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kumkaniudaku · 2 months ago

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From Terrence, With Love

Summary: Terry goes out of his way for Patrice's Christmas gift.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: None.

Previous: TBT

MASTERLIST

"What about this one?"

Terry paused his web search through pages of office accessories to look up at his mother-in-law as she pushed a stroller toward his spot in a winding line. Rosalyn held out her phone for him to examine what she thought was a perfect armchair selection, hoping that her seemingly endless pursuit could finally reach a conclusion.

He scanned the olive green item with a careful eye before ultimately shaking his head. "I like it, but she's into oranges and yellows for her creative spaces. That's too muted."

"Oh Lord, Terry. I love how dedicated you are to this, but I'll be doggone if this ain't takin' years off my life. You trynna get rid of me?"

"No, ma'am," he chuckled as he stepped forward to make space for her beside him. "I just want it to be perfect. She's been wanting a little spot just for her, and I want her to love it, you know?"

"That's very thoughtful. It's driving me and my baby crazy, but thoughtful nonetheless. Ain't that right, Nyla Bee?"

Raspy giggles and loud shrieks from the 16-month-old sitting in her reserved seat made both adults smile. A combination of watered-down juice and cinnamon roll crumbs coated her cherub cheeks in a way that would make her mother shake with frustration if she were present. Though her grandmothers found the sight adorable, Terry knew the consequences coming if Patrice ever found out how much junk he'd allowed Nyla to consume in only a few short hours.

Terry lifted Nyla from her seat and used a large hand to dust off her face to the best of his ability before peppering her cheek with soft kisses. She leaned into her daddy's affection, using all her might to hug his head.

He laughed before giving her a final kiss with a loud 'mwuah' to boot. "We gotta get you a nap before we get home, little one." He turned to Rosalyn. "Treece call while y'all were away?"

"You know she did, but don't worry, we didn't give you up. Dee got her off the phone by asking if she had a minute to talk about the church bake sale."

"Mama doesn't go to church."

"Exactly."

Terry laughed. "Telling a fib here and there is her hidden superpower. "Where is she anyway?"

"She stopped into that little children's boutique downstairs when she saw they had a sale going on."

"Another one of her superpowers. There's not a discount on this Earth that she won't find."

"A woman that speaks my language!"

A swell of chatter at the front of the line pulled Rosalyn and Terry's attention away from their conversation to crane their necks for answers. After nearly an hour of waiting, the guest of honor had arrived.

Her long, greying sister locs swung in a low ponytail against her multicolored caftan as she waved enthusiastically at the crowd of fans eager to have a 90-second conversation with her. Terry couldn't say he was familiar with Sarraya Wylie's work, but he slept next to her biggest fan every night. Each of her novels had a place on Patrice's bookshelf, all with worn pages that had seen numerous turns in their lifetime. From stories of hidden Black civilizations in distant lands to essays about the importance of Afro-Futurism in literature, she'd been a staple in his wife's love of science fiction.

So, when he heard from an online community group that she'd been in town causing traffic near the mall as part of her most recent book tour, Terry jumped at the opportunity to schedule time away and spend any money necessary to have her write a personal message to love of his life as part of an elaborate Christmas gift.

He schemed and planned, telling little lies about his whereabouts for the afternoon and roping others into his tales. Her mother and his mother agreed to tag along as alibis and babysitters in one while he sent Patrice on her way to enjoy brunch and a movie with her girls. He figured if all else failed and his plan fell through, at least she'd be tipsy and full when he got home.

Rosalyn hummed in approval of Sarraya. "Never thought I'd see her in person after all the money I've spent on her. Pretty lady."

"And that dress is fabulous. I think I could make one at home if I get close enough to see the pattern."

Diedra admired the author's outfit from afar as she approached the others with her phone in the air to snap a picture.

Terry rolled his eyes and gently pushed her wrists to lower the device. "Ma, that's weird. You can't take pictures of strangers."

"Terrence, I am grown," she advised, cutting her eyes toward him. "Plus, I can't see the damn thing from here anyway."

"Language in front of the baby, Mama."

Noticing her mistake, DeeDee mouthed a sorry at her son before poking at Nyla's belly.

"Maman's sorry for saying bad words that you don't understand, Pumpkin. Don't repeat any of this at home. Wait until you're at least 16."

"Or never. Maman's gonna get you in trouble with your mommy," Terrence corrected, his voice inflections changing into silly baby talk.

Though generally playful and kind with her baby girl, Patrice was strict about what influenced Nylah's development. If anything penetrated the wall of carefully selected baby books and enrichment activities, there would be hell to pay, and Terry wasn't interested in footing the bill.

DeeDee kissed her teeth while Rosalyn chuckled in the background. "You hear that, Ros? They start getting a little older and want to tell you what to do. Crazy, ain't it?"

"He acts just like Patrice. My mama ain't been gone but a few months, and the Lord already sent me another one."

"We just care about y'all. You rather we leave you out in the cold?"

"I'm just sayin' that you only just started raisin' babies," DeeDee answered as she stuffed a clothing bag into the stroller's undercarriage. "I raised you plus two more. I'll be alright."

"Tell him again."

"I will be alright. But I'll always love you, my sweet boy."

His mother's way of cleaning up verbal messes with sweet words made Terry grin and shake his head. A few hours with the two women responsible for his current life had taught him two things: he and Patrice hadn't been able to hide a single thing from them, and if Nyla inherited even a fraction of their personalities, he was in for a treat come her pre-teen years.

As they stood in a line that moved at a snail's pace, Diedra and Rosalyn detailed all the times they'd noticed the beginning of love between their children and had spirited discussions about who would pay for the eventual wedding and contingency plans should an accident arise. Terry listened with a mixture of shock and amusement, laughing at each new revelation and Nyla's need to feel included with her mix of real words and toddler babble.

"So you knew about the whole graduation thing," Terry asked his mother as they inched forward.

"We had an idea because both of you wear your emotions all over your face," DeeDee laughed. "You couldn't let go of her. She couldn't stop smiling at you. I was prepared to physically separate y'all."

"Then here Dee comes callin' me and Leon talkin' about a baby fund and makin' you propose. It was a whole thing," Rosalyn laughed.

Terry shook his head and adjusted Nyla in his arms, getting a good look at her furrowed brow as she toyed with the buttons on her father's jacket. Perseverant and singularly focused like her mother.

"Nah, you didn't have to worry about that. Treece had already told me she wasn't saying yes to any proposal and wasn't having a single one of my kids before she graduated. You know how she is."

"Mhmm. Good for her. Miles better than the other options you had rollin' through my kitchen every other year."

Rosalyn's eyebrows rose in amusement. "Oh yeah? I gotta hear this."

"Mom!"

"What?" Diedra playfully elbowed Rosalyn, knowing full well that she was annoying her oldest child. She persisted with a sneaky smile. "I'm just saying I've never seen so many beautiful yet…simple young ladies in my life. What was the last one's name? Monique? Gorgeous girl. Empty head."

