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mimicofmodes · 4 years ago

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“The Ladies Waldegrave” by Joshua Reynolds, 1780 (NGS NG2171)

I’ve complained before about two very big pet peeves of mine - corset stuff and Regency women being dressed in 1770s-1780s clothes - but one that may dwarf them because of how frequently it comes up in historical and fantasy fiction is the oppression of embroidery.

That’s probably putting it a bit too strongly. It’s more like ... the annoyance of embroidery. Every character worth reading about knows instinctively that sewing is a) boring, b) difficult, c) mindless, and d) pointless. The author doesn’t have to say anything more than “Belinda threw down her needlework and looked out the window, sighing,” to signal that this is an independent woman whose values align with the modern reader, who’s probably not really understood by her mother or mother figure, and who probably will find an extraordinary man to “match” her rather than settling for someone ordinary. To look at an example from fantasy, GRRM uses embroidery in the very beginning of A Game of Thrones to show that the Stark sister who dislikes it is sympathetic and interesting, while the Stark sister who is competent at it is boring and conventional and obviously not deserving of a PoV (until later books, when her attention gets turned to higher matters); further into the book, of course, the pro-needlework sister proves to be weak-willed and naïve.

Rozsika Parker, in the groundbreaking 1996 work The Subversive Stitch, noted that “embroidery has become indelibly associated with stereotypes of femininity,” which is the core of the issue. "Instead embroidery and a stereotype of femininity have become collapsed into one another, characterised as mindless, decorative and delicate; like the icing on the cake, good to look at, adding taste and status, but devoid of significant content.”

Parker also points out that the stereotype isn’t just one that was invented in the present day by feminists who hated the idea of being forced to do a certain craft. “The association between women and embroidery, craft and femininity, has meant that writers concerned with the status of women have often turned their attention towards this tangled, puzzling relationship. Feminists who have scorned embroidery tend to blame it for whatever constraint on women's lives they are committed to combat. Thus, for example, eighteenth-century critical commentators held embroidery responsible for the ill health which was claimed as evidence of women's natural weakness and inferiority.”

There are two basic problems I have with the trope, beyond the issue of it being incredibly cliché:

First: needlework was not just busywork

A big part of what drives the stereotype is the impression that what women were embroidering was either a sampler:

sampler embroidered by Jane Wilson, 14, in 1791 (MMA 2010.47)

or a picture:

unfinished embroidery of David and Abigail, British, 1640s-50s (MMA 64.101.1325)

That is, something meant to hang on the wall for no real purpose.

These are forms of schoolwork, basically. Samplers were made by young girls up to their early teens, and needlework pictures were usually something done while at school or under a governess as a showpiece of what was being learned - not just the stitching itself, but also often watercolors (which could be worked into the design), artistic sensibility, and the literature, history, or art that might be alluded to. And many needlework pictures made in schools were also done as mourning pieces, sometimes blank, for future use, and sometimes to commemorate a recent death in the family. A lot of them are awkward, clearly just done to pass the class, but others are really artwork.

Many schools for middle- and upper-class girls taught the making of these objects (and other “ornamental” subjects) alongside a more rigorous curriculum - geography, Latin, chemistry, etc. At some, sewing was also always accompanied by serious reading and discussion. (And it would often be done while someone read aloud or made conversation later in life, too.)

Once done with their education, women generally didn’t bother with purely decorative work. Some things that fabric could be embroidered for included:

Jackets

Bed coverings and bedcurtains

Collars and undersleeves

Pelerines

Neck handkerchiefs and sleeve ruffles

Screens

Upholstery

Handkerchiefs

Purses, wallets, and reticules

Boxes

Book covers

Plus other articles of clothing like waistcoats, caps, slippers, gown hems, chemises, etc. Women’s magazines of the nineteenth century often gave patterns and alphabets for personal use.

(Not to mention late nineteenth century female artists who worked in embroidery, but that’s something else.)

You could purchase all of these pre-embroidered, but many, many women chose to do it themselves. There are a number of reasons why: maybe they wanted something to do, maybe they felt like they should be doing needlework for moral/gender reasons, maybe they couldn’t afford to buy anything - and maybe they enjoyed it or wanted to give something they made to a person they loved. That firescreen above was embroidered by Marie Antoinette, someone who had any number of other activities to choose from. It’s no different than people today who like to knit their own hats and gloves or bake their own bread, except that it was way more mainstream.

embroidery patterns from Ackermann’s Repository in 1827 - they could be used on dresses, collars, handkerchiefs, etc.

Second: needlework wasn’t the only “useless” thing women were expected to do

Ignoring the bulk of point one for now and the value of embroidery - I mentioned “ornamental subjects” above. As many people know, young women of the upper and middle classes were expected to be “accomplished” in order to be seen as marriageable. This could include skills like embroidery, drawing, painting, singing, playing the piano (as well as other instruments, like the harp or the mandolin), speaking French (if not also Italian and/or German), as well as broader knowledge and abilities like being well-versed in music, literature, and poetry, dancing and walking gracefully, writing good letters in an elegant hand, and being able to read out loud expressively and smoothly.

This wasn’t a checklist. As the famous discussion in Pride and Prejudice shows, individuals could have different views on what actually made a woman accomplished:

“How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.”

“It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.”

“All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?”

“Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.”

“Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy, “has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished.”

“Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley.

“Then,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman.”

“Yes, I do comprehend a great deal in it.”

“Oh! certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “no one can be really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half-deserved.”

“All this she must possess,” added Darcy, “and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.”

Mr. Bingley feels that a woman is accomplished if she has the ability to do a number of different arts and crafts. Miss Bingley feels (or says she feels) that it goes beyond specific skills and into branches of artistic attainment, plus broader personal qualities that could be imparted by well-bred governesses or mothers. And Mr. Darcy, of course, agrees with that but adds an academic angle as well.

But what ties all of these accomplishments together is their lack of value on the labor market. A woman could earn a living with any one accomplishment, if she worked hard enough at it to become a professional, but young ladies weren’t supposed to be professional-level good because they by definition weren’t going to earn a living. All together, they trained a woman for the social and domestic role of a married woman of the upper middle or upper class, or, if she couldn’t get married, a governess or teacher who would share her accomplishments with the next generation.

(To be fair, almost none of the trappings of an upper-middle/upper class male education had anything to do with the kind of career training that college frequently is today, either. Men were educated to know the cultural touchpoints of their class and fit in with their peers.)

There are reasons that an individual person/character might specifically object to embroidery, but it was far from the only “useless” thing that an unconventional heroine would be required to do against her inclination by her conventional mother/grandmother/aunt/chaperone. Embroidery stands out to modern audiences because most of the other accomplishments are now valued as gender-neutral arts and skills.

“The Embroidery Frame”, by Mathilde Weil, ca. 1900 (LOC 98501309)

So, some thoughts for writers of historical fiction (or fantasy that’s supposed to be just like the 19th/18th/17th/etc century):

- If your heroine doesn’t like embroidery, she probably doesn’t like a number of other things she’s expected to do. Don’t pull out embroidery as either more expected or more onerous than them. Does she hate to sit still? I’d imagine she also dislikes drawing and practicing the piano. Would she prefer to do academic subjects? She probably also resents learning French instead of Latin, and music and dancing. Does she hate enforced femininity? Then she’d most likely have a problem with all of the accomplishments.

- If your heroine just and specifically doesn’t like embroidery, try to show in the narrative that that’s not because it’s objectively bad, and only able to be liked by the boring. Have another sympathetic character do it while talking to the heroine. Note that the hero carries a flame-stitched wallet that’s his sister’s work. Emphasize the heroine’s emotional connection to her deceased or absent mother through her affection for clothing or upholstery that her mother embroidered - or through a mourning picture commemorating her. There are all kinds of things you can do to show that it’s a personal preference rather than a stupid craft that doesn’t take talent and skill!

mourning picture for Daniel Goodman, probably embroidered by a Miss Goodman, 1803 (MMA 56.66)

#history #women's history #writing #embroidery #19th century #18th century #17th century #victorian #georgian #regency

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river-bottom-nightmare · 4 years ago

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Reverse batfam headcanons please centred on dickiee

i think about this entirely too often but yes yes of course.

languages were simultaneously the most simple and most complex thing dick had ever encountered in his long nine years of living. everyone in circ d’caleé spoke multiple different languages, and they'd lived in each other's shoes for so long that the travelling troupe developed their own little language, a mixture of everything and anything that could be understood. in addition to that, everywhere they went, dick picked up local dialects and accents with a tip of a hat and flip of his feet. of course, that made it a bit difficult to properly communicate when he had to live with the waynes. while bruce, tim, and jason could speak a smattering of other languages, english was what they defaulted to first and foremost. damian was fluent in both arabic and nepali first and formost, those just happened to be two languages that dick didn't speak very fluently. cassandra was just now getting the hang of spoken language with a bit of sign language thrown in. so the first few months of dick's shiny new home in wayne manor, everyone fumbled around words and phrases and vague gestures until they settled into hesitantly speaking french and attempting to convince dick to learn fluent english.

jason didn't like having a younger brother, he didn't. especially since that little brother was dick grayson. after all of the heartbreak and loss and weight of malediction bruce had lived with his entire life, jason could almost proudly say that he was one of the few people in the world to drive bruce out of his head, to get him to smile while taking jason out for ice cream, to sit him down and watch football with him, to make him laugh. and then here comes this upstart little brat who couldn't keep both feet on the ground for the life of him and thought football was actually soccer and who could make bruce laugh like it was fuckin' easy. who could so easily clamber up bruce's shoulders for a hug and beam as bruce ruffled his hair and sob into bruce's chest in the middle of the night when everyone was supposed to be asleep. jason had spent years coaxing bruce out of his shell, step by painful step, and dick made it happen with two backflips and a cheeky pun. it made jason's blood boil, the way dick never appreciated what he had, what he could do. the brat had taken to following him around, both in the cave, staring with awe as jason went through training routines, and in the manor, hopping into an armchair and asking jason to read a book aloud for him. it was irritating, just like it was irritating when dick popped jason's latest baking experiment into his mouth and loudly exclaimed how utterly delicious it was, just like it was irritating when dick dragged him to the aerial set bruce had installed in the batcave and asked him to watch his new routine. no matter what the rest of jason's stupid family said, dick was definitely not growing on jason. they could take their smiles and coos over the two "babies of the family" and shove them up their asses.

dick didn't understand why exactly bruce was so overprotective over the smallest things. he never let dick travel anywhere alone, regardless if it was as far away as france or as close as the one gelato place left in gotham. it was so unfair, because dick heard that bruce let jason run off to ethiopia of all places, and only went after him because cass had told bruce about it the minute jason left. he never let dick hang out with his friends, no matter how much dick asked to have a sleepover at wally's or go hang out with donna. on the rare occasions he said yes, they were only allowed to come to the manor. it was unreasonable, because bruce let tim run wild with young justice, despite the stories of tim going crazy after everyone in his team had died. tim wasn't crazy, as far as dick could tell, just a little paranoid and high-strung. also everyone on his team was alive, so dick didn't know what roy was talking about. cass didn't really want to go out anywhere, preferring to stick in gotham with her and tim's friend stephanie, but she had free reign over the city! and dick wasn't allowed to fight any major threats by himself at all. damian had battled deathstroke at his age, and dick was pretty sure damian was still in contact with the league of assassins, but dick couldn't even fight penguin with bruce insisting he be there for backup. he was so overprotective it made dick's blood boil.

being around dick physically hurt tim sometimes. not the crass (yet still somehow funny?) jokes jason made about dick jumping into body-slamming hugs and crash landing into laps so fiercely that even tim could feel it. but it hurt,,,,emotionally, so to speak. dick was just,,,,,dick was so much like stephanie, it ached. to be more specific, stephanie before. steph before she'd desperately bid for bruce's attention and landed herself at black mask's feet for her troubles. steph before the power tools dug her life away bit by bit until she was just gone. steph before she'd come back with green eyes and rage splitting at the seams of her scarred skin. steph before she realized that black mask had killed her and put tim in a wheelchair for the rest of his life for trying to avenge his best friend, and bruce had done next to nothing. tim would sit in his clocktower and force a smile onto his face as dick rambled on and on about the most meaningful of meaningless things, as dick shoved new foods he'd never tried before into his face, as dick laughed loud and bright and clear, trying to forget a time when steph would do the same. she smiles now, grabs lunch with him and cass, wakes up on days when there isn't any green in her vision, but she'll never be who she used to. and tim prays that there never comes a day when dick ends up like her.

dick feels,,,,,isolated sometimes, compared to the rest of his new family. or no, maybe isolated isn't the right word. set apart, maybe, or differentiated. both damian and cass had spent their lives being beat and broken and put back together supposedly stronger than before until they were almost wiped away entirely. steph and jason had both grown up poor and hungry and flinching back from their fathers, bending under gotham's merciless weight. (then steph had died, and come back worse than ever imagined.) tim had grown up lonely, had learned to fend for himself, had turned his name into a half-revered, half-feared whisper even when his legs were taken from him. maybe dick could have related a bit to bruce, but bruce had put himself through so much hardship and so much suffering in an attempt to keep himself from ever being hurt again. in contrast, dick hadn't gone through nearly as much. he'd been happy before the circus came to gotham, happy and cared for and loved. but that didn't mean he couldn't still help. he could sit and listen as they raged, because their anger couldn't touch him; he had no part in it. he could coax out smiles from their stone walls and laugh enough for all of them put together. he could take a name that had previously only been associated with death and heartache and turn it into the light and joy of gotham. he could dust the stillness from the curtains and breathe life back into wayne manor. and that, for him, was enough.

tag list: @woahjaybird @birdy-bat-writes @anothertimdrakestan @subtleappreciation @screennamealreadyused @pricetagofficial @catxsnow @bikoncon @maplumebleue-blog-blog @sundownridge @thatsthewhump @xatanna-troy @red-hood-redemption @capricorn-stark @batshit-birds @comics-observer

#scribbles from the swamp #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #batfam #reverse robins #dc #dick grayson headcanon #bruce wayne #tim drake headcanon #batfam headcanon #dc headcanon #reverse robins headcanon

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slashmebois · 4 years ago

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Distraction

“Heyyy I wanted to ask for a mini fic of vincent getting distracted form his work by a goofy S/O who wants his attention. He's just precious and deserves a precious S/O who's obsessed with him. 🥺🥺🥺 Thank you! 🖤”

This is such a cute idea!! I had such a fun time writing this one. Thank you so much for this request <3 Credit to @thesightstoshowyou for their banjo headcanon for Bo

Vincent was used to people interrupting him. Bo was his main antagonist, tending to require some form of medical attention after each chase. Sometimes Bo would come down to the basement just to nitpick Vincent’s process as he worked with helpful phrases such as “Wouldn’t have done that” and “Is it supposed to look like that”.

Lester wasn’t much better when he was around. Vincent would ask for a moment to wrap up his work, and whilst Lester had the best of intentions- his mouth often got away from him. “Oh man Vince, you’ve gotta see this cool skull I picked up today”, “Vince, you won’t believe what these city slickers said to me”. But Vincent could listen and continue working on his sculptures and paintings regardless. Or he had been able to at least.

Recently he found himself more and more distracted by you. You had rocked up into town a few months ago and wasted no time in making their affections for him clear (once he had saved you from his brothers’ murderous grasps). He was of course smitten with you, the way you talked, the way you looked, the way your smile crept onto your face. By his standards you were a walking piece of art, too beautiful to remain stationery.

So, he had tried to reciprocate your feelings, although he was not bold enough to outright say “hey I’m in love with you, I’d follow you to the ends of the earth. Is that cool with you?” and honestly it would be a mouthful coming from the guy who mostly communicated using ASL and the occasional spoken word. But still, he couldn’t figure out the right way to express himself and every time he started to let himself melt into his work and try to figure it out, you were in the corner of his vision and every logical thought he had died.

But even more than that, he was starting to think you were actively trying to distract him, although he couldn’t quite put a finger on why…

---

You have been trying for days to get Vince to take a break from his work so you can initiate operation date time. But oh man is it hard. Okay sure, he’s starting to take longer to finish his projects, but that is not what you want. You don’t want to slow his process down you just want to spend time with him away from this boiling basement.

The first few days you would just stand at his side and ask about what he was doing and sure he paid attention to you but he kept working. The next few days had been a series of you singing loudly along to his classical opera in shrill tones, before switching the radio over to some popular tunes and repeating. Vincent had eventually got up, and you thought you’d done it, but then he just switched the radio back to classical as you pouted at him. Besides that, you had tried baking for him, reading aloud from a book, playing a very old, out of tune banjo you found (probably Bo’s but you doubted he knew how to play), and doing cartwheels. The last one had spooked Vincent into getting up and catching you, and worriedly dangling you from his arms in mid-air whilst he looked pointedly towards the large boiling pot of wax.

You are just about out of ideas so you go to the only people you can rely on for information on how to distract Vincent- Bo and Lester.

You find Bo in the garage and yell out to him. His hackles rise and he turns round with a gritted smile,

“Please, don’t do that. This was a respectful town before you came along”

You stick your tongue at him and he rolls his eyes, “What do you want? Actually. Let me guess, it has something to do with Vincent hmm?”

You mock gasp, “how did you know, are you a psychic!?!”

He laughs, “Nope, just full o’ shit. C’mon, spit it out already.”

“Well, how would you go about distracting Vincent?”

“I hope you’re not distracting him from his vital work here y/n” you give him puppy dog eyes and he sighs, “alright, alright. I guess he works hard enough. I dunno, play some loud music?”

“Tried that already, what else you got”

“Uhh, have you tried injuring yourself”

“Th…that is the worst idea”

“Alright, okay. No need to get mean. OH!” his loud exclamation makes you jump a little, “how about ruining one of his paintings. That would definitely get his attention”

You fix him a look, “whose side are you even on?”

“My own, do you have to ask? Anyway, that’s all I got- take it or leave it” he waves you off and turns back to…well whatever it is he does in his spare time, don’t know, don’t care.

You groan, you were definitely leaving those ideas alone. You should have known Bo wouldn’t be much help. You start seeking out the other brother in the hopes that they’ll have a better idea.

Lester is at the edge of town on the other side of the flooding, sat on the back of his truck petting Jonesy.

“Hey Les!”

He looks up and smiles, waving to you, “You stay there, I’ll come over to you. Wouldn’t want you getting your pretty clothes all dirty!”

He hops over, Jonesy in arms and sets her down on the other side. Lester smells about as good as usual, but hell you’ve actually got used to it by now, and you know his job is important so who are you to complain.

