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#but to get me into a series there is no real way to do it
drvscarlett · 1 day
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Let Him Cook Pt 3
Charles Leclerc x MasterChef contestant!reader
Series Part: 1, 2, 3
Taglist: @bookstore-of-dreams @barcelonaloverf1life @ririyulife @minkyungseokie @mehrmonga @sltwins @charlesgirl16 @six-call @spideybv28 @casperlikej
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"I honestly can't believe that this is actually happening"you told Charles as you sit down on your couch with your laptop.
The past few days have been a lot of preparation for the three most important dish of your life. You have been replicating and timing yourself to make sure that you are a perfectly well-oiled machine during the competition proper.
Charles is currently in Abu Dhabi for the final race which is a complete bummer. He wanted to be there but work is work. So that's why he spends most of his available time doing a facetime with you. It was pretty helpful since his conversations with you helps soothe your nerve and helps avoid overthinking the whole process.
"You got this mon amour. You know I always believed in you since day 1" Charles grinned.
"I really hope that everything goes well tomorrow"
"It will and I will be watching all the way from Yas Marina to hear that my girlfriend is a MasterChef winner"Charles proudly states "I'm really getting so excited, is this how you feel when you watch me race?"
You laughed "Oh mon ami, you are much more stressful to watch with your high speed corners and those wet race misshaps"
"But doesn't this technically make me your WAG if you win? Don't they have WAG gossip accounts that I could be part in?"
It was moments like this that Charles made everything lighter by focusing on trivial things. It helps a lot with the building pressure that everyone has been placing on your shoulder.
Y/NCooks posted a photo.
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Y/NCooks the boyfriend is so supportive. I'm pretty excited for today!
Gordongram goodluck Y/N! Boyfriend reveal when you win?
User1 Gordon is so real for that Y/NCooks thanks Chef! Lets see???
User2 win or lose, you already made it Y/N!
User3 its just so wholesome to see how Y/N keeps the relationship private but never secret. I ship them so much
User4 i don't know if i want to be Y/N or I want to be her boyfriend
User5 goodluck Y/N! Get that trophy!
Final episode.
Former contestants lined up at the balcony with some of your friends and close relatives. It was a very surreal moment because you used to watch this sitting in the comforts of your own home and now you are actually the one being watched.
The moment that the clock starts ticking, you started to work. There was no room for any delays today as you were creating dishes after dishes. You have to use your time wisely so that you can finish the dishes you have in mind.
"Charles, were going out to drink, are you coming?"
"You guys go ahead, I'm going to watch something" The minute that the cars were back in the garage and the ceremony was over, Charles couldn't wait to go back to his hotel room. He was to turn on his TV to watch the live broadcast of the MasterChef Australia.
He was just on time with the last five minutes of the appetizer round, technically he haven't miss much. You were focused in tasting everything and ensuring that all the flavors are there. You plated really well and it shows how much you have grown. Charles is extremely proud of you.
"Aren't you a little worried to be working on the octopus so early on?" the judges wondered. The judges were currently tasting the soup that you have given them.
"I know that its a lot of risk but I have to push for it to show my talent"
The judges find the soup beautifully seasoned but their only slight flaw with the dish is that the octopus is a little bit tough due to the water not boiling hot enough. Its that flaw that sets a 2 point difference with your fellow contestant.
Charles could feel his eyes getting heavier from all the events earlier that day but he really wants to stay awake. He believes that Y/N could do it. The main course was a stronger dish for Y/N which is how she tied the score with her fellow contestant.
The dessert is the make and break for Y/N. Charles knew that its also her greatest opponent as you prefer savory over sweet. However, seeing the way that you are cooking right now that you have massively improved your skills in the sweets department.
It was tense as you run back and forth to the freezer to make sure that the pana cotta is chilled enough while you went back to your work station to mix the pot. Charles almost had a headache after seeing you trip over in the last 20 minutes of the session.
But all in all you pulled it off. The dessert was stunning and exquisite as the judges noticed. It was an elevated traditional pana cotta
"I believe we have made a decision and the scores are very very close with each other" one of the judges concluded.
The guests from the balcony went down to join the homecooks and Charles wishes that he could have been there for you. Instead, he records the moment through his phone. The announcement will be here in any seconds now.
"And the MasterChef Australia winner is....."
MasterChefAU just posted a photo.
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Liked by Gordongram, Charles_Leclerc, and 670,000 others
MasterChefAU congratulations to Y/NCooks you are the MasterChef Australia winner!
User1 That was worth the wait, Y/NCooks is now a masterchef winner!
User2 she was so brilliant! what a performance!!!
User3 tell me why is Charles Leclerc is in the likes, isn't it like 4am there in Abu Dhabi?? Didn't you just race sir???
User4 Seems like Charles is a fan of MC Australia User5 Answer the crowd Charles_Leclerc User6 Didn't Arthur and Lorenzo guest in MC Australia, they say they are good friends of Y/N User7 That is some interesting information User6
Y/NCooks posted a photo.
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liked by MasterChefAU, Charles_Leclerc, and 308,000 others
Y/NCooks I have a new plate!!!!
It was such a wonderful experience to be a part of this kitchen and to win this prestigious award. Thank you so much for all your support and love. This is such a dream come true!!
User1 im so proud of her
User2 Can't wait what's next for you!
Gordongram Well-deserve! You did amazing!
Y/NCooks this means a lot Chef! Thank you for watching
MasterChefAU Our winner!!!!
Charles_Leclerc 🏆❤️
User3 what even is that? you are putting sebastian vettel to shame with your rizz User4 Charles, she has a boyfriend!!!!!!! User5 Bro really thinks he can bag Y/N when he can't even cook Y/NCooks Thank you :')) Charles_Leclerc liked this comment. User6 SHUT UP, CHARLES IS COOKING SOMETHING User7 Silence for Y/N's bf, Charles is coming after your seat!
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wlntrsldler · 3 days
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poisoned mercury | now you got me
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ix. now you got me by inhaler
series masterlist | previous | next
the happy little bubble you and luke made for yourselves inevitably bursted a few days after you made it official– though if you asked luke, you rejected his advances, which always earned an eye roll from you followed by a long kiss to his lips that had him silent for the next five minutes. you knew he was milking the hell out of you saying no to his question until he let you listen to the song, but you were his and he was yours regardless of the title. 
you stared at yourself in the mirror, blushing as you ran your fingers down the marks on your neck. you added a turtleneck under your chb shirt, not having enough energy to cover up the marks on your neck with makeup, and you definitely didn’t have the energy to explain to people how you got them. thankfully, the weather cooperated with you today. it was unusually cold for the summer, a slight breeze entering your room from your opened window. as you continued to get ready for the day, your phone buzzed with a text from your dad. 
‘hey kid, can you come to my office real quick?’
you hadn’t spoken to your dad in weeks, not since he stormed out of the cabin after finding out what started the fight with your teammate. this was the longest you’d gone without speaking to him. you texted a thumbs up and made your way out of your room. 
luke was sitting on the coffee table in the middle of everyone, looking at you with wondering eyes, “where are you going?” 
“my dad wants to talk.” 
“do you want me to come with you?” luke got up from where he sat. you told him last night that you’d been avoiding your dad as much as possible, and he did the same with you. as much as you guys butted heads, luke knew that it was taking a toll on you. you shared that you were scared about what would become of your relationship with your dad. luke, being as close to his mom as you were with your dad, understood. he knew what it was like to feel like your biggest supporter was giving up on you. it wasn’t a feeling he’d wish on his worst enemy, and definitely not a feeling he’d ever wish on you. 
“no, it’s fine,” you clenched your jaw, shaking your head. 
luke’s shoulders slumped over as he stuttered in his actions to sit back down, “oh, okay–uh, let me know if you need anything.” 
you nodded and waved a small goodbye before exiting the cabin. your heart was pounding the entire time you made your way to your dad’s office. a lot of things had been weighing on you this summer– your probation, a possible dent on your record, your estrangement from your parents, luke– and it was a lot to handle. camp half blood was supposed to keep you away from the problems that existed in your day-to-day life, but it seemed to follow you. 
you entered your dad’s office to see him typing away on his laptop. his eyebrows raised when you walked in, motioning for you to shut the door. he closed his laptop and placed it in one of the drawers of his desk. he took a deep breath, “hey, kid.” 
“hi, dad,” you replied, suddenly feeling like a little kid again. you sat on the usual chair in front of his desk and leaned back, “what’s up?” 
“i, uh,” he cleared his throat, “i just wanted to say i’m sorry for how we left things. i shouldn’t have stormed out like that. i was just angry. but not at you, at myself for making you feel like you had to fight these battles for me.” 
he leaned across his desk to hold your hands, “you’re my kid, y’know. my job is to protect you, not the other way around. so i apologize if i ever made you feel like you had to come to my defense.” 
“and i’m sorry for being mia the last few weeks,” he chuckled, squeezing your hands, “i’ve been in contact with my lawyers and they’re working on making sure the charges against you don’t stick so i’ve been pretty busy with that.” 
“you think it’ll get sorted out?” you asked. 
“yeah, don’t worry about it. it’s finishing up and i think you might even be able to play this season,” your dad smiled. “but i have to deal with a pr crisis right now that sprung up on me this morning.” 
your shoulders relaxed at your dad’s words. at least your probation was getting sorted out. that was one less thing to worry about. you tugged on the sleeves of your turtleneck as you got comfortable on your chair, “what’s the pr crisis?” 
he sighed, pulling out his laptop, “something with the band.” 
you hoped your dad didn’t notice the slight widening of your eyes. because you hadn’t been talking to your dad, he didn’t know about the recent developments between you and luke. you two didn’t show much pda outside of the cabin, scared that one of the campers would break their nda and post a picture of the two of you. neither of you were ready to tell the world about you two yet. it’s too soon. you didn’t even have the “what’s going to happen to us after summer?” conversation yet. 
“what happened?” 
“some pap pictures leaked. it’s of this new actress in hollywood and a guy leaving her hotel room. the press is reporting that the guy is luke. it looks a lot like him and you know the media– they run any story that’ll get them clicks even if it’s not fully fact-checked as long as they add the word ‘allegedly’ to the article,” he rolled his eyes, turning his computer to face you. “nobody knows where the pictures came from, so we don’t know if it’s actually luke or not, but i’ve been on the phone with may and their team all morning trying to do damage control. she’s telling the guys about the pictures right now.” 
at first glance, your heart dropped to your stomach. the guy did look an awful lot like luke. the rational part of you knew that this was probably taken before the two of you met because you’ve seen him every day since and he was practically imprisoned at chb all summer, but then you thought of your impromptu trip to achilles’ arcade and it made you want to throw up. if luke could sneak away with you like that, it would’ve been easy for him to do the same when he was alone. 
were the nights he didn’t spend in your bed because he was “writing” just an excuse to sneak off to meet up with the girl in the picture? she was gorgeous, after all. blonde, tall, the perfect new hollywood star. they’d make such a great power couple. the two rising stars in their respective industries, the perfect pair. 
the boy’s face, who may or may not be luke, was covered by his hood, but you can clearly see that he was kissing the girl deeply, with his hand placed on the curve of her back. the next picture was them with their fingers laced together as she led him into the hotel, giggling at something he said. the guy had a similar build as luke and dressed the same way as he did when he was having a lazy day– sweatpants, hoodie, and converses. 
bile made its way up your throat as you continued to scroll through the pictures. you looked at the time stamp of the photos and closed your eyes, wincing, when you saw that they were taken two days ago. luke didn’t sleep in your room two days ago, nor was he in the cabin. he showed up the next day saying that he was in the studio, trying to finish up the song so you would officially accept being his girlfriend. 
you squinted at a close-up picture of the pair, zoning in on the guy's hand. you breathed out a sigh of relief, fingers immediately clutching the ring that rested on your index finger. you turned the laptop back to your dad, “that’s not luke.” 
his eyebrows shot up, looking between you and his laptop screen, “how do you know?” 
“look at his rings,” you pointed at the bands around the guy’s fingers, “luke doesn’t wear a ring on his ring finger anymore. and look, the guy has a ring there and it’s gold.” 
“how are you so sure? what if he just decided to wear it that day?” 
“trust me,” you waved off, “he’s particular about his jewelry. he stopped wearing one on his ring finger a while ago. and luke doesn’t wear gold jewelry.” 
your dad narrowed his eyes at you suspiciously, shutting his laptop, “i didn’t realize you were that close to luke that you had his accessories memorized.” 
“ah– well,” you cleared your throat, looking down at your feet. you felt caught. “s’your fault, really. you made us live together.” 
“is there something you need to tell me, kid?” 
you got up from your seat, quickly making your way to the door, “geez, dad, i didn’t realize the time! i promised clar that i’d help her with camp duties, so i gotta go. thanks for all your help on the probation and permanent record thing. you’re the best!” 
you didn’t bother to turn around to see your dad’s reaction to your excuse. you knew that he could see right through you. 
you dad called from behind you, his joking tone camouflaged by his “dad” voice, “tell castellan that if he does anything wrong, i’ll kill him and his career!” 
“love you!” 
your dad shook his head, biting back the smile on his face, “love you too, kid.” 
as you were rushing back to your cabin, you ran smack dab into luke who was frantic, worry evident on his features. his eyes widened when he saw you and he placed his hands on your shoulders, steadying you so you didn’t fall at the impact. 
“five star,” he sighed out, out of breath, “i don’t know if mr. d told you but those pictures aren’t me, i swear!” 
you had two options– you could one, tell him that you knew it wasn’t him and put him out of his misery or two, you could pretend to not believe him and make him sweat. luke looked like he was about to get on his knees and beg you to believe him. you wouldn’t be surprised if he made a powerpoint presentation listing the reasons why it wasn’t him in those pictures. 
you pursed your lips, “i saw the pictures luke.” 
“and they weren’t me!” he said, exasperated. his eyebrows knitted in anxiety, as he chewed on the nail of his thumb, “you gotta believe me, babe. i don’t know who that guy is but i can promise you it’s not me.” 
you tried not to swoon at the pet name that left his lips. “how do i know that? you weren’t home the night those pictures were taken.” 
“i know it looks bad, but look,” he ran a hand through his curls. “i finished the song the boys wrote and you can go listen to it right now, but then that night, i got caught up with a song idea about you and i stayed up all night to write it. you can listen to the demo right now if you want. you can listen to all the demos you want if that gets you to believe me. i think the recordings have timestamps too, so you’ll see i was in there all nigh–”
“down, pretty boy,” you couldn’t keep it up any longer. luke looked like he was two seconds away from bursting into tears and as much as you wanted to hear him yap, you didn’t have it in your heart to drag it on. you chuckled, wrapping your arms around his neck. you pressed a soft kiss to his lips and he instantly relaxed at the feeling. 
your lips moved in sync as his hands found your waist, pressing you closer to him. his tongue licked your bottom lip, asking for permission, which you gladly granted. it was the sound of clarisse and chris inside the cabin, tapping against the windows that pulled you and luke apart. you both turned to look at your friends who all had shit-eating grins on their faces. 
travis and connor were behind the couple, shaking their heads, “get a fucking room, you heathens.” 
luke flipped them off and pressed a softer, more innocent kiss on your lips before you spoke. “i knew it wasn’t you. just wanted to see you sweat a little bit.” 
“that was mean,” he pouted, but he couldn’t fight off the smile on his face. he always seemed to smile after he kissed you. it made you want to kiss him again, starting a never-ending chain of kisses that would surely lead the two of you to be unproductive for the rest of the day. “i was so scared, five star, you have no idea. the fucker looked so much like me.” 
you laughed, playing with the curls on the nape of his neck, “trust me, i know. my heart dropped to my ass when i first saw them, but i knew it wasn’t you.” 
“how’d you know?” 
“the rings,” you flushed, thinking about how crazy you must sound knowing these small details about him.
“shit, five star,” he whistled, surprised. there was a warmth in his chest that spread throughout the rest of his body at the idea of you paying attention to these things about him. “nothing can get past you, huh? i didn’t even notice that.”
“yeah, at least you know not to sneak around behind me because i’ll find out,” you teased, lacing your fingers together as you slowly made your way up the steps of the cabin. luke stood in his spot, pulling on your hand to get you to to turn around. you walked over to him, confused, “what’s up?” 
“y’know i wouldn’t think of doing that, right?” he asked, voice suddenly serious. “i would never do that to you.” 
your eyes softened as a wistful look appeared on your face. you kissed his cheeks, relishing in the feeling of luke wrapping his arms around your torso in a tight hug. you pressed your face into the crook of his neck, placing a feather-light kiss on his jugular, “yeah, yeah.” 
“‘m serious,” he pulled away, holding your face in his hands. he was staring at you intently, making sure that you were hearing his words. you never gave him an indication that you didn’t trust him, but luke knew that it was better to tell you these things straight up if he wanted to have a real relationship with you. he knew it takes a toll on the people he dates (not that he’s had any relationships like what he has with you) to see these bullshit stories online. if he was in your position, he knew the reassurance would help. luke placed a kiss on your forehead, “i wouldn’t do anything to mess this up if i can help it, five star.”
you let out a forced laugh, awkwardly shifting in his grasp, “yeah, given that my dad controls your contract, i know you wouldn’t.” 
luke frowned, “not because of that.” 
“uh huh,” you said, feeling too vulnerable right now. you didn’t know how to handle this situation, so you coped with humor, “he likes you so don’t worry, your contract extension is practically in the bag.” 
“y/n.” 
you tensed at luke’s use of your real name. he never called you by your name. he always called you by the nickname he gave you when he first met you. five star. you knew luke wasn’t in the mood to joke around. “luke, it’s fine.” 
“i don’t want to pick a fight,” he sighed, playing with the hem of your shirt, “but i just need to hear you say that you believe me when i say that. i wouldn’t cheat on you or do anything to make you feel like i ever would.” 
your voice shook as you spoke, “what if you’re just saying that because it’s still summer and we see each other every day? what’s gonna happen when i’m back in school and you’re out in the world traveling and living your rockstar life?” 
luke’s heart broke at your words. did you really think that he would forget about all of this once september rolled around? as if you didn’t consume his thoughts every day since he met you, as if he didn’t count down the minutes until he got to see you again when he was forced to be away from you because he had things to do, as if he didn’t have a sinking feeling in his stomach when you weren’t next to him. he was starting to think you didn’t understand just how deeply he felt about you even when you assured him that you did understand. 