Simple was the tip of the iceberg. A desire to escape the pain of losing Patrice and the folly of youth sent Terry down a winding road of pretty and vapid women. Every few months, he'd try to replicate the exciting bond he shared with his first love, only to find that she was, indeed, one of a kind. And no matter how he'd try to coach Alexandria, Constance, or Monet into the mold that Patrice had left behind, they never quite fit the bill. There were plenty of Donners and Blitzens. There was only one Rudolph.

"Monique was not her name, but none of that matters. My baby is a scholar, and that's my favorite thing about her. That's why I'm standing in line with all these strange kids now."

Diedra and Rosalyn let Terry's comment pass without a response as they shuffled forward in line. For close to an hour, fanboys and girls alike filed up to the small black table to participate in the same sequence of events: quick hello, incoherent personal story, photo, repeat.

Terry watched each interaction as he split his attention between his ladies and the action around them. He noticed every chat forcibly cut short by nearby security and every time Sarraya subtly rolled her eyes at an overzealous reader telling her about the "hidden" themes in work she poured over alone. He saw her begin to get agitated at the hour mark and ask for a break that was never granted. As time crept by and his accomplices took off in search of rest for weary feet and more interesting surroundings, he wondered how much longer he could entertain a toddler inside a bland bookstore.

Against his better judgment, he gave in to the device demon and handed over his cell phone for animated Christmas videos to stretch the last bits of peace Nyla would allow.

"Mommy!" Her voice penetrated Terry's thoughts as he rubbed his aching temples.

He sighed before answering. "Not yet, baby. We should be home soon. I don't know why I'm sayin' that to you. It's not true, and you don't know what soon means."

Nyla remained undeterred, continuing to chant for her mother until Terry opened his eyes to get a good look at what was causing the disturbance. In her hand, Patrice's smiling face took up his phone's entire screen as an incoming call caused the device to buzz against the drink tray attached to her stroller. He rushed to answer, hoping that she couldn't hear the commotion in the immediate area.

"Hey, TJ," Patrice greeted, the words becoming muffled in the background noise pumping through her receiver. "You busy?"

Her soft and small voice was a welcomed relief from the chaos and a clear sign of what she'd been up to in her afternoon absence. Terry smiled and matched her energy.

"Never too busy for you, baby. Everything okay?"

"Yeah. I just called to say I miss you and I love you. Do you still love me even though I'm gone?"

"Of course, baby. I love you all the time. Mean it," He answered, trying to bite back his smile and remain sincere. "Treece, you been drinkin'? Be honest with me."

A long pause and a sniffle preceded her answer. "A little."

A lot.

On too many occasions, Terry found himself on the other end of a slurred phone call with Patrice, trying to decipher what was driving her into tearful confessions about nothing or full-on lyric screaming with her two friends as hype women. Today, she was fighting an emotional rollercoaster and the desire to sob in a restaurant bathroom.

"Oh, don't cry, baby. You're too pretty to cry off all the makeup you worked so hard on."

"Okay," Patrice answered, the pout still evident in her tone. "Why are you at the mall?"

The sugar-sweet moment quickly took a wrong turn into blinding anxiety as Terry searched his brain for an answer. For all his careful preparation, turning off his location had seeped through the cracks. A lie would suffice. She was tipsy enough to believe him. But he hated lying to Patrice, especially after all the lying he'd done to shake free for the afternoon. He scrambled for an answer.

"Uh, I stopped by to grab some lunch. Had to get away from the boys because I didn't wanna get hungry and mean."

Patrice squealed at his mention of being near the food court, completely ignoring Terry's tale's shakiness in search of her own wish fulfillment.

"Ohmygosh! Babe, can you get a picture of Sarraya if you walk by the bookstore? I heard she was there and I really need to see her. Please, please, please."

Terry chuckled at her excitement running head-on into his surprise and fought every urge to spill the beans. "I'll do what I can, okay? You be safe for me. Tell Vicky and Phee to bring you back home in one piece, or we gon' have a problem."

"Boy, ain't nobody worried about you!"

"At all. You just big."

"Don't be worried about me. Be worried about my wife," He answered with a laugh just as an announcement from the front of the line caught his attention.

The sudden screech of a microphone startled Nyla into a short scream that snuck past the safety measures Terry had put in place. Patrice threw herself into a tizzy at the sound.

"Is that a baby? Have you talked to Ny? Do I need to check on her again?"

Patrice's inebriated panicking forced Terry back into stress-induced sweating and an uncharacteristic stutter. "She - she's okay. I gotta go, baby. I'll call you back. Love you."

Terry was sure he'd pay for hanging up so abruptly, but desperate times and a scared toddler required quick thinking. He rushed to lift Nyla from her seat and soothe her discomfort while craning his neck to hear the tail end of the announcement.

"Sorry for the inconvenience, everyone. She should be back in about an hour. Someone is coming through the line to hand out numbers. We'll honor them when things resume. Thanks for your patience."

"An hour," Terry questioned as a young woman with red tickets approached. "Yo, I don't have an hour. We've already been here for a long time. What can I do?"

She shrugged and tore a piece from her roll. "Nothing really, dude. She said she needed a break, and I just work here during the holidays. You want this or not?"

The frustration boiling inside every cavity of his chest threatened to send Terry into a tailspin. He forced back his misguided desire to escalate the situation and pulled the scrap of paper from the young woman's hands with a huff.

A look at solemn faces filing out of line gave him some hope that things might move faster when the time came while he considered his options. His fingers typed away at his phone screen, searching for the right mix of sob story and bribery to convince his conspirators to take Nyla and afford him another 60 grueling minutes of waiting, completely unaware of the tired woman and small entourage passing him by on the way to the back of the store.

"Bye-bye!" Nyla's farewell was enough to grab her father's attention, but it resonated over the mixture of sounds in the immediate area to make Sarraya stop in her tracks and search for the source. Nyla made her presence known with her newest waving skill and a smile featuring only a few teeth.

Sarraya waved back with equal enthusiasm. "No, this is hello, beautiful. Are you not the cutest little thing in the world?"

With renewed energy, the author pushed her way past the large men flanking her to meet the only person who had excited her all day. Her approach and Nyla's enthusiastic wiggling finally earned Terry's attention just as Sarraya was close enough to speak.

"What's her name?" she asked with a thick Philadelphia accent, her knees bent to get eye-level with Nyla.

Terry smiled. "This is Nyla Naomi. Say hi, baby."

Nyla didn't need the prompting. Ever the people person, she greeted and babbled for all to see, garnering a heartfelt chorus of 'oohs' and 'ahhs.' Sarraya seemed to melt at the excited greeting as she spoke back to Nyla as if she were old enough to carry a conversation.

"And what brings you here to see me? Can you read already? I can tell you're so smart!"

"She does love your books during storytime with her mama. We like to mix up the baby books with some more complex stuff every once in a while. Between Two Worlds is her favorite. The one where Malachi and Toriah try to communicate between Earth and the New World, right?"

Maybe Terry had been listening to Patrice read more than he thought. His recollection of her third book's plot made Sarraya look up at him with a smile.

"Wow, a house full of fans. That's a first for me."

"All thanks to my wife," he chuckled as Nyla attempted to play peekaboo with her new friend. "She has your whole collection. Been a fan since our senior year of high school and now she's passing it down."

