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#that's how much i hate declining nouns
coffee-in-veins · 1 year
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listening to the other’s heartbeat Gimme this one for reymas?
thank you so much for the ask. i’m genuinely sorry it took me so long ^^’
but now those two prompts aligned so incredibly that i finally found the strength and inspiration to write this scene. thank you for this!
an entry for darkest prompts promptober 2022
previous days: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15
now available on ao3 too
Day 16: The Abyss
Abyss NOUN - a deep or seemingly bottomless chasm; a wide or profound difference between people; a catastrophic situation seen as likely to occur.
* * *
Amidst the thoughts like between the lines It's somewhere there, yet who knows Who can teach me and tell me How can we keep what we have? Nights and days Left their trace in my eyes Tell me Where would this long road take us? This long road -- Nights and days by Okean Elzy
The last torch he managed to scavenge flickered and died out four rooms ago. Fifteen rooms ago, he stumbled into a massacre of his former party and one particular bleeding-out crusader. Nineteen rooms ago, he was left to die, presumed already dead after Paracelsus’ experimental concoction they carried with them for the expedition took his heartbeat and breath away for long enough – probably after reacting wrongly with something mutated in his infected body.
Dismas knew some days were bad, but today was definitely pushing it.
The smell of fresh blood was driving him up the wall – he was starved and slowly losing it, and he wasn’t sure whether it was because of the darkness and his sweetheart being so close with her gravely chill, or because he could feel the blood slowly oozing from Reynauld’s many wounds despite Dis' best attempts at stitching and bandaging them.
He wasn't sure what could wipe out the whole party. Yeah, they were stressed and tired, but there was Junia to keep them afloat with her healing verses and both Barristan and Rey to protect her in turn. Sure it didn't help Dismas himself much in the last battle the party had stumbled into, but... uh. 
Who was he kidding? It was the cursed Estate. Whatever could go wrong here, always did. 
His sweetheart tried to offer her a wreath of dried lilacs, but he had to decline with a pained smile. The rogue still had some kick left in him, and he could drag his feet without her mercy for just a little bit. Especially when his attention was drawn to the quiet, pained groan of the knight he dutifully dragged through the cold guts of the Ruins. Immediately, Dismas gestured his sweetheart to keep her distance and went to check the bandages, trying oh so desperately to keep the precious droplets of blood inside Rey's body, pushing away the crusader's seemingly-inevitable demise - as well as his own temptation. 
After fixing the bandages to the best of his ability, the highwayman hauled Reynauld's hand over his shoulders and helped him up again. Thank fuck and whatever deity there was that Dismas was infected! Without the added strength the Curse provided, he wouldn't be able to even get the oaf up. Thankfully, Rey could step on his own for now, or else they would be screwed. Even with the curse's aid, Dis was nowhere nearly strong enough to carry the zealot out of the cursed Estate, with or without his heavy ass armour. 
At least, his already-mutated eyes could see well enough in the pitch black. 
Still, the Estate became ever more wrong with each and every step he took. Yes, he hated Ruins, hated the stale air of the prison cell he was forced to breathe, the bone dust scraping underneath his boots, the echoes of pain gushed between the stones instead of putty. But whatever was happening made Dismas' hair and sensilla bristle and forced him constantly check over his shoulder or strain his hearing to the point of ringing ears. 
"Where is the white light? I see only blackness..."
Yeah, Rey's feverish delirium didn't help either. 
Fuck. Was he starting to panic? Was it a fit of his carefully concealed crippling claustrophobia? Was it the realisation of his situation finally creeping into his hard noggin? Or was it the worst-case scenario - his senses, screaming bloody murder because something was actually trying to find them and finish the job?
Initially, Dismas tried to will through the clammy clutch of fear, moving his feet with shuffling stubbornness, yet with each step, his ligaments wouldn't stop trembling. The darkness crept over them, palpable and antediluvian, and even his mutated eyes started struggling soon enough. The black was so concentrated that it was becoming hard to breathe, each gulp of air feeling more like a mouthful of cold bile down his parched throat. It was so thick, trudging through it felt like the highwayman was drugging barely conscious Reynauld waist-deep in snow. Shortly after, his teeth started chattering, and the rogue had to grit them just to be able to hear his surroundings. 
When even his sweetheart started fiddling with her shroud and glancing behind them, Dismas lost it. When he managed to glimpse an outline of a sarcophagus in an alcove, the highwayman turned to it, reasoning with his frantic terror that he merely needed a breather before walking any further. In the enveloping darkness, he helped the crusader to lie down and hide behind the engraved stone. 
The darkness was dampening, deafening, overwhelming. 
Fucking hell! The rogue forgot how it felt to be blind in the dark, and now the terror clasped his mind and soul, piercing his guts with icy needles. The highwayman swallowed and reloaded his flintlock - not that it would've helped in such lightless conditions. The habitual motions simply helped him to feel a little less helpless. 
And then it started pushing itself into the too-tight confines of the corridor - if it still was a corridor even - and Dismas forgot such nonsense. 
"Black as hate, this, the darkest of all nights," Reynauld mumbled, tossing in his blood loss-caused fever. Quietly, in instinctive motion of protecting someone he refused to admit he cared about for quite a while now, Dis fell onto the crusader, pressing his babbling mouth shut. The rogue couldn't let it hear them, there was no hope of fighting it, and he froze, afraid to even breathe regularly.
It coiled and churned, warping the space around itself with the natural ease of riding tide. The wet, squishing sound of its shambling filled the air with curls of purplish ink. It festered with lumps of reddish eyes and looped with rings of coiled, barb-covered tentacles. Filling all space, conquering all senses and squashing any sanity, it reigned supreme in the pitch black. 
In his hubris, when his tongue turned into proboscis and his hands sprouted claws, Dismas deemed himself a monster, fit for the cursed Estate. Now, however, when he was hairbreadth from wailing from horror and clawing his eyes out, he was faced first-hand with the arrogance of such assumption.
Nonetheless, even in this bleakness, there was a silver string which was holding together his slipping sanity - Reynauld's slow, irregular, faint heartbeat. 
Despite being whisper-faint and feather-soft, it still was enough to ground the slipping rogue and allow him to remain motionless. The gentle sound was the lifeline Dismas held with tenacious desperation as his senses were assaulted and his sanity was ravaged. 
Thump.
Squelch.
Thump.
Scrape.
Thump.
Spatter.
Dismas didn't allow himself to close his eyes, watching diligently as the nightmarish creature sloshed past their meagre hiding spot. Once, it stopped, seemingly looking for their presence, and the rogue clutched his useless flintlock. A futile gesture, really. But he knew with doomed resignation that he wouldn't be able to leave Reynauld as bait nor wouldn't be able to win against the darkness incarnate. 
Thankfully, after a moment that left him half-grey, the terror resumed its sloshing movements, pushing past them and coiling into the abyss it carried with itself.
The air grew warmer and the dusk turned into dull flat grey, and yet for the longest time, Dismas couldn't force himself to move, staring blankly into a wall and listening to the quiet, blessed thumping. 
Then a roach fell onto him from the ceiling, scaring the seasoned highwayman nearly to the point of pissing his pants. 
When he stopped dry heaving, the rogue did what he always did best. He concentrated on surviving the moment. Thus, Dismas got up to his shaky feet, grabbed his lucky zealous oaf, hoisted him back over his shoulders again, and wobbled in the opposite direction. He knew he wouldn't be able to find rest in darkness from now on. He knew there was no way he would be able to close his eyes and sleep at night without some light around. Just as he knew there was no amount of treasure and no threat of penalty that would've forced him to follow that thing, even if it was a relatively smart thing to do. 
Apex predators rarely guarded their backs, after all. 
The rogue barely remembered the following day. Sharp pangs of hunger. The maddening smell of blood. Delirious bubbling that he tried to quench at first but hurried to switch gears and began encouraging the moment it started to fade. His own unsteady steps and throbbing pain in his abused joints. 
Yet more than anything, Dismas remembered the sound of the heartbeat that pulled him out of the dark. 
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danklefstad-blog · 5 months
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Re: Your Intern Who Rejected My Book
Dear Publisher,
Many thanks for responding to my manuscript query. Even though it took 11 months, two weeks, and three days for your reply to arrive, and even though it was clearly a form email, I’m grateful that your college intern took the time to read my sample pages while watching TikTok videos and snapping Instagram images of freshly painted fingernails. Such multi-platform multitasking is perfect preparation for this new world where nouns are distilled into memes, feelings are reduced to emojis, and attention is measured in GIFs. I hope you’re paying your primary gatekeeper an adequate wage to share a studio apartment in Brooklyn with no more than three other future captains of the content creation industry formerly known as publishing.
I hate to intrude on your Facebook time, but I would like to point out a few of your junior staffer’s notes, presumably meant to help with my future submissions. Please understand I’m not trying to get anyone into trouble. I merely want to confirm whether these “edits” reflect the new industry standard for composition worthy of today’s audience.
Firstly, your intern changed all gender pronouns to they/them. While I consider myself an ally of transgender and non-binary persons, I maintain some readers might find it useful to know whether a character identifies as “he” or “she” or is biologically so. If you feel otherwise, I’ll admit this is not a hill I’m willing to die taking, as we’re only talking about pronouns.
Secondly, any reference to sexual attraction, or even intercourse, has been removed. It seems your apprentice feels my main characters would appeal more broadly to Generation Z if they identified as “ace” which, after consulting a source called Urban Dictionary, I learned means asexual. No offense to those not interested in sex but how does your intern think people arrive on this planet? Dropped by aliens? Maybe it’s time we bring back the old trope of the stork carrying a swaddled babe in its beak. For the remainder of this letter I’ll refer to the younger cohort as storks — and I don’t care if they view this as a micro-aggression. I am the one who feels attacked and I seek, nay, I demand answers as to what our industry’s standards really are.
Trigger warning: A complaint about trigger warnings is imminent. Are you in a safe place, emotionally speaking, to read my third objection? Allow me tread lightly so as not to bruise your feelings. Okay, I’ll admit this preamble is insensitive. But seriously: Where do we draw the line between a reader’s right not to re-live trauma and my right to inject realism into a story? In my case, your employee went too far when striking an entire scene in which an injured horse is euthanized by its owner. Shooting a lame steed was common practice in the 18th century, and my depiction of this act was meant to portray the owner as a sensitive and merciful man. However, this proved far too much for your stork who apparently still suffers from PTSD after a veterinarian put down a beloved “fur baby.” My lack of a warning seems to be the main reason my manuscript was declined. For your intern’s sake I’ll thank God they didn’t read the part where the man, who was starving, ate his horse so that he could survive a harsh winter.
Please understand that I deeply empathize with anyone who had to say goodbye to a beloved pet. And I would accept the inclusion of a trigger warning for this scene if it increases my odds for getting published. But what about other passages such as a battle devolving into brutal hand-to-hand combat? Or a character’s death from dysentery? Adding warnings to each of these chapters would yank the reader out of the immersive experience I carefully curated for them. I hope you’ll agree that not every chapter in a book should be filled with “happy place” things.
My final complaint focuses on your stork’s lack of knowledge, even complete disregard, for American history. Here I’ll need to burden you with another detail about my novel: It features Thomas Jefferson as a recurring character. In my story Mr. Jefferson is presented as a complex, flawed human of his time who literally owned Black Americans, some of whom he used for sex, the most famous being Sally Hemings. To my astonishment the stork you hired as the sieve for incoming manuscripts insisted I was wrong. Thomas Jefferson, she wrote in all caps, WAS A BLACK MAN. When I shouted back at these words my daughter informed me that a Black actor plays Jefferson in the original cast of Hamilton, a play she has seen numerous times on the Disney channel. My daughter’s praise for the production was drowned out by my alarm that the person you put in charge of acquisitions looked no further than a Broadway musical for fundamental facts about our nation.
Having vented enough for now I wonder if my blame is aimed at the wrong target. What if the education system is the real culprit? Or Gen Z’s parents? Regardless, I do believe you’d be well served to occasionally double-check the writing samples your intern rejects. No need to do this with mine, however. I’ve given up and am exploring other avenues to “boost awareness among content consumers” of my “creative offerings.” God, just reading those words makes me feel dead inside. Still, I’ll focus on greener pastures like my YouTube channel in which I read rejection letters and offer comments similar to what you’ve read here. So far only a dozen people have subscribed but I’m predicting thousands of writers will sign up once my social media posts get enough shares. I’m still researching the best hashtags to optimize my Google-friendliness or whatever they call it. I do find some comfort in this practice as it still involves the careful selection of words.
Would you like to increase your media profile? Join me on my channel. I’d love to get your opinion about where our industry is headed and whether books can still maintain a place in this new landscape. And if the person reading this is in fact the intern who stars in the previous paragraphs, I mean no insult. What’s more, I’ll bet you’d be a far more entertaining guest than your boss — or me, for that matter. We could talk about Hamilton, pronouns, triggers, whatever you want. You’re the future, after all. Those who write should know who you are and what content you prefer.
If, during our chat you scroll through Instagram or TikTok, all I ask is that you share your distractions with our viewers. I realize I’d risk being a bystander on my show. But I need to know if my words still have relevance. Perhaps you’d be doing me a favor by putting me out of my misery. Just do it quickly and as painlessly as possible. And be sure your rising star executes a full eclipse so my remains are shielded from sensitive eyes. Not to put too fine a point on it but don’t eat me because that would get you banned from all platforms, possibly forever.
What’s that? Of course, vegan. Please excuse my lame and inappropriate attempt at humor. And may your words succeed where mine have failed.
Author.
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wuxian-vs-wangji · 3 years
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Are you not chinese?
No
In HS I studied Latin for 4 years, became overwhelmingly sick of romance languages, and so I started studying Asian culture, mythology, and language instead when I got to college. At first just to meet language requirements, but became genuinely extremely interested in studying more.
So far that only includes Mandarin Chinese and Korean. I've studied Mandarin Chinese longer than Korean, but I spent a year in Korea during college studying specifically the intersection of history, culture, and religion (my passion- how history is coded into tradition or mythology).
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elliestormfound · 3 years
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You won’t believe how much mutual pining I fit into this fic
Chapter 9
read this chapter on ao3
Chapter: Prolog, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14
Thank you to @thecomfortofoldstorries for encouraging me that this chapter is not the garbage my brain told me it is and for beta reading! <3 <3 <3 Thanks to you I peppered in more awkwardness :D The pining continues...
———–
Mornings at Kaer Morhen usually started way too early for Jaskier, but he loved them nonetheless. All inhabitants of the keep would sit together at the large wooden table in the kitchen, eating hot porridge, drinking tea and dividing the tasks for the day.
“The shelves in the basement,” Vesemir said in between spoons of porridge, “someone needs to clean there and take stock.” He looked up at Geralt as he said this with raised eyebrows. Geralt suppressed a grunt. He’d rather spend the afternoon outside, repairing the barn than in the dark and dusty basement. 
“Geralt,” Vesemir said, ignoring Geralt’s sour face, “you and Jaskier can do this.”
Suddenly the prospect of spending a few hours down there didn’t seem so boring anymore and he nodded to the older witcher. As he looked over to Jaskier he noticed just the slightest of blushes on the bard’s pale cheeks.
So after a morning of sword training with his brothers and a quick lunch, Geralt collected the bard from the library and they made their way down narrow winded staircases.
“What do you store down here?” Jaskier asked, his voice echoing from the stone walls.
“Some ingredients for potions,” Geralt said, “there are a few that need stable conditions and down here the temperature and humidity stay the same over the year.”
“Are they dangerous?” Jaskier wanted to know, looking up to Geralt. 
“If you drink them, yes,” he said, “but they will not explode or anything. We store them here because they can lose their potency otherwise. And some of them are very rare to find or hard to manufacture.”
Jaskier hummed in answer.
They arrived in a large room with long shelves lining the walls, stacked with dusty bottles, chests, small boxes, cans and other objects of all shapes and sizes. First they would empty the shelves, so they could wipe them down. After that they would clean the containers, check the conditions of the ingredients and take inventory of what was there. 
As they worked Geralt looked over to Jaskier from time to time. He shook his head and tried to concentrate on his work as the bard first opened and then removed his dark green cloak. Geralt also got the feeling that it had gotten oddly warm down here as Jaskier rolled up his sleeves, exposing his pale forearms. 
The next time Geralt looked over specs of dust had collected on Jaskier’s shoulders and when Jaskier leaned into one of the shelves to grab the containers on the back, some cobwebs caught in his hair. 
Geralt chuckled as the bard turned to him.
“What?” the younger man asked, arms full of dusty boxes.
Geralt pointed at his hair and said “cobwebs” with a grin. 
Jaskier shook his head, “can you…?” He looked pleadingly at Geralt. 
So he walked over and avoided Jaskier’s blue eyes as he carefully combed his fingers through the soft brown curls to rid them of the cobwebs.
“There,” he said quietly a moment later, searching Jaskier’s head to make sure he had removed everything.
“Are you sure?” he asked, looking up at Geralt. 
They were standing so close that Geralt could feel Jaskier’s breath on his face and there was a split second where he wanted to lean the rest of the way forward to press his lips to Jaskiers to find out if they were as soft as they looked. 
A heartbeat later he shook his head at this inappropriate thought, took a step back and said, “give me these,” as he hastily extracted the boxes out of Jaskier’s grasp. The bard blinked a few times but when the witcher turned back, Jaskier was already back at work. 
“We should have brought something to drink,” Jaskier said a while later, wiping away sweat from his forehead, “you don’t think I can drink one of these?” he asked, pointing at a collection of large bottles with clear liquid inside.
“If you want to die a horrible death…”
Jaskier laughed nervously and turned back to the shelves. 
