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secondhand-trash · 4 years ago

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Heart Knot

A/N: this is in honor of the whole 30 minutes in which I knew how to knit because I was bored at a school function and forced my friend who brought an unfinished scarf with her to teach me lmao

Description: You did not have much happy memories regarding both knitting and your past crushes, but the boy that had your heart now just so happened to be a great knitter.

Pairing: Kita Shinsuke x reader

Word count: 7827

Playlist:

Permanence//Bears In Trees

The Way You Look Tonight//Frank Sinatra

Hiding Tonight//Alex Turner

Kita Shinsuke’s first exposure to the art of knitting was through his grandmother, who taught her grandson the ways you could weave anything into something from doing each repetitive action properly and with care.

Something beautiful, something soft, something that could bring warmth to someone else on a harsh winter morning.

Winter in Hyogo could be rough, with inches and inches of snow blocking the road from down the mountains and into the towns. Kita Shinsuke spent his winter days away from school still waking up at the first ray of sunshine beaming through the paper window, his body glued down on the sweet comfort of his futon but still, he never overslept even as other kids his age would protest just for a few extra seconds in the warmth.

By the time he was done with the daily chores, it would already be way into the afternoon and his tiny hands, soaked in water to wet the towels, would be shaking under the cold. Grandma Yumie always brought out the kotatsu in times like this. “It is a luxury,” she said with a chuckle as her grandson watched in awe at how the tiny round table in the living room had now been transformed into a warm cave, shielding the winter cold out with the blanket draping down the sides, “a reward for those who worked hard in the cold.”

The days he spent with his grandmother was some of his fondest memories, to the point where years later, even as he was old enough to have his own house with paper windows and a round table perfect for being turned into a kotatsu, he still insisted that there weren’t any feeling better than laying under the warm blankets after a hard day at work with the tv playing and a cup of warm tea in his hand.

When he was small, very small, with his fingers still a bit clumsy and not quite able to aim at the little loops held together by the yarn, Kita would sit there and watched as grandma Yumie brought out the baskets and baskets of colourful yarn, all sorts of sizes and patterns, and let him pick which one she should use that day. The afternoon news was playing in the background, and baby Kita had his palms holding on the warm mug of tea that was far more diluted and with way more honey drizzled into it than the one sitting in front of the older woman. His golden eyes all round and focused on the needles going in and out of the woolen piece that grew longer and longer with each flick of her wrist.

He could not figure out what had happened in the quiet hours where he just stared, not yet worked out the way each loop and thread came together in holding everything together, but all he knew was that the scarfs grandma gave him were always the softest and warmest, and comes in all the colours that lighted up the roads of Hyogo that were covered in white.

Kita learnt how to knit when he was old enough to remember the sequence at which the needle thread through the yarn. One hook under the open loop, the other holding it still, before pulling it out and putting the neat knot in place. He started with the thickest needle and the yarn that showed every knot and pattern clearly, before slowly moving to thinner threads and fancier ways of knitting. Now, winter afternoon at the Kita household consisted of grandmother and grandson sitting side by side around the kotatsu, the afternoon programs playing softly at the background as the sounds of yarns brushing against each thread filled the air.

There had never been a single cast out of place in whatever he made, whether it be a scarf or a pair of socks or a little hat for the puppy next doors. Because knitting was about patience, the knowing that you just had to keep repeating and repeating to make sure everything holds together, until you eventually had something good in your hands. It was feeling the tiny bumps under your finger once you had the finished product laid out in front of you, knowing that you put time and care into every single one of them.

Grandma Yumie complimented her grandson on everything he had ever made, smiling until her eyes were just two thin curves as she watched the boy who wasn’t so tiny anymore with his golden eyes fixed on the needle going in and out of each loop, the knitted fabric growing longer with each flick of his wrist.

You could not knit to save a life.

But you had tried, you really did.

Once, when you were 12 and sitting in art class, your eyes beaming at the many balls of yarn your teacher had brought in.

“Today, we’re going to learn how to knit!” The teacher, with pins all over her apron and a book of stickers for the kids who did well poking out of its pocket, said as she placed the plastic box on the table, “By the end of class, you can all bring home something you made to give to your parents!”

You liked art class. It was fun being able to play around with crafts supplies under the disguise of early creativity development, and the things you brought home were always somewhere around the house.

You liked the way you could walk past something you had made and know that it was good enough to be put up, and liked the feeling of showing people the things you were proud of.

You picked out your colours carefully, imaging the way your father would have fitted a dark brown scarf into his work clothes or how mom could have used something in that lovely cream coloured yarn that was ignored by the other kids who went straight for the blues and yellows. You ended up with balls of grey in your arms as you made way back to your seat, thinking that it would go well with, well, everything.

You did not quite remember how you felt about the knitting process itself, all you knew was the excitement budding up in your chest as you just kept repeating and repeating, until the grey bundle of yarn got smaller and smaller.

You knew you could make something they would like, you just knew it.

The outcome of the hour and a half where you did nothing but fidget with yarn and needle was a subtly misformed scarf, a bit crooked at the edges because you forgot how to tie up the piece by the time it was long enough to be thrown around your shoulders and back. It wasn’t exactly the most intricate piece of knitwear, with small ends of the thick thread clumsily tugged back within the grids and some places missing a loop or two.

But still, it held together nicely with the softest texture, and you were proud of yourself.

Your parents took the gift graciously when you presented it to them like you were handing them something of the uttermost value, complimenting you on your hard work and thought as they felt the piece in their hand. You made your father promised to wear it out the next day and he complied with a grin as he threw the scarf around his neck.

Now that you looked back on it, it was definitely not something a proper adult would prefer to be seen in in the public since it was rather... wonky, to put it lightly.

But you were small, and you did not have any idea that even though you tried what you thought was your best, sometimes your best was just not enough.

Oh, the way you froze when your father handed the pile of loose yarn to you that was all bundled up with a worried stare, your throat tight while you used all the might in you to suppress the urge to let the tears just fall.

You soon learned that loose ends and hasty stitches meant that even the slightest tug would make the whole thing crumble, and hours of your dedication was not a match to even the most accidental pull at the widened hole where you tried to hide all the mistakes you made.

You told yourself you were never knitting ever again at age 11, with your face buried in your pillow at the late nights when you didn’t have to fear letting anyone know that you were crying over a few balls of yarn.

At age 15, you had your first real, serious crush, the kind that made the pitch of your voice go higher unconsciously and the corner of your lips tug up just at a passing thought. Your crush was popular, the type of boys that spoke each word loud and clear like they had endless energy. You thought he was dazzlingly good-looking, even though he still had a bit of the awkwardness of being mid-puberty left in the soft arc of his brows and loop-sided grin. He was the captain of the football team, always the first to dash out the classroom with a dusty ball in his arms during break. You spent a good amount of your recesses just looking out of the window with your elbows propping you up against the frame, pretending to listen to whatever your friends were saying when you were looking at him instead.

Occasionally, he would look up from the field as he jogged backwards, and your heart always skipped a bit at the possibility that maybe his gaze had stopped at you for even just a second.

Holiday season rolled around the corner as you looked out one morning to see dots of white landing on the glass, each speckle of the snowflake clearly visible as it plastered on the window, the one you always pretend to not be looking too longingly out of while doing exactly just that. The nearer your last day of school before winter break was, the more you felt the knot twisting and turning in your stomach at the thought of whether you should try and disguise all that feeling into what could be as simple as a normal holiday greeting, between normal classmates.

It was at a passing that you overheard your crush telling the group of people who were crowding around his table during one lunch break that he thought it was attractive when people hand out handmade gifts, earning a round of high-pitched responses from those who were smiling a bit too widely for it to be natural around him, each one of them claiming that then they would try to make something for him.

You shifted in your seat, pretending that you were just napping on your desk casually instead of pitifully eavesdropping on a conversation you both wished you were part of and was absolutely detested by.

You had long decided that you could not even pretend that you were crafty by any means, but sadly, you were also young and very much so head-over-heels in love with a boy who just announced to everyone who was, like you, trying hard to impress him that he basically preferred people who make their own presents.

So that was how you found your way back to the knitting needle that you had not touched since 4 years ago, after how every single trashy article in every single teen magazine that you, at age 15, read an unhealthy amount of, told you that there was no better present to give that would portray the amount of thought and care you were willing to put into something like a garment that was hand knitted with only the receiver in thought.

It should be quite clear that the editors of those articles were just too lazy to come up with something new and picked the safest, most conventional option to put in there, but you were too desperate to find something you too could do that you didn’t care.

You left school each day in complete darkness now that the sun was long gone in the middle of the day as the end of the year approached, and spent the little free time you had to yourself at home struggling to knit. Your hands were a lot more in control compared to the last time you knitted, but the lack of guidance in every step of the way as you relearnt how to knit all from the very beginning.

It was cold, and your fingers were already hurting from the chill, but it did not stop you from staying up each night trying to get the piece done before it was finally the holidays.

You had spent hours looking for tutorials only, always battling between the knowledge that your skill was not enough to replicate a good half of the videos you had bookmarked and thinking that the easy ones were too basic for you to gift to someone. You settled on a neck warmer, something you could imagine the boy you so pined after wearing while running on the court. And as you held the finished piece up under the light, you were proud of yourself for actually carrying through.

There were no messy threads in the scarf this time, and you were sure this was something that could at least be of use to whoever got it.

The day when you were supposed to gather the courage to hand out the present came sooner than you were ready for. You came back to school early that day, knowing that your crush was usually having morning practice at the hour and no one else would be around.

To your surprise, there was already another neatly wrapped box inside of his desk drawer by the time you got back. Its tag was hanging out of the tray rather deliberately, like a sly wink and a wave. Your chest tightened that someone was already one step ahead of you, but quickly fed yourself the narrative that it was actually better this way. This way, your gift would not stand out and seemed like it did not belong there.

It was just a scarf, but the little paper bag that you spent an embarrassingly long amount of time decorating the night before felt so heavy in your hands as you stared blankly at it, the nerves settling in your stomach as your throat tightened at the last minute conflict.

The loud footsteps that neared broke you out of your trance, and you threw the gift bag into your drawer before pretending like you were doing something else. You cursed inwardly when you saw that it was the last person you wished to see at this moment, a rare sentiment given how your eyes usually search for him in a crowd.

The group of boys didn’t seem to pay you much mind as they huffed, laughing at something you did not catch on to as they threw their bags down. You masked the pounding of your chest with a violent stroke of your highlighter against the notebook that opened up hastily in front of you when you heard them going near the table you had been eyeing all morning.

“Huh? What is this?”

You buried your nose in your book, but glanced at the few boys gathering around the desk from the corner of your eyes.

Your heart wrenched when you heard one of the boys snorted, before shoving the box into your crush’s chest. “It’s for you.”

The sharp tear made your scalp tingle, but you fought back the urge to sit up straighter in reflex.

Couldn’t let them know you were listening, couldn’t let them know you cared.

“Ah... it’s a scarf,” even in your most delusional mind, there was no way you could ignore the slight hint of annoyance at his voice.

“Hm, they said they made it themselves.”

The density of the air around you was a stark comparison to the boys’ howling and laughing that followed. The recipient of the gift only shoved the garment into the box roughly before plopping the lid back on.

“So?” one of his friends asked, snickering, “what are you going to do about it?”

The click of his tongue that followed twisted around your throat until all the blood rushed up to your face, burning and suffocating you. “Do you want it?”

“Hell no, why would I want a re-gift?” The other boy yelled with a holler, “why don’t you just keep it yourself

“Well, I can’t wear it, can I? It’s gonna give them the wrong idea.” The nonchalant way he so easily brushed off the undoubted hours and hours of effort whoever made the gift must have dedicated to the present that was now pushed to the very back of his drawer felt foreign to you. A pang of bitterness welled up in your mouth, running your tongue dry as your mind go blank.

“Besides, don’t you think getting something handknitted from someone you aren’t with is a bit too suffocating?”

The gift bag in your drawer remained to stay right where it was when other people started rushing into the room, when the class bell rang, when the same boy who you now realised wasn’t as nice as you thought he might be rushed out with the same smile he had on when he came in that morning.

You shoved it into your bag first thing when you were getting ready to leave, hoping that no one would catch on.

You were surprisingly serene when you tore into hours and hours of effort until it was just a bundle of yarn on the floor.

You were age 15, swearing that you were never doing crushes ever again and finally decided with determination that knitting was just not for you

But life has its ways of making you think twice about every promise you had made to yourself.

First in the form of a snowfall you had not expected, and then with a boy who was always prepared for the cold.

Waking up early in the mornings just to tread yourself through the chilly streets sucked, but having to rush out because the initial “5 minutes more” you told yourself as you pulled the futon over your head once more turned into you having to rush out the door with your coat barely even worn properly in the matter of a flutter of your eyes.

Your mouth was dry and your stomach empty from skipping past the breakfast that had already gone cold on the table by the time you passed it by. It wasn’t until you felt the pain tearing at your skin from the few bits of your body exposed to the specks of snow flowing down onto the back of your hand, so cold that it felt almost like a burn when the feeling settled, that you remembered the mittens you had also left at the side of your dresser.

Great, just wonderful.

Winter in Hyogo was forgiving on some days, brutal and mocking on the others. The grey clouds were thick and gloomy as you dashed down the road, pulling the collar of your jacket up desperately to shield your face from the wind that you were up against face first, slicing down like blades before you finally made the last turn into the comforting walls of your school building. Your face felt numb of any senses even as you brought your palm up to try and give it some warmth, only to hiss into your hand when the frosted tips of your fingers brushed against your skin.

The bell rang almost right on cue as you stepped into the classroom, letting out a sigh and salvaging in the temporary supply of warmth from your own breath. Your lips were so dry and so chapped from the cold, even just darting your tongue out to swipe over the rough edges had it almost tearing at the thin skin. You winced at the pain, which did not serve you anything other than making the ache worse.

You sighed as you sunk down on your chair, finally able to let your limbs go slack at your sides after being so tense all the way through your walk. The sudden release of the tension you had been holding on you resulted in a broken inhale as you tried to calm the beating dee under the many layers you were wearing, feeling as if you were suffocated in your core with the heat trapped in and only within the center of your body.

“Are you alright?”

Turning to your side was a struggle as you shrugged off the stiff coat you were wearing. You were sure you looked nothing short of ridiculous as the puffer jacket hung loosely around your arms, your arms extended awkwardly to hold it from sliding off the ground. Your state of being was a stark contrast to the boy who was sitting next to you, his back all straight and proper.

You did not really think much about Kita Shinsuke, even though he had been sitting next to you for almost half a year now. There was something distant about him, like he was in a whole world of his own while everyone else just circulated around. He was always polite, never slipped up, getting back earlier than most and arrived at each function punctually. Your image of him was that he was always paying attention in class while everyone else was drooling off, his voice loud but calm when he was suddenly called to read out whatever passage you were supposed to have read at home but obviously didn’t.

It was strange, you were almost distancing yourself from him despite physically being next to him at all times.

He just didn’t seem so real, didn’t feel very human to you.

“Are you alright?” Kita asked again, this time tilting his head a little seeing that you were looking ahead blankly instead of responding.

You snapped out of your trance, quickly yanking off your jacket to place it on your lap in what you hoped was a swift motion to save the embarrassment of acting like a socially numb idiot.