“i’m not gonna lie, long distance is gonna be hard,” he said, “but we can figure it out. i know it.” 
“i never knew you were such an optimist, castellan.” 
luke laughed at that. if only you knew how many times he psyched himself out of making a move on you because of his own pessimism. it only changed recently, when he finally decided to say fuck it and go for it. “for you? always. i’d be stupid not to be. you’re a good thing, five star.” 
luke fucking castellan. you pressed your head into his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat against your face. he gave you a tight squeeze, placing a kiss on the crown of your head. he loved having you like this, all soft and cuddly with him like you didn’t want to let him go. he should be scared at how quickly he was falling for you, how attached he already felt. 
you kissed his lips again, pulling away with a smile, “so babe huh?” 
“babe, baby, sweetheart,” he mumbled, leaning over to kiss you again. “anythin’ you want.”
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ncroissant · 2 days
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I was feeling a little silly :3 (I wrote a whole ass fanfic on Sub! Francis Mosses :|)
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You sighed, the sound of your door unlocking echoing in the vast silence of the hallway. Stepping inside your apartment, you closed the door behind you, before taking off your coat. A breath of relief escaped your throat. Work had been particularly unforgiving today, and you were glad to finally be home and away from it all.
You hung your jacket on the hook that stood on the plain wall before you. You slipped your shoes off your aching feet, a delightful scent wafting your way. You perked up. A smile tugged at your lips. Despite the hardships you faced daily at your bore of a job, you could always count on one thing at the end of the day: your beloved husband, Francis Mosses.
“Darling?” a call resounded from the kitchen, enunciated in that tired, gravelly voice that you had grown to love.
“I’m home! Just give me a second, dear,” your response was short lived, as you heard hurried footsteps in your direction.
Before you could blink, two warm arms had wrapped themselves around you, breaking you away from the real world if only for a couple moments. And just as soon as they had appeared, they were gone. You could feel your beloved husband dutifully remove the rest of your work attire before those same warm hands guided you towards the living room.
“How was work, my love?” a gentle tone graced your hearing, followed by a ginger peck on your cheek.
You let out a tired chuckle, “The same as always,” you sighed, taking a seat on the couch, “John can’t keep his mouth shut and Mary’s always on my trail.”
There’s a droop in Francis’s tone. “That woman from HR?”
You’re too tired to speak so instead you just nod in response, the weight of your day creeping up on you.
“Well, don’t worry about that now, love,” you feel his palm cup your cheek, heat bouncing off his skin and onto your own as he turns your head ever so gently. Your gazes are locked together now; a faint sparkle in Francis’s.
“I made your favorite.” the words are uttered so softly that you would not be able to catch them if you weren’t paying full attention to him. The tenderness of the moment overwhelms you, and you can do nothing but smile at the man that had stolen your heart. He returns the expression whole-heartedly.
You feel his warmth break apart from you abruptly, and your eyes trail after Francis as he heads towards the kitchen. The aroma is much stronger now.
You can’t help but feel a sense of gratitude as you get up to follow him.
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“Hic—wait—not there-mmgf~!” your husband’s eyes roll back into his head for the umpteenth time tonight, a dizzying flush coating his body.
Your hand is wrapped relentlessly around Francis’s cock, erect and leaking uncontrollably. He lets a gasp as your thumb begins to rub over his slit, a keen clawing at his throat. Your touch glides almost painfully slow across his tip, and the poor man doesn’t know whether to buck into your touch or away from it…it’s just too good.
Instead, his hands paw uselessly at your sides. A series of hiccups escape him from all the crying he’s done, and you lap up the sounds like a man in the desert. You absolutely loved how vocal Francis was. He bites down on his bottom lip in an effort to silence his cries, flush coloring his cheeks out of embarrassment. It doesn’t work, of course.
“Ngh! F~uck…why..”
“Why what, darling?” you crooned, relishing in his state, “Use your words.”
Francis’s mind goes blank. A helpless whine leaves his mouth, and a shaky breath exits him when he feels your hand tighten around the base of his ruined cock.
He lets a sob, “Hnng! I can’t stop..leaking! S-shit~” tears begin to wet his face once again, rolling down to frame his features in a way that you never imagined up until now.
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…was that OOC—:0
imagine him falling apart in your lap, his back pressed up against your chest, squirming in your grasp...twitching with whiny moans and drool dripping down the side of his mouth with fat tears in the corners of his eyes. turning back to look you asking if he did a good job ......
AHHHHHH. u did so amazing anon, not ooc at ALL. REAL FRANCIS IS SOOOOO SUB CODED. like he's so inexperienced it hurts and it just makes me wanna UGHHHH.
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m4tthewmurd0ck · 2 days
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IN EVERY UNIVERSE
── Azriel x Fem!Reader
(i try to be as non descriptive as possible but do use she / her, and mention reader being shorter than all the guys.)
CHAPTER ── INTRODUCTION
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Ever since you were little, books have been your escape. Whether it was needing to get away from a bad day at school or an immature fight with a friend when you were a kid, or a rough day at work as you got older, reading allowed you to temporarily forget all of that.
You imagine what the characters might look like, you dream up scenarios for them that don’t happen in the books. And like so many others who do the exact same thing, you can’t help but wish characters were real so that they could sweep you off your feet. Ugh, what you wouldn’t give to have a certain one-armed super soldier call you doll.
You thought the MCU was where you wanted to exist the most… and then you were introduced to ACOTAR.
It didn’t take long at all for you to become another one of the many girls to fall for Azriel. You dreamt of what he might look like. And of course, knew he’d fall in love with you. Would you guys follow the enemies-to-lovers trope? Childhood best friends turned significant others? Or would it be a love-at-first sight moment for the shadowsinger, who would do everything in his power to get you to notice him? The answer depended on your mood, of course.
As much as you loved to fantasize, you also knew you had to be realistic. Azriel didn’t actually exist, at least not in your world.
One night, you even go so far as to convince yourself that all the hopeless dreaming had to stop. From that moment on, you’d still enjoy books, but you wanted to do your best to stop imagining a life for yourself in worlds you’d never get to visit.
It’s definitely easier said than done, but you go to bed that night confident that it’s the right thing to do.
Only, when you wake up the next morning… something is off. This isn’t your bedroom. The clothes you’re wearing, you’ve never seen before. And why does the man that has just entered your room look exactly like how you pictured Azriel?
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i am so excited for this!!! this will have multiple parts. i have the entire general plot mapped out from start to finish BUT am unsure of how many chapters there’ll be in total. sometimes i picture a chapter being short but then it ends up being way longer.
IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE ADDED TO THIS SERIES TAGLIST, LET ME KNOW! (you can specify just this series, or all things Azriel)
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ravengards-rogue · 1 day
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the evening stretch | warm-up series.
ft. the prompts, nsfw / "dinner" / arthur morgan.
✧ tags : afab!reader + fem!reader outdoors sex, oral (f!recieving), reader is an outlaw, established relationship, desperate arthur morgan, 18+
✧ wc : 2.7k
✧ a/n : hello! this is part of a little warm-up series i do on my other blog where i pick three prompts and try to come up with something. i normally do them in a rut. im working on a commission and im super stuck so.
this actually landed on javier four times in a row but im being kind and sparing a friend so. here's mr. morgan.
✧ synopsis : arthur thinks the place between your legs would suit him quite nicely.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚。⋆
Honest to God, Arthur's never been like this before.
He ain't all that pious to start, so perhaps the sentiment doesn't stretch as far as he would like it too. But it's true, all the same - that in all the lives he's lived, he's never experienced this much bone-deep desire for another human being.
Which is outright ridiculous, since right now you're just making supper. Dinner, you always clarify with that yankee accent. You're going to have dinner together, 'cause Arthur needs to eat. He works hard, according to you.
It's not much, but you're a better cook than Pearson. Even if that's not saying a whole lot. And you're insistent on making the man eat, always on his case about how it's hardly enough for a man his size.
Arthur can chalk it up to being that you love him, as you have told him foolishly many times. He's sure you're not gonna be happy with him in a minute since again - all you're doing is making dinner.
It's just... something. Something about you today. Dammit, he doesn't understand it neither. You've got a job together, and you and Arthur play convincing husband and wife since you practically are anyway. Arthur's been watching you today closely. You lie pretty. Smile with all your teeth, clever with a careful finesse and an honest knack for debauchery and indecency.
You love calling yourself an awful woman. Joking about dying an unweddable spinster given your crudity.
But Arthur likes it in you. Of you. Likes it so much he's done nothing but readjust his pants watching you squirm your way out of every difficult situation and sling the revolver on your hip like a tried-and-true gunslinger.
You're a fine woman to him. A fine one.
The fire crackles as you place a pot over the little flame of the faux stove. You've made a real dinner somehow - with some vegetables and creeping thyme and carefully butchery of meat. It smells good and you seem proud of it, stirring the thing with the sharp end of your knife. Careful not to scrape the pot.
Arthur watches the light glow orange on your face, carefully observing the way it shines on you. You don't look up at all when you speak.
"Gonna stare a hole into me, Morgan."
He feels something warm crawl up his cheeks. He scratches his beard instinctively, tucking his hat over his eyes.
"'m sorry," He says, unsure of how to cover for himself. "Been thinking about some things."
"Don't hurt yourself," You reply, sardonic and dry. Arthur adores you. He laughs to himself and feels warmed by the pleasant smile that seems to give you.
"I'll try. Ain't much used to thinking,"
"Penny for your thoughts, then Mr. Morgan." You reply, carefully moving the pot around so nothing burns. "Might help you clear your mind if you get some of it off your chest."
He's backed himself into a wall. Goddamn him and his big mouth. He hesitates, taking it off this time. Fidgety.
"Yanno, there ain't a lot women like you. Not that I've met at least."
You give him a look. Your lips pressed into a flat line, unimpressed by him.
"Is that so?"
He laughs to himself. "It is indeed. You're a real piece of work. 'Specially going around batting your lashes, making yourself out to be a housewife."
"Aw what, did you like seeing me all doe eyed?" You smile to yourself, teasing but not entirely insincere. "If it helps, since you're the fake husband, I'm only half-acting."
That makes him grin. Though you say it with confidence, the sincerity it makes you flush.
"It ain't that," Arthur says again, looking at your face for the second time in a few minutes. "Just that you're a fine woman to be around. What do they call it...resourceful. That's what I'm thinking of."
"Who taught you such a big word, Morgan?"
"Trelawny, I'd guess."
You laugh, loud and beautiful and Arthur smiles. You look at him from across the fire. "Well, I'm glad you like my company, Mr. Morgan."
"I do more than like it," He hums, offering a reprieve. He nods at you carefully, head tilted. "Come 'ere,"
Your eyes widen at him, but you don't deny him of what he's asking. For that he is awfully grateful. You're more than capable and much less than needy. There's victory in your deliberate desire for him, Arthur thinks. You want him enough to let him chase you.
You come sit by Arthur. You're a little awkward with him still but he don't mind. It adds to whatever he feels for you, sugar-sweet affection and all. You sit on your knees and Arthur turns his head looking at you.
Beautiful. Beautiful thing you are, really. He has a hard time finding the words to tell you.
He reaches up, hand cupping your face. You lean into the touch, palm resting on calloused hand. He adores you.
"And quit with the Mister Morgan nonsense. Drives me crazy."
"Arthur," You say, slow and deliberate. "You know you're looking at me like you wanna eat me."
'"Read my mind, then."
"Arthur," You repeat, scandalized. He would smile if he wasn't so serious. "We're supposed to be eatin' dinner. You got into a whole spat with them Leymone Riders just today. You need to recover,"
His smile widens.
"Lettin' me go down on ya will heal me just fine,"
You look at him exasperated. Arthur leans into your neck, placing chaste kisses down the line of your jaw. He kisses you just there - underneath your earlobe, knows it drives you crazy.
"Lay down, sugar. Help a poor, injured man heal."
You pull away from him with faux exasperation, fond smiling breaking your face.
"You can be such a dog some times, do you know that?"
"I'm afraid I do,"
You give him another unimpressed look, but you listen anyways. Arthur moves so you can lay down on the bedroll - his bedroll. He takes off his coat just before you lay your head, playing it underneath you to get you more comfortable.
"Dinner's gonna burn," You tell him, almost reflexively. He laughs as he looks at you, your hands folded over your stomach and flat. He laughs at you.
"Burn? You feeling warm?"
"Arthur!"
And he laughs again, catching your boot in his hand as you go to kick his chest lightly. He sets it back down as he stares at you. You're quite the sight. Adoration bubbles up into his throat, blooms out into a hum. The sound of crickets and owls and all sorts of night wanderers sound - but none are distracting enough to pry his gaze away.
"You're looking too much," You say, your voice a half tremble. He nods.
"Got too," Arthur hums, leaning forward into your space. You always smell good to him, some cross between soft earth, and sweet liquor and clothes left in the sun. Skin and salt and sweet. "Who knows how long I'll be around."
He presses his lips to yours gentle and you kiss him - but only once before pulling away. Your eyes suddenly serious, warm palm on his cheek.
"Don't say something so morbid. If you go, I go,"
"Sweetheart—"
"No buts." You affirm, pressing your thumb to his lip all serious. Your eyes meet and for a moment - just one minute, all he wants to do is stop time from moving. From stealing him from you in life at all. Even a few seconds, intolerable. "Don't feel to good to hear, does it? So don't say it."
"Alright, alright," He huffs, laughing against your neck. He kisses it again, right against your pulse - quickening under his teeth as he bites and scrapes. He mulls over how much he wants you, and how little time there is to do everything. "Jus' lemme...I dunno."
Now you're cheeky, smiling up at him. Lord above, you do something so terrible to him. "Now that's just not true, baby."
He laughs deep and raspy. It's not true, because he knows exactly what he's after.
Arthur lets his hands plane over your clothed body. He doesn't bother with the ritual of undressing you entirely - since the act doesn't deserve the intimacy. You do, maybe - but Arthur's head feels too foggy to do anything civilized. He has to settle for letting his hands grip the fabric of your skirt and push it until it bunches around your waist.
There's no real delicacy in it, save for the way your breath hitches as Arthur gives himself better access. He moves to lay on his stomach between your thighs. He wishes it were brighter to give him better view. He's seen it plenty but looking at your pretty pussy alone gets him harder than steel.
His hands go underneath every layer of fabric to undo the little tie of your undergarments. You squirm when Arthur takes them off, but you don't pull away.
It's pretty. Even with the dim light of just the moon and fire to let Arthur see it. What entices him mostly though is the scent, after a long day of riding out alone - there's something about the way you smell - sweat and all that makes the back of his mouth ache with want. Makes his teeth hurt just dreaming about it.
He doesn't let his animalistic urges take him yet. He knows you need the build up. His hand is soft as he grips onto your waist. He pulls your legs further apart and lets his lips brush the inside of your thigh. Starts at your knee and works his way up, his mouth burning hot - open kisses. You giggle at the sensation of his beard, but it's tamped down with lust Arthur knows like the back of his hand.
Slow, deliberate, sinful. He knows the way you liked to be touched so exactly, but the pace is set more by his desperation. It grows ten sizes listening to you sigh and huff, feeling your hands come down to touch his hair and play with it.
"Arthur," Your voice calls. Pleading. Wanting him. You're so good at making Arthur loose his composure with so little. It's hard to tease you as your voice clips off into a whine. "Arthur,"
"I've got you," He says, assured. He means it as much as he means anything he's ever said. He ain't a decent man, but this much he can say full ways. "I've got you, sugar. Ease up. Let me take care of you,"
And so you again, breathless - boneless and eager. You let Arthur into your space, and something about that. Something about you. His heart races, blood pumping through his body. It pulses in his ears, head swimming with nothing but praise for you.
You're a fine woman. You're a good girl. The best he knows.
Arthur can feel the way your clit pulses with want before he ever puts his mouth on you. Makes him chuckle, gloved hand resting on your navel. He uses his thumb to pull it back, before using both hands to spread you open. Then, in an act less then gentlemanly, spits on it hard. He watches it land, lewd as it drips between your fold. He laughs to himself.
Another pitchy call of his name and Arthur decides he's had enough fun to get him through the evening.
He kisses your clit first, thinks it's only gentlemanly. When your hips buck up trying to chase the feeling of his mouth - he laughs. His hands dig into your hips. You're soft, skin dimpling from just how tight he holds onto you.
When he finally gets what he wants, his own body lurches forward from want. He nearly slumps into the ground - half-way between relieved and utterly addicted. It's a sense of euphoria unmatched by the finest liquor or cigars money can be.
The taste of you fills his mouth as Arthur eats.
Arthur is not used to playing predator. Not interested in the act of devouring. You often compare him to some sort of herbivore. But there's something too hungry, too visceral, too primal for him to be anything but a coyote. A teethed thing, all screwed up from hunger.
He lets his tongue slip against the seam of your cunt, all the arousal collecting in his mouth. His senses flood with something heady, sweet but bitter and he groans shamelessly as a result. Spoiled by the taste and utterly debauched.
"Oh, god - Arthur, you're—"
Arthur is pleased by the way your words are cut off by your own moan. He slides his tongue back up, wet muscle firm as it lays flat against your clit. There's a slight twitch like it's asking for more attention.
Arthur is all to eager vtoo provide, closing his lips around the twitching bundle of nerves. He knows what you like. Learned over time just the amount of pressure he needs to suck with and the speed he needs to draw his tongue over your clit to get you right at the very edge of your orgasm.
He teases you to that pace. Slow increases in either or, until it's just at that perfect medium. Once he hits that spot, you always moan so pretty.
You shudder, your body lurching up as your hands get tighter in his hair. "Aah, fuck. Ngh, Arthur. Don't do this t'me."
You begging him not too makes him want to do it more. If Arthur were any less aroused, he would. But his brain can barely think up enough to stamina to do that. His own cock is strained against his work pants - hips instinctively rutting into the bedroll just beneath him. Silently seeking friction all while hoping he doesn't get enough to distract him.
It'd be a damn shame, he thinks - letting anything pull him from the taste of your pussy. From the smell of it, from the sight of it, from the feeling of you. Sticky, pulsing strings of arousal coating his tongue and turning all his thoughts to dust.
