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helnjk · 3 years

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Stitching Together - G.W.

George Weasley x fem!reader

Requested: yes !! by my lovely bean marissa @lumos-barnes

please accept my humble request for a george x reader where the reader owns a shop in diagon alley and one day they walk into WWW and george knocks over a whole display, he is a complete SIMP & cannot compose himself. complete buffoonery when the reader is near. they become friends & do all these nice things for each other and the reader is oblivious like "george, i'm so lucky to be your friend" (even though the reader is secretly simping) and he's like "um what, i'm literally in love with you"

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: mentions of meals and drinks (coffee), but other than that it’s just pure fluff & Dumb Idiots In Love

A/N: somehow i always end up writing george knitting? idk how it happened, but it happened. i hope you like it marissa 🥺💕

–

You took a step back to admire your handiwork.

After what seemed like neverending hours, the layout of your shop was finally perfect. From where you stood, you had a view of the streets of Diagon Alley, several passersby coming and goings from your sight. The display of charmed knit work by the window was already moving, demonstrating simple stitches that formed into a scarf.

It had always been your dream to open up your own shop in the most prominent wizarding area of Britain, with your passion for knitting and crafting, but the timing had always been off. Now, about a year or so since the war had ended, your grandmother surprised you with the capital to make your dreams come true.

The gesture was extra special because she was the one who first taught you how to knit. Many summers were spent in her cottage, sitting side by side and working on personal projects together.

Outside, your sign read ‘Stitching Together: Grand Opening’. There were a few flyers posted right on the door and on the window advertising the different classes and crafting groups you were offering, as well as the different products that could be found in your store.

It was as if your heart could burst at the sight of your fully furnished shop and you could wait no longer. With a flick of your wand, the sign on the door flipped to say open and that was that.

–

“Hey Freddie, have you seen that new shop that’s opened down the street?” George yelled from the bottom of the stairs once the last customer of the day made their leave.

“Haven’t gone in, but it’s gotten a lot of customers from what I can tell!” the disembodied voice of his twin replied from somewhere above.

As he began the process of cleaning up and reshelving, products floating in midair or zooming towards their proper shelves, he called out once more, “What type of store is it d’you reckon?”

“Arts and crafts? Something like that.”

George’s eyes drifted towards the shop window, where he could just barely see the outline of the new store. Dusk had begun to set in London, so the sky was filled with brilliant hues of purple and orange. His curiosity getting the better of him, he decided that he would go welcome the new shop owner to Diagon Alley.

With a shout to let his twin know where he was off to, George strode out of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes and into the brisk weather. Luckily for him, Stitching Together was still open. He could see you bustling around inside, fixing displays and swishing your wand to tidy everything up.

It had only been around a month since your shop had opened, but the local wizard folk of London seemed to be very keen on buying the different things you sold. Many came around to purchase the instructional books and the different kinds of wool and yarn, and some of your regulars had even taken an interest in the classes you held weekly. It was a great way for you to get to know the community and to establish friendships.

You had always taken note of the joke shop a few shops down from you, but with the hustle and bustle of just opening, you hadn’t had a chance to visit or introduce yourself to the owners. It was just your luck that one half of them pushed open the door to your shop, the little bell at the top of it ringing to indicate his presence.

“Oh, hello!” you smiled, turning to face the redheaded man, “Welcome to Stitching Together, what could I help you with?”

Unbeknownst to George, your heart began to beat rapidly in your chest. How could a man be so positively handsome you didn’t know, but at the sight of him standing by the door, all you could think about was how gorgeous he was. And he hadn’t even uttered a single word yet!

The charming smile he sent your way did not help the heat you could feel creeping up your neck. “Just popping by to say hello and welcome to Diagon Alley! My twin and I run Wheezes just down the street,” he said.

Your smile grew as he stuck his hand out for you to shake, “Oh I was just thinking about how I’ve been wanting to pay your shop a visit! I’m Y/N, by the way.”

“George Weasley at your service,” his hand was firm and warm as he shook yours, eyes sparkling with something you couldn’t quite name. “Nice to meet you!”

“So tell me about your shop!”

Somehow, after that evening, George Weasley snuck his way into becoming a part of your daily routine.

Every morning he would show up with two cups of coffee in hand right before your shop was set to open. After realizing that you depended on caffeine to function throughout your day, he made it a point to bring you one everyday. As you sipped on your coffees, the two of you would spend a few minutes chatting about your plans for the day before going to work.

Whenever you would offer to pay for your own cup or even try to insinuate that you could get your own coffee in the morning, just so that he wouldn’t have to go through the trouble, he would stop you in your tracks.

“But George–”

“Nope!” he would say in a voice louder than yours. “I’m doing this out of the kindness of my heart. I really feel for your customers who have to deal with a Y/N that hasn’t had her coffee fix. Could you imagine the grumpiness? Not on my watch!”

You would roll your eyes, but secretly it warmed your heart how sweet this boy could be. He was slowly inching his way into your life and becoming a great friend.

–

“So,” said Fred one day as George had gotten back from delivering your daily coffee, “The bird from the knitting shop, huh?”

His twin only rolled his eyes in response, used to the teasing that came with being brothers (and twins) with Fred Weasley. Instead of engaging, George went instead to do the routine last check over their store before they officially opened their doors. Still, Fred couldn’t resist the temptation to continue provoking him.

“Oi! C’mon, you bring her coffee everyday even if you don’t like the stuff. If I don’t remind you that you have a store to run, you would spend the whole day staring out the window just to catch a glimpse of the girl! Tell me you’re not whipped for her,” he teased, following George through the shop.

From their position at the till and on the second floor, both Verity and Lee tried to hide their smirks. This was too good a story to not eavesdrop on.

“Come off it, Fred.” George rolled his eyes. “I’m just being a good friend, that’s all!”

“Yeah but you wouldn’t mind being more than friends.”

The cheeky wink Fred sent George was not appreciated, as the prior soon found out, having to duck away from a stinging hex. Still, Fred’s laugh rang through the semi-empty store as he ran away from his brother.

Later in the day, as the lunch crowd tapered off, the four of them were left to mull around a bit. Lee and Verity were off taking stock in the back room, Fred was doing some accounting (because his twin couldn’t be trusted with any sort of math), and George was reshelving some Skiving Snackboxes.

The bell above the door to the shop rang, but he couldn’t quite tell who came in from his position towards the back of the shop.

“Welcome to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes!” he yelled, rushing to get all the boxes in order before he could help the new customer, “I’ll be with you in just a second!”

Just as he admired his handiwork, eyes scanning the display to make sure nothing was out of place, a familiar voice called from behind him, “It’s alright, take your time. I’m not looking for anything in particular.”

George almost jumped out of his skin as he heard your voice. He was so surprised that as he turned to meet you, his elbow caught on the edge of one of the Snackboxes and the whole thing toppled over.

You watched as the tower of boxes crumbled around him, and your hand automatically covered your mouth as you tried to contain your laughter. It didn’t work, though, and soon the whole store could hear your guffaws.

Thankfully, George was a wizard, and what would’ve taken a muggle quite some time to fix, only took a quick flick of his wand.

“Oops,” you smiled at him bashfully as he finished, “Didn’t mean to startle you, Weasley.”

“Erm, it-it’s alright,” he blushed, “I just didn’t expect you to come ‘round today.”

In truth, the reason why George was so flustered at your appearance at his shop was because he had just spent most of the afternoon thinking about you. He often did that, getting lost in his thoughts about the many little things that made you, well, you. The deep breath you took before that first sip of coffee in the morning, revelling in the aroma. How your face lit up when you spoke about the different people you met in your classes. Your hands and how skillfully they worked whatever project you were creating at the moment.

He wouldn’t admit it to Fred, but what his twin had said earlier in the day was accurate. He was absolutely smitten over you.

“Well you’ve been a regular over at mine for the last couple of weeks, I’m just returning the favor and visiting my favorite redhead at his place of work!”

“I-I,” he stuttered, his brain refusing to acknowledge the fact that he was your favorite anything.

Fred, who had heard the commotion and had gone down to check if everything was okay, nearly face palmed as he watched George fumble through his words. The man was whipped for you, no doubt about it, and as a good twin, he decided to save his brother from further humiliation.

“I think what my lovely twin here is trying to say, is that you just haven’t met enough redheads to make your decision about your favorite one,” he said, smoothly inserting himself into the conversation. “Fred Weasley, at your service!”

Your smile immediately brightened at the sight of George’s twin holding out his hand for you to shake, “Nice to meet you! I’m Y/N, George’s told me loads about you!”

“Has he?” Fred raised his eyebrow, turning to look at George who was still a little dumbstruck at the sight of you in his shop. “Well, that just means it’s my turn to spend some time with such a lovely lady. C’mon, I’ll give you a tour of the shop!”

“Oh I’d love that.”

With a small glance and wave at George, you took the arm that Fred was holding out for you, and so began his (largely amusing) tour of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

“What in Merlin’s name was that!” yelled Fred the moment you left the shop.

George groaned into his hands, embarrassment creeping back into him. He had acted a fool, unable to even mutter a single sentence to you the whole time you were around.

“Mate, I have never seen you so flustered around a girl,” his twin muttered, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, “Just tell her you’ve got feelings for her! Ask her on a date, do something! From what I could tell, you’re not the only one who’s caught feelings.”

“It’s not like that between us,” he said, “I doubt she even notices how much I fancy her.”

–

Somehow, George wound up taking Fred’s advice. Though, in typical-George fashion, he never explicitly mentioned to you anything about the way he felt.

Instead, he would stay around your shop longer in the mornings, taking slower than usual sips of his coffee (which he still couldn’t say he preferred over a good cup of tea). Other days, he would come around closing time and help put everything back in order and if he was lucky, the two of you would go out to dinner. Of course, he would also never let you pay a sickle for your meal, no matter how much you insisted.

Weekends were usually spent together as well.

Saturdays were for brunch and muggle films on the telly. It was one of the rare occasions he would drink a beverage in front of you that wasn’t that (god forsaken) coffee.

Sundays were more for crafting together. He would floo into your flat after having lunch with his family and the two of you would continue working on his little project.

“My mum loves to knit,” he mentioned one day, while he observed your quick hands skillfully moving the thread through your needles. “She knits us all sweaters for Christmas. It’s become a tradition of sorts.”

“That’s lovely,” you smiled up at him.

“Yeah, anyone who’s practically family gets one too. Like Harry and Hermione,” he mused.

“I could teach you how to knit her something, if you wanted,” you offered. “It’d be something pretty simple though, especially if you’ve never knitted anything before.”

The smile he sent you was so dazzling, you had to take a moment. You were practically melting under his tender gaze and you swallowed thickly, trying to gain your composure.

“That’d be bloody brilliant, Y/N!”

You only hoped he didn’t notice how your face got hot and how your hands couldn’t move the needles to do what you wanted, too flustered to be precise with your movements.

Since then, the two of you spent most of Sunday afternoons making sure George had the correct strings of yarn on the correct needle. You would keep a close eye on him and his progress, but most of the time he was alright on his own. Sometimes, he would purposely sit closer to you on your couch and you could practically feel the warmth radiating from him.

In between knits, your eyes would drift towards his focused face and you would smile. George had a habit of poking the tip of his tongue out when he was knitting. Something about the gesture helped him concentrate, and you found it absolutely adorable.

The more time you spent together, though, the more confused George got. It was getting to a point where in his head, it was impossible to miss what he was trying to say with his actions. You had to have caught on by now. And, since you hadn’t acknowledged what was going on between the two of you, he had assumed that this was your polite way of rejecting him.

On a chilly morning, he clutched the warm cups of coffee in his hands as he pushed the door to Stitching Together open with his back.

“Morning, Y/N!” he greeted.

You grinned in his direction as he made his way towards you. The moment he placed the warm drink in your hands and you took your first sip, a small moan of gratefulness escaped your lips.

“Merlin, I don’t deserve you,” you mumbled to your cup.

“Sorry?” George asked, brows furrowed slightly.

“Oh nothing!” you quickly said, “I’m just really glad you’re my friend, Georgie.”

Friend.

The word seemed to make his heart sink down to his stomach and ignite something in him at the same time. It was time that he told you how he felt, no matter what would happen afterwards. He couldn’t keep going on pretending he wasn’t head over heels in love with you.

“Erm, about that Y/N,” he began, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his work uniform, “I’ve got to tell you something.”

It was now or never.

You smiled up at him encouragingly, almost oblivious to the bundle of nerves that were most definitely visible in his expression.

“I-I don’t want to be just friends, Y/N,” he said, lips pursed in anticipation.

“What do you want then?” you still didn’t understand what he was trying to say.

In a burst of confidence, George took your hands in his and gripped them tightly, “I want to be with you. I fancy you loads, I think I might even be in love with you, Y/N. Honestly, I might’ve been in love with you from the moment I first walked into your shop.”

Your lack of an immediate response left him to back track, “But I understand completely if you don’t feel the same way, I just wanted to get it out there.”

For a moment, the two of you were silent. George eyed you nervously, wondering what was going on through your head, bracing himself for the rejection that he thought was on the tip of your tongue.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore, “Y/N? Do you want me to go?”

Instead of answering, you flung your arms around his neck. He was so startled at your sudden gesture that he almost didn’t notice your lips on his. Almost.

As suddenly as you had kissed him, all of his apprehensions melted away. Almost automatically, his arms found themselves wrapped around your waist and he pulled you closer to him. Your lips melted together seamlessly. It was as if this was where the two of you were meant to be, and you couldn’t help but smile into the kiss.

Sooner than you had liked, George pulled away from you slightly. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t help but dip his head down to peck your lips again. Once, twice, three times. This left you a giggly mess, your nose scrunching up in a way that was practically begging him to kiss it as well.

“Does that mean you fancy me too?” he murmured against your lips.

“Absolutely, head over heels,” you smiled in return.

The pair of you spent a brief moment with your foreheads pressed together, giddy smiles on your faces. That was until a knock on the door of your shop sounded. Immediately, you sprung apart, a blush coating tip of George’s ears and cheeks.

A few people stood outside, eyeing you amusedly.

“Oh shit,” you said, hurrying to flip the sign on the door to say ‘open’ and to unlock the door with a flick of your wand. “I completely forgot I had a class today.”

As the small group of people began to file inside, they sent knowing glances your way to which you only groaned softly and looked up at George.

“I’ll see you tonight?” you asked hopefully.

With a kiss to your cheek and a mischievous grin he said, “You can count on it, love.”

–

General taglist: @expectoevans @george-fabian-weasley @gxthsanrio @slytherinscribbles @harpyloon @nuttytani @mesmerisedangel @amourtentiaa @sarcasticallywitty15 @lumos-barnes

Weasley twins taglist: @whizboingies @pineapplesandpinas @papapapadumb @Mrs-g-weasley @a-castle-of--glass @hey-there-angels @leovaldez37 @pinkypurplemagic @werewolfslut @surprizeshawtyy

crossed out means i couldn’t tag you for some reason, sorry!

#george weasley #george weasley fanfiction #george weasley imagines #george weasley imagine #george weasley fics #george weasley fic #george weasley x reader #george wealsey x y/n #tw meal mention #tw drink mention

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dustbound · 3 years

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Warm - A NatsuYuu Fanfic

This is for @temporalreplicsimile for @natsume-ss I hope you enjoy! It can also be found on Ao3.

Summary: Natsume is used to being frugal, so he doesn't say anything when his old hand-me-down gloves from a previous foster start to fall apart. Good thing the loving Fujiwara couple notice (with some help) and give him an early Christmas gift.

There’s a crispness in the air when Natsume breathes in that jolts his body awake, makes him shudder under layers of a scarf, his winter uniform, and a coat. He taps each of his feet on the ground a couple of times to stymie the cold seeping in from his pant legs. Maybe he should buy thermals? But no, they’d get uncomfortable indoors. Better to just get moving.

As he walks, sometimes a brisk line of air will rifle through his hair and the barren twigs of brush and trees. The skin on his hands tightens and over time, his fingers feel stiff, and then numb. Natsume pauses by the roadside and digs into his schoolbag for a moment to pull out some familiar friends. The gloves haven’t changed much since he was thirteen. They’re still a bright red, although the yarn is fuzzier now. The color isn’t really to Natsume’s tastes but still. To him, they’re quite warm, even though many of the fingers have worn thin or gotten holes. At least the palms are padded, they’ve helped keep the gloves in decent shape.

“Yaaa, it’s extra cold today!” a voice drawls from the top of a nearby wall and seems to follow him. “Couldn’t it have waited just a little while longer? I would’ve slept inside if I’d known it would be this cold.”

Natsume snorts and holds back a grin. “That’s what you get for drinking late into the night. Some bodyguard!” he banters.

“Bodyguard, not babysitter! I left wards,” Nyanko-sensei grouses and finally addresses him directly. “What are those red Kemari-looking things on your hands?”

“Gloves.”

“Hmm.” The calico doesn’t say anything further but there’s a gleam to his eyes that goes unnoticed. “Don’t get into trouble!” With that he hops off the corner and disappears into the underbrush.

It’s a relatively normal school day. Most students chatter about Christmas and New Year’s, and Natsume gives his input now and again. He’s become less reserved. It’s nice, to talk about idle things sometimes. Christmas is something he’s sometimes celebrated, and sometimes not, so he’s not bored hearing about others’ plans or traditions. In the back of his mind, Natsume wonders how the Fujiwara couple will celebrate, but he shakes that thought loose. He’s learned not to expect anything and besides, they’ve given him so much already. If they decide they want to do something, he’ll give it his all, but even if it’s just the normal family dinner with them talking and smiling together… That would be great, too.

The day passes without event, and Natsume manages to not get in trouble just as Nyanko-sensei warned him. He even makes plans with Tanuma and Taki for winter break. When he walks back home, his steps are a bit lighter and he doesn’t mind the bite of the wind through his gloves as much. He greets Touko as he comes in from the cold, slips off his shoes, and goes upstairs to finish that day’s homework.

In the early evening, Touko knocks on the wood by Natsume’s door. “Takashi? Shigeru-san is home early, would you like to have some snacks with us?”

A smile lights up Natsume’s face as he opens the door. “Yes!”

They all sit in the living room where it’s warm under the kotatsu, the tv at a pleasant murmur. There’s some kind of showcasing program playing where the host gives awed commentary at the spectacle of lights in the nearby city’s downtown area. Shigeru warms his hands on his teacup and muses about seeing the lights in person, while Natsume and Touko simply marvel at the Christmas display.

At some point Nyanko-sensei prances in and flops over between the Fujiwara couple, biting and kicking what’s probably one of his toys in true cat fashion. “What’s that you’ve got Nyangoro?” Shigeru teases the cat, reaching for the toy. Surprisingly, the calico resists very little before letting go. “Wait, a glove?”

Natsume glances over and then slaps the table. “Ah! That’s mine!” He glares at the cat, who looks very pleased with himself and darts off before Natsume can catch him. “Sensei,” Natsume hisses but the cat is already gone.

Touko gently takes the glove from Shigeru and turns it over in hands. “Oh my, Takashi… Do you still use this? Would you like new ones?”

The teenager flushes a bit with embarrassment and searches for the right words to say. “No, it’s okay…” he starts but he can see Shigeru folding his arms. Right. They’ve had this talk. This is his home, and this is his family, and holding back is a no. Natsume struggles through the embarrassment, and bittersweet memories of the past. “The thing is, it’s one of the few gifts- Ah, no, that is… One of the people who fostered me and their son gave me his hand-me-down pair. Even though they were struggling, they were kind to me. So even though it’s not much I’ve wanted to keep them…”

Does it seem strange to want to keep those frayed and worn gloves? At least Touko doesn’t seem to mind as she pats his shoulder. “Thank you for telling us,” she says and Natsume feels a little tension in his mind release. Over his shoulder, Touko catches eyes with Shigeru and they trade determined looks.

The school week continues to fly by. Later next week will be the start of Christmas and the winter break, and Natsume is pleasantly surprised to find himself excited. There’s plenty to look forward to. He reminds himself to check on the Dog’s Circle sometime before New Year’s as they tend to get rowdy when there’s a good excuse to drink. The weekend is brimming with anticipation and he wonders how he’ll get through what remains of the school days.

He finds himself spending a lot of time with Shigeru. It’s quiet, and comfortable, and sometimes they’re all together for meals or to have a little break, but mostly something’s missing. Or rather, someone. Finally, Natsume asks, “Where is Touko-san?”