A moment later Geralt shook his head and said, “I could...I could go up and get you something to drink from the kitchen…”
The bard turned to him but instead of the beaming smile Geralt had expected, Jaskier looked nervous. Jaskier grabbed his arm as if to stop him.
“I...ahm…” he began.
“You don’t want to be left alone down here?” Geralt guessed.
Jaskier let go of Geralt’s arm and ran his fingers through his hair.
“It’s so dark down here, Geralt,” he said quietly, “what if the lamp goes out?”
The witcher looked him over.
“I didn’t know you were afraid of the dark.”
“I’m not particularly partial to dark basements…”
“Mh…,” Geralt responded, “we can go together…”
“No,” Jaskier interjected, shaking his head, “I’m fine, let’s just finish and be done with this.”
His smile looked forced but Geralt wasn’t one to argue. He knew Jaskier could be very insistent if he wanted something and if he wasn’t then his thirst couldn’t be that bad. 
So they continued their work until they had cleared the lower shelves.
“So…” Geralt said, “how do you like it here?”
“Here in the basement?” Jaskier looked at him with raised eyebrows.
“Kear Morhen, I mean,” Geralt clarified. 
Geralt had just realized that they hadn’t been alone together for longer than half an hour since they arrived. On the path they spend days together and even when Geralt was away on a hunt or Jaskier performed in a tavern, they more often than not spend the night alone together. 
And they hadn’t really talked since they arrived, at least not alone. Geralt had the feeling that Jaskier was enjoying his stay, but he wanted to make sure.
“Oh, I love it,” the bard said, “Vesemir, Eskel and Lambert are just lovely…” Geralt frowned at that, lovely wasn’t the adjective he would use to describe them, especially not Lambert.
“...and I like the routine, all the little chores, more than I thought. I always hated doing my chores as a child…”
Geralt huffed a laugh, “as a viscount you probably didn’t have to collect eggs or sweep the dusty floors…”
“No, I didn’t,” Jaskier agreed, “I had to do things like decline nouns in four different languages, practice polite conversation starters and fencing…The tasks I do here are actually useful and that is weirdly fulfilling,” he said with a smile.
“Fencing can be useful,” Geralt said.
“Are you sure? I don’t think I could even decapitate a drowner with the outdated fencing techniques my 100 year old instructor beat into me. It was always, ‘stand straight’, ‘use your left foot, not your right’, ‘this is a rapier not a broom.’” Jaskier accompanied every one of the sentences he spoke in a nasal voice with a sharp wave of his hand, as if he was slapping someone.
Geralt frowned. He had assumed that Jaskier didn’t have the best childhood. He never spoke of it, not of his family or why he left, but Geralt was displeased nonetheless from the suggested corporal punishment. 
A moment later Jaskier beamed at him.
“And how do you think I’m doing?” he asked Geralt, head tilted, “what have the others said about me?”
“Hm…” Geralt said, “I guess they like you well enough.” Jaskier shook his head at that, of course Geralt wouldn’t give him a longer answer.
They had cleared all the lower shelves so he got a ladder from the next room and Jaskier offered to climb up so he could hand Geralt the things from the upper shelves. They worked in silence for a bit. 
Jaskier was humming a pleasant melodie when he turned to hand Geralt a heavy looking box, when the ladder started to topple. Jaskier lost his footing, dropped the box and as it shattered on the stone floor, Geralt caught his bard safely in his arms, pressing him securely to his chest. 
“Whoa, careful,” he said in his deep voice, looking intently at Jaskier’s face to make sure he was okay. 
The bard blinked up at him and whispered, “I’m sorry...I’m sorry I dropped the box to the floor…”
Geralt blinked and frowned as if he was just remembering the shattered box at his feet.
“Better the box than you,” he said. 
They stared into each other's eyes as Geralt heard a cough from behind them and nearly dropped the bard.
“I brought you something to drink,” Vesemir grunted. Geralt wasn’t sure how long the other witcher had stood there and was ashamed not to have noticed him sooner. As Vesemir set a jug and two wooden cups on a table, Geralt carefully lowered Jaskier’s legs to the ground so he could stand on his own. 
Jaskier was blushing as he walked over to the table.
“Thank you, Vesemir,” he said, “I am…”
“You’ll probably need a bit longer cleaning up that mess,” Vesemir talked over him, “I’ll leave you to it.” He said with raised eyebrows towards Geralt before he clapped Jaskier on the back, turned around and left them alone once more.
———–
Link to the next chapter on tumblr and ao3
Tag list:
@jaskierswolf @geraskier-trashh @hailhailsatan @panerato @marvagon @x-anxious @moonysourenza @kaktusbambus @wildonewrites @dapandapod @honeysuckletook @thecomfortofoldstorries @electricrituals @broken-verses @vampire--dad @whenrainbowsend @geralt-of-riviass @sleepy-thief @artistsfuneral @hriive @stinastar @innocentbi-stander @mynameisdoofthelizardandamspooky
let me know if I should put you on or remove you from my tag list :)
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woahajimes · 3 years
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ALSO!!!! MY PARENTS FINALLY GAVE IN AND ARE LIKE 'hey we should take maki to a psychologist for her anxiety I don't think it's normal' AND I'M LIKE BITCH??? I TOOK P I L L S FOR THAT THAT Y O U BOUGHT ME???? scandalous. i. am. speechless.
also i just took my exam for greek and i passed and I'm su p e r hyped ahdjbsjsaj I'm happy i could decline any noun u gave me WITH the article AND the verb afgalshak I'm happy.
how about you?? tell me tell me.
OMG CONGRATS ON UR EXAM!!! 🥳🥳 i am so proud 😩😩😩
also i have a therapy appointment too 🤡🤡 idk how its gonna go bc therapy has never done much for me (the first time i went i was like eleven haha and they just gave me some drops for my sleeping problems and then said i needed to control my moods better and get along with my mom like 😀 lmfao i am scarred but then i went sgain here in canada and it was okay but i didnt like my therapist... so yah im goving it a new shot :)) anyways happy therapy
so uhhh with meeeee uhhh .....?? UHHH i started class two days ago and im already crying i hate it lmfao BUT itll be fine bc covid measures are going up and i think theyre going to separate courses into days and stuff so physical classes will be skipping a day (which means more classes online but hhh)
i also have a shit ton of apples bc my uncle has TWO TREES and those things are endless omg
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pellucidity-is-me · 3 years
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Sirius Black and Latin
Summary: Young Sirius Black tries to escape learning Latin in Grimmauld Place. This is a scene from a one-shot I did (links to my longer fic on my blog description; you can find the full one-shot on my profile). Parts two, three, and four to follow (each featuring a different Marauder!).
Wordcount: 1547
Sirius Black starts to learn Latin at age eight.
He pores over the ancient, dusty tomes, ignoring with a vicious passion the tutor that hovers over his shoulder like a mad bumblebee. Every time the tutor tries to correct Sirius' grammar, Sirius says "I know!" in an exasperated tone of voice and turns away. If, that is, he answers at all. The tutor seems to hate being ignored, and Sirius loves doing whatever the stupid tutor hates.
He rocks back and forth in his chair during lessons, staring out the window. When his mother covers up the window, Sirius stares at the wall. So there. She can't cover up the wall, now can she? And even if she did, Sirius would only stare at the covering.
Sometimes he meets the tutor's eyes, but he only ever makes silly faces when he does so. The tutor hates that. "You're not listening," the tutor snaps, slamming his hand on the table. Dust flies into the air whenever he does, which makes the tutor cough. Sirius laughs.
"Of course I'm not listening," says Sirius, and the tutor always snitches on Sirius to his mother at that point.
Sirius' mother enters the room in a rage, saliva flying out of her mouth in a very undignified fashion, saying things about Sirius' future and his reputation—though she really only cares about her own—and Sirius tunes her out. He's gotten very good at tuning things out over the years. Sometimes she pleads instead of yelling, wheedles instead of wailing... and Sirius takes even greater pleasure in ignoring her when she's desperate.
The tutor tests Sirius sometimes, but Sirius doesn't care one bit. He purposefully gets every single one of the questions wrong, and he doesn't care at all when his mother comes back into the room to shout at him. "Your brother isn't half as bright as you are, but even he's trying harder than that!" she shrieks. Sirius looks at Regulus, who's flinching, and rolls his eyes dramatically. Regulus doesn't smile.
The tutor doesn't smile either: not even when Sirius tells him that the ablative form of dies is what I want Latin to do. Sirius thinks that's hilarious (especially since Latin is already dead), but no one else in the stupid house had a sense of humor.
Regulus continues with his lessons: making strides, learning vocabulary, and eventually translating whole books and reading Latin with ease. Sirius does not. He just folds paper airplanes during his study time and tries to throw them at just the right angle so that they muss Regulus' perfectly-brushed hair. The tutor makes him sit in the corner for that.
Latin is so boring, and Sirius can't stand sitting still. He wants more than anything to do what he sees other boys his age doing whenever he has the leisure time to stare out of his upstairs window—laughing, teasing, and jumping out into the street, only to jump right back whenever a car passes, shrieking in mock terror.
Sirius wonders what would happen if one of them got hit. He'd almost like to see that.
But alas, even if it does happen, Sirius will probably be in the library of the Grim, Old Place—learning Latin. Well, learning Latin, with a sarcastic emphasis on the first word. Sirius hasn't yet successfully declined puella, which was the first word that Regulus learned.
To be honest, Sirius CAN decline puella if he wants to. Puella, puellae, puellae, puellam, puella, puella in the singular. Puellae, puellarum, puellis, puellas, puellis, puellae in the plural. Easy-peasy. He'll just never admit that to the tutor.
"Your own name is Latin, you know," says the exasperated tutor one day, trying to clean the chewing gum out of his hair. Sirius doesn't know where the chewing gum came from, exactly. He suspects that it was accidental magic on his own part. "Sirius. Derived from a Greek word meaning burning. It's a star in a constellation called Canis Major—that means..."
"Big old mutt," says Sirius scornfully. "Yes, I know."
The tutor pauses. "You have been paying attention," he says slowly. "Sirius... let's try something new. If you can achieve a perfect score on one of my tests, then you may skip Latin lessons tomorrow."
Sirius thinks about that. "May I go outside?" he asks. "I'd like to go outside and play with the other children instead of staying in my room."
"Why... yes. I can agree to that."
"Fine, then. Gimme the test."
The tutor looks at Sirius and arches an eyebrow. Sirius rolls his eyes once again.
"Very well, sir. If you would kindly allow me to take the test, then I shall be forever in your debt."
"A little dramatic, but I'll take it," chuckles the tutor. He hands Sirius the test.
Sirius scans the questions at light speed and scoffs loudly. He may not enjoy learning Latin, but he's clever enough to have absorbed enough to pass the stupid test. How could he not have, after spending hours in that dusty library? And why is it always dusty? He and Regulus use it every day.
The house-elfs, Sirius reflects, are probably very bad at their jobs.
He finishes in nearly no time at all and hands it back to the tutor. "There. Done," he says, grinning. "Can't wait to go outside and play with that long noodly snake like the other children."
"A skipping rope?" says the tutor, amused.
Sirius sighs and waits semi-patiently as the tutor finishes checking his test. He slams his foot against the carpet obnoxiously and repeatedly, relishing the tutor's stern glances towards his tapping toe. Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam...
"It's nearly perfect," says the tutor finally. Sirius' eyebrows shoot up.
"Whaddya mean, nearly? It is perfect. I didn't get any questions wrong, did I? Even broke out the Perfect Pureblood Handwriting..."
"I don't know where you're picking up that slang, boy, but you need to speak properly," says the tutor sharply. Then he hands the test back to Sirius. "You didn't get any questions wrong, but you've spelled your name incorrectly."
Sirius' mouth falls open. "It's not spelt wrong! I put it in the genitive!"
"I appreciate your going the extra mile, Sirius, but it should have been in the nominative, seeing as you were simply supposed to state your name."
"But the genitive indicates possession, and the test belongs to me..."
"If you had written 'the paper of Sirius', then that would be correct. But there is no noun, so it is wrong."
"There is a noun. My name is written on the noun. Just because I didn't write the noun doesn't mean it's not there..."
"Sirius, you lost the wager," says the tutor with a stern finality. "That is my final say. But you may try again tomorrow..."
Sirius huffs a frustrated sigh and crosses his arms. "Fine," he says.
But the next day, the tutor says that Sirius' E looks too much like an A. And the next day, the tutor isn't satisfied with the speed at which Sirius completed the test. The next, it's a problem with Sirius' attitude. The next, it is an issue with his handwriting. What's more, the tests are getting progressively more difficult; after a week, Sirius can no longer receive an effortless perfect score.
Sirius knows what the tutor is doing, of course. Sirius isn't stupid. The tutor knows that the prospect of going outside is the only thing that will persuade Sirius to do his lessons properly, and he also knows that Sirius' mother will never allow it. Not when Sirius is picking up all this slang from merely watching the neighborhood boys from his window. Not when the neighborhood boys are Muggles. Not when they carelessly get dirt on their shoes and wear Muggle play-clothes instead of proper robes.
Sirius isn't even sure he wants to play with Muggles. They aren't really up to his standards. Probably not clever enough to keep him entertained for long. He only wants to get out of this stupid house. So he plays along for a few weeks and makes great strides in his lessons... but then the motivation tapers out as he realizes that his work will never be perfect enough for his stupid tutor. He starts to make up funny answers on his tests again. The tutor is dismayed, but he knows there's nothing he can do. He'll never get permission from Sirius' mother to actually reward Sirius when he does right.
Like a dog, Sirius thinks disdainfully. Sirius wasn't a dog. He was much better than that.
In the meanwhile, Regulus achieves relative fluency (as fluent as one can get at Latin) and starts on ancient Greek. Sirius stares at the wall. Regulus earns his parents' praise. Sirius stares at the wall. Regulus excels at piano, French, reading, writing, and maths. Sirius stares at the wall.
Finally, Sirius' mother agrees to allow Sirius to go outside once a week, as long as he starts doing his lessons to the best of his ability.
Sirius declines the offer. He doesn't want to play with Muggles, anyhow. He only ever wanted to be rid of this dusty house, but it looks like he never will be—either inside or outside, there's no escaping Grimmauld Place.
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hazel-writes · 3 years
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Summary:
will-o’-the-wisp (noun):
1. a phosphorescent light seen hovering or floating at night on marshy ground.
2. a person or thing that is difficult or impossible to reach or catch.
Word Count: 6,600
Warnings: mild violence, (lots of) emotional distress
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
I've got a ticket to the moon
I'll be leaving here any day soon
Yeah, I've got a ticket to the moon
But I'd rather see the sunrise, in your eyes
• Ticket to the Moon - Electric Light Orchestra •
Being back on the Finalizer was strange. You were put on the ship for a single purpose: to gather intel, hide information in posters, and distribute them on various planets for the Resistance to find. But now, after everything that you learned about your brother, and especially after what happened on Lothal, you decided you were done working for the Resistance.
You recognized that the Order had done terrible things — was doing terrible things. But you would find another way to help, one that didn’t involve the Resistance, the same organization that murdered Benji. There were good people on the Finalizer. People who had been there for you more than your own parents had. Ones who would even take a blaster bolt for you… and who you would take a blaster bolt for.
As you walked the halls of the Finalizer, one week since the mission to Lothal, you found yourself more on edge than you ever had been. The Commander was off-ship and you hadn’t seen him since he healed your arm, an act that you still hadn’t fully processed. Finn was doing better — the doctors and med-droids managed to get him stabilized. He was still in the medbay, but mainly out of precaution. He was no longer hooked up to machines and everyone was impressed by how fast he had managed to heal.
Regardless of his resilience, you felt horribly guilty for putting him in such a dangerous situation to begin with, something you had attempted to tell him many times. All you wanted was for him to yell at you, lash out, cry, something. But he brushed off every single one of your apologies as if you had merely stepped on his toe.
Every morning you had been checking up on him before heading to the artist workspace. However, today when you entered his room, you found the bed empty. A wave of confusion, followed by worry, coursed through you. No, no, no. The doctors said he could still take a turn for the worse, but you thought he was doing better. He can’t be… you thought. No way, he’s too stubborn to die. Right? Panicking, you crossed the room, finding the button on the wall that would call the medical attendants.
Right as you neared the button, a startled cry came from behind you: “Wait! Don’t-”
You spun on your heel and was shocked to see none other than Finn hopping over to you on one leg. He was struggling to get a piece of armor around his foot and as he hobbled in your direction, tangled pieces of his arm and leg plates dragged behind him.
“What do you think you’re do-” you started before Finn cut you off with a single finger to your lips. He gave you a stern look before checking over both his shoulders to see if anyone had heard.
You glared at him and tried speaking again, this time in a harsh whisper. “What on Hoth do you think you’re doing? You’re supposed to be in bed!”
Finn continued to hastily put on pieces of his armor. “I’m getting outta here. Can’t stand it. These people-”
“You mean the doctors?” you interrupted, incredulously.
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, the doctors ,” he whispered dramatically. “They’re drivin’ me crazy.” He continued talking, the words coming out in short breaths as he wrestled with his chestplate. “They come in here… poke me with those sharp torture devices… ask me stupid questions… and then tell me I can’t leave!”
This made you snort out a laugh. “Sharp torture devices? You’d think someone who had just been shot wouldn’t mind a few needles.”
“You know what?” He paused, his nose held high in the air as his lips formed a stubborn line. He held up a finger, searching for a comeback that never came. “I’m choosing to ignore that comment. I have places to be.”
Now you were the one who was irritated. “Places to be? I checked and made sure you didn’t have duty for another week!”
