Top Posts Tagged with #codex: ryan

'how would they describe themselves? how would their friend/love interest and how would you?' for sol and 'whats their best childhood memory?' for ryan :D

[oc ask meme]

THANK YOU EZRA!!! <333

How would they describe themselves? How would their friend/love interest and how would you?' (Sol)

On Herself:

"I'm a courier." That's it, usually. "I move things that need moving, I keep my head down, and I work nights—less traffic.” If pressed, she’ll just give you inventory: "Desert rat. Born and raised in the Southwest. Five-seven-ish, five-eight in good boots maybe. Twenty-six. Look, you’ve got eyes. Scar’s from an accident back when I used to work dad’s garage. I’m good with cars. Decent driver. Could probably still rebuild an engine but it’s been a while. Um. Shit, I don’t know. Hated school. Wasn’t that smart anyway. Used to be more… everything. Quieter now, I guess. Loyal to those that matter. I don't need much."

How Ryan Would Describe Sol:

"Sol's..." Ryan would pause, beer halfway to his mouth; try to find words that don't sound completely whipped and fail spectacularly. "Where do you even start? Fuckin’ gorgeous, obviously. Stupid beautiful. Crazy sexy. Disrupts traffic when she puts on one of those little bikinis, makes you walk into walls. But that's not—she's got this… rawness about her. Realness. This way of looking at you. Most competent person I know—strongest person, too. Funny, when she lets her guard down. Protective. Really thoughtful, sweet as hell. Scary smart talking shop, but thinks she's dumb because of the reading thing, which kills me.” He’d keep a lot of it strategically surface level, but depending upon who’s asking, would maybe tell TK: "She's... careful. Intense. Watches everything, then gets in these moods where she's not really there. Hard to pull her back sometimes, but they’re happening less and less. Sol's been through shit. The kind that can break people for good. Still standing but… but that night in Tucson, Christ, it was barely. Fucking haunts me.” Not even to TK: “Would kill for her. Would die for her. Probably will, eventually, and that's okay.” To anyone else: "She's my girl. That's all you need to know."

How I'd Describe Sol:

God I have 4 big essays on this woman in my notesapp, she’s like my final thesis, but to speed things up: Sol is kind of a personal study in extremes and contradictions. Predator/prey, wasteland/civilization, punishing restraint and starvation to dangerous overindulgence and blind consumption. Capable of extraordinary tenderness and surgical violence. Detached to the point of dissociation or depersonalization—a ghost, halfway into negative space, defined as much by absence as presence—but leaves these claw marks like she can’t bear to let go of anything ever. Simultaneously hypervigilant and reckless with her own vulnerability/emotional fragility. There's something veiled and ancient about her loneliness, carved into bone long before her Embrace and Julian's betrayal, and then something startlingly pure and young in her shameless want, shameful hunger for connection. The Beast gets in the way—taints everything—but watch her protect what’s hers and you see someone still fundamentally gentle (or trying to be) despite the blood on her hands, a need to nurture despite being parasitic, deadly, top of the food chain. (There aren’t many and it’s definitely not a universal trait among snakes, but when it comes to Sol I think of those species that risk themselves in the open absorbing heat to share it with their eggs, or that python that expends precious metabolic energy to coil around and shiver to warm her young. Idk that’s mesmerizing to me!) She’s a love letter like I said here; takes the Sonoran with her—harsh beauty and that terrible capacity to endure. Sol, to me, is what happens when you survive everything except yourself.

What’s their best childhood memory? (Ryan)

Big Sky Country

Butte, Montana

August 1997

The day starts before dawn, in the guest-room of the ranch house, Frank's huge hand warm on his shoulder.

“Rise and shine, partner.”

Seven-year-old Ryan stumbles from Ninja Turtle jammies into Junior Wranglers and boots still too big for his feet, follows his grandfather through halls that smell like pipe tobacco and lemon pledge, to the kitchen where coffee's percolating and fresh biscuits sit covered in gingham cloth beside the butter dish. His grandmother, Éabha—all auburn frizz, not a lick of grey—bestows upon the littlest Donahue what might as well be Excalibur with the reverence Ryan takes it: a thermos of hot chocolate, made with whole milk and dark chunks—the real stuff she’d melted down special.

"None of that Swiss Miss shit," Frank mutters, winking at Ryan as he pours himself black coffee. Ryan’s grin has a gap where his front tooth fell loose last week.

Outside, the world hasn't yet made up its mind about morning. Stars fade to the west in bruised sky while the eastern mountains cut jagged against pink-gold.

Frank's truck—more rust than paint—starts on the third try. Ryan has to use both hands to shut the door.

They drive dirt roads that remember wagon wheels, past fence lines Frank helped string in '64, through gates propped with baling wire and faith. The radio crackles between static and Willie Nelson, and they sing along; Frank’s voice scratchy like gravel, Ryan’s still high and sweet—neither of them fit to carry a tune, but the smiles say everything.

