Tumgik
#watch me wax poetic about my wife again;;
freakywizard · 3 months
Note
hiii r&m anon here again!!! i noticed you mentioned liking season 7, so i was wondering if you had any favorite or least favourite episodes, plotlines, all that jazz. season 7 debrief, if you will. would love to hear your thoughts!
ram anon gracing my inbox once again (always a pleasure)
huge rant below the cut (talking about rick and morty triggers the longwinded newspaper art critic in me sorry)
s7e2 and e4 were the best episodes in my opinion. absurd, darkly funny, overall just so perfect. i was especially excited about s7e2 since the rick/jerry dynamic has intrigued me since episode s3e5. i love that that episode basically just confirmed Rick and Jerry may be foils but are also perfect complements? they can only understand / appreciate each other when they are literally existing in each other's flesh? i try not to wax poetic about ram but this episode was tempting meeeee
and re: e4, i think this show's writing is at its best when the writers come up with a stupid concept and treat it seriously. i love that this episode saw the concept of 'what if corpse spaghetti' through to the end. classic dark comedy, absurd, wacky goodness. lovee it
one thing i do hate about this season (as well as seasons 5 and 6) is the number of callbacks to 'old' rick and morty. s7e3 and s7e8 were some of the worst episodes this season, mostly because they just reused old plotlines and developed them in the least interesting ways possible, imo. did the mid gag from s3e5 really need its own episode? it really did not. i think that this is one of the worst consequences of the show becoming less episodic and more serialized - the writers just endlessly milk the early seasons to recycle into plotlines, one-off gags, whatever. the self-referentiality and meta humor of newer seasons will always, always grind my gears severely.
also, s7e7 was almost unwatchable. it reminded me of s6e2 in all the worst ways - just dedicating an entire episode to a SINGLE movie reference, doubling down on the singular reference as the episode drags on. god that episode sucked. so boring, annoying, unfunny.
i have extremely mixed feelings on s7e5. On the one hand, I'm still annoyed that the backstory from s3e1 is even canon, and Rick is yet another entry in the long tradition of flawed male protagonists turned into a nihilistic depressed shitshow by the death of a wife. it's such a pat trope, imo.
HOWEVER, i really like how this episode developed Rick. I'll always be a fan of ruthlessness and revenge plotlines, so im biased. but i've come to appreciate Rick Prime as a villain, as a testament to how much Rick hates himself -- there's a version of himself out there that would torture himself across the universe by killing off his own loved ones, just to try to prove his own superiority? it's all very mindfucky but im super into it. Rick C137 killing Prime with his fists, all while Prime goads him? it was such a cool scene. i love when the show does selfcest
i also still have mixed feelings on the evil morty and his growing prominence in the series. it was nice when he was just a little treat, but it became clear in s4 the writers were aware of fan expectations for the character. i can't help but wonder if that's shaped the way they're writing him, especially giving him the centralized role in the story of possible-future-final-antagonist? that being said i've always liked evil morty, he's a fun character to watch on screen. although i'm extremely cautious of my enjoyment. he's already starting to feel like a fanfic rip-off of himself a little bit (that one line where he said 'well, they don't call me good morty' was so bizarre. evil morty was the fandom name for him, and the writers adopted it and made it a diegetic epithet for the character???????)
s7e10 was refreshing after a long season of Morty getting sidelined. I love how this one starts with a classic rick and morty set-up (what if *weird thing* in *random place*) but turns it into existential horror? really cool. i don't think it was the most subtle way to do morty character development, but it was interesting enough that i was invested. also, rick pinning morty's picture to the pinboard. so good
overall my reaction to this season is 'we're so back.' it was LEAGUES better than s5-6, which i think are like the ram dark ages. i don't think s7 was the best season yet (as some are suggesting) but I think that this season marks a positive turn for the quality of writing in the show.!!
here's my episode ranking in ( i mostly did this for fun)
E2
E5
E4
E10
E6
E1
E3
E9
E7
E8
Basically, e7 and e8 were irredeemably terrible. e9, e3, and e1 were mid/fine. e6, e10, e4, e5, and e2 were all varying degrees of peak rick and morty.