His cock throbs again as you rut against his mouth. Arthur pins you in place.
"Please," You say. A magic word he ain't much stronger than. "Please make me cum,"
You really are a good girl, the way you know exactly what makes him tick. Arthur moans into your cunt as he sucks and licks and eats. He'd die over it, and he does not mean it lightly. It's the only thing in the world he wants to do in the moment. He laser focuses on finding that sweet spot again.
And he knows he does when you start whimpering. Squirming and holding onto his soft brown locks and pleading for something you don't know about. He can feel how wet your getting - dripping along down his beard and face. Thick strings of your arousal stick and slide down his neck.
He's never been a messy eater, but you've been disproving many of his prior understandings of himself. He supposes it's only natural.
"Oh, baby," You say, not even his name. Arthur knows it's a warning that you're gonna cum. All he can do is encourage you. He hums into your soft, wet cunt and you groan again. "Fuck, Arthur. I'm gonna cum."
Arthur knows better. He doesn't do a thing but keep going. Lets you move and thrash and pull away but keeps you firm in his place and eats your pussy until you can barely think.
He knows the knot is untying before you do because of how much you squirm. When you cum, you cum hard. Your back arches up into a picture perfect curve, toes curling and hands tugging at his roots for purchase.
He can feel every pulse of desire as you finally do let go. You cry out, loud enough to startle any nearby critters. Your fingers grip tight at the base of his hair as the orgasm washes over you. It's just as magnetic as it was the first time.
He's sure that will always be true.
When Arthur pulls away from your pulsing, wet core - he can feel just how much of his lower face is sticky. He's sure you also know, if the way you laugh is anything to go by.
And he's not long to follow after. Not even a few seconds and he can feel something in pants tighten - a mess of white staining the front of the denim in an onset of lust damn near shameful. Is he a teenager again? Lord above.
Breathlessly, you look down at him after you've ridden your high out.
Pulling up Arthur by the collar, you look at him slowly and frown. You look impassioned and a little frustrated.
You kiss him tender after you've come too. Once, then twice, then a another time with your hand still drawn into a fist. Arthur grabs it closed, opening your palms before kissing the palm of your hands until you're no longer mad.
"Hate how good you are at that," You admit, a little drunk of the euphoria of all of it. "Make me feel so crazy."
Arthur beams at you unapologetic.
"It's good to be that with me, sweetheart." Arthur says, kissing the corner of your mouth. "Now how about you go and give me one more?"
You laugh breathlessly but don't go to stop him at all.
"Insatiable man."
"Only for you, my girl."
.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚。⋆
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chaconnehoonie · 18 hours
Text
Welcome to Earth- Enhypen(Pilot)
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⟿ Extraterrestrial! Enhypen x Fem! Reader
Synopsis- The idea of extraterrestrial life was never a deeply interesting topic to you. Of course, that was before you found a wrecked spaceship and seven inhuman beings.
Estimated WC: 20k-25k
Pilot WC: 812
Warnings: Aliens, cursings, angst, smut(hyung line), fluff, idiotic humor, mythology, [etc. will be added on]
Taglist-
@deobitifull @shinrjj @notevenheretbh1 @skzenhalove @jooniesbears-blog
Please comment or send an ask to be added to the taglist, and please have your age in your bio!! I will not be tagging minors or anyone without an age.
A/N: Although this is titled as the Pilot chapter, this will not be a series! The purpose of having this short Pilot chapter is for everyone to get a taste of what’s to come, and to test the waters with a less common genre. So, there will not be chapters, only the pilot and the full length fic.
The depictions of aliens and extraterrestrials in this writing are not meant to be “historically” accurate or follow society’s standard view, these characteristics are made to fit the storyline.
This is fiction and the scenarios are completely fake and from my brain, none of the characters are like this in real life, MDNI!
“Seriously- who’s idea was it to visit another galaxy just for some stupid party!?” Sunghoon stands up from the table he was sitting at, abruptly leaving the game he was playing with Sunoo and Jungwon. He stomps his way over to the spaceship’s control system, catching the attention of Jay who was taking a nap. “And why is Riki flying us? Who’s supposed to be controlling this ship!?”
The panic in Sunghoon’s voice rises, quickly attempting to shove Riki out of the seat but the younger just shoves him back. “Chill, Jake was steering but he needed a bathroom break so I took over.” Riki shrugs casually. Jay finds interest in the conversation and walks up next to Sunghoon, heavy yet squishy feet slapping the tiled floor underneath him.
“Chill? Chill?! Do not tell me to chill when we’re at risk of dying!” Sunghoon is yelling now, drawing their friends’ attention to the situation. Jay groans at Sunghoon’s volume ringing in his sleepy ears.
“What’s going on? Where’s Jake?” Heeseung hears the commotion and comes to rest a hand on Sunghoon’s slimy shoulder, speaking calmly to steady his friend. “Jake left to take a leak, and told Riki he could steer the ship. So unbelievable.” Sunghoon shakes his head in disapproval, mentally listing off the ways he’ll punish Jake in the future. “Maybe if I water his favorite plant with acid rain he’ll get the message.”
Heeseung attempts to relax his raging friend, forgetting about their younger one now steering the ship in the wrong direction. “Wait, Riki- do you even know where we’re going?” Heeseung looks towards the radar, noting how the small image of a ship was further than it should be. “Well…Jake didn’t tell me where to go, he just told me to keep steering.”
The eldest rubs a long finger against his temple, trying to remain calm unlike Sunghoon. Just in time, Jake comes strolling out of the bathroom with a sharp-toothed grin. “See! I knew he wouldn’t crash. You guys just have to trust me.” He sits in the passenger seat next to Riki, encouraging him to keep flying as he’s doing a great job at “keeping everyone alive.”
Before Jake was able to take over the steering, a loud shriek comes from Jay who was now pointing towards the radar. “Guys look! What is that?” All five boys focus on the electronic, watching the way the ship is now suddenly turning towards a massive unidentifiable object. “Not you Riki! You’re supposed to focus when you steer!” Jay turns the boy’s large head back towards the windshield, but it’s too late.
“Watch out! It’s an asteroid!” Sunghoon grabs the steering wheel above Riki’s hands, trying to take control of the whole ship, sighing as the flying vehicle becomes stable again. “Seriously guys, who lets a child have this much power?” Everyone lets out relieved laughs, although Sunghoon wasn’t cracking a joke.
Just as they thought they were safe, a loud crash is heard behind them followed by the screams of Sunoo and Jungwon. Everyone turns to see the two of them holding onto different pieces of furniture as a hole in the large broken window threatens to suck them out of the ship as smaller pieces of furniture fly out. “There’s more!” Jungwon shouts as him and Sunoo look out of the big broken window next to them, watching as the star-speckled sky fills with large flying meteors.
Jungwon grabs Sunoo’s arm, pulling him towards the front of the ship with everyone else to huddle for protection. “This is bad guys, there’s too many!” Sunghoon is cautiously dodging any meteors and debris while everyone else is balled up together, slimy cold skin pressed tight as they get ready to say their goodbyes forever.
“I never thought it would end this way.” Heeseung starts speaking, voice shaky as he tries not to worry the younger members. “I always thought Jake and Riki would accidentally light a mushroom forest on fire or something…not this.” He finally breaks down and everyone else follows, sobbing and gripping each other tighter.
Sunghoon doesn’t give up, continuing to steer even with multiple asteroids denting and destroying the ship. “I can try to land us somewhere.” His voice sounds frantic as he tries not to show his panic. Before he can find a clear planet to land on, a sudden asteroid is seen rapidly flying forward and into the windshield.
A fire erupts from the destroyed engine, any alarms enabled on the spaceship are now blaring and flashing red as the whole aircraft plummets down. “Hoon!” Sunoo cries out as he extents a hand to the older who is cowering away from the windshield and running over towards his friends.
“We’re going down! Prepare for impact!”
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tyrantisterror · 1 day
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I think one of the things that gets lost in the big, endless internet conversation about whether or not heroes should kill their villains is the fact that killing villains off robs you of a lot of story-telling potential. The Joker died at the end of his debut story in Batman - imagine what Batman would be if he stayed dead. No Joker in Batman 66, no The Killing Joke which means no Barbara Gordon as Oracle and no The Dark Knight, no Mark Hamill Joker episodes of BTAS (so many of them were based on his comic appearances, after all - the laughing fish is a direct adaptation of a comic), which means no Harley Quinn and no Return of the Joker, on and on it goes.
Like, you can argue the morality of heroes sparing their villains till you turn blue - god knows this site does it at least a thousand times a day - but on a purely pragmatic story-telling level, the minute you kill ANY character, you kill all the story potential they had. And yeah, it's fiction, you can bring them back from the dead if you really need them, but that's a pretty hard story beat to pull off without hurting your story. You don't want to fill your tale with "Somehow, Palpatine has returned" moments.
And you can just make new villains, sure, but again you have a problem with that - a new villain has to establish themselves and has to stand out from who came before, which means you can't go directly to the storylines you could have had with a villain who stuck around AFTER their introduction. A recurring villain is capable of doing things that one-off villains can't.
youtube
I'm going to illustrate this with a character from a fandom I'm not even a part of - I never played the Ratchet and Clank series and am only vaguely aware of it, but one day I saw a supercut of scenes starring one of its recurring villains, Dr. Nefarious, on twitter, and I was like "Oh shit, that's the guy who plays Quark on Deep Space Nine, isn't? This guys a hoot, let's see if we can find more clips on youtube." Which brought me to this hefty video here from one of the more recent games in the series.
And, like, as a person who "doesn't even go here," it's obvious this goofy little fucker has a history. His opening scenes have him ranting about how much it sucks to lose repeatedly - a lampshade on the "flaw" of a recurring villain, i.e. that their threat diminishes the more they come back because, by the nature of their role in the story, it means they've suffered a lot of losses. So how cool is it that as this supercut chugs along you can clearly see this is a theme of the game - that this is a story about the virtue of losing, a story that is enriched by having an antagonist who fans of the series know has lost a LOT?
The true antagonist is an alternate version of Dr. Nefarious who's won every fight in his life so far, apparently with little effort, and I love how they differ on a design aspect. They're both technically mad scientists, but notably, Emperor Nefarious, the winner, has a more imposing and "heroic" build, but a smaller brain-dome for his robot brains. Because winning may make him look strong, but if a mad scientist's real power is their mind, well, which Nefarious is really the strong one here then?
Dr. Nefarious gets this juicy arc about realizing the virtue in his repeated failures that corresponds with the heroic characters struggling to find a way to win against a seemingly invincible opponent, as well as contrasts the true villain, Dr. Nefarious's explicit counterpart and foil Emperor Nefarious, who has never once lost and is a total piece of shit for it. Again, not my fandom, I don't go here, not an expert on Ratchet and Clank, but even as a relative stranger to it who's just watching a big supercut, I fucking love this. This is an excellent story.
And it's one you can only tell with a recurring villain. Without Dr. Nefarious, this story works significantly less. You need a villain with a history the audience has seen to really sell this.
Anyway, I made this post because, ironically enough, I saw another tweet talking about how some fans think Dr. Nefarious should have been killed off in his first appearance, and, like... that's just fucking baffling to me, as a person outside this fandom looking in. Recurring villains deserve more love, man, they give us so much.
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emeraldborealis · 23 hours
Text
Over And Over Again
Pairing: Ex-husband John Price x GN!reader
TW//CW: Angst, flashbacks, yelling, fighting, brief mention of suicidal ideation, manipulation, gaslighting, blood, parental trauma, coerced drinking.
A/N: Hopefully this part will explain some questions about their past relationship.
Words: 5,147
You are currently reading Chapter 4
The Do-Over Series Masterlist - Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three
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Shutting the door behind John didn't feel real. Hearing his car pull out of the driveway again didn't feel real. 
Walking into your bedroom and into your bathroom to shower didn't feel real. The water didn't feel real.
Everything felt so distant. Like it wasn't really happening. There was a numbness that had washed over you, making nothing feel like anything. 
Sitting on your floor, still naked and wrapped in your towel you pulled out a box from under your bed, opening it you sifted through its contents, past letters and notes from friends and family, your birth certificate, social security card. All of it was here, but you were looking for something in particular. 
Pulling out your wedding ring you held it in your hand, feeling the cool metal against the palm of your hand. It was so cold it felt foreign to hold. It was once always warm, always against your skin. A feeling you knew better than almost any other. One you were once proud to have. 
All at once the memories came flooding back in. All at once something felt too real.
"Can you do more? Try harder? We all have to help around the house. You're an adult now. I need you to do more. And you need to go to work more, you have rent you need to pay, and insurance." Your mother's lecturing voice clawed into your eardrums. 
"I'm trying my best, I do help. I do more than you think I do. I'm working as much as I can." You felt like it was killing you, working so hard and receiving so little. It had always been this way. You were seen as nothing but lazy.
"I never see you do anything. And you could be going into work more, you should be getting forty hours. You're an adult." Your mother continued, shooting down your efforts.
"You don't see everything. I'm doing all the work they have for me. Why does it matter? I pay you, I put money away in savings. I'm doing alright. I've been working since I was fifteen." No matter how often you tried to explain that you were making it, she wouldn't listen.
"Well, you've needed to pay me since you were fifteen. So you needed a job. You want to be someone someday don't you? This is life, this is what we do. We work. This is how you become someone. So unless you marry someone, this is your life, living here until you can move out." You didn't have the energy to argue, she was right. She always was.
Turning the ring over in your hand you felt tears welling back into your eyes as another memory came to mind. You'd cried a lot tonight. Apparently you weren't done yet. 
Sitting utterly alone in your bedroom, you were about to be plagued by a parade of memories, forced to watch each one pass you one by one like fancily decorated floats. You did this too often, let your past walk all over you, throw things at you until you had too much to hold.
"I'm going for a walk." You informed your parents, stepping out the front door without protest.
Your feet took you to a familiar path, one you walked often. One you probably shouldn't walk on, you knew it was stupid and dangerous, especially the bridge. 
But the walk made you feel better. Especially when you'd walk with music blasting in your ears. Leaving the possibilities of something bad happening open. You knew that thought process was wrong. Which is why you didn't have your music today.
"You shouldn't walk on the tracks, you know. It's dangerous." A voice behind you startled you, making you trip and stumble on the railroad ties, you were able to recover without falling thankfully. You hadn't heard anyone around you. You needed to be better about zoning out.
"Yeah? I had no idea." Sarcasm dripped from your voice, turning around to face whoever it was that was talking to you. It was a man, a few years older than you. A smooth babyface, soft eyes, he was built an abnormal amount for a typical person his age. "Who are you anyways? Why do you care?"
"My name's John. I care because there's so few people in the world who look as nice as you, so it'd be a shame for you to be hit by a train."  His response made you roll your eyes.
"Oh, I get it. You're a creepy bum. Stop following me." You turned to keep walking, trying to leave him behind, but he followed you, jogging to catch up and walk beside you.
"You're delightful aren't you? And I'm not a bum."  He defended himself, not letting you continue alone. Maybe he could tell you were upset. Maybe he understood.
"Then what are you, John?" You asked a bit accusatorially, stopping to face him. 
"I'm in the S.A.S." Suddenly you heard a door opening, a way out. They moved around a lot, didn't they? Looking down you inspected his left hand, no ring.
"You seem a little young for being in the S.A.S." You were skeptical, untrusting. You needed to know he wasn't lying to you. He was no use to you if he really was just a weirdly strong creep.
"I joined the infantry at sixteen." He explained, a small smile coming to his face as he watched you take him in.
"I don't know what that means, but I'm assuming it's an explanation." John was going to become someone, John was going places. You wanted to catch a ride, you wanted out. 
Your struggles were a completely different battle when you were young, time doesn't heal everything. But it can take you away from those things, make them hurt less. John made them hurt less.
For a time.
"Who's this? This your boyfriend? He's so sweet looking." Your mother smiled, moving in to hug John, embracing him like she knew him, despite this being the first time she met him. "I'm a hugger." 
John seemed a bit awkward and unsure of your mother, he'd heard you rant about her a few times, just small things. But from his own experience he knew what she was probably like. "You have a good kid, good head on their shoulders." 
"Don't I? I raised them well." You could feel a bubble of anger rise in you, she didn't raise you. You raised yourself.  
You'd carried so much anger and resentment for your mother when you were younger. A lot of it was well earned. But the ways you'd sometimes treat her in return still ate at you. She was trying to overcome how she was raised. Just as you were now.
It just wasn't fair that you had to become a stepping stool for her to find peace for herself. It wasn't fair that she got to believe she was the reason you turned out okay when she was one of the biggest things you had to overcome.
"So, do you like John?" Your mother asked you curiously, sitting on the end of your bed, interrupting you from reading your book.
"I don't know yet. I think I do." You shrugged, putting your book down. Talking about this stuff with your mother made you feel sick.
"You like him, I can tell. You know you could have told me you were dating someone." She nudged your leg, trying to play with you, but you could hear a hint of her lecturing tone slipping through.
"It slipped my mind I guess. Sorry." You apologized. You found it easier to apologize immediately rather than let things keep going, keep escalating. Even when you apologized sometimes she still preferred to keep digging in deeper.
"You know you can talk to me about anything. Anytime." She was trying to be sincere, she really was. It just felt wrong to you. It felt wrong to talk to your mom. It always ended in a lecture of some kind.
"Yeah, mom. I know."  You reassured her, really just wanting to get back to reading your book.
Looking up to your ceiling you tried to stop your tears, wiping at them furiously. You were shaking again, but that may have been because you were still just in a towel. You couldn't stop yourself from crying, your bottom lip sticking out in a pout as you ugly cried.
"So, when are you and John going to get married?" Your mother questioned as you walked through the front door after work.
"Mom, it's been six months. Two of which he was gone." You took a deep breath, putting your bag down and taking off your work shoes. "Why are you so concerned about me getting hitched?"
"I was married at nineteen. You could be too. Especially since John is a good man. I think you should marry him." Your mom smiled at you, explaining her reasoning. She wanted you to sit down and talk to her about it. But you brushed her off. 
"I don't know yet." You grabbed your bag and started walking off.
"I was talking to you!" Your mom called after you.
