#boston bar association

[manleycollins]

Journal Entry #78 - First Deposition…Costing People Their Careers, Police Certifications, and Bar Licenses By Sending It Directly Back…My Balls and Spine (Backbone) Are Attached to Me!

JOURNAL ENTRY #78 Name: Manley M Collins Social Security Number: 5 7 9 – * * – 6 5 4 1 Date of Birth: 06/21 Place of Birth: Washington, District of Columbia Country of Birth: United States of America Date: April 6, 2024

TOPIC: First Deposition…Costing People Their Careers, Police Certifications, and Bar Licenses By Sending It Directly Back…My Balls and Spine (Backbone) Are Attached to Me!

I made my first deposition with Federal Express was on January 24, 2024. It was recorded by a court reporter and videographer. I met the corporate attorney Charles V. "Bud" Holmes for the first time unexpectedly. The conversation lasted for eight (8) hours with break. I did get my corporate lunch at Tatte with Bud paid by Federal Express. My application for criminal complaints were heard. Growing up, I was shielded too long from lying. All six out of fourteen defendants lied on March 27, 2024 and March 29, 2024. The Clerk-Magistrate for the Boston Municipal Court - East Boston dismissed their cases based on the length of time and the assumption Federal Express security camera system was working. This is how Massachusetts talk - First sentence is half truth. Second sentence is alternative truth. Third sentence is a butt-face lie. The bookstore books support the same ecosystem from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania to Boston, Massachusetts.

Massachusetts chose to do blind and blond scenario on me. "Blind" means do not look up his information in the hardwire systems people use everyday or internet because it is a lie. "Blond" means just dumb do him anyway. Yes, I made all my court dates for the charge "Threat to commit a crime." I filed with the civil cases to courts so fast, sent it to the American Bar Association, Boston Bar Association, Mayor and Governor, and Massachusetts Commission Against Discrimination so fast that they regret the day they filed the charge by Massachusetts State Trooper Joseph A. Middleton (white male cop). I am on Pre-Trial Probation (90 days was completed), then a white male judge Richard Sinnott decides to extend it to year until 3/15/2025. If I got to behave, the legal community surrounding the charge have to behave too and remove all the UNETHICAL sht. The legal community tried to go for immunity for the sht they do. My civil case is being heard April 2024 at the John Moakley Courthouse in Courtroom 18 in United States District Court. Please do not think the charge is going to prevent me from defending myself. I always show up for my fights. Legal community did three major mistakes and errors - Maryland, New York, and now Massachusetts. Systemic racism at its best. Telling is my best friend and schizophrenia will get the rest.

I am a PHOENIX! (Firebird reducing everything to atoms)

Boston Housing Authority tried to get updated information with a new interviewer. I kept telling them that they did the wire from Citibank that caused the Citibank-NYPD-New York situation. Instead, they withdrew me from all the public housing list and subdized housing lists. I sent in two appeals to Boston Housing Authority to request to see the information system and information security that they are putting this information in. Guess what? No response.

I got my Massachusetts FlexCard on behalf of Blue Cross Blue Shield. I rejoined Planet Fitness. I had to downgrade first, then upgrade to the Black Card. I joined Weight Watchers too, and it was good to see some of my social networking community mainly women were on the program. I am still a group fitness instructor, doing Zumba, and track and field athlete.

I cooked so much food at my AirBnb. I gained a little weight, but since leaving the AirBnb, body is working to get the weight back down. The Boston Medical Center food pantry was giving me new foods I never seen before. My host educated me on how to do extensions in AirBnb.

I still was speaking with Coach Tommy at BCBS Learn to Live Programs. I completed the Resilience Program, went through the Depression program, and now working on Stress, Anxiety and Worry program. I have been 107 days enrolled in the CBT Learn to Live Programs.

I taught Zumba - My First Class routine. I subbed for several gym classes. My second routine is ready. I am moving forward with Zumba Core, Zumba Glutes, Zumba World Africa. I attended Beto's Livestream Zumba on February 3, 2024. It was fun and hilarious. I started my own Total Body Conditioning class. All my previous instructors and various sports were channeling through me. I have three different formats - running, stationary, and circuit. It is pretty fun and well attended. I registered for an upcoming Zumba Rhythms 2 session and Les Mills Initial Training. These are my four focus and core competencies in the sports and fitness world: Zumba (dance), Les Mills (athletic conditioning), Spinning/Cycling (bicycling), and Personal Training/Coaching/Athlete (bodybuilding/running). I am not going to do crazy like I did in the business and technology world.

I attended Epsilon Gamma Lambda Chapter of Alpha Phi Alpha Fraternity MLK Event at Boston University Computer Science Building. It was well attended on Saturday, January 13, 2024. I made some new friends. Never got a response from the chapter members via email or phone, but did meet some members during the event.

I met a new friend from one of the social media apps and we ate at The Blarney Stone in Dorchester / Fields Corner neighborhood. It was lunch time and it was a quiet environment. The food was good portions.

I attended Greater Boston Track Club Invitational at Harvard University Athletics Complex on January 21, 2024. It was a USATF sanctioned meet. It was packed with 900+ athletes and the stadium was full. I sat in the midst of the University of Massachusetts Boston track team coaches and parents.

I secured a new therapist who was a psychologist and accepted with BCBS. He is really good.

I missed the Boston Athletic Association 5K Registration.

I met my first application for criminal complaint - Collins v. Kyambade. I told my story. Kyambade's attorney and he lied about hitting me with his SUV stating I stopped, turned around, and jumped in front of his SUV while using a smartphone and waving him back and forth. The Clerk-Magistrate stated he was going to hold his decision until later. The decision came in the mail and the Clerk-Magistrate found no probable cause so no criminal complaint will be pursued. Progressive the insurance company is processing the insurance claim.

POST Commission still sending me letters stating my complaints against police officers are closed. I sent some of the complaints back through the courts.

Collins v SplitSpot - Case Management Conference was scheduled for Wednesday, February 7, 2024, but the courts entire information system were down at Edward W. Brooke Courthouse. However, I met Gillian Rose Crossman's attorney and I have never seen an attorney beg or argue without a judge to be let out a case. That was a first and he did get what he wanted because the Judge sent a handwritten decision through the mail restating what the attorney said. The next case management conference is scheduled in April 2024. I only have two defendants left.

I attended an ProQuest and Clarivate Web Science presentation. It was more awareness about the Clarivate project for ProQuest.

I attended the USATF Open New England Indoor Championships on February 18, 2024. I met some more athletes. It was a packed house of spectators and supporters at Harvard University Athletic Complex. My track team, Potomac Valley Track Club, went to Chicago, Illinois and won 1st place in combined points, 2nd place for the men, and 3rd place for the women.

I kept filling out McDonald's and Dunkin Donuts surveys. The NewtonX Community does send me some interesting surveys that gets me thinking about my own company initiatives. I got Google paid surveys late after it met its quota. I had to stop in the middle of the YouTube survey because I really was not getting any benefit from it.

I have Clover's Slice (Wells Fargo financial network) company interested in me for Outside Sales Representative. The opportunity sounds too good to be real, but I am thinking about my mental health on whether I want to take on the stress.

Collins v Piersanti application for criminal complaint was rescheduled because Piersanti's mail was returned from his attorney's office. I gave them his last Connecticut mailing address and it has been scheduled for April 2024.

I saw my primary care physician at Boston Medical Center for a follow up since I was taking PrEP. He did some additional physical techniques that have not been done in years. He also mentioned he rarely or never had a super healthy patient. My HIV test results came back NEGATIVE.

I met with Boston Medical Center Bridge Clinic again and we talked about all the current happenings. It was very interesting that the medication Latuda came up. I was able to get it. I told the nurse practioner that Caplyta was not going to approved by the insurance company. It took a minute to adjust to Latuda…however, waking up at 3am to 4am hungry is not a good sign, body temperature varies, and emotional rollercoaster. On the flip side, my Massachusetts General Hospital psychiatrist cancelled his appointment that was scheduled the next day.

I signed up for BCBS GeoBlue for international travel health insurance. It is expensive. I watched my Joel Osteen ministries. I also watched a fellow SCSU bulldog, Lowell James, preach the word. Social media unexpectedly bringing people I have not seen in decades across my feed. March Madness got me hyped in just watching the games and the upsets in men and women basketball. I did not make a March Madness bracket this year.

I stayed on Windows 10 operating system for a while because Windows 11 with bitlocker crashed my system. I upgraded to Windows 11 and the system build was without bitlocker. My applications and everything still works. I am still researching systems to host my enterprise and corporate applications and software plus electronic commerce.

I am still working with Massachusetts Vocational Rehabilitation Commission. I sent them the jobs I applied for USAJOBS - Federal Government IT Project Manager with CDC Program Manager with DHS Economist with FAA Computer Investigative Forensic Specialist with IRS Supervisory Health System Specialist with VHA Field Representative with US Census Bureau Research Engineer/Research Physical Scientist with USDA Remote Internship with Library of Congress

MassCareers - State Government Strategy Analyst Integrated Care Operations Manager Health Safety Net Policy Manager Project Manager 1 - Feasibility and Schematic Design IT Support Technician

City of Boston Careers - ICIMS - City Government Deputy Director of State Relations Career Counselor Community Relations Specialist Community Outreach Specialist

Corporate America Outside Sales Representative - Slice President/CEO - Salt Creek Capital

Independent Contractor Six months contract to hire Senior Sharepoint Developer with government contractors (SAIC and Fortitude Systems) for US Department of Transportation. Please note all government or corporate contract to hire positions, I was never hired, but let go or laidoff at the end of every term.

#manley marvell collins #massachusetts #boston #gym #fitness #dance #music #africa #bar #american bar association #boston bar association #zumba #les mills #legal #criminal #crime #workout #sports

[ellariasand]

would love if spotify wouldn't shuffle in save a horse (ride a cowboy) while i'm actively trying to write cowboy smut bullshit

#technically i already associate that song with another fic of mine #[war flashbacks to hearing it play at the line dance bar in boston and screeching with rebecca] #but STILL #i am already struggling trying to write this don't make my face red over that at the same time spotify #maggie.txt

[coco-loco-nut]

Miss Americana

Pairing: Lando Norris x American!Reader

Summary: Moments with Lando and his silly, American, girlfriend

TW: AMERICA! RAHH🦅

a/n: i wrote this super quick bc the ideas were bombarding me at work and it is not proofread. it’s also silly and stupid as an apology for my last oneshot which seemed to break y’all.

requests are open! masterlist part two

—————————————————

Lando didn’t mind you were American, in fact, that might be why he loved you. You poked fun at his britishness, even trying to copy his accent. It’s almost like a joke with you two.

“Baby, where are you?” Lando whines from his gaming chair, needing attention, having texted you a minute ago asking you for cuddles.

“I’m declaring my independence!” You yell back, your voice coming from outside. He pauses his game and trudges towards your voice. The two of you are spending time in your American residence, near Miami. He spots you near the pool, holding something out.

“Baby, what are you doing?” He spots your camera recording.

“Happy December 16th!” You grin, dropping a box of tea into the pool. Lando’s brows furrow, thinking back to the book he read about the Revolutionary War. Needing to have some sort of reference for your jokes, he bought a book with the basics to read on the flights to races.

“Oh… I get it. Babe, we aren’t even IN Boston,” Lando says after a minute, and after you start laughing, he does too. Lando quickly grabs your phone and pushes you in the water too.

“Rude,” you huff, grabbing the tea box and climbing out of the pool. If it weren’t for your grin, Lando would be running away. You grab your phone and Logan pops out from behind the bushes as Lando’s phone dings.

“Wait, I thought you were recording,” Lando says, his eyes narrowing at Logan.

“Nope,” you pop the p and walk inside, the video quickly going viral and spreading around the drivers group chats. Logan makes his quick escape, leaving Lando to wonder why he agreed to associate with Americans.

———

“GO GO GO GO! YES! TOUCHDOWN!” You yell, seemingly oblivious to the cold. Lando surprised you with a trip to your alma mater’s biggest football game of the season. He asked Logan for help with the surprise, but the Floridian didn’t mention, well, how much of a cult the school was.

“Logan said it was going to be cold, but not this cold,” Lando grumbles, taking a cute pic of you cheering.

“Babe, he has terrible taste in schools, why would you take his advice? Also, this is the northeast, it’s obviously going to be way colder than Austin will be next week,” You snort before joining in on a chant. Lando was only slightly regretting choosing seats right beside the student section, however, he could get behind the drinking. Especially tailgating. When you drug him out of his nice warm bed to hang outside the stadium at 9am with your old college friends, he was skeptical. All it took was one freshly grilled meal and a beer to turn that around. He is planning on creating an American tailgate for the race next week in Austin.

“American universities are... something else,” Lando smiles at you. Seeing as you are only one year removed from college, you had plans for the weekend.

“Just wait until we go to the bars later. Oh! And the frat party tomorrow, it’s family weekend and my cousin is getting us in,” you smile back at him. It was indeed a long, drunk, weekend, but Lando couldn’t help but admit that he would be more than happy to come back for more games throughout the year.

———

Austin was something else the next weekend. You and Logan were quick to jump on board with Lando’s idea for a tailgate, and you all gathered at the Airbnb that you rented the night before the race, right after qualifying. The team’s socials loved the idea as well as the Formula One social media team, so you paid for nothing as the drivers and friends gathered at the Airbnb for your and Logan’s tailgate. You made sure there were multiple coolers full of alcohol, soda, and water while Logan manned the grill. You wore a NFL football jersey while Logan repped a Miami Dolphins jersey.

“Why are those two arguing,” Max asks Lando, observing you and Logan fight about whose team is better.

“Either college football or pro football,”

“American football, mate,” George says, standing on the other side of Max.

“All I’m saying is that you have TERRIBLE taste in teams!” You huff in Logan’s direction. He rolls his eyes, turning his focus to the grill as you grab a beer. Lando, who is sporting your alma mater’s football jersey, walks over to the two of you.

“She’s not wrong, Logan,” Lando chuckles as the blonde boy throws his arms up in the air in frustration. Honestly, the only thing that can top the bickering between the both of you is when you pull out the jell-o shots and people start grabbing food.

