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itmighthavebeenintentional · 4 years

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Walk Me Home - Ch 6

Summary: Twenty-four years ago, Kimberly Harper met a boy who changed the course of her entire life before up and leaving one night. She spent years moving past the memories, building a stable, satisfying career as professor of folklore and mythology at the local university. Then the accidents start, and she’s forced to seek help among her hunter contacts. All it takes is a knock on her office door to send Kimber’s carefully built emotional walls crumbling to the ground.

Featuring: Teen Winchesters, high school romance, reunions, misunderstandings, high intensity emotional turmoil, Dean’s love of pie, Dean being adorable, Sam being adorable and maybe a bit nosy eventually, much group adorkable-ness, show-style investigation, mention of our favorite werewolf, gratuitous and obvious love of fall, DID I MENTION ROMANCE, fluff, smut, tension.

Warnings: Show level violence, show level parental neglect (let’s not John bash, I’m just saying), show-style witchcraft, show-level mental manipulation, stalking, bit of angst, sexual content (higher than show level), swearing, general yearning

Word Count: 1775

Author’s Note: All my thanks @mskathywriteswords , @fangirlxwritesx67, and @cracksinthewalls for making this story way better than it started. Thank you to everyone who read/reblogged/liked the first chapter. I hope you enjoy the story as much as I do. Also, hang on to something. This chapter is short, but it packs a bit of a punch.

I’m working on a follow-up to my Dean story Dear Mr. Fantasy that I hope to post sometime in the next few weeks. Check it out, if you haven’t, and let me know if you’re interested.

Keep in Mind: There are a lot of flashbacks. I tried to write current events in present tense and flashbacks in past tense. Here’s hoping I got everything right!

Please read/heed the warnings. 18+ ONLY.

In Case You Missed It: Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist

Chapter 6

“I think we can officially call this morning a bust,” Kimber declares, collapsing into her office chair. Dean sighs, rubbing his forehead with one hand, the other propped on his hip. He doesn’t disagree.

“We checked the grad student office where I found Allen,” she says, checking off her mental list as she goes. “You checked out the stairwell where Helen fell. We found zilch in Dr. Lawrence’s office, and nothing here, as well. What’s next?”

“I’ll check in with Sam,” Dean decides, pulling out his cell. “Then maybe some lunch, and if Sam’s done, we’ll meet him at your place so we can start there. Sound good?”

She nods as Dean hits a button on his phone, raising it to his ear and turning away. Kimber’s eyes follow him as he paces the front of her small office, waiting for his brother to pick up. She stretches in her chair, feeling drowsy after the morning’s exertion, and she realizes she’s going to have to get up if she doesn’t want to fall asleep at her desk.

She moves towards the door, mouthing, “Bathroom,” to Dean, who nods as he listens intently to Sam. The brisk air in the corridor is bracing after the still warmth of her little office, and she takes a deep breath before turning towards the restrooms. The hallway is as close as the department gets to being crowded, with several classes letting out simultaneously.

She pushes through the throngs of chattering students, smiling at a few of her own, intent on getting to the bathroom before it fills up, when she feels a light tap on her shoulder. Kimber turns, but before she has time to register anyone’s face, she feels something thrust into her outstretched palm.

…

Orange and red leaves flutter around her, joining the dense carpet of their brethren beneath her feet. Footsteps crunch before her, and she can see Dean just up ahead, her backpack slung over his shoulder. Dean never carries a backpack of his own, so they must have just finished a study session. He glances back, eyes alight with mischief, grin firmly in place.

“You comin’?” he asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer, just continues his casual saunter down the path as autumn rains down around them. “Wanna show you somethin’.”

She hurries to catch up, waving a stray leaf out of her face. The ground feels strange underfoot, too firm, her footfalls too loud for such a thick layer of leaves, but she’s too focused on Dean to pay much attention. Someone calls out behind them, but she’s determined to not be left behind a second time.

No matter how fast she runs, though, he stays a few paces ahead with his steady, cartoonishly slow pace, and she grits her teeth in frustration.

Molasses would be an improvement.

“You’re gonna love this, sweetheart. C’mon, it’s just up ahead.”

Their pursuer calls her name, closer this time, but Dean is right there, and if she can run just a little faster, she can catch him. She swats several leaves from the air, her mouth twisted in a frustrated frown, reaching out to Dean.

“Kimber! Stop!”

A voice echoes from behind her, but then Dean turns, holding his hand out, and she stretches her fingers, her feet leaden as she drags her body forward. He smiles encouragingly, curling his finger to beckon her closer, his other arm spread wide to reveal his surprise.

The trail ends abruptly at a sidewalk that leads to a house very similar to her parents’ old place (“They moved years ago,” she thinks), a house that was definitely not there before Dean pointed it out. The front door stands open wide, welcoming, as a sleek, black muscle car pulls up to the curb out front. Her eyes track the car’s approach, and she registers the name “Winchester” on the mailbox.

Breathing suddenly becomes very difficult.

As she watches, a couple slides out of the front of the Impala. Kimber’s eyes widen in shock as she recognizes herself and Dean, though not older as they are now. Younger, maybe just a few years out of high school.

But that’s not right, she thinks, her eyes flicking to seventeen-year-old Dean standing before her, urging her closer still. We’re not...we’re in high school, we aren’t grown...

The Dean before her holds his hand out silently, waiting as she struggles towards him. So close! she thinks. The voice behind her, so familiar, calls her name again, but her mind is foggy, distracted by young Dean and the phantom scene before her.

The couple embraces next to the car, blissfully unaware of their audience as Dean sweeps Kimber off her feet and carries her up the walkway. As they disappear into the house’s interior, she can hear her other self squealing happily as the door swings shut.

“I...can’t…”

Dean smiles at her, that sweet, just-a-touch shy smile that won her over so many years ago.

“It’s my dream, Kimber. We could still have it, if you want?” His eyes, so earnest, beg her to take just one more step. “Take my hand. It’s not too late for us. I’m right here.”

“Kimber, stop! Listen to me!”

She almost turns, the voice behind her is so desperate and beseeching, but Dean shakes his head. His smile widens, and he opens both arms to her, offering himself fully.

“It’s our last chance. Come to me, Kimber. This can be ours, sweetheart. You and me, just the two of us. Just take that last step. You can do this.”

She wants to, so very badly. Her mind pulls towards Dean, smiling and hopeful, and she wants with almost every part of herself to take that step, take his hand, and live happily ever after.

But deep in her heart, she knows none of this is true. The Dean before her left, no matter how unwillingly, and she hasn’t heard from him until yesterday. Neither of them are seventeen any more, and this dream was never possible for either of them, no matter how much they wanted it.

“No...no...you’re not…”

He frowns, his expression suddenly cold, alien, and absolutely furious. His features harden, and he turns to her completely, squaring himself and giving her his entire focus.

“Come here, Kimber. Take the damn step. Now.”

“No!” She doesn’t know where this reserve of strength is coming from, but she welcomes it. The fog begins to lift from her mind a little, and she manages half a step backwards.

Dean’s lip curls in a snarl, and she wrenches herself away, fighting to move in any direction but forwards. She throws herself back, expecting to fall, hoping the leaves will cushion her, planning to roll away.

Instead, she finds herself supported by strong arms that flood her senses with immediate relief. Something is jerked from her hand, and the autumn scene complete with the monstrous teenage Dean vanishes. The wind whips Kimbers hair in front of her face, and she looks down to see…

Nothing.

Arms pull her back from the edge of the building, and she chokes on a scream. Her self-defense training kicks in, and she throws her head back, trying to catch her assailant’s nose.

“Kimber, it’s me! I’ve got you, don’t fight!”

It takes a second for Dean’s voice to register, and by the time she realizes she’s safe, she’s already planted her elbow square in his gut. He releases her with a pained wheeze, doubling over, holding up a placating hand towards her. She realizes in a detached sort of way that she is breathing way too shallow and fast, but she can’t seem to stop.

“Breathe,” he wheezes at her, trying to straighten up. Something about the ridiculous sight of Dean telling her to breathe when he can barely pull in his own breath cuts through her panic for a moment, and she almost laughs. Her head whirls, colors starting to blur together.

From the view and the drop-off, she guesses they’re on the roof, though she’s never been up here before. She looks to Dean as her vision tunnels and a rushing noise fills her ears.

“Dean...Dean, you were...what did I…you said it was…”

Dean struggles upright and takes her face between his hands, forcing her to focus on him. “Breathe, honey. You’ve gotta breathe right now. Can you do that for me? Breathe with me. Slow, deep.”

She struggles to imitate him, and her lungs finally unlock enough to let in a reasonable amount of air.

“Kimber, I’ve gotta burn this thing. I don’t know if it can affect you from a distance. Just...here. Sit down right here. Keep breathing.” She drops where she’s told, lowering her head between her knees as she focuses on counting her breaths.

She can just make out Dean on the edge of her vision, crouching down. He pulls a lighter out of his pocket, flicks it, and lowers the flame to something on the ground before him. The object lights up with a whoosh of flame, and Kimber gasps as a searing bolt of pain flashes through her entire body before vanishing, leaving her feeling weak and shaking but finally, finally, back in control of herself.

Dean rises, stalks back over to her and drops to one knee, his fist pressing hard into the gravelled surface. He glares at the ground, his jaw clenching in a way that she’s glad is not directed at her. His nostrils flare, and his face flinches as he reaches some decision.

“I should never have let you go on your own. I’m not letting you out of my sight again until we gank this son of a bitch.”

She shrinks under the burning intensity of his words, and he closes his eyes for a second, wrestling with control of his anger. He holds a hand out to her, and she almost recoils, remnants of the vision burned in the back of her mind.

But this isn’t some sinister phantom leading Kimber to her death. She knows exactly who this is, and she trusts him implicitly.

Dean’s entire body relaxes when her palm touches his, and he drops his forehead to their joined hands. When he finally looks up at her, his eyes are green flame.

“I almost lost you. You were so close, Kimber, you were on the edge. I...”

He trails off, searching her face for a heavy moment. Without warning, he slides forward, releasing her hand to pull her face to his, kissing her with a fierceness that steals her breath and leaves her glad she’s already on the ground.

…

Chapter 7

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pixeldolly · 4 years

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Trailer Park Challenge

Taking a leaf out of @curious-subject‘s book, I am trying my own hand at the Trailer Park Challenge by Fuzzy Spork, because it looks like a lot of fun! For once, the goal is not to make your sims as prosperous as possible, but rather the opposite. 🤣 Add in some interesting rules and restrictions, and it’s a recipe for unpredictable shenanigans!

It’s also only 4 generations long, which feels a lot less daunting than a 10 generation legacy (for me, at least.)

Onto said shenanigans! But first, let’s meet the founder, Daisy Mae Fuller.

Daisy Mae is a sweetheart, but she’s hopelessly naïve and with poor impulse control which had her kicked out of the family trailer and exiled to the other side of town following a certain incident involving Grandpa Bob’s prized truck and a very large tree.

They gave her a trailer of her own, although not much else besides that.

A rickety old stove which is probably a fire hazard, a 20 year old fridge with a door that needs to be propped up with a wad of rolled up paper, some counters left over from the last yard sale and a sink that never gets more than a trickle of water...but at least Daisy Mae won’t starve.

The first person to wander by her trailer was the paper boy, sporting quite an impressive beard for someone so young. Coming from a large family, Daisy Mae isn’t used to being on her own, so she said hi.

Paper boy: “This is only temporary, until I go to college to study economics. Then I’ll get a real job.”

Daisy Mae: “Wow! That’s fancy!”

The only Fuller to ever set foot on a college campus was Daisy Mae’s aunt Betty, who worked in the cafeteria there for a time.

The paper boy had to continue his rounds, but not long after Kimberly Thomason came jogging past and introduced herself.

She either really likes Daisy Mae, or feels sorry for her. Either way, a bargain’s a bargain!

And who’s this tall, dark and handsome stranger who is staring at Daisy Mae’s asswatching Daisy Mae dig up her yard?

His name is Cory Tomyoy and...

...oh.

Daisy Mae: “I like a bad boy.”

I’m sure this is a perfectly sound choice...

#sims 2 #the sims 2 #sims2 #ts2 #sims 2 trailer park challenge #trailer park challenge #my screenshots #daisy mae fuller

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ninbayphua-moyan · 3 years

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An Instant’s Beauty: A Moment’s Eternity

I cannot sleep deep in the night; I rise and sit to play my lute. Thin curtains mirror the moon bright; Clear breezes tug my lapels mute. A lonely swan shrieks over the plain; Hovering birds cry in north wood. What do I see pacing in vain? My heart is grieved in solitude. [1]

Warm morning sunlight streamed in through the lightwell, painting the dimly lit room in a dreamy pastel gold, quite like that of a faded photograph. The balmy Penang air was steeped in the fresh, earthy petrichor of a recent shower, blanketed with a sense of Saturday languidness. A gentle breeze, pleasantly cool against my skin fleeted through the wide-open windows, carrying with it the alluringly sweet scent of frangipanis.

I flipped the century-old poetry book, its yellowed leaves a beautiful contrast against the teal-blue covers. White silk cords stitched together the pages in a butterfly binding whilst faded black ink encased in vermillion frames marked each leaf, punctuated only occasionally by an ink wash painting of landscapes or plants and animals. Reflexion. I placed the book back down on the table and picked up the brush. Dipping the tip in freshly grounded black ink, I started copying the text.

I remember a sense of meditative calm seeping into the room against the backdrop of gently rustling palm leaves and running water. The way my hands traced the familiar characters with controlled ease and precision. The movements of the brush long since deeply ingrained into muscle memory from years of practice. Stroke after flowing stroke danced gracefully across the beige xuan paper, each carefully crafted character a painting of woven words. It strikes me now, as I pen my memory onto paper in Bute Park, how similar writing is to calligraphy. Even though it bears a certain form, each writer brings with them their own flair as they string together the words and weave them into a tapestry of thoughts.

A ripple in the tranquil air.

The soft fluttering of paper-thin wings. A shimmer of blue at the corner of my eye.

Propping my brush against the holder, I looked up to see a beautiful blue butterfly flitting in through the window bars. It hovered by the inkstone momentarily before finally coming to a rest on the wooden brush rack next to it, the erratic beating of its wings slowing to a stop. Brilliant hues of cobalt and azure scales glistened as it sat there peacefully basking in the warm tropical sun. Watching the butterfly, I couldn’t help but wonder if the old folklore A-Poh[2] told me was true – that butterflies were the souls of deceased ancestors visiting the living. Wouldn’t that be nice if it was real. Then I’d be able to tell A-Gong[3] all about getting into university; about how part of me was glad that I got accepted but also about how another part of me didn’t want to go since I’d be leaving home for three years straight. What if everything changed whilst I was away? The places I’ve known since childhood…the familiar faces I’ve grown up with…If only the butterfly really was A-Gong. He’d be able to give me some advice.

A tantalising aroma of freshly steamed glutinous rice dumplings wafted through the air, successfully drawing me out of my musings just as the clock struck noon.

“Jia-bui-lo!” [4]

Scurrying feet on creaking floorboards could be heard all over the house as my siblings and parents made a beeline for the dining hall. I looked away from the butterfly and smiled at A-Poh who was standing in the kitchen doorway. She beckoned me over with a toothless grin, her eyes crinkling into two half-moons as she motioned at the large bowl full of steaming glutinous rice dumplings in her hand. Getting up from the Luohan bed[5] where I sat cross-legged, I joined them at the dining table where Di-Di[6] and Mei-Mei[7] were already sat with their chopsticks at the ready, excited grins plastered across their hungry, eager faces.

I take a seat next to A-Poh, and, picking up my chopsticks, took a bite out of the dumpling in my bowl, its familiar flavours instantly crashing over my taste buds like waves washing up against its shores. A groan escaped my lips as I relished each mouth-watering bite. The savoury note of succulent pork belly marinated in soy sauce and five spice; umami-rich dried shitake mushrooms with its juicy and chewy quality; firm-textured salted duck egg yolk that gives the dumpling a briny aroma whilst its bright orange-red hue creates a pleasant splash of colour against its otherwise brown and black counterparts; the refreshing sweetness of the water chestnuts, a crunchy nuttiness amidst the softness; soft, sticky golden brown glutinous rice encompassing it all, delectably infused with the subtle fragrance of its bamboo leaf wrappings and rich flavours of its fillings from the hours of steaming…ah…these tenderly wrapped packages of love though plain in appearance were worth more to me than gold.

I was still half way through my first dumpling when another newly unwrapped one plopped into my bowl. Quickly swallowing my food, I tried protesting only to be shushed with another mouthful of rice being forced into my open mouth and a fond pat on the cheek. I shook my head in resignation whilst my siblings sent me cheeky looks before sneakily scooting closer to our parents. There was no stopping A-Poh now that she was on the rampage and those little troublemakers were smart enough to know to stay out of arms reach of her stuffing chopsticks. The rascals. Di-Di even has the audacity to stick his tongue out at me which was obviously returned with an eye roll.

Little did I know then that these habitual banter, familiar aromas, and accustomed faces would be what I would miss most after leaving. Everything was as it should be; and everyone was where they belonged. In that instance, surrounded by dust particles glimmering in the golden tropical sunlight, it was as if a spell had been cast that would make today go on eternally. For a moment, I let myself believe in the enchantment; that tomorrow will never come and the flight ticket to London was nothing but a forgotten fantasy…

Bzzz.

