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mxpseudonym · 4 years ago

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Just Good Business II

Pairing: Tommy x Reader

Reader Gender Expression: She/Her pronouns, "wife”

Summary: After your arranged marriage with Tommy Shelby, Tommy is MIA while you become one of the Shelby’s

Length: 1549 words (allegedly)

Warnings: Overtones of forced/arranged marriage, otherwise strong “My husband is clueless” vibes

A/N: Part III is very likely!

Part I | Part III

As far as things that sounded interesting went, marriage wasn't one of them. Sure, the lead up was fun enough, but a wedding wasn't a marriage, that was for sure. Your first few months with Tommy only confirmed it.

You'd consummated your marriage on your wedding night, and even once more, when you decided that sharing the master bedroom was a must. But after that, Tommy was always gone. Over three months, you could count the number of times Tommy came to bed on two hands, and the times you actually woke up next to him on one. If he wasn't in London or Birmingham, which was nearly always, he was locked away in the home office. More than upset, though, it made you curious.

"He does everything on his own, for better or worse," Polly said when you got the Shelby women together for tea.

"Head as hard as a rock," Ada tsked Tommy, who wasn't there to defend himself.

In Tommy's absence, you found yourself getting to know the rest of the Shelby's. It wasn't just relocating from many of your friends and your dubious relationship with your own family that made you cling to them. On occasion, when they allowed themselves to be, the Shelby’s were a lot of fun.

"I can't!" You jumped back from the horse troughs and the goldfish swimming inside with a laugh.

"Stop being a scaredy-cat, y/n," Finn teased, expertly picking up a fish with his bare hands. "You can't even touch one."

"Lady's aren't used to slummin' it, Finn," Isaiah said, nudging his friend with his elbow. Along with meeting Ada for talks about politics and occasionally drinking John under the table, you'd gotten into the habit of throwing big picnics for your new nieces and nephews birthdays. John's small army allowed for two in a month, but that didn't stop you from rallying the troops. Between getting to frolic around the gardens barefoot and teaching the children how to catch fireflies, this was your favorite part about being married. Fish, however, was where your steady nerve stalled a bit.

"It's not too bad, sister," Arthur urged you. Tommy's older brother was sweeter than you imagined. You weren't a fool, you'd asked about the Peaky Blinders during your London escapades. Arthur being comparable to a rabid dog was amongst the rumors. But here he was, kneeling by the troughs and guiding your hand into the paths of goldfish.

"You're okay. Just take a deep breath," Arthur said when you almost pulled away. The soft scales brushed against your fingertips making you shiver, but Finn and Isaiah's cheers of encouragement kept you going until you did it yourself. Arthur cleared his throat while you tried cupping your palms around one.

"How's my brother treatin' you?" he asked.

"I don't see him much, but pretty well, I suppose. Big house, lovely new brothers, who's to complain?" You shrugged.

"If Tommy gives you any trouble, you let us know," Finn said, high fiving Isaiah, who was shaking his head.

"Alright, simmer down, Finn," Arthur murmured, then turned back to you. "He's right, though. We'll talk sense into Tommy."

"Not that you can't do it on your own, Mrs. Shelby. The way Tommy talks about you, I bet you're keeping him in line," Isaiah joked. Arthur gave him a warning look while you raised an eyebrow. How did Tommy talk about you?

"Aunt y/n!" Katie came running around the corner, stopping any questions you may have had.

"Hello, birthday girl!" You hugged her when she was close enough. She really was a spitting image of John.

"Can we eat cake?" She asked.

"Yes, we can eat cake."

The cake was eaten, gifts were opened, and Ada had just joined the children in a game of tag when Francis, the head of the house staff, came to you with word that your husband was home.

People of habit always stay that way, so finding Tommy in his office was easy. Tommy was just about to pour a glass of whiskey when you entered after a brief knock.

"You know, knocking doesn't mean you can just enter," Tommy said, looking over your birthday attire. It included a flower crown from Katie and no stockings.

"Oh? What does it mean, then, Thomas?" You asked with more snap than expected. You did actually tell him about the birthdays. Whether or not he showed up was dependent on the stars aligning. He sat down the glass and turned to you with a sigh.

"Alright, have at it. Go on and tell me your grievances."

There were so many things to say, you hardly knew which to choose first. Where the hell have you been? Where do you get off not greeting anyone in the house before hiding away? Are your manners lost somewhere alongside your damn mind leading to such a greeting? But the bridge of his nose was pinched between his thumb and forefinger, so you weighed your options and chose the most important one.

"Did you wish Katie a happy birthday?" You asked. He wasn't expecting that, you could tell.

"No, not yet."

"Come on, then." You walked to the door and held it open until he walked out first. Seeing Tommy kiss Katie's cheek and slip her a coin was satisfactory enough, so you quickly got swept into the shenanigans going on by the gramophone. Polly told you that you looked wilder that day, and like one of the family. She also mentioned on her way out that Tommy stayed for a bit and could hardly take his eyes off of you while you danced with the kids.

"Polly," you warned. The all-knowing matriarch put her hands up as a white flag.

"There are worse things than your husband loving you and vice versa," Polly said, ever so sly.

Love? After washing up, you thought about what she said while browsing the downstairs library. Of course, there was nothing wrong with loving your spouse, some would even say it was preferred. Even if one of you had something to confess, what did it matter?

"I'm sure you have some things to say to me," Tommy's voice broke through your thoughts and gave you a start.

"Fucking hell!"

"I did knock," he said, smirking a little. You looked over the robe and slippers you'd gotten him, knowing it made him feel too posh but not being able to resist a bit of teasing in retaliation for being ignored.

"It's alright, I was just grabbing a book." You picked one up and walked towards him. "All I have to say is I don't like the way you talked to me earlier. I don't care how stressed you are."

"I'm sorry," he apologized with no hesitation. You nodded and went to leave, only for Tommy to stop you. He pulled you back, his hands on your waist. Nothing prepared you for your husband wrapping his arms around your middle and resting his cheek against your belly. You slowly wrapped your arms around his shoulders.

"Are you alright? Has something happened?"

"I've got blood on my hands, y/n. Done things I'm not proud of," he murmured. You could only just make out what he was saying. "And I don't stop. I want you to be angry with me for bringing you along with this and putting you up in my house then leaving you alone. Talking to you how I did and putting you and everyone in danger." After a moment, you let out a chuckle.

"Thomas, what the fuck are you talking about?" You couldn't help it really, even when you looked down to see those distressed blue eyes. You pressed the back of your hand on his cheeks and forehead. "Are you ill, Sir?"

"I'm not. I mean it y/n, you've no idea what's gone on." Tommy shook his head and rested it on your stomach again. You scoffed at the man.

"First of all, you haven't put me up in your house, you've put me up in my house, remember? I just let you live here sometimes," you reminded him of whose name was on the deed. It was for the sake of business, but it was also a gift. Tommy let the corner of his mouth tug up a bit.

"Second, if you think your wife is dense, think again. Did you think I wouldn't do a bit of research? Ask around? I don't just sit around all day, Polly does like to keep me active, Tom. Plus, one of my mates works at that rum bakery, you think I don't keep tabs on you?" You gave him a knowing look. If you could catch him before he was out the door, you'd have already given him a lecture on getting involved with Alfie Solomons.

"Ah," Tommy hummed. "That's why you told me to tighten up on security."

"Mmhm. Third of all," you grasped Tommy's face and made him look at you. "When I agreed to marry you, did I ask you where your hands have been?"

"No."

"No." You shook your head. "And maybe that's my burden to bear, but I'll always look out for myself, don't worry. And I'm not scared of blood, Mr. Shelby." You leaned down and kissed his forehead.

"Clever, bloody woman," Tommy murmured.

"The cleverest," You agreed.

Tommy Tag List: @soleil-dor

#tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders imagine #tommy shelby fic #tommy shelby

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starculler · 3 years ago

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Whumptober 2021: Day 10

Word Count: 3042 || Read on AO3

Tags/Warnings: Dragon Age, Hawke, Violence, Chronic Pain/Illness, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Vaguely Hopeful Ending, Blood and Injury

Me projecting my own chronic pain/illness on a beloved character? It's more likely than you'd think!

Hawke wakes with pain in his hands — a few fingers swollen but not numb, and his wrists nearly stiff as boards. He groans, wishing he could scrub his hands over his face in to help wake him from pervasive exhaustion that clings to him, and settles instead for rolling slowly out of bed. It’s not the worst he’s ever felt, not by far, but he can tell from the moment he wakes that it’s a warning pain. The first signs of a flare bubbling up to the surface with promises of greater pain to follow. Slowly if he’s lucky. Quick if he’s not.

He curses, padding barefoot across the bedroom to a small bookcase no taller than he is next to a short table he uses on late nights. Reaching for a shelf at chest height, he plucks one of a dozen bottles of the same pale red potion. It isn’t a healing potion, not exactly, but his own concoction meant to soothe the chronic aches, pains, and inflammation that plague him. It helps, too, that his version is sweeter going down than the regular recipe, a boon considering he drinks a half-portion every morning. He knows he’ll have to replace it sooner rather than later, it’s effectiveness already halved not halfway through the year, but he’ll make do until he can spare the time to tamper with the recipe.

Not that he’s looking forward to the tedium, despite how he knows each tweak gets a little closer to something that might work for him permanently. Hope for the future, after all, does little to soothe him in the transition from one recipe to the next when his every joint feels as though it’s been lit aflame. As if even the slightest movement might finally be the one to shatter him.

The bitter tang of frustration on his tongue at the thought might be familiar, but he loathes it all the same whenever it rears its ugly head. At least, he thinks as he putters about the room and gets ready for the day, failure means trouble only for him. No dead or dying bodies required. Stressful, yes, but not nearly so much as the weight of being Champion to Kirkwall has brought down on his shoulders.

Or, it had.

He’s quite content in his hiding, though his friends keep him as informed as they can through both letters and the occasional visit. That brings the day’s first smile to his lips, a tiny twitch of the lips that quickly spreads into a grin when he hears the impatient call of the mabari that had claimed a place in his home. The ugly runt of a mutt wastes no time doing its best to knock him over as soon as he’s opened his bedroom door, and he laughs as he bends with only a mild grumble to pet its head. It whines, butting its head hard into his palm and he winces as it jars some of the stiffness still clinging to the joints.

“Maker, but I swore that potion used to work faster,” he grouses and the little hound snorts in response. “Perhaps you’re right,” he says, standing to lead them both down the hall to the small kitchen for an early morning meal. “I’m losing my touch in retirement. Fenris and Aveline would agree, I’m sure, not that my withering skills should mean much to hound living off scraps and handouts, should it Brinna?”

Brinna ignores the arch tone in his voice as she spins in place, eager for some of the eggs and sausage he’s cooking up for himself. He sighs, put upon, but puts half of what he’s made into her bowl regardless. Once the food’s eaten and the dishes washed, the bulk of the day’s work begins, his pain lessened but always there in the back of his mind.

It starts in the fields, not nearly as large as the farm he’d grown up on but more than enough for him to live on and sell the excess of whatever he grows. Mostly grains, with a space for vegetables and herbs set aside. Brinna frolics while he works, ignoring the weight of his tools and the slight strain in his shoulder that crops up as the sun crawls across the sky. By midday he’s done what he can and calls his companion over for a break: a brief nap in the shade of a two flowering fruit trees he’d been gifted by a neighbor grateful to him for taking care of a minor spider problem.

After that and a quick midday meal, he sets his sights on a few chores he’s let pile up: airing out sheets and laundering his clothes, mainly. He’s managed to drag it all out to take down to the sluggish river just over the rise, hissing curses as the effort pulls sharply at one of his elbows, when Brinna breaks the pleasant silence with a low, guttural growl. The sudden sound pulls him up short, and he snaps upright quick as any battle-ready warrior only to blink at the sight in front of him, brows furrowed.

A kid stands at the edge of his field, shifting nervously from foot to foot. Behind them stands a larger man, younger than Hawke, with a hoe in hand and a scowl marring an otherwise youthful face. Siblings, he thinks as he pats Brinna’s flank twice and her growl cuts off with a happy wiggle. Perhaps a very young parent. He meets them halfway and comes no closer, Brinna a protective shadow at his side. The man breaks quickly under his stare, even and neutral though it may be.

“You’re Hawke, right?” The man takes a half-step closer and Hawke can just make out the desperate, hopeful look carved into the few lines on his face. A pit drops in his stomach when the man adds on a second later, “Kirkwall’s champion?”

