt clings to every curve and dip of his lean torso and it is severely distracting, and you should feel at least slightly bad for how unabashedly you stare but can only find it in yourself to be flustered, face heating up so much one could probably fry eggs on your cheeks right now.

“I’ll umm…” You have to tear your gaze away, hoping it’ll read as shock rather than the fact that you were blatantly checking him out. “I’ll grab you a towel. Wait here.” He grumbles something you can’t quite make out over the rushing in your ears. You run over to the boxes you think hold the rest of your towels. You dig through them frantically, washcloths and your collection of fancy soaps go flying, but eventually you unearth the very fluffy and classy dark grey towels your aunt gave you as a home-leaving gift.

You slide back in on socked feet, thrusting the folded towels at him like they’re radioactive, then doing a double take and then another for good measure, because that drenched shirt that clung to his body like something out of a firefighters’ charity calendar? Gone. Well, not gone. It’s been wrung out and draped over the edge of your tub, but he’s no longer wearing it and you need to pick your jaw up off the floor if you want to retain at least a shred of your dignity.

“Thanks.” He says, taking the towel from you, and your hands brush again and you jump nearly out of your skin. Need to take a step back just to calm down. And why did you even need coffee again because somehow you’ve never felt more alert than in this very moment.

And you’re not ogling him, no – that would be inappropriate to the highest degree. You just can’t help but to sneak glances as he wraps the larger towel around his unreasonably broad shoulders and uses the smaller one to squeeze the wetness out of his hair, to wipe it from his eyes. He’s trim, lean – almost a bit skinny if you’re being honest, like he’s not been as accustomed to sufficient and regular meals as any person should be. There are some scars cutting through the smooth expanse of his golden skin, illuminated fetchingly by the early morning sun. Your mouth runs dry and you find yourself hunting for your abandoned coffee mug. It’s on the counter above the now torn-open moving boxes, having gone tepid. Not that you care. You throw it back, grimace at the way grounds and sweetener have collected at the bottom. One more reluctant glance at the clock. You should be on your way, just to have the time buffer you planned in to find your way, to find parking, to account for morning rush hour-

Carefully you poke your head into the bathroom again. He turns towards you, biceps coiled as he still rubs at his hair, more damp than wet now, though some strands curl enticingly around his face, over his forehead. You want to run your fingers through it solely to see whether it’s as soft as it looks. But you don’t have the time, not right now.

“I umm, … I have got to go now.” Besides, you only just met. You barely know him. You need to calm down. “Are you going to be okay here?”

“I think the worst is behind us now.” He grins, and you don’t know whether to be more distracted by the reappearance of the dimple or the two water droplets having a race down his abs. You gulp. Calm down, dammit!

“O-okay-“ You straighten, all but physically slapping some sense back into yourself. “You’re welcome to the rest of the coffee. And umm, thank you again. This is probably not how you envisioned your morning.”

“Death match with temperamental pipes? Happens more often than you think. The company’s not usually this pleasant though.” He has the nerve to wink. Standing there, half naked in your bathtub, towel slipping like some steamy romance novel cover nonsense, hair sticking up at odd angles in places and altogether messier than when he first came down here, and he winks at you! To his credit, he looks mortified by his own courage just a split second later, hands tightening around your towel. You need to get out of here before you do something stupid.

“Well, I will see you around.” You back out of the bathroom, skittish like some woodland animal. Barely think to grab all your things - purse, keys, lunchbox, water bottle, phone (plus charger, just in case). You make it to the front door, breathe deeply for a moment, collecting yourself. Throw one last glance back at him through the open bathroom door. He smiles, and you mirror it. He waves, awkward and endearing, the wrench he’d picked back up clanging against the shower’s controls, making him jump, making you snort in turn.

“Bye, Mr Well- …Zach.” You call out, halfway through the door already. Somehow you have managed to eat up your precious time buffer and now you really have to hurry. You’ve almost pulled the door closed behind you when you hear his answering ‘Bye, 4B. See you around!’

You’re halfway down the hallway when you realize it. You haven’t even told him your name!

-------------------------

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stillbandofbrothersthirsty · 3 years

Text

As Far As Friends Go

Chapter 16 (Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3; Chapter 4; Chapter 5; Chapter 6; Chapter 7; Chapter 8; Chapter 9; Chapter 10; Chapter 11; Chapter 12; Chapter 13; Chapter 14; Chapter 15)

Nixon - July - September 1944 All thought left Nixon’s mind as he stared down into Emily’s red-rimmed gray eyes. He wanted to say more, but the words were stuck in his throat. Who the hell was he to tell her anything? He was married. He was a bad husband, a selfish lover, a drunk - he had no business giving her advice.

“Just trust me,” he whispered. Emily’s frown deepened as she searched his face. But Nixon would reveal nothing. The only thing he was certain about in that moment was that he didn’t want to see Emily get hurt; not by Harry, not by him, not by anyone. “Emily, I’m sorry I accused you of not taking your job seriously. You are one of the best people on my staff.”  “Really?” Emily’s voice was meek.  “If not the best. You’re invaluable. I’m sorry that I haven’t given you the acknowledgment you deserve. I’m sorry you don’t get the respect you deserve.” Emily swallowed. Nixon’s heart broke into a thousand pieces when her chin quivered. “I’m sorry I got so emotional,” she said in a hushed voice. “Don’t apologize.” Nixon wanted to move forward to touch her, to hold her, but something in him wouldn’t allow it. She probably didn’t want that from him anyway. His words could only heal so much in a night.  “Please,” something caught in Nixon’s throat, “please just don’t say anything to Harry. I don’t want to see you get heartbroken.” Emily bit her lip. It took all of his patience to remain quiet as he waited for her to respond. She roamed his face with her eyes. It was as if she was looking right through him, right into the very core of him. Nixon’s stomach jumped at her shameless gaze. “Fine,” she finally said. Fine, he would have to accept that. Inside, he begged her to say more. He begged her to stay standing there so he could just look at her a moment longer. But she turned to the street, the city’s shadows rippling off the folds of her dress, the angle of her jaw and curve of her eyelashes. She stretched a hand into the night sky and a black cab appeared, its golden headlights flashing. Emily turned back to look at him before stepping through the open car door, “see you in Aldbourne, Nix.”  Nixon only managed to raise a hand goodbye and then she was gone, slipping off into the night. Nixon kicked himself. Why did he make the same mistake over and over again? He always went too far. He was mean. Why? Why did he lose his cool around her? Day after day he had officers, soldiers, and Tommy’s saying stupid shit to him and he still managed to hold his tongue. But the simplest conversation with Emily would spiral out of his control. Nixon returned to Aldbourne in the morning. He was relieved to be back. He needed a purpose and he enjoyed the work that occupied him. Green replacements were showing up every day to take the place of men Nixon had worked alongside for two years. All of the new faces suddenly made the quaint refuge of Aldbourne feel foreign. The new soldiers hadn’t had half the training the Toccoa men had, nor the rigor that Easy Company experienced under Sobel. Winters and the other officers had their work cut out for them getting the replacements up to standard. Nixon had other things to worry about. The 101st was on standby; jumps were scheduled and canceled as Patton’s army infiltrated the continent. The men were restless. Having faced the reality of war in Normandy, the men were living carpe diem. They went out drinking, fighting, and playing every chance they got. John Martin and Bill Guarnere even got themselves some tattoos. In the evenings, Nixon found himself in his lover’s bed, and during the days he was watching Emily. As far as Nixon knew, Emily hadn’t said anything to Harry regarding her feelings. But Nixon didn’t miss the forlorn looks she gave him. Nixon grit his teeth each time he saw her mooning over Harry’s turned back. That night in London Nixon realized that he cared deeply for Emily in a way that could never be realized. He was married. He was a rogue. She deserved so much more than being a mistress- stop. He had to stop himself there. He couldn’t afford to even entertain the idea. Let her pine for Harry. It was only a crush, a crush and nothing more. It wasn’t hurting anyone; at least no one but him. The reality was, Emily was young. She was beautiful and clever. One day she would meet someone and it would be more than just a crush. Their fight in London had sobered Nixon up. Not literally, but it made him check his own behavior. He didn’t want to fight with her again. He never wanted to make her cry again. If all they could be was friends and colleagues, he wanted to be the best friend and colleague she had. Once they returned to the continent their time together would be even more limited. Nixon was determined to make the most of it. That summer in Aldbourne they worked together more symbiotically than ever before. Nixon’s conscious patience combined with Emily’s keen intuition made their workdays go smoothly. This was beneficial for the American intelligence’s reputation in front of the Brits. The next drop onto the continent would take place in Holland. Operation Market Garden was the brainchild of British intelligence. Nixon didn’t want to sound like a snob so he wouldn’t admit that he was wary of their plan. But orders were orders so Nixon surrendered control. Though Operation Market garden was the strategic genius of the British, Nixon and his staff did a lot of the grunt work. Emily helped to identify drop zones and coordinated routes for the paratroopers to meet up with the British armory. It was a lot of work in a region Emily had never seen, nor would likely ever see. The plan was to drop into Holland near Eindhoven. This meant another troopship for Emily and overground travel through the seized territory. If everything went as it should, Emily would link up with Battalion headquarters just across the border in Germany. That was if everything was executed as the allies hoped. Summer wound down and the first chills of winter came with the falling leaves of September. Back in their old digs, Nixon sipped on a whiskey-laced cup of coffee. “Why are you being so nice to me lately?” Emily was working at her desk, using a ruler to draw a grid on a black and white map. “What do you mean? I’m always nice.” Emily lifted her pen from the map she was looking at to give him a look. “What? You want me to be mean?”

  “No, of course not,” she turned back to her paper, “but it’s weird.”  

“Why is it weird?”  

“I’m just not used to you like this.” “Like what?” “You have two versions.” Emily said, “smart Nix and grumpy Nix.” “Nice to hear you think I’m smart,” Nixon perched on the edge of his desk to watch her work. “Smart as in smart-ass,” she elaborated. “Well, that’s not very nice.” “I’m not the one being accused of being nice.” “Accused? You make nice sound like such a bad thing.” Emily giggled, “I do not! I’m just saying you’re out of character.” “Maybe war has changed me.” “I’m so glad you’re never dramatic.” Nixon raised his eyebrows over a sip of coffee, “If I’m dramatic it’s from spending time with you.” Emily stuck her tongue out at him. Nixon was about to retort when Lt. Colonel Strayer appeared in in the doorway, “Captain Nixon,” “Right,” Nixon sat his coffee down on his desk and followed Strayer out the door. Nixon shared a jeep with Strayer as far as the hanger outside Aldbourne. Winters stood in front of the Easy Company men assembled beneath a large map of Holland. Nixon took his place on Winters’ left and the lieutenants and sergeants fell in by rank behind him. Nixon noticed Emily’s handiwork on the stenciled letters above the hand-colored map. “This is called Operation Market Garden,” Winters presented, “in terms of Airborne Divisions involved, we’re dropping deep into occupied Holland.” Nixon scanned the faces of the men assembled before them. Without knowing the individuals, he could tell who had been in Normandy and who hadn’t; it was the difference of acceptance and anxiety. All of their serious faces hung on Winters’ every word, soaking up every detail of what was to come. As Winters finished his presentation some of the veteran’s expressions changed to ones of confusion. Nixon stepped forward, “the entire European advance has been put on hold to allocate resources for this operation. It’s Montgomery’s personal plan and we’ll be under British command.” Once Nixon finished the men filed out to prepare to jump the next day. “Old men and children?” Winters said over Nixon's shoulder.

Nixon looked over at his friend, “that’s what they’re telling us.” “And how reliable do you think the intelligence is?” Winters asked as they walked out of the hanger. Nixon rolled his jaw, “what can I say? It’s coming from the top.”  “It’s hard to believe this will end the war.”  “All we can do is hope for the best. Home by Christmas,” Nixon said. “Home by Christmas,” Winters repeated as if it were a mantra. That night Nixon couldn’t sleep though he needed to. They would be leaving for the airfield at first light. After an hour or so of staring at his ceiling, Nixon pulled on his boots, grabbed his flask, and walked downstairs. He didn’t know what he was seeking but he had to get out of his room. Nixon took a sip from his flask as he stepped into the hall. It seemed to stretch on forever in the darkness. He didn’t bother to screw the cap on his flask. He made his way down the carpeted steps drinking along the way. Nixon didn’t know where he was going as he wandered through the winding halls of the manor. It wasn’t until he was in front of her door that he realized he had walked to Emily’s room. He raised his hand to knock when the door swung open. “Oh!” Emily yelped in surprise then quickly pressed a hand over her mouth, “Lew, you startled me.”