Bzz. Bzzzzzz.

Bzzz.

I instinctively reach for my phone to turn off the alarm that pierces the heavy veils of sleep. However, when I open my eyes, I’m met with an unfamiliar white ceiling instead of the usual worn wooden beams. For a moment, I lie there, disorientated before realization sinks in. Cardiff. I am in my flat in Cardiff and the weight I felt on my stomach wasn’t Hua-Hua[8] but rather, my laptop which was still perched on its spot from yesterday’s all-nighter. I must’ve dozed off at some point.

Slowly sitting up, I gaze around the silent room. Its bleak white walls; books and worksheets sprawled messily across the covers; steely early morning sunlight filtering through the narrow window into the dingy room; folders organized in a nice pile on the desk...My wandering gaze comes to a grinding stop when it lands on the calendar next to the neat stack of folders.

February 7th.

I sigh. Looks like I’ll be celebrating both my birthday and Chinese New Year alone this year…

The frigid February air is still bitterly cold despite being swaddled from head to toe in layers upon layers of coats and scarves. Miserably, I trudge onwards along the banks of the River Taff. Razor sharp winds slice at my cheeks leaving behind searing scars. As the last remaining trickle of warmth leave my body, my mind shuts down and I plod along the cobblestone streets mechanically, limbs and face numb from the biting cold.

A lukewarm breeze flutters by, stirring my slumbering senses. Bit by bit, warmth seeps back into my frozen limbs and my foggy mind clears as if waking up from a trance. Glancing around, I spot the words Marchnad Caerdydd [9] and realise I’ve arrived at the market. I shake off the remaining frost induced spell and venture into the quiet maze of stalls, trolley in hand.

The smell of freshly baked bread and pastries wafts through the crisp air, tinged with a breath of floral sweetness. A range of raw meat laid out in clear glass cases bathed in neon pink lights line the murky grey brick walls. Whiffs of coffee beans tickle my nose whenever a dull-eyed person shuffles soullessly pass me in the near vacant market. Stall owners sit spiritlessly at their stalls staring lazily into space. It was almost like walking into a ghost town.

A splash of colour.

Turning around, I see a stall filled to the brim with a rainbow array of fruits and vegetables. A refreshing sight in the seemingly deserted marketplace. The sudden craving for something sweet results in me buying a bag of strawberries before wandering on.

As I nibble away happily on the strawberries browsing through the stalls up in the gallery, I was suddenly struck by a sense of déjà vu. Bit by bit, the scene before me starts to change. The glaring daylight fades away into the tranquil darkness of night and the dusty marketplace roof is now a sky full of twinkling stars. A magnificent full moon shines softly against the vast velvety void, casting a gentle glow on everything below. Towering, lush palm trees replace murky grey brick walls and the cobblestone floor is transformed into a well-travelled dirt road. A lively buzz fills the now soothingly warm tropical air as a familiar sight begins to emerge in the distance. For there, at the very end of the road, stood Penang’s bustling night market, glowing and glittering like a chest of magical gems in the blanket of darkness.

Brightly lit stalls sheltered by rainbow umbrellas formed a colourful labyrinth, drawing people young and old towards those warm lights like moths to a flame. The sound of street vendors hollering out their wares permeated the air, mingling with the cheerful haggling. Weaving in and out of the throng, I hurried over to the food stalls section. Bellowing clouds of smoke imbued with the irresistible aroma of Asian street food rose into the night air and my mouth began to salivate.

As memories melt into ink and reconstruct themselves as words on the page, I am suddenly reminded of Lauren Elkin’s essay on being a flaneur.[10] Wandering through the streets of a city, uncovering its secrets and crafting it into a tale for the shelves. Having read Virginia Woolf’s Street Hunting, it’s fascinating to see not only the difference between Penang and London but also her contrasting writing style.[11]

A familiar smell wafted down the street. I snapped out of my trance and made a beeline towards a stall tucked away in the corner. An old couple stood amongst bamboo steamer baskets selling staple dim-sum[12] delicacies. Noticing my arrival, the old woman hurried up to me and enveloped me into a bone-shattering hug.

“Nai-Nai![13] Can’t – breathe –”

She lets go of me with a laugh, grabbed my hand and quickly led me inside. As she busied herself fawning over me, Ye-Ye[14] quietly filled up a bowl and placed it in front of me with a kindly smile. I looked into the bowl to find it full of crystal shrimp dumplings[15], my favourite dim-sum dish.

I picked up a piece of dumpling with my chopsticks and take a tentative bite, my mouth immediately exploding with flavour. The saltiness of grounded shrimp marinated with soy sauce and sesame oil contrasting exquisitely against the unique juicy sweetness of fresh prawn; a thin yet sturdy glass-like wrapper encapsulates it all with delicate pleats, creating a tasteful balance between the plainness of the dough and the richness of its fillings. Ah…heaven in a bite-size bundle.

Ye-Ye and Nai-Nai smiled fondly as they watched me wolf down the shrimp dumplings with the same unrestrained gusto I’ve had for the past nineteen years. We reminisced about the past, laughing at funny memories whilst savouring the simple dim-sum dishes, and I couldn’t help but noticed how time had flown. Just yesterday I was barely tall enough to reach their knees; today, I stood half a head taller.

“How long?”

“Three years.”

Minutes pass, neither of us uttered a word. Then, Ye-Ye gently ruffled my hair, the same way he’s been doing since I was two, only this time, the smile on his face seemed tinged with a hint of melancholy.

“Silly child.”

My nose soured at the affectionate nickname and I quickly tilted my head back to stop tears from falling. The stars seemed strangely lonely that night.

“Still such a cry-baby.”

“Am not!”

Hastily blinking away the tears, I got up and enveloped Nai-Nai in a tight hug.

“Take care.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. After a few pats, we broke apart and I turned to head home.

“We’ll save some shrimp dumplings for when you come home!”

I dared not look back so I raised my hand and waved farewell instead. Until next time.

Strolling down the five-foot way, I paused in front of a pair of ventilated timber doors. Mythical creatures of Chinese folklore embellished each panel. The dragon floating reverently amongst wispy clouds, each delicately carved scale shimmering with contained power. Opposite it, perched nobly on golden branches, was its gentler feathered counterpart – the phoenix, its wings spread wide, ready to take flight. Under the moonshine, it was as if those gilded bodies were suddenly brought to life. Their once dull sheen now aglow in brilliant shades of scarlet, orange and gold, almost as if they would burst into flames at any moment, just like in the myths of old, and be reborn from the ashes.

As I gazed at the exquisite carvings, entranced, an old memory resurfaces. Same door, same carvings, but a very different time. I was a lot shorter for one, and I wasn’t alone. The large calloused hand that held mine was wrinkled and dry like the pages of an old book. Where a finger was supposed to be was stump, the only remains of a work accident in his youth.

I tugged at the hand and A-Gong glanced down, a gentle smile on his weather-beaten face. Seeing the question in my doe-like eyes, he laughed. “These?” he asked as he lifted me up with one arm whilst running his other hand over the carvings which glittered under the setting sun. “These are spirit guardians sent by the Jade Emperor to watch over our household.”

“Howshowld?”

“Family,” he chuckled and tweaked my nose. I giggled, playfully reaching out my stubby fingers to grab his beard. Still laughing, he pushed open the heavy, half-a-century-old doors and we entered the house.

Standing in the living room, the sounds of mirth slowly faded into silence and evening sunlight was replaced with the darkness of night. Without bothering to turn on the light, I walked over to the Luohan-bed and struck a match, lighting the wooden lantern. A pool of golden light was casted around the table where a flight ticket to London sat, my passport placed neatly beside it.

I sighed.

Sinking down into the cushions, I glanced at the clock. Five hours. Then it’s goodbye for a very, very long time. I gazed absentmindedly around the familiar room as my mind takes a trip down memory lane: mornings sprawled across the brightly coloured majolica tile floor trying to trace its intricate patterns; Evenings spent watching A-Poh wielding her embroidery needle with decades of practiced ease; A-Gong playing the erhu[16] on peaceful nights…ah yes, the erhu. Closing my eyes, I could almost hear it. The bamboo bow strung with horsetail hair traversing between two silk strings as A-Gong’s fingers dance deftly along its slender neck producing a vast array of tunes: one moment tender and sombre, the next sonorous and joyful.

“Mmmreeoow?”

I opened my eyes and found myself gazing into the forest-green orbs of a young calico sat patiently on my lap. Snuffing out the lantern, I laid down and wrapped my arms around Hua-Hua as she snuggled against my chest.

An intoxicating sweetness tickled my nose.

I glanced over at the potted plants to find the tan-huas[17] blossoming. Head propped against the pillow; I watched as the tightly rolled petals bloom in slow motion. Its fiery red tendrils unfurling elegantly to reveal a profusion of feathery white petals, much like a swan ruffling its wings, about to take flight. In the darkness of night, its snowy petals seemed to glow from within, as if made of moonbeams. With moonlight streaming in from the lightwell above, even the floating dust particles were transformed into shimmering stardust dancing in the quiet night air.

Yet, as enchanting as it was, I couldn’t help but remember that it would all come to an end very soon. By dawn, before the sun’s first kiss, its lustrous petals would be shrivelled up and a withered carmine carcass would be all that remains of its snowy beauty from the night before; its lingering exotic fragrance a ghost of its twilight arrival. There’s an old saying A-Gong used to describe the tan-huas blooming: an instant of beauty but a moment of eternity. Even though beautiful things don’t last forever, they live on eternally, etched into our deepest memories. Just like the tan-huas, my time left on this quaint little island was coming to an end. By dawn tomorrow, I too would be gone; and though I’d be leaving this cozy old house I called home, I’d take with me its memories, just as the scent and beauty of the tan-hua lingers on forever in the memory of all who witnessed it.

Listening to the rustling palm leaves and soothing gurgle of running water, tension oozed out of my body as my muscles relaxed. The tranquillity of night imbued with the intoxicating sweetness of tan-huas calmed my racing thoughts and my eyelids started to droop. Just before being lulled to sleep by Hua-Hua’s soft purring, I caught sight of a glimmer of azure amongst the radiant white blooms. The fluttering of delicate wings; quiet footsteps; something warm being tucked around me; and the familiar scent of incense from eleven years ago accompanied me as I drifted off to sleep.

NOTES:

[1] Ji Ruan, ‘Reflexions’ in 300 Gems of Classical Chinese Poetry, trans. by Yuanchong Xu (China: Peking University Press) pp. 88-89

[2] ‘A-Poh’ means ‘grandmother’ in Hainanese

[3] ‘A-Gong’ means ‘grandfather’ in Hainanese

[4] ‘Jia bui lo!’ means ‘time to eat’ in Hainanese (one of the Chinese dialects).

[5] ‘Luohan bed’ is a traditional Chinese furniture equivalent to the modern sofa-bed. It is made of wood, often containing a low wooden tea table set in the center.

[6] ‘Di-Di’ means ‘younger brother’ in Chinese

[7] ‘Mei-Mei’ means ‘younger sister’ in Chinese

[8] ‘Hua-Hua’ means ‘flower’ or ‘patterned’ in Mandarin which is a reference to the calico cat’s tri-coloured coat as well as the fact that calicos are called ‘Yin-Hua-Bu-Mao’. The naming is also a pun and an allusion the association it has with the memories her grandfather and his favourite flowers – the tan-huas.

[9] ‘Marchnad Caerdydd’ means ‘Cardiff Market’ in Welsh.

[10] Lauren Elkin, ‘A tribute to female flaneurs: the women who reclaimed our city streets’, in Flaneuse: Woman Walk the City, (London: Chatto & Windus, 2016)

[11] Virginia Woolf, 'Street Haunting', in Selected Essays (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), pp. 177 - 187

[12] ‘Dim-sum’ is a style of Chinese cuisine that’s prepared in small bite-sized portions served in small steamer baskets or on a small plate. It is also a metaphor in this story for a Chinese saying: 麻雀虽小，五脏俱全 meaning ‘small as it is, the sparrow has all the vital organs’. Just like dim-sum, the narrator’s happiness comes from a seemingly insignificant object such as a bowl of shrimp dumplings.

[13] ‘Nai-Nai’ means ‘paternal grandmother’ but can also be used as a general reference to or a friendlier and more affectionate way of addressing an old woman which is often used to show the closeness of the relationship.

[14] ‘Ye-Ye’ means ‘paternal grandfather but can also be used as a general reference to or a friendlier and more affectionate way of addressing an old man which is often used to show the closeness of the relationship.

[15] ‘Crystal shrimp dumplings’ also known as ‘Har-gao’ are a staple dim-sum dish made of prawn semi-translucent wraps kneaded from flour. In Chinese culture, dumplings are normally associated with togetherness and reunions since the wrapping of dumplings is a group activity that is usually done with family which helps emphasizes on the sense of belonging within the narrative.

[16] ‘Erhu’ is a traditional Chinese two-stringed fiddle.

[17] ‘Tan-hua’ also known as Epiphyllum Oxypetalum is a species of cactus found in South America and Southeast Asia that blooms rarely and only at night. In the Chinese culture’s language of flowers, the tan-hua means ‘an instant of beauty, a moment of eternity’, meaning beautiful things don’t last forever but they last forever in our memories.

Author's Notes:

Back with Part 3 of the short story slash prose pieces from uni series (this part was also written in second year lol) The story is back to the present, picking up a year after that rocky start in Part 1 and A-Yun is now in her second year of uni reminiscing about the time leading up to her departure for the UK. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed reading Part 3~

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4

Since exams are over and graded and I've officially graduated, I can finally post my work online without having to worry about Turnitin picking it up as plagiarism because apparently you aren't allowed to plagiarise yourself according to university which is absolutely ridiculous but I'm not the one making the rules here so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also, please don't reupload my works without permission.

#ninbayphua 墨彦 #prose #short story #constructive critisms are always welcomed #please don't repost without permission

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engineeredfiction · 4 years

Text

Space Is a Harsh Mistress Ch 3

AU: A blend of 1984, Rollerball (1975), Prospect, and We.

Warnings: Nothing in this chapter. Future warnings…violence, smut, angst, Ezra being Ezra.

Notes: I’m just doing this to break writer’s block but I hope it’s mildly entertaining. Part 3 of purposed 7 parts.I’m winging this! Also the formatting is shite.

Summary: Ezra is tasked to a life altering and nearly impossible task for a group of rebels.

There’s no starvation, no poverty, no suffering, and no wars. All that is asked for is your full cooperation.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 4

Ezra thumb the pages of his copy of We by Yevgeny Zamyatin and he happened to land on a particular page with the following quote:

...Those two, in paradise, were given a choice: happiness without freedom, or freedom without happiness. There was no third alternative…

He reread the lines until they were burned into his memory. Hard copies of books were hard to come by those days as products made from paper were heavily regulated in hopes to preserve Earth's entire tree population. The book Ezra held had yellowing around the borders of the stiffened pages. There were his pencil notes within the lines and an ink message on the first page to a person named Orielle from the book's prior owner. A loud buzzing sound from the shipping docks grabbed Ezra's attention.

He had been sitting where Dax told him to wait for the past thirty minutes on one of Mars's commercial docks. He scanned the docks until a familiar figure caught his eye. Aloisa was short and stocky compared to the group of men she was conversing with. Ezra could see through her tough persona wardrobe there was physical softness, but underneath was a system of muscular strength that has been fine tuned from years of training. She’s not physically weak and certainly not mentally weak, he thought. Her dark auburn hair was in the usual high bun he’s seen her wear previously. Even from his distance he could see her clear grey eyes and flirtatious smile. What is she talking about with them? She made eye contact him and smiled. Ezra closed the book, wrapped it in soft cloth, and placed it into his canvas satchel. Her approach was slow and deliberate. He recalled to himself:

...Those two, in paradise, were given a choice: happiness without freedom, or freedom without happiness. There was no third alternative…

Without removing her gaze from his face Aloisa asked, “Was that a book I saw? A bound book?”

“It is indeed a bound paper book,” Ezra hummed.

“Such a rare commodity. Honestly I wouldn’t have guessed you as a reader type, let alone own a physical book.” Ezra stiffened his lips and looked away. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to come off as an asshole. It’s just that many people don’t read...literature. I’m being presumptuous. What were you reading?”

“Well you have presumed correctly. A suitable work of art by Yevgeny Zamyatin,” Ezra shot at her.

“Russian literature, impressive. A subversive piece of literature if I recall correctly,” she beamed. “Your ship is ready. Would you like a tour?”

“You wrap your demands in a cloak of pleasant inquiries?” Ezra wearily smiled at her. He was sure he could run off at any time and they would be forced to find someone else. Yet, he knew too much now. The business of sneaking human commodities away from The United Corps had one exit and it was death.

***********************

The Opportunity was a few decades old, but still highly functional and offered more space and amenities than Ezra’s antiquated ship. Ezra’s hand glided along the seats of the flight deck. His fingers lingered on the control panels. His calloused fingers felt every button, knob, and lever. He felt out of his element as he took in the aged grandeur of Opportunity’s technology.

“I don’t know if I can fly this,” he choked.

“I can,” Aloisa rebutted, “so that’s not an issue.”

