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isotextures · 1 year

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on processing/growth

A sort of birds-eye view reflection I’ve had during this whole process has been gaining a new understanding for/acceptance of the way I deal with my emotions. I’ve always been someone who’s first reaction to difficult life events is a sort of numbness. My first reaction is to dodge or subdue my feelings. I think it probably has something to do with having grown up in a household where my emotional reactions to things as an (admittedly) pretty anxious child were quickly hushed or dismissed by my parents/grandparents, who have always loved me deeply, but see intense emotions as a sort of inconvenience. This is partially due to the fact that it was inconvenient –– not to dismiss myself, of course, but I was always the one having a huge, unhinged meltdown in the grocery store, making us pull over the car, throwing things in my room, etc. This is not to make excuses (I was literally a child after all, lol) but to say that I don’t view this as being a “failure” in their parenting or something. I think that they all grew up in environments where not being able to “just push through” difficult times was seen as a weakness, and leaving a dinner party to tend to your kids' meltdown was seen as “giving them too much leash.” Again, not excuses, and there’s definitely another end of that spectrum, but I think it’s helpful to understand the full picture of the way this behavior develops (for me at least). It helps me to not demonize them, or myself, for having this reaction.

This is also to say that when it comes to processing emotions, I find myself trying to immediately stop myself from feeling That Feeling, be it with making tons of social plans to throwing myself into my work or over exercising or indulging in consistent weekend benders (and being hungover enough during the week that my emotional problems feel far away). This is followed by me hitting The Wall –– sometimes it takes only days, sometimes it takes months and months. But at some point my body gives up on my mind and I find myself extremely ill, fatigued, or broke (or all of the above). Upon realizing what just happened, it all surfaces at once, and I feel extremely overwhelmed with emotions. I can’t stop talking about how XYZ made me feel ABC, and immediately follow this up with tons of self flagellation for not realizing this all earlier. I feel stupid and embarrassed for looking down my nose at the person who’s spending months in bed crying over their loss, and suddenly feel like I have to mimic the worst parts of that reaction by letting my emotions run wild. And for what? To prove to people that I do actually feel things? To prove to myself that I can? To balance out this emotional equation that I literally just made up? The anger at myself for my feverish period of distraction often takes over the actual feeling of sadness, disappointment, fear, etc. itself, and when the anger subsides, I’m like, “okay, processing over I guess!”

But this breakup has honestly been different. It feels like I only came to this point and only made the choices I made because I knew I was ready, and all of my work has finally paid off.

To the outsider who’s breakup calendar started the day we officially ended things, I’m sure I still appear like I’m running with this whole “lets-party-and-go-on-tinder-and-pretend-to-be-happy” narrative that has been a part of my emotional process in the past. But I’m finally able to look back and give myself some damn credit. There were months, months of grief and unhappiness prior to this end of my relationship. I look back and read journal entries and look at photos and it’s so visible to me that I was feeling grief, that I was spending hours in bed, that for months before I actually ended the relationship I was deeply sad, I just didn’t realize it at the time. It was happening in smaller bits, day by day, just enough to be felt but not big enough to be named.

It wasn’t until the final breaking point that I realized I had already moved on. It wasn’t until I walked in the door one Sunday afternoon and felt the relief of being alone that I got my clarity and realized what I had been processing little by little over time. I was able to name it, hold it, touch it, and act on it.

My behavior in the month since (almost to the date and hour), has been characterized by this overwhelming relief, euphoria, self-love, independence and joy. And again, I could feel the way that people questioned this behavior, wondered why I wasn’t more sad. I could feeeeeeeel words like “manic” or “insensitive” at the tip of peoples’ tongues. Or, sometimes, I felt like people were looking past my behavior and all the way towards the other end of the emotional spectrum, giving me pats on the back, telling me to “fuck ‘em,” encouraging me to swing towards this “Before He Cheats” by Carrie Underwood caricature of a woman going through a breakup. And this feels completely inaccurate, too. Because my happiness wasn’t coming from the fact that he was gone or some excitement to sleep around or whatever people were thinking. It was coming from this place of deep personal pride that for the first time in my entire life I was able to see myself for myself. I was able to connect the dots between my body and my thoughts and my emotions and give myself what I needed. I felt like I was celebrating the fact that I was finally able to show up for myself. I was choosing to celebrate my agency and my depth, rather than punish myself for not following some made-up rules of emotional processing.

And in the last month, there have been plenty of events that I’m sure my more critical side could frame as “indulging in distractions” –– going out with friends, feeling entirely absorbed in visits with my family, throwing myself into the wild chaos of Carnaval in Barranquilla. But I see the word “distraction” and raise you a “reminder.” I have taken every opportunity to remind myself of all of the beauty, joy and dimension that exists in the world outside of a romantic relationship and celebrate the fact that I’ve chosen those things over continuing to live in a reality where I ignore my own unhappiness out of some “obligation” to keep things running smoothly.

So now, in the quietness of this city after Carnaval and in my first real period of deep rest since ending things, my heart has started to make space to feel a new sadness. One not as sharp and painful and chaotic as what I felt in the months leading up to this breakup, but one that is more deep and dull. I’ll see an old picture of us on vacation or in our apartment by the lake and be immersed in the memory of just how fucking good that all felt for so many years, and then open my eyes and see the doorway where we stood and scream-cried at one another. I’m reminded of the ugliness we brought out in one another in those final weeks, the terrifying feeling that things we spiraling far out of our control. The whiplash between these memories fills me with this intense sense of emptiness, of missing something that slipped through my fingers like the sands of time. I’m realizing just how much of my young life has been fiercely tired to a love that not everyone will get to experience, a love that felt like forever, but somehow wilted over anyways, no different than anything else on this earth that lives and breaths.

This all amounts to having a pretty hard time answering when people ask me how I’m doing, or what happened, or how it’s been going. It’s even harder when I can tell they’re asking those questions with their response already in mind, like they can’t wait to express their pity or suggest I get out there and sew my oats. But for the first time in my life, I don’t really care that my answer fits nowhere in the suggested framework of How You Should Feel About Your Breakup. Every single day I feel more capable of just saying, “I’m doing alright, and you?” with the knowledge that whether I am standing alone at the top of a mountain or crying in the shower, I Am In The Present, I’m backing myself, and I’m taking deep breaths. I’m looking at all of the aspects of my life and the world around me with new meaning, with new depth, and am excited to see where that takes me, for better or for worse.

And most of all, I’m grateful to myself –– for feeling sad, for feeling lonely, for feeling elated, angry, confused and relieved. Because for the first time in so long I’m allowing myself to sit down and feel the depth of each of these emotions, understanding more and more each day about how they shape myself and everyone I know.

You could say everything is on a spectrum, but I feel like it’s more of a mosaic –– scattered, non-linear, and complex –– every single tile a world unto its own for us to revel in and come to know.

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sodone-withlife · 3 years

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i know who i am

summary: really, he never saw himself ever willingly letting anyone in on his broken past, but here he was, sitting in across from Waipo in the tiny cramped office at the back of the shop and nervously sweating about what he was about to tell her

read it on ao3: chapter 1 is the original version with Mandarin, chapter 2 has everything translated into English

the movie really hit me hard as an ABC, and I really wanted to write something for it. even though she barely had any screentime, I loved Waipo—she reminds me of so many of my relatives—so I decided to make her be one of the most important people in Shangqi’s life, and it turned into this wonderful mess (i had to stop writing this for a bit because I literally made myself cry). there is mandarin in this, it's kind of intended to be a physical manifestation of how my bilingual brain works (i did put the English-only version first, the original version with Mandarin is under that one but the formatting for it one is better on ao3, so i suggest reading it from there). apologies for my shitty mandarin; I have mediocre language skills, but I'm still so excited to be able to incorporate it in my writing. in regards to the character's names: I only know for certain the Chinese characters used for Shangqi and Wenwu, but for Xialing, I'm going to go with what it apparently was in the hong kong release (夏灵, with 灵灵 as the nickname)

English Translation:

“Waipo, do you have a bit of time?” Shangqi stood in front of Katy’s grandma, fidgeting nervously as fluent Mandarin rolled off of his tongue with an ease he's never felt in any other part of his life. “I want to talk to you about something."

She pinned him with a knowing stare. “Does it have anything to do with the trip you and Katy went on this past week?" she asked, Not waiting for his answer, she got up from the shop register and beckoned him into the back office. Feeling oddly like the first time he came into the store years ago as a teen—when he first met Katy’s family who had since taken him under their wing—he followed her into the familiar, cramped space.

He wasn’t exactly sure what within him prompted this interaction. He had come to San Francisco for a normal life, to get as far away from his father’s reaches as he could and to outrun the blood that stained his footsteps.

Never did Shangqi imagine that he would end up claiming the ancient rings that now sat in a heavy-duty (thanks to Xialing, with whom he now keeps in regular contact because of the promise they made to each other before he left the compound because he already left her behind once, and he’s never doing it again damn, my baby sister is running the Ten Rings now, and she’s trying to turn it into something better) and a very well-disguised (thanks to the sorcerers in the New York Sanctum and holy shit he’s in contact with famous superheroes now) back in his mess of a studio apartment.

Never did he imagine letting anyone in on his broken past, and even though his hand had been forced when it came to telling Katy, here he was going to the second person who truly saw something in him when he first started his new life and planning to tell them everything.

(Okay, fine, Shangqi wasn’t actually planning on letting anyone else in on it after telling Waipo, not even the rest of Katy’s family, but he really didn’t want them to be so involved yet—he still had no idea what he himself was doing and he wants to preserve what normalcy he can.)

(Also, he’s been reliably informed that anyone close to a public figure is bound to be targeted for attacks—which he figured out when the mercenaries attacked on the bus because yes, Lingling, he does have brain cells thank you very much.)

“Little Dragon, what’s on your mind?”

Little Dragon.

He started at the nickname, the one originally given to him by his mother. Somehow, it had completely slipped his mind that Waipo also called him that, starting a few weeks after he first met the Chen family. He barely kept it together, the long-unused nickname dredging up memories he had thought left him forever.

You have the heart of a dragon, she had declared firmly when he asked her why she decided on that particular nickname.

(That was exactly what his mother had told him right before she died, and yet he stood by, hidden behind a door, and did nothing while the men beat and killed her, the heart of the family.)

(He would carry the guilt with him for a lifetime.)

It was a while before he could bring himself to visit the family again—there were a lot of awkward excuses before Katy reluctantly backed off—and it took even longer for him to get somewhat used to the name again, but he eventually started seeing it as a gift with each faint impression of happier days that he got every time Waipo called him that.

Old, weathered hands gently covered his own, which were shaking and clammy with nervousness. Shangqi wondered how Waipo would react to the darker side of the lost boy she had basically adopted all those years ago, wondered if the legends of Ta-Lo and the Great Protector were known outside of the rather insular communities that continued to tell the stories, wondered if she had heard about his father through the stories that were passed down for thousands of years, from generation to generation…

(It can’t be wrong to miss him, can it? Even with the years of hell Wenwu had put him through, he was still his father. Shangqi still faintly remembered the man his father had been when his mother was still alive, the happy times they shared as a normal family…)

(But those times were long gone, ripped from their grasp by the past Wenwu wanted so badly to leave behind. Grief had shattered the whole family, and it ultimately led to the children fighting the father who had been driven to near madness in his denial, in his quest to put his broken family back together again.)

Mom, I miss you so much.

(And now Wenwu is dead, just like his beloved wife.)

(But just as she died to protect her children, he did the same. Now, his children are reunited and in contact again, getting ever closer despite living as far apart as they did, and he was reunited with his love in the afterlife.)

Finally, he straightened his posture and took a deep breath, looking directly at Waipo, who he’d come to view as the grandmother he never had.

“Waipo, have you heard of the legend of the Ten Rings?”

And Shangqi told her everything.

He told her everything and more,

She listened.

She listened as he described the legends behind the Ten Rings, Ta-Lo, and the Great Protector; his father’s history; his own history, from witnessing his mother’s death to ripping open the throat of the man who killed her when he was barely a teen, from leaving Lingling behind to seeing her again in the fight club she built from the ground up, from returning to the compound after a decade away in San Francisco to the battle in Ta-Lo…

Finally, he fell silent and stared at his hands but it wasn’t long before Waipo moved, slowly standing up with one hand on her cane. He made to help stabilize her but was quickly waved off with a stern look. He sank back into the chair and felt her move behind him. The shaky weight of her hands on his shoulders as she gently pressed down and straightened his posture was familiar, even after years of not having his posture deliberately—so gently—fixed like that every time he saw Waipo.

“You are the legacy of all who came before you, but you are your own person.” she finally said gently, and the tension in his shoulders slowly loosened under her familiar touch. “You decide your own fate.”

~~~

That night, Shangqi knelt before the altar he had in his apartment, the only part that was carefully maintained in all the years he had lived there. But now, two smiling faces stared back at him, a joy reflected in their eyes that he knew would disappear in less than ten years after the photo was taken.

Am I still your pride and joy? Lingling grew up, but I didn’t even take care of her like I should have.

I swear to you, I will never abandon her again

Even as his life got even more unbelievable as the years went by, the altar and his copy of his parent’s wedding photo would remain a constant. He and Lingling dove deeper into their family history—of the Ten Rings, of Ta-Lo, of both the good and bad—and both worked to carry on their parents’ legacy.

(With all of the proper discretion agreements and threats when needed, of course.)

Lingling is dating my best friend now, and they’re so happy together. Mom, I know you would have loved Katy. Dad, I know you didn’t like her much, but she really is a wonderful person.

Life went on.

There were the good days, when he went out with others and could almost feel normal, and there were the bad days, when phantoms pains plagued him and he woke up from a restless sleep expecting to see bruises mottling his body like they did so often when he was younger.

(Also, he was considered a superhero now and holy shit that’s still insane, even years after he first got in contact with the Avengers and the sorcerers in New York. Now he was going all over the West Coast, to help the locals take care of whichever crazy supervillain decided to wreak havoc that day.)

Dad, I hope you find this story as funny as I did: I helped a group of American superheroes yesterday. They’ve never been to San Francisco before and were extremely unfamiliar with the roads, especially Lombard Street. They spent half an hour trying to drive down the street, but I ended up driving them down myself.

(San Francisco was still home, and he had found a life there with all his friends and Xialing whenever she visited. He had a job now, too, at the local youth center teaching martial arts and self-defense, teaching and guiding the youth in a way he wishes his father had with him.)

People came into his life; some stayed, some left, and some even got together.

Mom, Dad, Lingling and Katy are getting married today and everyone is so excited for them. I’m taking over the Ten Ring within a month so Lingling can take a break. She’s led the organization for so long, it’s my responsibility now. I hope I can live up to her standards, she’s done really well. She’ll be back in a few years, but even after, I’m going to be much more involved to lessen Lingling’s workload.

Shangqi walked the path knowing who came before him and who was still with him.

Most importantly, he walked the path knowing who he was—demons, flaws, strengths, and all.

Mom, Dad, don’t worry. I’ll take care of them.

I hope you’re happy together in the afterlife.

