#verbally slaps clark

[nerdpoe]

When Danny decides to reincarnate, centuries after his adventures, he chooses a random Dimension of Heroes and Villains.

He's expecting adventure! Heroics! A life worth bragging about in the Afterlife!

He wakes up in a tube, staring down at surprised teen heroes as they release him and another person.

Later, he finds out that he's a clone of Batman and Superman, and the other clone is of Superman and Lex Luthor.

He came into this world expecting adventures, not a weird custody battle about him and his brother (because that's what Conner is) between two A-List superheroes.

#dpxdc #dcxdp #dp x dc #story prompt #dc x dp #phanfic #superman wants nothing to do with both of them #batman wins custody no problem #bruce now give clark a deathglare if the super even mentions one of the boys #constant sniping between superman and batman #until it eventually degrades their relationship so much they can't work together #culminates in one big verbal fight after another attempted planetary invasion #that ends with batman just losing it and #in a very calm voice that's totally out of place from his earlier growling #“if i'd known my best friend was the type of man who would target a child for the sins of their parents i might have chosen to be alone.” #verbally slaps clark #and that's how clark agrees to go to therapy

[heda-in-the-clouds]

uh uh have you written a one shot or anything of this ballet au? cause I would read the fuck out of that

Here's a little unedited smutty snippet that shows off their dynamic during their late night rehearsals. Read below for the sin 🩷

Clarke was frustrated with Lexa during their late night rehearsal. Lexa kept messing up the choreography, stepping on her toes, or accidentally running into her body. She seemed unfocused as if her thoughts were elsewhere other than this studio.

Lexa had snapped at Clarke when asked if she wanted to talk about it.

"Fuck off Clarke! Like you can help me. Just go and leave me be."

Lexa walked away and now stood at the opposite end of the studio from Clarke, tightly gripping the ballet barre as she derided herself in front of the mirror.

Clarke was pissed at Lexa's sudden outburst. She didn't deserve to be yelled at for just checking in on her partner. Clarke didn't know what was troubling Lexa. Honestly, Clarke could not care less other than the fact that it greatly affected Lexa's concentration. They only had a few more days to nail down their routine before their performance. Time was ticking.

Meanwhile, Lexa had decided to stretch out her tired limbs as a means to cool down. She stood back and leaned down to grip the barre. Next she stood on her toes and arched her back to stretch out her sore muscles. She moaned in relief as she felt her body loosening up. She drove her hips and ass further back to intensify the stretch to soothe the tightness in her muscles and joints.

As Lexa stretched with her ass raised up in the air, Clarke saw the perfect opportunity to punish Lexa for her lack of focus and snappy behavior. Clarke quietly approached Lexa who was too preoccupied with her stretching to hear her footsteps. Clarke positioned herself directly behind Lexa before placing one hand over Lexa's shoulder and the other on her hip

"You're too stressed and I know exactly what you need Lexa."

"Fuck off Clarke! I'm not in the mood to fuck right now"

"Who said anything about fucking?"

Suddenly, Clarke raised her hand backwards and delivered a powerful slap to Lexa's ass over her leotard. A loud smack echoed in the empty studio followed by Lexa's surprised scream.

"Ahh, what the fuck Clarke?!"

"Something is obviously bothering you and since you refuse to talk about it, you can't focus for shit tonight. Maybe you need to be spanked so you can clear your mind so we can actually learn our routine."

"I'm not a fucking child Clarke. This is bull-ahhh!”

Annoyed by Lexa's attitude, Clarke delivered another hard slap to Lexa's other cheek this time before she could finish her sentence.

"We're out of time Lexa. I'm pissed. You're pissed. We're both pissed. Indra is going to be fucking pissed tomorrow if we still can't nail down our combo."

"So your best idea is to fucking spank me? Smart idea Clarke. What other great ideas do you have floating around in the blonde head of yours?"

"Fucking bitch!"

Enraged by Lexa's diss insinuating she's a dumb blonde, Clarke reared her hand back and delivered another powerful smack to Lexa's ass.

"Fuck Clarke. That one really hurt!"

"It was supposed to Lexa. I'm tired of your bullshit so here's what I'm going to do. I'm gonna spank your ass ten times and I want you to count each and every one of them. Also, you're not allowed to take your hands off the barre or get off pointe. If you do, I'm starting back at zero. Maybe you'll finally learn your damn routine after this. Now get into position!"

Lexa begrudgingly got into position and gripped the barre tightly as she stood on her pointe shoes. She dipped lower when Clarke pushed her back down until she was parallel with the floor. Lexa was now in prime position to take Clarke's crude punishment

"Ready?"

Instead of a verbal response, Lexa wiggled her ass back in Clarke at defiance. Clarke kindly responded as her palm smacked Lexa's ass hard.

"Ah! One" Lexa gasped out from the sting of Clarke's hit. Without thinking, she unclenched her fingers from the barre hoping to soothe the bite before Clarke's cough reminded her of the rules. She whined as she remembered the rules and grasped the barre again

Clarke reared her hand back again and delivered another slap to Lexa's ass.

"Two!" Lexa gasped out. This time, she remembered to hold onto the barre. The sting from Clarke's palm resonated through her body. However, Lexa couldn't dwell on the pain before Clarke smacked her ass a third time.

"Three!" Lexa hissed out. Fortunately, Clarke spanked her other cheek which provided some distraction from her other cheek that was already starting to feel tender.

"Four, Five, Six! Ahhh! Fuck Clarke! Please, I'm sorry." Lexa cried out as Clarke delivered 3 spanks in quick succession. Lexa whimpered as the pain in her ass started to intensify and spread out. Tears formed in Lexa's eyes as she wondered if she would see bruises on her pale ass once she stripped out of her dance clothes.

Recollecting herself, Lexa began to notice the silkiness of her tights sliding against her clit and folds making her wet. With each smack of Clarke's palm against her ass, her arousal intensified.

Lexa suddenly began to feel different as her body and mind began to register each slap as pleasurable instead of painful as time went on. She actually craved the harshness of Clarke's hits against her cheeks.

Lexa rubbed her thighs together to increase the friction she felt throbbing against her core from her tights and leotard. Lexa didn't realize she could potentially climax in this position.

With each spank, her mind began to clear up and focus. She forgot what she was even frustrated about that contributed to her lack of focus during their rehearsal.

"10!" Lexa moaned in relief once she felt the final sting of Clarke's palm on her cheeks. Her ordeal was finally over. She pleaded with Clarke that she learned her lesson.

However, Clarke was unconvinced. She slid Lexa's leotard to the side and ripped a hole in her tights. Clarke smirked and boasted that Lexa's ass should be slapped with a different technique.

Lexa wasn't the only one turned on right now evidenced by the wet spot over Clarke's leotard. She had been hard ever since she stood behind Lexa and spanked her. Clarke needed to relieve her own stress and what better way than fucking her frustration out on Lexa as usual

Unlike Lexa, Clarke wore her tights over her leotard tonight so it was easier for her to undress. Clarke pulled her tights down until they pooled at her feet. She then moved her leotard to the side freeing her cock trapped underneath the tight fabric.

"Maybe you'll be able to focus more and actually count with my cock shoved inside your cunt!" Clarke chided as she lined up her dick with Lexa's flushed entrance

"Ah Clarke!" Lexa whimpered in pleasure as Clarke suddenly thrusted deep inside her.

"Now, let me hear you count again." Clarke grunted as she reared her hips back unsheathing herself from Lexa's warmth.

To be continued...

So yeah, that's how ballerina clexa act around each other during their late night dance rehearsals. Basically, the hotter and rougher the sex translates to a more passionate performance between them on stage. Don't worry, they have real feelings for each other but they're too immature to talk like actual adults and would rather fuck than dredge them up.

Feel free to send me more asks about these two. I have lots of headcanons plus a lot more sin that I can't wait to share 😊

Finally, here's a photo reference so you can imagine what position Lexa was in

#ballerina!lexa #clexa #rory's stuff #rory's sin #rory's response #g!p clarke griffin #lexaisbaby #happy sunday sinday!

[frecklesandfanfics]

You know, I just saw a gifset that reminded me of Bellamy saying to Clarke in 3x5 “people die when you’re in charge” and then she says to him in 6x2, “people die when I’m in charge, that’s what you said, isn’t it?” 

And Lord if it didn’t hit me like a ton of bricks that it’d been more than six years (we’ll leave out the cryosleep) since he said that to her, since he hurt her so deeply she looked like she’d been slapped, and she’d been stewing on that for six fucking years. Her last words to him were kindness and his to her were that he needed her to help him lead, but she couldn’t forget what he said that day in Arkadia.

I often think of the memories Clarke must have pulled around herself and shared with Madi when she was deeply lonely, when she missed her friends, her family. But I have never considered that within canon, she never forgot the way he verbally slapped her in the face when she turned to him for help. And maybe she knew, logically, when she was crying over that in the middle of the night, that he was only hurt or only frustrated, but--Six. Years. Spacekru had each other, to ruminate, to ponder, to discuss to death all of the things that hurt them and broke them, but Clarke had no one. She had to be brave and strong for Madi. There were no choices there for her. She only had her own feelings--and if you watch the scene you can see the way it nearly breaks her--to think about over and over. 

Six years, and she still feels it like it was yesterday when they’re under the red sun. My Lord, it’s enough to break your heart. 

And also! Even though she is FURIOUS with Bellamy in Season 5, she doesn’t bring this up. It takes her being fucked up by the red sun, her worst fears and mistakes roiling through her mind, for her to remind Bellamy of his words. Her mother is whispering to her that she is worthless, literally like a cancer, and she thinks of what he said to her, all that time ago. If Bellamy could say that to her--mightn’t it be true? 

This has been spiraling over Clarke Griffin hours, thank you for coming. 

#clarke griffin #bellamy blake #bellarke #season 3 #season 6

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

end of the lane

by unluckydelights Lois Lane crosses path with Arsenal (Roy Harper) for an interview, of the sorts. As it turns, he has other ideas in mind for her. [ MIND THE TAGS; read at your own risk ] Words: 9729, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: DCU, DCU (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Green Arrow (Comics), Teen Titans - All Media Types, Teen Titans (Comics), Titans (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman (Comics), DC Extended Universe, Young Justice (Cartoon), Superman (Comics), Superman: The Animated Series, My Adventures with Superman (Cartoon) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Categories: F/M Characters: Roy Harper, Lois Lane, Clark Kent, Original Characters, Vicki Vale, Bruce Wayne Relationships: Roy Harper/Lois Lane Additional Tags: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rape, Dubious Consent, Porn With Plot, Explicit Sexual Content, Abuse, Sexual Assault, Extremely Dubious Consent, Sexual Content, Humiliation, Verbal Humiliation, Public Humiliation, BDSM, Face Slapping, Exhibitionism, Slavery, Sexual Slavery, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Nudity, Public Nudity, Misogyny, Sexism, Emotional Manipulation, Manipulation, Brainwashing, Cheating, Adultery, Corruption, Tattoos, Branding, Leashes via https://ift.tt/p5LE147

#IFTTT #bruce wayne #batman #the dark knight #the caped crusader #gotham #dcu #dc #ao3 #ao3feed

[stoptellinglieslois]

Principal of pleasure part 43

The gang go to a room at the club and things start from there.

Superman x Nightwing pairing

Clark

I could feel the energy being exchanged between the four of us, As fireworks were in the air around us as I watch the boys from in front walking us to are room I would get a glance back every once in a while by both Jason and Roy.

As Dick walks beside me holding my hand looking at Jason in particular.

Jason in turn gave him a small smile every now and then.

As we reach the room Roy slips out a key from his back pant pocket and slides it into the key hole turns it and we open the door, and moves a side to let us in.

"Boys here we are it's now up to you guys to see what we should do tonight Me and Jason are at your disposal."Roy said Jason slipped out of his light jacket and placed it on a big dresser.

Dick stepped forward and still held my hands. "Jason like you said we aren't brothers right now." Dick bit his and looked at Roy. "Remove his clothes." Dick said to Jason to remove Roy's clothing.

Jason turned to Roy and started to unbutton the beige blouse slowly and their eyes met I could see fire in them as they silently gazed at each other.

Blouse now gone then Jason started on the pants and unbuckling his belt unzipping the sound of it with my super hearing was the ultimate turning point for me it sounded so seductive and it thrilled me.

Dick watched them his eyes fixated on every action they did.

Now Roy was down to his boxer. "Pull them off of him Jason." Jason looked green eyes on Dick.

As Roy's erection pops into view I smiled at that it was a nice looking cock it twitched when he knew I was looking at it.

"Roy do the same take off Jason clothes." I told him anticipation I was bouncing on my feet.

Like playing dress up or dress down.

Jason let his partner undress him as his eyes clasp on Dick I was not even jealous this was nuts, In other circumstance I would have flipped out and lost my temper and would have fled the this place I waited so long to be with Dick I thought no one would come in between that, But tonight was different it's like we are exchanging something unsaid to each other.

Jason was fully nude now and still gazing at Dick maybe I should step in to move things along.

"I want the two of you to go to bed." I told them as they listened to me and walked around the bed in the opposite direction of the bed as they mounted the bed they are too quiet for my liking.

"I like things a bit verbal boys." I told them

"Roy eat Jason ass." Dick announced as he inched one step to the bed.

Jason eyebrows shot up I guess he wasn't expecting that from Dick. "Are you top or bottom Jason." Dick said smoothing out the bed.

"I am a top but that does not mean it hasn't been done to me before." Jason said only to please Dick and I like that it's the same way I would please Dick I could never say no to him.

Roy got behind Jason as they touch Roy went around him on the bed.

Jason bent over Roy's face and leaned into his firm full ass, "Ah fuck yes Roy right there fuck yes." Licking sounds in the room vibrated to my ears like heaven opened up a flood gate of little pleasure going towards my erection.

"Dick yes I wish it was you doing it to me." Jason crooned a voice that should not come out of his mouth it made me edge closer to the bed.

And there was something I should have noticed before Jason has a tongue piercing, A big silver ball peeked out when he licked his lips.

"Do you see that Dick he has a tongue ring I wonder how it would feel on your cock." I told him I wanted him to be just as engaged as I was.