“Uh, sorry,” Nixon said. Emily’s expression quickly morphed into concern, “is everything okay?” Nixon smoothed his hair down, realizing it was probably mussed from laying in bed. “oh yeah, I just was walking by and noticed your light on. I wanted to make sure you were okay.” “Oh,” Emily smiled suspiciously, “okay, well I’m going downstairs for some tea, you want to come?” Nixon hesitated, considering her offer, “uhh, no, that’s okay. Thanks.” “Okay, you sure?” Emily’s eyes flicked down at the flask in his hand. Nixon tightened his grip on it suddenly self conscious. “Yeah, gonna head to bed.” “Okay, well hey, if I don’t see you before,” she paused, not wanting to verbalize the goodbye. “I’ll see you over there,” Nixon nodded confidently at her. Unexpectedly, she reached out and took his empty hand. Nixon looked down at her grip and back up into her sweet face. She squeezed his hand, “I’ll see you over there, Lew.” It took all of his willpower to turn away from her. He walked slowly back down the dark hallway listening to her light steps fall away down the steps behind him.

#Band of Brothers #hbo band of brothers #fanfiction #original character #as far as friends go #lewis nixon #emily rooney #lewis nixon x oc #joe toye #george luz #dick winters #harry welsh #harry welsh x oc

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yekistraight · 4 years

Note

Hey, could you explain what being a feminist means? I’ve heard all these terms before, and there’s this huge stigma around it. So do you think there’s a way you could clarify at least what your beliefs are, and what you believe it to be? I’m simply trying to study stuff and see what it’s become or is. Thank you.

Sorry I wrote so much i just wanted to make it comprehensive:

General definition of feminist is someone who believes in the socio-economic equality of the sexes. In the beginning this was a straightforward ideology to follow. Women needed to be equal to men. It’s only fair, there’s no reason not to be. But sharing power is not something the ruling majority particularly enjoys so there’s been some bumps in the road. Decades and decades of bumps.

The feminists of the past started this push a long time ago with one message: “we want to be taken seriously, we are humans too and we need rights that benefit us and protect us from you[men]” and they were right. Sex based crimes against women were happening at an alarming rate. So much so that it had become part of some cultures and traditions, meaning it would be defended and men would be protected while women basically died, physically and socially. Women lived in fear and helplessness, being sold a dream of subservience promoted by religion and ego in exchange for protection from men. What about the women that still, despite the odds, wanted to choose a different path? Well, they were brave enough to step out of line and others followed. They exist throughout history, inspiring other women will their bravery and confidence, proving that it was possible to have the power and authority that men had. Now imagine giving every woman that access to power? They’d have everything right? Well feminism didn’t start like that (it was racially exclusive actually) but fortunately the ideologies spread out through cities, across oceans and into continents where women wanted, no, NEEDED such power; the power to change their destinies that had been set upon them by another mere human being.

So feminism is like a sisterhood, where we’re only related by a common goal to protect each other while trying to defeat our common enemy. Here’s where the simplistic ideology begins to mutate based on strategy and cultural progression.

Feminism is a sisterhood, but not a monolith. There’s been different waves (eras) of feminism where each sisterhood used different tactics to achieve their goals for equality. Its like making a new checklist after the old one gets checked off. However there’s been one item that still needs a lot of work before ticking off and that’s dismantling gender roles. Gender roles are the root cause of every.single.thing. Toxic masculinity, performative femininity. Gender roles were created to control humans and keep them in their place. For a feminist to push her way into male dominated spaces, she must first acknowledge that gender roles have been constructed to work against her and break through it. So take note, everything is the way it is because of gender roles.

In this era, the sisterhood has been split into two major groups, two warring tribes if you will: libfems and radfems.

Liberal Feminists accept everyone. They use the tactic of assimilation, where they water down feminist ideologies to make it inclusive for everyone. They follow the lead of oppressed minorities who reclaimed slurs and instead reclaim methods tused to oppress women that past waves of feminists fought to dismantle. Remember what I said about gender roles? These women are bringing it back and think they’re reclaiming it. How do you reclaim something that hasn’t been dismantled yet?The only power they’re concerned with is the feeling of superiority that comes from thinking bowing down to the patriarchy is their idea. Their feminism tackles issues like rape, victim blaming and misogyny, things that affect them personally, while taking on the burden of other marginalised groups as their own, pushing their own goals to the backseat while feeling a self-righteous high. Basically, they’re activists who have lost the plot but would keep pushing blindly than admit it. The second group was born from libfems that wanted more than a feel good pat on the back from the patriarchy for not being too interfering.

Radical feminists are still following the original objective of their predecessors. They still have their eyes open to sex-based oppression and are aware there’s still a lot of work to be done. They don’t put the opposite sex’s needs above their own or let other group’s ideologies influence theirs and because of this, other groups as well as libfems have dubbed them as enemies to progress. Ironic isn’t it? The group that still fights for sexual equality has been silenced by none other than their own. Of course hatred for this group of feminists didn’t come out of nowhere. Radfems and their female-only values are presumed to hurt trans women, as trans women are biologically male and don’t have the same sex based experiences as biological women. Trans activists took these as transphobic fighting words and ostracised radfems, silencing them and their ideologies, claiming that everything they fought for was an attack against the trans community. Conservative americans also share some radfem values, basically the one on keeping the movement focused on female only issues, and because the right is notoriously bigoted (ironic because conservatives are the ones who uphold the gender roles feminists fight against so a conservative feminist is paradoxical) this is enough to tell people that radfems can’t be trusted. That they’re all racist, transphobic white supremacists. Because all groups that share similar ideologies are bad. The public, not wanting to be on the Unpopular Opinion side of history, shifted away and further pushed radfems into the background while libfems and their blind acceptance values were hailed as the patron saints of feminism.

So what feminism was and what it is now are vastly different. It started as a movement in different countries with different goals, then it graduated and took on more serious topics. It was like a game where every level gets tougher to prepare you for that last boss, the one who holds all the power you need to physically change your reality.

Today in the year 2021, young girls are being told that it’s feminist to enjoy selling their bodies for money. That it’s the same as working in a mine (a common comparative statement). That it’s feminist to look as womanly as the gender roles men created dictate. That it’s feminist to watch porn and be happy your romantic partner watches it to; this means you’re sexually liberated. Grown women go to Tiktok full of minors in the style of pimps to show off stacks of money they’ve made from pleasing men. They say “i did it because i wanted to and so should you”. Minors are all over twitter trying to lure men with financial dominatrix tags. They can’t wait till they become legal to start selling their nude bodies to men. They were told it would make them feel powerful. People who are skeptical are shamed into silence, because the popular crowd is always in control and no one wants to be the odd one out.

Now compare that to women who spend time researching horrifying news of sexual violence still happening today. Women still having to sell themselves to survive in 2021 is a clear indicator that we’re still not taken seriously. Sex buying, pimping and displaying women as commodities is the reason little girls are being stolen off the streets and shipped off to a disgusting dreg who think he’s owed sexual satisfaction.

Radfems want to end child sex trafficking, sex slavery, wedding night virginity checks, honour killings, femicide, sewing up little girls vaginas to avoid them exploring their sexuality before their wedding night and bring attention to way more hardcore shit being run by top dogs who are cooperating with the old powers that influence the governments.

Whose side do you think the media will be on? Whose side is worth not risking ruffling feathers?

Feminism has become many things now. You can choose the one that reminds you of the cruelty of man or the one that creates a comfortable fantasy of false empowerment while women’s violence continues. Both get stigmatised anyway.

If it wasn’t obvious already, I’m a radical feminist.

I’m an autistic radfem living in a backwards country where the lgbt community can’t thrive so there’s no pride parades, no trans movement, nothing that can be publicised anyway. I can’t create a fantasy where everything works because nothing works. Women are dying around me everyday for being female, my best friend is trapped with an abusive father who hates her for being a female firstborn (something babies get killed for), I’m not worthy of basic respect without a husband, a poor woman from a muslim state gets death threats from her fellow muslims for wearing a backless top while a rich married one gets praised and women can’t apply for anything important without a man’s permission.

Now why on earth would i want to pamper the gender that made and uphold those laws? The battle here is still greatly a battle of the sexes. Despite this stale level of progress, our movement, like many others have allies. Male allies are great, allies are great, we need them to push buttons yes but also remember they can never fully understand what we feel. All they can do is try their best to help and in return we give them acknowledgement and support; so no we’re not supposed to be misandrists or transphobes. We just hate anyone who uplifts what we and our ancestors have been fighting to destroy.

That’s all

#radfems do interact #radical feminism #feminism #terf

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sailing-elitsha · 3 years

Text

Hallelujah

Thinking about a header for this report I am struggling, it’s from boring because of no wind from all directions in the doldrums, over: exited to come closer to the Amazon river, over: we saw Neptune, over: not being sure if we can do this up to total exhaustion. We have been so tired that we could not even show excitement and joy anymore by our safe arrival in Paramaribo, after a very difficult 11 days stretch. Let me first write everything down and see which heading we will choose.

Very quiet Dick said, “I saw you praying with your hands folded.” “Yes, I did that.” Whoever up in heaven, the universe or wherever feels I could have meant him or her: Thank you. Dick agreed.

Towards the end of this stretch, we could not think straight anymore, did not sleep because of the funny moves, Elitsha made, encouraged by Jip and Janneke, and the waves. Sometimes we really heeled onto our side after sliding down steep waves or swell. Realistically and objectively, there was no real danger, but at times it felt differently. Elitsha did a great job. And let’s be honest, while in a force 8, in gusts 45 knots on our wind vane at sea with a currant of 3,5 knots, 12 knots showing on our log, knowing shore was close even though you do not see a thing and to sail in a river mouth with low tide, you make one wrong move……… everything can happen. But we did not make a wrong move. Dick knows what he is doing, and I am not too bad a sailor too. Most importantly: when I was losing it and panicked there was Dick for me and when Dick was tired and miserable, I was there for him: Interesting self-studies of a relationship therapist, I am telling you. Do not do this if you don’t have a good relationship. But if you have good relationship, this is so special and amazing to go through together.

And… perhaps or most probably, this is normal and not a big thing for cruisers on an ocean crossing, but for us as beginning cruisers, it was a big thing. The challenge was, that for the last 4 days we hardly found a longer stretch of sleep than 1 or 2 hours and that breaks you at the end. That was, I think, the reason why we were desperate to arrive and stay somewhere for a while.

But let’s start at the beginning:

We started relaxed after leaving Fernado de Norunha. Although, sailing without wind is never relaxing. You are looking for wind all the times, changing your sails and finally if you can’t stand the slapping of the beams and sails anymore you start the motor and you get annoyed by the noise of he motor and the fact that you are a sailing boat and not sailing……all of those things. Fortaleza just didn’t want to come closer, and Suriname seemed unreachable far for us. The promise was that we at least will find the strong current which would push us along from Fortaleza to the Amazon delta and Suriname.

On the 8th of Mai at 2.23pm Brasilia time we saw Neptune and served him an Oude Jenever. He seemed to like it. We originally wanted to go and swim with Neptune but just at that time Neptune on his turn treated us with some wind and we made 7 knots: 3 of them from the current. But in the doldrums, you are happy with everything what moves you along. Anyway, he (Neptune) had to do it with the Jenever, and we kept on sailing.

Just before the Amazon river at the end of day 6 of 11 it started blowing. Yeah!!!!!!!! 180 miles a day and no motor anymore. That’s great. Forecast: 12-15 knots with gusts of 20 knot. Lovely!!!!! From late afternoon of day 7 the constant wind was 32 and the gusts up to 40, RAIN and it started with a close-by lightening flash and a thunder clap. And that carried on till close to Paramaribo. The funniest: Nothing of all was forecasted on the Iridium weather report: as I said: ENE wind 12 – 15 knots, gusts of 20 knots and some possible thundershowers, but in our case they were not gusts any more, but constant hard wind 30 knots plus for 3-4 days in a row. The Amazon, even we passed him on a big respectable distance, and later the Suriname river brought trees down to the sea. You had to have your eyes everywhere. A whale, a humpback, close to the Amazon, just next to Elitsha, I saw him thinking: you are here and not in Africa? (we see whales in Hout Bay on a regular base), that close he was. For weeks we didn’t see more than a handful ships. They were huge, okay, but we saw them on AIS far before we could see them in real. Now there were lots of fisher boats around who didn’t feel like using AIS (they don’t want to be seen by their colleagues), tankers from Venezuela who switch on AIS only last minute, and this all at night, without moon and stars assisting…...and then………..always this “gale wind”, waves and massive swell. Another thing made us nervous: the “shallow” water. After having sailed for month now in blue water, REALLY blue water of 4 000, 5 000 meters deep, we suddenly sailed up the plateau of the South American Continent: only 200 meters of depth. You should think: That’s deep enough, Sylke. Yes, but it’s just what you are used to, right?! And we were used to 4000 to 5000 meters. The water was green, closer to Suriname, when we had no more than 20 meters it was yellowish. The Amazonas brought trees with big branches and fields of green-brownish weed, leaves…. and always the strong wind, the rain and thundershowers and you can’t step out of this train or leave the movie……you have to hang in there. This paired with not sleeping and being exhausted and Navionics giving us problems at this very moment, we saw the lights of French Guyana as the lights of Suriname (same character) and panicked that we would have passed Paramaribo already. After having struck sails and heading Elitsha into the wind, to check out if we are right or wrong, we finally followed our way towards Suriname with only the Genua, which was still fast enough. Holger, one of our shore captains confirmed, that we have the entrance of the Suriname river 20 mile ahead and not behind us. Ufff, what a relief. We still didn’t see land………. only 60, 50, 40, 30 foot of water under Elitsha, no entrance buoy in sight……. Via radio we got in touch with MAS ( Suriname Harbour authorities). Anneke, our other shore captain, had arrange contact and allowance with them already. In times of Corona regulations this is essential. You can’t just go to a harbour. Everything has to be pre-arranged. When we called MAS, to ask if we were somewhere close to the entrance buoy of the river mouth, a deep voice in Dutch with a heavy Surinam’s accent answered: “ik zie jullie on AIS.” YES!!!!!!!!!!! Eventually, we saw not the entrance buoy, but the first green buoy and shared this” achievement” with him. His dry and short reaction: “Mevrouw, u bent op de goede weg!!!!!” (“Lady, you are on the right way”). Not more and not less, but it was like music to our ears. It was low tide and our echo sounder told us, 20, 10 and then 9,60 foot. Elitsha needs at least 5,50 foot of water to float. We motor sailed (to be more controllable). Still 30 knots of wind, rain, and buoys not visible all the time. On the river we almost got stuck twice in the mud: 6 foot on the depth sounder. We were blessed to have sailed for years on the Dutch Waddenzee. This was very similar. The only difference: ELITSHA is not a flatbottom with leeboards. It looked exactly like you sail from the Stortemelk into the Schuitegat towards Terschelling with low tide and it felt exactly like that.