Half an hour later, you turn on the projector to the screen, a Disney logo behind you. You take position in front of the screen, remote in hand as a microphone. The crowd turns their attention to you. Lando’s lips twitch up in amusement.

“I just got three things to say. God bless our troops. God bless America. AND GENTLEMEN. START YOUR ENGINES!” You yell as you hit play on the remote.

“Okay, focus. Speed. I. Am. Speed.” The voice says over the screen. You and Logan decided to culture everyone, making the end of the tailgate partly a movie night. Eventually, everyone finds a seat in the lawn chairs scattered in front of the screen. Lando grabs your hand and kisses the back of it when you sit down.

“I love you, y/n,” he smiles softly as he nurses his beer.

“Love you more, Lan, but not as much as America,” you chuckle, teasing him. He playfully rolls his eyes, knowing you are jesting.

“Are you always so… American?” Daniel laughs as he sits in the open chair beside you.

“Shut up before she drunkenly sings the national anthem,” Lando hisses, cringing at the time he mistakenly took you to a karaoke pub in London on July 4th. Honestly, he should’ve known better.

“I hate you all,”

#lando norris x reader #f1 x reader #f1 imagines #lando norris imagine #america #logan sargeant #silly goose

[pedrito-friskito]

fire and whiskey - joel miller x fem!reader

summary: you never expected to run into joel again after boston, but here he is, and here you are.

warnings: spoilers for the last of us (i’m six hours into a play-through LOL), a lot of swearing, canon-typical violence, MENTIONS/DEPICTIONS OF ASSAULT (pls do not read if that is triggering for you!), unprotected p-in-v, fingering, oral (m receiving), joel is a grumpy man and I love him for it

a/n: please heed the warnings!! my first time writing joel and I’m kinda hooked. this show is truly going to be the death of me and I can’t wait for pedro’s performance. it’s so easy to see how he’s gonna fit watching the game itself play out.

🍂kay’s autumn adventures🍂

When he grabs you from behind, you don’t make a sound. You’ve learned, by now, to keep things quiet. But you’re still not expecting it, your whole body jolting with surprise and a breath sucked down your throat. Joel’s hand clamps over your mouth, thick fingers nearly cutting off your nose, but you don’t make a noise, letting him pull you backwards away from the clicker, feet scrambling silently over the doorjamb before he pushes it shut, quiet as can be.

“You need to keep your eyes open, girl,” he spits at you, barely above a whisper. It’s nearly pitch-black in the room, but you can just make out the shape of him, and somehow, those dark eyes manage to glitter all the same as they do in sunlight. It’s maddening. “I saw that thing comin’ a mile away. You distracted or somethin’?”

You shake your head, then realize he probably can’t see your head movement, so throw out a whispered no.

Of course, you’re fucking distracted. It’s Joel. Ten months later, and Joel fucking Miller appears out of nowhere like some kind of guardian angel, yanking a runner off you and putting a pipe through the thing’s face. You haven’t seen him since Boston. Since before everything that happened…happened.

Since Jason.

Since Tess.

Fuck, you think inwardly, exhaling against his palm. Tess. Sure, she wasn’t the nicest woman you’d ever met in your life, but she’d helped keep you alive, and you knew Joel was close to her, in that strange, standoffish, I act like I hate you but I’ll be quietly devastated if anything ever happens to you way that you’ve come to associated with Joel Miller. It’s the way of the world now, to a certain degree, but goddamn it if Joel didn’t take it to the next level. Always.

Even after it all, after Jason was dealt with and he’d told you you were square, you still didn’t know where you stood with Joel. If he liked you or hated you, or if he genuinely didn’t give a fuck.

But then earlier, before you’d crept inside the old warehouse in search of supplies, when you’d been knocked into the pavement by a runner and Joel had intervened, when he saw it was you, there was a moment. A glimmer of something, too quick to memorize but there long enough for your brain to fixate on it, to focus on, to dissect.

“It’s you,” was all he’d said, the pipe still buried in the runner’s face, using it as leverage to yank the limp body off of you. “I’ll be damned.”

“Joel fucking Miller,” you’d nearly gasped with relief, throwing your arms around his neck. He’d muttered something unintelligible, giving you a halfhearted squeeze around the waist. “Thank god.”

“Good to see you, girl.”

That had been the extent of the reunion. You were introduced to Ellie shortly after, and to Bill, Joel’s friend from a town over back in Boston. And Joel told you about Tess.

 Desperation had pushed you into the warehouse, all of you with growling stomachs and Bill with a bad arm injury. You’d used the last of your pain meds days back, and Joel had bandages, but it wouldn’t do much to ease his friend’s discomfort. When Ellie told you it’d been two days since they had anything to eat, you slipped her half a granola bar you had stashed, and you didn’t miss the way Joel looked at you sideways.

And now you’re inside, your back pressed to Joel’s front and his hand clamped over your mouth. You expect him to smell awful — and mostly, he does — but there’s something beneath it, something manly and comforting and strong.

So yes, you’re fucking distracted.

It’s a few hours before you get out of the warehouse, your arms aching from holding your rifle at the ready, shoulders screaming from the weight of your pack. It’s worth it, though — each of your bags is practically filled to burst with medical supplies, food scraps, what have you.

And the best of all: booze.

Bill had nearly cried when you stumbled on the box, your head cocking to the side when you heard the rattle of glass. The fact that it wasn’t shattered was already surprising, but when you flipped open the cardboard to reveal three intact bottles of good old Jack Daniels, even Joel had mumbled out his surprise.

You find a quiet alley outside the warehouse, hang around long enough for your stomachs to stop eating themselves, and for Bill to swig back most of one of the bottles of whiskey.

“Nature’s Tylenol,” he claims, and you and Ellie let out quiet giggles. Joel cracks a smile.

“Where y’all headed?” you ask, after an awkward silence settles over the group of you and you find yourself desperate to break it.

“That’s the elusive question, isn’t it?” Bill comments, and Joel scoffs. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen any car batteries laying around, have ya?”

Your brow furrows, Ellie laughs, and Bill throws his hands up, muttering under his breath and grabbing his shotgun and heading back for the street. “We going?” Ellie asks Joel, and he nods. “You should come,” she says to you, her eyes bright, tone inviting. It’s sweet. “It’d be nice to have another girl around.”

You laugh, punching her arm lightly, playful. But then you look at Joel, and the feeling withers slightly. “That all right with you?”

“Where’re you headed?”

You shrug a shoulder. “Nowhere fast.”

He lifts his chin, looking down his nose at you. “Well, may as well stay together. For tonight at least.”

“Okay,” you agree, and that’s that.

There’s a lot of walking, quiet conversation passed between you, recounting where you’ve been, what your plan (or lack there of) is, people from your and Joel’s briefly shared past. Bill leads the group of you, bottle dangling from his hand most of the way, and Ellie is a few feet behind, Joel falling into step beside you.

“Been a long time since I saw you,” he says gruffly. Your hands brush as you walk, and Joel flinches, making the space between you a little winder. “Since—”

“Jason,” you finish, stuffing your hands in your pockets. “I never thanked you properly.”

“Ah,” he waves you off. “You don’t have to thank me for anythin’, girlie.”

Girlie. It makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Even back in Boston, when things were…rough, whenever you’d run into Joel, or Tess would bring you around for a job or something, it was always the same. Those dark eyes, occasionally crinkled at the corners, always giving you a once over. You knew what it was, in reality — he was checking you for bites, anything out of the ordinary, any trace of blood, and, once he knew what Jason really was, bruises. How you doin’, girlie? You eaten today, girlie? You feelin’ okay, girlie?

And after, when he and Tess had burst into your apartment back in Boston, seeing you beaten and bloody in the corner, Jason with reddened fists raised, a feral look in his eye. Not infected, just…awful.

Tess had yanked you to your feet and Joel had stood in front of the pair of you, blocking Jason’s path to you. “Back off.” It wasn’t a request. An order, delivered with a voice like hard steel and a raised gun levelled between Jason’s eyes.

It was a marriage of convenience, in every sense. And not a real marriage, not by a long shot. You’d met Jason somewhere between your hometown in Colorado and the camp in Boston, and it became a matter of survival. You kept his bed warm at night, and in return, he kept you protected, kept you alive. It wasn’t love, not really. Jason had his moments, but the bad started to outweigh the good. And the bruises came later.

Then they became too much.

You hung outside until the curfew reminders sounded, if you could manage it. Bouncing from friend to friend, trying to find odd jobs, asking Tess to find you something to do. You only went home when you got desperate, and more often than not, Jason was up waiting, ready to hurl insults and accusations the second you were through the door. His latest was that you were sleeping with other people, throwing yourself at anyone in camp who so much as glanced at you.

“I bet she’s fucking you too, isn’t she, Miller?” he half-screamed at Joel, waving his hands like a crazy person. Tess tucked you under her arm and you tried to wipe the blood from your face. “Fucking whore!”

He lunged for you and Joel laid him out flat, a gunshot echoing through the apartment. Through and through to his shoulder, the bullet leaving a hole in the wall, casing clattering to the floor. “I said, back off.”

Jason didn’t listen, blind with rage, pulling a switchblade from his pocket and trying to run at you again, ducking in an attempt to move around Joel, but it only made things worse.

The second shot would have gone through his shoulder again, another warning. He would have lived. But ducking put him level with the gun, and instead, it went through his forehead. Blood sprayed, you screamed and Tess shielded you, and his body hit the floor.

Joel put his gun away, gently took you from Tess. “Pack her things,” he said to her, his hands warm around your biceps as he held you up. “I’ll deal with this.”

Tess nodded, disappearing towards your bedroom, and your eyes were stuck on the body on the floor. “He’s gone.”

“He is,” Joel agreed, producing a bit of gauze from his pocket, dabbing at your split lip. “It’s okay, girlie. You’re safe now.”

You’d crumbled into him. Tess let you stay in her apartment a few days, but by the end of the week, you were gone.

“Where did you go?” Joel asks, the question yanking you out of your memories. “After.”

“Salem, for a while,” you answer, staring down at your boots. “Providence for a bit after that, then the plan was Washington, but here I am instead.”

“By yourself?”

You just nod.

He whistles. “I taught you well.”

He had. In the days after Jason and before your departure, most of your time had been spent with Joel. He taught you how to shoot every gun they could get their hands on, setting up target practice with tin cans behind one of the apartment blocks. Bow and arrow too, hand-to-hand combat, knives. You name it, if Joel knew how to use it, he was showing you how to do it too.

And his cardinal rule: never let go of your weapon, not if you can help it.

You nod again, lifting your elbow so it nudges him in the side. He’s gotten a little closer to you. “You did. I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you, Joel.”

You swear he blushes.

Another couple hours of travel, and you find a farmhouse, mostly intact. A few smashed windows, sure, but it’s secure enough, far enough from the main roads that you’re not worried about stragglers. Bill and Joel clear the house out first, you and Ellie keeping watch by the road.

“Did you and Joel used to date?” she asks, blunt as anything, while you’re sharing a bottle of water, which you nearly spit out.

“W-what?” You wipe your face, feeling your cheeks heat. “What makes you say that?”

“He looks at you,” she says, shrugging a shoulder, “when you’re not looking at him. Like he thinks you’re gonna disappear or something.”

You choke on a laugh, waving her off. “You’re imagining things, kid.”

“Am not!”

The men emerge from the house then, waving you both in. They’ve set up a barricade of sorts in the living room, a few lanterns lit either side of the pile of blankets stacked on the floor. It’s not a real mattress by any stretch, but it’ll do.

“Gonna go build a fire out back,” Joel announces as you all get comfortable, a slim sense of safety settling over you. “I’ll take first watch.”

He disappears out the sliding door, and you watch until he disappears into the dark. A few minutes later, there’s a spark of light, then another and another, until the orange glow of a fire seeps back towards the house.

Ellie settles down completely, reading a few pages of her comic book before she’s passed out completely. You fold her comic up carefully, pulling one of the blankets over her. You try and get some sleep, tossing and turning for a few hours, but it’s no use. Your eyes keep moving to the sliding door, to the outline of Joel sitting at the fire. Finally, you give up, and get up. Bill is sprawled on the couch, his bottle of Jack cradled against him. You just laugh, pulling your own bottle from your bag and heading outside.

Joel’s fire is impressive, licking up towards the sky, embers crackling into the night as you approach. There’s a fallen log stretched across the ground, Joel sat in the centre of it, staring into the flames. Your foot snaps a twig as you get closer and he’s on his feet immediately, reaching for his gun. But he stops when he sees it’s you, and grunts.

“Sorry,” you say, lifting your hands. “Should have announced myself.”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ should have,” he agrees angrily, sinking back onto the log.

“Easy,” you lift the bottle of whiskey. “I come bearing gifts.”

His brow hardens at you. “Fine.”

You take a seat beside him and crack open the bottle. It’s a familiar burn on the way down, a strangely memorable taste that makes you feel like a teenager again, stealing liquor from your parents’ cabinet and sneaking off to parties. It feels like a million years ago.

It’s quiet, at first, the pair of you just passing the bottle back and forth, back and forth. The fire dies slightly at some point, and Joel tosses a capful towards the logs, making you jump when the flames jump high for a split second. “They teach you that in boy scouts?” you ask.

He barks a laugh. That angry tone still sits in his voice, but you can tell it’s starting to break. “I was not a fuckin’ boy scout.”

“I find that very hard to believe, Joel Miller.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Oh, that’s mature.”

A long silence. You swig from the bottle and hand it to him. You’re pressed close to him on the log, trying to steal some of his warmth, your bodies touching from shoulder to hip.

Whiskey gives you a loose tongue. “What do you miss the most?”

He doesn’t answer, his brow turning to hard line on his forehead. He swigs from the bottle again. “That’s a loaded question as any, girlie.”

“I miss getting mail,” you roll over his comment. “Hell, I even miss bills. Oh, and fuzzy slippers. I used to have some that looked like turtles, it was so funny. Don’t get comfortable enough anywhere to even think about taking my shoes off, let alone wearing slippers.”

He laughs again, and the anger is gone. Success. “Turtles, huh?”

“Turtles,” you agree, grinning. “C’mon, tell me, Joel. What do you miss most? From the old days. From the normal days.”

