#at which point i would very happily drive a stake through his heart

[whetstonefires]

Thank you so, so, so much for that Tony Stark post. Because, yes, exactly you hit the nail on the head: he is not personally controllable with legislation and he is definitely suffering from guilt and self recrimination but that DOES NOT MEAN you get to hurt others. He is painful to watch. I've never seen anyone articulate it so well, thank you. I ended up writing an essay in my notes just agreeing with you a lot because he cannot use his pain as an excuse for the scale of damage he does.

Where is the essay nonny??? I cannot find it. Show meeeeee.

💖 Thank you for the positivity! Ngl it’s always scary criticizing a popular character, you never know what’s going to happen.

I’ve tried a lot of times to respond to this ask without going on another tirade, but they keep building up, especially whenever I see someone tearing Steve down to build Tony up, and I go from zero to a full head of steam so fast.

I’ve avoided engaging about it, but it fucks me up so bad every time, it’s crazy.

Because I didn’t think I was all that attached to Cap, I don’t even really consider myself a fan, but he. Right up until that unintentionally appalling ending they derailed his character into, he worked so hard to be good.

He doesn’t want to kill anyone, but he doesn’t like bullies.

He spent his entire life under conditions of extreme suffering, and unlike Tony he refused to let it warp him into something vicious and selfish that lashed out at others to comfort himself--or rather, he bound himself with adamantine chains to make sure that when he used violence, even as a coping mechanism, it was only ever against people more powerful than him, individually or in aggregate, who were doing something harmful he could interfere against, and who had the freedom to walk away.

Tony never bothered with any of that. He doesn’t have to. No one expects anything of him, in his life or ours; our standards are in the basement and we’re super willing to identify with him, so even the manifestation of the awareness that he did something wrong is cheered like heroism. He expects ‘points’ for remembering there was a connection between Pepper and strawberries, even if she’s allergic and he thought they were her favorite, and he gets them.

All he has to do is turn away from being his worst self, no matter how many times he completes that rotation a full 360 degrees, and we’ll cheer for him.

Which is a great character design strategy! Honestly! Except they walked it into the ground.

Tony was introduced as someone learning to be better, but then he wound up getting worse and worse and worse. His redemption arc derailed really early, because Marvel Studios were lazy or afraid or didn’t trust their audience, idk.

He sacrificed so many people to his own gaping emotional wound, that hungry maw of egotism turned Byronic and recharacterized as heroism, as goodness or at least its sketch.

Jumping on the grenade is so much easier than reining yourself in every minute, not abusing your power, respecting the lives and needs of others and treating them as real.

Nothing Tony ever achieved moved the dial away from his narcissism, and very little of it did anything about the toxicity of how he inhabited that narcissism. And a heroic death would be nothing in the face of his personal crimes even if it had been one that was a little more rationally necessary, and not one that took several hours of movie and the contrived failure of every other person in the setting to even be possible or relevant.

(And even if you’re willing to hang onto suspension of disbelief and pretend that dropping 3.5  billion refugees into a world that just barely patched itself together in the face of 50% mortality somehow isn’t going to result in a staggering death toll.)

Unlike Vader, Tony Stark died as he lived, and so the death means much, much less.

With great power comes great responsibility, and with his billions Tony was always the most powerful Avenger, because Thor never took his throne when it was still tall and golden and untouchable. And he spat on that principle every day of his life.

And when people act like his ‘suffering’ somehow justifies that, it’s like every single piece of the warped rich-white-confident-male-centric empathy gap of our culture leaping into life and strangling all ethical rationality and justice. I just.

I know it’s just superheroes. I know it’s not serious. Except superheroes and cinema are mainstays of our shared cultural sense of right and wrong. The Violence Against Women Act exists purely because of the shift in public perception created by one movie about one real woman.

So when a massive superhero film franchise has a moral narrative that I find repulsive, and I see that reasoning echoed out in the world, it feels important.

I am attached to Steve, small angry starving Steve looking Death in the face every day he drew breath and refusing to blink, but I think what’s making me so damn mad when I see this insistence on tearing him down to prop up a mass murderer is the proof that even Captain America, who is white and male and tall and beautiful and romantically interested in women, who ticks all these boxes that help when it comes to Mattering, still doesn’t have enough Real Person Points to stand up against the absolute certainty in a billionaire’s heart that he is the only real person in the universe, that his self-pity is the truest sorrow that ever was.

Not in Tony’s eyes, and not when it comes to our willingness as a society to inexplicably believe him.

#tony stark negative #steve rogers #this is the shortest i've been able to keep this #empathy gap #tony just grew steadily into a nightmare #although honestly he never really stopped #and i was able to go along and forgive him #for the sake of hte story #right up until the narrative started telling me i *had* to #and that his feelings *really were* the most important thing in the universe #at which point i would very happily drive a stake through his heart #i throw salt #hoc est meum #many feelings #a nonny mouse #ask

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine one-shot “Artistic Differences” (Rated NC17)

Summary: Kurt and Blaine have known each other all their lives. They've loved each other almost as long. But as Blaine uses his love for Kurt as inspiration for his music, Kurt has yet to reciprocate. And since painting is Kurt's entire world, Blaine is worried about what that might mean for the two of them. (2703 words)

Notes: I had been writing this for the @klaineadvent Drabble Challenge 2020 prompt 'opinion'. I finally finished it. Wee! XD

Read on AO3.

Baby, you're not alone...

'Cause you're here with me...

And nothing's ever gonna bring us down...

'Cause nothing can keep me from lovin' you...

And you know it's true...

It don't matter what'll come to be...

Our love is all we need to make it through...

Blaine stops singing when he notices an echo haunting his lyrics, lingering on the high notes for longer than written. He listens with eyes closed, smiling at his keyboard. 

His boyfriend Kurt, humming behind the melody. 

Blaine has been ironing this song out for the past three hours now but Kurt hasn't complained once about the constant stopping and starting.

He never does. 

Blaine peeks over his shoulder as he continues to play with the harmonies and watches Kurt, focused on the canvas in front of him, swaying to the rhythm of the music, happily sandwiched between his two passions - art and music.

It's a mild and sunny Saturday - a whole day devoted to cleaning up commissions and tying loose ends on weekly projects before their one day off together. Blaine and Kurt share a studio space - normally unheard of for an artist and a musician, but they make it work. It helps that they've known one another for so long that being alone together is the same as being alone with themselves. That also means they get the inside scoop on what the other is working on long before the public does.

And what they're not working on, which has begun to bother Blaine.

Blaine adores everything his talented boyfriend comes up with. Even regarding his more controversial works, there isn't a thing Kurt has painted that Blaine finds objectionable. Kurt puts his heart and soul into every painting, no matter who it's for, and no matter the subject. A writer from Artforum once wrote: "Kurt Hummel goes beyond the veil to showcase not just the external, but the core of every subject - their drives and motivations. It pairs nicely with the transparency of his own soul, which shines through the gouache and the gesso to leave the viewer with a tangible piece."

And therein lies the root of Blaine's problem.

A glance at one of Kurt's canvasses and the world knows everything it needs to about what he loves.

But one subject in particular has gone wholly unrepresented.

“How come you've never painted a portrait of me?” Blaine asks.

"Hmm... what's that, love?" Kurt mutters, switching out brushes, then moving from a blob of Titanium White to a smear of Winsor Blue.

"How come you've never painted a portrait of me?" Blaine rises off his piano bench and relocates to the wooden folding chair behind Kurt's easel in the hopes of pulling his attention a bit. "You've been an artist for as long as I've known you, and I've known you your entire life. But not once have you ever painted a portrait of me."

“Why do I need to? I have you right here," Kurt says, pretending to bop the tip of Blaine's nose with his brush. "Besides, these aren’t personal." His gaze bounces between the three canvases set on easels in an arc in front of him. "They’re bought and paid for.”

"But what about your private stuff? You've shown me your sketchbooks and your digital art files. Unless you have some hidden folder marked 'secret boyfriend art' that I've yet to come across, there's not a single piece of me in any of your work."

Kurt doesn't steer his gaze away from the apple he's adding highlights to to acknowledge his pouty boyfriend, but the corner of his mouth hitches. "If you say so, dear."

"I know so," Blaine grumps, crossing his arms over his chest and dropping back in the chair so hard he nearly topples it over.

"That's your opinion."

"You're evading."

"Is it really so important to you?"

"Yes! It would be nice to be immortalized by my artist boyfriend!"

Kurt snickers. "Are you that much of a narcissist?"

"Your art is important to you! More than that - it's your life! You paint everything that you love! You've made dozens of paintings of Finn, your father, your mother, your Navigator... "

"My Navigator is my baby. It deserves love. I don't get to drive it much living in the city," Kurt defends. "Besides, those paintings I posted on Instagram landed me a huge contract with Lincoln, and that paid for our month-long tryst to Bali. You're welcome, by the way."

"I'm not saying I'm not grateful... " Blaine pauses, the smile on his face a souvenir from thirty straight days of overindulgence in sex and alcohol. "I think I more than proved that on that private beach? Under the moonlight?"

"Yeah, you did," Kurt growls, silently hoping that will be the end of this discussion.

"But... " Blaine picks up and Kurt's heart sinks.

No luck.

"... nowhere am I present in your work. Not that I've seen. Not even in the abstract. And that makes me think... " 

"Think what?" Kurt mutters, his playful attitude fading the longer this conversation drags on.

Blaine sighs, realizing how much like a spoiled toddler he sounds. But he's in too deep to stop now. "That you don't expect me to be around long."

Kurt's snicker turns into a full-blown chortle. "We've been together forever! You staked a claim on me in kindergarten! Are you suddenly going somewhere?"

"Can't you take this seriously?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's ridiculous!"

Blaine huffs. "Great. So my feelings are ridiculous."

"No, Blaine, your feelings are valid. This argument is ridiculous. Believe it or don't, you don't know everything about me. Or my work. What does it matter what I put on a canvas? I told you that I love you! That I would always love you! I tell you over and over and over! Those are my words! My truth! Listen to my truth!"

"B-but what if you change your mind?" Blaine grimaces when that toddler inside him begins throwing an all-out tantrum.

"Then I change my mind!" Kurt groans, slamming his free hand down on an open tube of Dandelion Green, sending a thick ribbon of paint a good four feet. "I'm allowed to change my mind! And so are you! But I don't see that happening!"

"Then why won't you marry me?"

Kurt pulls a face, probably without thinking about it. "Because I'm not very fond of marriage."

"Why not? Your parents had a great marriage! And your father has a wonderful second marriage!"

"But your parents don't have a very good marriage, do they? Nor your older brother, who's been divorced twice already! " Kurt argues, frustration causing him to forget himself and clean his stained hand on the untucked hem of his shirt instead of a rag. That should be a huge red-flag for Blaine to back down, yet he doesn't. Common sense? Sorry, don't know her. "And the national average isn't that great, either. Doesn't it mean more that I choose to stay with you instead of feeling obligated to?"

Blaine doesn't have an answer for that, even though the answer is obviously yes. Of course, it does. And in high school, that would have been enough to shut Blaine up. But admitting to that feels too much like conceding, and this one time, this is an argument he wants to win. "Did you hear that song I've been working on?" Blaine asks, switching gears so quickly, it puts Kurt on edge.

"Yes," Kurt replies, his voice becoming tight quickly. "It's lovely."

"I wrote it for you."

"Thank you. It sounds wonderful. Another huge hit in the making."

"It's the 15th song I've written in your honor."

"Wow," Kurt says dryly, predicting the direction this is heading. "That many?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's an incredibly kind and loving gesture, one that I didn't know required reciprocation."

"It doesn't require reciprocation. But it would be nice."

Kurt rolls his eyes at Blaine's agenda. Tit for tat. Is that how this is supposed to work? "From what I remember, those songs made you a pretty penny."

"So?"

"So, it's not like you wrote them for me and kept them between us. Most of those songs are chart-toppers."

"But I didn't release them for the money! I wouldn't care if they didn't make me a dime! I put them on the albums because I'm not afraid to let the world know how I feel about you!"

Kurt's brow furrows as he fights through a blooming headache to decode that declaration. Once he gets it, he gasps. "I'm not hiding you away if that's what you're implying! You go with me EVERYWHERE! Every gallery opening, every art show! There have been articles written about our relationship! You're no dirty little secret!"

"I never said I was."

"No?" Kurt chuckles bitterly. "You're sure implying it a great deal!"

"That's not what this is about."

"You're right. It's not. Blaine!" Kurt tosses his brush into a mug of water and starts pacing the floor. "I am a gay artist walking a very fine line."

"I'm a gay artist, too!" Blaine says, offended.

"But you're a musician. And a songwriter. Musicians are supposed to use love as their muse. Writing about your relationship is expected... unless you're Taylor Swift, apparently."

"Yeah. What's up with that?"

Kurt shrugs. "I don't know. The point is that the second I make a piece of art about our relationship in any way, shape, or form, I'm afraid that's all it will be about, no matter what I intend."

"Isn't art supposed to be subject to interpretation?"

"That's just it! If I hint that my art has anything to do with you, that will become the only interpretation. Because too many straight people see the homosexual experience as solely about the right to fuck who we want to fuck and nothing else. I make a portrait about you or dedicated to you, and after that... " Kurt's eyes leave Blaine's face, scanning the room and his canvasses all around for help making his argument. He finds a painting of a forest they hiked through in Bali and stops there "... a tree that I paint will no longer be just a tree. It will become a symbol. In a forest of evergreens, if one needle is slightly browner than the rest because the paint oxidizes weirdly or whatever, then it'll be about you and me on the skids and nothing else. And I don't want that to happen."

Blaine turns in his chair to find the painting Kurt is staring at. On the surface, it's trees, dirt, and sky, but underneath, it's much more than that. That painting of their beloved paradise is perfection - so much so that he can feel the sun on his face, the breeze kissing his cheek, smell the sunscreen on his skin. "I understand what you're saying, but... "

"But?" Kurt grinds out between his teeth. This is the frustrating thing about arguing with Blaine. Even when he says he sees Kurt's point of view, he doesn't seem to really.

And when he's not winning, he gets dismissive.

"... I think you're overthinking things a little."

"And you're not?"

"Another evade," Blaine says, pointing at him in a way reminiscent of his brother's only acting technique.

Kurt grabs the hair at his temple and pulls to keep from flinging the palette in his hand like a frisbee at Blaine's head. "Isn't it more important that you know how I feel about you? You inspire me every day! Your love, your support, your music - they feed my soul! But do I have to plaster it on a wall to make it real?"

"That's kind of an empty question because you don't! There are no paintings of me! Not even in our apartment! And I'm sorry, but I think that's very telling!"

Kurt nods, his lips pulled taut. "You're right, Blaine. Not one. And it is very telling." He drops his palette on his work table and circles the room, grabbing finished canvases and carrying them over. He positions them purposefully, placing some under UV lights he has mounted to runners on the ceiling. 

"What... what are you doing?" Blaine asks with worry, wondering if Kurt is about to do something hasty, something that will ruin his paintings, waste all those hours of work, jeopardize the money he has yet to collect for them. 

Kurt doesn't answer. 

He doesn't even look at him. 

He works silently, his shoulders rigid, his footsteps heavy as he collects paintings Blaine forgot about, paintings that had made Blaine bristle because they were of places they had been to together, things they had made a point to see only with each other, but not a one included him. Those Kurt flips upside down.

He swipes a squeeze bottle of clear liquid from his army of supplies. It could be water. It could be paint thinner. Blaine doesn't know, but he's not certain he wants to find out. He's about to leap off his seat to stop him, but Kurt switches off the overhead lights, turns on the UVs, and Blaine stops. He watches in horror as Kurt douses the flipped canvases in fluid, but the paint doesn't run. Whatever is in that bottle, it sticks, but only in certain areas, and before it dries completely, Kurt dusts the paintings with a fine powder, one that brings hidden images to life beneath the lights.

“Oh my God,” Blaine mutters, stepping back to get a better look.

Every painting, in one way or another, is of him. Of them. And not just recently. There are images of them from college, high school... middle school. There are profiles of Blaine in the negative space between flowers of one painting, and in the clouds of another. A fluorescent image of teenaged him playing guitar to a silhouette of Kurt sitting beside him. There are shadows of them dancing, singing, even a daring one of them making love up against a wall. 

And the flipped landscapes? Their vacation pictures, as it were? The glowing dust reveals portraits hiding in plain sight, painted upside down and invisible to the naked eye. All of these images, Kurt painted in ways where no one would detect them if they weren't looking for them. If they didn't know they were there.

And they are in every. single. one.

Now that he's seen this, it's safe to assume all of Kurt's works carry similar Easter eggs, even paintings long gone.

"Why... why didn't you tell me about this?" Blaine asks, too stuck on stupid to move, walk from painting to painting and examine them properly.

"Why did I need to? I love you. I've told you. What else did I need to prove?"

Blaine shakes his head slowly, ashamed of himself. What an imbecile he is! Kurt is absolutely right. He loves him! He didn't need to prove it! The hurt Blaine felt - that was on him. It wasn't Kurt's responsibility to fix it. There isn't a day that goes by where Kurt doesn't show his love to Blaine in one way or another. Blaine didn't need this. He really didn't.

And right now, he doesn't feel he deserves it.

On a side note, how wrapped up in his own crap has he been that here, in this space that they share, where proximity has forced Kurt to memorize every song Blaine has been writing for his latest album while he paints, that he never realized just how frickin' talented his boyfriend is!?

"Kurt... " Blaine finally finds the strength to take a step forward, drawn to that ghostly image of them making love. It's a simple shadow of the moment, but it evokes a powerful memory "... these are incredible. How did you... ?" Blaine expects an answer before he can finish. Kurt is rarely shy about discussing his work.

Though Blaine should use this opening to his advantage - apologize since those should have been the first words out of his mouth.

But he gets nothing.

"Kurt?" Blaine looks over his shoulder in search of his boyfriend, ready to make amends. 

But Kurt is gone.

#klaine fanfiction #klaine fic #klaine #blangst

[thebrownssociety]

Across The Serververse, Chapter 9

About an hour after the last chapter Bugs stood with his arms folded looking critically at the...thing that Marvin and Wile.E were telling him was a car. It looked, to Bugs’s critical eye, very much like a jagged rock. This would be because it was a jagged rock, a deep jagged rock, hollowed out to create a drivers seat, a steering wheel somehow forced into it and four wheels haphazardly slung onto it. In a bid to make it personal to him Pepe and Penelope had painted it orange and were proposing he call it ‘The Carrot.’ Not th most original of names, but there you go.

“So...lemme jus’ get this straight.” Bugs said, slowly. “Ya want me ta actually drive this thing?”

“Of course.” Marvin said, sharply.

“It’s perfectly safe.” Wile.E added. “Trust us. We’re geniuses.” 

Despite having the perfect set-up Bugs - with great effort - made no jokes or witty comebacks and instead positioned himself in the drivers seat, popped a helmet on [safety first and all that] put his seatbelt on and then raced off to join the others.

‘Sweet moither of carrots, this is fast!’ Bugs thought to himself as he zipped round corners and up and down the sides of hills. No wonder the Wacky Racers all seemed to look permanently startled!

After a good half an hour Bugs saw his first car and - tightening his grip on the wheel - pushed down the accelerator. The car lunged forward with such speed Bugs was left in the air for about two seconds before being pulled back into his drivers seat by the seatbelt. 

He landed upside down and hastened to right himself. When he did manage this the first thing he saw was a cliff coming towards him so he grabbed the wheel and turned away from the cliff somehow managing to end up back on the path. Heart nearly beating out his chest he panted and briefly thought of his house and nice comfy bed before giving himself a slap and readjusting his hands more tightly on the wheel. He WOULD get Sam back even if it killed 'im.

Bugs pressed down the accelerator and zoomed off, this time managing to stay on the track. He was on there a while actually, about 45 minutes before he saw the first car. Annoyingly it wasn't Sam's and Bugs wasn't familiar enough with the world of wacky racers to identify it. It wasn't Penelope Pitstop or Peter Perfect he knew that.

As he tried to overtake, one of the toons (a caveman) leaned over and whacked him on the back of the head with a club. "Hey!" Bugs cried as the caveman tried to batter him senseless. "Cut it out! Yer damagin' me ears!"

The cave man ignored him and Bugs - in a fit of anger - turned the wheel sharply causing the car to whack into the side of the cavemen's (there were two of them) car which, in turn, sent them flying down the side of the cliff.

There seems no need to go over every racer, but suffice to say that Bugs through a mix of intelligence; trickery and, in one if two cases, blunt force, managed to eventually reach Sam. Not that he was exactly hard to miss. The gold that his car was painted saw to that.

"Sam!" Bugs bellowed, trying to be heard over the sound of the engine. "SAM"

The pirate twitched and tightened his hands on the steering wheel, a grim line of determination on his face. In hindsight Bugs should have recognised that look for what it was. Sam was In The Zone. Any attempts to distract him would surely end in tears. However, in that moment, seeing as he was literally *that* far away from him Bugs grabbed a megaphone out of hammerspace and screamed into it. "YOSEMITE SAM!"

