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sushistyless · 2 years

Text

mist.

Rain can be a hassle to Harry especially because he’s always late. But when dark and stormy nights lead to finding someone a bit special, he has to admit, he’s forever grateful for the dark clouds.

(writer harry, fluffy & rainy stuff, 6k+)

my masterlist.

————

Harry always had a bit of a problem with being on time.

Usually, it was his day dreaming tendencies that conveniently forced the clock to tick out of his head, drowning the noise of the outside world and opting for the vivid, lively & observant fashion he lived with in books. The entirety of each minute spent in those worlds, being in some way or another -- a moment he would dream about later.

Most of his life was filled within his own thoughts & feelings, a curiosity stemming in the depths of his mind. And ever since he could remember, he'd been this way.

Much of his teenage life and childhood was spent in the city, the daily ways of hustle bustle following each moment. He loved staying there and is grateful for the opportunities he got — don't get him wrong! — but... he craved to have a life where things weren't as overwhelming. He wouldn't say he's shy, but he liked being in his own company, an affinity to observe the intricacies of the world and the different realms of literature rather than soaking up the role of the main character on centre stage.

He always preferred the quiet, and leaned towards the introverted, solitary life. And his job as a writer suited him pretty well, he'd say. Working from home, he didn't really have any events he could formally be late to, which is why it wasn't the biggest concern to him. With a ton of pent up creativity, he found writing (and painting too, sometimes) to be a wonderful medium for him to pour out all that jazz.

His first 'inspiration' for a lifestyle that 'called out' to him was when he was quite young. He remembers his mum taking him to a small village near the hills, and how his seven year old self was utterly enthralled by the beauty and charm of the place.

"Mum! Look!" he had said, scampering around in the fields while running behind a yellow butterfly, committing each curve of its wings to his memory, with pure ecstasy fluttering through the soreness of his cheeks as a result of a smile grown so wide. His mum was amused to see the joy that radiated off him– an amount she'd never seen before.

Later that night, after he'd finally (and very reluctantly) agreed to leave the fields, she'd tucked him into bed, warmth coursing through his veins under the cuddly comforter. She whispered, telling him to never lose that spark in him. He merely responded in a soft, dreamy tone, giving her a lazy smile when met with a kiss on his forehead, "I-it's just, everything's so pretty here! Don't y'think? Jus' wanna stay here forever.''

"Yes, Harry," she laughed, in awe of her son with a gleaming sparkle in his eyes, "And maybe one day you can live some place like this, alright? But for now, sleep, sweetheart."

And he had eagerly nodded his head.

Now, it was only fitting that Harry had bought a cottage in the countryside near the foothills of a little town a few miles away from the city. And suffice to say, he lived a happy life, with inspiration seeping into each flower that grew out in the garden in front of his little cottage, blooming with vibrantly coloured flowers, and in the sunset that came each evening. Dusk, in-fact, was the most pretty sight he'd seen in his entire life he thinks. No complaints, he said when having literal cumulus clouds floating around with rays of sunshine peeking through them, almost making the scene seem scrapped right out of a renaissance painting — the only lost elements being the angels hiding behind them (and, yes, he had actually painted that too).

Love also manifested from his creative side often resulting in tons of hand drawn pictures of different varieties of butterflies and plants pinned to the walls inside his home.

Harry's life was his muse, so each time he sat to write, the words just spilled right out his heart onto the parchment, staining it in perfect handwriting.

(—Or, in a less 'aesthetic' way, mostly his hands typing away rather fast on the keys of his laptop, periodically pushing his glasses from sliding down his nose, but hey, same effect!—.)

He eventually did start writing books and many collections of poetry, so he did struggle with deadlines from time to time, but it wasn't that bad. It wasn't very bad because it didn't require his presence, he thinks, but it still required some time management. And he promises he's getting better at it.

But... we can still say that Harry had a bit of a problem with being on time.

He'd been standing in a little library located farther down the trail from his house (he still grins like an idiot at the thought of having his very own house), that stood on a street lined with shops and cafés. The scent of old books swilled in the air, vintage posters and dark rows of shelves matching the aesthetic of wooden floors and rustic trinkets hung up on the dusky-coloured walls. His fingers picked at the edges of the pages of the book, his third time reading magic through the eyes of The Little Prince.

He'd gotten only a little bit lost in it, his ring clad hand absently lifting the cup of matcha he had previously ordered on-the-go, bringing it to his lips and titling it forward, only to taste just a single drop of flavoured residue and realise that it was empty from the periodic sips he had taken with each flick and turn of a page.

Oh, he thought to himself and frowned. He hadn't realised that he finished it that fast. With a finger wedged between the closed book so as to not lose the page and cup squashed in the same arm, he fiddled to reach out to the vintage field bag slinging over his shoulder.

Finally, through the dishevelled strands of hair obstructing his vision, he managed to open the bag and get a hold of his phone from inside it. Switching it on, he pondered. It couldn't have been that long. Alas, when the screen lit up showing highlighted numbers of 7:28 pm, well, he was shocked (and glad there wasn't any matcha in his mouth, for he would have most definitely spit it out).

And, it hit him that he was late.

It wasn't much of a surprise that he would overstay past his intended time here in the library. But today was an important day.

He had ordered a record player a few months back and he was fluttering on the inside with a little spark. He'd counted down the days until it would arrive, smiling wide as he crossed down each day approaching it, and promised himself early this morning that he'd come and read only for a little bit, then easily go home before 7 pm so he would be there when the precious package was delivered.

Music was a big part of his life, of course. It helped him write, helped him imagine. Helped to dream a little more. And maybe he could even go as far as to say it was like fuel to him. The idea of his suited songs played on the vinyl was enough to excite him.

With widened eyes, he quickly shoved the phone back in, then flustered, taking steps towards the door. He was excited– sure, but he couldn't help and felt a little more doubtful and wary of the delicate player being properly delivered than gently held in his safe arms. It was expensive to say the least (top of the line and yada yada) and although it wasn't his yet, he already deemed it to be his precious possession.

On a normal day, warm, slanted rays of the sun would reflect on his face through the glass windows as he stepped from behind the cover of the thick shelves– but today was gloomy. A thick, dark blanket of clouds was spread across the sky, leaving no place for sunlight to pass through.

With having completed the satisfaction of saying a goodbye! to the store owner — Miss Akane, a kind and eccentric old woman who Harry had gotten quite close to after tasting a lot of her homemade sweets — he strode towards the door, skillfully pushing it open against the windy, mildly chilly air.

And that was when Harry realised that he really needed to hurry.

It was true when he thought today was going to be a rainy day. It'd be only a matter of a few seconds before the scent of wet mud would linger in the air. He walked quickly on the trail towards the mountain side, relaying one last glance to the line of shops. Harry usually caught sight of a few people walking down the street but it seems as though everyone knows that the weather is going to be stormy. He'd grown accustomed to the view by now, having moved to the countryside just a few years prior.

The fitted burgundy coloured chequered pants covering his legs, flared and shifted tightly against his calves, while his torso carried a very lovely sage-green vest, all bundled along with his bookbag tucked underneath his overcoat, effectively shielding him and his possessions from the heavy breeze and potential rain.

As he saw the soil being gradually dotted with raindrops and the plants around him weighing down with the trickling water, he knew it was even more important to reach home fast.

——-

Harry's footsteps become more sunken, the trail having become mucky and threateningly prone to little puddles as he nears his cottage. The rain races with increased velocity, the sound of it hitting the ground and rumbles of thunder providing a soundtrack to the activities and errands of his current life.

Harry reaches close to home, and he had initially thought he would rush in and worry himself, examining the much awaited wet box, because the past few deliveries he had got weren't very considerately delivered. He thought it would be sitting out, left in the harsh rain.

But really, he's confused.

He brings up his hand, the tip of his finger swiping out a drop of rain that clung to his eyelash, already squinted eyes straining even more as if to make sure what he saw through the rain was reality.

Instead of seeing a drenched parcel, he finds someone sitting on his partially covered porch, her hazy gaze fixed on the entwined hands in her lap. The light, pastel amethyst coloured shirt she's wearing grows the slightest bit transparent — not entirely soaking through, but sleeves wet enough to loosely cling onto her body — the expanse covering her torso accentuating her collarbone region. Her hair sticks to the side of her forehead, cheekbones glistening under the influence of the rain. Eyelashes frame her profile from the view he's provided with, cheeks seeming hollow like she bites down on them. A coat is draped over some large box on the right, evidently wanting to keep whatever it was dry.

She certainly doesn't seem like a delivery person, the lack of a uniform making it clear that a courier was not what she was, only adding to Harry's confusion.

Hm?

The little shade up front does little to barricade the rain as it slants towards her, the entire scene looking like her mere presence was magnetic to the forces of nature.

The ideas of why she was here and what his reply would be start noting through his head like pieces of paper being crumpled with each possibility that came up, clearly hesitant in the conversation that he already started in his head. Licking his lips, he readies himself to speak. What should he say?— the lack of socialising with new people peeking through the flurry of jumbled words projecting in his mind.

He gulps, moving closer until he's at a good distance from her, pace slowing down distinctively as his heels dig into the soft ground below. Finally, he musters up the courage to speak, inhaling and exhaling before flicking off a chocolate coloured curl that weighed onto his face, curtaining his vision. "H-hi."

The girl's figure immediately perks up, a sharp intake of breath drawn past her lips, clearly taken by surprise as her face snaps up to him. Her irises have a wild essence in them, widening as they meet his own & flickering around, taking in his features before spewing words of her own, "Oh! Hi."

She clears her throat, posture now becoming straighter, her right hand comes up to toy with a crystal pendant adorning her neck. "Uh," she flustered innocently, confused while forming her question, "Do you live here?" Her body turns completely towards her right, eyes effectively focused on the door of the cottage, giving Harry an obvious reference. Her voice is low & fragile, with woven delicacy as if she's afraid that if she gets louder, it might break glass. Harry's sure that if it was any softer, it would've been completely muted out by the echoing roars of the colliding clouds.

Harry's eyes follow her line of sight, nodding his head at her questioning, "I... I do, yes. Can I help y'with something?" He adds on in the end with sincerity & curiosity edging his tone, still comprehending her sweet voice and sudden presence. He hardly got guests, and if he did, they were mostly his family flying out on occasions to see him. But they too dropped in once in a blue moon. He was, let's just say, deep within an area of solitude. So he was more than shocked when he found someone he'd never known quite literally sitting at his doorstep.

There's a moment of silence in their conversation, giving Harry's gaze enough time to wander off & examine the object placed beside her. The jacket had ridden up at the side, a tiny sliver of the picture plastered over the box making his eyebrows knit the slightest bit.

The girl, whose eyes are mostly just fixated on Harry, immediately notices and clicks out of the dazed dream as she fumbles through the blurry rain, "Oh, right!"

Harry observes as she peeps out, standing to her height, hands already beginning to unveil the surprise under the full of her jacket, which's outer surface is glistening with the water, while the inner remains dry.

"I think... this is yours?" Her voice tilts in pitch nearing the end of her sentence, questioning him with unknown facts once Harry's eyes land on a package with a familiar picture stamped on.

He remembers the same photograph that was displayed on the online site he ordered his turntable from, a light beige colour coating the artistic marvel. With the stickered details of his address pinned up top, the edges of the box had become a little moist and worn out, but overall in good condition.

His features contort to realisation, "Oh— oh, yeah! Thank you s'much." He says with a heart full of gratitude & sudden confusion, stepping closer to finally land on the wooden shaft of the porch and scurry beside her.

She sheepishly nods at the acknowledgement, busying herself to pick it up, the box seeming entirely too large for her arms to hold. Harry quickly swoops in while giving her a soft, grateful look, enough to not evade her personal bubble, but assist her as he quickly supports it from the other side. Her lips tug slightly at the edges, the moment giving her time to take in the ringlets of hair that stick to his forehead and making her smile subconsciously grow the tiniest bit wider as he retrieves it completely.

"I was actually just passing by here when the delivery guy happened to catch me, and assumed that I lived here. I tried to tell him— really — but he was in a rush and he... just kept it and left," she rambles, managing to sneak a quiet smile in there, the cold shaft of wind making her shudder for a moment.

There's a moment of hesitancy, the slightest second of silence wallowing in the air as she collects her words and gathers to deliver him information that might ease his apparent confusion.

"I didn't want to leave it like that 'cause it seemed pretty important. I knocked again but nobody answered, so I only stayed to make sure it was alright until someone came by." Her voice decreases in amplitude as her sentence progresses, speaking shyly as her irises stutter on Harry's frame for a second too long. Explaining the entire situation to the best of her abilities while still tripping over her sentences, Harry offers no response because, well...

What the fuck?

Harry is... at a loss for words, to put it simply.

She did all that? For a simple parcel? For him?

Initially, he'd thought she was waiting there for some help she might need. Then again, everything that had happened was all a jumbled mess in his head — the thoughts in his mind unclear to himself. He didn't know what he was expecting when he arrived and saw her in the first place.

But, she was just so sweet. The entire thought was so incredibly kind, and— it just swelled his heart with so much joy and gratitude. A lot of people have helped him throughout his life, but nobody has ever been this sweet or innocently considerate. He's just on cloud nine with the idea of being worthy of all that, with no part of his brain telling him how to react.

He thinks that among the pouring rain and rumbling chaos, he had the honour of encountering a literal angel.

When he doesn't respond immediately, worry quickly fills her eyes, "I-I'm sorry if it's not what I should've done, I just thought..."

"No, no! Not at all! I jus—" He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, dissipating her worries as she visibly releases a breath. Adoration swimming through his irises, a butterfly induced feeling fills his tummy when he catches her wistful gaze drifting into the window of his soul.

The rain danced like spray, buzzing off the wooden roof & echoing through his ears, the sound of some drops sharper than the other- growing clearer and heavier by the second like the rhythm of his heart. The wind murmured to the trees, a whirring accompanying the puddles that began to plink with the hammering intensity of the rain, almost pleading him to say something— anything.

"That's just s'sweet of you. Thank you so much. You didn't have to do that, but y'did. And 'm so, so sorry I made y'wait out here..."

He is filled with gratitude but he also feels terribly guilty. It was because of him that she had to wait out for so long. It was chilly out and to be sitting out for that long under the icy weather, a sniffle would surely rift into a full blown cold. It's now that he notices the goosebumps trailed along her skin as she crosses both her arms in front of her chest in an effort to keep warm.