Ezra turned to face her, “You’ll be gracing me with your presence?”

“Of course,” she laughed, “You can’t fly my ship.”

“It’s yours?”

“Officially I am the prime owner and you’re the sub. I don’t have the mining credentials to get through The Final Wall. Mining credentials...are out of our league to fake apparently and we have no friends on The Final Wall, yet.”

The Final Wall was a term dubbed during the early days of The United Corps for the perimeter between Pluto and the Kuiper Belt. More than a dozen of Final Fleet ships were scattered about with military personnel and weapons stationed to make sure no one escaped the paradise of The United Corps. Rendering a ship untraceable to pass the The Final Wall is impossible and a fleet ship could detect a rebel one from a far off distance. Only certified ships and their operators with proper IFF transponders could go beyond. Ezra’s prior long standing certifications proved to be valuable.

“Where do we need to go?” Ezra asked as he plopped down in the pilot chair and swivelled around to face Aloisa.

“We need to drop off the payload...at Proxima Sol Alpha base. With this ship it’ll take us two years. We put the payload, so to speak, in hypersleep. It’ll save on resources and there’ll be no noise to pick up on by the Final Fleet. We could take turns in hyper if you prefer.”

“And that is it? We take a two year vacation to transport...goods and come back?”

“Yes, exactly.” Aloisa waited for a response from Ezra, he was deep in thought and no longer made eye contact with her. “Would you like to see the kitchen and quarters?”

The kitchen was outfitted in white streamline furnishings and a garden wall. Ezra thumbed a basil leaf, it was soft and crushed easily between his fingers. The heavy aroma stimulated his senses. Garden walls were a real treat in ships. They provided fresh food, oxygen, and were visually pleasing among the many dull walls that kept them safe from the vacuum of space.

Ezra knew Aloisa was observing him, it didn’t bother him. She stood in the corner with her arms crossed, her eyes followed him as he moved through the kitchen. A stove, a sink, coffee machine, electric kettle, cupboards, a variety of utensils, and packaged spices. This ship has been lived in and taken care of, Ezra thought. This ship has been well loved and it’s apparent from the state of the kitchen. He appreciated it. His hand guided him around the counter space and Ezra met Aloisa’s gaze. She looks disquieted.

The quarters were spacious for a ship of Opportunity’s size due to some of them being converted to hold extra hypersleep pods. There were four small quarters the size of walk-in closets and two large ones with decent sized beds.

“The mattresses are firm, so I hope you like to sleep on a rock. It’s good for the back supposedly. The lights are dimmable, you have a closet, a safe, smart mirror, and the lavatories are just down the hall with a shower. Rooms are soundproof,” Aloisa stated as if she had memorised a speech.

Ezra gave the personal quarter a final look. The light gave a warm glow that soothed and comforted him if only temporary. The glow radiated across Aloisa’s face, he found he couldn’t take his eyes off her face. She propped herself up against the door frame and was staring at an imaginary spot on the floor. She had a scar perpendicular on her left eyebrow, faded by time. Her scarred eyebrow raised when she felt him.

“What’s your verdict? You haven’t said it to me yet,” she declared.

“I know I’m not the most moral man in the universe. I have done questionable things Kevva only knows. But this is a venture that is bigger than I have ever done. It’s bigger than my scope. I’m not familiar with extravagant transportation, missions, or danger that could potentially bring innocent people to a demise. I’ve known Dax for nearly a generation and he gambled on me,” Ezra admitted. He wasn’t sure why he said what he did to a stranger.

“Do you think he made an erroneous gamble?”

Ezra hung his head down. Clearly Dax thought highly of him to trust him with this mission. Twenty lives depended on being transported to Proxima Sol Alpha safely and without notice.

“I’ve been in peril before,” he nodded to where his right arm should be, “I’ve been shot, poisoned, abandoned, and this task should not be weighing on my mind as heavy as it does.”

“Do you think it’s because this is the first time you were made aware that the system is not a favourable one to so many while it’s been extremely favourable to you even though it may not have seemed that way? That if caught, you would be sentenced to the fighting ring until they deemed it was your time to go?”

“To think being stranded on a death-dealing planet with little food was a privilege. You are willing to risk your own life for these people?”

“At times like this we have to make a choice between what’s morally right and the law. I like to think I’m making the morally right choice, are you?” She straightened her posture as Ezra bit his lower lip and moved closer to her, he could feel her breath against his chest. “Dax will be depositing an extra five thousand credits into your account today.”

“So I can get a new arm?”

“You can do whatever you want with it, but you should definitely say yes out loud to me. I know you already made up your mind, but I need to hear you say it to me, to my face,” she insisted.

“How do you know I have resolved to do this mission? I know I didn’t give Dax an affirmative,” Ezra retorted.

“You’re reading a Zamyatin novel. You’ve been a rebel all your life and you never knew it,” she said sternly.

Ezra conceded, “My answer is a yes, I’ll use my highly valuable certifications to get you and a sleeping payload to Proxima Sol Alpha safely.”

#Pedro Pascal #ezra prospect #dystopian future #dystopia #space is a harsh mistresses #sci fi writing #sci fi #science fiction #prospect (2018)#writing #yevgeny zamyatin

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imhereforbvcky · 5 years

Text

Vivid - Part 4

Masterlist - Series Masterpage

Summary: Have you ever met someone who completely embodies a color? Not an aura, not synesthesia. Just… They walk into the room and when you spot them, you think to yourself, “Wow. That is a walking hurricane.” When Clint Barton serendipitously meets a free-spirited stranger, he sees red. Chapter: After dropping in on Clint unexpectedly, you are the one left surprised.

Word Count: 2641

A/N: I’m not even going to pretend I didn’t go for the low-hanging fruit of plot points here. Sorry, not that sorry. I grew tired of belaboring series for the sake of ingenuity. It’s fanfiction, not a pulitzer novel. I want to enjoy writing it sometimes.

1:30am was early. Or was it late, technically if you hadn’t slept yet? Too late for most people, at any rate. But not for you, and not for Clint.

It had been that kind of week and you’d celebrated its conclusion with that kind of night. Which had led you giggling and bumbling into the bodega. And that excursion, of course, then led to thinking of Clint so fondly that you decided to drop by his place.

At 1:30 in the morning.

Totally normal.

“Clint!” Your voice clanged through the open windows of his apartment where he had slung himself over the couch with a two year old bag of frozen peas against his cheek.

He bolted upright, waiting as if he’d dreamt it, as if it had been some phantom of the concussion he was now sporting. Natasha stood in the kitchen, stuffing spinach into the blender but perked an eyebrow at him. He ignored her with great effort.

“Clint, buzz me in!” you called again and this time he crawled to the window and peeked just over the sill, fingertips clinging to the peeling wood. “My hands are full!”

He could see now that it was true. You balanced an enormous pizza box on one forearm and squished a tub of ice cream and a 2-litre of coke in the other.

“Shut the fuck up!” a neighbor hollered and Clint cringed, ducking back below the window.

“You shut the fuck up!” You snapped back.

Clint chuckled from his spot with his back to the wall, knees curled to his chest with the streetlight’s orange glow shooting just over him like a failed search-light.

This was one of the things he liked about you, though it scared him: you were trouble, red hot emotion constantly bubbling just below the surface. Sure, you laughed quickly, but you also cried at Finding Nemo, and angered to boiling at the very first offense. His neighbor experienced the full force of it tonight.

“It’s 1:30 in the morning! Go home!”

“Yeah, I’m aware, Greg. Thanks for the time check!” you shouted back. “Clint! Pizza – burning! Ice cream – freezing!”

“This is bullshit,” the neighbor grumbled. “I’m callin’ the cops!”

“You do that! You fuckin’ do that!”

Natasha snorted from the kitchen. “Are you gonna get that or?”

“When they get here, I’ll make sure to mention those neat little five-leaf plants you’ve got in your bathroom window! They’re so green!” You continued your tirade until you heard the sharp buzz of the door unlocking. “And the smell, boy I think a skunk might’ve walked by…!”

“Fuck you!”

“Nice chat, Greg!” you hollered as you tugged the door open with your elbow.

Inside Natasha stood at the intercom with a wicked grin on her lips. Clint buried his face in his hands, elbows on his knees.

“Why did you do that? Ow!” he complained at the pressure of his own hands on his bruised cheekbone.

“Because you didn’t,” she shrugged, propping the door open by the deadbolt. “Were you just going to let your girl get arrested? That is her right? Your secret person?”

“She’s not a secret. She’s also not… my girl.”

“If it’s not a secret why were you hiding?”

“Because it’s almost 2am and you’re here! What do you think she’ll make of that?” he snapped.

Natasha scowled at him. “That I’m your friend. Who’s keeping an eye on you after you got pistol-whipped by a Hulk-sized alien on an assignment.”

Before Clint could complain further you were pushing through the door.

“Okay, I got pepperoni because I’m cheap and let’s be honest; it’s the best.”

He’d jumped to his feet to help you, taking the pizza as you shifted the ice cream and coke out of your arms.

“Pepperoni’s my favorite.” He smiled something soft and warm.

Spending time with Clint always felt like no time at all. Like you were exactly where you needed to be and time didn’t matter. Every last thing felt comfortable and content and you didn’t worry about a damn thing. The buzzing fire in your veins settled to a cool shiver. Your favorite place in the city was standing right there under the relaxed calm of his smile.

“Yeah, I know,” you grinned, finally turning your eyes up to him. The smile dropped as quickly as it came. “Holy shit! Your face!”

“I mean, I know I’m no Steve Rogers, but that’s a little harsh,” he joked.

“It’s a very good face, except for the grapefruit sized bruise,” you cooed, holding his chin and turning his head side with exaggerated scrutiny. “What the hell happened?!”

Finally, your fingers slid over the sides of his neck until they rested on his shoulder. It was just a light touch, just a flutter, just enough to excite a shiver up his neck and over his scalp. Goosebumps prickled across his skin as the only evidence.

“Jerk snuck up on me,” he hedged. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have, so he shrugged and tipped his head, leaning slightly into your lingering touch. “I’ve had worse.”

“You need some ice.”

Despite all his wishing, you released him. Your fingertips still tingled with the scratch of his stubble as you’d moved over his skin.

The second you turned for the kitchen, your racing heart stopped completely.

“I… h-hi,” you managed, eyes wide and frozen on Natasha.

She waved her fingers in a fluid sweep and pulsed the blender on the smoothie she’d been graciously waiting to finish making.

“Did uh…” you murmured, turning to Clint while he lifted to his cheek the pack of frozen peas Natasha had tossed at him not ten minutes earlier. “Did you know there’s an Avenger in your kitchen?”

He chuckled, glancing to Natasha whose brow pinched together slightly for the briefest moment.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, she’s keeping an eye on the…” he pointed to his cheek, to the violent purple bruise blossoming across his skin like the purple-black petals of a superstition iris.

“Uh-huh. Uh-huh,” you answered, eyes back on Natasha, in total awe. You’d seen her on CNN for fuck’s sake. She exposed HYDRA. And told Capitol Hill to fuck off. And not even the deepest halls of the US government knew what else.

Yet here she stood in your friend’s kitchen. At two in the morning.

“She and I… we go way back…” Clint started and stopped. How the hell was he supposed to explain his relationship with Nat? It was well beyond friendship, closer than family. There was so much love, but not the same kind of stomach flipping, tongue glued to your teeth, tripping over your feet sort of love that clawed up from somewhere long forgotten whenever you breezed into the room, all red and alive and gleaming. Either relationship was well beyond words to Clint. Certainly beyond his word bank.

“Oh,” you nodded. Then a moment later, “Oh!”

Natasha caught your assumption immediately and turned to Clint with a sharp look. He was too busy trying to find words that would never suffice to stop the freight train that had just jumped the tracks in your mind.

“I… you guys are…” you stammered, walking backward toward the door and pointing between them. “I just didn’t think you had a um… Well not that you couldn’t,” you laughed anxiously. “I mean, you’re funny and so kind and you’ve got those arms there, and shit,” you slammed an open palm on your forehead. “I’m just uh… I’m gonna go.”

By the time you’d finished rambling you had backed your way to the door with a thumb pointing over your shoulder. Without another fumbled word, you spun on the spot and slipped out.

“Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.” Clint complained. With each curse, his forehead thunked against the counter top

“Probably not good for the concussion, Barton,” Natasha chuckled

“That’s alright. A coma would be better right about now anyway.”

There was a light knock before you peeked back inside. Clint perked up and breathed your name, relieved beyond words to see your face again, when he’d thought he’d blown it, lost it already and entirely.

“I’m just gonna…” you took three long strides to the kitchen and swiped the tub of ice cream off the counter before scampering back out with even more haste.

Natasha burst into laughter. Chest full, and dimples deeply carved with mirth. Clint slid to the floor with a groan.

“So are you gonna stop her or do I have to do everything?”

“Stop her how? Say what?”

“Well for starters tell her you’re an Avenger. We’re teammates and frie—“

“She knows who I am,” he grumbled, reaching overhead for the pizza box.

“She knows Clint Barton, the idiot who drinks coffee all night long and eats way too much pizza. The guy who’s always there at two a.m., who makes her laugh, and who apparently has nice arms,” she chuckled.

“Shut up,” he argued with a grin slowly dragging over his face.

“She absolutely does not know what you do for a living.” She handed him the smoothie and he scowled at it.

“I saw her at a promotional fundraiser,” he argued. “She had to know. It’s the only reason I was there.”

“Clint. You were SHIELD first: a spy. Your identity was protected. Then the battle of New York, you mostly kept to rooftops; the media didn’t exactly get any close-ups. You don’t do the press meetings. Unless someone’s looking for Hawkeye especially… you can get away with being a little bit anonymous.”

“Shit,” he mumbled through a bite of pizza. “She said something about there being Avengers at the fundraiser, I thought she was joking! And she totally froze when she recognized you… She has no idea, does she?”

Natasha offered a sympathetic look and a shrug.

“This is embarrassing. How have I never talked about work?”

“I think it’s nice,” she curled up on the floor next to him, stealing a sip of the smoothie. “She just likes you. And you have something outside of the job. It’s good. You need that. We all do.”

He nodded, scooping up another slice of pizza. “I need to tell her though.”

“Obviously.”

“How does she not see it?”

“That you’re Hawkeye or that you’re head over heels?”

He scowled at her and pushed his glass back into her hands. “This smoothie’s gross.”

A week and a half later and Clint had not told you a thing. Instead, he crouched on the edge of the rooftop, peering down at the row of warehouses. Some of them were abandoned. The rest had simply gone still for the night.

Steady fingers spread like a claw over the concrete. Lightly booted feet curled into sharp demi-pointe. If he weren’t in dark leather and neoprene, strapped over and over with sleek pointed weapons and exactly one SHIELD issue handgun, he might’ve looked like a dancer. Clint was always light on his feet, tall and strong in a way that made him agile and lithe.

“Something’s not right,” he worried aloud, clear blue eyes flashing on the small group of giggling twenty-somethings that teetered into the building he was meant to be watching. Abandoned warehouse, one door east and two south of his position.

“Ya think?” Bucky grumbled, watching through the scope of his rifle as the last of them disappeared behind the heavy steel door. The distant ker-thunk of its closing echoed up to his ears a moment later and his finger twitched over the safety. He knew it was in place. Bucky knew his guns like they were permanently attached to his body, but he checked it just in case.

These did not look like the villains they were after.

“That’s the sixth group of idiots in band tees to go in since we got up here.” Clint relaxed by a hair now that there was nothing and no one to see down below. His heels met concrete once more, and he squared his body over his knees. He still looked ready to leap, but less like he was mid-lunge, less like a swooping predator. “It’s supposed to be empty.”

Empty except for the group dealers the Avengers had tracked down. The ones who serviced illegally salvaged alien weaponry out of the abandoned warehouse one building east and two south of Clint’s current perch. The club they intended to lasso tonight in the building that was now teeming with bystanders.

“Only question now…” Bucky dragged the cross-hairs of his scope onto a new group headed toward the building. “Is whether it’s just bad intel, or a set up.”

Clint sighed and turned his attention to the small group as well. A couple of women. They seemed happy. One of them passed something small to another and hopped forward, a small dance in every step. Clint hadn’t noticed he was smiling. It was small and involuntary, the tiniest curve of his lips. The woman threw her head back and held a bottle to her lips, no doubt singing into it. Clint caught a glimmer of color when they passed under a street light and froze.

Red.

“No, no, no, no, no,” he murmured, rapid-fire. This time, crouching further even than before, his fingers curled around the thick ledge of the wall and his feet remained beneath him, arched up on pads, ready to leap.

“What?” Bucky pulled away from his scope, scanning the area for danger, for whatever had Clint so literally on edge. “What do you see?” Eye back on the scope, he saw nothing unusual about the group. So he swept the door, the windows, the roof of the building. Empty. “Clint!”

“Not here,” his voice was a breathless plea. “She shouldn’t be here.”

“Who?!”

Clint looked frantic, fingers gripping and regripping the rough ledge like every fresh hold bolstered him in place, reminded him that he was part of a team and he needed to hold his position.

“Barton!” Bucky barked again. “Who?”

“The one with the coke bottle!”