He thinks about it. You can see it on his face, the way his brow pinches, eyes bright with something besides the firelight. The bottle dangles from his fingers; it’s nearly empty. “We need a lot more than one bottle of Jack for me to answer that.”

You roll your eyes. “Come on, I told you mine.”

“I’m not talkin’ about slippers and snail mail, girl. A lot of shit has happened since I last saw you, and even before that, you don’t know my whole story, all right? So don’t fuckin’ pry.”

“Damn,” you breathe out, stunned silence settling over you. He drinks the last of the bottle, and it’s a few minutes before you speak again, the crackling of the fire filling the quiet between you. “I know you’ve been through a lot, Joel. We’ve all been through a fucking lot, okay? So fucking forgive me for wanting to make sure you’re okay.” Sighing, you get to your feet, moving to walk around the fire. 

“Listen,” he says, catching your arm as he gets up, moving closer to you as while you’re stepping away from him. “I don’t need you worryin’ about me or checkin’ up on me or anything like that, you hear? That’s not your—”

“Burden to bear?” you finish, quirking a brow, and Joel just stares at you, dark eyes widening like he’s shocked by your answer. “I know I don’t have to, Joel. That’s not why I do it.”

“You’re not listen—”

You grab him by the front of his shirt, fingers curling into worn flannel, dragging him close until you’re nearly chest to chest. There’s a pause, a complete stillness that washes over both of you for a second, his lips parted and yours following suit. Then it’s the scrape of his beard against your skin, biting at your cheeks and chin. He tastes like whiskey, something harsh that slides down your throat, something harsher that you know is just the taste of Joel.

There’s nothing soft about it. Hesitant, sure, but there’s no gentleness, nothing romantic about the way he kisses. It’s intense, his mouth devouring your own, drinking you down in every sense. His tongue dives past your teeth, curling along the roof of your mouth, and you can’t help but gasp back into him, toes curling in your boots as you lean up, desperate to get closer to him, to have him nearer, to feel his warmth as surely as you feel your own.

The fire crackles behind you, the whiskey bottle empty and discarded beside the log you’d been occupying. He finally moves, one hand finding your hip beneath your sweater, the other reaching back and curling in your ponytail, wrapping the length of it around his wrist. He tugs lightly, prickles of tension shooting along your scalp, and you let your own hands dip, sliding right up the hem of his flannel until your palms are splayed on bare skin. You can feel the heave of his breaths against your hands, the racket of his heart against his ribs.

Behind you, someone clears their throat, and you both snap apart like a sprung trap, Joel instantly turning away towards the fire, hands on his hips, while you stumble back a step, covering your mouth with one hand, trying to quell your rapid breaths and aching core.

“Just comin’ to take my watch,” Bill says, eyeing you both. His own bottle of whiskey is at his hip, shotgun cocked over his shoulder, a large machete hanging from his belt. “You two go get some shut-eye.” He brushes past Joel, clapping him on the shoulder as he goes. “Or somethin’.”

You both stand there a moment, shell-shocked, as Bill takes his seat at the fire. In the direction he came, the house glows from the inside, the camping lanterns still lit in the living room. Ellie’s asleep there, you know, and as Joel takes a step, intent on brushing past you, his cheeks bright red even in the darkness, you catch his arm.

“Meet me in the bathroom,” you say. It’s bold, and he freezes, staring down at your hand on his arm for a long moment before his eyes flick up to your face.

“I’m not what you need.” The words are gruff, his brow going hard again, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes.

“Cut the shit,” you say, shaking your head. “Now you’re the one not listening.”

Before he can get another word out, you turn on your heel and stomp back to the house. You don’t look back, don’t check to see if he’s following you or not. The sliding door squeaks as you slip inside, and sure enough, you catch sight of Ellie, still asleep, her eyes fluttering with dreams. You don’t want to disturb her.

You almost leave your gun on the kitchen counter as you make your way to the bathroom, but then Joel’s voice echoes in your mind. Never let go of your weapon, not if you can help it. So you don’t, leaving it tucked in your waistband until you’re in the bathroom, letting the door click quietly shut behind you.

It’s dark, save for a sliver of moonlight coming in through the mostly-shattered window. You take stock, ignoring the cracked floor and broken toilet. It’s surprisingly clean, given the state of things, Under the expected later of dust and grime, there’s nothing too unseemly. There’s an empty toilet paper roll still on the holder, a home improvement magazine on the back of the toilet. You turn, pushing a hand through your hair, pulling it loose of the ponytail, and inspect the sink.

The faucet is broken, handles missing and the spout off-kilter. The mirror above is broken, spidering out from a single contact point, like someone punched the glass. Your own reflection still peers back at you, fractured and disfigured. Something about it makes your chest hurt, and you rub a hand across your collarbone.

Just when you’re about to give up, convinced that he’s not coming, the door creaks open. Just a crack, just enough for you to see half his face in the opening it leaves. His gaze is still dark, but his brow is less furrowed, and he’s chewing at the inside of his lip.

Silently, he steps inside, pulls the door shut behind him. You’re leaning against the counter, your hands hooked over the particleboard. He stands in front of you, about a foot of space between you, and stares at your feet.

“It’s not that I don’t want this,” he says, his voice so low and gravelly you almost have to strain your ears to hear. “It’s not that I don’t want you. Fuck, I’ve wanted you since I laid eyes on you, back in Boston, when that fuck-head was still around. Wanted you back then, want you now, it hasn’t changed.” He inches forward, closing the distance slightly. “But this?” He gestures towards the door — towards Ellie, Bill, the fire outside, the world. “This is much bigger than us. And I can’t—”

“I’m not another thing for you to take care of, Joel,” you murmur, and reach back, pulling your gun out of your waistband, setting it on the counter. “I can handle myself. You taught me how.” His throat bobs. “And you’re right; it’s all so much bigger than us. I’m not an idiot, I’m not gonna stand in your way or make myself a liability. I know the drill. But it doesn’t matter right now.”

You reach up then, pinching the zipper of your sweater, meeting his eyes as you drag it down, ever so slow. His gaze drops from yours only to watch the path, watch the way it falls open once the zipper is undone, revealing your chest and stomach, the black line of your bra, the few scars you’ve gathered over the years.

“This—”

“Stop thinking, Joel,” you tell him, and reach for his hand, pulling it towards you, letting his calloused palm cup the curve of your breast. “Just for tonight.”

“Fuck it,” he grumbles, and then he’s on you. You thought the kiss at the fire was rough, but this is something else entirely. He’s…touch-starved, you realize, with the way he gropes at you, tipping his face into yours while his hands roam every inch of bare skin they can reach. He sighs into your mouth when you let your sweater drop further, the material sliding off your shoulders and down your arms, pooling at your wrists. How long as it been, you wonder distantly, since he touched someone else? Since someone else touched him?

Discarding your sweater, you reach up, working the buttons on his flannel, one by one until his chest is visible, scarred and golden, a light dusting of hair between his pecs. You drag your hand down it, right from the hollow of his throat, riding the soft curve of his stomach until you can hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans, tugging him closer to you.

Joel looks down as you reach for his belt, unbuckling it quickly, the clinking sound of metal reaching your ears. He’s nearly panting, one hand curled around the side of your neck, the other braced on the wall beside you. You push your face into his neck, pressing your mouth to his jaw as you work his zipper, sticking your hand right down his pants, under the elastic of his boxers.

He’s big. Big and thick and hard as a fucking rock, hips bucking harshly into your hand the moment you close your fingers around him. “So fuckin’ soft,” he breathes out, and you stroke him once, curving your palm over the tip of his cock, the precum that’s gathered there easing your way as you move back down to his base. “Fuckin’ hell, girlie.”

You have the sense to check the ground before you sink to your knees, making sure there’s no shards of glass or anything sharp before you get down, cushioning yourself on his boots. His hands move, both diving into your hair, curling strands around his knuckles, tugging like he had at the fire. It sets your whole body aflame, and you don’t waste any time, pulling his boxers down and taking him into your mouth, swallowing his cock all the way down, groaning as you do it. The tip of him hits the back of your throat and he bucks forward, thrusting into your mouth. It makes your throat jump, but you bite back the gag, digging your nails into the meat of his ass as you pull back, bobbing your head, curling your tongue around him.

He’s watching you; you can feel it. You tip your head back slightly, cock still pressed between your lips, pulling off of him completely with a quiet pop, letting the tip rest against your lips. He just stares down at you, gaze hard as he is, brows pinched as he watches. Slowly, you open your mouth, the head of his cock brushing past your top lip, giving him just the slightest bit of teeth as you take him again. It makes him groan, the sound rumbling through his whole body, one hand smacking against the wall.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he spits out, and before you can move any further, he’s pushing you back, grabbing your bicep and yanking you back up. “Not gonna last if you keep that shit up.”

He kisses you again, possessive and intense, pouring himself into you as he bites at your lip, rides the line of your jaw, closes his mouth around your pulse and sucks a bruise. A reminder, you think; tomorrow, once this is all over, it’ll just be a memory, and the mark on your skin will be all that remains.

Your leggings are shoved down, the seams groaning in protest, and his hand dives into your underwear,  rubbing along your folds, moaning into your mouth when he finds how wet you are. “Gonna be the fuckin’ death of me,” he grumbles into you, and you can’t help but grin, curling your arm around his shoulders as he crowds you backwards against the counter again. “Pretty little thing.”

Before you can even blink, he’s crouching, tearing your boots off your feet and yanking your pants further down. He shrugs off his flannel then, letting it join the growing pile of clothing on the ground. As he makes his way back up to stand, he pauses, curls his hand around your calf, just below your knee. Everything in you goes tight as a fucking bowstring as he leans in, presses an open-mouthed kiss to the hinge of your leg, letting his lips linger before he’s moving back up, capturing your mouth again, the hand not on your leg diving into your hair, keeping your face against his.

He steps between the bracket of your legs, his hips finding a home against yours. You can feel him, hot and heavy and making you ache, the length of him pressed to your dripping cunt. It’s too much, it’s not enough, you might explode if you don’t feel him now.

You whine into his mouth, and Joel pulls back, the corner of his mouth ticking in a grin. “Somethin’ you need, girlie?”

You just whine again, pushing your hips against him, trying to chase the feeling that’s building, desperate for any kind of friction you can get. “Joel, please.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” he mutters.

Then he’s inside you.

And it’s fucking earth-shattering.

You can feel every inch of his cock, every ridge and vein as he pushes inside you. He keeps a tight grip on your hair, panting into your mouth as he sinks to the hilt. He’s cursing under his breath the whole way, eyes flicking from yours down to where your bodies are joined and back up again.

“Wanted you for so fuckin’ long,” he breathes out, starting to roll his hips, giving you slow thrusts that only make the ache in you bubble further. Your own hands find his ribs, nails scratching over bare skin and scars. He feels so good. “So fuckin’ long, girlie. You don’t even know. You don’t even—”

His next thrust is harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the small space, and you both freeze. There’s no such thing as privacy out here anymore, and you don’t want to wake Ellie. But Joel keeps talking, babbling almost, the words grunted.

You bite your lip, and clamp one hand over his mouth.

His eyes flare for a moment, but you’re careful to leave his nose unblocked, his hot breath pouring over your knuckles. He’s still talking, but the words are muffled now, caught against your palm. His teeth nip, but you don’t care. The pace slows slightly, his grip on your hip tighter as he drives his cock into you. Your eyes want to roll back, but you do your best to keep them trained on Joel’s face.

You just wanna see him fall apart.

It doesn’t take long, his orgasm rumbling through his body. He pulls out of you at the last second, thrusts his cock into the spot where your thigh meets your hip, paints your body with his pleasure. Something feral in you wishes he’d cum inside, had covered your insides with him, but you know that’s not practical. It’s not smart.

Once his breathing has returned to normal, you let go, your hand dropping from his mouth, fingers glancing over his lip before it drops back to his side. Before you can make a move, he shoves two fingers deep in your cunt, curling them against something that makes your eyes roll back and you collapse against him, your pleasure cresting high, something akin to relief flooding through you.

“Didn’t think I was gonna leave you hangin’, did ya?” he growls in your ear. A high-pitched moan falls out of you, and Joel rips your head back, covering your mouth with his so he can swallow down your noises. “Good girl,” he says into you as the pleasure rips through you, your limbs electric and static and your whole body going weightless. “Good fuckin’ girl.”

Both back down on solid ground, something has changed. You know it. You can see it. His gaze isn’t as hard as he finds something to clean his cum from your leg. He kisses you as he helps your sweater back up your arms, pinches the zipper and drags it up, leans in to peck your collarbone before it’s covered by the fabric. You help each other get dressed, dipping a hand down the back of his boxers to squeeze his ass before you yank on his belt buckle. And once you’re both fully clothed, Joel grabs your face, pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger, and kisses you slow.

Slow, slow, slow. The complete opposite of the kiss by the fire, of the second one that had sparked your wild fuck. It takes you aback, your body curving into his when his other palm settles in the small of your back and pushes you towards him.

Bill is still sitting watch by the fire when you emerge from the bathroom, and Ellie is still dead asleep, thankfully.

“We should actually get some shut-eye,” Joel mumbles, and you just nod, the weight of the day and the exertion catching up with you. “C’mon.”

You lay out on the blanket next to Ellie, putting yourself between her and Joel as he lies beside you. He fights with a blanket; you’re expecting him to drape it over you — and he does — but you’re not expecting him to slide close to you beneath it, fitting himself against your back.

“I’m gonna leave in the morning,” you whisper after a few minutes, and Joel goes stock-still behind you.

“What?”

“This was just for tonight,” you say, and slowly turn to face him. “You said so yourself.”

His arm is slung over your hips, and his fingers curl in the back of your sweater, like he’s trying to keep you in place. Something in his face flickers, and Ellie’s words from earlier echo in your mind. Like he thinks you’re gonna disappear or something. “I know what I said,” he murmurs, but says nothing further.

“Joel,” you whisper, stretching up until your lips just brush against his. His arm moves up, hand cups your cheek again. “Ask me to stay. Say it.”

“I can’t—” he starts, but cuts himself off, nose dragging along yours as he heaves a breath. “Stay, girlie. Please. Stay with me.”