“Well hello (miss/sir), what can I help you with today”

“Well I was wondering Les, you know any good ways to distract Vincent. I asked Bo, but his ideas were all dumb”

Lester cackles, “well of course they were, Bo’s just a pretty face when it comes down to it”, you laugh along with him, “Hmm, lemme have a think”

Lester looks around, as if searching for inspiration. His eyes light up, “How about showing his some sorta collection? I show him my knives sometimes, wanna see?”

“Not right now Lester, I’m on a mission. But maybe tomorrow? But that’s actually a pretty decent idea. What else you got, hit me?”

Lester looks a little uncertain.

“Don’t actually hit me Les, it’s a saying”

He looks relieved, “riiight, right. I knew that. Okay, idea number two coming up”, his eyes close tightly shut and he makes a strained noise, “ooh ooh ooh!!! Craft something for him!! I helped him craft those knives he has and he looooves those”

“Lester, you are so much better at this than Bo. Thank you, thank you!!” you grab him in a hug in the excitement, promptly remembering the smell but then deciding fuck it- nothing a shower won’t fix.

As you head off, Jonesy follows you and Lester motions at you to take her with you. You head back to the house feeling pretty positive. You have some pretty seashells and rocks in a box from various visits to places in your room. Once you’re home you head up and grab the box before heading back down to Vincent.

“Hey Vince, how’s it going?”

He pauses and looks over to give you a thumbs up. You sit on a stool nearby and a take a deep breath before giving your newest plan a go.

“I was just thinking about some trips I went on where I got these cools shells, look at this one, it’s…” you drivel on and Vincent does falter for a moment but keeps his resolve.

Unbeknownst to you, Vincent has a sinking feeling in his stomach. Oh god. You wanted to leave. Why else would you be talking to him about all these trips. Your words were no longer reaching his ears as he could feel the guilt eating away at him. His stomach churned, how was he supposed to fix this. His hands kept moving on autopilot but he’s not really paying attention. It’s not long before his hand slips whilst crafting a nose. He grunts frustrated with himself.

Vincent’s grunt interrupts you, and you trail off the end of a sentence thinking he’s annoyed with you. You look up at him from your box and realise the nose of his latest sculpture is looking pretty wonky. So much for distracting him. All you’ve done is fuck up his work.

“Sorry” you mumble, but he’s too focused on fixing the mistake to hear you.

You sigh and put down your box of shells, walking over to where Jonesy has placed herself. You grab an easel and some paints and lie down next to her, passing time with a fingerpainting project.

Vincent fixes the nose, breathing in relief when it forms properly under his hands. He’s about to gesture to it to show you that VIOLA! He fixed it, but he realises you’re no longer on the stool, the only sign of you the discarded box of shells and rocks. He dejectedly reaches towards it, looking carefully over them. Maybe he should let you go. You clearly loved exploring and this town wouldn’t allow for much of that. His dark thoughts start to descend on him but a warm giggle interrupts him and he glances over to your new location. He nearly gasps at how full his heart is at the sight before him.

Jonesy, not happy with no one paying attention to her, has walked through your paint palette and onto the easel to lick at your face. You laugh and push at her,

“What are you doing? Silly girl. Guess it’s a collaboration piece now!”

The dog ignores any protests and continues to try to grab your attention. Vincent struck by the view makes his way over and kneels, ruffling Jonesy’s ears and glancing towards you.

You look up at him, a little shocked, before smiling wide.

“About time you took a break Vince”

He cocks his head to the side, but lies on his belly with you, looking you deeply in your eyes.

And then he splats a hand in the paint and onto the easel before you can track what the heck he’s doing.

You laugh in surprise, “Oh, really? You wanna be a part of this collaboration?” You gather paint on the tip of your index finger, “that can be arranged” you flash him a cheeky grin and lunge towards him, trying to land the paint on him.

Vincent dodges out the way last minute and thus starts a game of cat and mouse round the house. And Vincent swears he can’t imagine a time when laughter filled the house this much.

#vincent sinclair #vincent sinclair x reader #sfw #house of wax #bo sinclair #lester sinclair #slasher #slashers

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kybabi · 4 years ago

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hey hey!! woah, 7k is.. a lot 😳🎉 congratulations!! that’s so amazing!! i must mention, i truly love your angsty ones 😖 they always hit me straight in the feels and i love it nsnsn — if i could join this event that’d be amazing!! i bet it’ll be great for your first one! my pronouns are ( she / her / they / them ), but i tend to use the feminine ones more! ( apologies if it’s too much stuff below!! 🥲💀 )

my aesthetic: honestly? probably just lazy comfort. I tend to where a lot of hoodies and skinny jeans with vans, or tank tops with a flannel over top or smthn. every now and then I’ll wear something cozy like leggings boots and a cardigan. sometimes I’m a combination of just lazy grunge with hair thrown into a messy bun with oversized band-t’s that were stolen from friends or family, or are my own, with shorts or sweatpants ( I live in my black sweatpants with two thin white stripes running down the sides of the pant legs lmfao- )

my hobbies include sketching, singing, cooking or baking when i have the motivation, writing, spending time thinking about writing, procrastinating, and ig just generally doing academic activities, despite hating them! personality wise, on the outside i’m vv reserved and only speak when spoken to, “polite, courteous, & charming”, since i get really shy and nervous talking aloud or answering things ( idk why though, i think i’m just scared that whatever i say will be wrong and i hate looking.. dumb? ).but with people i’m comfortable around i tend to be stubborn, sarcastic, goofy, and allow myself to act more extraverted around friends in general ( despite being an introvert 99% of the time ).

my ideal / perfect date : i literally cannot stand the idea of dinner dates or movie dates, they make me wanna cry myself to sleep — so, my ideal date would either be something fun and chaotic or comfy and just casual ig. i have two versions; one is late at night / early morning, between 10 P.M. and 2 A.M., where we just go out and have fun, take car rides while blasting our favorite songs combined onto a quickly made playlist or listening to the radio, going to cool hotspots or to gas stations just to giggle and get snacks to go out and watch the stars !!💛😖 OR, the second, to just stay in and watch horror movies together, and on the chance that they get scared, i’d probably just try and take their mind off of it and point out the flaws or make commentary to distract them from jumoscares!! 💛‼️

i match you up with...

atsumu! + overdrive - conan gray

i think atsumu would love your shyness but also that openness and chaos that he’d be able to bring out! he would enjoy taking you out in the middle of the night to just go on an adventure!

matchup event: OPEN!

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lady-literature · 4 years ago

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what a lion cannot manage chp 4

there are legitimately three separate subplots i try to resolve/give attention to in this chapter and it took so long to write because i had to make it not insanely ridiculous. happy holidays!

chp 1 | chp 2 | chp 3 | chp 4

Yagi’s surprise ends up being that he’s finally coming back to visit.

Izumi is as excited about it as she is terrified.

***

Mom, by virtue of being the best person in the whole world, knows exactly when Izumi is spiraling too far into her own head and needs a little help getting herself out. It doesn’t matter how much Izumi tries to hide or downplay it, Mom just knows.

So when Mom invites her to spend all of Saturday morning baking brownies and spending quality time together, Izumi knows the game she’s playing. Mom doesn’t pressure her into speaking—she never does—but about twenty minutes into the endeavor Izumi puts down the mixing bowl and sighs.

Like ripping off a bandage, she tries to tell herself.

“How do you tell someone you know about a secret they probably didn’t want you knowing?” she says in a quick rush, leaving her mom blinking trying to decipher the words.

She waits a beat, and when Mom doesn’t say anything, she steamrolls onwards, falling back on her default setting: rambling.

“Like, if you found out about it by accident and didn’t mean to know but now you do. There’s no taking it back and you don’t want to lie about knowing so you should tell them, right? But the secret is… personal and sensitive, probably, so you should tell them gently. But how do you do that? Is there a way to ease someone into that kind of thing? Does this-”

Her mom settles a gentle hand on her arm, lips pulled up at the corners but her eyes filled with understanding. “In my experience,” she starts, “all it takes is sitting the person down and telling them that you know.”

“But what if they get mad?” Izumi worries. “Or upset? Then what?”

Mom hums. “They might. It depends on the person.”

Izumi’s ears are already starting to flatten against her skull, dread pooling in her stomach when her mom taps her arm again to regain her attention.

“But,” Mom continues knowingly, “If you explain what happened and how it was an accident, they’ll understand. If they’re a reasonable sort of person, I have no doubt they’ll forgive you.”

Izumi worries at her lip, staring down at the brownie batter like it holds all the answers.

Yagi is someone she’d call reasonable. He always makes time to listen to her, and he’s All Might. Being kind and nice and reassuring is his whole thing.

So, is it… could it really be that easy?

***

It’s a good thing Kacchan’s in the know now.

There are plenty of reasons this is true—not in the least because she doesn't have to lie to him anymore—but currently? She thinks it’s pretty good because it’d be really hard to explain the whole snarling monster with sharp teeth trying to kill them if he didn’t.

“Move!” she shouts, hands slamming into his back to get him going.

The thing with too many teeth and claws takes a swipe at them and Izumi doesn’t even think about it before she’s moving to take the hit meant for Kacchan. He’s going to be pissed about her protecting him but the thing catches her in the ribs, tearing her skin to ribbons and Izumi knows that’s the kind of wound that would kill a human so if Kacchan wants to take issue with it, that’s too damn bad.

She screams, and she thinks Kacchan might be screaming too.

She doesn’t fall—because this isn’t the first hit she’s taken from a creature, even if it might be the worst—so she’s able to claw at the things face enough to get it to back off.

It only gets as far as a backwards step before Kacchan is there, snarling and hands pressed up against the thing’s throat. And then the world erupts into light and heat and the creature is no more.

“Izu!” he’s at her side in the next moment, face doing strange things as he stares at the claw marks in her side. “What the hell was that? What were you thinking?”

She presses a hand to her wound and hisses. Kacchan’s eyebrows do something complicated and distinctly unhappy.

“I was thinking I didn’t want you to die,” she says breathlessly. “I’d heal. You wouldn’t.”

He scowls at her and his hands curl into half fists. If he hadn’t just used everything in him to reduce the creature to tiny bits, she’s sure the air would be filled with the familiar crackle-pop of his explosions.

“I don’t want you protecting me,” he snaps.

“Too fucking bad,” she snaps right back, startling him. “You’re skulk, and more than that, you’re my best friend. If you think I’m going to stand back and watch you get hurt you obviously haven’t been paying enough attention.”

He snarls soundlessly at her, so fox-like without even realizing.

Kacchan doesn’t say anything else to her, but she’s not naive enough to think that’s the end of it. He’s prideful and arrogant and one conversation won’t suddenly change that. They’ll fight about this again, but Izumi won’t bend for this either.

Kacchan will just have to learn to live with it.

***

It’s not until later, when the pain has subsided and the anger cooled, does Izumi realize that she called Kacchan skulk. She's known of course, but it's the first time she's said it aloud.

She wonders if Kacchan caught it.

She wonders if he understands what it means.

***

Kacchan gives her the silent treatment for a whole three days after she gets nearly disemboweled to save him.

Well; his version of the silent treatment, which isn’t very silent and mostly involves a lot of yelling and threatening to blow her up.

But, when he does actually aim an explosion at her face and she refuses to move, the only thing that hits her is smoke and noise. So, you know.

She figures he’s mad but not actually out to murder her which is nice. He did half-drag, half-carry her home while her side stitched itself back together after all so maybe that’s not as much of a surprise as she thinks it is.

***

The moment she sees Yagi, he’s already reaching down and sweeping her up into his arms, twirling them around with that great strength of his. Her arms are wound around his neck and she’s laughing and crying at the same time, so happy she can’t keep it all in her chest.

Yagi doesn't put her down for a whole five minutes, even when her mom and aunts keep making pointedly amused comments. Not that Izumi is complaining.

She’s missed him so much that her chest had ached with it. But now Yagi is here, right next to her, and Izumi has all of the people she loves right where she can get to them.

It feels like someone’s finally put the world back on right.

***

She runs away to Yagi’s for three whole days with her mother’s permission.

She and Yagi make a mess of his kitchen and talk for hours about the time they were apart as if they hadn’t spoken nearly every day about it all.

Izumi regales him with the schoolyard drama she’s stopped recently, before excitedly asking after the support heroes at Might Tower. Yagi always describes his coworkers vaguely, but if Izumi thinks about it, she can figure out which hero he’s talking about. The personal anecdotes Yagi tells her are always her favorite Hero stories. He makes titans seem like normal people, the same way knowing Yagi has made Izumi see All Might.

At night, Yagi forces her to watch old, American movies with him. He says they’re all ‘classics’ but she can’t help but find them all ridiculous.

She watches them though. Because Yagi likes them and it’s a full, uninterrupted two hours she gets to burrow into his side for. Sometimes even longer if he falls asleep before the movie ends.

In the mornings, Yagi makes her American breakfasts while she sits on the counter and analyzes the Hero fights on the morning news. She breaks down quirks as he pours the pancake batter and is coming up with viable support items or techniques by the time he takes them off the griddle.

He smiles indulgently at her the whole time, even when she can tell he didn’t understand a word she just said.

“Remind me someday to introduce you to Melissa,” he says during a break where she paused for breath. “You two would get along like a house on fire.”

On the fourth morning, Izumi is still sitting on the counter while Yagi makes breakfast, but she’s barely said a word. She’s making Yagi nervous, she knows. And, truthfully, she’s right there with him.

The words have been pressing against the back of her teeth for days.

“I know you’re All Might,” she blurts without warning or preamble.

Yagi startles, turning to blink at her, once, twice, three times.

She bites her lip, ears pressed flat as she waits for his reaction. It’s… a bit anticlimactic actually.

“Well,” he says, lips curling up into a bright smile as his hand reaches out to ruffle her hair. “Can’t say I didn’t expect that. Knew you’d figure it out eventually.”

Izumi stares at him.

“You knew?”

Yagi shrugs, just a bit amused as he returns to the pancakes. “No. Not really. But you’re too clever for me to think I could keep it from you for long. Though I had hoped it’d be a while yet.”

Absently, Izumi wonders if it’s wise to tell him she figured it out months ago.

***

With that not-quite-secret out in the open between them now, something about them seems to settle more solidly into place. There are only five other people in the world who know that Yagi Toshinori and All Might are one in the same, and something about that makes Izumi both warm at her center and unbearably sad.

(Sometimes, she thinks, it seems like Yagi has no one else in the world but her. The thought makes her furious.)

Izumi spends the rest of the week and a half playing a delicate balancing act between Yagi, Kacchan, her family, school, and all her extracurriculars. She only manages it at all because the important things overlap nicely enough that she can multitask.

Like the fact that Kacchan spends most days at her house now, and that Yagi likes to walk with her around town as she runs errands, and that her Aunties Emi and Isami seem to have a bet about which of them can make Yagi blush harder (without making him choke on blood of course; that’s an automatic fail).

She doesn’t think she stops smiling once the whole time.

***

She spends almost the entire morning before Yagi’s supposed to leave clinging to him like a stubborn burr, lecturing him on taking care of himself like he’s supposed to and being safe—or as safe as he can be in his line of work.

Yagi bears her fussing with the grace of someone who’s gone too long without it, but promises to do his best at following her new rules.

When the car meant to take him away arrives, he hugs her just shy of too tight for a human child but Izumi doesn’t complain. He presses a reverent kiss to her forehead and buries his face in her wild riot of curls.

“I’m going to miss you,” she tells him through the tears she tried so hard to keep back.

“And I you, my dear girl.”

“Stay safe,” she asks-demands-pleads. “Just- take care of yourself and stay safe, alright?”

He squeezes her tighter for a fraction of a second.

“I’ll do my best,” he says and it’s not a Promise. It can’t be, because what she’s asking isn’t something he can give. Not really anyway.

He kisses her forehead again before setting her down.

Watching him leave is just as hard the second time, as it was the first.

***

She curls in her bed that night, Kacchan sprawled out close enough to touch while she drowns in a shirt she’d stolen from Yagi.

Her room smells like all the people she loves even if they aren’t all there.

It’s comforting.

It also makes her chest ache.

***

She does a lot of thinking over the next week, in between her bouts of sadness and calls with Yagi.

At the end, she’s come to a decision.

The next day, she spends two hours having to convince Nona to go along with it.

***

Izumi’s gotten pretty good at scaling the wall up to Kacchan’s window, if she says so herself.

She knocks lightly and waits patiently for Kacchan’s grumpy frown to appear in front of the window.

“What are you doing here?” he snaps groggily. “You weirdos don’t make kadomatsu at midnight right? Because if you do, I don't want to be invited anymore.”

Izumi snorts and grins. “Nope! Kadomatsu making is tomorrow-”

“It is tomorrow,” he grumbles crankily which Izumi charitably ignores.

“-but get dressed anyway! Something you’d wear into the woods. I promise it’s worth losing your precious beauty sleep over.”

“Fuckin’ better be.” He swats at her, slow but with force, and she almost loses her grip on the window ledge. But Kacchan already turned around to rifle through his drawers and, thankfully, doesn’t see her undignified scramble for purchase.

***

When Izumi was young, her mother explained that there is more to being Shaalim Nephashot than just mischief and magic.

Nothing is without price, her mother had warned. To be something so powerful, there are responsibilities one must bear.

(Some of which, Izumi thinks with not a small amount of excitement as she drags Kacchan further into the woods, are better than others.)

***

By the time she and Kacchan break through the trees into the clearing all her family has gathered in, it’s already started.

The clearing is wide, about the size of a tennis court, and there is very little room not being used. Her family takes up most of it, dancing and singing and laughing beneath the shadow of the willow trees. On the far side, there is a long table, set with offerings and plates laden heavy with food and drink. Closer to her, are chairs filled with the skulk elders who aren’t quite spry enough for dancing, but happy to play music and lead the singing for songs.

And then, most noticeable, are the restless spirits her family has summoned, little more than formless lights floating happily about their heads. They are kaleidoscopes on the wind, mesmerizing and enchanting and the reason Izumi holds the night of the new moon so close to her chest.

She turns to Kacchan, looking for his reaction, and finds him stunned.

There’s something in the way his eyes can seem to settle on any one place, the way they focus and unfocus, that lets her know what he sees is not necessarily what she does. She’s curious what his Sight reveals, but that’s a question for later, she thinks.

“What… what is this?” Kacchan asks her, sounding distinctly breathless.

“Rikud mavet,” she says, and watches as his whole body seems to jolt, gaze swinging towards her abruptly.

So he does know the meaning then.

Good. Izumi was worried she’d have to explain it. Which she could do, but it’s easier if he already knows.

Probably learned about it in his reliquary books—or as much as he could learn, she supposes. Those books were written by humans, and it's hard to get anything concrete from them when no human had ever been present for a rikud mavet.