“Oh, I’m fine,” you smiled, shoving your hands under your coat to try and warm up the fingers you still couldn’t feel under the fleece, “thank you for asking.” You added, almost like a second thought as you grew more and more uneased by his seemingly doubtful gaze.

Kita’s eyes went to your hair that was still not yet tidied up from being tangled up by the wind, the dots of water on your coat that was no doubt left from the snow, and your hands that were now rubbing together again and again under the coat according to his guess.

His brows furrowed at the way you were folding yourself smaller and smaller, pulling the heavy jacket that was about to slip off your lap up against your body desperately.

There was a rush of shiver to your spine at the way he pursed his lips together, and you gulped as subtly as you could while trying to maintain the smile on your face.

There was a speckle, a tiny bud of warmth setting off in your stomach when he turned around and slipped his hands into his jacket, hung neatly at the back of his chair unlike yours, and took out a small packet. It was a white fabric pocket but you could see the black powder inside from the thin fabric.

You did not react when he held his hand out, slender fingers holding on the hand warmer mid-air as he waited for you to take it from him. You blinked at the boy who you had never really looked at properly until now, and felt a strange twist in your stomach at the notice that there was a slight flush on his face from the cold, dusting over his cheeks and leading your gaze to his eyes that were looking at you patiently.

He must have thought that you were so strange, you grimaced to yourself when the pang of guilt rushed to your face and burning to the tip of your ears at the remembrance that you had assumed him to be the strange one when you were being so disrespectful right now.

You held out both hands in front of him, looking like a child when he dropped the little bag in your hand. Nothing could stop the sigh from slipping out of your lips when you felt the heat it was emitting, landing on your fingertips like coal in the snow and seeping into your skin.

The warmth travelled from your skin down to your veins, running slowly and slowly until it settled down as a fuzzy tingle in your chest at the thought that it was so warm because he had been the one keeping it in his pocket, likely trapping the heat within his palms when he was holding the warmer himself.

“Thank you Kita kun...” you said appreciatively, swallowing the whine that was threatening to come out with the last note of your voice when you felt your senses slowly returning to you.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, and your heart skipped a beat when he leaned his chin on his palm and gave you a tiny smile, “you should keep it, my hands don’t get cold that easily and I brought mittens.”

You did not speak to him again that day as class started and he, like the good student you never were, put his attention back to things that were more worthwhile. But you could not help but listen carefully for the first time ever when he was once again called to read out the lengthy piece of literature you didn’t study, and feeling a burst of exciting, nerve-wracking warmth budding in your chest.

At age 15, you promised yourself you were not doing crushes over dumb teenage boys again. At age 17, you realised that the pang in your chest when Kita Shinsuke replied to your greeting each morning (one that you tried hard to make it sound as casual as one could get, if you may add) with a smile was the same as that when you imagined your old crushed looking up from the ball court to lock gazes with you.

But Kita was not a dumb teenage boy, he was nice and well-mannered and asked you if you were alright on a winter day. So you told yourself you did not exactly break your promise, even though there was a lingering fear at the knowing that there too was a time when you thought the boy who sneered at the carefully wrapped box on his desk was nice and beaming like the sun.

(You had, however, screamed into your pillow in frustration the day he told you they made him the captain of the volleyball team for the next year when you carefully suggested that he seemed happier than usual. “Captains,” you groaned into your make-shift punching bag, “why are they always captains?”)

Winter passed, and then it was spring. Spring was the time for a new start, but you were not excited about changes. You had been content with a simple “good morning” every day made possible by the convenience of your adjacent tables, but how were you supposed to conceal your yearning for a smile and a nonchalant word of care as nothing out of place if you had to go out your way just to even catch a glimpse at him?　

You had to force yourself, clamp your lips tight together to stop the pitiful squeal that was close to bursting out from the back of your throat when you saw the familiar kanji, the same one as the direction always pointing people forward and the brightest star hanging on the sky, at the “ki” column of the class list.

Your third and last year and still in the same class, this was a sign, this had got to be a sign.

The anticipation was hard to conceal as you paced down the hallway until stopping at the sign of “3-7″ above the door. The embarrassment immediately followed the initial rush of glee at the boy who was, as expected already there. He was sitting at the first seat at the row leaning by the wall and even though your heart died a little at the conflict that you could not slack in class with the whoever it was standing in front of the blackboard so close to you, you still walked closer to the table right behind his with carefully controlled steps.

“Good morning Kita kun,” you said, still fumbling to find a balanced tone between letting him know you were happy to see him but not too much, glad that you were in the same class but not in a creepy way, hoping that he also searched for your name the way you looked for his but not holding out too much for it.

your throat tightened when he smiled back at you, “Good morning, (y/l/n) san.”

“You are early,” you blurted out, praying that it wasn’t too sudden.

“Yes, I had to stop by the club room to prepare for the upcoming tryouts before coming back.” He had turned around to face you completely, and you searched for everything your brain could come up with to keep the conversation going.

“Oh right, you are the captain now,” you cursed yourself for stating something so obvious in your brain, absolutely loathing air-headed your own voice sounded in your head. You breathed in, mastering your courage to appear confident and charming, “I hope it’s alright if I sit here behind you?”

You were smiling, but your knuckles were hurting from how hard you had to grip at the handle of your bag just to hold yourself back from fidgeting. The chair was already half pulled-out, and you crouched down just slightly as you waited for a response.

You knew you were the one who asked, but what if he said no?

But he didn’t, and not even the fear of appearing like a fool in front of the boy you so wanted to impress could stop you from grinning ear to ear when he laughed. You didn’t think you had heard Kita laugh before. It was an addicting sound, crisp like bells and like the pink petals that were falling off the trees all around campus.

You knew at that moment you didn’t care if this crush was just as dumb as the last one, or that you might end up looking like a fool for going against what you had so sternly told yourself when you were 15.

Screw 15 year old you, they knew nothing.

“Of course.”

Then winter rolled by the corner, as an angry current sweeping the dried leaves off the road and the temperature dropping and dropping until you were taking out your heavy coat from the back of your closet again.

It was with great regret and exasperation that you found out, one year after starting to learn more about Kita Shinsuke, that he was brilliant and absolutely so passionate about knitting.

The way you had a whole storm brewing in your head over something as simple as getting back to your classroom after lunch break to see a very calm, serene Kita at his table, with a ball of yarn on his lap and two needles threading with each other in his hand, was an absolute joke. You had tried to form an interest in volleyball just to have more chances to talk to him, going as far as to sit through the hour long practices matches that Inarizaki always had with other schools at the far back corner of the gym just to have something to bring up in a passing the next day. But of all the things, of all the things this person who seemed to be good at everything liked, it has got to be the one thing that you associated with nothing but bad memories.

“What are you making?” you asked, holding back the screaming thoughts in your head as you slid down into your own seat and leaned forward.

The little glimmer of joy in his eyes was hard to miss, and you were not sure if you want to feel triumphant for finding a new excuse to talk to him or cry because you had not looked at a knitting needle in years.

“I’m knitting socks,” he said and held up the tunnel of knitted fabric dangling off his needles, “it’s almost Christmas, and I wanted to make something practical for my teammates.”

“Hm?” You nodded, urging him to go on as if your own scalp was not frying from the recoil of what happened the last few times you wanted to make something practical for someone.

“This is for Akagi from class 6,” he immediately added, thinking about how you might not know who Akagi from class 6 was, “he had been complaining about having cold feet at morning practices lately.”

(You did, in fact, know who Akagi from class 6 was, but decided to let him give you the information instead of exposing how much attention you paid to the Inarizaki Volleyball Club.)

Man, you had never wished you knew how to knit as much you do now.

“Can you teach me how to knit?”

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck-

You froze at the words that went straight through your brain to your mouth and vocalised in the quiet classroom.

“There’s something I want to make,” you gulped, stumbling to force a smile onto your face, “for someone.”

Someone as in, well, him.

You had already braced yourself to chuckle it off when he said that he was busy, or just some sort of well-intended reasoning that would all point to the immediate conclusion in your head that you were just overstepping boundaries as no one but another classmate who just happened to sit near him for the past year.

But the screaming in your head stopped, leaving your world in absolute silence when he placed the ball of yarn onto his table and pulled another ball out from his bag.

“Sure.”

You did not notice, which was strange because you were usually the first to overthink on each of his miniatures, that Kita Shinsuke nearly dropped the needles in his hand when you quickly, in the middle of your inner panicking, suggested that there was someone you wanted to knit for.

He wavered for a brief moment, wondering if he really wanted to teach you how to knit for someone else, before feeling a sour guilt that he was being a bad friend by hesitating to help you when you asked.

He wondered who it was that you wanted to make something for, he thought to himself as he handed you the spare pair of needles he had.

Must be someone important to you.

So every day until you eventually go on break for Christmas and the new years, you would go back to your classroom early during lunch period to learn how to knit from Kita Shinsuke, who was coincidentally who the eventually finished piece that you hope you would finish was meant for.

You went into this with no thought other than to suck up on your own impulsiveness and just milked what had become of it as much as you could, trying to fish the opportunity of spending extra time with him. You were not even sure if you would actually give him the finished piece if there would be any, you were not sure if you were prepared to go down the progress of determination turned hesitation turned eventual heartbreak that last time you had to muster up any courage just to gift something to another person.

Even though this was all an excuse for you to talk to Kita, there was no denying that the 3 years in which you avoided knitting only made your hands even clumsier than before. He was always patient, always stopping his hands with whatever sock or hat or glove he was making to take a look at what would hopefully become an intact piece of knitwork dangling off of your needles.

“Let me see.”

The soft hum from his nasal every time you called for his assistant was enough to have you weak, and you were so glad that he put all his focus on helping you because then he wouldn’t notice you staring at him rather shamelessly.

On days when the weather was good, it was as if his eyes were the winter sun, the same one that was spilling in through the windows and casting a soft halo around him, all while his brows contorted in concentration over your work.

It turned out that Kita Shinsuke was great at teaching, and while much slower than him, you eventually managed to sit in comfort silent with him in the tender winter afternoons of Hyogo and let the sounds of thread pulling filled the air. You were trying but he was a natural, even though he claimed that it was just a direct result from years, a decade of practicing.

In the time you had struggled to focus on one piece, you had seen Kita worked on a multitude of things you were sure you should not even attempt to make. There was a nice thick pair of gloves for Ojiro, the trusty spiker who was feeling bothered by his dry hands from cold water. Another pair of gloves but this time fingerless because, to quote Kita, Suna Rintarou probably wouldn’t wear anything that kept him away from his lovely touch screen. You saw woollen hats twice but in different colours, and he had explained that he thought of making something different for the ruckus twin boys but figured they would just get into yet another fight over who gets what.

Crush aside, you wished you had a slither of his skills.

“I think anyone can be good at knitting,” he said, handing you back the row of maroon casts you had asked him to check up on with an approving nod. His fingertips just barely brushed against yours as he let go of the needles, sending shivers up your forearm that you were so glad was covered by your cardigan.

You laughed, brushing your finger at the few spots that you struggled to get right on the pattern, “I doubt.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?” he said, pointing towards the casts that got neater and neater as you progressed visibly, “you are already getting better.”

You pursed your lips, toying with the unfinished hem.

You had learnt a long time ago that sometimes you tried your best, but the best was not always enough. Sometimes, the best would get you a huff and a complaint that your heart and soul was too heavy, too suffocating. Sometimes the more and more you put into something meant that you did not know where to put it anymore once you tore it apart after no longer having someone to give it too, but it was too much to shove back into the hole in your heart.

You wondered if your best or your “better” was enough this time.

“Kita kun.”

“Hm?” he hummed, like how he always did when you look up at him from your hands. But you did not look at him this time, twirling the loose end of the yarn in your index finger instead.

“Do you think getting something handknitted from someone you aren’t with is suffocating?”

Kita frowned at the sad smile that was on your lips. You were looking at what he assumed would be a scarf from the casting and the patterns, rubbing at the slightly crooked cable. Were you thinking of the person you want to give it to? Were you worried that they wouldn’t like it? He had made himself stop speculating who it was that made you get back early each day and struggle so clearly with something you didn’t seem to exactly enjoy just to make something thoughtful for them, but he couldn’t stop the bitterness from welling up that it was someone who made you worry over them finding you suffocating.

He wanted to tell you that anyone who thought so was not someone who deserved your time, but swallowed it down anyways.

“No,” he said, and you finally looked up at him, “I think it is rude to think that of someone who put effort into doing anything with me in mind.”

And there it was again, the same warmth that tingled until it was all you could feel. Like a hand warmer, like a simple hello in the mornings, like the winter sun that was shining on you.

Right.

You smiled, a genuine one this time.

Because Kita Shinsuke was not just some dumb crush, because he wasn’t like the boy who never really did look up to see you, because you were ok with breaking every single promise you had made to shield yourself off just for a chance with him.

He seemed confused at your sudden change of mood, but you only shook your head and picked up the knitting needles again.

“You’re right.”

To say that everyone was hyped for winter break was an understatement.

But you, you were just really nervous.

You greeted Kita when you came back in the morning as usual, feeling the nerve bundling up in your stomach already just from knowing that if this went badly, you could not bear it to pretend to still be his friend from then on. Classes did not pique your interest in the slightest, and the only time you even diverted your gaze upwards from the book you were staring at blankly was when Kita’s voice rang in the classroom, blocking the blackboard from your view as he stood up to answer some question you did not know the answer to.

He looked warm, you remarked to yourself as your eyes scanned through the grey vest he was wearing.

Did he make it himself? Maybe you should ask him for a tutorial later.

And then you remembered that it was the last day before break, and your knitting sessions with him was already over. Your scarf was finished, he even complimented you on it. (“I’m sure whoever got this will be very pleased,” he had said, and you were just praying to whatever entity you could think of that he would still think so when you give it to him) It wouldn’t make sense for you to go to him anymore, and it would be awkward for both of you if he knew that you were only learning how to knit to be around him.

Your hands were so cold, nearly in pain as you grip on the box that you had been hiding in your bag all day long. You backed out of giving it to him during lunch when no one else was around, deciding that you would rather not stare at his back for another few hours after basically exposing yourself. But the day was about to come to an end. The winter sun was always gone early, and the sky was lit up in shades of orange and red as students rushed home for the start of their break.

You sucked in a deep breath when you saw him packing up his things after the end-of-class bell rang.

“Kita kun?”

“Yes?”

All you could hear was the beating in your ears and the hilt of what was a steady rhythm when he turned to look at you. His voice still made you melt, and heat spread on your face like the fiery cloud hanging on the sky from the setting sun.

Warm, bright, beautiful.

“This is for you,” you tried to stop your voice from shaking as you looked into his eyes, the same ones that widened when he saw the box on your extended hands, “thank you for helping me all through last year.”

You had to remind yourself to breath as Kita took the wrapped present. “Can I open it?” he asked, his hand hovering above the ribbon.

You tried to maintain the smile on your face.

“Of course.”

Kita knew the scarf that was sitting inside the box, he could point out which cast was his doing and which ones you had asked him for help even with his eyes closed. He had wondered about what you had done with it, whether the person who got it was worth your heart and soul.

He had wished, with sincerity, that it would go well for you but there was also a selfish part of him that pondered, contemplated how it might go if he told you he would love to have that scarf.

You grimaced when he didn’t say a word, before slowly closing up the box. You had prepared yourself for this outcome, but part of you still felt a familiar sting in your chest.

