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hankwritten · 4 years ago

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The Weight of Other People’s Thoughts

Demoman/Soldier, 2k

Request for @lilythedragon05, Scotland

It was a bad idea to follow that tugging cord at the center of his being, the one that called him to Ullapool, and he never would have dared to entertain it if he knew it would have brought him here.

Jane sat by the ocean, stone’s throw from the town, but his distasteful frown kept his eyes locked firmly ahead instead of gazing dubiously at it. What had he been thinking? Coming to Ullapool had only make him feel worse, not better, a smirch against Tavish’s memory if there ever was one. Rubbing in Tavish’s face that he’d never go home again—and here Jane was, free to frolic across the whole damn planet, even if it took him to stupid countries ending in ‘land’.

He leaned further over his knees, barely feeling the sea breeze as he thought about his dead friend.

His murdered friend, he reminded himself. Murdered by someone who he thought he could trust, who now had to carry that guilt with him for the rest of his life.

Everywhere Jane looked it reminded him of Tavish. Maybe that’s why he’d come: self-flagellation. Appropriate punishment. Or maybe he was so desperate not to forget, he’d take the pain that came with remembering. Torturing himself truly, since he could look on the hills and surrounding coast that he had once only known through enthusiastic descriptions, see for himself the places where a young Tavish had played with dummy-grenades. He could imagine him talking to the local shopkeeps. He could practically see him walking up this very path, groceries in one hand, a newspaper filled with fried fish in the other as he took a large bite out of it-

Wait.

Tavish stopped dead, his face enveloped in utter shock. Still mid-chew, he said, “Jdra-ne?”

Jane leapt to his feet. “Apparition!” He pointed an accusing finger at the offending spirit. “Do not think for a second I will be cowed into repentance by the spectral manifestation of my guilt!”

Tavish nearly choked as he tried to swallow his bite of fish. “I…what?”

“Ghosts serve no purpose on my journey to recovery,” Jane continued. “Not even ones that look like my dead friend! Be gone creature of the other world!”

“What I- I’m not bloody dead.”

Jane squinted at him. He definitely didn’t look dead, totally opaque, no fettered chains representing his sins in life and his guilt over failing to help his fellow Man.

“…Are you sure?” Jane pressed.

“You’d think someone would know if they were dead,” Tavish grumbled poignantly, now glaring at Jane for some reason.

“I killed you though. It was-” -pickaxe right through the sternum, crushing, all the red bits coming out when they should have been in- “That was definitely fatal.”

“Aye, was, but I managed to limp my was back into Respawn range. Took a better part of an hour, but I made it.”

There was something odd to Tavish’s voice, something he wasn’t saying, but the realization that he might actually-seriously-really be alive was starting to set in and Jane was too afraid to believe it.

He took a step closer, past the bench he’d been enjoying his solitude at and completing a full circle around the Demoman. Tavish’s head followed him all the while, up until Jane came to a stop in front of him. “…Promise you are not a ghost?”

“I’m not a ghost,” Tavish said, as convincingly honest as he’d always been. Not that his acting skills hadn’t covered for his mendacity before-

-no, no that was a trick, it all turned out to be a lie a damn lie-

“Fine then. You’re not.” Though Jane would keep his eyes peeled for phantasmal anyway. “What the hell are you doing here then?”

“I live here,” Tavish huffed. “Gravel Wars are over, wasn’t going to spend the rest of my years in some blighted desert. Better question is what are you doing here, yank?”

Crap. Well, maybe a half-truth would suffice. “You always talked so much about Scotland I thought…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

Tavish stood there, one hand still clasped around his groceries. The moment dragged on, vast seas of unsaid things between them, of regrets still festering, to which he ended with, “would you like me to show you around?”

Jane looked down, trying not to stare at his shoes but instead at the foreign soil around them. “…Sure. Why not.”

“Everything is incredibly vertical,” Jane complained as they climbed up yet another hill Tavish insisted was part of the journey.

“Aye, that’s why they call it the Highlands, BLU.”

Jane hated how fucking smug he sounded. Hated, and missed it all the same, missed how this bastard could set a fire in his gut just with one of his damn smiles.

“And there she is,” the Demoman said proudly as the crested the final ridge.

“Damn. Really went to crap in the last couple centuries.”

“Oi, don’t point fingers at me! I’ve only been around for forty of those.”

DeGroot Keep was shriveled and hunchbacked since Jane had last seen it, folding under its own legacy as ages had eaten the tallest spires first and chewed its way down to the cob. Still, he could just make out the choke points, the parapets, the places he used to go charging into with his mêlée weapon held high—all sanded down by the years, the vaguest memories of control points where a portal in time had briefly allowed Jane to witness their existence.

“So what,” he asked, following Tavish into the slight dip in the Highlands where the Keep nestled, “you live in here like some sort of anti-Italian?”

“An anti- what now?”

“Anti-Italians! Despises sun, allergic to garlic, doesn’t show up in mirrors, no sex life. Basic literary reference, RED.”

Tavish rolled his eye. “No, I’m not squatting in the dilapidated castle. Got a perfectly nice home down in the village, I just happen to have inherited this along with…all the other crap.” He waved his hand. “I’ve considered shelling out to having it restored but…dunno. Seeing it go from its heyday to this makes me think that in another couple hundred years it’ll just fall apart again.”

He sat on a piece of tumbled rock, one that used to hang over the Keep’s gate, a bright and shining keystone now used as a stool. Jane joined him.

“Don’t get much of this at home, do you? Old crap. Yer country’s still a wee babe you know, nothing’s even falling apart yet.”

“Incorrect!” Jane amended. “There are plenty of old things in America!”

“For last time lad, Thomas Edison wasn’t immortal, and he didn’t be build a second Shangri-La under Pennsylvania Avenue.”

“Your statements reveal both your ignorance and your compunction, but I was actually talking about mounds.”

“Mounds,” Tavish repeated dubiously.

“Yes! Mounds! Fourteen hundred years ago Americans were building ceremonial mounds in order to track celestial events! They look like animals from the top, lynx, bears, fish, all that crap. I used to walk next to this bird one every day on the way to school.”

Tavish blinked at him, tilting his head. “No offense Jane, but including Native people usually isn’t in your worldview. Where’d you even learn all ‘o that?”

“My mother taught me, so think insinuating more cyclops—lest you show disrespect against her memory and I am forced to take out your other socket!”

Tavish raised his hands defensively, but there was a smile creeping at the corner. “Alright, alright, I get ye. A Mum’s honor is a serious thing.”

“Hm. Good.” Jane glanced ahead, suddenly afraid of lapsing back into silence, as though Tavish would start to slip away from him if they did. “How is your mother?”

“Ah…she passed some years back.”

“…I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s alright.” Tavish paused. “I still see her sometimes.”

“Metaphorically or…?”

Tavish glanced at him, but then away just a quickly, as though frightened of what he might see. “I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s alright with you.” Instead, he stared ahead, the sun setting between its cradle within the mountains. “Heh. At least there’s something that’s the same no matter where you go. Always a sunset.”

“Guess so.”

Still, Jane found he liked this one better than the ones back home. At least, better than all the ones he’d seen before he’d met Tavish.

The next day was spent in the village, and Jane couldn’t help but yearn for more of Tavish’s time, more of his attention. His friend. His friend who was still alive. Tavish had a kind word for every person they passed, all of whom didn’t seem to notice Jane at all, simply starting up a conversation with their fellow local and submitting to the rhythm of the morning. Breakfast was some sort of potato scone, but Jane wasn’t hungry, so he just walked beside Tavish as the other man ate. They found themselves at the same bench where they’d first run into each other.

“So,” Tavish asked. “Ullapool everything you thought it would be?”

“Hm. It’s…nice. It is obviously not perfect for geographical reasons entirely outside of its control, but. I understand how it made you the man you are.”

“Me? Nah.” Tavish wiped off his mouth with his sleeve. “I made myself like this.”

Again, he wouldn’t look at Jane, wouldn’t say what they were both thinking. That things had gone wrong, that they had both fucked up. One of them more than the other, but Jane had found him again, and maybe they could still figure something out, still have time to unearth all that they had deemed too dangerous and buried in the sand.

Jane reached forward, and put his hand over where Tavish’s was resting on the bench.

And watched it pass straight through.

Jane sprang away. “I knew it! I knew you were a ghost!”

Likewise, Tavish stood up sharply. “I am not. I bloody told you I was’t.”

“Liar! I will not be swayed by any more perjury from your ethereal mouth!”

“I’m not lying!” Tavish snarled at him, his eye dark and narrowed, burning hotter than the words would imply. “I never lied. I never wanted any of-”

“Blasphemy!”

“Would you just listen for-!”

“You cannot guilt me apparition! For I know that-”

“Shut up! Just fucking shut up!” Tavish’s fist closed around the neck of his scrumpy bottle, half drained before noon, and threw it full force at Jane’s head.

Jane raised an arm to block the incoming blow, but the impact never arrived. A second ticked by, then two, then three, and slowly he lowered his forearm to reveal the panting Demoman behind it, shoulders heaving and an inscrutable expression tearing across his features.

“How’s that for the truth you bleeding idiot,” he said.

Jane looked to Tavish, then rotated his neck slowly, staring at the bottle that had landed in the grass behind him. He blinked, willing what he was looking at to make sense, to suddenly disappear and go back to where things were a second ago. To believe he hadn’t seen that bottle connected with his own nose.

There was something he didn’t want to do, but he did it anyway, turning his gaze forward inch by agonizing inch, staring down at his own hands. Fully taking how translucent they were.

The moment shattered, Tavish tore his eye away. “Fuck. Fuck I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve…”

Jane was still looking at his hands. There was panic, deep and overwhelming rising within him, but there was no raised pulse to accompany it, no sweat on the back of his neck.

He lifted his chin to Tavish. “What? I don’t…”

“I didn’t die,” Tavish said thickly. “You did. I killed you and I walked off and you just bled out for who knows how long and-”

-the pickaxe but also a sword, just as deadly buried two feet into his chest and the man above him trying to shove it in a few extra inches, strangled screaming as it pushed deeper-

Jane hadn’t been paying attention to the last half of Tavish’s muttered confession. The Demoman was crying now, pawing furiously at his one lone eye as stared out valley below them, looking anywhere but at Jane as his sclera turned red.

“I’m sorry,” he sputtered. “Christ Jane I’m so fucking sorry. If you came to haunt me or whatever I just- I just want you to know that you can’t hate me more than I hate myself. That it’s been killing me every day since.”

He collapsed on the bench, curling away from Jane as he buried his face in his hands.

It could have been some sort of trick. A ghost bottle or…no Jane wouldn’t even try. He attempted to remember what flight he had come in on but couldn’t. He grasped for how many years since the Gravel Wars had ended, and couldn’t find the answer.

Jane was a ghost, yet everything still hurt as much as it had when he had lived. Immaterial, and he still so badly wanted to touch Tavish’s hand.

He sat on the bench next to him. “I didn’t come to make you feel bad, Tavish.”

“Then why did you come?” It sounded like it was meant to be venomous, but instead it only sounded empty—empty and wet with tears, like a plastic bag trampled into a puddle.

Jane looked down at his hands. His useless, ghost hands that he could still knit together. “I…I wanted to see you,” he said truthfully. “I missed you.”

Tavish looked at him, bleary-eyed. He whispered, “I missed you too. So damn much.”

“Whatever I was doing before, I missed you enough to come here. To someplace I thought you would be.”

A panicked jolt crossed Tavish’s face. “You’re not leaving, are you?” The same man who a moment ago thought Jane had come to smother him with guilt was despondent at the idea that Jane might go after all, that he wouldn’t get a chance to hurt himself with his own regret anymore.

“No, no not yet,” Jane said. He tried his best to wrap and arm around Tavish’s shoulder. The mortal shivered where their skin met.

“Okay,” Tavish said quietly. “Okay. Good. Thank you. I don’t think I can…When I saw you sitting up here I couldn’t believe it could be fore something good. That the only reason you’d want to haunt me would be because you hated me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

It was true. Even though he remembered now, remember lying there, thinking how they’d killed each other, Jane had only ever hated the man who’d believed the TV’s lies.

“I really did come because I was thinking of you. Missing you.” Jane paused. “Today was fun. I’m sure you have a lot of other places to show me, right private?”

“…Sure. Sure whatever you want.” Tavish wiped at his nose. “I’m sorry Jane.”

“It’s alright Tavish.” He held his head in the crook of Tavish’s neck. “I’m sorry too.”

#demosolly #boots n bombs #tf2 fanfiction

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words-for-holland · 5 years ago

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The Songs in Our Life: It’s Not a Date

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Summary: Y/N & Tom learn more about each other on their night out together...but remember it’s not a date.

Inspired by: I Wanna Know You - Hannah Montana & David Archuleta

Album Description | Track 1 | Track 2 |

Waiting. It’s the action of staying where you are to delaying something until a certain time has come or something happens.

For instance, Y/N and Tom were due for a date at 5:40pm, and the wait was almost unbearable for them. Not that it was ever an official date....but the idea of seeing each other again the very same day brought a feeling of excitement. Something that neither had felt in a very long time. Seconds, minutes, and the remaining hours passed. Y/N had clocked out of work, shoved her laptop in her bag, and made her way down to lobby to meet Tom. As she approached the area, her steps slowed and ultimately stopping in her tracks. Seeing Tom, casually waiting brought a new found feeling. She smiled at him, already thinking about the possibilities of the if’s and’s & wants in her future, but immediately shook out the thought.

“C’mon Y/N it’s way too early to be thinking like this. You haven't even gone on a date with him yet and you're already thinking about a future. Jesus.” Y/N muttered to herself, verbally smacking some common sense into her brain.

As she continued to walk towards Tom, he looked up to meet her eyes and started walking to her direction. “Fancy seeing you here, darling.” he greeted with that boyish smile. He offered his hands, gesturing to allow him to carry her bag, but Y/N simply shook her head and declined the offer. “It’s okay. I got it.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Of course, but would it be okay if we stopped by my apartment to drop this off?” Y/N replied to him. “I really don't want to be carrying this around while I blow your mind with the best food in the city.”

Tom hadn’t replied to Y/N’s question, he was too busy thinking about..well...her. In his mind, he would have been more bold and responded to her question like ‘Aw, here I was hoping you were just going to invite me in to stay there and I can show you a really good time’. Or ‘Nothing blows my mind more than you’.

Instead what came out was “Yeah, sure that’s fine.” he smiled back, mentally slapping himself for not being able to pull off something smoother.

“Okay, let’s go. It’s not that far.” Y/N lead the way, with Tom following behind. There it was. That awkward-but-not-so-awkward tension coming up as the two walked in silence to Y/N’s apartment. Both knew it wasn’t an official date, so why was it hard to just strike a conversation? Y//N and Tom fought with their inner conscious as they tried to figure out how to make the first move. It was then when both Tom and Y/N, took a deep breath and said out loud their questions the same time.

They laughed at their failed attempts to strike a proper conversation, and tried to make it better by saying “You first.” in unison and then “No you.”

Tom gestured to Y/N to speak first. “So how was your press interview? Did you get in trouble for being late?” Y/N asked as they continued to walk the streets of 34th Avenue.

