#fucking!! look outside!!! value yourself!! the company is not your family!! they are not worth dying for!! we are all worth so much more!!

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

why is job hunting.

that's it that's the post

#this is both radicalizing me even more & absolutely harshing my mellow #why. do i need. to communicate with a 'virtual assistant'. to apply at hot fucking topic #you know? maybe i Dont need to apply there. who wants em #everywhere is like you need This This and This #oh look an entry level job! aaaand i need a thousand certifications #Excuse Me Where Do People Who Have Done Nothing With Their Life Thus Far Apply??? #why do jobs exist. why cant we all just vibe huh #each application feels like a new death sentence #cant wait to work myself into the ground for a company that views me as nothing but an easily replaceable part! yeehaw! #cant wait to sacrifice my personal time / hobbies / wellbeing for a nine-to-five 5 days a week job i hate! #absolutely unprompted #this world we live in is miserable and infuriating and i want to SHAKE PEOPLE #fucking!! look outside!!! value yourself!! the company is not your family!! they are not worth dying for!! we are all worth so much more!! #gonna go out in the middle of a field and SCREAM #humans are made for art and kindness and for enjoying the short life we're forced into #why make an already doomed existence even worse huh. #why subject ourselves to that. we deserve better. our pasts deserve better. our futures deserve better. #sorry sorry im just. ARGH. this world!!! this life!!! could be so good!!! #but late stage capitalism rampant corruption among Many Other Issues said noooooooo #happiness is illeeegallllll #what if i BITE you. huh. what then. die #every time i sit down to apply i have to actively Not Think About It or i'll delete all my tabs and stop before i start #we as humans are not built for this life... we did not evolve proclivity for kindness and art just to stress ourselves to death #over silly jobs that do Not require the level of dedication we are forced to apply #abolish the 5 day 40+ hour work week... decrease the horrifying amount of funding given to cops and the military... etc... #i think i need to go lie down for a minute im feeling Too Much Anger at the absolute state of things #so happy to be an american. (sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm)

[riverisnotsafe]

Mine.

PAIRING: F!Servant!Reader x Naoya Zenin

WARNINGS: NAOYA ZENIN. Naoya smut. NSFW, Minors DNI. | If you're into any of these: possessive Naoya, breeding kink (?), mentions of overstimulation, jealous Naoya.

A/N: You can call me Noct or River. I’m still fairly new to how tumblr works and how writers and bloggers (?) write their imagines/fics so I do apologize in advance if my writing is not to your liking. I will also post on AO3 under sunflowerpsycho. I'm still trying to improve^^ This was self-indulgent and not edited so pretty all over the place and might be unclear in some parts, sorry bout that.

The reader lowkey a pick me but depends on how you view her, either she's a pick me or she just acts the way she acts to accustom and stroke the lil bitches ego.

“A-ah! Naoya-sama!” you moan his name as he shoots his load deep in you. A few moments of bliss and you were ready to clean yourself. Naoya never liked staying in bed long after sex. He finds it disgusting. All the fluids of sweat, semen and love juices mixed together made his skin crawl. “Oi woman, where are you going?” You haven’t even gotten up but Naoya had you strongly wrapped in his embrace. His cock still deep within you, as if acting as a plug. “I’m gonna wash myself..? You don’t like being dirty like this...usually?” the last bit came out as a question when Naoya buried his head deep into the crevice of your neck. “Ah, I’ll let it pass today. Just stay here. My cum is gonna leak out if you move.” he tried to shove himself deeper, earning an unexpected moan from you. “L-leak out???” Does Naoya have a breeding kink? Is he trying to keep his cum in you???? “N-naoya-sama...are you trying to breed me?” at the mention of breed, you could feel his dick twitch in your core. “Shut up woman.” Ah...so he is and he’s embarrassed to admit. “I feel honoured if that’s what you’re trying to do...” another twitch.

Under that tough misogynistic act, this man is just a boy who thrives on praise, he probably was deprived of any in his childhood, hence the superiority complex. But with you, he’s quite honest. The body doesn’t lie. You were just another servant. He probably paid and slept with many so you never thought of it as anything special. Besides, after all of this dirty work, both of you end up going your separate ways. A servant and the young master. That’s all it is. That is until one of the maids tried stealing from the family, unfortunately from Naoya and he didn’t take it too lightly. A woman and a thief, absolutely the worst. Ever since that, he appointed you as his personal maid, to ensure that only one person will serve him. Only one will enter and exit his quarters. Only one will serve his meals. Only one will tend to him. Only one will follow him around the house. Only one will keep him company when needed. Why did he choose you? Honestly you had no idea. Out of all the servants, clearly you were the least appealing, especially for a man of Naoya’s caliber.

You could never rival the looks of any of the other girls. You were chubby. Your thighs a bit too thick. Your cheeks were puffy. You had no thigh gap. Curves? Well, they weren’t hour-glass curves so you were bedrock bottom ranked. And when it came to family, you were a nobody. All the other servants have been serving the Zenin clan for generations. You were just a nobody who was pulled into the servant life to pay off your parent’s debt. What luck. It took him time though, to make you tend to him sexually. He might have a big ego and any woman would sleep with him but deep down he knew it was only for money and his looks, which he prided on. The sex was always bland. He could care less about the women’s pleasures, he would ejaculate outside, toss them money and demand them to immediately leave. He found them disgusting. Weren’t you just the same?

He had a great face, an even better body and all the riches you could’ve dreamt of, so why has he not tossed you out yet. He for sure can suspect that you’re just the same as all those women, plus, you were even lower, a nobody. Yet, here he is, deep inside you. This has been..about the sixth time you and Naoya have had intercourse. The first three times was when you were just a normal servant. Coincidentally he always found you and forced you to pleasure him. The pay was good so you never complained. After becoming his personal maid, it took a few months to make you fulfil his sexual needs, which is rather strange. A man like knows nothing of consent. He’s a tyrant. What he wants, he can get and he will. So why did he take months to make you fuck him when it was so easy before becoming his personal servant. Who knows? Maybe it was his underlying insecurities asking him to be sure.

“Naoya-sama...may I turn to look at you?” he grunts. “I’ll be sure to avoid any leakage” he nods. You slowly turn your body, still impaled on him. It was a different kind of pleasure but you withheld your moans. Your face are so close. This moment is intimate, for you and him. Almost unreal. He’s gorgeous. That red tint of blush and sex afterglow just added more to his beauty. “Naoya-sama. May I speak more than usual?” “Only because you asked for permission. Proceed.” he avoided looking into your eyes. A shy one. “I appreciate my master’s kindness. Thank you for allowing me to speak. Naoya-sama...please be honest with me. Are you trying to impregnate me? Why? I’m just a lowly servant. I could never be perfect to bear your children, or be a concubine. I have no value. You are too kind. We should stop. I will remove myself now. Thank you for your time master.” You slowly push yourself off him. He grabs your arm harshly, definitely bruising it.

“You said no leakage. And how dare you speak to your master so insolently? How dare you question what holds value to me or not. You are a lowly servant. You’re a filthy no-name bitch. You live to lick my shoes and pick up money I throw on the ground. You are not going anywhere. You are staying on this bed with me in you. You have to be reminded who your master is.” Oooh, you definitely pissed him off. You winced at his words. They were normal, he always told you where your place is so it wasn’t a surprise. “You stupid woman. Now it’s out. You moved and now it’s out.” he sounds disappointed. He was whining like a child. “Naoya-sama!” he plunged into you hard. “Yes, scream my name you stupid bitch.” He went faster and faster. “Don’t cum inside...I’m not worthy master” “Shut your mouth. Worthy? No woman is worthy of me. Selfish. All they care about are themselves. Such an inferior gender thinking what they know is worthy? I decide. I decide your worth.” He changed positions. He pressed both your legs close to your chest. A mating press. He was so deep. The squelching of his previous load acting as lubricant was erotic.

“You. Your lewd body. You were always trying to seduce me. Those luscious thighs. These fat breasts. You were made for child-bearing. The look you make when I fuck you. So in awe, eyes rolling back. Ah. Ah. Sometimes you even forgot payment because you rushed to clean yourself. You were the only memorable one. The sounds you make. You’re erotic. No one else can see or hear you except me. Mine. Mine. Mine.” Naoya drilled you senseless. So desperate to hear you. Desperate to look at your expressions. Desperate to conquer you. “N-naoya-sama! Ah! Ah! Naoya-sama!” You had practically lost any sense and all you could feel was his dick fucking you mercilessly. The veins. The length. The girth. He fit like a glove. He had shaped you to be accustomed to him. “When that no-name clan came yesterday for a meeting. I saw your look. You enjoyed how they all looked at you didn’t you? You slut. You’d want them to fuck you like this right? Only I can though. You smiled and served them. Desperate bitch.” The meeting yesterday?

Your mind wandered. Oh yes, a small clan that are partners with the Zenin in business. The heirs were quite good-looking and well-mannered, how could a lady not feel flattered. You can’t remember if you specifically smiled or enjoyed their small talk. Was being polite not a simple necessity a servant should have towards guests? To ensure their master was not seen as tardy. You can’t remember their names or faces. All you remember was Naoya slipping his hand under your garments and fingering you. “You enjoyed people watching right? Especially since they were good-looking. I WAS RIGHT THERE WITH YOU. Disgusting piece of shit.” He got even rougher. You don’t know how many times you’ve orgasmed and how many times Naoya had ejaculated in you but he was still at it. He’s jealous huh.. how strange. A man that could have anything and anyone in the world was strangely possessive of a worthless woman like you. “You can’t show them those expressions. Mine. Your kindness mine. Your sounds. Mine. You’re my servant.” he sounds sad.

Despite being in subspace, you unintentionally reach out to your master and cub his face. “Naoya-sama. I love you.” Those unintentional words made the malicious man slow down his pace. “What did you say?” Is he angry? Oof, all the best dealing with another tantrum. You couldn’t feel anything. Legs sore. Your mind had wandered. The pleasure had made you dumb yet the little consciousness you have for your master remained. “I love you, Naoya.” His cock twitched. “Again” “I love you.” “Again” “I love you, Naoya-sama”. All that repeating made you come to your senses. “I don’t remember the men from yesterday. All I remember were your thick fingers in me. My expressions and mewls were for you. If this body is what you want then I will offer it all to you, my master. Ask, you are my master after all. All of me is yours.” You get up a bit, and stagger, he fucked the life outta ya. “Master, allow me to speak.” a small dumbfounded nod. You slip a hand onto his cheek and kiss him. Both of you never shared a kiss.

It was too intimate for a servant to kiss their master. Only their betrothed would be worthy but you couldn’t help it, you needed to assure this man-child, you were no one else’s. “Master, I-“ “Naoya. When we’re alone call me Naoya.” a small smile crept onto your lips. “Naoya, breed me.” His face was flushed. That’s exactly what he wanted. Through the night, he fucked you in every inch of the room. Both of your fluids and smell, absolutely drenched his quarters. He never once ejaculated outside. Every drip of his semen was in your womb, he wouldn’t even pull out, in fear it would leak. Shower? He fucked you while showering too. His animalistic senses stopped when a knock on the door came.

“Lay down with your back arched. It can’t leak.” He put on a robe and answered. A woman’s voice. “Naoya-sama. Naobito-sama is calling for you.” “Tch. Annoying old man” he slams the door shut. “Oi. Arch even more.” He came back to you. “I’m going to put this in you so you don’t spill.” He was holding, A DILDO? This man has a dildo? “N-naoya-sama, t-thats...” “Some servant I had my way with some time ago left it to fuck with me. I kept it not knowing what it was but now the shape looks like it’d plug you up good.” A servant he had his ways with huh. You were just another one right. He seemed to have noticed your train of thought. “Stupid woman. That servant is long gone. And now. You’re mine. No other stupid bitch except you. Stop thinking nonsense. Maybe I’ll remind you a bit more. That old man can wait.” He unrobed and pounced you. You definitely can’t walk for a few days.

“I’ll plug you up and we’ll go see the old man” he sounds, quite joyful. “If you move and leak, I won’t hesitate to fill you up again.” Ah. He’s definitely Naoya Zenin. “Naoya-sama” you smile. “What? You should be grateful that I’ve allowed you to speak so many times since last night.” You can’t help but giggle. A slight blush forms on Naoya’s face. “How dare you laugh at m-“ you pull him in for a kiss. He reluctantly kissed back. “Naoya-sama, I love you.” you smiled. He thrusted into you without warning. “The old man can definitely wait. You filled with my child is more important.” God knows how many times he’d come in your womb without pulling out, there’s no way you’re not pregnant. “Naoya-sama...let’s stop here...I can’t walk properly if we continue, then a different servant will have to serve you.” He was about to argue but held his tongue. “Fine.” He pulled out and slowly shoved the dildo in. Looks like he’d rather have wobbly-legged you than another servant. You can't help but smile. “Go shower and meet me back here. And clean the room after meeting with the old man. The smell...erotic but dreadful. Wash everything.” “Yes my master.” You hurriedly got clothed and rushed to the servant quarters to clean up. You were happy. What a weirdo.

#jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #naoya zenin #naoya zenin smut #naoya zenin x reader

[okay-victoria]

Random Personal Rant

For anyone somehow here not from the original thread, this started off me getting asked what finishing school is and me getting shit off my chest that is only mildly relevant about how I could both be of the social class that gets sent to finishing school and grows up on welfare.

With an understanding that in many parts of the world it wouldn't qualify as so, as far as the US goes, my dad is from what counts as a very old money family from Baltimore & Philadelphia. Both his siblings went to college and one now owns a major hedge fund, and his sister is married to a C-level executive at a huge conglomerate. His parents went to college. His grandparents went to college. All eight of his great grandparents went to college. My dad...did not go to college. He was not about that life, and while I don't mean it as an insult, when I say his primary occupation until I was ~5 was a drummer in a mediocre band I mean that he opened for a lot of great acts, and if you lived in the Boston to Atlanta area in the 80s you may have heard him play, but he was never a huge national name. But he wasn't an amateur band playing for free at some random local gig either.

My mom grew up on a chicken farm in a Mennonite family in Pennsylvania but also completely rejected her heritage and became a model, sort of like my father, of mediocre status. Not Giselle Bundchen, but had national contracts and if you have a Graco ad/box from 1990-1993 you might see both me and her on it. They met because my mom's friends placed bets, one each, on who could sleep with a member of their favorite local band first and my mom picked my dad and...my mom was actually supposed to go be a model in Tokyo and found out she was pregnant with me and couldn't go 😂

So, after my parents had two kids back to back with a third on the way and determined they needed lifestyles more in line with having three children, they became much poorer than they originally were because my mom stopped working and my dad, with a barely-passed-high-school education but needing a true "day job" worked day labor in construction. My dad's father was too proud to give us money/help if my dad didn't beg for it; despite having eventually four young children my dad never did so we ended up on all the state assistance programs one could imagine. My grandma jokes that dinners at my parents house were BYOC - bring your own chair, because we didn't own any.

My mother and paternal grandmother had no such pride issues and I live in eternal gratitude that my welfare childhood was not as crappy as it should have been because my grandmother would have my mom accompany her on grocery runs and buy us food without my father or grandfather knowing, and every Christmas and birthday my grandparents/godparents could give us the one big ticket gift all the kids wanted that year. But, on the other side, I once got stung by a bee inside my mouth because my brother threw a hairbrush through a cracked window at me and broke it and we couldn't afford to fix it for about two years and a hornet got in one day and rested himself in my coke can (my parents were the very American type that fed me coca-cola in baby bottles at age 8 when I was jealous of my younger siblings lol).

It is hard not to believe in "toxic masculinity" when two men warring over dumbass pride issues would rather their children/grandchildren go without food than suck it up and decide 'help' isn't the worst word in the English language, and you know you've only been saved by two women who came from totally different backgrounds and entirely disapproved of each other but reached out the hand to shake when it came down to toddlers getting the short end of the don't-bend-the-knee stick. It wasn't that either of the men were bad people, I loved them both and got along great with both, but on a societal level I feel they were socialized in a very fucked up way if that was the end result, as both claimed "male pride" in these instances [my dad took multiple thousands of dollars I'd saved from working during college from me during the 2008-2010 financial crisis and didn't tell me and that was the reason I was given for why I hadn't been informed/asked, because it would be too emotionally difficult for an adult man to ask a young woman. My graduation present was them repaying me 1/3 of the money they'd taken from me without asking because I'd like, trusted them when it had been in a joint account that was a holdover from when I was <18 and couldn't have my own bank account].

While in some ways my parents on the surface achieved the American dream of going from nothing to a bunch of money, the real factor in play was that my dad's father was the bank. My parents had no credit and couldn't get real loans. My dad worked construction and during the two major periods that flipping houses was very lucrative, he never had to get an actual loan or pay actual interest, he just had to ask his father to pay out cash and then repay him at a flat 2% interest rate that didn't even accrue over time, just...whenever you are ready, repay the value of the loan + 2%. Because my father was doing something productive, in these instances, my grandfather was happy to pay, because it wasn't giving away money, it was loaning it. I had a very weird situation of mostly being poor but like also getting taken to the "big donors" events at the Kennedy Center and my grandparents regularly buying me a dress as a child worth more than my mom's wedding dress and also needing to pretend I fit in with these people.

And look. When I say "these people"...honestly, by and large, most wealthy people, whether inherited or not, are not the assholes you want to imagine. Most of them are extremely nice. Most of them are generous when it comes to the less fortunate who are in their personal sphere of being. Most of them are just really out of touch. The 100% kindest of all of them that I know once relayed to me that she thought people would be happier if once a year they did what she did...go to the airport with a purse packed full of absolute necessities, buy a one way ticket to the most appealing destination on the flight board, buy your clothes and book your accommodations after you'd arrived, and come back after you felt you'd 'centered' yourself. She didn't understand why there were so many unhappy people who weren't taking this very obvious route to being happier. I didn't quite know how to explain that saying "most" people couldn't afford to do that either financially or from a job/career angle didn't even cover it, as "most" sounds like 70% instead of 99.7%.