~~~

Don’t be afraid, Shang-Chi, for you have heart of a dragon and the power of the Ten Rings.

We will always be with you and Xialing.

Original Version w/Mandarin

“外婆，您有没有一点儿时间？” 尚气 stood in front of Katy’s grandma, fidgeting nervously. “我想告诉您一些事情。”

She pinned him with a knowing stare. “是不是跟你和瑞雯这前个星期去的旅行有关？” Not waiting for his answer, she got up from the shop register and beckoned him into the back office. Feeling oddly like the first time he came into the store years ago as a teen—when he first met Katy’s family who had since taken him under their wing—he followed her into the familiar, cramped space.

Never did 尚气 imagine that he would end up claiming the ancient rings that now sat in a heavy-duty (thanks to 夏灵, with whom he now keeps in regular contact because of the promise they made to each other before he left the compound because he already left her behind once, and he’s never doing it again and damn, my baby sister is running the Ten Rings now, and she’s trying to turn it into something better) and a very well-disguised (thanks to the sorcerers in the New York Sanctum and holy shit he’s in contact with famous superheroes now) back in his mess of a studio apartment.

(Okay, fine, 尚气 wasn’t actually planning on letting anyone else in on it after telling 外婆, not even the rest of Katy’s family, but he really didn’t want them to be so involved yet—he still had no idea what he himself was doing and he wants to preserve what normalcy he can.)

(Also, he’s been reliably informed that anyone close to a public figure is bound to be targeted for attacks—which he figured out when the mercenaries attacked on the bus because yes, 灵灵, he does have brain cells thank you very much.)

“小龙，你有什么心事儿？”

Little Dragon.

He started at the nickname, the one originally given to him by his mother. Somehow, it had completely slipped his mind that 外婆 also called him that, starting a few weeks after he first met the Chen family. He barely kept it together, the long-unused nickname dredging up memories he had thought left him forever.

你有神龙之心，she had declared firmly when he asked her why she decided on that particular nickname. You have the heart of a dragon.

(That was exactly what his mother had told him right before she died, and yet he stood by, hidden behind a door, and did nothing while the men beat and killed her, the heart of the family.)

(He would carry the guilt with him for a lifetime.)

Old, weathered hands gently covered his own, which were shaking and clammy with nervousness. 尚气 wondered how 外婆 would react to the darker side of the lost boy she had basically adopted all those years ago, wondered if the legends of Ta-Lo and the Great Protector were known outside of the rather insular communities that continued to tell the stories, wondered if she had heard about his father through the stories that were passed down for thousands of years, from generation to generation…

(It can’t be wrong to miss him, can it? Even with the years of hell 文武 had put him through, he was still his father. 尚气 still faintly remembered the man his father had been when his mother was still alive, the happy times they shared as a normal family…)

(But those times were long gone, ripped from their grasp by the past 文武 wanted so badly to leave behind. Grief had shattered whole family, and it ultimately led to the children fighting the father who had been driven to near madness in his denial, in his quest to put his broken family back together again.)

妈妈，我太想你了。

(And now 文武 is dead, just like his beloved wife.)

Finally, he straightened his posture and took a deep breath, looking directly at 外婆, who he’d come to view as the grandmother he never had.

“外婆，您听说过 ‘十环’ 的传说吗？”

And 尚气 told her everything.

He told her everything and more,

She listened.

She listened as he described the legends behind the Ten Rings, Ta-Lo, and the Great Protector; his father’s history; his own history, from witnessing his mother’s death to ripping open the throat of the man who killed her when he was barely a teen, from leaving 灵灵 behind to seeing her again in the fight club she built from the ground up, from returning to the compound after a decade away in San Francisco to the battle in Ta-Lo…

Finally, he fell silent and stared at his hands but it wasn’t long before 外婆 moved, slowly standing up with one hand on her cane. He made to help stabilize her but was quickly waved off with a stern look. He sank back into the chair and felt her move behind him. The shaky weight of her hands on his shoulders as she gently pressed down and straightened his posture was familiar, even after years of not having his posture deliberately—so gently—fixed like that every time he saw 外婆.

“你是所有在你之前的人的遗产，但你是你自己的人，” she finally said，“你决定你自己的命运。”

You are the legacy of all who came before you, but you are your own person. You decide your own fate.

~~~

That night, 尚气 knelt before the altar he had in his apartment, the only part that was carefully maintained in all the years he had lived there. But now, two smiling faces stared back at him, a joy reflected in their eyes that he knew would disappear in less than ten years after the photo was taken.

我还是你的骄傲吗？灵灵长大了，但我也没好好照顾她。

我向你发誓，我再也不会抛弃她。

Even as his life got even more unbelievable as the years went by, the altar and his copy of his parent’s wedding photo would remain a constant. He and 灵灵 dove deeper into their family history—of the Ten Rings, of Ta-Lo, of both the good and bad—and both worked to carry on their family’s legacy.

(With all of the proper discretion agreements and threats when needed, of course.)

灵灵跟我朋友最近开始谈恋爱，他们俩可开心了。妈，如果你还在我们身边，我保证你会喜欢她。爸，我知道你一开始不太喜欢她，但她确实是一位精彩的人。

Life went on.

爸爸，我希望你跟我一样觉得这个故事很好笑：我昨天帮了一组美国超级英雄开车。那是他们第一次来旧京山，对道路非常陌生—尤其是 Lombard Street。他们开也开不好，花了半个小时慢慢的开下去。最终，我把他们的车开下去的。

(San Francisco was still home, and he had found a life there with all his friends and 夏灵 whenever she visited. He had a job now, too, at the local youth center teaching martial arts and self-defense, teaching and guiding the youth in a way he wishes his father had with him.)

People came into his life; some stayed, some left, and some even got together.

妈，爸，灵灵她今天会跟我最好的朋友结婚，我们都很兴奋。我一个月之内开始接管十环的业务，让灵灵休息休息。她干了多少年了，现在是我的责任。我希望我能辜负她，她管的非常棒，帮了许多人。她几年后会回来继续当领导，但我好像在领导方面发挥更大的作用。

He walked the path knowing who came before him and who was still with him.

Most importantly, he walked the path knowing who he was—demons, flaws, strengths, and all.

妈，爸，你们放心吧，我会照顾他们。

我希望你们俩来世都幸福。

~~~

尚气，你别怕，你有神龙之心，十环的力量。

我们永远会在你和灵灵的身边。

#i’m so sorry if the mandarin is shitty #the format is better on ao3 #but i’m so excited to be able to at least try it #shang chi spoilers #shang chi and the legend of the ten rings spoilers #shang chi fanfiction #shang chi #shang chi and the legend of the ten rings #marvel fanfiction #mcu #shang chi imagines

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sweetteaswift · 4 years

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devilsknotrp · 5 years

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Congratulations, Honey! You are accepted for the role of Mandy Silverman. This is another sample application for potential applicants to have a look at. You’ll notice that this is quite a long application, but that’s just how I write. You can do whatever you like with yours! If you have any questions about this application or any characters with a connection to Mandy, don’t hesitate to let me know.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Honey Age: Twenty five Pronouns: She/her Timezone: GMT+11 Activity estimation: I essentially work full time and have several obligations, but this group is so tightly organised and planned that I’m confident in participating regularly on the dashboard and as an admin! My admin duties will always take precedence but I will be able to reply to threads several times a week. Triggers: (REDACTED)

IN CHARACTER: BASICS

Full name: Amanda “Mandy” Silverman Age (DD/MM/YYY): Thirty (02/03/1966) - Pisces (Sun), Virgo (Rising), Cancer (Moon) Gender: Cisgender female Pronouns: She/her Sexuality: Homosexual homoromantic Occupation: Adult Education Coordinator Connection to Victim: Mandy did not know the Goode family. She knew of them in the way all newcomers to Devil’s Knot are known: through rumor and glimpses in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. Mandy had little to do with Linda; she’d seen David and Beth at school, when she’d gone in to meet Mary after work; but she’d never met Brian at all. Alibi: Mandy was at home that Saturday working on a craft project. She ran out of glue at around three, then walked into town to go to the craft store, where she spent a few dollars too many on a crocheting kit. She decided to pick up some coffee and doughnuts then walked back home, where she stayed for the rest of the day. Faceclaim: Elizabeth Olsen

WRITING SAMPLE

This is a self para written for the Mandy in 1984.

The Datsun.

It was such a shit little car. Really, it was. Sandy’s miscellaneous paraphernalia littered the dashboard. Her dad’s manuals and work shit stuffed beneath the front seats. Pete had stamped grubby hands all over the back windows - people asked them all the time if they had a dog. “No,” Mandy replied grimly, hoisting Pete up on one hip. “Just a kid.” The motor turned over more often than she could count, which would put her father, ever the optimist, into an agitated but vaguely amused mood. Him, hunched over the wheel, grinding the key, revving the engine, If I… could just... Then, Sandy, cranky and likely hungover, snapping from the passenger side: I told you we needed it serviced! They had about a thousand tapes in the center console, most of them in the wrong cases, with a mix that spanned from Bob Dylan to Pete’s ABC children’s songs. Them, zooming along a damp highway, rain splattering the glass, her dad cheerfully singing, The wheels on the bus go ‘round and ‘round! as Pete laughed in delight. Mandy tries to forget that she’d eventually lose her temper and shout, Can we turn this stupid shit off? as her mother mumbled, Amen, behind enormous sunglasses and a gas station Slurpee.

The Datsun, which was rotting away at the police station right this second. Mandy hasn’t asked when they’ll get it back. It’s evidence, that’s it. She has her bike or her skates and Sandy doesn’t leave the house unless she has a ride (Aisha pulling up front and blasting the horn; Sandy, clattering around gathering her things, muttering, Where’s my goddamn…). Their family car is nothing more than a shell, a marker in the Pete and Phillip Silverman’s trail to murder. Kind of like a pit stop. Wrappers marked with imaginary blood stains littering the cab floor. That clean-sour smell of nervous sweat. Her Dad was always a sweater, mopping his brow and fanning himself, Jeez, it’s hot today. Mandy kind of loved that about him. How when she was looking for him in a crowd, she just had to search for the slightly damp white button-down, the back of his nearly-balding head. His hair was soft, like down, and Pete’s was too. Two twin sandy blonde heads sitting in front of the television, Pete curled into his father’s side, Phillip slowly stroking back those baby-shampoo-soft curls.

So, yeah. The Datsun. Scene of family road trips and midnight grocery store emergencies. A wreck that managed to limp from point A to B, with her dad faithfully in the front, eager to drive her to friends’ houses or cheer practice or a competition two towns over. She still thinks about winding the windows down as far as they could go when they were on the highway. Her dad would look over, catch her eye, and grin in a way that made her think of him as a teenager, a young man, that cheerful abandon of youth that was infectious as a whisper, goose-bumps prickling her arms.

“Shall we see how fast this baby can go?” He’d yell, and Mandy would laugh and laugh: “Go, Dad, go!”

ANYTHING ELSE?

Here is my Pinterest board for Mandy (featuring ‘84 and ‘96 boards, because I’m that kind of person), and her account can be found here.

HEADCANONS

Mandy works at the Community Centre as an Adult Education Coordinator. Which is just a fancy way of saying she organises craft classes for senior citizens. Seriously. Mandy picked up the job mainly to get Sandy off her back. After commuting to Lansing to attend community college, her decision to drop out and live and work in Devil’s Knot was met, unsurprisingly, with a pointedly raised eyebrow and a loud slurp from a glass of wine. And Mandy knew, she just damn knew, that if she stuck around her childhood home any longer, she and Sandy would end up killing each other. The job isn’t taxing: she works a few days a week, has a desk up on the mayor’s floor in the Community Centre, and spends way too much time putting flyers together for their new pasta making courses or adult literacy classes. The administration is what really bothers her, because the students are lovely. Little old ladies she’s known for years; grandfathers who remember her father back in the day. Best of all, they like her. Mandy wouldn’t consider herself a charismatic person, but she is a patient one. She’ll listen to a grandmother’s story a thousand times, nodding in the right places, exclaiming, asking questions. She’s gentle. Around other people it can be a slightly different story. She’s not clipped, exactly, nor is she rude. But she is shy, and Mandy is naturally suspicious. When people stop her to talk, she hesitates. It would be too much to link that back to ‘84, although there’s little doubt that that October and the months that followed succeeded in severing her trust in adult figures for life. No, Mandy prefers to keep to herself, to the people she knows. It’s safer that way; controllable.

Mandy loves movies -- always has. Bobby, Mandy, and Perry always went on about music, talking rapturously about guitar solos and funky beats, all while Mandy pretended to grimace and trade teasing looks with Jenny and Mike. But movies. Mandy’s favourite genre is horror. Surprising, maybe, but she can’t get enough. Sci-fi is her second favourite. Her ritual is to go down to the Videoport on a Friday afternoon and stock up for the weekend. She trails down the aisles, fingers skating over the titles, looking for some weird German expressionist thing or a summer blockbuster she can zone out to. Mandy would hardly consider herself a connoisseur, but she has an encyclopedic knowledge for actors and actresses, and can name their filmography from memory just by looking at them. It’s like, one of her only talents.

Mandy enjoys cooking. She mainly enjoys cooking for Mary, who will always, without fail, praise her skills until Mandy’s rolling her eyes and begging her to stop. Even if it’s crap (which it is a lot of the time; God knows Sandy never taught her to cook; this was all the result of afternoon cable and Reader’s Digest), Mary will come up and hug her from behind, kissing the side of her neck, suffusing Mandy in warmth and her spicy perfume. That was so good. You’re so good to me. Doing things for people is Mandy’s way of showing she loves them. It doesn’t matter what it is -- laundry, vacuuming, cooking -- she’ll find herself doing things automatically. It’s a little funny that she’s turned into a housewife ever since moving out with Mary, but it’s also really damn nice. Mandy looks after their small apartment so tenderly. Watering the plants on the windowsill, buying kitsch ornaments from the thrift store, airing out their cramped bedroom in the spring sunlight. Much of Mandy’s life revolves around domestic duties. She picks up the mail, pays bills, goes grocery shopping. Mary comes too, of course, but doing things together in public can get difficult when all Mandy wants to do is kiss her deeply in the fruit and vegetable section. Mary’s full-time job is also demanding, and Mandy only works a few days a week (despite what you may believe, there are not that many adult education classes to organise; the biggest scandal was when they introduced a salsa class and everyone collectively lost their minds). Maybe, in some way, it’s Mandy’s way of holding up her end of their relationship. And maybe, in a deeper, smaller way, it’s also an excuse. If she’s busy, how can she possibly go back to college? Who’ll make apple crumble and fold the socks? Huh? The pixies? If this makes Mandy sound territorial, it’s because she is. She clings to these chores because it’s far easier than thinking about the alternative, which is to get off her ass and actually make something of her life. She’s thirty years old. Nearly thirty one. And she’s got absolutely nothing to show for it. That hurts more than anything. Maybe that hurts most of all.

