#why did harry and sally have to be right when they said men and women can’t just be friends

[staticscreenwriting]

LOVE LIKE THE MOVIES // BUCKY BARNES

TWO - Grease 1 & 2

Masterlist 

Summary: This is a story of boy meets girl. The boy, Bucky Barnes, finds himself thrown into a world that seems so different from everything he’s ever known. The girl, (Y/N) knows entirely too much about rom-coms and is quite particular about the way she eats her popcorn. Bucky meets (Y/N) a few months after returning to NYC. He knows almost immediately that becoming her friend is inevitable. This is a story of boy meets girl. This is a story about love. (Bucky Barnes x female!Reader // a few spoilers for TFATWS)

[additional note: I am German. Sometimes I get the tense wrong or make mistakes. I am useless when it comes to punctuation. Go easy on me, please.]

“  I made a friend. “

Dr. Raynor doesn’t look up from her notebook but the slightly surprised raise of her eyebrow doesn’t get lost on Bucky.

“ Thought you might want to know. “

She stops writing for a second and glances up at him, her eyes holding a certain sense of hesitation and reluctance. He can almost see the gears in her head turning. She’s trying to get one step ahead of him, figure out what smartass comment he’ll throw at her. Only this time there isn’t one. This time it’s all genuine. It’s all true.

“ I do. That’s — good. Where’s the catch? “

“ There’s no catch. I made a new friend, just like that. And it’s not some making amends thing either. “

She closes her notebook, places it on the table to her right, and then folds her hands in her lap the way she does sometimes when Bucky knows he’s said something important. He has her entire and undivided attention.

“ That’s good, James. Tell me more about this friend. “

“ Her name is (Y/N). She’s a waitress and she’s really into movies. “

“ Oh. “

“ Oh? “

“ It’s a woman. “

“ Yeah it’s a woman, is that a problem? “ Bucky asks. Now it’s time for him to raise an eyebrow in question.

“ No. It’s not. I just didn’t expect it. “

“ Are you saying men and women can’t be friends? That’s awfully antiquated thinking, Doc. Have you ever seen when Harry met Sally? “

“ I have. Have you?”

Bucky scoffs as if the question is an insult to his intelligence.

“ Sure. It’s a classic. “

He hits her with a sarcastic grin, the one he knows she hates. The one she knows is fake and fabricated but that allows him to be unreadable to her for just a second.

“ Well then. I’m glad you’re making friends. It’s a big step, James. But I don’t want you to get attached to someone because you think that’s gonna make you get out of this arrangement any sooner, “ she says and motions her finger around the room in a twirling motion. “ It’s a more permanent situation. I hope you are aware of that.”

Eyes averted to the floor, Bucky nods his head in understanding.

“ I know. That’s not the reason. I — she knows me. Knows about me before all of the bad stuff. In her eyes, I am the man I used to be before Hydra. It’s nice to go back to that even if it’s not the truth. (Y/N) gives me a chance to figure out who I am right now without being reminded of all the bad things I did. “

When he looks back up Dr. Reynor regards him with a look he’s never seen before. Softer. She even smiles a little bit and he hardly ever sees her smile. Granted, he doesn't make these sessions easy for her so what does he expect really? Her smiling at him feels like he’s doing something right.

“ She sounds lovely. “

“ She talks so much and she sends me weird videos I don’t understand. Like, yesterday she sent me one of a kid saying he’s 19 and he can’t read and — I have no idea what it meant. And she makes fun of me for having a flip phone. But it’s not mean-spirited or anything. She doesn’t make me feel left out. Doesn’t make me feel stupid. “

“ Anything else you know about her? “

“ Her coffee tastes horrible. “

Dr. Reynor lets out an airy chuckle. “ James, I like the fact that you’re making friends. We all need friends, especially during times when we feel like we’re lost or have no direction in life. And it sounds like this friendship is good for you. “

“ But? “

“ Why do you think there’s a but ? “

“ There always is. “

She regards him for a second then nods slightly. “ You’re right. But it’s not a bad one. Listen, it seems like this woman knows a lot about who you used to be. How about you learn a little more about her? Even the playing field. A friendship is based on mutual understanding and trust. That’s my homework for you. Get to know her better. “

“ Your homework is for me to spend time with a friend? “

“ Yes. Now that doesn’t sound so bad, does it? “

Bucky shakes his head in reply.

No, that really doesn’t sound all that bad.

The bell above the door chimes as Bucky steps inside the diner. It’s quite a bit more crowded than the last time he’s been here.

“ Grumpy!”

His head snaps towards the counter at the enthusiastic exclamation of his new nickname.

  (Y/N) stands behind the counter clad in the diner’s signature baby blue polo shirt, a pencil tugged behind her ears, and a frilly apron wrapped around her waist.

Her lips pull into a smile as he approaches and plops down onto one of the barstools.

“ You have impeccable timing, Grumpy.”

“ I guess that’s gonna stick? “

(Y/N) only nods her head in agreement, eyes full of mischief and determination. There’s no sense in arguing about this topic. That’s one nickname set in stone now. And really, it’s not like it doesn’t fit him.

“ I have something for you. “

“ You do? “

“ Well it’s not technically for you specifically but I need someone to try it so — “

Before he can even react she rushes back into the kitchen, her sneakers creating squeaking sounds on the shiny linoleum floor.

“ Do you want some coffee? “ the other waitress approaches, holding out the pot filled with the dark brew. It smells warm and delicious and Bucky wants to say yes until he remembers the last time he’s had coffee here and how bitter and burned it had been. And how he drank it anyway because he couldn’t bear to let (Y/N) know that her coffee was horrible.

“ Don’t worry, “ the waitress speaks up again, obviously picking up on Bucky’s complicated feelings towards the diner’s coffee “ I made it. Won’t let her near the pot when I’m around.”

“ In that case, please. “

Just as the mug fills with coffee, (Y/N) comes back tumbling around the corner and out of the kitchen. She leans against the counter, next to the red-haired waitress, and plops a Tupperware container in front of Bucky.

“ Try these and tell me what you think. “

Bucky takes a sip of his coffee before slowly opening the container to be greeted by a pile of cookies, of all shapes and sizes, no two quite the same.

“ Cookies? “

“ Eat one! “

“ Whoa, hold up.” Bucky exclaims as he raises his hands in mock defense. “ this sounds awfully suspicious to me. Are you trying to pull a Snow White on me here? “

(Y/N) eyes grow big and the most radiant smile spreads across her face at his words.

“ You made a pop culture reference!”

“ Saw it in the cinema. “

“ No way.”

“ Mmmh. With my sister.”

“ I just decided I love it when you make pop culture references. “

“ Noted.”

“ Okay, so since no one thinks it’s important to introduce me, let me do it myself,” the red-haired waitress chimes in and holds out her hand for Bucky to shake. He can see her eyebrows furrow a little as she notices his gloves. It’s not yet cold enough for people to not wonder about it. They know something ain’t right with him and he hates it. Wishes they’d just disregard it. Act like it’s a completely normal and feasible thing.

“ I’m Robin, (Y/N)’s best friend. “

“ I’m Bucky. Hopefully, not the first victim of (Y/N)’s poisoning.”

“ Oh, how arrogant of you to assume you’d be the first. If you don’t want my cookies, give ‘em back !”

(Y/N) tries to reach across the counter only for Bucky to snatch the container away holding it out of her reach. “ You gave me the cookies, you can’t take them back. That’s not how gifts work.”

“ Then try one for god’s sake! “

“ Alright, calm down. I will. “

He hates the fact that both (Y/N) and Robin are staring at him as he takes a bite of one of the cookies. The whole thing is almost the size of his face and littered with chocolate chips. It’s a damn mess of a cookie and he’d loved to have been there when she made them. No doubt it was chaos. No doubt it was an awful lot of fun too.

The cookie is — a lot. It’s too much sugar, too much chocolate. Too much of everything. He can practically feel the cavities building with every bite he takes. It’s that sweet.

But she looks at him with such glee in her eyes and this big beautiful smile that rivals the sun with its brightness and there’s no way in hell he can tell her the truth. Not when lying about it keeps that smile on her face.

Quite honestly,  Bucky thinks, life isn’t about telling the truth at all times. Sometimes, life is about knowing when to use your little white lies. Sometimes telling the truth isn’t doing anyone any favor.

“ So ? “

“ They’re — sweet.”

And they are. So really, it isn’t even an actual lie after all.

“ Good. They’re supposed to be. You see, I have a date tomorrow and I asked him what his favorite dessert was and he said cookies. I’m not sure they count as a dessert but anyway. Thanks for being my guinea pig. “

Robin throws him a look over (Y/N)’s shoulder. A look that lets him know she’s not buying it. She’s looking right through him. But she smiles so maybe she too realizes that sometimes lying saves everyone the heartache that may come with the truth.

“ You have a date? “

“ I do. His name is Russell, we’ve been hanging out for a while but he had to go to Europe for work and we haven’t seen each other in a few months. It was never anything serious, kind of a wrong place, wrong time thing. But maybe this time it works. “

“ Oh please, “ Robin exclaims, furiously slamming the pot back into the coffee machine. “ This loser has been stringing you along for far too long now. He’s not worth it. Trust me you can do so much better than him. “

There’s something about the way (Y/N) mood changes, the way she falters, that Bucky doesn’t like. Not even a tiny little bit. It’s a split second, just the whisper of a moment and then she’s back to her joking, bubbly self. But that tiny second is enough. Enough for Bucky to know he never wants to see it again. The doubt and hurt fluttering across her eyes. He’s seen too much hurt in too many eyes. It’s never getting any easier. It just makes him realize how much he hates seeing it in hers.

“ Ignore the crazy lady, he’s not that bad.” (Y/N) tries to reason, though the light and airy tone in her voice doesn’t sound quite as convincing as it usually does.

“ He refuses to put a label on your relationship and he treats you like you’re disposable. “

“ Sounds like a catch, is this the one with the fish picture or the one with the star wars facts? “ Bucky asks, biting off yet another piece of the tooth-achingly sweet cookie.

“ Neither. We met while walking our dogs. He’s nice, really. “

“ Sounds like it. “

“ He is. Robin over there just thinks she’s the expert on romance because she’s about to get married. Don’t believe a thing she says. Her own fairytale romance makes her blind to other people’s romantic struggles. “

Robin shakes her head in disagreement, making her red curls bounce with each motion. “ You’re a big girl, you know what you’re doing. I’m just calling things as I see them. Anyway, I gotta serve table 4.”

Silence falls upon them as Robin leaves to tend to the customers and (Y/N) averts her eyes back towards the countertop.

“ Hey, “ Bucky speaks up, getting (Y/N) to look up and meet his eyes. “ I hope the date turns out well for you, you deserve that. And if it doesn’t, just text me and we can watch another movie or something. “

“ You’d do that for me? “

“ Yeah. Sure. It’s what friends do. We’re friends now — right ? “

(Y/N) smiles “ right!”

And it’s nice, Bucky thinks, to have a friend again. Even though it’s all new and fresh, it feels wonderful. Like a tiny bit of weight has been taken from his shoulders. Like he can take a breath for the first time in a long time.

Joe’s Pizzaria is an American restaurant that tries desperately to trick Americans into thinking it’s an authentic Italian restaurant.

And while it does have a certain undeniable charm, (Y/N) gets a bit tired of chomping down on yet another breadstick while staring at the red and white checkered tablecloth and pretending not to grasp the gravity of the situation. He’s not gonna come. He’s two hours late. Two whole hours. Half a bottle of wine and one salad late. The waiters pity her, it’s painfully obvious. The way they keep checking on her, keep asking if there’s anything they can bring her. Keep filling her breadstick with no upcharge.

Pity, (Y/N) thinks, is her least favorite emotion. It doesn’t do anyone any good and in the end, everyone just feels worse.

A "ping" coming from her phone pulls (Y/N) from her thoughts and for a teeny-tiny second a flicker of hope sparks in her heart that maybe Russell is just late and this is him apologizing and explaining. Maybe she was worth it to him after all.

Then her eyes register the name on the screen and disappointment fills her veins. Does he really not care? Does she really mean so little to him, he doesn't even feel the need to cancel the date? Is this some sick joke?

Bucky's message reads: Hope you're having fun. Did he like the cookies?

It's a weird feeling, to know someone she hasn't known for very long wastes even the smallest thought on her while her date doesn't give a shit. All it does is set into perspective that her blossoming friendship with Bucky is worth any effort it might take.

"Don't ask. Hey, what are you doing right now?"

"Oh, that bad? Not much. Trying to figure out what to have for dinner. Why?"

"How do you feel about spaghetti and meatballs?"

He doesn’t have a couch.

That’s the one thought that spooks around his head as soon as he realizes what he’s just agreed to.

He’s been living here for months and he doesn’t even have a fucking couch.

When (Y/N) asked if she could come around, when she said she’d bring food and asked if her dog could come, he couldn’t say no. Not when she's already been stood up that night. Nevertheless, everything inside him starts twisting up in knots at the thought of opening his home to another person. Home. That’s really the problem now that he thinks about it. This place doesn’t feel like a home. It’s 4 walls and a roof. Nothing has felt like home in a long time.

He invited her over and he doesn’t even have a fucking couch.

There’s a TV and an armchair, a few cupboards, a chair, and a bed he doesn’t sleep in. Sometimes he thinks back to his childhood home, with all his mother's porcelain figurines collecting dust on the shelves and the wall of family pictures. It felt warm and cozy and like it was meant for people to live and learn and grow. It was their own.

This apartment is a box for him to stay at. Nothing here is in any way personal. But how do you make something your own when you don’t even know who you really are? When all you remember are times long gone or times you want to forget.

He snatches the sheets and pillow off the floor and throws them on his bed. He might not be able to get any more furniture in time for (Y/N) to arrive but he sure as hell doesn’t need to let her know that his nightmares don’t allow him to sleep in his own damn bed.

A knock sounds from the front door and for a second, Bucky’s blood turns cold as ice. No one ever talks about how scary it is to let people in. Would it matter to her and their friendship that his apartment is just as empty as he feels inside?

As soon as he opens the door, a fluffy bundle of white and brown fur rushes past him and runs a lap around his living room before settling by his feet, tail wagging and tongue hanging from his mouth.

“ Oh god, sorry. She’s just so excited to meet new people. “

Giving the dog a few pets, Bucky turns back to (Y/N), who gives him one of her signature sunshine smiles as she holds out a paper bag to him. The smell of delicious food reaches Bucky’s nose as he takes the bag from her and ushers her inside.

“ So, Spaghetti? “

“ Yup. And meatballs. “

Bucky nods his head in approval, “ Sounds good to me. “

She smiles at him again but there’s a kind of sadness surrounding her that he wishes he could take away. Whoever that Russell guy is, he’s a damn fool for not showing up.

“ Food’s still warm so if you tell me where your plates are … “ (Y/N) trails off as she really takes in the state of his apartment for the first time since she’s stepped inside. He can basically see the thoughts running through her head, one after the other, none sticking around long enough to form a coherent string of words to express what she’s thinking. He knows she wants to comment, can see it in her eyes. But something is holding her back and he can’t blame her. Their friendship isn’t that deep yet. You don’t ask someone you’ve just gotten friendly with why their apartment is so fucking empty. It’s sad and there are implications there that run deeper than one can see.

So to spare her any more awkward silence, Bucky speaks up again.

“ I uh — I just moved in. Haven’t gotten around to getting much furniture. We can sit by the kitchen counter or you can take the armchair and I’ll take the floor. “

“ That’s fine, we’ll make it work, “ she replies, before turning towards the kitchen cupboards, “ now … plates ?”

“ This is delicious “ Bucky exclaims as he stuffs yet another fork of Spaghetti into his mouth.

Lady, (Y/N)'s Cocker Spaniel, casually lounges on his armchair, eyes always trained on the dishes of pasta, while Bucky and (Y/N) sit on the floor, backs against the wall.

“ Right? I love Meatballs. Last time I was at Joe’s Pizzeria, I was there with Russell and he got real pretentious about not ordering Spaghetti and Meatballs from an Italian restaurant because it wasn’t authentic Italian cuisine. As if I care. It tastes good, that’s all that matters.”

“ Well, he really does sound better with every new thing you tell me about him.”

(Y/N) shrugs and avoids eye contact with him. It’s strange, Bucky thinks, to see her this way. All of her bubbly personality and contagious energy are suddenly drained from her. Like someone squeezed her too tightly and pushed all the joy out.

“ Yeah he’s an asshole, I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess whatever we had going on just felt familiar and sometimes going back to something you know, even though it’s bad for you, is easier than opening yourself to something new. “

“ Wow, my therapist would love you. That sounded so smart.”

“ It did, didn’t it?,” (Y/N) says and lets out a little chuckle. It’s nice to hear her laugh even though it doesn’t hold the radiance, the pure happiness it usually does.

“She gave me some homework.”

(Y/N) looks at Bucky between bites, raising an eyebrow in intrigue. “ She did? “

“ Mmmh. I told her about you and our friendship and she thought that, because you know a lot about me, I should learn some things about you. “

(Y/N) quickly swallows the pasta before placing both her hands over her heart and staring at Bucky with an expression he can’t entirely read. There’s a glimmer of mischief in her eyes but there’s more, he just needs to figure out what exactly it is.

“ You talk to your therapist about me? Awww. That’s how you know a friendship is worthwhile. When they mention you to their therapist, that’s when you know it’s real. “

“ Aw man, now you’re just making fun of me. I take it all back. “

“ No! No, Bucky. I think that’s very sweet and it makes me feel important,” there’s a sincerity in her eyes that makes him feel a little weird. Not a bad weird. Just — different. He didn’t think this was gonna be such a big deal to her. And while he still feels extremely self-conscious about it all, he’s a little glad that he mentioned her to Dr. Reynor. Maybe it would do both of them some good, him and (Y/N).

“ It’s nice that our new friendship matters enough for you to mention it to her. Getting stood up by Russell felt like a punch in the guts. It made me feel incredibly inadequate and like I wasn’t worth enough for him to text me let alone show up. Knowing that there’s someone who thinks about me every once in a while, that’s a nice feeling. Least my friends think I’m worth it. "

Hearing those words fall from her lips sends a wave of anger and disbelief through Bucky. (Y/N) is the first person in a long while that makes him feel like he can figure out who he is and who he was and not feel guilty about it. To think she feels inadequate or like she's not good enough is just unbelievable to him.

"Just forget about that guy, he's clearly an idiot. You deserve someone who shows up. When it matters and even when it doesn't. "

"He didn't even get to try my cookies. I worked so hard on them."

"What? Oh my god, okay see - he's a damn fool. Those cookies were - so sweet. His loss, really."

(Y/N)'s laughter echoes through the halls of his empty apartment and Bucky thinks that maybe that was one of the things missing from this place to really make it a home. Emotions. Laughter and joy. Something other than fear and regret. Something other than pain.

“ Bucky, you’re so nice but you don’t have to lie. I know the cookies weren’t all that great. “

“ No! They were good, they were just — very sweet. And you know what? You deserve a guy who eats them anyway.”

She doesn’t give him a reply to that comment and maybe it doesn’t ask for one either. Some statements don’t need answers, they just are.

“ Hey, do you want my last meatball? “ he asks, and at her smile and enthusiastic nod, he rolls it from his plate onto hers.

“ Now what movie did you bring? “

“ Oh boy, “ (Y/N) proclaims and looks at Bucky with an unwavering excitement “ you’re in for a wild ride. Tonight we’re doing a double feature.”

“ Bringing the big guns, huh? “

“ You have no idea. Tonight we’re watching Grease 1 and 2. “

Two couples stare back at Bucky from the bubblegum-colored DVD case (Y/N) pulls from her purse. Something about the bright colors and the over-the-top hairstyles makes Bucky think that these movies won’t be the absolute pinnacle of sophisticated filmmaking.

“ What’s the lesson this time?“

“ Eh, “ (Y/N) says and shrugs “ when I was younger I thought it was meant to teach you that if you want to be with someone you can overcome any obstacle. No matter how different you seem or what other people might think. Now that I’m an adult I think it’s just about the 50s aesthetic and the killer musical number. “

“ Musical numbers? “

“ Mmmh. And well, the second one is pure garbage but it’s so bad it’s good. It also helps that Michelle Pfeiffer and Maxwell Caulfield look absolutely gorgeous in this film. “

“ So this isn’t gonna help me with my romance skills then? “

(Y/N) regards him for a second, purses her lips, and taps the side of her face as she thinks about her answer. “ I mean, the second movie is basically about how cool men who ride motorcycles are. Do you ride a motorcycle? “

“ I do actually. “

“ What? Oh, you just got 10 times cooler. One could say you’re a — cool rider.”

Bucky furrows his eyebrow in confusion.

“ Don’t worry, Grumpy. You’ll get the reference later.”

“ If I’m Grumpy, which of the 7 dwarves are you? “

“ Sleepy? “

“ Dopey? “

“ No. How about Happy ?”

It’s meant to be silly, just a joke really, but Bucky can’t help but think that it fits her. Even when she’s sad, there’s an infinite positivity in her eyes, an aura of joy and happiness and being around her is just so easy.

“ You know what? I think that’s the one. “

“ I like it. Now — let me introduce you to the students of Rydell High.”

“ What in the world did you just make me watch? “ Bucky asks as the end credits to Grease 2 roll across the tv screen. Lady is snuggled up in his lap and his right hand lazily combs through her soft fur.

“ Two absolute masterpieces. “

“ In the first one they flew away in a car. And that second one, I don’t even know what to say.”

“ Because it was so good? “

“ Mmmmh no. That's not why. “

"Oh please, you can admit you l-" a big yawn interrupts her words and Bucky notices just how tired she looks right then.

"You're tired." It's not a question, more an observation.

"Mmmh Lady and I should probably head out."

He doesn't want her to leave. Disappointment, it's a feeling he knows very well, it's familiar and almost comfortable. Usually, though, that disappointment is directed towards himself. A lovely dose of self-deprecation. This time it's different. This time he's disappointed about the situation. About the prospect of being alone again. Alone in his empty box of an apartment.

The anxiety of letting someone in is slowly being overshadowed by his fear of being alone again. With his thoughts and his failures and the images of all the faces that have ever looked at him in fear.

"You can stay"

"Bucky … you don't have a couch. Where would I sleep?"

"Bed," he says as if it's the most obvious of all answers ever given.

"Grumpy, I'm not taking your bed."

"I'm not sleeping there anyway."

"Why?"

Her eyes are so soft and gentle as the question tumbles from her lips. So full of concern. For him. Concern and care, for him. It's not like he deserves it but it's a nice feeling either way.