I was both my parents eldest son and eldest daughter in the worst combination possible. I was the eldest son because I was the most stereotypically male of all my siblings, in everything from desire to physically fight the battles I was given to dislike of shopping/fashion to lack of emotional connection to my relationships, so I can now fix your average household plumbing/drywall/electrical issue better than most "city" guys I interact with and remain less clingy to them in the process. I was also very much the oldest daughter from a responsibility perspective, I managed our household and from age 10 - 24 managed the finances of our family business, my mom almost died giving birth to my youngest brother after a ruptured uterus that should never have happened in the first place if we had adequate insurance to get her a non-emergency C-section (I was just past 9 years old at the time) and I was informally withdrawn from school for two years to take care of the family when she couldn't because there is no paid parental leave in the US and we got double-fucked by the medical industry because she got a bad "mesh" put in and then had to have a further surgery to repair that which we also had to pay for and didn't have the money to win a lawsuit over.

I don't know quite how to put this, but in the deepest fuck you of the universe, my rich-immigrant-ggggg grandfather's money led to him owning banks, insurance companies, etc, and the family cashed out in a big way when their ownership was bought by and merged with what is now Cigna, one of the biggest US healthcare insurers, and my nuclear family specifically got screwed by the American health insurance industry, but anyway, we were the people selected for that karmic comeuppance so if you want to feel schadenfreude at my expense, I'll allow it without begrudging the sentiment, my family might have fucked up your family’s life too, not just their own.

I got up twice a night to feed my brother because my dad had to sleep unmolested in my room to get to work and my mom was too weak to carry my brother or even hold him against her while she nursed so I had to hold him up to her. Adjusting to living in a city and hearing lots of random noises all the time was not easy when I'd had mom sound instincts from age 9.

I learned to drive the fall my youngest bro was born because my mom couldn't and I had to get my middle brother to preschool and go the grocery store on my own. While I hold absolutely no ill will towards my father or grandfather for this and given that about 1/3 of my paternal family either has an autism diagnosis or should, I fully feel the struggles they both went through to be communicated with, my father wouldn't ask for help, and my grandmother that lived 20 minutes away couldn't give enough help because my grandfather refused to do a single dish on his own as that was outside their "marriage contract" type agreement and she couldn't ever stay with us overnight when there wasn't a clearly-communicated need, so they let the burden fall on a 9 - 11 year old child and that really shaped a lot of my life in both good and bad ways. My youngest brother is 22, and we have only just climbed out of the medical debt his birth left us with between my dad's life insurance and my oldest brother and I paying for the extra cost of out-of-state college tuition.

The irony of all of this is that because my father died before his father, when my grandmother dies, my siblings and I will all inherit enough money (as a non-blood relative my mom, despite keeping her vows to part at death and not having remarried in eight years, is cut out entirely) to make this a non-issue, but my grandfather couldn't conscience spotting his unluckiest child some money in the end of days to pay for my youngest two brothers' education and take that worry off my father as he was dying. The day before he died I had to hold him down in bed to keep him from trying to climb in his truck to go to work because he was so anxious about trying to provide for us in spite of his father having fuck you money, because his father didn't think it was fair to the other siblings (who, at the time, still owned a major hedge fund and were married to a C-level executive of a huge conglomerate). A day and a half later I went back to my job because at the time I was then the sole provider for the family and didn't want to risk asking for the standard week's bereavement leave when I knew I was capable of showing up at work the next day and was fresh out of college so hadn't built up a reputation yet.

My father worked the day each of us was born, so I suppose it is only fair and he smiled at the choice. In spite of what it may seem, I gave a baller and very heartfelt speech at his funeral to all his rich friends that over and above everything, he'd taught us how to be happy with our own lives no matter what, and multiple of them emailed my mom in the aftermath to say they'd reassessed their relationship with their children in light of it, although...tbh I kind of doubt that lasted and they probably changed nothing 😅. The last good talk I had with him, two weeks before he died [his liver was going and it sent toxins to his brain that de-personed him after that and he no longer recognized me as his daughter, but as his sister], I reassured him that though we would all be sad he'd gone, we'd live on just fine without him because that's how he'd raised us, and according to my mom that was what gave him the final bit of peace he needed. Although honestly, I don't think I will ever see the strength in another human again that it took my grandmother to sit next to him and stroke his hand and tell him to close his eyes and imagine he was happy on a beach and die, for God's sake, because he was unaware and in pain and just prolonging it for our sake by then.

That type of obsession my grandfather had with assessing his children and grandchildren on the basis of economic productivity and a very black and white idea of "fair" is one you don't easily forget, I promise you. My hedge fund uncle is currently positioning himself to screw us out of our inheritance because of janky writing in the will and I'm doing my fuck all best to gain the wherewithal to go toe-to-toe with this cold motherfucker in court as the oldest and representative member of my happily much nicer and softer younger brothers who I want to remain that way not because I even care that much about the money, I know what bills affect your credit first and what you can put off paying and all of us have good enough career prospects to do our own thing, but just because I want to give the middle finger to a man that was a multi-millionaire and drew lines on his milk and orange juice bottles when I came over so he knew if I drank what my parents couldn't afford when I was approximately six. Anyway, ask me why I support major reforms in wealth taxation. I don't care who it goes to, just not that guy, you feel?

Having expendable income was very exciting for a bit after I started working but once I got to the hateable point of assessing my annual bonus and internally complaining that I'd spent the money I should have spent on a Sauternes cellar to drop five digits on bedset materials (to be fair they are drop dead gorgeous, very comfy and the factory pays a living wage for people to handmake the sheets/duvets/pillows to people in San Francisco, which is not cheap, so maybe I did more good than harm with that), I two seconds later nodded to myself and went "the government needs to confiscate more money from me". The narrative is always that the "undeserving" will use it for dumb things they don't need like iPhones or refrigerators...?...but like...I could also have gone to Bed Bath and Beyond and bought a very nice sheet/comforter set for at most a tenth of what I paid so am I really spending it responsibly either....?....who is going to get more joy out of this misspent money....?....not me, that is for sure, I probably would have had more fun going to BBB and laying on all the demo beds and buying something there.

My lifelong dream, which may become possible if/when I do have something of an inheritance, is to provide food security for one of the many towns in the US were most residents don't have it. It's the thing I remember the most distinctly over the years. I never could quite believe it when I got to the point that I could just...pay to eat at a restaurant. One of the most disappointed my mother has ever been in me is when I was twenty five and confessed I actually had no idea how much a gallon of milk cost in a city grocery store besides that it was probably between $1 and $5, because I didn't have to know. For now I make a weekly drop off of my excess produce to a mom group I met under somewhat weird circumstances but I was walking through the cut-through that went through the low-income housing back to my apartment at like 2 AM on a Saturday and these moms were out there partying and smoking weed with their kids all strapped in strollers around or the older ones watched by a rotating member of the group and I felt very safe and like these moms had a very good vibe of both living their own lives [seriously for mental health parents but in most cases specifically mothers need to be able to keep up relationships with people their age] but keeping their children safe and accounted for while doing so and trying their fuckin' best against all the odds to figure out how to make that happen when life had dealt them a shit hand.

...anyway, looping way back to the original question of what finishing school is, when I was almost done with middle school my dad had built a legit construction business that then very quickly took off because we lived in a commutable zip code to the now-rich-in-their-own-right people he went to high school with who trusted him to redo their homes. We eventually moved to that zip code but I stayed and commuted back to my old high school. But, i was a pretty wild kid which my father appreciated for a long while because I would follow him around on jobs and enjoy doing physical labor, but once I was mid-puberty and also he had to maybe show me to his high school friends that did not fly.

I snapped - not broke, snapped - my left thumb and my parents had to trap me like a wild animal to get me to go the hospital. Then I got a deep cut that partially injured a tendon in my leg and at eleven I tried to beat the shit out of my dad to prevent him from picking me up to strap me in the car and go to the hopsital. Next I got a deep splinter due to my eternal-barefoot tendencies and it wouldn't come out so got infected and I refused to go to the doctor [another weird back story but I was minorly sexually assaulted [[to be clear, not raped or anything big traumatic]] when I was eight and had to stay in hospital for a week and my parents couldn't be with me all the time so I have a permanent heebie-jeebie about going to the hospital, not true anxiety, I will go if I know I need to and I don't breathe heavy or anything, and I'm actually not permanently weirded out by sex or anything, just doctors in hospitals specifically I kind of unconsciously try to justify not needing to the extent I can rationalize it] and my dad was tired of my antics so he was like "fine if you don't go I will slice your foot in half with a Swiss Army knife to get it out" and I called his bluff and laid down on the floor, stuck my foot on his lap, and he didn't really know what to do when a barely fourteen year old girl called his bluff so my brothers watched in fascinated but horrified awe as I got my foot sliced open spectacularly so that the infection/splinter could come out and I didn't even make a sound out of spite despite it being quite painful to my recollection almost twenty years later.

They saw me cry from pain exactly one time when while trying to break up a fight between all three of them (it was over ice cream) I got pushed and my ankle got dislocated and what actually made me cry was snapping it back in place and they realized it was not a joke. These dumb assholes that I love have ragged on me for "skipping" chores the day after I was in the hospital because the day before that I had to spend 18 hours running Thanksgiving as a good sub-hostess like I didn't have a serious infection that needed treating and couldn't rest because none of them were up to any task beyond peeling potatoes.

After the Swiss Army knife incident, my dad's discussion of sending me to finishing school became real, which I knew when my mom made me take a walk with her and talked about it. Finishing school is like...etiquette school....? In ye olden day when finishing high school was not the norm for anyone, wealthy men finished high school and wealthy women often went to "finishing" school to have a combined education on being a proper lady but also being able to hold a decent conversation with your presumably-educated husband, so it wasn't entirely etiquette non-academic. It was more just like "what a rich man wants in a wife" school, which was sort of household management and knowing enough about cleaning/cooking to correct the staff if they fucked up, how to be a polite hostess, and how to not entirely bore him when you were alone together and had done your five minutes of sex or whatever so actually had to have a conversation. In modern times it has obviously expanded to be less bleak.

I said miss me with that, I can be a girl on my own, so I went full throttle into the girliest sport they offer in high school and ever since have gained the inestimable advantage of knowing how to also use femininity to my advantage, which I am very grateful to my parents for making me learn. It would be great if we lived in a world where that didn't count, but it did/still does, and they really set me up to operate in all the worlds.

It is weird for me to tell the story to Internet strangers because it's one of those things that makes your parents sound terrible and abusive in the general tone of the Internet nowadays, and while I support gender nonconforming children I don't remember my childhood or parents that way. But, I feel like the bits and pieces of my life I've given don't always make a ton of sense together without the context, so here it is, and in the end, I think a number of parts of it are areas where you can probably understand where it makes me have the opinions I do when I write.

Anyhoo, this makes my life sound far worse than it is, I actually have a great life and I am not unhappy with it at all and feel I was on the whole blessed with many more turns of luck than unluck, so, please, do not take this as a depressed artist rant, it is more like a rant of a very energetic person who rants about a lot of things all the time and didn’t need to come out but just did because the question was asked and the time was right with my life being in a bit of flux to think about how I got where I am and where I want to go and why.

Always remember no matter what problems it seems like I have, if I didn’t solve them on my 2 year round the world traveling hiatus I took from working, it’s my own fault, I definitely had the time and money to solve them and just chose not to.

[matthewtkachuk]

feel something pt 1 - jj

On the outside, you’re a kook princess with a seemingly perfect life and a perfect family. The expectations are suffocating you, to the point where the only thing you feel is numb. You’re chasing different coping mechanisms in order to feel something. Until a chance encounter with a certain blond pogue you know you’re supposed to hate gives rise to a different kind of feeling.

Warnings: angst, toxic behaviour, poor coping mechanisms, drug usage, mentions of sex, mentions of suicidal ideations (brief), Rafe being a grade a asshole, shitty parents

Pairings: JJ x reader (eventually), Rafe x reader (slight), Topper x reader (slight)

Words: 3.1k

A/N: I accidentally deleted this, ugh sorry if you see this again!! I started off wanting to write a supremely angsty one shot, turned into a supremely angsty multi-chapter fic. This is a slow burn, babyy. Here’s the set up, let me know what you think! :)

series masterlist

You stand teetering on the edge of the balcony railing, barefoot and facing the waves as they crash onto the beach. You’re not thinking about jumping. At least you’re pretty sure you won’t actually jump. Really you’re just looking for even a flicker of an emotion to stir up in your chest. Lately you haven’t felt anything more than mild annoyance at your parent’s constant bickering and pestering. You know you’re too young, but all you feel anymore is numb. You lift your left leg, balancing precariously on the right for a minute before lowering it and returning to the balcony and slipping your heels back on.

You don’t want to die, you just don’t want to live like this. Kook princess, paraded and practically pimped around by your parents, looking for you to find an advantageous marriage, have 2.5 kids and further accumulate your hoarded wealth. “Why don’t you date the Cameron boy? He’s quite good looking and your father would love it if you married his business partner’s son” and “The Thornton boy would be a good match, the family mansion is the largest” and “Jacob Kane’s father is a name partner at a successful law firm on the mainland”. Your mother’s incessant nagging about finding the perfect husband only further cements your lack of value as a human being, your usefulness tapped out at your ability to be someone’s wife.

You don’t understand the wealth accumulation thing, your trust fund probably equals the national budget of a small country already, and there’s no way anyone could blow through the entire family fortune in a single generation. At this point, it just feels like generating wealth for the sake of generating it. What good is money if it just sits in a bank account or investment portfolio, earning passive income and not being used for anything.

You recognize you’re very privileged, you’ve never once had to worry about where your next meal would come from, you have a closet full of designer handbags and red bottom shoes the value of which could feed several families on the Cut. But what’s the cost? You feel suffocated by the pressure bestowed upon you by your parents. You’re the eldest sibling, primary heiress to the Y/L/N family fortune and expected future successor of the family business. Truthfully, you couldn’t give less of a fuck about retail development or whatever it is that keeps your father so busy that he missed every single one of your piano and ballet recitals growing up. You like the idea of studying Shakespeare’s sonnets and soliloquies over learning about mergers and acquisitions and tax avoidance laws at college, but you know your father would sooner cut you off than let you pursue your own passions.

Sometimes you let yourself fantasize about leaving it all behind, running off to some college like Columbia, moving to New York and living in the city that never sleeps. With your 4.0 GPA and stellar extracurricular activities, you could probably get a pretty good scholarship. Or maybe Paris, where you would sit in a cute little café flirting with French boys and writing poetry by the Seine River. But it would be hard, and you’re too much of a coward to see if you could make it on your own without daddy’s money. Not to mention the little voice in the back of your head that sounds suspiciously like your mothers telling you that you’ll never amount to anything without their help.

Later, you’re wandering the party, both hands curled tightly around the cup you hold to your lips, eyes staring out at the crowd over the rim. Unfortunately, you catch Rafe Cameron’s eye as he’s sat around the coffee table with a freshly cut white line ready on the surface. He’s surrounded by the idiots he calls friends and more than one pretty little rich girl making eyes at him. The left corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk as he realizes you’ve sized up the company around him.

“Hey Y/L/N, want a line? First one’s on me, babe.” He calls out at you, but you just roll your eyes and keep moving forward. As desperate as you are to feel something, you’re not sure you can cross that line just yet. Partaking in the occasional joint or bong rip is one thing, but hard drugs is another. You don’t think trading in the empty feeling in your chest for an addiction is worth it. Seeing the blown out pupils of some of your peers, and the way they not-so-discreetly sniff and wipe at their noses you realize you’re likely alone in that assessment. “Your loss!” he calls out at your retreating form, and you don’t even bother to look over your shoulder. You know he’s not really interested in you beyond making you a customer and maybe a quick fuck.

You snort to yourself, wondering what your mother would think about the boy she wanted you to pursue offering you a line of coke at a party. Knowing her, she would focus on the fact that you had gained his attention and ignore the illicit substance.

Making your way through the cluster of bodies is harder than you had initially thought, everyone was on everyone. Every kook party ends up this way, a certain subset of the group coked out and the rest so drunk they can’t function, and you begin to wonder why you even bothered coming.

You’re not totally sure what you’re looking for, your best friend and Rafe’s younger sister Sarah doesn’t really associate with this crowd anymore ever since she started spending all her time with the less fortunate side of the island. Rafe had called it ‘slumming with those dirty fucking pogues’ the last time Sarah had partied with you. Maybe it isn’t right to call her your best friend anymore because not only does she not associate with this crowd, she doesn’t really associate with you either.

You know she’s hanging with Kie again, there are a lot of watchful eyes on the island and even more flapping lips. It’s kind of ironic, Sarah was the one who convinced you to drop Kie, and you had let her. Now the two of them were spending all their time together on some dilapidated boat named after the inhabitants of the Cut and you were alone at some lame party with a heavy weight on your chest and under your eyes.

Sighing deeply, you down the rest of the contents of your cup and grab a refill before turning your attention back to the crowd of people in the middle of the living room. As your brain starts to fog further with the familiar feeling four vodka crans give you, you let Topper put his hands on your hips and pull your bodies close together, your back to his front. A voice in the back of your mind wonders if you’re supposed to feel guilt over Sarah’s ex’s hands all over your body, but you don’t feel anything and Sarah clearly doesn’t give a fuck about you either.