You just nod.

—————

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[rabbiitte]

Character analysis #1

Between Control, Chaos and Evolution: Uncovering the Depths of Mew's Essence.

I am convinced that the fandom is now divided between:

Those who think that Mew is a manipulative villain and hate him for it.

Those who think that Mew is the cliché of the naive and inexperienced boy and hate him for it.

Those who recognize that Mew is a complex character (neither completely bad nor completely good) and appreciate him for it.

If EP4 has taught us anything, it's that Mew isn't as manipulative as everyone thought. And, in an effort to continue to hate on the character (maybe because Ray is in love with him and that intervenes in SandRay's relationship or because they hate the actor, not sure), people start labeling Mew as "naive", " cliché”, “flat” or “boring”. I've even seen people saying they don't like Mew because they know someone like him in real life and they don't like that person, but I've also seen people genuinely confused because they still can't understand Mew or his actions. In my opinion, there's nothing further from reality than saying that Mew is a "flat" or "boring" character. And, no, we don't just appreciate the fact that he's good at setting boundaries, he's also obsessed with the idea of control and he's full of contradictions (like all human beings). So, let's dive into Mew's mind by analysing his complexities, control quirks, emotional balancing acts and his relationship with other characters.

Let's start by addressing some of the topics that are usually associated with Mew. These topics are part of the general consensus about the character but no one has bothered to explain them from scratch.

1. Unraveling Mew: Control and a Glimpse into OCPD.

As many people noticed, the need for control is inherent in Mew's personality. One of the first pieces of information about Mew is that he's frequently "dragged" to the bar. Still, he's the one who decides when he and his friends leave. Therefore, we can conclude that Mew isn't "dragged" against his will but he himself is the one who allows this to happen. In the kitchen scene, Mew claims that he knew Top's true intentions and that's why he allowed him into his apartment. A few minutes later, he tells Top that he can't have sex with him.

The idea of control is not only associated with controlling situations (Mew allows himself to be dragged to the bar but he decides when to leave, he allows Top into his apartment but he decides when to stop him) but also to control himself. We can see Mew's self-control and determination in two situations: when he's the only one of his friends who doesn't drink alcohol at the bar and when he agrees to sleep with Top without having sex with him. The reasons are clear: Mew doesn't drink alcohol because he doesn't want to loose control. Mew doesn't have sex with Top (because he's demisexual and) because he thinks he needs to know more about the subject to feel ready. In order to change that, he goes to the library and buys a sex related book.

Mew doesn't do anything he doesn't want to and he doesn't participate in situations where he doesn't feel in control. For example, in Mew and Ray's call scene in EP1, when Ray starts questioning his friend about why he's with Top, Mew shows who's in control of the situation and (in a very obvious way) avoids answering his questions. Mew establishes the boundaries and, to make them clearer, he's the one who ends the call leaving Ray talking alone.

In close relationship with Ray, Mew's determination and need for control translate into responsibility for his friends and acquaintances, that's why he may be perceived as a “mother figure” so to speak. Mew is very good at fulfilling this role because it fits perfectly with his personality. He's loving, responsible and strict (the pics represent these characteristics in the same order). Therefore, it's no coincidence that Mew attracts people with mommy or daddy issues (like Top, Ray and maybe Boston).

Mew's need for control can easily pass for a high sense of responsibility but can also be caused by the presence of a personality disorder like the Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder (OCPD). What is the difference between Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD)? You can read more about OCPD and OCD here but, meanwhile, I will provide a brief definition and differentiation of the two disorders.

OCPD involves a generalised pattern of perfectionism, orderliness, and control in an individual's personality. People with OCPD tend to be extremely meticulous, focused on rules and details, and have an excessive need to control their environment. This disorder is more related to enduring personality traits and is considered ego-syntonic, which means that the person usually sees these traits as desirable and consistent with their identity.

OCD is characterized by the presence of obsessions (intrusive and distressing thoughts) and compulsions (repetitive behaviour performed to relieve anxiety associated with the obsessions). People with OCD recognize that their obsessions and compulsions are irrational, which makes them ego-dystonic, that is, contrary to their own will.

Some of the features that suggest Mew might have OCPD are:

Extreme need for perfection and control over his environment and interpersonal relationships: Mew keeps his environment tidy and clutter free. His house is always immaculate, with no objects out of place. At the same time, Mew shows a strong need to control in his relationships. He sets clear and rigid boundaries as to when and how to move forward in his relationships.

Obsessive fixation on rules, lists, and details that are minor: Mew has a list of the characteristics of his ideal boyfriend in which he sets rigid criteria. Mew's insistence that his boyfriend-to-be meet all the characteristics on his list could suggest a perfectionist tendency.

Intimacy avoidance and reduced emotional expression: Mew puts up emotional barriers in his relationships, such as when he tells Top he doesn't want to have sex with him to avoid getting too emotionally involved. He also sets boundaries with his friends, such as when he tells Ray that he won't always be there to save him in drunken situations. Mew tends to avoid showing his true emotions, especially in situations where he feels vulnerable. That's why he can give the impression of being detached or cold.

Difficulty empathizing with others and/or maintaining intimate relationships: Mew shows a lack of empathy with Ray when he makes him feel bad about having problems with alcohol, for example. The lack of empathy can impact directly in Mew's relationships.

Rigidity and inflexibility with regards to morals, ethics, values: Mew's perception is very inflexible. Either you're like Boston (promiscuous) or you're not. If you're not like Boston you don't have one-night stands. You “loose” your virginity only if there's penetration, the other doesn't count. Also, no sex until boyfriends.

Extreme dedication to work: since Mew doesn't have a job, this can be related to his academic life. Mew is a very dedicated and responsible student.

2. Balancing Acts: boundaries and manipulation.

Mew is, definitely, the one in control in his relationship with Top (although there's a constant dispute over who maintains control and the monopoly of power, generating a fluctuating power dynamic). This is much more obvious in Top and Mew's date after the public proposition, in which Mew tries to regain the control he lost (decision-making power) with his words and with his body language. Note how Mew was cornered by Top at first but everything he said pushed Top away. At some point, they were at the same distance but Mew didn't stop until he cornered Top physically and verbally. Power dynamics generate a constant fight and, in this case, it can also be perceived as a physical fight to manage the spaces that corner the other person.

In the dance scene (EP1), Mew dances while looking straight ahead almost all the time, even though he sees Top next to him at one moment. He only faces Top when he takes his hand. And, in the cuddling scene (EP1), he turns to his side of the bed and expects Top to hug him first. Mew knows exactly what to do to obtain the expected and desired reaction, this satisfies his need for control and provides a sense of comfort and security.

Mew satisfies his need for control through two mechanisms: Establishing barriers and influencing people (which is nothing more than a form of emotional manipulation, but we'll talk about that in a moment).

Communicating boundaries with clarity and conviction is a healthy practice which can help someone feel more comfortable and avoid anxiety. It makes people feel in control because it guarantees that there won't be any threatening stimuli in the environment. Mew sets boundaries all the time. For example, when he tells Ray that he won't help him every time he's drunk, when he tells Ray that if he wants to remain his friend he shouldn't kiss him or think about him romantically anymore or when he tells Top that he doesn't feel comfortable having sex with him.

To subtly influence people to act the way you want or AKA emotional manipulation, it's the unhealthy way to have control. It decreases anxiety because it helps to avoid threatening stimuli from the environment but, needless to say, it's unethical. The best example of this is the scene where Mew and Top discuss drug use. A healthy way to stay in control would be something like this: "Top, I'm not comfortable with you using drugs. Let's end our relationship, at least until you quit drugs because of your own decision”. But this is not what happened. The unhealthy way to maintain control is what actually happened: "Top, I don't like you doing drugs. My future boyfriend shouldn't be an addict. However, it's your life and do whatever you want”. See the difference? Not yet? In Top and Mew's date (EP2) something similar happened but without manipulation. Mew told Top that he wasn't his ideal type, Top asked him what the characteristics of his ideal type were but Mew didn't answer. This is because he knew it could influence Top to act differently, to act the way he wanted to.

There's a fine line between open communication and emotional manipulation and it's a matter of perception to choose which of these two situations is actually occurring in this scene. I think it'll also depend on whether you think Mew has an ulterior motive to convince Top or if he's selfless. If you're guided by the idea that Mew only wants the perfect boyfriend and not Top, you probably think he manipulated him because of his desire of perfection. If you're guided by the idea that Mew appreciates Top and cares about his safety, you probably think he didn't manipulate him. But I think it's very obvious that Mew subtly influenced Top's decision and maybe it was intended.

Because of the recent discussions about "Mew is so naïve if he thinks Top is going to stop consuming in exchange for sex. Why did he came up with that idea? So disappointing”, I feel with the necessity to say that Mew never suggested the rewards. Top suggested the rewards in both cases (the cookie scene and the the drug use scene). Mew accepted but, even so, he established clear boundaries (also, because Mew dealt with Ray, he knows that an addict isn't easy to deal with and things aren't resolved so easily). Mew is still inflexible. Again, the need for control is inherent in Mew's personality.

I know this isn't about Top but let's address this topic quickly. Why does Top feel he's owed rewards when he does something right (keep in mind that Top would stop consuming as a favor to Mew, not for himself)? This emotional blackmail comes from a place of deep insecurity, as you can imagine. Top is constantly looking for proof that he's doing things well and that he's appreciated. Instead of communicating honestly and trusting that he's loved and valued, Top constantly seeks validation. It's like a way to win affection and avoid being abandoned in the short term (very influenced by his abandonment issues rooted in his trauma, if you ask me). Similar to animals or babies, after getting a reward, they will expect to get rewards every time they do something right as a sign of satisfaction from the owners or guardians.

3. The Paradox of Mew: Superiority, Insecurity, and Evolution.

“Superiority complex” is a psychological term that describes an exaggerated attitude or belief that one is superior or better than others in certain aspects, abilities, or characteristics. Often, it manifests itself through condescending, arrogant, or contemptuous attitudes toward others.

Some of the features that suggest Mew might have a superiority complex are:

Condescending attitude: The first time we see signs of a superiority complex on Mew's part is in EP1, when Mew tells Top that “he isn't like Boston". In the Mew language, not being like Boston means not being promiscuous and not having one-night stands. Mew's condescending attitude indicates that he believes himself superior to Boston because he's someone "pure" or someone with "values." Mew also shows traits of condescence when dealing with Ray, this time believing himself superior due to his ability to self-control (something Ray doesn't possess).

Lack of empathy: related to the previous point. We already talked about this in section number one.

Constant comparison: With the purpose of emphasizing one's own superiority. Mew compares himself to Boston and also compares himself to Top's exes (beginning of EP2), as he thinks that he's the one that will break the three-month rule.

Self-image defense: Mew vigorously protect his self-image from any perceived threat. There are several examples of this. For example, (in EP1) when Cheum says that Mew finally got a boyfriend, Mew corrects her by telling her that it's not true and that he didn't even have sex with Top (this is a threat to his self-image of purity). In EP3 Mew, again, stresses that he isn't Top's boyfriend after the public statement (it would be against Mew's values to date someone who didn't give him the option to refuse, this is a threat to his self-image of control).

According to the doctor and psychotherapist Alfred Adler in his theories about psychological complexes, the superiority complex is “an unconscious neurological mechanism, in which the individual tries to compensate for his feelings of inferiority, highlighting those qualities in which he excels". This is consistent with the new facet we started to see from Mew in EP4. Mew starts to ask some questions that should be asked at the beginning of a relationship and not three months later. At the same time, he begins to feel insecure and threatened by Beam.

Mew starts to show his vulnerability and insecurities. Insecurities caused by what once gave him an exaggerated sense of superiority: his “naivety”/“purity” and lack of experience. The bookstore scene (EP1) is also an example of this, as Mew actively seeks to change that "naivety" or "lack of experience (what made him proud and “increased his value") through reading and learning. However, Mew was always inexperienced compared to Top, why does he feel insecure after three months of relationship? Simply because Mew is starting to be emotionally invested in his relationship with Top. Remember, Mew already warned us about how he lost self-control once he fell in love (EP1).

Instead of the superiority complex disappearing, it may become more complex and ambiguous. Mew might be struggling internally with his insecurities and his desire to maintain his image of superiority, while also feeling more vulnerable and anxious because he's falling in love. This could manifest itself in contradictory behaviours and an evolving perception of self while trying to maintain control.

I suppose my position regarding Mew has been clear, but yes, I think he's an extremely interesting and complex character. I could go on for hours talking about him and analysing every detail of his personality. This was supposed to be an analysis of EP4 but I didn't want to take a lot of things for granted. Tell me if you want me to talk about any other specific topic!

#only friends the series #only friends series #only friends #ofts #thai bl #khaotung #book #force #first #neo #mark #ray #mew #sand #top #boston #ton #nick #gmmtv #only friend series #khaofirst #forcebook #neomark #sandray #topmew #bostonnick #bostonick #thai drama #ofts meta #only friends meta

[tomatoland]

In another story, I could see Mew being a support character. The character that the show would establish as the perfect boyfriend/friend, put on a pedestal and then never give much characterization. You would only see him through the lens of other characters he interacts with: Top's sweet perfect boyfriend that is a foil to Boston, Boston's frenemy or Ray's close friend and secret crush. So the fact that Mew is such a central part of the story is very telling and is a deliberate story-telling choice.

From the first series introduction, Mew is always pictured in the center, with all the other cast members around him.

At the start of the story, Mew is like the eye of the storm. I'm not saying that it's Mew's world and they're all just living in it, because that's NOT what the eye is. The eye is the center because as the storm starts to pick up speed, a vortex of rain and wind appears and right in the center is the eye.

The eye is not where it is most chaotic and turbulent, it's actually the calmest part of the storm. The sun shines, the skies clear and winds are calm in the eye.

I think is a pretty good metaphor for the shelter/bubble Mew was in before the story starts as the Table Keeper. The rest of the friend group and their chaotic and loud personalities circle out from him, doing what they want and he stays literally, in the center of the bar at their table.

Then Top enters Mew's life and he starts to interact with this force 😉 outside of his bubble.