"Hmm I would love to suck you're cock Dick yes keep going Roy." As I watch them in their embrace.

"Oh yeah I love that you want that." I enjoyed watching Dick seduce Jason.

Jason hung his head low he is more bulkier than Roy in muscle, His bicep ripple and shiver as Roy continues eating his ass.

"Roy slap his ass for me." And a big pop echoed through the room making Dick shiver in delight. "Do it again for me Roy." And he did it again as Dick lightly touched himself and pulled his hand away.

"Jason you haven't stroke yourself do it I want to see jeez ooze out of that thick big cock hmm." Dick said leaning forward to see a little better hands behind his back.

Jason started stroking himself he started sweating I loved that it was making me so excited watching them do this for us.

I started undressing. "Fuck yes uh daddy decided to play Roy look see." As I undress Roy looks over from behind Jason. "Holy shit I knew he was ripped but this is insane." A dark chuckle from Dick that sounded so different and perverse it felt like a premature orgasm wanting to ooze out of me.

"Ok Roy stop eating his ass I want Roy to take Jason ass." I could hear Dick's heart beat fast as he visually took in the scene.

Jason stopped stroking himself and panted and sweated as he asked. "What position do you want us to do." Jason placed one hand on a knee. "Doggy still facing us." I got closer behind Dick fully nude as I started undressing him slowly as I watch the two of them prep them self for sex.

Jason on his hands and knees facing us and Roy behind pulling a condom out of the drawer. "No rubber go bare back." Dick told them as I relieved him from his clothes.

Roy tossed the condom aside and sighed breath as he looked away from us and pumped slowly into Jason. "Ah fuck oh my fuck you're so tight Jaybird." Jason bit his lip at his little nickname.

"You like that don't you huh him calling you that Jaybird." As Dick teased Jason. "Well I am no little bird." Jason replied his voice was pure liquid at this point.

As Roy thrust slower and I noted "You like it slow Jason." I said. "Yeah daddy I like it slow fuck yes daddy I want you to make me come." His pleasure for me electrified my insides I was short circuiting.

"Yeah big daddy fuck you must drool all the time when he fuck's you." Roy replied as he thrust inside Jason.

Dick looked at Roy a promise look on Dick's face as I bent over to look at him.

"Do you want him in you Roy." Dick asked.

"No I don't think I could ride that."

"Ride it Roy please it doe's not have to be now but in the future."

"Will see."

As Roy thrust were quicker pace Jason stroke faster. "Yummy Jason umm I want some when you come please give me your load when you come." I couldn't take it I wanted to go to the bed and take them but I wanted to see them finish, I was half hard and didn't touch myself at all just watching them it's killing me.

"Fuck yes I'll give what you need what you want."

"Fuck yes I want more."

"You want more." I told them pressing Dick closely to me.

"How about having both of us in you Jason." Dick said Jason's head snapped up from his bliss and looked straight at me. "Oh god boys I don't know." I can't believe my ears I am sure they've gone red from Dick's wants.

"Will see." Laughing in pleasure and bliss.

Dick shook his head. "Good." Well this was becoming more and more interesting.

As precum came out of Jason cock Roy climaxed in him a long low groan escaped his lips filthy words spilled out of his mouth.

Jason got up on shaky legs Dick got on his hands and knees as I stroke Dick's hair.

Jason stroke his cock a few times and spilled his seed out squirting white ribbons into Dick mouth.

"So nasty aren't you." Dick smiled as his mouth was open wide blue eyes penetrating Jason.

As he emptied himself in Dick's mouth he looked at me a strangle low needy growl escaped my mouth.

He froze and backed away I had no idea how he knew but he knew I reached my hands out to him.

He grazed my finger tips and escaped on the bed next to Roy.

"Is everyone afraid of the big bad blue." Dick chuckled darkly at them.

The two of them looked at me from the bed two souls unsure of my unknown.

End of part 43 next is part 44

Thank you for reading

#nightwing x superman parings #clark x dick #fandom #dick grayson #clark kent #nightwing #superman #fanfic stuff #fanfic smut #fanfiction #fandom problems #slash fandom #fandom things #fandom thoughts

[whaleofatjme1920]

At the End of Your Rope (Jeff the Killer X F!Reader)

At the End of Your Rope

[Jeff the Killer X F!Reader]

[Warnings: heavy domestic abuse, violence, murder (not heavily described though), language]

[AN: This one's kinda heavy in some places. Take care of yourself first and foremost.]

It was rare that you had moments to yourself and even rarer when you found yourself enjoying those moments. Usually, you were tense, on edge, bitey and waiting to snap or invert back into yourself. That is what it does to you. It takes away, it destroys and it saps you of all your energy, your drive and your will.

No matter, that’s not what you’re supposed to be thinking about. You hum softly as you do the dishes, wondering how long this set of plates will last until he returns. You scrub hard at the bits still stuck to it, wondering how on earth he even managed to get this much filth plastered onto its surface - you made the meal, served it to him, you even took it back to the sink. Was he trying to key you off?

You took in a deep breath and scratched at its surface, only smiling softly when the piece finally dislodged from the blue floral design. You ran it under the sink, lukewarm water feeling alien against your skin as you continued to mindlessly rinse off the suds. As you began to stare off into space and by extension, the void, you found yourself remembering the times he used to bring you blue flowers at the beginning of every date.

A long time ago, when you were starry eyed about the world around you, he loved you deeply and truly. And it was the most strange of couplings, but they do say that opposites attract.

Last class of the day, what a relief. What wasn’t a relief was that it was chemistry. You’d never been particularly good at the subject, but you would often try your hardest and so far, throughout the year, had managed to coast by with a -B. It wasn’t perfect but it was good enough.

For the people around you who knew you better than that, they were more than surprised you hadn’t managed an A in the class just yet. You were the over achiever, the smart girl, the one who knew it all. But not in a cocky way, no, of course not. You were sweet, helpful and kind. That’s what spared you from how cruel teenagers can get - your aura was incredible and people would be absolutely dense to not like you. For the most part, you were quiet and only spoke to a few close friends.

Unfortunately for you, your last period chemistry class didn’t have any of your dear ones near. You sat in the middle of the classroom, attempting to take notes and kept your head down, honestly focused on the material when you heard laughter from the back of the classroom.

“Don't make me come back there,” your teacher said, her eyebrows furrowing slightly. “Do I need to split you up?”

“No, sorry Mrs. Haut,” a dark haired boy piped up.

Mrs. Haut rolled her eyes slightly before going back to writing on the chalkboard. She was talking about the electron configuration of atoms or something like that when the laughter picked back up again. Mrs. Haut sighed again before continuing writing. “One of you move up here by Miss Reader, another by Miss. Rhys, and another by Mr. Clarke.”

The three boys in the back verbally voice their distaste with their teacher’s decision but ultimately went along with it. You buried yourself in your notes even deeper when you realized just who it was sitting next to you. Usually, the person sitting next to you wouldn’t bother you, but the fact that this was by far the most disruptive person in the class had you a little flustered. You couldn’t afford skipping the notes or getting sidetracked especially with midterms coming up.

“You have a pen?” He asked quietly.

That made you pause. “Excuse me?”

“A pen..?” He repeated, albeit a little slowly, as to really get the point across.

You didn’t want to disrupt your teacher any further by the idle chit chat and quietly rummaged in your bag for a pen. Once your fingers grazed the object, you plopped it back onto the desk and got back to writing.

“Thanks,” he said.

Your eyes wandered from your notes over to him - and he smiled at you. Fighting back slight heat, you began scribbling down the notes with a nod as if to say ‘no problem.’

The lesson continued on for a little bit longer until you felt him gently poking your shoulder. You pried your eyes off of the board to give him the attention he so desperately craved. With an eyebrow raised, you asked him what was on his mind.

“What’s your name?” He asked softly.

You felt heat rush to your cheeks - how the hell did he miss your name? You were the only consistent question asker in this class! “... Reader,” you answered, eyes narrowed slightly at the fact he’d miss your name. Though, you do suppose what else could you expect from a class clown? “And what is your name?” You asked simply out of politeness.

His eyes widened in shock, and his face followed in suit. “You seriously don’t know?”

When you shook your head he gave a quiet, but exasperated groan and then flew into a tanger about who he was. The guy who set all those frogs loose last year, the same one who orchestrated turning all the furniture upside down, the guy who did donuts on the football field and the one who covered half the auditorium on elaborate post it notes art.

And unfortunately for you, none of those rang a bell. “I knew someone did it, but I didn’t know you were the one who did it.”

And that spirited yet another tangent from the boy sitting next to you. He went into painstaking detail about how he even got some of those things done, and you pretended to care, more so interested in the passion in his eyes than the actual content of the story. He was a surprisingly good storyteller! You hadn’t even realized the both of you had been chatting more than note taking when everything went dead silent. Much too silent.

“Miss Reader, I am more than disappointed in you,” Mrs. Haut said with another frown pulling on her red lips. “Both of you, detention.”

Your eyes widened in shock as she slapped down two pink slips on your shared table.

“Again?” The boy next to you asked incredulously, taking the note into his fingertips along with his bag in the other hand. “Mrs. H, this is like the second time this month!”

Mrs. Haut only shook her head and gestured towards the door, her shoe tapping impatiently on the ground.

“There’s only thirty more minutes left of class,” you said as you began to pack up your things. “I... “ Upon seeing your teacher’s tired expression,and not being one to directly challenge authority, you relented. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled before taking the slip into your grip and exiting her classroom. You took in a deep breath and trudged out of the classroom, wondering how you would explain to your parents your record had a spot on it when you exited the classroom and closed the door softly behind you.

“Do you know where the room is?” You posed your question to the resident class clown with a crestfallen expression.

“You’re actually planning on going?” He said it like it was a surprise.

“Uh, yeah? Where else would I be going?”

“I don’t know, but we can figure it out.” He smiled widely at you and plucked the pink slip from your hand.

“Wait what-? Give that back!” You cried out as quietly as you could to not disturb the other classes.

“C’mon, Princess, come and get it,” he teased. It didn’t sound like he had malice in his tone though.

You chased him through the hall attempting to get the slip back, narrowly avoiding the watchful gaze of hall monitors and the like when you found he had led you out to the parking lot. You didn’t have a car.

“Let’s go,” he beamed, scrunching up both of your pink slips in his hand before tossing them into the trash. “I wasn’t joking about figuring it out together.”

“I… But-”

“But nothing, Princess. Live a little.” He nodded for you to follow him, and you, feeling much too awkward to challenge someone, found yourself being led by him to his car. It wasn’t a fancy car, but it wasn’t near as run down as you expected it to be. It looked like he kept it relatively decent, and the scent was that of lemon. Whatever, live a little.

You slid into the passenger seat and put on your seatbelt as he became once again.

“Atta girl!” He chuckled as the car roared to life. He then flicked on the radio, turned up some music and the two of you left the school.

You can’t quite say you’ve ever had fun like that before. He took you to a diner, out bowling, you two snuck into a movie theatre then got smoothies before he dropped you off at home. And he was so sweet and kind throughout it all. He made you laugh, listened to you attentively, and over smoothies, he attempted to help you study a bit. It was moot, but it was nice that he even attempted.

That was what started a beautiful friendship that lasted throughout the rest of that academic year. Later, it blossomed into a relationship, and further, it transformed into marriage. The day he asked you to marry him was one of the best days of your entire life - and then, you were convinced you had met your soulmate. He was everything you’d ever wanted in a partner, and he was oh so helpful and attentive.

High school sweethearts was what you were referred to, and you both fit the image so well. You were practically glowing anytime anyone had seen you. Your marriage had happened too fast, but you were convinced he was your one and only unaware that growth comes in many forms. And in this specific case, the roots have burst the pot.

Back then, he used to give you flowers nearly every day in various shades of the rainbow. Blue seemed to be the preferred though.

“You always get these, why?” You had asked one evening, fingertips gently petting the soft petals.

“Apparently, they mean something poetic,” he replied before pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “That’s what the flower guy keeps telling me. And they’re kinda hard to find,” he continued, eyes looking out at the starry night sky the two of you laid under. “So, whenever they come in, I grab them tight and bring them back to my baby.”

You giggled slightly before shutting him off with a kiss.

They were damn near unattainable after the two of you had gotten married. It seemed they’d gone out of style, or perhaps they just weren’t thriving as they used to. One day, when you were lonely and missing your husband, you pulled out an old book on various flora and fauna. You must’ve spent hours upon hours learning about the area you lived in when you chanced upon a dash of blue.

Cornflowers, they were cornflowers.

The flowers on the plate you’d run under the faucet for far too long weren’t the same shade of blue, but they were just as pretty. It’s a shame that these plates would most likely be broken before the month was out.

Gods, when did he change? It was hard to pinpoint it because the two of you had been under each other’s spell for a good chunk of that time. When did he flip the switch? When did he… You shook your head and turned off the faucet, deciding you were done with the dishes for now. Accidentally, when you were placing the plate back in its place, you bumped your forearm on the counter. With a wince, you hissed and mentally reminded yourself to mind the bruises that were still fresh there. He gripped your wrist so hard that night you were sure it was going to snap right off.

He really wasn’t like this in the beginning and your mind raked constantly with reasons as to why when you laid awake at night hoping he wouldn’t go too far or burn a bridge only to find it needed to be rebuilt with supplies that no longer existed.

It was nearing the late evening and he wasn’t supposed to be home until later in the night. You could afford to relax for just a little longer. With a deep breath, you walked up the stairs dead set on drawing a bath to just let your mind go blank. Hidden away in the bathroom sink’s cabinet was a ‘mix’ of herbs and such a dear friend of yours had said would aid in relaxing your soul and maybe your wounds. You could only use the clumsy excuse for so long.

You opened the door to your bathroom, quietly shut it behind you and didn’t bother locking it. If he was here, you might have, but you weren’t expecting him back until much, much later. You could afford to breathe. You drew the faucet and let it run for a moment or two until the water got a little warmer, then you plugged the tub and let it fill. You crouched down and poked your hand around towards the back of the bathroom sink before finding the jar filled with herbs and salts. It smelled divine even when closed. Unscrewing the lid, you are able to take in the scent of lavender, chamomile, rosebuds, sweet lemongrass and vanilla. Pink sea salt for added effect made the bath look heavenly when you poured in a generous scoop. As the water heated the herbs, you notice the rosebuds blooming into large, pink and red flowers. It was nothing short of magickal and filled you with some type of serenity.