Tom looked at Y/N’s way, recollecting their first meet up. Indeed Tom was extremely late, but if he hadn’t been he wouldn’t be in this position right now with her. “Yeah it went well. I just got in a little bit of trouble, but it’s okay. Sometimes you’ve got to live a little dangerously.” he winked, which made Y/N’s cheeks display the most delicate shade of pink. “What about you? How was work?”

Y/N shrugged at his question. “Can’t complain. Im still new to the company, but the projects are fun and everyone’s welcoming and a pleasure to work with. Just hoping I dont mess it up.”

“Im sure you won’t. You dont seem to be that type.” Tom responds truthfully.

Y/N looks at him and smiles. “Oh? And what type do I seem to be?” She challenges him, but before he could speak, they make it to Y/N’s apartment.

She jiggles the key in and opens the door for Tom, allowing him to enter first. The first thing that catches his eyes are the cream colored walls and soft blue furniture accents. Papers are piled up on a table, and pictures of Y/N with her friends and family placed decoratively on the walls. Candles were lit and the T.V. was softly playing in the background. “Wow...this is really cozy.” Tom reacts, intaking the surrounding. “Though I must say I usually get invited inside the house on the second date.” He laughs at his sorry joke.

Thankfully Y/N’s sense of humor was extremely easy tonplease, and she laughed along with him, playfully hitting his shoulder. “Oh stop, I told you I need to set my stuff down. I —”

“Hey Y/N I was wondering what—” Y/N’s roomate and best friend comes in to the living room seeing a rare sighting of Y/N with a man. “Oh...I didnt know we had company.” She smiles, trying her best to contain her excitement for her best friend.

“Oh right.” Y/N closes her eyes briefly in hopes that her best friend doesnt embarrass her. “Um Tom this is Kaitlyn, she’s my best friend and roomate. Kaitlyn this is Tom H—”

“Believe me. I know who you are.” Kaitlyn smiles widely. “It’s...wow..a surprise really. Nice to meet you.”

“And it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Tom greets back shaking her hand.

“So are you two like...” Kaitlyn gestures as she squiches her hands together. “On a date?”

Both Y/N’s and Tom’s eyes widen, both of their cheeks turning a deep shade of pink. They knew it wasnt such a bad thing to consider, them being on a date and getting romantic. But they just met, neither wanted to risk the chance of screwing it up. “Of course not. I was just planning to show Tom around the city, since he’s not from here.”

Tom would be lying if he said his heart didnt drop just a little, but he wasnt going to let that show. Even though he wanted it to be so much more than a hang out. “Yeah, I figured why not....since we’re friends.” There it goes again..that awkward silence.

“Uh huh. Im sure you both will enjoy your friendly hangout. Y/N knows all the best places to eat.”

“I wouldnt doubt it.” Tom smiles.

“And we should get going...uhh Kaitlyn you’re welcome to join us if you want?” Y/N interjects as she and Tom get ready to go out.

“Oh. It’s fine! You two go out. Im good here.” Kaitlyn rejects and winks at Y/N.

Y/N rolls her eyes as she leads Tom out. Not far from her home, the two make it to Chelea’s Market, where they indulge in all things Italian. From the flavorful pasta, to the fresh steamy focaccia bread that comes right out of the stone oven. It was Y/N’s go-to place to impress anyone visiting. The food was great and the scenery outside was beautiful.

While the food was incredible, Tom’s prescence was where the real magic came to play. She could only imagine what hanging out with a celebrity would be like, but Tom was another story.

She took in how engaged he was with her stories about growing up in a small town in New Jersey with her family, how Kaitlyn and two other friends had stayed together since they were 6, and how her life had felt so barred until she moved here in the city, feeling free for the first time ever.

He was interested in all of it. Tom’s eyes looked at her with endearment, and his smile grew the more he heard about her most heart touching memories, his laugh becoming more robust and joyus when she told him a funny memory. He was falling for her, even though he didnt want to admit it just yet. While he got a good chunk of her life, he wanted to know more.

Y/N on the other hand, wanted to turn the tables. “So what about you?” She asked, as they both made their way to the High Line, warm latte in hand.

“What do you mean?” He questions back, displaying a coy smile.

“C’mon you know what I mean. What’s your story? And when I mean story I dont mean how you got famous.” Y/N explains as they continue walking.

Tom looked down at the ground, thinking. He couldnt remember the last time a stranger wiuld ask about his life, and not just the story about his career. “Well, I have 3 younger brothers. A set of twins named Sam and Harry and a younger brother name Paddy but we like to call him Padster. I lived with my best mate Harrison for 4 years. Love sports but golfing all time has to be my favorite. Ironically, Im terrified of spiders and I hate cheese.”

Y/N took in his 5 minute biography, and thought about how genuine he was. Just like she did, Tom gave stories about his brothers and best friend, and the more he talked the real he felt to Y/N. Their friendship was blossoming and in this moment nothing felt out of place. “Wow, you hate cheese?! Cheese is single-handely the best creation on this planet. I feel sorry for the girl that had to deal with that.” Y/N stopped her tracks, realizing what she just slipped in. She didnt mean to mention about a potential girlfriend he did or didnt have, it just...happened.

“Haha Im sure she doesn’t mind. She doesnt particulary like cheese either.” He plays along, but Y/N’s spirit started to lower. So there was a girl after all. She should have known.

“Oh, so there is a girl. Isnt there?” She speaks in a monotone.

“Of course! Tessa shes been with me for awile. Cheeky little dog, but I love her so much.” Tom laughs as he takes a sip of his coffee.

Y/N shook her head as she caught on his words. Dog? Upon realization, she shook her head looking down at the ground hiding her embarrassment.

“Sorry. I had to.” He continued to laugh, “but your face and attitude was priceless. Its almost as if you we’re jealous or soemthing.”

“What?! Me jealous?! Please.” Y/N tried miserably to play off.

“C’mon I saw those lips purse and that cute nose scrunch. You looked wee bit jealous.” Tom stated as he lifted her chin to meet his eyes. The moment was tense and silent but not akward. They took in each others features, lips getting closer, eyes slowly closing until... “It’s getting late.”Y/N whispered. Both let down by the moment being ruined.

Tom pulled away with a look of disappointment. “Yeah...you’re right. I’ll walk you back? My hotel is not far from your place.” He offered.

“Of course it’s not. It’s the tri-state area. Everything here is 30 minutes or less.” She jokes, trying to lighten the mood. “I would like that a lot.”

They continued to walk back home, side by side with light conversations. Almost forgetting their almost-kiss on their unofficial date. As they reached the steps of Y/N’s apartment. The two bid their farewell.

“Well I had a lot of fun tonight. Thank you Y/N.” Tom said smiling at her as he held her hand.

“Likewise. I cant remember the last time I had this much fun.” Y/N admits, hoping that this wouldnt be the first and last time she’d see him. “Maybe we can do this again?” She bravely suggests.

“I’d love that. See you soon, darling.” With that he kissed her goodbye on the cheek as he made his way to the hotel, but not until he made sure, Y/N got inside safely.

Proceed to Track 3.

Taglist (Send an ask or message to be added):

@horanxholland @peterspideyy @stan-ish230403 @averyfosterthoughts @eridanuswave @greatpizzascissorstaco

#tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #peter parker #peter parker imagine #peter parker x reader

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enccrypted · 5 years ago

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Can be used for RP and non-RP blogs to get to know a bit about the person behind the screen!

1. FIRST NAME: my name is something else, but I actually do more commonly go by jun nowadays in my day-to-day life!

2. STRANGE FACT ABOUT YOURSELF: as a child i rode a bicycle into my aunt’s pool because I have no sense of foresight even though avoiding diving into the pool was the EASIEST thing to figure out in that moment. And riding a bike in a pool is illegal in California, so :( Please don’t call the cops on me

3. TOP THREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU FIND ATTRACTIVE ON A PERSON: A lot of my partners I’ve dated on sheer basis of their personality, but... lean? not necessarily super slender but I personally tend towards slimmer builds, I think? And I also really like nice eyes and hands... and I love voices I find soothing and nice to listen to!! Sound is a hate or love thing for me, so if I hear a certain sound or string of sounds I like, I can get stuck on it. And likewise if a sound is just unbearable to me, it sends my brain into fucky spirals. So that’s why I have certain songs on loop for weeks on end, because when I like a certain type of sound, I want it in my ears constantly.

4. A FOOD YOU COULD EAT FOREVER AND NOT GET BORED OF: these spicy noodles 🍜 they’re called buldak bokkeum myeon, hot chicken ramyeon 😋

5. A FOOD YOU HATE: I’m actually five years old, so vegetables can get the fuck off my plate. Most of the time they just have some weird textures that I cannot handle in my mouth. I feel like it’d be better if I owned a blender and could make smoothies out of some of them, but that’s a plan for the future when I can actually have full control over my own diet

6. GUILTY PLEASURE: I love... to eat out... and to eat in general, but it’s hard to eat out a lot because it’s very expensive :( but then my opposite guilty pleasure is packaged ramen that’s cheap as shit... I’m a very inconsistent personality lmao

7. WHAT DO YOU SLEEP IN: my pants and nothing else

8. SERIOUS RELATIONSHIPS OR FLINGS: only serious relationships!! I mentally cannot make myself date a person if I haven’t been friends with them for at least a few months, optimally one or two years. I like to know the people I end up dating and feel comfortable around them, really know them before I even think about taking it a step further. Being good friends with a person, talking a lot with them, and feeling that I can speak to them as a partner AND a friend with whom I would trust my secrets (and therefore be honest with them about anything!) is so wildly important to me. And also I just don’t trust like that.

9. IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN THE PAST AND CHANGE ONE THING ABOUT YOUR LIFE, WOULD YOU AND WHAT WOULD IT BE: so many things. I think about it constantly. My most common daydreams and things I imagine as I lie in bed at night is somehow waking up with my current day mind in the body of my younger self and just living life differently. But I’m sure a lot of us would tweak a thing or two, regardless of whether they’re subtle or hugely impacting, and in reality it’s just not going to happen. So while I’m not “happy” with where I am, I’m at least happy with my efforts and where I’m trying to go from here on out!

10. ARE YOU AN AFFECTIONATE PERSON: It’s tough to get me to that point, as in I’m really picky with whom I choose to get closer to just based on compatibility, how much I initially feel I’ll be comfortable around a certain person, etc. But once I get to a status of friendship, I’m very free with affection :’) maybe too much? I drop a lot of “I love you”s and I occasionally make a fuss over the people I care about, but only to make sure they’re okay or something. Not overbearing!! I think... sometimes i accidentally say “babe/baby” to my friends and I realise two seconds later that it’s fucking weird but . can’t cry over spilt milk lmao

11. A MOVIE YOU COULD WATCH OVER AND OVER AGAIN: I’m not a “watch a movie again” type of person because it takes me actually wanting to watch a movie, then making the conscious decision to invest the time in sitting down and watching it... so a song I like! because I can multitask while listening to music and it doesn’t take any huge commitment for 2-7 minute songs: Scenes from an Italian Restaurant. I could listen to most of Billy Joel’s songs on repeat for days, though.

12. FAVORITE BOOK: My favourite books switch around because I always discover something new, then turn around and go straight back to an old book I used to love after rereading it... over the years I most strongly remember loving: Crime and Punishment, The Great Gatsby, and Howl’s Moving Castle!

13. YOU HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY TO KEEP ANY ANIMAL AS A PET, WHAT DO YOU CHOOSE: I want a cat really badly! I do have a stray cat that I hang out with at my school, but that just isn’t the same as having one of my own! And I’ve always wanted a snake since I was a wee bab so, someday, when I’m moved out and financially stable 🐍

14. TOP FIVE FICTIONAL SHIPS [IF YOU ARE AN RP BLOG, YOU CAN USE YOUR OWN SHIPS AS WELL]: TWO OF MY FAVOURITES ARE WITH JAY: his higgs (death stranding, goldenmasked) and his revenant (iidolum)... I didn’t start off writing with either of them with huge shipping intentions in mind, but I’ve got some plots with him that are my favourite... 😭😭 other than that, cryptane, cryptage, and gibraltar/crypto! That’s five right there.

15. PIE OR CAKE: it’s illegal to make me make decisions like this. I don’t even like cake and pie that much but when I’m in the mood for either one, they’re equally good. I can choose flavours though: apple pie and chocolate cake.

16. FAVORITE SCENT: Gasoline? Cigarette smoke? Those are bad for me especially since I’m asthmatic, but they’re really the only thing that come to mind. AND also this oil because it smells vividly of childhood. I still have a bottle I use from time to time.

17. CELEBRITY CRUSH: I’m not really feeling any right now... but George Michael was always such a cutie :’)

18. IF YOU COULD TRAVEL ANYWHERE, WHERE WOULD YOU GO: I want to go home to Australia for a bit, and visit Vietnam again (don’t remember when I last went because I was too small...). Canada, maybe?

19. INTROVERT OR EXTROVERT: a mix of the two, but currently feeling very introvert.

20. DO YOU SCARE EASILY: it depends on my mood. I’m either really finicky and easily scared by anything if I’m on edge, or my brain just shuts off and blocks out the whole function of terror so when something happens, I’m just like. yeah??

21. IPHONE OR ANDROID: android and not interesting in ever switching off.

22. DO YOU PLAY ANY VIDEO GAMES: this is a blog for a video game character!!

23. DREAM JOB: I’m chasing a career in psychiatry and I might someday return to mechanical engineering.

24. WHAT WOULD YOU DO WITH A MILLION DOLLARS: buy a nice small place somewhere!! fund the rest of my education on my own! give some of the money to my friends!!! fill my savings account to the brim!

25. FICTIONAL CHARACTER YOU HATE: im trying so hard to think of a character that i hate, but I’ve mostly enjoyed the character cast of everything I’ve watched/read/played lately. life’s too short, and so is my memory, for me to remember anything that hasn’t occurred in the past few months. at the least, it makes me a much happier man so, win for me ;)

26. FANDOM THAT YOU WERE ONCE A PART OF BUT AREN’T ANY LONGER: hate to admit it, but I used to be a Hetalia fan. Lmao. Some of the worst people I met there, but I also met my ex-girlfriend in the fandom, and we made fangames for it together :’) one of my favourite memories of younger years.

TAGGED BY: i stole it from one of jay’s blogs... my big brain can’t remember which but go follow him on both higgs and revenant anyway

TAGGING:�� @deathchasing, @mircoy

#time to change this up. \` * file: meme.#abt jun.#( a little something to kick me back into being here :'] )#( while i was writing responses i found myself thinking 'what ooc icon should i use' and then i remembered oh. i dont use those anymore... )#( when did that stop being a thing? for me personally and for rping? or is it just in these circles that no one is using them? im lazy idk )#long post cw

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chickenscript · 6 years ago

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How would the Rottmnt guys comfort their grieving friend after their family member passed away?

A/N: this was the second prompt sent in and i really went for it while writing. i’ve been in a pretty rough mood lately and funneled a lot of how that feels in. i also have personal experience with loss and i tried to input a lot of that so the reader’s thoughts could feel more convincing. enjoy?

It struck you and your uncle so incredibly hard.