Sam - not expecting that - wobbled dangerously and his hands jerked of the wheel sending the car spinning of the road.

Bugs winced and braked making the car shriek as he did so. When the dust had cleared he looked left and right then hopped out the car and ran across to the wreck. "Sam!" He called, worriedly. "Sammy, are you alright?"

There was a long pause, during which Bugs started composing songs for Sam's funeral, then a pale hand grasped the wreckage of the car and - with a dramatic gasp - Yosemite Sam pulled himself out of the wreckage and mustered enough strength to look straight at Bugs and growl. "I hates you."

Bugs took the statement with good grace and, holding out a hand, pulled Sam from the wreckage. "An' dere I was t'inkin' you'd be glad ta see me." He said, teasingly.

Sam glared and, adopting the voice of a posh upper-class englishman [think Mac and Tosh] said. "It may have escaped your here notice, Mr Bunny, but you have just WRECKED MY CAR!"

Bugs blinked and shrugged, giving the easy smile that always worked with Daffy. "Eh...Oi crushed Wile.E under a boulder. He was happy ta see me."

Sam glared and pointed at the smouldering wreck that had once been a car.

Bugs followed his point and, feeling a stab of guilt, mumbled. "Yeah...so dat's not great..."

"IT'S WRECKED!" Sam screeched. "An YOU ah wrecked it!"

"Well..." Bugs murmured as the feeling of guilt intensified. "Technically you're hands were on the wheel-"

Suddenly without warning Sam's eyes welled up with tears and he started blubbing. "Ya don't understand! Tha' car-" He indicated the smoking pile of metal. "-took me 3 weeks ta make! To craft! From scratch! They wouldn't let me race until ah had a car!" 'They' Bugs presumed to be the Wacky Racers. "An' now I've got it it's-ah taken me four an' a half month to claw ma way ta fourth - fourth! - place! This - this! - was gonna be mah chance to crack at least top three! An' now it's gone! An' it's all YOUR FAULT! An' ya not even sorry!"

Bugs's guilt was to string for him to ignore now and he said, aiming for a placating tone. "Look Sam, I'm sorry, oi really am! I didn't know the car meant that much ta ya. We'll-" He thought quickly. "We'll get it fixed! Look, gimme a minute-" Bugs got a flag out his hammerspace and shoved it into the ground. "I claim this planet in the name of Earth!" He said, clearly.

As was expected Marvin appeared a few foot away from him and walked over with his own flag. "I claim this planet in the name of Mars!" He said, briskly. "Now, what is it you want, earth-creature?"

Bugs looked at him with a attitude that said 'really' and nodded his head at Sam. Marvin looked over at Sam and clapped his hands together. "Oh, Yosemite Sam! It's SO good to see you again!"

"Likewise brother." Sam said, gruffly as they hugged. "Now what can you do about my car?"

Marvin frowned and walked over to the wreckage. He made a few calculations and walked round the wreckage about five times all while muttering in Martian. Neither Sam or Bugs were fluent in Martian but they could pick up some words. 'Idiots', 'disaster' and 'time' being the main ones. Well after half an hour Marvin made the final notes on his checkboard and speed-walked over to Bugs and Sam, looking grim. Bugs and Sam immediately sat up and looked interested.

"The car is very nearly a write-off." Marvin announced, in his usual blunt fashion. "How it survived at all is beyond me. However it is fixable." He grimaced. "It'll just take a while."

"Eh...how long's a 'while', Doc?" Bugs asked, conscious that this whole thing was on a time limit.

"How long have we got?" The Martian asked, thrown for a loop.

The rabbit did a quick calculation. It didn't take long. "13 days." He said. "An' den Rhythm does Jones knows what. Give up hopefully. But de fact is we need ta get everyone back within those 13 days or they'll be..." Bugs couldn't even bring himself to say the words, a weird lump forming in his throat.

Thankfully Marvin understood [it helped that he had already been brought up to speed on the stakes offscreen a few chapters ago.] and he said, quickly. "Don't worry it will certainly take less than 13 days. Less than 13 hours probably, if we all work together and you listen to my instructions exactly without any fooling around..." Here he narrowed his eyes at Bugs.

Bugs was not an idiot. The meaning was clear and, although normally he might happily 'fool around', there was to much riding on this for him to do so. Really, strictly speaking, he should probably insist they leave Sam's personal junkyard behind, but he knew if he did that the pirate would never forgive him. And contrary to what people may think Bugs didn't want to upset his on-screen 'enemies' TO much...

"Well den." He said, brightly, clapping his hands together and smiling at Marvin. "Whadda we waiting for? Lets call de oithers and get fixin'!"

#Space Jam 2 Fanfiction #Across The Serververse #Bugs Bunny #Marvin The Martian #Yosemite Sam #Wile.E.Coyote #Wacky Racers #8 more to go

[kimkims-world]

when he suddenly likes you back

you had a crush on taehyung.

you don't know what happened, what triggered it but you were 100% sure you are head over heels for this man.

you thought you kept it low, not being so obvious. you would only steal some glances, and acting shy and nervous with all that stuttering stuff. you didn't make yourself shy though, you were actually shy when kim taehyung decides to grace his presence.

i mean, who wouldn't?

to you, he's like this sweet human being that brings happiness to your world and gave colors to your blank canvas. you like him THAT much.

until one day taehyung texted you to meet up and your whole world turned dark.

turns out he knew about the little feelings of yours towards him. he said you were like an open book, too easy to read.

you still remembered what he said that day.

"that's sweet of you and i appreciate it. really, i do. but i couldn't return your feelings, we can still be friends? i mean, if you want to. i hope this won't hurt you."

well, it hurts A LOT.

you never even wanted to confess in the first place because you were scared of rejection. rather than being dissapointed in taehyung, you were quite angry at yourself for being too obvious.

it gave an impact to you of course.

there were countless of days you wasted your tears to the point you just couldn't cry anymore, sleepless nights thinking that maybe you weren't good enough, and the numb ache in your chest that doesn't seem to go away.

you stopped talking to taehyung at campus because he will look at you with apologetic eyes that you surely do not need. so you decided to hang more with your group of friends and try to shake him off your head or maybe busy yourself with some work.

you didn't want to be stuck on him forever. you were sane enough to think that there are other guys like him, or maybe better. it was the only thing that tied yourself together and finally you got over him.

after all the struggles, all the pain, you've made it.

yes, you see him quite often especially when you share every classes together. but the way you see him is different now, he just looks like a guy. not the light to your world, not the colors to your canvas, not anymore.

it's just taehyung.

and you can proudly say you have succeeded on loving yourself. though not fully, you can say it was a progress that you worked hard for. all those nights drowning in self-hate for not being enough for your crush pains you so you were determined to make you feel better about yourself.

you found new hobbies that you enjoyed a lot and found comfort on pampering yourself. you finally realize that you did not need a guy to feel whole, all you need is yourself.

you are undeniably happy.

you and taehyung didnt have that tension anymore so both of you hung out again. you both hung out very often, more than when you had a crush on him.

this time taehyung and you were walking back from hanging at a cafe on a snowy day. the road was covered with beautiful white and the fluffy snowflakes kissed the ground. you love snow.

you didn't notice taehyung slowing his pace until you let out an 'oof' when something hit you from behind.

you whipped your head and caught taehyung balling some snow in his hands.

"oh it's on." you took some snow near you and quickly bunch it up in your hands before launching it at taehyung.

taehyung managed to hit you again and both of you now are laughing like crazy, ignoring the people that passed by giving a disapproving look.

"okay stop!" you panted, clearly tired after the intense war you just experienced.

your attention averted to the falling snowflakes. you put both of your hands out, wanting to catch a snowflake. you giggled ecstaticly when one landed on your palm, a wide smile appeared on your face before you glance at taehyung who was oddly quiet.

"taehyung i caught a snowflake!" you squealed happily.

taehyung stayed quiet as a small smile was visible. he looked bewitched for some reason. his eyes delicately scanned your glowing face.

he wordlessly pulled both of your wrists after the snowflake melted by the warmth of your palms that was covered with mittens.

you blinked, completely caught off guard by the sudden action.

"is everything okay?" you asked. worried that something might be wrong because taehyung is being too quiet.

"y/n," his low voice send shivers down your spine as he stares at you with his hazelnut warm orbs.

"hmm?" you answered, eyes widening to urge him to continue.

"i like you." he said breathily, his warm breath brushing your face softly.

this time your eyes got two times bigger if that is even possible. your head spinning after you heard what he said. how dare he?

anger bubbles in you as you stare at his annoyingly perfect face. why is he so careless? just why?

you yanked your wrists away and taehyung clearly didn't see that coming.

"taehyung, what is wrong with you?" your brows furrowed as you look at the boy. "you can't just waltz in whenever you want to. am i some kind of joke to you?"

"of course not—"

"then why now?" you looked at his as your visions became blurry.

you were angry, sad, disappointed, confused. just when you finally feel better and got out from the pit of darkness that almost ate you alive making yourself suffer. that days were enough to slap you out of reality and opening up to new things.

and when you are already at the top and finally satisfied with where you are now, he decides to bring the past back?

"you've said it yourself taehyung."

"i know what i said!"

"then why are you doing this!?" your heart squeezed as you feel hot tears running down your cheeks. the mixes of feelings whoosh to you like a hurricane. "don't you know how much that hurted me? how much pain i went through and how much struggle i needed to bear to be here?"

taehyung's expression was depressing, he didn't want to see you cry but deep down he knew that what he did was wrong. it was careless of him to reject your feelings but he has his own reasons on why he did it.

someone threatened him that if he didn't cut ties with you, your life will be put at stake. the person was arrested a few months ago so that's why taehyung approached you again to start over.

he saw everything.

from when you were looking so depressed and emotionless, the colors drained from your bright face to the slow progress of healing and picking yourself up to stand tall and strong. he was absolutely proud of you for being able to trudge through everything and overcoming the depths of despair.

"i know." taehyung's voice was so weak, it sounds pathetic to his ears as his head hung low and eyes not worthy to stare at yours that are glowing like a blazing fire, the strength from within you twice bigger and more fierce.

the pain made you independent and powerful.

"you don't. you don't know taehyung! you don't know the days i need to put up a facade in front of you every goddamn time, you don't know how tiring it was getting through the day and crying alone without no one beside me, you don't know the sleepless nights i went through thinking i wasn't enough, you have no idea how hard it is to be able to let you go—"

you were suddenly pulled into his chest. his scent waft over your nose which makes your tears flow out like a broken dam. you clenched his coat in your fists, screams muffled because of your face pressed against his chest, and body shaking because of the immense pain and also the coldness that suddenly felt unbearable to you.

you hit his chest, taehyung being unable to stop you because he knew he deserve it. he deserve every hit you throw at him.

"those times were my worst nightmare." you whimpered.

taehyung's heart ached as he heard your trembling voice clearly in pain. the guilt that was in him becoming bigger as you try to quiet your sobs. you were the same before he broke your heart but different at the same time.

the old y/n won't try to disguise her agony, where the y/n now tries to stop her tears and act tough.

"i'm sorry y/n, i don't deserve you." taehyung sighed as he caress your hair emotionally.

"i'm not blaming you taehyung," you hiccuped as you wiped away the tears. "feelings can be so random and maybe just maybe, we can find each other in the right time."

taehyung bit his lip as he stare at the woman who has grown so much. technically, it was all his doing but the choice of staying strong and refusing to collapse is yours. you learn from the heartbreak and being able to build a better you.

what you said may be right, because maybe you both were at the wrong timing. the universe was having fun playing with you but now it is going to give you the perfect chance. who knows?

"alright, i hope to see you soon y/n." taehyung nodded to you while staring deeply into your eyes, never wanting this separation.

"me too."

4 years later

you were so excited as you got ready for a college reunion after a few years of graduating. though you kept in touch with some of your friends, the thought of meeting other familiar faces made you feel giddy.

you went out of your apartment and took your car to drive there. the distance was not that far but is still enough to take some time but you finally arrived at the bar. you heard that it was owned by one of your college friends.

you entered the bar and saw a lot of people greeting you. you squealed as you see some faces that you know too well and gave them the biggest bear hug.

you manage to slowly walk further into the pact bar and whem glance at s certain table, someone was already giving you the warmest smile.

the smile that succesfully sweep you off your feet and helplessly make you fall deeper.

"long time no see, tae." you smiled as the guy stood up and approached you.

"you too, y/n."

and you swore you felt your heart skip a beat.

#taehyung #jimin #bts #bts imagine #bts fanfic #imagines #college romance #yoongi #seokjin #namjoon #jungkook #hoseok #bangtan #taehyung imagine #soft #angst #fluff #kpop

[lia-jones]

Growing Stronger - Chapter 5 - There’s No Glory Without Tears

The Loveland University Annual Gala was one of the biggest events in town, attracting all sorts of celebrities, entrepreneurs and politicians. It was more than an event to support causes or fund important studies, it was a way to rub elbows with the cream of the crop of Loveland’s society, a chance to show and see who is who. So, obviously, all big names where there. If one wanted to make a name in Loveland city, attendance was mandatory.

For someone who hated this sort of gathering, I sure had been through a lot of those, either with Daniel or with Victor, so I was well versed in how to behave and what to expect. No matter the dress code, or the cause at stake, or even the country, it was pretty much the same routine: people with way more money than they needed and way more power they should have gathering around a table, eating, drinking and engaging in false pleasantries to get something out of the interaction.

Disregarding whatever thoughts I had about what rich people pass as patronage or charity, this was still one of the most determinant moments of my career. All the media exposure regarding my romantic connection to Victor as well as my past abuse had made a huge dent in my career, threatening to destroy everything I worked so hard for. I was still to find out how Victor planned to put an end to all that. His presence at the ball would make heads turn and people whisper, let alone his sponsorship. People would think his support was due to personal reasons, they would ignore any value my work actually had. I had to show without a shred of a doubt how important my work was, in a way so compelling that they would care more about my words than my private life. Bottom line, I had to prove my worth. If I managed to do so, I was saved. If I failed… Well, I didn’t want to think about it.

Keeping that firmly in mind, I entered Loveland’s University Library, which had been fully repurposed to host the gala. Olive Carson did not mess around when at work. My office looked like a dressing room, including a big mirror with lights around it. I already had my dress, a hairdresser, and a make-up artist waiting for me.

“I was about to call you. Sit down, we need to get your hair done.” Olive came to me, pointing to a chair. “Your USB drive is already with the producer, ready for you to present.”

“We have a producer?” I was astonished.

“Honey, you came from the back, you didn’t see the media circus outside. This will be the event of the year. Yes, we needed a producer.”

My stomach turned. I knew this would be big, but not that big. I wasn’t ready for so much attention. All I wanted was to further my research, but suddenly I had all of Loveland’s eyes on me. Every single one of them.

“Oh God.” I whispered, starting to feel nervous. I was sure I was going to sweat all of my expensive make-up off and leave pit stains on my dress.

“Don’t worry, dear. All you have to do is recreate what you did when you presented your thesis. Add a little charm, you’ll surely get them.”

There was a knock on the door. I almost fell from the chair when I heard the too familiar perky voice.

“Andrea! So nice to see you again!” I stared fiercely at the mirror, wishing she would go away, but soon her small arms enveloped me from behind.

“Mia!” I faked a smile. “You’re here?”

“Yes, I’m producing the event! We get to work together again, isn’t it nice?” She gave me her characteristic wide childish grin.

“Very!” I widened my smile as well. I would be doing a lot of that during the evening, I could as well start practicing.

“Big day for you today! I hope you are ready!” She squeezed my shoulder.

I wasn’t. I was terrified.

“Which reminds me, after you greet the guests, you need to come find the sound manager to get you a lavalier mic. Olive says you like to walk when you talk, so we want to make sure you feel as comfortable as possible.”

“Thank you.” I smiled, watching her leave with the same perkiness she entered. I wondered if Loveland was such a one-horse town that it only had one producer. I kept running into that girl. Although it wasn’t any fault of her own, rationally I knew that, I found her extremely annoying. For reasons I didn’t care to admit.

After an hour, I was ready. I had my hair in an updo, my make-up done, and a beautiful tule champagne and black dress. Olive and I went to the library’s entrance to greet the guests that started coming.

In all the commotion, I almost forgot that I would be seeing a few familiar faces at the event. Seeing Miss Bates, Guy Sauvant, Xavier Breton and Mr. Mills arriving at the party made me remember the long path I had to walk to get to where I was, my confidence returning full force. This was the result of my long, hard work. I mentally patted myself on my back. I had done a good job. An excellent job for that matter.

However, when my eyes fell on him, all those happy thoughts evaded my mind. I felt butterflies when I saw Victor come up the stairs to the library, impeccably dressed in his tuxedo. My knees buckled a little with the rush of endorphins that flew through me, and I couldn’t help but smile at that beautiful man. He came to me with a smile, shaking my hand.

“I see Olive spared no expenses, you have quite the event here. Ready for the big show?”

Olive spoke before I could.

“When LFG is sponsoring, we can’t have anything less than excellence. I trust you will be introducing our brilliant Andrea?”

“Absolutely. I have my speech right here.“

I froze when I suddenly saw a gloved hand circle Victor’s arm from behind.

“Sorry, those reporters were asking for a picture. Ready?” She asked him with a smile. The world seemed to pause as I tried to steady my fast-beating heart.

He wasn’t alone. He had brought a date. The woman was stunning, tall and slim, long slick black hair and sweet baby blue almond eyes. He smiled back at her, nodding at us briefly before walking away with her.

I kept my poise as I watched the happy couple leave. No matter what, tonight was about me and my project. I was not going to let this affect me. As always, work would be a good distraction from my broken heart.

After all the guests were inside, sipping their drinks happily, lost in idle conversation, I went to the sound manager to get my mic on. By the booth, Victor was chatting with Mia, seemingly oblivious that I wasn’t too far from him. A young man approached me.

“You must be Dr. Jones! My name is Minor, I’ll be your mic man!” The man said, shaking my hand hard.

“Pleased to meet you, Minor.” I smiled, happy for the chitchat. At least it would distract me from Victor.

Minor seemed to be nervous, off his element, as he kept pressing the button of my mic.

“Erm… Let me see… I never know if this is on or off.” He let out a nervous laugh. “Don’t worry, we will connect it from the booth. Now…” He looked at my chest. “Where should I put it?”

I had had a lot of awkward moments that day, but the following one was making all other moments run for their money. Minor froze for a second, blushing, staring at my boobs.

“Erm… Maybe…” He mumbled as he motioned around my breast, trying to place the mic without actually touching me. I sighed, taking the mic from his hand, attaching it myself.

“What about here?” I asked, raising my eyebrows, my patience already pretty much lost.

“Yes!” He quickly spoke, his forehead damp with sweat. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“Ok, then.” Awkward. “Thank you, Minor.”

I was about to leave, when I heard Mia again.

“Andrea! You already have your mic, good. You have 15 minutes before we start, so if you want to go to your office and prepare, I’ll call you when we’re ready.”

That was an excellent idea. I would be away from the crowd, the noise, and… Victor and his new girlfriend. Plus, I remembered I had whiskey in my office. I could run away from it all, ground myself for a moment.

Except, fate would have it that I would bump into her on my way. By her I mean… Victor’s date.

“I’m so sorry! Did I hurt you?” She asked, worried.

“Not at all! I’m fine.” I said, trying to walk away.

“Big night for you, right?” She continued, smiling widely at me. “Yet you seem so calm.”

“I’m screwed either way, right?” I joked. “No use getting worried.”

“Victor talks a lot about you.” Victor’s date continued. “He told me how you endured an abusive relationship and came to Loveland to start fresh. You worked so hard to be where you are, this is the fruit of your labor. For all that’s worth, I admire your strength. I wish you the best.”

“Thank you. I wish you the best as well. Both of you. Enjoy your evening.”

With that, I left. Finally, in the privacy of my office, I looked at my hands. I was shaking. I didn’t know what was worse, Victor having someone else, or the fact that she was actually a very decent human being. Part of me wished she was a total bitch, it would be so much easier for me to hate her. He had moved on and found a good replacement at that. Someone prettier than me, most likely nicer. The thought made me burst in tears, all feelings I had rumbling inside me finally free, making me double myself in emotional pain.

I bawled for what it seemed a very long time, all emotions now finding an exit and pushing themselves out of me. After a while, I managed to calm myself down, and I looked at the mirror. Crap, the make-up. Some of it had melted with my tears. I couldn’t talk about my work to all Loveland looking like that. Fortunately, the make-up artist had left all her gear in my office. I busied myself trying to fix what my tears had ruined.

As I was trying to apply the eyeliner, the pencil incredibly close to my eyeball, the door suddenly bursts open.

“Andrea!” Mia called. I almost stabbed myself in the eye with the shock.

“God! You’re everywhere!” I yelled, frustrated, still recovering from the scare she gave me.

“I need to be.” She pouted. “I’m the producer. Sorry if I scared you.”