Until you saw him digging into his own bag and pulling out a tiny bag. You were still dazed as he handed it to you, his fingers holding onto the handle and a smile on his face as he waited for you to take it. You reached out with both palms, before the weight of it settled in your hand.

It was a pair of gloves, soft and sturdy in your hands without a single stitch out of place. Your finger brushed against the intricate patterns at the center before stopping at the elastic hem. You could not help but slid it on, gasping in awe at how it fit perfectly.

Kita was smiling at you, and he was throwing the end of the scarf to his back when you looked up at him. The one he had worn that morning when he made way back to school under the cold was shoved into his bag and replaced by the less well-made one you had given him.

But he didn’t care, he loved it.

“Should we go?” He asked, holding his own gloved-hand out, “They are closing the school soon.”

You finally got to be mesmerised by him without having to shy away, and the way his eyes were full of you could only be matched to the sun that was setting outside, rays of what would be the last of its shine until tomorrow reflecting off the snow.

Beautiful, soft, and had your heart all warm and gooey.

“Let’s go.” You replied, grinning ear to ear, before taking his hand.

And it was so, so warm.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu imagine #kita x reader #kita imagine #kita imagines

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ickle-ronniekins · 4 years ago

Text

- fic recommendations -

part three coming atcha, you goofballs!

i've been a really crummy person and haven’t been reading as much as i should because i've been super busy with school. people have been tagging me in their stories and i'm so sorry if i haven’t gotten to them yet/seen them because sometimes tumblr tags are wonky! but you are all putting in so much good work and giving us, the fans, things that we want... for free. you are literally providing us with your gifts for!! free!!! and i can’t thank you all enough! thank you for sharing your talent with us. y’all are insanely gifted people and i'm so blessed to be able to read your writing!

fics are under the cut, my friends. thank you all for doing what you do.

1. I Will Follow You Into the Dark - @firewhisky-kisses | fred x reader

↳ WELL THIS JUST BROKE MY DANG HEART! MORE THAN ONCE. EACH TIME I READ IT, ACTUALLY. honestly one of the most beautiful pieces of writing i’ve ever read; stephanie took such a heart wrenching concept and turned it into something that will pull at your heartstrings in the absolute greatest of ways. wholesome, stunning, soul crushing, and absolutely, beautifully, visually poignant. cannot say enough about this fic. please do yourself a favor and read this one!

2. Where Did You Sleep Last Night - @elf-punk | fred x reader (series)

↳ oh my god. okay. don’t even know what i can say about this series except that it is absolutely brilliant. lisa’s writing is so effortlessly done, and i adore how she brings out the more vulnerable side of fred. he’s not always that cheeky, happy-go-lucky bloke we all know and love. he’s human, and sometimes his emotions get the best of him, too. lisa is slowing breaking my heart with this series but i know she’ll mend it right back up. and honestly? the whole line “someone else manages to show him that love isn’t supposed to hurt” absolutely slays me. read this. read it now. and keep tabs because lisa keeps updating it! BRILLIANT.

3. The Solution Is Outsourcing - @writesowhatnext - fred x reader

↳ do i even need to say anything about this one? maddy’s absolutely brilliant and i’m actually obsessed with everything she writes. each and every time she posts a new fic i squeal with excitement because i know it’ll ruin me in the best of ways. ALSO, we love a good cheeky fred fic, don’t we? please binge read maddy’s entire masterlist, i promise it’ll be the best thing you do all day.

4. You Love Me! - @theweasleysredhair - george x reader

↳ chloe knows how to write george fics that soothe my soul. i literally do not know how she does it but she leaves me breathless and giddy literally every time. also, the idea of sharing a bed with george as “friends”? slay me. the idea of sharing a bed with george as “friends” only to not be friends afterwards? GIMME. i'm obsessed with this; their banter is adorable and flirtatious and it’s everything you could ever want with the sharing a bed trope. do yourself a favor, read this, scream, and then come have a chat with me about it so we can scream together.

5. How To Steal A Book (And A Heart) - @theweasleysredhair - fred x reader

↳ SORRY HERE TO FREAK OUT OVER CHLOE AGAIN BUT THIS WAS MY REQUEST FOR HER AND SHE SMASHED IT OUT OF THE PARK AND THEN SNAPPED THE DAMN BAT IN HALF. my god. i'm so painfully obsessed with this story, i find myself reading it ten times a week. dramatic? sure. true? hell yes.

6. First Kiss [Soulmate AU] - @obsessedwithrandomthings - george x reader

↳ this is one of THE most unique and adorable soulmate aus i've ever read; dee just absolutely crushes this one and i absolutely adore it! i love aus involving books and/or journals and this one was just so adorable. soulmate aus are incredible because you can literally do with them what you wish, and i've NEVER seen this prompt used before for a soulmate au, and i'm so, so happy that dee was able to produce something so BREATHTAKING. obsessed with this. so much.

7. The Art of Rekindling - @harrysweasleys | fred x reader

↳ omg I CRIED LIKE A BABY AT THIS. OH MY GOD. i'm literally obsessed with alexa and everything she writes, so, it wasn’t a surprise to anyone that this one broke MY HEART and then mended it just the same. not only is the storyline absolutely gorgeous, and the dialogue is filled with awkwardness and love, but i adore the way alexa ends this on a flashback that it actually prompted me to end one of my own stories on a flashback because I LOVED IT SO BLOODY MUCH. i never, ever thought to do that, and it was such a freaking gorgeous way to tie her entire story together and i'm just in fucking love with it and, yeah. brilliant. absolutely fricken brilliant.

8. Mix Up - @pit-and-the-pen | george x reader

↳ to wake up in the burrow on christmas in nothing but george’s sweater -- kaylah literally made my dreams come true with this fic and i spent an embarrassing amount of time imagining this to be real and rereading it to feed my feelings. CUTEST FIC IN THE ENTIRE WORLD. this just makes me want to sit by the fire and listen to holiday music in an oversized sweater that has a huge “G” on it. also, the idea of george fucking weasley saying that the sweater i look good in would look better on the floor is the biggest dream of them all, my friends. feed you own feelings, and READ THIS.

9. Nerves - @wand3ringr0s3 | george x reader [NSFW]

↳ all i could do when i read this was SCREAM INTO THE VOID. if you know me, you know i'm not much into smut -- i get super uncomfy every single time i try and write it (which is exactly why i don’t take any smut requests) and it even took me a very long time to come around to read it. BUT HOLY SHIT; haley makes it look easy, honestly. i've been screaming very loudly since she published this a few hours ago and honestly, if you haven’t been reading her smut, what have you even been doing? so gorgeous. so intense. so..... everything one could ever, ever want -- a hot and bothered george after a quidditch match. just g i m m e.

10. Vanilla and Charcoal - @starlightweasley | george x reader

↳ so hilariously enough, zahra messaged me the other day freaking out because she was reading one of my series and couldn’t find the links to the other parts (because i suck lmao) and we randomly started freaking out together, and then she FLOORED ME and wrote this piece and i just yelled for a solid half hour straight. an adorable first fic and I really hope there are more pieces to binge, because i absolutely love this. please show this new writer some love!

#fic recommendations #fic recs #starlightweasley #harrysweasleys #obsessedwithrandomthings #theweasleysredhair #writesowhatnext #pit-and-the-pen #wand3ringr0s3 #elf-punk #firewhisky-kisses #fred weasley #george weasley #fred and george weasley #weasley twins #weasleys #harry potter fanfiction #weasley twins fanfiction

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nokomiss · 4 years ago

Text

deadtedkord replied to your post “taking prompts!”

more excellent jaysteph bonding please you're stuff for them is amazing!!

Even in Gotham, it’s hard to get takeout at 4am.

So after a particularly grueling night fighting crime -- not Arkham-escape bad, but involving the Condiment King teaming up with Mad Hatter for easily one of the grossest in every imaginable way nights Steph could remember -- the troops all ended up at the Cave, fighting over who got into the showers first. The troops in question being Bruce, Damian, Tim, Jason and herself. Steph saw the writing on the wall immediately and booked it up stairs to shower in luxury before Bruce could complain about ketchup in his fancypants rich people showers.

After convincing herself that she couldn’t, actually, just live in the bathroom at Wayne Manor for the rest of her life, Steph reluctantly got out, wondering if she could convince Bruce that installing the same shower at her decidedly less luxurious home was actually a necessary crime fighting expense. The water pressure alone had relieved a few lingering muscle aches she’d been nursing a few days.

She ransacked various rooms for a new, mustard-free outfit -- she had clothes stashed away somewhere, but everyone knew other people’s clothes are far superior, especially when they were Selina’s yoga pants, which she was never returning because damn they were amazing, Cass’ fuzzy socks and Tim’s softest hoodie.

By the time she returned to the cave, smelling like coconut and feeling like a champ, the boys had managed to clean themselves up and were bickering about food.

“I got Stromboli’s to deliver at 3 last week,” Damian was insisting, even though the Batcomputer clearly showed that they were closed.

“Maybe we could bribe someone at Batburger? They’re open all night,” Tim suggested, sounding doubtful about the prospect.

“There’s food here,” Steph suggested, because she, too, was starving.

Silence for a moment, then Bruce said, in a voice that almost sounded sheepish, “Alfred isn’t here.”

Steph felt a little bad about the smears of ketchup she’d undoubtedly left in the bathroom. “Did he… did he take the kitchen with him?”

“Pennyworth is the only one permitted to use the kitchen,” Damian said loftily while also not looking at anyone directly.

“Yeah, but… we’re hungry,” Steph pointed out.

“They don’t know how to cook,” Tim said, gesturing towards Bruce and Damian. “They’re really bad at it.”

“Like you’re any better,” Damian snapped. “Remember when you set the microwave on fire?”

“I didn’t realize there was still a spoon in the bowl!” The tops of Tim’s ears were turning bright red.

Steph looked at the only person in the room not howling about their own ineptitude in the kitchen. “Please tell me you’re not as useless as they are.”

“I’m insulted that you would think I am,” Jason replied. “I certainly didn’t grow up with a butler.”

Steph sighed, and said, “Wanna go make some food?”

Jason looked at the other three, who were suddenly very focused on writing the night’s mission report. “If it means we’re done with the paperwork, yeah.”

So she climbed the steps to up to the manor for the second time that night, and when she entered the kitchen she suddenly understood the silence and sheepish looks.

“I have seen active crime scenes less disastrous than this kitchen,” Jason said with an awed tone.

“How long has Alfred been gone? A year?” Steph said, staring. “And the question is, is he ever gonna return if he knows this is waiting on him?”

“Probably he will, but he’ll finally snap and murder them all in a dishes-fueled rage,” Jason said, poking at the mountain of dirty china piled haphazardly in and around the sink. He poked at a dish. “I’m pretty sure someone ate Spaghetti-Os out of fine china. Is this a real silver spoon?”

The spoon in question had curdled milk clinging to it.

“Okay so ten minutes ago, I would have told you there was no way anything could be grosser than Mad Hatter flopping around in a pool of mayonnaise,” Steph said, “but oh, how I have been proven wrong.”

“How do they even function as human beings?” Jason wondered. “Was it always this bad? I mean, I lived here. I know Bruce is an absolute moron in the kitchen. But…” He looked around. “Wow.”

“Do you suddenly feel so much better about yourself as a person?” Steph said. “Because I gotta say. Really feeling good about myself right now.”

Jason offered a hand to high five, and Steph did, happily. They rummaged through the pantry side-by-side and found that the staples were still intact, though anything ready-made had been ransacked. The fridge offered up similar bounty -- takeout leftovers of questionable providence, some wilting produce, and basics.

“Pancakes?” Steph suggested once she saw the state of the waffle iron -- had someone tried to make a grilled cheese on it? -- and pulled out the dry ingredients. “I’m not willing to eat anything that requires a condiment right now.” Thankfully maple syrup had not been one of Condiment King’s weapons of choice.

“I’ll make eggs,” Jason said, pulling out a carton. “And there’s some fake bacon of Damian’s.”

“We are a breakfast-making machine,” Steph said. It was true, too -- away from the chaos of crime fighting, she found that working alongside Jason in the kitchen was surprisingly easy. Steph stared at the sink again, and said, “I think that it’s time that certain vigilantes learned the domestic arts.”

“Yeah, we can’t let Alfred come back to this,” Jason said. “He’s too valuable. If he quit--”

“We’d never have his cookies ever again,” Steph said in horror.

“Maybe we could steal Alfred,” Jason said after a pause. “Like, let nature take its course, then swoop in and take Alfred for our own.”

“Share custody of him,” Steph said, nodding. “We could put him on a rotating schedule, and give him days off, and… I don’t know. Let him join a book club, instead of spending all his time with these disasters.”

They spent a few moments in quiet contemplation of a life where Alfred showed up and made creme brulee at any hour of the day. Then Steph sighed, giving the pancake batter one last stir before letting it sit and moving to the stove, clearing off several crystal goblets with what looked like coffee dregs in them before finding a griddle. “There’s only one flaw with our plan.”

“The thing where Alfred loves Bruce like a son and would never abandon him to die alone and hungry in his filthy mansion?” Jason flipped the fake bacon.

“That’s the one,” Steph said, deciding the griddle was hot enough and spooning pancake batter onto it in cute little shapes. She thought that Damian’s should be hearts, and she experimented with bat-shapes for Bruce.

Jason peered over and saw what she was doing. “I want stars.”

“Of course you do,” Steph said, though she tried to make one as soon as Damian’s hearts were done. It turned out a little wonky, but still recognizable. She was awesome. “Gotta be difficult, right?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jason replied, cracking eggs into a bowl. He glanced at the kitchen door. “Are they hiding in the cave in shame?”

“Like, it’s wrong, but the fact that I think they are makes me really happy,” Steph said. “Like, kind of makes up for all those times they acted like I was a moron for not knowing something.”

“Right?” Jason said.

“I mean, how do you master dozens of different kinds of kung fu, but never once master the grilled cheese? I was making my own grilled cheese in kindergarten!”

“There are only three ingredients,” Jason agreed. “It’s a true embarrassment.”

“We should nominate him for Worst Cooks In America,” Steph said. “I really want to see Bruce on reality television, and that would be comedy gold.”

“Just seeing him get an invitation to be one of the worst of anything would be fucking amazing,” Jason said. “Like, congratulations, sir, you suck at this.”

“You suck so hard we want to feature you on television,” Steph snickered. She flipped the last of Bruce’s pancakes onto a plate before they burned, and began making Tim’s. She tried to make a coffee mug shape, but it turned out looking like a blob, so she made teddy bears instead.

“I mean, I kind of get why they’re so terrible at it,” Steph said, “given their upbringings. But I would have literally starved if I hadn’t figured out how to cook early on. Takeout was not an option.”

“Right? Only for special occasions,” Jason said. “The rest of the time, you had to make shit yourself.”

“Exactly,” Steph nodded. They didn’t really talk much about how they were the ones in the family who’d grown up poor, who’d spent a lot of time raising themselves because their parents hadn’t been capable of it. She knew it was why Bruce had compared them so much -- there was a startling amount of similarities between their childhoods, from their mothers’ drug problems to their fathers’ criminal inclinations -- and for once, it felt nice to be the ones with the necessary skills while everyone else floundered.

They grinned at each other, then put the last of the food onto the plates. Steph grabbed the maple syrup, and stopped short, staring at the calendar on the fridge. “Four days!”

