#in one sentence anymore society...it's actual sentences not notes they took quickly in the moment like this is them making an effort | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

deathduty · 3 years

Text

Sew What || Deirdre & Irene

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Sew La Ti Do PARTIES: @threadofheart & @deathduty (special mentions to Angela Lansbury) SUMMARY: Deirdre strips. Irene does her job and nothing more. They both do what they know best.

Deirdre never considered herself to be a sentimental person. Yet, with her dress torn up the side, she found herself more willing to find the nearest tailor than to get a new one. She’d had the thing since moving to White Crest, and was certain at that moment that no other dress could make her look as good. More than that, though, she had things to do. Places to be. As much as she liked being nude, a torn up dress simply wasn’t acceptable. If she could just get the thing stitched up, however crude, she’d be on her way. “Hello?” The banshee called out, poking her head around the shop, trying to find someone to assist her. “I need–“ and at that moment, as someone emerged, Deirdre waved them down. “Do you work here? I need some help,” Deirdre pointed to the tear in her dress. “Just something to make it presentable enough. Can you do that?”

Irene sat at her computer, finishing up some paperwork for a few of her orders, when she heard the front door of her shop open. Quickly getting up, she walked out to greet whoever it was and spotted a new face. “Hello, yes, how can I help you?” she responded as she made her way to the front counter. It would be one thing to assume that this person was looking to get something fixed, but Irene had encountered a fair number of strange asks (like “Where’s the closest Pizza Hut?” and Irene had to bite her tongue to not inform them that she was not a map). At the question, Irene leaned forward and noticed the tear on the dress. Her brow furrowed as she studied it before she stood back up. “I can definitely get that properly sewn back together for you. Uh when would you need this by and, perchance, are you… um are you dropping off the dress right now?”

“Right now.” Deirdre said, twisting around to reach the zipper. “And I’ll wait; I can wait. I just need this done immediately.” Getting the dress half off, dangling from her bare shoulders, Deirdre considered that maybe stripping inside a store was not acceptable conduct in human society. It was fortunate then, that she didn’t care about human society. “Here,” she handed the dress off, standing about in her underwear. “Do you mind if I watch you work? I’d be bored otherwise.” Deirdre’s smile was wide, her best attempt at being friendly. The last tailor she had gone to, she murdered. Of course, because he was going to die anyway, but murdered all the same. This tailor was, however, much prettier than the last. And she wasn’t a murderer anymore. For now, anyway. “That won’t be a problem, will it?” She beamed, “I’ll pay double. Triple, even. And I am very pleasant to look at.”

“Wait!” Irene immediately held her hands up before the customer fully stripped right in her shop. She blushed slightly when half of it was already off as the seamstress walked to her desk and grabbed her long coat. “I-I don’t have any spare clothing in the shop right now other than this.” Her arm stretched out, offering it over as she averted her own gaze while her other hand reached for the dress. The moment her fingers found purchase with it, Irene noted that the material was quite nice and thankfully was something she had worked with before. “Oh, um, of course that’s no problem.” Normally, she would have politely informed her customers that she would need at least a day to complete something like this but this didn’t seem too difficult. And the prospect of being paid extra for this wasn’t unalluring… “Feel free to take a seat,” she finally decided with a small smile. Setting the dress down on her counter, Irene quickly began looking for the tear. “As much as that may be true, I’m afraid I can’t look back at you while I fix up your dress,” she indicated with a light tone as she began to pull out some tools from her cabinets. And she had been so caught up in this sudden exchange that only when Irene began to get to work did she realize that she was picking up some strange emotions from the woman. Not strange in the sense that it wasn’t reflective of the scenario but… dulled? Her brow knitted and she tried to shake it off. The last thing she needed was to mess up the dress in front of an audience.

“Oh no, I like being naked.” Deirdre tried to explain, but with a sigh, she took the coat offered and put it on. Humans could be such prudes. This human was fixing her dress though, and so she figured she might as well cover up. Though, at mention of taking a seat, despite knowing exactly what the tailor meant, she hoisted herself on the counter and took her seat there. “A tree branch got me, you know,” she said, offering an explanation for the tear. She smiled wide. A tree branch did not get her. It was, rather, the hand of a dying man, who’d managed to claw at her dress before she could leave. “I’m Deirdre,” she said, insisting on being a nuisance. “Why tailoring? It certainly can’t pay well, and it seems like such an unappreciated art…”

Irene managed a stiff smile in response to the woman’s comment about being naked, but the seamstress really did not want to explain having a naked person in her shop should anyone pass by her windows. A sigh of relief escaped her when the woman took the coat, though tension twisted her stomach once more when she noticed the guest hoist herself up onto her worktable. “Please be careful of the pins and other uh sharp objects on the counter,” she offered tersely as her hands continued to address the garment. “A tree branch… sounds dangerous. If you need any first aid, I have a kit in the back room I can grab.” Irene wasn’t certain she believed that especially as she picked up a dull feeling of smugness that seemed to emanate from the woman. Or perhaps she was really proud to be struck by a tree; Irene was not one to judge. “Lovely to meet you, Deirdre. I’m Irene,” her response flowed automatically from her lips. It was certainly taking a bit of effort for the seamstress to hold her tongue. “It’s actually a family business so I inherited the skills when I was old enough,” she briefly explained.

Deirdre watched the seamstress work, doubtlessly skilled in her work. Her great-grandmother had taught her to sew, still enraptured by the idea that a proper lady must know how to embroider, but she’d only ever enjoyed the feeling of sticking the needle through. “Oh no, I’m okay, you should've seen the tree though, Irene,” she smiled at her own joke, leaning into the woman’s work. It looked boring to her, but there was something about the ability to mend that always caught her attention; weapons never could learn to heal. “Like a duty?” She leaned back, “like some obligation to run this shop? Do you enjoy your work?” Deirdre watched the woman some more, graceful fingers finding what they wanted with ease. “I guess I’m in something of a family business myself…” she trailed off, looking out the shop window at the people passing by, living their own obligations. “But of all the things…” She turned back to Irene, “you’re not one of those people that wish to be a fashion designer, are you?” Not that there was anything wrong with that.

Having an audience while she worked normally wouldn’t distract her, but Irene found herself a little on edge with this woman, probably because she had initially wanted to stand around the shop naked. “Poor tree couldn’t put up much of a fight? What did it do to deserve such ire from you?” she replied with a small chuckle as she tried to imagine such a scene. Her mental image came up with something rather absurd and cartoonish, causing her to let out another quiet laugh. Irene paused, both to check on the progress of her sewing and also to consider the questions. “It was an obligation and now it’s what I know best. I enjoy it as much as one can enjoy their work I suppose. There are good days and bad ones.” Her fingers deftly finished up what she was able to hand-sew before she got up to move to her sewing machine. “Fashion designer? It’s something that’s crossed my mind a few times but it’s not a particular passion of mine. I do have a lot of respect for designers though. The pressure to constantly create something new or avant-garde that hasn’t already been created, I can’t begin to imagine it.”

“Oh, you know how it goes, it looked at me the wrong way…” Deirdre trailed off, grinning toothy and lopsided. She had started the process of trying to think of something else to say, something to make the woman uncomfortable, when she continued. Deirdre’s grin faltered, and from her position nosing into Irene’s work, she leaned back with a frown. She was not so deluded on ideas of passion that she didn’t understand practicality, but the way the woman described it sounded…sad. Or, at best, Deirdre would unknowingly insult her. “What you know best?” She repeated, hoping Irene would correct her. “What you know best and what you enjoy are two different things.” Deirdre stared at her, completely having intended to ruin her day and yet being struck with confusion instead. “Irene,” she began, “is there some other thing you imagined you’d be doing?” She sighed, she could understand duty and she could understand obligation. She could even understand knowing something too well to not make anything of it, but like this? Deirdre stared around the shop, nose wrinkled; was it really worth it? “It’s just an odd way to word your sentence—‘what I know best’ what I know best is murd—“ Deirdre froze. “Uh,” she turned to Irene, “Mur—Murder, She Wrote! The show! Love it. It’s what I know best, but, it’s not…uh, it’s not what I imagined I’d be watching. It doesn’t satisfy my life’s hunger.”

Irene expertly adjusted her machine, her movements second nature after years of working in this profession. As she ran the dress through the machine, she chuckled again. “I have noticed that some trees do make some devious faces.” The playful banter was easy enough to maintain as the seamstress worked, a trait she picked up early on when she had to mend her sisters’ clothes while they chattered away beside her. But then the sudden shift in tone surprised her, almost causing the woman to completely stop in her work. She swallowed hard, her lips pursing into a small smile despite her facing the machine and not her customer. “In the end, it’s all semantics,” she replied quietly before clearing her voice. There were many things she had tickled in pursuing: places she’d considered visiting or even living in, career paths she might have enjoyed, goals she’d like to achieve. “What I enjoy most is making sure my family is doing well and is safe and happy, and this happens to be the way I am able to achieve that.” The fabric slid through her fingers and past the thrumming needle of the machine. Her brow furrowed once more at the way this conversation unfolded from this curious woman. “I suppose that’s a thing about life, though, isn’t it? If Murder She Wrote doesn’t satisfy you, there are so many things out there that might do the trick.” With a satisfied sigh and a more genuine smile now, Irene finished up her repairs, snipped the loose thread from the dress, and held it up to examine. “This should be all good to go and ready for another battle with any tree that gives you the wrong impression.”

Why did it bother her? Long after Irene held the dress out, signaling the end of their little tête-à-tête, Deirdre stood and stared at her. She was dissatisfied; with Irene’s answer, her amiability and her lack of disdain at Deirdre’s general demeanor. It was spiteful. How dare the woman feign happiness in her face? It was tragic. How dare she answer honestly? And then it was pointless; why did it bother her at all? Irene was being practical, smart, safe. What could she possibly find a flaw in? Perhaps it was just that, the perceived perfectionism of the whole thing. Deirdre’s expression soured quickly. “Is that so?” Deirdre got her little inside glance at the woman, watching her words bounce right off. She had no hook, no control; friendly people disgusted her. A saccharine grin greeted Irene as Deirdre yanked the dress from her grip. “I suppose your family are all grateful. Where are they? Out back or…?” Perhaps it was the whimper of feeling blooming in her stomach; sadness, or something like it. “Aren’t you the hypocrite? Deluding yourself into thinking this satisfies you. At least Murder, She Wrote has Angela Lansbury.” From her boot, she drew out wrinkled hundred dollar bills, offering no explanation for either action. One hundred. Three hundred. Five hundred dollars, slapped down in front of Irene. “I’m taking your coat.” She announced with a huff, finding it to be the apology she deserved after Irene ruined her evening with her politeness. “And you!” she jabbed a finger at the tailor, throwing her dress over her shoulder. She stepped to leave, eager to free herself from Irene’s bullying. “If I peel back those layers of lies and professional, am I going to find a woman who fights or flees?”

Despite the muted emotions Irene picked up from Deirdre, she managed to pick up something akin to frustration. From the very beginning, this whole exchange presented to be a challenge. Why was Deidre frustrated when she had bulldozed Irene from the moment she arrived? Her gaze flickered momentarily at the questioning, each interrogatory a sharp, yet familiar, stab. Everything Deidre was saying was not incorrect. In fact, Irene was certain her sisters would likely agree. But, unlike Deidre, Irene made peace with her own reality, a reality she had resigned herself to for quite some time. “My family--my sisters are where they wish to be.” Was that so bad? That she prioritized their happiness over hers? It was her duty, always has been her duty, to take care of the family. As the money slammed onto the table, far more than was needed to pay, Irene made no move to collect it. “I suppose you and I will find out if that happens.” Each day in White Crest forced Irene to face that question: was she here fighting for something or was she actually fleeing? She lifted her head, swallowing hard and finding it harder to maintain a professional front. It was too early in the day for her regularly scheduled existential crisis. “Well, thanks for your patronage; I hope the dress is to your liking,” were the last words, auto-piloted by habit, she managed to say as she finally reached to collect the money dispensed upon her work surface.

Deirdre reveled in the sort of annoyances she could spur in others; she desired to control their reactions to her. If she forced hate, she would beat them all to the punch. But there was a special sort of person she could never crack: those that desired to be polite, kind, friendly. Those who refused to stoop to her level. Those, much like Irene. Her grievance all along might just have been envy. If only she had half a mind to be as optimistic. “I hope for your sake,” Deirdre said as she lingered at the door, “you find out sooner rather than later, the kind of person you are.” Without so much as a thank you, she was gone, and the store fell back into the silence that didn’t know her. One day, Irene would be dead, and her legacy was her own concern. It didn’t bother Deirdre one bit. Not at all.

#wickedswriting #c: irene #sew what #chatzy #threadofheart #i love irene so much #im so excited to see more of her and all of her facets #also sef is great

8 notes · View notes

nocturnal-jeon · 4 years

Text

𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚑 ➛ 𝚓𝚎𝚘𝚗 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔

damn, this got long. nonetheless, i hope i wrote something that you guys like.

*not proofread*

_________________

You and Jungkook hadn’t dated long enough for you to have been there at the beginning of his quiet, nouvelle idol days. But even through his wild and loud global superstar days, you stood by his side as his lover, best friend, and number one supporter.

With Jungkook and the group’s big jump in fame, you watched not just Jungkook but all of the members go through different changes whether it was emotional or physical. You watched the youngest members evolve into mature men as the eldest members only grew more wise with age.

It was like watching a flower grow from a seed and blossom into a bright, strong work of art.

There were some changes, though, that just came with the job and their stature in Korean society and the greater world. The two of you moved from a small studio in a questionable neighborhood to the penthouse suite in one of the most exclusive areas in Seoul.

You didn’t mind it, of course, and was instead happy to see Jungkook become financially independent and make large expenditures all on his own. He went from taking the bus everywhere to picking you up from work in an Audi. Again, you were happy to see him finally be able to buy the things that he had his heart set on since he was a teenager.

You went from going on trips within Korea to flying first class internationally and staying in Five-Star hotels.

It was a complete switch around.

Jungkook spent more and more time away from home, but you did your duties as his girlfriend and made sure to cook, clean, and maintain the apartment while he was gone.

Days and days would pass where you would maintain the same routine, but once you were done, you felt like an intruder. Even sitting on the couch didn’t seem right. These were items you essentially shared with Jungkook, but everything in this apartment, besides the majority of your clothing, was purchased with his card and vast wealth. Nothing really felt yours.

While most mothers in Korea practically dreamt of marrying their kids to someone who was wealthy and held a stable job, your mother was different. She instilled a work ethic in you since you were little and always taught you to make your own money, not marry for it. She raised you to be financially independent.

