#so hurrah! and also most of my people-facing work is done for the week i just have a couple small meetings left!

[whentherewerebicycles]

WORKSHOP WENT SO WELL!!!! the students got really into the activities and just did SUCH a good job in the debrief conversation at the end. one of the students also works for our office under my coworker's supervision (although i'd never met her before) and my coworker said the student messaged her after to rave about how fun the workshop was and how good the group discussions were. and at the end one of the professional staff who worked at the center just got up and spontaneously gave a little speech about how much undergrad research had meant to him and how much doing community-engaged work helped him untangle these complicated questions and feelings about his identity and his relationship to his community. it was just really nice!! good group, very good energy, and i think/hope they are going to want to invite us back to do more programming with their students this year. fingers crossed!!!

#it feels REALLY good to be getting out there and starting to set up these workshops & talks with student groups #like it just makes the work come alive in a different way and you also get so much good input from them #on what resonates/what doesn't and also like what the barriers or points of confusion/anxiety are that hold them back #from getting involved in these kinds of experiences #plus kids are just so smart and thoughtful #and college age is just aaaaa it is my favorite age #such a moment of self-discovery and exploration and trying on different ways of being in the world #and also.. i will admit... it is easier to navigate their personalities sometimes than the personalities of adult faculty and staff #because (as i think macky said to me a while back) there's at least a loose mutual understanding of what our roles are #and what our relationship is to each other #and you get to be more in that teacher/mentor/listener/facilitator role for them #idk anyway #i'm so glad it went well it's been kind of looming in my mind for a couple weeks #but now i think we have a great template for a workshop that we can use with lots of different groups #so hurrah! and also most of my people-facing work is done for the week i just have a couple small meetings left! #but other than that it's just sustained worktime! the dream!

[league-of-thots]

YeeHawks

Pairing: Hawks x female reader

Word Count: 3.3k+

Warnings: 18+, alcohol, riding, is cowboy kink a warning?

A/N: not the way y’all wanted me to return, but the way y’all deserve lol. i didnt really have the energy to give it an in depth edit but sometimes it be like that

         You wipe the sweat from your brow, the sun is high in the bright, cloudless sky. It means that the heat is just pouring down in waves from the sky though, and you curse the fact that you’d agreed to switch shifts with one of the other farmhands that had asked you the day before. Part of you wants to find Kirishima and reem him out, but you know he’s a sweetheart and wouldn’t have ever done something that would make things harder for you on purpose.

         Having said that, imagining giving the man a piece of your mind makes it easier for you to grit your teeth and put your back into heaving large packets of grains into a wheelbarrow for the pigs, so that you wouldn’t have to make as many trips. Instead, it would just be one hellish trip, and a lot less walking in the heat.

         Wiping the stray dirt on your pants you sigh. You feel sticky and can feel the grit on your face, on your arms. You must smell something fierce, though you know compared to the pigs you’d be feeding in a few minutes, you smelt like a bed of flowers.

         You feel the strain on your back as you finally finish loading the wheelbarrow and start to haul it over to the south side of the Academy farm. The ground is rough, and you feel the jarring of the weight in your shoulders, you’re going to be so sore tomorrow.

         After you finish feeding the pigs, you take the supplies back to where they belong and head off to start some of your final tasks of the day. One is milking the cows, and the other being your favourite, plowing some of the dirt to prepare for the new season.

         Is it a bit stupidly cliché that you love riding the big tractor while the sun lowers in the sky? Maybe. Is it worth it? Absolutely. It’s one of the best views you’ve seen in your life. Plus, it always helps clear your mind from a day of hard work so that when you enter one of the farmhouses, you’re ready to do whatever else you need to get done.

         When you park the tractor back to its spot in the barn, you see a few of the other farmhands talking together. They’re laughing with one another, and you wave to them as you walk out with your overcoat and keys.

         You’re in a daze until you realize you’ve somehow already started up a warm shower, standing under the steam to relieve your body from the stress of the day. Your muscles feel so much better with the hot water on them and the steam makes you feel as if you’re in stasis. It’s good because tomorrow is going to be a big day, the August festival, a celebration that the community holds as a sort of last hurrah before the season gets busy once again.

         After you’re clean and put together, you head downstairs to have a quick conversation with the couple other farmhands that share the house with you. You need to check if there’s anything else you need to do to help with the final preparations for tomorrow. The four of you had made some homebrew cider to share with the other townspeople, and it tasted quite good, despite being a little heavy on the alcohol. But nobody would be complaining about that, of course.

         “Mmm, I think its fine.” Mina says, faced scrunched up in thought. “We did pretty well with it for sure.”

         “I agree,” you reply. “Just wanted to make sure I could pass out for the night. I’m fucking dead.” She laughs a little at that.

         “Gotta make sure you have the energy for tomorrow. I hear that it’s going to be extra wild.” She waggles her eyebrows. “You know that there’s going to be a horse-ridin’ performance from our sheriff’s department, but there’s also gonna be some cowboys over here to show off some of their skills too.”

         You’re slightly intrigued at that. Maybe, you’ll even get to see him again… but, better not get your hopes up too much. Instead, you say, “That would definitely be a treat for all the hard work that this year’s been.”

         Mina nods sagely at that. “If I see that blonde, twink of a cowboy I’m goin’ to make him my bitch. Because I deserve it.” That brings a snort out of you, but you pray a little for Denki if you do see him tomorrow, because lord knows he’s going to need it.

         The two of you chat for a little while longer before you wish her a good night and head up to get some rest. You do have a busy day to get ready for after all.

           You wake up early the next day, ready to quickly get your tasks done so you can let loose with friends and community members that night. You wish that you don’t have to do any work, but you can’t have everything you want.

         So, you drag yourself out of bed, muscles tight and body sore, to quickly grab a protein bar and a cleaner pair of working clothes. Your overalls are starting to sport holes and there are some dark stains that just won’t ever come off. You need new ones, you think, as you walk towards the horse pen.

         You love the horses, how sweet most of them are and how peaceful it is in their separated area. It’s especially nice in the early morning, with a crisp breeze and the sun peeking out on the horizon. You grab the feed mix that someone had mixed the day before and drag it over to the troughs, where there are already some of the animals waiting for you to arrive. The horses have learned to expect people in the morning, and some of the more assertive ones wait at the fence to be the first ones to get to eat.

         While they feed, you prepare the cleaning tools inside the small stable that is connected to the fenced off pen. You take each horse that’s finished eating into the small shelter to clean their hooves, brush out their mane and body, and then your favourite part, riding them for a few laps of the enclosure to make sure they run a bit each day.

         It’s while you’re dismounting a cute mare named Starlight when you hear a low whistle from behind you. Someone’s obviously been watching you, and sitting there just outside the enclosure.

“Damn, baby, wonder if you could ride me as good as those horses there.” You feel a vein ticking in your head as you recognize the voice. He’s supposed to be getting ready for the group event, not bothering you while you try to get some fucking work done before you can finally relax and celebrate.

         You turn your body and inwardly groan as your suspicions are confirmed, sitting there waiting is a certain cowboy who’s always managed to piss you off greatly every time one of his short visits brings him to the UA farms.

         “Hello, Hawks.” You grit your teeth as you move towards the next horse that you’re about to take care of.

         “I’m wounded, really, that you don’t sound pleased ta see me, angel.” There’s a satisfied smirk on his face. He really does get off on toying around with you and seeing how much he can piss you off. So, you take a deep breath and calm yourself.

         “Now, why would you expect anything different? I haven’t forgotten the last time you came aroun’-“

         He waves you off. “You’re bein’ ridiculous. It was a harmless joke.”

         “I had to clean the stables for TWO WEEKS.” He just laughs at your anger, totally unphased. It grinds your gears more, the cheeky grin on his face that charms everyone around him, whittling down your intense irritation.

         “Well, if anythin’ everyone else certainly enjoyed it.” You grumble out some choice words about him, making sure they’re loud enough for him to here, as you start brushing out the mane of the mare in front of you. He seems pleased with himself, leaning on the fence, head on his hands.

         “Do you not have somewhere to be? Something you should be practicing for?” He lazily waves away your attempts to get him away from the work you’d like to finish up.

         “Who needs practice? I know exactly what I’ve gotta do so there’s no real reason for me to waste my energy before the actual performance.” He says it with a casual arrogance, that you know comes from years of experience and absolute confidence in his abilities. “The only thing I wanna do right now is try all of the good I know y’all made for the party tonight.”

         You give him an unimpressed look. “Just because we know each other does not mean that I’m going to just give you the cider meant for the community.” He pouts “You can try it when everyone else does later.”

         “Yeah, but we have a special connection.” He grins and you splutter, embarrassed and trying to put away the memories of your bodies pressed together and calloused fingers in your cunt.

         “Jesus, Hawks. Shut up.” You look around furtively, checking to see if anyone would’ve overheard.

         “You like me loud.” God, his smug look makes you feel hot and bothered.

         “Get outta here so I can finish my work, damn it.” He just laughs, turning around before turning back.

         “You better save me some of the goodies y’all made up for after the performance.”

         “Yeah, whatever,” you grumble, face flushed and mind now distracted with memories of Hawks’ hands tangled in your hair.

           “Well, now. This is delicious.” Your eyes follow his tongue that darts out to lick the drop of the cider that had dripped onto his lips. You’d made sure to fill a plate up with the treats that had been spread around the outdoor tables, lanterns hung up around them not only for ease of finding them, but also to light up the evening. “You helped make this?”

         “Yup. You wouldn’t believe how difficult it was between never having done it before and Mina’s enthusiasm. God bless Momo, without her we wouldn’t have gotten it done.” He laughs, and you can’t help that you can’t keep your eyes off of him.

         He was slightly sweaty from his earlier performance, which had been perfectly executed, tank top tucked into worn jeans with a feather-like buckle. His eyes are scanning the crowd around as the two of you lean on the outside of the saloon, the inside being too filled with inebriated or high adults to even try to squeeze into a seat.

         “So, how’s life been around here since I last visited?” he asks between bites of some spicey brisket, obviously enjoying it.

         “Ah, not much. Just the usual social drama. Actually, Shinsou almost got his dick sliced off by some machinery someone had fucked around with. I swear to god that man has the worst luck I’ve ever seen.”

         “Holy shit, sure does sound like it.”

         “But yeah, it’s just living day to day for me now. Not much new happens out here, as you very well know.” He shrugs.

         “Might as well see. What’s even keeping you here, then?”

         “Not everyone needs to be on the road their whole life to be happy, Hawks.”

         “I suppose. More cider?”

         “Sure.”

           You’ve drank way too much, you know that. But the fuzziness in your head just makes you want to keep going, to have fun and make up for all the time you lose working long hours every day.

         Besides, Hawks is there beside you, egging you on and matching you drink for drink. His hands always seem to be on your body, either squeezing your ass, wrapped around your shoulders or waist. It makes you feel warm, and you know he’s teasing you, trying to rile you up. He wants to see how bothered he can make you before you snap and drag him off to some private place.

         You’re determined to beat him out though. So, you lean into his body space and trace your hands over his arms, the insides of his wrists. You hear his breath hitch, though his attention is kept on whatever conversation is happening in front of you.

         Of course, this is Hawks, who has just as much patience as a saint, despite being as far from one as possible. But you’re drunk and turned on and the teasing is too much for you to handle, so when there’s a brief pause in the activity around the two of you, you pull him down so you can whisper in his ear how much you want him.

         He grins, “Might as well head back to your place then.” You agree and drag him with you.

         The moment you’re in the house, you wrap your arms around his neck so you can bring his lips to yours. Its messy and rushed, but it’s relieving at the same time. The two of you have done this enough in the few times that he passes through that he’s comfortable enough to let you take charge for a bit.

         “You can’t even wait ‘til we’re upstairs, sugar?” he chuckles, drawing out each word. You feel the rumble of them, pressed up as you are against his chest.

         “Shut up, Hawks.” You grumble, pulling him towards your room if that’s what it’ll take to get his dick out faster.

         After rushing in the room, you kick the door shut behind you and immediately get back to kissing him. This time, he makes more of an effort to assert himself, holding your face in his hands and licking into your mouth. You sigh into him, your hands finding his heated skin beneath his shirt as the pace slows down from the frantic rush it had been. It becomes sensual, and you can feel him getting more aroused as he slowly shifts his hands, starting to grind into you.

         You pull away from him, getting some air as you start to take off his shirt. He enthusiastically moves to help and you get to admire his muscles stretch as he does. Obviously, life constantly on the road does wonders for your abs.

         “You too, sugar. You’re gonna make me feel underdressed.” He says as he moves to take off the rest of his garments. A laugh slips out of you as you hastily get out of your outfit. When you turn your attention back to him, he’s sitting on the bed and he gestures for you to join him.

         When you do, he kisses you again, intensely, as he guides you onto your back. You sigh as he kisses down the side of your jaw to mark your neck, reaching blindly for the lube and condoms beside the bed.

         He quickly slides it on and you hear the squelching of lube as he moves in a rush. You don’t have time to make fun of him though, because as soon as he’s finished, he spreads your legs and puts the head of his dick at your entrance.

         He groans, closing his eyes as he enters you, and its uncomfortable for a little bit. Soon enough though, you relax, and start to feel great as he moves his hips slowly against you. Hawks fucks deeply, you know this from your times before, but each time it feels just as tantalizing as the last.

         “Hawks, please.” You pant, trying to wiggle a little bit just to get some friction, some tiny relief for the edging you’ve been through. He just gives you a smirk, as he keeps you completely locked between him and the mattress. You tense so hard he groans on top of you, but he doesn’t let you move, dick still sitting snug inside your cunt.

         “Well, let’s see those barebacking skills you were showin’ off earlier then, hmm?” he says, his voice low and gruff. With ease, he gets the both of you turned around so you’re now sitting with your ass on his thighs, hands clamped tight on your waist keeping you in place while he lays back on the headboard. He nods satisfactorily, looking you up and down with lidded eyes. “Y’know, I like this view much better, baby. What a pretty picture you make right on top of me.” Part of you wants to roll your eyes, but the warmth that his words give you makes the impulse disappear.

         “You know, Hawks, in order for me to show you said skills, you’re going to have to let me move.” He laughs as you try and lift yourself against the pressure he’s putting, obviously unable to really do anything. “Seriously, you dick, lemme move.”

         “But the face you make when I play these little games with you is so cute, sugar.” He’s got a faux innocent smile across his face and you pout and cross your arms in response. “Okay, okay, I’m done. I promise,” he says, letting off all the pressure, but keeping the two of you connected at the hips.

         “Thank you.” you quip, starting a quicker pace than the one Hawks had been setting, gravity still making it just as deep as before.

         Being drunk obviously makes Hawks that much louder, or maybe it’s the change up in position, you can’t be sure. But, his praises, his deep moans, the lewd noises from the slapping of your body against his hips, it all makes you feel hot as hell.

         You look down, seeing Hawks’ eyes widened and excited, he grins when he notices your look and begins to rock up into you. You throw your head back in as he hits deep within you, crying out his name. Hearing it obviously enthuses him as he grunts in exertion, starting to thrust upwards harder, and you feel your body responding, muscles tightening as you get closer to your climax.

         “God, you’re gorgeous like this, y’know?” he gets out through gritted teeth. “I’m not going to be able to last much longer…” He’s panting, fingers digging into your hips sharply, sure to leave marks.

         “Please, I wanna cum Hawks!”

         “Tell me what you need, sugar, I’ll give it to you.” Hearing that makes you smile, he was always so attentive to your needs.

         “Touch me…”

         “You gotta tell me where for that.” Even when so close to his climax, somehow, Hawks manages to be cheeky. However, when he’s fucking you this well, it’s much easier to let the teasing roll off your back.

         “My clit, Hawks. You do know what that is, right?” He lets out a genuine laugh at that, before sending one hand down towards the bundle of nerves.

         It’s enough, between the stimulation and the deep thrusts into your cunt, that you feel yourself tighten and cry out, cumming hard onto his cock. You lean into him, kissing him hard as pleasure courses through your body.

         He works you through it, breathing heavily, you can feel his pulse skittering under your hands. You feel him twitch within you, and an idea forms in your mind. Mind wrapped up in pleasure, you act on the thought immediately, bringing your hands to his chest to play with his nipples.

         He loves it, making keening noises as you work, legs shaking with effort to stay up and keep pace with him. You let him take the lead and you hear him shout and arch up as you pinch his buds, feeling him release.

         He thrusts a couple more times, lazily and slowly, kissing the top of your head as you settle down to lie on his chest for a few minutes.

         You breath deeply, content in the moment. You know after you clean up and rest, he’ll be gone on the road once again, so you relax, enjoying the presence.

#jays writes #Smut #hawks x reader

[dulce-pjm]

takes two to tango

word count: 3.0k

genre: fluff, absolutely tooth-rotting 

summary: hoseok solved his problems and got the girl. he’d worked up the courage to ask you out and now life couldn’t be better, living as your boyfriend. but what’s the point of dating if he can’t even kiss you?

Damn. Hoseok was a real loser, wasn’t he?

Three weeks, three fucking weeks of dating you and he hasn’t been able to kiss you once. 

He’d thought the hard part was over when he was finally able to spit out that he liked you before finals and asked you on a date. After a semester of desperate pining and you being completely oblivious to his flirting attempts, he thought the worst was over. 

But alas, no. 

Your one-month anniversary was rapidly approaching and Hoseok has yet to lock lips with you. 

Maybe it’s stupid to be so caught up over such a small thing. But Hoseok likes you and he really doesn’t think it’s too much to ask for and he’d just really, really like to kiss you. 

It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried. He’d gone through all the steps, even resorting to the cheap tricks he’d used in high school. But the timing was always shit or something stupid got in the way. It felt like the universe had it out for him, putting the chance just within his grasp before promptly yanking it away in the most inconvenient (and sometimes embarrassing) manner possible. 

Should Hoseok be grateful for the time he’s already gotten to spend with you? Yes. And he is. You’re spectacular. A joy to be around. You kept him guessing and laughing and happy. 

Actually, he’d actually kind of already gotten his wish. You’d kissed him on the cheek in joy after watching your team win whilst on an ice hockey date. You turned out to be surprisingly (and scarily) competitive, which Hoseok found all the more adorable. Despite being a small gesture born from the exciting moment, he’d found himself giggly and shy, melting from the attention. That night, while walking you home in the cold, he’d snuck a quick peck on your forehead before bidding you good night. He found himself wishing he’d done more as you disappeared behind your door, smiling to yourself.

But Hoseok was human. He was greedy. He just wanted one, small, teeny weeny little thing. And that thing was to kiss you on the lips, goddammit.

You weren’t his first girlfriend. He isn’t an amateur at this. 

So why was it so fucking hard?

His first attempt was on your second date. Which, admittedly, might be a little soon but it actually wasn’t even his attempt. It was yours. The two of you were ice skating when he kept catching you staring at him. 

“What, is there something on my face?” You’d giggled, reaching up your hand and lightly tapping his nose. 

“You just look cold. And very cute.” Despite attempting to maintain a cool facade, the compliment had Hoseok reeling. His cheeks only grew warmer as you leaned upwards, eyes becoming half-lidded. He’d grinned, ducking down to meet you halfway. 

It was perfect. 

Until your skates suddenly lost traction and you slipped, lips colliding with his shoulder instead of his face. 

Caught off guard, the both of you tumbled to the ground. In a movie, it might have been even more romantic. But in reality, falling on ice hurts like a fucking bitch. It took an entire minute for you both to get back on your feet, laughing and shouting from the pain along the way. 

Cold and traumatized and bruised, the two of you shuffled back to the entrance while clutching onto each other for dear life, kiss long forgotten. 

You both swore never to go ice skating again. 

Hoseok’s actual first attempt had been at a small Christmas party. Hoseok’s Christmas party, in fact. It was for a small dance exercise class he led every Monday through the university. It was through that same class that he met you, actually. You and several of your friends were regulars, and soon he was smitten. He wasn’t sure whether it was your laugh or your smile or your unending optimism that drew him in, only that he had fallen for you and hard. You two, along with the rest of the group, had naturally gotten close over the past semester, so Hoseok decided to give the group one last hurrah together via a small Christmas party just after everyone finished their exams. 

While everyone else was pigging out on brownies or getting drunk off of cheap beer or karaoke-ing to the best of their abilities (which was pretty god-awful), you and Hoseok were camped out in the corner, trying your best to put together a gingerbread house. 

You were failing magnificently, but that didn’t make the activity any less fun. Hoseok was in charge of holding the pieces while you piped icing, with you naturally taking every opportunity to swipe bits of the white fluff on his nose and cheeks and forehead. He’d cried out in protest, promising to exact his revenge, but he cared too much about this stupid gingerbread house to move his hands and risk the whole thing collapsing. 

But before you could even get to the decorating stage, the whole thing shattered. Literally shattered. You blamed it on Hoseok, claiming he’d been gripping it so hard that the pieces snapped in two. He, in turn, blamed it on you for being such a distraction. 

While the two of you were playfully bickering, one of your friends snuck up behind the table with a bunch of mistletoe. 

“Kiss already, ya lovebirds!” she’d cried, clearly having one (or three) too many beers. The entire class was painfully invested in your relationship, so it only made sense that they’d also tease you about it relentlessly. 

The two of you glanced up at the green leaves and then back at each other. A pitchy rendition of ‘Silent Night’ echoed throughout the room. Hoseok smiled and leaned in, muttering something about “tradition” and “giving the people what they want, Y/N.”

His eyes fluttered closed as his lips approached yours, his last thought being how nice you looked and how warm his heart felt. 

It was perfect. 

And then you wiped a massive blob of thick white icing across his entire face. He’d gasped while you and the rest of the party burst into a fit of giggles. 

“I’m sorry-” You choked on your laughter, tears sprung from your eyes. “-Hoseok, the opportunity was just too good! You should have seen your face!” He didn’t have it in him to be mad at you, not when your laugh was that adorable. 

Instead, he’d rubbed his frosting-covered cheek all over yours for revenge as you screeched and struggled against his grip. By the end of the night, both of your cheeks were aching from laughter. 

But still, no kiss. 

At your annual New Years’ Party, he’d tried a different strategy: being slick. 

The two of you were pleasantly tipsy but not quite drunk. And the alcohol gave Hoseok just enough courage to try kissing you again. 

While perched on two barstools around your kitchen island, he’d casually thrown his arm around your shoulder while you were babbling about some story a friend had told you. He’d tried to listen, he really did, but what was a guy supposed to you when you looked as cute as you did?

“I mean, what are the odds? They saw each other in standstill traffic, Hobi. Isn’t that so romantic?” 