Once the water was to your liking, you stripped and got into the tub, sighing in contentment as the water heated your form up. And from there, you let your mind go blank and take in the aroma of the herbs and flowers. You feel the stress leaving your body. You wish you could feel like this forever.

You allow your brain to wander as you relax and find it going back to your husband every single time. If he wasn’t asked to sit next to you, would you have been in this awful situation now? This was no way to live - and you wondered if you had just gone to detention that day if things would be different, or perhaps better. You thought you were able to pinpoint when everything went wrong when yet another starting point would come into your mind. It was like your brain was purposely making you move the goalposts so you wouldn’t be retraumatized by anything all over again.

It started small and in little bouts. He lost his patience with you. If you accidentally burnt the pancakes? It was alright but don’t let it happen again. Over watered the petunias just once? Great, now he needed to go to the store and pick up some new ones should those suffer root rot that was relatively treatable. Couldn’t get dinner ready on time? What a mess. Said something slightly off base? Your intelligence was being actively questioned. It kept snowballing until it reached the first time he hit you. Which was a dark enough day that you rather not think about.

He said he loved you. That he would protect you and make sure you were safe from all harm. But he broke that the moment his hand slapped your face so hard you felt the air leave your lungs. That was a really dark day, but it was not the darkest yet.

You must’ve spent close to an hour in the bath when you heard the front door opening. Shit, he wasn’t supposed to be back. You feel your heart pounding as you leap out of the bath, quickly drying yourself before throwing your clothes back on. In your haste, you forget to unplug the bath. But it’s too late, you hear him coming up the stairs. Seconds later, he’s in your shared bedroom.

“Reader? Where are you?” He sounds exhausted. Upon seeing the bathroom door closed, he stalks up to it. “Reader? Open up, Princess.”

It’s not the first time he’s tried to soften the blow like this.

“I-I’m still in the tub-”

“Sure, sure, sweetie,” he hums. “Can you uh, tell me why you haven’t gotten any food ready if you were going to fuck around in the tub like this then?”

Your heart constricts and your stomach twists. “I didn’t know you were gonna be home this early,” you say softly, ready to brace the door.

“Oh you forgot,” he says as if he’s speculating whether that was a decent answer or not. “You forgot,” he repeats. He stands in front of the bathroom door, swaying slightly like he’s waiting for you to come to you. “Come out of the bathroom.”

“I just drew it-”

“Did I ask for your excuses?”

“No-”

“Then come out of the FUCKING BATHROOM!” He hits the door so hard you thought you heard it splintering.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You cried out as you immediately rammed against the door, struggling to keep your husband back from breaking it down.

He didn’t answer, only continued to rattle off about everything wrong. She kicked the door harder and harder, sending you bouncing against the wood. You continued to cry out in pain but dug your shoulder into the door as you prayed it would be enough to keep him out.

“Stop, stop, STOP IT!” You felt tears pour out from your eyes as your husband pounded the door. “You’re being crazy right now, stop it!” Your throat felt raw with anguish as you continued to screech, head coming dangerously close to bouncing against the door as your husband began kicking it.

Eventually, he succeeded. He backed up, reared his leg up and took three hard hits, successfully kicking the door down. You went flying down with it and tumbled down the tile floor with a yelp of pain, landing sharply on your hip. You looked up through your pain and saw he was standing before you, fists balled and nothing but rage in his eyes.

“I told you to fucking let me in,” he seethes as he narrows in on you. Before he can touch you, his eyes travel to the tub. “And now you’re clogging up my fucking pipes?” He asks in an exasperated tone as he feels his blood pressure rise. “You need to learn a lesson,” he sighs as he runs his fingers through his hair. “When dogs are just puppies and they have an accident,” he begins as he bends down to the ground and nears you as you struggle to crawl away from him. “You take their nose and bury it into their mess.” He finishes. He straddles your waist and sloughs off your weak attempts to get him off of you.

You continue to cry and scream, beg and plead as his hands snake up your arms and to your hair. And your eyes widen as he takes a fistfull and then roughly stands up, dragging your body up with him.

“You fucking dog,” he spits as he drags you upwards. He begins to drag you towards the tub.

“No, NO!” You plead as you dig your heels into the tile, trying to grip onto the sink for dear life as he continues to drag you. You feel your strands of hair damn near get lifted from your scalp as he continues to yank you. He’ll kill you if you don’t put up a fight. “I’m sorry! Gods, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! Whatever I did to piss you off I promise that it won’t happen again!” You attempt to reason as he finally pries your hands off the sink.

“You should’ve known that to begin with,” he replies as he pulls your hair harder. He then brings you to the tub and roughly shoves you to its lip. You catch yourself and try to get away when he pushes at the back of your head. You still continue to fight him, crying and pleading even harder as your husband kicks in the back of your legs, attempting to cripple you further to get you to bend. You continue to push back, staring into the now cold bath like it’s a watery grave.

A scream rips through your throat as he hits the back of your skull, having you gasping for air and consciousness. He takes that moment as your weakness and finally overpowers you. Your head is thrust below the waters, and you find yourself screeching all the while. From above the water’s surface, you can hear your once beloved husband muttering about you and the faults of your character as he holds you under the water. Before you can even register that air is in your lungs again, you’re plunged back into the water, coughing and hacking all the while as he does so.

When he grows tired of continually plunging your head into the water, he picks up your lower half and tosses you in, sending the water and herbs flying everywhere as your clothed body enters the freezing tub. Your tears mix with the remnants of the bathwater as he holds you under, nothing but rage in his eyes as he does.

When you feel like it’s too much, you begin to let go. Perhaps darkness would be a nicer sight than the sunrise of tomorrow.

You open your eyes slowly to see that you’re still in the tub and laying in a small pool of water that isn’t enough to harm you regardless of how you were laid. You feel aches all over and you feel like water is weighing down your lungs. Slowly, you get to your bearings as you prop yourself up. Step by step and painstaking muscle movement by muscle movement, you stand and grip the edge of the tub, realizing you need to change out of your clothes. You pause momentarily to look at yourself in the mirror.

“Gods,” you whisper to yourself. You look like you were in a car accident. There’s bruises on your throat and your face from where he tried to slam you into the bathtub, and your face is puffy and discolored from crying. Your hair is knotted and you feel like no amount of conditioner on earth can get that out - to even think about detangling it is a nightmare. Your clothes are ripped and waterlogged. Everything about you screams pathetic. When you turn your head and look at the door, you see it’s broken beyond repair. He kicked it out of its latches and the wood itself is splintered in two.

You quietly step out of the bathroom, ready to change into drier clothes when you see your husband sitting at the edge of the bed, waiting for you. You feel yourself begin to shiver, momentarily feeling your mind drift elsewhere to protect your brain from further trauma.

“You’re finally up,” he says, a blank expression on his face. “Are you okay?”

You feel disgust come up in the back of your throat but swallow it back down in favor of not angering him further. “I’m fine,” you lie, not bothering to plaster on a smile.

“Good.” He slowly stands up. “I’m heading out. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.” He holds his arms out to you.

Shivering and absolutely terrified, you find yourself bending to his will. Quietly, you pad across the carpet to him and allow yourself to be wrapped up in his arms. His arms feel like a metal cage as they wrap around your quivering form.

“I’m sorry,” he says emptily as he buries his nose into your hair. “It won’t happen again.” He sways the two of you side to side as he holds you a little tighter, not bothering to mind the bumps and bruises he inflicted on your body.

You internally sigh and hollowly nod, allowing him to hold you.

He said that the last time.

It’s been a few days since your husband flew off the handle like that. Your husband stayed in the house, but like every time before, he pretended nothing had happened and instead vied for avoiding you. In a day or so, he’d be back to pretending he still loved you. But, your mind wasn’t entirely on him coming back to you and acting sweet - it was on everything in between.

See, this isn’t the first time that something of this caliber has happened to you. Convenience was something that seemed to pop up in your life more often than not, and you’d just accepted it. The first time you could remember it was when you were in your garage, trying to have a moment alone after your husband had shoved you into a wall for not making the potatoes the way he wanted (what a stupid thing to be upset over). As you sat at the workbench, sobbing quietly, your attention was pulled towards a thing of antifreeze. It was just propped up there. You don’t remember buying it, nor did you remember your husband buying it either. Neither of you regularly did car maintenance, nor did it seem like the kind used for a pool (which neither of you had). What on earth was it even doing here?

You quietly picked up the bottle and tossed it before your husband came calling for you to redo the potatoes.

The second time you noticed something much too conveniently placed was when the coffee in front of you was decaf. Your husband was terrible at waking up in the mornings, and the only thing that kept him up was his morning coffee on the drive to work. Well, one morning it was decaf in the keurig- and you almost didn’t notice it. The last time that happened, he’d almost swerved off the road. In a panic, you switched it to the right one before he noticed. If neither of you did, it could have claimed his life as the drive from your neck of the woods to the city was kind of dodgy in general.

The third most prominent time was semi-recently. You were cooking and once you finished, carried about your day. When you stopped by the kitchen to grab your keys and head to town for some shopping, you noticed that the gas was left on. Your husband was due to come home soon - if it stayed on for any longer, it might have killed him. Of course, you turned it off, but your hand lingered on the dial just a moment longer, wondering what would have happened if you didn’t turn it off. Feeling monstrous for even letting that thought pop into your head, you pulled back your hand like you had thrown it into the fire.

Those were just some of the most prominent things that happened. There were also little things that occurred as well, such as the TV always being clicked onto certain types of true crime documentaries entailing warring spouses, or the reading material being a tad too detailed in how to get away with things that obviously weren't legal. It started with petty theft, or piracy, and then moved onto other things that were much too unpleasant for you to even detail. All of these things seemed to be calling you towards something more sinister than you had ever imagined.

And until now, you’d managed to hold it all back. Sure, you entertain yourself by watching the documentaries and reading the material (which you wonder deeply who put it in your mailbox to begin with) but you never actually thought to harm him, did you?

It all came to a head a few weeks after the bathtub incident. He pushed you around plenty since then, but it hadn’t crossed the threshold like what happened back then - and that was enough to keep you at bay until this specific dinner. Apparently, your husband had missed out on a promotion given to someone younger and more ambitious than him and that killed him on the inside. He had a chip on his shoulder and he was dead set on taking it out on you.

“Gave it to that little prick,” he mumbles as he stabs at his food.

“I’m sure you’ll get it next time-”

“Next time? That’s half a fucking year away,” your husband replies as he bites down on his food. “Worthless job and can’t even move up in it. Stuck in this hellhole,” he continues to mutter as he stabs around.

Not wanting to even think about flaring him, you just drink uncomfortably at your water. “Is…” You close your mouth, not wanting to even hear his voice.

“No, no, finish your thought,” he says with a deep sigh.

“It’s not important.”

“My wife has something to say, she says it.”

“No, really I-”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Reader, spit it out.”

“Is the food okay?” You ask quietly as you avert your eyes to anywhere but at him. You gulp thickly, worrying that you’ve upset him further and lament even opening your mouth up to begin with.

“It’s awful,” he replies before taking another bite. “You must really be testing me, y’know that?”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

“I know.”

Uncomfortable silence passes between the two of you as dinner goes on with that same unease. You practically exude discomfort as you sit there, picking at your food and not wanting to even stomach it as long as this monster sits across from you. You wonder if your husband is going to go on one of his tangents when he answers that useless question by opening his mouth.

He talks a lot about how much he hates work, his coworkers, his lot in life, literally anything he could complain about and everything. He has such a hatred for the world around him that you wonder if it was always hiding just below the surface when you first met him. Probably. People tend to grow into who they were always meant to be as the years go on.

“And you,” he continues, pointing his fork in an accusatory manner at you. “You are the worst part of it,” he says as he narrows his eyes. He does this to you at every meal. And by the end of it, he’s always so riled up he almost breaks the plates. “Remember that girl, Jada? From honors math?”

You quietly nod.

“I should’ve married her. Girl with some brains and a nice ass,” he muses. “Instead I settled for you. Worthless, bruised and battered, puffy faced you,” he says with absolute vitriol, getting more and more riled up as his complaints carry on. “Hell, if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have been thrown in detention again either.”

“That wasn’t my fault-”

“Oh so she speaks, does she?” He stands up.

You brace yourself.

“You know better than that,” he says lowly like a tiger waiting to pounce. “Than to talk back to me in my OWN GODDAMN HOUSE!” The plates and the dinner go flying off the table as he roughly shoves his arms across it.

There go the plates that reminded you of something nicer.

You immediately stand up and gasp, your chair flying back as you do so. Your hands fly up as your husband’s hands grip ar your wrists, his power taking over your frail form as he begins hurling you backwards to the countertop.

“Teach you to talk to me like that again,” he growls as he slams you down onto the counter, wrists not being jostled into his one hand. “You’ll never learn,” he mumbles, strill wrangling you down to the countertop.

From the corner of your eye, you could see him reaching towards the knife rack - and you see your very life fly before your eyes as he palms one.

You begin to repeat no like a mantra as he grips the knife and then lets go of your wrists, hsi hand going to the collar of your shirt. You cry out as your hands balled into fists and start punching, your legs being held by his body as his hand latches onto your throat and squeezes. Tears prick your eyes once again as his eyes flick down to your shirt.

“Stop!” You weakly cry out as his fingers dig into your flesh.

He raises the knife, a mad look on his faze as the steel catches the light. It shines, and then comes plunging down.

You scream as the knife is stabbed much too close to your neck, instead trapping you by snagging your shirt to the counter.

“You stay here and think about all the trouble you’ve caused,” he says in a ‘bubbling with rage’ tone as he shoves your head into the counter. “And clean up this mess.”

Once he leaves and slammed the front door shut, you pry yourself free from the knife and then fall to the floor sobbing, once again feeling your heart broken over your husband treating you so. But, once the rain fell, all that came was a ping - a spark. As you finally composed yourself and began cleaning his mess, the spark ignited to a flame that grew like wildfire in your mind’s eyes as you gingerly picked up the pieces of plates that you held such saccharine fondness over.