Sarraya beamed at the information. "That is incredible. I'm glad to have you here today. May I?"

Terry happily granted her request to hold Nyla, carefully transferring her between adults until she was comfortably in Sarraya's arms. When she was safe, Nyla gingerly laid her head on Sarraya's shoulder and popped her thumb into her mouth to self-soothe. Sarraya instantly hugged her tighter and pretended to cry.

"This is the best thing to happen to me in weeks. She makes me miss when my babies were little."

"It's an amazing experience, right? She's our first."

"You all are incredibly blessed." She smiled down at Nyla before dancing her fingers across her small belly to induce giggles. "I'd love to say hi to mom. It's the least I could do for all this trouble."

"Are you sure? I don't wanna hold you up from your break."

"Oh, nonsense. Y'all are the first folks I've met all day who look like me and haven't tried to tell me what I meant with my words. Please, allow me to say thank you."

Fifteen minutes of photos, videos, and a heartfelt message neatly written in script inside the book's front cover quickly became the most extravagant 'thank you' Terry had ever received. One day, when she was old enough, he'd tell Nyla about how her mere existence secured a gift for her mother. For now, she'd have to live with a forbidden taste of tart frozen yogurt from Terry, a flurry of kisses on her sticky face, and another talking stuffed animal for her services.

By Christmas morning weeks later, Nyla was less interested in meeting a renowned artist and more concerned with the shrill music emanating from the brand new mini grand piano her Aunt Zorah had purchased.

Heaps upon heaps of toys, clothes, and the like covered their living room floor to celebrate her first real Christmas and the family's first opportunity to see the day through the eyes of a small child. Junior sat on the floor beside her, comically rapping the ABCs into a small mic while Nyla plunked away at the keys to back him up. Both sets of grandparents searched for the perfect recording angle to grab sentimental momentos to show friends and coworkers in the new year. Her aunts and Imani happily put together outfits and folded clothes to help with the clean-up process.

Terry and Patrice worked together in the kitchen to prepare for Christmas breakfast as they watched controlled chaos unfold in the next room. Terry tore his eyes away from the family to glance at Patrice, who leaned against the counter in a pajama set that matched his and Nyla's. She smiled at nothing in particular.

He slowly wrapped an arm around her waist to pull her in for a kiss on the temple. "Sneak away with me right quick. I wanna show you something."

An excited squeeze to her sides made Patrice turn in Terry's arms to get a better look at his smiling face. "I thought we were waiting until tonight for gifts together."

"I'm callin' an audible."

"You act like I know what that means."

"C'mon, girl," he chuckled, lacing their fingers together to lead them out of the kitchen. "It'll be quick. Promise."

With all eyes on the superstar of the family, Patrice and Terry snuck past the commotion and down the hallway to their second spare bedroom. Terry's gentle instruction to close and cover her eyes was surprisingly met with no pushback and an excited wiggle from Patrice. No amount of carefully planned theatrics could hide the fact that she'd snooped long and hard to discover a secret Terry wasn't trying to hide. He was always a few steps ahead of his exceptionally nosey lover.

Patrice allowed Terry to gently push her into the room while she danced on her tiptoes. She listened for the soft click of the door closing and Terry's deep voice relaying directions.

"You peekin'," He asked, a smile evident in his voice as he tapped her backside on his way to the other side of the room.

"No, but I'm about to. Hurry!"

Terry gripped her from behind and rested his chin on her shoulder. "Let me give you my speech first. Act like we've been doin' this for a while." He listened to Patrice groan in impatient agony while he chuckled in her ear, purposefully drawing out the moment to get her back for sneaking behind his back. "I have always loved how much you love words and books. That's where we met. That's where I've seen you the happiest. And now, this is where I hope you'll wanna take your breaks and share the gift of reading with our little girl. Go ahead and look at your library, baby."

Patrice voiced her excitement through a quiet squeal just as she lowered her hand to get a look at her new surroundings. Three floor-to-ceiling bookcases teaming with her favorite souvenirs and enough room to add more pressed against walls covered in beautiful wallpaper made the room look like a photo from Architectural Digest. She could tell where her mother-in-law had spent time arranging the pillows and blanket in her new reading chair and that some combination of her mother and Terry had chosen the perfect orange tone as a nod to her favorite color.

A gallery wall above the guest day bed featured the faces of all her favorite people, with her husband and daughter from Nyla's first birthday party beaming in the center. A new record player and all her favorite records rested on a small console table fashioned into a bar to satisfy her craving for a secret cocktail or two on the weekends. She regarded it all with childlike wonder, bouncing from section to section as Terry watched from her armchair with a proud smile.

"This is amazing, baby. Thank you so much," she finally complimented while bracing herself on his shoulders to settle in his lap. Terry's warm hand took a slow journey up the side of her thigh to rest on her backside with a gentle grip as she spoke against his mouth. "I promise to let you in here at least twice a week. Three times if you ask nice."

"Mm, you just like to see me beg."

"No, baby, I love to see you beg. I hope I got that for Christmas, too."

Slow kisses, equally sweet and sensual, preceded another trickle of information. Terry pulled away first to speak. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"You know you can," she answered between small pecks to the corner of his mouth while she cradled his head, unwilling to part with his affection.

"This isn't the real gift." Patrice paused her worship to give Terry's wide grin a skeptical eyebrow raise. "I got you something else."

He watched the slow shift from confusion to joy as he dramatically lifted the carefully hidden collector's edition hardcover book from beneath their shared seat.

"Honey," she cooed, her jaw dropping to make room for a loud gasp while she examined the front cover. "You got it! Did I tell you how much I wanted her new book or was this a guess?"

"You might've said something over the phone once, but we don't have to rehash that. Take a look at the inside."

Eager fingers pried open fresh pages and an untouched book spine, introducing her to a handwritten message in beautiful cursive that she read aloud.

"Patrice - thank you for keeping the transformative power of literature alive with the next generation. I'm sorry we didn't get the chance to meet, but Nyla told me so much about you. Until next time, I pray The Creator becomes a new staple in your library. From Sarraya, Nyla, and Terrence with love."

"I'll save the video for tonight so we can cry together," Terry spoke before kissing Patrice's cheek. "She loved Ny. I think they have a coffee date scheduled for next week. I don't know if we're invited."

Patrice laughed while flipping through the pages. "I'm gonna crash it, I don't care. They'll understand."

Terry chuckled and squeezed tighter.

"Everything to your liking? I wanna make sure you're happy."

His usual search for praise and approval came with puppy-dog eyes that scanned Patrice's face for any sign of discontent. He found none - only the beginnings of a tearful smile conveying more than words ever could.

"You make me happy, Pooh. Sometimes, I don't do a worthwhile job of letting you know how much I appreciate you. Not for what you do, but for just being Terrence."

"You do. And I love you the same. Always," he answered. His hold on her waist kept Patrice steady long enough for a short, tender kiss before her jittering in his lap was too much to tame. He used his thumb to swipe the bottom of her lip clean and smiled. "I know you can't wait to show Imani. Go ahead. Make sure you brag on me a little. It feels good."