He sighed, securing the final piece of armor. “I’m not going on duty. I’m going to get some food — the stuff they’ve been giving me here sucks.”
You rolled your eyes. Of course his priority was the food. “Finn, you’re still healing. I can bring you something to eat!”
“Not happening. These doctors and droids creep me out and I want to leave.”
“But-”
“You would like to accompany me? How nice of you to offer!”
You sighed. This was yet another battle you wouldn’t win.
“Fine,” you conceded. “I’ll walk you to the cafeteria, but then I have to meet with the crew.”
“Fantastic, after you,” he said, pulling his helmet over his head and gesturing towards the open door.
You started for the exit with a huff, but suddenly put out an arm to stop Finn before he could leave the room. He looked down at you, cocking his head slightly in confusion.
“Just know that I will be checking up on you every single day for the next week,” you told him, shooting him your most intimidating stare. “And I am much scarier than those doctors and droids you’ve been complaining about.”
He nodded, his shoulders sinking slightly, before once again gesturing to the open doorway. You shook your head briefly and began walking towards the cafeteria. The two of you travelled in silence for a while but at the midpoint of your trek across the Finalizer, when the corridors became a bit more crowded, you felt Finn put a guiding hand on the small of your back. Once you rounded a corner, it was just you and him again.
A couple more minutes passed and you felt him fall slightly behind you. A familiar tingle at the back of your neck made itself known as a wash of uncertainty enveloped you. You turned to look at Finn, whose helmet was darting around at the walls nervously. Looking down, you noticed his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Something is wrong.
You once again put out a hand to stop him from walking any further. “Alright, that’s it. Tell me what’s up.”
He looked at you, startled, confused, and slightly guilty.
“Uh… Nothing’s up. W-why do you ask?”
You put a hand on your hip and raised one suspicious eyebrow. “You’re a terrible liar. You’re all fidgety — what’s going on?”
He turned to face you, debating whether or not to deny you any further. This time, you won.
“Ugh, why are you like this?” he said, exasperated. You gave him a mocking shrug, waiting for him to continue.
“Fine. I was just thinking…” He looked everywhere but at you. “In case you happened to be wondering, it’s...” he paused before letting out a dramatic sigh. “It’s Koda’s birthday tomorrow.” Another huff of breath came from under his helmet. “There. You happy now?”
“His birthday?” you repeated, even though you had heard him clearly.
“Yeah. He doesn’t really tell anyone…” Finn paused, shifting on his feet, his tone becoming more serious. “I’m not sure if you remember what happened on the day I found him…”
You tried to remember the conversation you had with Koda. You recalled his somber expression as he painstakingly relayed to you his childhood on Dantooine.
“Yeah,” you said. “He told me that parents skipped his own birthday for some Resistance diplomat’s birthday party, right?”
Finn nodded. “Pretty much. It went beyond that, but that was the breaking point for him.” He sighed deeply, obviously affected by the thought of Koda being neglected, before continuing. “Then he took off, found me and a few other troopers, and came back here with us.”
You nodded solemnly before speaking again. “So why are you telling me this now? The last time I saw you guys in a room together you repelled like magnets.”
You had a pretty good idea of the answer to your question, but you wanted to hear it from Finn himself. Despite the rift that had grown between the two men, you sensed that they still cared about each other deeply. After all, that was what their whole argument was based on: not hate or malice, but friendship, loyalty, and love.
“Well, Koda came to visit me in the medbay a few days ago. He didn’t say much but… I don’t know. I guess it just got me thinking about what you said — about cutting him some slack for his decision to stay with the Order when he could’ve left.”
“And?” you tried to hold back your smile, happy to see that something you said had stuck with him. Finn deserved to get his best friend back.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Aaaand I’m not gonna say any more about it because you are getting way too much enjoyment out of this.”
You put your own arms up defensively. “Okay, okay, I’ll be civil. Thank you for telling me. I’ll think of something we can put together for him.”
Finn nodded, but neither of you went to move forward.
“You’re invited of course,” you suggested, knowing that he would probably decline.
You were right and watched as he shook his head. “I dunno, I’m not sure he’d want me there. Baby steps, ya know?”
You were going to protest, but you decided to trust him on this one. He knew Koda the best and you wanted him to do this at his own pace. “I understand,” you smiled warmly. “Baby steps it is.”
————————————
It was Koda’s birthday. You had told Rilea about the situation and after a moment of shock, an emotion you didn’t see from her often, she immediately went into party planning mode. You were a little surprised that Koda hadn’t told Rilea about his birthday before; she had known him the longest and could name everything from his favorite foods to his pet peeves. In a way though, it made sense. Koda wasn’t the kind of person who wanted to ‘burden’ others with his own problems.
You, Rilea, Akilah, and even Soren, gathered in the artist workspace waiting for Koda to arrive. Rilea had told him there was an emergency meeting and that he needed to meet them urgently. She was now running around the room frantically, making sure everything was in its proper place. Akilah, being one of the tallest members of the group, was busy retaping decorations to the ceiling. Soren stood at the back of the room, fidgeting with a stack of napkins. You worked on scattering shredded pieces of colored paper, what Rilea referred to as ‘budget confetti’, on the tables.
Looking around, you realized how different the group was without Koda present. He always managed to fill any room he entered with life. He and Rilea were constantly yelling at each other, whether that be out of excitement over some mutual interest, or irritation at each other’s silly disagreements. Akilah and Koda could sometimes be found in a quiet corner of the room, having some sort of intellectual debate, which Akilah almost always won. Even though Soren acted like he despised Koda, the latter always knew how to bring him into a conversation when he quietly hovered at the back of the room.
Koda had the amazing ability to say all the right things just when you needed it. He made you feel like you could be honest around him, largely due to the way he wore his own heart on his sleeve. He was fiercely loyal to his friends and his beliefs and despite having only known him for a little while, you trusted him to have your back through anything.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway interrupted your train of thought and Rilea flew to the front of the room, her wild golden hair streaming behind her. She whispered harshly for everyone to be quiet. A few seconds later, Koda walked through the door.
“What’s goin-”
Rilea gave the signal.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”
He looked around the room in shock. Colorful garlands criss-crossed the ceiling, dangling above a table lined with all his favorite foods. Hand-drawn signs were hung on the walls, the flickering light from the cake’s candles bouncing off of them. Bright pieces of paper decorated the tables like stars in the sky. It was the kind of birthday party he always wished he could’ve had as a kid.
It was perfect.
“You guys…” he started, rendered speechless by the scene before him.
You watched as he looked at each of you, adorned with paper hats that Rilea made from leftover posters. He chuckled when he saw Soren, who was still sulking towards the back, wearing one, though he knew it was probably against his will.
He finally spoke, choking on his words as he did so. “You all did this for me?”
“Of course.” you said. “That’s what family does.”
It was a simple statement, but one that held deep meaning in Koda’s life. His eyes welled with tears and he shook his head, looking down towards his feet, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
Noticing his reaction, Rilea stepped beside him, grabbing his hand before pulling him in for a hug. You watched them with a silent smile, knowing that you were witnessing the start of something special.
Rilea pulled away, tears now filling her eyes too, before chuckling to herself. “Look what you made me do you big oaf,” she said, playfully hitting Koda in the arm. They each had one arm wrapped around the other’s waist. You glanced over at Akilah, who was already looking back at you, a knowing smirk on both of your faces.
Rilea’s shout broke the silence. “What are you two looking at? Come on, don’t you want to join in this emotional mess?”
You looked at Akilah and shrugged. “Sure, why not?”
You joined the hug and watched as Akilah hesitated before heading to where Soren was brooding, and grabbed his hand. He looked like a scared loth-cat as she dragged him over to where you, Rilea, and Koda were huddled. She forcefully wrapped an arm around him, bringing him into the group hug. The five of you stayed like that for what seemed like eons. Despite your differences, it was true, you had become a family. A strange dysfunctional space family, but a family nonetheless. When it came down to it, you would all go to the ends of the galaxy for each other.
Koda was the first to move, taking a step back from the group. “Wait a second, how did you know today was my birthday?”
You smirked knowingly, mimicking his movement. “A stubborn stormtrooper you and I both know may have told me yesterday.”
His eyes opened wide and he shifted on his feet. You could tell he was trying to look casual, but the crack in his voice said otherwise. “Finn? He… he did?”
“He did,” you replied.
“Oh,” he said, stunned. “I guess... I should thank him at some point.”
“Yeah,” you smiled. “I think he’d like that.”
“So are we going to eat at any time in the near future?” Soren asked, obviously uncomfortable with the excess of emotions surrounding him. Akilah shot him a sharp glare, prompting him to look down at his feet in stubborn apology.
Koda stepped forward, eyeing the table for himself. “Are those Dantooine flapjacks?” he asked, his eyes wide in surprise.
“Yeah, I heard you talk about them once when we first met,” Rilea said. “I asked around the ship looking for a recipe and it turns out one of my pops’ coworkers is from Dantooine, so she helped me out a bit.”
“Stars, I haven’t had these in years.” He turned towards Rilea, gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you.”
She waved him off. “Awe, don’t go all soft on me now you ol’ Ewok.”
He smiled, tugging on a piece of her hair playfully. “Whatever Spacer, let’s eat.”
You were surprised to hear Koda’s nickname for Rilea. ‘Spacer’ was a term used for people who had spent their whole lives in space. You had heard Rilea mention her dad, or ‘pops’ as she called him, just moments before, but realized you really didn’t know too much about her upbringing or her family. You made a mental note to ask her about it later.
Right now, all you wanted to do was sit back, eat cake, and enjoy this small, beautiful moment with your favorite people. Moments like these didn’t come around too often on the Finalizer, but when they did, it was magical.
—————————————
Later that day, word had gotten around that the Commander was back from his mission. Excitement and worry coursed through your body. You needed to talk to him. You didn’t know why exactly — it was just a feeling. And it was this feeling that seemed to be bringing you closer and closer to the training room.
When you arrived, the door was open a crack, and upon peeking through you recognised the telltale cloak of the Commander. He was turned away from you, making it hard to read his mood.
“Commander?” you said quietly, tapping the door lightly.
No response. The nerves you had felt moments ago were much more prominent now. You were about to knock on the door again when you heard a low: “Come in.”
He didn’t turn to you as you entered. Instead, he continued to face the large window that looked out at the expanse of space that surrounded the Finalizer. Sensing that something was wrong, you closed the door behind you. “Are you alright?”
“Yes.” His answer came quick, too quick.
“No you’re not.” You approached him cautiously. “I can feel it.”
A low sound came from his direction and you watched as his shoulders shakily rose and fell suddenly. “You are getting good at that.”
You knew he was referencing your ability to read others’ emotions, something you had always attributed to your intuitive personality until you arrived on the Finalizer. You thought about how you could’ve gone your whole life without knowing the abilities you now possessed, how you could’ve never come to understand the power that flowed through your body.
You smiled, grateful that you now knew the truth about yourself. “Only thanks to your training.”
“No, not just that.” He finally turned to look at you, but what you saw made you frown. He seemed... tired. His hair was a bit messier than usual and his eyes didn’t have that glint of stubborn determination that they normally did. He continued speaking: “You’ve had this power within you since you were born. Now you are simply learning how to harness it.”
“Yeah, well…” you let the rest of your sentence drift off. He was deflecting. “You still haven’t told me what’s bothering you.”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
He is so stubborn, you thought. “I don’t doubt that, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth talking about.”
He paused for a moment, considering your statement, before responding. “My superior and I are having… a disagreement.”
You shuddered at the mention of his superior, the one you still knew nothing about besides the fact that he was dangerous. And that the most powerful man you knew was afraid of him.
“About what?” you asked, nervously.
“You.”
Your skin went cold. He knew. He knew you were Force sensitive. He knew the Commander was training you. He knew about Lothal. Oh, kriff. What if he knew that you had been working for… No, he would’ve said something by now. He probably would’ve killed you by now. The thought made you shiver. The Commander must have sensed your unease and took a few steps in your direction, his face briefly twitching in worry.
“He doesn’t know about your abilities. I’ve managed to keep that from him. But he knows that you’re…” You held your breath, preparing for the worst: your biggest secret to finally be revealed. “Special. He knows that you are important to m-” he paused, correcting himself, but not before you caught onto what he was about to say. “He knows that you are important.”
You signed in relief. He still didn’t know who you were. The initial panic dissolving, you finally managed to process what he had said, a blush creeping onto your face as you did. Stars, where did that come from?
“O-oh,” you managed to stutter out.
He seemed unaffected by your surprise. “If he finds out about your abilities… I’m not sure I can-” He pauses and looks down at his hands, seemingly frustrated at himself. “He’s powerful. Too powerful.”
You were growing more and more curious about his superior. It was unlike the Commander to admit his weakness so you knew that he must be extremely powerful. But the Commander was surrounded by those with power, what made this person so different? And why did he want to keep you from him so bad?
You decided to prod further. “Can I ask you something?”
He nodded silently.
“Why don’t you give me up to him? He would reward you greatly, I’m sure. Why not just give him what he wants?”
You watched as his eyebrows drew together in what seemed like a joint expression of confusion and frustration. “I’ve seen what he can do. If he finds out you’re force-sensitive, he’ll try to train you himself. But his training… methods… are different from mine.”
“Different?”
“They’re cruel,” he responded bluntly.
“But if I’m going to be powerful, powerful like you…”
He interrupted you sternly. “I don’t want you to be powerful like me. Never.” He softened his voice after noticing the surprised look on your face. “It’s just… you can be powerful, but in your own way. I don’t want you to…”
The end of his sentence was left suspended in the space between you.
“What?” you asked, not willing to let his thought slide.
“Change,” he sighed. “I don’t want you to change.”
This was different, you thought. When you first met the Commander, he seemed adamant on making you do things his way, and now, he wanted you to do the opposite.
“And you think if your superior trains me, I’ll change?” you asked.
“Yes.” The Commander moves to sit down, but does so slowly. Too slowly. A slight groan escapes his mouth.
“Are you okay?” you ask again, taking a few steps towards him.
“I told you,” he grunted, dark hair concealing his eyes. “I’m fine.”
A dark thought crossed your mind, one involving the enigmatic figure that Kylo worked for.
“Did… did he do something to you?”
He gripped the chair tightly in response. The action did not pass by you unnoticed. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“You keep saying that Commander but-”
“Kylo. Call me Kylo.”
“Kylo,” you said the name confidently for the first time. It felt much better than saying Commander, but something still didn’t sit right about the way it rolled off your tongue. You drew your attention back to Kylo, who was breathing heavier than you would’ve liked, obviously straining to conceal whatever injury he had sustained from you. Thinking for a second, an idea began to form in your mind. “Let me help.”
“What?” he questioned skeptically.
“I could try using the Force.”
He answered immediately, sitting up straight and looking at you, fierceness returning to his eyes. “No.”
That wasn’t the reaction you were expecting. You had spent the last few weeks training with him for moments like these, and now he was declining you the opportunity to put what you learned into practice.
You tried mentioning this to him. “Please, I need to test my abilities.”
He simply shook his head in response. “No, it’s dangerous. You’ve already done enough for me.”
You took a step closer to him. Even though he was sitting down, he was still only slightly shorter than you. You reached out slowly, taking one of his hands in yours. He stilled for a moment, unsure of what to do, before closing his fingers around yours. He had taken his gloves off before you entered the room, and you found yourself savoring the touch of his bare hand against yours. It was warm, but rough. Hardened by years of fighting. Each one of his fingers was twice the size of yours and you could feel the Force subtly flow through the places where your palms and knuckles touched.
“You healed me once,” you said quietly. “Now let me return the favor.”
You felt his hands suddenly tighten around yours, as if he was afraid to let go. His chin quivered briefly before he looked up at you, his hazel eyes glistening with something unfamiliar. Were those… tears?
“Why are you- After everything I’ve done, you still… How?”
His words came in short, frantic bursts.
“Kylo…” you paused, trying to find the right words of your own. You needed to do something, say something, that showed him he could accept your help; that he was worthy of your help. “We all do things we aren’t proud of, especially when we are under the orders of others.” A throb of guilt ran through your body. “But there will always be surprising glimpses of clarity and peace that help to keep us centered. Special moments where our hearts defeat our heads. And it’s those moments that keep us going and it’s those moments that should define us. I learned this from you, Kylo. When you trained me to use my powers, when you carried me through the woods on Dantooine, when you spared my father’s life simply because I asked, when you told me about the convor on Lothal, and when you healed my arm simply so I could draw again…” You shook your head, smiling at the recollection of memories.
“My dad used to tell me this story, you know… It was about these lights that would appear to travellers at night — he called them will-o’-the-wisp. He said you can only see them in the marshes of Lothal near the ancient Jedi temples and were known for leading travellers astray. There are different tellings of what the lights actually are: some say they’re the spirits of the dead, set on vengeance, others say they lead you to hidden treasure. But what most people can agree on is that these lights are symbols of false hope.”
You paused, choosing your next words wisely. You wanted to be vulnerable, so Kylo would know it was okay for him to be vulnerable too.
“Sometimes I feel like that, like I’m a traveller, blindly following the will-o’-the-wisp.” You chuckled, raising a hand out towards the massive window. “After all, we are just space dust at the end of the day. Years from now, I won’t be here. You won’t be here. This galaxy won’t be here. No one will remember us, or all that we’ve fought for. We are so small compared to the rest of the universe.” You shook your head, looking down at your hands incredulously. “But despite knowing that, for some strange and ridiculous reason, we still care.” You now smiled to yourself, as if processing the meaning behind your words for the first time. “Life is silly. It’s trivial. Ephemeral. But somehow, we manage to make it big and beautiful.” For the first time since you began talking, you looked up at Kylo. “There’s something amazing about that, don’t you think?”