Out of nowhere, your grandmother was suddenly ailing. She was a healthy, elderly woman for all the years you’d known her and took good care of herself, so when her retirement home rang your uncle up, a thick fog rolled in over the two of you. It was unexpected- sudden and swift tempered information that terrified you both. The home staff said they believed she could pull through, but your uncle threw that to the wind and wasted no time. You were going to her, that was that, and you couldn’t agree more. Anything outside of leaving - school, work - was put on hold and you packed up, and your uncle drove with reckless abandon all the way upstate to Albany through the night with the exception of a few pitstops. The ride gave jitters time to sink under your skin and while you were determined to see your grandmother, undeniably, you both could tell there was a storm catching up to you.

Naturally, you stubborn gits refused to leave your grandmother's bedside as soon as you got there. You were there up until the hour came that the doctor, stricken with the grimmest set of eyes you’ve ever seen, made you hold your breath as he delivered his last answers of what was going to happen from here. And it wasn’t good. The storm you and your uncle were hoping to outrun was here, and the worst was happening.

It was like someone was drowning you with pounds upon pounds of stones in your belly. You could barely look your grandmother in the eye as your uncle let you share your sentiments first. You felt a little suffocated after he left. It was easier feeling the way you did when you knew there was someone else who felt the exact same, if not worse there with you.

When you sat down beside your grandmother’s hospital bed and held her wrinkly, pale hand, all you could think to do was retell all your favorite moments with her. She laughed along hoarsely and chimed in softly with a sickly voice. She told you to calm down in the middle of one of your retellings, she could feel you shaking.

You tried to suck it up, really did, and when you felt you could say no more to her and kissed her forehead- you bid a half quiet goodbye as she touched her finger pads to your face. Then you let your uncle have his one last moment with her as you waited outside the room, back against a wall as you tremored with pure anguish.

Your apartment was never more quiet than when you got back.

You two were shells of yourselves, dragging your feet everywhere and not wanting to be particularly productive from that night onward. Your uncle was given an entire two weeks of leave to mourn, and yet somehow managed to leave midday most times and come back just as the wee hours started to creep in. Or when the morning was.

You drifted from your friends, distancing yourself from them and schoolwork, and went out for a lot of walks with Jigsaw. Getting lost to the city stretches. But, it was looming over your head that you knew you had to break this silence you forced over you and your friends. You couldn’t handle another harried text or voicemail from Mikey, or another chorus of texts and missed calls from his brothers that shared his worry.

It took an angry April knocking down your door on the fifth day of this emotional mayhem to finally get the guts to tell them all what happened.

Raphael is first.

You ask him to meet you at the restaurant your grandmother used to own so you can get over being afraid to go there. All the familiar sights and smells anchor you as you both slip into the closed dining establishment.

Your grandmother relinquished ownership to her sister in her retirement, and you’re not as close to her since she lived up in Syracuse, but she was there for the funeral and gave you a shoulder to cry on. She looked so much like your grandmother and even shared the same thyme scent, that it scared you to high heaven.

But it was also so comforting.

She left the restaurant’s design untouched and she only drove down every few months to stay in the apartment attached to it to see how things in the city were going. From the brick stone ovens that had been there for as long as the building’s foundations were, to the linoleum floor tiles, warm colors and rustic decorations. It still felt like the Italy your grandmother spoke of so fondly in tales she would regale when you were small and pudgy, and just learning how to chase the other toddlers. It wasn’t even her home country- Columbia was, but her father hailed from Italy and god was she ever in love with all he told her about it. It made her travel there as often as she could in her youth- which was sadly only ever once.

The 1960’s weren’t a good time for travel when you weren’t wealthy. You were only upset that she still kept a picture of herself and her husband hung on a wall with other family members - few that were actually ever around - and Italian villas she got to visit.

The fact your grandfather was never any good to your uncle after he divorced her and his damned store - that she helped him buy - was sabotaged, rubbed you the wrong way.

At least she looked happy and youthful in the picture.

“That her?” Raph asks over your shoulder.

You hum and there’s a familiar prickle in your eye for the third time today.

“Yeah. Thanks for uhm, meeting me here. I know it was hard to leave the others back at the lair with no explanation, but…” you needed to explain how you felt to everyone one by one. Otherwise, you were sure to get overwhelmed.

“It’s all cool Snapper.” he liked to call you that after your scrappiness.

You do the best you can to smile and hang the picture back up on the nail jutting out from the wall. It was bent in a hook shape and looked like it had been there for ages. Knowing your grandmother, it probably was.

“How’re you feeling today?”

There’s that part of you, your temper, that wants to snap in offence that you felt the same since the day it happened. But, you don’t feel that anger anymore from when she died and you felt like you all could’ve done something- anything to make her time here longer. It just wasn’t sane to cling to the idea that it was someone else’s or even just your fault your grandmother died.

It was the first hurdle your mourning presented to you.

“No that awesome Big Red. I’ll be honest.” you take in a big breath and bump your shoulder to his forearm, “But I feel a lot better with you here.”

“Like, coming here isn’t so scary.” you say as an afterthought.

You remember just coming up to the block, not even being near the building yet or climbing the fire escape to the roof, made your tummy swirl with dread. Like if you took another step, something might strike you down. But you banished the feeling when you got a text about Raph almost being there. It let you summon courage and helped you to the restaurant roof. You couldn’t be standing here without the encouragement that came from knowing your friend was here too.

Not to judge how you felt or that you avoided him and his brothers for the past school week, but to support you.

You dismissively swipe the bullet of a tear that welled up in your eye.

“Do you want to talk about anything?” you could tell Raph was struggling to figure out how to comfort you.

You weren’t giving any clues and death was a foreign concept to him. He probably only knew it in the form of Splinter’s vague story; the one about his wife and child from his old life before he was a rat. You know since you met them a year ago that they’d only ever had one scare, and it mostly only effected Leo.

“Nah, I mean…” your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.

You felt the urge to just talk about her. About everything that was coming to mind about her not that you felt the nostalgia of the restaurant come at you. You think of her, and thyme and sugar cookies, bandeja paisa brunches and batches of bacalaítos you could eat all on your own.

So you do.

You tell Raph about all the foods she would make for you, and how she was more often than not, your babysitter. You tell him about how after you had to start living with your uncle, that was around the time she retired and moved to Albany. At first, you and your uncle would swing by the restaurant as often as when she was there, but it didn’t feel the same without her tittering from the kitchen or her sitting at your table to talk with you instead of help wait tables or oversee food being cooked.

Your mom would be the one to shoo her back to work.

A much more dull ache in your chest shook the tides and you really started to have a hard time talking and just breathing.

It was okay though, you were glad to be able to let all this out and maybe this was just a sign that you were done with flushing out memories for today. Lest ones you barely remember would come back up and really wreck you.

Raph is rubbing wide circles in your back as you collect your emotions again. He’s so patient, and you wonder how someone with anger like you was able to whip it into shape the way he had. You reach for his dawdling hand and drape yours over it. You only really cover the space between his thumb and forefinger.

“Thanks Red.”

Raph leans over to bump your head with his, smiling benevolently.

“Need to let anythin’ else out? Or do you wanna go to the lair for dinner? Mike said he was making something ‘specially for you.”

You wonder what the young cook could have magicked up this time and nod distantly.

“Yeah. I think we should go.“

But you would come back.

You felt you needed to.

So, the next day you have Don meet you at the restaurant.

It was well past the closing time when you jimmy open the window of the apartment above it again and sneak in through there. And again, its like an eerie ghost town inside. All the chairs were on the tables, the window blinds were shuttered and the only sound was coming from the groaning freezers in the back, and the odd car outside. Something about it is somehow less bearable than last time, but then Don bumps you with an elbow and you feel less alone, and like you were about to be pulled into shadowy straits or something.

“So, what does it uh, feel like.”

You know Donatello isn’t asking to be insensitive; he honestly doesn’t get it.

Holding his hesitant, offered hand made it easier to describe to him.

You breathe in like you need an inhaler, “Like uh, like someone punched a hole right through me. Through here.”

You knock on your sternum and scoff lightly.

“Does that make sense Dee?” you look Donnie in the eye and there’s the glimmer from his abnormal eye shine.

You’ve seen it before, but you forget about it all the time. Like how you forget that your friends aren’t entirely human. They make it easy in your defense with how they act. They’re like every other hot blooded teen, including you, just in a vastly different vessel. And, they had their quirks, sure, but nothing that really bent back to them being mostly turtle. Except the occasional animal outburst- a hiss here, a Mikey retracting into his shell there. Besides that, all the things that would be considered part of their freakish, mutation flaws by most folk, you knew them as the four teenage brothers you were bonded to by the threads of friendship.

Now, you also knew them as the people who were helping you through a time in your life that had rocked your core.

You squeeze Donnie’s hand to ease you through the sudden stir of hurt. The type only tragedy can custom make, and you feel him rub your knuckles. He’s been getting better at gestures like that and you like to give yourself credit for his improvement.

“Enough.” the turtle shrugs and cocks his head at you, “Raph told me that you told him a lot about your grandmother, do you need to let out anymore stories?“

You remember how much your rambling had swelled the thin, tense air you felt, and you were compelled to tell him about the disaster that was your grandmother trying to teach you how to make arepas- you don’t even want to remember how you got dough on the ceiling. It was so embarrassing and a blush was already coloring your cheeks.

It was also the first time you laughed in a week and it made your heart flutter.

This felt so much better than the hurt of losing someone and made your memories of her feel like less of a plague. Don might not get that last bit, or any bit of what devastation did, and you hoped he wouldn’t ever have to because shit, it sucked.

No one should have to lose anyone, but that was how the world went.

Your laughter flattened out as you reach the end of your tale and you gave Don’s larger hand another squeeze, tightly interlocking your fingers.

“Let’s get out of here.” you don’t mean for it to sound like a rushed breath, but Don just nods and complies.

When he helps get you back home, you find your uncle is out - probably for a drink with his own best friend - and Don stays with you through a movie that you fall asleep halfway through. Propped in his lap with a death grip on one of his hands and dribble beginning to stream down the side of your chin.

Apparently, prying you off was like getting a bear trap open. Or that’s what he said in the text he sends you in the morning after a hope you slept well, my hand still feels asleep and a trying heart emoji.

You smile into your pillow - he must have tucked you in too - and breath easier for the rest of the day.

But then you have talk to another turtle brother.

Again, you’re guiding around a turtle teen with only one light on in the whole restaurant so no one would know you were breaking in for a kind of impromptu therapy session with a mutant. You don’t really reminisce like the other nights, you feel too numb to, and just answer trivia Mike throws at you. They all have to do with what it’s like to have a grandmother. You try to answer them the best you could so he can have a rough grasp on the concept. He’s only ever had two different forms of family and was fascinated by all the other ones out there. You let him take down and look at the pictures hung up, explaining who or what was in them, and then meaning of certain knick knacks on shelves. You tell him about all the different types of food that’s been made here, and that really perks his interest.

All the talking really gets your mind off of things, and the walk back to the lair is filled with Mikey talking about how much he wants to try to make the dishes you mentioned.

He admits he still doesn’t really get what your grandmother was to you after a couple of movies in his room, and you decide to just sum it up the best you can.

Kindness and firmness - only when it’s needed -, kisses on bruises and bumps and slathers of vicks cream even when all you had was a suspected sniffle. Lots of watching her cook, sometimes petty thieving when it came to things that accidentally stayed in the shopping cart past the checkout, and just the love a grandparent can only have for the child of their child. The over-complicated description came flowing out of you and you grin warily at Mike’s confused face when you’re finished.

Like his brothers, Michelangelo honestly doesn’t understand the pain you’re feeling and you can see him trying to. Eyes a conflicted shade of blue green. You discovered they sometimes changed colors depending on his emotions - or reflected eye shine like Don who explained how it was part of the mutation only the two of them shared -, and since he was usually high on happiness, the green never came out much.

He butts his forehead against yours and takes your hands, looking at them thoughtfully with a pout.

“I’m sorry you feel so bad- is there anything I can do to make you feel better?” he’s got a hopeful gleam to him.

You gently smile and butt his forehead back.

“Don’t worry about it Mike, you guys just being here is enough.” to an extent. You still felt the hole from death's double barrel shotgun aching in your heart.

Mike smiles, but its shifty and half dishonest. He’s worried, but he doesn’t pressure you for more.

“Okay.”

You breathe and hold it in.

Yeah. Okay.

“Let’s order some pizza yeah? I’m actually hungry tonight.” you get up from the conglomeration of pillows on Mikey’s floor with the grunt of some elderly person who’s joints are locked up with peanut butter.

All the other nights before this, you were just sort of shoving food down your throat for the sake of sustenance and not actually getting to enjoy any flavors. You’re not sure tonight will be different though, until you feel Mikey grab your hand to hold as you walk down the hall.

For some reason, when you finally invite Leo to meet you at the restaurant, your mind starts to betray you.

You swear you can smell hints of Colombian cuisine and imagine the scene of a bustling kitchen with your grandmother singing to the radio and the softness of thyme wafting above all else. It makes you put on the brakes and nearly sink to your knees. Leo is your crutch and immediately asks what’s wrong, defying his usual carefree demeanor. You’re clumsy, sure, but you never just buckle like that. He was concerned that you were skipping out on sleep or meals again.

You’ve never done that either before now.

“Just…remembering n’ stuff.” you battle with your voice to cooperate.

Leo doesn’t ask you questions to help you piece together your feelings and just hugs you to his side so you can swoop your arm around his waist like his was around your shoulder. It really helped you feel grounded.

Leo admits his brothers told him most of what was happening with you and how you felt. He’s curious about this person who was so near and dear to you, and wanted to know whatever you personally had to say to him about her. Unless you didn’t want to say anything, that was okay too. You weren’t sure where to start anyway, all the other times you just went off on great, big tangents that seemed to never end, but tonight, they don’t come that easy.

You lean into Leo, staring at your least favorite picture in the restaurant. You glared emptily at your grandfather’s smiling face and then looked softly to your grandmother’s.

She has this soft blush and her hair is tousled by some unseen breeze like her ruffled blouse. She’s so happy, she reminded you of a sprite. Beautiful and striking. That ache in your chest was no longer furious and hungry for your suffering, it dulled and the lack of grief left you unsure how to feel. Like you forgot how to do it at all with how slammed you were by sadness and it’s relatives these past few, long days. You felt direction-less and emotionally drained. You wanted to lay down and sleep for a few centuries, and wake up to see how things went while you were gone. You wonder if that’s what dying is like and we all just wake as ghosts to see the world we left to an impermanent, eternal sleep.

“Hey, you blanked out.” Leo tells you and take some of your weight off his side.

“Sorry, I’m just…tired. And I don’t know what to tell you about her, honestly. She was,” you stare at her picture again and chuckle softly, “she was a spitfire. Even in old age- you would have liked her. Maybe Don too. She made the best jokes, mostly about her own son.”

Leo smiles with you, “Sounds like a cool lady. With all the stuff Mike told me, I can see why you’d miss her.”

Your arm slacks a bit where its around him, “Yeah.”

You always would. No doubt. But you wouldn’t hurt like before. The pain will always be there in small doses, but you had them to counteract it, to medicate it,

Something to fill the void left by loss. Maybe not back up to the top or ever as full as before, but enough.

You look up at Leonardo and his warm, sympathetic stare.

Certainly enough.