“Mhmm.” Feeling the weight of his arm, you moved to look his way and felt your face getting very hot very quickly with the way he was gazing at you. 

“Hobi?” He was much too caught up in how soft your lips looked from here, slightly parted and inviting. Everything about you was soft and sweet.

His eyes flickered back to yours, shimmering under the mood lighting. 

He shifted forward, not loosening his gaze for even a second. He was going to relish every second of this, every second of you. 

It was so perfect. 

But in his drunken stupor, Hoseok hadn’t quite noticed the way his barstool was wobbling until it was too late and he tumbled to the floor. 

You immediately freaked, rushing to his aid. While your concern was genuine and made Hoseok happy that you cared for him, he couldn’t help but be disappointed. The mood was dead once you lugged him to the couch and, despite his protests, insisted he lie down for a while and instructed him to not touch any more alcohol, worried that he’d injure himself further. The night ended kiss-free and with Hoseok falling asleep before the clock struck twelve, missing the countdown. 

But last weekend? Now that was the final straw. 

The two of you had decided to catch a drive-in movie, some silly rom-com. You’d suggested a holiday-themed horror movie, but Hoseok was quick to shut that idea down. Not only was he a coward, but he wasn’t sure how the hell he was supposed to be romantic when there were demons threatening to jump-scare him every three seconds. 

As the two leads finally began confessing their feelings in the final act of the movie, Hoseok looked to you. He found you staring right back, as if you knew this was coming. 

His hand lifted to cup your cheek as the male lead cried “I love you!” Your hands slid behind the back of his neck as your eyes shut and the two of you grew closer and closer, lips mere millimeters apart. Hoseok could smell your lavender shampoo and cherry lip gloss, could even count your lashes from here.

It was so fucking perfect. The epitome of romance. As the two leads passionately confessed, Hoseok and you were about to share your first kiss. 

And then some idiot fell asleep on their horn, sending the obnoxious, blaring sound echoing throughout the drive-in lot. Hoseok shrieked, absolutely startled to the core. 

“For fuck’s sake!” he’d cried, throwing himself back in the driver’s seat. 

You’d found immense humor in his pouting and tried to tease him back into his old self, but the moment was long gone. Hoseok cursed the male lead for being able to get his girl when he was so clearly suffering. You held his hand for the rest of the film and jokingly critiqued it on the way home. But it wasn’t enough. Hoseok had just one thing he wanted and he couldn’t even accomplish that.

And now, he had a vendetta against the whole fucking universe. 

He was going to kiss you if it killed him. And it was going to be perfect. 

He’s chanting that thought like a mantra as the two of you are taking a very romantic stroll in the park, hands intertwined and bodies huddled together to conserve heat in the winter weather. 

“I can’t believe we only have one semester left,” you murmur, clutching your coat closer to your body. “I still feel like a kid.”

“Based on your eating habits, I’d have to agree.” You gasp in shock, slapping his arm. 

“Hey! What do you have against Lunchables?” Hoseok laughs at your offended look, finding you all too endearing.

“It’s not the Lunchables I have a problem with. Lunchables are great. It’s the cheese and peanut-butter crackers you’re crazy about. It’s disgusting.” You roll your eyes and groan, tired of this argument. 

“For the last time, I didn’t know they were cheese flavored and they taste good!” 

“Why else would they be orange, Y/N?” You shake your head, refusing to indulge him any further. “Disgusting.”

The two of you approach a quaint bridge crossing a babbling creek. The sky is colored with purples and pinks and oranges, reflected across the water. A few kids are playing by the shore, much to the disdain of their parents. Hoseok feels his chance approaching. 

You both stop and lean against the bridge railing, watching the sunset. You nuzzle against him, taking delight in his warmth. 

Hoseok studies the way the light reflects off of your face, the way a small smile creeps across your lips. You’re beautiful. Hoseok feels immensely lucky to have had you for this long. There’s a growing part of him that wants to keep you forever. 

“You’re so pretty-”

“It’s so pretty-”

The words are uttered at the same time, you staring at the sky and Hoseok staring at you. When you meet his eyes, the two of you can’t help but laugh quietly to yourselves. Timing’s always been funny for you, huh. 

As the sun peaks farther behind the horizon, Hoseok tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. You can’t fight the grin on your face as Hoseok wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you in. 

This is perfect. This is the moment Hoseok has been waiting for. He’d suffered for three miserable weeks, but it was all about to be worth it. There’s absolutely nothing that can shatter the happiness in Hoseok’s heart. 

“Oh my god, is that a dog?” You’re torn from Hoseok’s embrace as you dash across the bridge. All he can do is sigh and grasp at the cold air you’d occupied seconds before. 

When he turns to see where you’ve run off to, he finds you plopped on the ground loving on a fluffy black and gold mutt. You crane your neck to face him. 

“It doesn’t have a collar, Hobi. I think it’s a stray.” The dog jumps excitedly against your chest, tackling you to the ground and licking at your cheeks and nose and mouth. Showering you with kisses before Hoseok’s eyes.

Lucky bastard.

Hoseok doesn’t have the heart to be mad. You’re too damn adorable. And the dog is pretty cute too. The puppy jumps from you to Hoseok, hopping excitedly and running between his legs. 

“Hyper one, aren’t you?” 

He begrudgingly takes the creature into his arms and hauls you to your feet, mumbling that he knows where the nearest animal shelter is. You trail after him, doting on the animal the whole way. Hoseok sighs, accepting the fact that he’s not getting his kiss tonight. But he thinks he’s okay with that, what with the way you’re talking in your animal voice and gushing over how cute this dog is.

God, Hoseok’s such a loser. But he’d like to hope that he’s your loser now.  

“I miss him already!” you cry as the two of you stumble out of the shelter. Startled by the chill, you quickly take his hand, but even that can’t bring Hoseok the joy he wants. 

“He’ll have a nice and loving home soon, don’t worry,” he soothes, ruffling your hair. He does his best to smile, but it comes off strained and fake, and you notice. Your lip immediately puffs out at his sulking. 

“Is there something wrong?” Guilt fills Hoseok’s chest at your genuine worry. But he’d been acting strangely since New Year’s, he knew, so he figured at this point he owed you an explanation. 

“Well...” Hoseok ponders the situation, trying to put together the right words. “Ireallywannakissyoubutshitkeepsgettingintheway.” 

“I- what?” You’re staring at him in utter confusion. Hoseok sighs as you lean in closer, trying to decipher his words.

“I’ve been trying to kiss you for three weeks now but it never works out!” he shouts into the cold night air, relief filling him as he finally gets his biggest worry off of his chest. 

You’re silent for a moment before bursting into laughter, the sound sweet and loud and in any other case, infectious. Hoseok pouts, wondering how you always manage to find the humor in his suffering. The sun is long set but he can still make out your cackling figure in the lamplight. 

You regain your breath before pulling him closer to you, still giggling between your words. 

“Why didn’t you just ask?” It’s a genuine question, Hoseok supposes. He’s about to answer, but that’s when you say something that sends him over the edge. “It’s just a kiss, there’s no need to take it so seriously.”

“Of course it’s serious!” he exclaims, making you jump. He quickly lowers his voice, looking at the ground sheepishly. “Well- I only mean that I’m serious about you. So I just wanted it to be nice and romantic and perfect because I care about you a lot and you deserve that, okay? And I know that we’ve only been dating for a few weeks but I really-”

When Hoseok lifts his eyes, you’re whipping your head around wildly, as if you’re being stalked or something is about to pop out from behind a corner. 

“Y/N? What are you doing? Is something wrong?” After a few more seconds of your paranoid glances, you meet his eyes, a cheeky grin plastered across your face. You shrug innocently.

“I was just checking to make sure nothing could possibly interrupt us.” Hoseok freezes, jaw dropping slightly. You find the expression hilarious but decide to keep that to yourself. And then Hoseok is smiling like an idiot and pulling you close and running a hand through your hair. 

Your lips barely brush against his when you suddenly lean your head back, making Hoseok cry out in frustration. You can’t get far though, not when you’re wrapped in his arms. 

“Just for the record,” you say, lifting a single finger between your chests. “That was the most romantic and perfect thing you could have said before our first kiss.” Hoseok rolls his eyes. You choke back a giggle at his impatience. You watch the puffs of condensation leave his lips, considering torturing him for longer, but you don’t. “Now, please continue.”

With your permission, Hoseok does the one thing he’s been waiting all too long for. Despite his pent-up frustration, he kisses you softly and slowly, relishing in every second and every touch.

After a long minute, he pulls away, gazing at you happily. You stare right back, unable to wipe the stupid grin off of your face. You’re content and lovestruck and stupid together. Until a large gust of chilly wind hits you and the two of you are screaming and tearing off back to your respective apartments. 

It certainly wasn’t perfect. Maybe a little sloppy. Certainly not like Hoseok would have planned it. 

But it was with you. And he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

#bts #bts scenario #bts fluff #bts fanfic #hoseok fluff #hobi fluff #hoseok fanfic #hoseok scenario #ngl im so proud of this one #this was the concept i toyed and changed with the most but now im in love #dedicated to my lovely friends who inspired and helped build this story #the shortest but def the sweetest #enjoy!!!!

[j0hn-deacons-perm]

Bizarre Love Triangle

‘86 John x Reader, tail end of the Magic Tour. 

word count: ~3.7k

Based off Bizarre Love Triangle by New Order (I recommend listening to it while reading) also the song just slaps

Also a quick author’s note. Did I write this until about 6 AM because I couldn’t sleep? Yeah, my dudes. There might still be a few mistakes and will fix them when found but hey, I hope you enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~

Last show. The bloody last show of this summer. Tour life has been nothing but stressful but to your surprise, even more rewarding simply with the audience reception. Every show packed with fans, many singing and bopping about like you were on the side lines. Despite being there for nearly every show, the anticipation never ceases to creep up on you. Shivers can be felt in your bones, ready for whatever is to come and you're not even the one on stage in half an hour. 

Standing and grabbing drinks, you sit next to John. His knee bouncing as he reads the paper, spotting he's on the current events. Sighing gently, you roam your eyes around the space around you. Brian is tuning his guitar with Fred and Roger sitting next to him. You spot a scrabble board on the table and Roger looking frustrated as he picks letters from the box's top. Most people on your team are racing around, making sure everything is where it should be and in working order. Hearing a sound from John, you look over and watch him skip over the obituaries. However, seeing a name that surely sounds phallic encites a laugh on your end. He raises an eyebrow in your direction.

"Dark comedy your thing, eh?"

"More like potty humor. I see a name like Medick and it's reflex to chuckle."

He scans the page and you laugh again.

"Damn it John, you're looking at Medick."

You determine the laugh he gives you is one out of pity with how bad your Scottish accent was. After apologizing for assaulting his senses, he gives you a smile and asks the time. Looking at your watch, your co-worker announced to everyone the fifteen minute mark before they were expected on stage.

"I hope that answers your question."

His eyes crinkle around the corners and your heart melts at the sight. Answering you with "It does, yeah", he folds the paper up and places it on the empty seat next to him. Attention now on you.

"Any plans post tour Y/N?"

"Besides catch up on nearly a month of lost sleep and time with Tom, probably nothing for a few days. At least that's the hope."

You can see his face shift into a slight discomfort but it might be out of reflex. Two weeks in you began missing your boyfriend back home and requested no one bring him up in conversation, even yourself. Knowing you slipping his name must have been reflex for him. Right?

"Can't imagine what you'd be losing sleep over besides trying to keep track of four old ladies."

"You guys are a lot. Especially you, Deacon. I swear sometimes it's easier looking after a toddler."

He fakes hurt, hand on his chest and a pronounced distressed face paints his features. The rest of the time passes far too quickly for your liking as the boys are rushed off to play their show. You follow behind, overseeing things go smoothy. Grabbing things they may need between songs and making your way off to the side, you nearly jump as the rise in audience volume increases. The floor beneath you shaking as the first few notes play. Hearing the opening lines to One Vision, you calculate the time to sing along but with the lyrics you happened to hear when bringing them their copious amounts of coffee into the recording room. What you didn't expect is John looking over to see you sing 'one dump, one turd, two tits, John Deacon' followed by 'chicken feet, babe' in his direction. You can see him smile when he looks down at his bass.

As the songs pass, your dancing picks up as well as his. You thought John was called Disco Deacy due to his taste in tunes but turns out he's a regular Belle of the ball. His spins and hops always melted your heart, watching him enjoy the music and play. You bop along with him more often than not, enjoying the beats you've heard now countless amounts of times. When I Want To Break Free ends and Brian's solo begins, he heads over in your direction. Grabbing a towel and a vodka tonic, he pats himself dry while watching from your usual view.

"I swear, this solos get longer with every tour."

"And I swear your hair gets bigger with every tour."

"Optical illusion, my dear. Brian's been getting smaller."

He winks and finishes off his drink. His company is gone as quick as it came, or at least it feels that way. The last half of the show plays out along with two encores. Fatigue dampens down on everyone as the crowd starts to disperse and the roadies begin taking apart set ups. Walking back with the boys, you hand them their normal robes and towels as they head to the dressing room. Making your way back to your post and sitting down, the realization of this is the end dawns on you. A month of tours finished. A month of pain, suffering, blood, sweat, and many tears but also a month of pure bliss. A month of becoming even closer with the band that you've come to know the much more this past year. Seeing them outside of the studio was a shock at first but tour life seems to mellow them out in ways. Less ego if that was even possible knowing them in the first place.

Knowing you probably should attend the after party the hotel Freddie booked, your feet ache as you rise up. Feeling the ripe ol' age of 87 at 29 is a sensation you've grown used to but hearing your joints crack as you rise really made you feel ancient.

"Here I thought I was the old one. I heard that all the way over here!"

John laughs at your cracky joints, walking over to give you an arm to support you. A bird is flipped in his direction and he smiles wider. You can tell someone's got more alcohol in their system.

"Now, Y/N, you ready for one last hurrah before a hangover and drive back home?"

"You're speaking my language, Deacy. I'll meet you at the ballroom, okay? Not really digging the uniform look at the minute, you know?"

"Don't be too late, I might be a goner by the time you arrive."

Following his lead to the bus, you and the rest of the group pile in. John walking up the steps in front of you gave you a view you didn't expect to enjoy so much. Those pants really doing him some favors. Shaking your head, you walk the few steps up and look around for a seat. Taking the only empty one next to Freddie, you lean over to congratulate a job well done and yet another successful tour on their end. Feeling eyes on you, a look over shows a poofy haired bassist waving at you once he has your attention. Waving back and turning back to Freddie, you can tell he has a question burning his tongue.

"You and John sure have gotten close over this tour."

"I guess so, yeah."

"Playing favorites? I see how it is, dear."

You slap his shouder with a 'piss off' and a cackle on his end.

"Are you still mad about the scrabble match the other week, Fred? Don't break up the Y/LN and Deacon dream team."

The last night in France ended with drama and an almost scratched cornea as scrabble pieces went flying. Deciding since Jim was present that night, even teams could be made. Brian and Roger, Fred and Jim, then you and John teamed up and no one's surprise, Freddie's normal strategy of adding one tile to make a bigger word didn't work out in his favor. What did come as a surprise was Brian and Roger not taking the win that night. Tempers flared as you and John danced about. When turned, you couldn't see the rogue piece flying your way. Luckily you blinked in time to save you from a more serious injury. 

"Please, I'm not mad over a silly fucking game."

"Yeah, one that nearly took out my eye!"

He rolled his eyes but smiled regardless of what he's trying to front. Pulling up to the hotel, you grab your luggage and is soon presented the key to your room. Not wanting to deal with an overly drunk John Deacon, you slightly rush to get ready. After party outfits normally consisted of a tank top, shorts and sneakers but considering it's the last one, you go more formal. Feeling very gussied up in heels you never thought you would wear at all this tour and a dress, you turn to the bathroom with your makeup bag is tow. What you already had on was fine but needed a touch up. Looking over your appearance and adjusting oddly fitting sections, you deem yourself offically ready. However feeling slightly over dressed and maybe showing more than what you're used to but hell, it's August. Realizing that it wasn't too late to call Tom, you dial the number that's branded in your brain at this point and wait for the phone to pick up. 

"Hello?"

He sounds slightly tired but the call was quick so you didn't feel too bad about it.

"Hey, just wanted to call and say I'll be home in the next couple days!"

"Oh shit, that time already? I've already got so used to you being gone!"

You couldn't help but laugh along with him.

"We're throwing one last bash before this ends for good. Freddie's doing of course."

"Well don't let me stop you, go and have fun!"

"Love ya, Tom."

"Love ya too, Y/N."

Hanging up and taking a breath, your chest feels odd. Putting it up to just this being nearly over, you stuff your keycard in your bra, spray on one more mist of perfume. The feeling in your chest worsens as you walk into the ballroom crowded with people, nearly completely naked women servers and the sight of John sitting back and flirting with one of them while talking with Brian. Grabbing one off the nearest tray, you down it then grab another immediately. Shaking your head and walking over to the two men in question, they greet you with side hugs. 

"Where are the other two?"

"Around somewhere."

"You know I'll hear it from both of them if I don't come say hi during the party."

Brian smiles, knowing far too well how they get with you at times. 

"Regardless, cheers! Cheers to a successful tour and good friends!"

You three clink your glasses together and conversation flows. Brian talks about his plans when arriving home to the wife and kids along with possibly making plans with some actress he's a fan of. Spacing out and looking at your surroundings, the music is pulsing through your lungs with the bass pumping through the speakers. You recognize the song easily, Blue Monday filling your ears and the bass matches your heartbeat once you turn back to your friends and hear John conversing with one of the women attending the party. Watching him shift so she can sit next to him, her body pressing against his while he whispers in her ear, you're in need of a change of scenery. You finally figured out what the sinking feeling in your chest was.

"Hey Bri, care you dance?"

"Not really. Not really my kind of music, Y/N."

"Please?"

Batting your eyelashes in hopes of hiding how uncomfortable you are, it fails and he picks up on your body language. 

"I guess you caught me in a good mood."

Sitting up, you two walk over to the other dancing party goers and while stiff as a board, Brian tries to do something with his body.

"Is everything okay? You seemed a bit off when you came in but now I know something's up. Did you call Tom?"

"How dare you say his name?!"

"Figured it'd be safe when you see him in, what, two days?"

"I'm taking the piss and I did. He seems happy to have me back but I think something's happened."

"He's not cheating on you, is he?!"

"Oh god no! I.....I think I've developed feelings for John."

You're pretty sure if he had a drink in his hand, it would've crashed all over the floor. 

"Want to head somewhere else and talk about it?"

"Please."

Taking your arm and leading you through the crowd, Brian leads you two outside. A handful of people occupy the space but mostly to get a smoke in quick before heading back in. Spacing yourself away from the others as far as possible, you and Brian sit on one of the benches. Your breathing is unsteady and worsens as you try to calm it down. He puts a hand on your knee and rubs gentle circles in hopes of doing something for your nerves.

"I'm not going to lie, Y/N, can't say I didn't exactly see it coming."

"Gee, thanks Bri. Exactly what I want to hear."

"Is this a recent development?"

Thinking back, it started in the studio. It was around the time they started recording the album and you started just watching them play behind the producer. Wasn't until you watched John lick his fingers before playing the strings on his bass again where something flickered in you.

"....Shit."

That was almost a year ago. 

"Well, around the time you guys started recording the new album."

His eyes widened. Blinking slightly resembling that of a reptile in its speed.

"Your 'shit' is valid."

"I know! The more time I spend with him, the more I realize I really care for the guy. But I can't just up and leave Tom. I can't just...hurt him like that. He doesn't deserve it in the slightest."

You sigh, feeling tears wanting to trickle out of your eyes any second.

"But I've been finding my feelings for him fading the more I'm with John. What if I leave Tom, then what? Just go up to John and be like 'oh hey, I have some strong feelings for you. Wanna do something?'"

Brian wraps a curl around his finger, pulling as he thinks. He lets out a sigh of his own.

"Honestly, I'm going through the same thing right now with Chrissie. That actress, Anita...we've been talking and I've developed some feelings for her. Ones I haven't had with Chrissie in a while, now. I have a wife and kids but should I persue this?"

You give him a sympathetic look.

"We're fucked, aren't we?"

"Maybe a little bit. But at least you're not married."

You look at each other in solidarity. Knowing each other's struggles far too well. He brings up the fair point that you aren't married. You also think back to how things were before you left for tour and it wasn't the best. You missed Tom, you really did. But was the passion there like it was previously? Not especially. Sometimes it just felt more like a friends with benefits situation rather than a full blown relationship lasting three years. 

"You know what? I'm going for it."

"Positive, love?"

"I think so." 

Sitting up and brushing off your dress, Brian stands with you.

"I think I might have a talk with Anita and go from there on how to do this. Chrissie doesn't deserve being left for another woman but sometimes people outgrow each other. Relationships evolves and sometimes they become stagnant."

Walking back to your previous place inside, you're greeted with the sight of the woman gone and replaced with Freddie and Roger. Bending down and asking a quick 'Can we talk?' to John, you two head over to the hallway. You're shaking and can't look him in the eye. Trying to get your sights on him, he lifts a hand to your chin, using a few fingers to guide your sights towards him.

"You're scaring me a bit. Did something happen, love?"

There is not enough alcohol in your system to make this easier.

"I was talking with Brian and came to some conclusions that have been....cloudy for a little while now."

His eyebrows are furrowed together in concern, he's never seen you like this. Nervous was normal in aspects of your job but like this is completely uncharted territory for him. Not knowing how to tread the waters, he takes the hand that was on your chin and rubs your upper arm. 

"You can talk to me. You know that, right?"

You swallow, feeling like you're nearly choking on air. 

"John I...god..."

Before you could mutter even something resembling a syllable, you hear John's name being called. Turning your head slightly to see it's the woman he was flirting with earlier, danging her bag in front of her.

"Finally remembered where I put the damned thing. You ready to go, Johnny?"

You want to vomit on the spot but knowing if you would, it would be Exorcist levels in the amount purged. Your eyes threaten to release the waterworks and you look up to put the tears back in their place. Beginning to walk away, you feel a grip on your shoulder.

"Sorry but my friend here is going through something. Raincheck, yeah?"

Obviously very annoyed, her eye roll was puntuated with her heels clicking away. He looks over at you and immediately notices tears running down your cheeks. Wiping them away, he leads you out of this area of the hotel and back to his room. Turning the key, your heart beats to the point where it leaves you breathless. He leads you inside and onto the bed but before you get to talk, he doesn't sit quite yet. Grabbing the unwrapped toilet paper roll from the bathroom, he hands it to you then sits down at your side. 

"What's going on, Y/N?"

