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flameraven · 5 years ago

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Good Omens Fic Rec Masterpost - Part Two

Hello hello I have read MANY MORE fics in this fandom now so it’s time to add on to my previous recs. Part One can be found here: https://flameraven.tumblr.com/post/187742832545/good-omens-fic-recs-masterpost General info! No fics rated higher than M, and that’s usually for violence not sex. I headcanon the husbands as being in an asexual relationship, so any fics I rec will have no sex, or only have sexy stuff alluded to or briefly mentioned.

The Soft Zone (TM)

all the days - G / darcylindbergh

War of Attrition- G / out_there / 8k - 3 gifts Crowley gives Aziraphale

A Meddling of Houseplants - T/ wingedspirit / 6k - Ophelia (a peace lily) is tired of Crowley and Aziraphale’s hopeless pining, and takes matters into her own leaves.

Sweetest in the Gale - T / wingedspirit / 3.8k - Gabriel can sense Aziraphale’s love for Crowley, and confronts “Aziraphale” about it before his execution

Deck the Halls - G / forthegreatergood / 18k - two idiots attempt to acquire mistletoe for the holidays in order to convey their feelings for the other.

Tartan Wrapping Paper - G / Arej / 2k - Crowley may not have quite gotten the message about the tartan all those years ago

a prize-winning philodendron - G / Elsajeni / <1k - Crowley does look, and sighs heavily. “Angel,” he says, “of all the plants you could have tried keeping, why did you start with something this fussy?”

Silver and Gold - G / asparkofgoodness / 1.5k - Crowley buys a ring.

Futile Devices - G / ticketybye / 3k - Yes, Crowley has imagined. He has craved. But being in Aziraphale’s close proximity has had to be enough. He’s not even sure he deserves that. But this, this feels like it felt to be commissioned the stars. It feels like being entrusted with something precious and fragile.

The Weight of Words Unspoken - G / rattatatosk / 1.8k - Aziraphale has always hinted to Crowley when he needed to leave. After the Apoca-wasn’t, he asks Crowley to stay.

J’Aime (I Love) - G / yourpaceangel - Crowley is searching for what the ‘J’ means.

the other way round - G / darcylindbergh / <1k - Aziraphale gets hair pets for once.

Take My Hand (Take My Whole Life Too) - G / soft_october / 1.5k - Crowley is trying not to go to fast, ends up stalled out completely. Aziraphale decides he will have to get creative.

In Good Hands - G / Sunjinjo / 14k - Aziraphale was created wearing a golden ring. It’s now the last remaining aspect of his original attire.One day, he tries to take it off. The rest follows naturally. (Marriage Proposal)

One Golden Glance (Of What Should Be) - G / Sunjinjo / 8.5k - Crowley takes up painting after the Apocalypse.

Misfit / Safe Haven - G / Mothfluff / 2k - Aziraphale provides a safe space for the Soho queer community to gather

seasons, changes - G / the_pen_is_mightier / 2k - In the autumn Aziraphale and Crowley go out apple picking.

on the necessity of a temptation - M / darcylindbergh / 4.5k - Crowley squinted at him. He said, slowly, as if sounding around the words [...] “But doing things is what we do. Why would—what would be the point of me being here otherwise?”

In Other Words, Baby, Kiss Me - T / mikkimouse / 4.5k - Five times Aziraphale kissed Crowley and one time Crowley (finally) kissed him back.

It's Getting Hard, This Holding Back - T / ZehWulf / 13k - Crowley decides to lure Aziraphale into Explicit Gestures of Romantic Affection. Aziraphale sets a cuddle trap

give you more to hold on to - T / cryptidkidprem / 4k - Crowley nods. "It's..." He looks down at their joined hands, and takes a long, deep breath. “We’re not— We’re not supposed to need this, y’know?” He lifts their joined hands up, lets them fall again. “You and I. Angels, demons. We're not meant to need all this. This touchy-feely stuff, all this affection, this—” a hitch in his breath— “Love.”

two parallel lines -lineffability

don’t let me wake up - acuteangleaziraphale

how to let go - jlmarch

Mornington Crescent -politeanarcy

Wingfic

Symmetry in Favor - G / kedreeva / 8k - Five times Crowley preens Aziraphale's wings, and one time Aziraphale preens Crowley's.

London Calling - G / forthegreatergood / 30k - Come for Crowley’s ridiculous 1970′s bed, stay for Feelings and extensive wing pets.

Hurt/Comfort

Be Ye Therefore Merciful - T / AmberDiceless / 9.5k - Book!Verse. Crowley does something utterly unexpected, and Aziraphale must face an opponent who cannot be thwarted.

Pigeon Girlfriends with a Long Preamble - T / SleepySelfLoathing / 8k - All Crowley wanted was to spend a nice night in with his husband, so of course he ends up summoned by a bunch of cultists instead. Why would he expect anything different....This would probably be a lot easier to deal with if he wasn't wearing Aziraphale's fluffiest bathrobe.

All Creatures that Have the Breath of Life - G / Elsajeni / 4k - Aziraphale fishes a very sodden Crawly out of the water during the Flood.

Touched by an Angel (And it Bloody Hurts) - G /hedgehog-o-brien / 7k - Aziraphale can’t touch Crowley without burning him.

Douse the Fire, Help Me Breathe - G / Arej / 1.5k - Even demons fear fire, when they've watched their world burn.

In a City Under Aerial Bombardment - G / battle_cat / 3k - After the church and the bomb and the books.

Small Mercies - G / rattatatosk / 4k - Crawly gets smited. Aziraphale lends a hand.

Easier Than Air - G / A_Candle_For_Sherlock / 3.5k - The world hasn't ended, and everything is fine. They're fine. It's terrifying.

attachment - T / artenon / 4.5k - Crowley crosses over to open the passenger door for Aziraphale, and Aziraphale’s attention is drawn to Crowley’s uneven gait, the light, too-quick steps and the rocking back and forth on his heels as he holds the door open and waits for Aziraphale to get in.“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, heart sinking, “your feet.”

Hell Freezes Over - M / charliebrown1234 + Turcote / 18k - The year is 2002, and Crowley and Aziraphale are sent to Alaska to investigate a decommissioned entrance to Hell. What could possibly go wrong?

Better The Demon You Know - T / mikkimouse / 1.2k - When Crawly falls out of the sky and into the flood, he gets help from a very unexpected source.

Gently, gently - G / the_pen_is_mightier / 3k - Heaven is cold and lonely. Hell is filthy and crowded. Aziraphale badly needs to be touched; Crowley needs fresh air, and light, and space. They can’t seem to connect on days after they’ve returned from their respective head offices.

Of Firsts and Foremosts - T / kedreeva / 6k - Aziraphale is left vulnerable and injured as his first molt approaches. Crawly comes to the rescue for the first time.

The Brazen Serpent - T / ImprobableDreams900 / 11k - Some other angels come to help Aziraphale at the end of the Isrealites’ 40-year exile in the wilderness, unfortunately for Crawley.

hold my hand tight (we'll make it another night) - G / cryptidkidprem / 3k - The night at Crowley’s flat. He’s having a hard time not panicking.

Harbours of My Own - T / wingedspirit / 30k - Crowley knows that, as a demon, his freedom is limited. He doesn't get to have a home; he doesn't get to love. Aziraphale would very much like to change that, but he, too, is limited in what he can do. It takes the better part of six thousand years, but they'll get there.

crack me open, feel me shatter - T / rattatatosk / 2.5k - Crowley dreams of the Fall. Aziraphale is there to catch him when he wakes.

Angst (w/a Happy Ending)

Where His Angel Dares to Tread - M / PinkPenguinParade / 16k - Crowley is taken by Hell. Aziraphale disguises himself as best he can for the rescue mission. Newt and Anathema help.

Remembrance of Things Past - T / Fyre / 18k - Hell takes Crowley’s memories all the way back to Eden as punishment for his crimes.

Drunk Theology - G / battle_cat / 3k - Aziraphale had been hoping tonight for Giggly Drunk Crowley, which was his favorite drunk Crowley. That didn’t seem to be how things were working out, though.

Like a River Flows - T / kedreeva / 15k - Five times Crowley was not allowed to love Aziraphale, and one time he succeeded.

The Cultivation of New Growth - T / Vitreous_humor / 3k - “I mean,” he said carefully, “if you want a plant, let me give you one of the snake plants or maybe the big coleus. They'd be good for the shop, pretty stalwart in the dark...You don't want this one, it's rotten.” “Actually,” Aziraphale said firmly, “I do want that one.”

The Holy Essence of Experience - T / Dragonsquill / 4k - They know how they feel, but giving it a name would be too dangerous. Ineffable husbands from the beginning to the end of the world, aware and wanting.

AUs/Crossovers

be mine tonight (be mine forever) - T / artenon / 11k - Human!AU. When Aziraphale finds out his coworkers have made a bet that he won’t bring anyone to the company party, he asks his best friend Crowley to go as his date just to spite them. Things quickly spiral out of control.

Siren’s Song - T / kedreeva / 30k+ (WIP) - Siren!AU. Crowley, a lone siren, calls a ship to wreck upon his reef, but finds when he meets pirate captain Aziraphale that sirens are not the only ones able to lure another creature to their heart's desire.

Adopt Don’t Shop - G / lucky_spike / 6k - Cat!AU based on Chekov’s “Good Meowmons” comics.

The Ones Who Walk Away From Nevaeh - T / soft_october / 15k - AU based on “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas”

The Grinch Who Sold Christmas - T / darcylindbergh / 60k - Human AU / Hallmark Movie AU. Crowley is a big city lawyer sent to seal the deal that will destroy the quaint town of Tadfield forever, right before Christmas... and then he falls in love with the town, and a certain bookshop owner. Ridiculously sappy fluff that hits all the right notes.

The Odd One Out T / RainyDayDecaf / 2k- A meeting of many different Crowleys and Aziraphales.

Beat Again - T / TeaCub90 / 7k - Human AU. Two neighbours keep each other and their respective conditions company in the dead of night

Outsider POV

Ophidiophobia - G / lyricwritesprose / 7.6k - Pepper is afraid of snakes. When this is abruptly revealed in an encounter with Crowley’s serpent form, she immediately goes about trying to cure herself of it.

What’s in a Name? - G / lyricwritesprose / 4k - “You do realize,” Brother Francis said, “that Warlock is just your name, not some sort of, of directive?”

Damaged - G / lyricwritesprose / 6k - Aziraphale is struggling after the Apocalypse. Madam Tracy offers some advice. (Very good spooky/nonhuman Aziraphale in this one.)

Angel’s Favor - T/ PinkPenguinParade / 10k - A hundred years ago, Aziraphale gave one of his feathers to a woman who helped him. In the modern day, her descendant calls in the favor.

Protective Camouflage - G/ politeanarcy/ 2.3k - The Antichrist isn’t the only one with defenses against being noticed.

Disposable - T / lyricwritesprose / 7k - Eric the Disposable Demon attempts to become Crowley’s vassal after the Apoca-wasn’t. Nothing goes the way they expect after that.

on deceiving appearances - G / asideofourown / 2k - The Disposable Demon realizes the truth of Crowley’s deception in Heaven.

Anthony J. Crowley, Retired Demon and Airbnb Superhost - G / TheOldAquarian / 3k - What are you supposed to do when you've been fired from your sweet job in Hell for thwarting the schemes of Satan, you've got a swanky flat in Mayfair, and you're looking for an excuse to spend all your time in someone else's bookshop? Obviously, you turn to the dubious world of short-term vacation rentals.

Other

the best laid schemes - T / asideofourown / 4k - How Crowley got his Rat Army

Incongruous States of Being - T / ZehWulf / 8k - “Who would win: Aziraphale or Crowley.” “Oh!” Aziraphale startles. “Well—such a question. It’s not as though either of us has engaged in so much as fisticuffs in ages, and one does need to keep up practice with these sorts of things.” His fretting dies abruptly when Crowley cuts over him clearly, baldly: “Aziraphale.”

No one expects the Spanish Inquisition - T / WoodsWitch / 12k - The Arrangement is 500 years old, and Crowley and Aziraphale have been having a fine time in Renaissance Florence. Things start to go a bit pear-shaped with the arrival of a Friar Savonarola, so Crowley suggests that they meet up in his favorite refuge from the rest of medieval Europe: Spain. ((Don’t let the title fool you, this is an incredibly in-depth and well-researched historical fic and deserves way more hits than it has.))

#fic recs #good omens fanfic #good omens fic recs #fanfiction

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the-goddessfighter · 5 years ago

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[Werewolf-Vampire AU -SEQUEL II: Gaman's Birth-]

by : Little1993lamb

for: Temperans-sama / @the-goddessfighter

Words count : 2071

Warning : mpreg, slight implied nsfw activities (just a hint)

Disclaimer: Gaman, the Batarou love child, is Original Character created by amazing @the-goddessfighter. Not mine, I just borrowed him temporarily for this story at her permission ;D

@koeharu @metalbatandzenko @dies-first @beautifulnightmareus @guppys-paw @ruby-ess

- II -

After nearly half a year since their wedding, Badd felt something strange happened to him: he becomes more energized when fighting but quickly lethargic aftermath, his entire body is glowing everytime he activated Fighting Spirit (never happened before), he craved Garou's blood more than usual (made Garou must replenished his fluid intake and doubling his meals portion), and his natural scent becomes sweeter (courtesy by Garou).

Badd feels that he's more clingy to Garou, very needy and touch starving. He wanted to always be with his husband whenever he goes (not that Garou would complain about this, instead his pack members would be the one complained because too much PDA). Strangely, even though he's a vampire, he's becomes more territorial like a werewolf (Badd wondering if werewolfness is contagious to another beings?). And their sexy times... let's just say it's becomes more "hotter" and "spicier" than before (both really enjoyed that, especially Badd who's getting hornier than usual).

Zenko, being their pack's Healer, also with the help by Tareo who's collected the informations she needs, researched the cause of Badd's strange condition from their late family ancestor's journals. It seems, while it's rare even for male supernatural beings, Badd is pregnant. Vampire's pregnancy is very different from human's: it's not visible from outside, from just slightly bump to no baby bump at all, never full baby bump, and the baby could hibernate for long time if the mom isn't ready to deliver them. Because of the baby doesn't grow too much in the womb, they'd be looked like premature human baby when born, but it's normal for vampires because they'll grow up quickly after the birth.

Still didn't explain on why sometimes he got new surge of energy whenever he's fighting recently. They'd concluded it's related with interracial mating, so maybe new symptoms will be occured.

Badd was crying happily hearing this news, while Garou hugging Badd from behind, enveloping him in a strong yet warm embrace, whispering a promise that he'll become a good father for the baby and husband for Badd, not forgeting to caress Badd's slightly bumped tummy. Zenko and Tareo joined their hugging and congratulate Badd, too.

The whole pack member got the news on the next day, coming to their Boss' house to hold baby shower party for Badd. Even Bang giving him so many presents and nursery items, he's going to spoil his son-in-law who's still pregnant with his soon-to-be grandchild. Seeing so many people congratulate him and celebrate the welcoming party for his baby, Badd couldn't help but feels touched by their pack family's kindness.

Back then Badd was still wary about werewolf tribes' rumoured barbaric behavior, now he's entirely sure that actually werewolf tribes are not bad people. In fact, they're the warmest and the most caring people beside his own deceased vampire family. He's very grateful he met Garou on that fateful day, because now he's surrounded by most loving people he ever had. Cue suddenly there's a small pregnant vampire crying so hard in the middle of party, that it shooked and confused all the guest, hence the said vampire's dorky werewolf husband must consoled him in much confusion, or the husband's father asking if there's something wrong in panic. Tareo just shaking his head at the hilarious scenery and Zenko instantly facepalmed so hard.

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Since that day, Garou becomes more protective and attentive as Badd's Mate. He must proving that he could be the best husband and soon-to-be dad ever! Badd already said he's already good as he is, no need to exaggerate it anymore than usual. But as a natural werewolf instinct to satisfy their Mate's need during pregnancy, Garou will try to fulfill anything Badd wishes.

The example were Garou asking what Badd craving at that time (G: "Badd, do you want anything that needs me going to hunt, like obtaining exotic animal's blood? Or more wild and bigger animal than we usually hunt? Or do you want a new pet beside Rover?" B: "Garou, it's ok, I just need YOU... and maybe a cat, please?" *then they adopted Tama, the forest cat*).

Or build a nest for him (G: "Badd, do you need more pillow or blanket?", B: "I'm not a big puppy like you, NORMAL bed plus your cuddling will be more pleasurable. Come 'ere, be my fluffy plushie." *cue obedient WhiteWolf Garou as Badd's life-sized plushie while he's sleeping*).

Or whenever Garou's friend or colleague meet them in inter pack's leader diplomacy meeting and seems to take an interest for Badd / checking him out, Garou will bare his teeth, growls, and snarls to his friend. Badd was very exasperated and apologized for his husband's sudden feral behavior (Friend: "Heyya Garou, what's up? Oh, is this your vampire Mate? He's really pretty and sexy, you lucky wolf--", G: *triggered, already half transformed* "GRAAHRGG HISSSHH HRRRGGH!!", B: *showing most tired exasperated face* Friend: *shocked* "Whoaa easy there! Look, I'm not hitting on your Mate, you can stop that, I'm sorry for what I said, Garou's Mate!", B: "Hey it's okay, I'm not offended at what you said. Sorry for my husband's feral moment, too. We're going home Garou, change back to normal again. Now.", G: *changed back, but not before gesturing "I'm-watching-you" to his friend*).

When they're fighting enemies, Garou and the packs will try to prevent Badd from joining the battle (B: "HUHH the fuck y'all incompetence doing?? Let me finish them! See, I got more pumped up now! *activate Fighting Spirit, body glowing* Yossh, be prepared to taste my attack! Here I come-- GAROU PUT ME DOWN! I SWEAR IF YOU'RE NOT LET ME GO RIGHT NOW, NO SEXY TIMES IN THE WOODS FOR A WEEK!! AAAARGH GAROU--" *was carried back home with a lot of struggle*). It ended up with Garou sleeping on the couch for just one night, because Badd was still touch-craved so they went back to sleep together the next day.

When there's outsider people or another supernatural beings entered their territory and causing some trouble to the packs, Badd becomes the packs' Scary Mother Hen: he'll come to defend all of the packs member who's getting dragged into the trouble and chase the outsider strangers away from their territory (*outsider strangers and pack members fighting against each other*, B: *flying approaching them fastly* "WHO'S CAUSING MESS THIS TIME, HUUHH?? FIGHT ME FIRST!", Strangers: "Oh shit, THAT'S THE MOTHER HEN VAMPIRE! RUN RUN RUN!" *run away*, Pack members: "Pack Mom! Long live Pack Mom!", B: "I'm not y'all goddamn Pack Mom, stop that!" *inviting them to dinner in Garou's house instead, like a Mom*).

When Badd drinking Garou's blood in his pregnant condition, the smell and the taste of his blood becomes sort of aphrodisiac for him. So the drinking activity always followed by "more intensed mating routines", plus Badd activated his glowing Fighting Spirit mode during that time really tested Garou's werewolf stamina. Not to mention, Badd getting more and more hornier because of his skyrocketing pregnancy hormones didn't helping Garou at all. Who couldn't say no when your cute vampire Mate looking so delectable, begging for more "mating session"? Certainly not Garou. At one time he passed out for 2 hours from anemia (too much blood sucking) and exhaustion (too much session happened). Badd couldn't carry Garou to home since he's so heavy so Badd just waiting for him to wake up. Garou was awoken with his head on Badd's lap (thick thighs' pillow is heavenly, he never wanted to get up!).

But despite all of that, there's one thing that really surprised Badd: the baby could feel Badd's emotion and expressed their own emotion by immediately giving a respond to Badd from the womb. When Badd is angry, the baby would moved restlessly or agitated (it hurts Badd physically and emotionally, because "baby no sad please I'm not angry at you"). When Badd is sad, the baby would moved very sluggishly (Badd rubs his tummy telling them he's okay). When Badd is bored, the baby would kicked playfully instead of moving (Badd ended up playing along with them, getting amused by their antics). When Badd is happy, the baby would moved very gently (Badd feels like there's flutter of butterflies in his womb). When Badd is in love or when he's making out with Garou, the baby would moved a lot excitedly (Garou couldn't help but leaning his head on Badd's tummy, happily listening to their baby, sometimes rubs his hands on it while embracing Badd from behind and kissing him softly).

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A few weeks later, Badd feels like this time he's ready to meet their baby. So, he asked Zenko to help him deliver the baby by operate his body then heals him after that. Badd also asked Tareo to invite Bang so he could come to see his newborn grandchild. Lastly, he asked Garou to be his support during the delivering process. After he's ready, Zenko starts operating his body while giving him some healer's magic spell to ease his pain.

Garou always beside Badd, never let go of Badd's hand, caressing Badd's face while kissing his head softly, giving some encouragement words to him. Even though Zenko already gave him pain killer magic spell, it's still feels hurt. But knowing he's surrounded by people he loves and remembering this is his awaiting moment to meet his child, Badd thinks the pain really worth it. Finally, Zenko succeeded to deliver Badd's baby. After Zenko cleaning the baby, she handing the newborn to his dear big brother.

In Badd's craddle, there's Garou and his little baby boy. With smooth jet black hair, fair white skin, a small fangs peeked under his lips, and when he opened his eyes, it's beautiful bright yellow gold like Garou's. Starts crying, Badd kissing the baby then smiling to Garou, very happy finally they could meet their child. Seeing Garou's slightly amazed expression, Badd offered Garou to hold their baby, too. Garou then craddling him with so much care, gazing at the warm small bundle in his arms while smiling fondly, still couldn't believe that he's a daddy now. G: "What should we name our baby, Badd?", B: "...Gaman. We name him Gaman, it fits him.", G: "You're absolutely right. Welcome to this world, Gaman. Say hi to dad, father, and auntie!".

After healing finished, Bang and Tareo with some pack members (Z: "No crowding!") joined them to meet Gaman. When Garou offered Bang to hold Gaman, especially when Bang finally craddling him, his grandson, he couldn't hold his happy tears while cooing Gaman and gently rocked him. Seeing his old leader and also father figure looked so happy, Garou couldn't help but smiling warmly. Feeling satisfied after playing with his newborn grandson, he handed Gaman back to Garou. When it's time for Gaman to sleep in baby crib, both Zenko and Tareo watched him from above with amazed expressions. Zenko promised proudly that she will becomes the best aunt for Gaman when Tareo tucked him in the fluffy blanket, letting him sleep tight more comfortable.

After everyone was moved to another room, now it's just Garou, Badd, and baby Gaman who's still sleeping soundly. Garou laid beside Badd on the bed, cuddling Badd who's nuzzling into his embrace, enjoying their moment as newly parents. Slowly, Garou tilted Badd's face and kissing him deeply with such love, then vowed to Badd that he'll always protect his family, and will do anything for the safety of them, raising Gaman properly with love and care he deserved as a good dad, and also being a loving Mate for Badd, forever. Listening Garou's renew his love vow for him, Badd smiled blissfully.

He also vowed to Garou that he'll always be there for him as his partner in pack leadership, ready to fight with Garou side by side to protect the family, raising Gaman with all the motherly love he has for him, and also being a caring Mate for Garou, forever. After that, he kissed Garou softly but intimately, slightly biting his lips and savouring the sweetness of Garou's blood in his mouth. Letting go of their kiss, Badd and Garou resumed their cuddling time, now with much contentment. They just happy their bond as Mates more stronger than ever, that the pack feels completed now after the arrival of Gaman, a new miracle and hope in their small happy family.