Before now, that is.

She watches, unable to hide her delighted smile, as Kacchan uselessly opens and closes his mouth, eyes darting from hers to whatever it is he can see in the clearing that she can’t. Eventually he shuts it, jaw clenched so hard she worries for his teeth.

The nervousness is there again; that same uncertainty he had when, two months ago, he told her that he knew.

“You’re skulk,” she says and turns it into a declaration with the force behind it. She’s told him once, and she meant it, but now she needs him to understand. “Rikud mavet is always open to you.”

He’s silent for a long moment, his hands flexing at his sides as he struggles to take all of this in.

She waits.

Then he nods, clears his throat, and goes to nod again before stopping and scowling at himself. She keeps standing there, smiling at him with as much affection she can manage—which is a lot. So she isn’t all that surprised when Kacchan shoves her face away and yells something about her being “so fucking embarrassing.”

She laughs instead of any normal reaction she could have had, and grabs his wrist before he can stuff his hand back in his pocket.

“Come on,” she urges, already pulling him along, “It’s not rikud mavet if you don’t dance.”

“I don’t dance,” he snaps. It’s not all that believable when he says it and it’s less so when five minutes later, he’s leading her through the ‘ridiculous, show pony dances’ he says he hates but knows all the steps to.

They don’t stop dancing until the sun rises over the willow.

***

Kacchan comes to every rikud mavet after that and it makes something warm settle happily in the center of Izumi’s chest every time.

He doesn’t always want to dance—because he really doesn’t like dancing all that much even though he can—and on those nights he plays the drums instead, a vibrant spotlight in the middle of the skulk elders who coo and tut at him in equal measure.

Izumi is glad that Kacchan is there—more than glad, actually. But every time she sees him sitting at the drums, all she can imagine is Yagi sitting there too, clapping his hands to the rhythm because he’s a terrible singer and dancer and can’t play an instrument.

Yagi would be happy, she knows, nestled in the middle of people who cared about him. He’d laugh, because rikud mavet is about joy and moving forward. He’d smile because it’s about sending restless spirits on their way, even the ones in your chest (and Izumi knows he has more than a few of his own).

She brings Kacchan to rikud mavet because she wants him there—because he belongs there—but also because she knows that Yagi can’t be.

Izumi knows Yagi’s secret, but he doesn't know hers.

And that makes her ache nearly as much as him leaving did.

***

Time skips ahead.

As the months pass, she and Kacchan keep stumbling upon things lurking in the woods.

It’s nothing as bad as that first time and is closer to what Izumi refers to as ‘normal’. She’s been running into random monsters in their woods since she was nine, and she’s been getting rid of them for just about as long.

The only difference is she has back up now. Not that Kacchan would appreciate being called that.

Aoi and Mom always fuss over them when they come back scuffed or winded, which she bears with far more grace than Kacchan does. It’s not abnormal to see him and Aoi get into screaming matches while she patches him up.

She continues taking gymnastics and aikido, and Kacchan has been allowed back on the wrestling team. They’re both top of their class, Izumi placing first for subjects like foreign language, literature, and history, while Kachhan dominates the sciences and math.

Kacchan turns thirteen and Izumi throws him two parties. The usual one, with the shiny new addition of Yagi who came specifically for the party, and then another one that was skulk members only.

Izumi spends weekends running around town, picking up odd jobs and volunteering wherever she’s needed, only stopping when Kacchan, Aoi, or Mom forces her to.

The kids at school keep expecting her to mediate fights, and she keeps doing so. Hero Analysis for the Future #13 is finally filled fit to bursting, and she nestles it on her shelf along with the others as she starts a new one.

And then Izumi turns thirteen and her family begins acting… weird.

The day of is happy enough, with all the people she loves gathered close and celebrating. But the moment ends and suddenly everyone’s acting like she’s made of glass, tiptoeing around her and whispering low enough that she can’t hear.

They’re acting like something bad is going to happen but no one will tell her what.

And then, just around the time where she begins getting truly upset about everyone keeping things from her, Nona calls for her and says it’s time they talked.

***

“Matriarch.” She bows to her great-great-great-great grandmother and stands before her large desk. Her mom and Aoi are there, standing just to either side of Nona, but the looks on their faces are anything but comforting. “You wanted to speak to me?”

Nona’s lips are pressed into a thin line, and her eyes lack all the warmth and affection Izumi normally sees in them. Its absence makes the hairs on the back of her neck rise and her stomach churn.

“I think,” Nona says, calm and without much inflection, “It’s time you knew our history. Our full history.”

Her eyebrows furrow, and she looks at Aoi and Mom, but neither will meet her eyes. “You mean about… the curse?” she asks, hesitant and scared. No one’s ever spoken to her about it. Izumi always suspected Nona ordered them not to.

“Yes,” her Nona says and then she talks and talks and talks-

***

Most hunters, Izumi knows, are perfectly fine people who only ever go after things that come after them first. Many never would’ve looked twice at the Midoriya Skulk—at any skulk, really. They are beings that were too powerful and too much trouble for no reason.

Shaalim Nephashot didn’t kill humans. In fact, most of the time they were doing the Hunters’ jobs for them by getting rid of the things that wandered onto their land.

Most Hunters, of course, didn’t mean all Hunters.

There was always something a bit off about the Takanashis, something even other Hunters picked up on. A proud lineage, an arrogant one, that thought themselves so mighty that they could do no wrong.

(It led to their downfall. But not before they dragged Izumi’s skulk halfway down with them.)

No one knows why the Takanashis snapped, no concrete reason anyway. There are rumours, of course. But they’re ridiculous fairy tales no one had ever put stock into.

(Izumi watches though, the way her mother shifts and Aoi scowls, and knows there are things being left unsaid.)

But, whatever the reason, the Takanashis attacked them. Not with silver or steel or brute force, as they were known, but with the one thing the Midoriyas never expected because it had seemed so laughable.

The Takanashis attacked them with magic.

And the horrible thing is that they almost won.

“That first wave took the most powerful of us,” her Nona explains. “Among them was my great aunt, the previous Matriarch. There were only a few Takanashis that survived our retaliation, but by then the damage was done.”

So the Midoriyas hid. They pretended they were killed off, that they took the Takanashis down with them in their final throes of death because the curse was strong then. Was a boulder above all their heads, waiting to crash down on them all.

(And most Hunters aren’t all Hunters. The Takanashis weren’t the only rogues, only the loudest and most unapologetic.

If word got out that the Midoriyas were weak rather than dead— that there was a prize to be gained from seeking them out- well. It doesn’t do to dwell on such things.)

“What the curse couldn’t kill quickly, it kills slowly. Few foxes are being born, fewer children in general. Our magic became harder to call as time went on. Human magic comes easier, but not by much.”

Izumi furrows her eyebrows. She knows this. It’s nice to have it confirmed, cause no one had ever told her this was how it all worked, but she’s smart and clever and pays attention. She already knew all of this.

She waits, sure that her Nona will continue.

Izumi will wish she hadn’t though.

“The curse is meant to kill us,” she starts again, slowly. “But it can’t do that if we run away.”

Izumi has only a second to be confused, a broken thought of ‘then why had we stayed for so long?’, before it all clicks in horrific clarity.

“No,” she says, begs, pleads. “No.”

But Nona keeps speaking and Izumi wants nothing more than to cover her ears and pretend she can’t hear. To pretend that none of this is happening and her dreams aren’t being viciously ripped from her own hands as she watches.

“We can’t leave the forest. You can’t leave the forest.”

And Izumi crumbles.

***

She doesn’t wait to be dismissed. Mom and Aoi are both stepping out from the desk, arms outstretched, but Izumi’s already running.

She bolts passed the living room and straight into the forest—the forest that was meant to be their prison, their graves-

Some of her family try to stop her, try to run after her, but Izumi has always been faster, always been different.

Maybe in this, she is different too.

She’s the first fox born in decades, is the first to call magic with the ease of breathing in just as long. Maybe the curse doesn’t- Maybe it isn’t-

Izumi runs and runs and runs and-

And she slams painfully into solid air.

Her nose breaks and blood streams down her chin along with her tears. She gets back up and does it again. And again. And again. And again. Until her nose has healed itself. Until her arms are sore and bruised enough that even her healing is struggling to repair the damage.

She collapses against the barrier, sobbing and screaming and clawing at it because this isn’t right. She’s meant for more than this! The Universe told her—promised her. She’s meant to rule the world and protect everyone and she’s trapped here!

She was made to be mighty.

Let her go!

***

Aoi finds her hours later with Nana Naoki behind her. Aoi probably asked them to help sniff her out.

Izumi’s quiet, curled up and small as she leans against the barrier. Her voice has long since gone hoarse from all her screaming and tear tracks have dried on her cheeks and there are smears of her own blood still on her chin.

Aoi takes one look at her before scooping Izumi into her arms and holding on as tight as she can.

None of them say a word.

***

Later, when Izumi finds that her voice is working again, she will ask question after question. Most of them boil down to the same two things.

Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why am I so different?

They will not have answers for her and she’ll be reminded of when she was small and asked too many questions about the wrong things and found herself with too many non-answers.

Izumi will eventually stop asking them.

***

At school on Monday, Izumi hardly speaks to anyone.

She’s spacey on the best of days, but this is just stupid. Every time he looks at her she’s staring off into space, her eyes sad and mouth pulled down at the corners.

Everyone asks her if she’s okay, because she has the whole school eating out of her hand, but all she says is that she’s fine, no need to worry! Just a little tired, that’s all! and smiles wide enough to trick those extras into leaving her alone.

Only Katsuki is determined enough to see through her bullshit, but all she does is stay infuriatingly closed-lipped about it. So he drops it for the time being.

But then she does the same thing on Tuesday.

And Wednesday.

And Thursday.

When she comes in on Friday acting no different, Katsuki can feel the whole school starting to glare at him like it’s his damn fault.

And sure, last time she was maudlin and sad, he may have been going through that whole ‘learning about the supernatural’ thing and accidentally on purpose started avoiding her, but this time he hasn’t even done anything.

So he’s pissed off. He is done, okay? Katsuki gave her time to mope and shit about whatever it is that’s bothering her in the hopes that she’ll get it out of her system, but obviously that's not working. So now they’re going to do this his way.

The lunch bell rings and Katsuki is at her desk, glowering down at her and giving her one last chance to say something because he’s a pretty understanding guy. He’s never been much good at patience but Izumi does this shit for him so he at least tries for her.

But she just shrugs, and gives him one of those fake ass smiles she’s been given all the extras—the one that he hates and-

That’s the last straw.

In the next moment, Izumi is thrown over his shoulder.

She shrieks. “What are you-! Kacchan! Put me down right now!”

“No,” he says flatly, throwing both their bags out the open window and following after them a second later.

***

Izumi yells and squirms and slams her hands into his back the whole time, demanding he take her back to school and let her go. He does none of those things.

He’s pretty sure she could get out of his hold. Not easily, perhaps, but she could and she is not actually trying to.

So Katsuki figures she’s full of shit and doesn’t put her down until they get to the beach, the shitty corner of it where no one goes because it’s more trash heap than anything else.

He dumps her on the sand.

“Kacchan!” she starts, “What are you-”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demands before she can start scolding him.

“Wha- me?” she reels back, “You’re the one who kidnapped me off campus! We’re going to miss-”

She tries to move past him and he throws out his arm to stop her. “Shut up about class. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s ‘going on’, Kacchan.”

“Bullshit.”

The look she gives him is something he knows she picked up from him. The aggression playing on her face is too close to his own to be anything else.

If she were using it on anyone else, it might’ve even worked. But, sucks for her, he invented that look.

“I don’t need your dorky ass, super-ears to know when you’re lying to me,” he says firmly, crossing his arms and trying to glare him into submission. “So stop doing it and just spit it out.”

Her mouth opens only to close a second later. Her hands are in fists at her sides and if she were anyone else, Katsuki would think she was about to punch him. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Tough shit. You’ve been not talking about it all week and now it’s time to spill your guts.”

They stare at each other, the moment stretching out like infinity between them, two stubborn fools digging in their heels and refusing to give an inch. And then, out of nowhere, Izumi bursts into tears.

“Shit!” Katsuki reels back, stupidly not having expected that reaction. He steps forward almost immediately after, arms outstretched before he realizes how stupid he probably looks and instead shoves his hands deep in his pockets. “Fuck. Shit. Stop it, you goddamn crybaby.”

Izumi does not, in fact, stop crying—not that Katsuki really expected her too.

Instead, she curls in on herself, sobbing even harder and—fucking dammit— he reaches out and pulls her into a hug that she immediately reciprocates, hands fisting the back of his school jacket, nearly tearing the fabric with how tightly she’s holding it. She presses so close to him, it’s like she’s trying to crawl into his ribcage.

Fucking foxes and their tactile needs.

He lets her do whatever she needs with only minimal grumbling and bitchiness. She buries her nose in the space between his neck and chest, presses her hands all along his shoulders, and doesn’t let him drop the hug until her tears slow down enough that she can talk.

By the end of the whole process, Katsuki is sure he smells more like a Midoriya than most Midoriyas.

But whatever. Izumi’s always had weird as fuck coping skills. This isn’t exactly new.

When he feels her death grip on his shirt weakening he speaks again. “Are you done?” he asks flatly and, for whatever reason, Izumi chuckles.

“No, probably not,” she tells him honestly. He huffs, hands moving from her back to her shoulders and pulling her away just a bit, just enough to look at her face.

“What. Happened.”

Her breath stutters in her chest and she won’t meet his eyes. She stays quiet for so long that he’s just about to repeat the question when she finally speaks. Of course though, she says it so quickly—practically spitting it into the air between them—that he doesn’t even understand what it is she said.

“Hah?”

She grits her teeth before going abruptly boneless, as if all the fight has just drained out of her. Katsuki immediately hates how defeated she looks and has to stop himself from shaking her in some childish hope that it might fix that look on her face.

“I can’t be a Hero, Kacchan.”

Katsuki blinks and feels very much like he’s somehow missed the last step on the staircase.

Cause what?

What the fuck is that supposed to mean? What crazy mirror verse has Katsuki suddenly found himself in that Midoriya fucking Izumi is actually saying the words ‘can’t’, ‘be’, and ‘Hero’ all in the same sentence?

Something must show on his face or his heart trips or some shit because she’s talking again without him having to prompt her. Well, it’s more like she begins word vomiting at him but she’s been doing that all five years he’s known her so he’s only a little annoyed by the habit at this point.

She spills everything. The story Nona told her and the realization and how the curse works. She tells him all about her running and using herself as a battering ram. About her questions and the nonanswers she got in return and about the way she feels like everything she’s ever known is shattered in pieces at her feet with no idea if she can even fix it, let alone how.

She’s crying again by the end of it, hiccuping little sobs and tear tracks on her cheeks.

Katsuki kind of wants to punch her in the face.

“So that’s it then?” he asks flatly. “You’re just gonna give up?”

Indignation rises slowly, then all at once, on Izumi’s face. Her eyes go hard and her ears are flat against her skull and she pulls her lips back to reveal all those too sharp teeth.

It’s a look he’s familiar with. More than anyone else in town, probably.

He pissed her off a lot in those early days. Dug himself in under all that sticky-sweet kindness, searching for some dark thing that just wasn’t there. She was patient and lenient and far too willing to put up with him, but every once in a while he’d push too far. He’d push and she’d snap right back at him with all the anger her pint-sized body could hold and more; an invisible, crackling weight in the air around her that would press on him until he felt he couldn’t breathe.

(He remembers being caught off guard every time it happened. He remembers feeling victorious and guilty in the face of her rage. He remembers preferring it to the tears.)

Katsuki wouldn’t prefer it now except for the fact that he’s pissed to hell and making Izumi angry is just as much a catharsis for him as it is an improvement over the dead-eyed look she had before.

Fuck. Izumi isn’t Izumi if she doesn’t have any fight left in her.

“I’m not giving up,” she practically snarls at him.

His lips twist. “Sounds like you are to me.”

She sputters, mouth opening and closing without saying a word until: “Maybe you weren’t listening but there’s nothing I can do. I’m trapped! My whole family is trapped. Has been for generations and that’s not just going to change.”

“Not if you don’t do something about it it won’t.”

“Kacchan!” she yells, just on the wrong side of desperate, “There’s nothing I can do. We’ve been trapped here for two centuries. What? Do you think the whole skulk has just been sitting on their hands this whole time? They’ve tried but-”

“But you haven’t!” he shouts, flinging his hands out like that will force her to understand.

Instead she sputters, rolling her eyes. “And what can I do that the elders can’t? I’m thirteen. I haven’t even had my Witching Ceremony yet!”

“Are you a fox or not?” he shoots back. “Do you have magic or not? Have you been doing impossible things since the moment you were born or not?” he grabs her by the shoulders, staring down at her cause she’s always been short, and tries to force as much conviction in his voice as possible.

“Izumi you exist in spite of whatever shitty ass curse the skulk is under. Nothing about that makes sense. So stop whining about the thing you’ve already made your bitch just by fucking existing and start using you’re shitty-ass nerd brain to figure out a way to make it fuck off for good.”

Izumi’s staring at him, her eyes wide and swirling with too many emotions. He can read her like a book most days but not when that book is flipping through pages faster than he can keep up with.

He’s surprised she hasn’t started crying again; but then, maybe she doesn’t have enough tears left to cry. (Unlikely. If there’s an upper limit to Izumi’s tears they haven’t found it yet.)

“Do you mean it?” she asks. “Do you really believe I could do that?”

Katsuki scoffs. “Fucking obviously. I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”

Which is, you know, objectively a lie. He says a lot of shit he doesn’t mean because he’s an asshole and speaks before he thinks most of the time. Not that he cares, normally. If someone gets pissed off by the things he says that’s their problem, not his.

But not this time.

He means it now. And he knows that Izumi knows it too.

Between one blink and the next Izumi is launching herself into his arms. She hits him like a goddamn cannonball to the chest, knocking them both onto the sand and probably giving him bruises.

He keeps swearing and yelling and trying to throw her off but she stays stubbornly attached to him, laughing like the little shit she is. It’s not until they somehow roll right into a wave does she let go, yelping and running back up the beach.

They’ve definitely already missed class, which he expected, so he doesn’t even think about it when he jumps up to chase after her for the next half an hour, yelling and screaming that he’s going to explode her face.

***

Kacchan was right, she knows, even if his delivery could use work.

She supposes that it’s a little bit her fault for being able to interpret his yelling so well that he never bothered to learn how to do anything else. He’s guilty of much the same when she talks fast enough that her words blur together and only he can understand and translate them.

Izumi has no idea how to go about breaking a centuries-old curse, but Kacchan was right.