And we watch him slowly be impacted by the rest of the storm aka other characters' actions, but he's not aware yet. Because although the eye might appear to be safe and calm, it's a false sense of safety because just beyond what you can see, there is an invisible barrier of chaos.

As Top & Boston's actions gain speed, they will exert more force on him, pulling him further and further out of the safe zone of the eye and eventually the storm will collide right into Mew.

It really seems like the story is going to show us the loss of Mew's innocence. The show has mentioned multiple times that Mew is a virgin. Virginity is often associated with "innocence," which is a crock, but I digress. The end of innocence also happens when we grow up and transition from child to adult. When we leave the safety of the world we know, safety being the operative word, and are exposed to other worldviews different from our own.

Of all the characters, Mew is the most innocent in terms of life experiences. I know there's some debate on where he's been in the bubble by his own choice or not, but it doesn't change the fact that Mew has been in the center, the seemingly safe eye of the storm and now is going out into the world.

As of right now, three of the characters are on action paths that will collide into Mew.

Top is Mew's first boyfriend and from the trailer, we can presume that Mew does lose his virginity to Top & falls in love with him only to find out Top has been keeping secrets from him.

Mew thinks Boston is his close friend, someone he trusts and is in his nuclear friend circle, but is in for a rude awakening when he finds out that Boston in actuality is his frenemy and not only going after Top, but sabotaging Mew's own relationship with Top by talking in his ear and manipulating Ray as well.

And at some point from the trailer, we know that Ray is also going to hit rock bottom and Mew is going to be there for him. Ray is extremely distraught in that scene, those are soul sobs.

Not to out my own life experiences, but I've only ever seen people cry like that when they're in withdrawal, there's been a death, or they’re facing jailtime. Yes, it definitely could be heartbreak, but it would have to tremendous like the disillusionment of your whole life kind of thing.

All of these are significant life-altering events and mature situations that Mew will face and have to navigate through.

And they are all in the storm brewing and waiting to collide into Mew.

#only friends the series #only friends series #only friends mew #topmew #ofts analysis

[dcbbw]

The Odd Couples

Hi, tumblrs! I’m back with yet another AU of one of my favorite AUs: it’s the DC gang, paired differently.  

(I know I haven’t written anything DC AU-related in a long ass five minutes, and I swear Chapter 6 of the original series is practically ready to post, just needs a deep-dive edit)  

So, this story is the product of two separate ideas: First, what if I hadn’t followed canon/fanon/personal head canons when pairing the couples up/off?  And the second idea comes from the What If episode of Friends where that gang ends up with someone different (Phoebe x Ross, Monica x Joey, Rachel x Chandler).  

Side note: Using throwback DC crew (Liam, Riley, Max, Leo, Liv, Drake, Madeleine, and Penelope). Also, check out the link to Leo’s shirt (if you make it that far). It’s the Leo-est shirt ever IMHO) 

Side Note 2: Mixing the pairings up means I have/will be writing pairings that others write/have written and are generally associated with said writer(s). While I am fully aware that no one owns ships, I realize this is a fandom and strive to be mindful of those who write rareships and respect their pairings.  

This is simply my take on my version of these characters when coupled differently in my world. 

To those who read over this story in parcels, pieces, and in whole ...THANK YOU!  

For those who do read this fic, THANK YOU! Your likes, comments, and/or reblogs are appreciated more than you realize. 

 Please excuse any and all typos, missing/extraneous words, and/or grammatical errors. Microsoft Editor rates this piece as 99% error free.  

I’ll be back sooner rather than later with a submission for Hana Lee Appreciation Week, an angsty Driam/Riley love triangle, and some Stormholt.  

Song Inspo: Moments We Live For (Acoustic Version), In Paradise 

Word Count:  4,099

Pairings: SGL x Olivia; Drake x Madeleine; Leo x Riley B; Max x Penelope 

Rating: M for Mature themes 

SGL x Liv 

Liam Rys tipsily followed Olivia Nervakis into the hotel room, hip-checking the door to shut it while Olivia occasionally paused her steps to turn on table lamps. Her black stiletto heels made no noise against the carpet; however, the swish of her highly starched black and white polka-dotted dress sounded scratchy in the silent room.  

“Do you have to turn on every light?” Liam complained as he fastened the deadbolt. 

“It’s not every light, and not our electric bill,” his girlfriend responded tartly as she flipped yet another switch.  

The couple was in Baltimore for the weekend, attending a costume party thrown by Liv’s employer. There had been a buffet; an open bar; and a prize for the best costume, which Liam and Olivia did not win. Carlos Santiago, a member of the Environmental Services team, and his wife and three children came costumed as The Birds and The Bees and won the prize.  

Liam and Liv were The Ricardos: Olivia’s red hair was done up in Lucy’s signature poodle hairstyle, and her dress was a dead ringer for the world’s most famous housewife’s iconic frock. He had wanted to wear a tuxedo and carry a conga drum but settled for Ricky’s purple, polka dot silk smoking jacket with shawl collar, black pants, and black velvet slippers.  

“I can’t believe we didn’t win!” Liam muttered beneath his breath as he came behind Olivia, arms encircling her waist; his palms splayed against her flat, toned stomach. She responded by leaning against him, her back pressed against his chest.  

“Don’t hate!” she admonished. “With those Korean features and Boston accent, no way were you a convincing Cuban band leader. Besides, you have to admit Carlos had a pretty creative idea.” 

“Not more creative than my SOCK GAME! I mean, Liv … you gotta admit, it’s damn good tonight!” 

He was wearing black, knee-length socks with red hearts inscribed with “I Love Lucy” scattered all over. Olivia rolled her eyes in exasperation at the mention of his sock game. 

This man and his socks! Liam thought his sock game could cure cancer and bring about world peace. 

 “You’re sock game is great as it always is, darling. But it was a costume contest,” Olivia placated in a soothing tone as his fingers began removing bobby pins from her hair.  

She spun around, facing her boyfriend as her hair fell in soft curls that framed her face. Her green eyes twinkled as she pressed a quick kiss against his lips.  

“You big, spoiled baby,” she teased. “Wanna smoke, take the edge off? I brought a couple of blunts along.” 

He quickly shook his head. “No way am I going to be in BALTIMORE off some loud.” 

Olivia grabbed the lapels of Liam’s smoking jacket, pulling him closer to her. The tip of her tongue swiped his lower lip. “Makes sense,” she agreed. 

Liam pressed his palms against her ass cheeks; he sang softly in her ear as he swayed his hips against hers.  

And life is heaven, you see  'Cause I love Lucy, yes  I love Lucy  And Lucy  Loves me! 

“My name’s Liv”, Olivia corrected with a giggle as she gently wriggled out of Liam’s embrace. “C’mon, let’s get ready for bed,” she urged as she headed for the bathroom.  

Liam stuck out his tongue at her retreating back before glancing around the room. It was a typical hotel room, nothing really standing out or making it different from any other room. 

The door that led to the balcony was all glass with a brass doorknob; the hotel promised a 360◦ view of the city’s famed Harbor from the patio. The couple planned to have breakfast there in the morning. 

There was a workstation; a large, wall-mounted television; coffee maker and microwave; and the bed: queen-sized, four-poster, and centered against the back wall.  

His eyes widened when he saw the wall to the side of the bed. It was covered floor to ceiling, and side to side with a … mirror.  

Well, that was different.  

Liam approached the bed, kicking off his slippers as he went; he stared curiously at his reflection before climbing atop the bed and resting on his haunches. He then lay on his back, turning his head to continue staring at his reflection.  

He impatiently pushed his hair off his forehead before rolling over onto his stomach; pressing his palms against the bedcovers, Liam pushed himself up with his arms, still watching himself. He imagined Liv beneath him, her pale legs scissored across his back as they watched themselves. 

This could be fun.  

“LIVVY!” he yelled excitedly over the sound of water running in the sink. “There’s a MIRROR! On the WALL! By the BED!” 

The water turned off; Olivia sauntered into the room; her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, damp ends of her hair curling, and wearing a red lace bra with matching panties. A sultry smirk curved her lips.  

 Liam caught sight of her in the mirror’s reflection, and visibly gulped. Liv only wore matching underwear when they were going to have sex.  

“Ai yi yi yi”, he muttered as he bounded off the bed and hastily divested himself of the smoking jacket.  

Olivia was now standing directly in front of Liam; after guiding him to the other side of the bed, directly against the wall so he could see them both in the mirror, her red-tipped fingernails trailed a path from his throat to his belt buckle before unfastening the belt. She slid to her knees, pulling the pants zipper down with her teeth. Her eyes looked up at Liam.  

“Care to hear me do some ‘splaining?” she purred as her hand reached inside the opening and pulled his cock out.  

Liam never answered; he was too busy staring at Liv’s reflection as her mouth swallowed his manhood. 

Drake x Madeleine 

“Open your mouth, and stick out your tongue,” Madeleine demanded.  

Drake’s chocolate brown eyes stared up at her before raking over her body, his gaze settling on her chest. “Take off your shirt,” he countered.  

Madeleine exhaled a frustrated sigh that fluttered her bangs as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Damnit, Drake! You’re sick, and I need to take your temperature to make sure the meds are working.” 

Quickly covering his mouth, Drake Walker let out a series of deep, wet coughs that rattled the congestion in his chest.  

“They aren't”, he rasped as he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Tits would help. For sure.” 

With a horrified look, Madeleine hastily grabbed and thrusted a bottle of hand sanitizer in his face. “WIPE!” 

Rolling his eyes, Drake took the bottle; he then complied with his girlfriend’s first request. He slathered the disinfectant over his hands while Madeleine inserted a thermometer under his tongue.  

His temperature was 102◦; two degrees lower than it had been three hours ago. Uneasy relief washed over Madeleine’s features.  

“You should take the meds on a full stomach. You hungry?” 

Drake turned onto his side, adjusting the pillows beneath his head as he did so. “Not really, but we both know you’re gonna harp on it until I give in. I think I have some canned soup in one of the kitchen cabinets.” 

Madeleine nodded absently as she stepped into the bathroom to run the instrument under hot water in an attempt to kill the cooties her boyfriend more than likely transferred onto it. She heard Drake’s question when she turned the water off. 

“When are you giving up that broom closet you’re living in to move in with me?” 

“Don’t start,” Madeleine warned with a shake of her head as she re-entered the bedroom.  

“Start what? You’re paying $1300 a month to RENT A ROOM! You could move in here with me and pay HALF that and it would be a whole ass apartment! You could start saving, pay down that credit card debt of yours …” 

“I prefer to have my own, Drake!” 

Madeleine’s boyfriend rolled his eyes. “You HAVE your own RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW!  Clothes! Shoes! Makeup! Oat milk! And if we’re talking preferences, I prefer to wake up with you in my bed every morning. I prefer to glare and glower at you from across the room when we argue instead of sitting on the phone in awkward silence. I prefer to not have to wait for make-up sex!” 

Madeleine shifted uncomfortably, scuffing the toe of her sneaker against the carpet. Her green eyes peeked up to sneak a glance at Drake, whose bleary eyes stared at her with a mixture of frustration and hopefulness. His fingers idly played in his chest hair. 

“Why won’t you just accept this greatness?” he huffed accusingly.  

Madeleine rolled her eyes in a here we go again way. 

She and Drake were in love with each other. They were the odd couple of the group: The WASP and the Blue-Collar Worker, but they fit each other like a glove. Most of the time.  

Cohabitation should have been the next logical step in their relationship. 

Madeleine found it nice to come to his U Street apartment after work and find him cooking them dinner while she mixed killer cocktails to help them unwind from their day.  

Or for her to be the first one awake and cook them breakfast, making sure to prepare the thick-cut bacon he liked, and brew the dark-roast coffee that was his favorite before sharing morning-breath kisses. 

Drake making sure Madeleine had the apricot and cream body wash that cost a small fortune, and high thread count Egyptian cotton towels she insisted upon for her showers. 

While their relationship was highly sexual, it was not sexually based. There were debates and discussions covering a gambit from international events and politics to cooking meats with mustard. The only thing they could never agree on was music: Madeleine was a Swiftie, and Drake was 70s rock and country. They shared a love of exercise and the outdoors; weekends usually found them taking day trips to Shenandoah to hike the trails, snacking on the beef jerky Drake loved and Madeleine tolerated. 

But people broke up all the time … over the most minute and ridiculous things. And Madeleine knew she could be an anal-retentive pill most of the time. She wasn’t going to be heartbroken and house hunting if things went south with Drake.  

Madeleine had been instilled from an early age that God blessed the child that had their own. 

“I’m not going to be that chick if we don’t work out," she stated in a small but firm voice as she sat at the foot of the bed; close enough to show support and comfort, far enough away to maybe being in a germ-free zone.  

“You’re saying that after I just asked you to move in with me for the 100th time?” Drake huffed before another coughing fit overtook him.  

While Drake hacked up a lung, Madeleine looked around the bedroom, wondering if he had any masks around. The couple locked eyes briefly, chocolate fastened on emerald. 

 “You could dump me at Target or something!” she countered as she alternated between awkwardly patting his back and scooting further away from him. 

When the coughing subsided, Drake pointed to the nightstand on Madeleine’s side of the bed.  

“Masks. Bottom drawer.” 

Drake knew her. 

“As for dumping you, you don’t shop at Target; it’d have to be Macy’s.” 

So well.  

Leo x Riley B. 

Leo Rys hefted an oversized, too-full sriracha red snapper taco in both hands before greedily biting into it. He let out a low grunt of satisfaction as flavors and spices exploded over his tongue and crumbles of taco shell fell onto his plate.  

Saturday afternoons couldn’t get much better than this: wearing his most comfortable shirt; hanging with his girlfriend Riley Brooks, who was his favorite person in the world; and lunch at his new favorite eatery, Tia Maria Tacos. Bonus: they had scored an upstairs window booth that overlooked the Potomac River. 

Normally for the pair, Saturdays were for sleeping in and being lazy; 24 hours of partial nudity and horizontal positions suited them just fine after clocking out of work on a Friday afternoon. Especially if they had worked a full week.  

But Riley had been in a funk lately; she had been to five job interviews over the past month; good interviews, where she had been a top-two contender. However, that hadn’t been good enough. Riley had been passed over every time, for each job.  