The next morning you wake up with Topper’s hands around your bare waist. There’s a pain radiating against your skull and you have cotton mouth, but you quietly gather your clothes and sneak out of the room before the sleeping blonde can wake up and give you that regretful look he gets in his eyes every time you hook up. You know he still loves Sarah, in his own fucked up way and though you don’t regret where you woke up, you know you’ll just be annoyed if you have to deal with his issues this early in the morning with this bad of a hangover.

You’ve almost successfully left the large mansion, quietly walking through the living room to the front door when a voice remarks dryly, “Really, y/n? I thought you were better than my sister’s leftovers.”

Inhaling through your nose and out your mouth sharply, you spin on your heel to face Rafe with a blank expression on your face. He sits at the kitchen island, bare-chested with his hat on backwards, casually eating a bowl of cereal. The thought of why exactly Rafe is sitting half naked in Topper’s kitchen, eating Topper’s cereal briefly flashes through your mind but you decide you don’t care. “What do you care Rafe?” you ask, only half interested in his response. There’s a moment of silence, and you pick at your fingernails rather than meet his gaze.

“I’m just saying, I thought you were better than that,” he shrugs, bringing another spoonful to his mouth.

You roll your eyes, already tired of the conversation, “And who, pray tell, is better for me?”

“Me of course,” he smirks at you, and you huff out an annoyed laugh and raise an eyebrow silently asking him to explain. “Come on princess, I know your parents want you to marry up. ‘m your best option on this island”.

Mildly annoyed, you roll your eyes and turn back towards the front door, eager to leave this conversation behind. “C’mon baby, we both know how this thing ends, with you on my arm as the perfect trophy wife.”

There was a time those words might have brought butterflies in your stomach. Growing up best friends with Sarah meant you also grew up with Rafe, and you used to have the biggest crush on him. Forbidden by Sarah after a late night game of truth or dare, you didn’t use to mind when your mother would spout off about Rafe being the perfect boy for you. He used to look out for you like he did for Sarah. But that was a long time ago, and he no longer cared about either of you anymore and you had to admit you couldn’t remember why you had ever thought him anything but repulsive. That was before the drugs and the untethered rage that always rests just under the surface of his skin, ready to be unleashed at the smallest slight. You might have married the little boy with the gap toothed smile who once punched Jacob Kane when you were in the second grade and he wouldn’t stop bothering you, but this Rafe wasn’t good for anything beyond a quick meeting in the dark.

If you had been able to feel anything, you might have snapped back at him, but you had no energy and honestly all you wanted was to shower in your own shower and collapse in your own bed, so you ignored his comment and slipped out the door.

It was a quick walk back to your house, and you snuck in quietly through the front door hoping no one was home and your dreams of slumbering until the early afternoon could be realized. Unfortunately, your mother sat on the cream colored chaise in the sitting room, clearly anticipating your arrival. Her eyes quickly scanned your appearance, your manolos held by the straps in your right hand, your sex hair and décolletage you were sure was covered in bites and bruises caused by overeager lips, before sighing.

“Y/n, darling, you have to stop this silly behaviour and settle down. Boys aren’t going to want to lock you down if they’ve already had you.” She criticizes, effectively slut-shaming you. You roll your eyes at that, briefly wondering if the old wives tale was true and you’d end up with your eyes stuck like that. You decide you don’t mind, it would save you some time as your base reaction to most interactions is to roll them.

“I had a rough night mom, I’d like to go back to bed,” you tell her as you try to slip past her. A cold hand circles your wrist, stiletto tipped manicure digging slightly into the skin stopping you from moving any further.

“I’m serious, y/n, you’re better than this.” She throws the same words Rafe had at you. Exasperated and exhausted you rip your wrist from her grasp and head to the stairs. “We’re not done talking about this!” she shouts but you ignore her and continue towards your nice shower and bed.

Rolling over to an empty bed several hours later, you grumble as you try to identify the source of your wakeup call. Cursing as you smack your arm against your side table, you finally manage to grab your ringing cell phone. Seeing RC flash as the contact calling, you groan loudly, before hitting the decline button and rolling back over. A minute later your phone chimes again, indicating a voice mail.

You figure there’s no point in drawing out the inevitable, so you unlock the phone and listen the voicemail Rafe left. He’s invited you to hang out with him and his friends on his dad’s yacht. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’ve sent him a text to say you’d be there in an hour. Despite there being no love lost between you and Rafe, you really don’t have any better options and maybe if you tell your mom who you’re hanging out with she’ll get off your back and not subject you to The Lecture. You and Sarah used to laugh and joke about The Lecture, about how being a Y/L/N means being perfect and obtaining a perfect husband. The two of you would mock your mother, exaggerating her southern drawl that slipped out as she lectured you on the importance of propriety and ‘leaving something to the imagination’.

As you slip on a navy sundress with a deep neckline, you laugh, thinking to yourself that there’s not much left to leave to the imagination. You take the time to curl the ends of your hair to create a bouncy wave and apply a few coats of waterproof mascara and lip gloss. The humid heat of the OBX keeps your makeup routine light in the summer.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” Shit. Your dad’s home, he knows you stayed out all night, and he’s pissed. You don’t think your mom told him the full story, because he’s not frothing at the mouth mad, just his typical disappointed mad.

“Rafe invited a couple of friends to hang out on his dad’s yacht, daddy,” you reply back, not meeting his eyes.

You can tell your dad disapproves, because the lines between his eyebrows are more pronounced with his narrowed eyes. As he starts to give you what you’re sure is an impassioned lecture, your mother pops up out of nowhere, gushing, “Rafe? Well of course you can go sweetie, isn’t that right hon?” she turns to your dad, a single eyebrow raised daring him to defy her. Your parents are the ultimate power couple, wielding power and guilt over each other almost as easily as they try to do to you.

He sighs, realizing the fight with his vengeful wife isn’t worth the lesson you’re not going to learn anyway and nods, “Alright, just be back for supper, we’re going to sit down as a family tonight. And tell Sarah we said hi.”

If either parent noticed your stiffened back, they don’t comment on it. You hadn’t told them that Sarah dumped you like yesterday’s news just yet. Why blow a perfect cover story? Again, the lack of guilt should probably concern you, but you’re more focused on the very expensive, very good quality wine that you know is waiting for you on the Cameron’s yacht.

An hour later, you’re sitting between a very uncomfortable Topper and a disinterested Kelce with a full wineglass in your left hand. Your right hand slides your sunglasses back onto your eyes to shield them from the harsh sunlight that beats down directly on your face.

You can’t find the energy to strike up a conversation with either of them, and they don’t seem very inclined to start one either, so you turn your head to the side and look out at the water until you see a familiar beat up boat approaching. You visibly tense as your eyes lock on your blonde former best friend laughing with her arm around John B as their stupid friends talk and laugh around them. “You okay, y/n?” Kelce finally speaks, noticing your change in posture.

“Never better,” you drily reply moving to turn your head back to the other side of the yacht, as if the other boat on the water didn’t exist at all. Your eyes briefly flicker to the other blond on the boat, taut muscles on display beyond the ratty cut-off tank top as the pogue known as JJ attempts to wrestle with his friend Pope. You feel a drop in your stomach that perplexes you as your eyes scan his sunkissed skin. Startled, you turn your head quickly and take a huge sip of your wine.

You anticipated some sort of confrontation, maybe a thrown insult, but their boat simply eclipsed the yacht and they continued on their way. You were annoyed by the concerned look that Kelce threw your way after they had left, so you downed your glass and grabbed Rafe’s hand and all but dragged him inside the cabin.

The second the door shuts behind you, you’re on him, mouths mashing in a hungry kiss. He smirks against your mouth and leads you into the bathroom and proceeds to rid you of your clothes.

As you’re letting Rafe Cameron fuck you in the bathroom of his yacht, your mind can’t help but think you’re fucking over Sarah, too.

“Fuck baby, you feel so good,” he praises in your ear as he thrusts into you from behind. You don’t even have the energy to fake a moan, you just lean your head back against his shoulder.

When he’s finished, you simply slip your dress back on, refill your glass and sit back between Topper and Kelce as if they didn’t just hear you hook up with their best friend.

You go to bed early that night after a “nice family dinner” that consists of back-handed compliments and your mother fishing for details about your time on the yacht. You don’t think she’d be too pleased about letting Rafe ‘have you’ before ‘locking you down’, so you keep it to a minimum. Both parents drill it into your head that as a Y/L/N, you’re held to a higher standard than your peers. Perfect grades, perfect life, perfect daughter. You don’t know how to tell them you don’t even feel human anymore, so you smile and nod as they pester and nag. Your little sister sits quietly the whole time, looking at you with an emotion you can’t quite decipher.

#slow burn #obx #outerbanks #obx netflix #obx fanfic #obx fanfiction #jj obx #jj x you #jj x reader #jj imagine #jj fanfiction #jj maybank x you #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank fanfiction #jj maybank x you fanfiction #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #angst #diverdcwn writes

[itgetsdarksometimes35]

Small Price to Pay

Warnings: Non con, dub con, forced marriage, forced pregnancy, little bit of childbirth, slight depression, 18+

Word count: 2,973

Pairings: Bucky Barnes X Reader

Summary: Reader is the youngest girl in her family and her father is looking to sell his daughter into marriage next. She’s able to fend off majority of the men who come to court her, but then a mysterious man with eyes the color of the ocean comes into the picture. Money is a small price to pay for a happy life after all. 

~ indicates a time change

Prompts: The song “Light” by Sleeping at last

A/N: This is for @marvelfulxbabes​ challenge that I’m so thrilled to be apart of. I’m sorry for the hiatus, school is always way busier during the 2nd semester, but I have a bunch of stuff coming out. As for my series they may take a while, so I’m sorry if you were invested in those. They are coming though, I miss them deeply. Anyway, hope you enjoy :)

Ps: Thinking about part 2 to this, whatcha think? ;)

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Your father was a douchebag. Plain and simple. He had bought your mother from your grandfather and he had sold your older sisters to men twice their age. Now that you were 18, it was your turn. You were extremely close to your sister, Anne. She was the third oldest and the last to leave you alone with your two younger half brothers. She was the most like you and always fought back the men who came to bid on her like property. Sadly, a man came by and easily found it charming. She always said to never give in, figure out what they want and do the opposite. You’d be successful only until dad finds a man who doesn’t give a damn at all. They were out there, but your father had failed nearly a thousand times already. 

Since your birthday, at least three men have come to your house to try to court you. In fact, that’s what your birthday present was, a rich man named Tony Stark there to court you. He worked as a CEO on the upper east side for a well known tech company. He was loaded, and your father wanted in. You figured out Tony like proper and well spoken ladies, someone to show off at his expensive Galas filled with people who spoke seven different languages. So, you acted a slob. Spilled your fancy tea all over yourself and his prestine suit, mispoke several words, use vulgar language, and acted painfully stupid. Tony marched right out and your father made you kneel in rice until your knees bled. It was worth the pain. 

It’s been six months and your father was unsuccessful. You have never seen your sisters since their marriage and you missed them, especially Anne. You didn’t want to end up a housewife somewhere with no say in anything. When your mom died your father quickly remarried, it was as if your mother meant nothing to him. You’d be damned if that happened to you. If you were going to get married, it’d be for love. 

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“Wake up, you have a visitor.” Your father shook you awake. You rubbed your eyes and looked to your father, he was already smoking a cigar even though it was 8am. You groaned and got out of bed, walking to your closet, pulling out a t-shirt and jeans. 

“Oh no, you can go out like that.” Your father pointed to your sleep shorts that showed off your legs and cupped your ass perfectly; your top was a thin tank top that showed your hardening nipples. You rolled your eyes and started walking to your door, shouldering your way past your father. 

You walked into the living room and saw a man standing there with his back to you facing the window. His arms were folded and you saw one sparkling in the light, he had a metal arm. You gasped at it and stopped in your tracks. The man turned to you and the corners of his mouth threatened to rise. He was hot. His hair was pinned out of his face in a man bun, he wore navy blue dress pants and a white button up dress shirt that had he rolled to his elbows. His eyes were as bright as the diamonds the strange men bring to you in order to try to buy your love. 

“Mr. Barnes, my daughter. Daughter, Mr. Barnes.” The way your father said daughter bit at your nerves. He knew introducing you with a title rather than your name made you feel inferior, as if that’s the only thing there was to know about you. You glared at your father before turning back to Mr Barnes. He extended his flesh hand to you. 

“Pleased to meet you. I doubt your name is daughter, though.”

He smiled at you, but it didn’t meet his eyes. You took his hand and faked a smile. “Mmmhm, it’s not. Y/n will do just fine.” Mr. Barnes shook your hand before gesturing to the couch. 

“Take a seat, let’s get to know each other.” At that your father excused himself, but not before casting you a warning look. You smirked back at him before taking your seat next to Mr. Barnes. “So, how old are you?”

“97, just a few years younger than you.” You bit at him. You always lead with sarcasm, if they laughed they were serious and you’d have to become boring. If they didn’t that means you had to continue being “unladylike.” 

Mr. Barnes eyebrows shot up before he laughed a bit. It wasn’t real, he was uncomfortable. He was easy to read, you had this in the bag. 

“Alright, I see why you’re so uptight. I wouldn’t like it if men were to come in and try to buy me either. Believe it or not, I used to hate this practice.”

“Yet you’re willingly here and seem to be enjoying it.” You cocked your head to the side, your smart mouth making him shift a bit. 

“My younger sisters have been victims of this trade,” Mr.Barnes ignores you, “I always said I wouldn’t do it. As time has gone on, no woman of value isn’t being bargained off. You should be lucky your father cares for you so much, the ones who aren’t cared for are just thrown out into the world.” 

“Grateful? My father sold my sisters like livestock for a couple millions and I haven’t seen any of them in years! This “bargaining” system is destroying families and is never created equal. What do the men and young boys suffer? What do they lose? They can still go see their family. They still have freedom.” Your voice raised, the audacity that these men had always blew your mind. They didn’t understand and never would, so why did they try to sit there and try to make you? They saw how unhappy their sisters and mothers were, yet they continued on with this bullshit for generations. If you ever were married off and had a son, you’d beg him to stop the cycle. You’d try even harder to protect your daughter. 

Mr. Barnes sighed and sat up a bit more. “I’m sorry doll, I didn’t mean to upset you. I meant it as a compliment, honest.” You crossed your arms and glared at him. He looked apologetic but you didn’t care. You weren’t here to be nice, you were there to survive as long as you possibly could. 

“Well, Mr. Barnes, your intentions don’t seem to have worked out, did they?” You raised your chin and said his name with a poison that even stunned you. There’s no way he’s gonna want you.

“My real name is James, sorry for the formicality,” Mr.Barnes was suddenly smiling and standing up. He crossed to the door that separated the living room and the main area in your house. Where your father was sitting on the other side. What just happened?

You lookedon with curious eyes as James opened the door and called for your father. He was still smiling and your father rushed over, angry eyes finding yours before turning soft at James when he saw his beaming face. “We have a deal, sir” He shook your father’s hand while your jaw dropped. Fuck.

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Two million dollars. That’s how much you’re worth apparently. You don’t know where you went wrong, but being a brat was only going to work so many times. James apparently didn’t mind at all that you had a mouth, in fact he was telling your father how much he loved it. He said while looking for a wife he pretended to be proper so that when the girls acted the way they thought he wanted them to, boring in his opinion, he knew they weren’t for him. You, on the other hand, spoke your mind and were feisty. It ignited a flame James believed was dead. 

You looked on with glossed over eyes as you say your belongings being packed away and set in a moving truck. It was mostly irreplaceable objects such as photos and your favorite clothing. James promised to buy you new things and to add a new wardrobe. He must’ve been loaded because after dropping that much he still promised so much more. Lucky girl you were.

You signed a paper while a ring decorated your finger and numbly kissed James on the lips to seal your marriage. He wore a similar band on his left hand finger. “Congratulations, may your marriage be filled with joy, blah blah blah.” Your father blabbered while he sucked on another cigar and counted the money James had given him. 

James took you to his house. It was a humble suburban home on the outskirts of New York, much different than your penthouse in the city. There was a white picket fence and freshly trimmed grass decorating the outside. “We’re home, doll.” James cut the engine of his BMW, putting his hand on your thigh. You changed into a short blue summer dress that complimented your skin tone and brown wedges. You looked like your mom and every other dutiful wife you’d known. 

You stepped out of the car and looked up at the house that you’d be spending the rest of your life. The sky was clear and beautiful but you felt the depressive clouds that rained over cul de sac, drenching their housewives. The weight these women held, loving the men who cheated, hated, and abused them. James came up behind you and pulled your waist so that you leaned on him. He kissed your cheek and looked into your eyes. “I can’t wait for us to fill the rooms in the house. I can see it now, two kids a boy and a girl. Maybe more if it feels right.” Your stomach churned at the thought. You didn’t want kids with him. But it didn’t matter, when you signed your name you signed away your happiness. The light had gone out in your soul. 

“Yes dear.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two years into your marriage felt like a decade. Every day was the same: wake up, make breakfast, see James off to work, clean, shower and look pretty for James, cook dinner, welcome James home, eat dinner and ask James about his day, have sex, and go to sleep. The sex at first was painful and he was never gentle. He was never lovey dovey, never brought flowers, just wanted a one-sided relationship. 

You always went to visit his family and friends on holidays or you hosted his family and friends at your house. You hadn’t seen your family and, even though you hated your dad and never really talked with your stepmom and brothers, you missed them for the similarity. You were missing your brothers growing up, one was three when you left the other was six. You asked once to see your sisters and James merely shrugged it off. “You would only bother them” he reasoned, “They’re busy running a household like you. They don’t have time for useless small talk.”