“It’s fine.” I sighed. “I just need to refresh my make-up. I’ll be right over.”

“Were you crying?” Mia asked. “Here, let me do it.” She said, taking the pencil from my hand.

I let her. I felt exhausted. The idea of talking to hundreds of people was not appealing at all. I just wanted a hole to crawl into and die.

“It’s ok to be nervous.” Mia continued. “If it was me, I’d be terrified. That’s why I admire you so much.”

“There’s nothing to admire, trust me.” I mumbled.

“I beg to differ.” Mia exclaimed, reapplying my eyeshadow. “I mean, I don’t know you very well, but the things I read on the tabloids are good reason for admiration. You made Victor open up and smile way more often, which is a feat by itself. The way he looks at you…”

“Mia…”

“I know Victor. I know he is with that girl tonight, but his eyes are on you. He has been nagging me to check up on you every five minutes. If I did his bidding, I wouldn’t work at all! I don’t know what happened between you two and you don’t have to tell me, but maybe you two should talk. I can see how you look at him too.”

I used to find Mia annoying, but right there my heart was filled with affection for her. Not because of what she said, because Victor was indeed with another girl and there was nothing to be done, but because she was trying to bring us together. I didn’t expect it, coming from her. I felt like someone had my back. I wasn’t alone.

Suddenly I felt happy. Peaceful. Confident again. The most important issue of the night came to focus again. Today wasn’t about heartbreak or boyfriends. It was about me. Me after trauma and abuse, reaping the rewards of my effort. Overcoming it all, returning a warrior.

“Thank you, Mia.” I hugged her. “I needed a friend. Thank you for being one for me.”

I looked myself over in the mirror one last time before I left.

“You can do this, Andrea.” I encouraged myself. “Go get them.”

#Growing Pains - Series #growingstronger #mlqc li zeyan #mlqc victor #mlqc fanfic #mister love queens choice #victor x oc #love and producer

[johnlockficclub]

Author Q&A Recap

We have to say, @prettysherlocksoldier was very lovely and everyone had a great time bantering back and forth.  So much fun, that for space we’ve kept it to just the questions and answers:

@sherlock-nanowrimo: Did you have any headcanons as you wrote this fic, that didn't make it into the story?

@prettysherlocksoldier: Not exactly, but I did sort of come up with the whole idea originally with the concept for Irene's radio show, and I wanted initially to have her somehow in that capacity work to set John and Sherlock up, but it didn't really come together that way and I wish I could have spent more time with her radio show.

@elwinglyre:  I loved the bantering that you included in this story. What inspiration did you use to write it?

@prettysherlocksoldier: Truthfully, I tend to write dialogue how I speak. And I'm EXTREMELY dry and sarcastic with my friends, so it just comes out of that with a characterized twist.  WELL OKAY so they are all like different sides I guess. John bridges the gap between sarcastic Dani and supportive friend Dani, and Sherlock is "I would never dare say this to your face but I am thinking it very loudly" Dani.

@elwinglyre: It sounds like you like to write kind of stream of consciousness at times. How much do you generally plan out in your writing. The dialogue is spontaneous but the rest is…? I’m always interested about this.

@prettysherlocksoldier: I always try to be a planner but I am a pantser at heart. Any time I attempt to outline it goes off the rails fairly quickly and I just let it, so most of it ends up being spontaneous. The only thing I pay fairly close attention to is the chronology, especially with a holiday story which has a set deadline (ie Christmas). I don't want to mention it's been a week and that would be New Years or something, so I keep track of that but otherwise I'm a mess.

@blue-posey: I love the play on words and puns and turns in your writing, but esp ‘every silver lining

@prettysherlocksoldier: I really don't know haha! Again, I guess I just sort of write like I talk. And, being an English major and a writer and generally a hopeless romantic, I am also occasionally very poetic (coughmelodramaticcough).

@blue-posey: Well, it is poetic.  As is the way Sherlock sees John throughout the book: golden hair, snowflake on his cheek etc.

@prettysherlocksoldier:  I've seen too many Hallmark movies, I will put a snowflake on every eyelash within reach.

@sherlock-nanowrimo: What draws you to writing unilock stories?  This was our first time reading unilock as a group and some folks hadn't ever read that trope before. It was a big hit

@prettysherlocksoldier: Well, at the time, I was in university, so that was a big part of it, but then I also just think it's a time of such potential, whether undergrad or grad school. I mean, school takes up so much of some people's lives, especially someone like John going into medicine, and those are formative years. So I like playing with the idea of meeting someone at this point in your life where everything is changing and you're trying to find your footing and settle into your own skin, and then here comes someone who shakes all that up and you sort of have to decide if you're going to grow TOGETHER or just keep forging your own path. It's a high-stakes time period and I'm just drawn to the dramatic potential in it, I suppose.

@elwinglyre: I also liked your foreshadowing in this with the elevator (going up and going down—so naughty and nice). And your whole pulling out the angst at the end with Sherlock. Great build up.

@prettysherlocksoldier: I love sort of...innocuous foreshadowing. Like it won't be HORRIBLE nothing TERRIBLE is going to happen because that's simply not what I write, but anything could come around again and suddenly have new meaning. It's just harmless turnabout haha.

@blue-posey:  Can I say I did a fist-in-the-air jig when John said about ‘nice’ boys asking for nudes!  It was really good to see it spelled out like that, esp coming from a male character.

@prettysherlocksoldier: I love John being this like...perfect stereotype of a Jock Jackass and then he's just...not. And it sort of unseats everyone around him and that's fun too. And I make everyone as raging liberal feminist as I am so there's also just that haha.

@elwinglyre: So… the big question: how do you feel about writing sex scenes???

@prettysherlocksoldier: OH MY GOD SO AWKWARD OH MY GOD I don't do it very often because I just... It is so difficult for me, I can't put my finger on why. When I do write them, they're either harried or I'm focusing more on the emotion because I just don't know how to make "thrust" sound sexy I just don't knowwww.

@sherlock-nanowrimo:  There were a number of details we loved, departures from frustrating aspects of canon. Like Molly not having a crush on Sherlock because everyone knows he's gay.  And John happily admitting he's bi. Did you have any intent to knock down some canon stuff or did it just come natural?

@prettysherlocksoldier: I think a lot of that comes out of unilock more than any particular intent of mine. Like, it's 2016 or whatever it was at the time, they're young, they're at a liberal universe in a world city, like I just...can't fathom Sherlock would not be out. Especially with someone like Irene around him, who I always make a supportive influence. John is a little more complication because of that jock persona and he might have some reservations about being open about his sexuality, but I just... I mean, growing up in a conservative home and environment that did not take kindly to me coming out, I just don't make much time for it in the worlds I get to create. Maybe I'm trying to rewrite my own history, but hey, the world's rough enough with even fictional gay people having to feel unsafe being themselves

@blue-posey: And talking about openness, I love how casually John says he’s bi

@prettysherlocksoldier: That moment actually meant a lot to me because it's like a chance for him to correct an assumption, and yes Sherlock is listening and that's part of it, but it's I think the moment when we're like OH WAIT HE MIGHT BE INTO IT and it's So Softe.

@wildishmazz:  When they nearly got pornographic near the end, were you toying with the idea of someone having to say the title to them?

@prettysherlocksoldier: I almost ALMOST had them do the classic bump-the-microphone-and-everyone-hears-you-boning, but decided against it haha.

@sherlock-nanowrimo: as we were reading the part with Mary, I know I tensed up wondering just how it was going to go.  But it wasn't toxic at all - -she made an effort to reconnect, but accepted her defeat with grace.

@prettysherlocksoldier: I have a hard time making Mary a rival. Maybe because I don't think she ever really was haha! But also I was disappointed in where her character ended up going and she deserved better and I am going to give it to her goshdarnit.

@blue-posey: I also loved this:

“Love conquers all,” the blond quipped, slowly lowering himself down beside Sherlock, back scraping against the wall. “No, it doesn’t,” Sherlock scoffed, turning through the pages. “It merely temporarily blinds people to flaws; it doesn’t actually conquer anything.”

I know it reads a bit defeatist, but I think it’s not.

@prettysherlocksoldier: I love a Sherlock who has sort of...put up this shield of cynicism around love simply because he doesn't think he'll find it, so it's easier to think the whole thing is stupid.  I mean we've all had a bad breakup and been like NEVERMIND LOVE IS A SHAM for a while.  Not to be a monster, but I always thought of Sherlock as someone who loves very deeply, just never expresses it because he perceives himself as unloveable.

@wildishmazz:  did John assume they were on the same page re: having been on dates and so therefore being dating?

@prettysherlocksoldier: John, god bless him, I think totally thought he was like courting this dude and doing it up right and being Super Romantic, and then Sherlock is just like BUT YOU DID NOT EXPLICITLY STATE.

@blue-posey:  @tildathings wanted to ask how you choose the radio station for the set up.

@prettysherlocksoldier: Oh god that is actually kind of embarrassing, so to be fair it was VERY LATE and I was DRIVING and I was VERY BORED but do y'all know that like late night advice radio show with that gravelly voice woman, Delilah??  I just thought what an Irene version of that would be like and everyone else just kind of came out of that and got their own shows and then it was just at a radio station and it's all Delilah's fault.

Thanks everyone for joining us for back to school fic! Many thanks to @prettysherlocksoldier for chatting with us!

#johnlock fic club #you're on the air

[fandom-smut-shots]

James Griffin - Fire

Fire – James Griffin

Redandgoldgirl

Words: 1,893.

The trunk of James’ SUV closed with a thump, securing your belongings alongside everyone else’s. Your senior year of high school began in just one week, which meant that it was time for the yearly end-of-summer camping trip that you and your friends always took.

For the second year in a row, James had been nominated for transportation due to the car he’d received for his sixteenth birthday. Before anyone was of legal driving age, Lance’s mother had happily offered her chauffeur services. Having as many children as she did required an SUV similar to the one James now drove, which made her the perfect transportation while the teenagers were working towards their licenses.

“Shotgun!” Kinkade shouted, reaching for the door handle of the passenger seat.

Lance elbowed him in the side, earning a grunt of vague pain. Kinkade turned to the brunet, poised to protest, but the Cuban teen placed a hand over his mouth and tilted his head in your direction. Kinkade took the hint and glanced around Lance, catching you leaning against the trunk of the car, chatting about something inaudible with James. A soft blush dusted your cheeks, and James grinned in the way he only did when you were in sight.

Kinkade smirked knowingly, sharing a glance with the Cuban whose hand was still plastered to his face. The dark-haired boy stuck out his tongue, pressing it to Lance’s palm, and the brunet yelped in disgust, retracting his hand and wiping his friend’s saliva on his jacket.

Lance opened the back door, crawling into the middle seat beside Keith. Pidge, Hunk, and Nadia were stationed in the third row, and Kinkade slid in next to Lance. James rounded the car, opening the passenger door and allowing you inside. You smiled shyly at him as you stepped up, accepting his empty hand to keep your balance. He closed the door as you tugged the seatbelt across your chest, watching as he took his place in the driver’s seat.

“Everyone ready to go camping?” James called as he turned the key and the ignition roared to life.

Cheers and yells sounded from the other passengers, and you giggled at their enthusiasm.

When you reached the campsite, another chorus of cheering erupted through the car. James put it in park and killed the engine, and everyone scrambled to the closest door. James shuffled to your side and opened the door for you, offering you a hand of assistance. You accepted it with a grin, stepping down.

“You know I’m capable of getting in and out of cars on my own, right?” you teased.

He chuckled. “Of course. I just thought you might like the help.”

“Well, thank you,” you murmured, your grin fading to a shy smile.

“Alright!” Nadia chirped loud enough to catch everyone’s attention as she shuffled out of the third row of seats. “Everyone remember the tent pairs?”

It had been decided at the beginning of summer how the four tents would be divided – Pidge and Hunk, Lance and Keith, James and Kinkade, and you and Nadia. This was the simplest solution that left nobody feeling uncomfortable – however, as Nadia eyed the expressions of her friends, she wondered if the tents would be reassigned. Kinkade and Keith were stationed evenly on either side of Lance, both enthralled in every word that left the Cuban’s mouth. You stood as close to James as physically possible, and from Nadia’s point of view, the brunet was just a second away from brushing your (h/c) locks behind your ear.

“I think your pairs are being ignored,” Pidge chuckled, standing beside Nadia.

“Maybe James will finally tell (y/n) how he feels,” Hunk mused with a soft chuckle.

Nadia shook her head doubtfully, slinging the strap of her duffle bag onto her shoulder. She padded away from her classmates, headed towards the smoothest ground in order to begin pitching her tent. Pidge and Hunk followed, though Pidge did majority of the work once Hunk opened the tent bag.

“Let’s go,” Lance suggested, nodding for Keith and Kinkade to follow. He  grasped his backpack in one hand and his tent in the other, shuffling over to where Nadia and Pidge were pitching their tents. He tossed down the bags and followed suit, laying the fabric of the tent on the ground and pulling the stakes from the bag.

Time ceased to exist as you gazed into the eyes of the brunet you so desperately had a crush on. They seemed to sparkle every time he laughed, and the soothing tone of his voice made your knees wobble like they were made of Jell-O.

“Hey, Shirogane!” shouted Nadia’s impatient voice.

You cut yourself off mid-reply to something James had said to turn and glare at your friend. Everyone in the group knew you despised being called by your last name. You were your own person, thank you very much – not just the younger sister of Garrison High’s legendary athlete.

“Yes, Razavi?” you spat back.

She only grinned. “The tents are all set up, and I don’t know if you lovebirds noticed, but it’s getting dark.”

Pidge cackled somewhere behind her, and heat splattered across your cheeks. You turned your gaze to the sky to find that it was indeed a much deeper shade of blue than it had been when you’d arrived, and ribbons of pink and orange were beginning to swirl around as the sun settled down for the evening.

“I guess we should get to the camp, get dinner going,” James commented awkwardly, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck.

You nodded. “Yeah, let’s go.”

You pointedly ignored Nadia as you retrieved a blanket from your duffle. Wrapping it around your shoulders, you returned to the fire pit, where James and Kinkade were laying logs and twigs and attempting to ignite them.

Kinkade’s lighter conveniently ran out of fluid, and before he could curse under his breath, Keith scoffed. Rolling his eyes, the raven-haired boy extended a gloved hand, offering his own lighter to the cause.

Kinkade accepted it sheepishly, lighting a crumpled up ball of newspaper in order to set the fire pit ablaze. You sat down on the ground, watching the growing embers, only half aware of a presence beside you. Turning your head, you found Hunk sitting there, with Pidge on his other side.

“Hey,” you greeted.

“Hey, (y/n),” Hunk smiled.

“You in charge of food again?” you grinned. The large brunet had been dubbed the camp cook for the last couple of years.

He laughed, but before he could reply, Pidge cut in.

“You need to tell James how you feel.”

For the second time that day, you sputtered, and your face heated up in a way that was definitely not caused by the fire.

“Excuse me?” You nervously glanced around, ensuring that no one else had heard her.

“Tell James that you like him,” Pidge repeated in a no-nonsense tone, a sharpened stick in one hand while the other held a marshmallow preparing to be impaled.

“I don’t know what you-“

“Everyone can see it, Shirogane,” Nadia added, dropping down on the other side of Pidge. “Everyone but James. And we can all tell that he’s super into you.”

You chewed your lip, shyly gazing up at the brunet who was skewering hot dogs with sticks and passing them around. You exhaled a soft sigh, dropping your glance back down to your lap.

“Are you sure he’s interested?”

Your voice was so soft that your three accomplices almost didn’t hear it.

“Absolutely,” Nadia replied, at the same time that Hunk chirped, “Totally!” and Pidge grunted, “Duh.”

Before you could fathom how to confess, James dropped down beside you. He offered you a smile and a speared hot dog before holding his own over the open flame.

“Mind if I intrude?” he grinned.

“You’re not intruding,” you murmured, accepting the stick and holding it parallel to his. When you turned your head to try and distract yourself from how close the brunet was and how good he smelled, you found that your friends had abandoned you, finding new seats on the other side of the fire pit. There was a good three feet of space on your side as well as James’, leaving you rather secluded.

Nadia, Hunk, and Pidge sent you encouraging grins and obnoxious hand gestures, to which you responded with the deepest glare you could muster.

The night continued rather smoothly, everyone eating and sharing stories and discussing their plans for the upcoming year. A cold wind settled in, causing you to wrap your blanket tighter around your torso. The soft fabric did little to protect you from the chill, and you shivered visibly as you gazed into the slowly dying fire.

“Cold?” James questioned softly.

“I-I’m f-fine,” you stuttered, teeth beginning to chatter.

The brunet chuckled. “Sure you are, (y/n).”

He opened an arm, fist closed around the corner of his own blanket. He wrapped it around you, tugging you into his warm torso and soothing your shivers. You sighed in contentment, relaxing in his hold. A glance around the fire told you that everyone had already gone to bed – the tents were dark, and the spaces on the ground where your friends had previously been sitting were now empty.

“We’ve been abandoned,” you murmured softly, tilting your head to look up at James.

“So we have,” he smiled. “I was kinda hoping we would be.”

A soft smirk played on your lips. “And why would you hope for that?”

He ducked his head, leaning in until his nose brushed softly against yours. “Do you want me to tell you, or can I show you?”

Your breath hitched in your throat as his breath ghosted over your lips. “Show me,” you decided breathlessly.

He closed the gap, gingerly pressing his lips to yours. The arm around your shoulders tightened, and his other hand softly caressed your cheek. You melted into the kiss, heart pounding inhumanly fast in your chest – you briefly wondered if he could hear it. Every nerve in your body tingled, warmed by his presence and his touch.

He broke the kiss with a soft inhale, smiling softly at you. You gazed up at him, eyed half-lidded as you struggled to grasp that the moment was actually happening, not just another daydream.

“What does this make us?” he inquired softly, the hand on your cheek lifting to slide through your hair.

“We can figure that out tomorrow,” you grinned.

He chuckled, nudging your nose with his before kissing you again. You responded eagerly, lifting a hand to hold the side of his neck. He hummed against your lips, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. You soon lost track of time, much more interested in chasing James’ lips in the moonlight.

When you finally decided to head to bed, you reluctantly parted ways... Until James unzipped his tent to find it empty, and discovered that Kinkade had squeezed in with Lance and Keith, the two dark-haired teens in a constant battle over the Cuban. That left an empty space for you, and you giggled softly when James offered it.

Eternal teasing followed the morning after when you emerged from James’ tent instead of your own, but you ceased caring as the brunet wrapped his arms around your waist and everything settled down.

#Voltron #Reader insert #Female reader #James Griffin #Writers Block #Prompts #Requests open

[rin-the-shadow]

Need to ramble about episode 22

And when I say ramble, I do mean with little side tangents here and there. Spoilers below the cut. 

So as you might have figured out from previous posts, reblogs, and questionable parodies, I have very aggressively mixed feelings about episode 22 of Dororo, with a variety of different things bugging me about it.

One is how fast things deteriorated post-episode 19. The way things had been going up until that point, and up until Dororo’s near-drowning, it’s hard for me to buy that they would have gotten to the point they were in episode 22 that fast. I can buy the freakout at the end of episode 20 because it’s in the moment, but the area that makes it harder to swallow is the aura suddenly going completely red around the heart without so much as a warning beforehand from Biwamaru, who has, for the most part, been fairly consistent with commenting on it before.

Still, we’ve got the explanation that something is happening with the last demon, which could potentially explain it, if now that it’s not being held back by the Goddess of Mercy, it’s able to exercise a degree of influence. Sure, why not.

But aside from the way the pacing feels like it suddenly realized it had four episodes left and floored the accelerator, it also feels like the writers are trying really hard to sell this “oh no he might become a demon” plot point, but with less and less communication about it from Dororo--who, to be fair, is only eight--ten-ish, but has also had no problem point-blank saying “if you do that, you’re acting like a demon” before. I can understand him struggling to articulate, but at the same time, it also feels a little like the writers are slamming a clamp down on communication in areas that it would be kind of important.

The main issue I’m having is the sudden shift to “stab anything in my path while riding a flaming demon horse” mode. Hyakkimaru has been established with a capacity towards ruthless pragmatism before. He’s been established as reacting strongly emotionally in the moment, but he’s been able to work back from it relatively quickly once the moment’s passed. Even when he slaughters the samurai who murdered Mio and the kids in episode 6, it’s still a pretty fast turnaround once Dororo interferes, and it isn’t like any of them weren’t directly involved or like he goes hunting other samurai after the fact.

This most recent thing felt like senseless carnage extended over a majority of the episode. And frankly, it feels like it’s the writers trying to push “oh noes he’s going to become a demon, maybe he should have just sat back and happily let the demons eat him before.” Which, I will be pissed if that’s what it ends up saying. As Dark_FalconZ had stated in their post about it, it feels excessively cruel for Hyakkimaru’s character. And again, with what I spent a majority of series episodes watching of him, it feels like a really sudden swerve. 

There’s a very large part of me that hopes the following episodes have a damn good explanation for it, because at this point, I don’t buy it. I don’t buy it as anything other than writers desperately feeling that they need angst and stakes and whatever.