As he rubs your arm again like he did in the hallway, your brain struggles but comes up with some sort of coherent sentence to present.

"I think Tom and I might be over."

He blinks at you, much in the same fashion as Brian had. But before you knew it, he wrapped you in a hug. His head on your shoulders and hand smoothing over your back. He says your name softly followed by an 'I'm so sorry'. Staying like until the tears stop flowing, he peels away from you. You wipe away your tears, noticing your mascara has somehow held up. 

"I...I don't mean to pry but, well, what happened?"

The question you were dreading but this band-aid needs to be ripped off.

"I realized we've sort of...grown apart. Also..damn, not again.." as you rip off a piece of toilet paper and dab your eyes. Catching your breath took a minute but you finally get their in due time. With a sigh, you finally let it out.

"I've developed feelings for another person."

Watching him with blurry eyes didn't give you the opportunity to see his shoulders drop slightly or lips tighten.

"They're incredibly lucky to have caught your attention, Y/N."

"I think I'm lucky to have met them is a better statement. He's really great."

You sigh again and finally clear your vision. His expression is hard to read. Almost, seeming disappointed but that's probably your imagination trying to cope with rejection. Rejection that hasn't happened yet.

"I'm sure he is."

He moves away from you and grabs the television remote, flipping through channels until one catches his eye. Sitting back beside you, he looks back at you.

"Sorry, felt like background noise might've been welcome."

"Maybe a bit, yeah. Do you want to hear about him?"

"Am I going to have a choice in the matter? You're destined to bring him up."

"Guess you're right. But you're...already quite familiar with him already."

"It's not Brian, is it? I know you two talk or maybe.." This time putting in air quotes around "Talk". 

This time it's your turn to be stunned.

"No! I asked him advice about this guy. So, well...he's a bass player for a pretty well known group, I'm a pretty big fan of his work and writes some absolutely amazing tracks. Some may say he's had some questionable hair choices but I'm a big fan. Also he has these...gorgeous green eyes."

"Is it Paul McCartney?! I know you met him during Live Aid but damn, Y/N. Linda would kick your ass."

"It's not Paul McCartney you dumbass!"

A laugh erupts from you, making him laugh along with you. He dodges the slap on his arm but moving up the bed, sitting up against the headboard. You mirror him, eyes on the television screen. A comfortable silence washes over the room, the soft hum of the air conditioner adds background noise with the show playing before you. Seconds turn into minutes. Minutes turn into almost an hour of contemplation. Should you say something? You've grown close to him this past year, even closer this past month. He's one of your few confidants, a dear source of comfort. Possibly never seeing his smile again gives you literal heartbreak. But what if the risk is worth the reward? What if he views you in that way as well and you're just overreacting? Doubtful but not completely out of the realm of possibility.

It's when it turns into an hour and fifteen minutes when John starts yawning. If you wait, you'll never do it. You'll lose all nerve. You mutter a 'fuck it' under your breath.

"It's you."

He slowly turns his head in your direction. 

"What was that? I was zoned out for a while, there."

"The guy I was talking about....it's, well...."

You can do this, you just did it. Come on.

"It's you, John Richard Deacon."

You've never seen someone's eyes go that big in your life. His jaw goes slightly slack as he just looks at you. You see his eyes dart around every point on your face. Before you can even start registering what's happening, His lips assault you. Kisses on your forehead, kisses on your nose, kisses on your cheeks, kisses on your jaw but finally he reaches your lips. One hand laces its fingers in your hair, the other placed just below your jaw. Your breath is completely and utterly taken away and when he pulls away, lips swollen, your chest fills. What fills your heart to capacity is him whispering.