Today it wasn’t your alarm that woke you up. It was the vomit that was rising in your stomach, pushing its way out of your mouth. You ran to your bathroom and puked in the toilet. You continued gagging and dry heaving when everything was out of your tummy. James walked in rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and yawning. “What’s wrong, honey?”

“N-nothing, dear. I’m sorry for waking you.”

James shook his head and walked closer to you. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I think I just ate something.”

James frowned. “We eat the same thing, have for years. You always skip lunch because it ruins your appetite for dinner. I’m not feeling sick.” His lips showed signs of cracking a smile as he bit his finger, pretending to ponder what could be going on.

You knew what he meant. It had been two years of sensless fucking. Like you had held out on marriage your body had held out on pregnancy, but just like your marriage to james, your body had come to a point that it could no longer fight. 

James opened up the medicine cabinet behind the mirror and pulled out a pink box. He reached in and pulled out to reveal two white sticks. He handed them to you. “Take them.”

You reached out and took the sticks, starting to pull your pants down so you could pee. Thirty minutes later, James’ phone timer rang and he looked at the sticks. His face scrunched as pure joy took over his features. He held the sticks out to you. “We’re pregnant!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You had just gotten done with your baby shower and you were now sitting down for a break before you would get up and start cleaning. You rubbed your sore back and nine month old belly. Baby boy was bigger than normal, James said it was because of his special genes. James was saying bye to his best friend, Steve, before he shut the door and turned to you. Of course, nobody you were close with was at the party, just James’ family and close friends. He did say he had phones your father to tell him the news, but he failed to send even a card. You had grown to not expect much or feel sad for the neglect you got emotionally from your husband or your father. 

James made his way to you, he was still smiling. “Not much longer, doll. We’ll be meeting this big guy any day now.” He rubbed your belly before grabbing your hand, pulling you up to stand despite your pain. “Dance with me.” You both danced to music that wasn’t playing and you felt your son kick. You smiled, the light you thought you’d lost was slowly lighting again. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The contractions were horrible. Nothing you had ever felt before. You were screaming and clutching James’ hand as you were being wheeled into the hospital room. Nurses and doctors poked and prodded at your skin, asking you questions you weren’t capable of answering due to the immense pain you were feeling. Your legs were propped up and James moved closer to you, still holding your hand. The doctor came to stand between your legs before sitting in a chair. He nodded to James while you sobbed out as a new wave of pain washed over you. “Alright, Mrs. Barnes, push.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your schedule was thrown off balance a bit, you had a newborn now. You still did the majority of the things the same, wake up, make breakfast, get James Jr, or Bucky as a nickname, and feed him, see James off to work, clean up, bathe and dress Bucky, clean and dress yourself up, make lunch because it was important for breastfeeding now, walk around to settle Bucky for a nap, cook dinner, greet James, feed Bucky, get him ready for bed, have sex with James, and sleep yourself. 

You loved your son unconditionally, he slept in the crib next to you and James’ bed for now. “Easier access” James had said. You didn’t mind, you were closer with the love of your life. 

James held your wrists in one hand as he thrusted into you, his hips crushing into yours at fast and hard rhythm that was sure to leave bruises. His moans and skin slapping skin was the only thing you could hear in the room, Bucky was sleeping soundly. 

“Fuck, your pussy is so good for me. Still so tight, even after Bucky. Shit I’m gonna cum, gonna fill you up so you can give me a girl. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, James.”

“Mmm, good girl. My good girl.” James finished inside you, grunting in the process. He rolled over and released a long breath. “You’re such a good mom, doll. Such a good wife.” He sleepily rambled. You hummed in response and rolled over to face Bucky, watching as his tiny hands scrunched into fists and his steady breaths caused his chest to rise and fall. His light blue and grey onesie and matching hat barely fit, he was growing faster than you thought any baby did. You’d ask James to buy more soon. Maybe he would let you go too, picking out baby clothes for your son would make you so happy. You’d work towards it, make James’ favorite meal and might even throw in a few blowjobs. 

Bucky’s face started to contort and he soon started to fuss, his pacifier falling out of his mouth. You looked at the time and knew it was time for his feeding. He ate a lot but that’s just what a growing boy like him needed, plenty of food. You picked him up before he could wake James and guided him to your nipple. He stopped crying and started sucking, looking at you with big blue eyes like his father. You let you fist wrap around your finger as you slightly rocked and quietly hummed. Bucky was the light you needed in your life. He made your soul glow again, and he gave you hope for the future. Hidden in the dressure was money you were slowly stealing from James. Five dollars here, another ten there. By this time next year you’d have enough money to leave with your son Bucky. You’d leave with your sisters to live in a house Anne had found in Germany. 

Bucky let go of your breast and cooed. He looked at you with sleepy eyes as he let out a small yawn. You smiled. “With every heartbeat I have left, I will defend your last breath.” You promised your son. He was the light, and you felt you could sleep peacefully at last knowing he was right there with you.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

@jtargaryen18​

#marvelfulxbabeswritingchallenge #dark!bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes x reader #non con #dub con #dark!marvel #dark!mcu

[segenassefa]

2: On Consumerism, Fighting Demons, and Societies Inevitable Collapse

Quarantine has been lowkey surreal. My constant complaint of never having enough time to do all the things I want/should be doing has now left me bored in the house, bored in the house, bored with nothing but time to get said things done. However, it is a dual edged sword - with the collapse and subsequent reformation of civil society outside my doors, it leaves me wondering – as well as a lot of other people – in the words of Miss Juicy…what the hell we gone do now?

Nearing the end of the first leg of my university career, I should be thinking about getting ready to transition to the next logical stages of adulthood - saving for an apartment, applying for permanent residency, as well as graduate schools and part time jobs. Yet, I’m worried about if these things will even be a possibility within the next month, six months, or even the next year.

On top of ALL of that, the recent BLM protests and the way that people (read: white people, Latinxs, Black men, homo/transphobes, etc.) have shown their asses the past few months is beyond mortifying - especially regarding the treatment of black women and how our value as individuals as well as a collective to society is really perceived.* This is not to downplay the murder of numerous black men in society, BUT who the fuck is riding for black women aside from other black women? And not just the ones who find attractive, or are racially ambiguous, or the ones you feel as if you get “guilted” into supporting and demanding justice for, I mean each and every black woman. I’m just saying, it gets pretty disheartening to feel like the legwork of the revolution is on the back of one category of people, and that your value to society is measured by the amount of emotional labour you’re ready to do for others, or how fat your ass is (but I digress…).

I feel like most people have used material things as coping mechanisms instead of actually facing their feelings and dealing with the things that bother them. Just think of the number of packages that have arrived on your doorstep the past few months. Breaking the glossy seal of packing tape is similar to therapy, until all the boxes are open, and you start feeling like shit again. And now, more than ever, there’s a lot to be bothered about. Western society has dedicated phrases based on the phenomenon of substituting true self-work with figurative emotional bandages (Phrases like comfort eating and retail therapy come to mind).

It’s nice to think that we – the people entering their adolescent and young adult years – will be the one to change these things, but suddenly it’s 2 am, you have twenty different things in your Amazon cart, (who the fuck needs a metal straw cleaning kit?) and you’re trying to see how far you can stretch and grab your debit card before falling off of the bed.

The conflicting messages pushed by society don’t help all that much either. If you look up “Kondo method” or “decluttering my closet” on YouTube, the numbers of videos that come up is astounding. Pages and pages of sweaty-faced, smiling YouTubers monetizing from this kind of faux “minimalism” only to post haul videos a few days later because “I threw everything out and now I have to rebuild from scratch sksksk!”. Does this not just perpetuate a cycle of buying and throwing and buying? I am....confusion, to say the least. Still I watch them, because I’m a hypocrite, and am also easily amused.

I will be the first to admit I have always had a very unhealthy relationship with money, with self-image, and with measuring my self-worth in proximity with “stuff that stems from a complicated relationship with physical self. Follow along:

Growing up, I was a fat kid. We don’t even have to sugar coat it. Think Terrio, but better eyebrows and more hair. Except I was not killin’ em, just myself. I always envied my friends who were able to go shopping at regular stores – read: Hollister, Abercrombie, Urban Outfitters (yes my friends were white), meanwhile I was condemned to shopping in the women’s department.

So, to compensate, I would buy trinkets – things like nail polish, lip gloss, journals, you get the point. My proximity to worthiness was measured not by the things that I bought, but within the act of buying. Growing up with parents who were also financially frugal also altered my relationship with money and blessed me with crippling buyers’ remorse after every purchase, even on things that are important (read: groceries).  

But as a kid, buying “stuff” was fun for me – it gave me some sort of purpose, and the acquisition of things (even if they weren’t the same things my peers had) made me feel like, to some extent, I could compete on the same playing field. As I got older, and I started to have real expenses, I moved towards second-hand shopping. I would religiously find myself at Goodwill on weekend, after school, or with friends. I could literally feel an endorphin rush when I would find something that I would consider a “good deal”, and it made me feel (again) purposeful, to be spending money, even if I didn’t need whatever I was buying.

I should also add that the people in my immediate family does not believe in thrift stores (“Why am I working for you to wear other people’s clothing?”, I remember my dad asking me one day), so the act of second-hand shopping was also my form of rebellion.

I began to amass a collection of clothing that would put Kylie’s closet to shame. I began buying things for events and situations that were yet to happen, for other people, for when I lose ten pounds. It was a madness.

In freshman year of university, I had an unhealthy relationship with clubbing clothes. Did I have the figure for clubbing clothes? Absolutely not. The funnier part is, I couldn’t even go clubbing because I wasn’t 19 at the time. And yet I had drawers and drawers full of the stuff. Not to mention that clubbing clothes is incredibly similar to summer clothing and living between Minnesota and Canada meant that these things were barely seeing the light of day.

The moral of this was – I could never figure out my relationship with stuff, This quarantine has forced me to try and break down the compulsion behind my behaviour.  I felt like I was spiralling the six weeks that they closed thrift stores, and I knew myself well enough to not try and online shop with the same kind of frequency as that. But the crazy part was, I didn’t die. I didn’t go into withdrawal (ok, I did a little bit, but whatever), and I was able to take the time to go through the things I already owned and find some hidden gems that were routinely buried in the cracks and crevices of my closet. It was like the episode of Family Guy when Peter realizes he has a vestigial twin – alarming and cool at first, but then it’s just alarming and annoying.

Its more embarrassing to realize that some semblance of myself image is tied to the frequency with which I am able to spend money. I would never say that participating in capitalist society gives me some kind of purpose as a black woman because God forbid. Also, considering that a lot of big names companies are actually racist and fatphobic as hell creates a whole new dimension for analyzing the power of my black dollar, sometimes creating another spiral of guilt leading to you guessed it – more spending.

As much as it seems like it, however, this self-reflection was not in vain. In the past month, I’ve cut down my closet from +200 pieces of clothing and shoes to about 40. If you ever want a fun, humbling activity this quarantine, just clean out your closet and be honest with yourself about how often you wear certain things. It was revolting to see the number of shirts, dresses, pants, skirts that I had bought and convinced myself wholeheartedly I was going to wear, only to pull them out of my closet months later with the tags attached *insert Marge Simpson covering her face meme*.

But at the end of the whole ordeal, it felt really good to look at my space and not feel burden or guilt. It was somewhat philanthropic realizing that not only will these clothes make someone else happier (I donated pretty much everything because it’s not always about money), but that my quality of life was not dramatically impacted in owning (or not owning) certain things. The past few weeks, I’ve spent more money on going out and sharing experiences with friends, but still nowhere near the same amount of money I would have spent buying clothes and other material possession.

Youtuber Kelly Stamps has a video on how minimalism “cured” her depression**, and the whole thesis boils down to the idea that owning less things gives you less to compare yourself too, thus making you happier (in a sense) and allowing you to focus the energy and time that would have been centered around maintaining and building your collection of possessions other things.

This still doesn’t break down the root of the issue, but it’s a start. I think when you have traits or patterns that you’ve participated in for so long, it becomes hard to step back and be objective enough to realize that you – yes, you – are part of the problem. I can blame my habits on a lot of things but at the end of the day, it’s important to realize that certain cycles seem never-ending because I actively choose to participate in these kinds of behaviours (accountability is sexy, huh?). While I’m not ready to face all my demons quite yet, it’s easier to do it with a nice wardrobe and a streamlined sense of mind.

Notes

*When I say black women, I mean ALL black women. Not some limited, cis-gendered, heteronormative view of what a woman is. Over here we ride for all those who identify as women.

**She emphasizes that she doesn’t actually means that it cured anything, but rather helped with her anxiety, and in turn, helped with her depression.

Links

That Family Guy Episode

The Kelly Stamps video

#cms #selfhelp? #consumerism

[sylviainwriting]

a pointless recollection of 8/24/2019

It was a night that stood out from the typical fridaysaturdaysunday bullshit. An outlier worth remembering and worth dancing my fingers on the keyboard for. My memory fucking sucks and if I don’t write it down, it didn’t happen five years from now. 

Plank Road Tavern was the destination. Taylor, my typical sidekick for the night. A glass of red and a realization in the Uber that we were hardly tipsy enough for a Saturday night. We went to watch a friend perform and pretend to be a country singer. The bar was dusty and dark. The locals sitting on the stools looked like they may have planted themselves there since noon. The live music was bursting through the cracks on the walls, our legs taking us straight to the source. The patio was muggy, lined in romantic yellow lights, and as perfect a Summer night you could hope for. 

It was a goddamn high school and college reunion that I would have avoided had I known. When I saw a former best friend, she aggressively started diving into the latest drama in a way that you would not do if you were in the company of a genuine friend. The other former friend not even hiding her disinterest in seeing me. Her eyes darting from side to side as we say our hello’s and halfheartedly hug. Let’s all shake on a pact to stop hugging people we don’t like. All of us secretly sizing each other up. Does she look the same? Is she seeing anyone? Is she happy? Happier than me? Girls are fun. 

Then there were the college acquaintances. Years ago I may have smiled, maybe given a wave. Some sort of acknowledgment that we spent four years blacked out together. No, I don’t owe these people anything. There’s a reason we didn’t keep in touch and I don’t need to find out why that was. It doesn’t surprise me that you live in Lakewood at 27. I know I sound bitter but it’s coming more from a place of not caring and caring enough not to be fake. 

Taylor and I needed a body guard by the name of alcohol. A survival tactic in this highly dangerous environment of past friends, lovers, and enemies. Two tall doubles? Sure! $10 each? I got paid yesterday.  

The Tito’s was tasting better by the sip and I found myself giving the bartender my credit card for the third time. The night was looking like it just got a fresh coat of paint; the people less annoying, my mood softening, and inhibitions melting.  But I was in trouble because vodka was in control now.

A tall, dark, and bearded boy was suddenly to my left, asking me how my night was going. Finally a man striking up conversation in real time and not behind a gray bubble on your iPhone. Dressed head to toe in all black, a hat covering dark brown hair that was definitely cut in hipster fashion. There was something inviting about his demeanor. Was it his kind eyes? Lips that stayed turned up, as if in on a secret I didn’t know about? We kept the pleasantries short, as I hate being the girl who leaves her friends.

They all agreed he was handsome, the words suddenly waking me up to how handsome he really was. Something told me to go outside on the patio and seize the moment. Seize this man who was confident enough to approach a woman at the bar. 

I heard my name shouted from the corner, my strategy falling into place. He was seated at a picnic table with who I came to learn were coworkers of his, finishing their shift together at none other than Plank Road Tavern. He was a cook there. They welcomed me surprisingly well for a girl who looks like me and was drunk like me. They began recounting their night and telling me the best foods on the menu. Asking me what I liked to eat. It was nice to be a wallflower at the end of the table, hearing what it’s like working in the restaurant industry. A world I was never privy to. 

The boy followed me inside, which turned into following me into the Uber, and eventually onto a couch. I was happy to have a shadow as cute as him. The night was blurring ever so slightly, the details less sharp, but I wanted this. I don’t take strangers home, ever, but felt my old fashioned values slipping away. I think that’s why I’m writing this. It was so out of character that it needs to be documented in my life’s personnel file. 

We apparently had conversation in the car. It must have flowed well enough. I was starting to regret those tall doubles. Word to self: you’re too old to get that drunk. Stop it. 

I brought him back to Taylor’s house, where my car was. Thank god I didn’t drive and that Taylor also brought someone home. We crashed onto the couch and stripped our clothes in record time. He was on top and I moaning on the bottom. He said I was tight. He’s not wrong. I don’t let just any willing participant feel that part of me. Many girls look for validation in the number of men that desire them but I think your relationship with yourself is so much more meaningful. 

He gave me his black shirt to sleep in because my clothes were hastily thrown across the room. I woke up at sunrise, sweating and with an inevitable pounding headache. I crept into Taylor’s bed, one eye open and one eye closed on the walk there. I woke up again hours later to Taylor saying there was a strange man reading a book on her couch. Fuck. I shouldn’t have left him alone on the couch. Someone once told me that’s bad manners. 

Reality hit me like a wave. I looked down to find myself wearing a shirt that just barely covered my ass. “I couldn’t leave without my shirt”, he said, shirtless and sporting a dad bod that I appreciate. I noticed one of his front teeth was stained a different color than the rest and wondered why that was. Something that wouldn’t have caught my attention at night but of course in the day is one of the first features I notice on a person. 