Why did you ever let your family get the idea of marriage in your head? Why was that the thing that was supposed to fix you? Maybe if you had decided for yourself that you wanted to be married you could have gotten to that point with John on your own.
You could have actually been ready to get married. You could have learned how the world was supposed to work. How relationships were supposed to work.
"John, I want out of this stupid town. I want out of my parents house." You sat in a tree with him, watching the sunset, there were stars coming out now. Things felt right in these moments with John.
"We could get married, we could move somewhere. I've been thinking I want to be closer to base. We could get married and go together. There's a lot of pros to marrying me." John suggested the idea to you, taking your left hand in his, playing with your ring finger.
"There are..." You held his hand tighter. "You're the first person I've felt this way towards. Maybe that's a sign."
You wailed, curling up on your cold hard floor. You felt pathetic, but you knew you needed to let yourself feel all of this.
To finally fully process and let go of everything that brought you and John together in the first place. Everything he was to you. Everything he did for you. The good, the bad, and the ugly.
"Welcome home, sweetheart." John opened the door to your new apartment for you, holding your hand softly, your wedding band rubbing against his rough skin. "Look around, I'll get our bags from the car." 
You walked around your new home, both your families had moved your stuff in while you were on your honeymoon. This was your first time seeing the place, it was nice. It was far away from your family. It was perfect.
"I know it's not much. One day I'll get us an actual house, I promise." John came inside, setting your bags down. You smiled at him, jumping on him in a bear hug.
"No, it's perfect." You reassured him, kissing his face repeatedly. You were the happiest you'd been in a long time. You were happy to be married to John. To be able to call him your husband. To be out of your old home. Things were looking up.
Remembering the good years tore you apart. The few good years when you were just happy to be with John. When things were working out, when the compromise was listening to him and you were happy to do so.
They were all supposed to be good years. It was all supposed to be good. You were supposed to live out the rest of your life happily with John. But all good seasons have to come to an end.
The memory of the first time you broke down and called your mom still stung. When you had a moment of weakness and just needed your mom. You needed your mom like how you saw others need your mom all of growing up. How could she turn you away when she didn't turn them away?
"Mom, I'm not really happy. We fight a lot." You spoke into the landline, wiping at your tears. Feeling guilty for needing to talk to her. Feeling guilty you needed to talk to someone about your marriage.
"You love him don't you?" Your mom asked curiously, sounding mildly concerned. 
"Yes." Your voice trembled as you spoke. You just needed your mom. You needed to talk to your mom. 
"Then there you go, all marriages have troubles. But since you love him I'm sure you can work it out. Me and your dad fight but we love each other so we make it work. Anyways, I have to go. I'll talk to you later. Okay?" She brushed off your need to talk to her. Your desperation to just be consoled by her.
"Okay. Love you." You hiccupped. Knowing now you shouldn't have bothered. She only cared to listen to your problems if they helped prove her point. This did nothing for her, listening to you now was like listening to a gnat. Inconsequential to her.
"Love you." She hung up on you, leaving the receiver beeping in your ear. Leaving you in shambles alone. Leaving you once again believing you were the problem.
You probably were. You just needed to try harder, work harder to fix things. You loved him. So that was enough for things to work out.
Your screams didn't even make a sound, they were just a rushing of air and a tightness in your throat as you sat up from the floor, sitting with your back against your bed, clutching your ring against your chest.
"I don't want another, I'm okay." You refused another drink, a polite smile on your face.
"Oh come on, you've only had one. I didn't think your wife was a killjoy, John, with the way you talk so highly of them. I thought we could all have some fun." One of John's friends complained, trying to push another drink over to you.
"Come on love, it's okay. You can handle another drink, right? Nothing bad will happen to you as long as I'm here. Just drink a little more, if you can't finish it I will." John tried to reassure you, wrapping his arm around you and squeezing your shoulder, bringing you in closer to him. Away from his buddy.
"Okay." You caved, accepting another glass of alcohol. "But I'm not drinking all of it."
John's friend kept drinking, and then he kept drinking. He was totally pissed, babbling on and on about things you couldn't even understand. He was making you uncomfortable, but John reassured you he was harmless.
"Your wife sure is something John. I see why you married them." John's friend drunkenly giggled, reaching his hand out towards you, John pushed away his hand. Bringing you closer to himself. John's eyes were dark and dangerous, something you'd never really seen with him.
"I think you've had enough to drink. Let's get you home." John stood up from the booth, helping his friend up, putting his friend's arm around his shoulder to help him walk straight. "Come on, love. We'll take him home then we can go home too." 
"Oh, okay." You followed close to John, you were buzzed, but you were alright.
"You're such a good man John, being willing to share such a nice thing." John's friend stumbled away from John, wrapping his arm around you. His breath reeked of the alcohol he was drinking, his arm around you was heavy. Felt wrong. 
"What?" Your sudden panic of betrayal was short lived. One moment John's buddy was all over you, then the next John was on him, several feet away from you on the ground.
One hit, then two. John just kept hitting him. Over and over again. His knuckles were bloody, each time he pulled back his arm to hit him again you saw them, it wasn't his own blood. "Don't you ever touch them. Don't you ever touch my wife."
"John. John, that's enough. John, he's had enough." You grabbed John's shoulder, trying to calm him down. It was as if he hadn't even heard you, he just kept hitting his friend. "John, John. John! JOHN! Stop!" 
The sound of your screaming made him stop, stumbling up off of his now unconscious friend. You were surprised the damage wasn't worse, he was holding his punches and he was still a bloody mess. 
"It's alright, I've got you." He wrapped his arms around you, soothing you with his bloody hands, whispering sweetly into your ear, his nose pressed to your temple. The blood on his hands ruining your shirt.
Biting your lip you tried to stop it's quivering. You didn't want to remember that. You didn't want to have to think about that day anymore. It was one of the biggest turning points in your marriage. It was the day things started to get really bad.
"I'm trying to fix things okay?" John yelled at you, running his hands through his hair. "I'm sorry if what I did was shocking to you. I was just trying to get him away from you. I was angry, unbelievably angry."
"John, you're always angry." You cried, trembling as you stood before him. Sobbing like the mess you were.
"Well, who's fault is that?" His tone was biting, tearing into you. "Stop looking at me like that, stop looking at me with that scared face! I have never laid a hand on you. I would never lay a hand on you. So stop acting like a victim." 
You could hardly breathe, climbing from the floor you sat on the edge of your bed, adjusting your towel that had started to slip away from your body. Bringing it around you tighter.
"Mom, things have gotten worse between us. We're both tense since the incident." You called your mom, trying to cry to her again.
"That's normal. Fights are scary to see, but he was protecting you. Defending your honor. You're not worried he'd hit you right?" You could hear her washing the dishes on the other side of the line. Your concerns weren't even worth her full attention. You weren't worth her attention.
"I don't know." You ran your hand through your hair, trying to soothe yourself.
"You love him right?" She seemed to be listening a little better now, if only to hear the answer to her question.
"Yes." You sniffled, wiping the snot from your nose on the sleeve of your sweater.
"Then things will work out. This will pass. Just try to work harder on your relationship." Work harder. Work harder. All you needed to do was work harder. Push farther. Be better. Do better.
Standing from your bed you weighed your ring in your hand, screaming, you threw it as hard as you could. It hit your wall, falling down behind your dresser, as you heard it hit the floor you sunk down to your knees sobbing.
"You know how I said I'd get us a house someday? Well, since I'm being moved to another base we need somewhere closer to live. And I found the perfect place, it's everything you've ever told me you wanted. And, I think a change of scenery could be good for us." John announced to you, a smile on his face.
"It's an actual house? Like, our actual house? We're not renting anymore?" You asked, excitement coursing through you. Jumping up you jumped on him, making him chuckle as he caught you.
"Yes, and it's perfect for us. Has lots of character, just needs a little work." He spun you around. This could be a fresh start, somewhere away from everything you knew, a place to make new memories and experiences.
Your fingers traced over a scratch in the hardwood, you couldn't remember how it got there, maybe it was there before you moved in. Something about it felt familiar.
This home was supposed to fix things, as you fixed it, it was supposed to in turn fix you, your relationship. But relationships can't be fixed with recaulking and repainting. You learned that from trying. 
"By work I didn't think you meant demolition and rebuilding." You joked, stepping out of the car, seeing the house for the first time. 
"It's what I could do, love. And, it's not that bad. Just needs some new paint. We can do it together." John playfully nudged you, pushing you softly. 
"Together." You agreed, laying your head against his shoulder, wrapping your arm around his waist. The moving truck would be there soon with your things, but right now you could just take in the sight of your new home with your husband.
You covered your face in your hands, you wanted to hide. Hide from remembering. The snot running from your nose was beginning to suffocate you, you couldn't breathe through your nose anymore. 
You were still trying to cry out, still trying to wail and scream. But you had no voice left, you'd barely get a squeak out. There was just too much hurt.
"Mom, things are actually getting better. I think this project together is what we needed. We've gotten most of the outside done, but the inside is still unpainted, it has some old wallpaper, I think John's plan is to peel it. It's nice wallpaper but it's peeling already in a few places." You tried to catch your mom up, actually happy to share good news with her.
"That's great. I have to go, but keep up the hard work." She was never going to listen to you. Not when she had other things to do. Not when you were not the most important thing.
"Oh, okay. Bye." You let her hang up, off to do who knows what.
You often mourned the relationship you could have had with your mother, if you were only more like her. Thought, talked, acted, more like her.
If you would have just let her keep controlling and dictating your life. If you'd never left her maybe she would have loved you as a mother should. 
If you reminded her less of your father. Maybe she could have liked you more.
Maybe if it wasn't for her own father, she could have been a better mother.
"Good work, another wall done." You admired your hard work on the outside of the house, putting your hand on John's shoulder mischievously.
"You just got paint on me didn't you?" He looked at your hand on his shoulder before he looked at your face. A knowing look on his face.
"Yep." You laughed, lifting your hand to show him your  palm covered in paint, and the spot on his shirt that now had your handprint. 
"You little-" You booked it, running away and laughing. 
"It's just paint! No need for retaliation!" You watched as John dipped his hands into the paint, chasing after you, you screamed as you ran away. "Stay away from me!"
"Why? It's just paint." He continued after you, much too quick for comfort. "Come on, I just want to embrace my loving wife, you don't want your husband to embrace you?" 
"No!" You laughed, slowing down. You did not have his endurance, you felt like your limbs were going to fall off before playing this prank. Now you were sure you'd die with the stitch that was in your side.
"You already have paint on you, what's a little more?" John caught you, wrapping his arms around you, he put his hands on your abdomen, getting paint on your shirt, marking you with his handprints. 
You continued to laugh. "Okay, okay. Now we're even." You turned around in his grasp to face him, kissing him tenderly.
"Not yet." He cupped your face, leaving a handprint on your cheek. "Now we're even."
You cupped your cheek, feeling where he'd left the handprint. It was long gone. But a piece of you could still feel it. There was so much good mixed in with the bad.
Most things will be okay eventually, but not everything will be. Sometimes you put in a good fight and still lose. Sometimes holding on too tight is the worst thing you can do. Sometimes the best thing you can do for yourself and someone else is let go. 
Acceptance is a small, quiet room. Filled with so much thought and pain you'd think it was filled with angry bees.
"Now that we've finished the outside, are we going to paint the inside together too?" You asked curiously, sitting down with John on your couch, draping your legs over him. He seemed a bit tense, but you were sure you could help him relax. Unwind.
"Actually, I got a call. I have to go, I'm wanted at base. But, you start and I'll help you finish. Pick whatever colors you want." He kissed your forehead, patting your thighs before moving your legs off of him so he could go get his stuff ready to leave.
"Oh. Okay." You watched him leave you. Knowing you'd end up peeling all the wallpaper by yourself. Painting the entire inside of the house yourself. 
Even when you didn't appreciate each other anymore he still felt like your other half. Sometimes he still feels like your other half. The half that's missing. The half you'd sent away so many times. The half you'd watched walk out on you. The half that you weren't sure would come back to make you whole. 
Things began to get worse again, you were either fighting or ignoring the other. You'd have moments where things were good. But you both were distant. You didn't even notice you were crumbling until you fell apart. 
So many years together, so much time and energy spent trying to make things work. 
You just couldn't try anymore. 
"John." You didn't know what to say, how to speak. All words stuck in your throat. 
"Yeah?" He looked up at you from where he sat at the table, a questioning look. You handed him some papers. "What's this?" He took the papers from you, looking them over. Divorce papers. "Oh, I see."
Your mind made you mostly forget what happened that night, but you know you fought, you know he yelled at you, said a lot of hurtful things. You could still remember that pain. But you couldn't remember what exactly it was that hurt so bad. 
His yelling went on for so long, so many hours. Then there was the slamming of the door, and he was gone. Truthfully you were still trying to process leaving him, sending him away.
The divorce went fast, he gave you the house, and most other things. All he took was all he needed. Everything else was left to you.
"Mom, I'm divorcing John." You sobbed at your own realization, having now said it out loud for the first time. This wasn't right. But this was what needed to be done. Your marriage was a sinking ship and you refused to let either of you drown anymore.
"Oh. I knew he was no good, I knew he was a bad man. I tried to tell you to be careful marrying young. Told you that you could stay home as long as you needed, there was no rush. This is what happens when you rush relationships and just jump into marriage." Your mothers unempathetic words struck you. The manipulation, the lies. The gaslighting.
"Mom, you-" You tried to argue, tried to call her out.
"So, are you going to move closer to home? You should." Your mother continued, ignoring you completely.
"No, John left me the house. Said I put in more work on it, so I could have it." You were honestly shocked how much John just gave to you freely in the divorce. How defeated he seemed. He just wanted to get it over with quick and easy. He didn't want to take anything more away from you.
"You really want to stay there in that house?" Your mothers tone was skeptical, unbelieving.
"I do, Mom. I have to go. We can talk later." You refused to let her drag you back home, you were never going to live with her again.
"Oh, okay. Love you." You should have known better, your mom was always like this. Always placing the blame onto you. You didn't know when it was going to stop surprising you.
The aching in your chest wasn't an unfamiliar feeling, you knew it well. At one point you were sure you'd die from it. But you hadn't, you'd just kept living. 
Day by day you'd just kept living. You were still living. You'd come so far, too far to be letting these things still hurt you the way they did.
You stood at the window, watching John put his last box into the moving truck, pulling the door down and securing it. 
It was the truck that was going to take him away. It hurt, watching him. This was really it, you were watching him actually leaving your life. He was going to be gone for good now. 
It felt cruel, being left here without him. Even if you were the one who decided he needed to leave. A life without John in it just didn't sound right. Though you supposed it was time to figure out how to live a life alone.
"No." You'd felt relief then, watching him leave. But you didn't now. You'd changed. He'd changed. You didn't want to miss out on meeting the new him. You didn't want to let your past self stop you from moving on from that hurt. 
You weren't going to lose something you couldn't replace.
He really had changed. He didn't fight with you, even when you were screaming in his face. He expressed the desire not to control anymore, he was truthful even when it was damaging to him. He wasn't just trying to change like he once said. He had changed. 
Desperately you moved to your dresser, pushing and shoving at it, it wouldn't budge. It was far too heavy.
Tearing your clothes from the drawers you threw them on the floor, ruining how neatly folded they were. Once it was empty you pushed again, getting it away from the wall, using your legs you moved it enough to get behind it. Grabbing your wedding ring you held it in your hands.
You didn't want to let go of someone who put in the effort to change. Someone who's trying to change for you. If you don't allow him grace, if you don't allow him to change, all it does is prove that you too, are incapable of changing. 
You had too much love for him, where was that love supposed to go? Even if it was a complicated love, it was still love. Love worth trying again for. Love worth trying again for with equal effort on both sides. 
After so many years your love still remained, you were still stuck with all that love. So why not try? Why not let the love try to find a home in someone one more time?
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| Ida’s Law
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Introductory Part
Summary: The American War Effort had conceded to the enlisting and commissioning of women into the Air Force at semi-integrated status. Deemed a more reliable if not safer combat post, the going rank of officer in the Air Force was intended to secure fair treatment and combatant status for these women, as it had for their male counterparts. Like most things in war -or life, if one is a woman- such recognition must be fought for.
Warnings: disturbing content- if you made it through last one this one should be a breeze, however it picks up where we left off so expect mentions of war, wounds, illusions to past rapes, Nazis being racist fucks, possibly some internalized misogyny about it all and some hopefully very 🥹🤧 reunions
A Note Going Forward: With this part now published, I am happy to open this series up for prompts. Ideally I’d like this series to end up being exclusively prompt-inspired and will be putting out prompt lists accordingly. I think that will be a fun way to keep the interaction going, stretch my own skills and explore all the different scenarios that may intrigue y’all. You’re welcome to come up with your own prompts, too. All are welcome, none guaranteed but let’s be real -I’m obsessed with this AU so I’ll likely do it. For now I’ll be keeping all writing to POW Camp and Liberation and Post-Liberation timelines.
“Well, what do we know?” Ida Brady asked the first officer out on the other side as they began to filter through the laborious processing of the camp. She counted them down, one familiar face after another appearing through the doorway again with no worse indignity than the new identification tags hanging from their necks.
“I hate a guy named Johann, and I like a guy named Fritz, and the lieutenant guy wasn’t bad.” Maureen declared, straightening her precious cap atop muddy auburn tresses. “Who went and named their son Fritz after the last war? I mean really? Who does that to a kid? It’s like he’s making up for it now, though, awfully nice.”
“Mm, I thought so, too.” Ida hummed, “Might keep an eye on that one, work on him a bit. You think, Kendeigh?”
“Work on him yourself, Ida.” Maureen scoffed.
“Not much to work with.” Ida retorted, the first general reference to her disfigurement she’d made. “What do you know? What’s up?” she left off to inquire after Tallulah Smith who came out the other side of processing looking more than exasperated.
“Know? They don’t know squat.” she said, “Never heard of a Cherokee.”
“I’ll be.” Maureen was grinning sharply. “Wasn't enough being a woman for ya Smith, ya had to go and be a brown one.”
“You’re tellin’ me.” She griped, “They kept insisting I was a fighter pilot. That’s what all the ‘dark ones’ are, according to them. Told them I’d rewire their insides and maybe then they’d take my engineering degree seriously.”