"I've been waiting, Y/N....I've been waiting for that moment when you say the words I couldn't say."

~~~~~~~~~~

May formatting it to be tumblr friendly to read pay off and if you read this, you are a sweet cherub angel and I love you a little bit. Also damn, my first fic published on Tumblr, they grow up so fast. 

#john deacon x reader #queen band fic #john deacon x y/n #john deacon x female reader #john deacon imagine #that's the basic tags right? sure... #When you're really not a fic writer but you try! #Also I mentioned blue monday in this..also by new order.. Such a great track plus released in '86 so had to do it to 'em

[ramblings-of-a-mad-cat]

If you have sent me an Ask in the last thirty-six hours or so, This post is for you.

I was almost entirely done with answering all your beloved messages, when Tumblr decided to crash. Lost all the paragraphs of my rambling (which is why I’m no longer taking chances and am typing this on Google Docs) and even worse, the Asks seem to have been eaten by Tumblr’s great void. They’re gone, and nothing I’ve tried seems to work to get them back. Thankfully, I’m fresh off of responding, so I’ll try to summarize with one big epic post. Apologies for the inconvenience and unusual style, blame the Tumblr Overlords. 

WARNING: If you don’t read the data-mines and don’t want spoilers, do not go beyond this point. This mainly concerns The Quidditch Cup. 

There were a couple of Asks about Ismelda, someone talked about the head-canon that she’s secretly blonde and dyes her hair. Which I agree with, and really like. It would tie in to how Ismelda saw Penny as being no different from her sister. It would be a sign of her trying to spite her parents and distance herself from her family, to the point of even looking like them. I also think it would echo with Beatrice and how she changed her look to reinvent herself and be less of a “Mini Penny.” Another message was talking about her parents, wondering why they would ever visit her at Hogwarts given how they were portrayed. After all, they’re not about to be the next Ethan Parkin, are they? Not going to turn around and be well-meaning, but oblivious. I think it’s far more likely that they would visit her sister at Hogwarts, and it would be pure chance that Ismelda was there at the same time - if there was indeed any overlap where both sisters were at school. But that’s the real question of the hour - just what is the sister like? After all, it’s not her fault that she’s the favorite, right? Newt Scamander was estranged from his brother, who was engaged to his ex-girlfriend. From that description alone, we might think he was awful, but he wasn’t. Theseus was genuinely caring, he just didn’t know how to connect with Newt. We might have a similar situation on our hands here. Or, who knows, the sister might be the “Dudley” to Ismelda’s “Harry.” She was compared to both Emily and Penny, if memory serves. But until such a time that we meet her, we have no way of knowing who she’s really more like. Psst, Jam City, you getting this down? This would be a great TLSQ, to have Ismelda come face to face with her sister. Could perhaps end with, oh I dunno, befriending her? Just a thought…

I saw another Ask talking about how Beatrice would go back and forth between MC and Jae during their detention and how adorable it was to see her all flustered and excited, how it looked like she was gushing to MC “He’s so dreamy” and things of the like. It’s making me wish they would come back to this sub-plot because it’s funny as hell and a good way, again, to tie in Ismelda. She also fancied someone she had no chance with, she was also jealous of another person. (Chiara might not actually have a thing with Jae, but if memory serves, Beatrice is shown to be jealous of them talking anyway.) 

There was an Ask that talked about punching Barnaby’s father in the face. Or at least, the idea of doing so. But regrettably, he is in Azkaban and it cannot be done. Well, maybe not by MC, but someone who was already there could do it. New head-canon, Sirius decked him on his way out. It happened, I don’t make the rules.

@guppygirl I read the first chapter of your fic! Do you know what you’ve done to me, do you know how many feelz it gave me to see Rowan alive and well and acting so sweet? You nailed their character and I love the inclusion of their parents! Maya’s reactions make just want to give her a hug. Everyone should check out the fanfic on her page, seriously!

I believe there was an Ask lamenting that the Festival TLSQ didn’t come out this week, and believe me friend, I’m right there clowning with you. It seems like every week now, we think, “Okay, this time it will come out, they can’t delay it anymore.” And we’re always wrong. Here I am just starting to worry that my far-fetched theory about them shelving it until next year because it’s no longer “seasonal” isn’t so far-fetched after all…

But the vast majority of messages that were lost were, as I’m sure you can guess, about the data-mined House Cup for Season 2. I wrote a lot about it and I do indeed have some thoughts and feelings. 

Before I get into anything else, can I just say...that first scene with Ethan where he meets MC. I don’t think it’s possible for me to ever dislike Skye. All it ever takes is one vulnerable moment to erase any doubts and have me back in her corner. And you cannot tell me that Ethan knowing everything about MC because “Isn’t this the best mate you always talk about?” Didn’t melt your heart or at least give you feelz. Think back to how hurt Skye was when MC befriended Rath - to the point of snapping a broomstick in half. This is just proof of what I’ve been saying. She has no social skills and hardly any friends. Of course she sees MC as her bestie. The poor thing, oh my god, it’s adorable...

Ethan Parkin….I’m not a fan, even now. As I heard, he’s not as bad as we all feared he would be. He definitely has his moments. Still...he’s still pretty annoying. Ethan is basically a less obnoxious version of Lockhart, who actually has the talent to back it up. But I didn’t like how he involved himself in the practice and took over deciding who should be leader. Seriously, if he knows the game this well then he should know we already have a leader assigned. That’s what a Captain is. He was quite rude to Orion and while his pressuring Skye might have been inadvertent, it was still his fault. He’s also an extremely violent Quidditch player, which I’m not a fan of (Although apparently Penny is? The fuck?) I get that he would never cross the line into cheating, but I’m not impressed by how he lied. Didn’t give his team credit. And seriously...is cheating morally inferior to harming another player in a “legal” way? I guess it’s just a Quidditch culture thing, but I’m not here for it. 

Orion’s reaction to Ethan, though? God I loved it. He took everything completely in stride, had the maturity to say that no, he was happy to learn from a Quidditch master. His concern wasn’t about his ego, it was about Skye’s feelings. Because once again, he’s the only one with the empathy to realize what she might be going through. Orion’s response was measured and thoughtful and god, I love him so much. Side note: Were they seriously debating whether or not keeping Ethan around to learn his mystery move was worth it, even if it was stressing Skye out? My dudes, this is the exact same mistake you made during the Rath TLSQ. Involving someone who doesn’t need to be involved, just for the sake of a potential advantage in a meaningless sports game, regardless of how much it will hurt someone who is supposed to be our friend. Screw that. 

Folks were talking about Erika Rath. Someone brought up how hilarious it was in a previous chapter to see Andre actually tell her to be quiet, and for her to do so. And yeah, I agree. It’s a testament to how close their friendship must really be (Sorry, Depressed Erika Anon) I mean, most people wouldn’t dare say that to her. And I don’t think she’d have such a calm and passive reaction to just anyone. It’s unconventional, but their relationship is a sweet one. Overall, they’re involving Rath more and I’m quite glad of it. Seeing her proud of MC is heartwarming. Seeing her become more of a main character is great - I mean, she is one of the main four, after all. Face Paint Kid is a background character, as much as I love him. Penny is only here to develop Skye, and Andre is only here to develop Rath. There was also an interesting comparison made between her and Ethan, about how they both play pretty violently. Still not a fan of this. Maybe that’s one of the reasons that I’m mostly indifferent to Rath. But I’m coming around on her. 

This was a lovely place to cap off Skye’s character arc. Seeing MC stand up to Ethan (although I wish you could be firm without having to say that stupid “You’re off the team, Parkin!” line) was especially cathartic, and it’s clear that Skye appreciates it. She’s happier by the end, and has actually communicated with her father. I would sincerely like it if Season 3 focused on, say, Murphy a little more. He hasn’t gotten any development since the first half of Season 1. Even Orion got some development in this TLSQ. But...make no mistake, we’re not done hearing about Skye. I know that no one wants to hear this, but...they slipped in that line about her wishing she could play Rath. She still hates her. That hasn’t been resolved. Oh well, at least it’s an opportunity to further flesh out Rath. There’s also the possibility that, if they do give focus to Orion, it might be that Season 3 is his last hurrah. I hope he stays for the entire story, but even if they don’t want to confirm character ages...he could very well graduate. If he does, there’s going to be a story-line about choosing his successor. And again, I know that nobody wants to see this happen, but...the only candidates who matter in the story are MC and Skye. So they could be pitted against each other again. But I hope that won’t happen.

Curse you, Tumblr. Oh well, it should be safe to send in Asks again because I’m quite literally going to copy them onto a Google Doc from now on just to be safe. If I missed out on one that you sent in, please feel free to let me know or re-send it. I’ve also seen people taking screenshots of their Asks and then responding to the picture instead of just responding outright. Might do that too...thank you for your patience, this has been a doozy. 

#Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery #Fandom Asks #HPHM Quidditch #HPHM Datamines #Skye Parkin #Ethan Parkin #Orion Amari #Erika Rath #Murphy McNully #Ismelda Murk #Barnaby Lee #Beatrice Haywood

[stolethekey]

i wrote some notes at the beginning of a song someone will sing for me

read on ao3

Everything is quiet after the snap.

The air is full of bated breath, the people around him all staring at the dust particles floating through the air, hardly believing the sight in front of them.

Tony can feel his brain starting to shut down, but fortunately—or unfortunately—his thoughts are still moving well enough for him to register the faces in front of him.

Rhodey, cupping his face gently, his eyes brimming with love and affection. He doesn’t say anything, but Tony hears him loudly and clearly anyway.

Peter, and maybe it’s a good thing his tear ducts have stopped working, because as soon as the first broken “Mr. Stark?” comes out he feels what’s left of his heart rip in two.

“We won,” Peter says frantically, hands moving over Tony’s body. “We won, you did it—“

I know, he thinks dimly, the image in front of his eyes starting to swim. Why would I have done it if we weren’t going to win?

The blurry figure in front of him moves, stumbling slightly, and as the blue and gold registers in his mind his vision clears immediately.

Pepper. Oh, God, Pepper. Her hand finds his heart and his hand, seemingly of its own accord, finds hers.

“Hey, Pep,” he manages to mumble, the muscles in his jaw scrambling together for one last hurrah.

I worked so hard for my last words to be ‘I am Iron Man.’ That would’ve been so cool. But I suppose, for you—

She’s quiet, staring into his eyes, drinking them in for the last time, and it really, really, hits him all at once—

He’s leaving. Pepper, Morgan, Peter—he’s leaving. When that was the one thing he had sworn never to do.

“Tony,” Pepper says softly, and he clings onto her voice like it’s the scrap of hope he’d built in that cave, a million years ago. “Look at me.”

He does, and as his head turns a sense of terrible finality settles in his gut.

He is not going to move again.

The same realization has entered Pepper’s eyes, and God, he is the least lucky and most lucky person at the same time.

“We’re gonna be okay,” she whispers, and a curious sense of peace starts creeping into his mind.

Part of him knows it’s just his body shutting down, but there’s also a part of him that believes her, wholeheartedly.

She’s going to be okay.

Morgan, Peter, Rhodey, Happy, they’re all going to be okay.

The universe is going to be okay. Even if he’s not there to make sure it is.

That’s what he wanted. That was his goal.

Everything else was just icing on the cake, even if it came too early.

“You can rest, now,” she murmurs, her words incredibly steady for the tears welling up in her eyes. They don’t fall, and he knows she is keeping them at bay for his sake.

Staying strong, for him. She always has.

It takes everything he has, but he manages to move a finger, tracing her hand ever so lightly.

She makes him stronger, too. Always has.

I didn’t get a chance to tell you, I saw my dad—

I wish I could tell you—

I wish we had more time.

A million words swelling inside of him, clamoring to come out, only—he knows—to die with him.

It’s okay, he realizes. It’s okay. Because he can see in her eyes that she knows, that she understands. Of course she does.

He’s never gotten everything he’s wanted, anyway.

And this—this is close enough.

Everything he’s ever wanted—it’s here. It’s here.

He just won’t be.

His vision is starting to fade, but Pepper’s eyes, gentle and determined, are still holding his gaze, and he knows instinctively that they will be the last things he sees.

Merchant of death, maybe. But only of his own.

All the life he’s brought back? He’s pretty satisfied with that.

Pretty satisfied with the one he’s managed to live, too, even if it was a little too short, the ending a little too abrupt.

His vision is going black, but the blue of her eyes is still blazing, seemingly bypassing his retinas and just flaring to life directly in his brain. He loves that shade of blue. He’s going to treasure that shade of blue forever.

He wonders, vaguely, as the darkness drowns it out, if she can still pick up on the last thing he’s trying to tell her.

When I drift off, I will dream about you.

It’s always you.

There is a brilliant flash of his favorite blue, and then everything goes dark.

-

The garage feels emptier at night.

She isn’t in here too often—most days, the sheer amount of him everywhere is too much to bear—but sometimes, his presence is exactly what she needs.

Pepper walks along the tables lined up against the wall, her hand trailing lightly along the tools and gadgets still scattered across the tabletops, waiting to be used by someone who will never return.

She stops at the end of the table, next to a silent and still Dum-E, and gazes at the blue and gold helmet staring back at her.

Rescue, he’d said. Just in case.

She hasn’t touched it since she’d taken it off, weeks ago, her tears splattering on the table beneath it.

The metal is as cool and smooth as she remembers, and as she reaches under the helmet she wonders whether Tony would’ve hit Mark 100 if—well, if—

There is a gentle whirring as the helmet comes to life, and she takes a deep breath a familiar soft, blue light washes over her body.

“Hi, Tony.”  Her voice is low and raspy, but she makes no effort to clear her throat. “I don’t know if you can hear this, or see this, but if anyone’s cracked the code on talking to dead people, it’s you. Sam keeps telling me to talk to you, anyway—he says it can help.”

“It’s funny, you know—I can’t ever forget that you’re gone, but sometimes it feels like my body does. I reach out for your hand, instinctively, sometimes, like my hand just expects yours to be there. “

She gives a slight laugh, the choked sound echoing throughout the garage, and then shakes her head. “I hope you found Nat, by the way. Tell her I say hi, and we all miss her. We’re never going to forget her, either.”

The helmet doesn’t respond, but she keeps going anyway.

“If you could see Morgan—God, she’s like—she is your legacy, living and walking and occasionally giving me snark. Peter said he’d tutor her if she ever needs it, but—well, you know, she has our brains. I don’t think she’s ever gonna need it. It’s nice of him to be there, though. It’s like she has an older brother.”

She sighs. “He’s a good kid. I wish you got more time with him.”

“I wish you got more time with all of us.”

The blue glow of the light seems a little softer.

“I know you didn’t want to leave us, but I meant what I said—we’re gonna be okay. We miss you, but we’re gonna be okay. Truly. I'm not upset about it, either—I think I always knew. I knew who I was working for. I know who I fell in love with. It wouldn’t be you if you hadn’t done it.”

“I mean, currently, it’s a little hard. We’re taking it day-by-day. Some days are better than others—you know how that goes. Everyone’s been so great—offering to help around the house, bringing us food—I have enough leftovers to last us for the rest of the year. We’ve really found quite a family the past fifteen years, haven’t we?”

She smiles sadly, her gaze lingering on the shadow of Dum-E in the corner.

“Oh, remember Harley? He came to your funeral. It was nice to meet him—God, he’s so grown up, now. But he still remembers you, still says you were the best thing to ever happen to him. That’s how the world is going to remember you.”

“I know you never got to live out the rest of your life, and that’s always going to eat at you, but—in a way, you kind of are. You live on inside each and every life you’ve touched. And we’re all better for it.”

She swipes her thumb across the mask, wiping away the tears sliding across the metal.

“Anyway, it’s getting late, and I should get to bed. I have kind of an early day tomorrow. Not that it matters—I can never really sleep, anymore. I guess I know how you felt all those years.”

She can almost see his face, an annoyingly superior smirk toying at the corners of his mouth, and she snorts. “Not that I regret being hard on you—I at least try to fall asleep.”

She slips her hand inside the helmet. “If, and when, I do, I promise I’ll dream about you.”

Her finger finds the switch, the metal cold and hard against her skin.

“It’s always you.”

She’s passing by Morgan’s door when she hears a small voice say, “Mom?”

Pepper cracks open the door with a small, gentle smile, eyes landing on the small figure in the middle of the bed. “You should be asleep, baby.”

Morgan looks up at her, eyes wide and innocent. “Sorry.”

Sometimes, when she looks into those eyes, she can hear a whisper of his voice.

“Oh, it’s okay. I can’t fall asleep either.” She sits next to the bed, tucking the blanket underneath her daughter’s chin. “Is it because you miss Daddy? He says he loves you. I can hear it, even now.”

“I know,” Morgan shrugs, her hair falling lightly across the pillowcase. “He loves you too. Even though Daddy said you never wear the things he buys you.”

Pepper chokes out a small laugh. “The things he bought me were never the important things, honey. The important things were the things he made, the things he was. I wear those every day. And so do you.”

“Even still?”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “His pride, his intelligence, his unwavering determination to help people—it all lives on. In everyone, but in us especially.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

She chuckles, brushing a gentle hand over her daughter’s forehead. “You will. I promise.”

Pepper stays in the room until Morgan’s eyes have closed, her chest rising and falling steadily, and then slips quietly through the door.

As she walks down the hallway, her feet tracing the path she’d danced down so many times, the love of her life in her arms, she knows—despite everything, she is still lucky.

Lucky to have had the time she did with the man she loves, and lucky that the universe has given her what she has.

The universe—millions of families, millions of lives, millions of stories. All here, because of one man.

All proof, everlasting, that Tony Stark had a heart.

#avengers: endgame #endgame #endgame spoilers #avengers: endgame spoilers #tony stark x pepper potts #fanfic #marvel #mcu #tony stark #iron man #angst #my fics #pepper potts #peter parker #james rhodes #mcu fic #pepperony

[theabominableblogger]

Rewatching “Gotham” S5E4

Not in chronological order, yaaaayyyy...

Also the other reaction posts for Episodes 8-10 are still a work in progress so hang on!

My sister watched it with me (as well as another episode in S5 and we both plan on watching the series finale together) so my comments will be in bold, and hers will be in regular font.  Author’s notes courtesy of me will be bolded and italicized.

AN:   I managed to record our reactions to this episode and hopefully I can transcribe what I said into this post.

This is going to be fun.

“Shut up and die [Oswald].”  *starts singing “Waking Up in Vegas” by Katy Perry*

You are really going to hell.

I am.  It’s a curse.

*Recap shows Haven blowing up*  Welp.

Ahhhh that freaking shot [of the burning teddy bear]

Hell of a shot to open with

MMMMM....

Also that one [of the people getting out].  That one’s good.

This whole opening just leaves you so numb.

Right?  Holy shit.

And I do like that the other villains are so shocked and horrified at this.

Right, yeah.

Yeah, like you have Penguin and Ed and the other people are like “Oh my God...”

Yeah...

Oh you better not-

*Barbara points her gun at an unsuspecting Oswald*  Oh come on, his back is turned!

Not right nooowww!

That’s bullshit!

*both look uncomfortable when we hear a baby crying in the background*

Everyone’s just kinda grabbing each other!

*grabs my sister and shakes her by the shoulders*  It’s like “Jim!”  “Harvey!”  “Oswald!”

*one more time*  “Bruce!”  No, I’m kidding.

*laughs*  Christ!

Yeah, whenever they use orange lighting in this show, it’s like “Ah yes, give me more!”

Except you know it means shit’s about to go down.

I know.

Or some shit has already gone down.

*Jim looks at the ruins of Haven*  Shiiit...

*Harvey hands back the badge Jim gave to Will*  Nooooooo....

*sighs*

Nooooo... come on.  God dang it.

*Opening titles roll*  So yeah, how’s that for an opening?

Noooo...

“As of now, death toll stands at 311.”  Jesus!

“49 injured, more than 2 dozen left unaccounted for.”  *very softly*  Oh my God.

I swear to God she’s [Secretary Walker] an al Ghul somewhere.

AN:  This was actually recorded a few weeks ago.  Little did I know...

“But whoever destroyed that building can't destroy the hope we've built.”  That’s not gonna do shit!

Yeah, that one lady in the crowd’s like “Oh my God...”  SAAAME!

That’s not gonna do shit, Jim!

“How are you [Jim] gonna stop it from happening again?!?”  Good question!  Honestly right now, Jim, you’re not lookin’ so hot.

I know!

Luciusss!!

“Nothing makes sense anymore.”  Someone say “It’s Gotham.”  Please God!

“SELINA!”  They just leave his [Bruce’s] ass there...

God... poor Bruce.

That’s gonna be nightmare inducing.

Yeahhh-

*Some of Ecco’s goons come in*  OH NOOO COME ON!

Ohhh the Ecco goons!

Can I preemptively say “[expletive] that noise?”

*chuckles*

Also, I love this bit right here:

*laughs when Bruce tries throwing a wrench at a goon and missing him by a long shot*  Worth the shot, buddy!

Ugghh, so close!

*Alfred comes to the rescue*  AL-FRED!

YES!!

LET’S GO!

YESSS!

“I was afraid you didn’t get my signal.  Lucius said the range was only a couple of miles.”  Where’d he get that?!?

*at same time*  What is that?!?

We already get that he’s Batman:  he’s pulling solutions out of his ass.

It’s Lucius.

I guess.

“How did that happen?”  “I [Bruce] let my guard down.”  *aside* You do that a lot, buddy!  You’ll do it more in the future!

“She’s [Selina] gone after Jeremiah, alone.”  *silently hurrahs*

OK, why is she [Barbara] wearing like a dominatrix outfit?

I mean, her last outfit was covered in filth so... also she has Penguin’s hair.

Yeah but- the leather corset?  Really?  C’mon...

“We heard people talking about a shady guy working around Haven before it blew.”  “This is Gotham.  You’re [Barbara] gonna have to do better than ‘shady guy.’“  *both giggle*

“How about a location? A building in the northeast corner of Harlow Park. He says the guy's holed up there.”  Also, they really need to release an official map for this because I have no idea where everything is.

They really need to.

Like I know that they use the actual No Man’s Land map

Right... but this continuity strays so much from regular DC continuity that not all of that might apply.

Yeah.  It’s like “Oh the Soothsayers are in the Granton district in the Dark Zone” and I’m like “Well where is that?!?”

Yeah.

Amusement Mile?!?  I know Ace Chemicals is in the Dark Zone.

Of course it is!

It’s near Crime Alley.

‘Course it damn well is!

But Crime Alley’s in Firefly’s zone.  I think, yeah.

Que interesante...

Ohhh that lightinggg!

*Penguin and Co. wait for Jim in the precinct*  Ohh c’mon... c’mon dude.

Digging the eyepatch on that guy [henchman] though

*mouths along with Oswald saying “woefully apparent”* 

“…you [Jim] are outmanned, outgunned, and out of options.”  *sings*  OUTNUMBERED, OUTPLANNED!

Hey yo, I’m gonna need a right hand man!

*groans*  I’m already dreading this.

“Take all you can carry.”  Arm yourselves to the teeth.  You’re gonna need it.

Also, they did not kill the dog.

Oh thank God.

Just to let you know!

“WE’RE NOT GONNA KILL THE DOG!”

TZE CHUN, THANK YOU!

“What do you [Jim] say, partner?”  Don’t ever say that again.

Yee-haw.

You’ve yee-d your last haw.

*laughs*

*Ed wakes up*  Nooo, who gives a shit about Ed?  Who gives a shit?  I don’t give a shit!

*aside*  It’s gonna become a lot more important.

I like this music here [when Ed investigates the suitcase] actually

*both end up scatting it*

Just sounds like they’re banging a bunch of coconuts together.

*both sing*  BIG ONES, SMALL ONES, SOME AS BIG AS YOUR HEAD!

*imitates Ed saying “I’ve been on a trip!” hand gesture included*

*both tilt our heads in unison to read the message on Ed’s hand*

“KNOWS WHAT?!?”  Me.

Oh my God...

That’s the campaign poster [of Oswald] in S3!

Also I like how the cop cars have the grills and bars on the front and on the windshield.

Yeah... smart move!

“To hell with Penguin.  Haven wasn't your fault.”  “I [Jim] told the people it was safe. I made them into a target.”  You know Penguin’s right there!  He can hear you.

*One of the cop cars drive past Jim*  Don’t park in the puddle!  Noooo that’s what they diddd-

No they didn’t.  Nevermind.

*giggles when Oswald pulls out a megaphone*

“There goes the element of surprise.”  *both laugh*

Oh my God, he freaking winked at Jim!  Oswald, you-

Oh noooo...

*Another shot at the group*  Yep.

“We’re sitting ducks out here.”  “And one Penguin.  Hey Oswald, why don’t you crawl out there, grab that bullhorn, tell him to come out here quietly?”  *both laugh*

*both imitate Oswald’s insulted “Yooouu…”*

“Pretty cozy up here.  Thanks guys.”  C’mon buddy!  C’mon!

*claps hands*  Give us him!

Give us the goods!

Give us!

“Zsasz?!?”  Yassss....

“Oh hey guys, what’s up?”  *both laugh*

Oh my God, I’ve missed him!

*Victor blows Oswald a kiss*  YAASSSS!!

ZSAAAAAAAAAASZZZ...

ZSAAAAAAASZZZZ....

ZSAAAASSSZZZZ HONEY!

ZSAAAASSZZZZ!

*giggles*  Yaaasss....

Oh my God what.  Is that Selina?!?

No, that’s Ed.

Freakin- what is it with him and the bad disguises?!?

But like he got through the entire precinct like that!

Everyone wasn’t paying attention!  If they were paying attention, they would’ve just ripped it [the blanket] off of him!

I know!

“I can still see your face.”  “Not when I do this, you can’t.”

*laughs*

It’s literally that!

It is.

*Ed runs into Lucius*  Ohhh yess!  I really like these two interacting.

Lucius!

“I am given and I am taken.  I was there from your first breath and I will follow you until your death.”  Oh screw off!

Your name.

“Call it a personal matter.”  I love that!

His little poses!

Yes yes!

“Well I'm [Ed] guessing you [Lucius] don't want money, because, uh, it's worthless.  I don't tend to carry snacks on me.  And if I had any bullets, I would just shoot you and take the folder.”  I really want somebody to be like “I’ll give you a load of bullets for a box of Cheez-Its.”  “DONE!”

*laughs*  Would you like the other half of this cosmic brownie?

My God, THIS MAN GOES FREE!

You know who Chris Chalk kinda reminds me of?  The ally guy from “Conquest of the Planet of the Apes?”

Yeah, it does...

Hari Rhodes!  That’s the actor!

*giggles insanely when Ed tries to take the file from Lucius and utterly fails*

What the frick?

“I [Victor] did not make that building go boom, Jim.”  *both laugh*

What a way to say that.

“You gave up any shred of honor long ago!  Why should we believe a snake like you?!?”  “Because I would never take credit for somebody’s else’s work?”  *raises pen in air in agreement*

Well duh!”

“Is this about Sofia Falcone?  You should really move past that.  It’s not healthy.”  *both giggle*

This man...

This man!  He was probably raised in the South.  He would probably go “Hey y’all!  You’ve yee-d your last haw...”

Noooo noooo... he feels more like a California guy.

Yeah... *starts singing the theme song for “The OC”*

*Everyone starts firing at Zsasz*  Zsasz is just like “Nope!’

“Nope!”

That’s the most casual duck.  Just rolls out of the way!

Come on, Jim!

I’m kinda wondering why they never got “Um guys, there’s a freaking concrete wall between windows.  He could just hide behind that!”

Or they could just like aim at an angle.

Yeah...

Get in the room!

This isn’t rocket science.

*both crack up when Zsasz goes for a drink break*

*still laughing*  What an asshole!

*Jim body slams Zsasz to the ground*  WHAA-

LET’S GO!

Right through the snack table!

And they destroyed his bowl of chips.

“[Victor] Glad to see you’re still with us.”  This man has never given a shit in his entire life.

“Thank you, thank you.  You were great.  Glad there are no hard feelings.”  I’ll be here all week.  Try the veal!

*laughs*  That was priceless.

“Allow me [Oswald] to deal with him [Victor].”  No!

No!

