#and the seamstress line I think counts as a reference?

[peterpparkrr]

Pinned (pt. 4)

Series: Pinned

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x f!reader

Summary: Anthony invites our intrepid seamstress to the theater. 

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: some mild references to period typical sexism and classism 

A/N: me 🤝 anthony: playing fast and loose with courtship expectations. Anyways, I was in a silly goofy mood and wrote this behemoth of a chapter! Yay progress! (Catch the Little Women (1994) reference)

prev. part // next part

“Lord Bridgerton,” You greeted the man who was making his way up the street to you with equal parts exasperation and amusement. 

“You ought to be careful, coming to this part of town in broad daylight, what if someone sees you?” You tease him as he comes up to where you’re hanging your laundry on one of the lines that’s set up going between one of your windows and the window across the way. 

“Well, it would not be proper to visit at night,” Anthony teases as he leans forward conspiratorially.

You shake your head at him but can’t help the smile that creeps onto your face.

You ought to be concerned about your neighbors, and the gossip you are surely incurring as Anthony looks every part the nobleman thanks to his fine new jacket as he stands in the middle of Lambeth. You find yourself deeply pleased to see that he is wearing the vest that you made and sold to him to visit you, even if it makes him stick out even more than a man who carries himself like a Lord would do in your neighborhood. 

But you can’t find it in yourself to admonish the man for his timing, or for his dress, not with the nervous smile on his face as he fiddles with the ring on his pinky finger.

“This is hardly the most scandalous place I could be, my brother galavants with artists all times of day, and this hardly seems like a den of iniquity,” Anthony points out as he glances around at the fairly quiet street, which is nearly deserted here in the middle of the afternoon, save for a few of the wives down the way who are doing their own washing, and very intently trying not to be obvious as they watch this entire interaction unfold. 

“How did you know I’d be home today?” You ask as you drop the pair of cotton drawers in your hands back into your laundry basket as casually as you can manage.

“I discreetly inquired as to your work schedule,” He admits as he glances down. “I wanted to come and ask if you’d like to attend the theater with me on Friday night, and I didn’t want to have to do it while you were at work.”

“And I assume whomever you asked for my hours also let slip that I would not be working Friday night?” You ask with a knowing smile. “So that I’d have no excuse to turn you down.”

“I am a very thorough man,” Anthony replies with a smirk. 

“I have nothing to wear to the theater,” You start to protest. As your mind already starts to think of all the things that can go wrong, and all the reasons that this would be a horrible idea.

“I will take care of that,” Anthony replies with a wave of his hand.

“It would be terribly public,” You add.

“Courting does tend to be public,” He responds.

“People will talk, it won't take long for people to discover who I am, I am no actor,” You say, shaking your head. It would be easy for any man who shops in the store to recognize you. And the notoriety for you would be career-ruining, forget the scandal that Anthony would bring upon his own family. “It’ll be a scandal. Neither one of us wants that.”

“My family has a box, but I was thinking we could sit somewhere less… visible,” Anthony offers.

“I would prefer that,” You say with a nod. Shocking yourself with your easy acceptance. 

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Anthony says. Please that he doesn’t have to strong-arm you into agreeing to go with him.

“Oh, that’s not…” You reply quickly, trailing off your refusal. “I will meet you there.”

Anthony opened his mouth to protest, but the look in your eye assured him that we would not be able to make you budge.

“And I’ll find something of my own to wear,” You add.

“Meet me at the back entrance to The Lyceum at 7:30,” Anthony tells you. 

“I look forward to it,” You reply with a nod. “Now go away, before the neighbors have any more to gossip about,” You add as you shoo at him with a damp kitchen towel, causing him to chuckle before he turns to make his way back the way he came.

“Mrs. Haymow said a man came to speak to you this afternoon.”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact. It’s always facts with your brother. John is a pragmatist above all else. And a succinct speaker thanks to his political inclinations. 

He needs to make his points clearly and quickly to get anywhere with the movement. 

“Mrs. Haymow has nothing better to do than to stick her nose in other people’s business,” You reply with a huff as you drop John’s plate down in front of him, it clattering loudly against the wood as you move to grab your own plate from the small counter. 

It’s been the two of you for a long, long time. And after your parents died John took it upon himself to raise you. And it hadn’t been easy, but you had both been incredibly lucky. 

And you’d always be grateful for all John did for you, but you would not let him dictate your life, or but into things that are not his concern. 

“She said he was a very well-dressed man, that he looked like a gentleman,” John continues, ignoring your comment entirely.

When you don’t respond John finally looks up from his paper, his eyes boring into yours from across the tiny side table you ate your meals.

“Why did a gentleman come to speak to you?” He asks.

“I- he tracked down my address from someone at work, I don’t know,” You tell him. Always sprinkle in a sliver of truth when you lie. That had been one of the first lessons you’d learned once you were out on your own. “I sent him on his way as quickly as I could, did Mrs. Haymow tell you that?” You ask pointedly as you stab your fork into a potato.

“I just… I don’t want you getting mixed up with one of ‘em,” John replies. “That lot are bad news, always have been for folks like us.”

“I’m a big girl,” You tell him with a shake of your head. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can, but I also know men like that will fill your head with all sorts of lies to get what they want,” He replies, glancing at you with a patronizing paternal look in his eyes that requires everything in your power to keep yourself from rolling your eyes at him.

“I know,” You reply quietly as you look down at your plate, before John nods and you both eat your food in silence.

The Lyceum is one of the most beautiful theaters in London. The stately Roman Columns in front of the theater were imposing and gave the entire building a delightfully fitting gravitas. 

In another life, you might have been an actress (if you’d been blessed with even a lick of talent, of course). But you always liked to daydream about sewing costumes for the theater when you walked through the West End. 

It was a fanciful dream filled with glamor and frivolity, but just possible enough that it didn’t leave you hopeless in your current life. 

And walking down the West End tonight you felt like there was an entirely new life to daydream. 

The life of a Lady. 

You’d spent the rest of the week working on the dress.

Even if you didn’t necessarily feel like a lady, you certainly looked the part. 

Your hair stood expertly pinned into one of the styles you’d seen making the rounds in the Ladies' magazines you’d seen some of the other seamstresses passing around. You had been practicing all week to get your hair to cooperate, and tonight you’d finally managed to obtain the look you’d been going for (after an hour of contemplating tearing all of your hair out).

And you’d put hours into hand beading the neckline of your dress. Adding puffs to the sleeves and just enough ruching that you looked elegant and nouveau without tipping toward gaudy. 

The fabric wasn’t new, you’d had to scrape together a nice gossamer you’d bought secondhand from a modiste (who had decided it was already out of style for her customers), a simple dress you’d already owned, and some cast-offs that Margery who worked down the street from you as a seamstress had been able to snatch without her mistress noticing. 

But by God, it looked like it had come straight from one of the French modistes on Bond Street.

You were terribly pleased with yourself.

The street was packed with fellow theater-goers in their own finery, and no one gave you a second glance or questioned your presence as you made your way through the crowd. You were already smiling as you walked around the corner of the Lyceum when you saw Anthony waiting outside a side door.

“Miss,” He greets you as he bows slightly once you’re standing in front of him.

“My Lord,” You reply, dropping into your own curtsy as you try not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Anthony Bridgerton looked like he was born to attend the theater. Or any of these events for the aristocracy. A waistcoat and tails were surely invented with him in mind, and you were not ashamed to admit that he made a dashing and unbelievable handsome image as he stood before you.

“This is…” Anthony starts to say before he trails off.

“Strange?” You offer with a wry smile.

“I was going to say it’s nice,” Anthony says.

“Oh.”

You didn’t know what to do, or to say. You had no clue how proper ladies behaved, or what exactly you were supposed to do in the presence of a gentleman within the confines of propriety.

“I’ve never had to pretend to be a lady before,” You quip as you tug at the shall you have draped over your elbows, the scrap of fabric you’d had left over from your dress.

“You are a lady-“ Anthony replies, already beginning to protest. 

“No,” You reply, laughing slightly. “I am not.” 

And you’ve never minded before. Unlike some of the other seamstresses or tailors in your acquaintance, you’d never felt a need to dream of a life in the upper echelons of society. You’d never understood their jealousy towards the people who bought the clothes you made. The way they yearned for a life they could never have.

And you weren’t fanciful, you weren’t foolish enough to believe that Anthony would offer that life to you. That he could offer it to you. But you did find yourself wishing he’d spotted you from across a ballroom instead of across the shop floor. That there could have been a semblance of a fair shot for the two of you.

But you pushed those thoughts out of your head. It wouldn’t do you any good to ruminate on the could have, should have, would haves of life. 

You were determined to enjoy your evening.

“I’m sorry we can’t watch from the audience with everyone else, I feel like I’m depriving you of the proper experience,” You tell him.

You’re not ashamed of yourself, but you can’t fully put out of your mind the inkling of fear that Anthony will be disappointed once he comes to truly know you. And see the fully unpolished person that you are.

“I don’t care as long as I’m with you,” He tells you gently, taking your hand in his own hand and squeezing it. 

“But are you absolutely certain you don’t want to sit in a box? It seems a terrible waste to hide you, especially when you look as lovely as you do tonight,” He adds. 

“I’ve never been to the theater, I’d much rather watch the show than be the spectacle,” You admit. 

“Then it’s a good thing I got us the best seats in the house,” Anthony replies.

Anthony offers you his arm and you know enough to intertwine your arm with his as he opens the door for you and leads you into the backstage of the theater.

You make your way silently past workers moving sets and candelabras and rigging lights. You watch actors in elaborate costumes muttering to themselves or having hushed conversations with each other all while you watch on in awe. 

You suddenly remember who you’re with and quickly shut your open mouth as you glance over at Anthony sheepishly only to see him watching you with a pleased smile.

“I’m sorry, I’ve never seen such beautiful clothing up close,” You tell him quietly.

“Of course, would you like to see it even closer?” He asks as he’s already beginning to pull you towards an actor.

“Oh heavens, no,” You protest quickly as you pull him back before you find yourself being introduced to some highfalutin Shakespearean actor. “I can’t-I don’t-” 

“It’s alright, we don’t have to,” Anthony replies. “Maybe next time though,” He teases as he pulls you back along the edge of the backstage.

“So where are these best seats in the house?” You ask as you glance around. You’re not entirely sure what you were expecting, but after refusing to sit in the audience you seemed to have forgotten that there aren’t exactly other seating options.

“Follow me,” He says as he leads you towards the edge of the stage.

“William,” He greets a young boy. “Are we alright to go up?” He asks.

“Of course, sir,” the boy replies with a nod.

“Watch your step,” Anthony says as he offers you a hand to help you step up onto the ladder leading up to the catwalk. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“This isn’t my first time on a ladder, Lord Bridgerton,” You reply as you grab a fistful of your skirt before beginning your climb. Unaware of the fact that your now exposed shins are directly in front of Anthony’s eye line, or the effect that they are having on him.

“So how does a Viscount befriend a stagehand?” You ask once the two of you are sitting on the small bench along the catwalk, a blanket already draped across the seats when you reach the top of the ladder, a detail that did not escape your notice.

“It’s a long story,” Anthony replies as he rubs at his ear.

“Does it have anything to do with the opera singer who used to be your mistress?” You ask teasingly. “I can read, you know, and there is nothing seamstresses love more than reading the gossip sheets about our customers.”

“So you’d read about me,” Anthony replies, waggling his eyebrows at you in a ridiculous manner.

“You have chosen a very interesting part of my response to latch on to, Lord Bridgerton,” You reply with a scoff. 

“You don’t need to worry about upsetting me,” You add. “I wouldn’t expect you to have never touched a woman before, that hardly seems fair.”

“The play’s about to start,” Anthony shushes you with a grin as he gestures towards the stage.

The moment the music begins and candlelight illuminates the stage your attention is immediately focused on the stage in front of you. Even from the side perspective of the stage, it’s not difficult for the production to become your sole concentration with the actor’s convictions having you completely riveted.

Thank God it’s Shakespeare and not an opera, the Old English is tricky enough for you to distinguish let alone a different language. You would have been completely lost.

“Is he truly mad? Or is he just pretending to be?” You whisper as you lean over to Anthony in the middle of the performance.

“He is pretending for the others, but that is a point that scholars often debate,” Anthony replies as he turns to you, your own gaze still completely focused on the actors. 

You’re invested. And even though you harumph quietly to yourself when Ophelia drowns herself you find yourself deeply emotionally invested in the story.

Your every reaction is written all over your face, and you wince when you ought to, groan quietly when things don’t go the right way, and even gasp quietly when you realize how the story is going to end. Anthony finds himself watching you more than the play. Maybe because he’s already seen Hamlet and knows how it ends, but mostly because you and your face are far more compelling. 

It’s easy for Anthony to see that you wear your heart on your sleeve. You're so open, and your emotions play over your face even just at watching the fictional story that is unfolding before you. He understands why you're guarded. Why you feel like you need to protect yourself, but also sees what he had never quite been able to put a finger on before. The reason he had found you so captivating in the first place.

Your every move, your every word, you are unafraid to be yourself. His world is chalked full of people telling him how to behave, with expectations of who he is before they even meet him. Every young lady his mother has foisted upon him is so completely terrified of being a person because they’re all worried that suitors like him won’t like them if they are themselves.

You do not have that problem. You are unapologetic and unflinching in the face of a world that will do anything in its power to crush that down inside of you. You’re a bloody miracle and Anthony has no idea how you’ve made it this far in life.

And he’s also desperate to ensure that you remain so. And terrified of what might happen to you if he does not protect you with everything he has.

In the end, you're clapping just as loudly as the audience as you stand to your feet. Anthony stands beside you, applauding as well, though not nearly as excitedly.

“I would very much like to kiss you,” Anthony whispers in your ear. His warm breath tickles the exposed skin at your hairline.

“You can,” You reply in your own hushed tone as your head turns to look at him. 

Your eyes meet his as you grant him permission and suddenly his hand is coming up to the side of your neck as he presses his lips to yours. 

You know this is a terrible idea. That nothing good can come from this thing with Lord Bridgerton. That one way or another you’re going to get hurt. That the damage is only reaching deeper and deeper the more time you spend with this man. This man has everything he needs to ruin you.  

But with his lips on yours, it’s hard to feel like this is anything other than right.

Like you’re meant for each other. 

#anthony bridgerton #anthony bridgerton fanfic #anthony bridgerton x reader #Bridgerton #Bridgerton Series #pinned #pinned series #bridgerton fic #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton drabble #bridgerton oneshot #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton x female reader #anthony bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton reader insert #anthony bridgerton reader insert #anthony bridgerton series #anthony bridgerton drabble #anthony bridgerton oneshot #anthony bridgertion fic

[writingwithcolor]

What Does Our "Motivations” PSA Mean?

@luminalalumini said:

I've been on your blog a lot and it has a lot of really insightful information, but I notice a theme with some of your answers where you ask the writer reaching out what their 'motivation for making a character a certain [race/religion/ethnicity/nationality] is' and it's discouraging to see, because it seems like you're automatically assigning the writer some sort of ulterior motive that must be sniffed out and identified before the writer can get any tips or guidance for their question. Can't the 'motive' simply be having/wanting to have diversity in one's work? Must there be an 'ulterior motive'? I can understand that there's a lot of stigma and stereotypes and bad influence that might lead to someone trynna add marginalized groups into their stories for wrong reasons, but people that have those bad intentions certainly won't be asking for advice on how to write good representation in the first place. Idk its just been something that seemed really discouraging to me to reach out myself, knowing i'll automatically be assigned ulterior motives that i don't have and will probably have to justify why i want to add diversity to my story as if i'm comitting some sort of crime. I don't expect you guys to change your blog or respond to this or even care all that much, I'm probably just ranting into a void. I'm just curious if theres any reason to this that I haven't realized exists I suppose. I don't want y'all to take this the wrong way because I do actually love and enjoy your blog's advice in spite of my dumb griping. Cheers :))

We assume this is in reference to the following PSA:

PSA to all of our users - Motivation Matters: This lack of clarity w/r to intent has been a general issue with many recent questions. Please remember that if you don’t explain your motivations and what you intend to communicate to your audience with your plot choices, character attributes, world-building etc., we cannot effectively advise you beyond the information you provide. We Are Not Mind Readers. If, when drafting these questions, you realize you can’t explain your motivations, that is likely a hint that you need to think more on the rationales for your narrative decisions. My recommendation is to read our archives and articles on similar topics for inspiration while you think. I will be attaching this PSA to all asks with similar issues until the volume of such questions declines. 

We have answered this in three parts.

1. Of Paved Roads and Good Intentions

Allow me to give you a personal story, in solidarity towards your feelings:

When I began writing in South Asia as an outsider, specifically in the Kashmir and Lahore areas, I was doing it out of respect for the cultures I had grown up around. I did kathak dance, I grew up on immigrant-cooked North Indian food, my babysitters were Indian. I loved Mughal society, and every detail of learning about it just made me want more. The minute you told me fantasy could be outside of Europe, I hopped into the Mughal world with two feet. I was 13. I am now 28.

And had you asked me, as a teenager, what my motives were in giving my characters’ love interests blue or green eyes, one of them blond hair, my MC having red-tinted brown hair that was very emphasized, and a whole bunch of paler skinned people, I would have told you my motives were “to represent the diversity of the region.” 

I’m sure readers of the blog will spot the really, really toxic and colourist tropes present in my choices. If you’re new here, then the summary is: giving brown people “unique” coloured eyes and hair that lines up with Eurocentric beauty standards is an orientalist trope that needs to be interrogated in your writing. And favouring pale skinned people is colourist, full stop.

Did that make me a bad person with super sneaky ulterior motives who wanted to write bad representation? No.

It made me an ignorant kid from the mostly-white suburbs who grew up with media that said brown people had to “look unique” (read: look as European as possible) to be considered valuable.

And this is where it is important to remember that motives can be pure as you want, but you were still taught all of the terrible stuff that is present in society. Which means you’re going to perpetuate it unless you stop and actually question what is under your conscious motive, and work to unlearn it. Work that will never be complete.

I know it sounds scary and judgemental (and it’s one of the reasons we allow people to ask to be anonymous, for people who are afraid). Honestly, I would’ve reacted much the same as a younger writer, had you told me I was perpetuating bad things. I was trying to do good and my motives were pure, after all! But after a few years, I realized that I had fallen short, and I had a lot more to learn in order for my motives to match my impact. Part of our job at WWC is to attempt to close that gap.

We aren’t giving judgement, when we ask questions about why you want to do certain things. We are asking you to look at the structural underpinnings of your mind and question why those traits felt natural together, and, more specifically, why those traits felt natural to give to a protagonist or other major character.

I still have blond, blue-eyed characters with sandy coloured skin. I still have green-eyed characters. Because teenage me was right, that is part of the region. But by interrogating my motive, I was able to devalue those traits within the narrative, and I stopped making those traits shorthand for “this is the person you should root for.” 

It opened up room for me to be messier with my characters of colour, even the ones who my teenage self would have deemed “extra special.” Because the European-associated traits (pale hair, not-brown-eyes) stopped being special. After years of questioning, they started lining up with my motive of just being part of the diversity of the region.

Motive is important, both in the conscious and the subconscious. It’s not a judgement and it’s not assumed to be evil. It’s simply assumed to be unquestioned, so we ask that you question it and really examine your own biases.

~Mod Lesya

2. Motivations Aren't Always "Ulterior"

You can have a positive motivation or a neutral one or a negative one. Just wanting to have diversity only means your characters aren't all white and straight and cis and able-bodied -- it doesn't explain why you decided to make this specific character specifically bi and specifically Jewish (it me). Yes, sometimes it might be completely random! But it also might be "well, my crush is Costa Rican, so I gave the love interest the same background", or "I set it in X City where the predominant marginalized ethnicity is Y, so they are Y". Neither of these count as ulterior motives. But let's say for a second that you did accidentally catch yourself doing an "ulterior." Isn't that the point of the blog, to help you find those spots and clean them up?

Try thinking of it as “finding things that need adjusting” rather than “things that are bad” and it might get less scary to realize that we all do them, subconsciously. Representation that could use some work is often the product of subconscious bias, not deliberate misrepresentation, so there's every possibility that someone who wants to improve and do better didn't do it perfectly the first time. 

--Shira

3. Dress-Making as a Metaphor

I want to echo Lesya’s sentiments here but also provide a more logistical perspective. If you check the rubber stamp guide here and the “Motivation matters” PSA above, you’ll notice that concerns with respect to asker motivation are for the purposes of providing the most relevant answer possible.

It is a lot like if someone walks into a dressmaker’s shop and asks for a blue dress/ suit (Back when getting custom-made clothes was more of a thing) . The seamstress/ tailor is likely to ask a wide variety of questions:

What material do you want the outfit to be made of?

Where do you plan to wear it?

What do you want to highlight?

How do you want to feel when you wear it?

Let’s say our theoretical customer is in England during the 1920s. A tartan walking dress/ flannel suit for the winter is not the same as a periwinkle, beaded, organza ensemble/ navy pinstripe for formal dress in the summer. When we ask for motivations, we are often asking for exactly that: the specific reasons for your inquiry so we may pinpoint the most pertinent information.

The consistent problem for many of the askers who receive the PSA is they haven’t even done the level of research necessary to know what they want to ask of us. It would be like if our English customer in the 1920s responded, “IDK, some kind of blue thing.” Even worse,  WWC doesn’t have the luxury of the back-and-forth between a dressmaker and their clientele. If our asker doesn’t communicate all the information they need in mind at the time of submission, we can only say, “Well, I’m not sure if this is right, but here’s something. I hope it works, but if you had told us more, we could have done a more thorough job.”

Answering questions without context is hard, and asking for motivations, by which I mean the narratives, themes, character arcs and other literary devices that you are looking to incorporate, is the best way for us to help you, while also helping you to determine if your understanding of the problem will benefit from outside input. Because these asks are published with the goal of helping individuals with similar questions, the PSA also serves to prompt other users.

I note that asking questions is a skill, and we all start by asking the most basic questions (Not stupid questions, because to quote a dear professor, “There are no stupid questions.”). Unfortunately, WWC is not suited for the most basic questions. To this effect, we have a very helpful FAQ and archive as a starting point. Once you have used our website to answer the more basic questions, you are more ready to approach writing with diversity and decide when we can actually be of service. This is why we are so adamant that people read the FAQ. Yes, it helps us, but it also is there to save you time and spare you the ambiguity of not even knowing where to start.

The anxiety in your ask conveys to me a fear of being judged for asking questions. That fear is not something we can help you with, other than to wholeheartedly reassure you that we do not spend our unpaid, free time answering these questions in order to assume motives we can’t confirm or sit in judgment of our users who, as you say, are just trying to do better.

Yes, I am often frustrated when an asker’s question makes it clear they haven’t read the FAQ or archives. I’ve also been upset when uncivil commenters have indicated that my efforts and contributions are not worth their consideration. However, even the most tactless question has never made me think, “Ooh this person is such a naughty racist. Let me laugh at them for being a naughty racist. Let me shame them for being a naughty racist. Mwahaha.”

What kind of sad person has time for that?*

Racism is structural. It takes time to unlearn, especially if you’re in an environment that doesn’t facilitate that process to begin with. Our first priority is to help while also preserving our own boundaries and well-being. Though I am well aware of the levels of toxic gas-lighting and virtue signaling that can be found in various corners of online writing communities in the name of “progressivism*”, WWC is not that kind of space. This space is for discussions held in good faith: for us to understand each other better, rather than for one of us to “win” and another to “lose.”

Just as we have good faith that you are doing your best, we ask that you have faith that we are trying to do our best by you and the BIPOC communities we represent.

- Marika.

*If you are in any writing or social media circles that feed these anxieties or demonstrate these behaviors, I advise you to curtail your time with them and focus on your own growth. You will find, over time, that it is easier to think clearly when you are worrying less about trying to appease people who set the bar of approval so high just for the enjoyment of watching you jump. “Internet hygiene”, as I like to call it, begins with you and the boundaries you set with those you interact with online.

#PSAs #asker concerns #diversity #motivations in writing #writing with diversity #blog housekeeping #internet hygeine #asks #WWC

[capsironunderoos]

December

DINCEMBER - December 2 - December (Ariana Grande Version)

Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) X Female!Reader

Summary: A little thievery, a little marketplace, a little mysterious allusions to past lives, and a little green baby.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: None that I can think of! (Possibly my writing because this one is... something else)

Author’s Note: Ah okay so I know this is a day or so late, but I still wanted to keep up with @dindjarindiaries​ Dincember! This prompt was December by Ariana Grande and I can’t lie I’d never heard the song before! It’s really good though (and I definitely added it to my “baking Christmas cookies with matthew gray gubler” playlist). I was inspired by the lines “I’m just tryna keep my baby warm through the wintertime” and “whatever is on your list I’ll do it,” but probably not in the way you’d expect... Anyways! I hope you guys enjoy this one, I have a love hate relationship with how it turned out... Also, I do make some allusions to the readers past, but you can fill those in however you like! Was she an Imperial spy? A Rebel spy? Maybe she flew alongside Luke Skywalker, or learned how to beat Lando at sabacc! Who knows! That’s completely up to you. Anywho, this was a really long author’s note sheesh... Enjoy! 

Here’s the previous prompt:

DINCEMBER - November 30 - Snow

And the link to my masterlist: capsironunderoos masterlist

It’s almost cold today, you find yourself thinking as a slight breeze picks up the fabric sitting on your sale table. 

You’re carefully folding your newest line of fabrics onto the table before you, making sure they’re arranged in a way that will draw people in, and will get you enough credits to at least try out the new caf they’re selling at the cantina. 

You smile at the thought and smooth out a wrinkle in the bright red fabric before turning to look around you. 

The marketplace seems almost empty. Normally you have to elbow a few Jawa to get through the crowd and set up your table, but today was unnaturally easy. 

It’s almost unsettling how quiet the town is, normally on market days patrons all the way from Mos Eisley find their way to the multi-colored booths. Your booth tends to be pretty popular, as it’s rare to find a seamstress on a dust ball like Tatooine. 

It doesn’t hurt that you’re easy on the eyes either, and that you know how to work an unsuspecting husband into buying something new for his wife, or a new mother into buying a cloth sling to carry her crying baby in. 

It also doesn’t hurt that there don’t seem to be enough rumors about you. 

Some point and whisper as they walk by, saying you once sewed the robes worn by Jedi and Sith alike. Others stare in the cantina as they place bets on which royal you sewed for and if you ever got to live on a core planet. 

Of course none of them are true, and most of them were started by you to thrum up good business. 

What can you say? The caf at the cantina is really good. 

It’s been a few minutes now, well past the opening hour of the market, and the number of booths is still few and far between. 

You hum in disappointment, accepting that you won’t be making many, if any sales today. You begin to sit down on the stool you bring along for days like this when you see a scrap of your best-selling silver cloth suspiciously fly off of the table. 