It was one of the values that made you into the person you grew up to be.

With every increase in pay, Jungkook would buy you little things. When his paycheck was still small, he would buy you meals or splurge to buy you something that couldn’t be eaten on special occasions like anniversaries or birthdays. But now that the money was seemingly endless, no special occasion was needed. He would order flowers to your job or come home with diamond earrings and necklaces.

You, of course, never asked Jungkook for anything and instead saved up to buy it for yourself like your mom had raised you to, but as the gifts kept coming, you grew more and more uncomfortable. It was a feeling you couldn’t describe.

Your friends became jealous of you and would always make a fuss every time he bought you something, but you just felt uncomfortable. You never said anything, though, because he looked so happy to give you these things. Plus, how would you even explain how you felt?

On this particular night, you were just finishing up work. You had a small job as a receptionist for a law firm, and even though your job description didn’t include any hard work, the quantity caused you to stay later than the lawyers who actually had demanding jobs.

Whenever Jungkook was in Korea and had time, he would always come pick you up. You always insisted on taking the bus to not cause him a lot of trouble, but if Jungkook was anything, he was stubborn.

Your heels clicked against the concrete as you walked through the empty parking garage to where Jungkook always parked and waited for you. Sitting in the newest black Audi, Jungkook scrolled through his phone until his head shot up, freshly died black hair rubbing against his forehead. He smiled as you opened the passenger seat and got in the car, placing your purse neatly on your lap.

“These late nights must have you so tired,” he said with a small smile as he started the car and began to drive out of the parking garage. You let out an exhausting sigh. “They’re not too bad, but too many in a row can tire me out,” you said.

As he pulled to a stop at a right light, he looked over at you to hold your hand, but he furrowed his brows. Today was a light day for him, so his exhaustion wasn’t clouding the glaringly obvious. You were sitting in such a..weird way. Your petite frame sat in the large seat, but it was like you were trying to make yourself small. Your arms were close to your body and your legs were touching as your feet sat close to the seat, rather than spread out like any tired employee. Your purse sat on your thighs and you were almost motionless. He would’ve at least expected you to rest your head on the window given how tired you were, but you sat almost statue-like.

“Are you okay?” he asked as his large hand grabbed yours and intertwined his fingers with yours, resting your hands on his thigh in a more comfortable position.

“Of course. Are you okay?” you asked with a smile as you turned to look at him, head titled slightly to the side. He shrugged it off and kissed your hand. “Of course,” he repeated with a smirk as he began driving once the light turned green.

The two of you discussed his day and activities the rest of the way home.

The two of you entered the apartment and you both began to slip out of your shoes. You quickly stepped out of your heels and put them in the shoe closet rather than line them up with Jungkook’s go-to shoes.

“Are you hungry?” he asked as you followed him into the kitchen. “Yeah,” you answered. “It’s not too late to order some food. You can pick anything,” he said as he turned to look at you, arm resting on the marble countertop.

You shook your head quickly. “That’s okay. I can just make ramen,” you said as you took out a small pot. “You can order if you want,” you mumbled, pouring water into the pot and turning on the electric stove.

He watched you, trying to figure out whether something was wrong or you were just tired.

“Can we watch some shows while we eat then?” he asks, cute little grin forming on his lips as he watched you. You smiled and nodded. “But I wanna change first. These clothes get so uncomfortable after a while,” you whined playfully as you exited the kitchen ad began to move down the hall.

Looking down at his skinny jeans and dress shirt, he should probably change, too.

As you stripped out of your clothes and put them neatly into the hamper Jungkook usually just threw his clothes into, Jungkook couldn’t help but gaze at your body as he pulled his sweatpants on.

You entered the large walk in closet and Jungkook followed, eyeing your body with both curiosity and lust.

The closet was massive, and while Jungkook had a lot of clothes, he made sure to divide the closet evenly in half so you could have enough room to hang your clothes up. He frowned when he saw that you confined all your clothes to one small area that you kept extremely neat.

You grabbed a pair of shorts and a t shirt and put them on and quickly fixed a shirt that got messed up in the process. Maybe you were just a neat freak, Jungkook thought.

You turned to him with a smile.

“Why are you staring at me?” you asked. “Because you’re beautiful,” he said, moving close to you. You smirked. “Creep,” you teased softly as his lips hovered over you. His soft and plump lips pressed against yours as his large hands held onto your waist and pressed your body into his. You kissed back, lost in the moment, until you heard the water boiling in the kitchen.

Pulling away, you pecked his lips before holding his hand and dragging him down the hall. “Kissing you for hours is tempting, but this ramen is irresistible,” you joked. He laughed, high pitched noises flooding through your ears and warming your heart.

You carefully placed two sets of ramen into the pot and cooked it to perfection, cracking two eggs and adding fresh green onions.

The two of you sat down and began to eat, but as Jungkook chewed, he looked up and watched you. You sat the same way you did in the car, body compacted and legs close together as you ate in a very controlled manner.

He took note but continued eating. As soon as you were done, you washed all of the dishes and put them away before joining Jungkook on the couch. He put on a show the two of you occasionally watched together and wrapped his arm around your shoulder, trying to hold you close, but your body was stiff.

“Okay, what’s going on?” he said as he paused it, turning to look at you. Your eyebrows raised. “What? What’s going on?” you asked confused. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he said as he blinked.

“You’ve been so weird, ever since I picked you up earlier. You just looked so uncomfortable on the drive home and you look so uncomfortable, even now,” Jungkook explained. “You don’t put your shoes next to mine. You don’t use the other half of the closet. I tried to hold you closer and you barely moved or reacted.”

You watched him as he explained, putting the pieces together.

He blinked and suddenly there were tears in his eyes, threatening to spill over.

“Is this some way of you trying to break up with me? Do you just not love me or want to be with me anymore?” he asked, voice several tones lower as he looked deep into your eyes, which widened immediately.

“What? No,” you said, shaking your head quickly.

“Then what is it?” he asked, voice raising a bit as his frustration grew.

“I can’t explain it,” you said, struggling to find the words to form sentences that would make sense to either of you.

“You can’t explain it?” he asked, standing up. “I’m losing you and you can’t explain it?” His voice was surely raised at this point as he looked at you with eyes of disbelief.

“I’m a leech!” you exclaimed, standing as your body just couldn’t handle sitting anymore. The anger left his face and it turned to confusion. “A leech?”

You nodded and let out a sigh, running a finger through your hair.

“None of this stuff feels like it’s mine. You buy everything. Sure, we both live here, but you don’t let me pay any of the bills. You always buy me expensive things, but I can never give you anything with a similar price tag,” you explained softly, eyes looking at his.

He opened his mouth to speak, but you kept going.

“I mean, what could I even buy you that you don’t already have? None of these things feel shared. This is your apartment. That is your closet. This is your couch. You picked me up in your car.” You kept rambling on, but it just made Jungkook even more confused.

“I don’t feel good enough for you anymore, Jungkook. I don’t feel good enough to sit in your million dollar apartment or eat your expensive take out. I’m proud of you,” you breathed, tears forming in your eyes. “God, I’m so proud of you and everything that you’ve become. But as you keep rising and becoming bigger and bigger, I am in the same spot. I’m a receptionist, for god’s sake. You’re an idol who travels around the world and has women gawking over you. I’m sure queens and kings would fight over who gets to marry their daughter off to you.”

“But I feel like a guest. I feel like your assistant. You show me love I’ve never experienced and you always love to take care of me, but I pride myself on being able to sustain myself, too. I can pay some of the bills. I may not be able to order from that expensive restaurant you love, but I can pay for takeout, too, sometimes. I can take the bus sometimes.”

“I don’t feel worthy of you,” you finished, tears streaming down your red cheeks. Jungkook watched you silently for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts.

“Y/N, I-” he started, but stopped, not really knowing what to say. But that’s the thing. Jungkook wasn't the best at formulating the best response in quick time. Feeling embarrassed, you felt like fleeing to the bathroom to just cry, but it was his expensive two-ply toilet paper you would be using to wipe your tears.

“I’m just gonna go on a walk,” you said in a whisper, turning and practically speed walking over to the door. Bending over, you slid your feet into a pair of sneakers you kept in the shoe closet and left, making your way to the first floor of the apartment.

Fuck. You didn’t even bother to grab a hoodie or pants.

As you silently cried to yourself, you walked over to a bench under a tree in the center of a neighborhood you could never afford to live in by yourself.

Meanwhile, an anxious Jungkook was on the phone with Namjoon, trying to get advice since he was at a loss for words. Namjoon further explained how you were probably feeling and understood it, telling Jungkook to listen to you and try to make you feel comfortable.

As soon as Namjoon hung up, the panic set in when Jungkook realized that you had been outside for at least ten minutes with short shorts and a t-shirt on. Running into the bedroom to grab a blanket, Jungkook practically tripped over himself.

He slid sneakers on and jogged down the stairs rather than wait for the elevator. Frantically, he looked around for you until spotting you on a bench. Jogging over to you, his heart clenched at hearing your sniffles. Kneeling in front of you, Jungkook wrapped the blanket around your shoulders and wrapped the rest around your body. Your eyes were trained on the floor as you couldn’t handle looking into his doe eyes.

His warm hands rested on your calves as he looked up at you.

“Besides the boys, you’re the one person in my life that has been a constant. Fame changes people and maybe it has changed me, but you’ve always been the same girl I fell head over heels for all those years ago,” he said softly.

“Not good enough for me?” he said in disbelief. “Y/N, you’re everything to me. Whenever I’m away from you, you’re the only thing I ever talk about. I kick myself every day I’m away from you because I know that I should be with you. Protecting you, loving you. The apartment is only like that because I only want the best for you, baby. I buy you things because you’re deserving of everything.”

“If you feel more comfortable, we can split costs and bills more. I didn’t take your feelings into consideration and went without really thinking. It’s our apartment, babe. It’s our couch and our closet. I’m sorry I didn’t make it feel that way.”

Your eyes moved from the ground and you looked at Jungkook, scanning his face. “I love you. With everything I have. Your job doesn’t change the way I see you. Your income doesn’t change my love for you. The richest girl could approach me and all I would do is just brag about you. The way you tolerate my childish pranks. The way you make sure I’ve had food and rested. The way you kiss me to shut me up,” he explained, hand moving to warm your exposed and cold cheek.

“Let’s make this our space,” he whispered, looking deep into your eyes. You sniffled and nodded as Jungkook wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into him. “I want to make you more comfortable.”

You nodded yet again, overcome with emotion.

Gently, he wrapped his arm around you and guided you back inside the apartment. Slowly, you kicked your shoes off and this time, left them next to Jungkook’s shoes.

As he held your cold body against his as you two slept later that night, he watched you, savoring every inch. You were his everything. You were priceless.

It was a slow process, but he watched as you slowly became more comfortable. The two of you completely renovated the apartment and bought less expensive furniture, but Jungkook could care less about the price of the furniture. There was nothing he loved more than seeing your proud smile as you paid for it with your hard-earned cash.

You and Jungkook split the bills, and even though it was a stretch for you, you would rather be borderline broke and take care of yourself rather than have more money and live off of Jungkook’s paychecks.

#bts reactions #bts drabbles #bts imagines #bts army #bts jk #bts jeon jungkook #bts jungkook #jungkook #jungkook bts

168 notes · View notes

halothenthehorns · 3 years

Text

TLTNL- THE HEARING

Remus had to swallow hard to force himself into getting started. All of them were still wanting to go out and start smothering someone for what they'd tried to do to Harry, but this nasty hearing had been hanging over their head long enough, and Remus wanted an answer done with already, was Harry really going to pay a price for saving someone's life?

Harry was not encouraged when he stepped inside and recognized the exact room he'd once seen people sentenced to Azkaban in.

"That's an encouraging start!" Sirius squeaked while Lily continued shaking her head in disgust of Harry having to do this down there.

Dark stone benches rose high, the room only lit by torches and casting eerie shadows on the rows of occupants.

Lily had her head cocked to the side as her eyes continued narrowing in on this. She couldn't imagine why there would be an audience at a thing like this, but that would still make far more sense than...

The door closed with an ominous bang behind him, as a cold voice announced he was late.

"And who's fault is that?" James huffed.

Harry apologized, saying he hadn't realized the time had been changed, while the same voice responded that was not the Wizengamot's fault.

Lily felt her mouth open with a little pop that went unnoticed as the other boys shifted uncomfortably. They didn't need her to tell them this just couldn't be normal, had Harry stepped into the wrong room?

An owl had been sent to him this morning.

Remus opened his mouth furiously to comment on that, but Lily quickly waved him silent and begged him to just keep going no matter how much she already hated where this was.

Harry dropped his gaze to the chair in the center of the room, the arms of which were covered in chains.

Sirius felt his teeth locking into place already, swearing he'd rip up something if those actually lashed Harry into place.

He sat gingerly on the edge and only felt slightly better they didn't bind him down, so instead he looked up at the watchers all of which were wearing plum coloured robes with a W embroidered on. Most had expressions mirroring Fudges, while others just looked confused.

Harry wished he felt more curious than nauseous like he did now thinking of this place. He'd never liked being watched, now he had a crowds sole attention with the distinct feeling he still wasn't going to walk out of there very happy.

In the middle sat Fudge, on his right a woman Harry didn't know wearing a monocle, and on the left someone sitting so far back the face was in shadows.

James' temper of this not withstanding, he still couldn't just sit there watching Harry sweat so he worked hard to pitch his voice in a silly whisper saying, "dramatic."

It worked for a whole four seconds while Harry grinned at him before turning back, his face somehow even darker upon hearing of this shadowed person.

Fudge testily got started by saying now that the accused was finally present they could begin, looking down the row a bit. An eager yes sir was his answer, and Harry felt a jolt as he recognized Percy Weasley.

"I'm not sure if I'd refer to him as a Weasley much anymore," Sirius grumbled.

Harry looked at Percy, expecting some sign of recognition from him, but none came.

"I think I'd be more offended if he did acknowledge you," Remus snipped, thinking that Percy meeting Harry's eyes and then Harry seeing any sort of smug expression there would only hurt him worse right now.

He instead was looking only at his notes, quill poised.

Fudge began by stating the time and date, Percy's quill at once moving along at high speed to keep up.

'He really has to write all that down?' the thought wildly flickered through Harry's mind as he found himself grasping such odd details, but still deciding he found this slightly more comforting than if he'd seen another Quick-Quotes Quill there.