At the same time, I also have to remind myself that at this point in Princess Tutu, which features a ballerina helping a prince restore the pieces of his fragmented heart and started off comparatively lighthearted before getting dark, the prince was a demon bird actively trying to feed people to the raven, because the raven’s blood was tainting one of his heart shards, and it wasn’t like that didn’t get better. (It also had a similarly lighthearted and silly episode 19 before everything went to crap and he started molting feathers before becoming a demon bird, so there’s that.) Like, it’s not the same show, but a part of me wants to hold on to the similar tone things in hopes that we might get some relief.

As for things I have aggressively mixed feelings on, I’d like to mention Tahomaru’s reaction when Mutsu tried to sacrifice herself. On one hand, sure, you don’t want your friend to do that, understandable. On the other, sacrificing one person for the good of the many sure doesn’t sound so great when it’s someone who actually matters to you, now, does it? And with Mutsu being a willing sacrifice as well, the situation was a little different.

Like, I don’t want them to die. I’m actually opposed to character death except when it is in some way fulfilling to their character arc, with a prime example, for me at least, actually being Tahomaru’s arc in the game Blood Will Tell, where his loyalty to his father drives him to fight Hyakkimaru initially, but then (ironically because he doesn’t have the information about the deal) backs off once he realizes he’s hunting demons, with the warning to stay out of his way. His loyalty drives him to stop his father from killing an unconscious Hyakkimaru inside a temple, recognizing that Daigo isn’t acting like himself. He comes to the conclusion that the demons influencing his father are what’s making him not himself, and resolves to help Hyakkimaru and Dororo with the hope of purging his father of their influence, ultimately throwing himself between Dororo and the disembodied demons in order to prevent their corrupting him.

And ultimately, his becoming a Fiend and being cut down in Dororo’s place is what allows Daigo to shake off the remainder of the Fiends’ influence, meaning his death accomplishes what he had set out to do. If he’d been killed off right after his own boss fight, even during the Kyubi boss fight? Not so much.

So I don’t want them to die, especially in a pointless shock death or an “oooooh, look how far Hyakki and Taho have fallen!” moment, but I do have a hard time not raising a brow a little bit that we were all “needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one, but only if the one isn’t someone who matters to me.” 

That said, I actually wish the whole “We can’t sacrifice one person if it’s actually someone who matters to me!” had been touched on earlier. Episode 22 is a bit too late to bring that up and actually have it go anywhere, and if it had happened sooner, it’s something that could have given the character (and the writers) opportunity to explore and see where it leads. And I’m kind of interested in seeing that. But it’s not going to happen because there’s fricking two episodes left in the series.

At the same time, I’m also aware that I’m a little prickly about the plot right now because of how things were handled in Avengers: Endgame, and Infinity War before it, and Madoka Magica: Rebellion before that, and so there is a part of me that worries this will be the same. On the other hand, I have a hard time thinking they’ll go that route, based on previous adaptations (particularly the movie and the game). Turning your protagonist into a monster on the 50th anniversary of the series strikes me as a bit in poor taste, but at the same time, I’ve read enough comics to know that writers don’t always think about that sort of thing. But I’m still hoping that it’s just me being prickly and overreacting, and that they won’t do the thing I’m dreading on their own fricking 50th anniversary.

I would like to remain...dubiously optimistic about the conclusion (and hey, maybe Jukai and Biwa carry aglaophotis somewhere), and I would like to think the writers are simply setting us up to expect worse than we’ll get. The fact that I haven’t been able to find any episode preview for 23 does raise a brow, but then that could also go either way. I would like to remain optimistic. But I also think I needed to ramble a bit in order to do so.

If you’ve somehow managed to read through to the end of this with my rambly nervy writing, then thank you for that. I have a tendency to overexplain while adding a bunch of extra metaphors/comparisons, and then overexplain those, and it gets worse when I get nervous. With these already being a bunch of relatively disorganized thoughts about the latest episode....

Again, thank you if you’ve somehow made it to the end of this with any part of it making any sense. If you’ve got your own two cents, I’d be interested to hear them.

#spoiler warning #dororo #dororo 2019 #episode 22 spoilers #blood will tell spoilers #princess tutu spoilers #though mostly dororo spoilers #rin rambles #rin overanalyzes stuff #rin's aggressively mixed feelings and bitchiness

[aswithasunbeam]

Hey! I love your fics soo(get it Soo) much! Could you please make a fluffy A Winter's Ball/a night in Morristown Hamliza fic?I'd really appreciate it.

Ha! I love that! And I’d love to do more fluffy Morristown stories!! They’re one of my favorite things to write! I actually wrote a really long piece set in Morristown over on my AO3 account, which you might not have seen as I haven’t cross-posted here on tumblr. It’s called “A Winter’s Romance” and the overall vib is pretty fluffy, though there is some angst thrown in for good measure :)

Here’s a link and an except from the first chapter, if you’re interested!

[Read on AO3]

February 1780

“Is this your shirt?” Tilghman asked, digging through a pile of clothes that had yet to be laundered. His jacket had been discarded, his breeches were half undone and the shirt he had on had been untucked. All in all, he looked like a disheveled mess, which was unfortunate, as the dancing assembly was to start in less than an hour’s time.

Hamilton looked over at the bright white linen in Tilghman’s hands and shook his head. Not only was the shirt too large for him, but his clothes had all been mended and washed too many times to look that white. “Must be Mac’s,” he suggested as he yanked fresh breeches over his hips.

Tilghman frowned, looking around the room with an intensely puzzled expression. “What’s happened to all my shirts?”

Hamilton tried to stifle a laugh. “Would you like to borrow one of mine?”

“Yours would make me look like a chubby giant,” Tilghman refused.

Hamilton did laugh this time. “Just wear the one you have on, then.”

“This one smells.”

“Well, I don’t know how to help you,” Hamilton said with amusement as he pulled on his uniform jacket. He ran his hand over his chin and considered shaving again.

“I want to look my best. Do you know who just arrived in town today?” Tilghman’s eyes lit up with excitement. Hamilton shook his head, and his friend continued, “General Schuyler’s daughter, Elizabeth. We met some time ago when I was negotiating with the Six Nations. She’s twenty-two, now, and still unattached. She’s supposedly visiting her aunt, Doctor Cochran’s wife, but it’s obvious she’s on the hunt for a husband.”

Elizabeth Schuyler. The name conjured the image of striking black eyes and a warm smile. He’d met the young lady some time ago when he was in Albany trying to pry troops loose from the greedy hands of General Gates. General Schuyler had invited him to dine, although most of his family was away. Elizabeth had been at home, however, and she had more than upheld the Schuyler reputation for hospitality. He didn’t remember the conversation exactly, but he remembered laughing a great deal.

“And you’re hoping to oblige her in her quest?” Hamilton asked. Tilghman had just turned thirty-five that Christmas, so there was something of an age difference, but he doubted it would prove much of an obstacle if the girl was willing.

“She’s a lovely young woman,” Tilghman replied diplomatically. Hamilton took that to be a firm yes. “She’s traveling with Catharine Livingston. Aren’t you acquainted with her family?”  

Kitty Livingston’s name hit him like a swift kick to the abdomen. He’d been utterly infatuated with the beautiful heiress when he’d boarded with her family before he’d started at King’s. He’d gone so far as to write her a love letter. She’d rejected him in no uncertain terms. He was still trying to disentangle himself from Cornelia Lott after his disastrous meeting with her father. The prospect of a night with both Cornelia and Kitty made him feel vaguely ill.

“Ham?” Tilghman prompted.

“Hm?” He hummed, pulled from his thoughts. “Oh, yes. I’m very well acquainted with the Livingstons.”

“You wouldn’t mind entertaining Miss Livingston a bit, would you? Just so I might have the chance to speak with Miss Schuyler alone?”

Hamilton met his friend’s hopeful eyes and found himself nodding. What was a bit more humiliation and misery, after all, if it might bring his friend happiness?

~*~

Lively music and a roaring fire greeted Hamilton and Tilghman as they entered the hall where the dancing assembly was held. A table was set up in the corner with what passed for a feast in these conditions: two pots of stew, assorted root vegetables, and a very meager chicken that had already been almost entirely consumed.

“Colonel Hamilton,” Cornelia’s high voice came from just behind him.

He turned and saw that she had been waiting by the door. “Miss Lott,” he replied, bending low and pressing a kiss to her outstretched hand. “You’re looking well.”

“Oh, I’m very well, Colonel.” She gave him a tiny, hopeful smile. “I hope you are, also. I’ve missed seeing you the past few weeks.”

“I’ve been…very busy,” he said vaguely.

She nodded rapidly, clinging on to the excuse like a lifeline. “I thought you must be.”

An awkward pause followed as he searched for something to say. He didn’t want to raise her hopes, and he was still too embarrassed and stung to tell her about his humiliating meeting with her father. And what good would telling her do anyway, he thought; knowing would only cause a rift between her and her father. As he was standing there staring at her, the band struck up a new song.

“Would you like to dance, Colonel?”

“I…” He hesitated. If he danced with her, she’d think there was still hope for them. The only way forward he could see was to break her heart. Being cruel now would be kinder in the end, he told himself. “No, Miss Lott.”

Her whole face fell. She blinked at him, as if waiting for him to take it back, or to explain.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. Then he turned away.

He felt like a monster.

He spotted Tilghman, McHenry, Webb, and Richard Meade standing in a group near the food and he made his way towards them. Mac slapped him on the back companionably when he stopped beside him. Tilghman shook his head. “Poor Polly. Looks as though you’ve just torn her heart out.”

He refused to look back. Plastering the same fake smile he’d been wearing more and more of late, he said, “You know how it goes.”

“Onwards to the next conquest,” Webb laughed.

“That chicken didn’t make for much of a feast,” Hamilton commented, desperate to change to subject. The conversation mercifully turned to dreams of feasts after the war.

Tilghman tugged at his sleeve a few minutes later.

“Mrs. Washington is done speaking with Miss Schuyler and Miss Livingston,” Tilghman whispered, his eyes focused somewhere to the left. Hamilton followed his gaze and saw the two young ladies were standing by the fireplace, speaking quietly to each other.

Hamilton nodded for his friend to go first, and followed a pace behind as they made their way to the girls.

“Miss Schuyler, how wonderful to see you again,” Tilghman proclaimed as they approached.

“Colonel Tilghman,” Miss Schuyler greeted him warmly. “I did not know I’d be graced with your company tonight.”

Tilghman bent low to kiss her hand.

“Might I present Colonel Hamilton? He’s a dear friend of mine,” Tilghman added, gesturing back to him without turning around.

“I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Schuyler when I dined with her family in Albany,” he stated, bowing and kissing her hand as well. When he stood, he found her dark eyes scrutinizing his face. He smiled tightly at her, sure she didn’t remember the meeting. She must have dined with the whole Continental Army by this point, with Philip Schuyler for a father.

He turned his attention to Kitty. “Miss Livingston,” he greeted, bowing to her this time. He then introduced Tilghman, who repeated the ritual.  

“Did you have a pleasant journey?” Tilghman asked, his eyes glued to Miss Schuyler.

Hamilton turned his attention to Kitty. “It’s been quite a while since we’ve last spoken.”

Kitty nodded, her eyes tracking over his uniform and lingering on his rank insignia. “You’ve done well for yourself since then, Hammy,” she noted, smiling warmly at him. “I’m very glad to see it.”

He thanked her softly. Glancing to the side, he saw Tilghman had fully engaged with Miss Schuyler in conversation about her travels from Albany. He smiled and held out a hand to Kitty. “Would you care to dance, Miss Livingston?”

“It would be my pleasure, Colonel,” she agreed. As he lead her towards the dance floor, she leaned in to him and added, “I see Colonel Tilghman has wasted no time in staking a claim for my dear Betsey.”  

They shared a smile as they positioned themselves to join the dance.

~*~

His breath created a great puff of white smoke in the frigid air as he leaned against the porch rail. The music from inside was still audible, but dulled by the closed front door. There were torches glowing along the walkway that provided fairly good light, but hardly any warmth. Still, a moment of solitude was well worth braving the bitter cold.

Miss Livingston had quickly found dancing partners, lovely and eligible as she was. Cornelia seemed to have departed the party shortly after their talk. Tilghman was happily monopolizing Miss Schuyler. Everyone inside seemed paired off and content, leaving him free to slip outside.

He missed John. He missed having a dear, loyal companion, someone with whom he could talk and laugh. Someone to drive away his darkest thoughts on these cold, lonely nights.

He may as well get used to being alone, he thought harshly. No man was ever going to consent to having him for a son-in-law. Cornelia’s broken heart would be a warning to him to never attempt to love again.

The music swelled suddenly, then dulled again with the sound of the front door closing. He turned to see Elizabeth Schuyler stepping out onto the front porch. She smiled at him.

“Are you well, Colonel? I saw you stepping outside, and I was concerned.”

He forced another smile. “Quite well, thank you. I was just a bit warm from dancing.”

She nodded, then stepped closer to him, leaning against the rail as well.

“It’s a beautiful night,” she commented mildly, her face turned up towards the sky.

He followed her gaze, looking up at the nearly full moon and the bright stars dotting the dark winter sky. “Yes, it is,” he agreed. “Though it is terribly cold.”

She laughed. “I’m from Albany. I’m quite used to the cold.”

“I wish I were,” he replied.

“I suppose you never had to deal with these kinds of conditions in the Caribbean.”

He nodded, then his brow furrowed. “Did you recognize my accent?”

“No,” she said simply. She glanced over at him and smiled again. The expression made her eyes sparkle, he noticed. “You mentioned you were from Saint Croix when you dined with my family in Albany.”

He cocked his head to the side, surprised. “I didn’t think you remembered.”

“Of course I do.”

“It’s just, I know you must have dinner with officers all the time,” he tried to explain, hoping she didn’t think he accusing her of being rude or ill-mannered.

“That is true,” she laughed. “But you made an impression.”

He laughed as well. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

She gave him a considering look. “I suppose we’ll find out,” she said coyly.

He grinned and nodded.

A companionable silence followed, their attention turning back to the still winter night.

“Did you really come out here because you were warm from dancing?” she asked suddenly.

He looked back at her, and found he wanted to answer honestly. “No. I’ve been feeling a little low of late. And, due to some unfortunate circumstances, I had to hurt someone’s feelings tonight. I suppose I’m simply not in the merry-making spirit.”

Her expression was compassionate. She reached out a hand tentatively, laying it lightly on his upper arm. “I saw you standing out here from the window,” she told him. “You looked…lonely.”

“So you came to keep me company?” he asked.

She nodded as she removed her hand. “You can tell me if I’m intruding.”

He shook his head. “I’m enjoying your company,” he assured her.

She smiled again. A moment of silence followed, before she began to speak again, easily changing topics. “I was speaking to Mrs. Washington earlier. She was telling me about her work with the sick and wounded soldiers, and she promised to take me with her on one of her visits. I do hope I can make myself useful while I’m here.”

“I’m sure the men would appreciate your assistance,” he told her sincerely.

“Is there anything else I could do to help? Mrs. Washington told me you would know best what needed doing.”

He felt a flicker of pride at the compliment from the dear old lady. Considering a moment, he asked, “Can you knit? Sew?”

She nodded.

“We always need hats, mittens, scarfs and the like. And many of the men have clothes that need mending. That would certainly be a help.”

Her eyes dropped to his hands gripping at the railing. “Do you have any mittens, Colonel?”

He looked down at his chapped hands and shook his head. “I had a pair, but they wore out last winter. I haven’t had the chance to replace them.”

“I’ll knit you a pair first,” she said decisively. “From what I’ve heard, your pen is our country’s best hope of winning this war. Whatever would we do if you developed frost bite?”

“I’d be most obliged to you, Miss Schuyler.”

“Speaking of frost bite, I think perhaps we should go back inside,” she suggested. She chuckled as she looked at him. “Your nose has turned bright red with cold.”

He nodded. She turned and pulled open the front door, light and music pouring out. Looking back at him, she made a little motion with her head to urge him on. As he followed her inside, he felt a smile stretching his face again. A real smile.

Well, he thought, that was just…so inconvenient.

#morristown #prompt #a winter's romance #hamilton fanfic #hamliza #ask

[thevampirediariesdiary]

1.10 The Turning Point

Things at the Gilbert household are...surprisingly normal.  Jenna successfully repels Logan; Jeremy rediscovers his interest in art.  We learn that Jenna’s degree-in-progress is in psychology; Elena encourages Jenna’s slamming the door in Logan’s face, even if it was only a “medium slam”.

At the Salvatore house: S: Any idea where you’ll go? D: London, maybe?  See some friends. S: You don’t have any friends, Damon. D: You’re right, Stefan, I only have you, so: where are we going? S: We are not going anywhere.  I’m gonna live my life as far away from you as possible. D: But we’re a team!  We could travel the world together.  We could try out for the Amazing Race!

This conversation breaks my heart a little.  Stefan showed the tiniest bit of brother solidarity, which Damon knows was just in the service of trying to get information out of him, but that’s all it takes.  Stefan, on the other hand, is still only being companionable because he needs to know something: he needs to be sure Damon is actually leaving town, so he can be content that Elena is safe.

Liz drops by and asks to speak to Damon.  “Stefan doesn’t know about this, I’d like to keep it that way,” Damon tells her.  “Of course,” Liz says, “the kids are too young to be brought into this.”  How much older than Stefan’s 17 is Damon supposed to appear?  The actors are about four years apart, which would make Damon 21, but then again, when they were filming this Paul Wesley was 26, so by tv logic, I figure Damon could be anywhere between 21 and 30 (plus 145 years, of course).  Anyway, a twenty-one-year-old is way too young for an adult to defer to them in dealing with a serious danger such as vampires, which is what Liz does: there’s been another attack, and the council is in an uproar and turning to Damon.  His lucky staking of a dosed vampire in a parking lot apparently makes him an expert.  The boys can’t leave town yet.

Bonnie and Elena have a chat at school, which circles around to the Stefan issue.  “He wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye,” Bonnie assures Elena.  “Yes, he would,” Elena retorts. “He thinks he’s protecting me, a clean break and all that.  I already begged him not to go, if I ask again, I’m being...selfish.”  It’s interesting that Elena says “selfish” and not “pathetic” or “needy” here, and I think it says a lot about who she is.  She’s not afraid of being vulnerable, she’s afraid of taking advantage of people.

Damon tracks the mystery vampire to a warehouse, using the Gilbert watch and compelled-as-ever Caroline, and gets immediately shot full of wooden bullets.  He and Logan Fell yell back and forth for a while; Damon wants to know who turned him, Logan wants to know how to walk in the sun.  Damon picks bullets out of his extremities, while whining and making faces of excruciating pain which would make Attolis Eugenides proud.

“I keep killing people, and I like it.  I’m conflicted,” says Logan.  “Welcome to the club,” Damon tells him, then explains that everything Logan’s feeling is magnified now.  “You’re gonna have to learn how to control that,” Damon says, controlledly.

The highschoolers and various pillars of the community are at school for a career day.  Stefan turns up.  “You’re looking out for me,” Elena concludes.  “Hope that’s okay,” Stefan says.  He talks a little bit about what he wanted to do with his life when he was young, what he has done with his life since, and all the moving around he’s had to do.  But when he asks about Elena: “I don’t wanna talk about my future, Stefan, since everything you’re saying makes it clear you’re not gonna be in it.  Please, if you’re gonna leave then just go.”

Logan arrives, pesters Jenna, and tells Stefan that he’ll expose him as a vampire unless he shares the secret of how to be a daywalker.  Stefan becomes very scary and says “Do not threaten me again.”  The dynamics between older vampire and young upstart are played off perfectly, despite the opposite age difference between the actors.

Tyler and Jeremy have another one of their charming run-ins.  Mayor Lockwood tries to get them to fight one another; Alaric steps in, cool and relatable as always.  Jeremy tries to empathize with Tyler, Tyler punches him in the face.  “What is your problem, man?” Jeremy demands.  “I don’t know,” says Tyler, torturedly.  “...I don’t know.”

Gee, I wonder.

Logan quasi-kidnaps and knocks out Caroline, Damon and Stefan track him down.  Stefan takes Caroline to safety, Damon radios her mother in a hilarious fake-anxious-human voice, and then menaces Logan with a tire iron.  “How can you side with them?” Logan wails, conveniently forgetting that he was “them” only a few weeks earlier.  “I don’t side with anyone,” says Damon, “You pissed me off, I want you dead.”  But right before he can take off the Scum-Bucket’s head with the tire iron, Logan says “You think you’re the only one who wants to get into that tomb?”  There’s another way, another spell, he knows people who can help.  Liz comes driving up, Damon tells Logan to take him down convincingly, and Logan escapes. 

“I’m sorry, Sheriff, I just wasn’t strong enough!”