"It's too soft."

It's painfully obvious that she knows there's more to it, that his words hold more gravity and weight than just that simple fact.

She doesn’t push it though and for that Bucky is eternally grateful. Sure, talking to her is easy and it helps him in some way or another. But this, his nightmares and his trauma and the faces that won't leave his thoughts, that haunt him as soon as he falls asleep, that's a can of worms he's not ready to open yet.

"Where do you sleep?"

"Floor."

"Oh, Grumpy. Hey uh - how about we both stay on the floor? You're in luck too because I also have a live version of Grease the musical we can watch."

He doesn't necessarily want to watch another movie where they sing pretty much every two minutes but if it means she'll stay, he'll do it. 

" Okay then."

"Okay."

That night, Bucky sleeps on the floor just like he does every night only this time there's a friend with him just a few meters away , close enough but not suffocating, and a dog resting on his chest, softly breathing gentle breaths.

That night Bucky sleeps on the floor just like he does every night only this night, there are no nightmares.

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[maxiekat]

In a world full of rom-coms, when was the last time you cried over an onscreen breakup that actually stuck? No grand gestures to save the day, just pure, raw, lust and heartbreak. If you want to get so deep in your feels you forget if you’re actually heartbroken or just bleary-eyed over someone else’s love story, then you may need to subscribe to the church of Drake Doremus.

The director is known for his mostly improvised, chill-inducing romantic dramas (Like Crazy, Newness, Equals) and his latest is a tender-to-the-touch look at a modern love triangle in Endings, Beginnings, which premieres Sunday at Toronto Film Festival. Much like his previous work, Endings, Beginnings is clever and cutting, but also soft and quiet. Shailene Woodley is at the heart of the film playing Daphne, a thirty-something artist (her specialty is hand-painted tea pots, which she sells on Etsy) who recently and abruptly quit her job and ended her long-term relationship with her boyfriend (Matthew Gray Gubler, in his third Doremus film).

Looking for a hard reset on life, Daphne moves into the pool house of her much more together older half-sister. She also stops drinking, focuses on looking for a new job, and cuts men out of her life. Until, of course, she meets two men at a New Year’s Party. One’s brooding, asking her for a light of a cigarette in the most drunken and charming of ways. He’s wearing a shearling jacket, worn-in with adventures. The other’s in LA’s version of a suit — he’s put together, and looks at her with the steady intentness. Daphne should be avoiding both, but she quickly becomes enamored with bad boy Frank (Sebastian Stan), a nomad who drinks absinthe, and good boy Jack (Jamie Dornan), an academic who has a dog and dreams of moving to Europe. What starts as innocent text-flirting evolves into two full-blown relationships. Oh, and the guys are best friends.

When Stan first read for the film, he read for both Frank and Jack’s role, but what really attracted him to the heady rom-dram was Dormeus himself, of whom he’s been a huge fan. “I met him and I said, ‘I gotta tell you, I don’t know which one of these people you are seeing me as, but I really relate to both of them. I love both,’” he says over the phone to Refinery29. Stan’s in London where he’s filming the spy-thriller 355, a movie he says is “stylistically and tonally very different,” than Endings, Beginnings, but with “a couple of similarities here and there.”

“And we just got very deep. We got into relationships and being in our 30s and the world we are in right now, and all our experiences.” The vulnerability seen on-screen between Woodley, Stan, and Dornan is something special, and almost entirely improvised, based on just 30 pages of notes. Endings, Beginnings is a far cry from the big budget Marvel movies you’re used to seeing Stan in (he plays Captain America’s pal Bucky Barnes in seven Marvel movies and one upcoming spin-off series.) I was reading your Instagram post earlier gushing about working on this film with Drake. When did you become a fan of his, and why did you two think Frank was the role for you?

“I was aware of [Drake] for awhile. Like everyone else, I loved Like, Crazy, and then I also like his recent movie with Nicholas Hoult, Equals. I was also just really interested in doing a movie and improvising  —   because the entire movie is practically improvised. I never worked in that medium before. I got a call saying, Hey do you want to meet with Drake and talk about this movie [and] read the draft?, which was basically like 30 pages. There were two guy [parts] at the time. I met him and I said, ‘I gotta tell you, I don’t know which one of these people you are seeing me as, but I really relate to both of them. I love both.’ And we just got very deep. We got into relationships and being in our 30s and the world we are in right now, and all our experiences. Again, I didn’t really know that is where we were gonna go, but he was very honest with me and I was honest with him. We parted ways, and the next thing I knew he called me to have a session with somebody at the time that he was thinking of for the role as Daphne, and I went in and had a 3-hour improv session with him, then he called me and told me that he wants me to do the Frank role and I was fine with that.”

Only 30 pages. Everything else is improv? All the film’s dialogue?

“Yes, that is all literally on the day, in the moment, happening real-time. Basically, the script that he had was just the outline: Daphne comes out a recent relationship and moves in with her best friends. They’re having a New Years Party, and she runs into Frank who asks her for a cigarette. It was all outlines, but in terms of the dialogue and how we would get there, that was all improvised. That was an interesting experience because I had never worked that way and no take is ever the same. I walked away from that experience feeling very vulnerable. You’re not hiding behind any lines.”

The improvisation really added to the film. I left it feeling more emotional than I expected.

“We’ve all had relationships, and we know how tricky they are. They’re complex and there’s many layers. I don’t know — I have always loved romantic comedies. I grew up on When Harry Met Sally and all that, but I sometimes feel that relationships aren’t entirely depicted as messy and as raw and as painful as they are. That’s why I loved working with him because I feel like he gets to the core of situations. I’m happy to hear you related to it because that is what he wants. He wants you to go, 'I’ve had that conversation...been in that situation.’”

There’s been a resurgence in romantic comedies, but not so much romantic dramas like this. Do you think there’s a reason why?

“I love romantic comedies and there is a space for them, but [rom coms] are hopeful. Sometimes when I go to the movies, I don’t want to necessarily see what my life is. I want to be like, Hey! It’s nice to think that maybe that could be that way. If you want to be inspired, or laugh a little bit — there’s that element of it. And sometimes you want to see a movie that makes you feel less alone in your experience. A lot of European films are much closer to this, and I think Drake loves a lot of European films and is influenced by them and the personal quality. Structurally in romantic comedies, you have bigger things happening, right? Whereas [in this movie], there are big things happening, but there’s a much more subtle transition through everything.”

Frank is the “player” of the film, while Jack is the “good guy,” for lack of a better phrase. You’ve said before that you didn’t really know why you were often cast as the “bad boy.”  Do you still not know why?

“I don’t know! [Groans] I don’t know. The truth is, the reason I was saying [I could play] Jack was that I talk a lot in my life. I philosophize a lot. I try to read things. Then I think about it, and then I wanna talk about it. I relate to that [aspect of Jack]. And actually, there was a lot to Frank and Daphne that we shot that was funny. They had a lot of their own back and forth, but what ended up being in the movie —  I think Drake never forgot the vision that he had for Frank — [was him] being much darker than we shot. I am happy it ended up that way because there needed to be a contrast.

But I don’t know! I am glad they think I can do this. I am one of the most over-thinking, neurotic people I know. So I don’t know how it happens, but it keeps happening.”

I thought a big part of Frank also was his big shearling jacket. Since most of the movie was improvised, did you have anything to do with his outfits?

“Oh yeah, I kept that jacket, first of all. It’s a great jacket. What’s great about Drake is that he was like, ‘Hey, listen, people wear the same stuff all the time. If something works, let’s just it.’ I was like yeah, the guy probably kind of flies by the seat of his pants anyways so he just has a few things. I think I wore some of my own jeans. The boots I wore were mine. Drake definitely wanted us to wear our own stuff so we could feel comfortable in it.”

This was originally called No, No, No, Yes and ended as Endings, Beginnings. How did the title change shape the movie?

“It was always a working title. I saw that it was paired up with her experience — every no and every yes was paired to one of the relationships that she was going through. Endings, Beginnings is a little more specific. I know for awhile he was even contemplating a title that was even just made up of emojis which I thought would have been really fun.”

Oh yeah. I loved the texting aspect in this movie.

“There is an element of texting in the time period we are in, and there is this new language to it. They got it in the sense that both Jack and Frank have their very specific ways of texting. Jack probably uses punctuation, and Frank does not. [Laughs]”

You’ve worked with a few of the Big Little Lies women now. Do you have plans to work with the others like Zoe Kravitz, Reese Witherspoon, or Laura Dern?

“That has not hit me — that’s kinda funny. I don’t think I have ever met Reese Witherspoon and I’ve met Laura Dern. If the opportunity presents itself then great. I certainly wouldn’t have had a problem if there had been a role in the second season. I would have done it in a second. I loved the first season.”

I have one more that I have to ask about — obviously Gossip Girl is getting rebooted, and Chace [Crawford] said it made him feel “old,” but he’d be down. Have you thought about it at all?

“[Laughs] I don’t even… it’s so weird. Somehow a lot of people talk to me about Gossip Girl, and I always thought I was just a guest star. It was a very special show. It certainly defined those years, and we all got our start there in a way. It would be hilarious and weird and crazy. He’s right — we are old! I don’t know what business they’d have with me, but, Jesus. If there was some funny little witty thing and they called and we’re like, ‘We’re doing this thing and we have everybody….’ I’m not gonna be the asshole that says no. Maybe I’ll be in the background scooping some ice cream.”

#sebastian stan #endings beginnings #drake doremus #gossip girl #shailene woodley

[searchingwardrobes]

Joint Custody

Forever ago, I had a give away contest for those who had read my book What Hindered Love. @thislassishooked​ won the drawing, and FINALLY, here it is: her gift. She asked for a fic with slightly nerdy Killian with a job in science, and a friends to lovers scenario in which they are essentially dating and don’t realize it, but all their friends do. So here you go, @thislassishooked​, your story! I hope you like it. Part of the reason it took so long is because I had another story half written, but it sucked and I had to start over. I wanted this to be a great prize for you!

This story is based on a meet cute prompt that I found on a blog somewhere. In trying to find said blog again, I learned that this particular meet-cute is considered by some to be the first one ever used in film in the 1938 movie Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife. I had no idea!

Summary: All Emma wants is a pajama top to wear to bed. All Killian needs is the bottoms. Cue the meet-cute!

Rating: T

Words: A little over 4,000

Also on Ao3

And if you’d like to read my book What Hindered Love, you can get it on Amazon here.

Tagging the usuals: :@snowbellewells​ @jennjenn615​​ @kday426​​ @let-it-raines​​ @teamhook​​@kmomof4​​ @bethacaciakay​​ @profdanglaisstuff​​ @resident-of-storybrooke​​ @thislassishooked​​ @tiganasummertree​​@whimsicallyenchantedrose​​ @snidgetsafan​​ @delirious-latenight-laughs​​ @winterbaby89​​ @distant-rose​​@shireness-says​​ @xhookswenchx​​ @optomisticgirl​​ @spartanguard​​ @branlovestowrite​​ @welllpthisishappening​​ @hollyethecurious​​ @stahlop​

It’s a truth universally acknowledged that if a woman is wearing a man’s pajama top, they’ve just engaged in some extremely enjoyable activities.

Ok, maybe it’s not a universal truth, but Killian’s fairly certain most men would make that assumption. He would have too, before Emma Swan came into his life.

Emma Swan, who is currently sitting on his couch with her feet in his lap, wearing the pajama shirt that matches the bottoms he’s currently wearing. They’re even blue to match his eyes, but not hers, because Emma’s the one who told him green wasn’t his color the day the two of them met. And because of that (the day they met, not the color of the pajamas), he’s being tortured by her long legs poking out beneath that men’s shirt, stuck frustratingly in the friend zone.

Emma Swan is wearing his pajama top, and there have been no enjoyable activities with her on her back.

He needs a cold shower.

***********************************************************

It’s a truth universally acknowledged that men and women can’t be friends.

Ok, maybe it’s only been universal since When Harry Met Sally, but Emma’s seen it. Ok, she’s never technically seen that movie, but she’s seen clips and memes and gifs, and I mean, everybody knows that movie even if they’ve never seen it. It’s how Emma knows this truth.

It’s also how she knew she could fake an orgasm before actually trying it, but that’s entirely beside the point.

Contrary to what Ruby may say, Emma did not approach Killian Jones in Modern Fashion because he was hot. He was looking at the same pajamas she was, and his build was perfect (to snatch his pajama top, that is). Emma still can’t quite believe she proposed such a thing to a complete stranger, but she was already pissed about the fake pockets on her new pair of jeans and the women’s fashion industry in general, and when Emma was pissed, her common sense sometimes flew out the window.

*********************************************************

It had all started when he arrived in Storybrooke, Maine with his research team and discovered that his wardrobe was completely lacking for New England winters. His nightwear in particular. He and his team had been traveling the Atlantic collecting data on climate change, and their previous stay in Bermuda had evidently spoiled him. He preferred to sleep on board the ship, and his boxers just weren’t cutting it for the cold Maine nights. So he’d headed downtown to the only clothing store in Storybrooke: Modern Fashion. Though “modern” was stretching it - the selection of styles were so dated, it looked like the cast of Stranger Things shopped here.

There was only one rack of men’s pajamas - sets of flannel plaid pants and button down shirts offered in shades of various colors. He was weighing his options, wondering just how many pairs he really needed, when she approached him with a pair of red ones in her hands.

“Do you even need the shirts that go with those?”

He narrowed his eyes in confusion. “Pardon me?”

She shook her head, a slight tinge of pink upon her cheeks, and it was then that he was struck by her beauty. Long, golden blonde hair, jade green eyes, and an adorable dimple in her chin. Yet the word “adorable” wasn’t one he would dare use on this woman. There was something about her stance and the edge to her words that let him know she wasn’t one to trifle with.

“I know for a fact men rarely wear those kinds of shirts to bed. You men are like saunas radiating heat, know what I mean?”

“Are you asking me to warm your bed, lass?” he teased with a quirk of his brow.

She rolled her eyes heavenward, and for some reason he found it incredibly arousing. “Oh for the love of God, I am not hitting on you. I have a kid, for God’s sake, I don’t ask strange men to warm my bed.”

“To be fair, you did sort of walk into it, though.”

He was rewarded with a laugh at that, and he had the sudden urge to make her laugh again. Her casual mention of a child also had him glancing at her left finger. No ring. Relief flooded him.

“I guess you’re right. What I’m trying to get at is . . . “ she paused, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes, “I want a shirt like this to sleep in, but I don’t want to pay for pants I’m not gonna wear, so I thought -”

“You thought we could share joint custody of the pajamas?” he finished for her with a quirk of his brow.

“Something like that,” she replied tersely.

She shuffled her feet nervously, and he could tell she was regretting approaching him. He leaned against the clothes rack and regarded her with a flirtatious waggle of his eyebrows. “Before we negotiate splitting up the pajamas, can I at least have a name?”

She pressed her lips together, and he could practically see the inner debate raging in her mind. “Emma Swan.”

“Killian Jones,” he said, offering her his hand. Once her slender fingers were resting in his palm, he leaned closer, and said, “To answer your previous question, no, I was not planning on wearing the tops. I prefer to let my chest hair breath.” He swiped his tongue across his bottom lip as he pulled away, releasing her hand slowly.

**********************************************

That damn tongue should have been a warning to Emma, but oh no, she had to have her comfortable pajama tops at all costs. Why couldn’t Storybrooke have a decent, well stocked clothing store? This place was right out of Hawkins, Indiana circa 1983.

“Okay then,” Emma replied, ignoring his innuendo completely, “I’ll buy this red pair, you buy a pair, and then we divide them up.”

Thankfully, Killian dropped the flirting and shrugged his consent as he tossed the second pair in his hands back onto the shop display.

“Not those,” Emma quickly put in.

Killian quirked a brow at her. “You get to pick the colors, too?”

Emma sighed. “No, you can get those if you want, but the blue ones would look better on you. Green isn’t your color.”

“But they match your eyes.”

Emma would normally have scoffed at a comment like that, but she was taken aback at his complete sincerity as he leveled his piercing gaze on her. It suddenly felt very warm in the room as she lifted her hair off her neck with one hand for some air and then dropped it back in place.

“The blue matches yours,” she managed to say with a casual air.

“Well okay then,” he replied with a pleased grin upon his face.

She spun on her heel before he could see the red blooming on her cheeks. He fell into step beside her as they approached the counter. Lily Page, whom she had known since kindergarten, was behind the register and by the widening of her eyes, Emma knew she was in trouble. She and Lily had been friends way back in middle school, but had little in common now. That didn’t mean Lily wouldn’t pry into her business, however. That was just Storybrooke, especially when your father was the sheriff.

“You don’t have to go up to the register with me,” she hissed without looking Killian’s way.

“As you wish, love,” he answered in his swoon-worthy British accent.

Not that Emma was swooning, mind you. Smiling, maybe, but not swooning. Princess Bride was her favorite, that’s all. It had nothing to do with his accent, or his blue eyes, or his chest hair that apparently needed to breathe at night.

Killian paid for his pajamas first and left the store with nary a glance Emma’s way. Playing it cool, she was impressed. Or maybe he was too busy flirting with Lily, who thankfully did nothing but glare at him when he winked at her.

Thankfully? Wait - what? Emma didn’t care if Lily liked this guy’s winking or not. He was just a means to her pajama tops.

“So,” Lily said casually, as she folded up the red pajamas, “I saw you talking to that guy over there.”

Emma shrugged, silently cursing the blush that warmed her cheeks. “He just asked what color I thought he should get.”

“Hmm,” Lily said in a voice that clearly hinted that she wasn’t buying it, “he’s quite the flirt, though.”

“I guess,” Emma replied with a noncommittal shrug.

She had never been more relieved to grab her bags and walk away from the register. As the door to Modern Fashion shut behind her, she saw Killian Jones waiting for her on the sidewalk, his own store bag swinging from his right hand, his left slid casually into his jeans pocket. Emma approached him, pulling the red pajama pants out of her bag. He took them, but before he would hand over the blue shirt, he gave Emma a crooked smile and mischief sparkled in his eyes.

“Before I hand over the shirt, we need to discuss an arrangement.”

“An arrangement?”

“Yes, for joint custody of the pajamas. Naturally.”

Emma groaned as he leaned into her personal space. “We don’t have joint custody - I’m taking the tops and you’re taking the bottoms.”

“Remember Solomon? If you really loved them, you’d let me have them whole and unharmed.”

“Huh?”

“You know, the mothers who argued over the baby, and King Solomon knew the real mother would give the baby up to keep him safe?”

“You seriously just made a Bible reference over pajamas?”

Killian gave her a lopsided grin that absolutely did not remind her of Han Solo. “Ok, how about a pop culture reference? His and hers kids.”

Emma bit down on her lower lip to keep from smiling at his ridiculousness. “Like Parent

Trap?” God, how many pop culture references were cramming her brain today? She was turning into a Gilmore girl. Seriously, another one?

“Aye,” Killian said, “but the classic Hayley Mills one, not the Lindsey Lohan one,”

“I like the Lindsey Lohan one.”

He quirked a brow at her and sauntered closer. “Have you ever even seen the original?”

“Well . . . no.” She was trying really hard not to take a step back or, you know, swoon or something.

“Ah! Then we really must remedy that. Our first act sharing joint custody of the pajamas -”

“Quit saying joint custody.”

“As I was saying - joint custody of the pajamas means we must have a movie night. A Hayley Mills movie night. You know, for visitation.”

“Did you miss the part where I said I had a kid?”

“Bring him along!”

Emma blinked. That wasn’t the normal response she got from men when they found out she was a mom. “I don’t let men I just met hang out with my son.”

Killian nodded, all trace of flirting gone. “Of course, lass, I apologize. Enjoy your pajamas.”

He flashed her another charming smile, handed her the blue pajama tops, then turned and sauntered away. She was simultaneously touched at the way he had backed off when concern for her child came into play and strangely disappointed. At any rate, that should have been it, but Storybrooke was a small town . . .

*********************************************************

Killian first ran into her again at the drug store. His immune system had gotten used to the Florida weather too, apparently, and he had a minor cold. He turned down the cough syrup aisle, and there she was, buying cough syrup for her son. They’d chatted, him teasingly asking how the pajamas were doing. Then he’d asked about the cough syrup, and her brow had furrowed as she told him her lad - Henry - was sick. He’d wished the boy well, and they had parted ways, but he’d thought of the exchange and the motherly concern upon her face for far longer.

The second time he ran into her he’d discovered her profession. Killian had been irate when he found the beach littered with beer cans and other refuse one Sunday morning and had called the local police. His heart stuttered in his chest when she stepped out of the squad car. She had been professional, assuring him that they would try their best to discover who had littered the beach and fine them accordingly. Yet he had still managed to discover a bit more about her - that her father was the sheriff and that she had returned home to be his deputy largely because of Henry. Reading between the lines, he surmised that Henry’s father had never been in the picture. Emma Swan was a beautiful mystery that intrigued him the more he was around her.

The third time he saw her, he had the honor of finally meeting Henry. The entire time he had imagined a boy of five or six, and was taken aback to meet a lad of ten instead. Another piece of the Emma Swan puzzle fell into place as he realized how young she must have been when he was born. The way she guarded herself made much more sense.

He came into Granny’s diner to pick up his lunch order, and when he turned to leave, the boy literally ran into him.

“Henry!” Emma exclaimed. “Slow down, kid!”

“Oh, sorry,” the boy muttered sheepishly.

“No harm done,” Killian replied with a grin. He looked up at Emma. “Good to see you again, Swan.”

She rewarded him with a smile.

“Are you from England?” Henry asked. “You sound like you go to Hogwarts or have been to Narnia.”

Killian grinned broadly at the boy. “Or I’ve been to Neverland.”

“Or Wonderland,” the boy continued with a huge smile on his face.

Killian cocked his head. “Or maybe I’ve jumped into a chalk drawing or stolen from the rich to give to the poor.”

Henry laughed. “Your country got all the best stories.”

“I have to agree with you there, though you Yanks did get cowboys and Huck Finn and every character ever played by Harrison Ford.”

“Okay you two nerds,” Emma interrupted with a roll of her eyes and affection in her voice, “I’m sure Killian wants to get back to his boat and eat his lunch.”

“You live on a boat?” Henry exclaimed.

“A ship,” Killian corrected, wagging his finger at Emma, “a research ship.”

“Cool!”

“Calm down, kid,” Emma told him, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “like I said, he’s probably in a hurry.”

“Not at all, Swan,” Killian corrected, “and I love to talk about the ocean and all its mysteries.” He directed the last sentence at the lad.