Fudge was speaking of the reason they were all here, to discuss the break in the Decree, then Harry and his place of residence. Interrogators were himself, Amelia Susan Bones, and Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister,

'Well she got a promotion,' Lily randomly noted, only knowing her now as a woman who'd just been promoted into the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She hadn't heard a lot of good things from the work she'd been trying to pass along so far, and now finding she'd been stepped to an even higher position was not at all encouraging for how this was going.

as well as Court Scribe Percy Ignatius Weasley-

as well as witness for the Defense, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, the man himself cut in.

"Oh thank Merlin," Remus actually sat back in relief.

"I was starting to think you were going to have to handle the lot of them by yourself," James agreed.

Lily honestly did feel just as relieved as them, she couldn't have asked for a better defense than Dumbledore showing up and reminding them they couldn't be the ones to get Harry kicked out of school for the mess he was in, but that still didn't cover the pure outrage still simmering in her that her son was having to sit through a full blown trial for one act of underage magic! Just what had happened to her society!

Harry turned so fast he put a crick in his neck as his headmaster came sweeping into the room. The members of the Wizengamot were not as pleased, most looking annoyed, some even frightened, though a few in the back row waved.

"Brave of them, considering I half expect Fudge to turn and fire them on the spot after all I've heard," James huffed.

A powerful emotion had risen in Harry's chest at the sight of Dumbledore, a fortified, hopeful feeling rather like that which phoenix song gave him.

The four of them could remember this feeling all to well, it's how they used to feel in the middle of this war whenever they were at meetings and things were starting to look bleak. One glance at their leader though and somehow they felt just that little more assured of their task at hand. Even now, in the face of what all they feared and thought he'd done to their life in this future, that feeling still didn't leave them now as he came swooping in to Harry's rescue.

Harry tried to catch Dumbledore's eye, but he only held Fudge's attention as the man blustered that the Headmaster had gotten their message of the time and place changing then.

Lily now had the nasty suspicion that this whole thing may well have been done to in fact make it so Dumbledore wouldn't be in attendance any more than Harry. It did make his arrival all the more satisfactory at least.

Dumbledore corrected he had not received any such message, but as he'd happened to be here hours early, it was a lucky happenstance.

Still shuffling his papers in annoyance, Fudge barked at Weasley to go fetch the man a chair then, but before he could move Dumbledore drew one himself that fell beside Harry and sat himself down.

Fudge, clearly derailed, had to think a moment before going on track with the charges.

Sirius chuckled meanly to himself that the mere presence of Dumbledore had completely diminished Fudge into a dithering idiot again.

It took him a moment to go back and read out the full charges against Harry James Potter in breaking the Statue of Secrecy in the presence of a Muggle, reading out the whole section of where that could be located, before confirming Harry was this same person.

James had an odd look on his face, longing to mock the logic of this question being asked after the charges and not while the people's names had been read out, but still angry enough at this situation he didn't really want to be laughing at much of anything.

Harry agreed at once, and was reminded he had also received warnings against doing this same thing three years ago.

Harry agreed yes, but-

Lily caught his eye worriedly, wishing she were there to warn him that he would get his time to explain himself, and for now it would have just been best to answer simply and possibly more politely. Yet Harry was also being tried by the whole Wizengamot for this, so clearly societal rules had been torn to shreds for this meeting!

The back and forth continued with Fudge pressing in on all of his wrong doings, all while Harry agreed it was true, but-

When it got to the part of his full Patronus having been produced, he was this time cut off by the witch with the monocle booming it was fully-fledged?

"That's what she caught on!" Harry finally burst out angrily in here. "Not why I'd done the spell!"

"Well to be fair, that really is a feat of magic you seem to underplay a lot," Remus said conversationally enough while Harry rolled his eyes for Remus actually agreeing with this woman.

A corporeal Patronus?

Harry opened his mouth to ask about that now, but Remus shook his head slightly to show he'd be asking at that time.

Harry was distracted by asking what that even meant, and she elaborated that was the name for the animal your Patronus would produce. Harry impatiently agreed it had been a stag, it always was, and she cut off again to ask how many times he'd done this. Harry began that Professor Lupin had taught him back in third year- and was again cut off by her saying he'd been doing this since he was thirteen? That was impressive.

James honestly would have laughed at this under any other circumstances, but Harry continually being cut off from saying that very important reason just wasn't any kind of funny.

Some of the wizards and witches around her were muttering again; a few nodded, but others were frowning and shaking their heads.

"Well I'm so sorry it couldn't impress the crowd," Sirius sneered.

Fudge snapped back the more impressive the magic all the worse in front of that Muggle!

"A muggle who knows full well about magic with me living with him, doesn't that give me any leeway?" Harry demanded.

"Not really, no," Lily wished she could think of more to comfort him with, but so far this whole entire thing had only cemented their fears of Harry being railroaded in this place.

Those who had been frowning now murmured in agreement, but it was the sight of Percy's sanctimonious little nod that goaded Harry into speech.

"I'd like to do more than talk with him around," Sirius got out through gritted teeth.

He shouted for all to hear he'd done it because of the Dementors!

That brought a heavy silence down on them all as Madam Bones prompted what he meant by that?

"Do they really not know when they're around!" Harry burst out in exasperation.

"Sadly not," Lily shook her head. "The Ministry likes to pretend they've got tabs on the species, but in reality there are more than just at Azkaban and they go rogue running into Muggle neighborhoods from time to time. It doesn't excuse the absolute odds of them running into you," she finished with an eye roll.

Harry really wished he could get more clarification on what magic could and couldn't do, as apparently you could track when a specific spell was being used but not a specific creature?

He finally explained there had been two that night after him and his cousin.

Fudge gained an odd smile as he began looking around for someone to join in his joke and saying how he'd thought it would be something like this.

"If you actually thought Dementors were involved, things never would have gotten this far," Remus said, clearly joining in the laugh with his mocking tone.

Madam Bones began to say she did not understand, so Fudge explained for her how nice a story Dementors made as Muggles couldn't see them.

"I didn't know that at that time," Harry muttered, real fear starting to creep up in him. If they thought he was lying, than this premonition could be all too real, and he wasn't going back to school...

Which was entirely convenient. Harry burst back that there had been two of them, coming from opposite ends of the alley way when his cousin took off-

but was cut off by Fudge saying he was not going to listen to this rehearsed story.

"He still gets to tell his side of the story whether you believe it or not," Lily had to force everything in her not to shout that. "The rest of the Wizengamot get to decide if he's telling the truth!" She wasn't succeeding very well by the end.

Dumbledore cleared his throat causing the man to fall silent as Dumbledore pointed out there had in fact been a witness to this other than Dudley Dursley.

Harry scratched his mind in confusion on who this could be, and realized the only other possibility was Figg. Could Squibs see dementors? He supposed he was about to find out, and didn't bother asking as no one seemed remotely confused on this.

Fudges plump face seemed to slacken, as though somebody had let air out of it.

"I'd like to deflate several things on him," Sirius quipped.

He stared hard at Dumbledore before insisting no one had time to listen to dribbles from any old person, he wanted this dealt with quickly!

"Well it's not for him to decide how quickly something gets brushed to the side, thank Merlin," James said in clipped tones.

Dumbledore cut in that by their own laws, the defense could call for a witness, which Madam Bones agreed was true.

"She couldn't have said that before Dumbledore had to interrupt?" Lily seethed, finding Arthur's advice before about how fair this Bones woman was didn't seem to accurate if she was willing to let Fudge pummel her son until Dumbledore stepped in to say otherwise. James still had his arm tight around her waist and gave her a comforting squeeze, knowing her harsh words shouldn't really be taken full force now as she just wanted to be the one to protect Harry at this trial she should have had a hand in.

Fudge gave in and sent Weasley to go let whoever this person was in, and Mrs. Figg came shuffling inside looking more batty and scared than ever. Harry wished she'd at least changed out of her slippers.

"I suppose Dumbledore told her to come comfortably," Sirius amazingly had a twitching smile trying to creep up on him in the face of all this, but he couldn't seem to stay that mad with her back. He was to busy picturing her calling Fudge much worse than a useless lump.

Dumbledore offered her his chair and duplicated another for himself while Fudge barked at her for her full name.

"Least she didn't have to sit on the chained one," Harry huffed, half wishing he'd thought to ask Dumbledore for one of those as well, as the menacing clinking noise hadn't really stopped behind him this whole time.

She proclaimed herself as Arabella Doreen Figg of Little Whinging.

Madam Bones corrected that no wizard lived in the area, that had always been a closely monitored situation.

"That, is a really terrible oversight," Lily suddenly blinked as she realized this for the first time. "Is she living there now? I have no idea honestly, but the fact that we don't keep a record of where Squibs are living- I mean even if they aren't a magical threat I don't see why we wouldn't as they could be in just as much, honestly more danger from-" James cut her off with another squeeze, while she continued shaking her head for this glaring problem no one had ever seemed to realize, or care about.

Mrs. Figg said back she was a Squib, so she wouldn't be on any of those lists.

Fudge watched her curiously for a moment before turning and asking those around him if Squibs could even see Dementors?

"Why would he look at them, when she'd be the one to answer?" Harry demanded. Even not having a particular like for Mrs. Figg, he still found that beyond rude, quite a feat considering everything else the Minister had done of late.

"Confirming from a source he doesn't believe is a liar," Remus sighed after he guessed that.

She said back quite indignantly that yes she could.

Fudge gave in and told her to begin her story, and she prattled off as if from memorization the date and time of when this took place.

Lily winced for that, fearing Fudge could still throw this testimony out if he did claim this was rehearsed and given to her by Dumbledore.

She'd spotted the Dementors running- but was cut off by Bones pointing out no Dementor could run, they glided.

She quickly corrected herself that's what she meant,

"She's allowed to be a bit confused," James said sympathetically. "She did see Dudley running, and she's about to account for two things going on at once."

and then Bones cut in again to asked what they looked like?

She began that one was very large and the other rather skinny-

Remus had to fight hard not to release a snort of mirth, but failed and began giggling anyways along with both his friends to his rising pleasure. It was the first time he'd seen Sirius actually crack a smile while the mention of dementors had been brought up in here, so he knew he'd give Figg a thanks just for that.

No, no, Bones corrected, not the boys, the Dementors, she wanted them described.

Mrs. Figg began unsteadily that they were big and wearing cloaks.

"Well she's not wrong," Sirius said fairly even if he could feel that nasty twitching just below the surface of his panic again at the thought of feeling around those things for the next twelve years loomed over him again.

Harry could feel himself begin panicking at this, as she was doing a terrible job of putting into words that hopeless feeling that engulfed the very air around Dementors.

Sirius gave Harry a mock pat on the head, ignoring the fact his hand was shaking to hard for the gesture to come through right.

The audience wasn't any more convinced as Harry spotted two smirking and rolling their eyes.

"Well I'm so glad at least someone's enjoying the show," Lily said icily, wishing for more descriptions so she'd know who next to curse at work.

She continued on, adopting the proper shaky manner when speaking of those things and how they'd made her feel and remembered the most dreadful things, then her voice did shake and die.

"At least she got that part right," Remus said in relief as he tried to keep going with more confidence now the woman had established some credibility in this.

Bones' expression was unreadable as she asked what happened next, and she began to say the Dementors had gone for the boys. One of them had fallen to the ground while the other was trying to repel one with only smoke so far, that was Harry.

Lily pinched James to stop him making some dumb comment about how she could have gotten the boys swapped.

He tried twice more, and finally on the third time his stag came to his defense and chased them off, and that was what happened she finished a bit lamely.

Sirius was thankful he didn't have anyone in his immediate vicinity to stop him giving a polite little clap for that thrilling tale, so Lily compensated by chucking a pillow at him, not even trying to deny that she always did feel slightly better watching these two idiots make light of this as clearly it was giving Harry a distraction and he didn't look quite so pale while watching them.

Fudge began aggressively that's what she'd seen?

Mrs. Figg repeated in earnest that was what happened.

"Really do just love her for this," Remus agreed.

Fudge dismissed her then and she only left after a quick look at Dumbledore. Once she was gone Fudge began how unconvincing that was, while Bones corrected she'd gotten the properties of a Dementor down well enough and the woman had no reason to make anything up.

Fudge snorted it meant nothing as the odds of this happening to a wizard were astronomical.

"No one was trying to deny the possibilities," Lily agreed grimly.

Dumbledore lightly reminded no one found it a coincidence.

The two who'd been smirking before now stopped doing any such thing, and the person in the shadows gave an uneasy twitch as all attention was back on Dumbledore.

"What was that?" Harry asked sharply, not exactly wanting to turn his full attention back to Fudge doing this to him, but that had done it.

"Someone twitched," Sirius tried to pacify Harry's sudden intensity by giving a very obvious leg spasm that 'accidentally' hit Remus, and Harry lost track of his thread as Remus gave him an absent nudge back while still going.

Fudge barked what Dumbledore could mean, while he reminded that someone must have sent those Dementors there.

The Minister snapped back there was no record of any such thing happening!

While Dumbledore agreed, that meant that all Dementors were not under Ministry control as he'd always claimed.

Fudge gave a nasty retaliation that Dumbledore had made his views of that quite plain, but the Azkaban guards had still been doing their job!

"Including everything you don't ask them to," James said stiffly, he still hadn't forgotten the ones that had nearly gone after Harry, and to a lesser but more effective degree had done to Barty Crouch Jr., and no consequences had ever seemed to come from that.

Dumbledore went on more quietly but still calmly that everyone must ask themselves then what those Dementors had been doing there if not on Ministry orders.

Harry could feel himself starting to shake slightly, the now familiar pain of a memory ready to pounce leaving him sure this was no fallback excuse. Dumbledore had been wrong before, but was right now, but who on earth-

He was distracted by the flash of red hair from his mother shaking her head in disbelief, along with the boys rolling their eyes at Dumbledore's time for a joke. Clearly they at least had faith the Ministry would never fall that far, so he was probably misinterpreting something in him.

Only silence followed this for a beat before the person in shadows finally sat forward, and Harry got a look at her appearance for the first time. A wide, flabby, pale face that had bulging features along the eyes and mouth leaving the impression of a toad. Even the little black bow she wore on her head impressed a fly about to be snapped up by a sticky tongue.

"You truly have the loveliest descriptions of people," Lily rolled her eyes, wanting to scold him absolutely none of that had been polite, but as it was his private thoughts she resisted since she knew her son had better manners than saying that to a woman's face.

Fudge recognized her position to speak as that of before as Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister. When she did begin, her voice came out in a girlish high-pitched way, causing Harry some surprise as he'd been expecting a croak.

Sirius couldn't resist anymore and snorted with laughter, all of the boys giggling childishly at Harry's thoughts now.

She began politely to inform Professor Dumbledore that she was being silly as it sounded like he was implying the Ministry of Magic had set an order to attack this boy.