“Yeah?” Bucky settled on her through the scope, red bottle, red cap inches from equally red lips. Same band tee as everyone else. To Bucky, a harmless, unremarkable civilian. “I’m not seeing it, man. This is a live mission, Clint! If you see something off, you’ve gotta tell me. Who the hell is she?”

“She’s—she’s… I don’t know… We--I…”

Agitated by his partner’s distress, Bucky followed the woman, kept her tightly within his cross-hairs and with a gentle practiced finger snapped the safety off.

“She’s a friend. A… She’s my person.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Barton?!” Bucky clicked the safety back in place and glared at his partner, his friend. He was ready to fire on a civilian because Clint couldn’t form a sentence when he laid eyes on a goddamn crush.

“I’ve got action on the southwest corner,” Sam’s voice crackled over the comlink. “Definitely packing.”

Bucky, still glaring at Clint, saw his eyes go wide and the decision flash firm in his jaw. Bucky only managed two words after that.

“Clint, don’t—!“

But Clint had already launched himself over the edge of the building.

It wasn’t a long drop. The buildings weren’t skyscrapers, just a couple of stories high, just enough for a few forklifts to create monuments to forgotten consumerism out of crates and pallets.

His landing was loud anyway. Clint rolled onto the empty roof of a delivery truck with the deep bellow of reverberating aluminum. The noise was thunderous, almost matching Bucky’s anger, but Clint kept rolling, right down the windshield until he found his feet on the hood and leapt forward onto crumbling pavement. Then he ran.

“The hell was that?” Natasha worried in Bucky’s earpiece.

“Barton’s lost his goddamn mind over a girl,” he grumbled in answer. “He’s on the ground now. I’ll cover.”

Chapter 5 >>

#clint x reader #clint x barton reader #clint x reader angst #clint barton x reader angst #clint fanfic #clint barton fanfic #avengers fanfic #vivid 4 #vivid part 4

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calleo-bricriu · 4 years

Text

Business as Usual.

(( This was some Discord RP and conversation with @directoryandle & Calleo that I decided to clean up months later.

Most of the RP that lead to it took place off of Tumblr as well but the gist of it comes down to:

1. Calleo did, as he usually does by virture of the kind of magic he works with, end up attracting attention he didn't want in the form of @absintheabsence ‘s Grindelwald.

2. He avoided most of it for the better part of a decade by either refusing to see anyone that was sent to try and convince him to go willingly using his, "Get on my calendar, which is packed full for the foreseeable future" deflection method, not answering owls, or occasionally answering the more interesting owls that might have come wrapped in complicated spell work with what can be most succinctly described as, "Thanks, that was fun! But, also, still not interested."

3. Eventually, the grandfather on his mother's side, who is an amazing person that helped design and at least begin execution of a couple of different genocide plans, was sent to talk to Calleo's mother who would then (it was assumed) talk to Calleo, which didn't work out well as she interpreted it as a threat toward her only kid and cut contact.

4. By that point, it was late 1939, and there was a shift in tactics requesting one of the Ministry's archivists visit for Perfectly Benign Work Related Reasons, nobody else in their right mind wanted to set foot anywhere near continental Europe, Calleo drew the short straw in the department, and was told to "just go and get it over with, they're not going to kill you."

5. They didn't kill him, but it was clearly one of those things that was planned out well enough that they'd been banking on the Department of Mysteries making Calleo go and he was pretty quickly snapped up and thrown into a cell in Nurmengard to sit for a few days while the building temporarily stripped him of the ability to use magic to make sure he couldn't fight back in a way that might have been dangerous to anyone.

6. And he was given two ultimatums by @absintheabsence after he decided he was done fucking Calleo up enough over the whole 10+ years of daring to not be super interested and eager to jump ship--and also over a lot of really terrible puns and Calleo still being more than happy to still run his mouth because if you’re probably going to die anyway you might as well:

#1. Stay, and everything will be nice or be let go and have everyone who might have meant anything to him be targeted in retribution for the rudeness of not being impressed enough to want to voluntarily stay. Possibly safe to say that Grindelwald had no concept of what the word "voluntarily" meant but, there you go.

AND

#2. Be a glorified, but typically caged, house pet more or less, or go back and spend the next however long it takes you to die down there sitting in one of the prisoner cells that keeps you from using magic and is staffed by people who have no business being in charge of other people.

He chose the "stay 'voluntarily' as a glorified house pet" option with the negotiated aspect of, "Fine, but you have to make it look like a kidnapping so I can go back to work at the Ministry later," (which was accepted because, of course, Grindelwald was of the opinion that there was no conceivable way he could lose the war) and spent the next five or so years confined to one of about three rooms in the Not Prison areas of Nurmengard.

By 1945, it was "later". Once occupying forces had both decided to check the towers to see if anyone was up there and verified he was who he said he was (which was, above all else, “property of the Department of Mysteries”; nobody typically wants to keep the Department of Mysteries from getting its stolen things back in a timely manner), got what amounted to, "Either go to his office and get my card deck and runes out of the top right drawer or let me go and get them, then I'm going back to London", got his two things back, and...went immediately back to work. ))

Calleo briefly paused after stepping out of the lift, mostly out of amazement that it was working properly and not broken down again; a quick glance at the magic still--not quite humming, but not exactly falling to pieces just yet--going around them told him they'd been recently propped back up in a way that clearly stated it hadn't been Maintenance's work.

Director must have done it at some point in the recent past.

The three offices directly off of the lift, Calleo noticed, were still empty and looked to have been empty since he'd left. Even before he'd left, they'd been empty since mid-1926. Trying to get the Director to either hire three new people or let him do it had been a losing, uphill battle as the Director's main focus had been keeping attention off of the Archvies due to the political climate and hiring anyone would have swiveled attention down that way.

He figured he'd find out just how far behind the department had fallen sooner rather than later as it'd likely be one of the first few things the Director would say to him.

He also wasn't about to stop in to the Director's office for a chat as chances were the answer the Director would have about how far behind the department was would have the word 'years' tacked on behind the number so Calleo opted for the same, deadpan, automatic, "'Morning, Director," he'd been using since 1912, kept walking, and settled back at his desk to figure out what (if anything) had been left just sitting there for the last five years and what was inexplicably newer.

Wouldn't have been the first time Director Yandle had either simply left old work there for Calleo or dropped something newer off, assuming he'd be in eventually.

Director Yandle heard the lift doors open and shut and didn't think all that much of it at first. People did still come down to the Archives, after all. Not often, but they did still come down now and again. For the most part, it was nearly always someone from Magical Law Enforcement wanting him to look up some tidbit of information here and there, but nothing that took too much of his time.

This morning, however, his routine of quiet was shattered by the old routine of anything but quiet starting up again.

If he'd been anyone else, Calleo might have had someone apparate directly into his office if only out of complete and utter surprise that he'd just--turned back up without any explanation after having been gone for half a decade without any explanation.

The Director had a better grip on himself and despite that being his first inclination, he instead finished the paperwork he'd been working on, sent it off, and very calmly stood and walked into Calleo's office, stopping directly in front of his Archivist's desk.

He gave Calleo a good minute to stop what he was doing and acknowledge that someone else was there and when that didn't happen, the Director laid his hands on the desk and leaned partway across it, and spoke.

"Where the HELL have you been?" That wasn't strictly what he'd meant to say, and he surprised himself with how venomous it came out. He had meant to ask where Calleo had been just...not quite that aggressively.

"Up a tower."

Calleo had noticed that Director Yandle had entered the room and that he was standing on the other side of the desk; he was also not necessarily in the mood for conversation, especially conversation liable to spin him off on an entire rant about where he'd been and what he'd been doing for the last few years.

While he hadn't been doing anything horrible or even questionable, and couldn't even say that it had been all that unpleasant. Still, it was something he'd done because non-compliance would have made everything markedly worse and it certainly wasn't something he wanted to chat with his department director about.

The noise Calleo received as a response could best be described as derisive disbelief with the repeating of what he'd just said confirming it. Up a tower indeed; what kind of answer was that? He'd been gone for years! The only things that might have spent years "up a tower" were bats and pigeons and Calleo was neither of those things as far as the Director was aware.

"You can't possibly expect me to believe you've spent five years in a tower somewhere! Why didn't you just leave?"

"The door was locked from the outside." Calleo shrugged matter-of-factly.

"And not one hundred percent of the time, no," the first part of his response was more a sigh than words, "but it was where I spent the majority of my time. In that regard, I do expect you to believe it."

"You ought to be grateful I know what year it is as anyone else walking into this office and looking at the papers on my desk might assume time stopped in--" Calleo paused briefly to leaf through the papers, "--early autumn of 1939, which I'm certain," he purposely did not miss smacking Director Yandle's hands with a rolled up copy of that morning's Daily Prophet, with the date showing the year to be 1945 facing up, "it did not."

"It's been five years. You've been gone for five years without a single word!" Director Yandle snatched his hands back after having them swatted, not at all under the impression that it had been done accidentally, and idly rubbed the back of one of them.

"Yes, and that's largely your fault, isn't it?" Calleo still hadn't looked up from what he was working on, a fact that both did not escape the Director and did nothing to de-escalate the building argument. Also not helping to de-escalate anything was the fact that Calleo's rhetorical question was spat back at Director Yandle with the same venom as the Director's initial greeting of Calleo contained.

"You are, after all, the one who decided granting that request was a good idea. If you'd had a bit more sense, you'd have ignored it the same way I ignored it for over a decade; I'll be expecting back pay, including weekends and holidays, as an aside," he continued as a long overdue piece of paperwork folded itself and flew out of the room to finally be delivered, "since I was technically sent 'on Ministry business' on your orders."

In an instant, the Director was on the other side of the desk and Calleo had found his chair (with him in it) whipped around to face the other Wizard. Calleo had managed to move his arms out of the way before Director Yandle could pin them against the chair arms when his own hands slammed down onto them and it didn't help matters at all that Calleo casually reached over one of the Director's arms to pick up the paperwork he'd been reading to continue reading it.

When his idiot subordinate didn't have the courtesy to put the paperwork down, Director Yandle snatched it out of his hands and threw it back onto the desk while, in the same motion, grabbing Calleo's jaw to force the other man to look at him.

It struck the Director that the look he initially received from Calleo reminded him more of a teenager annoyed at being lectured for having missed curfew than it did of a Wizard only a few months shy of sixty who had (allegedly) been what would have technically amounted to a prisoner of war at this point.

Still, Calleo didn't make any move to pull away and instead only slipped a hand up between himself and Director Yandle to remove his glasses, after which he simply sat there and waited for the Director to finish looking for whatever it was he was looking for in his mind.

"The next time one of these Dark Lords pops up, Calleo," slowly the grip he had on Calleo released, and he was now leaning on the chair arms again and passively watching, "do both of us a favour and just keep your head down."

"And how is it you imagined I survived this one?" Calleo's mostly neutral expression split into a sharp grin as Director Yandle drew back from the statement alone, allowing Calleo to turn back toward his desk and pick up the paperwork that had been rudely all but smacked from his hands a few minutes prior.

For what seemed much longer than only a few seconds, the Director stood there trying to decide whether or not he wanted to think too much about the answer to that question and eventually decided that he absolutely did not. He did, however, fish a book of matches with a particularly clever illustration of a cat and some pun he couldn't seem to fully recall offhand out of one of his pockets.

The book of matches he dropped directly in front of Calleo before Director Yandle turned to head back to his own office, "Light yourself back up and get to work; we're three years behind."

A few minutes later, through the thin wall separating his office from the Director's came muffled-by-a-layer-of-books-on-each-side, "Good morning to you as well."

#v: ftbawtft #hp rp #long post #stories #The stupid question of why didn't you leave got met with the equally stupid answer of the door was locked #Keep my head down? Director how exactly do you think I managed to not die and not be thrown into an actual prison cell?#BUT ALSO I WAS KEEPING MY HEAD DOWN UNTIL YOU MADE ME GO BECAUSE YOU DON'T LIKE CONFRONTATION #You can bet by the 70s Calleo was just not having any more of that dark lord nonsense #and anyone sent probably got to Hi I'm here on behalf of the Dark Lor--#before being cut off like a telemarketer with not interested don't call me again

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crazy-little-cool-cat · 5 years

Text

Hand in Glove - Chapter 13 | Ben Hardy x OFC

A/N: Well, this is interesting. I really didn’t expect to finish this chapter so soon but Saturday was very productive and I got to work from home, which means I got 0 work done but instead chose to write. It is what it is.

Word Count: ~4.2K

Warnings: Implied smut, actually. Fluff. Lots of Clara/Annie time, lots of Gwil/Ben time. Drinking, swearing, the usual.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12

“It’s just an expression!”

“You called me a loser. Me!”

“Considering the fact that my girlfriend is a lot hotter than your girlfriend,” Ben glanced at Gwil, “I’d say it’s definitely a possibility.”

“First of all, that is disgusting!” Gwil faked a gag. “Second of all, I’m not the one who knocked up his mentally unstable girlfriend.”

“She’s not mentally unstable!”

“Right, okay,” Gwil snickered, “just crazy, then?”

“She’s not crazy.”

“Yep, sure.”

“She isn’t! Will you please put something else on, for fuck’s sake? I can’t believe you’re a Tom Jones fan!” Ben rolled his eyes. “God, you’re like an eighty year old man!”

“Fine, I’ll just put on some Abba then -”

“No!!!”

“Queen?”

“Might as well. We could rehearse.”

“I feel bad, rehearsing without the rest of the band.”

“She’s not mentally unstable!”

“Oh, back to that, then?” Gwil chuckled, “alright.”

“She just loves really, really hard.” Ben looked over at Gwil, who nodded slowly with puckered lips. “What?”

“I’ve never heard a more accurate description, is all.”

Ben and Gwil jumped a little when Roger’s screaming falsetto attacked them from the speakers. Frankie started howling along. Gwil quickly fumbled with the volume knob, turning it down to a reasonable volume.

“Ben, do you think you can go that high?”

“Once, Annie accidentally kneed me in the groin and I’m pretty sure I did.”

###

Clara held up her third glass of wine with one hand as she pulled the hem of her oversized Wonder Woman t-shirt over her folded knees. She looked from her glass of wine to Annie’s bump, humming pensively.

“Banana?” Clara tilted her head slightly, “I wanna try something. Don’t breathe!”

“What?!”

“Stop breathing!”

“I need to breathe, you plum!” Annie scoffed. “What are you planning?”

“Lemme!” Clara leaned forward and carefully hovered her wine glass over Annie’s bump.

“Oh, God,” Annie rolled her eyes and leaned back, “fine. Go ahead.”

“Yay!” Clara’s eyes lit up.

“But if I end up smelling like a drunk housewife, I’ll cut you.”

“You would never!”

“You know I would.” Annie glared at her best friend.

“Yeah, yeah,” Clara chuckled, “you still owe me a disembowelment from five years ago. All bark,” Clara placed the glass on Annie’s bump and leaned back, her hands in the air, smiling proudly. “No bite.”

Annie grabbed the glass and brought it to her nose, taking a deep breath.

“Bumpy,” Annie looked down and rubbed her bump with her other hand, “is it okay if mummy has a sip?”

“Annie!” Clara gasped just as Bumpy kicked Annie’s bladder.

“Guess not!” Annie grimaced and passed the glass off to Clara, scrambling to her feet and running as best as she could to the loo.

Annie didn’t even bother closing the door behind her. Wiggling her hips, she sat down and sighed with relief when Clara appeared in the doorway, wine glass in hand.

“Is the sex any different? Now that you’re preggers?” Clara glanced at her glass and downed its’ contents. “Like, super sensitive and whatnot?”

“I don’t know.” Annie tapped her toes on the tile flooring, leaning her elbows on her knees. She propped her chin on the palm of her hand and sighed. "Sex with Ben is always different.”

“I mean,” Clara leaned against the door frame and flipped her glass upside down, “I heard someone say it was like having sex while high on MJ”.

“He’s just so surprising,” Annie gushed as she rolled toilet paper around her hand, “can you please just turn around for a sec?”

“Banana, I’ve seen your bizz more times than I care to admit.”

“Yeah, but not when I peed!”

“Fine. I’ll just go pour me some more fun juice.”

“Yes!” Annie nodded, “you do that! You’re drinking for both of us now!”

“He’s just so freaking hot!” Clara yelled from the kitchen.

“I know!” Annie sighed with a smile, thinking of Ben. Suddenly, the realization hit her - maybe Clara wasn’t talking about Gwil anymore? “Wait! Who?”

###

“I know you’re in a rush,” Gwil was dancing in his seat, and not because of the music, “but I need to make a quick stop.”

“Christ, Gwil, even Frankie can hold it!” Ben groaned.

“First you call me a loser,” Gwil huffed, “then you compare me to a dog. Frankie?” Gwil twisted in his seat to look back at the sleepy pup, “need to go pee pee?”

Frankie started wagging her tail, slapping it against the back seat. Ben rolled his eyes and pulled over, turning his blinkers on.

“Well, go ahead then, you big baby!” he muttered as Gwil opened his door and took a few steps into the darkness. He drummed along to the music on the steering wheel as he waited for Gwil’s lanky body to collapse back into the passenger seat. “All good?”

“All good.”

The song on the playlist changed and a familiar riff played through. Ben laughed at Gwil’s music, his eyebrows shooting up.

“TLC?” Ben chuckled, “seriously?”

“Hey, I don’t want no scrubs, okay?”