“Can you stay and eat lunch with us?” Henry asked, then turned to Emma. “Please mom, can he?”

Emma shrugged. “If he wants to.”

“Do you?” Henry asked Killian, suddenly hesitant.

“Lunch with the two of you would be vastly better than alone on my ship.”

That lunch did two things for Killian. For one, Henry Swan claimed a part of his heart that he hadn’t even known had been neglected. It also was the beginning of his movie nights with the Swans. It started with Killian asking Emma if she had seen the Hayley Mills Parent Trap yet, which developed into a debate with Henry about whether or not the classic was always better than the remake. Naturally, he and Henry decided that the only way to solve their impasse was to experiment, so that night he showed up at Emma’s apartment where Henry had both versions of Parent Trap ready to stream on their television. It became somewhat of a tradition. Henry and Emma begrudgingly admitted that Hayley Mills was better at the twin swapping than Lindey Lohan. However, Killian had to admit that sometimes the remake was better after their viewing of both versions of Hairspray.

Movie nights, naturally, included dinner (pizza when Emma was in charge of the food, grilled fresh caught fish when it was Killian’s turn), but at some point they turned into all day events. Sometimes they would go to the park while other times Killian would take them out sailing. Emma and Henry both became a natural part of Killian’s life before he even realized it was happening.

He also fell in love with Emma Swan without realizing it. Slowly, over time, they began to spend time together without Henry. And sometimes, like tonight, they would have a movie night just the two of them after Henry was in bed.

And that’s how he got here, sexually frustrated with Emma in one of those damn pajama tops that showed off almost all of her legs. The light of the television flickered over her face, highlighting her cheekbones and playing across her golden hair.

“Emma,” he whispered.

“Yeah?” she smiled at him, and the fear of losing that smile almost made him chicken out. Almost

“I can’t do this anymore.”

There went the smile. Her brow furrowed and she pulled her feet quickly out of Killian’s lap, tucking them beneath her instead.

“What are you talking about?”

Killian sighed and ran his hand down his face. He slid across the couch until their thighs were pressed together, and he took it as a small victory when she didn’t move away. His eyes scanned her face, falling to land on her lips.

“This just friends thing.” His breath was ragged now. “I’ve fallen in love with you, Emma, and I can’t . . . “

His voice trailed off as he leaned closer, his nose brushing hers.

“Can’t what?” she asked breathlessly. He took that as a small victory too.

“I want more.”

“What about Henry?”

“I care about Henry, too. I’m in this for the long haul, Emma.”

They were breathing the same air now, their foreheads pressed together. Killian slanted his lips over hers and exulted when she melted against him, their bodies molding together as they slid against the cushions of the couch to a horizontal position. His tongue slid against hers, one hand tangled in her hair and the other sliding up the length of her bare leg.

“Emma,” he moaned as he broke away to trail kisses down her neck.

“I’m . . . we . . . “ Emma’s words were incoherent and he smiled against her collarbone. He felt her swallow. “Killian,” she finally managed to say in a normal voice as she pushed against his chest and slid back to a seated position. He blinked at her in confusion.

“Emma?”

“You need to go. Now.”

He reached out for her, but she rose from the couch, wrapping herself in a throw blanket.

“Let’s talk about this, love.”

Emma hugged the blanket tighter around herself as she shook her head. “I should have been more careful. This can’t happen Killian.”

He rose and took a step towards her, but she took three steps back. “Why not? This isn’t a casual thing for me, Emma, believe me.”

Emma bit her lower lip as her eyes welled with tears. “I know that. And that’s why I . . . “ she shook her head again. “Please,” she whispered, “just go.”

Killian sighed in defeat. “As you wish.”

**************************************************************

“And you just kicked him out?”

Emma winced because Ruby was practically shouting in the middle of Granny’s. “Could you keep your voice down?”

“Though it is a legitimate question,” Regina snarked before taking a bite of her salad.

“I didn’t kick him out! I asked him to leave, there’s a difference.”

“You had the man horizontal on your couch, and you didn’t take advantage of it?”

“Ruby!” Emma’s face burned red.

“Again, a legitimate question,” Regina put in.

Emma rubbed her face wearily. “First of all, I can’t be making out on my couch. I’ve got a kid!”

“No, Emma,” Regina told her, lifting one finger in the air with way too much authority. There was a reason Emma’s dad jokingly called her queen mayor. “Stop using Henry as an excuse. If anyone has proven himself where Henry is concerned its Killian.”

“But that’s just it!” Emma argued. “If Killian and I get involved, Henry is the one who will get hurt when it ends.”

Ruby and Regina glanced at each other and then burst out laughing. Emma scowled and crossed her arms over her chest.

“What’s so funny?”

Ruby rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, Emma, are you that dense? You and Killian already are involved.”

It was Emma’s turn to roll her eyes. “It isn’t like that with him.”

“Let’s look at the evidence,” Regina said, ticking each one off on her finger. “You spend all your free time together. You talk about him constantly. He hangs out with your son. You text each other all day long. You, my friend, have a boyfriend whether you want to admit it or not.”

“But,” Emma sputtered, “we don’t . . . I mean we haven’t . . . “

“Yeah,” Ruby teased, “and I don’t get that at all. Why haven’t you?”

“Because she’s scared,” Regina answered for her.

“No I’m not! I’m just smart.” Emma argued. “I have to be cautious. I’m a single mom.”

“Or,” Ruby said softly, placing a hand over Emma’s, “Neal hurt you so badly you don’t want to risk your heart again.”

Emma sagged in the booth. “Maybe,” she admitted softly, “which is exactly why Killian and I make no sense.”

Regina shook her head. “No, you’re not making any sense. You two are perfect together.”

“What difference does that make when he’s just going to leave?”

Ruby furrowed her brow. “I can’t see him doing that at all.”

“I already know he will! It’s his job! Don’t you two see? He’s collecting marine research. He doesn’t put down roots.”

Regina threw her head back and laughed again. It was beginning to get on Emma’s nerves.

“My god, Emma, do you and lover boy even talk?”

“Of course we talk, according to you two, we talk too much and not enough . . . you know . . . “

Regina shook her head. “Emma, Killian’s about to finish his research. Then he can analyze it and write up his results anywhere he wants.”

Emma blinked. “Wait, what? How would you know anything about it?”

“He and Robin have become good friends. Killian even told Robin that he likes Storybrooke and can see a future here.”

“Let me guess,” Ruby said with a sing-song voice and a teasing smile, “with Emma and Henry.”

Emma felt slightly dizzy and her heartbeat stuttered. “I . . . I’ve got to go . . . “ she muttered as she jumped up from the booth.

**********************************************************

There was a pounding on the door to Killian ‘s quarters on his research ship. His team had already headed their separate ways now that all the data was collected, so Killian was curious who would be knocking shortly after lunch on a weekday. He opened the door, and his heart practically stopped when he saw Emma standing there, her cheeks flushed and a sheepish grin lifting her lips. She twisted her beanie nervously in her hands.

“Is it true?” she asked him.

“Um,” Killian shook his head, “is what true?”

“You want to put down roots here in Storybrooke?”

A slow smile spread across his face. “Aye, I do.”

Emma’s eyes searched his. “Why here? I mean, what reason would you have to stay?”

“Oh Emma,” he said softly, reaching out to touch her cheek, “don’t you know? It’s you.”

A single tear slid down her cheek, and he wiped it away with his thumb. “Good,” she said with a sparkle in her tear filled eyes. Then she slid her hand around his neck and dug her fingers into the ends of his hair. With agonizing slowness, she pulled his lips down to hers.

They were home.

Six Months Later . . .

Killian shivered as Emma hooked her toes around the hem of his pajama pants and slid her ice cold feet up his leg. Her arm came around his bare chest as she pulled herself flush against him.

“You’re so warm,” she mumbled against his upper back.

He grinned as he turned in her embrace. “Well, you did once ask me to warm your bed, love.”

She smirked as he fiddled with the buttons of her pajama top, which matched the pants he wore.

“I asked nothing of the sort.”

Killian nuzzled his nose into her collarbone and grinned as she shivered. “That’s the way I remember it,” he mumbled against her skin as he edged her shirt open farther. He slipped another button open. “You don’t actually need this top, do you?”

As the sun rose higher over Storybrooke, Mrs. Jones’s pajama top and Mr. Jones’s pajama bottoms ended up discarded on the floor.

Reunited at last.

#cs ff #cs ff modern au #meet-cute #friends to lovers #don't know they are dating #but everyone else does #give away #for thislassishooked

[ancientbooshartifacts]

Pantomime

Author: BeansidheBaby

Year: 2008

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Howince

It was easy to forget that Vince had been raised in the forest these days. He never stopped to speak to animals any more, or told stories about Bryan Ferry and his childhood adventures. He had lost the slightly naïve wonder he used to regard the whole world with. Now he smirked and swaggered (well, minced really) with an arrogant grace, that was completely divorced from the awkwardly gangly teenager Howard had lured away from the vacuum that was state education with promises of adventure and millet rotas. Howard was shocked then, to discover that Vince had never heard of Cinderella. Later he realised that there was no logical way that he would have known. Leopards are not known for their knowledge of the collected works of the Grimm's Brothers and Bryan was more the lullaby than the bed time story type. “Howard,” Vince bounded up excitedly “What?” Howard muttered barely looking up from his copy of Global Explorer “Can we see this?” he held up a poster, “It looks well trendy. It's about a girl who gets made a princess because she had great shoes. Imagine that!” Howard looked more carefully at the poster. “Vince, this is for the panto. It's for kids,” he said flatly, “Besides you already know what happens in the end, so what's the point paying twenty quid to see some sad collection out of work soap actors and and has-been pop stars torture us with two hours of double entendres and dodgy slapstick?” “Why, what happens? Does she win X-factor?” Vince asked with sincerity shining from his eyes. Howard eyed him suspiciously. “Are you trying to say that you never heard the story of Cinderella?” he asked incredulously, “You know the words to every Gary Numan song ever written and you don't know what happens at the end of Cinderella?” “Yeah,” said Vince churlishly, “So are we going or what?” “I'll book the tickets,” Howard sighed. He had forgotten how loud it was. Even as a child he had found it all very unnecessary and tedious. It was worth it though, to see Vince staring at the play wide-eyed, whooping for the good guys and hissing at the bad guys. Howard had been ready to tackle any and all questions about girls playing boys and middle aged men playing old women, with historical background notes on the theatre prepared in bullet points, but Vince had taken it all in his stride. Typical. At the moment he was admiring the actress who played Button's tight knee length trousers. “Those are genius! Do you think that the Victorian butler look could be coming back?” he asked in Howard's general direction. Howard chose to see this as a rhetorical question, as Vince would hardly ask him his opinion on fashion trends in dead earnest. During the interval, Vince bought a bag of liquorish all sorts “to share” (translation: he ate them and picked out the plain black ones for Howard) “Thanks for taking me Howard,” he said with his cheeks full of sweets, looking more childlike than he had in years. His free hand rested on Howard's armrest, his long fingers plucking at the worn nap of the velvet. The lights dimmed and the curtains reopened. The second act was beginning. Vince impulsively grabbed Howard's hand and rested his head on his friend's shoulder. Ooh that's low, thought Howard, wait until I can't make a fuss. It didn't actually bother him very much really. But it did worry him that it didn't. He nervously reached out an arm and placed it self consciously around Vince.

Vince was quieter during the second act, not heckling the dumber heckers any more or throwing all-sorts at the people in the stacks. He just sat slumped against Howard's shoulder and fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve. Howard sat as stiff as a board with his arm mechanically around his friend's waist, trying so hard to be nonchalant. Vince shifted and his cheek came into contact with Howard's neck. Howard flinched slightly, but tightened his grip on Vince. He spent the rest of the performance focusing solely on Vince's hot breath against his throat. When the curtain finally fell after three curtain calls (three too many, thought Howard) they rose to their feet awkwardly. Howard shifted away from Vince and looked steadfastly at the ground but, made no move to take his arm away. They walked towards the exit holding on to each other loosely but closely, bumping hips and legs together occasionally. I missed this, Howard realised abruptly. Doing stupid things with Vince that neither of them would ever normally do. Vince touching him. He told Vince not to touch him so man times that apparently he'd stopped trying. “What I don't understand is,” Vince said tiredly, “why did Cinderella marry the prince?” “Fitted the shoe. If the shoe fits, wear it,” Howard replied “No, I mean why did she want to marry him not how did she manage it. And I'm not even going to go into how unlikely it is that one person would have a different shoe size to everyone else in the country and still be able to find fab shoes” “Why wouldn't she marry him? He's the prince. That's how stories go” “But what about Buttons?” Vince insisted. How did bloody chocolate come into it? “Buttons loved her and she liked him better than anyone else she knew. Why does she drop him?” Oh that Buttons. “Button's being in love with Cinderella is supposed to be a joke. She didn't see him like that even as a possibility,” Honestly a footman who was a very ineffectively disguised girl over the heir to the thrown? “That's bullshit,” said Vince vehemently, “No one falls in love with people they hook up with at parties. You wake up, you find your clothes, you go home and never call them and they never call you. Those are the rules!” “You're absolutely right Vince. We should write a letter to Disney immediately and tell them that they're perpetuating a falsehood about the 'rules' as regards classic fairy tales,” Howard said with a sarcastic wave of his hand “Don't get shirty with me. I'd rather marry my best mate who loved me rather than some pouf that fancied me for my shoes!” Vince snapped back “Stories aren't supposed to be realistic, Vince. It's supposed to be an escape,” Howard said quietly “Haven't they seen 'When Harry Met Sally'?” Vince was patently sulking now. Howard sighed and pulled him closer and ruffled his hair. “Here don't get upset, little man. It's only a story, yeah?” “Yeah,” Vince muttered against Howard's coat. It was only forty five minutes later, when they were home and Howard was folding his clothes for the next day onto the end of his bed, that he remembered exactly what Vince had said. I'd marry my best mate who loved me rather than some pouf who fancied me for my shoes He put his shirt down carefully and sat down on the bed. Had Vince meant that literally or was he talking about some hypothetical best mate that he'd marry. Who he'd marry?! Howard decided suddenly that he didn't care if he looked like a fool and Vince teased him about this for a year. He walked towards the door quickly, gaining speed as he made his way to Vince's room. He burst into the room and just as suddenly realised exactly how embarrassing this would be if he'd gotten it wrong. And how stupid it looks to burst into a room sheepishly. Vince was semi undressed and sitting on his bed. “Took you long enough. I thought you were supposed to be the clever one?” he said casually but with a delicate tremor in his voice that was only just noticeable. “So what now?” he asked plucking at his shirt in a way that was equal parts sultry and nervous fiddling. “Vince I-” Howard coughed and blushed before looking up, “I think traditionally I would produce a white charger from somewhere and we'd ride off into the sunset” “Nah, that's princes you're thinking of,” smiled Vince, “you're my narky little butler who adores me from afar and then gives me up the second a jazzy village wench walks by” “So what now?” Howard echoed Vince's earlier question, feeling slightly hurt by the reference to his birthday party. Vince sashayed across the room until he was a foot away from Howard. He then shuffled closer until they were nose to nose (nose to chin to be completely accurate). He stood up onto his tippy toes and looked into his friend's eyes before pressing a gentle kiss against the corner of his mouth. “Vince-” Vince shushed him and laced their fingers together before resting their foreheads together. “Do you know what friends with benefits are Howard?” Oh shit, thought Howard. Vince continued without asking for an answer. “We've been sort of married without benefits for ten years now.” Hang on, what? “I want to be with you. Just you. And really with you. You know?” Was Vince actually nervous? Howard wrapped his arms around Vince and kissed him firmly. “Why me?” he asked incredulously. “Because you love me and I love you. That's usually a good reason,” Vince smirked cheekily. “I'm not. I've never,” Howard stammered, becoming increasingly aware of his friends erection pressing into his thigh. “Don't worry, I'll fix that.”

Howard shuffled anxiously while Vince's cocky grin flickered. “We don't have to do anything you don't like,” he said quietly, all traces of his earlier confidence gone. “I do want to have done it. It's just doing it makes me feel a bit funny,” Howard admitted. How did it work anyway? He knew only the theoretical aspects of how to do it with a girl, was it different with men? Obviously it was different but, how different? Did Vince want to bum him? He had somewhat mixed feelings about that and he had been sure that his feelings on being bummed had been clear and to the point yesterday. Not that he thought of it much. Hardly ever. It was scarcely his fault that Vince insisted on wearing those tight trousers that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Which unfortunately only made his imagination competitive. It was impossible to look at him and not wonder what being fucked by him would be like. It would be like going to a race track and ignoring the cars. Vince's face froze slightly. Howard realised his mistake. “Just take it slow. I'm new to all this,” he said sheepishly. This made Vince smile again, though more affectionately condescending than arrogantly this time. “Nice and slow,” he agreed and pulled Howard into a gut wrenchingly slow, sensuous kiss. Their lips slid across each other in a lazy fight for dominance. Howard captured Vince's tongue in his mouth and gave it an experimental suck. Vince groaned and muttered, “Oh Howard” into his mouth. Not with the intonation that those words usually received either, like he was a puppy that had shamed itself in the middle of the kitchen floor. No, this “Oh Howard” was a creature far removed from the “Oh Howard” of old. This “Oh Howard” was doing something very, very right. Emboldened by this success he nipped at his friend's lower lip and teased it between his teeth. That went down quite well, with Vince making a small noise in the back of his throat and pressing himself closer to Howard's body and pulling their hips together suddenly. They were both hard and straining against their flies. Howard yelped girlishly and jumped at the pressure causing Vince to break away and look up worriedly, “Too fast?” he asked nervously “No, no just right,” Howard said breathlessly. Vince flashed an impish grin before cupping the bulge in the taller man's trousers and squeezing. “Too much!” Howard squeaked. “Seriously?” Vince asked, “Sorry. Maybe we should lie down for a bit” “Ho ho, Vince. I'm not that bad,” snapped Howard. Vince waved his hands hurriedly “No, no. Look like this,” he said, grabbing Howard's hands and lay back on the bed, pulling Howard on top of him. He spread his legs and settled Howard between them before grinding upwards with his hips. He guided Howard's hand above their heads before wrapping his arms around his neck. “That good?” he asked sounding a bit winded. “Aren't I too heavy?” Howard asked concerned “Naw, I'm not made of glass. If Naboo can support a fully grown primate, I think you n' me'll manage.” Howard looked as though he was going to ask for an elaboration on what Vince had just said but, he soon forgot everything about tiny shamen and what they got up to on business trips with their familiars, when he felt Vince's sharp incisors against his jugular vein. It felt very nice and then very painful. For about ten seconds he was sure Vince actually was the vampire of Shoreditch and had seduced him so he could drink of his virgin's blood. Or something like that. And then he got used to the pain and wet suction and it was very, very nice again. Vince might be mistaken for a women with startling frequency, but from this position there was no denying that he was a man. His stubbly cheek was scraping the delicate skin on Howard's neck, there was a taut if spare manly musculature writhing underneath his body and if any doubt could still remain on the topic, the hard cock digging into his groin put it firmly to rest. Abandoning the neck, the thinner man kissed up the whiskery jaw and nibbled at a fleshy ear lobe. “We're going to have to lose the clothes, Howard. That bloody corduroy monstrosity is a mood killer if I ever saw one,” Vince muttered a wet explosion into the shell of Howard's ear. Without asking permission he instantly got to work on the practical belt buckle that was responsible for the restraint of said corduroys. “And the less said about the shirt the better,” he went on, his voice was shaking slightly from the effort of unfastening the buckle. Rather than throw a strop, Howard decided to concede this sartorial victory to Vince and started to unbutton his shirt, blunt fingers fumbling with the tiny buttons. Two warm little white hands batted his away impatiently and wrenched the garment off, sending the buttons flying in every direction. “I've wanted to do that for years,” Vince said with a voice husky with lust. Howard toyed with the idea of asking him if he meant destroy his shirt or ravage him but decided neither answer would be totally satisfying. It was better to retain some degree of mystery in a relationship. Vince wiggled out from underneath him and started undressing. There was no question of helping him. True love or not, no one manhandled Vince's wardrobe. Suddenly Vince was completely naked and Howard was down to his socks and underpants. Vince smiled at him ironically and went down on one knee taking one of Howard's feet in his hands. He hooked his fingers around the elastic and eased the sock down the foot , pausing to kiss the Achilles heel, the instep, the ankle. When the sock fell to the ground he gently sucked each of Howard's toes in turn like tiny fat phalluses. Howard was thinking in a small part of his mind that he was glad that he'd washed and cut his toenails recently. The rest of him was not thinking much at all. When Vince released the big toe with an audible pop, he kissed his way back up Howard's leg, rubbing his cheek against his inner thighs like a pet cat and licking and nipping gently upwards. Howard held onto his shoulders, more to ground himself than to try to control Vince, and whimpered. Vince's face was in the hallow where his thighs met and his breath was coming in warm gusts that Howard felt through his pants. There was a slim hand on his stomach with a dexterous thumb stroking above the top of his undergarments. No matter how he tried to angle hips, that thumb stayed where it was. “Please, Vince,” Howard begged pitifully “Please what?” asked Vince with faux innocence, “Tell me what you want” “Want you,” Howard gasped “I'm right here. Tell me what to do,” Vince stroked, stroked, stroked. Please there! “I don't know but do it soon, please!” Please, please, please. “Howard-” “Please touch me!” Oh god, that was embarrassing. Howard tried to look away, but couldn't escape Vince's smiling eyes. “As you wish,” he said and pulled off the underpants in one smooth motion, pausing only for Howard to raise his hips. He moved fluidly, taking the head of Howard's purpling cock in his mouth, pumping the shaft with one hand and cupping his testicles with the other. Howard watched the dark head bob between his legs with astonished fascination. Then, Vince looked up and the sight of his engorged penis slipping in and out of that familiar mouth was almost too much. “Stop, too much,” he gasped. Vince stopped and looked up. “Are you freaking out up there?” he asked, “Do you need to stop, stop?” “No, not that. I just don't want to, you know, not yet,” he looked away blushing. You would think that it would get easier to say these things to someone who had been moments ago sucking you off. Apparently not. “Alright,” said Vince hoisting himself up and slithering up Howard's torso like a snake or a professional slitherer. “Can I still kiss you, or is that weird after what I just did,” he asked two inches from Howard's face. Howard grabbed him by the back of his neck and tasted his own precome on those sweet lips. Salty, but not as bad as he thought it would taste. Vince smiled against his lips and opened his mouth hungrily. He began to rock and grind against Howard, who tentatively bucked back. They found a rhythm and ground against each other, erections digging into hips, lips on necks, ears, noses. Howard reached between their heaving bodies and grabbed their cocks together in his large hand. “Wank me off, Howard,” Vince whispered in his ear urgently. Cock against cock, they both fucked Howard's tight fist desperately. Howard felt a tell tale tingle in his lower belly spreading downwards rapidly. He let go of the cocks and gripped his friend's shoulders. “Vince, I'm going to- I'm, I'm,” overcome with sensation and modesty he hid his face in the crook of Vince's shoulder and bit down on the tendon. “I'm going to too,” Vince said and screwed up his face before they came moments apart. The electro boy collapsed bonelessly on top of his jazz maverick. “That was really good,” he said into the pillow. “Really? I mean I thought it was but you've had more-” Howard spluttered slightly hysterically “Howard,” Vince turned his face off of the pillow, “You were the best” “Don't mock me,” Howard scowled. “I mean it. And now I know you've been holding out on me, I'm never ever letting you go,” Vince snuggled closer limpet-like, hooking his legs around Howard's. “Do you really mean that? You're not toying with me?” “Well it was a bit of a lie,” Vince said thoughtfully, “I'd still never let you go even if you were rubbish and I had to teach you everything. Go to sleep.” “I would but I've got a disenfranchised princess on me,” Howard said and tickled Vince playfully. “Gerroff you northern idiot.” Vince squealed and rolled off and to the side of Howard, where he latched onto him again and hummed contentedly. They lay twined together sticky and naked until the next morning when a surprisingly nonchalant Naboo casually informed them that shops didn't open themselves and would they mind terribly to take a moment out of their busy schedule to do their bloody job before they were out on their ears. “Yes stepmother,” groaned Vince reluctantly detaching himself from his new lover.