You couldn’t stand for this anymore.

With exhaustion sweeping over your body and the kitchen now cleaned, you allow yourself to move on autopilot and move upwards towards your bedroom. You don’t bother changing and plop down onto it. You stare at your ceiling, wondering if you should run away or - oh! Here comes a thought. With your eyes inching towards your nightstand, you finally give into the overwhelming feeling to open the drawer and you do so. Your hand gropes around before you finally touch something cold. Your mind lurches once you realize what it is.

You sit up, more than surprised to see the handle of a gun under your fingertips. On it is a sticky note with a smiley face: ‘don’t forget to turn off the safety :)’. A shiver of horror runs down your spine when you realize there’s a silencer attached to it. Gods, you knew he had a gun but a silencer? Everything about this - you knew it was wrong.

But holding it in your hand… That felt right.

You decided to stay quiet on things for now and think. Afterall, he was stronger than you. You couldn’t just confront him with the gun. He might wrestle it out of you and shoot you instead. You couldn’t take that kind of risk right now. So, you waited, looked over the gun some more, and waited.

Your husband entered back into the house at some gods awful time at night, more than pleased to see the house was back in order as it should be as he closed the door behind him. He was exhausted on all facets (though it could not hold a candle to how you were feeling) as he trudged up the stairs.

You laid in bed, pretending to be asleep. You knew what had to be done.

When your husband came in, huffed and got ready for bed, you itched for the trigger. You knew you had to act soon, but not too fast or he could hurt you again an take you out instead. Your breath hitched when you felt him sit on the bed and get comfortable, of course, turned away from you.

You took in a deep breath, closed your eyes, and held the gun in your hand once you felt him slip into sleep. The moments felt like hours as you quietly sat up and held the gun in your hands. Were you really going to do this?

Your mind flashed with hundreds upon hundreds of possibilities. At one point, a long time ago, you loved him. You loved him deeply and truly.

You took aim.

You shot.

Gods, if you knew it was going to be this hard to drag his body out here, you would’ve chosen a different place to shoot him. Dragging your now dead husband through the woods behind your house was an absolutely miserable process. You were working up a sweat as you did so and it was so dark that you could hardly make heads or tails of anything.

Finally, guided by the moonlight, you came to a place that looked more than decent. It was far enough, and the growth here was so heavy that if you tumbled the earth around, it would hardly look like anyone had disturbed it to begin with.

“Always making things harder on me,” you mumble as you toss his limp body back to the earth before you juggle the shovel you’d dragged along into your hands. You let your mind go blank as you began to cut into the soil.

A plethora of thoughts entered into your head as you shoveled away, making a deep enough hole to throw your deceased husband in. In a way, you didn’t think he deserved a hole this nice, but you knew deep down you had to hide the body. You continued to shovel, and once you finally made it deep enough to your liking, rolled his body into the ground.

“Didn’t think you had it in you,” a low, slightly gravelly voice chuckles, slow clapping.

“Who’s there?” You ask in a slightly panicked tone, holding the shovel up like a weapon. “I… I won’t hesitate-”

“Don’t make me laugh,” the voice continues, a playful bite on every syllable. “No, no, you did good.”

Your eyes frantically look around for the voice when you hear a whistle. There, behind you, is a man. Possibly mid 20s, shoulder length black hair, pale skin that rivals the light of the moon, wearing a hoodie covered in things you’d rather not think of and taller than you by a good head or so.

“You gonna put the shovel down?” He asks with a brow raised.

Hesitantly, you lower the shovel in your grasp just to let him get a little closer. Your eyes widen when you see he’s cut a smile into his face. “Who… Who are you?”

“I’ll tell you if you finish your job here,” he says as he nods to the uncovered, deceased body of your husband. “And before you go through the typical ‘oh my gods, are you gonna turn me in’ bullshit so many of you seem to go through, rest assured that I’m not gonna do anything to you. Just finish your job. Can you do that for me, Bird?” He leans against the tree, looking at you with a small smark.

A mind too frazzled for anything else, you nod and get back to work. It doesn’t take near as long to fill the hole as it did to carve it out, which was a pleasant surprise. When you were done, you wiped the sweat from your brow.

“What are you doing here?” You asked as you held the shovel firmly in your hands.

“Checking in on you,” he replies. “You want to go back to your house and-”

“No,” you cut him off, eyes averting down the ground. “Anywhere but there right now.” You say softly, gesturing to the disturbed earth.

The man pops off the tree and stalks over to the hole you’d covered, lightly shoving some foliage on top of it. “Okay, still sensitive. I get that,” he hums. “Follow me then. Let’s take a walk.” He nods for you to follow, blue eyes silently telling you to bring the shovel along with you.

Not wanting to be near his body anymore despite it being packed below the ground, you relent and follow.

“So, you did good, really good,” the man says as he puts his hands back in his hoodie pockets.

“Why do you keep saying that?” You ask, quickly matching pace with him. “And I never did get your name..?” You trail off slightly, taking in the deep scent of the woods around you. The scent of pine and autumn fills your nose.

“Because you did my job for me, and it’s Jeff,” he replies, his arm momentarily pushing back some low hanging pines. “I’ve been keeping tabs on you for a while, Bird.” He chuckles softly when he sees your confused expression.

“Really? Bird?” You repeat in a dry tone, face deadpanning at the very mention of it. “Job?”

“You’re flighty, like a bird, and judging by how fast you switch topics, bird.” He smiles, continuing to lead you further and further into the woods and away from your now empty house. “Little while back, I was asked to kill your husband. But, I saw you during one of my stalking outings and well, thought I could make things interesting.” He says it like it’s nothing and common knowledge.

“You what?” You ask in a surprised tone. “You stalked us?”

“Well, yeah,” Jeff says. “Normally, I don’t take that much care in my work. I tend to gut first and never ask questions, but you posed something interesting in my wake.”

“Holy fuck,” you murmur as you continue to trot throguh the woods. “We’re both going to jail.”

“Me? Absolutely not. You? Well,” he turns his attention to the deer path laid before the two of you and smiles at the open, moonlit field. “Depends on how you’ll answer my question.”

The two of you step through the remaining brush and finally reach the field. You had no idea this place was even behind your house or even so close. Tall grass rising to your waist sways gently in the wind as you step out of the trees and into the open air. Stars dot the sky as the moon hangs overhead. This place feels nostalgic. Out in the distance is a little stone structure, and upon Jeff taking you closer to it, it’s a little stone shelter.

“Take a seat, gonna be a while,” Jeff says as he rummages around in his pocket. He pulls out a lighter, bends down and lights the pieces of wood conveniently left inside of it, and the night is no longer cold.

You get comfortable and let your exhausted body rest. “Have you been watching me for long?”

“Longer than necessary,” Jeff answers as he cracks his back before finally getting comfortable. “But, I only watched you from a distance. Tell me about yourself first, let me know it wasn’t a mistake to let you breathe.” He smirks at you and winks, sending shivers down your spine.

You take in a deep breath, not really feeling anything but exhaustion and decide to tell him. You tell him everything, about your childhood, about little intricacies and so on. You told him about high school and how you met your husband. Little stories, anecdotes, memories and feelings resurfaced as you detailed how everything was bliss. And then one day, it wasn’t.

“Something in him snapped and went rotten,” you sigh. “And he hurt me. Hurt me really bad.”

Jeff looks up from the fire to see how the light dances across your skin. It’s here that he’s finally able to see the extent of your dead husband’s power over you. Bruises darker than your natural shade line your skin like oddly erased marks on a stubborn piece of paper. Your eyes are hollow, devoid of all life. Hair from your scalp is oddly placed as if it’s still trying to grow back. Your posture conveys nothing but pure exhaustion.

“I’m sorry,” he says in a tone that’s much more gruff than he originally means. It’s not that he doesn’t genuinely feel bad, it’s that he’s awful at actually verbalizing it. In truth, Jeff doesn’t like abusers. They make him feel wrong, make him feel like something’s not fair. Jeff like to fancy himself as someone who goes by the rule of ‘equality.’ If you pick on someone weaker than you with them having no chance of fighting back or at least inflicting the same damage back, you are nothing but a coward who gets off on hurting smaller people. And that in his mind is nothing short of detestable. “Guess good on me for letting you take him out, huh?”

You look at him with an odd mixture of confusion and absolute relief. “I guess,” you say, the sound of serenity slipping into your tone. “And what about you? What originally sent you out here?”

“Tall guy in a suit,” he stated, a small scowl pulling at his lips. “Y’know, he’s interested in you.”

“Tall guy in a suit?”

“Slender Man. I call him ‘Pale Ass’ though. He’s like… A murderous businessman. Has little drones to do his work even though he’s more than capable of doing it himself. And that’s where you come in.” Jeff shifts slightly and fixes his posture. “He’s the guy who originally wanted your husband dead. Sent me to do it.”

“Why did he want him dead?” You inquire. You knew your husband had done some dodgy things, especially with how strangely he was acting within the last few years as his abuse ran up, but you originally assumed he was cheating or something. Maybe into some other shady things. What on earth could he have done to garner the attention of some murderer kingpin?

“Saw something he shouldn’t have. My guess is Toby - maybe Theo. Both of them suck at covering up their tracks,” Jeff laughs slightly. “Probably saw one of us hiding a body, committing a murder, shit, he could’ve stumbled on some finals when he obviously shouldn’t have done that. Regardless, it got Slender’s attention, and now he’s dead because of it,” Jeff continues as he casts his eyes from you to the flickering flames. “You remember that night he fell asleep in his car in the garage?”

You nod.

“Almost took him out right there.” Jeff’s brows furrow slightly. “Something stopped me and then I saw you. The way he reacted to you asking if he wanted a certain type of potato made me giggle, and then I got a thought.”

“The antifreeze…”

“Yeah, the antifreeze. I’d noticed you were being pushed around for a while, honestly planning on taking you out to give you some rest but,” his eyes flash, “seemed more fun to get you into it too.” He sighs and leans back. “Was it cathartic?”

You find yourself uncomfortably shifting and wanting to answer with ‘no, of course not! I killed someone,’ before realizing that wouldn't be truthful. It was cathartic to put an end to his life. It was cathartic to finally bring justice for yourself in a way that no prison system would allow. “It… It was.” You admit, shyly and quietly like confessing to a bad secret.

“Feels nice to admit it, right?” He smiles.

“It does.”

“Now, imagine doing that to other pieces of shit,” he says as he sits up again. “Imagine being able to do that to every monster that’s ever hurt anyone just like you/”

You close your eyes and feel the red hot rage tingle your fingertips. Being able to unload on your dead husband was more than pleasing - in fact, it was nice, and dare you say, fun. The thought of being able to do that to other people who hurt others like that, while a far off possibility now as you were still frail, was still a possibility nonetheless.

“I mean, where else do you have to go?” Jeff continues, watching as you toss the thought around in your head. “You’d never get caught. He’d handle it all right now. You’d be free.” Jeff stands up and begins crossing the distance to meet you. His shadow walks alongside him. Dusk hangs in the air. “Or, if this isn’t to your liking, you can join him.”

“What?” You question, eyes flicking up from Jeff’s shoes to his eyes.

“You gotta understand,” he begins as he crouches in front of you. “If you say no and

decide to deal with the fallout like a normal human being, you’ll be caught and most likely killed for it. You’d be at the end of your rope.”

You feel an ocean of emotions swell up inside of you. “And if I… What would you even have me do if I followed you?”

“I’ll take you to meet him, and we’ll see what happens next. He’ll cover for you. You won’t ever have to see this place ever again.”

The sun begins to peek over the horizon. The fire is dying down. You can hear birds chirping in the early morning sky as fluffy clouds bid good morning to the dimming stars in the sky.

“Let’s get outta here, Bird.” Jeff stands up, holding out his hand.

You take in a deep breath, hand hovering over his. You thought of your husband, your life and everything that had ever happened to lead up to this moment. You’d gone this far, and there was clearly no going back. Another deep breath in and you pressed your hand down to his.

Jeff’s smile bloomed once again.

#jeff the killer #creepypasta #creepypasta x reader #jeff the killer x reader #reader insert #x reader #creepypasta jtk

[phis-corner]

Can I get a 3 and a 10 with Marinette parents being some what salty and believing Lila and when the learn the truth they try to get her back from the kents and Bruce is like 10 to them cause he is her godfather now

3-  “Please don’t walk out that door.” 10- “I won’t let you.”

Disclaimer: I have no idea how transfer of guardianship works. Please bear with me here- half of what I wrote doesn’t make sense to myself, but I wasn’t really sure how else to fulfill the prompt.

TW: Mentions of emotional abuse.

They gave her up.

They willingly signed the papers that would temporarily transfer guardianship of her over to Clark and Lois.

Marinette expected them to, of course, but experiencing it for real was still a stinging slap to the face, no matter how horrible her parents were to her.

“Come on, Mari.” Jon’s hand is gentle on her shoulder, and his big blue eyes are looking down at her, even though she’s two years older. “Let’s go home.”

The flight back to the Kents’ apartment in the Metropolis couldn’t have been shorter. Clark and Lois give her time to unpack, but if she was being honest, there wasn’t really anything to unpack that wasn’t already present in the guest room that had slowly become hers over the last few months.

As the situation with her biological parents got worse (helped along by a certain liar), Marinette had simply stopped spending time in Paris, instead teleporting more and more to Titans Tower to hang out or train. 

Jon, who had declared himself her brother a year prior, noticed, of course. He was the first, but everyone did after the first month. Damian got his father to jumpstart the process of removing her from her parents’ care, and in the meantime, Clark and Lois offered her the guest room.

Marinette takes the last item out of her pink backpack- a photo of her, Tom, and Sabine at the kitchen counter, taken by Nonna Gina. She's young in this picture, maybe seven or eight, and her face is frozen mid-laugh, entire body coated in flour from a bout of clumsiness. Tom and Sabine are laughing with her.

She stares at it until she feels like she’s on the verge of developing heat vision, then tears the photo in half, separating Tom and Sabine from her.

The part with two people goes into the garbage, and the laughing girl is pinned to her bulletin board.