Requests for feedback had not been helpful; hiring managers told her they couldn’t go wrong regardless of who they chose for the position. Riley’s ego was bruised, her esteem low. Despite her having a job that she had worked for the past 10 years ... a job she did damn well ... she was now comparing herself to Penelope, for Chrissakes.  

Leo knew he had to do something, so he planned Date Day.  

They began at Lincoln’s Waffle House for breakfast followed by a couples’ massage in Cleveland Park. Riley wanted to visit a tarot shop; Leo was agreeable. They both got readings, and she purchased a deck of tarot cards along with a strand of chakra beads.  

From there they went to Georgetown, navigating the crowds and perusing shops. A French bakery was offering a European tea meal; Riley looked at Leo with hopeful eyes that quickly filled with dismay at his emphatic refusal. An hour later, laden with bags from a vintage clothing shop, a sex store, and a spice-filled storefront, they decided they were hungry; Leo suggested tacos.  

He took a long swallow from his bottle of beer, his gaze fixed on Riley who had a plate filled key lime shrimp, Korean BBQ, and spicy chicken tacos, along with a serving of nacho fries. She felt his gaze and looked up to smile at him before taking a healthy bite of the shrimp taco. 

Her eyes widened with surprise before closing in bliss. 

“Hmmmmmm, this is soooooo good, Leo! I mean, it ain’t Chinese food but still like, hella good! Thank you for suggesting this place!” she said around a mouthful of food.  

“Anytime, boo,” he replied with a wink as he reached into her plate for fries covered in nacho cheese and seasoned ground beef.  

“And thank you for cheering me up today. It’s the reminder I needed that the Universe is just doing what it does, and all those hiring managers are just bitches and heifers.” 

Leo dragged his fork through seasoned beans and rice. “They weren’t the jobs for you,” he assured her.  “YOU are smart, funny, kind, and the greatest asset any person or job can have, and the right organization will recognize that. Not to mention you’re fucking gorgeous, and do you have any idea how hot you are?” 

Riley bit into the spicy chicken taco, and quickly took a sip of her Sierra Mist with lemon. She nodded at Leo. “How hot I am? Yeah, I know ...  and the answer is not very.” 

Leo chuckled as he shook his head. This woman.  

He and Riley were the couple that were never supposed to be. Both had had extremely bad luck with love, resulting in deeply rooted trust issues; the issues were more prevalent on Riley’s end than Leo’s.  

They were both ambiverts, which loosely translated meant that there was no guarantee that plans made at 10am would still be in effect at 5pm. And you couldn’t be angry about it. 

Physically, neither was the other’s type. Leo was a touch too lanky and fit for the buxom Riley; for Leo, Riley had a few too many inches in height, and was a tad curvier than he was used to. They met via Tinder, and it was supposed to be a one-night stand. 

But their chemistry was off the charts.  

But the sex was too good.  

But their pillow talk left them curious to know more about each other while fully clothed.  

Long story short … she kept him wild, and he kept her safe.  

Before Leo could reassure his girlfriend that she was indeed VERY hot, her eyes trained on someone at a table near the back wall; they narrowed in anger as she tossed her food onto her plate while muttering, “What the actual FUCK?” 

Leo looked around puzzled, wondering WHO happened. Because with Riley, it was never a what.  If he could change two things about his woman, it would be her incredible grudge-holding talents and her penchant for public confrontation.  

Only one table in the far corner was occupied.  A Latina, facing them, was excitedly showing off one of her purchases to her male companion; Leo squinted, determining that the girl was proudly displaying a pair of earrings.  

He swung back around, a look of confusion on his face. “Who are we hating on here?” 

Riley dramatically pointed her index finger at the Latina. “HER! She told me I was a SHOO-IN for that freaking job!! AND THEN WENT WITH SOMEONE ELSE!” 

Leo looked even more confused. “Which job? There were five of them!” 

Riley didn’t answer. She was too busy scowling at the woman across the room while alternating between shaking her fist and making symbols with her fingers.  

“Babe, what are you doing?”  

“Throwing gang signs!” 

“DC DOESN’T HAVE GANGS!” Leo argued. 

“IT DOES NOW!!” 

So much for a peaceful outing and letting the Universe do its thing. 

Maxwell x Penelope 

 “I cannot believe you right now, Pen!” Maxwell Beaumont seethed as he rubbed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes.  

The Communications and Marketing Director inhaled and exhaled deeply, slowly. It was rare that anyone or anything upset Maxwell, much less angered him; but if anyone could knock him off his equilibrium, for certain it was his girlfriend, Penelope.  

His girlfriend stared at him with her wide, pansy-blue eyes before quickly licking her pink-glossed lips. She ran slender, pale fingers through her black hair, then tightened the belt of her pink silk robe. Penelope outstretched her arm, her fingertips grazing the fabric of her boyfriend’s shirt; at his look of frustrated rage, she quickly pulled her hand back.   

“Max,” she began in her breathy voice, “I know you’re upset with me, but I HAD to leave that godawful job! The commute sucked and who knew data entry was so … exacting? It’s a miracle I lasted as long as I did!” 

By the time she finished her explanation, her hands were gesticulating wildly about, and her tone of voice had become a shriek.  

Maxwell turned his back on Penelope to go into their kitchen; still hot Italian food sat on the stove, wrapped in plastic bags. He hollered at her while he began unpacking what was supposed to be a celebratory dinner for Penelope’s new job.  

“IT WAS A TELEWORK POSITION! That you were LATE for BOTH DAYS you worked! And it was MAIL MERGE, NOT DATA ENTRY!” He turned to glare daggers at her. “I don’t know what’s worse, the fact you put forth entirely ZERO effort into at least TRYING to become a member of the working class, or that you lied to me the entire week about still having the damn job!” 

An angry retort sprang to her lips; Penelope debated continuing the argument but thought better of it.  She had known the lie would catch up with her, but she had been hoping it would have been after the dinner. Carmine’s had the most amazing food, and Penelope was in love with their broiled Lobster Oreganata, Porterhouse Pizzaiola, and pasta with meatballs and sausage.  

With Maxwell’s back facing her, Penelope quietly tiptoed into the kitchen, trying to neither be seen nor heard. She peered over her potentially ex-boyfriend's shoulder, salivating at the sight and smells of containers filled with pastas, meats, and sauces.  

Maxwell felt his girlfriend’s eyes on him and exhaled a silent breath. He should have known from their first meeting that Penelope was not relationship material.  

They met at 9:30am on the elevator at the office building Max worked in; it was Penelope’s first day at a company occupying the entire third floor. At 11am, Max was back on the elevator hellbent on a Starbucks run; the elevator stopped at the third floor and Penelope entered, her blue eyes filled with tears.  

She had been let go from her new job in less than 90 minutes. 

Max was a sucker for a damsel in distress. He dried Penelope’s tears, treated her to a coffee, and offered to take her out on a date. That had been over two years ago, and if the woman had worked a cumulative 40-hour work week since, he knew nothing about it.  

He had asked the gang if their companies were hiring; Liam laughed so hard, his drink came out of his nose. Riley, who worked with Max, rolled her eyes as she muttered, “You already know.” Everyone else shook their heads vigorously. 

For a brief period, he had even let her be a stay-at-home girlfriend, but that definitely didn’t work out; Penelope couldn’t cook and had no concept of housekeeping. He had to pull from his savings to replace his wardrobe when she tossed his lights, darks and half a bottle of bleach into the washing machine. She was asleep when he left for work, and asleep when he returned home.  

Irresponsible was too inadequate of a word to describe his girlfriend. She was a money pit in addition to being careless, thoughtless, and an emotional vampire. 

But Maxwell Beaumont loved Penelope Ebrim. She could be sweet, buying him small gifts that brought a smile to his face. She mixed mean cocktails, had a killer sense of humor, and was a terrific dancer. She just needed to find her way.  

Apparently, God had chosen Max to help her do so.  

“Pen, you have GOT to find and keep a job!” Max stated in a firm tone that brooked no argument as he prepared her a plate of lobster, pasta with garlic and oil, and shrimp parmigiana.  

When Penelope saw Maxwell piling a plate with Italian yumminess, she had moved to the cabinets to grab a bottle of wine and two glasses. She was setting them on the dinette table as she debated coming clean in her reply. 

“I may have found something; I’m supposed to have an interview Monday.” 

Max set the serving spoon down as be swung his head to look at his girlfriend in surprise. “Why didn’t you tell me this?” 

“I was waiting until afterwards so I could surprise you!” Penelope crowed happily.  

“Well, where? With who?” Max’s smile covered his entire face as he resumed plating food. 

Maybe things were looking up.  

Penelope expertly removed the wine bottle’s cork and began pouring sparkling merlot into the glasses.  

“The interview is at The Greene Turtle, and it’s with a temp agency called Daddy’s Little Girl. Basically, I would be having lunches and meetings at hotels with older men for an hourly rate.” 

Maxwell had plates in both hands, which he slowly lowered onto the kitchen counter; his every movement displayed his disbelief. There was no way his girlfriend had applied for a job as an escort.  

No.Way.  

“You’re going to be a prostitute?” he choked out.  

Penelope had just taken her seat. She looked up at Maxwell in horror at his words.  

“NO!! Why would you say THAT?  How could you even THINK THAT of me??’ It’s like lunch meetings or something!” 

“NAKED LUNCH! Pen, NO ONE is paying a woman … a PRETTY WOMAN … to just “have lunch”!! And meetings in HOTEL ROOMS? What the ACTUAL fuck?” 

“It’s working lunches, sometimes dinners, with out-of-town business entrepreneurs who need someone to take dictation!” 

Max’s face dropped into his open palm.  

“The going rate is $150 an hour! I was told with my looks and appearance, I could be in huge demand,” Penelope argued.  

“WHEN DID THEY SEE YOU?” Max yelled as he threateningly shook a plastic spatula in Penelope’s direction. 

“I saw the ad on Craigslist and called the number in the listing, then did a Zoom with the manager.” 

Maxwell Beaumont stared at his girlfriend for a long, silent moment before exiting the kitchen and heading for their bedroom.  

“MAX! Where are you going??” 

“To have a talk with God.” 

Penelope stared at his retreating back with a furrowed brow before shrugging and rising to fetch her dinner.  

“Tell Him I said heyyyy.” 

Max’s response was to slam the bedroom door. 

Tagging: @ao719 @jared2612 @marietrinmimi @indiacater @kingliam2019 @bebepac @mom2000aggie @liamxs-world @liamrhysstalker2020 @twinkleallnight @umccall71 @superharriet @busywoman @beezm @gabesmommie1130 @tessa-liam @gardeningourmet @mainstreetreader @angelasscribbles @emkay512 @princessleac1 @charlotteg234 @alj4890 @lovingchoices14 @lady-calypso @walkerdrakewalker @queenjilian @kristinamae093 @choicesficwriterscreations

#dcbbw writes #trr dc au fanfiction #sock game liam #hint of lemon #writer on tumblr

[genderoutlaws]

Members of the Fort Hill Faggots for Freedom, featured in the pages of Boston’s Gay Community News in 1976 | ph: Jane Picard

The Faggots were a militant commune and activist group consisting largely of draft dodgers, closely associated with the adjacent anarchist collective and zine publishers FagRag, who lived communally not only for economic purposes but also to “overcome [their] heterosexual conditioning as men” through domestic work. They are known for a number of actions, including picketing a local gay bar that refused service to drag queens and dykes who attempted to enter.

In one flyer passed around during Pride month, they wrote under the masthead REMEMBER STONEWALL calling for a return to radical solidarity. “…Even the most conservative demands of civil rights have not been met, let alone the more radical demands of gay liberationists. We cannot accept non-commitment. To the straight community we, the Fort Hill Faggots for Freedom are presenting a posture of militant solidarity. To the gay community, we are making a show of support and reacting to differences in a spirit of loving confrontation.”

#op #photography #jane picard #fort hill faggots for freedom #boston #fagrag #bostons gay community news #gay community news #1970s #1976 #reclaimed slurs #f slur cw #brief history #d slur cw

[dailyunsolvedmysteries]

The Secret Lobotomy of Rosemary Kennedy

On September 13, 1918, Rose Kennedy, wife of prominent businessman Joseph Kennedy Sr., went into labor with her third child. Rose's obstetrician was called to the Kennedys' home, but with a pneumonia epidemic raging through Boston, he failed to arrive before the baby entered the birth canal. A nurse, desperate to stop the delivery until the doctor arrived, held Rose's legs closed. When that failed, she reached into Rose's birth canal and held the baby's head in place for an unbelievable two hours.

In the quickly expanding household of boisterous, competitive Kennedys, Rosemary was often left behind. She was held back in school, until finally Rose hired private tutors for Rosemary and kept her at home. Watching her brothers and sisters go out without her left Rosemary angry and confused. She had "fits," which could have been seizures or episodes of mental illness. Afraid of Rosemary's vulnerability, Rose never let her leave the house alone. Rosemary also often ran away.

In the 1920s, the stigma associated with mental disability could ruin a family. Many Americans, including prominent members of society like Teddy Roosevelt, Andrew Carnegie, and John D. Rockefeller, believed in eugenics, a pseudoscience that advocated for forced sterilization of the "defective," a group that included the mental and physically disabled. And then, of course, the Kennedys were devout Catholics, whose church deemed disability the result of sin—a punishment from God.

Rosemary's disability was a challenge her mother couldn't face alone. At age 11, Rosemary was sent to boarding school. Over the next nine years, she attended five different schools. Her letters home show a young girl struggling to get it right. She wrote in a childish script that slants down dramatically off the page. She misspelled words and wrote incomplete sentences. Each letter is filled with a daughter's a desperate desire for approval and affection.

While in Britain, Rosemary found brief respite. She was enrolled in Belmont House, a boarding school run by Catholic nuns who embraced the Montessori Method of education, which focused on learning through practical skills and hands-on activities. Rosemary flourished under the guidance of the nuns, who trained her to be a teacher's aide. But after the Germans marched on Paris in the summer of 1940, her family brought her back to the States. Rosemary's reprieve was over.

Back at home, Rosemary watched her siblings begin their lives and careers, while she wasn't even allowed outside alone. Rose tried to find another school for her daughter, but few places were equipped to take a disabled adult in her 20s. Rosemary was eventually sent to a convent, where she began sneaking out at night and going to bars. 