#the mighty boosh #mighty boosh #boosh #howince #howard moon #vince noir #vince noir/howard moon #howard moon/vince noir #vince/howard #cinderella

[completeandrandomshit]

Linda Ronstadt on the Togetherness of Making Music With Someone Else: 'It's as Intimate as Sex'

  AUGUST 23, 2019 – 5:00 AM  – 0 COMMENTS

24

By

WALTER SCOTT

(Jim Smeal/Shutterstock)

Ten-time Grammy award winner and Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductee Linda Ronstadt, 73, is the subject of the new documentary Linda Ronstadt: The Sound of My Voice (in theaters September 6). The movie features her own recollections, archival footage and interviews with Emmylou Harris, Don Henley, J.D. Souther, Dolly Parton and others.

Related: Trisha Yearwood Says Linda Ronstadt Was One of Her Biggest Influences

Was music always your destiny?

I remember sitting in first grade having a hard time with arithmetic, thinking, I won’t have to do arithmetic when I’m big; I’ll be a singer. I didn’t think about it in terms of being a star; I just thought about it as singing and getting paid to do it.

Growing up in an isolated area, on an Arizona ranch, was music a big part of your childhood?

I think music would have been a big part of my childhood no matter, because my family is musical. It was just a part of what we did washing dishes, riding in the car or sitting at the dining room table. My father would start singing and we’d all jump in with harmony.

You were diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease in 2012, which has affected your vocal cords. Do you miss it?

When people ask me if I miss singing—I don’t miss performing. When anybody comes over, one of my nephews or somebody from my family, we [still] sit down and put our heads together and sing. That’s fun.

From watching this film, you appear to be modest about your talent. How did the producers convince you to make this documentary about your life?

Nobody wants to be scrutinized, least of all me. But there were several offers out there and there were people that were just going to go ahead and do it anyway. [Directors] Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman­­­ sent me an email and it was so nicely written that I wrote back and said no. Usually, I just ignore it. They wrote back and said it was the nicest rejection letter they’d ever had.

Then I was watching PBS and the Harvey Milk documentary came on that I had already seen [The Times of Harvey Milk, directed by Epstein], but I watched it again, and it was so well done, and their offer had been that the documentary would be based on my book, so I figured I already had vetted the material. And they stayed true to their word. I didn’t have that much to do with it, but they wanted some current footage, so I said, “We’re going to Mexico, you have to come with us.”

It’s the little town where my grandfather was born. It’s a beautiful little town in Mexico. I went down there with 20 schoolkids and we shot footage for two different documentaries.

At the beginning of the movie, it says that you feel that there are singers that are better than you.

There are plenty of singers that are better than I am.

Why then were you such a success as opposed to other people?

The other people that were better singers were successful—Bonnie Raittand Joni Mitchell—there’s legions of them. They were very successful, and I trail in their wake, but I was more than happy to because it was inspiring to me. It took a long time to learn how to sing. It took me a good 10 years to figure out how to push phrases around. I used to get depressed and think I couldn’t sing very well, and then I’d think, Well, tonight’s the night to make it better.

You obviously did something right along the way because in this documentary there are people like Emmylou Harris, Dolly Parton, Don Henley—and the list goes on—who are all a part of this and so supportive of you. Talk about your relationships with your fellow musicians. It sounds as if you weren’t competitive, but collaborative.

Music is inherently collaborative and cooperative, and not competitive. It’s a conspiracy. José Abreu, this guy in Venezuela that started the youth orchestra that is high quality, said, “Music is a conspiracy; it’s a conspiracy to commit beauty.” The word conspiracy comes from the Greek word conspiro, which means to breathe together.

So, when you’re singing with somebody, you’re breathing with them, so you form a conspiracy. There’s a great intimacy that happens with somebody that you have successfully sung with, the music works. It’s as intimate as sex, but it’s not sex. With both men and women, there’s a closeness that you shared, a sentiment or a sorrow or a joy, and you express it in a similar enough way so that the two sounds match up and form a new thing.

When you started, there were very few women in rock and roll. Did you ever consider that you had a harder path to follow?

Nah, I just followed the music. Sure, was there sexism in the music business? You bet. But I had pretty nice people in the band, and all they cared about was whether the music was grooving or not. We had played enough to worry about that. You showed up and kept trying to make music better, that was what mattered.

Related: Why It Matters That Carrie Underwood, Dolly Parton and Reba McEntire Are Hosting the CMAs This Year

At one point, you walked away from the big arenas and you wanted to explore other aspects of music, like Pirates of Penzance. Do you see yourself as being brave or it was just something you had to do?

I was just not affected by that. I just was sick of playing sporting arenas. They were unsuitable for music, and it wasn’t very gratifying. In those great big arenas, there’s no nuance, subtlety doesn’t carry. It’s expected to be big and loud. It was hard being loud. I felt like I had a really tiny-sounding voice because the band was so loud.

But a lot of people couldn’t have walked away from the money that arena concerts earn.

I didn’t even think of the money. Duh! Forty thousand people in an arena compared to 1,500 in a small theater?

Congratulations. You’re going to be in the next group of Kennedy Center Honors recipients.

With Big Bird! I’m excited. I hope he comes. [In addition to Ronstadt, the 2019 Kennedy Center honorees—which will be inducted in a ceremony December 8 in Washington, D.C.—also include the PBS series Sesame Street, actress Sally Field, conductor Michael Tilson Thomas and the band Earth, Wind & Fire.]

What does something like that mean to you?

It means that, basically, it’s all over [laughs]. It’s very nice to be recognized. When I look back on my career, I don’t play my records for fun. I sometimes play something to check on it or to get some reference, but I don’t sit around and play my records, because they make me crazy. I hear every bad note.  If I hear something particularly awful, I think I never could sing anything, that everything was that awful. It will wreck my week. So, what I’ll do is I just won’t listen to it ever again. I’ll just go with their assessment and let the Kennedy Center assess that overall the work was sufficient. But it’s really the work that matters, not the prizes, although I’m very happy to be acknowledged.

At this point in your life, is there something that you don’t have that you want?

A pony. A goat. A couple of sheep. I love those things. I don’t live in the country anymore, so I can’t have them. A pony, a goat and a sheep and some chickens. I had that when I lived in Tucson, right in the middle of the city. I had an urban farm. It was fun. It was too hot there for goats and chickens and people. I’d spend the whole summertime cooling them off.

Who do you listen to? Any young upcoming singers that you enjoy?

I love First Aid Kit. They’re really good. They’re these two Swedish girls that are sisters, and they write and sing. They’re real good musicians and they have a really good band. They’re wonderful. They’re international stars too. I like Sia for my mainstream. She’s an interesting singer.

Do you still listen to the Frank Sinatra album every night, which was mentioned in the film?

No, I never listened to it every night, but there was a period when I studied it pretty hard. Now it’s in my brain and I can play it whenever I want.

Your career spanned rock, pop, country, Latin and opera. What do you see as your legacy?

Rampant eclecticism. Not a great career choice, but I somehow got away with a lot of it.

Any regrets? If you could have a do over, is there something that you would change?

I think I could have lived my life with more grace: grace of movement, grace of speech, grace of communicating with people, grace in living.

THANKS TO WALTER SCOTT AND PARADE.COM FOR THE ARTICLE.

#linda ronstadt #walter scott #parade magazine #parade.com #real music #classic rock

[spideyxchelle]

When Peter Met Michelle

the when harry met sally au 

  Betty looked right past Michelle. Her words trailed off. She raised her eyebrow, “Elizabeth, what are you looking at?”

Her best friend tilted her head, “There is someone looking at you in the romance section.” Michelle turned over her shoulder scanned the little bookshop for the offending watcher. She spotted a rather short man not-so-subtly hiding behind a book with a rather busty damsel draped in the arms of a half-naked sailor. She could not properly make out his face without her glasses. She squinted. Still, his eyes did not ring any bells.

Michelle turned to Betty, “Do you know him?”

She shook her head, “Nope. I’d remember that face. He’s cute.”

Michelle rolled her eyes, “You think every crusty white boy is cute.”

Betty sighed, “I know. It’s my greatest weakness.” Her friend snapped to attention, her spine straightening and she hissed, “Crusty white boy is coming over here.”

Her back prickled. Michelle was not in the mood to be harassed by some man she had never met. She had other things she needed to accomplish that would very certainly get derailed if romance-section-guy made her life difficult. Michelle grabbed the sleeve of Betty’s shirt, and implored her, “We should go.”

“Michelle?” A third voice she had not heard in nearly three years hoped tentatively.

She dropped Betty’s sleeve. In all the bookshops, in all of New York, Peter Parker had to walk into her favorite one. “Peter,” she breathed.

At thirty, he still managed to retain some boyish charm to his looks. His hair was not receding and the wrinkles around the corners of his mouth and eyes looked more like markers of smiles than markers of age. All in all, he had aged well.

Betty cleared her throat.

Michelle ducked her head and cursed, “Shit. Sorry. Betty this is, uh, Peter Parker. Peter Parker this is Betty Bryant. We both work together at—”

“The Daily Bugle,” Peter finished for her. He flushed, “Sorry, that was rude. I read your article last year on the bathroom bill, Miss Bryant. It was really something.”

Michelle saw Betty completely melt into mush. Her best friend was many things—an ace reporter, an excellent cook and a horrible sap around moderately attractive men. She waved him off and giggled, “Oh please.”

“Really,” he grinned. “It was great. Really made me think.”

She took a half-assed curtsey, “Well, thank you.”

Michelle interjected, trying to move the conversation into duller and less intimate conversation, “How’s married life, Peter?”

His smile deepened into a frown. Hanging limply off of his wrist was a plastic bag from the bookstore, and he pulled a recent purchase free. Peter flashed the title. It read: Surviving Separation and Divorce.

A tidal wave of shame flooded her system and drowned whatever sarcastic remark she was cooking up on the off chance he decided to be the same infuriating person she had met years before. Now, she felt like the asshole.

Betty sympathetically cooed, “I’m so sorry.”

Peter shrugged, “It happens.”

“What happened?” Betty indelicately asked. Michelle groaned. Her friend flushed a deep red and stuttered, “Oh shit. I’m so…wow…that was….shit, just ignore me. I’m going to…” Betty pointed behind herself and stepped away slowly as her mouth continued to run, “…go, I think. Nice to meet you. Sorry about your divorce. Oh. Shit. There I go, again.”

“Betty,” Michelle called after her friend who was ducking out of the little book shop. “Betty, where are you going?”

“Anywhere else,” she said.

The front door of the shop swung shut and the little bell hanging over the door tolled. Michelle dropped her head and sighed. Peter chuckled. Michelle looked up, “What?”

He scratched the back of his neck and smiled graciously, “Nothing. That was just—”

“—a lot,” Michelle agreed. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I don’t think she meant to offend you. She’s a reporter. Asking questions is a reflex.”

He slipped his book back in the translucent plastic bag. Michelle loathed the stretch of quiet that webbed between the two of them, connecting them in the most uncomfortable manner. She feigned a stretch, “Well, I should probably—”

Peter swiftly cut her off with a question, “Do you want to get some coffee?”  

Michelle felt her eyebrow raise so high it hid in the curls swept all over her face in a messy fashion. She cleared her throat, “Excuse me?”

Peter swung the bag between his thumb and forefinger anxiously, “Just, uh, I feel like I owe you an apology. And a coffee.”

She should have said no. She should have learned from the two experiences she had with Peter Parker. She should have wished him well on his divorce and gone on her merry way. She knew she should have, but she couldn’t help herself from nodding, “Yeah, alright.”

Coffee turned into lunch. Lunch turned into a mid-afternoon stroll through the crowded New York streets, ducking strings of tourists, while Peter did his best impression of Tony Stark.

Michelle laughed. It was the kind that ached from belly to her toes. Her entire body sparkled. She had not laughed so hard in years. Perhaps, she thought, since before Harry Osborn had punched a hole through her life and left the empty bits a hollow cave.

She wiped laughter tears from the corners of her eyes, “God, I haven’t laughed like this in years.”

Peter nudged her arm with his elbow, “You should laugh more. You have a nice laugh, Michelle.”

Michelle rolled her eyes, but it was more affectionate than she had ever imagined she could have conjured for such a man. They were not twenty-two anymore. Thirty had softened their edges.

At twenty-two, she had been a healthy skeptic of his intentions and he had wanted to sleep with her.

At twenty-seven, she had been unwilling to adjust the sour taste he had left in her mouth from their first meeting and he was obnoxious to a fault.

At thirty, they had lived enough life to take every interaction at face value and learned that people were capable of change.

And it was only for that reason that Michelle tucked a curl behind her ear and said, “My friends call me MJ.”

Peter looked gobsmacked, like someone had beat his head in with a bat, “I-I thought you didn’t think men and women could be friends?”

Michelle glanced at the piss-stained New York City street, “I didn’t.”

He smiled at her. She smiled back. And their eyes locked.

His phone buzzed and jerked them out of the unnatural moment. She was glad for his distraction. She couldn’t pinpoint why she felt so vulnerable. He squinted at the screen, “I’ve, uh, got to go.”

She extinguished the fire of disappointment that raged in her stomach and, in that smoke, asked, “Where are you going, Peter?” He blanched. “What are you hiding?” He struggled for purchase, until she laughed, again, “I’m just kidding. I don’t care.”

Peter good-naturedly tossed her a careless grin, “You’re just the same, Jones.” She teasingly crossed her heart. He returned the gesture. Peter asked, “Does this mean we’re friends now?”

“Careful,” she warned, throwing her hands to her hips, “or we just might be.”

They were.

Peter and Michelle spent most days together. Mostly laughing. Michelle could not remember a time where she had laughed so much. She had always been considered a serious girl and a harder woman. Laughter was a hard won feat and Peter Parker bubbled laughter out of her like a professional. And the laughter was accompanied by something better—talking.

They could talk about anything and everything. There was no pressure and no stress. They were two old acquaintances that had fallen into friendship. There were no rules.

As they walked through Central Park toward the bitter end of November, Michelle sipped her coffee and let the cup linger near her nose so she could skirt off some of the chilly air with the steam. Peter waved his hands dramatically as he recounted his dream from the night before, “Then, I’m making out with that cute girl from my office.”

“Gwen,” Michelle helpfully supplied.

Peter snapped his fingers, “Right. Gwen. And suddenly, my Aunt May is there and she’s giving me pointers. Like, ‘Peter do this’ or ‘Peter don’t be so handsy’ or ‘Peter that’s too much tongue’ and I’m very stressed. How am I supposed to impress office girl…”

“Gwen,” Michelle reminded him.

“…if my Aunt May insists on being there,” Peter finished, undeterred from her interruption.

Michelle took another thoughtful sip of her coffee. Peter patiently awaited her thorough assessment. He was an insane dreamer and she, better than anyone, could piece through the bullshit. Anyway, she liked that he valued her opinion. For someone so chatty, he liked to listen. “Well,” she started. He perked up and she rolled her eyes, “It sounds like you’ve got some kind of crush on the office girl.”

“Oh, shut up,” Peter chuckled. She lifted the coffee to her lips, but he stole it out from underneath her hands and took a generous gulp.

Michelle frowned, “Ask first, dork.”

He returned her coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of his mouth. “Besides, you know I’m not ready to date yet,” Peter said quietly.

Michelle sighed. She had not meant to insinuate he should be dating. After all, she knew that the ink had barely dried on his divorce from Felicia, but he had been chattering on about the office girl, Gwen, for two whole weeks. He deserved to date someone nice after the viper known as Felicia had bled him completely dry.

Eventually, one of them had to start dating, again. Peter seemed the type to start first.

Michelle knew it was hypocritical to expect him to date while she was still humbled by her break up with Harry, but she couldn’t imagine dating any more disappointments. She had known when she met him they were not going to get married. Hell, he had even told her that he wasn’t the type of man to get married, but after nearly three years of dating, she had started to harbor a secret hope.

It had all been blown to bits when she had figured out her most deep, secret wish—she wanted kids. She wanted conventional. Or, at least, as conventional as Michelle Jones could swallow. She wanted to be a wife and mother, and a journalist and feminist. It was 2018. She could have everything she wanted and more.

Except Harry didn’t want any of that.

She had told him, quietly, that she wanted kids, leaving marriage to the side as not to overwhelm him, and he had stared at her blankly. He had stared at her for a long time. When he had stopped staring, when he looked away, Michelle had known it was over.

Really, she was glad it was over. She deserved to be with someone that loved her without conditions.

“I thought I told you,” Peter grumbled, yanking off the tie that Michelle had wrapped around his neck, “I’m not ready to date.”

“Yes, you are,” Michelle pulled his hands away from the tie he had ruined and meticulously retied the damn thing. It was a deep blue. She had seen it at the store the other day and thought it suited him, so he was going to wear the thing or else she was never buying him anything, again.

Until she saw something else that was perfect for him.

He was a hopeless case of a man. He didn’t know how to shop for himself and as his best friend she had a moral obligation to help him not be such a human disaster. Besides, he needed to look nice for the date she had squared up for him.

“You’ve met Betty,” she stuck her tongue out thoughtfully as she focused on his tie. He had really made a mess out of it. She tightened it. “She’s nice.”

“I don’t want to date Betty,” Peter pouted. “I just got divorced,” he pitifully moped.  

Michelle raised her manicured, unimpressed eyebrow, “Seven months ago. You can’t keep using that as an excuse.”

“You and Harry broke up nine months ago and I don’t see you dating.”

“Careful,” she pulled on his tie. He swiped a kiss on her cheek and sidestepped her to look in the mirror. Michelle rested her hands on her hips and watched him fuss with his reflection. It was endearing how nervous he looked. “You look great. Don’t be nervous,” she said.

He smoothed down his shirt. “I’m not nervous about the shirt.”

She moved beside him and stuck her tongue out at him in the mirror. He laughed. Michelle checked his hip, “Then, what?”

He made a funny face at her in the mirror. She mimicked the gesture. “I, uh, asked my friend Ned to come.”

Michelle blinked. Then, deeply scowled. “Excuse me?” she gritted through her two front teeth. It had taken her three weeks to convince Peter to go on a date with her desperately single friend Betty and he pulled this stunt? Oh, yeah. She was going to kill him.

As if sensing her murderous intent, he put his hands up, “Hang on. Wait. I just figured we could, uh, make it a double date. Ease into it.”

Michelle tossed a sock at his face, “Double date? Who is going on this dumb double date, huh?”

Peter sheepishly caught the sock, “I was hoping you would.”

“No,” Michelle laughed bitterly. Peter took a step toward her, adopting his most pathetic, adorable face. Michelle really was going to kill him. His face would not be weaponized. She was not going out. Michelle had a date with a carton of ice cream. She repeated, more seriously, “No.” He pouted. “No,” she said with finality.

No, she was not going. No, sir. Not her.

The restaurant was bustling with happy couples, all except the foursome that sat in center at the deep purple round table. Betty picked up her fork and counted the prongs for the twentieth time. Peter pursed his lips and kept a wary eye out for the waiter that would mercifully save them from the silence. Ned was sweating. Badly.

And Michelle loathed being roped into the whole mess.

The waiter appeared with too much exuberance for their morose bunch. She flipped open her notepad and chirped, “What can I get you, folks?”

Michelle flew out of the gate with the most decisive (see: complicated) order of the group. She liked things to be just right. The waitress looked overwhelmed, but dutifully jotted down each instruction. Betty and Peter were both used to the way Michelle ordered, but she could feel Ned watching her with more than a healthy dose of skepticism.

When the waiter scurried off with their orders, Peter broke the silence, forcing a stuffy, formal introduction on Ned, “Michelle is great. She orders things in a way you’d never expect, but it always make the food better.”

“It was a lot,” Ned mumbled.

“But better,” Peter insisted. He winked at MJ and she was, as always, so thankful for him.

Ned rested his napkin on his lap, “If you say so.”

The table grew cold and quiet once more.

She was certain this painful meal was penance for some terrible crime she had committed in a past life, like the guy that created glitter or bedazzled track pants. Michelle attempted to drag the group into some semblance of conversation and turned to Betty, “Did you know that you and Peter are both from Queens?”

The blonde smiled thinly, “Really?” Peter nodded. Betty added, “I was actually raised in Brooklyn, though.” The table went dull and mute.

The lapses in conversation were long enough that to an outside observer, Michelle wondered if people thought they were some kind of traveling performance art group doing a commentary on silence. Michelle would have preferred if they were.

Ned spoke next, “I read a fascinating article in the Daily Bugle today.” Michelle nearly audibly groaned. They had exhausted all topics of conversation that Ned was going to talk to her about some article he skimmed in the Bugle that morning. As a reporter, there was nothing worse than hearing news regurgitated back to her as small talk around the dinner table. It was, undoubtedly, the worst double date she had ever, ever been on. “About the future role of AI in politics. It was fascinating. Terrifying but fascinating.”