“Let’s go home eh? I’m bone tired and ready to call it a night.” he can tell you’re not referring to your uncle’s apartment, but that’s the first time you’ve called his home that without stuttering and replacing the word with lair like it should be.

Leonardo stares at you for it, but doesn’t point it out. Instead, half of a grin curves his mouth.

“Home it is.”

#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt #tmnt leonardo #tmnt donatello #tmnt michaelangelo #tmnt raphael #angst #grief #they love you so much #oneshot #reader insert #x reader #anon prompt #loss #friendship #platonic #comfort #imagine #my writing

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letstalkpop · 5 years ago

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Some Good Ol’ Fashioned Fan Fiction

Fan fiction gave my life meaning as a young teen. There was nothing better than settling in and reading a really good fan fic. *NSYNC was my pleasure. It’s not guilty because I’m proud of my fandom. Thanks to the lovely ladies of the Girl Were You Alone Podcast, (Seriously if you love *NSYNC and haven’t discovered this yet, do yourself a favor!) something wonderfully weird was discovered. The Couch Fan Fic. Couch Sync, if you will. Here’s the link if you dare, which you should just definitely read it.

https://web.archive.org/web/20041113051749/http://improvidence.net/weirdo/fiction/couch1.html

So many questions unanswered after reading this. The main one being, where’s the next chapter? The recovered website says Chapter One, but chapter two is inexplicably absent. Maybe it was never written, maybe it got lost in the ether, either way there was no more couch sync. Until now. This story deserved to be told. It deserved a second life. So here it is, the world debut, of Couch Sync, Chapter Two. Enjoy! *Disclaimer: There is naughty language and this is very, very weird...

CHAPTER TWO

As Joey dozed off Lance couldn’t help but feel comforted by the weight of Joey’s body laying on top of him. Before he was a couch he would’ve loved to feel the weight of his body on top of him, but this was crazy. Joey was married, he was straight, and Lance had turned into a couch. All Lance could do was think, and the more he thought about his situation, the more he realized that maybe he could do something.

Joey was on top of him, even if Lance couldn’t move, which ideally is how the scenario would play out anyway. Joey’s soft, Italian body shifted on top of Lance’s cushions, and Lance wondered what body part Joey was laying on. Was he like that chair from Pee Wee’s Playhouse? If only Joey would slip his cock in between Lance’s cushions. Maybe it would accidentally fall out of his shorts. He was called the Italian Stallion for a reason. With all his might Lance squeezed his cushions as hard as he could. It took so much concentration he felt like he was a Jedi. Trying to channel the force to obtain Joey’s package. Just then he felt something. Lance couldn’t believe it. It felt like skin, he had so much trouble seeing since he was a couch and had no eyes, but he was starting to feel around. Joe, still snoring, was oblivious to what was happening underneath him. Lance had separated his cushions just enough and somehow was able to slide Joey’s package in between them, tucking it away so nice and cozy.

Lance threw caution to the wind and wriggled his cushions against his member. Lance didn’t know whether it was his mouth or his asshole that Joey was in, but it felt so incredible he didn’t want to get into the semantics of couch anatomy. Pretty soon, Lance was able to not focus his mind so much, and just let it flow. The ethical question did cross his mind, but seeing as he was a couch, and couches can’t sexually assault people, then he figured it was okay.

Joey, still somehow asleep, started to moan and grunt softly. Lance was afraid he would wake up, and then wonder why his package was stuck in a couch. If he kept him asleep somehow, Joey wouldn’t get the chance to freak out. When he awoke he would see it as nothing more than a wet dream.

Lance clamped down harder on his manhood and rubbed his cushions against it with all his might, his brain working overtime. Lance wanted to cum, but how? How, as a couch, would he be able to cum? “Who cares,” Lance thought, and kept his cushions going faster and faster, and then the cushions exploded off the couch sending Joey with them, flying across the room.

Joey abruptly woke up, freaking out. “WHAT THE HELL?” he said to himself. He looked around and saw no one. He grabbed the couch cushions and had no idea what had just happened. He looked down and saw his cock out, hard and ready to go. “Jesus!” he said stuffing it back into his shorts. He took the cushions and put them back on the couch and stared at it for a second. There was something about this couch that looked so familiar to him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Joey was freaked out and left the room, “I am getting the fuck out of here. I’m not dealing with a haunted couch. KELLY!” he screamed leaving the room. After a few minutes of silence Lance woke up. He was back in his body, and laying on top of the couch.

“Was it all a dream?” Lance said to himself. He looked at the couch, and was tempted to stick his hand between the cushions, but didn’t. Lance got up and left the room to look for Joey.

As Lance left the room Joey tried to call after him, but couldn’t, seeing as how he was a couch. He didn’t know when it happened, but figured it was all Lance’s fault.

THE END

#weird #fanfiction #nsync #Lance Bass #Joey Fatone #soweird #couch #couchgag #fandom #seriouslysoweird #girlwereyoualone

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xthebirdofhermesx · 6 years ago

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Hellsing: The Return - Chapter 2

Chapter 2! Oh Section XIII... what you do’n?

(∩｀-´)⊃━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT?! ｡ﾟ･*.｡ﾟ☆--c(`-' ∩)

MATURE CONTENT FOLKS. There’s violence, strong language, smut, and gore cause... well Hellsing. No warnings beyond that currently (no sexual violence or anything like that), so have at thee if ya like. All Chapters compiled here, but I’ll be posting inline for anyone who just tumblrz.

Chapter 2 - Divine Intervention

“Chief Makube,” Integra said walking into the foyer of Hellsing Manor by herself, “To what do I owe the pleasure of you staying in the lobby today, unlike yesterday?”

The older man was tall, Italian, and bore a scar over his right eye that stretched from forehead to jawline. He smiled and spread his hands gracefully, as if to indicate he was also alone. “Today I have no children to entertain,” he smiled. “S’cuzzi for not being able to conclude all business yesterday, Sir Hellsing… but I’m afraid the Vatican does not know that today, I am here.”

Seras, having been leaning against the banister with crossed arms and a dower expression, raised an eyebrow and looked to her human master. That… was a fishy statement from the head of Section XIII, Iscariot Division. Integra was no less impressed or concerned, but her expression remained stoic.

“Well, you have my attention,” she said and turned. “Please, follow me. My office will be more comfortable.”

Up the stairs and to the only door visible from below, Integra lead the way to her office as Makube and Seras followed. The Knight repressed a smirk as she was the only one to see Alucard’s smile fade into the shadows before she opened the curtains behind her desk. “I can assure you, Chief Makube,” Integra said and nodded for Seras to close the door. As she did so the room flashed with black and red energy, Pip securing the room at Seras’s will. “This room is secured from eavesdropping,” Integra finished with a small smirk.

As she sat behind the desk, Makube sat in front, crossing his legs and weaving his fingers on one knee. “I apologize for dropping in unannounced, Director. Unfortunately the nature of this visit is… sensitive.”

“Not to be indelicate, Chief Makube,” Integra said, lighting a cigar, “But shall we cut to the chase?”

Makube smiled patiently. “Of course. There is a leak, a potential traitor to The Vatican and specifically Section XIII within our ranks. I would like to enlist the aid of the Hellsing Organization to investigate and hopefully find this mole.”

Well. That… had not at all been what Integra, Seras, or even Alucard would have predicted coming from this conversation. As Alucard’s deep laughter began to echo around them, Makube’s expression fell from pleasant to concerned, and eventually to slightly upset when Alucard manifested from the shadows in the corner.

“Oh this is quite the welcome home present,” the ancient vampire chuckled.

“When did this occur?” Makube frowned at Integra.

“Last night, actually. I fear you came to call before any official statement could be released. I’d barely finished breakfast when I was alerted of your arrival.”

“He has a plane to catch,” Seras stated of Makube, Arms crossed and standing now near to her vampiric master.

The Chief swallowed audibly, but regained his composure rather quickly. “Well then this may be all the more swift a resolution. Though I must request as few casualties as possible?”

“We’re not murderers, Makube,” Interga’s tone was flat and unforgiving. “We’re monster hunters.”

“Of course, I was not implying anything. Allow me to explain.” Spreading his hands, the Leader of Section XIII went into detail about a few investigative missions that had gone deadly unexpectedly approximately six months prior. At first it had not raised any concerns as these thing happened occasionally. However it seemed that the number and frequency of these events had been slowly increasing, and it was not until a single survivor confessed with in intensive care that the attackers who’d killed them all were not of the original investigated threat. He was then assassinated that night in his hospital room in Vatican City.

“This has happened now outside of Roma, as well,” Makube pressed the tips of his fingers together, elbows resting on the arms of his chair. “Not only does there seem to be a white clad figure leading an attack against the Vatican, but one of our own is giving them information on where to find our people to take them by surprise and murder them all.”

Integra twisted her cigar between two gloved fingers as she thought. Makube was not his aggressive predecessor Maxwell, nor his embittered subordinate Heinkel Wolfe. Neither was she a fool, and an olive branch from the Vatican could still be a trap. The Vatican as a whole had made no bones about believing the Protestant Knights to be blasphemous, and specifically the Hellsing organization, Integra herself in fact, to be the worst of them. She wasn’t entirely certain if she’d been officially declared a witch in the eyes of Rome or not.

And yet intuition told her Makube was sincere. How frustrating.

“With all due respect, Chief Makube, and I mean that sincerely,” the knight said, tapping ashes from the end of her cigar into the ashtray, “I have a far greater respect and appreciation of your methods and approach than I could ever have for your predecessor. But what guarantees do I have that this is not an elaborate trap for my organization?”

“Outside of my personal word and promise that if it is, I have been kept in the dark and know nothing of such a plot?” he sighed and spread his hands. “None. But if this is a trap for Hellsing, it is not the act of Section XIII or an openly sanctioned operation from the Vatican.”

“How delightfully dangerous,” Alucard chuckled, his grin upsettingly wide.

“I also can guarantee you that even if it is a cu,” Makube added, eyeing the elder vampire, “They might, at best, be prepared for you and Ms. Victoria. No one at the Vatican knows of Alucard’s return, clearly.” Meeting eyes with Integra, the chief smiled. “And I don’t intend to enlighten them at this time.”

That… pushed Integra’s eyebrows up.

“Noted,” she said, keeping all other surprise from her response. “If we agree, what would be expected of us in this endeavor?”

“Discretion. Once we leave this room, I will deny any knowledge of this conversation. I merely came by to apologize for any offensive comments Agent Heinkel Wolfe made yesterday.” Makube sighed and shook his head. “The most recent attack happened this morning in the wee hours. We received the briefest of communications in the form of a video message from one of ours before they were killed and the phone destroyed. The White Cloaked figure was seen for a brief second. Does it not, to you, seem as if a supernatural threat in Scotland, where this occurred, would be reason enough for Hellsing to investigate?”

“Will the Vatican let us onto the site?” Seras inquired.”

“By the time you arrive, they will not have yet. The scene is being held for their investigation, but you can arrive first. I will… waylay them as long as I can. Heinkel and my assistant have not yet been informed, or Agent Wolfe would very much want to go. However, I will handle that.”

“I see. So we are to go as soon as now, then?” Integra grumbled.

“I know we are not… friends, Sir Hellsing,” Makube started, leaning forward in his chair. “I know that the Vatican sees the Protestants of your Council of Twelve and the Hellsing Organization as heretics, and in the past has been an open enemy. However, we want the same thing - safety of the people, and the end to monsters. And this… has potential to threaten us all.”

“I doubt greatly that a single other member of your organization would agree that we have the same goals,” Integra sighed and stood, snuffing her cigar out. “However I agree that if there is someone hunting the Iscariot, it is at least prudent to make certain that they will not turn their aggression toward Hellsing, The Council or The King once they are done.”

Makube gave a partial smile and nodded, standing to take Integra’s hand as Alucard’s chuckling began to grow in volume. “I will accept that, Sir Hellsing.”

“Should we find this mole along the way, how should we be in contact?”

“A phone call to my mobile will suffice. I should think we can communicate in such a way that anyone near would not decipher the information exchanged.”

With a nod, Integra watched as Seras escorted the man out. When the door was closed she closed her eyes and shook her head. “I do not like this.”

“Oh come now, my master,” Alucard purred in open amusement. “This, will be fun. ”

Integra sighed and cut her eyes to Alucard. “Your definition of fun differs greatly from mine.” Standing, she tilted her head to one side and cracked her neck in the attempts to relieve a newly growing tension. “I will get my things together. Yours are in your rooms below,” she explained and turned to him with a look of narrow suspicion. “Have you been down there yet?”

With a wide grin, Alucard stepped back towards the shadowed corner of her office. “Why look at some dusty old stones, when I have such a lovely view of angels from up here?” But any retort Integra might have had she kept to herself. It was no fun to say it to the wall, and Alucard was gone.

***

“I don’t like it, Master,” Seras grumped from the wall of Integra’s bedroom. She leaned, much as she had downstairs, with arms crossed against the wall. It was a good way to tell when Seras was unhappy about something. She hadn’t pouted in years, not in sincerity. But when she was displeased about something, her face tilted down and she crossed her arms. Everyone had tells, if one knew for what to look.

“I don’t either, Seras,” Integra sighed and tucked the neatly folded change of clothes into her small overnight bag. It was never a poor idea to bring a change of clothes to a murder investigation. Better to not need it than need it and be caught without. “But we won’t know if it is a trap until the trap has been sprung, and if it is not, and Makube actually came to us for help, then perhaps that is a bargaining chip we can use in the future.”

“What could we possibly bargain with the zealots and fanatics for?”

“For them to stay the hell away from us.”

Seras wobbled her head back and forward at that in consideration. “Alright, you have a point there. Want I should get my things?”

“No, I want you to stay here. The men trust you, and as much as these words are foul tasting to fall from my lips, Makube is right. They will not be prepared for Alucard.” Integra sneered. “I hope I never have to say that again.”

“Yeah, that statement physically hurts me to hear from you, Master.”

“ I think I threw up a little myself, ” Pip chimed in.

“EW GROSS NO THROWING UP INSIDE ME!”

“ WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO? Dégueuler all over Integra’s floor?!”

“Children, please,” Integra sighed, zipping her bag. “Seras, I must go purchase plane tickets for myself and Alucard. Would you please call Sir Gregory? I’ll need to speak with him.”

“Why Sir. Gregory?” Seras and Pip asked in unison.

Integra just smiled. “Because, he will agree to help me.”

#hellsing #hellsing ultimate #hellsing fanfic #hellsing fanfiction #alutegra #alucard #integra #integra hellsing #alucard x integra #integra x alucard #pip bernadotte #seras victoria

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didsomeonesaygo · 2 years ago

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Seeing ALL the things...

Wanted an early start, so got takeaway breakfast and hopped in the car for the Sculptor’s Cave, on the north Moray coast near Elgin. This is a cave on the beach with Pictish carvings dating back to the 6th and 7th century. Unfortunately, it started raining as we arrived, and the signpost was down (are we in an adventure movie???), so we only walked as far as the lighthouse and turned back. (Which turned out to be a smart move - 10 minutes back in the car and it was pouring.) But the coastline was beautiful, and it was our first time seeing the North Sea.