“Depends,” he says even though what he really wants to do is deny it and let Brinna chase them off. He knows news of him has spread since even before he left Kirkwall, but he’d hoped it hadn’t traveled so far. Not that anyone, divine or mortal, has much cared for what he wants, content to throw him to the wolves even when he tries to avoid trouble.

The kid mouths something too low for him to hear, eyes wide in what he hopes is awe and not fear, but the man is quick to draw his attention once more when he says: “You can help then? With the-the creatures, whatever they are.”

“Creatures?”

The man nods and points up at the big, bright green tear in the sky that Hawke’s done his best to ignore for the week it’s been there, hovering and ominous. Even looking at it makes his skin crawl, magic sparking at his fingertips the way it hasn’t since he was a child. The whole thing stinks of the Fade and has made sleep that much harder for him — calling to him to it at night despite how he’s never been a Dreamer. He’s not used to having to guard himself at night, the exhaustion and his unexpected flare proof enough that the tear’s doing more than just sitting idly over Thedas, though it hasn’t been a problem that’s called to him until now.

“Never seen anything like them,” the man says, hushed. As if speaking of them is enough to draw them here. Hawke raises a brow, saying nothing. “Taller’n anything I’ve seen and thin. Long tails too, and green. Looks right out of a nightmare, and came right out of a smaller tear hovering about head-height off the ground. I’d never seen anything like it, and it wasn’t alone either.”

Hawke swallows, the pit in his stomach sinking just a fraction further down, and asks: “What else?” The man shrugs.

“I recognized the shades, two of them, but also some little green lights hovering around — like little men with no feet.” He pauses and looks Hawke right in the eye when he follows up with: “Can you help?”

“Yeah. I can’t promise anything more than to try, but yes,” Hawke says after a long, tense moment and sighs. The pair of strangers sag regardless, all but falling to the ground like puppets with their strings cut.

“Thank you,” the man says, voice thick with emotion and Hawke just waves him off and watches them leave after they’ve given him directions to the source of their problem and a few words more exchanged about what, exactly, has happened. Two dead and four wounded is, he supposes, reason enough to go searching for a Champion made of more rumor than fact, no thanks to Varric of course.

Brinna whuffs at his side, pressing her bulk against his leg until he lowers himself slowly to the ground. She wastes no time crawling into his lap the second he’s comfortably sat in the dirt, as mellow as she is on his worst days when the pain keeps him in bed for hours until he can brace himself for the arduous task of hobbling across his room for a stronger draught he uses occasionally. He stays there for a while — minutes or hours, he can’t tell — uncomfortably familiar with the fact that a bit of lost time won’t make much difference. The monsters are rarely gone before he arrives.

Hawke-family luck at its finest.

The sun’s not yet set by the time he sets out in his full kit: mismatched bits of leather and steel armor, thick leather and battle-worn cloth he’ll have to replace eventually — should have before he left but had found himself feeling oddly sentimental — and his staff at his back. He looks every inch the Champion he left behind even if he’s had to replace most of what he’d worn then, and has to swallow the acidic resentment that crawls up his throat.

He shoves any unproductive thoughts out of his mind, choosing instead to think of Brinna left home alone, too old and too small to be much help in a fight, and the hastily written letter left behind for whoever among his friends actually manages to show up. They’d planned this night for months, letters delivered back and forth between them in a frenzy until they’d figured out a date that suited most of them. He’d planned to be there when they arrived — if they arrived — but he supposes Brinna will have to be welcoming party enough.

Night has fallen by the time he arrives, cresting a hill just in time to see the wavering, eerie, green glow of what indeed turns out to be the sky’s tear in miniature surrounded by demons. Five, he counts, and feels his magic spark and skitter against his skin, familiar and soothing. He wishes he had people at his back, but he’s fought alone before. He’s not about to make himself a coward now.

He pulls his staff free from his back, lets his magic run out through his palms and up into its cool, twisting, metal frame to charge the gem at its head. He winces at a brief jolt of power that briefly numbs his wrist and frowns. The tear’s made it just as hard to properly control the output of his magic as it has to sleep. This close to even a smaller version of it, exposure to the Fade directly regardless of size, doubles the difficulty. He’ll have no issue casting, he knows, but too much power poured into a spell has backfired on him before.

As if he needs the reminder, his shoulder throbs and he has to bite back a hiss at even the dull, radiating pain. He focuses on fixing his grip on his staff, a little clumsy with the swelling, and takes a deep breath in before blowing it all back out. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to move much after this, not when heavier use of his magic has only aggravated the illness eating away at his mobility, so he simply doesn’t think about. Pushes the worries to the back of his mind and focuses on the floating, green specter closes to him.

He doesn’t get close, hoping the high ground will give him an advantage in a five-on-one fight and is quickly proved right when the specter dissipates after three fiery blasts from his staff. The warmth crawls teasingly up his arm, exacerbating the uncomfortable warmth of the swelling in his fingers, but he gets little time to think on it as he loses his advantage. One of the tall, green monsters springs up out of the ground from a rippling, green-glowing circle and swipes at him.

Hawke dodges, falling into a roll to jump back onto his feet without injury. He fires two blasts that seem to do nothing at all, grits his teeth and powers up the first spell he ever learned: Fireball. The creature shrieks and staggers, but he has no time to gloat when the shade makes its way to him. One of its claws snags on his leather vest, but this demon, at least, is familiar. He casts a hasty petrification spell that freezes it in place and follows up with a volley of simple blasts that takes it down.

He grunts when a blast of green energy hits him square in the back, sending a brief shock of pain rippling up every vertebra. Biting back a shout, he whirls and dispatches the second ghostly shape just as quickly as he had the first. The second shade goes down next, but by then he’s panting. Sweat plasters his hair to his face and the week he’s spent without proper rest makes itself known in the extra weight to his limbs.

He’s too slow to dodge the curling, green claw that tears through his arm. He screams, stumbling back even as he brandishes his staff with his other hand. The metal length trembles obviously, the magic he’s used locking the delicate joints up until he wants to yell from the pain and frustration.

He uses it instead.

Anger isn’t always an appropriate conduit, but it fucking works. A giant stone fist cobbles itself together in front of him and speeds off toward the creature. It screeches, loud and piercing, and then wilts and dissolves into what he thinks is ash. He nearly falls over in relief, and doesn’t swallow his whimper when the sudden rush of relief brings with it an new awareness of his pain.

His arm burns like fire, bleeding freely where the creature tore through skin and muscle, all the way down to the bone. His staff drops from his hands, landing with a soft thud in the grass. His hand’s locked stiff, fingers curled in the shape the weapon, but the rest of his arm, at least can move. The rest of him is no better off.

One of his shoulders won’t rotate. His ankles are prickling points of pain in his boots, swollen thick enough that they push against stiff leather and he worries, a little irrationally, that his very skin might split apart. His knees ache but he can move them. The pain radiates out from his joints, moving through the parts in between that shouldn’t hurt: his ribs, back, and neck protest as loudly as the rest of him.

The worst by far, however, is the horribly familiar fever burning through him, hot as his firestorm spell. It isn’t as bad as when his condition first came about, but it’s enough to knock him over.

He doesn’t even remember falling. He feels the pain of it, though, as it rips through him.

The fever and pain make it hard to think, but he manages to remember the supplies on his belt. He plucks a regular health potion from the assortment he’s brought with him and downs it eagerly. Desperately. He has to grit his teeth through the pain of his muscle and flesh knitting back together, but he’s had long years of practice with the feeling in Kirkwall. It’s almost negligible under the haze the pain in his joints pulls him under. A second gets knocked back quickly after to help finish the job, and then he’s rooting around for a paler elixir as tears prick at his eyes and wet his lashes.

He can’t curl his fingers around the vial when he finds it. The health potion’s fixed up his arm at a cost he’d nearly forgotten he’d have to pay. He chokes on a sob, half slumped over his lap as he paws at his belt, each bump sending an electric jolt of pain up his arm. He feels pathetic and wretched and wishing he’d brought Brinna if only so that she could rip the belt off and spill its contents to the floor.

He’s nearly got it when the earth shudders beneath him. His head snaps up without care for the sharp, shooting pain that makes its up from there and into his skull. For a moment, it doesn’t matter. Not the pain. Not the fever. Not the wretched sense of his own uselessness.

All that matters then, is the Pride demon that all but rips its way through the hovering, undulating tear mere minutes — minutes! Has it truly only been minutes? — after the last creature falls.

Fear clogs his throat, icy and all consuming as it spreads down into the core of him. He can’t fight a pride demon, not alone. Not like this. He swallows, his mouth dry, and watches numbly as the demon turns its head first one way and then the other until its gaze lands firmly on him. For a moment, charged and electric, there is stillness. Silence.

The demon roars.

Hawke scrambles to his feet, desperate and choking on his own pain as he forces his body to move. Nausea curls around his stomach, twisting it into tight knots as he hobbles-limps-runs as fast as he can, knowing it’s not fast enough. It will never be fast enough.

The last thing he hears before he tumbles head-over-heels into the sweet embrace of darkness, is the crackle of electricity and a vaguely familiar chorus of voices screaming his name.

#whumptober2021 #no.10 #flare up #dragon age #hawke #male hawke #fic #violence #blood #injury #chronic pain #chronic illness #my fanfic

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sorcererinthestars · 5 years ago

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Winter’s Awakening and Summer’s Last Dance

July 2021: rewritten. I’d appreciate it if you could share this one!

Jerevin Fae AU. Somewhat NSFW.

Heavy influence taken from the Samhain Fire Festival put on in Edinburgh every year. The fight between the Summer and the Winter Kings are put on in full detail on top of Calton’s Hill every Samhain and Beltane. Someday I’ll get to go! See the original myth here.

Ship: Jerevin

Gavin knows that his time as King is waning. He sits upon his throne, made of twined branches still sprouting their green leaves even as a subtle chill drifts through the air, and he knows. This happens every time, this ending, another turn in the Wheel of the Year, but he likes it not. His Revelers still dance in the green pasture sprawled out in front of him, some sleeping where they had fallen in their dance, some curled up by his feet against the throne. His Children, his Merry-Makers, they depended on him and his Season for their joy.

They’d all be gone soon. The winter’s chill was in the air, every once in a while it’d drift past his nose, the smell of leaves turning crisp as his Counterpart’s energy started to gather like the rays of sun upon his own golden skin.

Soon he as the Summer King would have to meet the Winter King yet again. They would dance and they would part and hopefully be able to settle into yet another Turn without needless bloodshed.

Gavin smiles gently - almost a smirk upon his pretty face - as he thinks of the last meeting of him and the Winter King. He had won that battle during the last Beltane festivities, when his forces triumphed over the Winter Kings’ last energy. It was almost tragic to look upon his Counterpart during their last meeting - the man was almost entirely depleted of his Ethereal Energies by that point. But he had given quite a show, even as he had laid beneath Gavin and gazed up at him.

Perhaps it was not love. Love was a pitiful, Mortal thing. It was not one for their dances, for their frolicking and merry-making. But Gavin got something out of his meetings with his Counterpart, a feeling of Oneness when they made love and ceded something of their power to the other.

In days long past, they used to fight with blades and sharpened sticks. Used to draw blood and fight for supremacy. But the Wheel of the Year turned unceasingly and who were they to argue with Fates far more powerful than Themselves? So they turned to a different battlefield, a game of power and control between two Beings far greater than the sum of their parts.

One of them always ended up on Top and won that seasons’ battle. The other would fade distantly away when they finished, ceding the power and energy to the other. Then they’d have a season of Revelry and merry-making until the other came back to capture their time again.

Gavin did wonder what the other King did during his turn around the Wheel, but he was forbidden to witness such times. Summer did not live long on a crisp Winter morn.

If the Revelers looked upon Gavin in this time, seeing a languidly golden man draped across a Summers’ throne, they’d see a King with no worry or care across his face, a golden crown of sunlight across his brow. They’d say he was oblivious to his coming loss even as the rest of them know that they cannot dance forever. All good times must come to an end and they must cede the lands to those of the Hearth.

But as summer grows overripe, almost hyperactive in its dying breath, a plentiful harvest stored away for the darker times, Gavin - The Summer King - looks over the fields and hills and valleys to the sea cliffs where he knows his Counterpart, his Lover, his Other Half is starting to stir.

–

As the cold air starts to gather across the dark sea cliffs, the Caillech - the Earth Mother, Triple Goddess - sends the Voice of the Sea to wake Jeremy from where he slumbers deep within the earth, in a land where the Sunlight cannot taint the cold skin of his form, mar his sleeping body as it awaits the new land.