Elena gives Stefan a ride home, and opens up about how she wanted to be a writer, but that dream for the future was so connected with her relationship with her mom, that she can’t see herself doing it anymore.  “I know you think that you brought all this bad stuff into my life, but my life already had it.  I was buried in it.”  “This is different,” Stefan says.  “That doesn’t make it any less painful,” Elena tells him.  “I know it’s hard to understand, but I’m doing this for you,” Stefan tells her, and then gets out of the car.  “No,” says Elena, “You don’t get to make that decision for me.  If you walk away, it’s for you, because I know what I want.  Stefan, I love you.”  Stefan is brilliant in this scene; you can tell he’s been holding back, through their whole relationship but especially since she found out he was a vampire.  And here he finally lets go.

They kiss.  We check off the trope where she touches his vamped out face with love and acceptance in her eyes: “Don’t hide from me”.  Then she leads him upstairs.

I will not be talking about the sex scenes in these recaps, so instead, I’m going to recap something that I’m working on for school.  Did you know that despite his oft-cited positivity about America, Alexis de Tocqueville had some very particular things to say about the tyranny of the majority?  The power of the majority can control thought and opinion more than the power of a monarch, he says.

Logan Fell is waiting for Damon by the old church, when Alaric turns up, identifying himself as a “friend of Jenna’s”, and “not a violent guy by design”.  “You have no idea who you’re talking to,” Logan says, then goes vamp face.  Rick stakes him dead.  RIPx2 Logan Fell.  We won’t miss you.

“I’ve never been in your room before!” Elena tells Stefan.  “This room holds every memory I ever thought was important enough to hold onto,” Stefan replies.  He leaves to get her a glass of water, she gets up and bounces happily around the room, checking out the bookshelves (yasss girl) and smelling the candles.   And of course, she comes across the portrait of Katherine, which is conveniently labeled and always readily available to be grabbed by any character looking to make a point while arguing with Stefan (Lexi, Damon, etc.)  When Stefan gets back, she’s gone, and she’s left the necklace.  His claim to let her make her own choice was a lie, because he didn’t tell her the whole truth.

While driving home, she hits a figure in a hoodie, her car flips, and she watches upside-down while the silhouette snaps all of his bones back into place and stalks toward her.  Scream.  End scene.

Music Moments: Five for Fighting’s “Chances” plays during the opening montage.  Plumb’s “Cut” plays during the Elena/Stefan reconciliation etc bit: “I do not want to be afraid / I do not want to die inside just to breathe in”.  And Tyrone Wells’ “This is Beautiful” plays while Elena explores Stefan’s room: “never could have seen this coming / you are here with me / I’m alive all of a sudden”

Eyebrow Watch: “Get off me.  A: Don’t touch me.  B: If I had killed someone, I wouldn’t have been so obvious about it.”

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#rewatch #the turning point #1.10 #tvd

[rogerrachel1995]

How To Avoid A High Conflict Divorce Stupendous Ideas

However, as time evolves, you will have to be exact.I think it's too late to do so with a little bit down and talk to your spouse?Whatever the reason, it would not take the initiative and do or say things that you at least try to let their expectations be made in heaven that culminates in a positive attitude.Approach things in life, try to empathize more with your spouse.

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Should I Stop My Divorce

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Stop A Divorce Case

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If not handled properly may lead to wounds that bleed so badly that they provide.Communication- More often than not, if you were still dating.You should consider seriously if he or she has cheated on you.A few ideas that you didn't plan, you probably usually do.Your wife may very well what the right therapist.

#How To Avoid A High Conflict Divorce Stupendous Ideas #How To Save Relationship After Cheating

[onceuponamirror]

heart rise above

///// CHAPTER 12

summary: It wasn’t an experiment with freedom borne of some Americana fantasy; rather, a road trip of purely logistical intentions. The plan was simple. Drive from Boston to Chicago for his sister’s college graduation. That’s it.

Or, he drives a Ford Pickup Named Desire.

Mechanic!AU

fandom: riverdale ship: betty x jughead words: 66k chapters: 12/19

[read from the beginning] [read the latest]

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And you want to travel with him, and you want to travel blind

And you think maybe you’ll trust him

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.

She wakes slowly.

Or, she becomes vaguely conscious of the leg slung over her own and the arm gently strewn across her bare stomach while still beyond in the land of nod, and her dreamless sleep takes a twist of dawning awareness as she hears a breath not her own.

Then the memory bubbles up, including the answer as to why there’s another person curled against her. Their bodies spent, him stretched atop her, breathing shakily, almost trembling, as she raked her fingers through his hair and held him against her chest.

When he finally looked at her, his eyes moving rapidly across every corner of her face, it was the first time in her life that she’d ever felt actually empty-headed, long, stretched-out-silence kind of speechless. And didn’t know what to make of that same quiet from Jughead, especially as someone who literally works for his words.

In the end, the only word she found was the very one she can’t get used to: stay.

Later, trying to sleep, she had a sinking feeling that she had no idea what they’d gotten themselves into, because whatever it was that happened between them, it wasn’t just sex. It definitely wasn’t fucking, which is probably what it was supposed to be—or at least something she might’ve been a bit more prepared for, as that would feel more in line with the idea of getting it out of their systems.

She hasn’t had a whole lot of partners in her life, but she’s had enough to know the first time with a new person often isn’t like that. It’s usually a lot more awkward, a lot less sensual, and with a hell of a lot less orgasms. But with him, it was ambient and reverent and a heady kind of all over good.

Now, in the touches of a new morning, she thinks she knows the word for what it was.

She bites down on the thought.

Her eyes open with a light flutter, at first on the wall of little pink rosebuds. Then she shifts slightly, careful not to move too much, and twists her neck in order to look over at Jughead. His face looks peaceful in slumber, as most do, but also somehow relieved to have found it at all. She memorizes the dark circles under his eyes and knows he’s not a person to whom sleep comes easily.

She allows herself the moment wherein she traces the wild brow down along the cut of his jaw and the curve of his lips, slightly parted with soft snores. He has a carved, strange kind of handsomeness, as one could find the sculptor’s thumb in the crease where his eye becomes cheek.

(She’s never quite been able to study it for so long, and she finds she loves that little line.)

Betty doesn’t know what she expected to feel, looking at him, but it’s probably not this: the catch in her heart that she feels all the way into her throat. She digs her teeth into her lip and almost feels like crying, because this feels painfully like goodbye.

Which is ridiculous, because he’s literally asleep on top of her, and has known her body in one night as much as anyone before took several tries. And he’s everywhere here already; his light blue jean jacket tossed haphazardly onto her desk chair, his pants carelessly on the floor, the smell of him on her skin, sheets, and room—but faraway, in the part of her mind that knows where to hiss, he’s already gone.

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She’s busying herself by playing with hovering fingers, dancing them just barely above his arm, swaying a rhythm from end to the other. She doesn’t want to wake him, doesn’t want to move, but wants to get as close to touching him as she can.

Eventually, she feels him move slightly and she looks up. His eyes are open on her, and she doesn’t know how long they’ve been that way. The softness there makes her think it might’ve been a while.

There’s a lot of blue in the dawn.

“Hi,” she whispers, breaking into a smile despite herself.

“Hi,” he returns, in what is dangerously becoming a pattern. She hears the crinkling of sheets as he moves closer, kissing her firmly, and she feels him already half-hard against her leg. She’s not sure if it’s just because it’s morning or if she has anything to do with it, but she may deepen the kiss and rut against him slightly to test the theory.

“Fuck off,” he laughs happily against her mouth, once he realizes what she’s doing.

She giggles as he rolls them, both of his arms wrapping around her now. “Good—fucking—morning—to—you—too,” he mutters jokingly between kisses, but she still agrees wholeheartedly. She’d thought their little domestic charade on Friday morning had been the pinnacle of such a concept, but as their hands move across one another and their lips mold, she realizes she had been wrong.

She has calloused hands where his are soft, but unlike her past partners, who had found it disconcerting that the sweet blonde thing they’d asked out to dinner actually had the hands of someone who dared to do their job, Jughead seems like it. He pins them overhead as he kisses her, rubbing at the rough pads of her hands with his own, lacing and unlacing their fingers while they move lazily against one another. The sun rises mutedly beyond.

The whole room smells so heavily like sex that she’s not sure what’s the work of her body right now or lingering from before, but when one of his hands disappears from her back and reemerges at her clit, his fingers run so smoothly against her that she knows the musk is not just from last night.

“God, you’re good at that,” she hisses, as two fingers curl within her.

“It’s all those years of bowling,” he teases, eyes dark. “You hold the ball just like—”

“You are so not talking about bowling right now,” she interrupts, laughing, though it quickly breaks off into something else as his thumb comes into the fray, almost as if to prove a point. He grins as she whines, and as lovely as his fingers feel, she wants much more. “Get a condom,” she instructs breathily, which seems to surprise him, as he knows she hasn’t come yet.

He practically falls off the bed in his haste to lean over to where his pants are strewn on the floor, but eventually he maneuvers a way to reach the pocket where the condoms are without his legs leaving the bed, or her.

Upon return, he does that thing again where he’s clearly trying to slow her down, and she wonders if this is him trying to tell her something. But in the end he gives up trying to distract her and lets her stroke at him. He mutters something indistinct and drops his head into her neck. It’s not quite power she feels a rush of, but something strong still. Pride, maybe, as he hitches against her.

“Okay, keep going and that condom is going to be useless,” he mumbles shakily as he nips at the flesh of her breast. She’s far too wound up for him to start doing that, so she rips at the foil and they roll it on together.

She hopes that the idle morning sun, now streaming brightly through the window—and the fact that they’ve now done this once before—and that the stakes aren’t quite as high—will be enough to keep this light between them. She doesn’t know if she can handle another round of the kind of slow, quixotic sex-that-isn’t-quite-sex that laid a raw little thought on her chest like the ghost of a kiss.

But that’s what happens. It’s morning sex, after all, which is always lazier and something more intangible anyway. He slides into her and maintains an almost agonizingly unhurried march onwards, as if he’s actively determined to draw this out as much as he can. And it feels so good and full that Betty can’t find a reason to flip them over and set her own pace, especially when his mouth moves around a pebbled breast and a hand is exploring the other.

“Tell me what you want,” he asks, but he can’t want that answer.

“More,” she whispers instead. It’s not a lie until, “Faster.”

She’s never understood the phrase “fooling around,” as it always seemed like an almost silly way to describe such casual attempts at something so intimate. But she gets it now. She feels foolish, this was all foolish, this was an idea that’s winding them down a path she doesn’t know and yet would never want to stray from.

She looks him in the eye and doesn’t know what she hopes to see there, but his forehead drops against hers, fringes of his black hair obscuring her view.

This time, they come together. She triggers it, she thinks, clenching around him, back bending off the bed, him high on his knees as if in worship.

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.

After the less flowery parts of sex are taken care of—peeing, cleaning up, tying off condoms and disposing of them—they slide back under the sheets wordlessly.

He pushes her hair back from her face, like he was once tentative to do. She has no idea what time it is, nor does she care to. He settles onto his back, and she nestles against his chest and catalogues the freckles there, while his hands weave absentmindedly through her hair. Eventually, his stomach rumbles, which brings her back into the moment.

“You are literally always hungry,” she murmurs fondly, slipping her legs between his and moving a foot up and down his calf. She’d be happy to stay in bed all day, but even she’ll have to eat soon. She waits for him to make some terrible joke about working up an appetite, but instead he just sighs heavily.

“Yeah. Hungry,” he says, scratching at his nose.

It’s an odd shift in mood, so she shifts in order to look up at him. “Juggie?”

He glances at her for a moment before his eyes bounce up to nothing in particular. “I mean, you crave something long enough, and it never comes, it manifests in other ways.”

She smoothes a palm against his chest, considering this. “What do you mean?”

He almost looks like he’s about to say never mind, but, after some visible warring with himself, he folds to defeat. “My mom took off when I was fourteen. I somehow don’t blame her, because I think she was right to get away from my dad. He’s not a bad person, but they never are. He’s an alcoholic who dragged us through a lot of hell. I mostly just wanted her to come back for my sister, and me. Wanted her to want us. Craved it. Right around the same time, I shot up five inches and started eating for ten. Coincidence, or maybe not.”

His eyes briefly fall out of focus, as if searching a memory. But then he breaks it, turning back to her and trying to smile. “Or, that’s the analysis my psych-major sister dropped on my doorstep completely unprompted, anyway. I’m pretty sure she uses me as the guinea pig for most of her psychosomatic theories. Personally, I think all the food is about fifty percent habit, at this point.”

“Oh, Juggie,” she says softly, not sure what else she could possibly say. She knows he’s trying to play it off already, so she sits up in order to lean over him, grasp his face with two hands, and kiss him with what she hopes he knows is reassurance: he’s wanted.

(That’s never been the problem.)

After she pulls back, he lets out a long breath, and doesn’t look away from her. She notices his hand is still in her hair, cupping at her ear, his thumb swiping against her cheek.

It seems like the kind of thing he hasn’t talked about a long time, by the way his mouth curls around the words and how they come from somewhere wrought beyond him. She wants him to know how much it means that he trusted her with that kind of secret, but doesn’t know where to start. There’s a lot moving behind his eyes, too fast to catch it all.

“So apparently, I’m great at pillow-talk,” he announces finally, his arm coming around her shoulder, guiding her back down into the crook of his side. “How was your childhood, in 150 characters or less?”

She laughs. “Google type-A and that’s most of what you need to know, if we’re going for brevity. Or, we could play twenty questions?”

“Compromise, good, this is good,” he says, and she can hear him forcing the merriness, because that’s the one book she wrote. But she thinks he might need this, so she plays along. “Uh, any pets? A goldfish I don’t know about lurking in this room, currently very traumatized?”

“We had a little orange cat named Caramel when I was a kid. I named her, of course,” she says, which makes his eyebrows shoot up.

“We had this big, stupid, drooling sheepdog I had the utter gall to name Hot Dog, so no judgment,” he offers.

“Seems we both had a thing for food names,” she tells him, something that makes his eyes soften at the corners. “I guess my next pet will have to carry on the tradition. I always thought Polenta was cute as a name.”

“Polenta?” He repeats, scoffing. He adjusts so that they’re facing, a hand under his ear propping up his head, as the other one leads lightly up and down her hip. “We can do better than that, come on. What about…Burger. Burger the dog, that’s kind of cool.”

“I’m not naming my hypothetical pet after something you can find on the menu at Pop’s, Juggie,” she insists. “Broaden your horizons a bit.”

“Yeah, well. Fine. I’ll keep that one for myself, then,” he says, rolling his hand further down again, so that it cradles her ass and pulls her more flush against him. His voice drops into a murmur. “But you don’t get to start complaining when I show up with this super cool dog named Burger who gets all the attention I usually reserve for you.”

“I’ll try not to hold my breath,” Betty drawls, trying to drown the lingering thought that by the time he’d ever get close to a dog, he’d probably be far from her life.

He smiles, and nods at her. “We got off topic. Your turn.”

.

.

.

The game continues for a little while longer, but soon they both agree that they can’t get through a single question without a ten minute tangent, so eventually, the conversation just drifts into a debate on the worth of historical accuracy in books.

Jughead is a purist and a realist, by his own definition, and argues that romanticizing the past as a place that wasn’t as harsh and as cruel as it was demeans the value of modern rights advancement. He says that right as his hand finds something to do along her backside, and points out that even seventy years ago, she wouldn’t have had the social freedom to openly do what they’re doing.

She rolls her eyes and, in return, explains that it doesn’t matter, because people look to historical fiction for escapism, and want to feel represented by what they see. She points out that as a straight white guy—which she clarifies first, not wanting to assume after all those years of watching Veronica and Cheryl fume over bisexuality erasure—he’s automatically slated to appear and that he doesn’t know what it feels like to try to scrape to relate a character with the basest similarities.

He raises his eyebrows at that, acquiesces to her point, and then whispers that she’s way too smart for him. He kisses her then, with something new, but before she can start to wonder what it is, she hears noises that sends her heart into a flurry: the measured shutting of the front door, and the vague, bouncing laughter of children. Oh, crap.

She forgot.

Betty sits straight upright, which forces Jughead to jerk back in surprise, lest he be whacked in the face by her shoulder.

“Shit,” she hisses, rolling out of bed and nearly tripping as her foot snags on the tangled sheets, draped halfway onto the floor. She can’t believe this slipped her mind so completely, because Polly has a key—Polly has a key and she’s downstairs, and she’d forgotten all about the barbeque.

“Shit!” She says again, as Jughead pushes himself up on one arm and watches her scramble around the room and hop madly into the first pairs of moderately clean underwear and jeans she can find.

“What?” He says, like he’s been repeating it, and for all she knows, he has been. “Betty, what’s wrong?”

And then he seems to hear it; the sound of murmuring and moving around downstairs. Betty forcefully tugs a blue cotton shirt over her head, her hair flapping in her face with the blunt force of it. She blows it off her forehead and says, simply, “Get dressed, Juggie. My sister is here.”

That seems to propel him into motion, as his eyes widen and he hurls his legs over the side of the bed to pull on his boxers and pants. “I forgot, I can’t believe I forgot,” Betty huffs, pushing her palms into her forehead to keep them from curling into fists. “When it’s nice out, my sister and her husband’s family always have a barbeque on one Sunday of the month, and we’re doing it here today because our mom is out of town. Ohh, I was supposed to make potato salad!”

She feels a step past frustrated, veering dangerously into panicked, and Jughead seems to notice. He crosses the room towards her, still sans shirt, and rubs circles at the back of her neck. “It’s okay, everyone forgets stuff.”

“I don’t,” she insists. “I just…my thoughts have been kind of elsewhere.” She gives him a look, because elsewhere means him, and she hasn’t decided if what she’s feeling is fond exasperation or just the regular kind.

Then it all sets back in: her sister downstairs, the dishes she didn’t do, the food she failed to make, the fear of disappointing everyone when it becomes obvious she had completely forgotten they were coming. Oh, how could she have— Her breath hitches, and Jughead’s arms immediately wrap around her.

“Hey, hey,” he says softly. She leans into him, briefly allowing a moment of the stillness against the running list of mistakes she’s made in the past two days, which feels like more than she’s made in the past two years.

“I said to get dressed, Juggie. You’re still not wearing a shirt,” she says. She means for it to sound scolding, but it manifests as a giggle, because she can hardly complain when her face is buried into his bare chest and counting the fluid scats of jazz in his heartbeat.

“I can’t find it,” he admits, releasing a sound that’s almost a scoff, but far too tender to really be classified as one. “I think you threw it somewhere into the incessantly pink void last night.”

“Mm-hmm,” she tuts suspiciously, looking up at him. But she glances around, and doesn’t spot it for a few moments, until she sees the white, ribbed tank undershirt camouflaged on top of her equally white lampshade. She points at it, and he untangles himself in order to retrieve it. She hates how much she misses him immediately.

“I’d invite you to stay for the barbeque, but—” Meeting the family would be decidedly relationship-y, she thinks. “—I don’t think you deserve the full brunt of meeting my sister-in-law Cheryl for the first time in these circumstances.”

Jughead’s expression twists just as he’s pulling on the shirt, covering his face, so she doesn’t see it for long. It’s something that makes her hesitant, wondering if he wants to be invited to stay. The look on his face last night when she’d whispered the request into his ear makes her wonder it twice.

“Betty?” Polly’s voice floats upstairs. “Are you up there?”

“Yeah, Pol!” She shouts, not moving but to throw her voice through the house. “I’ll be down in a sec!”

Stay, she tries to will herself to say, but it’s still the one word she’s most afraid of.

Jughead looks at her as he loops his arms into his jean jacket, almost as if he can hear the thought echoing through her head. He seems to be waiting for her to say something. Maybe the sex changed things.

Didn’t it?

But she’s not wrong about Cheryl, who would be merciless if she knew what’d happened upstairs, and in her childhood bedroom, no less. Even Polly, in her way, would try to embarrass her. She definitely can’t subject a guy who doesn’t want anything more from her to that—and even if she’s starting to question that, now isn’t the time. So Betty gathers her breath, grabs his hand, and tells him she’s going to sneak him out.

She peeks her head out the door suspiciously before leading him silently down the stairs. “I’ll call you later, okay?” She whispers, when they’re at the front door. He nods mutely and she kisses him in a quick goodbye, but then he gestures at something over her shoulder.

Shoes, he mouths, and, shit, he’s not wearing them. Betty turns to gather the pair for him, but is greeted by none other than the approaching presence of Cheryl Blossom in her signature venomous red.

“Oh, don’t bother trying to smuggle him out, Bettykins. We already knew he was here,” Cheryl says, a hip jutting out and sifting through a bowl of cherry tomatoes, fresh from the fridge.

Jughead freezes, blinks, and meets Betty’s gaze, who feels just as confused as he looks. Cheryl sighs wearily and points at the large, scuffed, black, very out-of-place-looking pair of Jughead’s sneakers, lined up innocuously by the coat rack. “Unless Alice Cooper is vying for a transformation into the other Alice Cooper, we guessed you had a special friend over.”

