#Christmas Paris Christmas story Homeless

[chaoticcollectivenightmare]

200 Date Ideas for Fanfictions

⭕️Not proofread

⭕️Not spell or grammer checked.

⭕Please tell me if what is duplicate

⭕ From: Pinterest

Make chocolate covered strawberries

Paris night: get a baguette, French wine, and

cheese!

Read your favorite books to one another

Bake cookies together

Watch the sunrise, then make breakfast together

Attend a local sport game

Watch an entire season of your fav TV show

Go for a long drive

Planetarium

Art gallery

Play board games

Movie

Visit garage sales

Volunteer for a homeless shelter

Go dancing

Go to the driving range

Build a snowman

Ride go-carts

Rent a movie

Have a carpet picnic

Go to an arcade

Play Frisbee

Go kayaking

Go ice skating

Visit the pumpkin farm

Go to a forest preserve

Go to ballet performance

Visit a place listed in an entertainment book

Bike riding

Study social media marketing

Bowling

Haunted house

Out for coffee

Visit a flea market

Play bingo

Go to an opera

Swing by a bookstore

Visit another city

Go hear jazz or reggae

See an NBA game

Play in the batting cages

Visit Vegas

Visit a nursing home and hand out flowers to everyone

Have lunch at a trendy new restaurant

Grab a fish fry

Grab a pint at an Irish pub

Chinese food and DVDs.

Attend a poetry reading

Attend an author reading from their latest fiction work.

Go antiquing

Go out for drinks

Visit a winery

Attend a painting class

Visit an animal shelter-you may come home with a new pet

Go for a carriage ride

Visit the tourist spots in your hometown

Take a trip to the hobby store-pick out a project to work on for the afternoon

Take a walk-around a lake, in the moonlight, by the river, on the beach

Go to an ethnic festival

Create a scrapbook

Go to a shrimp boil

Attend a matinee

Visit the zoo

Go see a local band

Have lunch at a church festival

Go camping

Go hiking

Go rock climbing

Play croquet

Attend a farmer's market

Have dinner at a new place

Try out a new cuisine

Take part in a community theater performance

Go strawberry picking or visit an apple orchard

Attend a live, outdoor music night in your town

Go see fireworks

Go stargazing

Play mini golf

Ride bikes

Make Only That

Bonfire

Go on a long drive

Recreate first date

Have a fancy dinner

Pizza and a movie

Get ice cream and or donuts

Go to an arcade

Drive-in-movies

Picnic at a park

Watch a sunrise or sunset

Climb a mountain

Theme park

Go to the beach

Museum or art gallery

Rock pools

Bake cookies

Christmas light looking

Kick the footy around

Local zoo

Day camping trip

Go on a search for as many good climbing trees as possible, climb as high as you both can in all of them, compile photo evidence.

Go to a major chain bookstore, and leave notes to future readers in copies of your favorite books.

Have her dressed up as a ghost and you dress up as Pacman.

Walk around downtown holding hands, and whenever anyone sees you two, pretend to be embarrassed, and run off screaming "wocka wocka wocks"

Create photo evidence suggesting that you went on an adventure that didn't really happen.

Do the lamest tourist thing in your area that you have both secretly wanted to do forever. Have an unabashed good time!

In the middle of the night, drive to the beach, so you arrive just as the sun is rising, Have a breakfast picnic, then fall asleep together. Bring a sun umbrella.

Drive somewhere unknown and have dinner in a city you've never been to. With fake names.

Go to a minor league baseball game under the stars. Tell each other stories about how bad you are at athletics Randomly cheer for both teams. Eat lots of Cracker Jacks.

Build forts out of furniture and blankets, and wage war with paper airplanes.

Try and visit as many people as you can in one night, and turn as many things inside their apartment upside down as you can, without them noticing

Go to the airport, get the cheapest, soonest departing flight to anywhere when you show up, and stay there for a weekend.

Write a piece of fiction together Outside at a cafe. Ask strangers when you get stuck

Dress to the nines, pretend to be married, and test drive very expensive vehicles at an auto dealership.

Walk around a city and perform short silent plays in front of security cameras.

With camera and pair of boots, make photolog of a day in the life of the invisible man.

Walk around the city all night and find a place to eat breakfast at dawn.

Go to a restraunt and convince the cook to create something completely new for you.

Rent a movie you've never seen before. Set on mute and improvise dialogue

'Say yes' day

Go ziplining

Do an Escape Room

Visit an aquarium

Road trip to random place

Casino night

Invisible ink calligraphy

Vintage boardgames night

Visit a waterfall

Ride a ferry somewhere

Murder mystery night

Rent your dream car

Rooftop dinner and drinks

Rowing boat on the lake

Write your couples bucket list

Watch sunset from a hill

Spa-day and couples massage

Kiss atop a Ferris wheel

Hot air balloon ride

See a famous musical

Champagne and bubble bath

Ice skating at an outdoor rink

Learn a dance together

Overnight luxury hotel stay

Recreate your first date

Read favorite books to each other

Volunteer at a dog pound

Have a pizza and wine night

Watch your favorite childhood movies

Complete a coloring book

Free outdoor concert

Bar crawl

Movie marathon weekend

Bike ride

Evening at the fairground

Photography in the park

Try on clothes at the mall

Drinks at the barcade

Blackberry picking

Go to a barn dance

Play mini golf

Visit a planetarium

Rent electric scooters

Go bowling

Frozen yoghurts on the pier

Watch a new band

Cocktails masterclass

Go to a farmer's market

Coffee and cupcakes

Dancing at an arcade

Photobooth challenge

Scenic train ride

Virtual game night

Cook same meal together

Candlelit dinner over Zoom

Movie night

Learn a new language

Play '20 questions'

Happy hour cocktails

Online AirBnB experience

Painting evening

Online board games

Adopt a pet

Go salsa dancing

Tubing down the river

Paddleboarding at the lake

Sunrise silent disco

Dress each other in costumes

Play Twister

Go zorbing

Stargazing from a rooftop

Play laser tag

Graffiti art bicycle tour

Monster trucks show

Make a time capsule

Wine tasting at a winery

Water gun fight

Be tourists in your local town

Kite flying at the beach

Beach sand sculptures

#fanfiction #fanfics #fic writing #a03 #fanfic writing #archive of our own #fic #fanfiction writer #fanfic writer #fanfic tropes #fanfic authors #fanfic ideas #date ideas #story ideas #ideas

[new-recreation]

My Experience of Homelessness in Paris

I want to share my personal experience of homelessness in Paris, including the nights I spent sleeping under the open sky and my occasional stays in a shelter. It was a challenging period of my life, but I believe it's important to shed light on the realities faced by those without a stable home.

In order to be admitted to the shelter, one must call a designated phone number before 5:00 PM. Around 8:00 PM, a group bus arrives to pick up those who made the call, taking us to the shelter for the night. Upon arrival, we were provided with a warm dinner and assigned a shared room with another individual in need. The room had basic amenities like a toilet and shower, providing some comfort in an otherwise uncertain situation.

The next morning, we were given breakfast before being required to return to the streets. To secure another night in the shelter, it was necessary to call the phone number each day before 5:00 PM. This meant having to beg for money and use a public telephone booth to make the call. It was a constant struggle to meet this deadline, as failure to do so meant having to find a place to sleep outdoors once again.

This experience opened my eyes to the challenges faced by the homeless population. It highlighted the importance of securing basic necessities, such as shelter and food, as well as the difficulties in accessing these resources on a daily basis. It also emphasized the need for more comprehensive support systems and resources for individuals experiencing homelessness.

I share my story not only to raise awareness but also to encourage empathy and understanding for those facing similar circumstances. Homelessness is a complex issue that requires collective effort and compassion to address effectively.

---

But before that happened, there was another chapter in my journey. I was living in Casa Astra, a shelter for people with challenging social backgrounds. I called it home for almost a year. I resided in a dormitory and had access to meals provided by our caretaker. Every evening, we would gather together for a shared dinner, abundantly prepared by our caretaker. During the day, we would engage in gardening work on a nearby meadow, which was incredibly fulfilling. Occasionally, I would visit the psychiatrist, always accompanied by our caretaker. I would also take walks with the Casa Astra dog, a furry companion belonging to one of my fellow residents. Exploring the beautiful fields with the dog brought me great joy.

Then, on one Christmas, I reached a breaking point and couldn't bear it any longer. I made a spontaneous decision to leave. I took a train from Mendrisio to Paris, but upon arrival, I encountered the police, who temporarily placed me in a sanatorium. Afterward, I returned to Mendrisio. With the monthly allowance of 50 francs, I would buy cigarettes and beer. I distinctly remember sitting in front of the church in Mendrisio, night after night, sipping on a beer and questioning where my life was heading. I had reached a point where I couldn't fathom finding support or getting back on my feet.

That was several years ago, and looking back now, I am proud of how far I have come. I have managed to rebuild my life, securing a job and reestablishing a sense of normalcy within my social structure.

[xtruss]

Greetings From Russia

— Ted Rall - Sputnik International | Wednesday August 03, 2022

I’m interested in stories that go uncovered and undercovered. Fewer stories are less obscured today than life in Russia under Western sanctions. I’m especially interested in stories that are so imbued with spin and propaganda that the news media has abandoned all pretense of objectivity. That’s certainly true about the Russia-Ukraine conflict.

I spent last week in Moscow to check things out for myself. Now I’m in Saint Petersburg. If you’ve never been to Russia, Moscow feels a bit like D.C.—streets and plazas on a scale hostile to pedestrians, impressive metro, intimidating government buildings raised by and for the political class. Saint Petersburg is more like New York, the country’s intellectual capital, steeped in history, sophisticated and hip rather than utilitarian and brutalist.

Friends worried about my safety. Their concerns could not possibly have been more misplaced.

Some worried that I’d be detained like the WNBA player Brittney Griner, who got caught at a Moscow airport with vape cartridges containing cannabis residue yet is being portrayed as a political hostage of Vladimir Putin. I wish Griner the best and hope she doesn’t go to prison, but I don’t understand the assumption of Americans that they don’t have to obey the law when they visit a foreign country. Foreign prisons are full of Americans convicted on drug charges; American prisons host many foreign nationals. If you can’t conform to local legal norms, stay home.

I don’t vape or use cannabis so no worries there.

But I was pulled out of the passport line upon arrival and pulled into a side office. A young man I think was an FSB officer questioned me about my occupation, education, travel itinerary, politics and my opinions about Russia’s actions in Ukraine. Unlike other Western travelers from “unfriendly” countries who report having been held for hours, the officer didn’t ask to look at my phone and sent me on my way after about 20 minutes. I assume that my experience was eased by the fact that one of my cartoon clients is Sputnik News.

I’ve been through this sort of thing before. No matter the country or its culture, intelligence agents assigned to border security are cut from the same cloth everywhere you go: young, intelligent, big smiles and a certain sinister charm. The Mossad grilled me for hours at Tel Aviv airport. Same treatment by an Iranian intel dude after entering overland from Afghanistan. Don’t lie to these guys. They’ll know.

Yes, it’s legal to travel to Russia. You can still get a visa. You can still fly in, albeit not over Europe. I flew on a packed plane to Istanbul and connected to a Moscow-bound flight that detoured an extra hour or two by going around and to the west of Ukraine.

The Russian economy, Americans have been told, is a wreck. If so, it’s the biggest secret in Russia. Storefronts are occupied, bustling with shoppers like it’s the week before Christmas. Gas prices are a reasonable $3 a gallon. Highways and city streets are choking with car traffic and pedestrians. Restaurants and bars are doing brisk business. New buildings are going up. Nowhere in the nation’s two most important cities does one find deranged armies of homeless people screaming at thin air and threatening people, streets blanketed with litter and shattered and boarded-up storefronts, as are blighting New York. There was an hour-long line—on a Tuesday—to enter the Hermitage Museum in Saint Petersburg.

To be sure, sanctions are affecting the tourism business. Hotel prices have fallen as a result. Restaurants in tourist areas have been impacted as well. Westerners stopped coming when COVID began two years ago; this feels like an extension of that. So it’s not a shock.

Some Western businesses, like McDonald’s and Starbucks, have closed. Who cares, except the Russian workers who got laid off? Burger King is everywhere. As in Rome or Paris, you can score a much better cup of joe at a zillion cafes.

Nothing has made as big an impression on businesses in Russia as Visa and Mastercard’s decision to stop honoring American- and European-issued debit and credit cards in Russia. Russian nationals can use their MIR debit and credit cards here, but not in the West. When Westerners come to Russia, we have to bring a stack of cash to pay for everything, including hotels. There is a sort of workaround; I have an account at one of the major U.S. banks that still has branches here and so have been able to withdraw cash via ATM. Suze Orman would love the inability to go on a credit-card bender.

Needless to say, the sanctions don’t affect Russian political or financial elites. All Biden and the EU are doing is making it harder for Americans and Europeans to visit Russia. This means we have no cultural impact whatsoever, no political influence. As we’ve been doing in Cuba and Iran for decades, we’re cutting off our noses to spite our faces.

Google, or Google News at least, is supposedly blocked in Russia. Not true.

Twitter, Facebook and Instagram, all officially blocked by the Russian government, actually come and go in some mysterious, haphazard way.

My email is blocked.

Russia allows a lot of Western media outlets, including those highly critical of Russia and its war in Ukraine, to broadcast inside the country. I watched pro-Ukraine, anti-Russian stories here on CNN International, CNBC and the BBC. Western news apps like the New York Times, Washington Post, The Guardian and the Associated Press work without a hitch. However, and oddly, my syndicate’s cartoon website GoComics is inaccessible in Russia.