other mics. thoughts:
i felt like there was a lot of long, no dialogue, sad music montages that felt like references to the famous scene from s4e8? the one from s7e4 comes to mind immediately. but there were another few sprinkled in
s7e3 rick telling a scientologist "worship how you want" ??? he would not say that. who let that slide in the writing room?
the fight scenes and gore were all really well animated!! since s3 the animation has only gotten better and i love the gore
i actually love the new VAs. they're different from roiland, obviously, but i honestly think they're both doing a better job. the performances are more naturalistic, and less grating? i thought the change would weird me out, but it's subtle, and i like it
Rick canonically bad at eating pussy in his youth
14 notes · View notes
lattehearted · 11 months
Note
‘ you look so familiar … didn’t we take a class together? because i could’ve sworn we had chemistry. ‘ (Beej @ Peg fsdhkfjds)
It's the first thing he says, leaning against the door jamb and sweeping her over with that indescribably warm gaze. It's not quite arousal but not entirely pure; it's a look of love that reflects the multitudes or BJ and their decade and a half together.
Peg hasn't grown more than an inch since high school, if that. She's still drowning in his old letterman jacket, hands disappearing inside the sleeves. She and Hawkeye had been sorting through old boxes from the attic and the sight of old high school relics had filled the brunet with such giddiness that Peg couldn't help but reflect it.
Peg had insisted that Hawkeye try BJ's letterman on first. That little milestone of teenage puppy love that Peg had already gotten to indulge in; Hawk deserved a taste of it. And by the way he had preened in the mirror, it was a taste he was gonna savor and sample further down the line. But when he drapes it over Peg's shoulders, he looks breathless, awed in a way that she's still learning to bask in from him. She's flushed pink and glowing from the inside out under the heat of Hawkeye's stare.
No wonder BJ feels the need to chime in with equal reverence.
"It was geometry, actually," is the first thing Peg can think to counter with, her mind swimming pleasantly but incoherently under the weight of her lovers' combined gaze.
"What, no waxing poetic about meeting in drama class this time?" Hawk's shaken off his stupor, the quip falling from his lip when Peg fails to retaliate BJ's flirt successfully.
Her mind finds a direction, leads her to a small classroom where she nearly mistakes her future husband for a teacher, towering over half of the class as he did. "Nope," she assures, popping the last syllable as she reaches into the box of mementos for a yearbook. "Mr. Myers' geometry class. His name came right after mine in the roll call," she recalls.
"Right," BJ draws the word out in realization as the memories return, slowly but surely. "You were a couple rows behind me, weren't you?"
"Close enough to watch your jaw clench when Mr. Myers nearly said your full name in class."
Hawkeye for his part clutches a hand to his chest, collapsing beside Peg on the couch in a faux feint. "I can't believe I had to go through hell and back to try and find out his full name and you got it within half an hour of meeting him."
"You'd think that, wouldn't you?" Peg smirks, though it softens immediately as Hawkeye reaches out to twirl an errant lock of her golden curls around his finger. "But no, our Beej was very lucky roll call started with last names first, because he cut poor Mr. Myers off immediately and told him he goes by BJ."
"You're one to talk," BJ laughs, perched on the arm of the couch beside his wife. "If I recall correctly, you were the one who had to let everyone know you go by Peg and not Margaret."
"I was a good girl and waited until he finished speaking before correcting him," she counters primly, giggling when BJ, without a rebuttal, leans down to kiss the tip of her nose.
"Love at first sight, huh?" Hawk has that look in his eye again, the one where he's okay just watching, soaking up the history deep in BJ and Peg's marrow from before he had even walked into their lives. As if he could walk in their past hand in hand with them if he just heard enough tales.
Instead of a joke, Peg ponders for a moment before admitting, "More like confusion at first sight. I remember writing his name down in my notebook with a big question mark, because it was such an unusual nickname."
A pause, and though she doesn't move much so Hawk can still toy with her hair, she turns to glance at her husband. She can only see reflections of the boy she met; and all the better for it. He was more free now, looser, warmer, happier. And she loved him all the more. "I didn't start doodling Mr. and Mrs. BJ Hunnicutt in my notebooks until at least a year later."