He asked if I could drive him to his car. I made sure to put on my favorite playlist, hoping he’d hear something that would peak his interest. I found out his name. 32. Studied at the Cleveland Institute of Art. From Rochester, NY. Nothing that came as a surprise to me based on the person sitting next to me. Apparently it was a repeat of our conversation from the night before. But I felt myself putting walls back up and being prickly towards him. With each mile, I was battling thoughts of “do I speak to him again or is this not for me?” Maybe he is slimy and does this at the end of every shift— finds a girl who had a few Tito’s too many. I began asking questions but tuning out his answers and then welcomed more silence into the conversation altogether. Let him ask some questions for a change (not a strength of men BTW). To my surprise, he asked what my plans were for the day. His shift didn’t start until 1 pm. Did I want to get breakfast? Words started coming out of my mouth before I could stop them. I told him I had a family thing, which was a lie. Before he left, he gave me a hug and reminded me that I have his phone number. 

It was a Sunday x10. The kind that you want to sleep all day but you’re awful at taking naps / your body still hates you / interacting with humans feels like a mistake. I caved at 7 pm, sending him a “nice to meet you” text. I don’t know what it was that ultimately changed my mind. Maybe it’s the way he folded my shirt and jeans neatly in the morning. Or offering to make us breakfast but there were no eggs. Or asking if I wanted gas money for driving him to his car. It could’ve been him telling me he plays drums in a band since I’m a sucker for musicians. But I think every person you meet was planted there by the universe. The universe watches with a glass of wine and makes bets like your life is a poker game. You win some, you lose some, and sometimes you even get to orgasm (not this time).

“Yeah I was worried I wouldn’t hear from you again”, he texted back.

[lindsayslife]

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo - Taylor Jenkins Reid Rating: 4/5 Genre: Historical Fiction Length: 388 pages

Caution: spoilers

“The root of most of my problems is that I need to be secure enough in who I am to tell anyone who doesn’t like it to go fuck themselves.”

Synopsis

I finished this book a few nights ago and have since been enthralled with my latest read. But this book was very amusing so it definitely deserves a review! I read this for a facebook book club for June.

Monique is an amateur writer at Vivant. Her boss calls her into her office hesitating to explain that Evelyn Hugo - a movie star since the 1960s - agreed to do an article for Viviant only if Monique would interview her and write it. They were both shocked - why wouldn’t Evelyn prefer a more experience writer? Why would she choose Monique by name?

Monique went to her house and was greeted by Evelyn’s charming housekeeper named Grace. When Evelyn and Monique were going over the terms for the article, Evelyn stated she actually wanted Monique to write a biography for her - finally a tell all of Evelyn’s life. She allowed Monique to publish it and sell it after Evelyn passed. Monique was dumbfounded - how would she tell her company that Evelyn didn’t actually want to do an article with them? Would she lose her job? But this is an opportunity of a lifetime, to be able to write a book that the whole world would be interested in.

The book follows Monique’s & Evelyn’s sessions where Evelyn reveals her whole life from the very beginning. From growing up in Hell’s Kitchen, NYC to becoming an actress in Hollywood to all 7 of her husbands and lovers. After their meetings you see Monique change for the better - standing up to her boss, ex-husband, and to Evelyn to get what she wants. At the end, you find out why exactly Evelyn chose Monique as a writer (aside from enjoying her articles).

Thoughts

This book was like the dirtiest gossip you want to here but you don’t want to be apart of - so reading it as a book was the perfect medium to get in-the-know. Evelyn’s life was absolutely insane.

Discussion Questions:

1. Each husband’s section opens with an illustrative moniker (for example, "Poor Ernie Diaz," "Goddamn Don Adler," "Agreeable Robert Jamison"). Discuss the meaning and significance of some of these descriptions. How do they set the tone for the section that follows? Did you read these characterizations as coming from Evelyn, Monique, an omniscient narrator, or someone else?

I read them coming from Evelyn but thinking back it probably came from Monique when she wrote Evelyn’s biography. They give the reader a “taste” on what the men are like & how they treated Evelyn.

2. Of the seven husbands, who was your favorite, and why? Who surprised you the most?

My favorite was Harry BY FAR - even though he was gay I loved that they were best friends and they got to also live with their real significant others during that time. I’m glad Evelyn had a child with a man she truly loves rather than one of the other guys.

3. Monique notes that hearing Evelyn Hugo’s life story has inspired her to carry herself differently than she would have before. In what ways does Monique grow over the course of the novel? Discuss whether Evelyn also changes by the end of her time with Monique, and if so, what spurs this evolution.

4. On page 147, Monique says, "I have to 'Evelyn Hugo' Evelyn Hugo." What does it mean to "Evelyn Hugo"? Can you think of a time when you might be tempted to "Evelyn Hugo"?

To “Evelyn Hugo” is to stand up for yourself and get what you want. Monique had to do this multiple times throughout the book during interviewing Evelyn Hugo - with her boss, ex-husband, Evelyn. I would say I tried to do this when I didn’t get into my top choice podiatry school - so I contacted them, sent over more information, and tried to persuade them to give me an interview. It didn’t work out but it took a lot of guts to even try.

5. Did you trust Evelyn to be a reliable narrator as you were reading? Why, or why not? Did your opinion on this change at all by the conclusion, and if so, why?

Throughout the book I trusted Evelyn to be a reliable narrator while I read. She came clean in the end so I think it proves it even more that she is reliable. I don’t understand what her motive would be to even want to write a biography if she wasn’t going to be truthful.

6. What role do the news, tabloid, and blog articles interspersed throughout the book serve in the narrative? What, if anything, do we learn about Evelyn’s relationship to the outside world from them?

I think it drove home the point that tabloids are just what writers think the audience want to hear - and it may be wayyy far from the truth. Throughout the book you could also see Evelyn manipulating the tabloids to what she wanted them to say. I think you can see that the outside world is another game for Evelyn to play.

7. At several points in the novel, such as pages 82–83 and 175–82, Evelyn tells her story through the second person, "you." How does this kind of narration affect the reading experience? Why do you think she chooses these memories to recount in this way?

I think these points are low points in Evelyn’s life where she wants to disassociate herself from it. I couldn’t find the first chunk but page 175-82 was when she had a “quickie” wedding with Mick and slept with him. She did this in order to manipulate the media away from her and Celia. She really didn’t want to sleep with someone other than Celia and she knew she would hurt Celia in this process so by talking in second person she tries to disassociate from the situation.

8. How do you think Evelyn’s understanding and awareness of sexuality were shaped by her relationship with Billy—the boy who works at the five-and-dime store? How does her sensibility evolve from this initial encounter? As she grows older, to what extent is Evelyn’s attitude toward sex is influenced by those around her?

Billy would fondle Evelyn’s developing boobs for fun and this ingrained in Evelyn that her worth is only her body - and that’s all men will ever “love” her for. Her sensibility evolved from this by not letting men do this to her for free - she used her body to get what she wanted throughout her career. Eventually, Evelyn just got exhausted and all she wanted to do is have sex with the one person it actually meant something with. She stopped caring about what sex could get her, and started caring about things like love.

9. On page 54, Evelyn uses the saying "all’s well that ends well" as part of her explanation for not regretting her actions. Do you think Evelyn truly believes this? Using examples from later in her life, discuss why or why not. How do you think this idea relates to the similar but more negatively associated phrase "the ends justify the means"?

Honestly, I don’t think Evelyn ever regretted her actions, even in the end. The only instance I could think of her regretting was the Mick incident but even then, it got reporters off her back with Celia (but it meant she lost Celia for a few years). In the end I think she only regretted the time spent away from Celia. But to go off of “all’s well that ends well” - the last 10 years of Celia’s life that they got to spend in Spain was wonderful, especially with Evelyn’s daughter maturing into a bright young woman as well.

10. Evelyn offers some firm words of wisdom throughout her recounting of her life, such as "Be wary of men with something to prove" (p. 77), "Never let anyone make you feel ordinary" (p. 208), and "It is OK to grovel for something you really want" (p.192). What is your favorite piece of advice from Evelyn? Were there any assertions you strongly disagreed with?

My favorite piece of advice was what I quoted in the beginning of this review - “The root of most of my problems is that I need to be secure enough in who I am to tell anyone who doesn’t like it to go fuck themselves.” I am a firm believer that if people don’t like me, I don’t care. I am who I am and I’m not here to try to please anyone by changing myself.

11. Several times, Evelyn mentions having cosmetic surgery. What was your reaction to this? How do these decisions jibe with the value system and ethical code that she seems to live by? Why do you think Evelyn continues to dye her hair at the end of her life?

Cosmetic surgery is a huge part of many peoples lives - especially famous people. I don’t think it really has a direct correlation with her value system. She may continue to dye her hair because she never knows when someone may snap a picture of her or maybe she just feels better about herself by looking good.

12. Review the scenes on pages 199 and 348, in which Evelyn relays memories of conversing in Spanish after years without speaking it. Discuss the role language plays in her understanding of who she is. In what ways does her relationship to her Cuban identity parallel her experiences with her sexuality, and in what ways does it differ?

When Evelyn got famous, she was essentially stripped from her Cuban heritage. It parallels because in the beginning of her career she didn’t really care about either of them - her Cuban identity or her sexuality. But in the end, when her sexual relationship with Celia was blossoming and they were living in Spain, she was using Spanish to help her whole family that moved there. It differs because she didn’t use her Cuban identity to help her get what she wanted - she hid it from the world, while she used her sexuality for her advantage.

13. If you could meet and interview one celebrity at the end of their life, who would it be? What would you ask them?

I would interview Seung Ri from Big Bang and ask him about the recent scandals - why he would do that, if all they were saying was true, etc.

#the seven husbands of evelyn hugo #taylor jenkins reid #book review #books #book #book recommendation #bookworm

[bugheadfamily]

This week the spotlight is on Anna ( @writeradamanteve )! Click the read more link below to get to know our member!

Spotlight by Mila, @jughead-jones | Graphic by Katie, @betty-cooper

Anna | @writeradamanteve

Name: Anna 

Age: 40

Location: New Jersey

Any other languages aside from English people can contact you in?: Filipino.

Favourite Riverdale characters and ships?: Aside from Betty and Jughead, I do love the awfulness of Cheryl Blossom and spitfire that is season 1 Veronica.

Cheryl Blossom is unapologetically terrible, and in real life, I would absolutely HATE her, but there’s something to be said about a woman who just goes all in. I get that hardness in her, and I like it that she admires others for it, too. That Toni brings out her soft side is a plus, but I would prefer that she stays true to her character outside of her romantic relationship. 

Season 1 Veronica Lodge was a champion of women. I loved that about her. I may not have bought the whole “Betty is my best friend” assertion, but I did like that she was doing it to make amends for her past. S1!Veronica wanted to do better and she looked at Betty and thought Betty was a good person to hang out with to further that. Veronica as a person is methodical. Deliberate. And those are characteristics that can be both good and bad. I like it that Veronica can go both ways. I also mean that in a very gay way. No amount of her sleeping with Archie will convince me that her character can’t be bi. I can’t even say I hate her in season 2. She seemed a little lost there, but she was deciding between her family and her principles. For a while she thought that both could coexist, but when she realized in the end that it couldn’t, she broke away. That’s badass. 

As for Betty and Jughead, I have at least 500K worth of words in fanfic that expresses the many ways I love them. But to be clear: 

I love Betty for being so steadfast in her beliefs. She may have her insecurities when it comes to how she looks and what her mother may think of her, but when it comes injustice and friends endangering themselves for sex, she isn’t going to let anyone prevent her from doing the right thing. She is a go-getter, from saving Pop’s to saving her relationship (especially when Jughead was pulling away from her). She is a master at wielding household items — a skill, we learned, she got from Alice, who’s clearly handy with a lamp. She’s kinky, and she can be scary stone cold — forcing Cheryl to testify the truth with blackmail, watching Jughead punch Chic in the face without flinching, drowning a man to get him to confess to his sins (although ask me some other time about the morality and racial undertones of that, as that is an entirely different conversation). But she also deeply values her relationships. She cares for her loved ones so much, friend or family. That makes her so strong.

Let me tell you the many Jugheads I love: Soft!Jughead, Smughead Jones, Curious Jones, Snowflake!Jughead, ProudBF!Juggie, and even HaplessSerpent!Jughead. I like him best when he’s writing and when he’s making literary references in regular conversation. I love how sarcastic he could be and how his transition from loner weird kid in Riverdale High to popular serpent prince in Southside High tugs at my heartstrings and makes me mad, too. Like Betty, he cares fiercely for the people he loves. His need to belong becomes real to him, after he tried to deny it for so long. As much as we all have our issues with Season 2 Jughead, it added certain dimensions to Jughead that I love to write about in fanfic.

Favourite moments from S1 & S2?: I think I loved most of season 1, but the moments that stood out to me most were these: When Betty was dancing happily in her Cheerleading uniform, when Betty and Jughead were searching Jason’s room and got caught, when Jughead and Betty went to the Sisters of Quiet Mercy together, when Betty rushed to SSH to save Jughead only to find him laughing at the lunch tables with his newfound friends, when Veronica stood up for Betty at the tryouts, when Veronica showed Cheryl compassion, when the girls all banded together to make Chuck suffer the consequences of his misogyny (again, I have words for this, but mostly — why only him? His wasn’t the only name on that playbook), when Cheryl calls people names, when Jughead protected Betty from her vandalized locker, and of course, when Jughead climbed Betty’s bedroom window.  While I can’t get enough of Jughead throwing Betty against the kitchen counter, I have to admit I still loved those other scenes a whole lot more. That said, I will still hope for what I mention in question #7.

Season 2 — ah, my goodness. I don’t need to explain how S2 broke my heart in so many good and bad ways. While there were some golden moments, I think most of us are in agreement that there were so many things that could’ve been done better. However, I STILL do have favorite scenes in this Hell Season: Jughead running the gauntlet was amazing, Betty working on Reggie’s car, the entire street race sequence, every time Betty uses a household object to save people (a shovel, a rolling pin, a poker), Jughead and Betty disposing of the car--from her house to the swamp, that entire episode of “The Wicked and the Divine”, Cheryl and Toni finding one another, and the hunger strike scenes.

What are your hopes for S3?:

Bughead summer sex montage. 

MOAR Bughead Detective Agency. 

A slammin’ Riverdale Parents Flashback episode. 

Joaquin stays and Kevin gets better with love and BDE.  

Kevin and Josie becoming step-siblings.

Reggie and Sweetpea being half-brothers.

Veronica being the Speakeasy Queen.

Cheryl stirring trouble (even if I know I’ll hate her for it).

Archie getting a clue.

Other fandoms you’re into?: My thing is that I don’t usually fan hard on more than one thing. My past fandoms were Harry Potter, Teen Titans, Anime (many of them at once), Cowboy Bebop, X-Files, Star Trek Voyager, and Firefly. At present, I love Star Wars (all of them — eh, except maybe for Episodes 1, 2, and 3), Wonder Woman, and all the Marvel movies.  

What are some of your favourite movies/TV?: Classics: Galaxy Quest, Tropic Thunder, Labyrinth, The Princess Bride, Forest Gump, The Matrix, Constantine, Clueless, The Breakfast Club, Transformers: The Animated Movie, Snatch, Firefly, Veronica Mars, Supernatural (Seasons 1 - 5), X-Files; 

Most Recent: Pacific Rim, Black Panther, Wonder Woman, Rogue One, Ready Player One, Anne with an E, Daredevil, Luke Cage, Jessica Jones, Anthony Bourdaine’s old and new series. 

Favourite books?: There are so many, fam, but here are the ones that first come to mind:

Harry Potter 1 - 6 (yeah, sorry, not a huge fan of the 7th)

Emma by Jane Austen

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

All of Louisa May Alcott’s books

All of Sharon Shinn

All of L.M. Montgomery

Anne Marston’s Rune Blade Trilogy

Barb and J.C. Hendee’s Noble Dead Saga

The Infernal Devices Trilogy (Cassandra Clare)

A Great and Terrible Beauty by Libba Bray

All of Zilpha Keatley Snyder books

All of Paula Danziger books

Juliet Naked by Nick Hornby

Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer

The Unlikely Disciple by Kevin Roose

The Monster of Florence by Douglas Preston and Mario Spezi

The Terror by Dan Simmons

Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

Misery by Stephen King

Favourite bands/musicians?: I shall date myself, thanks:

Queen

Guns & Roses

Metallica

Nikki Minaj

Cardi B

Imagine Dragons

One Republic

The Killers

Lily Allen

Cake

Eminem

Amy Winehouse

U2

Sting

If you could live in any fictional world which one would you choose and why?: Harry Potter, no doubt. I would like to live in a world that relies on magic. I would like to go to a magical school like Hogwarts. I would love to fight in a resistance to overthrow an evil sorcerer. Plus, I would really, really love to meet Hermione.

Favourite food?:

Ramen (the real stuff, not the dried instant ones)

Banh Mi

Bun bo Hue

Sushi

Filipino Food — particularly Adobo

Tacos

Mangos and strawberries

Favourite season?: Summer.

Favourite plant?: This is an odd question to me as I don’t have a favorite plant. They are just there and sometimes they give me grief when I have to tend to the outside of my house because they’ve gotten unruly on some level (like — Fall, why do you have to discard your leaves all over my grounds?)

Favourite scent?: Baby’s breath, food, and freshly changed bed sheets.

Favourite colour?: Victorian pink.

Favourite animal?: Cats and Owls (I am definitely a witch by heart).

Are you a night owl, an early bird, or a vampire?: I sleep late and wake up early. I am an old person who can go on 5 hours of sleep.

Place you want to visit?: Portugal or Prague is next on my list.

Do you have pets? If you do, tell us a little about them: I have two pets. Pootie is a cat. He is a gray tuxedo. He loves me best, but he also hangs around my eldest child a lot. Every once in a while, he bothers my husband. Bob is a hermit crab. Bob bores the hell out of me and I am equal parts terrified that I will find him dead in his cage and tired that I am still taking care of him. His previous companions, Larry and Curly, have perished. When I found them dead, I screamed. Hermit crabs are creepy as fuck when they leave their shells, like I can’t stand them that way. I don’t know why I am stuck taking care of Bob, but he’s here, he is under my care, and God help me, he’s a stubborn bastard.