“I’d like to see that.” Maureen murmured, drowsiness beginning to take over at the comparative calm of their new surroundings.
“Looks like we got everyone, yeah?” Ida peered over the heads of the crowing room and counted out her charges in a silent tally.
“Looks like.” Smith agreed. “Got billet assignments?”
“I do. Colonel Clark, most senior prisoner here, said the combines are strict but the rooms aren’t. Let’s try to behave until we feel our way, then we can swap, if they allow.”
“It’s going to smell like feet no matter where and who we share it with.” Smith pointed out and Ida heaved a great sigh as if that were the hardest prospect she’d yet encountered.
“Mm.”
“Buck is out there!” Maureen suddenly cried out, grabbing at Ida’s arm, pointing out the window at the muddy yard.
“How nice. Gotta get this sorted first, eyes in, Kendeigh.”
Maureen reluctantly tore her eyes away from her dearly missed pilot. “Yes sir.”
“All right,” Ida’s voice carried as well as it ever had, commanding immediate quiet and attention, “those in the 350th, 419th, -the hundredth!- on me. Gather ‘round. That’s it, come on. Alright, well, we made it, well done. Truly, well done to all of you. Now I know you well enough to not accuse any of you of being pure idiots, just because we made it to where we wanted to go doesn’t mean any of what’s ahead is going to be easy. Be wary, don’t let your guard down, you don’t know plenty of these men and they don’t know you, I’m sure there are measures in place for spying already. Be sensible. I am certain we can rely on the kindness of those in the hundredth, but even then keep in mind, if you are cold, they are too, if you're hungry, you best believe they are hungrier, the last thing we need is a crisis of chivalry in here. Rely on them, except their help, but don’t ever take from them. Understood? And one more thing, since the human spirit is irrepressible I feel it’s warranted to make one more housekeeping note. None, and I do mean none, no inner relations at all are allowed. I don’t care how cold you are, how sweet he’s been, or how much you’ve missed him. The Red Cross aren’t sending rubbers, and don’t ever take the promise of a pull out. Do you want a one-way ticket to a death camp or a bullet to the head? Get pregnant. Simple as that. You think the Jerries think poorly of you now for being female? Try being a matron. The point is to blend in as much as possible, keep that in mind. Whatever you do, keep that in mind. Understood?”
“Yes sir!”
“Colonel?” One voice demurred, raised hand and respectful title only forerunners for an obvious objection incoming.
“Yes? Sanchez, isn’t it? You’re not one of mine, I think.”
“No, sir, 55th -fighters.”
“Yes, well, welcome. What’s your question?”
“No offense sir but- what about the guards?” Sanchez asked.
“We don’t know yet,” Brady replied with typical candor, “I believe so far we’ve seen a mix here. I’m sure our friends can give us tips on who to watch out for.”
“No sir, sorry I meant-“ Sanchez kept her teeth clenched until her thoughts seemed to form better, “-you said no relations. What about the guards? No disrespect meant colonel and I don’t know about yours, but mine -they weren’t pulling out.”
“Mm.” Maureen thought that if Ida smashed her lips together any tighter they’d turn whiter than her skin, the bent aviators she had managed to preserve this entire time did a remarkable job of masking whatever feeling was stiffening her spine to the current degree, but all the same, her spine was stiff, “no offense taken, an excellent point. I’ll inquire about any possible…remedies. Anyone else?”
A multitude of hands shot up and Ida Brady scanned them with bewilderment until she realized her lapse in specificity. “Anyone else with questions, I meant! Saints alive. No? Good, let’s claim our bunks and see about a wash.”
After the dark interior of the building, being processed for hours, the hazy late afternoon light of outside glared painfully against Ida’s bloodshot eyes as she stepped out, leading the way down the three wooden steps to the muddy yard. Monochrome, this place, brown wooden buildings and brown earth and a muddy sky and brown flight jackets one after another.
And there in the midst of it, waiting for them with ever constant patience and thinned stateliness was Gale Cleven and his lost blue eyes and an alarmingly symmetrical set of facial scars.
“Major.” Ida felt her face soften into an odd expression she realized was likely that of relief. Cleven had that way about him, it was better suited to her preferences than Egan’s blustering warm hearted concern, Colonel Harding’s gruff joviality or her John’s perpetually intense concern. Her little brother was, oddly, nowhere to be seen now and that was a comfort in this wide open, highly observed space.
“Colonel.” Gale Cleven’s eyes weren’t a lost blue anymore but a pair of stormy seas and Ida steeled herself for pity. She found smoldering rage in his face instead. Another relief.
“How was it?” he was nodding to the command hut.
“Fine.” she assured.
He was searching for something in her face and Ida was sure it was easily found skin deep along her puffy, purpled left cheek, but if she had anything to do with her expression alone, he’d be kept guessing for ages. “Good.” he decided at last but his smile was tight, “Made John wait in the combine, he’s in there pacing like a madman. They make a note of who’s attached to whom, Colonel,” he explained, “a more discreet reunion seemed in order.”
“We’d appreciate all the direction you—“ Ida had begun but was cut short by Lt. Kendeigh who broke ranks from the processed group and came out of the hut behind Ida like a bat out of hell, running up to Cleven and tackling him in a hug, rather like a dog with their long lost master.
The Major’s lanky frame staggered under her surprise attack, perhaps more from shock and ill preparedness than poor rations and a weakened constitution. Or at least Ida, hoped that was the case.
Well, there went all intentions for discretion about partiality on their part, five seconds had gone by and Maureen still hadn’t let go, her valued cap about ready to knock off her head and his too. Seeing the gig was up, Cleven even belatedly brought an arm up to hug her shoulders, his pleased face bashfully pacifying her intensity. “If it isn’t my favorite bombardier.” Cleven mumbled, his lips failing not to tug upwards in the tiniest of smiles, and he gave her a pat on the back.
“Buck!” Smith was coming in hot behind Kendeigh and knocked Ida’s shoulder in her haste to get around her and join in. “Thank Jesus you’re here.” she grunted as she squeezed him and Kendeigh both, “I mean -we’re sorry you’re here but since we’re here-“
“Glad you’re here, too, Smith.” he assured her gently, another pat on another back and Ida watched Cleven’s composure began to flake as he took stock of their roughened appearances. “It’s gonna be ok now.” he offered, and coming from someone else that statement would’ve sounded a great deal less impressive than it did coming from him. It also sounded hollow without Bucky’s typical parroting of the upbeat sentiment. “Let’s get you girls sorted.” he nodded at Ida who fell in alongside him, if only to distance and displace Kendeigh and her over familiarity just a tad.
“What’s your Kommandant like?” Ida asked by way of conversation as Gale directed them in a trudge along the brown paths towards his specified hut.
“Think I know him as well as you.” Gale admitted, “Tried to stay low, been no reason for socializing. Wouldn’t advise a trip to the camp doctor though.” He added the last part after a beat.
“Why?”
“Your Johnny says he’s got an experimental mind.” Gale smiled wryly but there was a grieved look behind it that made Ida’s pulse pound in alarm, “If you go in with a cold, you might come out with a radioactive arm instead.”
“Noted.” Ida muttured with a shiver, wishing to god her jacket hadn’t been taken off her a couple stops ago, the sun was waning in the dull sky and the breeze was frigid without it. “Speaking of doctors,” she decided to go for it, “is Johnny -my John- is he alright? At the gate it was such a racket, was he…standing?”
Gale paused in his step up into the combine, brows knitted in surprise and she noticed along with him that their little march had drawn quite a little audience from the fellow inmates. Females in a Stalag -what a novelty. “Yeah, John’s fine. He’s fit.” Gale still had that quizzical look on his face.
Ida swallowed hard and gave him another curt nod, one she wanted to come across as grateful but wasn’t sure it did, her battered cheek was responding less and less to her mind’s commands. “Right. This us?”
“Yeah. Figured we’d try to keep as many close as possible.” He explained, “Welcome to paradise.”
“What did y’all name this shack?” Maureen asked him as she stepped over the threshold, it was dark inside and smelled of lumber and smoke.
“We haven’t.” Gale admitted, forlorn at the realization that things like that didn’t occur to people like him. If Bucky had been here, he’d have had it named in an hour, and something awful, too. Something that would make them all laugh.
“Damn oversight, Gingerale.” Maureen teased merrily but Cleven noticed the dimming light in her eyes as she took in the cramped, uninspired utility of the place. One wooden doorway after another.
“Talked it over with Colonel Clark during your processing,” Gale said, “decided it were best if we mingle you all among the men we know. Boys from your squadrons, friendly faces. A few of you in each room.”
“I call dibs on yours.” Maureen unabashedly grinned up at Cleven but Ida saw how a heartbroken look of protectiveness skittered across his features.
“Alright.” he muttered without a fight for once.
“Mm, Smith, Sanchez, Tong, you in here.” Ida decided and having snapped her fingers she was moving on to the next stuffy room. Asking Cleven at each about their current occupants, and with the precision of memory required of a woman who had to memorize her opponents on the promotional ladder, chose their new bunk mates accordingly.
“And where’s Johnny bunked?” she asked him in a low tone as she watched the next set settle in from the doorway.
“In with me, further down the hall, Demarco, Hambone, a few others.”
Ida seemed to hesitate as she eyed up an extra bunk in the current room that the last of her girls were settling into.
“Don’t be a stick, colonel,” Maureen spoke up gently, a surprising liberty even for her, “you need friends right now. Bunk with us. Everyone’s going to be fine. Can’t be all places at all times, ya know?”
Ida didn’t reply but after a moment she admitted, “I should go see John.”
Gale and Maureen exchanged a look and then moved in unison to catch up to her as Ida Brady walked, brisk as if she were back home at Thorpe and about to pick a fight with Jack Kidd, down the long hall to one of the last rooms. “In here?” she asked Gale, pointing at the closed door -they liked to keep it so for warmth and privacy, and to acclimate the guards to it being closed when the radio was out.
“Yeah that’s us.” Cleven replied, reaching out and snagging Maureen back a step as Ida turned the handle. “Let’s give ‘em a minute.” he suggested, referring to the Bradys.
He held her jacket sleeve for a brief moment before turning it to grab her hand, he’d missed those hands. To his horror their usual calloused elegance was a swollen paw of bruises. “The hell, Maureen?” he whispered in shock, turning it over to examine it, grip strong around her wrist before she could pull away. “Who did this?”
Maureen did her best to shrug, “Some bitch stood on them.” she said simply, and surrendered the other hand for a similar heartbroken inspection.
Kendeigh was indeed not as visibly marred as Ida Brady or a few of the others, but still, Gale kept turning her crushed hands over and over, recalling with vivid agony the way he’d admired them at all manner of work before. To hurt them that way, to restrain her so meanly- “Maureen,” she’d never heard his voice dip so low, and his eyes were simmering where they cataloged her hurts, “what’d they do to you?”
“What’d they do to your face?” she shot back, perhaps more perturbed by the immaculately symmetrical scars on his once porcelain face than her own condition. Women expected the treatment they’d gotten, in some twisted way, but this on the other hand, it disturbed her.
Gale looked taken aback by her question and quickly dropped her hand to touch his right cheek as if to remind himself the scar was obvious to everyone. “Flak.” he replied a beat too late.
“Awfully precise.” she snarked.
“I asked you first.”
“I told you, a bitch stood on them.”
“I’m your superior officer.”
“Who it looks like someone had some fun with,” Maureen snapped back, “who did this?”
“What happened to you?” He hit right back but his voice quavered.
“I’m fine now. I wanna go see the boys. Come on.”
“Just- give them another minute.” Gale insisted, pulling her back away from the doorway again, “It’s a lot.” He reminded, “For a brother to see his sister like -that.”
Maureen couldn’t argue with that, besides Gale looked so sad and more fragile than she’d ever seen him, and the gentle hold he had on her jacket was as needy and scared as a child’s. “I’m glad we’re in this together.” she whispered.
“Me too.” he admitted, guilty and sad over how true that was before letting her press her lips to his.
Ida Brady didn’t know what she expected when she opened the door, not much she supposed, just a living brother with any luck. It was a decently tidy room, plates stacked on a rough hewn board at the far end, eight bunks lining the walls, stacked three tall. A table was in the middle and there sat dear old Crank and Hambone too, Murph with Benny. A card game was ongoing.
They looked so fine, quite normal, all in all.
All motion in the small room stopped upon her entrance. Cards were dropped and cigarettes forgotten in open mouthed shock.
“Holy shit -colonel?” Demarco didn’t have a dishonest bone in his body, and his disbelieving horror over her appearance came through loud and clear in his greeting. She hadn’t seen him at the gate.
The same for Hambone’s face, one that had never bothered to be discreet in pleasant circumstances, much less in shocking ones like seeing a notorious superior officer come in looking about as battered as a body could get -although his torn cheek was one to talk. Crank recovered first, in his mild, stammering sort of way, glancing at the lean figure who still stood looking out the lone window.
“Well, if it isn’t Ain’t Pretty Brady.” Crank clapped uneasily, summoning her nickname from basic just to cut the tension, it served to startle John.
He turned from the window abruptly, blank faced and unblinking as he realized the sister he had been watching for had already arrived. If their ole nan from the motherland had suddenly materialized before him he could have hardly looked more haunted or aghast, wide fringed fox eyes and that straight fold of a mouth -always so very held together, her little brother. Even after his third belly landing.
But those startled unblinking eyes...
Ida wanted to tell him to blink, that it was all alright now, that they were both alive and that it was good enough, it had to be. But she seemed to have fully lost all power over her throbbing cheek at last, she could feel her lips move in a motion she realized with supreme panic was likely a wobble of emotion. She ripped her aviators off, as if seeing her eyes might help his to come alive.
“John John?” she croaked in greeting, oblivious of the childish endearment tumbling off her lips in a room full of soldiers. If it were something their family was in the habit of doing, Ida Brady might have rushed him like Maureen did her pilot, or held out her own hand to be held, asked for a gesture from him -after what she’d gone through, surely it couldn’t have been weakness to want a clap on the shoulder, a flick to the bicep, a little “well done” for staying alive.
But she just stood there and watched him clock her shame. She could feel her swollen lip splitting in real time as the swelling and incessant trembling tore the taut skin apart, they’d passed around a single canteen in processing and it wasn’t enough, the walls of her throat felt collapsed together. Maybe she should have asked for a mirror first, maybe Cleven or Kendeigh or Smith should have told her she’d bring a whole room to a frozen standstill by her looks alone. They’d seen her at the gate -were these meager lightbulbs really so much more illuminating?
“Eye-eye.” Johnny let it out in a breathy rush as if he’d suddenly come to, and then he was in front of her, hands cradling the sides of her neck, thumbs hooked gently under her bruised jaw. A calloused pad swiped away the ticklish trickle of blood sliding the crease of her mouth.
Eye eye -his onetime baby babble for Ida, and she’d never let him forget it.
She could have wept at the useless sentimentality of it, of the gentle familiarity of familial hands, at the seething loyalty storming across his face.
“The fuck did they do?” he articulated at last, voice gravelly as shit but also reminiscent of the squeaky olden days when his castrato role suddenly no longer served one Sunday in choir.
“You’ve got legs.” she answered instead, sounding maniacal in her happiness.
He looked at her like she’d gone fully crazy as well as beat, “Yeah? Yeah I do.”
“They said, they said you didn’t.” she chuckled, a bizarre merriment trying to take hold in her relief, “During interrogation, that bespectacled cunt told me you had your legs crushed when you crashed.”
“No? No- no I jumped.” He insisted, then let go of her face to step back and gesture to two fit legs, as long and lanky as she remembered, as long and lanky as her own. “I jumped, I’m fine. They told you that?”
“Yeah.” Ida said, “Told me the longer I didn’t comply the longer you were without medical attention. I -I’ve been so…uneasy…about you.”
“I’m fine.” He repeated, hands back on her shoulders and she was grateful for it despite the bruises he was gripping, grateful for the way he kept touching her like he was going to hold her together with his own two hands, same blood, same flesh, same memories, maybe whatever she’d lost he could supply back like a blood donation. “Those sons of bitches.” he cursed them.
“Plasma for planes.” she agreed.
He kept looking at her, at her cheek and at her ragged hair and at the missing buttons, “You didn’t tell them anything did you?” he suddenly asked, wide eyed. “You know i’d rather die than have you tell.”
Ida scoffed, and gave him a grin, the best one she could manage with her cheek and split lip, “What do you take me for, Johnny?”
“A cold hearted bitch, I hope.” he returned the small smile but his voice cracked, still that hint of something long gone and juvenile.
“That’s what their Lieutenant called me.” Ida confirmed, a little proud, and sensing a renewal of his inquiries, Ida chose to take the offensive and call out for a conspicuously absent Kendeigh, “Candy! Didn’t you want to tell Johnny about your charming admirer? The Lieutenant?”
Kendeigh came round the doorway hastily, her lips puffy and cheeks oddly red. Cleven followed after and matched her, and his blush did nothing but highlight those scars of his. “Brady.” Maureen greeted, boldly hugging Ida’s very stiff brother without care —due to his red cheeks and rigid shoulders Ida concluded Cleven had given his own inner-relations talk to the men—, “Yes, I wanted to -oh hello Crank, Benny you son of gun- wanted to tell y'all about my ticket outta here -hell Hambone, how’d you manage to get uglier? -see my integrator, he found me fairly fetching. I think one of these days he’s gonna roll up in his shiny car and take me away from here and you’re all gonna wish you’d taken time to learn a little know-how about Alligators and their hibernation tactics in the winter. He was enthralled.”
There was an awkward silence hanging in the room, Crank grimaced a smile out of sheer generosity of heart and Benny Demarco still sat with his cigarette neglected on his open lip. Cleven, used to her preening brazness kept a tight lip, though a thousand questions seemed to swirl in his eyes.
“He the one who stood on your hands?” John Brady asked her without hesitancy.
Maureen whirled round then, comedy hour over and an angry flush creeping up her neck at his directness. “No.” she snapped. “Can’t some of them be alright?”
“A German’s a German.” he countered.
“There’s Fitzs and then there’s Johanns.” she disagreed nebulously and only Ida got her reference.
“And a shower is a shower,” Ida butted in before this became an experiment in an immovable object meeting an unstoppable force “which we need, badly. We’re…filthy.”