Michelle’s eyes flew to Betty whose own were as wide as saucers. Her friend slowly grinned, “I wrote that.”

Ned’s jaw dropped, “Get out of here.”

“No,” she laughed. “I totally wrote that. It was my article.”

“Wow,” Ned smiled, loopy and dumb, “It was…wow. I mean, I shared it with nearly all my co-workers.”

Betty blushed a pretty pink, “You’re joking. Get out of here.”

“Swear it,” Ned scooted his chair closer to Betty.  

Michelle watched in silent horror as the sparks flew across the table. Peter nudged her under the table and their eyes met. He looked equally horrified.

It was, without question, the worst double date of her life.

Then, Peter shrugged, as if to say, “Ah well, at least someone is having fun”, and MJ decided she rather agreed with him.

Later that night, after Michelle had kicked off her heels and curled into bed with the pint of ice cream she had originally planned to share an amorous evening with and curled up to a movie marathon on TCM, she called Peter. They watched the film together from their respective apartments and chatted over the phone.

She swallowed a mouthful of rocky road, “I can’t believe Betty and Ned left together.”

“Are we so out of practice with dating, we just repulse people? Is that it?” Peter crackled over the phone.

Michelle squinted at her television. It was the end of Casablanca and, like always, she thought Humphrey Boggart was a beautiful man. He was smooth and selfless and didn’t let a dinner table go stale without conversation. God, that double date was awful. “I don’t think I’m repulsive,” Michelle wondered out loud.

Peter huffed into the phone, “Trust me, you’re not.”

Michelle smiled, “Thanks, Peter.”

On the television, Ingrid Bergman walked out of Boggart’s life forever and he handled it all with a stiff upper lip. Michelle admired that. He was able to handle heartbreak like a chip on his shoulder and he carried it well. It wasn’t a burden.

Her love life didn’t always feel that way.

As the credits rolled, Michelle put the empty carton of ice cream on her bedside table, “I’ve got to get up for work in a few hours.”

Through the line, Peter yawned, “Me too.”

“Lunch tomorrow?” She turned off her television and the bedroom light. “I’d never miss it.”

Michelle smiled, “Good night, Peter.”

“Good night, Michelle.”

“You’re joking,” Michelle peaked over the top of her cubicle to gawk at Betty who was clacking away on her computer. Her friend’s face was an inscrutable mask and Michelle chose her next words very carefully, “You’re moving in with Ned? But you’ve only been dating four months.”

Betty patiently pulled her glasses off and looked up at Michelle. With some kind of wisdom Michelle knew she did not possess, Betty said, “When you know, you know.”

Michelle gnawed on her lip, mulling that over, and countered, “But Ned?”

Betty stood up and rested her elbows on the frail wall that stood between their two cubicles. She tapped Michelle affectionately on the nose, “I like him.”

Michelle was more than skeptical. She had liked Harry Osborn, too. She had moved in with Harry Osborn and thought she had the whole dating scene figured out. It had all imploded in her face and left her very much alone. She melted down all of that worry in one sentence, “Are you sure?”

Betty grabbed Michelle’s hand and squeezed it. “Absolutely.” It didn’t make her feel completely better, but it took some of the edge off of her worry for her friend. “Now,” Betty grinned and shoved an article in MJ’s arms, “Can you edit this for me?”

“I think its sweet,” Peter threw his arm around Michelle. The fragrant May air tickled her nose and she buried under his arm that wasn’t quite the right fit. He had always been a little more than a hair shorter than her.

Michelle gave him an discouraging look. Peter smiled wider, “I do. Come on, Ned is a good guy and Betty is sweet. It makes sense.” Michelle grumbled. Peter kissed the top of her head, “You’re just being grumpy.”

“I am,” she determined. Something playful welled up in her and she trilled,  “I’ve been told I’m awful cute when I’m grumpy.”

Peter lamented, “I said that one time. It was New Years. Let it go.”

Michelle wrapped both of her arms around his waist, “Never.”

Peter smothered a kiss in her curls.

They walked in companionable silence for several city blocks until Peter grinded to a halt. Michelle unwound her arms from around him and groused, “I don’t want to unpack boxes at Ned and Betty’s too but…” Her words trailed off when she saw Peter’s face. It was dark and open and sad. He was zeroed in on something in the distance—Michelle turned around to find the source of his distraught—or someone.

There was a beautiful blonde woman with long, lean legs and a chest that rivaled Marilyn Monroe. She looked vaguely familiar to Michelle, but she could not put her finger on where they had met. It was hazy, like she had seen her in a photograph.

The blonde approached the two of them with a truly stunning man wrapped snugly around her waist. Michelle looked between Peter and the woman, and it dawned on her just when Peter said, “Hi Felicia.”

“Peter,” Felicia said politely. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Peter looked lost. He wasn’t even trying to come up with any kind of response. He was staring at his ex-wife sadly and beseechingly. She had torn out his heart and stomped all over it with her thick six-inch heels.

Michelle extended her hand and introduced herself, “Hi. I’m Michelle. Peter’s friend.”

Felicia tentatively shook her hand and Michelle felt the sharp scratch of her nails as they made polite. She wanted to toss this careless, frivolous woman across the street. The man beside her, though, would most likely take objection to her plan.

Michelle offered her hand to him, as well, “I’m Michelle.”

He smiled tightly, “I’m Gene.”

Peter finally found his voice on whatever desert island he had lost it on and said, “You look well, Felicia.”

She locked her arm in the crook of Gene’s arm and said, “Thank you.” Felicia hesitated only a second longer before adding, “Well, we should be going…”

Peter nodded. It was all he seemed capable of being able to do. Felicia showed no remorse for his obvious discomfort and, with Gene, left the pair of them standing in the middle of sidewalk.  

Peter silently unboxed another set of kitchen supplies as Ned and Betty argued in their new living room. Michelle rubbed her temples as Betty tried to be diplomatic about the ugliest coffee table in existence, “Ned, sweetheart, I don’t want the coffee table in the living room. It doesn’t match the couch.”

Ned slid over to the round, wagon-wheel accessory and pled its case, “Okay, but imagine, we’re watching old Westerns and BAM! It’s like we’re in the movie.”

Betty patiently took up his hands and offered an alternative solution, “How about we put it in your study?”

Ned shook his head, “I want the guests to see it.”

Michelle rose her hand, “As I guest, I don’t want to see it.”

The bickering took on a new life as Ned and Betty discussed the pros and cons of the worst interior design choice ever put on coffee table legs, when Peter stormed into the room. He had been silent the entire afternoon, dutifully doing what was asked of him but not contributing at all to the conversation. So, the whole room stopped.

He addressed his friend with an abnormal tightness to his voice, “Hey Ned? Do me a favor and put your name on this coffee table okay? Do it with all your stuff. Because you might think you’ll be together forever, but then one day she’ll start coming home late from the office and you’ll be left at home with a cold dinner for two.” His voice steadily rose from intensely quiet to shouting, “And when the divorce comes, she’ll want to take everything from you, including this stupid, wagon-wheeled, Roy Rogers garage sale coffee table!”

Three sets of eyes stared aghast at Peter as he stormed out of the room, but before he left Ned found the courage to yell, “I thought you liked this coffee table!”

Peter threw his hands in the air, “I was being nice.” The front door slammed shut.

Ned and Betty slowly turned to Michelle for answers. She wanted to explain how cold and callous Felicia had been that afternoon, and how Peter had looked so devastated by the mere sight of her. She wanted to explain that Peter had spent over a year working on becoming okay with being a divorcee. She wanted to explain how he was finally crawling out of the hole of hell Felicia had bombed in the center of his life just for her to show up to remind him of how much she had hurt him.

Michelle said, “He just bumped into Felicia.”

Both Ned and Betty tried to pry details from Michelle about the meeting but she waved them off and plummeted down the stairs after Peter. He was furiously pacing in front of the apartment building and muttering to himself.

Michelle perched herself on the stoop and waited for him to speak. It took him a few minutes but he finally stopped walking and said, “I know, I know. I shouldn’t have done it.”

Michelle patted the concrete step beside her and offered some sage advice, “Peter, you’re going to have to find some way of not expressing every feeling you have every moment you have them.”

He bristled, “Oh really? Well, next time you’re teaching a lecture series on social graces, make sure to let me know.”

Michelle suddenly pushed off of the concrete and stepped in front of Peter on the sidewalk, forcing him to stop his infernal pacing. She jammed a finger in his chest, “Hey, you don’t have to throw your anger at me.”  

Peter demanded, “How is it possible nothing bothers you? You never get upset about anything.”

Michelle felt the pesky well of some unacknowledged feeling churn deep in her stomach. Before it could manifest, she turned on her heel and bounded up the concrete steps, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Peter pursued her up every steps, testing her resolve with every word he spewed, “I never see you get upset about Harry. How is that possible? Don’t you experience any feelings of loss? If you’re so over Harry why don’t you see anyone?”

Michelle turned around, two steps above him, and glared, “I see people.”

Peter shook his head, “No, MJ. Have you slept with anyone since Harry?”

The feelings she was pushing down were rolling up and coursing through her in ways she never permitted, in manners she never allowed. Michelle forced them down to the pits of her subconscious and spit, “That will prove I’m over Harry? Because I fucked somebody?” Peter physically froze. Michelle took a predatory step down the steps and got squarely in Peter’s face, holding him utterly accountable for every stupid, ridiculous word he had thrown at her in attempt to hurt her feelings. “You think throwing the sex thing in my face is going to make the fact that Felicia hurt you, go away? You make me hurt, too, so we hurt together? How the fuck is that fair? I’m not going to commiserate in mutual misery, Peter. I won’t do it.”

She was fuming. Her eyes were firing with anger that he had pulled to the surface. Luckily, that was all he had brought up. She wasn’t ready to have a breakdown about Harry Osborn. She was never going to give Harry that power over her. He had left her and she was fine.

It was fine.

Peter whispered, “Can I say something?”

Michelle blew some stray curls out of her eyes, “Yes.”

“Are you finished?”

Michelle crossed her arms over her chest and huffed, “Yes.”

Peter’s entire face fell and he took the last step up so they were face-to-face and pulled her into a hug. “I’m sorry,” he said fiercely. “I’m so, so sorry.” He rubbed his hand up and down her back, and she hugged him back.

In each other’s arms, they took a deep breath and let it all go. Felicia. Harry. Their fight.

When the hug was over, Peter dropped a careless kiss on Michelle’s forehead, “Come on, we should get back upstairs.”

The front door to the apartment building blew open and Ned tumbled out, struggling with the ugly coffee table. He marched it down to the curb for the garbage man and grumbled, “Don’t say a word.”

The receiver clicked. The voice on the other end of the phone had gone silent. There was only the faint buzzing of the dead line in her ear or, she wondered, if perhaps the buzzing was her ears.

Harry Osborn was getting married.

She tasted the salt of her tears as they leaked down her face. Michelle furiously wiped at her wet cheeks. She hadn’t cried since she was sixteen years old.

Michelle blindly began to type in a new number, one she knew by heart. It rang only twice before a sleepy and rumbled sounding Peter answered the phone, “Em?” He yawned.

Michelle turned inwards on herself, making a cocoon of blankets around herself, and sniffled, “Could you come over?” She knew it was well past midnight, but she was desperate.  

Peter sounded wide awake, “What’s the matter?”

“He’s getting married,” she mumbled into her thick duvet.

“Who?”

“Harry.”

There was the briefest pause. And then, Peter said, “I’ll be right there.”

She heard the frantic knocking coming from her front door. Michelle willed herself to get out of bed, but the warm embrace of her blankets was too good to untangle herself. Besides, Peter had a key to her apartment. He could let himself in.

The front door creaked open and she heard the clacking of his shoes on her wooden floors. She didn’t make a sound when he sat on the edge of her bed and the mattress dipped. Michelle peaked out from beneath her comfortable prison of blankets, “I’m sorry for calling you so late.”

“Hey,” Peter said, folding back the blankets so he could see her entire face. He swiped some of her curls off of her face, “It’s okay.” He looked so sad for her, as if he pitied her, and, for some reason, that made her cry harder. She was Michelle Jones. She would not be pitied because her ex-boyfriend was marrying some girl he preferred over her. That was inane. That was silly.

Harry Osborn was getting married.  

Her shoulders shook from the weight of her tears. Peter pulled her to a sitting position and slung a comforting arm around her. She buried her nose in his shoulder and wiped her nose with the back of her hand unprettily, “He just called me up.” Peter nodded patiently, encouraging her to speak. “And we got to talking and all I kept thinking was I am over him. I mean, I am really over him. I can’t believe I ever was into him. And then,” Michelle’s voice hitched. “And then, he said he had some news.” Her tears completely enveloped her entire body. It was like a wave crashing into her chest and rippling out to her extremities. “She works for his father. Some kind of lab assistant or something. Her name is Lily Hollister.” She hid her face in her hands to muffle a sob, “He just met her. She’s supposed to be his transitional person, she’s not supposed to be the one.”

She felt Peter rub soothing circles into her back. Michelle loathed how much the small action was settling her tears. When her crying subsided enough that she could speak without her raw throat burning from the strain, she said, “All this time I’ve been saying he didn’t want to be married. But, the truth is, he didn’t want to marry me.”

The truth snapped the last chord of restraint she had on her wildly overwhelming emotions. It was as if years of keeping her feelings at bay had finally cascaded out of her like an avalanche, and she could not stop the natural disaster. She watched on in horror as the strong woman Michelle Jones was reduced to tears by her piss-stain of an ex-boyfriend.

Peter chastely kissed her forehead, “Listen, if you could have him back right now, would you?”

Michelle hiccupped, “No. But why didn’t he want to marry me?” Her voice was more shrill than she could ever remember it having been. She was revolted by the grating sound. It made her cry harder. “What is wrong with me?”

He shook his head, “Nothing.”

Michelle flopped back on her bed. Peter did not wait to follow her down. They lay, side-by-side, and their faces faced each other. Michelle scratched her nose with her fist, “I’m difficult.”

“You’re challenging,” Peter corrected her.

“I’m too cold. I’m completely closed off,” she fought.

He simply tapped her nose with the pad of his forefinger, “You’re particular.”

“And,” she wailed dramatically, “I’m going to be forty!”

Peter openly gawked at her and she could see the ticking mechanism in his brain working through her words, “What? Michelle, when.”

“Some day,” she sat up, perfectly happy to wallow in her own sorrows.

He raised his eyebrow, “In nine years.” Peter sat up and brushed his shoulder against her own. It was a little gesture, but it reminded her that he was here for her, that he had taken a cab across town to be with her after midnight. Harry Osborn didn’t love her, but she had a good friend that did. “C’mere,” he cooed, and she easily fell into his arms.

She whimpered, “I’m going to ruin your sweater.”

“I hate this sweater,” he supplied.

Michelle nuzzled her nose into the fabric and sulked, “I bought you this sweater.”

Peter shrugged, “I stand by what I said.”

His words surprised a laugh out of her. The corners of his eyes crinkled in the pleased little manner that was all Peter. He had such a soft, gentle way about his smiles and the magical ability to make her feel like he only smiled at her that way. As if she was special.

“I’ll go make you some tea,” he said, pressing a kiss to her head.

Michelle clutched his sweater and shook her head furiously, “Peter, will you…will you stay with me a while?”

He pulled her closer, “Of course.” She fell openly into his arms and tucked her chin on his shoulder. She held him until her tears began to subside in earnest. Her heartrate slowed and her breathing evened, and she felt wholly like herself once more, or at least the imperfect version of herself before Harry Osborn called and made those imperfections shards of glass that cut away at her self-confidence.

Peter squeezed her and she smiled. “You good?” he quietly asked.

She nodded and unwound her arms from around him. Michelle rubbed her eyes with the flat of her palms, “Mhmm.”

He smiled and kissed her wet eyes, “Good. Tea?” Michelle bobbed her head. Peter kissed each of her cheeks patiently, “Okay.”

“Okay,” she echoed.

He playfully reiterated, “Okay.” And left a brief, sweet kiss on her lips. Michelle rolled her eyes and pushed his chest without any effort. Peter closed his hand over her hand on his chest and beamed, “Tea, then.” He brushed a friendly kiss against her mouth. She dropped another perfectly friendship worthy kiss on his lips and felt her stomach swoop.

He left another kiss on her mouth, less friendly. Oh, it was all together not friendly.

It was the least friendly kiss she had ever been given in her life.

The hand resting against his chest fisted in his sweater and pulled him closer. They fell into a heady mix of open-mouthed, deep kisses and Michelle ceased to think.

Peter unceremoniously knocked the used box of tissues onto the floor and tipped Michelle backwards on the bed.

The last lucid thought she had before they tripped into the awaiting night was, of course, it had to be him.

#ficlet #when harry met sally au

[uglypastels]

Writing Challenge!!

Writing challenges are always so fun to do, so I decided to make one myself for a change. It’s also almost (not really) my birthday and I want to celebrate!!

It’s that time of the year again where it is cold outside, the leaves are falling off the trees, you just want to curl up under a blanket with a cup of hot chocolate and watch a movie... Or is that just me? 

Anyway, I love watching a good movie, or even a bad one sometimes.

This is why in this challenge, all prompts are quotes from movies! 

Rules are pretty basic, I’m not fussy about anything.  (prompts > “Keep Reading”)

You don’t have to be following me, but it would be nice of you, of course, if you did

Reblog this post to join and/or spread the word

Send me an ask wherein you choose a prompt 

Make sure you have a possible back-up if the said prompt is already taken

Preferably, I would like to have one story per prompt, but just in case anyone is really set on a prompt that has already been chosen, or if somehow by miracle every prompt is picked and more people want to join, each prompt will have two slots. (so one regular, one “emergency” slot)

All prompts are movie quotes, but your story doesn’t have to be based on the movie itself or have anything to do with the movie. Interpret the quote any way you want.

BE ORIGINAL! 

BE CREATIVE!

HAVE FUN! 

I would like to call myself a multifandom blog, but who am I kidding. I’m MARVEL’s bitch. 

Write about any MARVEL character/ actor (+ the Hollands/Harrison) you want but

if you want to do a different fandom, you are more than welcome!

Just don’t forget to tell me in your prompt request who you will be writing for.  

Fluff, angst, smut ... everything is allowed - just make sure to tag it.

NO UNDERAGE SMUT! Just don’t be gross, in general 

No, first person, but other perspectives are good to go

Any length of writing is good, but if it is longer than 500 words, make sure to use the “Keep Reading” option.

so the story can be a one-shot, two shot, a series < including a part of a series you already have going on.

When you post it, make sure to tag me and use the tag: 

#Z’s Movie Night Challenge

FOR AN EXTRA CHALLENGE (or if you just can’t pick): hmu with an ask telling me and I will pick for you! But do still mention who you will be writing for then.

Deadline is my birthday - December 18th! 

I will be making a masterlist of all the submissions

I think that’s it. Any more question? DM me or ask

(way too many) Prompts, but at least nobody can complain there is nothing to chose from: 

“I love you.” // “I know.” Star Wars, Episode V: Empire Strikes Back (@andwhatdostarsdobest w/ Tom Holland)

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Gone With the Wind  ( @procrastinatingparker w/ Tom Holland) 

“After all, tomorrow is another day!” Gone With the Wind

“Go ahead, make my day.” Sudden Impact

“Here’s looking at you, kid,” Casablanca

“I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.” Casablanca

“Of all the (gin joints) in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.” Casablanca ( @butwhyduh w/ Avengers cast)

“We’ll always have Paris.” Casablanca

“I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse.” the Godfather

“Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.” the Godfather: Part II ( @sunsetspidey w/ Tom Holland)

“Just when I thought I was out, (they) pull me back in.” Godfather: Part III ( @sleepwalkingdragon w/ Harrison Osterfield on hold)

“You talkin’ to me?” Taxi Driver

“Fasten your seatbelts. It’s going to be a bumpy night.” All About Eve

“Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” Love Story ( @rainbow-marvel w/ Tom Holland)

“Forget everything you think you know.” Doctor Strange

“Pain is an old friend.” Doctor Strange ( @theamazingspiderlingg w/ Tom Holland)

“What we’ve got here is a failure to communicate.” Cool Hand Luke ( @scholarlyspidey )

“What is it?” // “The stuff that dreams are made off.΅ the Maltese Falcon

“Alright, (Mr. DeMille), I’m ready for my close-up.” Sunset Boulevard

“There is no place like home.” Wizard of Oz ( @peterrrparkour w/ Tom Holland)

“I love the smell of (napalm) in the morning.” Apocalypse Now

“Show me the money!” Jerry Maguire

“You had me at ‘hello’.” Jerry Maguire ( @anxiety-in-a-getaway-car w/ Sebastian Stan)

“You complete me.” Jerry Maguire

“Why don’t you come up sometime and see me?” She Done Him Wrong

“Hey, I’m walking here!” Midnight Cowboy

“I want to be alone.” Grand Hotel ( @aw-hawkeye w/ Tom Holland)

“You can’t handle the truth!” A Few Good Men

“I’ll have what she’s having.” When Harry Met Sally ( @sleepwalkingdragon w/ Harrison Osterfield)

"When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible." When Harry Met Sally (@somethingtoavenge  w/ Bucky Barnes)

“I’ll be back.” Terminator

“Hasta la vista, baby.” Terminator 2: Judgement Day.

“Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.” The Pride of the Yankees

“We rob banks.” Bonnie and Clyde

“Well, nobody’s perfect.” Some Like it Hot

“Houston, we have a problem.” Apollo 13

“I could do this all day.” Captain America: The First Avenger/ Civil War

“We’re still friends, right?” Captain America: Civil War ( @starksparker w/ Tom Holland)

“Have you been playing Space Invaders? Because you’re invading my space!” Pixels ( @cas-backwards-tie w/ Peter Parker)

“Well, a boy’s best friend is his mother.” Psycho

“Well here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into!” Sons of the Desert

“Say hello to my little friend.” Scarface

“(Mrs. Robinson) You’re trying to seduce me. Aren’t you?” the Graduate

“What a dump.” Beyond the Forest

“Is it safe?” Marathon Man

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. You ain't heard nothin' yet!" the Jazz Singer

“I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.” A Streetcar Named Desire

“Hello, gorgeous.” Funny Girl

“Surely you can’t be serious?” // “I am serious. And don’t call me Shirley.” Airplane!