-TBC-

Notes:

If there's anyone who haven't know about the origin of this WereVamp AU story and wanted read that, you can check them out at @Koeharu's blog where I've had submitted those previous parts as anon (TYSM, Cain / Koeharu!):

1. Werewolf-Vampire AU origin story:

https://koeharu.tumblr.com/post/613597920369999872/

2. Werewolf-Vampire AU sequel I - Leader Initiation from Bang:

https://koeharu.tumblr.com/post/615478155965235200/

Special thanks for @the-goddessfighter, @guppys-paw, and @ruby-ess, who always liking my Werewolf-Vampire Batarou AU, and even drawing many fanarts based on this AU in their own style! So thank you so much guys for the supports, I'm forever grateful for you all aaa I'm so happy 😭🙏🙇💕💖💝

This is the illustration for Werewolf!Garou and Vampire!Badd drawn by @the-goddessfighter which is based on this AU and used for the story (they looked so beautiful in these drawings, tysm Temperans-sama! 💖):

•https://the-goddessfighter.tumblr.com/post/615593923960782848/

After this part there's timeskip for a couple of years when Gaman is already grow-up as a kid, the explanation of his relationship with all packs members, and the plot will be heavier from there.

So please stay tune for the next parts, I'll submit them to Temperans-sama who gives me a chance to write her beautiful Batarou lovechild OC, Gaman, into this WereVamp AU story. Thank you so much, Temperans-sama! I hope you like this sequel and wish you will also enjoyed the next sequels until the end! 😭🙏😚😘💕💖💖💝

-Little1993lamb-

#batarou #AU-WerewolfVampire!#<3<3<3 #aaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!!!!!#werewolf!Garou #vampire!Badd #tag friends #aslhkshakdl #TuT #THANKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#Is more than I deserve #QwQ #you are such a sweetheart #^w^

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songsofacagedbird · 4 years ago

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Is that BALIAN “BALO” DRISKELL? Wow, they do look a lot like EMILIIE DE RAVIN I hear SHE is an EIGHTEEN year old high school SENIOR. Word is they are a REGULAR student at Luxor Academy. You should watch out because they can be NAIVE and SENSITIVE, but on the bright side they can also be BUBBLY and OPTIMISTIC. Ultimately, you’ll get to see it all for yourself.

the basics //

Full Name: Balian “Balo” Grace Driskell

Preferred Name: Balo Driskell

Age: 18

Birthday: February 23rd

Zodiac: Pisces

Gender & Pronouns: Woman (She/Hers)

Sexuality: Balo doesn’t label her sexuality, she’s part of the LGBT+ community (and has canonly dated both girls and boys) but she doesn’t feel comfortable labeling it personally.

Occupation: N/A, she occasionally does commissions though (both art and in like making clothes)

Relationship Status: In a relationship with Cade Carroll (npc) since early May

Place of Birth: Rochester, New York

Hometown: Saratoga Springs, New York

Country of Citizenship: United States

Languages Spoken: English (first) and French

deeper dive //

Hobbies and Talents:

○ Sketching (in particular people and animals, an inspiration board for her sketch book can be found here.)

○ Painting

○ Gymnastics (her leg is her left leg! By “her leg” I mean the leg she leads off with / does her split with for her floor routine / has better balance)

○ Fashion Design and Sewing

○ Cheerleading

○ Gymnastics

○ Yoga

○ Roller Skating

○ Scrapbooking

○ Dancing (a hobby, not a talent)

○ She can touch her nose with her tongue

Favorites:

○ Color: The entire rainbow, Balo has issues with picking one favorite color so she doesn’t choose.

○ Food: Balo’s not the biggest on food but she has a weakness for popcorn. Extra butter, light on the salt.

○ Animal: Cats

○ Drink: Hot Chocolate

○ Flower: Sunflowers

○ Book: a fairy tale collection she got from Zander when she was a child

○ Holiday: Christmas, to the point she’ll start decorating as early as she can. (June? Why not!)

○ Movie: The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh

○ Scent: Strawberries, real a bit more than the artificial but she adores both.

○ Place: Her “little art studio” (technically just a corner of her room with her art supplies).

○ Quote:

“Butterflies can’t see their wings. They can’t see how truly beautiful they are, but everyone else can. People are like that as well.” - Unknown

Bêtes Noires:

○ Color: Dark brown, although she won’t admit to it

○ Food: Chicken à la King

○ Animal: Spiders, Balo does not like spiders and would like to stay far away from them

○ Drink: Matcha

○ Flower: Nepenthes peltata

○ Book: The Divergent Books

○ Holiday: 4th of July

○ Movie: Rugrats in Paris, she thinks it’s practically a horror movie

○ Scent: Garlic

○ Place: The Driskell family home in Saratoga Springs

health //

Conditions:

○ Anorexia Nervosa

○ HIV

Allergies: N/A

Sleeping Habits: Balo gets to bed usually at a good time and sleeps 8 hours at a shot.

Exercise Habits: She exercises multiple times of day, between gymnastics and cheerleading, it’s important she’s in prime shape. Dance and Yoga are her go-tos outside of practice.

Addictions: N/A

Drug Use: Very rarely. After a bad LSD trip (when she wasn’t aware she was being drugged until after the fact), she’s very wary of drugs on average.

Alcohol Use: Occasionally. Balo doesn’t have a high alcohol tolerance, she gets tipsy after one drink and if she keeps drinking, after a couple the odds of her stripping are extremely high. (It’s not a sexual thing, she overheats and doesn’t really think about the consequences).

personality //

MBTI: ESFP

Enneagram: 2w3 (The Helper with The Achiever Wing)

Alignment: Neutral Good

Hogwarts House: Hufflepuff

Percy Jackson Parent: Iris

Pokémon Type: Dragon

Pokémon Subtype: Ghost

Winx: Nature

appearance //

Height: 5′11” – not at fc height (I enjoy her being a few cm taller than Zander too much to put her at fc now #oops)

Tattoos: One

Scars: None

Piercings: Ears

Hair: Blonde

Eyes: Blue

Fashion:

○ link to balo’s closet

○ link to balo’s shoes

life at luxor //

Classes:

○ Communications

○ French

○ General P.E.

○ Visual Arts

○ Fashion Design

○ Human Biology

○ Beginner Ballet

Clubs and Activities:

○ Art Club

○ Cheerleading (Flyer)

○ Gymnastics

fun facts //

○ Balo has been attending Luxor since her Freshman year.

○ Balo’s kind of a literal ray of sunshine who believes (almost) everyone is truly good at heart.

○ Very easy to manipulate, please manipulate her. I’ll literally give you my firstborn.

○ Usually you’ll see her running around with a smile trying to brighten everyone’s day. She tries to put everyone’s happiness before herself, however, she’s slowly getting better about forming boundaries.

○ While it’d be easy to assume Balo’s dumb, that’s not quite the case. She only remembers the information she wants to. The issue is... most of the information she wants to learn is relatively useless. Want to know how to sew sutures? She’s your girl. Want to know the definition of cannibalism? Well, ask Jack how that goes.

○ She has two teddy bears and an American Girl doll living on her dresser. Duffy, Shelley-Mae, and Robin Banks. They’re decorative, but they make her happy.

○ One of her best friends is Logan Keller, the boy who went missing during the summer camping trip. The two are still in touch, and extremely close, so occasionally he gets mentioned here and there, but it’s still a sore spot for her (I am still in touch with the person who played him, so I run stuff by his mun when / if he comes up).

○ Jack’s adoptive parents recently adopted her, although she hasn’t said a lot about it. Your muse probably won’t know unless one of the two directly told them (or they heard it from Zander). It’s not a secret, she just didn’t make an announcement or anything.

○ In October 2019, Zander had an intervention for her to force her to get help for her eating disorder. She was in inpatient until April 2020, when she returned to Luxor.

○ Cheer and Gymnastics team member from Freshmen year until her intervention, and she returned to both teams this fall with the new school year.

○ Balo’s left handed (the only one of my muses that is a lefty)!

○ I’m aware Balo’s family page can be complicated, please feel free to dm me with questions. Also, please remember Balo doesn’t know she’s Daniel’s daughter, let alone the fact there’s even a chance Lance isn’t her father, which means your muse has absolutely no way of knowing this.

○ Befriended a stray racoon on the Lake George campus she named Reese Withercoon.

○ Literally only just said her first swear word this June, we’re very proud of her for finally getting that done. (#ThanksAxelAndLeo)

○ Balo finds the Winnie the Pooh theme song extremely soothing, which resulted in her naming a certain group chat with a set of friends the 100 Acre Woods - because she finds spending time with them soothing too.

○ I’m always willing to discuss my muses, so feel free to hit me up if you have any questions at any point.

a tl;dr history //

○ Balo’s home life growing up was far from perfect. Her father, Lance - is an abusive alcoholic, and while her mother tried her best to protect her children - she also covered things up without hesitation because she loves her husband. It wasn’t uncommon to see a Driskell in the ER with a lie and people willing to back up the story.

○ Balo was conceived during the time Lance and Cassandra were seperated the only time that her mother tried to leave. She’s completely unaware that she’s not Lance’s biological daughter (as is everyone else).

○ She’s been attending Luxor since freshman year, although she had to leave in the middle of her Junior year had to leave for a few months to attend extensive inpatient treatment. She came back in April, although she could not rejoin the cheerleading and gymnastic teams until her therapist confirmed she was doing well (so the start of her senior year) because of concerns about her well-being.

○ She was disowned following her HIV diagnosis over the fall. Over the winter, the Fieldings adopted Balo.

○ I strongly recommend skimming Balo’s timeline page before interacting with her. These are just the bare minimum basics, and there're more things your muse may know on there.

wanted connections //

○ Friendships

○ Someone to manipulate her, please I beg you

○ Anyone who knows her from the gymnastics and/or cheer teams, or the art club

#luxorintro #child abuse tw #abuse tw #HIV tw #disownment tw #eating disorder tw #anorexia tw #drugs tw #alcohol tw

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cecilspeaks · 5 years ago

Text

159 - Cat Show

Be the annoying goose you want to see in the world. Welcome to Night Vale.

This day was foretold and now it is here. Some doubted it would come, but the signs were clear. And I could not be more excited! It’s the annual Night Vale cat show. [laughs] I know, I rarely report on this event, but this year, I finally entered my own cat, Khoshekh, into the contest. Many of you remember that I found Khoshekh 7 years ago. He was floating 4 feet off the ground in the men’s restroom here at the radio station, and he’s still in that exact same spot, cute as ever with his furry little white paws! And elegant little black tail, and just the floofiest tentacles you could ever see.

My husband and I adore cats! We’re always ranking them, because love is above all else a competition. So we figured we should put Koshekh out there for an objective ruling on our own beliefs that he is the best cat in the world! It should be an easy win for our little boy, especially with the home field advantage. Koshekh is stuck in a fixed point in space, and the cat show is being held here at the radio station to accommodate his condition. Station Management is a bit unhappy about this, because they’re terribly allergic to cats. All morning, as the cat show organizers and competing cats have arrived, I have felt the sneezes of Station Management from deep below the surface of the Earth where they have burrowed into the warm, molten core of our dying planet.

I sent our new intern Simon Peterson out to pick up some Benadryl for the bosses, and he did, but now he’s having trouble navigating the 16 inch wide rocky tunnel Station Management dug into the break room, and Simon keeps saying he’s claustrophobic and that his greatest fear is to be stuck in a dark place where the long spindly arms touch and prod his feet, but he cannot see them. And even if he could, he would not comprehend them. Ad n the prickly limbs grab at him with increasing desperation and he does not scream, because he knows no one will hear him except the inscrutable.. thing that is now tearing open the skin along the bottom of his feet. And I was like Simon, this office is a no excuses zone, so get in that tunnel and do your job.

More on the cat show soon, but first the news. Strange men arrived in town today. They were wearing suits and carrying briefcases. They drove a black sedan. One of them wore sunglasses. They claimed to be from Washington DC from an agency called the National Transportation Safety Board. They were inquiring about a missing plane. The strange men, one of them had a blister on his upper lip, met with Sheriff Sam, and told them that on June 15, 2012, Delta flight 18713 from Detroit Mistigan to Albany New York disappeared. The NTSB still has not found the MT-90 aircraft. The men told Sheriff Sam that for many years, the agency believed the flight to have gone down in Lake Erie. Sheriff Sam laughed at this silly fake name for a lake and told the men – one of them had a swollen red lump along the cuticle of his right index finger –that they must be remembering some spooky young adult novel, rather than a real life event. The strange men – one of them had an unceasing nose bleed – said it was in fact true. They said that they recently found a report indicating that right before Flight 18713 vanished from radar, it was detected all the way down in the southwest United States, right here in Night Vale. “How is that possible?” the strange men asked our Sheriff. Sheriff Sam stopped laughing and said: “I know the plane. Or rather, I know someone who saw that plane. His name is Doug, Doug Biondi.” The strange men – one of them wore three wedding rings – nodded and said: “Take us to Doug.” Sheriff Sam said: “Doug is in the Night Vale asylum. He is dangerous. He is not allowed visitors. But…” and Sheriff Sam leaned forward, clasping their hands together across the desk and continued in a hush town: “I… could… assist… in an undercover operation. Disguise you all as new inmates, treacherous psychopaths who must be kept in lockdown in the world’s highest security mental hospital. Then, then… you would be able to interview Doug Biondi about what he saw that day in the elementary school gym.” And the strange men – one of them was weeping thick yellow tears – agreed that this was a great idea, and set out with the Sheriff to the asylum, deep within the Scrublands, to begin their covert investigation. I’m sure those strange men from the NTSB will emerge soon with a full report. More on this story as it develops.

But I have to get back – to the Cat shooooow! [excited] Oh ho ho, [gasps] so many cats have arrived! [laughs] Th-there are cages and carriers full of sweet kitties all over the station! Representing all four breeds of cat: long haired, short haired, smushyfaced and miscellaneous. When I was filling out the entry forms for Khoshekh, they asked me this breed, and he’s definitely smushyfaced, but also long haired although he’s short haired along his coddlespine and pincers, soooooo… miscellaneous? I guessed. Also they wanted Khoshekh’s last name, and I have never thought of a last name for our cat. Huh. I told Carlos we should put his last name as Khoshekh’s last name, because Carlos has a much more interesting last name than me. Plus Carlos is pretty well known and very well liked in town. Everybody knows his last name, and I thought that might carry some political weight in the minds of the judges. But Carlos insisted that we use mine, because I found Khoshekh and I adopted him. So there you go, little kitty. You are Khoshekh Gershwin Palmer. A champion name for a champion cat.

Let’s have a look now at the community calendar. This Friday night is the Tour of Lights in Old Town Night Vale. Participants can meet at Galway and 1st at 7 PM, where a tractor pulling a trailer full of hay will drive you around to look at the bright and festive holiday lights adorning the various historic homes. Last year’s favorite, the Victorian mansion owned by Harrison Kip, included a 40-foot tall Santa, his arms outstretched overseeing a vast army of toiling elves, while an old Victrola played “Ave Maria” over crackling speakers and clowns leapt suddenly from the thick shrubs, handing unsuspecting but delighted guests red and blue balloons shaped by long dead family members. Tickets are five dollars and go to support the Bilderberg Group.

Saturday evening is the bi-monthly pub crawl in downtown Night Vale. Every eight weeks or so, every bar in town becomes overrun with 7 inch long bugs that look like… a bit like earwigs but with human faces. All participating bars and pubs are offering two for one specials on well drinks and bottled domestics.

Sunday afternoon, the Tamika Flynn book club will be meeting to discuss their most recent book, the 2018 Husqvarna YTH-24K 14-inch riding mower owner’s manual. This month’s book was chosen by John Peters – you know, the farmer? They’ll be discussing the themes, symbolism and subtext of this seminal work of contemporary technical literature. The book club is open to anyone and there will be a potluck benefit.

Monday is running a few minutes late, but wants everyone to know we can go ahead and start without it.

The cat show is finally underway and wow! What a sight! I’ve never actually been to a cat show before today, it is, it’s fascinating! So, the judges take each cat one at a time. They hold up the cat’s tail to examine its posture and form. Then they pry open the cat’s mouth to check its teeth. Then four judges hold each of the cat’s paws and stretch it out into a furry X, as a fifth judge measures the cat’s latitudinal, longitudinal and diagonal lengths. I’m surprised at how gentle these cats are with all this rough handling. Khoshekh – [scoffs] Khoshekh usually tries to bite me or-or sting me when I feed him, and I appreciate that about him. It’s hard to respect a cat that would let any stranger look it directly in the eyes, let alone touch it. People sometimes think cats will behave obediently and chummily, like dogs, but cats are individualistic. They show love, yes, but it is conditional and judgmental. You must give a cat space to learn its environment and develop its own social rules. Plus those pincers really hurt! The cats they’re showing right now are really cute, but it’s [sighs], it’s hard to respect them, like the way they let these judges just treat them like slabs of meat. [shouts angrily] Stand up for yourselves, you glorified sock puppets!

Oh, I’m getting some nasty looks from the judges and other contestants. Good, good. (-) [0:12:26] is important in contact sports. Let them know who’s the front runner.

Amber Akini and her husband Wilson Levy are showing their cat now, a tiny fist-sized orange and white shorthair named Berthold. Berthold might be my second favorite cat, behind Khoshekh of course, because he’s a - oh, oh what to call that kind of cat with extra appendages the poly.. polydactyl, polydactyl, that’s it. Anyway, Berthold is a polydactyl cat. He has eight legs and a mesmerizing array of shiny black eyes covering his cute little face. I’m not so sure Berthold has much of a chance of winning, though. Because when the judges tried to check his teeth, he skittered up the wall and won’t come back from the web he built up there. Ah, well now Susan Willman is showing her cat. He’s a scraggy, but otherwise basic tabby with dirty teeth like Spanish rice and the sunken posture of a playground swing. Oh I didn’t catch his name, although it sounded like she called Dumpster. [chuckles] [low voice] Not a chance, loser.

OK, oh wait. The judges are all wide-eyed and cooing over Dumpster, like he’s a rare bejeweled artefact. Wait, they’re nodding to each other as if they’re impressed. I don’t get this! He’s a trash cat. That’s why she named him Dumpster of, knowing Susan, maybe that’s a family name. Ooh ho-ho! Oh, I’m getting a shush sign from the judges, and Susan is glaring at me. [chuckles] I had no idea how political this cat show would be. What a racket.

Let’s have a look now at traffic. There’s a slowdown on westbound lanes of Route 800 near Exit 19. There is no construction or accident. Highway patrol said that everyone on that side of the road simply started thinking about Urinus and giggling. Every single driver, simultaneously, remembered how the name of that planet always made them laugh in school. Scientists want to study Urinus. They thought it wants really probe the dense noxious clouds covering the rocky surface of Urinus. They considered in unison, their ruddy cheeks quaking above sore jaws and below tear-filled crackling eyes: scientists think the pressure inside Urinus is so great that here may be diamonds inside Urinus. The drivers all howled, the audible din enough to slow even the eastbound lanes, who were trying to think of a single funny thing about Saturn, but could not. I’m not sure I get why any of that is funny. But expect westbound delays of 20 minutes or take an alternative route.

It’s the big moment, listeners. The judges are visiting Khoshekh right now in the men’s restroom. I tried to tell them to use hazmat gloves, but they sneered and said: “We know how to handle cats, sir.” OK, they are professional arbiters of all things feline, so I believe them. They’re holding up Khoshekh’s tails right now, examining his nacreous scales. They brought in two other judges to try to hold Khoshekh’s tentacles down because, well he keeps trying to grab at the main judge’s face as the judge attempts to examine Khoshekh’s teeth. Oh, I wonder if they’ll deduct points for Khoshekh having more teeth than a normal cat. I mean he has five rows of them. OH, oh! Oh no. Ohhh, the judges are not controlling this situation well at all, Khoshekh has wrapped up all of the jduges in his many spiraling suctioned arms. They’re struggling to break free, but those tentacles secrete a sedative oil and the judges are wobbling.. They’re passing out, yup, not good. Every single judge is unconscious, and now Khoshekh is wildly flapping his wings and, while I cannot hear it I can tell, he is emitting a shriek that only other cats can hear. He does this when he’s upset. OH, there’s Berthold coming down from the safe haven of his web. There’s Dumpster, hollow-eyed and purring, waling toward Khoshekh. And all the other cats are coming too. Their mouths agape, emitting I m sure the the same ultrasonic tone, a harmon of protest, of uprising, of bloodthirst. They’re gathering now in the men’s room, eyes glowing, all slack-jawed and silent screaming at the sky. On yeah, the other pet owners are sobbing and they’re running for the exist, but they know they cannot leave. They would not leave even if they could. It is silent now in the station safe for the panting exhaustion of frightened human owners, and the strained wheezing breaths of unconscious cat show judges. I think Carlos and I have a great shot at winning this thing, listeners. an announcement of a champion coming soon!

But first, The weather.

[”Weather: “Fuzzy Disco” by Talkie https://talkie.bandcamp.com]

The judges woke up, but they no longer speak in English nor any human language. They are licking themselves and eating moths that they caught by the single swinging light bulb in our radio station’s interrogation room. Their brains are feral and feline now, as they hide under tables and hiss at the other cat owners. I tried to warn them about using hazmat gloves, but they didn’t wanna hear me. [big gasp] Or maybe they did! Perhaps this was their gambit all along, I mean this is after all my first cat show, I don’t wanna pretend like I know how these things go. No winners were announced. The judges joined the high-pitched catervauling of the other cats. And then they all left in a unified clatter, out the men’s room window and into the street. I can see them now, running toward the alley behind the CVS, several other cats joining their ranks, all except - Khoshekh, who cannot leave his spot in the station restroom. Four feet in the air.

I told Khoshekh that he’s a winner in my mind, and I put on my thick rubber gear and gently stroked his smushed little face! [giggles] Right between his middle two eyes! Huh. It’s hard to tell what cats are thinking or feeling, but I think Khoshekh is happy. He’s happy to have such a loving home and two doting dads. But something in his eyes tells me he wanted to run free with his new cat friends. I gave him a catnip plushie though, and he looks content, if a little coked up.

Stay tuned next for a noise you cannot hear, rallying a feral insurrection.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Wanna feel old? Don’t worry, you will.

#welcome to night vale #wtnv #wtnv transcripts #episode 159 #cat show

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maviemesregles · 5 years ago

Text

Once I was an Eagle

Thank you all who keeps following this story, who hits Kudos on AO3, likes and reblogs and gives a kind word in the comments. It means a lot <3 I am still genuinely surprised somebody finds it interesting but I DO appreciate each and one of you for that.

This chapter has been much saved by my trusty beta Anne. Thank you! She's been my source of any possible and impossible medical info I need, patiently answering all of my questions, giving me advice and just generally making this story so much better!

Read on AO3.

Chapter I: The beginnings

Chapter II: Sassenach

Chapter III: Catharsis

Chapter IV: Lovestruck. Part I

Chapter V: Lovestruck. Part II

CHAPTER VI: Flecks of sun

Saying goodbye was something Jamie and I were very bad at. The moment we would part with a kiss (so soft that it leaves a lingering tenderness float over the lips) we text or call in a space of an hour again. We were inseparable and I could not even remember anymore how it was to live without Jamie’s constant presence in my life.

Without him making the best coffee I’ve ever had.

Without the heavyweight of his arm over my waist that kept me imprisoned in the mornings in our bed.

Without our hours-long calls when we both were in our beds on different sides of Edinburgh.

Without his solid body and warmth on my couch with a bowl of crisps and Netflix on.