Healing takes time, and sometimes, it feels as if she has all the time in the world.

She has a support system now- a brother, people that are more like parents than her real ones, a team at her back, and her godfather is the freaking Batman.

Yep. Bruce Wayne, the richest man in the world, who dresses up as a giant bat at night to terrify Gotham’s worst into wetting themselves, declared himself her godfather, and really, who’s going to say no to Batman?

Damian and Jon suspect that he’s just irritated that Clark claimed the newest black haired, blue eyed child with a tragic backstory before he could.

Healing takes time, and she has so much time.

Slowly but surely, she heals, and moves on, with a new family and newly forged bonds that are already so much stronger than the ones she had with her blood relatives ever were.

Then, everything goes to shit again.

Tom and Sabine finally learn that Lila was lying, that everything she was accused of doing were just that- mere accusations. They come to Metropolis, knocking on their apartment door while Bruce and Damian are over for lunch.

“I’ll get it.” Marinette offers, then freezes when she opens the door and sees who’s on the other side.

She doesn’t react, rooted in place by Tom and Sabine’s stares, until she hears Jon from the dining room. “Mari? Is everything alright?”

Instead of a verbal response, she taps her finger against her thigh frantically in Morse Code. T-O-M A-N-D S-A-B-I-N-E. H-E-L-P.

The message must be relayed pretty fast, because everyone is crowding behind her back in an instant.

She doesn’t remember much of the actual argument between her biological parents and her chosen ones, only that she snaps to attention when Sabine speaks her name.

“Marinette.” She says coldly, with a sense of finality. “Come with us. You are going home now.”

Her brain screams no, that Metropolis, the Kents, are her home, and that Paris was nothing more than a cage, but her body, still terrified of the consequences (they never laid a hand on her, but your own parents believing you over a liar and the subsequent emotional and verbal abuse leaves its mark), starts to follow, feet stepping forward until another voice, one that isn’t Clark or Lois, rings out.

“Please don’t walk out that door, Marinette.” The voice is so different, yet the exact same as Batman’s low growl as Bruce Wayne’s blue eyes bore into her soul.

“Nonsense.” Tom snaps. “She is our daughter. We have every right to take her back.”

“I won’t let you.” 

Despite it obviously being a response to Tom’s statement, Marinette gets the feeling that those words were directed at her instead.

The billionaire pulls out a cell phone, dialing a number. “Hey, Tim? Yeah, do me a favor. Are Tom Dupain and Sabine Cheng currently in the clear to take back their daughter?” A pause. “Okay then. I see. Mhm. Thanks, Timmy.”

He hangs up and glares at the couple. “You’re not legally authorized to remove Marinette from Clark and Lois’ care.”

A strong but loose hand comes to rest on her shoulder. “Lois and I see Marinette as our own daughter.” Clark says calmly, his words filling her with warmth. “If you want to take back guardianship, we will fight for her.”

“And they’ll have Wayne Enterprises’ legal team at their back.” Bruce chimes in, and she can’t help the smile that splits her face there.

“We’d actually like to make that guardianship permanent.” A smirk curls across Lois’ lips, and Marinette is reminded of why this woman has gone toe-to-toe with death so many times and made it out alive. “It doesn’t have to be settled in court, but if you wanted to test that, I’m sure we could arrange for it to happen.”

Marinette decides that she’d like to add her own piece. “Oh, yes, please do. I’d love to testify against Tom and Sabine in court.” She smiles, the damage done to her just by their presence already being fixed by the steady support behind her.

They visibly flinch when Marinette addresses them by their names and not ‘Maman’ and ‘Papa’ like she used to. Good. That’s nothing compared to how she felt in those last few months.

Sabine smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “That will not be necessary. Have a nice day.”

And with that, she and her husband turn around and walk away. Damian takes the opportunity to slam the door and make sure all of the locks are secured before sniffing, scrunching his nose up in disgust.

“The nerve of them!” He seethes. “How dare they come here and pretend nothing is wrong to try and take her back!”

“Thank you.” Marinette says to Clark and Lois. “You didn’t have to pretend that you wanted to adopt me though.”

“Who said anything about pretending?” Lois replies easily, and the beam that splits Marinette’s face is like a blinding ray of sunshine as she flings herself forward into her family’s arms.

permanent tags

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#maribat #asks #my writing

[love-a-little-less-archived]

(Different Anon here) Was Raven out of line for saying those things to Abby? Sure. However, I will say that I don’t really feel bad for Abby. As you said, Raven had issues with her mother and Abby was absolutely no better to her. In fact, as early as Season 2 we saw Abby being physically abusive towards Raven (slapping her in the face). Then of course in Season 5 that continues (Abby activating Raven’s shock collar). So sure, Raven attacked Abby verbally but at least she never physically harmed her. She could have been less harsh but I don’t think she owed Abby a damn thing after what Abby put her through over the years.

yes!!! to be honest id forgotten about the physical abuse, i dont really pay all too much attention to abby, why would i, i kinda hate her, but absolutely!!!

raven was a bit of a bitch, i still believe that wholeheartedly, but youre right, she never physically harmed anyone. and im not saying mental or emotional abuse is any better but honestly?? abby kinda deserved it. she treated raven like trash, she treated clarke like trash, she treated everybody like fucking trash and for what?? so she could have her next dose of pills??

i think that abby may have been a good mother before jake’s death, but i think that was kind of a breaking point for her. she has no support, no balancer to keep her in check, and she goes off. it sends her off the edge

even with kane, she goes insane with him. she’s desperate. for what, im not entirely sure, but abby is desperate enough to murder a man in order to bring kane back, despite knowing he would hate it. she’s selfish. and i agree, she deserved everything she got

well

maybe not dying

but you get my point

fuck abby we hate abby

#love.ask #ask answered #anonymous #love.hundred #abby griffin #raven reyes #the 100

[thedoctordonnas]

do that cute shippy meme for zeif (or zoder bfs)

this is going under a cut because it’s ridiculously long to just slap on the dashboard but i finally did it

Who would be the big spoon/little spoon?

for the most part leif is the little spoon which is objectively pretty funny bc height difference but also,,, he Likes To Be Held (and zoey likes to hold him, though they do switch it up pretty often, too)

Who would wake up first?

zoey is not a morning person, has never been a morning person and leif wakes up at literally like 5:30 every morning (unless there’re extenuating circumstances like he’s been up all night, etc.) to jog (nd u can take my ‘leif jogs’ hc from my cold dead hands) and get ready for the day and at first it bugs the hell out of zoey because how are you even alive this early but also,,,, being woken up with soft kisses is not the worst way to wake up in the world

Do they have nicknames for each other?

leif tries his hand at pun nicknames a la mo & joan, fails miserably, and then they stick to pet names (theres a lot of “babes” and “honeys”)

How do they apologize after an argument?

leif is very to the point and verbal (”i was wrong and i’m sorry” zoey is pleasantly surprised at how much he actually Admits He Was Wrong when theyre actually dating) but zoey will apologize and then just like. be slightly more physically affectionate

What would they be like as parents?

oh god this one stings a little bc they both have such different family experiences so where zoey is pulling from what she remembers of her childhood and trying to emulate her parents (bc the clarkes were. such good parents im kind of emo) and doing her best to Be A Good Mom, leif is just. “if at absolutely any point i feel like my father, the whole approach is gettin switched up” (complete sidenote. thinking abt them w/ kids i am. soft)

Who is more romantic?

hmmm i feel like they’re both kinda equal here but leif is definitely more. outwardly romantic w/ like gestures and stuff

What sort of gifts do they get for each other?

oohhhh i feel like they either get each other very practical gifts (i am. thinking v specifically of the bike bell i had her get him in dear friend) or just the. nerdiest shit (bonus: they both get each other Cursed Nerdy Gifts, she got him a the big bang theory mug and he almost broke up with her)

Who gets jealous easiest?

neither of them really get jealous in a relationship sense easily (jealous. of each other is another story they’ll never stop making absolutely everything into a competition), but zoey gets jealous more especially in uuhhh planned fic verses that i am not at license to talk abt yet (thankfully most people stop being interested in leif pretty shortly after he opens his mouth)

Who gets more excited for events e.g.. Birthdays, Christmas?

leif doesnt really like holidays bc holidays usually meant Family Stuff growing up, but zoey loves holidays for the exact same reason and not to get sappy but he definitely enjoys celebrating with the clarke family

Who is the most adventurous?

definitely leif (though zoey is definitely much further out of her comfort zone than she was at the beginning of the show)

Who is the most protective?

now i would’ve said leif like two weeks ago but we’ve been talking a lot abt protective zoey in ot3 verse and holy shit did i get attached to it, thinking abt having seen him heartbroken once and just being like “i dont want him to feel like that ever again huh”

What would they have been like as childhood sweethearts?

oohhhh they honestly probably would’ve gotten along as kids bc theyre. very alike but i also feel like they wouldve had a devi/ben dynamic mixed in with that of like. everything is a competition (they would also be. obnoxiously sweet and PDA heavy and all of their friends (re: tobin) would make fun of them for it)

Who uses all the hot water?

leif takes absurdly hot showers and somehow still zoey uses the last of the hot shower

Who would accidentally set the kitchen on fire whilst cooking? 

zoey oh my god zoey, leif is a surprisingly decent cook, but even if he wasn’t, zoey knows. enough about cooking to keep herself alive and past that nah 

Who initiates sexy times the most?

they’re both pretty even about it, especially in the beginning when theyre just. jumping each others bones constantly

Who is more dominant?

zoey, leif has a thing for women that can be very mean to him and get away with it

What would they do if the other one was hurt?

for the most part, just whatever’s practical - if they need space, give them space, if they need comfort, give them comfort and they’re pretty much on the same page about that

Who gives nose/forehead kisses?

they both do but leif gets so kissy affectionate-y when hes feeling Insecure and will just pepper her entire face with kisses just. literally any surface he can and she’s giggly abt it but she also more or less Knows Why He’s Doing It

What their biggest fight was/will be about:

hmmmmmm this one i struggled with bc i dont really foresee them fighting a lot beyond like. petty arguments but at some point they’ve gotta address his hero worship of charlie and im sure there are other instances of hero worship, as nerd culture is wont to do (which im sure is. less after the joan stuff but still)

BONUS #1: Song to sum them up?

angsty: kokopelli face tattoo - ajj not-angsty: boys like you - kids at midnight

BONUS #2: A head canon?

i know i’ve said this one a lot but they both had a little like. tiny crush on each other when they started working at sprqpoint that faded and then obviously canon happened and then when theyre dating they have a little like “aw babe, you had a crush on me? that’s embarassing” moment

BOTTOM LINE: Do I ship it?

i gotta say duh

#georgnowacks #zoey x leif

[chiseler]

Glad Rags: Fashion and the Great Depression

Some years ago, in a breathtaking lapse of taste, The New Yorker published a fashion spread that aped iconic photographs of Dust Bowl migrants. I was as appalled as the next right-thinking person by the pouting models in $400 distressed cardigans pretending to thumb rides along desert highways. But if the charge is infatuation with the aesthetics of the Great Depression, I am guilty, guilty, guilty. Throw me in the clink—just so long as it resembles the hoosegow that Barbara Stanwyck saunters around in Ladies They Talk About (1932).

Why was everything, from automats to automobiles, from nightclubs to radios, from skyscrapers to bus stations, from cocktail shakers to the battered hats on homeless men, so elegant in the thirties? Why did bums back then look better than bankers today? Why are the movies and music, the clothes and every aspect of design from typefaces to elevator panels, so intoxicatingly stylish?

The easy answer is that art deco glamour was a form of escapism, a consolation to the down-and-out, and an expression of irrational optimism. Cruise ships, trains, office towers, mechanized restaurants: art deco was all about speed and modernity, the thrill of zooming into the future. (Then why does deco still look modern and alluring, while the space-age design of the sixties just looks dated and silly?) If cynicism was society’s ballast during the Depression, style was the kite-string tugging upward, the flag that kept flying.

It’s not the swells in their glad rags that I admire most, or even the bootleggers in silk shirts, but the wardrobes of working girls. Take the plain, slinky black dress that Stanwyck, as an ambitious office worker in Baby Face, accessorizes with a series of different detachable white collars and cuffs. Those starched cuffs and collars—chic, yet as humble as table-napkins—are perfect, almost poignant symbols of Stanwyck’s determination to better herself with the small means at her disposal. In Golddiggers of 1933, out-of-work chorus girls draw lots for the privilege of wearing a gorgeous, borrowed outfit to an audition. The little hats that hug one side of the head, the soft dresses molded to the hips, the scarf collars and pleated hems, create a look that collapses the two meanings of “smart.”  Neither frivolous nor utilitarian, it’s a neat, streamlined look that is still seductive; it signals quiet confidence and also wit, the sort of wisecracking verbal self-defense these girls mastered.

Movies like Baby Face tell their stories largely through their heroines’ clothes and belongings: they climb from cotton frocks to furs, from paper matchbooks to jeweled cigarette cases. (Clothing is no less crucial to the gangster’s rise; tailored shirts and luxurious overcoats are almost the point of his law-breaking.) Like Stanwyck in Baby Face, Joan Blondell in Blondie Johnson starts out in the drab, shapeless clothes of the down-trodden. Alight with anger after her mother dies, denied aid by a sanctimonious government official, she vows to get hold of dough, “and plenty of it.” Next we see her, she’s wearing a snazzy velvet suit that fits like a glove and conning suckers out of ten dollar bills by pretending to be a damsel in distress. She’s willing to bat her eyelashes and exploit her curves, but it’s really her brain she uses to get ahead, rising to become the head of a criminal “corporation,” and fiercely defending her virtue, even while clad in diaphanous pajamas. In Hold Your Man, Clark Gable calls attention to the warmth of the room, trying to talk Jean Harlow into doffing her coat. She complies, but when he suggests she remove her hat as well, she quips, “I’m pretty cool about the head.”