Tell us a little about yourself?: 

For work, I’m a web producer/web developer, and I maintain about 20 sites for my company.  

I used to work in publishing.

I went to law school and quit.

I eventually married my high school sweetheart and now we have 3 children.

I was always attracted to women, too, but growing up, I was too afraid to come out as bi. It still intimidates me, coming out to new people now. Most times, I just let them draw their own conclusions.

Fun or weird fact about you?: There’s nothing weird about me that you don’t already know. Fun fact: I kickbox in the nearby UFC gym, and one time, I was practicing with Tai pads with a dude who kicked me in the leg by accident — he just “grazed” me, really. I TRIED VERY HARD to pretend that I was alright. That night, my leg was swollen, and three months later, I saw that same dude fighting in the octagon on TV.

Asks for fanfic authors:

How long have you been writing?: 20 years.

Which is your favourite of the fics you’ve written?: That is impossible to answer. Truly. So I’m going to close my eyes over a list of my stories and where my finger lands, that’s my fave. It’s Drive.

Favourite fic/chapter/plot-point/character you’ve ever written?: This is even harder. 

Polly’s character arc in Wicked. I really love how I fleshed her out in that story

The development of Kevin and Jughead’s friendship in Harvest to Home

Jughead’s relationship with Archie and Jellybean in Drive.

Betty’s story arc in Drive.

The twists and turns of Wicked.

The rich ambience of Harvest to Home.

Betty and Cheryl’s friendship in Harvest to Home.

The text conversation in Drive.

Sweet Pea’s background character in Drive.

Cheryl’s character in Wicked.

The car chase scene in Drive.

The hotel scene in Cowboy Jones.

The Peitho kitchen scene in Cowboy Jones.

Which was the hardest to write, and why?: Wicked was hard to write. I had set out to write this story with the twists and turns in mind, and those twists were interlaced. I had to set stuff up all throughout the beginning and middle so that the end would make sense. It was also harder because of Season 2. The background of those episodes in contrast with what I had in mind tended to make me nervous about reader expectations. Like when Hal was suddenly the Black Hood on Riverdale, it felt odd to not make him so terrible in Wicked. 

One of the hardest chapters I had to write was a chapter written in Cheryl’s POV. Delving into her psyche was a difficult switch to turn on and at some point, I was doubting whether I can do it, but I did it and there it was. And I don’t regret it at all.

How do you come up with the ideas for you fic(s)? (examples: Do you draw inspiration from real life? Listen to music? Get inspired by TV/movies?) Do you have an process to your writing?: Inspiration is different every time. 

For Harvest to Home, I wanted to write a fic about a very domestic Betty who made beautiful things. While I was writing that fic, I was deeply into the show Fixer Upper because we had just moved into our own new home. I was absolutely inspired by the designs I saw on TV and our need to decorate our home. I wanted Betty to be so good at it that she wrote a blog about home making. I had a lot of inspiration for that as well, since in the publishing company I used to work for, I worked with a lot of chefs and homemakers who published books. 

For Drive, I was inspired by images of Mechanic!Betty at the start of Season 2. I think I may have seen a couple of fics inspired by the movie Baby Driver, where Jughead drove the getaway cars, and honestly, I got a little mad that Betty was never the driver. So I wrote the damn thing, and suddenly, Jughead was drag racing in Season 2. I wrote that fic with a lot of alternative music in the background. I usually started my chapters with the lyrics of those songs that inspired me.

For Wicked, I started writing it for Halloween and it basically grew too large of an idea to make it to Halloween of that year. I was also hesitant about how the fandom would receive a fic where Betty was a witch. Then there came that article about how Alice was possibly a Spellman. WELL THEN. 

Cowboy Jones was absolutely inspired by the Camp Bughead prompts. I figured since I hadn’t been driven out of the fandom by torches and pitchforks because of Wicked, I’d try for some sci-fi, a genre I really love. I aimed to misbehave with Cowboy Jones, so I told myself that this was going to be my smuttiest work yet. I had also put out an X-Files inspired bughead short called The Truth is Here for that same prompt. 

I answered the question about my writing process here and some more about character development here. 

Idea that you always wanted to write?: Kitchen Confidential type story, where Jughead is an asshole chef who is determined to make his restaurant succeed. Betty becomes his sous chef and shows him a thing or two about cooking and about life.

Favourite character to write?: Betty and Jughead, no doubt.

Best comment/review you’ve ever received?: Well, there are so many commenters who have been so fantastic, but my favorite comments come from those who want to have a discussion with me, mostly because I like to reply to all commenters to express my gratitude and it’s easier to reply when I can pick up a conversation.

Best and worst parts of being a writer?: Best part is finishing a chapter and posting it. Worst part is getting flamed. I have been fortunate enough to have a welcoming group of readers here, but I’ve had my share of flames in other fandoms. I always try to dig deep for something constructive in them — there always is something that can be so useful to my writing, but man, those are TOUGH to handle sometimes.

Do you have any advice to offer?: Few things:

Don’t let fear rule your life. Embrace that fear and get to know it. Find out what makes it frightening, then overcome it. 

Practice. That is the only thing that will make you better at anything. 

Learn from failure. It’s a bitch of a teacher but it’s the best lesson you’ll ever have.

Find work that you love. It always pays.

.

.

This is the eleventh installment of Bughead Family’s Member Spotlight series. Each week, a member’s url is selected through a randomizer and they will be featured in a spotlight post. In order to participate, please join the Bughead Discord (more information found here). Thank you.

#bughead #riverdale #bughead fanfiction #bughead family discord #bugheadfamily #member spotlight

[wanderer706]

Behind the Screens Ch 4- Landlord

(Cam. Airl- Written Draft 2)

Reginald felt sick again. He though his liver had properly processed the alcohol he had consumed last night. Evidently that was not the case.

He had only woken up about two hours ago. It was already the afternoon, and the drink had caused him to sleep through the entire morning without waking once. He wouldn’t have minded so much except he missed a call from a client he was trying to get. Client however was just a word he used to make himself feel good. He knew damn well the police wouldn’t call it that. They would call it robbery.

He slumped off of his couch and landed hard on the floor. He then proceeded to run as fast as his drunk legs would allow him to the bathroom. He only arrived just in time.

He tried to stand up right but only succeeded in awkwardly knell over the toilet. The vile puke then flew out of his system. It seemed to take forever this time, but after what seemed like an eternity he was finally able down it down toilet. He tried to get up, but couldn’t. Instead he fell face down on the toilet floor, head against the toilet itself. Everything then went black.

When he came to it was because somebody was knocking on his door. This served as a perfect as a replacement for an alarm clock in his current state. His headache was gone, but the sound of somebody knocking on the door had the same effect as a drum being played right next to his ear.

Reginald forced himself to get up. His mouth still tasted like shit, but at least the vomit was gone. Regardless he put all of his effort into groggily walked towards the front door.

“What?” he asked opening the door. Layla, one of the buildings residents, was standing outside. He didn’t really know her, but from what passed his ears he knew she was some kind of screenplay writer. He could see she was looking at him through her clear eyes that stood out because of how they were offset by her dark skin.

“You look like shit Reggie.” She said. Everyone in the apartment called him Reggie.

“I’ll live. What do you want?” he asked.

“Rent.” She said handing him the cash. He took it from her and immediately began counting it up.

“How are things?” he asked out of curiosity.

“Not good. In the middle of a screaming match with a bunch of dumb executives. Honestly they don’t seem to care about anything, but money.”

Reginald wasn’t actually listening. He was too busy counting the money she had given.

“This’ll do. You have yourself a nice evening.” He said closing the door.

He locked the door behind him, and then he slumped down on the couch where he stared intently at the cash. He wondered about what he would do with the money in his hand. He guessed he should do the right thing. Give it to his brother who technically owned the building, but then that one thought entered his head. Alcohol. This cash could pay for another two days’ supply of alcohol. No. He’s drunk enough at the moment and he doesn’t need any more of that sweet delicate nectar.

Luckily at that moment he was snapped out of his poison thoughts by the sound of a phone ringing. He looked to see which one. It was his own personal phone which wasn’t what he was hoping for.

“Hello.” Reginald said.

“Hello. Landlord.” Said Sebastian, his brother.

“What do you want?”

“I called to remind you that it’s rent day, and I will be coming by tomorrow to collect.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Well judging by that tone in your voice you’ve either given yourself a headache because of it or if I know you… How many last night?”

“Piss off.”

“Come on how many?”

“I said piss off.”

“Six or seven?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Yes you can. You still have that pamphlet for that rehab clinic. I recommend you at least give it a whirl.”

Reginald looked at his desk. The pamphlet with all of those smiling faces on it was still sitting there. “There is wrong with an addiction.” It said on the front page. Reginald meant to throw its taunting vibes out.

“Are you done? I’m busy.” He asked

“Not quite. Have the new burglar protection devices been installed?”

Reginald looked at the control remote they left after they had finished installing it.

“Yes. They finished the other day. Now if there is a threat we’ll be locked inside with it.”

“Cheer up. It’s for the best.”

“Who’s best? Mine or yours? Now are we done?”

“Yes, good brother. We are done.”

“Fine. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

Reginald hung up the phone and placed it back on the table he got it from. He was a joke to his entire family. Whilst his brother had become one of the most prominent city councillors, he had slumped to the bottom of a bottle.

Back in the day he had been the popular kid in school. Had all the right friends, went to the best parties, and had an all-round good time. His brother on the other hand had been the bottom of the pile when it came to friends. Yes, he had friends, but he didn’t have the fun that Reginald had.

After school whilst he went to university, Reginald continued to look for parties. He wanted to live the life of luxury. Fame and fortune like a few of the people at the parties. But, as the years went on the crowd he had gotten so used to disbanded, got on with their lives, got married, had kids, and he just continued to look for a good time.

It was in doing so that lead to that one night. The night when he drank so much that he passed out on the floor of the bar he was in. Everything spun around in that darkness for a while. When he came to he was in the hospital, with an apparent severe case of alcohol poisoning. His brother who had just gotten himself onto the city council at that point had forked the bill. Reginald hadn’t seen him in such a long time that that had been an awkward thirty minutes. His brother suggested help but he didn’t want to hear it from his fucking face.

It was the night after he had gotten back from the hospital that he felt a strange thirst that he had never felt before. A thirst that could not be clenched by water, but only by alcohol. His life then really spiralled downhill. It began with all of his spending money being used to purchase as much alcohol as one could buy. Then came the multiple hangovers. That happened so often that he was laid off from his job at an online store warehouse. Desperate for money he turned to a new trade that wasn’t strictly legal, but it paid well, and gave him the money to satisfy his thirst.

His brother was constantly urging him to get help, but he never listened. He never told his brother where he was getting the money, and he never wanted to.

Reginald was however very surprised when his brother told him that he had taken a gamble and pulled some strings. The next thing he knew he was the newly named landlord for a new apartment block that the city nicknamed “the squeeze” because of how small a space it was squeezed into, even though the name in the building’s lobby said Moonlight Apartments. Now here he was forced to take collect rent from occupants and give over some of that precious money back to the council every week or face jail time. Money that could be satisfying his thirst.

Reginald wiped some sweat off his brow. He could tell that his mouth was drooling just thinking about all the alcohol that this money could buy, but it wasn’t worth it. He fought off those thoughts, and put the money into the box he had set aside for the rent money giving it one last look before locking the box.

Now his mind was desperate. How would he get the money? He didn’t care that he probably nearly drunk himself to hospital again last night. He needed that thirst quenched. Now.

Suddenly, another phone rang. His eyes lit up when he saw that it wasn’t his personal phone, but his business phone. He rushed over like a madman, and answered it putting on his business voice.

“Fredrick’s and Sons. How may I help you?” he said doing his best upper crust accent.

“Yes. I’m calling about your company’s ability to help me work from home.” Said a voice on the other end of the line. Reggie almost immediately could pin that this was probably some lazy arse youth who didn’t want to go to university.

“Yes, we can help you do that. We have helped many people in the past gain stable income from working at home. Our packages all cost money, but will guarantee cash in your pocket by the end of the week.”

“Money isn’t a problem. My parents pay me plenty.” The voice said. Reggie took account that this was a rich kid with too much money on his hands. That usually meant that they were incredibly stupid. So, he began with the options route.

“Okay we have several packages. The cheapest costs $85 whilst the most expensive costs $950.”

“What does the $950 package entitle?”

“It entitles everything that you need with a guarantee return value of $1500 per week.”

“I’ll take that one.”

“Very good but first we will need something from you. In order to set-up a proper connection with the IRD we will need your bank details.”

“Of course, my details are…” Reggie smiled as all the bank details were laid out in front of him. He wrote them all down on a piece of paper

“Great. That’s all we need we’ll get in contact with you at a later date, once the connection has been set up.” He said.

“Thanks. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

Reginald hung up the phone, and bolted over to his computer. He opened his computer, and immediately set to work making an encrypted withdrawal from the kids account. He had no intention of helping that lazy arse work from home. He was only interested in getting his money, and with that he set up the withdrawal to empty half of his bank account.

Whilst this was happening he checked his emails to see if any of his phishing emails had drawn any unsuspecting people. He had two bites. He posed as their banks saying that there was a problem with their accounts and that he needed their details to fix the problem. In reality he was just using it to once again obtain bank details. The e-mails were of course encrypted and if traced it would always pin-point an internet café that he never set foot in. Once the current transfer was done he would move on. The phone was similar, but for that he had set it up so it would always be traced back to a traffic control box nine blocks away.

He didn’t always want to scam people out of money, and he had only started out of desperation. It was one night, when he was low on cash and his precious alcohol that he saw a story on the news. Apparently, the fraud desk of the police had intercepted a rather large player in that field. He had ripped off a grand total of sixty-seven bank accounts, and that had amounted to five hundred and seven thousand dollars being stolen. His mouth drooled when that amount was spoken. How much alcohol could he buy with that amount of money? He didn’t know, but he immediately began his research into that world.

A few weeks later came his first attempt, He created the fake company Fredrick’s and Sons on his own two feet. He began by randomly calling any number in the phone book offering the work from home scam. He got a gullible hit on his second day. He was so excited that he nearly gave away his true intentions on the phone. He then successfully executed the encrypted removal from the account. He didn’t however take into account his phone being traced luckily the amount he had withdrawn was more than enough to buy a new one. He went for a walk with his old one and dropped it behind a garbage truck that was collecting trash. The crunch as the tire ran it over was a relief.

He began phishing shortly before he was named landlord of the Moonlight apartments. He had heard about it and after a few trial runs he was able to create an authentic looking email that looked like it was from some organisation that required some sort of credit card details or even just the bank. He then learned how to scan peoples’ computers for the services they were using and to adjust the scheme accordingly. He was actually quite surprised how easy all of this tech stuff was to him. At the end of the day though he found the phishing emails created much more hits the work from home scam.

After about thirty minutes he had the money from all the gullible people that he needed. It was only half from each account, and he only removed money from each account once using a heavy smoke, mirrors, and encryption technique to fool any would be followers. The only way to catch him was to run the trace and beat his tricks whilst he was performing them.

He then powered down his computer and turned on the television. He slumped down in his favourite arm chair and began to watch one of the many quiz shows that were on before the news. This one featured a bunch of celebrities who were playing to win money for charity. The current theme was literature and it was clear that the celebrity trying wasn’t too familiar with his book knowledge.

He had a few laughs whilst watching as his mind slowly drifted away thinking about how much more money his scams would give him than his greedy brother would allow him to have. But most importantly how much alcohol he could buy with it.