She could drown in the look BJ gives her, warm and inviting. She doesn't close her eyes yet, even as he leans in closer. "Sounds like chemistry to me, don't you think Hawk?"
Hawkeye only hums, pressing against Peg's back and reaching forward to lace his fingers with BJ's. Locked between two of her favorite people, her husband's mouth warm and familiar on hers, Hawk's mouth soft and searching on the back of her neck, Peg doesn't have the urge to argue the point.
6 notes · View notes
dcviated · 1 year
Text
TAG NINE PEOPLE YOU’D LIKE TO KNOW BETTER!
Tumblr media
favourite colour(s): Jeweltones? At least that's what my wife says they are. Deep vivid colors- typically blues, greens, and oranges. But we'll go with blue for this.
favourite genre(s): Of??? Fiction??? Or writing? Either way I think my best time is to be had with adventure and mystery, but tinting both with a comedic edge. Not marvel level but some lightheartedness to break things up here and there. Things that play out on a bigger scale. Whether it's geographical or emotional. Toss some fluff in there.
 favourite music: I've got a pic somewhere that makes fun of how varied my taste is. I dunno where I'd place it. Indie? Otakucore? The artist I've been savoring the most as of late is SIAMES. They're amazing. Just listen to this.
favourite movie: Have I waxed poetic about Everything Everywhere All At Once as of late? Because oh does that really get up there for me. Alongside Fury Road and Parasite. Consider it recency bias or something but those all are a jam for different reasons.
favourite series: For video games? Metroid and Rune Factory. Those explorathon and farm sim genres always scratch a good itch for me. I love upgrading powers and getting to open new doors man it's a problem. For anime? Gankutsuou. A fantastic rendition of the count of monte cristo. The visual style is amazing and I love the dub to boot. A series I go back to watch a lot. For TV? Idk. It's been so long since I watched current tv stuff. Better Call Saul sure was a trip.
 last song: I'm always shuffling through tracks like mad and listening to random things on youtube or spotify. To pin down an answer in a better way. The last song I added to my favs on spotify is this one.
last series: 🤔 I guess the last thing I 'wrapped up' watching was Bocchi. Which was definitely the best of the season.
last movie: Puss in Boots Last Wish. :^) I'd see that again to be honest. Totally out of left field how good it was. Had no right going that hard with style, substance, and character. Hope it wins best animated pic.
currently reading: I tried reading the Bullet Train book but couldn't really get into it as much. I dunno what it says about me that I found the movie a lot more entertaining and compelling. The complete book I read before that was the 7.5 deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle. And that was a couple years ago.
currently watching: A few things. F to the Nier anime, because that was really good. I'm really enjoying Tomo-chan is a Girl, Trigun Stampede, and the campfire isekai tho.
currently working on: Kinda scattered right now trying to set my gears. I was doing drafts on @cadcnce and now I might do some more here or hit things on the sideblog. We'll see. My wife's about to leave for work and then I'll settle in and decide... perhaps... after a nice long workout. :V
tagged by: @ofliminalities thanks!! still squinting at you tho tagging: @psychcdelica @orderbourne @prinzessins @eliteimperialism @paraleech @sparklymuses @squidsavior @pastballads @musesofthemoon how about that grabbed nine, or you can steal it! :V
7 notes · View notes
zeawesomebirdie · 1 year
Text
Paging @unmaskedcardinal and anyone else who's interested in my thoughts so far on MASH!!
Ive now finished up to episode 19!!