He sleeps not, instead he is in almost a trance. Waiting, day by day, gathering his Energies slowly as the Summer King revels and dances overhead. Somewhere deep inside, he knows his Other Half is enjoying Himself wildly as he dances and lays with women and men and the genderless beings of the woods and the wind. He almost smiles. His roguish Counterpart never could resist an ounce of fun.

His winged Valraven, the keepers of The Hearth, his protective guard, are the ones who guide him back to his Body and Life as the sun and the night share equal times in the Sky. The air is crisp across his nose and kisses his cheeks with red blotches. He grins truly now, taking his first breath of air since he had laid back and allowed The Summer King to claim his rightful spot. The memory dances across his newly formed body and he hums in almost pleasure.

Sated, filled with a wild, uncontrollable energy he could hardly control, he knows it is almost His Time to live and to dance with the snow as it covers this Summer world in a blanket of white. Until blood looks sharp and vivid across a snowy landscape, until the air burns in his lungs in a way that reminds him - for now - he is vividly, sharply Alive.

It is almost his Time to rise, to take back what is rightfully His. All he has to do is mount that arrogant, wild-eyed little Fae Summer King and steal the last of his breath into his own lungs. A dance they were both willing to do. He’d look forward to having that being underneath him this time. His strength was almost at its max, now, so powerful compared to the slight form of the other.

Although, Jeremy does allow himself a brief moment of fondness. For whatever they were as Enemies, the two Balanced each other nicely, two sides of the same Wheel. He would enjoy their meeting. What was he to tell himself… he always did. Even when it was him giving up the ghost and allowing the other his reign Supreme?

However, the world for now is not his own. His Court had not yet been summoned. He is alone in a world that is turning slowly towards his power, but The Summer King has not yet ceded his grip on the land. He is alone. Solitary as he moves out of the sea cliffs and towards the Forest Wood where the Summer King tends to spend his time.

He feels the other’s Energies like a beacon, leading him towards the Meadow where they always have their last stand. Where before blood used to eagerly soak into the parched ground, now their sweat and lust do so instead. This is a far sweeter battle. And a far more satisfying one.

For as he says, they are not Enemies, not truly. They are two sides of the same coin, one cannot be without the other. Lovers, if such a mortal word could even apply.

He senses the Call and follows it blindly as the leaves beckon him Orange and Red and a delightful chill runs down the pale unmarked skin of his back.

–

For Jeremy, The Winter King, it seems like hardly any time has passed since he saw The Summer King’s visage across this Meadow. Last time, the Summer King had won. But now it was his turn and he gives a feral smile as he sees the other standing, his retinue surrounding him at first and then fading into the mist.

It was Samhain. It was the time that the dark would triumph against the Summer. For the world to die and be reborn again, for the Cleansing to take place. This was the time that Jeremy would rise and take his rightful place as the Winter King.

He steps forward, bowing gracefully, sweeping his arms in a gesture that shows off the hearty life in his new form. He’s muscly again, a striking figure as he stands, unclothed and ready for their dance.

The Summer King approaches warily. He knows this is the end of him and he casts aside the Vestements of his power - first the cloak of leaves he wears across his slender golden shoulders and then his resplendant golden Sun Crown.

They meet each other not as Kings, but as equals.

“Jeremy,” Gavin speaks, voice radiating across the meadow. It shakes not with arrogance or with fear, but instead with warm pleasure. “My King. It has been much too long.”

“And you, my little King,” Jeremy replies, bowing to him gracefully with a warm smile. “I have long slumbered. Have you fun with your Season? Made merry? Danced freely? Had all others bow to your Splendor and bless the Harvest you provided?”

Gavin smiles almost wickedly. “Yes. It has been quite fun.”

“Good,” Jeremy says, almost tenderly. He does not begrudge his fellow King his frolic. They were allowed to do as they pleased during their time. “You look tired.”

“The dance is done and I am seeking my bed,” Gavin answers truthfully. He does not shine so bright as the first time we had seen him, that is true. His golden light seems faded. It is time for Summer to die for Winter to rise.

“I shall allow that to happen, little one,” Jeremy purrs gently and then pulls Gavin into a hungry kiss. Their energy surges as they meet between them, Winter King meets Summer King in their battle form, fighting with tongue and teeth the way they used to with sword and steel. Gavin’s power surges for one last night of lust and pleasure, fighting with him as if they didn’t know how this was going to end.

Making it fun for the time they had. This was always the most supreme pleasure, the most bubbling of joy, as their energies fit together perfectly in the sweetest ecstasy. They dance with one another, true dance as the winter’s melody of the Wind mixes with the rustling of Gavin’s dying leaves.

Then they fall to mate as One, Jeremy on top of Gavin as he will take his energy as his own. They cry out but don’t protest, drinking what they can from each other, taking every ounce of pleasure they could in the last night of Togetherness they’d get before the end of the Winter season and the start again in the Spring, on some far off Beltane Jeremy didn’t want to rush.

As they end, panting, Jeremy steals a gentle kiss from Gavin’s lips. “Thank you, Summer King,” he says formally, and then breathes a gentle whisper into Gavin’s ear as the other shudders for breath as he comes down from his high. “Thank you, Gavin.”

Gavin smiles at him and one golden hand brushes Jeremy’s white marble cheek. “Be well and make merry,” he purrs before he fades away.

The other stands, brushing the leaf detritus off his body and takes the cape from where it was discarded on the forest floor. Instead of leaves, it was now the pine needles of the evergreen trees. The crown is moonlight and Holly, placed upon his brow.

He stands, resplendent in the moonlight, and sends one more gentle look at the spot where the Summer King had faded away before he crows his triumph to the sky and calls his Winter Court.

It was the start of his short life and by god, would he live it to the fullest.

Like the Summer King had bid.

#achievement hunter #ah #sky factory au #supernatural au #fae au #my writing

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feed-the-birdss · 6 years ago

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Take Me Away

Thank you so much to @blitheringmcgonagall and @jilystar04 who tagged me in the Motivation Monday yesterday. It really helped me to finish this. Also, a thanks to @petals-to-fish and @flippin-fins who are another two big motivators of mine!!

Author’s Note: I’ve been on a bit of a hiatus due to a mixture of travelling, birthday festivities and health reasons. However, I’ve had this idea for a while now, and I really wanted to share it before I leave for my next big trip. I hope you all enjoy, and it’s loosely based on the song “Cowboy Take Me Away” by the Dixie Chicks.

Read it on Fanfic

The flat was quiet—too quiet. There were pieces of parchment scattered all over the floor accompanied with the occasional ink blot. Opened and half-empty containers were strewn across the countertops and tabletops of the kitchen with labels like “Aconite”, “Ginger”, “Frog Brain”, “Dragon’s Blood” and “Boomslang”. On the stove was a large pewter cauldron with purple steam billowing out of it. And on the window ledge, with an empty wine glass on the floor next to her sat Lily Evans. Her knees were tucked in close to her chest, with an elbow resting on one knee, and her head in her hand.

Her dark and puffy green eyes were wearily following the movements of the grey clouds in the sky searching for even the smallest sign of sunshine. It’s been so cold and rainy lately, thanks to the dementors, that she’s forgotten what the sun looked like. Even it if it were sunny outside, she doubts she would be enjoying it. She’s either in the flat working on potions for the Order, under James’ invisibility cloak running after and spying on likely Death Eaters, or so focused on duelling a Death Eater and escaping death that her surroundings are not even noticeable to her.

Lily misses the earth. When she was little, she was always playing outside. Her mother and sister would often berate her for her constantly dirty dresses. Yet, little Lily would frolic bare-footed in the green grass and dirt without a care in the world. Now she’s lucky if she has the time to take a simple stroll through a park with shoes on.

Severus and she used to lie under the large Elm tree by her house and make the falling leaves magically race each other to the ground. Lily once begged her mother to let her and Severus camp out there for the night, but Rose Evans wouldn’t even hear of it. She never trusted that “Snape boy”, and while Lily always believed that was Petunia’s influence, her mother’s concerns ended up being spot-on in that regard.

However, camping was sounding pretty great to Lily right about now. She could finally take the chance to just touch the earth and feel it in her hands without worrying about the Death Eater throwing killing curses at her every second. She could frolic among the wild and unruly plants like she used to when she was a little girl. The corners of her lips started to quirk up at the thought.

Right at that moment, the unmistakable sound of someone apparating outside the door met Lily’s ears which was proceeded by her and James’ secret knock. Lily went up to the door and asked through it, “Who is Luke Skywalker’s father?”

“Darth Vader,” asserted James.

Lily undid the lock and opened the door to find James pointing his wand at her with a teasing smirk on his face. He never could take this security measure seriously. “Who was your best shag?” he asked confidently.

“Sirius, obviously,” Lily responded with a smirk that echoed the one that quickly vanished from his face at her response.

“Not funny Evans,” he pouted.

“Well you know what Dumbledore said last meeting, the Death Eaters have Sev—uhh—well, their own Potions Master, and we should be prepared for the possibility that they’re making Polyjuice Potion,” she sighed, turned around and headed to the kitchen to check on her potion.

James was going to continue whinging about her cruel joke, but once she brought up her ex-best friend’s current activities, he thought better of it and followed her into the kitchen. “Fine, I’ll ask a better question. When was our best shag?” He asked with the smirk back on his face as he walked up to Lily, whose head was bent over the cauldron, and put his arms around her waist.

Lily rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help the smile that was creeping up on her face, “You’re such a prat,” she said as she turned around in his arms, put her arms up to his neck, and reached her face to kiss his. James greedily returned the kiss, pulling her even closer against him and lifting up her shirt a little so that his hands were touching the soft skin of her waist. Lily’s hands moved from the nape of his neck into his messy black hair as she sucked on his bottom lip.

Just as James’ hands were about travel South in order to pick her up and carry her to their bed, a gentle tapping noise interrupted them. Both of them turned their heads toward the noise to see Sirius’ owl, Owl, at the window with a slip of parchment attached to its claw. Lily detached from James, and as she walked over to the window she said, “And our best shag was that time a few months ago on Remus’ bed.”

“Too right, it was,” James smiled and sighed, “And yet, Remus couldn’t find it in him to be happy for us.”

“Well love, to be fair, I mean, you still give Sirius shit for shagging uh…whats-her-name, on your bed in sixth year.”

“Yeah, well, this was me and you, a couple Remus loves and knows dearly. Sirius fucked a stranger he hasn’t spoken to since. There’s a difference.”

Lily rolled her eyes, an occurrence that happens quite a lot whenever she’s around James, as she opened the window and untied the scroll from the Owl’s leg.

James—me and Remus are going to Hog’s Head for drinks with a few other members tonight, are you and Lily in? (Peter’s a no-show…again…bloody rat)

Lily quickly read the note and handed it over to James with a sigh. She loved everyone in the order dearly, she honestly didn’t know what she would do without them in this mess of a war, but she needed something different right now. Going to the Hog’s Head for drinks was the only fun thing order members could do together without drawing attention to themselves and blowing their cover; so they do it quite often.

“Do you want to go Lils?” asked James.

Just as Lily was about to, begrudgingly, say yes, she remembered something, and her eyes glimmered with excitement as she looked at James, “James, I’m going to go camping,” she stated.

“Okay….so…uh…wait, is that a ‘no’ to the drinks then?” baffled James with furrowed brows.

“Yes.”

“So…’yes’ to the drinks?” he puzzled again.

Lily rolled her eyes, “For someone who got seven NEWTs, you’re awfully dense sometimes. It’s a ‘no’ to the drinks, because tonight, we’re packing up and getting ready to go camping tomorrow morning.”

James’ brows were still furrowed in confusion, and his mouth kept opening and closing as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know what to say. To Lily’s relief, he finally uttered something, “Can you just repeat that please, and maybe offer me some, like, well, much-needed context?”

“Uh..right, that’s probably a good idea. So, again, no to drinks because we are going to camping tomorrow morning. Why are we going camping—well, because I need this James. I need this.” James’ look softened at the desperation in her voice, “I have been going mad lately. I feel like my whole world has just become running into battles, hiding from Death Eaters and potions. I want to experience the earth again.”

“You want to experience the earth again?” James asked with a teasing smirk.

“Fuck yes. Make fun of it all you want. I know it sounds cheesy, but I know you know what I mean James Potter. Like…don’t you miss the earth? We’re in bloody London all the damned time. I mean…you haven’t gone out with Remus and the boys for a full moon in months. You can’t not tell me you’re not going a little mad here,” Lily ranted. “I want to just walk through a forest, where there’s no building in site, only trees and grass, and leaves. I want it to just be me for miles and miles.”