Impossible things are her specialty.

***

The first thing Izumi does when she gets home later, after her mom has finished yelling about skipping class, is find Nona. She hasn’t spoken to her in a week, not since she called for her presence, but Izumi seeks her out now.

“I want to learn magic,” she says, and it’s as close to a demand as any of them can get in regards to Nona. They are family first, but none would dare speak to the Matriarch the way Izumi does.

But Izumi’s always spoken to Nona the way no one else dares. Izumi herself will be Matriarch one day, will be mighty, and that means something in the here and now.

So instead of indignation or anger or anything else, Nona just looks at her with fond amusement and says, “Well it’s about time.”

And that’s that, really.

***

@queen-of-the-trash-planet-tm

#bnha #mha #midoriya izuku #katsuki bakugou #fem!izuku #my typewriter #wlcm

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ceruleanmusings · 4 years ago

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mickames ship notes

I just need to put this somewhere so I can stop turning it over in my head. This is me thinking out loud so it does end up long but I also want a place to put this so I can reference it whenever I write more for them in the future. (Keep in mind this is just the version of James I see; others might have a different view on him and that’s okay!)

At a glance, James and Mickey shouldn’t work. They’re complete opposites, he enjoys the spotlight, thrives when getting attention, is vain and self-centered and doesn’t hesitate to put his wants and needs first. She prefers the background, doesn’t like too much attention, and thinks about others and their needs more than her own. But that’s what makes them work as well, they fill each other’s gaps.

James teaches her that, sometimes, it’s best to put yourself first and to go after what you want and need; there’s nothing wrong with making yourself a priority. She can take up space and demand respect and she won’t burst into flames for it. Mickey teaches him that, sometimes, you learn more about those you care about and the world by sitting back, observing, and letting others take the spotlight every once in a while; that being more empathetic and less self absorbed also serves you in a fulfilling way.

They meet at the Palm Woods (if I were to stick this anywhere in canon, it’d be near the tail end of season 2 I think. BTQuads would replace BTGirl Group. This is after retconning and fixing some things in BTQ considering I wrote that 11 years ago; if I rewrote it now I’d do it a little differently. Or maybe it would be somewhere near the beginning of the season as it’s own “episode”. I’m still figuring this out.) He flirts and she resists which comes across as him being a nuisance and her being a doormat; she doesn’t indulge but she doesn’t stop it either (hello?? a cute guy flirting and noticing her? she wasn’t going to let that go right away, even if she is being selfish about it and leading him on to a degree). And since he doesn’t have a stop sign in his face, he keeps toeing the line. Yeah, there are other girls he could be trying to win their favor, and he could do so easily, but there’s something about her not falling for it that makes him try harder.

She’s not perfect. She starts off with a very biased/judgy way of thinking of him: he’s nothing more than a pretty face, a good voice, and a skirt chaser. So the moments he is a nice, sweet, and thoughtful guy she brushes off like it’s a fluke. It takes her friends pointing out to her she’s kind of being a bitch to see how she acts towards him, first taking more offense to the accusation than the what they’re actually saying. She is justified, however, because the only time he talks to her, really, is when he’s hitting on her. She allows it to continue because she has a hard time saying no and, honestly from the beginning, she thinks it’s a joke. Because why would someone so out of her league be into her? Plus, it’s not like it will last. But it does. Eventually she reaches her wits end and tears him a new one, basically stating that he knows nothing about her and he needs to knock it off.

It works and he backs off. At first he changes out of spite. (You say I know nothing about you? Fine! I’ll learn everything I can and show you that I do! So there!) He sits back and he watches her rituals and habits and he listens, learning about her likes and dislikes. He even keeps a list of them; much like his James’ Things to Do B-4 20 List. Only this one is filled with her hobbies and interests and disinterest and the smallest thing he could think of that involves her opinion. Through keeping the list he really does end up learning more about her and having more things to talk to her about where they, eventually (and with Carlos as a tether), become friends and he sees her as a person and not a prize to be won.

It also helps with their paths crossing a lot due to being part of his backing band and going along with the schemes he and his friends get themselves involved in on a daily basis. Her loving hockey always wins her points in his book (though she prefers to watch rather than play.) They can hang out and chill and talk to each other without expecting something out of it. (And he flirts sometimes, he can’t just turn it off, but that doesn’t make his comments about liking her hair or her looking gorgeous in a dress any less honest.) At that point it’s just James being James and who was she to make him change? He takes her as she is, quiet, hesitant, shy, over-thinker and all, she can take him for all his faults too.

It’s that line of thought which brings them to the point where they eventually feel safe with one another to open up and be vulnerable about their insecurities, which end up being similar in sentiment: they both want someone to put them first. James doesn’t have the best relationships with his parents, his mom was absent emotionally and his dad splits his time chasing after his washed up rockstar dreams and keeping his younger wife happy. They didn’t give him attention so he decided to give it to himself; he pumps himself up, dresses well, overstates his talents (though he can back it up), and makes himself a priority, No one else did so why not himself? But he’s tired and, for once, he wouldn’t mind someone else putting in the effort. Being a quadruplet, Mickey is used to sharing: space, attention, gifts, classes, a birthday, anything and everything. She comes as a set. And while she shies away from unwanted attention, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want things to be about her sometimes. She doesn’t know how to ask for it, instead curling in on herself, falling in line, and boosting others and their wants and needs and dreams thinking, one day, someone will do the same for her. There’s an odd sort of loneliness she feels being a quad and not knowing how to have an outside identity, wanting that attention but not feeling it’s right to want it. So she sits back and goes with the flow; it’s all she’s ever known.

It’s when Mickey sees James as the nice, driven, focused, sweet, funny, loyal, talented, understanding, and accepting guy he is her feelings for him change. She has a hard time grappling with them, not sure if she likes him or the undivided attention he gives her. Also, she has a habit of sabotaging good things for herself (a fact her sisters and aunt Kelly point out a lot). James is out of her league, why would she want to let him in if he’s only going to end up realizing the same thing and move onto the next thing? (On the other end, James thinks she’s out of his league; she’s smart, caring, funny, creative, supportive, selfless, thoughtful, and a badass on the bass.) She blinds herself to the fact that, ever since he met her, he’s never moved on.

Not even when he chased after Lucy. Lucy was a distraction to him not wanting to confront something he doesn’t know how to handle: actual feelings. Lucy always turned him down; he expected it, he knew the outcome, it was easy and safe. He couldn’t get hurt by a friend he wasn’t entirely invested in (I want to be clear here they are friends, unlike the show I have reasons as to why Lucy is friends with them and is involved more than just to be a love interest. My wording is directed that he’s not entirely invested in chasing after her, it being a front and him slipping into what he knows more than anything). He could get hurt by Mickey. She’s his best friend (well one of them, Carlos would hate to be bumped from his best bud ranking) and, if things went wrong, their friendship could get ruined too. He couldn’t risk that.

So they’re wishy-washy, coming closer and backing away at the last minute, admiring one another from afar, pretending their gazes aren’t being held a little too long or their smiles shine a little brighter in one another’s company. James is on uneven ground for the first time in his life; he always knows the right thing to say, never gets nervous, and can hold his own but Mickey can bowl him over. And while it sends him spiraling he also dips his toe into the uncharted waters. Eventually he gets fed up with her going back and forth and lays it all on the line, letting his feelings out, very plainly, and puts the ball in her court. Maybe she actually likes him, maybe she doesn’t. But she does and it takes her a little longer to accept she does, that she’s allowed to have someone who ticks off all her boxes, that she’s allowed to be happy. So she sends a plant to share her feelings instead; words come easier to her on paper than spoken aloud. And he’s shocked at first; while he hoped she felt the same way a larger part of him had convinced himself he was chasing after a lost cause. But they’re finally on the same page and he doesn’t want to mess it up.

In fact, he tries a little too hard to be the perfect boyfriend. Overeager as he his, he pulls out her chairs only for her to fall flat to the ground when he does so too hard, he spills drinks he bought on her, he tries to make her cookies only for them to be rock-solid hockey pucks that nearly break her teeth (he probably should have learned baking soda can’t be substituted with actual soda), he tries to hold open the door for her only to hit her in the face, he tries to buy her flowers only to wind up being allergic to them. It’s his first real relationship (the three days with Selana don’t count), he has to be the best at it. He’s always the best. To save herself form more bodily harm, Mickey ends up snapping him out of it and they both realize they’re scared of what it means to be with someone else and be in a relationship (it’s her first relationship too) and be committed so they agree that it would be easier to be scared together.

As eager as James is, he lets Mickey take the lead. So she’s the one to kiss him first, she’s the one to initiate holding hands and hugging and cuddling, she’s usually the first to lean into him if she needs grounding or reassurance; forehead touching and nuzzling are her go-tos. If it were up to him he’d pack on the PDA any chance he could get; she’d rather keep the bigger displays behind closed doors.

They view their separate loves, music and cooking, similarly: the end result, the way music or food brings people together and makes memories that last and touches people, as a driving force in putting their all into their craft. Even if being a rockstar wasn’t her dream and even if he doesn’t cook, they understand that feeling of supplying for others and being an escape.

Their relationship isn’t free from its bumps. James is more open with his words and intentions so he communicates well but Mickey is more guarded on that front; she tends to put forth her effort into her actions and showing how she cares so he is taken care of. Sometimes he takes advantage of it but he learns fast to tell her how much he appreciate her while she learns to verbally communicate her feelings better. Sometimes she doesn’t mind he’s self-absorbed, he can talk about himself all he wants while she can sit back and listen. But there are other moments she wants to pull her hair out because it wouldn’t kill him to ask her how she’s doing. Sometimes he wants her to be more firm, to be confident and make a choice rather than let others take the lead for her; other times he basks in her relying on him to navigate certain situations.

They date for a while, part ways, and then get back together in the future after learning more about themselves and what they want in a partner. In the end, opposites attract hit them hard and, like opposing poles on a magnet, will always bring them back to each other. (Plus, as James points out, Mickey Diamond has a nice rockstar ring to it. Pun intended.)

#mickames #mickey x james #again this is mostly for me but if anyone has any thoughts i wouldn't mind talking about them #glad i can finally dump this from my brain #i may write all this into a fic one day. it'd be a slow burn for sure #big time rush oc #james diamond #mickey mason

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petals42 · 5 years ago

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Coach - Part V

Hello all. I know in my major fics I’ve made Coach and Suzanne not very nice people, but after the latest updates I figured I’d try my hand at writing canon-compliant Coach. This is in his POV so obviously Coach-centric and he is not magically a perfect ally. He’s trying though.

3.6k; canon-compliant; content warning: homophobia; post- Coach IV

It’s Sunday. Which means Church for Suzanne always and Church for Richard when he has the time. Or about every three weeks when Suzanne starts asking him on Thursday whether he is going to make it this week instead of waiting til the morning-of. It’s his signal to go with her so she can show him off or introduce him to new folks or just re-establish that they are together and happy and she can still make him go to Church whenever she wants.

Either way, it’s not bad. He doesn’t mind listening to the sermons, even if he’s not quite sure how much stock he puts in all of this, and the music is good enough, even if he’s not one for singing himself.

He doesn’t even mind the post-Church chitchat. In the fall and winter, the traditional spread of baked goods made by the women of the Church is usually served in the small auditorium. It’s cold when you first walk in and then all the bodies heat it up so that by the end Suzanne will be complaining that if they don’t want to put the AC on, they could just open a window or something.

Richard knows his role in this too. He stands off to the side with his plateful of baked goods, making sure to take the ones baked by Suzanne’s friends and avoid the ones made by anyone his wife is currently feuding with. He chats with some folk who wander over, always polite, but mostly people know him well enough to let him be and wait for Suzanne to finish talking with everyone.

They have a good system. They walk through the line of food together which is when he puts on his best smile. Then he goes to a corner, she claims she has to use the restroom but takes her plate with her and stops to mill and chat with everyone on the way to the bathroom. She’ll finish her plate before she gets to the bathroom, throw it away, and then talk to many of the same people on her way back. He’ll wait and watch and when she starts looking a little tight around the eyes or flexes her left hand in that certain way, that’s when he’ll walk up and ask if she minds leaving. She’ll say of course, they will make their goodbyes, and that’s that.

Sunday morning.

Usually his time in the corner is almost meditative. He lets his eyes unfocus and eats just steadily enough that people can see he is eating and lets his mind drift. It may be a weird place to meditate, in a room filled with other adults, but it works for him. Coaching is a loud job, filled with the noise of teenagers and yelling and grunts and sounds just of working in a high school, really. And then Suzanne is not loud in the same way and he loves listening to her (for as little as he inputs, really he does), but she’s not a still person. She’s light and movement and laughter and she fills up a room enough that usually he is content to just bask in her presence. It’s more joyful than meditative.

This, though. This is just right. His brain is already a little fuzzy from spacing out during the sermon and he’s bored enough that usually he would pull out his phone, but standing and relaxing in a corner is fine. Playing on your phone in a corner is rude. According to Suzanne. And he doesn’t disagree. So he’s a little bored, unable to do anything to fix that boredom, happy to turn the chitchat around him into a sort of gray static he doesn’t have to pay attention to and just… relax.

Of course, this week relaxing is a bit difficult.

He’d been busy in the week he’d gotten back from Samwell. He had booked that flight a bit last minute so it was fly out late, late on Tuesday and then leave Thursday midday to try to make it back for Thursday’s practice because he was the head coach of a football team and, goodness Junior better make it late in the playoffs when there is plenty of time for him to actually go up and see more of the games.

So it was practice and then cram all the strategy and tape he was supposed to do Tuesday and Wednesday into Friday and game Saturday (a win, but a sloppy one if he is being honest) and it is now, Sunday, as he stands and watches people try to eat while holding a small paper plate filled with too much food, that he is finally able to think about it all.

About the car ride and Junior telling him that he wasn’t acknowledging his relationship and getting upset and telling him that he needed to know he wasn’t messed up, like Richard would ever think he was messed up but the fact that Junior had to even ask was--

He blows out a breath. Not angry just… annoyed. At himself. And maybe a little but at Junior even though he shouldn’t be and he isn’t, he just--

Sometimes he feels he never got credit for the things he did do. He paid for all those ice dancing lessons even though he didn’t understood a bit of it. And then when it became obvious Junior was good, he paid for that private coach and went online to learn at least some of the terms even though he was never going to be able to give Junior any actual advice on anything. Which had… well, he could at least admit that that had been a bit of a disappointment. He loved teaching and coaching and yes, see, don’t rely on your elbow so much. Power’s in your shoulder-- there you go, feel the difference? He loved being a coach. But with Junior and ice skating… he looked up enough to sometimes manage a weak Remember to pull your arms tight and Junior would look up at him and smile and nod when he was little but he got older and better and eventually he had to stop trying. Because Junior was more advanced than any of the little tips he could find and he had that private coach to tell him what he was actually doing wrong and he didn’t want to look like a fool and certainly didn’t want Junior to get annoyed with him so…

He’d moved too. He and Suzanne. Packed up their house and he’d gotten a new job away from the kids he’d been coaching for years and they never talked about it with Junior, never wanted him to feel like it was his fault but his son wasn’t stupid. He would’ve thought that he made the connection between the bullying and the change of scenery, as it were.

And then there was hockey, another sport for him to learn enough so he could at least understand what was going on and offer tentative tips, and Samwell and taking out a loan to cover what Junior’s scholarship didn’t and flying up to see at least some of the games and he’s tried to keep things as normal as possible after Jack. Tried to make it obvious that nothing had changed. That he viewed his son exactly the same. But even that hadn’t been enough.

He looks down where he’s holding his paper plate filled with post-Church snacks and realizes he’s crumpling it. But he can’t quite get his hand to loosen. Kids these days. And even thinking that made him feel old but it was true. Kids these days want everything spoken aloud, everything talked about, all mushy, like actions don’t count for anything anymore. It just-- he could count on one hand the number of times his daddy had ever said anything like “I love you” or “I’m proud of you” but he still knew it was true. Of course he knew. His father attended as many of his football games as he could and shook his hand on his wedding day, offered him a cigar when Eric was born...

And, really, he thought he had been being pretty obvious. Right after the Cup, he had started talking about Jack’s goal and his great game and congratulating him and he thought that was clear enough. That if Jack was important to Junior, than he would care about Jack’s sport as much as he could. And then he flew up to see Junior on a week where he could see Junior’s game and they could watch Jack’s game together too. Sure, he referred to Jack as Junior’s friend, but he… he didn’t know if boyfriend was the right word or if they were using partner and, okay, okay maybe it was easier to say “friend”, at least at first. Which, okay, was wrong. But also Junior didn’t even seem to hear the rest of what he was saying. He had gone up there and complimented Jack and Jack’s team and how Jack and Junior worked together and had thought he was being obvious about starting to invite Jack over for Christmas and somehow Junior still ended up yelling at him in the car.

His mouth twists at that. That had been… not good. Not only because Junior had been hurt and crying, but because he’d been angry and yelled and he was pretty sure he mentioned that he had had to find out through the TV, like some stranger and he…

You weren’t supposed to tell your kids when they hurt your feelings. He knows that. He’s… he’s not allowed to get his feelings hurt, anyway, from the sounds of it. From the reading he’s done in the days he’s been back. The internet says that coming out is a personal thing and everyone makes their own decision and, according to most websites, it’s probably his fault. His and Suzanne’s for not being more openly supportive of people when Junior was growing up. For making him feel like he couldn’t tell them. And he doesn’t-- well, he doesn’t remember ever saying anything blatantly rude like that, he figures he’s usually a live and let live type, but apparently all those little things-- microaggressions, the internet calls ‘em-- apparently those add up.

So, again, his fault.

He shifts and swings his head to find Suzanne. It only takes him a moment; his eyes are long used to flicked through a crowd to find someone just her size with that specific hair color. She’s laughing, chatting with Ruby, and from the looks of it, he’s still got a while. Which is fine. He could go find one of the guys to chat with and, as the local football coach, there’s plenty of chatting he could do but he--

He looks as Suzanne and wonders instead. If her feelings are still a little hurt by Junior’s way of telling them. If she feels old and forgotten and replaced by all those friends he’s got up at college. The ones who knew first.

He pops a cookie in his mouth. Feels his stomach twist up as his mind flashes once again to that dumb car ride. And really, how was he supposed to know Junior even cared about his opinion anymore? He had all those friends and Jack and all the Falconers who all spoke out about it afterwards and there had been pictures with Jack’s parents who were there and clearly knew and Eric hadn’t even called them after. Not for hours and hours.