In the United States, on the other hand, the powers-that-be are blocking apps of the TV and radio broadcasters RT and Sputnik News, as well as their text journalism content. Both networks are banned in the EU. By this metric, Russia’s news media is freer than ours.

Many of my friends worried that Russians would respond with rage and violence when they learned I was from the United States. I know from my travels that Americans’ inability to separate people from the politics of their country’s government is fairly unique and so shrugged them off.

But Russians’ reactions have surprised me. Outwardly glum and cold until they get to know you, they warm up with big bright smiles and express happy surprise that anyone from the United States still takes interest in Russia. Drinks are comped, good vibes all around.

— Ted Rall, the political cartoonist, columnist and graphic novelist, co-hosts the left-vs-right DMZ America podcast with fellow cartoonist Scott Stantis. You can support Ted’s hard-hitting political cartoons and columns and see his work first by sponsoring his work on Patreon.

[lezliefaithwade]

A Christmas Story

A few Christmases ago, when in Paris, I happened to become friends with a homeless gentleman who frequented the corner at the end of my street. He sat upon a shocking pink suitcase with his little dog, Lucky, curled up at his feet and wished everyone who passed by a heartfelt “bonne journée.” 

He never asked for money. Not once. He never scorned those who scoffed or worse judged. He simply smiled and greeted every passerby with a sincere greeting of goodwill.  I’d been warned repeatedly about beggars in Paris. “Charlatans,” people said, “they’ll take everything you own if you let them.” So, when I first encountered Nichola, I hurried by shunning eye contact and willing myself NOT to look at the dog.  I can turn a blind eye like the rest of us to things too uncomfortable to deal with and reasoned that since this was my first visit to Europe, I deserved a break from routine considerations. But no matter how much I wished I could ignore them, they were always there, as constant as the Eiffel Tower. After a few days, it became impossible, and frankly tiresome, avoiding him. I began to observe how kind he seemed. Children, in particular, loved Lucky and were always feeding him from the small market at the corner. On the fourth night of my stay, I happened to be returning from a concert at the Chapel in Versailles. Intoxicated by the music of Faure, I was in a particularly good mood when I noticed Nichola and Lucky asleep on the street. It was cold that night and a light wet snow had fallen so they were huddled on a grate for warmth upon the wet pavement. My heart cracked. I made my way to the apartment I was staying in around the corner on Duvivier and laying on my bed, stared at the ceiling unable to sleep. I had no idea how I could help or what comfort I could offer, but pretending they didn’t exist was now impossible.

If you learn one thing in Paris it’s about man’s inhumanity to man. Art galleries, of which there are a plethora, boast painting after painting of retribution, judgment, mercy, benevolence, and grace. Who knows more about these things than artists? The lesson from nearly every painting is how downtrodden the poor are, how much God loves the unfortunate, and the cautionary tale of revolt. No matter where I went, or what I saw, it was always Nichola and the dog. Van Gogh stared at me from his self-portrait and whispered, “What are you going to do about Nichola and the dog?” The Raft of Medusa by Théodore Géricault became a depiction of the homeless people piled on a barge with nowhere to go.  Gustave Courbet’s self-portrait with a dog was none other than Nichola himself with Lucky tucked into his side. And no, it wasn’t lost on me that Nichola (namesake of Christmas) was sleeping on St. Dominque street. Dominique - the patron saint of astronomers; a man who selected the worst accommodations and the meanest clothes, and never allowed himself the luxury of a bed. What was the universe trying to tell me?

The following morning, I had breakfast with Nichola and Lucky. I brought croissants, dog food, and coffee, and for an hour I sat cross-legged on the sidewalk as we made our first attempt to converse. My French is, très mauvais, which didn’t matter as I soon discovered that Nichola's native tongue was Romani. With the help of a translation app, I learned that Romania and Bulgaria, where the majority of Roma originate, became full members of the European Union in 2007. But “transitional arrangements” in their accession to the EU mean that citizens of these former communist bloc states did not enjoy complete freedom of employment in France until December 31, 2013. Even now only certain Roma are able to be hired for certain work.  He showed me a photograph of his daughter in Czechoslovakia and he gleaned that I was in theatre visiting Paris on a bursary I’d won from the Stratford Festival. Breakfast over, I waved goodbye and headed to D’Orsay or Versailles, or the Louvre, but I always came back to Nichola and Lucky for dinner between 5:30 – 6:00. On nights when the weather was bad, I gave him money for a shelter or would return home to find that he’d already earned enough for a bed somewhere. Those nights I slept better than others. Nights when I knew he wasn’t on the street, I imagined (probably somewhat naively) that he and the dog were at least safe.

It occurred to me that it was possible I was being bamboozled. It’s conceivable that my friend had a stash of money somewhere, coaxed from emotional tourists like me. Truth be told, nothing would have pleased me more than to find out that Nichola had a fine apartment in a good arrondissement and dined well with Lucky curled up on Egyptian cotton sheets. If I was being fleeced then so be it. Anyone who begs deserves money, as far as I’m concerned. It’s not a noble profession. It’s not gratifying. It’s demoralizing, tedious, work brought to light even more so during the holiday season.

What is it about Christmas that always brings us back to the issue of money? We spend so much on the creature comforts of the season, investing in commercialism and forgetting that the whole Christmas story revolves around a couple about to give birth with no roof over their head. And how often do we watch A Christmas Carol forever reminded that Ebenezer Scrooge’s relationship with money makes him as hollow as the apartments he keeps: void of life and colour. The first time I saw A Christmas Carol I was terrified. (I’m referring in particular to the black and white Alistair Sim version) Marley’s ghost in particular haunted, not only Scrooge but me for days afterward. I half expected to see the shimmering outline of some long lost relative at the end of my bed reprimanding me for stealing cookies or stepping on flowers. In my childlike brain, Marley and Santa Claus merged into some kind of specter sent to judge whether I’d been good, or not. I was forever trying to figure out how good was good? How bad was bad? If found wanting, would I be sentenced to walk the earth with the chains I’d forged? Even as a child I imagined the cord was extensive. I marveled at Charles Dicken's imagination. I didn’t believe Ebenezer Scrooge was real. No one, I reasoned, was that stingy or that greedy; but over time I’ve met a lot of Scrooges and I’ll bet you have too. We use money to ascertain a person’s value and to hold sway over others. It’s the most mysterious entity because it’s only valuable if we think it is. I learned this lesson long ago when studying in New York. I happened to hand a Canadian quarter to a subway attendant who shoved it back at me saying, “I can’t take your funny money.” Perfectly good in one place and absolutely worthless somewhere else.

It’s embarrassing asking for money when you need it and difficult for people being asked. I know a lot about this awkward relationship with money. My father, for a time, was a bank manager and finances were something we simply did not discuss. Not ever. To borrow, even a few hundred dollars was unheard of. Worse, in my family, you were shamed for asking. And if anyone took pity on you with a few bucks here or there, it was always accompanied with the directive, “…don’t tell your mother, or brother, or step-mother.” It was even worse being in the arts, a profession that carried with it the stigma of irresponsibility.  The only exception I knew of was my Nana on my Mother’s side who loved nothing more than to give people things. I inherited this one trait from her. Money has never been something I hoarded (probably to my demise). Instead, I’ve seen it as simply an opportunity to help. In Paris, I became the newly converted Ebenezer Scrooge. Instead of eating at the most expensive restaurant, I ate at moderately fine establishments and saved the difference for Nichola. I bought day-old croissants and gave the difference I saved to Nichola. And when my departure date drew near I bought him a care package of food, blankets, socks, dog food, and treats.

My last night in Paris, I met a friend for a quick coffee and found myself getting emotional as I talked about the street beggars. Could it be that in getting to know Nichola, I realized that so much of my life was about luck? I live in a town where it’s not unheard of for people to have more than one home, and there was a perfectly nice person living on the streets. Our lives are so vastly different, our circumstances so varied simply for the fact of our birth. There but for the grace of God…

When my friend and I parted I made my way in the dark to Notre Dame and listened to a Christmas concert in an overflowing cathedral filled to the brim with parents and children all there to sing Sante Maria and Joy to the World. How fortunate for me that I was able to experience Notre Dame before the fire. Even an atheist would be hard-pressed to admit that there wasn’t something spiritual about that cathedral. And sitting there amongst the Parisians I felt a kind of peace. “What will happen to Nichola?” I asked the rafters and what came back was the sound of children singing:

Angels we have heard on high

Sweetly singing o'er the plains

And the mountains in reply

Echoing their joyous strains

Gloria, in Excelsis Deo

Gloria, in excelsis Deo

As I was walked home after the concert I happened by the famous bookstore: Shakespeare & Co. and was stopped in my tracks by the store’s motto, "Be Not Inhospitable to Strangers Lest They Be Angels in Disguise."

That night I wrote a letter to Nichola and left him enough money for him and his dog to return to his daughter. I sealed the envelope and, in the morning, before I left for the airport, I gave it to him.

I mention this, dear reader, not to draw any attention on me whatsoever. It’s our job to help our fellow man…at least Charles Dickens thought so when he penned,

“At this festive time of the year… it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at present. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts.”

Three months later, I received a letter from Czechoslovakia. Enclosed was a thank you and photos of Lucky, Nichola, and his daughter in the backyard of a home set against the hills.

If I can help someone, then so can you.

#Christmas Paris Christmas story Homeless

[pl-panda]

To Marry a Vigilante: Part 3

MASTERLIST || First || Previous || Next

Disclaimer: Masterlist

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The dinner was an interesting affair. Everyone was gathered around a large table that could easily fit several more people. Marinette was sitting between Damian and her mother; on the opposite, Tim, Stephanie, and Cass took the seats. She was glad that they were all people she knew well enough. It was overwhelming. Before, Christmas was always just her and her parents. Occasionally, Nona came too. And there was this one time when she was five when her great-uncle visited. This was much too crowded. 

Damian gently squeezed her hand, reassuring her that it was alright. She ate some, but the nerves made her lose appetite quickly. She was in Gotham. Celebrating Christmas with her husband’s family. Husband… She was going to have a panic attack. She wasn’t ready. 

“Habibti. It’s okay. Everyone here’s a friend.” Damian whispered into her ear, seeing she was spiraling. “Nobody is going to judge us on anything.”

“But I didn’t make any gifts for the Kents. And I didn’t know your eldest brother had a daughter! And I’m a total klutz. I will probably knock over the tree and it will fall and set the house on fire and you will end up homeless or someone will get hurt and then your family will hate me and the Kents will hate me and I…” she kept whispering faster and faster until she was finally starting to feel the need to breathe or pass out. The jury was still out. 

Seeing her daughter’s panic, Sabine also grabbed her hand and squeezed it lightly. “Honey, let’s go get some fresh air.” She said loud enough for people close to them to hear before leading Marinette outside. Nobody batted an eye when the pair passed them. 

Once the two were in the back garden, Mari felt her legs give up under her and if not for her mother, she would have probably collapsed. The woman held her tight and led the girl toward the bench, which was luckily not covered in snow. 

“I’m so sorry, Maman. I don’t know… I just felt so overwhelmed. There were all these people and I was really meeting my husband’s family and friends for the first time and I guess I was not prepared for all this…” She was speaking fast. 

“Don’t worry sweetie. I understand. Did I tell you how, when I met your Nona for the first time, I accidentally flipped her over my shoulder and pinned her to the ground?” Sabine asked, smiling understandingly at her daughter. 

“No! Really?”

“Yes. Well, in my defense, she surprised me with a gun that shot candies.” 

Marinette couldn’t help but giggle at that. It did seem like something her Mémé would do. 

“She was shocked at first and I was afraid I hurt her. Instead, after that, she decided that I was apparently worthy of dating her boy and gave us her approval.” 

“So… the moral of this story is that I should flip Talia over for them to accept me?” Mari asked with a cheeky grin. 

“That too, sweetie. I can even lend you something from my bag if you want a more… permanent effect.” 

“Maman!” 

“Fine…” Sabine grumbled goodheartedly. “You don’t need to worry about fitting in or how they will perceive you. I’ve seen how that boy looks at you and I approve.” She smiled. “That’s all that should matter.”

“Thank you maman. I’m glad you’re here.” She hugged her mother as the two sat together on the bench, enjoying the evening chill until the cold became irritating instead of refreshing.

-------

When the two returned, the dinner was nearing the end. Marinette noted seven burning holes on the ceiling but didn’t comment. There was also a plate on fire next to Jason that he seemed adamant not to acknowledge. Also, Mar’i and Jon were levitating above the table and playing rock paper scissors, except they used the props. Silently, Marinette walked to take a seat next to Damian. Her mother went over to talk a bit with Bruce about something.

“Um… Why is Jason’s plate on fire?” She asked, very much confused. 

“Tt. He wanted a souffle on fire.” 

“We’re already at desserts?” The girl asked, surprised. In the corner of her eye, she saw Cass staring at Tim and Stephanie with a strange gaze. It wasn’t hostile, but rather, she couldn’t really name the emotions present. 

“Yes. I saved you some maracons. You love the strawberry ones, right?”

“You made me prefer lemon ones.” She smiled. “The subtle sourness really brings out the sweetness.” 

“Of course it does Angel.” He smiled. “Sadly, we sit next to Brown, who will devour anything with sugar in it.”

A devious grin appeared on Mari’s face. “Really now?” She reached over into her purse to pull a small box where she kept the power-up cookies for her Kwami. “Tikki… will you mind if I give her a burnt-red one? You know which…”

For a moment, it looked like the Kwami wanted to protest, but then the small goddess noticed the plate of cookies was empty. “Go for it, Marinette. It won’t hurt her.”