Mandy is a lesbian. She knew. Even when she was a teenager, she sort of knew. She and Mike started dating when they were thirteen and just... kept going. Certain things seemed inevitable: prom, college, maybe even marriage. It was so simple to imagine her life with Mike, whose family, the Hawkers, were best friends with her parents; they’d all been born months apart; they were raised together. Most of Mandy’s childhood memories involve Mike and Mary, Jenny. They tumbled around together like puppies, climbing trees and having sleepovers. Then they started to grow up, and Mandy and Mike got together, and the atmosphere shifted a little. Mandy liked Mike. She did. Maybe she loved him, in a way. But it was so, so platonic, and the way she felt when she looked at Mary was anything but. Mary used to scare her; still does, sometimes. She was a force of nature and Mandy was the eye of the storm. Looking back, the signs were obvious, but then again, they always are.

Mandy used to dress the way people expected her to dress. T-shirts and jeans, bleached white sneakers and cheer uniforms. Not feminine enough to please Jenny, who’d wrinkle her nose and fondly say, “Mandy, are you kidding? You cannot wear that,” and not masculine enough for her dad, who’d hand her wrenches as he worked on the Cadillac on weekends, shooting sidelong glances at her squad jumper, mumbling, “You’ll get grease all over you, honey.” Scrunchies and high ponytails. Pale pink jackets and a signet ring Mike gave her when they were fourteen. Just enough to be acceptable; to be palatable. To blend in, fade away, be nothing at all. These days it’s the opposite: Mandy dresses like an amorphous blob. In fact, she’d rather people hazard a guess at what she really looks like underneath her oversized flannel shirts and huge boots. The more clothing she has on, the more protected she feels. Layers upon layers. Band shirts worn soft with too many washes; jeans more grey than black. She still has her pink jacket from high school (Mary hung it up in their wardrobe and shrugged when Mandy found it, saying, “You always looked cute, and I’m a sucker. So sue me.”) Mandy pulls her hair up and away from her face; she doesn’t wear make-up. Still has the signet ring, though. She’s a sentimental doofus, she knows.

Mandy loves arts and crafts. Pottery, weaving, knitting; painting, sketching, cooking. These are things that bring her peace, that quieten her inner world. Growing up, she wasn’t creative in the slightest. Mandy was decidedly pedestrian: the most creative thing she ever did was design banners for the cheer squad or doodle in the margins of her school notebooks. But after Pete was returned, she needed something, anything, to stifle the panic static in her brain. Countless nights were spent sitting on the couch in front of the television, Pete curled into her side, her doing finger knitting or making a collage, eyes darting between her project and the cartoon onscreen. Over the years she’s gotten better -- last winter she managed to knit Mary a hideous scarf -- but her hobbies were never pursued in the same vein as her other achievements. Mandy still remembers practicing for cheer for hours in the cold, or studying in her room until midnight, eyes dry and head aching, quietly panicking about a test the next day. Everything she did, she did obsessively. These days, Mandy just wants to be still. Their apartment is stuffed with half finished craft projects: stacks of coloured paper, jars of beads, wool in miscellaneous piles, flowers drying on the windowsill. Sometimes Mary will come home to find her sitting cross-legged at the kitchen table, a pot of sauce bubbling on the stove, Stevie Nicks in the background, Mandy carefully cutting out prints for her art journal. She started journaling when she was a teenager, mainly to help with her father’s murder and the stress of the subsequent trial, but it’s a habit that has followed her happily into adulthood. Mandy would be lost without her projects, her art. It’s a channel for everything she feels; it clarifies her. And it’s never undertaken with any attempt at perfection. Mandy’s learning, slowly, to let go of unattainable ideas. Life is messy. She’s trying to accept that about the world, herself.

Mandy failed community college. Well, it felt like she failed. In reality, she dropped out. There were only so many classes about psych and childhood trauma that she could take (and ironic, right? That she studied psych? Mandy remembers the day she flicked through the brochure to pick her classes, ticking boxes on the vague notion she’d specialise in children, maybe, in kids who’d been taken or abandoned, and help them find their childhood again). The people were too much. Tons of people like her -- great in high school, but not good enough for a decent college out of state -- and older people too, people who reminded her of her dad (not that he’d gone to college; he used to joke that that was all above his pay grade, No, no, I’m happy where I am! Although Mandy knew how avidly he poured over science magazines, and how impressed he was with Apple and that computer stuff. Maybe in another world he would have done something else, been someone great. Maybe it runs in the family). Mandy felt boring in turning down invitations to parties or even drinks down the campus bar. She’d cite anything -- Pete’s homework, the long drive home, dinner waiting -- and soon that got old. She felt old. Like she’d skipped the fun part of her twenties and jumped right into middle age. It didn’t help that everything after ‘84 melted her brain into goop. The minute Mandy received her final marks from school, she shoved the paperwork back into the envelope and hid it with her dad’s old things. The word failure pounded in her head. How did it happen? How could she have gone from mathletes and cheer to barely scraping by? To holding on by a thread? And why? Why did it all affect her so much; why was she such a damn baby about everything? Pete was back safe. That should have been enough, right? But his return didn’t come with everything. Somewhere between Pete disappearing and that Christmas, Mandy cut herself loose. Swapped SAT prep for making spaghetti for her returned little brother. Watching reruns on TV until it was way too late, tucking him into bed. Some nights she didn’t want to leave him, so she put out a sleeping bag on the floor by his bed between him and the door. Just in case. Mandy always wanted to go to Oberlin for one reason: it was far away from Devil’s Knot (and, okay, she liked the name). Ambition was a thing she wore because it fit, not because she liked it. Watching her dad’s face light up when she showed him her grades was reason enough to try hard; and studying with Bobby made her feel light, if only for a little while, them laughing and whispering about D&D campaigns, teasing each other like siblings. Being smart felt good, even if it didn’t come wholly naturally, and Mandy worked damn hard to keep it up. Giving it away should have been freeing. Instead, Mandy knows she disappointed everyone. She’s just another person who raced to the state line only to stop dead, toes at the edge, and feel fear prick the back of her neck.

#literate rp #original rp #dark rp #town rp #new rp #sample #accepted #mandy silverman

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distant-rose-archive-blog · 6 years

Note

I love your little pirates family!!! I feel like you skipped over Westley being born could we have a story about how wesley came to be :)

I felt like a shithead for having this sit so long in my askbox, so I decided to work on it while I was having some writer’s block with A Once and Future Thing. Anyway, not so much a Westley being born story so much as how we came to find out he exists and the process of his coming to be. Anyway, this is 5,200 words of Killian and Emma deciding to have another kid - our favorite troublemaking little pirate. I think I’m titling this one ‘Deliberate.’ As always, @welllpthisishappening is a goddess and will inherit the intellectual property of Little Pirates (if fanfiction qualifies as intellectual property that is) when I’m finally murdered by the Trump Administration.

It had been a strange thing to Emma - the actual decision and act of deliberately trying to get pregnant. She had brought two sons into the world, but neither of them had been planned. Henry had been the result of teenage recklessness and a desperate need to feel connected to Neal while Harrison had been conceived in the aftermath of one of the most emotionally straining moments of her life. Emma didn’t regret giving birth to either of them, but it doesn’t change the fact that they were accidents; happy accidents but accidents nonetheless.

But this child…this one was planned.

When Harrison had been just born, a second child wasn’t even on the radar. It had been a traumatic birth and Emma regretted opting for natural birth over a caesarean; she had torn badly and Harrison had born with a broken collarbone. One baby and a teenager had been enough for the first few months.

Until Henry started asking questions.

“Are you and Hook going to have any more kids?” he asked one day over lunch.

Emma choked on her onion rings and had to thump her own chest to dislodge to clear her wind pipe. She reached for her napkin and wiped away the crumbs and excess saliva from her face, feeling a bit self-conscious.

“What?”

“You guys gonna have more kids?” Henry asked again, patiently.

Feeling uncomfortable, Emma looked down at her plate and tucked her hair behind her ear. No longer hungry, she inched her plate away from her and returned her attention to her son. Henry was leaned back against the vinyl booth and looking at her so intensely that she felt the need to shift in her seat under his gaze.

“What? Worried about having to deal with another screaming baby?” Emma tried to joke.

“More like worried that little Han Solo is gonna be lonely. Being an only child…it can be a little rough sometimes,” Henry replied, taking a bottle of ketchup and squeezing small pool on the edge of his plate. Henry was nearly as meticulous as Killian when it came to his food, making sure his condiments never touched his food without some deliberation.

“He’ll have Neal,” Emma reasoned.

“Neal is his uncle…it’s not the same…sure, they’re going to be roughly in the same age group, but there’s no guarantee that they’re even going to like each other. Look, Mom, I always wanted siblings and now I have one, but it feels weird…I’m just so much older than him and I feel like I’m going to be more of the uncle-figure than a big brother, you know?”

“Having another kid to make sure my other one isn’t lonely doesn’t sound like a good reason to have another kid, Henry…” Emma responded, feeling put on the spot.

“I know, I know,” Henry responded, taking a french fry and dipping it into the ketchup in such a tentative manner so that it didn’t break the perfect circle he created. “Just think about it.”

And she did think about it. It was hard to ignore. Wherever she looked, all she could see was little kids; a brother and a sister holding hands in the park, a young boy trying to help his little brother how to walk and even a little girl trying to share a sandwich with her infant sibling. She would go to the supermarket and all she could see was article headlines on children jumping out at her: “Thinking of Having a Second Child? Seven Reasons for Baby Number Two!”, “Nine Benefits to Siblings” and “The Best Time to Have Baby #2 (or #3!)”

She hated herself a bit for perusing through them while waiting in line to check out. They all said the same damn things; going on about how siblings tend to be less self-centered, better at socializing and problem-solving and had a built-in support system.

She was reading over an article entitled “The Benefits of Having More than One Child” when a high-pitched shriek sounded throughout the whole store. Emma looked up in time to see Aurora’s three-year old son Philip having a complete tantrum while sitting in his mother’s grocery cart. His face was scrunched and mottled red as he wailed and tossed boxes of food out of the cart.

“I WANT LOOPIES! I WANT LOOPIES! I WANT NOW!” he shrieked.

Emma cringed at the volume, suddenly grateful that Harrison was so easy-going. He grumbled a bit when he was hungry, but never he had gone into a full tantrum like that. The cashier, an elderly woman with hair pulled back into a severe bun, made a noise of disapproval.

“Okay, okay, okay!” Aurora responded, looking harassed as she picked up a box of Fruit Loops and placed them in the cart. “See? I got your Loopies? Happy?”

“She’s going to spoil that one,” the cashier commented. “Mark my words, that child is going to be the biggest brat Storybrooke has ever seen. It happens when you have an overindulgent mother and an only child. They grow up thinking the world is about them.”

Emma didn’t comment, just loaded her groceries onto the belt; her head was swimming with thousands of thoughts.

“Though you got a sweet one at home, don’t you?” the cashier asked. “A little boy, right? You usually come in with him. Your husband likes to bring him in too.”

“I have two,” Emma corrected. “I have a sixteen-year-old and a five-month-old baby.”

“That’s quite the age gap,” the woman responded.

Emma merely gave her a tight smile in reply.

It took her a week after the grocery store incident to approach her husband about it. They were laying in bed, both dressed in flannel pajamas to combat the chill of late September and watching “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown,” which was playing as a special on ABC. Emma personally thought it was too soon to be playing Halloween movies but Charlie Brown was too classic to pass up. Killian was tucked against her back, thumb rubbing patterns against her hip and more interested in nuzzling her hair than actually watching the cartoon.

“Hey, can we talk?” she asked, turning her head to look at him.

Killian’s entire body seemed to tense at her words.

“Love, almost every time those words are spoken, an unpleasant conversation follows…though you have surprised me a few times. Anyway, what’s on your mind?”

Emma took his hand in hers, running her fingers along the callouses that lined his palm. She played with his fingers for a moment, gathering her bearings. Killian, as per usual, waited for her to speak with unparalleled patience, but there was a noticeable furrow in his brow and a worried look in his eyes.

“Have you thought about having more kids?” she asked quietly.

“You know I have,” he answered in an equally hushed tone. He hesitated for a moment, studying her closely. “Swan, are you?”

“No,” she said firmly. “No. But I’ve just been thinking…Maybe?”

“Maybe,” he repeated. “What do you mean by maybe? You’ve actually been considering it?”

“You sounded surprised,” Emma commented, deflecting for a moment.

“Of course, I’m surprised. You weren’t necessarily happy about Harrison, love. I mean, I know you love him, but he didn’t have the most enthusiastic of beginnings…I just thought…I guess I just accepted that Harrison was going to be our one and only. I mean, aside from Henry.”

“Funny you mention Henry,” Emma replied, leaning back more against him and studying his hand still. “Because he was the one who kept harping on Harrison not being an only child.”

“He’s not an only child,” Killian asserted almost immediately. “He has Henry. He might be older, but they’re still brothers.”

“I know and Henry knows, but there is quite the age gap and Henry is going to be going away soon…They wouldn’t be raised together…I’ve just been thinking maybe a little brother or sister might be good…keep everyone grounded…”

Killian wrapped his blunted arm around Emma’s shoulders, pulling her closer to him, so that he could lean his head on top of hers. He joined her in studying their hands, his own breaking free from her hold so that he could intertwined their fingers.

“This is sounding like more than a maybe, Swan…”

“Well, it’s a hard maybe right now. I can’t be fully on board until I have your thoughts on the matter…”

Killian sighed heavily.

“Swan, I never imagined I would be someone’s father. I always thought Henry would be it and that was enough for me…and then Harrison came along and he was…well, he is perfect. And between you and me, I’ve wanted another since we brought him home, but I always felt the choice should always and firmly be yours…I am content with whatever you’ll give me, love. That’s my decision and that will always be my decision.”