“What?” Jason said through a mouthful of fake bacon.

“Alfred has only been gone four days,” Steph said, pointing to the note on the fridge, “and he left prepared meals.”

They gazed in wonder at the chaos around them.

“He’s going to be back tomorrow,” Jason said suddenly, pointing.

“Okay, so we feed the troops, then we start Mission: Learn to Do the Damn Dishes,” Steph said. Sleep was for the weak.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jason said, and followed her to the breakfast nook, setting down Tim and Damian’s plates and going back for the rest. “Wanna tell them now?”

“Let them have a final meal first,” Steph said. “Then we’ll light a fire under them.”

Jason grinned. By the time Bruce, Tim and Damian came out of the Cave, she and Jason had polished off half of their meal, and Steph had to admit that delivering a lecture to Batman about chores was one of the highlights of her week. Possibly the entire month.

It took until dawn, but Alfred came home to a kitchen that no longer looked like it had witnessed the collapse of civilization.

#deadtedkord #my fic #batfamily #stephanie brown #jason todd #this is literally just steph and jay making breakfast and trashtalking everyone else's lack of cooking skills #totally a valid bonding experience

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makingoutinyour30s · 7 years ago

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put on your own oxygen mask first

Dear A,

First off, you are definitely a dad right now. As perfectly exemplified by your inability to edit your post to add on a closing mark. Oh girl. :)

Maybe I could feel you pacing while I was out that night. It was not really a “fun” evening. And I am having a difficult time trying to figure out if/when I’m putting too much pressure on things. For myself included. I think about my two dates with DD2 and I definitely began pushing that too soon. I understand that there are times when we meet people and we immediately want them around all the time, and they us. But that’s not always the case. And it is often the case that someone needs time to thaw out - if you’re scared, if you’ve been hurt, if you have some Really Big Thing You’re Too Nervous To Tell Someone. I don’t think it’s fair of me to expect that someone knows immediately if they want to spend a solid weekend with me. Because I also feel really strongly that spending a solid weekend with DD4 watching Stranger Things was part of what did us in. I digress.

Last night we went out to play board games at a local brewery. He texted me in the morning asking if I wanted to go. And I did. And A, I had a really great time. An old school (as in, two months ago :) DD4 and S good time. I laughed a whole lot. We played several board games with a cluster of strangers who were great. And at one moment between turns I sat back, looked at the people and place around me, and felt that familiar grateful feeling for this new life. An exclamation that is often running through my head is, “A year ago I never would have thought I’d be here! And I am so glad I am”. There was a piece of art I found in LA when I visited WCBFF a few months ago:

And I felt that way last night. I felt happy to be at this game night with new people. Invited by someone who, one year ago, shouldn’t/wouldn’t have been in my life at all. Yes, perhaps DD4 isn’t a love interest in this new story. But that doesn’t mean he’s a bad cast member. It just means we perhaps slotted him into the wrong role. I also felt grateful for his friendship. I’ve been seeing him very regularly for the past two months and I really, really like it. What a great, funny, joyful, energetic friend I’ve made. How lucky I feel to be meeting such excellent new people.

Though.

There is still some confusing stuff. On my cab ride to the event I was nervous. I was worried that because we’re now (i think?) friends we’d be too separate at this event. That I’d find myself on an opposite side of the venue playing a board game with a bunch of strangers wondering what I was doing there. I reminded myself that I could leave if this happened. But I arrived and my friend is back. We laugh a lot and he’s easy to talk to again. Except, he continues to touch me a lot in adolescent ways. He taps me on the shoulder. He turns his whole body towards me and grips me by the shoulders to exclaim when he’s excited. He leans across the table into me. He asks if I’ve eaten and if I want to get dinner afterward. He pays attention to me the whole night. He does not leave me feeling “lost” in a crowd of new strangers. When we go out to dinner he touches me more. We get sucked into watching a terrible movie and we’re laughing so much and hypothesizing what’s coming next and he’s got his arm on my chair or he’s giving me a quick rub on the back or gripping my leg. And I just don’t know what to do with this. If he wants to friendzone me, I need him to do a much better job. I was excited to hang out with my friend DD4. But I found it very confusing to be touched so much. No other person in my life touches me this much. And if someone did, I’d assume they were interested in me. Toward the end of the night I wondered if he was going to kiss me because I honestly had no idea (the answer is a resounding ‘no’. And I’m pretty sure he skipped off pretty quickly to make it abundantly clear that wasn’t going to be happening).

I remain incredibly confused. I was very O.K. heading into the night to hang out with my newfound friend. But it was tough to receive, what felt like, affection. He didn’t quite feel like a friend. He, honestly, felt like a boyfriend. And I felt more comfortable than I have with him in a bit because I was able to go into the evening with no expectations and no attempts at looking charming or cute or whatever other things I attempt to be when I’m on a date.

So, there we are. I have no idea what this is doing for him and my brain is a little wonky today over it. I had dreams of a new buddy relationship that now feels a little ... strange. It would have felt terrible to be ignored by him and set adrift at an event full of strangers. But it also doesn’t feel great to be on the receiving end of mixed signals when I’ve just finished repositioning this into my brain. We’ve got post-Thanksgiving plans and I will see what happens. If I need to have another talk with him and ask him to please stop sending me mixed signals so we can just enjoy being friends together. I want to feel grateful for the friendship I can have with him - being invited to events I wouldn’t have found myself at before, getting a little drunk, and laughing a whole lot over a plate of french fries. But I can’t do that if I feel like I’m always being flirted with. The bison are with me a little today but I’m trying to remind myself that every day doesn’t have to - or get to - feel like a manic dream. And as I’ve said of myself for my adult life, I like valleys with my peaks. Some days have to be valleys for the peaks to feel oh so good.

And then, before moving on, I will also let you know I have a coffee date with a new gent Saturday afternoon. A handsome dressmaker who told me, unprompted, that the last book he read was James Baldwin’s “The Fire Next Time”. And, fun fact, A, I happen to love Baldwin so much I have two copies of that book on my shelf. I look forward to adding DD6 to the ranks for at least one afternoon to get out of the constant DD4 stewing.

So now, let’s put on your oxygen mask.

A! Moving is a really big decision! I remember the months when we were waiting for our acceptance letters to roll in and we both spent so much time weighing the options we didn’t even know if we had yet. Where would we prefer to live? Where would be good places for our partners to go? What would the transition be like? Could we afford it? Who had the best faculty for our areas of interest? And when you got your options and knew you had to leave our shared city it was such a difficult decision. It’s supposed to be! I think you’re being awfully hard on yourself for something that should, I think, take up a lot of brain space.

One thing I worry and wonder about for myself right now is the potential for making superficial decisions. I have been a very thorough decision maker all my life. I have been patient and I have followed the rules. Do you think the decision to move could be superficial? Sometimes I can romanticize how good something was simply because it was in the past. I don’t think that was the case for you at all living in Chicago, but maybe? Are you worried about something you’ll have to walk away from in Vancouver? I worry about making a superficial decision in the near future because, as it has become abundantly clear, I am a love junky. It would be stupidly easy for me to make a dumb decision because I believe I’m falling in love. You must remember: my parents got married (and remain oh so happily married) after knowing each other for only three months. I believe in love really big time, A. And I worry I will follow it to a dumb place.

One thing I’m thinking is that this does seem like one of the first times in your adult life that you’re making a decision for yourself only. The past few years years you’ve had to make big decisions with a partner in mind. I have personally found the idea of this shift to be terrifying, even though I’ve got 2.5 more years until I have to start making big life decisions as a Solo S.

I think we are both shuffling what our visions of the future are in a lot of ways. This divorce has, oddly, made me think more about what I actually want to do with myself. Maybe being a professor isn’t as important to me and affecting change via institutions is. When I put on my high school drag for fieldwork days I always think, “This is what I’ll dress like when I’m running a youth research institute at Microsoft and heading to meetings where I get to present myself as a The Big Kid with the PhD.”

A, you know I had dinner with our very, very dear acquaintance NQ Sunday night. I really can’t say enough about how good that dinner was for my soul. People like NQ remind me of the good in the world and that this is why we keep moving. And why people and being good are just so important. Maybe it’s weird to say, but when I see people like NQ I think, “I want to be good so that I am a person someone like NQ will be proud to call their friend and a fellow human in the world”. I bring this up because he is also going through a Very Big internal shift. Something must be in the water. And something about the best people I know all mulling the world over together, but in separate ways, feels just so comforting to me. A, we’re all Amateur Adults. You’re right, I do tend to move with a lot of conviction within this world. I am lucky to feel that. But I think part of it comes from a massive amount of loyalty (which, as we have seen in things like my marriage and even on a much smaller scale with DD4, is also a major weakness) I feel within the world. I aim my ship and I do not waver. We Do Not Stop because we have started and you always finish the things you start. So, I do not believe I give myself much opportunity for thinking about what could have happened had I taken an alternate path. And just as there are problems everywhere, there are also massive amounts of joy everywhere!

Here’s the major thing I’ve learned since the Really Hard Time: when decisions have been made (either for or by you), move with their current. Had I attempted to fight the current OH threw me into, I’d still be out there struggling. My parents visited this weekend and it was the first time they saw me as a Healthy Person. The last time they saw me I still spent hours staring into space, intensely meditating every morning, weighing 15 pounds less, stewing on my own thoughts. My dad told me how worried he had been about me. I told him that it would have been appropriate for me to be in that place an entire year. That only several months in that place is actually a little weird. He agreed, and also told me how strong I am. When I was struggling with leaving my neighborhood and telling him over and over how scared I was of running into OH and his girlfriend my dad said, “Where is the athlete I know? You have a game face. Use it.”

So, A, my food for thought: there will be missteps in every direction you move and every decision you make. There will be a way to second guess and believe that had you stayed put (or had you moved) things would be better. But also, if you get here, or wherever else you might go, and it is just So Very Wrong, you can leave again. You can find a better place or you can go back. This life is just too short. It is too short to not try all the cake and work on eating it. Don’t be too scared. The worst that can happen is a tummy ache. We’ve all got you.

xo, S.

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mysticsparklewings · 6 years ago

Photo

Wire Sunset (+ Time Lapse!)

An attempt at a speed draw/time-lapse number 3! Link: youtu.be/BllxcQOvWQg I'm trying to get myself into something of a habit with these, just to see how it goes over time. This one is a bit different though, as this isn't exactly a typical drawing for me. The drawing is more fitting with my little collection of sky hexagons I did a while back. So what gives? Well, before I did my Happy dAnniversary to Me! piece on the tan paper, I had actually planned to do it on my gray paper, and I got as far as most of the line art...Except I had already run into the problem of the gray paper being unusually difficult to see my sketch through when using my lightbox (which is still exceptionally weird to me, considering the tan paper does just fine ) and then to top that off my own hand was just not cooperating with me. So I decided to save myself some frustration and just use the tan paper instead. I wasn't really sure what to do with the gray paper after that. It was already a "scrap" piece, leftover from cutting a piece down for Applet, and now it was being scrapped again. I couldn't very well try tracing another sketch, as I'd partially already learned my lesson with that (it is possible, as I've done it before with mild success, it's just that the sketch needs to be dark/have a layer of pen on top and my hand needs to be in the mood to be steady) and now I had pre-existing lines that would get in my way. That reality didn't leave me with a ton of options. For a little while, I toyed with the idea of doing a galaxy/sky piece before going through my camera roll to see if I had any sunset pictures I wanted to try my hand at. And more than ever I wished for a set of tree/leaf stamps to make my life easier because there's something just really appealing to me about having the pretty sunset colors broken up by stark black tree branches and stuff, and trying to draw those details out has just always felt like way too much work that never turns out quite right to me. (And very very easy to screw up.) But ultimately I did a bit of practicing and decided to just go for it and hope for the best. To be fair, the majority of my time was actually spent building up the color for the sunset in the background. I started with Faber Castell Polychromos, and that might have been a mistake? For whatever reason, despite them working just fine on the tan paper on my first test piece with them and on my Stellaluna picture, miraculously, they just weren't turning out very pigmented on the gray paper. Like I really needed the white and lighter yellows to be bright and pop and they just refused. I tried not to; I really did. But I ended up having to pull out my Prismacolors for the majority of the good color payoff. The Polychromos did make a good base and gave me something of a starting point, but as far as the pigment, on the gray paper, they couldn't touch Prismacolor. Side note: Originally, I hadn't planned on using the Neon Orange Prismacolor, but the bottom portion of the sunset was supposed to be really bright and I wasn't sure how to get any of the pencils to do what I wanted, so I tried it on a whim and over the pink it actually looked really nice! Also, I ended up using this blender pencil by Derwent when I noticed I was seeing too much of the pencil strokes for my liking. I've had the blender for a while; I just haven't given myself much opportunity to use it. When doing reviews/first impressions/tests for colored pencils, I try to keep it fair and not use the blender to see how the pencils stand on their own, and half of the time I just don't think to use it otherwise. And, if I'm being completely honest, I've always still had a bit of a bad taste in my mouth (metaphorically speaking) left from the Prismacolor blender pencil. That's actually part of why I bought the Derwent blender in the first place: I had to see if all blender pencils were that difficult to work with. The Prismacolor blender technically does its job, but I feel like I always have to press way too hard to get it to work properly, and even then it doesn't always do what I want. Just after I got the Derwent one, I did a small side-by-side comparison with just some little circles and color swatches, and IT WAS SO MUCH BETTER LET ME TELL YOU. It doesn't take nearly as much presser, and I would argue it's just better overall. And I think it has to do with the Derwent one having just a little bit of a white/neutral pigment in it, as you can kind of tell that if you sample both blenders on a non-white paper. It's not enough to really notice when you're actually using it to blend, though. I'm not sure how that science works out, but hey, it's saving me hand pain and making my drawings look smoother, so I'm happy. Many layers of colored pencil and blender later, it was time to add something so it looked like more than just blobs of color on a page. I used a ruler to get a few lines, but beyond that, I was mostly free-handing everything (I did look up some extra reference for the birds, but I wasn't super picky about them) and I was trying not to be too picky about symmetry and everything be perfect and all that. (Hence why the power line pole might look a bit wonky). I learned pretty quickly my black markers didn't seem to like going over all the colored pencil wax at all. This worked out in my favor for the actual power lines, as even in my photo reference they looked a bit spotty like this, but those trees... Both of my Copic Multiliners, my Prismacolor liner I used on the pole, my black Sakura gelly roll I used for the birds, even my ultra-fine tip black Sharpie...NONE of them wanted to do those trees! You can see me constantly having to scribble on my scratch paper in the video to get through them. Ultimately, the Prismacolor liner worked the best, but that wasn't saying much. I think I would've been okay if I had stuck to just using the Polychromos, as they're oil-based and I've noticed my gel pens don't fight over top of them alone that much, and I have definitely had plenty of problems with my gel pens trying to go over wax-based pencils like the Prismacolors in the past. And dare I say the Derwent blender pencil probably did not help with that, either. Either way, I did manage to get through it. After that, I cut the edges off where my pencil strokes didn't go quite all the way, then had to cut a bit more to kind of straighten it a little. Then I grabbed my metallic cardstock and cut a piece down to mount the picture on. Neither are particularly straight because I was using an Exacto knife and my own judgment rather than a paper cutter, but eh, I'll live. (I have since borrowed my mom's paper cutter for future endeavors.) In the video you can see me applying mod podge to the back on the picture semi-off screen because I was trying to hide my jacked-up, unused line art. Then I decided I needed one more bird to cover up a small smudge that was bothering me and signed it with my purple gelly roll, hoping my signature would blend in a bit more that way. (Not entirely sure that succeeded, but whatever.) Overall, I am quite happy with how it turned out Though I'm not sure how this managed to be the longest video since I felt like it took the shortest amount of time, yet looking back I guess it actually didn't Next up, I've been toying around with some watercolors, so there's that. No clue what I'm going to do for the next Time Lapse, but we'll see. ____ Artwork © me, MysticSparkleWings ____ Where to find me & my artwork: My Website | Commission Info + Prices | Ko-Fi | dA Print Shop | RedBubble | Twitter | Tumblr | Instagram

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adrift-in-writing · 8 years ago

Text

Little Death - Chapter 6: Life

The end of this fanfic(?)