“What about me?”

Lily smiled and put her arms around his waist, “I guess I want you there too. Merlin knows I don’t really want to experience this earth again without your smile there with it,” she assured pressing a light kiss to his lips.

“What about the cold?”

“The stars will be our blanket,” teased Lily

“Uh…what?”

“James, are you a wizard or not? We can handle the actual camping parts of this magically.”

“Right,” nodded James in agreement. Yet something in the stiffness of his body, and the slight furrow left in his brows told Lily he was still hesitant. Come to think of it, James has been acting kind of shady like this for the past few weeks.

“Do you not want to?”

“No, it’s not that at all. I think I need this just as much as you,” he assured, “it’s just that, I mean, well we had those special dinner plans for tomorrow night.”

“We can cook ourselves a nice dinner tomorrow night love.”

James sighed, and nodded slowly, “That’s true I guess.”

“Don’t you want to go flying love? I want to ride your broom. I haven’t done it in so long.”

James smirked, “I want you to ride my broom too Evans.”

Lily ignored the obvious innuendo in his statement, and said “Great, let’s get packing then.”

“Um, right okay, I’ll go cancel those reservations and the…uh some other stuff, and I’ll let Dumbledore and the order know we’re going to take the next few days off.”

The next night, after a day of frolicking in the grass, walking and not running, and flying in a clear blue sky without a building in sight, Lily was snuggled within the comfort of James’ arms under a blanket of stars. The sound of their laughter played in harmony with the chirping crickets and the rustling of the leaves as the wind breezed through them. She and James always manage to have fun together, but this was different. They could have fun without worrying for right now. Even after their day on his broom, she hasn’t felt this free since she found out she was a witch, and she’s never felt closer to James than she had on this day.

After bickering and laughing about whether or not the dog star was named as such because it’s twinkle was kind of shaped like a dog, Lily turned her head towards his and asked, “So are you finally ready to tell me why you’ve been acting shady the past few weeks?”

James chuckled and sighed happily, “You know what…yeah, I actually am.” He turned his head to meet her eyes, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” smiled Lily moving her head in for a kiss, but James used the arm she was lying on to lift a very confused Lily up on to her feet instead.

Once they stood face to face, stars still twinkling above them, surrounded by only trees, grass, flowers and wildlife, James’ hands lightly against Lily’s waist, did James say, “I originally wanted to do this after that dinner we were supposed to have tonight at this fancy muggle restaurant in London, where after I was going to take you to Hog’s Head with all of our friends waiting there.” Lily was starting to see where this was going, and her eyes widened. “Once we got there, Sirius was going to start playing that muggle love song you love so much by that Elvin guy on that mini guitar thing I begged him to learn how to play,” her widened eyes softened with her chuckle and started to glisten with tears, “then I was going to get down on one knee,” James got down on one knee, “pull out my grandmother’s ring,” James pulled out his grandmother’s ring, “and say this: ‘This war is the worst thing that has ever happened to the wizarding world, and yet, you still manage to keep me smiling. Do me the honor of making me smile for the rest of my life, and let me do the same for you. Lily Evans, will you marry me?’”

Just as Lily was about to respond, James snapped the box shut, got up and said with a smirk, “It’s too bad you wanted to go camping instead.”

Lily’s mouth opened in shock, “James!” she exasperated punching him in the arm.

James laughed, “I’m kidding Lils! Only kidding! This place is a way better spot for a proposal…how’d you put it again? Blanket of stars? Now that’s just pure poetry. So this is really the best possible place for you to agree to put up with my shit forever,” he teased, “so what do you say Evans?” he asked opening the ring box once again, “Will you continue to put up with my shit for all eternity?”

Lily rolled her eyes, “Sounds good to me,” she said with a smile as she jumped into his arms and proceeded to kiss him.

#jily #jily canon #jily fanfic #jily fanfiction #jily fic #james x lily #james potter #lily evans #lily potter #jily fandom #camping #surprise #dixie chicks #cowboy take me away #feeding birds

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cozune · 6 years ago

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Tagged

Tagged by @hobijuana, thanks dude!

Tagging anyone.

last

drink: my family’s version of holy water, Vita Coco: Coconut Water

call: my dad

text: in a group chat- ”Why is my contact name Never Gonna Give You Up???” specifically

song you listened to: Fluorescent Adolescent by Arctic Monkeys

time you cried: 2 days ago. Then I had bread thrown at me and suddenly my productivity is up

have you ever

dated someone twice: Kind of?

kissed someone and regretted it: yeah.

been cheated on: nah

lost someone special: fortunately no

been depressed: wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWWW

gotten drunk and thrown up: I don’t drink

favorite colors

1. aqua green

2. light pink (y’know. the liquitex basic color)

3. gray

in the last year have you

made any new friends: yep

fallen out of love: y e P

laughed so hard you cried: I have a meme folder. Yes.

found out someone was talking about you: nah. no one really knows I exist

met someone who changed you: tbh I’d like to say “yeah” but I’m blanking right now and I feel really bad about it--

found out who your friends were: yeah. it’s cool.

kissed someone in your fb friends list: no?? im not even on fb

general

how many ppl from ur fb friends do u know irl?: I’m not on fb so

do you have any pets?: the squirrel that lives in the tree next to my house and throws acorns at me for no fucking reason

do you want to change your middle name?: I don’t even have a middle name-

what did you do for your birthday last year?: I think I went to see a movie with my friends then promptly passed out

what time did you wake up today?: 4 AM. Because my brain hates me.

what were you doing last night at midnight?: Painting. it’s a terrible experience.

what’s something you can’t wait for?: to slam dunk my college portfolio into people’s faces and hope that one of them accepts me

what’re you listening to right now?: Africa covered by Ninja Sex Party

have you ever talked to a person named tom?: surprisingly, no

something that gets on your nerves: when people are dicks.

most visited website: youtube, gmail

hair color: really dark brown

short hair or long hair: short hair

do you have a crush on anyone: nah

what do you like about yourself?: u H M improv jokes, puns, and insults

want any piercings?: nah

blood type: B+

nicknames: Dingus, Gavin, Comrade

relationship status: single

zodiac sign: Virgo

pronouns: I stopped caring at this point

favorite show: currently summer camp island because it’s cute as fuck

tattoos: none

right or left handed: right handed

every had surgery: yeah because I was stupid

piercings: i have clip on princess earrings from my sister’s princess dress up kit

sports: bold of you to assume i can do things

vacation: somewhere scenic is ideal. like. give me stuff to draw.

trainers: what does this mean

more general

eating: chinese food

drinking: again, Vita Coco: Coconut Water

about to watch: how people set up their college portfolios and Dramaturgy by Eve

waiting for: Friday. I want to go to the museum.

get married: lmao nah

career: wwwwww computer graphics/animator for film or video games

which is better

hugs or kisses?: either though it depends on the day

lips or eyes?: eyes

shorter or taller?: taller. almost everyone I know is taller than me so I have no choice.

younger or older?: older?? idk

nice arms or stomach?: arm

hookup or relationship?: my ace heart is palpitating at an alarming rate. just give me a healthy connection with someone

troublemaker or hesitant?: high key troublemaker but we don’t talk about that

have you ever

kissed a stranger: nah

drank hard liquor: I don’t drink

lost glasses: once then I stepped on them-

turned someone down: yeah. when I don’t want to go out but my active friends want to frolic in the fields or something--

had sex on the first date: my virgin ace heart is palpitating

broken someone’s heart: i don’t know. it’s kind of hard to say.

had your heart broken: nah

been arrested: close. but no.

cried when someone died: yeah

fallen for a friend: nah? maybe once?

do you believe in

yourself: depends on how ballsy I’m feeling a particular day. but it usually is at an eh

miracles: no

love at first sight: my ace heart is palpitating

santa: no. my parents didn’t even try to hide it. literally the present from santa was in my mom’s handwriting and my dad went down at 2 AM to eat the cookies-

kiss on the first date: sure??

angels: no?

other

best friend’s name: computer, bean, bih, comrade (don’t wanna put their actual names so nicknames)

eye color: brown

favorite movie: mmmmmm Tokyo Godfathers fucking amazing movie. Either that or The Man from UNCLE, Ex Machina, or Grave of the Fireflies

favorite actor: James McAvoy

#god this was long

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mrsbenedictbridgerton · 7 years ago

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This Unspoken Thing (2/3)

A baby mini fic.

Emma and Killian were kinda enemies. Now they are kinda friends, but there is this unspoken thing between them. A pull and a want that they haven’t yet given a name to. And stubborn Emma Swan just wont admit it…

(Inspired by GoTG 2!)

Part One

Also on AO3/FF.NET

Killian had thankfully given her a wide berth the rest of that evening.

The whole party was actually quite sedate. While they had been celebrating her brother David’s birthday, the real partying had happened the night before at their local bar, The Rabbit Hole. Everyone was, of course, feeling a little delicate. And no one questioned Emma’s quietness or how she slipped away to bed before any of the guests had left.

All of which she was thankful for, because she really she could not cope with Killian right now. She needed to wait for this whatever it was to blow over so they could go back to their usual antagonistic friendship.

Yet despite her efforts not to, she thought of him as she lay in bed that night and listened to the sounds of the ongoing celebration. His deep and distinctive voice was easy to pick out. He was always thick in the conversation with a tale or a joke. Always the life of the party. Convivial. Charming. Popular with just about everyone he met. Knowing he was there, just a wall or two away tormented her in a way she could not have anticipated.

Not that anything about her relationship with Killian Jones was predictable. Originally, they had worked for rival companies. Competing for the same jobs, they had had the occasional heated confrontation that never failed to leave her blood boiling. But then Jolly Roger Bail Bonds had been taken over by Emma’s employer and they had became co workers. It was at first hard to overcome the ingrained rivalry and on the few occasions they had been forced to work together things had been prickly, to say the least.

But slowly his dry sense of humor had grown on her as the months ticked by. And he always brought her coffee when he went to get his own. The times when they were stuck together staking out some asshat or other, he found this way to engage her in conversation that made the hours tick easily by. It ended up that if they were both in the office, they would more often than not eat lunch together. Until, after six months of being co-workers, they were something resembling friends. Which would have been just about acceptable, she supposed.

Fate had other plans. It hadn’t taken too long after that for him to figure out that her brother was a cop and then for him to wriggle himself into a friendship with David fuelled by a shared love of British soccer. The she definitely couldn’t get away from him. He melted into her friendship group as if he had always been there. Still, he was, overall, a positive presence. One she was not averse to, yet always kept at arm’s length. Never letting him peek beneath her infamous emotional walls.

(Not that she ever let anyone past those-)

But last night-

Yes, Graham had been on her mind as she had approached Killian. The handsome Irishman, with his pretty eyes and broad shoulders was certainly a joy to look at. And he was kind and polite and courteous. And boy had her brother pushed them together. “It’s my birthday, Ems, just have a drink with him.”

Already pretty drunk from multiple shots of rum, she’d tried to work up the urge to approach him. He was perfect. On paper. And she was single. Yet, instead of sidling up to the blonde where he stood at the bar, she found herself walking in the opposite direction to the table where she had earlier left Killian deep into a bottle of liquor.

She’d given him a cryptic smile as she approached the table. He’d cocked his head to the side, his lazy blue gaze penetrating even in the dark bar. Then she’d taken his hand and tugged him in the direction of the dancefloor.

There was one important fact in this moment.

Emma didn’t dance. Not in the ‘just to have fun’ kinda way.

She drunk danced, when the drinks told her that this song was, like, the best one ever and her friends tugged her into the throng in front of the band of DJ booth. She also danced when trying to catch a guy’s eye. She knew a few sexy snakes of her hip and suggestive glances could get most men hot under the collar. Not that she’d done that for a while.

Yet dancing with Killian was none of those things, she’d told herself. He was her friend. Wasn’t he?

“Emma…” he’d complained as the threaded between the dancing bodies, only becoming quiet when she had placed her palms on his shoulders and smiled.

“Just a dance, Jones,” she’d shrugged, before beginning to snake her hips to the music.

“You don’t dance.”

Emma’s fingers slipped around to the open neck of his shirt, grasping the material. “I need to let off some steam,” she sighed.

Whatever he was going to say, died upon his lips and the two began a rum fueled dance. His hands at her waist hers wrapped around his neck. It was surprisingly fun, thoughts of Graham easily slipping from her mind as she let herself enjoy the moment.