I could tell you more about my fear of sailing over the many wrecks alongside of the coast, our chart showed us and Dick’s fear of hitting ground in the bottom of the waves (that’s why he looked for more shallow water without swell and waves), about comforting and encouraging each other that we will make it, that the fishermen would look out, that 30 - 40 knots of wind is actually not that bad and we are not in real danger but that we just needed some sleep and rest, after 2 antibiotic courses and, and……… And then we just arrived……just like that!!!! We picked a mooring buoy, made the dingy ready to go and went ashore. I did not eat for 4 days, actually ate the other way round (if you know what I mean). In the bar of the Marina, where everybody welcomed us, we ate and drank because we felt, we must celebrate. But the feeling was not there like in St Helena and Fernando. We went back to our brave ELITSHA and slept like we got paid for it. The next day we celebrated full time. We ate the whole day, talked to everybody who came across. We did 5 washes in the Marinas washing machine, had I don’t know how many showers and Elitsha got a very good clean up: you don’t want to know how it looked like inside her: flour everywhere, everything everywhere and because of the salt water everything was sticky, wet and just ick.

Now we have a fruit bowl and candles on the table, new sheets on our beds, nothing moves, and we can just move without getting thrown into one of the corners of the ship, fall of the toilet and stuff like that. Okay its rainy season and if it rains, it REALY RAINS, buckets of water coming down, but that is not such a problem: cleans the boat and fills the water tank. A bar with nice music and good food where you meet nice and friendly people, a shower, free internet: that is what we were craving for. We are on the Suriname river in Domburg, close to Paramaribo. We hear the howler monkeys on the other side of the river, where it’s already pure jungle. I am telling you, it’s REAL heaven.

I remember from the old days of sailing in Holland: the feeling of arriving after a tough stretch in bad weather and under poor conditions is unbeatable. Leaving under difficult condition makes you nervous, hanging in it, you just do what you must do, and arriving is heaven.

Wednesday we will go for the stamp in our passports and on Friday we will sail with ELITSHA 70 miles down the river to meet caiman, anaconda, howler monkey and jaguar in the real jungle. No Sonny and Crocked anymore, Dick as Tanzan and I will be Jane.

………to be continued.

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marginal-notes · 4 years

Note

I in response to your flamethrower comment, they have a cooler on Boiling Rock, which mean they have pretty good cooling system if the air outside is so hot. That means they know how to liquify some gases, assuming they just aren't hauling huge chunks of ice or something. So they probably do have the technology for flamethrowers(maybe). But from the show, they just seems to prefer chucking flaming rocks, which tbh, is easier.

You’ve unlocked my brother’s and my “cannons? Cannons?? WHY AREN’T THERE CANNONS????” discussion with a partial side of me crying at my screen about “what is the state of chemistry in this world at this point, ATLA, ANSWER ME.”

This is going to be long.

~~~

Some quick Googling:

A good portion of modern flamethrowers work by having pressurized gas pump out a liquid fuel which is ignited.

So what does this mean within ATLA?

1) They can pressurize gas. Apparently people have figured out how to compress air since the mid-19th century. This is around the time period I’ve been pegging ATLA to reflect so that works out.

2) They can mass produce stuff on an industrial scale. Hi, I’m still not over how Zhao hauled over 100 warships to the North Pole. THE LOGISTICS OF THAT. THE SCALE OF THAT. COORDINATING ALL THOSE ORDERS. THAT’S LIKE BRINGING THE ENTIRE SPANISH ARMADA TO BRITAIN.

But the navy does prove the Fire Nation has the ability to produce standardized equipment and parts. A ship needs so many rivets. There are harbors in the Fire Nation entirely dedicated to building and repairing these ships and they must be doing super interesting things to the social fabric of the nation. Also, Jesus, where are they getting all this metal from. Where are they getting all their fabric from for the uniforms. If the Fire Nation ever loses its colonies, a lot of people would be foaming at the mouth with anger.

Anyways, check that off too.

3) They want to use them. Which.

~~~

The presence of benders must really mess up the advance of technology. Bad enough that irl, before the West came smashing in, the Far East had barely any interest or initiative in developing these kinds of technology. To be fair, they weren’t constantly murdering each other through wars the way Europe did. But still. How do we clear out this mountain for our tunnels? Get an earthbender. How do we filter this water? Get a waterbender too. How do we set these people on fire and wreck psychological devastation upon the enemy by burning all their cover? Get a bunch of firebenders.

No extra equipment necessary. No oil fuel needed. No hauling around supply chains that aren’t food. If they’re around, just grab a bunch of benders.

But what about the nonbending population? Personally, I’ve always felt that benders are a minority of the population, though an elite minority. If earthbenders were all over the place, Master Yu would not be able to get away with his scamming that easily. Nonbenders are going to need tools when there isn’t the requisite bender conveniently around.

(Jesus, the social tension that must be constantly shimmering over this dynamic and its effects upon the job markets.)

And frankly, in war? There will be times where sheer quantity overpowers quality. Longbows can devastate crossbows, thanks to superior range. But if the longbows aren’t there? Tons of people quickly trained with crossbows and other ranged weaponry are going to start winning.

Emergencies like war are like a super fuel to rapid invention. Nothing motivates people to figure out tool and processes like the threat of thousands and millions of your people dying every day.

So where the fuck are the cannons.

~~~

Here’s where my brain keeps smashing against the limits imposed by the audience ATLA is intended for plus the pure reality of storytelling. ATLA works very well partially because it doesn’t go into all these details. There aren’t many filler episodes. It stays on track with the narrative. It doesn’t veer off into tangents. And I love it for that.

But why does the Earth Kingdom suck so badly at responding to the Fire Nation?

(There are plenty of easy valid answers. My primary justifications are a) Aang is the protagonist and thus warps the narrative around him and b) one hundred years of on and off war kills the best and the brightest of all the militaries.)

Benders can only throw rocks so far. That throw is only going to have so much force behind it. Excellent benders can move incredibly heavy weights, so presumably with smaller rocks they can sling those very fast. But its still not a cannon.

The most powerful catapults and trebuchets could throw up to around 1000-1500 feet.

During the American Civil War, a cannon used can hit something a mile away. During WW1, artillery could hit something 80 miles away.

The key inventions necessary include a) an ability to bore precise rifling, b) at least gunpowder in mass quantities, and c) different types of shells to taste.

(Side note from the brother: The Fire Nation might not have the natural resources for all the gunpowder necessary to hand out rifles to everyone plus feed all the artillery. I counter him with the fact that the Fire Nation made significant territorial gains into the Earth Kingdom continent and they were not losing that territory. Anyways.)

If the Fire Nation navy is able to shoot out grappling hooks from their ships, I honestly canNOT understand why they still use trebuchets. Those things require so much open space around them for the arm to operate and get top ranges. You might as well set up a bunch of cannons in that space. Want a fireball of death still? Put blasting jelly or other fire-starting materials within the shells. Hey, they definitely know how to make bombs for their airships. Buddy.

For god’s sake, they figured out hydraulics and maybe gyroscopes for their tanks. WHY ARE THEY STILL USING CATAPULTS. THAT’S STUPID.

~~~

Here’s what’s not stupid.

The use of new technology will always ruffle the feathers of members among the old guard.

The use of this kind of modern technology will fundamentally change the entire nature of war.

And these kinds of changes? They reverberate through society. Benders are no longer the only cream of the crop among the military. If the social hierarchy depends in part on bending ability, which I bet the Fire Nation’s been using for the last century plus, then this technology is, literally, revolutionary.

And that’s not pretty.

#the blah blahs #long post #as much as this drives me crazy #i'm glad ATLA didn't do this #ATLA is not a military story #i'm not kidding #Aang could have been COMPLETELY obsolete by the time he woke up #if the EK and FN were super dedicated to massacring each other the way Europe was #however this would make benders within the respective armies #also obsolete #so you know ¯\_(ツ)_/¯#but yeah i've been thinking about this a lot #because frankly given the FN military industrial capacities #where are the rifles #and more importantly #WHERE ARE THE STEAMPUNK AUS #Anonymous

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lu-undy · 4 years

Text

Chapter 5 - SBT

Here it is!

"Your suite is number 504 on the fifth floor. You will find your luggage there and a leaflet at the entrance with the times for the meals. Should you need anything, just call the number one on the phone in your room and I shall make sure your request is met."

"Merci bien."

[Thank you very much.]

Lucien was at the reception of the Grand Palace. It was obviously a five-star hotel. If the Frenchman flew in business class, wore custom-tailored suits and drove an Aston Martin car, he surely wouldn't bear the possibility of a hotel with lower standards. Speaking of the Aston Martin…

"May I ask…" He started.

"Yes, Sir?" The receptionist nodded.

"Have you received my car? It's an Aston Martin, a dark blue one, the Panthera."

"Ah, yes indeed we did, only a few hours before you arrived, Sir. I must say, I have never heard of that model before. Absolutely magnificent, Sir."

Lucien smiled proudly.

"Merci. It is indeed a unique model."

The receptionist's eyebrows jumped.

"But of course… Here is the key to it." The receptionist put an Aston Martin keyring with two keys on the counter. "But Sir, I was asked to check your identity before handing the keys over to you."

"Of course." Lucien showed his passport.

The man at the reception had a look through it and noticed that it was filled with many colourful stamps from all over the world.

"Everything is in order. Thank you very much for your patience, Mister… Uh…"

The receptionist looked at the name on the passport but before his eyes could decipher it, the spy slipped his document out of his hand and put it away.

"You may call me Mister L."

"Very good, Sir. Mister L then, if you would be so kind as to sign the register here…"

The man behind the counter offered a fountain pen to his elegant client who accepted it. The expensive pen went from white gloved hands to dark ones. Lucien signed the register and the receptionist couldn't help but be impressed at his smooth handwriting.

"Thank you very much again, Sir."

"My pleasure."

"Here are the keys to your room."

The Frenchman immediately tangled his car keyring with his room one to make but one bunch of keys.

"Merci."

[Thanks.]

The receptionist nodded and almost bowed. Lucien courteously nodded back and took his hat from the counter before turning on his heels.

He walked to the lift and an employee called it for him before joining him.

"Good afternoon, Sir. Which floor?"

"Fifth, please."

"Fine, Sir."

Lucien looked at the young man with him in the lift. His eyes ran from his worn out shoes that didn't match his suit to his hat on his head, which he wore slightly on the side. He was about half the Frenchman's age and clearly had started that job recently. His uniform wasn't perfectly adjusted to him and his heart beat fast in fear that his client would be disappointed with him, Lucien could hear it.

"Tell me young man…" The spy started.

"Y-yes, Sir?"

"You want to keep this job here, non?"

The young man gasped.

"I-I'm sorry if I did anything wrong, Sir, I swear I didn't mean it, I-I've just started and uh-"

"All that does not answer my question."

The young employee blushed beyond his ears and lowered his head.

"Y-yeah, I wanna keep this job…"

The lift stopped and the doors opened with the sound of a bell-ring. The boy looked at the client in the impeccable suit.

"You are doing very well. Don't worry that much."

The young man smiled.