“My God…”

Gwil started lip-syncing along to the lyrics, adding dramatic hand gestures. Ben laughed but couldn’t help but join in. Soon enough, Gwil was filming them both rocking it out to No Scrubs and sent it to Joe. Without fail, Joe’s hysterical voice came through the speaker phone.

“What is this?!”

“Hey buddy!” Ben glanced over at Gwil, who was still doing his interpretive dance. “What are you doing up?”

“Where are you?!”

“On our way to Truro.”

“Who the fuck is that?!”

“God, you’re so bloody American…” Gwil finally spoke. “It’s not who. It’s where.”

“Well, where the fuck is that?!”

“About five hours away?” Ben looked at his navigation app, “well, we’re halfway there, so two and a half hours.”

“But why?”

“Because Ben is impulsive and Annie is holding my girlfriend hostage.” Gwil said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the universe.

“You’re going to see Annie?”

“Yep.” Ben couldn’t stop smiling.

“Is he smiling like an idiot?” Joe asked.

“He sure is.” Gwil snorted.

“Have fun, guys.”

###

“It’s been 84 years, Annie!” Clara face-planted into a throw pillow on the sofa, “I’m not okay!”

“It’s literally been just over a week!”

“I miss Gwil!”

“I know, it’s all you’ve been saying for the last hour.” Annie yawned.

“I just wish he was here, okay?” Clara whined. “I have needs!”

“Please don’t talk about your needs.”

“Alright, my little cautionary tale,” Clara teased, “I won’t. We’ve seen where needs will get you.”

“Excuse you!” Annie kicked her gently, “you apologise to Bumpy right now!”

“No!”

“Clara, you will never get to see this baby -”

“Okay!” Clara groaned, “I’m sorry, Bumpy.”

“Apology accepted.”

“I need Gwil.” Clara sighed, cuddling up to Annie’s side.

“As appalled as I am by it,” Annie stroked Clara’s hair, “I get it. I need Ben.”

They sat together in comfortable silence for a few minutes, lost in thought.

“I have an idea!” Clara almost fell face-first into the coffee table in her rush to get to her phone. Tapping clumsily at the screen, she turned on the front camera and curled back up to Annie’s side. “Hear me out on this one.”

“All ears.”

“What if we do a boomerang and send it to Gwil?” Clara had a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, “I mean, Ben and Gwil are together for sure. Killing two birds with one stone and whatnot.”

“Okay?”

“So we’re going to pretend to go in for a kiss, yeah?”

“Clara, if you want to make out with me, you can just ask and I’ll say no.”

“Get over yourself, love!” Clara scoffed, “I’m not going to kiss you for real!”

“Good, Ben wouldn’t like that.”

“I have a feeling he would, actually.” Clara held her phone up in front of them, trying to get a good angle, “okay, ready?”

“You’re all shaky, Clara!” Annie snatched the phone away, “God you have zero tolerance for alcohol, you leaf!”

Clara rolled her eyes and took Annie’s face in her hands. They counted to three and leaned in, parting their lips and bumping their noses together.

“Right, let’s see what we got!” Clara rubbed her hands before reaching for her phone. “Oh, yeah, they’ll like this.”

“Let me see!” Annie tilted Clara’s hand and peered at the screen. “Oh. Yes.”

###

“What the…” Gwil mumbled as he looked at his phone. “What is happening?” “What?” Ben munched on a candy bar as he drove.

“I don’t -”

“What is it?” Ben’s gaze flickered from Gwil’s bewildered face to the dark road. “Well, it’s something Clara sent me.”

“Oh?” Ben grinned a bit lopsided, “sent you some racy photos eh?”

“Not quite a photo…”

“Well, let me see!”

“No!” Gwil pressed the phone to his chest, “no. You’ll end up killing us!”

“Oh, come on!”

“I mean it!” Gwil switched the screen off, “Annie’s in it, too.”

“Fuck you!” Ben whined. “Now I have to see it! Although,” Ben chuckled, “you getting all flustered on your pregnant cousin’s nude is -”

“You are absolutely disgusting, Ben!” Gwil smacked him on the back of his head, “they’re not naked! Both are clothed!”

“Well then I don’t see what the big deal about it is!” Ben rubbed the back of his head.

“Pull over.”

“Now you have to pee again?”

“No, you twat,” Gwil groaned, “I need you to pull over so we don’t wreck the car and die!”

“Jesus, you’re so dramatic sometimes.” Ben muttered, “it’s like having a fit is in your DNA.”

“Just shut up and do it.” Gwil commanded.

With a huge sigh, Ben pulled over to the side of the road and parked. His jaw clenched shut, he glared at Gwil.

“Well, are you going to show me or…” Ben’s rant was cut sort by the two girls moving in on each other and back again, as if they are about to kiss. Their noses bumped and their lips barely brushed against each other, and they both had the most devilish smiles on their faces. “Fucking hell.”

###

Clara sat sulking on the rug, her back against the sofa. She gave up on using a glass and was now drinking straight from the bottle as Annie braided her hair in French plaits.

“Maybe he’s asleep and he just didn’t see it?” Annie said soothingly, “he’s an old man, babe.”

“He hated it!” Clara’s speech was starting to slur, but that still didn’t stop her from chugging on her second bottle of wine. “I ruined everything!”

“You didn’t ruin anything, woman!” Annie’s nimble fingers wove Clara’s blonde locks into perfect braids. She heard a sniffle and a stuttered breath. “Are you actually crying right now?”

“You just don’t understand!”

“Oh my God, you’ve finally gone mad.”

“Shut up!”

“Clara, he’s probably just asleep. You have nothing to worry about.”

Clara’s legs slid forward. She looked like a rag-doll, sitting down with no pants, a t-shirt that could be considered a dress with how long it was on her body and pigtails. Her cheeks were flushed from alcohol and embarrassment and her bottom lip stuck out in a pout. She winked and peered into the bottle of wine.

“S’almost over!” she tilted her head back and looked at Annie with big, glossy eyes, “need more!”

“I think you’ve had enough, actually.”

“Oh, don’t be such a mum!”

“I’m just not keen on cleaning up after you’ve hurled everywhere!”

“Hey, I’m being a good friend here!” Clara tried to point at herself but her hand-eye coordination was long gone, “I’m helping you prepare!”

“Prepare?”

“Um? Yeah?” Clara raised her eyebrows and scoffed, “for when little Josephine comes out!”

###

They rode in silence. Ben’s eyes were fixed forward. He felt like his heart is going to beat itself right out of his chest. He kept looking down at the dashboard to make sure he’s going as fast as he can without speeding, but his foot felt a bit heavy on the gas pedal. He needed to get to Annie, fast.

Gwil, on the other hand, leaned back and closed his eyes. His hands were strategically placed in his lap, hiding the aftermath of Clara and Annie’s teasing. He bit the inside of his cheek, imagining every possible scenario he could think of.

“How much longer?” Gwil’s eyes fluttered open and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“GPS says one hour.”

“Why would she even send that?” Gwil rubbed the scruff on his chin, “I mean, with my cousin, for fuck’s sake!”

“They probably just assumed we were together.”

“They’re not wrong.”

“Nope.”

“Can you go any faster?” Gwil knees bounced impatiently.

“Believe me, I want to.” Ben muttered.

###

“Alright, alright!” a loud hiccup escaped Clara’s mouth, “would you rather sit on a hedgehog or shower with bees?”

“What?!”

“Sit on a hedgehog or shower with bees?”

“How do you even -”

“Don’t dwell on it, man! Just pick one!”

“Sit on a hedgehog!” Annie blurted out. “Don’t yell at me!”

“I’m not yelling!”

“Christ, your drunk voice is so loud!” Annie covered her ears, “volume, lady!”

“Sorry!” Clara whispered.

“Okay. Would you rather…” Annie tapped her finger against her chin as she tried to come up with something. “Would you rather fuck a Teletubby or lick an octopus?”

“Which Teletubby?”

“Does it really fucking matter?”

“Solid point.” Clara yawned. “Lick an octopus.”

“You are disgusting.”

“It’s why you love me.” Clara stood up, swaying a bit on her feet. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a toilet to cuddle.”

###

“What if they’re both asleep and they won’t hear us knocking?” Ben’s eyes were as big as saucers. “What if she didn’t leave the light on and was just kidding and -”

“Ben, mate,” Gwil rubbed his face groggily, “it’s half past two. I’m knackered. Can you stop with this nonsense?”

Ben could have sworn his entire body was buzzing with anxiety and excitement. Frankie was sleeping on her back, paws in the air, in the back seat. On one hand, he envied her more than he cared to admit. On the other hand, he felt like he will never sleep again.

“Gwil?”

“Yeah?” Gwil yawned out.

“Thanks. For coming with me.”

“S’nothing, really.” Gwil shrugged. “You missed your girl, I missed mine.”

“No, really. I owe you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Gwil smiled lazily, “alright then. You can repay me right now if you want.”

“Sure,” Ben nodded, “anything.”

“What’s the baby’s name?”

“Anything but that.”

“Oh, come on!” Gwil groaned. “I’m the godfather! I have a right to know!”

“We’re not telling anyone until Elvis will leave the building, mate!” Ben rolled his eyes, “not even our own families.”

“It’s the only way your can repay me for coming with you, Ben.”

“Shut up.”

“I mean it!” Gwil bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing. “Either you tell me what the baby’s name is right now or you’ll owe me for the rest of your life!”

“You’re not going to let this go?”

“Nope.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

“Hold on then, I need to document this.” Gwil fumbled with his phone and turned on the camera. “Go.”

“Her name is Josephine. Will you let it go, now?”

“You have reached your destination.” The robotic lady on the GPS app announced.

“The light is on.” Ben looked at the door and beamed.

###

Annie grunted as she opened her eyes. The knocking on the door wouldn’t stop. She looked at the clock on the wall and groaned when she saw the time - it was almost three in the morning. A slight panic washed over her; people don’t just knock on doors at this time. She got up as quietly as she could and tip-toed her way to the front door. After taking a deep breath, she looked out the peephole.

Her chin started quivering, her hands shaking. Through the fisheye lens, she saw Ben’s beautiful, tired face, and Gwil right behind him. Frankie’s tail, knocking rhythmically against the wall, was like music to Annie’s ears. She flung the door open, shaking and sobbing uncontrollably.

“Shhh, hey,” Ben cooed and engulfed her in his arms, kissing the top of her head, “what’s wrong?”

Annie couldn’t form a coherent sentence. All she could do was weep and hold onto Ben for dear life. She felt Ben’s tears wet her hair and tried to hug him even tighter. She didn’t know why she was crying, or why he was crying.

“We’re pathetic,” Ben wiped his cheeks on his arms before he tended to Annie’s, “aren’t we?”

“Mmm’yeah…” Annie smiled, despite the crying, and bit her bottom lip. She leaned into Ben’s touch, turning her head to kiss the palms of his hands. Frankie stood up on her hind legs, scratching at Annie’s hip for attention. “Hi, baby! I missed you!”

“Where is she?” Gwil grunted as he zoomed past them, “hi Banana.”

“In her room, second door to the left,” Annie said without taking her eyes off of Ben. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you, I wasn’t going home tonight,” Ben pressed his forehead to hers, “and I couldn’t just leave Frankie all alone until Monday.”

“I just didn’t believe you’d actually drive five hours in the middle of the night.”

“I’d do anything for you.”

Frankie came back, running circles around the pathetic duo, biting on her bunny to make it squeak.

“Franks, hush!” Annie giggled, “you’ll wake Clara up.” A shrill scream came from behind Clara’s bedroom door. “Never mind.”

###

“I’m sorry.”

Annie’s eyes fluttered open and she looked up at Ben, her head resting on his chest. After they finished sobbing at the door, all Ben wanted was to take her to bed and drown in her presence. He felt like all five of his senses were screaming with delight, now that she was finally there.

“What are you sorry for?” Annie propped herself up on her elbow. Her free hand trailed up Ben’s body, stopping right over where she could feel his heart beating.

“For how things were when you left.” Ben reached up to push her hair over her shoulder. “For Cassie.”

“You don’t need to apologise for that.”

“No, I really am sorry,” Ben felt like he was free-falling when he looked in her eyes, “you’re pregnant with my baby. I shouldn’t have put you through it.”

“I kind of had it coming, didn’t I?” Annie shrugged.

“Maybe, if you weren’t so pregnant.” Ben smirked and turned on his side, instinctively placing a hand on her belly. “But now that you are?”

“Still had it coming.”

“You left without saying goodbye or sleeping in our bed,” Ben swallowed down a lump in his throat, “and then every time we spoke it just felt so forced and…”

“What?”

“And it scared me.” Ben took Annie’s hand and brushed her knuckles against his lips. “It really fucking scared me.”

“What did?”

“How calm you were.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Usually when we fight you’re all over the place, but the fact that you were so calm...”

“I recall crying until I had to rehydrate all night, actually.”

“Yeah, you cried, but you didn’t yell at me.” Ben rubbed gentle circles on Annie’s bump. “You didn’t even call me names.”

“What?” Annie giggled.

“When you call me names, I know that you’re just royally pissed off but that it’ll pass and we’ll be back to normal again.” He bit his bottom lip, letting it roll out from under his teeth slowly. “And then you didn’t call me names. At all. That’s when I knew I went too far.”

“But you still had Cassie around.”

“I was hoping to get a reaction out of you.” Ben chuckled. “I was waiting for you to call me a twat or a knob or even fucking Boob Tape.”

“Ben Hardy,” Annie scoffed, “are you saying that the only reason you’re here tonight is because I called you a twat earlier?”

“Well…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Annie rolled her eyes and yelped in surprise when Ben’s lips were on hers.

They both snorted at the same time into the kiss. Ben rolled on his back, grabbing Annie. She straddled him, careful not to lean all her weight on Bumpy, and peppered kisses all over his face.

“Oh, God,” Ben grunted as he turned his head to the side and saw the sunrise illuminate the window softly, “is it already light out?”

###

Ben woke up to the sound of whispers and giggles coming from the foot of the bed. Opening one eye, he peeked and found Gwil and Clara pointing a phone at them.

“What the fuck are you doing?” his voice was raspy from sleep. “Why are you even in our room?”

“First of all, it’s Annie’s room.” Clara whispered, “second of all, Frankie scratched at the door. She needed to be let out.”

“You two are very irresponsible parents.” Gwil tutted. “Sleeping in when your baby needs to go potty.”

“Get the fuck out!” Ben hissed, pulling the covers over his and Annie’s heads. “We’re naked!”

“No you’re not,” Clara retorted, “I can see Annie’s sock poking out.”

“Her feet got cold.” His voice was muffled.

The lump under the covers moved a little. Clara and Gwil exchanged a sheepish glance when the distinct sound of kissing, grunting and stifled moans emanated from the bed.

“Fucking hell, at least wait till we’re out of the room!” Gwil grumbled and covered Clara’s eyes.

Ben’s middle finger poked out of the covers.

###

“What’s all this?”

Clara and Annie peered into the kitchen, coming back from an exceptionally long walk with Frankie. Their cheeks and tips of the nose were rosy from the cool air. They had both woven their hair into intricate braids while outside.

“Ah,” Gwil walked over and kissed Clara sweetly, “I see Helga and Brunhilda have returned!”

“Which one of us is Helga?” Clara looked up at Gwilym, eyes twinkling with love.

“You, of course.” He wrapped his arms around her. “You’re much too dainty to be a Brunhilda.”

“Oh, shove it!” Annie rolled her eyes and walked over to Ben. “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”

“Well,” he put the lid back on the pot, “we figured you’d both come back hungry after being gone for two and a half hours.”

“Good thinking.” Annie winked.

“And since you are both on vacation, we also figured it would be nice for you two to actually not have to cook for yourselves or get take-out.”

“You’re an angel!” Annie kissed Ben’s shoulder and giggled when he grabbed her face in his hands and stamped a noisy, wet kiss onto her lips.

“Good Lord,” Gwil snorted, “he actually domesticated a feral Annabelle.”

“I think it’s sweet.” Clara cooed.

“Tell a living soul about what you’ve seen over the weekend and I will cut you both,” Annie glared at her cousin, “don’t test me.”

“I take it back,” Gwil stepped back, holding his hands up in front of him, “she’s still a wild beast.”

Ben and Annie exchanged a knowing look, smirking at each other.

“Gwil, take over for me, please.” Ben took Annie’s hand and led her away.

“For crying out loud, mate,” Gwil called after Annie and Ben as they skipped along to the bedroom, “she’s already pregnant!”

###

“Did you start decorating the nursery?” Clara asked as she picked up the dishes once everyone finished eating.

“Well...” Annie squeaked with a grimace.

“Are you waiting for the baby to come out and help you with it?” Gwil snorted.

“I mean, there’s still time! Right?” Annie looked at Ben hopefully.

“You’re six months pregnant, Annabelle!” Gwil glowered, “there’s not a whole lot of it left!”

“I’m well aware of that, Gwilly, thank you.”

“It’s just that I need my gym and my drums,” Ben scowled at his own words once they were out of his mouth, “and we only have that extra room.”

“The baby can’t sleep on the kit, Ben,” Annie snapped, “we’ve talked about this!”

“I was only joking when I suggested that!”

“Were you, really?”

“No…”

Clara and Gwil looked from Ben to Annie during the exchange as if they were watching a tennis match. They both sipped their wine quietly.