He didn’t answer — he simply gazed into your eyes with his own earthy irises. You took that as a sign to continue. “It’s something I know I want to be a part of, and I think that you do too. You’ve shown me that it’s okay to feel sad, angry, or lost, just like it’s okay to feel happy and content.” Your smile grew even wider, your eyes shining bright despite the darkness of the room. “Admittedly, I still need to work a bit on the former, and from what I’ve seen, I think you need to work on the latter.” Kylo let out a huff of air, making you smirk. “But I know it’s there. I’ve seen you laugh when you think no one’s listening. I saw how you smiled on Lothal. I’ve even heard your attempts at cracking jokes. It’s all there. Please, Kylo, let me help. You deserve help.”
He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes on the exhale. You knew that at this moment he was fighting an internal battle; a battle between the part of him that desperately needed help, and the other more dominant part of him that was too stubborn to admit it.
“Okay.”
You nodded and sat on your knees in front of him, your right hand still holding his, attempting to hide your slight shock at his concession. You had never healed anyone before. To be fair, you had never really tried. But you thought that because his injury didn’t seem to be life-or-death, it was at least worth a shot.
You weren’t sure where exactly he was hurting, so you relied on your instincts to guide you. A prickle that ran through your left hand prompted you to take his other hand in yours. Closing your eyes, you began to probe his body with your mind, trying to find any areas of the force that felt weak.
After a few minutes passed with no luck, you felt something start to happen. It began as a small pinprick of feeling at the back of your head. Before long, the prick transformed into a tingle that ran throughout your entire body. You felt pulses of electricity move through your neck, shoulders, forearms, all the way down to your hands; the ones that still held tightly to Kylo’s. Then, it was gone. However, almost as soon as it left, it was replaced by a similar tingle, but one you knew didn’t belong to you. It was Kylo.
You hadn’t even thought about the fact that doing this could break down your own barriers enough that he would be let in. You felt the foreign tingle work its way up your body, guiding its tendrils to your neck before eventually reaching towards the edges of your mind.
You tried to build up your walls again, letting out a small gasp, but it was too late. Whatever Kylo was doing, he wasn’t doing it on purpose. This was out of his control and yours. You felt a large, trembling hand cradle the back of your neck, stabilizing you as you slipped backwards, weak from your exertion. You panicked as you realized that all you could do was try to guide him towards the harmless memories — the ones of you and Finn walking the hallways of the Finalizer, or you waving at a scowling Mrs. Stoney at the reception desk, or when you ate Koda’s birthday cake earlier that day…
But your mind had other ideas.
Your memories flitted before you like pages in an out-of-control flipbook, inching closer and closer to the one that you couldn’t let Kylo see. You squeezed your hands tighter around his as you tried to stop the flashes as they moved towards your most terrible secret. The visions became filled by images and scenes of your brother, your dad, your mom ...
The whole world seemed to stand still as you suddenly found yourself back in your home on Lothal. You looked around, knowing exactly what you were about to witness; what Kylo was about to witness.
“You’re an artist; you always have been. An artist who can save the Resistance with her work.” Your mother paused, looking at you with a glint in her eye that you knew meant she was serious. “Kriff, you could save the whole galaxy with just a few strokes of a pen.”
You felt yourself conceding, even though you knew you had lost the argument the moment it had started. “You really think this could make any kind of difference?”
She took both of your hands in hers. “I know it could.”
Wordlessly, you shot her a final look that warned: whatever happens, it’s on you. She seemed to understand the meaning behind your stare and gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
“Then I’ll do it.”
A pained gasp sounded in the room, and you couldn’t tell if it had come from you or Kylo.
The bond between the two of you snapped as Kylo stood abruptly, stumbling over the chair behind him. He looked like he had been physically hurt, breathing heavily and holding onto the wall with one hand for balance.
Your eyes were wide and your heart pounded in your chest as you realized the gravity of what had just taken place.
“Oh no, no, no — Kylo please,” you stood, moving towards his heaving form. “It’s not… It’s not like that anymore.”
He slowly looked up, breathing harshly through his nose. His mouth was pulled taut and his chin quivered menacingly. His whole body radiated pure, oppressive anger. But meeting his gaze, you noticed his eyes revealed a different emotion: they were devastated.
He spoke slowly and deliberately. “It’s not like what?”
You stuttered, trying to explain the strange turn of events that made you help the Resistance, and the even stranger events that made you stop helping them. “I’m not a part of that — ever since I found out about my brother — what my parents, what the Resistance, did to him... “
Kylo interrupted you, speaking through teeth clenched so tightly, you thought they would shatter.
“You’ve been lying to me this whole time? Everything you said, about helping me... That was all so you could find out the Order’s next plans?”
You looked at your feet guiltily. You thought about lying to him, but knew it was no use. You owed it to him to be honest. “I- I was,” you revealed. “But not anymore. Our connection, the Force, it changed everything. You saw what happened on Lothal. Working for my mother, the Resistance; that isn’t a life I wanted.”
He was barely listening to you now, instead choosing to pace back and forth across the floor of the room. “Everything I told you, showed you… How could I be so blind?”
You reached out to him, attempting to still his frustrated strides. “No, please, Kylo. I’m telling the tru-”
He suddenly did something you had never seen him do before, not even when you first arrived on the Finalizer. He powered on his lightsaber and aimed it directly at you.
You tried to remain calm while slowly stepping back against the wall, keeping your eyes trained on his, rather than the fiery beam of light at your neck.
“Please Kylo, I was wrong before. I don’t agree with a lot of the things that happen on this ship, you know that. But you were the first person I’d ever met who was honest with me. My parents lied to me my whole life, and because of those lies, I lied to you. That was wrong — I know that now. You’ve never been scared of who I am, both the crazy artist and the Force-wielder. Just like how I can see you for who you truly are. Not like the others on this ship… They’re scared of you.”
Hearing that, he held the lightsaber closer to your throat, its heat burning against your neck inches away from your skin.
“And what about you, are you scared of me?”
The lightsaber was now grazing your skin, its red-hot sparks making you flinch in pain.
“I wasn’t,” you said quietly, barely a whisper. “Not until now.”
An image suddenly flashed across your mind, a memory: An older man in brown robes stood over a young boy, eyes wild, preparing to swing a green lightsaber through his body. The image was blurry, but you saw the boy’s eyes open as he turned to face the green glow of the lightsaber, his body frozen in a state of complete fear. You recognized those eyes instantly. As the lightsaber swung towards the boy, the vision disappeared.
You inhaled sharply as Kylo violently ripped his saber away from your body, affected by the vision you both witnessed. Instead, he opted for slicing through the nearest communication stations. You ducked as sparks flew from his saber. Seemingly dissatisfied by the destruction, he punched his own fist into a nearby wall.
“I trusted you,” he spoke in a deep, growling voice that would’ve been terrifying if not for the crack on the last word.
“Kylo, please,” you begged. “Look at me. Look into my mind.” You paused. “I- I’m asking you to.”
His posture shifted slightly, but his harsh voice remained the same. “What?”
“I have nothing to hide now. Look: see that I’ve changed, see that I don’t serve them anymore.”
With no hesitation, he rushed in front of you, putting a hand in front of your head. You shrunk back slightly, startled by his sudden approach, but maintained eye contact to show your willingness to let him in. Surprisingly, his probing wasn’t harsh; It was sporadic instead. Crackling tendrils whipped through memories, ones you hadn’t shown anyone before.
You watched as glimpses of your past danced behind your eyes for the second time that day. You found yourself painting with your father on the dirt floor of your house on Lothal. You watched as you waved goodbye to your brother from the kitchen window, not knowing it would be the last time you ever saw him. You saw yourself meet Kylo for the first time, confused by the tingling at the back of your neck, the one you initially mistook for a rogue bug. You remembered him threatening you, holding you against the wall as he attempted to read your mind. Your visions then brought you to Dantooine, to the moment when Kylo saved you from attackers and carried you through the woods. The scenery transformed back to the Finalizer and you watched your friendships develop, the echoes of their laughs surrounding the air around you. You observed the moment you discovered the true story behind your brother’s death, right in the same room you and Kylo were in now. That was the moment everything had changed. The rest of the images flew by in a blur: Lothal, your father, a blaster bolt. A bird briefly appeared, dipping into the depths of your mind before dissolving as the sounds of a lively birthday party filled your head. Feelings of warmth, love, and hope for the future invaded your senses, only to be stopped by a black wall.
You gasped, Kylo’s hold on your mind finally releasing. He seemed stunned for a moment, meeting your tear-filled eyes with his hazel ones in a final moment of vulnerability, before straightening his posture and putting back on his gloves. When his face turned back to yours, it was as if he was looking right through you.
“I want you gone by the night.”
Your tears fell freely now, plummeting in silent drops to the floor. You hated seeing him like this. Despite you being able to see each feature of his face, it felt like he was still wearing his mask. “Kylo-”
He took a step closer, trapping you against the wall with his arms on either side of you.
“Or I turn you in to Snoke myself.”
So that’s what his name was.
By the time the thought fully processed, Kylo was gone.
Gazing at your reflection in the star-speckled window, you realized that you were wrong before:
You weren’t following the will-o’-the-wisp...
You were the will-o’-the-wisp.
———————————————
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dabisrightnipple · 3 years
Text
HYGGE
Tooru Oikawa x Reader
!!PLEASE DO NOT REPOST AND/OR ADD ONTO!!
TW: sh
Word Count: 2.1k
Links
hyg·ge /ˈh(y)o͞oɡə,ˈho͝oɡə/ noun a quality of coziness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment or well-being (regarded as a defining characteristic of Danish culture).
a/n: Make sure to support my other platforms and leave requests in my google forum!!! I ALSO JUST RE-DOWNLOADED TUMBLR AFTER 5+ YEARS AND OMFG THIS IS ADORABLE
The red blood slowly oozed down your shaking legs onto the previously white tiles. You looked into the mirror at the marks you had just etched onto your already scar-ridden thighs, regret instantly pooling at your stomach. Looking into the mirror more, you analyzed your now, red puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks as you slowly backed up to the white-colored walls and slid down onto the floor to give your worn-out shaken legs a break.
The pain was overtaking your body as you squeezed your eyes as tight as you could to try and ease the pain in some way, which didn't work as you hoped it would. Slowly, you came to your senses as you looked around the bathroom, seeing all the blood on the counters and discarded tissues and towels made you shiver as you thought about what would happen if he saw.
well speak of the devil... you thought as you recognized his footsteps down the hallway of the apartment complex.
You shot up and began to frantically clean up the bathroom while mumbling incoherent curses to yourself. You began by throwing all the towels and tissues into the bathtub, making a mental note to secretly wash them tonight once he falls asleep. You then proceeded to grab your razor and throw it in your long-forgotten Better Than Sex eyeshadow palette and hide it in the back of your drawer.
Then you heard it…
It was him.
Eventually, you heard the door push open causing you to go into a panic throwing stuff around in the cabinets trying to find your pack of band-aids for occasions like this.
His footsteps became louder and louder as you continued to fumble around and panic
Silence
"Y/n?" ...shit you thought to yourself as you realized there was no getting out of this.
"uhh.. yes? Do you need something?" you replied coyly
"Open up please..." He said in a melancholy voice, scared he knows what he's gonna see when you open the door.
"Okay, One second, lemme finish peeing." You replied in a hushed tone as you swiftly tried to open and put the band-aids over your cuts as quietly as possible.
"I know what you're doing Y/n, Please stop and let me in. I won't get mad I promise."
"I- yea...Plea-please don't be mad, I'm sorry I-I just-"
"I'm not mad sweetie, I just wanna make sure you're ok so I can fix you all up," Oikawa reassured with the most soothing voice he could muster.
You slowly unlocked the door handle, relishing the last few milliseconds you had before the guilt came flushing in. Not even a second after your hand left the door handle Oikawa thrust it open, careful not to hit you as he engulfed you with the most calming and welcoming hug he could give. Being careful to not hit any cuts, he maneuvered you onto his lap while leaning against the wall cradling you in his chest.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn’t mean to, I just saw the razor and it kinda- kinda happened and I-I just couldn’t stop-” you choked out trying to keep your sobs to a minimum not wanting to hurt him anymore.
"Shhhh, Princess everything's gonna be ok, I forgive you I just hate seeing you like this. I understand this helps you feel better but trust me, princess, there are so many other great things that can take the pain away." Oikawa whispered in your ear, peppering kisses all around your ears, neck, and cheeks and finally a longer sweet kiss on your lips.
“Let's get you cleaned up, m’k! Then we can watch Area 51 and I'll make whatever you want. Deal?”
“Deal,” you whispered as your smile grew, slowly forgetting about the strenuous mental breakdown you were just experiencing moments ago.
Oikawa slowly got up, once again being cautious as to not touch any injured spots. He set you on a clean area on the counter before grabbing out the supplies he had purchased in the past for this particular situation. As Oikawa prepped the gauges and ointments you glanced over in shame, staring at the bloody tissues you failed to pick up previously as you self-reflected on your mental state and what caused you to get into this situation again. You were finally pulled out of your little world when you jolted after feeling a sharp stinging pain on your thigh. Oikawa gave you his hand to squeeze to help subside the pain.
"I'm sorry beauty I know this hurts, I just don't want it to get infected. Please let me put a little more on?" You nodded and sucked in through your teeth as you received another wave of pain while grabbing onto Oikawa's hand.
"You're doing so good princess, just a little longer."
Although you appreciated the praise you had just received from him you couldn't help but get lost in his features. you admired his deep brown locks and how they complimented his equally dark chocolate eyes, which were hyper-fixated on trying to doctor up the cuts littering your upper thighs.
Even though the wounds did hurt you, you would've gladly loved it if this day could last forever. Oikawa had always done a great deed when it came to spoiling you and treating you quite literally like a 'princess' as per his nickname. Today was different though, He's being softer, and as much as you loved his dominant side, his soft side was awfully refreshing.
"Hey, Tooru?"
"Yea?"
"I love you." Oikawa looked a bit taken back with the random use of such strong words but quickly replaced his astoundment with confidence.
"Are you sure about that Y/n~channn? Because I think I love you more~" He purred as you rolled your eyes, a smile igniting on your face while you ruffled his hair.
---------
Once Oikawa was done bandaging your cuts, he insisted on giving you a much-needed bath which definetly was something else...
"Mmmm" you moaned out as Oikawa was lathering shampoo into your h/c locks, moving his fingers around in circular motions, trying to release as much stress and tension as he could. Once he was done he hopped over to the little makeup mirror and held it up to your face revealing bunny ears on top of your head held together by the shampoo.
"Mmmm my little bunny princess~ how do you like your new ears?"
"They're lovely! I love what you did with this one Tooru." you said pointing to the left 'bunny ear' that was now deforming.
"oh shut up Y/n~chan as if you could do any better," Oikawa said as he folded his arms and looked away.
"Oh but I can," you said making a devious face.
"You wouldn't!"
"I WOULD BAHAHA!" You snorted as you smacked the bunny ears downwards, causing them both to deform.
"NOOOO Y/N~CHANNN HOW COULD YOU. MY LITTLE BUNNY PRINCESS~" he wailed as he started to wash out the shampoo as you were still laughing your ass off in the tub.
After repeating the same steps with the conditioner and about 30 minutes of you and Oikawa arguing about soapy titty pictures being better than soapy ab pictures. Oikawa finally unclogged the drain allowing you to get out while he dried you off using your favorite fluffy towel he bought for you a while back on your birthday when he turned your living room into a spa. Once you were fully dried Oikawa bundled you up into a burrito and carried you back to your guys' shared room and lightly tossed you on the California king bed as he started walking to your shared closet.
"Sit here and stay pretty for me while I get you some sexy clothes~." Oikawa purred as he entered the closet, pulling out a cream hoodie and digging through his underwear drawer to reveal old alien boxers. He loved seeing you in his clothes, especially the alien boxers that seemed to compliment your butt perfectly.
When he came back he easily slipped the cream-colored hoodie over your head and put on the boxers for you as well, making sure you didn't move a muscle. He felt the need to spoil the hell out of you tonight, especially because he believes it's his fault for not being home early enough.
If only I came home sooner...
He thought as he adjusted the boxers and stared longingly into your eyes with regret.
If only I declined Iwaizumis’ request to get food. This would have never happened...
Slowly, he got back up and leisurely walked back into the closet to change, after all, he was still in his sweaty volleyball uniform that was a bit damp from your wet hair sticking to him when he previously carried you.
He changed into an old ICS volleyball hoodie and grey sweats. He walked over to where you were on the bed ogling him as he smirked lightly before picking you up once again, guiding your legs to wrap around his waist. Being careful as to not touch any tender areas, while putting a hand under your bottom and taking long, slow strides to the living room. Setting you down with the same care, Oikawa grabbed the remote and put on Area 51 which was previously recorded from the last movie night you two shared.
"Here princess, sit tight while I get blankets and food." He muttered while walking to the kitchen.
"oh I wanna get the blankets!" you said deviously while scheming to take the best ones for yourself. But before you could even put a toe on the floor strong arms pinned you back down.
You slowly looked up only to be met with Oikawa's stern chocolate brown eyes.
"What?"
"No Princess, just stay here. I'll get the fluffy one and you can have it all to yourself." He reassured knowing exactly what was going through your head.
"But-"
"No buts, please Y/n I don't want you walking around right now." His previous loving look turned into a gloomy gaze as he looked down. Eyes meeting with the numerous white patches that littered your legs.
"Hey" you put your hand on his cheek caressing it while pulling it up to meet your now bittersweet gaze.
"I'm fine," you said as you got up only to be met with sharp pains shooting through your legs and up your spine.