"No, don't worry! It's– it's okay. Really." She spares maybe a second of full eye contact with him, giving him a soft smile on catching the praises before casting off her gaze, focusing on the mucky shoes covering her feet as the droplets trickling off it caught the light. "The rain's quite pretty anyway."

Harry offers her an easy (but still regretful) smile at that. It was nice of her to try and console him even through small sentences.

"And... you like vinyls?" she converses curiously once her hands are free again, standing still with her fingers intertwined in her front once again. Harry can't help but wonder if it's a nervous tick she has, and he also can't help but smile a little at the thought, cherishing how he does the same sometimes.

"Yeah, jus' have some kind of charm, y'know?" The words just slip through his mouth like he's talking to himself, stifling his beam as his face drops to face the ground for a second, the faintest dimples indenting the apple of his cheeks and a simmer of warmth reaching them as he gives it his best to not crack into a fit of smiles. "Do y'like 'em?" He looks back at her.

The attempt at making his excitement subdued instils a kind of joy across her face, a honey swept tone coating her words as she replies, "Oh, yeah! Been wanting to get one for myself actually, but they're pretty expensive. Promise I wasn't stealing yours though." She chuckles a little easier now, knuckling at her eyes as a drop of water seems to latch onto her eyelid.

"I believe you. And trus' me, I've been saving up for it for months now, so y'not alone." He reciprocates her laugh, keeping it casual, but his mind internally goes through a shot of excitement.

"It's no–" she starts, a loud streak of thunder rumbling much too loud, cutting off the conversation as her widened eyes flit off to wander in the distance. Harry mimics her actions, the noise enough to demand anyone's attention. Her lips part at the loud sound, teeth digging into the plushy lower one, while the thinnest crease of worry lines her forehead. "But, um, I think I should probably head back now. The rain is only getting worse..."

It's now Harry's turn to worry, concerned because the last thing he could ever want for anyone is to walk back during a growling, full-blown thunderstorm. "Are y'sure? You're most welcome to come in..." he trails off, feet trudging against the cold floorboard as he shuffles towards the door, "It looks pretty bad out there. Y'can wait here until it calms down— only if you're comfortable, of course." He adds the last part quickly, speaks with sincerity- a genuine request on his part. And honestly, it's the least he can do. He knows that it was after all, her choice to wait here, but he still feels shitty knowing that he could have reached earlier and avoided her from all this trouble.

Her gaze is still downcast, an expression emulating the ghost of a smile, seeming like she's mulling over the options in her head, while her hands work to wriggle the coat back on her shoulders. "Oh no, it's fine! I love looking at the interior of houses —" she looks back at him with a breathy smile and a bit of hope arises in Harry, wishing she'd say yes so he would have some company- even if it was only for some time. She continues, "— But I really don't mean to intrude. Thank you though," she continues with a soft gaze, an apologetic undertone lacing her words.

His heart deflates when she declines his offer, the slight tug of his lips dulling only the slightest bit, yet understanding that it was her choice based on what she felt would be safe for her, but he hates to think that she'd feel like a burden if she were to stay.

"Please, you won't be intruding in the slightest. Honestly, s'the least I can do. Please feel free to come in, it's no trouble at all. Again, I'm so, so sorry." All he really hoped was that he could spend even a little time with her because he knew there was a possibility that he would likely never meet her again. But, if she felt it was safer to go her own way, he would respect that, of course, and just continue to think back to the small conversation they once had.

She laughs a little louder now, surprisingly to Harry as if enthralled by the amount of gratefulness and (un)necessary apologies he smothers her with, "Hey," she whispers, "I waited here voluntarily, so you really don't need to apologise."

His internal sorrow evades a bit when she makes an effort to lighten his mood, the tiniest blush threatening to creep up his cheeks.

"I know, 'm sorry—"

"Oops, there you go again."

"—Shit. I promise, I didn't mean to. I'm so so—"

"Sorry?" She completes for him, grinning like Harry's done the cutest thing and in fact– giggles. Proper giggles.

Can you believe that?

And if Harry couldn't take his mind off her presence, he surely can't now, wondering what he's done to have the honour of hearing the sound bless his ears. It's pouring, raining like cats and dogs, but this conversation takes him to a place of happiness where he imagines the sun would shine with the warmest, most yellow & buttery orange tinged glow. He just met her for stars' sake— he doesn't even know her name! But... he knows that he likes being the reason she laughs. He likes making people laugh in general, some kind of satisfaction hiding deep in his own smile when they break into laughter, but he reckons she was just much sweeter to witness.

Agh. He's such a sap, he knows... but he still means every word. Besides, it's in the safety of his mind, it's okay.

"Yeah... that." He bites his lip, hoping she wouldn't catch him avoiding her gaze. "Y'sure you'll be okay?"

"I'll be okay," she hums low, words drowning in the sound of the thunder as it penetrates through the grey clouds once again. Buttoning up the most part of her coat and descending down the porch, she shoots him a smile, a small 'bye!' accompanying her actions of waving at him.

"Bye! Please be careful!" he adds on. It felt strange. He didn't want to say goodbye. The conversation hadn't for a minute felt forced and it's... something he hasn't experienced in a long time. He wished it would last longer.

"I will, thank you! It was really nice meeting you!" He watches as her figure teeters down the clearing that led to his house, looking back at him from over her shoulders.

"You too," Harry mutters, a smile taunting his lips at the sight of her doing the same all while prancing about in the rain. But as she leaves his line of sight, he wonders. Would they ever even meet again? A sigh escapes through his mouth, the slopes of his shoulders softening with a pout that stretches across his face. And oh, he even forgot to ask her her name. It was too late to do that now. It'd just be plain weird if he ran out in the rain and startled her for a silly question.

So he's a bit bummed. Still, he's glad that he even had the chance to encounter her.

Turning around with bitten lips after successfully manoeuvring the package so he could hold it comfortably in one arm, he shuffled to reach for his key, pulling it out and swiftly unlocking the door. As soon as he steps in, his senses are waded through by the pillowy warmth of his house, lofting with the homely smell of cinnamon and vanilla. It's nice to be able to come to such a lovely home everyday, and he's so grateful for that. Water drops drip down his clothes, pit-pattering against the wooden floors. A thud noise resonates through the room as he shuts the door, the cold ruffles of wind effectively shut out while keeping the toasty atmosphere inside undisturbed. A little fireplace decorates the corner of the generously sized living room, green plants sitting across the window panes that are curated with occasional flowers here and there. The sheer curtains don't do much to cover the view of the rustic French windows, earthly tears trickling down the glass as he gazes through the fluid stillness upon the field outside– the one that's usually bright and green but now runs dark & deep with water, the attire of raindrops looking like serrations of lines cutting through the wind.

He's quick to discard his drenched coat, opting to hang it on the hook beside the dark ocher coloured console that stands in the foyer-like entryway, carefully placing the box on the cabinet. Littered throughout the pastel coloured walls were various delicately framed paintings– most of which he had made, and some being his versions of the works of Van Gogh (big fan he was)-- all very special, having given him some kind of inspiration to write in the past.

Running a heavy hand through his hair, he shook his head, the rebellious drops of water splattering into the air. Stumbling to the middle of the room, he all but threw himself on the feathery hold of his couch. Melting into the softness instantly, his posture relaxes, as the brown of his bag- a stark contrast to the beige of the couch lands with a splat beside him. Eyes closing ceremoniously once his head rests on the top of the couch, the pad of his fingers rub the inner corners of his eyelids. Realising he has contacts on, he frowns and stops, also thanking his past self for wearing contacts– the rain would've just fogged up his glasses and he preferred to know where he was walking. Plus, he would've not seen her very properly and that indeed would've been a pity.

Deciding that the itchiness was probably a sign for him to remove his contacts, he lifts himself off the couch and makes his way towards the bathroom.

It's just as Harry's removed his first lens that he jolts at the sound of the doorbell. With half blurry vision, all the more confusion sparkling through his veins and messier-than-ever-hair, his lips part. A second later he scurries to the front door. Opening it up the slightest, he swears his heart drops to his stomach. He can't see all that well but when the familiar voice calls out to him again, he can't help but smile at the knowledge of who it is.

"Is that offer of yours still up?"

Harry's never been happier for having a problem with time, and greeting a kind girl at his front door through blurry vision and unruly hair.

————

"Have you really made all of these paintings? They're... beautiful." It makes Harry's heart hurt at the enthusiasm Y/N shows for something he does. That's another he's learned, the sweet girl's name is Y/N. It suits her really well, he realises.

"Yeah, s'all me," he shyly smiles, setting the mug of chamomile tea down on the centre table in front of her. She's sat on his couch, a blanket wrapped around her form to keep extra toasty although she'd declined the offer in favour of the room already being warm enough. But Harry had insisted and pulled out his favourite, fluffiest blanket.

"More than beautiful actually, they're just— you're really talented." She gushes, shifting her gaze from the acrylic pieces hung on the wall to the tea now placed in front of her, accompanied with a soft whisper of an oh, thank you.

"'M glad you think so." His stifled smile stretches wider on his cheeks, little indents beginning to form a dip in them, "I think, art is just so fun to do. Being able to express yourself in paintings, music, film, and of course, writing. Words are so incredible." His voice considerably lowers as he progresses, realising how he's started to rant a bit.

"Oh," Y/N gazed at him fondly, amusement tinting her eyes, "So, I've somehow managed to stumble in the home of a young, mysterious artist - in the middle of the fields - while there's a beautiful storm raging outside, then?"

"You make me sound way cooler than I am," he laughs silently, fiddling with his rings, "that is a cute idea for a novel though."

"It is cool. Maybe I'll become a writer one day just to write about this."

"I'll join you. Co-writers we'll be," he gleamed at her, the hidden knowledge that he could very well begin plotting a novel at this very moment shucked to the back of his head.

"That would be perfect."

—————

The storm brewed the entire night but eased off by early morning, the night spent with soft words exchanged, and conversations that flowed like the streams of rivers outside. Harry swears he felt genuinely the happiest he had felt in a while.

He also would admit that he quite enjoyed when just before Y/N left, he revealed he was a writer himself. She blushed, jaw dropped because she had been prattling on and expanding on the 'Mysterious Artist in The Mountains' arc, in a pretty... amateur way she had said.

"Well," she giggled, trying to hold a serious face, "Mr. Styles, I shall take your leave. Now that I am presented with the information that you are a wonderful writer by profession, I expect thy to write some poetry about me the next time we meet."

"You should certainly expect it," he played along, bowing to her slightly.

"God, no, I'm joking," she laughed back, "but it really was nice to meet you, Harry. Thank you for everything." Gathering her belongings in one arm, she moved to stand at the threshold of the front door, Harry's presence following behind her.

She was just so sweet, Harry thought. Her smile bought with it something so honey like, a warm ray of light engulfing the room— and the sparkle in her eyes, kindness. She was beautiful too. The kind of beauty that wasn’t so conventional, more so the beauty that came with love that you simply had to have grown in with each second spent together.

"T'was a pleasure meeting you too, m'lady." He continued, a sweet smile still coating his face as he guided her out. (And although she was joking about the poetry, Harry had begun thinking of the same idea before she even proposed it.) Y/N simply reciprocated his expression, silence between them while the birds chirped in the back now that the rain had cleared out.

"Hope to meet you again… soon." She added quickly in the end and looked up to him with a glee in her eyes, speaking softly, “Bye, Harry."

A sense of déjà vu took over as he remembered the scene similar to the one he experienced a few hours back.

"Take care, love," he said, beaming when he saw her walk down the porch and look over her shoulder, excited for when they’d plan to spend more time together.

Except this time, he would happily declare that he knew her name too.

————

SOO, here is writer harry!! honestly, I started out with this piece like months ago and only finished it recently lmsiehdsjhs and I wasn’t sure if I should post it, but here we gooo :(( very soft vibes, I think. writer h is just like that.

thank you ever so much for reading :(( I really really hope you enjoyed!! <333

read more of my work on my masterlist! see you on the other side ;)

#maybe I’ll follow up with a part 2???#also the ending seems so half assed I’m sorry sheushjs #anyway just thank you SOOO much for reading :(#my writing #Harry styles writing #harry styles one shot #Harry styles x reader #Harry styles x yn #Harry styles fluff #writer harry styles #artist Harry styles #Harry styles blurb #soft harry #harry fluff #sushistyless #mist #strangers to lovers

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theuntitledblog · 3 months

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Batman Begins (2005) - REVIEW

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There are some cinematic experiences that expand and influence your cinematic horizons and stay with you for years to come and for me Batman Begins was one of those experiences. Having been raised in the late 80's and 90's, my only exposure to Batman was through the Tim Burton movies and the subsequent Joel Schumacher sequels that killed off the series at that time.

So my expectations of Batman and what the character could be was heavily influenced by those movies. So when Batman Begins arrived in 2005, it was an eye opening experience in every way possible. Yes it had darkness but gone was the gothic and cartoonish visuals of those previous movies and instead a gritty, realistic world where it felt that Batman could actually exist was presented to us. But the most surprising and welcoming thing to me was that Christian Bale's Bruce Wayne actually felt like he was the centre of his own movie and not overshadowed by the villain(s). You never get the sense that Christopher Nolan was in a rush to get Batman on screen or move from one action set piece to another. Instead he took care to depict not the just the Wayne tragedy and its immediate impact but also the lifelong pain that would almost push him to commit murder before moving onwards to become a superhero. In any other director's hand, the 1 hour wait for Batman to finally turn up would feel like a detriment, but here it's masterfully judged and the moment packs a powerful punch when it does happen.

Nolan's Batman is grounded in a sense of realism not seen before not just when it comes to Batman himself but also Gotham City. The storytelling is elegant with the flashback sequences as they explore Wayne's origin while at the same time reveals more of Gotham that he grew up in, escaped from and later vows to confront. The Gotham we see here is a far cry from the gothic monolith we saw in the Burton films but the scale of corruption is laid bare. From the assassination of Joe Chill, the corrupt cop Arnold Flass to the confrontation with Carmine Falconi, this is a world filled with many challenges and enemies for Bruce Wayne to overcome and for us the journey for Bruce to becoming Batman feels both dangerous and essential.