“But you want another baby?” Emma asked, pushing for a definite answer.

“If that’s what you want, Swan.”

“No, Killian, don’t give me that. I want an honest to God answer. Do. You. Want. Another. Baby?”

Killian squeezed her hand hard and she briefly wondered if he was putting all of his strength between it. He brought their combined hands up to his lips and placed a delicate kiss on her knuckles.

“Aye,” he whispered against her skin. “I want another.”

Emma twisted in his arms, pulling her hand away from his so she could place it on his shoulders in order to press him further into the bed. In a movement that felt almost practiced, she slid her leg over his hip and pulled herself up so she could straddle him. Killian’s hand and bare wrist immediately went to her hips. She leaned over him, placing a delicate kiss first on his nose and then on his lips.

“That settles it then,” she murmured, one of her hands reaching up to frame his face. She rolled her hips against his and their faces were so close that she could feel his breath curl against her cheek as he groaned. “Let’s make another baby, babe.”

She scheduled an appointment with her doctor almost the next day to discuss this development. If her GP was surprised with her choice to have another child, she didn’t say anything. She did, however, recommend a variety of pre-natal vitamins and gave her some awkward pointers on things to do in order to bump up the chances of conceiving from diet tips to preferred sex positions for conception.

As if to further her commitment to having another child, she downloaded an app to track her fertility on her way to the pharmacy. Tom Clark gave her an inquisitive look when she bought three different types of prenatal supplements and a new thermometer, but said nothing when Emma met his stare with hard one of her own.

The doctor told her it might take them awhile to conceive again, but Emma was still disappointed when she wasn’t pregnant by December. Very little effort was put into her conceptions of her two boys that it felt reasonable to assume that it would be much easier now that they were actually trying.

If Killian was frustrated by their lack of progress as she was, he didn’t say. However, there was a near palpable desperation in their lovemaking. Sex between them had always been passionate and sometimes a little rough, but Killian’s level of intensity seemed to have amplified over the last of few months. He had always been a talker but since their decision to try for another, he had become less verbose and more…determined; as if he stared hard enough at where they were joined while they fucked, he could actually will conception to happen with his mind.

She didn’t have time to feel disappointed in January and February however. Storybrooke was hit with a series of snowstorms that put both Elsa and the Snow Queen to shame and it took forever to get the power to back on, only to have it knocked out again. Emma and Killian had to huddle poor Harrison between them at night in order to keep him warm. Even Henry had joined in occasionally, the four of them huddled on their king’s sized bed as a blizzard raged outside.

Early March came and with it, a sense of tiredness that seemed to sweep over her. She felt the need to sleep constantly and napped in the most bizarre of places. On top of that there was a sense of dizziness that came when she moved too quickly and a random but intense craving for Indian food and cucumber sandwiches. Emma was almost embarrassed how long it took her to realize the telling symptoms.

The plan was simple. She was going to take the test and if it was positive, she would tell her husband then they would hopefully have a round of celebratory sex before they booked an appointment for confirmation. They would keep it to themselves for more weeks to ensure no issues happened before informing her parents and then letting it be common knowledge. That was the plan and that seemed easy enough.

Except Emma should have known better.

Because plans never go as they’re supposed to.

It was seven in the morning on a Saturday that Emma was caught looking at pregnancy tests in Dark Star Pharmacy by her own mother, who apparently was shopping for children’s Tylenol. Emma’s kid brother had been brought down by a fever recently and Snow had been re-stocking their supply.

“Emma?” The sound of her mother’s voice made her freeze like a deer in headlights.

“Shit.”

Snow’s eyes jump between the Clearblue box in her daughter’s hands and her face, which was turning bright red. A wave of mortification and embarrassment washed over Emma, which made absolutely no sense because she was thirty-five years old, married, had kids already and had actually planned the possible bun in the oven. She just hadn’t told her parents about said planning.

“Emma,” Snow repeated again, this time there was a tone of urgency in her voice.

“Hi Mom,” she replied, attempting to plaster a convincing smile on her face.

“Emma…you are…?” Snow looked around the store for a moment before mouthing the word ‘pregnant.’

“Well, if I knew then I wouldn’t need one of these,” Emma remarked lightly, giving the box a rattle.

As if the situation couldn’t get more awkward, Leroy appeared almost out of nowhere and clapped a hand on Snow’s shoulder.

“Hey sister, if you have a moment, can I talk to you about…” Leroy trailed off when he saw Emma.

Emma closed her eyes and groaned audibly. She smacked her head against the display, causing a number of pregnancy tests to fall onto the floor. This was the exact opposite of what she had planned. When she pulled her head back, both her mother and Leroy were still looking at her, more particularly at the stupid box still in her hand.

“Are you”- “Stop talking,” Emma interrupted Leroy, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Don’t speak. You didn’t see anything. You didn’t hear anything. I will not have my husband find out from you of all people that I’m pregnant,” Emma hissed. “Do you understand me?”

Leroy paled, nodded quickly and turned right around. Emma merely placed her head and her hands, groaning again.

“That is a lost cause, isn’t?” Emma mumbled between her fingers.

“Afraid so,” Snow replied apologetically. “And I thought you didn’t know…”

“I don’t know, but I have a sneaking suspicion. All the regular suspects are rearing their ugly heads, you know?” Emma replied, rubbing at the growing bump on her forehead and wincing.

“And Killian doesn’t know?” Snow asked gently.

“Well, I didn’t mention it to him. I didn’t want to him getting his hopes up,” Emma sighed. “We’ve kinda been trying, actually.”

Snow nodded, looking a bit conflicted.

“I didn’t know you guys were even thinking about another child,” she said after a moment.

“We didn’t tell anyone…it’s not something you really share or something we felt comfortable sharing…We kinda just wanted to keep this to ourselves for a bit…”

Emma honestly didn’t know what else to say. She just shifted awkwardly, wishing the cheap orange carpet would just swallow her up.

“Do you want someone with you when to you take that?” Snow asked, gesturing to the box.

“Ummm…no…thank you, but no,” Emma replied, shaking her head. “I mean, I appreciate it, but I kinda wanted Killian to be the first person to know the news…though I’m pretty sure this cat is out of the bag.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I’m sure Leroy knows to be discreet about something like this,” Snow said, placing a comforting hand on her daughter’s arm.

Emma’s eyebrows rose almost comically at her mother’s statement and she fixed her with a look of disbelief.

“Yeah, I want to believe that, but I will when pigs sprout wings and start flying.”

It took only thirty minutes after leaving the pharmacy for people to come up and start offering their congratulations. Emma accepted them with a tight smile, mentally killing Leroy in her head. It wasn’t even official yet and the entire town probably knew. She was trying very hard not to be upset about it.

She stopped by Granny’s to pick up her daily hot chocolate…only to receive herbal tea instead. She didn’t even realize it until she brought the Styrofoam cup to her lips and tasted bitter instead of sweet. She placed down on the counter lot harder than she should have, causing some to splash over the lid.

“Granny, where’s my hot chocolate?” Emma demanded.

The older woman gave her a long look.

“Hot chocolate has caffeine in it,” she said pointedly. “Are you sure you should be drinking that in your condition?”

Emma’s eye twitched. She placed her hands on the counter and leaned forward a bit, staring her down. She was really not in the mood for this nonsense.

“I’m not sure what condition you’re referring to, but it would be much better if you gave me hot chocolate instead of this…nasty leaf juice,” Emma responded in a deadly calm voice.

“So, you don’t have a bun in the oven?” Granny asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What I’m saying is that Leroy’s guts are going to be garters when I find him,” Emma replied with a huff.

As soon as she convinced Granny to hand over her hot chocolate, Emma immediately headed home in hopes of doing some damage control; practically sprinting. She knew it was a long shot, but hopefully she could intercept Killian before he went to the grocery store. The last thing she needed was him finding out from someone else that she could possibly be pregnant. She suddenly wished that she hadn’t walked to the pharmacy; walking home from Granny’s is a thirty walk in comparison while driving only took ten minutes maximum. There was no telling what sort of damage the Storybrooke rumor mill could do in that period time.

However, all of her fear and anxiety was pushed aside when she arrived home and found two of the four most important men in her life playing in the living room. Bob the Builder was playing loudly in the background, but neither Killian nor Harrison were paying attention to it. Killian was holding up Harrison’s prized bear and shaking it gently while Harrison was watching it with rapt attention, cruising towards his father while holding onto the coffee table.

“Trying to get him to walk?” Emma asked, placing the plastic bag down on a nearby table as she regarded them.

“He’s going to do it soon, Swan,” Killian said, holding the teddy bear up higher. “I can feel it in my bones. He took a few little steps yesterday before he toppled over. He’s going to do it.”

“He’s only ten months, Killian,” Emma remarked, smiling nonetheless. “Neal was thirteen months when he starting walking so relax a bit.”

“That is exactly why our little lad is going to finally walk today,” Killian answered. “Gotta stick it to Uncle Neal, right, my boy?”

Harrison responded by putting his entire fist in his mouth and sucking on it.

“If you and Dad make Har and Neal hate each other with this stupid competition stuff, my mother will never forgive you,” Emma remarked.

“It’s all good fun,” Killian responded, giving her a small smirk. “Especially because we’re winning.”

Emma just smiled and shook her head, watching as Harrison inched his way towards his father and his special bear while still holding onto the coffee table for support. As he reached the edge of the table, he took one, two, three steps forward without assistance before toppling over. Harrison blinked in surprise and for a moment, Emma thought he was going to cry, but he only let out a small whimpering noise and held his arms up towards the bear.

Killian sighed and relented, giving the bear to their son. Harrison immediately trapped it in the circle of his arms, wiggled his entire body and made a pleased cooing noise before nibbling on the bear’s ear.

“So close, lad, so close…” Killian mumbled, raking his hand through his hair.

“Is that what you’ve been doing all morning? Walk training?” Emma asked, nodding her head towards Harrison.

“Actually no,” Killian replied, looking up at her. “We got grocery shopping done already, the little lad and me. We got back probably like ten minutes ago, so this is merely the beginning of training, as you say.”

Fuck. Emma’s smile wavered.

“Oh, how was shopping?” she asked, trying to keep nonchalant.

“Odd,” Killian frowned. “Swan, have we done something major recently because random strangers were offering some sort of congratulations. Did Henry get into some prestigious university and the two of you neglected to tell me?”

“No,” Emma sighed, cursing the entire town in her head for not minding their own business. “No, not that. I fucked up.”

Killian’s eyebrows rose at that. He picked up Harrison and shifted him so his head was cradled in Killian’s shoulder, prosthetic hand propping up his bottom. Harrison made a noise of displeasure and squirmed a bit. He didn’t like being held so much now that he was a bit more mobile, he constantly wanted to move.

“Oh? How did you ‘fuck up,’ Swan?” he asked lightly, bouncing their son a bit in his arms.

“I bought something that I should have bought across the town line and besides a few exits down the highway, but I’m a dumb ass and bought it from Dark Star’s and now something that I wanted to be between you and me is now the town’s entire business,” Emma replied, brushing her hair out of her face.

“And what exactly did you buy, Swan?” he asked gently, holding Harrison tightly as he got up and walked towards her.

Emma let out a heavy sigh before grabbing the plastic bag off the table and pulling out the sole item she had bought from the pharmacy. She held the box up and gave a small shake.

Killian’s eyes widened comically and his mouth opened briefly before he snapped it shut. Without saying a word, he turned and placed their son in his bounce chair. Harrison made a disgruntled noise, but his displeasure was quickly forgotten in favor of playing with the various buttons on the chair that lit up and made noises. Both Emma and Killian winced at the amount of noise it was making but it couldn’t be helped.

There was an almost wild look in Killian’s eyes when he returned to her side and he took the box out of her hands with trembling fingers. His eyes kept darting back and forth between the box, her face and her abdomen. He let out an almost disbelieving laugh.

“That was quicker than I expected,” he said breathlessly.

“What are you talking about? It’s been nearly six months since we said we would try,” Emma replied, feeling a bit defensive.

“Aye, it has, but did your practitioner say it might take a year before we might conceive again?” Killian asked.

He placed the box back down on the table and raked his hand through his hair.

“You think it’s too soon,” Emma frowned. A chill went down her spine. This conversation wasn’t going how she had expected it to.

“No, no, I’m just surprised, love,” Killian responded, placing a smoothing hand on her shoulder.

“I don’t even know why we’re getting so worked up about this, it’s not like we know if it’s actually true yet,” Emma mumbled.

“I’m assuming because you bought the test in the first place that your suspicions are rather high, love,” he replied, placing a kiss on her forehead.

He moved his hand from where it was placed on her forearm and slung it around her shoulder, pulling himself closer to her so that they were side-by-side. Emma shifted, leaning against him. Both turned their attention to their ten-month old toddler bouncing around in his toy chair, unaware of the profound discussion his parents were having.

“When do you want to do this?” Emma murmured, gesturing to the box.

“I believe that you’re captaining that particular ship, love,” Killian murmured, placing another kiss on her head.

Emma looked down at the box and bit her lip.

“Might as well as get it over with. The whole town is already buzzing about it,” she sighed.

“Hey…Don’t let that get to you,” Killian replied, squeezing her shoulders. “We can wait until whenever you feel comfortable with it.”

“No, no, no.” Emma shook her head. “Let’s just get this over with.”

She pushed him away briskly, picking the box up again. Her fingers curled so tightly around the box in her hands that the card box crumbled under them. Throwing her shoulders back, Emma began a brisk walk towards the bathroom but before she could get very far, Killian wrapped his hand around her wrist and pulled her back.

“What’s going on, love?” Killian asked, thumb caressing her wrist.

“I just want to pee on the goddamn stick, Killian!” Emma snapped, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice.

“Aye and you can. After we talk. What’s going on? I thought you wanted another child. We have been trying for six months, love and you seemed so eager, and now you don’t seem happy at all. I just want to know what’s going on with you…Are you having second thoughts about the baby?”

“No! I’m not having second thoughts! I want this kid, Killian! I just wanted it to be between you and me! This is supposed be just ours and no one else’s. I just wanted it to be just ours for a while without anyone bugging us and bothering us and nosing around. And now everyone knows and I wasn’t ready for that, Killian. I wasn’t! It’s too early! What if something goes wrong? That would be horrible and everyone would know about it! It’s just too early and anything can happen and this is our personal business and no one else’s. I just feel robbed.”

Killian pulled her close, before releasing her wrist and wrapping his arms around her. His fingers drew mindless patterns into the small of her back. He rested his chin on top on top of her head.