#chapter 4 #horror

[eyesaremosaics]

A few nights ago, my depression was so severe, that I drove to the Golden Gate Bridge. I sat there in my car for three hours straight. Just sat there quietly in the darkness, thinking, staring at the steering wheel. Feeling nothing. Like an echo would go right through my chest. My eyes focused on the lights from the bridge, my heart hammering in my head, praying for the courage. Silent tears, streaming my face. Barely able to breathe, my chest aches so deeply, like I have a collapsed lung or something. I know I am loved. I know people care. People keep telling me wonderful things. That I'm loved, that I am special, that I'm talented, that I am touched by fire. Yet I can't see it. I can't feel it. There is no getting close to it for me. When someone tells me I am beautiful, my heart breaks with rage. My self hatred is so deep, that compliments infuriate me. I cannot conceive of any of these words attributed to me. It feels surreal, not genuine. Just words. "Why can't other people see me for what I really am?" That's my inner dialogue. How sick is that? Slept through work today. It's a miracle I didn't get fired. Thank god the Healy's are so understanding. Robin is unfailingly kind and compassionate. Yesterday, received word that I've been dragged into a nasty court case. The director of a theatre company I worked for over two years ago, filed me as secretary on the board of directors. He is being sued for fraud, and now that my name is on there, I'm liable for the damages. Have to get a lawyer, which I can't afford. More fun shit to deal with. Can barely afford food right now. My heart is still fucking broken. No hope for the future at all, I wake up every day and feel worse than the day before it. I only have one week left with the boys I have nannied for, we've been together for seven years... Been through so much together... Their mothers death, their grandmothers death of a broken heart less than a month later. Not to mention... Every break up, my dads cancer, Jenny's death... They comforted and loved me through all of it. They feel like my children. I have been their surrogate mother ever since Christy passed away. I can't conceive of my life without them. Letting go... Is the biggest challenge in life for me. I feel like I am literally incapable of doing it. I can't let go. Of anyone, or anything. Ever! I leave claw marks on anything that tries to leave my life. Abandonment issues so strong... They induce borderline psychosis in me. Still haven't found a long term replacement family to take Eric and John's slot. There are no words for how much I am going to miss them. No words. I can't even process it, my brain can't handle the separation at all. Every time I think of it, I start to have a panic attack. I can't breathe. All the air has been squeezed from my lungs, tightness in my chest, vision goes black. It feels like I'm literally dying. Anyone who's had a panic attack, knows how horrible the feeling is. So many endings. All at once. It always happens that way, doesn't it? Self care is paramount right now. Please universe: bring me a warm loving family, that will hire me long term for a lot of money. So I can afford to go back to school, to better market myself professionally and get my career rolling in a positive direction. I am ready to be in the having now universe, not the wanting. I am ready for good things. For a successful artistic career, for inspiring, warm, loving friends I can trust, for a community to immerse myself in, to travel, join a gym, get medication, see my therapist more often, to turn my life around. To meet someone successful, kind, and loving towards me. Who loves me as much as I love them, who I have an amazing sexual intimacy with, who cares about my dreams, who supports me, shares my interests, likes to go out. Someone who wants to be with me, and only me. Not five or six other girls. I want to be enough for someone. More than enough, I want to light up their life with my love. No more possessive, controlling, judgmental, philandering, demoralizing, abusive, negligent, manipulative, trust-less, limiting, unrequited love relationships. Fuck that. I have lived through so many of those, I will not survive it another time. I have no clue what a healthy relationship even looks like. Went out on a date the other day, the guy went to put his arm around me, and I winced involuntarily. How sick is that? When someone is being kind to me, it goes in one ear and out the other. Like I didn't even hear it, or it didn't even happen. My brain can't compute it. It can't register, because it is not used to it. Especially not from men. I am distrusting. My assumption now is: you just want me for sex. You just want to use me for something. So they keep calling after the first few dates, all obsessed with me, and I just stop responding to texts. I just ghost people out. I don't mean to, I just... Can't deal with it. These dates I've been on... There is just no connection there--for me. They seem to find me fascinating, but I am beyond bored. It's unkind for me to continue when I am not feeling it. At this point, I fear men so much that I can't even hate them. I feel like a caged rabbit, and start kicking my legs helplessly when they try to pick me up. Just so very overwhelmed right now. Tired of fighting so hard to exist. Tired of trying so hard, and feeling like nothing is getting better. It feels completely hopeless. What people do not understand about manic depression, is how Fucking hard it is just to make it through each day. Every day, I think about killing myself. Some days, it is all I think about. Everything becomes so black, you cannot conceive of a tomorrow. People who don't wrestle with mental illness, don't understand. One minute you are trotting along, feeling like your higher self. Giving your light in abundance, so that you inspire the best in others. Everything falls into place, magic starts happening for you. You feel strong, vital and beautiful. You feel witty, charming, and full of energy. Like the bubbles in a glass of sparkling champagne. Full of so much life, and passion. You go to bed, and the next morning...it's like the sun has been eclipsed from the sky. The clouds are heavy, and everything fades to gray. Food becomes flavorless, inedible. Your heart sinks like a stone into the river. Your chest begins to flood, until the ribs crack as floorboards under pressure. The ocean spilling through the hull, sinking the ship of your heart. It is violent, this feeling. Like a jolt of electricity coursing through you repeatedly. It feels like being slowly tortured. It is without your control. People say: just get over it. Just move on. Just feel better. Just love yourself. Uh, fuck you, I literally can't. I feel at the mercy of my emotions. They overtake me like a hurricane. Like a storm raging inside me. A war in my mind. People peering in on a private moment from the outside...to them I just come off as annoying. Every day that goes by... I can see myself getting older. My hair is already turning gray, from stress and malnourishment. My mother pointed something out to me earlier on the phone: "it's hard for you to relax, because you live in a constant state of stress. You are stuck on survival mode. Living paycheck to paycheck." Yes. Exactly. Please bring me more money universe. I want to be able to afford to enjoy my life. My whole life we've been poor. At one point, we were grindingly poor. I hate living in this constant energy of starvation, deprivation, of not having. No more. I'm tired of living like that. So fucking exhausting. I'm also tired of loving people more than they love me. I'm tired of being cheated on, treated badly, put down, ignored, unwanted, manipulated, gaslighted, told I'm too much, that I'm crazy, that I'm unloveable. I'm tired of believing that garbage, because I do. I really do. I'm tired of crying, of aching, of feeling not good enough. I hate that I don't feel deserving of love. I'm so sick of hating myself, every second of everyday and wishing I could just die. I'm sick of it. It's so exhausting to go back and fourth With myself as I do. I want to live, I want to die. I'm amazing, I'm worthless. I'm silly and playful, I'm bitter and angry. When I go over the limit with my drinking... God. It's like I channel some demon. A demon comes through me, and it is mean and cruel. Bleeding hearts like mine, are like an open wound to the world. We are 3rd degree burns exposed to steam. Everything hurts. We are a dead star, a black hole, a swallowing cesspool. Left unloved, we die, or disappear. I want to love myself, I really do want to get better. I just don't know where to start. I truly don't see my own value. It is not a cry for attention, or pity party thing, I really don't see anything in me worth loving. How do I change that? I try affirmations, I try exercise, I try listing all my supposed "good" qualities. It just feels empty and meaningless. I force myself to do it, but it doesn't absorb. All this shitty luck is just exacerbating the problem. It is making my suicidal depression ten times worse. I can literally feel the cortisol bubbling inside me. Like a cancer. So creepy. My skin looks aged, I can see the lines forming in my face. I drink to numb out, which of course only makes things worse. Chain smoking, not eating. It's just a mess. Horrible nightmares, making me fearful of sleep. Lack of sleep=deepening depression. Fuck me, I just can't. At the end of my rope here. Trying so hard to change things for the better. There is all this red tape in my way. Money, time, roadblocks. Go to this window, fill out these forms, wait a month to hear back, on hold with elevator music. Fuck. It's like waiting in the cafeteria line for some slop in prison. Trudging along, doing your boring duty, day in and day out. Numb with the monotony of it all. Please universe, please let this difficult time of transition pass without pushing me over the edge. Please bring love and joy to my life. So tired of suffering.

#me #manic depression diary #manic depressive #manic depression #bipolar disorder #bipolar #mental health awareness #mental health #depression

[renaroo]

Double Time (7/24)

Disclaimer: Red vs Blue and related characters are the property of Rooster Teeth. Warnings: Language, Canon-typical violence Pairings: Tuckington, Chex Rating: T Synopsis: [Hero Time Sequel] After the events of Hero Time, the city and Blood Gulch are prepared for the true return of superheroes in a big way. But while Washington is attempting to adjust to a new relationship and a new living arrangement, the call of new heroes and a new mayor mean major changes for his professional life as well as his personal one. How will the balance of values fare when his new partners come to test everything he’s made of.

A/N: Aaaand now we’re getting to the antagonists of the evening. I’m curious to see how many saw them coming ; ) 

Special thanks to @analiarvb, @thepheonixqueen, @cobaltqueen, @icefrozenover, @notatroll7, @secretlystephaniebrown, @freshzombiewriter, @ashleystlawrence, @a-taller-tale, Kiwibat, Kairachar1869, Yin, and @washingtonstub on AO3 and tumblr for the wonderful feed back! I truly appreciate it more than you know.

Threats as They Come

There was a part of Washington that was disappointed when he came through the window at four that morning and, rather than finding Tucker awake waiting for him, was instead met with the awkward silence of his partner soundly sleeping. 

Even if it had become more and more often that these were the way things were, and even though Wash easily rationalized it by remembering Tucker worked still, after all, he felt a certain pang about it.

Which was nothing compared to the headache he got when the blinds were pulled open and the bedroom light came on only three hours later. 

“Agh!” Wash groaned, covering his face with his hands. 

“Sorry to interrupt the catnap,” Tucker said sarcastically. 

“Most people call it regular sleep but alright,” Wash said, rubbing at his face crankily. “Seriously, though, Tucker, what the hell...?”

“We need to talk,” Tucker announced, sitting on the edge of the bed. He was fully dressed in his work uniform, arms crossed in the sort of aggravated way that reminded Wash of a school teacher for some reason. 

“Right now?” Wash asked critically. “I just went to bed,” he double checked the clock to make sure he wasn’t pulling the number out of thin air, “three hours ago.”

“Uh huh,” Tucker replied testily. “I guess that’s only a problem when our moments cut into my sleep schedule and not yours, right? I mean, shit, you save the world and help little ol’ ladies cross the street. I’m just a fucking fry cook. What’s my time worth?”

Finally pushing into a sitting position, Wash took a sharp inhale of air and looked tiredly at Tucker. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying that... this seems sudden. And I don’t know if talking while angry is a wise choice.”

“Good thing we’re arguing and not talking then,” Tucker snapped.

“We’re arguing?”

“Oh my god, you are so fucking obtuse,” Tucker actually laughed -- but it wasn’t the warm cackle that Wash knew and had grown to feel warmth spread through him at. It was sharp and scathing. Like Tucker’s current tone. “We’ve been arguing for weeks.”

“Weeks?” Wash questioned. “What? Is this going back to the car thing? Do I need to apologize for not being in on your inside joke with your friends?”

Tucker stared at him like he had just spoken in another language for a few minutes. “Oh my god, so fucking obtuse.”

Rubbing at his face, Wash sighed. “Okay, I’ll need you to walk me through this--”

“I don’t want you in on our inside jokes, idiot, I want you to have inside moments with us! And not bail on us by literally rather throwing yourself out of a moving car than have to spend some of your precious free time in our company,” Tucker replied angrily. 

Genuinely confused, Wash sat up further. “You’re mad because you want me to be friends with your friends? Even if there’s nothing that we all have in common?”

“No! Wash, dammit!” Tucker groaned grabbing at his hair. “Don’t you get it? I want us to spend time together! Like actually together!”

“We do,” Wash said firmly.

“Not enough that you think of me and Junior as being, I don’t know...” Tucker shook his head harshly. “You... You don’t think of Junior as anything but my kid.”

“Of course he’s your kid,” Wash replied. 

“He worships you, dude!” Tucker cried out. “Do you know how much time he spends every night telling me how awesome you are and how excited he is every time there’s a new training exercise or compliment thrown his way. And god, you put him on that superhero team. He’s on cloud nine!”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Wash tried very hard to keep up with the source of the complaint. “Wait, what’s wrong with all of those things?”

“I’m trying to tell you to think of us as your family, asshole!” Tucker snapped. 

“You think I don’t?” Wash asked skeptically.

“I don’t think outside of superhero business, you’ve spent much time with us as anything else. And we fucking live with you, dude,” Tucker pointed out. “And you know why? It’s because you have tried nothing outside of being a superhero. You have, like, no separation between being a superhero and being here with us. Or on the street. Or in the goddamn mayor’s office because your superhero name is just your last name for some godforsaken reason.” 

Frowning a bit, Wash held up a finger. “To be fair, I was assigned that name in Freelancer. I never found out if it was coincidence or a terrible joke.”

“This argument’s a joke,” Tucker said, throwing up his hands.

“You’re the one who started it,” Wash attempted to argue only to have Tucker waggle a finger at him. 

“Don’t try to be cute or sarcastic, my point still stands!”

Growing exhausted of the exchange, Wash held up his hands. “What point? What do you want from me, Tucker? I do think of you all as my family. I just. I don’t know how to... civilian anymore. It’s been a very long time since it was relevant to my interests.”

“Is it relevant now?” Tucker asked. “Are we relevant to your interests?”

“Yes,” Wash said without hesitation. “But I still don’t know what you want from me, Tucker.”

"You’re asking for me to literally spell this out for you,” Tucker remarked dully.

“Yes. Yes, I am,” Wash replied more snappishly than he would have liked, but his frustration was only growing. 

“I don’t know,” Tucker said, folding his arms across his chest again.

“Oh, don’t make me beg, I’m trying to meet you on your own terms here,” Wash half begged.”

Tucker looked at him almost apologetically. “No, I mean, I don’t actually know.”

Washington stared at him for a good long moment before letting his temper actually flare up. 

“What do you mean you don’t actually know? What does that mean? You’re the one who is mad at me! Not the other way around here!” 

“I know!” Tucker yelled back.

“Obviously, you don’t!” Wash squeaked out before rubbing his face. “Oh my god, we are literally fighting over nothing and I’m tired--”

“It’s not all about you! That’s what we’re fighting about!” Tucker yelled back. “No fight in the history of ever has been about nothing Wash! You wanna know what we’re fighting over? It’s that you still can’t get out of the mentality that it’s just you!”

“That’s not true,” Wash scoffed. “I’m very concerned about you and about Junior -- I love spending time with Junior, working with him, drawing with him.”

“All of those things you just described doing with my son? They’re all superhero related,” Tucker replied coarsely. “You connect to us on a purely superheroic level, and I want -- I need to know that you’re not going to get tired of us if there’s no threat of us becoming dudesels in distress anymore. That if you’re not being a superhero, you’re going to be our Wash. Because if not... That’s not a relationship, Wash.”

“What’re you saying?” Wash asked, voice growing quiet and timid despite himself. “Tucker, what’re you saying here?”

“I’m saying you’re more than a hero to us, Wash,” Tucker replied tiredly. “It’d be nice to know and feel like that wasn’t all we were to you.”

That was something that Wash could understand. 

“What do I need to do to make sure you know that then?” Wash asked. “Because I promise you that you’re so much more to me than just that. Absolutely, completely. And I will prove it.” 

For the first time that day, Tucker cracked a smile. “Oh, yeah? Just like that?” 

“Yes, just like that,” Wash replied. “What do you need me to do in order to prove just how much I mean it?”

Tucker gave him an appraising look, as if he could somehow inspect Wash’s face and assess his truthfulness. 

At the moment, Wash wasn’t entirely sure he couldn’t do just that.

Finally, though, he smirked and pointed at Wash. “You are going to get yourself and Junior over to the diner when I get off shift at three this afternoon and we’re going to prove this is a family kinda thing by having linner.”

After a moment of passing silence, Wash tilted his head. 

“I’m sorry, what?” he asked worriedly. “I... Is that something I should be familiar with?”

Tucker rolled his eyes so far that his head followed them. “Oh, my god, Wash. You’ve never heard of linner?”

Squinting, Wash worried that he was missing something genuinely important. “No?”

“Linner -- it’s between lunch and dinner. Obviously. Duh,” Tucker replied. 

“What? Like brunch?” Wash tried to clarify. 

“Yeah, duh. Breakfast-lunch and lunch-dinner, and if you’re super dedicated to the three meals per day you’ve got that dinfast--”

“You are literally making things up right in front of my face right now,” Wash surmised. “Linner is not a thing.”

“It absolutely is a thing, ask anyone who has worked in dining services! What do you eat after you get off the lunch rush shift? Linner. Duh. Trust me on this, mister-didn’t-even-know-you-could-put-hot-sauce-in-eggs.”

“Which is still weird,” Washington clarified.

“No, it’s not, it’s delicious,” Tucker said, voice eased back into that comfortable banter that had Washington believing that they were perhaps finally over whatever hill they had been on just a few moments earlier. “We’ll have linner at the diner and then I’ll be happy with the progress.”

“Progress being...” Wash pressed.

“You being human as much as you’re superhuman, Wash,” Tucker pushed. “C’mon. You’ve gotta know that what we were doing before now... it’s been very one-sided.”

“You want me to get some kind of job and hide what I’m doing all the time?” Wash tried to catch up. “I already wear sunglasses--”

“I just want you to have a life, Wash, jesus christ, calm down,” Tucker said, beginning to edge back into irritability.

"Says the man who’s been yelling at me for about two weeks,” Wash replied flatly. When Tucker didn’t let up, he gave a defeated sigh and leaned back into the pillows behind him. He was way too tired. “Linner will start me on the path toward humanity in your eyes again?”

“Linner will start you on the path to behaving like a proper person in general, yes,” Tucker said, sounding pleased. “I’d have offered brunch, but I suspect you’re about to sleep in until about one.”

“Just one?” Wash mused, eyes already sliding closed. 

“Yes, just one, because that’s when I told Junior to make sure you started getting ready for linner. So you’re not getting out of this any time fast, Wash. You’re stuck with your promises while you’re with me,” Tucker chuckled. 

“Mmph,” Wash responded, which might have at one point almost formed something similar to a sentence prior to his head hitting the pillows. 

Practically drained of any emotional and physical energy, Wash wasn’t sure if he would have made it through another argument even Tucker had continued trying. But even in the haze of approaching sleep, he noted the shifting of the mattress as Tucker got up and of the brush of a hand through his hair. 

“Alright, you big dummy, sleep or something already. We’ll work on your human exercises later,” Tucker promised.

Before the bedroom door was bothered, Wash was out again, but a weight he hadn’t even realized was there was all but gone. He truly felt as though he could breathe again. And he was more than ready to have a frankly restful sleep. 

At least, he was until the door came flying open what felt like only seconds later and slammed against the door. 

Alarmed, Wash leaped to his feet on the bed and looked toward the door.

“Wash!” Tucker yelled.

“What!? What!?” Washington demanded, feeling dizzy with confusion -- had the conversation just finished? Was he dreaming? What happened? Tucker was wearing the same outfit from before and--

“On the news!” Tucker said, rushing over and grabbing Wash’s wrist before yanking him toward the television room. “There’s some asshole on the news!”

“What?” Wash asked, dreariness setting in again. “There’s always an asshole on the news? What’s special--”

Washington came to a stop, sobering up from his sleepiness as soon as his eyes landed on the news report flashing across the screen. It was the court house in the middle of the city, and it was literally burning, a dark figure stand on top of it in black and green. 

Alarmed and surprised, Wash leaned toward the screen and read the alerts at the bottom. 