"Oh my God, finally! Moanie, girl, Sarraya, and I are besties! Look what my man got me!"

While Patrice rushed to talk a mile a minute about her favorite gift to date, Terry carefully reset the pillows in her chair to return her sanctuary to mint condition. He took a long look around the room, smiling at the work he'd accomplished until he stopped short at the door for a final once-over.

His fingers flipped the switch as he mumbled an affirmation to himself. "Yeah, that's definitely enough for three visits a week. I don't know what the hell she talkin' about."

-------

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#aaron pierre #terry richmond #terry richmond x oc #rebel ridge #ficmas

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literaryvein-reblogs · 6 months ago

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Word List: Fashion History

to try to include in your poem/story (pt. 2/3)

Exomis - a short, asymmetrical wrap garment pinned at the left shoulder, worn by men in Ancient Greece

Eye of Horus - or Wedjat eye, is an ancient Egyptian symbol that represents the eye of the falcon-headed god Horus and symbolizes healing and regeneration and was often worn for protection

Faience - a man-made ceramic material that was often used in ancient Egypt to make jewelry and devotional objects; it is usually a blue color

Falling Band - a flat and broad white collar often with lace on the edges, worn by men and women in the 17th century

Fibula - served as a pin to both hold garments together and to show status of those with prestige or power within society; was popular in Greek culture

Fichu - a triangular shawl, usually worn by women, draped over the shoulders and crossed or fastened in the front

Fontange - a linen cap with layers of lace and ribbon, worn flat and pinned to the back of the head

French Hood - a rounded headdress for women that was popular in the 16th century (from 1540)

Frock Coat - a collared man’s coat worn through the eighteenth to the twentieth century; rose to prominence mainly in the nineteenth century, especially Victorian England; characterized as a knee-length overcoat, buttoned down to the waist, that drapes over the lower half of the body like a skirt

Frogging - ornamental braid or cording that can function as a garment closure, or be solely decorative

Gabled Hood - a woman’s headdress that is wired to create a point at the top of the head and has fabric that drapes from the back of the head

Gigot Sleeve - a sleeve that was full at the shoulder and became tightly fitted to the wrist; also called leg-of-mutton sleeve

Guipure Lace - a type of continuous bobbin lace made without a mesh ground; its motifs are connected by bridges or plaits

Himation - a rectangular cloak wrapped around the body and thrown over the left shoulder worn by the ancient Greeks

Huipilli/Huipil - a woven rectangular shirt worn by women in Central America beginning in ancient times

Jerkin - a close-fitting men’s jacket, often worn for warmth, sometimes without sleeves; worn over a doublet in the 16th and 17th centuries

Justaucorps - a long-sleeved, knee-length coat worn by men after 1666 and throughout the 18th century

Kaftan - (also caftan) is an ancient garment, which originated in ancient Persia but then spread across Central and Western Asia; a kind of robe or tunic that was worn by both men and women

Katazome (stencil printing) - a traditional Japanese method for printing designs onto fabric using a stencil and paste-resist dyes

Kaunakes - one of the earliest forms of clothing; made from goat or sheep’s wool and meant to be worn around the waist like a skirt, it is recognizable by its fringe detailing

Kente - a Ghanaian strip woven textile that has striped patterns and bright colors with corresponding meanings

Knickerbockers - or “knickers” are full or baggy trousers gathered at the knee or just below and usually fastened with either a button or buckle; were initially worn by men in the late 19th century and gradually became part of women’s fashion; the garment was usually worn as sportswear and became especially popular among golfers and female cyclists, hence the term “pedal pushers”

Kohl - a black material made out of minerals such as galena and used for eyeliner and eye protection in ancient Egypt

Labret - a type of lip-piercing worn by various cultures to indicate wealth, prosperity and beauty

Love Lock - a lock of hair from the nape of the neck hanging over the chest to show romantic attachment; it was a popular hairstyle between 1590-1650

Lurex - a shiny synthetic fiber made of aluminum-coated plastic with a glittering metallic sheen

Mantua - a jacket-like bodice with pulled back overskirt that bustled in the back, often in elaborately patterned fabric, first worn in the 17th century

Medici Collar - a collar that stands upright on the back of the neck and opens in the front; this type of ruff was introduced to France by Marie de’ Medici in the 16th century, taking her name two centuries later

Moccasins - a type of soft animal skin shoe that were worn by Indians in North America

Muff - a tubular padded covering of fur or fabric, into which both hands are placed for warmth

Mule - a backless shoe

Muslin - a simple plain-weave textile made out of cotton and available in varying weights and finishes; historically, there were also varieties of muslin in silk and wool

Needle Lace -often known as “needlepoint lace”; is a term referring to the technique in which the lace is made of entirely needle work; it developed in the 15th century and then became very popular throughout the 16th century

Nemes Headdress - starched, striped linen headdress that draped on the shoulders and had a tail at center back worn only by royals in ancient Egypt

Panes/Paning - a method of decoration using long parallel strips of fabric arranged to reveal a contrasting fabric underneath that was fashionable from the 15th-17th centuries

Panniers - an under-structure used in eighteenth-century fashion that created a shape wide at the sides and flat at the front and back

Pantalettes - (also referred to as pantaloons) are loose, pants-like undergarments that covered women’s lower halves in the late 18th and early 19th century

Particolored - the combination of different colors within the same garment along the vertical axis

Passementerie - an additional accent or embellishment in silk or metallic threads, such as an embroidered braid, tassel or fringe

Pattens - wooden-soled platform over-shoes, which were commonly worn from the 14th century to the 18th century

If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, please tag me, or leave a link in the replies. I would love to read them!

More: Fashion History ⚜ Word Lists

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lais-a-ramos · 4 days ago

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oh, a fun fact:

in netflix brasil's subtitles, they translated lottie's famous "kelly kapowski" mention to refer to allie in pilot episode as "patricinha", which is a Brazilian slang for "preppy girl" in US or "posh" in UK

that's very interesting for all the popular girl lottie debate

bc, even if you are like me and didn't grew up on "saved by the bell", if do a quick research on kelly kapowski you will find out that she was far from the stereotype of the mean popular girl that we got used to see in 00s teen movies like mean girls, and which is the main stsreotype for this type of girls in many countries, including here in Brazil

and, yet, a lot of her plotlines in the show revolved around boys and being popular

so, that indicates that lottie had a bit of a disdain for things like social status and caring about boys

and, sure, many ppl assume that she would love these things bc she was born rich

but they sort of forget about all those ppl that loathe these things like socializing and social status because they were born rich and never quite fitted in

and that's sort of what makes lottie an interesting character from the get-go, bc while she does loathe some of these things, she still likes a bit of the comfort that comes with being rich, as we can see by her feeling a bit happy when the girls got impressed with the jet her dad got for the team, or in adult timeline when we see her fancy caftans and that rolex she wears

there's obviously more to say about that popular girl! lottie debate, especially how ppl overlook her textual characterization as a more introverted girl who is oftenly described by courtney eaton herself as a "pushover" and this might be connected to the "hot-blooded" stereotype that ppl usually place on people of color and especially brown people

but that's a short observation on how much of a complex character lottie matthews is ig

#yellowjackets #lottie matthews #yellowjackets season 1 #yellowjackets 1x01

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lotties-ashwagandha · 1 year ago

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POLAROIDS

pairing: lottie matthews x fem!reader

word count: 705

notes: this ended rlly abruptly and is short but ive been sick and im on my period so im a bit out of it rn . also not proofread

summary: you find old pictures of you and lottie when you were in high school, and she reminds you of how bad you played the long game with her. requested by @may-z3 <333

You sat on the floor, next to where the spilled pile of pictures laid, and dug through them. There were years worth of them, most of them random shots you’d taken during Lottie’s soccer games but many of them also pictures with each other that you’d made Shauna and Jackie take during sleepovers or when you went out for pizza after games. There were also a few candids of Lottie that you’d snuck, and looking back at them you resisted a laugh — if only you’d known then that all these years later you’d still be with her, that you would wake up with her every morning and go to bed with her each night.