It takes a second, but you note that there’s no wind blowing, so there’s no way it was carried off by a sudden strong breeze. 

You grab the small stun gun you keep tucked away in your belt, slowly moving around the table, already knowing you’re about to have another run in with a Jawa. 

Your footsteps are measured, and if anyone were to pay enough attention, they’d notice that a seamstress wouldn’t know how to move the way you are. 

As you creep around the table, you notice that another scrap of fabric, this time green, is swept away as if by an invisible being. 

Your steps pick up then, and you round the table just in time to see a small creature waddling away from your booth, fabric dragging the ground as it struggles to carry a stolen bounty almost as large as the creature is. 

“Hey! Not so fast, little one!” You call out, and the creature turns to look at you. 

He squeaks in alarm and begins… running? 

You think it’s possibly running, or trying to at least. 

You note how large its clothes are, and how they seem to be tripping it up as it tries to escape. 

If it hadn’t been stealing from you, you’d almost have felt bad for it. 

Three more lunging steps later and you’ve managed to put your stun gun away and scoop the small being into your arms. It wails in disapproval and struggles against you in a feeble attempt to get away, but your grip is tight enough to keep it tucked into the crook of your arm. 

“Now where do you think you’re going with that?” You ask as you grab the fabric from its hands. 

As cute as you suddenly realize it is, it’s hard to miss how stubbornly it holds onto the fabric. 

You begin to walk back to your booth, scanning the area for anyone who might be searching for it. 

It’s calmed down now, and you turn to see it’s big brown eyes staring up at you. 

“Oh don’t give me that look. Doesn’t matter how cute you are, you still gotta pay like everyone else.” 

The little one coos in response, as if understanding and responding to your statement. 

“Uh huh,” you nonchalantly agree to its babbling as you do your best to fold the fabrics back into their places with one hand, your left arm currently supporting the child in it. 

“Is there someone you’re supposed to be with right now? A leash you broke off or, um, maybe a cage you got out of? Or are you somebody’s kid?” You question, and it looks up at you, blinking quietly and deciding that now it’ll be quiet.

“Well, I doubt you’re anybody’s kid, ‘cause I’ve never seen anything like you around here. But I also doubt that you’re anybody’s pet, ‘cause I know good and well no one would be able to keep you on a leash, especially not in a cage. You’re too cute for all that. Besides, I think you might be able to escape too easily anyways.” 

The child laughs at that, and you find yourself smiling in response. 

“Hey I’m still trying to figure out how you managed to pull that fabric off of my table. You’re not exactly the same height.” You wonder aloud, and the child moves to sit up as best it can in your arms. 

You apologize to it before sitting it on the table and pulling your stool up. 

It doesn’t really matter if it tries to run off, you already know you could catch the poor thing in two steps. 

The creature watches you intently, tilting its head as if inspecting you, or searching you for something. 

You furrow your eyebrows at its actions, leaning up to get a little bit closer to it. 

You notice movement out of the corner of your eye and sit back again, watching as the little one begins to raise one of his hands. 

You can feel your heart rate pick up as your mind races to put together what the child is trying to show you, but before the connection can be made a set of quick and heavy footsteps are striding up to your table. 

“There you are,” you hear through the crackle of a modulator, which cues you to turn and see a Mandalorian taking long strides to your booth. 

Dread instantly fills your chest, and you quickly stand up, glancing down at your stun gun sticking out of your boot and back to the Mandalorian. 

Was he talking to you or the kid? Regardless of whichever one he was talking to, you have a feeling you’re both about to be in some trouble. 

Last you knew you didn’t have an active bounty on your head, but that had been too many rotations ago to remember. Surely the small child beside you wouldn’t have an active bounty, it hardly knew how to speak, much less commit a serious crime against the New Republic, or the remaining Imps for that matter. 

Your wandering thoughts are quickly answered as the Mandalorian scoops the little green being in its arms. 

“I told you to stay put kid,” his tone is meant to come off as scolding, but you can hear the worry in his voice. 

The child is grinning from ear to ear, obviously happy to see the man before you. 

“You know,” you start, and the Mandalorian turns to you as if noticing you for the first time. 

“I can sew you something to wear that he can ride in. Can match the color to that fancy beskar and everything.” 

At the mention of his armor, you notice the Mandalorian stand a bit straighter. 

“No, thank you. I hope that he wasn’t too much of a bother.” 

The child laughs at the mention of himself, and you find yourself fighting a grin. 

“Well, other than trying to make off with two of my best-selling fabrics,” you shrug and the Mandalorian returns his gaze to the kid, who has gone suspiciously silent. 

“Did you give them back?” He chastises the child again, but before it has a chance to answer you step in. 

“I got them back. He tried to make a run for it, but he’s not very fast.” 

A beat of silence passes between the three of you before you continue. 

“I could fix that too. Those clothes are obviously too big for him.” 

The Mandalorian sighs, but it comes out as a crackle. How had you managed to finally meet the first customer you’d ever had that was able to resist your persuading? 

“I said no thank you earlier, and the same applies now.” 

You raise your hands in defense, feigning innocence. 

“Alright Mando, alright,” you taunt him and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. 

“I’m just trying to keep that baby warm through the winter time.” 

At the reference to him, the kid squirms in the Mandalorians arms, turning to look at you with big eyes, full of want. 

“Whatever’s on your list, I’ll do it. I’m the best around. Actually, I’m the only around.” 

You decide to try one last time, and even if he doesn’t respond or buy, at least you’ll know what to work on when the next Mandalorian shows up at your table. 

He’s quiet for too long, and you turn your attention back to the kid. 

“I see why you wanted that silver, little one. It’d match ole tin can man perfectly.” 

You taunt him again, and the Mandalorian continues to stand still. 

After another beat of silence, you hear the scramble of feet behind him, and you move to glance over his shoulder. 

“Peli!” You exclaim, and she smiles as she sees you, but you notice her smile growing even bigger when she sees the kid peeking through the Mandalorians arms to see her. 

“Hey kiddo! And… kiddo,” she jokes as she moves to stand beside Mando. 

The kid makes grabby-arms towards her and she laughs, accepting him into her arms. 

“This that Mando you were telling me about over caf the other week?” You question and she nods. 

“As he lives and breathes. At least, I think he’s living and breathing.” 

You nod in agreement. 

“Come on Mando,” she prompts, gesturing for him to follow her. 

“Your ship has some… problems, to say the least, and I need an opinion that isn't a pit droids.” 

You wave to the child as Peli retreats back in the direction she came before turning to face the Mandalorian once more. 

“Offer still stands,” you start, and his helmet moves ever so slightly to look at you. 

“Response is still the same,” he combats, and you laugh.

---

Three days later and Din is ready to get off of this sand pit. 

He normally doesn’t mind coming and visiting Peli, having the Crest regularly serviced while taking a few days to visit old friends or to simply sit with the feisty mechanic and his kid. 

But he’s got stuff to do now, and Life Day is just around the corner. 

He didn’t remember too much of his childhood, but he remembered celebrating Life Day with his parents when they were still alive. Therefore, he wants to give the kid a good Life Day this year, as Din was almost certain he’d never experienced one before. 

This meant gathering gifts specifically for the little creature, and that meant trekking across the galaxy before settling onto Nevarro to celebrate Life Day with Cara and Greef. 

He watches from afar as the pit droids finish up their final touches, making sure the Crest has a full tank before he’s cleared to go. 

“Hey Mando!” 

He hears from behind him, and he turns to see Peli marching towards him. 

“Looks like you made an impression a few days ago. I’ve never known her to do anything for free, much less as a gift.” 

Din immediately knows that Peli is talking about you, and he wishes that he didn’t. 

You’ve been all he can think about, and he hates himself for literally just standing there as you tried to talk to him. 

Peli pulls him from his thoughts as she extends her hands to him, offering a gift wrapped in dark brown paper. 

Din takes it from her and mutters a thank you. 

“You’re welcome,” Peli replies dramatically before stomping off to find the kid. 

Din can read the basic scrawled on top that reads “For the tin can man and his green kid,” and he feels himself smiling at the scrawl of your handwriting. 

He quickly opens the box, not surprised to see a small dark brown robe, almost the color of the fabric he wears, sitting atop a silver pile of fabric. 

He pulls the robe out first, noticing how well it has been sewn together, already knowing that the child’s going to never want to wear anything else now. 

He then pulls out the silver fabric, noticing that it looks to be something for him. 

“Oh yeah new moms put their kids in that at the market! You just strap ‘em right to your chest and they never cry again,” Peli calls from her spot beside the ship where she’s been holding the kid and watching Din. 

Din finds his smile growing even more, and he’s almost surprised to see another note in the box, written on what looks like handmade paper. 

The basic is even more scrawled in this note, as if you’d decided to put it in at the last minute. 

Din pulls it from the box and can't help but to smile from ear to ear as he reads it. 

Just trying to keep that baby warm through the wintertime. Anything else on your list I can do, but you’re gonna have to actually pay this time. Happy Life Day.  

Here’s the next prompt for Dincember:

DINCEMBER - December 4 - Hot Chocolate

#underooswrites #din djarin #din djarin x reader #the child #grogu #baby yoda #peli motto #peli #ah yes Star Wars coffee #star wars #star wars x reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x y/n #din djarin x y/n #dincember

[blueflyingturtleontheway]

Carla for the character ask?

Sure thing!

Favorite thing about them:

How she loves her family. I mean, all her interactions with Victor are just the sweetest, back in season 1 and first half of 2 they're also so hilarious. And when Ash comes back you can see how she missed her! And really, all she want is to be happy with her family! And later when Ash betrays them she's obviously heartbroken. I just really love their family okay.

Least favorite thing about them:

How little she cared about the damage they were doing as villains. I mean, it's mainly on Ash and Victor since they brought her up like this, but she really doesn't care about other people.

Favorite line:

"I'm sorry papá." (After she can't blast Ash in Coronation Day) It's not the quote itself but rather the moment. She knows Ash doesn't love her, or at least that this love is not good and she truly considers Victor her only family now, but Ash meant really a lot to her and she can't just throw all these years she loved her away. It perfectly shows her character, her morals and her struggles.

BrOTP:

To be fair we barely saw her interact with other characters, but Mateo, Naomi and Victor if he counts.

OTP:

I don't think I have one, I generally don't ship her with anyone unless it's really well written.

NOTP:

I haven't seen any ship with her that I'd be strictly against.

Random headcanon:

She sews really well. Back when they were on the run they'd buy really cheap clothing and then she'd customize them.

After their reformation she started working as a seamstress in the palace.

Unpopular opinion:

I don't know as unpopular that is I actually really like her performance as Rita. Even if not especially this part when she tried to "seduce" (I'd say it's too strong of a word but I've heard it refered to as such) Mateo. Sure, morally it's wrong but it really shows how little she actually cares for other people's emotions and probably how she built her relationships in the past. And I also think it'd be important for her reformation, especially if she'd like to build her life in Avalor.

Song I associate with them:

I don't have one.

Favorite picture of them:

S O F T

Thank you so much for the ask! I absolutely love talking about this family

#my post #answering asks #ask game #eoa #elena of avalor #carla delgado #learningisfun2021

[muertawrites]

Two Halves - Chapter Five (Zuko x Reader)

Part Four

Word Count: 3,300

Author’s Note: I was up until 4am finishing this on Thursday night, and honestly, the way my single brain cell was barely functioning at that point, I’m surprised this even got done, let alone that it got done relatively well. We’re also getting super close to 1,000 followers, so if you like this series or any of my other works, PLEASE subscribe! I’ve got some fun stuff planned once we get there that I’m really excited to start planning! 

~ Muerta

Despite their rocky beginning, your first few weeks as Lady of the Fire Nation go surprisingly well. After your conflict with Advisor Lin, everyone begins to treat you with newfound respect - even Zuko. Your first breakfast together was the last time he advised any of your aids to be moderate or keep their distance from you, instead encouraging them to speak to you as directly as they would him, openly reproving them when they treat you as if you aren't capable of grasping everything they face you with; of course, you very much feel like you aren't, remaining stoic during morning briefings in the dining room while inwardly panicking, hearing everything but only able to decipher about half of it. You’re lucky you’re still shadowing the Firelord, learning your place and duties; once you’re sent out on your own, you have a feeling you’ll drown before you even get the chance to tread water. 

Protective as he is, Sokka arranges to stay in the palace until you’re completely settled, stating that it’s his duty as the chief ambassador for the Southern Water Tribe; you know that the real reason is because he’s worried to death about you, trying his hardest to keep up the tough, unflappable big brother act for nobody's sake but his own. Toph also decides to extend her trip, quite concerned herself but mostly using the political tension as an excuse to catch up with you, Zuko, and Iroh - you don't mind, since having her around is an endless comfort to you, and you often invite her to sleep in your room so you can pretend that you’re just two friends enjoying normal young adult lives. 

Each day spent in Firelady prep school is a new lesson in what exactly the role means, and you’re quickly finding that it’s much more than observing any of the first ladies of the Water Tribe could have ever prepared you for. They were considered accessories to their chiefs, appearing beside their husbands mostly for aesthetics and only truly serving the purpose of giving birth to sons to take his place; as the Firelord’s wife, you’re seen as an extension of him, and he an extension of you. Your people view you as the monarch and matriarch of a massive, powerful clan, and expect you to live and act in sync with one another for the betterment of your children, both literal and metaphorical. Nation comes before everything, any action that could suggest intentions otherwise criticized with the utmost scrutiny; disgrace is all too easy, while honor seems near impossible. 

You have tea with Zuko every night before bed; the more you learn about the culture of his upbringing, the more you empathize with his younger self. 

“I understand now why you were so angry,” you admit to him one night. “They make you feel as if just being human were a mistake. I'm already frustrated - I can't imagine what seventeen years of it was like.”

Zuko hums, his face taking on a wistful, somber expression. 

“That's what my father did to me,” he explains. “Everything was wrong, even if it was what felt natural.” 

He takes your hand in his, his thumb grazing over your knuckles as he gazes off in thought. 

“We can change that, though,” he tells you. “Things already feel better with you here.” 

For a country that just ended a century long war in which they were the main aggressor, you would think that your advisors would put more energy into matters of diplomatic affairs than your image. 

“I'm just uncertain what a choice like this could make the nation feel,” Advisor Yong says. “We’re already walking a very delicate line.”

You stand in one of the palace’s many meeting parlors with Zuko, Advisors Yong and Sung, Sokka, Iroh, and the royal seamstress, pouring over multiple yards of fabric she's brought for the robes that will immortalize you in your wedding portrait. For the past forty-five minutes, you've been debating whether you should be pictured wearing Fire Nation or Water Tribe clothes - the proceedings have been dismal at best. 

“The representation of our tribe is important to our people,” Sokka replies to Advisor Yong. “We’ve been small for decades, and mostly because of the Fire Nation - she should wear a traditional dress.” 

“But certain people in our nation are still very put off by the idea of a foreign queen,” Advisor Yong argues. “A man was already killed over the matter; embracing it so fully could spark anger and endanger her and the Firelord even more.” 

In the time you've spent with Advisor Yong, she's grown to be your favorite of anyone within the royal council. Her small stature and plump, motherly features make her seem gentle and subdued, but her kindness only runs so deep; when faced with confrontation, she's like an angry bull - fierce, but in a way that's so swift and graceful, you barely notice her goring into you until she's shredded you to pieces. She's been one of your most supportive council members as well, guiding you in matters of proper Fire Nation etiquette and culture and sticking her neck out farther than could possibly be expected to keep you safe. You can see Sokka getting irritable, but you know she speaks with a voice that only has your best interests in mind. 

“Perhaps we should consider the external perception,” Advisor Sung suggests. His soft spoken manner is a welcome reprieve from the increasing bitterness in Yong and Sokka’s tones. “Yes, it's quite important that the Southern Tribe is recognized, and doing so will present a compassionate image of our nation. On the other hand, however, having our lord and lady in different traditional dress could suggest division; picturing them as the same would imply a more unified pair.” 

“Maybe we should put Zuko in a Water Tribe outfit,” you suggest flatly. “Make it look like we’re pushing you guys around for a change.” 

Zuko snickers beside you, raising a hand to his mouth to (ineffectively) stifle the sound under the guise of a cough. The rest of the room is deathly silent, its occupants either oblivious to your sarcasm or deeply unamused by it. 

“I believe what our lady is trying to convey,” Iroh chimes in, “is that we have hardly taken her own thoughts into consideration. After all, it is her marriage and her people she must represent.” 

“Okay, so what do you think?” Sokka prods, turning to you. “Do you want to wear Fire Nation clothes or Water Tribe ones?”

You sigh, dropping your eyes to the mixture of red and blue fabric sprawled out before you. 

“Honestly? I don't know,” you confess. “There are too many issues with either choice. I think we need more time to gauge how people react to me just being here before we decide.” 

“My lady, I understand,” Advisor Yong says, “but as cautious as we have to be, we can't be too hesitant; you can’t possibly hope to bear children in a few months’ time if we can't come to a decision on something like this in a timely manner.”  

You and Zuko both jolt, instinctively backing away from one another.

“Children will come much later,” Zuko sputters, his cheeks turning the same shade as his robes. “Right now we have to focus on getting the people of our nations to agree with each other.” 

“And children are an important part of doing so,” Advisor Yong explains. “They’ll serve to physically embody the union of the two nations; the sooner you become pregnant, my lady, the quicker we may resolve the issue.” 

“I’m not going to bring a baby into this world just to be a political pawn,” you snap, a bit more harshly than you intend to. “That wouldn’t be fair and I couldn’t do that to my kid.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Zuko glance at you with an expression you can’t quite place. You want to reach for him but restrain yourself, feeling strange about showing him any sort of intimacy with an audience. 

“We need to decide what will be done about this portrait before we decide what will be done about heirs,” Iroh agrees. “We should give our lady more time to think on the matter. Could we spare another day?” 

Advisors Yong and Sung look to one another, Advisor Sung nodding his compliance. Advisor Yong also concedes, her tone almost apologetic when she speaks. 

“Another day will be just fine,” she says. “We’ll leave the final decision to you and your husband, my lady. Have Rina bring your instructions to the seamstress when you’re ready.” 

Your stomach flutters manically when you hear the words “your husband”. Advisor Yong has never referred to him as such, only ever calling him “the Firelord”; somehow, coming from her, the title feels much more significant than just the result of an arranged marriage. 

You flop down in the grass beside Zuko, burying your face in the sleeves of your robe. He chuckles, tossing another apple peel to the turtle ducks in the courtyard pond. 

“At least they’re being nice,” he consoles you. “Advisor Yong called me a coward in front of the whole council when I told her I wasn’t sure about getting married. She was right, but it’s hard getting your ass handed to you by someone who looks like a sweet little grandmother.” 

You sigh, rolling over onto your back and tilting your head to look up at him. He gives you a faint, assuring smile, which you can’t help but return. 

“I totally understand why you snapped when we were kids,” you tell him. “I’ve been here less than a month and I already want to go apeshit. Did you know that one of our advisors told me to take my betrothal necklace off the other day? The slimy little bastard waited until you left the room to do it, too! He told me it made me look less like a ‘naturalized Fire Nation woman’, and I told him that anyone who expected me to look like one was either stupid or delusional. And what, we need to have kids right way for the sake of political leverage? That’s horrible! What kind of monster brings a child into the world just to use them their whole life??” 

You draw back when you notice Zuko’s fallen expression. You’ve sat up by this point, and your near-screaming has scared the turtle ducks to the other side of the pond. You feel your heart drop into your gut, wishing you could take the words back. 

“Oh, Zuko,” you breathe. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…” 

Zuko shakes his head, closing his eyes and taking a deep, measured breath. You watch his chest rise and fall, his shoulders loosening as he exhales. When he opens his eyes again, he meets yours, the knot between his brows unraveling. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “I know. My father was a monster. And my mother… she just did what she was told. I never realized how much she sacrificed for me until she was gone.” 

You inch closer to him, warily reaching for his hand. He takes it, lacing his fingers with yours and gently tugging you to sit beside him, reclining against the trunk of an ancient maple tree. He leans into you, clutching your hand tightly. 

“Sometimes I wish the worst thing he did to me was use me,” he laments. “Then maybe I wouldn’t have done such awful things to the people who loved me.” 

“Zuko,” you whisper, tightly squeezing his hand, “you’re not your father. Just the fact that you asked me to marry you proves that. You didn’t choose your family based on who would make you powerful. You chose me because you love my siblings, and they love you, and that’s exactly why I agreed to be with you. I never met your father, but I know for a fact that he never knew love like you do; he wouldn’t allow himself to because he thought it was weakness. But you’re so much stronger than he is, and could ever be, because Katara and Sokka, Aang and Toph, and Iroh - all of us are here with you. You allow yourself to show weakness in loving us, which is the bravest thing you could ever do. You are nothing like Ozai.” 

To your surprise, Zuko smirks at you; the corners of his eyes glimmer with the buds of tears, however, and the rest of his features don’t rise to match the expression on his lips. 

“No wonder Uncle likes you so much,” he says. “You sound just like him.” 

You scoff, punching him in the shoulder. He laughs, playfully tossing you over his lap and pinching the soft sides of your stomach, an area he discovered was sensitive by accident one day whilst he was walking you through the palace; you giggle hysterically, trying in vain to fend off the attack. He retreats after a little while, sighing as he cradles you in his arms - your head presses to his chest while his chin rests atop your head, hugging you tightly in a way he hasn’t done before. You wrap yourself around him, arms latching about his waist to hold him just as closely. 

“I won’t let them pressure us,” he assures you. “We’re family, and we have to take care of each other. That’s all I ever want to do for you.” 

You nestle into him, curling your body closer to his while your arms squeeze at his sides. He kisses the crest of your head, a rare display of affection he’s only done a handful of times - it makes you realize that even when you were teenagers, and Sokka started to make serious suggestions about keeping his promise of marrying you after Hakoda left you in his care, he never once made you feel as safe as Zuko does. 

“I hope I wasn't interrupting anything with my invitation,” Iroh greets you when you arrive at his chambers. 

Before your nightly pot of tea with Zuko, a messenger came to your quarters telling you that Iroh wished to see you; when you asked why, the messenger told you that the general wanted to teach you to play Pai Sho. You looked to Zuko quizzically, wondering what was so important about knowing how to play a board game that you needed to be summoned so late in the evening, and he sent you off, assuring you that, knowing Iroh, it was worth taking up the offer. 

“Just Zuko’s tea,” you tell him, “which, if it weren't for his company, I think I'd bail on every night.” 

Iroh chuckles, leading you inside and lowering you onto a cushion on one end of a large Pai Sho table; he takes the other seat, smiling good-naturedly at you. 

“Unfortunately, my nephew has never quite taken to the art of tea brewing,” he says, “no matter how many times I've tried to teach him; I take comfort in the fact that he's much better with a sword than I am, instead.” 

You grin, watching as the old man spreads a set of tiles across the game board. 

“Do you know of the significance of Pai Sho within the royal families of the Fire Nation?” he asks; you shake your head in response. 

“It is traditionally learned as a way of teaching our young leaders to rule with strategy,” he explains. “It is meant to teach a balance between inner passions and outward logic, as well as how to observe one’s peers; those who practice Pai Sho diligently know how to pinpoint an opponent’s weaknesses while understanding and controlling their own, keeping others from using their shortcomings against them.

“Each tile has a meaning,” he continues, “and represents a different positive or negative attribute. They may only move in certain ways, but can change their effect on the game based on how the player chooses to use them within each environment. For example…” 

Iroh goes on to explain each tile and its movements to you, walking you through each element of the game and practicing different tiles with you until you can actually place them in a somewhat skilled way. When you're comfortable, he plays a simple game with you, aiding you in which possibilities cause which consequences and pointing out ways you can better defend your side of the board. You play five games with him in total, never winning but trying as if you stood a chance against such a skilled player as him. 

When you lose the last game, Iroh removes the last tile you played and replaces it with the white lotus - you quirk your brow, wondering why that would be the better move. 

“I thought the white lotus was a weak tile,” you question him. “Why put it up against something as strong as the flame tile?” 

“There are no weak tiles in Pai Sho,” Iroh instructs you, “only ones that are often overlooked. Sometimes we must look at things from a different perspective, you see; manipulate the odds by doing something unorthodox and unexpected. If your opponent cannot anticipate your actions, they cannot overcome you.” 

Iroh removes the white lotus from the board, taking your hand within his and placing it in your open palm. He folds your fingers over it, closing your hand between both of his. 

“Keep this with you,” he says. “It may help you someday.” 

“But won't your board be incomplete?” you ask. 

Iroh chuckles, giving you a mischievous wink that makes you feel almost as if the man is in some way omniscient. 

“I have plenty of others,” he assures you. “It will do much more good in your hands.” 

The next day, you accompany Rina to the seamstress’s workshop, wanting to give her the instructions for your portrait dress yourself. When you tell her this, Rina is clearly confused - she gently attempts to explain to you that it isn’t necessary, that she’s supposed to handle these sorts of things for you, but once you reveal what you have in mind, she shifts completely. 

“The council is going to hate that,” she says. “I think it’s a great idea. I can take you to the seamstress, come with me.” 

When you relay your plans to the seamstress, she’s also shocked - her eyes widen, and she physically backs away from you as if even considering following your orders will get her executed for treason. 

“Are you sure?” she asks. “It isn’t what the Firelady would typically do…” 

“And I’m not a typical Firelady,” you reply, your tone bright and straightforward. “I’ve been asked to do what will create compromise, and this is the best compromise I can think of; I’m simply doing what I’m meant to.” 

The seamstress agrees, but only after you give her your vow that she won’t take any of the blame should the idea backfire (you're in charge, after all, so what can anyone do? She’s just following orders.)

In white fabric, she makes a set of robes for Zuko and a dress for you, each including elements crafted in Fire Nation and Water Tribe tradition. She then takes each set to its own vat of hot water, adding blue dye to one and red dye to the other - she places the pieces in, looking nervously up at you as you approach the twin cauldrons.

“I just want to make one last adjustment,” you tell her. 

Before she can respond, you take a bucket of blue dye and a bucket of red and tip each one into the opposite vat. The garments swirl as if caught in the midst of a tempestuous storm, the dye bleeding into the pristine fabric until it stains a shade of vivid, furious purple. 