It’s this sense of wit and sass that’s often missing from latter-day reconstructions of the thirties, making people in period pieces appear overly formal. Current actors, looking embalmed in handsome clothes and make-up, fail to capture the way Cagney in his pin-striped suits was always poised on the balls of his feet, ready to crack into a tap dance; or the stunning bodily freedom with which women wore their thin, fluid, backless gowns, somehow never looking unduly exposed. Carole Lombard in shiny satin wide-legged lounging-pajamas and high heels furiously riding an exercise bicycle: there is the deco spirit in a nutshell. I sometimes wonder if it was the sheer delight of wearing such flattering clothes that gave women in thirties movies their unequaled zing.

Their sleek clothes don’t hide the female form the way dresses of the 1920’s did with their dropped waists and bosom-flattening bands. Neither do they exaggerate it with structured undergarments like those abandoned after the first world war and re-introduced after the second. It takes little insight to observe that the times when fashion has been most extreme in its devotion to the hourglass figure have been repressive eras for women, and periods when their clothes were more androgynous have been times when women made strides toward equality. In the early thirties, however, fashions were feminine without being cartoonishly so; they simply revealed the way women really look. The ideal of beauty was slender but not boyishly skinny, effortlessly athletic without gym-workout muscles.

Thirties dames look sexy on their own terms, not trussed up for male consumption like women of the fifties in their waist-cinching girdles, teetering stilettos and torpedo bras (often filled out with falsies on actresses of the fifties.) Many women in the early thirties wore very little under their clothes, as pre-Code movies prove with their obligatory lingerie shots. One almost feels sorry for pre-Code men faced with gals like Blondell, who in Blonde Crazy allows Cagney to inspect her flimsy underwear but repels his every advance with a slap that sends his head snapping back against his spine.

It is surely no coincidence that the interwar period was perhaps the only time when fashion was dominated, or at least heavily influenced, by women designers. Chanel borrowed from men’s tailoring to make women’s clothes simple, comfortable and sporty, without making them mannish. Madeleine Vionnet pioneered the bias cut, constructing garments so the grain of the fabric ran diagonally across the body, creating that smooth, clinging drape that defines feminine style of the thirties. Stanwyck’s lithe, bold stride wouldn’t be the same without the skirts that show off her beautiful hips and just enough of her killer gams. The jazzy, diagonally-striped ensemble that Claudette Colbert wears in It Happened One Night—something she has apparently purchased with the proceeds from pawning her wrist-watch—is the sartorial equivalent of her cocked eyebrow and throaty, sarcastic delivery.

These are Hollywood movies, of course, in which actresses often wore dresses so tight they couldn’t sit down between shots. But there’s plenty of documentary evidence that ordinary women, while they made have had less perfect figures, had just as much stylistic sass. Inept, small-time criminals Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow might never have become folk heroes if police hadn’t found a roll of undeveloped film in their hideout in Joplin, Missouri in 1932, and if the pictures hadn’t shown Bonnie wearing a snug beret, a skirt and sweater as jazzy as Colbert’s, and standing with her high-heeled foot hiked saucily on the bumper of a Ford V-8.

Or consider the stout matron in Walker Evans’s 1935 photograph of a New Orleans barbershop, sporting a blouse with sizzling concentric stripes, a jaunty black tie and a black hat with a rakish white feather. Men were no slouches either. Evans’s 1936 pictures of street scenes in the “negro quarter” of Vicksburg, Mississippi feature men lounging idly in shirtsleeves, unbuttoned vests and felt hats, each one a fashion plate. Lined up in a row in the wood-frame buildings behind them are hand-painted signs for the Savoy Barber Shop, the New Deal Barber Shop, and the Brother In Law Barber Shop. These men may not have jobs, but at least they have well-trimmed hair.

One can always ask, was there really such an epidemic of elegance in the thirties, or did photographers just seek out images of dignity? In the same way, one can look at the photographs of Robert Frank or the documentary footage of Los Angeles in The Savage Eye (1960) and wonder if there was really an epidemic of ugliness and vulgarity in the late fifties and early sixties, or whether artists just emphasized it. But the question is moot: either way, the images reveal how Americans—or at least their professional observers—saw themselves. Struggling against deprivation and anxiety, they were proud, stoic and stripped to their lean, essential spirit. Prosperous and secure, they were hapless victims of an aesthetic crash. A movie like Murder by Contract (1958), about a hit man killing time in L.A., staying in suffocatingly tacky motel rooms, seems to be the portrait of a man sleepwalking through a society where taste has flatlined.

Fifties style was artlessly boastful; its ideals were plastic mannequins of happiness, innocence and surfeit. This is why when it failed it failed so hideously: the old, the poor, the ugly, the lonely look caught in a pitiless glare, all their shortcomings exposed. The beehive hair, bouffant skirts, school-girl necklines and cat’s-eye glasses made young women look stodgy and matronly, and older women look grotesquely girlish.  In the thirties, haute couture expressed sublime hauteur, but it was based on aesthetic principles so sound that even when they trickled down to the cheapest knock-offs and most threadbare hand-me-downs, they still looked good. And so we come to the paradox of men in breadlines, women in migrant camps, whose je-ne-sais-quoi can inspire fashion spreads.

I am haunted by a bit of archival footage from the superb documentary Riding the Rails (1997), which shows a group of teenage hobos gathered on an open flat-car. Their elegance is unforgettable. It’s partly that their ragged clothes are so well-cut—in those days before baggy, one-size-fits-nobody garments—and partly that they’re worn with such an air. One boy wears an overcoat that’s too big for him and a handkerchief knotted on his head; he looks like a Napoleonic soldier retreating from Moscow. Men today who affect newsboy caps tend to wear them as though they were balancing a plate on their heads, but these boys wear their soft caps pulled down low over one eye, making them look at once tough and shy. They also seem, like everyone Dorothea Lange photographed, to stand and move with uncommon, easy grace: idle, but charged with contained energy. Their faces are wary, reticent and disillusioned. In another archival clip, boys sitting around a fire in a hobo jungle respond to a reporter who asks them why they are on the road. “Out here for my health,” one deadpans. “Just riding,” another tersely shrugs.

These are the real-life versions of the characters played by Frankie Darro and the Warners juveniles in Wild Boys of the Road (1933). Several things about that film are startling. One is how the kids dress and act like grown-ups (at a school dance, they wear evening clothes and circle the floor to “The Shadow Waltz”), as opposed to today, when grown-ups dress and act like kids. Another is how quickly and completely two middle-class boys turn into outcasts, panhandlers, embittered scavengers living in a garbage dump. But most startling of all is the way stoicism and dignity are taken for granted, the universal determination not be a burden or feel sorry for oneself. The elderly interviewees in Riding the Rails are candid, matter-of-fact, wry and compassionate. There is more to elegance than dressing well, than being tasteful or—that overused and inelegant word—“classy.” There is an intangible quality, a kind of mental and moral grace. Elegance has spine, but it’s not rigid; it bends but doesn’t break. It is understated; it is reserved. It knows the virtue of holding something back—some strength, some anger, some sense of irony—because there is more than one rainy day.

by Imogen Sara Smith

#The Chiseler #Imogen Sara Smith #Fashion #Great Depression

[eclectic-aussie]

Things I Want in the Final Season of the 100 That Wont Happen

Well the roller-coaster that is the 100 is coming into its final season which leaves me very sad that one of favourite shows in ending, but also curious about the things that will be wrapped up and the things that will be glossed over now that it’s coming to an end. Then I thought to myself; ‘What things do I really want to see before it ends and how likely are they to happen?’ So, here are just a few to start off with, with probably more to be written about later as the promo stuff comes out probably in 2020:

 1.The most obvious thing I WANT: Bellarke to happen and be endgame. Shocked? Why, it’s obvious I’m a Bellarke shipper, what are you nuts?! Yes, I really hope that they have Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin to finally be able to be together after the 131 years its been teased. I cannot tell you how much I love these two, so I wont go into everything, but if they just built up these two and their relationship and support and love for each other just to slap them with a ‘Platonic’ label in the end…there will be no end to how pissed I will be for their waste of one of my favourite tv/movie couples ever. If the show doesn’t end with Bellamy, Clarke and Madi as a family with Bellarke being co-leaders as voted by Wonkru (if possibly not Spacekru) and possibly also having a few little Griffin-Blake bubs to be acknowledged ala the end of the original Charmed, then they have done a huge disservice to their fan-base and I probably wont trust anything they (a certain someone in particular) again since they’ve teased and recanted so many times, it’s just ridiculous at this point.

 2.I want Wonkru to vote for their new leader, and I want that leader to be Clarke. They revered Wanheda for taking down the Mountain when their own Heda made deals with the monsters who used her people as disposable blood bags for 40ish years. Clarke went into the City of Light and shut it down, finding out about the 2nd end of the world in the process which is the only reason any of them survived it. SHE survived Praimfaya and even managed to find Madi, the last Nightblood, and raised her on her own. She may have betrayed Bellamy and took Madi to the Valley and sided with McCreary (which to be fair was her only option other than DEATH at the time) but she was also the only reason Raven didn’t bomb Wonkru and Spacekru to save herself and Shaw and overthrew and killed McCreary. Add to that now that Clarke survived a procedure no-one else had in 250+ years, she fought against an immortal ‘God’ and won back control over her own body, fooled the other ‘Gods’ into thinking she was one of them, stopped them from wiping the minds of everyone still in Cryo, helped Madi take control from Sheidheda and got rid of the mind-wiping serum and about half of the Primes in the process and…I’m going to say Wanheda had probably never looked so fierce and badass before and that’s saying something.

Grounders respect strength, but I think they (Indra and Gaia especially) also realise that it’s not just strength they’ll need on the new world, it’s compassion and Clarke has consistently had that in spades. Don’t agree? Then rewatch the series and note down the people who have betrayed/mistreated/more or less spat in Clarke’s face that she’s not only forgiven but also usually turned into allies, I’ll wait. Hold on, no I wont it would take too long. Anyway, even when her own people use her as their verbal punching bag (repeatedly. Looking at you Raven) she rarely retaliated or lashed out back, usually just getting a pained look before shrugging it off and moving forward. I want Wonkru to want Clarke as their leader…and I want her to say no at first. I want her to have to be talked into it, not because she doesn’t want to help etc but because at this point she’s just bloody tried and grieving and probably just wants to take a breath! Add to that she probably doesn’t think she’s the kind of leader they want/need when not in war. I want Indra, Gaia and Miller to include her in meeting about what to do next, to ask and value her input/suggestions while giving their own. I want them to be sneaky, and kind of ease her into the position when she’s just thinking their having a general discussion. I want Clarke to try and push Bellamy as their leader, and end up having them be co-leaders because of course they are. Add to that, I don’t want Spacekru to be a part of these discussions at first, maybe only being treated like workers instead of key decision makers.

 3.Tied to the above, I want Spacekru to have the rug pulled out from under them. Now don’t get me wrong, as a whole I really like most of the members of Spacekru, but their continued “we’re better than everyone else” schtick grated my nerves all season 6. Their actions in season 5 are just as responsible for McCreary destroying the Earth as anyone else’s, they were the ones to put him in charge in the first place for crying out loud!, but they don’t hold themselves at all accountable, instead heaping all the blame on the easy target: Clarke. Was Clarke blameless for what happened in season 5? Hell no! But Spacekru acting like they had no part in it and using Clarke as their verbal punching bag (again) for a good chunk of season 6 was bull. Add to that, that 5 out of 8 of them have tried to kill Clarke in the last 3 weeks (ok, Emori would have been counted as a half but she did kind of applaud Murphy helping Clarke’s murderers as ‘the survivors move’ and only told Bellamy about Clarke being alive because of her loyalty to him/Spacekru not because she actually cared about Clarke really so…yep. Oh and since Raven watching and doing nothing to stop Echo kill Clarke would make her an accessory in most legal systems I’m counting her just as culpable and guilty of Echo almost killing Clarke) them being aghast at the Primes for doing the same is pretty funny (except Bellamy, poor lamb).

So, yes, now that Wonkru (especially Indra, our droll queen of not taking any bullshit!) is in Sanctum too I kind of want Spacekru to puff themselves up, thinking they’re awesome for ‘handling’ the Prime problem and then…I don’t know, be put on trial for their actions against Wanheda and Madi? Before the ranting and raving begins, just hear me out (and take note that I’m already writing a fanfic where this happens): say what you want about Wonkru and the Grounders, they’ve always had a hell of a lot more gratitude and respect for Clarke/Wanheda than her own people have, as stated in point 2. Add to that, that Gaia and Miller witnessed for themselves that Spacekru’s actions largely made the situation worse, again, and Murphy and Raven telling Russell about the bone-marrow solution to save themselves from being burned alive (thanks, Echo), putting Madi in a huge amount of danger in the process. I want the prisoners to kind of get in on it too, a bit. I want them to tell Wonkru about Spacekru’s actions in the Valley and how they pretty much tripped ass backwards into putting McCreary in charge and undermining everything Bellamy and Clarke were trying to do to bring about a truce at the time. I also want (and this is going to set SO MANY people off!!) the prisoners to tell Indra about what they overheard on the radio on the night before the world burned. I want them to tell Indra and the others about how close Clarke came to being murdered to ‘avenge Bellamy’ and that it was Madi that stopped Echo from killing Clarke, while Raven and Shaw stood back and did nothing. I want it to come out that even after Echo tried to kill her, Clarke protected her from McCreary killing her, TWICE, for the man Echo would have killed her to avenge even though Clarke though he was dead. I want all this information to come out at ‘trial’, maybe even have a recording of the radio in Clarke’s pocket as proof and Emori, Murphy and Bellamy to find out right before they’re led away to wait for deliberation. I want Bellamy to fight between using his heart and his head as his view of his family is rocked with the new information as he puzzles out which version of them was on the Ring: who they were or who they needed to be to survive, and whether he could trust them off the Ring. Dun Dun DUNNN!!