“Mm, she’s busy,” Shigeru tells him and flips on the television. “Have you seen this new program?”

And this keeps happening. It’s not subtle. And now it’s Sunday, Natsume still has school tomorrow, and he feels worried. Is Touko okay? Is this a yokai problem? Surely not, or Sensei would have said something but he’s just been lazing around enjoying not being outside when it snows.

He goes to find his foster parent and stops him in front of the Fujiwara couple’s room. “Shigeru-san,” Natsume says when he finds the man.

“Yes?” Shigeru doesn’t open the door.

“Touko-san’s not sick, is she?”

Shigeru is taken aback and he looks at Natsume. The teenager’s face is creased with worry, and he’s obviously been fighting between wanting to respect the Fujiwaras’ privacy and his sincere concern. The man’s eyes soften and he ruffles Natsume’s hair. Maybe a surprise hadn’t been the best way to go about this, but keeping him distracted was the only part Shigeru could play.

However, before Shigeru can say anything, the bedroom door opens with gusto and Touko is excitedly saying, “It’s finished!” Followed by, “Oh!” And followed by her quickly putting the object in her hands behind her back.

“Touko-san’s fine,” Shigeru finishes and Natsume can’t stop the laughter that wells up. “Touko-san, is now a good time?”

“Mm,” the gentle woman confirms with a soft smile. “Takashi, we want you to have this. It’s a little early for Christmas but… Well, you’ll see.” She places a small gift bag in Natsume’s hands and she and Shigeru are all smiles as they watch him light up.

He doesn’t tell them they shouldn’t have or that they didn’t have to feel obligated or anything like that. Natsume says, “Thank you,” and then he opens the bag and takes out his gift. Inside are two gloves that look familiar and yet not. The hand parts of the gloves are a fuzzy bright red yarn with padding inside and new leather patches on the palms where the knitting was more worn. The glove fingers have been cut off and the ends carefully repaired so they would not fray, turning them into fingerless gloves. Instead, there was a curved block of knitting snapped to the knuckle area, and Natsume finds when he unsnaps it and pulls it over what remains of the fingers, it turns the gloves into mittens.

There is a combination of old and new, of one of Natsume’s better past memories and the warm memories he is still making.

“Thank you,” he says again, and if his voice is more wobbly no one mentions it. The Fujiwara couple wrap him up in their arms and their warmth and he reciprocates it with his own.

#natsumess2020 #natsuyuu #natsume yuujinchou #natsume's book of friends #dustbound writes

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rachelkaser · 4 years

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Stay Golden Sunday: The Break-In

In our first Very Special Episode, the Girls’ home is broken into. Rose doesn’t take it well. Blanche has a bad encounter with mace.

Picture It...

The Girls are returning from a Madonna concert, only to open the door and find the house has been ransacked -- they’ve been robbed. After determining that the robbers are no longer present, the Girls separate to check their rooms to see what was stolen. Rose, left alone in the living room, is absolutely petrified the robbers will come back. Dorothy returns and accidentally scares Rose. The robbers made off with Dorothy’s mink stole.

Blanche emerges from the kitchen covered in flour. The robbers got her jewels, which she keeps hidden in the flour or the freezer. Sophia tries to say her clothes were stolen but Dorothy doesn’t buy it. The Girls argue about why they were robbed, with Blanche saying it’s karma, while Rose insists they’d be safer with a man around. Sophia and Dorothy go to rest until the police arrive, while Blanche says she’ll see the robbers whipped and hanged for daring to touch her jewels.

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The girls attempt to purchase a security system, but the salesman is doing everything he can to freak them out with statistics about violent crime. Unwilling to acquiesce to paying $10,000 despite the hard sell, Dorothy angrily throws him out. The girls go to get dinner, but the guard dog Rose got is camped out in the kitchen. Sophia eventually gets fed up and goes in the kitchen anyway. According to her the dog peed on the floor and ran for it. Clearly Rose is already starting to overcompensate for security.

Blanche is on the couch, groaning in pain as Dorothy tends to her. Rose comes running in, having mistaken their gardener for a “swarthy man with a weapon.” She assumes Blanche was attacked, but Blanche tells a different story: She took what she thought was a bottle of hairspray from Rose’s room, then went to the police station about her jewelry. When she sprayed herself, she found the hard way it was mace. Rose says she no longer needs mace, as she just bought a gun. Dorothy says Rose is now going overboard, as she doesn’t know how to use a gun, and insists they all go see a psychiatrist.

The Girls return later, having seen the psychiatrist. Dorothy feels better, Blanche picked up a date with him, and Sophia didn’t like him. Rose, on the other hand, wasn’t comforted at all -- she feels worse, believing he was her last hope. The girls reveal that Rose now doesn’t sleep at night at all, but sleeps during the day and then keeps an all-night vigil with the gun.

At night, we see the house in darkness and hear a man’s voice. The door opens, the alarm goes off, and Rose blindly fires her gun in the direction of the door. The lights go on, revealing Blanche and a date; Rose shot Blanche’s Chinese vase. Dorothy and Sophia come in as Blanche sends her date, who accidentally set off the alarm, away. Sophia helps Blanche pick up the pieces of the vase (while hiding some, because she hates the vase).

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Dorothy tries to tell Rose this has all gone too far, and Rose can’t live this way, and tries to tell her that the robbery is over and she’s safe now. Rose has a breakdown and says, in her mind, the people who invaded her home will always be there. Dorothy holds her while she sobs.

This comes to a head when we next see Rose walking alone in a parking garage. Suddenly she hears footsteps behind her and looks back to see a shadowy figure. She panics and bolts for the stairs, as a man races after her, calling out for her. She makes it down the stairs before he catches up with her and grabs her. We see her cry out in fear before it cuts away.

Sophia and Dorothy are playing Scrabble, and Sophia denies Dorothy the right to disprove her word “disdam” by saying the robbers took the dictionary. Blanche announces they caught the robbers, and they found Dorothy’s stole. Rose comes home and tells them about the parking garage. When the man grabbed her, she managed to knock him to the ground. She’s finally got her confidence back, knowing she can take care of herself, which prompts Blanche to go put champagne on ice. Unfortunately, the man who was chasing Rose was the parking attendant, trying to give her back her keys. But at least Rose isn’t afraid. Blanche comes back with a surprise: Her jewelry was in the freezer the whole time.

“Now get out of here before the victim of violent crime in this house is you.”

This is by far the heaviest episode of Golden Girls yet. I hesitated at first to dub this a Very Special Episode, since I usually associate that term more with hot button issues of the moment. But it’s got all the highlights -- intense emotional responses, trauma, and references to a social problem of some kind (in this case, crime).

This is another episode written by Susan Harris, and I meant what I said about how her episodes are almost universally good. She has a knack for being able to make the girls feel sad or deeply emotional without it sounding preachy or overwrought. Rose’s confused attempts to verbalize how the crime has effected her perfectly capture how that kind of trauma feels.

ROSE: I know it’s over. I know they’re gone. But not for me. For me, in my mind, they’ll always be here.

Harris is also particularly good at showing how, having gone through that, Rose needs to heal from the inside. Rose’s attempts to compensate for her suddenly-missing security aren’t particularly effective, and it’s because, for Rose, nothing would ever be good enough, would make her feel safe enough. So while, when I first saw this episode I was a little baffled by Rose’s proclamation that “I’m not helpless,” I now appreciate it for what it is -- Rose reclaiming her own inner sense of safety, at the expense of one beleaguered parking attendant.

Speaking as an adult woman myself, being told that we can take care of ourselves and that we’re not helpless is something I think more women need to hear. Though I do have one question: Why didn’t that idiot parking attendant say that’s who he was, or attempt to tell her why he was chasing her? That fool deserves as many knees in his safety deposit box as he gets.

The emotional struggles don’t stop the episode from being hilarious, though. With the first two minutes, Dorothy gives a Dirty Harry monologue that I’d put on par with Clint Eastwood’s any day.

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In fact, everyone gets their shot at a great comedy moment: Blanche is hilariously angry about the robbery, and Rue McClanahan gets the chance to show her comedy chops are just as strong as the other girls, especially her rant about the mace. Were it not for Sophia’s awesome line (see below), Blanche’s distressed cry of “I MACED MYSELF right there in the police station” would be my favorite part of the episode.

Dorothy, on the other hand, handles the situation very practically, even pointing out the societal ill that caused someone to rob them in the first place (massive unemployment). She even suggests they see a psychiatrist, which strikes me as surprisingly progressive -- even today, you’ll find people who respond to the suggestion of therapy the way Rose does: “You think I’m crazy!” The only time she really seems to crack is when she realizes Rose bought a gun -- and by the way, an understated but still great moment of visual comedy is watching Rose pull multiple skeins of yarn out of the same shopping bag where she’s carrying a handgun.

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At first it seems strange that Sophia is so blasé about the robbery, immediately going to sleep after it happens. While the other girls shriek and gasp when they discover the ransacked house, Sophia’s response is a weary “Oh boy.” But then, in her “Stable Mabel” rant, she points out that she’s seen a lot more than a simple burglary in her time, and there’s not much that’ll phase her anymore. Her attempts to use it to con Dorothy out of new clothes and a Scrabble win are another early sign her character isn’t just “vaguely suffering from discretion-shattering stroke,” but is actually rather clever and devious -- traits that’ll become more apparent when she gets standout episodes.

As Very Special Episodes go, to me this is a good template for how to do it right. The situation is treated seriously, and there are two big dramatic moments (one the gun-shooting scene, the other Rose being chased through the parking garage). However, the show puts in about three jokes for every dramatic moment, and it’s those jokes you remember the episode for just as much as the important moment behind it. GG will do this again, but this will always remain one of the best.

Episode rating: 🍰🍰🍰🍰🍰 (five cheesecake slices out of five)

Favorite Part of the Episode:

You can’t beat Sophia, who’s been the stoic all episode, finally blowing her stack after Rose shoots her gun:

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#golden girls #stay golden #rose nylund #blanche devereaux #dorothy zbornak #sophia petrillo #the break-in #s01e08 #stay golden sunday #picture it #very special episode

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eldritchsurveys · 4 years

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984.

1. When was the last time someone saw you naked? >> That’s a good question. Sparrow sees me in various states of undress sometimes, but I don’t remember the last time I was fully naked long enough to be seen by anyone. The only time I’m nude is when I’m in the shower or putting on moisturiser directly after said shower (which I do in my room).

2. If you could bring someone back from the dead and spend an hour with them, who would it be and what would you do/say? >> I don’t want to do this. I wouldn’t want to do that to the person, either, like... that sounds traumatic as fuck. (Now, if it were an Inworld type of situation, that’d be way different.)

3. What is the greatest loss you’ve endured? >> Various aspects of myself, I guess. But maybe they’re not truly lost. I have no way of knowing right now.

4. How would you describe your current mood? >> Neutral. I am rarely in an actual mood of any sort when I get this question, obviously -- I tend to only do surveys when I’m in this state, because it’s hard to focus on survey questions (or anything, really) if I’m actively having an emotion.

5. When was the last time you did something you were embarrassed by? >> I don’t remember.

6. What was the last thing you lied about? >> I don’t know, lying isn’t something I normally do -- unless lying by omission counts, because I don’t say literally everything that I’m thinking or tell everyone literally everything about a situation. Or whatever.

7. Where is your favorite place to have sex? >> Inworld.

8. What is your earliest memory? >> I have a vague impression of being on the floor of a dog breeder’s house? When we got my childhood dog Roxie, I guess.

9. Do you ever drink or get high alone? >> I often drink alone just because I’m in the house alone during the times when I’m most likely to drink. I like to just vibe, and not have to worry about “putting on my human suit” or whatever. Sometimes I like to be weird and dreamy or dance-y and vibrant when I’m intoxicated and I like to have space to do that.

10. What type of a drunk are you? >> I don’t know, I haven’t been drunk in a long time. I think at this point in my life I’m probably just a sleepy, cranky drunk. Which is partly why I don’t drink nearly enough to get there, lol.

11. What song (or a few songs, whatever) means a lot to you and why? >> Death is the Road to Awe means a lot to me because The Fountain as a whole means a lot to me and the music is a big part of that whole yarn-ball of meaningfulness. It’s something I really can’t explain. The feelings I have about the movie and the song are on the “this is actually kind of painful in its intensity” level of emotional connection.

12. When was the last time you revealed your feelings for someone? Were they accepted or rejected? >> I don’t remember. Revealing my feelings isn’t a common activity here in Mordredland, as I’m sure is obvious, and I rarely have any remarkable (or share-able) feelings about people anyway.

13. What was the reason behind your last visit to the hospital? >> I think the last time I was in a hospital was when Sparrow’s sister had her child.

14. How do you tend to deal with a breakup? >> ---

15. What is the “worst” drug you’ve done? Are there any you will never try, or any you want to try? >> I don’t classify drugs this way, so I don’t know how to answer this question. The drug I know I will never try is crack, and a drug I am interested in trying is shrooms.

16. What is something you’ve done that you truly regret? >> ---

17. What does it mean to you to be a good person? Do you feel you are a good person? >> I am uninterested in the “good person” designation. I just want to be valuable to and loved by a few people, maybe. That’d be nice.

18. What is your philosophy on life/how do you generally choose to live or conduct yourself? >> I don’t think I have an overall life philosophy, because that seems terribly impractical at best. Life is so complex. Maybe that’s a philosophy -- rejoice in and value the complexity of life. *shrug*

19. Do you view animals as being just as important as people? Why or why not? >> Hmm. I think a living thing should be allowed to live out its life and not be abused or willfully subjected to conditions that disrupt its quality of life. That’s really it, though.

20. When was the last time you were up all night and why? >> I don’t remember the last time that happened.

21. What is the worst thing you’ve done to yourself? What is the worst thing someone else has done to you? >> I don’t know what the worst thing I’ve done to myself is, but one not-great thing I’ve done to myself is become a chronic self-injurer. One not-great thing someone else has done to me is, well, I don’t know, physically abuse me repeatedly?

22. What is the most personal thing you’re willing to reveal? >> I’m not sure.

23. What made you stop talking to the last person you cut out of your life? >> The fact that he emotionally abused me, probably. That’ll do it.

24. Is there a situation or person you haven’t been able to get over/forgive? >> There are a lot of things I haven’t “gotten over” because their traumatic nature changed the way I am as a person and now I have to deal with that. I don’t really see a point in forgiveness, personally -- what I do see a point is forgiving myself and treating myself better than I’ve been treated.

25. Who was the last person to yell at you? Did you yell back? >> I don’t remember.

26. Where did your last injury come from? >> I don’t know! I just have this random gouge on my finger, like someone just took a small sample of my skin.

27. What are some kinks or turn-ons you have, if any? >> Trying to describe the things I like is hard because 1) it’s often dependent on context and 2) it’s more... specific kinds of things happening in specific kinds of situations and I don’t want to like, have to lay out a whole scenario, lol.

28. What are you like during arguments? >> I have an insanely heightened physical response to conflict, for some reason (I say “for some reason” like I’m not literally post-traumatic, but I don’t know what exactly contributed to this particular symptom) -- crazy heartbeat, flushed skin, shaking, the whole nine. So I guess I’d say I go full monkey-brain during arguments and I tend to do/say whatever will get me the fuck out of the situation because I cannot process anything but “I’m in danger and these people are dangerous and did I mention DANGER”. I’ve been working on trying to express myself rationally during perceived-conflict or actual-conflict situations, but it’s a long process and mostly I just try to avoid getting into the position to begin with.

29. What is the worst thing you have said to another person? >> *shrug* Who knows.

30. Where do you like to be kissed? >> Everywhere, when a person I’m available to in that way is doing it. (So, Inworlders.)

31. What is more difficult for you, looking into someones eyes when you are telling someone how you feel, or looking into someones eyes when they are telling you how they feel? >> I don’t look into people’s eyes, period. It’s the practice of eye contact itself that is inconceivably difficult for me.

32. Think of the last time you were REALLY angry. WHY were you angry? Do you still feel the same way? >> I really don’t remember the last time I was legitimately furious (and not just using bluster to suppress a more vulnerable feeling).

33. You are on a flight from Honolulu to Chicago non-stop. There is a fire in the back of the plane. You have enough time to make ONE phone call. Who do you call? What do you tell them? >> Why was I in Honolulu, though...? I need more context for this situation that I cannot imagine myself in.

34. You are at the doctor’s office and he has just informed you that you have approximately one month to live. Do you tell anyone/everyone you are going to die? What do you do with your remaining days? Would you be afraid? >> Well, obviously I tell my spouse, and then I guess... some people I hang out with online? I don’t know what I would do with my remaining days because I can’t imagine what it’s like to be in that situation and how it would change my priorities. And, of fucking course I’d be afraid.

35. You can have one of the following two things. Which do you choose? Why? Usually when someone says that, a list of two things would follow. <--

36. You are walking down the street on your way to work. There is a dog drowning in the canal on the side of the street. Your boss has told you if you are late even once more, you are fired. Do you take the time to save the dogs life? Why or Why not? >> I don’t work, so that’s the first problem with this question. In a general sense, though, I would probably risk a consequence of that caliber in order to try to save a life if I can. (I don’t know about this specific situation, though, because I can’t swim...)

37. Would you rather be hurt by the one you trust the most or the one you love the most? >> It’s people that I trust and love (those are the same thing, sorry, I don’t get how they can be separate *shrug*) that would have the best chance of hurting me, because of the emotional attachment...

38. Your best friend confesses that he/she has feelings for you more than just friendship. He/she is falling in love with you. What do you (or did you) do/say? >> ---

39. Think of the last person who you know that died. You have the chance to give them 1 hour of life back, but you have to give up one year of yours. Do you do it? Why or Why not? >> No, man, we went through this already in an earlier question. No matter how you present the circumstances, I’m not bringing anyone back from the dead, period.

40. Are you the kind of friend that you would want to have as a friend? >> Well, I don’t know???

41. Does love = sex? >> Inworld, it does, because that’s just how it works for Us.

42.Your boss tells your coworker that they have to let them go because of work shortage, and they are the newest employee. You have been there much longer. Your coworker has a family to support and no other means of income. Do you go to your boss and offer to leave the company? Why or Why not? >> ---

43.When was the last time you told someone HONESTLY how you felt regardless of how difficult it was for you to say? Who was it? What did you have to tell the person? >> I haven’t done that in a long time, idk.

44. What would be (or what was) harder for you to tell a member of the opposite sex, you love them or that you do not love them back? >> I think the “I don’t love you back” conversation would be way harder, lmao. People get really upset about that sort of thing.

45. What do you think would be the hardest thing for you to give up? Why would it be hard to lose? >> *shrug*??

46. Excluding romantic love, when was the last time you told someone you loved them. Who were they to you? >> ---

47. If there was one moment and one time in the last month what would you change and why? >> No.

48.Imagine it is a dark night, you are alone, it is raining outside, you hear someone walking around outside your window. WHO do you wish was there with you? >> My apartment is on the third floor... my biggest concern would be “how the fuck is this person walking on air???” I don’t know why I’d want anyone in particular with me -- why, so we can both be killed by this apparent superhuman? lmao.

49. Would you give a homeless person CPR if they were dying? Why or Why not? >> If I felt confident in my ability to perform CPR, I might. I think it’s mostly the fear that I’m going to do it wrong and... idk, kill the person quicker? that would prevent me from doing it. It does sound vaguely irrational when I write it out like that, but hey.

50.You are holding onto your grandmother’s hand and the hand of a newborn that you do not know as they hang over the edge of a cliff. You have to let one go to save the other. Who do you let fall to their death? What was your rationale for making the decision? >> ---

51. Are you old fashioned? >> No.

52. When was the last time you were nice to someone and did NOT expect anything in return for it? >> I’m not “nice to” people. I just treat people with basic respect and consideration, and of course I expect that in return...

53.Which would you choose, true love with a guarantee of a broken heart, or never loved at all? Why? >> ---

54.If you could do anything or wish anything, what would it be? >> ---

55. What was the last thing you ate? >> A few toasted vanilla Smashmallows.

56. What kind of guys are you usually attracted to? >> ---

57. What’s the stupidest thing that’s happened to you that ended a friendship? >> I don’t think any of the things that ended my friendships were stupid. It just sucked.

58. What’s the longest amount of time you’ve had sex for? >> Inworld, probably... an hour and a half, maybe 2 hours? Outworld, I don’t remember or care.