Joe Sr. was busy plotting the political career of his two oldest sons. Wanting to avoid scandal and looking to find a cure for his daughter's erratic behavior, he began speaking to Dr. Walter Freeman and his associate Dr. James Watts, the leading practitioners of lobotomies in America. At the time, the procedure was heralded as a cure for the physically disabled and mentally ill..

Joe Sr. discussed the procedure with Rose, who asked their daughter Kathleen to look into it. Kathleen spoke with a reporter, John White, investigating mental illness and treatments. White told Kathleen that the effects of lobotomies were "no good." Clifford Larson writes that Kathleen immediately reported back to her mother: "Oh, Mother, no, it's nothing we want done for Rosie." But whether out of desperation or determination, Joe Sr. went ahead with the surgery.

At the age of 23, Rosemary was admitted to George Washington University Hospital, where she was strapped to a table and given an anaesthetic to numb the areas of her brain where Freeman and Watts would drill two small holes. They then inserted a small metal spatula and sliced the connections between her pre-frontal cortex and the rest of her brain. (Freeman often used ice picks for the procedure, hammering the pick in through the eye socket.) Rosemary was wide awake the whole time. The doctors had her recite poems as they cut—when she was silent, they knew the procedure was complete.

The hope was that the procedure would subdue Rosemary and end her rebellious jaunts about town. But the result was far more extreme: After the lobotomy, Rosemary was no longer able to walk or talk. It took months of therapy before she regained the ability to move on her own, recouping only the partial use of one arm. One of her legs was permanently turned inward. Months after the surgery, when she regained her ability to speak, it was a mix of garbled sounds and words. The result must have been shocking to Joe Sr., who had clung to the procedure as his last hope for Rosemary. But it couldn't have shocked Dr. Freeman, who had no surgical training and no proof of the astounding results he had claimed.

Immediately after the surgery, Joe Sr. moved Rosemary to Craig House, a psychiatric care facility where Zelda Fitzgerald once stayed. At the end of the 1940s, Joe Sr. had her moved to Saint Coletta's, a residential care facility in Jefferson, Wisconsin, where Rosemary lived until her death in 2005.

For 20 years, Rosemary was hidden from her family. 

In 1961, Joe Sr. suffered a stroke, and in early 1962, Rose finally saw her daughter again. Koehler-Pentacoff, whose aunt was one of Rosemary's primary caretakers at Saint Coletta's, recalls being told that during their first meeting, Rosemary attacked her mother. Angry, wounded, and abandoned, Rosemary was fighting for herself.

Twenty years after the barbaric procedure that derailed Rosemary's life, the Kennedys began to fight for her too. Rosemary's sister Eunice Kennedy Shriver founded the Special Olympics in 1968 and became a leading advocate for disability rights. Rosemary's nephew Anthony Shriver became an activist for people with developmental disabilities and founded the non-profit Best Buddies International. Rosemary's older brother John F. Kennedy, who became the 35th president of the United States, signed the Maternal and Child Health and Mental Retardation Planning Amendment to the Social Security Act, the first major legislation to combat mental illness and retardation, in 1963. It was a precusor to the American's with Disabilities Act, which Rosemary's little brother Ted—who served as a Democratic Senator for Massachusetts from 1962 until his death in 2009—championed. (It was eventually made law in 1990.) Ted Kennedy also sat on the board of the American Association of People with Disabilities.

#Rosemary Kennedy #disability #history #kennedy's

[psychdiarys]

Thoughts on Boston's ending in Only Friends

I've finally managed to articulate my thoughts into a more coherent stream of words, because I was so fucking upset about the last OF episode I didn't even want to engage. But now I just feel like word-vomitting about everything that pissed me off about Boston's storyline in the last episode.

The Boston-Boeing arc

We know that monogamy isn't Boston's thing, which is perfectly fine, you go king! But that kiss was so poorly timed, out of character, and just an unnecessary plot device to give Nick a sudden moment of clarity.

Boston has always been open and honest about his non-monogamous nature, even during their friends-with-benefits phase. So why NOW would he say one thing and do another? He told Nick in the last episode that he'd only sleep with him from now on, not that he's the only one he'd love, THE ONLY ONE HE'D SLEEP WITH. Why would he say that if he didn't intend to do it?

We knew he genuinely started to love Nick. So, why would he kiss someone else after promising Nick that he only wanted to be with him? Why would he LIE and hurt the person who loves him, especially after all the character development he'd undergone? Especially after realising he doesn't want to hurt the people he loves?

If Boston wanted an open relationship with Nick, he would have communicated that, as he ALWAYS did. He wouldn't have been unfaithful and started making out with a random guy at the bar 5 seconds after being all lovey & romantic with Nick.

Like he didn't even WAVER before making the moves on Boeing which doesn't make sense at all. Because even with Atom, he showed reluctance in the beginning, but he didn't even wait to THINK before seducing Boeing, while his boyfriend was waiting for him 10ft away? That scene just felt like it was written to undo all of Boston's growth in the last few eps & justify giving him a shit ending.

The arc with his (ex) friend group

First of all, FUCK CHEUM, all my homies hate Cheum! I absolutely hate that the narrative turned Cheum into this unproblematic peacemaking fairy who could solve all problems with a swish of her wand, when in fact, she's the worst type of friend.

Her apology to Boston was half-assed at best, given the SEVERITY of the allegations her stupid excuse of a brother made against him. Boston was falsely accused of RAPE, and had an anon acc exposing him of the same & NOBODY APOLOGIZED TO HIM FOR BELIEVING IN IT?

Cheum was portrayed as a generous forgiving figure for inviting Boston to the New Year's party for RECONCILIATION but actually all she did was force him into apologizing for all his wrongdoings without getting a single apology in return.

Boston apologized to Ray for filming him and Mew kissing, but no one apologized to Boston for spreading his nonconsensual sextape, threats of revenge porn, and the constant slut-shaming. How come none of THEIR wrongdoings against Boston were condemned?

When Boston expressed that moving to New York might change him, they were like changing his surroundings wasn't enough; he needed to change his inner self. NO FUCK YOU, I think it would significantly benefit him to change his surroundings and the PEOPLE he associates with. Like maybe finding a genuine group of friends would actually heal him, you self-righteous fuckers.

Like okay, Mew's reluctance to forgive Boston is understandable (even though his air of moral superiority pisses me off), but he's not been a good friend to Boston either.

And the others acted all holier-than-thou, despite having done terrible shit themselves. No one showed real concern for Boston's move to New York & nobody asked if he's okay, given how miserable he looked throughout the party.

Boston's final ending

Oh, his ending was SHIT. Like fine, Nick's decision to break up with Boston due to their differing desires for an open relationship versus monogamy was reasonable. Like yes, it broke my BostonNick heart to pieces, but it makes sense they didn't work out cause they wanted different things. I'm glad Nick chose his OWN desires over Boston's.

BUT, Nick telling Boston that a guy like him should roll alone was so unnecessary and contradictory to everything he's stood up for throughout the show. He's always understood Boston like nobody else, told him that he's not a bad guy & what not? Heck, Nick was the one who made Boston realize he wanted to be loved, but now he's leading Boston to believe that he should be alone?

Boston doesn't want to be ALONE; he needs & craves love, but also values the freedom to have sexual experiences outside a romantic relationship.

Perhaps NICK couldn't provide that, which is okay, but it doesn't mean Boston should just stay alone? It felt like the show suggested that if you're a 'slut', you don't deserve love.

And my last straw was the last shot of Boston alone, abandoned on a sidewalk, a HUGE contrast to all the lovely happy endings of other characters.

Boston was left friendless, boyfriendless, degreeless, and also with zero respect, solely because he was a promiscuous gay man.

Everyone else got redemption, forgiveness, and a seemingly happily ever after. But Boston?

So yeah, fuck this show, and FUCK any possibilities of a season 2. I'm so over it already.

#only friends boston #neo trai #bostonnick #neomark #ofts finale #only friends episode 12 #ofts ep12 #ofts #only friends the series #this show ruined my life #NEVER AGAIN

[prpfs]

hey hey!! i’m 18+ looking for a kind of specific rp with someone 18+. a fandomless mxm

i’d like to do something with two guys who grew up together in a shitty part of south boston. my oc (22) goes to MIT, and it’s up to you how yours is doing in life, but i see them having gone through a lot of shit together- abusive family situations ts, addiction ts, toxic relationships ts, self harm/suicidal intentions ts and other such things.

as for the present plot, i’d like to do something with them meeting up after a couple years with your character coming to the bar mine works at. my oc definitely tries to act like he came from better roots in hopes of being accepted by the people he associates with at work or school, and perhaps that’s something that bothers your character.

i know i’d like them to be best friends, and i’m thinking perhaps exes as well? maybe they had a really painful breakup and didn’t talk for awhile, but reconnect after running into each other? PLEASE be open to plotting i want to build a plot with someone so bad 😭

as for nsfw please be comfortable playing either a top or a switch, also i’m a big believer in top=/=dominant and bottom=/=submissive, so we can definitely play around with taking on all kinds of roles to keep it fun and exciting!

if you’re interested, add me on discord: salem~#5563

super looking forward to it! 💕🕊

salem~#5563

#oc roleplay #oc rp

[dailyunsolvedmysteries-movedd]

The Secret Lobotomy of Rosemary Kennedy

On September 13, 1918, Rose Kennedy, wife of prominent businessman Joseph Kennedy Sr., went into labor with her third child. Rose's obstetrician was called to the Kennedys' home, but with a pneumonia epidemic raging through Boston, he failed to arrive before the baby entered the birth canal. A nurse, desperate to stop the delivery until the doctor arrived, held Rose's legs closed. When that failed, she reached into Rose's birth canal and held the baby's head in place for an unbelievable two hours.

In the quickly expanding household of boisterous, competitive Kennedys, Rosemary was often left behind. She was held back in school, until finally Rose hired private tutors for Rosemary and kept her at home. Watching her brothers and sisters go out without her left Rosemary angry and confused. She had "fits," which could have been seizures or episodes of mental illness. Afraid of Rosemary's vulnerability, Rose never let her leave the house alone. Rosemary also often ran away.

In the 1920s, the stigma associated with mental disability could ruin a family. Many Americans, including prominent members of society like Teddy Roosevelt, Andrew Carnegie, and John D. Rockefeller, believed in eugenics, a pseudoscience that advocated for forced sterilization of the "defective," a group that included the mental and physically disabled. And then, of course, the Kennedys were devout Catholics, whose church deemed disability the result of sin—a punishment from God.

Rosemary's disability was a challenge her mother couldn't face alone. At age 11, Rosemary was sent to boarding school. Over the next nine years, she attended five different schools. Her letters home show a young girl struggling to get it right. She wrote in a childish script that slants down dramatically off the page. She misspelled words and wrote incomplete sentences. Each letter is filled with a daughter's a desperate desire for approval and affection.

While in Britain, Rosemary found brief respite. She was enrolled in Belmont House, a boarding school run by Catholic nuns who embraced the Montessori Method of education, which focused on learning through practical skills and hands-on activities. Rosemary flourished under the guidance of the nuns, who trained her to be a teacher's aide. But after the Germans marched on Paris in the summer of 1940, her family brought her back to the States. Rosemary's reprieve was over.

Back at home, Rosemary watched her siblings begin their lives and careers, while she wasn't even allowed outside alone. Rose tried to find another school for her daughter, but few places were equipped to take a disabled adult in her 20s. Rosemary was eventually sent to a convent, where she began sneaking out at night and going to bars. 

Joe Sr. was busy plotting the political career of his two oldest sons. Wanting to avoid scandal and looking to find a cure for his daughter's erratic behavior, he began speaking to Dr. Walter Freeman and his associate Dr. James Watts, the leading practitioners of lobotomies in America. At the time, the procedure was heralded as a cure for the physically disabled and mentally ill..

Joe Sr. discussed the procedure with Rose, who asked their daughter Kathleen to look into it. Kathleen spoke with a reporter, John White, investigating mental illness and treatments. White told Kathleen that the effects of lobotomies were "no good." Clifford Larson writes that Kathleen immediately reported back to her mother: "Oh, Mother, no, it's nothing we want done for Rosie." But whether out of desperation or determination, Joe Sr. went ahead with the surgery.

At the age of 23, Rosemary was admitted to George Washington University Hospital, where she was strapped to a table and given an anaesthetic to numb the areas of her brain where Freeman and Watts would drill two small holes. They then inserted a small metal spatula and sliced the connections between her pre-frontal cortex and the rest of her brain. (Freeman often used ice picks for the procedure, hammering the pick in through the eye socket.) Rosemary was wide awake the whole time. The doctors had her recite poems as they cut—when she was silent, they knew the procedure was complete.

The hope was that the procedure would subdue Rosemary and end her rebellious jaunts about town. But the result was far more extreme: After the lobotomy, Rosemary was no longer able to walk or talk. It took months of therapy before she regained the ability to move on her own, recouping only the partial use of one arm. One of her legs was permanently turned inward. Months after the surgery, when she regained her ability to speak, it was a mix of garbled sounds and words. The result must have been shocking to Joe Sr., who had clung to the procedure as his last hope for Rosemary. But it couldn't have shocked Dr. Freeman, who had no surgical training and no proof of the astounding results he had claimed.

Immediately after the surgery, Joe Sr. moved Rosemary to Craig House, a psychiatric care facility where Zelda Fitzgerald once stayed. At the end of the 1940s, Joe Sr. had her moved to Saint Coletta's, a residential care facility in Jefferson, Wisconsin, where Rosemary lived until her death in 2005.

For 20 years, Rosemary was hidden from her family. 

In 1961, Joe Sr. suffered a stroke, and in early 1962, Rose finally saw her daughter again. Koehler-Pentacoff, whose aunt was one of Rosemary's primary caretakers at Saint Coletta's, recalls being told that during their first meeting, Rosemary attacked her mother. Angry, wounded, and abandoned, Rosemary was fighting for herself.