He can’t help but think it wasn’t right. Suzanne had been beside herself with worry and called him over and over and Richard thought he was pretty okay, but he didn’t like when someone hurt Suzanne. Especially not Junior. Those two talked nearly every day, it seemed to him, and it was a hell of a time for his son to suddenly be so irresponsible with his mama’s feelings.

He takes a breath. Lets it go. Those two have clearly made up and there’s no point in fighting someone else’s battle especially if they didn’t seem too torn up about it anymore.

He wishes he had remembered that during the car ride. That he was better at not reacting with anger sometimes. At not getting all defensive. Then maybe the car ride would’ve gone smoother. Maybe that whole mess could have been avoided. And he wouldn’t still feel so embarrassed and guilty about it even though he thinks that maybe he’d finally gotten the message through on his way to the airport.

Yes, thank God, at least that went well. He’s pretty sure. So Junior’s good with Suanne and good with him and Jack is coming down for Christmas so that’s that.

To be honest, he isn’t quite sure what to do next. Junior seems to watch him to talk and ask about Jack, but the internet said to treat the relationship just like any other and he isn’t sure he had been planning on talking to Junior much about girls except for maybe a quick check that they were being safe and he was being honorable and perhaps a “Is she expecting a ring?” or “Seems about time you went out and got one” talk. That’s about all he and his daddy had done.

Other things he’s doing now-- reading up about things on the internet and planning to maybe pop over to the GSA at the high school when he thinks the other coaches can run the beginning of practice without him -- those things don’t come up in conversation much. At least not naturally. So there is no way to tell Junior. Not that he wants to. Would sound too much like bragging or trying to get points for doing the basics. Which, again, the internet tells him is bad.

Watch gay movies (queer cinema, he says in his head, trying it out from what he’d read) is next. He has to make sure he looked completely comfortable with Junior and Jack kissing and the like when they came for Christmas. Luckily, the internet has a list of ones available on Netflix. Though, he’s not sure he’s supposed to talk to Junior about those either. He found one tweet or something in his search that seemed to imply that parents telling or asking their gay children about gay movies is awkward. Like assuming they all know each other.

There seems to be a mighty fine line between not acknowledging that your kid is gay enough and talking about it too much and making them feel all different. It’s a shame he can’t ask Junior for some advice. But he’s already done enough damage. He’ll have to figure this out on his own. He had spoken disparagingly of parades and rainbows in the car because, sonuvabitch, that seems like a hellish way to spend a Saturday, what with the noise and the heat and people all crammed into a small area like that, but if… well if it would help Junior feel better, he could probably do it. For a couple hours. Maybe.

He’ll have to talk to Junior directly more, he decides. Not just wait for major updates to come through Suzanne. He’ll have to--

“Hey, hon,” Suzanne says, stepping in front of him. He blinks and refocuses his eyes and wonders what brought her over. He doesn’t think it’s been as long as she usually stays. “You okay?”

“Wha- yeah,” he says. “Why?”

“Just checking,” she says. “You were just looking pretty intense, that’s all.”

“Just thinking about plans and stuff,” he replies. Not a lie.

“Plans?”

“Football stuff,” now he’s lying. “Game was sloppy yesterday. Gotta tighten up.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” she says, patting his arm. She knows more about football than people assume and she can talk strategy with him when he needs to, but she’s not about to do it in Church. Sometimes she gets enough gossip here to last her the week.

“You ready to go?” she asks.

“If you want,” he replies. “I can stay longer if you want to talk to--”

“No, no,” she says. “You were up at Samwell this week. Let’s head back.”

He nods and accepts it when her path to the exit leads them through the center of the room rather than around the outskirts. There are hugs and kisses on the cheek and he nods and says goodbye when prompted and they are just about out when--

“Oh, the Bittles!” It’s Martha. Her last name escapes him at the moment but it’s not a big deal. He waits for Suzanne to finish her hug and then he leans down and gives her a polite hug as well. “How are you two holding up?”

“Just fine,” Suzanne says. Richard bobs his head up and down in agreement. “Did Todd make it today?”

“I’m afraid not. He’s got that new job so he’s just been busy, busy, busy!”

“Oh well, send him our love,” Suzanne says effortlessly. “And we certainly know what it means to be a bit busy. Especially this time of year!.”

“Oh yes,” Martha says. “It’s always like school starts up again and then suddenly it’s Christmas!”

“With somehow a thousand stressful football games in the middle.”

“Seems the weeks get shorter every year,” Richard adds which is what he always adds during this conversation.

“And the football games get longer,” Suzanne stage-whispers to Martha where it gets its usual short laugh and Richard shrugs to say ‘What can you do?’ and he’s pretty sure they have a clear shot to the door once they finish this one.

“Speaking of,” Suzanne continues and here it is, her exit strategy. “This one’s got to get home to plan for next Saturday so…”

“Of course, of course,” Martha says, waving them on. “Good luck!” and that should be the end of it, except Martha leans in one last time to Suzanne, speaks softly enough that Richard knows the comment wasn’t really meant for him at all, and says:

“We’ve been praying for you, you know. You and little Dicky.”

Suzanne’s smile goes a bit off-center but she is turning the lean into a quick goodbye hug already and moving and--

“Praying for Junior?” Richard finds himself saying. His blood has gone a bit cold somehow. “Why?”

Maybe he meant it to come out confused and dumb-like. It doesn’t. It comes out like he actually meant it: accusatory. Barely polite.

Martha freezes. Suzanne sort of looks at him, her eyes flashing a bit of a warning. He doesn’t know if it’s to not cause drama or to just ignore it but he does neither of those things. He just stands and waits for her answer.

“Well,” Martha says, glancing quickly around, probably to check who is listening. No one really appears to be so far. He hadn’t actually spoken that loudly. “Well, you know, with the… the… you know.”

“No, I don’t,” he says. Suzanne is definitely glaring at him a bit now.

“We’re not judging,” Martha is saying, voice almost a whisper. “We love Dicky. We do. We’re just keeping him in our prayers while he works through…”

She fades out or at least Richard doesn’t hear if she says more because all he can hear is his son worrying that he is messed up somehow, that he needs to be fixed, that he’s anything less than perfect.

“My son,” Richard starts and it’s a bit of a fight to keep his voice even. He clears his throat and tries again. “My son is the captain of his college hockey team, is graduating this May, and is currently dating someone who makes him very happy. A man. His boyfriend. My son’s boyfriend makes him very happy. He just told me. He is very happy.”

Richard takes a breath. Now people are looking. Not everyone, he hadn’t been talking quite loud enough to cause that, but people near them are looking and Martha’s mouth is sort of hanging open and, actually, Suzanne looks a bit shocked himself and suddenly Richard is very aware that he does not want to be the center of attention anymore. If ever.

“I- Well I--” Martha tries to start up again but Richard cannot even express how much he does not want to hear it.

“I reckon you should save your prayers for those who actually need ‘em,” Richard says. “Which doesn’t include my boy.”

He moves then. He doesn’t care what she has to say or what anyone else has to say, and, God help him, he doesn’t even know if he cares what Suzanne has to say, not if it’s something negative or worried about the gossip he just started. He just nods one last time at her because that’s what he does when he walks away from someone and takes a few quick strides out of the room. Then it’s down the hall and hang a left and there.

Outside.

That’s a bit better. Suzanne is right. It does get too hot in there.

He’s just sort of standing there, taking deep breaths, calming down, hands on his hips, when suddenly an arm links through his.

He waits a beat before looking down at Suzanne.

Her grin is blinding.

“You are brilliant,” she says, standing on her tip-toes and that’s his cue to lean over for a kiss on the cheek and he can feel a blush coming on (Junior thinks he gets that from his Mama, but that’s all Bittle). “Brilliant! I wish I had a picture of her face. God, she’s been saying that shit-- excuse my language, Jesus-- that shit for months and I’ve just been ignoring it and you! You just… Brilliant!”

She is bouncing and happy and they walk to the car, arm in arm, like back when they were dating and, alright, let’s not throw a parade or anything, he tells her, well aware that he’s still blushing, but--

It’s a start.

#check please #check please fanfiction #look whos writing again #also i already have TWO MORE ideas about bitty and his relationship with coach changing after this #i shall try to write them ASAP #lest i forget #my fic #richard bittle #coach bittle #canon compliant #bittle familiy feels #coach is a guy trying to do better #also is he just a fictionalized version of my father??#sources say maybe #suzanne bittle #she is also here though not in a major way

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ficsandcatsandficsandcats · 5 years ago

Note

Hey! Could you write the first genuine fight as a married couple between Punk!Jaskier + The Reader (and the makeup of course) please? Thanks so much?

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Punk!Jaskier and Reader Word Count: 1,928 Rating: T Taglist: @heroics-and-heartbreak @whatevermonkey @mycat-is-mylove @mynamesoundslikesherlock @kemmastan @magic-multicolored-miracle @writingstudent @mlleecrivaine @coffee-and-stories @amirahiddleston @ultracolorfulnerdcollection @astouract @your-not-invisible-to-me @daydreamer-in-training @morelikebyesexual a/n: Writing fights is hard because you have to make sure both people have a perspective that’s somewhat valid but the way they communicate it or some part of it is flawed and then you have to figure out how they can make it right. I’m not sure how well this went but I sure did do the thing.

The only sound that broke the tense silence in the car was the swipe of the windshield wipers and the din of rain beating against the roof. You stared out the window, the words and laughter from earlier in the night still swirling in your mind.

‘Oh well Jask knows a lot about forbidden fruit, eh? Used to be your steady diet.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh fuck, you don’t know? Jaskier used to pull all the married ladies looking for a quick romp with a Rockstar. It became a bit of a running joke.’

You could feel Jaskier’s eyes on you and the wash of humiliation ran over you again. You’d just sat there, slack-jawed and stunned while your husband, the man you’d been with for four years, the father of your child, laughed as if this wasn’t a revelation. And as if your friends weren’t glancing at you a big nervously as the laughter died down and they realized you really hadn’t known.

As soon as the car came to a stop you tore off the seatbelt and booked it into the house. You’d just thrown your jacket on the coat hanger and were turning into the stairs when Jaskier entered.

“Y/N, talk to me,” he pleaded. Oh, now he’d be serious. Now he wanted to talk. How convenient. You continued to climb the stairs wordlessly, cursing your pregnant body for slowing you down as he caught up with you before you could the slam the door behind you.

“Y/N come on, it’s not that big a deal,” he argued. You spun on him, wide-eyed and angrier than he’d ever seen you.

“Not that big a deal?” you echoed incredulously. Jaskier balked a bit under your expression but shrugged helplessly.

“I mean, it’s in the past,” he said.

“I don’t… I don’t even know where to begin with that,” you said with a harsh, humorless laugh.

“Why are you angry?”

“Because I sat in a room with all of our friends who all knew you had this fun little secret and then I got to look like the fucking idiot who didn’t know that her husband appanrently really gets off on adultery,” you snapped. Jaskier’s eyes darkened with hurt and anger.

“That’s not fair,” he argued, “That’s all in the past.”

“That’s what all cheaters say.”

“I am not and will not be a cheater, Y/N. Gods, this is why I didn’t tell you! This is why! Because I knew you’d overreact,” he said.

“Oh yes please tell me how I should be reacting to this, Jaskier, I love it when a man tells me how I should react to things,” you snarled.

“I also didn’t tell you because I’m not proud of the way I acted.”

“Well you could have fooled me with the way you laughed and joked with them! Until they seemed to remember I was there and it killed the mood.”

“Of course I pretended it was fine, I didn’t know what else to do! What did you want me to do? Rend my shirt? Throw a drink in Aev’s face? She was drunk, I hoped we’d just move past it and then we could talk it through,” he explained, exasperation in his voice that only made you angrier and more defensive.

“Ok, sure, let’s talk,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest and fixing him with a dark look. He ran his fingers through his chestnut hair and took a deep breath before leaning against the bureau that sat across from the bed where you’d sat.

“I’m not proud of the choices I made. And I think I have a right to keep those choices in my past. Have you told me everything you’ve done? Every bad choice? Every mistake you wish you could take back?” he charged. You felt the truth in his words but you didn’t care about that, didn’t want to acknowledge it, you just wanted to be angry and make him feel the hurt you felt.

“So, what does this mean, Y/N? Is this going to change how you see me? Am I going to be defined by this forever now?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, tears filling your eyes, “I don’t want to say yes but I don’t know how to just… be ok with this. Jaskier, I should have known. Or at the very least I shouldn’t have found out like that. Gods, just, having all of them know and sitting there like that I just felt like an idiot or like I didn’t really know my husband and I’m scared.”

“You’re not an idiot. What are you scared of?” he asked, crossing the room to sit by you on the bed.

“Look at me, Jaskier. I’m bloated and tired and have acne like I’m going through puberty again. You’ve seen more of my vomit in the last month than I think my parents saw my entire life. I’ve already been worried about how you can find me attractive and knowing that you’ve… well… I don’t know, Jask. On some level I know it’s not fair to judge you or not trust you because you’ve never given me reason but it’s just… finding out, you know? It would have been one thing if you’d told me but just finding out like that… it feels like it was a secret. And that’s scary.”

Your anger abated into something much more painful. A fear and an uncertainty you’d never felt before in your relationship, not even once. Jaskier wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to worry. That he loved you, fell more in love with you every day, that he’d stopped chasing married women long before you met. But they all sounded like excuses and all he could see was that these choices he’d made, these stupid, selfish choices, were going to haunt him forever. And he silently left the room.

-----

“First, I need to apologize.”

Aevryn sat across from you on the patio, an apology basket of baked goods between you and a pair of sunglasses on to try and quell her headache. Jaskier hadn’t come to bed last night and when you woke up he was gone and Aevryn had texted to ask if she could come over to make amends. You weren’t angry with her but you wanted the company so you’d accepted.

“It’s not your fault, you didn’t know,” you said.

“I did, though,” Aevryn sighed, “Or I could’ve guessed. Jask doesn’t talk about that time in his life for a reason and it was shitty of me to bring it up. Being drunk is no excuse.”

You quietly chewed a bagel, not sure what to say, and she seemed satisfied with the quiet acceptance of her apology.

“Was it bad?” she asked, wincing slightly.

“It… yeah, it was pretty bad,” you admitted, “Aev I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“Hey,” Aev reached over and put a hand on yours, lowering her sunglasses so the seriousness in her sea green eyes could be seen, “Jaskier loves you more than anything. He has never and will never do that to you. And for what it’s worth, he’s never done it to anyone he’s with. I know being the Other Person isn’t great but I wouldn’t fuck around and lie for him if I thought he’d hurt you. I know how badly that betrayal can wound. And I know that people can change.”

You glanced at the ring on Aevryn’s left hand and knew she spoke of her own complicated history with her husband. You sighed and nodded.

“I may have said some things that weren’t great,” you said.

“Everyone does in a fight,” Aevryn said simply.

“He didn’t come to bed. And I don’t know where he is. Aev, what if he doesn’t come back?”

The sliding door opened and Jaskier stood in the threshold, a bouquet of daisies in one hand and his guitar in the other. Aevryn quickly stood up, walking over to you to press a quick kiss on your cheek and to snack a bagel before walking up to Jaskier.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he echoed.

They shared a meaningful silence and you watched them exchange some pointed looks, a silent conversation that can only be had between close friends who’ve known each other for half a lifetime. At some point some resolution must have been met because he gave her a small smile and she slid between the flowers and guitar to give him a quick hug before heading out, leaving the pair of you behind to talk. He looked at you a little sheepishly, feeling like a cliché.

“I’ve never had this before,” he explained, “Fights that didn’t lead to a breakup. I watched my parents do it a lot and he always brought flowers after. So, I did that. But he also never apologized. And I don’t want to do that.”

“Jaskier, a lot was said,” you began. He gently pressed the flowers into your arms and you smiled as the memory of watching your favorite movie with him came to mind. You’d spoken the line aloud with the actress, “I love daisies, they’re so friendly. Don’t you think they are the friendliest flower?” Jaskier had been charmed and ever since, on Valentine’s or your birthday or sometimes just because you were having a hard time while he was away, he would send you daisies. He was always thinking of those little things.

“I should have told you,” he said, taking the seat across from you, “Even if it was in my past, that’s the kind of thing someone should know before they agree to be with them.”

“It doesn’t change anything,” you said quickly, “I’m not going anywhere, Jask.”

A relieved look came over his face but he quickly picked up the apology, determined not to follow in the footsteps of his parents who just said enough to quell a fight without actually making amends. He wanted different for his family and he would do what it took, even if it was hard.

“I want you to know, I need you to know that I love you. You’re the person for me, Y/N. And I don’t need to chase the validation or attention or whatever I chased when I did that. And even if I did, even if someday I struggle with those insecurities, I’m going to have you by my side to talk through them with and I would rather have the hard talks with you than have an easy distraction with someone else. Any day. Vomit notwithstanding,” he said emphatically. You laughed and sniffed, a tear rolling down your face that he reached across to brush away.

“I wrote a song, because of course I did,” he said with a wry smile, “Not for the band, just for you. And if you’d like to hear it, I’d love to play it for you.”

“Yes,” you said and then, “Oh! Wait! No! Not until I say this! I called you a cheater and that wasn’t fair. And I should have told you I was feeling insecure and weird about my body and our relationship being impacted by the pregnancy, I can’t expect you to read my mind. So, yeah, I just needed to say that. Now you can play.”

He smiled, standing to cross over and give you a soft kiss before moving back to his seat to play the song he’d written that would be heard by no one but you and Jaskier and your unborn child.

#Anonymous #Punk!Jaskier x Reader #Punk!Jaskier #Punk!AU #Vicious Mockery AU #reader request

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thanks--for--listening · 5 years ago

Text

the pains of the past

why yes i DID binge AWAE in three days and then immediately write fanficiton for it. takes place during season 1 before Gilbert’s dad died. also on AO3

It was the smell this time.

Usually it was sounds. Noises that brought memories from the depths of her mind up into the forefront, paralyzing her until the moment from time had passed. Despite their frequency, they always seemed to catch her by surprise, and afterwards she often spent hours trying to fully shake off their grasp. Still, she felt as if she knew how to handle them, knew how to bring herself back when a sound sent her reeling to houses she’d left behind.

But smells, she’d discovered. Smells were much worse.

She felt the world around her slip away. The storefronts, the horses, the shoppers and townsfolk rushing to escape the brisk winter air. All of it melted into nothing. The only thing that existed was the smell of burnt chocolate, surrounding her like a raging fire, taking time and air and Avonlea with it.

Anne watched as the familiar walls of the Hammond house rose out of the ground around her. She felt herself turn back, shrink from her current thirteen years to just barely eleven. She could hear crying coming from somewhere behind her — she always heard crying when she went back to that house. The yelling always followed, with pain not far behind.