But then the poppy beats of an early Rihanna number had been replaced by the sexy chords of Santana’s ‘Smooth’ and what had started as a light hearted frolic, became a slow and teasing mixture of tangled limbs and grinding hips. He’d sang the lyrics as his arms tightened around her waist and mouth had danced about her ear, his breath warm on her neck.

‘Give me your heart, make it real or just forget about it’.

She spun around, laying back, she’d pressed herself closer to him, enjoying the firmness of his chest and swaying with abandon.

It felt good to be held by him. Even through the drunken haze she knew it.

He held her like he cared, like he wanted.

And as the final beats of the song played, she allowed herself to see something she’d been hiding from for months now.

Killian wanted her.

And more worryingly, she wanted him.

This revelation seriously complicated matters in a way she was fully unprepared for. As she stumbled away from him as the song died away, her hand slowly slipped from his as their eyes lingered upon each other’s form.

Surely, if she didn’t think about it, it was nothing.

She wouldn’t think about it. She would not think about him. Or the way their bodies felt pushed together. Or all those repressed feelings trying to bubble to the surface.

If she went on as she did always, it would be fine.

There was not a thing between them.

She was sure of that.

She repeated those words as a mantra as she walked away and headed towards Graham at the bar.

He didn’t mention their discussion in the kitchen again.

She was silently thankful.

He understood.

It was just a dance.

(If she told herself enough times it would be true.)

And it was, until things started to happen.

Many times, she had been told to ditch her car. The cheerful yellow paint job of the VW Bug was the most conspicuous color possible, she would admit that much. But she had a strange sense of sentimentality for the car that was the sole reminder of her first serious relationship (or perhaps a cautionary reminder would be a more apt description). It was also great for eating, napping and generally living in when the time called for it. As it often did when faced with a long stakeout.

Two weeks had passed since the party. Killian Jones was the farthest thing from her mind. She was patently not thinking about him as she read the latest trashy novel that Ruby had handed down to her. She was not imagining herself as the naive country girl and Killian as the dashing sailor who promised to take her away from the drudgery of farm life as he ravished her upon a haystack-

Until he was there, tapping on the driver’s side window, a bag of takeout from Granny’s diner clutched in his other hand.

After almost jumping out of her skin, she rolled down the window and gave him a confused look.

“Lunch?” he said, his grin almost contagious.

She schooled her expression into one of neutral indifference. “I have Cheetos,” she replied, pretty sure there was a half empty bag in her glove box.

He rolled his eyes. “Leroy said you’ve been out here since last night. I brought you a grilled cheese. And some cocoa.” He leant down and picked up one of the familiar styrofoam cups and her stomach gurgled traitorously.

“Fine,” she sighed, “give it here.”

She gestured to him to hand the food through the open window, but he had other ideas. Instead, moving around to the passenger door and after a bit of maneuvering with the items in his hand, yanking it open and sliding into the seat beside her.

“That wasn’t an invitation, Jones.”

He gave her a pointed look. “It’s bloody freezing - and I’m doing you a good deed. At least let me warm up before you send me back out onto the barren streets of Boston.”

“I can see your car parked two spaces down,” she replied in a droll tone.

He simply smiled expectantly, the delicious goodies in the paper bag making their presence known to her nostrils. Her hunger outruled her head. “Okay, you can keep me company while I eat. In case this asshole I’m tailing finally gets out of bed.”

Killian handed her the paper bag and she began to remove the contents, taking deep breaths of the familiar food smells.

“Is this another alimony case? Or is this a real criminal?”

So it seemed they were returning to their old sparring ways.

This was good.

“Hey, I can’t help it if they need to send a woman to catch a man,” she replied, shoving a hunk of cheesy bread into her mouth, quickly chewing. “But since you asked, he’s an embezzler. Skipped bail, living here with an ex. So predictable.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“Men?” she shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Ouch,” he hissed. “That smacks of bitterness. Things not going well with your boyfriend?”

“What?” she asked, giving him a confused look in the rear-view mirror.

“Graham. Since you, you know, fancy him and all that, I’d assumed you’d made it official.”

Emma licked her lips. “Please, what I do - or do not do - with my personal life is none of your business.” She rolled her eyes and took another large bite of the sandwich, not letting herself dwell on his digging into her love life.

There was a second of silence as Killian straightened himself up in the passenger seat. “Ah yes, because there is no ‘thing’ between us.”

Emma paused mid chew and then swallowed heavily. So he wasn’t letting this go.

“Exactly.”

This time their eyes met in the mirror. He stared her out for a few seconds until she felt her cheeks start to burn and she averted her gaze, focusing on the crumpled paper bag in her lap.

“So, what if I told you I had a date this weekend?”

Her heart beat seemed to slow, turning into a dull rolling thud. The sandwich sat heavily in her stomach. She knew he dated - he was a very handsome guy. This was nothing new.

She didn’t care.

“I’d be thrilled for you,” she insisted, before adding, “And feeling a little sorry for the girl.”

“Hmmm,” he purred, annoyingly ignoring her quip. “She’s quite the catch. Blonde. Blue eyes, fantastic legs-”

Emma felt her irritation rise. She tossed the rest of the sandwich back into the container.

“I really don’t care, Jones,” she seethed.

“Is that so? Even if she has a masters in business and two bachelor’s degrees-”

That was it. She spun in her seat until they were eye to eye. “I’m confused, why are you telling me this?”

He shrugged. “Why Swan, because we’re friends.”

“Friends don’t need to share everything,” she replied, narrowing her eyes and wishing he would just go away.

“So you admit it, we are friends?”

Wordlessly, Emma raised her hands. If she were honest, right now she didn’t know what they were. “Of a type?”

And then the teasing facade slipped a little, the hesitancy crept into his voice. “Not the romantic type?”

“Killian-” she whined, scrunching her eyes shut. Free lunches from Granny’s for a year wouldn’t be worth this torment.

Then she felt his hand on her shoulder. “Just kidding, love,” he said in a soft tone. He ran his thumb over her collarbone. She felt the motion keenly, even through her thick leather jacket.

Pulling away, he smiled briefly. “Better be off, a date to plan and all.”

“Good luck with that,” she snipped as he reached for the door handle.

He simply nodded and left.

She spent the best part of the next six hours staring blindly at the dumb romance novel as she re-ran the conversation over and over in her head. She imagined this mysterious, sexy, intelligent date of his. She pictured him dancing with this faceless woman and kissing her and-

God, so much more.

She was almost thankful when Leroy called and said her skip had been caught during a road traffic stop. She had no idea how he had gotten out of the apartment without her seeing, but it gave her an excuse to drive home and work on that bottle of rum in the kitchen.

It was a pity the damn stuff just reminded her of him.

#captain swan #cs ff #jill writes things #cs mc ff #cs ff au

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benbirbaskasidir · 7 years ago

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the fake testament / first bootleg

pierre 1

1- claire offered some frolic alone time to the strange man. 2- voices were trembling through flags. 3- everything was underground. 4- nothing was clear. 5- “i will destroy your life” said the madman to the strange man. “wait a month and a half” 6- “i forgive him” said the strange man to the prophet. 7- and he, our prophet, turned to our god and prayed “i need to be with you now!”

jeremiah 1

1- the night jeremiah met our prophet; all were drunk 2- red poison was pouring as the waterfall of festivity on the dark gallery 3- sophie got hooked by our prophet’s eyes and felt on his lips 4- all did condemn, what was appearing but only a few have seen the unseen 5- glasses were broken into marble as shining stars of a lonesome winter night in a wild village 6- jeremiah touched marie’s eyes with an archaic shade 7- lights went out and streets have gambled on skins

sutjeska 1

1- our only and beloved god, shone on our prophet’s sorrow and prescribed “come!” 2- therefore the wheels have turned with the joy of unite and revelation 3- then they walked up on to the holy shrine through the path of green and grey 4- god ordered the sun to wait and our prophet to sing the song of the songs 5- two concrete wings of god were manifested with the stone faces of all her prophets 6- she rolled the river and everything within, put them on her divine lips to grant life for the dead poets 7- god, whispered the pleasure of pain in behalf of all the good disguised in bad

proverbs 1

1- we shall find some speed! so morning can serve what we need…

2- come on! you shan’t drink whiskey now! you shall pray when the sun is low…

3- do not think too much! i have not created as such…

4- you are too perfect! to sin and to connect…

5- do you feel the ecstasy yet? your blood is running fast, i bet…

6- do not sleep diagonal! or you will pay the penal…

7- jump! jump around…

jeremiah 2

1- one of each race have gathered around for the supper of intrigue. 2- delusional lines on maps and complimentary wines have been served. 3- our prophet shared his wisdom and knowledge with marie of the southlands. 4- “my lord, your words are charming yet tiring” she cried “i wish your forgiveness to go to the bathroom” 5- “what are the horniness level, you two love birds? may we swallow another drink of faith?” chanted jeremiah! 6- his sincere smile painted a cheerful vignette to the walls of despair 7- voices of forty-seven angel echoed “yes!”

proverbs 2

1- new york is beautiful though! and only for the beauty, you must go…

2- she’s always became the worst of everything! hence we’ve always wondered what more can she bring…

3- i want cevapi! sa kajmakom…

4- you sure need time! innocence feeds the crime…

5- maybe if she dies! farewells and lies…

6- as long as we both know our positions! lioness can poke the lions…

7- you are so pretentious! your stories are obvious…

avaz 1 c em c em dm g em

1- ambiguated morrow has arrived on our prophet’s shoulder, yet he had the shelter of god. 2- they looked upon the embassy of murderers of just and freedom with loathing and abomination. 3- god showed miraculous one eyed binocular to our prophet and pointed out the heroes. 4- all the accidental beings have worn their most peculiar dresses for the end of an uncommon beginning. 5- screams were screamed, tears were cried, words were spoken. 6- only god had the power to rewind the time and she was unwilling to do so. 7- she let the silence of wind blow all the romance away and she thought it was good!

marie 1 c f c f am g f

1- church bells rang for the thirteenth time in a day that cold did bring neither snow nor rain 2- prophet lit the candle of dark and prayed to the night for the strings of insane 3- marie, she was fresher than the first day of may and greener than the flowers of the fair 4- her resemblance to god, her arrow-like eyebrows when she smiles and her undone hair 5- and music of her untouched scent delivered the missing letters to our prophet 6- drylands got all wet but she got her innocence from god as many other stupid things 7- “even god knows she wronged” said our prophet to marie “hell will be occupied with kings”

anonym 1

1- and the painted clothing, the following morning 2- in god’s mother tongue, the prophet shall sing 3- a sad ballad which lacks any wise poetry 4- yet tied to a bright, cheerful melody 5- with the prophet asked to the god for a kiss, if it is right to do so 6- a fearful passion always hopes for a simple but obscure no 7- god kissed him and said “one must cry and love must die”

#the #fake #testament #first #bootleg #autobiography #just #like #the one #jesus #had

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breezingby · 8 years ago

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THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY. A POEM.

(Long ago, I used to have more interest in Poetry than I do at present time. But, in the wee hours of last night, I finished reading a short story having to do with ancient graveyards and it brought this poem back to my mind. It Is Long)...

THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY by Thomas Warton

“Mother of Musings, Contemplation sage, Whose mansion is upon the topmost cliff Of cloud-capt Teneriff, in secret bow'r; Where ever wrapt in meditation high, Thou hear'st unmov'd, in dark tempestuous night, The loud winds howl around, the beating rain And the big hail in mingling storm descend Upon his horrid brow. But when the skies Unclouded shine, and thro' the blue serene Pale Cynthia rolls her silver-axled car, Then ever looking on the spangled vault Raptur'd thou sit'st, while murmurs indistinct Of distant billows sooth thy pensive ear With hoarse and hollow sounds; secure, self-blest, Oft too thou listen'st to the wild uproar Of fleets encount'ring, that in whispers low Ascends the rocky summit, where thou dwell'st Remote from man, conversing with the spheres. O lead me, black-brow'd Queen, to solemn glooms Cogenial with my soul, to chearless shades, To ruin'd seats, to twilight cells and bow'rs, Where thoughtful Melancholy loves to muse, Her fav'rite midnight haunts. The laughing scenes Of purple Spring, where all the wanton train Of Smiles and Graces seem to lead the dance In sportive round, while from their hands they show'r Ambrosial blooms and flow'rs, no longer charm; Tempe, no more I court thy balmy breeze, Adieu green vales! embroider'd meads adieu!