“If he did this, I need to know if it was a part of something larger.”  Jim, you’re always a part of something larger!  READ THE SCENE!

Oh my God, they got Zsasz sitting in the back.  Zsasz is probably gonna like try to strike up a conversation.

“So, how was life?”  “Oh my God, shut up....”

It’s that bit in “Civil War:”  “So you like cats.”

“Sam.”

This is Tony Stank!

*Selina follows Ecco and the new followers into the work site*  Oh here we go, here we go.  Here we go!

Oh Jesus... the belly of the beast.

Also, that place must smell like just terrible.

Right?!??!  If this place doesn’t smell like an armpit, then...

*Sykes dies*  ...oh God.

“Well, not with that attitude you’re not.”  *leans far and away from screen*

Bitch.

“Everyone, let’s reach inside and dig a little deeper, shall we?”  You prick.

*turns towards me*  Don’t you dare [sing]

*leans away when Jeremiah licks blood off his knife*  HI THANKS NO BYE!

*both groan in disgust*

YOU NASTY!  YOU TWO [Jeremiah and Ecco] DESERVE EACH OTHER, ya- mmmmmm!

Honestly though, I am kink-shaming.  I am kink-shaming so hard.

*chuckles*  They’re carrying his [Sykes] body out in a wheelbarrow.

OK, but like the Tim Curry voice- that’s an affectation!  He’s just putting that on to sound impressive.

*laughs when Jeremiah stops talking to himself and awkwardly clears his throat when Ecco walks in*

He’s like “Mm-mm!  Sorry!  Helloooo!”

*Jeremiah grabs Ecco by the neck to inspect her scar*  Noooooo...

He’s lookin’ right at the bullet...

Eeuughh...

“Bruce Wayne, and his sidekick Curls?  Or is he the sidekick?”  That’s still such a great line.

“And Curls can walk.  Really well.  Especially… for a paraplegic.”  *done*

*softly laughs in shock*  Oh my God...

*Jeremiah purrs appreciatively at Ecco*  How have these two not eaten each other alive at this point-

*sinks down in chair when Jeremiah dismisses Ecco*  Oh my God, that was a ghost kiss!  I HATE YOU!

“OK recruits, let’s do like my daddy did before my sixth birthday and move out!”  *both laugh*

That is a hell of a line!

*Selina follows Ecco and her group*  Yeah, you see him [Jeremiah] in the background just whip around!

Yeaahhh!

That was like a horror movie thing, where the monster just whips around.  You can imagine a little scare chord in the background.

Right?!?

Also, I like how they establish that relationship in like under a minute.

Yeah...

Like yes, that is how you do it.

That was good.

Eat that, “Suicide Squad!”

“Evidence of deflagration would suggest something with a slower burn rate, like gunpowder or nitroglycerin.”  “But for this level of destruction, that would require a bomb that's 20 cubic feet of explosive material.”  Or a baZOOKA!

People just really love their RPGs in this show.

People just really love bazookas.  Bane uses one in the Bane Red Trailer

“Man walks into a room, alone, and is later found murdered.  There are no windows, and one door, which is locked from the inside.”  *whispers*  Toxic gas.  No I’m kidding.

“The bomb was the building.”  *imitates the way Ed says “the bomb”*

I love that.

*Ed and Lucius figure out how the building blew up*  This makes the forensics class part of me just so happy.

“Ow!  That’s a really nice table.”  *both chuckle*

“We got a dozen witnesses that saw you [Victor] walk out of that building before it went kabooey.”  *in unison*  Kabooey.

“Hey, do you guys have any canned peaches? Man, I'd trade an arm and a leg for that right now. Not mine, somebody else's.”  *both laugh*

Man, I missed him!

I know!  I’m gonna miss him so much!

“And, guys, those were warning shots. I mean, if I really wanted to kill you you'd be dead.”  If you guys could aim in this show.

Right?

I mean it’s not like the *pretends to shoot around something*

“If I blew up a building full of people, I would have covered every inch of my body in sweet, sweet scars.”  Can we see them?

*gives me a weird look*

His scars!  We only see them once [way back in S1].

I’d [Victor] let Alvarez do it.  He’s handsome.”  *both chuckle*

OK, but if the Gotham fandom isn’t already shipping them, I’m gonna be very disappointed.

*tries not to say anything without laughing*

Your stunned silence is very reassuring.

“Looks like you need a new suspect.”  *in Southern drawl*  Looks like it wasn’t Zsasz!

*Oswald arrives at the precinct*  Go to hell!

I love that shot of him.

“I know the wheels of justice turn slowly, so I'm here to provide - a modicum of grease.”  A what of what?

He said “grace” like “grease.”

What of what?  I don’t know.  I don’t know diction anymore.

“Oh, I did not expect you to go soft, Jim... Actually, I did, which is why I didn’t come alone.” OH COME ON!

*nods*

ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!?

“Torturing- torturing Zsasz into confessing won't give the people justice.”  And it’s not a very effective way of getting answers either!  Because they’re gonna say anything to make it stop.

Also, take a shot every time Oswald refers to Jim as “old friend.”

You’d be dead.

“There will be a trial!”  I still really wanted an episode like the “Trial” episode from the animated series.  That would have been so cool!

*waves at screen when Zsasz gets escorted out*  Bye Zsasz... you’re gonna be high as a kite the next time we see you.

We see him more in this episode.

OK.

The last episode he’s in, he’s just like “Whaauggh!”

*laughs*  What a way to go out though.

Harvey just tackles you?

I mean, if I’m gonna go out, I’m gonna go out high as a paper kite too.

*gives her the strangest look*

*laughs*  You’re judging me so hard!

*shakes head*  I can’t believe you.

I say that like I know what the hell getting high even feels like.

I love that this lazy ass [Haven bomber] just like leaves all the stuff there.  He’s like “Oh, we gotta scatter it!  Kick!”

“I truly hope you find whoever did this and make them pay.”  So he [Ed] didn’t do it.

*shakes my head like the liar I am*

OK...

“I appreciate your help, Ed.  Couldn’t have done it without you.  If you tell anyone I said that, I will deny it.”  *chuckles*

[Ed] You have one friend.  Kind of.

He so badly wants to say “No, god dammit!” but he can’t!

Censorship!

This show isn’t rated high enough.  Let Edward say [expletive]

*wheezes*  He’s not that kind of person who would say that.

Oswald would!

He would.  I made that meme thing!

Yeah that’s true.

Ed would catch himself and go “Oh... fart.”

“PENN, WHERE THE F-”

*both laugh*

Oh, that was brilliant*

*The crowd at the trial becomes unruly*  Fight, fight, fight!

Oh God...

“Look at them, Harvey.”  Not another speech!

Now see, that [mural behind the staircase in Oswald’s place] is like Bioshock!  That big-  isn’t there a big mural in the-

Yeahhh, in the church, yeah!

For the workforce?

I dunno, this is more like OG Bioshock instead of Bioshock Infinite.

Yeah.

Because we’re past the religious stuff.

Ohh the purple lighting behind him [Oswald].

“So, will I [Victor] be appointed a lawyer?  I feel like my rights are being violated.”  I mean, technically they are.

Wait, they actually have somewhere there like transcribing the whole thing [trial]!

I also like that he’s [Oswald] wearing the sash that the choir members wore.

Yep...

He [Oswald] paid off the witnesses though!  This is-

No!  Yeah, they said money is useless, so why would Oswald pay them off?

True... but this is obviously just a sham trial.

It is!  It’s a kangaroo court.  I love “The Dark Knight Rises.”

Also I like that goon in the background that looks like Neo from “The Matrix.”  With the long coat- no, that’s Morpheus.  Nevermind.

“It was a bomb.”  *chuckles*  It was a big one.

“For months now, you've been hearing me [Jim] say help is coming.”  IT AIN’T!

“This is not justice.”  This is where I pull out that quote from the first “Dark Phoenix” trailer and just insert it in here.

“I’ll [Oswald] consider that your [Jim’s] closing argument.”  That was like his opening and closing argument!

Though it did put me in mind of a much better speech from “Camelot”:  “They have forgotten justice, they want revenge, revenge the most worthless of causes.”

*Crowd calls Zsasz guilty*  What the hell were you [Jim] expecting?

Welp.

And Zsasz is like “Great...”  Good job, Jim!

Thanks for that, Jim!

Great job!

There is a guillotineeee!

Oh come onnn!

They probably got it from like the natural history museum. 

Sheesh...

Also, why would they have a guillotine in the natural history museum of Gotham?

Because this place is [expletive] up all the way up to the ears.

“Any last words?”  [Oswald] YOU PUT TAPE ON HIS MOUTH, YOU ASSHOLE!

*laughs when Victor gives his muffled last words*  He’s just stalling, I love it!

“Well said.”  *laughs*

*Victor gets rescued at the last minute*  Ohhh ho ho ho!

Shit, that was close!

*imitates Oswald yelling “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?”

I actually really hope we see Zsasz in the time jump. 

I hope so.

I will be so happy.

*Jim shoves Oswald to the ground*  MOM, HE PUSHED ME!

You self-serving asshole!

“What choice do I [Jim] have?  Either I let him [Victor] go, or he's dead for something he didn't do.”  Either that or it’s like the final scene from “Se7en.”

*very softly*  Eesh...

WHAT’S IN THE BOX?!?  No.  Zsasz is not up for that.

No.

I think he begrudgingly gets along with Barbara so he wouldn’t do that.

“This city will never be what you it to be, Jim.  It’s always gonna belong to the bad guys… like me.”  Yes.

“What?”  “Yeah, what?”  *scoffs in hilarity*

“Give him your gun.”  OK, I hate this because Jim wants him [Victor] to shoot him. 

Come on...

He wants a shootout!

“Maybe I'm just tired of listening to you, Victor.”  Jim, come on!

*groans in frustration*

I like that shot though [of Victor being offered Harvey’s gun].  It’s like one of the westerns, with the blurry background.

“Do it.”  No...

Jim, what are you, stupid?

*sits back in relief when Victor turns him down* Oh thank God...

“So [Victor] get the hell out of my face.”  So why did he [Jim] want a shoot out?  He just wanted an excuse to arrest him again?

It’s guess it’s just kind of the built up anger.  Plus the fact that everything Jim has tried to do has utterly failed.

Yeah...

So he’s at the end of his rope and given up everything.

That’s true, yeah.

Ooohh that’s [the lighting for that shot of the tunnel workers walking down the hall] cool.

Yeah, where the hell is this?

I don’t know... it looks like an old parking garage.

It does!

*All the tunnel workers get knocked out*  Oh dear.

*claps when Bruce emerges from the shadows and catches up to Alfred*  LET’S GOOOOO!  Yess!

Alfred being a badass!

*laughs when Jeremiah starts fanning himself with his hat*

*done*

*mouths along with Jeremiah’s line about the river, with eyebrows and all*

“So what do we do when we feel like giving up?”  “Dig a little deeper.”   *has to sit forward in an attempt not to laugh/sing*

*still done*

*eyes widen when Selina walks up to Jeremiah and stabs him*

“Deep enough?”  Let’s go.

Damn.

“Well Selina, I must say-“  Yeah, the Tim Curry voice is an affectation.

Yeah.

Stab number two.  Stab number three.

*in unison*  Four.  Five!  Six.  Seven.  Eight.  Nine.

God...

Ho-ly shit!

*Jeremiah drops to the ground*  And he’s alive after that.

*shakes head*

*Selina gets hit in the head with a tool*  Ohhhhhh!  That oughta hurttt!

Yeah.... Jesus.

Also, you noticed like that he [Jeremiah] immediately calmed down like “Oh, it’s not Ecco, oh thank God- oh it’s just Selina.”

*laughs*

*Last shot of Jeremiah in the episode*  He looks dead.

Yeah.  Like how the hell did you survive getting stabbed in the stomach nine times?

Plus, in the next episode, there’s a doctor there.  I think it’s some sort of surgeon.

Still though... damn...

*Ed is exhausted after climbing stairs*  Mood, Ed.

“I hate stairs.”  *laughs*

What a mood!

*sings*  What a mood, what a mood, what a mighty big mood!

[1215]  Oh Jesus...

Oh my gosh, the amount of times I’ve seen a ceramic rooster thing, ugh... that brings me back.

This poor old lady!

“You were on the roof and you had some kind of a rocket.”  *softly*  Oh my God...

*The old woman hits Ed over the head*  HA!

*Ed starts to remember*  Oh my God!  He did it after all!  Oh, you- eat shit, Ed!

*points at screen*  Yeah that’s [the long hair and bowler hat] not a look!

*Ed blow up Haven in a flashback*  Why would he even do it though?

Also, I like these Windows screensaver effects.  *laughs*

Also, I wanna know how he [Ed] got the room number.

“I promise, I won't tell anybody.”  “I know you won't.”  Oh, c’mon, Ed!

No, c’mon!  Ed, no!  No no no!

*Ed shoves the witness out the window to her death*  Eat shit and dieeeee...

*tries not to laugh*  That’s from “Batman Forever!”  Because he pushes the guy out the window in the wheelchair!

Ohhhh, eat shit and dieee-

OK, OK, here’s the thing.  You’re gonna hate this ending because I hate this ending-

Oh God...

Because Jim and Barbara and it’s like-

What...

Yeah...

*yowls in frustration*

*can’t help but laugh*  Same.

“[Barbara] Your tip didn't pan out.”  “Well, I've got another one.”  Nooo.

Jim does not need this right now.

He does not need this right now.

You’ve made a lot of shitty decisions this episode, Jim.

Yeah, everyone has.  And these two have [throughout the show].

“No one knows what it’s like to be him.”  *to the tune of the opening of 2001*  Shuuuutttt upppp!  SHUT UP!

Is this really the time for freakin’ anger sex?

I know!

“I told you to leave.”  No.

*shakes head*

*both say varying degrees of “No” when Barbara gets super close to Jim*

Jim, no.  No.

No.

*Jim grabs Barbara’s arm to stop her*  Jim, no.

MMMMMMM!!!

*bolts out of seat when Jim and Barbara start to make out* 

JIIM, COME ONNN!!!

*in the background*  I’m goin’ out the window, bye!

Jim...

*comes back to seat when end titles appear*  AND THAT IS THE end of the episode!

Nooooo!!  Jiimmm, come on!  COME ON!

#the blogger reacts #Gotham #gotham season five #gotham spoilers #gotham fox #looked at the stars and considered a reaction #FOX #ruin #jim gordon #barbara kean #edward nygma #oswald copplepot #harvey bullock #victor zsasz #bruce wayne #selina kyle #alfred pennyworth #jeremiah valeska #ecco gotham #eccomiah #lucius fox #tim curry

[thetravellingvagrant]

Day 1- Glasgow/Warsaw: In Which I Rob The Post Office Again

Long time readers of this blog- all two of them- will likely be acutely aware of phenomenon I have come to refer to as the 'first day curse'. For new readers- all none of them- this curse strikes, as you might expect, on the first day of my trip and, without exception, turns what should, for all intents and purposes, be the most exciting part of my journey into an unrelentingly shitty maelstrom of sadness and fuck. Be it getting dragged around a museum of the European Parliament while about six hours beyond my elastic limit of staying awake; getting turned away from my couchsurfing host's apartment for several hours, to fend off cold and blisters by a diminutive racist; accidentally committing a home invasion or just getting fucked time after time by bastard taxi drivers, who seem to make it their business to ruin my life, the FDC is ever-present and ever-shitty in this Vagrant life of mine.

But not this year. I was determined to swerve that bullshit however I could, this time; my journey to  Warsaw, the first stop of this trip, had been planned to a tee; I had managed to finagle an honest-to-God lift to the airport with my very helpful mother, nearly entirely eliminating the possibility of missing my flight, which I seem to manage to do, each and every time I fly by myself and perhaps, most important of all, as detailed in my last entry, I had already basically had my FDC this year, with the absolute shit-show of a day I had had, trying to get my passport sorted. Surely the travel-gods would see this as enough penance to let me pass both unhindered and unfucked into Vagrancy, for once. Just once, travel-gods. Be cool. Jesus.

I woke up bright and early, or at least early, in my own lovely bed for what will be the last time for almost a month and quickly set about mopping up the remaining tasks on my to-do list for the trip, including- but not limited to- faffing around trying to get the export settings right on Adobe's Premier Pro for a video I had been working on (which, let me tell you, is a lot of fun to do under pressure and with a strict time-limit), general packing of way more things than I need and having a series of increasingly severe mini-breakdowns.

While my flight didn't leave until 7:30pm, I regardless found myself with little time to spare in my flat, due to my having an unavoidable dentist's appointment (whose office, those of you who read the previous entry will know, is located close to my parent's house and is therefore some distance from my flat) at two in the afternoon.

By some miracle, I finished my to-do list, or at least the most important items on it in reasonably good time, or at least in enough time to still make it to the appointment if I hurried and caught a bus to the train station and so bid my cat a remarkably brief, though no less tearful than usual farewell

I won’t miss you.

And was quickly on my way to have my teeth all messed about. Hurrah.

Trips to the dentist, I'm aware, aren't usually regarded as a particularly pleasant thing, regardless, but holy shit, was this ever not a pleasant trip to the dentist. The appointment lasted a full hour (fifteen minutes longer than was scheduled, which was very helpful on a day when time was so limited for me) and consisted almost entirely of having the inflamed pulp inside one of my teeth jabbed at with a needle, which uh, yeah, isn't too great, let me tell you. The little cherry on top of the bakewell tart of shit that had been my orthodontic experience was the anaesthetic injection in my gums: it seemed that I was to spend the rest of my day with my face entirely numb in, apparently, every part of it except the bits that hurt. I was also told to expect my tooth to ache like buggery during my flight. So that was a treat.

A bit shaken and now behind schedule, I left the dentist to return to my parent's house briefly to pick up my passport, check in for my impending flight and to put some music and podcasts on my phone so as not to be terribly bored for the rest of my evening.

Ryanair do a lot of shit wrong- Like a lot- but I've got to say that being able to check in and get my boarding pass on my phone is a nice touch, or at least one that just about finally brings them level with other, better airlines in literally just that one aspect. Or...at least it should have been...

I entered my details into the app, triumphantly pressed 'continue' with an uncharacteristic arrogance for someone dealing with anything to do with Ryanair and...an error occurred. For god's sake, Ryanair, pull your shit together. I pressed the button again, my confidence slightly dented, but still in tact. Error. Umm.

“Okay...” I thought, “so the app's not working. I suppose I can always go and physically print the passes like some fucking caveman”.

I loaded the Ryanair website, my confidence now all but entirely replaced with pure vexation and...it wasn't there. Not my boarding pass- the website. It was down for maintenance and apparently had been for some time- days in fact. Indeed with a quick Google, I learned that it was national (albeit quite tabloidy) news that this website was down. People physically couldn't check in for their flights and were being stung for £55 for it when they arrived at the airport because of it, while Ryanair, in an ostrichian level display of burying their heads in the sand were maintaining through all this that the website was up, running and fully functional despite clear empirical evidence to the contrary.

I checked my phone. I needed to leave; I still had to pick up a travel money card at the post office and get some food before I headed to the airport and had no more time to spare, angrily pressing 'continue' over and over again, sighing a little louder each time it didn't work.

My mother and I bundled ourselves and my luggage into her car and drove quickly to a nearby town. I darted off into the post office for my card and she into Morrisons to buy some very delicious food for me, which was very nice of her, even if I was in far too bad a mood to properly acknowledge it at the time.

I had realised, some time prior, that I had also managed to forget my gloves. Given that I'd be travelling to basically Russia in the winter and realising that historically that can go poorly, I was understandably a little worried about this. It came as a genuinely nice surprise then to find that the post office sold nice gloves at he very reasonable price of £1.50 a pair. I grabbed two sets (for layering purposes) and headed to the till. I obtained my travel money card fairly effortlessly (#humblebrag) and left with it and my gloves in hand. So to speak. Wait, shit- I had been so wrapped up in getting the card and dwelling on the unbelievable amount of garbage that had been slopped on top of me throughout the day that I had actually forgotten to pay for not one, but two pairs of gloves, thereby robbing the post office for the second time in a week. Charles Bronson got life for that so I'm lucky to have gotten away with it.  Anyway, sorry post office. Again...

Travel money card, several pairs of stolen gloves and some very delicious food now obtained, my mother and I set off, finally, to Edinburgh airport. As we drove, I continued mashing the Ryanair app, desperately looking for signs of life, my already critically low optimism dwindling even further as I did. On the verge of giving up, the two hour cut off point for obtaining boarding passes looming within mere minutes, the app spluttered up all the water it had swallowed in that devastating surfing accident and took a deep, ragged breath. It wasn't much and being clinically dead for as long as it was, only to come back to life would clearly lead to massive brain damage, but that was all I needed to get my foot in the door and my grubby mitts on my boarding pass. I was overjoyed, though, and I've said this before of Easyjet, when you're made this happy by a service being offered simply working as advertised, that really does speak poorly of how high the bar is set for your company...

We ended up arriving at Edinburgh airport in genuinely quite good time, which was...surprising, considering how my day had been going, to say the least. My mother and I shared a tearful goodbye or I'm sure we at least would have done, if she wasn't so concerned about the cost of her stay in the drop-off zone going up the longer she stayed there and with a single punch on the arm in lieu of a hug, I was off.

I navigated the airport security with ease for once, with my bag and genitals left unfondled by surly old security guards and sat down in the duty-free costa with some time to spare. Despite having a bag of, and I really must stress this, like crazy delicious food with me, I decided to treat myself to a warm panini and a hot chocolate as due to a combination of needing to rush in the morning and having to wait after dental work in the afternoon, I hadn't yet eaten. As I chewed, using only the right side of my mouth, through my pigs-under-blanket panini and sipped my a-little-too-hot hot chocolate, I reflected. It seemed that the first day curse had regardless struck me once more, despite my best efforts to the contrary as, to be totally honest, I had had a pretty cack day. Still, at least I wasn't going to almost miss my flight, for once.

Oh, right, shit, my flight...

I looked at the time- the gate was closing. I'd spent too long reflecting like some genius prilosopher might... I pushed the rest of the panini into my already overstuffed mouth and forced it down with the remainder of my drink, burning my tongue quite badly in the process (probably considerably less like a genus philosopher might...) and sped off towards the gate. I don't know how I managed to get myself into this situation, but I now found myself in not insubstantial danger of missing my flight, despite having literally been inside the airport for the past hour and a half.

I approached my gate doing that kind of half-walk-half-trot thing that people do when they're in a hurry, but are still unwilling to go full-run.

“Are you going to Warsaw?!” a flight attendant, standing by the gate shouted to me, from some distance away

“Uh, yeah!” I replied, breathlessly.

Even as far apart as we were, I could tell that her face wore a look of mixed shock and pity

“...You'll have to hurry, then, they're getting ready to take off!”

I went full run. I charged through the gate and onto the plane as quickly as I could, stored my probably slightly too large bit of luggage in the overhead lockers (incidentally, being very, very late for a flight is a great way to get the attendants to conveniently forget to check the size of your bag) and sat down, sweating, dishevelled and manic to the demonstrable disappointment of my new seat-neighbour. I honestly don't blame him.

After an uncharacteristically pleasant flight, barring some minor air-pressure-related toothache, I was spat out into Warsaw Modlin airport and found myself almost immediately on a bus to the city centre. I'm not quite sure how I managed this, as by this point it was around 11:30 at night, I was still in pain, hadn't slept particularly well the previous night and was, by now, flagging badly, but I assume it was some kind of lovely witchcraft. Thanks, lovely witchcraft.

Once in Warsaw, proper, I quickly darted to the central station, which, through my very careful planning both my bus stop and hostel were adjacent to. Despite it pushing midnight, the station was still open and, although all I really wanted to do was go to bed, I thought it prudent to buy my ticket for tomorrow's early morning train journey to Belarus as soon as possible. I took my place in the queue, or at least what looked like a queue. The woman behind the counter appeared to be reading some kind of document on her computer; a strange thing to do, I thought, with a line of seven or so people, steadily climbing in number, waiting specifically for her attention. She continued to read this document and sip her coffee for the next forty minutes or so. It was dangerously close to 1:00am and I was dangerously close to putting the entire idea of getting a ticket before morning in a big flaming bin before she deigned to start actually doing her job and serving people again. Albeit slowly. I bumbled through buying my ticket in the most 'me' way possible (awkwardly, quietly and tinged with rage) and left for my hostel, head shaking in disbelief and body aching for sleep.

After a scant ten minute walk through the pervasively freezing Polish night, I had arrived. The door had been left ajar for me by the night-receptionist, who greeted me with a nod. I nodded back, somehow accidentally yanking the door closed in front of myself in the process. Great. Good start. I had managed to lock myself out of the hostel before even getting inside. With an audible sigh, even through the locked door, the receptionist forced herself out of her chair to re-open it for me. I apologised as I stepped inside. She started back at me blankly, apparently not speaking enough English to respond. She pointed to a clipboard sitting on her desk; on it were written the names of everyone checking in that night. I pointed to my own name and she led me to my room.

As she opened the door I was hit by an ungodly stench; a sickly sweet combination of feet, body odour and death. I wretched as quietly as my body would allow me to, unsure whether to tough it out and try to get used to the smell or just hold my breath all night.

The receptionist flicked the light on. An audible groan came from one of the bunks as the more irritable of my roommates was woken up by this. The receptionist pointed me to my bed and left. It was the bunk above the angry man. In a room of six beds, only three of which were occupied, including mine, it seemed that they had opted to put us as close to one another as we could physically fucking get, without sharing a bunk, which is honestly exactly what everyone wants in a hostel, anyway, so good show.

Not wanting to be 'that guy', I flicked the light off and, as quietly as I could, put my stuff away. I was hungry again, by this point and so decided to go and sit in the hostel's kitchen and eat some of my, as yet untouched, unbelievably delicious Morrisons swag. I grabbed my bag and headed out into the hostel's halls, quickly realising that there was no kitchen or indeed dining area of any kind. There was a toilet that stank perpeptually and very strongly of shit and a receptionist whose disdain for me seemed to only grow each time she laid eyes on me, but no kitchen. Unwilling to rustle sandwich containers and crisp packets on the top bunk of a sleeping man who genuinely may have hated me, I put the idea in a big flaming bin and opted to just go to bed, having eaten once and drank little more than a hot chocolate throughout the entire day.

I re-entered the bedroom as stealthily as possible, given the sleep I had had and realised all too quickly that the bed hadn't actually been made. They expected me to do that for myself, which, let's be totally honest here a) is among the last things I want to do when I'm exhausted and physically fatigued from travelling, b)is like super, super disruptive to the other people in the room and c) probably should already have been done before my arrival, right? I mean that's like hospitality 101.

With little recourse but to do it myself, though, I did just that. Shockingly, I did not manage to do it particularly quietly and even more shockingly than that, Mr. Angry didn't seem to appreciate my inability to noiselessly prepare my own bed at past-one-in-the-morning.

After some bumbling around with sheets, my bed was ready, or as ready as I could be bothered making it. I grabbed the ladder to my bunk and hoisted myself up onto it. The entire bed shook, unsecured bits of metal rattled against one another and the entire thing bent considerably on its axis. I don't know if you've seen the viral video of several hundred squeaky rubber chickens being pushed down on all at once, which made the rounds a year or two ago, but that was uncannily what it sounded like, except louder, deeper and sadder. I was one rung up the ladder.

Out of options, there was little I could do but push on- one thousand terrified chickens screaming in pain with every step, until finally I was in my bunk. The noise didn't abate, even then, ringing out, entirely undampened with every tiny movement I made, but at least the bed had stopped rocking back and forth like a tiny, shitty, uncomfortable boat.