59. What reality shows do you watch? >> I don’t think I watch any. I’m trying to think if anything I’ve watched on purpose qualifies as “reality” and I... don’t think so? Untold Stores of the ER is basically just dramatisations of allegedly-real stories, so maybe that’s the closest thing to reality tv that I watch? Man, I do love that show. Oh, wait, those cooking shows! Those are reality TV, right? Okay, yeah, I watch stuff like that.

60. Post a video of yourself here: >> No.

61. Where do you work? >> ---

62. Have you ever gone up to a car thinking it was yours and tried to get in it? >> ---

63. Where do you buy most of your clothes? >> I don’t have a designated place where I buy most of my clothes. I shop for clothes so infrequently that it’s really just “wherever has the specific item that I want”.

64. If you were very intelligent and had the capability to have any profession, what would you like to be? Getting tired of the unrealistic hypotheticals. <-- My constant mood with surveys.

65. What’s your most irrational fear? >> ---

66. How many radio stations do you listen to? >> Zero.

67. What kind of music do they have? >> ---

68. Would you rather go to Greece or Hawaii? >> Oh, but I would go to either...

69. Musicals: Yay or Nay? >> Yay :)

70. What are the next concerts you’ll be going to? >> Ha! Hilarious.

71. What was the last conversation you had with your best friend about? >> ---

72. Are you one of those people that LOVE to hug others? >> Inworld I will spend all day cuddling if I can. Outworld, I legitimately cannot remember the last time I initiated a hug with someone. It’s been years.

#surveys #survey #random survey

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a-wanderin-whirlybird · 4 years

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Sole Ender AU Its the Little Things

It's the little things that made Ryan feel safe with the Fakes. Like how Gavin and Michael always walk on his right side, never his left, so he can always see them. It's how Geoff makes sure that any Heists outdoors are occurring when it doesnt rain. It's how Jack always has an extra umbrella or Eye Patch for him. How Jeremy and Lindsay make sure to never make direct eye contact. Jeremy looks at his mouth, Lindsay watches anywhere and everywhere else.

Those little things always made Ryan feel welcome. Even after they found out about the experiments, the Lab, the Eye. But still, something felt missing, Ryan could never put his finger on it. But he felt, lost still. He didnt realize the Emptiness was caused by something so simple until one night while playing Trivial Pursuit.

"Authors last names? Fuck that! Every last bastard whose ever written a book has a weird ass last name! They could be Hilda Sasquatch or some shit!" Jeremy shouted. Jack laughed and Gavin snorted.

"Jeremy, you wrote a book." Michael reminded him.

"Well Dooley is a funny last name!" Gavin pointed out as Jeremy growled and slapped the Brit on the back of his head.

"Yeah, like Free is any better!" Jack was losing it in the background as the Lads began to bicker and wrestle. Ryan's nose scrunched as his chest tightened and the empty feeling began again.

"What's with the face Rye?" Geoff asked breaking Ryan's stare. His left eye was covered with a glittering purple and blue eye patch Gavin had made out of his Sparkles. It was a fine gift, one that Ryan treasured.

"Its, it's nothing really." Ryan insisted a bit hesitantly. Geoff shook his head.

"Suuuuuurrrre, it's really nothing." Geoff drawled sarcastically. Ryan rolled his eye.

"Your like a security camera." Ryan muttered. "You keep digging and digging."

"Yeah that's not weird at all." Geoff sighed. "But fine, I'll stop. Just remember you Can talk to us."

"I... I know Geoff." Ryan muttered as the fight before them settled. "Just. Not now?"

Geoff nodded and they all turned back to the game. Ryan hoped that he could bury that empty feeling and never touch it again.

It was just a Last Name after all.

Turns out Ryan couldnt avoid the feeling for long. It was another game night a few weeks later. Jack and Geoff were out with Gavin, so Michael, Jeremy and Lindsay insisted Ryan joined them for Mario Party.

"Right so what's got you so fucked?" Michael asked never looking away from the mini game on the screen.

"Oh elegantly put Jones." Jeremy teased. Michael knocked into Jeremy who went tumbling away and Ryan felt the hole in his chest open again.

"I dont know what you mean." Ryan said as Lindsay pressed into him.

"Bullshit you keep wincing at random! Your eye bugging you?" Lindsay asked this time. Ryan shook his head, he felt stupid he just wanted these people to stop caring so much!

"We arent going to stop caring dipshit that isnt how this works." Jeremy said. Great, Ryan thought, he said that out loud.

"Yeah! We're a crew and shit we ain't gonna not care! Somethings bugging you and we want to help!" Lindsay declared throwing her arms around Ryan and pulling him into a hug.

Ryan tensed then mumbled.

"Sorry what was that?" Michael smirked. "Cant hear you through Lindsay dude."

"I dont have a fucking last name alright? It's a small stupid thing but it drives me nuts! I feel even less human!" Ryan shouted, pushing away from Lindsay. Michael and Lindsay began to laugh.

"Dude chill. It's just a name it doesnt mean shit!" Michael wheezed.

"Yeah dude. No need to get your panties in a twist over it." Lindsay added. Ryan growled and silently rose to his feet.

"Ryan?" Jeremy started but with a Vwoop, Ryan teleported away leaving the three others behind. In a cloud of dull sparkles.

Ryan could teleport pretty far. The farthest he ever went in one go was 20 miles. But now he didnt want to go far, just hide. And what better place to hide than one of the safe houses?

It was a small apartment closer to the suburbs of Los Santos, it was nice, if small. It was usually reserved for when someone was on a solo mission and needed to lie low, which meant that Ryan was there most. So he got to decorate.

Back at the Labs he never got to make any space his own. Everything was sterile and empty. He hated to remember the open space and clean white walls and the smell of bleach and chemicals.

Which was why this space was filled with stuff. Sure it was tidy, nothing was rotten or moldy, but Ryan used every space available. If the floor didnt have a rug there was a table or chair. If the tables didn't have Flowers, TVs, knickknacks or something on it there was usually a cup of Diet Coke. It was filled to the brim with bright plants, paintings, photos you name it.

Ryan plopped down on the couch feeling stupid. Why was he so hung up on a name? He had given himself the name Ryan sure, why not a last name?

Ryan knew why, and as that thought rose up he pushed it away. He didnt want any memories of the Labs in his head right now. Now he wanted to just sleep, he wanted to feel less... less stupid and childish.

So Ryan went off to the bedroom and buried himself deep under the covers, like he used to, and blocked out the rest of the world.

Ryan was 13 again and he sat on his cot, swinging his legs absently.

"Why dont I get one?" He heard himself ask. "Why am I only a number?"

"Names are given by family to people. You have no family and you are no longer human. You are far better than that." One of the blurred figures said. The second scoffed.

"Better? It cant even run the most basic excersise without failing ten times. Its isnt anything but a waste." Ryan couldnhear the sneer in the figure's voice as pain shot through every nerve on his body. "Failure doesnt get you a name of any kind. You are a tool, and a broken one at that. Dont forget that."

Ryan woke up with a start. Turning to the clock Ryan cursed. 3 am. He wasnt going back to sleep. Again.

Getting to his feet Ryan didnt bother to change into fresh clothes. He had slept in his jeans why not just use them again? But he grabbed a jacket and went out into the night.

Mount Chilliad loomed in the distance as Ryan walked the dark streets of Los Santos. He could have teleported where he wanted to go, or even driven. But he didnt want to. Walking felt better, it gave agency, he decided where his feet went, no one else.

"Oh Thank Fuck! I've been looking everywhere for you!" Ryan jumped, ready to fight and run from the handlers. When recognition snapped his mind from bad memories.

Standing before him was Jeremy, holding a tiny wiggling bundle of fur. A cat from what Ryan could tell. Jeremy smiled nervously, but relief was evident in the smaller man's eyes.

"Look, uh. Fuck I suck at this shit. Let's go inside yeah? We are near a place I own. Come on." Jeremy ushered Ryan towards a nearby apartment building. Ryan followed wordlessly, but obediently. At the door Jeremy hopped around a little.

"Keys, keys. Uh Hey Rye mind.holding him for a sec?" Jeremy then thrust the cat into Ryan's hands who finally got a good look at the little fur ball.

They were a tiny black kitten, fuzzy and wiggling furiously. What stood out the most was that it was missing a front leg.

The door clicked as.Ryan made eye contact with the little kitten. His chest tightened and his mind whirled as he looked into the kittens little eyes. Then it looked at Ryan's jacket and started burrowing into one of the interior pockets. Ryan felt a purr resonating out of the tiny cat from in his jacket and through his ribs. His chest began to unclench and suddenly he was.aware he was inside a studio apartment.

There were art supplies everywhere. Everything from Yarn and Knitting needles, to paints and canvases to wood sculptures, and musical instruments were strewn about. Jeremy hopped around the room over to a ragged old bed, kicking off his shoes as he went.

"Well, make yourself at home. Dont mind the mess things just get thrown around alot." Jeremy said sheepishly. Ryan picked his way through the room, his eye moving around and soaking up all the little pieces. The space felt lived in not just visited like the safe houses.

"Is this a safe house?" Ryan asked as he sat down on the bed. Jeremy shook his head.

"Nah. It's my apartment. Before I joined the Fakes I lived here. Still try to come back, sometimes you just need your own place you know?" Jeremy explained. There was a tense silence for a few minutes then Jeremy spoke.

"Michael and Lindsay were being a bitch." Ryan tensed ready to run. "No please just, hear me out?"

Ryan froze, suddenly aware he had gotten up to leave. Jeremy had his arm, and the Kitten purred even louder than before. Ryan sank back onto the bed.

"Look. I dont know what your life was like before you joined us but it obviously wasnt even a little bit good. Actually it sounds like it was fucking awful." Ryan laughed dryly.

"That's putting it lightly."

"Yeah no shit. But it's not stupid to feel shit." A pause. " If not having a Last name bugs you why dont you give yourself one?"

"Its not..."

"Not that simple yeah?" Jeremy finished Ryan nodded as the kitten crawled out on Ryan's lap.

"Alright, well. Do you think you can tell me why?" Jeremy asked. Ryan thought, eye down on the kitten as the little guy curled up on his lap without a care.

"Its not the same. It belongs to a family. I cant be a family of one." Ryan insisted and Jeremy shook his head.

"Ok two things. One. Thats a load of horseshit and who ever told you that was dumb as fuck. And two. There is more to it isnt there?" Ryan stayed silent. Running his fingers through the Kitten's fur. Jeremy began to whisper. "You're human, Rye. Just cause someone says you arent doesnt make it true. I know that one."

Ryan froze he didnt expect anyone to pick up on that. The whole Not human but was always somewhere in the back of his mind, eating at him. Jeremy wrapped himself around Ryan hugging him tightly. Ryan shook as he melted into the other man's touch, a few tears spilling out.

"You know. My family abandoned me when I was a teenager. Said I was a monster just cause I kissed both guys and girls. Not exactly dubious experiments but it is dehumanizing all the same. I kept my last name though. I did it as a big old fuck you to them. They died during one of the Fake's heists. Got to watch then burn myself. But the name never connected me to them, a name connects you to who ever you want it to." Jeremy was quiet as he spoke, his voice against Ryan's skin as he pressed into Ryan's neck.

Something was bubbling in his brain, but Ryan had no idea what it was. And right now was not the time to figure that out.

A small Meow pulled the two away from one another. The little kitten was trying to climb up Ryan's jacket between the two. As it scrambled up Jeremy laughed, and Ryan felt a chuckle escape his throat. The kitten then flung itself over Ryan's shoulder, it's one front paw kneading his shoulder blade and purring up a storm.

"I forgot this little guy was here." Jeremy said through a laugh. A pause, then Jeremy smiled softly. "Ya know, I was going to take him to the shelter. Geoff won't let me keep any animals. But I think you should take him."

"You just said-" Ryan began but Jeremy shook his head.

"I'm not allowed any animals. Geoff never said anything about you keeping a pet. And hey! Now you have another family member! You can give him a first name and a Last name of your choice!" Jeremy beamed at Ryan who smiled a little.

The sun rose as the Battle Buddies walked into the penthouse. The morning news was filling the living room, telling the story of several Petstores that had been robbed of supplies in the night.

"And what a coincidence, you both have Pet stuff." Geoff hissed as he sucked back more.coffee.

"Yeah well, Ryan's got a cat now so you gotta have toys and a litterbox to you know?" Jeremy said as he dropped a giant bag of cat food next to the kitchen Island.

"I thought I said no pets!" Geoff shouted, his voice cracking.

"Yeah but only for Jeremy." Ryan pointed out. "Abd Finnieas isnt a pet. He's family."

Geoff paused, Ryan knew the gears were turning. Geoff groaned.

"Ugh! Fine! You can keep the damn cat!" Geoff hissed. "And Finnieas? The hell kind of name is that?"

"Ih his full name is Finnieas Gavallo Haywood thank you." Ryan insisted with an air of dramatics. Jeremy giggled and kept in front of Ryan who held the kitten before him.

"A poud name Haywood! Ancient and divine! Dating all the way back to 4 hours ago!" Jeremy exclaimed. Geoff laughed.

"Alright you dolts get a move on. I'm going to text Jack and let them know you two caused the morning rukus." Geoff said. Jeremy took off down towards Ryan's room, a bag of cat toys in hand. As Ryan went to follow, Geoff got up off the couch. He placed a hand on Ryan's shoulder and gave a lop sided smile.

"Haywood's a good name. You know. I picked Ramsey myself when I built this crew. Jack took Patillo at that time to." Geoff then walked away, pulling out his cellphone and typing.

Finnieas purred as Ryan took in the unspoken message.

A name may seem like a Little Thing, but it holds importance all the same. And sometimes you need to give yourself those Little Things to heal.

#Sole Ender AU #Ender!Vagabond #A kitten has joined the party #Ryan Haywood #yes he named himself #FAHC

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makeusfly · 5 years

Text

The Things That We Could Be

After their fight with Magica, Scrooge feels the need to check on his family before going to bed. Everyone is sound asleep, except Webbigail. So he takes her on a little field trip.

Or, the one where Scrooge apologizes like Webby deserves.

You can also read it on ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18781786

Scrooge hadn’t done this in years. He’d been lucky these past few months, he acknowledged now. Despite the sticky situations they’d gotten into, none had been so dangerous that he needed confirmation everyone was home, safe and in bed, before he could drift off to sleep himself.

He came to Donald’s room first. The door was wide open, and the lad was tangled in his sheets. But whatever imaginary demon he’d fought, he had gotten the best of it, for now he snored lightly with one arm dangling off the mattress.

He’d been so proud of him today – Donald Duck, the daring adventurer, just like he’d always been. The best part about Donald wasn’t that he was fearless – he’d always been the more cautious of the twins. No, the best part about Donald was how he judged fear, how he took it under advisement as part of the equation instead of the whole answer. How he knew when something was more important. Raising the boys had taught him to err more on the side of caution, but the adventurer in him had come out in full force today, even trusting the kids to get involved.

Down the hall, the door to the boys’ room appeared closed, but Scrooge found that all it needed was a slight push. His great nephews were in a pile in the bottom bunk, Huey on the edge looking dangerously close to falling off, Louie pressed against the wall, and Dewey sandwiched in between.

He swallowed hard. Besides what Magica had put them through, he’d almost lost them to his own hard-headedness. He hadn’t realized how lonely those ten years had been until they’d left, and his home was suddenly plunged into silence again.

He pulled the door towards him, leaving only a crack, and continued down the hall. Seeing the boys had lightened his heart and even let his eyes start to droop, but there was one room left before he could relax completely. Webby’s door was closed. Scrooge winced at the click the doorknob made when he turned it, knowing it would wake her. But when he pushed the door open, and his eyes fell on the bed, it was empty.

The fatigue that had started to creep in vanished as his heart pounded furiously. The first thing was to wake Beakley, they’d find Webby together, and if Magica had managed –

“Mr. McDuck?”

He jumped. He pressed a hand against his still racing heart.

“What the devil are you doing out of bed, Lass?”

“Oh.” Her gaze dropped to the floor as she tugged on her yarn bracelet. “I just…can’t sleep. Sorry…I’m just gonna…go back in my room now.”

“Aye,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “And change into your adventuring clothes. We’re going on a field trip.”

“What?”

“I’ll leave a note for your Granny. Go on now.”

By the time he’d written the note and taped it to Webbigail’s door, she was straightening her bow.

“Where are we going, Mr. McDuck?”

He tried not to cringe at that. “It’s a surprise.”

She stopped. “You’re not an evil doppelganger trying to lure me out of the mansion, are you?”

“What? No!” He cocked his head. “Though I guess that’s not an entirely impossible scenario… Would a doppelganger know your favorite drink is juice? That your favorite booby trap is spike pits? Or that you once defeated Ma Beagle by improvising a ball pit man trap?”

“I guess not…”

“Besides, we’re not even leaving the mansion, technically. To the Other Bin!”

Scrooge didn’t turn to look at her, just listening to her footfalls as he led her into the basement. He changed the riddle every time he added something new. The idea was that someone – Donald or Beakley, most likely – could get in if something happened to him, but no one who didn’t know him so well stood a chance. He was sure, if he asked, Webby already knew the new riddle and could solve it just like she’d done last time. But he just used the key in his cane and held the vault door open so she could walk in first.

“Door 1286,” he said as she passed. She blinked, but began to lead the way. At the door, they both paused. Webby stared, reverently, first at the door and then at him, but he could see the curiosity in her eyes too. He reached out, brushing his fingertips against a door he hadn’t opened in twenty years.

He pushed it open, and stepped inside.

The place hadn’t changed. A brilliant purple sky filled with uncountable glittering stars, glowing against lush grass and trees. Most of the vegetation was a variant shade of pink, but even the ones that were green were a little too bright to be earthly.

When they’d closed the door and stepped away from it, Webby ran around it again and again. Because now it was a free-standing door with nothing on either side.

He waited until she’d finished, then silently led her down an overgrown path, up a hill, and to the edge of a cliff overlooking a similarly lush vista, complete with a white waterfall and a string of luminescence that put the aurora borealis to shame.

He carefully lowered himself to sit on the cliff’s edge. Webby stood, gaping, next to him. Her eyes sparkled as she looked out, and that in itself was lovelier than the view in front of him.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

“Besides you and me, only one person has ever seen this.”

“Really? Who?”

He took a deep breath. “Della.”

She turned to him, wide-eyed. As he spoke, she sat down next to him on the ledge.

“She was…about thirteen, or maybe fourteen. It was right after she and Donald moved in with me permanently. He acclimated quickly, but Della…she took a little longer to adjust. I found her wandering the halls a few times, trying to get her bearings.”

Silence settled between them, until Webby said, “I’m sorry you lost her.”

“I’m sorry you lost Lena.”

She sniffed, twirling her bracelet between two fingers. “I know she was working for Magica, and… know she wasn’t exactly a good person the whole time, but—”

He shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. In the end, she chose the right thing. She was going to help me get you all back. She saved you.”

A tear leaked out of her eyes. “I miss her a lot.”

“I know, darling.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Be sad as long as you need to be. Just know, wherever she is, I’m sure she misses you just as much.”

She hesitated just a moment, then wrapped her arms around his chest and buried her face n his shirt. He felt the teardrops first, before she started shaking and her muffled sobs broke his heart.

He didn’t know how long he held her until her shoulders relaxed and her sobs settled back into sniffles.

As she pulled back, she wiped the remaining tears from her eyes.

“Sorry,” she said lightly. “I didn’t mean to slobber all over you.”

“Nonsense,” he said, ruffling her hair. “It’s what family’s for.” He took a deep breath and rushed in before she could say anything. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

She wouldn’t meet his gaze, and he didn’t blame her. He straightened his top hat. “I know the boys told you—”

“It’s okay.”

“What?”

“I know…families change and grow, and it means different things to different people.”

He didn’t want to underestimate Webby by assuming she was parroting her Granny, but it certainly sounded like Bentina.

“Huey, Dewey, and Louie can be my family without me being yours. It’s okay.”

She wasn’t crying, but she still wasn’t looking at him, and his heart broke all over again.

He sighed. “Rotten uncle I turned out to be.”

“Mr. McDuck…”

“You were right, Webbigail. Building Della the rocket was a bad idea. But I had all sorts of ways to justify it at the time. It was going to be her last big adventure before settling down for good, and she was Della Duck! The question was never who would let her, but who would stop her. Stubborn as me, that one was.”