Beneath yon' ruin'd Abbey's moss-grown piles Oft let me sit, at twilight hour of Eve, Where thro' some western window the pale moon Pours her long-levell'd rule of streaming light; While sullen sacred silence reigns around, Save the lone Screech-owl's note, whose bow'r is built Amid the mould'ring caverns dark and damp, And the calm breeze, that rustles in the leaves Of flaunting Ivy, that with mantle green Invests some sacred tow'r. Or let me tread It's neighb'ring walk of pines, where stray'd of old The cloyster'd brothers: thro' the gloomy void That far extends beneath their ample arch As on I tread, religious horror wraps My soul in dread repose. But when the world Is clad in Midnight's raven-colour'd robe, In hollow charnel let me watch the flame Of taper dim, while airy voices talk Along the glimm'ring walls, or ghostly shape At distance seen, invites with beck'ning hand My lonesome steps, thro' the far-winding vaults. Nor undelightful is the solemn noon Of night, when haply wakeful from my couch I start: lo, all is motionless around! Roars not the rushing wind, the sons of men And every beast in mute oblivion lie; All Nature's hush'd in silence and in sleep. O then how fearful is it to reflect, That thro' the solitude of the still globe No Being wakes but me! 'till stealing sleep My drooping temples baths in opiate dews. Nor then let dreams, of wanton Folly born, My senses lead thro' flowery paths of joy; But let the sacred Genius of the night Such mystic visions send, as SPENSER saw, When thro' bewild'ring Fancy's magic maze, To the bright regions of the fairy world Soar'd his creative mind: or MILTON knew, When in abstracted thought he first conceiv'd All heav'n in tumult, and the Seraphim Come tow'ring, arm'd in adamant and gold.

Let others love the Summer-ev'ning's smiles, As list'ning to some distant water-fall They mark the blushes of the streaky west: I choose the pale December's foggy glooms; Then, when the sullen shades of Ev'ning close, Where thro' the room a blindly-glimm'ring gleam The dying embers scatter, far remote From Mirth's mad shouts, that thro' the lighted roof Resound with festive echo, let me sit, Blest with the lowly cricket's drowsy dirge. Then let my contemplative thought explore This fleeting state of things, the vain delights, The fruitless toils, that still elude our search, As thro' the wilderness of life we rove. This sober hour of silence will unmask False Folly's smiles, that like the dazling spells Of wily Comus, cheat th' unweeting eye With blear illusion, and persuade to drink The charmed cup, that Reason's mintage fair Unmoulds, and stamps the monster on the man. Eager we taste, but in the luscious draught Forget the pois'nous dregs that lurk beneath.

Few know that Elegance of soul refin'd, Whose soft sensation feels a quicker joy From Melancholy's scenes, than the dull pride Of tasteless splendor and magnificence Can e'er afford. Thus Eloise, whose mind Had languish'd to the pangs of melting love, More secret transport found, as on some tomb Reclin'd she watch'd the tapers of the dead, Or thro' the pillar'd isles, amid the shrines Of imag'd saints, and intermingled graves, Which scarce the story'd windows dim disclos'd, Musing she wander'd; than Cosmelia finds, As thro' the Mall in silken pomp array'd, She floats amid the gilded sons of dress, And shines the fairest of th' assembled Belles.

When azure noon-tide chears the daedal globe, And the glad regent of the golden day Rejoices in his bright meridian bow'r, How oft my wishes ask the night's return, That best befriends the melancholy mind! Hail, sacred Night! to thee my song I raise! Sister of ebon-scepter'd Hecat, hail! Whether in congregated clouds thou wrap'st Thy viewless chariot, or with silver crown Thy beaming head encirclest, ever hail! What tho' beneath thy gloom the Lapland witch Oft celebrates her moon-eclipsing rites; Tho' Murther wan, beneath thy shrouding shade Oft calls her silent vot'ries to devise Of blood and slaughter, while by one blue lamp In secret conf'rence sits the list'ning band, And start at each low wind, or wakeful sound: What tho' thy stay the Pilgrim curses oft, As all benighted in Arabian wastes He hears the howling wilderness resound With roaming monsters, while on his hoar head The black-descending tempest ceaseless beats; Yet more delightful to my pensive mind Is thy return, than bloomy Morn's approach, When from the portals of the saffron East She sheds fresh roses and ambrosial dews. Yet not ungrateful is the Morn's approach, When dropping wet she comes, and clad in clouds, While thro' the damp air scowls the peevish South, And the dusk landschape rises dim to view. Th' afflicted songsters of the sadden'd groves Hail not the sullen gloom, but silent droop; The waving elms, that rang'd in thick array, Enclose with stately row some rural hall, Are mute, nor echo with the clamors hoarse Of rooks rejoicing on their hoary boughs: While to the shed the dripping poultry croud, A mournful train: secure the village-hind Hangs o'er the crackling blaze, nor tempts the storm; Rings not the high wood with enliv'ning shouts Of early hunter: all is silence drear; And deepest sadness wraps the face of things.

Thro' POPE's soft song tho' all the Graces breath, And happiest art adorn his Attic page; Yet does my mind with sweeter transport glow, As at the foot of some hoar oak reclin'd, In magic SPENSER's wildly-warbled song I see deserted Una wander wide Thro' wasteful solitudes, and lurid heaths, Weary, forlorn, than when the † fated Fair, Upon the bosom bright of silver Thames, Launches in all the lustre of Brocade, Amid the splendors of the laughing Sun. The gay description palls upon the sense, And coldly strikes the mind with feeble bliss.

O wrap me then in shades of darksom pine, Bear me to caves by desolation brown, To dusky vales, and hermit-haunted rocks! And hark, methinks resounding from the gloom The voice of Melancholy strikes mine ear; "Come, leave the busy trifles of vain life, "And let these twilight mansions teach thy mind "The Joys of Musing, and of solemn Thought."

Ye youths of Albion's beauty-blooming isle, Whose brows have worn the wreath of luckless love, Is there a pleasure like the pensive mood, Whose magic wont to sooth your soften'd souls? O tell how rapt'rous is the deep-felt bliss To melt to Melody's assuasive voice, Careless to stray the midnight mead along, And pour your sorrows to the pitying moon, Oft interrupted by the Bird of Woe! To muse by margin of romantic stream, To fly to solitudes, and there forget The solemn dulness of the tedious world, 'Till in abstracted dreams of fancy lost, Eager you snatch the visionary fair, And on the phantom feast your cheated gaze! Sudden you start—th' imagin'd joys recede, The same sad prospect opens on your sense; And nought is seen but deep-extended trees In hollow rows, and your awaken'd ear Again attends the neighb'ring fountain's sound. These are delights that absence drear has made Familiar to my soul, er'e since the form Of young Sapphira, beauteous as the Spring, When from her vi'let-woven couch awak'd By frolic Zephyr's hand, her tender cheek Graceful she lifts, and blushing from her bow'r, Issues to cloath in gladsome-glist'ring green The genial globe, first met my dazled sight. These are delights unknown to minds profane, And which alone the pensive soul can taste.

The taper'd choir, at midnight hour of Pray'r, Oft let me tread, while to th' according voice The many-sounding organ peals on high, In full-voic'd chorus thro' th' embowed roof; 'Till all my soul is bath'd in ecstasies, And lap'd in Paradise. Or let me sit Far in some distant isle of the deep dome, There lonesome listen to the solemn sounds, Which, as they lengthen thro' the Gothic vaults, In hollow murmurs reach my ravish'd ear.

Nor let me fail to cultivate my mind With the soft thrillings of the tragic Muse, Divine Melpomene, sweet Pity's nurse, Queen of the stately step, and flowing pall. Now let Monimia mourn with streaming eyes Her joys incestuous, and polluted love: Now let Calista dye the desperate steel Within her bosom, for lost innocence, Unable to behold a father weep. Or Jaffeir kneel for one forgiving look; Nor seldom let the Moor on Desdemone Pour the misguided threats of jealous rage. By soft degrees the manly torrent steals From my swoln eyes, and at a brother's woe My big heart melts in sympathizing tears.

What are the splendors of the gaudy court, It's tinsel trappings, and it's pageant pomps? To me far happier seems the banish'd Lord Amid Siberia's unrejoycing wilds Who pines all lonesome, in the chambers hoar Of some high castle shut, whose windows dim In distant ken discover trackless plains, Where Winter ever drives his icy car; While still repeated objects of his view, The gloomy battlements, and ivied tow'rs That crown the solitary dome, arise; While from the topmost turret the slow clock Far heard along th' inhospitable wastes With sad-returning chime, awakes new grief; Than is the Satrap whom he left behind In Moscow's regal palaces, to drown In ease and luxury the laughing hours.

Illustrious objects strike the gazer's mind With feeble bliss, and but allure the sight, Nor rouze with impulse quick the feeling heart. Thus seen by shepherd from Hymettus' brow, What painted landschapes spread their charms beneath? Here palmy groves, amid whose umbrage green Th' unfading olive lifts her silver head, Resounding once with Plato's voice, arise: Here vine-clad hills unfold their purple stores, Here fertile vales their level lap expand, Amid whose beauties glistering Athens tow'rs. Tho' thro' the graceful seats Ilissus roll His sage-inspiring flood, whose fabled banks The spreading laurel shades, tho' roseate Morn Pour all her splendors on th' empurpled scene, Yet feels the musing Hermit truer joys, As from the cliff that o'er his cavern hangs, He views the piles of fall'n Persepolis In deep arrangement hide the darksome plain. Unbounded waste! the mould'ring Obelisc Here, like a blasted oak, ascends the clouds; Here Parian domes their vaulted halls disclose Horrid with thorn, where lurks the secret thief, Whence flits the twilight-loving bat at eve, And the deaf adder wreaths her spotted train, The dwellings once of Elegance and Art. Here temples rise, amid whose hallow'd bounds Spires the black pine, while thro' the naked street, Haunt of the tradeful merchant, springs the grass: Here columns heap'd on prostrate columns, torn From their firm base, encrease the mould'ring mass. Far as the sight can pierce, appear the spoils Of sunk magnificence: a blended scene Of moles, fanes, arches, domes, and palaces, Where, with his brother horror, ruin sits.

O come then, Melancholy, queen of thought, O come with saintly look and stedfast step, From forth thy cave embower'd with mournful yew, Where ever to the curfew's solemn sound List'ning thou sitt'st, and with thy cypress bind Thy votary's hair, and seal him for thy son. But never let Euphrosyne beguile With toys of wanton mirth my fixed mind, Nor with her primrose garlands strew my paths. What tho' with her the dimpled Hebe dwells, With young-ey'd Pleasure, and the loose-rob'd Joy; Tho' Venus, mother of the Smiles and Loves, And Bacchus, ivy-crown'd, in myrtle bow'r With her in dance fantastic beat the ground: What tho' 'tis her's to calm the blue serene, And at her presence mild the low'ring clouds Disperse in air, and o'er the face of heav'n New day diffusive glows at her approach; Yet are these joys that Melancholy gives, By Contemplation taught, her sister sage, Than all her witless revels happier far.

Then ever, beauteous Contemplation, hail! From thee began, auspicious maid, my song, With thee shall end: for thou art fairer far Than are the nymphs of Cirrha's mossy grot; To loftier rapture thou canst wake the thought, Than all the fabling Poet's boasted pow'rs. Hail, queen divine! whom, as tradition tells, Once in his ev'ning-walk a Druid found Far in a hollow glade of Mona's woods, And piteous bore with hospitable hand To the close shelter of his oaken bow'r. There soon the Sage admiring mark'd the dawn Of solemn Musing in thy pensive thought; For when a smiling babe, you lov'd to lie Oft deeply list'ning to the rapid roar Of wood-hung Meinai, stream of Druids old, That lav'd his hallow'd haunt with dashing wave.”

-------------------- The Pleasures of Melancholy was begun in 1745 when the Thomas Warton was 17, published two years later, and subsequently modified and refined in later editions

#Poetry #Thomas Warton #The Pleasures of Melancholy

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newstfionline · 7 years ago

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Petting zoos at the office are the latest perk for stressed-out employees

By Andrea Sachs, Washington Post, December 1, 2017

Chris Delaney typically unwinds from his job at Discovery Communications by taking leisurely weekend drives or flipping through stacks of vinyl at used record stores. But on a recent midweek afternoon, the broadcast ingest operator was releasing his stress—right there at work—by stroking a bearded dragon, a household lizard with thankfully inert spikes.

“He’s very mellow,” Delaney said of the coldblooded creature resting on his lap. “Applying a warm hand puts this guy in a good mood.”