"...see" You reassured, trying your best to mask your face from showing any pain.
"No" Oikawa stated sternly as he laid you down once again onto the couch.
"Please Y/n?"
"..." You gave him the silent treatment, looking away pretending to be hurt. Little did he know you were enjoying this so much. Soaking in each and every one of his sweet words, though they came off a bit harsh, he only wanted the best for you.
Damn, I'm really being spoiled... You thought as a shiver went up to your spine.
--------
The sweet aroma of popcorn and other snacks filled your senses as you looked over to see your very sexy boyfriend struggling to carry all the blankets, pillows, and food.
"Tooru! here lemme help-"
"Sit princess, I got it." He chuckled while tossing the blankets over your head and setting down the sweets on the counter, dashing back to the kitchen to grab the two monsters he purchased with Iwaizumi.
After struggling to get the blanket off, a strong hand came out and grabbed the blanket and pulled it over your head.
"Here silly," Oikawa said as your eyes met with the caffeinated drink.
"YOU DIDN'T!"
"oh, but I did." Oikawa purred with the sexiest but stupidest smile.
Your eyes glistened as you popped the tab in, drinking almost half of it in a swig.
"Sweetie, chilllll~ your gonna be up all night if you drink it that fast." He hummed, popping his open and taking a sip as well before setting both monsters onto the coffee table.
You shifted around a bit trying to get comfy in your blanket before Oikawa pulled you on top of him while grabbing the remote and pressing play. There you were, head laying on Oikawa's chest, hands wrapped around his neck. His hands were placed onto your waist fitting perfectly in the divet of your lower back. Legs intertwining with each other.
This truly was heaven.
----------
"I love you, Princess."
Oikawa muttered, lazily stroking your head. He looked at your resting body tenderly, thinking about all the little quirks he loves about you. In that very moment the world seemed to stop as the sound of the end credits became drowned out as sleep overtook you both.
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ohimtherebabey · 4 years
Text
on the chanting in the new video
my translation and an explanation of that translation. this is going to be a decently long post and im almost positive that im incorrect but im having fun so! keep reading, if you would like. 
so. i would like to start by saying that this is completely speculative and i’m almost positive that i’m wrong but i’m going to detail what i think the chant was and my reasoning for it anyway! 
i’m a classics major, and as such i’m (unfortunately) intimately familiar with latin and ancient greek. i’ve seen multiple people theorize that the chant is in latin (and that’s very valid and would make sense), but to me, it sounds like greek. i immediately took special notice of the word “archaea.” in latin, archae would be “ancient” or something in that neighborhood but in ancient attic greek, it would be more like “beginning.” so i’m working off the assumption that theyre talking about a beginning rather than something ancient. again, it would be completely reasonable to assume that the chanting is in latin and that theyre talking about something ancient.
so now i have ἀρχἠ (archae) squared away. but i was thinking about it as,,,, i don’t know what. i definitely wasn’t thinking about it like a noun, which is what it is. maybe i was thinking about it in an english sense as in the prefix archae-. i don’t know. so i get hung up there for a while, during which i try to figure out what that first word in the chant was.
i’ve already seen several posts about what people think that first word is and theyre all really good guesses. ive seen “arsit archae” which would be along the lines of the “the ancient has burned” in the latin 3rd person perfect. valid guess. makes sense. i’ve also seen a post guess that that first word was “arsare” (? i think thats how it’s spelled; not a word that ive ever used in latin before). which in the infinitive form as arsare would be something like “to raise the ancients.” totally valid guess. if you take “arsare” and make it a singular imperative as “arsa,” it would become something like (you) raise the ancients! as a command. ive seen a post speculating that it’s “hastae iacio” instead of “archaea.” this translation would be something along the lines of “i throw a spear.” 
but those are all in latin. and i try to avoid latin as much as i can (i really hate latin. i hate greek too but). so im going to approach this as someone who knows greek and has conveniently forgotten that they also know latin. like i said earlier, i’m assuming that the second word in the chant is ἀρχή (archae), beginning. i tried to think of plausible words that would pair with “beginning” in english and then work backwards into greek. i started with “return to.” but in ancient greek, that would be ἐπανιέναι (roughly e-pan-i-EH-nai). which is entirely too long and sounds nothing like the chant. 
(i’m also working under the assumption that the first word is a command because of how ancient greek declines imperatives. but im ultimately wrong, which i figure out after many minutes of wracking my brain and realizing that the letter θ exists and will be a pain in my ass)
eventually, i begin to think of ἀρχή as a noun, which i should have done from the beginning, because it’s a noun. as such, i realize that i should maybe include the definite article. so ἀρχή becomes ἡ ἀρχή (roughly “hey archae”) so that takes care of the second syllable of the first word of the chant. so now im looking for a one syllable word that could work, which tells me im probably looking for a preposition. in terms of prepositions that sound like the first syllable of the chant, there are none that are an exact fit. so i look for the closest match. which i find in the preposition ἐκ (ek), which becomes ἐξ (eks) when it appears before a word beginning with a vowel. the preposition means “out of” or “from.” this is where things get really difficult and upsetting.
the preposition ἐκ must be followed by a genitive. but in the genitive of ἡ ἀρχή (roughly hey archae) becomes τῆς ἀρχῆς (roughly tehs arkhehs), which invalidates the need for ἐξ as the preposition because τῆς does not begin with a vowel. ἐξ would supply the ‘s’ sound at the end of the first word of the chant. and also τῆς ἀρχῆς doesnt sound like the second word of the chant either. so this is where i accept that while “from the beginning” would have been a really cool chant, i’m probably wrong. unless gerard didn’t learn a grammatically correct chant. but that seems unlikely, knowing how dedicated they all are to their art. 
so now i start thinking in terms of modern greek, which i do not know. after some research, i learn that modern greek has the word άσε (roughly ah-seh), which sounds like the first word of the chant and is a second-person singular perfective imperative of the verb αφήνω (roughly a-feh-no), meaning to “leave” or “let go of.” which is. really good and fitting for the general theme of everything they’ve been doing. think about it. “let go of the beginning.” that goes pretty hard. modern greek also has the word αρχή. so theres some pretty compelling evidence that it could be “let go of the beginning” or something along those lines, if the chant is, in fact, in modern greek. but thats unsatisfactory to me. like. i just feel in my heart of hearts that they--overdramatic theatre kids that they are-- would not do a cryptic chant in modern greek. 
so. like i said, i’m probably very wrong, but i had a lot of fun thinking through this (and avoiding my homework to think through it). and i think it would have been really cool for them to have done something in ancient greek, but im a classics major so. 
if you stuck through this post, thank you. and while you’re here I would like to direct you to this post, which posits (with very compelling evidence) that the chant is in kurdish. 
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silverlightqueen · 5 years
Text
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Secret
idol!Jimin x teacher!reader - nothing but fluff
Word Count - 3.1k+
Summary - You like to keep your private life just that... private. But Jimin doesn’t quite agree... (ft. Blackpink & NCT 127 as 8 and 9 year-olds lmao)
a/n: this is just a lil drabble, I was inspired by my work experience with all the (more annoying than) cute kids !! lmk what you think x (I think y’all might like this @arvbellas @khaoticamour @keylowmonie xxx)
silverlightqueen masterlist
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‘Miss Park?’ I hear from behind me, turning to look at one of my students, Lisa, big eyes hidden behind her thick fringe as she looks up at me shyly, fingers toying with the hem of her blue and white check pinafore, part of the school’s summer uniform. 
‘Yes, darling?’ I ask, and a smile breaks across her face at the pet name. ‘Mrs Kim’s at the door, she said she’s got something for you,’ she says, and my eyes flit to the door, seeing the school receptionist, Kim Dahyun, waiting for me outside the door, visible through the windows.
I get up from where I’m crouched on the floor beside Lee Taeyong, Mark Lee and Jung Jaehyun who are struggling immensely with their 12 times tables. ‘I’ll be back in a minute, boys,’ I say at their protests, before turning to Lisa, ‘do you mind helping them, Lis? I know you know yours?’ The girl nods hesitantly before approaching the boys, and I watch slyly, nervous about how shy and quiet Lisa is around her classmates, or rather, how the boys will react to her. Mark moves to the side and pats the bit of his chair that is now free for Lisa to sit down, and my heart melts as she sits beside him nervously.
I weave my way through my Year 4 class that I’ve had all the way from Year 1, the group holding a special place in my heart, until I reach the door, slipping out and holding it open with one foot so I can hear if they become too boisterous (and quieten them before the bitchy Year 5 teacher, Mrs Choi, can come and have a go at me… again).
‘Hi, Mrs Kim,’ I say, the older woman smiling at me. I’m not particularly friendly with any of the other teachers at the school, all of them too petty and gossipy and competitive for my liking, so I keep myself to myself, something the rest of them hate. They’re always inviting me to things, which I decline, only to find out things about me and my life, as they know little more than my name and age.
‘Another delivery for you, Miss Park,’ Mrs Kim says, handing me a big bouquet of red roses, and I roll my eyes as a smile tugs at my lips, taking the flowers from her hands. ‘This is the fifth bouquet this term, Miss Park, and we’re not even halfway through,’ she says, clearly nosing, but I laugh it off. ‘It’s crazy, isn’t it?’ I reply, the beautiful scent of the flowers making me feel serene, not getting annoyed with her prying as I usually do.
‘You must have a very keen secret admirer,’ Mrs Kim says primly, and before I can reply, I hear a shout from inside. ‘Sorry, Mrs Kim, I should probably go. Thank you for dropping these off though,’ I say, not giving her a chance to answer before I rush in. I worry that it’s Lisa, and that the boys have turned on her, but when my eyes land on their corner, Lisa looks more than comfortable, the boys writing out the answers as she gives them.
I scan the room and then I spot them; Kim Jisoo and Jennie Kim. I quickly rush over and they both spot me coming, instantly beginning to shout over each other to tell me what’s happened. ‘Stop it, both of you. You know we only speak to each other politely using our manners in this classroom, no shouting whatsoever. Now, what’s happened? You can each tell me from your perspectives,’ I say.
‘Jisoo put glue in my hair!’ Jennie exclaims, and Jisoo turns to her with a gasp. ‘You put clay in mine first!’ Jisoo says back, even louder. ‘Did not!’ ‘Did too!’ ‘Did not!’ ‘Um, excuse me!’ I exclaim, shutting them both up. ‘What have I just said?’ I ask, the two girls looking slightly sheepish. ‘Manners,’ Jennie says. ‘No shouting,’ Jisoo says.
‘Good. Right, so you’re both in the wrong, it seems. I don’t care who did what first, you both put things in the others’ hair. God knows why, we’re supposed to be doing maths,’ I mutter the last bit to myself. ‘Right, both of you apologise,’ I say, and they both stay quiet for a moment, too stubborn to say it first.
‘We’ll stay here all day if we have to,’ I say, and Jisoo gives in. ‘Sorry, Jennie. I shouldn’t have put clay in your hair,’ Jisoo says, and I nod, proud of her. I mentally count through the roses and when I know there’s enough, I begin to pull one out of the bouquet.
‘I accept your apology, and I’m sorry too, Jisoo, I shouldn’t have put glue in your hair,’ Jennie says, and I pull out another rose. I hand each girl a rose and they both beam at me. ‘And when you own up your mistakes, apologise and behave maturely, you get rewarded for it,’ I say.
I feel someone tap my back then, and turn to look. Jaehyun stands there, his shorts uneven on his legs and before he can speak, I put the bouquet down and bend down to fix them, rolling one leg down. ‘Miss Park,’ he says as I stand up, and I nod at him, motioning for him to say what he wants to say.
‘Can I give one to Lisa for teaching us the 12 tables times?’ he asks, and my heart melts again at how sweet my class is to one another. ‘Times tables, Jaehyun, not tables times. And, yes, of course, and you have one too for being so sweet. And give one each to Mark and Taeyong for being kind to your classmate,’ I say, pulling four roses out and handing them to the boy who beams up at me, beginning to run back to his friends. ‘Jaehyun! Walk!’ I call after him, the boy instantly slowing down into a speed-walk.
‘Miss Park,’ I hear, turning to look at Roseanne Park, or Rosie as we know her, looking up at me with her wide eyes. ‘Are the flowers from Mr Park?’ she asks, and I nod, a smile spreading across my face at the thought of him. ‘He’s so romantic!’ she exclaims, clapping her little hands together, and I nod in agreement.
I pull out a rose for her, in a good mood now, before I give everyone a rose, one remaining for me. It’s almost like he knows how many to send. When I dismiss the children at the end of the day, their parents, who wait outside the door, smile at me indulgently when they see their kids clutching their roses, knowing my husband has spoiled me once more, and when he spoils me, I spoil my children.
-
‘That’s a nice new car, Miss Park. How on earth did you afford that on our meagre teachers’ wage?’ Mrs Kim asks as I sign in at the front desk, trying to hide my eye roll from the gaggle of bitchy receptionists. Of course they noticed my brand-new Audi, gifted to me by my husband who loves spoiling me.
‘Thank you,’ I say shortly, ignoring the question, heading towards the door to leave as quickly as I can. ‘Was it a gift?’ one of the other receptionists, Mr Jung, says, leaning forward on his elbows with a raised eyebrow. ‘Yes, it was, from my partner,’ I say, all of them exchanging glances.
‘We didn’t know you were in a relationship, Miss Park! You kept that one quiet!’ Miss Kang exclaims, and I give a false smile. ‘Yes, well, my other half is a dancer with a group that is almost always abroad, so I’m always home alone, meaning I never have any stories to tell. But anyway, I should go, Mrs Choi wanted to meet for a curriculum discussion, so I’ll see you later,’ I say, not giving them a chance to reply before I duck out of the room, sighing with relief once the door falls shut behind me.
I don’t mind talking about myself and my personal life, I really don’t; it just annoys me that they only ever want to get to know me so that they can tell everyone else the ‘gossip’ they’ve found. Hopefully, due to my wording, they’ll go around spreading that I’m with a foreign lesbian stripper, rather than the truth, which I’d much rather hide.
I take a detour in the toilet, sending ‘Mr Park’ a quick text, before heading down to Mrs Choi’s classroom. As soon as I step foot through the door, she looks up at me with a smirk. ‘What’s this I hear about your foreign dancer partner?’ she asks, and I sigh. It’s going to be a long day.
-
‘Miss Park,’ Kim Doyoung hisses at me from where he sits at the front of the room, just beside where I stand writing on the board. ‘Give me a minute, Doyoung,’ I reply, continuing to write the definitions of ‘noun’, ‘adjective’ and ‘verb’ for the class to copy down.
‘It’s urgent, Miss Park,’ Doyoung hisses again, and I turn to him with slight annoyance. ‘If you need to go to the toilet again, Doyoung, so help me, because you only went twenty minutes ago,’ I say, and he shakes his head, pointing at the door, where I see the receptionists stood in a gaggle.
I squint in confusion, trying to work out what’s going on, before I spot a flash of familiar jet black hair, knowing none of co-workers have hair that dark. Someone else I happen to know, however, does. ‘You’re kidding me,’ I mutter under my breath, before ruffling Doyoung’s hair as an apology for snapping at him.
The door flies open then, the person who threw it open desperately trying to stop it from hitting the wall and making a loud noise, but to no avail, the entire class’ attention on the door now. ‘You forgot your lunch, babe,’ Jimin says, holding out a bag (that most definitely contain my lunch in it) out to me with that annoying grin of his on his face.
‘I… give me a minute, Jimin. Can you go sit at my desk for a minute?’ I say, and he nods, still grinning, the children staring at him as weaves between the tables, high-fiving and winking at the kids as he passes them, all of them beginning to giggle at him. I catch his eye, giving him a hard stare, and he subdues instantly, taking the seat behind my desk.
‘Thank you, gentlemen, ladies,’ I say to the receptionists at the door, a clear dismissal, and, reluctantly, they begin to troop back to reception, shutting the doors behind them. ‘Right, sorry for the disruption, children. Come on, get writing,’ I say, turning back to the board and finishing the definitions. I can feel Jimin’s eyes on me, making me flustered, causing me to make a few mistakes which I rub out hastily, hoping the children don’t notice.
‘Once you’ve finished those, put your books away and we’ll start reading lines before lunch,’ I say, excited whispers instantly running through the room. ‘Why are we talking? The quicker you get your definitions done, the longer we’ll have to run lines,’ I say, all of the children instantly beginning to write, telling each other to rush. ‘Miss Park, how long ‘til lunch?’ Kim Jungwoo asks, and I supress a laugh at the boy who is always asking me how long ‘til break or lunch. ‘Ten minutes, so get writing. We’ll have an hour and a half after lunch too,’ I say.
Once they’ve all packed their books away, and got their lines out, we start to run through the first scene. We’re doing a shortened version of The Little Mermaid, and my class is very performance inclined, so I already know we’re going to absolutely crush the other classes’ productions, as we have the past few years. Not that that’s what it’s about, of course.
After a rigorous casting process, Rosie is Ariel, Jaehyun is Eric, Jungwoo is Sebastian, Jisoo is Ursula, Taeyong is King Triton, Mark is Flounder, Doyoung is Scuttle, and Lisa, Johnny Seo, Lee Haechan, Dong Sicheng, Yuta Nakamoto and Taeil Moon are all playing Ariel’s (ugly except for Lisa) sisters (and I don’t mean that offensively… just that the wigs we’ve bought with the shitty school budget don’t really do the boys much justice – I’m thinking of just leaving the wigs and having them wear the tails and shell bras alone. I feel like it’d be quite humorous to watch).