Harry was swaying just slightly as memory of this woman tried to crowd him in on all sides at once. Her appearance, her words, her very attitude screaming at him right now to get a spit ready to roast her alive, but a hard shake from his head managed to clear the worst of it while Sirius gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze, all of them worried Harry was fixing to pass out from stress for this still hanging over his head.

"This woman isn't leaving a very good first impression," James felt some of his amusement at Harry's description of her dying as clearly his son was getting a bad vibe from this woman, and that automatically put her in his bad books. The last person who had received that kind of intense look had been Marge.

Dumbledore explained their own logic, that if the Ministry had control of all Dementors, and the Dementors were there, then someone had to have done something for this chain of events to occur, otherwise there really were Dementors-

Fudge's face was turning burning red as he shouted back there were no Dementors outside Ministry cotrol!

"He is literally contradicting himself," Remus sighed as he never thought he'd meet someone so stupid to not take even the smallest out Dumbledore was trying to offer. He was going small, trying to give the man just a pinch of room in saying there could have been just a few rogues, but no, the man couldn't do anything that wasn't idiotic it seemed.

Dumbledore acknowledged this with a bow of his head before pointing out that this matter would then be looked into.

Fudge snapped back that was no longer Dumbledore's decision for the Ministry to be looking into anything!

"I feel like at some point it should be," Sirius snarled, as Dumbledore being Minister would solve at least a few problems at this point, Sirius' status included.

Dumbledore agreed mildly, and then pointed out his confidence that this matter would then be investigated.

Fudge said back none of this was relevant to the current charges! They were not here to discuss Dementors that were more than likely a figment of that boy's imagination, but his offence against the Decree!

Dumbledore said simply the matters were one in the same as Clause Seven clearly stated magic could be used in the presence of Muggles to save lives which was the exact occurrence-

but Fudge cut off to say they were all well familiar with Clause Seven!

"Clearly not, as the existence of this trial proves you need a look back!" Lily hissed.

Dumbledore pointed out that so long as that was true, this matter was settled as all agreed Dementors fell under this law.

Fudge still tried to say he didn't even think this had happened, and Dumbledore said to call the witness back then, she'd be more than happy to repeat herself.

Fudge was blustering now in frustration as he shouted he didn't have time for that, he wanted this over with!

"No one gives a damn about what you want!" Sirius barked.

"He's not even being subtle about showing how badly he created this just to do the worst he can to Harry," Remus agreed viciously.

Dumbledore's response was to point out the time shouldn't matter if the alternative was a serious miscarriage of justice.

Sirius let a bark of laughter escape him, and to his absolute pleasure saw the others get a bleak smile as well for Dumbledore's choice of words whether intentionally or not.

Fudge roared at the top of his lungs serious miscarriage his hat!

"I don't think I can have a miscarriage of anything," Sirius said as he glanced down in confusion at his stomach.

"You just ruined whatever amount of funny that once was Padfoot," Remus told him conversationally without looking up.

Had anyone been keeping track of the amount of stories this boy cooked up!

Sirius couldn't resist and began ticking on his fingers, "Dobby, then Marge, now this. Not counting what Arthur did while there, that's actually only three. I know of at least one Muggle-born who got at least as many," he finished with fluttering eyes at Lily who only grinned indulgently in response as she didn't bother to deny it.

Harry was still intrigued enough to hear about this, far more than his life in his opinion, but Remus was still to invested in finding out if Dumbledore could really win this thing as it was looking like he was doing and so didn't give Lily the chance to say anything, for now.

That Hover Charm three years ago had just been the start-

but Harry cut in to say it had been a house-elf who'd done that.

Fudge gaped at Harry before shouting that was his point! A house-elf in a Muggle house he says!

"It's not my fault these things happen to me!" Harry threw his hands up in exasperation.

"Apparently you're going to be hard pressed to get others to believe that," James sighed with true pity. In all honesty, if he hadn't sat here and heard the accounts himself, he'd think Harry was pulling his leg with some of these stories.

Dumbledore calmly said that the house-elf in question was employed at Hogwarts and could be here in this second to give his own evidence for that night.

Fudge had to stutter for a moment before saying he didn't have time to listen to a house-elf!

"He keeps going on about how he's too busy to be dealing with this," Lily sneered. "I can't wait for someone to point out how he created this problem by setting up this whole courtroom to be there for this, wasting everyone's time!"

He'd blown up his aunt for crying out loud!

"You do have to love the irony of it all though." Sirius sighed. "He overlooked that instance, and now he's trying to get Harry expelled for something of honestly lesser reason."

Harry gave a bleak, obligatory laugh no one felt.

Dumbledore reminded no one had pressed charges then as all had agreed at the time even the best wizards could lose their temper and emotions.

Fudge completely ignored this and tried to go on into what he got up to in school-

"Which in no regards is held in the Ministry's decision," Lily cut in with blistering tones, making Remus shrink back into his seat slightly and her anger wasn't even directed at him. He'd never had a problem chatting with Lily about politics, but he was starting to be very afraid for this book if it kept pushing her buttons on this topic.

Dumbledore sternly reminded now that the Ministry had no say over Harry's behaviour inside school.

Fudge gave a mean little laugh as he asked Dumbledore if he really thought so?

Harry felt a nasty tingling at the base of his spine at that.

Dumbledore kept his cool tone that Fudge had been given his evidence that nothing had happened on that night that did not fall perfectly legally under their own laws.

"I really think at some point the politeness is just another level of smugness," James shook his head.

"Least Dumbledore did what he did no matter what attitude he used," Lily sighed.

Fudge said savagely that laws could be changed!

Dumbledore gave this a slight head incline as well of acknowledgement before pointing out that for now they were what they were, such as those being used to hold a full criminal trial to deal with a single matter of underage magic.

Lily made an agitated noise that still managed to sound triumphant, finally someone other than her had said it.

He concluded that no laws had been broken, therefore no punishment should be placed, and it was not this court's decision to decide on every bit of magic Harry ever performed.

"Oh please stop giving him ideas," Harry muttered.

This specific offense had been presented and defended, now all that was left was a verdict.

Harry felt a thrill of fear as he realized Dumbledore was telling them to get a move on with a decision, when he'd hardly had a chance to say anything. This was too fast!

"I disagree," Remus frowned, "this is honestly a good thing him being quick about this. Let Fudge keep going much longer and he'll start trying to bring up things you don't have anything to do with but he'll still try to blame you for."

Harry gave an uneasy nod as he tried to believe Remus was right and it was high time he got his answer for this no matter how much he felt like vomiting in the meantime.

Harry tried to look at Dumbledore with a million questions, but again Dumbledore seemed oblivious to Harry's attempt to catch his eye.

They all got a little frown on their face for that. Was Dumbledore really so busy watching Fudge he couldn't spare a moment to glance at the boy he was defending?

He instead looked to his feet, his heart pounding away. He'd expected this to last longer, but in his opinion he hadn't made a very good impression so far.

"You really couldn't have even if you came in wearing a Support Fudge badge," Sirius sighed.

He hadn't said very much.

"True Dumbledore and Figg got your side out for you, but that's probably a good thing," James said fairly. "It's been made obvious nothing you say will get through to them, at least Dumbledore still holds some weight with his reputation you just don't have son."

Harry wasn't entirely sure he agreed, but as he'd always preferred action rather than letting others do this sort of thing for him, he doubted he'd ever fully agree.

He ought to have explained more fully, how both he and Dudley had nearly been kissed . . .

They all flinched as hard as Sirius at remembering that nearly happening to their Harry, again!

He fought with himself to add this on, but every time he got close he could feel the fear cutting off his words and instead kept a firm eye on the pattern of his laces,

"I found that a good idea when faced with McGonagall," Remus winced, "I imagine this is significantly worse."

until Bones declared the question all in favor of clearing all charges?

Harry's head snapped up just in time to do a quick count, of more than half!

Finally they all felt a breath of relief pass through them again. This had been dragged on far to long, they couldn't believe this had been a real threat on Harry and he'd barely escaped by the skin of his teeth!

Bones asked the opposite question of conviction, and while Fudge, and a dozen others voted so, including the smirking pair of before,

"I need names," Sirius said flatly, and Harry now had the absolute certainty Sirius was not joking, and was almost thankful he couldn't be of help with that.

it was not enough, and Fudge had no choice but to declare Potter was cleared of all charges.

Dumbledore stood abruptly, vanished the two chairs he'd created, and said how excellent this was while bidding them all good day. He then swept out of the dungeon without a backward glance.

"Hey!" They all yelped in protest.

"What's Dumbledore playing at?" Sirius demanded as he snatched the book from Remus.

"I know this wasn't a time to be sitting around congratulating each other," Lily agreed, "but would it really kill the man to at least escort Harry outside and say, anything!"

Harry sunk back into his seat heavily, his temporary moment of thrill and excitement he was free to go back to school at once dimmed by what he considered a very bad omen for the rest of this to come.

#Harry Potter #HP #reading the books #fanfiction #Ootp #Marauders #Jilly #James Potter #Lily Potter #Sirius Black #Remus Lupin #The Life that Never Lived

3 notes · View notes

xialing-gf · 6 years

Text

you’re singing it wrong:chapter 1 (peter parker x reader)

summary: you can read lips and the boy next to you isn’t singing the right lyrics

this is my first time writing a peter parker imagine! :)

It happened by total accident. You never spoke out about your thoughts yet in the worst moment possible, you happened to think out loud. You were having a horrible day; you had to deal with bullies who teased you about literally imperfection they could spot in your physical appearance or personality and you forgot there was a test in history. You could complain about a million different parts of that particular day that irked you but the one that drove you insane just thinking about was the moment when you corrected somebody who was lip syncing to the music blasting from his earbuds.

You were sitting in English class, doodling a design for a robotic flower you might program later in the margin of your notes you took on Shakespeare and how his name was spelled hundreds of different ways. It hadn’t even occurred to you that the boy on your right was listening to music until the teacher confronted him in front of the entire class.

“Mr. Parker, would you care to take out your earbuds and listen to what I’m saying? It might benefit you when you’re taking the final for this Shakespeare unit,” The English teacher raised an annoyed eyebrow and students groaned when they were reminded of the final. You paused your sketch to stare at the boy next to you take out his earbuds, his face morphing into a sheepish expression.

When the teacher turned around to scrawl down some extra notes on the board, the boy quickly pulled his hood over his head and put his earbuds in, the fabric of his hood covering his ears and the hidden earbuds. It was safe to assume that his name was Peter Parker as that was the name written on the surface of one of his other notebooks poking out of his backpack. He copied down a couple of notes while tapping his feet to the beat of the music and mouthing the lyrics to the song.

One ability nobody knew you had was the ability to read lips and it came in handy during the strangest moments ever. Sometimes when you were called out by a teacher to answer a question, they would mouth the answer to themselves underneath their breath and you’d be able to copy and paste their invisible answer onto your lips, surprising the teacher. The song Peter was listening to was “Attention” by Charlie Puth and you hadn’t listened to that song in a long time but you memorized every single lyric as memorization was another one of your skills.

“You’re singing it wrong. It’s ‘now that we’re, now that we’re’ not ‘another way, another way’ dumbass,” The words slipped from your lips before you could think and he looked up at you with wide, confused eyes. You covered your mouth with a hand but your statement had already been made and heard.

“How did you know what I was listening to?” Peter’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he hissed his question. You didn’t want to be known as the next Michelle, who seemed to know what everybody was doing, but you didn’t want him to think you were a creep for watching his lips. If you told him that you were reading the lyrics off his lips, he’d think you were staring at him for the wrong reason. After speedily weighing your options, you concluded that admitting your ability to read lips would be the most reasonable solution.

“I can read lips and you were lip-synching to the song,” You whispered back, stiffening slightly as the teacher started to pivot to face the class but turned back to the board to write a couple more bullet points.

“That’s kind of creepy, but how did you do it? Can you teach me?” Peter’s eyes lit up as he asked. You were extremely hesitant to answer as he probably didn’t even know your name. If he did know your name, it would only be because of “the video” and he probably didn’t want to be seen with a loser like you.

Just as you opened your mouth to reply, the teacher noticed your not-so-subtle conversation with Peter and decided to join in, “Y/N and Peter, would you care to share your thoughts about Shakespeare with the class?”

“No thanks,” You shot Peter an angry look, turning down the teacher’s snarky request. The teacher pursed her lips and parted them, ready to question you. Luckily, the bell rang and you shoved your belongings in your backpack, heading off before she could get the chance to force you to stay after class.

The rubber soles of your sneakers almost began burning as you speed-walked down the hall at an incredibly rapid pace. Stealthily avoiding the tips of shoes jutted out that attempted to trip you, you arrived at your locker all in one piece. You spun the code for your locker as fast as you could and hid your face in your locker. It took too much willpower to bite back a groan when you saw Michelle, or MJ as she preferred to be referred to as, approaching her locker a couple of lockers down. Another disappointed sigh was held in when Peter walked up to MJ to ask her about some decathlon meet up.

Ever since MJ became the head of the academic decathlon team, your relationship with her had drastically changed. Only a year or so ago, you were both the best of friends. As social outcasts with loud opinions and a thirst for change in society, you bonded quickly with Michelle. That was until “the video” happened.

“The video” had changed your life entirely in the worst way possible. You were studying for finals with Michelle and she had gone to the kitchen to get a drink when her brother, Taylor, approached you. You were stupid enough to not notice the hidden malice underneath his smile when he handed you a bouquet of fake roses and asked you to homecoming. At that time, you had the tiniest of crushes on Taylor but was absolutely delighted that he asked you out, especially since he was a senior. Suddenly, your heart was crushed when Taylor’s friend jumped out with his phone pointed directly at your disappointed expression when Taylor yelled, “Psych! You thought I’d actually ask you out?”

You assumed that the video wouldn’t be spread but by the next day, almost everybody at school had seen it at least once. Students were laughing and pointing at you in the halls, making school more hellish than it already was. You expected Michelle to help you through the torture or tell off bullies at the least yet she ignored you, putting all her focus on the academic decathlon. You couldn’t blame her too much; the decathlon was one of the most important events that Michelle had ever participated in. But even after the decathlon, MJ didn’t spend much time around you, claiming to be too occupied with planning next year’s practices as she had been appointed the captain of the team after Liz’s departure.

You knew she was just making excuses to not be seen around you and when summer rolled around, your parents began wondering why MJ never showed up anymore. Summer was the only brief escape from the living underworld called high school and when school started again, nobody forgot about the fact you were one of the biggest embarrassments on this planet.