Contains fluff, angst, and a bit of a left-fielder (At least coming from this author, mate)

___________________________

Miss a part? Click to be redirected.

Read on AO3

Part 1 - Alone | Part 2 - Together | Part 3 - Safe | Part 4 - Belong Part 5 - Remember

From the look of things, the piano session went without a hitch. No apparitions appeared, no damned nothing interrupted Amélie. Though her piano sessions typically lasted longer, that was before the woman’s reconditioning phases. Those skills had long dulled from under-usage.

Winston, Lena, and Amélie finished up ‘Love, Hacktually’ to pass the time afterwards, but once the movie concluded, they all went their separate ways for the afternoon. Lena began exercising upstairs, Winston wrote some mail for the other Overwatch teammates - alive and dead, supposedly - and Emily, having chosen not to watch the movie, instead spent her time creating her art.

The freckled girl spent most of her time in Amélie’s room, riding on the inspiration she was given and seemingly proud of how far she’d gotten. Maybe, just maybe, that reference photo from last night could be used as a backdrop. It’d be beautiful if it were, and that’s exactly what Emily had in mind.

A knock on the door had disrupted her creative process momentarily. “Come in!” She turned to face the door as it opened, Amélie stepped in with a neutral look on her face. That expression changed to a more softer and warm expression when she saw what Emily had worked on so far.

“So I see you were inspired, oui (yes)?”

Nodding, Emily deliberately hid her canvas. “Not ready yet, mate. Wouldn’t wanna ruin the surprise.”

In return, Amélie chuckled, sitting down on the bed. Whatever it was, it must be very special. But, as things would turn out, Amélie shifted her gaze towards a photo resting neatly on the side-table. It was a picture of her and Gérard on their wedding day - the same photo Lena and her retrieved from the abandoned Estate in Annecy all those months ago.

She sighed, shuffling herself over just so she could put the portrait face-down. Emily leaned her head to the side, momentarily processing what was going on.

“I want to ask you something.”

Emily blinked a few times before her eyes darted. “It’s uh...it’s for you.”

“For me?”

“The drawing. It’s dedicated to you. I mean, if that’s what you’re wondering, anyway!”

This rather came out of left-field for Amélie, but, she raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Well...not my question, but...”

There was a slight blush of embarrassment from Emily as she bit her lip. “Oh. Um...well...there goes the surprise!” She lowered her head and let her bangs cover her shame. A soft ‘dammit’ was overheard before Emily perked herself up again. “Right! What’s the question?”

“By any chance...do you know how to give a haircut?”

What an odd thing to ask, coming from Amélie. Well, considering all the local barber shops were closed, perhaps this wasn’t the worst question to ask somebody. But why Emily, of all people? Why couldn’t Lena do this or...hell, even a friend of Lena’s?

Amélie stared intently, awaiting her response, and Emily rolled her tongue to gloss over her teeth. Technically, she did take about two years of cosmetology as an undergrad, but that got her nowhere. After a few quick moments of consideration, she simply shrugged.

“...Maybe. I’m not good with sharp objects.”

“Good enough.” Amélie proceeded to stand up, removing her hair-band from her ponytail, and tossing it over to the side-counter, just perfectly on top of the downed photo from earlier. She had beckoned Emily to come with as her lengthy hair drooped down all the way to her lower back. Of course, Emily herself was a little bit more interested in why Amélie had picked her, and not somebody else. Nevertheless, she’d probably answer ‘I trust you’ or ‘You seemed like the one who could do it’. Something vague as a response was all Emily was probably thinking she’d get, so she let it go.

Above all else, she had no experience in this. She always practiced on wigs and they always came out a bit wonky, and the likelihood of her messing up hair would be higher than if she simply waited for an actual professional. Emily dropped her canvas and pencil on the bed, stumbling just a bit on the floor from prolonged sitting. She had exited out of the bedroom in time to see Amélie move herself towards Lena’s bathroom.

“Wait up!” She had cried out, but Amélie was intent on getting there first. Just as Emily exited her guest room, Amélie turned a corner, leaving only her hair to be the last sight she caught.

When they did arrive, Emily had found the woman was neatly plopped onto a seat with scissors in her hands. She stared at a mirror, with an expression that matched what she was pondering. Reluctantly, Emily had walked in and was immediately presented with the pair of scissors in Amélie’s hands.

“I want you to do me a favor,” Amélie had calmly began, “cut my hair to a modest length.”

She snipped air, and gently cast aside the scissors to the counter. “I’m not the best at it, y’know. And besides...” She chuckled a little bit at the thought. “Does Lena know you want this?”

Shaking her head, Amélie brushed some of her unkempt bangs behind her ears for the time being. “I want it as a surprise. I’ve...got to be honest. I’ve not had a haircut in nearly eight years.”

“Couldn’t this wait ‘til tomorrow? Why me?”

“No. I want one today. I trust you.”

Sighing, Emily figured as much. It was nice to be trusted with somebody’s personal favors, but not like this. If it was perhaps money for a haircut, she’d give it no problem. But for a direct haircut, that’s some really interwoven connections of trust. She was hesitant about it, and she darted her eyes around, ensuring this wasn’t a prank or anything.

“How short are we talking about here? Couple inches? Half of your hair? Full on butch?”

“What is this ‘butch’ you speak of?” Amélie questioned, parting a few strands of her bangs away.

Emily nervously grinned and laughed in response. “Butch is like, stylish short hair. Something wild like Lena’s or, hell, Maifie Adams for a few years in her 2072 album, ‘Livin’ the Wyld Style’. Or, better yet, Sakura Cheong.”

For a moment, Amélie thought about it. She never had that short of hair in her life, but...she wasn’t prepared to sacrifice all that. Not yet, at least. The idea was cute, but to her she wanted something that invoked an earlier life, and most of her younger times consisted of having shoulder-length hair, or a little bit more.

“Ah, maybe just a little below shoulder-length if that is the case. Here,” Amélie pulled down a holographic screen display to reveal a photo of her from a normal day, long before her reconditioning process. “Something like this.”

Amélie had been smiling a rather warm smile in the photo, but something about it seemed rather ominous. Regardless of whatever intent the photo had, it gave Emily the general idea of what she envisioned: A shorter ponytail, delicately fluffed up from the sides, and a noticeably elevated top-section. Overall, it seemed fairly clean and simplistic in style, and very fitting of Amélie.

So, half of her hair it was. Emily opened up the pair of scissors and grabbed a rather lengthy amount of hair. She hesitated, of course, and Amélie simply glanced at her through the mirror.

But then she pulled the pair of blades back, still ever so reluctant about this decision. Smacking her lips, she snipped air once more. “You’re absolutely sure I’m the right person for this?”

There was only a nod, and nothing more from the blue-skinned woman before her.

“Right. Clothes off. Wouldn’t want hair on your blouse and trousers, would we?”

Shrugging, Amélie gradually took off all of her clothing. She had intended to go get a quick shower afterwards, so this was probably thinking ahead of time. Her clothes eventually made their way to a laundry hamper nearby, and now Amélie was stark naked sitting on a little stool. Of course, Emily wasn’t phased. She’d already seen plenty of people naked in her life in anatomy practice lessons. The freckled girl took a deep breath, and opened up the shears again, and grabbed a fair portion of Amélie’s hair in another hand.

Snip.

In one gradual cut, a modest length of Amélie’s hair fell to the floor, and a bit on her lap. She brushed off any stray hair on the floor for later when she’d vacuum it up.

Amélie sat in silence as Emily did what she was asked. Bits of hair fell down, but it would be dealt with later. Despite Emily’s proclaimed ‘I can’t do this’ stance, she in fact could...with minor altercations. If anything, the biggest difference from the photo the woman had provided was that the bangs were lengthier than it should’ve been. Otherwise, all was good, and it wasn’t a complete disaster. Nothing was lopsided nor was it awkward on the eyes. Maybe for a touch-up, Amélie could go to a proper barber tomorrow if she desired.

“Well, did what I could. Fucking A...” Emily contently chuckled, wiping off remnants of hair from the scissors. “There ya go. Could use your hair for a line of dark blue wigs.”

Standing up from her stool, Amélie softly grinned in response. “I don’t think people would like to hear a dead person for a decade has decided to donate their hair. Please remember that the world still isn’t aware I’m alive.”

With a hand signal from Amélie, she gestured that Emily had fulfilled the favor. “You are free to go finish up that drawing. Wash your hands, first.”

“Alright. I should get it done before the end of the night. How’s that sound?”

Nodding, Amélie liked the sound of that. A complete drawing in one day was something she didn’t particularly see very often. With one last nod from the freckled girl, she left after wiping off her hands on a towel. There was a slight humming tune from Emily as well, but it was too indistinct to guess what it was, maybe a Christmas tune. Regardless, Amélie decided not to linger over it, turning the water valves in the shower to an appropriate amount of warmth. For the next few minutes, she simply spent her time with hair conditioner and shampoo, with random bits of hair falling down every now and then.

Just as Amélie had finished up her quick shower, she had opted to rather stand there, not wanting to dry herself off. Pressing her hands against the porcelain walls, she had her eyes closed, pondering what Lena would say.

Maybe she would like it, or at least that’s the best Amélie could hope for. Or, maybe the change was unjustified and ergo there wasn’t much of a reason other than ‘I need a new haircut’. For a moment, her mind wandered for a bit, feeling a tad bit relaxed. Amélie thought it might’ve been best to not soak in water for too long, so she swiftly snapped out of her little train of thought, cleaned the rest of her body up, and got out as soon as she possibly could.

Drying off her hair and changing herself into something more casual for dinner, she wanted to head out just as Lena began to head into the bathroom. Between the intersection, two opposing forces bumped the door that led nowhere.

“Oh! Is somebody in there?” Lena called out, with hints of exhaustion in her voice from exercising.

A sinking feeling grasped at Amélie, for she wasn’t expecting Lena to come in already. Though the younger woman was persistent on getting inside the bathroom, her arm was firm and unmoving. Somewhere, she didn’t want Lena to see her hair right now.

“It’s me, chérie (dear). I was just about to go get dressed for tonight.”

At Lena’s end of the door, she had let go and, embarrassingly, moved out of the way. “Door’s free now! Ya can move out!”

Amélie had to think of something for Lena to do so she couldn’t see her new haircut. Naturally, a memory back when they had to share a room in Gibraltar came into mind. Of all the things in the world that Lena was cautious of, seeing another woman nude made her a bit skittish.

“I’m naked. Close your eyes.”

Immediately, Lena closed her eyes and pursed her lips. “Done. Lemme know when to open.”

Emerging out of the bathroom swiftly, Amélie had lied about changing her clothes. In reality she already wore a grey button-up shirt and some black sweatpants that were clearly a bit oversized, even for her physique.

She pretended to go to her dresser to grab clothes, even so much as to open it up and ensure Lena heard it open up. She got nothing out, of course, but Amélie waited long enough, but the younger Brit before her was ever so patient. Lena looked real tense, closing her eyes and stiffening up her muscles just to invoke the ‘don’t move a muscle’ ordeal. It was cute, but any longer and Lena would probably grow suspicious.

“Open.”

Doing as she was told, Lena let her eyes open with a slight droop. They shot open wide when she took notice of Amélie’s new haircut. There was a bit of bumbling and other indistinct noises coming from Lena as she hid her face, visibly blushing alongside a muffled ‘bloody hell’ and something about being ‘really lucky’ being emitted from her mouth.

Amélie rolled her eyes, but she seemed to have gotten the message that Lena must’ve loved it. Reaching out, Amélie delicately pushed aside Lena’s hands so the Brit could admire her some more.

Now she was really red in her cheeks. Lena nervously swallowed, and only after a few moments did she remember why she came here.

“I gotta shower!” She exclaimed, embarrassingly moving away from Amélie and zipping away into the bathroom. A sudden ‘clank’ was muffled by the door - now closed - and an even more muffled ‘sod it’ could be overheard.

While amusing, Amélie didn’t expect such a strong reaction from Lena over a simple haircut. Albeit, she really didn’t know what to expect at all; she probably assumed Lena would love it, but not as much as what just unfolded. Nevertheless, she still had to clean up her hair still lying on the floor mats in the bathroom.

Now where was that vacuum cleaner?

____________________________

Time seemed to fly by fairly quick. Dinner came around and the four of them had scrambled together for their Christmas dinner. Things were...more quiet than normal, at least on Amélie’s end. Her thoughts had fuzzed up, having to come back sitting at this table.

While Emily and Lena were chatting away and Winston had been listening in politely, Amélie felt...disconnected. By instinct, she had tuned out of everything in the moment and only stared outward into the snow-covered London skies.

It wasn’t on purpose, of course, for Lena to be so caught up in talking with Emily. She was just so embarrassed to be glaring at Amélie and having to notice her new haircut - something she still couldn’t get over right now - and having a dumbfounded stare on her face.

Amélie didn’t have a clue how much time had passed; she didn’t feel like looking up at the clock. Her head lowered as she stared blankly at her lap. Obscured was the conversation behind held by the two Brits next to her.

She hadn’t a clue why she had to remember Gérard today. At first it simply just became awkward dreams of her husband luring her into death, but she refused to die. She refused to believe that it really was her husband, but that hallucination from earlier proved otherwise.

She began curling and uncurling her hands about two or three times before clenching them fully. These hands once strangled her beloved until he breathed no more. These hands once caressed his rugged cheeks after a few months of being away from each other. What a wicked game Talon played on her.

Then Amélie felt a warm presence in the form of an index finger prod her cheek.

“Luv?”

Her head raised itself back up again as her eyes made contact with Lena’s.

“You still with us?” Lena tilted her head, asking.

That same shade of paleness from Amélie’s skin was showing again. Lena had known by now something was off, just based on how much Amélie was avoiding things today.

“I’m fine. Just...thinking.”

Amélie put on a fake smile and began resuming eating her meal again. She only nodded and brushed off the notion something was wrong, even if it meant lying to Lena about it.

Against her better judgement, Lena went along with it again. Later tonight she’d have a discussion about it with her in private, and then give her gift to her. She didn’t like that something felt dreadfully off, but she couldn’t do much about it right now, in front of everyone.

Lena’s conversation with Emily had stopped after a while and the rest of the dinner went on without anything exciting to talk about. This wasn’t how Christmas was supposed to go down; even more so was the fact Amélie wasn’t this silent yesterday night. Though jokes were passed around the table by Winston, it didn’t change the mood all that much.