“Stephanie! I’ve got a spare macaron I can share,” she smiled at the blonde girl. 

“Gimme!” She almost leaped like a gremlin, her eyes in a slight daze.

“Uh-oh. She is experiencing a sugar rush. I think she ate the whole plate herself,” Tim spoke from his seat, eyes slightly worried. 

Mari handed over the macaron and watched as Steph ate it. It took only a moment for her face to flush red and tears to appear in her eyes. “Water!” She said with a hoarse throat. Tim handed her a glass, but when she downed it, the burning only increased.

“Oh no! I forgot to warn you! It was made with ground hot pepper instead of flour… silly me!” Mari said, keeping the cute smile on. “I would advise milk.”

When Stephanie ran to the kitchen, followed by Tim laughing and Cass and Damian smiling, the older boy turned to Marinette. “You are devious.” 

“She shouldn’t have eaten so many cookies,” the girl shrugged. After that, she actually started to enjoy the evening. It might have started a prank war later on, but for now, she was safe. 

---------

After dinner, the crowd moved to a large living room where adults took seats on the couches or chairs while most kids and teens sat on the fluffy carpet. Alfred was walking around and handing the wine glasses to adults and hot chocolate to the youngsters. Clark opted for hot chocolate as well, which earned him a round of teasing. 

Since everyone was staying the night, there was no need for designated drivers. When Tim and Stephanie tried to get their hands on alcohol, Alfred slapped their hands. More laughter followed. 

Marinette sat there, cuddled into one armchair with Damian, observing everything and looking cute. 

“...I’m just saying, Bruce. You could smile a bit more in costume too. It wouldn’t kill you.” Clark finished a short speech.

“Work and homelife should stay separate,” Tim spoke up from his spot on the floor.

“Which doesn’t stop you from smiling. You’re not a Buckingham Palace guard.” Lois pointed out.

“To be frank, you could smile a bit more often, B.” Dick supported the enemy.

“It would be bad for the image,” Bruce mumbled. “If anyone saw Batman smile, it would ruin my years of hard work.”

“Diana disagrees.” Kor’i smiled. “She actually said once that ‘a smiling bat looks pretty handsome’.”

“I’ve seen a smiling bat!” Mar’i shouted from her spot on Jon’s knees, the two of them acting like nice siblings. It secretly irked Damian, but he wouldn’t ever voice that thought. “There was a cartoon!” 

“That’s nice, sweetie.” Sabine couldn’t help but rub it into Bruce some more. “Did he also have a cape, like Bruce?”

“Yes! And he walked on two legs!” 

“See? I think your image doesn’t need to suffer.” Tom joined his wife. His English wasn’t that good, but he could get by. “Maybe you could get a cartoon about Batman? Ladybug had her own movie and a song dedicated to her.” 

“Ladybug?” Jonathan asked. Marinette immediately tensed at the mention of her superhero name. She definitely did not want to reveal herself to everyone here. It’s not that she didn’t trust any of them, since all of them knew about Batman and co., but she felt uneasy. The fewer people knew, the better. 

“Parisian superheroine.” Sabine clarified.

“We sure didn’t hear about her back in Smallville.” Martha insisted, smiling. “Then again, we don’t really keep with the news from the old world.”

“There was this terrorist in Paris that used magic to turn people into temporary villains. He was finally defeated recently. I think you’ve seen all the ladybug decorations.” Tim explained in broad terms. 

“Ah! Right. I was wondering about the ladybugs…” 

Damian noted that his beloved was tense and decided that it was a moment good as any other to spring up the surprise. He shifted slightly, signaling that he wanted to get up. Marinette, who was still holding her cup, immediately sprung onto her feet. She thought he maybe wanted to leave somewhere or speak with his father alone. 

Instead, Damian hit the side of his hot chocolate cup with a spoon three times, gathering everyone’s attention. 

“Tt. I wanted to say a few words. This will be important so shut up you lot.” He cleared his throat before continuing in a mostly emotionless voice that most people associated with his ‘Ice Prince’ persona. “Marinette. When I first met you, it was not from our own free will. The bitch that is my mother forced our hand and tied us together. But we got to know each other out of our own free will. Nobody forced me…” His head snapped toward Dick. “Tt. Don’t you dare, Grayson.” Seeing his brother raise his hands in a surrender gesture, he carried on. “Nobody forced me to come to Paris. Definitely, nobody forced you to actually accept my courting. To this day, I am left wondering why an Angel as you would actually agree to go out with me, but here we are.”

The people watched with rapt attention. Marinette just stood there, unable to voice a coherent thought. She had no idea what was happening, but a deep red blush had made its way onto her face when he praised her. 

“You were so full of passion and joy and it reminded me a bit of Jon, but without the irritating factors.” 

“Hey!” The boy protested. A murderous glare from Damian shut him up quickly. 

“As I was saying, you were perfect in my eyes. I was taken away by your kindness. There are no words to describe my feelings.” His tone was still emotionless and monotonous, but Marinette could see that he was doing his best to actually see this through. “I can say without a doubt that I love you, Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” 

All air was suddenly sucked from Mari’s lungs when he fell on one knee and pulled out a small black box. Inside was probably the most beautiful ring she had ever seen. There were three flowers on a golden band. In the center of each, there was a shining diamond, surrounded by smaller stones. The petals were made from pink stones that she suspected were also diamonds. Were there even pink diamonds? All in all, it looked beyond words. 

“Will you do me that honor and become my wife?” When he finally asked, she could feel the world spinning. This was… this was better than in any of her daydreams. And not only because instead of Adrien there was Damian. 

The words died in her throat. She had to sit down to not faint. “Yes…” She whispered weakly, so only Damian could hear. The boy smiled brightly (a rare sight to be sure) and put the ring on her finger. 

Her gaze fell on the band he had on his own hand. It was silver with a large black stone in the center of the band, surrounded by eight diamonds. The Black Cat Miraculous she realized. 

An applaud arose from several places in the room, but some of the guests were confused. 

“Aren’t you two too young to get married?” Johnathan asked, scratching his head. 

“Tt. Technically, we are already married where I come from. This is for my wife’s content and nothing else.”

“Married?!” The old farmer asked, scandalized. 

“Tt. That’s what I said. Now can someone please get my Angel some water? I think she is about to faint.” 

“Um… I would also be very interested in the story…” Clark joined his father. He wasn’t exactly that much scandalized, but confusion was clear on his face. 

“I promise I will explain everything. I think we should give the two some breathing space…” Bruce proposed hesitantly. 

“I will help get Mari to her room. I think she has had enough excitement for today,” Tom offered.

“I am also turning in for the night, Father. I trust that between you and Miss Cheng they will get a full story. Sans the private parts of course.” He glared at him. 

“I will make sure of that.” Sabine quickly cut any protests.

“Good. Good night everyone. And Merry Christmas or whatever.” With that, he left, wanting to catch up with Tom and Marinette.

----------------

Masterlist // Next

#fanfiction #miraculous #miraculous ladybug #miraculous lb #tiger miraculous #maribat #marinette dupain cheng #maridami #fluff #arranged marriage AU #batman #BatFam #damienette #Damian Wayne #Damian al Ghul #marinette x damian #class salt

[gameofdrarry]

Wizards Hearts Recs: Odd Jobs

Wizards Hearts was a four-month-long Drarry reading fest. Players were given a playing deck of 52 tropes, and were asked to find 52 different fics to read and comment on to fill their decks. To prevent the same few fics from being read, fics were restricted to only being used for the game three times before being considered ineligible for further points. The tropes and submissions list can be found here.

Check out the masterlist of fics for this trope below the cut!