We drove through the little town of Elgin and saw Loch Oire, then cut across from Elgin to Aberdeen on the east coast. There we walked across the Brig o’ Balgownie (late 1200s), which was a strategic point, as it was the only way to move large armies along the coast of Aberdeenshire. Another little waterfall too!

Had lunch in Aberdeen at Holburn Bar, which is sort of like Applebee’s meets sports bar, but with the tv’s on silent. I should mention here that I’ve now had mac & cheese three days in a row. I figure it is so popular here, it deserves at least the same attention as Indian food in London. Rankings to-date: #1 Castle Tavern in Inverness; #2 Cobbs Cafe in Fort Augustus; #3 Holburn Bar in Aberdeen. They were all better than what you normally get at home - I’m a purist, and don’t want truffle oil, bacon, breadcrumbs, or any other superfluous ingredients. I want mac, and I want cheese, and Scotland delivers.

Then about 2 more hours in the car (lots of driving today - thanks, P!) to Donnottar Castle in Stonehaven. THIS is what you imagine when you think of a Scottish castle. It’s out on a high bluff overlooking the North Sea; it was considered impregnable, and it’s easy to see why. It is speculated that it was in use as far back as the year 600, but most of the remaining buildings are from the 15th and 16th centuries. It is most famously known as the place where Scotland’s crown jewels, the Honours of Scotland, were hidden from Oliver Cromwell’s invasion in the 17th century. The last laird in residence, Earl Marischal, forfeited his titles when he participated in the Jacobite Rebellion in 1715.

One last stop for the day, in Kirriemuir to see a statue of Bon Scott, of AC/DC fame. Though the band hails from Australia, Bon was born in The Wee Red Toon, and his stage name comes from the nickname Bonnie Scot (shortened to Bon to be more “masculine.” 😂)

Then back in the car and on to Linlithgow, a suburb(?) of Edinburgh. We're staying in a really cute hotel that used to be the courthouse, the Court Residence. Had Italian at Bar Leo, about 2 blocks from the hotel, where a very large flying bug in the gelato case did not stop me from having 3 flavors. 🐷

#europe2022 #travels

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wishingforatypewriter · 7 years ago

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A Casual Reminder

Summary: Part four of On Casual Commitments.

By the extent to which her headache had lessened, Erina could only surmise that she had overslept. She had no idea how that could have happened when she set two alarms on her phone and three on her tablet the night before—unless someone had turned them off, that is. And if someone had done that, someone would have no choice but to face the full force of her wrath.

After she showered and moisturized and padded out into the living room of the Airbnb in her bathrobe, Erina saw someone in the kitchen taking some sort of souffle out of the oven.

“Mornin’ Nakiri,” he said, grinning at her. “How’re you feeling?”

“You turned off my alarms!” She tried in vain to hold onto the rage that was suddenly eluding her.

“You slept through the first two,” he pointed out with a shrug. “Besides, you were snoring like a damn grizzly bear, so I figured you were pretty tired.”

Erina blanched. She hadn’t...had she?

“I...well, that’s just impossible. I don’t snore. And at any rate, I was supposed to have three meetings this morning.”

“Pushed back,” he explained. “Doujima’s cool with it, and Tadokoro’s train from Tōhoku got delayed anyway.”

Erina decided that it was entirely too early in the morning for her to read into the fact that he still called his married ex-girlfriend by her maiden name. “Oh...When is the first meeting.”

“In an hour and a half.”

Erina finally allowed herself to glance over at the souffle, which upon closer inspection looked perfectly browned at the top and smelled delicious. “Asiago cheese and sun-dried tomatoes?”

He nodded once. “You want coffee or tea?”

“Coffee.” She took a seat at the kitchen table and crossed one leg over the other. “Like the whole pot.”

“I gotchu,” he said, giving her shoulder a light squeeze on his way back to the french press.

As she anticipated the sensation of piping hot black coffee gracing her god tongue, a thought occurred to Erina. With all the chaos that had ensued since their unexpected return to Tokyo, when the hell had he found the time to go grocery shopping? And to bake her a breakfast souffle? And to reschedule all of her meetings?

And then, for reasons she couldn’t quite identify, Erina got up and followed him and loosened the sash on her robe. “You said an hour and a half?”

“Yeah, did you want more ti-” When he turned around, Erina tilted her head upward and pressed her lips against his. She smirked into the kiss when his fingers slid beneath her robe, between her legs.

Hopefully they’d still have some time for breakfast after.

Erina shook her head as her taxi pulled up in front of the Tōtsuki Imperial Hotel in the city center. She was still running late, though she couldn’t be mad about the reason. She climbed the front steps two by two, an impressive feat indeed in her four inch heels, and all but dove for the elevator.

The first meeting would be with the board members of the tourism department, and she could only imagine those hardened businessmen tearing into sweet little Megumi like vultures on a carcass.

However, after she got out on the fourteenth floor and speed-walked down the hall, Erina heard nothing but laughter wafting out of the conference room. Inside Doujima Gin nodded proudly as his protegee enticed the board members with her stories and homemade snacks.

Discreetly, Erina went over to Doujima and asked what was going on.

“We were discussing the possibility of opening a hotel in Midtown East,” he explained. “It seems Mrs. Aldini has spent some time living in New York.”

“So you really went two months without any furniture?” a balding man asked Megumi.

She nodded, chuckling a bit at the memory. “You see, we had just graduated from Tōtsuki’s high school, so we had gotten accustomed to state of the art facilities. We were a little disappointed by the kitchen in our first apartment out in Queens, so...”

“So you blew all your savings on an IKEA dream kitchen!” The older man gave a full-bellied laugh. “Ah, to be young and in love. Makes me nostalgic.”

“Aldini-san, if you don’t mind me asking, wherever did you sleep?” another one of them asked.

“We had a mattress on the floor,” she explained. “It was pretty rough, so my boyfriend at the time became a contestant on Chopped. He won and we used the prize money to furnish the apartment.”

That garnered another round of laughter from everyone in the room. Erina had always wondered what made him go on that show, but still a wave of irritation coursed through her.

“Perhaps we should get back to business,” she said with an authoritative edge to her voice.

They did, but honestly it didn’t help much.

It seemed that Megumi Tadokoro-Aldini had a personal anecdote about literally every city to which they were considering expanding their tourism empire. She was personable, highly skilled, ridiculously well-traveled; it was what made her the perfect woman for the job. But the fact that he featured so prominently in so many of her stories was gradually driving Erina up a wall.

They had gone to carnival in Trinidad, watched the northern lights in Alaska, hiked through the Andes mountains—cooking and eating and falling in love with the world all the while. Even though the stories only came in the form of offhanded comments, Erina knew them both well enough to piece the story together—everything but the ending. For the life of her, she couldn’t fathom how they ever broke up.

By the end of her last meeting, Nakiri Erina was finished. With an exhausted sigh, she traded her heels for a pair of flip-flops and made her way over to the hotel’s bar. There she found none other than Takumi Aldini nursing an old fashioned.

“It’s good to see you, Nakiri-san,” he said when he spotted her.

“Likewise.” She barely had the chance to sit before bartender placed a martini in front of her. Ahh, the perks of being heir to the Tōtsuki network. “How has life been treating you?”

“Can’t complain.” He ran a hand through his blond hair.

Erina gave a little laugh. That was literal. The Italian chef was almost incapable of complaining unless you pried it out of him. “What happened?”

“Grandpa Tadokoro has been having problems with his memory lately,” he explained. “We’ve been trying to help out, but every time I see him, he’s just like...’Souma, you got shorter. Souma, why’d you go and dye your hair? Megumi, when are you and Souma gonna give me some great grandkids?”

Erina whistled. And she thought she had problems. “Takumi, you’re a saint.”

“I’m not,” he said. “I just got lucky. To think I only have the life I’m living now because of a bad pregnancy test.”

WHAT?

Erina’s head turned around so fast, she was surprised she didn’t end up with whiplash. “A pregnancy test? Was-”

“M-mi spiace, Nakiri-san.” Takumi suddenly looked like he had just lost his star ingredient minutes before his dish had to be completed. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I just assumed you already knew since you two have been living common law for so long.”

Hmm...common law. Was that what they were doing? She had never been particularly fond of anything that could be categorized as common...well, except Yukihira.

As Erina contemplated this, Megumi walked into the bar, all golden eyes and gentle smiles, beaming when she spotted them. The bartender slid a tequila sunrise over to her as soon as she arrived.

After giving her husband a quick peck on the lips, she pulled Erina into a hug. “Nakiri-san! How’s everything? Are you alright? I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk properly before.”

“I’m fine,” she replied, feeling terrible for ever resenting her. “Thanks for getting here on such short notice.”

“No problem at all. And I’m sorry the train got delayed. I know you wanted to start the meeting at nine.”

“No, no. You got here before me, anyway!” she said. “Besides, that idiot Yukihira turned off my alarms, so I didn’t wake up until after ten.”

Megumi laughed. “I’m surprised you didn’t kill him.”

“I came close.”

“No one would blame you,” Takumi joked.

The three chatted for another half hour or so before Erina had a driver pick her up in front of the hotel.

When she got back to her vacation rental—as much as she loved her family’s hotels, she could only go so many days without a functioning kitchen—Souma was emailing the contractor for their SF restaurant space.

“‘Sup Nakiri?”

“I’m starting to question why I ever bought these heels.”

“Didn’t you say you like to intimidate people by towering over them in your crazy shoes?”

Erina tapped her chin. “I told you that?” Because there was no way she told him that.

“I think you were drunk.”

“Had to be.” That was the only way she’d admit something like that to anyone other than Hisako. She smirked, leaning down to read the email thread over his shoulder. “We should go back soon. Alice and the others are already back in Denmark.”

“Figured you’d say that.” Souma switch tabs to reveal that he’d already booked their first class—thank goodness—tickets back to California.

Erina rolled her eyes. Who said he was allowed to know her so well? More and more each day, it seemed as though the chef of the commons had her down to a science.

“When we get back, we’re still painting the walls blue,” she said.

“Come on, Nakiri. The red looked so much better.”

“I already told you, your aesthetic sense is way off!”

She knew they would argue about it into the wee hours of the morning, even though she was fairly sure she’d let him have his way this time.

#sorina #soueri #shokugeki no soma #takumegu #erina nakiri

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junker-town · 5 years ago

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How cycling can define a country

The Tour de France is a wicked test of physical and mental prowess that only Belgium could love so acutely.

Belgium claims to be the most cycling-obsessed country in the world, which says a lot about Belgium. This year, it is hosting the Grand Départ of the Tour de France, the largest competition in a sport rooted in a form of madness, and in mad people comfortable communing with the weirdest parts of themselves.

In many ways, Belgium embodies the Tour better than its eponymous nation. France likes to wield the Tour with a subdued sense of duty. Belgium, a country lopped onto France’s head like a brain slug, wields it like the sack of firecrackers that it is. Belgium regularly gets Tour stages, but not regularly enough to get used to the novelty. Saturday in Brussels will be the first Belgian start for the Tour de France since 2012, and the city is filled to the cracks with decorative yellow and green polka dot nods to the race.

Belgians are certainly more passionate about the sport on the whole, up to creatinga robust state-sponsored development system that offers stipends to riders who may never sniff a pro contract. Early in the sport’s history, provincial races were so popular and narrowly focused that everyone knew their fastest local butcher, fishmonger, or paper boy. A Belgian cyclist named Eddy Planckaert once rode so fast he claimed he reached a divine state and ejaculated.

Belgium also produced Eddy Merckx, and no one has ever been better than him. The Cannibal won everything there is to win. Briefly: Five Tour de France titles among a record 11 grand tours, every one of cycling’s five one-day monuments at least twice, and three world championships. That success more than 40 years ago still motivates Belgium to fling its most physically gifted youth at a beastly sport.

All this is to say that there is something special about cycling even if it may seem dull and alien to some. And if you don’t get it, that’s OK. Even Belgium, now, is in the process of figuring out why the hell it was ever attracted to the sport. Mike Carremans is the curator of the VeloMuseum, which covers 150 years of Brussels’ cycling history. It opened in September and was supposed to end last January, but was so popular that an extension was granted through the 2019 Grand Départ in Belgium.

Carremans says that 15 years ago, cycling’s popularity in Belgium had been waning, “It was folklore. It was something you’d do while visiting your grandparents,” but has since gotten hip again, if not quite returning to heyday levels. Velodrome stands have carnival atmospheres, where young folk drink and party while cyclists race round-and-round-and-round into wee morning hours. And lately academics have flocked to the sport to document how it sunk roots into Belgium, and what that says about the country.

Carremans isn’t a traditional researcher. He was a burly, jolly painter before he became a burly, jolly academic for this project. He has a thick black beard beneath a thin Rollie Fingers-mustache beneath a set of glasses that his eyes light up whenever he remembers a piece of lore he’d like to tell you. VeloMuseum was in part an excuse to examine his own passion for cycling. He took on the VeloMuseum project, he says, because “I never got a driver’s license,” and as a tribute to his late father-in-law, who used to pepper him with cycling stories — “I really regretted that he didn’t live to see this project.”

Brussels is in the process of rebuilding itself as a cycling city, a distinction it carried until the 1958 World’s Fair, when, according to Carremans, it destroyed its biking infrastructure for car parking. On the day before the first stage of the 2019 Tour de France, the city will rename a street after Willy De Bruyn, a transgender cyclist who was born Elvira and dominated women’s cycling in the 1930s before coming out as a man and undergoing gender reconstruction surgery in 1937.

Despite achieving cycling stardom, De Bruyn struggled to hold on to jobs after he came out. He would continue to research and publicly discuss intersexuality, however (Carremans claims as part of a traveling circus show), and eventually opened a bar in Brussels that advertised using his image and two facts: “World champion cyclist” and “Became a man.”

Not all the details of De Bruyn’s story are comfortable by modern standards, but they highlight a common trait among the best pro cyclists: They’re fully themselves. Explaining why might be a matter of physiology. To win a race like the Tour de France, you need to be able to live with one’s mind. Otherwise, mental stress leads to adrenal stress, which leads to the body’s severe deterioration at the end of three hellish weeks. The best tend to have some combination of naive, monastic, masochistic, or sociopathic personality traits. Whatever the mix, they’re able to obfuscate or repurpose the immense pressure that comes from outside their bicycles.

It’s fitting then that the Belgian cycling boom took place between the two World Wars, when cycling became a cheaper, more democratic sport at a time when everyone needed hard distractions from everything else. During World War II, pro cyclists were some of the only people who were allowed to travel around and outside of the country for competitions, the Germans believing that people could use something fun to do besides being occupied.

Those cyclists became part of the resistance by dismantling their bike frames, stuffing them with travel documents, letters, photos, and fake IDs, and reassembling them to ride off and distribute the contraband from town to town. Italian cyclist Gino Bartali was one of these couriers, a three-time winner of the Giro d’Italia, and two-time Tour winner, who risked his life under Benito Mussolini’s regime. Bartali’s story was only publicized after his death in 2000.

“When people were telling him, ‘Gino, you’re a hero’, he would reply: ‘No, no - I want to be remembered for my sporting achievements. Real heroes are others, those who have suffered in their soul, in their heart, in their spirit, in their mind, for their loved ones. Those are the real heroes. I’m just a cyclist.’”