As they run through their lines, I march over to Jimin, who looks quite amused watching them say their lines, the smile falling from his face when he spots me coming. ‘What are you doing?’ I hiss at him. ‘Bringing you lunch?’ he says, and I roll my eyes, shaking my head. ‘What were you thinking, you moron?’ I demand. ‘I was thinking it’d be nice for my wife to show me off to her coworkers instead of keeping me a secret all the time,’ he says, and I sigh, feeling guilty then.
‘Listen, Jimin, it’s not like that. I didn’t want them to start crawling up my arse just because I’m married to you, and I didn’t want them to discredit me as a worker knowing that I’m married to a rich man anyway. They’d just assume I don’t work hard because I don’t need to because you’ll buy me everything anyway,’ I say. ‘Well, I will,’ he says, completely missing my point.
‘That’s not the- you know what? Never mind. Forget I said anything. It’s not that deep anyway. I’m just worried it’ll get out to the world. There’d be a huge scandal!’ I say, the realisation suddenly dawning on me. ‘I had a meeting with Bighit this morning. They said it’s time we stopped being a secret, because the longer I keep you quiet, the worse it’ll be when it finally gets out. Oh, yeah, by the way, guys, I’ve been married for nineteen years, sorry for keeping it quiet! It would not go down well at all. So I’m gonna announce it on VLive tonight, if that’s okay with you?’ he asks, melting my heart. ‘Okay. You can announce it,’ I say, and he grins. ‘Well, you’ll be there with me. Right?’ he asks, and I nod. ‘Always,’ I say, and he smiles at me warmly, my heart skipping a beat.
‘I didn’t realise how sexy you are in teacher mode,’ he says, the affectionate smile falling off my face at the perverted look he shoots me. ‘Was it too soon? Did I ruin the mood?’ he asks, and I nod, rolling my eyes at how clueless he is. And then I realise that it’s completely silent in the room.
‘Children! I’m sure you have lines to be running through!’ I exclaim, blushing in embarrassment. Before anyone can say anything else, the bell rings. Usually, the kids all jump up and line up at the door, desperate for lunch, but none of them do, not even Jungwoo. ‘Miss Park… or should I say Mrs Park?’ Jaehyun asks, and I hold back a laugh. ‘Carry on calling me Miss Park,’ I say, Jimin letting out an indignant noise behind me.
‘Miss Park, is that Mr Park?’ Jaehyun asks, and I nod, all of the kids craning their necks to get a good look at Jimin. ‘Is that Park Jimin from BTS?’ Taeyong asks, and I nod again, excited whispers running through the room. ‘But you can’t tell anyone. Not until tomorrow, okay?’ I say, and they all nod. I know they’ll keep their promise, having kept the fact that I was married quiet from the rest of the school for three years.
‘He looks like a Disney prince,’ Rosie whispers, and when Jimin looks at her, she blushes. ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Jimin says, also blushing. ‘You do,’ I say, nodding in agreement with Rosie, who giggles. ‘Are you a good actor, Mr Park?’ Johnny demands, and Jimin looks slightly taken aback, not used to being interrogated by young children like I am every day. I have to hold back a laugh at the almost scared look on his face.
‘Um, I’ve acted before, in a few music videos. Why?’ he asks. ‘Can you help us in our show?’ Haechan asks. ‘We’re doing The Little Mermaid!’ Jisoo exclaims. ‘You could be Prince Eric!’ Jennie exclaims. ‘Hey, Jennie, I’m Prince Eric!’ Jaehyun exclaims indignantly, the shouts getting louder and louder. I hold up a hand and the kids shut up as they notice me waiting, the room falling silent again.
‘Jennie, stop trying to give Jaehyun’s role to my husband, he’s not going to be in our show. But, he might be able to help out a little bit,’ I say, already mentally plotting, Jimin side-eyeing me. ‘What are you planning?’ he asks. ‘Well… you guys have a, like, three month break now, right?’ I ask, and he laughs. ‘Not quite a break, babe. We’re writing and recording,’ he says. ‘Yeah, but that won’t take all your time. Maybe you guys could all come in and help. Joon and Yoongi could write and produce a couple new songs for it, you and Jungkook and Hoseok could help with dances, and vocals, and Jin and Taehyung can help with the acting and directing, as well as vocals,’ I say, Jimin raising an eyebrow.
‘You’re getting carried away,’ he says. ‘I know, but tell me it isn’t possible,’ I say, and he doesn’t say anything, thinking. ‘Exactly!’ I say, excitedly, and the kids all start to whisper. ‘I need to speak to Bang PDnim first, before I agree to anything. Okay?’ he says, and I nod, already knowing Bang Sihyuk won’t have an issue with it. He’s got a right soft spot for me.
‘Right, children, go to lunch now. You can grill my husband after you come back,’ I say. ‘But Miss Park, we wanna rehearse and grill your husband,’ Lisa says, making the whole class laugh. ‘Tell you what? We’ll move our Maths lesson to tomorrow, and have an afternoon long rehearsal, yeah? It’s not like you need to know Maths that desperately anyway, you’re only 8 and 9,’ I mutter the last bit, the class already celebrating.
‘Right, go to lunch. Go on, get out,’ I say, Jimin and I both ushering them out. Once they’ve left, Jimin flops down onto my chair, pulling out the sandwich that was ‘my lunch’ that he brought me (not like I didn’t already have my lunch with me). ‘God,’ he sighs, raking a hand through his dark hair, a mouth full of food, ‘this teacher life is hard.’
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chouetteffraie · 5 years
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the art of decadence [dazatsu] {vampire au}
read it on ao3!
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Decadence
dec·a·dence
/ˈdekədəns/
noun
moral or cultural decline as characterized by excessive indulgence in pleasure or luxury.
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Brown strands dangled lightly over his bare shoulders as he tilted his head, grinning invitingly. Atsushi watched them tickle his pale skin as they swayed ever so slightly, muscles wound so tight he felt like a spring. He mustn’t ponce...he mustn’t pounce...he mustn’t.
Every part of Dazai was beckoning for him to come closer. Atsushi wanted to run his fingers over Dazai’s skin, play with his hair, just touch Dazai without hurting him. He wondered how Dazai would react to his lips running down his neck and shoulders gently without expecting the sharp bite of his fangs. A pang of guilt shot through Atsushi’s stomach, eliciting a grimace. He desperately wished that Dazai didn’t have to associate his touch with pain. As adept at putting on masks as the man was, he couldn’t hide the few tears that fell after a particularly harsh bite from Atsushi. In the seconds before the pain, when Atsushi placed gentle kisses on his neck as if he were a doctor cleaning the area for a shot, he could practically smell his fear, punctuated by the sudden increase in his blood flow at Atsushi’s ear. Every time Atsushi pulled away, wiping his lips after drinking his fill, Atsushi always wondered why Dazai so eagerly volunteered himself for Atsushi’s feeding. After all, Dazai hated pain- why did he so willingly face it for Atsushi?
Even in the dimly lit room, Dazai could see how apprehensive Atsushi seemed, unease apparent on his features in the grayish early morning light. He physically beckoned him closer, holding his hand out curling one finger like an inchworm. “Atsushi-kun, you look so tired~” he mused. “And thirsty. Could you not find enough strays to sate your bloodlust?”
Atsushi cringed at that word, another reminder at the monstrosity he was. Though he knew Dazai was only teasing him in good fun, after the tiring night of hunting with little reward, everything felt like a blow. Head bowed, Atsushi trudged over to Dazai’s spot on the edge of the bed and collapsed in his arms, itching to feel his familiar warmth. He missed the calming heat of blood rushing through his veins, a sensation the monster that turned him robbed from him. Feeling so cold all the time, topped with how empty his stomach was, made Atsushi feel like little more than a hollow shell.
Dazai wrapped his arms around Atsushi and placed one hand on the back of his head, stroking his hair before slowly pushing Atsushi’s nose into his pulse point. His bandages had been loosened and he was shirtless- it was a hot, summer night, Atsushi noted- leaving his skin exposed for Atsushi. Without really meaning to, Atsushi took a sharp inhale of Dazai’s scent: the remnant of cologne he neglected to wash off, his shampoo from his barely-damp hair, and the most intoxicating of them, his blood. 
Dazai felt Atsushi clutch at his shoulders, fingers digging in so tightly they might leave a mark, and responded by loosening his grip on his head. “Atsushi, go ahead and bite me. You need it. I’ll be okay.”
“N-no,” Atsushi stammered, trying to pull further away from Dazai. He hated that Dazai was so willing to be used with little regard for his own well being. Atsushi wanted to care for him, protect him from everything he could. Yet Dazai seemed dead set on being Atsushi’s own personal food bank with an eagerness that sent Atsushi’s dreams of normalcy crashing down. He shouldn’t get his hopes up, anyway. He was a vampire, a monster. There was no salvation for those like him, no paradise to retire to. Even a relationship they managed to find solace in came with the price of hurting their partner when in need of blood. Surely starving to death must be a better end than draining your lover of life. “What if I hurt you? What if I accidentally turn you? What if I drain you completely?”
“You won’t, Atsushi,” Dazai reassured, rubbing circles on Atsushi’s back. “Besides, I rather like being useful.”
“Useful?” Atsushi all but scoffed in disgust, spitting the word out as if he hated how it tasted. His lips brushed gently against his skin, running across a scab from the last time he bit Dazai. “I don’t spend time with you because you’re useful.”
“Ah, of course not. But that doesn’t mean I can’t strive for it,” Dazai murmured. Atsushi made no signs of movement until Dazai gently urged him closer. Atsushi’s body followed gladly, desperate to be as close to Dazai as possible. All but his brain found comfort in the proximity. Dazai stopped him before he could form another sound argument with a firm, “Eat.”
“N-no, you don’t really-”
“Atsushi,” Finally Dazai leaned away from Atsushi to look him in the eyes, a stray moonbeam illuminating his face for a moment to show the determined look in his eye. “You’ve spent a long time hunting for your food and you’ve come up with nothing. You’re hungry. You deserve a break. Now, eat.”
There was a brief silence between the two of them, hollow and still. Atsushi’s hesitance sent a sharp pang through Dazai’s gut, akin to a wooden stake. It would figure the boy before him was one of the sweetest, most conscientious people he’d ever meet. Despite having no soul, Atsushi proved to have more heart than anybody in the city with how gently he treated everything. Maybe losing your life made you appreciate it that much more. You never know what you have until you lose it, Dazai supposed.
Still, Dazai wished that, when compared to a soulless, undead creature, he wasn’t the one that seemed like the monster.
“Are you sure?” Atsushi asked one final time, acquiescence clear on his features.
“Of course. You like human blood much more than animal blood, right? You’ve been such a good little vampire, Atsushi-kun. I think you deserve a treat.”  Dazai leaned with one hand on the bed, tilting his head away from Atsushi to provide easier access for his fangs. The other hand found itself tangled in his silvery hair again, distracting Atsushi from the words of admiration and trust he could’ve said. “Let me prove to you how useful I can be, Atsushi.” If you like my blood so much, surely I must be human. Let me prove how human I am. Let me use you to feel human.
Dazai let out a sharp gasp as he felt Atsushi’s fangs pierce his skin, the familiar tingling taking his mind off the pain almost immediately after. He felt Atsushi’s soft lips close around the wound and tightened his grip on the boy’s hair, which earned him a small grunt. How he wished he could enjoy being the target of Atsushi’s affections, indulging in the gentle smiles and soft kisses Atsushi seemed so fond of giving. He felt completely and utterly detached, however, a fact that hurt more than the boy’s fangs in his neck. No matter what he did, Dazai would never be able to truly receive a good gift, even when it was too stubborn to leave him. Dazai knew he didn’t deserve such a blessing, yet he took it and tainted it anyway. To keep Atsushi to himself and use him for his own selfish whims was decadent and monstrous, two words Dazai felt paired nicely with his own personality.
Atsushi pulled away suddenly, startling Dazai. Wiping his mouth of the blood with the back of his arm, he watched with wide eyes as Dazai gave him a loopy smile and fell back. Truth be told, Dazai wasn’t as lightheaded as he pretended to be- though his mind was blurry, he felt more like his head was cast iron with the degrading thoughts bouncing around his head. He allowed Atsushi to help him onto the bed correctly, ignoring his barrage of concerned questions. He merely pulled Atsushi down next to him and held him tightly, using him as an anchor to prevent his thoughts from straying too far. It normally didn’t work, but that didn’t stop Dazai from trying. 
“Thank you,” Atsushi murmured into Dazai’s shoulder once he seemed content that he was alright. “I hope I didn’t drink too much.” Dazai hummed in response, ignoring how he only felt less human after making Atsushi worry for him. As the sunlight started to trickle in the room, Atsushi closed his eyes and let love professions die on his tongue, trying to forget how the warm blood in his stomach seemed to only make him feel emptier.
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barneycblog · 5 years
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Reflections on the “F” Word
While I disapprove of the word’s overuse and find it annoying much of the time, it remains one of the more interesting monosyllabic expletives in the English language for a variety of reasons. Just by its sound it can describe, pain, pleasure, hate and love. In language it can function as many parts of speech: a verb both transitive and intransitive; a gerund; a noun or pronoun; an adjective; an adverb; and an interjection. It’s a versatile word from a grammatical perspective and one that can describe with pointed emphasis a wide range of emotions, feelings, states of being and circumstances as these examples found on the web will attest:
• Ignorance: Fucked if I know. • Trouble: I guess I’m fucked now! • Fraud: I got fucked at the used car lot. • Aggression: Fuck you! • Displeasure: What the fuck is going on here? • Difficulty: I can't understand this fucking job. • Incompetence: He‘s a fuck-off. • Suspicion: What the fuck are you doing? • Enjoyment: I had a fucking good time. • Request: Get the fuck out of here. • Hostility: I'm going to knock your fucking head off. • Greeting: How the fuck are you? • Apathy: Who gives a fuck? • Innovation: Get a bigger fucking hammer. • Surprise: Fuck! You scared the shit out of me! • Anxiety: Today is really fucked.
Roots Linguisticians really have no clear idea where the word comes from. A few myths and folk etymologies have sprung up in the absence of a definite origin. The most common derive it from “fornication under consent of the king” or “for unlawful carnal knowledge,” and as with almost every other etymology based on an acronym, neither is true.
In English, swear words tend to have Germanic, rather than Latin etymology. We know where “shit” comes from—no pun intended. It has a Germanic root with obvious connections to words in other languages: Dutch schijt, German Scheiße, Swedish skit. It also shows up in Old English, as the verb scittan. The experts can trace a clear, linear etymology for it. Alas, the same can’t be said for “fuck,” although the search for its roots makes for an interesting etymological expedition.
It may be a native English word, from a Proto-Germanic verb along the lines of fukkon, which could in turn be from the Proto Indo European root pewg-, meaning “to jab” or “to hit”. Under this etymology, its origins are as clear as shit’s. But this explanation may rest more on speculation than fact.
Germanic words of similar form (f + vowel + consonant) and meaning ”copulate” are many. One of them is ficken. They often have additional senses, especially 'cheat,' but their basic meaning is 'move back and forth.' Most probably, fuck is a borrowing from Low German and has no cognates outside Germanic.
Early records of “fuck” are chiefly from Britain’s north, especially Scotland, so it may have begun as a northerner’s verb. Not all, but many of the words that exist primarily in Scotland and northern England, for example, bairn, gang, aye, kirk, etc., are from Old Norse. The Viking invasions left their impact on English as a whole, but especially in northern Britain where their settlements were concentrated. (Even today residents of North Britain use words and speak in accents that betray their Norse roots and mystify Americans and their English cousins to the south.)
Swedish fokka (“copulate”) and Norwegian fukka (“copulate, strike, push”) are now only dialectal terms, but given that they both mean “fuck” and are apparently related, they may go back to an unattested Old Norse verb. If this etymology is to be believed, then the Old Norse version of fukka came to Scotland first, before dispersing to the rest of the English-speaking world.
Another theory traces the Modern English verb to Middle English fyke, fike ("move restlessly, fidget") which also meant "dally, flirt," and probably is from a general North Sea Germanic word (compare Middle Dutch fokken, and German ficken). This would parallel in sense the vulgar Middle English term for "have sexual intercourse," swive, from Old English swifan "to move lightly over, sweep.” But the OED remarks that these "cannot be shown to be related" to the English word. (As an aside, the Old English verb for "have sexual intercourse with" was hæman, from ham "dwelling, home," with a sense of "take home, co-habit.")
Speaking of the original Oxford English Dictionary, its editors omitted as taboo the “F” word when the "F" entries were compiled between 1893 and 1897. Dr. Johnson also had excluded the word, and “fuck” wasn't in a single English language dictionary from 1795 to 1965. The Penguin Dictionary broke the taboo in the latter year. Houghton Mifflin followed in 1969 with The American Heritage Dictionary, but it also published a “clean” edition without the word, to assure itself access to the public high school market.
The written form of the word is attested from at least the early 16th Century although the verb form appears to have been found in an English court manuscript from 1310. The second edition of the OED cites 1503, in the form fukkit, and the earliest attested appearance of the current spelling is 1535 in Sir David Lyndesay’s Ane Satyre of the Thrie Estaits: "Bischops ... may fuck thair fill and be vnmaryit.” Apparently sex scandals in the Church were prevalent even then.
As an aside, “flying fuck” originally meant "sex had on horseback" and is first attested circa 1800 in a broadside ballad called New Feats of Horsemanship.
Censorship “Fuck” was outlawed in print in England by the Obscene Publications Act of 1857, and in the U.S. by the Comstock Act of 1873. The legal barriers against use in print broke down the mid-20th Century with the "Ulysses" decision (U.S., 1933) and "Lady Chatterley's Lover" (U.S., 1959; U.K., 1960).