📚 table of contents 📚

✨ join me on patreon ✨

{ subscribers: @ladylizzieofdarbyshire @celamoon @omgwhattheeven @i-am-not-a-thot @fandomtrash1616 @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @just-another-romantic @berkeliums @eridanuswave @oleander-in-the-wind @kinismanditory @lammello @peppermenty @theawesomefactor123 @loganrwebb @ijustwannabecanadian @a-hopeless-fan @softvv @oddment-niwit-blubber-tweak @pearl-stonecutter @crazy0t @commander-rex @kittyddandnyla @abbyarchie @smol-grandpa @nonbinary-rogers @themanwiththemetalarmsdoll @witchywrter @canibea-whore-yet @fuckwhateverfuck }

#muerta's works #two halves #zuko #zuko x you #zuko x reader #prince zuko #prince zuko x reader #prince zuko fanfic #prince zuko x you #zuko fanfic #zuko fanfiction #prince zuko fanfiction #atla fanfic #atla fanfiction #series #slow burn #self insert fanfiction #self-insert #fanfiction series #fan fiction #slow burn fanfic #slow burn fanfiction

[athingthatwantsvirginia]

Tragedy of Gatsby

PART TWENTY-FOUR OF THE DO YOU SEE HER FACE? SERIES

Pairing: Jess Mariano x Original Character (Ella Stevens)

Warnings: serious angst, anxiety about future, plentiful pop culture references

Word Count: 6.1K

Summary: Jess walks his mother down the aisle. Later, he and Ella address issues from their past.

Raucous laughter filled the diner as Liz had her makeshift bachelorette party. Ella could only roll her eyes at the obnoxious women, only growing louder as they drank more wine, along with whatever the one dressed in loud shades of pink, Carrie, had in her flask. With the wedding fast approaching, only one more day, Luke and Ella were doing their best to keep calm. They had closed Luke’s for the afternoon to allow for the modest party, consisting of four middle-aged Stars Hollow women drinking and uttering cliché nonsense. But, they had also (somehow) been assigned the task of making the food for the festivities. Ella had no idea where Luke had acquired the large, silver rotisserie cooker which sat on the diner counter, and she was almost too afraid to ask.

Large turkey legs spun around inside the hot plexiglass contraption, and more sat on a plate on the counter. Ella stood with the manual in her hands, a crease of concentration between her brows, trying to decipher the vague instructions. Though Luke was asking Liz if she had any idea what to do, Ella knew the effort was futile. As with most of the other wedding plans, Liz would be offering little to no help. Her personality wasn’t totally asinine, but Ella was beginning to understand the many complaints Luke and Jess had about Liz. She certainly wasn’t amazing at problem-solving.

“Let me see it,” Luke said, putting the roasted leg which he had held up to examine back down on the plate. He reached his hand out for the manual.

Ella sighed, not looking up at him. “You already read it. You need fresh eyes.”

“I think I saw something that’ll help. I’ll try and find it,” Luke continued, extending his hand to her further.

Shrugging, Ella finally tore her eyes away from the words and handed the book back over to him. “Godspeed, boss.”

Just then, Jess appeared from behind the curtain and came over to the end of the counter. “I need to get some batteries. I’ll be back.”

“What? For your Scarface beeper?” Ella asked, eyebrows raised.

“Hey, don’t get distracted. You’ve got legs to cook,” Jess scolded playfully, but frowned as his mother called over to him. Seeing her within a five foot radius of alcohol was enough to put him slightly on edge.

“Girls, this is Jess,” Liz said, taking her son by the shoulders and over to the table to show him off to her friends.

Jess was met with a flirtatious chorus of “Hello handsome!” and other such greetings. And he immediately heard Ella snort back a laugh to his left. He shot her a glare and she feigned an innocent look.

“He’s gonna walk me down the aisle,” Liz said. “Is that cool, or what?”

Behind the counter, Ella raised her eyebrows in surprise. It was the first she was hearing of it.

“It’s no big deal,” Jess replied dismissively.

“It’s a very big deal,” Liz insisted, a hand still placed on his shoulder. Then, she turned back to Ella, who was staring quizzically into the rotisserie cooker. “And Ella’s filling in as my flower girl. I gave her one of my dresses and everything.”

“Oh, you’ll be great,” Carrie smiled at Ella through sips of her drink. “And those Renaissance dresses Liz showed me? They’ll squish your boobs right up to your neck! It’ll be fabulous!”

“Yeah,” Ella said flatly, sighing. After trying on the dress last night with Lorelai, they’d taken up the length and taken in the sides. But the corset was relatively static, unable to be adjusted. When laced up all the way, it almost completely cut off her ability to breathe. “I’m just counting down the seconds.”

Outside, a man in a UPS uniform, holding a large package, approached the door. Luke went over to accept the delivery, but it instantly became apparent that there was no package and the man was a stripper. Eyes widening, Ella quickly undid her apron and hung it on the hook in the kitchen.

“I’m taking a break,” she announced, rounding the corner of the counter to come up beside Jess.

Luke barely acknowledged her, still lost on what was about to happen. Without thinking, Jess grabbed Ella’s wrist gently to lead her out of the diner before the show could begin. It was clear from the scarlet flush on her cheeks and the amusement on her face that she didn’t want to bear witness to what was about to happen either.

“Have fun,” Jess muttered dejectedly to his uncle before brushing past him and escaping.

“Have fun with what?” Luke asked cluelessly behind them, but the door had already shut.

Ella erupted in a fit of laughter as Jess released her wrist, walking beside her and shaking his head in disbelief. Birds sung in the afternoon heat, and they went down towards the market, the streets lined with fresh produce and fragrant flowers. Eventually, Ella’s giggles subsided and she caught her breath.

“Luke really should get out more,” she said, letting her long hair out of its ponytail and running her hands through the waves.

Jess snorted. “Agreed. I’m pretty sure the only movie he’s ever seen is Bridge on the River Kwai.”

Pursing her lips, Ella shook her head. “Maybe that’s what he says. But he’s definitely seen more. How else could he keep up with Lorelai?”

“Good point.”

A comfortable pause passed between them as they neared the market, entering the air conditioning as Jess went off in search of batteries. Even after a couple years, Taylor still glared each time Jess came in the store. It was meant to look menacing, but instead it ended up as mostly cartoonish. Ella even shot him a teasing wave as they walked past. In some ways, Taylor felt about Ella the way Mrs. Kim did. She wore dark clothing and makeup, and created ghoulish artwork. And her dead mother, and additional complicated family members, did nothing to help her reputation among the other conservative townsfolk. Not like Ella cared, however; she knew people like Patty and Babette and Maury and Gypsy were the coolest ones. And they all liked her just fine.

“When the hell did batteries start getting so expensive?” Jess grumbled, picking up some generic AAs, skipping over the name brands.

Ella chuckled. “You sound like such a responsible adult.”

“Hardly,” Jess replied, leading the way to the checkout line. “If I was actually responsible, I’d leave New York. I live in one room with five other guys and I still barely make rent.”

“Ah, so the tragedy of Gatsby holds true?”

As he paid, Jess only chuckled in response. His eyes fell on the ‘Take a Penny, Leave a Penny’ jar while the cashier made change, and he smirked nostalgically. After so long, he could still hear Taylor’s accusations of his stealing every single coin in the jar. He had done it, of course. He just hadn’t expected such an intense response. Those early days in Stars Hollow had shown him just how boring such a sleepy town could be. In New York, there were bigger fish to fry than some kid taking pennies. But still, before they left, he dropped one penny into the familiar jar. For old time’s sake, he told himself. Ella noticed, of course, and raised a brow at him in askance.

He shrugged as they emerged back into the May sunshine. “What goes around comes around.”

Ella gave a bitter chuckle. “Not that karma bullshit.”

Jess clicked his tongue mockingly. “Kids these days. So cynical.”

“Whatever, James Dean,” Ella said, shaking her head.

For a moment, Jess’s breath seemed to catch in his throat. She hadn’t called him that name in such a long time. And suddenly, he was seventeen again, ditching school and mouthing off and making out with her to depressing records. But, then, he had to remind himself where he was. He was putting pennies in the jar. Walking his mother down the aisle. Reading the self-help book Luke had given him the night before after a long, strange lecture about the power of communication. Jess wanted to roll his eyes at every word when first starting the book, but he’d read almost half of it already, sitting up in his old bed. And he was beginning to absorb it, understand it. Biting down hard on his lip for a moment, Jess quieted the emotions which sprung up in his mind and only shot her a smirk.

“I am not going back to the diner any time soon. You wanna get some ice cream?” he asked, tucking the batteries into his pocket.

Nodding, Ella let a fond smile cross her face. Either she hadn’t noticed her nickname slip, or was brushing it off. “Sure. Seems like you’re finally developing a concept of weather.”

.   .   .

Sucking in her stomach, Ella regretted eating so much mint-chocolate-chip. Pretty in Pink played at a low volume on the small TV in the Gilmore living room, as Lorelai made the final alterations to Ella’s dress. Standing on a kitchen chair, Ella was off to the side of the couch so as not to block Rory and Sookie’s view of the movie. Along with playing substitute seamstress for the wedding, Lorelai would be meeting with Sookie about some Inn business later in the evening. Ella felt like she had been holding her arms out at her sides for hours, and her shoulders were starting to ache. But she bit back the heavy sigh which threatened to escape her mouth as Sooke, Lorelai, and Rory shot questions at her about Jess’s sudden reappearance. They were doing nothing to hide the suspicion in their voices.

“He’s really walking his mom down the aisle? Mr. Sid Vicious, Mr. Stealing-My-Beer-and Ditching-My-Dinner, Mr. Steal-Babette’s-Gnome-and-Fake-A-Murder-Outside-Doose’s is walking his mother down the aisle voluntarily?” Lorelai asked through the pins she held in her mouth, taking in the sides of the dress one final time.

“Anything else to add or are you done?” Ella’s voice was husky and breathless as she watched Jon Cryer dance around Molly Ringwald on screen, the corset tight but still manageable around her torso.

Rory chuckled. “You can’t deny all those pseudonyms are factually accurate.”

“And no longer timely, Ms. Amanpour,” Ella quipped flatly.

“But he still got in a fight with TJ at a strip club last night,” Lorelai piped in.

Ela rolled her eyes. “That was justified. And happened while he was reading Jane Austen in a strip club.”

“You’re grumpy tonight, kitten,” Sookie said, tilting her head over the back of the couch at Ella with a small pout.

“Comes with the lack of oxygen,” Ella replied.

Lorelai took a final pin from her mouth and stuck it in the hem at Ella’s side. “Why did you agree to this Renaissance nonsense, then?”

“Didn’t really agree to it. And when Liz brought it up, Luke seemed so happy. I just...couldn’t say no to them,” Ella explained.

Lorelai shot her a mischievous grin. “Ah, there’s that hidden heart of gold. What a shame that it’s three sizes too small.”

“I’m not losing any sleep over it,” Ella said.

Rory snickered.

“Hey, I’m not the only one trying to add a few years to Luke’s life this week,” Ella continued, stepping down from the chair, trying not to slip in her fishnets.

“What do you mean?” Sookie asked.

“Lorelai is Luke’s date,” Ella said. “A match made in heaven.”

Lorelai rolled her eyes. “We’re just going as friends.”

“It’s a good thing you’ve never been arrested. You’d never pass a polygraph,” Rory smiled, in on the teasing.

“Wicked, wicked girls,” Lorelai scolded with a dramatic gasp.

“Not quite the twins from The Shining, but close,” Sookie chimed in, agreeing.

“Twins indeed,” Lorelai said, straightening the corset, eyebrows raised.

Normally, Ella barely filled out a bodice. But, with the constricting powers of the corset, she had cleavage nearly up to the collarbone. She’d be lying if she said it wasn’t an interesting change from being nearly flat-chested, as she slowly got used to the pressure on her ribs.

“Just call me Bianca,” Ella announced in a dramatic Elizabethan accent, making circular gestures with her hands.

“Not Desdemona?” Rory asked.

Scrunching up her nose in thought, Ella shook her head. “No, definitely Bianca. I’d much rather slap Cassio than be murdered by Othello. Besides, I don’t think this dress is exactly Desdemona’s taste.”

.   .   .

The day bloomed hot and dry, the sun shining down from a cloudless sky. Ella rushed across town square from Patty’s to Luke’s. As she entered the air conditioning of the diner, she felt sweaty in her tight outfit, panting slightly. In the back of her mind, she worried her makeup would smudge beyond salvageability before the ceremony had even started. But soon, the cool evening would set in. And she kept her mind focused on the task at hand, trudging up the stairs to the apartment and knocking twice on the door. After a few moments, Jess came to greet her, dressed in all black. He blinked at her in surprise, then smirked.

“Hello, flower girl,” he said.

Scoffing dejectedly, she brushed past him into the apartment. But, as soon as she was in view of Luke’s side of the room, she turned back around with a look of disgust. TJ was shirtless, in nothing but some very form-fitting tights. Jess chuckled at the scowl which formed on her face and the blush on her cheeks.

“Jackass!” she scolded Jess playfully. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

“Didn’t exactly give me the chance, did you?” he asked, eyebrows raised as he made his way over to his duffel.

“Excuses,” she shot back.

“Alright, alright,” Luke piped up, exiting the bathroom and walking over to Ella in the kitchen. “What’s up, kid?”

Letting out a heavy sigh, she turned away from Jess and faced Luke, mouth set in a thin line. “I’ve been sent here to tell you that Liz’s dress ripped. But Lorelai is fixing it and everything is fine. She’ll just be a few minutes late. But no one’s getting left at the altar or anything.”

“What’d you say?” TJ chimed in, panicked, in his thick New Yorker accent.

“Nothing, Liz is just running a little late getting dressed. Go put your outfit on, buddy,” Luke said, reassuring.

Narrowing his eyes, TJ stared suspiciously at the three of them before finally giving a nod. He took the hanger which held his heavy Renaissance costume into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. Ella was comforted by the fact that the next time she saw him he would more than likely be fully clothed.

“Nice tie,” Ella said, feeling odd seeing Luke out of his usual uniform. The black suit looked stiff on him, but his burgundy tie was surprisingly fashionable.

“Thanks,” Luke replied, almost begrudging, almost anxious.

Jess walked back over to the two of them near the kitchen table. He had a pale, yellowish button-up over his black t-shirt, yet to be buttoned. “He’s nervous.”

“I am not,” Luke argued.

“I bet Lorelai will think you look great,” Ella teased.

Luke rolled his eyes dramatically. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.” Then, he went to deal with the shoes on his bed. The polish was practically a hundred years old, and its chunkiness wasn’t yielding the best results.

As Jess finished buttoning up his shirt, his gaze roamed over Ella. She wore a lavender, cap-sleeve dress, chiffon with a hem which stopped just above her knees. Over it, a silvery vest corset. Her usually messy hair was curled in long, golden ringlets, and it was done half-up, half-down. A few loose strands hung around her freckled face. But even though her lips were shiny with clear gloss, her eye makeup was dark and smudged in a grungy style as usual.

“You look nice,” Jess said with sincerity, nearly winded, breathless from the butterflies which flew around in his stomach.

Smiling shyly, Ella’s flush deepened. “Thank you. Don’t look so bad yourself, Mariano.”

He nodded humbly.

But then, Ella furrowed her brows and she reached up to straighten the collar of his shirt. “You have to remember to fold these right. How many times, Jess?”

Ignoring the electricity he felt at her touch, he looked down and saw the hefty black Doc Martens on her feet. He regained his confident smirk, smug.

“No heels?” he asked as she took a step back from him, satisfied with his shirt.

She mirrored his expression, conspiratory. “Never, when I can help it. Last time I wore them was at Sookie's wedding. One of the worst decisions of my life. And, hey, Liz said I could wear my own shoes.”

Jess snickered, picking his watch up from the kitchen table and fastening it around his wrist. “Wait to cheat the system.”

“Thank you very much,” she replied with a little bow. “See you out there?”

“Oh, can’t wait,” Jess drawled, feigning excitement.

“Hey. Game face, Mariano,” Ella said, pointing a finger at him as she made for the front door. “I’ll save you a seat.”

.   .   .

With Liz’s dress finally fixed, Ella jogged over to the town square from Patty’s, hearing the strings and flute players biding their time, keeping the moderate crowd entertained. So many people were wearing costumes, flowers in their hair, and bells on their shoes. She would have rolled her eyes, but she was clutching at her middle and nearly doubled over when she finally made it to the end of the aisle, trying to catch her breath. Jess stood in waiting for his mother, and his eyes widened when he saw Ella panting.

Bringing his hand to her arm as he crouched down, he furrowed his brows at her. “Woah, Stevens, are you okay?”

Nodding, Ella swallowed dryly and straightened up. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine, Mariano. It’s just hot. And I’m only getting about half the air I normally do. I’m dizzy, that’s all.”

“You wanna sit down? I can get you some water?” he asked. Though she was usually pale, her face was almost never so ghostly.

She shook her head just as the music kicked up, signaling her cue. Grabbing the basket of rose petals from the ground near the end of the aisle, she shot him one final smirk in an attempt at reassurance. “Really, I’m okay. And I’m on. Break a leg.”

“Right back at ya,” he said, a doubtful eyebrow raised.

And, in a mortifying turn, Ella skipped down the aisle and added in a few twirls, tossing petals as she went. It wasn’t exactly dancing, which was good for the audience’s sake. They would otherwise have been doomed. But her cheeks flamed and her stomach squirmed with nerves, fearing a stumble. Lorelai flashed her an encouraging smile as she went, and soon enough Ella was taking her seat in the front row, one empty chair for Jess to her right. In all honesty, she was surprised she had actually pulled it off. When she’d signed on to be the flower girl, she’d understood the role as merely walking. She’d almost chickened out when Liz had shown her the moves the night before. But, somehow, she had survived. She didn’t believe in miracles, but it came pretty close.

Then, Liz rode in at the back of the arrangement on a large chair, rolled by two men in pantaloons. Everyone rose. Jess took her by the arm, leading her down the way. Ella had to admit, Liz looked amazing in her wedding dress. And Jess, who’d had only a shy, stoic expression before, even managed a small smile as his mother kissed him on the cheek. Soon, she stepped next to TJ, and the crowd was seated again. Ella looked at Jess, as he came to her side, with a tiny smirk.

“You did well. Very firm gait,” she whispered.

Jess rolled his eyes, but his smile stayed. “Whatever, Stevens. We both know you were seconds away from breaking your nose.”

She didn’t reply, but instead licked the pad of her thumb and smudged Liz’s lipstick off his cheek.

Jess grimaced. “Ugh, Eleanor spit.”

“Ah, sweet revenge,” she said, a wicked grin growing on her lips.

Once the officiant began playing some antiquated string instrument and singing a silly song about love, all bets were off. Ella could hear Luke and Lorelai fighting laughter behind her. She bit at her thumbnail to keep from giggling, but eventually had to hide her flushed face with one hand and grip Jess’s knee with the other for dear life. Even Jess had to bite down on his bottom lip to ward off an amused outburst.

.   .   .

Stars shone brightly from the dark sky, and Ella gazed up at them as the man sitting next to her and Jess droned on about his time in prison. Having had the opportunity to meet many of Liz and TJ’s acquaintances from the Renaissance fair over the course of the night, Ella was relatively sure she would not be donning her corset dress again any time soon. Though Liz had assured her she could keep it, since it was now fitted just right to her frame. Warm air blew past them in pleasant breezes, and it made Ella’s heart feel calm, soothed. Summer was coming. She couldn’t wait. Swims in the lake (without the current of an ocean), sitting out in the gazebo with Lane, drawing the floral arrangements which would adorn town.

Eventually, the man with the tank top and shaved head rose from his seat, and left Ella and Jess alone at the table. Stray, empty plates peppered the gingham tablecloth. Deeply breathing in the clean air, Ella looked over at Jess in the glowy night, lit up by the extra twinkle lights around the makeshift dance floor which had been set up near the gazebo. Past Jess, she could see Luke and Lorelai talking and laughing amongst themselves at their table. A smirk crossed Ella’s face. She hoped it would stick this time, with Luke officially divorced and Lorelai having broken up with her rich, snotty boyfriend, Jason Stiles. Ella had never met him, of course. But from what Rory had told her, Jason had been all wrong for Lorelai.

Clearing her throat, Ella faced Jess again and propped her head up on her palm, elbow on the table. “You okay?”

Jess, sitting hunched over his nearly empty plate of food, looked up at her and shrugged. He leaned back against the back of the folding chair he sat in. “Well, I’m not bleeding or anything. Are you still dizzy?”

“No, I think my vitality has been restored,” Ella said, sighing slightly.

“Well, I know the sunlight hurts you, Morticia.”

Snorting a laugh, Ella straightened up and her tone turned more serious. “Really, though. You’re okay with her getting married again?”

Chewing on his lip, Jess shrugged once again. “I’m okay. She’s gonna do what she’s gonna do. And this one is better than some of the others. Though that bar is pretty fucking low.”

She nodded. “Alright. You can tell me, y’know. It’s okay if you’re not okay.”

“I know,” he said shortly, though not unkindly.

“Good. Glad we sorted that out, then,” she said, smiling genuinely at him.

He gave a small smile back. “Me too, Stevens.”

Suddenly, Kirk came over the loudspeaker soundsystem and announced Liz and TJ were about to have their first dance. The sweet guitar tune which played was not one Ella could instantly recognize, but she didn’t hate it. From the corner of her eye, she saw Luke and Lorelai over near the side of the dance floor. Jess watched Ella gaze out around the crowd, starlight glinting in her hazel eyes. He felt so content, and his mind wandered to the now-finished self help book sitting on the table near his teenage bed. But, before he could open his mouth to speak, Ella turned back to him.

“This song isn’t half bad,” she said. “I almost expected a Gregorian chant, but I guess they’re not quite that committed to the theme.”

“I’ll be sure to mention that in the Gazette review tomorrow,” Jess quipped. “I figured you’d think this was too happy.”

She shook her head slightly, pursing her lips. “Maybe the lyrics are happy, but it sounds sad. The music feels...depressed. Fuck, that doesn’t make sense. Maybe I do have heat stroke, after all.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you. And you tell me I don’t drink enough water,” Jess chided, shaking his head.

Ella rolled her eyes. With a smirk, she pointed across the square towards Luke and Lorelai. “Look at those crazy kids.”

Jess looked at the two of them, Lorelai settling against Luke as they danced slowly together. He laughed under his breath. Maybe Luke was taking the book’s advice, too. It still shocked Jess that his uncle had been proactive enough to seek relationship guidance. Maybe Luke would no longer be the most dysfunctional person he knew.

“Took them long enough,” Jess said knowingly.

Humming in agreement, Ella leaned back in her chair, shifting to get more comfortable. She absolutely couldn’t wait to take the dress off. “But, hey, Luke can waltz a hell of a lot better than I ever would’ve been able to.”

“Agreed,” Jess scoffed. “In those boots? You’d break all ten of my toes.”

“Hey, you managed to come away from the Distillers concert unscathed,” she said pointedly, eyebrows raised.

“The exception that proves the rule.”

She snickered but didn’t retort, instead yawning against the back of her hand. Such a costume in the nighttime heat also seemed to be making her drowsy. After a moment, Jess swallowed down his pride. He remembered Lorelai’s words, Luke’s words, and the words in the book telling him he deserved love. Jess put a hesitant arm around her, and before she knew what she was doing, instinct taking over, she brought her head to his shoulder. And it was so familiar. Watching the townspeople of Stars Hollow, saying nothing but feeling everything. And, just for a minute, she quieted the thoughts which swirled around in her mind. She didn’t worry, she didn’t bite her nails, she didn’t clutch her necklace. She only let herself feel the swell of her heart.

.   .   .

In the early hours of the morning, Ella was glad to have some silence in the house. Hep Alien was out at a gig, performing and celebrating the success of Mrs. Kim’s visit to finally reconcile with Lane. She’d come over to see her daughter’s new life during the wedding, when Ella was out. Though Zach and Brian had combed their hair and put on ironed shirts, Mrs. Kim already knew enough about Ella to never trust her. So, before she left for the wedding, Ella parked her car outside the diner and left no traces of her presence in the living room. As Ella was coming back through the front door, already unlacing her corset, the three band members were getting ready to rock, as Lane put it. With Dave out at college in California, they were still missing a guitar player, but they’d booked something at a random bar near New Haven. They were relying on their minimalist White Stripes covers for the time being. Lane had given Ella an excited squeal and a big hug before leaving, offering her friend a brief rundown of the evening. Mrs. Kim still wasn’t overjoyed, but she had at least done a walkthrough of the house.

Finally able to breathe again, Ella had cracked open nearly every window of the house to let the cool breeze in. Her hair was damp and loose from a shower. She was dressed in an old Pixies t-shirt and some plaid pajama bottoms, more comfortable than she’d been all day. It had been taxing, but more fun than she thought it would be.

And Jess. So different but so easy. A quick goodbye. Apparently, though, he had just gotten a cellphone. He had given her his number, after a fair amount of her teasing. She’d promised to take advantage of Luke’s house phone during her breaks. As hard as it was to watch him disappear into the dark diner, parting ways as she walked back to Lane’s and he went to pack up his stuff, at least she knew it wouldn’t be the last time they spoke. She could’ve sworn, as they sat for nearly an hour with her head on his shoulder, she had been transported back in time. Somehow, she had forgotten just how safe Jess could make her feel. How right. But with it brought confusion.

He lived miles away, he left without a word, didn’t speak to her for over a month. If she hadn’t grabbed the phone from Luke, would he have ever tried to get in touch with her at all? No matter how much she wanted to be with him, she couldn’t forget what had happened, how it felt. Despite what Lorelai and Rory may have thought, calling to check in on her best friend every once in a while was different than forgiving the past.

Snuggled beneath a thin throw blanket, Ella doodled inside a copy of The Waves. She had tried to focus on the words for only a few minutes before giving up entirely. Her thoughts were too loud; she couldn’t quiet them down enough for fiction, even modernist. Instead, she drew a Renaissance scene, a grim reaper sneaking up on a gaggle of beautiful, corseted women.

She furrowed her brows when a knock sounded on the door. It was Lane’s house, and she hadn’t mentioned expecting anyone. Nonetheless, Ella tossed her book and blanket aside, crossing her arms over her braless chest defensively. But, she found only Jess on the doorstep. He had donned his leather jacket and stood with his hands shoved in his pockets. His expression was largely unreadable, but she almost thought she saw a shine in his brown eyes.

“Hey, Mariano,” she greeted him, smiling. “Is something wrong? Is it that rust bucket again? If you need a place to crash while Gypsy’s fixing it, I’m sure Lane would be okay if we shared the couch, or the floor maybe-”

“Can I come in?” he asked suddenly, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Ella nodded, face falling at his anxious tone. She stepped aside for him to pass. “Sure. Everyone else is at a gig near Yale. Just Virginia Woolf and I tonight.”

A half-hearted smirk crossed his face as she shut the door and went back to the couch. She gestured for him to sit in the armchair across from her. It was a wonder how the band managed to fit any furniture in the living room at all with the drums and other gear set up on the wall near the front door.

“What’s wrong, Jess? Did something happen?” she asked gently, tilting her head at him.

He swallowed harshly, running a hand over his mouth. “I need to talk to you.”

She nodded. “Okay. Well, here I am.”

Breathing a heavy sigh, he took a long pause, then finally locked eyes with her. “Come with me.”

“What?” she asked, chuckling slightly in disbelief. Was he joking?