At the office animal party for the over-My Little Pony set, the good vibrations were flowing in both directions. How could you tell? Well, Norbert didn’t puff up his body and deploy his defenses, and Delaney didn’t rush to the medic with gouged fingertips. Quite the opposite: After finishing with Norbert, he requested a cuddle with another member of the visiting menagerie from Squeals on Wheels, a traveling petting zoo based in Potomac, Md.

“I think my favorite was the rabbit,” Delaney said after several failed attempts to soothe an African pygmy hedgehog named Tweedledee. (Or was it his brother, Tweedledum? Hard to know, because all hedgehogs act like twitchy acupuncturists.)

At the mention of his name, Rex the Velveteen rabbit attempted an escape, thumping his head against the cover of his wooden bin. Perhaps he needed an animal to hold, too.

In these anxious times, the embattled masses are resorting to all manner of succor. We meditate in the morning and drink a stiff one after work. Yell at traffic on the way to laughter yoga. Binge on Netflix all night and down cup after cup of pour-over coffee the next morning.

And now, with the rise of office animal parties, you can stroke a bunny, cradle a puppy or massage a tortoise’s neck on company time. If your colleagues or clients grow irate over unanswered emails, tell them to submit a complaint to Slinky, the blue-tongued skink.

“Animals make the environment less stress-y,” says Alan Beck, director of the Center of the Animal-Human Bond at Purdue University. “When you talk to another person, your blood pressure goes up. When you talk to animals, it goes down.”

During the tensest time of the year, Dawn Bailey, director of human resources at Aronson accounting firm in Rockville, Md., arranges special treats for her bleary-eyed accountants. For this tax season, she hired Squeals on Wheels. “All I wanted to see was the teacup pig running down the hallway,” she said. Unfortunately, that fantasy didn’t fly, as the oinker couldn’t breach the conference room.

Workplace stress is a real affliction, of course, but so is Instagram-oholism, especially among millennials. Which makes the office animal parties a major draw.

“We don’t put ordinary experiences from the office on our social feed,” notes Jeff Fromm, an author of books on the millennial generation, “just the extraordinary.”

The unconventional perks can also help employees forget—or at least forgive—their long work hours. Your 12-hour day may prevent you from owning a dog, but you can frolic with one on the clock.

“For many people today, particularly millennials, there is a definite blurring of the line between personal life and work,” said Jason Dorsey, president and co-founder of the Center for Generational Kinetics in Austin. “Millennials often know they won’t be able to retire, so why not have fun at work?”

Thanks to this trend, animal facilities across the country are accumulating miles on their little red wagons. Honey Hill Farm has led camels to a shipping logistics provider in Cincinnati (for Hump Day, of course) and released hopping kangaroos in its hallways. Brooklyn’s Foster Dogs has let its rescue pups loose at various New York offices. Austin-based Tiny Tails to You has chilled out such pressure-cooker players as Apple, Facebook, Dell and Whole Foods.

Of course, animal encounters during business hours can involve some risk, so keep a spare shirt and dry shampoo in your desk drawer.

“I don’t want her to go to the bathroom in your hair,” Squeals on Wheels’ Grant Phillips warned a Nest DC employee as a chicken blazed a northward trail.

Nest DC, a property management company, can’t seem to kick the critter habit. For its third Squeals on Wheels event in two years, some of the guests returned, but others didn’t receive an invitation.

“We didn’t bring the ducks this time,” said Grant, “because they kind of made a mess last year.”

Better-behaving birds Delilah and Henrietta, both bantam chicks, did attend. Baby teacup pig Thumbelina came wrapped in, yes, a blanket and slept through most of the two-hour stay. Nothing could rouse her. Not the squeaks of the guinea pigs or the carousel ride of hands passing her around like a hairy infant.

“I think everyone would be so much nicer if they could cuddle a pig once a week,” said Grace Langham, chief executive of Nest DC.

Employees at Dataprise in Rockville also discovered the calming effect of nuzzling with creatures, but their Xanax was puppies.

“I juggle multiple tasks,” said Charlie Chiochankitmun, a program manager, “so it’s nice to juggle multiple puppies instead.”

Homeward Trails Rescue Center in Fairfax Station, Va., supplied the quartet of pups, who ran, wrestled and relieved themselves around the break room. Employee Sarah Tabor raced over to a puddle in high-heeled boots, paper towels in hand.

Eight-week-old Taisha, Taima and Tabora scrambled down a hallway. Taima paused for a quick chew on an elegant green suede shoe still attached to a foot.

“It’s hard to be stressed with puppies running around,” said Katie Zelonka as she watched them dash past. “I don’t know how much we’re getting done, though. I should get back to my email.”

After 90 minutes, the puppies passed out under a kitchen table and the employees grudgingly returned to work, the dog hair on their clothes and the bite marks on their shoes serving as reminders to relax.