"Thank you, Sir."

Lucien stepped out of the lift and the doors started to slide shut. He turned to face the young man and said, as he nodded courteously:

"Thank me after you see what is in your pocket. Your shoes need a good replacement."

The lift slid shut and the Frenchman headed to his suite, smiling at the thought that the young man was finding a tip that would allow for him to purchase better footwear.

He entered his suite and found his luggage waiting for him next to the door. It was one single suitcase as he liked to travel lightly. Lucien took it and went to the bedroom, looking left and right to his new home. He liked the decor, it was very modern, light walls sharply contrasted with black varnished furniture. Simple and sober, geometric decorations, abstract, black and white paintings on the walls.

He nodded to himself as he entered the bedroom. A large king size bed, a rosewood wardrobe for his clothes, and underneath his feet, one of those very soft carpets that almost massaged his feet as he walked, his entire body sinking with every step.

Lucien quickly emptied his single suitcase. He liked to travel lightly and didn't have much personal belongings. A few old pictures gathering dust in his parisian flat, as he himself had been so, before accepting to come back in business and take on that job. He looked through the window. It was already almost night time but for his brain, it was only the beginning of the day. Ah, the joys of jetlag… He knew he would have to take it easy for a week or so before his body adapted to the local time. Bah, so be it, he could still do plenty of things.

First, he needed to have a good knowledge of the geography of the city surrounding him. That, and locating a few of his contacts would surely fill his week up. Also, as it was his first time in this continent, he wanted to appreciate this new territory, apprehend it and make it his. The Frenchman had to adapt and the faster, the better. He knew he couldn't rely on any guide other than his own gut feeling, and he liked it that way. He liked to think that he was capable of taming this wild new country and make it his on his own. He had always managed it before, even in America.

Lucien went to the bathroom and switched on the light. It was bright white and a light scent of vanilla floated in the air. The room was spacious and contained a wide bath, a separate shower, two sinks and the toilet. His eyes darted between the bath and the shower. He frowned as he hesitated.

As he looked towards the sink, Lucien's eyes caught his own reflection in the mirror. He took a step closer and stared. He looked like himself, but not exactly, if that made sense. The last time he had worn a suit like that dated back to years and years ago. Since then, his hair had turned grey on his temples and at the front. He bent forward to take a closer look at his face. It had lines now at the corner of his eyes. Crow's feet they called them in English apparently. His cheekbones jutted a bit more due to the heavy smoking making him slim; not that he was any other way anyway. He had always been slim.

Lucien had also decided to shave off the beard that he had grown during the years of his retirement and get a haircut. No one looks professional with a grey and black long ponytail.

With a sigh, he turned his back to his reflection and started removing his clothes. He wanted a quick shower to pump the blood in him everywhere and some light dinner. He wasn't too hungry.

About an hour later, the Frenchman was out in the streets again and walking around, exploring his new surroundings. His eyes lazily followed the shops' front windows and most of them were closed. He put his hands in his pockets and strolled along, not too fast and not too slow, his brain carving all the details of his surroundings into his memory.

"Ah…"

One establishment caught his eyes as it was still open. It was nothing like he had seen before, somewhat of a restaurant but it also strongly looked like American diners. Lucien looked inside. There were some customers and the content of their plates matched what the general look of the place inspired. It was simple food, but didn't seem as greasy as the American stuff.

The Frenchman pushed the door and entered. He saw an empty table in the corner and sat on the sort of bench there before looking at the laminated menu on the table.

"Hello there!" A waitress came to him with a notepad and a pen in her hand. "How can I help?"

"Good evening, Mademoiselle, uhm. Maybe you could recommend something?"

[Miss]

"Sure, do you have any idea what you'd like?"

"I am looking for something relatively light this evening."

"I'd go for a Ceasar salad then. Has everything in it, but it's light. How does that sound, hm?"

"Good. It does sound good. I think I will trust you with this." He answered and she scribbled it on her notepad.

"Right! Anything to drink with that?"

"Sparkling water, please."

"Sure! Fancy man you are, eh? Alright, will that be all?"

"Oui, for now."

"Great, I'll be back with your order as fast as I can."

"Thank you, Mademoiselle."

[Miss]

The young lady blushed and headed back to where she came from, leaving the Frenchman alone with his thoughts. He looked at the other clients here and there. There was a bit of everyone, really. People who looked like they were coming out of long work shifts as well as some who seemed as though the day only started now for them.

That was something that Lucien had grown to like, despite him not showing it much, and he owed it to that woman. She had taught him to never judge someone by their clothes or the way they spoke. She herself had come from a very modest family and was only barely making it in life because of her hard work. She was one of those Americans who believed adamantly that the conditions of their success were in their own hands, that nothing could stop them.

It was so iconic of the mentality of her country that even in France they said it: Sky is zhe limit!

The sky…

Lucien rested his chin in his palm, his elbow planted on the table and his fingers of his other hand tapping on the table. The city seemed half asleep. Well, only half. The day workers were long gone and in the dream world, whereas the night owls poured out in the streets, ready to conquer the night and make it theirs.

The waitress came back with the Frenchman's order.

"There you go, your water and salad…!"

"Ah, merci!"

"Is that Italian?" She asked.

"Non," Spy replied with a smile. "It is French."

"Is that where you come from?"

"It is indeed."

"Oh, wow… How is it there?"

Lucien smiled at her and extended his hand to invite her to sit with him. She couldn't have been more than twenty or so.

"Pray take a seat, I can tell you more if you so wish."

"Oh, uh…" She looked around her and seeing that no other client needed her, she shyly sat opposite the Frenchman.

"Do you mind if I start eating?" He politely asked.

"No, no, please…"

Lucien nodded and dug in.

"D'you come from Paris?"

"Oui and non. That is indeed where I used to live, but I don't come from there. However," He raised his fork. "You are not sitting here to listen to an old man tell the story of his life."

"You don't seem older than my dad." She replied and he nodded politely.

"Many thanks. But let me tell you about France…"

The waitress propped her head on her hands and dived in the foreigner's speech.

"It is a beautiful country first and foremost for its natural riches. It offers such a wide variety of landscapes in a reasonably limited surface area. Green plains covered by vines? Or golden fields of wheat waving under the gentle summer breeze? Non? Maybe you would prefer the white summits of the fresh Alps in the comfort of a chalet? Still non? Ah, then let the warm waves of the Mediterranean Sea wash your life away, under a parasol, sipping on a fresh glass of pastis…?"

"Oh, what's that?" The young woman's eyes shone in the decors that the Frenchman had painted invisibly before her eyes.

"It is a local beverage made from anis seeds, its color is light yellow, like a very early winter sun."

"Woah…" The waitress's eyes were half closed and she sighed in the beauty of the landscapes that she was swimming in, in the middle of her open-eyed hallucinations. "You… Are you a guide or something?"

Lucien chuckled and wiped the corners of his mouth elegantly.

"Non, I'm afraid not. Why do you ask?"

"You're sellin' it very well, it's almost like I'm there with you now…!"

"Ah, then I do believe that I answered your request quite well."

"You kiddin'? It was bloody brilliant!"

Lucien smiled gently.

"Do you mind if I ask…" He started as he put his fork and knife back on his empty plate. "I have recently arrived here and I would love to know more about my surroundings. Do you happen to know where I could find a map of the city?"

"Oh, yeah, see that shop at the end of the street?" She pointed through the restaurant window.

"Oui, I see."

"That's Joe's. He's more or less always open and has everything you could ever need from food to a hammer. Bit expensive, but that's the price to get anythin' at anytime I guess, eh?"

"Thank you very much. Anything else I should know about this part of town?"

"We're in the rather good side of town. Only very rich folks live here, a bit to the South from here is where you've got the business district, tall buildings and boring people in suits."

She stopped and looked at the man in front of him.

"Uh, no offense?"

He smiled.

"None taken, pray continue."

"Right, to the West you've got factories. This city's got rich thanks to them originally but now they're being converted into either fancy apartments or fancy offices… Some of them are already ready to be let but most of them still need a few more touches here and there."

"Pardon my interruption but, you do seem to know this city very well despite your young age."

"Well, I was born here and always ever lived here. I don't know, I just know these things…"

"Very good."

"Yeah, I s'ppose… Then you've got the East. That's for normal people, like me. If you get a map from Joe's, you'll see the East side is much bigger than the rest. That's where most of us come from."

"I see."

Lucien finished drinking his water and looked through the window. He made a mental note of the shop.

"Well, I think I am done here. Thank you very much for your time, Mademoiselle."

He stood up, leaving what he owed next to his plate and bowed politely to the young woman.

"Oh, sure, uh…"

He headed for the restaurant's door and held the handle in his grasp when-

"Wait!"

Lucien turned to the feminine voice that stopped him.

"What's your name? Will I see you again? Will you tell me more about France?"

He smiled.

"The salad was very good. My compliments to the chef."

The Frenchman nodded and pulled the door. The young woman thought that was a no…

"L. My name is L."

Her face brightened up.

"Just L?"

He nodded.

"Well in that case, I'm V."

"See you tomorrow, V."

She waved goodbye to him and her cheeks turned pink.

Lucien exited the restaurant and walked to the shop he had been recommended. He pushed the door and a bell rang. The Frenchman's eyes roamed in the room. He looked left and right at the wide and wild variety of products. V was right, despite the narrow size of the shop, Joe seemed to be selling anything one could think of, from food to tools to flower bouquets and school supplies…

"Lookin' for somethin'?"

A husky voice asked. Lucien raised his head and his eyes met with a skinny old man dressed in grey.

"I presume you are Joe?"

"You presume right. And you are…?"

"A friend of the young waitress that works in the restaurant at the other end of the street."

"Ah, Victoria? She's a good kid."

His face brightened up.

"She always tries to send me good folks. So, what's it gonna be for ya? 'm afraid I don't sell ties or fancy shoes…" Joe said, looking at Lucien.

"Oh, I just need a map of the city."

"Can do. One map for the good Sir here…!"

Joe disappeared in the ridiculously narrow aisles and emerged again with a folded map.

"Anythin' else?"

"Non, that would be all, to start with."

"Alright then…! That'll be seven dollars, mate."

Lucien paid and took his map.

"Actually…" He started and the old man raised his eyes. "Where do you know Victoria from?" Lucien asked.

"Ha, she used to come and buy candy from me all the time when she was a little girl. Now she's almost a woman but she still cares about old Joe. She's real nice, innit?"

Lucien smiled.

"Indeed, she is."

"She was one of the kids from the orphanage, see?"

"Ah…"

"Yeah, sad start in life, eh? But she's doing well now. Got a job and smashin' it I'm told!" Joe smiled.

"She is doing quite well indeed."

"And she still comes from time to time. Ah, if only more kids could be like her… Just, y'know… Good kids…"

"I understand." Lucien concluded. "Well, thank you very much, Monsieur."

"Oh c'mon, call me Joe! Victoria's friends are my friends."

"Merci. Have a good evening."

"Yeah, see ya!"

Lucien went back to his hotel room. He didn't want to sleep but he would lie down. The sooner he got his body used to the new rhythm, the better.

#tf2 sniper #tf2 spy #sniperspy #SBT

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clexa--warrior · 3 years

Text

There’s a new group of villains on Fear The Walking Dead.

Well not entirely new. These are the same people who’ve been scrawling “The end is the beginning” everywhere. The same people with the submarine who are looking for Morgan who took the Magical Key from the bounty hunter way back at the beginning of Season 6.

I admit, I’m just kind of tired at this point. Tired of all the bullshit and bad writing and the tedious characters and the predictable stories. Tired of the parade of mediocre villains. Bone weary. And yet here I am, still reviewing this damn show.

Let’s take a little walk down memory lane, shall we?

TV’s Greatest Villains

At the beginning of Season 5, after the Most Horrible Villain Of Any Walking Dead Show was taken care of at long last, we got a new group of bad guys who . . . just wanted their warehouse back? And directions to an oil refinery?

Truly, these were now The Most Horrible Villains Of Any Walking Dead Show Ever.

Logan (played by a woefully underutilized Matt Frewer) was the head honcho of these bad apples and he fooled Morgan’s group into flying a plane they didn’t know how to fly far, far away to help some strangers in another part of the vast continent of Texas. Then he . . . moved back into his warehouse! The bastard.

After half a season of trying to fix the plane so they could fly back across the Pacific Ocean (which we all know separates the two halves of Texas) Logan tries to pretend like he’s a decent guy and fools the Morganites into showing him where the oil refinery is. Dastardly Logan! Then, just when Morgan and Logan decide that their names are similar enough that they might as well be friends, the Rangers show up!

They show up on horses with rifles and expertly kill Logan and every single member of his crew but for reasons (reasons!) they spare Morgan and the Morganites. It turns out that Logan was working for the evil witch queen of Lawton, Virginia—Truly The Most Horrible Villain Of Any Walking Dead Show Ever (Seriously). She is so evil that she kills the people working for her, who helped lead her to the oil refinery, and spared some people she didn’t know who weren’t loyal to her at all for reasons.