“To New York. We could work, live together, be together. God knows they would love your art up there. You could sell it on the street if you needed to, and I know people would buy it. I love you, Elle. I love you so much and I wanna be with you.” He gestured passionately and spoke with such conviction that Ella was almost rendered speechless with shock.

Gathering her thoughts, she began to shake her head slowly. “You don’t love me, Jess.”

“Of course I do!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been in love with you for two years!”

She gave him a doubtful glance.

“Since that day in the gazebo! I’ve thought about it over and over! When you took my hand, and you showed me the hydrangeas through the hole in the roof, and you told me you didn’t care whether I went to college! And you took off your heels to walk home, right before you left for New Britain. And I’ve loved you every second of every day since!”

“Oh really?” she asked, voice growing tense. “You loved me when you left without saying anything? You loved me when I went a month without knowing whether you were alive or dead? You loved me then?”

Jess bowed his head slightly and sighed again. “Yes. I loved you so much then. And I love you now. I’m sorry, Elle. Okay? I know you couldn’t count on me then, but you can now! I’m here! I’m right here!”

Biting the inside of her cheek, Ella only kept shaking her head. “Jess, you can’t do this to me. I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can. You can do anything. You’ve always been able to do anything! And I know you want this, too! I know you love me!” he continued, tone pleading now.

Tears sprang up and spilled over in Ella’s eyes before she could stop them, and she wiped angrily at her cheeks. “Please stop.”

“Look, I know you’re scared-”

“No, Jess, you don’t know!” she interrupted, voice raised to a yell. “You don’t know! You were gone. Overnight. Just gone. And you didn’t call for a month! I didn’t know where you were! You left! Just like everyone! Just like my fucking mom! And my older brother! And you broke my heart!”

For a moment, the air stood stagnant and charged between them. Crickets and cicadas hummed outside. Stray yells, noises from the wedding party, still sounded in the distance. Jess sniffled and blinked back tears. Ella wiped furiously at her cheeks. Soon, she had her elbows on her knees and was hiding her face in her hands.

“Eleanor, please, I’m so sorry! I was so lost! Luke kicked me out and I didn’t know what to do! And I did leave you. But not forever!”

Ella gave a muffled, bitter chuckle.

“I wanna be with you! For the rest of my life! But not here. Not in this place. Not in Stars Hollow! We can start new!” he said, voice strained with emotion.

Raising her head to face him again, Ella clutched at her necklace. “I can’t leave, Jess. My little brother’s still here, I’m starting summer classes in a week, I-”

“It’s not about him. It’s not about them. It’s about you and me. It’s about what we want! You already left your place! Everything you own is in your backseat! You’re ready! Let’s go!”

“No!”

“I love you, Elle. I know you love me too! You say you don’t believe in it, but I know it’s not true! You love me and we love each other and we’re supposed to be together! Let’s go!”

Still, she shook her head vehemently.

“No, Jess!” she shouted, louder than she expected to. She had stopped trying to hide her crying. Her tone was cracked. “No! You don’t get to come here and try to save me! I don’t need any saving! We said no cop outs! We said we were gonna try! And you left without trying! I’m not falling for it again!”

Jess, too, had tears streaming down his cheeks. “Eleanor, I can fix it. I promise, I-”

“Don’t Eleanor me, Jess! It’s too late! You promised before and you left me! Fuck and run! And I should’ve known!” she exclaimed hotly. She raked her hands through her hair, pausing, but it seemed Jess might have nothing more to say. “I think you should go.”

His jaw tensed, and a crestfallen look appeared on his face. “Eleanor, you know we love each other. Please...please just come with me.”

Breathing a broken sigh, Ella averted her gaze from him, dejected. Her heart twisted painfully. She almost couldn’t take it. She stared at her hands, wringing them together in her lap. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Jess. Sometimes love isn’t enough.”

Mouth agape, Jess stared at her in the lamplight. She loved him. He loved her. They both knew it. But her voice, with no affection for him in it. Nothing at all but sorrow. And it clicked in his mind. He would never have her again. He’d done exactly what he’d promised not to do; and he would forever pay the price. She could hold a grudge like it was her job, Luke had said. Patience, Lorelai had said. He hadn’t listened. Maybe he deserved love, as the book said, but not from her. As he walked out without another word, he didn’t slam the door. He shut it gently behind him. And a cold stone of grief sat heavy in Ella’s stomach. She sat on the couch, weeping, until the birds chirped and the sun rose.

#jess mariano fanfiction #jess mariano au #jess mariano imagines #jess mariano stories #jess mariano #jess #mariano #gilmore girls fanfiction #gilmore girls au #gilmore girls imagines #gilmore girls stories #gilmore girls #jess mariano x oc #jess mariano x original character #original character stories #original character #luke danes #rory gilmore #lorelai gilmore

[loverholland]

switched. t.h.

summary: you’re just like her and she’s just like you, so why not switch spots for a month and see what happens? word count: 8.2k warning: it’s a bit confusing because i reference the reader as Clarissa and as the reader.

It was morning in the castle and all you could feel was love and light. You hadn’t just woken up, oh no. You had been up for an hour, but you couldn’t bring yourself to get out of Tom’s grip. You couldn’t think of leaving this bed, but you knew that if you didn’t wake him up soon, your mother- well, Princess Clarissa’s mother.

You sighed and rolled out of Tom’s grip, getting out of the bed. You quickly stripped from Tom’s large t-shirt he had worn the night before and changed into a pair of silk pajamas. You threw your hair into a bun before putting a wig cap on and then the curly blonde wig. You adjusted it on your face before folding Tom’s shirt and going to wake him up.

He had already rolled over onto his stomach since you left him. You couldn’t help but smile at the view you had. You loved him so much, and you would’ve never realized it if you didn’t meet Clarissa out in the streets one day, and spontaneously decided to switch lives for a few weeks.

You enjoyed it so far, and from what you knew, Clarissa was enjoying her time in your place. But, deep down you knew that she wasn’t enjoying it because you didn’t even enjoy it. You hated being a seamstress. Especially because of the lady you worked for.

Her name was Patricia and she hated you. Mostly because she hated your mother, and you were practically your mother, but in younger form. Although, you were an excellent seamstress and everyone enjoyed your dresses, Patricia didn’t appreciate your efforts and the praise you receive every time you send out a dress.

You even made dresses for the Princess and her mother. Most of the Princess’ dresses were made by you, and finally getting to wear one just… blew your mind. Of course, this couldn’t last forever. Especially since tomorrow, you’ll go back to your old life and you’ll have to forget all of the good times you have had in this castle with Tom and Clarissa’s kitten, Latte.

Sure, you’ll be going home and seeing your puppy, Luke, but it didn’t mean you were excited to be going back to the shitty life you lived only a few weeks ago.

“Tom,” you whispered as you dragged your long nails down his back. “Sweetheart, you need to wake up.” You hummed and went to lay your head on his back. You closed your eyes as he groaned.

“Why?” He questioned and began to roll over. You lifted your head and moved your hand away. He turned onto his back and opened his eyes to look right up at you. You smiled softly down at him and rested your hand on his bare chest. He busted out in a large grin, setting his hand on top of yours before squeezing.

You tilted your head and took a deep breath. Your eyes were full of love and hope as you looked at him. “Don’t wanna get caught,” you hummed. “If the Queen walks in, you and I will get in trouble. Me even more so because you know I’m not royalty.” You explained, giving him a softer, sad smile as you looked at him.

Tom groaned and began to sit up, stretching his arms. You stood, grabbing his shirt and jeans before setting them on the bed. You walked away and went to the vanity mirror, putting on a bit of concealer and then lip balm. You ruffled out the wig a bit to make sure you looked at least like you just woke up, but quickly got ready.

Tom got ready slowly, taking his time before walking over to you and standing behind you. He sat his hands on your waist, setting his head on top of your head. You both looked at one another through the mirror. You turned your head and looked up at him.

“I’m gonna miss you,” you whispered. Tom only chuckled and let his head fall before looking back at you.

“We’ll see each other, you know that.” He responded and you rolled your eyes before turning all the way around. You reached your hands up to cup his cheeks, looking into his eyes before dropping your eyes to his lips and then back to his eyes.

“Still going to miss you.” You admitted. Deep down, not even deep down, you knew you wouldn’t see him although he said you two would. You began to bring his head down, pressing your forehead against his, closing your eyes and taking in this moment. You wanted to live like this forever. Is that too much to ask for?

Apparently so, because you pulled away and stepped back.

“Need to go to breakfast.” You stated and turned to go towards the door, taking a deep breath before you reached for the curved golden door handle. You turned your head and looked at him, smiling. “I love you.” You stated before walking out and down the hall, leaving Tom alone in the bedroom alone.

You hadn’t had time to yourself for hours, and as soon as they allowed you to go back to your room to get on your outing dress, you were thrilled.

Firstly, you and Tom would be going out together. Alone. Which made this all the better for you.

Secondly, you would be seeing Clarissa to get fitted for a new evening gown. And you were beyond excited.

You quickly changed into a knee-length white dress, buttoning up the back before putting a diamond necklace around your neck. You ghosted your fingers over the beautiful jewelry. You quickly put on white high heels before walking out of the closet and to the vanity.

The Queen had sat a crown on it, insinuating that you should wear it. And you did. You quickly brushed out some of the tangles before tying a few strands of hair back and tying a light pink bow around it. You situated the crown onto your head, taking in the look. You looked… beautiful. Stunning. Angelic.

A soft knock ran through your ears and you said a hesitant ‘come in,’ before looking over at the door, waiting for whoever to walk in.

It was the Queen.

She smiled at you and you stood to meet her height. She looked you over, a frown replacing the smile quickly. Your eyebrows shot up and quickly knitted before she walked behind you and to the side of the vanity. She pulled out a pink lipstick and walked back to you before swiping the gloss on to your lips.

“Thank you, mother.” You smiled at her. She hummed in response before taking your hands.

“My dear,” she began. “I want you to know that this dress is very important. It’s to show who you are and how you would like to be represented at this ball. It’s important so please do not get something so far out there. I love you, dear.” She ended before kissing your forehead.

You could feel your heart sink and guilt override you. You smiled at her and repeated the words. She left your room, cracking the door to give you some sort of privacy before you left. You took a deep breath before turning and grabbing the notebook that had loose paper inside, folding it up and shoving it into your bra as a way to hide it.

You left the bedroom, leaving and walking down and to the foyer. You smiled at a few of the people you passed, walking down the steps and to Tom, who was looking down at his shoes.

“Hello, Mr. Holland,” you greeted him. Tom bowed in your presence before putting out his elbow allowing you an arm for you to take. And you did. You wrapped your hand around his forearm, smiling up at him.

Tom led you out of the castle and leading you out into the fresh air. There were trees and flowers lining the walkway, it was beautiful. You noticed the orange trees off to the side where a few workers were picking oranges and bringing them into the castle. Many people were at work, and they didn’t pay any mind to you.

“You seem worried,” He said once you were past the gates. Tom looked down at you with worried eyes.

You looked at him with wide eyes and high eyebrows. “I don’t know what you mean.” You hummed and turned your head forward again. You wanted to avoid the question because, throughout this whole process, you hadn’t felt guilty. But you also hadn’t spoken to the Queen as much as you think you would as a Princess. You didn’t mind, and maybe that was because you would feel guilty for pretending to be her daughter.

Tom chuckled and looked down at you. “You have a nervous demeanor today.” He stated. “Are you okay?” He questioned and you nodded, not looking up at him. Tom hummed in response, leading you through the town square.

“In other news,” you started, “Clarissa and I change spots tomorrow. How do you feel about that?” You asked, keeping your eyes straight ahead. Tom looked down at you, letting his eyes linger just a little longer than he should’ve.

“We talked about this, haven’t we?” He questioned and this time you looked up at him.

“Technically, yes.” You stated. “But we only spoke about how I’m going to miss you.” You said in a low voice. “We haven’t talked about a lot of details, however.”

Tom hummed and nodded. “Alright. Then let’s talk about it.” He responded and you nodded.

“I’m serious. How do you feel about it? Cause we won’t see each other every day and Patricia is a… a monster, Tom.” You muttered. “Seriously, if she were to catch you, she wouldn’t let me see daylight for months. I would be sewing dresses every hour of the day, barely a break because I’m not allowed to have fun, Tom. Not allowed to have a good time and meet people, and I’m not allowed to leave until I pay off all of this debt, she’s miraculously put me- I mean, Y/N, in.”

You cringed at saying your own name but smiled at a citizen. Tom looked down at you before allowing you to continue.

“Of course, I can’t just quit because I have nowhere to go, and even if I did… Patricia is good at manipulation.” You sighed and squeezed his arm a little, smiling at another citizen before looking at Tom. “Enough about me, what about you? Why are you working for the Royals?” You asked before looking down at the ground, watching your feet click against the ground.

Tom cleared his throat, his eyebrows raising and lips parting. “Uh,” his head bobbled a bit, “my family needed the money and there was a listing for a job to work with Clarissa and her family. I went through some intense training but, nothing too serious. Just how to protect the Princess when I would escort her and how to speak to her as a friend and nothing more.” He explained, looking down at you and you nodded, understanding. But you didn’t really understand.

“And now you and the Princess are…” you trailed off, already kind of knowing the answer. They weren’t lovers. Not like you and him. But you’ve known him for only a few weeks, and you didn’t know their history. He could just be falling for you because you look like Clarissa. You weren’t sure if that was the case, and you wouldn’t have thought that was the case if you hadn’t realized that this wasn’t your life, and once you’re gone, he will go back with Clarissa. He would spend every moment with her, and not you. He wouldn’t be with you anymore, and he would go for her instead because… she is the Princess and she has money.

All the while, you’re just a poor seamstress that can’t stand up for herself.

“Best friends,” he concluded. “She’s the only person I really know, and she slowly became my best friend. Her family isn’t happy about it, but it’s how it crumbles.”

You nodded before stopping in front of a small shop. It was white on the outside and a large sign with Patricia’s name on it stuck out like a sore thumb. You felt nervous about walking back into the shop. Tom looked at you before unwrapping your arms and opening the door for you. You walked into the shop, as the bell above the door rung.

Patricia looked up from her sewing machine, smiling widely at you.

Patricia was a small, bigger Caucasian woman. She had small almond shaped eyes that held light brown orbs within them. They turned dark brown when she was angry. Her lips were thin, and the top lip was practically non-existent. She had slightly yellow, crooked teeth and when she smiled, she would get dimples on her chin. Her hair was a short bob that slightly curled and it had begun to gray. To say the least, she wasn’t an ugly person, at least not on the outside. On the inside, however, she was a completely different person.

“Princess Clarissa!” She squeaked, standing and pressing down her dress before coming and hugging you. She had a wide smile as she pulled away from you. “It’s so amazing to see you! I haven’t seen you in a few months, how have you been, gorgeous?” She rambled, grabbing your arm and dragging you towards the 360 mirror. You turned your head and looked back at Tom, worry in your eyes.

She pushed you to stand on the small pedestal before going to turn on a switch to light up the mirror. You looked at yourself in the mirror, eyes blinking a few times before turning your head when Patricia yelled for Clarissa… or technically, you.

Clarissa quickly walked into the room, measuring tape and a piece of fabric draped out over arms. She had one of the pin holders on her wrist with a few pins in them. She looked at Patricia with large doe eyes, muttering out a ‘yes?’ before walking closer to the two of you.

“That’s far enough, Y/N.” Patricia help her hand up for Clarissa to stop. She nodded and stood in her spot- your spot more like it- and looked over you. “We have a very important guest; I expect you to make her feel good and pretty. You have to do everything she asks of you, got it?” Patricia asked and Clarissa nodded. Patricia began to walk towards the sewing machine again, allowing Clarissa to come closer to you.

“Princess Clarissa,” she whispered and curtsied. You smiled down at her as she lifted herself up. She began mediocrely working on you.

“Don’t worry, I’ll do it.” You whispered, glancing at the sewing machine. “I’m going to ask if we can go to the back and work on designs for your dress.” You finished, straightening your back before turning your head to look at Patricia.

“Ms. Patricia,” you began in a sweet voice. “May Y/N, Mr. Holland and I go to the back to work on my ballgown? It’s very important to my mother and I that we represent the family correctly.” You explained and Patricia looked up at you and between the three of you.

“Why must Mr. Holland go?” She asked and you lifted your chin as he looked at you with confusion. “He’s never gone back before.”

You nodded and glanced everywhere so you wouldn’t look at the woman, trying to find an excuse. “My mother,” you began, taking a deep breath. “Asked him to keep an eye on what I design so it doesn’t disappoint my immediate family, the citizens and my decedents.” You explained. Patricia lifted her head, eyes narrowing before nodding. She allowed Clarissa to bring you to the backroom.

You didn’t miss it. It was a small add on to the shop. There were 2 windows and the only door was the one that led into the shop. There was barely a light that shined, and the dark wood and walls made it look much darker than it should’ve. There was a small bed on one side of the room and the sewing table and materials on the other side. You noticed that there was still a white quote on the wall. It was one that Audrey Hepher had said, and you couldn’t help but smile, before closing the door.

Tom quickly went and hugged Clarissa, which she returned. You looked down at your feet, letting them have their moment. You took a deep breath as they pulled away and whispered an ‘I miss you’ to one another. You lifted your head and watched as Clarissa walked towards you, hugging you for a moment before pulling away.

“How has it been at home?” She asked in a low whisper. You shrugged and looked over at Tom, your eyebrows lifting.

“It’s been different.” You smiled. “I actually have notes for you over the last month.” You said when you remembered the papers shoved between the band of your bra and your skin. You quickly turned around, pulling out and opening them.

Clarissa gave you and look, so you shrugged.

“This is how you get things past Patricia, alright?” You whispered and looked over the notes you wrote before handing them over to her. “Your mum wants you to design a dress and all of the measurements are already in a book somewhere, so I don’t need measurements.” You explained. “If I can find my notebook, I can quickly draw up a design for you.”

Clarissa nodded and began to drag you to the bed. You could see your puppy, Luke, lying on the ground taking a quick snooze. You softly smiled to yourself before going to the dresser and taking out a notebook, a pack of pencils, and some colored pencils before going and sitting next to her. You quickly sketched out a body and hair before working on a quick bodice and skirt.

Clarissa liked the tight, corset bodice and a big hoop skirt. You knew that because that’s all she wore, and when she came in one day, she explained why it’s her favorite style. You took a deep breath and looked over at her and then to Tom, giving him a small smile.

“What were you thinking?” She asked and looked at the drawing.

“Maybe,” you sighed, “one of those angel paintings. Like with the baby angels?” You questioned and tilted your head. “And then with a white ball gown skirt. It’ll be strapless and hug you perfectly, Princess.” You smiled and looked over at her. She nodded as you explained what your ideas were before giving you a confident nod.

“Yeah, yeah!” She said with high eyebrows. “I really like that!” She nodded and rested her head on your shoulder.

You smiled and started sketching the whole thing out. It didn’t take long, maybe 20 minutes for you to finish it. You could feel a pair of eyes on you the whole time, but you ignored them and began coloring the dress and looking over at Clarissa as she watched you.

“Does it look good?” You asked and she nodded, smiling at you. Clarissa glanced up and looked over to where Tom was. Right now, he had his eyes closed and his head tilted back. His arms were crossed, and his lips were parted.

“I have a question,” she hummed and turned her body to look at you and you glanced over at her, nodding for her to continue. “Are you and Tom like…” she trailed off and gave you a knowing smile. You face fell and you looked at her in horror.

“I-” you stopped and looked over at Tom and then back at her, taking her hands into yours. “Please don’t tell anyone. It’s only been 2 weeks, we’re not like ‘dating,’” you air quoted, “but… I really like him, and I think he likes me too.” You rambled. “I don’t know if you two have some weird romantic thing and I wanted to tell you in the notes, but I didn’t want to-”

Clarissa stopped you, chuckling at your rambling. “Romantic? Me and Tom?” She questioned in disbelief. “Not a chance,” she shook her head and you looked at her, lips parting with confusion in your eyes. You weren’t getting the signal she was giving you, so she came out and said it with a shrug.

“I’m gay,” she said. “My parents don’t know, so I’ve only came out to Tom. And now you.” She smiled and squeezed your hands as you two took a moment of silence. “He likes you, alright? It’s okay to pursue him.” Clarissa brought you into a hug, kissing your cheek before pulling away with a small smile.

You didn’t know what to do as tears welled up in your eyes. Firstly, because she trusted you enough to tell you this secret that she must've been hiding for years. and secondly, you felt like you could have a good relationship, a happy one since your mother passed. You thanked her and squeezed her hand before letting go and standing up, pushing down the dress.

“Tom and I need to start leaving,” you sighed, and Clarissa stood while nodding. She brought you into a tight hug. You stayed like that for a moment before pulling away and looked at one another.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered and pressed her forehead to yours before taking a step back. “Now wake him up and go.” She smiled and pushed you a bit before turning around and going towards the bathroom door to let you leave.

You softly pushed on Tom’s shoulder, whispering his name as he groaned a little. He opened his eyes slowly and gave you a drowsy smile when he saw you.

“Hey,” he smiled and began to set up. “We gonna go?” He asked and you nodded, giving him a soft smile.

“Clarissa needed to go do something, so we’re just going to go,” you explained before he could question her absence. Tom nodded and you stepped back, allowing him to stand up. Tom opened the bedroom door, allowing you out before him and then he shut the bedroom door. You saw Patricia still at the machine and you smiled at her.

“Thank you for letting me work with, Y/N.” You smiled. “I’ll be back in a week to pick up the dress, if that’s all right?” Patricia looked up and nodded before looking back down at the fabric.

You and Tom left, heading back to the castle. It was in silence and you both just smiled at bystanders. It felt like a comfortable silence and you couldn’t help but allow your mind to swarm with thoughts. These thoughts lasted up until you walked into the castle and was met with Clarissa’s mother swooping you to go to the side. She thanked Tom for escorting you before speaking to you.

“Did you find a dress?” She asked and you nodded. “Excellent.” She smiled and took a deep breath. “And how was it in the town? No one questioned anything?” She asked and you shook your head no. She nodded again and let go of you before walking away and pacing for a moment. “Dinner will be at 5 with a possible suitor, alright? So be dressed in a proper gown.” She said and looked at the ground before walking away.

You watched her walk away and your eyes widened, and lips parted as you turned on your heel and began to go and walk up the steps and into your bedroom where you checked the clock. It was 3 PM, enough time for you to get through the shower and get ready again.

You quickly took a shower and dried the long hair you normally had before readjusting a bald cap upon your head and then situating the wig. You brushed out some of the curls before tying it up in a bun. You had learned there was a certain way the Princess got ready and you decided to follow every instruction to it.

It took a while, maybe 30 minutes to finish half of it and another 30 to finish the rest. It wasn’t a hard routine and if you weren’t a poor girl, you were sure you would have the exact same one, if not something similar. And if you had the money, you would buy all of those expensive lotions Clarissa owned. Every perfume and lotion that you’ve slowly fallen for, would be yours.

But alas, they wouldn’t nor couldn’t be yours. No matter how hard you worked or how many dresses you made, Patricia would continue to take the money that you worked for and would continue to make your life a living hell.

You finished getting ready, calling in one of the maids that roamed the halls to come and help you into the large dress. You had a corset around your waist and a bodice on the top. It was white with gold accents and the large ball gown skirt matched it. You didn’t make this dress in particular. This was a dress your mother had made for the Queen, which was then passed down to Clarissa. It was pretty, you had to admit.

You exited the room, right as 4:50 PM rolled around. You walked down the stairs, holding onto the railing and not looking at those who were at the bottom. Only Tom and your mother stood at the end of your path, and when they heard the pitter patter of your feet, they looked up at you. Tom’s mouth became gaped and then he smiled. It was a sweet, loving smile that spread all the way through his face and he honest, to God couldn’t believe this was you. That you looked this stunning and beautiful.

Tom wiped his smile off of his face before the Queen could see it. But in his eyes, you could just see the love, affection and that was all that you needed.

The Queen walked up to you, wrapping you into a hug before pulling away. You smiled softly at her and she caressed your cheek, but there was a bit of confusion in her eyes. Did she know that you weren’t who you said you were? If she did, why hadn’t she pulled you away and demanded you to find her daughter? You held your breath and she smiled widely.

“You look beautiful,” she complimented before stepping back and allowing Tom to offer his arm to you. You thanked her before taking Tom’s arm. The Queen blew you a kiss and you returned it before turning back to Tom and smiling up at him. Tom led you into the dining room where everyone stood, exclaiming ‘welcome, my grace,’ before sitting back down. Tom led you to the seat to the left of the head seat. You stood in front of it, waiting for the Queen and King to enter.

You were trying to remember what Tom had told you about these dinners. You stand and wait for the family and you only speak when spoken to. Those are the two main ones that you could remember. But if you had a misstep, they would know.

The King and Queen walked in a minute after and everyone repeated the same phrase that they did you. The smiled and walked to their seats. The King was at the head of the table and the Queen was sitting across the table from you. Your father remained standing, but your mother and everyone else sat down, in order to allow him to speak.

“Thank you to the Hamilton family for coming all the way to England today. It means a lot to me and my family.” He smiled down at both the Queen and you. “My daughter, Clarissa’s birthday is soon, and in an attempt to find a man who she likes, but we also like, my beautiful wife and I have decided to have this dinner.” He explained and you watched him as he smiled and gestured.

“This is a huge honor to have you, King and Queen Hamilton, for allowing us to get to know your son Nikolas and we are thankful to have you think of our daughter for your son. Now, let’s eat.” He smiled before sitting down and all that were at the table clapped. You smiled at him and then looked at the King of France who wrapped his napkin around his neckline.

Tom was sitting next to Clarissa’s mother and the Queen of France and a lady who looked around your and Tom’s age sat next to the King of France and Nikolas. A few of the kitchen staff walked out of the kitchen and began sitting plates in front of everyone. It was a Caesar Salad, one of yours and Clarissa’s favorites.

You all ate in silence for a few moments before the King of France spoke up. “It’s very nice to meet you, Princess Clarissa,” the King smiled before stabbing a few pieces of salad onto his fork before continuing. “I’m not sure if you just know me as King or Your Grace, but my names William and my wife is Victoria.” He smiled and you returned it.

“It’s very nice to meet you, King and Queen.” You responded before taking a bite from the salad. There was a short conversation that followed before everyone fell silent again. You minded your own business, paying attention to the meals that were sat in front of you. Clarissa’s father and Nikolas’ father talked from across the table, laughing and chatting all throughout the dinner.

By the time it ended, you and Nikolas were asked to go and have a walk through the garden. You and Nikolas were excused and so were his caretaker and Tom. You and Nikolas walked out first, and the others followed.

It was quiet for a moment before Nikolas spoke up.

“You’re much prettier in person, Princess.” Nikolas complimented you and you thanked him, smiling.