Once actually in my bunk, the room's other issues began to make themselves apparent. While the bed did have barriers on the far side from the wall, these barriers were similarly flimsy to the rest of the structure and were so insignificant and strangely placed so as to do literally nothing to stop all my stuff falling off the bed during the night. The side of the bed pressed against the wall had no barriers whatsoever, instead opting for the 'sheer drop' approach, which obviously wouldn't have been an issue had it not been for the bed being positioned approximately a foot and a half away from the wall for absolutely no good reason. As it stood, it was fairly likely that my phone would fall off one side of the bed during the night and my body the other. My best efforts to counteract this came in the form of neatly folding my trousers and placing them under my pillow, with my phone nestled in the back pocket: in this way it was unlikely to be knocked to the floor in the night and I could still hear my alarm, even with earplugs in. And let me tell you, boy howdy did I ever need earplugs. Mr. Angry wasn't my only roommate- I was sharing with one other person as well. Actually, I say person, but I never did get a very good look at them and honestly, from the noises they were making during the night, you could have been forgiven for thinking that what I was actually bunking down with was a pig being butchered with a chainsaw. The noise was honestly inhuman; wet, droning slurps and gurgles emanated constantly from the far side of the room and cut straight to my core, regardless of how deep I pushed my lovely and usually very effective gummy earplugs into my terrible, broken brainbox. Combined with my squeaking chicken bed and that fucking smell, it was honestly a bit like going to sleep in an abattoir. An abattoir with no power outlets.

How's that for a Trip Advisor review?

#Travelling #vagrant #scotland #glasgow #edinburgh #ryanair #dentist #root canal #app #warsaw #poland #disaster #hostel #lux

[masonxantonini]

case  file     ;  Mason Fortune Antonelli

nicknames     ;  Mase

associations    ;  The erinyes, the bookkeeper

occupation    ;  Assistant at Antonini’s

birthdate    ;  31 years old

hometown    ;  Sunset Port

current  location     ;  Downtown

pronouns     ; he/him

mirror image     ; sebastian stan

IN CHARACTER INTERVIEW

the record stops, the player tape states, and the radio static is replaced with voices ;

 — And our dear listeners are eager to know, how long have you been in Sunset Port? — Most importantly, why do you stay?

I grew up here, so apart from a few European travels, I’ve been here all my life. You know that is a good question. I guess it has to do with being in a familiar place, one I know well and can exploit as I se fit. The city is my home but its also my playground. I don’t see myself leaving anytime soon.

 Of course! We can all identify with the sentiment. Well, at least some of us. [LAUGHTER] What do you do in Sunset Port?

I work with my cousin. Her business is thriving and our family is big on us working together. Being an Antonini means you’ll never really have much space from your family, which I guess some people envy. Its fine, thats just how it works.

 Admirable! Now, I'd have left this question last to finish with a bang, but our listener is impatient, oh my! Have you heard of our little organization?  

Yes I have. Who hasn’t right? They have their hands in lots of things that happen in this city.

 Oh my! — And if Isabella Castello came knocking at your door, what would you do?  

I’d offer her a drink and ask if she wanted some help? She’s a family friend, and I help my friends out.

 Interesting. Well, I think I've kept you here long enough! Thank you for speaking with our public! Which song would you like me to play for you, now?

Can’t Feel My Face by The Weeknd please.

BIOGRAPHY

trigger warnings: domestic abuse, psychological abuse, child abuse, death, drugs, drug abuse, guns

The waves were crashing on Maltan soil the night Mason was born. Three weeks early, during what was planned to be his parents last hurrah trip before their baby boy were to have them stranded in Sunset Port for at least a week or so. How many times Mase have heard how he ruined that trip, he can no longer count. And while his mother never faulted him for the pain of birthing him in an ambulance in a foreign country, his father could never seem to get over the fact. Then again his father seemed to have a lot of reasons to fault him, from the day he was born. As an only child, and only boy, Mason was always under the watchful eye of someone in his fathers employ. Whether it be the nanny, the butler, the head of security or a bought off teacher. No matter where he went, he could be sure that his actions, answers and manners were reported back to the man who had helped birth him into this world. Until Mason was six, he lived what he’ll recall as a fairly upscale yet regular life for someone born into wealth and privilege. His mother, a french working class girl, was affectionate and quiet, possibly to make up for his father being cold and temperamental. Feelings were to be repressed, showing emotion was to show weakness, unless it was anger to frighten others into submission. Which was mostly how his parents marriage seemed to work. His mother was skittish and often seemed scared of his father, pledging obedience and silence to evade evoking his anger. Mason too learned to keep his mouth shut as a young boy, lest he slipped up and received a beating or at worst, whipping by his fathers hand. The sight of leather belts still makes his stomach tighten.

Shortly after Mason’s sixth birthday, the fighting between his parents seemed to escalate. His mom suddenly had visible bruises instead of hidden ones, and she was holed up in her atelier much more often, the sound of whimpers and sobs breaking the eerie silence in the large mansion. Mase asked countless of times, in hushed tones when they were alone what was going on. Why was his mom so sad? Why had daddy been hitting her again? He never got any spoken answers though. Instead, he was hauled from school one morning by his nanny who tearfully told him his mother had died in an awful plane crash, and his father wanted to speak with him. The words weren’t direct or clear then either, but as he got old enough to piece the puzzle together, it was obvious what had happened. His mom had tried to leave. His father had lost his temper and ensured that instead of allowing her to escape their marriage and bring him public shame, she was better off dead. A widower inspires sympathy. A divorcee raises questions and comes with implications of imperfection.

Now being under his father sole care, Mason found it near impossible not to anger the man. He was grieving, then he was rebelling. His whole life was planned out for him of course. Boarding school, then college, later joining the family business. All of it sounded like a slow death to Mason. The older he got, the less interested he became in following the path set for him. So he failed classes on purpose. Pulled pranks, hooked up with teachers or girls that were off limits. Heck he even paraded a boyfriend around for a while. All to get expelled, disliked, seen as the opposite to what his father wanted him to be. A perfectly mannered, highly intelligent, well respected Antonini. From an early age he’d been scrutinized, told off and chided for the smallest mistake. Taught that he never could get anything right. And now he was simply proving that to his entire family. Becoming the black sheep they’d always hinted at him being. And when the constant fighting and reprimanding got to be enough for him, Mason enlisted in the Army, desperate to get away from it all. Which to be fair, might not have been a well thought out decision. At first it wasn’t so bad. He could blend in with the other new recruits at first. But then the actual fighting came, as he was stationed right on the Iranian border. The things he saw, felt and had to do still haunts him, so much so that when he did return after two years of service, Mason went right from being a decorated soldier, to hunting down the strongest drug he could find to suppress his experiences. Heroin.

No matter how many rehabs or threats his family has come up with, Mason hasn’t kicked what he refers to as a 'habit'. By now its a full blown drug addiction, one that has nearly cost him his life not once, not twice, but three times. Pushing hard to get him straightened out, his family has arranged for him to marry. Mason finds the idea ridiculous and is per his usual standards planning to do anything he can to get out of it, just like he got out of going to Business school. Its just another attempt at dictating his life and he’s not in the least interested. Instead he’s rather fixated on how to get his next fix in between what he thinks of as a rather dull work day keeping the books and taking bets for the Erinyes at Purgatory. At first he was a little new to the task, but because the Antonini’s trust family above those who are not bloods, he was given some time to settle into his new role. Now he comes to work with ease, glad that it has a fairly set routine and that it gives him room to party either after the fight of the night is done, or sometimes the days when theres nothing scheduled for the evening. He doesn’t like to admit it, but being tucked away in an office, able to control just how much of the action he sees and who he meets with on a daily basis makes life just a little more manageable.

#musings. #( biography. ) #( not anybody knows that I am lucky to be alive / mason. ) #nightcityintro

[blowmiakisscolin]

FF: The Unofficially Official Most Handsome Man in Storybrooke

So, the prompt for this fic came about during a conversation with my dear friend @xemmaloveskillianx​ last night. We were talking football, specifically about how the commentators of the 49ers-Texans game were very openly swooning over the hotness of our new quarterback for the 49ers (former NE Patriot Jimmy Garoppolo). They repeatedly brought it up throughout the game, even going so far as to do a “Handsome-Off” between him and Tom Brady. E-Network-style comparison clips of them running out of their respective tunnels and dreamy-soft-lit-close-ups of their faces included. It was borderline ridiculous and I loved it.

K and I were highly amused by the swooning NFL commentators verbally drooling over Jimmy G. And then she had to go and plant the seed of: “Yo, why did I just picture Leroy and the dwarves staging a Handsome-Off for David and Killian?”

And so this happened. And I regret nothing. (I’m also very proud because I managed to write a SHORT oneshot, instead of one that got way out of hand and ended up owning my ass at 10K words.) (This one is 1.5K. Hurrah!)

P.s. it’s canon-compliant aside from the mention of Henry’s whereabouts. I fixed that to what it should have been. You’re welcome.

Title: The Unofficially Official Most Handsome Man in Storybrooke. Rating: K Genre: Humor; Fluff Pairings: Captain Swan, Snowing, Captain Charming friendship. Words: 1.5K Links: AO3

They should have known Leroy was up to something. It had been conspicuously quiet in town for well over a week, without the usual ruckus he liked to cause. If he wasn’t mouthing off in the Rabbit Hole and instigating a bar fight, he’d probably be found staging some kind of protest over the grocery store charging for plastic bags or the bakery changing its flour supplier. If the town wasn’t in the midst of a curse, Leroy seemed to be more than willing to keep things lively week-to-week.

Which was why a week without any protests or bar fights had warning bells ringing for the current and former Deputy Sheriffs. With Emma now in her third trimester and under strict doctor’s orders not to over-exert herself (by jumping in to break up bar fights or disperse riotous, protesting dwarves, for example), David had stepped up to help Killian man the fort at the station.

The two men would often meet their wives for lunch at Granny’s, and catch them up on all the goings-on in town, but today they’d opted for a mid-morning coffee break as well, seeing as work truly was that slow.

Walking into Granny’s, the two immediately picked up on the sudden beat of silence that descended, all eyes on them, before someone cleared their throat and the low buzz of conversations began again. Leroy, huddled over a piece of paper on the countertop with a gaggle of dwarves around him as they’d entered, was suddenly sat bolt upright and wore a decidedly uneasy expression.

Killian and David exchanged glances and then both approached the counter, causing the dwarves to immediately disperse, leaving their red-faced leader to attempt nonchalance (and fail miserably).

“Leroy,” David greeted him, eyeing him with suspicion, “Everything alright here?”

“Fine! Just fine, y’Highness.”

He replied, much too quickly. But with his focus on David, he had failed to notice David’s pirate companion stealthily approaching on his other side, and before he even had chance to protest, Killian had snatched the piece of paper he’d been attempting to shield from them.

“Hmm. I believe it’s bad form to run a contest such as this without informing the participants, Dwarf.”

David narrowed his eyes in confusion, and Killian passed him the paper, chuckling as he watched a thunderous expression darken David’s features when his eyes scanned the words.

“A ‘Handsome-Off’. It was inevitable, don’t you think, boys?”

Granny piped up, appraising them over her glasses with a smirk on her lips and a sparkle in her eyes. David spluttered with indignation, apparently scandalized at the idea that Granny would be enabling (and even encouraging) such a contest.

“You can’t be serious.”

He grumbled, hands on his hips and the thunderous expression softening at the edges to one of weary bemusement.

“It’s a harmless contest. You’re only pissed because you’re trailing by three points, David.”

Ruby called out, smirking over her shoulder at them as she attempted to fix the eternally-broken coffee machine. Leroy choked on a laugh, but smothered it and tried to pass it off as a cough under David’s withering glare.

“Aye, mate,” Killian chuckled, “It’s harmless. And it would be interesting to see who the residents of Storybrooke deem to be the most dashing enforcer of the law...don’t you think?”

David’s glare was turned on Killian momentarily, until he rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Well, it’s not like you’re going to take any notice of me if I attempt to shut it down. And it’s apparently reducing the number of bar fights and pointless protests we have to break up each week...so fine. Do your silly contest, Leroy.”

The dwarf was clearly about to argue that the town protests were not pointless (though the grocery store was still charging for plastic bags, so the success of that protest was negligible) but he seemed to decide against it and at least had the decency to look chastened at the fact that his underhanded contest had been exposed.

David handed the paper back to him and he scarpered, his gaggle following close behind.

“You’re only letting this charade continue because you intend to win it, don’t you, Dave?”

Killian eyed his father-in-law and best-mate with amusement as he slid into the seat at the counter Leroy had vacated. David took the seat next to him, barely containing his smirk as he met Killian’s gaze.

“Oh, I am going to win it, pirate.”

// CS //

“You can’t use the fact that you saved the lass’ cat from a tree to garner a vote for your face, mate.”

“You would have done exactly the same thing if you’d taken that call, and you know it.”

“At least I don’t have my wife reminding the women at her Mother & Toddler classes to vote for her husband!”

“Oh, don’t you think I didn’t catch Emma bargaining with Regina for her to vote for you!”

The bickering went on and on for well over a week. Emma and Snow took it all in good humor, until they too became quite invested in the contest. Apparently, they all had competitive streaks a mile wide, despite repeatedly reminded one another that they didn’t actually win anything at the end of it all (‘Except bragging rights for the rest of forever,’ Emma had jokingly pointed out).

It was a Friday evening and, as per tradition, the Charming-Swan-Jones-Mills clan had assembled at Granny’s for dinner. It had become a tradition ever since things had quietened down in the town curse-wise, and it was something they all looked forward to each week now. Henry had moved to Boston for college the year before, but he often expressed how much he missed their Friday Family Nights, and in return they assured him his presence was most definitely missed too. But he visited during the holidays and those little family traditions became even more treasured then.

This particular Friday, the ‘Handsome-Off’ was, of course, the main topic of conversation. Regina repeatedly rolled her eyes at the whole debacle, and Granny promptly informed them that Leroy had managed to get every Storybrooke resident to vote now, and he and the dwarves were hard at work counting the votes. Regina rolled her eyes so hard that Emma warned her they’d probably roll right out of her head if she carried on. She rolled her eyes again.

David grinned smugly at Killian (or, as he’d taken to calling him, his arch-rival) across the table as he cut up his young son’s food, and Killian simply shook his head on a chuckle.

“I’ll admit I’ve enjoyed our rivalry this past week, but you should know that the only people I truly care for the opinion of on my dashing good looks is my beautiful wife and this wee pirate princess.”

With an arm around the back of Emma’s chair, Killian reached over and placed his hand on her belly, rubbing with gentle pressure that had their unborn daughter kicking in response. Emma smiled up at him with a small scoff, muttering something that sounded like ‘such a sap’ and he simply grinned, pressing a tender kiss to her temple.

“Oh, please. You’re only saying that because you know I’ve clinched this thing.”

David snorted, and Snow elbowed him none-too-subtly in the ribs.

Their back-and-forth was brought to a halt when Leroy burst through the door of the diner in his trademark manner, voice two decibels above what was required for a small room. Or any room, really.

“The results are in!”

He boomed, waving an envelope above his head with gusto. Regina rolled her eyes.

“Well, come on then, Leroy. Put us all out of our misery.”

Granny called as she came out from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron and folding her arms. Expectant eyes were glued on Leroy then as he tore open the envelope with a little more fervor than was strictly necessarily. Emma bit back a laugh and rubbed her bump absently, while David held his breath and Killian leaned back in his chair with a serene expression of mild amusement.

“And the winner is…”

Leroy eyeballed each person in the room, silent seconds ticking by, and Snow covered her mouth to stifle a giggle at the ridiculousness of the build-up.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Give me that.”

Regina snapped, standing and grabbed the envelope from Leroy’s hands as he made an outraged sound of protest. Killian wondered if he’d be picketing outside the diner over this the next day.

“Killian won. There. Can we please go back to being adults again now?”

David’s mouth dropped open and he gawped at Regina as though she’d just told him Granny had run out of lasagna. Emma was beaming, clearly thrilled that her husband was the Unofficially Official Most Handsome Man In Storybrooke. Snow initially clapped, until a scandalized glare from her husband had her smiling sheepishly and shrugging.

“I guess you might want to try and save more cats next time, mate.”

Killian chuckled, grinning smugly and quirking an eyebrow at his (probably former) best mate. David turned, red-faced, to Leroy.

“I want a recount!”

Fin.

#cs ff #cs fanfic #captain charming #cs oneshot #captain swan ff #ouat humor #cs humor #captain charming fic #ouat: cc #ouat: captain charming #you can all blame Kristin for this trash #mia writes fics

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @inatshej!

All I Want

-x-

Stiles Stilinski is seventeen years old when he falls in love for the last time. He’s seventeen and his entire world has crumbled and been remade so many times already and though there’s a part of him that’s still very much an immature seventeen year old, he feels wise beyond his years.

He falls in love on a normal, mundane day, as people do. It is not so much a sudden thing but rather the realization that the feelings that are bundled up in their relationship are more affection and soft exasperation than fear and annoyance.

The thing about falling in love though, is that it doesn’t speak of what relationships are available, what relationships are open to reinterpretation. It is and does what it wants to, and nothing about the reality of the situation seems to change that.

Stiles falls in love in a moment and a year, all at once and so slowly too.

But falling in love doesn’t mean happily ever after, two and a half kids and a white picket fence.

Stiles had already known that; had already known what it was like to love the idea of someone and the reality of an uneven fit.

So he doesn’t do anything to change the relationship he has with Derek Freaking Hale so much as resign himself to being his friend instead. There were worse fates than that and well, Stiles thinks in the beginning that time will only let him find someone else to love like it already had before Derek.

Somewhere along the line, Derek goes from friend to best friend, and somehow that tightness in his chest and butterflies in his stomach and softness in his head don’t lessen with time. Instead, all it seems to do is spread and grow and not even Stiles dating and dating often seems to help.

By the time he’s finishing his undergraduate degree in criminal psychology, Stiles gives up on finding someone else, someone better, because the more he knows about who Derek Hale really is, the more sure he is that there isn’t someone better--not for him.

He doesn’t expect the Christmas Party to change things, not when all the time and get-togethers and late nights hadn’t changed a damn thing.

But, then again, Stiles should know by then to stop thinking the impossible exists.

-x-

The summer after his high school graduation had been the quietest one they’d had in years. There were no battles for their life or sanity, no long days and nights searching for Boyd and Erica. It was the most normal couple months they’d had since the night Scott was bitten.

Stiles had been eighteen by then, already deeply in love with Derek Hale and overcompensating to hide it. His brief dalliance with Lydia was already over, his beautiful banshee having kissed him on the forehead and said she was proud of him when she realized how their lives had diverged just enough.

Stiles had also, by then, recklessly purchased a couple one-way tickets from London and Paris for Jackson and Isaac, bringing the rest of his pack home for one last hurrah.

Even then, it surprised him to feel how much more he felt with the joy and happiness he’d brought to Derek’s face than Lydia’s.

From that summer on, it was a thing. An inescapable--and rightly so--decision to get together on holidays from school and personal life to gather together, the whole lot of them, and just be without the constraints of fight-for-your-life and capital-R Responsibility.

Stiles never could bring it in himself to regret that.

-x-

The Christmas Party was actually an entire week devoted to the pack and its members, spread out as they were. Derek was the one who hosted it, spread them across the Hale Family Land that had existed past the county reclaiming the property in the woods. It was on the opposite end of town, something like 3200 acres of sprawling land that had been halfway converted into buildings and warehouses that the Hale Trust had leased out to various people over the years.

They spent most of the time on the far side, nothing but countryside and fields as far as they could see. Stiles hadn’t slept in his childhood home in years, instead bunking down in one of the rooms in the main house, a sprawling two-level ranch that Derek had actually had built when Stiles was in his freshman year of college. His room was actually the only one next to Derek’s a decision that Stiles hadn’t made consciously.

Stiles had gotten back into Beacon Hills later than usual that first night, sneaking into the house after the evening’s festivities were done. He was tired and grouchy, and somehow that had translated him into being annoyed with Derek over the older man’s presence in their shared hallway instead of happy to see him.

Stiles hardly remembered their argument the next morning, but the werewolf’s quiet glare into his mug spoke to him having said something that Stiles was sure he would regret if he could remember it.

Breakfast was stilted that morning, even the rest of the pack noticing as they filed in for overful plates and buckets of coffee. Lydia had given Stiles a knowing look that Stiles wished he could remember enough to return, and Isaac had rolled his eyes.

It wasn’t until his dad and his dad’s partner had stopped in before his dad had to get to work that anything changed--his dad wasn’t about to let the thick, awkward tension sit anymore than Stiles wanted it to.

“You’re unusually quiet this morning, kid,” his dad said, flicking his eyes over to Derek’s adorable and irritating grumpy cat face before returning to Stiles, “You kick Derek out of bed last night?”

The entire room--all sixteen of them that were still inside it--went incredibly silent, nothing but the soft sound of the kitchen radio swooning “it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.”

“Oh my god, Derek’s never been in my bed!” Stiles blurted, and then felt a warm brush of embarrassment crawling up his cheeks when he remembered that Derek had in fact been in his bed before--just not, not like his dad had implied.

Derek’s mug had cracked with an audible snap beneath his halfway extended claws and Stiles felt something like mortification and vomit at the back of his throat.

Before anyone had had a chance to say or do anything about the spilled tea and broken ceramic, Derek had bolted out of the room.

Stiles didn’t really think about how it would look to their friends and family, just knocked over his stool in his haste to chase after Derek and apologize for something he couldn’t quite remember and the more recent things he did.

He caught up to Derek just inside their hallway, one hand on Derek’s arm stopping him just underneath the faux mistletoe that Stiles had been resolutely ignoring.

“I’m sorry about my dad,” Stiles said first, releasing Derek when the man stopped and stared at him with his stoic stoneface look.

“I get it, Stiles,” Derek said in response, showing emotion only in the flickering of his eyes over the syllables of Stiles’ name, “you don’t want to date me. You made that abundantly clear.”

“Wait,” Stiles blurted out, reaching to grab Derek’s arm again but missing when he flinched back, “what?”

Because Stiles could not envision a time when he would have said he didn’t want to date Derek, and he certainly couldn’t seem to process the fact that Derek seemed upset by this.

“You didn’t need to sound so disgusted about me being in your bed, I got the picture last night.”

“No, what, dude, I wasn’t disgusted. I definitely wasn’t--I don’t... what the hell did I say  to you last night? ”

Somehow in the middle of Stiles’ blubbering ramble, something like shock and hope showed in Derek’s face and Stiles really didn’t know how to decipher that.

“You told me that all you wanted for Christmas was for me to stop acting like your boyfriend,” Derek answered, and there was a hint of a snarl around his words.

Stiles blinked. And then blinked again.

Derek turned to leave, obviously irritated and embarrassed again and Stiles didn’t really even think about it before he did it.

He grabbed Derek by the back of his shirt and tugged hard, the surprised werewolf flailing backward into Stiles and barely stopping the both of them from hitting the ground with a double-body smack.

“What the fuck, Stiles?” Derek said as he turned around and planted his feet firmly back on the ground, and there was an actual snarl in his voice at that.

But then Stiles put his hands on Derek again, both fists in the front of Derek’s shirt this time, and pulled him as close as he could, his mouth smashing somewhat painfully into Derek’s.

It didn’t take long for Derek to get the picture then, and they stayed like that far longer than they should have, if the werewolf-whistles were any indication.

“It’s just hard to handle you acting like my boyfriend when you’re not, you asshole,” Stiles admitted.

“Goddamn, it took you idiots too long to get the fucking picture,” Cora interrupted the moment, but somehow Stiles didn’t have it in him to care.

The kitchen radio kept crooning, “all I want for Christmas is you.”

#inatshej #stereksanta17 #*fic17 #*gifts17

[deadly-dealings]

COVID-19 - You suck.

Hello 2020 and COVID-19, you are currently on my list of dislikes.

I am a Funeral Director, but I can't really direct funerals. Let me explain. *warning: you may not like my opinions as they unfold on the topic of COVID-19 - feel free to not read*

I am a funeral director and embalmer. This means that I agree to take care of the living who mourn the loss of their loved one, while also taking care of the deceased to make them presentable for their last "hurrah". This means I signed up knowing I would be exposed to all the scum of the world and the violence they create. All of the diseases, yes all of them. All of the family drama. All of the arguments and anger and grief and denial and resentment and secrets and so on. Yes. All. Of. It.

I do this daily. Without fail and without falter. Some families make me cry (sometimes with them even - but often alone and away from them). Some families pierce the wall I have skillfully built to distance myself so I'm not taking it all home, while others make me laugh nonstop. I do this job because I feel I am meant to do this. I do this job because I want to. I do this job because I think it is important for people to say goodbye. To have closure. To have peace with their journey. To celebrate a life lived.