Im still hardcore in the Hawkeye/Radar camp, i actually may or may not have started a fic for them this morning, and i think Radar is a trans man and i love that for him
Okay okay so to sum up my thoughts
Lets just start with, this show really has the range. Yesterday i was crying laughing from the episode where they made a movie, today i was just plain out crying from Tommy's death. My dad was in and out during that episode and told me a bit about the whole "they never hear the bullets" thing, just. This is the first death that actually affects the main characters, and as beautiful as Hawkeye is with tears on his face im really not ready for later seasons where other people start dying too
Speaking of people dying, i told my dad i wasnt ready for Henry to die and he told me not to worry because that wont be for another few seasons. Im still not ready. I love this man so much hes just so. I love him
I really love how consistently this whole season so far has just been Hawkeye consistently doing the right thing over and over and over, and i especially liked that with the Tuttle episode and also when he got that kid a Purple Heart and again with Casey being a fake doctor. Just. This man deserves the whole galaxy and hes such a good person, and he so strongly believes in doing the right thing despite this war and thats so. I love him. Hes so good
I am ashamed to admit that Frank is growing on me (affectionate). He still has a stick up his ass and i hate that for him, but that he just trusts Hawkeye and Trapper to help him, regardless of what he needs help with, like. And then that Hawkeye and Trapper will go out of their way to help him too, regardless of whats wrong! I love that, and honestly i love that Margaret is starting to grow fond of them too
Im still finding the Frank/Margaret stuff cringey, but its now cringey (affectionate), and i still love this for them. I hope theyre happy! Its still hilarious that Margaret gets all weird whenever Frank mentions his wife though
This show is already like, imprinting on me. The amount of nostalgia and affection i have for it is just so. I mean, i do not remember anything of it from when i was a kid, other than my grandpa using it to bribe me to do my homework. He used to tell me if i did my homework i could watch a few episodes with him, and for whatever reason watching this with him was my favourite thing to do, so i did my homework as fast as i could. Its really really wonderful to be watching it now that im old enough to actually understand it and to have it be just as good as little kid!me thought it was. Maybe i should wait until further seasons to wax poetic 😅 anyway!
I only have five episodes left now!!!
Thank you and have a good timezone!
3 notes · View notes
inkofamethyst · 1 year
Text
September 29, 2022
Effects of Critical Role on my Daily Life
audibly saying “big money no whammies” as I submit the answers to an online quiz and then describing my reaction to the grade with an amount of money or a number of whammies or both
inserting the phrase “critical role” in every essay I write
I accidentally became super invested in the Ned Tryguy Tries Infidelity drama that burst onto yesterday’s tiktok scene (like,,,, and this has never happened to me before, but every single tiktok on my fyp was about this dude) and this was a problem because I had two exams today and while they ended up being fairly straightforward (I think) only time will tell whether spending two hours on my phone instead of memorizing sea urchin embryonic cleavage was worth it.  It has significantly subsided today and I’m greeted with the chess-player-uses-anal-beads-to-cheat scandal and lil jokey jokes (including the suggestion that the supposed cheater should play naked) about it.  I haven’t watched Buzzfeed or TryGuys in years but whew boy I was itching for information like there was no tomorrow.  I learned so much about these men and so much about Buzzfeed (I never watched any of the “why I left Buzzfeed” videos bc I figured they were all just going to talk about a draining work environment) and just,,,,, I don’t know if I can ever trust a man who waxes poetic about loving his wife ever again (I’m joking but still).
I find it funny that I’ve coincidentally been getting back into Good Mythical Morning a little more recently, you know, another YouTube sensation from back in the mid-2010s.  
There is.. a pressure which I am placing on myself to receive admission to a graduate school which is better than or at the very least equal to the quality of the school which I am attending for undergrad.  So, a few places I intend to apply do not fit that description, and it bums me out a little to think about it.  Like, my entire goal here is to climb upward.  Or at least to not go downward.  And as intelligent as these people at these universities may be, it makes me feel a little sad at the prospect that “hey maybe I won’t end up in a cool place for grad school” you know?
I suppose I felt that way about the school I’m attending now, though.  It was at the bottom of my list, but I am thankful that I chose to attend this place.  I made the best out of the hand I was given, and that’s okay.  It might just be that I’d have to do it again.
Today I’m thankful that my two exams went better than expected (I think).
4 notes · View notes
novinare · 5 months
Note
🔸
spinning the muse roulette wheel! // accepting
Tumblr media
🔸 for a person in their past
Tumblr media
Ragnor's chest ached for Jem's hopeless belief-- both that he was going to die, and that the people who loved him had given up.  That they would ever be able to watch him die without feeling the piercing sting of guilt in their grief.  "I see." He said finally, and looked back up at the sky, crossing one knee over the other.  "Then I will consider myself lucky to have met you, and leave it at that."