Refusing to glance at Michelle, you took out your lunch, shut your locker and made your way to the robotics classroom, also known as the only safe place in this city. “Hey Y/N! Who are you asking out to homecoming? I know it’s early but everybody knows you’re eager for a date!” A group of boys called, erupting into snickers as you slammed the door behind you. You collapsed into a seat and unwrapped your sandwich, taking a bite out of it as you began to put together the robotic flower you designed earlier. The robotics classroom was always empty during lunch and the robotics teacher, Mr. Haynes, allowed you to utilize it while he ate lunch in the staff room.

Robotics was the only aspect of life you enjoyed. You spent way too much time messing with wires and tearing apart gadgets. Between bites of the ham sandwich you packed, you filed down copper into flower petals and planned how to program the petals to open with the spare parts you had. There were bins of gadgets students would bring in for other robotics students to use. You could find almost anything in those bins so you weren’t surprised that when you were searching for a single conductor wire, you found a strange contraption loaded with sticky, clear-ish mixture.

“Hey, this is the robotics room, right?” Peter entered the room, looking flustered and worried. You frowned, more than slightly annoyed that he was intruding in on you when he should be babbling about decathlon plans with MJ. His eyes lit up with recognition when his warm, chestnut eyes met yours, “You’re the lip reader girl!”

“Yes to both questions, why do you care?” Your words came out sharper than you intended them to yet Peter didn’t seem to be fazed at all.

“I, uh, left something in one of the bins,” Peter vaguely gestured to the overflowing parts behind you. He made a move towards the bin on your left so you stepped to the left, blocking his path, determined to annoy the absolute shit out of him.

“Oh, is that so? You don’t even take robotics,” You reasoned accusingly and his blush spread from his cheeks to the tip of his ears.

“Well, you see, I let my friend, Ned, borrow it and he, um, left it in one of the bins by accident,” Even though the lie was convincing since Ned was in your robotics class, you could see right through it as easily as one can see through a thin sheet covering a window.

“Really? What is it that you’re looking for? I know what most of these bins-”

Of course, Peter had to rudely interrupt you mid-sentence to point at the contraption you discovered earlier, still between your hands, “That’s the thing I was looking for! Can I have it back?”

“What’s so special about this?” You dodged his hand when he tried to make a grab for it and closely inspected the device. There was a button you assumed you had to press down on so you did what anybody who saw a button did: you pressed it. Thin strings shot out and attached to the wall of wrenches across the room. Peter’s mouth fell open as he stared at your shocked expression and the webs. Seeing that you were stunned, he took the opportunity to try to take the device back but you avoided him again.

“What the hell is this? Isn’t this the thing Spider-man… oh,” You trailed off when you connected the dots in your brain. It was so hard to not laugh at the terrified expression on Peter’s face while wanting to ask a million questions on why one of the school’s scrawniest, nerdiest kids would be the famous, “friendly neighborhood” Spiderman.

“I-i’m not Spider-man! I just, uh, know him! It’s not wh-what you think, I swear!” Peter stuttered as you smirked and shot another web at the table in front of you. You did a once over on the mechanics of the gadget as Peter rushed to clean up the webs off the surfaces of the table and the wall. The advanced level of mechanisms in the device surprised you as only very few people could be smart enough to program such an object.

“Did you make this yourself? It’s pretty impressive,” You glanced up at Peter who was shoving the strings of the webs into the bottom of the trash can.

“Yeah, I did. B-but I made it for him to use, not me,” Peter was the worst at telling lies and you rolled your eyes, ignoring his worse than horrible attempt to cover up his identity.

“Whatever you say, Spider-Boy. I guess it makes sense why you sometimes randomly disappear. MJ used to always complain about that,” You really needed to stop thinking out loud but you couldn’t seem to help it. Finally, you handed Peter back his web-shooter, or whatever it was called, and his shoulders sagged with relief.

“You know MJ?” Peter asked, frowning at his creation, checking for damages.

“Knew. Also, can we cut the crap? Do you know because of the video of MJ’s brother asking me out to homecoming last year?” You crossed your arms and straightened your back, hoping to boost your confidence.

“Oh, that video. Well, you were in my science class last year and that’s where I knew you from. Y/N, right?” You sighed in relief and nodded, but held on to your doubts as you waited for him to explain his thoughts on the video. “That was just a hurtful, stupid prank and honestly it’s unfair that people treat you differently because of one event.”

“Thank god, somebody finally understands!” You could jump with joy but contained your excitement that finally somebody didn’t think you were an idiot to fall for Taylor’s joke. He seemed surprised that you were overjoyed someone thought of you as a human.

“Well, uh, I have to go. Nice talking with you,” Peter started to head towards the door but you spoke up at the last minute.

“Wait! Um, here’s my number if you ever want me to, uh, teach you how to read lips. Or let me see how your web shooter works,” You weren’t usually this flustered but then again, you didn’t usually give boys your phone number. You scribbled your phone number on a slip of paper and handed it to him. Instead of staring at it with confusion, Peter glanced up at you and smiled.

“See you around Y/N.”

chapter 2 is here

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #spiderman #Spider-Man #spider-man: homecoming #peter parker x you #peter parker imagine #imagine #marvel #spiderman x reader #spiderman x you

102 notes · View notes

gwenore · 6 years

Text

Dies Illa. Chapter 3.

Chapter 3: Father Gold shows Belle his library.

Synopsis: Father Gold has spent most of his time as part of the clergy to amass power to the point even the new king and queen should take care not to cross the archbishop. He has already started to think about how to spin the tension in the kingdom to his advantage. But then one day… he sees her. The girl with those blue eyes that can be nothing less than divine.

Father Gold had done a bit of investigation since the Wednesday of the confession. Since then he had learned that the lady’s name was Belle French, the daughter of a rich merchant named Maurice French.

Belle… no name could be more fitting for someone like her.

He also found out who her fiancé was. A Gaston LeGume… he was the type of noble that the archbishop could not stand. To be fair, he could not stand most nobles… but he was the worst kind. Having no worth to society, now not even having money or power, only a name. Those types were no worse than parasites.

Then again…

To have such men arrested and hung for a crime is easy… they certainly had made enough during their time.

It had only been enough to send a note to the inquisitors. Those damn vultures would take any chance to feast on the carcass of someone like him, ripping apart everything he had left of value. Then either kill him or sentence him to some degrading punishment for several years. Gold hardly doubted that anyone would stick their neck out for a man such as that.

And… if he heard talk about that a meeting with the head of the inquisition would make certain he never saw the light again. Especially if that meeting were followed by a donation.

The inquisition like everyone was not that hard to buy.

It had taken some days and each day, Belle had done as he suggested. She would come to the cathedral and pray.

How she graced the halls with her beauty.

He would always watch her, from a safe distance. He did not dare get too close.

However… one day there were no one else in the cathedral. Marked day. People had other things to concern themselves with.

But she was there. The archbishop noticed a sort of relieved look upon her face. Well… the news of the arrest should be known by now.

Slowly he walked up to her, when she spotted him she let out a slight gasp before she bent her head. He smiled at her, pretending to be the kind priest who cared for his flock… an act he had not really bothered to put on for a very long time.

“Ah, my child, you look… relieved,” he told her, smiling gently. Belle nodded her head slightly.

“Um… though I confess that it may be sinful for me to feel relieved,” she muttered as her gaze fell to the floor.

“Oh?” he asked, it taking everything in his power to keep a smirk from coming upon her lips. She remained silent for a while, clearly unsure if she should continue.

“Do not worry, you may speak to me. Words spoken to a man of god is no to leave the church, and you do seem like you could have a need for speaking about it,” he told her sitting himself down on the church bench before the massive gilded alter.

Belle nervously took a seat next to him.

“Well… you see… the man I were to marry were arrested… I do not know the charge, but it seems to be pretty grim. I am not going to marry him anymore and… I am relieved,” she looked into her hands as she spoke.

Father Gold held back a chuckle, but smiled and nodded.

“Well… the inquisition never tells even the accused what the charge is. Makes them confess to things they don’t yet know about. Makes them dig the whole they are in very large in most cases,” he explained to her.

“That sounds… rather terrifying…” Belle whispered.

“I suppose… I have never been interrogated by them, so I wouldn’t know. But it certainly is not sinful for a decent lady such as yourself to have her fate tied to such a man. His crime is his own, and will not taint your life. So being relieved and happy… that is only justified,” he assured her. With that she dared to give him a smile.

“Thank you your eminence, I have been worried. While I wish no harm on anyone… to be married to him would be a fate worse than death for me. Perhaps you will find this inappropriate for a woman of my standing, but… I do enjoy reading. Gaston was known for his disdain for books… especially for woman to read… how could I be happy with such a man?” she was opening up… clearly having no one else to speak of with that. Father Gold allowed himself to let out a soft chuckle.

“Several men like him holds that view. Claiming that books are dangerous. I would not ever wish to spend time around such people myself. They never tend to be very interesting nor hold a conversation about anything more exciting than the weather,” he cocked his head. The heavenly creature let out a slight laugh at this… the most beautiful sound that he had heard and caused his heart to flutter.

“And weather is actually he best topic you can hope for,” she giggled. Father Gold looked at her. To see her smile…

The archbishop did not know that anything could make this being look more beautiful… but her smile… her smile did it.

He wanted to see her smile as he swore it light up this dark cathedral. A smile came upon his features he thought of something.

“Lady French… do you have a moment?” he then asked as he stood up. Belle was really confused, furrowing her brow, but nodded her head.

“Yes Father,” she told him. He started to lead her to the back of the cathedral, unlocking the door before opening it, letting her inside.

“Where are we going your eminence?” Belle asked him.

“Oh…” he smiled softly. “It is something I am certain will delight you.”

With that he light a candle and lead her through the corridors which connected the cathedral to the buildings behind. Belle honestly felt really disoriented as she attempted to follow the shimmering robes of the archbishop.

They then arrived at the massive mansion behind it, Belle looking astonished at the statues and frescos on the wall.

“This is… this is beautiful…” she whispered.

“Well, the quarters were not what I wished to show you… but I suppose it is rather… decorative,” Father Gold had long since become used to this place… not that he was usually impressed by such things…

Instead he turned towards the two big doors under the split stairwell, opening them and mentioned her inside.

Belle glanced over at him… he could see curiosity on her face before she slowly stepped inside and he could hear her let out a stunned gasp.

Never before had she seen a library this large and with such splendor. Slowly she walked along the walls which held great volumes from all over the world.

“Some of these… some of these are centuries old…” Belle murmured as she ran her fingers over the spine of the massive volumes.

“Are these… handwritten?” she asked stunned.

“Some…” the archbishop replied. “They were created long before the printing press after all. Most are more recent and printed though.”

He watched her open one of them, her supple fingers running across the parchment. Her blue eyes then looked toward him again.

“Why would you show me this?” she asked breathlessly.

“Well… it seemed to me that you wanted to see it… and from what I can tell… I was not wrong in this assumption,” he gave her a gentle smiled from the chair that he had sat himself down in. Belle swallowed, but nodded her head.

“I cannot believe such a place existed in this town…” she was clearly still in awe as her voice did not raise above a whisper.

“Well... this old cathedral does have some secrets.. or well… this is rather behind it, but… oh well…” Gold shrugged his shoulders.

“The cathedral is absolutely stunning… it is really so old…” she continued to wander down the wall, her eyes eagerly gliding over the spines, reading the titles. Most of them were in Latin. She knew a bit of Latin, but nothing more than she had learned as a child.

“More than five hundred years old…” he shrugged his shoulders.

“Do you know its story?” she asked, he could hear the curiosity in her voice.

“Hm… it was built upon a catacomb,” he told her. He watched her over at him, not expecting this.

“That is not usual… I know people get buried in cathedrals… but…”

“Well… there was this warrior… no one knows his name… but he died and would not remain at rest, not within the catacombs. The people would see him walk around, not as a ghost but a walking carcass. Apparently he had sold his soul to the devil and as his work was not done… he was not allowed to rest. So to keep him in they built the cathedral above it so that he would never be able to escape to do the devil’s work. God’s house built on the devil’s graveyard… pretty fitting in a sense,” he told her the old legend, riveted with how she hang at his words.

“And… you believe this to be… true?” she whispered, moving towards him. He had to force himself to remain calm. She was close now… nothing separating them as she sat upon the table beside him. The archbishop smiled softly before he shrugged.

“I do not know. But there is a catacomb under the cathedral, that part is true. It is never used though… hardly would be wise,” he then smiled before he walked over and wandered among the walls for a bit before he grabbed a book and handed it to her.

“Here… this tells of the local legends,” He told her. “You may borrow it and decide for yourself if you think that it is true.”

Belle took the book as if it was made of pure gold, when it was just a dusty little thing, before clutching it to her chest.

“I will be sure to return it quickly. Thank you, you have lifted my spirits greatly, your eminence!” She smiled. He nodded his head as they proceeded to walk out towards the cathedral again.

“I hope to speak with you again soon Lady French, and hope to see you return to the cathedral. Know that you are always welcome,” he said as he lead her once more through the corridors.

At the cathedral he watched her walk down the aisle before vanishing into that busy street outside.

His heart had been racing the entire time… even if he had tried to seem calm. He wanted so much to hold her… to touch her.

How could he tell her that he wanted to give her everything?

The priest turned away and walked into the darkness. He needed to think… as not even he knew what he would do next…

#dies illa #rumbelle fic #archbishop!Gold #best way to seduce Belle is with books #priest kink

11 notes · View notes

recurring-polynya · 3 years

Text

I haven’t posted any fanfic since April and I am dying, so I dug out this first chapter of this amateur hockey AU fic I started back in my annus mirabilis of 2019, which I am never going to finish. Despite taking place in an ice rink, it was supposed to be a fundamentally summery story and it was 90 degrees here today, so that seems about right.

I’ve always been rather fond of it and I hope you like it, too.

ao3 | ff.net

🏒 💘 ⛸️

The old rink seemed a lot smaller than the first time Rukia had walked through those doors. Smelled the same though, that astringent tang of bleach and wet rubber with just a note of snack bar french fries. Which was strange, because the Ice Society snack bar didn't offer french fries or soggy pizza or any of the usual things served in the snack bars of the hundreds of ice rinks she'd been in over the last ten years. But everything about Ice Society was weird.

For starters, it was called Ice Society. Presumably it was a shitty pun on "High Society," except that the man who owned the rink was a crusty old ex-Marine with one eye who didn't even know what puns were. It was just a mystery.

Rukia half expected Ol' Man Zaraki's asshole son to still be manning the counter of the pro shop, but an orange-haired teen snored at the register instead. She kicked the front of the counter, and he sat up with a start.

“Huh, wha? Won’t get me this time, old man!’