“We’ve got working sinks, trough sinks.” Cleven clarified with an apologetic look as if it were his fault the showers only ran once a week and poorly at that, and the water they had was frigid already in autumn.
“Water is water.” Ida reasoned in return, wondering when Johnny was going to finally let go of her arm.
“We’ll clear it out for ya.” Cleven said.
“And we’ll guard the entrance.” John added emphatically.
“Thanks.” Ida muttured, “Some of us could use to mend our uniforms.” she added, refusing to blanch at the subtle inventory of her jagged tears and crusted blood being made by every man in the room.
Maureen at least had her jacket intact. Her cap, too.
“Here, you can have my trousers while I stitch yours.” her John decided and was unbuckling his belt before she even registered the hand gone from her shoulder.
“What?” Ida balked, “You’re going to go ‘round in your skivvies?”
“Not as uncommon around here as you’d think, Ida.” Gale said, a small smile on his face. “I’m afraid order and decorum has gone to shit without you.”
“Well I’m here now.” she replied sternly but didn’t stop Johnny as he stripped.
“And so am I.” Kendeigh grinned and all Ida could do was to bless the saints for having let only one terror into the camp, were Bucky Egan to be here too, things would become intolerably lax. As soon as she thought it she repented it, sending up a prayer for the poor, absent bastard.
“Say Benny, you’re shorter, can I have your pants?” Maureen pleaded.
“Why mine?” Demarco protested, only offended at the height implication.
“Because Cleven’s too tall and I’ve already been in his pants.”
“Maureen!”
“Ida, order somebody to give me their pants.”
“You can have mine.” Crank offered kindly, and then stood up and bashfully began to unlayer. It left him in skivvies, a snuggly sweater and his flight jacket.
“It’s a good look, Crank,” Maureen grinned at the finished product as he handed the trousers over. “I’m seeing you in a different light.”
“Maureen!”
“Just sayin-“
“Take the pants with you to the washroom!” Brady interjected desperately as Maureen looked ready to strip right here and now. “Jesus, Kendeigh.”
“Touchy, touchy.” Maureen ribbed him, out for blood in her tired state and if she couldn’t have that of the Germans she would of her friends’.
“Alright let’s - let’s settle down.” Gale implored, a tired expression firmly etched onto his face and Ida herself considered giving up on the wash altogether and tumbling into the available bunk to court the oblivion of sleep. Were it only blood and dirt she just might, her usual tidiness be damned.
As it was -it was, there was…the filth was so much worse.
And if Ida thought on it too long she’d go mad and want to pour boiling lye on herself to wash herself clean and to kill the shame of it. She’d have to scrub the pants before she gave them to Johnny to be mended, it was bad enough for a bother to see the blood and busted seams.
“Yes, settle down for God’s sake.” she echoed Cleven, and something about her hoarse voice compelled Maureen to temper herself more than any direct order could. “A wash, come on, let’s get the girls. Oh and one more thing, Cleven-“ Ida turned to Gale and found him alert, eager to help. She was afraid she was only setting him up for failure but she had to make an effort to find those “remedies” she’d promised Sanchez. “There any lemons around?”
The incredulous look on his face suggested he thought she knew better, but he was ever polite in his reply, “No, colonel. No lemons.”
“Mm. Nutmeg?” she tried to recall each wicked trick she’d heard condemned when a girl got herself in the family way without the needed family in place.
“No, no nutmeg.”
“Mm.”
“Nothing but potatoes and cigarettes, ma’am. Do you- why?” he asked.
“Nothing.” she assured, “Just, a hot toddy sounds good right about now. You know?”
“Uh,” he floundered, half in suspicion and half in genuine confusion, “never had one.”
“Well then,” she grinned as she passed him, “that’s something to add to our to-do list for when this is all over. Jameson, though, none of that Kentucky stuff.”
“Yes ma’am.” his tone was vacant, smiling concern brittle, “You uh, you alright, Colonel?”
Ida gave him a withering look and then Gale too, had cause to be repentant.
“Come on Kendeigh, let's get the rest.” Ida gestured as she followed Gale back into the hall, aware of Johnny’s eyes still on her, still taking stock, “They better not be in bunks without a wash. Come on, showers, everyone! Out, come on out. You can sleep afterwards. Out! Would one of you be so kind as to wake us up in time for roll call?” she inquired of the male officers straggling behind her in the hall.
“Course! Yeah, for sure.” about five offers went up.
“You wake Me up.” she clarified coming to a full stop, wary of the enthusiasm, “I’ll wake up the rest.”
“I’ll get you up.” Her John said.
He’d probably sit and watch her sleep, too, needle and torn pants in hand, like a creepy little owl but that was one of those things she figured make or break a family, you either find it endearing you have a brother who rarely blinks or you go mad. Today, after all of it, she didn’t mind having a guardian Angel. Or a watchdog. Speaking of-
“Hey,” she asked him, “you two flew out together, where’s Bucky?”
But no one had an answer for that, not even Little John.
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sokkastyles · 3 days
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This is something I've turning around in my mind due to the general discourse around Katara "hating" Zuko, and obviously she doesn't hate him at all after TSR, but do you think she truly even /hated/ him after Ba Sing Se? She was absolutely within her right to be hurt and angry about his choice, and I'm glad the show actually let her hold onto that for awhile b/c so often K has to be the bigger person and manage everyone else's emotions, but being hurt and angry at someone, even lashing out at them b/c of that, isn't the same thing as hating them imo. Like tbh their entire vibe to me from the moment Zuko turns up at the Western Air Temple until TSR is exes after a bad breakup but there's still unresolved feelings there, which was certainly an interesting writing choice for them to go with (only made more so by the textbook romance writing grovelling in TSR.)
Yeah, she isn't mad at him because she hates him, she's mad at him because she cares about him, because she wanted to care about him, and because she thought he cared about her. Even when she tells the gaang that Zuko was "pretending to be a human being" in the catacombs, it gives the impression that she is trying to convince herself that what she's saying is true, that the moment they shared and the vulnerability Zuko showed in that moment wasn't real.
The other thing that gives the lie to the idea that Katara hates Zuko or just sees him as an enemy is that when she confronts him when they are alone, and threatens him, she doesn't react to him like she thinks he's lying about wanting to do the right thing, she confronts him about how "you and I both know you've struggled with doing the right thing in the past." In front of everyone else, she makes it seem like she thinks Zuko is just evil, but when she's alone with him, she makes it clear that she knows he isn't, and that this is really about how she can't trust him, how he broke her trust. It's personal, not just about him being fire nation.
And the fact that she waited to tell him this in private, while denying her feelings in public, is absolutely romantic coded. I've also pointed out before that the framing of the confrontation mirrors the final scene between Zuko and Mai (or rather, that the Zuko and Mai scene, which is explicitly romantically coded, mirrors this one), Katara standing in the doorway to interrupt Zuko's triumphant moment with a reminder that his past isn't so easily moved past, and a reminder of who he's hurt. It absolutely gives vibes of an ex who you still have feelings for.
Which is why it's hilarious that Bryke made that comment about zutara being a relationship you experience before realizing what you really need (with the implication that Katara really needs Aang and Zuko really needs Mai), because what it actually feels like is two people who were immediately drawn to each other, ended up hurting each other, broke it off, but then still had feelings for each other and ended the series closer than they were before. If Bryke really wanted us to think zutara were not good for each other, then there could have been a moment where, when Zuko and Katara get their closure with each other, there's also the G-rated equivalent of "let's just be friends." Maybe have Katara say something like, "I forgive you, but I can't make the choice you want me to make." This is also in an alternate universe where Zuko more explicitly encourages Katara to kill Yon Rah. But none of that happens. The episode does not tell us that Zuko is not good for Katara or vice versa. It has Katara end the episode by explicitly disagreeing with Aang and enthusiastically embracing Zuko without any hesitation at all.
That hug is so meaningful because it's the release of tension that the narrative has been building up since that moment in the catacombs. It's not that Katara hated Zuko but now cares about him, it's that she wanted to care about him way back in the catacombs and now she's able to express that without being afraid that he'll break her trust.
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diddiqueen · 3 days
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Message in a bottle (part fourteen)
Tumblr media
Ellie texts the wrong number, which happens to be yours. Friendship, too many bad jokes, flirting, and maybe something more ensues… (Ellie Williams x girl reader) -> Part thirteen
Series masterlist
BEFORE YOU READ: masterpost on how you can educate yourself on and help Palestine A/N: Soooo, this is the last real chapter before the epilogue. I'm so glad for all the kind support I've gotten on this story, my first series ever!! Thank you to everyone who has read this, liked it, reblogged it and commented. I've read every single one and I'm beyond grateful. Okay, I'm gonna stop being sappy now and let you read chapter fourteen<333 ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
On the way home, your head was spinning. Heck, your entire body was spinning, warm and flustered were two great words to describe the state you were in. You couldn’t believe Ellie had said that, all these weeks? In your mind, it had obviously been jokes and jokes only, nothing to ponder any further about. But she meant it? All of it? You weren’t sure what to do with yourself now once you knew about Ellie’s feelings. 
Also, the touch and taste of her lips against yours, that as well contributed to your state right now. That would stay in your mind for a long, long time. The heat was still present on your lips and you lifted your fingers to touch the place where Ellie had once been. 
When you stepped off the bus, you breathed in the cold air and felt your lungs get filled. Even though you could barely feel your fingers since you forgot gloves, it didn’t bother you as your mind was somewhere completely else. The walk home from the bus stop was short but it felt like an eternity. All you wanted was to get home and text Ellie. Sure, you could do it now but you didn’t want to be desperate.
Finally home, you tore off your shoes and rushed to your room, not even bothering to greet your parents who were watching a movie in the living room. You debated whether to maybe call Ellie since you couldn’t wait to talk to her again, hear her voice again. It was the closest substitute for actually meeting her. 
As you sat down on your bed, you felt your eyes get heavy and decided against the phone call. During your time with Ellie, you didn't even notice how long it had been. The hours had been flying by in her presence, it had wrapped up your mind and taken it to another planet where time and room didn’t exist. 
You realized that you had to text her now before you would fall asleep, so you grabbed your phone and laid your head down on your soft pillow. Your heart was racing as you pressed on the messaging app and started to type.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── (23.16) I’m home safe now
(23.16) good:) (23.16) i miss you
(23.17) U just saw me?
(23.17) ik (23.17) Still miss u
(23.17) Me too<3 (23.17) I really enjoyed tonight
(23.18) same (23.18) it was very nice (23.18) thank you for the ice cream btw
(23.18) Thank u for the weed
(23.18) np (23.19) and for the kiss too?
(23.19) Ofc (23.19) That was also very nice
(23.19) yeah?
(23.19) Mhm (23.20) i really liked it too (23.20) felt like fireworks
(23.20) Ur so corny (23.20) (Me too)
(23.21) goodnight y/n❤️
(23.21) Goodnight Ellie <3
(23.21) sleep tight
(23.21) Don’t let the bed bugs bite 
Day 53
(14.34) what are we now?
(14.34) I don’t know (14.35) What do u wanna be?
(14.35) wanna go out with me? (14.35) on a real date
(14.35) Only if u pay (14.36) (Yes yes)
(14.36) obviously (14.36) (good that makes me so happy)
(14.37) When?
(14.37) damn you’re demanding (14.37) can’t get enough of this face huh?
(14.37) U said u missed me directly after i left (14.38) Who’s the desperate one really?
(14.38) wou want me soo bad
(14.38) Idk who gave u that information
(14.38) the voices in my head telling me
(14.39) Oh, so delusion? 
(14.39) shut up (14.39) you want to go on a date with me
(14.39) Yeah what about it?
(14.40) nothing 😇
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
(18.01) i have some dirty jokes for you (18.01) ik you like em like that
(18.02) What happend to hi hello how are u?
(18.02) yeah yeah ur so smart and all that (18.02) why is diarrhea hereditary? (18.02) it runs in your genes
(18.03) That’s not dirty (18.03) Just straight up gross 
(18.03) nah it’s hilarious (18.03) two deer walk out of a gay bar (18.04) one says to the other, “I can’t believe I blew fifty bucks in there”
(18.04) That one’s better but not great
(18.04) aka 5/5 from you (18.04) what do you call the useless piece of skin on a dick?( (18.04) The man (18.04) the man (18.04) omg
(18.05) Oh god (18.05) Kinda true though 
(18.05) right?
(18.05) U trying to seduce me?
(18.05) yes (18.06) is it working? 
(18.06) Ehh (18.06) Don’t worry about it
(18.06) what do you call the lesbian version of a cock block? (18.06) a beaver dam
(18.06) … (18.07) I don’t know what to say
(18.07) because it was so funny?
(18.07) Opposite really
(18.07) you don’t have to pretend you don’t like them anymore (18.07) cuz I know you do 
(18.08) Do u?
(18.08) yeah (18.08) you don’t have to wear that cool mask now (18.08) i like you anyways
(18.08) 🙄🙄 (18.08) (❤️❤️)
(18.08) told you I’m a lady’s woman
(18.09) Still don’t like them
Day 54
(12.45) heyy (12.45) how are you doing today?
(12.46) I’m good wbu 
(12.46) i’m great now that I’m talking to you
(12.46) I can’t believe I thought u were just making fun of me all this time
(12.47) no I would never (12.47) i meant everything I said
(12.47) Yeah?
(12.47) yup
(12.48) Well I’m glad ur great
(12.48) perfect (12.48) what are you up to?
(12.48) Not much just gonna be at home (12.49) U?
(12.49) i have tons of homework to do
(12.49) Good luck (12.49) Ever thought about doing it during the week so ur free during the weekend 
(12.50) yeah i have (12.50) then i decide against it and do fun stuff instead
(12.50) Are u implying that homework is not fun?
(12.50) obviously not (12.51) it’s the best part of the week
(12.51) There u go (12.51) This is how u seduce mrs adams (12.51 dont really need that anymore do i?
(12.51) Just do it now so ur free later:)
(12.52) fine mom
(12.52) Please don't call me that after u have kissed me
(12.52) yeah i felt weird writing that ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
(20.27) I just looked at my snap memories from two years ago and remembered my straight era
(20.27) oh?
(20.28) Yeah (20.28) I had some thoughts about maybe being bi but was convinced I liked guys
(20.28) funny to hear that now
(20.28) Shut up (20.29) Well I just remembered how I used to google hot boys when I felt too “gay” and scroll until I found one that wasn’t ugly to prove I was straight 
(20.29) damn (20.29) i’m sorry (20.29) you we’re in deep denial 
(20.30) Yeah I know
(20.30) good you have come to other conclusions 
(20.30) U think so?
(20.30) yes
(20.30) Wonder why
(20.31) didn’t know you were such a flirt
(20.31) A flirt? Where?
(20.31) oh don’t act so innocent 
(20.31) Why wouldn’t I?
(20.32) you’re driving me crazy
(20.32) How come?
(20.32) stop flirting 
(20.33) I’m not 😇
(20.33) yes you are 
(20.33) In ur dreams 
(20.34) yes actually
A/N: Thanks for reading as usual!! What do you guys think is gonna happen in the epilogue?? <3333 EPILOGUE
DAILY CLICK GUYS: DO IT!!!
Taglist: @gato-chino@crxmxnzl-c0rpzes @elliescunt222 @elsbabyxx@onlinelesbo@slut4mascss@elliessweetheart@fullmachinegirl@mikellie@kitkatkittycat111@yumimak@ellieschair@deliriousrn@scarletchase1989@jokerpokimoon@seraphicsentences@w1ll1amz@strap-me-down-please@isitadinosaur@elliesactualgirlfriend@radioheadfan699@zoehxnji@4ftergloww@macaroni676@harrysslutsstuff@sc0ttstre3ted@rxreaqia @emst4rr @jairaanderson@marrycv@eviestevie-14@ellstronaut@dixitu@elliewilliamsblunt@boobdrug@tearouthearts@desireesfics@elliewilliamsmiller0@sapphhicslut @kawaiibreadbouquet-blog @dixitu@ellslvr @kazo0339 @tphmnv
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la-pheacienne · 1 day
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So let me get this straight.
If I believe that a particular character should be ruler/would be a good ruler/would have been a good ruler/deserves to be ruler/will probably end up being ruler/was unfairly deprived of their rulership, be it dany, or jon, or rhaenyra or rhaegar or arya or bran or stannis the mannis (ew) or my neighbour or your mother or whomever the hell you want them to be, I am classist. And royalist. And conservative. And going against the themes of asoiaf. Because no one can fix westeros, because there are no good rulers/there can be no good rulers/rulership is inherently bad/inherently moraly wrong/ the throne is doomed to be destroyed because it is the root of all evil-
But somehow if you believe that one particular character, coincidentally your fave, will probably be a ruler (queen in the north or in any other position of FEUDAL power- ruling is not just reserved to the iron throne btw), or that she should be a ruler or that she would be a good ruler, you are somehow not classist or royalist or conservative.
Can somebody tell me why that is? What is the justification behind your speculation in the first place? Why will she/why should she be a ruler? Because she deserves it? Because she has been through so much? Because she's strong and powerful and resilient? Okay? So, the only meaningful difference between your take and my take is that I actually (naively!) have faith in the possibility that a character that has been established again and again as a progressive and radical leader could possibly contribute to a meaningful radical collective change in the world while you just consider rulership as a prize, as a reward for individual struggle? And somehow that makes me more conservative? That makes me a classist? Besties, it is literally the other way round.
I don't even hate that character. I am pretty neutral towards her, I would even say that I am sympathetic towards her. And I actually believe she will end up in a position of power (not queen in the north but a position of power nonetheless). Yes, in a position of feudal power, that's what I mean, that's the only real power any character could ever have in a book series that is set in a pseudomedieval world. But you need to be very careful before you start throwing around classism and royalism and conservatism accusations at people for actively engaging with a pseudomedieval fantasy (fantasy!!) book series whose entire foundation is the question "what is a good leader?", "what makes a good leader?", "how does someone become a good leader?", "how could this system become slightly better?", "what are the powers that stop any real progress? how can these powers be defeated?" The answers to these questions in asoiaf are not easy or automatic. But they exist. All of these questions have answers in the text. Concrete, solid answers, whether you like it or not. Believing in the truth of those answers simply means we engage with the themes of the (fictional!) story. It simply makes us fans of the text. It does not make us stupid or naive, and it definitely does not make us conservative.