“My precious.” Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers

"Listen to me, mister. You're my knight in shining armor. Don't you forget it? You're going to get back on that horse, and I'm going to be right behind you, holding on tight, and away we're gonna go, go, go!"  On Golden Pond ( @musiclover1263 w/ Peter Parker)

"Carpe diem. Seize the day(, boys). Make your live(s) extraordinary." Dead Poet Society.

“I’m the king of the world!” Titanic

“I’ll never let go, (Jack).” Titanic ( @spider-puck w/ Spideychelle)

“You make me want to be a better man.” As Good as it Gets ( @thewackywriter w/ mob!Tom Holland)

“As if!” Clueless ( @fratboievans w/ Peter Parker)

“They’re here!” Poltergeist

“We know each other. He’s a friend from work.” Thor: Ragnarok

“Gentlemen, you can’t fight in here! (This is the War Room.)” Dr. Strangelove

“I wish I knew how to quit you!” Brokeback Mountain ( @petersshirts w/ Tom Holland) 

“I’m not bad. I’m just (drawn) that way.” Who Framed Roger Rabbit (@lovelymalira w/ Bucky Barnes)

“Why so serious?” the Dark Knight

“Magic Mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest one of all.” Snow White and the Seven Dwarves ( @thequeensardine w/ Harrison Osterfield)

“.... I dare you. I double dare you.” Pulp Fiction ( @hollandofthefree w/ Tom Holland)

“Look I probably should have told you this before but you see... well... insanity runs in my family... It practically gallops.” Arsenic and Old Lace

“It’s just a flesh wound.” Monty Python and the Holy Grail ( @sarahwritesfiction  w/ Steve Rogers)

“He might be okay….Well, no, probably not now.” Groundhog Day

“Life’s a bitch; now so am I.” Batman Returns ( @idontknowhowtowritesosorry w/ Shawn Mendes)

“That rug really tied to room together, did it not?” The Big Lebowski

“No, it’s a cardigan, but thanks for noticing.” Dumb and Dumber

“Is that all he said?” Lost in Translation

“Excuse me, I believe you have my stapler.” Office Space ( @totallytomholland w/ Peter Parker)

“You wanna come over?” // “No, thanks. I don’t want you fucking up my life, too.” Office Space (@mobtomsgirl w/ Tom Holland)

“Okay, sounds like a case of the Mondays.” Office Space

“And suddenly, I felt nothing.” Fight Club ( @brokennccrown w/ Steve Rogers)

“You can tell a lot about a person by what’s on their playlist.” Begin Again

“(Veronica), you look like hell.” // “Yeah, I just got back.” Heathers ( @peter-is-the-best-avenger w/ Peter Parker or Tom Holland)

“Lick it up, baby. Lick it up.” Heathers

“But… I guess if I love you, I should let you move on.” 17 Again

“I want my life to be like an 80’s movie.” Easy A

“What makes life so hard?” // “People.” An Affair to Remember

“Have you ever been in love?” // “I think so.” Love, Simon (@fandomscombine w/ Peter Parker)

“I don’t wanna go.” Avengers: Infinity War (@fantasyizlife w/ Tom Holland)

“I don’t want another single pop culture reference out of you for the rest of the trip. You understand?” Avengers: Infinity War

“I am going to die surrounded by the biggest idiots in the galaxy.” Guardians of the Galaxy ( @fantasyizlife w/ Shawn Mendes)

“You actually were telling the truth?” // “I do that quite a lot, yet people are always surprised.” Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest ( @fantasyizlife w/ Harrison Osterfield)

“I have what they call an unattractive face.” Gainsbourg: A Heroic Life

“Oh, somebody, stop me!” The Mask

“I didn’t come here to tell you I can’t live without you. I can live without you. I just don’t want to.” Rumor Has It ( @marcymakemagic w/ Peter Parker)

“Are you always this cocky?” // “Only on Tuesdays… and whenever beautiful women are involved.” // “So, you think I’m beautiful?” // “Actually… it’s Tuesday.” the Three Musketeers  ( @tomhollanders2013 w/ Tom Holland)

“I’m going to be a lady if it kills me.” Dinner at Eight

“Prove it…” Shane

“I’m sorry, (Dave). I’m afraid I can’t do that.” 2001: A Space Odyssey

“Kiss my hot lips.” M*A*S*H*

“You have my sympathies.” Alien

“Get away from her, (you bitch)!” Aliens

“You can be my wingman anytime.” Top Gun

“Have you ever danced with the devil by the pale moonlight?” Batman

“Love your suit.” The silence of the Lambs

“Quid pro quo.” (= A favor for a favor) The Silence of the Lambs

“Always.” Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part II ( @peter-parker-life w/ Tom Holland)

Good luck, have fun! 

Tagging some peeps to spread the word because this is one thing I don’t want to die:

@tomhiddleston-is-myboo @tonyintexas @andwhatdostarsdobest @tomsfireheart @spinneret-holland @rainbow-marvel  @lovelyh0lland @de-lir-i-ous @peter-parker-life @tomhollanders2013 @tomhollandthirst @lifeisabitchandsoareyou @darlingtholland @sweet-pea-imagines @anxiety-in-a-getaway-car @manhoeparker @h-osterfield  @positiveparker @casuallytumblingdownthestairs @justmesadgirl @fandomscombine @tom-holland-and-textposts @my-current-obsessions-hehe (Sorry to bother anyone.)

#Z's Movie Night Challenge #writing challenge #my challenge #uglypastels #fanfiction #imagine #imagines #smut #fanfic #fanfics #writing #tom holland fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #any fanfiction really

[eds-gryff]

Dust (Peter Parker x Reader)

Takes place right after IW. I'm sorry that it's soooo long but I wanted to post it all at once. @jordsie know it's not HP related but still tagging.

You weren't on the trip to MoMA because you had mono, courtesy of kissing Peter. Kidding, you just have really bad period cramps. Though you did kiss Peter (and enjoy it) a lot. A LOT. Especially when he uses his webs- um. Nothing.

You were holed up in your room, groaning and cursing God for this uninvited and unwanted monthly subscription to Satan's waterfall. Frankly, when you were younger the only reason you were even 1% glad about this was because you thought it was a certainty of  becoming a mom. But well, now you knew the truth- it's because God hated women from the beginning. 

The cramps really were horrible. 

You had just managed to get up, tie your (H/C) hair sloppily and stumble for for some medicine. Just make this pain go away! 

You were horrified beyond anything you imagined when you saw your father disintegrating in front of your very eyes. 

"Dad?" You say, terrified and hold your hand out to touch him but you only feel sand. 

"(Y/N)-" My knight in shining armour, the best and earliest protector gasped out before he disintegrated completely into dust.

Cramps? What's that? 

What had happened? What, who had killed my father? Who has the audacity to do this?

"Dad-a-Da-" You choke out before you fall on the floor, weeping for your father and hoping that the same fate hadn't befallen your mother and brother or Peter. 

Why had you been left, you wanted to know. If it was sins, I should go. If it was anyone ANYTHING, it should've been you. You. You. No one else. You were the worthless one, he was the best person. 

Thinking you'd just died, you got up, you had to check on your mom and your younger sibling. 

"Mo-mom-" you choked out as soon as you heard her crying voice. She wasn't dust. 

"You're okay, you're okay, I'm okay, (Y/sibling/N)'s fine but half my students are just-" 

"Dust." You say in a blank horrified silence. What the FUCK was going on? 

"Is your father-" She managed to ask before I lost it completely and broke down crying. 

~time skip ~ 

Despite the disintegration business, your mom couldn't come home because she was a teacher and had to look after her kids there. 

You were numb, you couldn't bring yourself to care. 

You managed to get  some of...of your father, you nearly had a seizure as you thought that and carefully put it into the fanciest dish you saw and covered it. 

You called Peter. No answer. You died again.

Somehow, still alive, you managed to call Ned. 

"(Y/N)?" His voice was nothing special but it was the most beautiful sound just then- a sound of hope. 

"Ned-" you croaked in relief. "-who?" 

His voice took on a true depressed and cry-ey tone. "MJ, Harry, Sally, Jason, G-" 

"Stop!" I yelled out. "I just saw my father, my first love, turn into dust in front of my eyes, I can't ... Can't think of them like that too. But .....Peter?" You ask resolutely when all you wanted to do was crawl into your bed and never wake up again. Or you know, die. 

"I don't know." You heard his honest voice and half your would shrivelled away and the other glowed. "There were these donut shaped spaceships outside...he asked me to cause a distraction and leapt out." 

"There's a chance he's fine." Your optimistic heart says out loud but the realist in you thinks, 'But he could be dead.' 

It isn't until 2 days later, when your already broken spirit, because of your father, God, everytim you closed your eyes you could see him fading and his vulnerable voice, saying my name, oh god, was totally scattered to the wind, just like the dust which had made up your soulmate, Peter Benjamin Parker's body. 

****

You hadn't laughed in weeks. Or even smiled.

Your father's last words were your name, pleading, to save him, you would've, you would've given your soul but you couldn't and it was your fault he became dust.

So of course, it was only right (wrong) that Peter's last words were just as heart breaking and wrenching.

"I don't wanna go, Mr. Stark, save me, please, I don't wanna go." As if this wasn't enough to, oh gosh, the thought itself sent you crying, but his actually last words were,"I'm sorry." 

Because he thought he disappointed Mr. Stark. Because he thought he'd disappointed Aunt May. 

Because he thought he'd disappointed you and Ned and MJ and his true friends. Because he thought he'd disappointed the world.

Because he thought he'd disappointed his parents. Because he thought he'd disappointed his late Uncle Ben. 

"Peter, you idiot!" You scream into your pillow and want some to be there for you and then realise how exceptionally sad it was the person you wanted to comfort you was the same person because of why you had to be comforted and who couldn't do it.

Day, you slept, you cried, you screamed, you broke stuff. Night, you sat on the fire escape and thought and were as silent as possible. Your mother needed the sleep and you were so selfish you couldn't comfort her, she'd lost her past and present, but you'd lost your past, present and future. She'd lost her husband and soulmate, and I'd lost my boyfriend, my soulmate and my father. 'I can't believe I'm comparing.'

You'd think about how you once asked your father when you were 8 what a virgin was and he'd choked and panicked and said it was a girl who hadn't been touched by a man but you sensed something was wrong, so you didn't say that then you weren't a virgin either. 

That's true now. 

You'd think about how Peter had revealed his identity to you, right there, right after you'd kissed each other senseless for the first time.

'I want to kiss him again.' You think.

You thought about begging your father for an Avengers t shirt a couple of years back and he'd ordered something online and you'd given him a hell of a time for buying what he wanted but not what I wanted and then he opened it to show me the tee I'd wanted all along. 

He was the greatest. He wasn't perfect but he was to you. 

You thought about when Peter had been so wounded from a fight, he refused to tell you who the opponent was but he was so hurt and there was so much blood and thank god for the Internet or he would have died. 

It was because of him you had seriously considered a career in nursing for a while before deciding on writing or journalism.

You thought about watching movies and making fun of them with your father.

You thought of reading and geeking out with Peter. 

You thought of talking about cars and walking around fancy car dealerships with your father, to stare at the cars. Lamborghini Aventador was your favourite. You thought how extremely similar you were, yet how different yet how much of a father-daughter.

You thought of having sex with Peter. You thought about his lips, his hair, his eyes, his kiss, his touch. 

You thought of them and you mourned.

Then as dawn broke, you'd slip back in and lay in your bed and let a nightmare plagued sleep overcome you. 

Until one day, Tony Stark randomly showed up at your escape as you were brooding and told you that people were to start returning soon and could you wake your mother and brother and see if they wanted to see your father. 

You fell off the fire escape.

Iron Man saved your life.

You didn't care, you were going to see Peter and your father again.

You were flying with the man with the suit made of gold titanium alloy and you asked, "How did you...?"

He must've glared at you. 

"Confidential. But we defeated Thanos and got EVERYONE, killed before and after the snap." 

He dropped you off in AFRICA??? Your other family had been dropped off by other Iron Men suits here too. 

"Oh crap, I forgot his aunt. Stay in school, kid and don't tell her that I forgot. I'm off to get her now." He cursed, warned and jetted off. 

You held your mother's hand, for the first time voluntarily in years and your beautiful brother held her other hand and you made up your mind to to spend more time with him. You saw a blonde woman wearing a super suit but you didn't know her. You spotter Captain America hugging a long haired man. You saw a carrot haired woman wearing scarlet, Scarlet Witch kissing a robot...or was it the Android, Vision? Whatever and whoever it was, you were happy for everyone who'd got back their lost loves back.

"Daddy!" Your brother suddenly screamed and ran, forgetting bout you, and no one reprimanded him for it because you were too busy hugging and crying and feeling remorseful at your father's appearance.

"It was my fault, I couldn't save you." You whispered as you hugged your father.

"If this was death, it wasn't too bad. I just felt like I was flying. And we were in some orange place....and what did you say? Your fault? You sound as stupid as Deep Blue Sea's directors." At which point you both laughed and cried. 

Someone tapped your shoulder and you were so annoyed because HOW DARE ANYONE INTERRUPT YOUR DADDY DAUGHTER TIME.

Till you turned around and the whole world stopped.

It was Peter. Wearing some more advanced suit instead of the other tech one but you didnt notice that till much later. 

"Your period is over, then?" He asked pleasantly as if he hadn't been dead for God knows how long.

Tears still streaming down your face, you tossed your hair, narrowed your eyes and punched him in the nose, taking no notice of your family's muttered surprise about 'Was he Spider-Man?' and your brother's shouts of 'SPIDEY!'

He barely faltered. 

"What the hell was that for? Because I didn't bring the notes from the trip? I couldn't, I was in space. Or is it the fact that I smell like I've been dead or like I'd been stuck in a gooey candy world? Maybe because I have been. Dead, I mean, not in the candy world but the sou-" 

And then you kissed him so hard and passionately that his words turned into nothingness and he kissed just as hard and furiously, because you'd both missed each other so much and you ignore your father's coughs, you could see him at home later and besides you'd already celebrated his homecoming. 

So you backed Peter into a tree. And kissed him until the tree spoke. "I aM gRoOt." 

"Maybe I'll ask T'Challa, the King here for one, you talking shrub." Peter said annoyed at the tree, which had eyes and frankly, it looked adorable. Even if it was almost as tall as Peter.

"Um." You interjected.

"Oh, uh, (Y/N),  this herb here is Groot, he's a member of the Guardians of the Galaxy who are exactly what they sound as, and Groot, this is my girlfriend."

"I am Groot?" It sounded like a question but you weren't sure.

"No you CANNOT DATE HER, SHE's my GIRLFRIEND!" Peter screams in frustration and he pushes Groot towards a talking raccoon who's taking to a green woman and a woman with antennae. Okay.

"You'll ask who for what?" You decide to ask what seemed to be the most normal thing to ask.

"Black Panther, the King. For a room. Which the bamboo tree suggested." 

"Groot wasn't wrong." You nudged him. "We need to catch up. Verbally and physically." You run your fingers through his wavy hair.

He looked like he was about to web away to the King. Then he stopped and asked, "Before I do that, where's May? Tony told me he'd bring her."

You laughed.

#peter parker #marvel #mcu #infinity war #angst #fluff #iron man #black widow #captain america #vision #scarlet witch #thor #hulk #hawkeye #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker x y/n #imagine #fanfiction #spiderman #tom holland #i don't wanna go #tom holland x reader #zendaya #superhero #hollander #avengers

[aidanchaser]

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Everyone Lives AU

Table of Contents

Chapter Eleven Quidditch

November meant Quidditch season. And of course the first match was Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. Harry started to have an increasingly difficult time getting through meals the closer the game approached. Harry’s parents were encouraging, naturally. And Sirius was so confident he’d be brilliant. Of course Malfoy had his share of insults and predictions.

Even though Wood had tried to keep Harry’s position as their Seeker a secret, it had leaked out, as things do at Hogwarts. Gryffindor was thrilled to brag about their new Seeker, confident in Harry’s talent though he hadn’t played yet. Slytherin students protested about the unfairness of it all and blamed his fame for earning him a position he didn’t deserve. Among the other houses, Harry found the older students were more curious than anything. They hadn’t seen a first year play before, and wondered how Harry would fare. The younger students, however, all seemed to look on him with envy.

But thank Merlin for Hermione Granger. She wasn’t just on speaking terms with Ron and Harry, they were all actually friends now. There were some things you just couldn’t do without becoming friends, and facing a mountain troll together was one of them.

She was brilliant at schoolwork and spells, and without her, Harry might never have made it through classes and the extra Quidditch practices. He also had Uncle Remus’s excellent letters detailing Defense Against the Dark Arts creatures, spells, and methods to keep him ahead in that subject. He, Ron, and Hermione were Quirrell’s top students. Though Harry found it odd that Quirrell hardly mentioned it. Not that he wanted Quirrell fawning over them the way Snape fawned over Malfoy. But a little recognition would’ve been nice.

The night before the game, Hermione started her Potions paper, and encouraged the boys to begin theirs as well. She never let them copy her work, but if either had a wrong answer she gave them a full lecture on why they were wrong, in true Hermione fashion, so at least it was helpful (and at least they wanted the explanation when they were doing homework).

“Potions isn’t due for a week!” Ron groaned when Hermione unrolled the parchment on the common room floor.

“I’m not going to start it the night before,” Hermione sniffed. “Professor Snape is always strict with his marking.”

“Yeah, he’s kind of an ass —”

“He’s a professor!” Hermione said with a gasp.

Ron only laughed at her indignation.

“D’you notice he was limping in class today?” Harry asked.

“Hope it’s really hurting him,” Ron said.

“Harry, stop,” she scolded.

“What? I didn’t say —”

“No — You’re… bouncing.”

“I am not.”

“You are, mate,” Ron agreed sheepishly. “And you keep moving. Bit nerve-wracking, actually.”

“Can’t help it I’ve got the biggest day of my life tomorrow,” he mumbled.

“It’s just Quidditch,” Hermione said.

“‘Just Quidditch?’” Ron and Harry exclaimed at once.

“It’s also Gryffindor vs Slytherin,” Harry added, trying not to sound as anxious as he felt. “If we lose everyone will kill me.”

“No one is going to kill you for losing.”

“Not if I die on the Quidditch pitch first,” he mumbled. “Have you seen Slytherin’s Seeker?”

The burly seventh year was probably three times Harry's size. Any minor fouls the Slytherin Seeker might commit could send Harry right off his broom. He wasn't too thrilled about facing something like that.

—————————— ✶✶✶——————————

The next morning, he was not feeling any better. He’d slept poorly, and he was not the least bit hungry. The students were all decked out in red and gold or green and silver. Even some Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were showing support for their friends’ teams. Most of them, however, were sporting Gryffindor colours. People were eager to see the house that had held the House Cup for the last six years topple. Seeing their support only made Harry feel worse, like he would let down half the school if he failed.

He was just finishing up breakfast — not that he’d eaten much — when there was an excited yell from the doors of the Great Hall.

“Harry!”

Harry perked up instantly. He’d know that voice anywhere. “Sirius!” he shouted and ran to the door.

At the entrance to the Great Hall stood Sirius, Remus, and Harry’s parents. All of them were here, and Harry couldn’t be happier to see them. Their support was enough that he felt okay eating a piece of toast before they walked down to the Quidditch pitch together.

While they walked, Lily fussed with Harry’s hair, repeatedly asked if he was alright, how he was liking school, and Harry, eager to turn the conversation to literally anything else, dragged his family to the crowd of first year Gryffindors who were making their way to the pitch.

“This is my friend Hermione Granger,” Harry introduced. “And this is Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas. And you know Neville —" Neville waved shyly — "Oh, and there’s Hagrid!”

Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil, Sally-Anne Perks, and Sophie Roper joined them, and the small group of students, all decked out in red and gold, escorted Harry to the Quidditch pitch. He felt lighter than he had all week, like he might take off without his broom. It seemed all he really needed to face a task like the biggest Quidditch game of his life was the support of his family and friends.

“Wood’ll be wondering if I’ve skipped,” he said when they finally reached the stands. “Better run.”

“You’ll be great,” Lily said. She gave him one final kiss as he ran off to the locker room.

“He doesn’t seem half as nervous as James was,” Remus laughed.

“I was not that nervous,” James protested, and started following Sirius up the stairs.

“Boys,” Lily called, “Professors and parents up this side.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow at her. “Or we could sit in the Gryffindor stands. That’s where you’re sitting, aren’t you, Hagrid?”

“Bit more exciting up that way,” he smiled.

“See? Come on,” James laughed and grabbed her hand.

Sirius sat between Hagrid and James, with Lily on James’s other side. Hermione sat down between Lily and Remus, and on Remus’s left was Ron and Dean, then Seamus, and lastly Neville. They all squeezed together both because the stands were crowded for the rivalry game, and because it was very cold in the mid-November air. The banner Dean had painted for Harry stretched over all five of the students and Remus. Sirius complimented Dean’s artwork, and Remus congratulated Hermione on the excellent charm that allowed the paint to flash different colours.

“Why didn’t we think of anything like that?” James groaned.

“Next time, dear,” and Lily patted his arm.

James gave Sirius a wide grin. Sirius winked back.

Down in the changing room, Harry was putting on his red Quidditch robes. Now that he was alone, he was back to being nervous. His fingers trembled as he tied the gold lacing.

Wood cleared his throat. “Okay, men.”

“And women,” Angelina Johnson said with a hint of offense in her voice.

“And women,” he conceded. “This is it.”

“The big one,” Fred said solemnly.

“The one we’ve all been waiting for,” George added with a dramatic flourish of his broom.

“We know Oliver’s speech by heart,” Fred whispered to Harry.

“Knock it off,” Wood scolded. “This is the best we’ve been in years.”

“It’s only been a year since we lost Charlie,” Katie rolled her eyes.

“And we’re even better than that,” Wood snapped. And the look on his face definitely said if they didn’t win today, it would be weeks more practice, even rougher than before. Harry felt his toast try to climb its way back up his throat.

“Alright,” Wood finally said, “Good luck, men. And women.”

Madam Hooch was refereeing the game and encouraged them to play fair. Harry was pretty sure his team needed that reminder as much as the Slytherins, especially when he saw the glint in Fred and George’s eyes.

When they were finally up in the air, he caught sight of the banner his friends had made him. His nerves eased a little, and he waved, but immediately went back to hunting for the Snitch. Wood’s plan was to keep Harry out of the fray of the game and searching for the snitch from up high, which was fine with Harry, if only it wasn’t so small. He didn’t know how he was supposed to see it from so far away.