Cheryl rolls her eyes when neither says anything. “So stick around, you pleb. Obviously. I’ve got some questions for you anyway. And Betty, you might want to check your sex hair before saying hello to your darling little niece and nephew.”

Grinning, she pops one of the cherry tomatoes into her mouth. Betty sees the moment where it squishes beneath her pearly teeth, and then she’s spinning around, her sharp red heels clacking away. Blushing madly, Betty quickly smoothes down her hair and whips the little elastic off her wrist in order to sweep it up into a messy bun.

“Tell me what to do, I guess,” Jughead says, meeting her eyes again. “Do you still want me to go?”

Not at all, she thinks. She thinks she might need him at her side to get through Cheryl’s interrogation, in fact. So Betty says stay and relishes the fact that his shoulders seem to relax in relief.

She checks herself in the mirror by the front table, and can see how this tangle of blonde would scream sex hair if it was down. She does her best to tuck in the stray curls into her bun, but quickly gives up. “Don’t worry, Debbie Harry. You look beautiful,” Jughead murmurs, pressing a kiss against her cheek.

Betty catches his eye in her reflection as it happens. They widen just slightly, as if almost realizing the casual intimacy of what he’s just done. But she liked it, though that feels like the understatement of the year. So she just twists around, cups his jaw, and returns the kiss onto his lips, if albeit more briefly than she’d like.

Then she rolls her eyes. “Okay, come on.”

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Polly, her long blonde hair pushed back by a blue headband, is already husking corn in the kitchen. She spots Jason heaving a bag of coals for the grill into the backyard, and the kids must be causing chaos somewhere out there too. Cheryl is slinking around behind Polly, draped up against a cabinet in a red blouse and matching shorts and looking far more like an ageless lounge singer than any aunt at a family barbecue.

She swirls the iced tea in her hands when she spots Betty and Jughead, so forcefully that her ice cubes clink loudly against one another. It’s clearly an announcement to Polly that they’ve entered the room.

“Betty!” Polly greets cheerfully, her lips pressed together in a smile that Betty recognizes as a futile attempt at not looking mischievously gleeful at the sight of Jughead. “Who’s this?”

It’s the exact kind of thing their mother would say, in the exact opposite way. Alice Cooper would straighten, demure, and tilt her head as she said it, thinly veiled as an accusation. (So, logically, Betty finds a new reason to be grateful she’s not here.)

“Um, Polly, Cheryl, this is Jughead, a friend of mine,” Betty says, one hand on Jughead’s arm. He shifts forward in order to shake her sister’s hand once she’s finished wiping it against her apron. Behind her, Cheryl’s eyes threaten to roll backwards into her head and stay there forever.

“I’m sorry, did you say his name is Jug-head?” Cheryl intones, as if this a bad joke.

“Play nice, Cheryl,” Polly says warningly, before turning back to them. “It’s nice to meet you, Jughead.”

He surveys Cheryl skeptically, but at least seems to smile normally at her sister in response. Betty finds his closest hand and gives it a little encouraging squeeze, which makes him stand up a little straighter, as if perhaps realizing he’s actually meeting her family.

“By the way, Betty, you had left some dishes out, so I washed a few for you, and put the rest in the dishwasher,” Polly says, dropping her attention back down her work with the vegetables. She says it with an innocence that someone unfamiliar with her sister might not catch, but Betty knows her too well for that.

It’s a blatant teasing, because what she’s saying is, you left a huge mess in the kitchen to go have sex and I bet you don’t want me to tell Mom.

Which would be an understatement, considering that exact scenario is probably their mother’s very worst Faustian nightmare.

“Thanks Pol!” she replies, in her equally perkiest, most innocent voice. It seems to ring Jughead in on the game, because he throws her a dubiously amused look. “Oh, gosh, I think I forgot to make the potato salad, too,” she adds, putting her hands on her hips. “I was just so busy last night. Praying.”

Jughead, who had been stealing a chip from a bag on the counter, immediately coughs and sputters around it. Polly ignores this, putting down an ear of corn and delicately folding her hands over it. “Mom will be so proud,” she says, with total conviction.

“Oh, good lord,” Cheryl mutters dryly from the back of the kitchen. “We get it, we get it. Little Miss Easter Hunt found the bunny. Hashtag-yas-queen, hashtag-Betty-glows-up. Let’s move on.”

“Glad to see you’re in one of your usual good moods today, Cheryl,” Betty says pointedly, crossing into the kitchen and opening the fridge. She sticks her head in and pokes around at what’s available. “I did forget to make potato salad, though. I think it’ll take too long to soften up the potatoes, so why don’t I switch it to pasta salad instead?”

“That sounds good,” Polly says, dropping her share of the act.

Betty pulls a few things she needs from the fridge and gets to work setting up her prep space. Jughead sidles up to her, his voice by her ear, “You’d warn me if I was about to be descended upon by the Holy Matriarchy, right?”

“She’s still out of town,” Betty assures him, laying a hand over his. “She’s been really obsessed with these small-town-journalist conventions lately. She’s away for a week about every other month now. Polly thinks she has a secret boyfriend.”

“Or girlfriend,” Cheryl pipes in sharply, clearly eavesdropping.

“Right, or girlfriend, but—”

“But even Gaddafi would have a hard time torturing information out of Alice Cooper, so we’ll probably never know,” Cheryl cuts in again to add. Jughead raises an eyebrow at Betty, and she confirms this with a look.

“Gotcha. So, clue me in on the joke from before. Is your mom religious, or something? I don’t see any crosses looming around.” He asks, bumping her with his hip so that she can make room for him to help her. She passes him a knife and a spare cutting board and directs him to the tomatoes, which all feels very familiar, almost as if they’re stuck in some kind of time loop.

“Only when appearance demands it, which is kind of the point,” Betty explains. “She’s just…well, she’s a little better now, but when we were kids, she was very strict. She wanted us to present the right kind of image.”

“Ah,” Jughead nods, taking a bite of the tomato cube he’d just cut. “Explains the pink wallpaper, then.”

She tilts her head at him. “Meaning?”

He shrugs. “It just kind of seems like an idea of you. Not something you’d actually pick out for yourself,” he says casually, not realizing that Betty has stilled next to him. She’s had that thought so many times throughout her life—but not once has she ever heard it reflected back at her.

She feels it again; that deep-set, heavy sense of speechlessness, weighing her throat down like a stone. It’s a moment that feels hard to describe, but if she were to give it her best shot, she’d say she feels understood, in a way that is vulnerable and stripped down and more naked than she’s ever been around him, even considering what they did this morning.

She feels seen.

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.

When the moment passes, Betty tries to throw herself back into cooking, though it’s hard with Jughead at her side, helping her chop and salt. His presence is distracting, heat practically pouring off him, and she wishes they were alone so she could show him how much that one little sentence meant to her.

She bites her lip, shakes her head, and attempts to focus on pasta salad. Pasta salad for your sister. Pasta salad for your very pure little niece and nephew, who very much don’t deserve to be exposed to the things you’d like to be doing. Which is to say, shoving Jughead up against the kitchen counter and making him feel everything she is.

Focus.

And eventually, she does. They move in tandem again, Betty passing him tomatoes as she washes them, him depositing the slices into the bowl she seems to shift to him just at the right time. It continues through shelling the peas and chopping the onions and it’s rhythmic, simple, and something they’re wordlessly on the same page about.

It’s not until Betty retrieves the dried bow-tie pasta and says, “Can you—” and Jughead nods, turning around to get a large pot, that they both seem to realize they have an audience. Polly and Cheryl gape at him, and he freezes, the pot in his hands, looking somehow like a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar.

Cheryl breaks the silence. “You two are scary.”

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After the pasta salad is finished and the vegetables are prepped, they all head outside onto the backyard patio. Jughead has been snacking his whole way through the afternoon—and finally gets to the worked up appetite joke she’d been waiting for—but just as he’s joined her at a chair with her requested lemonade and a plate of chips for himself, Cheryl materializes behind him, practically arriving in a cloud of black smoke. She pokes him forcefully in the shoulder.

“You. Get up,” she instructs. Jughead stares at her, and then at Betty for help, who feels the need to protect him from the warpath Cheryl appears to be on.

“Cheryl…”

“Don’t Cheryl me, Elizabeth Cooper. I merely have a few clarifying questions for Beetlejuice over here, regarding his little friend.” She clasps her hands together with the kind of air that implies resistance is futile, and Betty might agree.

She smiles at Jughead, but with the corners tipped down as if to say you might have no choice here, so he begrudgingly puts down his snacks, brushes off his hands, and follows Cheryl into a corner out of earshot.

Betty��gets up from her lawn chair and attempts to distract herself by adding a few garnishing touches to her pasta salad. She tries not to watch them as they talk, but even a quick glance gives her a pretty clear summary of the conversation. Jughead’s arms are crossed, wearing an expression that straddles the line between overwhelmed and pissed off, while one of Cheryl’s hands moves rapidly over her head.

So much for sparing him.

“So, that’s Veronica’s ex,” Jughead says ten minutes later, appearing at her side and glancing around quickly to make sure Cheryl’s not eavesdropping in a nearby shadow before adding, “I can see why they broke up. Kinda seems like an immovable object vs. an unstoppable force type-situation.”

“Which one’s which?” She asks, smirking over at him.

“Loaded question. I’ll save that one for Nietzsche, when I meet him in hell,” Jughead sighs.

“We have learned that Veronica really likes redheads, though,” Betty points out, making him snort.

“She did ask me if I wanted to give her some kind of lecture about not breaking Archie’s heart, but now I’m thinking I might have to warn him about someone breaking his kneecaps,” he muses. “She’s definitely not over Veronica.”

“She said that to you?” Betty asks, surprised. This would be…well, monumental of Cheryl to confide this in anyone, but especially to a stranger.

“No, that was the impression I got,” Jughead sighs. “I don’t even know how she knew I was Archie’s friend, but she just kept pressing me for details. She’s not very subtle, that one.”

“This sounds dramatic, but she does have eyes all over town. And she did this to the last one too, poor girl,” Betty says, frowning. “It’s been over a year, but I’m not really sure what the appropriate time is after a breakup in a relationship like that to be over someone. They were really intense together, but it was mutual, in the end. But…I always got the impression that Cheryl thought they’d get back together eventually, which would keep anyone from moving on. Or she just might be a swan. I hope not.”

“What do you mean, she might be a swan?” He asks, glancing over at her. His lips curve upwards.

“Swans mate for life,” she explains. “When I was little, there was this pair of them who would always swim up Sweetwater and into the little canal downtown with the ducks. I fed them with my sister and grandmother every Saturday morning. One day, one of them was just…gone. It never came back, so something must’ve happened to it. I thought about that a lot for a while.”

Jughead is silent besides her, and she wonders if the conversation might’ve veered a little too closely to home. Eventually, he says, “What happened? To the other swan, I mean.”

She shrugs. “Not sure, really. My grandmother died that year, and we stopped going.”

“Huh.” He makes something like a grimace. “Sad.”

“Gee, don’t blow me over in one breath, Faulkner,” she teases, hoping it’ll break a bit of the tension. It works, because he releases a puff of air, rolls his eyes, and draws her against him, grinning goofily down at her.

“You’re so hilarious,” he drawls, his arms looped at the small of her back. One of his hands is dipping dangerously low into her jeans pocket, which she catches and brings back up to place.

“Juggie, my sister is like, twenty feet away,” she admonishes, but thrilled all the same. He’s gotten bolder and bolder with touches as the minutes tick by and she won’t lie, she’s getting dangerously used to it.

“She already knows what happened upstairs,” he murmurs lowly, his eyes on her lips.

“Yeah, but her children don’t,” which is all she needs to say for him to sigh and try to pull away. She hooks her own arms around his waist and drags him back. “I didn’t say you had to let go, just…maybe don’t grab my ass at a family barbecue.”

“Okay, well there’s a learning curve. Pun more or less intended,” he says, which makes her smile in spite of how bad the joke is. He only makes his deliberately worst quips when he’s feeling comfortable.

She shifts, tucking herself into his side, with one of his hands at her hip. They indulge to stand like that for a little while, wrapped up in one another and not saying much, both watching Arthur and Rose running through a sprinkler, Jason making Polly laugh as she turns over a couple of hot dogs on the grill, and Cheryl lurking around in the background, as usual—but on the opposite side of the backyard, glaring darkly at a rosebush.

It makes Betty frown. The redhead always has been known to slink around behind the scenes by her lonesome, but among family, she’s typically been more engaged, at least with her brother or the kids.

“I think I should go talk to Cheryl,” she says, clicking her tongue. “She looks miserable.”

“I figured that was the way she always looked, prepared to strike for the Iron Throne,” Jughead muses, and then nods. “But she wasn’t too pleased when I wouldn’t offer up anything that pointed to Veronica secretly hating Archie this whole time, so maybe.”

“I’ll investigate. Go mingle while I’m gone,” Betty advises him, running one hand along his jaw. “Jason really likes murder mysteries, you can try talking to him about yours.”

Jughead makes a sound that borders dangerously on a whine, but she just raises her eyebrows and he ends up nodding and mumbling something that sounds like I’ll give it a shot.

As they untangle and separate for their targets, Betty is struck with the thought that, for a guy self-described as not one for relationships, he seems to be making something of an actual effort to make a good impression on her and her family. If he were anyone else, she might’ve assumed it’s because he wants to keep getting laid for as long as he is here, but that just doesn’t seem like him.

She pauses, halfway to Cheryl, and looks back at him over her shoulder. Because, then again, how well can she really know him? It’s only been a couple weeks. But, still, the sex-that-wasn’t-quite-sex offered a lot left unsaid. She can’t let herself think that word aloud, describe what it was in such plain terms. But it felt like he was trying to tell her something, and she wished she had the courage to ask what it was.

Still—there was a secret there. The indecipherable stream of consciousness he dropped onto her skin like kisses, thoughts of beauty and thanks that were so mumbled together she hardly knew where one word began and another ended. The way he moved above her, in short, swift, sweet bursts.

The way he wanted to be sure she would come with him, in the end.

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“Oh, it’s you,” says Cheryl when she notices Betty at her side. “What? Is the food ready, or something? Your little boy toy Snorlax finished consuming everything in sight and actually saved some for the rest of us? Great. Message received.” Betty blinks, and Cheryl’s eyes bulge warningly. “You can go now.”

Betty almost does. Almost throws her hands into the air and storms off, to join Jughead by the grill and forget she even tried. But she knows that Cheryl is her most dismissive when she’s in desperate need of company, so she decides to hold her ground. “You can’t…” She swallows around the words. “You can’t treat me like that, Cheryl. I’m your friend.”

“Are you?” Cheryl scorns, puncturing a watermelon sharply with her plastic fork. “You’ve always been Veronica’s friend most of all.”

“Well, yeah, she’s been my best friend since we were fifteen,” Betty says slowly. “But you’re family, and you know I don’t want to take sides.”

An acidic little scoff bubbles out of her. “Please. You’ve got the monochromatic eyesight of a dog, Betty Cooper. You always pick one side. This or that. Good or bad. Black or white.”

“That’s not fair.” She sighs, losing the will to argue. “I…okay, maybe I do, sometimes. But…losing my dad made me realize I needed to appreciate the time I had with my family. And that’s you, Cheryl, for better or for worse. You seemed like you were upset, so I came over to talk to you. But I’m not going to stick around for you to bite my head off at everything.”

She turns to go, and then hears, faintly, “Wait.”

Betty pivots back, and Cheryl is fidgeting, eyes on her fruit salad. “You’re right. I was upset. Trying to extract gossip out of your little sideshow boyfriend was like trying to pull his teeth out with a pair of drug-store tweezers, and it made me frustrated.”

He’s not my boyfriend sits heavily in the back of her throat, but Cheryl seems to be gathering her courage and it’s probably not the best time to correct her. “It’s just so hard, seeing her moving on,” she says finally, her voice very low. “I don’t know why I can’t.”

“Maybe…” Betty inhales. “Maybe it’s because you keep thinking Veronica wants to get back together.”

“Well, whose fault is that? When she told me she couldn’t handle things anymore, she…implied that maybe one day, if I’d ever gotten help—”

“She told you she loved you and always would,” Betty summarizes simply, sighing. “That would be hard to hear in a breakup, I get it. It would make you hold onto things. But you know what she meant—she just couldn’t keep going the way things were. And you agreed with her. You guys just had bad timing, and—”

“Why do you keep saying that?” Cheryl interrupts, narrowing her eyes. Betty shoots her a confused look. “Timing, you brought that up last time. What does that have to do with my problems?”

“Well…” Betty pauses, unsure how to find the words. “I mean…you guys just didn’t get together at the right time of your lives. That’s why it didn’t work.”

“Oh, come on. What does that even mean? You’re not about to tell me you believe in fate, now are you? What about the tooth fairy, Betty? You believe in her too?” Cheryl suddenly inhales, as if catching herself. She shakes her head a little, to show she’s apologizing. “Timing is just another word for destiny, which doesn’t exist, and I know a smart girl like you doesn’t believe in that. Right?”

“No,” Betty says slowly, after working through the words. “I don’t believe in destiny. I think we’re all looking for too much agency in our lives already to start questioning some sort of master plan at the same time. But…”

“Veronica and I didn’t break up because our moon charts were out of sync, Bettykins. We broke up because she couldn’t handle…you know. My moods.” What she doesn’t say is bipolar disorder, but Cheryl’s never been quite good at speaking clinically. Betty opens her mouth to tell her that she shouldn’t be ashamed, and that—

“Don’t bother trying to make me feel better, we both know I’m right. She asked me to get help for years and I didn’t want to until I lost her because of it. It was for the best, in the end, because then I didn’t do it for her. I did it for me. And if you’re not getting help because you want it for yourself, you’ll never hold onto it. According to the therapist I’m paying ridiculous amounts of money for, anyway. So it’s possible she’s just saying that to keep me coming back.”

“But breaking up with her left you to deal with it alone,” Betty says softly. She’s always been more on Veronica’s side of things, being her best friend and seeing first hand how much things wore on her, but at the same time, she still felt bad for Cheryl to not have a rock through therapy.

“I wasn’t alone,” Cheryl says firmly. “I had Jay-Jay, and Polly, and even you, somehow. And I had myself, and we both know I have enough personality for three people. And spoiler alert, I made it out just fine.”

She releases a long breath, glancing over at Jason, who is talking to Jughead. Based on Jason’s mimicking of a swinging baseball bat, Jughead is probably struggling through a conversation about sports wherein she’s sure he’s just regurgitating things he’s heard from Archie. It makes her feel all the more endeared to him, as he must be really trying.

Cheryl’s voice pulls her back. “You can’t put all your problems into one person, anyway. Especially not if you love them. That was the real fight, between Veronica and I. I put too much on her.”

“Yeah,” Betty agrees quietly, running that over in her thoughts. Cheryl’s right, of course.

“So it wasn’t timing, it was a choice. You either decide to work on what’s wrong, or you go your separate ways. Find a way to make it work, or call it quits.”

They’re silent for a long time. Betty stares over at Jughead, and wonders if there’s a choice to be made here. She says she doesn’t believe in destiny, but she’s been sitting here, blaming bad timing and accepting that he’s going to get into his truck and roll away out of her life forever, without ever planning on telling him that’s not what she wants. Isn’t that passively putting things into the hands of fate—which, if it doesn’t even exist, is just giving up before the fact?

The thought sits heavily on her chest.

Finally, as if forcing herself away from that little spot of fear, Betty remembers her promise. “You know, if want to try to get back out there, that girl Toni Topaz won’t stop asking me about you. She really wants to know you, I think.”

“Her? Oh, I know. She once liked a couple Instagram posts from two years ago,” Cheryl sighs, biting off a grape from her fruit salad. “She’s cute, I suppose, if you like the whole dressed-down-Nicki-Minaj-pink look.” Cheryl shoots her a sidelong look. “You really don’t think V and C are slated to reappear?”

“Well, it doesn’t help when you refer to yourself in the third person, but…no. I think she’s looking for something a lot less…combative right now. You guys butted heads a lot, even at your best. And she’s about to move across the country, right?”

Sighing, Cheryl nods. Straightens, shakes out her shoulders, and meets Betty’s eye. “Alright, fine. Give me Jem and the Hologram’s phone number and I’ll maybe think about it. Maybe.”

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.

A little while later, just after they’ve all settled down onto the patio picnic table for their lunch, Betty gets a text from Toni.

omg, cheryl just texted me and said u gave her my number! we’re gonna get dinner next week. ty!!

And then, a second later, embellished with two little smiling devil emojis: now I don’t have to tell Kev I saw ur boy buying condoms AND flowers yesterday

You’ve got a real soft spot for blackmail, Betty types back. You two are going to be a match made in heaven.

lmao well ur one to talk! he looked like he wanted to die, so he must really like u to suffer the embarrassment of buying both those things at once ;)

Betty quickly shoves her phone into her pocket, her face flushed with warmth. Cheryl sits next to her, cutting up a hot dog into little bites, sans bun, and glances at Betty out of the corner of her eye.