What did change was after dinner, as it was to conclude with an opening of presents. Amélie thus far only received a box of chocolates, and the rest of the group received some pretty fun stuff. Emily had gotten a game of Telestrations and Telestrations After Dark, Lena had received a new pair of crocs (on top of the endless mound she already had), and Winston got a model rocket ship that could interchangeably recreate itself into any previous ones before.

A seemingly quiet night changed into something of a comedic game of shenanigans, what with the four of them playing Telestrations. Each of them were tasked to draw a birthday cake, a whale, a Venus Flytrap, and a wallflower. After 60 seconds, all of them swapped pictures and guessed what the image was.

“...What in the bloody hell?” Emily tilted her head, confused at what in the world Lena had drawn.

“Only got 60 seconds! Can’t blame me for that one.” Lena had protested. Her picture was what looked like a round circle without anything on top, and everything else was intricate around the sides. It looked like a drum. “Oi, Amélie. This what I think it is?”

Shrugging, Amélie wasn’t allowed to tell her what it was. “Je ne sais pas (I don’t know). Winston drew something that looked like something he would eat.”

“Hey, not true!” Winston retorted, before momentarily shifting his gaze back to Emily’s drawing in his possession. It looked like a man who got stuck in a wall before the paint dried. Even with the freckled Brit’s drawing skills, this was some shoddy workmanship. Blame the 60 seconds.

After several more rounds featuring a large amount of misunderstandings - a common part of the game itself - and genuine laughter from all four of them, they spent several minutes total debating each and every shift in the drawing pads. By the end of it, they had gotten a picture of a gangster, a bumblebee, a band of instruments, and the Moon Landing.

The hour was late, but Emily was determined to win her side of the argument that her illustrations were simple enough. Hell, there were even arrows pointing at the certain objects and people seemed to miss it, but Lena wouldn’t have any of it. She giggled every few words, because somehow ‘gangster’ emerged from drawing a fairly detailed photo of Harrison Ford as Han Solo, though she did calm down eventually.

“Well we botched that, didn’t we?” Emily cried out, holding her drawings up. “Look at this!” She shoved the pictures towards Lena’s face. “Sod it all, mate, a wallflower was the simplest thing and nobody got it!”

“It’s not your fault, I mean...ya did get put on the spot! Ain’t used to workin’ under pressure, no biggie!”

While the two Brits had a friendly argument, Amélie’s fatigue started to show again. She was the first to go get some rest, and Winston began erasing his own Telestrations board to put away. If she had more time, Lena would totally have gone on longer for teasing Emily over trying to draw a wallflower in 60 seconds. But, she had to go. She still had Amélie’s problem to deal with.

“Listen, Emmy. We’ll talk more ‘bout this over breakfast, yeah?”

With a reluctant nod and an exhaustive sigh, Emily hopped out of her chair leaving her Telestrations pad where it was, and Winston waved both of them good night, heading off in his own guest room.

____________________________

The door shut behind Lena as she entered into a dimly lit bedroom. Amélie had already prepared herself to go sleep off today and her troubles. At least, until Lena came in. Then she remembered she still had a gift ready, whatever it may be. Her sweatpants were already thrown somewhere else; Amélie didn’t feel like wearing them tonight, the room was warm enough already.

Amélie’s eyes had a sense of deep sorrow laden within them, having her burst of joy crumble down into sadness. Any hint of happiness today wasn’t there, nor any sense of any other emotion aside from her wistful expressions. She quietly observed Lena with her eyes, running them up and down to check for any signs of a present. Nothing seemed to indicate it.

Only the sounds of slight shuffling around the loft and the gentle, soft hum of Lena’s accelerator hummed in the night. By then, the Brit had dashed into Amélie’s arms, embracing her. They said nothing for a while, and it was a tid-bit hard for Lena to form words to put it delicately. Amélie figured that maybe her ruse was up. She had proceeded to go sit down on the bed, prompting Lena to sit on her lap.

Amélie smiled briefly, feeling the warmth that Lena had provided her on top of the harness. She wanted to kiss her and simply let things go, but that’d be stepping on their trust.

“You’re probably wondering, aren’t you.” Amélie muttered into Lena’s ear.

“...It’s Gérard again, innit?” Lena replied back, her tone filled with concern. To her, Gérard had loved his wife, but something deep inside her suggested that tonight, this was not the case.

Humming, Amélie scooted in a bit further on their bed. “I...want to start off by saying that these past few months,” She began, maintaining eye-contact with the smaller Brit, “they were wonderful. I enjoyed...laughing. And smiling. Being human again.”

Despite feeling so empty and hollow since the morning over her new-found horrific memory, Amélie felt like breaking down right then and there in bed, but at the same time she wanted to keep up her semi-positive attitude. Somewhere, a deep part of her wanted to truly feel a sense of pain from crying, or at least spilling tears; yet as much as her heart stung like a thousand needles, she couldn’t. Lena wanted to speak up, but Amélie cut her off.

“But I don’t deserve it, do I...?”

A part of Lena wanted to cut back in again, but that might’ve not have been the best idea to interrupt the woman before her.

“I remembered something I really shouldn’t have. It’s...it’s not the first time I remembered it either.”

Her nod had given a small pang of pain in Lena’s heart. Today was supposed to be a happy day; the day where being part of a family and not spending a single moment alone was meant to be the spirit of things. Yet, to Amélie, she felt like she could not join them. People would’ve freaked out if they saw her, or worse figure out she is a major factor in the discourse of the world.

Amélie had no choice but to face her fears tonight. She told herself that if not tonight, then she would never know the truth about Lena’s intentions. If not tonight, then never any other night would she want to ask. Her gaze was now upon Lena herself, who had inched a few feet backward to give her some space. “Nobody told me. They wanted me to forget.”

“...But ya couldn’t.” Lena whispered, now fearing the dread of Amélie’s words.

The woman paused, trying to collect herself and keep things together. With a nod, she looked down and stifled back what seemed like a hint of silent weeping. “I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand why she wanted me not to remember.”

Her head lowered, now feeling bitter sorrow. “How could I forget that my own husband fucked somebody who he thought was me?”

She scoffed, turning the other cheek. Now a part of her really, really wanted to cry, but still, there was nothing. Lena proceeded to trail her hand over to caress Amélie’s cheek, double checking to make sure there were any tears. Surprisingly - and most shocking to her - there weren’t any. At least, not now. There wasn’t anything to smile at, so Lena did no such thing. For a moment, the woman had felt a little bit better about herself, feeling her lover’s soft and warm fingers touch her icy skin.

But it was not to last. Amélie lifted up her own hand and gently let down Lena’s own. With a deep breath, she recollected her already scattered thoughts, listening only to the accelerator from the girl’s chest whirring away. The cyan-colored light illuminated the two girls in bed, but at any given point Lena would have to plug it into a charging station at some point.

Amélie couldn’t bear to face her guilt. It was even harder to confront Lena and say it, telling her the real reason of why Gérard died. She pursed her blue lips, turning her cheek away. It ruined her if she were to speak of this and look at her lover in the same way.

“...Out of sheer anger and bitterness, the Widow let me have control of myself again.” She paused, having remembered that horrid night, “After he had his fill of me and threw me away for the night, I suffocated the man I loved before brutally ending his life.”

The look Lena had was not of fear, not of anything remotely afraid of her. It was more of the same sorrow Amélie had in her own eyes. She had restrained herself again, but something deep in her pushed on, listening even more.

“It was the first time I had killed. Then...I just felt regret. Nothing but emptiness in me. And then...I felt tired. Just so tired. I slept, hoping I’d wake up. And I kept having nightmares over and over...”

Amélie shook her head in denial, but in reality there was no denying it. She could feel just a few trickles of hot tears run down her cheeks. “But they weren’t nightmares...they were real. All of it was real, and I...”

She tripped over her words. She wanted to say ‘committed atrocities’ but...she could only wonder and want an honest explanation of things. She wanted to give Lena all of her love, but the final question had lingered in her head. If Gérard was easily fooled, could Lena have fallen into the same trap? The woman pushed Lena away, but kept the smaller Brit in her hands, nervously swallowing.

“With this revelation came another dark thought, Lena... If my own husband fell for her...did you, too?” She had asked, her voice a little weary. Amélie sniffled, and no more tears ran down. Albeit brief, it was as close as expressing sadness as she could get, even though two nights ago she nearly cried enough as it already was. Instinctively, Lena had shaken her head the moment she heard those words.

“Listen to me.”

Her nose scrunched up, and her eyes were fierce. She laid her two free hands on Amélie’s shoulders and looked at her dead in the eye.

“No. I would know the difference. You know that I love you and not that murderer. Look,” Lena paused briefly, pulling out her holophone and flipping open up a collection of photos. “You see this? This is from our trip in Annecy.”

The images hovered, but Amélie could see them in full view. A good majority of them seemed to be just pictures of her grinning, looking awkward, blurry, or otherwise like any other normal human being. There was a soulful expression laden in her golden gaze, and not one of a hollow and sadistic killer.

“Who is this? Who’s smiling in those pictures? Not Widowmaker.”

Those photos began minimizing back into Lena’s phone, and she held onto Amélie a little tighter. “I would’ve never have taken anythin’ if I knew it wasn’t you. Never. Not in a million years. Not if Talon put a gun at my head.”

By then, Lena had begun to play it cool. She moved her warm fingers upwards and around Amélie’s neck, pulling her in so they could touch foreheads. For this moment alone, the much smaller Brit wanted Amélie to let the words sink in.

“And if she’s listening in? She needs to know I’m not afraid of her. I will never be afraid of her. She should be afraid of me, because I’m the one thing standing between Widowmaker...and you.”

That was Lena’s proclamation. Their conversation quietly shut itself down while the two intently stared at each other. Amélie’s saddened expression gradually faded, but not into a blank one. It was one of hope, and the return of her happiness. She smiled - for now, she had a reason to - and took a deep, yet shaky sigh.

She looked up, after thinking some things through. “How do you do it?”

“Do what, exactly?”

“How are you never depressed about anything?”

There was a chuckle, and Lena tilted her head, cracking open a small grin. “What makes you think I’m not?”

“Well...you always smile and make others laugh and I thought, maybe --”

Lena had shaken her head. “Just ‘cause somebody’s smilin’ outside doesn’t mean they aren’t hurtin’ on the inside, luv. I just try not to let the pain get to me.”

Really, Amélie should’ve taken a look at herself. She had falsely smiled most of the day today, yet she was hurting real bad. This time, however, her smile was genuine. She looked back up at Lena again.

“We could talk ‘bout this all night, but I think this week’s been dreadful enough.” Lena said, wrapping her arms around Amélie again, stroking her back for reassurance. “I just want you to be happy. With me, and everythin’ I try to do. You deserve someone who’s gonna be there.”

There was always something Lena did right in Amélie’s perspective. She’d always say the right things, or simply convince her everything was going to be alright. Even if it seemed shoddy, Lena’s tone had the most impact to it; there would never be a hint of doubt coming out of her lips.

“One more question, chérie (dear).” Amélie calmly spoke.

“Anythin’ for you.” Lena replied back, her grin reassuring the woman.

“What is my Christmas present?”

Lena grew a bit flushed as she bit her lower lip. “It’s uh...I dunno if it’s that appropriate considering our topic earlier.” She grinned, and nervously scratched her head. “I-I mean...only if you wanna. It’s...”

It didn’t take long for Amélie to catch on with what Lena had intended. She too had a sudden feeling of embarrassment from it. Though she initially felt nothing, there was a slight...tingling sensation. It was a sensation that she hadn’t felt in a long, long while. Something in her heart became excited at the thought, and it even showed; Amélie’s cheeks grew a smidgen purple from the implications of it all.

“I mean...I really wanted ya to be happy an’ all and to forget ‘bout the past. Again, only if you wanna. It’s no rush!” Lena had insisted.

Amélie had an impish smirk as she raised her eyebrow. This was to be her gift for the evening, then? It seemed so...her. So ‘Lena Oxton’, in a way. So cheesy, yet...something bold, and daring.

“I want to.” Amélie reached up to undo the harness’ straps. Promptly, she began softly pecking at Lena’s lips with her impish smirk turning into a warm smile she always shared with others.

Nervously swallowing, the Brit really wasn’t expecting to dive into it that quick. “Wait.” Lena softly muttered, defensively grabbing onto Amélie’s arms.

The woman had proceeded to stop, letting her hands slip down the sleek device. Not a single notch was untied, though she knew how to take it off. Amélie tilted her head to the side, questioning if it was perhaps the pressure. Or maybe it was Lena’s first time?

Seemingly flustered, Lena took a few swift - yet sharp - breaths, muttering something about ‘being able to do this’. Indeed, it was definitely her first time, especially with another woman. All it did so far was make Amélie laugh.

“First time, then?” Amélie teased, “Well...first time for everything.”

This, of course, made Lena even more flustered. She had quickly devolved into a bit of a mess, despite all that bravery being displayed prior to a more touchy conversation. Luckily for Lena, Amélie definitely had experience from this. Not from a man, oh no, but from her inexperienced college days. It was just a little bit of experimentation, but it seemingly proved more effective. Never in her life did she think it’d be handy. With one final self-motivating word of advice, Lena clenched her fists, gave a strong nod, and immediately dropped her flustered attitude.

“Right. Just hope I don’t mess this up.”

Surely there wouldn’t be a way to mess up. There shouldn’t be, at any rate. Amélie once again reached for the harness straps, and slowly began loosening them up. Lena in return had ensured she wouldn’t interrupt the process, but she would be the one to take the accelerator to its charging station.

All the straps were loosened up, and Lena slipped off her harness, with the accelerator sliding all the way down to the mattress. Picking it up, she placed it on the charging stand over in the corner and came back, nervously swallowing.

Just like that, Amélie made the first move, as Lena was hesitant. She moved in to press her lips against the Brit’s own. Slowly - and sensually - her hands trailed themselves all the way around Lena’s small body as Amélie pulled her into an amorous embrace.

She didn’t pull away, only repeatedly coming back for more over and over again. A part of her truly wanted this to unfold, and an even smaller part never wanted it to end. Lena on the other hand hadn’t a clue where to start, and thus she simply...moved her hands around, slowly up and down Amélie’s waist and let things happen.

What started out as sensual quickly became more intense. The two girls were now in a position where Amélie had laid on her back, and Lena was right between her slender legs. The woman had even removed her hair-band so that her long and wispy hair were more free, and it was no longer in a ponytail.

There was a burning passion somewhere buried in Amélie’s gaze. That tingling sensation grew within her, and suddenly she could feel Lena’s soft, warm hands try to unbutton her shirt. She let the young Brit do as she pleased, chuckling at the moment to herself.

“What’s so funny?” Lena whispered, having undone the last button. She folded open a portion of the shirt so Amélie’s breasts became exposed. She simply...glanced at the Brit observing her, and how cute she looked being so flustered.

Though Lena never noticed it until now, and despite the times she had seen the blue-skinned woman naked, she never took the time to closely examine her in this way. Truth be told, Amélie had quite the athletic build. It was barely visible, but she had a bit of a 6-pack, or at least the outline of it. She felt incredibly nervous, but at the same time felt inclined to touch them.

There were, however, noticeable scars laden around Amélie’s skin. Long slits from knives, the little bruises from her physical torture, and a various amount of bullet holes rested upon various spots. What stories they had to tell, Lena would never know, unless she asked. She had felt compelled, also, to go ahead and trace her index finger on a little scar on Amélie’s abdominal area.