He sighed. “All things I should have said instead of what I did say, which I only said because I felt outnumbered and attacked and wanted you out of the fight by any means necessary.”

He could feel her gaze on him, but now it was he who couldn’t face her. He just stared at his hands.

“I understand if you can’t forgive me, and if I’m not Uncle Scrooge any more, but…I just needed you to know.” He forced himself to meet her eyes. “I was the one who did something wrong, Webby, not you. You are important to me. I just have a knack for hurting the people I love most when my pride gets wounded…”

Webby smiled. Her eyes were watering. The grin itself was a little lopsided, and when she hugged him it wasn’t quite as tight as before.

But it was a start.

“I’d like for you to call me Uncle Scrooge again. Enough of that Mr. McDuck nonsense!”

Pulling back, she bit her beak. “Can I…can I just call you ‘Scrooge?’ For now?”

“Aye,” he conceded. “That will do, my girl. That will do.”

They sat there for a while, mostly in silence. At some point, Webby drifted off.

He let her doze awhile, staring out at the waterfall as his brain began to work.

Magical beings rarely vanished completely. If Magica had come back after all those years, there was a good chance…well, he’d have to do some research.

But that was for another day. Webby began to stir, and the ache in his stomach made him consider how late (or early rather) it probably was.

“Come on my dear,” he said gently. “It’s time to go home.”

They walked together, back down the hill, through the door. Here it was always night, but the sun was rising over Duckberg. They made their way through the mansion to the dining room.

“Good morning, Webby!” Donald said as they entered. “Don’t let me forget: I found a book I want to show you later.”

Beakley entered the room with a full tray. She raised an eyebrow at Scrooge.

“Not too late for breakfast, I hope,” he said in response.

“I didn’t make your usual because you weren’t here. But if you want French toast, there’s plenty.”

“French toast!” Webby exclaimed. “That’s my favorite!”

The housekeeper finally smiled. “I know, dear.”

“Sounds excellent,” Scrooge said, passing her and taking his seat at the head of the table.

“Where were you?” Huey demanded as she settled into her seat next to him. “We were kinda worried.”

She opened her mouth to answer, but Scrooge spoke instead.

“Don’t you worry about it, Hubert; that’s between a man and his niece.”

Huey narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but pushed the syrup towards her as Beakley set a plate of toast in front of her. “Well, we were going to watch an Ottoman Empire marathon after breakfast, if you’re up for it.”

“I’m there,” she said with her mouth full.

Scrooge opened his paper as the kids began to talk excitedly about the day.

It was good to have them home.

#DuckTales #Ducktales fanfic #Kari writes fanfiction #analyticamethyst #it's been like 6 months but I did write it and you asked me to tag you #Hamilton Challenge

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morikothehalfangel · 6 years

Text

Holding on by a Thread

Part 1

Rated: T for Inu’s potty mouth

Inu/Kag AU (Two-shot that may turn into a full fic!)

2485 words

I’m uploading this onto FF.net, too, so if you don’t want to scroll forever here, feel free to go check it out on there!

A few of my fellow Inuyasha mutuals, Inuyasha followers/following, and the person who came up with the prompt, Artiste! @artistefish @keichanz @coquinespike @umacaking @dyaz-stories @eternalnight8806-3 @stuckinthewrongworld

______________________

“And this, my dear Kagome, is called ‘The Red Thread of Fate’! Why, this has been passed down our family through generations! It’s one of the few created centuries ago!”

Kagome groans. “Really, Gramps? That’s just a rolled-up ball of yarn!”

Mr. Higurashi gapes aghast at his granddaughter. “Do not say such foolery! This ancient thread is guaranteed to help those who are far or lost to find their soulmate!”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Kagome rolls her eyes, one hand petting the fat cat reclining in her lap, the other ‘marveling’ at the red ball of cloth. “And I suppose the Shikon no Tama existed, too?”

“Of course! That story is—,” He pauses and glares at the unimpressed fifteen-year-old. “Hmph! If it’s just a ‘ball of yarn’, then why would we keep it for generations, hmm?”

“Because your great great great great great grandfather was quite the prankster of his time, I assume.” Kagome replies snidely.

“W-why, young lady, that is—!” He starts, but a woman’s voice interrupts his tirade.

“Father, where are you? We promised Souta we’d take him and his friends out to that new park they opened up.” Ms. Higurashi enters the threshold and smiles at them both. “Oh, hello Kagome! Is father giving you your present?”

“Nope, just giving Buyo some yarn.” Kagome chuckles as she drops the ball onto her cat’s stomach. He bats at it, but is suddenly startled by something, and darts out of the girl’s lap. “Ah, Buyo! What on Earth…”

“It’s the power of the thread, I tell you! It even spooked the cat!” Grandpa Higurashi quickly stands, pointing at the cross-legged youngster.

“Grandpa, Buyo is spooked by the old well, too. Does that have some kind of magical power, too?” She questions.

“Of course it does!” He snaps back. She sighs in reply, and her mother decides to stop the argument.

“Father, come on now, leave her be. She’s going to be the birthday girl!”

“Mm, fine! But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He shakes a gnarled finger at the teen and leaves the room with his daughter.

Kagome hums and looks at the wad of thread. “Well, guess it’s just you and me, oh great fate-sealing yarn.”

A door shuts from the down the hall, and she assumes her family is gone now. She stands and picks up the wound thread and mumbles to herself, “Maybe I can make something with this, or sew it onto a plain dress?” She sighs. “Oh well, who knows.”

And with that, she heads upstairs to her room to practice some math homework, cause the girl can’t get a break from quizzes, even on her birthday.

_________________

“Myoga, will you just leave me alone?! Haven’t you heard that this is my forest? You’re practically trespassing.” Inuyasha leaps into his favorite tree, trying to ignore the old flea. “I don’t care if Sesshomaru has some ‘willing’ woman to marry me off to so I can go live in the Western Lands. He’s despised me for years, why on Earth does he care now?”

“My lord, please! Sesshomaru-sama has come at an impasse and needs you to save face for the sake of the land’s honor and— ack!” The old flea is tossed back off his lord’s shoulder.

“So what?! All of a sudden, the damned filthy half-breed can go and have a family, all to ‘save face’?! What kinda desperate attempt is this? They’ve really gotta be sinking low if they’re asking me to join the family.” He huffs, a low growl never leaving his throat.

“But sire, think of the positives! You’d no longer be alone, or lonely, or—” Myoga is smashed onto Inuyasha’s knee in reprimand.

“Who the Hell said I’m lonely?!” The hanyou shouts.

“My… Apologies… M’lord.” He strains out of his squashed form. He pops back to his original shape and takes a hasty retreat back onto the far end of the branch. “I’ll… leave you be, for now.”

“Good, that’s how I like it.” Inuyasha seethes through clenched teeth.

And he did like it. He liked not having to deal with people everywhere, and if he wanted “company”, he would go help out the village that lies on the outskirts of his forest. He’s been around these parts for over a century, maybe longer, and he’s saved their asses more than he can count. One winter was really bad, and while the adults could handle their minor illnesses, the children were not so lucky. They likely would have had to dig a lot of small graves if it weren’t for him.

The old village miko, Kaede, was extremely worried about what to do for the children, because even she was running low on herbs during this harsh of a winter, and tea can’t solve everything. Food was running low, too. Thankfully, it was towards the end of the winter, but she didn’t think the kids could last that long. Imagine her surprise one cold morning when she found a heap of ingredients, all wrapped up in old baskets and aged cloth. Upon untying a basket, she finds a scrap of paper, likely as old as herself, lying on top of the fresh ingredients. She read the scraggly and poorly written, but legible, words to herself and softly gasped.

It was a recipe.

After that winter, he came by one day to trade for some vegetables, and more than half the village bowed and thanked him nonstop as he walked through to the small ‘marketing’ area. He was going to trade firewood for food when the man in front of him straight up gave him two whole bags of rice, free of charge. The man kept praising and thanking him for his ‘elixir’, and Inuyasha didn’t have the heart to tell anyone it was just an old family recipe.

He ‘avoided’ the area for a bit after that. He still checked up on them, when few were around, but he didn’t like the constant stares he received, even if they were all with good thoughts in mind.

Even still, while not having people despise him left and right was kinda nice, he knew none of them genuinely liked him. Maybe the old hag took a small liking to him for his ‘good deeds’, but he didn’t have anyone close to him. Last person like that was his mother, and she died long ago.

Sometimes, he wonders what it’d be like… Ugh, no! He shakes his head back and forth to rid of his train of thought. He was constantly pushing the thought out of his mind; he didn’t do mushy stuff like that! But after a while, as he was about to close his eyes for the night, not even bothering to head back to his hidden cave he called home, he wondered what it’d be like…

To be loved again.

_____________

Her alarm brings her out of her odd dream. Originally it had started out weird, like usual, more or less a nightmare of her quiz today, but then it suddenly changed to a calm and peaceful forest, high up above the trees. The stars and moon lit the whole sky, and she was honestly disappointed to be awoken from that serene scene.

She yawns and stretches, her pink tank top riding up above the band of her bright green shorts. She swings her legs over the side of her bed and reaches to itch the side of her head when she feels something soft brush her cheek. Perplexed, she glances at her hand. Wrapped around her pinky in a perfect knot is that red thread from yesterday.

“Ugh, Souta probably thought this’d be funny.” She mutters tiredly. She goes to pull out the knot, but it doesn’t budge. “Dang, he really knows his knots…”

She spots some scissors on her desk and gets up to grab them. She puts them around the knot and… snip! Wait.

Snip!

…

Snipsnipsnipsnipsnipsnipsni—

“SOUTAAAA!”

“What is it, Sis?” The third grader quickly rushes into her room, not heeding the anger in her voice.

“What is this? What’d you do?! I can’t cut it!” She screams, showing him her pinky finger angrily.

“What are you talking about, ‘Gome? I didn’t do that! Why can’t you just cut it?” He replies meekly.

“I tried! It won’t come off! Help me!”

He nods and moves to help untie the knot. He touches the tip and yelps. “It stung me!”

“What? What do you mean it stung you, it’s thread!”

“I don’t know, it just shocked me when I touched it!”

“Quit being a brat and help me!”

“I can’t! Here, I’ll go get Mom or something. Be right back!” He darts out of her room before she can stop him.

“Argh, Souta! Wait!” She begins to run after him when she notices the string leading out of her room and down the stairs. “Huh?”

Curiously, she begins to follow it. It leads right out her backdoor, across the shrine grounds (and at this point she’s wondering just how long this piece of string is), past the sacred tree, and disappears into the well house.

“The well house? What’s in here?” She opens the door. The thread leads up and over the lip of the old well. She mutters under her breath, “Alright, even Souta is too scared to go near the well…”

But that begs the question, who did it? For some reason, she felt that her answer would lie at the end of this thread… That was down the well…

Surely she’s dreaming.

And if it’s a dream, then… Screw it.

She leaps down the stairs and before she can change her mind, swings herself over the edge of the well and falls.

______________

He had an odd dream. Usually he sleeps so light he doesn’t dream at all, but this time, he was somewhere very strange. It was like he was looking through someone else’s eyes. A room, but not like any room he’s ever seen, that’s for sure.

He sits up from his reclining position against the trunk of what the villagers call a ‘Goshinboku’. He moves to pop his neck when he notices something on his right hand. A red thread tied around his pinky finger.

It takes his groggy mind a moment to understand what exactly is wrapped around his finger, and as his eyes follow the path of the thread somewhere down into the forest, one thought enters his mind.

The fuck?

He snaps out of his stupor and tries to cut the string with his claw. He tries again and again and again and—

“Alright, what the Hell?!” He snarls at the innocent thread so desperately clinging to his hand. Suddenly, he feels a tug.

And then a stronger one.

Somewhere not too far, a voice reaches his keen ears.

“I know you’re out there! Come out already!”

Gathering his wits and wondering what a young girl would be doing in his forest yelling at this hour in the morning, he leaps from the tree towards the voice.

A moment later, he lands outside of the clearing of the Bone Eater’s Well, the woven red following the whole way.

He spots a girl and sputters, her revealing clothes something he’s not used to seeing. He notices the thread move again as she does, and his eyes track the movement to her own pinky finger.

Bingo.

“Oi!” He jumps out of the tree and lands in front of the girl.

“AH! GET AWAY!” She attempts to push him, but he doesn’t budge.

“Do you know somethin’ about this piece of thread?!” He shoves his finger in her face, and her blue eyes widen.

“How did you… Did you pull this prank?!” She shrieks, holding up her own finger. “I can’t get the stupid thing off!”

“Neither can I, woman! What’re you yelling at me for?” He barks.

“Well, what are you yelling at ME for?! I didn’t do it! I came here looking for the person who did!” She yells back.

“It wasn’t me! I was asleep!”

“I was, too!” She argues.

It’s at this point when they glance down at their respective pinkies that they notice the length of the thread.

What once stretched nearly a mile was now only maybe a foot in length.

“You can’t get it off, can you?” She mumbles dejectedly.

He looks at her questioningly, and shakes his head no. “You?”

“Not at all.”

They stand there quiet for a moment, contemplating their situation.

“Well, this is gonna be a strange day... Either way…” She straightens up and quickly nods her head with a small smile. “Sorry for yelling at you, you seem like you’re telling the truth. I’m Kagome.”

Her smile stirs something in his chest, and he grunts in acknowledgement. “Don’t worry ‘bout it… Inuyasha.”

“Inuyasha? Hm, now that’s a name I’ve never heard before.” She giggles.

He’s not sure whether to blush or be insulted.

She looks around, and she shoots him another dazzling smile. “So, what exactly is this place? We’re not in Tokyo, are we?”

“I… I dunno what that is.” He stutters. Even the villagers never smile at him like this, usually just mutual nods… What’s with this girl?!

“Huh, I guess not then.” She attempts to wander when she’s halted by his hand, or, more so, by the thread attached to it. “Uh, that’s strange. It stretched really far earlier, why won’t it now?”

“Not sure, but I saw it change length when I ran over here. It’s gotta be magical in some way, I guess.” He growls under his breath as a thought enters his mind. “I pray to whatever Kami there is that this isn’t a damned curse.”

Kagome frowns. “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure this is the same thread that my grandfather gave to me for my birthday today, but it was just a wadded-up piece of string just last night. I woke up with it tied around my little finger.”

He cocks a brow at that. “And, no one tied it?”

She shakes her head. “Not that I know of, at least. I know my little brother didn’t do it, he was just as freaked out as I was!”

He rubs his chin for a moment, and his head pops up with an idea. “I think I know someone who can help us with this problem.” He points with his free hand behind her towards a path in a grove of trees. “There’s an old miko in a village just a ways from here, she’ll probably help us out. Maybe a spell or something.”

“That’s great and all, but I think we have another problem…” She mumbles softly, tugging to try and stretch the string again.

“And just what might that be?” He sighs, his face void of emotion.

“I have to use the bathroom…” She softly shrugs.

Maybe this is a curse.

#inuyasha #inukag #holding on by a thread #red thread of fate #soulmates au #inuyasha au #ficlet #my writing

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olga-eulalia · 6 years

Text

You know what? I can post terrible self-indulgent fic if I want to, so here’s a Sleeping Beauty AU, featuring Silver and Flint. ~3500 words. R just to be on the safe side. Some non-con. Unbeta’d. Non-native speaker writing here.

Chapter 1

Once upon a time, when it was late winter and John Silver had been travelling across the land for many months, he came into a forest that was dark and strangely quiet, and he thought he’d lost the path when suddenly, just before nightfall, a hollow-way appeared in the gloom that brought him safely to the entrance of an inn.

The room was dimly lit, the ceiling low, and smoke came curling out when he entered. For a moment, all faces were turned towards him, squinting. But since Silver was not altogether unpleasant to look at and had the gift of a charming smile he found himself accepted rather warmly for a mere stranger passing through.

Over the years he had learned a couple of valuable things: That news, embellished, were quick to draw a crowd. That people in general enjoyed the company of a man who held their opinions in high esteem. That a ripping yarn was as good as any currency in that even the most standoffish were afflicted with an unusual bout of generosity once the teller’s tongue started to feel a bit parched. And all these, and more, came in very handy that night.

Now it was true even then that every place, no matter how remote, had its own stories, some of which people liked to talk about gleefully and often. While others, they only mentioned under their breath or kept secret altogether for fear of catching their oddness. And as knowing which was which was nigh impossible in advance, one had to excuse Silver. It was nothing but his natural curiosity that made him ask about the manor in the distance, whose it was, and he couldn’t have known that it would bring conversation throughout the room to a halt.

"The Devil's," a woodcutter muttered into his jug of ale.

The blacksmith, no less brawny in stature, set down his mug and corrected him.

Then, bit by bit, more people felt confident enough to chime in. Indeed, a rather fierce competition arose as to whose sources were the most reliable, whose account the most accurate. The innkeeper's face was impartiality itself as she pulled another frothy pint.

From what Silver was able to gather the building had been abandoned for more than two generations and folk in these parts believed that it was frequented by a most godless crowd: Ogres, ghosts, witches and suchlike. It was somewhat difficult to pin down the particulars of the tale since it morphed as it went from teller to teller, but in one aspect they all agreed: Don’t go near. The message was so uniform that one could almost believe everyone either in on a joke or cleverly hiding something from an outsider.

Silver, intrigued, had just made the decision to discover for himself whether the place held anything of value that could make his detour yet worthwhile when a shadow by the fire spoke up.

Hogwash! A tall, old man shifted his lined face into the light. In his days, everyone knew that the manor had been bewitched and that the only way to release its residents from the spell was to bestow one kiss on the beautiful princess trapped inside.

The old man frowned at the amusement rippling through his audience. He continued: Some of his friends had tried it in their youthful folly. Thought they could best the brambles that encased the stone walls as securely as an iron casket, but none of them were ever seen to make it through. Or return.

"Witchcraft." The woodcutter nodded.

The talk then shifted to discuss other possible doings of the Devil and whether the local magistrate was in cahoots with him, and Silver, feigning bodily discomfort, moved across the room to occupy a cosy seat by the fire as well.

"I'd very much like to see this manor house for myself," he said. Perhaps the tale and her teller's name would find their way into the book he was writing, he offered as incentive, hoping that, at the end of the day, an interested listener would make up for an empty promise. "You wouldn't happen to remember the shortest way?"

The old man studied the frayed edges of Silver's second-hand coat and his peg leg with great care, but Silver’s face yet more carefully still. From the corner of his mouth, where a missing tooth allowed him to comfortably fit the amber stem of his pipe, he admitted, “I do.”

Chapter 2

A glittering layer of ice outlined branch and fallen leaf. Overnight, the ground had frozen over and Silver’s breath fogged the air as he walked the perimeter. His snares were empty, winter mushrooms sparse. With the supplies in his bag dwindling, a longer stay would be ill-advised, and it pained him to think that he'd have to seek his good fortune elsewhere while the turreted manor sat like a most precious egg pristine in its spiky nest. His gaze roamed all that unspoiled glass and iron he'd be able to sell if only he could find a way to get his hands on it.

At one point, the house must have lorded over a large swath of land. The tree-lined road, whose faint remnants had guided him on his way, stretched for about two miles up north and the overgrown front gate was wide enough to fit six horses side by side. In an abandoned farmstead close by, under a roof that sat worryingly askew, Silver had made camp. And though he had a good view of the premises, there was nothing out of the ordinary to report on. Except for one very obvious thing:

The unusually large thornhedge that wrapped the manor in a tight embrace, covering it all the way round and almost all the way up the highest tower. Even the forest kept its distance from such an unruly, greedy growth that had swallowed up ladder, plank and axe in its past and more recently Silver’s handsaw.

He spotted the tool and began to tug at it with all his strength, hoping to pry it from the clutches of the hedge this time. The sun's rays were slanting in just so that he could make out something stuck further inside the thicket. A piece of clothing perhaps. Or perhaps it was...

"Good morning!" An old woman, snugly wrapped up in shawls, had come out of the woods and startled him.

"Good morning," he scrambled up his last ounce of cheer. Seeing that she was dragging a bundle of brushwood along on a makeshift sledge, he then offered his help, though, truth be told, he deemed his own work far more important and had no real intention of abandoning it.

She mustered him with a critical eye and declined. “You seem very busy.”

As it turned out, she was much more interested in what he was doing anyway, lingering by his side and quizzing him about his intentions.