Lee Jordan was commenting on the game, though his comments were peppered by compliments to Angelina Johnson’s good looks and insults to Slytherin’s team. McGonagall scolded him for it, but really the Slytherins weren’t playing fair at all, at least not what Harry thought to be fair. They kept intentionally ramming the Gryffindor players, even when they didn't have the Quaffle. Even Harry, who was away from the real fray game, had to dodge a couple of Bludgers that had "accidentally" been aimed at him.

Gryffindor had scored once, and Slytherin was about to tie, when the Snitch made its first appearance, zipping right past Slytherin’s Chaser and spooking him enough to make him drop the Quaffle.

Harry and Slytherin Seeker Terrence Higgs dove for the snitch. The game seemed to be on pause as everyone watched the two Seekers go neck and neck for the Snitch. Harry had maybe an inch lead. He reached out —

Harry was nearly knocked off his broom by Slytherin Captain and Chaser Marcus Flint colliding with him. There was a lot of yelling as Harry righted his broom and the Gryffindors took a penalty shot. By the time the game had resumed, the Snitch was long gone.

Dean and Lily were both shouting for red cards.

“There are no red cards in Quidditch,” James mumbled under his breath. “Still, it was a dirty move.”

“They should at least send him out of the game for that,” Sirius said angrily. “Filthy Slytherin cheats.”

“At least Harry’s alright,” Remus said. “He’s a strong flier. And not throwing a fit the way James might’ve.”

Sirius and Lily found the comment rather funny. James did not.

Lee Jordan was (even more) biased in his commentary from then on, and McGonagall scolded him less for it.

Harry ducked under another Bludger, when suddenly his broom lurched beneath him. He’d been flying for his whole life and never experienced anything like that. Before he could even consider why it had happened, his broom was jerking and zigzagging. Harry struggled to hold on, to get it steady again, but his broom was entirely out of his control.

“Dunno what Harry thinks he’s doing,” Hagrid mumbled.

“Feinting for the other Seeker?” Lily suggested.

“Looks more like he lost control of his broom,” James said with a tight jaw. “But that’s not possible.”

Harry’s broom had started doing barrel rolls, and with a wild jerk, threw Harry. He managed to hang on with one hand, which left him dangling from his broom high above the stands.

Lily and James were on their feet instantly.

“We have to do something,” she said desperately.

“Could it have been Flint?” Seamus asked.

“No,” Remus answered. “It takes some powerful dark magic to charm a broom like that. Especially something as competitive as a Nimbus.”

Hermione took the binoculars Lily had abandoned on the seat and started scanning the crowd.

“What are you doing?” Ron asked.

“Look at Snape,” she said and passed the binoculars to him.

Snape was sitting with the professors opposite them. His eyes were fixed on Harry and he was muttering nonstop.

“He’s doing something — jinxing the broom,” said Hermione.

“What do we do?”

“Leave it to me.”

“Miss Granger, I don’t think —” Remus started, but Hermione was gone, leaving Ron and Remus next to an increasingly frantic Lily and James, who were shouting for Dumbledore or Madam Hooch or anyone to actually do something. Lily pulled her wand out, but Remus pulled her back.

“We don’t know what the hex is — Don’t risk making it worse.”

The only people who seemed to be doing anything were Fred and George, who tried to get close enough to help Harry on their broom, so at least he wouldn’t be in danger of falling. But Harry’s broom only continued to lift him higher, out of their reach. Instead the twins dropped down and stayed beneath him to catch him in case he fell.

Slytherin took the distraction as an opportunity to score a few times.

Hermione ran as quickly as she could through the crowded stands. She accidentally knocked Professor Quirrell over, and with a quick spell, cast bright blue flames onto the hem of Snape’s robes. And as soon as Snape realized he was on fire, she scooped the blue flames into her pocket jar and disappeared as quickly as she’d come. As Snape readjusted his robes and examined them for damage, she noticed a very deep bite on his leg.

Up above the pitch, Harry clambered back onto his now still broom.

“Neville, you can look,” Ron said. Neville peered over Seamus’s shoulder, but Lily and James still refused to sit down.

And then suddenly Harry’s broom took a sharp dive. The entire crowd gasped. Lily and James both screamed.

But instead of colliding with the ground, Harry tumbled neatly and when he stood, he coughed something up into his hand.

“I’ve got the Snitch!”

Lily and James sank back into their seats like their knees had gone weak. They didn’t even move as the rest of the crowd began to cheer their excitement at Gryffindor’s victory. Sirius patted James comfortingly on the back and Remus squeezed Lily’s hand.

—————————— ✶✶✶——————————

Moments later, instead of celebrating with his house, Harry was shut up inside the Headmaster’s office, seated across from Dumbledore. Any other day, Harry might have been entranced by the strange objects that littered Dumbledore’s desk, or the slumbering portraits on the walls, but right now, James and Sirius were shouting at Dumbledore, repeating Hermione’s accusations against Snape, and that took up all of Harry’s attention.

Lily and Remus stood quietly next to Harry. Lily continued her vain attempts to flatten his hair, and Harry wondered if, after all these years, she was less interested in getting his hair flat and more interested in just holding him to know he was alright.

“I assure you,” Dumbledore said with a quiet and calm authority, “Severus would not have done this.”

“Hermione Granger saw him,” James repeated. “And it was only after she distracted him that the broom went back to normal.”

“I was trying to reverse the jinx,” Snape spat at them.

“Why would you do that for Harry?” Sirius snapped.

There was an uncomfortable pause and Snape’s eyes shifted between Lily and Dumbledore, before Dumbledore finally stood.

“We’ve had a rather exciting day. Quidditch always quickens the blood, doesn’t it? I think Harry could use a nice hot cup of tea.” And he smiled at Harry with a twinkle in his eye.

Harry nodded gratefully and Lily helped him to his feet.

Ron and Hermione were waiting at the bottom of the stairs and said they’d all been invited to Hagrid’s, and Harry and the adults agreed it was an excellent idea to take tea there, away from all the celebrating.

—————————— ✶✶✶——————————

“I still think it was Snape,” Sirius said irritably as he took one of the mugs filled with tea. There weren’t enough tea cups to go around, so Sirius, Lily, and Hagrid were all drinking their tea from a combination of Hagrid’s heavy mugs or thick tankards.

“He has no reason to jinx Harry,” Remus sighed.

“Snape’s a professor. ‘E’s not about’ ter go around jinxin’ his students,” Hagrid said.

“Especially not Harry,” Lily said quietly.

“Or maybe especially Harry,” Sirius snapped back.

“Dumbledore trusts him,” James finally said. “That’s enough for me.”

Sirius did not seem appeased by this, and even when Remus whispered something quietly in his ear, Sirius only muttered something back with the same bitter and disgusted expression.

“But —” Hermione started hesitantly, “—what happened to Professor Snape’s leg? He was limping — and it was bitten —”

“That proves it,” Harry said suddenly, “We saw Snape in the corridor on Halloween. He must’ve used the troll as a distraction to try to get whatever’s under the trap door, but got bitten by the three-headed dog.”

“How’d you know about Fluffy?” Hagrid said.

“There’s actually a Cerberus in the school?” Remus said in astonishment. “That’s incredibly dangerous! What if a student finds it?”

“Seems like a student already did,” Lily said with a tight expression.

“What’s it doing here?” James asked Hagrid with raised eyebrows.

“Can’t answer that,” Hagrid said sheepishly and took a large gulp of his tea.

“I’d like to see it,” Sirius said and took a sip of his tea. “Sounds interesting.”

“They’re incredibly dangerous,” Remus said. “I can’t believe Dumbledore would just keep one in the school.”

“Fluffy lives in the Forbidden Forest usually,” Hagrid said, “and I look after him, keep him away from the kids. And I asked Dumbledore, I said, ‘Dumbledore, are yeh sure it’s alright ter keep Fluffy in the castle?’ and Dumbledore said it’d be jus’ fine, that he’d make sure the corridor was off limits, and tha’ he only needed Fluffy fer a little while, tha’ he’d send him right back when he was done guardin’ the —”

Hagrid stopped suddenly and took another gulp of his tea.

“The what?” Harry and James asked simultaneously.

“It’s nothin — top secret Hogwarts business. Yer not to be knowin’, any of you.”

“But if Snape’s trying to steal it,” said Ron.

“Rubbish. Snape’s a Hogwarts professor — he’d do nothin’ of the sort.”

“Then why did he jinx Harry?” Hermione and Sirius asked at the same time.

“Severus did not jinx Harry,” Lily said quickly. “If he says he was protecting Harry, I believe him.”

“But someone was jinxing Harry,” said James.

“Who else could it have been except Snape?” Sirius said.

“I don’ know why Harry’s broom acted like that,” Hagrid said, a hint of a temper in his voice, “but Snape wouldn’ try an’ kill a student! Now, listen to me, all of yeh —” he included Sirius and James in the glance as well (James suddenly remembered being sixteen, and nagging Hagrid about the rumor that the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was actually a vampire, and they’d been met with this same temper), “yer meddlin’ in things that don’ concern yeh. You forget that dog, an’ you forget what it’s guardin’, that’s between Professor Dumbledore an’ Nicolas Flamel —”

“Who’s Nicolas Flamel?” Sirius and Harry asked at the same time.

Hagrid’s face was red, and no one was sure if it was anger or embarrassment. He hardly said two more words the rest of the afternoon, though Sirius, Harry, Hermione and James all asked inciting questions, first directly at Hagrid, then sort of generally, hoping he might answer. But Hagrid gave them no more information, and as they trudged back up to the castle, Harry relayed his theory about the package from his birthday to his parents. Sirius seemed interested, Lily and Remus both told him to stop investigating, and James only said, “as long as you leave Professor Snape out of it.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione all gave their word they would stay out of trouble and not slander any teachers (“prematurely,” Harry added, and Lily gave him a stern glare).

They all exchanged hugs — even Hermione got a hug from Sirius and James; Lily, and Remus shook her hand and expressed that meeting her was a pleasure — before Remus, Sirius, James, and Lily all headed back to Dumbledore’s office to Floo home.

“Hermione, where are you going?” Ron asked, as he and Harry started going upstairs, and she started going down.

“The library, of course.”

“On a Saturday night?” Harry asked incredulously.

“I want to find out who Nicolas Flamel is. Don’t you?”

#harry potter and the philosophers stone #harry potter #harry potter everyone lives au #hp everyone lives #hp fic

[dimples-of-discontent]

Do you believe Jensen/Misha's relationship (should it exist as we believe it does) is separate from their wives? Or is it one big mess of polyamory? Do you think Vikki and Danneel know?

Hi there Nonnie,

I’ve been sitting on your ask, and a few others like it, for a while because I want to make sure to answer in a way that is thoughtful and respectful (as you have been in phrasing your question). I’ll cheat a little by saying that I’ve written about it before and have both a “polyamory” tag and a “jmdv” tag as well as a couple like “everybody loves everybody” and “besties and whatever else” that I use less frequently. My tag cluster actually reflects my uncertainty about which particular brand of non-monogamy these four might be practicing.

Most of my thoughts are in my longest post. Here’s how I end it:

I agree with other commenters that there are many ways to do non-monogamy that are not a committed multi-person relationship. That’s kind of what I meant by saying these things change over time, with needs, desires, and life situations. And of course none of us can or should (unless they volunteer it) know what is going on with these dear men.

My personal impression is that–with the kids and the brewery and Misha’s activism and charity work–their being together together is maybe just something for cons now, maybe even just for Rome (DEFINITELY for Rome). But they are obviously still close friends at all other times and share a lot of love, of whatever kind. I have heard people say they are sad that Misha and Jensen don’t seem as close, or worry that they are in a “fight.” It doesn’t seem that way to me. True, Jensen isn’t going crazy with Twitter flirtation like in 2015, there’s no sunset boat ride for us, and they aren’t doing a campaign together like YANA. But let us not forget the Honcon panel in which he transformed into a living hearteyes emoji, got hot and bothered about Misha’s accent (which he demanded to hear), and told a first date story that was all gooey-sweet. There’s nothing but love to see here.

I wholeheartedly and completely agree that no one should ever mention it to them. They are in a somewhat fortunate position where they are famous but not quite famous enough to be chased by mainstream celebrity media who could uncover something like this. And of course they don’t want it to be public–it’s not something that is widely understood or accepted and not just them but their families, their wives and kids, would suffer for it. I wish it were otherwise. So we will doubtless never know and that’s ok. We can just know that, whatever it is, it’s pretty special and we’re pretty fortunate to get to share it just a little.

So that’s my official stance. But you’ve invited me to conjecture a bit so I will. I do genuinely believe that Misha and Jensen have some kind of more-than-friends relationship and that they have for almost ten years (with the exception of the break up period, which I also believe in). I certainly believe their wives know or are actively involved it because they obviously love and respect them and I would say are happily married. But you can be happily and non-monogamously married (as Misha and Vicki have been). There is no way they would be engaging in anything without their wives’ full knowledge and consent.

I’d go further and say that their wives may have actively facilitated their relationship. I’ll admit that I may have been compromised by the fact that I’m such a huge fan of The Cockles Fic “When Harry Met Sally” by @mnwood​ (who is a treasure and has many other great fics too). However, I have always felt that especially Danneel would have played a role in getting them together. Misha would have kept his distance from a straight-seeming dude in a serious relationship. Jensen would have been hesitant and potentially stressed or upset by his feelings depending on how familiar he was with same-sex relationships and with the whole concept of non-monogamy which, well, Jensen is a dark horse so I can’t really say. But his intense worry early on about public perception and his desire to please everyone (and, dude, hard same) makes me think he’d have a fair few hangups about the idea of starting something sexual with a married male costar while in a serious relationship with a woman.

It explains some things too, like why he found Misha so disconcerting (”no one has ever put me back on my heels like Misha did that first day”) and weird. I mean, Misha is unusual, but there’s also a lot of projection there where he’d attribute his own “weird” feelings about Misha to Misha’s own “weirdness.” You can see in very early interviews and outtakes that Jensen is fascinated by Misha. I’m sure he’d really never met anyone like him (who has?) and, although I don’t believe the entire Destiel arc is down to their chemistry, I do think that fascination and attraction reads on camera. In response, I think Misha was a little shy and shocked as well as flattered by so much attention from such an attractive man. I doubt he would have even believed Jensen could be interested in him. With that in mind, I think the idea that Jensen had this obvious and huge crush and that it drove Danneel crazy is pretty plausible. I know that if my partner had a crush like that I’d be like “OH MY GOD JUST GO FOR IT!”.

We also know that Misha and Danneel were almost instant friends. Jensen has said that they share a sense of humor, that they are both “twisted” in the same way. (He’s actually come a hair’s breadth saying that he has a type…) I actually would not be at all surprised, at all, if Misha and Danneel have their own thing sometimes. There’s some real sexual tension there too as well as a great deal of respect and affection (naturally). Is Jensen there too? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe only sometimes. Maybe he’s tied up whimpering and watching the two doms in his life go at it. I don’t know–go use your fanfic imaginations.

The major question mark for me is Vicki since she’s a private person who doesn’t have to be in the public eye for her job and so isn’t. (I admire her so much, for so many reasons.) Her book obviously tells us that she’s open to multi-partner sex and enjoys sleeping with both men and women. So it’s not impossible that she’s involved too. Given the constraints of time, distance, children, and all the rest of life, however, I doubt that they’re chilling in a 4-tet or anything and probably never were. My best guess is that it’s now an occasional thing between Misha and Jensen even if it used to be more. I feel like post-breakup the character of whatever they have did change…perhaps to become more serious (although the rings suggest maybe it was serious before) or maybe less intense (I can see them being super intense right at first after lots of tension and build-up). And children change the whole dynamic no matter what!

So, to answer your original question after great length, I’m sure their wives know and I doubt they’re all in a poly relationship. It’s probably something in the middle–mostly separate for those two but also infrequent or occasional but no less special for that. And let’s remind ourselves again, we don’t know any of this stuff on any authority. I’m speculating about it with the understanding that I don’t have the right to know any of this and never will (unless they go public). This stuff is private because they want it to be that way and, speculate as we may, we must always respect that and keep it to ourselves. I just feel lucky to get to see a small part of it. It never fails to make me happy.

Obligatory link to favorite polyamory resource: https://www.morethantwo.com/ 

#asks #cockles #gross boyfriends #actual husbands #polyamory #jmdv #misheel #everybody loves everybody #cockles is fanfic #sexuality speculation #just a reminder #this is all just speculation #and we should always be respectful #thank you #rps for ts

[bunnysweetgirl]

Harry: Would you like to have dinner?... Just friends.

Sally: I thought you didn't believe men and women could be friends.

Harry: When did I say that?

Sally: On the ride to New York.

Harry: No, no, no, I never said that... Yes, that's right, they can't be friends. Unless both of them are involved with other people, then they can... This is an amendment to the earlier rule. If the two people are in relationships, the pressure of possible involvement is lifted... That doesn't work either, because what happens then is, the person you're involved with can't understand why you need to be friends with the person you're just friends with. Like it means something is missing from the relationship and why do you have to go outside to get it? And when you say "No, no, no it's not true, nothing is missing from the relationship," the person you're involved with then accuses you of being secretly attracted to the person you're just friends with, which you probably are. I mean, come on, who the hell are we kidding, let's face it. Which brings us back to the earlier rule before the amendment, which is men and women can't be friends.

#when harry met sally #movies #love #friends #rules #relationships #quotes

[silver-and-ivory]

explain pls

Okay!

For context: I posted pictures and quotes from a Washington Times article about transgender people and (hyperbolically) claimed that it was all wrong. I suggested that anyone who wanted me to explains should send me an anon, and someone has taken me up on that offer! (hi!)

This is a long post, containing information a lot of my mutuals probably already know. It’s more like an Introduction to Transgender Issues than a more in-depth exploration of anything — which is good! I like doing Introduction to Transgender Issues —but it might not be very valuable if you already know this kind of thing. I also elide over some things.

So: let’s take it from the top. First of all, the lead-in sucks:

Is Caitlyn Jenner a woman? A growing body of research from scientists, philosophers and feminists says no.

I understand that they want a catchy hook but this an asshole move. They shouldn’t specifically call someone out as Not Really a Woman, nor should they use an unflattering picture of her to head their article. If they’re really so concerned about transgender children and the harm done by transgender activists, why are they misgendering Caitlyn Jenner? What did she ever do to harm transgender children? Is harming transgender children an offense that means people get to misgender you?

Would they treat a cisgender pro-trans activist the same way?

Anyway, let’s continue.

The latest contribution to the debate is “When Harry Became Sally,” a just-released book by Heritage Foundation senior research fellow Ryan T. Anderson, who critiques the transgender movement on the grounds of metaphysics, medicine and public policy.

Contrary to the transgender movement’s central claim — that “gender identity” determines whether someone is a man, a woman or something else — Mr. Anderson said the only rationale for determining an organism’s sex is “by that organism’s organization with respect to sexual reproduction.”

“Apart from that, all you have are sex stereotypes,” Mr. Anderson said Wednesday at a Heritage Foundation gathering. “There’s no other objective standard for identifying the sex of an individual.”

Human beings are a “sexually dimorphic species,” with complementary reproductive systems that are either male or female, Mr. Anderson said. One’s sex is evident in DNA, can be tracked in the womb and manifests itself “in many of our bodily systems and organs all the way down to the molecular level.”

Apart from the fact that I’m not entirely sure what “metaphysics” is supposed to mean (the transgender movement has metaphysics?!), this is really disingenuous.

The characterization of the central claim of the trans movement leaves off a lot of important information and serves as something of a strawman. It’s given less than one sentence of explanation in an article that devotes paragraphs and paragraphs to explaining the anti-trans-movement perspective.

I would characterize the “central claim of the trans movement” as the idea that gender and sex are separate. It believes that sex is composed of the physical attributes commonly linked to gender, such as the x and y chromosomes and the sex organs; and that gender is the social construct that has grown up around these sexually dimorphic traits.

Even as stated, his opposition to the central claim of the trans movement is poor. “Humans are sexually dimorphic” is a bad counter to the claim “people sometimes identify as a gender that doesn’t correspond to the sex of their bodies”. It’s just not very applicable. It elides the entire point and instead assumes that of course sex determines gender.

The statement that humans have “complementary reproductive systems that are either female or male” is not entirely true. Things that our society thinks of as “a male sex”, such as having a penis, xy chromosomes, facial hair growth, a testosterone-dominant hormone system, and so on, don’t all come in one package. Some people who were born with vulvas and vaginas have xy chromosomes; other people who were born with vulvas and vaginas also have penises.

It makes sense and is useful to have a concept of “male sex” and “female sex”, because a lot of people fit fairly well into these categories. But as you increase the amount of female sex traits a male person has, or the amount of male traits a female person has, you end up being very arbitrary about how you define sex. Is a person with a vulva and a vagina but with xy chromosomes a female? What if they’re infertile? What if they weren’t born with a vulva and vagina but these were surgically constructed? (These questions are rhetorical. Instead of trying to answer them, the astute reader should ponder what they imply about the arbitrariness and subjectiveness of constructions of sex.)

In my understanding, sex is best understand as aggregates of traits, rather than a simple “everyone is either female or male; better pick one!”. And even this understanding isn’t objective; it’s made up by people for particular purposes, not Determined By True Categories of Sex.

As a counter to the trans movement, I think the statement that sex determines gender is also lacking. It misses that many trans people change their sex, including their genitals. The article somehow misses that, according to this definition of sex and gender, lots of trans people are in fact their identified gender/sex, because these trans people have changed their sexed attributes.

(Attempts to redefine what qualifies one as a particular sex are goalpost-moving, and the astute reader should again notice the arbitrariness and subjectiveness of sex.)

However, even if the article believed that trans people who had changed their sexes were truly their identified sexes, this wouldn’t be fully trans-positive or in line with what much of the trans movement believes. A lot of trans people don’t change their sexes, and they’re not less legitimate than the trans people who do. But this error is... striking.

We now come to Anderson’s claim that, after we ignore sex characteristics, all we have is gender stereotypes. This is a shocking claim! I’m sure that everyone at the Heritage Foundation will be happy to know that there are exactly zero differences between men and women’s brains and behavior and- oh, no? You’re telling me that it would be kind of weird if, given all the sex dimorphism, there were exactly zero differences between men’s brains and women’s brains? That, even if there are no biological differences between men and women, given all of the socialization our society does around gender, it would be weird if this resulted in no differences between men and women’s brains, other than stereotypes?

I’m not entirely sure what gender is. There’s a lot of room for good and valuable debate, though so far I think the consensus among trans-positive people is “?? who the fuck knows”. But Anderson isn’t doing the work to make a persuasive argument, and the author of this article isn’t thinking carefully enough about the implications of his argument.