Much like the character work, Nolan takes just as much care to construct this version of Batman with the suit and various gadgets made to look practical as much as it does intimidating. From the moment Bale snarls "I'm Batman" to Tom Wilkinson's Falconi, the film switches into another gear as Wayne finally launches his war against organised crime in Gotham and its definitely is a feel good moment. When it comes the villains, one of my biggest takeaways from the Burton/Schumacher movies was that the villain(s) seemed to overshadow the hero ... but not here. Batman Begins (like the subsequent sequels) utilises several villains including two who I had never heard of before in Scarecrow and Ra's al Ghul. Cillian Murphy's Scarecrow and Liam Neeson's Ra's al Ghul were hardly scene stealers in the way that Jack Nicholson or Jim Carrey were but they succeeded in supporting the story being told here but with Bale's Bruce Wayne/Batman remaining the star of the show.

If there is one thing that hasn't aged quite as impressively over time is the shooting of the action sequences. For me they're too close up, too shaky and hard to see at times although the extended chase sequence with the Tumbler is definitely a highlight with Hans Zimmer's thunderous score elevating things further. Does it significantly hurt the film? Absolutely not because the action sequences do achieve what's required even if they're not as refined as sequences from other films of the genre. Yet Batman Begins is a blockbuster that never feels defined by its action sequences but rather by its characters, themes and story.

In 2005 I sat in bewilderment watching a film about Bruce Wayne and empathising with his pain, moved by the close relationship he forged with Michael Caine's Alfred, respected the integrity of Gary Oldman's Jim Gordon while enjoying the Bond/Q like relationship with Morgan Freeman's Lucius Fox. I walked out of the cinema in 2005 completely blown away by Batman Begins as it swept away whatever expectation I had of what I thought a Batman movie was or could be. It was so much more; thematically complex, intelligent and satisfying than anything I was expecting. The tagline for the 1978 Superman movie was "You'll Believe a Man Can Fly", with Batman Begins you will believe a man can become and be Batman.

VERDICT

Batman Begins is and remains what I consider to be the standard for what all great Batman movies can be.

5/5

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nobodyimportant41 · 8 months

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Bo Burnham's legacy challenge

(God, wth im writing)

Ehm- yeah...i was looking inspo for another legacy challenge on my spotify when i realized that i basically only hear Argentinan or Uruguayan music...and i'm pretty sure that here not many people known them- So i decided to go for Bo's songs!

And yeah, if you for some reason think about it, it was also inspired by "Perspective of god" ("you're not my children, you're a bad game of sims")

WARNING:

If you heard Bo's songs, you will know that there are some "spicy" or not kid friendly topics, so, if you're under 18 or sensitive, you may not read this one.

General rules:

Heirs don't have to ressemble their song with their name, but you can do it if you want

No cheats unless it for storytelling purposes

You can play in any lifespan, but i recommend playing it in normal

The order of the generations is for storytelling purposes, not their release order

If you don't have a certain pack, you can change some goals for the most similar

Packs:

Ep: Be famous (gen 1,2,7 and 8), Highschool years (gen 2), Cats and dogs (gen 6), City living (gen 7 and 10/2), Get together (gen 7), Snowy escape (gen 10/1)

Gp:Parenthood (gen 3)

Sp: Movie night stuff (gen 8), paranormal (gen 5)

Gen 1; Repeat stuff:

Story:You were always good looking,so, you grew up without problems since everything was made from others for you! But, as an adult you realize that because you didn't did anything, you don't KNOW anything... so you decide to go for a singer way! The only thing that matters is that your hot, right?

Traits:

Self centred

Lazy

Music lover

Goals:

Complete the musical genius aspiration

Max the entertainment career (musician branch)

Max the piano and singing skills

Leave someone at the altar

Record at least 5 romantic songs

Woohoo with the grim reaper at least once

Gen 2; white woman's instagram:

Story: Being the kid of one of the most famous singers in the simnation, OF COURSE that you wanted to follow that path of having a "perfect life!" After all, the only hard part will be convince your spouse to take some selfies with you...

Traits:

Self centred

Mean

High mantience

Goals:

Complete the world famous celebrity aspiration

Become a simfluencer

Max the photography and charisma skills

Marry someone you hate

Use social media at least once a day

Gen 3; 1985:

Story:Your parents didn't loved eachother, but your parent's (gen 2) followers thought the exact opposite. Thats why you always preferred your other parent since they were a lot more honest; maybe too much..

As a young adult, your biggest dream is having kids and mostly, educate them!

Traits:

Family oriented

Perfeccionist

Neat

Goals:

Complete the super parent aspiration

Max the parenting and cooking skill

Be a stay at home parent

Have at least 3 kids and became friends with all of them

Only use the strict options to disipline your kids

Gen 4; Lower your expectations:

Story: Your parent always told you that you weren't able to date until they passed away which were very tragic news for you; How are you getting married with that?! At least when you were a kid, you had to only conform with writing romance books... but as a rebelious teen, you thought of dating your crush, it was only a little secret that will never be revealed, right?...

Traits:

Romantic

Creative

High maintenance

Goals:

Complete the soulmate aspiration

Max the charisma and writing skills

Work as a freelance writer

Have at least 5 partners, but break up with all of them, since they aren't perfect like you would like

Get married and see your first spouse die

Marry your soulmate as an elder

Gen 5;K!ll yours3lf:

Story: Your parent always told you about how "bad" their partners were, so you started thinking that people were cruel by nature (except for you, or at least that was what you said) so you started reading about occults and you REALLY liked it! You even decided that, for when you were an adult, you will EVEN interact with people! Not because you liked them, but because you wanted to ghosthunt in people's houses!

Traits:

Loner

Mean

Erratic

Goals:

Complete the master of mischief aspiration

Max the paranormal and mischief skills

Work as a paranormal investigator

Live your whole life in a haunted house

Your only friend AND spouse must be a ghost

Live as a ghost after passing away

Gen 6; Poems:

Story: Since you were a young kid you knew your social life was quite dead since you were born because, well...one of your parents is a ghost and the other one is a freak who LOVES ghost... yeah..you knew that having friends was way too hard so you didn't even tried it; all you needed was a dog and a computer to write your... VERY original poems...

Traits:

Socially akward

Dog lover

Slob

Goals:

Complete the best seller author aspiration

Max the writing and pet training skills

Max the writer career (any branch)

When you unlock the option, ONLY write poems

Have at least two dogs

Gen 7; Welcome to the internet:

Story: You knew that you were considered a weird one, but, unlike your parent, you REALLY WANTED to be famous, so you decided that, as soon as you were able to, create a simtube account and upload your FANTASTIC vlogs about your amazing life and someday, show your classmates that you were an spectacular and perfect sim!

Traits:

Self centred

Outgoing

Goofball

Goals:

Complete the leader of the pack aspiration

Max the tech guru career (Esports player branch)

Max the video making and charisma skills

Have a celebrity club

Become at least a three stars celebrity

When you moved out of your house, never talk with your parent/s never again

Gen 8; Microwave popcorn:

Story: When you were a kid, you spend most of your time watching movies with popcorn in your hands. You couldn't help it but love it! After all, cooking and mostly acting were two thing that you loved!

As an adult, you could finally enter the acting career! It was thanks to your parents fame.. but you still wanted to become the next Judith Ward!

Traits:

Glutton

Ambicious

Slob

Goals:

Complete the master actor/actress aspiration

Max the acting career

Max the singing and acting skills

Gain the junk food lifestyle

Win at least three awards for your job

Gen 9; Whats funny:

(This is quite inspired by the pink gen of the Not so Berry challenge, so this gen is not 100% original!)

Story: You grew up in a quite conservative household, so you wanted to get married to a nice person and have beautiful children; you didn't cared about your job, you could work in a simple 9-5 office work to maintain them! Except, EVERYTHING went wrong, you ended up fighting everyday with your spouse, your kids were ungrateful and only cared about their partners and you didn't even cared anymore for your job, maybe you could try pursue your dream?

Traits:

Family oriented

Perfeccionist

Goofball

Goals:

Complete the jokestar aspiration

Work in the bussiness career but quit it after having your midlife crisis and then max the entertainment career (comedian branch)

Max the comedy skill

Get married and have twins

Max your relationship both of your kids

Gen 10; Left brain, Right brain:

Ok, to make this challenge more "special" i decided to do something quite weird; there are two "branches" of the last gen, in other words; you can choose if you want to play with the left brain or the right brain! (Or both, if you hate yourself)

Gen 10/1; Left brain:

Story: You always thought that your twin was quite a dumb one; they just wanted to play and watch hot people on tv all day! You wanted to be one in life, but there was so many things you wanted to do...but you will fight to have a family and a great job! You decided to move to Mt. Komorebi for your job; a salary person! Since you will LOVE to become a CEO! and also karaoke nights...

Traits:

Perfeccionist

Materialist

Genius

Goals:

Complete the fabulously wealthy aspiration

Max the salary person career

Max the singing and logic skills

Have at least one kid with all the positive character values

Marry someone in the following careers: Salary person, politician or business career

Gen 10/2;Right brain:

Story: You always thought that your twin was super cool! You didn't share much with them, but you admire how smart they were and mostly, they knew what they wanted while you...ehm...you only knew you wanted to become everybody's friend, but you didn't even know what you were going to work as...but you will figure it out!

Traits:

Childish

Romantic

Art lover

Goals:

Complete the city native aspiration

Work selling your paintings at home until becoming an adult and max the painter career (any branch)

Max the painting and charisma skills

Have max relationship with at least 5 persons (excluding your family) and become best friends with your twin

Have twins...twice

#legacy challenge #my sims #simblr #sims 4 gameplay #sims 4 legacy #the sims cc #the sims community #ts4 legacy #sims 4 #sims 4 screenshots #bo burnham #bo burnam inside #make happy #SpotifyAddMakeHappy

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misscammiedawn · 4 months

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Signed up to the library streaming site and put in London (1994). It's a documentary where the narrator returns to tumultuous London after being absent for 7 years. I'd seen a clip or two on but never the whole thing. It's pretty much 80 odd minutes of footage from day-to-day life in the city I grew up in during the time I grew up.

Fact is when we visited again in 2018 it weren't the same. Not really. The old shit's still old but the vibe is off. It ain't home anymore. The past is a country I can't hop a plane to and have a holiday in. A topic that funny enough the docu actually goes over with its own subject's memories of places which are no longer in the city when it was recorded.

I reckon London's just like that, though? Something about the ancient history of a city that has been alive so long you can still feel its pulse and the new and old mingle so seamlessly that it haunts you with its familiarity juxtaposed with its strangeness. Like an old friend you've not seen for decades. The voice has changed, the way they carry themselves is different, the light in the eyes ain't the same but the eyes themselves are. Eff knows I know that well. I grew up noting the scar tissue of The Blitz, still apparent in where history was wiped out in an explosion and you see Edwardian structures and modern chic glass monoliths protruding like new growth in an ancient specimen.

Makes me feel even more of an expat to know the London I grew up in only exists in film. For better or worse I grew up a stones throw from "Cardboard City" the homeless settlement which is now home to the UK's biggest IMAX. My home was within the grimey nostalgia of a piss soaked graffiti stained city. It was just second nature-- as was the constant threat of IRA bombs.

I don't think I miss the messy old piss and cigarettes of the town I grew up in. Not really. But I identify with it. Call it home.

I think London just has that effect on people.

I don't glorify that shit. Na, on the contrary, I recognize it was a small hell that's been sanitized as best it could be. But I feel at home with the imperfections. It's kinda making me a tad homesick, y'know?

To take a touch to actually sit with that and kind of think about why this docu catches bits of the place in my memory that I can't see even walking down those same streets I wanted to go through the film and take a couple screenshots of places I'd been to in my childhood that show up and show them in the film versus how they look on Google Street Maps today. See that vibe change I mentioned.

Movie on the left, Google on the right.

Vauxhall Park

Brixton Market

Spitalfields Market

Elephant and Castle

and ...Fuck...

I had no idea they took down The Elephant. This is legit how I'm finding out about it. I clicked about to see when it happened and get a shot with the elephant statue to prove it was the right spot. Here's an image from 2020 with the shopping centre and statue still standing.

My memory is in locations. I close my eyes and I see places. That damned area is always with me. I can still see the giant billboard for 1994's The Mask next to the old swimming pool that used to be there. I remember before I even left England seeing a social media post about the frog slide being tossed in a skip and people of the area mourning a childhood memory.

Guess it all has to go in the end. Elephant just got wrecked. First with the big bougie flats then the Heygate Estate getting taken down and I guess the old shopping centre's gone too, ey?

And so it goes.

But yeah, the photography in the film was gorgeous and caught a slither of a world condemned to the past. To quote the movie "There is no town in the world which is more adapted for training one away from people and training one into solitude than London." She raised me and part of me will always be there, wandering the halls of the Elephant and Castle Shopping Centre; a place that can only possibly exist in memories.

Anyway-- that's a big ole wander down memory lane. I love my city. One day I'll see her again.

#craig posting #london #the second constant #personal

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super-unpredictable98 · 2 years

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I Put a Spell on You (Misfits x Hocus Pocus Crossover)

Word Count: 2k Warning: Strong language, mention of death a/n: Here's my first contribution to @sheehalloween 2022. I hope you all understand I grew up watching this movie in Portuguese and only just recently watched the original, so I have no idea how to write the 1600s English the Sanderson sisters speak lol

(Masterlist)

"I don't see how this is any different from the Community Centre party," Nathan grumbled, hating that unfamiliar feeling from being so far away from home.

"What do you mean? You don't see a difference between a party at the Wertham Community Centre and a party in Salem? The city of witch trials?" Lydia laughed.

That year, she had the idea to take the gang to America so they could celebrate Halloween in style. As fun as the parties were back home, there's nowhere else in the world that takes the holiday as seriously as the USA.

Kelly, Nikki, and Curtis didn't really adhere to the dress code, simply wearing dark makeup and clothes instead of a proper costume.

On the other hand, Simon and Alisha were dressed as Lloyd and Yor Forger, his idea mostly because he wanted to see his wife in that black dress.

Lydia and Nathan were dressed as Fran Bow and Itward from the game he had never played, but more often than not, he would accept whatever costume his wife wanted him to wear.

"Well, I suppose you'd rather do something else then?" Lydia asked. "We could hit a double feature of some old horror films, if you really want to we can try trick or treating..."

"No! We do this every year. Let's find a haunted house, not one with scare actors and shit, a real one! We're in Salem, there must be a real haunted house somewhere!"

"No way, you'll get there and you'll totally shit yourself," Curtis laughed.

"You're the biggest chicken here, you'll just run away and leave us there," Kelly agreed.

"Me?" Nathan screamed, extremely offended. "I ain't scared! I wanna see a real ghost!"