My favorite story that Carremans told me is about three Belgian cyclists during World War II who took off ahead of a train full of Jews being transported to Auschwitz. The trains only stopped when they saw a red light, so the cyclists hid until the train approached, brandishing a lantern and a red piece of paper. Once they had fooled the train into slowing down, they popped out from their hiding place, opened a cargo door, and released more than a hundred captives.

Carremans can — and did — talk for hours about cycling. There’s no end to the stories, and it’s in their accumulation that one begins to get any sense how such a strange sport can actually matter to country, even one roughly the same size Maryland. The answer isn’t divinity — though any individual might feel that way — but unity. Cycling is a tool to conquering an environment, a way to live with oneself and with nature, and so a way to live among humanity.

Over time, across a winding path, cycling became an example in Belgium of how anyone can learn to live alongside their darkness. That is its saving trait as a sport — that even when it’s deathly dull to watch, there’s no way to defeat the sense of awe that anyone is disciplined or crazy enough to take on mountains.

And even if cycling wanes as the primary obsession in a cycling-obsessive country, it will persist as a guiding light. It’s too late to kill cycling: The stories are all too damn good to die.

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thestarsofthenight · 8 years ago

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Chapter 2: The Land of Horror and Blood

Fandom: Kuroshitsuji/Black Butler

Pairings: mainly Ciel Phantomhive/Elizabeth Midford

Summary: “There is nothing more ridiculous than living in a country in which an orange-skinned man won an election,” Francis had said, ending the Midfords four-year-long stay in the USA. Three days later, Elizabeth lives in gloomy London, wishing to be back in sunny LA, when a murder case suddenly turns her life upside down, entangling her with Ciel Phantomhive, his duty to the crown, and his school-intern detective agency…

Navigation: Chapter Index

“We make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones.” ― Stephen King

Countryside, England, United Kingdom – November 2016

“I see... In any case, I have no intention of fighting you, Mr Butler... I yield. But you know...” Azzurro Vanel said while grabbing Ciel Phantomhive by his hair and pulling him into his arms before he held a gun to his head. “I’ll be taking those goods you managed you get.”

It was Monday morning – and no, Ciel Phantomhive usually did not spend his Monday mornings bleeding and hurt in the arms of a madman who pressed a gun against his temple. Not that this had never happened before – just not on a Monday morning.

In what kind of world were they living where madmen ignored the fact that you should not kidnap anyone before midday? Especially thirteen-year-old children who had to go to school on Mondays?

“You wouldn’t want your cute master to have breathing holes in his head, would you?” Azzurro Vanel, Italian mafia boss, traitor, and madman who did not know that you were not supposed to kidnap anyone on Monday mornings, said. Mondays were already worse enough without a kidnapping. Particularly the mornings when you were fully confronted with the fact that the weekend was in the past now, and you had to go out and socialise again.

Ciel almost shuddered at the thought of socialising.

“If you’re really a butler, then you know what you should do.”

“The thing you gentlemen are looking for is right-” Sebastian Michaelis, manservant, Phantomhive family butler with a secret, calmly replied. The moment he put his hand into his pocket to get out the item Azzurro wanted, he was shot in the head. A second later, Sebastian was shot a dozen times again.

And no – that Ciel Phantomhive’s butler got shot was also not something which often happened.

“Did... we get him?” Azzurro’s henchmen asked their boss from behind the perforated painting which had hidden them earlier.

No. You have just turned him into a piece of Swiss cheese – but no, you didn’t get him, Ciel thought.

“... Hahaha,” Azzurro chuckled. It sounded horrible. “Sorry, Romeo... but I’m the winner of this game!!”

That’s what you call a Large Ham, crossed Ciel’s mind right before Azzurro pulled him by his hair again to force him to look into his ugly face. Now, the Mafioso was pressing his gun against Ciel’s chin. “And right when he’d finally come for you... too bad, huh? Little Phantomhive. If you’re up against the Phantomhives, the Queen’s Watchdogs, then even I’ll keep an ace up my sleeve.”

For centuries, the Phantomhive family served the Royal family as Watchdogs who guarded the Underworld. And when Ciel’s parents had died three years ago, the family duty had been passed to him.

Normal citizens didn’t know about this. For them, the Phantomhives were rich entrepreneurs and Ciel nothing but a poor, poor child who had lost his family in tragedy.

But in reality, the Phantomhives had been murderers all the time – shadow detectives and silent killers, executing every one of the ruler’s wishes.

Therefore, you could say that Ciel Phantomhive was definitely not a nice boy. He was the most calculating and manipulative evil boy of this century – not counting fictional Artemis Fowl.

“All that’s left is to kill you,” Azzurro said to Ciel, grinning, “and it’ll be perfect. You’ve been in the way for a long time now, always watching us like the police. Eh? We’ll erase you... and bring change to England through our own methods.”

I am better than the police. Don’t compare me to these incompetent fools.

Azzurro pulled away Ciel’s eye-patch with the gun barrel and continued to talk. Ciel did not even bother to listen to his words anymore.

This man is a master in wasting time. I need to be in school in twenty minutes.

I guess, I should call out for Sebastian now.

“Hey,” Ciel said aloud. “How long are you going to play around for? I wouldn’t have thought that that was such a nice place to sleep. Just how long are you going to play dead like a racoon? I am going to be late for school.”

With a chuckle, Sebastian Michaelis – manservant, butler, dead just a minute ago – sat up. “The efficiency of guns has been going up recently. It’s a big difference to one hundred years ago.”

Azzurro Vanel, crying like a child who had seen a ghost, started yelling to his henchmen to kill Sebastian.

Idiot. Can’t even figure out that you couldn’t kill Sebastian.

Without much effort, Sebastian killed Azzurro’s men with their own bullets which he had earlier retrieved from his own body.

What a show-off.

“Ah... What a mess,” Sebastian sighed, looking at his damaged clothes. “My clothes have become ruined.”

“It’s because you were playing around, you idiot,” his master replied.

The butler Sebastian Michaelis’ secret was that he was not a real butler. Or a manservant. Or even a man.

“Sebastian Michaelis” was the name Ciel Phantomhive had given to the demon he had made a contract with three years ago.

If Ciel were to tell the boulevard press what he had been doing in his month of absolute absence, they would definitely not believe him. But when “accidentally summoning a demon” was the truth what else could you do but to stay silent?

***

After Sebastian had stopped to play dead, everything had gone faster – but not fast enough. And now, it was 9.25, and Ciel had missed the registration and assembly. Hopefully, nobody noticed the quickly covered cuts and bruises on his face.

Incompetent idiot. The cake today has to be especially good to make up for this.

Ciel had just wanted to leave Grey House and take a bus to Red House for French when someone walked right into him. He fell down on his buttocks and when he looked up, Ciel saw a girl with blonde curly twin-tails. She was surrounded by the content of her magenta bag.

The girl gazed up – and stared at him with her shining green eyes.

If she recognises me and begins to pity me with empty words, I will burn down the boulevard press for real this time.

But the girl did not say anything – she just stared at him, her eyes not reflecting recognition or pity but surprise... and a little bit of disgust?

Well, that is weird.

“Are you all right?” Ciel politely asked the girl, stood up, and offered her a hand.

She took his hand without hesitation and answered: “I am fine. Thanks for asking.”

Hm... could it be that she does not know me? That she knows nothing about the fire? Strange... it was all over the news three years ago... Everybody knows about it.

But when I come to think about it – I have never seen her here before.

The bell rang, and the girl cursed right afterwards before she collected her things and put them back into her bag. She threw her books so violently into her backpack that Ciel feared that it could fall apart and she would start cursing uncontrollably.

“Goodbye!” the girl quickly said to him before crumbling her timetable in her hand and running away.

Yes, goodbye to you too.

Ciel was about to head to French when he saw something blue which was reflecting the white corridor light on the ground. He frowned and approached it. The blue something turned out to be a beautiful notebook. He picked it up and thumbed through it, but as soon as he saw the words “Dear Diary...” on one of the pages, he closed it. Ciel Phantomhive might be the ruthless Watchdog of the Queen but he was certainly not someone who read the diaries of others. Especially the diaries of people he did not even know.

It must belong to Green Eyes. The contents of her bag were scattered all over the corridor after our collision after all.

Ciel put the diary into his bag before leaving Grey House. He would surely meet the girl again – and then, he could return the notebook to her.

***

“Hello,” McMillan greeted Ciel when he entered the physics room at 10.34.

Two years ago, McMillan had been late on his very first day of school, and the only free seat had been next to Ciel. Not that this event had turned them into friends – it had just been a coincidence.

McMillan had actually begun to try being Ciel’s friend after Alethea Wordsmith’s rabbit Conan had vanished, and Ciel had deducted in a couple of minutes that Viola Fleming had stolen it as she held a weird obsession for rabbits and her mother had just forbidden her any contact with these adorable animals. Viola had been sent to an asylum, Alethea had got back her beloved pet, and McMillan had started to persuade Ciel to open a detective agency at their new school.

He had eventually succeeded, and the “Phantomhive & McMillan Detective Agency – Chocolate for Investigating” had been founded. And after a while, Ciel had even – to his own surprise – accepted McMillan as his friend. On a peculiar December day when Ciel had watched the snow falling down in front of his office window, he had caught himself thinking “I could call McMillan and ask him if he wants to build a snowman.”

Ciel had laid in his bed for the rest of the day, but, eventually, he had stopped to struggle against the fact – a really, really, strange fact – that, deep down, he considered McMillan as his friend – a circumstance which had been caused by the remnants of his childish thoughts, Ciel told himself. From that day on, Ciel became the only person to call McMillan by his first name – except his parents and siblings.

But I cannot get too attached to this “friendship” and this “normal life.” After all, it is not going to last for long.

“Hello,” Ciel replied and sat down on his chair next to McMillan’s.

“How was your weekend?” he asked.

“Not out of the ordinary,” Ciel answered, and McMillan started to tell him about his weekend. “I helped my father at the library, and my mother is in the middle of an interesting case. Also...”

He talked and talked until the bell rang, and Kaizuka Taiji, their physics teacher, started the lesson.

***

Ciel saw the green-eyed girl again in the cafeteria during Lunch Break while he spoke to McMillan. The girl had been talking to Paula Sergeant and was now staring at him across the cafeteria. Paula followed the other girl’s gaze and tilted her head before saying something to her.

I can give the diary back to her now, Ciel thought and excused himself to McMillan before walking towards the girls’ table who were still deep in talk.

“You lost this earlier,” Ciel said to the girl after he had arrived at their table and took out her diary. He handed it to her and, at first, the girl just stared at him as if he was a ghost or had vomit in his hair.

Green Eyes is quite weird. Always staring at me.

Hm... wait. What if I really have something in my hair? Or if one of my cuts or bruises are visible? I need to check that later.

Then, without saying anything, the girl took the notebook. And because she had not said anything, Ciel simply frowned and wordlessly returned to McMillan.

“What did you do?” his friend wanted to know.

“I collided with her earlier today,” Ciel explained. “She lost something due to the collision. I found it and gave it back to her.”

McMillan nodded in appreciation before he resumed their conversation from earlier. “Nuala likes Marinette the most.” Nuala was McMillan’s younger sister and a big fan of Miraculous Ladybug. One day, when Ciel had been visiting McMillan she had forced them to sit and marathon the entire first season. It had been a dreadful experience. This show was too sparkly and too light and good for Ciel’s taste. He especially hated Hawk Moth, the TV show’s idiotic villain, and the fact that Ladybug had the ability to undo the damage caused by the akumatised people. The world wasn’t as simple and easy as it was shown in Miraculous Ladybug.

You cannot just turn everything like it has once been with the help of magical ladybugs.

Ciel sighed. “Of course, she likes Marinette. She is the protagonist after all. The protagonist, as long as he or she is not a complete idiot, is always one of the top three most liked characters of its source material.”

McMillan shrugged. “She’s five. So, do you think a Ladybug doll would be a good present for her?”

Nuala and Niall ‒ McMillan’s twin siblings – would turn six next week, and while McMillan knew what he could get his brother, he was a bit clueless when it came to finding a suitable gift for his sister.

“Are there any Miraculous Ladybug toys?”

“I have absolutely no clue. No – wait. I do. Toys ‘R’ Us has some. They look terribly ugly, though. I cannot give my sister a toy which could give her nightmares.”

McMillan was the sort of person who always found something good in everything and everyone. This was most likely the reason why they had become friends in the first place. So, if he thought that something was hideous, it was indeed hideous.

“What about a t-shirt or some other piece of clothes? There are band t-shirts, so why shouldn’t there be any children TV series t-shirts?”

“I looked that up already.” McMillan sighed. “They look even worse than the toys. Mostly, just the Ladybug and Cat Noir symbols were put on a plain t-shirt, dress, or jumper. The guys who make these things are awfully fanciless.”

“What about fan-made things, then?” Ciel suggested. “They tend to be better than the official things.”

“Hm – that’s a good idea! I will search for something after school. Thanks, Ciel.”

“You’re welcome.”

“It happened on his birthday?!” somebody suddenly screamed through the entire cafeteria. Ciel flinched. He whirled around to find the voice’s source – which turned out to be the green-eyed girl. People looked at her before they turned their attention to Ciel.

Dammit. That’s why I usually don’t go to the cafeteria.

Ciel Phantomhive usually spent his breaks in the office of his school-intern detective agency. But today, he had gone to the cafeteria because he had had to find the girl and return her diary.

Damn you, Paula Sergeant. I preferred it when Green Eyes knew nothing about this. Then, there would have been two pupils in this goddamn school who would not bother me with this topic.

Ciel quickly left the canteen before anybody could come and talk to him. McMillan silently followed him.

I am not someone who would turn into a cry-baby because of that. I am just tired of answering the same questions over and over again.

No, I won’t tell you where I was in that one month.

No, I have no clue who burned down Phantomhive Manor and murdered my parents.

But I am working on it.

***

After a period of biology by Caspian Darwin, McMillan and Ciel walked home together. Finnian MacCoul, who was officially the son of Ciel’s gardener, but who was actually Ciel’s gardener himself, still had German classes and thus couldn’t accompany them.

Ciel and McMillan said goodbye to each other when they arrived at the Phantomhive townhouse, and Ciel waved after his friend while McMillan walked down the road.

“Welcome back, Young Master,” Sebastian greeted Ciel, opening the door. Ciel glared at him. “I hope the cake is already ready, Sebastian.”

“Of course, it is, Young Master,” Sebastian replied. “I will serve it as a dessert after lunch.”

“No. The cake will be my lunch. And don’t argue with me – I deserve this after you fooled around too long this morning and let me be late for school.”

“A letter from the Queen arrived before you returned from school,” Sebastian told his master and handed him the letter on a silver tray. Ciel had just finished eating his lunch charlotte russe.

“If it was already here when I came back – why didn’t you give it to me then?” Ciel asked, taking the envelope.

“I thought that you might want to eat first.”

Ciel ignored Sebastian’s reply and opened the letter. It said: “My dear boy – in 1888, a person who was called Jack the Ripper murdered people, mostly female prostitutes, in Whitechapel, London. Their identity was never unveiled, and thus Jack the Ripper became one of the most famous serial killers in history. But you may already know about that.