Nikolas was a tall gentleman, maybe around 6’0 and he was built nicely. Muscular and all. He had short, blonde hair that was curly and pretty. His eyes were hazel orbs that showed only his present. He was cute, but he wasn’t someone you would want to be with, and definitely someone that Clarissa wouldn’t want.

“So,” you started and dragged out the ‘o’ biting at your cheek. You licked your lips and looked forward as you walked out of the crisp white double doors. “Have you ever been out of France before?” You asked and Nikolas looked at you, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” he answered. “Been to a lot of places, mostly with my parents.” He explained loosely and you nodded, trying to understand. You didn’t understand, of course not, but here you are. Nodding as if you do understand.

“Do you have any siblings?” You asked and he nodded.

The air was crisp when you walked out. It nipped at your skin and it blew your hair softly. You could see him in the soft lighting, and it was a comfortable silence as you two walked towards a swing that was in the middle of the garden, but before you could get to it, Nikolas stopped you.

He held your shoulders and turned you towards him. He looked at you with a small smile. “You’re just…” he hummed and tilted his head. “So pretty.” He began to lean in, and you watched him with confused orbs. As his lips came closer, you shook off his hands and stepped back.

Nikolas looked at you, eyebrows furrowed together as he looked at you. You gave him a look as if saying no without the words. He looked at you with parted lips and you turned your head to see if Tom was behind you, he wasn’t. You took a deep breath and looked at the kid with a raised eyebrow.

“Sorry,” you murmured, “I don’t like kissing guys the first day I meet them.” You explained and he nodded. You bit your lip and turned on your heel, feeling a blush gather on your cheeks. “We should go back.” You said before heading out of the garden.

You stopped right before you could enter your home again, waiting for Nikolas to come up next to you and offer his arm. And he did, and you took it. You walked in with a large smile on your face, giving off the impression that all went well. Nikolas did the same before handing you over to the Queen. You stood next to her as she rested her hand on your shoulder.

“Thank you for being here,” the Queen said, “all of you.” She smiled. You did the same and then the King. As soon as they left, your parents turned to you and asked how it went. You overexaggerated it, saying how great he is and how amazing Nikolas is. They were pleased and then excused you to go ahead and get ready for bed.

It was only 7:30 PM and you weren’t tired. But you couldn’t afford to be tired since you were leaving at some point to go and switch back to your old life. You quickly went into the bedroom, closing the door before quickly changing. You hadn’t even noticed the note on the wardrobe as you quickly went through the bedroom. You then went to the bathroom, taking off your make-up and undressing. You did hang the dress up and changed back into your street clothes, the ones you met Clarissa in. You dressed the mannequin the dress came off of, setting the corset in one of her drawers before setting the shoes in her shoe closet.

You unloaded the clothes you had brought to the castle and into your bag. When everything was back in the bag, you slid it under the bed and turned off the light. You wanted to make it looked like you were asleep already. So, you laid in the bed, rolling on your side so your back faced the door and closed your eyes.

No one opened it, you knew they didn’t because you would’ve heard it. You were grateful for that because you were afraid someone would ask where you got these ragged clothes from and you would have to come up with some stupid excuse onto why you were wearing a t-shirt with a pair of short shorts.

The only person who walked in was Tom. And he walked in at 11:46. He closed and locked the door before coming to the bed and waking you up. He shook our shoulders softly and you looked up at you with groggy eyes and a tired smile. He smiled at you and ran his fingers across your face.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he chuckled. “It’s time to leave.” He whispered and you nodded. You slid the blankets off and slid on a pair of flats. You quickly took off the blonde wig and wig cap, shoving them into your bag before following Tom to the window. He looked back at the dresser, noticing the piece of paper he had left, and he held his hand up, telling you to wait a moment and he grabbed the paper and shoved it into his pocket. Then he opened the window and allowed you to climb down the wooden object outside the window and to the ground, he followed and then led you out of the backyard and through an open field before taking a sharp right and walking onto the main road.

You and Tom were quiet the whole time. You didn’t want to be too loud in case someone heard and asked why you were out past curfew. You held hands, however, and stole glances from one another the whole way.

Tom had a hand inside his pocket, messing with the note he wanted to give you. It had your name beautifully printed on the top, and a letter on the inside. But you hadn’t noticed it, so he wasn’t sure if you had just ignored it or what.

The dark made the town seem scary. As if something could pop out, but nothing would. Even the sewing shop looked scary in the dark. But you had to walk through the back alley and go to the room that was off the back of the shop. You and Tom stopped before the door, looking at one another. Your lips were in a thin line and your heart slowly began to fall to your stomach as you realized this was the last time you would see Tom.

“You ready?” Tom asked, bringing you into a hug and you nodded.

“Yeah.” You answered before pulling back. He smiled at you before kissing your forehead and knocking on the door. It was a slow knock, but after Tom’s knuckles hit the door for the 3rd time, the door swung open and showed Clarissa in her pajamas.

She smiled at the both of you before bringing you into a hug. It was a tight hug, and she let you go before going to Tom and hugging him. You smiled and looked at the ground. Tom had grabbed your hand again when they let go of one another. He led you into the small room you occupied. You took a deep breath and looked around before setting your bag on the ground and slipping of your flats.

“Thank you for those notes!” Clarissa exclaimed.

“You’re welcome,” you smiled and folded your hands. “Um, your parents had me speak to a boy named Nikolas, he’s from France and he tried to kiss me, and so if it’s on bad terms, I’m really, really, sorry.” You apologized quickly and Clarissa shook her head, grabbing your hands with a smile.

“It’s okay!” She giggled. “Thank you for giving me this experience!”

You nodded and brought her into a hug, making eye contact with Tom before letting her go.

“I have notes for you in the top drawer,” she said, and you nodded. She gave you one last hug before walking to Tom and patting his chest before grabbing her bag and walking outside and closing the door, leaving you and Tom to stand in your room.

You looked at him and gave him a soft smile, looking down at your feet. Tom looked at you, smiling to himself and shaking his head before speaking up.

“Gonna miss you, Peaches” he whispered, and you looked at him through your eyelashes before a big grin made its way to your face.

“Oh, shut up.” You rolled your eyes and joked as you rocked on your feet. Tom chuckled and took a few steps towards you before wrapping his arms around your waist. Yours went to wrap around his neck and shoulders, and you took in his smell. You closed your eyes when the tears began to fill your eyes, you wanted to avoid the tears from leaving your eyes.

Tom pulled away when you sniffled and looked at you, an amused yet sad smile on his lips. “Are you crying?” He asked and you gave him a smile before giggling.

“Yeah,” you nodded and brought him back into a hug. “Didn’t want you to think I was a baby for crying.” You laughed and allowed a few tears leave your eyes. You pulled away from Tom again and then moved your hands to his cheeks. You looked at one another, a smile on both of your cheeks.

Tom rested his hand on your hip, and he brought his head down and pressed his lips to your nose before bringing them down to your lips where he softly brushed them against yours. Before he could give you a kiss, Clarissa knocked on the outside door before walking in, interrupting.

“Oh!” she dragged out and made a face. “Sorry to interrupt, but Tom, we need to start leaving,” Clarissa explained and he looked at her and nodded before kissing your forehead and saying his short goodbye before leaving with Clarissa. You followed them as they left, locking the door and turning off the light before going and laying in the bed.

It had been a week since you’ve seen Tom or Clarissa. You had been trapped in your room, making dress after dress. You had finished 5 and was almost with your 6th one. Your final one. The one that belonged to Clarissa. You had hand painted on the angels and the clouds, and you were proud of it. You just hoped she liked it too.

You took a deep breath as you looked for an appropriate ribbon that could match the colors of the ballgown. You were in the middle of trying to find the right ribbon when a knock sounded through your room.

“Come in,” you said, and the door opened. Patricia walked in, allowing Tom and Clarissa to walk into the bedroom. You thanked Patricia and she closed the door. You looked between them and smiled.

“Crazy to see you again,” you laughed and went up to hug Clarissa and Tom. It didn’t feel wrong or awkward, but it just felt… a different way. “I missed you guys.” You whispered and pulled away smiling.

“I missed you too,” they both said, and you smiled before taking Clarissa’s hand and bringing her to the dress. She squeezed your hands as she looked over the dress, a large smile on her face.

“It’s…” She stopped and looked at you with tears in your eyes. She hugged you almost immediately, crying into your shoulder and you couldn’t help but laugh as you wrapped your arms around her. “It’s so beautiful, Y/N.” She pulled away and said. You thanked her and she kissed your cheeks before going to the dress and looking over it.

Tom walked behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, kissing your head. You leaned back into him and closed your eyes. You enjoyed this. You missed having his arms around you. “Missed you,” you whispered.

“Missed you more, Peaches.” Tom chuckled and you turned you head to him, smiling.

You turned back to Clarissa who turned to look back at you. “It’s stunning. I don’t know how you did this in a week.” She giggled and gave you the biggest smile. “You can box it up, I’m going to go pay Patricia.” Clarissa said smiling before walking out.

You nodded and moved out of Tom’s grip, going to grab a box from your closet and taking the dress from the mannequin and putting it into the box. You put a ribbon and a pair of shoes that matched into the box, closing it and then getting a piece of paper and writing her name on it. You sat it on your bed so it’s easier to get up.

You sighed and then turned back to Tom, going and hugging him really quick. You kissed his shoulder and then his cheeks. You smiled at him and then kissed his nose. Your eyes glanced to his lips, but you pulled back before he could kiss you or vice versa.

The door opened again, and in walked Clarissa with a large smile.

“Alright,” she smiled and wrapped you in another hug. “I need to give you something really quick, okay?” She said and you nodded. She quickly pulled something from her bra, unfolding it before handing it to you. You looked at her with a questioning look and a curious smile. She pushed it towards you, and you took it and looked over it.

It had your name on it, and a few numbers. Your eyebrows furrowed and you looked over at her and then back down to see the name on the check.

Clarissa Clifford.

Your eyes began to water, looking up at her with your lips gapped. You couldn’t help but let the tears roll free as you gave her the biggest of hugs. It was a lot of money; much more than you thought you would ever earn or get in your life.

300,000 pounds… Holy fucking shit!

“Wha-What is this for?” You asked when you pulled away. Clarissa smiled and looked down at the check.

“It’s for you… It’s for you to start a new life, a new shop.” She explained and looked up at you. “I already found a small home. It’s 3 bedrooms and its traditional and white. It’s absolutely stunning.” She smiled and took one of your hands, squeezing it. “I was thinking you could turn one room into your sewing room, and then you and Tom can-” She gasped and lifted her hands to her mouth.

“What?” You asked and looked between her and Tom. “Does Tom want to move in with me?” You asked and Tom looked down at the floor, trying not to make eye contact with you.

Without Tom’s answer, Clarissa looked at you and nodded. “He wants to spend his life with you.” She whispered and then clasped her hand onto her lips again. Tom sighed and you looked at him.

“I know it’s early but,” Tom murmured before lifting his head and continuing. “I really want to give this a try. Just be roommates for a while, yeah?” he asked, and you looked between the two and then nodded.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Yeah, and we can be more than roommates.” You smiled and then walked over to him, hugging him before pulling away. You couldn’t help but giggle when he brought his lips down to yours, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. It was sweet and soft, and you could feel your heart flutter. Your lips curled as you kissed him, giggling softly before pulling away.

Clarissa smiled and giggled to herself before coming up and wrapping you and Tom into a hug. You giggled and leaned into her, looking up at Tom with a large smile.

“Now you can move out!” Clarissa gasped. “Go and tell her now that you’re leaving!” She quickly said and started pushing you, but you stopped her.

“I can’t just leave,” you whispered with wide eyes.

“You can,” she pushed.

“How? I barely know what I’m doing.” You murmured and she sighed, rolling her eyes.

“You’ll be fine! Okay, you should do it, for you and Tom.” She explained and you took a deep breath before nodding.

It had been 3 months since you had seen Patricia. 3 months since you had seen the Queen and King. 3 months since you and Tom decided to start a low-key relationship. It was a nice 3 months, it really was. You were able to spend time with Tom without worrying about being caught and you were able to make dresses at your own rate and get paid.

Today, you were sitting in one of the bedroom’s that you made into your sewing room. The room was beautiful. It was an off-white room and had lace curtains on the windows. There was a closet which you hung all your dresses in, and a desk where you had your sewing machine on and a rack of fabric. You even had an organizer for all the things you owned. You had a few shoes lining the walls as well so if someone needed a pair of shoes, you could make them some.

You spent most of your time in that room. So today, Tom was off work and had decided to go into town and buy groceries and more thread and needles. You were thankful for him. He had spent some of his time in the lounge and then in your office. There was a chair in a corner in case someone came with the client, which he liked to sit in. He was reading the newspaper, looking over the recent news.

He said the only good news was about Clarissa and Nikolas were getting married. You hummed in response as you sewed the red fabric together, and then Tom left after saying bye. You continued to sew even after he left, and when he got back, the dress was almost finished. The sewing was finished and now it was dressed on a mannequin where you were hand sewing buttons and sequences into the dress.

It was for a young girl who was having her 13th birthday. She asked for a dress with thick straps and a sweetheart neckline and for it to be a little longer than her knees and wanted sequence on it. It was really pretty, maybe in your top 10 favorite dresses.

You heard the door downstairs open and Tom’s voice yell out ‘Honey, I’m home’ before shutting the door and going to the kitchen to set things down. You hummed and sat your materials down, standing up and stretching. You groaned before leaving the bedroom, going downstairs to see Tom.

“Hey,” you murmured and kissed his cheek, your hand sitting on his back. “How was shopping?” You asked and Tom shrugged.

“Normal,” he said and began digging through the bags. He pulled out a plastic bag and sat down the materials you needed before taking out the groceries. He began to take out all of the groceries, going and putting different things up or putting them to the side for you both to make dinner for the night. You held a smile on your face as this became a memory. You loved him. You loved things like this. And thank God, you and Clarissa decided to trade lives.

tag list: @parkeroffline, @peterstrainingwheels, @hollandroos, @dej-okay, @naturallytom, @tom-hollands-eyelash, @smexylemony , @afterglowparker, @tomhollandswh0re, @tragically-tonystark, @tominhoodies, @parrkerspeters, @mcuspidey, @blissfulparker

#tom holland imagine #mine #tom holland oneshot #tom holland x you #tom holland x reader #tom holland x fem reader #tom holland smut #tom holland one shot #peter parker imagine #peter parker oneshot #peter parker smut #peter parker x you #peter parker x reader #tom holland x y/n #peter parker x y/n

[faintblueivy]

"Those cherry blossoms show your real beauty." and "Cherry blossoms line is so overrated, please say something more original or pick another flower." BoruSara request if you willing to accept it, you can pick any setting you want. BTW I don't see the reason why I should make herself anon, so here I am! Your clumsy fan Kirumi ;)

Hi everyone! I’m finally done with this sequel of Starting Again and can’t wait to share it with you all! Thanks to @karinrumi for this amazing prompt and also to @mirachaann for beta reading it! My submission for Borusaraweek 2019! Day 3!

Prompt: Flowers

Word Count: 4k

Genre: Fluff

It’s Your Flower

“I’m late! Damn!”

Boruto hisses under his breath as his feet pound against the floor loudly. As he races through the stairs and then the corridors, he sees that barely a few people pass by him, noting how the school was almost empty now. As soon as the plank of 2 A comes into sight, his speed slows down and he pushes the door open immediately. There she was, sitting on her seat calmly in an empty classroom. The curtain of her dark hair was blocking her face from his gaze.

“Sarada!” He calls out and she immediately whirls around to look at him.

“Oh, you’re here,” she says nonchalantly.

“It’s late! You shouldn’t have waited for me!”

He crosses the distance between them, plopping on the seat in front of her, still slightly out of breath.

“You asked me to, didn’t you?” She laughs.

“Err…I didn’t think I’d be this late. You should have gone home.” He insists again, peeking over the notes sprawled on her desk.

“Hmm, but you still came to check.” She gives him a knowing smile, “And you did run!”

Boruto immediately averts his gaze, “I didn’t! I just did exercise!”

“Sure. Exercise.” she says with a smug smirk.

They immediately lock down on a glaring contest which - Boruto notes – was becoming quite a norm nowadays. And to be honest, he didn’t mind…peering into her eyes – which were so beautifully expressive, capable of projecting her delicate feelings. He is the one to blink away first, unable to handle the heat creeping up his neck.

“Come on. Let’s not stay here.”

He doesn’t even give her the time to respond as he slings her bag over his shoulder and proceeds to exit the classroom. He chuckles at her protests as she scrambles up, gathering her notes and running after him.

“Give me my bag!” She pouts, still trying to balance the notebooks and sheets in her arms.

“Nah. You carry that troublesome package.” His hand waves at the mess she’s carrying. “And leave this to me.” He points to her bag hanging on his shoulder. She narrows her eyes but doesn’t argue anymore.

They trudge down the same stairs that he had raced up a few minutes ago when Sarada asks, “Where are we going exactly?”

“Our secret base, of course,” he exclaims gleefully and Sarada suppresses the incessant urge to roll her eyes. Despite it all, a tiny smile curls upon her lips helplessly.

The ‘secret base’ he was referring to was their bench. Yes, that particular bench where she had treated his injuries and well, the place where they became friends, so it was theirs.

It was some distance away from their school, in a deserted park and barely any people passed by. It was a place where they could sit and relax together, without a worry in the world and know a lot more about each other. A safe haven, and a place to go to for them. 

As they walk through the school premises, Boruto waves to those who greet them and Sarada gives them all nods of acknowledgement and polite smiles.

Only eight minutes later, they are at the park. Boruto deposits both of their bags on the side and plops down. Sarada immediately follows after, placing the notes in between them. She rummages through some of them before pulling out a few sheets of paper stapled together and shoves them to him. At his questioning brow, she commands simply. “Read.”

“Tanabata is celebrated to commemorate the romantic story of two lovers represented by the stars Vega and Altair who are only allowed to meet each other once a year as long as the skies are clear.

It is celebrated on the 7th day of the 7th lunar month, which is July 7th in the modern calendar. Some places in Japan celebrate Tanabata on August 7th in accordance with the older Chinese calendar, which is where the legend originated.

The most famous of all the Tanabata festivals is celebrated in Sendai on August 7th, but most of Japan recognizes July 7th.”

Boruto stops, taking a breath before reading further everything on her notes with wide eyes.

“Tanabata originated from a Chinese legend called Qixi and was brought to Japan in the 8th century. This is the story of two lovers. Princess Orihime, the seamstress, wove beautiful clothes by the heavenly river, represented by the Milky Way. Because Orihime worked so hard weaving beautiful clothes, she became sad and despaired of ever finding love. Her father, who was God of the heavens, loved her dearly and arranged for her to meet Hikoboshi, the cow herder who lived on the other side of the Milky Way. The two fell in love instantly and married. Their love and devotion was so deep that Orihime stopped weaving and Hikoboshi allowed his cows to wander the heavens.

Orihime’s father became angry and forbade the lovers to be together, but Orihime pleaded with him to allow them to stay. He loved his daughter, so he decreed that the two star-crossed lovers could meet once a year–on the 7th day of the 7th month if Orihime returned to her weaving. On the first day they were to be reunited, they found the river (Milky Way) to be too difficult to cross. Orihime became so despondent that a flock of magpies came and made a bridge for her. It is said that if it rains on Tanabata-”

Boruto halts reading out-loud, his eyes sweeping over the page. All it said was more about the story and rituals related to the festival.

“…Sarada?” He questions, vaguely gesturing toward the sheaf of papers in his hand, “We’re supposed to write a play here…not an essay.”

“I know that!” Sarada glares, half hissing and half yelling. “Read the next page idiot!”

He nods and turns the page over, eyes skimming through the material and then widening with each next page.

“You wrote the entire play all by yourself?!” He asks, feeling both in-credulousness and – if he were to be honest - quite impressed.  

“Most of it,” she says nonchalantly. “A few girls helped me through.” She admits, and Boruto has an inkling as to how much the girls might have ‘helped’ her. He shakes his head at her fondly and then pays attention to the rest of the reading left to be done. And he has to admit, every new line is nothing short of excellence.

“This is going to be a blast!” He exclaims excitedly. “We just need to execute it properly.”

Sarada nods in agreement, but when he questions, “Who’s going to be Hikoboshi?,” she can’t help but raise up her brows, a smirk dancing upon her lips.

“Class decided,” she shrugs. “You’ll be.”

“Oh– wait? What?! Why me?!” He wails, angry that he was chosen again.

“Everyone said that they wanted their hero to be the Hero of the drama.” Sarada snickers.

“But I don’t have enough time!” He yells, frantic.

“Everyone said that they were willing to wait after classes,” she says quietly, as if prepared for any excuses he had. 

“Arghhh! Now I can’t even have fun! I am overburdened. Thanks to a certain someone’s decisive vote to make me class representative for the festival.” He glares at her.

“Now, now, Boruto! Be a man!” She taps him on the shoulder patronizingly. “It will suit you, I’m sure.”

“Why-” he leans closer to her, blue eyes narrowing, “-do I feel like there was definitely some meddling done by a certain someone?”

“Oh? Are you trying to accuse me of this now?” She smirks, a playful look overcoming her features.

“I never said it was you,” he says as a matter-of-fact. “You admitted yourself!” He finishes, waving his arm with flair of triumph.

“You insinuated it.” She stood up from her seat, slightly turning her head to look at him. “But what if I do admit that it was me?”

The question hangs in the air for several moments before Boruto yells, “I trusted you! But…you! You betrayed me! Why Sarada? How can you do something like that to me?”

“Well, I just figured… the more busy you got the less trouble you’d cause? Hehe!” She laughs a little, feeling a bit proud of herself for the small game she had played.

“Hehe.” He mimics her and she knows that she has to instantly run or it’ll be trouble for her.

“You! Come back here, now!” He shouts, hot on her tail as he chases her through the entire park. Their notes, books, and bags left behind on the bench, the empty park filled with their yelling and the shrieks of laughter. The vibrant orange sunset and their happiness together beautifully meld into a fond memory that deserves to be cherished forever.

…

“I was thinking…” He appears beside her out of nowhere on her walk to school the next morning.

“A very dangerous pastime,” she comments, hiding a smirk. He glares at her but she ignores it like a pro who has mastered the said art.

“About the script,” he continues, successfully catching her attention.

“What about it?” Her head tilts towards him in curiousity. 

“Maybe we should change it? Slightly? The scene where Hikoboshi first meets Orihime,” he suggests.

“Hmm? What do you want to change about it?”

“I was thinking about the cherry blossoms scene,” he says. “As well as that one line where he compares her beauty to the cherry blossoms around them.”

Sarada hums in understanding as they reach the classroom. She slides into her seat and retrieves the bundle of papers from her bag. Flipping through the pages she finally finds the part he was talking about.

“'Those cherry blossoms show your real beauty.’ this one?”

Boruto peeks over her shoulder and nods immediately.

“Yup! Cherry blossoms line is so overrated. Please say something more original or pick another flower.” He remarks.

Anyway, before she could say anything, the school bell chimes, echoing through the classroom.

“Hey, come on! The assembly won’t begin without us! Boruto grins, helping her stuff the papers into her bag again and then proceeding to grab her arm to drag her out of the class. 

…

The entire day passes by and Sarada still does not understand why Boruto doesn’t want cherry blossoms in the play. They were beautiful and delicate flowers, symbolizing spring and beauty, as well as fleetingness of happiness for Orihime and Hikoboshi. And she cannot think of anything better to express their tragic love story.

Cherry blossoms also meant renewal which felt like a gracious nod to the promise of meeting each other again every year for the star-crossed lovers. Cherry blossoms were perfect for the play, no doubt. But he probably had his reasons for not wanting them.

When school was over, she waits for him in the class like she normally does. He is by her side in a few minutes and both of them climb down the stairs. He is whistling nonchalantly but Sarada has her mind shooting questions.

“Why don’t you want the cherry blossoms?” She whispers, and then looks up at him, trying to observe any minute detail that might show his discomfort, “Is there a reason you don’t like them?”

He blinks twice before muttering, “It's… not that I don’t like them. It’s just that… they are not your flowers.” He explains as if she was supposed to know that.

“Oh,” she frowns a little before realization hits her “Wait. Wait, Boruto? Are you…under the impression that I’m the one playing Orihime?”

“You’re… not?” He questions, brows pinched in confusion.  

“No, I’m not. I forgot to mention, didn’t I? Sorry about that.” She shakes her head.

“It’s alright,” he says, flustered. “But who is Orihime then?”

“Sumire-san.”

“Ehhhh??? The class rep? Why?”

“Um, we thought she fits the image of a beautiful, delicate and sad princess better than anyone. And traditionally, the Princess had long hair and Sumire-san definitely is the one with the longest hair among all of us. And well… a bunch of other factors as well.”

“I-it makes sense now… I guess. But I-I really thought that you were playing Orihime.” He nods enthusiastically, eyes never staying in one place, his cheeks still a little pink, and his arm comes up to rub the back of his neck.

“Anyway, I do not have that princess beauty to be honest.” She confesses, startling him for a second before he hums gently.

“Yeah, now that I think about it…you don’t.” Boruto agrees, and for some reason, Sarada feels a sting of pain shooting through her heart. But then he gives her a look, blue eyes softening.

“Your beauty is more like that of a warrior.”

That faint admiration in his eyes makes a blush bloom on her cheeks.

“Well, if it’s class rep then cherry blossoms are fine,” he says with utter nonchalance before giving her a curt nod.

She nods in agreement before what he said finally registers in her mind. She halts in her steps. 

“What do you mean by that? Oy, Boruto, where are you going? Why are cherry blossoms fine for class rep but not for me?“ She yells at him but he’s already running down the corridor, shouting rambunctiously and roughhousing people like he ordinarily does.

…

The next morning when they meet, she voices out her questions.

“Why… why did you think cherry blossoms suit class rep and not me?” She does not want to admit it, but it felt unnerving for some reason.

“Wait… did I offend you or something?” He exclaims, slightly panicking, bending down to look at her.

“No! No! It’s nothing like that!” Sarada waves her arms defensively. “It’s just…I thought cherry blossoms are beautiful. I think…I was surprised?”

He straightens back, looking thoughtful, as if taking time to arrange his words carefully.

“It’s not that I don’t find them beautiful…well, it’s more like, the delicate beauty of cherry blossoms, when I see it, it doesn’t remind me of you. You need something bolder, more vibrant. I don’t know why I think like this, but I do.”

“So, you mean, flowers remind you of certain people?” She questions, her head tilted to a side.

“Definitely! Like, when I see lavender, it reminds me of my Mom.” He says gently before bursting out loudly,“And then, the sunflowers! They are so bright and colorful that they scream Himawari to me!” He grins like a happy kid and Sarada is unable to hold back a smile.

“So, you suppose that there must be a flower for me too? Something that reminds you solely of…me?” she asks, with slight hesitation and slight hope.

