Note: At my other account, I sometimes make these 90 words thought of the day for the Good Omens Final 90. I got the idea for this one because of the WARM HANDS prompt. That's why I share this nonsenses with you guys. Credit goes to you (not sure if you're happy with that). Original is 90 words, but to match the rules, I added 1 sentence. It's now 101 words 😁
By all means, this isn't impressive writing 😂
Another day at the set of the Final of Good Omens.
Director: Michael, David, in this scene you both … Michael? What are you doing? Why are you hugging David?
Michael: My hands are cold. It is January and we are in Scotland!
Director: Put on your gloves.
Michael: I forgot my gloves.
The director looks puzzled between Michael and David. The latter shrugs.
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial with the prompt #FFF279 warm hands, thank you so much, this an alternate universe with sprinkled “Crows of Remembrance” spoilers (but not really). If you are reading this, please tread carefully like always. (For @ynxnyx this is not quite what you asked before but I am still on it.)
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Fandom: Yatagarasu: The Raven Does Not Choose Its Master
Characters: Yukiya (Kitayama), an original character, mention of the Great Tengu
Words: 991
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Summer, the 59th year of the Shōwa Era, Northern Territory, Yamauchi
It was already dusk when Yukiya, 10 years old, woke up.
Did he miss a full day? Was it all a dream when he met a beautiful boy in the woods after he and Yukichi got lost? Or was it a large raven, the largest he had ever seen? The strange boy’s hands were cold, but Yukiya felt the warm protective current surged through his body as soon as those fingers touched his face telling him everything would be all right. It was odd, as if this boy knew who he was. Yukiya did not know him, that was for sure, and yet he knew in his heart that this boy was kind, gentle, and he felt safe around him.
The moment Yukiya asked him to save them, the fear was gone. He did not know what happened next.
In the coming days, the memories of the boy, the large raven, and the strange meeting vanished from his mind.
2005, the Outside World
Music blasted from the loudspeakers. Bottles of European wine strewn on the table and on the carpet. The apartment, an extravagant loft in the middle of Tokyo, was more than modest that could accommodate a family of three. Instead, its owner, a certain Taigen Itoh, a 47-year-old bachelor and a supervisor from an international company lived there alone. He was celebrating the recruitment of Yukiya Kitayama in his department. Taken by his new younger colleague’s charisma, Taigen thought Yukiya’s strategy on management and leadership was impressive. He watched him intently for days now that when he had the opportunity to invite him at his home, he leaped in happiness after Yukiya said yes.
“It is not a big deal,” Yukiya assured him.
Recalling the Great Tengu’s advice that networking with the human beings was important, Yukiya dragged his feet to the loft.
The everyday after-work hours were unnerving, most of all they drained Yukiya’s heart. This charade was something he despised in Yamauchi where he had the habit of presenting the nobility a smile that did not even reach his eyes.
But in order to make the mission a success, it was detrimental that he had to endure for the sake of Yamauchi’s survival.
Learning the language was not particularly difficult. He found himself capable of interacting with the humans. It was not always easy, but he was coping. The hardest part was the moments when he missed his master, his friends, his mother, and brothers, even his hometown. There was no love lost between him and Yukimasa after the latter realised the deceptive act he played for many years. There was embarrassment there, a hint of betrayal too.
I don’t care what he thinks anymore.
Taigen loved to play music on his beautiful sound system. He showed Yukiya his collection. He was particularly proud of his Bruce Springsteen records that he bought.
“I saw him in ’97. He wowed the audience when he performed here for four days.”
“And you saw him in all those days?” Yukiya crossed his legs and spread his arms on the black leather couch making himself more comfortable.
Taigen giggled, feeling awkward. The blush on his cheeks highlighted the two dimples that appeared. It was charming.
“Y-yeshhh…”
The music was not at all bad. Not his type, but Yukiya found kinship surprisingly to one song after his colleague noticed that he could not stop listening to it.
It is alright… it is alright…it is alright, yeah. *
A warm hand snaked its way to his neck, then softly touched his face. The first instinct was to swat it away and leave the room, but Yukiya did not do any of those things. Instead, he found himself succumbing to it.
How lonely he must have felt.
“I am sorry.” Taigen got up, glanced at Yukiya whilst slowly gauging his reaction. He put another record after the last song played on “The Rising.”
You sit there in your heartache / Waiting on some beautiful boy to / To save you from your old ways / You play forgiveness / Watch it now, here he comes… **
When his supervisor sat next to Yukiya again, he found himself opening. This was not something he did not have any idea about. He was not a young child anymore. He knew where this would lead.
A pair of lips touched his own, but he did not recoil nor kiss back.
He doesn't look a thing like Jesus / But he talks like a gentleman / Like you imagined when you were young… **
When he decided to place his hand on Taigen’s shoulder, the latter looked him in the eye.
“Jeez, Yukiya, I think I’ll pass out.”