In 1948, the publishers of The Naked and the Dead persuaded author Norman Mailer to use the euphemism “fug.” When Mailer later was introduced to Dorothy Parker, she greeted him with, "So you're the man who can't spell 'fuck'." (The quip is sometimes attributed to Tallulah Bankhead.) The major breakthrough in publication was James Jones' From Here to Eternity (1950), with 50 fucks (down from 258 in the original manuscript).
In a 1972 monologue, the late comedian George Carlin famously listed the "Seven words you can never say on television," to wit, shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits.
At the time, the words were considered inappropriate for broadcast on the public airwaves in the United States, whether radio or television; and most of the words on Carlin's original list remain taboo on American broadcast television but are heard with astonishing regularity on unregulated cable as an evening watching HBO will demonstrate. But words forbidden to polite society didn’t originate with Carlin; the ancient Romans had ten words that were considered taboo (and therefore used regularly): cunnus, futuo, mentula, verpa, landica, culus, pedico, caco, fello and irrumo. I’ll let the reader translate those words for which the English equivalent isn’t obvious.
At the Movies 1939’s Gone with the Wind ends with these memorable lines:
Scarlett: Where shall I go? What shall I do? Rhett: Frankly my dear, I don’t’ give a damn.
What today is hardly regarded as even a mildly profane expression caused a sensation in the USA in 1939. Sixty-six years later the iconic quotation was voted the number one movie line of all time by the American Film Institute.
The word “damn” had been prohibited by the 1930 Motion Picture Association’s Production Code (aka, the Will Hayes Office), drawn up as the country was in the grips of prohibition and a fiery debate about declining moral standards which social critics attributed in no small measure to the alleged excesses of the Hollywood dream machine and the immoral behavior of the people who starred in its films.
Against this backdrop, producer David O. Selznick and story editor Val Lewton worked hard to keep the movie close to the book. Of the word “damn” Selznik told the Hayes censors, "It is my contention that this word as used in the picture is not an oath or a curse. The worst that could be said of it is that it’s a vulgarism." In the end, the film got special dispensation to use "damn" and "hell" in specific situations.
But before they got the OK, Selznick and Lewton solicited alternate endings. They came up with 20, more or less, among them:
Frankly my dear, I don’t’ give a straw. Frankly my dear, I don’t’ give a hoot. You can go to the devil for all I care. My indifference is boundless.
The Hollywood Production Code was adopted by the film industry to counter efforts to establish government censorship of cinema in 1930, although it was not seriously enforced until 1934 and continued in effect until 1965 when it was replaced by the current ratings system.
During Hollywood’s golden age, producers, writers and directors came up with a bag of tricks designed to do an end run around the censors whom they regarded as overly zealous, excessively self-righteous and conspicuously dumb. One technique was to write witty, sharp-edged dialogue replete with double entendres and a heavy dose sexual innuendo.  
One such example comes from the 1946 film noire The Big Sleep, a mostly inscrutable piece of detective fiction penned by Raymond Chandler. The principals, Vivian Rutledge (Lauren Bacall) and Philip Marlow (Humphrey Bogart), engage in a famous, slyly flirtatious, sexy horse-race conversation scripted by an uncredited Julius Epstein. At one point, she rates him as a potential lover, using a horse analogy to talk in a veiled way about her feelings toward men and sex. The dialogue is outrageously suggestive without using a single off color word:
Vivian: Tell me: What do you usually do when you're not working? Marlowe: Oh, play the horses, fool around. Vivian: No women? Marlowe: I'm generally working on something, most of the time. Vivian: Could that be stretched to include me? Marlowe: Well I like you. I've told you that before. Vivian: I like hearing you say it. But you didn't do much about it. Marlowe: Well, neither did you. Vivian: Well, speaking of horses, I like to play them myself. But I like to see them work out a little first, see if they're front-runners or come from behind, find out what their whole card is. What makes them run. Marlowe: Find out mine? Vivian: I think so. Marlowe: Go ahead. Vivian: I'd say you don't like to be rated. You like to get out in front, open up a lead, take a little  breather in the backstretch, and then come home free. Marlowe: You don't like to be rated yourself. Vivian: I haven't met anyone yet that can do it. Any suggestions? Marlowe: Well, I can't tell till I've seen you over a distance of ground. You've got a touch of class, but, uh...I don't know how - how far you can go. Vivian: A lot depends on who's in the saddle. Go ahead Marlowe, I like the way you work. In case you don't know it, you're doing all right. Marlowe: There's one thing I can't figure out. Vivian: What makes me run? Marlowe: Uh-huh. Vivian: I'll give you a little hint. Sugar won't work. It's been tried.
“Fuck” began to break into cinema when it was uttered once in the film Vapor (1963) and in two Andy Warhol films: Poor Little Rich Girl (1965) and My Hustler (1965), and later in each of two 1967 British releases, Ulysses and I'll Never Forget What's 'is name. It was also used several times in the 1969 British film Bronco Bullfrog.  According to director Robert Altman, the first time the word "fuck" was used in a major American studio film was in 1970's M*A*S*H, spoken by Painless during the football match at the end of the film. Since then it’s been a free-for-all as many films have attempted, and succeeded, in desensitizing audiences to the shocking effects of the F-word.
Bad Santa, a dreadful black comedy in which Billy Bob Thornton spends 90 minutes uttering non-stop expletives is one example. Another is 2017’s The Wife, an altogether splendid film—a great story complemented by terrific performances by Glen Close and Jonathan Prices—that suffers from what I would argue is overuse of the “F” word.
It’s not that I’m a prude; I’m not. It’s not that I’m offended. I’m not. It’s not that I don’t use the word; I do. And its not that I’m for censorship (heaven forfend!). But as a lover of and sometimes lecturer on old films, I’m saddened that writers and directors ignore context and insert gratuitous profanity in dialogue when the scene doesn’t really call for it. Okay, Tony Soprano’s crew really does talk that way, and so does Casino’s Nicky Santoro. And the creative social commentary of George Carlin and Lewis Black would fall pretty flat were it not punctuated by a flurry of forbidden expletives. In their mouths the language works; in the mouths of lesser so-called comedians it’s just unfunny. And unnecessary. It’s all a matter of context.  
It probably says something about the state of English-speaking society that there are people who actually count occurrences of the word ‘fuck’ in films. Director Martin Scorsese is the undisputed Father of Fuckage. “Fuck” and its derivatives is spoken a staggering 506 times in The Wolf of Wall Street, setting a new Guinness World Record for most swearing in one film. And Scorsese has two other films that made the top ten list of “fuck”-ridden films:
1. The Wolf of Wall Street (Martin Scorsese, 2013). 506 times (every 2.83 minutes). 2. Summer of Sam (Spike Lee, 1999). 435 times (every 3.06 minutes). 3. Nil by Mouth (Gary Oldman, 1997). 435 times (every 3.34 minutes). 4. Casino (Martin Scorsese, 1995). 422 times (every 2.4 minutes). 5. Alpha Dog (Nick Cassavetes, 2006). 367 times (every 3.11 minutes). 6. End of Watch (Dir. David Ayer, 2012). 326 times (every 2.99 minutes). 7. Twin Town (Kevin Allen, 1997). 318 times (every 3.21 minutes). 8. Running Scared (Wayne Kramer, 2006) 315 times (every 2.58 minutes). 9. Goodfellas (Martin Scorsese, 1990). 300 times (every 2.05 minutes). 10. Narc (Joe Carnahan, 2002). 297 times (every 2.82 minutes).
One could imagine the closing scene of Gone with the Wind if Scorsese had directed it. Perhaps it might have gone like this:
Scarlet: Rhett, I don’t know what the fuck to do! Rhett: Franky my dear, I don’t give a shit.
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wolvesdevour · 7 years
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@morgause1 It seems to depend per language and how much you have experience with the language! As a student, I find I comprehend languages best through a few ways. The big one is translation. What I mean is: I LOVE translating. Latin was my first favorite language, and the textbook we used was Ecce Romani, which has a method of first making you translate a story. You then study the vocab and grammar. In my classes, I learned that dead languages (Latin, Ancient Greek) utilized this method, but so did Russian and Korean. I LOVED my Russian & Korean textbooks for that reason. I hate how many Romance languages are taught because the textbooks / courses rely on memorization (such as a chapter on colors, a chapter on airports). There is no story or text. I found I was very dissociated from the languages. Romance languages tend to be oddly weak for me. So to then get to Duolingo.... I don't know if I like the format of languages apps as a primary language source... Which makes it difficult because outside a classroom setting, I'm having trouble finding a good system. As a tool, I don't think Duolingo is BAD. But its helpful when used effectively. If you have a leg up--such as being able to already read Cyrillic is easier. From the app, it seems like they want you to study Cyrillic and hirogana/katakana from their other app, Tiny Cards. My issue with Romanian so far is that it is difficult to grasp concepts like verb conjugations. I don't know how to conjugate beau/bea/bei. I THINK its "Eu bea, tu bei, și ea beau." [I drink, you drink, and she drinks.] I get this wrong a lot, so... :| In the Spanish section, they often ask you to match English to Spanish, such as comes / come to eat / eats. Fuck if I know which is which. I'm on mobile, so I can't insert a screencap, but it wil go as follows: Translate "comes": Eats Apples Girl And you're supposed to click on eats, but sometimes the option is: Eat Eats Apples And... I DON'T KNOW. My brain isn't good at that. I can't remember how to conjugate comes. Either it means "you eat" or "s/he eats" and that's why there is a difference between eat and eats (because in English its "you eat; she eats"). I'm sorry if this is confusing. I guess a big issue I have is... It can be very punishing and pedantic in a way I find very annoying. There is NO. WAY. to look at a vocab list or examples on how to use/say phrases or how to conjugate verbs and decline nouns. (Is that the correct word? Decline?) Tiny Cards gets IMMENSELY punishing and demanding in the same way. I found the Russian cards hell, because it would nitpick on things that don't matter. A big issue I had was that I had to remember if a certain set of cards used спасибо or благодарю. I had NEVER heard of благодарю and remain confused on its meaning / difference between it and спасибо. It doesn't give cultural contexts either. So when it asks for thanks/thank you, if I forget that this specific set wants благодарю, I will get wrong answers and grow irritated.... You have to REALLY pay attention. With Romanian it took me awhile to figure out that there was even a difference between Fată and Fata. (Girl, the girl). It was teaching me "a something" versus "the something." But Romanian is a little unusual to me in that you may say "o fată" for "a girl" and "fata" for "the girl." Or "un copil" for "a child" and "copilul" for "the child." Essentially: it gives no context and I find that I often end up with a load of questions... But I think it may be EASIER to use once one is set up in a language. German, for example, I like. Their program is much smoother. Welsh was weird because so many vocab bits are names and ??????? It asks you to translate Dwi Lingo a lot... Which just means Duo Lingo. And I felt that was awkward when beginning. They ask for a lot of name translations early on for Russian, but I think its to help teach how to read Cyrillic. (All the beginning vocab are cognates or names: суши, такси, Иван, Вера -- sushi, taxi, Ivan, Vera.) I wonder often maybe it highlighted Dwi / Duo a lot because it helps you learn how Welsh is written. (That's my theory at least.) At one point I started making my own vocab lists and noted because it just... I REALLY really hate that they don't give cultural notes, vocab lists, verb conjugations, or how to decline nouns... Because otherwise I find it really difficult to comprehend. This was my problem with a lot of language learning programs like Rosetta and others, when I was younger. I've always hated this style of primarily learning languages. I usually prefer watching movies, reading books, and other immersive experiences. (That said, for German, Duolingo has a chat function where you practice conversation with a bot. I would love to have that for MORE languages.) I downloaded two other apps to see how I like them more. One is Memrise, which a few friends use...
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beselten-pitch · 7 years
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Mutually Assured Destruction
Alternate last year at Watford fic, written by the previous owner of simon-and-basilton
Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven / Chapter Eight / Chapter Nine / Chapter Ten / Chapter Eleven / Chapter Twelve / Chapter Thirteen / Chapter Fourteen / Chapter Fifteen / Chapter Sixteen / Chapter Seventeen / Chapter Eighteen / Chapter Nineteen/ Epilogue
Chapter Seven
Everyone at the Watford School of Magicks knew that Simon Snow and Baz Pitch hated each other. It was considered fact. Students found it amusing to count how many times one of them would glare at the other during class. Teachers exchanged horror stories of trying to break up their fights.
Everyone at the Watford School of Magicks knew that Simon Snow and Baz Pitch hated each other.
They were all really fucking wrong.
 *
BAZ
Baz had once wished that Simon would look at him like he was made out of stars and fireflies. He had once dreamed of days when Simon’s gaze would fall soft against his shoulders, rather than digging into his spine.
Now, he and Simon held hands when they walked in the dark and no one was looking. Now, he and Simon closed the door to their room and kissed instead of glaring at each other in silence.
But Simon’s gaze still felt like an assault. He looked at Baz like he wanted to eat him alive. Like he wanted to take Baz apart with his lips.
Baz had once called himself a one-man tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. He’d called himself hopeless.
He may not have been a tragedy, but he was just as hopeless as ever, if not more so.
In class, he struggled to pay attention. His eyes were always dragged back to Simon, always Simon. Their gazes would meet across the room, and for just a moment, they’d forget to pretend to hate each other. And then they would remember that they were supposed to want each other dead, and they’d narrow their eyes and glance away.
Baz had once said that if he couldn’t love Simon, killing him was second best.
But now that he loved Simon, he was still killing him. Every gaze broken off too soon, every kiss left unfinished because Penny knocked on the door, it killed them both.
Mutually assured destruction. Doomed.
 *
SIMON
Fall had finally arrived in earnest, leaving frost on the ground in the morning and icing over the windows in the morning. The heat wave was over—for everyone else, at least.
For Simon, the heat wave never ended.
It started every morning when he woke up to the sight of Baz on the bed opposite him. Fire in his stomach, sending hot little tendrils spreading up through his gut and through his body. It only got worse over the course of the day.
He’d never felt this way with Agatha, and it made him wonder if she’d been right to end it. Did every relationship contain this much fire?
(They hadn’t really discussed whether it was a relationship or not. Neither of them had said the word boyfriend yet, or dating. They’d talked quite a bit, though. About everything else. Because, as it turned out, Baz Pitch was a fascinating person when he wasn’t pretending to hate you.)
Simon had once thought that he was in love with Agatha.
Now, he didn’t know what to think. Because if that had been love, this was something words didn’t exist to describe.
 *
BAZ
Simon sat just in front of him in their Latin class, and it was maddening. Baz had counted and recounted the moles on the back of his name a million times before this year, but now he had memories of counting those moles with his lips.
Crowley, it was maddening.
The way Simon’s hair curled slightly at the base of his neck. The way he chewed on his pencils when he was confused…
Dev and Niall were starting to worry about him. Hell, Fiona was starting to worry about him, and she’d only spoken to him twice since he and Simon had started doing whatever the fuck they were doing. Neither of them wanted to label it, because it seemed too fragile. The sort of thing that could be broken at any moment, by the next move on the Old Families’ part or the Mage’s or even the Humdrum’s.
They’d talked about everything from the orphanage where Simon had stayed over the summer to Baz’s mother, but they’d avoided talking about the war. It had only been two weeks, and this whole thing was still precious and impossible. Every time Simon kissed him was a surprise. Every time Simon let Baz run his fingers through his hair it shocked him.
They weren’t ready to deal with the fact that they were still enemies yet.
Not that they wouldn’t have to, and soon.
War was still an ominous, looming thing. The first shots had been fired, and no one knew what to expect.
 *
SIMON
“Simon.”
It was a single word, brief and whispered, but it was enough to make him snap to his feet.
“Sir. You’re back.”
The Mage was standing with his arms crossed. Simon wondered how long he’d been waiting there, watching him fail at declining Latin nouns.
He was sitting on the Great Lawn waiting for Baz to get out of his Greek class, which always dragged on for an impossible amount of time.
“Yes. I’m back, but not for long. I’m leaving soon, and I’m taking you with me.”
“What?” Simon’s voice quavered, just a bit.
“You’re leaving. It’s too dangerous at Watford right now, especially for you. The Old Families have openly threatened to attack me, and the Humdrum is as unpredictable as ever. I’m taking you somewhere else. Somewhere safe.”
“No.”
He hadn’t realized he was going to say it until he had. He’d never refused an order from the Mage before—it unsettled him.
“No? I don’t think you understand, Simon, but you’re very important—”
“I said no. I’m not leaving Watford.”
“Are you listening to me? You’re in danger. The Old Families have become violent, they want war—”
Simon crossed his arms over his chest, his notebook still in one hand.
“Really, sir? Because from what I hear, you’re the one who attacked them. You killed someone.”
The Mage let out a short, angry breath, “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, Simon, but I haven’t killed anyone. The Old Famil—”
“My answer is no. I’m not leaving.”
“This isn’t a request.”
Simon shook his head again, clenching and unclenching his fists. He wasn’t used to this, to disagreeing with the Mage. He was used to saying “Yes, sir,” whenever he was expected to and following orders like a good little solider.
But Simon, you aren’t a soldier.
There was Penny’s voice again, making a guest appearance in his brain. She was his voice of reason, he figured.
“Simon, the Old Families have taken their issue with me from being purely political to being violent and—”
“And whose fault is that?” Simon asked. He paused a moment and considered adding ‘Sir’ to the end of his statement, but at that point, it was too late.
The Mage stopped rubbing his beard and stared at Simon in shock. “Excuse me?”
There’s no backing down now.
“I asked you whose fault it is that the Old Families have been forced into violence. They didn’t burn down anyone’s house. They didn’t kill anyone.”