Rukia cleared her throat.

The kid peered down at her from his perch on a high stool. “Uh, you want a sharpening? I am definitely allowed to use the machine without supervision.”

Rukia raised one eyebrow. “Saw an ad. Rink’s looking for a figure skating instructor for the summer?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” the teen scratched his head.

“I...would like to apply?”

“You got a resume or something?”

Rukia narrowed her eyes at him, but passed it over.

The kid made a very serious face as he looked it over. “First Place Overall, Tri State Championships 2015, mmm, very impressive. First Place Regionals 2016, ah ha ha, very tough competition that year.”

“You don’t know a ding-dang thing about competition figure skating, do you, junior?”

“Nope!” he replied cheerfully. “I don’t have any hiring authority either.” He craned his neck around to check the big clock hanging behind him. “Mr. Manager’s out playing hockey with the delinquents, but he should be done in about ten minutes. If you want to talk to him, you can wait around, or I can give this to him assuming I don’t fall asleep again or forget.”

Rukia didn’t really register the second part of this sentence because her heart gave a little leap at the mention of delinquents. “Ol’ Man Zaraki still teaches the kids from juvie how to play hockey?” she asked.

The teen regarded her curiously. “Naw, his back gives him trouble. His son does it now.” He narrowed his eyes. “S’how I learned, y’know.”

Rukia wagged her eyebrows at him. “No shit. Me, too. I’ll wait.”

She wasn’t sure that Ikkaku would even remember her—it’d been ten years and he’d been a surly teen at the time, not too interested in the shouting, angry kids he was trying to teach wrist shots to. Rukia hoped maybe he’d mellowed out a bit, and might be a little more inclined to hire someone with a soft spot in their heart for his dad, who, seriously, had to be about 900 years old by now.

“I’m gonna go out and watch,” Rukia informed the shop kid, snagging her resume back.

“Suit yourself.” He suddenly seemed to remember something. “Wait, you play hockey? Look, my team is lookin’ for—“

Rukia waved a hand dismissively. “It’s been years. I don’t even own equipment.”

“We sell equipment! You’d get an employee discount!” he shouted after her as she headed into the rink proper.

Rukia recognized the drill the kids were doing. They would skate up the ice, the coach would set them up with a pass, and they would take a shot on goal. Most of the kids could barely shoot the puck, but to be fair, the tiny person in net couldn’t really stop anything, either. Nevertheless, Rukia could hear a steady stream of barked encouragement from the coach under the high pitched babble of shouts and shrieks from the other players. These kids didn’t get a whole lot of encouragement in their lives, and she remembered very well the feeling of teammates shouting her name for the first time.

“Great job, great job, everybody! Give your keeper a high five, and go get changed! Awesome hustle today, Ururu, way to hang in there!”

Rukia leaned against the curve of the rink, watching the little hooligans high-five their coach as they piled off the ice.

“You didn’t suck too much yourself today, old man!” one of them squeaked.

Rukia snorted. Some things never changed.

The coach was taking a moment to help the goalie—who turned out to be a tiny girl with dark hair in pigtails—loosen the buckles on her leg pads, before shooing her into the locker room.

Rukia stood up and prepared to re-introduce herself, when he pulled off his helmet, and instead of Ikkaku’s shaved head, a mass of dark red hair spilled out. Most of it was covered with a sweat-soaked bandana, but she would recognize that ponytail anywhere. The words dried up in Rukia’s mouth and she stood stupidly gawping like a fish. The man, who stood close to 6’4” in his skates, stopped short when he realized there was a tiny woman in his way.

“Ah, ‘scuse me, almost didn’t see you there.” He seemed confused by her lack of movement, speech, or any other discernibly human reactions. And then recognition dawned. “Rukia? ‘Zat you?”

Something about the sound of his voice brought her back to herself. Rukia crossed her arms over her chest and smirked at him. “Hey, Renji.”

🏒 💘 ⛸️

“I’ve seen you around, I think,” Rukia mentioned, poking one of the pucks experimentally with her stick while she waited her turn.

“Family court, prob’ly,” Renji suggested. People were always recognizing him. It was the hair. “You in the foster system, too?”

“Uh, yeah,” she admitted.

“Whadja do to get put in juvie?”

“Jacked a car.”

“You stole a car?”

“It was a 1996 Ford Festiva, so maybe ‘car’ is a little generous. How ‘bout you?”

He fidgeted. “Spray painted a dick on the side of the school.”

Rukia laughed. She had the grating laugh of an old grifter, not a little girl’s laugh at all. “Karakura Middle, lime green? Real attention to detail on the ball hairs?”

“That was me.”

“Nice work.”

Renji felt his cheeks color. He’d never actually gotten a compliment on his graffiti before, let alone from a cute girl who had jacked a goddamn car. “Hey, it’s almost my turn here, and I do not know what I am doing, don’t judge me too rough, okay?”

“I would never.”

“Next!”

Renji launched himself down the ice at top speed. He lost his edge after three paces and landed stomach-down on the ice with a shit-ton of momentum. Ikkaku, barking instructions from the blue line, managed to get one hand on the boards and jump high enough to clear the careening child as he skidded by. Renji bounced off the boards a few times and came to a rest deep in the neutral zone.

“Good hustle, Abarai!” Zaraki boomed.

Rukia was laughing her ass off.

🏒 💘 ⛸️

“Yeah, Zaraki took me in a couple years after you moved away,” Renji explained as they sat in the bleachers drinking kombucha from the snack bar and watching Ichigo, the teen from the pro shop, drive the zamboni repeatedly into the boards. “After I got kicked out of the third or fourth foster family. I’m sorry Ichigo confused you.”

As if on cue, the zam hit the boards particularly hard, thoroughly rattling the glass. Renji stood up and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “That’s it, you’re done!” he bellowed. “Go find Ganju and tell him to finish up!”

“Aw, maaaaan!” Ichigo groaned.

Renji plopped back down again. “So what are you doing back in Karakura?”

“Oh,” Rukia said, suddenly remembering that this wasn’t some dumb nostalgia trip. “I’m doing a summer student research program over at the Seireitei U downstate campus. I saw the rink was advertising for a part-time figure skating instructor, and I thought it might be nice to make a few bucks in my free time. Liked the idea of seeing the old place again.” She smoothed out her rumpled resume, and handed it to him.

"Oh, cool! Yeah, both our figure skating instructors just graduated college and moved away." Renji skimmed her resume for a moment, his eyes widening. “I always knew you were a good skater, but…”

“The man who adopted me was a former Olympian,” Rukia said stiffly. “He saw a lot of potential in me.”

“Looks like he saw right,” Renji shrugged. “You sure you don’t got better things to do than teach some teens how to stomp around the ice backward with their arms sticking straight out for fifteen bucks an hour?”

Rukia shrugged back. “The internship’s only ‘sposed to be 20 hours a week. Not like I know anyone down here anymore.”

“Well, you know me.” He handed her the resume back. “The job’s yours if you want it.”

She blinked at him. "That's it?"

He shrugged. "You want an interview with the old man? He'll be by in a few hours to shout at the HVAC unit."

"Is it broken?"

"It's too scared of him to break, that's what the shouting's for. Anyway, he'll just ask me if I want to hire you and I'll say yes."

"But how do you know I'm any good?"

He gave her a strange look, like he wasn't sure if she was trying to pull one over on him or not. Finally, he said, "What, you want a tryout or something?"

"I just don't think you should make hiring decisions based on nostalgia for someone you played hockey with as Squirts."

"Hey, we played together well into Peewees," he joked. He checked something quickly on his phone. "Ice is free for the next hour and a half. You got skates with you?"

"They're out in the car."

"Go get 'em. Hey, Ganju!" He waved to the stocky man climbing onto the zamboni. "Pull that back into the garage, would ya? I'm gonna use that ice."

When Rukia returned with her skates, Renji already had his back on. Rukia studiously tried to ignore him, setting up cones on the ice. Just as she finished the last knot, he hockey-stopped at the door, throwing a spray of ice in her general direction. She ignored him and stepped out onto the ice. “What would you like to see, Mr. Ice Rink Manager, sir?”

“Well, you need to get warmed up, right? Let’s see some circles.”

“Circles.”

“Yeah. You’re some sort of hotshot, right? Switch off forward and backward.”

Smirking, Rukia took off around the first face-off circle, letting her legs stretch out with each crossover. She switched direction for the second, taking it backwards . She stayed in reverse, and instead of skating around the perimeter of the center circle, she launched herself into a double Lutz. She finished the last two circles normally, and came to a neat stop in the corner.

There was the loud blast of a whistle, and Renji skated up to her. “You sure don’t listen to directions too good,” he frowned.

“I got bored,” she shrugged. “Is that whistle really necessary?”

“Yes. Okay, next, see those cones?”

“I am not blind.”

“Skate around ‘em. Like this.” He made a serpentine gesture with his hand.

“I dunno, they’re pretty close together,” she said skeptically. In fact, you could probably drive a zamboni between the cones.

“Eh, just do your best,” he suggested.

Rukia took off and launched into an elaborate sequence of steps, dancing around cones, skipping from one foot to the other, flipping from forward to backward and back again.

“Yeah, that was pretty good, come back and do it again.”

Rukia executed the exact series of steps on the way back.

“Not very original, are you?”

She put her hands on her hips.

He pointed to a series of hockey sticks he had laid out on the other side of the ice. “Skate up that side of the ice, and jump over the sticks.”

Rukia had done this drill many times as a child, of course she knew you were supposed to hop over them one at a time. That seemed inefficient. Rukia took a long starting run, and shot him a shit-eating grin before launching herself into the air. She had managed to break his grinning shithead act for just a second-- his eyes widened in horror as he realized what she was doing.

Rukia sailed through the air, clearing five of the six sticks. Shit. She danced frantically, trying not to trip over the last one, and managed to clear it with a tiny little bunny hop. She spread her arms wide, and bowed, like she was particularly proud of that last bit, and then skated up to him, looking phenomenally smug.

The jackass still couldn’t manage to look impressed. “Okay, last test. Are you ready?”

“What is it?”

He shot her a toothy grin. “Catch me.”

Renji took off, backwards, tweeting his whistle obnoxiously.

Rukia took off after him, taking big, scooping power strokes.

As soon as she started getting close, he flipped forward, putting on a burst of speed. “You used to be able to catch me a lot quicker’n this!”

He was fast, a lot faster than she had expected. But Rukia was faster. Ducking her head down, she put on the jets. As they neared the corner, she cut inside, and passed him, transitioning to backwards, so she was facing him. “Happy?”

With a mischievous look in his eyes, Renji blew on his whistle, and put on another burst of speed, picking her up under the armpits and holding her straight out in front of him, her feet dangling a foot off the ice.

“What are you doing?!” she howled.

“We’re figure skating now, right? That’s how this works?”

In response, she grabbed the whistle hanging around his neck and blew it as hard as she could.

Laughing his ass off, Renji skidded to a stop, and gently deposited Rukia back on her feet before doubling over with laughter, clutching his stomach.

Rukia tried to look angry and impatient, but to be honest, she couldn’t remember the last time she had horsed around on the ice like that. She could almost hear Byakuya’s droning lecture on the importance of protecting her precious ankles, but she pushed it to the back of her head. He wasn’t here, and she was determined to enjoy the break from his clucking.

Renji looked up, wiping tears from his eyes. “Wow, that’s a stoneface. C’mon, don’t tell me that wasn’t at least a little bit fun?”

She crossed her arms across her chest, and looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Maybe a tiny bit.”

“Good. I forgot. If you wanna work here, you gotta like having fun. No fuddy-duddies.”

“I will have you know, I am an expert at having fun!”

He bobbed his head in an exaggerated nod. “I can tell.”

“What kind of test was that, anyway? You just made me run a bunch of hockey drills.”

“You think I know anything about figure skating?” he scoffed. “Look, here’s the real test,” he announced. “Are you available on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, from 6 to 9, and Saturday mornings, 9 to noon?”

“Yes,” Rukia replied.

Renji tipped his head to the side. “Please come work for me, Rukia. You are ridiculously overqualified for this, but the Learn to Skate classes start this week, and if I have to teach them myself, I’ll have to drop my summer course. The pay’s not great, but you get a staff discount at the snack bar and I can give you free ice time between the hours of 2 and 4 am, if you want it. You get a couple teen assistants, real nice kids. I don’t mind if you make them run personal errands for you or whatever. Also, you get to hang out with a bunch of sexy guys, like Ichigo and my pop.”

Rukia snorted through her nose. Had he forgotten that she was the one who came in here, looking for a job? “You sound pretty desperate, maybe I should hold out.”

His shoulders slumped. “Aw, shit. You want me to throw in free skate sharpening, too?”

“‘Zat your Camaro parked out front?” It was a beautiful mid-70’s model, a hood the size of a tennis court, bright red with black racing stripes. Rukia was going to be very disappointed if it turned out to belong to the orange-haired Pro Shop teen.

Renji frowned. “You can’t have my wife. You wouldn’t want her anyway, she only runs a quarter of the time.”

“She’s a looker, though.”

“That is true, I am a man who knows how to wash a car.”

Rukia leaned forward. “I want a ride in her.” It had been a long time since she had ridden in a car where you could feel the rumble of the engine in your bones. Byakuya would shit a brick if he found out she was riding around in something without side-impact airbags.

“Really? That’s it?” Renji asked.

“That’s it.”

“You can drive her if you want.”

Rukia stuck out her hand. “You have a figure skating instructor.”

Renji grabbed it and shook it firmly. “Welcome aboard. You, uh, you wanna go driving right now?”

Rukia’s cheeks colored. “Oh. I gotta… I’m ‘sposed to meet up with my new roommate and I gotta unpack and stuff.”

“No problem,” Renji drawled. “We got all summer, right?”

“Yeah,” Rukia agreed with a grin. “We got all summer.”

🏒 💘 ⛸️

In case you’re wondering how the rest of this was supposed to go, Ichigo tricks Rukia into joining his awful hockey team, which is made up of a bunch of teens (Keigo, Mizuiro, Tatsuki and Chad), Renji, Ganju and some drunks (Yoruichi and Kuukaku). Rukia makes her assistant figure skating instructors, Orihime and Uryuu join, too, and I think at some point they recruit Toushirou. Rukia and Renji have a fling and keep insisting it is “just for the summer.” There is a romantic skate-sharpening sequence. They make out in the back of Zaraki’s rusty old pick-up truck which Renji had to borrow because the Camaro broke down. At some point, Byakuya shows up and he and Zaraki get in a fight, which they decide to take down and resolve in a hockey shootout with poor Renji in goal, except that Byakuya doesn’t know how to shoot and Zaraki’s back is just really bad and eventually they get tired. Just be glad I moved on to other things.