When Ragnor thinks about the people he's loved and lost, Jem Carstairs is probably the first that comes to mind.
For centuries it was his wife and daughter, the horror of their deaths and his own helplessness etched deep in his memories. Time can't heal those memories, but it had faded the bitter edges of them.
In contrast, Jem's loss is much fresher. He was the love that found Ragnor centuries after he'd given up hope of every loving anyone again.
It all started with a consultation for the local Institute, a necessary evil since he was the High Warlock of London at the time. They'd worked well together, at a time when most Shadowhunters were barely civil to Downworlders.
And loving him had been confusingly, and terrifyingly, easy.
They kept their love a secret, and they weren't together long-- but they'd both known that Jem was sick.
What Ragnor doesn't know is that Jem choose to join the Silent Brothers... And Jem doesn't want him to.
Ragnor leaned hard against the wall and looked up at the ceiling like it might hold some answers.  With a thin, hopeless laugh, he finally looked over at Catarina and tore a hand through his white hair.  "I tried not to.  What could I offer him?  I have nothing-- nothing, save for the little time that's actually my own.  But I look at him and-- damn it all, I'm not going to wax poetic like Magnus.  But he's exquisite, and I could love him against my will-- and fight it, and fail.  Or admit it.. and God spare me, but I do."
0 notes
lawrencesexton · 1 year
Text
WRUP: Giant Robots For The Win Edition
I knew before going to watch Pacific Rim that I was going to be a fan on some level. I love giant robots and kaiju-themed films and it was expected to be fun and dumb. As it turned out, it was excellent fun and without the dread. It's not a serious film, but it's a film that is full of love letters to the genres it influenced. There are homages, but there's no need to delve into the past.
You can leave out 3D, because it didn't utilize it to its fullest effect and if you're slightly interested in the film do yourself a favor and watch it. It's worth every penny you spend, and much more than that.
I could be poetic about the film here I could wax poetic about the film here, but WRUP is about the film we're watching, not about the films we're obsessing about. If you go to the end of the break, you'll find precisely the opposite. Please share with us what you'll be doing this weekend in the comments.
@Beau_Hindman - I'm an avid shooter, more so than ever before. Therefore, I'll be spending time in PlanetSide 2, Defiance, and, most recently, Firefall which looks absolutely amazing. My wife is sporting a new gaming laptop which allows us to destroy things together. It's hard. I'll also be taking on RuneScape's Bacon Quest. It looks incredible however the bacon jerky they sent was a disaster.
@nbrianna: I'm not sure where I'll be this weekend. Ultima Online will soon expire as well as my EVE Online Freebie has expired and Guild Wars 2 has, according to some reports, devolved into a series involving jumping puzzles that don't have an exit. I'm sure I'm mad when World of Warcraft has started appearing attractive again. Save me Steam summer sale!
@PsykopigAU: Guild Wars 2 is definitely on the agenda for me this weekend, however I've been thinking about going for a quick trip to Star Wars: The Old Republic because of the closing of the servers on the ocean. It brought back memories of the wonderful times I spent playing PVP on servers with low-ping and also made me realize how much I miss the game. EXTREMEMINING
@Eliot_Lefebvre: This is the final weekend of closed testing in Final Fantasy XIV, so I'll be taking charge of this. I've got a lot to do in Star Wars: The Old Republic before the next patch is released and, on top of that, I've got a 3DS to play on. Theatrhythm Final Fantasy, Fire Emblem Awakening and Theatrhythm Final Fantasy are far better than any mobile game that has any right to be.
@irljasmine: Right now my gaming world revolves around exploring Eorzea with my little archer. I am enjoying Final Fantasy XIV's A Realm Reborn beta quite frequently, so I'll be taking in every bit of beta goodness I can. When it's time to get away from moogles and chocobos, I'll be trying to figure how my town was built on top so many fossils in Animal Crossing. It's kind of a hazard.