 4.I want Becho to break-up (obviously, see point 1) but I want it to come after a few things are revealed. Look, as a character I don’t have anything against Echo on the whole but she is a character where we’re told one thing: that she’s changed on the Ring and is a ‘good guy’ now, and (in my opinion) we’re shown another: she still betrays her allies to further her own goals (turning in Shaw against Raven’s wishes, baiting and belittling, and eventually killing, Ryder), still goes behind her leaders back and goes too far to try and get them what they want by means they’d never agree to (going undercover in the Conclave to cheat which got her banished by Roan, trying to kill Clarke in front of Madi to ‘avenge’ Bellamy). I mean she herself pretty much said that she hasn’t changed when she stabbed and killed an unarmed, outnumbered Ryker while stating “Hesitation is death.” Which was Nia’s creed which Echo is seen once again embracing. The only time she even attempts to be ‘the good guy’ is in front of Bellamy, and even then her first response is usually ‘we need to fight our way out’ to pretty much every situation. I know a lot of people say that they think that Echo will realise Bellamy is still in love with Clarke and graciously step aside, but honestly that seems a bit out of character. Echo has pined for Bellamy since before Praimfaya and when you factor in her possibly feeling like her place in their family being threatened if she’s no longer Bellamy’s girlfriend I can’t really see Echo giving up without a fight. I want Bellamy to really try and figure out who and what he wants and fight for it, but still let Echo down easy and reassuring her that she’s still family. And then a little bit of time to let things settle and mourn what they had even if it ends somewhat amicably (Spacekru will probably be pissed).

 5.Now onto something lighter: I want more Bellamy and Madi bonding! Let’s be honest here, Bellamy has been a papa-bear since season 1 (which was why it really threw me when he was so ready and willing to turn Madi into a child soldier with the Flame, but moving on) and I really want to see Bellamy and Madi to spend time together; Madi telling Bellamy stories about her and Clarke’s time in the Valley and wanting to hear Bellamy’s stories about his and Clarke’s time together before Praimfaya. I want Madi to tell Bellamy that he and Octavia were routinely the heroes of Clarke’s stories and for him to be shocked (and a little saddened) that Clarke didn’t see herself as a hero. I want Madi to be kind of enamoured with him, since he was pretty much the only one (besides Monty and Harper) who lived up to the stories Clarke told her growing up and because he risked everything to save Clarke. I want Bellamy to kind of embrace his unofficial role as father-figure, telling her stories of mythology and history, spending time with her while her bone-marrow grows back and she’s in isolation. Controversial: (like this whole thing isn’t that already) I want there to be a point where it gets to be too much and Madi loses it. Where her almost losing Clarke, and fighting Sheidheda in her head and being tied down and having her bone marrow take without her consent to catch-up with her and she just breaks down and sobs her heart out. And I don’t want Clarke to be there to comfort her. I want Bellamy to be there and help her through it; telling her it’s ok to still feel the pain of the almost loss and that it’s ok to not always be strong for Clarke’s sake so she doesn’t worry. I want Bellamy and Madi to sit together as they grieve the horrible almost that would have taken Clarke from them. Oh, and I want her to teach him to spear fish.

 6. Now this, I know is DEFINITELY not going to happen: I want Murphy and Raven to have to earn Clarke’s forgiveness/friendship. Say what you will about Clarke’s actions in season 5, both Murphy and Raven would be dead dozens of times over throughout the series if it wasn’t for Clarke. Hell, Bellamy almost killed Murphy at least 3 times at the Dropship in season 1 and was only stopped by Clarke’s intervention. Like I said, say what you will but Murphy actively helped Josephine to not only try to stop Spacekru/Wonkru (though mainly Bellamy, lets be honest) from retaliating for Clarke’s murder by the Primes, he would have helped Josephine erase Clarke from her own damn head if Emori hadn’t gone behind his back and told Bellamy about it. And Raven? Raven stood back and did nothing to stop Echo from trying to kill her in front of Madi, because she thought she was justified and then played the victim when Clarke had an actual plan and didn’t just lay down and die like they planned. She told Clarke the only difference between her and Blodreigna was Blodreigna didn’t pretend to feel bad about the things she’d done. Raven and Murphy were the main ones (but not the only ones) who more or less called Clarke a monster and treated her like she was nothing. They were the ones who told Russell about the Nighblood solution being made from bone-marrow (even after Raven watched Kane kill himself, taking the safer-to-make Nightblood solution with him so the Primes couldn’t create more Nightbloods) and Raven talked Abby into taking the marrow from Madi. In general we got a lot of Clarke bashing from Murphy and Raven this past season and even though I KNOW they’ll just have Clarke overlook them mistreating her because that’s what she does, I really wish that they’d have Murphy and Raven show some self-awareness and pull their heads out of their arses and actually make an effort towards Clarke for once, instead of only showing any care, friendship or compassion towards her when they need her to make another impossible decision, if then.

 7.Fluff alert: I want Bellamy to be a bit nervous about Clarke finding out about the deal he made with the Primes. I want him to tear himself up a bit with the guilt of not telling her, maybe made worse by Murphy ‘teasing’ him about it, before caving and admitting it to Clarke, ashamed that he made a deal with her murderers to overlook her death for resources and help. I want her to grab his hand of some kind of physical contact before she tells him she knew all about it. I want him to be shocked and appalled that she didn’t seem upset and that she should hate him. I want her to smile at him, and tell him she had been upset at first, but could never hate him for that. That she had been proud of him, just like she was after Praimfaya. I want fluffiness, tears and forgiveness!!!

 8.Octavia? Yeah, she’s not dead.

 9.I swear to GOD if they make Jordan another Jasper, there will be riots in the bloody streets, you hear me?! RIOTS!!

 That’s all I can think of from the top of my head but before anyone asks; yes, a few of these are very specific because I’ve already written scenes that cover all of these that I will be incorporating into my season 7 spec fic of ‘things that will probably never happen’ that I’ll put on AO3 and FF.net at some point in the coming months.

If you don’t agree with something I’ve written above, then that’s all well and good and you’re entitled to your opinion as much as I am. However, please refrain from spewing hate into my inbox because…well I honestly don’t care if you agree with me or not. This is simply my OPINION of what I’D like to see, that I’ve stated multiple times that I honestly don’t hold out hope on the whole that any (besides number 1, 8 and 9) will end up happening.

#the 100 #bellamy blake #clarke griffin #madi griffin #bellarke #anti becho #don't like don't read

[shark-from-the-park]

FIC: The Fitzier of It, Episode Two

A Fitzier The Thick of It AU in several parts.  You can find Episode One here .

In this installment, spin doctor James continues to try to get noticed hired by Minister Francis and those around him offer helpful advice…

Warnings for very bad language throughout, NSFW discussions, endlessly snacking LeVesconte and John Franklin.

@casperthefriendlylittlefan @litttlesilkworm @boisinberryjamarama @thegreenmeridian  @coffeesugarcream @cinemaocd @the-jewish-marxist @hereliesnils @nashilena @itisa-profoundbond-sarandom @idlesuperstar @what-a-terrorific-mess @pipuhattar @kahootqueen69 @jaredharrisankles @shit-in-silk-stocking @bobbole @twerkinshield @fellowshipofthegay @aconfusedwriter @uncannybrightside

Episode 2

“Alas, I find myself out of touch, gentlemen.”  Sir John Franklin was saying over steepled hands.  “The electorate wants something new.  Someone younger and more dynamic.  Even… someone more radical, perhaps.  I am no longer the man for the hour.”

This little speech would have had more impact had not James and Dundy been hearing various iterations of it for the past few weeks.  

“James, I want you to go to Francis.”

“Sir John, I’ve tried!  I went over there last week, Sir…”

“Now, James.  I know that you and Francis haven’t always seen eye to eye.  In fact, you two have been butting heads for as long as I can remember…”

“Sir John, I did try…”

“Now James!  The political landscape is changing.  This enmity between the two of you has gone on for long enough.  It’s high time that you and Francis, well… kissed and made up, so to speak.”

Dundy snorted violently and James shot him a death glare, even as he was horrified to feel himself blushing.  

Undeterred, Sir John spoke on.  “Now I know that Francis is a difficult, combative sort of man, James, but no doubt his heart is in the right place.  If you’ll only give him a chance.  You’ll need each other, when the news of my retirement is made public.  No doubt he will want to rule over you with a firm hand, James.  And we all of us know that you’re not used to that.  But you’ll just have to swallow down your pride and submit to him -”  Dundy appeared to be choking.  James hoped he’d be quick about it.  “- You’re both good sorts.  He’ll learn to see your worth in time.”

James had not gotten this far in life without learning to accept defeat, especially when defeat entailed Sir John stopping talking.  

He cleared his throat and studiously ignored Dundy’s shaking shoulders.  

“You’re right, of course, Sir John.  I’ll go and see Francis again.  I’ll see if I can get him on his own and make amends.”

Sir John smiled magnanimously.  “There now.  I knew you’d see sense.  Frankly, I’ll be glad when you and Francis can finally put your quarrels to bed.”

*****

Lurking in elevators was not James’ favourite part of the job, but being the head of communications for her majesty’s opposition had taught him the value in it.  

And he was very, very good at it.  

There was many a junior minister who would automatically piss their pants at James’ looming, immaculately tailored visage ambushing them from the lift’s blind spot.  

This was all to the good – James’ bread and butter.  

But Francis Crozier, of course, was a different matter entirely.  If he had ever in all his years been cowed by an enforcer or a party whip, James had never heard tell of it.  

All the same, when the man himself finally came striding down the corridor towards him, all rumpled grey suit, no tie, and comfortably-soled Clarks boots favoured by scruffy dads the world over, James immediately wanted to slap him.  

The Irishman’s eye-roll upon spotting James was impeccable – honed over years of practice to ooze just the right amount of world-weary disdain.  

“Well done, James. You appear to have gotten the drop on me.”  He drawled, one thick finger stabbing at the button for the ground floor.  

“Well, I wanted to have a word without your hirsute bodyguards present.”  James could actually feel his mouth pulling into the prim little grimace he reserved for their altercations.  “Francis, have you considered what you’re doing?  You are squandering your shot at the top job by refusing the assistance of the one man who can actually help to get you there.”

“You know James, I’ve often wondered how the corridors of power functioned at all before you were born.  Enlighten me on that, why don’t you?”

“For God’s sake, Francis. If you could just stop putting all of your energy into being offended all the time, we might actually be able to have a productive conversation, for once.”  James hadn’t meant that to come out sounding quite as petulant as it had.  

Francis turned the full force of his curled lip and razor sharp eyes onto him.  

James involuntarily took a deep, preparatory breath.

“I know what you want, James Fitzjames.  Your sugar daddy is finally giving up the goat.  You’ve racked the entirety of your public school brains, casting about for the next sucker you can sink your hooks into.  All so you can cling onto your power and influence like a limpet and remain a self-important, uppity, egotistical prick a little longer. Finding, due to the deplorable state of political discourse in this country, that the only candidate with any grass-roots support is this backwards Irish turd, you’ve decided to polish me up.  Is that the long and the short of it?  Well, this turd doesn’t want to be polished.”

The lift doors dinged open on the ground floor even as James’ mouth hung open.  

“I never…”  He spluttered (and he never, ever spluttered). “Francis…  I don’t…”

“Good conversation James, we should do this more often.”  Francis sardonically straightened his jacket lapels before striding from the lift.  

James watched him go, blinking as the lift doors began to shut again.  

*****

“I’ve never called him a turd.”  James muttered over a late lunch.  

“I can believe that.  You’d never say anything that vulgar.”  Agreed Dundy, shovelling forkfuls of lasagne into his mouth.  

“I might have… I mean, I did…  call him ‘backwards’ a few times, I suppose.  I mean, no more than, probably, seven or eight times.  I used to throw around that word a lot, back in the early days with Sir John.  I was a different man back then.”

Dundy nodded in agreement.  “You were an insufferable prick back then.  You were young, though.  Now you’re an older, more sufferable sort of prick.”

“Oh fuck off Dundy.  Don’t even know why I’m talking to you about this.”

“Because you can’t bear solitary introspection?”

“I mean, who else is he going to get to spin for him?  Hickey?  Francis wouldn’t touch that immoral piece of shit with a barge pole.  I’m the best, most senior, most experienced communications officer this party has. Why wouldn’t he want to work with me?  I’m a safe pair of hands! Is he really going to cast me off just because of a few offhand jokes I may have made years ago?”

Dundy chewed thoughtfully while he let James finish.  “You do realise, I suppose, that the reason this is all so personal for you…” He paused to take a few gulps from his bottle of Peroni. “Is because you’re obsessed with him?”

James couldn’t quite make his normally agile mouth form words.  

“I used to find it pretty funny that you didn’t clock it…” Dundy continued. “…but it’s starting to wear a bit thin now.  Do you know, years ago, when we first started working with Sir John, you used to literally go out of your way to interact with Francis.  And then when it became obvious that he didn’t think very much of you, you got even worse.  Taunting him down corridors just so he’d take a verbal swipe at you and you could tell me all about it at lunch the next day.  What he said to you, what you said back, what exact colour his face turned…  You’d get so excited talking about how awful and uncouth and boring he was.  Do you know, Francis Crozier must legitimately be your favourite topic of conversation.  Usually insulting him, I grant you, or laughing about how much you’ve riled him up.  It’s getting a bit embarrassing at this point, Fitz.  So here I am, doing my friendly duty, for once.  Maybe next time you approach Francis about his leadership bid, you should just drop to your knees and suck him off.  Or maybe you could offer yourself to him arse first.  Break the ice and get it out of your system.  Two birds, one stone, that sort of thing.”

James’ fork had clattered onto his plate at some point. He couldn’t seem to order his thoughts.  

“Dundy… you are… you’re… miles off with this whole thing, you know… Ha. Francis?  Ha.  It’s utterly ridiculous.  I mean… You’re completely missing the point.  He’s not even – I mean… He’s… Francis.  He’s…  This is about the good of the party.  And about my career.  And about your career.  And OK, it’s about his career too.  And about the good of the party.  For fucks sake…”

Dundy rolled his eyes and gave James a look which he must have perfected on his twin toddlers.  

“Hey Fitz, remember when you told me about your gap year and how you fucked that weird guy in the toilets at Heathrow?  And then mid flight you realised you still had the condom stuck up your arse and you had to spend twenty minutes in the plane loo trying to fish it out, all while a stewardess was knocking on the door asking if you were alright?  All so they wouldn’t think you were smuggling drugs when you got to Bangkok?”

James blinked at the hard turn in conversation, but just about managed to nod.