The Mage narrowed his eyes, and the unhappy look on his face deepened into a full-fledged frown, “Simon, I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I can assure you—”
“You don’t know what he’s talking about?”
Baz stalked from the shadows, and he looked every bit as evil as Simon had always thought him to be. He looked perfectly vampiric, with his gray eyes darkened by the nighttime and his pale skin even brighter in contrast.
Simon wanted to kiss him on the mouth until he gave in to one of his rare smiles and stopped looking so damn villainous.
Baz stepped closer, standing toe to toe with the Mage. Simon had never realized how short the Mage was until he saw Baz looming over him.
If it came down to a fight, he wasn’t quite sure who he wanted to win.
“You said you don’t know what he’s talking about?”
The Mage met Baz’s eyes, “No, Mr. Pitch. I don’t.”
He stood there for one moment longer, and the night air filled with a tense, heavy silence.  The Mage just gave a single, firm nod, as though he’d accomplished something. “Well, Simon, I hope you’ll consider what I said. With the Old Families—” he looked pointedly at Baz, “and, of course, the Humdrum still a threat, your safety has to be a priority.”
Then he was gone, striding across the Great Lawn. The Mage’s Men fell in behind him, making him seem much more important than a small man with a pointy beard.
“I think he’s lying.”
Simon looked at Baz, with his eyes still angry and his lips still pressed into a tight line. He considered suggesting that maybe the Mage had nothing to do with the attack, that perhaps he was innocent after all.
But then he just nodded and took Baz’s hand in his own. Because he was weak, and wanted to feel Baz’s fingers. And because he didn’t want to have that fight quite yet.
And also, maybe, because he was starting to doubt whether the Mage was innocent or if Penny’s mom and Baz’s family had a point.
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badacts · 7 years
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recovery
noun
1) a return to normal state of health, mind or strength. “He made a full recovery from cancer.”
2) the action or process of regaining possession or control of something stolen or lost. “A specialised team were sent to ensure the recovery of the body.”
It becomes hard for Andrew to justify putting himself back together at all when he keeps hitting the wall hard enough to break again.
He’d said years ago now to Jean Moreau you can’t cut down someone who’s already in the gutter. Andrew was born there and it took a long, long time for him to crawl his way out, tasting someone else’s blood mixed with his own, like a rebirth. 
Maybe he shouldn’t have bothered. He’s not sure if it’s worth the effort to try it again. Plenty of people have told him he belongs in the gutter, in the grave. Perhaps they’re right.
He would give himself over to it entirely, except he’s spent too much time with people intent on throwing themselves towards the stars these last few years. Renee, Kevin, Neil, his brother - continually reaching upwards, and dragging Andrew up alongside them.
Farther to fall, for all of them. But it’s only Andrew falling, and that’s such a pretty, pretty metaphor for a gore-ugly feeling. Like broken limbs, like bruises, like pain and fear he could never bleed out with the rest. Something people kept teaching him, not taking from him like they did everything else.
Well. Not quite everyone. 
He flips his phone open and shut. He isn’t sure how many times he’s done that, isn’t even entirely sure what time it is, but the motion feels smooth as muscle memory in his hand. He opens it, dials, presses the skin-warm plastic to his face.
The ringing is bright and painful to his ears, but it doesn’t ring long before the line clicks live.
“Hey,” Neil says. Andrew’s senses aren’t discerning - his calm and familiar voice is irritating, too. 
Once upon a time, Neil rang him just like this from outside the Foxhole Court, using Andrew like an immovable object against his ultimately-stoppable force. And he had been a force of nature, drawn to shattering point under the weight of things Andrew understood even without the real specifics. He’d bound Neil in place, with a promise and himself. That’s why they are to each other, by turns.
Andrew’s hands haven’t stopped shaking in days. He can’t remember the last time he slept. Last night he poured himself too much whiskey and thought about dying again, and it’s a force inside himself he doesn’t think he can stop alone. 
He says, “Come and get me.”
Neil flies out, but they drive back to South Carolina. Neil drives, anyway - Andrew wouldn’t drive off the road on purpose with him familiar in the passenger seat, but he might do it by accident.
Without the distraction of driving, Andrew can’t sit still, jittery and grinding his teeth and irritable over the waves of bone deep exhaustion. Dull like this on the inside, every external stimulus is an assault on him. It’s a long drive - Neil can’t do anything for him except keep going, with brief pauses for him to rest while Andrew paces and fumes and occasionally breaks things.
He knows what this is. It’s still a relief to sit in Betsy’s office and hear her say the phrase mixed affective state and finally have it all slot into place in his jumbled mind for a second, switch the labels from this will be the thing that kills me to treatable.
Neil shifts at Andrew’s side. Right now Andrew can’t bear the thought of Neil touching him - even his own clothes against his skin feel too harsh - but he can’t let him out of his sight either. It’s not the first time Neil’s sat through a session with him anyway.
“The way I see it, we have two options,” Betsy says, her stare level, measuring. “The first is that you keep going on the way you have been.”
She doesn’t say until you can’t anymore, but it’s implied so clearly that she might as well. It’s not like he doesn’t see her point - that’s why he’s here again, more than six months after he first told her he was spiralling. 
“The second is that you try medication,” she continues. She doesn’t need to go on. They’ve had this conversation before, more than once. Every time before this he’s said no, because he can’t forget the constant fight for control against court-mandated hypomania, can’t stop remembering what that grin felt like.
Except that months and years later, still struggling, still tasting gutter water and afraid to look at the sky, he has started to think; I won’t wait forever. And I can do better than this - which sometimes sounds too much like I can’t do this.
Neil, who has always dedicated too much of his life trying to defend Andrew, says, “Is that really necessary?” He remembers, too. 
“Whether it’s necessary isn’t really the question,” Betsy replies. “It’s more of a suggestion, and a question of consent. Anyone capable of asking for help is capable of consenting their treatment. That just means it’s a yes or no to the option of it.”
“So what if he doesn’t? Take anything, I mean. If he says no,” Neil says. He must be able to guess, but then again, maybe he can’t - he hasn’t been here before, for the grittiest dirt of it all. Perhaps he just wants to hear it out loud.
“I can’t say for sure. No one can,” Betsy says. “Andrew’s disorder is by nature unpredictable. He could spontaneously improve. He could decline further, which is common in untreated patients. There’s a high rate of compulsory hospitalisation of people with unmanaged bipolar disorder too. As well as the major depressive and mixed episodes he’s already shown, there’s a risk of full-blown mania and psychosis.”
“He’s not psychotic,” Neil says, through force of habit in the face of that old accusation.
“Not yet,” Andrew says. It hurts to talk - he’s bitten the inside of his mouth bloody at some point, though he doesn’t remember when. Eidetic memory is great up until you start losing your grip on reality. His voice comes out rough but unmistakably dry.
“We can wait, of course. But Andrew has already waited a long time," Betsy says, though gently for Neil’s sake. “I wouldn’t suggest it unless I thought it was a worthwhile plan of action. Finding the correct medications can take some trial and error, but it also saves people’s lives.”
Neil looks like he’s about to keep going, scraping the bottom of the barrel for ideas like he thinks Andrew needs to be protected from Betsy and all her nasty ways of trying to help him. It’s less irritating than it should be to have him speak around Andrew, and Andrew knows exactly why that is.
When he was sentenced after everything with Nicky, everyone - his lawyer, his court-appointed psychiatrist, Nicky himself - said the medication was his way out, his freedom, his saviour. Even when it became obvious that it was twisting him, that he was a hair’s breath from losing the control they didn’t think him capable of anyway, no one said anything. Andrew wasn’t considered able to speak for himself, but he had no one to speak for him either. At least, no one who said the words that were cramming in his throat, caught up in the teeth he showed in his smile.
Prison wasn’t a great alternative to the drugs, and he couldn’t keep his promises from there, but from the edge of having his sanity stripped from him entirely it looked pretty fucking great by comparison.
Neil Josten might not people’s idea of an advocate, but they probably haven’t met every big-mouthed and protective inch of him. Those people also likely haven’t seen the way he quiets at Andrew’s look, mouth closing as he looks back with his concern written large across his face for Andrew to read.
Andrew hates that expression. He hates that he believed Neil saying I’m here to help months ago, and hates that he was right. I’m right here - that was what he said, and the second Andrew had asked for Neil to come for him, he’d done it, everything else be damned.
“I’ll do it,” Andrew says. When he looks back to Betsy, there’s no surprise on her face - just mild approval in the softness about her eyes. 
“If you’re sure,” she says, offering him an escape exit like she always does. He’s never bothered to answer her before, and he doesn’t now - he wouldn’t have said yes if he had uncertainties.
He leaves Betsy’s office with a prescription that he passes to Neil, unable to stand the crinkle of paper against his palms. Their fingers don’t brush. The light looks strange outside, mostly because he doesn’t know what time it is. It burnishes the reddish parts of Neil’s hair to fire and gold, makes Andrew blink. I’m right here.
“Columbia?” Neil asks. His eyes catch the sun when he looks at Andrew over the roof of the car, turning them nearly translucent. “We can go to a drugstore on the way.”
Andrew gets into the passenger seat. Maybe he’s not immune to looking at stars after all.
Andrew Minyard Receives Martin-Carr Award for Goalkeeper of the Year
Gillian Stokes
In just his second year in the professional leagues, controversial goalkeeper Minyard, 25, has won the top prize at last night’s National Association of Exy Awards Ceremony. Minyard also confronted rumours that the reason for the early end of his first season was due to a stint in rehab by openly mentioning his battle with mental illness is his acceptance speech...read more
Andrew Minyard’s College Thesis is Making the Rounds Online: Why You Should Read It
Alex Aoki
It’s entitled ‘Mental Illness in Juveniles in the Justice System’, and it’s a confronting read. While you couldn’t call Minyard ‘outspoken’, he has become something of a figurehead for mentally ill athletes in Exy since admitting to suffering from Bipolar Disorder at...read more
Playing in the Dark: Professional Athletes Talk Mental Illness and Suicide
Laurel Davies speaks to athletes at the top of their respective sports about mental illness, medication, the risk of suicide, and the silence that many of them are forced to endure in the course of pursuing their careers. Angus Fletcher (Football), Deeva Patel (Tennis), Andrew Minyard (Exy) and Madeleine Chen (Swimming) are all...read more
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jooheonspinky · 7 years
Text
7-Year Itch
 Noun-a psychological term that suggests that happiness in a relationship declines after around year seven…
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Namjoon x Female Reader
Genre: angst, smut (in Part 3)
Word Count: 1,588
Description: The idol life is taking a toll on your relationship. Can it survive the 7-Year Itch?
*Part 1*
Curled up on the couch with a book, I briefly glance over my shoulder at the figure hunched over our modest kitchen table. He scribbles furiously in his notebook, stopping every once in awhile to stare out at nothing as he taps out a beat and mumbles lyrics; only to dive back into his notebook to scratch something out or add something new. 
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Original Image
Returning to my book, I sigh softly. In less than a week we’ll be celebrating our seven year anniversary. A small smile slips onto my lips...but it’s a bittersweet smile as I think back.
BTS had been gaining popularity these last few years, which was amazing! They had finally gotten the recognition I knew they deserved from the get-go. But with that came more: more interviews, more t.v. shows, more award ceremonies, more concerts and more traveling. Which, in turn, brought on less… Less time for us to spend together.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m ecstatic for all the attention they are now getting. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but their rise in fame was definitely causing changes in us. With their spike in activity, Namjoon preferred to stay home on his time off. He either spent it writing music or catching up on that sleep he missed when on the road. While in the beginning the sneaking around or having to hide out from the fans was exciting, now it seemed to be taking a toll on our relationship, especially because I couldn’t partake in any of the celebrating with him. They all had to keep that innocent and single vibe going on for the fans, therefore we had to keep our relationship hidden from the world.
It wasn’t always easy for us. If we wanted to go out in public for a date or even just to go shopping, we had to go out in a group with the members and staff to kind of disguise me. We couldn’t hold hands or hug. I couldn’t stand next to him too long or the prying eyes of fans would read into it too much. I had to distribute myself equally with the other members to keep from whispers and rumors starting.
I think back wistfully to the time we first met. It was at a fan meet. Work had brought me to South Korea and I had stayed an extra week just to go to a BTS fan meet. I never imagined to hit it off so well with Namjoon in the few minutes we were given with each member, but we did and he asked for my number. Never in a million years did I believe he would actually call me.
I chuckle quietly remembering a few days later when he did call. His voice was so soothing, I could listen to him talk for hours. He invited me to a cafe near where I was staying. There, we got to talking about ourselves. We shared many interests and his intelligence really captured my heart. Every time we spoke, I learned something new and I loved it.
Yawning, I close my book and look over at Namjoon again. He is still engrossed in his writing and I hate to bother him. I never interrupt him when he’s working on something so as not to mess up his train of thought. How I miss those times we would stay up talking or cuddling, just taking advantage of the time because it was always so limited. It feels like ages since we’d done either. But now it's late and yet another day has passed with us hardly speaking any words to each other.
The couch squeaks when I stand up and Namjoon’s head shoots up and looks in the direction of the sound. I cringe as I watch his eyes focus in on me.
“괜찮아? (gwenchana-are you ok?)” he asks, his deep voice filling the quiet space. 
Even now, a week shy of seven years together, my heart still flutters when I hear his voice.
“괜찮아 (gwenchana-I’m fine),” I nod, tucking my hair behind my ear. I don’t know why I’m nervous suddenly and I force myself to put my hand down. “It’s pretty late. I’m heading to bed.” 
“그래 (geurae-ok).” Cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders, he informs me, “I’m still working on this. I’ll be in in a little bit.”
Licking my lips, I nod a few times. I already know that means it’ll be hours before he joins me in bed. I’ll be knocked out and won’t even feel the bed move when he finally crawls in.
“Ok. Well, good night.”
But he doesn’t reply. He’s already back in his little world, tapping his foot as he works out a rhythm to go with his lyrics. 
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We’re enjoying a rare moment together on the couch watching a survival show. He took a break from his writing to clear his head and hopefully get some fresh thoughts in. It’s usually a little awkward for us the first few days of his down time as we try to acclimate ourselves to each other again. I reach my hand over slowly to take his hand that’s resting on the cushion between us, just wanting to feel the warmth and strength of it in mine, but unexpectedly his cell rings. His hand bumps my outreached one as he leans forward to grab his phone from the coffee table. Namjoon’s eyes meet mine, questioning and I pull my hand back into my lap. Biting my lower lip, forehead furrowed, I turn my gaze back to the TV, pretending to focus on the images flashing on the screen.
 I can sense his eyes still on me as he grabs the phone. It rings twice more before he finally straightens up a little and answers.
"여보세요?(Yeobosaeyo-Hello?)" He’s silent a moment as he listens to who ever called. I grab the throw pillow that was between us and hug it to my chest as I cross my legs criss-cross applesauce on the couch. “네 (Ne-yes)... 네, 네...Ohhh…Now?”
I sneak a peek over at Namjoon. He sounds annoyed as he lets out a huff of air. Sucking the air back in between his teeth, he leans his head back as his hand rubs his forehead. He turns to look at me and I purse my lips a little, already anticipating that he’s leaving.
Running his hands through his hair, he stares into my eyes as he replies, “Ok. I’ll be there in fifteen.”
I scoff as I turn away and hug the pillow tighter then rest my chin on the top of it.
“Work?” I ask softly without looking up.
 He sighs heavily as he stands. “네 (Ne-yes).” Out of the corner of my eye I can see him grabbing his jacket and putting it on. “PD-Nim got us a commercial spot on the radio and they need to record our voices tonight.” 
“But you’re supposed to be on down time right now,” I remind him.
“I know. He said it wouldn’t take long, though.”
“You gotta do what you gotta do,” I reply, my voice monotone.
“Don’t do that, baby,” he implores. “You know this is for us, for our future.”
I don’t reply right away while I chew that over. I finally look over at him. Hands on his hips, staring up at the ceiling, he looks defeated and I feel my heart tear a little. 
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“I know, Namjoon,” I finally reply.
His long legs carry his body swiftly to stand in-front of me. I have to crane my neck in order to meet his eyes. Those beautiful eyes that I love so much stare deep into mine. He crouches down and when his hands slide forward across both sides of my neck, his thumbs stroking my cheeks, I close my eyes, soaking up the contact like the desert sands would absorb a rain drop. I sigh contentedly when I feel his plump lips press against my forehead.
“미안해요 (mianhaeyo-I’m sorry).”
His voice, so sorrowful, caresses my ears. How many times can he say sorry, before it’s not enough any more?
“I know,” I whisper back, reluctantly opening my eyes.
His features scrunch in frustration, but his lips are gentle when they hastily brush against mine. Walking away, he snatches his keys from the key ring holder by the door.
“I’ll see you soon.” 
I nod as he closes the door. The sound of him locking it up behind him reverberates in the small space. How did we get like this? I think to myself. But I knew the answer. This wasn’t something new; something that just started this time around. We’d become pretty strained the past year and it was because I felt like maybe I couldn't live the life of an idol’s girlfriend. Having to be hidden away. Never being able to tell anyone who my boyfriend is. Him never being able to say that he has a girlfriend. The months spent apart. The list went on. 
The images on the TV blur as tears fill my eyes. All of that never mattered before. But as time passes, our wants change; I just never thought it would be this drastic.
Switching off the TV, I boil myself some water and make a chamomile tea to help me relax. I stay up reading as I wait for Namjoon to come home, but once midnight rolls around and he still doesn't arrive, I slip into our bed and drift off into a fitful sleep.
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Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Part 2 will be out in a few days!
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Mood Board Credits:
Namjoon with Flowers
Wine Glasses
Fruit and chocolate
7
Fruits
Tent
Dress
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