“The baby will sleep in a crib by our bedside for the first few months anyway,” Ben reminded his girlfriend, “so we still have plenty of time to figure that out.”

“What about a changing table?” Gwil intervened, “toys? Wardrobe?” Annie and Ben looked at him, dumbfounded. “Discuss.”

“Fuck off mate!” Ben scoffed. “This is a family discussion!”

“He has a point.” Annie shrugged.

“I’m not losing my kit and my gym, Annie.”

“Well, I’m not sleeping in the same room with the kid till she moves out!” Annie crossed her arms in triumph.

“When do you think they’ll figure it out, then?” Clara asked Gwil, her voice low.

“Give them a couple more minutes.” Gwil muttered back.

“How much space does one baby need?” Ben started talking with his hands, indicating his frustration. “It’s hardly Frankie’s size!”

“It needs furniture!” Annie turned to look at Gwil and Clara, “right?”

“Definitely needs furniture, love.” Clara confirmed and poured herself another glass of wine.

“Our place just isn’t big enough, Ben.” Annie sighed in defeat.

“What if we moved, then?” Ben’s eyes lit up. “To a bigger place?”

“You’d do that?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “You love your flat!”

“The baby needs a room with furniture, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And I need a room for my drums and my gym, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Then it’s settled. We’re going house hunting.”

Clara screamed with her mouth closed, clapping her hands.

Taglist: @ramibaby @xgoingdownx @clara-who @violetpond @sweeterthancheese @drummerqueenrmt @westansstuff @rogerinamainbitch @justgivemethekeys @blondecarfucker @cheeseedreams47 @rogerspoison @deacy-dearest @pinkmarvel @onceuponadetectivedemigod @darcyshire

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1dcraftawards · 5 years

Text

MARCH AOM

Hello everyone! It is time to reveal who our author of the month is! They will be revealed below along with an interview we conducted with them! Hope you enjoy x

-1D Craft Awards Team

And our March Author of the Month is.....

@marisa-writes!!!

Questions:

1. Did you start writing fanfiction for One Direction, or was there another fandom that you wrote fanfiction for before this?

Before I found my way to One Direction fanfiction, I wrote Jonas Brothers fanfiction for a few years and I loved it immensely! I wouldn’t still be writing fic to this day if not for the relationships I built in that fandom, and the love I received both from my readers and my writing friends. I’ve been sharing my writing online for about ten years now, which is crazy to me. It was my connection to people I met through JBFA that led me to eventually make my way to 1DFF, though I was a very casual reader and not a writer in the beginning. I was also a casual fan of 1D at the time, definitely into their music but not planning to dive in much beyond that. Oh, how the tables have turned...

2. How old were you when you started writing fanfiction?

In 6th grade, my friends and I used to share the joy of writing this fake gossip column between us in which we were the members of this epic girl band. We would write about all of our exploits in the band and in our fictional personal lives, where we were - obviously - dating famous people, like members of ‘N Sync and the Backstreet Boys. In 7th grade, I wrote pages and pages of stories on loose-leaf paper about myself and my friends and threw in my celebrity crush of the moment as a love interest, so I suppose those stories were my first attempts at writing fanfiction.

This was in the early 2000s, so I didn’t really know my way around finding fanfics on the internet until a couple of years later, but aside from these self-insert stories, the first piece of fanfiction I remember writing with original characters was a Justin Timberlake one I wrote during my freshman year of high school. I kept it in a spiral that I decorated with pictures of Justin and my “face claim” - before face claims had a name - for my original character, Jamie (to show my age, her face claim was Samantha Mumba). I still have that notebook and know exactly where it is. I pull it out every once in a while to remind myself of the journey my writing has taken, because WOW, was that story bad! But I’d never be where I am if I hadn’t written it!

3. What’s been your favorite fic you’ve written to work on so far?

What a terrible question. Asking me to choose between my stories is a lot like asking me to choose between my non-existent children!

I have thoroughly enjoyed writing all of the projects I’ve shared so far, but the summer that I wrote the sangria series was like magic. Teyana and Niall came out of a couple days’ worth of me listening to one of my favorite R&B artists, Jon B., on repeat, and after one lengthy one-shot in which I’d put a lot of thought into their back-story as well as the one I was telling in that particular piece, I was a goner for them. While writing that series, I was an endless well of inspiration and I enjoyed creating those characters and spending so much time in their world.

The Different Strokes series has been the gift that keeps on giving for a few years now, and the joy that’s come from showcasing Liam and Georgia’s love for one another as their family grows has pleased me immensely.

I also feel very similarly about one of my one-shots, goodnight, good morning. Creatively, it was just an absolute joy to write and I can’t help but regard it with fondness whenever I think about it. It came out of left field for me, but my love of the stuck-in-the-elevator trope combined with my love of Liam in nice winter coats made for a piece of writing I am super proud to say I’ve written.

4. Is there a fic that you really wanted to write, but you just never did?

I have a plethora of barely-started fics that just sit taunting me in my Google Docs. The two that haunt me the most are Basketball Jones, an AU in which Liam is a point guard playing on the same university team as my OFC Tionne’s twin brother, Amari, and Roots, in which newly-solo Liam is stoked when presented with the opportunity to work with a legendary soul artist named Maurice Collins to complete his album, but the project ends up getting passed off to Maurice’s daughter Cleo instead. Both stories are the kind you wish would write themselves because you just want them to be out there in the world, you know? But alas, I suppose I have to do the work myself, and I just haven’t been able to get either project to take off just yet.

5. What’s your favorite trope to write?

ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIPS! God, I’m such a sucker for it. I know a lot of people are fans of the build-up and all the angst and heartache and reconciliation that comes with it, but I’m always the one at the end going, “So what’s next?” I love to see what happens past the happy (or sometimes, not-so-happy) ending. There is so much to be told in what happens between a pairing when they’re committed and figuring out how to be together, and I adore being able to showcase that, especially because it’s not something you see as often as other tropes in fic.

6. What’s your ideal space to write in?

I like writing in my room. It’s quiet, peaceful, my own space. Sometimes I’ll sit on my bed; other times, I like to kick back in my chair in the corner where my lights are hung - my little reading/writing/tv-watching nook - and I’ll prop my feet up on my ottoman and do some writing with a nice cup of tea. I like to be as relaxed as possible, so I can really let my mind wade through all the lines of dialogue and scenes that I want to write.

7. What inspires you to write?

All sorts of things. For many years, it was music. I used to require music playing when I wrote, but I write in silence more often than not now. Still, music is a heavy inspiration for me - there are stories to find even in the songs that don’t seem like, lyrically, they’d provide any. But the mind is a powerful thing, and so is music, and when the two work together, magic tends to happen.

I also find inspiration in the world around me, and in the things I read. I’m a big fan of studying how people interact with one another. Relationships - familial, platonic, or romantic - are fascinating to me, and I love to write about how people react to the others around them, or the environment around them. I believe certain people and places come into your life exactly when they’re meant to for reasons you may or may not understand at the time, but they’re always important in your journey, and I love to write about that.

As a black woman, having the opportunity to continuously write about black women is also a huge inspiration for me, which is something you’ll notice in looking at the original female characters I write. One of my favorite authors, Alyssa Cole, is a black woman who has written both historical and contemporary romances, and she floors me with every piece of hers that I read because the diversity she includes in every story is encompassing and feels effortless. She paints a picture of what our diverse world looks like or has looked like in the past with every novel or novella she writes, and she inspires me to use my words to share stories that feature black women of all shapes, sizes, and backgrounds at the center because it’s important to me to see incredible black women having their stories told. Alyssa’s diversity doesn’t stop at just black characters, either, which is even more marvelous to me. She’s a force to be reckoned with, and I always joke that I want to be her when I grow up, but let’s be real, I’m not joking.

8. Do you typically like to listen to music when you write? If so, what do you listen to?

I inadvertently just answered this question! Back in my must-listen-to-music days, I would put Jason Reeves’ The Magnificent Adventures of Heartache (And Other Frightening Tales…) on repeat. That album in itself tells a story from start to finish of falling in love, being in love, getting your heart broken, and starting over, and there was something in the magic of Jason’s lyrics and musicality that used to wring endless sparks of inspiration from me. Whenever I felt stuck, I would turn that album on and the words would flow. Nowadays, I tend to find comfort in the quiet, but if a particular song or collection of songs has inspired something I’ve written, like Jon B. did with sangria on your lips, or SoMo’s “For You” did with the one-shot of the same name, I’ll listen to whatever’s inspiring me on repeat.

9. Do you have any plans for any future fic ideas you’d like to pursue?

Nothing confirmed at the moment! If I could get those fics I have haunting me in my Google Docs to wander past small blurbs and vague plot ideas, that’d be wonderful. I’ll write fanfiction in this fandom as long as I’m inspired.

10. Do you have any advice for other writers in the fandom?

WRITE. FOR. YOU. Look at that again, read it over and over until it’s ingrained deep in your mind and heart. Don’t write with the goal in mind to gain ‘x’ number of readers, and don’t write to measure up to anyone else. We as writers are our own worst critics and conspiracy theorists, and we will come up with a hundred different reasons to stop writing when we’re discouraged or frustrated, or compare ourselves to others and consider them leagues above us. It is so easy to talk ourselves in circles of why we should quit because of whatever reasons we’ve decided on in that precise moment, but you know what? If you write, you started for a reason. It gave you feelings you’d never experienced before and wanted to chase so hard that they drove you to write something that came from your mind, your heart, your fingertips. Do you realize how extraordinary that is?

Nothing you write will ever mean much if you don’t write it for you. You can’t love to do this and pour your heart into your words if they aren’t ones that mean something to you. You are never going to please everyone that reads your writing, which is often a hard truth to swallow because we just want to be liked, and you will be by some! But it’s important that you write something you’ll be proud to attach your name to, because someone is going to be very pleased with it, but most importantly, you will be pleased with it. We grow and change as writers and so does our level of work, but looking back and cringing because maturity has made us better writers is not the same as looking back and cringing because what we wrote doesn’t reflect who we’ve been at any stage. Write to satisfy yourself at whatever place in life you’re in. No regrets when you look back.

11. What is your writing process like?

It very much depends on the project! One-shots are my bread and butter, and those are often things I can write in a breeze when I’m inspired. My one-shots are usually the lengthy type, more of a short-story packed into a smaller package, so writing them tends to go smoothest for me.

For my chaptered projects, or the ones that started as one-shots and turned into stories or series, it’s a slower process for me. I always have a general plot line and specific important moments in mind, but I’m not the outlining type at all - feels too stifling for me, and I like the freedom to adjust certain plot points when the process serves. If I’m full of inspiration and my life allows me the freedom to sit down and write away, I will! I’ve recently moved myself out of a life situation that was taking a lot of that creativity and peace of mind away from me, and I’m hoping to find my way back to some sort of constant stream of inspiration soon.

Author Specific:

1. Why would you say you’re more attuned to writing Liam and Niall out of all the boys? Would you ever write for Harry / Louis / Zayn?

Liam is the whole reason I wound up in this lovely mess. I became a fan of 1D’s music from the first album, but genuinely had no intention of going beyond that in terms of interest. I’d recently exited the Jonas Brothers fandom as a whole because the cattiness and pettiness of some fans was absolutely exhausting and I needed a break from fandom for a good while (or so I thought, as I eventually found myself neck-deep in the Big Time Rush fandom). Around 2013, though, Liam’s vocals, smile, and stage presence had me slowly turning into the eye emoji. And those who have known me for quite a while can probably recall the night in 2015 where I drank a lot of wine and looked at a lot of pictures of him on Tumblr and became a complete goner.

It took me a little bit to start writing about him, however. I’d been reading some 1D fic because a dear friend I’d met through JBFA had moved to writing 1D fic and I once told her I’d read Magic School Bus fanfiction if she wrote it, so I obviously followed her to 1DFF. As I became more interested in Liam, I started reading some Liam fics, trying to get a hang on his personality because at the time I wrote mainly OU and I love finding that authenticity. I also wanted to get a feel for writing characters who weren’t American, like I am. Eventually, I came up with some ideas, decided to get my feet wet, and started writing. I would say I’m attuned to writing Liam because in learning about him, I connected with him. I adore him as a person and an artist, and hardly anyone writes about him these days (which breaks my heart), so I continue to because he makes me happy and we could all use a little more Liam-centric stories in our lives.

As for Niall, I was blown away by the leaps and bounds of the growth of his vocal talent on Made in the A.M. He really shined on those songs for me, and when his solo career started rolling, I was mesmerized by the way he was going about it. Very deliberate with his choices, taking his time, warming everyone up to the magic he’d been possessing for years. I was floored by his magnetism both as a person and an artist, and it drew me to write about him. While it was completely unexpected because I’d been gone for Liam for quite some time, I don’t regret a single minute of it.

I would absolutely write for Harry, Zayn, or Louis if a story idea struck me. I actually started a Harry story that I stalled with big time because I scared myself out of confidence with the massiveness of writing a story with supernatural elements, but hey, maybe someday!

2. What is one moment from “Regarding Our Ghosts” that you never got to write but want to?

ROG, my OG baby! I’m unbelievably heartbroken that I haven’t been able to finish that fic, because it was a passion project, but it always holds such a solid place in my heart.

In the story, Liam and Lissie were meant to travel home to the UK to visit family for the winter holidays, while Nina and Macy went to see her mother, Noreen, for a few days around Christmas. Over the course of their time apart, I wanted to show how integrated their lives had started to become, with Lissie insisting that she and Liam buy presents for Macy and Nina to give when they returned, and Noreen inquiring after the father-and-daughter pair that Macy couldn’t stop talking about during their visit.

Once Liam returned, he was to drop by Nina’s to catch up with her and see if she needed some help with shoveling snow from the drive. There was a moment in which they laughed and joked and Liam’s laughter made Nina realize how much she’d missed him and it absolutely terrified her because she didn’t have the capacity to put a name to that feeling just yet. There’s a little snippet I wrote on an index card at the place where I used to tutor because it struck me mid-lesson, and I carried that index card in my wallet for years. It went:

He laughs, and oh—oh. His laugh. She missed his laugh. She missed this. She missed Liam.

The feeling settles low in the pit of her stomach, goopy and sweet, and she doesn’t know what to make of it. In her mind, there are little compartments where she sorts out her thoughts and emotions, and as she tries to sort this—that she missed Liam—she can’t. She doesn’t know where to put it.

So she lets it churn in her gut, thickening like a rue, until she can make up her mind.

It was such an important moment for them - a turning point, for Nina at least, realizing that this man she and her daughter had come to rely on in certain ways could be more than just a friend to her. That her feelings could be stronger, and she could maybe feel something for someone again after convincing herself she’d be happy alone if that’s what was meant for her.

Man, I miss that story something fierce, but it stays with me every day.

3. What is one thing you wish you would’ve known before you started writing 1d fic?

That I would get in this deep. Ha. No, honestly, I’m glad that I didn’t have any expectations going in. That’s the best. You learn as you go. Similar to my time writing Jonas Brothers fic, I’ve built some pretty great friendships that I never would have if I hadn’t started writing 1D fic. I even made connections with people who read my Jonas Brothers fanfics but we’d never spoken until I started reading and writing 1D fic!

I’m grateful for the people this has brought into my life, and the opportunity I’ve had to go into this fandom and spend more time honing my craft and getting to shine a light on people of color in my stories, black women specifically. We are so often missing from fiction and that is true from the fanfiction world to the romance novels I read, but our stories are so important and real and as needed as everyone else’s, so I am excited beyond belief that I’ve been able to create several black female characters that have reached out and touched readers of all kinds. I’ve also been able to connect to other authors of color who, like me, write about people who look and think and live like them, and the sense of being seen as a person of color is overwhelming. I hope to see more of it in the future.

4. Who has been your favorite OFC to write? Why?

I’m gonna cheat a bit here because it’s a three-way toss-up between Georgia, Rolly, and Teyana.

Georgia means the world to me because in my previous fandom, I wrote a lot of white OFCs because that was just...what I saw and experienced, and to be honest, I didn’t really think about it much at first. Writing white characters was the “norm”. After a while, I noticed that in seeking out characters who looked like me, I encountered a lot of storylines that featured racism as a conflict between x Jonas Brother’s family and the OFC. It was hard to find stories in which characters were just human beings who happened to be black and faced conflict that had nothing to do with their race. So, I decided to write a story in which that was the case. It opened up my eyes to what I’d been failing to focus on, something that became super important to me the more I reflected on it: seeing black characters represented realistically and in a positive light in fanfiction.

When I eventually came to write 1D fic, I made a very conscious choice to feature black women at the center of my stories, and Georgia was the first. Through her, I was able to show a successful black woman who had started a family with the man she loved, and I was able to showcase little moments of Georgia’s experiences as a black woman that Liam had to learn about, like why she wrapped her hair at night. It sounds like such a small thing, but that was big for me - I couldn’t recall ever seeing that in the writing I’d read thus far, a black woman wrapping her hair at night, so I wrote it. Soon, I had readers coming to me who could relate and said they hadn’t seen it, either. I’ve also had non-black readers who have expressed how much they like the fact that I write about black women, that they enjoy reading stories that focus on people of color. The whole experience has been so moving for me. It’s made me realize that I am not only doing something I love, but also doing something important.