There is nothing that I despise more in this fandom than the double standard of "oh you are so lame if you actually believe someone could/will be a good ruler, nobody should be king or queen, meanwhile let's talk about my fave's ruling arc" (asoiaf version), or "oh you are so lame if you actually believe a particular character should have been ruler and not the other, that makes you a classist and we're not, all sides are bad because monarchy, meanwhile let's dedicate 99,9% of our posts explaining why one side is wrong. One specific side. Entirely coincidentally, since we do not take sides" (fire and blood version).
The meaningful difference between these two fandom "factions" is that one is honest and openly engages with the themes of the story in an organic and positive and hopeful way, while the other is just this annoying group of college kids repeating the same, holier-than-thou, pseudo-intellectual takes ad infinitum to appear smarter than anyone else while carefully concealing their obvious bias.
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atinylittlepain · 2 days
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Part One
no outbreak!joel miller x f!oc
series playlist
joel miller masterlist
series masterlist
She's tired. He's tired. They're neurotic. They're in love. Something needs to change. They need to change.
word count | 4.5K
chapter content info | 18+ angst, discussions of pregnancy, people being WASPy, marital squabbles that become something more serious some of the time, but also real, persistent love
a/n | listen, don't look at me. not gonna lie, it feels good to be back in the ring and i'm excited to share this one with y'all. special thanks to @wannab-urs for beta-ing and for encouraging me along with this one - love ya, twin.
................................................................................................................
He looks handsome and he’s getting on her nerves. She looks beautiful and he still doesn’t think it’s a good idea for her to go to this. She knows he doesn’t think it’s a good idea for her to go to this, but she thinks that’s bullshit, kid gloves that she doesn’t need from him, or from anyone for that matter. 
He could, but he doesn’t tell her that her left eye is twitching a little bit. Her left eye is twitching a little bit, she blinks hard every time she feels muscle starting to spasm, keeps her face turned away from him and toward the passenger side window. 
“What is it?”
“What?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You keep sighing.” 
“I’m just tired.”
“It’s ten in the morning.”
“It’s been a long week.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“I meant last week then.” 
“Are you taking those multivitamins I got you?” 
“Uh, yeah.”
“I checked the bottle this morning and the safety seal is still on it.” 
“Cass.”
“What?”
“I don’t think a multivitamin is going to be the thing that makes me feel less tired.”
“I hate it when you say my name like that.”
“Okay, how should I say it?”
“Nevermind.” 
“What?”
“It’s fine, okay? Let’s just drop it, I don’t want to start the day like this.” 
“We’re not starting the day like anything, we’re just having a conversation.”
“Joel, please, I’m not doing this with you right now.” And he asks it before he can think much about it, knee-jerk and maybe a little mean, did you take your pills this morning?  Right, going for the nuclear option this morning, she lets out a clipped sound that could be a laugh if it wasn’t so sharp and he wishes there were a way to pluck words out of the air and swallow them back down. And she knows that whatever she says to that is going to be a failure. If she gets angry, if she blows up, she’s crazy. If she informs him that she did, in fact, take her pills, then she’s a liar, because she did, in fact, not take her pills, so she’s even crazier, right. 
“You know, that’s a fucked thing to ask me.” Ring the bell because she’s won this round. He thinks about offering her an apology, a glance while they’re stopped at a red light that only affords him the slope of her cheek and her hair tucked behind her ear with the way her face is turned away from him. He sighs and it makes her shoulders hike up a little higher. 
There’s a spiral of pink balloons wrapped around the porch banister when they pull up, and of course there is a spiral of pink balloons wrapped around the porch banister, she thinks, because Tommy and Maria are having a girl, and that’s lovely, and she is going to smile when she gets out of the car because of how lovely that is. Already thinking about what her face will have to do to make that smile happen while he parks at the end of the driveway because they’re a little late, always a little late these days. At least they have a clear and present escape route, he thinks. 
“Here, let me.” He does, stays still while she runs her fingers up behind the collar of his shirt to smooth it down, and she thinks that she’s not the only one trying to buy a little more time. Made it out of the car, but still standing in front of the car, he has always liked the feeling of her palms splayed over his chest, hums and thanks her for fixing his collar, leans in for a quick smacking thing of a kiss that she gives back to him all ease, and he thinks that maybe they’ll get to be normal today. 
“Remind me again what we got them?”
“Bottle warmer and a set of swaddling blankets.”
“What, they can’t use hot water from the tap like everyone else?” That gets him a clipped laugh from her, and he knows he’s bordering on something tender that could snap and snarl if he says any more, so he takes the laugh and leaves it at that. She laughs, feels stupid for the heat that thickens and closes in behind it and hides the flush from him by collecting the gifts from the trunk. Pastel pink and perfect wrapping paper with thin ribbon curled and bouncing. She briefly considers how it would feel to rip it all to pieces. But no, none of that, because this is Tommy and Maria, and she loves Tommy and Maria, really, she does, so happy for Tommy and Maria. Happy, happy, happy. 
Maria is the one who opens the door, all smiles, all round because she made it to the third trimester. He glances at Cass as they enter into the usual greetings and congratulations, leaning hugs and Tommy somewhere in the fray. Cassandra thinks she’s doing a good job of smiling but she can’t really feel her mouth, letting her lungs collapse a little when Tommy pulls her in for a quick squeeze, hey, Cassie, good to see you. And maybe it’s the lack of pills in her system but is he? Is it? Verging a little close to hostage negotiator territory? Talking to her like she’s a skittish horse? Because, apparently, it’s not just Joel, but the whole clan who seems to expect her to have a hard time with this. His and Tommy’s parents smile and pet at her shoulders when they see her, that same so good to see you, as if they didn’t just see her a month ago for the fourth of July barbecue, as if she’s the one who’s–
“I appreciate y’all being here, I know Maria does too.” Everyone in the backyard even though it’s already pushing eighty degrees, linen dresses and blue jeans and fluted glasses filled with orange juice and something a little stiffer. He squints at Tommy, nods, of course, lets his eyes drift out over mingling friends and family, settling on Cass. She’s smiling, mouth moving around easy words in a small cluster of women. Her arm is curled across her stomach, elbow held in hand, drink held aloft. She is doing fine, he thinks, good. And of course she’s doing fine, everything fine, and he’s fine too. Her eyes catch his and her smile stays, and he feels one of his own, there and gone. They are doing fine.
“Is Cass, you know, doing alright?”
“Oh yeah, she’s doing fine.”
She can feel sweat starting to collect along the waistband of her underwear, a cool, nauseous shiver, so terrible running beneath the skin. Someone, she can’t remember the name, a friend of Maria’s, is saying something about tits. Well, she doesn’t use the word tits, no, that word couldn’t come out of her baby pink painted lips. Breasts, and Cassandra curls her lips back into her mouth to stop herself from offering up mammary glands, if you want to be so proper about it, smiling and mmhmming instead about stretch marks and leakage and sore, seaming skin. Not that she’d know anything about it, not really. But all the other women do, something close to sharing war stories, all the space the body can make, and what remains when it’s empty once again. Now that, empty, she knows a thing or two about empty. 
“You hear from Sarah lately?” 
“You wanna know what I hear from her? Is mom there? And then can you put her on?” Tommy laughs, continuing to make quick work out of carving up another watermelon, pink, pink, pink while Joel enjoys a second to breathe in the air conditioned kitchen. Almost eleven, and they’re going to do cake at almost eleven, and he supposes he doesn’t really know what the etiquette is for things like these so sure, he thinks, cake at almost eleven.
“I guess dad’s advice can only work for so long, huh?” 
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She’s a freshman in college, man, you don’t remember what we were like at that age?” 
“I’d rather not, thanks.” And the truth is he remembers very little of that time. Playing at boy king, at living forever, and then the flashbang burst and bloom, obliteration and letting the shrapnel boomerang back together when Sarah came. And then, he thinks, back out on the porch and squinting at the sun threaded through the branches of an elm tree, then, it was a sort of crawl in those first few years. 
What he remembers, very little eye contact from anyone, and wanting it more than anything. Never expecting the father to be the one to stay, the very young, very bleary-eyed father who eventually learned to stop looking for other eyes to meet his. Yes, a crawl, kept his head down until one day, two-year-old in tow in the grocery store, looking at pouches of pureed sweet potatoes and peaches, someone ducked her head down alongside his, looked him in the eye, and asked him if it was his wallet she found at the end of the aisle. For the record, it wasn’t his, but he can’t remember who it got returned to any more. That Tina Turner song was playing over the speakers, he remembers that. What’s love got to do with it, what’s love got to do with a HEB on a Wednesday night? Just enough for him to keep going to the HEB on Wednesday nights, hoping to run into the woman who looked him in the eye and told him his daughter was beautiful and had his smile.
“How many do you and Joel have, Cassandra?” Must have been smiling and nodding a little too well to get that question from Sally, Sammy? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t care. Maria needs better friends, she thinks, or maybe just less of them for her to keep track of. 
“Oh, just one. Sarah started college this year actually.” And the usual sequence of snobbery that follows her sharing that detail. Yes, had her very young, yes, must be so proud, and she is proud, she can mean that yes, at least. 
“But she’s not yours, is that right?”
“Excuse me?” Excuse you, Sally, Sammy, whoever the fuck you are. Excuse you in your baby blue linen dress and your fuckass bob. Sally, Sammy, whoever the fuck she is, eats her words fast, quick flickers of french tips and well, I just mean, not yours biologically, you know, I think Maria mentioned something about you adopting her when you and Joel got married. Said with that pitch that winches higher and higher with each word like a question going nowhere. She clasps her hands behind her back and digs her nails into the soft of her palms until the urge to throttle Sally, Sammy, whoever the fuck she is passes.
“Yeah, well, she’s not mine in that way. But I’ve been in her life since she was two so, I think that matters a little more than if she slid out of my vagina.” Shit, slipped, should not have said that, gets a glossed gasp from the peanut gallery and she’s just glad Maria is off hostessing with other people right now, not bearing witness to the way she just slaughtered this conversation with the sharp of her words. Excuse her Sally, Sammy, whoever the fuck you are, and excuse her, all the rest of you, she needs to get out of the heat, out of the sun, out of whatever this is. 
He knows what looks mean what by now. A pinched brow, a frown that’s just barely a frown. She breezes past the kitchen with one hand pressed high against her stomach as if to make sure the rise and fall is still happening. Says her name once and she waves a hand behind her, already halfway down the hall and not turning around now,  sorry, just need the bathroom. Tommy’s eyes do that thing, that softening, slipping thing, looking at him and not asking the question, though it hangs in the air somewhere between them. He excuses himself, walks slowly enough that the bathroom door is already shut and locked by the time he gets to it. The faucet is running, all he hears when he says her name again, feeling like a perfect fool knocking on the door. Not the first time this has happened, and she feels more foolish every time it does. But he’s already asked her if she’s taken her pills today so at the very least, that question is out of the way. Or maybe he’ll ask it again, and maybe she’ll break something, and then report back to her OB-GYN who, for some reason, is the one prescribing her these pills, and tell her OB-GYN that she’s getting crazier and needs more pills that she’ll forget to take. Repeat ad nauseam. No, she thinks, too tired for any of that, two years too tired. She presses her fingers into her temples and closed eyes until the throb in her skull begins to still.
“Do you want to go home?” He doesn’t know how to handle this, not really. Seems to get it wrong more often than not, and sometimes his own frustration turns into meanness that makes it worse, he knows that. He doesn’t know how to deal with her any more, she knows that. The truth is she doesn’t even know how to deal with herself any more, everything always raw and hurting, blistered brain and aching heart and wilting like a frail, flimsy thing. She does alright keeping it tamped down most of the time, keeping it cool and closed off. But, there are times when it flares, like a thin flume of disease nested somewhere deep inside of her. During things like these, around people like these, and the month of April, forget about it. 
“I said something a little awful, I think.” Sheepish, the door still only cracked, enough that he can see that she isn’t crying so, little lift of relief in his chest, at least. 
“What’s that?” He slips in through the half-opened door and she lets him, shuts the door behind him and tells him, may have snapped, may have used the word vagina. It’s a relief to hear him laugh, a single breath of it like he’s not sure if he should. He touches her hand, her wrist, her elbow, little pulse points, half a tired smile.
“There are worse words to use.”
“Could have said cunt.” She shrugs and you’d think he’d have gotten used to her surprising him like that after sixteen years together, but it’s still a giddy little shock to the system, her brass and brash. Like another vital sign, so long as she has her fang she’s fine, at least he thinks so.
“Yeah, that.” He laughs again, coughs, heat flushing down fast in his face and there’s a quick kick in her chest at the sight, something dormant getting stirred up. She likes that look, coaxing that look out of him. The first time, way out of line and out of place, she thinks. Fresh out of college and buying condoms and pretzel rods at the HEB down the block from her apartment and she shouldn’t have, pretty guy, man, father with pretty brown eyes and a little girl in the seat of his shopping cart with pretty brown eyes like his and she shouldn’t have. Thought she was so smooth, pretending like the wallet she showed him wasn’t hers, like she had found it on the linoleum floor, yeah, so smooth, just looking for a reason to shuffle down the baby food aisle and talk to pretty guy, man, father. That same flush, that same smile, little shock, though he had caught her too, taking a sharp glance down at her basket before she could tuck it behind her legs. And then her turn, little shock when he made some joke about little late for me, for that, shrug and smile and yes, she thinks, she didn’t exactly love him right then and there, but whatever comes right before love, it was that. 
“Listen, if it’s getting to be too much for you we can–” Wrong, all wrong, sound in the back of her throat like a scoff that’s how wrong those words were.
“Why does everyone seem to think this is too much for me? It’s a fucking baby shower, not a, I don’t even know what. I’m fine, it’s fine. It’s Tommy’s and Maria’s day and I’m so happy for them that they’re having a–” It catches her off guard, the way the sound gets stuck in her throat, not quite a sob, but verging on it, hiccuping out the rest, a baby. He reaches for her arm again but she jerks it away, hands clasping opposite elbows, all tucked in on herself. 
“It’s okay if it’s not fine, you know, nobody is expecting you to–”
“Nobody is expecting me to keep it together, right?”
“Would you let me finish speaking?” No, never winning any points for patience, ever. Not too many for thinking before he speaks either. Her face crumples for a breath, if that, smoothing back out with a scoff, I’m so sorry, Joel, what were you going to say? No, not normal, not today. He wonders briefly how long they’ve been in the bathroom now, and whether they’ve been speaking loudly enough to draw attention to the fact of how long they’ve been in the bathroom now.
“You know what, forget it. If you say you’re fine then I guess you’re fine. Can we just get through fucking cake and leave, please?” She’s very good at this, at turning herself off, something cool and distant slipping over her eyes, her face, shoulders rolled back sharp. Of course, she says, whatever you say, she says, doesn’t give him another glance as she opens the bathroom door. 
“Oh, I’m sorry, I wasn’t standing here long, just waiting to use the–” 
“Cunt.”
“I’m sorry?” 
“Cut– I had a cut and I needed Joel to look at it but I’m fine, right, Joel? Aren’t I fine?” She doesn’t give him a chance to answer that, doesn’t give Sally, Sammy, whoever the fuck she is a chance to say any more either, already moving past both of them and back toward the sound of laughter and cake, fucking cake about to happen. 
He needs to keep his mouth shut, all he can figure. Keep his mouth shut and maybe, maybe, they’ll get through fucking cake without any more seams splitting. Nothing like this when Sarah came, no balloons, no perfectly frosted and tiered cake with a whole cluster of people around it, and he thinks briefly that maybe he’s the one who isn’t fine being here. Like an ache, or an absence, a place inside of him that has been scooped out and left empty. He doesn’t let himself get sad about it often, mostly because he’s too busy being angry about it with (at?) Cass. But he feels it now, a sinking, swimming feeling that weighs everything down, slow to smile when Maria hands him a plate with a slice of cake on it. 
She takes a plate and pushes around globs of pink icing with her fork for a while, standing in another cluster of people she doesn’t really know, one of the women commenting on how good she’s being when she sets her plate down on the kitchen counter, smile and laugh, though the truth is she’s not sure she could stomach pretty pink icing right now. A small mercy when Tommy steps over alongside her and effectively relieves her of having to continue pretending to be interested in a conversation about kitchen remodels. 
“Looking a little green, Cassie, you alright?”
“I think the heat got to me, but I’ll survive. Congratulations again, you guys are going to be great, really.” And she hopes he interprets the pitch, the little catch of her words as a good emotion that is entirely for him and his family. Not anything else, not anything that would be entirely ridiculous and well, crazy, on her part. 
“I just want to say thank you again for giving us all that furniture, and the clothes, we really–”
“Oh of course, Tom, you did us a favor taking all that stuff. It’s not like we were going to–” Going to what? She doesn’t finish that sentence, and Tommy doesn’t need her to, already nodding, already that look in his eyes that she has come to recognize as thinly-concealed pity. Not like they were ever going to have a use for that furniture, those clothes, not again, not after. A foreclosed room in their house that stayed as silent and shut up as a tomb, and then the happy, happy, happy news from Tommy and Maria and of course, they said, take whatever you want, take it all, actually. The room is empty now. The door stays closed. 
He wants to leave and he wants to leave now. The walls creeping in closer and that hollow thing in between his ribs starting to ache and twinge. He catches her eyes from across the room and it takes little else for a knowing to pass between them, both of them already moving, already starting a string of polite goodbyes, friends and family, sorry, yes, really have to go, it’s becoming hard to breathe, really have to go. 
Early in the afternoon and the sun so bright it makes him a little dizzy when they step outside. He follows the sound of her heels on the sidewalk back to the car, relief in the closing of the door, in settling into the driver’s seat. 
She feels like her brain is deflating in her skull. Enough normal for the day, don’t ask her for any more than that. She props her head in her hand and lets her eyes unfocus, turning the suburban streets they're driving through into pale blurs of minivans and basketball hoops. And there is little fanfare to what happens next, she glances at him once, then looks out the window, hears a metallic clink, and when she looks at him again, there’s a cigarette dangling from his lips. It’s so absurd, so out of nowhere, that she has to laugh. 