“I don’t know…which it is yet.” He admits. “The flower that reminds me of you…but I promise I’ll find it! Your flower!”

…

Sarada watches from the sidelines, speaking up her part when needed otherwise. Boruto was playing his part stunningly. She hadn’t imagined that he would be such a stellar actor. But then again, he’s always been unpredictable. 

And Sumire was no less. Her gentle demeanor and gracefulness fit well with Orihime’s soft and woefully tragic longing. The two of them together were absolutely captivating! The audience seemed to think that as well, with their wide eyes and jaws hanging.

There was a stirring caused up in audience when the Emperor of the heavens - Orihime’s father unleashed his anger towards the young couple separating them, and Sarada had to admit that Inojin played the role perfectly. He looked beautiful in his elegant clothes, and wrathful in his disposition.

The scene of separation was a painful one, but Orihime’s pining for her loved one was even worse. Sarada grabs the mike again and speaks her part.

“Months passed, but the princess could not return back to her weaving. The designs she made looked soulless now, her eyes dull with sadness. She would not speak, nor smile. So was her longing and love for Hikoboshi. Her father, the Emperor, could not bear seeing his precious child like that anymore. All his attempts to entice her with exquisite jewels, fine silks and lavish gardens failed. So, he finally made a decision~”

The next parts of the play went smoothly and all of the hard work they’ve put together in the making of this play seemed to work. The spectators clapped like crazy in the final scene where the two lovers were finally able to reunite.

As all the cast collects on the stage to present their gratitude to the viewers for their patience and cooperation, Boruto darts down the stage, grabbing Sarada’s wrist and drags her back to the main stage, a big wide grin on his face. When a lot of spectators immediately recognize her as the narrator of the play, she feels her heart thrum into her ears in resonance with the lovely cacophony.

And when Sumire, who was standing on the other side of Boruto gives her an encouraging smile which Sarada immediately returns and together, holding hands, they bow down to the audience and receive another heavy round of applause making Sarada feel as if all her efforts had received justice.

…

She walks through the decorated hallways of the school. The play was in for an immense success and every person they encountered seemed to praise their work. Sarada is elated. After working for continuous hours, at the end, they felt relieved now to finally be able to enjoy the cultural festival. Getting Sumire out of her elegant Kimono was a strenuous task but they had finally managed it without any serious mishaps.

Different classes had different scheduled stuff and Sarada could not wait to take a look around. The bag on her shoulders was heavy since it was loaded with hamburgers that class 1 C’s stall was selling. As she arrives near the classroom that had been given as the boys’ dress-room, almost all of them exit at once whining about how hungry they were. Her eyes flick around to catch a glimpse of a mop of golden hair but to no avail. Instead, she is noticed by someone else.

“Sarada?” Shikadai calls her out, gaining the attention of every boy in the group. She slides the bag off her shoulder and tosses it to him.

“Burgers.” It’s the only word she utters out before they attack the bag like rabid dogs, and she’s glad for a second that she’s not the one holding it anymore.

And in less than a minute, the bag is emptied.

“You guys didn’t save any for Boruto!” She complains to Shikadai and he smirks knowingly, jerking his chin to the small paper bag she had in her right hand.

“I would have saved him one if I hadn’t known that you’d already kept some for him away.”

Caught red-handed, Sarada flushes instantly and Shikadai laughs before gesturing to the room, tossing her bag back to her.

“He’s inside,” he says and leaves, waving a hand back at her.

…

When Sarada slides the door open, Boruto is in the middle of changing. His pants ride low on his hips and his back is turned towards her as he pulls his shirt up. Sarada feels color bloom upon her cheeks, biting her lower lip to ignore how his well defined muscles contour and move with his actions.

That’s when he notices her.

“Sa-Sarada?!” He squeaks and she yelps, jumping out of the room and slamming the door back into the place.

In merely thirty seconds, the sound of the door opening reaches her ears and Boruto comes to stand beside her. She is averting her gaze in shame from him.

“You know,” he taunts, “girls peeping on boys is as shameful as boys peeping on girls.”

“I wasn’t peeping,” she snaps, eyes flicking over his face and feels a weird happy rush in her stomach seeing how red his cheeks were.

“Sure you weren’t.” Even while blushing, his sass wasn’t going anywhere.

She pushes him inside the classroom in fake anger and shuts the door behind them.

…

They’re sitting together comfortably, him on the desk and Sarada on the bench, both of them having a burger in their hands as they calmly chew, eyes appreciating the beauty of the sun that was about to set.

“Thanks!” He raises his burger and talks with his mouth full, but Sarada does not have the energy to chide him.

“You did well, in the play,” she compliments, smiling gently. “Never messed up a single line and conducted your part very smoothly. I am impressed.”

He smirks and bows, “I aim for nothing else but to please, Ma’am.”

The silence stretches between them, devoid of any specific conversations but she feels content. Being with him was… like living with a box of surprises. Sometimes he’d be a whirlwind of activity and other times he’d be a quiet thinker. Whimsical, she’d say.

It is him who breaks the silence. “Hey, the other day, I visited Inojin’s mom’s flower shop,” he says, softly, as if not wanting to ruin the peace between them.

“Hmm?” She was not sure where he was going with this.

“I found it. Your flower, I mean.”

She whips her head around fast, eyes wide, and he just grins before jumping off the desk he was sitting on. He crosses the distance of a few seats to reach his own desk and starts rummaging through his backpack.

She watches him with curious eyes, feeling her heart beating rapidly. She wondered what kind of flower made him think of her. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she didn’t realise when he came to stand beside her, his arm wound around his back to hide whatever he was hiding.

She peers up at him through her lashes, excitement barely hidden in her eyes. And then he finally extends his arm in her direction. There, sitting on the top of his palm was…

A red camellia.

She feels her breath hitch in her throat, overwhelmed for a few moments before looking up at him again.

“Camellia is a spring flower, isn’t it? And the red color shows how spirited and passionate you are about your goals and also your bonds! The moment I saw this,” he smiled nostalgically, “I thought of you.”

Sarada feels a deep red blush painting her cheeks, her mind running mile a minute. She was no stranger to camellias. They were gorgeous flowers that always somehow soothed her heart. Especially, the red camellias… she knew what they meant. These red flowers had meaning - an amalgam of passion, desire and… Oh!

Oh!

Did he know?

“Y-you know,” she stutters, her onyx eyes fixing themselves on the beautiful red flower in her cupped palms “Red camellias…mean one more thing.”

It takes him only a fraction of second to curl his arm around her waist to pull her in. Sarada yelps loudly and he blurts out a ‘sorry’ before smashing their lips together. It takes her a moment to register what had happened but he’s already pulling away.

He never averts his gaze away from her, even as he is embarrassed like hell. His blue eyes, shimmering with warmth and affection make her lean into him even more. And the flower is still clutched in her hand.

“I know the meaning,” he tells her, still peering down at her. “Do you?”

Sarada does not hesitate to fist his shirt and drag him down to meet her lips again. This time, they are both prepared. Their lips move in perfect synchronization, tasting each other and melting into each other’s embrace. But the lack of oxygen makes them pull away soon after.

Sarada giggles, huffing for air.

“Do I?”

A moment of stunning quietness follows before they both burst out laughing, unable to hold it together. Sarada is deliriously happy, because how can she not be. This idiot was hers now.

He surprises her though, grabbing her slender wrist which held the flower and bringing it up to him. His lips gently brush her soft fingers, eyes still intently on her and she feels a tingling sensation rush all through her bones.

He smiles.

“It’s your flower.”

“Yes.” She smiles too.

It is mine.

…

Well? I’m super excited to know about your thoughts for this fic. I wrote this in parts with a lot going on in my real life and honestly, I felt as if I had lost touch in. writing BoruSara. I hope this story was enjoyable enough to you all!

Btw, everything I mentioned about Camellias was true! Red camellias do symbolise passion or desire and of course, romantic love as well. They are even coupled with pink camellias to present romantic love.

And all the stuff about Tanabata? I got it from here!

This story was fun for me to write, I hope it was for fun for you all to read as well! A cookie for for thoughts!!!

#borusara #bsaweek19 #borusaraweek19 #boruto x sarada #boruto and sarada #boruto uzumaki #boruto #sarada uchiha #sarada #boruto naruto next generations #adi writes #day 3 #borusara fanfiction #borusarafics

[alitheamateur]

The Grind- Chapter 24

“Stop givin’ her your back, baby. You know betta, damn it!” Colton beat the cold canvas of the ring in constructive dissatisfaction, unintentionally distracting me from Tia’s chokehold attempt.

We were doing daily training now, with the match only two weeks away. Ryan, wasn’t exactly giddy towards accepting this challenge and jumping on this particular horse, the undoubted distraction it would from my column at the Pilot. I swore, and sensibly assured him I could juggle both hefty responsibilities, but the extreme lack of sleep on my calendar these days was proving an obstacle. 

Cardio and weights with Colton routinely every morning in the basement of his place at 4:30 a.m., showered and off to work by 8, then grappling and fight training every evening with my trio. Cal would often sideline for emotional support, too. The fact that Mr. Ritter and I now shared a bed each night, his & her vanity’s in his newly remodeled bathroom thankfully equipped with a bathtub large enough for the both of us, and breakfast in his nook every morning made alone time easy, thankfully. I moved in swiftly after the details of my match with Katrina Bexley from Franklin Park were on paper, accepting Colt’s offer to share a home with him happily.

The contents of my place were relocated to our home within a couple of days, before the cool of Pittsburgh autumn disembarked. He let me sprinkle a feminine touch here and there without dispute, and even bought me my very own pink punching bag for the basement as a housewarming welcome.

“Livvy, c’mon! Take her down, you’ve got it!” My boyfriend turned trainer encouraged.

His part in my preparation had been a surprising positive for our relationship. I could tell, despite how frightened he was for my welfare, that the common ground of fighting we now shared was one he appreciated. He kept up my diet plan with me, avoiding to dare come home with pizza, beer, or burgers, and most nights we’d watch his old fight films, or any other female matches he could dig up online. He’d rest his back on the arm of the plush sectional I’d brought from my old apartment, I’d settle between his legs resting my head on the muscled pillow of his core, and he’d talk me through each move listing the do’s and don’ts.

I carefully counted the seconds, waiting for the exact moment to pummel Tia to the mat, fearing I would misstep. Then, like I’d been doing it my entire life, I locked her into a double leg takedown, and she grunted in discomfort when her head bounced like a ball off the canvas.

“Touché, LC! That was excellent. I’ll bust your nose if you do it again, but it was perfect,” Tia pulled the slimy mouthguard from her teeth as she stood to her feet.

The ring at the Temple had become as much my home as the one I was creating with Colton these days. I often showered in the locker room there at night after sessions, allowing me to crawl directly in bed after the short drive home if need be.

“Hit the sauna with me before you head out?” I asked Tia, hopefully.

We were on much sturdier ground now, and she’d even spent a handful of nights at our house for dinner. Colton and she were teetering a little on the line beyond civil, giving me hopes of a friendship for the two of them in the works.

She came out of her latest match victoriously, and Colt & I were there to support on the front row. However, her eye had suffered quite the beating in the bloody battle, so she was out of commission to compete for at least 6 weeks recommended by her surgeon.

“I’d love to. God knows I need it. But I have an early shift in the morning at the boutique, so I’m gonna head out.”

Colton snuck up my back stealthily during our conversation, wrapping his arms around my neck to kiss my cheek, and the sweat soaked hair stuck to it.

“I think I may know somebody else who has a few extra minutes to occupy the sauna with ya’, 2-1.”

“Ahhhh, fuckin’ hell, you sleeze. I’m out on that note,” Tia made a gagging reference then grabbed her bag to retreat.

 Colton sat aside me on the oak bench of the spacious sauna, with my feet swung over his toweled groin so he could massage the aching, knotted muscles of my calves. It was quiet the first several minutes, so I took the peaceful silence as an opportunity to close my eyes for some long overdue rest. The two of us had already “christened” the very room a few weeks ago, so I knew that nagging plea from Colton had been satisfied and he wouldn’t be begging me. For at least another few days.

“Have you talked to your parents lately? Since you told them about the fight?” He asked, his words breaking through the thick, white steam of the sauna.

He had yet to meet my parents in person, but I settled for a Skype introduction before I moved in. Something felt eerily unsettling about moving with a man when my parents didn’t even know his hair color. My mother, however old, but very clearly not dead, almost yelped when Colton’s fetching smile came into view of the camera, and even dad complimented his “impeccable politeness.”

“Yeah. Dad texted the other day to ask if it would be streaming online so they could watch. I’m sorta shocked at how excited he is. I didn’t think he’d be over the moon about the idea of his daughter getting her face beat in.” I jerked when my personal, irresistible masseuse worked over a deep dwelling tender spot in my leg.

“I think you should have them out here, babe. He’s excited that your competing in somethin’ again, I betcha. They could stay in the guest room at the house,” he calmly, yet very suggestively stated.

Dad being proud of me again, and the thought of hearing his cheers from the stands, was a fond idea, no doubt. But, the possibility of having him come so far, only to get my sorry butt handed to me, and disappoint him once again, wasn’t keen to me.

“I love you, Colt, but we’re gonna have to agree to disagree here. I think having them here, to watch the fight, would just create way too many unnecessary nerves for me, ya’ know?”

He never said another word that night in the aspect of my mom and dad, and we made the journey home.

 Later in the same week, Colton took me to a sweet spot in his precious ‘Burgh to help me check fight night attire off my checklist. He knew what I liked, and more importantly, what I needed to avoid feeling too constricted, and asked if he could call in a favor so the seamstress could have it made up when we arrived. The Pilot was sponsoring me, along with Temple Fitness, and Andrew tossed his hat in for The Grind, as well. I was grateful they’d been so generous with sponsorship donations, and considered it an honor to wear their banners.

The address Colton drove us to was a hole in the wall, and I would’ve considered it abandoned and drove on by had I passed the place myself. But he heeded the tailor was a gem, and one of the finest ladies he’d ever met. When we entered, a teeny bell atop the door jingled, and a teenage girl staring into a book at the counter raised a smile to greet us.

“Hey there, Tessa. How ya’ doin’?” Colton acknowledged the girl by her first name, clearly proving he frequented the place often.

She beamed a candy apple blush at Colton’s ‘hello’, her no older than 16-year-old heart skipping a beat. I didn’t blame her. When I was her age, Nathan Rogers made me quiver that very same way. Was there a single, heterosexual female within 5,000 thousand miles that didn’t want to lick my boyfriend like a melting popsicle?

“I think ya’ grandmother has something ready for me to pick up.” Colt leaned upon the counter, as if feeding into the poor girls drooling response. Much like my own reaction the very first time I laid eyes on him.

“She said you’d be by today. Let me grab it for you!” Tessa jumped from her seat to answer her favorite customers beckoning call.

“That poor girl almost tripped over her own tongue when you walked in here, Ritter. Don’t smile at her like that too much. Give the female population at break, damn it.” I nudged him once the girl disappeared behind the stock room door.

“You gave them a break when ya’ took me off the market and claimed me, baby,” he stuck his tongue out playfully and winked. Of course.

“Oh, what I service I did for my fellow man, huh?” I countered his cheekiness with my own gentle pinch to his toned rear end.  

When the young clerk emerged, she unfolded a black pair of elastic, compression shorts trimmed in pink. The letters of my name printed boldly across the waistband, the young lady observed Colton and I, hoping to gauge any reaction of satisfaction to the product.

“I thought about having Sally put ‘Luscious Liv’ on ‘em, just to stick you with a shit ring name like the one I got.” Colton snidely declared.

“Thank God, you have a heart and decided against that one. For your sake, smartass,” I grabbed him by the face to shake him flippantly. “I love them though, Colt. And, I just might love you, too.”

“Appreciate it as always, Tess!”

Tags: @torialeysha @eap1935 @littleluna98 @mollybegger-blog

A/N: Apologies for the brief chapter, my angels. I’ll make it up to you! I’ve got lots I need to be writing, but it seems my brain is on vacation. Doing the best I can for you all, and hopefully you’ll hang in there with me!

#Tom Hardy #tomhardy #tommy conlon #tomhardyfanfic #tom hardy fanfiction #tomhardyfanfiction #elizabeth olsen #thegrind

[antivanruffles]

Hello! This is some original fic for @caffeineivore, since she donated as part of my fic drive. This is a snippet out of a whole big world of mine that we just affectionately refer to as ‘Highlanders.’ If she ever mentions “h6″ this is that.

When Liam had been given the opportunity to travel to Spain, his head had been full of grand ideas. He imagined immersing himself in the culture, learning all that he could while abroad. He had dreamt of seeing how the fine rapiers were made, perhaps even get a taste of Spanish fencing. The food, the people, the history!

Instead he was a glorified nanny to his two idiot friends.

Muttering a few choice curses he had picked up from Lachlan, Liam sighed and scrubbed at his face with both hands. Wondering how in the name of God he had lost both of them. At the same time. Or rather, how they had both managed to get lost at the same time?

“They’re both grown,” he said to himself. “Is it really my fault if they get lost in the Spanish countryside for the rest of their lives?”

Although he doubted it would be a very warm welcome back home if he returned without the laird to be. No matter how much of a fool he was. And there was no doubt in his mind that Marianne would murder him if he forget to bring Finn home. Leaving them to their own devices was not the answer, however tempting it may be. Unfortunately.

Liam sighed to himself and started to retrace his path through the streets of Santander in hopes of finding Eamon and Finn, since he had little hope either of them would manage to find their way back to La Casa de Maria on their own. Liam made his way through the market, assuming he would find Finn gorging himself on chocolate confections and attempting to count out the correct currency, but surprisingly Finn was nowhere in sight.

With a careful eye, Liam did his best to try to spot his friend, but the odds of hiding a giant blond highlander that more closely resembled a norse viking were slim to none. This obviously meant Liam’s search would not be an easy one.

As the cries from the hockers in the market grew fainter, the brightly colored booths and myriad of trinkets a dim memory, Liam found himself near where the established shops were. Laundresses, seamstresses, lacemakers, and every other textile one could imagine. Here is where he found Finn, set upon by a gaggle of young women who seemed to work for one of the lacemakers as he could hear the bobbins clacking inside the building behind them.

Finn appeared to be a little overwhelmed by the attention, stuttering through his replies in a mixture of English and Spanish. That, however, didn’t seem to deter the young ladies, all of whom appeared to be quite taken with the idea of a strapping young Scotsman.

Wide grey-blue eyes met Liam’s over the dark heads of hair. Finn grasped his moment for escape with both hands, and he started to brush passed the young ladies, still using a mixture of Spanish and English.

“My friend, uh, mi amigo? We… vamos? Adiós!” He made leap toward Liam, grabbed his shoulder and all but ran from the gaggle of now sad young women.

“What happened?” Liam asked once they were far enough away.

“I don’t know.” Finn shrugged. “I was trying to get back to the market, so I asked one of those lasses. Then she waved over her friend, who waved over another friend. I don’t think they’d ever seen a Scotsman before.”

“Aye, you’re such a novelty.” Liam rolled his eyes. Of course Finn missed all the doe eyes and swooning.

“Where’s Eamon?”

“I was hoping you knew?”

“No, I thought he was with you!”

Liam sighed, shoulders sagging. “Back to my search. Come on, Finn. At least you’re another set of eyes.”

Surprisingly, it didn’t take them all that long to find Eamon. They traveled up a few of the side streets and stumbled across him quite by accident. In fact they likely would have passed him by if not for his loud, and rather pathetic, hollar in their direction.

Turning as one, Liam and Finn came upon the sight of their friend and future laird, soaking wet and sprawled in a rather gangly fashion in a large wash tub. It obviously belonged to one of the laundresses, judging by the washboard and laundry hanging beyond it. Although no one else was in sight save Eamon.

Small mercies, Liam thought.

“Should I ask what happened?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Eamon moaned. He attempted to get up only to slip back into the tub, sloshing water all over the cobblestones. It was all Liam could do not to laugh. Finn, however, was not to tactful, letting out a loud bark of laughter at his friend’s plight.

“Stop laughing and help me out, you mithering bawbag!”

“Since you asked so nicely….” Finn was still giggling as he helped pull Eamon from his watery prison.

Sopping wet, Eamon much resembled a drowned rat as he attempted to shake out of the water from his boots and wring out the ends of his shirt. He seemed to be trying hard not to pout, although when he was upset it just seemed to be what his face did. For better or worse.

Liam was still struggling not to laugh.

“Can we go now?” Eamon asked miserably, brushing back his wet hair from his face only to have it fall back into his eyes.

“I’d like to know how you got in this predicament. Usually you save your baths for private.” Liam tilted his head.

“It’s a long story.” Eamon sniffed, a little haughty.

“Can’t be that long, you’ve not been out of my sight for more than an hour.”

“I’ll tell you once I’m dry. Now, let’s go so that I may change.” Eamon was trying for politeness, most likely because he knew the more he pushed the more resistance he would meet, however the pinpricks of pink starting in the center of his cheeks gave away his annoyance. And embarrassment.

Liam decided to take pity on his friend, and nodded. “Fine, I’ll lead the way back to Maria’s. Come along you numpties.”

He visibly relaxed at that, falling in line with Finn as Liam started steering them up the street.

“Eamon? Doesn’t Emilia work around here?”

“Does she?” Eamon’s voice hitched up.

“Aye, I think so.”

“I didn’t know.” Eamon’s voice was still unusually high, and casting wary glances over his shoulder.

“It wasn’t another ‘misunderstanding’ was it?” Liam cocked an eyebrow.

“Was what?” Eamon’s eyes were wide, dark brows inching up his forehead.

Looking back down the street, Liam just happened to catch a glimpse of a brightly colored skirt and a long braid of dark hair. Emilia wasn’t actively watching them leave, but she was certainly aware of it.

“Never mind,” Liam said with a shake of his head. He couldn’t imagine how horribly Eamon had mangled his Spanish in order to earn being shoved into a tub of dirty laundry water, but at this point he wasn’t shocked by it.

One day Emilia was probably going to kill Eamon, and Liam wasn’t entirely sure he would stop her.

#caffeineivore #fic drive fic #my writing #my original characters

[theregoesjodariel]

Supergem: Writer’s Notes, Chapters 1-10

Hey gang! It’s a long time coming, but I finally got off my ass and finished the full notes for chapters 1-10 of Supergem, my big huge SU fic. I’m just about to finally get to work on the next batch of chapters, so I figured now would be a great time to look back on what I’ve done so far and provide some hopefully interesting commentary. Read on for that stuff!

Chapters 1-5

Right off the bat, chapter 1's title is a reference to the now-famous single-page retelling of Superman's origin story from All-Star Superman #1. There, "kindly couple" was used to summarize Clark Kent's crashlanding on Earth and discovery by the Kents.

Chapter 2 features what I feel would be the natural result of trying to fire bullets at a Gem: absolutely nothing. While Gems are obviously made of hard light and have been shown to be capable of being hurt by conventional means-- see Peridot getting Wile E. Coyote'd by the corrupted Gem in Beta-- I like to imagine that bullets are simply so small and so high-velocity that they'd pass through Gem bodies harmlessly. The science is probably wrong, but let me have my Rule of Cool.

Aside from sporting the amalgamated personalities of Lapis and Peridot, the two superheroes Turquoise takes the most inspiration from are Superman and Spider-Man. She shows at least some compassion for all people, even bad guys, like Superman, and she throws plenty of quips, especially when getting it handed to her, like Spidey.

As stated in the notes, I do not have a set design in mind for Turquoise, but I DID end up canonizing elements of a couple of designs I really like within the story. She sports the unique five-pointed hairstyle and orange suspenders of ahhween's design, as well as the cool cyan color scheme and water cape of cheerkitty1410's. Those two are just fantastic.

Axinite is a Gem OC of mine, a gladiatrix who fights in arenas on Homeworld, which function as the world's equivalent of recreational sports. A lot of the lore I have for her is regurgitated in the narration.

There are, of course, a couple of lines from "Stronger Than You" in chapter 4. There's the title, plus Turquoise correcting Val that the fight is one-on-two.

When I created the character, I actually completely failed to notice Val's considerable resemblance to Jasper, both in appearance (big, bulky and orange) and personality (haughty, judgmental). Naturally, when it hit me, I wrote in a nod to it in chapter 4.

Chapter 4 sees Turquoise and Val's fight spill into a mall, the very same one from Pearls' Night Out, currently my only other multi-chapter work. Rhiannon and Diane, both OCs from there, also make cameos (Rhiannon is the employee who points Turquoise in Val's direction, Diane is the journalist who interviews her on the street).

Pearl and Jasper handle city planning like military tacticians, because, well, they are military tacticians. They're also very overdramatic about it, natch.

Amazonite is a close friend of mine's gemsona, a former Crystal Gem who retired to become a seamstress after the corrupted Gems were all cured.

A couple of things involving Jasper take inspiration from the excellent Back to Beta. Pearl acts as Jasper's parole officer of sorts, rewarding her with Pearl Points for doing a good job and Jasper has an attachment to Earth music for its ability to say what cannot be said through simple speech, just like in there. Go read Back to Beta if you haven't, it's outstanding (it's also Jaspearl-- look at me go).

In one of many instances of Jodi Doing Too Much Research Into Things That Don't Matter, I actually broke out my copy of SU: Art & Origins to study its map of Beach City to determine just how nitpicky Pearl and Jasper were being.

Why do the Nephrites want to talk to Pearl? Maybe we'll find out....

Garnet "borrowed" Andy's plane to go to Empire City. That's a step up from "finding" a phone, don't you think?

I like to imagine that Bismuth has been rooting for Lapis and Peri to get together since the moment she met them. Her gaydar is just that good.

Believe it or not, I genuinely considered having Turquoise adopt a secret identity at one point during planning. I call myself out on it through Steven in chapter 5.

I knew I just couldn't do this story without Jasper since she is, in a way, the villain (or at least a villain) in Turquoise's origin story. As an abuse survivor, showing the ramifications of her and Lapis' time as Malachite as best I could was tantamount to the main storyline.

Chapters 6-10

The foreshadowing in chapter 6's identity should make Ms. Knight's identity a no-brainer for seasoned SU fans. No one spoil it if you figure it out, though!

Ronaldo is absolutely, positively, 100%, one of the guys who doesn't shower before the convention. That's so him it hurts.

The generally meta premise of chapters 6-9 were the result of me drafting them right after I got home from my city's local big convention, which I had a wonderful time at. I did my first ever cosplay (I was Pearl!) there and managed to hold decent conversations with Zach Callison, Deedee Magno Hall, Michaela Dietz, and Estelle. The layout of DelmarvaCon is even copied from the layout of that convention center.