📜 Azoth by zeitgeistic Rated:  Explicit Words:  88,722 Tags:  Eighth Year, Alchemy, Animagus, Snark, Banter, Pining, Graphic Sex Summary:  Now that Harry is back at Hogwarts with Hermione for eighth year, he realises that something’s missing from his life, and it either has to do with Ron, his boggart, Snape, or Malfoy. Furthermore, what, exactly, does it mean when one’s life is defined by the desire to simultaneously impress and annoy a portrait? Harry has no idea; he’s too busy trying not to be in love with Malfoy to care. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 On Your Shore by xanthippe74 Rated:  Mature Words:  35113 Tags: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post-Hogwarts, Mystery, Scotland, Dark Magic, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Pining, Sharing a Bed, First Time, Non-Explicit Sex, Demisexual Harry Potter, Bisexual Harry Potter, Gay Draco Malfoy, Closeted Draco Malfoy, Curse Breaker Harry Potter, Antiques Appraiser Draco Malfoy, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Good Parent Draco Malfoy, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Married Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, H/D Sex Fair 2020 Summary:  Clearing out a remote house full of cursed collectibles in the Outer Hebrides? Not a problem for an experienced curse breaker like Harry Potter. Spending a week with the straight, happily-married man that he’s starting to have feelings for? And sharing a bed with him at night? Surely Harry can handle that, too. But both the house and Draco Malfoy have secrets to uncover, and Harry might be in deeper water than he thought. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Of Matchmaking Owls & Second Chances by xErised Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  11219 Tags: Owls, Paris (City), Dancing in the Rain, Humor, Mutual Pining, Getting Together, Post-Hogwarts, H/D Career Fair 2017, Rekindled Relationships, Adorable Summary:  It's just Draco's luck to own an owl that's in love with Potter's owl treats. When Potter invites Draco's owl to be a taste-tester, Draco accepts. For the sake of his beloved owl, of course, not to rekindle that spark of attraction during their eighth year. Or because of how bloody fit Potter is. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Aural Gratification by author Rated:  Explicit Words:  10988 Tags: Aural Kink, Masturbation, Closet Sex, Coming Out, Dildos, Humor, Smut Summary:  Harry's not gay – he just likes listening to exciting stories about Aurors. It's not his fault that the narrator's voice is so smooth, so expressive... and really rather hot. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Draco Malfoy: Toilet Supremo by who_la_hoop Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  26189 Tags: Romance, Humor, flangst, HP: EWE, Career: toilet salesman Summary:  It must be a vision brought on by eating cheese sarnies too close to bedtime, Harry thinks. There's no way that Draco Malfoy can really be standing on his doorstep, calling himself a Toilet Supremo, and expecting Harry to buy not only this unlikeliest of scenarios, but also a new loo. But no: Harry's eyes do not deceive him. Malfoy, Lord of Toilets, is really there. Which begs a very important question: what the hell is he up to, and what evil scheme is he about to unleash? Because there must be an evil scheme . . . mustn't there? ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 When Hippogriffs and Pygmy Puffs Collide by oldenuf2nb Rated:  Mature Words:  32755 Tags: Playboy Harry Potter, Tattoo Artist Draco Malfoy, Baker Harry Potter, Divorced Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley, Divorced Astoria Greengrass & Draco Malfoy, Bisexual Harry Potter, Magical Tattoos, Hand Jobs Summary:  Harry Potter bakes cakes, brilliantly. Draco Malfoy inks tattoos, brilliantly. Owls deliver post, including messages from clients, with an occasional lack of brilliance. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 It's Not Like Christmas At All by ProfessorDrarry Rated:  Mature Words:  29411 Tags: Christmas Fluff, Advent Calendar, Christmas Eve, New Year's Eve, Past Relationship(s), Mentions of Past Homelessness, References to Illness, estranged family, Poverty, POV Alternating, happy ending guaranteed Summary:  Draco knew his life wouldn't have been appealing in the eyes of his past-self; Muggle job that would make his parents shudder. Muggle flat with an inconvenient living situation. Muggle hairdresser and coffee shop and charity work. But it was perfect. Well. Almost perfect. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 (We'll Call This Fixer-Upper) Home by phdmama Rated:  Explicit Words:  52520 Tags: Rock Star Draco Malfoy, Artist Harry Potter, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post Traumatic Growth, mental health, Original Character(s), Original Character Death(s), (all those are in the past), Recreational Drug Use, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Hooking up, Dating, Semi-Public Sex, Growth and Healing, Mention of Suicidal Ideation, Getting Together, Boys Kissing, Falling In Love Summary:  Draco Malfoy hasn’t set foot on English soil in ten years. After the war, he fled to America, where he found himself in a community, and healed himself through following his heart into music. He’s now the lead singer and songwriter for an internationally known band, who have come back to headline the Wiltshire Music Festival. But as Draco is about to learn, his past isn’t as far away as he might have believed, and his future may hold more than he ever could have dreamed. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 All Roads by korlaena, Saulaie Rated:  Mature Words:  36636 Tags: Minor Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Journalist Draco Malfoy, Animagus Draco Malfoy, Magizoologist Harry Potter, Desi Harry Potter, Bearded Harry Potter, Background Femslash, Horseback Riding, Italy, Cabins, Mountains, Walks In The Woods, Drinking, Hangover, Masturbation, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Self-Hatred, Lucius Malfoy Being an Asshole, Friends to Lovers, Angst with a Happy Ending Summary:  Draco hates his job at the Prophet. He hates it even more when he’s assigned to write an article on Harry Potter, who left the country three years ago after their falling out. Draco doesn’t want to face the truth about himself, but he’s stuck between Harry and his duty, and he’s out of options. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 kiss me in the doorway by primaveracerezos Rated:  Explicit Words:  7787 Tags: Getting Together, Post-War, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Fluff Summary:  "At Draco’s trial, Potter testified that Draco had acted only in fear of his life, for his parents’ lives. When the Wizengamot announced his pardon, hundreds of eyes were on him, but he only felt one gaze. He found Potter’s green eyes in the crowd, where he was insulated by layers of loyal friends. The expression on Potter’s face was painfully open, studying, curious. Draco returned it. He had questions too." ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Quibbler Unsolved by leontina (Leontina) Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  17377 Tags: Post-Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Minor Luna Lovegood/Dudley Dursley, Minor Astoria Greengrass/Pansy Parkinson, Buzzfeed Unsolved References, Alternate Universe - Buzzfeed Unsolved Fusion, Smitten Draco Malfoy, Oblivious Harry Potter, Oblivious Draco Malfoy, Matchmaking, World Travel, Redeemed Dudley Dursley, Explicit Language, Light Angst, Drinking, Getting Fired, Eviction, Masturbation, POV Draco Malfoy, Down and Out Draco Malfoy, Journalist Draco, Journalist Harry, The Quibbler, Sharing a Bed, Goats, The X-Files References, Ouija, Implied Sexual Content, Implied Switching, H/D Erised 2019 Summary:  Draco is down on his luck without a home or a job, and so he has no choice but to accept an offer to work at The Quibbler. He just didn’t expect to be searching for make-believe creatures in the Muggle world with Harry Potter. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Come A Little Closer by maraudersaffair Rated:  Explicit Words:  37787 Tags: First Time, Pining, Coming Out, slight angst, redeemed!Draco, gay!draco, unusual careers, Grimmauld Place, magical museums, Kayaking, Draco in the Muggle World, Snogging, Frottage, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Drinking, Injury, Dirty Talk, Kid Fic, Sex Toys, Bisexual Harry Potter, Gay Draco Malfoy, Kings Cross, Virginity Summary:  A few years after the war, Draco Malfoy works the service desk at King’s Cross and does his best to avoid his parents. He is also desperate to lose his virginity. Enter Harry Potter. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 The Critiquer by dysonrules Rated:  Explicit Words:  24260 Tags: Humor, Romance, HP: EWE, Post-Hogwarts, Photography, Secret Identity Summary:  When Harry submits his cock photo to a renowned Cock Critiquer and gets a terrible review, he decides to take a photography class to hopefully improve his skills. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Pathless Woods by onereader Rated:  Explicit Words:  30267 Tags: Wandmaker Harry Potter, Wand Wood Grower Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, Found Family, Violet Wand, Magical Theory, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Slow Build Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Happy Ending, Dating, Puns & Word Play, Wandlore (Harry Potter), H/D Fan Fair 2019, Secondary Theme: Pottermore Fair, Handsome Draco Malfoy Summary:  “There is a pleasure in the pathless woods” Lord Byron. Harry finds himself unexpectedly reacquainted with Draco Malfoy when his work as an apprentice wandmaker takes him to Wiltshire. Amongst the trees Harry finds magic, growth, and a man who might finally be proving he’s worthy of the wand that chose him. Hawthorn, Unicorn hair, 10 inches, reasonably pliant. A story of found family, trees with feelings, belief in the power of growth, wandlore, and gratuitous description of Handsome Estate Owner™ Draco Malfoy swanning around in white shirts and leather boots. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Leaky Sinks and Proffered Services by parseltonquinq Rated:  Explicit Words:  4129 Tags: Top Harry, Bottom Draco, repairman!harry, draco needs to get a grip, harry needs to buy another shirt, i need to get some sleep Summary:  "It had only been a week and a half since Harry had fixed the bathroom sink. Draco knew he had a problem. The sink hadn’t even been broken. The thing was, he couldn’t stop thinking about Harry’s eyes or that smile or the way he filled out that plain white t-shirt. It was almost obsessive. So he did what any sane man would do and loosened some of the compression nuts with a wrench (he’d had to watch a couple of videos to learn how). He then proceeded to check out Harry’s ass while he worked, his mouth dry and his conscience taking the day off. " Draco breaks things. Harry is a hot repairman. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Scurrilous by Saras_Girl Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  25142 Tags: N/A Summary:  When Potter starts behaving more oddly than usual, Draco has no choice but to take an interest. After all, it’s his job. Sort of. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Walk in the sun by FreddieFoxBaxter Rated:  Explicit Words:  18239 Tags: Getting Together, Smut, Only One Bed, One Shot, Awkward Flirting, Drunken Confessions, Social Anxiety, Nude Photos, Dating, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter is Obsessed with Draco Malfoy, Top Draco Malfoy, Bottom Harry Potter, Harry Potter in Panties, Model Draco Malfoy, Minor Neville Longbottom/Blaise Zabini, Minor Pansy Parkinson/Ginny Weasley, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, H/D Sex Fair 2020 Summary:  Harry is perfectly content with the life he built for himself; simple and private, it helps him heal the wounds from the war. He then accepts to go out with one of Neville’s acquaintances, never expecting that decision would bring him back to his obsession for Draco Malfoy. “That was his cue. Had Harry stopped to think about his situation, he could have left. Malfoy was nibbling at his neck, he had his hand down his pants. All things considered, a disaster incoming. And yet, his feet still refused to move. After all, he was not the stop-to-think-of-consequences kind of guy.” ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Salty Sweet by Aelys_Althea Rated:  Mature Words:  59795 Tags: Post-War, Not Epilogue Compliant, Baking, Pâtisserie, Sugar and Salt, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Apprenticeship, Bake-Off, Competition, change, Master and Apprentice, Character Development, French Influences, Muggles and Magic, Harry Potter Leaves the Wizarding World, Isolation, Patronus, Finding Peace, glamours, Workplace Relationship, Apprentice Harry Potter, Pastry Chef Draco Malfoy, H/D Career Fair 2017 Summary:  Draco was a Master. He'd always been one, but having a town of Muggles consider him as close to God's gift as they would ever receive was certainly validating. Except it wasn't enough. After years of settling, of conjuring masterpieces with his fingers and his prowess, Draco realised he needed a change. How hard could it be to find an apprentice pâtissier that did what they were told? As it happened, doing 'what was told' was about the last thing on his inevitable prospect's mind. Trust Harry Potter to be the one to turn Draco's life upside down. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 The Printed Press by Soupy George Rated:  Mature Words:  124993 Tags: Language, Themes, Sexual Content Summary:  Draco Malfoy was still slightly awed to be standing on the doorstep of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. He never would have thought that Harry Potter's very public and very ... sweary, emotional explosion would have led to him offering Draco, of all people, a job. ❤️ Read on FFN

📜 you made your mark on me (a golden tattoo) by tigerlilycorinne Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  6078 Tags: Fluff, Post-War, Post-Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Pining Draco, Tattoo artist Harry, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, sorta - Freeform, Getting Together, Sort-of Confessions, Kind Harry Potter, Humor Summary:  Draco wants to get a tattoo, but he can hardly do that when it turns out the artist of the shop he chooses is none other than Harry Potter. Draco would much rather leave, really, he would, because the last thing he needs is to be anywhere near Potter and his wild hair and green eyes, his shoulders and that bloody voice… what was he saying? Oh yes– Harry Potter is the last person he wants to be around. But it’s kinda hard to leave when he’s being so bloody distracting… ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 the potential of broken things by icarusinflight Rated:  Explicit Words:  10727 Tags: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post-Hogwarts, Auror Harry Potter, Ex-Auror Draco Malfoy, Bisexual Harry Potter, Drinking, Kneazles (Harry Potter), Explicit Sexual Content, Intercrural Sex, H/D Erised 2020 Summary:  "Can you feel that? Some things want to be what they once were. The original spell is still there, and it wants to work again. All it takes is a little push and then"—Draco clicks his fingers of his free hand—"snap, everything will go back into place." Harry's feeling lost, but he finds Draco in a shop full of (not broken, just waiting to be repaired) items. He stays a while. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Touch by bixgirl1 Rated:  Explicit Words:  44791 Tags: Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Rimming, Switching, H/D Career Fair 2017, Sharing a Bed, Post-Hogwarts, Humor, Hallucinations, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sleep Deprivation, Falling In Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Cuddling & Snuggling, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Resolved Sexual Tension Summary:  When Harry is referred to a professional cuddler for the soothing power of touch, he’s dubious — even more so when the Cuddler who shows up turns out to be Malfoy. But in the years since the war, Malfoy’s changed, and over the next several days Harry is confronted by how much he still doesn’t know about this new version of his old enemy — and by how much he wants to learn. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Special Delivery (previously Amende Honorable) by alittlebitAlexie Rated:  Mature Words:  11628 Tags: Post-Second War with Voldemort, Apologies, Misunderstandings, Accidents, Owl Post (Harry Potter), Bartender Draco Malfoy, Bartender Pansy Parkinson, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, POV Draco Malfoy, Unrequited Crush, Diagon Alley, Death Eater Trials mentioned, Letters, Love Letters, Gay Draco Malfoy, Flatmates Draco and Pansy, panic attack (mentioned), Nightclub, Confrontations, Running Away, Outing, Veritaserum, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Kissing, Snogging, Undressing, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Secret Crush, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant Summary:  After his trial, Draco writes apology letters to everyone he has hurt. Not so special. But he writes two to Harry. One to actually send, and one (that was never meant to see the light of day) to pour his heart out and admit things like thinking Harry has a fit arse and was his sexual awakening. What could go wrong? Well, Pansy could accidentally mail the wrong letter. That's what. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Sunseeker by shiftylinguini Rated:  Explicit Words:  15199 Tags: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post-Hogwarts, Writer Harry Potter, Single Parent Draco Malfoy, Magical House Fixer-Upper Draco, Texting, Friends to Lovers, Banter, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Divorced Astoria Greengrass & Draco Malfoy, Muggle Technology, Flirting, Long-Distance Relationship, Getting Together, Crushes, Pining, Drinking, Drunk Texting, Frottage, Grinding, First Time, Humor, H/D Erised 2020 Summary:  Harry is a struggling writer. Namely, he is struggling with: writing his next book, dealing with his agent, finding a decent tea strainer, fielding his friend's concern over the aforementioned book, and figuring out who the cat loitering in his garden belongs to. He also has a slight liking-Malfoy problem. Okay, he has a massive liking-Malfoy problem. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Charmed Confections by Alisanne Rated:  Explicit Words:  35967 Tags: Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Light Bondage, flangst, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Mild Angst, Character death (offscreen not Harry or Draco), Community: hd_erised Summary:  There’s a new bakery in town, and Harry is obsessed with the luscious lemon fairy cakes. And with discovering the identity of the mystery chef. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Open Up, Potter by heyitsamorette (AmoretteHD) Rated:  Explicit Words:  3276 Tags: odd jobs, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Bisexuality Summary:  Harry has never had gay sex; not surprising when he’s only recently admitted that he likes blokes. But he has to start somewhere, and Malfoy is more than happy to help. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 I bloom (just for you) by Ladderofyears Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  3910 Tags: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Enchanted Flower Business, Amortentia, Flower Shop Owner Harry Potter, Professor of Viking Magic Draco Malfoy, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Harry, Generous Draco, Falling In Love, Wealthy Draco, No Magical Florists Hurt In The Writing Of This Fic, Promise Summary:  Harry Potter is the proud new owner of Potter’s Blooms and Bouquets, the very first enchanted flower business on Diagon Alley. Harry has been tasked with designing and making the bouquets for the upcoming wedding of Draco Malfoy and his mysterious fiancée. There is one small problem though: Harry finds himself falling deeply in love with Draco himself. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Pensées d'Attirance by orpheous87 Rated:  General Words:  2256 Tags: Getting Together, Pre-Slash, Pre-Relationship, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Fluff, Oblivious Harry Summary:  Draco is working in his mother's flower shop when Harry wanders in searching for a plant for his office. ❤️ Read on AO3

#game of drarry #drarry #drarry recs #wizards hearts #wh masterlist

[blue-shaded]

Home Alone 2 is problematic

I hate Home Alone 2 and think the DJT cameo is the least of its political problems. I am going to make this as short as possible because, as my beleaguered friends can attest, this is a rant I have gone on repeatedly recently. While this is one of my hottest of takes usually reserved only for private circles, I will finally present my thesis publicly. I will take not questions and make no follow up posts. Thank you.

Home Alone 2 is fucked up. It is a degenerate's holiday film.

Kevin McAllister is a rich, white, suburban American kid whose stupid family is obscenely wealthy. Not just his immediate family, but his extended family as well. Not only is the McAllister dynasty wealthy enough to support a Parisian vacation over the holidays with 11 horrible children, but the other McAllister terror cell they are visiting is rich enough to be kicking it back in Paris while their entire multifloor Manhattan townhouse undergoes extensive renovations. This is a family whose wealth knows no measure or limit. The financial security Kevin enjoys as an upper class young boy cannot be overstated. Kevin McAllister is a boy with no concept whatsoever of want besides superficial desires like cheese pizza.

In Home Alone 2, Kevin finds himself lost in Manhattan with his father's credit card. For all intents and purposes, Kevin has unlimited money to do whatever he wants. So he does. He goes to The Plaza Hotel, one of the most luxurious hotels in the city, and tricks the staff in to giving him a room. While we are meant to be impressed with Kevin's antics, this is only the beginning of a long series of humiliations he exerts over the service workers at this hotel as Kevin lords over them all with his generational wealth.

While Home Alone 1 has Kevin defending himself from would be home invaders in a life threatening situation, the service staff at The Plaza poses no such threat to him. They are not invading his space, he is invading theirs. Every single one of them are there because it's their job to be. They are doing their jobs - over the holidays no less - as Kevin manipulates them to fulfill his luxurious whims. We are meant to find it hilarious how he degrades and debases them. He doesn't tip them, he subjects them to repeated embarrassment, and ultimately makes them afraid for their lives as he simulates a mass shooting. We saw a glimpse of this in Home Alone 1 with the pizza delivery boy, but in Home Alone 2, Kevin's treatment of the wage staff at this hotel is inhumane. What we see here is that upper class Kevin exerting unearned dominance over the working class with extreme prejudice.