“Since when do you smoke?”
“I don’t know. Tommy’s a bad influence.”
“Tommy quit.”
“Well then I did him a favor finishing off all his packs.”
“Joel.”
“Yes?”
“How did I miss you picking up smoking again?”
“It’s not like I do it around the house, I know you don’t like the smell.”
“Oh, but you’re happy to trap me in the car with it?” 
“The windows are down.”
“Secondhand smoke.”
“Would you prefer to get out at the next red light?” 
“You know, you’re probably gonna die before me. Then what the fuck am I supposed to do?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I’m serious. Statistically speaking, men die first–”
“I wonder why.”
“Cardiac events.”
“That tracks.” 
“You’re already two years older than me and now you’re doing shit like this and I’m probably gonna be like, sixty-eight and a widow, and then I’ll die of stress from being a sixty-eight-year-old widow.” 
“Are you done?” 
“Oh fuck you–”
“Hey.”
“No, what next, huh? Are you gonna ask me if I took my pills again?”
“Well, did you?” 
“That’s not the point.”
“Jesus Christ, Cass, it’s like you don’t even want to get better, you don’t even try.” Silence, she doesn’t fire back, doesn’t make a sound, her lips parted around a wordless frown. The only noise is the turn signal clicking as he pulls into a gas station, his heart sunk down low in his chest, shrinking back in on itself. Too far, too mean, and not even knowing what he was saying until he said it, until she was looking at him in a devastated crumple. 
He parks beside a pump but doesn’t get out, doesn’t move at all, really. Waiting. For what, he isn’t sure. When he looks at her again, that stricken look is gone, something slackening, something tired settled in its place. 
“Do you remember when you stopped shaving and you asked me if your beard looked stupid and I told you it didn’t?” 
“Uh, yes.” 
“I lied. Your beard does look stupid.” And with that, she’s out of her seat, out of the car, and clipping fast toward the convenience store, not sparing him another look. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or scream. 
The light flickers a little in the convenience store bathroom when she flips it on, locking the door behind her just as the first sob shudders up and out of her throat. She doesn’t look in the mirror, she has no use for that, just grips the edge of the sink and allows herself this, a few minutes to get the worst of it out. 
He had finished pumping gas ten minutes ago when she comes back out with a bottle of snapple lemonade tucked under her arm. She has been crying, he can see. He doesn’t know why she always hides it from him. It catches him off guard when she walks around the front of the car to stand in front of his rolled-down window, something bordering on sheepish in the set of her expression, her eyes doing a quick loop from her feet back up to him.
“I didn’t mean that.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t think your beard is stupid.”
“Okay.”
“I like it, think you look handsome with it.”
“Honey, will you get in the car, please?” She does, offers him the bottle of lemonade and they both take a swig, waiting for whatever words are supposed to come next. A car honks at them, still at the pump, and he has enough sense to wave an apology behind his head and pull over into a parking spot instead.
“I’m sorry for what I said. Cass? That was a stupid thing for me to say. I didn’t mean that.” She wants to say no, not a stupid thing to say, not unfair, not really. But that would be an admission she doesn’t want to make, so she nods, accepts his apology, both of them having a hard time looking at the other, suddenly so interested in the brick wall of the convenience store. 
“We can’t keep doing this.” She doesn’t realize how much she means that until she’s done saying it. Finally saying it, this truth they have been scrapping and snapping around for months now. He says, no, we can’t, and she braces for impact, anticipating the worst, the nuclear option, and she wouldn’t blame him for it. But that blow doesn’t come. He takes her hand over the center console, as simple as anything, and she is reminded again of how much she loves him. 
“Something has to change.”
“I think so.”
“We can figure this out, can’t we?”
“It’s us.” As if that’s an answer, though he still nods, repeats it back to her, it’s us. It’s them. They can’t keep doing this. They have to change. They can figure this out, can’t they?
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Closed Position: Deconstructing Dieter Bravo
Closed Position Masterlist ||| Main Masterlist I did a Deconstructing Dieter Bravo series for Destiny & Deliverance, so I thought it might be fun to continue that tradition with Closed Position since this Dieter does have some interesting things going on that we can delve deeper into.
I had several people comment/dm me about two things after the first chapter that I think would be fun to discuss further. Those were of course, Dieter’s plant hobby and the fluffy menace hanging around his house.
To most, these two things may seem very random and unrelated. However, they really aren’t. They do serve a bigger purpose to the story…because of course they do. When do I ever not have deeper meaning behind something, right? 😏
Plant Dad Dieter
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First, I have included some more Dieter aesthetic pictures above that I had saved. It's a whole ✨vibe✨. Second, I must thank @readingiskeepingmegoing for coming up with the new #PlantDadDieter hashtag… because it’s so on point. I’m totally going with it! 💜
On to the good stuff...what have we learned about Dieter after the first installment? I think we can safely identify three things: he spends a lot of time alone, he feels misunderstood, and he doesn’t appear to have any deep or meaningful relationships. This will be a theme that comes up a lot with him, especially starting in Week 2 when we open with him having a chat with his therapist.
How does this relate to plants, you ask? Let’s start with Dieter’s history…the man has never had a real relationship. He’s never connected with anyone, whether that be friend or significant other. He was a party boy that indulged in the physical pleasures of life while avoiding any real intimacy. Most of his relationships were based on sex and favors. We will worry about why he is this way later, but for now, just know that’s where he's at emotionally.
Dieter has never really had a bond with anyone or anything. Now that he is sober and realizing how alone he is, he’s seeking that connection any way he can and doesn’t even really realize it (yet).
Sure, being a plantsman does have perks as it is relaxing and can have a positive impact on one’s mental health. However, it’s causing Dieter to learn how to care about something - how to be selfless and nurturing with his time. He has to put in a lot of effort to keep everything alive and healthy and he quickly realizes that putting in that time and energy makes him happy. Also, the plants don't judge him or his past.
Now, for some fun stuff because some of you asked…
Does Dieter talk to his plants? He 100% talks to the plants. He doesn’t know if it actually does anything, but he figures it can’t hurt to try. It also helps him feel less alone as he does see them as living things. They do breathe, eat, and drink after all.
Does Dieter name his plants? I’m inclined to say that he names his favorites. All the others just have random nicknames that change based on their appearance. Like...the "thirsty dramatic bitch" that gets weepy and needs to be watered and turned in the sunlight daily.
Dieter’s Furry Squatter
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And let the collective aww's be heard! 🤭
So, I pulled a few pics from Pinterest of what I envision Dieter's furry little visitor looks like. I see it as an adorably fluffy young Maine Coon kitty.
👉 Fun Fact: "The name 'Maine Coon' was adopted after the state of the breed's origin, Maine, and after the early belief that the cat was in fact the result of crossing between domestic breeds and raccoons." (from VioVet)
Funny story, I did not know that fact before choosing this breed. It looks like it was mean-to-be for our loveable trash panda. 😂
Now, I am sure you're asking; how does the cat relate to the plants? The cat serves the same purpose when we think about Dieter's relationships...or lack thereof.
Again, Dieter is craving companionship. He is still reluctant, but this little nugget will eventually become a loving companion for him. It's another avenue for him to create an emotional connection with something. He will learn how to care for the kitty and build a bond. Though the little menace can be a bit sassy, like the plants, it also doesn't judge Dieter by his past. What do you think Dieter should name it? I'm taking suggestions in the comments. 😉
In an odd way, the plants and cat do help Dieter grow as a person. It's baby steps in his personal growth journey. Honestly, as Katrina gets to know Dieter on a more personal level, these are two things that she absolutely loves about him, mostly because it's two things that are unexpected and show what a sweetheart he really is. She sees the good in him even if he can't see it himself.
That's it for your little extra bit of insight...until next time.
💜Mysty
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Series Summary: Dieter Bravo, now sober, was looking to change his bad boy image after hitting rock bottom. His team hoped that having him join the nationally televised family friendly dance competition would be a good first step, if they can keep him out of trouble.
Katarina Stamos expected her last season as a professional dancer on Dancing with the Stars to go the same as it had for the past thirteen seasons. That all changed when she was partnered with the infamous Dieter Bravo.
Dieter and Katarina are reluctantly thrown into their partnership and must learn to work together to succeed in the competition. In the process they form a deeper connection beyond the dance floor that neither anticipated.
👉 Warnings: Themes dealing with intimate partner violence, alcohol abuse, and drug abuse. There will be fluff, tears, spicy language, and smut. This will be a slow burn. Read at your own risk. Dieter Bravo comes with his own warnings.
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Closed Position Taglist: @secretelephanttattoo @titlee78 @maggiemayhemnj @legendary-pink-dot @morallyinept @survivingandenduring  @wannab-urs @harriedandharassed @hisandsnakes @misstokyo7love @readingiskeepingmegoing @runningmom94 @sin-djarin @cakipy-blog @missladym1981 @guelyury @weho2kcmo @alokaerza @girlofchaos @trulybetty @rhoorl @bitchwitch1981 @madnessofadaydreamer @darkheartgatita @jazzloveslatte @timpletance @musings-of-a-rose @samiamproductions @myloveistoolittle @for-a-longlongtime  @copperhalfcent @auteurdelabre @drewharrisonwriter @burntheedges @stevie75 @bunniboo0015 @quicax3 @jackie923 @sherala007 @pastelnap
*If your blog name is marked out, it would not let me tag you. You will need to change your visibility settings for that to work going forward.
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maniculum · 3 days
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Bestiaryposting Results: Slagzogg
This is, interestingly, our third consecutive Beaſt that's actually a common everyday animal pretty much all over Europe, including the area where this manuscript was produced. This is interesting to me because the three are handled very differently. First we had the salamander, which I'm pretty sure got mentally separated from the actual animal somewhere, probably because people use different terms for the real-life amphibian in different regions and languages, and not everybody is going to recognize that it's just the Greek word for the same animal. Second we had the deer, which it seemed like the manuscript producers did recognize, because the illustration is clearly a deer... but elements of the entry are just nuts (As @sweetlyfez said, "How do you make up this many wild myths about a guy you live with"). And now we have the [redacted until end of post], which is just given a completely mundane, if engaging, description with the only weird part being the symbolism attached to it.
I think it might also be our first domestic animal -- the entry even talks about the difference between wild and domestic varieties -- which seems like it's worth noting.
Anyway, as usual people who don't know what I'm talking about should check https://maniculum.tumblr.com/bestiaryposting. The entry this week's artists are working from can be found here:
This is another one where I almost didn't put it in because it seemed super obvious what it was, but the artists have done a superb job not drawing that. Excellent work on everyone's part, and it can be found below the cut:
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@silverhart-makes-art (link to post here) shows us both a domestic and a wild Slagzogg; the design of the domestic one makes me think of fancy pigeons, which I think is a pretty good direction to take here. The vulture-like faces really improve the design also. Very good birds, and you should go check out the linked post to hear about the design decisions and real-life inspirations behind this one; I think it's pretty interesting.
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@pomrania (link to post here) observed that, though the entry mentions beaks and flight, it doesn't actually say "bird", so they can draw a pet dragon and have it fit the description. Fair call, and I think it turned out well. I like the contrast between the fairly dignified-looking creature on the left -- this is a Slagzogg who is on its way to win Best in Show -- and the sketch on the right of someone forcibly preventing it from getting into a fight. If you check out the linked post, you can see Pomrania's progress thread for this design.
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@coolest-capybara (link to post here) has made the eminently-understandable decision that if they're going to draw a bird with no specific anatomical details given, it's going to be a potoo. On the left we have three domestic Slagzoggs socializing, and on the right we have a wild one perching alone. I like how this incorporates the symbolism of the entry: we're told that the wild type is meant to signify people who choose a religious life ("those who keep apart from this world wear the modest garb of penitence"), and this wild Slagzogg does look a bit more serious and... monastic? Like, that bird is a nun. (Also, thank you for including alt text.)
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@cheapsweets (link to post here) also went with the direction of "well, it doesn't say 'bird'," and so we have this really charming image of a medieval person feeding their domestic... pterosaurs. Love it. Honestly, these alternate visions of the Middle Ages where people have entirely different domestic animals than our timeline are really appealing to me. Too much Dinotopia as a child, perhaps. Anyway, check out the linked post for substantially more detail, it's worth it. In fact, everyone reading this should just go ahead and follow all of the bestiaryposting participants. (Also, thank you for the alt text.)
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@strixcattus (link to post here) is clearly thinking of the modern day's feral pigeons, formerly the result of selective breeding by pigeon fanciers. We can see the "fancy" domestic version on the left contrasted with the wild version on the right. (I think it's interesting that everyone who's drawn both has put the domestic Slagzogg on the left and the wild Slagzogg on the right.) Anyway, as is usually the case with Strixcattus, the writing included in the post is absolutely worth your time and you should read it. And again, follow them, as well as everyone who has ever contributed to bestiaryposting. Go do it; you won't regret it.
Now, to the Aberdeen Bestiary.
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Beak shape aside, these are clearly geese.
I think the degree to which people guessed that varies somewhat; Strixcattus made a post suggesting they were leaning "pigeon", but Pomrania probably clocked it, because they described two Slagzoggs fighting as a "hissing match" despite hissing not being mentioned in the entry. I have no idea where everyone else landed.
Honestly, what I find interesting about this entry is that it's pulling symbolism while remaining pretty much entirely grounded in reality. Check this out:
The goose marks the watches of the night by its constant cry.
Okay, I don't know to what degree it's useful in marking time, but I don't doubt that geese make noise at night.
No other creature picks up the scent of man as it does.
That one I'm not sure about.
This next bit I cut because if anyone knows Roman history they'd nail it right out of the gate:
It was because of its noise, that the Gauls were detected when they ascended the Capitol. Rabanus says in this context: 'The goose can signify men who are prudent and look out for their own safety.'
Okay, that might be less history and more legend, but still, people know it, I think.
There are two kinds of geese, domestic and wild. Wild geese fly high, in a an orderly fashion, signifying those who, far away from earthly things, preserve a rule of virtuous conduct.
I can absolutely see medieval people looking up at geese flying in that V formation and going, "look how orderly these birds are; clearly they are virtuous creatures."
Domestic geese live together in villages, they cackle together all the time and rend each other with their beaks...
Yeah, that sounds like what geese would do in a village.
All wild geese are grey in colour; I have not seen any that were of mixed colour or white. But among domestic geese, there are not only grey but variegated and white ones. Wild geese are the colour of ashes, that is to say, those who keep apart from this world wear the modest garb of penitence.
This bit falls into the category of "I believe it, but it does not accord with my personal experience." Because if you told me that in Europe they had a variety of different aesthetically-pleasing domestic goose breeds, I'd have no problem believing that. And I'm sure some wild geese are gray. But I live in North America, so to me wild geese look like this:
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And domestic geese look like this:
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But again, I have no difficulty believing that the experience of the medieval Europeans was different from mine.
What really sticks out to me here is the fact that the characteristic behavior of domestic geese is to make noise and get in fights -- I think the Untitled Goose Game would have made perfect sense to a medieval audience.
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(After the Smithfield Decretals)
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bitchesgetriches · 21 hours
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{ MASTERPOST } Everything You Need to Know about Investing for Beginners
Fundamentals of investing:
What’s the REAL Rate of Return on the Stock Market?
Do NOT Make This Disastrous Beginner Mistake With Your Retirement Funds
The Dark Magic of Financial Horcruxes: How and Why to Diversify Your Assets
Dafuq Is Interest? And How Does It Work for the Forces of Darkness?
Booms, Busts, Bubbles, and Beanie Babies: How Economic Cycles Work
When Money in the Bank Is a Bad Thing: Understanding Inflation and Depreciation
Investing Deathmatch series:
Investing Deathmatch: Managed Funds vs. Index Funds 
Investing Deathmatch: Traditional IRA vs. Roth IRA 
Investing Deathmatch: Investing in the Stock Market vs. Just… Not 
Investing Deathmatch: Stocks vs. Bonds 
Investing Deathmatch: Timing the Market vs. Time IN the Market
Investing Deathmatch: Paying off Debt vs. Investing in the Stock Market 
Investing Deathmatch: What Happens in a Bull Market vs. a Bear Market 
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Alternative investments:
Small Business Investing: A Kinder, Gentler Alternative to the Stock Market 
Bullshit Reasons Not to Buy a House: Refuted
Investing in Cryptocurrency is Bad and Stupid
So I Got Chickens, Part 1: Return on Investment
Twelve Reasons Senior Pets Are an Awesome Investment 
How To Save for Retirement When You Make Less Than $30,000 a Year
Understanding the stock market:
Ask the Bitches Pandemic Lightning Round: “Did Congress Really Give $1.5 Trillion to Wall Street?”
Season 3, Episode 2: “I Inherited Money. Should I Pay Off Debt, Invest It, or Blow It All on a Car?” 
Money Is Fake and GameStop Is King: What Happened When Reddit and a Meme Stock Tanked Hedge Funds
Season 3, Episode 7: “I’m Finished With the Basic Shit. What Are the Advanced Financial Steps That Only Rich People Know?”
Wait… Did I Just Lose All My Money Investing in the Stock Market?
Season 4, Episode 1: “Index Funds Include Unethical Companies. Can I Still Invest in Them, or Does That Make Me a Monster?” 
Retirement plans:
Dafuq Is a Retirement Plan and Why Do You Need One?
Procrastinating on Opening a Retirement Account? Here’s 3 Ways That’ll Fuck You Over
How to Painlessly Run the Gauntlet of a 401k Rollover
Ask the Bitches: “Can I Quit With Unvested Funds? Or Am I Walking Away From Too Much Money?”
Workplace Benefits and Other Cool Side Effects of Employment
You Need to Talk to Your Parents About Their Retirement Plan
Season 4, Episode 5: “401(k)s Aren’t Offered in My Industry. How Do I Save for Retirement if My Employer Won’t Help?” 
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Recessions:
Season 1, Episode 12: “Should I Believe the Fear-Mongering about Another Recession?”
There’s a Storm a’Comin’: What We Know About the Next Recession
Ask the Bitches: How Do I Prepare for a Recession?
A Brief History of the 2008 Crash and Recession: We Were All So Fucked
Ask the Bitches Pandemic Lightning Round: “Is This the Right Time To Start Investing?”
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