Without his lips on my skin and his hands knowing every inch of my body better than anyone.

Without Jamie cuddling Adso but next moment cursing in Gaelic when my cat decides to scratch him.

Without Jamie’s quiet reassurance and gentleness when my days are particularly hard at work and he’d come with me in the shower, working out the tight muscles in my back.

Without him just being there.

Our absolute inability at saying goodbyes was one of the reasons I was invited to Broch Mordha. After I was away for a week in Boston for a medical conference, Jamie simply asked me to meet his family. So now I found myself in the kitchen next to Jenny who was making dinner. Jamie had gone to the stables to check on the new horse Brian bought before he left for Glasgow. Ian was away at work and all the children were visiting his parents. I was left alone with Jenny and somehow I felt more nervous than I anticipated. She was Jamie’s older sister and nothing escaped her eye. I’ve felt like under the microscope.

* * *

Claire’s cheeks were positively glowing when she realised it was a selfie of her and Jamie snapped on his phone during their hiking two weeks ago. It was a silly one. Jamie was smiling from ear to ear. He looked as if he received the best news ever while Claire gave him a smooch on the cheek. Her hair loose, framing her face. She had the look of a woodland faerie wild and free.

Jenny snorted noticing Claire's face had become a lovely shade of scarlet.

“Jamie put it there right after yer wee hike adventure,” Jenny adjusted a magnet (that she and Ian brought from Greece) that held a small square photo. “This is our fridge of ridiculous family photos.”

A lopsided smile touched Jenny’s lips as she turned back to the salad she was preparing. No longer under the curious gaze of Jamie's older sister, Claire looked at the numerous pictures of the Frasers gracing the refrigerator.

There were childhood photos of all siblings, including William. One captured all three of them playing in a small swimming pool outside on a particularly sunny day. A little girl about six-years-old, with two dark ponytails, was laughing while she was held high up by her father. Her brother Willie, accompanied by his red-headed brother Jamie, seemed fascinated by a yellow ball he held in his hands. Jamie clearly made an effort to relieve his brother of the toy.

Claire’s eyes moved up finding a picture of Christmas day.

In that picture, Ellen Fraser sat with a little swaddled baby in her arms, (it was Jamie, Claire assumed), on a carpet by the huge Christmas tree surrounded by her other two bairns, who proudly held their new presents, with ripped wrapping paper scattered around them.

A black and white photo captured their wedding day showing the happy faces of Frasers standing outside the church in Inverness. Another one of Jamie all dressed up at his High school graduation. One of Jenny holding her university diploma, both parents proud at her side. Ian and Jenny on their honeymoon in Spain, ridiculously tanned. Pictures of all the family members outside the hospital commemorating the birth of Jenny and Ian's first born. Ian looked overwhelmed as he held his newborn son, Jenny drowning in bouquets of flowers with a blue balloon floating over her head that said: “It’s a boy!”.

And now there was a picture of Jamie and Claire. Somehow she felt thrilled by the fact that Jamie decided to put their photo there as she belonged to this family. Showing that Claire was part of their family seemed important to him. As she turned to ask if Jenny needed any help, Jamie’s sister picked up a phone that was ringing for the second time already. Claire never knew that colour from someone’s cheeks can drain away that quickly.

“Jenny?” She tentatively touched her shoulder watching her face become paler and paler. Something frighteningly awful happened to cause a cold feeling to rise from deep within Claire's belly.

“It’s Jamie. There’s been an accident.”

* * *

When people experience sleep paralysis they often describe a feeling of choking, as if some supernatural creature would sit on their chest purposely cutting an airflow in their lungs. I felt that and more. When Jenny slid down the barstool, her hand still holding a phone I stepped closer. Her face became paper white. I managed to compose myself adopting that professional mask I always used in the hospital in spite of my breathing becoming harsh and uneven.

“Jenny, what happened? Tell me.”

She raised her head, eyes fixed on my face but not actually seeing me.

Jenny tried to stand up but shifted and almost dissolved into my arms. “Jamie had fallen from a horse. He doesna move.”

He doesna move.

Each syllable ran through my head as a manifesto cutting deep into the tissue of my brain.

Jenny sobbed, chin quivering.

“Jamie is good with horses but…” She gulped and escaped from my hand that was tight on her shoulder. “Dear God, I canna lose another brother.”

She spoke in a trembling voice and her hands shook causing me to feel the weight of a ton of bricks pressing down on my chest. With each shallow breaths, I thought I could actually feel my sternum crush. Like Jenny, my legs became weak, numb lacking the strength to carry me. My mouth became dry, my eyes burned but no tears came and I gasped for breath like a fish removed from its watery home.

“Christ, what if he’s dead” Jenny whispered flying out the door into the misty evening.

“He’s not.” I tried to sound confident but inside I just wanted to shake her and scream “Of course he’s fucking not!”.

I never knew I could run this fast. I never thought I would feel that terrifying paralyzing fear of losing someone again, not so soon after learning about Uncle Lamb's heart condition. With each meter closer to the stables my stomach clenched and the coffee I had an hour ago threatened to escape, rising up in my mouth. I tried not to imagine all the possible images of Jamie’s injured body. Jenny’s gasps and cries were crawling inside me waking my own fears, making me sick. When my eyes caught the side of Ian’s figure crouched down next to still Jamie the tears snaked down my cheeks. Sniffing, I dried the salty paths away with the back of my hand.

Suddenly I remembered when a young nurse had asked me if I could perform surgery on someone I love, on someone significant. I said I wasn’t sure. In fact, I could not. She asked me if I felt the pain when I lost a patient’s life. My answer was that of course, I did. But not without reason some people call doctors cold-hearted. If we were allowed to show our true emotions it would become a mess. There were times I had to tell that terrible news to relatives and then afterwards in the company of my cat I could allow myself to feel that pain and sadness.

But now it was Jamie. This very moment I knew true fear. The reality suspended around me and the only thing I tried to think of was the severity of the fall from the horse.

Jamie’s skin was pale and there was sweat glistening along his forehead as far as I could see. My heart was beating erratically as my trembling fingers searched and found the carotid artery on his neck. I exhaled feeling the steady pulse at his clammy skin.

“Have you called the ambulance?”

“Aye, I did the second I’d found him like this.” Ian ran his hand through hair, biting his lip nervously.

“Is he alright? He’ll wake up, right? Claire?” Jenny was squeezing Ian’s hand with such force that I was afraid she would break it.

Her voice was a mixture of hope and fear, projecting her worried state of mind and confusion on me. My eyes closed as I willed myself to concentrate pushing my emotions aside.

“First of all, we need to get him to Emergency. He fell from a height and I am not sure whether he hit his head, for that he must have CAT scan.”

Jenny nodded as she clung to her husband.

“He’ll likely regain his consciousness within the minute but if not please, don’t panic. He’ll be alright.” My voice shook at those last words. Slow but steady rising and falling of Jamie’s chest was a reassuring sign of him breathing. And I smoothed his red curls back with my palm. “You’ll be just fine. I'll make sure of it”

And that same moment Jamie’s hand stirred slightly, a little twitch but enough for my eyes start to water again. This time with relief.

His eyes fluttered open. Jamie looked disoriented and the way his lips curled into a tight line I could tell he was in pain.

“Hi there,” I whispered my palm cupping his cheek gently. “You fell off a horse, honey. But you’re going to be okay.”

He made an effort to nod, his eyes closed again.

“Jamie, are you hurt?”

“My shoulder-”

I saw his Adam’s apple bob under his skin as he swallowed.

“Hurts like hell. And I feel dizzy.” It took a great amount of exertion for those words to come out.

“Be still now.” I shushed him seeing the lights of the ambulance arriving, blue lights ablaze.

* * *

Jamie had been put onto the stretcher with me sitting beside him holding onto his hand. Finally, we arrived at the hospital where I was relegated to wait in the hospital waiting room.

The hospital of Inverness was about three times smaller than the one in Edinburgh where I worked every day. The manicured hand of the receptionist pointed me to the waiting room. That room reminded me of a train station with its plastic chairs, grey painted walls, and a sad lonely ficus. The ficus failed at an attempt to brighten and lend some coziness to the room. My imagination seemed to be running wild, as I thought that even the radiators shivered from the starkness of the place.

Picking up an old issue of Elle magazine from the colourful stack I flicked through it without actually paying attention to the content. In about twenty minutes after becoming quite sick of the TV programs playing along with their obnoxious commercials, I heard footsteps coming down the hallway. A nurse, Laura as her name badge indicated, peered at me as she tapped her clipboard with a pen.

“Ma’am are ye a relative of James Fraser?”

“No-,” I shook my head, standing up. My knees painfully jerked on the table that stood in front of me sending pain down my legs.

The nurse quirked her eyebrow in a question and before she made a guess I blurted the first thing seemed logical.

“A girlfriend.”

Laura clicked her tongue as if she did not believe me and after scribbling something down with a blue and white pen she guided me to the hallway. Her hand felt heavy and cold on my back and her accent made me replay her words in my mind at least twice.

“Mr Fraser has a severe concussion. CAT scan hasn’t shown any bleeding but we advise the patient to stay overnight to monitor the symptoms.”

I just nodded walking over the sleek floors in the hallway space where my eyes started to hurt from all shiny steel and bright white walls.

“The dislocated shoulder was treated and we’ve given him ibuprofen for the pain but he’ll need rest and peace. Mr Fraser has asked about ye. Do ye wish to stay over the night, Ma’am?”

* * *

When I entered Jamie’s hospital room he was asleep. Worn out by the accident and all the procedures that followed. Jamie rested quietly in the realm of Morpheus now. Giving my eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness I reached the bed where he laid as quietly as I could. My lips softly brushed over his forehead before I slid down the chair next to him.

Just then I allowed myself to exhale deeply, all the feelings catching up with me.

I sat there in the darkness of a late November evening watching the lights of lonely passing cars draw lines over Jamie’s face. My previous organised state of mind turned to dust in the revelation of the night creeping in. Tears stained my cheeks sliding down into the valley of my neck and finally creating a damp stain on my sweater.

I wasn’t sure where it came from but the slightest idea of losing Jamie, losing us created a hollow aching space inside my heart. It made me wrap my arms around myself for comfort as I shook my head reminding myself to breathe.

Just breathe.

You can never learn how to lose someone you love.

I’ve lost both of my parents. I was five at the time and maybe I didn't quite understand the idea of death but that evening I not only lost my parents, I also lost my childhood and old carefree self. I never got a chance to say how much I love them one more time. I’ve regretted it all my life. No matter how often I would repeat those words visiting their grave each year it would never fill that endless hole inside me.

I never got a chance to say those words to uncle Lamb. How many times did I let this sense of regret eat the flesh of my heart like a vulture devouring carrion? I knew about the poor state of his health during his last years. And I berated myself for not saying "I love you" enough.

The slightest idea of losing Jamie now slashed a deep, bleeding scar over my heart. The tears burst like a water dam, lashes heavy with dampness, my hand pressed over my lips afraid to wake Jamie with my cries.

The fear was ripping through my heart, my very being, coming out it wrenching sobs, turning my guts out. Everything became a blur as the sounds became muffled leaving me in complete silence with the only echo of my own quiet confession.

“I love you”

* * *

“I love you.” My lips repeated those three simple words again as if I was not sure I’d said them a minute ago. Sniffling into the sleeves of my sweater and smearing the remains of mascara I leaned to Jamie.

“You scared the hell out of me,” my whisper sounded hoarse and raspy. “I know you’d laugh at me. You’d say I’m a doctor and you’re in good hands. But Jamie…”

A nervous chuckle came out as I took his hand in mine, my thumb placing gentle caresses over his warm skin. Maybe I was a coward but it was easy to tell him all this while he slept.

“I can’t lose you. I can’t”

I kept repeating those words until the rivers on my cheeks dried out and all the sounds around came back to me. Soothed by Jamie’s quiet breathing my fingers caressed his stubbled jaw.

“It’s as if my soul that’s been torn and reborn started breathing from the moment you found me.”

His hand slightly twitched in mine, fingers seeking that contact. But he was still asleep. Bringing his palm to mine I pressed my dry lips to it. The same as he did on our first night together.

“Good God, I know it’s dangerous. To let myself having someone I’m afraid to lose. But it’s you that I need.”

I smiled.

“You know, when I went to that medical conference in Boston I swear I kept thinking about you each minute.”

After our ��wee’ getaway to the Highlands life resumed its chaotic rhythm and swayed us away into the depths of it. Joe and I had to leave to the medical conference in Boston for a week. Jamie also had an urgent business he needed to deal with together with his uncles at the brewery.

We said our goodbyes with sloppy kisses at the airport and fifteen minutes rushed sex in the men toilet (where firstly I wiped the toilet seat before Jamie had settled himself down and then me on him). He laughed saying that I am ridiculously hygienic (calling me Dr.Beauchamp as he bit my earlobe gently). After moderately satisfying goodbye sex we parted promising to call each other each evening. In fact, we spoke only three times during that week and I ached for Jamie.

When day six arrived I was so ready to come back to beloved rainy and windy Scotland. Jamie and I chatted on Whatsapp for an hour creating so many plans for when I come back (it included a sex marathon to make up for the time apart, eating our favourite Chinese takeaway, going to see the new Marvel movie, Jamie promising to fix the dripping sink in my bathroom and me coming to Broch Mordha).

It was something I did not expect but something I was no longer wanting to reject. As I folded the last piece of clothing into my suitcase Jamie’s voice message popped on the app.

“Claire, there’s something I wanted to ask ye. But firstly I want ye to know there’s no pressure or anything like that. And ye can say no, I willna be offended. But it is important for me and I would be glad if ye agreed.”

His tone became a bit quieter then.

“I would love ye to come to Broch Mordha. To meet Jenny and Ian, to meet my Da. I could show ye around. Maybe ye could stay for a night?”

I recorded a message back.

“I would love to visit your hometown. Or rather home village should I say? I don’t mind that, Jamie. Especially, when I think of all the things you’d promised to do to me.”

I joked but in fact, I felt the butterflies in my stomach. Though I knew it must mean something more than we both anticipated at the beginning I was nearing that point. The point that I was ready to be in love with him. The point when my heart longed for him so much it hurt. The point where I thought I must already love him.

And when the last day opened its door my phone buzzed with a text that was trying to find its way to John Grey but ended in my jeans back pocket.

“Sorry, man, no pub this weekend. My girlfriend comes back from Boston and we have plans at home.”

My fingers typed back.

“I hope my boyfriend has good plans for me.”

The stupidest smile appeared on my face and I spent an additional five minutes at the airport security control because certain James Fraser called me his girlfriend and I knew he’d be the end of me.

“You should have seen the face of that officer, Jamie. He thought I was mad.” I whispered smiling. “But that’s the most unusual way I’ve become a girlfriend so far.”

I remembered arriving home in Scotland waiting for him to meet me there.

Something was rising in my chest when I saw him through the window walking up the front porch. God, I longed for him. I could almost cry with the want to be held by those hands again, to feel his body move against mine. But mostly I just wanted him near. To simply exist together in one space, to see his face when he wakes up and to listen to his untuned humming in the morning to the radio. To be with him. My breath hitched when the doorbell rang. Suddenly the blush crept in all the way on my neck to my cheeks. When my hands unlocked the door and Jamie entered our eyes settled on each other my heart pounded in my chest so hard I thought it’ll break free.

We haven’t seen each other for a week but it felt like years passed by and I couldn’t live without him any longer.

Jamie moved first, making two solid steps towards me before I myself wrapped my arms around him letting my head rest against his chest.

“A Leannan” He whispered softly pressing a kiss at my brow.

"I missed you” I confessed quietly, Jamie’s jacket muffling my voice.

“So did I” He smiled when his thumb raised my chin and our lips collided.

I remembered when finally we went to see that Marvel movie but in fact, I had seen only the first twenty-five minutes of it. The rest will be forever be imprinted as a memory of Jamie’s hands roaming over my body and the fact that I could never tell this story to my children.

I remembered watching Jamie fixing my bathroom sink, cursing in Gaelic every now and then. It stirred something sweet and undeniable inside me and I walked over to him pressing at least a hundred kisses to his bare back.

I remembered a time when Jamie waited for me to finish my shift at the hospital and on our way out the new (and very nosy nurse) said with mischief in her eyes that we would have “verra bonnie bairns”. It made the tips of Jamie’s ears become red and causing me to cough forcefully.

I remembered when it was time to finally come to Broch Mordha.

“Jamie, I know you cannot pick me up, I’ll take a train, it’s fine,” I started scrolling through the timetable of trains on the Edinburgh-Inverness route.

“Let Ian bring ye from the station at least, I’ll ask him,” Jamie wouldn’t drop the topic of my safety.

I smiled chewing on my lip.

“I appreciate it, but it’s not necessary. I don’t want to be a bother. You know that I can fend for myself”.

Jamie snorted but the words came out serious.

“I ken that very well, Sassenach. Yer a fierce one. But I wouldna wish for ye even to try to do that. So just agree. Aye?”

“Aye,” I mimicked him but had to admit my life now was under a guard. In every sense.

I talked a lot to him until I lulled myself to sleep in that chair.

* * *

When Jamie woke his head was spinning and he had to blink several times for his vision to adjust to the darkness of the room. He felt as though his head was splitting in two. Then that nagging pain was running down his neck all the way to his shoulder.

He could feel a familiar warmth. Claire’s hand remained curled over his. She was a fragile figure covered in shadows, crouched on that hospital chair, her head dropped down her chest. The image of her, tired, asleep and so delicate made him want to cradle her and keep her safe inside himself, with his soul being her comfort. The words echoed in his fevered memory and crawled into his heart. Taken away from his dream that was put there by Claire’s voice before.

“Tha gaol agam ort”

Claire stirred and then rose in a swift motion woken up by Jamie’s voice.

“What did you say?”

She blinked still being half drowsy.

“I said I love ye”

#fanfic #outlander fanfic #modern au #claire and jamie #the frasers #maviemesregles #once i was an eagle #flecks of sun #claire beauchamp #jamie fraser #slow burn #angst

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mottledscales · 5 years ago

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LFRP - Muunokhoi Gloamwarder(Ayol)

The Basics ––– –

Age: Appears mid-to-late 50s

Race: Xaela

Gender: Cisgender Man

Sexuality: Homosexual

Marital Status: Widower

Server: Mateus

Physical Appearance ––– –

Hair: White, cropped close

Eyes: Steel grey, white limbal ring. No left eye.

Height: 7′11″

Build: Strongman build. Thickly muscled but not cut definition. Looks healthy...and enormous.

Distinguishing Marks: Various white splashes and dapplings where his scales become starkly white instead of black. Said scales grow prolific and asymmetrical, favoring the left side of his body over his right. Scars and tears, silvery and faded, are numerous throughout his body but similarly, they favor his left side. Muunokhoi’s tail is exceptionally long and has a loose set of scales that sit atop the spine. It, like the rest of him, is mottled. Big sharp teeth.

Common Accessories: Muunokhoi doesn’t seem given to adornments beyond armor or clothing. One may see him with a satchel or heavy pack filled with tools or materials for work orders, but nothing more.

Personal ––– –

Profession: “Handyman” It’s sort of difficult to nail down exactly what Muunokhoi does these days, though best he could explain to you, he fixes things. Tables, bookshelves, walls, tears in the fabric of reality, stools and chairs, floors, he’ll tackle most projects with diligence and a skillful hand. He tends to prefer working with wood and stone, however.

Hobbies: Furniture craft, carving, storytelling, sparring

Residence: A flat located in Limsa Lominsa.

Birthplace: The Tail Mountains

Religion: Primarily animistic reverence of spirits and ancestors, which ultimately takes a backseat to the worship of Nhaama.

Patron Deity: Nhaama

Fears: Failing to provide and prepare his daughter for the world. An unspecified loss of control. His own mortality. Not seeing an opportunity until it passes him by. Being insufficient.

Relationships ––– -

Spouse: Asato[Husband] - Deceased

Children: Narangawa[Adopted Daughter] - Alive

Parents: -Bayari [Mother] - Alive -Kokegan[Father]-Deceased

Siblings: N/A

Other Relatives: Sarangerel[Aunt] - Alive Numerous other aunts, uncles, and cousins

Pets: Black cat named ‘Cat’ [Catarina Catatonia Catatrix]

Traits ––– -

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized

Close Minded / In Between / Open-Minded

Calm / In Between / Anxious

Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between / Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader / In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between / Modern

Hard-working / In Between / Lazy

Cultured / In Between / Uncultured

Loyal / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

Additional information ––– –

Themes and More: I’ll be forthright. Muunokhoi’s story started rather basic with the intent of taking a sharp left turn into ‘deep dark’ themes both edgy and sad. Okay, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way... There’s a lot here. I’m talkin’ magic, mysticism, the struggle between tradition and progress, between one’s old life and one’s new. The effects of duty, failure, devotion to family and faith, violence, having some rad bad dreams. That sort of thing. Oh and if it was not entirely obvious, I like exploring monsters and what it means to be one. Muunokhoi happens to be one of my foremost outlets for that.

What I’m Looking For: Long-term story. I get a lot of slice-of-life already, but I do have a story I want to tell with Muunokhoi. And I want to help some folks tell their stories too. Like monstery things? Want to talk about xaela history, magic, faith, and the blurring lines between myth and reality? I’m your guy. Like subtlety but are completely okay with getting hit with a brick sometimes instead? I’m also here for you because I can’t tell the difference.

Must love[tolerate] dad-jokes.

Romance optional [who doesn’t like a good romantic subplot?] but keep in mind this man’s old and he’s not looking. Furthermore, it’s highly unlikely he’s going to be into anyone young. Just, keep that in mind. I don’t really care about slow or fast burn it all depends on character chemistry and interaction.

RP Hooks ––– –

Handyman: Need something fixed? Carpentry happens to be Muunokhoi’s forté, he might be able to help. Especially if it is related to structural or furniture repair. That said, if he can’t fix it, he probably knows someone who can and will point you in the right direction.

Edge of the Ejinn: About twenty years ago a pale man with mottled scales showed up on the far borders of Ejinn territory, beaten and bloody from conflict. While he was allowed to stay on the condition that he warned the tribe of approaching assaults, he was not allowed close to camp. The strange nature of his scales and pallid skin earned him the name “Chagatai” and a rumor that he might well be cursed. Furthermore, he took into his care a child born ‘marked’ by an eclipse, an omen to join an omen. Doma, Oh Doma: Thirty-five years ago, in a village along the One River, a raen doctor lived surrounded by a neighborhood that served the Rijin clan. Attending him was a tall xaela, quiet and poor in speech, covered in strange scales. Though apprenticed to a local carpenter, this xaela -known only as ‘Shiro’- was known better for keeping the peace when the lord’s samurai were away. With the coming of the empire of Garlemald both the raen doctor and his xaela shadow disappeared, presumed dead in the wake of the neighborhood’s burning. A Mountain To Break: Ul’dah’s blood sands briefly held a xaela amidst their number in the past five years: a roughly-hewn man known to take intense amounts of punishment with ease. A few remnant gladiators yet have a score to settle with the old bruiser, and others simply never got the chance to face off against him. “Handyman”: They say that Muunokhoi’s talents for repair extend beyond the material, and into the metaphysical. While it is not clear where precisely his talents lie, his very clear awareness of otherworldly energies and void taint seems to suggest he may share some sort of connection. Or at the very least, that he can feel the tears in the world as they are rent. Yet, stranger still is the present ‘wrongness’ about him, a sensation not unlike the prickling of gooseflesh.