Just like that, his host began to snore. Yukiya was not even tipsy. You could not even be called a Northerner in Yamauchi, a region famous for its sake and warriors, if you were not able to hold your liquor.
Taigen’s flat was not so far away from where he was staying that he opted to walk to clear his head. Besides, the metro’s last trip was an hour ago. He was not in the mood to call a taxi.
The music stopped playing but the lyrics stayed on his head.
And sometimes you close your eyes And see the place where you used to live / When you were young…**
As soon as he got up, his boss occupied now the couch sleeping like a foetus. He searched for the off button and pressed it down, switched off the remaining lights and then closed the door behind him.
Half a kilometre more until he reached his apartment. The scarce lamp posts illuminated his pathway.
It began to drizzle. The gentle drops of rain caressed his cheeks, cold, refreshing in summer nights.
It is all right. Tomorrow is another day.
~ fin ~
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* Lyrics taken from “Lonesome Day” by Bruce Springsteen
** Texts taken from The Killers’ song, “When You Were Young”
These songs appeared on the year or earlier when Yukiya went to the Outside World, i.e in Tokyo, Japan.
A/N: Standalone ficlet set at the end of Neverland, but could be read as a companion piece to Aftermath, my fic written for FFF276 Dark and Stormy Night.
Word count: 597
Win sat rigidly upright on the sofa in the waiting room, her children asleep on either side, the hours blending into a hazy continuum as a storm raged outside and Fred battled for his life in the operation theatre down the corridor. The surgeon’s entrance roused her from her desperate prayers, and she watched his deliberate gait and uncommunicative face, heart in mouth as she waited for his verdict.
A few minutes later, the Matron was leading her into Fred’s hospital room, the kids having been thankfully dispatched home with Peter. Watching the nurses bustling around her husband’s still form, Win found it difficult to reconcile the sight of his almost grey pallor and the transfusion bag hanging by the bed with the surgeon’s reassuring words. Tamping down her worry, Win forced herself to focus on what the Sister was saying about the hourly checks on Fred, nodding along as though she understood it all.
Settling into the armchair by the bed, she ran her eyes carefully over that familiar stalwart frame, normally her bulwark against the world but now looking quite concerningly fragile under the precision-folded blankets. Having reassured herself that Fred’s right hand and forearm were free of needles and tubes, she stretched out her left hand to gently clasp it atop the blankets. It felt, not cold exactly, but nothing like the strong and vital warmth she was used to. But it wasn’t cold, she reminded herself, bringing up her other hand to gently chafe his fingers.
As the hours passed, the nurses came in and out to perform their checks, but none of them bothered her or asked her to move - something Win knew she should be grateful for, and she would once her mind had room for anything beyond Fred. At some point, fatigue must have caught her up, for she fell into a doze and her right hand slid down to lie in her lap.
Some indeterminable time later, Win felt a slight pressure on her left hand, which seemed to be somewhat uncomfortably extended in front of her. Blinking the sleep away, she opened her eyes, momentarily disoriented and unsure of where she was. As awareness came crashing down upon her, she felt it again - a slight but unmistakable squeeze of her hand.
Focusing on where her left hand lay over Fred’s right, Win realised that the fingers linked in her were warm. Not fever-hot, but comfortingly warm, the way Fred’s hands always were. The warmth that had sustained her through the horrors of the war years. The same warmth that had soothed Joan and Sam in their little trouble and ailments, that they had all taken for granted as theirs to lean into.
A paean of thanks coursed through Win as she returned the gentle pressure of Fred’s hand. Watching the lines of pain smooth out slightly on her husband’s brow even as his handclasp got stronger, she found herself thinking of all that those strong warm hands would now be able to do.
One day they would cup Joanie’s smaller, slighter hands one last time before placing them in her chosen husband’s. They would rest on Sam’s shoulder in fellowship and support as the boy grew into a man. And in the fullness of time, those same warm and strong yet tender hands would cradle their grandchildren.
Above all, Fred’s handclasp would remain her refuge and strength for years to come. And that made everything right in Win’s world, giving her the strength to keep her children and her home going while Fred recovered from his close call.
Written for prompt FFF279: Warm Hands of Flash Fiction Friday by @flashfictionfridayofficial
Greg had always loved holding his lover’s hands. It’s something he’d established that night he’d finally convinced Mycroft to take a stroll with him. Mycroft had conceded despite the cold and the sight of that pink-cheeked, thoroughly amused Mycroft trying his best to flirt back, will always and forever be one of Greg’s fondest memories. That night, for the first time he had had Mycroft shyly brush his knuckles against his, asking for permission, asking for more.
Greg had taken his hand then, tangling his fingers with Mycroft’s longer, elegant ones that he was sure had awakened something in him, and had realized he really really didn’t want to let go.
Mycroft’s hand was cool against his own. It somehow didn’t feel like the freezing cold of the night, but more like a comforting reassurance, just like the man. That was when Greg had given in to the urge and softly kissed the back of his lover’s hand.