“What happened isn’t ideal…but it’s going to be okay. The news is out sooner than we would like, but there’s nothing we can do about it now. Regardless of anyone is saying or thinking, this is ours. This is our family and the only people that matter are in this room, your parents and Henry. No else, just us, love.”

Emma opened her mouth to speak, but Harrison let out a loud squeal. Emma and Killian turned to watch their son bounce around in his chair, waving his little arms in the air. He looked so happy and carefree, completely unaware of the heavy emotions going on around him. They couldn’t help but laugh.

“We should really find out if he’s actually a big brother,” Emma mumbled, burying her head in the crook of Killian’s neck as he continued rub circles into her back.

“But we’re pretty certain, aren’t we Swan?”

“I’m about eighty-five percent positive I am, but we won’t know until I see a doctor but pee sticks are generally pretty accurate,” Emma said with a sigh.

“I’m pretty sure ‘pee stick’ is not the accurate term for it, love,” Killian chuckled.

“Whatever, that’s what they are,” Emma replied, good-naturedly rolling her eyes.

She pulled away from him gently, kissing his cheek.

“Okay, I’m going to do this,” she said, holding up the crumbled box and once more heading towards the bathroom.

Killian followed and he moved to enter the bathroom, Emma stopped him. She gave him an incredulous look.

“What are you doing?” she asked him, raising her eyebrows.

“I thought we were doing the test,” Killian replied.

“Killian, I love you. You’re wonderful. You’re a great husband and you’re the world’s best father, but babe, the world will end before I’m comfortable with having you watch me pee. Boundaries, babe, boundaries,” Emma replied, placing her hands on her hips.

“I’ve seen you give birth, love, during which you defecated yourself. I fail to see the difference between that and this,” Killian replied, raising his own eyebrows.

“The difference is that I was pushing a ten-pound human out of my vagina and I didn’t have time to feel embarrassed,” Emma replied in matter of fact tone. “Go play with our son and I will be done in three minutes, okay?”

Killian put his hands up in surrender.

“As you wish,” he said, backing away.

“Thanks Westley,” she called as she closed the door.

“You’re welcome, Buttercup.” Emma heard his muffled laugh through the door. She let out a chuckle herself, glad she had finally introduced her favorite film to him awhile back.

Three minutes.

All it took was three minutes for Emma Swan to be an emotional mess. She already knew, but she still gasped when she saw the word ‘pregnant’ on the digital monitor. She let out a shaky laugh, running her hands through her hair as she continued to stare it. She was going to have another kid.

Killian tentatively knocked on the door.

“Swan, everything okay in there?”

“Yeah.” Her voice was breathless. She felt a bit like an idiot for being so worked up over something they already certain was true.

Her husband gave her an expectant look when she finally emerged, bouncing Harrison in his arms.

“Well?” he asked.

Emma ignored him for the moment, reaching for their son and taking him into her arms and kissing his forehead.

“Hey baby,” she cooed. “You’re going to be a big brother.”

Killian left out a whooping noise before enveloping the two of them in his arms, sandwiching Harrison between them and placing kisses wherever he could.

“I love you,” he murmured. “All three of you.”

“We love you too.”

#captain swan #cs fic #cs ff #cs fanfic #cs au #cs babies #little pirates #little pirates fic #my fic #my shit #deliberate #wes jones #harrison jones #asks #answered #anon #I somehow managed to make some fluffy somewhat angsty

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imagineclaireandjamie · 7 years

Text

Our Story

Read the other chapters here.

Life goes on—quickly, greedily, and with a hunger that brings them to their knees. How to satiate it? How to stop it? They start journals (Claire), write more books (Jamie), do everything they can snag the veil with immortalized moments. If a memory is made concrete, they think—in writing or in a photograph—then perhaps time will have to move around it? Be forced to decelerate? (Time doesn’t care. About them, about anyone. The universal enemy.)

Claire is promoted to Chief of Staff, improves at Scrabble, develops a lump in her breast they believe to be cancer (it isn’t). Jamie learns how to sail without puking, gets a teaching job at Chapel Hill. He is less motivated by the idea of tenure—stability, money—than by the opportunity to stoke creative sparks in others just like him. In the fourth row sits a girl whose essays are colored by the loss of her mother, the grief of it found even in the gray eraser clouds. The boy behind her writes poems of spun sugar, overly romantic but endearing in their sincerity, and Jamie remembers this boy whenever he looks in the mirror.

Jamie grows a beard specifically to impress them. All of his professors concealed their weakening chins in thickets of hair, so why not him? The new aesthetic receives a positive response: Claire loves its tickle between her legs, his classes seem to find him wiser and mind less when his memory suddenly fails. (A common occurrence as of late, damn it all.) But when Jamie shaves for the summer, he feels strangely guilty—Bree’s expression, a scowl of disappointment in the reclaimed smoothness of his face. (The source of her sadness is revealed a few days later: she’d believed her father was Santa Claus.)

Jamie and Claire watch their bodies sag, widen. They watch their cholesterol, their caloric intake. There is the month-long agony of a shared paleo diet, an experiment which, come July, they decide is the dumbest thing they’ve ever done.

“No carbs!” Jamie crows in disbelief.

“No alcohol!” Claire hoots.

“Did I tell ye I cheated one day?”

“Jamie, you didn’t!”

“Aye, I ate Bree’s leftover macaroni,” he says. “Gobbled it right up, didna even use a fork.”

“Bloody traitor,” Claire says, and they laugh and laugh. Clink hearty glasses of wine as a toast to the old-age blessing of letting go and getting fat. (Jamie will repay Claire under the full moon, to redeem himself.)

For a while, it seems everyone they know gets divorced: a beloved colleague, a woman in Claire’s book club. When they hear the news, they praise their own luck, secretively locking hands before offering their sympathies. Such announcements inspire extra enthusiasm for the “Married” boxes on government forms. And saying things like, “My wife, Claire” or, “Have you met Jamie, my husband?” gives them a heart-swelling high. (Belatedly, they realize this shouldn’t be considered luck at all—but a given. This, their lasting marriage.)

It’s only after the Abernathy’s separation that worry niggles its way between them. They watch each other carefully, sousing out possible itches: a desire to flee to a foreign country, a lust for someone whose faults are more expertly hidden. (No marriage, even Jamie and Claire’s, is without its itches. The difference here is that they never want to scratch them.) Jamie is careful about putting the toilet seat down, and he allots himself just an hour of self-pity for every negative book review. Claire does not organize his messy office, respects the calculated disorganization of his shelves, even though the clutter makes her skin crawl. She keeps the AC off every night that summer, just so she can feel Jamie’s heat next to hers. A way of ensuring that he is still there, sweating himself into their sheets, which will remain unwashed for several days.

Their biggest fight is in September of 2014. One of Jamie’s students begins to show more interest in her professor than in her studies. There are bold advances, firm rejections, a vengeful letter that describes their trysts in explicit detail (strangely, Claire finds the Dear Mrs. Fraser and Xoxo Malva to be the cruelest things of all). All lies, of course, but still Jamie and Claire fight. Feelings of betrayal stew overnight, and Jamie is exiled from their bed like a misbehaving dog, Claire watching from the doorway as Jamie whimpers to the couch. Two days of silence pass—the dean notified, apologies made, and tears shed—before he finally barges into the bathroom, uninvited.

“Are ye going to leave me?” he asks Claire, very quiet for someone who nearly ripped the door from its hinges.

“Jamie, now is not a good time.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m peeing.”

“So ye canna pee in front of me now?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

But Jamie stays there, waiting, fetches toilet paper when Claire’s hand lights on the used-up cardboard roll. She flushes and stands. A child is born and dies a man in the minute it takes his wife to wash up.

“So?” he asks. “Are ye?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” she says.

They throw themselves into parenthood. Bree learns her ABCs, then her multiplication tables, then how to weep so that the dinosaur coloring book secures a spot in their shopping cart. Some innocence is lost after a public mounting: two petting zoo goats, vigorous thrusts, shameless bleats of ovine ecstasy. On the way home, “Where do babies come from?” is asked loudly from the backseat, though Jamie and Claire’s discomfort speaks louder from the front.

“From…from love,” Jamie stutters. “It’s something very special,” Claire adds—though a child is neither the guaranteed result, nor always the aim. They glance at each other, wondering if their daughter’s newfound awareness will require more discretion in the night. (There’s an element of danger to sex now, and the sneaky, moan-suppressing game of it reminds them of being young again.)

When they revisit the subject a few years later, they add such parental wisdom as: Trust is key; you must trust the person you consider doing It with. (Boy or girl, it doesn’t matter, they will love her anyways, does she know that?)

Actually, there needs to be trust and there needs to be protection. A rubber. A condom? Has Bree ever heard of a condom? (Yes.) What? How? Why is she aware of condoms if she is only eleven years old?

She is twelve years old, she is fourteen, she is sixteen going on thirty. Jamie and Claire spend hours looking for an elusive Pause button, the world moving at the same rapid-fire pace. 2015 becomes 2019, then 2022 in the blink of an eye.

They watch Bree join the volleyball team, break her wrist, break her heart. They watch her pinch whiteheads, lust after jocks and platinum hair dye, suck in her stomach before full-length mirrors (sometimes, this makes them want to cry; sometimes they do). They watch her as she descends the staircase in a pair of towering heels, a vision of silk and emerald and such astounding loveliness that they cannot fathom how their bodies made her.

This is the night of Bree’s senior prom, the winds of change in the air. It is ten hours before she will lose her virginity—a three-minute fumble inside a Toyota—to the boy now standing on the porch. (There will be trust and a condom and the first delirious onslaught of love.) The boy, named Roger, looks utterly stunned as Bree pins his boutonniere to his lapel, as if she has driven the needle straight through his tux, directly into his heart.

The couple is herded to stand beneath the sycamore, and to say, “Cheese!” (“Or gouda,” Jamie jokes, having settled quite comfortably into the routine of bad Dad humor.) Jamie cannot get a picture that isn’t blurry, and so it is Claire, with her steady surgeon’s hands, who manages the perfect shot. This is the photo that will hang on the fridge door, while the other—the one taken mid-parental transition—will make the family album. Roger laughing, Bree rolling her eyes at her father’s incompetence. It is a photo that will make Claire misty whenever she sees it. Even ten years later, when she glues their wedding photo beside it.

Still—life goes on. Birthdays, high school graduation, anniversaries. Bree gets into Harvard, Claire becomes addicted to RuPaul’s Drag Race, Jamie chops off his finger while julienning vegetables. Their Cocker Spaniel, Adso, lunges at the pinkish nub, mistaking it for a discarded bit of hot dog. (Thankfully, Claire rescues the finger, and it is transported in a baggy of ice—along with its owner—to the ER.)

Bree spends freshman winter term in Spain and calls home speaking the language, which only Jamie understands. They make it a joke to mislead Claire with outlandish stories, until she eventually catches on:

“Brianna got a tattoo of Roger’s face in Barcelona,” Jamie translates. “Full color, and at a verra reasonable price.”

“I know for a fact that the word ‘tattoo’ has not been used in this conversation,” Claire replies. “I’ve been watching Rosetta Stone, just FYI.”

“Weel, you’ll just have to see the proof of it, then.”

Doubt flickers across Claire’s face.

“You’re not serious, are you?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re lying.”

“Yes, he’s lying, Mama,” Bree chimes over the speakerphone, and they both start laughing.

“You two are the worst.”

“But you’re the best, Sassenach,”

“Damn right,” she mutters.

November 2028. The year, somehow, is almost over. In one week Bree will come home for Thanksgiving, wearing a Harvard sweatshirt and a promise ring from Roger. Roger himself will tag along, and in the manner of all nervous boyfriends, he will stutter through Jamie’s questions, be all-too-grateful for the distraction of clearing plates. (“Don’t worry about that, I’ll get it!”)

Claire, away on a 3-week conference, will be back as well. She will serve the turkey with a glint in her eye, daring someone to note how the side dishes seem suspiciously store-bought. The table will only offer their effusive praise, lubricating the dry turkey with the chemical-laden gravy, feeding Adso the scraps they couldn’t get down themselves.

Until then, Jamie has the house to himself. He has not been alone like this since the early 2000′s, and his mind becomes unsettlingly untethered by the solitude. He goes hunting, fishing, hiking. He leaves the front door wide open, pours Adso too much food. He forgets his tackle box in the woods and doesn’t realize it’s missing until the sun has sunk. Tomorrow, he thinks.

He attempts to write his story for The New Yorker, but he can’t seem to parse his thoughts into sentences. They buzz around his head like aimless bees, and he almost wishes for a sting, a pricking back to his eloquent senses. (Where is that damn outline he made a month ago?)

Like a teenager, he goes to his bedroom at 3PM, intending to jack off his loneliness. He tries to summon an image of Claire from the last time they fucked (18 days ago!), but there’s nothing clear enough to get him hard. Just a pale throat, the vaguest suggestion of a flower. He resits his phone—he’s called three times in the past six hours—and watches a football game instead.

The days go on. Adso watches him, alert, as if he’s waiting for the final unraveling, the arrival of a ghost. Jamie starts five books, returns them to shelves before he finishes. He prepares extravagant meals, stores the bulk of them in tupperware. He eats, he drinks, he sleeps.

Then, in the middle of the night—a smell. It sits on him, pressing down like an angry fist. He sits up. A searing pain that keeps his eyes closed. A sudden constriction of his lungs. An alarm going off and a dog’s yip, the roar of them traveling through a fog, a—smoke?

There is smoke. Jamie falls out of bed and runs, blindly, but there is only heat where the door should be. He feels heavy; he feels light. He feels as if he is rising high above the house and that he is falling down, far down, beneath it. He plans an escape, but there is no synergy between his mind and his movements. He pauses.

Claire. Where is Claire? If he could just open his eyes, if could just breathe properly, then he would call for her, and—

He is on the floor now. When did he get here? How did he get here? The carpet is soft under his cheek, a pillow to go with the blanket that suffocates him. Perhaps he’ll simply sleep and wait for the nightmare—for that is surely what this is—to end. A dream, only a dream.

But he can’t just lie still! There was someone else, right? That name from a few minutes (hours?) ago is on the very tip of his tongue. He wants to yell it into the screen of smoke, but a surge of memory tells him to conserve his breath. Whoever it is, isn’t here. Whoever it is, wouldn’t hear. (How frustrating it is to feel such desperation for an unknown.)

It’s so hot now, unbearably hot. It reminds him of something. Stories. A boy who sucked the spirit right out of his mother, entered the world in a stolen blaze of fire. Another woman whose hands licked him up and down, the most exquisite burning.