Yes, you heard me. Reasons! You don’t get to know the reasons. That’s not how scripts work. Scripts are supposed to be confusing, opaque and riddled with plot holes and inexplicable character choices.

Anyways, Virginia and the Rangers with their horses and their cowboy hats and their idyllic Texas aesthetic become the new Big Bads sometime in the second half of Season 5. Morgan and Friends make a PSA documentary to make sure anyone wandering from gas station to gas station is able to know who to call (GHOSTBUSTERS!) if they’re in trouble (which, like, yeah it’s a zombie apocalypse) because Morgan really wants to make up for all the bad things he’s done and so do all his friends.

Virginia is very mean, though, and so she makes a PSA, too, and that pisses Morgan off so bad that he takes his people far, far away to an abandoned Western-themed park-town filled with zombies and they make another PSA on the way that’s even more amazing and magical but a dude dies making it, marking the Best Walking Dead Death of All Time in the process. Seriously a dude decides it’s so important to film a selfie shot for the PSA that he dies when a bridge that’s collapsing surprisingly collapses! And then everyone is very sad!

Then, uh, after a spell at the new town that has no resources or water because it’s a theme park town instead of a real town, Wes and Alicia paint some stuff and June and John Dorie get married and Daniel plays some guitar and sings and Frank Dillane is like “Holy shit I’m so glad I bailed on this show” and then Virginia comes because Morgan calls her because instead of walking somewhere else they decide they should call the Evil Witch Queen Of Lawton so she can rescue them by splitting them all up (even Skidmark the cat!) and then the season ends with Morgan getting swarmed by zombies but don’t worry he’s still alive and they’ll tell us as much in a trailer that comes out before Season 6 because AMC is criminally addicted to spoiling their own shows for no reason on social media and . . . and . . .

Somewhere between Season 5’s finale and Season 6’s premiere AMC and showrunners Ian Goldberg and Andrew Chambliss must have put their heads together with Scott Gimple and decided that the Rangers and Virginia were actually super dull villains, just like the last few villains (I skipped the whole Vultures plot because they were actually so stupid they put the stadium under siege but still let Madison and co. go out scavenging because somehow they never read the Siege 101 manual or something).

Anyways, for reasons that must be obvious by now, somebody must have pointed out that Virginia is not a very good villain after all, partly because she’s just not that convincing but mostly because she made a goddamn copycat PSA and someone thought that was actually a cool story because there is no God and life’s not fair and this is also why we can’t have nice things, son.

And they must have realized that the Rangers are a like a cartoon version of what might happen in Texas after a zombie outbreak (just compare this clown show to the far more realistic Vatos gang from Season 1 of The Walking Dead). All these realizations must have felt strangely repetitive after what I can only imagine were similar revelations about Martha, the Vultures and Logan. So many revelations, so little useful insight or meaningful changes!

The Believers

In any case, they had June kill Virginia after a weird series of events that also saw one of the only good characters left on this godforsaken show get killed by yet another brat, and came up with The Believers, a group almost entirely inspired by The Monkees. These totally realistic folk live underground where they grow crops and embalm zombies and talk about how you need to be able to “see” when you look at this one creepy zombie they have entwined in vines in their basement. They’re led by a guy named Teddy played by John Glover who must really be down on his luck to take a role on this ridiculous show, though he’s actually creepy as a villain so that’s something. But no, I’m not going to feel any hope or optimism because fool me once shame on me, fool me again and George W. Bush, man. He has something to say about this.

Wes and Alicia and Al and Luciana all find their way to these people. I honestly can’t remember how they found them, but they show up to scout things out. They get interviewed like we’re back in Alexandria. Things go bad when Wes runs into his long-lost brother and ends up killing him after a scuffle over a gun. Wes’s brother has had a little too much of that Kool-Aid if you know what I mean. Wes isn’t too shook up about it. Remember when the entire brothers Dixon conflict between Merle and Daryl played out over the course of one single episode of The Walking Dead? Yeah, me neither.

Luciana says stuff because she’s still on this show for some reason. She says stuff a few times and people say stuff back to her. Al checks an embalmed zombie with a helmet on thinking it might be her lover girl from Season 5, because you totally embalm zombies with their helmets still on, but it’s not. Boy I was really worried there for a second!

Alicia sets the embalmed zombies on fire so they can get away and the others escape but Alicia doesn’t and then she has to have a whole entire conversation with Teddy and it’s pretty damn awkward when she tells him “You wanna kill me? That’s not gonna happen.”

Teddy’s like “whoa damn I was going to kill you but now that’s not going to happen crap” and Alicia’s like “So there, Teddy. You jerk face with your crazy-man beard.”

He knows something about Madison somehow. And he wants to “save you, Alicia” but “I don’t need saving” she tells him and then he talks in more cryptic circles. Teddy’s been looking for someone like Alicia for a long, long time and she’s like “listen old man at least I got some lines this episode!” which, to be fair, is true.

THE END. CREDITS ROLL.

Verdict

Yes, I am clearly mocking just about everything about this show. But I didn’t come up with this crap. I didn’t come up with Martha and the ethanol, or the plane and the beer-balloon, or Totally Pointless Logan, or Ginny and her boring ass cowboys. Maybe Teddy will be a better villain than all these. To be fair, he is a better villain already in a lot of ways. Then again, the bar set by the Vultures, Martha, Logan and Virginia is not very high. It’s so low, it’s less a bar and more of a speed bump.

So while Teddy is far more intriguing than the rest, and it’s even possible that Glover’s brief appearance here in this episode was better than the sum of all the other villains in this show since Season 4, I imagine they’ll find a way to screw him up also and then, as soon as he’s worn out his welcome, replace him with some other group of bad guys. The Shouters, a group of post-apocalyptic crazy people who wear zombie faces and shout at each other really loud, led by a bald woman named Alphapha.

Here’s the thing.

We need more than just Good Guys vs Bad Guys. There are other struggles to work with in fiction. Friction between the group that causes realistic, compelling internal strife. Survival against the elements and just the struggle of surviving in a world laid low by a pandemic, maybe without creature comforts like walkie-goddamn-talkies. Or perhaps a compelling story about a survivalist group at odds with a Native American tribe over water rights, whose intertwined family histories are marred by murder and revenge, where our heroes find themselves torn between both sides of a bloody fight they know very little about.

Yeah, what a notion.

Like I said at the very top of this review, I’m tired. I’m tired of Fear The Walking Dead. I’m tired of the same crap happening over and over again, another absurd bad guys who ultimately make the same fatal choice: They mess with Morgan Jones. NOBODY messes with Morgan Jones.

Maybe Morgan can make a PSA about how mean and delusional Teddy is and then Teddy can make a PSA about how The End Is The Beginning, Actually, Morgan You Twit. It’s just all nonsense at this point and it has been since the end of Season 3. We aren’t dealing with actual stories about real people. We’re watching a cartoon with two-dimensional cartoon villains and a bunch of uninteresting flat characters. Except a cartoon would be more fun.

What is the point of this show now? It’s like a goofier version of The Walking Dead, which also suffers from too many villain groups at this point and too many characters but not this level of crappy writing (usually).

Let me predict the plot for the remainder of Season 6 and likely part of Season 7 if AMC is actually going to let the current showrunners continue driving this show into the ground:

Teddy wants the key from Morgan so he can use it to activate the nuclear bombs on the nuclear sub that’s in the middle of Texas (because Texas, you recall, is separated by the Pacific Ocean which has dried up because ZOMBIES and the sub is there now). He wants to nuke the planet because he wants to save everyone because they’re weak probably. From this nuclear wasteland, new life will spring eternal and his cult—well protected in their underground parking garage with their cute little gardens—will be the new rulers of the world. Or at least of Texas which—we know because of geography class—accounts for approximately 57% of Earth’s land mass.

Look, I’m sorry. I’m really truly sorry but if this show continues to be a joke I don’t know why we should take it seriously. A mocking review if only fitting for a show that continues to make a mockery of itself. AMC has the resources and the wherewithal to produce a better zombie show and quite frankly audiences deserve one. There was nothing fundamentally awful about “The Holding” so I’m honestly not fully sure why I’m in such a snarky mind frame, but there was nothing very good about, either, and it’s just plain as day to me that they’re already falling into the same traps they keep falling into over and over and over again. Meet the new bad guy, same as the old bad guy. It’s all so predictable.

Because they don’t really learn from their mistakes, or because even if they do they just don’t know how to course correct. That’s the problem when you just don’t have much talent but nobody steps in and says “enough is enough!”

Because seriously, my droogies, enough is enough already.

#ftwd #erik kain #i just read the reviews #i may watch this one because reasons and adc

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samwrights · 4 years

Text

Plastic Flowers [ 1 ]

Chapter 1: Wrong From Right

Warnings: Language

One would think that the world being populated with billions of people, a concept such as a Soulmate would not exist. It seemed absurd that every one person belonged with another—separated by fate and destined to find each other once again. But sure enough, each person was born with a destined partner, their first words that their soulmate ever speaks to them being imprinted somewhere upon their bodies. It has been a fact since the dawn of time, taught in history classes across continents. More often than not these words are never romantic, but are truly indicative of an individual. One would think the world would be a peaceful place with such a system in tact.

However, the world is not black or white nor is it simple enough to simply be at peace; the world is filled with various shades of gray. As many grow up, it seems that we tend to lose sight of that knowledge—especially in a world filled with Heroes and Villains and Soulmates. It was easy to forget that Heroes had their own personal lives filled with love, laughter, regret, and conflict, all the while trying to find their one destined person. It was even easier to forget that villains were more than destructive bastards that only wanted to do bad, and they too had a personal agenda to find their one true love. And, while volatile destruction seemed to be the only goal for the League of Villains, it wasn’t the endgame for all of them. If anything, most villains wanted the same things most people wanted—financial security, status and power, and to find their soulmate. In some scenarios, villains that weren’t associated with the League of Villains didn’t even realize that they were on the same side, often downplaying their crimes in comparison.

I did it for my love.

I did it because I deserve better.

I did it to survive.

Minus the dedicated search for her soulmate, such was the case for Hitoko Ohta—a thought to be quirkless orphan that ran away that used her quirk that manifested later in life to escape being put back into the system. The discovery of her quirk was not as eventful as most, for she learned in her early tween years that she was able to control inanimate objects through her days of playing with dolls. Hitoko often imagined different voices and scenarios when playing with her dolls, unknowingly bringing her imagination to life as she got older. The dolls would move without her hand holding them up, and even began to have voices of their own. Eventually they began to adopt human features such as various hair textures and even eye colors. But when it came to the orphanage checking on their inhabitants and their quirks, Hitoko’s mind would shut off along with her quirk—successfully fooling everyone into believing she was quirkless.

Why she didn’t want the headmaster of the orphanage knowing she did indeed have a quirk, nobody knew. Not even Hitoko herself. All she knew for certain was that she didn’t want to be a hero. Stupid heroes—it was all their fault that she was an orphan. If stupid heroes would have saved her parents from their burning office building when she was a toddler, Mr. and Mrs. Ohta would have still been alive. But that wasn’t what life had planned for her, she used to think, while she was trapped in The Exemplary Home for Girls, manifesting her quirk in quiet day by day until she had complete control over it.

It seemed life had so many other things planned for her, she remembers thinking the moment her Soulmate mark appeared on her body. Everyone in the orphanage remembered that day. At only ten years old, Hitoko felt the searing pain on the flesh of her right forearm as she was branded with the first words her soulmate would ever say to her—I will fucking kill you, bitch. It didn’t take very long to figure out that she was most likely going to end up with a villain which, in turn, caused the inhabitants of the Exemplary Home for Girls to shun Hitoko and keep their distance from her. With the young orphan’s obvious distaste for heroes, they too thought she would become a villain. It was almost a relief that Hitoko lacked a quirk, to the orphanage’s knowledge anyway. Maybe they still had time to lead her into a path of good.

It had taken several years for Hitoko to have a complete grasp on her powers—graduating from dolls to stuffed animals, up to mannequins she had found in the attic of the EHG. By the age of fifteen, Hitoko was able to make mannequins look like real humans, and was able to will them to do her bidding with only her mind. After perfecting her power, she decided to test out the extent of her quirk by controlling a mannequin to attempt to adopt her. She still remembers clear as day as she tricked the headmaster into letting her leave.

“Her? Are you sure? We have many promising young girls, many of them talented enough to get into UA.” The headmistress, Lady Shougi, said in earnest to Hitoko’s lifelike mannequin. So far so good, the headmistress didn’t seem to suspect anything suspicious. Though, she would be surprised if she did. The mannequin took on the form of an average forty year old woman, brunette and starting to show the slightest signs of aging with slightly graying hair and prominent crows feet thanks to Hitoko’s quirk.