"Don't you see real ghosts all the time?" Simon asked.

"Fine, y'twat! Then I wanna see a real werewolf! A real vampire! A real witch!"

Right then, a pair of teenagers rushed into the venue. They all looked a mess and were absolutely terrified.

"Everyone! Everyone! Cut the music, it's an emergency!" The girl jumped on stage and grabbed the microphone from the vocalist of the band that had been playing. "We have a serious warning! You are all in danger!"

"Fire! Is there a fire?" Alisha looked around.

"Three hundred years ago, the Sanderson Sisters used to bewitch people, now they're back from the grave! The legend isn't a legend, it's real! This boy lit up the black flame candle at the house in the forest, and he's a virgin! I know it sounds dumb, but it's true!"

"He's a virgin? What a loser, am I right?" Nathan snorted.

Nobody was taking the group seriously, but to be fair it all seemed like a bit they planned, like some sort of skit.

"What are they talking about?" Curtis asked.

"The legend of the Sanderson sisters, they say three witches were killed centuries ago during the witch trials for eating the souls of children to stay young. They cursed the town with a prediction that said they would come back to life for one night if a virgin lit up the black flame candle," Lydia explained. "I read about it in the brochure, did nobody read the brochure?"

"You have to listen to us!" The boy, allegedly the virgin who lit the candle, took the microphone. "They're coming for your kids, no one is safe. They are brewing a potion to steal their souls! They're right there!"

"These kids are hilarious," Nate chuckled.

To corroborate the idea that it was all an act, the lights flickered and everyone cheered as three middle-aged women parted their way through the crowd. They wore elaborate dresses and makeup, the youngest was a beautiful blonde, the middle one was a clumsy brunette, and the oldest had red hair and huge teeth like a rabbit.

"Nate was wrong, this party is way better than the ones back home," Nikki clapped, entertained by the act.

"Thank you for the marvelous introduction," the red-headed one said before she started to sing the song that was playing before they arrived, I Put a Spell on You.

Everyone was laughing and having a great time, except for the poor teenagers and Lydia, who somehow felt like something was wrong. Nobody was that good of an actor, the kids were actually desperate.

"Don't listen to them! They're trying to bewitch you!" The boy pleaded, but it fell on deaf ears.

"Hello, Salem! My name is Winifred, what's yours?" The oldest witch climbed on stage, followed by her sisters.

"Nathan, do you smell something rotten?" Lydia asked.

"It wasn't me!" He held his hands up defensively.

"No, you wanker, like a dead body! We all know that smell quite well, ain't it?" She looked around and her stomach twisted when she spotted a real zombie chasing the teens around the party while everybody danced. "Oh shit, oh shit, they might be telling the truth, we gotta get out of here!"

"What? No, you're bein' paranoid, this is fun!" He insisted. "Tell me you're not believin' this hocus pocus... Aren't you a little too old to believe in witches?"

"We're superheroes! Everyone is chanting what this old lady is singing, don't you think this is a little weird?"

"Let loose, Lyds!" Simon giggled, looking like he was actually under some kind of spell. He was never that relaxed, ever, it just wasn't in the Bellamy nature. "Just dance with us!"

Meanwhile, on stage, the three witches were talking among themselves, planning their next move when Mary, the middle one, turned towards the audience with an evil lopsided grin as she sniffed something.

"Winnie! Winnie, I smell-"

"Children? Yes, you moron, there is a child right there! Now how do we snatch her?" Winifred elbowed her on the stomach.

"No! I smell... Immortality."

"Immortality?" Sarah, the youngest and prettiest one, gasped. "How come?"

"Oh fuck!" Lydia grabbed her husband's hand and made a run for the door, leaving the others wondering what had gotten into her.��

Seeing the young couple running away left it pretty clear to Winifred who was the immortal one they were smelling.

"Come on, sisters! After them!"

"Where are we even goin'? We don't know the town, we'll get lost," Nathan protested.

"Better to get lost than be eaten by witches! I refuse to have your pretty face fuel those old hags' youth potion."

"What are you saying about us?" Winifred drawled, riding just above them on her broomstick.

"Run!" Lydia cried, but it was hopeless. The witches were way faster flying than they were running.

When they reached a dead end, she started to think of a plan. She didn't have to outpower them, just outwit them. How hard could it be to bamboozle three women who died in the late 1600s?

"What happened to you? What made you cry blood?" Mary asked, taking Lydia's face and squishing it between her hands.

"Seeing your ugly faces!" She spat.

"Oh, how rude..."

The Fran Bow costume consisted of a yellow dress with a blue bow, a messy brown bob, a jar of red pills (which was actually her purse), and tears of blood staining her face aside from the fake blood covering her hands.

"Is the girl the immortal one?" Winifred asked.

"No, it's the gentleman, the nice gentleman behind this skeleton glamour," Mary said, referring to the makeup for the Itward costume.

"Can I play with him, Winnie?" Sarah giggled, jumping at the opportunity, her hands snaking under his blazer as she drew his gaze to her cleavage. "I love men with curly hair."

"So does my wife!" Nate yelped, not knowing how to react. "Look, you're cute, wouldn't push you off the bed, but I'm married," he flashed his wedding ring.

"That is not a problem, your wife doesn't need to know," she brought his hand to her chest and he quickly pulled it away, turning to check how angry Lyddie was.

"She already knows, I'm right here!" Lydia yelled.

"Is the immortal gentleman married to a child?" Sarah grimaced.

"I'm not a child, halfwit! I'm dressed as a child! I'm a grown woman!"

"They speak with interesting accents, Winnie," Mary pointed out. "Could they be travelers?"

"Actually we are! We are from England, from a dark horrible place called Wertham. The three of you don't scare me!" Lydia crossed her arms defiantly.

"Technically I'm from Ireland, but the point still stands," Nathan added quietly.

"Quit the chatter! You look thirsty, boy," Winifred held up a bottle with a smoking green liquid and tried to force it down Nathan's throat. "Just drink it, it'll be so much easier if you cooperate."

"He won't fucking cooperate! You're not gonna eat my husband!" Lyddie demanded. "You stupid old bitch!"

"Oh, quiet! Boooook!" The oldest witch called and a book with a leather cover and one eye flew into her hand. "Did you hear it, sisters? This foolish girl has no manners at all, I think we ought to correct her."

"How, Winnie? How?" Marry rubbed her hands together. "Can I kill her? She looks so plump, she must be tasty too..."

"And then I get to play with her widower!" Sarah added, bouncing in excitement.

"You bumbling idiots!" Winifred pushed the book against her sister's chest, nearly knocking her down. "Let us do to her what we did to the Binx boy, it worked so well the first time."

"You wanna turn me into an immortal cat?" Lydia winced. "Well, good fucking luck!"

"Twist the bones and break the back," she started.

"Itchita kupita melaka mystika..." the other two witches chanted.

Before Winifred could try to get the second part of the incantation out, Lydia punched her square in the jaw and Nathan simply watched it, marveled. It wasn't their first time dealing with supervillains and the solution was more often than not violent and simple.

The older witch fell with a screech and her sisters quickly rushed to help her up, muttering questions to make sure she was okay.

"You pest! Dirty harlot, how dare you?"

Winifred pointed her veiny hand at the girl and a flash of green lightning left the tips of her long, bony fingers, but before her spell could have any effect Lydia covered herself and Nathan in a force field. The magic bounced back and hit the caster like a gunshot.

"How d'you like that?" Nate taunted.

"The overgrown child is a witch too!" Sarah's eyes grew horrified.

"Yes! And the immortal warlock is already mine! Fuck off, you cunts!"

"Warlock?" She gasped.

"I- I'm a man witch, yeah, I totally am!" Nathan nodded, producing a bottle of water out of thin air and proceeding to drink it. "I'm like Harry Potter!"

"Harry Potter? I think we knew him, wasn't he the one who died in that barn fire when he tried to roast a little girl like a pig?" Mary whispered.

"The point is, sisters, he is one of ours. You can't hurt your own, it's... Unethical."

"Unethical? Unethical... What does unethical mean, Winnie?" She asked.

"Clearly it is some sort of word from their corner of the world, how am I supposed to know?" Winifred hissed.

"Unethical means it is morally wrong, you can't steal from another coven. We are already so few and rare to find, if you kill him for your potion, you are no better than the people who burned you at the stake!" Lydia proclaimed, still covering them with her thin blue field, scared of what they might do otherwise.

The three sisters looked at each other completely confused. Was she... Right? Besides, wouldn't it be easier to just collect a bigger number of children, who are defenseless and wouldn't fight back? It wasn't immortality, but-

"We were hung actually... That isn't important. How did you become immortal, boy?" Winifred asked finally.

"Oh, that was easy! I was struck by lightning," Nathan explained.

"Struck by lightning, I think we can do that. Book, show me a spell to conjure rain!"

While they were distracted by the idea to become immortal by other means, Nathan and Lydia ran the other way, escaping the dead end street and finding their friends waiting by the entrance where the Halloween party was.

"Where were you? We've been lookin' everywhere!" Kelly scolded.

"Sorry, we were nearly killed by witches, one of them wanted to turn me into a black cat and eat Nathan's soul!" Lyddie sighed, finally lifting their protection.

"Oh, I guess we've been in worse situations before," Simon shrugged.

"Definitely, this was nothing compared to the Virtue virgins," Alisha agreed.

"Or the crazy guy from the video game," Nikki held her fiancé's arm.

"Yeah, they were pretty stupid... Does anyone fancy a drink? Just nothing green please," Lydia groaned, followed by the others as she headed to a nearby pub, hoping the black flame candle would go out soon.

Tag List: @seanfalco @firstpersonnarrator @elliethesuperfruitlover

#misfits #misfits fanfic #nathan young #nathan young x oc #sheehalloween 2022 #hocus pocus #hocus pocus fanfic #crossover #one shot #robert sheehan character fic #robert sheehan fanfic #fanfic

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allisonreader · 2 months

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Story Idea; title Canadian Zed

A group of Saskatchewan kids make a band, calling it Canadian Zed.

They focus on Canadian-isms, particularly the west.

They write their own songs about particularly Canadian things, Saskatchewan things, events that they grew up with.

Most if not all are from Saskatoon and surrounding areas.

Will only cover songs that could be considered Canadian.

At least one went to school at both (redacted) and (redacted).

Perhaps one at Tommy Douglas, Walter Murray, Marion Graham, Henry Kelsey, Pleasant Hill, Caswell, Queen Victoria, ED Feean (mix of elementary and high schools)

Mix of boys and girls.

They don’t really stick to on genre country/folk/pop/rap/alternative/punk

None of them expect to make it big, who wants to hear a bunch of people sing about western Canada? Most likely not most people.

One of them First Nations or Métis

List of songs

Blizzard of ‘07 (The day the city shut down.)

Half way to Davidson

Just past Chamberlain

Bloody cold weather

Poutine, toques, and toboggans

Dry heat when it comes

Sweet home Saskatoon (Parody of sweet home Alabama.)

Making a name Canadian style

Saskatoon, the biggest city (in Saskatchewan)

Saskatchewan Phrases (from bunnyhugs to vi-co)

We got lakes

Manitou, Saskatchewan’s place to float (our one personal Dead Sea)

An ode to Gordie Howe

The confusing world of Canada

Identity crisis

Canada's boring history

When we fight

What the east wants (it gets)

Feeling forgotten

First Nations were here first

Paris of the prairies

Americans laugh at Saskatchewan's capital

Ditch the province (Alberta's the place to be, or at least it was)

Saskatoon berries

Gophers everywhere

Big names, Saskatchewan connection

New York is big... but this is Biggar

Moose Jaw has a connection to Al Capone

Saskatchewan Riders, Rush, and now Rattlers (bring your green)

Z(ed)

Not Justin Beiber's Sorry

The Bonanza burned down

No more eat in Pizza Huts

Midtown Plaza, The Centre, Confed, and Marketmall

Circle drive/ring road

Last ditch nice weather as fall changes

Pow wow days

Ribbon dresses and star blankets

Teepees are real, symbolisms behind them

Not Indians

Small towns

Metric rules, but we still use imperial too

Insulin is our jam

WWI hero

Canadian heritage moments

I wanna house hippo

Canadian seasons

Construction season

Cold season

Saskatchewan Riders, Rush, and now Rattlers (bring your green)

Before River Landing

Down at the Bez

oOo

Bring your green,

And let’s go to a game,

Bring your green,

And we'll make a sea,

Bring your green,

No, this isn’t about Canadian grammar, words, or pronunciation. It isn’t about how Canada is different from the USA or anything like that. This is a story about a band, group of us who decided that we wanted some more Saskatchewan influence in the world, and decided to name ourselves Canadian Zed, because a radio DJ referred to ZZ Top as Zed Zed Top, being the proper Canadian that he is, fully knowing that’s not the proper way to pronounce it. Though this isn’t a story about our formation either. This is our story of hoping to gain some audience in Saskatchewan and maybe the rest of Canada. We didn’t expect to make it big at all, and we’re not on a global scale, but we’ve found our place and rock it.

And cheer on your favourite team

oOo

#I found this in my email drafts and I had honestly forgotten all about it #it's just some extremely loose thoughts and vague brainstorming about this idea #I don't think I'd ever actually write it #especially not at this point if I even ever would have #I've never been particularly prone to writing stories that take place in the real world #I have always felt like I can get away with more in a fictional setting

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optikes · 3 months

Text

1 Shen Jiawei (b1948 Shanghai, China) Lives and works in Australia.

The Tower of Babel (2023) Mural, oil on canvas mounted on wooden boards. 90 panels, each panel size: 120 cm x 120 cm

2 Standing Guard for Our Great Motherland (1974)

ink on paper (reprinted 1975) 62.4x51.4cm

3 Pieter Breugel the Elder (c1525-1569) The Tower of Babel (c1563)

oil on wood panel 114×155 cm

A Professor Jing Han westernsydney.edu.au

Shen Jiawei, one of Australia’s best known master portraitists, was born and grew up in China. He was a well-established oil painting artist in China where his painting Standing Guard for Our Great Motherland (1974) became an icon…..

…..Shen’s masterpiece, Tower of Babel (2023), an epic artwork 20 years in the making that recreates an alternative art history of the 20th century by tracing the biggest movement of all: the International Communist Movement. The whole work consists of 90 panels, with remixes of over 100 original artworks and containing 400 individual portraits of historical characters on four murals entitled respectively “Utopia”, “Internationale”, “Gulag” and “Saturnus”. The biggest and central piece is “Utopia” which has Pieter Bruegel’s Tower of Babel as the framework with the design of Tatlinʼs Tower on the top. Tower of Babel is a visual history of the political and art movements of the 20th century, reimagined and curated by the artist Shen Jiawei….