#my writing #renruki #sorry it takes me forever to write anything anymore!#i hope this will tide you over for a bit!#i still love you all i really do!

8 notes · View notes

catgirl-isekai · 5 years

Text

who the hell turned me into a cat girl?! - chapter four

Honoka was still here.

She didn’t realize that she had an arm over her face. Through the fur of her arm and hands, she could tell how bright the sun was. Was it the same sun as home? Did it emit the same heat? Her head pounded - either from eating what she ate the night before or her hunger now, even though she never liked eating breakfast at home. But she could feel her arm become wet as she felt a heaviness in her heart.

Her hair had someone got out of the messy bun she arrived in and she could feel the cold wood against her head. Her ears moved around as she could pick up some bird noises a lot clearer than she would’ve in the city. The chirp-chirp of the birds must’ve been them laughing at her still lying on the floor. Habits that would seemingly never change.

“Nifi! Wake up! Breakfast is ready!”

How… did she not go back home? She didn’t want to get up. She felt exhausted. This was a dream. This is an extended dream. A dream that gave her such a restless sleep but her body still felt like it could move - was it already on autopilot? She barely had this body for a day and it’s already wanting her to get up. She could feel something underneath her twitch and almost slither.

This electrocuted her senses and made her get up quickly in spite of her feelings. Then she realized it was her tail, trying to get her up. Her body was ready to and raring to go but she wasn’t. She didn’t have a headache and the sun’s light hurt her eyes but man if she could, she would go back to sleep for at least an hour.

“Nifi!”

Her mind was blank except for her usual feelings of dread. She didn’t want to answer. It reminded her of a time when she lived with her mother. Except with her, whenever she called her name, there was a hint of anger already seeping out. Honoka closed her eyes as she felt her ears lower on her head.

“Nifi!” The sound of hollow steps as they got closer to her told Honoka there was nothing she could do about it now. This was her new body now and Honoka had to accept it. Her name was now Nifi - the only person who knew about her name was herself and herself only. She wanted to tell Rafa her name but felt that she couldn’t - something literally prevented from sharing the name she was birthed with.

Before too long, Honoka heard Rafa’s footsteps get closer and closer and for a minute, she wondered if this how cats back at home felt. She felt on edge, scared, her ears stood twitched up and she could feel her tail stiffen with familiar anxiety. When Rafa stepped closer to her, which appeared to be an abandoned room, Rafa had a cheeky smile on her face - she knew something that Honoka apparently didn’t and it kept her on edge.

For some reason, the air between them grew tense and Honoka didn’t know why. She had a scare that morning because of her own tail but she felt that maybe she just needed to calm down. And yet when Rafa appeared, she wanted to flee - however, she didn’t trust herself jumping out of the house and she might be her only safe place for the moment.

“Oh, don’t be scared. It’s just me!” Her smile grew more genuine to where Honoka could see her teeth. “Don’t be scared of me. I know I come off rough but, really, I’m not that bad! Come on, do you want me to groom you? I know you’re probably frightened!”

‘Groom’ her? Honoka was unsure about what that meant. Maybe it’s a cat people thing? I don’t understand…

“I-I…” Honoka started to mumble, her old habit started to kick up again, “I don’t… understand… what do you mean?” Another thing Honoka just realized - she wasn’t speaking Japanese anymore. She somehow still understood Rafa and Rafa was able to understand her. Her ears lowered and her tail somewhat relaxed. She was still very unsure on this Rafa before her and what actually is going on. Why was she turned into a catgirl? What was she meant to do in this form? Who the hell turned her into a cat-girl?!

Rafa’s eyes blinked and her tuft ears twitched a little bit as her whiskers moved too. Her tail didn’t seem to pick up the anxious one before her but eventually, a realization hit Rafa.

“Oh! You must be a Spirited!”

“S-spirited?” Honoka repeated.

Rafa then let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, I’m so glad. I was worried that you weren’t a free Feya for a minute - but that would explain a lot.”

Honoka couldn’t even make an audible noise on how confused she was. Feya? Free Feya? Spirited? What did these words mean in this world? She’s a cat-girl, was she not? Did they have actual names for her type of people? Is that why she looked that way?

“Come on, come on. I made us breakfast - fresh fish with some grass for your stomach. Now that I know you’re a Spirited, this makes it easier to ease you into society. If you were an escaped Feyan, well, that’d make things a bit more complicated. Come on! Follow me!”

She reached out her arm and Honoka stared at it. Even in this strange fantasy setting, Honoka at least knew that she should trust the ‘person’ who rescued her in such a position. She had no choice - didn’t she? She had to trust this Rafa, who freely made her food, and who let her rest in this abandoned house. She slowly took it and Rafa slowly, and comfortably, closed her fist. Honoka could feel their pads touching each other and it was an odd sensation - almost like touching a really dry human hand with her own.

.x.

The two made their way downstairs as Rafa started to explain Ostax - the country they currently reside in. The country of Ostax was currently stuck in the same decade for hundreds of years - no one was sure how long for sure how long they’ve been stuck in that decade but it’s been rumored that it’s a curse placed upon the Feyans, the cat people they are, the humans, and the witches for allowing a crime to happen. Rafa couldn’t explain what that crime was as she wasn’t too sure herself as she grew up without proper Feyan schooling.

“Feyan are born and Feyan die, but we still repeat the same decade,” she said as Honoka slowly ate her breakfast. Apparently, Rafa had already eaten as she was preparing Honoka’s meal - she was afraid that the other had gotten sick because of the raw fish. “I do hear that someone ‘wakes up’ in the real world once in a while to see things on the outside but they never come back to this ‘decade’ again.”

When Honoka got the confidence, she asked, rather mumbled, “So, what are the Spirited? Are there others like me?”

Rafa nodded and seemed to be deep in thought before she answered. “There are but it’s apparently uncommon for the Spirited to be a Feyan so I’m really excited I finally get to meet one!” Honoka mentally took note of her hesitance but let the other continued. After all, she knew nothing of this world apparently called Lopki. “The Spirited come into this world and sometimes wreck things up - I mean, I hear they do. I don’t know for sure.”

But there was something on Honoka’s mind. With every sentence, her words became more audible. Rafa never showed her the disrespect others at home did. She gave her eye contact and was patient with her even with her stutters and mumbling. “Then… how do you know there’s a world outside of this?” She looked around the area to emphasize her point.

“I get this feeling that I just do. I don’t know why.”

Honoka nodded and continued to eat. Even though at home she’s human and it’s strange to eat grass, the grass actually helped her stomach feel a bit better. The fish was cooked very well and it was certainly a lot better than the raw one she tried to eat. The memory of it made her stomach bubble so she ate another small blade of grass instinctively.

“But, I probably read some diaries about dreams in this real world outside of this. So that’s how I know, maybe. Oh, I learned how to read cause my mother taught me. Otherwise, I don’t think I would survive!” She gave Honoka a cheeky grin which, once again, showed off her teeth. “That’s probably why your glasses are still the same - this year… it’s supposed to be modern, right?”

It didn’t sound like a question so Honoka didn’t answer. Although a lot more questions popped up in her mind but she didn’t want to bombard Rafa with these questions. The more she thought about it, the more she realized she came to this world at a bad time. She wondered how this world could be fixed and what would happen to the Feyans, as she understands them, and the humans and the witches would do if it went back to what it’s supposed to be.

If they were all being punished, was it just this country? Was it all over Lopki? Why did people like her, the Spirited, came to this world? What is their purpose? What is her purpose? Honoka then started to wonder if the Spirited were meant to ‘fix’ this world. She shook her head. What would even be the criteria for them to come to this world? What happened to her body back at home?

Do people even care if she’s not there? Would her work fire her? Would her parents even worry about her?

These questions started to give her anxiety about being in this world, in this country, in this new Feya body. She was nothing in her home and nothing here. Rafa didn’t have to say it but it’s clear that it’s implied something can happen to Feyas if they’re not careful - if she’s not careful.

But if Rafa didn’t find her, someone else would’ve or something else. She started to feel sad. Maybe it would’ve been better off if she was at home. At least home had familiar faces, familiar problems, familiar feelings could be changed eventually but the only thing Honoka could recognize were her own eyes.

However, in spite of that, she wanted to go home. This wasn’t her place. This wasn’t her problem. This wasn’t her world. She felt the familiar pricks of tears coming out and she found herself crying into her food. She hoped that Rafa believed the food was delicious - it was, but her tears had a different meaning. She tried to hold herself back and found herself being restrained by the same thoughts as her homeworld.

She was scared. Honoka was scared. She didn’t realize when she started to shake out of fear and when Rafa tried to ask her what was wrong. She tried to stop crying but it all came out. What could she do? She was more than frightened. She didn’t belong in this world but at least at home… at least at home, she could pretend to go away. She can go away into a fake world and come back to face the regular world with a little more confidence.

But here, she’s stuck in here. Rafa tried to comfort her but Honoka had to cry and let it out. She was stuck in a world with massive problems, probably bigger than the one at home, and all she wanted was to go home.

And crying was all she could do at that moment.

#cat girl

0 notes

rebeccahpedersen · 6 years

Text

Either You “Get It,” Or You Don’t

TorontoRealtyBlog

People. Honestly. They’re the worst.

I’m channelling my inner-Seinfeld with that quote, but seriously folks – I was just shocked by some of the people I met two weeks ago when I had a hot listing for sale, and I couldn’t believe how they approached both the price of the property, as well as the process surrounding the sale.

I’m constantly amazed at how a person can be so intelligent, yet have so little common sense. And during the course of this listing, “those” people were lined up in droves.

You either “get it,” or you don’t. And try explaining to somebody who doesn’t “get it,” and you’re wasting your time…

Remember the good old days of including a photo of your family, and a hand-written note with your offer?

Those days are almost gone, right?

Once upon a time, when prices were lower, and when the spread between the lowest and highest offers was smaller, those personal touches did have an effect.

I remember submitting an offer for a family member back in 2006, with a cute photo, and a note. And although we weren’t the highest offer, we were in the top two – out of twelve. And we were given a chance to improve our offer, and we won.

I’ll be the first person to suggest that no seller out there (save for the one that spawned a much-shared newspaper article a few years back) is going to take substantially less money for his or her home, because the buyers are nice.

But it certainly doesn’t hurt, and in some very unique cases, the home-owners might want to sell to you, and give you a second chance, or give your agent a push.

Whether those days have passed, or not, I don’t think a buyer should take the opposite approach, and go out of their way to be rude to everybody involved in the process.

The following story might be lost on some of you, but I see things through a different set of eyes: those of an agent. I’m constantly amazed by buyers who are completely out of touch with market reality, whether it’s the price of real estate in 2018, or the process, and who fail to accept current market conditions for what they are.

Two weeks ago, I had a listing in North Toronto where the sellers were 90-years-old, and had been in the home for almost a half-century.

The sellers were going to be home for every showing, which ordinarily, as you know from reading this blog, I would never suggest, or allow. But as we had expected 30+ showings in a week, and with the age of the sellers, it just wasn’t feasible for them to leave the property for an hour, several times per day, and we didn’t want to restrict showings by asking for 4-hour’s notice.

In the end, the sellers being home became an asset, as “Gramma,” as we’ll call her in this story, bonded with just about every single set of buyers that came through the door.

I’ll be honest – the interest level was far higher than expected, and although I figured builders could be all over this property due to the age, most of the buyers looked at the home as a classic gem, and planned to do a modest renovation, or even move right in after some minor repairs.

This house was charming, historical, and full of character. I know that real estate agents say that about just about every property in Toronto, but you’ll have to take my word for it here. And as a result, almost every buyer through was looking for the history and character that a house like this could provide, and they loved meeting the owners, and exchanging stories.

For the owners, who had been here for 49 years, this was like a Broadway play being acted out in front of them all day, every day.

They loved it.

Perhaps it’s cliche to say “old people love to chat,” but in this case, it’s an understatement.

“Gramma” got the down-low on every person that came through, and for the most part, it was a two-way street.

I think the word was out pretty quickly that there would be action on this home.

I’ll spare you the surprise – we had nine offers, and we would have had more, but one rescinded right before offer presentation, and several others just didn’t want to get involved.

Suffice it to say, I think most buyers through the house figured, with the sellers present, they should try to make that personal connection that might help them on offer night. As a result, every time I came by the house to do a showing, or check up on the property, I found the sellers engaged in the middle of a story-exchange with the buyers.

Wow, did they talk. Talk, talk, talk, all week long.

But these buyers were savvy! They knew it was a small city, and you’re bound to know some of the same people.

One set of buyers came back with their parents, and their grandparents! And the grandparents lived in the same condo that the sellers would be moving to.

Another set of buyers had a connection to the same vacation complex that the sellers frequented.

Another set of buyers knew the sellers’ friends from bridge.

Over and over, buyers paraded through, and spent an equal amount of time looking at the house, as they did chatting up the sellers.

I showed up one night and saw “Gramma” holding both hands of one young buyer, facing eachother, in a heartfelt moment.

Just about every buyer through, “got it,” and knew how to play the game.

Just about, as the story goes…

I received a cold call on the property, and I had arranged to meet the buyers there at 7:00pm one night.

The house was a revolving door of action, all week. 7pm most nights, there were 3-4 groups through.

So by 7:25pm, when I sent a text message to the cold-caller to ask where he was, he responded, “In the basement.”

Unbeknownst to me, this young couple had waltzed through the front door, didn’t look for “the agent,” being me, and took it upon themselves to walk through at their convenience.

Upon meeting them, and introducing myself, I was asked, “So what can you tell me?” by the 40’ish young gentleman, with his wife in tow.

I gave him the rundown of the home, the pros and cons, and each time I finished a sentence, he responded by essentially putting words in my mouth.

“The house was built in 1936,” I said, to which he replied, “So it clearly isn’t in good shape, right? That’s going to affect the price?”

“There’s a beautiful ravine lot in the back,” I said, to which he replied, “So a lot of buyers looking to put in a pool won’t like it, you mean?”

Over, and over, and over. I know this “type,” and hey – whatever floats your boat. But in this market, and for this property, the attitude made no sense to me whatsoever.

He constantly disagreed with me at every turn, and feigned a real estate expertice that just wasn’t there.

Things went a bit off the rails when I told him that we’d be reviewing offers the following Tuesday.

“Offer date?” he said, with a deliberate throw-back of his head. “You have an offer date? Why? This house isn’t worth even close to the asking price.”

I’ve mentioned on occasion that I don’t blow up, I don’t take bait, I don’t fight back, and I always take the high road. I wasn’t going to argue with him, but I did engage him.