There are sirens. There are shouts. Bright beams flash through the black cloud around him. He raises an arm to admire their light on his skin, deceptively playful in their colorful dance and silent song. Pretty, Jamie thinks, and because the familiarity is a comfort, he lets it take him under.

And just like that, in a wash of red and blue—life stops.

#our story au #;mod liv #only 2-3 more to go eeeeep!

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redslilstories · 7 years

Text

New Traditions

Author: lilyme (aka. redslilstories aka me ;)) Summary: Set sometime in the future. Arizona loves to decorate her home for Easter. The house then looking even more Easter-basket-y than it normally does. But what happens when she comes up with something new for this holiday? How will this be perceived by her visitor? Pairing: Callie/Arizona Rating: PG Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this story, nor do I own any rights to the television show "Grey's Anatomy". They were created by Shonda Rhimes and belong to her and the ABC network. No copyright infringement intended!All mistakes are mine.

Arizona found herself confronted with the task of wrestling a heavy piece of luggage from her car's trunk by herself.

But not for too long since, "Hang on," a brunette rushed over immediately and helped her with it. "There," she announced, when they finally managed to get it out of the car and onto the ground.

"Thanks," Arizona grinned, patting her helper's arm affectionately. "Say, how much stuff did you actually pack?" she wondered, considering that monster of a suitcase they had just unloaded.

"Only enough to last a week," the other woman replied, feeling only mildly accused by the blonde's probable implication of having packed way too much for that time span. "And considering it's April, you never know how the weather turns out. Best to be prepared for anything," she justified with a shrug and went to produce the other, smaller suitcase from the depths of Arizona's car. "Plus... Sofia insisted on bringing along little Easter presents for each and every single one of her friends".

As on cue, the little girl in question came running towards them from Arizona's Seattle home where she had already deposited her backpack in her room. "Mommy, Momma, can I go see Kara?" she asked expectantly, giving Arizona and Callie her most sugary, 'Please, please, please' look.

The mothers briefly checked with each other, one quick eye contact still enough for them to know what the other was thinking. "Yes, okay," Arizona consented, "but listen to Kara's mom, okay?" she stressed.

"And home by six," Callie added, "We're having a pizza party tonight".

"Yes!" the girl rejoiced and lunged forward, hugging each of her mothers before running off to Arizona's next door neighbors' house.

The two moms waited until they saw the door of the house open and Kara's mom Jenny stick her head out. She waved over to them in greeting and let Sofia enter right away.

"Soo... pizza dinner, huh?" Arizona queried, casually grabbed the handle of the lighter suitcase – even though it had not been the one nearest to her - and started to pull it along the walkway to the house.

Callie smirked at the antics, but readily took care of the heavier one. Part of her regretting having packed so much. The way the weather looked now - all bright and sunny - she probably wouldn't even need a third of the clothes. And she already dreaded dragging all that back to New York. But she was almost certain Arizona would let her store some of her and Sofia's stuff here. For the next time...

"Uh, yeah, pizza," the brunette finally replied. "I figured, since it's the first day of spring recess and all... a good start into a few days off".

"Right," Arizona agreed. "I just thought we could have something with a few more eggs in it?" she argued and Callie frowned a little in puzzlement.

Catching the look, the blonde elaborated, "I'm just looking for a reason to blow out some more eggs. To paint them and decorate things with them...?"

"Oh, I see," Callie grinned. She knew Arizona was heavy into Easter-y things. Always had been. There was a reason she used to refer to the blonde's style of home decoration as something along the lines of Easter basket-y. And during the holiday itself it used to be even more Easter-y. With little bunnies and eggs everywhere. She was almost certain this hadn't really changed over the years. "Well, we can easily make pancakes tomorrow for breakfast," Callie interjected, "that'd give you plenty of eggs. Or maybe omelets".

"That's also a valid option," Arizona readily agreed, as they finally reached the house. "Okay, after you," she motioned for Callie to step inside.

The brunette mentally prepared herself to set foot into Easter basket paradise. Ready for all the frillyness this holiday brought for Arizona. She didn't really count on being surprised by anything she would see, but soon found herself mistaken.

Because barely into the foyer Callie stopped with a smirk slowly creeping into her features. "Um... what's that supposed to be?" she coyly asked, pointing towards the construct hanging in the doorway to the living room area.

Arizona raised her eyebrows at the question, since from the looks of of it alone it was pretty clear. A couple of small willow branches, adorned with self-decorated eggs... "Well, obviously an Easter branch...," she returned, giving Callie an amused look.

"I figured that," the brunette nodded, the grin on Arizona's face already confirming her suspicion that there was more to it. "But... why exactly is it dangling from the ceiling?"

"Oh, that...," Arizona pretended to only now realize what Callie was actually referring to. Okay, normally you'd put them in a vase ideally filled with water to help the buds grow into beautiful blossoms. But if there were ulterior motives in play, one might consider doing it a little differently. "I just thought it could be an incentive to get my extra special loved one an impulse to kiss me. You know, like a mistletoe...," she glanced at her counterpart with hopeful eyes.

Callie laughed out loud and reached forward to grab Arizona by the belt loops of her jeans, bringing her to actually stand underneath the easterly mistletoe egg branch thing. "You do know I'm always willing to kiss you, right?" she cooed and immediately followed through with her annoucement, planting the sweetest of kisses on her blonde lover.

"Really?" Arizona replied in mock astonishment, "Oh, damn, now I already put those up eeeeverywhere in the house," she said and went for a second treat.

“Well, then leave them,” Callie hummed into the peck. “And you know what?” she continued, looking into the eyes of the woman she never really fell out of love with and was so falling for all over.

“What?” the blonde smiled.

“Once we move back in together... we could, um...,” she played with the strings of Arizona sweater, “hang those up all year”.

“I thought you didn't need an incentive to kiss me,” the other woman jokingly argued.

“Well, nope, but I still like the idea of it. And since I wanna kiss you all day anyway, those things would just be one more excuse to do so. It could be our very own new tradition”.

“I'd love that,” Arizona smiled. She could not wait to have her two girls live in Seattle again. For them to permanently live together as a family and as a couple again. They were just waiting out the end of the school year, and then Callie and Sofia would be back. Forever.

#fanfiction #callie torres #arizona robbins #sofia robbin sloan torres #Calzona #calzona strong #calzona always

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stephenjaymorrisblog · 6 years

Photo

This is of an old article I wrote 17 years ago. I am re-posting it because a lot of people didn’t see it. It takes place in the North Miracle Mile of Los Angeles California. The finale takes place at a movie theater on Beverly Blvd. Like many things in L.A, it does not exist anymore. It is now a patch of yellow grass.

I went to the Pan Pacific movie Theater a lot in the 60’s and 70’s. It was cheaper than the Fairfax Theater several blocks away. The Fairfax played first run movies and the Pan Pacific played movies that were a couple of years old. Some times they play first run movies. I saw GoldFinger there in late 64.

When the Beatles were hot in 64, their movie came to my neighborhood theater. This is what transpired. I preface it when the Beatles were on Ed Sullivan show….

A Beatle Memory

By Stephen Jay Morris

Part 0ne

Tuesday, December 04, 2001

©Scientific Morality

I remember the Kennedy assassination in 1963. I was 9 years old. It seems as though my Memory started at that point in time. I do not recall the 50's, or even the early 60's. What I do remember is that America was a sanitized place. Or, maybe I was just completely sheltered from the real world. At the time, there was a pervasive melancholy in the atmosphere. Everything was so sullen. This didn't jibe with my childish outlook on life; I was carefree. However, living in a Jewish neighborhood made things especially depressing. Most Jews there were strong supporters of J.F.K. One day, I was visiting my uncle's house. There was a hi-fi system in his living room. At the time, Hi-Fi's were state-of-the-art record players. There were some record albums on display, facing frontward on the mantle. One was a comedy L.P. entitled, "The First Family"--it was a satire on the Kennedy' s. I asked my uncle if I could play it and he replied in an authoritarian voice, "Our president has just died and we must show respect for him!" In my young, critical mind, I wondered why the dick had it on display in the first place, if he was so respectful!

That was the tone of the times. Adults were so God damn serious! The only things I cared about in 1963 were baseball and monster movies. I hated school and my parents. However, I viewed school and parents as irrefutable authority figures to whose dictates I had to submit. I used to play with my childhood friend, Glen. He lived in a high-rise apartment building near my house. Our favorite place to play was on the roof of his building. We would pretend that space aliens hid in the giant air conditioning unit. We lived in our own little world. I remember one day, we were playing on the front lawn, when Glen's mother yelled out of the 4th floor window, "Glen! Time to come in! The President's funeral is about to begin!" "Ok, mom--I'm coming!" he answered. Then he turned to me and said, "My mom is making me watch Kennedy's funeral on T.V. I don't want to watch no dumb funeral on T.V! I gotta go! See ya." Yep! That's what was happening then.

Three months later, word came of something happening across the Atlantic Ocean. I heard my sister talking about the Beatles; she was telling my mom how cute they were. I didn't know what she was babbling on about; I thought she was talking about puppets. It was in early February, on a Sunday night. I'd always hated Sunday nights-- the last free night before school the next morning. The local TV station broadcasted my favorite cowboy show. It was on ABC, I think it was called, “Travels of Jamie Machetes.” I was about to tune it in on my parents' old Zenith black & white, when my sister came bursting into the living room, demanding, "I wanna watch the Ed Sullivan show! The Beatles are gonna be on!" I said, "Tough! I'm watching my show! She ran out of the room and whined to my dad, "Daddy!! Stevie wouldn't let me watch Ed Sullivan!" Next thing I know, my father stomps into the living room like the American Military liberating Italy in 1945; he was taking the moral high road, fighting against my evil selfishness! He said in that 1950's fatherly voice, "Hey, stupid! You don't own the T.V. set! Let your sister watch her show!" I relented. My sister stuck her tongue out at me. My dad was bigger than me, and this depute was not negotiable. Also, he held the deed to the house and was the final judge. My sister always won the arguments! Because I was older than her and had a penis, she was the innocent victim. No matter what she did--even if she was in the wrong, she was innocent. She got away with a lot of shit! My dad was so overly protective of her. I think he was the only man in the world that suffered from "vagina envy." My sister made sure the whole family watched the show. I hated the Sullivan show! It was lame, wholesome, family entertainment. I did like the comedians sometimes. Most of their material consisted of mother-in-law jokes and self-effacing humor. Then the big moment came. I was expecting human-sized puppets, but instead, on the stage were four guys with Moe Stooge hairdos, singing these cute, upbeat, love songs. The mostly teenage-girl audience was screaming at them! It was like one of those Godzilla movies from Japan. Usually, females screamed at something terrible. I remember thinking something bad was happening off camera. I asked my mom why the girls were screaming. She replied, "They used to do that to Elvis, and Frank Sinatra before him." "Who ARE those guys?" I asked my mom. "Will you shut up? I'm trying to watch the show!" my sister whined. I went to bed in disgust.

A lot of Baby-Boomers will tell you that that was the defining moment in their lives. Not me. I thought the Beatles were a bunch of fags! My defining moment was when the Rolling Stones appeared on the Sullivan show, a year later. I started to like the Beatles when Capitol Records released "Rubber Soul" in 1965.

In 1964, everywhere you went, you heard Beatles music. People used to install public address systems by their swimming pools. The neighbors to our left had one, and the family behind us had one, too. That summer, while the neighbors had friends over to swim in their pool, you could hear slashing and laughter and Beatles songs. At the Sav-On Drug Store, there was a whole section devoted to Beatles souvenirs. I remember Beatle lunch boxes, Beatle sweatshirts, Beatle wigs, Beatle board games, and Beatle plastic guitars. Little did I know that this junk would become collectors’ items! There were also Beatle trading cards. They cost five cents a pack. Like baseball cards, they contained a stick of pink bubble gum. You could smell the gum on the top card. The cards came in two editions: the black & white set, and then the color set, which sold for 10 cents. At my school, boys started to wear Beatle boots and combed their hair into bangs. Before they got home, they'd comb their hair back into pompadours so mom and dad wouldn't get pissed off.

At that moment in time, the Beatles were a harmless fad. America was, and still is, a nation of fads. The Beatles' management and the record industry calculated the Beatles fad. It started out that way. In the beginning, it was a teenybopper affair. Today, most Beatles fans like this era of the Beatles' career the best. Yeah, I must admit it's very nostalgic to listen to a 1964 Beatles' song. However, three years down the road was the outbreak of the Counterculture movement. A big fallacy is that the Beatles were responsible for this movement. Nope! They were merely a part of it. In 1964, some ex-beatniks in San Francisco were experimenting with drugs and music and created "psychedelic" music. The Beatles just brought it to a mass audience. Goodwater conservatives didn't think highly of the Beatles. 1964 was an election year. Buttons started to circulate reading, "Beatles For President!" It was all in fun. The conservatives despised their daughters for getting hysterical at these effeminate looking Brits. It's the oldest story in the world. When humans (males mostly) get older, they lose their sexual attractiveness. Consequently, they become anti-sex monsters. They hide behind the lofty veil of "Morality." Actually, it's just a simple of case of JEALOUSY! Maybe Viagra will change that age-old problem. There used to be a movie theater in my neighborhood. It was called the "Pan Pacific Theater." It had that weird, 1950's, post-modern look, like the coffee shops that were built in the 50's. I don't know when it was constructed, but I remember it burnt down in 1980. During my childhood, it was the place to go for Saturday matinees. It was cheap, too: 50 cents cheap! For that, you'd get a couple of cartoons and a B movie--not bad! I saw all the James Bond movies there. In 1964, when "A Hard Days Night" was released, it came to the Pan Pacific. I went to see it with my 5-year-old brother, Irwin, and my 8-year-old sister, Fay. When we arrived, there was a line around the block! This was unusual for this theater, which was called a "walk-in theater." And it was. It had only a local clientele. But not this time! The kids in the line were in a festive mood. They had their Beatles shirts on, and sported buttons of their favorite Beatle. Paul was the most popular. I listened to the girls in line talking breathlessly about their heroes. The theater's owner--a fat, Jewish, middle-aged man--looked nervously at his youthful customers standing in line. He was happy that he was happy making money for a change, however, he was uneasy about the possibility of a teen riot. Around the block, there was another Pan Pacific Theater. That theater staged an Elvis concert in the '50s, which had resulted in a teen riot. After that, they never hosted another rock concert again. The owners of this theater didn't want a repeat of that event. After all, most of their patrons were old Jewish ladies who would complain about the air conditioner.