Tower of Babel was conceived in 2001 and completed in 2023. This monumental artwork has been more than twenty years in the making. The actual work is housed in the artist’s purpose-built three-storey studio, covering four walls with 90 panels. The epic masterpiece contains remixes of 130 original artworks and 400 individual portraits of historical characters who were related to or associated with the international Communist movement throughout the 20th century. The four murals are named “Utopia”, “L’Internationale”, “Gulag” and “Saturnus”…

…The way he represents history in his artworks is quite unique and requires reflection from a contemporary and fresh angle. In his Sulman Prize-winning work, Peking Treaty (2006), he transposes Mantegna’s foreshortened Christ to the empty centre of the large Peking Treaty table where Eastern and Western diplomats negotiate a settlement of the Boxer Revolution.

B correspondences.work

A gifted painter and portraitist of renown, he has been an Archibald Prize finalist fourteen times (including once as runner-up in 1997) and the winner of the Mary MacKillop Art Award (1995), the Sulman Prize (2006) and the Gallipoli Art Award (2016). He has been commissioned by the Australian Government to paint official portraits for the Governor-General, the Prime Minister, Speakers and HRH Crown Princess of Denmark. Best-known for his complex history paintings, his works are represented in public and private collections in Australia and throughout the world including, the Vatican art collection and the National Museum, the National Art Museum and the National Military Museum in Beijing.

C asiasociety.org translated by Valerie C. Doran

Excerpts from “The Fate of a Painting” by Shen Jiawei

Since its completion in 1974, my oil painting Standing Guard for Our Great Motherland has had a very strange fate. It has become somewhat of a cultural artifact, an embodiment of the narrative of the Cultural Revolution.

When Mao Zedong launched the Cultural Revolution in May 1966, it signaled the end of my dreams of studying at an art academy. But at the same time, the Cultural Revolution turned me into a painter, and, what is more, a painter who achieved fame at a very young age. ……………… I grew up in a small provincial city and never had the chance to be trained in the fundamentals of art. My only influence was an uncle who had studied art in the past. So, before I became a painter, I had never done life drawing, plaster modeling, or still lifes. In fact, many artists of my generation were able to become oil painters only because of the Cultural Revolution. Before 1966, most Chinese households could never have afforded to buy oil paints for their children who studied art; most people’s monthly salaries amounted to the cost of only a few dozen tubes of paint. But during the Cultural Revolution, all work units needed people to paint portraits of Mao Zedong. Once we completed the paintings, we were allowed to keep the leftover paints to do our own work. This is why oil painting (western painting) subsequently became so widespread in China; it was one of the more positive by-products of the Cultural Revolution. …………………… I completed my work [Standing Guard] in July 1974. In keeping with the practice of the times, I did not sign the painting, but wrote only my name and work unit on the back of the canvas. In September, I was notified that this work had been selected for the national art exhibition. In October, I went on leave and used my own money to travel to Beijing to see the exhibition. On the train, I used my scrapbook of source material to write and copy notes on the process I followed in creating the painting. These notes were half true and half fabricated. This was because at that time any kind of writing, even personal diaries, could be subjected to public reading. Any politically incorrect word could bring disaster in its wake. So I had to make sure that even my notes on my creative process were in keeping with official standards.

When I [arrived in Beijing and] walked into the National Art Gallery, I discovered that my painting was hanging in the most prominent position in the exhibition hall, on the center left. But when I moved in for a closer look, I was in for a shock: the faces of the two soldiers had been reworked. It was obvious that my efforts to paint a picture as close to reality as possible had not been acceptable to the authorities. ………………………………. In 1981, a friend in the Heilongjiang Provincial Artists Association in Harbin told me that Standing Guard had been sent back by the National Art Gallery and was being kept in the art association’s storage area. He said that I could go and pick it up. The next year, when I went to get it, I discovered that both the outer and inner frames were gone. The canvas has been improperly rolled (outside in) and tossed into a rubbish heap in the basement. I unrolled it just a bit and saw that flakes of paint were coming off. When I got it back to Shenyang, I did not dare to open it all the way and just stuck it under my bed, where it stayed for many years.

In 1989, I emigrated to Australia. In 1997, I was invited by the Guggenheim Museum to lend it my painting for a major exhibition, “China: Five Thousand Years.” I asked someone to bring the rolled-up painting from China to Sydney for me. I took it to the conservation department of the Art Gallery of New South Wales, and there, for the first time, I unrolled it completely. Everyone in the room at that moment was in shock: the painting was covered with soot and had suffered water damage; two-thirds of its surface had come off. Under the guidance of the professional conservators [there], I slowly and painstakingly restored the painting. However, there were two sections of the painting that I was glad were damaged: the two faces that had been repainted on the orders of Wang Mantian were completely obliterated. Referring to photographs I had of the original work, as well as my extensive notes, I was now able to restore them to their original appearance.

D johnmcdonald.net.au

By 1970 he found himself in Heilongjiang province on the Russian border. There he worked as a propaganda artist, entering paintings in national competitions. In 1974 his picture, Standing guard for our great motherland was praised by Mao’s wife, Jiang Qing, and acquired for the National Art Museum. When he saw the work on display in the museum Jiawei was shocked to find the soldiers’ faces had been repainted to make them look more heroic. In this new guise the painting was reproduced in poster form and sent all over China. ... The actual painting was dumped from the museum after the fall of the Gang of Four and recovered by the artist from a rubbish dump in 1981. He restored the work and recently sold it at auction for a sizeable sum, which he is using to build a large new studio in Bundeena.

E nelsonmeersfoundation.org.au

Renowned Chinese-Australian artist Jiawei Shen is painting a monumental artwork that he claims will give meaning to his whole life. This former Red Guard, still famous in China for painting one of the most famous images of the Cultural Revolution, Standing Guard For The Great Motherland, is now creating a fantastic parable of the history of Communism, in the style that has established him as the foremost history painter in Australia today.

Epic in concept and scale, his Tower of Babel painting depicts over 400 famous and infamous characters including politicians, soldiers, scientists, artists, writers and filmmakers who were won over by the utopian vision of the Communist movement, as well as many forgotten people who lost their lives to Revolution. It also includes remixes of 130 iconic artworks by left wing artists, including Picasso, Matisse, Léger, Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo; on a huge canvas of 130 square meters, as high as a 3-story building.

In telling the stories of Jiawei’s own personal journey and that of his wife Lan, from poverty in Mao’s China, through the tumult of the Cultural Revolution, and eventually as political refugees to Australia, the film will show how personal biography inspires art. Now, as tensions between Australia and China escalate and there is even talk of war from some Australian politicians, how will Jiawei’s most important work be received? Can the past speak to the present or will it be silenced?

F the artist: One painting can have many different meanings and I encourage people to make their own assumptions about the painting.

WATCH https://www.sff.org.au/program/browse/welcome-to-babel

#Shen Jiawei #China #Australia

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smileyoongle · 3 years

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Falling for a lounge singer (Yandere!Mafia! BTS)// Kim Taehyung

Requested anonymously.

Summary: Working as a part time singer, you never thought you'd find yourself becoming the centre of attention of a man's life, especially one who you can't run from.

Word Count: 2.5K

The city was laid out brightly before you, cool wind making your hair stick to your glossy lips as you rested your elbows on the railing of the rooftop. Working for hours amidst people who were rich and liked to show off was stressful, especially when you knew you didn't fit in between them. If it wasn't for your voice, no one would even give you a second glance but there you were, attracting loud applauds every time you held the mic. It made you feel almost cocky but your conscience didn't allow it, reminding you of your place in this world time and time again.

With a soft sigh, you stared at the pretty sky, the stars scattered across it twinkling to grab your attention yet failing to do so. Because even though you loved the peace and quiet, your mind was restlessly loud tonight. Loud with thoughts about a man you had seen too many times, but never had the pleasure of meeting. A man who had sent you a single white freesia every night before disappearing without a word.

But tonight was different. Because he wasn't here. In fact, he hadn't been here for the last three days and if you were being honest, you missed him.

You missed his dark eyes that gazed at you with so much fervour that it made you dizzy. You missed how his attention made you feel like it was just the two of you in the room. You missed how he was so mysterious that you had convinced yourself to approach him. Yet, he managed to really slip away this time.

Glancing at the dried freesia in your hand, you traced it's dead petals, barely hanging on as the rest of it began to fall apart. This was the last one you had found near your vanity, not having seen another since he disappeared.

"Where did you go?" You mumbled, twirling the stem between your fingers, being as gentle as you could. There was no way for you to know if you'd ever see him again because every time you asked the staff about him, they just brushed you off by saying how some things were better left unknown. It made you wonder what was so bad about him that no one was willing to say a word.

"I'm right here, petal."

A deep voice stated from behind you, your heels quickly making you turn around to see who it was but the darkness and the distance between you two made it hard for you to tell. You frowned, watching the man's silhouette move closer to you, your fingers tightly holding onto your flower. And as soon as your eyes took in his face, your lips fell apart in a silent gasp.

There he was, looking at you with the same passion that his eyes held every time you saw him. You could feel your heart lose its rhythm, pounding erratically in your chest making you almost breathless. He was a lot more beautiful up close, your mind not having prepared you for seeing him here at all. Upon seeing you so speechless, he let out a low chuckle, one of his hands curled behind his back as his fitted black shirt hugged his biceps perfectly.

"Is this my punishment for having left you alone? You refuse to talk to me?" He asked, tilting his head to study your expression better. You remained silent, still processing the fact that the man you were so desperately looking for, was now standing so close to you. A part of you wanted to tell him that you could never be mad at him when he looked like an angel but your tongue stayed tied.

He hummed at your silence, taking another step towards, his eyes glancing at the dead flower that stayed intact between your fingers. Slowly, you felt his hand hold your wrist, a shiver running down your spine at his touch. Bringing it up, he took away the flower, throwing it somewhere to the side only to present another freesia before you, this one a striking red that made your heart skip a beat. You held onto its stalk as your mystery man placed it between your fingers, your cheeks growing warm at the way his eyes stayed fixated on your face.

“Red?” You asked, returning his gaze with an equally feverish one, his lips morphing into a smile upon hearing your voice.

“And she speaks.” He laughed lowly, his deep melody echoing in the silence of the night. Taking yet another step towards you, he placed his hands on the railing behind you, trapping you in close proximity. Your back rested firmly against the bars, your chest almost touching his.

“Yes, petal. Red. Do you know what it means?” He murmured, only loud enough for you to hear. Lost in his eyes, you didn’t notice the hand that was now tucking your hair behind your ear, your lips being the sole focus of the man’s attention. Resting his palm against your cheek, you found yourself leaning into his warmth, sighing at the butterflies you felt in your stomach.

“No,” you answered, closing your eyes when you saw him lean down until his lips grazed the shell of your ear. His long fingers brushed your hair away from your neck, your own hand clutching the flower tightly to calm your heart that was about to jump out of your chest.

“It symbolizes passion,” he whispered, his hands moving down to hold your waist and pull you flush against him. Speechless, you rested your hands on his chest, biting your lip as your forehead fell against his shoulder.

“Who are you?” You inquired, finally asking the question that had been gnawing at you ever since you saw him. A dead silence fell over the both of you all of a sudden, a frown etching onto your forehead as you were made to pull away from him a little. You found yourself missing his embrace, feeling as though you had known him for a long long time.

“You don’t know me,” he said, more like telling himself again rather than asking you. Gently shaking your head, you placed your gaze on his chest, a peek of white bandages catching your eye from beneath the few buttons that were left open at the top of his shirt. Without a thought, you moved it a little to the side, your eyes widening at the small red patch that stained the centre of the dressing, your lips parting in shock at the realisation that it was, indeed, blood.

“What happened?” You asked, worry and concern lacing your voice. He pursed his lips, his jaw clenching ever so lightly along with his hold on your waist which grew tighter. Wincing in pain, you looked at him in confusion, wondering if you had said something to upset him. And before you could ask him, he said something that perished all the warm feelings that had been brewing in your chest lately.

“My name is Kim Taehyung, Y/N. And I’ll be really mad if you decide to run away now.”

With eyes as wide as they could be, you stood frozen in his arms, your heart thudding loudly in your chest. Fear consumed your entire being, your throat running dry at the very thought of being here with Kim Taehyung, the man who was responsible for the rise of one of the biggest cartels in the world. His hands were stained with the blood of god knows how many people, the wound on his chest suddenly making a lot of sense. Losing your grip on his shirt, you let your arms fall to your sides, unmoving and unable to process the situation anymore.

Suddenly, you were aware of his burning touch all over you, your mind screaming at you to get away from him. Yet you didn’t make a move, because you knew very well that you were almost nothing in front of a trained killer who could snap your neck in the blink of an eye. Parting your lips, you willed yourself to scream as loud as you could, failing yet again with his icy glare staring you down.

Gone were all the emotions you had witnessed in his eyes a few minutes ago, making you feel as if this was a whole new man that you had never met before. A tear ran down your cheek, your brain slowly hitting you with the mixed amount of emotions that were driving you insane. You were hurt, scared, disappointed in yourself and a lot more you couldn’t yet place a finger on.

“Y/N,” his voice brought you back to him, wary of the hand that was now wiping away your tears. Eyeing him cautiously, you tried to think fast, escaping him being the only agenda on your mind right now.

Taehyung knew what you were thinking, it didn't take a genius to know that all you wanted was to run away from him before things became a mess. But it was too late now, your innocence having left Taehyung mesmerized a long time ago. And now that you were so close to him, he was ready to do anything to make you stay.

"I don't wanna die," you said, your voice wavering with the dying confidence that burnt in you like a flickering flame. Being in his arms felt good, but knowing that those hands could also push you off the roof without anyone finding out was a thought that overcame everything else.

"And you won't, petal. Just because I'm a dangerous man, doesn't mean I would lay a finger on you," he answered, quickly catching onto the fact that you thought of him as a killer. It hurt him to know that you so easily forgot every other feeling you had been sheltering all this time, his identity crumbling down to nothing in your mind. But he would fix it.

He would fix you.

His words were enough to let you know that he wasn't planning on letting you leave, convincing you seemingly the only thing on his mind. At this point, violence seemed your only answer, your eyes once more taking in the sight of the bandaging on his chest.