There is not a single hotel employee that has done anything to earn Kevin's abuse beyond do their jobs. Yet he makes them afraid they will be murdered if they dare step out of line. This is shameful.

However, where the movie is really beyond the pale is in regards to Kevin's relationship with "the pigeon lady." This homeless woman isn't even given the dignity of a name in this film. At first, Kevin perceives her with fear and disgust. He attempts to run from her but fumbles and becomes stuck. She helps him and Kevin momentarily shows a glimmer of humanity as he realizes it was wrong to be afraid of her. This moment of empathy is brief however as Kevin's selfishness and sociopathy does not allow for any actual understanding of anyone below his social class.

This woman explains that she wasn't always homeless. She once had a home and a man she loved very much but it ended badly. This incident gave her PTSD and now she is distrustful of others and is unable to function in society. She calmly and bravely opens up to Kevin about her past trauma and her subsequent dehumanization in an uncaring society that forsakes the mentally ill. And do you know how Kevin responds? He says yeah, he gets it, because he's the youngest in his disgusting family. He then tells her to get over it and that only by opening herself up to love again will she ever not be a homeless lady covered in bird shit again. Straight up, to her vulnerable face, Kevin tells a homeless woman that she is responsible for her own prolonged destitution and that if she wants people to treat her better she needs to get over her mental illness. Kevin then goes home to his luxury hotel where he has every whim of his indulged by service workers he humiliates.

Seriously, he has unlimited money. He couldn't have gotten her a place to stay? Or invited her to stay with him? He couldn't share his unlimited food with her? He didn't even offer to let her take a shower. He descends from his nearly-llteral ivory tower, blames a shit covered mentally ill homeless woman who suffers nonstop dehumanization that she needs to get over her PTSD, and at the end of a movie he gives her a fucking bird ornament to show her how much he cares about her. How does he sleep at night in his king size bed at The Plaza Hotel knowing that someone who opened up to him about her inescapable poverty and trauma is sleeping on the street in the cold? What is wrong with this monster?

Home Alone 2 is a perverse Christmas Carol. It is the story of a spoiled rich young boy whose time with the working class and the poor motivates him to torment or abandon them. Even his supposedly virtuous gesture of preventing the toy store robbery costs him nothing. It's not his money. It's not his donation. Kevin does nothing except take a tour of what it's like to be less fortunate than him and live it up in a Trump Hotel. The Wet Bandits were right to want to kill Kevin and I always hope they catch him.

It is a disgraceful film and I hate it with my life. It is perfect that Trump is in this movie. Perfect.

this is an interesting thread.

#Anonymous

[fearsexdream]

Claiming all reasons I special out made artwork GENESIS ONLY MOMMY LG PHONE NEEDED AND MAKE CAREER IN THE NAME OF ANNA GRIPENTROG THROUGH WEIRD WORLD OF EMOTIONS.. SINCE HAMDBITE (SET UP SILLY...PROGRAMNING...NOT DEEP REPUBLICAN)

RESPONSE 0620156:*

EXODUS:NOW GO BE TV STARS AND CEOS FOR WEINSTEIN DEBLASIO IS ALIVE BLOO.BETG PAID IN BITCOINT FOR PHONE.

RESPONSE: NOT LISTENING TO US MEANS NO ADDERALL WE CANNOT HEAR YOU PEOPLE LOOK AFTER YOU

WON ANNA OCCUPY AMNESIAC K.MAZTRONARDI AMNESIAC OCCUPY MISSING UHA NOVEL OF 8 BERRYALANE CT LITTLE NEMO THE DIARIES OF KADE (THE GOLD COAST:) PARIS HILTON IS GOD#*ONLY ON ADDERALL...

AFTER THE TIME OF 47 MOLLUSK LIVE WITH ANNIMS AMD THE NIGGERY OCT21,2015:OCT21,1985 AFTER GENESIS:

THE ELECTION IS STOLEN THE DIARIES OF KADE AFTER THE HUSBAND OF CAITLIN THE MUSE

FOREVER 27 THERE IS NO RELIGION HIGHER THAN TRUTH/ CAITLIN RODRIGUE FROM EASTONCT/WILLIAMSBURG BROOKLYN SNAKE KETU NAZI SYMBOL ESOTERICA FNORD FROM BEYOND THE AWFUL BANISHMENT OF THE APPLE STORE WITH THE CARMEN KID THINGS (WHO ARE NO L...)

EXODUS:THE DREAMMASTER:*AFTER MEDICATION TIME,MEDICATION TIME AND BEING HELD HOSTAGE TO TAKE MY MEDICATION ON A CLOCK LNE BEYOND APPLE CLONE ..

GRAFFITU ART->

Little nemo on hbo .

<3Sva.edu

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****

THE AGE OF HORUS:a Caitlin Rodriguez production

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:923

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4a

**9.23

MAN AND BLOODY ANGEL WOMAN:

AND THAT WON Little nemo on hbo**-> Chris mastronardi

REAL WOD:*

Darla BURTNIM gift blx:* 9.23****

ANYHOW... GOD THAT TOOK YEARS TO DO!!!!

AND SO MUCH FU. TO TELL YOU ABOUT!!*Oh to be born at 36

**

SEE THEY WANTED ME TO PLEASE YOU AND ADDERALL

AWW! I KNOW YOU WATCHING!! AND I KNOW OUR FORTUNE GONE BUT IT TOOK A LONG TIME TO COME TO THE CONCLUSIO. OF WHY I LOST YOU AND THAT THEY WOULD NOT PAY ME

Pkeae anna gripentrog never falls in love!!!

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11/202€ Naseq:Nemo ***9.23

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acaitlin Rodriguez production***!9.2Comps

Free and accepted**

DREAMMASTER#?:

(Right after medication time, medication time!!

A ©2029 SELLING STUPID SHIT FROM YOUR GOKDEN BIRTHDAY PRODUCTION

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MASTROnardi-s production): LULU.com* MIKE (Deni??*:Silly obama???2011/11??*) Fnord???

[cupidford]

Not very many recs for a whole TWO months but bear with me...I’ll try to make up for it in January - just having more trouble concentrating enough to read lately. I took a break on Xmas eve and read A Matter of Chance which was the best decision I’ve ever made, love love love xxx

♥ A Matter of Chance by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)

light-hearted Regency AU about a lord that needs to marry and a certain army doctor becoming his friend. ~101k

♥ The Story of Us by Calais_Reno

John sees things that never happened, prophecies and dreams of a life he never lived. ~6.2k

♥ Lovefool by FinAmour

“And therefore,” Sherlock remarks casually, “...The obvious solution is that you and I have sexual intercourse.” ~5k

♥ Your Daughter by agirlsname

Five times Sherlock held John's baby and one time he held John. ~9.4k

Each Christmas by bookjunkiecat

Post s4, a trio of Christmases. Year 1 Martha passes her baking skill to Rosie. Year 2 The family sings carols at the care center. Year 3 shows changes to the residents of 221B. ~2.3k

Christmas Cake by Obotligtnyfiken

The Most Embarrassing Breakup is threatening to ruin John's favourite seasonal treat until he comes home to Sherlock's Christmas cake. ~1.8k

no man is a failure by blueink3

John focused It's a Wonderful Life AU (Christmas). ~11k

Double Exposure by bookjunkiecat

AU. Army Captain John Watson is alone in Paris...alone until a stranger accosts him, gives him one of the best kisses of his life, & disappears. ~1.4k

The Violinist at the Bookstore by thewallflower07

After years of drugs and homelessness, Sherlock begins his new life working in a bookstore. While busking at Christmastime he meets a young man. ~5.k

Bathtime by rubyofkukundu

John catches Sherlock in the bath. ~3.5k

Mornings by julidoesnotwrites (notjuli)

Morning has always been John's favourite moment of the day. ~1k

Honorable Mention

Iron Sparks by agirlsname

When midnight approaches, John and Sherlock are stuck on different sides of an iron gate. That's not going to stop them from having their traditional New Year's kiss. ~2.3k

Santa by Gem_Gem, KittieHill

Drunk John mistakes a random stranger at the pub for Santa. ~3.4k

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen by janto321 (FaceofMer)

ACD, Victorian, Established relationship. "We arrived home in the small hours of Christmas morning..."~1.2k

This Most Perfect Day by bookjunkiecat

The first snowfall of the year leads to an unexpectedly magical day for the residents of Baker Street...and a confession. ~1.3k

#fic recs #fic rec

[mrschimpf]

So...I got this review on ff-net for "Longing" this morning. Usually I love reviews because they give me encouragement...this ain't one of them, though.

If you don't want to read through it, in summary...

"Great story, but it seems like you hate men and the direction of society. Why isn't Dean just the bland fella presented in the show? Why is he violent and a cheating asshole who's rich; that's Logan y'know? Love the story as I said and Madeline and Louise are great, but I'm done with it."

Yeah, a lot to unpack here if you're not in the GG fandom like I've been since near the beginning, along with the basic concept of fanfiction.

"It's a well-written story with good characterisation of Rory and Paris but...there's a lot of anger in it."

When I started the story in 2003, the sky was the limit, and Paris and Rory were on their way to great lives bereft of any issues with men and so much potential for women in the world. Fast-forward to 2019...where we have a lying cheat of an asshole in the White House, merely disagreeing with a man is enough to bury your Twitter mentions in hate, and LGBTQ+ rights are being attacked at every turn.

Then we have the aftermath of AYITL, which dynamited Rory's future into being completely dependent on men (aka Logan), took away her entire drive and reason for being, and left her as a homewrecker having a kid she probably never wanted. And Paris is in a loveless marriage with a completely underwritten Doyle whose character traits went from 'being a loving and supporting boyfriend to a neurotic Jewish girl with the entire world upon her shoulders' to 'wink-wink Danny Strong writes Empire and Oscar-winners; Doyle can't raise kids let's just write that Doyle's that now since we threw out the Doyle notebook in our post-S6 burning of all our character notes'.

Yeah, over sixteen years, you tend to write for your reality, and the reality right now? Totally sucks.

"Some of it seems to be directed at society, some of it at the show, with a disproportionate amount of it being taken out on mostly male characters who bear only a passing resemblance to their on screen portrayal..."

Once again...AYITL hasn't aged well. Society hates journalists. It hates driven women (see my last post taking down that asshole who hates Brie Larson). Males are pretty damned well responsible for most of it. And I haven't had the best male figures of my life and have been mostly around women. I'm probably not going to write a positive view of some men; it's bias, and I own up to it here.

And yeah, my men don't match up to how they are on screen. Because, fanfiction is...

'Fiction written by a fan of, and featuring characters from, a particular TV series, movie, etc.'

Speaking of which...

"...Which seems to have got worse as I suspect you liked the show less and less."

You're reading my story. A Gilmore Girls fanfiction. My Twitter bio declares that I've loved it a decade and a half before the Gilmore Guys started their podcast. A show where I literally follow nearly main actor on the series into every future project they've had and watched loyally, for the most part. I buy every movie the girls have been in. Fanfiction isn't defined as 'a random person writing hate screeds against a particular TV series, movie, etc.'. You're not going to ever see me write even a drabble about how much Kevin Can Wait should be called Kevin Can Burn In Hell Because He's a Ghoulish Sexist Fuckface Who Celebrated His Wife's Death To Move On With His Former Hot Wife From Another Show.

Still love Gilmore Girls in full. But being a fan doesn't mean I have to like every single decision the writers and ASP ever made.

That is the fun of fanfiction. If I disagree with canon...I can disregard it, in part, or in full. I have never been able to find a fellow fan that agreed with every plot point the show has ever made. I hope I never will, because that's definitely not why anyone should ever be a fan of the show.

And excuse my language here...but I've written over a MILLION WORDS for this story. 27 chapters have been posted. I have an eventual endgame planned for the story that has been in my mind since the day I posted chapter one. Why the fuck would I write a million words about something I hate?!

"Dean has gone from a good first boyfriend who just wasn't right for Rory long-term to a violent thief who cheated on Rory throughout their relationship and never loved her anyway. And now, incredibly, seems to be just another entitled rich kid? It feels like you really want to bash on Logan but can't find a way to have him in the story, so you've turned Dean into him."

Oh reviewer...dear reviewer...oh, you don't know what you've gotten yourself into.

I have ALWAYS hated Dean. Always. Since January 2001 when I caught up on the backlog of episodes I missed because I only started watching during the two back-to-back night Christmas episodes, the only positive thought I've been able to spare for him was that Jared Padalecki (no attacks on him here, just the character) got a good living playing a completely underwritten bore who has nothing redeeming going on and a backstory that I would call 'existent'.

The show claims he's from the south side of Chicago in a neighborhood near the Dan Ryan that has 5% white people going by the zip code of his mail from there (the show's basic research department blew it there). Most white people from Chicago are in the Gold Coast, the northwest suburbs, or the North Shore. I have been adjacent to the Chicago market my whole life. He's from the North Shore, no question, judging from how his parents seem to have good enough wealth and how every white guy Chicago teenager story is drawn from a kid from the North Shore.

He literally punched Jess out three times!

He made Rory fear violence for merely losing a bracelet he gave her and for being near Tristan for a school function (LOL, Dristan...that burn still causes me to laugh at inappropriate times about how dumb it was, and I'm sure Tristan has it as one of his constant bon mots).