There were even a few pictures of the two of you post-crash. There were less of them than the ones before, and it was obvious how much the two of you had been struggling when you took them, but they were beautiful nonetheless.

A knock at the open door caught your attention, and you turned to see Lottie leaning against the doorframe, watching you with a soft smile. She was radiant, as she always was, clad in her dark blue caftan, her dark hair hanging over her shoulders and down her back in heavenly waves.

“What are you looking at?” She asked, her voice like honey as she approached you and sat on her knees on the floor at your side.

“I was trying to clean the closet for once, and all of these fell out,” you said, and handed her a few pictures of the two of you by the field at one of her soccer games. “Most of them are before the crash, and they’re so…” you trailed off, nostalgia overcoming you, and you reached for her hand.

Lottie picked up another picture and giggled, and when you reached for it she hid it to her chest, shaking her head. “No, you can’t have this one.”

“Why not? What is it?”

“I took it,” she said, but she wouldn’t provide any explanation.

“Lottie,” you asked suspiciously, failing to suppress a smile, “what is the picture?”

She didn’t respond, and your jaw dropped.

“Is it dirty?” You asked, and her eyes widened.

“No!” She urged, shaking her head. “God, your mind is horrible, no, it’s not dirty. I got pissed at you one night when we were at a sleepover at Shauna’s and I… I painted your face while you were asleep. Just a little. But then Lara Lee made me take it off.”

“What the fuck?” You asked, your tone light, and you snatched the picture. In it you were laying in a sleeping bag in Shauna’s room, and the words I LOVE STINKY ASSHOLES had been painted on your face in what appeared to be red lipstick. “Oh my god,” you breathed, not sure whether you were going to laugh or cry, and beside you Lottie turned red.

“I was mad because you weren’t going to prom, and I didn’t have the courage to ask you to go with me,” Lottie explained, her embarrassment obvious. “But in my defense, I was getting incredibly mixed signals with you long gaming me.”

“Oh, I was not long gaming you!” You laughed, shaking your head. “I was just terrified that you’d reject me.”

She gave you a dubious look, raising her eyebrows. “It’s the same thing.”

“In any case, I won in the end,” you said. “So even if I was playing the long game with you, it worked out pretty well.”

“Don’t make me paint your face again in your sleep.”

“I feel like that’s an empty threat,” you decided, handing her back the picture of you with your face painted. “You can keep that picture, though, if you want to reflect on your past victory.”

“Oh, I’ll be framing it,” she smirked. “I’ll put it on the dresser so you can see it every morning.”

#lottie mathews x reader #lottie matthews #yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader

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lizzybeth1986 · 9 months ago

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Laylat al-Henna

Book: The Royal Romance

Rating: PG

Pairing: Kiara Theron x Hana Lee

Word Count: 1, 882 words

Summary: It's the night before Kiara and Hana's wedding! What fun things do Kiara's cousins from Fes have in store for their henna night?

A/N: You'll find details and visuals on the fashion and henna designs (as well as faceclaims for the OCs!) in this post.

Tagging @kiaratheronappreciationweek for KTAW Day 1: Culture, @choicesficwriterscreations for FoTW/LGBTQ Archive, @choicespride as well even though it may be a bit early for the pride event.

It is tradition - Kiara has been told over and over, wedding after wedding, from the time she was twelve - for a woman to have her bridegroom's name hidden in the designs of her henna.

Their families back in Fes would make a game of it on their wedding night; the groom could touch his bride only when he found his name, tiny and dark and perfect - leaving the most beautiful stain on her palms.

At least four (well...three, really) of those cousins had giggled over how it all went down at their own wedding nights. Nour's henna had her husband's name written in extremely small print, squirreled away among a row of curls. Imane's flowed along the curves of a large, floral paisley. Nissrine's husband was rumoured to have taken hours searching for his name in her henna and poor Fatimazahra's collapsed into an eight-hour slumber before he could even truly try.

All four of them laughed even harder when they were told that Kiara would be marrying a woman.

At first Kiara assumed it had to be the fun of celebrating two brides rather than just one. Double the joy, double the dancing, double the bridal henna!

Should've known better, Kiara mutters to herself as her eyes search frantically for telltale signs of calligraphy along the darkened vines on Hana's palm.

She almost lets out a triumphant yell when she catches a lovingly inscribed kaaf, deceptively mirroring the vines. That's before she realises the other four letters are scattered in Arabic all over Hana's palm.

Kiara purses her lips, immensely annoyed. Why did she think this to be so romantic in the first place?

"Oh!" Hana whispers in delight, "Look! I've found mine." Her finger lightly traces the soft skin underneath Kiara's little finger, caressing the spot where her own name is inscribed, in Mandarin....as a whole word. Her eyes sparkle in childlike glee.

Kiara manages to catche an alif peeking out from behind a flower on the soft skin just below Hana's thumb. She lets out a small huff of laughter, shaking her head.

Perhaps she should thank every deity of every faith that her parents' gave her a name as short as Kiara. Imagine her plight if it had been as long as Fatimazahra's, zut alors.

"My darling cousins," she says, her eyes still roaming over Hana's palms. Now...now she understands all those hearty cackles Nour seemed to be making, at the idea of arranging a henna party for two women. "Elles me conduiront à ma tombe!"

Every woman at the henna party in Castelserraillan that night shared very knowing grins as Kiara and Hana entered - completely blissed out, skin dewy and aglow, a mixture of a french lavender scent and the earthy aroma of ghassoul clay emanating from their bodies.

They'd been brought into the hall like princesses of old, carried in jewelled palanquins, dressed in caftans and takchitas whose golden threads reflected the soft light of the hall, the candles that seemed to receive their own henna treatment in tones of pink, purple and rose gold, and their light glowed softly in trays of pure gold.

Having experienced the joys of the pre-henna night hammam baths themselves, most of Kiara's aunts and cousins could tell how good the treatments must have been within the first ten minutes of a bride entering the ceremony.