Contact Information/About the player ––– –

Hey. I’m Fishy, or Mister Eyeteeth. Either works well enough. If you’d like to contact me I’m most readily available through tumblr’s messaging system, though ingame @ Muunokhoi Gloamwarder is also applicable.

My schedule shifts around due to the nature of sleep, health, and various other contributing factors. Suffice to say: I’ll get back to you when I can, so if you’re looking to set something up, give me time! I will thank you for your patience.

I’m pretty big on communication but I can function pretty well with little. The only thing I ask is that you communicate any problems or limits to the story you have. I won’t be upset and I won’t push anything you do not dig. Dig? Also, if there is something you’d like to see in a story, talk to me about that too! I’ll do my best to make it happen.

Finally, I’m not terribly social on my own and don’t like getting confused[and I’m very easily confused]. Be forthright and direct with me, and I’ll give you the same courtesy.

#ooc #LFRP #long post

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baconsoupforthesoul · 5 years ago

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How Much for that Kitty in the Window?

A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY INKSPOTTIE!!!! @inkspottie (obviously) and I hope you enjoy~

To say that Henry was only a little nervous would have been an understatement. While Henry was a nervous person by nature, the anxiety that often buzzed at the back of his mind was hitting him full force. Henry glanced around at all the little cages around him, wringing his hands as his wife chatted idly with the lady who ran the animal shelter. Lyra had wanted to adopt a cat for some time, but when she had first mentioned the idea to Henry, he almost had a panic attack right then and there. It wasn’t that he was afraid of cats, not at all. He was afraid of himself around cats. He shivered as a memory he had once forgotten washed over him.

“Not now. Not now,” Henry muttered to himself, trying to shake off the feeling of holding a limp kitten in his hands and Joey Drew’s voice ringing in his ear. Even though the man was dead, the former head of Rapture Studios still haunted Henry in his memories, especially the ones he had regained of the time he had spent as the madman’s test subject. Gosh, how old was he when it had happened? It was hard to say, with how fast he was forced to age back then, but he was pretty sure he couldn’t have been much older than seven when Joey had decided to test how far his ‘Would you kindly?’ conditioning would go. When he had forced Henry to break that kitten’s neck with his bare hands.

Henry sucked in a deep breath, wrapping his arms around himself to keep from breaking down. It had taken all of his courage to come here with Lyra today. After he had told her why he was so reluctant to adopt a cat, she had understood completely. She had been absolutely horrified to hear what Joey had forced him to do, and she didn’t bring up the subject for a long time after that. But Henry could tell she desperately wanted a cat around the place, seeing her longing glances at pet store windows whenever the two of them were out together. Despite his reluctance, Henry found he couldn’t deny Lyra something that she wanted this badly. She loved him despite all his scars and supported him through all the trauma he was still dealing with to this day. This was the least he could do for her. Besides, he didn’t want his past in Rapture to define him. He could move past this… for Lyra.

As Henry was lost in thought, something small and soft tapped his arm. Henry jumped, taking a step back as he turned to see one of the cats reaching out of its cage at him. The cat had white fur with splotches of black that looked kind of like ink drops. The cat looked up at him, giving a soft meow as it reached out to Henry with its paws.

“Uhhhh,” Henry turned his head towards Lyra but she was still deep in conversation, not taking notice of his sudden plight. Henry turned back towards the cat and took a hesitant step forward. “Ummmm, hi there,” Henry’s voice shook as he gave the cat an awkward wave. The cat meowed back at him, its green eyes staring curiously at him. Henry spared Lyra another nervous glance before returning his attention to the cat. This… this was fine. The cat was still in their cage, there was a slim chance that Henry might accidentally hurt the little thing. Hesitantly, Henry reached out and lightly ran his index finger over the top of the cat’s paw. The feline let out a happy little squeak as it reached out for Henry’s hand with his other paw. Henry could feel a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth as he gently pets the cat’s paws, feeling its soft fur under his fingertips.

“Mrow!” The cat meowed happily as it squashed its face up against the bars as if trying to stick its head through. Henry let out a soft chuckle as he slowly reached his fingers inside the cage and gently rubbed the cat’s head. He let out a soft gasp as the cat started purring with contentment, rubbing its head on his hand as he scratched them behind the ears.

“Did you find a friend there, Henry?” The smaller man jumped slightly, not realizing that Lyra had walked right up beside him. She gave him a knowing smile, causing Henry’s face to flush. Meanwhile, the cat meowed at him again, swatting at his hand with its paws, demanding Henry to continue petting them.

“Oh, I see that Spottie has taken a shine to you!” The shelter worker chimed in. “She’s such a sweet little thing. Do you want me to take her out so you can hold her?”

Henry froze, going as white as a sheet and looking like a deer caught in headlights. Lyra noticed his panic though and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’d love to hold her,” she offered, saving Henry from having to explain why the thought of holding a cat terrified him. The shelter worker smiled, completely obvious to Henry’s alarm, as she went over to unlock the cage. She gently lifted Spottie out and handed her off to Lyra. The biggest grin broke out on Lyra’s face as Spottie meowed happily and rubbed her head underneath Lyra’s chin. “Oh my gosh she’s so precious,” Lyra cooed, her eyes lit up as she held Spottie close to her. “Isn’t she the cutest thing Henry?”

“Y-yeah,” Henry replied, staring lovingly at his wife. Seeing her this happy filled him with joy, washing away his nerves and putting himself at ease. Gosh, how did he get this lucky?

As he stood lovestruck gazing at his wife though, Spottie turned her eyes towards him and began reaching out to him with her paws again, meowing insistently. “Aww, she likes you, Henry!” Lyra exclaimed, ecstatic that the cat was already warming up to her timid husband.

“I guess so,” Henry sounded pleased but unsure as he slowly reached out and began scratching Spottie behind the ears. “I don’t know why though…”

“I can think of a few reasons,” Lyra said teasingly, winking at her husband causing him to blush again, before turning back to the shelter worker. “Is she up for adoption?”

“She most definitely is!” She informed Lyra, looking pleased. “Did you want to bring Spottie home or did you want to keep looking around?”

“I think Spottie has already decided for us,” Lyra chuckled as the cat in her arms nuzzled and licked Henry’s hand. Henry looked completely overwhelmed as he tried to suppress tears of joy. As nervous as he was, he couldn’t help but feel hopeful about his and Lyra’s new furry companion.

—

Despite having such a wonderful introduction, Henry was still a little anxious around his and Lyra’s new pet. Spottie had made herself right at home these past few weeks, but Henry could still feel his nerves coil up in his stomach whenever he looked at her. It was stupid and irrational, but he was still so terrified that he might hurt her. She just seemed so small and fragile. Henry wouldn’t be able to live with himself if anything bad happened to her.

Spottie seemed utterly obvious to Henry’s worry though and always seemed to be vying for his affection. Whenever he would walk in the door she’d always be right there, pawing at his leg meowing up a storm, demanding pets. She was so sweet, Henry felt like his heart couldn’t take it sometimes. He just wished he could give the kitty the love she deserved, not freeze up with nerves all the time. He had yet to even pick her up, he was so scared he might hurt her or drop her or something. Gosh, why was he like this?

One day though, as Henry was sitting on the couch, idling flipping through channels waiting for Lyra to come home from work, Spottie decided to take the initiative. Henry wasn’t even paying attention as the cat leaps onto the couch, stalking silently towards him. Suddenly, Henry felt a paw press into his leg and looked down to see Spottie climb onto his lap.

“Uhhhhhh,” Henry’s heart went into overdrive as Spottie stared up at him with big green eyes. “W-whatcha doing there Spottie…?”

“Mrow,” The cat replied with a soft meow, before curling up in Henry’s lap. Henry sat there, completely frozen, his eyes wide with panic. Oh no, what was he supposed to do now? He had a lap full of cat and he was terrified out of his mind. He didn’t want to disturb her, he was stuck until she decided to release him from his prison of cuteness. He could feel the soft rise and fall of Spottie’s chest as she breathed, completely at ease, unlike him.

Henry clenched his eyes shut, trying to fight off his rising panic. He…he needed to calm down. It was just Spottie. He could do this. Henry took a deep breath, slowly opening his eyes, before lifting his arm and running a hand down Spottie’s back. The cat purred with contentment, nuzzling further into Henry’s lap. Henry could feel his bottom lip quiver as he continued stroking the cat, feeling her soft fur under his fingers. Petting Spottie brought up another memory from his time in Rapture, but for once this one wasn’t traumatizing. He remembers feeling sick, unable to get out of bed due to the tests he had undergone when Norman had visited him with his pet dog. He recalls running his fingers through the dog’s fur, completely fascinated by something so commonplace on the surface. It had been a shining moment of happiness between all of his despair. For the longest time, Henry thought that he would never feel such happiness again. It was hard to fathom how much his life had improved after escaping Rapture a second time. He wasn’t alone anymore. He had brothers, friends, a wife, and now this adorable cat just laying in his lap, purring away without a care in the world. Henry sniffed, feeling his emotions bubbling over as the front door swung open.

“Darling! I’m home!” Lyra called, taking off her coat and shoes by the door. She strolled into the living room and stopped when she saw her husband in tears with Spottie laying in his lap.

“Lyra,” Henry choked, looking up to his wife with glossy eyes. “She’s purring,” he sobbed, scratching the top of her head, the sound of the cat’s delight filling the room.

Lyra held her hands up to her chest, her heart hurting from the level of cuteness in the room. “Of course she is,” Lyra murmured, sitting down next to her husband, wrapping an arm around him and rubbing the tears off his cheeks as he sniffled, completely overwhelmed with love. “Are you gonna be alright dear?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry, I’m just…” Henry wiped the rest of the tears off his face with his sweater sleeve, leaning into his wife’s embrace. “She’s just so…. I never thought that I… I just can’t…”

“Shhhh, it’s okay, I know,” Lyra reassured him, kissing him sweetly on the forehead. “She is pretty precious, isn’t she?”

“You both are,” Henry pointed out, giving his wife a lovestruck grin, before pecking her on the lips. Lyra let out a soft giggle, holding Henry tighter as she joined him in showering Spottie with affection.

—

Henry jolted awake, gasping as he opened his eyes to his pitch-black bedroom. He lay there panting for a moment before looking over at his wife next to him. She was still asleep, thank goodness. He’d woken her enough times with him bolting up in bed screaming from nightmares. He must not have been as loud this time, as her soft snores filled the room as he tried to slow his breathing down. He couldn’t even remember what he had been dreaming about, he could just feel the dread swirling around in his stomach as his whole body tingled with unease. Well, he was wide awake now. Henry stared up at the ceiling, letting out a long sigh. He was tempted to get out of bed and do something but that might wake up Lyra. He wasn’t looking forward to lying in bed as his thoughts spiraled down the negative rabbit hole they usually did when he was left to stop and think. Henry had spent way too many nights contemplating everything that was wrong with him, wondering when all the happiness he had gained would all just slip through his fingers.

As Henry felt his thoughts already taking a headlong dive into depressing what-ifs, he felt something soft bat at his face. He blinked and looked over, squinting at the small dark shape on the bed next to him.

“Spottie?” He said groggily, trying to keep his voice down so as not to disturb his snoozing wife. “What are you up to? It’s…” Henry glanced over at the clock on his bedside table. “It’s four in the morning Spottie. It’s too early for me to feed you.”

“Mrow,” Spottie mewed softly, tilting her head at him curiously. She leaned forward and gently licked the tears Henry hadn’t even noticed were falling down his checks.

“Spottieeee,” Henry whined, gently pushing the cat away slightly. “That tickles,” Henry half laughed, half sniffled. “Come on, I don’t wanna wake Lyra.” Spottie merely meowed in response, ignoring Henry’s protests as she padded forward and climbed onto Henry’s face.

“Spottie,” Henry hissed softly, trying to keep his voice down as his cat walked all over him. “What in the world are you-?” Spottie cut Henry off with another meow as she curled up around the top of Henry’s head, using her owner like a pillow. Henry lay there for a moment, feeling the soft vibrations as Spottie purred next to him. Was she… comforting him? Henry sniffed and wiped the moisture from his eyes. “Thanks, Spottie,” Henry murmured, reaching up to scratch her behind the ears as the cat nuzzled closer to him. Henry let out a contented sigh before shutting his eyes again and letting Spottie’s purrs lull him back into sleep.

The next morning, as Lyra woke up with a stretch and a yawn, she looked over to see her husband peacefully asleep with their cat curled around his head. She had to suppress a delighted gasp as she slowly slid out of bed. She quickly but quietly scurried out of the bedroom to find her camera. She was determined to preserve this moment of adorableness forever, as Henry and Spottie snored away in bed, completely oblivious.

#bendy and the ink machine #batim #henry stein #linda stein #henry x linda #bioshock au #spacy writes #// mentions of animal death

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fromnadirtozenith · 5 years ago

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The rainbow bridge

It was the summer of 2019 when I opened the door to the wailing sound of a cat. She was a lone, regular visitor for food with an exception this time. She got two of her munchkins along with her. At first, I wondered who left these balls of cotton at my doorstep. Upon closer look, I was surprised to see these furry creatures breathing. My heart melted away.

I rushed inside and asked my sister to come take a look at this marvel. We were just left spellbound and simply stared until mom came to the scene. We urged her to keep the mother and kittens inside the house despite my asthmatic condition because the kittens were still immobile and fragile. After all the suasion, our mom allowed refuge to prevent any external threat. Meanwhile, "mother cat" seemed to be more wary and anxious.We conjectured that she might have lost one kitten whilst searching for a safe shelter. It was a painful sight.

As weeks passed by, the kittens got the monicker as Peepy (because she's always very curious) and Snowy (because...well, you guessed it right!). I agree we were terrible at assigning names. Interestingly, my kittens never objected to it and their mom was simply called mother cat for the sake of parlance.

These siblings were very energetic as they grew up, playfully fighting and sleeping together. It was so special a feeling to have them around but sometimes, given their vigor - they would cross the rooms at lightening speed, getting their heads hurt near furniture or nearly escaping an injury from getting crushed underneath the foot. That set off a paroxysm of anxiety amongst us. Once, Snowy jumped off from my mom's hand while she was petting him and hit his head on the floor. My mom burst out in tears and stroked his head gently as he lay there motionless. We prayed to Almighty to show us a sign of revival and within few minutes, he made some movements. I was grateful. I took him close to my chest and felt his tiny muscles contracting and relaxing. His heartbeat pumped some life in us. That incident left a strong mark in our memories.

A month passed by, we did regular check-ups and there came a time we had to part ways with the kittens. We have a tiny apartment in Mumbai and it wasn't good enough for cats who started falling sick indoors. They had to be let out although we were skeptical of leaving them outside in our area, which was notorious for predators and vehicular accidents. A colleague of my mom's - Shabana, also fondly called "Shabu" volunteered to take care of this family of 3. A kind young woman, mother of 2 kids had recently lost her mum to a terminal illness. Despite being completely naive in taking care of animals, she still took them in her tiny chawl without any hesitation. Her accommodation had the benefit of spatial manoeuvre for these territorial creatures.

Her spouse wasn't keen on taking care of the cats but he somehow got attached to them. Despite modest savings, he would get them special food to eat occasionally. The cats loved them too. One day, mother cat disappeared mysteriously - She was never found but Shabu and her kids found comfort in appreciating that at least kittens are safe and healthy. Months rolled on, Snowy grew up to be a handsome cat and Peepy was adorable. However, the downside was they frequented sequestered areas in pursuit of mates. Snowy wasn't fortunate because one day, he was mauled by a pack of dogs. Shabu was informed of this by a kid in the neighbourhood, who immediately rushed to the spot only to witness him bleed near the neck, paralyzed.

Her husband rushed from work to take the helpless cat to the hospital. He paid Rs 2K as deposit before admission. Shabu was disorientated because she hadn't healed from the demise of her mom but she said woefully to her husband, "It doesn't matter if we exhaust our life savings on this cat. I just want him to be fine." Alas, Snowy couldn't be saved...His nervous system was badly infected and the surgery ended with him being pronounced dead. When I heard this news over call, I had a breakdown but I can't imagine what Shabu or her family went through in a bid to save Snowy. Even Peepy keeps searching for him and waiting for him to turn up miraculously for they were two peas in a pod - fought, ate and slept close to each other. And we never wanted to separate them even during adoption. Sadly, destiny had some other plans!

It's true as they say - Small coffins are the heaviest.

She didn't turn up to the institution post cremation but my mom revealed that she felt sad and guilty that someone else who willingly took care of our pets, cleaned and watched over them like their own had go through an ordeal like this. Meaning someone had to cope with something so undesirable because we allowed them to take it upon themselves. When she came to work after few days, she was still reeling under loss but even in that state of mind, she innocently expressed her desire to let Peepy to have a little one of her own before spaying her... To allow her to mate and allow her natural instinct of adventure to engage into the most natural yet dreaded process in this milieu.

Despite all the misery, the purity of her thought made me just smile.

I've never met Shabu in person but I want to hug her and tell her it will be alright and Snowy will be happily waiting for us near the rainbow bridge.

To my Snowy,

Who didn't have the fortune of even completing one year of his birthday, left us with this void. You are the most beautiful and endearing thing I've ever felt. I am sorry for my absence in the most critical moment of your life. Rest in eternal peace, my sweet child.

-With love & gratitude,

Sonica Gopinathan

12th March 2020

#pain #visitmeinmydreams #iloveyou #deepsleep

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kathyprior4200 · 5 years ago

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Heavenuva Boss

Not too far away from Holy City lay a beautiful area within the clouds of Heaven. A floating white sign read “Welcome to Elf City: est. 1981.” The sky was blue and the buildings and streets immaculate. Elves of various colors and sizes were chatting among themselves, while others walked around with their families. Many of them were hard at work, wrapping presents for Christmas, saving food to give to the homeless, cleaning a nearby park, and caring for the ill. Some of them liked to volunteer just for something to do. There were also miracle workers, whose job was to travel to different realms and bestow blessings to those on Earth or in other realms in Heaven. Hell was forbidden for obvious reasons. Some elves went around, saving people’s lives or healing their wounds once they prayed.

The most well-known miracle bestowing company was located in a tall office building surrounded by golden halo clouds. Posted on a door were the words “E.L.F.” Headquarters and on a taped piece of paper, “Meeting in progress” was scribbled on it.

On a white board was a line graph and a bar graph, the line slowly moving downwards from a blue happy face to a red sad face. “Docile is the best, by Docile” was written off to the side. A white Christian Cross was drawn in the center of the wooden table surrounded by black leather chairs.

Up front, a black, white, and blue colored elf paced back and forth. He had large pointed white ears that jutted off to the sides between the sides and top of his head. He had large purple eyes. The left side of his face was blue and the right side of his face was dark gray. He wore a long white business suit with blue buttons and purple circles on the sleeves with a cross in the centers. White boots with blue outlines covered his feet while white fingerless gloves covered his hands. A white hoof-shaped mark lay on his forehead like a birthmark. A little green pin attached to his undershirt had a happy face on it. A black halo with thorns on it hovered over his head.

Docile looked toward his audience of two elves and a humanoid cat sitting on chairs around the table.

“All right, now I know business has been…a bit stressful lately. We’ve had to keep up demands and during the rush, not everyone can be saved.” He pointed toward the graph. “It seems that more and more people aren’t counting on miracles from angels and God to help themselves feel better. I don’t know how our company will fare if this keeps sloping down. It’s no one’s fault, okay? I just think that some of us could…help with improving their attitudes… Woxxie.”

Woxxie raised her eyebrows. The grumpy imp woman had a blue face, short white hair with a black spot on it and displayed a row of sharp teeth. She wore white gloves and a white tank top over a long white skirt. Her eyelashes extended past her face. Like the others, she had a black wiry halo over her head.

Docile continued. “Now does anyone have any ideas on how we can business drumming up again?”

Willie, the bubbly elf, raised his hand. He had a blue face, purple eyes, and black hair framing his face. Black freckles were present under his eyes, black halo above his head. He wore a light blue bow tie and a white business suit similar to Docile’s.

Willie grinned, “What…about…a billboard?”

“That’s a thought, Willie, but there are advertisements everywhere in Heaven,” Docile mentioned. Then his eyes brightened and he waved his hands. “How about a car wash?”

Woxxie crossed her arms. “We’re a company, not a go-to fundraising event, sir.”

Docile wondered over to Woxxie and put her in a headlock. “So helpful, Woxxie, I’m really glad you’re in the room right now.” He gently shoved her aside, sarcasm in his voice. “Have you guys forgotten what service we provide?”

Docile turned on the TV and a series of clips showed up on screen: Docile bandaging an angel’s wings, Woxxie helping a man walk, Sunna, the cat purring at a crying girl, Willie saving someone using CPR.

Docile held a bowl of popcorn for everyone to eat. Sunna, the brown furred, black stripped cat, wore a white dress with a sun on it. She wore a gold cross necklace around her neck. She was purring contently while sniffing her last leaf of catnip she brought. A nearby poster showed Docile and his two elf sisters Mia and Tia with an award for being the best care-providers.

“Ah, those were good times,” he smiled.

Willie happily ate a piece of popcorn on the table.

Woxxie scowled. “Don’t need any reminding sir, considering you blew most of our salaries to help a rival pharmaceutical company with their advertisement, one that you additionally paid to have us hold their hands and sing for three whole weeks on a channel, everybody watches!”

“Hey, uh excuse me?” Docile looked back, insulted. He stood up. “What’s so “obnoxious” about generosity and a super fun song, alright? It’s a fun distraction when an advertisement’s spitting lies.” He walked across the room.

“People love musicals, sir,” added Willie.

“Exactly, Willie,” Docile smiled, “and we’re basically doing a musical.” Docile did jazz hands before during to Woxxie. “Are you gonna criticize my musical theater dreams like my dad did?”

“Sir…” Woxxie began, but Docile cut her off.

“Because all I see right now is my Dad and his angry eyes glaring at me, criticizing my dreams of being, who I truly am inside.” He turned his head away.

Willie leaned in toward his wife and spoke in a teasing tone, “Are you trying to crush his dreams, Woxxie?”

“I…what?” she stuttered.

He leaned in closer, eyebrows raising up and down playfully. “I thought I knew you.” Woxxie rolled her eyes.

Docile turned back to Woxxie, tears in his eyes. “I can’t believe you, Woxxie. And after I made you Employee of the Month.” He held up a picture of Woxxie with a large grin of sharp teeth.

Woxxie threw up her hands. “Okay, sir, I’m sorry, but a commercial jingle is not comparable to musical theater. Nobody actually likes the jingles.”

“I liked it!” Willie popped up.

Woxxie turned to him, finger shaking. “Do not…do not agree with him in front of me.”

In a commercial, Docile spoke in front of purple curtains. “Hi I’m Docile, the “e” is silent and I’m the founder of E.L.F.” Docile leaned against the L in the logo, with Willie and Woxxie posing on either side. Docile continued, “Are you a piece of gold that got yourself sent to Heaven?” The picture showed Docile dressed in a superhero outfit with a red cape. “Or are you a conflicted convict who just happened to have your life cut short by someone else?” The next picture showed Docile dressed in a red devil costume choosing whether or not to quit smoking and drugs.

A blue winged angel with a tiger’s head spoke, “After defending myself against my psycho brother and preaching about God, you could imagine my surprise when I wound up here, after the coronavirus killed me. I really wish I could give my family well-wishes and advise them to kick my brother out.”

Docile continued, standing in a church with Willie and Woxxie nearby.

“Well, luckily for you, thanks to our company’s special access to the living world, we can help you take care of your unfinished business by saving anyone who may have helped you out when you were alive!” Docile happily climbed up a flight of golden steps.