Today, in 2020, we are in uncharted territory and not able to do the true job we signed up for. This is because we have been ordered to not have funerals. They are considered a social gathering and should have less than 10 people. Sure, sometimes families are small and this works - but by and large people know more than 10 people. How do you choose who gets to come? How do you tell a family that they have to choose? How do you not allow every person affected by that life be able to celebrate it? That is what I'm supposed to do - I'm supposed to bring people together in their final celebration. Yet... I'm not supposed to. I'm supposed to go against every fiber of my being and tell a family no. This makes me feel empty. It makes me feel like I have lost my compassion. It makes me feel that I am stunting their grief and making it more complicated. It makes me feel like I am letting them down.

Mix that with the fact that currently you cannot visit people in nursing homes or hospitals. This means by and large people are dying without anyone by their side. This means I get to listen to the stories of how they haven't seen their loved one in weeks and now. Now I tell them - short viewing with 10 or less people. You can livestream it if you want, but the service must be 10 or less people whether indoors or at a graveside, or we need to stagger the viewing so more than 10 people aren't here together at the same time. Oh, so you have 6 kids, spouses and 12 grandkids? Well, I would say just the kids get to come, grandkids can stay home with the other parent. Or if we have a graveside, they can all come but space out - keep your social distance. Don't hug or shake hands. Wear face masks. Yes even the preacher is in a face mask.

This is the new reality right now. Some places it is even slimmer options - direct burial or direct cremation. Period. No viewing. No service. No nothing. This makes me feel empty because it has broken my heart. How do you tell someone who hasnt seen their loved one in weeks, didn't get to be with them as they died, that they also cant see them or celebrate them!? It goes against everything that a funeral director is. It goes against everything that I am. I believe in a dignified death and Hospice - this is why I volunteer for Hospice and am working on my End of Life Doula certs - but here we are unable to do any of these things because everyone is in isolation.

I feel empty because I don't get or give the hugs at the end of a service after I know it was all perfectly done for that individual. I don't shake hands or even offer the use of my pen (there is a freshly disinfected one on the table for signing things- assuming you didn't bring your own as most do). I use hand sanitizer as soon as you leave and then begin disinfecting everywhere I think you touched and I touched, so the next person who comes in might be safe. Keyword: might. I don't know if they truly are.

Everything that I feel needs to be done and everything that I am used to doing is currently just not allowed. I cannot direct funerals, but I am a Funeral Director, so I feel empty instead. This is just the tip of the iceberg though...

[judedoyle]

Magic and Mentions

Well: The baby and I survived our first run-in with the Chapos. 

I kept my pregnancy secret from the Internet -- not a very well-guarded secret, granted; my friends knew, my co-workers knew, the people who attended the multiple readings and shows where I was hugely, visibly pregnant on stage knew; hell, I did things like Tweet about my iron-deficiency anemia and post “just wondering” polls about baby names, so I’m pretty sure a ton of my followers knew -- for several reasons. 

One was pure superstition. Thirty-four is relatively late in the game for a surprise pregnancy. Her father and I weren’t exactly trying to avoid a baby, but I figured that at my age, we’d actually have to plan one. Instead, we followed time-honored Irish Catholic tradition, in that we got married and I was somehow knocked up within five minutes of leaving the reception hall. For Lulu to just happen, after all this time, and for her to be healthy on top of everything else, felt unreal. Every time we went to get an ultrasound, I’d be possessed by this sudden, irrational fear that the doctors wouldn’t find anything. They’d have to tell me it was all a misunderstanding, I wasn’t actually pregnant, the previous tests were all false positives, this almost never happens, it really did look like a baby last time we did this, so sorry for the mistake. I mean, I was worried about that in the third trimester, when I could feel her skinny little back thumping against my abdomen every time I moved. Lulu felt like magic to me, and magic is delicate. So I didn’t brag about my pregnancy. I didn’t want her to turn back into a pumpkin when I wasn’t looking. 

But the other reason to stay quiet, the more practical reason, is just that I attract a whole lot of Internet creeps, and I’ve attracted a record number of them in the past two years.

It’s not a unique problem. Any vocally feminist woman on the Internet gets her fair share of Internet creeps, especially if men get in trouble as the result of things she’s written; my Creeps largely come from a few disgruntled “comedians” I wrote up in the Rape Joke Wars of ‘13, plus a couple of Bernie Sanders fan podcasts. Which, since one of the Sanders fan podcasts is run by one of the rape-joke comedians -- and the other is run by that comedian’s roommates -- is a group with more overlap than you’d think. 

I wanted to wait the creepage out. I had hoped that by the time Lulu was born, people would have worn themselves out on having the exact same Sanders/Clinton fight over and over. And yet, they evidently haven’t, so a large percentage of my Internet Creeps are still obsessed with “punishing” me for... something. Disagreeing with them on the Internet, I suppose. Not subscribing to their podcasts. Talking. Breathing. The kid was, inevitably, going to be drawn in to that, for the same reason that my hospitalization for an illness that nearly killed me got drawn in; it’s a vulnerable spot, an easy way to hurt me. These people tend to get so excited about the prospect of hurting me that they rarely pause to consider how they might hurt someone else.

This time last year, when I was getting married, it was not uncommon to go in on my husband. He’s never gotten involved in the Sanders/Clinton debates -- being both very well-adjusted and very unlike me, he believes arguing about politics on the Internet to be stupid -- but they’d still send him the same “funny” threats they sent me, or screencap and send around his Facebook posts to fuel drama, or post thinly veiled anti-Asian stereotypes about how emasculated and “timid” and submissive and unmanly he must be to put up with a big hairy feminazi like yours truly. (The anti-Asian stereotypes, of course, also had the benefit of being anti-feminist stereotypes about how I must be a castrating shrew and needed A Real Man to dominate me and Put Me In My Place. Hurrah for intersectionality!) Or, you know, they’d just call him a ch*nk. It wasn’t because of anything objectionable my husband did or said. He literally didn’t do or say anything. My husband’s first post explicitly acknowledging the harassment campaign was in December 2016, and he acknowledged it only because he was posting to warn our shared social circles not to engage with Jeff Kunzler (Jeevesmeister), a former friend who had been part of the campaign and was facing rape allegations. My husband didn’t bring this on himself or pick a fight or post a “bad take” or whatever excuse these people use to justify targeting someone; he just loved me, so they tried to hurt him. 

None of that really got under his skin -- like I say, he’s a stoic kind of guy -- but it got under mine, the same way it got to me when people would be harassed just for being friends of mine, or RT’ing me too often, or whatever. And I was going to be an especially soft touch due to the pregnancy hormones -- at a Trainwreck reading in Portland, I spent the entire day crying because I’d lost touch with a college friend who moved to Portland -- so I decided I would keep my magic baby to myself. Every day I spent growing Lulu, I’d actually be thinking about Lulu, and not about what some toxic sinkhole of a human being said about Lulu on Twitter. They wouldn’t be able to insult her, or threaten her, because they wouldn’t know she existed. 

It worked for nine months. But I couldn’t go through life with a secret child. I mean, I seriously considered it. But what was I going to do, teach her to flee from the sight of iPhones? Lock her in the attic like the first Mrs. Rochester? I had to let people know about her eventually. I had to let the world in, for better or for worse. 

The first e-mail telling me Lulu would be mentally disabled and ugly and that she should be taken away from me by Child Services came within 48 hours of the birth announcement. 

I have to let the world in. But I have to raise her in a world that has evil in it, and I’m still trying to find some way to accept that. 

In the days leading up to Lulu’s birth, I started letting myself tune out bad news. I didn’t want to know anything about Trumpcare, for example. Nothing about NICU babies or pregnancy as a pre-existing condition or lifetime caps that made babies lose their coverage before they were a week old, nothing about what could or might or would go wrong. The murder of Charleena Lyles shot across my social feed. I picked up the key words -- pregnant, mother, mentally ill -- and put the story to the side, telling myself it would be all right to read it when every word in that constellation wasn’t viscerally terrifying. 

The urge was at least partly white fragility -- I am not Charleena Lyles, I do not face the same injustices or dangers Charleena Lyles did, it is undeniably selfish of me to process Lyles’ story in terms of its impact on me -- but the pain and fear were real. Whatever challenges I face with my mental health, or with sexism, I also have substantial privilege. Women who get sick without the safety net of whiteness don’t end up with platforms to combat stigma or fight back against misrepresentations of their health. They don’t wind up like me. They wind up, an awful lot of the time, like Charleena Lyles.  

And Lulu will not have white privilege. I mean: She won’t be a black woman in America, either. Neither of us can appropriate Lyles’ story. But Lulu, unlike me, will face racism. When she meets her first bully, when she comes home from school crying for the first time, I don’t know what she’ll be crying about; I don’t know whether it’ll be something I’ve experienced and can talk her through, or some form of cruelty that is new to me. Or, worse, whether it will be something I’m implicated in as a white woman -- something I do, or have done, without realizing it. Something I can’t even try to fix without making the situation worse. 

This train of thought is not exactly linear. But in the days leading up to Lulu’s birth, when I was getting hit with huge surges of hormones every few hours, I wasn’t thinking in linear terms. I felt half human at best. I kept remembering the pregnant barn cats I used to see out on my cousins’ farm, frantic and raw and instinctively, protectively vicious; I remembered them pacing, hissing any time one of us got too close, shredding cardboard, hiding under the porch, and I wanted to do any or all of those things, all the time. Any piece of bad news would spiral out of its proper context and into the terror of Something Happening To The Baby, get swallowed up by that weird animal frenzy of impending labor. And I just couldn’t handle it, hearing about the horrible things the world does to its girls. I couldn’t stomach the thought of sending my baby out there, with a mind at least partly like mine, and none of the safeguards I took for granted. 

Yet I can’t tune it out forever. It’s my job to keep track of terrible things being done to women -- a job I’m working my way back up to now, even as I find that my beat increasingly looks like a list of horrible things that could happen to my daughter: ‘90s celebrity found running sex cult for underage girls. President Trump. Newspapers leak nude photos of actress to punish her for taking a traditionally male role. President Trump. Man with several dozen rape allegations not convicted at his rape trial. Beloved progressive journalist repeatedly tried to force female coworkers to give him oral sex because “it’s funny.” President Trump.

President Trump.

President Trump.

The horror is less the violence itself than how the world keeps rolling on regardless. If we really felt what the world is doing to its girls, we would be in the streets, howling at the sky. We couldn’t parse a single one of these headlines as anything other than an atrocity. But we live in this world, where most of these incidents don’t even alter the course of conversation. We live in a world with evil in it, and most of us are used to it by now. 

So I spend a lot of time thinking about him, that first bully. Or her. Whoever the first person to make my daughter cry will be. I spend a lot of time worrying about how I can be ready for the attack -- how I can anticipate all the angles, unlearn all my blind spots, have a good defense ready, without being some clueless overcompensating white mom. It’s what I do, instead of howling at the sky. I get ready. 

Because every little girl gets bullied, sooner or later. Every little girl is a light the world tries to put out; to make smaller, meeker, quieter, less alive, less assured. What matters is who you come home to. Whether they find a way to protect the light in you or just quietly let you know that it would be a lot less trouble, for you and everyone else, if you let yourself go dark. 

There’s another level to all this. I didn’t come into the world under ideal circumstances. I’ve talked about it and written about it; I honestly thought that I was over it. Then I got pregnant, and it all came back to life. 

I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand my father’s violence, but I know it started when I was born. He didn’t like having children. He didn’t like how it took my mother’s focus off him; “he wanted,” my mother says, “to be the baby of the family.” I can’t imagine that the actual work of a child -- the diapers, the crying, the feeding, the constant need to keep hands or eyes on them; having to re-train your reflexes so that you can force yourself to get out of bed instead of grabbing five more minutes of sleep, having to keep your voice and your gestures calm and sweet when they’ve been fussing for hours and you want to jump out a window -- made things easier. It was just a big dose of adulthood, all at once, and he couldn’t take it. So while my mother cared for their newborn daughter, my father got into bed for a few months, didn’t get up except to grab himself more beer when he needed it, and then, when he felt properly rejuvenated, expended all that newfound energy on doing a bunch of cocaine and beating up my mother. He got better. She got pregnant again. He got worse. We had to leave the house before he killed us.  

So that’s it, my origin story -- one that has probably been told, at this point, only slightly less often than Spider-Man’s. I came into this world having to fend off the temper tantrums of a self-absorbed, abusively entitled baby-man, and thirty-five years later, I have not run out of baby-men yet. It has occurred to me, more than once, that I started dealing with men’s bullshit the day I was born, and that I will probably be dealing with it on the day I die. I’ll be in the nursing home, stroking out, hearing some male nurse scream about what a bitch I am for not listening to his podcast. It is my calling.  

But you can’t fight fate. You can only make them sorry they didn’t manage to kill you the first time around. Which, for the most part, is what I do. Or did, until I was pregnant. At which point, everything scared me. I was scared that my husband would leave, hate me, hate the baby, lose his mind. Or that I’d get drunk once the baby was born, drop her, forget her, sleep through her crying. Or we would have to leave, the baby and I, we’d have to live with my mother -- that’s what we had to do, when my mother left my father; we lived with her parents -- and there would be no money, just like there was no money back then, it would never stop, we would never have enough, we would always be in the act of losing everything, running in the night and in fear to a cold, strange place where we were poor. 

They say one of the strangest things about trauma is how it creates an eternal present. The traumatic event never gets entirely integrated into the narrative of your life, never becomes something that happened. Instead it gets stuck in the present tense; the traumatic event is always still happening, somewhere in your brain. You just have to avoid that part of your brain. I didn’t fully understand this, until I was walking around with my conscious mind in 21st-century Brooklyn and the rest of me stuck in Mississippi in 1985. 

We live in a world with evil in it. A world where people hurt each other for no reason and to no great end, where people hurt the most harmless people they can find, or the people they’ve sworn to love and protect; a world where men hurt women for power, for attention, for control, for assurance that they are the most important person in the room. I know that; I’ve always known it. It was probably the first thing I ever saw. 

The challenge, for me, is not believing in the existence of evil. It’s believing in anything else. It’s letting myself think that my trauma ends with me. That my daughter will be allowed to have a different story. 

Which brings us, I suppose, to the past few weeks. 

The actual particulars of the latest Chapo pile-on are pretty banal. One of the hosts went off on some ridiculous supervillain monologue about how, in order for the Democratic primary rifts to heal, all Democrats must kneel, KNEEL BEFORE CHAPO; the supervillain monologue was quoted in a magazine article, the magazine article was screencapped in a Tweet, and the Tweet then floated through my social-media feed, at which point I made a blowjob joke, because men really shouldn’t yell into microphones about how badly they want people to get on their knees if they’re not prepared for someone to make the association. 

Anyway, they took it about as well as fearless free-speech warriors usually take any mild joke at their expense; thus, I’ve spent the past few weeks hearing about how I am a wicked identitarian feminazi who makes False Rape Allegations, and also a rape apologist who makes Rape Jokes, and also, of course, fielding hilarious jokes and/or serious suggestions to the effect that I, myself, ought to be raped and/or murdered for my lack of proper reverence to their podcast.

I stand by my joke, for what it’s worth; it didn’t posit rape as fun or trivial, it didn’t posit being a rape victim as shameful, it wasn’t even necessarily about rape so much as it was about some dude being unattractive. It did, admittedly and intentionally, posit “being a dude who demands other people get on their knees for you” as shameful, which it is, which is why the Chapos were upset. But, more importantly, I doubt it’s worthwhile to debate the finer points of tasteful and appropriate humor with folks who not only explicitly defend their friends’ rape jokes, but have mocked actual rape survivors for talking about their rapes online. 

I mean: Everyone knows Chapo turns people’s lives upside-down for criticizing them, and at this point, everyone knows what the victims usually look like, too. Parker Molloy gets told that she should have her skull crushed by a Nazi. Alana Massey gets called a geriatric bipolar stripper. Arthur Chu gets doxed because people find his divorce funny. I get accused of making False Rape Allegations. (I’m a survivor, by the way. Life is not kind, and the story that started with my father didn’t stop with him.) Everyone who pays attention to Chapo knows this; the only real question is whether they think it’s a bad thing. Because it’s pretty impossible to keep insisting that it’s an accident or a coincidence, when it’s happened this many times. 

So the point is not what I said; the point is not even, really, what they said in response. The point was forcing me to deal with them once again. Anyone who obsessively scans and screencaps my feed like the Chapo crowd does would have known that I’d just given birth. They probably would have known that I’d had a complicated labor that required some pretty major surgery, that I was still in a lot of pain, that I was sleep-deprived, and -- given their obsessive focus on my mental health history -- that I was at relatively high risk for post-partum depression. “the craziest shit is she literally had a baby last week,” one of them posted in a forum during the pile-on. The others then began digging for nasty things to say about the baby. The most common line, so far, is that I don’t love her. Lulu is “the baby [Sady] openly resents for having caused her physical pain with its birth.” Another gentleman concludes that “[Sady] may not actually hate her baby, but she sure as shit wrote a lot of words” denying it. After I posted an old death threat aimed at my potential future children, one dude chimed in to say that he’d combed all the articles I wrote, and had found one article in 2010 that made it seem like I didn’t want children; “if you think the person who wrote that piece liked kids and wanted one, you're deluded,” he chided my followers. 

So that’s what it’ll be. It’s an entirely logical sequel to Castrating Shrew Sady and her Submissive, Henpecked Asian Husband -- Selfish Career Woman Sady and her Neglected, Resented Baby. (Or the more virulent version of the same story, Devouring Monster Sady and her Abused Baby That Someone Should Take Away From Her, who shows up in my e-mail from time to time.) Both are stories about how I’m not woman enough to love somebody; both, just under the surface, are stories about how love for women means being dominated, about how women who refuse to be subjugated or erased by their family responsibilities are refusing their proper place in the world, and passing up their only chance at happiness. The tropes being deployed are classically sexist, like something you’d see in a shitty alarmist magazine piece from 1980 or 1960 about “working women” -- something you’d see, to be quite honest, on Breitbart today. But they’re also describing me, a real person, and my relationship with the baby I longed to protect so much that I refused to speak her name, lest the wrong person repeat it.

It’s evil. What makes it more evil, somehow, is that it is so, so pointless -- it’s not police racism, it’s not the rise of fascism, it’s not my father beating his pregnant wife. It’s just small, useless, playground-bully evil, trying to convince the world that a mother doesn’t love her children because she made fun of your favorite podcast. Frankly, it’s the same stupid, petty, pointless bullying many of us heard in that “bend the knee” monologue -- the assumption that you should run the show, that everyone should do as you tell them, and that if they don’t, you are entitled to do or say absolutely anything you can think of, in order to shut them down or intimidate them into compliance. 

It’s not the worst thing in the world. It’s silly to even get upset by it; for the most part, it’s background noise, wasps swarming in a pale ugly nest in your backyard. You walk around the nest. You put it out of mind. You hope not to get stung. It’s been going on so long that I more or less take it for granted. But it matters right now, just as a reminder of what I’ve been dreading: No matter what, the world will always have bullies. And despite what we tell our children, those bullies don’t necessarily go away or get better once they’re all grown up.

Lulu knows nothing about the evil in this world. She knows very little. She gets the boob, and she gets a nap, and she gets to wake up when it’s time for the boob again; she likes it best when the cycle is continuous, where she can just fall asleep on my chest while she’s eating and let me know she’s woken up by opening her mouth again. So we do that for most of the morning, me holding her curled up on a little breastfeeding pillow and reading from an iPad I’ve propped up on the arm of the chair. I’m trying to learn to type with one hand, so I can take advantage of the down time. I’m okay at it. Not great. Let this post bear witness to my progress on that front.

She also spends more and more time awake without being hungry, these days. So we read to her -- you have to read to them from the time they’re newborns, it creates a positive association with books; so far, she’s read Everywhere Babies and Green Eggs and Ham and some back issues of n+1 her father meant to get through before she was born -- and we do Tummy Time on a little orange mat we inherited from our friends. There’s a bunny-shaped rattle attached to the end of the mat, to give her something to work for as she learns to crawl, so I sit there and watch her push her little legs around, and Mr. Bunny dances and delivers his various encouraging monologues about how Baby is made of desserts. (”Mommy had a raspberry ice cream, and a rose-flavored ice cream, and a macaron, and another macaron. And the doctor said, stop! You have to make that baby out of healthy foods! And then Mommy had fifty almond croissants. Lulu is a sweet little almond croissant baby...”) She’s very strong for a baby her age, apparently. She flipped herself over on her first try. Which they shouldn’t be able to do for a few months, so we have to check on her in her crib periodically to make sure she hasn’t done it in her sleep. 

The thing about babies flipping themselves over is that they can get stuck that way, like a turtle. They can flip from back to belly and forget how to reverse it, choke to death on their own bedsheets. There are just so, so many things to be afraid of, with a baby. Loving someone this much, when they’re this helpless, is just one long exercise in fear. 

I don’t know who will make her cry for the first time. Some bully at school, someone on whatever terrifying version of social media her generation winds up using, or one of us -- her father or I, losing patience, saying something she won’t forget. So I sit over my baby and applaud her as she works her arms and legs. So strong, so strong, mommy has such a strong girl, I say, in my happiest voice. And I don’t say the other thing. That she may actually be too strong; that being this strong might kill her. She’ll figure that out on her own time. Girls always do.

And I look at the news. All the terror, all the bullies, all the men harming women to convince themselves they’re the most important guy in the room. It happened the day I was born, it will be happening on the day I die. I left my father. But somehow, as I’m sure any decent therapist would tell me, I chose a career and a way of life that guaranteed I would always be screamed at by some emotionally catastrophic man-baby who behaved just like my father. I left him without leaving him. As long as these guys are calling me an ugly castrating bitch with a fucked-up nose whom no-one could ever love, the experience of living with my Dad is still very much ongoing. 

It got to be the worst it’s ever been, right before I had this little girl. In the Hero’s Journey, Joseph Campbell says, the midpoint of the story is always the most dangerous moment. The hero has been called into another world, tasked with finding something so wonderful it passes comprehension -- something that could change the world, or save it. But he must earn it. He must undergo a form of suffering precisely as terrible as his reward is wonderful. So, at the very midpoint of the story, his worst fear, or his oldest enemy, rises up and nearly kills him. Sometimes, it actually does kill him, and he has to find a way to resurrect himself in order to proceed. He has to pass this test, walk through the underworld unarmed, before he can get his reward and go home. 

So that’s what I do. I sit here, looking out at the world, the evil in it; podcast hosts and Presidents and whoever will use the information here to send me some horrifically personal string of insults through my Squarespace page. I look into the eyes of my hundred-headed father; my original death, which I escaped without escaping. And I say the only three words that matter.

You missed, asshole. 

Because he did. Because they always do. Because I’m still here, and I will be here until their aim gets better, and I do not plan to shut up or become more convenient or submissive until that day. For now, it’s enough to meet the demon on the threshold and keep walking. And so I take my reward, my magic baby, who will grow up with a whole new story about how the world treats girls, and she and I go home. 

[tellmevarric]

Big Damn Hero

Hurrah for Stormpilot Week! Here is one of my fics for Day 1. There were two themes for day 1 and I ended up getting ideas for both themes. So this is the first of them and I took it kinda literally:

Day 1: Poster boys of the Resistance.

Poe and Finn have been asked to appear on recruitment posters for the Resistance. Finn is confused, Poe is casual and the General is just damn amused.

You can also find this fic over at AO3.

“Why are we doing this again?” Finn asked, pulling awkwardly at the collar of his shirt. It was too tight, too small, he was sure of it, even though he’d been assured it was the same size as all his other shirts. Though, now that he thought about it, his other shirts were pretty much all Poe’s shirts so maybe that’s why this one felt so uncomfortable. It hadn’t been Poe’s first.

“Because we lost a bet with Pava,” Poe replied, sounding ruefully amused.

Finn looked over at his friend. Poe was wearing his orange jumpsuit with all the normal accoutrements that went with it and had his helmet tucked under one arm. He looked comfortable and casual and Finn wanted to curse him for it. He also wanted to peel that jumpsuit off Poe, slowly and with great relish, but that was just a dream, a fantasy that he would never have.

Finn grimaced. “Why does the Resistance need posters anyway?”

“Recruiting.” Poe shrugged. “Most of our current people are either former members of the Rebel Alliance, family of former members of the Rebel Alliance…” He grinned and gestured to himself. “Know someone who joined the Resistance.” His grin widened and he pointed at Finn. Finn snorted. That had to be the most innocuous way of wording the way he joined up. “Or are just the type to join a rebellion in the first place. Which is all great but kind of limiting. We need more people. Outside people, as it were.”

“So we’re doing posters?” Finn said dubiously.

“Yep.” Poe bounced on his toes a little. “You and me. I think the General is as well.”

“But why us? Why not Jess? Or Snap? Or Nien Nunb. He was in the Rebel Alliance!”

Poe stilled and looked over at him with a small frown. “Best pilot in the Resistance…” He pointed to himself then pointed at Finn as he continued, “Biggest damn hero in the Resistance.”