Beneath her golden veil, Kiara's eyes roamed around the hall, in awe of the sheer love and detail that must have gone into planning this party alone. Both women being daughters to a multitude of cultures meant that Kiara and Hana had to pay their respects to several of their homes - Bethulia. Castelserraillan. Udvada. Orleans. Fes. Shanghai. Cordonia. - in different ceremonies, and include a multitude of relatives.

Which meant that Kiara's aunts and cousins knew this night was their moment to shine.

Hana was whisked to another corner of the room before Kiara could even get a chance to speak to her - a bevy of ladies already surrounding her to fulfill requests, give her mint tea, admire the henna's artist's craft or just for a small chat. Anything and everything Hana wanted. Tonight (and this was exactly how Kiara wanted it) Hana was going to be treated like a queen.

From under her lashes, Kiara sneaked a look at Hana. The woman she would call her wife tomorrow. Listening, nodding, her silken brown hair catching the glow of the lights as she threw her head back at a joke her aunt Hala said.

"If you stare any harder you'll bore a hole in the wall behind her," Nissrine came to her, grinning as she followed Kiara's gaze. She looked around the hall, slightly doubtful. "How did we do?"

Kiara laughed, placing her free hand on her cousin's arm, reassuring her with the word they would all use to describe something as beautiful. "Zwina."

Fatimazahra - who had been minding the caterers this whole time - seemed to appear out of nowhere, chukling. "Tomorrow is her wedding night. Of course everything will be zwina. The macroute will be zwina, her henna will be zwina, her wife will be the most zwina."

Kiara moved her gaze from Hana to her own palms, admiring the naqasha's speed and precision. The henna felt cool on her left palm, the designs on her arms already beginning to dry a little and the paste itself smelling pleasant and earthy - the way real henna should.

The naqasha - an experienced henna artist from their hometown whose team had become popular among the family circles for their vast knowledge of different henna styles (Indian, Pakistani, Khaleeji, Fassi, Marrakechi, Meknessi, Saharawi - you name it) - had finished making a beautiful dome at the centre of Kiara's palm, and was now referring to a tiny piece of paper Imane seemed to have given her before carefully writing out Méihuā - the name Hana's paternal family often used for her - in Hànzì script.

Kiara smiles mistily as she watches Soraya, the naqasha, labour over each character of the script, making sure she never got a single line or slant wrong. Hana often told her that that name reminded her of happier times, far more than her own birth name did. It meant plum blossom - the flower that grew fragrant and resilient in the snow, China's national flower. Her Năinai's favourite flower.

And over the past year...she'd begun to answer to it a little more too.

Kiara mouthed a silent "thank you" to Imane as she sauntered to her side, looking very pleased with herself.

"Wonderful work, Soraya," she patted the naqasha lightly on her shoulder, "What oils did you add in the henna paste this time?"

"Tea tree, geranium and lavender," Soraya said, smiling, "She can hold her hands in front of some herbal incense later. A lovely rich colour and the scent will be incredible."

"Ohhh...what a deep stain it'll leave behind when the henna comes off!" Imane looked back at Kiara, winking. "Remember what our aunts used to tell us, Kiara? The darker the stain of the henna, the deeper the essence of his love. Or her's, in this case."

Kiara was grateful for her golden veil as heat creeped up her neck. Maman loved that adage, ever since her own wedding where - if Kiara's aunts were to be believed - her henna deepened to a dark, rich brown without even holding her hands to a brazier like everyone else did.

Kiara always liked to call herself a practical woman. But this didn't stop her from dreaming of showing Hana her palms, rich and deep brown from both henna and their love.

"Is Hana liking her designs?" Kiara asked Imane.

"Iyyeh," Imane nodded. "Soraya's girls have really outdone themselves. Indian designs are usually very elaborate, but Hana wanted something simple, a little floral."

She gave Kiara a wolfish grin, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "I think you're going to love it."

Kiara narrowed her eyes at Imane. She knew that look. It was the kind she would give all her cousins when, as children, she was about to do skin her knees climbing the branches of a fig tree.

Kiara was going to open her mouth to ask what Imane had in mind, when the low, deep strains of the guembri rang throughout the room.

It was Nissrine's younger sister Nour, closing her eyes in reverence and plucking the strings of the family guembri - a legacy from her father, a renowned Gnawa master himself. The guembri had been in the family for generations, itself decorated with henna patterns so intricate it would amaze even the best of naqashas.

As the women in her family got up to dance to "Toura Toura", a song Kiara would listen to and relish in 12 hour lilas every year in Fes (singing in Bambara - a language neither she nor her cousins truly understood but loved to hear), she found herself somehow dancing next to the woman she had been craving to see for the last few hours.

"Well, hello there," Kiara said, sneaking a kiss to Hana's cheek.

Hana giggled. "Fancy running into you."

They danced until their feet were sore, until their eyes begged for sleep, until their henna dried - leaving behind a stain that was a deep, dark, rich brown.

"They did that on purpose!" Kiara huffs, ten minutes after she has triumphantly shown Hana the final letter - the rāy curling at the base of her wrist. "They were planning to annoy and vex me this entire time. If they were here right now I'd tell them to go cook themselves an egg."

For all her grumbling, however, Kiara was quite overjoyed. She had hoped that her extended family in Fes would adore Hana just as much as she did, that they would love her and pamper her silly. They went above and beyond; they made Hana's first real experience of Morocco practically unforgettable.

It was. In every sense of the word. Even if that involved secretly pulling Kiara's leg.

Hana pouts, her fingers still tracing the name on Kiara's palm. "I wish they scattered letters for me too. Seems like more of a challenge." She shifts a little more into Kiara's arms, turning her gaze to her own palms. "Not that I don't love your henna already. It's gorgeous; look at these curls in the center! They remind me of a compass rose."

Hana runs her fingers purposefully along the length of Kiara's body. She presses five tiny kisses along her face.

"A kiss for each letter," she hums happily against Kiara's skin, "A just reward for your hard work."

Laughter bubbles in Kiara's throat. "Only five?"

"Kiara Yasmine Thorne," Hana's voice takes on a raspy, sultry quality, "Don't be greedy."

"Ma moitie," she whispers back, "I believe tonight's the one night when greed is allowed."

Hana bites her lower lip to stem her own laughter, then lets her lips roam free over Kiara's face.

"Fine, then," Hana huffs in mock-petulance, only too happy to go along with the joke, "Eighteen kisses it is."

Kiara buries her hands in Hana's hair as she breathes in the fragrance from between her shoulder and neck. "I won't mind if you give me more...but alright. Eighteen's a start."

Translation -

Darija:

Kaaf (ك), yaa (ي), alif (ا)(twice), rāy (ر) are the isolated letters that - I think - will form Kiara's name in Arabic. I believe that it may look somewhat like this (كيارا) when written as one word, but the letters are meant to be scattered around Hana's henna just to tease Kiara.

Ghassoul/Rhassoul clay - a type of clay that some people use as a cosmetic product for their skin and hair. It’s a brown clay only found in a valley in the Atlas mountains of Morocco. The term “rhassoul” comes from an Arabic word that means “to wash.” Typically used in hammam baths.

Zwina - a compliment, literal meaning is beautiful or good.

Macroute - a diamond shaped sweet cookie filled with dates and nuts or almond paste.