"I'm sorry," you apologized beforehand, inhaling nervously at his confused expression before digging your nails into his chest. A growl left his mouth immediately, his hands letting go of your waist as you pushed him to the side with all your strength and bolted towards the door.

Taehyung fell to the floor behind you, his hand covering his shirt right where the wound was, the wetness of the blood seeping through his bandages. He hissed in pain, closing his eyes as he rested his head against the wall. The sound of your cries felt like music to his ears, your small fists banging on the door which had been locked the second Taehyung stepped onto the rooftop. It was funny of you to think that you could overpower Kim Taehyung so easily, your obliviousness once again showing through your stupid attempt to escape him.

Tears ran down your cheeks upon the realisation that you were stuck here with him, your heart pounding in your chest just like your hands against the door. You were a fool to think Taehyung wasn't fully prepared. Of course he had expected this from you. Of course he was one step ahead of you.

"Please, someone open the door!" You begged, sobbing with your forehead against the cold metal, slowly sinking to your knees. Just then, you heard his laugh, deeply resonating around you as you frowned in silence. It was endless, not the kind of laughter you'd hear after a joke but the kind you'd hear only with the intention of being mocked. He was laughing at you and your silly attempt of running away from him, knowing very well that Kim Taehyung did not let go of things that he so desperately craved. You being one of them.

"Did you think it was that easy, Y/N?" He asked, his voice dripping with amusement. Turning around to face him, you stared at him with teary eyes, watching his painful state with a heart full of regret. You weren't one to hurt people at all, let alone intentionally and yet you had taken such a drastic leap tonight. To save yourself. That was truly justified, wasn't it?

"Petal, even if you had managed to leave this place, I'll have you know that I'll always find you." He grinned maliciously, making you truly scared of him. Gritting his teeth, he stood up, your back pressing against the door as he slowly proceeded to stalk towards you, his gaze pinning you down and rendering you unable to move. You felt like a prey before him, his angry eyes telling you just how much you had pissed him off.

"I just wanna go home," you stated, frowning at him with wet cheeks and quivering lips. Halting right before you, Taehyung kneeled down, his hand coming to rest against your cheek.

"And we'll go, Y/N. We'll go to our home," he mumbled almost lovingly, his eyes glistening with so much affection that if you didn't know any better, you'd think he loved you. The truth of the situation though, was that Kim Taehyung was obsessed with you and there was no way you were going to let him take you.

"N-no, I wanna go to my home," you dared, Taehyung's jaw clenching upon hearing your words. Within a second, his fingers dug into both your cheeks, your lips pouting at the force with which he was holding your jaw in place. Leaning closer to you, Taehyung's nose brushed against yours, your own hand taking hold of his wrist to make him let go.

"What a shame it'd be to know that your little sister had to die because you couldn't make the right decisions."

Eyes widening, you let out a whimper at his threat, your breath having been knocked out for a second. It was as if the world had stopped around you, your heart wishing that this was all just a bad dream. The thought of anything happening to your sister was enough to break your will, especially since you were the only one she had. If she were to get hurt because of the one person who was supposed to protect her, then you couldn't even begin to imagine how meaningless your own life would become.

Taehyung loosened his grip on your jaw, watching you cry harder because of what he had said. It hurt him to know that you were crying because of him but he had to say it. Sure, you were hurt right now, maybe you even hated him but he knew that once you became his, you'd never have to see a bad day in your life. He would love you so hard that you'd never think about anyone else ever again. It was going to be just you and him. Forever.

"I'll do whatever you want, just don't hurt her." You cried, sealing your fate with the devil with no chance of going back. Smiling fondly at you, Taehyung wiped your tears, the stench of blood hitting your nose only for you to see his crimson tainted hand grazing your cheek.

"I'll take very good care of you, petal. Don't you worry your little head," he cooed, your eyes staring at him with horror. You could feel the blood now staining your cheek, Taehyung's eyes adoring it with a hint of madness. His blood on your skin was like his name on a trophy, a sign of who it belonged to. And it gave Taehyung an immense amount of pleasure to see your innocence tainted with his filthy gore. The colour red was yours and Taehyung couldn't wait to paint you in it.

"We'll be drowning in love soon, just wait and watch."

A/N: Hiiii, see I am back again! I don't have much to say today cause I am really sad for some reason. You know, the kind of sad that makes you wanna just sit and cry all night? Yeah, it's THAT!

Anywayyyy! I'll probably be posting each member in a break of 4-5 days because I want each member to get their fill. Soooo, the next one comes in a while! Till then, have fun, guys. Ily<3

#bts #bts imagines #bts reactions #smileyoongle #mafia bts imagines #bts yandere #yandere bts imagines #bts taehyung #yandere taehyung #mafia taehyung #mafia boss taehyung #yandere mafia taehyung #mafia taehyung reaction #mafia bts reactions #yandere bts reactions

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lauras-collection · 4 years

Text

beyond being friends | part 1

Harrison Osterfield x Holland!Reader

|| Masterlist || Series Masterlist ||

Summary: What happens when you suddenly realise you’re attracted to your brother’s best friend?

When you and Harrison cross the line between friendship and something more, it makes everything more complicated than the average ‘being more than friends’ relationship. Because he’s your brothers best friend and you’re all living together.

Words: 1.5k

Warnings: mentions of toxic (ex)friendships, smut in future chapters

A/N: THIS IS NOT A DRILL! It’s finally here! Can you believe it, because i can’t. I hope you like it!

special thanks to @duskholland for coming up with the title so i could keep the BBF abbreviation without downright calling it Brother’s Best Friend and being BBF’s biggest fan since the first time i told you about it 🥺

Feedback is always appreciated ❤️

You always thought that when you’d eventually move out, you’d move into a small flat in the city centre or student housing for uni. But you never imagined moving into a house that’s a literal five-minute walk from your parents' house with two of your brothers and their best friend. With Tuwaine moving out because of his new job, a room in Tom’s house became available and since Sam had his own place close to his cookery school, you’d been the first person to be asked to take the room. And you jumped at the opportunity.

You liked to be around your parents and Paddy, but you did crave a bit of the independence your older brothers seemed to have. Granted, Harry and Sam were only minutes older than you, but they never failed to remind you of that. Either way, you were now no longer living with your parents and it filled you with a sense of pride.

Okay, you didn’t have to pay rent, just part of the additional costs, which was not really part of the typical experience when moving out, but you won’t complain. There has to be a benefit to your brother being an international movie star, right?

“How do you feel now that you’re the only one living in this house who isn’t a Holland?” Tuwaine asks Harrison who’s leaning against the kitchen island his arms crossed over his chest.

“At this point, he might as well be” Sam interjects before Harrison can even open his mouth. “I swear he spends more time with our family than I do”

“That’s because you’re too busy becoming the next Gordon Ramsey” Tom teases and nudges Sam’s shoulder.

“Funny” Sam looks at him with a deadpan expression, you can’t help but snigger.

“Hey, you’re the one who’s away for the majority of the year” You jump to Sam’s defence. Because if one of the Holland siblings is too busy for anything it’s Tom.

“Fair enough” Tom raises his hands in surrender.

“How long was it that you’re leaving next time? Six months?” Harrison raises one eyebrow.

“Oh c’mon, it’s only four” Tom rolls his eyes with a chuckle. He’s laughing, but all of you know that he hates being gone from home for so long. That’s why he takes someone with him most of the times. This time, Harry will join him in New York, leaving you and Harrison living alone in the house.

You knew it was going to be rare that all four of you would be staying at the house at the same time, but it was still sad to think about. All of you are family people, you love to be around the people you love. And with Tom’s job sending him all around the world, you didn’t get to see him a lot.

“I’m gonna miss you guys” You pout and Tom immediately comes over and gives you a hug.

“I’m gonna miss you, too.” Soon you feel another pair of arms wrap around you, without looking you know it’s Harry. And then the other boys join as well and you’re one big pile of people hugging in the middle of the kitchen.

“Morning” You mumble as you shuffle into the kitchen where Harrison is currently making himself a tea. He looks at you over his shoulder with a grin and you wonder how someone can have so much energy in the morning.

“Good morning, sunshine” He has to bite back a laugh and you only manage to grumble something unintelligible. You’re not really a morning person.

Yesterday was as draining as a day of moving can be and then Sam stayed over because he drank a little too much and he kept kicking you during the night. So you’re certain you look like a mess but you don’t care, it’s not like Harrison has never seen you like this before.

“Tea?” Harrison offers you a mug and you take it from him gratefully.

“Thanks” You let out a sigh as soon as you take the first sip. Harrison makes a mean tea. It’s got the perfect temperature, too.

“Rough first night?” He asks and pours himself a cuppa as well.

You must pull a face because Harrison is looking at you amused again. “Sam kicks in his sleep when he drinks” Both of you move to the table in the dining room. You let yourself fall into one of the chairs. “I swear he woke me up with a kick every five minutes”

“Sucks to be you” Harrison laughs as you glare at him. You’re just about to give him the finger when a well-rested Sam enters the room. You can’t even react as quickly as he’s got your mug in his hands and drinks your tea.

“Hey! That’s mine!” You attempt to grab the mug from him, but because he’s a little shit he pulls it out of your reach and you’re too tired to fight for it. You watch dumbfounded as he goes back upstairs, with your tea.“I hate you” You call after him and slump down in your chair.

“Hmm, you love me” Sam calls back. Of course, he’s right, but right now you’re not his biggest fan. You’re about to get up to make yourself another cup but Harrison beats you to it.

“I’ve got it”

“You’re already my favourite housemate, you know that?” You call after him and you hear him chuckle. Not long after, another perfect cup of tea is placed in front of you.

“You’re the best”

“Hey, what about me?” Harry comes strolling into the living room, his hands placed on his chest in mock offence.

“You never make me tea in the morning, so you’re not even part of the competition.”

“I’m wounded, sis”

“Get over it, bro” Harry sits down next to you and ruffles your already messy hair. You don’t even muster up the energy to complain. Why are your brothers such a pain? Why can’t they be as lovely as Harrison who makes you tea without you even asking for it?

“You look like shit,” Harry says as he rests his chin on his hand and looks at you.

“Thanks” – you glare at him – “That’s because I didn’t get any sleep because Sam kept kicking me”

“Brutal” Harry doesn’t sound one bit sympathetic.

“He’s staying in your room the next time he’s drunk”

Harrison just watches the two of you with amusement while he sips his tea.

Sam was right when he said that Harrison might as well be part of your family. For almost ten years he’s been Tom’s best friend now and you couldn’t even really remember what it was like without Harrison in your lives. You’d been twelve the first time he came over and to say you had a little bit of a crush on him would be… accurate. He’d intrigued you. With his blue eyes, blond hair and that little smirk he still had today he’d been the cutest boy you’d ever seen.

Of course, he’d never seen you like that. What fifteen-year-old boy was interested in his best friend’s little sister? And you eventually grew out of that crush. Your high school friends on the other hand didn’t. And maybe that was why you were no longer interested in him.

It took you a while to realise that the main reasons they always wanted to hang out at your place were Harrison and Tom. But when you did you felt a little lost. Was the only reason you had friends your brother? Was that all you could offer them? Because as soon as you refused to host any more sleepovers at your place you were quickly disregarded from the group.

Now, a few years later, you could see that you’d rather have no friends than those girls, but at the time it was hard. The good thing about having four brothers, though, was that you’d never be without friends. Your brothers were your support system. They cheered you up and dragged you along to whatever mischief they were up to. And when Tom’s career took off and your old ‘friends’ tried to reach out to you, you just rolled your eyes.

You were happy that Tom had found such great friends in Harrison and Tuwaine. Friends who were there for him and not his popularity or fame. Tom was a great judge of character and that was one thing you’d always admired about him. While you were a little naive at times and trusted people blindly, he knew who he could count on. And now, all of you were a tight-knit group of people you wouldn’t give up for the world.

That’s why you aren’t even the slightest bit worried about living in the house with Harrison for four months. You’re close friends. What is there to worry about other than household chores? Living with him should be plain sailing, right?

A/N: thank you for reading!!! this part was a little introduction to the story, I promise there’s going to be more happening in part two! I’ve got so much planned for this and I hope you’re as excited for the next 11 parts as i am 😅❤️

want to be tagged? you can find the link to my taglist form in my bio

mutuals that might be interested (I’m just gonna tag you for this first part): @terrifictomholland @stuckonspidey @selfcarecap

everything taglist: @spidermanlondon // @averyfosterthoughts // @duskholland // @tutuabby28 // @missevrythingg // @in-a-lot-of-fandoms-tbh // @thenoddingbunny-blog // @emilykjh // @clara-licht // @hollandfanficlove // @calltothewild // @crybabyalexxx // @hazardosterfield // @calsthomas // @quaksonhehe // @geminiparkers // @thirzaholland // @tombrina // @outshineallthestars // @serendipitous-amor // @soincredible // @trustfundparker // @localfangirlx // @writertoo18 // @r3ader // @viagracex // @skamlover200 // @wonderlandfandomkingdom // @wehavetomakeourheartssitstill // @thearchersupremacy // @itstaskeen // @camimndess // @allyz // @technosoot // @fanficscuziranout // @parker-hollandx // @givebuckyhisplumsnow // @dangerouslovefanfic // @ertherealrose // @i-married-a-pineapple // @miraclesoflove // @bi-girlwrites-2000 // @seasidetom // @katcontrreras // * @determined-overthinker * // @fallingforfics // @destinedbooklover // @parkerpeter24

bbf taglist: @m-a-r-i-n-t // @mrs-hollandstan // @unicorn-princess-1999 // @mimisparkle12 // @bearsbeetsbarnes // @annathesillyfriend // @sydsquibbles // @vapingisntmything // @littlebookbengal // @quethekillerqueen // @love-makes-all-things-beautiful // @swiftmind // @pearly-pisces //

harrison osterfield taglist: @hjoficrecs // @lolychu // @hazardosterfield // @hollandbroz-n-haz

series taglist: @softholand // @svturtles // @cloverrover

#harrison osterfield x reader #harrison osterfield fic #harrison osterfield series #harrison osterfield fanfic #harrison osterfield imagine #harrison osterfield story

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mandoalorian · 4 years

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Sugar and Spice [Maxwell Lord x Reader] - Chapter 11

Summary: When you are evicted from your apartment by your toxic ex boyfriend and have no place to go, who do you turn to? Alone in the city as the countdown to Christmas begins, you find yourself applying for a job as the assistant of the world’s biggest entrepreneur; Maxwell Lord. Little do you know, he has other intentions for you. No doubt about it, this Christmas will truly be like no other.