Professed Supervillain Calls For Freelancer Superhero Washington

Tucker was past hysteric. “Who the fuck is that?” 

“Don’t know,” Wash said, going for his hidden closet for his fresh suit. “I’m going to find out, though.”

“You can’t be serious,” Tucker blanched. “But--”

“But nothing, this is part of the superhero job,” Wash replied, putting on his visor. “I take it almost as seriously as linner.” When he looked to Tucker he was disappointed to not find a smirk. “I’ll make it to the diner. Promise.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about now,” Tucker replied sourly. “Aren’t you exhausted? You’ve only slept, like, four hours!”

“Three, but who’s counting,” Wash said, heading for the downstairs exit where his motorcycle was waiting. “Don’t worry, I’ll take a cat nap after.”

“And then make it to linner,” Tucker pressed, less conviction in his voice than before.

“Absolutely,” Wash promised before getting on his bike and heading off.

#writing #rvb fic #RvB: Hero Time #RvB: Double Time #Agent Washington #Tuckington #Lavernius Tucker

[bxwareofyou]

|| War : Part 1 ||

It was late, but after he’d finally managed to get her address, Brody didn’t want to wait any long to go knock Vivienne around. She’d gone too far and in the end, he didn’t care what the reasons were, she had to get a serious dose of karma for all she had done. It wasn’t the same mansion he’d been framed at years ago, but outside he could see cars and luxuries that screamed of her taste, teeth grinding as he stripped off the leather jacket he’d worn and dumped it on the side, scaling the large fence like it was nothing. He knew he could easily be walking into one of her traps. She more than likely had some kind of security camera and could send him back to jail,but rage took over his rational thoughts. Inside the grounds, he marched his way up to the front door, of course he wasn’t going to bother with knocking, nor would he kick down the door and make a bunch of noise and trigger an alarm. 

A place this size had to have a back door, and of course it was glass. A bent elbow and a little force and he could fit and arm through and wist the knob, brandishing his pocket knife one he moved deeper into her house and spotted the alarm. Just to be that asshole, he flipped the little hatch and stabbed the knife into the system, watching the little light go dark before he moved in more.

That was when he heard it. A clanking in the kitchen had made it’self know, and he figured the bitch was getting a late night snack, gritting his teeth again and he moved to the room where the sound came from. What he found instead of his ex was a tall man, shirtless save for his boxers and rustling through the fridge. The sound of his boots on the ground weren’t exactly quiet, so when Brody entered the room, the man was quick to turn around at the new sound. The lights were off, but thanks to the one inside the fridge, he could see the man’s dark eyes go wide right before he lunged at him. 

The man was large but quick as he sprang into action, Brody dodging an attack with a swift move to the side and a knee coming up into the man’s stomach.  There was little damage done as the man still came at Brody, fists swinging wildly as Brody blocked and kicked.

Gabe, of course, was confused. He’d passed out in Vivienne’s bed after they fucked, some issue dragging her to Dolly’s late and night, Dolly’s  men coming themselves to get her, so there was no need for Gabe to tag along. He’d only come down to grab some food when he got jumped. The blonde guy was a stranger to him, but if he was inside creeping around it the dark, he obviously wasn’t a friend.  He was quick, too, for someone almost Gabe’s height. Gabe’s large fists landed a punch to the guy’s sides, hearing a grunt of pain but the guy was tough and kept going.

It was rough. Gabe had been in more than his fair share of fights, but rarely did he come across a guy who’d matched him in height and bulk the way this guy did. What he wanted, he couldn’t say, nor did he have time to ask, even if he would have, but Gabe was still riding the adrenaline from the fight.

He was better with a gun, or carrying out a hit nice and clean, but the blonde’s street fighting skills had him beat. He was also armed, where Gabe was not, the knife he produced int he middle of the tussle ripping flesh on Gabe’s bicep and hand. 

As Brody landed a boot-clad kick to the man’s stomach, he doubled over, the sting from the cuts a distraction to him, and Brody was able to land a few punched to the guy’s jaw and nose. He went down like a big box filled with bricks being held up but a safety pin, and though he tried to grab at Brody’s feet, he only got a few kicks to the side in return. Brody was used to fighting guys way bigger than him, and knew what it took to bring them down. 

“Where is she? Huh?” He spit as he wiped blood from his nose. “ Where's who?” Gabe asked only to be booted in the face.” You know who, you little shit! Vivienne! That treacherous cunt. You’re her new little boy toy, huh? Bitch aklwasy had a type.” Brody chuckled. “ You tell me where she is or I’mm slit your fucking throat and tear this shit hole down looking for her myself.” No response. “ You think I’m fucking kidding? Hey!” Brody in all his rage abandoned his knife out of Gabe’s reach and grabbed a larger kitchen knife from the display on the counter before moving to the ground, on leg on Gabe’s chest as his knee pressed into the man’s thought. “ You think I’m fucking fucking around, huh? WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE?”

By now, Gabe had an idea who he was. There were stories that floated around between staff of the family, and of course he’d heard a few about Vivienne. Still, he thought the reason she needed protection was from a hit placed by her brother in law, not an ex with an axe to grind. He felt ashamed that he lost a fight, but valued his life over anyone else’s. “ I din’t know. “ Gabe finally choked out, pitting blood from his mouth to the floor between sentences. “ She got some call, okay? I’m not her fucking boy toy, I’m here to protect her. 

“Yeah? You’re doing a shit fucking job, friend.” Brody taunted, the kinfe at the side of Gabe’s throat. 

“What’d she do you you, huh? You want her that bad that you come in here just like this?” Gabe asked out of curiosity. Sure, he wasn’t going to give up Viv, but he wasn’t going to let some punk redneck kill him for her.

“You mean besides fuck up my life? She fucked with my girl, and that’s a big no-no. Now the bitch gotta die.” Brody promised. It wasn’t some kind of care for her that made Gabe worry, but the fear that he’d failed to do the one job he was given. He couldn’t deal with that shame if this guy got to her. Then something clicked. “ The girl... The blonde girl.. Hawt--”

“DON’T YOU SAY HER FUCKING NAME!” Brody yelled, angry in his eyes and tone as Gabe placed his hands up in surrender. 

“Look that wasn’t her, alright -- Vivienne... “  He choked, watching Brodys’ features not shift an inch. “ Look, I heard about some stuff going on in the company... I’m there all day, people talk... She’s your girl, right? I heard she was dating some thug.” Gabe scoffed, Brody didn’t move yet, but he was listening. “ Some skinny mother fucker came in -- a real pencil dick in a suit. I saw him head into the old man’s office with an envelope, came out a while later with a big smile on his face. I saw him at a party too, chatting up the blonde.  From what I heard he’s her ex, tried to get some money outta her or something and she turned him down. You wanna guess who’d be most likely to have nudie pics of your little fri--” 

“A Name.” The tip of the knife was pressing harder now, almost drawing blood.

“Alvin, something... Winthrop. Alan Winthrop...” Gabe scoffed. Gasping for air.

Brody didn’t want to believe him -- why should he? But an ex having pictures made a lot more sense than Viv having them. He was sure she had something to do with it, but for now, he was falling into Gabe’s plan of redirecting his anger without even knowing, too blind in his rage to think straight.

When his knee was off Gabe’s throat, the man because to curl up and couch, gasping for air and spitting out the blood he’d all but choked on. Brody rose to his feet and stepped back, watching the man with a scowl as he tossed the knife on the island and reached for his own blade again. “ You should get yourself a new job, friend.” He said, still scowling.

“ Yeah, “ Gabe spat on the ground, pushing himself up to sit. “ Maybe.”

“ Should get yourself a new girl, too -- that bitch aint worth it, trust me. She’d sell her own sister for caviar.”

“ She aint my girl.” Gabe bit back. “ I got a kid to feed, ao I’m just doing what I was told. You go after the guy who really did this shit and leave my meal ticket alone, and I clean up and pretend this never happened.” Gabe offered. 

Brody stood for a minute. He’d get her, he knew he would, but he also knew that this guy would be on the look out for him now, probably heighten security thinking there’d even be a change he’d come back. Besides, if Viv was actually there, the noise would have brought her downstairs already, too nosy and into confrontation to think to hide.

With a nod, Brody agreed...kinda of, and folded the blade up before backing his way out of the kitchen. “ Enjoy your sandwich.” He smirked, leaving Gabe on the ground as he booked it for the back door again.

#self para #chat: brody

[revlatte]

Sanctuary: Pre-Launch Thoughts

It’s Sunday morning here in the Land of the Sky. I sit in front of a computer screen, alone down a very long drive way. There’s tea brewing in the kitchen. Jill Scott is playing on my Spotify. The track is currently “He Loves Me.” I’m in winter socks, plaid boxers, and a University of Tennessee Center for Leadership & Service long-sleeve shirt I received as a gift for participating on an alumni panel. My plaid pants are laying on the bed next to me with a pair of long johns inside. The heater is set to “4″. I have no clue what temperature that is but it’s warm enough. The curtains are still drawn because I’m a Pisces and love lurking in the dark, even in the day light. I am about to light 3 candles to be obedient to my partner’s ancestors. 

Admittedly, my brain is not firing as strongly as it used too. This gives me great pause and reason for concern. It’s almost as if my brain reached it’s peak a decade ago when I was working, involved in ministry as a youth pastor, and in graduate school at Wesley Theological Seminary. I’ve spent the last decade searching for my people, my family, my home, my faith community, myself. Perhaps with the Sanctuary Movement, I’m a bit closer. 

3 Thoughts for Today: Hidden Figures, #wearenotinvisible & brewing, Black Star Line Brewing. 

Hidden Figures

One of my good friends here in Asheville and I went to the pre-release to see Hidden Figures on Thursday. I was so proud of Taraji P. Henderson. She is a true come up! From Hustle & Flow to Hidden Figures with Kevin Costner. As a Black American, I understand the significance of this and how Taraji is maturing as an actress who is commanding respect in Hollywood circles. I may not respect all of her choices in movies but I see her value as an actress and role model. Heck, she inspired me. 

Throughout the movie, there is a common narrative that we as Black women are familiar with. The asshole bosses who lack any emotional intelligence and create hostile work environments and don’t give two shits about how their egoism, patriarchy, heteronormativity, cis-gendered male privilege, misogyny impacts everyone one else. There’s the narrative of having to work harder than everyone else though you’re more qualified and have more experience. The experience of being paid less because of what’s between your legs and the color of your skin. The narrative of others knowing the discrimination you are facing is real but THEY DO NOTHING! They want to protect their safety, their freedom, their privilege. They watch as you face oppression, hatred, bigotry and become ostracized. And, there’s the one person who can see through this shit and validate and affirm our experiences. We, as Black women, so often, play critical roles in the development of institutions, organizations, companies and receive no accreditation. We are written out of history and convinced that we can be nothing more than subservient slaves to capitalism and white supremacy. Hidden Figures broke that narrative. 

I left that movie theater inspired and proud. I left with a fire in my belly that we, the Sistahs of Sanctuary, could do anything. We already are. 

#wearenotinvisible & brewing

When I first came to Asheville and arrived at my home on Lamar Avenue, I declared my new home as sanctuary and a place to land. I told my girlfriend at the time that I wanted to fly under the radar, keep my nose down, not get involved with organizing, and take some space to process and heal. I needed a low-key, “normal” life. That was my desire. 

Within just a few short months, all of that had turned on its head. I was working at the progressive UCC in town. It was a great experience and also really damn difficult. I had the same degree as the co-pastors, comparable experience in many ways, and was in a position of assistant. My options for employment were limited so $14 an hour for 14 hours a week (as it started) was stable and kept the lights on. Additionally, I had some outside contracting work and residuals, so it was all good. While there, I realized my brain was working the same and was too afraid to say anything to anyone. I imagine the pastors could tell something was off. Perhaps none of us wanted to say anything. I was a shell of a person. Through it all, I waited for the moment when they would ask me to preach on a Sunday. Or help with the Eucharist (which I believe is the most sacred and holy of acts in faith communities.) Or do a reading. I waited for an invitation to be a part of the community. Rarely, if ever, did that come. My engagement with the community was structured around ways I was showing up as a staff. This was sad in many ways and I received a sense of home, place, community through it all. Until...

The week before Valentine’s Day 2016. My partner was certain she was going to loose the baby. I was not surprised. Stress, shitty ass nutrition, and a diet of many beers, mixed with older age. This was sad and devastating for me, as their partner. We had dreamed of the baby, names, colors for the walls. The plan was that I would be transitioning to her house to live. All of us, as a family. 

I received a call from the doctor that whatever was growing on and inside of my uterus was growing. Surgery had to be scheduled immediately for that upcoming Tuesday, the 11th. 

Long story short - an emergency hysterectomy for me while simultaneously, my girlfriend was having a miscarriage. Devastation. 

I was out of work from the church and my girlfriend did not want any support or visits. I couldn’t understand but wanted to respect our relationship boundaries. Less than a week later, a white, older, lesbian, wealthy Board member came in to my home and unleashed her white rage on to me and broke a really dear item to me, at my dining room table. In the weeks that followed, the #wearenotinvisible movement was launched to address anti-Black bias in the workplace, primarily in gay/queer organizations. The fall out was shitty. As per usual, folks took the side of the oppressed, did everything in their power to discredit me, and engaged in a long and multi-tiered level of victim-blaming. It was humiliating and devastating. In fact, to this day, the organization has comments on their website about the #wearenotinvisble movement. As SHE said, it’s painful and it hurts. 

Through that advocacy and raising issues around transparency, I was blackballed. Eventually, I had to leave my job at the church. My relationship with my partner was falling apart. And I was in this new damn town, isolated, alone, afraid, unemployed and not employable. I sought Sanctuary. I had to go inward. Once inside, I couldn’t make my way through the mountains, rivers, valleys, and streams of consciousness and trauma. I was alone. 

Over the next year, I would watch friends come and go. Hot and cold. Close and far. It was as if I was walking around town with the Mark of the Beast. In each conversation, I had to give a disclaimer of who I was and what I was about. It fucking sucked. I just wanted to live.... until I didn’t because I couldn’t take it anymore. 

So what does this have to do with brewing? The #wearenotinvisible movement got hijacked and all around town I saw people wearing the shirts that I paid for (for half of them at least), and not knowing the history. It was clear that they knew this one person and bought a shirt to be a part of a movement. 

To be a part of something bigger than yourself. That’s what the Sanctuary Movement is all about. That’s what we are striving to achieve. Collective working, unity, healing, and liberation. To embody the principles of Kwanzaa. 

Well, as I think about the craft brewing industry, to be blunt: it’s fully of really privileged, white, cis-gendered males with a lot of access to cash. If they have enough cash, they can work hard enough (or make others work for them at a fraction of their worth), and amass a great living, if not millions, in just a matter of years. There’s no one in the industry that looks like me. A thick, Black, masculine of center, queer, woman. I know we exist and are excited and interested in beer. We are the under-served, un-tapped market. I know the secret to our success and healing. #wearenotinvisible and yes I can see the Hidden Figures. 

Black Star Line Brewing

Again, you are probably reading this wondering what the hell I’m talking about and how it all comes together and if it’s remotely related to the Sanctuary Movement. The answer is YES!

Sanctuary will initially house 4 Black, queer womyn and their children in the month of January 2016. We will host rituals. Healing circles. Visioning sessions. And begin to create the world we have envisioned. Challenging supremacy, capitalism, and individualism. We are welcoming each other home. To Sanctuary. 

AND, that comes at a cost. Rent is $1200. Utilities will probably average about $200. Water about $100. Internet is $60. Food for all of us around $400. Other items (such as toilet paper, paper towels, etc.), are estimated around $150 a month. If we have a shared car, estimated payment around $350/month. Insurance estimated at $200/month. Total baseline for the household: $1620. Add food and miscellaneous items: That’s $2170. Then, if we’re able to secure a car and insurance for such, we’re looking at $2,720. For the sake of round numbers, let’s say it cost $2800 per month to support 4 Black women and 3 children. That’s it. 

However, we are all coming to the space because we need, desire, and crave Sanctuary and community. Our collective and individual capacities to “work” in the system, to make someone else richer, and to have our worth evaluated at $10/hour at best, is not an option. There needs to be soul-affirming work with dignity, pride, and honor. 

To that end, we’ve asked folks who can see the Hidden Figure and those that know are lives matter, that #wearenotinvisible, to donate to the Sanctuary Movement. To donate in recurring donations, single donations, donate food, cars, whatever and however they are able. We are not a non-profit (because we do not believe in that hierarchy and oppressive structure). We are Sistahs of Sanctuary who are doing the work of healing and starting where it matters the most, with ourselves. 

We have most of the brewing equipment we need to get started. But not the funds for the rest of the materials or equipment. If we are able to brew and partner with our friends at breweries around town, we can make beer, mead, cider, etc. as a viable stream of income to support the community. We can break through the color and gender barrier in the industry and really show strength in self-sufficiency. This could be a model we could replicate and break free from the chains of traditional employment that is exploitative. It is a pathway to our liberation. 

We have the land and space to grow hops and really distinguish ourselves.

As we heal, we will see the launch of Black Star Line Brewing as a testimony to our individual and collective healing and liberation. As a form of resistance and renewal. As a form of Sanctuary in a bottle. 

Alone. Down the long driveway. Over a mason jar of tea. I dream of the tomorrow that is almost here. I dream of Sanctuary. Of our collective brilliance. Of being at the precipice of healing - individual and collective. I dream of the story that our children and grand children will tell about us being bad-ass, radical women who blazed the trail in the craft brewing industry, in commercial cleaning, healing, at life. 

I think of my Sistahs and give thanks. Because of them, I have the will to live. The fight in my belly. Because of them, I can come home. Because of them I am home and have finally found Sanctuary.