“All the more reason. I myself am quirkless, it would be wonderful to have a daughter to share a normal life with.” The pseudo-human responded.

“I understand.” Lady Shougi replied, not exactly happy that of all of her girls to be chosen to be adopted, it was the one quirkless girl she had and not one of the pride and joys she had been harnessing. “I suppose I must disclose this before we fill out the papers.” The head mistress said in one last attempt to get the doll to adopt a different, more suitable child. “Hitoko has had some...issues with potential families. Most likely due to the fact that her Soulmate seems to be with a potential villain, and whomever it is plans on killing her. Not many families could deal with the potential heartbreak of their daughter getting murdered by their soulmate.” The mannequin stayed quiet, due to the lack of command coming from Hitoko. Her heart shattered as she listened to the headmaster speak.

“T-that’s alright.” The doll finally said. “She deserves a shot at a normal life, regardless if she is quirkless or a villains mate.” The headmistress sighed in defeat.

“Ohta, could you come here dear?” Knowing that all of the young ladies in the orphanage gathered outside of her office when there was a potential adoption. Pretending to show slight concern as if she were in trouble, the young teen stepped into the headmistress’ office.

“You called for me?” Hitoko asked politely, looking at her mannequin before looking to her primary caretaker with faux wide eyes behind her large, black rimmed glasses.

“It seems someone has shown interest in adopting you.” From there, the rest was a breeze. Hitoko manipulated the mannequin into being a gushing, doting mother and ready to sign off on her paper work right away. Crazy how the head mistress never caught on, even as Hitoko walked out hand in hand with her creation that ended up disappearing as soon as they were out of sight.

Despite not having the slightest clue as to what to do or how to survive on her own with her newfound freedom, Hitoko was glad to be free of that prison she was forced to call home. But her elation was quickly deflated when she came to realize she had no money, no food, no shelter—she had no way of living in the real world. All Hitoko had was herself and her stupid quirk that could control inanimate objects, something she thought to be useless in the real world—in any world.

Rather than it being useless, her quirk was the only thing she had that contributed to her survival.

That was ten years ago. In present day, Hitoko stood in the solitude of her apartment located above the business she had built—a coffee shop and bar, aptly named The Upside Down, open damn near twenty four hours, closed only Sunday and Monday, that was entirely run by her. Not that anybody knew that she was always the one working, thanks to the use of her quirk. As far as anyone was concerned, Hitoko just hired an amazing team of social butterflies that knew how to get the job done. Nobody needed to know it was just Hitoko controlling a bunch of mannequins she had stolen from department stores. To keep up the ruse, she made sure to rotate between dolls, making sure that their schedules were as realistic as possible.

It was currently a late Friday night, or rather a very early Saturday morning. As per usual, Hitoko was running the bar by herself, giving her quirk a rest and only using it when she needed a hand. Building her business from the ground up, Hitoko recognized many of the faces that entered her space and all of them knew her. Or rather, they thought they did. Many of her patrons thought her to be an innocent, yet foul mouthed, sassy young woman. They didn’t know the secrets she buried.

Business was steady, Hitoko notes, as she wipes down the bar where her regulars sat while teetering between the decision to go home or continue being served way past the legal limit. Despite it being Friday, The Upside Down was a much quieter space than many other bars in the downtown area, most likely due to it not being as hip of a dive bar as others, or the lack of uppity music. Just a handful of regulars, a couple new faces hanging out on the bars prized possession—a brand new Snooker pool table made of mahogany wood with fresh black felt. The table was accompanied by her own personal cues that she donated to the bar. The whole set was her pride and joy as well as her newest addition to her space. Hitoko was very thankful not many of her patrons new enough about pool to realize that the table was nearly fifteen thousand American dollars. Instead she would wager with her patrons, betting bar tabs if she could beat them, telling them to come back tomorrow if she won. It was the way Hitoko wanted things—nice and chill.

It was the way she wanted things, but you don’t always get what you want.

Why had he agreed to any of this? Despite finally growing out of his grumpy behavior at the age of twenty five, Katsuki Bakugo still despised prolonged social interaction that wasn’t related to his pro-hero career.

“We’re on call, dude. And we’re close enough to downtown that if anything happens, we can be there in a flash.” Kirishima said to convince him to come out. Bakugo initially agreed with hesitation, but he absolutely would have refused his best friend if he had found out he had also invited Deku.

“So why did you have to invite him?” Katsuki snarls.

“I invited everyone we graduated with! I thought it would be nice for all of us to get together.” A click of his tongue left Katsuki‘s lips, but resigned from further comment as he took his turn playing pool against Kirishima.

“I think it’s nice that we’re all together!” Izuku chimes in after declaring he wanted to take on the winner. In response, the blonde bomber just rolled his eyes as he potted the eight ball. Even though he won, Katsuki couldn’t just place his sour mood on anything and could only think Deku’s presence was to blame.

“Drinks on you, idiot.” Katsuki jeered to Red Riot, clapping him on the back out of good sportsmanship. Immediately, the blonde’s features turned into a scowl as he watched Deku rack. Kirishima has disappeared to get them all another round. Katsuki broke, the white cue ball flying off the table and shattering the glass wall separating the Upside Down’s espresso machine and customer area. Slight embarrassment flooded Katsuki’s veins—he never table scratched like that. Stupid Deku must have racked too loosely, there was no way he could have scratched intentionally. “Fucking Deku, you couldn’t have made sure that all the balls were at least touching each other?!”

“K-Kacchan, I did—“

“We all know you like seeing balls touch so why is it so fucking hard for you to do a proper rack?” By now, Kirishima has come back with a tray of beers for everybody, his heart stopped when he saw all the shattered glass. Dammit, he was a regular here! He didn’t want to piss off the owner! To make matters even worse, his stupid hot headed best friend was screaming at the number one hero, loud enough to draw in all the patrons attention.

“Hey, Bakubro, cool it.” Eijiro tried to interfere, but in turn only upset the blonde more.

“Shut it, shitheads.” Katsuki snarled, throwing the pool cue on the table out of anger and unintentionally detonating a bomb. The blast was the final straw, alerting the owner that something was going on. No, the breaking of glass didn’t quite cut it—it was a pretty common noise in a bar. However, the sound of wood cracking, pool balls hitting both the ground and shattering even more glass, and the sound of rushing water is what alerted the owner.

The brunette woman behind the counter looked over, seeing the yellow nine ball on the floor just behind her espresso machine—the machine brandished with a new dent and water shooting out of the drain tub. Hitoko’s mind went blank as she watched the water beginning to pool on her now shattered cheap tile. Seeing the ball on the floor prompted her to check out her prized possession, though she wished she hadn’t. Hitoko hoped she was dreaming and that she didn’t just see her fifteen thousand dollar table in pieces. Three men stood around the table like guilty knights, though one had her back to her. Only knowing one of them, Hitoko could only blame him.

“Eijiro!” The brunette snapped, stomping her way from behind the bar and making her way over. It was reality. Her baby was shattered into a million pieces. “What the fuck, dude!”

“I-I’m so sorry, Kohta! H-he didn’t mean to—!” Hitoko cut him off sharply despite the use of her nickname as a sign of familiarity. Eijiro had gone white, frightful of the temper of the cafe owner. Deku too looked terrified, he never did well when people besides Kacchan were angry with him.

“I am so sorry, ma’am—“ The green haired hero started.

“Get out.” She bit.

“W-wha—“ As Deku stuttered Bakugo had finally turned to look at the now red faced owner. Hitoko was seething, and he knew it was his fault. However, in his typical fashion, his bad mood refused to take responsibility of his actions.

“You heard me. Get the fuck out, I never want to see you in here ever again.” The entire time, the brunette’s soft violet eyes were burning with fierce intensity focused on the blonde bomber—staring right through him from behind her glasses. As if she could see his soul, or could feel the fire that was now burning inside of Bakugo. His arm was throbbing with a dull, warm sensation. It was how he imagined it felt to get a tattoo on his left forearm, but he elected to ignore it. Instead, still fueled from his anger, Bakugo began yelling at the young woman.

“I’ll fucking kill you, bitch!” Eijiro stepped in, grasping the number two hero’s shoulder.

“Dude, don’t.” Eijiro knew what type of temperament the young brunette held due to handling unruly bar guests, often comparing her to his best friend in his own mind. But none of that mattered to Hitoko. The minute the words left the blonde’s lips, her arm too began to burn. The buzz of a fresh tattoo in progress was putting it mildly. Her arm felt like she was on fire, and while she had the slightest hint as to why, she didn’t want to acknowledge it right this second.

“Everyone out!” Hitoko boomed, making all of her regulars turn to face the usually warm and welcoming woman. “Tabs on me tonight, I have to close due to a pipe burst.” It seemed her tone had calmed slightly, maybe it was only because she was speaking to those that didn’t just wreck her bar. The three heroes on call shuffled to follow out the small crowd until the woman stopped them. “Oh no, you stay.”

“You just told us to get the fuck out!” Bakugo yelled, getting in the brunette’s face with a finger pointed at her. She was shorter than him, not by much, but still he towered over her by a whole head even as he slouched. With a hard look, her violet eyes glared at him through her glasses before she reached up and grabbed his wrist. The burn in her arm pulsed further at the contact, reminding her the truth the two had just uncovered.

“You and I have business to discuss.” Hitoko chided.

“What business could we possibly have after you just told me to get the fuck out?!” By now, the bar had cleared out except for Kirishima, Midoriya, and Bakugo. Pausing before she spoke, Hitoko rolled up the sleeves of her arms revealing many tattoos on both of them, except for her right forearm that was clearly brandished and raised with a simple phrase—I will kill you, bitch. The letters were jagged and rough, matching the tone of Katsuki.

“You’re my soulmate, ass.”

Between the four of them was a thick silence full of tension. “Kacchan, she’s your soulmate!” Deku cheered in excitement for his childhood friend. Thus far, he was the only one who dared to speak while Katsuki’s emotions began muddling in his anger. Kirishima was dumbfounded. He had found this place months ago and started hanging around quite often; Eijiro never would have considered this girl to be his best friend’s soulmate.

“Tch, yeah right.” He sneered before looking at the brunette. There’s no way, he decided, continuing to ignore the burning in his arm opposite to hers where his mark resides. There was no way this little five foot something chick was his soulmate. She was so plain to him. Dark brown wavy hair, dull purple eyes, large lens glasses with thick black frames? Maybe her only interesting trait was the ink littering her skin. But no. No way. He’d always imagined his soulmate would be some crazy firecracker that wanted to be in the spotlight as much as he did, not this old hag in a young woman’s body.

With a roll of her eyes, she grabbed his left wrist, flipping it over to reveal his soulmate mark. Sure enough, the once black script had faded to white, signifying he had met his soulmate, the elegant lettering forming such a brash statement—I never want to see you in here ever again. Hitoko never considered those would be her first words to whom was supposed to be her life partner. Her violet eyes stared at the mark blankly as she read the words over and over. It was a little too long for Bakugo’s liking, yet he didn’t yank it away from her.

Finally tearing herself away from touching him, Hitoko let out a gentle sigh as she pushed her large glasses back over the bridge of her nose. “W-we should get going, right Eijiro?” Deku says softly to Red Riot, hoping the other two didn’t hear. Kirishima responds with a soft nod before attempting to excuse the two of them.

“Uh, duty calls!” His blatant lie was too obvious to Katsuki and Hitoko, but neither of them said anything to keep the other two heroes as they made their lackluster escape. They were alone now, each of them entirely captivated with their own thoughts.

Hitoko spent years of her life wishing she would never have to meet her soulmate. When she was a child and still in the Exemplary Home for Girls, it was because she shared the fears of her peers—fears that her soulmate was a villain. But as she grew, the desire to meet her partner, or lack thereof, was due to her own personal greed. She had her business, her clientele, her life; all things she had done by herself. Hitoko didn’t need anyone else—soulmate or otherwise.

Katsuki was, on the other hand, entirely fearful of what was to come after this, knowing full well he never wanted to find his predetermined life partner. In the deepest recesses of his mind, he had always feared that his soulmate would meet him and despise him. Whether out of disappointment or disgust, it didn’t matter to him; it was the very reason he wanted to be the best at everything. If he were the best at everything, there’s no way his soulmate would hate him. But now that they had finally met, Katsuki couldn’t help but feel like he had been the one disappointed. He wanted someone as vivacious and determined as he was, and this girl just seemed to be the opposite. It reaffirmed his apprehension of the next step even further—he was afraid of establishing their soul bond.

As many have learned through generations, the next step in the process after meeting one’s soulmate was to establish a bond. History had taught civilizations what happens when a bond is left untouched, humanity begins to crumble, wars are waged, and varying calamities strike the land. Unpaired souls begin to weaken and, with quirks eventually joining the normality of the world, quirks ran rampant. A rumor existed that a bond that never established was the very reason the original wielders of One for All and All for One ended up becoming archenemies, eventually creating the massive rift in humanity and birthing the classes of Heroes and Villains.