He called her home phone nearly a hundred times a day and drove her to the edge of madness with a 'must watch every day' love of Lord of the Rings that compares unfavorably to my four year-old nephew only loving Frozen, PJ Masks and Daniel Tiger. That isn't anyone any person has to tolerate in a relationship.

Dean’s only reaction to Rory trying to prove a point with her Donna Reed night was just she looked hot and he learned nothing about how women hate being confined to being solely homemakers and sexual receptacles.

He dumped her because she didn’t say “I Love You” like it was the goddamned bonus round in Wheel of Fortune and she didn’t get the solution out before the buzzer.

Dean’s shambles of a gift, that piece of shit car? It almost killed Rory and Jess. It looked like it didn’t have seatbelts. I’m surprised we didn’t get an episode where Dean ended up homeless because Richard sued his cheap ass into the fucking ground.

He decided to make her go back to him in front of the entrance of Chilton, where Rory would have looked like the biggest b***h in history if she didn’t return an ‘I love you’, and goddamned well knew it. Any good person would have done this in fucking private, like a considerate person.

He never respected the Chilton side of her life. At all. If it was up to him, he would’ve made up a bomb threat and had his friend imitate Rory’s voice to get her kicked out of the school she spent her young life trying to get into. If it was up to him, Harvard would have never even been a possibility, and if not for Jess coming in, he would have intimidated her into pushing off her dream entirely to stay in the kitchen.

His origin story was never mentioned outside 'he moved from Chicago and had a girlfriend in the past, Beth'. Fanfiction allows you to examine the holes in stories and go from there, and I just worked with them because the thing with moves to new locales? You can have a brand new image with people, and they will never know what you did in your old place. Judging by his violent/stalkerish tendencies, he has a pretty good case for having Imposter Syndrome that eventually reset itself in the Hollow.

Over time he went from a guy who seemed to like good literature to hyperfocusing on the 'it' media property of the time. Likely he started out liking fine literature, but once he fell in with the imbeciles of his friend group in the Hollow, that proved to be a lie.

He had a thing about being close to Lorelai. So much that around that time, there were so many more people shipping Lorelai/Dean than Rory/Dean as a romantic couple. If not for his later flanderization, that fangroup would still be strong.

HE CHEATED ON HIS WIFE!

**HE. CHEATED. ON. HIS. WIFE!

***HE! CHEATED! ON! HIS! WIFE!

****And outside losing his home and some stuff being damaged (rightfully fucking so) by Lindsay, both her and Rory took all the brunt of the damage his wandering dick did between all of them. Lindsay was guilted by her parents for checking out on her marriage and was never heard from again (I assume she's in a convent now because ASP's writing outside of Lorelai and Rory [or Paris, Sookie and Lane on a day she wasn't angry at the world for not pressing her hat right] for women was 'they are the enemy'). Rory had to find her way back to her old self (and she never did going by ending up with Logan). Dean? Welp, good thing "Supernatural" started at that time to save ASP the bother of having to explain what a dumbass Dean was.

*****Justice for Lindsay Lister! I hope she didn't go to a convent, but flipped off her parents, squealed out of town and is killing it in a career where she's respected, with a partner who loves her deeply.

The scene where he cornered Rory into sex in her house and said he didn’t love Lindsay was sexual assault and gaslighting. ASP intended it to be romantic, but instead created a nightmare scene that would be completely passe in a Lifetime movie. Rory’s first time was her being forced to give up her sexual agency for the pleasure of only Dean. And it’s exactly why the Paris/Rory scene I wrote on the yoga mats was intended to be the exact reverse of that trash.

He hoped to get ahead in life on a hockey scholarship. That's...not a life plan. And he paid for it by being stuck doing construction.

He hated Paris. He hated that Rory had her as a friend. He wanted a life with Rory that never involved Paris.

Paris is a strong-ass lady for daring to step to him and lie through her teeth about wanting Jess to stop the Great Stars Hollow Homicide of 2002 By The Coward Dean Forrester from ever being a thing.

LOL Logan is Tristan Lite and always will be.

About ten chapters back I mentioned how the girls consider Logan terrible already from a distance based on the New York media scene. Trust me, he's in this story (he may be a little more in this story later).

"There is a lot to recommend in this, like the slow burn set-up (although you've made up for it since!)..."

#backhandedcompliment (Also, what's to recommend? Love to know what you did like, but you spent all that time saying 'I'm mean to men', so I guess you ran out of time on that)

"...and turning Madeleine and Louise into three-dimensional characters..."

You sent me a flame, but didn't expand on what you loved about this? Thanks for the lack of feedback (and for misspelling Madeline’s name).

"But there are several reasons why it's not been an easy read so I won't be hanging out for an update, I'm afraid."

You basically said that you consider me a man-hater and that because I choose to have the ladies present their views in the story, you don't like that I'm drawing real life into their motives, mores and decisions. And you said I hated the show when most of my friend circle was formed through bonding through it, and we still love it, even if we think Rory needed to do better in life and ASP's writing weakened as each season went on.

I don't need readers like you, seriously. There are many other Rory/Paris stories you can read out there. As I have said in many other flame responses;

I am not the be-all end-all of Paris/Rory fic. PLEASE, read other writers. Enjoy their stuff. But don't whine at me or them because we choose to show that even in fictional worlds, people are against LGBTQ+ issues and people. We're not going to get equality by sugar-coating or whitewashing our way past those issues, and if you can't handle what I consider light attacks against entitled men, you should probably find something else to read.

#longing #paris x rory #review #review rant #fanfiction rant #gilmore girls #longing with a cherry tomato on top

[murroyilodel]

Unnecessarily Detailed Dislikes

Please repost, don’t reblog. Answer the questions for your muse and tag some people.

Muse name: Esmeralda.

Least favorite nickname: Girly.

Least favorite color: None.

Least favorite season: Winter.

Least favorite weather: Rain.

Least favorite—hot or cold: Cold.

Least favorite holiday: Disney: Not counting the Feast of Fools, Esme doesn’t have holidays. Modern: Maybe Labour Day. Not because she dislikes it, but because it holds the least significance to her. As a performer, she works on Labour Day too.

Least favorite food: Disney: She can’t be picky about food. Modern: Esme doesn’t care for sausages.

Least favorite flavor: Anything that is too salty.

Least favorite drink: Disney: Ale, I suppose, though she is not horribly opposed to it. Modern: Cordial / Squash, because it tastes sweet and artificial.

Least favorite scent: Disney: The smell of sickness in the streets. It reminds her of the mortality rate of the homeless and grieves her. Modern: Cigarette smoke, and that’s aplenty in the streets of Paris.

Least favorite sound: Disney: Drums at the gallows, because they mean someone is about to be executed. She doesn’t know why people like to gather and be entertained by these executions.

Least favorite book: Disney: She is illiterate lol. Modern: Perhaps Lolita. She was told it was a classic and so she read it, only to dislike the protagonist and the story.

Least favorite movie: Modern: Slasher movies.

Least favorite tv show: Modern: Reality television lol.

Least favorite school subject or area of study: Modern: It’ll have to be Maths. While not inept at Math, she sees no application for complicated formula for herself at least in life or at work.

Least favorite aspect of their job: Disney: The risk of getting caught by soldiers. Modern: Having to mingle with all the guests and patrons at the theatre, regardless of how she feels about some of them.

Least favorite fictional character: Modern: See least favourite book.

Least favorite person: Disney: The soldiers. Modern: Delice.

Least favorite trait in others: Cruelty.

Least favorite place: Disney: The dungeons.

Least favorite thing to talk about: Disney: Her trauma after her near execution. She does not wish to worry her loved ones.

Least favorite thing about themselves: When she was a child, she hated her hair because it was so wild and voluminous it took forever to dry and brush it after a wash, but she accepts it now. She also wishes she can have a better hold of her temper, but she is what she is.

Least favorite sexual position: IDK. I don’t think she has one, so long as it’s with @thecurseisinourblood​.

Least favorite daily chore: Modern: Ironing.

Least favorite style of clothing: Modern: "Boho-chic” only because that’s what many assume she likes because she’s Romani. It’s a stereotype she has to keep explaining to them she does wear.

Least favorite activity: Modern: It’ll be her least favourite aspect of her job.

Least favorite superpower: She does not really apply her mind to such things, but if she has to say one, it is controlling another’s body or mental state.

Least favorite thing about humanity in general: Quite apart from cruelty, its fickleness, I suppose. Like how the crowd during the Feast of Fools can turn from adoring Quasi to humiliating him so easily.

Least favorite thing about being in love: Nothing really. She is strong in character and any challenge will be met with determination to overcome it.

Least favorite thing about death: The pain of loved ones apart.

Tagged by: @edhelaran (thank you! we have a few common answers. :O) & @finestprize (please meta why Christmas is Jasmine’s least favourite holiday!) Tagging: @thecurseisinourblood @hdtvtits @youthflight @killthebxy @arcusignis @bravcycungsuitcr @wineinthewidow @needlcd @hunterhuntcd / @simplywalks @deadlcrd @sinnhelmingr @holdonescards @initiare & anyone who wishes to do this!

#traits #notebook

[anomiezine-blog]

Immigrants, the easy target...

Just a few weeks before Christmas, we read the following at The New York Times: “Denmark plans to house the country’s most unwelcome foreigners in a most unwelcoming place: a tiny, hard-to-reach island that now holds the laboratories, stables and crematory of a center for researching contagious animal diseases. As if to make the message clearer, one of the two ferries that serve the island is called the Virus. “They are unwanted in Denmark, and they will feel that,” the immigration minister, Inger Stojberg.”[1]

For those having a closer look at Mrs. Stojberg’s political career and more specifically, the time she has served as Minister of Immigration, Integration and Housing, this is not something new. However, on December 20 we heard that the government moved a step further and approved the Minister’s plan as part of their recently approved Budget 2019.

How ironic does this sound? Denmark, a country that has been compared to socialist ones because of its strong welfare system and strong unions, has now a government that decides to adopt one more hideous measure to prevent immigrants from reaching the country. Of course, we are sure this has some kind of backing support from parts of the society, even though we can’t say if it’s strong or not. Needless to say, this has already raised concerns from the UN Human Rights Council. Going a bit further, a spokesperson (i.e. Martin Henriksen) of the government zealously added that they plan to “minimize the number of ferry departures as much as at all possible”.

A few years ago, Golden Dawn became a buzzword in Greece’s political life as it succeeded to be one of the parliamentary parties in the General Election 2012. For the first time in history, a neonazi party takes seats in the Greek Parliament. Apart from the power that the far-right gained after the election, it was someone else who used far-right speech in order to win the election; the next Prime Minister, Antonis Samaras. A strong conservative, a macho man, a person that poisoned the political life of his country many times with references to immigrants, calling them “smuggler immigrants”, deliberately avoiding saying anything about those people that were seeking asylum. In one of his pre-election speeches, he said “we will reoccupy our cities!” A catchy phrase to point out who is the problem for all your problems, don’t you think? Well, that could have been a honest statement from a far-right plonker, however Samaras, as a Prime Minister then, in his visit to Paris for the celebration of 125 years of Herald Tribune whispered that refugees are like hostages in Greece, as they want to move to wealthier countries (and Greece could not forward them, because of the agreement with EU). But, the poison had already been cleverly injected to the society previously…

And, let’s finish with Ireland. Direct provision still exists in EU’s and IMF’s good child… It seems that the IT and Pharmaceutical multinationals that the recent years’ governments have attracted with their strategic plans is only the bright side of the moon, huh? The rental market has skyrocket, the homelessness is not a strange word in dictionaries, but a cruel reality in the streets of Dublin; however, a few days ago some people wearing yellow vests expressed some not very anti-government views, but anti-immigration nonsense. Also direct provision places were set on fire. Ireland First!

What concerns me most is not what is mentioned above. Ok, far-right politicians have always been around and misanthropists wearing the masks of ‘angry’ citizens will never disappear from our lives. It is the fact that more and more you can now hear, even from governments, not only random fools, that we must make immigrants’ lives difficult. To make it clear to them that they are not welcome here. The Enlightenment spirit is not something that Europe can be proud of anymore. It seems though that this is not the end of the story and the hatred will escalate in the next coming years. Refugees have always been the easy target. We must defend and support them by all means, but let’s keep a closer eye to where all this is going. A century since Europe was reshaped by nationalisms, we are again talking about superior nations and we see enemies everywhere. The fight for more democracy and human rights will be more intense in the years to come…

#anomie #anomiezine #immigrants #anarchism #anarchy

[mirrobs]

Caffeine Challenge 24

Ended up scrapping the original 1 hour writeup entirely because it was NOT working @caffeinewitchcraft I hope this wholly new version is up to par. Took a little longer than expected, but so it goes

---

This is the last time you’ll date a vampire, you swear. Winston Ray thought he could fool you, but you know the meaning behind his eyes. He thought his ghost of a smirk and inscrutable demeanor was enough to put the veil over you. In fact, you can pinpoint the exact moment he fell in love with you. It was under that July moon two years ago amongst a fleet of wandering yachts in the Hudson Bay. The modern aristocracy flaunted their capitalist gains in performative revelry. Dawn approached as the full moon dove for the opposite horizon. Despite it all, Winston’s eyes was only for you.

Rightfully so, you would think. You had just declared he was a vampire in front of all of his investors. His very anti-supernatural investors. Ray Industries being lead by a creature they were secretly working with the government to eradicate from U.S. soil? It took you a solid three months to uncover the truth, following the trail of dead poor folk right up to the top. The scandal could leak into the public sphere, and who knows how much the company’s stock could drop!