“Well,” I began, “We’ve had over 40 showings so far, I’ve had agents ask about bully offers, and if I had to guess, I’d say we’ll get our asking price, who knows – maybe more.”

“But an offer date?” he said. “Nobody is doing offer dates anymore. That time has passed.”

“Actually, just about every freehold house in Toronto has an offer date,” I told him. “The market is alive and well again.”

“No, it’s not,” he said, so matter-of-factly that your average Joe would be convinced.

Not wanting to belabour the point, I simply said, “Well, I’ll know if I’m wrong, next Tuesday.”

He shrugged, and walked away, and continued to point out issues with the home.

As I said, I know the type. He figures he can create this scenario whereby what he wants, and what he believes, could come true.

Meanwhile, there was a young lady in the kitchen with “Gramma,” laughing and sharing photos of her children. Gramma was one minute from going upstairs to get a photo album…

I walked to the front door with Mr. 40-something and his wife as we finished our tour, and he asked about offer night. He then added, “We don’t have an agent,” to which I said, “I know, I had asked your wife that when we spoke two days ago,” and amazingly he said, “Well…..heh….I mean, we would get one. We know a couple of guys that will do the offer for us and just refund their commission.”

Now the reason I ask cold callers, “Are you working with an agent?” isn’t because I’m trying to pick them up as buyers, and the issue has nothing to do with commission – at least not for me. It’s about clear and identifiable representation, and I’m not going to show somebody else’s client a home, because it puts me in a position I don’t want to be in. It’s a clear conflict of interest.

In any event, I told Mr. 40’ish, “Your wife had told me last week that you didn’t have an agent, that’s why I’m showing you the home. I have to ask, why didn’t you get your agent to show you the home?”

He replied, with an aggressive undertone, “Well, I obviously didn’t waste his time.”

And here’s where I really fail to this guy’s “strategy.” He’s snuck into the house, he’s already gone through the house and criticized it, he’s made no effort to speak to the sellers, and now he’s effectively telling the listing agent, “I want to waste your time.”

I wasn’t hurt, and I wasn’t fussed about the wasted time. I would have lived in that listing if I had to, but I just couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t see the error of his ways.

He went on to explain, “I’m a lawyer, you see, and if I make an offer, I’m going to put some pretty complex language in my offer regarding commission, so I don’t want you to be caught off guard.”

So now he was telling me I’m a moron as well.

I could have told you this guy was a lawyer from the moment I met him, and I’m not knocking lawyers – my father just retired after a 40-year career as a criminal lawyer. My uncle is a lawyer. My aunt is a Supreme Court justice. But I knew this guy was a lawyer, and perhaps it explained why he was trying to create his own narrative.

That following weekend, an agent called me from a brokerage I had never heard of, and said he would have an offer on Tuesday for the property. He said, “My buyer wants to be in the presentation room though, is that okay with you?”

It was an odd request. Sometimes buyers will accompany their agent to the brokerage, but to be in the presentation? I’ve never see that.

I asked the agent simply, “To what end?” and he replied, “He wants to explain his offer, maybe chat with the sellers a little bit.” Right. I read that as, “He want’s to present his own offer.”

My spidey-sense was tingling, and I thought of Mr. 40’ish, so I asked the agent, “Is your client’s name John Smith?”

Of course it was!

This young lawyer, who’s occupation is to make arguments, wanted to come into the presentation room with the sellers, and berate them with reasons why his offer was the best, why they should sell to him, and probably why they should take less money too.

In any event, offer day came, and we had nine offers. We were shocked by the response, as we really didn’t intend to under-price the home, but as is the problem with all of the city right now – there’s just nothing on the market.

The first agent came in to present his offer, and he had with him a letter written by the buyers, complete with a family photo.

I handed it to “Gramma” to read, and she immediately started to cry.

So then I started to read the letter, and as she gently sobbed away, and as “Grampa’s” lip began to quiver, I got emotional as well.

I eventually handed the letter to their grandson to read, which he did. By the end of it, “Gramma” was wiping away tears.

She remembered the buyers from both of their visits to the house. I recall she looked up at the lady at one point and said, “How come you’re so tall……..and I’m so damn short?” while sitting at the kitchen table, knitting away, with people pouring through her home.

They had a good laugh, she explained, “You know…..I used to be a lot taller,” as any old-lady would, and she got to see the whole family on the second viewing when the kids were running rampant through the home.

Their offer was certainly in the mix, but it helped that the sellers liked them.

We went through a few more offers, and eventually in walked an agent I had never heard of, from a company I had never heard of, in an Ontario suburb.

He had a letter of his own, but this one would be very, very different.

The offer, and the letter, was from Mr. 40’ish. And it began with something to the extent of:

“I would have liked to be sitting with you in person right now to present our offer, but unfortunately, your agent advised us this wasn’t possible, so we will have to rely on our agent to present our offer instead.”

Great start.

As I’m the one reading this, and his letter is already taking a swipe at me, again, I couldn’t understand what he was thinking.

The letter went on to talk a whole lot about the buyers themselves, and less about the sellers and their home.

Then came the clincher:

“Rather get enter into a prolonged negotiation with you, we’ve instructed our agent to make an unconditional offer at your full list price.”

Do you see the problem here?

We had nine offers.

The property sold for a quarter-million over asking.

And his offer was the lowest of the nine offers.

Now at this point, I may have already lost some of you.

Some of you might think this was just a guy, trying to do what was best for his family, or that he didn’t “need” to “over-bid” for the property.

But I don’t see it that way. I see things in black and white, and I live in the reality of our Toronto market.

This young man decided that he was smarter than everybody else, and that he was going to talk his way through the process, and win. That’s his legal background working its way into his personal life, and the competitive world of Toronto real estate.

But honestly, folks, he made a mistake at every possible juncture.

He called the listing agent and said he didn’t have an agent, when he did.

He walked into the house when the front door was open, rather than calling the agent, or ringing the doorbell, and saw nothing wrong with doing so.

He made no effort to connect with the sellers, let alone, say hello to them.

He belittled the house.

He insulted the listing agent, on multiple occasions.

He “hired” a bum agent who was completely unprepared and unqualified to present his offer, because he thought he could save money.

He asked to present his offer in person, which is something I have never seen done before.

He wrote a “me, me, me” letter to the sellers, in which he threw the listing agent under the bus for not allowing him direct access to the sellers.

He offered the list price, and tried to use some sort of reverse psychology in saying “I don’t want to negotiate, so here’s your list price,” to try to sway them.

He did everything wrong, at every possible opportunity.

And in the end, the nice “tall lady” got the house. Her family had the highest offer once the process was completed, and the sellers saved their personal note, along with two others that were just beautiful.

Mr. 40’ish’s letter went in the recycling.

I’m not faulting Mr. 40’ish for not wanting to bid higher; that’s not what this is about. I’ve re-read this post twice now, trying to see it from the perspective of your typical Toronto buyer, to see how the view might differ from that of an agent, and the one thing perhaps you might see, that I didn’t, is that I’m somehow blaming a buyer for not having a crystal ball, or not wanting to spend past their budget.

But this wasn’t about the sale price.

This was about the buyer, who just didn’t “get it.”

From start to finish, there was no common sense. And while I don’t want to turn this into an advertisement for hiring buyer-agents, certainly if this guy had a buyer agent who had two wits about him, the agent would have told him to be a little more courteous, and perhaps that the list price up against eight competing offers, wasn’t worth the paper it’s printed on.

There are a lot of buyers in this market who just don’t “get it.”

Buyers who want to create their own narrative, and who hope, pray, wish, and dream about and for market conditions that don’t at all reflect reality.

We can all dream, but most of us snap out of it, and get back to our lives.

Many buyers don’t. And they’re left in the false reality they’ve created, forever.

I have other stories from this listing, and from the last couple of weeks, that underscore this idea of “getting it,” or failing to live in market reality. Perhaps I’ll come back to it on Thursday…

The post Either You “Get It,” Or You Don’t appeared first on Toronto Real Estate Property Sales & Investments | Toronto Realty Blog by David Fleming.

Originated from http://ift.tt/2ojChx5

0 notes

sneeple-confirmed · 7 years

Text

A New Boi

Hi everyone! Mod Mom Friend here! I am very excited to report that I found a beautiful human that plays DnD at college, so I will be a part of his campaign, and as such, I have a new character! Meet my small, agoraphobic Calishite boi, Haseid Jassan!

As his boat carved through the waves, Haseid took a deep breath, relishing the taste of the salty air and the sensation of the wind running its fingers through his long, unkempt hair. He’d been at sea for years, yet every day he marveled at how peaceful the sea was. He’d always lived near it, but he never had really gotten to fully experience it as he did now. And, he reflected with dread, he’d have to soon depart the sea, at least for a while. He knew he needed to. His Brothers needed him, wherever they were. They had to be alive, somewhere--Haseid felt like he would just know if anything serious happened. Everything fundamental about him was connected with his Brothers, and that bond couldn’t be severed, neither by time nor by distance. If finding these men who shaped his life, who helped him find his place in a world that seemed to reject him at every change, meant that he had to endure the noise and bustle of a city...he’d do it in a heartbeat.

Haseid took one last deep breath before swinging toward the port. He could already feel his breathing constricting and his heart rate increasing. Cities, especially popular port cities like these, were the worst. The moment he stepped into one, he became a bumbling mess of a person who couldn’t even string a sentence together, and he felt like he was constantly attracting attention. Pragmatically, he was nowhere near the strangest person in the city, but he always had the sensation of being a fish out of water. As he stepped onto the dock, the ground even felt foreign and foreboding as he took a couple of stumbling steps to secure his boat.

Already, the noise was overwhelming. A million different voice vied for attention, all loud, all insistent, as Haseid walked. He hated that he was still so unused to it, and already he could barely form a coherent thought. Steadfastly, he repeated a strategy that he was used to--he rubbed the fabric of his tunic between his fingers, trying to devote all his focus to the sensation of the cloth. Usually, zeroing in on a sensation helped focus him; today, it helped, but only marginally. Haseid sighed. It was going to be a difficult couple weeks.

However, his mood quickly improved when he went to the local inn to ask about a room. The innkeeper obliged, and gave him a few thick pieces of parchment, wrapped together with twine. Haseid smiled; hearing from Atala never failed to brighten his days. He missed her. Throughout his childhood, she’d been a bastion of strength; whenever Haseid was overwhelmed, he could always trust Atala to help. She always knew just what to do. In exchange, Haseid made sure she was safe--Atala didn’t have much regard for her own safety. Her pride never allowed her to ask for help, even when she needed it most, so Haseid simply learned to figure it out for himself. Atala was the best friend he could ever imagine having, and he wanted nothing more than her happiness.

When Haseid reached his room, he untied the twine delicately, careful not to mar the paper. He set the twine gently to the side--he could surely use it at some point--and opened the letters, smiling when he saw one page written in Ceidil’s tentative lettering.

Dear Uncle Haseid, the letter began.

Thank you very much for the braclet! The misspelling of bracelet and the child’s handwriting just seemed perfect, and Haseid smiled. He remembered making it--he wove some of the twine that Atala used to bind her letters together, making the centerpiece a small, sturdy glass bead that he’d made while practicing his craft--he had to keep up his glassblowing in cities to buy him passage. It was definitely not artisan level weaving, that had never been his forte, but Ceidil had enjoyed it and that’s what was important. The bead looks like the sea and the beach is my favorite place!

Mama hasn’t had to help me with spelling much. She says I can start speaking Elvish soon! Little Ceidil was bright, that Haseid knew. Most children her age hadn’t even written much in Common, but she had a thirst for learning, and Atala was more than happy to indulge. Next in the letter was a small selection of shakily written Elvish letters. See? Ceidil wrote. I’m practicing! When you write, plese use some Elvish! Hopefully I can meet you soon! Love, Ceidil.

For the moment, Haseid set the letter aside, smiling so widely that his cheeks hurt, and when he opened the ones from Atala, a small picture fell out. It was labeled, in Atala’s beautiful cursive, “Ceidil, 5.” Photos were incredibly rare, but Haseid’s family was just barely advanced enough in society to have the funds for a camera, and Atala loved it. In the photo, a small girl, in the middle of writing, looked into the camera, her hair a mess of unruly curls. Haseid chuckled--Atala’s hair could never be tamed growing up, and clearly her daughter had inherited it. He flipped to the back of the photo, and Atala had written a small note. “She’s looking more like her father each day, but she has our smile.” And sure enough, Ceidil’s smile in the picture reminded him of Atala more than just about anything else.

Haseid set the photo on top of Ceidil’s letter very carefully, and then opened Atala’s letter. Her script, as always, was impeccable. Dearest Haseid, the letter read. I hope my note finds you well, or at least as well as you can be when you’re around actual humans. Haseid rolled his eyes and smiled fondly. Atala teased him all the time about his isolated life, but she supported him tirelessly. I do appreciate you staying in cities long enough for me to write you. Hopefully sometime soon your travels will take you near home. Ceidil is growing more and more every day. She is the light of my life. When she was writing to you, she barely let me help anymore--she’s fiercely independent and is so excited to write you on her own. I can’t imagine how happy she’ll be when you two finally meet. She’s wanting to learn more and more languages, ever since she heard me talking to a customer in Elvish. I agree with her, the language is beautiful, and I’d love to teach her early. It is so much easier when they learn young, and it will serve her well. She’s also wanting to start making figurines. Atala was one of the most famous makers of glass figurines in her area, and she was perpetually drowning in commissions, a state of chaos that she and Ceidil loved. Call it my motherly instincts, but I’m not the fondest of her playing with molten glass just yet. Ah, but I’ll have to see what I can do, or else she’ll start exploring on her own.

Business has been quite good, and I’ve continued to love running the shop. It’s so refreshing, and Ceidil adores helping. As reckless as she can be, she’s so careful with my figurines (and I must say, having her around has made my shop more popular. She might have your smile, but thankfully for her she doesn’t have your social skills). Again, Haseid laughed--anyone mentioning his awkwardness crossed a line, unless it was Atala. He teased her plenty, so he never minded receiving a little bit of ribbing in return. We both miss you, and hope that you’ll be in our area soon! I think you’ll enjoy seeing the little family I’ve created--I must admit, I’m proud of how far I’ve come. Much love! Your sister, Atala. Still grinning, Haseid folded the letters and set them carefully in his pack. He didn’t carry much, but he had almost every letter that Atala sent him. They took up a good portion of the backpack, but Haseid didn’t care--they were more valuable than even the gold he carried.

#dnd #dnd 5e #sneeple create #mod mom friend #haseid jassan