Those were nothing but chivalrous, he assured her. Curse-breaking was his business. Drawn by the warm sparkle in her eyes, he leaned in and said, "I heard," and then recounted the old man's tale.

"Oh, nonsense!" She poked the hard ground with her walking stick. "When I was young, everyone knew that it was no princess trapped inside this bloody hedge, but a handsome prince." The edges of her smile gleamed with gold. "You let me know if you need any help in waking him from his slumber."

Despite the chill, Silver flushed terribly, seeing himself bent over a downy pillow, lips skimming across a prickly cheek, and gave a chuckle that only drew more attention to his self-conscious state.

Perceptive and kind, the old woman changed the subject, entertaining him with anecdotes of bygone days for a while, bringing to life the bustle of the estate with such clarity in his mind’s eye that he was almost tricked into mourning its loss.

“Snow's coming. Can always trust my bones to be right about that,” she eventually said and then pulled a wrinkled apple and a handful of raisins from her coat pockets -- a sweet haul which she handed to Silver in its entirety, patting his cheek. “Good luck, dear.”

Long after she had disappeared back into the forest, Silver was still sitting on an empty plinth with a raisin tucked between his back teeth. When was the last time someone had shown him such kindness? Gifted him food without expecting anything in return? Called him dear without disdain? He should've been more honest about wanting to help her. He should've been more honest in wanting to immortalize the old man's name in a book, too. But instead, he had chosen this. This unrewarding task. This confounded thing.

His next attempt at freeing the saw was rather ungentle. And the more he chided it for its stubbornness, the more the hedge creaked and fought against his efforts. With thorns like talons, it rewarded his impatience by goring him to the bone.

Chapter 3

In the wan morning light, slowly among the branches, snowflakes descended. The forest lay quiet and still as if it had taken a deep breath and slipped under a white cover where it now waited for the sun's return.

While Silver’s sore hands were preparing his belongings for the journey ahead, carefully cording up his burlap bag, his thoughts were far away already, imagining a warm spot, a mouth-watering meal in the next town. He was about to turn his back on the manor, erase this disappointment from memory to the best of his ability when it pierced him: Red.

Red, almost purple, amidst the fresh snow and ashen wood, a delicate bud poked its head out from an array of tender green where yesterday none had been visible, so vibrant and soaked with colour that paint might drip from it at any moment. Behind it, within reach, another blossom coiled. And then another. Dazzled, Silver quite forgot all caution and stepped closer to touch them with his fingertips. They were real, all of them. And a little further on, closer by the wall, where warmth huddled by the stones, one had unfurled its petals like a joyful welcome.

There he saw that he had come a long way already and that the forest was barely visible from this far inside the hedge. Slender rods arched above him like a protective bower, criss-crossing densely. If the old tale had been true and those been possessed of malicious intent, escape would have been quite impossible at this point.

So when the man-high wooden door at the end of the path yielded and allowed him in, Silver grinned: People like him never got stuck in fairytales.

Chapter 4

It was as quiet as the whispering snowfall outside. But a peal of laughter might ring out any moment. A door fall into its lock. A serving-maid pass by, carrying a stack of freshly folded linen. Sumptuous carpets muffled Silver’s steps as he walked the long, branching hallways of the manor, a flickering five-armed candelabra in hand that illuminated a wealth of riches difficult to wrap one’s mind around. Marble, golden ornaments, exquisite furnishings -- only the finest, most expensive materials had been good enough for the owner, whom Silver had started to think of very dearly.

Coming into the great hall by way of the kitchen, he had tried his way through the pickled goods in the pantry till his stomach was stuffed full so that his gait was unhurried now and slow while the bag in his tow grew heavier fast.

Wherever he went, whether rounding a corner or climbing a stairway, eyes followed him, recognizing him as someone who did not belong and looking on his presence with according disdain. At times bewigged and befrilled, at times presented on black silk and ermine, a hundred unhappy faces judged his actions as he explored room after room. It filled him with an odd sense of satisfaction to see that a couple of these portraits had been knocked down and vandalised, their faces ripped out.

Following those, he discovered that someone had beat him to the library. Books had been pulled out, drawers upturned, the floor strewn with loose papers. Ransacked it appeared in stark contrast to the rest of the house which remained undisturbed in its stately splendour.

Like a box full of choice jewels, the lady's bedroom opened up to him, the surfaces sheened with mother-of-pearl gloss in the pale light. A satin evening gown had been laid out. Matching jewellery. Items that Silver thought to leave untouched, stepping past them into the adjoining chamber where he found half the curtains drawn.

In the dusk, which made it difficult to tell shadow from shape, Silver at first believed that an armful of clothes had been carelessly flung across the bed, but the glow of his candelabra soon transformed it into two knee-high boots, a dark coat and even in the dimness the red shock of hair then became unmistakable.

Silver backed away, withdrawing his light as fast as possible. A doorframe bumped his elbow and startled him into speaking. "I'm awfully sorry, sir! I didn’t mean to disturb...,” he said.

But the figure continued to sprawl facedown as if felled by a mortal blow.

Silver hesitated. He thought of the bag bulging with jewellery and artworks that was waiting for him outside in the hallway and he thought of what happened to thieves who were caught stealing from rich people's homes. And then, unbidden, the memory of the two old people and his own wheedling talk entered his mind and prompted him to drag his courage by the scruff.

It took both hands and a lot of strength to roll the body onto its back. Thick strands of hair fell aside, revealing a face both virile and elegant, its features so handsomely drawn and complexion so delicate that Silver was quite startled by its beauty. He had spent enough time in the study, rummaging through the documents there and looking at the portraits to know that this man was not the master of the house, and since there was no plunder on him except for a scrap of paper clutched in his hand, which made thievery an unlikely motive for his being here, his presence remained a mystery.

A quick examination revealed no visible wound. And another couple of minutes gave certainty that the man’s life was not altogether gone. Both his heartbeat and his breath merely came very slowly and could not be quickened by any means at hand. Whatever it was -- surely a quick peck would not be able to cure as strange a condition as this.

To distract himself from that particular thought, Silver grabbed the crumpled paper and smoothed it out. The lines there were even, the letters themselves full of verve as their author vowed to do the utmost to mitigate the damage of the curse and apologised more than once for reneging on the promise of forever, but that these drastic measures were necessary, alas, to avert a much more dreadful fate.

“So I take it you’re James?” Silver, stirred by the intimate, imploring tone of the letter, pondered the sleeper’s face.

By the minute now, the old tale gained in plausibility until it had lodged itself in Silver’s mind like a bulky obstacle that he couldn’t think past, and he caught his gaze returning to those tender lips again and again. Considering it as a real possibility was simply absurd. And it definitely wasn’t good sense that made him lean over and study the man from up close. His thick eyelashes. His freckles. The faint lines bracketing his trim, red beard. Was his expression dreamy? Thoughtful? Mournful? Silver, watching the candlelight shift emotions around like ill-fitting puzzle pieces, couldn’t say.

Nerves aflutter, he gnawed on his lip and considered what if. He lowered his face further. "You’ll forgive me if I," he said, voice thinning to a whisper, “try,” and then hardly dared breathe while he let his mouth sink down into the midst of that soft beard and onto silken lips.

Satisfied, at last, that it would be considered a kiss and not only an attempt at one, Silver drew back and watched for a response. But none came.

Of course, none came. He shook his head. Truly, it was high time to put silly notions of fantastic deeds aside once and for all.

“Well,” he said, “I’m sure you’ll be back on your feet in no time. I’ll just... need to take some things to incentivise the good doctor to make the trip out here. I’m sure you’d understand.”

Concentration proved a slippery thing when he tried to picture his loot and which item he could part with painlessly and, idly searching for a clue perhaps, he glanced at the man’s face again, expecting tacit permission there, but finding green eyes instead whose focus jumped, caught and pinned with terrible accuracy. Silver’s gaze was dragged into them like light into an endless well.

The man pushed himself upright. With an unexpectedly gentle caress, a touch so light that it was barely there, he slipped Silver’s bandaged hand into his palm.

Silver, suspended in a state of anticipation, let it happen. He was glad to be greeted with no anger and no confusion, only a persistent kind of curiosity.

They held each other's gaze for a long moment and then plaintively, evoking an overwhelming need to comfort and reassure, the man asked him, “You’ll forgive me?”

“I,” Silver said and at that instant found himself grabbed by the nape, a thumb splayed across his pulse. “Wait! No, I didn’t mean to– I thought-”

As the man pushed him back onto the bed and shifted his muscular body on top of him, it dawned on Silver too late that he had read the signs wrong, that what he had interpreted as curiosity was voracious appetite instead. And as a gust of hot breath moved over his neck and a set of sharp teeth grazed the all too tender skin there, he remembered that some people knew how to craft a spell with skill and purpose and that not all of their handiwork was meant to be broken.

Pain pierced his skin and sank deeper, sounding out the depths of him.

It seemed impossible that someone might desire such a thing as this and therefore Silver had no words at the ready that would stop the act from happening, and his tongue, which had talked him out of many a precarious situation, floundered.

Compared to the immovable grip on him, his own struggle seemed laughably weak, as if his hands were only curled into loose fists, as if his limbs were good for not much more than a twitch, as if he weren’t struggling to free himself with all his strength, now hanging from a mouth like prey.

The man’s lips were fastened tight to his neck, drinking deeply from his heart’s stream. Warmth radiated from the wound, crawling up Silver’s cheek, down over his chest. Slim-fingered, it reached into his veins and sprouted blossoms, letting them grow as tall as trees so that they tinted everything in the luminous red of their immense petals. To Silver they seemed a marvellous thing and he thought he might rest a while in their light and laze in contentment where pleasure was so abundant and he wanted for nothing. Drowsy, he was rocked. Sated, he was fed more. Aroused, he was excited further until ecstasy prickled all over his skin and every individual heartbeat was delight, so that he was a reedy whine, a writhe in the sheets, and nothing more.

His body didn’t seem to know what to do with all that bliss, and he cusped and came inside his drawers -- a feeble lift of his hips. And then he was spat out.

Waiting for just that moment, cold, slavering, laid hands on him and made him shiver. With a head full of noise and his vision flickering out, he rolled over and dragged himself across the bed, miles and miles of bright cloth stretching out ahead of him. Reason, perhaps, whispered that he was not going to make it, not in such a weakened state, and he could not counter it, not understanding why he was trying to leave in the first place when there was so much comfort and joy waiting for him just an arm’s length away, only knowing that he absolutely must.

And so he grabbed another delirious inch of his freedom and then another, and slowly, ever so slowly managed to pull himself to the edge of a cliff. He clutched at it, belatedly trying to mitigate his fall, already plummeting.

A pair of strong arms gathered him into their cradle, clasped him tight and lifted him up. “Are you trying to lose another limb?” He was deposited somewhere flat and impossibly soft and then covered in warmth. Silver let the world happen around him for a while. “When you’re awake your hand will need cleaning.” The hair was brushed from his face. “And I’m sure you’ll be hungry too.”

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acrosstimeandspace · 5 years

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Our Red String

(So, here is my day 3 prompt, soulmate au, for @jocelynships Valentines 2019 prompts! The first time I tried this Tumblr deleted it, so let’s hope that typing it somewhere else first works! I also decided to incorporate a modern au as well.)

In our world, it is known that everyone has a red string attached to one of their fingers. This string is only viewable by the person and their soulmate, and it will eventually lead you to them. However, I have never seen such a string upon myself. I have no soulmate.

As a child, I was teased relentlessly for being stringless, for not having another half. I was seen as cursed to be forever alone. Even teachers gave up on consoling me and encouraging me.

Luckily for me, I had two friends, Zeke and Pandoria, who stuck by my side no matter what. While it is easy to become envious of them, as they are soulmates themselves, it is nice to have someone stay with me. Even if they can be like an old married couple, they’re sweet. They give me hope that I could even find my other half someday.

Today was just another boring day at my job in the college library, sitting around at the help desk waiting for someone to come by and ask for help. Pandoria dropped by with some snacks and kept me company for a while. But now I leaned onto the desk, staring at the few people coming in and out of the library when a group came into the library.

They all walked together, and they were all stunning as models. They were all relatively tall, especially when compared to my short stature, and looked like they worked out as some of their toned muscles could be seen through their summery clothing. ‘They probably all have soulmate of their own,’ I thought glumly as I continued to stare from the corner of my eye.

One member of the group, their leader, caught my eye. Like the rest of them, he was fairly tall and well toned. His hair was a snowy white, and rather long and fell into his eyes, reminding me of an anime character. His eyes were a chilling ice blue, and when coupled with his glare it made you feel like you were in Antartica. Wait, he was glaring at me? Oh god no he knew I was staring!

He guided his group towards the desk and I felt like disappearing. ‘Please please ignore me!” But sadly, that did not happen as he stopped right in front of me. “Excuse me,” his calm voice sounded out, “I would like to ask for some help.”

Oh thank goodness! He just needed help, and he didn’t see me staring! Relief flooded me as I stood up more to get a better look, unconsciously placing my hand on the desk next to his as I did so. “Of course, what do you need help with?” I smiled.

He opened his mouth to speak, but paused mid sentence as he spotted my hand hear his. HIs eyes widened a bit as he continued to stare at my hand. I wasn’t the only one to notice this, as his friend in black next to him nudged his shoulder. “Hey, JIn, you’re kinda being creepy here. What’s with you and her h-”

“So, you’re my soulmate, huh?” He said, interrupting his friend. The blue eyed man, Jin, still looked shocked, but gave me a smile, almost as if he had witnessed some form of a miracle.

“Pardon?” I stuttered out incredulously. Was he seriously hitting on me? “Is that a pick up line or something? I’m sorry but do you need help or are you here to flirt?”

His friends looked startled at my bite, and I don’t blame them. Usually finding your soulmate was exciting, but I don’t have a string, I don’t have a soulmate. “What? No, you’re my soulmate.” He stated, apparently he too was shocked at my outburst. “Your string, on your ring finger, it connects to my pink finger.”

I stiffened at this. There was no way possible. “I don’t have it, a string.” I admitted. “I’ve never seen it, so I don’t have a soulmate.” I shrugged, and shuffled away a bit.

“Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean its not there.” He said. His tone was still calm and even, but he seemed saddened by my statement. “And I assure you that it is there.”

Before I could counter, the only girl of the group spoke up, “Well, if you want to see who’s right, you can always go and see Haze.”

Jin nodded. “Patroka is right, Haze is a friend of ours that can see the strings. She can settle this.”

I sighed. Should I believe them? I quite literally just met them. As I contemplated on whether to trust Jin and his friends, Zeke and Pandoria showed up.

“Woah, what’s happening here!”Zeke exclaimed as he tried to wedge himself between me and Jin. “It’s been a while, Jin. I hope you’re not causing Luca here any trouble.”

The one in the black spoke up again, “Well, it seems that little ‘Luca’ is Jin’s soulmate.”

“Oh please, that’s just rubbish!” Zeke scoffed. “Luca doesn’t have a string, so no soulmate.”

“Just because she can’t see it does not mean its not there.” Jin repeated. “We plan on going to Haze to settle this.”

“Oh, I see. Well, we’ll go along! Luca will be getting off in a bit, so go and sit down!” Zeke shooed them away. He then turned to me with a troubled expression on his face. “Well, this is awkward. I completely forgot Fan could see strings..”

“You know I really don’t care,” I shrugged, “I gave up on finding my soulmate in middle school. I just don’t believe mine exists. But anyway, who is this Jin guy?”

“He’s a friend of Pyra’s older brother, y’know, the one in all black?” Pandoria explained. “I would have neeeveeer thought that he would be your soulmate! But that is kinda cute…” She tapped her chin as she thought about it, but I just shook my head.

“Well, I don’t believe he is. I mean, I’ve lived all of my life being told I don’t have a soulmate. So why should they now suddenly appear?”

Pandoria looked between me and Zeke. “Well.. you do have a point..”

“At least you both know this Haze person. Is she reliable?”

“Why yes, she is! Zeke exclaimed. “She’s the reason that Pyra and Rex are together, actually.”

“Yeah, Fan can see the strings of other people. She says that they're all usually tangled, like a ball of yarn.” Pandoria added.

“Okay so she’s legit. Great. I’m gonna head back and change, and then we’ll be on our way.”

When I came back, Jin was the only one waiting for me. Apparently everyone else just up and left. Great, thanks Zeke and Pandoria, really see the trust here. The walk over to Fan’s place was very awkward to say in the least. Neither of us spoke much, until we were outside of her door.

“Why do you think that you don’t have a soulmate?” Jin asked. “I mean, I know you can’t see it, but, that doesn’t mean the string is not there.”

I shuffled and looked at my feet. “I-I never had a reason to believe that one was out there for me. So, I just gave up on that idea…”

An awkward air hung around us for a moment, then he reached out and pat my head. I leaned into his touch and he chuckled. “Wow, just like a cat.” A blush spread across my face as he continued. “But, you don’t have to think that anymore. I promise you that I am your soulmate and I will be there for you, Luca. It is Luca, right?”

I chuckled. “Yeah, it is. It’s short for Lucasta. And you’re name is Jin, yeah? Its… Its a very nice name, I like it a lot.”

“Thank you, I like your name too, Luca. I-“

A girl with short and spiky auburn hair and golden eyes threw the door. She placed her hands on her hips as she said, “Wow, are you two just gonna make out in front of our house?”

We walked into the house and the girl introduced herself as Lora, a childhood friend of Jin’s and Fan’s older sister. She had us sit in the living room as she went to get her sister, leaving us to sit on the couch.

“Jin, I have a question for you.” He nodded for me to go on. “Why did you bring me here? I mean, why do you want me to be your soulmate? We barely know each other and, well I just don’t understand.”

“I don’t particularly know myself.” Jin answered truthfully. “I know its not because I wanted to prove a point. It may seem odd, but I really do feel a connection with you.”

I shook my head. “Maybe, but, I don’t know, its nice. I think I’m starting to warm up to the idea of a soulmate.”

Jin shot me a smile, and was about to say something when a girl who looked identical to Lora, but with longer hair, came into the room with Lora behind her. “Lora told me that you two want me to confirm if you were really soulmates. And you are,” she pointed to our hands, “Your string runs from your left ring finger to his right pinky.”

I blinked. It was just as Jin had said. Reality started to hit me. Jin was my soulmate. I had a soulmate. My face flushed red as thoughts rushed through my head. Jin sensed my distress and offered to take me home. I just nodded numbly.

As he walked me home a heavy silence settled between us. “So, are you happy to find your soulmate?” Jin asked me.

I stopped and looked up at him. “Yeah, I am. I just, I never thought it would happen to me. I-I always thought I would be alone, romantically speaking. It… I’m actually really happy that you found me Jin! I can’t find words to describe this feeling!” My face flushed as I said this, but I continued to look him in the eye and smile. I truly was happy. It felt like a fairy tale to meet my soul mate.

Jin smiled as he came closer to me and pulled me into a hug. He pressed his forehead against mine as he said, “I feel the same. I’m so overjoyed that I’m able to meet you, Luca. I look forward to having you as my soulmate.”

#love letters #my writing #self insert #lucasta aureliana micheli #xenoblade chronicles 2 #xb2 #jin #snowdrop #ssvday2019 #soulmate au

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okimargarvez · 6 years

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NECRONIMUS- Day of All Saints

Original title: Necronimus.

Prompt: vìspera de todos los santos, Halloween, cemetery visit.

Warning: none.

Genre: romantic, comedy, family, frienship.

Characters: Penelope Garcia, Luke Alvez, Roxy, BAU team, OC.

Pairing: Garvez.

Note: 2 oneshot.

Legend: 😘🔦🐶🎈.

Song mentioned: none.

Necronimus- Masterlist

GARVEZ STORIES

1 November 2018

Day of All Saints

Things had changed a lot, after that night and paradoxically, for better, even if Garcia didn't remember anything except for some flashes of the last film they had seen and some caresses. The next morning, she saw the dog next to her and she was pleasantly surprised. Going into the living room she had caught the colleague who was still asleep and couldn't help admiring his beauty. She had sensed that something must have happened, but the fact that the man was there, instead of between her sheets, made her understand that he had certainly not taken advantage of her. And he would never have done it, she had been aware of it for much longer than she was willing to admit.