Then the jingle began:

“When you want somebody saved

And you wanna go behave

Call the Efficient Lifesaving Fellows

Whether First Aid or CPR

We’ll make sure you all go far

Efficient Lifesaving Fellows

We do our job so fine

‘Cause we come straight from Cloud Nine

We’ll save your husband or your wife

We’ll even help extend your life

The Efficient Lifesaving Fellows

Pets live for freeeeee”

A brown haired woman stole a guy’s wallet and kicked him in the groin. She ran off and then got shot by police. Yet she only went unconscious. The doctors took her to the emergency room while the imps waited. A doctor walked in on the elves in the waiting room.

“She’s in stable condition, but she’ll need rest. Now what kind of insurance do you freaks have?”

“God’s chosen don’t need insurance,” Docile said.

The elves and the woman were promptly kicked out of the hospital and sent back to Heaven.

The jingle ended with “Pets live for freeee!”

Woxxie spoke up, hands in front of her. “I’d like to go on record and say that incident was Sunna’s fault. Dispatch is supposed to give the right info on the client. It’s very simple.”

“I’m sorry, Woxxie, I did the nest I could,” Sunna said.

Woxxie fumed, stuttering “’Sorry’ doesn’t cover it…do your job!”

“Hey, now we don’t blame screw-ups on Sunna, okay?” Docile said. “She didn’t do anything wrong.” Sunna walked over and embraced Docile in a tight hug, Docile straining to break free.

“Are you kidding me, sir? She’s awful!”

Sunna thought back to the time when she was a receptionist at a desk. The old rotary phone rang, sounding like cats meowing. She picked up the fish-shaped phone.

“Thank you for calling E.L.F. How may we bless you?” Sunna asked.

Willie was on the other end. “There’s a customer ranting about Satan. He wants to commit suicide…”

“Tell him that suicide will not make things better.”

“He wants to rant and curse to you…”

“Just got a call on the other line, apologies.”

Sunna hung up the phone, glancing back at her Fancy Feast Feline magazine.

Another memory came back to Sunna, which took place at her house.

“Happy Adoption Anniversary, Sunny,” said Docile. “I got a little something for you.” He showed her a gift in his hands.

Sunna smiled. “Is it spiders to play with?”

“I…uh…”

“Then I want it!” she exclaimed happily, tearing open the gift. She took out a white pill and looked in confusion.

“I’m sorry, it was a cure for syphilis,” Docile said, moving toward the wall.

“Docile, it’s a placebo!” Sunna cried, crushing the sugar pill in her paw. “There is no cure!”

There was one other time when Sunna watched Caroline singing/screaming “Inside of Every Angel is a Monster.” Woxxie walked over, holding a piece of paper in her hands.

“Um, did you just send me an ad for beauty makeovers?”

“Yes,” Sunna replied.

“Is it because I’m so gorgeous?” Woxxie asked with a grin.

“Come on,” Sunna teased. “Just the opposite.”

Later, Sunna rummaged around, looking for something in the kitchen.

“Who left this tuna salad in the fridge?”

“Wasn’t me,” said Willie. “It was there from yesterday.”

“Is this yours Wox?”

No answer.

“Well, I’m taking it because I have the best feeling right now.”

She closed the door and gulped down the food.

“Now why would you get happy on a work day?” Willie asked, nearby.

“I’m happy from this morning, Willie Nilly,” she giggled.

Woxxie walked inside. “Is that my lunch?”

“I’m so sorry!” Sunna said, then brightened. “You know what? I’ll just go get you another one before work! Time to enjoy my tenth life!”

Sunna raced outside with a “Wheeee!” and helped an elderly elf cross the street.

“Docile!” Sunna called in the office, “Your privileged boss’s on the phone. Says it’s urgent and wants to talk to you. Sounds a little DTP y.” (Down to Punish)

“Oh no that was one time!” Docile yelled, splashing water on himself in front of Woxxie.

“We wouldn’t have access to the living world if I hadn’t let myself get punished by him.

“You what?” Woxxie asked, concerned.

“I stole a Bible after getting whipped for the sins I did.”

“Docile!” Sunna cried.

“I heard you already!” Docile yelled before stomping into his office to play with bobble heads of himself, Woxxie and Willie.

“So, what can I do you for, Stolos?” Docile asked on his cell phone in his office.

The brown owl kind spoke from his castle, wearing a crown, white top hat and blue robes. “There’s a politician who’s causing lots of trouble on Earth. He wants to convince people that the coronavirus isn’t dangerous.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Well, it is, but more people die when no extra precautions are taken. And it gets crowded here.”

“Well that makes sense.”

“You know what happens when I’m stressed, Docy?”

“Oh no…” Docile began.

“When I’m stressed, I become angry. And when I’m angry, I have to whip your back and **** strike your **** with a flaming sword, cast you into a windy dessert, freeze you into ice in the lowest level, make you swim in the lake of fire for 1 million ******hours, hang you on a wooden cross for sins you didn’t commit and leave you begging for His mercy like an imperfect mortal!”

Docile hung up the phone and tossed the pieces to Sunna. “Here play with these. And you know after you put it in your mouth?”

“Yeah?”

“Vomit it off a bridge.”

Docile continued, “Look, the point is, Sunna is a valued member of our family and we don’t get rid of families.”

“We aren’t a family, sir,” Woxxie pointed out. “You are the boss. We are the employees. You treat her like she’s some hyperactive teenager. She’s more like a catnip addicted spoiled woman you let man the phones.”

Sunna stuck out her tongue at her.

“That is offensive,” Docile said. “Without rich people, I wouldn’t have half the joy and laughter I do in this life.” Docile opened the blinds and saw an angel dressed in a golden suit getting his picture taken by a crowd of people. Docile waved at a lovely white-haired blue-faced elf woman wearing a white dress with little white feathery wings on them before closing the blinds.

Woxxie crossed her arms. “While we’re on the subject of “family,” can you stop finding Willie and me outside of work?”

“Come on, it’s not that big a deal,” Willie said.

Woxxie’s eyes grew wide. “Excuse me…what?! I asked Willie for some lemons, he said “sure, honey.” Docile was suddenly fixing our oven just when we were about to make angel’s food cake!”

Willie laughed, “Docile said “the best aide is lemonade when life gives you lemons.” So funny!”

Willie and Woxxie remembered the song they sang, while Willie played on guitar:

“Of all the perfect elves,

It’s with him, I’m myself

Oh Willie.”

They leaned in for a kiss when Woxxie whirled around toward the window. Docile had a video camera outside.

“Are you bucking filming us right now?!”

Back in the present, Woxxie seethed. “Just. Stop. Doing that.”

“I don’t see what the issue is,” Docile said. “Just love good classic romance, holy matrimony…and the honeymoon bonus scenes.”

Sunna rolled her eyes, while Woxxie fumed.

“Sir, what you say and how you act is totally INAPPROPRIATE!” Woxxie stood up.

“Calm down, Wox,” Willie said, pulling her back down. “You’re gonna have another panic attack.”

“I AM CALM!” Woxxie yelled before Willie patted her head. “Shh there, there,” she said, while Woxxie whimpered.

Docile spoke again. “Look I don’t judge what you do outside of working hours, so don’t judge me.”

Veins popped out of Woxxie’s eyes. “Oh I do judge you, sir. Quite a lot, actually.”

She crossed her arms while Willie gasped in fear.

“Wox, he’s our boss!”

“No, it’s fine, Willie,” Docile mentioned. “Your wife is just…how do I say this without being offensive…bossy.”

“Does immaturingly insulting me make you feel better about your sad single life?” Woxxie asked.

“Not really, but it’s still fun,” Docile admitted.

Sunna added to Woxxie, “Even though you can be a grump sometimes, I still appreciate your company.”

“Please don’t call her a grump, kitty cat!” Willie protested.

“Do not criticize my assistant that way,” Docile said. “She’s sensitive.”

“Yes I am,” admitted Sunna.

“You guys are freaking amazing!”

Everyone turned to look. A pale spirit of a brown-haired teen girl floated nearby, wearing a prisoner uniform.

“Oh thank you, kid,” said Docile. “It’s something for you to witness this.”

“Ugh, this company’s such a mess,” Woxxie exclaimed.

“Alright, let’s get back to talking about my outfit!” Docile said out of nowhere.

“Nobody was talking about that,” Sunna mentioned.

“Which is why I’m trying to get that ball rolling, so how does it look? It’s good, right?”

The spirit pointed her finger at Docile, “It was heaven being able to rest after being shot by police for mugging a guy, but now…I miss my family. I want life!”

“You,” she said pointing to Docile, “You’re a selfless frugal clown. And I’m a young teen. We’re not supposed to like clowns.”

Woxxie scoffed, “Calling us clowns are ya…”

The spirit added, “If I wanted to talk to a pretty, organized woman, I’d look her in the eye and ask, “How in the world did I get here?”

“That’s my wife you’re talking to,” Willie said proudly.

“I figured you for an athlete but I didn’t know you’d get even luckier. And you.”

“Yeah what about me?” Sunna asked.

“You’re just purrfect. I was never a dog person.”

Sunna purred.

“Wow you really are kind of a nice slab of diamonds,” Docile said.

Woxxie rolled her eyes. “Such a flirt trying to make herself innocent.”

Sunna spoke up. “Hey guys, I just got a text from our client, says she’s the right one after all.”

“Who?” Docile asked.

“Her.”

“Me?” asked the spirit.

“Yep.”

“They wanted us to save an actual convict?” Docile asked.

“That’s what they’re saying.”

Docile frowned. “Well Satan in a heater, I guess there is a Devil.” He waved his hands, supplying oxygen to her and she woke up back on Earth in the hospital.

Docile spoke about E.L.F.: “You know folks, with this company, I really wanted to prove that we’re capable of doing the same things anyone else can, like saving people. So from us here at the Efficient Lifesaving Fellows group, we promise to settle your unfinished business or your money is gone and you’re never getting it back and you can write us a bad review but we’ll play dumb to it because it’s Heaven and business is business.”

Everyone wrapped Docile in a hug, whole he rolled his eyes. Then he said, “Even though the kid was a client, she’s still a convict. It’s important that we’ve handled this going forward, respectfully.” Everyone smiled in the hug.

Back on Earth, the elves cornered the escaping woman and sent her to a juvenile detention center. The police looked up at the elves through a portal.

“You’re welcome!” Docile called with a wave before the portal closed.

#hazbin hotel #helluva boss #heavenuva boss #haven hotel #2p

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pengychan · 6 years ago

Text

[Coco] Alebrijes

Title: Alebrijes Summary: Some people have an alebrije, some have more than one, and some get none. Much like life, death is not fair. [Oneshot] Characters: Ernesto de la Cruz, Imelda Rivera, Héctor Rivera, Miguel Rivera, Dante, Pepita, Chihuahualebrijes. Rating: G Status: Complete

A/N: This started out as an excuse to make Ernesto cry over dead dogs and somehow developed into this. I might have mentioned before that I have just about no control over my own writing.

***

Pepita had first showed up only a few weeks after Héctor had left.

Back then, Imelda hadn’t been worried. She wasn’t glad to see her husband go, of course, but she knew it was something he and Ernesto had wanted to do since they were children - and that, if successful, would benefit their little family a great deal.

“Only a few months at most,” he’d said, holding her hands. In the next room over, she could hear Coco giggling ceaselessly as her brothers played their old-and-tried trick of pretending to be each other. All was right in the world, and she’d believed him. Why wouldn’t she?

“Don’t let Ernesto get you in too much trouble,” she’d said in the end. Héctor had laughed, kissed her, promised her that they’d stay out of serious trouble, that he’d write every day.

The letters had come; not every day - it had to be hard to write and post out letters that often while constantly on the move, something that made it impossible for her to write back - but at least two or three times a week, both for her and Coco.

She was reading one of those letters, and blushing just slightly because Héctor was being very clear in how and how much she missed her at night - “Maybe it’s for the best that Ernesto snores away all night: if I could sleep well I would dream of you, and God knows what conditions I’d wake up in” - when a meowing sound had startled her.

Imelda had looked up to see a gray and white alley cat sitting at the window, looking at her with calm yellow eyes. She had seen her around before, wandering - the terror of mice, chickens, other cats, and even dogs. She remembered watching her chased that annoying mutt old Rafael kept across the plaza one day, and laughing heartily at the scene.

As far as she knew, the cat was entirely feral and never approached anyone before, and now there she was: sitting at her window, halfway in, a front paw raised in an awkward position. Imelda raised an eyebrow, and the cat meowed again, holding the paw a little higher - a white paw stained with dried blood, and something was lodged in-between the pads; a thorn, most likely, or a piece of iron.

Imelda could recognize a dignified request for help when she saw one, coming from a creature who disliked owing anything to anybody. She could relate to that.

“... I will see what I can do. Scratch me, and you’re on your own. Are we clear?”

They were, obviously, because Pepita - Imelda wouldn’t remember, later, when she’d come up with the name after a quick glance confirmed it was a female - didn’t so much hiss at her when she went to look at her paw, and barely flinched when the thorn was pulled out. She licked her paw briefly, and then nuzzled against her arm, purring loudly, before jumping out of the window and out of sight before Imelda could even stroke her head.

That could have been it, a funny story to tell on how the Terror Cat of Santa Cecilia had turned into a kitten for her, but the next day Pepita was lazing by the well in her yard, a dead mouse in her mouth. Not a pleasant sight, but dead mice were better than living ones; if Pepita was going to earn her keep by getting rid of them and the diseases they carried, then Imelda might consider leaving out some meat scraps for her from time to time. Maybe once or twice a week. Or maybe every day.

In the end, it is every day.

“Gata! Gata!”

Coco laughs, trotting after Pepita in the yard, and the cat lets her approach almost enough to touch her before darting off again, causing her to giggle and start running again. It makes her brothers pale, but Imelda is unbothered; she knows she won’t harm Coco, with complete and uncertain certainty, like she knows that Héctor will be back soon.

Any day now. Any day.

But another letter comes, then another, telling her that Ernesto decided to extend the tour, only a few more weeks.

Another week.

Two more weeks. Maybe three, but no more.

Soon, mi amor, I’ll be back soon.

Soon is too nebulous. Soon isn’t soon enough. Imelda grows angry, money runs thin, and she begins thinking of a way to provide for Coco until Héctor comes back. He will be back, and she will rage at him; he’ll be sorry he ever left and perhaps things between them will never be the same again.

Perhaps this is the end of their life as husband and wife; perhaps they will live in that house as strangers, but he will return, and be a father to Coco. She still cannot contemplate a scenario in which he does not. She cannot imagine her little girl growing up without him.

Any day now, she tells herself, as she stays up at night to learn how to make shoes, growing more and more frustrated with every failed attempt. Any day, she thinks as she keeps letting her child share her bed, telling her over and over that her papá will be home soon, reading to her all of the letters he keeps writing to her, loving words that cannot fill the gap.

Until a day comes when the letters stop coming.

Until a day comes when she knows Héctor is not, after all, coming back.

No post has come for weeks, Coco asks again where papá’s letter is - she no longer asks where he is, she asks for his letters, good God, mere months are years to a child, what were they thinking, why did she let him go? - and Imelda snaps, tears up their family picture, sends Coco off to her room in a flood of tears, and locks herself in her own.

She will regret that outburst for a very, very long time. But she’s only human, not yet twenty-three, with a fledgling business she can barely make work and a child to raise and her husband is never coming home.

She will never know how Pepita gained access to her bedroom, but suddenly she’s on the bed with her, the feral cat who’d sit at the window and refuse to get one step further into the house even when bribed with the juiciest of scraps. She rests down next to her, purring, nuzzling her chin, and Imelda’s silent tears turn into sobs that tear all air out of her lungs.

Pepita doesn’t scratch, doesn’t lash out, hardly even moves when grabbed. She stays still, lets Imelda weep in her fur and then, suddenly, she begins grooming her hair with a tongue like sandpaper. It makes Imelda laugh through the tears, and she pulls back.

“I can’t help but feel I’ve been adopted,” she says, her voice a bit hoarse, and reaches to scratch the cat’s head. She leans into her hand, purring up a storm. Imelda smiles again.

What is she even doing? Crying isn’t going to solve a thing. Coco gets to cry, yes - she is a child and her papá is never come back, all of his loving words weren’t worth the paper they were written on - but what excuse does she have? Her daughter relies on her. Her brothers look up to her, and she cannot let them down to feel sorry for herself. And over what? Over some músico who decided his music, and playing it for the world, was more important than either of them - more important than watching his own flesh and blood grow up?

No. No, that will not do. He’s made his choice, and now she’s ready to make hers. No more useless waiting, no more crying over herself, no more music. She has a task ahead of her, a child to raise, a business to make work. If she has to do this on her own, so be it.

Imelda rises with the sun the next morning, apologizes to Coco for her outburst, and goes back to work.

At the door of the workshop, a pair of yellow eyes keep watching her every move.

***

The first one just jumps in his arms, literally, during a brief stay in Ciudad Juárez.

Ernesto isn’t yet well-known when it happens. Actually, he isn’t well-known at all. Five months after he’s-- seized his moment -- done what he had to do he’s still travelling Mexico, looking for his big break. It’s taking more time than he hoped, and he’s now nearing a year on the road. Sometimes he’s had to chase away the thought that his moment will never come despite all that he’s sacrificed-- all of it even him oh God was it for nothing how could it be for nothing -- to get to that point.

That wasn’t his worst night, but it was also far from the best; a small crowd and nothing more. If Héctor were here, he’d try to cheer him up and he’d succeed, eventually; he’d tell him tomorrow will bring them better luck. But now… now he can no longer do that.

He wouldn’t have either way. He was about to leave me behind.

That’s right, he thinks - he’d have lost him either way. He lost him before he even slipped poison in his drink, but now he has his songs, and he thought that was all he’d need. The world would embrace him, then, and be his family, one that would never turn its back to him.

Except that it isn’t happening. Except that the world isn’t so much glancing in his direction.

Ernesto forces himself to chase away the thought, sitting on a sidewalk and drinking the last of his beer before he heads back to his motel for the night. Is this all that he can get? Nothing more than what he had already, but friendless and with nights full of nightmares?

Thus far you shall come, but no farther; and here shall your proud waves stop.

Ernesto frowns, staring down at the bottle, wondering where that came from; must have been some leftover memory from an Sunday mass long ago. An odd thing to remember now, but once he’s finished his beer he’ll forget it again, and maybe his sleep will be dreamless. The thought of closing his eyes to find himself in the dark alleys of Mexico City, carrying--

“Yip! Yip!”

“Come back, you devil! This is the last time-- come back here, chucho maldito! I’ll cook you this time, I swear to God--”

There is shouting, and a crash and cursing coming from the next street over. Ernesto turns to look, blinking, to see something running out of it. For a moment, under the streetlights, he thinks it’s an especially large rat - but then the animal yaps and charges straight at him and he can tell, one moment before it jumps in his arms and knocks the bottle on the ground, that it’s a small dog; a chihuahua with tan fur, some gray starting to show on its muzzle.

“Oye, I had yet to finish that,” Ernesto grumbles, but he’s already starting to grin and the battle is lost the moment the dog places two tiny paws on his chest and tries to lick his face, tail wagging. He’s always liked dogs, so he chuckles and scratches its head. “What are yo--”

“You! Is that devil your dog?”

“Huh?” Ernesto turns away from the stray to see a man standing a few feet from him, panting, his face bright red. He’s wearing an apron stained with grease, and he’s holding something that might be the sad remains of a chicken wing in his left hand. In the right one, slightly more worryingly, he’s holding a knife. Ernesto holds up his arms, alarmed.

“Wha-- no! I had never-- no, stay down-- seen this dog in my-- stop it!” he mutters, trying to get the chihuahua to stop trying to lick his face. “Never seen it in my life!” he snaps, and stands, forcing the dog to jump off his lap. It immediately stands on its hind legs to lean against his leg, looking up at him adoringly, tail wagging.

Looking back later on, Ernesto won’t be able to really blame the man for not believing him.

“Do you have any idea for how long it’s been bothering my clients?”

“Look, I only got here two days ag--”

“How much food it’s stolen from right under their noses?”

“That’s a shame, but this isn’t my do--”

“You will pay it all back, down to the last peso!” the man snarls, taking a threatening step forward. Ernesto looks at the guy, who’s short but broad, and at the knife in his hand. Within moments, he has a plan of action: he grabs the guitar case, grabs the dog, and runs.

Losing the man in the winding streets is a matter of only a minute; losing the dog, on the other hand, proves to be nearly impossible, because it keeps following him. Not that Ernesto tries especially hard: in the end, he sneaks him - a quick check confirms it’s male - in the motel. The small dog wanders around for a few moments, sniffing at his suitcase, before he tries to jump on the bed. He just falls back, too tiny to reach it, and Ernesto rolls his eyes before picking him up and putting him down on the mattress.

The dog immediately rolls on his back, tail wagging, looking up at him expectantly. “A devil, sure,” Ernesto chuckles, and reached to rub his belly. “Very well, Diablo,” he says. The name fits; he remembers old Rafael, back in Santa Cecilia, had a dog called that. It was supposed to keep him and Héctor away from his fruit grove, but Ernesto had befriended him quickly. “You get to stay for the night, but we part ways in the morning.”

They do not part ways in the morning; Ernesto sort of knew how that would turn out the instant he gave him a name. After a night of peaceful sleep, the tiny dog curled up on his chest, Ernesto boards a train to Chihuahua - the irony is not lost to him - with Diablo in one of the pockets of his coat. And then the train after that, and the one after that.

There are no more nightmares. He allows himself no more doubts. He travels Mexico, he plays and sings and begins to attract larger crowds. He meets people who count on the musical scene and, well, on a couple of occasions those meetings are not strictly the professional kind, but it matters not. He’s willing to do whatever it takes, no matter how distasteful, to play in important venues, where he can catch the eye of even bigger crowds and producers. And finally, finally, success comes.

When it does, Ernesto hires someone specifically to look after Diablo’s every need while he travels with him; he stuck with him when-- Héctor did not -- things were bad, he should be rewarded now that everything he’s done - everything he’s had to do, all of it - paid off.

It is a life of luxury for a little stray dog, but it’s short-lived: Diablo dies only a couple of years after Ernesto has known his first true taste of success. He should have seen it coming; Diablo wasn’t a young dog when he took him in, and over time he’s grown more lethargic, less likely to jump up and steal a bite. But Ernesto doesn’t want to see it, and so he doesn’t - until Diablo takes a nap in the backstage of a photoshoot, and never wakes up.

The photoshoot ends there, and his manager hurriedly cancels all of his performances for the following couple of weeks when it becomes clear that the bawling wreck refusing to let go of his dead dog is in no condition to talk coherently, let alone to sing. He’s not wrong: for several days, Ernesto refuses to come out of his hotel room at all. He refuses to see anyone.

He knows he’ll be able to read the same thought on every faces he sees - it was just a dog - but of course they have no idea. It isn’t just about a dog; it’s about being left behind. Again.

Ernesto gives Diablo’s ashes a place of honor in his new residence, and swears he will never have another dog again.

***

“What is this?”

“A pup. Clearly.”

“What is it doing--”

“She lives here now. It’s a girl. Congratulations.”

Ernesto stares down at the ball of white fur that’s peering up at him from the basket, tail wagging and tongue lolling. A long-haired chihuahua, small enough to sit in the palm of his hand. His hands twitch and he almost reaches down, then he scowls and crosses his arms.

“I don’t need a dog,” he says. Having one dying on him was enough. Never again.

“Nesto--”

“I don’t want a dog. Take her back.”

His manager rolls his eyes, and puts down the basket. The dog immediately stumbles out of it and jumps up at Ernesto, who steps back like he’s being attacked by a coyote.