When we finally got in, we sat in the back row; all the good seats had been taken. After the trailers of upcoming beach movies, the movie started and the place went nuts! The girls were screaming at the movie screen like the Beatles were there in person. It was unbelievable! In the middle of the movie, the projectionist freeze-framed a scene and the house lights went on. There was a loud, collective groan from the audience. The owner stood on the stage and said loudly, "I have gotten complaints about your conduct! People come here to see a movie, not to hear you make noise! If you do not act like ladies and gentlemen, then I will stop the movie and send you all home!" Then, the movie resumed and the screaming continued anyway. I saw some grown-ups get up and go to the ticket office for refunds. I did see the movie again--a few months later in an almost empty theater.

#the beatles #fairfax district #60's rock #poets on tumblr #stephenjaymorris

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thefinalprose · 6 years

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Episode One: I Lost to a Chicken.

Well, here I am. Again. Long story short, I wrote recaps for several seasons and needed a breather. Good thing I took one because from what I’ve heard Arie’s season was about as exciting as the intro paragraph to this recap.

When the Bachelor suitor bios came out, I just couldn’t resist and decided to write about them. The response was enough of an ego stroke that I have decided to recap Becca’s season, just a little differently. This time, no one will edit for me; they may take a week to post (sorry this took so long, I was out of town) and I might write whilst enjoying a cocktail. Regardless, I promise the same judgmental snark.

The first episode of the season is always a fan favorite. We get to re-live the new lead’s sad story of heartbreak; we’ll likely see past contestants show up to offer advice on finding everlasting love on national television in less than 90 days and it’s our first official look at the new suitors as they arrive at the mansion. A few will do something over the top for attention; a few will be too nervous to form a sentence that makes sense and one will definitely get blitzed. And probably half naked.

As though I’ve watched this before, the episode starts with the (first) reminder that Arie dicked Becca over last season. He proposed, she said yes and during one of their secret romantic getaways before they could officially go public as a couple, he breaks up with her with cameras rolling so he could go be with the runner up from his season. Who he had already spoken to about the idea. I want to say I’m surprised ABC let this happen, but they stopped surprising me with bad ideas when they let Nick try (and fail) at love 107 times.

Becca arrives at the mansion to be greeted by Kaitlyn, JoJo and Rachel; the most recent Bachelorette’s who are there to inspire success as they are all still engaged to the winner of their seasons. JoJo says, “it’s about to be bigger and better” and I hope that’s a dig at fantasy suite Arie.

The Bachelorette’s sage the mansion and I wonder if anyone outside of LA knows what that means.

SUITOR PREVIEWS

Before all 25ish suitors step out of the limo, we are made privy to a few of the standouts from the season. A little teaser, if you will.

First up is Clay, a professional football player who doesn’t fucking cuss. As unsure as I am about a person that doesn’t swear, I’m more leery of an NFL player that needs The Bachelorette to find “love”.

Garrett, the guy who does Chris Farley impressions, is next and guess what? He does a Chris Farley impression that I bet you can’t guess I hate.

I do.

He lists off a bunch of made up winter activities he enjoys because, you know, Becca is from Minnesota and it’s always winter there.

We see Jordan, the guy who is definitely a self-proclaimed “Instagram model”, having a photo shoot. He shares that his “brand” is “the pensive gentleman” and I’m going to guess that’s also his Grindr handle. He claims being a male model is taxing because he has to go to the gym year round. I don’t see modeling in my future and I, too have to go to the gym year round. Check out my Instagram page; I talk about it every once in a while. He also says he can see him and Becca, in sweats, on a couch with a tub of chocolate and a chick flick which is definitely the rest of his Grindr bio.

Lincoln, who apparently was named after honest Abe, is seen walking along Hollywood Boulevard with a huge smile on his face. If you’ve ever walked along Hollywood Boulevard, you know that no one should be smiling. I don’t trust him.

Joe, the grocery store owner, has been practicing his grocery store humor and I’d like to check out.

I’m not even sorry for that terrible joke.

Jean Blanc, the guy who loves cologne enough to call himself a Colognoisseur, tells us he’s going to blow Becca’s nose away and I hope it’s because he’s bringing an eight ball to the mansion.

I was certain that the joke about Colton, another pro football player, would be about his YouTube date ask to Aly Raisman out but oh, was I wrong. The joke is that he’s wearing a velour hooded vest over a shirt with leather sleeves. You know those men who make too much money too early on so they spend it on really dumb shit? That’s Colton. Who let him wear this? Who recorded this video for him letting him wear this? Why does he own this? What is happening?

LIMO EXITS + INTRO’S

It’s time for the men to arrive at the mansion and of the first five men, three of them have said, “Let’s do the damn thing” which became annoying even before the season aired.

The next five all make a joke about Arie, because every woman wants to talk about her shitty ex with a potential new love interest.

The five after that are the five that met her at After the Finale Rose when she was announced The Bachelorette.

We are fifteen dudes deep and I’m pretty sure only one of these guys is wearing socks with his loafers. Is this a thing men do? Is there a reason for it? Gross.

David, the guy that loves guacamole but hates avocados, comes out in a chicken costume and makes more chicken jokes than I knew even possible and yet none of them are cock jokes. Impressive or disappointing?

Disappointing.

The rest of the entrances were actually pretty lame and I suddenly remember that there is a drink limit on this show now.

Once everyone has arrived, Becca enters the house to greet the suitors for the first time and the drama among the men begins. The Bachelorette is way more fun than The Bachelor because dude drama is so much more entertaining. Remember Shawn and Nick? JJ and Clint? Chad? Oh, Chad.

Clay, a professional football player who doesn’t fucking cuss, takes Becca aside to make dolls or something weird like that. John, the guy who created Venmo, immediately shares that he is the creator of Venmo because in San Francisco that definitely gets him laid every single time.

It’s Christon’s, the guy with a made up job and name, turn and he takes her outside to a basketball hoop, has her hold the ball above her head and then pulls a Harlem Globetrotter dunk move. I’m pretty sure every dude in the house has a semi after watching. I kinda do too, tbh.

Becca and Blake, the ‘modern romantic’, sit in front of the fire and do that thing where they hold hands, but not just with one pair of hands with both pairs of hands and I’m super annoyed by it. He wins her over by saying, “I just know that if I could love the wrong person so much [his ex], imagine how much I can love the right person” and I wonder how many times he Googled “quotes about love” before choosing that one to use.

Chris Harrison arrives with the first impression rose and now it’s time for the men to step up their game. And by stepping up their game I mean:

Lincoln, who apparently was named after honest Abe, gives her an ancient Nigerian bracelet and tells her she’s now part of the family. Nick, aspiring lead singer of a boy band, has a vibrating back massager that I am completely certain he uses for other things. David, the guy who showed up with chicken jokes wearing a chicken costume, asks Becca to do the chicken dance with him because this fucking guy still hasn’t run out of chicken jokes. Garrett, who showed up in a minivan, takes Becca to the pool to teach her to fly fish and what do ya know (said in an exaggerated midwestern accent) it makes Becca feel at home.

Chris, whose life goal is to retire by 40, has a dilemma and needs the advice of three dudes he just met. Apparently he knows Chase’s ex girlfriend who told him that Chase isn’t there for the right reasons. Chris is perplexed -- should he confront Chase about it? Remember when I said dude drama is hilarious? Exhibit A.

They have a boring confrontation about it and Chase runs to Becca to tell her. This is the least dramatic drama I’ve ever watched. Becca doesn’t understand the context, Chase brings Chris into the conversation and this is so dumb.

That conversation brought light to Becca that there may be men here with ill intentions and she shares that someone rubbed her the wrong way earlier in the night. Like all of us, she’s there to be rubbed the right way, so she wants to address it.

She asks Jake, a guy that she already knows as they have a shared friend group in Minnesota, to step aside to chat. She tries to send him home because in their several times of meeting he never pursued her and now wants to on national TV. He doesn’t make it easy for her and I’m afraid Minnesota will ban him for life like they did Arie.

There is a guy with a Harry Potter tattoo and this is why I feel badly for people who are trying to date. You have to worry about finding the perfect person only to realize he has a fucking Harry Potter tattoo.

Becca finally picks up the first impression rose and gives it to Garrett, the guy who showed up in a minivan. She leans in to kiss him and he goes for the cheek. She grabs him by the neck and he finally gets it. Maybe he really is Chris Farley.

ROSE CEREMONY

The only thing I don’t understand about the rose ceremony is how Joe was sent home. I still hope he’s the next Bachelor.

LINE OF THE NIGHT

“There are so many balls here” -- Becca, during the impromptu basketball game.

ELIMINATED

Jake, a guy that she already knows as they have a shared friend group in Minnesota,

Joe, the love of my life

Chase, a could-be serial killer

Kamil -- social media participant who I’m guessing won’t be participating in social media for a while after being sent home night one

Darius, who lives in the Valley

Grant, the electrician with electrician jokes

Christian, whose head was too small for his body

Okay, now I am going to watch episode two so the recap doesn’t take as long to post.

#thebachelor #thebachelorette #funny #tvrecap #humor #realitytv #beccakufrin #nickviall #comedy #writing

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njawaidofficial · 6 years

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18 People Who Probably Shouldn't Be Allowed To Meet Celebrities

https://styleveryday.com/2018/03/08/18-people-who-probably-shouldnt-be-allowed-to-meet-celebrities/

18 People Who Probably Shouldn't Be Allowed To Meet Celebrities

“Trying to disentangle my candy from an Emmy award winner’s arm hair was decidedly not a highlight for me.”

1. “I saw Nick Jonas and his girlfriend at the time, Olivia Culpo, on the streets of New York City and went to get a picture with them. I had no clue a paparazzo was filming across the street, so it was interesting when I came home to find the moment my skirt blew up from the subway grate was on YouTube. Now 160,000 people have seen my ass… Thank God I was wearing boy shorts that day.” – hayleyrae

2. “Gary Sinise does a lot of work with the USO and can often be found traveling the world visiting various military bases around the world, meeting the troops and performing with his band. He came to our base in Naples, Italy for July 4th, 2003. I was hammered thanks to the free-flowing margarita machines, and when our group got our turn to meet him and take pictures, I greeted him by hollering, ‘LIEUTENANT DAN, YOU GOT NEW LEGS!’ He must have heard this a bajillion times by now, so he was not amused, but tolerated it until I crowded in a little too closely for the picture and forgot about the sticky AF Ring Pop that was on my hand. It promptly adhered itself to his arm hair. Trying to disentangle my candy from an Emmy award winner’s arm hair was decidedly not a highlight for me.” – Sandra Navi Young, Facebook

3. “When I was about 10, I had the chance to meet President Obama through my dad’s work (he works at the air force base). When I met him, the first and only thing I said was, ‘That tie doesn’t look good with your grey hair.’ He laughed and tousled my hair, but I still think about it to this day.” – cassiej48d97d62b

NBC / giphy.com

4. “On Christmas Eve one year, Paul Rudd came into the store where I worked for a gift card. Desperate for something clever to say to him, I said, ‘Has anyone ever told you you look like David Schwimmer?'” – alih41dd2a5e5

5. “I went to the gym one day after work. The place was basically deserted, and I was excited because I really wanted to de-stress without feeling self-conscious. About five steps outside the locker room, I see Joe Keery from Stranger Things. I LOVE that show, and I loved him in it, but something about seeing him standing there in workout gear checking his smartphone kind of broke my brain. I forgot his name, his character’s name, my name, and how to walk and talk. Instead of saying something, I stopped dead in my tracks and kind of…yelped? I was so mortified, and of course because the gym was empty there was nowhere to hide. I kept running into him – by the water fountain! By the treadmills! I was so self-conscious I left after about half an hour, and frantically texted my best friend the whole way home. We agreed it was one of my more awkward moments.” – Emily Mason, Facebook

6. “I was working at swanky hotel and restaurant and Hugh Jackman had been staying there with his family for a few weeks filming a movie. I’d just pulled a 12-hour shift so my mind was mush, and I ended up serving him at a table. I went to pour him some water automatically, but forgot I hadn’t asked him if he wanted any and tried to stop myself. My tired mind had already started the process of pouring. I basically poured a bottle all over his leg, where his phone was sitting, while asking, ‘Did you want water?’ He was such a damn nice guy that he just looked up at me and said, ‘I usually prefer it in my glass.'” – charlies46d587761

ABC / giphy.com

7. “The company I work for has a lot of actors coming in on a daily basis, and Steve Buscemi was scheduled to come in one day. At the time I was drawing a blank trying to conjure a mental image of him because for some reason I tend to get him, Willem Dafoe, and Christopher Walken mixed up. I had Google Image searched him, gotten up, and was getting water or something, when I saw the receptionist leading him right past my computer. Of course, he glanced at the screen full of pictures of his face.” – zombie93

8. “My best friend and I went to Tampa Bay Comic Con in 2014 just to meet Evan Peters. When it was my turn for a photo I asked him to do the prom pose with me, and he put his arms around my chest and hugged me from behind. He definitely should’ve put his arms around my waist, but I guess he didn’t know that, so for a moment in time, I spaced out, forgot Evan was a major celebrity and readjusted his hands, not realising they were pretty much touching my boobs. If that wasn’t bad enough, I got a text message from my mother right before the photo was taken while Evan was hugging me from behind. He jumped a little, laughed and said, ‘Oh! Uhh I think you got a text!’ My phone was in my back pocket and it had vibrated on his crotch when the text came in!” – sarcasticsierra

9. “I attended a taping of Mike and Molly, and after filming, we got to meet the cast. When it came to meeting Melissa McCarthy, I told her that I identified with the characters she portrays and ‘it’s coming out of me like lava’. What I didn’t follow up to say was that I laughed the hardest at that scene in particular. She was repulsed and said, ‘That doesn’t sound pleasant.'” – kimberlyd4f5b81ae2

Warner Bros. Television / giphy.com

10. “I was at a Miranda Sings show a couple of summers ago with my mom, my sister, my sister’s best friend, and her mom. We were waiting in line to go in and we saw a bunch of girls taking a picture with a tall, attractive man. My sister’s friend’s mom informed me that they were taking a picture with Liam Hemsworth. I had no clue what Liam looked like, I just knew he was famous and wanted to get a good Instagram, so I chased him into the lobby and took a very awkward picture with him. I used my default celebrity meeting line, telling him that I loved his work. He looked confused, but thanked me, and we moved on. It was only after I posted the photo on Instagram that I realised how weird this was. What would Liam Hemsworth be doing at a Miranda Sings show? Why was he walking in with a random blonde girl and not Miley Cyrus? Apparently, other people shared my confusion, because some girl commented on my photo to inform me that I had in fact met Robert Graham from The Bachelor.” – caylai2

11. “One time my friend and I were on the subway and a guy came on and sat down next to us. I told my friend that I thought it was Ansel Elgort, but she wasn’t sure, so when it got to our stop I said to him, ‘Has anyone told you that you look like Ansel Elgort?’ He responded, ‘Yeah I get that a lot.’ As I got off the train I heard someone else say to him, ‘Is that because you are Ansel Elgort?’ He chuckled and said yes. Cue facepalm.” – jblass

12. “My friend invited me to go meet the original cast of Hamilton in New York City. We were admitted directly on to the stage in the theatre, and immediately we saw a man in a ponytail, centre stage, talking to at least 10 people. We walked over, and my friend is basically tripping over herself, stuttering words of admiration about the man. In my head, I’m like, ‘Why is she being so weird? Who is this guy?’ He was so warm and sweet. He introduced himself as Lin, and my friend is literally ready to pee herself. Instead of telling him my name, I asked him where Leslie Odom Jr was. It wasn’t until 20 minutes later that I realised I shrugged off a conversation with one of the most prominent playwrights in modern history, Lin-Manuel Miranda.” – cpacheco

ABC / giphy.com

13. “My husband and I had the lucky opportunity to go to a food and wine weekend at a luxury glamping resort in Montana. Laura Prepon from Orange Is The New Black was there as well. My husband indulged too heavily in the wine part of the weekend, and proceeded to spill her own drink on her.” – kelseyu4da6cfd12

14. “A couple of years ago, I met Michelle Williams (the actress, not one third of Destiny’s Child) after seeing her star in Cabaret on Broadway. I made sure to head to the stage door to meet her, and while she was graciously signing my playbill, I was mesmerised by her legit, make up-free glow. I just stared at her, dazed, and said, ‘I. Love. Your. Skin.’ It was totally creepy. I felt like Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs.” – natalieh49b5c843e

15. “I saw Emma Watson at the Beverly Hilton the day before the SAG Awards about five years ago. I smiled at her politely without realising who it was, then made a sort of squealing sound when it clicked and instinctively began to follow her and her friend throughout the hotel. I spent the next 45 minutes peeking into hotel room windows to see if I could find them and get proof that I’d met her. I was eventually escorted off the premises.” – phoebeg4870dc518

Warner Bros.