They’d only had chocolate once. Mr. Hammond had been in a pleasant mood, a rare occurrence in itself, and had dropped the sweets on the kitchen table. “Bake these into something,” he’d told her. She’d tried to tell him that no one had taught her to bake before, that she only knew how to cook, but he’d acted as if her words had disappeared the minute they’d come out of her mouth, and had left whistling an unfamiliar tune.

Staring at the dessert, she thought she might melt them. She’d read somewhere that those who had time and money often melted chocolate and dipped whatever they could find into it. She’d placed them in a pot, hung it over the fire, but one of the twins started crying, and when one cried the other always joined, and by the time she’d come back to the fire, the pot had turned black and smoke filled the room. The sweet smell had turned bitter, oppressive as it spread across every room of the too-small house.

Mr. Hammond’s mood soured quicker than the chocolate. She’d been thrown into the table, onto the ground, dragged outside before she’d even had the chance to take the pot off the heat. She’d lost count of how many times he whipped her that night. When he finished, he left her outside, locked the door before she could even drag herself off the tree stump. She spent the night there, staring at the stars, begging for sleep to take the pain away. It never did.

A hand on her arm yanked her out of the yard and back into town. The sounds hit her all at once, and she closed her eyes, grimaced in pain. She instinctively reached to cover her ears, but an arm still held onto hers. She tried to turn, to open her eyes and see who it belonged to, but the memory’s grip relented, and she felt as if it was physically trying to pull her back, back into the cold and dark, into the pain of the past.

She felt herself moving, the hand on her arm guiding her away from wherever she was. Eventually she felt a wall behind her back, felt another hand on her arm guiding her to the ground.

It wasn’t until she was sitting down that she finally felt air flowing through her lungs, heart calming down just enough for her to open her eyes and see the boy standing in front of her.

“Gil,” She exhaled, not able to say more than the first syllable and not louder than a whisper. She saw his lips moving, but she couldn’t quite hear him yet. She closed her eyes again, let his words slip into focus.

“—aren’t you saying anything? Anne? You’re scaring me, Anne.”

“Gil,” She said again, more to herself than to him. She used his name as an anchor, let it settle her back into the present, let it bring memories of Green Gables to the forefront of her mind, in place of the Hammond house.

“Anne.” He sighed as he said her name, and sat down on the ground in front of her. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, suddenly remembering where she was. When she was. Most importantly, who she was with.

“Are you sure? Because a second ago you were...gone.”

“Gone?”

“I called your name. Stood right in front of you, and you didn’t move. It was like you were looking through me. Like you were frozen, or asleep with your eyes open. You were here, but you weren’t here.”

“Oh.”

“What was that? What happened to you?”

“Nothing happened, Gilbert. I’m fine.”

“If you’re fine, then why are you still shaking?”

She looked down, held her hand in front of her body, and silently cursed at the way it trembled. She quickly put it back down, placed her other hand over it. Willed her body to relax.

“I’m fine now,” she insisted, “so if you don’t mind, I’ll just be on my way.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“You think I’m letting you walk home? After that?”

“You think you can stop me?”

“Oh, I know I can stop you.”

“I think you’ve gravely underestimated me, Gilbert Blythe,” She said, and she tried to stand up, to storm off and prove her point, but the minute she was upright the world seemed to spin, and only the wall behind her kept her on her feet.

“Woah, easy,” he said, and she didn’t want to let him ease her back to the ground, but she didn’t have the strength to stop him. She closed her eyes again, let the world realign itself, before she looked back at him.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” she told him, trying to put as much bite in the words as she could.

“Well, you’re welcome,” he said, and she did her best to glare at him, but he just seemed amused instead of intimidated.

“I’m serious,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m always fine. It goes away after a while.”

“What does?” He asked, and she didn’t know why, but there was something in his voice that made her want to answer.

“The memories.”

“Is that what happened?” He asked, choosing his words carefully. “You...remembered something? About before?”

“It’s more than that.” She searched for the words to describe it, realizing that she’d never spoken about the sensation aloud before, not this directly and certainly not to another person. “It’s as if I’m truly in the moment again. As if I’ve traveled back in time. Usually it’s sounds that take me there.”

“What was it this time?”

“The smell of burnt chocolate coming from the bakery.”

“Does it always...make you like this?”

“It usually isn’t this bad,” she insisted. “I know how to deal with sounds. I can snap myself out of it much faster that way, listen and talk my way back into time. The smell was harder to break away from. I’m not sure why.”

“Where…” he started to say, swallowing before he continued. “Where did the smell take you?”

Logic told her to leave it well alone, to shut her mouth before he stared at her like everyone else did when she reminded them of where she came from, but a feeling deep in her stomach told her to continue. “The house I worked at,” she said, “before I came here. The Hammonds.”

“You worked?” He asked, and she nodded. “Doing what?”

“Doing everything.” He made a face, and she sighed. “You know — I cleaned, cooked, took care of the children, chopped wood, helped keep up the land. Normal stuff.”

“How old were you when you started working there?”

She thought for a moment. “Around ten? Maybe eleven? They don’t care much for our birthdays in the asylum, so I lost track a few times.”

“Were they nice? The Hammonds?” He asked, and the way he asked it made her believe he already knew the answer, but wished he was wrong.

She shook her head anyway. “No. They were not nice.”

He looked down, and she could see him thinking of the question, and she knew him too well to believe that he wouldn’t ask it. Even if it looked as if he didn’t want to.

“What was the memory?” His voice was dark and either sad or angry, Anne couldn’t quite tell. “The one of burnt chocolate?”

She felt it again, that feeling in her stomach that seemed to push the words up onto the tip of her tongue. So she told him.

He ran a hand through his hair when she was finished, and Anne wondered whether he’d always had that nervous habit, and how she hadn’t noticed it until now.

“Did that happen a lot?” He asked, but he wouldn’t look at her, and the way he spoke made her think just saying the words caused him pain. “What they did to you?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“How could you stand it?” She didn’t quite know what to do with the question. No one had ever asked her that before. Most people, despite their incessant reminders of her origins, seemed to only want to discuss her past in vague references. She’d learned quickly that details pushed people away, made them think about horrors they wished to ignore.

Yet, here was Gilbert, asking straight out, and she found she wasn’t afraid to tell him the truth. She felt quite certain that he wouldn’t run away.

“I disappeared into my own imagination. Anne Shirley may have had to feel pain and sorrow, but I could always become someone else, if only for a little while. Princess Cordelia never suffered under the hands of a whip, or felt the stomach pains of starvation, or the sorrow of truly being alone in life. So, as long as I was her, neither did I.”

She looked at him, waited for...for what she wasn’t quite sure. Some sort of reaction, surely. Everybody seemed to have some sort of reaction to her.

He stayed silent, and she tried to read the look on his face, but it was one she had only seen a few times, and she had yet to identify it. Regardless, she knew what was buried underneath whatever face he currently wore, what was in the eyes of everyone who stared at Anne the orphan.

“I don’t need your pity, Gilbert.” She told him, her words sharper than she intended.

“You don’t have it.”

“Then what’s that look on your face?”

He shrugged. “Awe. I’m in awe of you, Anne Shirley-Cuthburt.”

He stood up, then offered her his hand. She took it, a curious look on her face. Anne decided that she didn’t quite understand Gilbert Blythe, and she was fairly certain there was nobody else like him.

They walked, and Anne realized they’d been in an alley, hidden away from the prying eyes of neighborhood gossips. He kept his hand in hers, probably to make sure she didn’t fall again, but even when she knew she wouldn’t, she didn’t let go.

“Please don’t tell anyone at school about this,” she said softly as they rejoined the crowd. “I don’t need to give everyone another reminder that I’m what I am.”

“I won’t,” He said, and they’d stopped walking, waiting to part ways, but his hand still lingered in here. “Will you tell me? If it happens again? I mean, if it’s bad like this one?”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think you should have to go through that alone.”

She didn’t say yes, but she also didn’t say no. Instead, she smiled at him. “Goodbye, Gilbert.”

“Goodbye, Anne.”

She turned to walk away, but paused. She stood frozen for an instant, before turning around. She was surprised to see he hadn’t moved, that his eyes were still on her. “And thank you!” She yelled, turning and running off before she could she the look on his face. Although, the more she thought of it, the more she was certain she didn’t need to — she knew well enough what kind of smile he’d worn when she turned her back.

#awae #anne with an e #fanfic #ao3 #anne shirley #gilbert blythe #shirbert #pls validate me with comments lol i thrive on it #also i have two other AWAE fanfics in the works already oops #TFLAO3

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runson-stories · 5 years ago

Text

The Half-Life

The floor is hollow when I step into the room, the sound reverberating off the walls with nothing to absorb it. The room has a smell to it — not new, but not too old either, and there are scratch marks on the wood floor telling other stories. All-in-all, this room has potential. I step out for a second and bring in a large box of my things. When I set the box down in the center of the room it seems so small. These are all my belongings… For a moment I feel overwhelmed because I wonder how these things are supposed to fill this room.

I want the room to look good. When people see it, I want them to see me; I want them to understand me. I start unpacking the box, scattering my stuff across the floor and stepping back to get a good look at everything. Again, I begin to feel very unprepared and sufficiently incapable of setting up my own room. If only my mom were here to help me with this, but she isn’t, nor would she really be able to help me with this part. This is something I must to do on my own… Still, maybe I could get some roommates and they could help fill out the space, because with all my stuff lying haphazardly on the ground, I can already tell this isn’t going to be enough. But that won’t work either. I resolved to do this on my own. I’ve had roommates before and it took me a long time to realize that they’d pervaded every part of my life. It was no longer my room, but theirs. In the end, there was no more room for me.

I realized my mind was wandering. Situations like this always made it easy for my mind to drift and neglect matters of importance. Part of me wishes I could escape forever and never shape this room. That’d be easier too wouldn’t it? There wouldn’t be this burden and I wouldn’t have to own anything. I could just explore and let the rest of the world be my home. But who would I be? The fact is that I will always own this room. It’s been given to me and it’s my duty to do something with it. And if I don’t occupy it, somebody else will. There I go again…

Anyway, here I am. And here are my things. I place the old roll-top desk of my childhood into one corner. It looks nice there. Already I can see the stories, the worlds I will build there. So many lives and dreams to share. I place several pages of half-baked ideas and scribbles in the center with a pen on top. Next, I place my Baldwin upright piano against the wall. It has been part of my life for longer than I can remember. I rest my hand on the keys and press my favorite chord. A little out of tune, but it will work. I imagine the songs I will write. The melodies I hope to weave into the hearts of any who would listen. Finally, I set up my what I call The Well between the desk and piano. The Well consists of all my sources of inspiration. Every book, movie, record, and game. Running my fingers across the plastic cases and book spines, I can recall every story and how it’s shaped me in some way.

I step back and look at what I’ve done so far. A smile breaks across my face, but then I think of people seeing this. They’ll think it looks ridiculous. They won’t understand that these are the things I love and that’s why I put them next to each other. Worse… they’ll question why they are even there at all. They’ll ask me to show them what I’ve written; they’ll ask me to play them a song; they’ll want me to explain why games and movies of all things are this important to me, or if I have read every single book, listened to every record all the way through. They’ll see them as wishful items.

It’s not even that I wouldn’t have things to show them. It’s that if I showed them… they would misunderstand. They’d think this room, these items, are all about me. That they are for me and me alone.

I begin to quietly panic as I look at what I’ve done so far. I feel gross inside and… and… angry. Why can’t this be enough? Who cares what people think, what they’ll see. Yes, maybe they will misunderstand. Maybe they will think I’m conceited and vain. Why do I care so much?

I look down at my feet and begin to realize how tired I feel. How could I be this tired already? I’ve only set up half my room and it feels like I’m in school again, studying for weeks, my brain turning to mush. I find enough energy to set up my bed and lay down for a nap. A nap turns into hours; hours turn into days; days turn into years. Finally, I force myself up. I feel as if I’d just climbed out of quicksand, and still my head longs to sink back in, to rest just a little longer. Upon standing, I notice that the room is very dim, and dust cakes my feet as I walk towards its center.

What happened? Why is everything so neglected? How could I leave it this way for so long? And why am I still so tired? The weight of this room seems too much for me. Perhaps I should just leave it, let somebody else take it. They’d probably do a better job with it than I ever would. I’m just wasting this space.

My legs give out and I sit on the ground. I raise my eyes to the desk, to the shelves, to the piano, and they are all staring at me. Their weight falls heavily upon me. These are my dreams, and I can feel them taunt me… I notice how excruciatingly quiet this room is. It reminds me of something distant, but important. It no longer seems a memory but rather words spoken aloud to me, “It was a silence of three parts…”

I look to the shelf and notice a warmth, like the presence of something… a rose perhaps. Then I hear two notes: an “A4” and an “F#5” and it reminds me of a melody that could make one soar above the clouds. I begin to feel the weight lifting, raising me to my feet, and suddenly… I remember.

I remember this room. I remember my things, my fear, my anger, and then I have the most wonderful idea. The room begins to brighten, and I walk towards the desk. The wooden chair creaks when I rest my weight onto it. I look at the pages I left in the center of the desk and move them aside. My hand reaches for a new page and when I place my pen down, it feels smooth and inviting. I can see a million stories, a million faces, a million songs, and I begin to write.

I let myself remember the story. The story of one who lived a half-life, but chose to start again.

#short #short story #inspiration

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surveys-at-your-service · 6 years ago

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Survey #190

“i haven’t slept since i woke up.”