“She’s purebred,” Armando is saying, like Ernesto hasn’t protested at all. “The paper her pedigree is written on weights more than she does and her kennel name is ridiculously long. The breeder just calls her Clara.”

Clara. It’s a cute name. He might just keep it-- no, wait. No. Not a chance. He’s not going to have another dog. Someone else will decide what to call her. “That’s nice,” he mutters, lifting a foot to keep the pup from chewing his shoe. “And why have you taken her here?”

“She’s here so you stop moping and get back on track,” Armando mutters, and frowns. “You’ve cancelled enough performances. You’re famous, but not quite famous enough yet that you can just drop off the face of Earth for weeks. You need to keep going as long as momentum is on your side. You can’t afford to stop - neither of us can - and you know it.”

He does, of course; there is nothing he can argue against that, and Armando knows it. Seeing he’s not retorting, his manager smiles a bit and picks up the pup to shove her in his arms. She immediately tries to climb up his shoulder, and attempts to push her nose into his ear, causing Ernesto to yelp.

“Oh, you’re friends already. I’ll leave you to bond. You’ll be in my office on Monday morning.”

“No, wait--”

“Her pedigree papers are on the table at the entrance. Have fun.”

“I don’t want her.”

“Then leave her in a pound or in the street. I won't take her back.”

“Wha-- I can’t--!”

“Monday, nine on the dot,” his manager calls out over his shoulder, and pretends not to hear the insults Ernesto is throwing at him. The door closes behind him, and Ernesto snorts, holding the puppy at arm’s length. She looks back at him with black eyes, tail wagging.

“I’m not keeping you,” Ernesto informs her. “Give it a couple of days, and I’ll find someone to take you in,” he adds, and puts her on the sofa. Like Diablo years ago, she flops on her back to get a belly rub - but with more elegance, one paw extended, as the dainty little diva she is.

The couple of days turn into a week, then two weeks, then months and years. Five years, until something happens. Clarita is unable to keep her food down, and loses weight; there is blood in her urine, and she yelps in pain each time. Something wrong with her kidneys, and the only solution they can give him is putting her to sleep. It’s humane, they say.

Ernesto refuses, rants and raves and rages. He seeks more vets, demands that they fix his dog right now, he’ll pay them their weight in gold if he has to, but none of them can help. Soon enough she’s almost skeletal, her yelps turn into screams, and Ernesto caves in.

It shatters him and, again, he swears off ever getting another dog.

***

“Oye, oye, it’s all right. Nothing to be afraid of. I’m here to help, sí?”

The alebrije - it looks a lot like a coyote, but with a couple of extra tails and wings - barely turns to look at him, sitting in the same spot where it’s been for the past couple of days, where old Prospero faded away. It entirely ignores the food Héctor is holding out, and just rests its head on its front paws. Sighing, Héctor lets his gaze wander across Shantytown.

He doesn’t live there - yet, a tiny voice in the back of his head says, you don’t live here yet, but you cannot cross over and everyone says that’s the first step to being forgotten - but he’s befriended people who do, and he drops by from time to time to share a drink, or some good food. Sometimes, he returns to find fewer familiar faces than before.

When that happens there are friends left behind, and they drink together to the memory - their memory, not powerful enough to save anyone from fading - of the forgotten. They share stories about them no one in the Land of the Living can share anymore, and then they move on because it is the only thing that can be done, just deal with it and move forward.

But sometimes, the forgotten don’t only leave behind their few possessions. Sometimes, they leave behind an alebrije - a spirit guide with no one left to guide anywhere. And each time, Héctor tries to befriend them because they look so sad, so lonely, and so does he. Maybe they could grow to like him, and stick with him, and they would both feel less alone.

He could use a spirit guide. Better yet with wings, so that he can fly past those damn checks, across the bridge and to his family - to his little girl, who’s probably not so little anymore now. Yes, everything would be so much easier if he had a spirit guide like so many others do… but it seems that fate likes kicking him when he’s down, and no alebrije ever chose him.

There was one time when he thought one had, but it turned out to be a rogue - there are a few like that, wild and almost rabid-like, something no one has any explanation for - and that wasn’t much fun. Ever since, he’s been wary of those who approach him, and rightly so.

How alebrijes come to be and how they choose their charge is unclear, but there are many who swear that their alebrijes came to them in life, as beloved pets; they bonded in life, they argue, and so are bonded in death. Héctor sort of wishes he’d had a pet in life - he’d promised Coco a kitten, once - but he didn’t get enough time to have one and bond with it.

He didn’t get enough time to do… a lot of things.

“Come on, amigo. I know it hurts, but I can help. We can help each other,” Héctor tries again, and holds out the remains of his dinner.

The alebrije shifts and stands, and Héctor has a moment to get his hopes up before the creature spreads its wings and, without even looking at him, just flies off into the night sky. Héctor doesn’t look up to watch it disappear: he just sighs, lets the scraps of food drop into the water, and lets out a long sigh.

No one really knows what happens to alebrijes once their chosen one fades, either. Some stick with remaining family members, but when no one else is left, they just… leave, and are never seen again. Héctor watches the fish - some alebrijes, some bones only - nibbling away at the food he’s dropped.

Serves him right, really; the poor beast had just lost its chosen, did he really think a bit of food would be enough to bribe it? That it would let him replace Prospero just like that? Of course it never works: whatever their nature is, however they pick their chosen, alebrijes are loyal, and people cannot be replaced so easily.

Or maybe some can. Maybe I was replaced. Maybe that is why I cannot cross over.

It is a poisonous thought, and he refuses to mull over it. With a shake of his head, Héctor stands and walks away, telling himself that this year is the year he crosses that bridge. He can do it on his own; he doesn’t need a spirit guide to show him the way.

He knows exactly where he’s meant to go.

***

He meets Lobo while shooting a movie the following year.

A scene required a dog capable of doing a few simple tricks - lie down, give the paw, stand on its hind legs and jump at command - and a local guy shows up with a black chihuahua who fits the bill. His obedience, they find out quickly, vastly depends on what’s on offer: he will obey commands only as long as food is involved, as a reward.

Except when it’s Ernesto to give the order: with him, he’s eager to please for nothing more than a scratch behind the ears. He follows him across the set, and Ernesto knows he’s got to have him before they’re done shooting for the day. He approaches the owner, offers him money, and doubles the offer at his refusal.

The man walks out with more money than he probably ever got to handle all at once, and Ernesto has a new dog - a small bandit that quickly becomes the bane of every member of the cast and crew by trying to chase horses, peeing on any unattended costume, nipping everyone’s ankles, chewing up cables and tripping up a couple of cameramen.

If he doesn’t think Ernesto is paying enough attention to him, he’ll climb on the lap of the closest person and glance back at him to, he imagines, check if he’s jealous. He has free reign of the set and it’s the funniest thing Ernesto recalls witnessing since… well, in a long time. He draws everyone up the wall, and a member of the crew tries to kick him away once, thinking no one is watching; he misses, and is kicked out himself the next minute.

Out of all of them, Lobo is the one who stays with him the longest: seven years. Then one day he wanders off the mansion, through a small gap in the gate, and there is a day of frantic search before he trots back in at dusk, belly full and a half-chewed chorizo in his mouth.

Ernesto is too relieved to see him return to wonder too hard where he may have been, where he’s been scavenging for food. Until that night when, suddenly, Lobo jumps off his bed, takes a few staggering steps towards the water bowl, and starts vomiting blood.

“He must have eaten rat poison,” the vet says, and through the stunned grief - Lobo passed in Ernesto’s arms before the vet could even get there, it was so sudden - something is stirring, something he’s buried so deep it sometimes feels like only a dream he had once. For a moment he’s back in Mexico city, when there was a thud on the ground, a staggering sense of finality and then a bitter sort of relief because the deed was done.

There is no relief now. This didn’t have to happen. This shouldn’t have happened.

Ernesto has Lobo cremated, just like the other two. He promises he’s the last dog he buries and, this time, he keeps his word: he is the last he buries - but not the last one he takes in.

***

Zita catches his eye from the window of a pet shop in Oaxaca; there is a small crowd walking by, but that silvery-gray pup seems to be staring right at him, and he’s unable to walk away. He gets in, pays her full price, gives an autograph and walks away with Zita sitting in his hand, gnawing happily at his fingers. He needs those fingers to play, but he doesn’t mind.

She’s not a food thief like Diablo, nor the diva Clara was or the rebel Lobo turned out to be. She’s just enthusiastic about everything and, if clearly not the smartest, by far the yappiest out of all of them. The bouncy pup grows into a bouncy adult, impossible not to love, always a hit with his guests.

Zita is the one who outlives him.

Once the chaos has subsided slightly, the bell has been removed and body recovered, someone finally remembers that Ernesto’s beloved dog was left in his hotel room, and goes to check on her - only to find an empty suite. The door is locked and so is the window, but there is no trace of the dog anywhere. She’s just… gone.

They assume she was stolen, even though there is no sign of anybody entering or leaving the room, and quickly forget about her.

***

It is on a Sunday that Imelda finds Pepita at her favorite spot in the yard, motionless.

From a distance, she’d thought she was sleeping. Imelda never known how old she may be, but even if she’d been very young when she’d first spotted her, now she must be ancient; twenty-one, at the very least. It’s a very old age for any cat to live to, and over the years she’s slowed and lost her teeth, although her presence still keeps mice and rats away.

Even if it weren’t, Imelda wouldn’t mind: she’s earned her keep all those years and she is, after all, her cat. So she puts some stewed meat in a small dish, tender enough for Pepita to eat without teeth, and heads out to give her lunch. She never eats a single bite, and the dish will be left on the ground for hours, attracting ants, until a sniffling Rosita will retrieve it.

Imelda doesn’t take too long to say goodbye; the motionless weight in her arms is not her cat anymore. She strokes Pepita’s fur a few times before she lets Coco - who is now a woman, married and expecting her first child - to do the same, and then wraps her in a clean cloth.

Julio is instructed to dig a hole in Pepita’s favorite spot, and he does so quickly, without a word of protest despite the heat of the day; Imelda is grateful for it. They bury her in silence, wrapped in linen and with fresh flowers - Coco’s idea, that - and that is it.

Not seeing her around is harder than Imelda had thought it would be; of course she’d known she would very likely outlive her cat. Yet she can’t seem to get used to the absence, to the sense that something important is missing; the first true loss since that musician left them. But she gets used to it; she reinvented her entire life once, and she can adjust to this, too. Pepita is gone, and that is a fact no amount of moping will change.

Yet she notices that, even months and years later, there’s no mice or rats to be seen anywhere near their home.

***

One very quick way to get on Ernesto de la Cruz’s nerves, his staff find out after his arrival in the Land of the Dead, is saying anything about his alebrijes that is not glowing praise.

It doesn’t matter if Diablo stole their sandwich, if Clara refused to get off their lap until they spent at least a hour rubbing her belly, if Lobo left teeth marks on their ankles or if Zita spent forty minutes barking at a stain on the wallpaper - no complaints are allowed. And some innocent remarks are off limits, too: there are tales of a secretary who was fired on the first day for daring to suggest the four alebrijes all look the same.

That is secretly what they all think - the slight differences in their coats’ patterns are not enough to tell them apart without careful inspection and deliberation - but somehow, el señor de la Cruz can tell them apart at a glance, so there’s got to be something. Maybe it’s one of those odd things about the bond between alebrijes and their chosen; no one knows how that really works, so they just shrug it off and make sure to always treat the alebrijes right.

Working for Ernesto de la Cruz is a honor and a privilege, and pampering his dogs is a small price to pay.

***

The first thing Imelda thinks when that creature lands in front of her with a roar is that, if it wants a piece of her, there will be hell to pay. She is not afraid, and how can she be? She cannot die again. Probably. Either way, she won’t go down easily.

Then her second thought, as she reaches for her boot, is that she knows those eyes.

Her hand stills, and she stares back at the huge creature for several moments, unmoving. She doesn’t move, either, but leans forward just barely when Imelda lifts a hand. There is a nudge against her palm, and those familiar yellow eyes blink slowly. Imelda blinks back, and finally - for the first time since she’s awakened there - she smiles.

“Hola, Pepita,” she says. Her smile widens at the deep, familiar purr. “It’s been a while.”

***

“Aw, look! Dante!”

“Is it that street dog again? Abuelita says she doesn’t want him in the yard, and… is he okay? Is he having a seizure?”

“Nah, he’s fine! He just wants to play. He likes me!”

“He also likes trash.”

Miguel makes a face towards Rosa’s general direction, and she returns it by wrinkling her nose and squinting her eyes behind her glasses. Miguel sticks out his tongue. Rosa rolls her eyes back. Miguel gives a honk, and Rosa laughs first before conceding victory with a sigh.

“Fine. I’ll cover for you. Just don’t give me fleas if you catch them.”

Miguel almost points out that Dante has no hair for fleas to live in, but then he just shrugs and runs out. Dante greets him in a frenzy of wagging tail, flailing limbs and lolling tongue.

“Come on, Dante! Race you to the plaza!” Miguel cries out, zooming past him, and the dog immediately follows. It’s like he understands him, daft as he is, and Miguel sort of wonders if he used to belong to someone before. But according to everyone he’s talked to Dante just showed up in Santa Cecilia one day; Miguel doubts he’ll ever know anything more.

Not that it matters, anyway. No one else has ever claimed him and for some reason Dante seems to have chosen him, so that settles the matter. He’s his dog now.

And, within a week, he will turn out to be so much more than just that.

***

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Of course. She’s also your alebrije now.”

“... Is she?”

“She looks after our entire family. She always did, even when we didn’t know it,” Imelda says, taking Héctor’s hand to press it against Pepita’s muzzle. “And you’re part of it now.”

“Oh,” Héctor says, and for a moment his gaze is very distant, like he’s lost in thought. Then Pepita purrs and he grins, scratching her muzzle and causing her to close her eyes in bliss. “I never had a spirit guide before. I think I can get used to this.”

“Can you get used to flying, too?”

Hécto’s grin widens. “A romantic flight?”

Imelda makes a point to roll her eyes, but her lips are curling upwards. “If you can hang on.”

“I’ll do my best,” he says.

As it turns out he can hang on - most of the time, anyway. When he loses his grip, Pepita dives down to catch him without Imelda needing to even ask.

Héctor clings to Imelda and, despite the obvious fright, he’s grinning.

“I think she likes me," he says, almost giddily, and lets out a grito when Pepita brings them further up with a powerful beat of her wings, above the tallest buildings, and towards the waning moon.

***

A long way below, in the emptied-out Shantytown - why keep living there with a nice mansion so recently left vacant? - Ernesto de la Cruz is sleeping on a dusty mattress inside the shack he’s hiding in, and empty bottle on the floor by him, a threadbare coat to serve as a blanket.

His sleep isn’t an easy one; he shivers, he scowls, mumbles and turns around, but not for long. His alebrijes are rarely more than a few steps away; fortunes may change, but that never will. They may be all he has left, but he can be certain they will stay until the very end.

They move onto the mattress and curl up against him, nudge and lick skeletal fingers, offering what comfort they can until their chosen turns on his side, reaches out to hold Clara to his chest, and curls up around her. He stops mumbling and stills, the scowl fading, finally unbothered by whatever plagues his nights.

Then, and only then, do they settle down to sleep as well... but always with one eye open.

They may not be the best spirit guides, never quite knew what they were supposed to guide him to, but they will figure it out. Until then, they will keep him safe. Their chosen always said they were good dogs.

It’s time to prove they’re good alebrijes, too.

#pixar coco #ernesto de la cruz #imelda rivera #hector rivera #miguel rivera #coco #alebrijes

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esaeld · 6 years ago

Text

Wong Jack Man vs Bruce Lee

"BRUCE LEE’S TOUGHEST FIGHT" by Michael Dorgan (from Official Karate, July 1980)