16. “I was picking up takeout from a place in the Pacific Palisades with my friend and I accidentally opened a door into a man’s face. I immediately apologised, he shrugged it off, and my friend and I got into our car. The first thing she said was, ‘Dude, that was Ben Affleck.’ Apparently I slammed a door into Ben Affleck’s face. Not my finest moment.” – victorias4e1b807b6

17. “I met Peter Dinklage at a brewery in Asheville when he was filming Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri. I got up the courage to talk to him and he was so nice! He made some comment about being there with Daniel Day Lewis, and gestured to the person to his right. It clearly wasn’t Daniel Day Lewis, so I kind of laughed and continued taking a selfie of the two of us. It wasn’t until I saw the two later that I realised it was Sam Rockwell. My boyfriend, who was with me, brings up the fact that we dissed Sam Rockwell at least once a week.” – Megan Williams, Facebook

HBO

18. “I brushed shoulders with The Edge and immediately vomited.” – annet4c7172ded

Note: Some submissions may have been edited for length and/or clarity.

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andrewdburton · 6 years

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How to ask for a favor (and get it)

Think of all the favors you might need:

A job referral from an old boss

A friend to teach you how to cook a meal to impress your girlfriend

An introduction to the founder of a startup you want to freelance for

Favors like these can act as turning points in our life. But sometimes it’s hard to ask for a favor — especially if you’re shy and not too confident about the process.

Today I��m going to teach you the five simple steps to ask for a favor and actually get what you want.

How to ask for a favor in 5 steps

Each year on my birthday I ask my readers to do me a simple favor: Comment telling me how IWT has personally helped them.

You know what happens? I get more than 500 comments every time. People LOVE telling me about landing their dream job, eliminating $45K of debt, earning $10K on the side, and more.

This is the best gift I could hope for. I don’t need cookies or new clothes. I just love hearing how my material has helped other people.

This is just a tiny favor. I’ve also asked for bigger ones like getting a bunch of my entrepreneur friends to contribute to an e-book I was working on.

So how do you ask for a favor and get great results?

Use the following 5 steps:

Step 1: Consider how your favor impacts them

Step 2: Ask with the expectation that your favor will be granted

Step 3: Don’t lie

Step 4: Hold on to your power

Step 5: Be very specific about what you’re requesting

Let’s get started.

Step 1: Consider how your favor impacts them

When you ask for a favor, you’re essentially doing sales. You’re selling someone else your needs at the cost of their time, energy, and/or money.

And that’s what you’ve got to realize: It’s not all about you. While this favor benefits you in some way, you’re putting this person out in another way. You need to acknowledge that and compensate for it.

Having empathy like this is absolutely necessary for two reasons:

It lets you talk to the person you’re selling to on their terms. You can relate to them and speak their language. Think about it: How you ask for a favor from your boss is a lot different than how you ask for a favor from your friend.

It lets you adapt as the “sale” happens. When you care about the other person’s emotions and needs, you can see if what you’re asking from them is too much, or maybe if you’re asking it in a way that makes them feel weird. So stop weirding them out and relate to them.

Check out this amazing email I got from a reader a while back that did exactly this.

I LOVE IT.

This email is the perfect example of everything that goes into learning how to ask for a favor:

He showed that he actually knows me. Nothing is going to make me want to trash your email faster than a boilerplate message. The guy who sent me this message showcased how he knew me and how I’ve helped him.

He made me care. Most likely, the person you’re trying to get a favor from is busy. That’s why you need to make them give a damn. That incentivized me even more to work with him. He also touched on a subject that matters to me (in this case, the sender knew that I’m always on the lookout for talented developers).

He made it easy to say yes. The reader who sent me the email made it clear that, though he was looking for paid work, he would be willing to work “to network and receive a little advice” while acknowledging that I did have a few projects that I didn’t have time for.

By the time I finished the email, I was clamoring for the phone to call him. THAT’S how you ask for a favor.

Step 2: Ask with the expectation that your request will be granted

However, if you feel like you’re putting them out by asking for this favor, stop. You’ve already failed.

Your mental framework matters. You need to believe you’re going to get whatever you ask for. If you’re going to play, play to win. Don’t try. Don’t hope. You’ve already decided to do it … you might as well do it right.

Go in with a winner’s mentality.

You should go in ACKNOWLEDGING that you are asking them to go out of their way. But that doesn’t mean you go in thinking that you’re “bothering” them or that this is a waste of their time.

That’s why I want to go over the “What if I were perfect” technique.

I’ve talked about this technique before but it’s important to mention again because it has everything to do with confidence.

Let’s say that you were trying to become more confident about public speaking, or cooking, or running, or starting a business. Whatever.

With these goals come a set of crippling barriers:

What if I screw up and make a bad meal?

What if I never lose weight?

What if my business fails?

And many times, that’s enough to screw up. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.

That’s what happened when I was younger and I thought nobody would ever show up to my personal finance class — and nobody did. That’s because I already set myself up for failure with my mental barriers.

Instead, just ask yourself, “What if I were the absolute master of this domain? What if I were perfect and had all the knowledge — in the world — what would I do?”

You wouldn’t get overwhelmed by going to the store, buying onions, and learning how to chop them. You wouldn’t get overwhelmed by going to the gym and hitting the treadmill. I definitely wouldn’t have been bothered by getting people to attend my personal finance class.

And you wouldn’t get psyched out by asking someone for a favor.

You would just do what was necessary to accomplish your goals. This technique helps you get past your own mental barriers and say, “If I were perfect, how would I handle this issue?”

Using this exercise is a great way to become more confident over time.

For more help, check out my video below on how to develop natural confidence. It’s only six minutes but you’ll learn some great mental frameworks.

youtube

Step 3: Don’t lie

Many people think that you have to lie or at least tell a white lie (like these 7 money lies) when it comes to asking for something. They believe you’ll be more successful if you butter someone up and give them a bunch of phony reasons to do something.

Wrong.

Being truthful is what makes people believe you and want to help you. Studies show that when you come at people from a place of honesty you not only make yourself and your relationship with that person happier but it’s also better for your mental health (per UC San Diego’s Emotion Lab).

Think about it. If I want my brother-in-law to introduce me to his boss, he’s going to be pissed if I come to him with the pretense of asking how his Thai cooking classes are going.

“Hey I saw that pad thai you made on Instagram the other day. Awesome stuff. Do you think your boss likes pad thai too?”

Fail. Instead he’ll respect me if I am direct and tell him, “Hey, I really want an intro to your boss because I think I could help him with XYZ goal.”

Step 4: Leverage your power

Nobody likes a needy person. But if you act like you don’t really need your favor granted, you’re more likely to get what you want.

I‘ve explained this before in the context of negotiating your way out of paying bank fees. Banks want your money however they can get it, but if you threaten to leave the bank they’ll clear any charges in no time.

I’m not saying threaten to terminate a friendship or partnership because they’re not presenting what you want on a gold platter.

Instead, lead into the conversation with something organic. For example, “Hey, do you still want those tickets for the game on Thursday? I’m happy to give them away since I know you love the team — but I was hoping I could ask you for a favor. Would you have a couple of hours to help me move this weekend?”

It’s like my system for asking for a raise from your boss or raising your freelance rates for your clients: Always do it after you’ve added value.

Did you just crush a project at work that increased sales by 100%? Perfect time to ask for that raise.

Did you create an email for your client that doubled leads for them? Strike while the iron is hot and raise your rates.

This isn’t all to say that you should be doing favors for other people strictly so you can have a bargaining chip for when you need a favor. What I’m saying is your chances of having your favor granted increase immensely when you’ve done something nice for the other person.

Think about my birthday example. It doesn’t actually matter to you that it’s my birthday. But, because of how our society is set up, you feel like you owe me one because of the value I’ve provided you. It’s totally okay to leverage situations like that.

Step 5: Be very specific about what you want

When you ask for directions, would you go up to someone and say, “How do I go somewhere?”

Of course not. Not only would you sound like an idiot, but you wouldn’t get what you want. Instead you ask specifically, “How do I get to the Farmhouse Restaurant?”

The same goes when you ask for your favor. Make sure you have a very specific ask in mind.

Don’t ask: “Can you get me a job?”

Ask: “Can you give me a warm intro to Ross Currier? He’s your head of accounting at Company XYZ, and there’s a position opening up under him that I’m interested in.”

Don’t ask: “Are you around this weekend?”

Ask: “Are you free on Saturday afternoon? I need to pick up a couch from ABC Store and I was wondering if you could drive me over in your pickup to get it.”

Be direct. Be succinct. When you say exactly what you want, people know exactly how to help you.

A great example of this was when I asked a few of my entrepreneur friends to contribute to an e-book I was writing.

I knew that all these people were incredibly busy, so I needed to offer value to them and show them that the favor wasn’t a waste of their time.

Here’s a private email I wrote to NYT bestselling author Ben Casnocha when I wanted him to help me with my 15 Little Life Experiments e-book. My comments are in brackets:

Hey Ben,

I’m putting together a short free e-book with fascinating/actionable test results (e.g., material on marketing, business, lifestyle design, social dynamics, career hacks, etc). [Quickly introduce what I’m doing and get them excited about it. Note how I skip over introductions because I already know Ben. If I didn’t, it would be important to introduce who I am and why he should read this email.]

I’d love to have you contribute, and wanted to see if you’d be interested. I already have a great idea of what your test result could be. [VIPs expect you to want something from them. Get to the point. Again, this is not the approach I would take with everyone, but it works here because Ben is (1) insanely busy and (2) a friend.]

I’ll be putting IWT’s marketing muscle behind it — we’ll be sharing it with our list of 200,000+ and we expect to have at least 500,000 other emails going out. The emails will have links to your site. [Benefit. Why should he care? Note that almost anyone would love to get this kind of exposure. (And note the meta-lesson of me promoting Ben in this very email.)]

All I would need from you is ONE great test/result that you’ve run. For example, one of the following list:

1. How I started waking up earlier (lifestyle)

2. One phrase I always use when I meet someone new (social dynamics)

3. How I got more people to join my email list (business/marketing) [Anticipate the needs of the reader. As he reads, he’s saying, “Hmm…so what would this require?” BOOM — proactively hit him with specific examples.]

(For you, I’m thinking about conversational techniques you used to become more interested/interesting … or how you elicit people to become more open by being transparent yourself. Also, you had that AWESOME tip about speaking, where you take a mid-talk break and tell them 5 books to write down, and everyone wakes up. People love that.) [Personalize it. I personalized every email I sent and got a tremendous response rate of over 90%. Use my motto — “Don’t make the busy person do your work for you” — and suggest ideas to them. There’s more to this principle that I outline in my e-book on writing winning emails (see below).]

We’ll include ~300-word case study about a successful test you’ve run. Here’s a previous e-book we did with examples from people like BJ Fogg, Mark Sisson, and Josh Kaufman: [Include a finished result, if possible. This also shows him big names I worked with in the past, so he can see this will be a gathering of renowned contributors.]

LINK TO FINISHED RESULT

Our deadline is Wednesday, September 18th. What do you think?

-Ramit

P.S. If you’re interested but not sure what you’d contribute, let me know and I can give you a quick call to share some ideas. [VIPs get swamped with emails. Sometimes, I prefer to hop on a 5-minute call while I’m in between errands. So I offer that option here.]

A few takeaways:

Be specific but brief. VIPs are busy and do not want to read your tortured expository essay on your life history, food allergies, and the mole on your back

Focus on what’s in it for THEM. Benefit-driven, focused on benefit to THEM (“putting the full IWT muscle behind it”)

Offer a clear CTA (call to action). You wouldn’t believe how many people end their emails to me with “Yeah, so … wow, I wrote more than I thought” DELETE

Anticipate every objection and counter it before they can consciously voice it. Who’s going to be in this? Oh, here are past people I worked with. I don’t have any ideas. Oh, let’s get on a call and I’ll help you come up with some, etc.

Get what you want

I’ve just given you the five steps to asking for a favor and getting what you want. This strategy works for anything.

And if you want specific scripts for emails that get results too, I have five you can use to:

Set up an informational interview

Ask for recommendations for people to talk to

Cold email a stranger for advice

Pitch for a consulting gig or a job interview

Reach out to others in your company to get to know them

Just enter your information below, and I’ll send you these five word-for-word scripts for free.

How to ask for a favor (and get it) is a post from: I Will Teach You To Be Rich.

from Finance https://www.iwillteachyoutoberich.com/blog/how-to-ask-for-a-favor-and-get-what-you-want/ via http://www.rssmix.com/

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