They revealed their resolve in that encounter, practically flying to intercept your wooden slugs as you opened fire. Truly paragons of company loyalty. The PR boys back at HQ must’ve had a neat spin for why it was Winston throwing the investors into the line of fire. Something about risky investment paying increased dividends and the company needing a strong hand to guide its future, you’re sure. As to why your love-fueled duel led to the entire fleet going up in flames, well, you think that was a gift from Winston. He knew you loved fireworks!

It was a shame you weren’t able to consummate your love that night, however. You’re still not sure how he slipped away, and he never would tell you on the hundreds of dates you’ve been on over the years. Winston Ray really knew how to make anywhere romantic. Some of your favorites were taking a ride in his private jet (you had only ever landed a plane in flight simulators - though never with two flaming engines and a broken wing), the time you ended up on the same train under the Channel on the way to Paris (good thing there was some convenient scuba equipment, the Channel gets cold in February), and the internet cafe in Singapore.

You never pegged Winston as an MMO player. While that sort of game isn’t normally your jam, it was still fun to go on raids with him. The way he would roleplay his dark elf outside the raids was a little cringy if you’re going to be honest, but that’s alright. He’s gotten better about it over the past 10 months.

Some days a part of you felt the relationship was a little one-sided. Afterall, you were making the effort to match his schedule, and while you do enjoy his gifts there’s something nagging at you. (A mutual favorite gift has become fireworks, of course, but a close second were all the big hounds he would leave at your safehouse doorstep. Never were a fan of the blood-crazed addicts that got in your way, all “Winston is our God” this and “We will never let you touch him” that. It’s like they didn’t know you were a couple!)

You know he loves you, that’s obvious. His eyes always lit up when he spotted you, and the memory of the kiss you shared in Moscow on Christmas Eve still sends jolts of electric anticipation through you to this day. It was the first time you tried to dress up for him, going for the classy “innocuous, incoherent homeless person” look. He bent down over you and went 90% of the way, so you were obliged to meet him the last 10%. Sure, a dirty alley isn’t the most photogenic kind of place for a first kiss (not that that stopped you from having a hidden camera), and the way he reared back in surprise could be seen as unflattering to some, but the two of you running through the Kremlin afterward with Russian Police chasing you definitely made up for it. You were so close too!

No, the thought that kept you up at daytime is something more personal. How do you know that you love Winston Ray? Of course he’s rich, being 864 years old (born in London, 23rd of March in 1154) and having a modicum of sense would get you that sort of lifestyle, easy. And the surreal beauty of vampirism appeals to you in a way regular men or other unholy abominations simply don’t. You’ve had flings with changelings and poltergeists and whatnot before, but that was more a case of the individual in particular sticking out in your mind than a general attraction to their condition as a supernatural being. It’s not a physical thing, either, since in all two years of knowing each other you’ve only kissed once.

This is what you find yourself musing about in your penthouse apartment (or penultimatehouse as you like to call it, for not only is it the second to last penthouse in this 200 story tower, you also have plans on moving to a cottage in Maine that captivated you as a child) in between trying and failing to read a book. The singular, flickering light in the room is a $15 dollar lamp sitting on the rickety tablestand next to you. Under the tablestand is a haphazard pile of takeout boxes from at least 12 different locations and beside it is the beanbag you’re currently curled up on with a fuzzy blanket wrapped around you. A clothesline spans the length of the living room with clothes in various levels of being ripped and bloodstained hanging to dry. Your trusty Mossberg shotgun rests atop a bag of whittling tools with a 1908 Holy Bible hanging out of a side pouch. In the corner next to the bag is a pile of planks that once made up the hardwood floor of the penultimatehouse.

Outside, the cityscape lights up the night. Dusk had faded away without you realizing, with skyscrapers replacing the stars as twinkling accompaniments to the fat moon. Many a night you’ve spent watching the moon’s lazy ascent from this perch.

“Just you and me again for Thanksgiving tonight, huh?” Your voice falls flat to your ears. A low rumbling emanates from your stomach. None of the pile of half eaten takeout and delivery beside you smells particularly appetizing. “Another hungry Thanksgiving, then.”

Winston isn’t the holiday sort of guy, you’ve come to learn. It’s alright, it’s not like you’re not used to being alone. You’re the one who chases after him, and he loves you for it, that’s how it works. That’s how it always worked. Sure, you didn’t get to see him for your two year anniversary despite all your lovingly laid plans.

Laying back, you fling the poorly written “supernatural romance” book (why do writers always set these stories in a generic high school) over your shoulder. It thunks against the wall before mutely clattering on the floor. Your gaze settles on the light from the lamp radiating on the ceiling.

“Even here, people still love their popcorn ceilings,” You murmur. Reaching over to the rickety stand to pull open its drawer, you watch the light jitter and sputter along the undulations in the stucco. A shaking hand finds the cool glass bottle it was searching for, and with deft experience you unscrew the top of the cheap whisky inches above your lips. The sweet burn pours into the back of your throat, splashing against your tongue. There’s a trick you learned awhile back where you swallow with your throat, meaning you can keep your mouth agape the entire time. It’s useful for things other than waterfalling booze into your mouth while laying on your back, of course.

Things you’ve been wanting to show Winston for a long time now, in fact. Physical things. It’s up there with shotgunning a wooden slug through his heart and laughing as he turns to dust.

… You do love Winston Ray, right?

There’s a knock on the door. The bottle tips back in your hand, cutting off the nectar from filling your body with a lovely buzz for tonight’s activities. Lips closing around the top of the bottle to keep the liquid from falling you, you turn your head towards the door. You don’t remember ordering more takeout but you wouldn’t be surprised if drunk you last night paid a deliveryboy a pile of cash to bring you food, despite the holiday.

There’s a second knock, a singular tap against the steel door. So it wasn’t your imagination, huh.

“Coming!” You chirp (more like a dead bird’s dying gasp to your ears) and push yourself up. Staggering over to the door, you grip the bottle in your teeth to free both hands in making your appearance relatively presentable. Afterall, greeting the door while wearing only a fuzzy blanket might get some folk unduly excited.

“Delivery for Room 864?” The muffled voice comes from outside of the door. You rest a hand on the doorknob, catching the bottle of whisky with the other as it drops from your teeth.

“This is 860.” You call back. It never made sense how the numbering system in this building worked, you muse. Maybe it’s because it’s been renovated and expanded through the decades, but you know first hand how difficult it was to find your penultimatehouse when you moved in. You’d think 860 would be on the 8th floor, not the 199th!

“Ah yes, that’s right.” The voice on the other side interrupts your thoughts. “I read it wrong, my bad. I do have a delivery for 860.”

Lifting the bottle up for another swig of the whisky, you shrug, unbolt the door, and turn the knob.

#caffeine challenge

[bermudianabroad]

January-March in MUBIs

Because sometimes Netflix gets stale.

For anyone looking for movie recommendations that are more outside the box.

By Women Ava- Léa Mysius: a girl who is gradually going blind spends a dreamy summer by the seaside, making friends and robbing people. (France, 2017) * * *

Jean-Michel Basquiat: the Radiant Child- Tamra Davis: a portrait of the artist built up from personal interviews filmed during his life and stories from friends after his death. (USA, 2010) * * *

Cléo de 5 à 7 - Agnes Varda: 1960s Paris, on the longest day of the year, a woman awaits test results from her doctor. (France, 1962) * * * *

Strange Days- Kathryn Bigelow: a cop turned ‘experiences’ salesman uncovers a conspiracy in a re-imagined 1999 cyber-punk LA. (USA, 1995) * * * * *

On Body and Soul- Ildikó Enyedi : two oddball abattoir workers discover they share the same dream at night. (Hungary, 2017) * * * *

By Men Double Indemnity- Billy Wilder: two lonely folk find love and a shared hobby in elaborate murder.  (USA,1944) * * * * * 

Donnie Darko- Richard Kelly: boy makes friends with a creepy rabbit who tells him the end of the world is nigh. (USA, 2001) * * * *

Tokyo Godfathers- Satoshi Kon: a homeless trio discover an abandoned baby in a dumpster on Christmas eve and embark on a madcap mission to reunite her with her parents. (Japan, 2002) * * * * *

Being John Malkovitch- Spike Jonze: down and out puppeteer discovers a portal to John Malkovitch’s mind; his attempts to capitalize on this go awry. (USA, 1999) * * * *

Thelma- Joachim Trier: a sheltered girl struggles to come to terms with both her sexuality and the development of strange and dangerous new powers. (Norway, 2017) * * * *

Wulu- Daouda Coulibaly: a man with moderate dreams of becoming a bush taxi driver finds he has a talent for drug trafficking. (France/Senegal, 2016) * * * * 

#mubi #2018 in film #mubi movies #female directors #lists #recommendations #film recommendation #Wulu was particularly good #Ibrahim Koma

[ziamfanfiction]

Hello! I want some stories where Zayn poor or homeless. Thanks!

House

Three Times Liam Takes Care of Zayn (And One Time Zayn Takes Care of Liam)

Found A Boy

Poor

Under the Paris Lights

The House You Built

Only Place I Call Home

let him know it's christmas time

Lights Will Guide You Home

#Anons #eat my ask

[sascerides]

The Lady in the River - A Short Story

Dear Sister. 

I hope my letter reaches you alright, I wasn’t sure about the address. I don’t know why I’m even sending you a real life letter. Maybe I won’t send it after all. I just wanted to tell you about someone. Someone I met over Christmas. Someone… a little special. 

I know you’ll think I’ve gone mad. But before you pass judgement. Just know, before I start my tale, that Berlin is more crazy, than even I could think up. This city is ripe and ready to burst with all the madness and magic that lurks beneath it’s streets. You may not see it, but it’s there. And I met someone over Christmas. Someone mad and magic and much more Berlin that I will ever be. 

Everyone has their Christmas stories. You know most of mine. There’s the Christmas you and I spent together in that cottage by the sea with mum and dad. There’s the first christmas I spent alone with mum, while you were with dad, after the divorce.  And then. Then, there’s the Christmas I spent with the river monster that lives in the Spree. 

I spent Christmas with the river monster who lives in the Spree. Or, at least I think I did. 

But this is how the story ends, not where it begins. 

The story begins in August. It begins on a warm summer afternoon sitting on a bridge in Kreuzberg drinking a beer as the sun slowly crawled towards the horizon. Leaning our backs on the railing while droves of half-drunk half-high Berliners sailed past on their bikes. This is where it began. 

We sat there. A woman and I. She was from Paris. Or, she said she was from Paris. I knew her accent was fake and, when later she whispered in my ear between my sheets, her whispers were in German. I don’t know her name, but her name does not matter. She isn’t important to the story right now. The important thing is, she brought me to the bridge and we sat there. 

We drank beer after beer and the canal beneath our feet kept flowing by. And the more beers I drank the more real her French accent seemed. The more beers i drank the more I felt that I belonged in this city. That the city was mine. That I had not arrived on a plane only two days before and was still slightly jet lagged. We sat there and this is how it began. 

As the sun crept behind the buildings and the shadows got long we were joined by a local. He didn’t speak. He just stood. He was old, too old to be casually hanging out on a bridge on an August night. I don’t know if he was homeless or mad or Jesus come again. You’d understand if you’d been to Berlin, it’s hard to tell here. Sometimes it’s just a fashion statement, sometimes it’s something entirely else. But he was there. Wearing a knee-length, pink, faux fur coat. Can you picture that? In one hand he was holding one of those old midwifes' bags and in the other a curry-wurst. A true Berliner is what he was. 

This man stood on the bridge for a while and stared at the canal flowing past beneath his feet. He picked up an empty beer can and threw it in the water, ran to the other side of the bridge and watched it reappear on the other side. He got down on all four and listened to the river through the asphalt. But this wasn’t the weirdest thing he did. 

The man in the pink coat stood up, he walked to the edge of the bridge and he picked up a bit of his curry wurst gently between two fingers. Dropped it in to the water. Plop it went. And there went another. 

Plop. Plop. Plop. 

Until the entire curry wurst was gone. 

By this point, we had stopped talking and were just watching him go through his little ritual. The bridge was empty but for us. Us and him and what ever he was communing with in the river. What ever it was, it wanted more. Because he opened up his bag and took out a bottle of Radler. Opened it with his teeth and emptied it into the river. Down it went. The scent of lemon and beer drifting up towards us as it disappeared into the stream. 

Now, remember, I was tipsy by this point. Tipsy and jet-lagged. So, of course, I had to interact with this guy. I had to know what he was doing. Pouring a perfectly good meal and drink into the river. I hardly think the local ducks appreciate a lukewarm Radler, so there had to be an explanation. I got up. Swayed a bit. And walked over to him.

“Sir.” I said, praying that he spoke English. Trying not to sound too American. “Are you quite alright?” 

The man turned around and looked at me. His eyes were wild and wide and somewhat nervous. He didn’t speak, he just held up one finger as if telling me to wait. Then, he rummaged through his bag, frantically searching for something. Finding it, and pulling out a tiny flask of purple glitter, stopped with a cork. He walked back to the edge. Leaned over the railing so far I was a little afraid he was going to fall. He undid the cork, pouring the glitter into the stream. It floated on the wind for a second then disappeared from view. 

The man stood there for a bit. Whispering in German, then, he turned back to me. His face was calmer now. As if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. 

 “It’s for the river monster” he said “She grants your wishes”

“The river monster?” I asked “What? Like Nessie?”

“No! No! Not Lake monster! It’s a river. A river. Are you tourist?” 