Amélie felt a bit teased, supporting herself on her elbows. “It’s an expression I remembered,” She began, trying to think up on how to deliver it, ”The French invented it.”

Curiously, Lena cocked her head to the side. “That so? Tell me ‘bout it, then?”

In response, Amélie snickered, and pursed her lips. “A brief loss of consciousness likened to death, as they considered it --”

“W-wait! Nobody said anythin’ about dyin’ here!” The girl had interrupted, but she was silenced almost immediately by the index finger of Amélie pressing against her lips.

“Non (No). In modern terms, chérie...it is more commonly used to describe the euphoric sensation of an orgasm.”

Upon hearing those words, Lena’s cheeks grew a deep red. She started squealing, but Amélie laughed a bit hard at how it sounded in her ears. It seemed so adorable to her, considering this was perhaps the first time she’s seen Lena fairly vulnerable. Nonetheless, she continued on.

“They called it, ‘la petite mort’. The little death.”

Awkwardly, there was silence between them after Amélie spoke. However, it wouldn’t last particularly too long. Lena calmed herself down, having stopped her squealing, and giggled at the thought. “That’s a bit ironic, y’know. Killin’ time an’ all that...”

Her hands moved over to Lena’s sides, and she was rather amused. Quickly - and unexpectedly for Lena - their positions in bed got reversed as Amélie rose up from her spot, and shifted both of them around. Now, it was the smaller Brit laying down and the cold woman on top. As she loomed over Lena, her hand brushed itself just under Lena’s shirt.

Then, she began gradually lifting it up, but only until Lena’s chest was exposed, and even then she wore a bra underneath it all. In comparison to Amélie’s own skin, hers was much more delicate, and fairly untouched. The woman gave a warm smile, grabbing one of Lena’s arms. She held it against her cheek, just before she began kissing that arm, and trailing herself downwards to Lena’s stomach. Every step of the way, her lips pressed up against Lena’s smooth and soft skin, only for her to respond in soft moans and little shivers.

Lena could feel her pants being pulled down in the process, and then her bra being undone. All that was left - and she proceeded to take it off herself - was her orange shirt, to which she casually threw over the headboard. Much like Amélie before her, all she was left now were a pair of panties. The only difference was that Amélie kept her shirt with her.

Her face once again felt real hot, and Amélie’s gaze upon her became something fierce, and lustful. Lena could feel herself being picked up, and then felt mildly cold lips press against hers once again. In response, Lena swung her hands around Amélie, holding onto her ever so tightly. She pulled away, just for the last time tonight.

“...Be gentle with me. And...slow.”

There was a nod from Amélie and she chuckled. “Of course, mon amour (my love). As slow as you and I want to go.”

Beyond that point, there was no more words to be spoken. Amélie moved herself down towards Lena’s neck and began planting kisses there, gradually moving downwards all the way until she reached Lena’s stomach.

All she really wanted right now was this girl before her, and nobody else. If this was her gift tonight, she wanted to make sure she’d revel in all of its glory. She wanted to just simply forget she was in pain, and divert her attention into what mattered to her.

Tonight was hers, and hers alone.

#Widowmaker #Tracer #Overwatch fanfic #Widowtracer #Overwatch #Lena Oxton #Amelie Lacroix #Character: Tracer #Character: Widowmaker #Character: Emily #Character: Winston

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roamingholiday · 7 years ago

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Friday, July 7th 2017

Divorce, beheaded, died. Divorced, beheaded, survived.

The program took us to Hampton Court Palace, King Henry VIII’s home. The train ride was unmemorable, apart from the fact that we were all exhausted and spent most of it leaning on each other and staring in vague confusion at the sunlight, because this was the first train we’d taken above ground.

One of our professors was with us, but the other was at the airport meeting his family, and of course it turned out that the tickets were with him, so we had to wait about two hours for him to get from Heathrow to Hampton Court.

We were let go for those two hours to go find lunch, and four friends and I ended up at a pub. Very pleasant, fairly British, though we ended up being a little late back to the group after the two hours were up because we got very lost before we actually found the pub, because given the single main road and very simple directions, of course we did.

This is a map of Hampton Court:

The castle itself is stunning, but the gardens are really a work of art. We did, of course, get hopelessly lost more times than I care to admit.

My favorite part actually was the interior of the castle, if only because it was a fairly hot, sunny day, and the castle at least was cool. There were also quite a few architectural references to the Roman Empire, which I understood and took great pleasure in explaining to my companions. Each of the gates, for example, had pillars with a different famous Roman emperor’s face carved into them, like so:

(A translation, if you’re confused: Iulius, or Julius, full name Gaius Julius Caesar, Imperator, here meaning Emperor, though a more accurate title would be Proto-Emperor Who Was Actually Crowned Dictator For Life Which Is An Entirely Different Thing Belonging To An Entirely Different System Of Government But Then Was Stabbed To Death A Month Later So I Don’t Blame You For Forgetting The Difference. That’s hard to fit on a plaque, though.)

I gave biographies of the more entertaining ones, though I honestly don’t know how much my friends believed me. I was accused, more than once, of making things up, though I swear it’s all true. Ancient Rome was a time, really.

I just kinda assume that if you’re reading this blog, you’re okay with me getting distracted from real life to tell stories about people who’ve been dead for millennia. So in no particular order:

AUGUSTUS

The first emperor, who was not actually an emperor. Showed up at eighteen after the death of his adopted father (Julius Caesar, you may have heard of him, it was an unexpected death, so to speak), took over the senate, then the country, then the known world, vaguely in that order. Small and sickly (and ginger, interestingly enough), which was one of the reasons that no one, say, just hypothetically speaking, stabbed him twenty three times in the middle of a senate meeting because they thought he was getting too powerful. There was no point in going to all the trouble of planning an elaborate assassination when the dude they were planning on assassinating was probably going to die in a year or two of whatever fatal illness he’d caught that particular time. Of course, that all means that Augustus lived to be 75 years old and died peacefully in his bed of old age. Who woulda thunk it.

Ruled for forty years. Arguably one of the most influential people to ever exist. Innately likable. Not prone to wandering around claiming to be king of the universe, unlike some Caesars that could be mentioned. Had quite possibly the most beautiful propaganda machine in human history.

HADRIAN

Brought back beards. (Julius Caesar killed beards, by the way. In case you were wondering.) Really liked the Greeks and hellenization. (Hence the beard.) Had a Greek boyfriend. (Of course, who didn’t back then.) Responsible for the construction of Hadrian’s Wall, which is a Roman wall going through England, with Roman forts placed sporadically along it. (I have walked along it briefly. It is very large. Very wall-like. Long. Kinda twisty. Excellent structure, for something built thousands of years ago. Not surprising, Romans were famous for their infrastructure.) The wall represents the largest the Roman empire ever got. The instant that the boundaries of the empire were defined with the wall, the empire began to shrink. We have letters from soldiers writing home from their post along Hadrian’s Wall. They mostly say things like Wow I Understand Why Pants Are Important, and Please Send More Socks. Romans did not like England.

NERO

I am as alarmed as I’m sure you are to know that Henry VIII thought that Nero was a good enough role model to put his face outside his castle. I’m not surprised, but I am alarmed. Nero was the emperor who fiddled while Rome burned, which is not an entirely historically accurate statement, because fiddles hadn’t been invented yet, but he definitely did sit back and wait for the massive fire that destroyed countless insula (apartment buildings for the super poor) to burn itself out, and then had built on the ashes of those homes a palace that he called the Domus Aurea (Golden House), which contained a 35.5 m bronze statue of himself.

He’s also notable for having killed his mother. It took him a couple goes, though, because he tried to have her bed’s canopy rigged to fall on her in her sleep, and she survived, and he tried to have her poisoned, and she survived, and he tried to send her out on the sea in a boat that was built to collapse beneath her in the middle of the water, but she swam to shore and survived. Eventually he just sent a guy to stab her, because clearly nothing else would work.

After I finished my entirely delightful rendition of Roman Emperors And Their Exceedingly Odd Lives, we took a tour through the castle, in which we saw many beautiful rooms and innumerable pieces of exquisite artwork, including this wonderfully heterosexual wallhanging:

And this truly alarming statue, which I think is supposed to be a dolphin:

I won’t explain every single room in detail for you, mostly because I don’t think I could, and also they were pretty similar after a while. Very large. Lots of stuff on the walls, not a lot of stuff on the floor. High ceilings. Sometimes had a red velvet throne in the center. No discernible bookshelves, anywhere, which is way more alarming than the carving glorifying Nero out front.

This painting was in an alcove, and I was the first one to see it, which meant that I had the pleasure of watching each of my friends wander past, notice it in their peripheral vision, do a double-take, and then leap back with the same horrified expression that I assume I had, the first time I saw it.

This wooden man was standing in a corner of the courtyard, with no plaque to explain what exactly his purpose was. He appeared to be screaming. I don’t know why, though if I had an irresponsible, childish, delusional, narcissistic maniac as the leader of my country, I might be screaming too. Oh, wait.

Once we’d exhausted the interior, we went out to see the gardens, and promptly got hideously lost. Our original intent was actually to find the maze, which we knew was somewhere outside, but of course the gardens themselves were apparently enough of a maze to stump all of us for a good hour. Stunningly beautiful, though. I particularly liked the hedge tunnel, because it was long and shady and reminded me of something a character from an old movie might run dramatically through.

There was also a hidden garden that could only be seen through strategically placed holes in a large shrubbery, which is why the angle of this photograph is wonky.

After walking in circles in the sun for a very long time, we eventually consulted the map, and after the map was removed from my hands and turned the right way up by people who are clearly more competent than I am, we actually found our way to the maze, which was rather anticlimactic after we spent so much time looking for it. Turns out it was all the way on the other side of the castle, which is why we couldn’t find it. It was a proper hedge maze, though, which was very cool, and we did hit a dead end twice, which meant it wasn’t entirely a waste of time.

We could have gone in to the castle again, after the maze, or took some time to explore the rest of the gardens, but to be quite honest it really was very hot that day, and we’d been outside in the sun long enough to feel rather dizzy, so instead we found a little cart and paid a surprisingly reasonable amount for about a dozen water bottles to split between the five of us, and also some ice cream for good measure. We met back up with the rest of our group in enough time to get the seven o’clock train back to London, and there ended our day at the palace of the President of the United States King Henry VIII.

#london #travels #I once wrote a fairytale about an orangoutang named King Drumpf #he was partially inspired by King Henry VIII #also by Nero #in case you were wondering the heroic goose protagonist deposed him #a story 100% not built on wishful thinking not at all no siree #this is unreasonably long but I had a lot to say #in summary it was a Temple payed trip so I have no idea the actual cost of admission #but Hampton Court Palace is a beautiful place to visit #if you have the time and energy to spend a full day there #good for all ages #I think there's even a playground behind the maze #maybe check the weather before going #bring a water bottle #also recommended to have a classics student as a tour guide #A+ 10/10 full of great content entirely unrelated to anything about King Henry #if I do say so myself #museum review #I think?

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atypical60 · 6 years ago

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Yes I did! And I’m gonna tell you all about that stuff I got!!

Yes I did. But I paid mostly with cash!

I got another eyeshadow duo. This one I purposely bought because I decided that I would make myself a “makeup bag” for work. (Which, by the way as I write this, I have not done) Now—I normally don’t do touch ups during the day but because I’m at the computer all day my eye makeup can sometimes get a bit wonky because I’ll rub my eyes without thinking.

I’m really hung up on the MAC eyeshadow refills. I need to stop this obsession!

It could be a good idea to perhaps do a bit of an eye touch up if I run errands after work. Know what I mean?

Anyway, I ordered Patina, a slightly shimmery neutral and, naturally, Quarry—my go-to shadow shade.

Patina on the right. It goes on so lightly that it looks like your eyes are shaded. And Quarry on the left is more of a taupe than the lavander hue the photo took on!

But I was really excited about the lip pencil that I ordered. Half Red by Mac. One of my favorite YouTube Beauty Gurus, Aly Art, loves this and her lips always look so beautiful so I decided to try it.

Half Red in the box….

Let me tell you something. I’m thrilled that I did. I feel as though the purchase was an epiphany. I don’t like a lipstick that feels “heavy” and some matte lipsticks have a texture that makes them feel dry and heavy on the mouth. And I want staying power because during the day, I do not want to be constantly applying lip gloss or lipstick. And if you use a lipstick/gloss that’s a bit on the more “colorful” side and not a neutral, as the color wears off it looks a bit “off”.

The one concern, though was that a pencil needs to be sharpened. And my luck with pencil sharpeners isn’t exactly great. Regardless, I still bit the bullet and bought it.

Half Red is a truly neutral type of red. It just blends into the natural lip so well!

And I couldn’t be any happier. This goes on the lips so nicely. I did prep by exfoliating my lips and adding a bit of concealer to tone down the natural pigmentation in my lips. Then—I went to town!

Me, wearing Half Red to the office this week. What the heck. I’m changing this to A+ anyway!

Overall, I have to give this an A. I think as I get more used to wearing this, it will reach A+ status. But I’m relatively new to using a lip pencil as lipstick so we’ll see.

Mascara. Yes. I did. I bought another mascara. I couldn’t help it. I’ve been fondly reminiscing about the Bourgeois mascara that Oona and I loved back during her Irish Dance days. The mascara was two-fold. A white primer at one end and mascara at the other. It was great. Made the lashes long and lush and there was not one con about the product.

False advertising on the package. My lashes did NOT look like the lashes on the package–but this does a very decent job with making the lashes look lovely!

When I saw this Voluminous Super Star mascara from L’Oréal, I dug deep into my wallet and made the buy. I’ll say, this isn’t bad. It isn’t bad at all. It isn’t perfect either. The primer is good is coats the lashes evenly but, there isn’t a lot of actual product in the tube. That’s annoying to me. I can imagine that the mascara end of the tube will outlast the primer. The mascara isn’t bad either. The wand is a good one because there’s decent separation and the bristles are a great size. Not too thick and not too thin. It reminds me of the old “The Falsies” by Maybelline wand before Maybelline changed the formula and packaging that now basically stink.

Primer on the left, mascara on the right. The wands are very good ones. My issue is that L’Oreal is stingy on the primer!

My only complaint about the mascara is that I wish it made the lashes a bit thicker. It gives a nice length but I like a slightly clumpy look. and there wasn’t a good amount of lash primer!

Just in case you get confused, the primer is number 1 and the mascara number 2!

Overall, this gets a B+ to an A- simply because the primer end of the tube is stingy.

Eyelash Curler. I had an eyelash curler that came with a little replacement rubber. I had that little replacement rubber for about two years. And when I needed to replace the rubber that was in my eyelash curler—the replacement disappeared. God knows where it went—it most likely either ended up where the odd socks from the dryer go or Chippy ate it. And I never bothered to replace the eyelash curler or buy replacement rubbers.

So, while at Dollar Tree last Sunday, I spotted an eyelash curler and figured all they are worth is a buck anyway. And I’ll be honest. Don’t waste the buck on a dollar eyelash curler. The size is weird—because it doesn’t “grab” the lashes the way the other lash curlers do. But—for a buck, it’s worth it to keep in my travel case. If you are at Dollar Tree or any other Dollar store, pass on this. Please.