Twenty years after the barbaric procedure that derailed Rosemary's life, the Kennedys began to fight for her too. Rosemary's sister Eunice Kennedy Shriver founded the Special Olympics in 1968 and became a leading advocate for disability rights. Rosemary's nephew Anthony Shriver became an activist for people with developmental disabilities and founded the non-profit Best Buddies International. Rosemary's older brother John F. Kennedy, who became the 35th president of the United States, signed the Maternal and Child Health and Mental Retardation Planning Amendment to the Social Security Act, the first major legislation to combat mental illness and retardation, in 1963. It was a precusor to the American's with Disabilities Act, which Rosemary's little brother Ted—who served as a Democratic Senator for Massachusetts from 1962 until his death in 2009—championed. (It was eventually made law in 1990.) Ted Kennedy also sat on the board of the American Association of People with Disabilities.

#Rosemary Kennedy #disability #history #kennedy's #crime

[princesscatherinemiddleton]

Princess of Wales - 2022 Statistics (FULL YEAR)

In 2022, the new Princess of Wales completed (by my count) 168 engagements, around 53 more than the amount of engagements she completed by my count in 2021 and 39 more than 2020. As well as this, she was sighted (or appeared) 16 times and appeared in a whopping 26 official (or unofficial and leaked!) photographs.

She gained four new patronages throughout the year and finished with 25 patronages. Of her 168 engagements, 67 were related to one of her patronages, averaging at one patronage visit every 0.39 engagements. Her most visited patronage was, of course, the Royal Foundation of the Prince and Princess of Wales (formerly, the Royal Foundation of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge), with 46 visits. This was followed by the Lawn Tennis Association and the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club (with 3 visits). She performed no engagements on behalf of The Air Cadet Organisation, the Anna Freud National Centre for Children and Families, Evelina London Children’s Hospital (she unofficially visited the hospital during the Platinum Jubilee celebrations), Family Action (she supported them in an article in Good Housekeeping), the Forward Trust, the National Portrait Gallery (her birthday portraits were released in conjunction with the NPG), the Natural History Museum, Place2Be, the Royal Photographic Society, the Scouts, or the Victoria & Albert Museum.

Of her engagements, 64 have been solo and 73 accompanied by her husband, the Prince of Wales. Five were also with either Prince George or Princess Charlotte, five with a range of foreign royals (including the two in Denmark), as well as 20 with either the whole or most of the working British Royal Family (note: some of the events with foreign royals also included a lot of members of the British Royal Family), and one with one other solo royal (the Princess Royal).

105 of her engagements physically took place in England, with all bar 48 physically occuring in the United Kingdom (with none in the Republic of Ireland). Of the 105 engagements which took place in England, 70 occured in London. Catherine's engagements also took her to 19 other areas of the UK. Only 7 were online or via telephone. Catherine also performed engagements in Wales, Scotland, and Northern Ireland. Catherine also undertook a working trip to Denmark, a tour of the Caribbean (which saw her visit Belize, Jamaica and the Bahamas), and an official visit to Boston in the USA.

During the year, she performed engagements on a variety of themes. 32 of those engagements were predominantly related to her Early Years initiative, while 15 were linked to culture and 13 linked to sports. Due to the return of overseas trips, State Visits, and the death of HM Queen Elizabeth II, 35 engagements were diplomatic in nature. 10 engagements were on the theme of mental health, while she also completed 9 engagements linked to children and young people, 7 linked to the military, 5 linked to Covid-19, 3 linked to the outdoors, and 1 which was specifically linked to the Commonwealth. Catherine also completed 38 engagements which could not otherwise be categorised.

Clotheswise, her most worn designer has been Alexander McQueen, with 25 outfits, followed by 10 outfits from Catherine Walker, while 18 items of clothing were unidentified. Her most carried bag designer was Mulberry (12), followed by Emmy London with 9, and 5 which were unidentifed. Mulberry has been her most carried bag designer in every year apart from 2020. Her most worn shoe designer returned to being Gianvito Rossi (with 37 wears), followed by 11 pairs from Emmy London, and 6 from both Rupert Sanderson and Jimmy Choo. Gianvito Rossi was her most worn shoe designer in 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019, and 2020. Despite Kiki McDonough creeping back into her earring rotation (with 18 wears), Catherine predominantly wore pieces inherited from either Diana (20) or the Queen (19). Aside from them, she also wore Annoushka jewellery 11 times. When it comes to accessories, she continued to wear face masks from Amaia Kids (5 times), although the return of hats meant her top accessories designer was Philip Treacy. She also wore 8 unidentified pieces. According to my (100% wrong) calculations - created from my own criteria (where items are counted each time she wears them), she wore £109,654.98 worth of new clothes this year and £271,423.79  worth of clothes in total.

#mine #kate #yearreview #statistics

[dukeofriven]

When Putin invaded Ukraine I did not get an email in my inbox telling me the Homeland was in trouble and what I could do to help—Ukraine did not take it as a given that I, some 130 years removed from ancestral emigration from family line with over a century of settled citizenship in a different country, felt intrinsic kinship ties. Equally a few weeks ago when Parliament honoured a WWII Ukrainian war veteran, only to backpedal in a panic when they realized he'd served in the volunteer Ukrainian division of the Waffen-SS, nobody found me guilty by association when the discourse turned to a broader discussion of the realities of the Ukrainian alt-right.

But a couple days ago when Hamas breached the 6 billion dollar boondoggle of a border wall that imprisons Gaza, they didn't say they came to kill Israelis—a diverse group comprised of first-to-fourth generation immigrants from Europe, the Americas, and Africa; Mizrahim; Samaritans; Arabs; and Druze (among others). They just said they came to kill Jews. When Pro-Palestinian marches broke out in major cities, many had to be publicly reprimanded for their antisemitism: it wasn't a march against Israelis, it was a march against Jews. And when my rabbi sent out emails about supporting the 'Holy Land' it was to donate to an IDF Veterans charity because the IDF—the armed forces of the Middle Eastern nation-state of Israel of which I am not a citizen— have done 'so much for Jews worldwide.' I have never been to Israel. I have never had a desire to visit Israel, it being semi-arid, dry, and singularly uninviting place. Some 40 generations back the ancestors of my ancestors of my ancestors would have departed the region—perhaps after the loss of the Second Temple in the year 70, or the failure of the Bar Kokhba revolt in 132, or perhaps even further back, in one of the diasporas centuries before (over the last three thousand years most Jews have spent more time everywhere but Israel.) I am not an Israeli: not by birth, not by citizenship, not by any of the normal, standard criteria we culturally attach to immigrant status centuries upon centuries removed. But I want you to imagine if the United Kingdom got invaded tomorrow and you woke up to an e-mail asking you to support the Royal Marines because your ancestor was a charcoal burner outside of Londonium in the reign of Domitian.

I am not an Israeli, but the anti-Semites chanting in the streets and my rabbi treat me as functionally indivisible from one anyway. Consciously or unconsciously you probably do too. A Catholic might be asked to answer for the crimes of the Vatican, but a sixth generation Catholic from Boston isn't going to be asked to answer for the crimes of Spain—or Ireland, for that matter. But a 40-generation removed Jew cannot escape answering for Israel. You know, my great-grandfather lived through his Ukrainian relatives being slaughtered in a pogrom before the end of the first world war. His own Yiddish-speaking father never learned more than few words of English, had to go out of his way to have shabat and seders with the handful of other Jews who lived in Nowhere, Northern Ontario, but my great-grandfather became so afraid of his own Judaism that he threw himself into one of the stranger and more noxious Christian cults of the 19th century, one that would kill many of his children—and left it to his grandchildren and great-grandchildren to try and pick up the pieces puzzle-out why they had a last name that made Eastern Europeans frown when they heard it. He left us a diaspora within a diaspora within a diaspora, groping blind to find our way back to some kind of identity. It feels hard enough at times to accept the label of 'Jew' when you don't have a Hebrew name, when you mumble your way through a mahzor squinting at the phonetic prayers (acutely aware that you don't know the right times to sit or stand, much less bow), when your sense of lineage—your sense of tribe, of a past—ends in the burnt rubble of a synagogue on the banks of the Smotrych. It feel impossible, some days, to be a Jew simply within the framework of 'being a Jew,' whether you are practicing Judaism as a religion or go about your life with the genetic markers of ethnicity. It feels forever like there are so many ways to get it wrong, that it is all in some sense a performance that—if you fuck up even a little bit—you're diminishing Jews as effectively as any pogrom. The degree to which self-hating Jew as a term is weaponized is astounding, the degree to which 'being correctly Jewish' is a conscious act of will at times exhausting. I struggle to find my sense of place as a Jew, as a descendant of Jews, who were often hunted, slaughtered, oppressed, and extinguished. And to all this is added Israel, is added ethno-nationalism, is added the genocidal constitution of Hamas and the bombs and jet planes of the IDF. Three days ago Hamas committed mass-murder: a thousand dead, others kidnapped, children gunned down in the streets. In three days since the IDF has displaced over 230000 Gazans by bombing their homes, children blown-up in the streets. The street marchers shout 'death to Jews.' My rabbi wants me the beef-up the bombers pensions. All over a plot of land I have never visited and have no wish to see. This doesn't come to any kind of cathartic or intriguing rhetorical finale. I have no doubt it reads as nigh-incoherent. I've been writing it for hours, picking away at it, poking and prodding with an anguish I can't articulate. I sit here and write it on the knife-edge of privilege: I am not an Israeli under threat of a Hamas bullet, nor am I Gazan under threat of an IDF bomb. Yet the privilege is still a knife-edge, still a liminal state—because when we set-up for the Hanukah celebrations this winter, the police presence around us will be there for very different reasons than they were at the Santa Claus parade the week before. To be Jewish is already to live with conditional assimilation: I am not Israeli, I have no desire to be Israeli, O hold Israel and its policies against the Palestinians these past decades to be an incalculable injustice. Yet none of that matters to the white supremacist tomorrow who feels that now is the best time to kill some local Jews to preserve the purity of his ethno-state—because he's drawing on the biggest up-swell of antisemitic sentiment in a generation.

I am not an Israeli, I have no wish to be, and yet every Jew outside Israel the world over will still feel less safe tomorrow and in the days to come—because to the world at large, that doesn't matter.

[houseofbrat]

Someone continuing on with their 15 minutes of fame...

I find this whole situation really weird. Or perhaps it’s not weird, just very convenient.

1. I came across this yesterday morning when I saw two videos posted to my YT feed via Sky News. I know things like that can happen to any people anywhere. But it just seemed a little weird that in the initial version I heard on Sky News, it was just about the conversation with Lady Susan Hussey. Just seemed like something that could only have made the news if it was a slow news day or something. When you live in a country (USA) with an opioid crisis, shootings, inflation, culture wars, crazy political shit, police violence, etc., it’s a really low bar for someone to make it on a national news broadcast for something like this. But different country. 

2. I didn’t read/hear anything about the “hair” allegations until I was reading the comments on a DListed post about it. Interesting that the initial tweets about it didn’t mention her hair. It’s almost as if the initial complaint making the rounds wasn’t offensive enough. 

However, the story about LSH moving her hair to see her name tag just didn’t sound right to me. LSH was a lady-in-waiting for THE QUEEN for sixty years. That’s not nothing. Last I recall, no one is supposed to touch the monarch in public unless she touches you first. Due to that, I have a hard time believing Lady Susan just randomly touches people and moves their hair in order to see their name tag. That seems more like something a security officer would be doing to check credentials. By the time you get around to being near the monarch or consort in this case, your credentials should have already been checked by security. Not after. I’ve never met a lady-in-waiting, but I have a hard time believing that they would do more than shake your hand if you’re a stranger. 

3. Then I read what @helenaaurellia wrote about Lady Susan’s family in the transcript, and I think @helenaaurellia is right. It doesn’t make any sense if you know who LSH is. However, most people don’t know anything about Lady Susan, so it’s easy to believe everything she is being accused of.  

4. I came across the massive Messie Condo twitter thread on a fluke when I was looking at other things on twitter last night. The whole scenario makes a lot more sense--even though that twitter feed is long--after reading it. The “witness” Mandu Reid sure did a LOT of interviews on UK media for something that allegedly happened less than 48 hours before. Whenever someone is that organized and gets that many interviews completed in a short amount of time, my first thought is that it is all pr. In this case, it probably is. 

5. There’s a tangential relationship between Meghan and the people involved. One of the reporters who got the first interview can be associated easily not only with the Sussex Squad but Meghan and her strongwrite account. It’s too much of a coincidence. 

6. Lainey reminded us all of Lady Susan’s transgression against Meghan--stating the truth that the marriage will fail. It’s not a coincidence that LSH was singled out then, was it? Meghan isn’t just hitting back at the BRF; she’s hitting back at someone she has a grudge against. It’s not just about attempting to spoil Will & Kate’s Boston trip. She’s settling scores with this. One stone, multiple birds.

I haven’t read all the UK press about this mess. Just haven’t. I don’t dispute that things like this can happen to anyone anywhere. I have a relative who has visited London on more than a hundred occasions for short trips but will tell you that he doesn’t like going to London due to how he has been treated in the past. He’s not a white dude. (Doesn’t have any problem going Frankfurt or Paris though.) 

But there is clearly more to this than the simple victim/perpetrator storyline that has been bandied about already. 

#ask #palace household #pr games #duchess of I WILL NOT BE IGNORED BRF!!! #Twitter #Markle stans

[melancholic-pigeon]

Hey there! I work at a uni in MA with a law school, and saw your post through Tern, I highly suggest looking into Legal Aid centers in MA. From what I remember Harvard Legal Aid Bureau specializes in employment so has familiarity with disability, as well as the Volunteer Lawyers Project of the Boston Bar Association, Massachusetts Law Reform Institute, GLBTQ Legal Advocates and Defenders, Bentley College Multi-Lingual Tax Information Program might have help or direction, and Center for Public Representation, and the ACLU chapter in Northampton.

I obviously don't know your sitch, and can't give detailed advice or info, but hopefully a quick Google search or call to one of these places will be able to help more! Good luck and godspeed!

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oh my goodness I'm in tears

thank you so so much. You're a ray of sunshine. 🫂 I'm writing all of this down and I'm posting it publicly in case it can also help anyone else going through something similar <333

#humans are good actually #i'm not crying it's just raining on my face #pinning this one instead