Considering the skill of the opponents and the complete absence of referees, rules, and safety equipment, it was one hell of a fight that took place that day in December. It may have been the most savagely elegant exhibition of unarmed combat of the century. Yet, at a time when top fighters tend to display their skills only in huge closed-circuited arenas, this battle was fought in virtual secrecy behind locked doors. And at a time when millions of dollars can ride on the outcome of a championship fight, these champions of another sort competed not for money, but for more personal and passionate reasons. The time was late winter, 1964; the setting was a small kung fu school in Oakland, California. Poised at the center of the room, with approximately 140 pounds packed tightly on his 5’7" frame, was the operator of the school, a 24-year old martial artist of Chinese ancestry but American birth who, within a few years, would skyrocket to international attention as a combination fighter/film star. A few years after that, at age 32, he would die under mysterious circumstances. His name, of course, was Bruce Lee. Also poised in the center of the room was another martial artist. Taller but lighter, with his 135 pounds stretched thinly over 5’10", this fighter was also 24 and also of Chinese descent. Born in Hong Kong and reared in the south of mainland China, he had only recently arrived in San Francisco’s teeming Chinatown, just across the bay from Oakland. Though over the next 15 years he would become widely known in martial arts circles and would train some of America’s top martial artists, he would retain a near disdain for publicity and the commercialization of his art, and consequently would remain unknown to the general public. His name: Wong Jack Man.What happened after the fighters approached the center of the room has become a chapter of Chinatown’s "wild history," that branch of Chinese history usually anchored in fact but always richly embellished by fantasy, a history that tells much about a time and place with little that’s reliable about any particular incident. Exactly how the fight proceeded and just who won are still matters of controversy, and will likely remain so. But from the few available firsthand accounts and other evidence, it is possible to piece together a reasonably reliable picture that reveals two overriding truths. First, considering the skill of the opponents and the complete absence of referees, rules, and safety equipment, it was one hell of a fight that took place that day in December. And second, Bruce Lee, who was soon to rival Mao Tse Tung as the world’s most famous Chinese personality, was dramatically affected by the fight, perhaps fatally so.Due to the human desire to be known as an eye witness to a famous event, it is easier to obtain firsthand accounts of the fight from persons who were not there than from those who were. As to how many persons actually viewed the contest, even that is a point of dispute. Bruce Lee’s wife Linda recalls a total of 13 persons, including herself. But the only person that she identifies other than her husband and his associate James Lee, who died of cancer shortly before her husband died, is Wong Jack Man. Wong, meanwhile, remembers only seven persons being present, including the three Lees. Of the three persons other than the Lees and himself, only one, a tai chi teacher named William Chen (not to be confused with the William Chi Cheng Chen who teaches the art in New York), could be located. Chen recalls about 15 persons being present but can identify none other than Wong and the Lees. So except for a skimpy reference to the fight by Bruce Lee himself in a magazine interview, we are left with only three firsthand accounts of the battle. They are accounts which vary widely.Linda Lee, in her book Bruce Lee: The Man Only I Knew, initially dismisses the fight as follows: "The two came out, bowed formally and then began to fight. Wong adopted a classic stance whereas Bruce, who at the time was still using his Wing Chun style, produced a series of straight punches. "Within a minute, Wong’s men were trying to stop the fight as Bruce began to warm to his task. James Lee warned them to let the fight continue. A minute later, with Bruce continuing the attack in earnest, Wong began to backpedal as fast as he could. For an instant, indeed, the scrap threatened to degenerate into a farce as Wong actually turned and ran. But Bruce pounced on him like a springing leopard and brought him to the floor where he began pounding him into a state of demoralization."Is that enough?" shouted Bruce. "That’s enough!" pleaded Wong in desperation. So the entire matter was just another quick triumph for the man who frequently boasted he could whip any man in the world. Or was it? Later in her book, Linda Lee hints that the fight may have amounted to more than the brief moment of violent diversion she had earlier described. "Bruce’s whole life was an evolving process - and this was never seen to greater effect than in his work with the martial arts," she begins. "The clash with Wong Jack Man metamorphosed his own personal expression of kung fu. Until this battle, he had largely been content to improvise and expand on his original Wing Chun style, but then he suddenly realized that although he had won comparatively easily, his performance had been neither crisp of efficient. The fight, he realized, ought to have ended within a few seconds of him striking the first blows - instead of which it had dragged on for three minutes. In addition, at the end, Bruce had felt unusually winded which proved to him he was far from perfect condition. So he began to dissect the fight, analyzing where he had gone wrong and seeking to find ways where he could have improved his performance. It did not take him long to realize that the basis of his fighting art, the Wing Chun style, was insufficient. It laid too much stress on hand techniques, had very few kicking techniques and was, essentially, partial."Still later in the book, Linda Lee adds: "The Wong Jack Man fight also caused Bruce to intensify his training methods. From that date, he began to seek out more and more sophisticated and exhaustive training methods. I shall try to explain these in greater detail later, but in general the new forms of training meant that Bruce was always doing something, always training some part of his body or keeping it in condition."Whether Bruce Lee’s intensified training was to his benefit or to his destruction is a matter to be discussed later. For now, merely let it be observed that the allegedly insignificant "scrap" described early by Linda Lee has now been identified by her as cause for her husband to intensify his training and serves as the pivotal reason for his abandoning the fighting style he had practiced religiously for more than 10 years.That the fight with Wong was the reason Lee quit, and then later repudiated the Wing Chun style, was confirmed by Lee himself in an interview with Black Belt. "I’d gotten into a fight in San Francisco (a reference, no doubt, to the Bay Area rather than the city) with a Kung-Fu cat, and after a brief encounter the son-of-a-bitch started to run. I chased him and, like a fool, kept punching him behind his head and back. Soon my fists began to swell from hitting his hard head. Right then I realized Wing Chun was not too practical and began to alter my way of fighting."For those who have difficulty believing that a quick if clumsy victory over a worthy opponent was sufficient reason for Lee to abandon a fighting style that had seen him through dozens of vicious street fights as a youth in Hong Kong, where his family had moved shortly after his birth in San Francisco, a more substantial reason for Lee to change styles can be found in the account of the fight given by Wong Jack Man.According to Wong, the battle began with him bowing and offering his hand to Lee in the traditional manner of opening a match. Lee, he say, responded by pretending to extend a friendly hand only to suddenly transform the hand into a four-pronged spear aimed at Wong’s eyes."That opening move," says Wong, "set the tone for Lee’s fight." Wing Chun has but three sets, the solo exercises which contain the full body of technique of any style, and one of those sets is devoted to deadly jabbing and gouging attacks directed primarily at the eyes and throat. "It was those techniques," say Wong, "which Lee used most."There were flurries of straight punches and repeated kicks at his groin, adds Wong, but mostly, relentlessly, there were those darting deadly finger tips trying to poke out his eyes or puncture his throat. And what he say he anticipated as serious but sportsmanly comparison of skill suddenly became an exercise in defending his life.Wong says that before the fight began Lee remarked, in reference to a mutual acquaintance who had helped instigate the match, "You’ve been killed by your friend." Shortly after the bout commenced, he adds, he realized Lee’s words had been said in earnest."He really wanted to kill me," says Wong. In contrast to Lee’s three Wing Chun sets, Wong, as the grand master of the Northern Shaolin style, knew dozens. But most of what he used against Lee, says Wong, was defensive. Wong says he parried Lee’s kicks with his legs while using his hand and arms to protect his head and torso, only occasionally delivering a stinging blow to Lee’s head or body. He fought defensively, explains Wong, in part because of Lee’s relentless aggressive strategy, and in part because he feared the consequences of responding in kind to Lee’s attempt to kill him. In pre-Revolutionary China, fights to the finish were often allowed by law, but Wong knew that in modern-day America, a crippling or killing blow, while winning a victory, might also win him a jail sentence.That, says Wong, is why he failed to deliver a devastating right-hand blow on any of the three occasions he had Lee’s head locked under his left arm. Instead, he says, he released his opponent each time, only to have an even more enraged Bruce Lee press on with his furious attack. "He would never say he lost until you killed him," says Wong. And despite his concern with the legal consequences, Wong says that killing Lee is something he began to consider. "I remember thinking, ‘If he injures me, if he really hurts me, I’ll have to kill him."But according to Wong, before that need arose, the fight had ended, due more to what Linda Lee described as Lee’s "unusually winded" condition than to a decisive blow by either opponent. "It had lasted," says Wong, "at least 20 minutes, maybe 25."Though William Chen’s recollections of the fight are more vague than the other two accounts, they are more in alignment with Wong’s than Lee’s. On the question of duration, for example, Chen, like Wong, remembers the fight continuing for "20 or 25 minutes." Also, he cannot recall either man being knocked down. "Certainly," he says, "Wong was not brought to the floor and pounded into a ‘state of demoralization.’"Regarding Wong’s claim that three times he had Lee’s head locked under his arm, Chen says he can neither confirm or deny it. He remembers the fighters joining on several occasions, but he could not see very clearly what was happening at those moments.Chen describes the outcome of the battle as "a tie." He adds, however, that whereas an enraged Bruce Lee had charged Wong "like a mad bull," obviously intent upon doing him serious injury. Wong had displayed extraordinary restraint by never employing what were perhaps his most dangerous weapons - his devastating kicks.A principal difference between northern and southern Chinese fighting styles is that the northern styles give much more emphasis to kicking, and Northern Shaolin had armed Wong with kicks of blinding speeds and crushing power. But before the fight, recalls Chen, "Sifu Wong said he would not use his kicks; he thought they were too dangerous." And despite the dangerous developments that followed that pledge, Chen adds that Wong "kept his word." Though Chen’s recollections exhaust the firsthand accounts, there are further fragments of evidence to indicate how the fight ended.Ming Lum, who was then a San Francisco martial arts promoter, says he did not attend the fight because he was a friend of both Lee and Wong, and feared that a battle between them would end in serious injury, maybe even death. "Who," he asks, "would have stopped them?" But Lum did see Wong the very next day at the Jackson Cafe, where the young grand master earned his living as a waiter (he had, in fact, worked a full shift at the busy Chinatown restaurant the previous day before fighting Lee). And Lum says the only evidence he saw of the fight was a scratch above one eye, a scratch Wong says was inflicted when Lee went for his eyes as he extended his arm for the opening handshake."Some people say Bruce Lee beat up Jack Man bad," note Lum. "But if he had, the man would not have been to work the next day." By Lum’s assessment, the fact that neither man suffered serious injury in a no-holds-barred battle indicates that both were "very, very good." Both men were no doubt, very, very, good. But Wong, after the fight, felt compelled to assert, boldly and publicly, that he was the better of the two. He did so, he says, only because Lee violated their agreement to not discuss the fight.According to Wong, immediately following the match Lee had asked that neither man discuss it. Discussion would lead to more argument over who had won, a matter which could never be resolved as there had been no judges. Wong said he agreed.But within a couple of weeks, he says, Lee violated the agreement by claiming in an interview that he had defeated an unnamed challenger. Though Lee had not identified Wong as the loser, Wong says it was obvious to all of Chinatown that Lee was speaking of Wong. It had already become common knowledge within the Chinese community that the two had fought. In response to Lee’s interview, Wong wrote a detailed description of the fight which concluded with an open invitation to Lee to meet him for a public bout if Lee was not satisfied with Wong’s account. Wong’s version of the fight, along with the challenge, was run as the top story on the front page of San Francisco’s Chinese language Chinese Pacific Weekly. But Bruce Lee, despite his reputation for responding with fists of fury to the slightest provocation, remained silent.Now death has rendered the man forever silent. And the question of whether Wong presented Lee, who is considered by many to have been the world’s top martial artist, with the only defeat of his adult life will remain, among those concerned about such matters, forever a controversial one. Even those Bruce Lee fans who accepts the evidence as supportive of Wong’s account of the fight may argue that the outcome would have been different had the two battled a few years after Lee had developed his own style, Jeet Kune Do. But while it is true that Jeet Kune Du provided lee with a wider range of weapons, particularly kicks, it is also true that Wong continued to grow as a martial artist after the fight. Only after that battle, says Wong, did he develop tremendous chi powers from the practice of Tai Chi, Hsing I, and Pakua.Martial art styles can be divided roughly into two categories: external and internal. External styles, which are also called "hard" styles and which include such American favorites as Japanese karate and Korean taekwondo, rely primarily upon muscular strength, while internal or "soft" styles, such as Japanese Aikido and the three above-mentioned Chinese styles, cultivate a more mysterious energy called chi.Although everybody has chi, few people have much of it, and fewer still know how to express it. But according to the Chinese, this precious elixir can be cultivated and controlled through the exercises of the internal martial arts styles.Specifically, they say chi can be brewed in the tan tien, a spot about an inch below the navel. Once the tan tien is filled, the chi supposedly spills out into other parts of the body, where it is stored in the marrow of the bones. It is said that as a martial artist develops chi energy, his bones become hard, his sinews tough, is muscles supple and relaxed, which allow the chi to circulate freely through the body.Chi usually takes much longer to develop than muscular strength, but it is considered a much more formidable energy. In normal times it is said to serve as a source of extraordinary vitality and as a guardian against my diseases. And in battle, it is said to provide a person with awesome power and near invulnerability.Though Wong had been trained in the internal styles while still in China, up until the time he fought Lee he had concentrated mainly on the refinement of his elegantly athletic Northern Shaolin, which, like Lee’s Wing Chun, is an external style. Following the battle with Lee, Wong would train in the internal styles until he had developed such chi power that he can, according to Peter Ralston, a former student of Wong and the first non-Asian to win the Chinese Martial Arts World Championships in Taiwan, take a punch to any part of his body without injury or even discomfort. As for Wong’s offensive capabilities, they have apparently never been tested.Regarding the question of how much Lee grew as a martial artist after the fight, Wong is convinced that the benefits to Lee from his homemade style were more than offset by the damage it did him. Wong even goes so far as to speculate that Jeet Kune Do may have caused Lee’s death.Most martial arts masters agree that just as serious training in a proper method can greatly improve one’s health, strenuous and prolonged training in an improper method can destroy health. Of the health damage is attributed to improper breathing practices, and often the damage is to the brain. Special use of the breath is acknowledged by every martial arts style as a key element to developing power, though different styles have different breathing methods. Proper methods can be simply categorized as those which develop power while building health, and improper methods as those which either fail to build power or build it but at the expense of one’s health. Though many of the ways in which breathing methods affect health remain mysterious, the methods themselves - at least the proper methods - have been empirically refined over many generations. Wong’s Northern Shaolin, for example, can be traced back to the great Shaolin Temple of more than a thousand years ago, which is considered the source of Chinese martial arts. While the Wing Chun practiced by Lee until his fight with Wong also had a long period of development and refinement, the style he put together after the fight was a chop suey of many and varied ingredients.That Jeet Kune Do lacked the cohesion and harmony of a style in the traditional sense was something acknowledged by Lee himself, who preferred to call it a "sophisticated form of street fighting" rather than a style. After abandoning Wing Chin, Lee developed a disdain for all traditional styles, which he considered restrictive and ineffective. He even went so far as to place outside his school a mock tombstone that read: "In memory of a once fluid man crammed and distorted by the classical mess." It is grimly ironic that it would be Lee would be in need of a tombstone long before the man, trained by and loyal to the "classical mess," who was almost certainly his most formidable opponent.It cannot be proven, of course, that Lee’s fatal edema of the brain was caused by Jeet Kune Do, just as it could not be proven his death was brought on by any of the other rumored causes ranging from illicit drugs to excessive sex to blows on the head. Wong thinks, to serve as a caution to those who believe they can, by themselves, develop the knowledge it has taken others many generations of cumulative effort to acquire.Perhaps it is because he gives so much credit to those who came before him that Wong’s voice is absent of boast when he says his art was superior to Lee’s. But while to him that is a matter of simple fact, Wong, aware that legends are larger than men, is not optimistic about ever being accepted as the winner of the fight. He says, however, that what people think regarding the outcome of the fight is less important to him than what they think provoked the battle in the first place.In Linda Lee’s account, which has been repeated in a number of Bruce Lee biographies, Wong is portrayed not only as a loser but also as a villian. According to Ms. Lee, Wong provoked the fight in an attempt to force her husband to stop teaching Kung Fu to Caucasians.After sketching a brief history of Chinese martial arts up to the Boxer Rebellion, she writes: "Since then - and the attitude is understandable - Chinese, particularly in America, have been reluctant to disclose these secrets to Caucasians. It became an unwritten law that the art should be taught only to Chinese. Bruce considered such thinking completely outmoded and when it was argued that white men, if taught the secrets, would use the art to injure the Chinese, he pointed out that if a white man really wanted to injure a Chinese, there were plenty of other ways he could do it. "However, Bruce soon found that at first his views were not shared by members of the Chinese community in San Francisco, particularly those in martial arts’ circles. Several months after he and James Lee had begun teaching, a kung fu expert called Wong Jack Man turned up at Bruce’s kwoon (school) on Broadway. Wong had just recently arrived in San Francisco’s Chinatown from Hong Kong and was seeking to establish himself at the time, all his pupils being strictly pure Chinese. Three other Chinese accompanied Wong Jack Man who handed Bruce an ornate scroll which appears to have been an ultimatum from the San Francisco martial arts community. Presumably, if Bruce lost the challenge, he was either to close down his Institute or stop teaching Caucasians."So by Linda Lee’s account, her husband had suddenly found himself in a position no less heroic than of having to defend, possibly to the death, the right to teach Caucasians the ancient Chinese fighting secrets. It is a notion that Wong finds ridiculous.The reason he showed up at Lee’s school that day, says Wong, is because a mutual acquaintance had hand-delivered a note from Lee inviting him to fight. The note was sent, say Wong, after he had requested a public bout with Lee after Lee had boasted during a demonstration at a Chinatown theater that he could beat any martial artist in San Francisco and had issued an open challenge to fight anyone who thought he could prove him wrong. As for those in attendance at the fight, Wong says he only knew of few of them, and those barely. Certainly, he says, no group had come as formal representative of the San Francisco martial arts community. Wong attributes both Lee’s initial challenge and his response to the same emotion, to arrogance. "If I had it to do over," he says, " I wouldn’t." But while admitting to youthful arrogance, Wong strongly contests Linda Lee’s allegation that he was guilty of trying to stop Bruce Lee from teaching Caucasians.It is true, say Wong, that most - but not all - of his students during his first years were teaching were Chinese. But that was true, he adds, only because few Americans outside of Chinese communities had even heard of kung fu. Americans who then knew anything at all of the martial arts most likely knew of Japanese judo or karate. They would not hear of kung fu until several years later, when it would be made famous by the dazzling choreography's of Bruce Lee.Far from attempting to keep kung fu secret and exclusive, Wong observes that his was the first school in San Francisco’s Chinatown to operate with open doors. That the other kung fu schools then in existence conducted classes behind locked doors was due more to the instructor’s fears of being challenged, say Wong, than to a refusal to teach Caucasians. Once Caucasians became interested in kung fu, it would be Wong who would train some of the best of them, including Ralston and several other leading West Coast instructors. And all of these students of Wong who currently teaches at San Francisco’s Fort Mason Center would be taught for a monthly fee amounting to a fraction of the hourly rate (in some cases $500) charged by the man who allegedly fought for the right to teach them.

#brucelee #jeetkunedo #JKD #esaeldadvisor

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champagnesupermama · 6 years ago

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I'm ending a toxic relationship with my parents and sister

On Sunday, September 23, my mother very deliberately started an argument with me. Or, at the very least, chose to tell me that a Facebook post I made about Brett Kavanaugh w toas wrong simply because I used the word fuck in it. She was aggressively contrary and nit-picked everything I said up until she found the opportunity to bring up my Facebook post.

Here is the Facebook post:

When I said it was un-American to believe that a sitting president is above being investigated, she did what all Fox News Watching Trump Fans do: Cry Obama. She complained about how he never got investigated and when I pointed out that he never did anything illegal and that Republicans had the chance to do it for school years she reverted to crying and asking when I became a hater. SECONDS after that, my dad yelled out that Obama is a Nazi N******.

I told them that I was going to let them take care of themselves the rest of the day, that I still loved them, and that I would talk to them later.

I went and told my partner about it, waking him up to do so, and he was supportive and generally perfect. And I told him then that I was pretty emotionally wiped out and at that point I only feared losing their financial support because I've never had their emotional support or approval. And then the concept came about that if they did withdraw that support, that I would be free in a way I hadn't been before. That all the anxiety I had about talking to them or going to see them would be gone because they would have nothing to hold over me any more. And then I started remembering the emotional abuse I went through with them as a child.

I remember:

Any time when I was talking and then any one of them would just interrupt and talk over me like I was on mute. One day when I was 10 or 12 I snapped and tried to assert myself. I think to Angela. I said that everyone always talked over me and it was rude. I’m pretty sure we were at McDonald’s. Everyone was mad at me and told me that it wasn’t true and to shut up. Angela continued.

She, my dad, my sister, brother in law, nieces, and their husbands are all Pro-Trump.

The only time Dad took me out shooting with him and Angela; I was maybe six or seven, very little, I always was. I was holding the box of bullets and I lost my balance trying to get out of the truck and lots of the bullets fell on the ground and Dad just WENT OFF on me and I had to pick them all up. I didn’t get to practice shooting that day or any other with Dad. He never took me out again.

I remember Mom telling me once when I was in my 20s, after I told her I always felt unwanted and isolated by the family that it was because of me. That even as a young child I “didn’t need [them]” I was not equipped at the time to question either to myself or her how or why or when I knew that I had to dissociate from them.

I remember a time when Mom’s aunt Fleta and cousin Anna Lou was visiting and Mom had recently made Angela and I matching dresses and they told her to go put hers on and when she came out they made over how pretty she was. I would have been 8 to 10 years old at the time so Angela was 12 to 14. I got up and went and put mine on and came out. I even did this exaggerated courtesy when I came out. No one said anything to me. At all. I was so embarrassed. I went and sat down and tried to be really still for a long time so that they wouldn’t notice when I got up and went and changed again.

I remember that Angela could go and make up something naughty that I did and they would believe her and I would be punished.

I remember that Angela’s cat was neutered and mine was dumped in the country.

I remember practicing piano when I was six and Mom sat with me and I was very uncertain and slow about the next note to play and she was singing along and she started yelling at me about how a singer would run out of breath and die trying to accompany me.

I remember Mom telling me that everything I was ever interested in doing as a career was something I would fail at because I wasn’t good at it or cut out for it. I remember showing her things I wrote and it was always inadequate, bad, or generally not good enough. The embroidery I did was sloppy. I was a beginner at all these things but I don’t remember encouraging words.

I remember Angela trying to tell me I was adopted because my hair was so light and I didn’t look like Mom or Dad. I look like my dad's mother who died before I was born.

I remember Angela ranting at me about how she was punished with a belt but Mom and Dad never did that to me. She even insinuated that I saw it and laughed. I have no such memory. And I don’t believe that as a toddler I would have laughed if I heard another person crying out in pain.

I remember Angela telling me when she was pregnant with Kristal (I was 12, she was 16) that the reason she acquiesced to sex with Todd was because she needed the attention that everyone gave me.

I remember that my sister is a liar.

I remember Angela telling me that I was Mom’s favorite and she was Dad’s favorite. I remember never feeling like anyone’s favorite.

I see now and have for years that Mom makes multiple quilts a year for assorted family members and has even donated some to the church but she has made 2 for Kirah and 1 for me in my life and that 1 quilt she made for me was one that DeWayne and I picked out when I was pregnant with Kirah. She finished it when Kirah was 11 years old and was upset that I didn’t want it. She couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t want a quilt that I picked out with a man who also emotionally abused me. I mean, of course she couldn’t. On another sewing project for Kirah she took years to complete it. The prints that Kirah had chosen at the age of 6 were no longer so attractive to her when she was 10.

At their 50th wedding anniversary Dad danced with Mom, of course, and Angela. Not me. It’s true that there were technical difficulties with the sound system and that made it late before we could get to these songs. It’s also true that it was later in the evening and people were drawing Dad off to the side to talk to him. It’s also true that no one seemed to have any expectation that Dad would dance with me, and he easily forgot or dismissed any such attention. That happened just a couple of months ago.

I do remember when I painted flowers on a clear glass plate and entered it into a city wide contest when I was 10 or 11 and and didn’t win that Mom felt that I had been robbed because she thought it was a lovely piece. I do remember when I was 27 or so and Byron Boles had tried to accuse me of stealing a ring and my parents believed in me. I do remember them being supportive of me when the bullying I went through in Holy Name reached its peak when I was in the 5th grade and they pulled me out and put me into Longfellow school. I don’t think they knew it was really happening until the teacher was a participant. But these things are minimal requirements for parents and not enough. After all, I felt compelled to ask Dad if he believed I did it because I never could rely 100% on Dad taking my part in something. He never had before.

I remember never feeling like I was loved just for being there and being theirs.

As of 9/30/18 I’m cutting ties. Dad sent me a text that I would have to start paying my student loans again even though they know it will be financially devastating for us. They know I can't even afford health insurance. He says it’s a hardship for them. I guess I can’t blame them. Except I was unsure about going to college anyway because I had no direction and St. Mary's of Leavenworth provided no career counseling or placement, and when I said I wanted to go to a state University, my parents insisted that I remain at the private school. I didn't even know I was signing papers for a loan that would have to be paid back for the first two years. I thought it was student aid. I signed what they told me to.

For anyone who bothered to read all of this, assuming you are also trying to survive or heal from emotional abuse, don't feel guilty for how you are surviving the fall out of that abuse. Don't let yourself feel tied to your abusers for any reason. I have 43 years of experience that whatever kind thing they may be doing for you is just as conditional as any sign of love or affection they have ever given or withheld.

#long post #tw: emotional abuse #tw: emotional manipulation #tw: emotional trauma #toxic family #this fall let something die

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rickstexaschick · 6 years ago

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Rick’s Texas Chick: Chapter 19

Originally published on AO3 at:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15183545/chapters/35527206#workskin

After she and Harley left the pub together, Rick portalled back, directly into her house. Even though it was his idea, it had taken more effort than he’d expected to let her leave with Harley. Watching them disappear into the night gave him a hollow feeling. Somehow going back to her empty house was better than being alone in his room.

He poured himself a large tumbler full of whiskey, then taking the bottle he went and sat on the couch in the dark and turned on the tv. Her black cat, her favorite, jumped up next to him, purring and rubbing itself against Rick’s hand where it rested on his leg holding the whiskey. This one seemed to like him more than the other cats, had kind of adopted him pretty much from the beginning. It always showed up when he was over.

He moved the glass to his other hand, then absentmindedly began stroking the cat lightly. Purring loudly, it curled up next to him and went to sleep. Rick changed the channel to some stupid crap and muted the tv, then sat there and slowly got drunk, petting the cat. Tried not to think about her in Harley’s arms and failing. He didn’t think he could stand this, wondered why he had even thought this was a good plan.

If she wasn’t going to talk to him about the abuse she suffered at the hands of her husband, then why the hell would she tell a total stranger?

Because Harley wasn’t, really. That was the whole point.

Sighing, he drained his whiskey and put the empty glass down on the coffee table with a clunk, making the cat jump off the couch with a startled hiss. He grabbed the whiskey bottle by the neck and climbed the stairs to her room. He peeled off his clothes in the bathroom then took the bottle with him into the shower and drank deeply while hot water cascaded down his shoulders and back. He set the bottle on the shelf and reached for her bar of soap, then slowly began to lather himself. The rich citrus scent filled the air, filling his brain with images of her, memories of making love to her, fucking her.

He wrapped his fingers around his huge cock and stroked himself slowly. He played through his memories like a film. He watched each one while running his hand up and down, pulling his palm across his sensitive head over and over. Rubbing along the sensitive frenulum with his thumb, he reached down with his other hand and cupped his balls, fondling them. His mind took him to tonight, watching her with Harley, and he began to stroke faster, more urgently. His moans filled the shower, echoing off the tiles and he braced himself against the wall with one hand. His head hung down in concentration as his other hand pumped faster, almost painfully so. He imagined the two of them together, could hear her cries as she came. His hips jerked and he came hard with a hoarse, angry shout.

“FUCK!” His cum shot out in long, ropey spurts, hitting the tile wall. He continued to stroke, pumping himself dry. Shaking, head down, he held himself up against the wall with both hands and watched bleary eyed as his cum slowly slid down the tile. The water grew cold as it continued striking his back and ass and he turned around and slapped it off. Drunk and still dripping, he collapsed naked in her bed and pulled her pillow up against his face. He took a deep breath, inhaling her familiar scent, then fell asleep, snoring deeply.

Her black cat jumped up onto the bed and curled up next to him silently, a sentry in the night.

******

Before sun-up the next morning she awoke from a deep sleep to the sound of dogs barking, and her eyes popped open. Suddenly she remembered where she was, and with whom, and she stiffened, half expecting her Rick to come bursting angrily into the room. Strong arms tightened protectively around her as Harley held her against his chest.

Sleepily, he murmured into her ear, “S’just the paper, honey...Not Rick…” His warm breath tickled and she shivered, snuggling closer to him for warmth.

He reached for the down comforter and retrieved it from where it had slithered half off her side of the bed, pulling it back up over them. Trailing his hand under the covers, he caressed her breasts, feeling her nipples tightening, before holding her comfortably across her stomach. He slid one long leg up between both of hers until his muscular thigh pressed against her pussy, still wet with his cum and her juices, then gently bumped her with it a few times.

“Go back t’sleep or I’ll fuck you s’more,” he whispered gruffly in her ear.

She giggled, then she closed her eyes and fell back to sleep in his arms.

*******

Several hours later, the smell of fresh-brewed coffee and frying bacon drifted into his subconsciousness. Stirring, he rolled over and opened his eyes. The bedroom was fully lit with sunshine. It was well past the time he normally woke up. Sighing, he sat up and dropped his legs over the side of the bed and sat with his feet resting on the floor. The day would’ve probably been a wash as far as him getting any work done, anyway. Yawning loudly, he rubbed his eyes then stood up, pulling on his jeans. He went and took a leak and brushed his teeth. He felt pleasantly tired from a night of lots of fucking and little sleep. Barefoot and shirtless, with his jeans zipped but unbuttoned, he wandered out into the kitchen to see what she was up to. Apart from making breakfast.

She was standing in front of the cabinet by the stove, reaching high above her head and trying unsuccessfully to get to a large bowl on an upper shelf. Her back was to him and she was wearing his shirt from the night before, her black lace panties exposed by the raised hem of the shirt.

Walking silently up behind her, he slapped her lightly on the ass then gently squeezed it, simultaneously reaching over her head to get the bowl and hand it down to her. She yelled in surprise, nearly dropping the bowl.

“Sucks being short, don’t it?” He grinned down at her. He helped himself to a piece of fried bacon from a plateful on the back of the stove and munched into it before leaning down and kissing her on the cheek.

“Hmmm. Mornin’.” He went to the coffee maker and poured himself a cup.

“I tried to find the sugar---” she began.

“Don’t need it.”

“---or some milk----”

“Don’t want any.”

“---so, then I found some arsenic and used that instead,” she finished, sounding pleased with herself.

He choked mid-sip, looking sharply at her and coughing. She winked at him. “Next time let me finish my sentence.”