“I’m not a hero,” Finn said, shaking his head.

Poe was beside him in an instant, one hand on his arm and a look of earnest concern on his face. “Yes, you are, Finn. Without you, we’d never have been able to take down Starkiller. You knew how to do that. And…” He grinned. “We haven’t had a hero like you since Bodhi Rook.”

Finn frowned. “Who’s Bodhi Rook?”

Poe’s smile turned a little wry. “I guess it makes sense that the First Order wouldn’t mention him.” He shook his head. “Bodhi Rook is the man who got the word out about the weakness in the first Death Star. Oh man, it’s too long a story to get into now but remind me to tell you about the Rogue One crew later.”

“He defected?” Finn asked hesitantly.

Poe nodded. “He sure did. It must be a weird sort of déjà vu for the General. This is the second time this sort of thing has happened to her. But that’s not the point. The point is that you are a big damn hero. We wouldn’t have won at Starkiller without you.”

Finn didn’t get a chance to reply before they were ushered out where the photographer was. He was still mulling over what Poe had said as the photographer went to work. Thankfully the man had wanted each of them individually first and Poe was happily posing and distracting everyone. From the little glances he was shooting over to Finn from time to time, he was doing it deliberately, to allow Finn to relax and settle down.

When the photographer was done with Poe, he came over to Finn and placed a hand on his arm. “Hey, how are you doing, buddy?”

Finn gave him a weak smile. “Still debating the sense of putting me on a poster.”

“The First Order isn’t going to like it, that’s for sure,” Poe replied with an expression on his face that Finn couldn’t quite decipher but the thought of Captain Phasma seeing his face on a recruitment poster for the Resistance actually made him snicker. Poe gave him a questioning look.

“Captain Phasma’s going to go berserk,” he said between snickers. “Well, her version of berserk, which mostly means standing even more stiffly at attention and being even colder and sterner than normal.”

Poe grinned. “Real wild child, isn’t she?”

Finn started laughing at that and couldn’t stop. When he finally managed to get himself under control, he was half-wrapped around Poe, who didn’t seem at all concerned about that. In fact, there was a look in his eyes that said he liked it very much indeed and that was what prompted Finn’s next action – he leaned in and kissed Poe.

Poe went very still for a moment then he made a soft wounded sound and started kissing back. His hands fisted in Finn’s jacket and pulled him even closer. Finn went willingly, happily, pushing Poe back against the wall and plastering himself against the man’s body, something that was greeted with happy noises and a roll of Poe’s hips that made Finn whimper in response.

The sound of someone clearing their throat startled them both but Finn only moved far enough to allow them both to turn their heads. General Organa was standing there, dressed in finery that made her seem very imposing and very regal, looking at them with open amusement.

“As pleased as I am that you’ve both pulled your heads out of your backsides and blundered your way into the relationship we’ve all seen coming,” she said drolly, “the photographer is ready for Finn and I, for one, would like to get all this folderol out of the way as quickly as possible.”

Finn was glad no one could tell how much he was blushing right now because moving away from Poe would reveal just how into those kisses he had been. He turned back to Poe, who did not help matters at all with his wide grin and the look of happy lust in his eyes. From the hint of mischief also present in that expression, Poe was well aware of his predicament. Unsurprisingly given Finn could feel Poe’s erection pressed against his own through their clothes.

“Um,” he said, turning back to the General. He wasn’t quite sure what to do or say.

From the look on her face, he was all but certain that the General knew what was going on and why he hadn’t moved and he felt his face get even hotter. He now had a very definitive reference for the term ‘mortified’.

“I’ll just assert the General’s privilege and jump the queue then, shall I?” the General said, quite clearly trying not to laugh. “Let you boys pull yourselves together, hmm?”

With that she walked over to the photographer, who had been very firmly ignoring them, and directed the man’s attention back to his work. Finn let his forehead fall down onto Poe’s shoulder with a thump.

“Kriffing hell,” he moaned. “That was embarrassing.”

“Fun though,” Poe said lightly.

Finn did not, however, miss the thread of uncertainty that ran though Poe’s voice and he raised his head and smiled ruefully. “Very fun.” He looked down at where they were still pressed together. “Too much fun. We should do it again. A lot. Many times. Somewhere… not near the General.”

Poe simply beamed then pulled him in for another kiss. This one was lighter though, less of a demand and more of a promise for later. It helped calm him down and when they parted, he rested his forehead against Poe’s and smiled.

#stormpilotweek2017 #stormpilotweek #stormpilot #finnpoe #finn x poe dameron #fic #writing

[alittlestarling]

Ship breakdown: (because we've been yelling about them most of the day) the squish mages!

I love these goobers so much. I ran with the Modern AU setting for this because it was calling my name. Under a cut because holy long answers, batman!

How did they they meet?They’re both still mages in this AU and they still went away to a Circle but it’snot quite as restrictive as it is in the original setting – more a boardingschool/Hogwarts in my mind. They’re both in the same year and sat down next toone another on the first day of class and just haven’t left one another’s livessince then. Like seriously, childhood best friends where Roz would spendholidays with his family when they were out of school, lots of late textsthrough adolescence over summer holidays and being one another’s dates duringschool dances.

Who developed romantic feelings first?Vincent, it’s just canon that Vincent always realizes his feelings first.

Who is their biggest “shipper?”Rolfe and Cassandra are probably their biggest shippers, along with Vincent’sparents coming in a close second.

When did they have their first kiss and under whatcircumstances?I feel like these two shared a very awkward first kiss as pre-teens because Rozfigured it’d be better to have a kiss with a friend and not be fussed over allthis first kiss nonsense all their classmates she knew were going through.Their first kiss as adults, however, happened after a very boozy First Dayparty and it definitely involved some mistletoe. It would still be like twomonths before they went on their first actual date.

Who confessed their feelings first?Roz did because once she caught onto how she felt, she didn’t want to keep itin. She’s got the worst poker face and if she was going to be rejected, shewanted to get it over with so she could try and let go of them. Thankfully shewasn’t alone in her feelings, hurrah!

What was their first official date?It’s a Proper first date: Vincent picks her up, they go to a nice restaurant intown and take a walk in the city rose garden. There’s a lot of laughing and,while it’s new territory for them, it’s easy to go from just friends to dating.There’s an end-of-the-date kiss with Roz a step and a half above Vincent andstill probably standing a little on her tiptoes.

How do they feel about double dates/group dates?Considering they have such a huge group of friends, it’s just kind of part oftheir regular routine through the week to hang out with a lot of people whileout.

What do they do in their down time?Roz comes to the Nursery Vincent set-up and they work with the flowers andplants on days when the kids aren’t there. They also spend time cooking andbaking together (which sometimes ends with Roz flicking something at Vincentand starting a silly food fight between them), watching tv/movies on the couch –sometimes cuddled up, other times her feet in his lap while she works on herlatest baby blanket for friends.

What was the first meeting of parents as an official couplelike?Roz doesn’t have a real relationship with her family so it’s only Vincent’sfamily that gets this first “official” dinner where they’re together. Hisparents are pleased as punch and are mostly happy that it finally happenedbecause they’ve wondered when the pair of them would figure this out for agesnow.

What was their first fight over and how did they get past it?Their first big fight was over the politics around mages and their treatment.Roz is a little more radical and vocal about this while Vincent flies a littleunder the radar and isn’t as outspoken. It doesn’t help that this first bigfight happened after a long shift for Roz and Vincent was coming down from ananxiety attack after a car backfired up the street. Roz just went for a longwalk and Vincent sat with his cat and the TV on until she showed back up againwith ice cream to apologize for being snappy (but Vincent was also apologizingand trying to explain what had happened so they just wind up tangled togetherand the ice cream melts a bit but that’s alright).

Which one is more easily made jealous?ROSALIND holy smokes she is a small jealous little nugget who gets reallyself-conscious in general. I mean, Vincent is also jealous, too, but it doesn’tquite show up on the surface since he internalizes a lot of his feelings likejealousy.

What is their favourite thing to get to eat?They love take-away from an Antivan place that’s pretty much exactly in themiddle of the route they;d take to get to one another’s places.

Who’s the cuddly one? What their favourite cuddling position?UM both these squishy mages are cuddlers. I feel like literally every positionis a favorite for various reasons. Mostly Roz tucks herself against his chestwhen they’re falling asleep. Roz tends to move closer in her sleep and winds upspooning him from behind with her little nose pressed between his shoulderblades. By morning, since Vincent is almost 99% of the time up before her, he’scurled up behind her and nuzzling into her neck.

 Are they hand holders?YUP and they hold hands often, both before they were together and after.

How long do they wait before sleeping together for the firsttime? What’s the circumstances?It’s a few months into their official relationship before they start talkingabout sex. Like I see them having a lot of conversations about it and doingjust a little planning to make it special. Nothing too over the top but theyspend a weekend at Roz’s place (she told Vincent there was no way she washaving his brother walk in on them unexpectedly) and she probably light candlesand had some very lovely lingerie she picked out.

Who tops?Depends on the mood; they’re equal opportunists with this.

Who does the shopping and the cooking?Vincent has more time to get shopping and cooking done, but Roz tags along whenshe has days off or picks up the task herself if she wants to surprise him withdinner.

Which one is more organized and prone to tidiness?Again, this goes to Vincent. Roz tries but she’s less prone to tidying up andlives in a little bit of a mess that she cleans when she’s home.

Who proposes?Roz. It’s not exactly an official proposal but they’ve been together for alittle over a year as a couple and it’s just a normal night and she looks overand realizes that she wants to spend the rest of her life doing this. The wordsare out of her mouth before she can consider this. Vincent, very obviouslysurprised, is beaming and says yes without any hesitation.

Do they have joined Bachelor/Bacheloette parties or separate?I could see them doing just a big get together with everyone because planningtwo separate things seems silly when they share so many friends.

Who is the best man/maid of honour? Any other groomsmen orbridesmaids?Cassandra and Rolfe fill these roles for them. It’s a very small wedding sothey don’t have any other bridal party members.

Big Ceremony or Small?SMALL because Roz just wants to wear a simple white dress with flowers in herhair and have a dinner and dance after outdoors.

Do they have a honeymoon? If so, where? They take a vacation to Antiva City to grab some sun and enjoy going to a newcountry. Roz definitely burns but it’s worth it to have a lot of time tothemselves without worrying about anything else. 

Do they have children? How many?Oh yes! I’ve never settled on a number; right now they for sure have one but Icould see them having two-three little ones running around their home.

#kristen answers things #rhetoricalrogue #otp: sometimes home has a heartbeat

[theotherscarmanthewoman]

Season 2 Episode 7: Red Rover, Red Rover, Let Barbara Come Over (and other stories)

WAIT, there was metal-melting acid in those Science Grenades? Bloody hell, I'm surprised any of the rebels came out of that battle without major chemical burns. Why were none of them wearing masks while they were running about in all that smoking acid? And Babs was about to lob one at Ian last week! Relief ensues, and David says they should leave the Doctor hiding while they try to find a way out of London via the sewers (seeing as the Daleks will think this area is in flames and won’t come a-calling). Susan doesn’t like the idea of leaving him (oh the irony) but David shakes her until she agrees with him. What a promising start to a relationship. Back at the transport museum, Babs and Jenny are pumping up the tyres of an enormous truck (all the motorcars are, inconveniently, on the upper floors). They talk about engines for a bit and how the noise of it starting up will probably bring the Daleks down on them; Babs says it’s a risk they have to take; Jenny is like, well DUH. I love watching these two trying to out-grit each other. They both realise they won’t get far, but Babs is still desperately clinging to this veneer of polite but terse not-really-optimism. There’s a poignant moment when Jenny asks Babs whether she knows the route to Bedfordshire, and Babs admits she used to…er…that is, she’s definitely not a time traveller, she just used to live there, and we’re (is that the Royal We, Babs?) not sure how much damage the Daleks have done; Jenny tells her grimly to wait and see what they have in fact done to Bedfordshire.

Also I love the idea that in the twenty-second century they keep heavy goods vehicles from the 1960s in working order so they can drive them in parades. I want this to be a thing. Pass this down the generations so this will be a thing. Meanwhile, Ian and the ever-cheerful Larry have arrived at the Dalek mines. There are chain gangs of humans pulling huge carts down into the mines in an uncomfortably long sequence, and then Ian spots some stock footage of cable cars. Before they can get out of the open, they bump into a guy called Wells, who hastily gives them some pick-axes for the purposes of conning the Roboman who comes around the corner. They’re assigned to a work detail, and the guy is whacked with a stick. When Ian and Larry run to help, the Roboman tells them not to resist orders. Ian is just about done and hurls some sass his way: GET NEW ORDERS. The Roboman is, apparently, flabbergasted, and they duck inside. The Robomen must have one hell of a psychological impact because physically they’re pretty useless: it takes him an age to follow them, by which time they’re all set up for Ian to kosh him when he comes through the door. Which he does. Wells tells them to blend in with a work party, and tells them he’s meeting a black marketer called Ashton. Ian wants to meet him, too, so he can get out of London, seeing as he has friends there. Wells tells him the Daleks destroyed it; Ian dusts off his ‘oh shit’ face from The Reign of Terror. Back at the transport museum, Babs and Jenny are getting ready to bounce, and Babs has remembered to pack Dortmun’s notes. Then this happens:

JENNY: Why did he do it? BARBARA: Oh, many reasons. Mainly because he wouldn't give in. JENNY: What's the point of that? He just threw his life away. It was so senseless. BARBARA: It depends on how you look at it. JENNY: You've got this romantic idea about resistance. There is nothing heroic about dying. There's no point in throwing lives away just to prove a principle. BARBARA: If Dortmun hadn't thrown his life away, we would all be dead. He knew exactly what he was doing. He sacrificed himself so that you and I would have a chance. Come on, we're ready to go.

Well, isn’t that a fascinating little exchange? It’s not surprising that this is a sore spot with Barbara, who was willing to keep quiet about the fact she was dying all the way through Planet of Giants initially for no discernible reason but latterly (in, as I say, the unmangled and less stupid version) because she found herself at the sticky end of a ‘save the girl or save the world’ scenario. And again in a Terry Nation script we’re seeing this alarming readiness on Barbara’s part to embrace death to prove a principle (I will never stop bringing up the time she was willing to die on Skaro rather than leave Ian stuck in some Dalek casing). It’s also an illuminating insight into Jenny’s character: she may be a hardened survivor and a valuable member of the resistance, but she’s lost too many people to find the idea of resistance romantic (which Babs, as we know from The Reign of Terror, absolutely does). But hurrah for two women having a meaty conversation, in which we’re faced with the question of the extent to which, as the Doctor puts it, ‘our lives are important’. Babs gets the engine going (PLEASE tell me she drives the school bus on school trips) and they’re off.

Also, I love that there's an entire sequence leading up to Jenny hopping into the truck which is done with Dortmun's corpse very prominently in the foreground. Particularly the little beat where Jenny hesitates before running to open the doors because she's staring at Dortmun. It's amazing what you can do when you've got, y'know, enough space to actually compose a shot like that. I will never be over how much the location filming makes this serial. Meanwhile, in the sewers, Susan observes that it smells like an old goat farm. David, do you not know Gallifreyans are allergic to squalor? They find a cartridge, which Susan assumes means the presence of friends (seeing as Daleks don’t use guns). There’s some excellent cut dialogue from David (thanks, Infotext!):

‘The world you have come into is one where friendships mean very little. There’s been no place for sentiment in our society. Just staying alive is the most anybody has time for.’

Well that’s fucking heartbreaking. And certainly explains Jenny. But hey, they cut it, so our loss. At any rate, we get the sense that there are humans who will kill each other for food—as Susan puts it, survival at all costs. BUT OH NO MORE LOVELY CUT DIALOGUE (this time from Susan):

‘The four of us faced dangers together, and it seemed to give us a greater understanding of one another’.

I keep forgetting that Terry Nation is the writer who brought us lines like ‘fear makes companions of all of us’, so I shouldn’t be surprised, but oh why did they cut this? Why? Also, we’re about to find out why this human-on-human violence in a broken, post-apocalyptic society thing has reared its ugly head, because—SCREECH TIME! Susan’s spotted a gun being pointed at them. We return to Babs and Jenny, trucking away like bosses. Jenny seems to be deferring to Babs a bit more, which is cool, and Babs reckons they’ll probably have to ditch the truck at any moment, seeing as how they Daleks will have heard them back there. AND THEN THERE IS A DALEK ROAD BLOCK. AND BARBARA—MILD-MANNERED BADASS BARBARA—DECIDES TO GO STRAIGHT THROUGH THEM.

Jenny’s delight is second only to my own, as she positively giggles with glee; Babs, ever the master of the understatement, admits that was rather good. I’m not even going to gripe about the fact that they could definitely have exterminated her through the windscreen, for nothing will convince me that this moment is anything other than perfect. Then again why are we surprised that Babs would drive a truck through the Daleks? She has taken on Daleks with mud and some rocks and lived to tell the tale before now, and her continued revenge must be pretty sweet given that they gave her the fright of her life on Skaro. BRAVA, BABS. Back aboard the Dalek saucer, the Daleks are ordering the destruction of ‘the rebel vehicle’…which means Babs and Jenny! Cripes! On the road, Babs asks Jenny what ‘that noise’ is, and lo and behold it’s a Dalek saucer right overhead. The two of them jump for it…and the truck explodes! Blimey, did they get out of the way in time? Back in the sewers, it seems the gun-wielding humans are friendly, because Susan is babbling happily about something being jolly lucky. And jolly lucky is exactly what they are, for the mystery man is Tyler! I’ve missed you, old chum. He has exactly the kind of grim, trustworthy face you need to tell the audience about alligators in the sewers. Which apparently there are, due to escaped zoo animals and that. Susan asks Tyler whether he’s seen Ian and Barbara, and he answers ‘I’m sorry, no’, before moving on ahead. Piqued, Susan asks David why he’s so abrupt, and David tells her Tyler is afraid to make friends because he’s known too much killing. Then this happens:

SUSAN: Well, I hope I'm never like that, pretending not to care. DAVID: Bah. One day this will be all over. It'll mean a new start. SUSAN: A new start? Rebuilding a planet from the very beginning. It's a wonderful idea. DAVID: You could always help. SUSAN: Yes.

Susan, you couldn’t not care if you tried. Also, I’ve just realised how much of a parallel this is to the end of The Daleks, where the Doctor is tempted to stay and help the Thals rebuild their civilisation. Like grandfather, like granddaughter, I suppose. (Also, there’s some Gone With The Wind style cut dialogue where David tells Susan he’s going to be a farmer because the land is all that matters and the world’s saturated with Science. Does this make Susan Scarlett O’Hara? And more importantly, will Sciency telepath Susan be happy as a farmer’s wife? I worry.)

Elsewhere, it transpires Babs and Jenny are indeed safe, and that Jenny is considerably friendlier towards Babs now that she has witnessed her full magnificence. Not unkindly, she poses Babs a thorny question:

JENNY: Barbara, suppose we don't find your friends at the mine? BARBARA: I'll think about that when we get there. Look, you don't have to stay with me if you don't want to. I can get there on my own. JENNY: We might as well stay together. BARBARA: All right, come on then.

Did I say Susan was Scarlett? Babs is doing a classic ‘I’ll think about that tomorrow’. Also, Jenny’s feigned reluctance is a joy. As J.K. Rowling almost said, there are some things you can't share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out an entire Dalek patrol with a truck is one of them. Back at the mine, some manner of terribly-realised creature is lurking in the background. Spooked by the sound of it, Ian and Larry hurry back indoors and are met with the business end of a pistol. Crumbs. It’s Ashton, who tells them to GTFO, but Ian guesses who he is and strikes up a conversation. Outside, the Slyther (for this is what the creature is) makes a noise like one of those thingummies you turn upside down and it makes a noise almost but not quite entirely unlike a sheep. Ian says he wants to go to London, but Ashton wants cash…ton. (Sorry.) Ian and Ashton are properly squaring up (because Ian thinks his friends are dead again and all good humour has gone from his face) when Wells comes in and defuses the situation. Wells gives him a shiny thing, and Ashton gives him some food. Wells mentions the Slyther again, and when Ian asks what the Slyther is, Ashton asks whether he’s come from fairyland. Homophobe. Wells explains that the Slyther is a creature the Black Dalek regards as some manner of pet, and it goes around eating people at night. Which explains…not a lot. And oh sweet Jesus that sound effect is teeeeeeerrible. I kind of want it as a text alert. Meanwhile, in the sewers, Susan is yelling for Tyler, who is nowhere to be seen. She and David try a nearby ladder, and head into the tunnel leading off it. Susan climbs down another ladder into another part of the sewer, but it comes away from the side of the wall so she can dangle, imperilled, as AN ALLIGATOR waits below to devour her.

Actually, that alligator is pretty cute. In the nick of time, Tyler appears to shoot it and David grabs the ladder. David makes a joke about Susan giving the alligator indigestion (‘thank YOU,’ quoth Susan), and they all go up to the surface and back to the Doctor.

Back at the mines, Ashton is telling Wells what an idiot he is for spending his shinies on food instead of safe passage out of dodge. They’re all eating happily, when OH CRIKEY CRIPES the Slyther breaks in and extends a gammy hand towards Ashton! He shoots at the Slyther but to no avail. Will the other three save him? They…will not. They peg it out of the room, and Larry and Ian find themselves faced with a sheer drop. They have to go back! But OH NO! What do they run into but…THE SLYTHER! TRY PARSELTONGUE, IAN!

Oh god that gammy hand wibbling about is too much. WILL THE SLYTHER EMBARRASS THEM TO DEATH WITH ITS SHITNESS? WILL THE DOCTOR BE BACK NEXT WEEK ONCE BILLY HAS GIVEN HIS BACK A REST? WILL SUSAN GET SOME MORE CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT BEFORE HER DEPARTURE? WILL BABS AND JENNY START A NEW LIFE TOGETHER BEING ITINERANT BAMFS, OR WILL EVERYONE YET BE REUNITED? Summary (as applicable to this episode)

Does it pass the Bechdel test? With flying colours. Is the gaze problematic? Nope. Is/are the woman companion(s) dressed 'for the Dads'? Nope. Save the girl or save the world? Whose decision is it? N/A. Does a woman fall over/twist her ankle (whilst running from peril)? Nope. But Susan does end up almost being alligator food when the ladder gives way as she attempts to descend it. Does a woman wander off alone for the sole dramatic purpose of getting into trouble so she can be rescued later? Nope. Is/are the woman companion(s) captured? Nope. Does the Doctor/a man companion/any other man have to rescue the woman companion(s) from peril? Yup. Susan needs rescuing from her ladder predicament. Is a woman placed under threat of actual bodily harm? Alligators? Does a woman have to deal with a sexual predator? Nope. Is/are the woman companion's/s' first/only reaction(s) to peril gratuitous screaming? Susan. Does a woman faint at the sight of peril/horror or generally lose consciousness (discounting normal sleep)? Nope. Does a woman companion go into hysterics over something reasonably minor? Nope, though David treats Susan like an hysteric when she won't leave the Doctor behind.

Is a woman 'spared' the ordeal of having to do/witness something unpleasant by a man who makes a decision on her behalf/keeps her deliberately ignorant? Nope. Does a woman suffer in silence (to further the plot)? Nope. Does a man automatically disbelieve or belittle something a woman (companion) says happened to her? No. Does a man talk over a woman or talk about a woman as though she isn't there? No.

Does the woman companion have to be calmed/comforted by the Doctor/a man companion/a man? Yup. Susan.

Is a woman the first/only person to be (most gratuitously) menaced by the episode's antagonist(s)? Erm, I'd say Susan is the first to be imperilled by that alligator, but Ian and Larry are about to be Slyther fodder. Babs and Susan do get a Dalek patrol and a saucer sent after them, but they deal with it.

Is a man shamed into doing/not doing something because the alternative is a woman doing/not doing something? No.

Does the woman companion come up with a plan? Not many plans this week, just survival.

Does the woman companion do something stupid/banal/weird which inspires a man to be a Man with a Plan? No.

Does a woman come up with a theory and is it ridiculed by the Doctor/a man? No.

Does a woman call the Doctor out on his bullshit? N/A as he's out for the count.

Does a woman get to be a badass? AND. HOW.

Is the young, strong, straight, white male lead the person most often in control of the situation? In the Susan subplot (and obviously the Ian subplot) yes, but elsewhere certainly not.

Is there past/future/alien sexism? Not massively, but David does talk down to Susan a LOT.

Does a 'present'-day character call anybody out on past/future/alien sexism? Nope. Does an past/future/alien person have the hots for a woman companion and is it reciprocated? David and Susan have definite sexual tension.

Did a woman write/direct/produce this episode? No/No/Yes.

Verdict In short, a romp. Babs and Jenny are the highlight, Susan alas gets relegated to the status of shrieking D.I.D. (but with a couple of promising moments where the idea of rebuilding a planet from scratch seems to fire her imagination), the Doctor is M.I.A., and Ian alas (again) has gone back into humourless action man mode. You could argue that this is because he once again believes the Space Fam is no more, but equally give him some character development please. The truck-smashing scene is the obvious winner, but close behind are those scenes in which Babs and Jenny actually get some reasonable meaty dialogue and a friendship is forged. Particularly illuminating stuff on attitudes towards death and sacrifice, too. (And I’m enjoying that both the serials of this season have devoted a fair amount of time to putting the regulars in a position where they’re being forced to consider what they will make of their lives if they end up alone in this time/place. Which is particularly poignant for Susan, who is about to have this question forced upon her.) In short, more of these two doing everything, please, and more of these meatier scenes with uncomfortable questions. And please can we never see the Slyther again. Like, ever. (Oh, and special mention for the cut dialogue but also for the scenes in which we get a little more world-building and a wonderfully grim outlook on the human race where we meet some humans who neither value human life nor subscribe to any ideals but have found a thoroughly nasty way to profit from a planet’s misery.) Next week, er…betrayals? It think we’re headed for the collaborators, if memory serves. Bring it on.

#Doctor Who #Classic Who #The Dalek Invasion of Earth #The End of Tomorrow #TV Recaps #Blog #William Hartnell #One #First Doctor #Barbara Wright #Barbara #Babs #Bamf #Bamfbara #Jacqueline Hill #Jenny #Ann Davies #Jenny and Babs (should have their own show) #Susan Foreman #Susan #Carole Ann Ford #Ian #Ian Chesterton #William Russell #Slyther #Daleks #BBC #Sci-Fi #Feminism #Whovian Feminism