Bakugo feared he would lose all control over his quirk or even worse, lose his quirk all together.

He feared he would no longer be the best.

“So now what?” Katsuki grit out from behind his teeth. His crimson eyes cast a slightly downward glance, holding a stern gaze with the brunette. Though he would never admit it, whatever response came from her mouth made him anxious.

“What do you mean?” Hitoko drawled sarcastically. “Now, I need to clean up, shut off my water, and assess all the damage you caused.”

“I meant about our marks, idiot!” By now, the brunette was no longer holding eye contact with him and, instead, was picking up the loose pool balls spread across the floor. The entire time, she remained quiet, making Bakugo angrier by the second. “If we don’t establish our bond, we could lose our quirks, and I will not let you be the reason that happens.” Venom dripped from each word, fueling the woman’s own temper.

“Good thing I don’t have a quirk then.” Hitoko bit back, still refusing to look at him as she lied. Bakugo’s presence was annoying her now. During her clean up, she missed the stupefied, dumbfounded look on his face. His soulmate was quirkless on top of everything else? No way. No fucking way! What malicious, omniscient being decided to play such a cruel prank on him? Out of all the billions of people in the world, he had to be matched up with a person who had nothing to lose from not solidifying their bond? Reality was a cold hard bitch.

“So because you have nothing to lose, you’re just gonna leave this alone?” Bakugo asked in disbelief.

“Obviously.” She drawled.“I’ve been doing just fine alone, then all of the sudden I meet my soulmate and he destroys my cafe and ends up setting me back almost a months worth of income?” Hitoko had finished collecting the rack and putting them in their holding tray, save for the yellow nine ball that was behind the bar. The tray now rested on the sugar bar where people could add fix ins to their coffee and she stomped up to her damned soulmate. “Do you think I’m even remotely concerned about our stupid fucking arrangement right now?”

For once, Bakugo remained quiet, but not to seethe. Had he been his younger self, he absolutely would have retaliated without thinking—calling her names and pointing out her selfishness. A part of growing up for him meant that he finally learned to listen more before speaking. “I didn’t mean to break your shit.” Bakugo says quietly, beginning to pick up the larger pieces of broken wood and felt from the wrecked Snooker table.

“I understand that,” Hitoko responds. “That doesn’t mean that you didn’t financially set me back by a shit ton. I’m probably out close to fifty thousand dollars now.” Bakugo’s eyes widened—how much destruction did he cause?! His mind was reeling; his soulmate was quirkless and he had just ruined half of her bar, her livelihood, and potentially her only source of income. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t felt the slightest bit guilty. With his anger subsided, all Bakugo felt was a bit of shame mixed with culpability and confusion. Interrupted by the buzzing of his pager, the blonde looked to the woman once again who was slaving away with a broom and dustpan in hand.

“I gotta go.” He says abruptly, to which Hitoko only shrugs.

“That’s fine, I don’t need your help anyways.” She hadn’t meant for the words to come out as harshly as they did, but paid it no mind. In truth, she didn’t care nearly as much as she probably should have. There were more pressing matters at hand; she was going to need to purchase a new espresso machine, replace the glass he shattered, eventually order a new pool table, fix the pipe burst—The Upside Down was going to need to remain empty and closed for a little. Hitoko’s mind was reeling with concern as to how she was going to acquire what she needed, while Bakugo could only sneer at the woman.

“Tch,” He grunts. “Whatever. I didn’t want to help you anyway.” Without another word, Bakugo storms out, leaving the owner of the bar to her own devices. It wasn’t until he heard the lock of the door click behind him until he realized she never told him her name. Remembering that Kirishima had said it, he realized he wasn’t even remotely paying attention. He felt pretty stupid.

Bakugo didn’t know his own soulmate’s name, and he was too afraid to ask his friend what it was.

Plastic Flowers Masterlist

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tornbetween2loves · 5 years

Text

A Valentine’s Leap of Faith

This fulfills two requests for the choices February challenge. Valentine’s Day, requested by @allaboutchoices and Leap of Faith, requested by @riseandshinelittleblossom. Sorry for the delay in posting, writing has been a slow process for me lately. This features a cross-over pairing. I am working on re doing my taglists, I’ve tagged a few people. If you’d like to be added or removed from my tag list please let me know.

Adrian(BB) x Olivia (TRR)

This is safe for work, but does contain some adult themes. Please don’t read if under the age of 18.

All characters belong to pixelberry, I am simply borrowing them.

Word count 2654

Olivia sat by the window, watching snowflakes swirl in the driveway lights. She loved the snow and usually found it comforting. But not tonight. Tonight she was filled with worry. Despite her efforts to keep her feelings in check, Olivia couldn’t help it. She was hopelessly in love. Just one thought of Adrian’s deep blue eyes and how he looked at her made her belly flop and her heart pound. And now it was Valentine’s Day, normally a neutral day for her. But when Adrian called that morning and said he had to speak to her she just had a sinking feeling in her gut. This must be it. He was gonna end things. He was gonna tell her that he needed to get back to New York and that although he cared about her, his life was there. After all, he had a business to run.

Tears welled up and Olivia shook her head rapidly as she blinked them back and sighed deeply. She wrapped her hands around the mug of hot cocoa in front of her and took a swig, savoring the sweet heat as it travelled down her throat. The doorbell rang and caused her to jump. It was time. The moment she’d been dreading had arrived. She got up and walked slowly to the door. She took a deep breath and smiled big as she opened the door.

************************************************************************

Adrian smiled as he reached into his pocket, his fingers caressing the soft felt of the box. The past 6 months had been the best of his life. He chuckled as he thought about how stubborn Olivia had been in the beginning. She refused to even communicate with him at first. Of course he was at a disadvantage being on a different continent. He knew that once they were in close proximity he would be able to win her over.

After all, no human can resist the advances of a vampire who has drawn their blood.

Sure, it was an accident, and Kamilah did some pretty good damage control. But that didn’t change the fact that Olivia was marked that day. She belonged to him. And as long as they were on the same continent she could not resist him. It was time for her to know the truth.

Time for him to lay all his cards on the table.

***********************************************************************

Her eyes shone like emeralds behind her smile as Olivia looked up into his pools of blue. Adrian kissed her cheek softly and presented her with the bouquet of roses he held behind his back. Olivia gasped when she saw the deep red roses mixed with a few that were pristine white. “Oh my, Adrian these are perfect!” She turned and walked toward the kitchen as she motioned for him to follow. They chatted happily about their day as Olivia found a vase and began to trim and arrange the flowers. Once she was finished, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a soft kiss. “Thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful. Are you hungry? Would you like a glass of wine?” Adrian smiled as he stroked her cheek. “I’d love some wine. And those flowers pale in comparison to your beauty. Happy Valentine’s Day, my love.” Olivia kissed him again. She lingered a bit longer this time, moaning slightly into the kiss before she pulled away to open the wine. She had selected a full-bodied Vidiano from her cellar that was gaining popularity in Lythikos. She poured a glass and handed it to Adrian with a seductive smile. “Let me know if this pleases you,” she purred as she looked up at him through her eyelashes and bit her lower lip slightly.

Adrian’s eyes never left hers as he swirled the wine gently and breathed in it’s scent before taking a sip. “I am very pleased, my dear. However, I fear you may be trying to distract me.” He took another sip then set the glass on the counter and laced his finger through hers. “I have to ask you something, but first there’s something I must tell you. Is there a place we can talk comfortably?” Olivia pouted slightly as she nodded and sighed. She grabbed the bottle of wine and her glass and led him to the sitting room. A fire crackled in the fireplace and the lights were dim. Music played softly. Adrian raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “Tell me Duchess, do you always keep your sitting room so romantic?” Olivia shrugged as she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Well, I never know who’s going to stop by. I have to always be prepared.”

He chuckled and shook his head as he sat on the couch and tapped the cushion next to him. Olivia sat close to him, so close their legs were touching. His smell was intoxicating and she could feel her heart pounding in her chest. Or maybe it was the wine, she thought as she took another sip. She looked at him expectantly. He appeared to be a bit nervous. She began to wonder what this was all about as the feeling she had earlier began to return.

She didn’t wait for him to deliver the blow. She shifted away from him slightly and took another sip of wine then blurted out, “You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you? I mean, you have a business to run on the other side of the world. And I have a duchy here that needs me.” Olivia turned her head away from him rapidly to hide the tears that welled up. “I was foolish to think this could work,” she whispered, barely audible.

Adrian’s eyes widened and he slid off the couch onto his knees in front of her, his hands grasping hers in her lap. “No, you have it all wrong. I’m not breaking up with you. Look at me.” Olivia shook her head as she could no longer hold back her tears. Adrian placed his hand under her chin and gently tilted her head up to meet his eyes. He looked into her watery emerald pools and stroked her cheek gently. “My love, I can run my business from anywhere in the world. But you are more important than all that anyway. I plan to relocate here to Lythikos. The only thing I haven’t figured out is where I’ll be staying.” Olivia couldn’t help the giggle that escaped as she smiled at him. “Well, I do have plenty of space.”

Adrian chuckled as he slipped his hand into his pocket. He contemplated his question as he ran his fingers across the box again. He looked up into her eyes once more. “Do you trust me?” Olivia nodded. “With all my heart, I do Adrian.” He sighed and shook his head. This was more difficult than he thought it would be. All of a sudden he didn’t know where to begin. He sighed and studied her face. He was so scared of losing her. He closed his eyes for a moment and drew a deep breath as he remembered a conversation he’d had with friends before traveling back to Cordonia.

*****************************************

“Don’t you think buying a ring is a little premature?” Adrian’s smile faded as he saw the look of disdain on Kamilah’s face. He snapped the box shut and quickly shoved it back in the desk drawer. Perhaps she was right. Amy stood up and rolled her eyes. “Kamilah, that wasn’t very nice. I think it’s romantic.” She smiled as she walked around the desk and put her arm around Adrian’s shoulders. She narrowed her eyes at Kamilah. “Don’t listen to her Adrian. Just because she’s jaded when it comes to love doesn’t mean you have to be the same.” Kamilah pursed her lips and glared at Amy. A deep voice boomed from the doorway. “Amy is right. Adrian is taking a leap of faith.” Kamilah turned to see Jax and Lily in the doorway. Amy’s eyes lit up. “Jax is exactly right.” She turned to face Adrian. “If you feel strongly enough about this woman, then you should follow your instincts. Don’t miss your chance to be happy just because you’re scared. And don’t let the opinions of others hold you back.” She glared at Kamilah one more time.

“A leap of faith? How many times have we done that in the past Adrian and had it bite us in the ass? Look at what happened with Nicole. And Gaius for that matter.” Kamilah sighed as she saw Adrian’s dejected look. “I’m not saying that a leap of faith is bad. All I’m asking is that you be careful. I don’t want to see this woman rip your heart out.” Kamilah softened a bit as she smiled at her friend. “You know I only want happiness for you my friend. I know you well enough to know I can’t stop you once you have your mind made up.”

****************************************

Adrian looked up at his love, his heart swelling as he took both of her hands in his. “Olivia, have you ever taken a leap of faith?” She shrugged as his eyes shone with hope. “I’m usually a pretty practical person. I need facts to make a decision.” Adrian sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “I need you to listen to what I have to say. Then I am going to ask you to trust me and take a leap of faith. Ok?” Olivia hesitated as she wondered what this was all about. “You’re acting so strange. If you’re not breaking up with me, then what is going on Adrian?” She stroked his cheek as she spoke softly. “You can tell me anything. I won’t judge.”

Adrian looked into her eyes. “I really hope that’s true my love. But it’s easier for me to show you.” He grasped her hands tightly and pressed his forehead against hers. Olivia gasped as a blinding white light seemed to overtake her and she began to see flashes of scenes in her mind’s eye. It only took a moment to realize they were memories. Adrian’s memories. He was somehow sharing them with her. She saw him on the battlefield in the American Civil War. Saw him with his wife and child, and felt his anguish when they were killed. She saw him with Kamilah and Gaius, saw his fangs sink into neck after neck, either killing them or turning them into vampires. She saw him feed, saw his glowing red eyes, witnessed his bloodlust. Memory after memory flooded through her, showing her his experiences. Until finally he released her hands and stood up. His heart raced and he turned and walked to the window. He struggled to catch his breath as he waited for Olivia’s reaction.

Her heart pounded as well. She fought to maintain her composure. Her whole body was trembling. She remembered the Halloween party, how he bit her neck. It was all clear to her now. Of course he was a vampire. He had obviously lived for a few hundred years and had different lives. Some of the things she saw didn’t make sense, he didn’t seem like the Adrian she knew. He was violent and seemed almost evil. How could this be the same man? Perhaps that’s the difference between men and vampires. Maybe they become evil when they’re in that state? She glanced over at Adrian, his head hung low and his shoulders hunched. It was obvious he was upset.