“Lately, similar murders have been committed, and again, they have occurred in Whitechapel. Scotland Yard is working on this case, but they are as clueless as Frederick Abberline back in the late 19th century. Therefore, I removed them from this case and put you in charge of continuing and solving it. I have already informed the police about this transfer.”

A second Whitechapel Murderer? Ciel thought and put down the letter. At least, this was more exciting than searching for cats or looking into supposed beauty contest frauds. Or idiotic Italian mafiosi.

#the stars of the night #ciel phantomhive #cielizzy #ciel x lizzy #elizabeth midford #kuroshitsuji #black butler #fanfiction #modern au #school au #the whitechapel copycat arc

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talkinganddrumsolos · 8 years ago

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I Went To New Orleans And All You Got Is This Lousy T-Shirt

Among the glib and oversimplified beliefs I find utility in repeating to others is this recommendation: all Americans ought to visit New Orleans. I mean something more specific, of course, something like: all Americans ought to visit New Orleans but only partly for bon-temps decadence and also to see the most eccentric but perfectly logical extension of what your country's economic system and institutional racism and general human ingenuity hath wrought. To see a place where the the problems of Everytown, USA are humidified into a crucible but also where young black men regularly earn social and financial capital from playing the tuba. To see a place that is doomed in the short-to-medium term to repeat its own mistakes and doomed in the long term to Poseidon, yet "still I rise" until the sea level counters again.

This also requires having a particular point of view — some desire to witness regional cultural experience, and some empathic consciousness toward the underprivileged whose communities often are the originators of said cultural experiences. These things manifest in basic questions that should occur to any witness, as in "why is there an elaborate parade today for no particular reason?“ or “who had the idea to immerse seafood in butter?“ or “how does this elegant baroque richesse coexist with such stark inequality and tropical decay?” Apparently even this half-woke perspective is harder to come by in America c. 2017 than it it ought to be, but when presented with such marvels it isn’t really a big ask. It doesn't really matter exactly what type of privilege or cultural experience you're curious about; in New Orleans, chase any thread far enough and the intersections of oppressions and creative pursuits both should get you to some form of the experience I have in mind.

OK wait. That all scans way too grim and medicinal, especially since my personal experiences in New Orleans have been, on the whole, really fucking fun. As a wee lad my immigrant parents convened a family vacation to Louisiana basically as an excuse to escape winter and imbibe seasoned crawdads; I was old enough to remember specific things being entertaining and delicious but not old enough to find any of it particularly enlightening. About six years ago I sent myself to the Jazz and Heritage Festival for work with a colleague who happened to be a New Orleans native, and Josh basically gave me the weeklong crash course in Crescent City Conspicuous Consumption 101. The pump had been primed by jazz music mythologies and some vague inference that the city in the news and other mass-cultural phenomena all the time was indeed exceptional living history, but that was the start of the love affair really.

Throughout this last trip I just completed, well-meaning people kept asking me why I was visiting, which struck me as superfluous. I just assumed they would just assume I was there for the same reason that any other out-of-place-looking dude was suddenly in the area code: tourism. Well, that and the convergence of a few boring personal motivations: trying to make the most of forcible unemployment; trying to be warm during an East Coast winter, trying to ride a bicycle somewhere warm during an East Coast winter, trying to use some frequent flyer miles (I paid $11.20 for the flight), trying to see what attracted some good friends from college to land there and stay there, trying to take a vacation from my own simmering existential crises. But also I went to try to better understand why the music and food I’d developed a taste for existed and perpetuated itself not just by reading about it, but by consuming more of it. Basically, tourism.

If I had to pick a centerpiece event of the week I was there, it was probably the 21-hour period in which I attended the first parade of the Mardi Gras/Carnival season — the profoundly politically-incorrect Krewe du Vieux, followed by the more broadly satirical krewedelusion — and the following day’s second line parade of the CTC Steppers (nothing to do with Mardi Gras), which crossed an industrial canal into the Lower Ninth Ward led by 6-7 floats blaring bounce and modern R&B ahead of the brass band. The mere regular existence of these traditions, where ordinary people build ornate floats to slowly walk around the city in costumes for no discernible purpose other than merriment, is an manmade wonder of the world in itself. They also form a handy contrast: the white-encoded Krewe du Vieux vs. a social aid and pleasure club thoroughly suffused in blackness, skewering others vs. prideful celebration of self, depictions of Donald Trump suffering sex acts vs. a fair amount of twerking, the most economically successful areas of the city vs. a poor area still very much recovering from post-Katrina flood damage, anarchy as aesthetic vs. actual barely reined-in anarchy. In some figurative respects, and a literal one, it was night and day.

(krewedelusion, a younger, more diverse and more female set of sub-krewes, took on some sharper and generally more clever targets. Among the many were anti-AirBnB protests, Guy Fawkes masks, an all-women sub-krewe, the Krewe du Jieux [say it out loud], and a group named after James Brown: the Krewe of King James Super Bad Sex Machine Strollers. Their “security” staff was members of New Orleans Ladies Arm Wrestling. It, like much of New Orleans, doesn’t quite fit as neatly into the duality I’m setting up.)

I didn’t quite eat as much shellfish or see as much live music as I had intended, though it was still quite a bit. I did do my fair share of “chill,” as did apparently most of the city. On aimless strolls or bike rides through neighborhoods, an awful lot of folks seemed to be porch-sitting or biding their time in coffee shops or otherwise not really up to much in the middle of the day. Obviously there are plenty of people invisibly doing the building and harvesting and oil drilling and construction and shrimp-boating and cooking, and plenty of tourists to skew the visible numbers, but it seems like an awful lot of folks are marginally employed, or self-employed, or underemployed, or employed in weird service-industry hours, or just not employed. Coming from DC, a place where work-life balance is both bad and boujee, a place where people have more time than money was welcomed if a bit confusing.

Maybe this, and many of my experiences this time around, were filtered through the truly fine folks I stayed with. My friend lives with her girlfriend and another gay couple and most of that household is students and freelancers. One dude also plays in a moderately well-known rock band. Counting their central social circles, the whole thing was a bit like the Dykes To Watch Out For anthology like the one on their bathroom shelf. Basically my whole experience of this Mardi Gras parade in the presence of queer folks and at a gay bar, which, it turns out, was a pretty awesome vantage point for the freak flags of Carnival time anyhow. New Orleans has always struck me as a sort of place where people can build their scenes with relative ease, and as a general statement I’m glad all my peoples down there have found their peoples.

You see things from one subaltern position and you begin to see them all, and not coincidentally my gracious hosts are involved with several social justice communities. One night we went to a panel discussion called “Black Liberation in the Time of Trump” (it was hosted by a white anti-racism group called European Dissent) which seemed apropos. Chalk it up to my artistic interests maybe, but I’ve always observed the predominant power dynamic around New Orleans to be why black communities define so much of its cultural life yet hold so little of its wealth, and are many times legally restricted unduly in the development of that culture.

(Sometimes this discussion too easily excludes underprivileged populations that don’t fit on it. A friend of a friend, an black EMT, is often asked to list the “race” of patients, and reports that there are only two categories on the form — white and black — which is curious given the large Vietnamese and growing Hispanic communities in the city. Again, shades of grey here.)

I guess some well-meaning white folk see New Orleans as defined by its European cultural history, as in French Quarter architecture or Cajun or Italian food or erstwhile Catholicism, and there’s certainly a lot of that to go around. Here and elsewhere though, the United States of America’s popular cultural history has generally been defined by black people repurposing things for themselves, which is how you get to the neighborhoods where people actually live, and black Creole cooking, and Mardi Gras Indians, and Congo Square and jazz and R&B and traditional brass bands and modern brass bands and bounce and Cash Money Records, and a black majority population after white flight and Robert Moses freeway projects, and gentrification and/or tourism co-opting these things to sell back to moneyed mostly-white people. You can’t really enjoy yourself down there without noticing this.

One wonders whether many of the other relative post-Katrina newcomer folks participate in this cultural life of the city in any meaningful way — if it’s just another dangerous city with economic opportunity and terrible infrastructure (my God the roads), or whether the city’s exceptionalism is worthy of their deeper understanding and time investment as well. The city’s longer-term residents, I suspect, alternately welcome and revile these newcomers, depending in part on these newcomers’ engagement with local concerns. Turfing and perceived ownership in the cultural arena is a tricky topic; having “covered” transplanted white jazzmen based there and elsewhere, there are few clear rules. Yet sometimes even the best intentions for allyship or even active complicity needn’t qualify you for a hood pass, and it’s best to shut up and listen.

As is my unfortunate wont, I’ve made this whole reflection overlong and not particularly coherent. Maybe an incident from my last night in town would illuminate my general point insofar as I was trying to make one. I found myself at a wine and cheese and tapas joint with a huge outdoor patio and a monochromatically pale audience, whatevs, to see a cellist named Helen Gillet. She does a looping and improv thing across idiom, singing French chanson and American rock songs and original compositions and generally getting rad, somewhere between Andrew Bird and Tune-Yards and Yo-Yo Ma. Her last tune, fittingly, severed the hair on her bow. It was all a reminder that the New Orleans music tradition isn’t necessarily about tresillo patterns and trombones, but more generally about good and creative music.

Anyway, throughout the performance, we were frequently interrupted by two blacked-out military helicopters conducting drills above an adjacent abandoned Naval building. They would hover alarmingly low, as if to pick up a nonexistent passenger from a rooftop, then elevate away, occasionally leaving an enormous and unidentified explosion in their wakes. To put it lightly, it was very disruptive. But Helen kept at it despite the deafening roar of rotors, occasionally joking that they were listening. What else was she to do, right?

That creativity and revelry and uniquely resourceful art is valued in such quantity in New Orleans that it can support many musicians with a significant supplementary or working-to-middle-class income is, I think, no small wonder. But those military helicopters were a stark symbolic reminder that cellos are not actually ordnance; that these cultural pursuits are circumscribed by colonial and police-statist and capitalist and white supremacist systems that are more powerful, more insidious, more invisibly baked into the fabric of everyday life than we can at once describe. (This, too, was on the day we woke up and learned that Beyonce’s Southern-, Louisiana- and black-centric critically-lauded album had “lost” a Grammy award to a contrite Adele, which as many commentators pointed out, is a prime example of what systemic racism looks like in the music biz itself.) This oppression both gives rise to and then limns many of the things I love about New Orleans, and yet those things still happen, at least so far.

To a privileged observer it’s all beautiful and all damned and rarely quite so simple as one or the other. To a local, it must be hard to get on with your day unless you somewhat accept that it just is.

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jessiewre · 5 years ago

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Day 5

Thurs 9th Jan

We got up for a 9am breakfast in the silence of the jungle. It was soooo quiet. We were buzzing to be in the jungle instead of the fumey city. Phil had a Spanish omelette and I had a sunnyside up fried egg with toast. Had to ask for it to get cooked a little more as it looked like some sort of ectoplasm from the Upside Down (big up Stranger Things) and I didn’t fancy an uncooked egg to ruin my day. So yeah, Phil’s food was way better than mine which normally NEVER happens, so I’ll be making sure it doesn’t happen again.

We ventured out of the hotel into the village for a ‘community walk’ as they call it.  Unsurprisingly, everyone stares at you and we quickly learnt that smiling and waving while saying ‘Agandi!’ was a good response to this. It means ‘How are you?’ and nearly always gets a positive response back, with people saying ‘Nijey!’ (I’m fine).

The children particularly are super excited to see you and shout Hello! and wave at you all the time smiling. The kids there were covered in dirt and wearing dirty often ripped clothes but they are playing in the street and running around making games up. Lots of kids had a wheel or round item like a bin lid and were pushing it along with a stick - one child was putting a thin wire through a 3 bottle tops so that it would create a little toy that would roll down a hill. I mean, we’re talking THE most basic of games. But they seemed entertained and fairly contented to be honest.

Phil spotted a lady on a sewing machine through a doorway so we popped in and got a rip in my shirt fixed for 40p. Felt like I was back in Hounslow for a second. Shout out to the Indian lady at the top of the road who normally does my alterations, don’t worry you’re still my number one gal.

As we reached the edge of the village, I saw a sign for an orphanage called Ruhija Little Angels Orphanage and School, and some children were sat on an old mattress outside it smiling and waving. I popped my head into the office area and some older boys came out to ask if we would like a tour of their school. Why not eh? So they showed us round the bedrooms, the school rooms with desks donated from Italians, the water tank donated by someone from Poland, there were children doing laundry and gardening, other children were carrying babies, some playing - it had a nice vibe, despite being run down and unclean. There was one bedroom that had suffered a fire from an electrical fault, it was now unuseable and a real mess. Luckily no one had been hurt.

We walked through the whole plot and reached the bottom where they asked us to take a seat while they suddenly performed songs and danced for us. Once they’d started, all the other kids from around the school ran over to join and there was a big crowd performing for us, one playing the drum. Then one kid appeared from the back with a gorilla mask on with a big black jumper covering their body and danced towards us like a gorilla on his knees! It was awesome. We realise that they would often do this for Muzungus but it was still a really nice moment. We obviously gave them a donation to show our appreciation.

The two older boys who’d been running the tour asked if we had any more time that day as they could take us to a cave down the hill for a short tour. We said Sure sounds good! So off we walked with Pius (16) and Arenas (14) to find the cave.  They told us about their lives. Arenas was an orphan with no siblings who’s parents died from AIDS and they both had sponsors from different European countries who will pay for their education. In Uganda, you need to pay for school to get a decent education it seems. Pius was going to college in Kabale town soon and Arenas would join him there. They saw each other as brothers. They said they loved to do these tours so they could practice their English. Of course they loved football too.

We went down a steep hill slope through beautiful landscapes passing people working in the fields. I had a wee in an extremely authentic local toilet on the way, with a huge pig sat outside.

We reached the cave but it was too wet to go inside it. They explained that this was the daily walk to get water each day, before the water tank was donated by the Polish people. Any child over 10 years old would have to go there to get water twice a day. It was a 45 min walk for us but they said it would take them 30 mins. I believe them, they’re so used to hard work - even in their secondhand broken flip flops they could do it.

I asked the boys if they advertised their school tour or cave tour anywhere as we’d really enjoyed it but they said they’d never done that. So I said I would be happy to help them design a poster or something to put in our hotel. I didn’t know if they thought it was a good idea or not but they did a good job of nodding along like they did.

We walked back along the road route as was easier than tackling the steep uphill shortcut route, but the weather took a turn and it started to pour, and I mean POUR. I had my waterproof over the rucksack so looked like some sort of tortoise and Phil just braved it and got wet for the most part. Until he started to get cold that is, so he put his waterproof on when we got some shelter along the route. We tipped the boys for their time taking us on the tour and they suddenly asked me when we would make the poster. So I promised them I’d come back later to do it.

Phil was getting very hungry at this point and I did not want a Moody McCusker on my hands, so we went back to our hotel for a snack lunch. Spanish omelette and rice, what a classic combo. Honestly the moment you leave the UK, your tolerance for weird food is vast. Mine was already fairly healthy to be fair.

After lunch we walked to the Ruhija Gate 15 minutes down the road to get any relevant information about the Gorilla trek we had the next day. Was really useful to go there as they reminded us to bring gloves, plenty of water and also a packed lunch. Seems obvious maybe but remember, we’ve not travelled much before.