Today though, just weeks into their engagement, in what was supposed to be the beginning of the happiest days of their life, the hands that cradle him are warm and steady. As he breaks down, he realizes he’d somehow gotten home, and he’s in their living room, kneeling on the carpet. He’s aware of the soothing hand on the back of his neck. He feels it as if through a second skin. But he feels it. And it grounds him.
The hand around his waist draws tight. He feels its warmth through the fabric, bringing back feeling in spite of the hot and cold pin pricks all over his body. The shock leaves his body at the same time awareness hits him square in the gut, ugly and wrenching at his insides. He curls himself into the warm body against him with a whimper and Mycroft’s arms, so incredibly tender, pull him close.
“Myc-” he gasps.
“I know,” Mycroft whispers, his long fingers on his fiancé’s neck moving up to pet his hair. “I know.”
“What are we- oh god-”
“We will get through this. Whatever happens next, my darling, I’m here. With you.”
Greg can feel himself falling apart, trembling helplessly in Mycroft’s hold. He burrows in, closer, into his lover’s neck. He almost doesn’t notice being coaxed into releasing his death grip on Mycroft’s shirt. But he does notice the soft fingers holding his hand. They’re warm, reassuring and everything Greg had needed.
Little sad something for this week's Flash Fiction Friday by @flashfictionfridayofficial
His warm hand was in mine, our fingers were entangled. His breathing went heavy. I had one arm around his body, holding him close. How could this happen?
“Stay with me,” I begged. He didn’t answer. “Why did you come here? I told you it was too dangerous.”
“Needed to protect you.” He struggled to get the words out. His hand squeezed mine harder. When I looked down into his face it was oh so pale. His eyelids fluttered, falling shut.
“Please, stay with me!” My voice trembled.
“Can’t!”, he coughed out. His eyes opened one more time. His beautiful brown eyes. “But… love you…” With those last words, his body went limp. His breathing stopped.
I cried out, pulling him closer. “I love you, too.” Tears streamed down my face. Sobbs shook my body but I kept holding onto him. I kept holding his hand. I couldn’t lose him, not after all we’ve been through.
“Please!” I pleaded to whatever higher forces might exist. But if they existed, they didn’t listen to my begging. So, the snake’s venom continued to spread through his body, freezing him up. His hand lost all temperature, getting so painfully cold that I had to let go of it. I couldn’t hold his body anymore. I had to let him go completely. I had lost him. Forever.
And one other thing was clear, whoever sent that beast after me, after us, after him, would pay for that.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial # 279 Warm Hands. Outlander Fanfiction. Cannon compliant
She has always been attracted to his hands. Even in the midst of the horror of realizing she was no longer in her time, the feel of his strong arms around her and the sight of his hands, strong but gentle, are a comfort.
Throughout those first few days, as she struggles to find her footing his hands, whether working to break a horse or taking her arm to lead her to a seat in the great hall, are a source of stability.
The night of the singing, when she had bit to much of Column’s spirits, those warm hands let her to safety back in her room. They shake with strongly held desire, when she checks his wound.
This thing flowing between them, almost came to fruition in that moment. It is only his gentlemanly ways that prevented it.
On the road with them, she searches for a way out of the mess she is in. A ‘guest’ of the Mackenzie’s, she seems to have freedom though it is only an illusion.
At least she has a room for this night, a place out of the outdoors and away from the constant presence of her hosts.
A sound outside her door has her grabbing a candlestick as a weapon and jerks it open.
“Owe!” Comes from under her feet. Looking down, she finds Jamie.
He explains why he is sleeping outside her door.
“I didn’t think you wished for that type of attention.” He ends.
“No I… thank you. You can’t sleep out here. You will freeze. “
“I cannae! Your reputation.”
“I sleep beside you and several other men each night.”
“That isn’t the same thing at all.”
“Well, will you at least accept the blanket from my bed, or is that to scandalous?”
“That would be most welcome “
They share a smile before she turns to get it. As she reaches out to hand it to him, and their hands graze, it ( this thing between them) becomes inevitable.
It isn’t to long after where they sit on a hill, after an unexpected wedding night, and their hands move over each other’s, that he asked her, “This thing between us, is it usual? Is it always so between a man and a woman?”
Fandom: Encanto (set in @takhesis brilliant 1990s Colombia AU, in which investigative journalist Bruno got way too close to the truth for his own good - and his family's)
Characters: Bruno Madrigal & Mirabel Madrigal (set long before they become Bruno/Mirabel)
Word count: 100
Also available on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60582643
Bruno's reflections after one of Mirabel's early visits to him in prison.
After Mirabel was escorted away from the visitor's room, and hopefully very quickly out of the prison itself, Bruno was left a precious few minutes of time to think, undisturbed. He could still feel her warm, slightly sweaty hands on his and wished to cling to that feeling as long as possible. Hers were the first -- the only -- hands that had touched him with affection in nearly two years.
As much as he hated seeing her within those horrible walls, anywhere near the violent men he had learned how to live with, he couldn't quite deny himself her presence entirely.