He had told her that Tara's friend (Jason, that ugly guy, do you remember? She, with pain of the man, had nodded), had tried to get her drunk and that luckily, they had managed to stop his plans from be successful. Penelope couldn't avoid asking him why he so much concern for her and he, spontaneously, without too many words, he had told her Because I love you, Garcia. And I will continue to love you even if you don't believe me and if you never will. In this way he had managed to embarrass her, make her blush, move her with his sweetness that she had previously had the opportunity to sense and finally he was making her feel guilty, because he accused her once again of being cold and distant only with him and he had right. Even if that night of Halloween she had behaved much more amicably with the Newbie and this certainly he couldn't forget it. She had even taken his hand two times!

After this statement she had been speechless for a while, but in the end, she had managed to say it. Thank you. He had shrugged his shoulders, as if to say that it wasn’t to receive her thanks that he acted like that, diminishing his gesture, without which she would probably now be complaining to have pains everywhere, even in areas that it is better not to mention, from alone in her own bed, while recovering from the hangover.

No, Luke, really, thank you. I know I haven’t been a great colleague and friend for you. I don’t worth your worries. In order to be one whose body was still trying to dispose of the excess alcohol, she reasoned great. The man shook his head, violently, that melancholy expression that she wouldn’t forget for a long time. That's not true, you deserve all the best in the world. You are an exceptional person, just see what you did for the others yesterday. How children were happy, Reid even more to watch those movies. They had laughed together. It's not your fault, I've come to the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t blame you, I wouldn’t succeed even if I tried. The woman had sighed, unable to conceive what he was saying and read his love between the lines, or perhaps too scared to try. You should hate me, she realized she was still wearing the black dress from the night before. Surely, he couldn’t undress her and put her pajamas! She had shuddered at the idea. I could never hate you, Penelope. He had stroked her cheek and she had blocked his hand with her own, leaving him however to weave his amber fingers to hers pale. So, she was ended against his chest and burst into tears. But she had never wanted to give the reason to him. And after talking a little more about other things and taking a walk with Roxy, he had been forced to return to earth. I have to go to the mass of the saints, otherwise my mother will not speak to me until next year! He had tried to play jokingly, but the attempt had failed. It was clear that he didn’t want to leave, just as she didn’t want to be alone. Do you want to come with me? He had found the courage to ask her, first of all, amazing himself. But Penelope had made a sign of denial and had limited herself to seeing him disappear with the dog.

But things from that evening and from that morning were precisely changed. Instead of that shyness or further coldness of having exposed each other too much, this whole story had brought them close enough to take on a different attitude even at work. Every morning he went to say hello and she no longer feared to smile when their eyes met each other during the cases. She then got into the habit of calling Luke when she had updates to be communicated to the team, a bit like she did with Derek, but at the same time differently. He certainly didn’t call her babygirl and she didn’t use already tested nicknames. For the first time she discovered that being only Penelope wasn’t so bad.

The colleagues also realized the changes. But the general attitude of the two was more like a sweet friendship, than a secret love story, consequently, especially the girls, they had come to the conclusion that they were wrong: maybe Luke and Penelope weren’t made one for the other as they had thought in turn, a short time after meeting him. They were still happy to have a less tense atmosphere, even if their bickering occasionally made their absence felt.

He has become her best friend in all respects, but this doesn’t stop him from loving her. She still seems unaware of the feelings that unleash in man, as much as their own. The fact of behaving like a sort of big brother, very protective, doesn’t prevent that there are moments of tension (properly erotic, often), in which they are in the balance and it would be enough to fall. One of these takes place an exact year after the famous Halloween evening. Fate wants everyone to have commitments and therefore the anniversary will skip. Penelope thinks she can take advantage of it to rest for a while, but she didn’t plan it right.

The man enters boldly in her office and announces his appearance by placing a hand on her shoulder, making her jump with fright. When she turns around, even though she already knows it is the Latin, she can’t avoid taking another shot at the sight of the ghostly mask he wears. And that doesn’t cover his laughs in the slightest. -Trick or treat?- he whispers in her ear, causing her the usual chills that she is so skilled to ignore.

-Luke, are you crazy?- she puts a hand on her heart, feeling the beat faster. But is it really only because of the surprise? The man continues to giggle, removes the mask and puts a kiss on her cheek.

-I think you prefer the treat, but I'm out of candy.- he justifies himself. She feels the skin burning at that point. But she decides to take it easy. -So, are you ready?- he then asks, coming back serious.

Garcia glances at the main screen that is turning off. -Ready for what?- she asks absently, not looking at him. He forces her to do just that, turning the whole chair in his direction.

-You forgot. I can’t believe it!- he pretends to be upset. -The vigil of the saints. You promised me if I had come to your pagan festival- he says imitates her tone -you would have come with me next year, that is today, on my Catholic day.- he is pleased, too satisfied with himself and that he has win. She would gladly take that little smile away from him...

-Damn!- she exclaims, revealing the defeat. -What time is it?- simultaneously she curses with the Garcia of the past. If she had a time machine...

-In two hours. You just have time to get ready, chica.- this is the only nickname that he is allowed to use, perhaps because it was the first and only. He immediately realizes his confusion.

-But... but... I don’t even know what I have to wear! I've never gone to such a thing. I'll make you a fool of yourself!- she tries everything, even the devious way. -And Roxy? Who will keep you Roxy if I come too?- but her hopes are destined to fade soon. She understands it immediately from the way he smiles.

-It's nothing like that, you'll see it. It is enough to be long below the knee, not unglued. The only skin that must be visible is that of the face.- he bursts out laughing once more before her face. She is too agitated to give him her opinion. She will take revenge later.

- But I have only one dress that is right... and you gave it to me!- she adds, giving him a push to get away from her. -You did it on purpose, you knew I couldn’t break the promise. You... are... I can’t say bad words, I'm about to enter a sacred place!- with a last laugh, he helps her by taking her bag and they leaving the BAU.

The next morning Penelope wakes up feeling something strange at the end of the bed. Without opening her eyes she understands that it is a couple of feet more than hers. Much larger and rougher. It's still dark outside, but not enough for her to see the shape of a dark man with his head in her direction and his arms outstretched as if he wanted to grab her. She also manages to distinguish a kind of ball of yarn on the mattress, right at the bottom, which justifies the fact that the legs of man have ended up invading her space. She is not sorry. Sleeping with Luke, with her best friend, has become another of those ambiguous habits that almost nobody could understand, maybe not even Morgan, certainly not their team.

Also because that is limited to: sleep, share the same bed and the same heat... and that's it. Should she add an unfortunately? She can’t say. She had a year to think about her feelings but was able to avoid the problem until today. This time she understands that she can’t go on like this anymore. Because the first thing she thought when she realized she wasn’t alone was much closer to the thought of a lover (a person who loves) than a friend.

She mumbles in her sleep and tries to change position, rousing Roxy who immediately realizing that there are active people, decides to give the good day to her way, or washing her face completely and then doing the same with his master. -Roxy, come on, stop! I still have to do it, the shower!- then he laughs as if someone was tickling him. In fact, the rough tongue of the dog can also have that effect. So, he manages to free himself and turning around, she is the first thing he sees. -Good morning.- he smiles happy, still too much in the dream world to control more himself. He touches her cheek with his thumb and then puts a kiss on her forehead. -Sleep well?- he asks, expecting an affirmative answer, as in the most classic cliché. But she shakes her head, a little.

-In fact no.- Penelope notices immediately that he thinks that it is related to his presence. -I had a bad dream- Luke listens to her with extreme care. -I dreamed the day of the accident, the one in which my parents died...- there was a reason if she didn’t want to tell him, even if he didn’t insist on blow the whistle. She knew she would end up crying like the whiner that she always shows. But he doesn’t hate the salty drops that come down from her pupils to follow her face, and from the chin fall into the crook of the breast, to areas and issues that he decided to consider forbidden to preserve the friendship of Penelope, the most precious thing he has never had. If anything, he could hate the reasons that make her feel bad. He immediately pulls her against his chest, listening to the irregular rhythm of her sobs, stroking her back until she calms down. -I miss them...- she whispers, hoping not to be heard but at the same time that he has the appropriate equipment to capture the slightest signal. -I miss them so much...- and indeed it is.

-I know, baby, I know. But they are always with you, in your heart. And watch from above. They are your guardian angels.- she lifts her face to look at him attentively as he speaks to her. -Do you remember what the priest said yesterday?- after a moment she nods. -So you know that they will never leave you, because the people we have loved remain forever here.- he brushes her heart, without really touching her, aware that underneath the minimum layer of pajama fabric it hid her breast over the cardiac organ and also the scar that had almost led her to find her parents. -When was the last time you visit them?- he allows her to fit her head between his shoulder and his arm.

-Last year.- he has to say the other part.

-Did you go alone?- she just nods.

-Yes, it's not that strange. I always go there alone.- she continues to not look at him, then forced herself to break away from his embrace. -You are late for mass, if you don’t hurry.- yes, among the reasons why he loves this woman there is certainly the fact that she doesn’t live in conflict with his faith; on the contrary, she has integrated it and has almost become something of her own, just think in the last few months how many times she has accompanied him to the ordinary Sunday ceremony. As he has absorbed so much of what she is, especially not eating death, as defined by the blonde. Not that it never happened to get caught up in the interests of his friends, but not at this level.

-No, I decided that for once I can skip.- she is completely shocked by this statement.

-But your mom...- he shakes his head.

-She will understand.- he seems extremely quiet; but she can’t be, not after having met in person the dreadful lady Alvez, who had proved to be a determined woman, just but also nice and happy to meet her. She was the only one of his colleagues for her son that she had encountered, so the elderly had finally glimpsed the possibility of having grandchildren, but at the Ninito she hadn’t said anything. -Rather...- he hesitates, the first time since they woke up. -...aren’t you going to visit them this time?- there's something suspicious about his request.

But she is too invaded by melancholy, to try to understand why. -No. Don’t judge me, I know it's one of your ten main commandments, in fact, two together, but I can’t, to stay there alone, as always. I can’t do it.- Luke lifts her chin and forces her to look at him. He is smiling. She can’t understand why.

-And if you weren’t alone?- her eyes widen.

-What would you like to do, book two tickets now for San Francisco and...- the man grabs the bag next to the nightstand and takes out two pieces of paper full of writing and with a magnetic stripe. -But how...?- it is just one-way tickets to her homeland, where her parents are remarried. She can’t understand how he discovered this data. Despite being her best friend, it is not a topic she has ever touched willingly.

-You're not the only one who can use a computer, Penelope.- he simply explains, always that smile on his face, this time with softer nuances. He squeezes her cheek, trying to force her to return it.

-Ouch! Sometimes I forget it.- and she gets what he wants. She takes another look at the tickets. -We have only an hour to leave.- she gets out of bed in a hurry, grabbing heavy clothes from the closet. Even a pair of pants. -It's not very hot, if you didn’t know it.- then srhe disappears into the bathroom, leaving him the chance to change into his room. The man also calls a number in his address book.

-Jenny? Yes, can we move on to leave her at your house? Thank you, you're a friend.- a friend in the correct sense of the term, however, not like Penelope. She is so much more, she has always been.

Less than half an hour later they passed the check in. Fortunately, profilers never go around without a suitcase ready for emergencies. He holds her hand throughout the flight, not because she is afraid of the high, but because it is the first time since she breathes on this earth that she is not alone on this journey. Gradually she puts her head on the man's shoulder and then collapses.

Sleep, little Penelope, I'll take care of you and I will not let anyone else hurt you. If I could bring your parents back to life, I would do it, I would do anything to always see you happy. If I could kill Battle, stop him from shooting you, hurting you mostly for making you believe he likes you... for taking advantage of your vulnerability, I would kill him, I wish I killed him, not JJ. I had to go to church to confess this sin and now I will have to do it again. It is not a Christian thought, but I can’t imagine that there is someone who wants to hurt you. I wish you could only smile but I don’t deny any of the tears you have shed. I love you and even if I can never tell you, I will live forever to protect you from evil.

After landing they take a taxi that takes them to the gates of the cemetery. It is like all the others, the gravestones aligned in an anonymous way, without preference. The emblem of democracy. -Do you know that in Europe they have tombs different from each other?- she nods.

-Yes, I was in Italy with... Kevin.- after having made the sign of the cross they return to take each other's hands. She leads him to her parents' burial site. -Mom, Daddy, I'll introduce Luke. He is a dear friend of mine. I told you about him.- for many it would be a strange thing to see a person converse quietly with dead people. But not for a spiritualist, Catholic, also raised close to Mexican families who take the dia de los muertos very seriously, like him. He fills with joy and emotion, feeling like a friend is labeled, but even dear and then discovering that she has already told him about her. She really loves him. Because he needed proof, to be sure!

Luke contemplates the photographs of those who might one day become his in-laws. Two good people swept away in a moment. He walks away as she bends over to remove the old flowers, giving her time to stand alone with them for a moment. He reaches the watering area and takes one. His gaze is attracted by a warning, hanging on the wall. Calmly he returns to the woman who has finished arranging the new vases, which they bought in a shop next to the cemetery.

-I found that in an hour there will be a commissioning of the dead.- he decides simply to say, without going to get entangled in subterfuge to make them accept. -Do you want to stay?- Penelope turns and peers for a moment.

-Yes.- she nods, taking from his hands the watering can to make sure they survive at least until the old caretaker, paid for this special service, will not be able to deal with it. The man is almost surprised by the ease with which he obtained two birds with one stone, to be with the woman he loves and to fulfill his duties as a Christian, with his mother's consent.

-So, I'm going to move the car to a free parking lot.- he announces. She continues to give him her back, then turns and gestures to him that she has understood.

-I’ll be right here.- she replies in a softer tone than she would have liked. But she can’t avoid it. It's his fault, he's too thoughtful, caring, kind, since she allowed him to be.

She hears some shuffling steps on the pebbles behind her. -I don’t want to look like the usual old nosey, but your boyfriend is really cute, lady.- who talks is an old lady with a nice air. It immediately reminds her of the fact that not even her grandparents have been there for much longer. She lost the last one a year before the accident. She must go and find them too.

She turns out to smile. -Yes, Luke is fantastic, nice both inside and out...- no lie in this. Then she sighs. -But he is not my boyfriend. We are just friends.- unfortunately, unfortunately, unfortunately. That word echoes in her head.

-Really?- the woman is seriously affected. -I never would have said it. From the way he looks at you...- another lady arrives, much taller and more solid than the first, probably a friend of hers.

She takes her by the arm. -Ophelia, come on, leave this poor girl alone.- she says to her in a low voice, then turns to Penelope. -Excuse me, you look a lot like her niece.- she explains, obviously embarrassed by the figure she thinks her friend has done. It is clear that it is certainly not the first time that something similar happens.

-Don’t worry.- she smiles again, a pure smile, spontaneous and sincere enough to convince the most imposing old woman of the goodness of the young woman who stands before. Meanwhile, Ophelia staggered towards the watering cans. Glance at the tombstones. She is the daughter of the Karlsen! She was one of her last students before she retired. But surely the young woman can’t remember it. It's been too long.

However, she decides to trust her instincts. -She died last year.- she explains, referring to Ophelia's nephew. The blonde opens her eyes, genuinely pained.

-Oh... I... I'm sorry.- she sees that she feels the inadequacy of that expression, but also knows that there are no words suitable to express such condolences. The old woman nods.

-She is convinced to see her in all the people we meet.- she explains, shrugging.

-I understands. Much more than you can imagine.-Penelope sighs. Now that she hasn’t near Luke, she feels all the coldness of the 10 degrees of San Francisco. She would like to have brought something heavier with him.

-Who have you lost?- the question catches her off guard. Yet she doesn’t hesitate to answer. There is something in this elderly lady who is familiar to her. Possible that she met her before?

-My parents.- another sigh, to get strength. Then words that come out automatically, as if she were talking about a fact that doesn’t really concern her. -Car accident. I was almost eighteen.- the other nods, sympathetically. Then she glances behind her. She can see two neighboring silhouettes, but at her age the view is not at its best.

-You think, miss...- if she only try a minimum, that name would come to her mind. She is buried in one of the many drawers of her shabby memory like the rest.

-Penelope.- she says. -You can call me so; the formalisms embarrass me!- it's exactly as she remembered her. Smiling, polite and sweet. And this senses her for five minutes of conversation.

-Okay, Penelope. Only if you call me Cynthia.- she smiles at her, not fearing to show the denture she still doesn’t know to wear, unable to accept that she has aged up to that point. -I wanted to tell you- the silhouettes come closer and closer and now she can clearly distinguish them, this is the guy Penelope called Luke and her friend Ophelia, clinging to the man's arm. Yes, heck, these two must be together! Possible that they have not yet understood? -to reflect on what Ophelia told you.- the youngest swallows, clearly frightened by the idea, giving confirmation of her suspicions. Friends! Pfui! -Your friend really looks at you in a particular way. As a precious thing. I know it's none of my business, but I could have sworn that you were together.- every word that she adds helps to confuse her. -There is that confidence between you two, that mutual trust in the other that are the basis of a solid love.- Penelope nods. Cynthia is right. -And I add that it will be up to you to move. It is no longer like my time! Now the women have to make the first move!- she laughs, a laugh that in the cemetery, on the day of the saints, sounds really strange. -He surely will not. He is too respectful. You see.- she nods again and moves to look better behind the woman's shoulders.

She watches his best friend, the way he walks slowly so as not to tire his companion and then their glances meet and he gives her that same sweet smile that immediately warms her up, no longer makes her feel neither cold nor loneliness. -I'll think, Cynthia. I promise you.-

TAGS: @theshamelessmanatee @itsdawnashlie @arses21434 @jarmin @kathy5654 @martinab26 @reidskitty13 @jenf42 @gracieeelizabeth27 @silviajajaja @smalliemichelle99 @charchampagne14 @thinitta @skisun @myhollyhanna23 @thenorthernlytes @garvezz @mercedes-maldonado

#garvez #criminal minds #cm #halloween #penelope garcia #luke alvez #penelope x luke #luke x penelope #alvez x garcia #garcia x alvez

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stateofmybed-blog · 7 years

Text

Fairytale Man (Doctor Who x Reader)

Summary: You became a foreign exchange student to see the world. Instead, you saw the universe. With the help of a man in a blue box, of course.

Pairing: Teenager!Companion!Reader x Tenth Doctor (Platonic)

Notes: This is my first ever Doctor Who fic! I'm excited to take the plunge, as I'm finally getting back into the show. Disclaimer: There will be no romantic relationship between The Doctor and the reader, as the reader is only a teenager in this fic. I want this story to be centered around the main theme between companions and The Doctor: two great friends exploring the universe.

The cold winter air invading Britain had everyone and everything feeling the same way: gloomy. Formerly plowed streets were beginning to be given a new thin blanket of snow, while the piles and buried grass hardly noticed nature’s far from warm gift. The clock was hardly striking 5, but the thick clouds overhead made it feel as though dusk was nearing.

Snowflakes clung to your coat and eyelashes as you walked down the sidewalk of a mostly forgotten road. Your black jacket and maroon bottoms stood out in the monochromic geography, and your hands remained cold despite their place in your pockets. The sidewalk ran alongside a park, a park that had grown to be neglected over the years. It was old to children, as some of their parents had memories of running in the open grass and bobbing up and down on the now rusty teeter-totter. And yet, they kept coming back. You were never sure why, as much of the city’s more intimate parts of history remained a mystery to you. An effect of being an exchange student, you supposed.

The school’s exchange program was still in a beta process, and you were one of the willing candidates right from the start. There was a small fee of $750 american dollars to gain access to the program, and while your parents thought it was a scam, it turned out to be blissfully true. You couldn’t quite remember the details - maybe the school wanting an easily accessible program while also gaining traction for previous structures? - though the price had always een clear to you. $750, and you had a dorm room the size of an apartment complex in a building you shared with other foreign teenagers your age.

Your parents had almost stopped you from attending. They first made the money excuse, as you were well aware that your family was a middle-class one. You quickly pointed out that after 5-6 months of saving the income you gained from your job at the small and local grocery store, to which they grew silent. Of course, that didn’t mean they consented, and you quickly realized this in the months to come.

By the time you had saved up enough money, you had lost track of how many fights you had gotten into with your parents. They made every excuse in the book, including your younger sibling and your future. You had given up on bartering in due time, but the fighting still ensued.

Ironically, the night you and your parents completely lost it was the night they agreed. It was an average night; your shift had finished and after the short walk home, you walked in to see your parents sitting in the living room. You made your way to the kitchen, because this wasn’t the first time they had left you no dinner, but a snide comment made about how many late hours you worked stopped you dead in your tracks.