Do you prefer your nails long or short? Why? Short. It's annoying how long ones tap when I type and such. Are you still in touch with your best friend from high school? No. Have you ever visited any celebrity gravesites? No. How do you feel about archaeology? Cool as shit. What are your thoughts on gun control? Don't outlaw them, but make them much harder to obtain. Have you ever had an exotic pet? Do snakes and lizards count? Have you ever had to block people online for harassing you? Yes. What kind of socks do you prefer to wear? (Crew, ankle, knee, etc) Idk, the normal ones. Are you friends with anybody you didn’t like at first? I'm dating her lmao. What is your favorite thing to do on The Sims? Don't play it. Have you dyed your hair more than once (and different colors)? Yup. Which hair color you’ve had has been your favorite? Red or purple. Your favorite place to be aside from your home? Sara's house. If you were stupid-rich, would you ever actually want a mansion? Omg no. Did you ever sit alone at lunch in school? I did that a lot. Did random people come sit with you to try to be nice? I don't believe so. Do you know anybody who puts ketchup on their mac n cheese? Probably, and they need to be arrested. What is your least favorite beverage? Out of everything I've ever tasted, some kind of white wine. Any old home remedies you use when you’re sick? The classic sipping on ginger ale. When was the last time you wore a full face of makeup? Forever ago for a picture. Do you own an iPad? No. What’s the most hours you’ve worked in a week? N/A Do you believe in karma? No. What’s an achievement you hope to see humanity accomplish in your lifetime? See great improvement in the health of the ozone and see the work put towards conservation beginning to show well. Do you have a difficult time relating to other’s emotions? NOPE. Have you ever bathed in a river or a lake? No. Have you ever had a dream in which you died? Yes. What was your favorite school subject when you were in middle school? Science. Do you wish vampires existed? um no the fuck At the moment what is your favorite song? I'm on a "Stressed Out" by TOP thing. Have you ever been pantsed? No. Do you keep up with pop culture? No. Did you ever like barbies? Do you currently like barbies? Not especially, but I played with them if my sis or friends wanted to. I've no interest in them now. What turns you off in the opposite sex? Everyone fancies the opposing sex??????????? That's news to me. But whatever, arrogance, for one. What kind of gum do you chew most often? Your favorite flavor? Probably uh... really idk. I don't buy it and will just take what someone offers. My fave flavor is watermelon or strawberry. What’s your favorite hit song right now? I have noooo clue what's hot rn. Well, I heard "High Hopes" by P!atD on the radio not too long ago, which I adore. Do you ever ask random questions to see people’s reactions? No. Do you like to people watch? Not particularly. Are you a very patient type of person? NO. NO. N-O. NOOOOOOOOOOOOO. What’s your favorite element? (fire, water, air) Fireee. Do you have a Zwinky? IMVU? No. Have you ever had a Neopets? Yesssss, my computer addiction began there lmao. When you were younger didn’t you just love Pokemon? ADDICT. Do you currently love Pokemon? YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS. Have you ever been to a wild party? No. How many friends do you have on Myspace? Hell if I know. Are you one of those people who get car sick? No. Have you ever gotten sea sick? No, but I've never been out on the ocean for long. Do you put on a robe when it’s cold? Don't have one. Has anyone ever told you that you & your significant other could be siblings? Have they ever assumed you were siblings? Mom's called us twins like a million times. Idk if anyone's assumed that. Have you ever attempted origami? Are you good at it? Do you enjoy it? What’s your favorite origami to make? No. Are you more likely to like someone before you really know them, or do you feel you like them more after you know a lot about them? Hmmmm, I suppose this depends on what I learn about the person. Do you buy people cards on special occasions, or do you prefer to make your own? WELP I don't make my own money and tbh I'm too much of a lazy shit to make them. Don’t you hate when people say that you & them should get together, but they don’t even make the effort to? I can't speak here, I do it too. Social anxiety holds me back from trying to plan things. Where on your body was the last cramp you had? Why did you have this cramp? Uhhhh probably my lower abdomen because female with a sadly operating uterus. Do you get embarrassed when people hear you sing/compliment you on your singing ability? If so, why is that? YES. Idk why. Do you own one of those singing fish? Do you think they are silly or funny? No, but they make me chuckle now bc of that video of a broken one channeling Satan. Have you ever caught someone stealing from you? Did you confront them? No. When was the last time you prepared extensively for something? Did your preparation pay off? Ha, first trip to Sara's... I WAY overpacked. Have you ever had a crush on a teacher/professor? Did you act on your feelings? No. Have you ever experienced culture shock? Not seriously. Going to Illinois, Chicago in specific, was incredibly different for me, but I wouldn't classify it as "shock." How did you discover your greatest passion? Y'know I'm not even totally sure what my greatest one is. Do you believe that all art is political? No????? Have you ever had a conversation with a cab driver? Never even been in a cab. Do you have any shirts from vacation/tourist locations? Not anymore. Do you know anyone who has never read the HP books? Who? *cautiously raises hand* Do you ever visit your mall’s arcade (if it has one)? Doesn't have one. Our mall is literal shit. If you lost the use of your limbs, would you still want to live? NOPE please fucking kill me. Not even an exaggeration. What’s your absolute favorite topic to discuss? M-M-M-Mark. :') Though odds are I'd be shy talking about him because I am quite obviously not just a "yeah he's cool" fan okay I get self-conscious. What is your least favorite topic to discuss? Economics. What is your opinion on psychics? Real, or fake? Fake. How would you rank your “class participation” in school? Normal? I asked questions if I really needed help, I'd sometimes answer questions or help read aloud, stuff like that. Have you ever cut your own hair? How about anyone else’s? No to both. What is the last thing you asked your parents to purchase for you? Fast food lunch. What is your favorite kind of lunch meat? Ham. Have you ever been confined to a wheelchair? No, thankfully. If you have a job, who’s your closest friend at work? N/A Do you have any exercise equipment in your home? Very few things. Were your parents born in the same country they now live in? Yes. How many living grandparents do you still have? One. Have you ever heard people having sex in the next room? Yes, or at least pretty sure. Have you ever been on a strict diet and exercise regime? Diet, no, but I stuck to a serious exercise plan during one summer. Do you have a favorite author? No. How long do you usually take in the shower? Not even ten minutes. Get my shit done and get out. Have you ever worked in an office? No. What is your favorite way to eat rice? Fried. Have you ever been in serious trouble at work or school? No. Have you ever kissed anyone under the mistletoe? Yes. What’s one unusual little thing that you really enjoy? Uhhhh. What’s the biggest bruise you’ve ever had? Not sure. Is there anything that people always tell you that you should do? Become an artist or publish writings. Have you ever broken up with someone and then regretted it later? No. What’s the background picture on your phone? Do you change it a lot? Lock screen is meerkat pups cuddling, home screen is Sara kissing my cheek. :') Have you ever taken someone back, who ended up just hurting you again? Not in a romantic sense. How do you feel about shaved pubes? No opinion. Can young people fall in love? If not, why not? Absolutely, I did. What’s your opinion on masturbation? Do it if you so feel the need, but not at all for me. Those experiences are exclusive to me and my partner. What is your favorite Queen song? ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM obviously "Bohemian Rhapsody"??????????????? Have you ever “spoken” to any celebrities via Twitter? No. Do you eat cereal bars? No. Do you know any immigrants? Off the top of my head, only an illegal family. Have you ever lived in university or college accommodation before? No. If you haven’t already, are you scared of leaving home? If you have, do you like it? I'm both nervous but keen to. Do you know how to look after yourself away from home? (budget, pay bills, feed yourself, cook, clean, do laundry etc.) ^ this is why I'm nervous lmao. If you could only eat one vegetable for a year (not including potatoes) what would it be? Broccoli. Do you have a certain routine in the bath or shower? What is it? Shave, wash hair, use my facial scrub, and then body wash. Do you prefer chicken burgers or beef burgers? Beef. Would you ever eat kangaroo steak? No. What’s the weirdest meat you’ve ever eaten? Nothing too odd. Is there a chalkboard or whiteboard anywhere in your house? There's a whiteboard in the kitchen. Do you like dried fruit at all? What’s your favorite type? NO. Who lives across the street from you? Nobody; there's a field there. When you were in college, where was the coolest place to hang out? N/A Who did you go to prom with? Jason. What was your first vehicle’s name? Never had my own car, wouldn't name it either. What was the name of the first person you ever had a crush on? Why did you like them? Dylan. I thought he was cool and funny and at that age found him god-tier hot lmao. What do you think you cook or bake the best? Just scrambled eggs. Have you considered running for president? Definitely not. How old is the most expired item in your fridge? Idk??? If I was aware something in there was expired, I'd throw it out. What’s the saddest song you’ve ever heard? "Hurt." Johnny Cash's cover absolutely ramps up the emotional aura to it tenfold. How about the sweetest song? "Here For You" by Ozzy Osbourne. How many bones have you broken? None. Have you ever won anything? Big or small? Yeah. Small things, but I consider the SH:R things to be pretty damn big personally. If you could buy one material thing, and money was not an issue, what would it be? Front row tickets for Mom to Metallica. Concert is the end of this month, and after seeing her lose her fucking mind in ecstatic tears upon finding out they were coming, I'm legitimately depressed for her that we're missing it. What food will you absolutely not, under any circumstances, eat? Sashimi. What’s the best way to comfort you when you’re having a really terrible day? Watch some of my favorite Mark videos, listen to the SOTC or SH2 soundtracks, bring me my favorite Reese's bar, ha. Has anything/anyone ever saved your life before? Yes. Jason first, then the partial hospitalization program as a whole, Mom, and two of my medications. What is one thing you’re embarrassed to admit you want to try? Hm. I guess a vibrator lmao. What is the most important memory you have and why? Realizing I could live *happily* without Jason. Obvious why that's important. Which famous person would you like to be BFFs with? Shane Dawson is my Dad. Is there something you wish you had said sorry for but never did? To certain people. Are you embarrassed by your school yearbook photos? I literally only remember liking one lmao. Who taught you to tie your shoelaces? Mom and Dad both. Do you think dimples are cute? YEAH What’s something you used to collect when you were younger? Stickers, then to a less degree seashells. At one point of your life, have you been obsessed with dinosaurs or robots? I was craaaaaaaazy about dinosaurs as a kid. I still love them. What was the last thing you cooked on the stove? Scrambled eggs back when Sara was here in June... lmao. Have you ever not canceled plans and wished you had? Probably. What is something you were scared of as a kid? Animatronics. Still not a fan. Would you rather write a story or a poem? I'll actually finish a poem. But I mean our RP is a really just a big-ass story and I write for it way more than anything. Are you moving soon? No. Do you get nervous around the opposite gender? Always. This fear of men thing's gotta go. Did you ever have a ‘security blanket’ when you were younger? Yes, a stuffed bunny hugging a little polka-dot blanket. What is your lucky charm? Don't have one. What time does your dad usually wake up in the morning? Well, I don't live with him. But he's a mailman, and if his schedule's the same as it was when my parents were together, early. Name the craziest moment of your life: I guess it depends on your definition of "crazy." But I suppose the night of the breakup when I left the house in the dead of night to walk to his house to talk as Mom wouldn't take me. It's a seven minute drive so would've taken a long time to get there, but I didn't care. Mom eventually went after me and kept cutting my path off with the car until I just collapsed sobbing. That was a fucking ordeal. I wouldn't wish that night on anyone. Do you want to travel? YES. Do you plan on having children? No. Who did you last say I love you to? Sara. Do your parents actually knock on your door before entering your room? Mom, no. Dad did. What can’t you wait for? "Can't wait," idk, but I'm looking forward to my birthday. Do you have a bad temper? No. It's hard to make me mad. What brand of digital camera do you own? Nikon. Have you ever seen a Broadway show in New York? No. Are you listening to music right now? "Angel Eyes" by New Years Day ft. Chris Motionless. When was the last time you were told you were cute? I have no clue. Have you ever wished to be an Internet celebrity? How about a ‘real’ one? No. Have you ever been kayaking? No. Do you care overly about other people? Some. What is your favorite family tradition? We don't even have any anymore, it seems. Do you make friends easily? No; I'm way, way too reserved and shy. Do you make enemies easily? Or do you not have any enemies at all? I'd like to think I don't have any. Do you think its likely that humans will go extinct in the next 1000 years? No. Eh, maybe, if we do nothing about royally fucking up the environment. If you have tattoos, how long have you had them? Uhhhh I got my first for my 18th birthday, idr how old my second is, "ohana" is like, two years old or something, my fourth is a year old, Sara's tattoo is from last June, and my latest one was a good few months ago. How old are your next-door neighbors? All I know is elderly. I've never even seen the ones on the other side of us. What did your family usually do for Easter when you were a kid? Easter egg baskets, the egg hunt, and church. What’s the largest bug you’ve ever found in your house? Omg probably this long-ass centipede that was on my door at our old house. Have you ever bought a YouTuber’s merch? BITCH you bet I will be decked the fuck out when I have my own source of income. I never ask on Christmas or my birthday 'cuz it's embarrassing lmao. Pick a flavor: pumpkin or apple? Apple. Do you think oatmeal tastes better when made with water or milk? I only eat it with milk. It sucks with water. What is the best type of donut? Glazed or original. Have you ever left a note in a library book? No. What time of day do you prefer to wash your hair? Night. If you go to church, what is your favorite thing about it? N/A ^and what is your least favorite thing about it? Literally almost all preachers whose services I've been to like yell. Chill. You can be passionate without screaming and scaring me. Would you ever film a YouTube video with no make-up on and messy hair? Messy hair, no, but maybe no makeup. What’s your favorite movie that you remember seeing in the theater? Silent Hill: Revelation 'cuz it was the only movie I've ever watched it 3D. Have you ever had a pet rock? HAHA YES. Do you own a bobblehead? No. What is your favorite tattoo that you’ve seen? OH MAN DON'T ASK ME THIS. I absolutely adore those by Brando Chiesa, tho. Determined to have one by him one day aaaahhhh. What is something you have too many of? T-shirts. Do you have any disabilities? No. What are five of your favorite stores at the mall? Hot Topic, Spencer's, one would be Victoria's Secret if I actually FIT IN THEY CUTE-ASS SHIT, and uh. That's like it. When was the last time you went to Michael’s? Foreeeeeeeeever ago. Ours closed years ago. What is your least favorite chore? Washing dishes. Do you organize your clothes by color? No. What was the last thing you made with your own hands? Does a drawing count?? Have you ever been to a psychic/tarot reader? No. What is the kindest thing you have ever done? Maybe donate a shitload of my hair to charity. I really did almost become teary-eyed when I learned it was truly used. What holiday should exist but doesn’t? It'd be nice to have a day centered around learning about mental illnesses and celebrating survivors of them more than usual, I just don't really know how. What holiday shouldn’t exist but does? Idk. I have holidays where I'm bothered that the meaning was warped, but. If you had to choose would you live on the equator or at the North Pole? The North Pole. What do you think makes someone a hero? People looking up to you for doing genuine good. What cartoon would you like to be a character in? Pokemon. Are you a coupon clipper? Mom is for food. If you could pick one food that you could eat all you wanted but it would have no effect on how much you weigh, what food would it be? REESE'S HUNNY What are your parents interested in? Mom: Surgeries/medical operations and bodily stuff, art, helping people (children in particular), psychology, etc. Dad: Hockey, football, golf, fishing, that kinda stuff. Have you ever caught and tamed a wild animal? No. When do you feel your life energy the strongest? "Life energy?" Not too sure what that means. I guess I feel most "alive" when I'm out in nature witnessing natural beauties, like waterfalls or shooting stars, or driving through the mountains. You are spending the night alone in the woods and may bring only 3 items with you. What do you bring? My cell phone (but keep it off unless needed), a knife, and... I'm not sure. I would say camera or book, but seeing as I'm there at night... OH. DUH. A flashlight so I wouldn't drain my phone's battery using its.

#survey #quiz #questions #random

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tipsycad147 · 3 years ago

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FULL HUNTER’S MOON – OCTOBER, – PUTTING THE COMMUNITY FIRST

by thegypsy

The Hunter’s Moon or Blood Moon is traditionally used to describe the full moon in October, but not always. Once every four years, it doesn’t appear until November and the Harvest Moon appears in October. The name Harvest Moon is always given to the full moon closest to Mabon, the Autumn Equinox. Due to regular moon cycles, it varies. The Hunter’s Moon name dates back to our Native American ancestors who connected it to the time when fattened deer, elk, and moose were harvested during the autumn moonlight. Native tribes elevated celebrating this full moon with feasting and other rituals, as it was connected with the coming winter and having enough food to survive.

What You’ll Need For This Ritual

As always, this ritual is designed for a group and is best performed outside around a generous bonfire (with the cold setting in, the fire will help!)

What items you’ll need to collect for this ritual (as written)

Four quarter candles – yellow (east), red (south), green (north), blue (west) Seasonal Altar Cloth Fall items to decorate the altar and circle area Pencils and paper Cakes or other seasonal baked goods Seasonal Beer and Ale to share Goddess Candle (White)

Any portion of the ritual that is bracketed by <> symbols should be understood as instructional notes and not to be spoken aloud.

Ritual Begins

In this a place of magick, energy, and power, where all the mysteries slip from their folds, I do conjure a sacred space. We are free as the circle is cast, now together; between the worlds.

Calling the Quarters

East Eastern winds, the power of air, blow forth so that we may recognize your presence! Your strength ever mighty but without form; invisible and invincible – We bid you welcome. <light yellow candle>

South Southern flames, the power of fire, we gather around your light, we feel your heat upon our skin and deep within our souls; eternal and without compare – We bid you welcome. <light red candle>

West Western waves, the power of water, that which makes all things flow; we are humbled by the ever-moving energies that bind humanity together. We bid you welcome. <light blue candle>

North Look to the North, feel the energy of every stone, every branch; every living thing and the great planetary harmony, behold! The power of earth; and the immortal lady who provides everything, asking nothing in return – We bid you welcome. <light green candle>

Great Goddess, we stand before you in reverence and awe on this night of ethereal light. We seek nothing more than your continued blessings and protection, both in our lives and through our magickal work. In the great circle of life, it is you who sit at the center; guiding, teaching, and providing. We humbly ask for your presence tonight. <light Goddess candle>

Introduction

Tonight we gather again under the light of the full moon; known across the lands as the Hunter’s Moon, the Travelers Moon, and the Blood Moon. Now is the time when the animals of the forest are at their fattest, livestock is prepared for slaughter, the last of the harvest is canned, preserved, and stored for the cold months ahead. It is also the time of the hunt, and a time for gathering the last of the herbs and roots, before the ground freezes. Throughout history, this has been a time when the needs of the collective are more important than the needs of the individuals. It was the time when all walks of people would come together for survival; both physical and spiritually – so tonight we share our mutual blessings and we offer praises and prayers for those in our extended circle who aren’t with us this night.

On this last full moon before Samhain, you may find yourself feeling highly intuitive and certainly more productive. Psychic abilities are at their peak, as are feelings and emotions. Positive activities are abound; especially magickal workings, matters of the home, creativity, and fertility. Keep these feelings in mind as we look toward our discussion tonight.

Putting The Community First

Winter is nearly upon us and every family or person gathered here is likely scurrying in every direction to finish up the final tasks of autumn before the first snow falls. Our tasks may seem mundane as compared to those of our ancestors, as our modern conveniences of grocery stores, running water, and natural gas furnaces are available throughout the colder months. Very few of us find ourselves in a make or break situation with food storage or gathering enough fire wood for the coming months. Most of our physical needs can be taken care of with little or no preparation whatsoever and because of that luxury, we are blessed. Many of the people who live around us no longer possess the skills to even begin to think about preparing for a winter without assistance. Some might say we are lucky to have progressed so far, while others see this as a weakness.

Our focus for tonight is not to worry so much about caring for our physical needs, but instead to look at caring for our spiritual needs and the spiritual needs of the members of our community. In ancient times, we’d call this group our tribe or clan, and we’d live in close quarters and see each other every day. We’d all share everything and if one person went hungry, everyone would go hungry. Today, things are much different. We live as individual families or persons and we are spread far and wide across the land. Many of us only meet face-to-face on holidays or rituals. If one of us was hungry, the rest of us might not be aware of it. Also if one of us were struggling spiritually, the rest of the community might not know it.

As a group, we are only as strong as our weakest link, however unlike a chain, human beings have the ability to strengthen those weaker links. One of the ways we can accomplish this is through human interaction with our brothers and sisters in life. When the weather turns cold and the snows are blowing, most of us go into a type of winter hibernation; we keep to ourselves and try to stay warm and dry. We cut ourselves off from one another in many ways for this period. Most of us adapt, but for some people the isolation can be detrimental and can lead them into a period of depression; basically the “winter blues.” Several consecutive months of having the “blues” can take a toll on all aspects of their lives, which might take most of the spring and summer to rebound from.

I’d ask each of you to reflect on this subject, and silently identify a person or family which might fit this description. Ask yourself if you think taking time to visit this person might make a difference in their spiritual life during the next few months. Then, if you’re able, commit to taking time to ensure those folks aren’t forgotten; especially in January and February, when the weather is at it’s harshest. Your in-person, face-to-face visits and words can be the difference in their lives. One simple act of kindness can build bridges where walls once existed and I can guarantee that you will feel better just for being part of their happiness. Our community is a source of strength that even those who are part of it, cannot ever measure. Every time one of us makes a conscious effort to be a helping hand, that source of power increases.

Cleansing And Releasing

Each month we use the night of the full moon to self-heal. It’s a time to release that which no longer serves us, what we no longer need in our lives, or things we have outgrown. Tonight we purge ourselves, we unburden ourselves, we release and let go of the anchors which have been weighing us down. It’s time to step out of old ways and false identities which no longer define who we are. We must examine our behaviors, our attitudes, and our frame of mind. Only by getting rid of the old can we celebrate the new. Under this full moon, we can show ourselves and the universe that we are truly ready to take the bold step toward the new and unknown opportunities ahead of us.

The Great Guardians of the South have provided us with this cauldron of cleansing flames to consume that which is old and no longer valid in our lives; by burning the remnants of things useless and without value, we strike them from our memories. Some people have brought specific things that have been dead-weight in their lives to burn tonight, others have them in their minds. The latter can be written with intention and burned in the fire.

As you place your items into the fire, say this aloud with intent – “I give up freely that which is no longer serving me, releasing it, to create a space to fill with things that inspire me”

We gather tonight by the light of the moon, to celebrate the season, and rejoice. May the next turn of the Wheel bring us love and compassion, abundance and prosperity, fertility and life – As the moon above, so the earth below.

So Mote it BE!

Cakes & Ale

Many groups choose to bring drinks and food to share around the bonfire. Take as much time as you’d like to converse with one another and enjoy the time together.

Closing The Circle

Immense and unmatched power of the earth; we thank you for attendance in our circle. Stay if you will, go if you must, in perfect love and perfect trust. So mote it be! <extinguish green candle>

Healing waters of life; we thank you for attendance in our circle. Stay if you will, go if you must, in perfect love and perfect trust. So mote it be! <extinguish blue candle>

Cleansing flames from the fires of the great forges of the south; tonight we give thanks beyond measure for your attendance in this circle, for without your presence, we would be forced to carry unwanted burdens into the New Year. So Mote it be! <extinguish red candle>

Whispering winds, invisible but without compare; we thank you for attendance in our circle. Stay if you will, go if you must, in perfect love and perfect trust. So Mote it be! <extinguish yellow candle>

Great Goddess, we thank you for your abundance, your wisdom, your continued blessings and your unconditional love. <extinguish Goddess candle>

This circle is open but never broken!

https://www.thegypsythread.org/full-hunters-moon-october-2018-community-first/

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its-just-like-the-movies · 7 years ago

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Tom & Viv (94, C+)

Why this film: Because it lined up so perfectly with this month’s Smackdown! So how could I not?