In one of many moments of narrative intersecting with reality, I did some sleuthing and found that Paulette was, in her very brief on-screen appearance, voiced by Deedee Magno Hall, Pearl's voice actress. As said above, I met Deedee at the con I went to. You know how everyone on and off set never stops talking about how nice she is? They're not exaggerating, she's a fantastic person. Kim Tan is fully based on her, taking her name from a couple of Hall's other roles (Kim in Miss Saigon and a bit character named Lori Tan from an episode of Third Watch) and Lapis and Peridot's encounter with her is based on my own; while she didn't usher us ahead of the line to meet her, she did take pictures of my friend and I's cosplays for free when she was supposed to be charging for them. Seriously, nicest celebrity I've ever met.

Chapter 7 has Peridot riff that she can "observe 800 moving objects and compute their direction of travel," a phrase long used to describe Prowl in the Transformers franchise. It has no character significance here, I was on a Transformers kick at the time of writing.

The uncomfortable pulling sensation mentioned in chapter 7 is called an "itch," a callback to The Itch, the oneshot serving as prelude to this fic. There, "the itch" is used to refer to the deeply unsettling feeling a Gem gets when fitted with limb enhancers-- think the feeling you have or would have felt from a dentist fitting you with those awful rubber bands to help with the braces process, it's that kind of feeling. The feeling being given off by Ronaldo's control device is similar, "adding" to a Gem when nothing need be added.

The long opening narration in chapters 8 and 9 were inspired by the writing style of comic book writer Scott Snyder, who has a tendency to start, end, or intersperse his comics with long, expositional comparative musings on seemingly simple or mundane things (seriously, count the number of times one of his Batman comics opens with narration explaining the philosophical meaning behind the rocks used to make buildings in Gotham City).

The cost of Connie's sword is, as stated in the story proper, a rough estimate borne from around half an hour of research. While there are other pink stones that could've been used, I picked pezzotaite because of its extreme rarity, just to drive home how absurdly all-out Bismuth went on it.

Give Jasper a metal-style song in Season 6, Crewniverse!

I like to think Jasper and Greg would be good friends. Think about it: you've just found out your former moral enemies were not only led by, but had close relationships with, the person you spent your whole life idolizing. Who do you talk to about it? Why not the person who knew her more intimately than anyone else?

At the end of the Turquoise and Steven segment in chapter 10, the two sit down to watch Crying Breakfast Friends' extra-length season finale, in which a number of characters get new outfits. Now what could that be referencing?

The narration of Jasper's thoughts makes reference to the exiled Hessonite, antagonist of Steven Universe: Save the Light and a criminally underrated character.

I'd like to preface this point with a content warning for abuse, as I'll be discussing that a bit here.

So, as I mentioned briefly in the 1-5 notes, I'm an abuse survivor; I broke up with my abuser, who I had been with for just about 3 months, in February of this year. An acquaintance of mine has since drafted a document exhaustively detailing all of the bad shit they did for which receipts could be found, and my abuser has reacted with avoidance, victim blaming, and a refusal to apologize. I wasn't yet aware of just how in denial of her own mistakes they were when I wrote chapter 10, so I tried to write Pearl and Jasper's conversation as how I wished the conversation my abuser had with themselves would go, in a perfect world.

To get reflective for a moment, writing that has taught me, in a way I hadn't seen before, how Steven Universe's real, heartfelt redemption arcs, as fantastically-written and just generally good as they are, don't always apply in real-world scenarios. My shitty ex is not Jasper and they never will be.

#imadethis #intel files #su #lapidot

[accio-firewhiskey]

Penance Series: From Here to There (formerly Blandishments)

Summary: Belle continues to make hats with Jefferson. Penance Series. Teen!Belle. Age 13-14. References and quotes from Goblin Market.

--

Her visits he cannot call (cannot call at’all—Regina fails to pay the bill) frequent, but they do occur, at least. Often-even: last summer and fall, the weather agreeable for much longer than usual, but with the first snowfall, the weather was against their seamstressing. She could not cross his threshold, could not drink his tea. The imp no longer accompanied his ward, whenever she knocked upon Hatter’s door, but that did not ease his fear—far or near, Rumpelstiltskin was always, always, always to be feared.

There is still snow on the ground when she knocks in late January. “Isn’t this a surprise,” he says, leaning against the doorframe, with a smirk. He lies, because he spied her walking this way, despite the sludge on the curbs, piled there from trucks and dirtied with mud and salt. She’d slipped from the house, Rumpelstiltskin out to lurk about the town, thinking her safe and warm and reading by his fireplace. Instead, she’s here, wrapped up in a coat and boots, sewing kit pocketed. Her needles are leather and upholstery needles, so quite sharp. She pricked herself more times than he can count on both their hands, drawing enough blood for curses a-plenty, but Jefferson had burned the tissues and made no mention when his warden came ‘round.

 He had his own use for her, after all.

 “Hi,” she answers, eyes and smile bright, eager little thing. She’s not so slight anymore, jutting up, a growth spurt since last she stood on his porch. She holds up her kit, small and perfect—like her. Like his Grace. “I thought we could practice.”

 He shivers not, but feels the cold without his coat, pouring past him into the house. He does not move, but chuckles, “Wool and snow do not mix.”

 She frowns, “What?”

 Drawing the door shut behind him, he saunters around to the back veranda, where the iron-rod table and chairs still bear a layer of snow and ice, “I think we’re out of luck today, Jingle.”  

 She places her be-mittened hands on the wrought-iron chair, and toys the foot of her boot in the snow, “We could go inside?”

 Jefferson smirks, “What a naughty trick to play.” Brushing his hand across the table, he swats a handful of half-melted snow at the little nuisance. “Now you know we can’t do that—your guardian would lose his head and so would I,” he tells her, tilting his face this way and that (the irony of the statement is lost on the child). She doesn’t answer, and he can see that she’s building a snowball. He rolls his eyes at this game of theirs, but magic was in short supply, with Regina dipping into her stores once every few years. This jingle bell would have to do. “Why would you want to get me in trouble with your Mr. Gold?”

 She packs the snowball between her hands, tight and icy—it would hurt if she knew how to aim (he thinks that’s not the only weapon she could wield). “He doesn’t have to know?” she poses the statement as a question.

 Grasping her wrist just as she brought it back to lob the snowball at him, he crumbles it over her head, as she giggles, “That’s not how this works.”

 “Hey!” she squeals, brushing the snow from her hat and hair.

 Bending down on his haunches so they are face to face, he admits, “You’re not ready.”

 “Ready for what?”

 “To go inside.”

 “Why not?” she asks impertinent.

 “Because the day we make hats inside is the day you never come back.”

 She blinks at him, and as she mulls over the words her smile droops and then falls (she dwindled, he thinks to himself, dwindled, as the fair full moon—they weren’t ready yet for the swift decay and burn. Her fire wasn’t ready yet).

 The moments holds: she must not cross his threshold, must not drink his tea, but then Jefferson winks and stands and tosses more snow in her direction, “Come back when it’s dry. We’ll work on bowler hats.”

 --

 She comes back a month later. She comes back but waits just long enough that Jefferson begins to worry he did indeed scare her. Her hats improve, despite the bite in the February air, despite their iced fingers (her repartee too, is biting and improved, he hates that he looks forward to these visits, because magic is cruel and he only wants her magic).

 “Why don’t you go outside,” she asks, mid-stitch.

 “We are outside,” he replies in a mumble, his mouth full of straight pins.

 Belle rolls her eyes, “Not your yard, but, you know, outside, into the city.”

 He scoffs, “Generous.”

 “What?”

 “It’s hardly a town—Storybrooke is a play thing, little and trite, what’s to see out there anyway—Storybrooke is for the dolls?”

 Her face takes on a strange expression at the mention of dolls (and he knows she sneaks around to play with her dollies when Rumpelstiltskin is away), “Don’t you get lonely all by yourself?”

 “Nosy, nosy, nosy, Jingle!” he says, tapping her own button nose, “Didn’t your owner teach you that nosy girls lose their noses, fingers and all ten toes?”

 She frowns at him, huffing, “He’s not my owner.”

 Tilting his head, taking the final pin from his mouth and depositing it into the half-a-hat in his hands, he asks, “Then what is he?”

  His loud, ringing, annoying, endearing little bell takes her time to answer him, but finally shrugs, “He just isn’t.”

 --

 She takes longer to return again and looks quite worn down. Her only words of explanation: “School.”

 “Ah, I see.” He doesn’t see. He never had tutors in the old world. Grace never had tutors in the old world. Though his apprenticeship had worn him ragged—but he wore raggedy so well. Perhaps that’s why he’d never stopped.

 That and the poverty.

 They finish three hats—just hats, for a hat without magic is just another hat—and the final one tips over, as she hops from the chair to stand. They were done for the day, and she was gathering up her things, but Jefferson, setting the hat upside down, on a whim he offhandedly orders: “You should give it a spin.”

 Belle looked up, a question between her brow.

 He threw his head toward the hat, “Come on, like this,” he shows her the move. “It’s all in the wrist.”

 The hat does nothing but spin—has done nothing but spin for fourteen years and more for Jefferson, but maybe, just maybe (it was so hard, not speaking to her of magic—not even a whisper—and he had crossed his heart he wouldn’t, but there would come a time, when his heart would break and free him from his promises, promises).

 Staring up at him, mouth agape, the child spins the cap.

 Nothing.

 It wobbles and topples over, “Like that?”

 He sighs, “No, not like that.”

 --

 Next time, they decide to make use of the greenhouse. Yes, Regina gave him a greenhouse to hold all the dead things he can’t make grow. He can make hats without magic and vegetables without life. How splendid. How talented.

 She runs through the space a little wild, bouncing like a rabbit, huffing like a caterpillar. He leans against the doorway, wondering at the wisdom of this exercise. She’d asked again to see the inside of his house. He should call Gold, make him keep her in line. This didn’t fit with his timeline (and he had never been a patient man). She was curious about these strange rules and this strange man who made hats and odd quips.

 “Quips” she called them, she got it from her caregiver’s vocabulary. So strange listening to the Dark One’s wit from the mouth of a child—she’s innocent, yes, but she could be oh, so wicked someday.  

 She twirls about, in cap and gown, and the hatter, has to blink (as he tries to chip away at his impervious chains—clink—clink—clink).

She looks like his Grace, dancing through outdoor rooms and space, and worlds…

Jefferson shakes his head, and snatching the top hat off the child, mid-spin, he throws a thumb to the door, “That’s enough haberdashery for one day.” Too stuffy in the greenhouse anyway, in the May-day heat.

 --

 Jefferson hates summertime and summertime hates Jefferson. His neck sweats from the scarves, and the scar tissue breaks out from the sweat. The heat prickles under his heavy garments. He is a mess, inside and out, stir crazy from not stirring out of doors. His mind stirs with possibilities and limitations, and he watches.

 He watches everything, for there is so much to watch.

 He spots them, Jingle Belle and Grace. They play in the park. They walk to the beach. They talk with dwarves and avoid Paige’s parents. Each time, he drops the telescope and stalks away, to bang his head against a wall.

 He does not stop watching. They flit from here to there and everywhere in between (but nowhere near him—never near him). Asking the Jingle Belle to bring his Grace from there to here would be too much, too much a request.

 When next she calls, his hands twitch with the desire to ask her every single question about his Grace, but he restrains himself. He does not even let her practice their craft: “Today’s not good, Jingle. Today’s no good at all.” Wraps his free hand around his torso. He would wrap the other around himself when she left.

 She looks sad but swipes away the sweat from her forehead from running all the way from Rumpelstiltskin’s castle to play haberdashers with her strange friend without arguing over his dismissal. He wonders if Grace can sew. He wonders where she’s run to since he’d left his post to answer the loud, annoying little doorbell.

 Closing the door he thinks to himself that summertime hates Jefferson, because he’s the only one that can see that summertime means nothing when the year repeats itself over and over and over and over.

 (He wraps his arms around himself and rocks over and over and over).  

 --

 Regina has tried his nerves. Life has tried his nerves. Queens and cards and hat boxes and telephone receivers have all tried his nerves. The air conditioning unit has broken, and it is so very hot inside and out that even the telescope glass has fogged. What’s more, even to begin with, he had so little nerve to try.

 Then the doorbell rang.

 He knows it’s her, blue jay, bluebonnet, bluebell, blue and cool and so very, very trying. He opens the door only a crack, “Today’s no good, Jingle.” Not when he’s stressing his seams, and all his filling feels fit to burst.

 She frowns, Gold’s little bird, Gold’s little flower. She’s in bloom, his darling dear danger. “You said that last time,” she pouts. He thinks her nearly about to stamp a foot, but she stops just short.

 (But not so short, because she grows here. He’s seen a wall in Granny’s marked with the heights of her and wolf girl. Blue’s steadily inches up the door frame, while Red’s jumps, once a year—all her inches coming from the queen’s drop of loose magic. It’s lazy and sloppy and he knows that Jingle notices the sputtering spurts. She’s no fool. She’s a jack or an ace, some day perhaps even a queen in her own right).

 Today she’s a child and has a child’s temper. He can smell her sweaty hair and the scent of freshly mown grass clippings, in that way of all children in summertime. Even his Grace, surely. Wilted lilacs sit behind her ear, and it does not match, the violet color, with her indigo eyes, but the terror does not turn away. She stares, this mismatched picture, crossing her arms over her chest, and argues with him, “Please. I’m bored.”

 Bored, she says; she’s no idea what true boredom meant, “No.”

 “Jefferson,” Belle whines. “Just this once,” an idea strikes her, “I didn’t see you around my birthday—this could be my birthday present!”

 His eyes narrow: “You have grown.”

 “You don’t look any older,” she replies, squinting with her child’s honesty.

 “Oh, but I am,” he leans closer, “older than you can possibly imagine.”  

 She laughs, for no reason, and he laughs too. Hearing it in his own ears, it is a feral sound. Strangely, he begins to wonder why he denied her. What was the harm, laughing with Gold’s pet? What was the harm, pulling out his needles and fabric scissors? “Well, maybe,” he begins.

 She claps her hands together, and turns to the backyard, but Jefferson stares down at her, noticing her cheeks, little globes, fair and red. She is overheated; they could not, should not sit out in the sun, nor would the greenhouse do, for it was sure to be ten degrees warmer. Perhaps, if they opened every window, some doors even, that would be enough. They could let some breeze into the house, and if the wind blew, where they really inside at all?

 They could let themselves into the house, surely they could. Stepping back, he pushes the door open fully, and waves an arm, “Hey, Jingle.”

 She turns, eyes widening, realizing what he’s offering as her gift, “Really?”

 “Well, this is supposed to be a present, after all.”

 --

 They hear something else fall in a different room. She looks up from her hat, the ribbons blowing in the wind from the window. “Are you sure we should have all these windows open?” Mr. Gold hated when she left a window open anywhere near the study and his papers and files blew off the desk. “There’s gonna be a lot to clean up.”

 He waves his hand wildly at her, “It’s fine. It’s fine. Just keep sewing.”

 Her hands stop. Jefferson was acting weird. For a minute, she wonders if this was a bad idea. She hadn’t told Mr. Gold she was going over to work on hats. It was just an idea, after Ruby had to go help Granny in the diner. She was bored. Mr. Gold was busy all day in the shop, and Miss Kathy had work too, but Mr. Jefferson never had anything to do.

 He was always there, in his big house.

 After inviting her inside, they had worked to open most of the windows on the bottom floor. She got to see the kitchen, dining room, and more sitting and living rooms that even Mr. Gold’s house had. Next, they’d moved to the second floor. Here he didn’t let her into every room, but all the rooms she did see where filled with hats. Hats of all kinds. Some were finished, some were half done.

 (“Why don’t you finish them?” she had asked. “Because it makes no difference,” he had answered.”)

 They had gotten to work, at an extra tall table, like the bar in the kitchen at home. Her feet didn’t reach the floor, and he’d had to grab her a stool from downstairs. He offered to bring her tea—he didn’t smirk or laugh—seemed like he didn’t remember Mr. Gold’s rules at all.

 She said “no, thank you” with all her polite manners. She was thirsty, but not too thirsty. Besides, if she was too thirsty, she could just go home. It would be fine.

 Jefferson complimented her work every so often—more than usual. “That’s a very fine hat, very fine indeed.”

 “Thanks.”

 “Maybe this one’s special?”

 She opens her mouth, to ask what he means, when the doorbell rings.

 They both drop their work.

 “Shit,” Jefferson says.

 Her heart to pounds; if it was Mr. Gold she was in serious trouble, more serious than when she had bitten the dentist or kicking Mrs. Mavis’ cat, more serious than sneaking into the mayor’s yard—maybe the most serious trouble she had ever been in her whole life.

 Apparently, Jefferson was going to be in serious trouble too. “Shit, shit.” Racing around the table, he nearly pulls her off the barstool by the neck on her shirt. “We got to hide you.” Dragging her to the opposite end of the humongous room, he pushes her toward a counter. “Get up there,” letting her go, he opens one of the cabinets above. “This should hold.” Throwing the contents out, he orders, “Climb in.”

 It’s only a moment before the doorbell rings a second time, and she finally obeys, fearing confession more than being discovered. He closes the door on her, and, in the dark, she can hear him racing down the stairs.

 She tries to stop breathing so hard.

 --

 Jefferson curses to himself. This was a bad idea, but then he didn’t think Rumpelstiltskin had it in him to wait for an answer to the first doorbell if he truly believe his little pet inside. No, Rumpelstiltskin would have worked the door open, worked him open, worked everything down to the bone if he thought Belle inside.

 The very fact that Jefferson stood to run downstairs, to compose himself before opening the door, meant that it most certainly was not Mr. Gold, which meant it could only be one other person—which meant it could only be worse, far, far worse.

 Already, he could feel himself struggling to keep the deck together between shuffling and dealing, but with one queen up his sleeve, and one at his door, he wasn’t sure how long he could keep this going.

 He opens the door, slipping his free hand into his pocket, he smiles at his surprise visitor: “Regina, to what do I owe the honor?”

 She raises an eyebrow, “Well, someone’s in a better mood.” She holds two paper bags on her hip. “Thought I’d make my deliveries in person this month.”

 He frowns, “You didn’t bring a toolbox by chance?”

 She rolls her eyes, “Now, now, it can’t be that warm.” Ah, so she had gotten his message after all. Although, as she makes her way into the kitchen, Jefferson following, he can tell she doesn’t care for the temperature. “I called the AC guy. He should be here later in the week.” She unceremoniously drops his supplies down on the countertop, looking around, taking in the open windows, “Fresh air—not very like you, Jefferson.”

 He shrugs, forcing a casual reply, “What was I supposed to do?”

 The blood-red queen opens her mouth to answer, when they both hear a creak—from up above. She raises an eyebrow, and after a beat, shoves past him toward the stairs, “Jefferson, are you entertaining?”  

 “Regina!” he calls, taking the steps two at a time. He slips between her and the doorway, resting his elbow against it, blocking the work space with his body, “You know how I feel about keeping my work private.”

 She glares at him, “Uh huh—I’m well acquainted with you work.” The queen barrels past him, her eyes darting around. She throws open the cabinet door beneath the table, checks inside the closet. Finding nothing, she sighs, turning back to Jefferson.

 “What are you looking for?”

 “I’m looking for—” she stops, as her eyes narrow on the two hats on the table. “Jefferson, I’m only going to ask you once more: are you hiding someone from me?” her voice is near a whisper, and far more threatening than usual.

 “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  She points to the two hats on the table, half-made, on pins and needles—just like him. “Then what are those?” she asks innocent—as innocent as when he had first met her.

 His heart falls to his feet, and he feels just like when his body fell to the floor, detached from his head. He feels as if he watches his body move all of its own accord. Sauntering over, he takes the hat from her hands sharply, “What? Never known someone to multi-task? But then you always were a little single-minded.”

 She frowns, “You’re lying.” She slowly circles him, but with little warning, flips, crossing the room to throw open the high cabinets above the countertop, yelling “Ah-hah!”

 It’s empty.

 When he can manage to inhale, he raises a hand, “See—stop being so paranoid. Are you getting heat stroke?”

 Regina rushes him, and with a finger to his chest, tells him, “Whatever you’re playing at, Hatter, you better know that I have a monopoly on magic around here.”

 “You know, never been much on the game myself.”

 “You’re crazy,” she mocks, “and you’re not going anywhere—so give it up. Any magic—anyone special—you think you’ve found, it’s because I’ve let you.” She pushes past him, and the sound of the door slamming can be heard from the workroom, but Jefferson doesn’t register it.

 A little head pops up from outside the window sill, “That was scary!” Hopping back into the room, Belle flexes her fingers, “That’s a lot harder than trees.” She looks up to her friend, who stands stock still, “Jefferson. You okay?”

 He turns to her, “You have to make it work.”

 Belle frowns, “Make what work.” After a second, she asks, “Why did the mayor call you ‘Hatter’?”

 “Yes—the hat, you have to fix it.” He walks up, and Belle without meaning to, takes a step backward. He takes her by the shoulders and guides her back to the worktable. “You have to make it work or I’m never going home, I’ll never get her back.”

 Belle frowns, “Get who back?”

 He sighs, “Not yet—finish it. Finish the hat.”

 Belle pushes down the feelings of fear. It feels like earlier, with his odd words and movements, but worse, much. Hands shaking just a little, she picks up her hat. This one has an orange ribbon. He paces behind her as she works, and strangely it does not slow her down—he is making her nervous—but somehow it speeds up her stitches, feeling him right behind her shoulder.

 As she ties her final knot in the threat and cuts off the excess, Jefferson grabs it from her hands.

 “I’m done.” She begins to move to stand, but he stops her.

 “No, not until you make it work.”

 “Make what work.”

 “Spin it, spin it, but with magic—you have magic, I know you can do it.”

 Belle eyes widen, “Magic—magic’s not real, Jefferson. Magic is just in stories.” She’s worried now, worried about her friend (worried about herself).

 He laughs then, a heavy, honeyed chuckle, “No—no it’s not—what do you think all those stories are you learn in school? Does that make them any less real because you learned about them as stories?”

 “Jefferson—I don’t—”

 “Come on! Don’t be so gullible, Jingle—that’s exactly what she wants you to believe! It’s that kind of thinking that got you stuck in her tower in the first place! Now get it to work.” His hands wrap around hers, and he makes her spin the hat as they had that one other time. He makes her spin it over and over.

 Nothing happens.

 “You’re not trying hard enough!” Jefferson practically shouts. “You have to try—or I’ll be cursed to live in this town forever.” Despite all his blandishments, all his training and praise, she’s holding out, she’s keeping all the magic for herself.

 Selfish—just like everyone else.

 “Make it work!” he shouts, but the kid twists and suddenly there’s an elbow to his stomach, quickly followed by one to his groin, and then she’s gone, racing out the door.

 --

 Belle doesn’t stop running until she’s far, far away from Jefferson’s place.

 Magic, he’d said she had magic, and towers and curses, too. He spoke words from her nightmares—and worse, he’d yelled at her.

 She stops to catch her breath after hopping the fence into Gold’s garden. That’s when she realizes she’s crying.

 She thinks of Mr. Knightley, the gym teacher, and she’s so thankful for the lessons. Belle never thought she would ever have to use those, but her training kicked in just when she needed it. Belle never thought she would have to use those on Jefferson.

 Jefferson was her friend, but he had scared her. She wipes harshly at her face, getting rid of her stupid tears. She was safe now. She was home.

 Mr. Gold never needed to know—

 “Belle?”

 She jumps, throwing her arms up in front of her, only to see Mr. Dove, standing there, shovel in hand, wearing a plain apron she recognizes from when Mr. Gold pulls weeds during the weekends.

 “Mr. Dove,” she squeaks.

 “What’s happened?” he asks in his deep voice. He takes in her wild hair, torn shorts and red eyes. He frowns, gripping the shovel tight, “Did someone hurt you?”

 “No—don’t tell Mr. Gold!”

 Mr. Dove frowns, “You’re not supposed to lie Miss French, and you know I can’t lie to Mr. Gold either.”

 She frowns, her tears creeping back up on her, “He’s going to be so mad at me.”

 Sympathy colors the hired hand’s face, “No, don’t cry, Miss Belle.” He sets down the shovel and takes off the apron. “Maybe we can talk about this.” He opens the back door and motions for her to enter first, as befitting a lady, and Dove follows right behind.

 More than comfortable in Gold’s pink house, the large man first fetches the little girl a cold glass of water, which she drinks too fast, causing her to cough. He refills her glass, only after which he gets one for himself. Once cooled, he takes a seat at the kitchen table beside her and asks quietly, “Why would Mr. Gold be mad?”

 “I went someplace I wasn’t supposed to go.”

 He sighs, “Why weren’t you supposed to go?”

 “Because Mr. Gold didn’t think it was safe.”

 Dove gives her a sharp look, and she begins to tear up. “Was it safe, Miss Belle?”

 She shakes her head, “No.”

 “Did someone hurt you?”

 “No.”

 He scratches his chin, “But you were scared.”

 She nods in reply, drinking some more of her water, holding it in both her hands.

 “I think,” he begins diplomatically, “that Mr. Gold is just going to be happy that you got away and that you’re safe now.” She looks up at him. She always had trouble finding her voice around Mr. Dove, but in this moment, she feels so very safe sitting next to him, knowing he’s in the pink house. “I think you should clean up, and maybe you will feel brave enough to tell Mr. Gold what happened.”

 Belle wipes at her eyes again, “Will you stay?”

 “Of course, Miss French.”

 Nodding, she pushes back her chair and heads upstairs, but as she turns on the water to take a shower, she hears Mr. Dove on the phone: “Mr. Gold, I think you need to close the shop early today.”

 --

 When Belle gets out of the shower, brushes her hair and puts on clean clothes, she knows Mr. Gold is home. She can hear them both downstairs, talking over things like “scraped knee,” “terribly frightened,” “running like her life depended on it.”

 She frowns: she was definitely in a lot of trouble.

 Walking downstairs, she keeps her hands behind her back, prim and proper. In the kitchen she finds Mr. Dove washing dishes (a clean apron on, once again) and Mr. Gold sitting at the kitchen table in his usual seat, cane balanced in front of him—he usually liked something to do with his hands while he waited to pronounce judgement (but it wasn’t usually her who was awaiting a sentence).

 He raises an eyebrow to his little ward when he notices her, “Ah, now I hear it’s been an eventful afternoon.”

 Mr. Dove turns to Belle and gives her a little nod. She takes in a big breath and begins her confession, “I did something I’m not supposed to do.”

 Mr. Gold frowned, stating sharply, “I figured that much.”

 A dish clanks loudly in the sink, and her caregiver rolls his head in that direction, “Something to add, Dove?”

 “No, sir.” Mr. Dove answers dispassionately and only mildly sarcastic.

 Turning back to his ward, Mr. Gold prompts, “You were saying?”

 “I went to make hats with Mr. Jefferson.”

 Mr. Gold’s eyes widen, “You what?”

 “I went—”

 He holds up a hand, “I heard what you said. What I can’t believe is that you would go without telling me. We had a deal.” He stamps his cane on the floor, almost without realizing, “We don’t lie to one another.”