You didn’t remember most of what was said, as all you could recall was the screaming. Things were said that no one meant, and at the same time, hidden things in both hearts and minds began to surface. Eventually, the three of you came to a compromise. It was surprisingly quiet, considering the circumstances. Still, with tear tracks on their faces and whispered words admitting emotional attachment weren’t enough to convince you to stay. While the program had driven a wedge between your relationship, you continued to be relentless as you fought for the chance to prove yourself. Perhaps that’s why you had yet to tell your parents that you hated life in England.

Back in America, you assumed every part of the way you lived would change. While the culture in England was incredible - almost too good for words - your personal (particularly, your social) life in the country had yet to grow desirable. You still spent every night in your room, wasting hours on the internet. On the good nights, you felt nothing. On the bad nights, you scrolled through your classmates’ social media accounts and felt a sharp pain in your heart and a shortness in your lungs. And, on the worst nights, you cried yourself to sleep, asking yourself and anyone who was listening why you couldn’t just be normal. It was easy to hide yourself in your studies, but it wasn’t enough to convince yourself you were okay.

That old coffee kiosk was still at the end of the road, like every other time you took this path back to the dorms. Mr. Jonathan, the owner, was decked out in his usual knitted red hat with a pattern of black on white stitched into the middle of the yarn made piece. His old grey coat reached the bottom of his heavy looking boots, and the familiar details brought some ease to your unsteady mind.

“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it, sir?” You said once you reached the front of his mobile shop. You didn’t know much about Mr. Jonathan, besides his adult kids and him being a widower, but your heart no longer raced when you spoke to him. You always took that as a good sign.

“Beautiful?” he asked with a scoff. “Pretty, maybe, but colder than hell.”

You half smiled at his bitter reaction while digging in your pocket for stray change. You came back with three quid. “The only thing cold that needs changing is your attitude.”

“That’s a brave statement coming from someone ordering coffee,” he remarked, yet mirrored your amused smile.

You let out a laugh and dropped the coins onto the counter separating the two of you. He got right to work at filling a medium-sized disposable cup, which gave you a few spare seconds to look around and at your surroundings.

Kids zoomed past each other with cries of happiness, while others giggled and played on the structures. A curly-haired girl was on a set of swings, smiling widely at the boy who sat beside her. Parents filled the benches near the playground equipment, but on one stray seat near a tree that had shed its leaves sat a lonely looking man. His brown hair stood up in strands and rustled in the occasional wind in the same way his tan coat did, and he stared ahead blankly, like his eyes were fixed on something worthwhile. You tried to follow the trail of his gaze and found nothing.

“Your change, Miss,” Mr. Jonathan spoke up as he set a few coins on the counter beside your freshly poured coffee. You looked back at Mr. Jonathan, then to the stranger again. You then looked down at the coins and your drink, and after letting out a shaky breath, spoke.

“Can you make it a double?”

Mr. Jonathan raised his eyebrows, though he grabbed another cup from the piled stack. “A lot of studying tonight?” He asked, referring to your sudden additional order.

You shook your head. “No sir. It’s for someone who looks like they need it.”

“You mean it’s for that man who’s been sitting there for about-” he paused to check his watch, “-2 hours?”

“That long?” You asked as you pulled your arms closer to your body. He was right: the snow was pretty, but the wind was the monster it hid.

“I don’t think he’s moved a muscle,” Mr. Jonathan confirmed. “I have no idea when he got there, either. One second he wasn't there, and then… there he is. It’s like the man appeared out of thin air.” He picked up a disposable tray, and after setting the new drink in it, he placed yours in it as well. “Not sure he’ll want coffee, sweetheart.”

“I have a favorite teacher that I left behind in the US,” you explained, “and he told me that kindness travels greater distances than even the stars reach.”

“Is that all it takes to charm someone like you? A little poetry?” Mr. Jonathan teased, then grew more serious. “If he gives you any trouble, give me a shout, yeah?”

“Yes sir,” you nodded firmly, then smiled and picked up the tray. Your heart was thumping at the idea of offering a complete stranger - a weird stranger, at that - a coffee, so his words helped soothe you.

You walked through the open space of the gates around the park’s perimeter, and you hardly even noticed the people staring at you. You couldn't remember when you became the apple of the public eye, though over the years, it was something you had gotten used to. You stopped feeling the urge to question it, even to just yourself, a long time ago.

You were close to reaching the stranger, and now that you were closer, you could see red scrapes and a few cuts decorating the side of his face. This only increased the shaking in your already nervous hands, but you simply trudged forward through the snow.

He glanced up at you, just for a moment, and your feet stopped moving. You immediately froze, like a child being caught in the middle of disobeying. You felt a small breath brush over your parted lips, and couldn’t help but notice that the man’s expression had yet to change. His eyes, they softened quicker than snow stuck on clothing and skin melted, but his face still appeared colder than the flakes falling around both of you.

After a small burst of courage, you closed the small gap of space between you and the empty space on the bench. You pulled at your coat the moment you took a seat and let out a forced sigh that you hoped sounded content, or at least relaxed.

“I’m used to the snow,” you started and set the drink holder in the space between you and the stranger. “It’s the rain that was hard to get used to.” You picked up one of the two identical cups and offered it to him.

The man looked over to you, and then to the cup of coffee. Your extended hand was shaky and sweating, though not from the warm beverage you were holding. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of the stranger contemplating, he accepted the drink. His face split into a half smile, one corner pulling up more than the other. You felt yourself relax a little.

“Ahh, well, that’s England for you,” he took a sip of the coffee. “Makes the sunny days worth it, doesn’t it?”

“I haven’t seen too many of those,” you admitted. “I’ve only been here since September. But, to be fair, I don’t know much of anything about England. Besides the things everyone knows.”

“All it takes to know is the want to know,” he informed, and spoke with a ease that almost seemed impossible. “The city, the culture, the legends… they’re living and breathing, right around you.”

“I’m the only thing stopping me,” you said, and maybe you shouldn’t have said it like it was a fact. Funny thing was, you practically knew it as one. “That sounds about right.”

“Though I suppose that’s easy for me to say,” he began to counter his own statement, “I’m the one who’s always leaving. But I always come back, don’t I?”

“Sounds like you grew up here,” You replied, referring to his accent. “I’d find it hard to abandon my hometown, even though I’m not always there.”

“Many, many parts of me grew up here,” he agreed, and although you were confused, you somehow understood what he meant.

“You must be good at telling stories, then,” you smiled. Simply the way he spoke gave this off: that he’d always have something to say.

He smiled as well, in the same manner he did before, but something about the expression didn’t add up. Maybe it was the change in his eyes, or that it didn’t seem as genuine. Regardless, spotting the difference was easy. “It’s what I do for a living.”

“What is it that you do?” you asked, taking your first drink of coffee. The mix of cool air and time between made it the perfect temperature. “Novelist, historian, teacher..?”

“I guess you could say I’m all of the above.”

Normally, you would have dropped the conversation upon hearing this, or at the very least, frown. This time, however, you rather continued to stare at him, though you eyes did narrow slightly in confusion.

“Who are you?” You asked, then rephrased, “what’s your name?”

The stranger hesitated for a moment, then replied with, “The Doctor.”

“That’s a fairytale name, Doctor,” You remarked, though didn’t question his answer.

He grinned like he knew something no one else did. “I’m a fairytale man.”

You pondered for a moment, wondering exactly what he meant by ‘a fairytale man’. Were you right in guessing he was a writer? Or maybe he implied he lived in his head, building castles that could never exist. Regardless, you were certain of one thing: this Doctor man was only giving you enough to keep you curious.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, which to your surprise, made both you and him jump in surprise. You fished the device from your pocket and read the preview of a text message from your roommate: Imani. Without opening the message, you knew what she was asking of you.

“That’s my queue,” you said as you stood up, “my roommate wants me back for dinner. Says I spend too much time out and about.”

“I need to pay you back,” The Doctor protested, and you weren’t surprised when he dug around in his pockets, only to come back with nothing.

“You can tell me one of your stories sometime.” You offered a method of payment without even thinking before speaking. What were the odds of you ever seeing him again? And before that, what were the odds of him even ending up in this park again?

Somehow, the answered satisfied The Doctor, because he looked satisfied as he nodded a single time. You offered him one last smile, this time a one with a closed mouth, and you walked back around the playground and out the gate.

You walked for a few more steady blocks, nothing but the wind and falling snowflakes to keep you company. You were more than okay with this; walking past strangers was far from something you enjoyed.

You turned the corner beside the unused and currently withering courthouse, and the second you did, something felt off. Of course, to you, something felt wrong. So, you quickened your pace and crossed by the front steps to the abandoned courthouse in half the time it would usually take you. This didn’t stop you from noticing the big blue box with glowing text at the top sitting in the alley.

After retracing your steps and getting a better look, your heart began to thump loudly in your ears. Your throat tightened with anxiety, and your chest jolted at your sudden gasp for air.

If there was one thing you didn’t like, it was change.

“Hello?” you asked reluctantly. You couldn’t tell if you were grateful or even more nervous when no one answered.

‘Police Public Call Box’. That was the illuminated font near the top of the box. You could remember reading about the sort of thing before, though your head began to ache trying to recall from where. Maybe the idea was vaguely mentioned in a textbook before, or you briefly read about it in a news article. Unlikely, sure, but not impossible. The only thing impossible in this situation was that was was here, right before your very eyes.

“This isn’t supposed to be here…” you said, more to yourself than to anyone potentially in the box. It was jammed between two uninhabited buildings, and of neither were a museum. So what was the beat up and ancient looking thing doing there?

One of the two doors creaked open, and you jumped backwards the second your heart leaped into your throat. You were breathing like you were coming down from one of your rare panic attacks, chest heaving and limbs shaking.

You don’t know what possessed you to lean forward, only for a split second, and push the door fully open.

You watched the door creak open the rest of the way with your back pressed to the brick wall farthest from it. You couldn’t see anything inside because of this, but you were at least thankful that no one came out.

Each step you took was hesitant and quieter than a mouse scurrying across a kitchen floor in the dead of night. Your eyes were fixed on the newly ajar door, ready to detect any change of movement. You reached the the door in less than five paces, and not even your overly analytic head could have prepared you for what was inside.

A metal ramp with matching railings lead up to a strange, somewhat circular device in the middle of what appeared to be a massive room. The walls met at the top to create an unsteady dome, and you could see that there was depth beneath the metal floor that held the texture of a fire escape.

You slammed the door shut and practically ran out of the alley, pulling at the edges of your coat as you trudged through the snow and into the school’s dorm complex.

“You expect me to believe you spoke to a stranger on your own free will?” Imani asked.

The two of you were sitting in a local diner, one that served breakfast until noon. The clock was drawing closer to 11:00 AM, and while you would normally be eating lunch around then, a finished platter sat in front of you, waiting to be taken back to the kitchen. Imani was digging into her third plate of pancakes.

“He was just… sitting there,” you said, tapping at your mug of coffee in thought. “He looked so alone.”

“What’s his name?” Imani asked through a mouthful of her brunch, “you never told me.”

“He called himself The Doctor,” you replied, “Whatever that means.”

“Sounds creepy,” Imani thought aloud. “What kind of man has a title and no name?”

“What kind of exchange student goes out for lunch rather than finishing her homework?” You countered with a false grin. You were desperate the change the conversation.

“You stood me up at dinner. Again,” Imani pointed out, “this is the only way you talk to me. So, I do it.”

“If I get a free meal out of it, it’s a win,” you smirked, and raised your coffee cup to your lips. You took in the grounding scent and felt the warm steam tickle your nose. Finally, you took a sip, and felt the hot liquid rush down your throat and into your stomach. After setting down the mug, you did something you did every time you were in public: you scanned your surroundings.

In the left corner seat sat a student typing away at a laptop. Books were sprawled on the table before them, along with a large mug and a clean plate that sat close the edge. In the seat next to the student sat a charming elderly couple. The woman was making pleasant conversation to the listening man across from her, who seemed to be multitasking by also eating a meal.The table beside the couple seated a young mother and her baby that occupied the stroller she was rocking back and forth. Satisfied, you shifted your focus to what was happening on the other side of the cafe’s massive front window.

Cars whizzed by quickly compared to the people that filled the sidewalks. Crown Street - the one you were currently on - was practically made up of shops, and thus made it one of the busiest streets in Kensington. You didn’t mind this, as you lived a considerable distance away from the crowded road.

Anyone walking was always in a particular rush. You’d lost count of how many people had shouted into their phones or shoved past people due to their quick pace. Life doesn’t bend to you either, you thought. Maybe that should have made you feel a sense of relief. It didn’t.

Your eyes followed a man dressed in a suit who had a girl in his arms and a boy by his side. The girl was reaching off of him so she could reach the boy, who was jumping up to play with her. The man, who you supposed to be their father, was speaking into his cellphone. Perhaps he was bargaining with his boss for his tardiness, or with a babysitter who failed to show. Obviously, you would never know, and your propositions ceased when they passed by the right side of the window. You had been caught up in theorizing that you almost didn’t notice that The Doctor was leaning against the side of a building from across the road.

He was staring at you, and it made you wonder for how long he had been standing there. Normally, you noticed the sort of thing, so to be completely oblivious concerned you. Him being so close to you without you realizing along with him having somehow tracked you down only made your worry increase.

“That philosophy paper’s due date was bumped to Friday, by the way,” you lied as you ran a finger along your mug’s rim. “Ms. Hayn wanted me to pass the message along.”

“Are you serious?” Imani almost choked on her pancakes. Your expression didn’t change, which made her jump out of her chair. “I’m heading back,” She declared while tossing £7 onto the table. That was more than enough money, but you weren’t about to get in her way.

“I’ll meet you back there,” Imani decided, and like a bolt of lightning, she was out the door and up the road.

You matched the amount of money she laid down to cover both your expenses as well as a tip. You picked up your backpack, the smaller one that you used as a traveling bag, and found your way to the door.

Just as you had expected, The Doctor hadn’t moved. You were outside, only aware of the winter month because of the winter wind, and he had yet to move a muscle. You were starting to wonder if this was a reoccurring theme of his.

There was a break in traffic, and against your better judgement, you crossed the street. A car coming closer laid on their horn when you passed the line and walked closer to The Doctor, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. They weren’t about to reach you in time, and you weren’t about to get hit by a car. There wasn’t much else to worry about.

“What are you doing here?” You asked the moment you stepped onto the sidewalk. “Have you been following me?” You continued, and couldn’t help but notice that the cuts and scrapes on his face had disappeared without a trace.

“You opened the door,” he said instead, which made you frown in confusion. The Doctor shimmied aside, and once again, you laid eyes on a mysterious blue box.

“Do you always park it in alleys?” You asked, looking over the box. Nothing about it had changed from the previous night. “How do you move it, anyways? I don’t see a tow truck.”

“I normally don’t have to,” he said. “Park it in alleys, I mean. Hardly anyone looks twice. Well, you being the exception. The only one, actually. I don’t think anyone’s done that before.”

“You mean no other passerby has opened it?” You raised your eyebrows. “It’s a blue box taller than a man in the middle of London! How can people not be prodding at it?”

“They aren’t curious enough,” The Doctor explained. He spoke in a tone that made everything sound obvious, yet he didn’t seem to be condescending. It was a conflicting combination. “But you are,” he continued as he stood up straight, “and i don’t even know your name.”

“Y/N,” you told him. “My name is Y/N.”

“Well, Y/N,” The Doctor started, and he was smiling like there was something to be satisfied about, “I still have to pay you back.”

“You can tell me a story,” you reminded. “You’re good at those, aren’t you?”

“Anyone can tell stories,” He shrugged off your remark. “It’d be more fun if I showed you one. Don’t you think?”

“My friend’s waiting for me,” you nodded your head to the side Imani ran off in, “back at our dorms.” You wondered how far he would push it.

“The one that ran off? I could get back sooner than she can. And we could have some fun doing it. Good ol’ fashion, running for the hills fun.”

“That’s a big promise, Doctor,” you said. You couldn’t believe you were even considering taking off with him god knows where.

“It’s a promise I can keep.” He was back to leaning against the wall. “That’s what’s important, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” you replied, because maybe it was. Who were you to decide that? The Doctor didn’t reply, which made you glance down at your feet, and then back up to him. “Well, what are you waiting for? Show me a story.”

He grinned like a child in Christmas Day and practically jumped into the box. The door, however, stayed open from his actions, and you found yourself setting one hand on the closed one as you stepped into a place that made no sense.

If all else fails, you had a can of pepper spray in your backpack.

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#doctor who #doctor who fanfiction #Tenth Doctor #tenth doctor x reader #doctor who reader insert #doctor who x reader #the tenth doctor #companion!reader #teenage!reader

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krisiunicornio · 5 years

Link

Yacht parties and bikini bodies got you down? Here's how to get out of the funk.

I photoshopped a picture of myself once. Okay, maybe more than once.

I’m not talking about adding filters or erasing stains from my shirt. I’m talking vacuuming away parts of my stomach, arms, and even a little thigh. When I gave my husband a virtual tummy tuck, he finally forced me to check myself.

“You can’t talk about self-love and authenticity and then use photoshop!” He was horrified. And then I was, too.

I whole-heartedly believe we’re each put on this earth in our own unique bodies to express our true Selves. And through platforms such as teaching yoga, writing, and using social media, part of my job is to help people realize this. I teach the self-acceptance and body positivity—but I wasn’t always practicing it.

What the bleep was I doing erasing a few pounds with the swipe of my finger?

For the honest answer, we must take a little trip back in time.

I have been dieting since I was 9 years old. Even now, while I may no longer count calories or weigh my broccoli, I still watch every morsel I put in my mouth. I was a child of the early nineties—the era of the supermodel. Pictures of Claudia Schiffer and Cindy Crawford lined the walls of my room. My mum modeled, too (along with her many other careers), and I coveted her air-brushed headshots, just as I did every single page of Vogue.

I wish I looked like that.

Wow, she’s so beautiful.

Why am I so ugly?

These were the lyrics that played on repeat in my head. Not exactly the anthems we want for our children.

The pressure of perfection is a force so strong it can flatten us, if we let it. Literally. It will drain out our color, wash away our texture, and suck us down to some sort of washed-out, skeletal, carbon copy of a Barbie doll.

Under ever photoshopped picture is a human being. A real person, who’s every pore, every wrinkle, every scar, every pound, tells a unique story.

Unfortunately, these are the stories the media does not want us to hear. If we did, we might never buy another beauty product again. Instead, corporate interest spins a golden yarn of the unattainable: the “perfect” woman, the “perfect” man. And the messaging is so loud and pervasive that we absorb it without even trying. Like a top 20 hit you’ve somehow memorized without ever intentionally listening to the song.

See also 5 Poses to Inspire More Self-Love, Less Self Smack-Talk

One day, you find yourself looking at a picture you just took, and instead of seeing the glory in your unique story, you see all your perceived flaws. So, you download an app on your phone that allows you to become a sliver of that “perfect” ideal with the click of your thumb. And like magic, all of the insecurities, the negativity, erase from the screen. That was easy!

But to truly love ourselves in a world that tells us we are not enough is not easy. It takes great courage. It is a rebellious act. It means ignoring the toxic messages and beauty ideals and accept ourselves as we are in this moment. It means looking yourself in the eye in the mirror saying—and really believing—“You are beautiful.” Not because we are thin or tan or have poreless skin. You are beautiful because there is no one in the entire universe that is like you! And nor will there ever be again.

So, the next time you take a picture that you are going to share to the world, I dare you to not add a filter. I dare you to not adjust or alter the image in any way. To share your story in all of its glorious detail. You do not have to be afraid, for I will stand with you. Or hands held, our faces clear, and our soul’s bright.

See also 5 Ways to Radically Love Yourself Today

Here are some tools to help you avoid the perfection trap:

1. When you take a picture, look at the whole picture.

How often do we take a picture and immediately zoom in to inspect ourselves? Think about group pictures: What is the first thing people do when they look at one? They focus on themselves and their flaws. But it is our imperfections that make us beautifully who we are. I’m a sucker for a big nose and a crooked smile. As Leonard Cohen says in his song “Anthem,” There is a crack in everything/ That’s how the light gets in. When you take a photo, try to see the entire image—the complete scene. Remember where you were, who you were with, and how you felt. Pictures should capture memories not project fantasies.