Naqasha - Henna artist

Guembri - a three stringed skin-covered bass plucked lute used by the Gnawa people

Lila - a rich ceremony in the Gnawa community, of song, music, dance, costume, and incense that takes place over the course of an entire night, ending around dawn. Learn more here.

Toura Toura - Popular Gnawa song. Here is a version by Innov Gnawa.

French:

zut alors - an expression of annoyance, like saying "darn!" or "damn!", mostly used in non-serious instances.

Elles me conduiront à ma tombe! - They will lead me to my grave!

Va te faire cuire un œuf! - Literally, "go cook yourself an egg!". An expression of annoyance, similar to "go take a hike!" or "leave me alone!"

#kiara theron #the royal romance #the royal heir #the royal finale #kiaratheronappreciationweek #KTAW #KTAW Day 1 #KTAW Day 1: Culture #content: fanfic #lizzybeth1986

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paganimagevault · 1 year ago

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Kizil Cave 8 - aka Cave of the Sixteen Sword-Bearers 5th-7th C. CE

Murals from the Kingdom of Kucha, whose language was Tocharian B. The Kizil Caves are the oldest Buddhist major cave complex in China. Tocharians were very influential in spreading Buddhism in China.

"As the territories ruled by the Hephthalites expanded into Central Asia and the Tarim Basin, the art of the Hephthalites, characterized by the clothing and hairstyles of the figures being represented, also came to be used in the areas they ruled, such as Sogdiana, Bamyan or Kucha in the Tarim Basin (Kizil Caves, Kumtura Caves, Subashi reliquary). In these areas appear dignitaries with caftans with a triangular collar on the right side, crowns with three crescents, some crowns with wings, and a unique hairstyle. Another marker is the two-point suspension system for swords, which seems to have been a Hephthalite innovation, and was introduced by them in the territories they controlled. The paintings from the Kucha region, particularly the swordsmen in the Kizil Caves, appear to have been made during Hephthalite rule in the region, circa 480–550 CE. The influence of the art of Gandhara in some of the earliest paintings at the Kizil Caves, dated to circa 500 CE, is considered as a consequence of the political unification of the area between Bactria and Kucha under the Hephthalites.

According to the Jinshu, Kucha was highly fortified, had a splendid royal palace, as well as many Buddhist stupas and temples:

There are fortified cities everywhere, their ramparts are three-fold, inside there are thousands of Buddhist stupas and temples (...) The royal palace is magnificent, glowing like a heavenly abode".

— Jinshu, Book 97.

Lu-Guang mentioned the powerful armour of Kucha soldiers, a type of Sasanian chainmail and lamellar armour which can also be seen in the paintings of the Kizil Caves:

They were skillful with arrows and horses, and good with short and long spears. Their armour was like chain link; even if one shoots it, [the arrow] cannot go in.

— Biography of Chinese General Lü Guang"

-taken from Wikipedia

#tocharian #indo european #ancient history #art #history #art history #buddhism #ancient china #china #ancient art #hephthalites #pagan

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indiatrendzs · 2 months ago

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suziwest-dresscollection · 11 months ago

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Acquired: clothes mentor, asheville, nc, march 2024

#dress #mini #black #b&w #polka dots #eva franco #caftan #short sleeve

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vemante · 1 year ago

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#nightdress #nightwear #nighty #kaftan #nightgown #sleepwear #cotton nightwear #short dress #caftan

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ohbo-ohno · 1 year ago

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Congrats on 1k followers!! Your fics are amazing 🫶🏻 Can I request old Victorian mansion and seance with Johnny x reader?

1k game here

tysm for reading my stuff!!! the victorian mansion isn't exactly present here, but it's the end goal!

2.2k of Soap x Reader with an old Victorian manor & a seance (ft. scam artist reader and asshole ghost johnny. no smut!)

Your newest clients are odd. That's all you can think as you show up on their property, surveying what they claim is haunted.

Usually your clients live in just slightly run-down homes - old enough to have setting bones (or "strange sounds in the night"), some odd air circulation (cold spots), and usually on at least a bit of an incline (uneven flooring that leads to "things falling off shelves at random"). A house just old-enough to cause seemingly impossible things, but not so old that the people moving in already knew what to expect.

But this house... well, it's a bit of a different story this time. Mainly because it's not a house. It's an old RV that, quite frankly, you wouldn't even bother to try and turn on.

The couple who's hired you - Mr. and Mrs. Stewart - had told you over the phone that they planned to take the old RV on a cross-country roadtrip. Seeing it in real life, you're not sure how they ever thought that would happen even before the supposed haunting.

"Oh, fantastic!" Mrs. Stewart, whose first name you can't recall no matter how much you try, rushes up to you and away from her husband. She's middle aged - you'd guess older than forty but not quite fifty - with brown hair and gray streaks, a pair of round-rimmed glasses making her eyes look bigger than they are and a tie dye caftan. "You must be the medium, Ms...?"

You give your name with a small, hopefully non-threatening smile. Poor Mrs. Stewart looks fit to jump out of her skin at any moment, her hands twitching as she lifts them to shake your outstretched hand. She cups yours in both of hers, leaning closely to you.

"Yes, yes of course. We're so happy you agreed to a consultation! Honestly, we've just been terrified, I can't even sleep at night these days, what will all the flashing and the noise and..."

You tune her out a bit as she shakes your hand endlessly, letting your eyes run over her shoulder to her husband and your project of the night.

Mr. Stewart is at least a decade older than his missus, if not more. He's fighting a losing battle with his hairline, leaving him with one of the most insane receding hairlines you've ever seen - the man nearly has a mohawk. His khaki shorts reach his knees despite being belted nearly around the ribs, and a faded polo shirt is tucked into them.

"...and my husband doesn't believe me, you know. No, he acts like I'm insane! Hah! Can you believe that?"

When the endless rambling goes quiet for a beat, you tune back in. Years of zoning out during long winded stories from your mother have given you the great gift of hearing just enough of a speech to respond.

"Well, not all of us are true believers," you say with what you hope is a slightly wise tone. You're still not great at playing the character you've constructed, but you're getting better. At least, you're getting paid more.

Mr. Stewart lets out a loud bark of laughter, then descends into a fit of coughs. Mrs. Stewart quickly moves to his side, patting his back and ignoring the way he waves her off.

"True..." he coughs again. "True believers my ass. Honey, I told you this would be a scam! Look at her - you think a medium shows up to her clients in jeans?"

You fight a blush at that. You knew you should've changed - people are never as doubtful when you wear floor-length skirts, something about pants apparently makes people think you can't see ghosts.

Not the most unfair assumption. You can't see ghosts. But not because of your pants, because they aren't real.

But that's not what you're selling to this couple. So you duck your head a little, try to keep your smile soft. "I'm sorry my informality, Mr. Stewart, but I came as soon as I got your wife's call. This situation sounded... well, I'd hate to use the word dire, but..."

Mrs. Stewart gasps dramatically, right on cue. "Dire! Oh, Lewis, did you hear that? Oh, I told you something was wrong with this damn vehicle!"