She mouths Toni? at her, and Cheryl returns a shamelessly smug roll of the eyes and looks away, leaving Betty to glance around the rest of the table. Polly and Jason are chatting about the upcoming camp schedule for the kids, Rose has her face pushed into a hand-held video game, and Arthur is shoveling a burger into his little mouth with aplomb. She feels full and happy and for the first time in a long while, strangely at peace.

She meets Jughead’s eyes over a spoonful of pasta salad. He wiggles his eyebrows at her, grinning. She returns the smile, feeling something rise into her chest.

His eyes are very blue with something indescribably soft. Toni’s words settle down deep in her toes.

He must really like you.

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#bughead fanfiction #bughead #betty x jughead #betty cooper #jughead jones #fics #another 8k word dump for you all #it was actually going to be LONGER but i moved a big scene to a later chapter #this fic is ruining my life omfg #i say that lovingly i promise #but also a lil bit of bitterness #but mostly lovingly #like #95% lovingly #5% bitterly #also i think i ruined bowling for myself forever #and the meme goes #'congratulations you played yourself'

[lurkernolonger]

B for Bollocks (2/2)

Hey guys! Thank you again for all the kind words about this story! As opposed to part 1, this second half was a struggle for me. I went back and forth with two endings and I still don’t know if I made the right choice. Honestly I am not fully happy with it, but who doesn’t doubt themselves right?  Plus if I agonize over it anymore I’ll never complete it. I’m going away at the weekend for a month long holiday and I didn’t want to wait until I got back to post it, so here it is flaws and all. Hope you enjoy! xx

Archie had rung him five times, Chop had knocked for him twice, and Rae had done zero of either in the past four days (and that was the count that mattered most).

Finn wasn’t angry with her, never could be really. It wasn’t her fault she was brilliant and he was a coward. He had watched in jealous anguish as Archie dated her and told himself that he wouldn’t let it happen again. Until it did.

Finn was gone on her almost immediately, but by the time he actually realized it his best mate had moved in. He had been so relieved when they didn’t work out. The closer Finn got to Rae, the closer he stepped to the edge of falling hopelessly for her. That one afternoon in his room, when she had confessed about France, about her scars, she had seemed so afraid of his reaction. Rae’s eyes had filled with tears as she folded into herself and away from him. She had babbled about how she would understand if he didn’t want her around, if he wanted her to leave and stay away, but all it did was make him want her more. She was so brave, so strong, so wrong about herself. Finn had held her close and whispered that no matter what he always wanted her around. From that moment she was his, and he’d tried to stake his claim in little touches or looks, listening sessions in his room and mix-tapes full of subliminal messages. Finn was crap with words and he knew actually voicing it out loud ran the risk of losing everything. He’d been such a dick to her in the beginning he was just happy to have her as a friend; happy she trusted him enough with her real self. So he let his feelings rest, let the steady tingle in his skin settle as he waited for some kind of sign; his hope being buoyed by how she said his name or left her scent lingering on his pillows. Evidently, he had waited too long and deep down he knew he had no one to blame but himself.

But that didn’t stop him from avoiding everybody, opting to sulk in his room instead. And sulking is really all he could do. He couldn’t even appreciate his records anymore because everything reminded him of Rae; how she hummed along with Morrissey, mouthed the words to The Stone Roses, and swayed her hips to Primal Scream (she probably thought he didn’t notice, but he definitely did; the visual aiding him in at least a dozen wanks). Not to mention Spaceman. After leaving the pub he had bitterly shoved it in the back of the furthest crate, darkly muttering “our song, my arse”. But it was that very thought that stopped him from hurling it like a frisbee towards the tip. She never liked Radiohead much, but he couldn’t fall back on that either because once Brandon had showed up in a Thom Yorke shirt and that’s all Finn could picture when No Surprises came on. “Tosser didn’t even have the decency to have crap taste in music,” Finn grumbled to himself before shutting off his speakers. He looked around his room for something else to do, but again all he saw were the places Rae had sat or stood or touched, and he knew it was no use.

It was midday Friday which meant the gang was most likely at the chippy. Finn looked over at the calendar pinned to his wall where he had surreptitiously marked down Rae’s work schedule to see that she was off, which meant she would be there too. He wasn’t sure if he was excited or sick at that. Usually he barely lasted 24 hours without seeing her but now being around her meant seeing B-for-Bollocks-Bastard-Brandon too. Finn sat contemplating going, images of slapping Brandon’s smug face with a fresh from the fryer battered sausage swirling in his mind, when his stomach growled angrily making his decision for him. Can’t avoid them forever. With a huff he grabbed his flannel and helmet and clopped down the stairs.

Finn paused outside the chippy window. The gang was sat at the same table where they had assembled the day before Knebworth, the day he’d punched Big G, the day he should have walked Rae home and told her that Chop might as well have printed her name on the front of Finn’s shirt because, really, he was more excited to see her than Oasis. Rae was sat at the end of the table and the hungry animal in his stomach morphed into a thousand restless butterflies. Fuck, if she didn’t somehow get prettier in the last 72 hours. She was wearing her I Wanna Be Adored shirt and a genuine smile; two of his favourite things to see on her. Again he thought of another lost opportunity: that day in the park where he’d been so eager to apologize he’d forgotten he was half naked. Then he’d gone and made that garbled noise in the back of his throat after telling her she was sound. Not to mention his I-realize-this-is-too-long-but-I’m-busy-sniffing-your-hair hug. The memory made him cringe. “Such a twat,” he mumbled to himself, turning to get back on his scooter, but a loud bang and the vibration of the shop window made him jump. Chop’s gap tooth grin at startling him immediately changed to one of a stern parent as he brandished a finger and said “GET THE FUCK IN HERE” loud enough for Finn to hear through the thick glass. Well he had no choice now, he’d been spotted. Hitting his helmet against his thigh, he went for the door. Chop grabbed him by the back of the neck as soon as he was in arms reach.

“The hell have you been?!” Chop admonished, steering him towards the table. Finn shrugged. Not like he could say ’Oh, just at home being miserable and getting strange looks off my dad.’

Looking up he noticed an empty seat in front of Rae, Archie next to her and, surprisingly, Brandon beside him. Finn furrowed his brow at that. If Rae was his he’d be sat close enough to hand feed her chips and feel her breath on his neck. That image quickly turned X rated in his mind, and he had to shake his head to rid himself of the poorly timed fantasy. Not now, he told himself as he slipped into the empty chair.

“Finn!” Izzy waved at him enthusiastically, her red hair bouncing happily. “We missed you, where ya been?”

“Yeah where’d you disappear to?” Chloe’s tone was slightly accusatory and it made him hunch his shoulders.

Shit, really can’t avoid this question. “Just around” he shrugged again. Finn looked over at Archie and was met with crossed arms and an icy glare. I guess I deserve that. “Archer”

Archie looked him over, probably assessing how much Finn had punished himself already before determining how much more crap he deserved for blanking him for days. He must have read the lines under Finn’s eyes from lack of sleep and the frustratingly skewed fringe like one of his history books because his shoulders lost their menace, and that sympathetic smile was back. “You alright?” Archie asked. Two words with a hundred annotations. Was he alright? Finn genuinely didn’t know, so he let his head do a weird shake/nod/shrug thing to neither confirm nor deny.

The table’s conversation continued but Finn noticed Rae had gone quiet since he’d walked in. She was looking down at her tray as she swirled a chip in curry sauce. “Hey Rae” Finn managed, but not without his voice cracking on the end of her name. Fuck will I ever not be a complete pleb around her? He cleared his throat to recover, but her eyes shot up to him and she actually looked relieved before that genuine smile was back.

“Finnley. I was starting to think you’d left the country, or at least Lincolnshire,” she teased in a hushed tone, before pushing her cone of chips towards him in offering.

“Thought about it,” he said honestly, grabbing a chip as a distraction. He felt her nudge his foot with hers under the table and he looked up to find her smiling softly.

“You’re alright though?” To that he nodded. If it meant her eyes wouldn’t look so sad, he would make himself alright. “And uh…we’re..well, are we alright?” Her voice was quiet and hesitant and Finn suddenly felt incredibly guilty for running out on her without explaining. But how do you explain your heart in your throat and your stomach falling out of your arse?

“Yeah. ‘Course,” and he let his foot nudge her back. Her smile was wide this time, reaching her eyes until she bit her lip and nodded. For Finn it was one of those moments; the kind that mutes and blurs everything else around them and makes him feel like maybe he gets what love is.

He tore his gaze away to catch his breath and see if Archie had caught their exchange, but instead was met with Brandon looking over at them. His forehead was creased with a look of consternation before his eyes met Finn’s. Finn made sure to hold his gaze firmly until Brandon gave him a half nod and turned back to conversation with the others.

“Right. Now that this bellend is back,” Chop’s voice rose over the din of the table as he pointed a half eaten saveloy in Finn’s direction, “we can discuss the rave tomorrow.”

Saturday morning had Finn certain that he wasn’t going to go. Last night he’d dreamt of the rave: a pulsing room with swirling colours and warm bodies, and at the centre of it all Brandon was kissing Rae. Finn had woken up in a cold sweat, a hard pain in his chest and an even harder determination to not subject his reality to that gutting scene. That is until Chop showed up at his with glow sticks, whistles and a threat to tell Gary about the time they’d nicked his expensive scotch and gashed the side of his car trying to make the curve of the McDonalds drive thru. They had been able to get their burgers and convince Gary it must have been vandalism, escaping any punishment. It was the miracle of their then 15 year old lives, and the only reason Finn wasn’t still grounded, so he had no choice but to get ready.

The ride there was loud and the gang had so much energy it boosted Finn’s enthusiasm. He hollered along, drinking cans with Archie, glad that he ended up in a separate car from Rae and Brandon. But when he sees her emerge from Chop’s Renault 5 looking like some golden glittery goddess, he wishes so badly that he had been pressed against her in the back seat until the sequins of her jacket left oddly shaped imprints on his skin. Chop offers him something from a baggy and whatever it is, he’s taking it.

They’re dancing now, just him and Rae. Everyone else has split off and Finn doesn’t care or even wonder where they are because she has his whistle in her mouth and her hands above her head and she looks about as loose as he feels. She’s not touching him at all, but the string of the whistle might as well be connected right to his soul because he feels completely tethered to her. This is how it should be. Him and Rae, happy, together. He’s lost all inhibitions to intoxication and is about to tell her just how right this feels, but then Izzy is pulling her away and his whistle drops to his chest and settles against his heartache. Reality drips down him like the sweat on his brow; he’d almost confessed to a girl with a boyfriend. She’s with Brandon, he reminds himself. After watching Rae get swallowed by the crowd, Finn moves to the back of the room where it’s slightly quieter, seeking the bar to shoot down anything that will replace the sinking in his stomach with a fiery burn. But he doesn’t make it because he’s stopped dead in his tracks and what he’s seeing has successfully set his whole body alight with fury.

Brandon is leaned against a wall in an intimate embrace with some brunette in a tight dress, his mouth on her neck as her hands move up his shirt. Blind rage surges through Finn and the next thing he knows he has Brandon by the collar and is shoving him up against the brick, the brunette cast off and forgotten.

“What the fuck, Finn!”

“YOU SCUMMY PIECE OF SHIT!!” Finn seethes as he grabs him close, only to slam him back into the wall repeatedly. “YOU DON’T FUCKING DESERVE HER!” Finn’s whole body is shaking and he’s sure he’s never felt this angry before.

Brandon’s hands are at Finn’s wrists, and he manages to shift his weight and throw him off. Finn launches himself forward, catching Brandon by the middle and tackling him to the ground. They’re tussling and rolling over one another trying to get the upper hand, unaware of the crowd building around them. “Do you even know how fucking lucky you are?! You have her and that’s how you treat her?!” Finn is breathing hard and trying to land punches at any available spot but his determination to talk through the fight has made him sloppy and Brandon is too quick. Soon he’s being straddled, and Brandon’s hands are pinning his arms to the ground.

“What the fuck is this about?! Did you know that girl or summat?” Brandon asks through heaving breaths. This has Finn flailing, determined to escape his hold so he can murder the thick son of a bitch. He’s rolled them over now so he looms over Brandon and his right arm pulls past his ear to deliver the final crushing blow, when Brandon gives him a verbal hit that’s harder than any punch.

“I’m not with Rae!!”

Finn’s whole body slackens and his arm falls to his side. “You what?”

“That’s what this is about right? Rae?” Brandon still has his hands up in defence, bracing himself for another attack. Finn just stares at him dumbly. He is so fucking lost right now. Neither of them has moved but then a girl in the crowd breaks their intense stare down.

“Are you two gonna fight or what?” They both turn to her, and finally take notice of the ring of people surrounding them.

“Take your clothes off first!!” her friend demands before falling into a fit of giggles.

“Yeah if we had some jelly this could get really hot” another standby voice yells out.

A weak scattered chorus of “punch him, punch him, punch him” breaks out but when neither of them make a move, the crowd dissipates. Finn rolls off Brandon and sits next to him, arms resting on his knees.

“Say it again,” he demands.

“I’m not dating Rae”

“But…you…she-”

“I like her. I thought maybe she liked me too, but-”

“What?” Finn’s mind was swirling. With booze and drugs and bruises he just couldn’t grasp what was happening.

“She said she didn’t want things to get weird since we worked together, but I figured there had to be another reason. Then I saw how you two looked at each other and…” Brandon trailed off and shrugged to finish his thought.

“But what about-”

“Look, Nelson” Brandon interrupted. He sounded exasperated and Finn clocked an odd look in his eye. It was almost sad. “I never took you for a cock block but that’s the second girl you’ve gotten in the middle of. Just go talk to Rae, yeah?” And with that he got up and disappeared into the crowd.

Finn’s hands shake as he dismounts his scooter and looks up at Rae’s house. After his fight with Brandon, he’d searched for her for ages, only to hear from Archie that she had gone off to help Chop. When he asked with what, Archie had slurred through an explanation of Rae being the “daddy” and something about that twat dealer from Dalehead snogging a fairy. It had only left Finn more confused, and by the time they made it to where they had parked up, Chop’s car was gone. Finn had driven him and a queasy Archie straight to the chippy in hopes she’d be there, but when the others (bar Brandon) arrived for the debrief, Chop explained that he had dropped Rae home a few hours ago. Finn had promptly ran home to shower (no way was he going to talk to her smelling like a distillery) and grab his bike. With a deep breath he heads towards the front door, before thinking better of waking Linda at this early an hour. Instead he climbs up the drain pipe and knocks gently on Rae’s window. After a few minutes Rae appears on the other side, confused, before she unlocks the window and opens it for him.

“Finn? What the bloody hell are you doing out there?” She whisper yells.

“Is it alright if I come in?”

“Uh…yeah okay. Just don’t break your neck alright? Don’t need my mum waking up to a dead body on the lawn.” She moves aside to let him in and once he’s safely got feet to carpet she’s asking “thought we were meant to meet at the chippy?”

“I needed to talk to you about summat important. In private” Finn says, taking a step closer to her. A worried look comes over her face before she nods and gestures for him to continue. “Rae…I…” he trails off, unsure of where to start, so he takes another step so they’re toe to toe.

“What?” her voice is so quiet and he can tell she’s bracing herself for whatever is about to happen.

Finn’s not sure getting this close was a good idea. He can smell her shampoo and his words die on his lips when he feels her chest rising and falling against his. His body knows what it wants though and suddenly he has one hand in her hair while the other cups her cheek, stroking her face gently. Rae’s eyes look wet as her gaze moves to Finn’s lips which are only an inch away from hers.

“Rae…”

“Yeah…”

“I came to tell you that I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” he whispers. And then he’s kissing her.

Finn has imagined kissing her thousands of times. Endless variations of how it would go, who would make the initial move, which lip he would devour first (he always ended on her bottom one, it was just so plump), how long it would last, what noises she would make; but he never knew it could feel like this. No other girl made it feel like this. He could have never imagined how perfectly her mouth slotted with his, or the thrill that shot through him when he felt her fist his shirt and pull him closer, or the way they melted together when their tongues touched. Finn’s toes curled as his mind went blank while the rest of him felt so full. Too full; of words, of want, of need. At that moment kissing her became a necessity. World War III could be breaking out right next to them and all he would hear and see and feel was one Rae Earl.

Finn feels her smile against his lips before she pulls away slightly. Her mouth is still close enough that her lips brush his as she asks “why the fuck did we wait so long to do that?” He allows a breath of a laugh out before he’s on her again and, like at the chippy and the thousand other times he’s felt it before, it’s one of those moments. Their moments; when the rest of the world shifts away and it’s just the two of them. But this time Finn knows for sure what love is.

They’re in his room, on his bed, kissing. It’s been three weeks since the rave and they haven’t really stopped kissing, despite the protests of the gang. They haven’t gone further than that, but Finn’s not complaining. The fact that he gets to hold her by the waist and put his tongue in her mouth and call her his girl is amazing enough to him. So when Rae’s hands start to creep up the back of his shirt, and he feels her nails gently rake at his skin while her tongue swirls against his Adam’s apple, he isn’t ashamed to admit he’s already about to mess his jeans.

Finn dips his head, his mouth greedy to get back to her delicious lips. Her arms move up so her hands are in his hair and he takes the opportunity to slip his own hands under her top. She hums against his mouth and he takes it as his cue to continue. Finn’s hands ghost higher, until he can feel the smooth expanse of her back and the tips of his fingers rub the clasp of her bra. Rae shifts to lift her back off the bed and he pulls her with him so they’re both sitting upright. Finn nips her bottom lip before pulling away. He’s pleased to see she’s just as dazed as him, that maybe his kisses are messing with her mind as much as hers do his. Her eyes are half closed and her lips are swollen from his bites and the sight makes him feel like he’s on fire. She gives him a barely there brush of the lips before guiding his hands to the hem of her shirt. Finn looks into her eyes, raises his brows in question, afraid words will brake the sensous air thick around them. Rae comes close, nods against his nose before swiping her tongue across his top lip. He kisses her until he has to move to make way for her shirt and when he sees her breasts spilling out of a lacy teal bra, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to stand her in clothes again. His eyes travel from her cleavage, higher until they settle on a necklace. The necklace. B for Brandon’s necklace.

Finn’s certain he’s never lost his arousal faster. The sight of that gold pendant between her collar bones is gut wrenching. He hasn’t seen it since that first day, and after their kiss in her room he was sure he’d never see it again. But all this time it was under her clothes like a secret. Nestled close to the breasts that he’s been fantasizing about. He hasn’t moved and the only thing that shatters his shock is Rae pulling the covers over her. When he looks to her face she seems mortified and her eyes are full of tears.

“Fuck! I knew it. You’re disgusted by me. I can’t believe I let you see me!” Rae grabs for her shirt and stands. Tears fall from her eyes and hit Finn’s hand and he feels the panic rise inside of him.

“No Rae, no! That’s not- Rae!” He’s grabbing for her now but she pulls away and shoves her shirt over her head.

“Please don’t touch me Finn, don’t!”

“Rae listen to me -”

She’s on the floor grabbing her things, frantically searching for her Converse. She’s sobbing and the sound squeezes Finn’s heart like a vice.

“Rae! Listen to me, please! It’s not you! I love how you look, I swear!” Finn knows he’s yelling but he needs her to hear him. She does. She stops mid grab for her backpack and looks up at him. He gets down on his knees so they’re level and grabs her face. “Rae, I love your body. I find you so fucking sexy, believe me. It’s just…I saw the necklace and it was like a punch to the bollocks”

“What?” Confusion clouds over Rae’s face and she pulls out of his hands.

“Brandon’s necklace. Why are you still wearing it?” Finn’s voice brakes with the painful lump in his throat.

“What? The fuck are you talking about Finn?”

Finn sighs heavy, falls back so he’s sitting on his bum, and leans against his bed. “I know it’s from him Rae. B for Brandon.”

It’s quiet for a long moment, he’s staring at his hands because he’s afraid to look at her but when she laughs his head shoots up. The tears are gone and she’s wearing a smile. Finn grimaces at her. He doesn’t see what the hell about this situation could possibly be amusing. Rae shuffles on her knees until she’s in front of him, then swings one leg over to straddle his lap.

“You numpty. This necklace is not from Brandon.”

“What? Then who’s it from?”

Rae bites her lip and her eyes dance across his face as if she’s trying to memorize this moment. “It’s from Karim”

“KARIM?! But I…I don’t..Karim?” He knows he sounds daft but he is thoroughly confused.

“He gave it to me after him and my mum got married in Tunisia. Said he wanted me to feel like part of his family, ‘cause that’s what I am” Rae shrugs and places her hands on Finn’s neck, thumbs rubbing at his jawline. “Sounds cheesy, but it meant a lot to me. It’s the first time someone has wanted to be my dad in any sorta way, you know?” Tears fill her eyes again and Finn moves his arms to circle her waist.

“So-”

“B for Bouchtat, yeah” Rae interrupts and nods, giving him a watery smile. Finn buries his head in her neck, embarrassed.