 “I know,” she answers, guilty.

 “Now what happened to make you run like hell?”

 “Mr. Jefferson scared me.”

 “You didn’t drink or eat anything, did you?”

 “No, we just made hats.” She refrains from mentioning Mayor Mills, “but Mr. Jefferson was acting different.”

 “Different?” Gold asks.

 “Yeah, I think he was confused. Maybe sick.” Belle tells him of their hats and how he kept telling her to make it work, and finally, his words on magic. She confesses it all to Mr. Gold.

 When she’s finished. Gold sighs, rubs a hand down his face, but finally stands and walks over to the girl. She wants to start, hunching her shoulders, waiting for her fate.

 He puts a hand to her shoulder, “You got away. You used your training. That’s what matters.” Mr. Dove goes back to washing his dishes—Belle realizes he’d been silent, waiting on the verdict nearly as much as she. “There are still consequences for lying and rule breaking, but I’m just happy you’re safe.”

 Then, Belle blinks in surprise, as Gold pulls her into a stilted hug. He never hugs her. Praises her, teases her, gives her gifts, but he never, never hugs her. After a moment, she hugs him back, “You’re not angry?”

 “Oh, I’m angry, but not with you—well, not entirely.” He pulls back, making her look him in the eye, “There will be consequences, however.” Gold thinks for a moment, “Grounding, I think, until you can remember the importance of veracity.”

 “Veracity?”

 “Truth, dearie.”

 She nods.

 “More hours in the shop too, I think.”

 She held back a groan—should couldn’t read nearly as much in the shop as she wanted, but as she walks to her room (her grounding starting immediately), she thinks it won’t be so bad, as long as she’s with Mr. Gold.

 --

 Jefferson’s asleep when the sound of a door being kicked in rouses him—his door to be precise. Scrambling from where he’d fallen asleep on the floor, he rushes to find some sort of weapon (for he knows who to expect, he knows that nothing good can have come from his afternoon experiment).

 He reaches for a chair, when he senses more than hears the first attempt at a blow. He catches the cane in his own hand. He uses it to push Rumpelstiltskin away, giving himself enough time to grab the chair.

 “We had a deal, boy.”

 “I lied.” He counters a wild attempt at his head with the chair, and using it as a shield, pushes the crippled man back toward the table in the center of the room. Jefferson takes the opportunity to race out, in search of a better weapon. He has a baseball bat two rooms down. He reaches for it under a bed, but he can hear Rumpelstiltskin traipsing down the hall. He finds his feet just in time, standing to counter the cane. “It’s for my daughter. Can you blame me?”

 “Oh yeah, I can.” He’s sloppy, they both are—wild swing meets wild swing. “She’s too young—you put her in harm’s way, and now I’m going to make you pay.”

 “Nothing happened,” Jefferson’s lessons, his gifts could not harm—for she’d no magic, no magic at all, in this world. “She has no magic!” He finally lands a blow. Rumpelstiltskin jostles, knocking into the doorframe. “She’s nothing to me!” He shouts with a laugh, his hungry thirsty roots drove him to search for what wasn’t there—the kid wouldn’t be the one to make the hat work. Leaning toward the Dark One, tone smooth and sweet, “she’s all yours. I’m done with her.” Jefferson turns his back and walks out of the room, leaving the Jingle Belle to the old man’s cantankerous care.

 Belatedly, Rumpelstiltskin yanks on his shoulder with the handle of his cane, bringing Jefferson round to face him. The hatter does not resist. The sorcerer catches his necktie with the handle, tugging it down, before he makes his threat, “You go near her again, and I’ll kill you.” To prove the point, he opens his suit jacket to reveal a handgun, “It’ll be far worse than those little scratches, I assure you.”

 Jefferson tugs free and scoffs, “There’s nothing worse than what I’ve been through—nothing—but then I think you already know that.”

 The older man frowns, giving the haberdasher a little shove with the cane, “Focus, boy, do you mark my words? Stay away from her, or it’s your life.”

 Jefferson raised a hand, “Oh, I fold—she’s not worth the gamble.”

 The answer seems to strike a chord in the dealmaker, but with clenched jaw, his nods once, raises his cane and trudges down the stairs. As the door shuts, Jefferson briefly regrets not returning Blue’s sewing kit—she’d run out and forgotten it.

 Too, he thinks he’ll miss her jokes and her odd humors and her girlish giggle, but then he can always just keep watching her. That would be just as well. Just as grand. Just as lovely as talking and teaching. Watching would do just as well. What was the difference after all, in losing her visits if she could not take him and Grace from here to there?  

 --

 When Mr. Gold returns to the pink house, he sighs in relief. Dove reports that Miss French has not left her room after eating a light dinner and more water to rehydrate. Dove had also finished transplanting the iris bulbs.

 Splendid.

 “Mr. Gold?”

 “Yes, Dove,” he answers with a sigh, thumbing through the stack of mail on the kitchen table.

 “What was the man talking about?”

 Gold’s hands freeze, staring at flyer for the local deli. He recovers quickly, “Jefferson Hatter suffers with frequent delusions and is under house arrests. We’re lucky nothing worse happened this afternoon.”

 Dove has more questions—he can feel it—but the brawny man says nothing and takes his leave, allowing Gold to fully relax for the first since getting the phone call. He pours himself a nightcap and finishes going through the mail. However, an advertisement on sewing machines catches his eye.

 In a few weeks perhaps, he could ask if she wanted one. She might miss the sewing, after all.

#rumbelle fic #penance series #the mad hatter #my writing

[friendswithbusinesses]

Chapter 1

It was an average day just like any other. The weather was fair with a gentle breeze, traffic within the city was light, and even gas magically managed to avoid increasing in price. The only thing out of the ordinary was that Richard Cobble was at home instead of working at his office. He even managed to find a pair of faded jeans and a plain, light blue t-shirt to wear instead of his usual pressed suit.

Richard was on a step ladder in his living room trying to set up a security camera. He was having a tough time due to the fact that he had no idea what he was doing and the only instructions he was getting was via the phone from his secretary, Drew Mason. He had the phone smashed between his ear and shoulder, angling his head awkwardly so he wouldn’t drop it.

“Okay, okay. I have it secured to the wall,” Richard explained.

“That’s good, Mr. Cobble. Everything should be ready. Now all you have to do is set up the connection between the camera and your phone.”

Richard gave a grunt as his response and carefully stepped down from the step ladder. Keeping the phone on his shoulder, he quickly folded the ladder and gently set is against the wall to avoid tripping over it later. He used his hand to remove the phone from his shoulder and pressed the “home” button on his touch screen and tapped his surveillance app. The app made a tiny “ping” noise as it opened and the screen loaded with two empty white bars. One labeled “email” and the other “password” and in tiny print below the second bar read “new user.”

Richard explained what was on his phone screen to Drew, “The next step, Mr. Cobble, is to tap the ‘new user’ and create a new account.”

“Simple enough,” he replied and did just that. After putting in his email and desired password, he also added his and his secretary’s number in case of an emergency. “Now it says to ‘set up connection with security device.’ How do I do that?”

“One moment, sir,” came Drew’s quick reply. Richard could hear her fingers typing quickly on her keyboard. After a moment of silence she picked the phone back up. “What you need to do now is switch the connection option on your computer to ‘on’.”

“My computer? Why would I need to do that?”

“Mr. Cobble, the security system you just installed should have come with a disc to set up a program on your computer.”

“Oh, that,” Richard looked around on his desk to find the disk, but was stumped when he didn't find it where he thought he put it. Checking under the desk, Richard heard the soft chime of a bell. Leaning up to look at the direction of the noise, he saw his cat perched on the arm of the couch with the disc in her mouth. “I found it, but there’s a slight problem.”

“What is it?”

“Princess has it.”

“Oh dear,” Drew replied dreadfully. Her boss’s cat was a lovely social Persian, but once she had a hold of something, she became a vicious tiger when someone tried to take it away from her. Retrieving the disc wasn’t going to be easy, especially since she wasn’t declawed.

Richard’s brow began to sweat a little at the nervous prospect of trying to retrieve the disc. Princess didn’t notice her owner’s stare and started to chew on her new toy. Richard slowly stood up and set down the phone with Drew still on the line. Drew could hear the floor creak as her boss slowly approached the feline. As the steps started to fade away she could hear him talk to the cat, “Hiya, Princess! Who’s a good kitty kitty? Daddy is just going to take that disc from you . . .”

Richard’s words began to fade as he continued to walk farther away from the phone. For a few moments Drew couldn’t hear anything at all, but suddenly she heard a loud hiss and an ever louder “SHIT” followed by all sorts of banging. She could have sworn she heard something smash but she was more concerned over the running stomps.

These noises went on for a few minutes and Drew was entertaining the idea of leaving work to assist her boss, but she snapped to attention when she heard heavy footsteps rapidly approach the phone. “Screw it,” he gasped, clearly out of breath. “That monster can keep the damn thing. I’m heading over to Ted’s office.”

“Is everything alright?” Drew asked alarmingly. “Why do you need to go to his office?”

“Ted stole my house key a few days ago and catnapped Princess. I’m going to snoop around in his office and make sure he didn’t make a copy.”

Before Drew could change his mind he hung up. He knew going to Ted’s office was a bad idea, but it’s not like he could send anyone else to do it. They don’t know what the key looked like and he wasn’t going to hand over his only copy for a reference. He sighed as he pocketed his phone, hoping the noise would help motivate him to get started. He opened his front door and made sure to lock it behind him, jiggling the doorknob to double check the safety of his home.

Not feeling like driving, he walked down his driveway and turned right along the sidewalk. He continued in that direction for about a block when he spotted a taxi and quickly signaled it over. It only took a few moments for the cab to pull up next to him. He opened the door and sat inside with a huff and told the driver the address to Stone Industries. The cabbie nodded and pulled away, giving Richard the opportunity to relax and look out the window. Traffic was a little congested so Richard took his time looking at the city and letting his mind wander.

One of the first things he noticed was all the graffiti. A lot of the vandals clearly had talent and the vivid colors added life to the otherwise gray neighborhood. His favorite was an amusing caricature of his favorite childhood cartoon; a crime fighting duck with a purple outfit, complete with a mask. The caricature had the character’s hat just a little too big and the rest of the body looked like a child wearing adult clothes.

Richard remembered how he and Theodore used to watch the show every Saturday together when they were kids. Richard’s mother was an excellent seamstress and made the costumes of their favorite avian hero and his nemesis. Richard would be the hero and Ted would be the villain. For a nice kid, Ted had perfected the “evil villain”. voice and would often scare his own mother with it.

Richard chuckled at the memory and that giddiness soon became sadness. He and Ted were best friends all the way to college, but they had a falling out and haven’t spoken to each other since. Well, until a few days ago that is. Richard hadn’t heard from Ted in eight years and the first thing he does to get his attention was to break into his house and steal his cat.

He noticed that the cabbie was parking and quickly paid the man and included a nice tip. With a happy smile and words of appreciation, the cabbie drove off. Richard turned away from the road and looked behind him to stare at Ted’s building. He whistled his admiration and counted roughly thirty floors. He was here once before when Ted tricked him into visiting, but he never actually took a good look at the building. Richard’s building had 10 floors, but he knew Ted didn’t care about appearances. Ted cared about getting the job done and Richard really liked that about him.

Steeling himself, Richard finally decided that it was time to head inside and walked through the revolving doors. The ground floor was a giant lobby and reminded him of an airport. There were people walking around everywhere. Not a single place seemed devoid of movement. It was very large with a high ceiling and there were luxurious couches and loveseats strategically placed against the walls. The floor looked like white marble and in the center was a large fountain with a small pool to collect thrown change. Instead of having an angel or Greek hero on the fountain it was a howling dog with a stream of water coming out of the mouth. The wallpaper was white with gold trim and there was even a giant chandelier hanging above the fountain. To his right, he noticed a map pinned neatly to the wall. He gladly approached it and noticed that on the 5th floor was an indoor pool. What kind of business was this?

“Can I help you, sir?”

Richard started at the sudden voice and turned to his left to see a smartly dressed young woman with black hair and blue dyed tips. He saw this woman before when he rescued his cat, but didn’t pay her much attention. Now that she was standing right beside him, there was something familiar about her. “Uh,” came his genius reply.

“Do you need help finding anything, sir?”

“No, uh, I was looking over the map to see how large this place really is.”

She gave him a kind smile, “This place is relatively new and the owner, Mr. Stone, is thinking of expanding and starting a chain.”

Richard paused at that and tilted his head slightly, “What kind of business is this place?”

“It’s a grand hotel, sir.”

That made him scrunch his face in confusion, “A grand hotel? Why is it named Stone Industries?”

The woman looked like she was trying her best not to smile at his expression, “The previous owner, Fletcher Stone, used to sell cars here, but when Mr. Stone inherited the business, he changed it into a hotel instead.”

Richard couldn’t believe why Ted would even want to run a hotel. The man hated hard work. “Thank you for the information.”

“Anything else I can help you with, sir?”

“No, thank you.”

With a polite nod, the woman headed toward the front of the lobby and sat behind a huge desk, leaving only her head and shoulders visible. She adjusted her glasses and answered a phone the moment it started to ring.

With a swift glance around the lobby, Richard spotted the elevator and headed inside. It was a large elevator with the top half of the walls covered in mirrors and the bottom half followed the same white and gold theme as the lobby. Richard expected someone to be working the elevator, but no one was present so he went ahead and pressed the button to the top floor.

The elevator shook slightly as it started to climb and Richard was delighted to notice that the elevator music was classical and not that garbage other elevators seem to have. The particular music being played was “Ave Maria” by Bach and Richard thoroughly loved this piece. To increase his mood, the elevator arrived to the top floor just as the music ended. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. The elevator shook once more as it stopped and the doors opened with a light “ding.”

Stepping out of the elevator, Richard was surprised to see how little staff was up here. He saw only three people and a fourth desk that was empty. He wondered briefly who usually sat there, but he decided that he didn’t care and headed toward Ted’s office at the end of the hall. As the walked past the three desk workers, he expected them to try and stop him, but they didn’t even look at him as he walked by.

He knocked gently on the door and when no one answered he poked his head in and scanned the area. Relieved to see it empty, he stepped inside and gently shut the door. He made a beeline to Ted’s desk and started to investigate every drawer he saw. He was able to look through half of them before he heard the door open. Cursing himself for not being more alert, he stood up slowly from behind the desk to see who came in and cursed himself again when he noticed it was a security officer.

“Hello, officer,” Richard managed to greet with a sincere tone.

“I’ve been following you since you came into the building. I need you to get on your knees and put your hands behind your head,” the officer replied as he produced a pair of handcuffs from his belt.

“Do you have any idea who I am? I am Richard Cobble, owner of Cobble Publishing.”

“Sure you are, please make this easy for the both of us and comply. I’d rather not make a scene.”

Richard was flabbergasted that this man had no idea who he was and that’s when he realized that he never changed out of his jeans and t-shirt. Cursing himself a third time, he was about to obey his orders when Ted walked into his office.

“There you are!” Ted greeted cheerfully. He quickly approached Richard with a concerned expression, “I told you to wait for me in the lobby! You could have gotten lost!”

Richard was too stunned to speak. The officer was just as confused, “Do you know this thief, Mr. Stone?”

“Thief! Why this man is my cousin! You’ve been working for me for a few months and I figured you knew how to recognize wealthy men by now.”

The officer had a deadpan look on his face, “Wealthy? This guy?” His gaze darted to Richard, judging his cheap shirt and dirty jeans, then to Ted, who was wearing a business suit.

Ted shook his pointer finger at the officer and “tsked” at him, “Mr. Huff, I asked him to dress casually. We haven’t seen each other in a long time so I wanted to take him out to dinner.” Ted paused for a moment and tilted his head to the side slightly, “Why did you call him a thief?”

“I caught him looking through your desk, sir,” he answered.

Ted looked at Richard and cocked an amused eyebrow, “I forgot my wallet up here and Richard was too impatient to wait for me so I assume he was looking for it. Right, cousin?”

“Uh, right,” Richard affirmed quickly.

The officer paled, “You just called him Richard. You don’t mean Richard Cobble do you? The new businessman that just moved his company here a few weeks ago?”

“The very same,” Ted nodded. Richard just flashed the officer a smug grin.

“I- I’m very sorry, sir!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Richard said cooley.

“Thank you for your vigilance, Mr. Huff, but I can handle it from here.”

The officer nodded once and hurriedly left the room. Ted and Richard were stuck in the office alone and Richard was embarrassed over the whole ordeal. “Sorry about the trouble, Ted.”

“I didn’t make a copy of your house key,” Ted chuckled.

Richard blinked a few times, “How did you know that’s what I was looking for?”

“Oh please!” Ted slapped Richard on the back playfully. “You’re so predictable!”

“I am not!”

“You are too,” Ted laughed. “I bet you’re dressed like that because you were installing security to keep me out of your house.” When Richard didn’t respond Ted laughed harder. “Why didn't you just change the locks? That would have been much easier and it would also make any copy key I might have had useless.”

Richard thought about what Ted said for a moment and slowly ran a hand down his face in irritation at himself. His day would have been much easier if he just did that in the first place. He looked at Ted and saw his smirk. Richard felt his cheeks burn with a small blush of embarrassment and looked away.

“I promise not to catnap Sunshine again, cousin.”

“Her name is Princess,” Richard grumbled. “And don’t call me cousin.”

“Well we have to pretend to be cousins now! Mr. Huff likes to gossip so I’m sure half the building knows we’re cousins.”

“But we’re not cousins!”

“Obviously, but my employees don’t know that. If you deny our blood then my security guard would wonder why I lied to him and that would make him doubt my story about you looking for my wallet.”

Richard sighed in defeat. Ted was right. Denying their false family ties would cause more trouble than it would solve. “So,” Ted began. “How about dinner? Consider it an apology for taking Mashed Potatoe Sunshine.”

Richard cringed at the full use of his cat’s annoying second name, “It sounds worse when you say the whole damn thing. You do realize that you misspelled potato on her collar, right?”

“Oh, did I?” Ted feigned ignorance and battered his eyelashes innocently at his former friend. He looked down and noticed that Richard had a fresh bandage on his hand. Ted pointed at it with a finger, “What happened?”

Richard followed his gaze and realized what Ted was referring to. “Nothing.”

“Did you try to take something from Sunshine?”

“No,” came Richard’s too quick reply and Ted laughed at his expense.

“So . . . Dinner?”

Richard just rolled his eyes. “How about Bananaflies? They have a steak special going on this week.” Ted just beamed Richard a huge smile and was practically glowing with happiness. He opened his office door for Richard to walk through and they both headed out to enjoy their first meal together in years.

#op #writing #story #writingprompt #chapter1

[newestbalance]

‘I Give and You Give’: Venezuela’s Leader Dangles Food for Votes

CIUDAD GUYANA, Venezuela — Julio Romero emerged from the flag-waving crowd as President Nicolás Maduro stood smiling on a stage, dancing to an election jingle.

Mr. Romero, 42, was in no mood to celebrate. He clutched the colostomy bag he has used since he was shot last September, when armed men stole his taxi and any chance he had of making a living. Though he had managed to attend the rally, Mr. Romero did not consider himself a supporter of the president.

He had come in search of food.

“I came here because I thought they would give me something to eat,” said Mr. Romero, referring to the handouts often seen at government rallies.

Venezuela was once a country whose governing party used elections to speak about transforming society in revolutionary terms. It built homes and clinics and schools for the poor. Its ideas spread throughout the region, influencing leftist leaders throughout Latin America for more than a decade.

But years of mismanagement have scaled back those dreams, if not dismantled them altogether, in an economic collapse that is one of the worst in the Western Hemisphere in modern times.

This election, it seems, is in many ways about food.

Venezuela’s inflation is already the worst in the world and is expected to hit a stunning 13,000 percent this year. Stores are empty and people sift through garbage for scraps. Many people call the country’s malnutrition the “Maduro diet,” laying blame for the gaunt figures that are common sights now on Mr. Maduro.

A large majority of Venezuelans are dependent on the government for subsidized groceries distributed by local councils loyal to the president. Food has even entered the election, potentially controlling the way Venezuelans will vote.

Many people receive their subsidies using a special identity card that is playing a big role in this election. For Sunday’s vote, Venezuelans have been told to present these cards at stations run by Mr. Maduro’s governing party at polling places — so that party organizers can see who has voted and who has not.

“Everyone who has this card must vote,” Mr. Maduro has said at his campaign rallies, directly linking government handouts to voting. “I give and you give.”

Many see his words as wielding food as a tool to buy votes in the campaign — or to intimidate hungry people who might consider voting against him.

“Maduro has put it clearly: It’s an exchange of loyalty,” said Margarita López Maya, a political scientist.

The election is a pivotal moment for Venezuela. The country’s democracy has come under assault since Mr. Maduro won a special election in 2013 after the death of President Hugo Chávez.

The big shift here began in late 2015, when Mr. Maduro’s governing United Socialist Party lost control of the National Assembly. But before the new legislature could be seated, pro-Maduro lawmakers stacked the Supreme Court with loyalists, stifling the opposition’s agenda.

Then in 2017, Mr. Maduro sidelined the legislature altogether, pushing through the creation of a new body, the Constituent Assembly, that had the power to rewrite the Constitution and effectively run the country. Mr. Maduro consolidated his power as the new group took over.

Now comes another major test for the country: a presidential vote that many international observers say has been engineered for Mr. Maduro to win a new term.

Many major international election observers have refused to monitor the vote on the grounds that it will not be fair. Most of the main opposition parties have been disqualified from running and their most popular potential candidates have been jailed or barred from holding office.

Those eligible to run have mostly called for a boycott. The date of the election is even a point of contention: The vote was called six months early, in what Mr. Maduro’s rivals say was an effort to give them little time to prepare for it.

The United States and many countries in the region have said they will not recognize the winner of the election.

“They do whatever they want and put themselves above the law and above the interests of the people,” said Héctor Navarro, who served for years as a minister in the government of Mr. Chávez and is now part of a growing list of former top Chávez officials who have become dissidents while still keeping their distance from the traditional opposition.

“In the history of Venezuela, every government has had its weaknesses and problems: murderous governments, thieving governments, incompetent governments, lazy governments, those have always been around,” Mr. Navarro said. “But all at the same time? That has never happened before, a government with all of those traits.”

It is the government’s inability to feed its people that has stunned Venezuelans the most, even some of Mr. Maduro’s fiercest supporters.

Isabela Romero, a 50-year-old schoolteacher, stood in the crowd of the president’s supporters in Ciudad Guyana, once a growing industrial city whose wealth was fueled by iron, steel and aluminum. Many factories are idle, and lines outside of grocery stores have been endlessly long for years.

Two decades ago, Ms. Romero voted for Mr. Chávez and saw the benefits of his reforms: She received a master’s degree that his government paid for and a parcel of land that had been expropriated, she said.

Now her hopes have changed under Mr. Maduro. “He just needs to find a way to make an economic revolution, so we can eat once again,” she said.

At his rally that day, the president sounded nearly contrite, saying he had made mistakes in the past and had “matured” — a play on words using his last name. He promised big changes to get people to work once again, an “economic revolution” that would give people jobs and opportunities again. Mr. Maduro insists that the country’s problems are the result of an “economic war” waged against it by the United States.

At a separate news conference, Mr. Maduro insisted that he was still a democrat. “Do they really think that people here are so stupid and submissive that they would put up with a dictator?” he said.

For some, the lack of food is just part of the desperation that has made many here receptive to the call for a boycott of the vote.

“People are very dispirited and they aren’t prepared to go out and vote,” said Miriam Bravo, a 40-year-old mother of seven with a 3-month-old baby in the sprawling Petare slum of Caracas, the capital. She said that her husband died in January from cancer, the victim of a health system in a free fall, with medicines scarce or nonexistent and adequate treatment often unavailable.

Ms. Bravo, a seamstress, said that before the crisis she and her husband used to take their children to the beach or to a park near the center of Caracas on weekends. Sometimes, they would treat themselves to a meal at McDonald’s. Now she struggles to put food on the table even twice a day.

“I think that by voting I will just be supporting the government,” Ms. Bravo said. “I don’t think that the election should be carried out in these conditions.”

While many opposition figures have called for a boycott of Sunday’s election, the two main candidates who have defied that appeal to challenge Mr. Maduro are Henri Falcón, a former follower of Mr. Chávez who later joined the opposition, and Javier Bertucci, a wealthy evangelical minister.

The question of abstention has weighed on the opposition, tearing apart what had been a unified front against Mr. Maduro in previous elections. His rivals faced a difficult choice: Participate in an election that many believed was rigged against them, or boycott the vote and assure a victory for Mr. Maduro.

On Thursday, those tensions were laid bare in Caracas outside the headquarters of Venezuela’s intelligence agency, which contains a jail holding about 55 political prisoners, including opposition activists and a prominent opposition politician. The night before, many of those prisoners had begun a protest in which they occupied a section of the jail, sending out text messages and videos. The images showed a prisoner they said had been badly beaten on the orders of guards.

Outside the complex, family members of the prisoners and opposition activists gathered. Mr. Bertucci, the evangelical minister running against Mr. Maduro, showed up in what he said was an effort to draw attention to the prisoners’ plight. But many of those present saw it as a campaign event for an illegitimate election.

“Get out!” they screamed, as he tried to speak to reporters. Someone threw water at him. “Bertucci is Maduro! I ask for democracy!” another shouted.

Mr. Bertucci remained calm. “Calling for abstention is not the way to free them,” he said of the prisoners. “We have to do more than protest. I believe the only weapon is the vote.”

Desireé Rodríguez, a volunteer cook at a Caracas soup kitchen, said that she intended to ignore calls for the boycott and would vote for Mr. Falcón.

Ms. Rodríguez, 33, who has a 10-year-old son, said that before the soup kitchen opened in January, her family was short on food and often ate just twice a day. She recalled counting out the small potatoes she could afford to make sure there were enough for more than one meal, or carefully dividing up a ration of pasta to stretch it across two or more days.

“This is like an epidemic,” she said. “Ask any poor person and they will tell you the same thing.”

In a Caracas slum called La Vega, Iris Hidalgo, 50, struggled with the question of whether to vote on Sunday.

She said that she had always voted for Mr. Chávez and then, in 2013, for Mr. Maduro.

“I regret it now,” she said. “He destroyed the country.”

Nicholas Casey reported from Ciudad Guyana, and William Neuman from Caracas, Venezuela.

A version of this article appears in print on , on Page A7 of the New York edition with the headline: President of Venezuela Dangles Food for Votes. Order Reprints | Today’s Paper | Subscribe

The post ‘I Give and You Give’: Venezuela’s Leader Dangles Food for Votes appeared first on World The News.

from World The News https://ift.tt/2GwBgJ8 via Everyday News

#News #Online News #World News #Today news #health News #Social News #Forex News #World The News