Rolly Marshall is, in many ways, a reflection of me. I conjured her up when I was a few months into my first year of teaching and overwhelmed, tired, and frustrated beyond belief. She was an escape. I could channel all of the things I loved and dreaded about my job into her and her life, and it was like lifting a weight off my shoulders. Rolly loves her job, like I did, but her experience was one that I created to be more positive than the one I experienced, which has made it both easy and hard to write about her at times. But more than our mutual connection through education, I love Rolly because she feels so genuine to me. She’s awkward and kind-hearted and funny and a good friend to the people in her life. She’s just a good egg. I love her spirit and her humor and that’s a big part of what’s made her such a joy to write. I didn’t expect many people to latch on to her because how many people could really relate to a second grade teacher? To my great surprise, many.

Teyana surprised me with my attachment to her. She and Niall were meant to be a one-time thing, much like Liam and Georgia, but seeing as how those two turned into an eighteen-part thing PLUS a throwback mini-fic, I should’ve known better. It was while I was writing sangria on your lips that I found myself thinking about who Teyana was before she and Niall met. I couldn’t stop thinking about where she came from, building her past. She comes from a single parent home where her father raised her after her mom left. She carries scars from that, from the abandonment she felt when her mom moved on without so much as a single moment to look back. She clung to her Papi and his Cuban culture and grew up with the lessons he instilled in her, including one she taught herself from watching his heart break: that maybe there was no great “one” for her. But that changes when she meets Niall, who challenges everything she thought she could gain from a relationship. He’s truly a partner to her. He has a glimpse into what life is like when your parents aren’t together anymore, so he’s empathetic to what she feels in regards to her mom. He loves her unconditionally. He’s her match, and after years of convincing herself she may never find her match and she’ll be okay with that, Niall is a pleasant surprise, and honestly, he restores her faith in love. She learns she doesn’t need anyone else to make her life complete - her Papi raised her to find that completion all on her own - but having someone to share her life with is a pleasure she’s more than grateful to have.

5. Which one of your fic boys was your favorite to write? Why?

Different Strokes Liam has been my all-time favorite. He’s driven and passionate about his work, completely committed to his family, and there’s a warmth, humor, and sexiness to him that has made him so much fun to write since I began. I love that I can paint him as a complete and utter sop in one piece, a classic romantic in another, and a confident master of seduction in the next. He’s confident and often sure of himself but not immune to insecurities. He’s got different facets, and I love getting to focus on each one at different times as the series shifts.

The Different Strokes series was something that spawned from what was supposed to be a stand-alone one-shot, but I found myself attached to the little family I built for Liam, Georgia, and their son Carter, and my mind expanded upon writing little snippets of them - glimpses of them as Carter grew, as their lives changed, as their family expanded. I am a big fan of established relationships, and I grew so attached to watching Liam mature and change as both a father and a husband. Liam in real life seems to have such a compassionate heart, and before he even became a father, I had a good feeling that he would be a great one and getting to write about him as both a father to his children and a partner to his wife has been such a joy. And with Checkpoints, my mini-fic in the series, I’ve been able to go back to when he and Georgia first met and began seeing each other and it’s been nothing but fun to write!

If not for DS Liam, I wouldn’t have fallen as in love with writing 1D fic as I have, so I am grateful every day for the opportunity I’ve had to expand upon his character and the incredible life he’s built for himself. Writing him has led to writing many other projects that I adore, and I can’t wait to see what’s next for me as a writer.

#aom #march aom #1dcraftawards #1dff

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frangipanidownunder · 5 years

Text

Returning the Past: Part 5

Mulder and Scully are honeymooning in Far North Queensland. Much to Scully’s chagrin, Mulder has delved headlong into a mysterious case of strange lights, Tasmanian tiger sightings and abductions. It’s not long, before they run into trouble…

Read part 1, part 2 part 3 and part 4.

The facility ‘Eddie Romero House’ was ensconced behind a security fence. She frowned at the recurrence of the name. Years of being an investigator made it impossible to think of coincidences and serendipitous happenstance. Years of being an investigator on The X-Files showed her that even the smallest of coincidences was likely to be anything bug.

Sunlight filtered through menacing clouds and pinged off the metal pickets. Mulder buzzed the intercom and itched at the skin on his arms. A security guard walked from the main building to stand outside the gate.

“We’re looking to talk to somebody in charge,” Mulder said.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“It’s urgent we speak to somebody. It could be a matter of life and death.”

Scully looked at the ground, impacted red dirt crumbling at her footfalls. Mulder’s flair for the dramatic, coupled with this dogged insistence often got them entry into secure facilities but the guard didn’t seem impressed. They had no badges to flash, they had American accents, they had no jurisdiction.

“Professor Callow is in meetings. He won’t be available until tomorrow.”

“Callow?” Scully said, looking at Mulder. He did the customary slow blink that told her he was on the same page as her. “We’re friends of his daughter’s. Please tell him it’s urgent that he speak with us.”

The guard lifted the radio to his mouth and static crackled. She rubbed the back of her neck and Mulder paced. A pair of green and red parrots screeched past. A vehicle reversed from a steel shed to the left of the main facility, stirring up a plume of dust.

“He says he’ll see you. Follow me.”

Professor Callow was seated behind a wooden desk bearing all the hallmarks of an office that hadn’t seen a change in twenty years. A Rolodex next to a rotary dial phone, a blotter pad, a stationery holder filled with Biros, pencils, a plastic ruler, Tippex. There was a framed photo of two men, one a younger Callow, rifle propped against his shoulder, standing over the corpse of a large animal that Scully couldn’t make out. She peered at its familiarity, then recalled the crumpled version of the photo on Steph Callow’s living room floor. There were glass cabinets along each wall, containing skeletal remains and stuffed animals with blank eyes and dull fur. Faded posters on the wall depicted a variety of Australian marsupials, and directly behind the Professor’s chair was a map of Queensland.

“You know my daughter somehow?” he said, his accent clear-cut English.

“She took us on a walk through the Daintree.” Scully looked at a poster of endangered and extinct animals. Toolache wallaby – bearing similar markings to the kangaroos they’d seen that first morning, broad faced bandicoot, lesser bilby. She checked out the small signs propped up against the stuffed creatures, Eastern hare wallaby, brush-tailed bettong.

“She was a promising zoologist, she had a knack for research. Stephanie studied hard. It’s a shame.”

There was something tight about the older man, Scully thought. Something closed off. She’d seen the same thing when Mulder was returned. An outward show of vagueness that really just covered up an inability to articulate the heart of the issue. He was scared.

“What’s a shame?” Mulder asked, picking up a jar from a shelf. He held the jar out as he continued to challenge the professor, rattling the brown seed pod inside it so that it drummed with each word he spoke. “That Steph became a tour guide and not a Professor, like you?”

“No, no. It’s…her mother…the family. It was difficult. For all of us, but for Stephanie, a teenager at the time, it was. Well, she struggled.” Callow took the jar from him and set it back on the desk. His hands trembled.

“Your wife, Steph’s mother, what happened to her?” Scully watched the way he sucked in a deep, long breath, chest puffing out. The seed inside the jar, labelled Idiospermum australiense was pale yellow on the outside and a ridged red inside, reminded her of a golden apricot and she kept her eyes on it while Callow sunk back into his chair.

“She disappeared. Just vanished.” Callow’s voice was shallow, like he’d told the story so many times it was just a rote response.

She looked back at Mulder, pressing her teeth into her lower lip. She wondered if they would ever relate any of their own history like that, without the passion, without the fire needed to continually reach for justice.

“Miriam went out to buy milk and never came back. We…just carried on. You do, don’t you? But Stephanie was never the same. Went to university in Tasmania, as far away from here as she could get. She worked hard but the spark, the passion for it had gone. After she graduated she went on a gap year to South America and when she came back she couldn’t settle. She told me once that being a tour guide was a way of always looking for her mother. As though she might just find her out there in the bush somewhere all these years later,” he smiled sadly. “She likes being outdoors. Just like her mother.”

“Have you heard from her recently, Stephanie?” Scully stepped towards him. “She’s missing, Professor Callow.”

Callow shook his head, an absent expression clouding his eyes. “I’m afraid that Stephanie has often gone ‘walkabout’ as they say in these parts.”

“We were with her when a group of men dragged her into a four-wheel-drive and we haven’t seen her since. The police don’t seem interested. Her house…there was a disturbance there.”

The old man pushed himself up from his desk, knuckles turning white. “She kept some strange company too. Abductees, she called them. She was adamant she’d been abducted too. Told me fantastic tales of being on board UFOs and lights in the forest. Crazy stuff. Nobody believes that kind of thing, do they?” Callow looked at Mulder and Scully lowered her gaze, breathing through the awkward silence.

“What did you make of her company? TasTiger Tours,” Mulder said, not rising to the bait.

“Taking tourists to see thylacines in the Daintree? When she told me what she was doing I told her that people would either see her as a lunatic or a scam artist. But it seems I was wrong. There are plenty of fools…” He stopped and Mulder offered him a accepting grin. “Sorry. You are entitled to spend your dollars any way you see fit, but Tasmanian tigers have been extinct for decades and most certainly did not inhabit tropical rainforest.”

“And yet both Dr Scully and I have seen thylacines in recent days. One was inside your daughter’s home.”

Professor Callow blanched and held on to the edge of the desk. “In Stephanie’s house? That’s impossible.”

“It wasn’t so long ago that this facility was being funded to research thylacine DNA with a view to potentially reviving the species. It’s not much of a stretch to consider that the animals might have escaped and thrived in the wild.”

Callow sighed and shook his head. “You sound like Stephanie. She had a penchant for the arcane. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d faked her own abduction by this group of men, simply to get my attention. I’ve suggested she see someone, you know, a psychiatrist to help her with her troubles, but she wouldn’t be told. She seems to be a lost cause.”

Mulder continued to talk, despite the old man walking past him to the door. “There are precedents where animals have created their own enclaves in non-native regions. The fabled big cat stories around the world can be explained in this way.”

Callow opened the office door. “What you say is true, Mr Mulder. And I may agree, except for the fact that my project never created a single live specimen. The trials all failed.”

Mulder swigged from the water bottle as she drove. The light outside was weak and grey. “What do you think, Scully. Is he involved?”

“He was frightened, Mulder. I saw a man cowed not just by the weight of his wife and daughter being missing, but by fear.”

“He certainly knows more than he was letting on, Scully.”

She watched him lean his head against the window. “You need to rest, Mulder. You still look like you’re running a fever.”

“I’m fine. I just need to clear my head to think. Callow’s experiments didn’t yield a live thylacine, according to him. Yet we know they exist. What would be the purpose of recreating extinct animal lines, Scully? Where does that fit in with the abductions, the lights? And why would the police dismiss the case? Even if Steph was well known in these parts as someone with a psychiatric history, why deny she even existed?”

“I’ve been thinking about that too, Mulder. And did you notice the name of the guard at the front gate?”

He turned to her, cheeks flaming. “No, what was it?”

“Galea. Same as the police officer.”

They drove to the police station. The car park was deserted. Grey clouds pushed low over their heads and Scully scratched at the back of her neck. Mulder was slow to get out of the car. A sheen of sweat sparkled across his brow. She walked up the steps and rapped at the door. No answer.

“Do you get a weird feeling, Mulder?”

He didn’t answer but mopped at his forehead with the back of his hand. His chest rose and fell laboriously. She twisted the handle and pushed at the door. It didn’t budge. “If this is a joke, I don’t like the Australian sense of humour. Mulder,” she said, stepping back down to where he was leaning against the car door. “Get back in the car, out of the heat. Drink the water. I’m going around the back.”

She knew he was sick when he complied without complaint. There were garden beds either side of the building, leaf litter piled high. Tall palms swayed on the increasing breeze and a pair of bird of paradise plants pecked at the empty air with their resplendent bronze beaks. The windows of the house were covered in cobwebs and the side door was locked. How had they not noticed the state of the place when they spoke with Officer Galea? Who were the other people in the building? Were there other people? She peered through the dirty glass of the back door but saw nothing but the marks of a building that hadn’t been inhabited for a while.

A car engine caught her attention and she hurried back round. A small blue SUV swung into the gravelled space next to their hire car and a middle-aged couple got out.

“If you’re looking for the police station, you need to head back that way, to Port Douglas. This one hasn’t been used for a few years now.”

“We were looking for Officer Galea,” Scully said, keeping an eye on Mulder, who was leaning his face against the window.

The woman shrugged. “The last copper here was Sergeant Blythman and she left to have a baby. That baby’s at primary school now. We just tidy up the yard. Len, give me that fertiliser. Those plants need a good feed.”

Scully opened the driver’s side door, but turned back to the couple. “Have you ever seen strange lights in this area? Blue lights?”

“You’re Americans.” Len joined his wife.

“We’re here on our honeymoon,” Scully said, as much to remind herself as to inform the couple. “We came here to report a crime here just the other day. Now it’s empty.”

The couple continued to remove gardening equipment from the back of the car.

“Who is Eddie Romero?” Scully asked. “It’s the name of a local research facility. It’s the name of one of the forest tracks. Our accommodation is Romero Sands.”

“He’s no-one special,” the woman said. “Enjoy your honeymoon. Go swimming. Do some bushwalking, but don’t stray off the tourist tracks. Have a nice time. Go home to your families.”

“Do you know Steph Callow?”

The woman exchanged looks with her husband. “Who are you?”

Mulder got out of the car, his body sagging. “What’s going on in this town? What are you afraid of?”

“We’re not scared,” the woman said, straightening up. “We’re just invisible. Nobody listens to us. They just want people to come here, spend their money. The tourist dollars rule. It’s like that film with the sharks, isn’t it, Len? You know the one, where the mayor of the island won’t shut the beaches down for the long weekend.”

“Jaws,” Scully said, looking over at Mulder. “Have people been hurt here? Killed?”

The woman looked at Len. “They’ve disappeared. But the government people say that they just lost their way, the forest is dangerous if you’re not careful.” She walked up to Scully and took her hand. “You two look like lovely young people. You don’t need anything like that happening to you. It’s the worst thing. People go missing and you never know what’s happened. You live every day like they might just come home and fling their coat across the hall and sit on their favourite chair and ask for a cup of tea, you know? It’s cruel, is what it is. Hope and dreams. It’s just cruel.” She rolled her lips together and took a long, slow breath. “You take care now. Come on, Len. It’s going to rain soon. Let’s spread this stuff and get home.”

Mulder groaned in his sleep, deep guttural sounds that held fear. She often wondered how he processed all that happened to him. Besides the abject terror of the abduction, he had faced the death penalty. They had spent months on the run, looking over their shoulders, living out of cheap motels and even cheaper cars. He held it in, he held it together, mostly. She knew he thought he had to be strong for her, as she did for him. They both drove for days wearing their stoicism like armour. Back then, she knew the day would come where one of them would crack. She lay odds that it would be her first. That she would flip tables and throw away the hair dye and the Walmart underwear. That she would call her mother and write her brother. That she would tell Mulder she didn’t really love him and that she was leaving. That she would lie to save him. To save them both.

But in a long-forgotten town, in a long forgotten state, she returned with two bags of groceries and found him balled up in the corner of the darkened room, furniture broken around him, sobbing. The bags dropped to the floor and split open spilling the tins and packets in front of her. She let him cry against her chest until his tears soaked her vest. He didn’t talk, didn’t need to. She was grateful for that desolate place, grateful for the onerous skies and the stares of the townsfolk, grateful for the one store and flickering neon motel sign, grateful for the gritty coffee and the faulty ice machine. It drew out his sorrow and suffering and pushed hers down. She would never leave him. She would never lie to him.

Now, she dabbed his brow with a cool washcloth, then pressed it around the back of her neck, easing the itch there. Wherever Steph Callow had gone, the dark forces in the forest were responsible. But with Mulder tossing fitfully by her side, there was no way they could go forward with any kind of investigation. She’d have to find a doctor’s surgery in the morning. He needed treatment.

“The light was so bright, Scully. It was so bright it felt like my eyes had been sliced open and silver was poured inside.” He pushed himself up and bunched the sheet across his lap. His voice was groggy, his skin tacky to touch. She gave him water. “I dreamt that Steph Callow was there with me, on that ship, Scully. She was trapped too, helpless and that bright light burned her and she burst into flames.”

While Scully made tea, he played with the remote, and a news anchor read out details of a mysterious death locally.

A member of the public called in the discovery of the body. At this stage, the police have not issued any details of the circumstances or the victim but there is a presence at Eddie Romero House.

“It’s Professor Callow,” Mulder said, calling her back to the bedroom. “He’s been killed.”