The Film: Who exactly was the predicted audience for Tom & Viv back in 1994? I don’t mean this exclusively as a dig on the source material or the finished product, but it’s hard to picture that the story of T.S. Eliot’s tumultuous marriage would’ve inspired that much fervor back in the day. The adaptation of the original play began nine years after it debuted on the West End, receiving one Laurence Olivier nomination before getting an off-Broadway run and vanishing from the stage for over twenty years. This lack of fanfare seems even more exasperated by its legacy nowadays, if it can be called that, saved from obscurity by way of two surprisingly high-profile Academy Award nominations that would still only attract those who’re deeply invested in either of the nominated women, Oscar completists who are doing it just cuz, folks who like watching period dramas about unstable women, or T.S. Eliot fans.

Of those groups, I’d imagine that the Eliot fans interested in a portrait of the artist would be the most consistently underwhelmed by the film, if only because his work is kept strictly in the film’s periphery. It’s talked about but rarely read aloud or shown, the focus on the Eliot’s marriage so predominant that his rising success and the income that comes with it is dramatized through their material wealth more that it is explicitly referenced, at least not to the degree of any of their personal lives. In fact, Eliot’s personal life and family ties don’t seem to exist outside of Viv until his fames grows, while Viv’s relationships to her family is one of the film’s central points of tension. The repercussions of Eliot’s fame are certainly discussed, as Viv worries that Tom is replacing her with his new poet friends and having affairs with women in those circles who’re dazzled by his work. There’s also the complication that Viv frequently claims to be his muse, his editor, and his sounding board, demanding credit for having given The Wasteland its name. This is not a hagiography of the artist, but the film’s focus on Eliot’s marriage and interest in Viv’s artistic credentials might keep this from being the deep plumbing of the artist someone might be hunting for.

Then again, an even bigger preclusion for Eliot fans to get into the film is how unfathomably dull Willem Dafoe is in the part. Any potential into getting a portrait of the man alongside or even superseding a portrait of the artist is stopped in its tracks by Dafoe’s soft-spoken, milquetoast take on the part. The man simply comes off as boring and stuffy, never worthy of the intrigue posed by Viv, his fellow poets, adoring fans, or anyone who presumes him to be a worthwhile figure. Dafoe is so passionless in the part, speaking his lines as softly as possible while infusing them with zero emotion, refusing to cling to any sense of intellect or to make his accent sound remotely natural, that there’s simply no believing that he might be having an affair with any of the women Viv is terrified of and antagonistic towards. What on earth could have drawn Viv to him in the first place?

Dafoe’s performance represents one half of the dichotomy of problems that best defines what makes Tom & Viv such a palpably uneven experience. If he stands in for the moments where the film could easily shape itself up more, Miranda Richardson’s energized but dangerously overmannered take on Vivienne Eliot emblematizes the film’s worst indulgences into overstatement. Richardson is more than capable of conjuring an air of instability and roiling inner turmoil, writing our her character’s thoughts through the darting glances of her eyes and jittery movements, but her madness becomes so prescriptive that it loses almost all spontaneity. In her best moments, which see her being more clearly guided by the director or by her costars, Richardson is able to temper herself slightly without sacrificing her tics, though it’s clear in these moments how little modulation is actually in the performance, aside from the moments where she makes a point of showing us that she’s modulating the performance in a lower tempo. True, she genuinely calms down in the film’s last act, but her impact before this point is ultimately limited, her scene-by-scene choices too obvious for them to build in any interesting way.

The film itself seems to follow a trajectory from being too hopped-up on its own, sporadically ostentatious filmmaking techniques all the way to almost dangerously non-cinematic, not so much a filmed play as just unimaginatively put together. This is not to say that the film is ever a showcase for its makers - director Brian Gilbert seems more than happy to slap his actors in period wares and let them carry the picture - but it’s still noticeable when the editing or the score become the primary method for the film to goose our responses. Its earliest scenes are by far the worst, as the almost 40 year old Dafoe is so heavily made up to impersonate a college-aged youth that his face loses any and all distinguishing features. He looks like a doll whose face has had any gendered characteristics smoothed away, as if he were an uncanny valley animation of an androgynous doll. Richardson’s makeup is fine, but she’s forced to pantomime the free-spirited behavior of a young person by running around with her arms outstretched as though she were a plane, galavanting on a lawn with a sign asking passerby not to galavant on it. In the next scene they meet, and in the next they pack their bags to get married. These scenes are relatively calm, something the film compensates for by showing Viv undergoing an abject breakdown, destroying their hotel room and taking a lot of her prescribed medication after an unsuccessful roll in the honeymoon sack, dramatically cross-cut with Tom’s furrowed brow contemplatively paces the shoreline of a beach.

If the establishing third of Tom & Viv is ultimately its shakiest segment, there’s something to be said for the film’s middle third, as all the pieces start sparking against each other in unexpectedly bracing ways. Even if Dafoe is unforgivably bland and Richardson semi-predictable in her brazenness, the shifting textures of their relationship are more interesting to watch play out than expected. It helps that Brian Gilbert’s direction finds an appropriately undemonstrative but still semi-active mode of shaping his story. Neither truly imaginative nor fully perfunctory, he finds the right distance from Richardson’s whirlwinds that they become more impactful as character beats rather than harried actressing. Watching her mix a boiling vat of chocolate, grow more and more vocally irate at a dinner party, draw on a mannequin with lipstick, all these actions are more compelling for how they’re shot. Simple and effective, enhancing Richardson’s work and feeding into the story with unexpected poignancy as we start to grasp how threatened Vivienne must constantly feel by these invaders who can provide something for her husband she cannot, knowing all the while that they know it too and are talking about it behind her back. This is not to suggest too much of a sudden transformation in the film’s overall style or impact - Dafoe is still left to softly murmur on in his scenes, and the cadres of artists and admirers that pop up around him are never as distinct or entrancing as they might be. Especially as he starts to seriously consider kicking Viv in a sanitarium, growing increasingly weary of her behavior, Dafoe’s performance remains as damp and demure as ever. Her fears of adultery never ring as plausible, Dafoe even drags down Richardson and the script with as little effort as possible on his part. A hot-blooded Tom might’ve really tapped in to the script’s dramatic potential, but the sight of Viv fighting so hard against people who could all have a legitimate claim to her husband’s attention, borne from paranoia that doesn’t seem borne from absolutely nothing is frankly more compelling than it has any right to be. There’s clearly a version of this story about an unreliable man sending his unreliable wife to a sanitarium on dubious grounds, one stifled by a weak leading man and half-baked direction but still able to burst through the interpretation we’re getting at odd, unexpected angles.

There is at least one unabashed bright spot in the film, in the form of Rosemary Harris’s subtly affecting performance as the matriarch of the Haigh-Wood clan. Without ever working to undermine Tom & Viv’s leading actors, she nevertheless coaxes stronger, more consistent performances from Dafoe and especially Richardson, stabilizing the latter without forgoing Mrs. Haigh-Wood’s own characterization. The film is at its best when it follows the lead of her perfectly contained but still very palpable anxiety, and is never better than in the uncomfortable sequence of Tom having dinner with Vivienne’s immediate family for the first time. Viv spends most of the meal asking provocative, blatantly upsetting questions of her loved ones. Her family telegraph exhaustion at having had this kind of dinner table conversation too many times already but still irritated by her behavior, before Rose takes her daughter aside and gets her to actually calm down, only for her lucid confession about her feelings for Tom to startle her poor mother. It takes real intelligence to project a stable grasp of her daughter’s neuroses, worrying about her future with this new man while still finding room to be elated and disappointed by both of them without overacting. Particularly in her last scenes, hurt and confused after realizing that Viv tried to stab her - even if it was with a fake knife - but perhaps even more wounded that Tom packing Vivvie off to an asylum has proven how badly this man has failed Rose and her daughter, Harris proves herself an unfussy and emotionally sincere performer within a film less stable than its central marriage.

Harris is more of a face in the crowd in her second-to-last sequence, as one of several family members and doctors present for a verbal test to see if Vivienne is certifiable for sanitarium care. This is surprisingly the film’s weakest stretch, beginning with Tom trying to warn Viv before the doctors arrive as the two engage in unexpectedly romantic talk about the state of their relationship. Here, Richardson is the primary source of that romance, which comes across as sentimental and unearned considering that Viv is suddenly without her livewire physicality and higher pitched emotions. Now she speaks in a soft voice, speaks warmly, but she undermines any of the film’s complications by stating its theses in such a loving way. She’s not wrong to judge Tom for his own lies and put-ons and for not being able to face the music the way she wanted him to, but the fact that the Viv who’s saying this is so radically unlike the Viv we’ve spent the previous hour with undermines these ideas. And yet, her affectations return in an oddly performative key once the doctors arrive, as if she’s a deer caught in headlights and trying to hurl herself at them as the last defense mechanism she has left. That they even bother with the test instead of carting her right off after Viv attempts to stab her mother with a rubber knife is pretty bizarre in itself, but Richardson’s playing strips the scene of any dramatic potential or ambiguity as she intentionally answers one of the questions incorrectly. More than that, the filmmaking is complicit in romanticizing her last act of self-sabotage, as the score swells under close ups of Tom and Viv exchanging meaningful glances before she gives the wrong answer, the scene abruptly ending as if the test actually ended on the second question.

I said earlier that the film transitions from Viv-like over-enthusiasm to Tom-ish stultification, and though the scene above certainly fits that bill, a better description for the last third might be that they simply have no other function except as being the end to a story. Both partners, gracefully made up into middle age, speak of their devotion to each other despite the fact that Tom has not visited his wife or made any attempt to contact her at the sanitarium in ten years. Dafoe’s last scene is almost completely carried by the overwhelming, piano-heavy score as he gives the cold shoulder to an old friend Viv once said wanted to sleep with her. Meanwhile, Richardson finds the right tempo between containing the energy that’s defined her performance for most of the film while suggesting some genuine recovery over the past ten years. She’s relaxed and unsentimental in her final scene, giving a fond yet forceful line reading to “Chin up.”, as her brother tries not to cry, that’s more impactful than a line so blatantly structured as a farewell forever aimed at the heartstrings has a right to be. There’s little here that’s interesting in the way that the preceding half hour was, and Gilbert ranking the volume on that orchestra as the credits roll certified that I was far less moved than he was clearly expecting. If Tom & Viv ends as unevenly as it began, I’m not sure if what painfully doesn’t work is enough to dismiss the moments where it comes to some kind of bracing life. In the moments where Harris shows the pain of a mother watching her child implode, where Richardson’s neuroses click into place and the script’s darker subtexts are able to be furnished show the rich potential that this story ultimately has. Tom & Viv isn’t crying out for any retreads, and I’m not sure how much this story deserves to be saved from the unusual legacy of almost complete anonymity that only pedigreed English adaptations of biographies of poets resulting in two high-profile Oscar nominations can truly earn. But it’s not without its merits, and something this uneven has the kind of quiet but sturdy highs that can stand against its more visible and ungainly lows.

#my posts #my reviews #where were they then?

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ficdirectory · 7 years ago

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The Crossing (Disuphere series #3) Chapter 10

Scene IV: Out There

On Sunday afternoon, Dominique finally has no excuse left. She’s eaten all eight of Jesus’s cookies in four days. She’s washed his Tupperware. It’s officially time to woman up and knock on his door to return the thing.

She takes a deep breath. Knocks. Waits. Knocks again.

Finally, the door opens. “Hey. Just returning this,” she greets, ready to turn around and leave.

“Wait. Wanna come in?”

Dominique stays where she is. “Anybody ever tell you you come on strong?”

“Not really. No. Can I ask why you’re blue? Like literally?”

“I’m Sadness. Deal with it.”

“Okay…” (Count Jesus in the 1% of people who have never seen Inside Out.)

The silence keeps growing and Dominique can’t help it. She has to fill it. “Listen. Sorry if it was weird yesterday or whatever with the cookie. I didn’t mean to like make light of your stuff...or whatever.”

“I didn’t take it that way.”

“Oh.”

“I have a cat. By the way. I’m so sorry. I babble when I’m nervous.”

“Why would you be nervous?”

She shrugs, not ready to admit she knows him - kind of.

“Okay, well...see ya, I guess…”

“Yeah. I guess,” she manages.

“Honey, if you’re nervous about hanging out with him somewhere that’s not public, try somewhere that is,” Mom suggests. It’s Sunday night, and she and Dad are over for belated traumaversary lemon cake.

It’s one thing in her life that’s going right. This cake right here. Her parents, still coming through after all, not thinking she’d suddenly be 100% fine on her own.

“Mmm… This cake, Michael…” Mom moans.

“I consider it one of many skills, my mastery of boxed cake mixes and bundt pans…” he offers dryly.

Dominique cracks a smile.

“Ooh, got a smile out of Sadness!” Dad exclaims, like his day is made.

“I don’t know. I don’t really want it to seem like I’m too eager or something.” She drops her voice. “You guys know he’s Jesus from the news, right?” she asks.

“The little boy from 2007, kidnapped right off of Villa Mariposa? No, I did not know that,” Mom breathes. “It’s good to be cautious, all right? It is. But I think it’s not a bad idea, if he’s got a good head on his shoulders --”

“--Like you,” Dad interjects.

Dominique nails him with a skeptical look.

“What? You’re smart. I can say that, can’t I?”

“If it’s true…” Dominique ventures, soft.

“It definitely is,” Dad says. He’s quiet, too, but confident.

“Right. If he’s got a good head on his shoulders - like you - I don’t think it’s a bad idea to maybe wanna be his friend. You two might find some common ground.”

“We have common ground - he lives right across the hall.” Dominique quips, raw still, from the time of year, and everything it means.

That night, she texts Mom privately after they both leave:

How come you and Dad never talk about it?

Mom:

We do.

Dominique:

I mean, to me.

Mom takes a long time responding, but Dominique’s got nothing but time:

Mom:

We were advised not to, by a therapist, after you got home. Not to bring it up unless you did. We didn’t want to make things harder on you.

Dominique:

You bake a cake but you won’t talk about it.

Mom:

Maybe, in his own way, Dad is talking about it when he bakes the cake.

Dominique:

And what way are you talking about it?

Mom:

I’m sorry.

Dominique turns down the volume on her phone and plugs it in away from her so she doesn’t have to see it.

After an intense week of work, Dominique finally has time to breathe. She’s left a message with Lena, to let her know not to come in, because she’s got other plans today. She takes her phone, and her journal to the quiet little park near their building and snaps a few pictures of the nature.

It’s pretty. It’s a break from the four walls of a hospital and all the memories inside it. On one hand, she feels okay there. Known. Seen. People there have seen her at her absolute worst. On the other hand, though, she remembers everything that happened there. And that truth is so heavy, she could easily drown in it.

She needs to focus on something good for a while.

It’s been a while since she’s written any poetry. It comes in bursts. Some in stanza, some stuck together like stream of consciousness writing. She thinks about hope. About light. She starts:

Night becoming day. Sun streaking across a deeply shadowed, sleeping sky. Colors streaking, waking, being. Sun rising. I am rising. Because I have lived to see this new day. This new moment. This fresh glory. Because it exists and I exist in the light it throws out. Because the name I keep secret means light. So I know, that is what I am to be. It’s why Daylight and me, we have a kinship. A deep connection. The light is the thing I strive every day to be. To light up shadows. To show secrets. Yet how can I do that, be that, believe that, when so much of who I really am is, in fact, a secret? Light gives me hope, but do I give hope to those around me? Can I be something I only rarely feel. For seconds when the daylight creeps over the horizon?

Next, she catches sight of her Hunger Games jersey, and the braid over one shoulder. Remembers that today she is Katniss (without bows and arrows). She continues, thinking about fantasy; about what it means to her:

There is safety

Within these castle walls

Within these sheep skins

And borrowed sins.

Envelop me

In tulle

And myriad tools

Appear.

It takes her the better part of an hour, but after she writes, Dominique does feel better. Lighter. She breathes and glances around. Checks her phone. Lena had texted and Dominique let her know it was fine to go into the apartment and clean a little if she really wanted.

From behind her, a throat clears and she looks over her shoulder.

Jesus.

He raises his eyebrows slightly at the empty side of the picnic bench.

Dominique nods, carefully, thinking of what Mom said. He sits down with his own pad of paper and she finds she can’t concentrate on writing a thing. So she looks through her pictures instead. Checks for Dudley, who’s found shade under the table.

“Can I take your picture, Dudley?” she whispers.

He glances her way, and she takes it.

It’s perfect.

Dominique swallows, feeling eyes on her. Jesus, who had been busy with a pencil and what looks like a sketchbook, isn’t drawing anymore. He’s gathering his stuff to leave.

“Hey, whoa. What just happened?” she asks.

“I’m not great with pictures on the DL,” he admits. “So, I’m just gonna go.”

“Listen, I took one of Dudley. Not of you. I swear. And I asked him first. He turned and even smiled for it. Look.” Dominique holds out her phone as proof. “You can look at them. I don’t photograph people. I do nature. And animals.”

Jesus has warily accepted her phone and is flipping through her pics. “Is this your cat?” he asks, a little breathless.

“It is. That’s Roberta. She’s a diva.”

“She looks...intimidating,” Jesus admits.

“Well, Dudley’s kinda imposing, too. Like, he could eat Roberta in three bites, but I’m not judging him, am I?” Dominique asks lightly.

“True.” He hands the phone back and Dominique sets it on the table.

“You can sit back down if you want. Over there,” she nods to his side. “I’ll leave my phone there.”

Dudley comes out from under the table and stands next to Jesus until Jesus can walk back to the table and sit.

“Can I see what you’re drawing?”

He turns the book and slides it toward her. She takes it in. A dark room. A single, small window, high up on a wall, with light streaking through it.

“I like this.”

“It’s nothing.” he dismisses.

“No, I like the window.”

“I always wanted one,” he comments softly, before he blinks and seems to realize he’s spoken aloud. Questions and panic are on his face.

“I know,” she finally says, acknowledging. “We’re the same age. Both grew up here. Hard not to see the news,” she offers, apologetic. “Sorry.”

“So, truth time?” he asks.

“Sure,” she agrees. She doesn’t know what truth time entails, but honesty sounds good to her.

“Are you cool with me now ‘cause you figured out who I am?”

“I’ve known who you were since well before we rode the elevator together, and I was a jerk to you several times since then,” she points out.

“So, what changed? You used to not want anything to do with me, and you do now? I don’t get it.”

“We’re in public,” she admits.

“Oh.”

“I’m Dominique Williams,” she says.

“Jesus Foster,” he returns, looking her in the eye.

#fic: the crossing

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