He took pains to direct his critiques not at transgender people themselves, but at the activists who promote the ideology.

Too bad the author of this article didn’t appear to get the memo.

People with gender dysphoria are suffering, Mr. Anderson said, and as many as 41 percent of those who identify as transgender will try to commit suicide at some point in their lives.

“It’s important that our response to them be one of compassion and respect for their struggle,” he said. “But we also need to beware of the harm that activists are doing by promoting their ideology.”

Yeah, you know, those nasty activists! The high functioning Vocal Minority Bad Trans Activists who don’t have the best interests of Our low functioning Children in mind. We shouldn’t bother wasting any of our compassion on these bomb-throwing diehard radicals. Diehard radicals, you know, like Caitlyn Jenner?

The greatest harm perpetrated by the transgender movement is on children, Mr. Anderson said.

He identified a four-part standard of care that transgender activists recommend to bring both body and society into alignment with a child’s identity after gender dysphoria is diagnosed.

First, children should be encouraged to transition socially if they express a “consistent, insistent and persistent” identification with the opposite sex. Among other things, the social transition consists of a new name, a new gender pronoun, a new wardrobe and access to the bathrooms and locker rooms of the opposite sex.

Second, as the children approach puberty, they should be placed on drugs that prevent them from “going through puberty in the wrong body.”

Third, as the children enter adolescence, they should be given the “opposite sex’s sex hormones — estrogen for the boy and testosterone for the girl — to mimic puberty in the right body.”

The final stage of transition comes at or around age 18, when they become eligible for surgical procedures that replace external genitalia and secondary sex characteristics with those mimicking the opposite sex.

wow what an expose, look at this Sinister Plan made up by transgender activists to force children into transitioning—

But actually the trans activists I’ve met are in favor of carefully considering one’s options, making one’s own decisions, and not doing things that you don’t want to do. I can’t speak for all trans activists, and I definitely can’t speak for the medical establishment, but the things listed here are options, not requirements. I would be really sad if a trans kid who didn’t want a new wardrobe ended up having to get a new wardrobe! I don’t think people should have to get surgery done on them! No one should be forced to get HRT, just as no one should be forced to go through the puberty of their birth sex!

I think the way this list of possible options is presented is highly disingenuous. It implies that trans activists in general want every trans child to do every one of these, without consulting people they trust, without thinking about what they themselves want, without taking a break and at a breakneck speed. That’s a severe mischaracterization of what trans activists want, and it’s disappointing to see it presented in this way.

Another way this is inaccurate is that it characterizes these options as things trans activists have come up with, on their own, in their capacity as cultish manipulators. This is not true. These options are recognized as part of mainstream standards of care for transgender children.

It is true that transgender children and trans people in general are often pushed into doing surgeries they don’t want, or dressing in ways they didn’t want, due to gender stereotypes or standards for what a true woman/man/nb is. But the causes of this aren’t, generally, transgender activists as a whole. Rather, it’s more often the medical establishment and society in general which cause trans people to feel pressured to have particular surgeries or to dress in a certain way. While I don’t have immediate evidence concerning pressure from doctors to get particular surgeries, the general atmosphere of the way doctors treat trans people makes it highly likely.

I do have more immediate information about pressure from doctors and society in general on trans people, trans women in particular, to fit gender stereotypes. For example, Lisa Millbank writes-

Another notorious component of gatekeeping is the RLE, or Real Life Experience. In the UK, transsexual women are often expected to complete two years of RLE before they will be considered for treatment. This sometimes refers to surgical treatment, but the RLE requirement can be enforced before even hormones are offered. RLE consists of living ‘full time as a woman’ for typically two years. This means using a ‘female’ name, female pronouns and wearing ‘female’ clothes.

There are some women who immediately are ‘read’ as women by mainstream society the moment they adopt feminine gender markers in their dress and behaviour. They are in the relative minority. For most transsexual women, going straight into RLE is not an experience of womanhood but an experience of public freakhood, composed of constant stares, transphobic harassment and potentially violence, without access to much of the (intensely double-edged) training given to cissexual women on how to survive this.

(I don’t agree with Millbank about many things and she is wrong about a lot of things. The rest of her blog is not endorsed by me and read it at your own risk.)

Furthermore, gender nonconforming (that is, butch or not-very-femme) trans women are punished for not meeting stereotypes of women/trans women:

Media depictions of trans women, whether they take the form of fictional characters or actual people, usually fall under one of two main archetypes: the “deceptive” transsexual or the “pathetic” transsexual. While characters of both models have an interest in achieving an ultrafeminine appearance, they differ in their abilities to pull it off. Because the “deceivers” successfully pass as women, they generally act as unexpected plot twists, or play the role of sexual predators who fool innocent straight guys into falling for “men.”…

In contrast to the “deceivers”, who wield their feminine wiles with success, the “pathetic” transsexual characters aren’t deluding anyone. Despite her masculine mannerisms and five o’clock shadow, the “pathetic” transsexual will inevitably insist that she is a woman trapped inside a man’s body. The intense contradiction between the “pathetic” character’s gender identity and her physical appearance is often played for laughs—as in the transition of musician Mark Shubb (played as a bearded baritone by Harry Shearer) at the conclusion of 2003’s A Mighty Wind.Unlike the “deceivers”, whose ability to pass is a serious threat to our ideas about gender and sexuality, “pathetic” transsexuals—who barely resemble women at all—are generally considered harmless…

While a character like Henrietta, who exhibits a combination of extreme masculinity and femininity, has the potential to confront our assumptions about gender, it is fairly obvious that the filmmakers were not trying to do so. On the contrary, Henrietta’s masculine voice and mannerisms are meant to demonstrate that, despite her desire to be female, she cannot change the fact that she is really and truly a man. 

While we are supposed to admire their courage—which presumably comes from the difficulty of living as women who do not appear very female—we are not meant to identify with them or to be sexually attracted to them, as we are to “deceivers” like Dil.Interestingly, while the obvious outward masculinity of “pathetic” transsexual characters is always played up, so too is their lack of male genitalia (or their desire to part with them). In fact, some of the most memorable lines in these movies occur when the “pathetic” transsexual character makes light of her own castration. 

Ultimately, both “deceptive” and “pathetic” transsexual characters are designed to validate the popular assumption that trans women are “truly” men. “Pathetic” transsexuals may want to be female, but their masculine appearance and mannerisms always gives them away. And while the “deceiver” is initially perceived to be a “real” female, she is eventually revealed to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing—an illusion that is the product of lies and modern medical technology—and she is usually is punished accordingly.

There is a lot more information on this sort of thing than I am going to go into. If you want to read more about the way gender/sex stereotypes have harmed transgender people through the gatekeeping of medical care, I highly recommend reading Julia Serano’s discussion of theories concerning transness here and Andrea James’s here.

(Important note of nuance: there are trans people who advocate for these harmful conceptions of womanhood and trans-womanhood, such as the HBS separatists. However, I don’t think they represent the state of trans activism as a whole. (Also, don’t ask me about the truscum. I don’t want to get into truscum discourse.))

Concerned parents are convinced that this is “the only way to prevent their child from committing suicide,” Mr. Anderson said, although “somewhere between 80 to 95 percent of children who express a discordant gender identity will naturally grow out of it and come to identify with their bodily sex if development is allowed to proceed.”

This is kind of true and kind of not.

If your child says they feel suicidal about not transitioning, you should definitely be worried that letting them transition is the only way to prevent their suicide.

If your child doesn’t say they feel suicidal about not transitioning, then you should not worry about that (unless you have reason to suspect that your children is not telling you important things like this).

The statistic about 80 to 90% of trans children who grow out of it is, if I remember correctly, about children before puberty, not after. I can’t find where I got this information, so this shouldn’t be taken as a strong argument against it.

Most importantly, this information doesn’t tell us what we should do about gender dysphoric children. The article assumes that if this is the case, then you should not allow your child to transition. That’s not necessarily the best decision, and the article should have addressed this in a more nuanced manner. Ozy discusses this issue in more detail here.

Mr. Anderson said the transgender movement’s emphasis on surgical and cosmetic procedures is inconsistent with the notion that “gender exists primarily between our ears.” If gender is a mental phenomenon, “why do we then have to radically transform people’s bodies?”

Surgical and cosmetic procedures should be conducted if someone wants them to be conducted. “Sometimes people’s minds don’t match up with their bodies” is a common, if simplified, explanation of this, and I’m surprised that Anderson, masterful sleuth that he is, hasn’t encountered it.

He also said the concept of social transition, “in which girls play with dolls and boys play with trucks,” relies on “rigid sex stereotypes” that progressives would normally reject as relics of a misogynistic era.

This is not an accurate characterization of social transition according to trans activists. It is an accurate characterization of how trans people were and are pressured by doctors into conforming to gender stereotypes in order to access medical transition, as explained above.

(I’m also surprised that the Times suddenly objects to rigid sex stereotypes. It’s terribly progressive of them.)

Oh look, it’s the section about terfs.

Miss McGowan had said being a transgender woman is not “growing [up] as a woman, that’s not living as a woman, and a lot of the stuff I hear trans [women] complaining about — yeah, welcome to the world.” She also said Caitlyn Jenner has “male privilege” and “doesn’t understand” what it’s like to be a woman.

(The Times has started taking its cues from feminists, I see. I’m sure McGowan would be pleased to know she was addressed as “Miss”.)

McGowan doesn’t get to arbitrarily define what a woman is.

Also, many transgender women live as women and are treated as women. (The trans women who don’t live as women or who are not treated as women are, however, still real women. This is because gender is a complicated thing that, for a lot of people, doesn’t solely derive from how other people treat you.)

Most fatally for McGowan’s theory, there is no universal woman experience that all cis woman have and that no trans women have. (Not all cis women can have children. Not all cis women have periods. Not all cis women have encountered sexism. And so on.)

One of the authorities frequently cited in Mr. Anderson’s book is Dr. Paul R. McHugh, university distinguished professor of psychiatry at the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine.

In his capacity as psychiatrist in chief at the Johns Hopkins Hospital, a position he held for 26 years, Dr. McHugh pioneered sex change surgery as a way to treat gender dysphoria. After studying the results, however, he concluded that the procedures brought no benefit to his patients and stopped offering the treatment in the 1970s.

Paul McHugh- not him again? Surely they can dig up at least one other psychiatrist like him.

Well, if they’re reusing old material, so will I:

“It is important to remember that the opinions of Dr McHugh fly in the face of currently accepted medical practice and the positions of many major medical associations. The American Medical Association, the American Psychological Association, the American College of Obstetrics and Gynecology, the American Psychiatric Society, the American Public Health Association, and the World Professional Association for Transgender Health have all adopted positions supporting the medical necessity of transition-related care, including hormonal and surgical interventions, as well as expressing support for insurance coverage of these interventions. Despite his authoritative sounding title at a respected medical institution, Dr McHugh’s opinions do not represent the views of the mainstream medical establishment, rather they are the erroneous, bigoted beliefs of a scientist who appears far too invested in his own antiquated, disproven theories and his anti-LGBT political position than the current state of medical affairs”.

Psychiatrist and WPATH Board Member, Dr. Dan Karasic, responded quickly to the WSJ, and his letter was one of a few selected for publication. We are including the full text of Dr. Karasic’s response below, though it is important to note that the WSJ editors chose to omit his clarification of Dr. Dhejne’s research. WPATH members should be aware of the facts concerning these debates.

Dr. Paul McHugh (“Transgender surgery isn’t the solution”) writes about the study at Johns Hopkins in the 1970’s showing poor outcomes from transgender surgeries, leading to McHugh shutting down Johns Hopkins’ transgender program in 1979, and the US Department of Health and Human Services declaring transgender surgery experimental, and therefore not covered. Two weeks ago, HHS reversed its 1981 decision, and removed transgender health exclusions from Medicare. McHugh seems unaware of the work in transgender health in these last 30 years that led to this reversal by HHS.

McHugh does cite one study from 2011, by Cecilia Dhejne, MD and colleagues at Karolinska Institute in Stockholm. However, he misunderstands Dr. Dhejne’s work. In the paper, Dr. Dhejne states that the study was not designed to draw conclusions on the efficacy of transgender surgeries, yet McHugh does exactly that. A closer reading of the paper shows that the increased mortality is in those who had surgery before 1989, and that mortality in trans people after 1989 is not statistically different from the general population. A recently published paper by Dr. Dhejne and colleagues shows that the regret rate for those having surgery from 2001-2010 is only 0.3%. Dr. Dhejne’s work shows that outcomes for transgender surgery have improved tremendously in the past 30 years, which supports the HHS decision to remove trans exclusions.

McHugh also mischaracterizes the treatment of gender nonconforming children. As McHugh states, most gender nonconforming children do not identify as transgender in adulthood. However, those who receive puberty blocking drugs do not do so until puberty, when trans identity is likely to persist. These drugs allow adolescents and their parents to work with doctors to achieve the best outcome. This approach was demonstrated to be successful in research in the Netherlands before being adopted widely in the U.S.

The American Psychiatric Association and the World Professional Association for Transgender Health no longer view transgender identity as inherently pathological. Dr. McHugh’s views are stuck in the past.

Back to the article:

Despite its modest political gains, the transgender movement has rapidly institutionalized its ideology at major medical institutions and research universities, Mr. Anderson said. He pointed to Boston Children’s Hospital, which became, according to its website, the “first major program in the United States to focus on transgender children and adolescents” in 2007.

“Today, a decade later, more than 45 pediatric gender clinics have opened their doors to our nation’s children,” Mr. Anderson said.

Even the Johns Hopkins Hospital resumed gender reassignment surgeries last year.

Wow, the transgenders have “rapidly” “institutionalized” their “ideology” at major medical institutions. It’s almost like Paul McHugh and Anderson are a bunch of hacks who are out of step with mainstream medical opinion! Imagine that.

“At this critical time,” Ms. Kao said, “the freedom to debate the best treatments for gender dysphoria must be protected.”

I support the freedom to debate, on your own time, the best treatments for gender dysphoria. I also support the freedom to debate whether or not the Earth is flat.

#Anonymous #transphobia cw #transmisogyny cw #ableism cw #dysphoria cw #sexism cw #misogyny cw #misandry cw #genitals cw #sex cw #intersexphobia cw #blood cw #medicine cw #doctors cw

[honey-fox]

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/01/22/opinion/kamala-harris-girls.html?action=click&module=Opinion&pgtype=Homepage

Opinion

What Is a Teenage Girl?

Feeling things is an act of bravery.

By Samantha Hunt

Ms. Hunt is a novelist and short story writer.

Jan. 22, 2021

TIVOLI, N.Y. — When my first daughter reached fifth grade, she told me the girls at her school would watch the “period film” soon. She said, “Our film is an hour, and the boys’ film is, like, five minutes.”

I asked that the boys also be shown the film about periods. Boys, I said, have a right to this critical education about human biology.

I was told that the boys weren’t ready. Ready? I wondered. For what? To be human?

My daughter, also not ready in many ways, began menstruating that year, and the same girl who at 6 paraded her first bloody, lost tooth around a restaurant was now expected to become an expert at keeping secrets — tampons stashed in her lunchbox, knowing winks with other girls and the old tried and true method of tying a sweatshirt around her waist.

Do we keep girls’ bodies secret to protect boys? And if so, protect boys from what? The truth that female bodies are complicated and full of wonder?

Emily Wilson from Babe.net does a brilliant interview series called “ManLibs,” in which she quizzes men about women’s bodies. “Getting her period usually means that she is not ___________.” Answers range widely. “Ovulating.” “Fertile.” In another episode, she asks what the birth control pill suppresses. One man says, “I feel like I should know this.” Ms. Wilson replies, “I feel like you should too.”

What are teenage girls? When I walk down the street with my daughters, we often get, “Here comes trouble.” In what twisted universe do my girls equal trouble? “Sugar and spice” insults in its simplicity too. Girls are biological powerhouses of chemical reactions, amino acids and enzymes, and honestly, I don’t even know what. I made three girls, and I am a girl, and I still don’t understand. One of my daughters once asked, “Mom, how did you get milk to come out of your boobs?” and my first answer (since improved upon) was “I have no idea.”

How much of that unknowing is the reason the world pretends girls fit into narrow categories with shallow concerns — selfies and shopping and TikTok dances? Female bodies have historically been neglected by science, and that void of information is too readily filled with unwarranted fear. Why can’t we just say, “I don’t know what girls are”? And then set about the business of trying to know.

From what I know of teenage girls, they feel things deeply and often have trouble properly communicating all that they feel. Living with so much feeling in a world that does not value feeling is a challenge. In Octavia Butler’s masterpiece “Parable of the Sower,” 15-year-old Lauren “suffers” from a condition known as hyperempathy. Lauren feels the emotions of other people. Lauren feels. In the world of “Parable,” empathy is dangerous. Lauren is often crippled by the pain she experiences at the hands of other people’s emotions. While Ms. Butler is known for science fiction, Lauren’s affliction reads to me as straight-up truth. We live in a world where it is dangerous to feel things and where those who do feel are in peril.

Feeling things is an act of bravery. Think of Claudette Colvin, Greta Thunberg and Emma González. Think of all the shy girls you’ve never heard of. What if we stopped seeing the unimaginable heights of teenage girls’ emotions as anxiety or hysteria (a hateful word derived from “hystera,” Greek for uterus) and instead likened these heights of feeling to space exploration, deep sea diving, scientific research into what makes us human? Our girls are explorers and experimenters. Why then not listen to our deepest feelers, those humans who might provide us with a blueprint for the best, most human way forward? Why behave as if feeling things is silly and nice?

bell hooks writes, “Patriarchy has always seen love as women’s work, degraded and devalued labor.” As if to love were easy, when really, learning to love people is a fierce pursuit for the strongest.

Of course, boys feel things just as deeply as girls. Emotion does not belong to one gender. While we tell girls they are lightweight because they feel things, we tell boys that if they feel things, they are girls.

Let’s encourage boys to show us how deeply they feel, to put an end to secrets and shame. And let’s stop separating them from the wonders of human biology. I love to remind people, especially male people, that period blood was their first nourishment. If we don’t teach boys what they need to know about girls’ bodies, they are going to make things up. And some of the stories boys have made up about girls’ bodies have had devastating aftereffects.

In a recent column in this paper, “The Children of Pornhub,” Nicholas Kristof tells the story of Serena Fleites, who was 14 when a boy she liked asked her to send him naked videos. The boy then shared the videos with other boys. One posted them to Pornhub, which has promoted videos under search terms like “exploited teen” “young tiny teen” “14yo” “screaming teen” “degraded teen” and “She can’t breathe.”

It often seems the next logical step for pornography is surgery videos or female autopsies. How much interiority do people want? Do we want to see the large intestines of a 15-year-old girl? Would that be sexy? Ms. Fleites tried to kill herself. Is that the video people want to see?

My oldest was 9 during the 2016 election. Someone at school had told her about Donald Trump’s “grab ’em by the pussy” transcript. My daughter asked, “Mom, do you know he grabs women’s private parts?”

“Don’t worry,” I consoled her; such a horrible human would never be elected president.

Four years later, there he was, threatening Mike Pence. “You can either go down in history as a patriot or you can go down in history as a pussy.” A comment that makes it abundantly clear Mr. Trump doesn’t know the first thing about vaginas — that they are the pure strength that pushed us all into existence.

After Joe Biden and Kamala Harris won (not on election night but a few days later, when it seemed clear that the victory was real) my oldest daughter, now a teenager, emerged from her bedroom and started to dance wildly in our living room, without music even, legs kicking high, arms swirling, dancing as if she didn’t care who saw her joy and freedom.

This from the same girl who breathed a sigh of relief when her school went remote in March, because she did not have to be seen anymore. She could turn off her camera. She could wear pajamas. No one would see a breakout of acne and make meaning of the messages in her hormones. Hidden alone in her bedroom, my daughter could be anything she wanted.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the expression “I feel seen.” People use it to mean something positive — “I feel understood.” But for a teenage girl, in this climate, being seen can be traumatic. We’ve made what is visible into what is valuable.

Ms. Fleites says that she once believed that she was “not worth anything anymore because everybody has already seen my body.” I want to tell her, I want to tell my daughters, that the value in their bodies has nothing to do with being seen. The value in their bodies is in how they will use their legs and lungs to carry them out into the world, and their hearts and brains to think and feel.

Vice President Harris matters so much. How, America, did it take us more than two centuries to lift a woman up into the executive branch? In the book “Sisters in Spirit,” Sally Roesch Wagner wrote that the suffragists “believed women’s liberation was possible because they knew liberated women, women who possessed rights beyond their wildest imagination: Haudenosaunee women.” The women of the Six Nations of the Iroquois Confederacy lived in a matrilineal society. They nominated and removed their chiefs. Matriarchy is in the history of this land.

When my daughter’s dance was done, she said, “Mom, we can hang the flag again!” We live very rurally, and of late, the flag here has been used as a battering ram. Young men purchase huge flags and affix them to the back of their trucks, arguably in violation of the U.S. Flag Code, yet these young men consider themselves patriots. They race their trucks right up onto the bumpers of other cars, as if they might drive over other Americans. While it might be youthful exuberance and love of country that compels them, it’s menacing for the rest of us.

After my daughter’s dance, I looked for our flag. I know how to love something that is imperfect. I love teenage girls, and I love America, but I’m done with the word “patriot.” It’s time for America to make room for her matriots, a word my spell-checker tells me doesn’t even exist. We tell schoolchildren that our flag was made by a woman, a matriot. While I’m not there yet, I’m trying to look at it and imagine a motherland.

In our flag I will look for the national parks, the public libraries, the artists and innovators, the land where my dead beloveds are buried, the tiny but tremendous mutual aid society my town put together in the pandemic, my daughters’ underpaid teachers and coaches, the trees and rivers and children. I will not forget the genocide, greed, hatred and tremendous inequality in our flag. I won’t be blind to my nation’s faults.

And I won’t be blind to my daughters’. My 13-year-old tells me I’m annoying. She says my clothes are ugly and that I’m a bad writer. She tells me I’m controlling and refuses to eat dinner. She’s not going to fold the laundry. She says she hates me. And I try so hard to move past her attempts to anger me, the way she rides right up onto my bumper. I breathe her in and watch in amazement at the riot of things she feels, a confused jumble of emotions that she’s working to sort through, to make sense of how deeply she feels things in a world that doesn’t want her to feel. I watch her flail, and I struggle to understand.

America, my emotional teenage girl, I love you.

Samantha Hunt 

#radical feminst #radfem #women are human #women's rights #sex education #menstruation