#txf fanfic #my fanfiction #returning the past #aussie casefile #to be continued #getting this thing uploaded so i can forget about it #if the ratio of notes gets any lower it'll be in the negatives #is that a thing?#negative notes #maybe i can be the first writer to go minus notes

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chicmousevintage · 5 years

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For just $100.00 This unique cuff style slave bracelet and ring comes from my personal collection. Alpaca silver inlaid with black and white onyx heart shapes. The alpaca silver work extends to a gorgeous floral, leaf and scroll design over the onyx. The cuff style bracelet is appx. 2 1/2" d. The ring is a size 7. Chain is 4" long. Stamped with the artist marks and "84" for the date. The pictures tell the story. Truly one of a kind. The Story: When I was a young 24 year old, I took some clothes to my very first Flea Market in Flagstaff, Az.. I set up next to a jewelry artist couple. They had the most amazing jewelry that they had designed and made. I absolutely fell in LOVE with this slave bracelet. It was so different than all the rest. They told me to wait until the end of the day and maybe we could make a trade, as I didn't have the money for the bracelet. The end of the day came and she found a Rabbit Fur coat that I had and was more than happy to trade for it! I was ecstatic! I wore and loved this slave set for many years. It was always my "go to" jewelry accent. I received so many many compliments on it every time I wore it. Now it is time for someone else to have it and love it as much as I did and still do. I don't wear it anymore as I am much older. Please see all pictures as they are a part of the description. Please read all measurements as the pictures can be deceiving in relation to size. Rocks, fake fruit, candles, books, shells or any other photo props are not included.

#BohoBraceletRing #OneOfAKind #BlackWhiteHearts #ChainBracelet #InlayOnyx #GiftForHer #SlaveBracelet #AlpacaSilverInlay #MovieTheaterProp #AlpacaSilverScroll

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carmenjhomes · 3 years

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Does the kids night light really help my 2yo girl sleep?

There can be many reasons why your little girl stays up at night. A sugar rush from candy in the late evening, separation anxiety from parents, yearning for more playtime, no fixed bedtime routine, flickering of blue light from mobile screens, absence of soft toys and, of course, bad dreams. For the last one, try a nursery night light which glows just enough to drive away the fear of darkness. Children can develop nighttime anxiety at any age. With a loving guidance and a friendly pet that beams waxed light in the room, this challenge can be overcome.

As you prop a bear night light by your girls’ bedside, watch her slide into deep sleep. A 10-12hours of uninterrupted rest is known to improve memory and boost immunity in 2year-olds. At this age, children often experience sleep regression that can last for up to two to six weeks. While it is a normal phenomenon, a full nights’ rest is important for their physical and mental well-being. This portable animal light is made from superior silicone which does not heat up in the hands of your child. It requires no plug-in and flashes a cycle of nine dormant shades one after the other, mimicking a human heartbeat. You can choose to stay on a single shade and change the pace for the pulsating light. The color red is usually preferred to induce sleep.

Can you keep the multi colored lights on all night? Absolutely yes. On a single charge, this toddler night-light can run for 12-20 hours. Powered by environment-friendly lithium battery, this fist-sized, 4-watt LED glow measures 6” L x 5” W x 5”. From a bear, bunny, owl, cat, dragon and a unicorn, choose one that speaks to your little girl.

Made from flexible silicone, these squishy animals are dishwasher friendly and 100% free from toxins like BPA, latex and phthalate. Something for your daughter to sink her teeth into as you change her diaper, give her some water or read her a story in its light. The utility of this night-light only increases with time as your little girl soon learns to walk herself to the bathroom. Or the kitchen, as she fancies.

A warm cocoon of light when coupled with white noise can usher your princess into her best sleep. For playing soothing music, please sync your Bluetooth with the nursery night-lights’ in-built speaker. The remote-control version of Lumipet baby night light brings in many conveniences that facilitate the change of color, adjustment of brightness level, setting up of an alarm, a timer for 30 - 90 minutes, etc. Orchestrate your daily sleep pattern, something to look forward to.

The effectiveness of night-lights in putting a child to sleep can be gauged by leafing through some of the popular baby registry lists, year after year. While selecting one, take care that the mold is of high quality, unbreakable and safe to be chewn by a toddler. Afterall, putting your daughter to sleep is no child’s play.

Source: Kids Night Light Helps My 2yo Girl Sleep - LumiPets

#kids night light #toddler night light #nursery night light #baby night light #bear night light #lumipets #lumiworld

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neurotic-nimrod · 3 years

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Wine In the Time of Coronavirus, Part 35: Closing Ranks (DIAM Tasting 2021)

The latest recap of what I hope will soon be a thing of the past – COVID-era Shelter-in-Place Zoom tastings in lieu of being able to actually get together in real life in the same place – has us revisiting some old friends. Several, in fact.

First, there’s Evan Goldstein, MS, of Full Circle Wine Solutions, who helped organize this 2021 incarnation of DIAM Wine Conversations (focusing, as you’ve probably already guessed, exclusively on a tasting of DIAM-enclosed wines). Evan is one of the true mensches of the wine business, and had previously hired me to speak at the 2015 version of this event (held traditionally, rather than virtually). And as you’ll see below, this years’ sample wine lineup reunites us with some quality producers previously featured on 1WD.

But first, I feel compelled to share some of the market insights that DIAM’s François Margot, who also spoke at the event, shared with the attendees – because some of those didn’t feel familiar, and might strike many of you as downright surprising. The preamble: DIAM has some statistically-relevant data behind their insights; they make 2.4 billion closures used in 70+ countries.

Premumization is UP – Despite COVID’s economic impact, people are spending more money per wine bottle. This is a growing trend that’s being fueled by generational shifts (more an more Millennial dollars are being spent vs. those of Boomers).

Still wine volume sales are UP; also DTC FTW! – Specifically, by 4%. Again, surprising given COVID. On-premise sales have, predictably during the pandemic, absolutely tanked, but online wine sales are booming,up an astonishing 167% globally (with DTC increasing over 30%). I think that it’s worth pointing out here that the genie cannot be put back into the bottle easily on this one. Yes, we should expect on-premise sales to pick up dramatically once COVID safely recedes and people are back out and about, but we can’t just think that consumers are going to pretend that they will forget about the convenience and flash sale action they enjoyed during COVID. Online sales – especially DTC – have hit the fast track and are more the-trend-of-now then they are the-coming-trend.

Hot categories are changing – First, the not-surprising part: Rosé sales are still going strong. The somewhat-predictable parts: Cans/convenience packaging are up, and Flavored wines have “exploded” in sales growth. Now for the parts we didn’t see coming: Sauvignon Blanc is up, and sparkling wines are down (apparently, folks just aren’t feeling all that celebratory at the moment).

OK, now that we’ve gotten the surprises out of the way, let’s get drinking!

NV Roederer Estate Brut Rosé (Anderson Valley, $35)

Yes, DIAM makes enclosures for bubbles. Arnaud Weyrich has headed winemaking for about a decade at Roederer Estate, and said that he uses DIAM because he was tired of getting bottles sent back to him, or having his tasting panels reject their rosé (“the cork would actually mute the fruit, creating something dull and boring”), and was concerned that people who didn’t know the brand would just assume that they didn’t like the wine (rather than suspect a faulty cork had deadened its flavors). This sparkler is a Pinot Noir and Chardonnay blend, from all-estate vineyards, and is first-press only. It’s quite floral – lots of rose petal and white flower action here, as well as slight red berry notes. Cherry, some red apple, yellow apple, and subtle citrus all make appearances. Incredibly drinkable, this one won’t stick around long once opened. Evan’s take was “hyper-delicious,” and I’m inclined to agree with him.

2018 Hugel & Fils Pinot Gris ‘Classic’ (Alsace, $22)

Speaking of friends, we’ve been there! Alsace’s 2017 vintage was described as “a real emotional roller-coaster” due to the worst frost seen in the area for three decades. That doesn’t seem to have slowed down Hugel’s textbook example of Pinot Gris, though – an “absolutely archetypal example,” according to Evan. And there’s a good reason this line is called “classic.” Melons, citrus, intense minerality, hints of smoke and wet stone with great balance between viscosity, ripeness/sweetness, acidity, and textural astringency… Indeed, this is just a “classic” go-to white wine pick (no matter what stopper it uses).

2012 Melville Estate Chardonnay (Santa Rita Hills, $50)

Hey, we’ve been there, too! “We’ve been all-in on DIAM” since 2008, Chad Melville told us. “We take a lot of risk, because we own our own land, and do our own farming.” The DIAM closure is a bit of an insurance policy for their wines. “Texturally, the wine is as fresh as if it was just bottled.” Mad props to Chad for bringing us a Chardonnay with this much age on it. As mentioned, this one is from all estate fruit (hand harvested), and also saw some sur lie aging. It’s an absolutely lovely deep lemon color now. It’s big (14.5% abv), but also balanced, and holding up great. Grilled citrus peel, lemons, grilled peaches, honeydew melon, toast, and mesquite honey… Touches of creaminess, tons of vivacity… and just a fantastic texture. This is killer right now (but probably not getting much better after this point).

Gary Farrell’s Theresa Heredia

2017 Vietti ‘Perbacco’ Langhe Nebbiolo (Piedmont, $28)

This “baby Barolo” is blended from fifteen different Grand Cru vineyards in the region, all vinified separately, and sees two years in large Slavonian oak casks. The operative word here? Yum. Violets, juicy black cherries, truffle, dried wild herbs, and hints of tobacco leaf grace the nose. The palate is so vivacious, so spicy, and so savory, with chewy tannins and just-ripe plum fruitiness. Long and peppery, and elegant overall.

2018 Gary Farrell Hallberg Vineyard Pinot Noir (Russian River Valley, $55)

Hey, we know these guys! Winemaker Theresa Heredia did side-by-side comparisons to pick exactly which DIAM closure they were going with, focusing on finding freshness and consistency. “It’s really heartbreaking as a winemaker to put all of your blood, sweat and tears into these wines” and have them impacted by TCA, she noted. This single-vineyard delight is from the Green Valley sub-appellation, and sees 15 months in 40% new French oak. The story of the vintage was gig quantity, and good quality – “one of my favorite vintages of Hallberg” Heredia proclaimed. It’s certianly one of the most vibrant Hallbergs that I can remember – tons of tea like spices, wild raspberry, multiple types of cherries. The palate is just banging – so alive, so fresh… so fruity (cherry, raspberry, pomegranate, and citrus) without being obnoxious about it. The finish is ridiculously long. It needs food to tame some of that liveliness, but this one is just superb for those who like things lively.

2018 Domaine de la Mordorée ‘la Reine de Bois’ Châteauneuf du Pape (Rhône, $112)

Hey, we’ve visited these guys, too (and they happen to make some great Tavel)! The name of this typically Grenache/Mourvedre/Syrah/Vaccarese blend from 65+ year old vines means “Queen of the Woods” And that queen kicks all kinds of butt. There’s a savory nose here, full of black raspberry, black cherry, red plums, red raspberry, and a complex array of dried herbs. This is so young… almost reticent right now. The palate has touches of iron and stony minerality throughout the dense, spicy black plum fruit flavors, and great freshness complimenting its touches of earthiness. The purity here is just undeniable.

Cheers!

Upscale your palate! My new books are now available from Rockridge Press!

Source: http://www.1winedude.com/wine-in-the-time-of-coronavirus-part-35-closing-ranks-diam-tasting-2021/

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inuashnar1 · 4 years

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love letter 6

The letters of your name...

C is for cocaine. In South America there is a drink called Maté. A leaf tea, you must boil the water to around 75-90c in order to hit peak flavour of woody, earthy, gritty, leafed pastel tongue taste. It's traditionally drunk out of a straw that you use to stir the Maté periodically, as throughout the tea’s drink, you can refill it until maybe around late lunch if you are a heavy drinker. It’s refillable, reuseable, and the flavour grows darker and swampier with every sip. Maté does not have caffeine. Instead, it has a chemical called cocaine (pronounced, co-cah-eine) inside, that delivers roughly a 4 hour energetic boost with no downside effects or caffeine hangover. Extract enough cocaine from the Maté leaves, boil it down in bleach, and crystallize it in the Amazonian jungle during it's rainy season, and you'll get one of the world's most sought after illegal drugs. When I worked at David's tea, we sold Maté, and the moment that I mentioned that cocaine was a minor ingredient in the leaf to the customer, I always sold more than I normally would. My favourite drink at David's was a Maté - Jumpy Monkey.

L is for lithe. The first time I heard this word, and actually understood it, it was describing a deer carcass. I was watching a video on YouTube about Scotland. The host, Charlet, was from London, and was exploring the Scottish culinary experience that is unknown to many parts of the world. In this particular episode, Charlet was learning how to shoot a deer. She's a tall jangly British woman with little to no fat on her body, so she herself looked as clumsy as a new born deer (in vein with what they were hunting). She had someone to guide her, a local hunter who was hush hush in every single word he spoke. As if he were always on the look out for deer. Speak too loud and you might spook them so shhhhh. They had to hunt as the sun was setting. Rolling Scottish folds of trees and brush filled my laptop screen as they were finding the best place downwind to stand - they had found a stag. A young deer. Mating season ready. But smaller than most. The Scotsman beckoned Charlet over to him, and set up these 'x' crossed sticks and propped up a rifle that seemed to be 5ft long and as thin as a hanging icicle in wet winter. Then Charlet, silently as she could, took the rifle in her hands, and on the Scotsman's cue, fired the gun. When they found the stag, she had discovered that she had grazed his heart. He only lived for 30seconds after he was hit - a merciful death. She was relieved. The Scotsman took the deer's blood and christened her with it - 'you have killed your first deer Charlet' he gruffed. She looked down at the dead dear, and as the camera cut to the young stag, she said,' he's just so brilliant and lithe. I don't want to ever do this again.' The camera captured, the fresh pink sunset, the tall Scottish grass, the rolling hills, Charlet crying, a light misty fog that touched the hills just beyond focus, the Scotsman also standing and looking over the stag hands clasped in prayer, the clouds shyly slipping into the blue sky, blanketing the space above and reflecting the plush warm sunset below and onto the tips of the Scottish forest, the deer barely peeking through the waist high wheats, the brown red blood on Charlet’s cheeks, the overture of Scottish bagpipes. The smell of wet jaded grass and chilled evening wind hit my body as I sat transfixed at my laptop. To be lithe, is to be beautifully resilient and tenderly forgiving.

A is for Angeles. I always watched to go to Los Angeles. When I was growing up, all my friends dreamt about going to New York City. But for me, the only American town I wanted to go to was Los Angeles. Something about the summer beach heat. Palms fronds. The Pacific ocean. Pretty women. If I had a dream to be fulfilled it would probably be in Los Angeles. I was no concrete kid. But the first time I went, I was 13, and I remember the wave of wet heat that engulfed my entire body the moment I stepped out of LAX - I very quickly realized that I was the husky in the middle of the desert. The dog in the hot car. The polar bear at the Beijing zoo. I barely remember much about that trip. I peed the bed. I wore a dress. I got a massive sandal tan. I decided I wasn't going to be a commercial dancer.

R is for red. When I'm angry I see red. When I am embarrassed I feel red. When I have to stop the signs are red. When you blush you turn red. When I bite my lips they swell red. When it's my birth year I must wear red. When my heart pounds I hear red. When I lick my bleeding fingers I taste red. When you make portals one of them is red. When I am asked what my favourite colour is, I say orange or blue, when I mean to say red.

Your hair is rusty orange red.

Your lips are plumped pink red.

Your words make me fill with red.

I want to leave little red stains on your porcelain white background.

Red is very hard to forget.

K is for keep/knots/knit. My grandma knits. I think she's getting too old to knit now though. Her hip. Her hands. Her left eye. It was her birthday this month and I didn't call. I feel... Sad. Not at her. Not for her. But just at the ways in which we tie ourselves to others? The way she knit this family unit to take care of things, but it turns out it was a series of knots that had no ending. If you cut them out, removed them. They're still wound up so tight that nothing could ever release it. These permanent keep-sakes now lived with the entire knitted piece. Meshed and woven into the family tree. You can hide them, I guess. But they still used up wool. They still used up string. They still used up you. The time it takes to make a knot? A second. The time it takes to unravel a knot? Much longer. The time it takes to realize that the knot wont untangle? Maybe forever. The family that both my parents come from seems delicate - as if sitting on single strands of an entire knitted tapestry where if one single string snapped, the entirety of this stretched out canvas would ripple and disintegrate. Filaments of colour and dust unbound and sailing through the air until collecting at the floor in a sigh of unknowing abandon. Fear. So much fear. I've been called a knot. In comparison to my other family members - I am a knot. A wasted moment of time/twine, that honestly should have just followed the pattern from the book. The book works! It's worked for generations! It's allowed the family to survive! You can't just leave the pattern? And you're causing all of us to suffer as a result - look we are all holding you up because you chose this. You chose this. You chose this. You chose this. And look where it's gotten you. Right back where you started.

E is for elsewhere. I don't wish to escape. I think that's the furthest thing I want. But, I don't need to be here right now either. I do wish to be elsewhere. If I'm honest with myself - I want a simple life. I want to be with a partner that I can trust and love, and that has my back while I have theirs. Do you want commitment? I do. Do you want to be on my team? I want to be on yours. Do you want to go elsewhere with me? Elsewhere into our minds? Into your heart? Into my heart? Into the valleys and canyons of your mind and mine? To turn on our headlamps and dig for treasure in the scattered mines of our friendships? I'll show you my treasures if you show me yours. Do you want to share joy with me? Do you want to share space with me? Do you want to be alone, with me? And without me? Do you want to share your sadness with me? Your triumphs? Your defeats? Your coffee? Your bed? Your colds? Your sunlight bay window? Your words? Your body? Your soul?

It's cemented into me recently that my inner child will never stop finding you so indelibly delicious to play with. And if she likes you, then...

Do you want to go elsewhere with me?

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