We passed the hotel and picked up my pencil case and paper (cos I’m actually 8 years old and carry that shit around) and headed back to the Little Angels School to try and get this poster going.

On arrival we were warmly greeted and then introduced to the school Director who’s name was Happy. What a name. She thanked us for our donations and time and asked what this poster idea was. After I explained that I thought other tourists would like to know about the school and do a tour, she said she loved the idea of doing a poster so they got some paper out and pencils and all the kids went off to do drawings while I sat with Pius and Arenas and designed a poster with my limited coloured pens.

It was kind of weird at first but I just went for it and kept talking and writing stuff and everyone seemed happy with it when I’d finished. It was pretty basic but I figured it might attract a couple of people. I explained that it would be good to colour photocopy it if possible to get copies to share with all the hotels, and then promised we’d come back tomorrow to see how they got on with organising that (as a driver had to take it to Kabale town 1.5 hours away to get it done they said).

We headed back towards our hotel, wondering if they had actually just thought we were mental and when we were nearly back, Arenas appeared having run after us to ask us to add the WhatsApp number and email address to the poster! Had to be done with my pens and writing apparently, to match. So we figured they must like it after all.

Dinner at the hotel was spaghetti Neapolitan for me and a vege curry for Phil.

Was a really good interesting fruitful day and then needed an early night ready for an early start gorilla trekking. Had almost forgotten about that, the main reason we’d come to Uganda. We had no idea what to expect but we were super excited for it all, whatever it was.

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seanmalatesta · 7 years ago

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3 Lessons from a Monthlong Sabbatical

How Real Time away Can Recharge Your Spirit and up Your Game

I began my career as a proud workaholic. I measured my contribution by the hours I clocked and the coffee I consumed. So the MH&Co. culture came as a bit of a shock. It was the best kind of shock, though.

With a core value of radical margin and an unlimited PTO policy, our leaders established that this was a different sort of place. There would be no gold stars for weekends worked or midnight oil burned here. Instead, they cast the vision of a sustainably strong team—sharpened by rest and steadied by healthy home lives. It was a radically better path, and I was grateful to walk it.

But just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, Michael and Megan announced a new benefit: A month-long, paid sabbatical every three years. Michael has written extensively about how he benefits from sabbaticals and decided to make that opportunity available to the whole team.

Our heads exploded.

A remarkable opportunity

With my third work anniversary approaching, I was the first employee in line to partake of this glorious benefit. A Florida native, I planned a month of wandering from ocean to ocean: a week on the Gulf in Saint Petersburg, ten days on the Atlantic in Saint Augustine, and a week on the Pacific in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. I figured I’d need a few days at home in Franklin, Tennessee, to conquer the mountain of sandy laundry I knew I’d accumulate.

As the trip approached, everyone asked where I was going, what I’d be doing, and how many books I’d bring. (It was an entire library.) But above all, they wanted to know if I was excited. Of course, I was excited! But to be honest, I was anxious, too. My old workaholic values resurfaced haunting me with unwelcome questions:

What if I couldn’t get everything done before I left?

What if my team resented me for leaving them with a pile of extra work?

What if they decided they could make do without me for good?

How would I ever catch up when I got back?

And, worst of all, would the vacuum left by work leave me feeling lost or insignificant?

But the ocean was calling, the month arrived, and it was time to go. After setting an away message on my email, deleting Slack from my phone, and reminding my team for the twentieth time that they shouldn’t hesitate to call if it was urgent (they never did), I finally embarked on my grand adventure.

3 findings from my time away

On that adventure, I learned that all those anxieties were unfounded. I learned that when in Mexico you should always order the tortilla soup. And I learned that, for recovering workaholics like me, a sabbatical is truly a lifeline. Here’s why:

First, it amplifies the whispers. A few years back, Pastor Ken Groen shared this revolutionary advice with me: “Urgent things shout, important things whisper. Listen to the whispers.” You know the experience: Something pops up—an unexpected deadline or an angry email from a client—and it somehow drowns out everything else. Urgent things are loud. They shout for your attention and steal focus from more significant priorities.

It’s only when we pause and pay attention that a voice whispers from the stillness: “Maybe you should call your dad.” “It’s a beautiful day for a walk.” “Playing dinosaur toys on the floor with your daughter is the more important thing to do.” “Maybe instead of worrying, you should pause to pray.” In a noisy world, those whispers often escape us. A sabbatical helps still the noise and reconnect us to what matters most.

Second, it reduces the rush. When is the last time you weren’t in a hurry? Really think about it. When? The trouble is that scarcity makes us stingy. When we constantly feel rushed, we become greedy with our time and tend to shortchange those who deserve it most. We start to treat the most important people in our lives like items on a task list. Quality time with a spouse? Check. Weekly phone call with a parent? Check.

A sabbatical turns that around. With all the rushing reduced, I was able to offer my family the rare gift of unpressured time. Some of my favorite moments from the trip were deliciously unhurried: a lazy afternoon visit with my Italian grandmother, listening to her stories; hours in the sand building moats and castles with my adorable nieces; a rambling talk with my sister over glasses of red wine into the wee hours of the morning. A sabbatical allows you to not only hear the whispers but act on them.

Third, it restores the joy. This sabbatical was a wonderful adventure. So it may surprise you that one of the best parts was coming home. True, my gypsy heart adored new flavors and cultures on new shores. It even loved twenty-six straight days of living out of a suitcase. But absence really does make the heart grow fonder.

The time away lent a certain magic to the mundane. It felt like a privilege to be back home, cooking a meal in my own kitchen or using my own washing machine to tackle that mountain of laundry.

That novelty carried over to work, too. After a month away, my creativity was recharged and I felt ready to tackle anything. Reconnecting with my team members was a blast. Even opening Slack gave me a little thrill. Not to mention that my work comes easier (and, according to my team, has gotten better) since I’ve been back. Time away on a sabbatical restores joy to your everyday activities.

It’s possible—and worth it

I’m grateful to work for a company that prioritizes sabbaticals. A month to decompress added more value to my life than I could’ve dreamed. I’m aware it’s a rarity, though. For those who are thinking, “That sounds great, but not all of us work for Michael Hyatt”—I get it. Most corporate cultures aren’t conducive to a whole month away. And for solopreneurs or consultants, time truly equals money.

But before you relegate sabbaticals into the realm of daydreams (right next to winning the lottery or pasta suddenly becoming the world’s healthiest food), let me offer you the same two questions Michael asked us.

First, what would a sabbatical make possible for you? As Michael would say, vision precedes strategy. So dream a bit and imagine what a month of recharging could do for your life and business.

Next, what would have to be true in order for you to take a sabbatical? Would you have to rearrange your consulting schedule or generate a certain amount of revenue? Getting clear on the hurdles is the first step toward conquering them. And if a month still feels impossible, try starting with two weeks.

The bottom line is this: You only have one self. Imagine how much mightier that self would be if you gave it a month to recharge. A sabbatical is possible, and it’s definitely worth it.

from Michael Hyatt, Your Virtual Mentor http://ift.tt/2iAgSfW via IFTTT

#IFTTT #Michael Hyatt #Your Virtual Mentor

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bitt3rsw33tsymph0ny · 7 years ago

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1. If you had to choose, whiskey or tequila? Why?: Living in Scotland now I would have to choose whisky. Firstly, the whisky here is excellent. Secondly, whisky really sends me over the moon! I had it the other night and I don’t remember the last time I was that happy/hyperactive! I also don’t remember much... 2. While doing school work, do you take your time or do you try to get it done as quickly as possible?: With uni work it depends, I usually take my time because I won’t understand it if I go fast. Unless I have a deadline coming up, in which case it’s not my choice. 3. When did you last wear a scrunchi?: A few weeks ago. 4. If you were a writer, what would you write about most?: I think i’d probably write history books and articles. Fiction is my forte with writing but realistically if I had a job writing it would be related to research.

5. Do you sometimes yell to get your point across?: Not intentionally but sometimes when I’m riled up enough.

6. If you get a period, what symptoms do you get when you PMS?: I think my moods get affected, like I’ll be much more likely to lose my rag and cry over something insignificant. I also tend to crave things like chocolate and get hungrier easier. 7. Is there anyone at your school with a cool accent? What kind of accent is it?: Loads of people from everywhere. I have a few south african friends with nice accents, a few american friends (from the deep south), that’s a pretty interesting accent. Also my sexy Italian friend Co who I could probably listen to all day. 8. What is stressing you out most right now?: I have a 4000 word essay due in two weeks I have yet to start, so yes impending deadline stress. I also got matched for a fight in early Nov, so that’s quite nerve-wracking, my first real fight and all. I have less than three weeks to lose 5 kilos and get trained up for my fight. ARGHHHHHHHH. 9. Are you more smart and thoughtful or understanding and kind?: I’m not sure, I guess the latter? People would call me understanding/kind more than smart/thoughtful, though I like to think I try to be all those things. 10. Who last asked you for a favor? What was it?: My friend asked me to call a cab to the club last night 11. If you had to decide, what do you think people envy about you?: My white girl privilege. My upbringing in Greece and the fact i’m relatively well-off. my looks I guess? And my toughness. People are definitely jealous I can kick some ass. 12. If you want to get your crush’s attention, what do you do?: Fight them hahahah. No but seriously...or just talk to them? I’d make sure I look good round them. 13. How long have you been single or in a relationship for?: I have been single for a bit over two months now. 14. Are you closer to your friends or family?: My family and I are very close. 15. Do you know what you’re going to wear tomorrow?: Nope, but I should probably pull out an outfit, make sure I actually get to uni before 9 tomorrow. 16. Do you use white strips or anything else to whiten your teeth?: Nope, I would like to but effort. 17. Are there any special events coming up? What are they?: My fight on the 11th. Mid term break next week! Halloween! Eliotts b-day! Yay! 18. When it comes to strangers, how trusting are you?: Very trusting. Almost too trusting. I mean I’m not a complete idiot (most of the time) but I do believe the best in people and might have put myself in vulnerable potentially dangerous situations in the past. 19. If someone insults/makes fun of you, what do you do?: Knee em in the solar plexus. Or just laugh about it? Or poke fun back. Depends on the insult and who dished it out tbh. 20. What color do you think represents your personality?: Gold bitch. Nah I think a deep purple or maybe vibrant orange represents me. 21. Would you rather drive on a long straight highway or windy backroads?: Long straight highway, my tummy can be a bit sensitive on the windy roads. Though they do tend to be in prettier areas. 23. What is the fastest you’ve ever gone in a car?: Not sure. Over 100 miles an hour. 24. Have you ever seen someone break their bone in real life?: Yes, and I’ve seen my sisters arm snapped bendy like a banana. So disturbing. 25. If you got to choose an animal to disappear forever, what would it be? Why?: Uh, the one in the white house. <-- agreed! 26. What are the keys of your heart?: Food, good sex and laughter. 27. Are you sometimes a control freak?: Not really. Only in the kitchen. 28. If you’re online right now, do you have an away message up? What does it say?: Nope. 29. Do you know what your GPA is?: N/A 30. If you got to pick any winter sport to excel at, what would it be?: Skiing would be awesome. Or figure-skating tbh but I think i’d be better at the former. 31. Does it piss you off when people interrupt you? My flatmate constantly rages about this with me but I swear it’s just a cultural thing. Greeks interrupt each other, and try to talk over each other. Not to dominate the conversation, but just bc that’s how conversations go.

32. What event did you last dress up for? Who went to that event?   Last night. My friends 21st. A bunch of my old flatmates and first year friends.

33. What was the last picture you took with your phone? It’s a selfie. Sorry... i am merely a product of my generation

34. Are you a fashion-conscious person? Where do you buy most of your clothes? I would say so. I love having a unique style and I love expressing myself with my clothing! Most of my clothes are second-hand from my aunt, but I get a lot of stuff from random charity shops, or if i’m buying zara/hnm. 35. Do you have trouble waking up in the morning? What gets you up and awake? Oh man. Such trouble. If I have somewhere to be it’s easy for me to wake up, but if not - it’s impossible. Sometimes my flatmate comes into my room in the morning and brings me coffee to bed.

36. What’s something fun you’ve done this week? Who was there?   So on friday I went on the most fun date. It started in nandos, where we ordered two giant platters of chicken, then we went to a graveyard under stirling castle and smoked a joint on top of this hill. Then we walked home and on the way home, passed a park by my house which has giant swings, climbing frames and a zipline. We climbed up on top of the climbing frame and lay in a swinging basket. Smoked another joint. And THEN we went home and I had the best sex of my life, hands down. He is someone new I have only just gotten to know, a fresher from the MT club. But suffice to say it was the most fun I’ve had all week, and not just because we didn’t run out of things to say the whole night.

37. What’s the last thing you texted someone about? I cancelled a churro date with my friend because I need to study. I know, kill joy I am.

38. When and why did you last blush?   I think I said something stupid, that’s usually the reason anywho.

39. Do you currently have a favorite song? What is it?   Mazzy star - Halah, though it’s depressing af and just reminds me of Jiggles

40. What is one thing you and your best friend have in common physically?   We both have hazel eyes.

41. Now based on your interests, what is one thing you both have in common? We are both into the same kind of politics, interested in social/anthropological perspectives, those criticising grand narratives, such as white ex-colonial perspectives

42. What, if anything, is hanging on your refrigerator?   Nada.

43. What is the last illegal thing you did, even the smallest crime? I was cycling in the dark without lights and got stopped by a police car when I crossed a road without stopping. But it was 3 in the morning and I was cycling home drunk after a night out, gimme a break.

44. How much did each individual thing you’re wearing cost? not much.

45. Is that the normal amount you spend on clothes? meh I don’t spend much on clothes.

46. Do you collect anything? Have you ever? I collect post cards from places I’ve travelled.

47. What languages do you speak?   English and Greek. and a wee bit of french.

50. Where do your grandparents live? My grandma lives in bridgend, wales and the other two in pelasgia, greece.

51. When is the next time you’re going on vacation? Where to? Nowhere, fourth year fun yay yay yay! I’m going to Greece actually for christmas. And I’m hoping to go somewhere in Europe in the next couple months if I find cheap flights away. I’d love to go to copenhagen or prague.

52. How well do you do in school? How are your grades compared to your siblings? I do okay, averaging on a 2:1 at the moment. My sister is an a star little kid, so she tends to do very well. 53. Does your family eat dinner together? Who does the cooking?   Yes quite a lot. My dad usually cooks, although my mum does too. They share the burden.

54. Are you usually motivated to work or are you a procrastinator?  P-R-O-C-R-A-S-T-I-N-A-T-O-R.

55. Has the last month been really stressful for you? No it’s been pretty fun and chilled tbh.

56. What do you base first impressions on? (Behavior, clothing, etc.)  Mostly the kinds of things they like to talk about, the way they interact with others (socially), how polite/friendly they are.

57. Who do you know that is a vegetarian? How about a vegan?   I know loads of veggies. My sister has been one for 2 years now. I also know a lot of vegans, friends from uni mostly.

58. When is the last time you went out to dinner with a friend? Where did you go? Who paid?  Said date on friday, it was kind of meant to be a friendly thing. Nandos, he paid. 59. What was the last thing to surprise you? Niko sent me a snapchat, very random.

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