“Damn, woman,” he said, still coughing. “Y-Y-You like to start the day off hard on a man, don’t you? Come on, I-I’m old. Don’t do me like that.” He went and collapsed into a kitchen chair, still coughing and laughing. “Come over here, doll,” he finally managed.

“Hey, I’m the one who just got snuck up on and hit on the ass, and you’re talking about me giving you a hard start to your day?” She walked over and he pulled her onto his lap and kissed her soundly on the lips. “How do you like your eggs?” she asked him.

“However you want to make them, doll,” he answered promptly, grinning at her.

-----

They’d finished breakfast and were lying on opposite ends of the couch, sharing the light blanket across their legs. He was reading the paper and she was dozing with one arm bent across her face covering eyes, her lips parted. With one foot on the ground, the other leg he had stretched out on the couch under the blanket and was absentmindedly rubbing his foot lightly against her side, gently squeezing her with his toes. She mumbled in her sleep and shifted slightly, her muscles tensing as echoes of a disturbing dream mirrored on her face. Quietly, he set the paper down and reached under the blanket and began lightly rubbing her foot, watching her while she slept. She relaxed, sighing.

Last night was not as spontaneous as she thought. It had culminated after several weeks of discussion, if no real planning on his own part. Her Rick had approached him, met him several times at the pub, like they usually did. They were old friends, to be sure, had fucked around together, including Polo and with some other Ricks, but they’d never really shared a woman. This is the first time Rick had ever actually proposed something like this to him.

Well, it was the first time Rick, any of them, had seen her in their lives. When she’d told Rick that her parents had chosen to have her instead of following the doctor’s advice and getting an abortion, and that she’d unexpectedly been born without any medical or mental problems… Well, like Rick had told Harley, it explained so much. Because, otherwise, she just didn’t seem to exist anywhere else, not in this condition, at least.

However, Rick still hadn’t told her that yet; didn’t want her to know yet. He had only recently introduced her to portalling. And this was her first time to be around other Ricks. She wasn’t aware that there were other dimensions where she did, or as the case usually was, didn’t exist. No, better to not let her know about any of that, yet.

Instead, Rick was still trying to get her to face what had happened to her during her marriage with the other Rick. Ricardo. He wanted her to get it out, talk about it, instead of carrying it around locked inside forever. He could see how it was tearing her apart inside. She had nightmares, tossing and turning in her sleep, mumbling, crying out, saying her ex’s name, sweating the sheets up with fear. Rick would hold her, soothing her with soft kisses until the dream passed and she relaxed in his arms. She never mentioned the dreams, apparently didn’t even realize she was having them.

But he could never get her to tell him the things Ricardo had done to her that still haunted her. Even after that evening when she lay beneath him on the couch and spilled most of her guts, this other part of her history she still stubbornly kept to herself. He’d wondered if it was an unconscious part of the psychological trauma or was she too afraid, or ashamed, to talk about it? The few times Rick had asked her about the scars on her back and elsewhere she’d stiffened up, literally, saying, “He did that,” but refused to elaborate.

And to top it off, Rick himself had screwed up. He’d leave, take off and do his own thing without telling anyone, like always. But she didn’t know him well enough, didn’t know that this was how he was, who he was, that he always came back, would come back to her. She had no idea, of course, that he’d gone looking for her in other dimensions. Wondering why he hadn’t heard of her with any other Ricks.

After she told him about her ex he left to go looking for the asshole. Tracked him down, then sent him portalling back to his own dimension with no way to leave it, get back to her. He could see that after each “disappearance” she’d withdrawn from him a little bit more. Still happy for his company at her place, having incrediblly hot sex. But he didn’t know if he could ever regain her full trust again to talk to him, like she had before.

Then, when she mentioned the idea of multiple partners, literally saying she wanted multiple Ricks without even realizing at the time that it was possible… It presented a solution for him. For them both.

Rick knew her, understood her better than she did herself. He could read her like a book, from the moment they met. He knew that she would be attracted to Harley's easy-going nature. Rick was confident that she would accept him, maybe even trust him enough to talk about what happened. Thus, he’d reached out to Harley with a proposal. Meet for drinks, a few rounds of pool. If she was interested in him, then Harley was welcome to take her out and show her a good time. If it led to anything more, then he had Rick’s blessing, such as it was, as difficult as that was to do. So, Harley had agreed to meet her, sight unseen, a blind date as it were.

Most Ricks were notorious lotharios, and if that weren’t bad enough, since most of them were assholes, they would screw each other’s sister out of spite if they only had one, or better yet their mother, if she were still alive. Rick reaching out to Harley over this had shown uncharacteristic trust for a Rick, and faith in their friendship and in each other’s character. One never knew where something like this might lead, even with the best of intentions.

But Rick had forgotten about all the hearts involved. Forgot that he still had one himself.

Now, here Harley was, stretched out on the couch with Rick’s woman after an incredible night of fucking. And it still wasn’t over yet, unless she decided it was.

tbc

#Rick and Morty #Rick Sanchez #Rick/Reader #Harley Rick #Rick's Texas Chick #Rickdicted

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yourkeeperoftherunners · 7 years ago

Text

Gentle Monster Epilogue

Plot: AU All he wanted was a home, but it seemed like he was never going to get one. You wanted a friend who would keep you company. Upon stepping into the mystical pet shop tucked in the back alleys of a tourist area of town, you had no idea what you were getting into when you signed the paperwork.

Rating: PG (Language)

Characters: Dog Hybrid!Chanyeol x Female Reader, Magic Pet Store Owner!Kris, Dog Hybrid!Baekhyun, and mentions of other OT12 hybrids and owners

Notes: This is part of @oh-beyond‘s hybrid series – she gave me her blessing to write one for Chanyeol. The premise is slightly inspired by the manga Pet Shop of Horrors with differences (Ex. Chanyeol’s human form is only visible to the reader and Kris in private and Kris matches pets with appropriate owners versus Count D who used the animals to teach owners a lesson.) Chanyeol’s breed is a Great Dane Doberman mix (called a Doberdane), which is inspired by the writer’s own dog. The title was inspired by a real life experience when a young girl (same height as my dog) rounded the corner in a shop and saw my dog for the first time. (She dubbed my dog “a monster dog” when she ran to tell her dad because she had never encountered a dog as big as her.)

All content is fictional!

Banner created by me. Absolutely no reposting anywhere else as your own!

Ch. 3

Chanyeol stroked your hair as you slept soundly, smiling as he gazed upon your peaceful body. Out of concern for your well-being, he had turned off your alarm, reasoning that you could use the rest after a stressful night. Sure you might not be happy to learn what he had done, but he thought you needed a day off.

He frowned when he heard your phone in the other room and pouted, wishing he didn’t have to move from his spot beside you. You were still asleep and hadn’t heard the phone buzz on the counter in the kitchen. He slipped out from under the covers and tried not to disturb you as he headed out to the kitchen to see who it was.

He frowned as he looked down at the screen and saw a woman’s name, unsure of who it could be. Well, it seemed rude to not answer, so...

“Hello?”

“Oh Y/N? Did I dial the wrong number?” the secretary asked.

“Oh no this is her phone,” Chanyeol responded as he pressed the phone against his ear. “I’m her...friend! She’s sleeping now but I can –”

“Chan, who are you talking to?” you asked as you stumbled out into the kitchen, messing up your hair.

He ducked his head and mouthed that it was a woman. You held out your hand for the phone and he passed it over with a sheepish look.

“Hello this is Y/N.”

“Hey! Wanted to call and check up on you – we heard about the incident at your complex. My God, are you okay?” the secretary asked.

Your eyes widened when you heard her voice and you glanced over at the clock to see what time it was. Crap, you slept in and had missed a meeting already! What happened to your alarm clock?!

“Your boyfriend answered and said you were sleeping,” she continued. “By the way, he sounds cute. Anyways, we just wanted to hear if you were okay – glad they caught that guy harming you.”

“Please tell our boss I’ll in right away!” you said as you began speed walking to your room.

“Oh no sweetie, stay home please! You have plenty of vacation banked up – take a day or two! The boss understands and he said you deserve a break. Don’t rush in here after a stressful night,” she reassured you. “No, I mean it! Stay home, pet Puppy for me, and let the cute boyfriend take care of you. Okay?”

You frowned at her sentence and stared back at Chanyeol. Wait, she could hear his human voice? Hold up – she thought he was your boyfriend?!

“Did we lose connection?”

“Oh um no! No! I’m sorry, uh yes I’ll take a day off,” you said as you sank into a chair. “I’ll see you tomorrow then. Thank you.” You hung up and Chanyeol padded over to you with a guilty look.

“I’m sorry Y/N, I turned your alarm off so you could sleep more,” he admitted. “Last night was scary and you needed the rest. I heard your phone and didn’t want to ignore it so, I answered.” He clasped your hands in his and gave you a pleading look. “Please don’t be angry, I only wanted to take care of you.”

You tilted your head and shot him a knowing look. “Next time Channie, please don’t turn my alarm off unless its the weekend. But you were right, I needed to calm down after last’s night nightmare.” You closed your eyes and mulled over the secretary’s words again. She heard his human voice.

“I promise I’m not sending you back Chan,” you began, “but if my secretary could hear your voice, then I think we need to see Kris again to figure out why that was possible. I know she does not have a pet because her husband has allergies, so something’s up. Do you feel any different?”

He shook his head and agreed that seeing Kris would make sense.

“Did you lose a dog miss?” an elderly gentleman asked as you passed him, Chanyeol’s leash in hand.

“Oh um, no – I’m uh, going to adopt one!” you came up with quickly. You pointed in the direction of Kris’s shop and explained there was a pet store down that area.

Chanyeol caught up to you and he smiled brightly at the elderly man before greeting him. The man returned the greeting before noticing Chanyeol’s dog collar and frowned.

“Is that one of those punk trends you young bloods are into these days?” he asked as he pointed to the collar.

Chan tilted his head in confusion and you fibbed that it was, grabbing your dog’s hand as you hurried toward Kris’s shop. Once both of you had gotten cleaned up, you brought the leash but felt funny clipping it onto Chan’s neck, instead choosing to carry it. This time when you went out, people commented on the cute, child-like young man who was behind you, greeting everyone with a big smile. A few noticed the collar around his neck and you were regretting keeping it on him.

A random girl had stopped him during your walk over, flirtatiously trying to give him her number. Chan looked surprised but he quickly grabbed you in a back hug and murmured in his deep baritone voice, “Sorry Miss, but I’m hers!”

“Welcome to my – oh um, hi there!” Kris greeted when he saw both of you enter. He bowed his head and apologized to the mom and daughter who were admiring Tao on the counter. You shot him a polite smile and mouthed to take his time, gingerly leading Chanyeol over to a tank of fish to look at.

“I like this cat, he’s handsome!” the daughter remarked as she stroked Tao’s head.

“You’re going to take care of him?” the mother asked.

The girl rolled her eyes and huffed dramatically, “Mom, I’m 18! Not 8, I can handle a cat like a grown adult!”

Kris chuckled at the daughter’s response and produced the contract for the pair to review and sign. Chanyeol glanced over at Tao for a moment before you tugged on his arm to keep his eyes on the fish. You shot him a look and he took the hint, nodding as he remained silent. These two had no idea what kind of a pet shop this was and you didn’t want to scare them away if it meant Tao getting his forever home.

Once the pair finished the paperwork and departed, Kris walked over to you, motioning to the back. You and Chanyeol followed him and he led you to his office, closing the door behind you.

“First off, Chan’s not coming back,” you stated before Kris could ask. “We’re here because something’s changed.”

“Actually I was going to ask if you were okay,” Kris replied. “Saw the papers today and was glad they caught your ex. Albeit he should have been locked up sooner, in my opinion.” He glanced over at Chanyeol and tapped his index fingers to his lips. “Changed how?”

You relayed the accounts of this morning up to the street encounters on the way to the pet shop. Kris listened carefully and he glanced over at Chanyeol occasionally. After you finished, he pushed his chair back and produced Chanyeol’s file from a cabinet and placed it on the desk.

“That’s Chanyeol’s file,” he began, “my father brought him over from South Korea before he passed. At the time, he was mum about the shop and what it was like. Like everyone who steps through these doors, I had no idea what I was getting into.” He opened the file and pushed it towards you.

The documents stated that Chanyeol had one other litter mate that survived – a sister who was adopted after birth. The parents were split up and adopted by other owners and Chanyeol was taken overseas. Chanyeol frowned as he tried to picture his life before the shop but gave up and pouted.

“You were very young Chan,” Kris said. “Technically you should have been raised by your mom until you were fully grown, but the owners of your parents didn’t want to deal with puppies, hence the quick arrangements.” He flipped to a scribbled note in Chinese and translated it for you. “His father was a regular Doberman. Mother was the Great Dane and while my old man never saw her human form, he sensed something different about her. Also unusual that she only had 2 pups instead of more.”

“So...this condition is from Umma?” Chanyeol asked after a long pause.

“Possibly,” Kris said. “Apparently your sister never had the ability to take on a human form, which is why there’s some confusion about you receiving the trait. My guess is that it passes down maternally to male descendants – this would fit with Baekhyun-ah and some of the other dogs that were here in the shop.” He flipped through the rest of the file and tried to read his father’s spidery handwriting. “Import and customs docs – not much help there...hang on! When I was a boy, my father pointed out Chanyeol to me and said that he was a unique case.”

Chanyeol blinked and pointed to himself in confusion. “Me? How?”

“That’s just it, my old man was a master of theatrics!” Kris sighed. He leaned back in his seat and huffed. You pulled out your phone and started researching magical dogs for grins. You used your thumb to scroll through the results and you chose one on the fourth page about an old Anglo-Saxon myth on a myths fan page. You sat up straighter and showed it to Kris.

“I know Chan’s from Korea, but this myth from Anglo-Saxon mythology kind of fits with what happened to me,” you replied.

You glanced over at Chan as you read off the blurb, which mentioned a story of a family attending an animal auction when they needed protection. Because they couldn’t afford much, they were only able to adopt the runt of the litter, which the town mocked them for. Their youngest daughter of the large family took to him because she was always ignored in her family, raising him to be a loyal, helpful dog. One night wolves invaded the town and began killing and eating livestock. The youngest daughter was out trying to retrieve eggs from the henhouse when she was cornered by wolves. Hearing her cries for help, the family dog came to her rescue and defended his little mistress. He sustained wounds from the fights but refused to leave his frightened owner’s side until she was safely inside. He collapsed and the youngest stayed with him, crying that her dog had died saving her. But a god had looked down on them and healed her loyal dog, having fulfilled his purpose of finding love and protecting someone selflessly. Knowing the youngest was next to marry, the god changed her dog into a human, who would eventually become her husband.

Kris hummed once you finished and he nodded his head. “I know you found it on a fan site, but I have a feeling I’ve heard this somewhere too. ...So are you the youngest in your family?”

You nodded and explained that you had an older brother and a sister. “Brother’s 5 years older and sis is 2 years older,” you said. “I wasn’t planned but they welcomed me all the same. But I didn’t get everything I wanted like your stereotypical bratty youngest born. Remember when I said I never got to have a pet as a kid?”

Kris nodded and reassured you that he never assumed you had been a spoiled youngest child. Chanyeol had been silent, listening to both of you discuss the possible reasons for why he seemed to be stuck in his human form. He wished he knew why this was happening, but with the way things had transpired, he wasn’t complaining about his situation. He knew you would be a good owner who wouldn’t mistreat him and maybe you needed someone to share a little love that was missing right now in your life. His hands closed around yours and he squeezed them with a smile.

“I said I’ll keep you safe – that meant for as long as you have me,” he reminded you. “I’ll admit I like the sounds of that story you told us – maybe that’s why I’m human now.”

“Works for me,” Kris murmured with a nod. “Oh and Y/N? I think its safe to ditch the collar – doubt you want people thinking you control Chan in, um, some kind of way.”

“Kris-hyung, what do you mean? She is my owner,” Chanyeol protested with a confused look.

You blushed and stood up to loosen Chanyeol’s collar. Once you made it bigger, you prompted Chan to close his eyes before tugging it up and over his head. He was like a wide-eyed child, naive to the innuendoes you’d have to explain at a later date.

“Channie, I’ll explain it to you another time,” you said with a fond smile. “For now, let’s go home.”

Chanyeol was on his feet in seconds and he eagerly began leading you out the door. “Can we cuddle under the blankets when we get back?”

You laughed and ruffled his hair. “Course we can.”

#Gentle Monster #EXO Chanyeol #EXO Chanyeol imagine #Park Chanyeol imagine #Park Chanyeol #EXO AU #EXO Baekhyun #EXO Tao #EXO Kris #EXO Lay #EXO Sehun #EXO Suho #EXO D.O.#yourkeeperoftherunners original #number 2196

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kittykatknits · 7 years ago

Note

What are some positive commonalities b/w Sansa and Ned? (I am kind of sick of seeing only negative traits of Sansa in character parallels meta/gifsets) Thanks!

Hmm…dunno that I’ve ever seen gifsets comparing the two now that I think about it. Went looking but couldn’t find them. My tumblr skills are awful so this isn’t a surprise tho…

I wrote this post about the two of them in GoT which helps set up why their similarities are so often missed. The two have the same story and make many of the same decisions, but Sansa is introduced into the narrative in a much more negative way. I mean, Ned is set up as the One True Hero in the first book. The result is that Sansa kinda ends up being Ned’s “fall guy” for lack of a better term. Sometimes, I think this conditions the reader to not notice their similarities.

I’d also add that some of what is perceived as “negative” by the fandom, isn’t. At least not always, it depends on context and framing.

So, here is a partial, but by no means exhaustive or complete list of similarities between the two of them.

They both share the same philosophy about lying:

A lie is not so bad if it is kindly meant.

-Sansa I, aFfC.

That’s Sansa thinking of what LF is feeding her but she later employs this same thought with SR. They share the same belief that a lie is OK if it brings comfort to others. It’s something they both do and it comes from their shared empathy for other people. It’s why Ned tells his sister that Robert would be a good man and true. He’s trying to comfort her. He does the same with Robert at the end, he gives a lie of omission about his “children” and then gives another variant of a lie:

For a moment he was at a loss. He could not bring himself to lie. Then he remembered the bastards: little Barra at her mother’s breast, Mya in the Vale, Gendry at his forge, and all the others. “I shall … guard your children as if they were my own,” he said slowly

-Edward XIII, GoT

Both are trying to comfort and help someone else. That’s not necessarily a bad thing.

They employ the same coping mechanisms when it comes to trauma. Both of them avoid dealing with it and the accompanying painful memories. They will both also rewrite their memories. Most famously, we have the unkiss, followed by Sansa’s transfer of responsibility for the Trident onto Arya/Mycah. However, this is one of those characteristics that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

First, it’s very clear that Ned is still dealing with a lot of pain and is still heavily traumatized by RR and surrounding events. He lost his brother, father, and sister in a short period of time with Benjen going off to the wall. He saw the bodies of dead children placed by the throne, had his life threatened, and would have seen the aftermath of the sack of KL. It’s very clear all of it still haunts him, even so many years later. The way Lyanna creeps into his thoughts is very similar to the way Sansa’s family does in hers. It’s there but it is so painful, Ned actively tries not to think on it.

It’s a coping mechanism and it’s one Sansa desperately needs at several points in the story. Her chapters, especially in aCoK and SoS, have a very “in the moment” feel to them. She’s very centered in the present and devotes large amounts of mental energy to planning what to say, how to respond, anticipating the words/actions of others, and so on. It means she doesn’t let her thoughts linger on anything too painful.

They both rewrote the Trident incident as well. Ned transferred all of the responsibility for it it on to Cersei, even though it was Robert that ultimately gave the order for Lady to be killed.

The thing is, Sansa’s ability to do this is what helped her to survive. Long term, she will need to confront much of what she saw/witnessed. While a captive, not necessarily so and not always and not right away. The context on when she employs it matters. Ned never confronted any of this while Sansa still has the opportunity to do so. She did it with Joffrey but we are still waiting on LF.

Sansa’s courtesy armor is really only a different flavor of Ned’s lords face. The lords face is the persona Ned wears in his professional capacity. It’s the public version of Ned but inside his head we see the real him. He’s a very kind and emphatic man who feels deeply. Outside, he can come off as cold and reserved. Sansa explicitly tells us courtesy is a lady’s armor. She hides behind it and uses this armor in public, to protect herself and navigate the world around her. We get in her head and, like Ned, it’s very different than what she shows everyone else.

Their wants and desires are the same. Ned is a LP and Sansa is expecting she will be a queen. However, Ned was the second son and never expected to have any of it. Sansa’s desire to be queen isn’t about power, it’s about family and a husband who loves her. Ned really leaves us with the sense he would be perfectly content to spend the rest of his life inside the walls of WF, with his children around him, and Cat in his arms every night. That’s Sansa’s dream too. Compare that to Bran who wants to be a knight and a member of the KG or Arya.

Both are deeply emphatic. Let’s look at Sansa’s behavior and understanding of the Hound. After he tells her about his burns, she responds that his brother was no true knight. He’s pretty awful to her at multiple points but she continuously looks for the best in him and understands what drives much of his actions. Compare her relationship to Sandor with Arya’s, for example. It’s the same with Ned and Cersei. Ned isn’t angry with her, rather he puts himself in her place and tries to understand.

Both are internal and can refuse to act until absolutely needed. Compare Ned after Robert’s death. LF and Renly both came to him and said to act but he waited until Cersei summoned him. Sansa tends to do the same thing.

They are both idealistic and look for the good in people. Sometimes, I see them called naive which is kinda an incomplete way of looking at things. Yes, Sansa starts out as naive in the first book, but considering her life experiences at that point, it is to be expected. Ned does place his trust in the wrong people (LF and Cersei) but he also makes a point to know his people and looks for the good in them. It’s part of what inspires the loyalty in people back north. Also, remember Davos’ visit to the Sisters? I love this story:

That was when Stark said, ‘In this world only winter is certain. We may lose our heads, it’s true … but what if we prevail?’ My father sent him on his way with his head still on his shoulders. 'If you lose,’ he told Lord Eddard, 'you were never here.’ “

- Davos I, aDwD.

Here, Ned put his trust in Lord Godric’s father and chose to see the best. It payed off for him. Sansa does the same, she sees the best in people, she sees the world as it should be (to borrow from Cinderella). So, in Westeros, with years of war and the ice apocalypse coming, it seems to me that a person who sees the best and who sees what is possible is ideally suited to be in a leadership position afterwards. Sansa is not only the type of person who can rebuild, she can make it better.

Lastly, we have one of Sansa’s best lines in the entire series:

"I will remember, Your Grace,” said Sansa, though she had always heard that love was a surer route to the people’s loyalty than fear. If I am ever a queen, I’ll make them love me.

- Sansa IV, aCoK

Where do we think that came from? That’s Ned and his approach to ruling right there. Ned, who inspired love and loyalty from his people because he gave it back. He invited someone different to sit with him at supper every night. He took the time to visit the mountain clans. He dispensed his own justice. He made his people fight for “The Ned’s little girl.” Sansa adopts that same approach during the Blackwater with the ladies she tries to comfort. It’s the same approach to ruling we see her starting to use in the Vale. Look at the servants in the Eyrie.

And here is one thing that really stands out with this style of governance. Robb and Jon both think on Ned’s teaching and try to adopt them. Sansa never does, it’s all unconscious.

Hopefully this answered your question some anon!! Thank you for the ask!!!

#Sansa Stark #sansa stark meta #Ned Stark #ned stark meta #asoiaf meta #asoiaf #asoiaf character analysis #my meta #anon asks #feel free to ask #feel free to ignore

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