2. Delete image-editing apps from of your phone. Remove the temptation!

When I am not being mindful, my desire for perfection can border on obsession. Couple that with social media addiction and it’s a recipe for disaster. At one point, I had 10 different apps on my phone for altering images. 10 different apps! In the same way it is helpful to not have alcohol in the house when you are on a cleanse, removing the apps relieves the temptation. Instead, fill your phone with apps that help you grow creatively. Try learning a new language, playing brain games, and listening to interesting podcasts. Take more pictures of your dog.

3. Unfollow people who trigger you.

I stopped buying fashion magazines a long time ago because of how bad they made me feel. Even though I knew the images were altered, I could not help comparing myself to supermodels' stick figures. Nowadays, these types of images pervade social media, and because they appear in someone’s personal feed rather than a magazine, we think they’re real. It’s much harder to deciphering what is fake. If you find yourself constantly feeling bad from looking at someone’s posts, it might be time to stop following them. Instead, find people to follow who leave you feeling empowered and inspired.

4. Get off social media and into the real world.

One of my favorite things about teaching yoga is looking around the room and seeing all of the different body types. If we all looked or practiced the same, life would be so boring! When I look up from my phone and back out into the world, I find myself in awe of how beautiful everything is, from an 85-year-old walking with their 10-year-old grandchild, to a couple smooching on a park bench. Look around to see just how varied and unique and interesting we all are. Life is beautiful!

5. The next time you take a picture, look for one thing you love.

As mentioned above, we have a tendency to home in on what we think are flaws. We zoom in, looking for something wrong. The next time you take a picture, instead of looking for what to fix, look for what you love. If you cannot find anything at first, look at the bigger picture. What did you love about that outfit? That location? Who you were with? Start to train your brain to see the beauty. This can (and should) start in the mirror. One of my favorite self-love practices is to say one thing I love about myself every day. It doesn’t have to be physical, either! The more we learn to love ourselves, the more love we have to give others.

#sleep sounds #sleep music #white noise app #nature sounds #relaxing sounds #rain sounds for sleeping

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cedarrrun · 5 years

Link

Yacht parties and bikini bodies got you down? Here's how to get out of the funk.

I photoshopped a picture of myself once. Okay, maybe more than once.

“You can’t talk about self-love and authenticity and then use photoshop!” He was horrified. And then I was, too.

What the bleep was I doing erasing a few pounds with the swipe of my finger?

For the honest answer, we must take a little trip back in time.

I wish I looked like that.

Wow, she’s so beautiful.

Why am I so ugly?

These were the lyrics that played on repeat in my head. Not exactly the anthems we want for our children.

Under ever photoshopped picture is a human being. A real person, who’s every pore, every wrinkle, every scar, every pound, tells a unique story.

See also 5 Poses to Inspire More Self-Love, Less Self Smack-Talk

See also 5 Ways to Radically Love Yourself Today

Here are some tools to help you avoid the perfection trap:

1. When you take a picture, look at the whole picture.

2. Delete image-editing apps from of your phone. Remove the temptation!

3. Unfollow people who trigger you.

4. Get off social media and into the real world.

5. The next time you take a picture, look for one thing you love.

#sleep sounds #sleep music #white noise app #nature sounds #relaxing sounds #rain sounds for sleeping

0 notes

amyddaniels · 5 years

Text

How to Avoid Social Media Blues

Yacht parties and bikini bodies got you down? Here's how to get out of the funk.

I photoshopped a picture of myself once. Okay, maybe more than once.

“You can’t talk about self-love and authenticity and then use photoshop!” He was horrified. And then I was, too.

What the bleep was I doing erasing a few pounds with the swipe of my finger?

For the honest answer, we must take a little trip back in time.

I wish I looked like that.

Wow, she’s so beautiful.

Why am I so ugly?

These were the lyrics that played on repeat in my head. Not exactly the anthems we want for our children.

Under ever photoshopped picture is a human being. A real person, who’s every pore, every wrinkle, every scar, every pound, tells a unique story.

See also 5 Poses to Inspire More Self-Love, Less Self Smack-Talk

See also 5 Ways to Radically Love Yourself Today

Here are some tools to help you avoid the perfection trap:

1. When you take a picture, look at the whole picture.

2. Delete image-editing apps from of your phone. Remove the temptation!

3. Unfollow people who trigger you.

4. Get off social media and into the real world.

5. The next time you take a picture, look for one thing you love.

0 notes

blog-palette · 5 years

Text

A Cab Ride

Nico would have liked to walk. It was a cool May night, it had rained for a couple of hours, and now as the clouds began to somewhat clear, the air had a translucent crispness. Prism-like, it diffused and it sharpened whimsically the lights reflecting off the wet streets, slapped great even chunks of light onto damp, hanging walls. The air was saturated to tipsiness with light, zipping in and out of the narrow streets. The passing cars sizzled. Despite the motley crowds – the drunk young men following with their eyes the bare, whimsical legs of girls, and other girls, more self-possessed and discreet, walking besides potential lovers, and the weak and ugly – the rejects like a pile of defective dolls filtered out of a production line and piled in a corner – lounging passively on the sides, or practising some quaint art, juggling, balancing, playing drums with sticks and plastic buckets, or just composing their quaint thoughts, writing loose-ended poems in their minds – there was serenity in the aftermath of the sudden, heavy rain. The many, many ads of Dundas Square jostled for room in the calm, distracted minds of pedestrians. Nico smiled sarcastically at the bikini clad Beyoncé in the H&M ad. “Female empowerment,” she uttered in a voice of sarcastic solidarity, loudly enough to turn the heads of some bystanders, who were waiting, like her, for the streetcar. The image tapped like cold drops of rain on the mirror of her vanity, tap, tap, with the beat, beat, beat of the sticks on the buckets. Brushing her hair behind her shoulders with her fingers, Nico dove into her huge handbag, looking for her cell-phone. There was no time, she had to get to work. The bar manager had called her, asking her to cover for Sophia’s shift. Sophia had long, golden hair that reached down in vine-like coils; it was her own. Nico didn’t mind the work: she could use the money.

She hailed the next cab, it’s headlights – as it swerved dangerously toward her; so that it took a leap of faith just to stand her ground, convince herself that the laws of civilization and machinery colluded to make a collision near impossible – revealing the gentle spray (for surprisingly there were still light clouds overhead – it was difficult to be sure in the starless city sky – and some spray) that she didn’t even feel touch her skin. In the cab, she took off her flip-flops, shoved them in her bag, and pulled out a pair of heels. They clicked onto her feet, one by one, like the shackle of a padlock locking into the groove; a timer began in her mind. A maple leaf idly hung, gently swung from the rear-view mirror, glazing the air with prickly, synthetic perfume. “Isn’t tonight to die for?” she asked Zulu, the driver, as she put on her heels. He watched her eyes in the rear-view mirror, as they scanned the street. “It’s a nice night.” “I would have walked, but luckily for you, I’m running late for work,” Zulu smiled at the familiarity of her tone, at how unalarmed, how discreetly confident her eyes were when they met his in the mirror. Her phone buzzed from a text message.

“And a moment ago you were ready to pay a far greater price for this night,” Zulu poked at her casually. He always knew, with good confidence, how far he could take a conversation with his passengers. It was easy to tell, of course, which ones not to engage with, or simply nod his head to. But there were many who welcomed conversation. To the shy ones who would readily confide to a stranger who was unlikely to ever see them again, he would offer a sincere, acquiescent confessional; some even welcomed forthright opinions. Some were friendly because they found silence awkward, whose words always seemed insincere, contrived, even condescending. Then there were the fun, happy-go-lucky, or hammered, stoned, tripping passengers, the ones he could take around on a longer route, or sell, if he measured them correctly, MJ or some powders, or even – something that happened very rarely indeed - even join their party. This much Zulu considered his vocational requisite. But it was a game Zulu had begun to enjoy, whittling away the time while he drove mechanically, gaining finesse in the act as he quite unconsciously expanded the scope of his personality – like chameleons evolving over thousands of years the range of their skins’ colours – selecting with great subtlety those pieces of his past that accentuated his present, momentary personality. To say that he resorted to lies would be straying very far from the exercise – to call it an exercise is perhaps too misleading.

Driving home from the airport, only the previous weekend, a lawyer returning from the capital after throwing a case, Zulu sensed beneath the man’s restless, self-pitying gaze a streak of recrimination. This was neither unfamiliar nor unnerving: Zulu recognized this gaze as the somewhat sadistic, unhatched racism of a high powered man. The lawyer spoke now and then in short, sharp sentences, in a voice that invited no reply – he might have been speaking to himself, even as he stared at the back of Zulu’s head from the back seat. “Defeat, it makes me so hungry,” he confessed with a hand pressed on his stomach. And he didn’t need to: it hovered over his taut lips – the hunger. But what would you know about that, his eyes seemed to follow up as they turned away to watch the passing cars. Like following a thread to a ball of yarn Zulu began to trace the lawyer’s pulse closer and closer to his heart. “As a child I was a great swimmer. Very competitive. I remember each victory, and each defeat, they stay with me,” he spoke with the proud, playful solemnity of an energetic boy displaying new scars to a friend. Was that the truth? He wasn’t a hundred percent. He recalled swimming; he recalled winning – the heaviness of water, the feeling. He saw murky, brackish waves receding over a hole in the sand, through his windshield. “Swimming, it also makes me hungry, but never makes me feel defeated,” the lawyer’s gasping head emerged from the water left over in the hole. Zulu let him breath, for a while, in the crest of the silence between them. “So Zimmerman was acquitted,” he said, to help him emerge fully. It was nonsense, the whole thing, of course, but the lawyer explained to Zulu – happy to show off his liberal leanings in a condescending tone – the historical momentum behind the defence. “Any judge would have seen it coming,” he hypothesised, “and thought, ‘necessary evil,’ before his nightcap.” “Or not. Perhaps a judge is a judge not for his moral knowledge and authority, but for his moral neutrality, the exercise and… exhibition, of which has brought him where he stands.” “Are you saying that to be a judge a man has to be corrupt!” the lawyer snapped unthinkingly, unprepared, unwilling to take time with the cab driver’s meaning. But he knew what the cabbie had meant; they both did in all probability inhabit vastly different moral worlds – so where would any judge be expected to stand between them? “And where does God stand, you think?” he voiced his next thought very naturally, openly, and it was soothing; to say that, so say the word God in front of a stranger in a serious context, almost as if he believed in God.

“I’m sorry, I have to… we have to change directions, I need to go somewhere else,” Nico’s urgent, earthy voice trilled in Zulu’s ear, and his hands clasped more tightly around the steering wheel. Still looking at her cell phone, she gave him the new directions. As he turned the car he resented the change in destination, the fickleness of youth – the metre didn’t matter – but it was a momentary lapse. It was the most natural thing, to change direction; on the savannahs there used to be no directions, so perhaps it can be said one was always changing; one shifted one’s head, here, this way and that, in hope to sense the world behind the thousand bars that exhausted the once wild gaze. But now and then, it’s also said, the curtain of the pupils soundlessly slides open, and an image enters – be it the sun narrowly framed between whimsical, pale yellow buildings, just ahead at the end of the street as if waiting, waiting with a promise; be it the unreasonable chiaroscuro of excitement suffused whimsically through a pretty woman’s cheek. “Yet more proof that there are things far more important than this… beautiful, night,” what was it that was so sad – nostalgia? – in his voice? But how could that be! Nico was touched. “I will not waste it, I promise you,” she said laughingly, sincerely, “I will stay alert, and, like Napoleon, I will make my fatal move in the depth of the night, when the city is unhinged,” she felt a little madness stir inside her, a little poetry. It was as if a mist passed through her body, and impregnated a thousand abstractions; crisscrossing through her limbs, they pulled her erect: life then was magic. Was there anything more enchanting than to wait, than apprehension? The world so full of calls and seductions, the air with her fragrant messengers, the streets with their pointing fingers, the homey buildings that seemed to gaze wistfully at her as she passed swiftly on her way. “Can you drive slower, please?” she demanded. Zulu obliged gratefully, braking gently; the next passenger could be anybody – an asshole, very likely. He liked being who he was at the moment. And the world: it was a slightly different place at each speed. “I know nothing about Napoleon, but now I know that we had one thing in common.” “What’s that?” “Being nocturnal. Or never sleeping, I should say.”

The words descended upon Zulu from around him, crystallized upon his consciousness, and echoed, only faintly, without much of their meaning, into Nico’s. They were like a hand releasing him from the hook of Nico’s presence; disengaged, he fluttered. He felt old, centuries old; how long, like Charon, had he been carrying people between lives? Bringing home sailors, delivering businessmen to their families, mothers to their mothers, daughters to their lovers, and the darker transactions that usually, if revealed to him, held their individual identity for longer. They pooled like the pale, reflected moonlight on the swaying surface of a lake, all those faces, those snippets of strangers’ lives – submerging and re-emerging from the waves, scattering, interchanging, and unifying tirelessly. And every time Zulu grew weary of following the indecipherable dance something would sparkle brilliantly, begging Zulu to make the effort to explore. Detached, enlarged, harrowed: the face of a homeless man, who after braving a chilly, snowy day outside for dedication to his calling of begging strangers for assistance and change (loonies and toonies, not socio-political revolution); he got in for a ride to a shelter when his exhausted body refused to even shiver to get warm. Zulu remembered warmly, patting himself on the back, how the two had argued over money: him refusing to accept any, and the homeless man refusing to not pay – out of respect for each other’s poverty. Would he still – unlikely… So much had changed. A homeless man could no longer, in these times, be even trusted to be non-violent. Zulu brushed the memory aside as it began to prod too deeply into the present. But the faces kept rising. Cold and ashen: a girl with whom he had once had a special agreement. What had become of her? Carmen; that was her name, but likely not her real name. Glittering, high-heeled, she emerged out of her apartment building – he always pictured her so – walking with bent knees that struggled to stabilise her body. How had he known? There were signs. “51 Wils– ,” she said tentatively; her destination was no more than an address to her, but that was not uncommon. Her eyes rested on nothing: but it was not shyness, it was not panic – what was it that made them so painfully mobile? She met his eyes in the rear-view mirror now and then, mid-sentence, and always paused her speech, as if the effort required making that contact left her too breathless to speak. Then abruptly she would look away, abruptly continue talking. Getting out of the taxi, she boldly touched his shoulder: “Will you wait for me an hour? I can give you twenty for that, and the fare back,” she proposed, her eyes looked straight out the windshield, blank, straining under the pressure of sensations to maintain a vacuum. He couldn’t say no. From that day she would always call him when she went to see her clients. As their relationship matured, instead of the twenty, she gave him blowjobs, sometimes right in the taxi, sometimes inviting him over to her apartment. They had been close, in a way.

“I doubt, at least I hope, you’re not as mad as him,” Nico replied smilingly, her smile more than her words pulling Zulu back into the cab, “otherwise, let me out right now!” she said with a light tap on his shoulder. Her eyes were steady, abundant, when they fell upon his, in sharp contrast to the mysterious chasm of Carmen’s eyes; her touch was light and tentative. What were his thoughts doing roaming the wasteland of his memories with such a charming girl as a passenger? They needed to be present, sharp. “I doubt Napoleon was mad at all. He was probably simple, like a… like a lion, or a dog. Direct, confident, at least a little blood-thirsty; a man of action. Madness is a weakness, a frustration, of the will, because of too much thinking,” he paraphrased Dostoyevsky, tapping his forefinger on his temple for effect: they often did that in the movies, the men of action, as if even the little thinking that did happen in those brains needed to be translated to mechanical gestures to be meaningful. He hardly noticed Nico shift uneasily in her place, look away and outside her window, as one turns one’s eyes from the TV during a gruesome scene – what cutting words! how they seemed to approach her heart. “Take yourself as an example,” he continued, and her heart froze with sadistic pleasure, “how fluently you made up your mind just now, changed your mind, to do what your heart wanted. If you were mad we would still be circling around Dundas Square…”

How silly she had been to. Of course he didn’t know her – how could he know anything of her heart, her madness. How wrecked her heart still was with indecision. Because who was it, after all, that she was on the way to see? He was beautiful, tall, powerful, and spoke softly; and her love – for perhaps it was love – was a great distraction, as if she had jumped off a cliff so she wouldn’t have to think about the hike down. They had met online (great story that would make for their grandkids!) as at the time they had met that was the only thing she had courage left for: putting a few of her pictures on a page and waiting, waiting, waiting. Her parents had met at university. “Well at least you got something out of it,” she used to tease her mother, who had not worked a day since Nico had been conceived. “If by something you mean a wonderful husband, and a daughter that, well, function as well as the microwave.” There used to be a serenity to her family’s home life that was breath-taking – like a Mozart largo, some breathtakingly slow violin sonata that pulls the nerves full length in sheer effort to capture its graceful development – and which she always found difficult to re-adjust to whenever she lost the tempo in her youthful verve. Her father would often stroll home from the University, where he was a professor of art history, for lunch, often stay, often make love to her mother in the sun-struck afternoons; the dog, too big and too furry for the heat, would laze outside their bedroom door, waiting. Nico would sit lonelily reading romances in the garden, watching squirrels glide from branch to branch, birds chase each other from tree to tree to tree. Her father would wake her up near evening as it cooled, gliding his hand across her arm coated with goose bumps: “You’re cold.” “So I’ll shiver myself warm,” she was never surprised by that touch in her sleep, but once awake, she would stream fluidly away like an amoeba. “My darling you are no old, stubborn fisherman preparing for the immoral sea. You are my daughter, and a princess. Just look at your arm!” he was a charming, eloquent man, who read the poets as if they had been his lovers in each of his many previous lives. And that was one world, her home, like a dream now, but even then: somewhat surreal, a mystical place where she had to enter with her shoes off from life outside, from school or from a gathering of friends.

And there was another world: earthier and more addictive; simple, forceful; sensually opening like a primrose against a dark, intoxicating evening, which she stretched longer and longer to touch. This was the world of her lover. It was a world of immediacy, where she could drop a pebble and watch the ripples flow out; rather than her mysterious, cavernous family life, where the echoes of her own voice mingled with delicate, genteel murmurs somewhere in the invisible distance. It was a world full of artistic youths working odd jobs to scrounge for food and alcohol while they read their books, practised their arts, and made love to distract themselves from their fates; a world her father had only glimpsed the crests of through the lens of history, but which she was approaching in its murky entirety. She too, could press into her lover’s organs and watch the immediate pleasure in his face; it was so simple that it seemed enough, so simple that it seemed precarious. She had found him online, by waiting, which was not easy, nor painless. Before she found him she played the princess in her self-imposed captivity in a high tower. Nevertheless, she felt lucky; and sometimes when they argued she was reminded of that tower, the damp, stony room in her mind where she paced back and forth, alone, till her legs gave way: she would go his way. Compulsively, nervously, she checked the text again, as if there was a risk this time it would say something different. Her breath, her skin relaxed at reading the same message: “Meet me tonight…” it said.

“Can you please speed up a bit, it feels like we have been circling the block,” she said irritably, raising herself in her seat, only to guiltily slink back. But there was no point explaining anything to the driver. But his silence was so cuttingly judgemental… “It is easy to start something; to make up… one’s mind about starting something,” she added to explain herself, “look at the whole picture. We started for a different destination –“ “And then you changed your mind,” Zulu finished her sentence. “You say the glass is half empty.” The cab stuttered through the traffic lights in Chinatown. Even late in the evening, with the street clear of the throbbing crowds, there was a scrappiness, a sense of disorder here. Perhaps it was the cheap signboards on the store fronts which cluttered the space due to their sheer individuality. Perhaps it was only the language, the script, which – because it was utterly meaningless to Nico – promulgated only a scripted confusion. They were fast approaching her destination, and with every moment, with every word out of Zulu’s mouth, Nico felt more misunderstood. “I don’t think it’s a matter of perspective. That is an oversimplification,” she said carefully, deliberately, stressing the syllables which seemed to leave their meaning in her mouth as they flew away. ”What you saw… see, as a simple decision was not that simple. And probably the same applies to Napoleon,” their meaning fizzled on her tongue, as she scrambled to wrap it in new, different words. “Do you not wish to be here?” Zulu said flippantly as he stopped next to the bar she pointed to, ”you still have one wish remaining out of three.” Nico leaned forward to hand him his fare. “I wish I were nowhere,” Zulu’s heart squirmed under the weight of her melancholy smile, “can you manage that for me?” He could only manage a joke, as he handed her change: “And here I thought you were going to grant me my freedom.”

#stories

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