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: Smut, mentions of a previous verbally abusive relationship, typical 80s misogyny (but very little of it), mentions of food and drink, alcohol consumption. This is a sugardaddy x sugarbaby fic soooo… a daddy k!nk too oops.

But in this chapter - references to verbal abuse and a neglectful mother.

Author’s note: After an accidental one month hiatus, I’m back! I’m nervous about posting this because I haven’t updated December Magic since I saw WW84. As you may have noticed, I have rebranded this fic and the name is now called ‘Sugar and Spice’! There is a slight time jump in this chapter, and it’s just a short one as I ween back into it, but I realised I was struggling so much continuing this fic after seeing WW84 because it just didn’t feel like the Max Lord we ended up with was anything like the Max Lord in this fic. This chapter is my attempt to make amends and draw a link between Sugar and Spice and WW84.

While I’m here I want to give a shout out to my new on-going Max Lord series ‘I Believe In Love’, which you can read here. I Believe In Love is like my baby and I am so so proud of it thus far. Anyways, enjoy chapter 11 of December Magic!

MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS - CHAPTER ELEVEN - NEXT

He hadn’t come home for Christmas. He hadn’t come home for two months. It was fine at first. He called you as soon as he reached London, just like he promised. He expressed to you how busy he was with work commitments and how difficult it was for him to cope with the timezones. The distance between the UK and USA was devastating. Your hour long phone calls gradually became more spread out and only lasted a few minutes, and honestly? It broke your heart. There you were; living in Lord Manor, and Maxwell had kept his word: “you want for nothing”. You had everything. His weighty black AMEX card, a house staff such as a butler and a chef and your own personal driver to take you wherever you wished to go. Any material possessions you wished for… they were yours. You weren’t even working for the privilege or the money. Max was far away and yet, he made sure you still had a home and a life, and he made sure that you were safe.

But there was still an extreme void in your heart. You were missing Maxwell. You’d try calling him but there was always a dead line. Not even Raquel would answer. You felt like you were drifting apart and your whole body ached with dread as you wondered if Max had forgotten about you. You’d kept in contact with Maxwell’s three assistants at Black Gold and they had no information on the work commitments that Max was supposedly seeing too. The romance you had shared during December may have been a whirlwind, but you knew him better than any other person on the planet and you felt like he was deliberately avoiding you.

There was something not right.

***

“Kitty!” Maxwell cried, his cheeks burning red and his eyes flicking with bewilderment as the child was thrust into his arms. A ghost from his past. Kitty was an ex lover of Maxwell’s, and honestly one of many. He hadn’t thought about her in years.

“I’ve brought him up for the past six years, he’s your problem now!” Kitty spat, an evil smirk crossing her lips. “I see you on the television with all your fame and fortune, if you don’t want him then the least you can do is pay a nanny to watch him. I have nothing Max. A shitty little apartment in the east of London. I’m working for a modelling internship but it’s hard to find luck when I’ve got a six year old kid dragging my heels behind.”

“Dragging your heels?” Maxwell repeated, furiosity burning his lungs. “He’s your son for Christ sake! How can you say that? Right in front of him!”

Maxwell turned back to the child who was standing as still as ever in the centre of the hotel room, nervously looking at his feet. Everytime Kitty raised her voice, the boy winced, and it crushed Max. This situation was all too familiar to him.

“He’s your son too!” Kitty glared, her face just as cold as her heart. “I want nothing to do with him. Goodbye.” Kitty said, her voice venomous, before leaving the hotel room and slamming the door behind her.

Maxwell’s knees felt weak and wobbly and he stumbled to his bed, sinking down with an exasperated sigh. Max’s hands cradled his own face and he blinked away unshed tears before sitting back up and looking at the six year old boy. The boy was silent, and his dark eyes matched the sadness of his father’s. How could this have happened?

Maxwell Lord had a son.

Max didn’t know what to say. What could he possibly say? He remembered doing work in London back in 1977; it was the start of his big break, and his bachelor persona hadn’t changed much since then. When Kitty found out Maxwell was back in London, she used it as her one final chance to track him down. Turns out, a big name CEO such as Max Lord was hard to get a hold of, especially when he lived on the other side of the world. Kitty never had pure intentions. Of course the pregnancy was unplanned and the sad reality was, Alistair was unwanted by his mother. Kitty was an aspiring model, fueled by ambition and goal, much like Maxwell. She didn’t have a single maternal instinct in her. Only there was a significant difference between Alistair’s parents. Whilst Kitty cared so little about her son, Maxwell knew that from this day forward, Alistair would be his top priority. He would never let his job intervene with his son. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes his own parents did.

Maxwell never thought about children, or considered bringing any into the world. He told himself he’d never want to be a father. He had such a terrible upbringing himself and his mother was wicked, he’d be too afraid. He’d never want to hurt or disappoint a potential child of his the way his own parents had hurt and disappointed him. But when he looked into his son’s eyes he felt nothing but determination. He’d been an absent father and that was not okay. Max just wished he’d known about his son before now. But it’s not like he could turn back time. Max knew he had to make amends and he knew he had to do it now.

Maxwell opened his arms and held Alistair’s hands, bringing him close and holding him tight against his chest. “My son,” he whispered, trying to refrain from crying. “I love you so much. I know you don’t know me, but you will, and I will spend the rest of my life making you proud. You are my everything.”

“You saved me daddy,” Alistair whimpered, tears spilling and dampening his father’s pinstripe shirt. “Thank you.”

***

You waited every day for Maxwell to return, but you never expected him. You were laying on the living room sofa, a blanket wrapped around you, half asleep as the muse from the television drowned out your thoughts. When you heard the lock on the front door click open, you thought you were dreaming. There was no way. No way. Footsteps. Hell, there was more chance of an intruder than it was Max. You rubbed your eyes and cautiously rose to your feet.

Your heart sank when he entered the room. It was him. He was home. Tears filled your eyes and you couldn’t hide the excited grin that painted your lips. “Oh my god Max!” you squealed, running up to him. He looked tired, but he was smiling too. You were inclined to run into his arms, but your focus on his face left you without realizing the small sleeping child he was carrying in his arms.

You blinked in confusion, your gaze flicking between Maxwell and the boy. “This is Alistair, my son.” Maxwell informed you, his voice hoarse and low. At the mention of his name Alistair stirred in his sleep and Maxwell immediately, on instinct, shushed him.

“You-what?” You were speechless. You knew something was wrong the second Max had distanced himself. The second the phone calls had stopped and he hadn’t come home. You knew something was wrong when his assistants said his work schedule was clear. But never in a million years did you expect your sugar daddy to come home with a son.

“I didn’t know,” Max whispered in avoidance to wake up Alistair. “It’s a long story but I promise I’ll tell you everything. I’m sorry I didn’t come home for Christmas like I promised. I’m so sorry baby. I’ll make up for it.”

You couldn’t even gather words. You swallowed the hard lump in your throat and contemplated everything. You sighed. You believed Max - how could you not? Of course, you were very interested in learning all about his secret son but you supposed that didn’t matter too much right now. All that mattered is that Max was home, and safe. You smiled and rested your hand on Alistair’s forehead, brushing his straight black hair out of his face. Alistair smiled sleepily under your touch. Max’s cheeks grew warm with admiration as you comforted his son. It meant a lot to him that you took a liking to Alistair and that you accepted the fact Alistair was in his life now, and nothing would change that.

After all, Max Lord was still hopelessly devoted and in love with you.

“Come on,” you whispered, bringing your hand up to cup Maxwell’s face. You brushed your thumb over the height of his cheekbone and Max found himself subconsciously leaning into your touch. “Let’s take him to bed and go to bed ourselves. We clearly have a lot to catch up on.”

Max nodded his head in affirmation and you followed him upstairs. He took Alistair to a guest bedroom and gently tucked him under the blankets, pressing a caring kiss into his son’s forehead before turning back to you. As you watched his gentle actions, it was like you were witnessing a whole new side to Maxwell. And it was beautiful.

Sugar and Spice taglist: @100layersofdaddyissues @mrschiltoncat @honeymandos @thisisthe-wayson @this-cat-is-dea @blonde2bomshell @maiyaaaa0130 @autumnleaves1991-blog @justanotherblonde23 @softly-sad @laaadygisbooornex3 @kaelyn-lobrutto24 @drinkingwhileblogging @kesskirata @honestlystop

Permanent taglist: @paintballkid711 @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria @stardust-galaxies @wickedfrsgrl @goth-topic @nerdypinupcrystal @wonderfulfluffer @kiwi-the-first @pedroepascal @castiel-barnes @honeymandos @rocketqueen @ladycumberbatchofcamelot @dybalalover10 @girl-obsessed-with-things @elena-myth @moth-guillotine @pedro-pascal-love @hayley-the-comet @pinkninja190 @maxiarapamaya @autumnleaves1991-blog @artsymaddie @harrys-stan @kennedywxlsh @cripplingmoon @cheekygeek05 @mrschiltoncat

#maxwell lord #maxwell lord x reader #max lord x reader #max lord #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #ww84 #max lord series #maxwell lord series

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robert-the-greyhound · 2 years

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~ Roberts Adoption Story ~

In January of 2019, I decided I was finally in a stable enough position to open my home to a dog. I had tried petsitting cats previously, but my micro-apartment in Cork City Centre wasn’t an ideal home for a cat, it just wasn’t fair on them. So, decided to look into welcoming a dog into my life! I had a look around a number of shelters and rescues in the area, but living in a tiny 54sqm home did limit my options, I knew breeds like a Border Collie or a Husky would struggle with the confined space, lack of a garden and up in the air work/college schedule. So I turned to Google. “Best breeds for apartment life”. And in the top ten every time was a Greyhound. At first I thought they meant the little Italian Greyhounds, but no, further research revealed that Greyhounds make GREYT apartment pets!

Despite the reams of research and posts online, the idea of a long legged Noodlehorse wandering around the apartment still didn’t sit right with me. I’d not had much of an experience with greyhounds, outside the idea of them as Racing Dogs. My Father grew up with Greyhounds, his uncle bred and trained them, and each litter would be split between the kids, each child given a pup to help raise. He had many fond stories of wandering the fields with his dog, but lots of sad ones too. One particularly heart breaking one was about his dog, who he called Pansy due to the white floral marking on her forehead. Pansy was a brindle bitch, and apparently a nifty little pocket rocket. My father put a lot of time and care into Pansy, raising her, walking her, keeping her fit and healthy, doting on her as only a boy and his dog might. His uncle however, didn’t let my father come with him to the track on account of the fact that the dog might recognise him on the sidelines whilst racing and stop, as had happened on other occasions with local dogs. So when pansy was loaded up into the back of the van to go racing, my father thought nothing of it, it was normal. She’d come back that evening, and if she’d been fast, there might be a few pence thrown his way. Until the one evening she didn’t come back. She’s been racing at the local Wexford track for long enough she’d proven herself worth racing at Shelbourne. She’d done well and was sold there and then. No goodbyes, no traceability in those days, just a quick sale and a profit. Outside of those stories, I had no real world knowledge about hounds so when a Greyhound specific rescue announced a meet and greet at a local pet shop, I jumped at the chance.

I remember rocking up to the pet shop and the first thing I spotted was this HUGE White and Brindle hound named Cooper. He was the biggest dog I’d seen in a long time, and I was immediately taken aback. He was very friendly, outgoing, a real goofball. He was gorgeous, but I couldn’t imagine how a hound and big and bubbly as him could possibly settle into my little apartment. The other hound that was there was a dainty little black bitch called Serena. I’d never seen such a nervous dog in my life. She was only three days out of trainer kennels and was not happy with being out and about in a busy pet shop. She kept shying towards the back of the store, and was clearly uncomfortable. She was a much more manageable size, but her nervous disposition would never have allowed her to settle in to city centre living. Just as I was about to leave, a little dejected, in walked another greyhound! A tiny little thing, with a stunning tiger striped brindle coat and an attitude to match! She was fierce! Brazen but not pushy. Bold, but not overwhelming. She was perfect! If I could have a copy of her in my apartment I’d be flying! I started the adoption process that day!

After a week, I was asked if I could have a homecheck done. I’d never had a home check before. All our dogs growing up were pups dumped on our countryside road, which was far enough from the major towns in the area to leave a dog without being recognised, but not too far that it was an inconvenience. Every February/March, the puppies would appear. I have a strong memory of my mother hoisting me up the steep hedgerow embankment after two flea ridden, underweight bernese mountain dog (or mixes of) puppies. All four houses on our countryside lane had the numbers for regional rescues on speed dial to help home these poor dogs, often leftovers from the Christmas market or thrown aside when the cute eight week old puppy chewed the wrong thing or pottied in the house. Because I’d only ever experienced the on the ground side of Rescue and not the paperwork side, I had no clue what to expect. I remember scrubbing the house from top to bottom, putting out the good table wear, getting a selection of pastries from a local bakery, going all out to be a good host! And then in rocked Cooper! The big bubbly boy from the meet and greet! He may have been big, but he slotted so nicely into the apartment, flipping down in the newly bought dog bed to chew on the newly acquired dog toys. His parents were lovely, and we flew through the home check procedure. A week later, funny enough whilst I was visiting my father, I got a call from the rescue kennels inviting me to come visit and meet some of the dogs! We had a chat about my lifestyle, my work hours, my college hours, all to try and get a feel for which dog might be a good fit. I asked after one of the dogs they had on their Facebook page, a handsome hound named Fergus, but was told he was too nervy for city traffic. They then asked if I had seen Robert. I had glanced at his profile, but the image was blurry and I couldn’t get a feel for him, but they said he might be a good match and it would be great to get him a home as he was being kennelled alone for some food issues. We picked a time and date and so the countdown began!

As I don’t drive, I begged a lift off a friend, who drove me from Cork to Kerry to meet some dogs! My friends stayed in the car, whilst I went inside to meet some of the hounds. The very first dog they brought out was this MASSIVE blonde boy, even bigger than Cooper! He really was huge, but he just plodded along so nicely on leash, licked my hand and leaned against my leg. It was love at first Sight(hound)! I took Roberts leash and we went for a short stroll in the driveway of the rescue, where I introduced him to my two eagerly waiting friends in the car. They too were blown back by his size. So we went back inside, and I was introduced to two other hounds, a large brindle female named Rooska and a tiny little black male named Small Talk. They were both so lovely but there was only one hound for me, the gentle giant in the corner; Robert!