This eyelash curler isn’t worth the dolla spent. In fact, notice that on my hand is a paper towel. That’s because I accidently stabbed my finger with the scissor that I opened the packaging with and bled for a half hour! Ok–15 minutes. Alright already–a good three minutes!

I also picked up a two-part cosmetic case. This is actually a very good thing for me. My lip products can go in the smaller case. I’m a lipstick/gloss slob and the glop gets everywhere. By putting them in a separate case helps to keep things clean!

For a buck, I should have picked up a couple more of these to throw into various tote bags. I’m not big on expensive makeup/cosmetic bags because within six months (ok–make that a month for me) they get filthy inside. These work for me. And I’ve yet to fill them with cosmetics..

I did pick up and placed in the larger bag this little mirror/brush combo. I can use the brush for my wigs because the bristles are plastic and synthetic-wig friendly!

Who can pass up a pair of dollar flip flops? Not I!!! One pair can be kept in the car and one at the office for those days when the heels start to bother my dawgs! A very handy item of footwear, I must say!

The flip flops with the anchors are right up my alley. The white ones are July Fourth specials!

Now. Since we were at the beach on Saturday, and I got a bit of sun on my face, I decided to rummage through my old makeup case to see if there was any face tanning product that I could use as foundation. I came across a sample of Tarte’s Brazilliance. I don’t even know if it’s a face product because the printing on the sample tube was too small but I put it on my face anyway.

Well..the tube states this is a self-tanner but it washed right off at the end of the day!

Here’s how it rolled!

The Tarte Brazilliance is a gel. And it’s dark. Real dark. But when you apply it to your face, it blends. And it blends so well that it ends up giving just a hint of color. This is a great product to use after you’ve gotten a decent color on your face from the sun or if you tan easily. It isn’t hydrating nor is it dry-it just is what it is. If I had a great tan, I would purchase this as an extra. But due to the fact that I just turn red, I need something that’ll make me look slightly tanner… For those who tan easily and want a bit extra, I give this an A. For those like me who get red. It’s a B because despite the dark color of the gel, it could go on a bit darker.

This is how Brazilliance looks straight outta the tube. It’s dark!

But here’s how it looked on my face. Not bad but could be darker!

Albolene. OK. Last night we went out to celebrate Bonaparte’s birthday (I’ll be writing a post later this week), when we arrived home and I went to remove my makeup, I realized that there was nothing left in the jar of Albolene that I have. It didn’t surprise me either; in fact, I was pissed at myself for not searching enough for it. I went to Walmart during the week but there was none to be had. I did something so awful. I ended up going to bed with my makeup on.

This was the empty jar last night. I use a ton of this due to the amount of mascara that I plop on my lashes. For me to go to bed without removing my makeup is atrocious–but I did!

It all came out in the shower this morning! So, earlier this afternoon I drove to Rite-Aid because I know the store sells it. After searching through the shelves for five long minutes, I spotted it on the bottom shelf. It pained me to shell out $13 bucks for it—I could have ordered it cheaper from Amazon but I needed it NOW! After I write this post I’m heading to my Amazon store and ordering a backup. This is, hands down, the best makeup remover ever and I’ve been using it for years and years and years. It’s an A+++++ product!!

It just about killed me to spend over $13 (with tax) on this but I needed it so badly. This is lard for the face. It moisturizes and cleanses and is THE BEST MAKEUP REMOVER OF ALL TIME!!!!!!!! I’m heading over to Amazon to price check after I write this post! Meet me at my store!

Last of all, I ordered another duplicate Goyard-inspired tote from Amazon. Amazon sent me a rewards card and I used it to order the tote. And a sincere thank you to all who have ordered from my Amazon store because I would not have received the card if it were not for you. Seriously. I’m filled with gratitude because, as you know, Like to Know It refused me four times but Amazon has taken me on and I’m thrilled. I’ve started to monetize which inspires me—so again. Thank you!!!

My “replica” tote. My sister paid over a hundred bucks for this on the streets of NYC and my niece has the real thing. Not much of a difference at all!!

Anyway, this tote is an all-around great item. My step daughter ordered one and loves it. I think she uses it as a beach tote. It’s totes ma goats!!

The humidity has crept up and I don’t care because I can just plop a wig on my head! I’m telling you, the beauty of wigs is that you don’t get a bad hair day in the summer! I received my third Violet this past week in the mail. I paid a deep discount on Wigoutlet.com. I freaking love this wig by Estetica Designs!

Violet’s looking mighty fine, she is!!!

More items have been added to my idea list: Let’s Make Up. Have a looksee and I filmed a Sunday Chat video on my YouTube channel this morning.

Please enjoy my little chat and let me know what you think of the cosmetics packaging that I rant about!

I Got Some New “Stuff” Yes I did! And I'm gonna tell you all about that stuff I got!! Yes I did.

#Affordable beauty #Beauty #Fifty plus beauty

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lunarproductions · 8 years ago

Photo

Introduction

When I first encountered Cognition: An Erica Reed Thriller, it was in a bundle -It looked interesting but I put it on the back burner since I was busy with other games. Fast forward a few years, I asked my friends on Steam what game I should play as a break from my usual things, and this title came up. After looking into I realized this seemed like a great idea! I had not played a point-and-click adventure game in a while, the other reviews seemed positive and it was recommended by friends as well. Drawn in by the comic book art style and the opportunity to play a female protagonist I booted the game up and instantly became addicted. This title offers a solid story, good gameplay and hours of fun for any gamer.

Upside

Dive into a gritty detective story filled with twists and turns: The story is told in four separate episodes, all focusing on the titular character, Erica Reed. She’s an FBI agent from Boston who has special psychic powers that help her see the past and even into people’s memories. Three years prior to the game, Erica’s brother was brutally murdered by a serial killer and this haunts her throughout the whole game. I enjoyed the first two episodes a lot as they focused on Agent Reed solving cases, however the plot gets deeper by the third episode and things begin to focus mainly on Erica and her abilities. Not much can be said without giving away spoilers, but even at its weakest points the story kept me glued to my seat wanting to find out what would happen next. Make choices that affect the story and solve interesting puzzles: At certain points in the game, you have the option to make choices which directly affect how the story goes. Granted, you’ll always end up in the same place at the end but there are slight differences, plus, if you want all the Steam achievements you’ll have to make different choices at different places. The game also has plenty of puzzles to keep you busy, they’re mainly all logic puzzles since you are playing a detective. Using Erica’s special abilities helps to solve cases and as the game goes on you’ll learn new tricks and ways to get to the answers you seek. The game also has modern tools, like searching the internet, for finding evidence and information. Enjoy beautiful comic book inspired artwork and great voice acting: While it may not be everyone’s cup of tea, I loved this game aesthetically. It felt like I was in an actual comic book and created a great immersive experience. The game has cutscenes that help tell the story, all of which are fully voice acted by a great cast of characters. Despite Erica having a case of “Me accent be slipping” and some characters sounding a bit flat during dramatic moments, overall everyone does a good job. The background music also helps round out the package and soundtrack itself is available to purchase as well.

Downside

The story can get a bit convoluted: I really did love the story in this game, especially the first two chapters where you were doing actual detective work. However, the third and fourth chapters focus on Erica’s powers and a certain other character I won’t spoil. The entire third episode is spent in one apartment building, while it did explain some backstory it wasn’t much about Erica and slowed down the pacing of the game. The fourth episode did pick up a bit and gave a thrilling conclusion but I was still left with many questions. The graphics engine is pretty wonky: After asking around about this issue, I found out this game was made with an older version of the Unity engine. Because of that, even at its highest graphical settings, the game just has many weird moments. Items float in mid-air, Erica’s body twists in unnatural ways and people’s faces do weird things. These weren’t enough to make me dislike the game, but they did take me out of the story when they happened. I had the game at the best graphics quality so perhaps I had these happen to me less than others would, but they still happened so fair warning.

Conclusion

If you’re a fan of point-and-click games or want to get into the genre then grab Cognition: An Erica Reed Thriller, as it is now you can buy all four episodes at once and marathon the whole story and I would say it’s worth the full price tag. It’s an older game and certainly not perfect, be warned that Erica moves at a snail’s pace and isn’t always very reactive to where you click, but I feel the good story makes up for the game’s faults. It has Steam trading cards and achievements that aren’t too hard to collect. Be ready to sink a good amount of time into this game, however, this title does have violence in it and a bit of crude language so young ones and parents be mindful of this.

http://thehiddenlevels.com/

http://store.steampowered.com/app/242780

http://www.postudios.com/company/games/cognition/

http://steamcommunity.com/id/Usako/recommended/242780

#video games #video game review #videogames #steam #erica reed #adventure game

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jesusdoesntlikeyourattitude · 8 years ago

Text

One

My wrists hurt, inexplicably. Perhaps I slept funny, funny peculiar. Last night I dreamt of a cramped police cell, my hands folded behind my back. My eyes are glazed and the mountain of coffee cups perch precariously on my desk, ready to topple with the slightest of nudges. In my past life I was a rapist, or a traitor. Maybe I raped the queen, I definitely did something vicious and evil; it’s the only explanation for this existence. In this life I’m just a poor sap who ended up in the wrong job, with the wrong people, fantasising about tropical beaches and statuesque, tanned women serving me drinks in coconut shells. I talk to myself a lot. I used to wonder if I was unwell, but now I just blame it on the pills.

There’s a lady who often sits behind me. She’s mid-thirties, a couple of kids and a bored husband. She isn’t attractive but every time she leans over my shoulder to help me with an account I feel my dick get hard. She knows this; she plays to it, bending over in front of me and discussing her absent sex life within earshot. She knows I want to fuck her. I haven’t had physical contact with a woman since my girlfriend left me a lifetime ago, and because of that I will fuck my colleague at some point, probably in the toilets on a wet and windy lunch break. It’ll be disappointing and I’ll have to move to the other side of the office to escape any awkward exchanges. It’s the only reason I’ve abstained thus far, that I like my spot. Its right next to the window so I can gaze mournfully at people out on the street, free of gainful employment, begging for scraps. How I long to be in their torn and tatty shoes. At the very least they have a dog to keep them company, as much vitamin D as they need and the occasional rock of crack to see them through the night. I’ve got a five figure income, a pension I hopefully won’t live long enough to claim and haemorrhoids. I bring my own cushion into work; it’s a source of mystery and gossip throughout the office. Maybe one day before I leave I’ll show them all why I need it. Just drop my pants and give them a full uncensored view of my discomfort.

I’ve been here for five long years. That’s the same sentence handed out to drug dealers. I knew from day one I’d chosen the wrong career path. I would’ve made quadruple the amount I clear peddling coke to teenagers.

I lock my work station and walk to the toilet to take a piss. Some cretin I once asked for a lighter from tries to engage me in conversation as I unzip my fly. It’s unacceptable. I grunt and focus on emptying my bowels. There should be a sign on the door instructing people to shut the fuck up the minute they walk in. It’s a sanctuary, not a nightclub. If I wanted to talk to you whilst I had my dick in my hand I’d ask you out for a drink.

I sit back down, and as I do my boss approaches. If this place really is hell then she is the devil, dressed in Primark, attaching her action plans and personal development programs to her pitchfork and shoving them so far up my pained backside that I’m coughing up numbers and figures and pie charts all over my loafers. She wears glasses that magnify her wonky eyes, tiny little spongy balls that bounce around inside her malformed skull. Her hair is like straw, tied back to her head with garden twine. She has a lisp that grates on me so much I’d offer to pay for her speech therapy if she wasn’t such a cunt. The only thing I want to give her is a new super drug I’ve invented in my mind that makes her womb barren. I call her the lemming, on account of her being a small rat like creature. She tells me I was late for work this morning. I already knew that, I had a joint before I started and couldn’t tear myself away from the news. Some giddy little prick giving his smarmy views on the days current affairs is like opiates to me. She tells me to buck my ideas up, that if I’m late again tomorrow she’ll be forced to act, because it’s becoming too much of a regular occurrence. I nod solemnly, without saying a word. None of the words I would like to say to her seem appropriate in this setting. She leaves; I daydream about what it would feel like to sink a kitchen knife in between her shoulder blades.

My friend enters the building. He’s a charming, affable loner, perennially dressed all in black and with a penchant for Canadian electro-metal music. Everyone at the company thinks he’s weird, I consider him the only other person like me in a ten mile radius. He takes his usual seat just opposite mine, and smiles sweetly.

“Morning Desmond” I whisper. Our conversations are conducted at the lowest possible decibel level, so as to avoid anyone else interfering, or actually clocking on the nature of what we discuss, as more often than not the topics would be deemed taboo, or discipline worthy. We talk about a book I earlier recommended him, on a subject matter we both find deeply interesting. Desmond is what some might call ‘a troubled soul’. I’ve always found it offensive that the human race has an unwavering ability to categorise others into either good or bad. Sometimes it isn’t that simple. Desmond isn’t a bad person, but his thoughts are dark, a lot darker than your average young adult conjures. He isn’t particular good either, but he’s been the only consistent friend I’ve had in this place. He mentioned once before that he sees me as something of a kindred spirit, which alerted me to my own shortcomings. Our lives have been parallel. Both lost our parents far too early, both mercilessly bullied throughout our formative years, both vulnerable. We turned out remarkably similar. But whilst my daydreaming can be on the verge of homicidal, Desmonds daydreaming is disturbed. When I introduced him to anarchism, he introduced me to the occult. We have a bad cop bad cop relationship, and it makes the hours pass faster. His voice is soft, unlike his exterior. A unit of a man, possessing a body built to bring pain and suffering upon anyone who should cross him. What was once a source of mental anguish is now a key component in his arsenal. He doesn’t suffer fools easily, and his weight and power stop him from having to. Even the lemming is scared of him, and leaves him to conduct his daily business s in peace. His eyes are wide as he talks about the book, about the things it’s taught him and, indirectly, about his plan. To the untrained ear his words are mumbled and indecipherable. I understand every garbled syllable, but the women that sit either side of him are clueless. They simply sip their camomile tea and talk to each other through him about Coronation Street. I’ve never watched the show but I know everything about thanks to Gillian and Mary, it’s like their porn. I imagine them masturbating to flickering images of Ken Barlows sweater vest, climaxing just as the credits roll, then it’s back to a cross-stitch art piece of a kitten chasing a ball of string. Then I daydream of their cold, dead bodies as I stand over them. Desmond put that image in my head weeks ago, and it’s been pretty difficult to shift. The thing about Desmond, the thing about him that intrigues me as much as it frightens me, is that he’s dangerous.

Desmond has been talking about his plan for the last eighteen months or so. It started as idle musings and has snowballed to its current state, not yet fully formed but fairly advanced. He speaks of it often, dropping it into any conversation he can, except for between working hours of course. This time spent making allusions to it without actually mentioning it. Not that Mary and Gill or any of the other ladies of a certain age would have any fucking idea what was going on even if he detailed it out to them. They could have Kim Jong Il sat across from them explaining his nuclear programme and plans for global domination and they’d still try to talk to him about whatever wank was on ITV last night. Still, he is whispered and careful. Though a friend, he frightens me. And though I should’ve tried to stop him, or alerted someone about his plans, I haven’t. If it makes me an accessory then so be it, I’m too tired and depressed to care.

The clock ticks over. It’s time to go home. I bid farewell to Desmond and walk through the automatic doors, passed the troll of a security guard who spends more time leaching at the young girls than he doors providing any kind of security, and into the pinkish glow of the autumnal night sky.

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