"Honey, she's just trying to-"

You cut him off quickly. "I'm here to do whatever needs to be done." You wince at the terrible line, but hurry on. "If there's a lingering spirit here, I'll be more than happy to help them move on. If there's not, no harm to you."

"Harm to my wallet," Mr. Stewart grumbles, scowl only deepening when his wife whacks him on the arm.

"We'll pay whatever we need to to have a safe vehicle," Mrs. Stewart says, her tone very pointed. "Please, we just want to be able to start our trip. We've been looking forward to it for years now!"

"I understand," you nod sagely. "I do prefer to perform my initial inspections alone, so would you mind...?"

Mr. Stewart looks positively indignant, even as his wife begins to drag him away. "We are not leaving this girl alone with our property, Cheryl! She'll rob us blind!"

"Oh, Lewis, you've got to stop seeing the worst in people! You give us a call when you're ready for us to come back, alright?" She steps quickly back over to you, dropping a keyring in your palm. "Here. The damn thing doesn't start, but the doors still work properly."

You nod at Mrs. Stewart and give her as comforting a smile you can as she and her husband make their way over to the bus stop you'd stepped off at, leaving you alone in a dark and frankly creepy parking lot. You're not sure why they chose such a shady part of town to keep their property in, but as long as no one's around you're not going to complain.

It takes a bit of effort to yank the door open, the metal a bit warped, but you manage it without too much trouble and shut it securely behind you as you finally step into the vehicle.

It's.... kind of a dump.

You're glad you brought a flashlight, flicking it on and scanning over all the contents of the RV. You can see dust particles floating through the air and there are cobwebs in every piece of furniture that has a corner, each surface covered in a thick layer of dust.

You can't help but wonder how long it's been since anyone's even bothered to try and turn this thing on, and scowl a little to yourself. If it's been that long since someone was here, there's a good chance it's devoid of anything of value for you to nick.

You scoff and let your flashlight drop, making your way to the driver's seat and flopping into it with a sigh. If you can get the engine to start thig might not have been a total waste of time.

It takes a couple tries for you to even get the key in the ignition, and a couple more turns for the engine to do more than sputter loudly, but the old beast eventually rumbles to life, the lights on the dashboard and above your head brightening the car.

"Than God," you huff. It might be a bit of a pain to steal this hunk of junk, but if you can manage it... well, it would be nice to not have to shell out money for motels every couple of nights. "Full tank of gas," you hum to yourself, frowning a bit at the little gauge. For some reason that strikes you as odd.

"Where you takin' us?"

You scream at the sudden voice behind you, jumping nearly a foot out of the chair as you whirl around.

There's a man standing in the middle of the RV. Tall and young, with broad shoulders and a dark brown mohawk.

And he's transparent. Well, at least partly transparent. The soft yellow glow of the cabin gives him an odd coloration, and you can... oh God, you can see the door to the back through him.

You can't speak. You're left standing there, gaping a bit like a fish, and staring with wide-eyes.

"Well, lass?" He asks, smirk growing on his half-there lips. He takes a few steps forward, hooks his arms around the passenger and driver's chairs and leans forward into your space.

You yelp as you jerk back, landing on the dash board and brandishing your flashlight as a weapon.

"Get the fuck away from me!" You shout, heart nearly beating out of your chest.

"Och," he tilts his head, adopts a fake-hurt expression. "But aren't you the medium? Thought your job was to make contact with ghosts. C'mon then, bonnie." His grin gets... almost salacious as he leans as close as he can to you, nearly brushing noses. "Make contact."

You can't believe it. Honest to God, you think you might've died. There's simply no way you're really seeing a ghost, and there's doubly no way that that ghost is flirting with you.

He seems disappointed by your lack of response, leaning back and letting his expression fall to a more neutral expression. "Not into it then?"

You shake your head as best you can.

He sighs dramatically, like you've done him a terrible inconvenience. "Alright then. Well, if you want to take this thing, you're only taking it to one place."

You still can't quite manage words. Even as he steps to the side, throwing himself into the passenger's seat and somehow not slipping through.

"I wouldn't mind a bit of a roadtrip with you," he goes on, heedless of your shaking and overall terror. "You're not a bad view. But this piece of shite is only going one place. If you don't want to go there, you can get out now."

It takes you a minute to work up the nerve to speak. "Wh...where?"

His eyes flick to you, and he grins again. "My home - nice old house on a hill, left to me by my granny. I was on my way there when the bawbags who own this car ran me down. Didn't even stop to make sure I was alright, can you believe that?"

You shake your head, a little numb as you slip into the driver's seat. You're unintentionally facing him, and he angles his body more towards you and laces his hands between his kness.

"You take me to my home, and I'll let you go. How's that sound?"

"You can't..." you lick dry lips, work a little more moisture into your mouth. "You can't drive yourself?"

He makes an angry noise, leans back against the window and crosses his arms. His legs - intangible as they might be - are long enough to rest on either side of your feet.

"Can't touch anything anymore." You'd almost call his expression pouty, if a ghost could be such a thing. "Can do anythin' else to this thing - turn it on, play music, make it hotter than hell, but can't drive the damn thing."

The lights flicker above you as his tone gets more angered, and you suck in a quick breath.

"Alright," you breathe, hoping maybe he'll calm down and not... what? Blow up the RV? What's the worst case scenario here. "I want to leave town, you want someone to drive you out of town. I can do that."

He eyes you, a little suspicious gleam in what look like they might've been blue eyes once. "You're taking this very well. You met other ghosts before?"

You can't help the laugh that bursts out of you, wiping a hand down your face. "No. No, as a matter of fact, I didn't think ghosts were a thing until about five minutes ago."

A little smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. "Well, rough day for you then, huh?"

You giggle a little hysterically. "You could say that again. Where's your house, anyway?"

You turn to face forward, moving the chair up so you can comfortable reach the wheel as he rights himself in his seat too.

"Oh, it's a stunning thing. Old Victorian building, up on a hill like in all the best movie. Gran always said her own pa built the place, but I'm not so sure myself. Figure if I'm stuck haunting anything, it might as well be that."

"Sounds pretty," you hum, pulling the car out of the parking lot. It's not easy to drive, but you try and keep the jerky starts and stops to a minimum.

"Oh, it is, lass. We MacTavish's have been up there for centuries now, if Gran's to be believed. Might even get to see her again, if this whole ghost thing works out."

"MacTavish?"

You see him grin as he leans forward, holding out a hand. "Johnny MacTavish, ghost extraordinaire, at your service. Long as you take me where I want to go, you and I will get along just fine."

You glance over at him as you pull up to a stop sign. You introduce yourself, reaching out to grasp his hand. It doesn't.... quite work. There's something there, certainly, but it sends shivers up your spine when you try to grab it, and you feel almost like you've been doused in ice water.

He pulls you a little closer by the odd not-quite grip, grin sharpening as he nearly brushes noses with you.

"You try and trick me, lass," he rumbles, lights flickering above you. "You might just find yourself trapped in here with me."

#1k celebration #these are getting written SLOWLY but they are getting written! promise!#soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #cod fanfic #bo writes

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