Olivia fought back her tears as she stood up. Her voice came out in a breathy whisper. “I’m sorry. I just need a few minutes to process this.” She quickly left the room, leaving Adrian staring after her devastated.

Olivia ran upstairs and down the hallway to her bedroom. She locked the door behind her and flung herself on the bed, her body wracked with sobs. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. She should’ve known this was too good to be true. How can she be with a vampire? A creature she didn’t even realize existed until a few moments ago. She closed her eyes and thought of Adrian. She remembered their first date, when he came over for dinner and they never ate. She thought about how he looked at her, the love that shines in his eyes when he looks at her. She thought about his passion for her, his willingness to give up his life in New York and stay here with her. Nobody had ever cared for her that much before. She thought about what he said earlier. A leap of faith. Of course she trusted him. Why should it matter if he’s a vampire? She had now way of knowing exactly what it would entail to be in a relationship with a vampire. But could she take a leap of faith and trust him and their feelings to guide them?

Olivia jumped up and headed to the door, not bothering to even wipe her face.

*******************************************************

Adrian sat on the couch, his head buried in his hands. It was too much for her. He should’ve held back. Why did he share everything with her like that? He could’ve just broke the news to her gently. Surly she was frightened to death now, and really he couldn’t blame her. He sighed and reached into his pocket and removed the box. He popped it open and set it on the table in front of him. He had known Olivia was the one for him from the very beginning. Nobody knew it, but he had actually bought the ring in Cordonia before he even left after their first meeting. As soon as he saw it he knew it was perfect. A large round emerald surrounded by small diamonds. He couldn’t wait to see it on her finger. To see the look on her face when he got down on one knee.

But now he may never get that chance. He snapped the box closed and returned it to his pocket with a sigh. He closed his eyes and leaned back to rest his head on the back of the couch. He jumped as he heard Olivia clearing her throat and he opened his eyes to see her standing in the doorway. Her cheeks were tear-stained and rosy and her mascara ran down her face. But Adrian took one look in her eyes and knew. He rose from the couch and flashed her a hopeful smile. She ran into his arms and hugged him tight, tears flowing onto his crisp white shirt.

“Shhhh, it’s ok. You have nothing to fear. I love you. What I shared with you does not change who I am.” Adrian stroked her hair and kept his embrace tight. After a long moment, Olivia looked up into his eyes. “I want to take that leap of faith with you, Adrian,” she said softly. “I accept you as you are. I know who you really are and I believe that being a vampire doesn’t change that. I love you.” Adrian kissed the top of her head as he hugged her tight and relief washed over him. “Thank you for trusting me,” he said as he pulled back to look into her eyes. “There’s just one more question I have to ask.”

Olivia raised an eyebrow as he got down on one knee and pulled the box from his pocket. “Will you marry me?” She gasped and covered her mouth at the sight of the ring as she nodded and fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. He slipped the ring on her finger and stood up. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her upstairs to the bedroom. He knew that their love could withstand anything now that the truth was known. She knew him completely, and accepted him as he was. That meant everything.

Tagging: @allaboutchoices @riseandshinelittleblossom @innerpostmentality @gardeningourmet @sirbeepsalot @bobasheebaby @blackcatkita @darley1101 @desireepow-1986 @indiacater @hopefulmoonobject @furryperfectionlover @texaskitten30 @speedyoperarascalparty

#choices february challenge #choices crossover #BB x TRR #adrian x olivia #long post

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wolfhuntsmoon · 5 years

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Sarah Rogers pt 2: or, how baby!Steve imbibed a fuck-you attitude with his mother’s milk

Okay, so after looking at Sarah’s backstory, how she met Joseph and had Steve and decided to go to America, I couldn’t stop thinking about: what next? The MCU wiki is VERY thin on the ground with detail, and she’s so interesting! Plus, this is, like, one of the most criminally underdeveloped sources for Steve Rogers’ character, as I mentioned in pt 1. So, what can we reasonably source from the time to fill in the gaps?

So: I said in my previous post Sarah likely arrives in January/February of 1918. This is because in those days, travel times were long, conditions were VERY poor and you did not want to be heavily pregnant on a cheap ship to America with the conditions on board. Plus, in those days there was no guarantee a ship company would even sell you a ticket if you were visibly pregnant. It did happen, but was risky for the company, so you could never be sure. Sarah would have left asap once she made a decision.

The journey itself would have taken about 3-4 weeks. First she would have had to travel to London, because nothing would have been leaving to America from the French or Belgian coastline, as a) most of it was too close to the war and b) the bits that weren’t wouldn’t have been profitable. Travel to London from Passchendaele would have taken a few days to a week, given the mud and absolute priority troops and military materials were given on all journeys. This map here shows it took between 7-10 days to arrive in New York from London (by ship, no flights until the late 1920s/1930s) in 1914 before the outbreak of the war. I mentioned how at this point the German U-boats were basically sinking anything they found not flying a German flag, which made this journey pretty hazardous, even with the newly introduced (and very effective) protection of the convoy system. If Sarah was travelling on a fast convoy (less likely as they were primarily for troop ships) it would have taken about a week. Slower moving convoys carrying mostly cargo might have taken 2 weeks, even 2 and a half weeks if the weather was bad. Convoys, by the way, were where groups of ships were clustered together and escorted across the Atlantic by a combination of naval ships bristling with every explosive known to man, and navy ships disguised to look like harmless merchant cargo ships but ALSO bristling with every explosive known to man, to prevent U-boats sinking them. And also attack U-boats when they turned up. Not if. When. As you may be imagining, these journeys often contained lots of Things Going Boom and people Dying in Unpleasant Ways. Sarah would have been told by literally everyone she knew that this was a stupid, near-lethal decision, and that she should just NOT. But Sarah being Sarah, ignored this in the pursuit of what she felt was right and best for her and her baby... that doesn’t sound familiar at all, does it?

Okay, so she’s made it through the journey to the iconic Ellis Island. The next problem was that Immigration to the USA was incredibly curtailed by 1918, compared to the levels of immigration to the US prior to WWI beginning. In this, Sarah was lucky. Prior to WWI, on average between 1900-1914 about 1 million immigrants arrived into the US each year. In 1918, roughly 110,000 did - Sarah being one of them. I’ve said before that she would have had an easier time getting passage on a ship in the first place because she was comparatively better off on a nurse’s wage and was a middle class professional. More than that, most travel was reserved for the military - and Sarah likely had connections, being the wife of an American soldier, which made it easier for her to gain passage on a ship. (More on this later.)

Her status and profession is also very important for explaining how Sarah gained entry to the US, because by the end of WWI, the open door policy of the 19th and early 20th century had been solidly shut. The open-door policy had essentially allowed anyone who could pass a very basic medical and legal check free entry to reside in the USA, and the Ellis Island museum has a very good description of just how cursory these checks were - they were nicknamed the ‘six second physicals’. 98% of immigrants passed straight away, and a only a very small percentage of the remainder were put on a ship back to their country of origin. But by the outbreak of WWI, politicians and the public had become uneasy about this. Mostly due to racial concerns - Chinese immigration was the first to be restricted in 1882 with the Chinese Exclusion Act. Japanese immigrants were targeted in 1907 and all Asian immigrants in 1917. (I see a lot of posts on tumblr talking about how immigration restrictions in the US began by denying Jewish refugees entry in the 1930s, which... is wrong. So, so wrong. But anyway.) Here is a contemporary cartoon showing a pretty good summary of attitudes to immigration by the time Sarah would have been travelling:

(The 3% refers to immigration restrictions put in place by Congress AFTER the war, btw.)

But the US wasn’t just worried about one continent’s people! Or even ‘just’ non-whites! Oh no... they were also VERY worried about the ‘wrong sort’ of white immigrant too. Namely, anyone from southern and eastern Europe, and the Irish.

The discrimination against the Irish is an interesting one, because on the face of it, the Irish were the kind of immigrants the US wanted - north and western Europeans. But here’s where eugenics and pseudoscience come along and fuck things up for a lot of people. Part of the reason why the US was suspicious of southern and eastern Europeans was political - that they harboured a tendency towards violent revolutions, communism and anarchy. The Irish, after the violence of the 1916 Easter Rising and the fact that a not-insignificant number of violent revolutionaries tried to facilitate a German invasion of Ireland (and then unionists ran guns during the war through Kriegsmarine U-boat dropoffs on the Irish coast in... defence???? Idk either.), came to be included in this politically radical group. That’s the first strike.

The second strike came from the fact Irish had the British working against them. In those days, British media and culture really set the tone for the rest of the world. Remember, the US was not a world superpower yet - this is when Britain is at the height of its power, ruling 20% of the world’s people and 25% of its land surface by 1924. Britannia really did rule the waves, and much of the world’s culture, at this point. Hollywood, and American ‘soft power’ had yet to develop into the behemoth it is now. British culture persistently depicted the Irish as subhuman, ape-like, feckless, uncivilised and dangerous, as you can clearly see here:

The top one is from 1866, and the second one from 1849. Both were cartoons published in Punch Magazine, which was the pre-eminent social and political publication that EVERYONE read in the Victorian and Edwardian eras. It also played a huge role in shaping social attitudes, and you can see more of its, and others, views on the Irish in these excellent galleries. The rest of the British media was the same - almost universally negative views of the Irish, which filtered across the Atlantic over time. And seemed to be vindicated by events like the 1916 Easter Rising, and before that a long running number of secret societies the British kept discovering, plotting revolution against their rule. The whole ‘kiss me I’m Irish’, dying the Hudson green on St Patrick’s day, ‘omg I love an Irish accent’ thing? Didn’t happen until the latter half, or really the last quarter, of the twentieth century. The Irish were pretty much persona non grata when Sarah was alive. Part of the explanation for this came from the idea that the Irish were a part of a lesser race, their Celtic origins leading to a lack of judgement, predisposition to alcoholism and hotheadedness, and passionate outbursts which meant you needed to treat them more like children. Conveniently enough for the British, this explanation meant you didn’t need to treat your subjects like equals, deserving of the vote, or indeed with anything except violence and condescension. Ha. Funny that.

But anyway, back to America.

Third strike: the Irish were Catholic, as Sarah would have been. Only the very richest in society were Protestant, because they were descended from British settlers. Both the British and the US governments of the time viewed Catholicism with deep suspicion, partly for historical reasons (Martin Luther, 1517 and all that jazz) but ALSO because the Catholic Church remained a vastly powerful institution which could and did command the loyalties of people more than the national government, and this represented a dangerous fifth column within the nation state. Most of north and western Europe was Protestant, unlike the south and east which was predominantly Catholic (with the exception of France. But hey, they’re the French. No big.) so the Irish being 99% Catholic was yet another reason they got lumped in with the other ‘undesireables’.

Not a small part of this was caused by the fact that the Irish had been immigrating to America in vast numbers ever since the Great Famine (aka the Potato Famine/Blight) to the tune of and average of c450,000 Irish per decade between 1850-1900. That is... a LOT. Like, New York’s population in 1890 had only just hit 2.5 million! Ireland’s population TODAY is 5 million! So by the end of WWI, there was already a sense that Too Many Irish were here, particularly since the Irish tended, like most immigrant communities, to move into certain areas in large numbers via family groups and connections. Sarah would have been no exception to this, which I’ll explore more in pt 3 later. It was a very common practice in this period for a man to go to America and work, then bring his family and extended family over. Or for young relations to go and live with family already in America if there was no work in Ireland - which there wasn’t, the Irish economy being subsistence agriculture and not a lot else.

All of this together means that when Sarah arrives in Jan/Feb of 1918? She’d get a pretty rough welcome at Ellis Island (still used for incoming immigrants until new legislation establishing a visa system in 1924 went through and basically made it redundant.) and beyond.

Below is a pic of an Ellis Island arrival card, just because it’s cool:

These tightened restrictions resulted in not just health checks, but intelligence tests and ‘mental fitness’ tests, which if failed, could result in the immigrant being sent back to their country of origin. However, Sarah would have made it through okay, because she had good English, her profession and likely her marriage cert and references from Joseph Rogers’ commanding officer to speed her passage. She may even have had family connections already in New York or America, but for the reasons outlined in my previous post, probably wasn’t in contact with them. Or if she did contact them, was likely to be ignored and ostracised. Because patriarchy, yay.

But ironically? Getting into America was the easy part. I know, I know, unbelievable, especially when you consider she was PREGNANT during this. I mean, can you imagine enduring morning sickness and all the other joys of pregnancy on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic in WINTER, in danger of sinking from a U-Boat torpedo at any moment? Can you? Can you??? Sarah Rogers came up against an immense set of obstacles just to get into America and just fucking ploughed through them like they were tissue paper. Which explains a LOT about Steve Rogers, that’s for sure.

Join me next time for pt 3, where I explore Sarah’s living and working situation after she arrives and we all learn to be even more in awe of how fucking metal she was.

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