“I’m new”

He smiled. Then, gently, ever so gently, put his hand on my arm. If I’d been sober I probably would have been a little freaked out. But I wasn’t. 

“She lives in the river, new one. You give her the three magic ingredients. Curry Wurst. A drink. Glitter. She will grant your wish. She is there”

“Right” I said, but something in me listened. Perhaps because of the alcohol. Perhaps because of the jet lag. Something in me thought it sounded reasonable. The man, apparently, decided this answer was good enough, because he just stumbled off in his pink coat. 

Right before he disappeared from view he stopped. Turned around and pointed at me.

“Remember! Remember new one, you may need it!” He shouted. And then he was gone. 

Now. I know what you’re thinking. You’re probably already typing out an email to me. “Becca, For fox sake.” you’re typing “A man in a pink coat tells you there’s a wish granting lady river monster living in the Spree and you believe him. I never should have let you leave”. Well. You may be right. But then, you were always the clever one. 

Anyway. That was in August. That was how it began. Now, as it happened, and as I’m sure mum told you. I got a room near Schlesisches Tor. I know you don’t know where that is, but if you Google Map it, you’ll see it’s by the river. All you need to know is, that as the autumn passed. I often found myself walking over the Oberbaumbrücke for one reason or another. To get food. To go to work. To meet a woman. You know how it is. Or, well. I’m sure you can imagine. 

I’d walk over the bridge and on most days, I’d just be enjoying the view. Thinking about dinner. Trying to avoid walking into people. But. But on some days. On some days I’d remember the man in the pink coat and the glitter floating over the canal as a girl who wasn’t French laughed in the background. 

As the season grew darker I more and more often found myself on the bridge after dark. 

In the shadows of approaching winter, lit by the lights of the city. The river looks different than it does through a haze of alcohol on an August afternoon. It moves differently. And sometimes. Sometimes. I thought I saw a shadow. A ripple. A movement under the surface. A bit of curry wurst bobbing on the surface only to disappear into the depths. Perhaps I was going mad. Perhaps it was just Berlin. Perhaps that is just how rivers behave. We never did live by a river as kids. 

Well. One dark thursday afternoon in late October I was walking down the street. I could feel the wind pulling at my coat and at my mind. I missed the summer afternoons. I missed the sun in dad’s backyard. I missed the warm winds of home. This afternoon felt darker than all the ones that came before it, and perhaps it really was. I was walking over the bridge, and in my sadness and my fatigue. I had bought myself a currywurst. Because, lets be real, in this city you don’t cook on tired thursdays when all you want to do is sleep off whatever Wednesday night left in you. 

I walked over the bridge and I remembered the man in the pink coat. “Remember” he’d told me “You may need it”. And then, I stopped.

I stood there for a bit, staring at the river. Black and deep flowing past beneath me. “Perhaps I need it now” I whispered to myself and then I dropped a bit of curry wurst into the river. 

Now, stay with me. You think I’m mad but please, keep reading sister. I swear. I swear I heard a gulp. I peered over the edge of the bridge and in the water I saw something. A shadow. A shimmer. A ripple. Something moved. I’m sure of it. To this day I’m sure something moved. 

As the winter approached and the city grew darker I got in the habit of walking over the Oberbaumbrücke and dropping a chunk of curry wurst into the spree. I didn’t put much stock into it. It just became a sort of tradition. You know how I am with traditions. 

On the days when I was lonely and sad. On days when I would have called you if my pride didn’t forbid it. On days when the city seemed dark and cold and the river was wide and black and beckoning below my feet. I would reach out a hand and “plop”. Down went my curry wurst. 

I never told you this, I know you were busy with the baby, and I didn’t want to disturb. But December was hard for me. Christmas was approaching and all through the city markets appeared. Christmas lights sprung up and the people around me got happier and more cheerful. All the while I sank into darkness. There were days when I felt fine. But there were more days when I felt nothing at all. And on most days, my insides felt like the waters of the spree. Deep and black and flowing to some unknown end. With no apparent purpose. 

I was walking asleep, smiling asleep, working asleep. And yet, I barely slept. In my mind. On some days I was on the California beaches watching the kids play in the sand. On some days I was on the bottom of the spree far away from all the noises and the stress of the city. On those days I liked walking along the canal and dropping in a bit of curry wurst. A splash of juice. Sometimes a fry. I would do that and I would stare at the black water moving past me steadily flowing with no care for me. 

I would whisper quietly under my breath “I wish someone will come spend Christmas with me”. “I wish someone will call me or send me a letter or show some concern for me”. “I wish I won’t be lonely”. And even though the waters flowed past and made no hint to hear it still made me feel better. It made me feel heard. It made me feel loved. I can’t explain it to you. I know you’re shaking your head right now. Just trust me on this. It helped. 

Now, there’s a thing you won’t know about this city from the pictures. There’s a thing you won’t know from visiting. From living here for a week or a month or a summer. You will only see the surface. The memorials and the cobble stones. The bars and the shops and the parties. The young people in their black outfits high on this and gone on that. You will see the sun shining down through the yards and the shop windows lighting up the streets. But you won’t see what lurks beneath the surface. 

The thing about this city is that most of the people in it are running away. They are all lonely and scared and in search of something. They are here distracting themselves with alcohol and glitter. With weed and designer drugs. With hashtags and smiling selfies and their amount of Facebook friends growing steady day by day. But come monday morning when they all sober up. They’re all lying in their beds in the darkness trying to find a reason to breathe. I know this. I know this because I am here. It might be that Berliners will tell you it’s not true. But some of them. Some of them know what I mean. 

Knowing this. Perhaps it isn’t so strange that an urban legend would grow from the canals of this city. That a whisper would float on down the stream and crawl along the cobblestones at night. A whisper of a river monster. Of a witch or a siren or a river spirit of sorts. Of a lady in the river. A lady who will grant you your wish.

 “Remember, new one. Remember you might need it”.

That’s what the man in the pink coat told me. And standing there, leaning over the railings of Oberbaumbrücke on a December night, half drunk. I needed it. I needed to believe someone was listening. That someone would hear. That someone would grant my wish. My wish of a hug. Of a kiss. Of a strangers hand through the Christmas. I needed to believe in the legend of a river monster that would grant my wish. At the cost of a curry wurst, a bit of my drink and a sprinkle of glitter. For a wish. I could spare that. 

So you know now how it began. You know of the beers and the bridge. Of the girl with the fake French accent and the man with the fake fur and the story. You know of the long summer afternoons and of the darkness that crept into the city and swallowed it whole. And that may all sound believable. But when you read the end, you will shake your head and call mum. You will say “Becca went to Berlin and now she’s out of her mind” “She’s imaging things” “She’s gone mad there. Mad and gay!”. But I promise you I haven’t. Well. Maybe a little bit. But this city is crazy and I am no crazier than the city herself. 

I was standing there on Christmas eve. Somewhere along the Landwehrkanal. I would not be able to tell you where. For lack of a better thing to do I’d been prowling the Christmas markets with friends drinking Glühwein all day. I’ll admit, I was trying to achieve that warm, tired drunk. The one where you can just close your eyes and sleep. I wasn’t successful.

Instead I found myself at something that looked like the Maybachufer but may not have been. Drunkenly leaning on the railing, half falling in. Everyone else had gone home. To their boyfriends or their mothers or their Ex’s second cousin. To someone who cared. To someone they cared for more than they cared for me. 

I took a bite of a lukewarm curry wurst, threw a bit into the stream, took another bite for myself and so on. I basically shared my curry wurst with the canal. I poured in my entire bottle of beer. I figured I didn’t need more alcohol. 

“You there river monster?” I said. Mostly to myself. Mostly to the night. Partly to the monster, although I wouldn’t have admitted it, if you’d asked. Then, I remembered the small bottle of glitter in my bag. A friend had given it to me as a joke, weeks ago. I rummaged through my rucksack and pulled out the bottle. Pulled off the cork with my teeth and emptied the bottle into the stream. 

In the darkness I could not see if the glitter floated on the stream. If it blew away in the wind. If it sank into the black water flowing by. I just let it flow and stood there in my haze, staring in to the night. 

“I wish” I said. Trying to remember the words in German, but ultimately giving up. “I wish for someone to spend Christmas with”. 

I stood there on the edge of the river. And then I sat down on the cold ground with my legs dangling over the edge. Leaning my forehead on the railing I think I may have fallen asleep for a second. 

It was silent. Nothing was happening. Of course. So I just stayed, for lack of a better place to go. 

I heard a splash but I saw nothing and beneath me the river kept flowing on. Gently touching the stone walls that kept it in. 

Then, someone touched my shoulder. Gently. I turned to look and saw a familiar face. I couldn’t quite put my finger on her, but I knew her face. There’s been so many girls. There are so many girls in this city. But this one I knew. 

“You look lonely” She said, and at first I didn’t recognise her voice, although I had heard it before. 

“I am” I said. “You too?”

She smiled. Stretched out her hand and helped me up. Her skin was glistening in the street lights. As if she was wet, or as if she had been crying. Perhaps it was just glitter on her face.

“Oui” She said and that’s when I recognised her. Without the French accent she had seemed a different person but perhaps that was on purpose all along.

“Come… “ She said "The rivers edge is not a good place at this time of night”. 

The Fake Parisienne is who she was, but I guess you figured that out by now. You don’t need to know what we did. I guess you can figure that out by now and it doesn’t really matter all that much. 

What matters is she took my hand and she led me through the city streets. She led me to somewhere warm and she bought me dinner. She kissed my forehead with her soft, wet lips and she embraced me in the night. 

I like to pretend I live an exciting life but, to be honest, I think we just slept. Or I did. I was so tired by then, tired and drunk and sad. I think I just slept in her arms. She held me and I never slept that well. It was as if I slept on a boat. She rocked me back and forth gently, ever so gently. Her arms around me and her legs touching my skin. In my drunken sleep I could have sworn they were tentacles but now I wouldn't be so sure. 

She woke me up in the morning and she had made me gifts. 

“You Americans, you do it like this no?” She asked. Sitting on the floor of my WG room. Her hair was wet, but I didn’t hear her shower. It doesn’t matter if she showered. I’m just trying to describe what she looked like. I know you don’t like women. Not in that way. But, she was beautiful. Her wet hair and her wet skin. Her big green eyes and her lips… Her bare legs. Well. You get the point.

She was just sitting on my floor in a pile of gifts I don’t know where came from. I really don’t know how she did it. They weren’t anything special. A box of matches. A pair of socks. A bottle of water. But they were gifts and that mattered. I don’t even know how she found me by the river or why she even cared.

I don’t believe in Christmas miracles. But she was one. 

“But Becca” you’re probably thinking. “That’s just a pretty German girl pretending to be French” You’re thinking “Didn’t you say she was the river monster?”. 

I did. I did say that. And. I don’t know if she was. What I do know is this. 

She took me with her out of the flat on Christmas day. We walked along the river and we held hands. She wore gloves and they were wet, even though it wasn’t raining. I didn’t question it at the time, but there’s something about that. I can’t quite tell what. 

She walked with me along the canal and over the bridges and then she bought me a curry wurst and she walked out to the middle of Admiralbrucke and she stopped there. 

“Thank you” she said “Or should I say… Merci”

“Thank you for what?” I asked. I was completely perplexed. And maybe a little bit in love. I’m not sure. 

“Thank you for all the Curry Wurst” She said. As if it was the most obvious thing in the world “And the glitter”

I was going to say something. But I didn’t know what to say so I just stood there. Staring at her. Staring at those beautiful green eyes of hers. At her wet gloves and her wet hair. Her hair was still wet. She must have been freezing. 

She took a step forward, put her wet hands on my arms and kissed me. Well. I kissed her back. We kissed. And then, just like that, she was gone. She was gone and I found myself standing in a puddle on the middle of the Admiralbrücke on Christmas Day as snow began to fall. 

I watched the water in the puddle flow gently over the edge and fall into the river. I watched the river flow on beneath my feet as it did back on that one afternoon in August. I watched as the snow covered the bridge and the sky grew dark and the evening crept in. 

I stood there and watched. Alone. She was gone. Just. Gone. Aside from my curry wurst, I didn’t even have proof that she’d ever really been there. 

I must have stood there for an hour. I was getting cold, but what could I do? I couldn’t just leave, could I? I was too confused. Too startled. Too alone. 

Then, someone behind me was laughing. I turned around and there was the man in the pink coat. The one I saw in the summer, remember him?

He looked at me and he smiled. Still wearing the same coat. 

“She’s not coming back” he said.

“She’s a busy lady you know.” He said. "And…” He stopped himself. Grinning. He was clearly very pleased with himself. 

“What?” I said. Well. I probably shouted. “ and WHAT, man?”

“You got your wish, didn’t you?” and then, he just walked off.

So did I. And I never did see her again. 

So. Sister. That’s the story. You can disbelieve it if you will. You can say I’ve gone mad. Or that I’m just making stuff up to get your attention. That might be. But in this city. I can’t tell you what’s real. 

This city is madness. 

Anyway. How was your Christmas?

Thank you for reading. If you want more. You can find more of my stories here.

This story was the last story of my 12 stories project in 2017. This year I’ve been inspired very much by the city of Berlin so with the last story I wanted to try and do the city justice. I’m not sure that’s even possible, but either way, I had fun.

You can read more about my 12 stories project here. Again. Thanks for reading. Feel free to share, comment, whatever floats your boat - it’s all appreciated.

The lady in the river may return next year. I’m still undecided about that. What I know for sure, is that there will be more stories.

#short story #story #magic realism #berlin #queer stories #letter #words words words #I wrote this