“Do you remember when I told you the one about how I accidentally came all over Jane Garibaldi’s face that time and got her right in the eye and she made me take her to the walk-in centre and tell the nurse what had happened?”

James nodded dumbly.

“You laughed your head off through both those tales, Fitz.  And a hundred other embarrassing stories.  You’ve got no shame.  Never saw you blush once.  But you’re blushing now, alright.”

James spluttered. “That’s because you’re talking about Francis Crozier!”

“Exactly.” Concluded Dundy sagely, swigging down the rest of his beer.  

*****

“D’you reckon it’s time we brought Fitzjames on board yet?”  Enquired Ed Little, seemingly out of the blue.  

“Nah.” Francis answered at once.  “He pissed me off the other day in the lift. Entitled public school wanker.  Let him stew a while longer.”

Blanky looked even more thoughtful than usual.  “Let the lad come down another peg or five, maybe learn a bit of humility.  Then and only then, Edward, will we bring him to our loving bosoms and let him sup the milk of socialism.”

Francis grunted in amused agreement.

“You know,” Mused Ed after a moment, with a muted little smile.  “I reckon that maybe there’s only one of us whose loving bosom Fitzjames is interested in…”

Francis snorted in derision and rolled his eyes.

Blanky howled.

*****

Episode Three here...

#the fitzier of it #jimmy fitz is in love #fuckity hi #you don't seem to understand that I'm going to have to mop up a fucking hurricane of piss here from all of these neurotics #fitzier

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

end of the lane

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/p5LE147 by unluckydelights Lois Lane crosses path with Arsenal (Roy Harper) for an interview, of the sorts. As it turns, he has other ideas in mind for her. [ MIND THE TAGS; read at your own risk ] Words: 9729, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: DCU, DCU (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Green Arrow (Comics), Teen Titans - All Media Types, Teen Titans (Comics), Titans (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman (Comics), DC Extended Universe, Young Justice (Cartoon), Superman (Comics), Superman: The Animated Series, My Adventures with Superman (Cartoon) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Categories: F/M Characters: Roy Harper, Lois Lane, Clark Kent, Original Characters, Vicki Vale, Bruce Wayne Relationships: Roy Harper/Lois Lane Additional Tags: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rape, Dubious Consent, Porn With Plot, Explicit Sexual Content, Abuse, Sexual Assault, Extremely Dubious Consent, Sexual Content, Humiliation, Verbal Humiliation, Public Humiliation, BDSM, Face Slapping, Exhibitionism, Slavery, Sexual Slavery, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Nudity, Public Nudity, Misogyny, Sexism, Emotional Manipulation, Manipulation, Brainwashing, Cheating, Adultery, Corruption, Tattoos, Branding, Leashes read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/p5LE147

#IFTTT #bruce wayne #batman #the caped crusader #the dark knight #dcu #ao3 #ao3feed

[clarkgriffon]

1/2 When the plot of season 5 hinged on the onscreen character dynamics of the first four seasons becoming overridden by these new dynamics we were told are important by virtue of an offscreen six year time jump, were we not supposed to be salty? I certainly was. In truth, I didn’t initially resent Space/kru and Clarke & Madi on principle. That only happened when they were used as tools to further isolate Clarke from her people following a six-year absence. And after all the wreckage post-s5?

2/2 They say actions speak louder than words and maybe that’s true, but actions don’t negate the necessity for words. So I’m going to need more than an unearned hug, a 1/16th of a smirk and a 30-second conversation with 4 incomplete sentences before switching gears to the SuperImportantMatterAtHand^TM to feel like Clarke’s relationships are mended and she’s part of a family again. That is, of the characters who are still alive for her to be able to actually converse with.

I’m totally with you. They butchered all the characters they had in S5, and I was looking to S6 to resolve all of that, but... it didn’t. As amazing as S6 was, I think that hinged a lot on the intriguing plot (well, the plot from 6x01-6x10 at least...) and solely the character dynamics between Bellamy and Clarke and separately Murphy’s arc. It was character-driven in a sense, Season 6, but very specific characters only. We get a lot of Bellamy. We get a lot of Clarke. We get a lot of Murphy. But we don’t get a lot of interpersonal dynamics.

Would I like more developing of the Bellarke forgiveness arc? Yeah, honestly, I would. But I’m comfortable with what we have now. Even though it was unspoken, I feel like Bellamy proved how much he loves Clarke and Clarke expressed it verbally in 6x04. They catered to each other’s love languages (Bellamy’s being words of affirmation and Clarke’s being Acts of Service/Physical Touch). I’d love something more explicit on Bellamy’s part where he apologizes for what he does for Madi, but I doubt we’re going to get it and I’m not too upset about that. They’re mended in my opinion.

With Raven and Murphy, I’m 100% with you. That was something done in that last two episodes and completely nonverbal. That was not a solution. That was a band-aid, slapped on two relationships that are profusely bleeding. It’s not going to fix it. If they expect me to believe that those are fixed relationships, I’m going to be very salty about it in Season 7. Clarke deserves so much more and so much better. At this point, with no information at all from the cast on S7 relationships, I have no clue if those relationships will be mended more or if this will be considered their fix. It really could go either way. I’d like to say I have faith in the writers, but based on how they fked up the characters in S5 and how they suddenly sprung E.cho and Clarke being friendly with zero backup or context, I’m not too confident. They don’t understand the characters they’ve written very well, or at least not all the time...

#ask #anonymous #the 100 #the 100 season 7 #speculation

[cantgetoutofmyheda]

ok how about a clexa one where there's a ridiculously bad pick up line involved at a bar?

Thank you, @quesandgays for takin’ a look at this before I posted it. :)

***

The wine bar was much more charming than the usual establishments the sisters frequented. The familiar smell of skunked beer had been replaced with rich and delicate wines, while the half-empty bowls of stale bar nuts had been replaced with cheese and charcuterie boards.

“Why couldn’t we just go to the bar down the street from your apartment like we always do?” Lexa asked in the sort of ‘younger sister whine’ that only Anya could evoke from her.

Across the small table, a smirk appeared, “Because, Lex, you lost a bet. That means I get to pick what we do tonight, you have to do everything I tell you to, and everything we do is on your dime.”

“Anya,” the younger sister started as she swept her hair over her shoulder, “it was over something so stupid, it hardly constituted as a bet. We didn’t even shake on it.”

Anya shrugged before finishing off the libation in her glass, “Lest we not forget, a verbal contract is legally binding in the state of New York.”

“You’re insufferable, you know,” Lexa rolled her eyes, “how you have a license to practice law is beyond me.”

“Oh, relax,” Anya playfully scoffed, “I know you’re enjoying this place just as much as I am. We need to stop being such creatures of habit and expand our horizons. Admit it, you like it here.”

Lexa pursed her lips as she gave out a sigh of defeat, “Fine, maybe I do.”

The pair had been at the bar for quite some time. The happy hour crowd had come and gone, with the place now filling up with people who were ready for dinner. Anya wasn’t sure if the positive change in Lexa’s mood had to do with her sister actually having a good time or if it was the four glasses of Malbec she had consumed, but needless to say, she was happy about it.

“Get out of here, Ahn. I do not have a type,” Lexa shook her head as she motioned for their server to refill her glass.

“Lex, you’ve got to be kidding me. You do. Dark, curly hair, dark eyes. You’re as predictable as they come,” Anya snorted.

Lexa crossed her arms, “That’s not true.”

“Name one girl, then,” her sister challenged her.

Lexa opened her mouth to answer, but wrinkled her nose as she closed it, as no one came to mind. The wine must have been giving her a temporary bout of memory loss, because there was no way her sister could actually be right. She didn’t realize almost a minute had passed while she was rumbling through her thoughts when she noticed Anya rubbing her hands together with a devilish grin plastered on her face.

Lexa raised a brow, “What?”

“I have an idea,” Anya answered, raising her chin slightly.

Lexa cocked her head to the side, “What is it?”

“You have to hit on the next blonde that walks through this door with the cheesiest pick up line you know,” Anya said as she leaned forward across the table, making it known she was intruding in Lexa’s space.

Lexa shook her head as she took another sip of her wine, “Absolutely not.”

“A bet’s a bet, Lex. You have to,” Anya pointed out.

“Ahn, we’re at a nice wine bar, not some skeezy dive bar,” Lexa huffed as she clenched her jaw, “I’m not doing that.”

“Oh, little sister. You will most definitely be doing it,” she then motioned for Lexa to turn around to look at the front door, “and it seems like blondie is just in time.”

Lexa opened her mouth to protest, but then got a glimpse of who her sister was calling her attention to. She was pretty. No, she was beautiful, and she most certainly saw Lexa twisted around in her chair staring right in her direction. The brunette whipped back around to face her sister before taking a large swig of wine from her glass, “I’m going to kill you for this. I hope you know that.”

“Who knows,” Anya tilted her head to the side, “maybe one day you’ll end up thanking me.”

Lexa sighed as she stood up, smoothing down the fabric of her dress. The blonde and the woman she walked in with were seated at the bar, wasting no time ordering a bottle of wine to settle between them. Lexa was preparing herself for what was about to unfold: she was going to use a line, either get slapped or laughed at, then ask to close out her and Anya’s tab so she could go home and never, ever step foot in the establishment or make a bet with her sister ever again.

The blonde’s back was facing Lexa, but as she approached the two, her friend noticed her presence. The girl looked up from her bar seat to where Lexa was standing, ratherly close behind her friend, 

“Hey, Clarke. I think you’ve got a visitor,” she said as her eyes darted to where Lexa was standing.

The blonde turned around and her eyes met the green ones before her, giving Lexa a look telling her she noticed how she was staring when she first entered the bar, “Was there something I could help you with?”

“Actually, there is,” she said, before leaning back and turning to look at Anya, allowing for Clarke to look at the table where the girl was watching with sheer amusement, “Would you grab my arm, so I could tell my sister I’ve been touched by an angel?”

Before Clarke could say anything, her friend coughed out a spritz of wine onto the floor, earning a grin from Lexa. She couldn’t help it when her lips curled into a smile, and she really couldn’t help the blush that was crawling up her neck onto her cheeks, “Does that line normally work for you?”

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was wanting to prove to her sister that she could still be fun. Or maybe it was the beautiful girl that she just made blush.

“You tell me,” she grinned, as she slid the blonde her business card.

Clarke picked up the small piece of card stock from the bar top and read the details on it. When she finally looked up, Lexa was already making her way back to her table, with what seemed to be an extra spring in her step.

#anon #prompt #clexa prompt #clexa #clexa au #clexa ficlet #send me the asks #send me the prompts

[tomhiddleslove]

How can such a cool play make us sweat? Chalk it up to the incredible heat generated by the starry cast of Broadway’s latest “Betrayal,” featuring Tom Hiddleston and Zawe Ashton as a long-married couple and Charlie Cox as the secret lover.

Director Jamie Lloyd’s impeccable direction — now on Broadway, after a hot-ticket London run — strips Pinter’s 1978 play to its bare bones: the excruciating examination of the slow death of a marriage.  It’s a daring approach, leaving the characters nowhere to hide. Certainly not in the language, which is so famously spare that even the pauses pulse with unspoken emotion and hidden meaning. And definitely not in the staging, which is the essence of minimalism.

Soutra Gilmour’s clean-lined sets and monochromatic costumes, along with Jon Clark’s extraordinarily suggestive lighting, are visual definitions of the 14-year marriage of Robert (Hiddleston) and Emma (Ashton), and the intrusive inclusion of Emma’s lover Jerry (Cox). Penetrating strip lighting from above alternately exposes their faces and blots out their expressions by suddenly thrusting them into silhouette.  And if that isn’t enough to illustrate the dynamic of their intertwined relationships, a revolving stage keeps pushing the characters together and then pulling them firmly apart in chilling tableaux of alienation.

All in all, Lloyd’s bold attack is a beautifully bleak approach to Pinter’s most relatable play, the dissection of a marriage, a love affair, and a friendship.  Pinter famously said that, of all his plays, “Betrayal” is the one that most closely adheres to his own life.

The narrative unfolds in reverse, opening with a devastating scene of the former lovers sitting in a café.  Emma is clearly still attached to Jerry and to her fond memories of their affair, while Jerry seems to have put it far behind him.  When Ashton delivers Emma’s line “Just like old times,” she gives it a flirtatious flip – only to encounter Jerry’s indifferent response: “Mmm.”

When she says that she has been thinking of him, Cox delivers Jerry’s unkind reaction – “Good God. Why?” – as a verbal slap in the face. (Emma doesn’t flinch, but I did.)  And when she asks him if he ever thinks of her, his answer – “I don’t need to think of you” – is pure Pinteresque ambiguity.

But what’s a Pinter play without menace? Here, it’s Robert – in Hiddleston’s charged performance, a man who could either howl in pain or take Jerry’s head off — lurking off to the side, but never out of sight.  His is a striking physical performance, as well as an emotionally complicated one.  But his commanding presence is something of a feint. Robert may look like a pillar of strength, but of the three of them, he seems most likely to be permanently scarred by the double betrayal of his wife and his best friend.

From that searing opening scene, the play unfolds in reverse, all the way back to the beginning of this illicit affair, lightening in mood as it moves through time. There are, however, certain topical refrains that keep repeating themselves, like the two friends’ inability to set and follow up on a date to play squash – a manly sport known to bring out the beast in its players.  It’s a cool Pinteresque joke to keep these two in a perpetual standoff. Is each man afraid to make such a bluntly symbolic attack on his rival, or are they both fearful of destroying their friendship?

Lloyd’s staging keeps all three characters onstage and quietly observing throughout the play, which sounds creepy and sort of is.  But it’s also sort of trippy to catch glimpses of their hidden thoughts.  Ashton is the most articulate in this body-speak. With her long, long legs and incredibly graceful movements, she gives Emma an enhanced presence that goes beyond words. Even when she’s in repose, you can’t tear your eyes away from her.

Thanks to the precision of Lloyd’s direction, our eyes are always focused on the proper bit of minimalist action – a quick sideways glance, a casual crossing of the legs – while our heads are occupied with Pinter’s layered thoughts. Of all Pinter’s often-puzzling work, this play is the one that clearly speaks to you, thinks for you, and may even feel for you.

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[ Link to full article in source below. ]

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