Ryan watches his grandfather's hands on the wheel—steady and scarred from forty years of fixing whatever needed fixing, building whatever needed building. Broke horses, birthed calves, held Ryan's grandmother through two miscarriages before Michael came along. Held Michael before he could hold himself. Will hold Ryan’s father’s hand for the last time in sixteen months, but nobody knows that yet.

"Where we going, Grandpa?"

"Thomas Bearcloud's place. Remember Thom? Came around for dinner when you stayed at Easter?"

Ryan remembers: a man with silver braids and a kind, weathered face, who'd brought fried bread and told stories about trickster Coyote that made everyone laugh.

"His mare foaled two months back," Frank continues. "Colt's ready for gentling. Thought you might want to watch. Learn something."

The Bearcloud ranch sits where prairie meets mountain. Horses graze in the near pasture—paints and quarters, one big blue roan that makes Ryan's breath catch.

Thomas emerges from the barn in denim and flannel. He and Frank clasp hands, bump shoulders, clap backs that way men do when respect runs deeper than words.

"Frank. This the grandson?"

"This is Ryan. Ryan, Mr. Bearcloud."

Ryan extends his small hand very seriously. Thomas takes it, dark eyes sparkling, and shakes like Ryan's a man, not a boy playing at one.

"Samuel’s here too, over in the round pen with his mother. Come on."

The pen's maybe sixty feet across, rail fence worn smooth. Inside: Thomas’ daughter, Annie, and the colt.

He's a perfect little thing. Bay coat that shifts from bourbon to copper as he moves, white blaze down his face like lightning, legs that promise speed in time but knobby-kneed disaster meanwhile. Maybe fourteen hands, but built to grow. He circles the pen's edges, nostrils flared, all contained explosion and attitude.

"What's his name?" Ryan whispers.

"Doesn't have one yet," Samuel whispers back. The two boys stand side by side, staring rapt through the fence. "Mama says he'll tell us when he's ready. Hope he picks something cool.”

Samuel's mother moves like water in the pen's center. Doesn't chase, doesn't grab. The colt stops, ears swiveling. Annie takes one step back.

The colt takes two forward.

"See that?" Frank says. "She's not forcing him. She's inviting him. There's a difference."

For an hour Ryan watches this dance—advance and retreat, offer and accept. No ropes, just Annie’s patience. The sun climbs higher. Samuel shows him how to sit on the fencing without spooking the horses, where to rest his boots.

Finally, the colt stands beside Annie. Lets her run one hand along his neck.

"Holy cow," Ryan breathes.

Thomas smiles over at him. "Your grandfather ever tell you about the horse that taught him to ride?"

"No sir."

"Ornery mustang mare—1962, right?"

"Think so," Frank says. "And that mare was meaner than a fuckin’ cougar with hemorrhoids."

Ryan and Samuel share a grin at the bad word.

"Threw him seven times first day," Thomas continues. "Eighth time, something clicked. Frank stopped trying to master her, started trying to understand her. Week later, they were flying across the prairie like they'd been born together."

"Still got the scar where she bit me, though." Frank rolls up his sleeve, shows a crescent of pale tissue. "Respect and trust, boys. That's all any relationship is—horse, human, doesn't matter. Force might get you obedience, but understanding gets you partnership."

The colt whickers, bumps Annie's shoulder with his snout.

"Can I pet him?" Ryan asks.

Annie looks to Thomas, who nods. She beckons Ryan into the pen.

His legs shake—the colt's bigger up close. Annie takes his hand, shows him how to approach: sideways, slow. The colt's breath huffs warm across his fingers, whiskers tickling, and then the softest nose in creation lips at his empty palm.

"He likes you," Annie says, voice carrying that same tone she used with the colt. "You have calm hands."

Ryan stands frozen. The colt's eye—huge, brown, fringed with thick lashes—regards him curiously.

This. This exact moment, maybe. Before his father drowns, before Florida and failure and having to become hard to survive. Before skip traces and repo work and washing blood off his knuckles. Before he started to lose pieces of himself, he thinks.

Frank ruffles his hair when they're driving home, shadows growing long across the plains, bellies full of Thom’s venison stew.

"Grandpa?"

"Yeah?"

"Think that colt will let me pet him again tomorrow?"

"If you earn it like today. Everything worth having needs earning, Ryan. And you don’t stop trying to earn it. Remember that."

Decades later, Ryan still thinks of that colt. Still thinks a lot about patience and earning trust—of approaching sideways, palm flat, no sudden moves.

But right now he's seven, and the world is huge and good, and his grandfather's truck smells like hot chocolate, and Marty Robbins is singing about love and El Paso, and tomorrow—tomorrow Samuel's going to show him where the arrowheads hide, and maybe that colt will remember his calm hands.

"Love you, Grandpa."

"Love you too, partner. More than all the stars in that big sky."

I WENT FULL CHEESE LMAO SORRY but please it came to me and i ran with it, i was haunting montana on google maps all day yesterday. sorry if there are any mistakes god im taking way too long with these already

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