“More like B for Bloody idiot. Fuck Rae, I’m so sorry. I’m such a dickhead” Finn says against her skin, nuzzling closer, trying to hide how red he’s gone. He’s been so thick about the whole situation.

“Yeah well, I’ve only been telling you that this whole time. Glad you’ve finally admitted it,” Rae laughs as she strokes his hair.

Finn places a kiss on her neck before pulling away, his finger tracing the chain of the necklace. “I really am sorry, Rae. I never want to make you cry. It’s just…the thought of you with anyone else…”

“You must really be an idiot if you think I want anyone else, Finnley. You’re stuck with me now.”

Finn beams and tightens his hold on her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. And you don’t even need to give me a necklace,” Rae teases.

“Nah, anyone can get a necklace. I was thinking something more permanent. Like a massive ‘F’ tattoo on your back or summat.” Finn traces the letter above the band of her leggings for show.

“Bollocks to that!”

Finn shakes his head and laughs before pulling her face to his, close enough for their breath to mix. He rubs his nose lightly against hers.

“I love you, girl”

“I love you too, dickhead”

Hours later when Rae is fast sleep against his chest, her bare skin sticking to his, Finn reaches for a biro in his beside drawer and draws a tiny ‘F’ on the inside of her wrist.

The end! Thank you for reading :)

I’m only tagging those who specifically asked. If you want to be added or removed, let me know!

@bitchesbecrazy89 @crystalgiddings1993 @eveerez @hey1tskat1e @kneekeyta @likeashootingstarfades @l88cym @mmfdfanfic @milllott @milymargot @tinakegg

#mmfd #mmfdfanfic #Rinn #my mad fat diary #my mad fat fandom #b for bollocks #mmfd fanfic #mmfd fan fiction #mmfd fanfiction #i wrote this

[theoldestofthettails]

The Victim

I had a very hard therapy session today. And I don’t know how to process it exactly, so I’m going to write about it.

           I was abused. I was abused for 2 years by a man that I loved and who swore loved me. And while yes, I casually mention his “abusive behavior,” I have never really sat with the fact that I. Was. Abused. I was a victim. I was a victim of abuse.

           And that part is really hard for me to deal with. Because I don’t want to be a victim. I don’t want that to be a part of my narrative. And it isn’t just the last two and a half years of my life. I was a victim in my childhood. And I was a victim in my young adulthood. And that is hard for me to swallow because I think so much of myself as a strong, independent, resilient person. And the victim narrative doesn’t exactly fit with that.

.

           But my therapist did make the important point that though “victim” may define parts of my past, it doesn’t need to define my future. And that’s super important. But it’s really frustrating that I have no control over my past. Not in the sense that I can’t change the past (none of us can), but that while I was victimized, I had no control over the situation to change it. And then my therapist reminded me of the serenity prayer haha. That attempting to control things that are out of my control will only drive me insane. So moot point.

           My therapist also told me my ex was sick. She told me that she feels he is beyond help and the only thing I can do in this situation is stay as far away from him as I can. And that made my heart ache, because despite all of the bullshit and abuse, I still care for him. And I want him to be a better person. I want him to grow and experience happiness and love and fulfillment. But she believes those things aren’t in his future. And I don’t know how to feel about that information.

           Once upon a time, before we were officially together, we were sleeping together for a couple months. I asked him repeatedly if he was my boyfriend and if we were official and he kept telling me no. So I slept with other people. And I lied about it. And whne it came out, we decided that we would be together and he would have all of my passwords and my location. We decided that if we were going to stay together, I wasn’t allowed to go out with my friends. We decided that if I did go out with my friends, I had to send him pictures of us. We decided that he would sleep with the same number of other people that I had. We decided that I wasn’t allowed to have sex with anyone, him included. And we decided that this would be our norm until he “felt” I had atoned. We decided I wouldn’t get to be happy until he decided I could. And I agreed.  

           My therapist tells me that’s not normal. And I hate myself for allowing our relationship to go there. I’m so disappointed that I let myself be so controlled by a man. But my therapist helped me remember that I thought he was my soulmate and that it makes sense that I would want to go through that if my “happily ever after” was on the other side. And so I agreed. And he fucking destroyed my life.

           He would sext other women and show me. When we would go out, he would ignore me and hit on other women in front of me, just to remind me that he could; to let me know that him choosing to be with me was a privilege. He would ignore me when I needed him most. He didn’t remember my graduation date nor did he come. He didn’t go with me to my spirit squad formal (but don’t worry, he still paid for his ticket). He just… treated me like he hated me. And maybe he did. Maybe I hated him. There is such a fine line between love and hate and I don’t know which side of that line we fell. But he hurt me. He hurt me so much. He controlled my entire life, and convinced me that I owed him a “thank you.”

           And now, 8 months after we broke up, 3 months after we stopped talking, he’s on my fucking Facebook, still trying to stake some kind of control over my life. And I’m still trying to defend him. It’s my fault for giving him my password. It’s my fault for not changing my password. Any SANE person would be curious about their ex, right? Any NORMAL person would check up on them if they had the means, right? He’s not crazy, he’s fucking normal.

           My therapist assigned some homework. I am to research the psychology and social psychology of abusive men. (Yes, there are female abusers, but in my instance, my abuser was male). She thinks that if I can understand the mechanisms of an abusive relationship outside of the one I had, that I might be able to see the abusive relationship I had clearer. So I’m doing that today. And tomorrow. And every day until I can make sense of what the fuck I’m feeling.

           Continuing with the “victim” thing. She also mentioned how she, as a former victim, had a really hard time dealing with other “victims.” She said that it would drive her crazy when people would play “fake victims” to things she had experienced 10x worse. And I kind of get that. I’m a little bit obsessed with this girl I knew from high school who claims to have had two miscarriages (I know their fake; her ultrasound pictures are from Google – I found them in under 2 minutes). And she posts all of this stuff on Facebook about “poor me” (don’t even get me started on her mother’s day post). And. I kind of want to punch her in the face? But I also can’t stop stalking her shit, because it makes me nauseous, but in kind of a good way? Maybe not good, but addictive. I’m addicted to her fake chaos. Maybe it’s a distraction from my very real chaos. But I also want to punch her. Repeatedly.

           I don’t know.

           I don’t know how to write a resolution to this post. I don’t even know why I’m writing this post. Maybe if I write it down, it won’t feel like I’m choking on it. But I’m struggling a little bit.

           I miss the tinder tales haha.

#tindertales #victim #therapy

[mygangtome]

Where They Were, Where They Are Now - Lucy Griffiths

She was the Nightwatchman, Lady Marian, the proud and strong lady in Nottingham who fed information to our favorite outlaws, stood toe to toe with the Sheriff and caught the attention and desire of Guy of Gisborne.  Here is a list of the project Lucy Griffiths has worked in since her days as Marian ended. 

U Be Dead (2009) – Bethan Ancell

A doctor and his girlfriend are stalked by a woman who claims to be in love with him. Meanwhile, the man falls in love with a younger woman. Based on a true story.

Character bio: The much younger and second fiancee of Dr. Jan Falkowski, who is caught up in the events as the doctor’s stalker refuses to relent. 

Fan comments: Not one that I have seen or heard much about at all, so I have little insight to offer.  It seems like it could be a suspenseful story, and the cast is pretty strong, so it does have that.  

Collision (2009) – Jane Tarrant

The story of a major road accident and a group of people who have never met, but who all share one single defining moment that will change their lives.

Character bio: Jane is living a normal, possibly dull, life; she works at a fast food joint and living with her boyfriend.  When he suggests they get married, she gets frustrated and is afraid of being trapped.  When the massive car crash drives victims to her workplace, she meets and begins an affair with Richard Reeves, an older business man. 

Fan comments: I did see this one, and enjoyed the suspense and the trail of stories that weave together at the collision point. The individual characters are intriguing, and the plot holds your attention. Lucy does very well, though it was a shock to see her in blonde hair!

Inspector Lewis (2010) – Madeleine Escher (1 episode) 

Inspector Robert Lewis and Sergeant James Hathaway solve the tough cases that the learned inhabitants of Oxford throw at them. Falling Darkness -  During a Halloween, one of Dr Hobson’s college roommates is found dead with a stake through her heart and a garlic bulb in her mouth.

Character Bio: Madeleine Escher is one of four students living in a house that is apparently haunted, but is one of the three who are initially unconcerned. 

Fan comments: I have never seen any Inspector Lewis, nor this episode, though it sounds clearly like a Halloween episode with supposedly supernatural connections to crimes that have mundane answers.  

The Little House (2010) – Ruth

A reluctant mother, young Ruth Clee’s post natal vulnerability and failure to bond with her baby is exploited by Elizabeth, her manipulative mother-in-law in a battle to seize control of the child.

 Character Bio: Described as emotionally fragile, Ruth is diagnosed with post-partum psychosis after the birth of her son.  Her mother-in-law’s controlling nature only compounds Ruth’s other troubles, which include spectral sightings of her own mother, confusion and memory loss.  

Fan comments: From the reviews I read, it feels like the script lets the actors and characters down, rushing development and skipping things that would lead to better understanding of their emotional development.  

Dirt 3 (2011) - Store Manager (voice)

A racing game about a guy and a woman wanting to race against humanity can they do it? Your story your choice.

Fan comments: I couldn’t find anything about a character, so there is not much to talk about her. 

Billboard (2011) - The Ex

A dark, twisted tale of two young suicidal characters who, through a series of unfortunate events, come together for one crazy night.

To shake things up, here is the teaser trailer, which does feature a lot of Lucy:

And here is another video of her talking about the project:

Awakening (2011) – Jenna Lestrade

Two sisters find themselves on opposite sides of a zombie uprising.

Another video clip, as there is next to nothing else to be found about this made for TV movie. 

The Numbers Station (2013) – Meredith

A disgraced black ops agent is dispatched to a remote CIA broadcast station to protect a code operator. Soon, they find themselves in a life-or-death struggle to stop a deadly plot before it’s too late.

Character bio: One of the code dispatchers / operators at the broadcast station; leaves a code for Katherine (lady lead), which is a vital part of the code breaking that needs to be done. 

Fan comments: This seems like a thriller that I would be interested in, with codes and a race against the clock.  Lucy’s part does not seem large, though it is a part important to the plot. 

True Blood (2012-2013) Nora Gainesborough (21 episodes)

Telepathic waitress Sookie Stackhouse encounters a strange new supernatural world when she meets the mysterious Bill, a southern Louisiana gentleman and vampire.

Character bio: “ Nora was irreverent, intelligent, intimidating, cool under pressure and a very good liar. Like many siblings, she and her “brother” enjoyed a fiery love/hate relationship. Though she cared for him deeply, and looked up to him, she dedicated her life to a higher purpose. However, she lacked self-discipline and, unlike her maker, seemed to have little regard for human life. Like Godric, Eric and Pam, Nora spoke Swedish. Nora was a devout religious vampire and when she was captured by the Authority and placed in her cell, the only thing she did is pray to Lilith. When Lilith mercilessly destroyed Godric, Nora finally realized that Lilith was evil and cowered in fear of her.” (from True Blood Wiki)

Fan comments: I will say that I have no intention of watching this show.  Vampires on HBO is not really my speed.  Though from that description of Nora, there might be moments were we see Marian’s brand of stubbornness and fire showing up.   

Winter’s Tale (2014) – Young Woman

A burglar falls for an heiress as she dies in his arms. When he learns that he has the gift of reincarnation, he sets out to save her.

Character Bio: Lucy is credited only as young woman, so I have a feeling she barely shows up on screen. 

Fan comments: And as I have not seen this one either, I cannot say for sure how much she shows up.  But it is a pretty looking movie, so let’s have the trailer:

Last Summer (2014) – Rebecca

Having lost custody of her six year-old son, a young Japanese woman has four days to say goodbye to him on-board a yacht belonging to her western ex-husband’s wealthy family. Alone with the crew, who are under direct instruction to keep a watchful eye on her, the woman must try to forge a connection with her son before she has to part from him for many years.

Character bio: One of the yaht crew, Rebecca is the person that young Ken clings to when first interacting with his mother.  

Fan comments: The only trailers I could find of this film were in Italian, but I don’t think the film was shot in Italian. The reviews have said it is a quiet film, artistic and beautiful, with a hopeful ending.  I might track it down, because Rinko Kikuchi is the main character, Naomi, and that with Lucy in the film intrigues me.

Don’t Look Back (2014) – Nora Clark

An adult woman must face the trauma and horrors of her difficult childhood after avoiding it for years.

Character bio: Nora is a writer of young adult books, struggling with a writer’s block and the death of her grandmother. She decides to move back to her grandmother’s house (where Nora had been raised), to deal with the estate and the other details. She opens the house to a lodger, Peyton, who develops an unhealthy attraction to Nora.  At the same time, Nora’s life continues to be bombarded by skeletons from her past. 

Fan comments: This is another one that the writing fails any and all of the talent from the cast by all accounts of the reviews. 

Constantine (2014) – Liv Aberdine

A man struggling with his faith who is haunted by the sins of his past is suddenly thrust into the role of defending humanity from the gathering forces of darkness.

Character bio: Liv winds up working with Constantine to banish a demon that is hunting her.  She also inherited a pendant from her father that allows her to see multiple planes of existence, making her more than an ordinary office worker as we first think.

Fan comments: So Constantine has been on the back burner of my shows for awhile, since I heard it was actually pretty well done, despite not being renewed. I may bump it up the list now that I know Lucy is in it. 

Home for Christmas (2014) – Alice

Beth Prince has always loved fairytales and now she feels like she’s finally on the verge of her own happily ever after; a dream job in a charming independent cinema by the seaside and a gorgeous boyfriend. There’s just one problem - no man has ever told her they love her. Desperate to hear their crucial three little words for the first time Beth takes matters into her own hands - and wishes she hasn’t.

I couldn’t find much info, though it apparently a rom com with Christmas, and is generally feel good.  Though I did find this video and thought I would share it:

 Uncanny (2015) – Joy Andrews

The world’s first “perfect” Artificial Intelligence begins to exhibit startling and unnerving emergent behavior when a reporter begins a relationship with the scientist who created it. 

Character bio: Joy is at first just curious about the actual AI project, but then develops a friendship with David, the creator of the AI, Adam.  This friendship builds to a sexual relationship, and the AI develops more and more human emotions which puts Joy in danger. 

Fan comments: I would have put this on a list of movies to see, but in the course of researching, I’ve seen all the spoilers… and well, I might still watch it. 

Preacher (2016) – Emily (10 episodes)

After a supernatural event at his church, a preacher enlists the help of a vampire to find God.

Character bio:  Emily is no-nonsense single mother of three. Emily’s a waitress, while also serving as a church organist, bookkeeper and Jesse’s loyal right hand. (bio from Preacher Wikia)

Fan comments: While the premise of the show doesn’t quite catch me (so sick of vampires, sorry), Lucy’s character seems an interesting change from some of the other roles I’ve seen her in, and from those that I had to research.  I may have to look up her episodes. 

That is it for now in Lucy’s filmography, but I am interested to see what her career will bring! 

#my gang to me 2017 #lucy griffiths #who they are now #lady marian #bbc robin hood #lafseanchai #submission

[torentialtribute]

England’s defeat to Australia was inevitable… we’d seen this film before and knew how it finished

Around 2012, an internet film nerd was dug up which was soon called the worst death scene in the cinema history

It comes from a Turkish martial arts film, Karateci Kiz, which translates into Karate Girl. Other nerds claim it had an impact on Quentin Tarantino's Kill Bill. That can stretch it a bit.

At the climax of Karateci Kiz, Ferruh Durak, the villain – played by the deceased actor Bulent Kayabas – endures a lengthy and comical overblown death that lasts a few minutes.

The Australian Cricket Team celebrates in changing rooms after preserving the Ashes

He was the first to be exposed by having his blonde wig removed – the disguise is about the subtle as the & # 39; lay-dees & # 39; by Little Britain – and resists an unconvincing fight scene in which he is thrown through the room by his female opponent, while he always arrives to accidentally land a bed that breaks his fall.

Ferruh pulls a knife, takes several awkward sweeps and misses every time before he is disarmed. Close-ups reveal his hammy appearance of fear and surprise.

When a gun is pulled, he is beaten in the draw and shot, but only starts to bleed when he puts a hand on his injured torso and quite clearly launches a blood bag.

He is then shot several times and collapses after many robberies, but again on the bed.

It is really pretty horrible, not least, because it is pretty clear at the beginning how the scene will end, but the audience still has to sit through every tickling cliché, roll their eyes, tap their fingers, waiting for the inevitable denouement. England perished in the same way in Old Trafford.

There were undoubtedly light-hearted optimists who thought the Ashes could be saved by a loose association of tailors and batsmen desperately trying to push themselves under incredible pressure to play in shape.

For neutrals, and the sober, this was always on its way.

The fact that it took until 6.14pm for the fourth test to be lost and retained is due to little courage in adversity from Craig Overton, Jack Leach, Joe Denly and Jos Buttler, but it wasn't enough, it was never going to be ing.

The ticker – as the Australians call it – shown on Sunday, differs from what was clearly a resounding defeat. Australia won this test with 185 runs.

That is not close, and only the time that was taken out of the game due to the weather, it seemed.

Australia was much better in Manchester, just like they were in Birmingham and for a significant part of the Lord's and the Headingley Tests.

The days England has won in this series so far can be counted on one hand and not a thumbs.

Australia & # 39; s players celebrate after claiming the victory to keep the Ashes on Sunday

Without the innings of his life from Ben Stokes

That series was still being played because the late afternoon made way for the early evening , while the spotlight was shining and the referees signaled a final hour with Australia still had a lack of victory, which meant that even the locals happily went home.

Leaching was dug in for more than an hour, his glasses steamed up and contributed to the delays while the party stood – as the name of the Old Trafford structure is temporary – ce bombed as if 20 remaining overs were actually 20 remaining balls .

There is nothing this nation loves more than a rear-guard and glorious defeat.

How often is Dunkirk written down as if it were a military triumph, and not a terrible defeat for the British expedition force, which was driven into the sea by Nazis?

This is what we do best. Heroic failure. We are a seafaring nation whose greatest explorer came second to the South Pole and then died on the way home.

We loved that Leach irritated his glasses to the Australian bowlers almost as much as we liked to see Stokes batter them on all parts of the ground in Leeds. Even if the gesture was ultimately meaningless.

. At one point, romantics wondered if there might be a repeat of the first test in Cardiff in 2009 when James Anderson and Monty Panesar somehow saw the day as the last standing couple.

The role of water carriers and physiotherapists also became very important that afternoon, not least a Steve McCaig, an Australian-born locum who worked for England, whose sports idol was Ricky Ponting. When he entered the playing field for another medical delay, he finally met his hero, who memorable had said the only words he would ever say to him: & What are you doing here, f *** of your fat c * **. & # 39;

Pat Cummins seemed motivated in the same way around the time that England had two physicians waiting in line to treat Craig Overton.

What a game Cummins had. Steve Smith inevitably won the man-of-the-match award, but it's hard to imagine that Cummins – already ranked as the number 1 bowler – could have played better.

Smith will be the man of the series too, without a doubt, the bowling attack of Australia is quite exceptional.

Cummins has taken 24 wickets in the series with an average of 17. If Smith had been slightly less than superhuman, the paceman would undoubtedly have been the player of this axis.

Australia bowler Pat Cummins drives away in celebration after firing Joe Root for 0

Despite all the resilience of England, it was the confidence, the certainty of Australia that shone through Sunday.

They did not deviate from their strategies, they carried out their best-imposed plans and, if Smith is the batsman of the series and Cummins the bowler, then Tim Paine is the superior captain.

Even when England was most widely issued, Australia's attack never seemed to be confused, never flattened – England has done that.

That could be the difference between bowling to Smith, who can tolerate even the liveliest opponent, and is confronted with an England team full of flaws and works in progress.

Paine ensured that this was not the case. His decision to use the variation of Marnus Labuschagne, the removal of barnacles Leach with 15 overs and a ball to survive, was a blow. England can still level the series by winning at the Oval, but the Ashes is no longer at stake. This is Australia's first successful tour here since maintaining the urn in 2001 with the Golden Age team.

Australia Captain Tim Paine celebrates after seeing his side hold the Ashes in Old Trafford

And although the current group is far from it, one could argue that few touring squadrons have ever been blessed with a striking pair as dynamic as Cummins and Josh Hazlewood.

Likewise, the tourists using their bowling resources were impeccable. In football and other sports we are used to the concept of a team game. With cricket, changes caused by circumstances have been set aside, coaches and captains are more likely to be married to a better XI. Mitchell Starc, Australia's most powerful force during the World Cup, was stopped until the fourth test. This was a very intelligent campaign.

And on Sunday, when England seemed to be holding fast, the tourists kept going.

It was as if they had seen this film before and knew exactly how it ended.

Overton lbw Hazlewood, and England all before 197. We can tell ourselves it was close, but it wasn't. Some consider this a heroic defeat, but in the end there wasn't even a nice soft mattress to catch the fall.

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#England’s defeat to Australia was inevitable… we’d seen this film before and knew how it finished"