#workplace stress #petting zoo at office #Squeals on Wheels

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davidastbury · 7 years ago

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August 2017

Margaret ...1965 She had a flat in the All Saints district of Manchester, quite near to the big hospital. On summer evenings, with the window open, the noise of the ambulance sirens would have bothered most people, but she didn't mind. Her friends gave up trying to persuade her to join them - she preferred to stay at home during the week, reading or listening to music. The man from downstairs was a problem. She shouldn't have encouraged him by letting him in, but he was obviously lonely, and she had felt sorry for him. But then he started to get his drug kit out and she smoked with him. They would watch television and giggle - but afterwards hated herself. So she stopped answering her door when she knew it was him - she didn't want to see his worried face and his trembling hands; his dirty matchboxes and silver paper. So she would sit reading - any book would do - and look up when an ambulance passed - her face tightening with concern at the poor person being rushed to On the Train For a few miles the train ran parallel to a motorway and we were going a lot faster than the cars. A young couple have moved seats so that they can be together. We are all being quickly carried to our destinations - we have no control, no say in the matter. The young couple are sharing their food, pouring drinks, having a laugh about something and the lights have been dimmed as the future rushes towards them. Summer Nights A mad, hot night. Last year in a mini heatwave our little city was pretending to be New Orleans - music blaring, smoke of fast cooking, half-dressed people toppling over and laughing and the continuous rattle and bang of public pleasures. I was walking through all this, head down but seeing everything, hoping not be confronted with aggressive friendliness. Unexpectedly the people ahead started to split up, skipping unsteadily into the road. A police van was parked and several officers were standing over someone lying on the pavement. I was waved on - I couldn't see who it was or anything - there was a dark stain of some liquid - perhaps urine or alcohol or blood. We all moved on - we were an obstruction - we weren't wanted. And then I saw another policeman alone in a doorway He was just standing and staring. Early twenties I'd say, his shirt dark with sweat, black hair across his forehead and superb eyes - eyes as beautiful as a woman's staring into space - numbed with shock at human stupidity. Who Could Blame Them? They were absolute beginners- everything was new, untested, exciting. They knocked each other about with amorous cruelty; their kisses and betrayals leaving them marked for life. Eventually they returned to safe ground to lick their wounds and through the following decades look back and ask themselves - 'was that really me?' On The Train Fascinating face on platform 4. Woman in her fifties I'd guess. Why is her face fascinating ? Not had enough time to analyse but I suggest this theory:- we are instinctively drawn to a paradox: the regular, although pleasing, does not hold us. And the greatest paradox is when the face offers two different messages - the upper part gives a certain expression to the lower part. In this case, as I can remember it, her eyes are gentle but her mouth is set in a hard, uncompromising forcefulness. This doesn't occur in younger people but is fairly common in middle age and beyond. Mr Robinson I once worked at a firm where the golden rule was 'documentation'. Everything had to be written down - meetings with customers, phone conversations, follow-ups to enquiries, orders and transfers - everything. Not only did it have to be written down but it had to be written in only one type of black ball-point - the Bic Crystal. The firm used to buy dozens of boxes of these and they were stored in locked cabinets behind the desk of Mr Robinson. Whenever your pen ran dry (about twice weekly) you had to go to Mr Robinson and request a new one. He would sigh and look at you with hostility. 'And where is your old one?' - he would ask - because you had to present proof that your pen had expired. He would examine it and then, instead of tossing it into the rubbish bin (where someone might dishonestly retrieve it and return it for replacement) he would snap it in two. This involved some straining and heaving - the yellow bones of his knuckles showing through his skin. I remember how he turned his face away to avoid splinters when the pen fractured. I was sixteen - cocky and humorous - and had the impression that he would have liked to do that to my neck Going back isn't always a good idea - but there he was back to where it had all happened. It would have been nice to feel a connection; a confirmation of how he remembered things, but instead it was as if he had no part in anything. The trees had changed shape - the beach was smaller - the grass held no memory and the place knew him not. Couples I'm thinking of people we've met on holidays . A young couple from Liverpool in Tunisia - he Kurdish, open-faced and friendly; building up an ice-cream business. She as lovely as a film-star, accent like the Beatles, got herself a hairdressing shop and doing-very-well-thank-you. They had left their little boy at home with his grandma but his mum never stopped thinking about him. We got onto the subject of Kurdistan and yes, she had been there twice with her husband - met all his big family. I asked how she got along with them and she replied - 'The men are really nice... but the women were standoffish, they weren't friendly.' I remember the long silence. At first we all nodded, showing deep sympathy and then a unspoken humour appeared until it became a struggle to keep our faces straight. Tenerife - Hotel Restaurant, breakfast. All eyes on her as the waiter fusses her to a table - really, there is no need to walk backwards! She floats on the attention with only the slightest flicker of pleasure - as if born to be served. And then she exchanges a few words with her boyfriend, or husband or whatever he is. Her voice is pitched low so that even those very near won't catch it - she doesn't want to be heard, but she enjoys all the eyes being on her. And then a couple struggle their way through the tables, loaded with a baby and all the necessary equipment. He hollow-eyed and with a ginger beard; she with that slightly crazy look of new mothers. The baby, a girl I think, is installed in a high chair and starts drumming with a spoon - uneven tufts of hair shake about as she gazes at all the smiling strangers. Six Thousand Miles Away A priest called on her without any notice - just a knock on the door. He informed her that her mother had been arrested in California and was being held on drug charges. It was a shock but not a surprise. Apparently she had a lawyer and was getting help, but she wanted to see her daughter - a letter explaining everything was on the way. He gave her a sheet of paper with details of where the penitentiary was situated. When the priest had left she sat and remembered the tensions and troubles of her childhood - the instability and fights - the extravagant promises - the treatments - the start-ups and relapses - the succession of awful men, all greedy, drug ridden and over friendly - it was all hard-edged and unpleasant. California was five/six thousand miles away. She couldn't just drop everything and go. If her mother was ill she'd go to meet her without any hesitation - if she were ill she would rush to be with her - of course she would - what daughter wouldn't? Hotel Pool. Tenerife Hockney blue water and Topkapi tiling. Lovers, enjoying the semi- concealment, laugh and maul each other. Nymphs and brats frolic in the foam. I go deep into the turquoise thunder and see it all slide above me - the white hotel with blue railings - the dancing sun-umbrellas - the melting clouds - an orange triangle of bikini - white, perfect teeth - golden hair and nut-brown legs. The nice thing about being away on holiday is that priorities are reversed - the trivial becomes important. The rescue of a butterfly in a fountain attracts a crowd - a toddler splashing another is high drama - kites that will not fly draw masses of technical advice. I like to join the confusion in many languages - Germans looking at me think that I am German and I say 'Ja wohl ' and do my Friedrich Nietzsche face. Saudi Arabia There was nothing - thousands of miles of emptiness; nothing but sand and the occasional cluster of palm trees. What became known as the capital was given the name Riyadh, which means 'underground water'. The palm tree gives shade - it gives food, dates - it supplies fuel, slow burning wood - for construction purposes it has leaves to mix with clay for bricks and adobe, and hard wood for supports - the leaves can also be dried and woven into floor coverings and screens - even the ash after burning can be used as nourishment for plants. For hundreds of years the palm tree supplied comfort and shade for travellers, poets and storytellers. There was nothing else in Arabia, but from this austere beauty came Islam and then the black gold of crude oil. And that nothingness will surprise us again. Hotel Tenerife Met a woman in the hotel - originally from Germany but lived all over the world. She's at least 80, perfect English, smokes continuously ('and have done all my life'); gave up driving last year and misses it badly, sold her beloved Porsche but says she's going to buy a new one; loves London and is fighting to save Soho and Camden from the developers. She says outrageous things and you know at a glance that she isn't what the English call 'respectable'. She's thin and wears saffron coloured tops and creased linen trousers - which may be a throw back to a hippy past. There is a husband too, although I haven't seen him, and then she told me that he was staying 'Up in the room'. With a dismissive flick of cigarette ash and a wicked smile with half of her mouth, she added - 'Man-flu' A Near Miss Out in the hills in a mini-bus. Driver rolling with the wheel; cheerful music loud at full volume and still managing a shouting chat with his pal in the front seat. Cocky driving - all accelerator and brake. We all hold tight as he swings us on the hair-pin bends and look with dismay at the sheer down to a dried up riverbed far below. And then he gets his timing wrong and we very nearly go through the low wall - which would have been the end of us. But we were lucky - but only just. He resumed his shouting chat and his hairy arms wrestled with the wheel. I felt a rising anger, surely justified, at how our lives were at the whim of his caprice, and yet it was a sort of synthetic anger - not on my own behalf - more for the nice young couple in front of me, who were too busy looking at each other to see anything else. The Ghosts of Oxford Street It was said that if you walked the length of The Strand you would pass at least two murderers and one international spy. Today if you walk Oxford Street, preferably on a hot afternoon, it is likely you will meet the ghost of Dr Stephen Ward. Ward loved Oxford Street for two reasons - it had lots of coffee bars with huge windows and passing along those pavement was a parade of the prettiest young women in the country; perhaps in the world. He was well known in these coffee bars, always in a grey suit and white shirt, chain-smoking Player’s untipped cigarettes, sometimes alone sketching, sometimes talking with a friend, but always, always with an eye on the young women passing outside. And the women adored him. So many shared his flat and talked about his fussing over bathroom arrangements and disapproval at unsuitable boyfriends. The coffee bars closed down long ago. Friends The smiles and waves when leaving friends are insincere. The cheerful - ‘See you soon’ is bogus and everyone knows it is - but we play our parts because we have to. You don't want the music of their voices to fade away. You don't want to return to your own silences. You imagine the conversations continuing - you offer suggestions - you make jokes. But what you will miss most of all is the feeling of easy happiness - of undemanding happiness! And the certainty that nothing bad can happen. Ronnie He disliked me from day one. We shared the same office and I did my best to have as little contact as possible. What got him was probably my 60s cockiness and effete languor. He was double my age and had been through the war - apparently in Lancaster bombers. He viewed me with contempt, and he was much the same with the other people. We knew he was a bit weird - if something went wrong he would explode with rage, sort of hysterical, his voice high. And I would have never have known more about him if I hadn't been seated opposite him at the annual Christmas dinner. He was talking to the man on his left and I could hear what was going on. Ronnie was explaining why he couldn't use the offered ticket for a football match - he was unable to cope with excitement. As the evening drew out I learned a lot about him. Somehow he had managed to survive the war - Lancasters had a bad reputation, they were very difficult to get out of if you were hit - only 16% of airmen successfully made it. The crew would be in a state of terror throughout; drenched in sweat but shivering with the cold. When the war ended he found there was nothing for him. He called at the RAF places in Pall Mall, and he was humiliated. He was mentally ill at a time when it was regarded as shameful. He was offered a place at university but he didn't feel strong enough to study. He lived as a lodger on full board; he had a bedroom and use of facilities. He said it suited him better than having to cook and do things like shopping. I listened to all without looking at him and pictured him hanging up his hat and coat on a hook behind the door - the low ceiling and floral wallpaper - the suitcase under the bed - the wardrobe door that swings open - the light switch on the end of a cord - a neat pile of paperback thrillers - a cheap Timex watch - two pairs of highly polished shoes - and on the bedside table a small framed photograph of Winston Churchill. Mary Notnice… (1966). For Frances Mary was furious and it was best to keep out of her way. Later that day I thought she had calmed down a little and asked what was wrong. Apparently the boss has said to her that she looked like Sonny and Cher. I said that Cher is gorgeous. The boss had told her that she looked like Sonny. We hear about so many people being ill in one way or another. People sometimes say that they will pray that their friends will recover - but they don't know how to put this into words. I know that simple sincerity is the key, but structure is also important. I would like to offer this prayer for healing… ‘May the One who was a source of blessing for our ancestors, bring blessings of healing upon (recite the English/ Hebrew or just English name in full) a healing of body and a healing of spirit. May those in whose care they are entrusted, be gifted with wisdom and skill, and those who surround them, be gifted with love and trust, openness and support in their care. And may they be healed along with all those who are in need. Blessed are You, Source of healing. Amen.’ Mary Notnice ….(1965 and all that) She is the only one I would like to know more about - I am curious of what became of her. The rest of us - thrown together in that office in Cross Street Manchester - were very average and conventional. We posed and squawked, brimming with boasts and shrill ambitions, and the normal torments of pretentious young people - randy and restless, trusting and treacherous. But Mary was never part of our group; she distanced herself and nursed her anger. She would frown through her fringe - her pointed elbows keeping you at your distance. I remember how she wore a fluffy jumper of some sort, incongruously feminine, and commenting that it concealed needles - that got a laugh, and it now makes me ashamed. She disliked us and hardly ever joined in the conversations. I can still see her sitting by herself in the staff-room, her tea-cup empty and her hands out of sight. She sat like a painting, totally still, totally remote, totally self contained. It should have been enough. The sky opened and gave them everything - all their dreams came true, not just their dreams but even things beyond their dreams. It should have been enough. But it wasn't. Are You a Lesbian? She was in her bedroom, not properly dressed, just sprawling and thinking her own private thoughts when her mother came in - she didn't knock, she just came in. You could see she had a determined look, as if resolved to do something and was set on doing it. No preamble - out came the question - ‘Are you a lesbian?’ This was a continuation of an earlier conversation. They had talked about boys and the mother mentioned boys who had shown an interest. The girl hooted with laughter at her mother’s cringy suggestions. She choked with snorting derision. So the mother had been pondering a certain thread of thought. Hence the question - which was asked with that concerned, pained, but creepy expression that mothers use. The girl was shocked - real jaw-sagging incredulity - a mixture of astonishment and annoyance - she looked so alarmed that the mother backed off immediately, mumbling apologies - but at the same time pleased. Alone again, the girl stared at the ceiling and then grabbed her mobile to text her girlfriend. L'éducation Sentimentale Leonardo’s Madonna touched him with icy fingers and he moved away. Once he visited Italy and stood perfectly still in front of Primavera, by Botticelli, as she tossed flowers and smiled at him, romping and randy. Others called to him - Renoir’s sizzling nudes, golden girls in the river, water up to their hips, splashing and laughing. But he remained loyal to his Tess. She haunted him - and although he was never without a copy of the book, he could not read it again… Tess - the love of his life. On the Train Couple sitting at a diagonal to me - mid thirties at a guess. The speak together but don't look at each other; they listen only to the voice. Years ago, when they were getting to know each other they agreed not to have secrets and to tell each other everything. He told of the fears that had tormented him all his life; he also recounted his past - what he had done and what he would have liked to have done. She was shocked - and that was the end of it. And so he never mentions his secret fears but they haven't gone away - they crowd up and show in his face - and they are to be found (in a coded form) in everything he says  On the Train She must be a dancer! Long rangy limbs with the elasticity of the super fit - reaching and stretching for her cluster of bags and things. Fabulous angular face - beautiful bones that will never change - sharp shoulders - pointed chin - a jaw like a Lautrec - a profile like Buffet’s ‘Annabelle’ - pale grey ‘didn't-get-much-sleep-last-night’ eyes - front teeth showing in a childish sort of way - silver rings through her left nostril, girlish and yet puzzlingly androgynous - she’s like a boy who has decided to be a ballerina! But the train has been stopped and with the sun beating down we are feeling the heat. A man is struggling to open the windows. The dancer takes off her jumper and tosses it onto the opposite seat - in that quick movement, with her arms stretched fully above her head and wearing only a very abbreviated, sleeveless T-shirt, she showed off her thick black armpit hair. !’ Mischief in Patisserie Valerie I shouldn't make such assumptions when I see people, but this is too good to miss! Here is a normal looking young woman - she keeps glancing at the door, as if expecting someone. Her expression shows equanimity and patience, but you feel that her slow-blinking seriousness is actually a mask - her wondering, girlish gaze is a fake. She has a steady stream of boyfriends - few of whom hold her interest beyond a couple of weeks. There is a set routine - she annoys them. She does things that will irritate or embarrass them - when out on a date she might spill her drink down the front of his trousers - or she might borrow his iPad and delete some of his apps. When she sees the anger on his face she becomes contrite and compliant - and he softens - then she does something else to annoy him. It is her game and she plays it to perfection. If the boyfriend is clever he will join in, but mustn't give away that he knows - if he isn't clever, he's finished! Mary Temple (Minny) 1846-1870 Cousin of Henry James. She was intellectually brilliant, headstrong, restless, searingly honest. The photograph was taken at the age of 17 - after she had cropped her hair. As time ran out (she died at 24) she made a single demand:- ‘You must tell me something that you are sure is true.’ More birds than ever this morning. All waiting for me to go out in the rain and feed them. At the back of the garden, in the branches, a line of jackdaws, blinking and cawing - water dripping from their beaks. On the lower branches are pairs of wood-pigeons, but some single ones too - perhaps widows or widowers. I put out bread for them and a mix from a sack - wheat, sunflower, maize, oats, millet, dari, rapeseed oil. That will keep them happy for a while - and if they are happy I am happy. There is something that will make you smile and feel happy every time you come home. In your hall - the first thing you see - a little girl’s pink bicycle! She was in her second year at medical school and had already decided to be an opthalmologist. She used to sit in the library studying a book called ‘The Eye and Orbit’ and other titles dealing with surgery of the eye. She was called Jackie (Jacqueline) and she was the girlfriend of my friend Kevin. Kevin kept her very much to himself - we only saw him when he was alone. I once commented on this and he said that Jackie didn't like being in a crowd; she was shy and very quiet. But around that time there was some sort of incident on Oxford Road; very near to the medical library. A man was on the pavement and people were bunched up around him. Someone had phoned for help, but it wasn't clear what had happened - a woman said that he had fallen over in a fit of some sort. Another said that a man had come up and hit him and then ran off. He wasn't fully conscious. Jackie, apparently untroubled by shyness, announced that she was a medical student and that everyone must stand back and let her through. She knelt beside him and did all the things that doctors do in such situations - but - all the time she was working on the man her face was very close to his - very close - nearly touching. Later Kevin told about this - the incident with unconscious stranger and how Jackie had put her face over his. Of course, it was all about the eyes! But I said nothing, letting him work it out for himself. Rick He didn't want her to go but what could he do? He knew that she had intended going to university right from the start. They agreed to make the best of it - she would come home for the vacations and he would visit from time to time. And that's what they did; and for a while it was okay. But the journey to Cambridge from the North West is difficult - it isn't something you would do every weekend, even if you could afford it. So they saw less of each other. Inevitably, her new life began to fill her needs and her interest in Rick diminished; unfortunately his interest in her increased. And then it was all over. Rick didn't take up with anyone else - he took girls out to clubs and parties but there was never anyone ‘special’. He told someone that he was stuck and could not move on - no one felt right - that was his phrase - ‘No one felt right’. At the Jewellers #3 An unhappy customer! They should have ushered her into a private room and offered soothing words and sympathy - instead she's having a rant and everyone can hear - except me of course. Exiles Even a small kindness to a stranger can be important - it may seem insignificant but that unexpected friendliness will reconnect them to what they may have lost - a much greater kindness with other people - at another place - at another time. The Haunted House There had once been a double murder in the house and it was never again occupied. Gradually it became a ruin, the roof collapsed and tree branches grew through the windows. Naturally, to eight-year-olds it was a place of fear and wonderment and excitement. It stood alone and desolate and although we were told never to go near the place, we used to meet-up there and explore the dark rooms and broken stairway. Two areas were too terrifying to enter - the cellar and a kitchen scullery - it was where the bodies were found and the doors were nailed shut. As it grew dark we would take turns at telling ghost stories - we would creep up behind each other and scream. It was good fun, but we felt real fear too and we would all leave the place together - not quite holding hands, but very nearly. Once, as we came out of the country lane and back to civilisation - street lights and road traffic - I found that I’d left my jacket back at the haunted house. The jacket was important but even more were the items packed in the pockets, back-door key, knife, cash, and a Smiths pocket watch (yes, as a little boy I had pocket-watches) and other treasures. I had to go back and get it. I had to go back, in darkness, alone, down the lanes and across the fields to a place that even grown-ups shunned. I was shaking with fear. I could hear someone coming after me and it was Jack. He wasn't a best friend and he was younger. We didn't speak, and I knew he was as afraid as I was, but having someone next to me - even a seven-year-old - somehow made me stronger.

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