I signed the adoption papers right there and we bundled Robert into the back seat of the car and were off! Off the back of some advice from the rescue we stopped on the way home at a Greyhound supply store to pick up a proper rain coat, a blue kennel kosy muzzle and a bag of Gain 20, the food he had been eating in rescue. I had been warned that he had issues with food, was a very slow picky eater, and that he had a sensitive system, so sticking with the same food was important to try and prevent any digestive complaints.

After getting back to Cork, we had a circus of a time getting Robert into the apartment. There are four steps leading up to the entrance of our apartment and Robert was VERY shaky about them. It dawned on me then that he may have never encountered stairs before. We took it slow and steady and made our way up those entrance steps at his pace. Thankfully our apartment complex has an elevator, so we didn't need to work up the three flights of stairs to our floor! Rob walked into the elevator no problem, but when it moved, he tensed. Turned into a literal statue that did not want to leave the lift when it finally reached our floor. Slow and steady, we got him out of the lift and into the atrium, where he promptly walked directly into the large glass window door. From the atrium, we made it to the balcony and then finally, into our apartment!

Once he was inside he seemed to settle a little. He spent a minute sniffing the hallway, then sniffing the kitchen, then sniffing the bedroom, then peeing on the floor! XD The rest of the evening went alot smoother. Robert found a spot in the bedroom between the bedframe and the wall where he squeezed into and lay down. I had been warned by the rescue that he might be a little "shut down" at first due to the stress of moving from kennel life to home life but I don't think it hit me until then. This beautiful, young dog was just so... unsure. At three years of age he had no experience of life outside of cold, concrete kennels and coursing fields. He didn't want to lie on the new bed, he didn't seem to know what to do with the new toys, he wouldn't take a treat, he wouldn't even look at me. He just squeezed into a safe spot and lay there, and that broke my heart. But Time heals all wounds, and we had many, many years ahead of us <3

#greyhound #greyhounds #greyhoundsaspets #greyhoundsmakegreatpets #rescued greyhound #rescuednotretired #petsnotbets #rescuedog #adoptagreyhound #adoptadog #adoptionstory #robertthegreyhound #irishgreyhound #greyhoundadoption

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morwensteelsheen · 3 years

Note

3 4 5 and/or 6 for the writing meme? :^)

woohoo, thank you!!! these ones are the most fun imo lmao

also going to do these out of order so i can drop the scene beneath the cut:

4. Share a sentence or paragraph from your writing that you’re really proud of (explain why)

He thought he saw her smile as she gazed up at the starry sky. Around her, the perfectly manicured garden with its artfully planted flower beds and ancient sculptures seemed the very picture of Gondorrim beauty: mathematically balanced, rich in symbolism, an homage to thousands of years of history. She was nothing like the garden. Her hair, unbound despite the common fashions, frizzed in the humidity. One eyebrow was always slightly more arched than the other, even when she was at peace, the other had a scar through it where hair no longer grew. Another scar, dashing across the perimeter of her mouth, made her lips seem lopsided. She was not perfect, but she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

I think this, from AFTA, represents the first time I feel like I really got it right re: Faramir's thoughts on Éowyn. I really struggled to balance the hyper-critical undercurrent we get in TTT with the starry-eyed romanticism we get in ROTK, because I found it hard to believe that he would swing between those two poles instead of occupying the centre ground. I actually kind of got it when I was reading (and yeah, roast me for being pretentious as fuck lmao) Shelley's To The Moon, and I was like, oh my god, this is it. This is The Take. Like there's the point of the poem, which is Shelley being like 'moon sad bc no bf 🥺👉👈', but there's also the strangeness of him describing something as ethereal and beautiful as the moon as 'weary' and mayhaps looking a little less than perfect. Like, it gets that kind of critical pessimism but also the ultimate hotwife simpery too. Anyways yeah I'm not comparing that paragraph to Shelley by any means but that graf is definitely where everything started clicking for me a bit more, so I quite dig it.

5. What character that you’re writing do you most identify with?

Amrothos as I write him is my self-insert because 1) uncomfortable 2) not sure what the fuck is going on. Beyond that, I actually identify more with Faramir than with Éowyn, even though I find him by far and away more difficult to write. Classic. For the SW stuff I write it is unfortunately, sigh, Cassian. Though I haven't written for R1 in a long while.

6. What character do you have the most fun writing?

I like writing Imrahil the most when he’s not the POV because he walks this line between being a loose cannon and being the most conniving person in the room, which I think is fun to make the other characters negotiate. But I actually like writing Denethor’s POV the best (even though I haven’t published any of that stuff) because he provides a really unique opportunity to make ruthless assessments of the other characters and plot points. Like it's nice to get to duck out of LOTR's standard optimism and into the mindset of a dude who realises how profoundly fucked up so much of it is. And I think it’s really interesting as a writer to look at other characters from the POV of someone who can see their biggest flaws very clearly but still has to find a way to either make them usable or keep them from causing any problems. It’s a fun exercise.

3. What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)

lmao this one has been sitting in my phone notes app for ages because i can't decide whether i want to work it into a WIP or just post it as a ficlet. classic. also valuable insight into my slightly deranged brain I think:

The babies were asleep, not in prams in a different room as the healers and midwives had advised, but in each of their parents’ arms — the Prince and Lady of Ithilien had always had a unique relationship to rules and authority.

The lady of the house, her curls hanging limp around her face and her face pale with exhaustion, had never looked more radiant. Beside her, the man who was there neither prince nor steward, but husband and, for the very first time, father, looked at his youngest child with rapt adoration.

It was a difficult birth by all conceivable measures, sixteen hours of labour, with an entire hour between the first and second baby, but it was not the physical act of labour that had been the hardest part of the process.

The women of the war generation had disproportionately borne daughters as their first children. In the White City, the King and Queen of the Reunited Kingdom had welcomed a daughter before the heir to the throne was born, while the King and Queen of the Riddermark had welcomed a bouncing baby girl just months before the Lady of Ithilien had begun her confinement.

She would have loved the child no matter its sex, had loved the two babies that had come and gone before they could know if they would have been sons or daughters. Her love was never in question, but Lady Éowyn was a woman for whom the constraints of her sex had been a sharp punishment, and she could not bear the thought of having to one day explain to her daughter why the laws and customs of their country dictated that she could not inherit the lands and titles that were rightfully hers.

When the first pangs of labour had begun, Éowyn had simply ignored them, continuing on with what duties she could manage (around a distinctly large belly) until even her well-honed skills could no longer hide her pain. Then, it was not until she had fought every healer, midwife, and servant in Emyn Arnen that she would be taken into the room designated her birthing chamber, and even then only after earning the concession that her husband would be allowed to stay in the room.

For sixteen long hours she had fought and struggled to bring her child into the world (then expecting but one), alternating between brutalising screams of pain and unnerving silence. When the stubborn child had finally acquiesced and begun to arrive in earnest, her screams and silence alike stopped, giving way to soft, mournful sobs and choked out prayers.

The boy, born with a shock of golden hair, had cooed before he’d cried, and Éowyn had collapsed in on herself, delirious and overcome with joy and pain and unending devotion to her child, her son, a child who would know no limits to his life, would never be told no.

And then the midwife had announced that there was another child still, and desperate, anguished tears were replaced by the look and sounds of determination, as the Lady of the Shieldarm brought her daughter into the world. Her daughter who would not be deprived of land and titles for her gender, but for being a miraculous hour younger than her brother.

Hours later, after the healers had vacated the room and before eager family members were granted entry, Éowyn cried a final time, warm tears spilling over her dazzling smile as she thanked the stars and the earth and all the Valar that they had been so blessed to have neither an overlooked daughter nor a second son. Their children, she swore, would never know the suffering that had scared their parents’ lives, and that, she knew, was a sign of the happier days she had been promised all those years ago.

#thank you!!!!!!!!#asks

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hopetofantasy · 4 years

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‘HUMO’s big youth survey - Politics, society and religion’ - With Nora Dari (part 3)

- TW: concerns about the future, climate change, mental health - FUCK THE CLIMATE Almost half of young people says they’re not interested in politics. Bouba Kalala: “(*filled with disbelief*) What? I don’t seem to have that impression, but maybe that’s because of my bubble. We talk a lot about politics at home. Everyone should do political stuff, even the baker around the corner.” Céleste Cockmartin: “Ever since my mom went into politics, I’ve become more and more interested. But I do notice that my friends struggle to understand. Current affairs programs are really boring too. ‘De Zevende Dag’? Sorry, but I’ll fall asleep.” Bouba Kalala: “Seriously, it’s so good: drama! Intrigue! Just like ‘Temptation Island’” Céleste Cockmartin: “But young people quit when they hear all these difficult and unspecific words: bilateral, cordon sanitaire, inter-ministerial agreement, Vivaldi, socio-economic parameters, ... It’s too complicated and unclear. What are they truly talking about? It can be so simple, but unfortunately we did not chose for simplicity in Belgium.”

6 out of 10 young people think Belgium must continue to exist. That’s the same amount as much as five years ago. Céleste Cockmartin: “I might sound extreme, but why should everything be split? Belgium is very small. Big problems are asking for a bigger perspective in general: immigration, climate, crime, ... That’s one of the reasons why I’m liberal: I like the centre and cooperation with everyone, even internationally.” So you would know who to vote for? One out of three doesn’t know yet. Nora Dari: “I don’t know enough about politics to give a well-thought-out vote to anyone. If elections were tomorrow, I would need a night to study and research.” Bouba Kalala: “I’ve never voted. Last time, I stayed in bed. Not because I haven’t thought about it, but no politician could convince me. I didn’t want to participate in a fake democracy. That’s different now.” Connor Rousseau, your new employer, knew how to convince you? Bouba Kalala: “Yes. I saw him in ‘De zomer van...’ on VTM. I send him a message the same day, to ask if I could work for him. I truly believe he’s someone who wants to pull the bullshit out of politics. It only takes time. (*to Céleste*) Do you vote for your mom?” Céleste Cockmartin: “Of course, because I believe in her. She has proven that she can change things, in her own speciality and because of her 20 years of experience with the UN.” Are you concerned about the environment and climate? In the survey ‘Groen’ (= the socialist and green political party) is also doing remarkably well, at least with girls. Céleste Cockmartin: “I would love to vote for Groen, but I think some positions are the opposite to a green solution. I’m not pro nuclear energy, but at the moment, there aren’t any ecological alternatives for our production of energy. In an ideal world, every party should be green. Fortunately, you can see the classical parties fight for our climate as well.” Do you guys help the climate battle? Céleste Cockmartin: “Absolutely. I study the climate change, I separate my trash and don’t take showers longer than half an hour. I also haven’t eaten any red meat in the past year. I do eat chicken, because that’s the least polluting meat-source out there.” Nora Dari: “For two years, I was a pescotarian, where I solely ate fish and seafood. Now I eat meat again, but I do try to limit myself to chicken.” More than half of the youngsters worry about the climate. Nora Dari: “We’re constantly reminded of the seriousness of the situation: you talk about it with friends, you see it on television, you’ll get one measure after another. I do worry, yes. Our ancestors said ‘fuck the climate’ and transferred the problem to us. But the only thing we can do, is try to make it less bad for our children.” 17 percent took part in at least one climate strike. Did you? Nora Dari: “I didn’t skip school, but I’ve participated in one during a weekend. I had to. Only complaining and moaning, it would have left me a great sense of guilt.” Céleste Cockmartin: “I’ve got tremendous respect for Anuna De Wever and Greta Thunberg. What they’ve accomplished! A speech in front of the UN: I can only dream about something like that. I don’t understand the hate they get. Maybe they did wave their little finger quite a lot, but people who still don’t get how important it is, are simply either ignorant or chose to look the other way.” Bouba Kalala: “We don't like to be confronted with facts. If I’m at a café with a friend of mine and he orders water, then I’ll get cranky too. Because his behavior will send out the message that I’m doing something that’s not right for me. The same with eating meat or driving your car.” Do you feel guilty about taking your car? 37 percent prefers a bike or public transport. Bouba Kalala: “See, I try to contribute: I don’t leave the lights on, I use less water, ... But if you look at the numbers, then you’ll see that 70 percent of emissions are caused by big companies. Every human on the planet might try to live as green as they want, but as long as these companies aren’t restricted, it won’t improve. The biggest lie they ever told humanity, is that we can change a damn thing about that.” Céleste Cockmartin: “I don’t fully agree. Every company should invest a part of its profit into environmental research, true. But the responsibility still lies with each and everyone of us.” Bouba Kalala: “I understand Greta’s anger. She gets applause from the heads of state, but does it help? She knows she can’t save the world by reducing her shower time. It has to change at the top.” It does give you a free pass to do nothing and take the car instead of the bike. Bouba Kalala: “It doesn’t. By giving the good example now, I might change a mindset. The CEOs of polluting companies have children too. When they get the chance to lead, they might flip the script: ‘Grandpa, you were wrong, we’re going completely green now.’ That effect will continue to grow, but the fact that I can save the world by not tossing my cigaret on the ground? That’s bullshit.” Where do you see yourself living later on? 40 percent still prefers the countryside. Céleste Cockmartin: “The fact that young people chose the country side, has a lot to do with corona. The measures felt even more restrictive in the cities. I would like to live in a city - I love the hustle and bustle of London or New York - but a lot of friends of mine like a house with a garden.” Nora Dari: “I’m from Genk, I couldn’t settle in Antwerp or Brussels. Although, during the drive to this location, I noticed how beautiful Brussels truly is.” Bouba Kalala: “I grew up between the meadows. When I was older, I lived in the city. Now I alternate. I felt really bad for a little while and that’s when I noticed that the city was too toxic for me. My therapist advised me to go on a walk with my dog through the forest, every day. That really changed things. It’s healthier than popping some antidepressants. Humans isn’t made to live between concrete walls. We’ll have to find a happy medium.” One last number: at least 6 out of 10 youngsters are happy with their lives. Do you feel happy? Bouba Kalala: “Yes. It's kind of strange to say, but not so long ago, I was convinced that I would never feel happiness again. To find it, I had to go after it myself. How I look to the future? Not necessarily rose-coloured, because there really is a lot of shit to be addressed. But even if that doesn't work out, I know I'm going to make the most of it. Like people have made the best of corona in recent months. I try to hold on to that energy.

#wtfock #wtfam #part 3 of 3 #nora dari

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