@jefreahard I'll be playing NCAA Football 14. I am one of those guys, but look at it this way. Georgia Tech will never win another national championship if it's not on someone else's console. Oh, and GT Legends is an old racing simulator that I found on Steam. Best $2.49 I've ever spent.
@MJ_Guthrie: I'm planning on getting the final of the guardian pets at The Secret World's anniversary event and I'll stay until I get them! I'm just going to have to take them all! I'm really only going to need two more (which unfortunately equates to many, many golem bosses). If I'm lucky, I might even be able to get into Fusang for my last one. If I can finish my set before the weekend ends I'll be weaving some songs using my Songweaver Aion. And then , most likely, return to TSW to play with more golems.
@RichieProcopio - This weekend, I'll be playing Guild Wars 2. This new-fangled achievement reward system has really tinkered with my OCD tendencies. I now view the game as one long achievement meter that needs to be filled to capacity. At the finish line, a hellfire helmet waits for my Norn to wear it and bask in its warmth. The situation has just gotten more awkward.
@Epykbeard I'll be playing lots of Wurm Online and some PlanetSide 2 to mix it all up. Spartacus Legends is a favorite of mine on the Xbox, and I plan to play it for the rest of my life. Of course, the Steam sale in the summer will affect all these plans, and I'll end up playing something brand new that everyone else beat three months ago, like BioShock Infinite.
1 note · View note
mrs-kelly · 3 years
Text
I love my wife so much. She's just an everyday part of my life. So much of my music taste is because of her. Every time I hear a new song, I think about how much she would love it.
Every time I feel a little rebellious twinkle within me, I know I got that from her. She inspires me all the time to think for myself and to be comfortable stepping out of the box. She's her own person and so so special and I love her so dearly that I can't even contain my love for her within my body;;; it ekes out into my aura as a light blue streak that follows me everywhere
4 notes · View notes
Text
so back in early march i wrote this ficlet for my pal @chaoticdean​ and yesterday i asked y’all if it needed an easter sequel...enough folks (read: three whole people) said yes so here it is. this can totally be read alone but you get more fluff if you read both 👀
--------------
It’s late Saturday night when Cas decides to ruin Dean’s entire Sunday. 
Because Dean’s busy, isn’t he? He has plans, his day is packed. Albeit it’s packed with working in the garage, but it’s packed nonetheless.
None of that seems to matter to the former angel of the lord that he married, who suddenly breaks into their relaxed post-coital atmosphere with, “Can I ask you a favor?”
Dean, like the stupidly in love fool he is, replies, “Of course,” without thinking of the consequences. 
“Tomorrow’s Easter,” Cas continues, “And I want to go to church.”
That causes Dean to sit up and prop his head up on his hands. He stares at Cas, who’s just looking at him serenely. “But we don't....celebrate Easter,” Dean counters. “Or any religious holiday, really.”
“Oh, you know I don’t go to church for that part. I like the company.”
“But you don’t have to go to the Easter service,” Dean says.
“But I want to. And I want you to come with me. Jack’s already said he will.”
And that’s that, isn’t it? If Dean’s kid and husband are going, all bets are off, so Dean lets out a laborious sigh. “Fine. I’ll go. But I’m not wearing a suit.”
“That’s alright,” Cas says, and his smile is nearly enough to make this whole thing worth the trouble.
**************
Besides going to Cas’ knitting circle a couple of times, Dean hasn’t actually been to the church Cas is all gung-ho about, but he finds himself there at ten am on Easter Sunday in his nicest pair of jeans and an untucked flannel. They came in Cas’ truck, early, because there won’t be a lot of parking, Dean, and now they’re sitting in a pew. Dean tries not to fidget, but he’s never really been in a church except to gank monsters.
The service isn’t so bad--the flower arrangements and stained glass in the church are pretty, and Cas gets really into the organ and hymns, which is nice to watch. Dean fully zones out during the sermon, although he briefly wonders what the priest would think if he knew that a member of his congregation used to be an angel.
(Cas also doesn’t pay attention during the sermon, and Dean knows this because Cas plays footsie with him the entire time.)
After the final dismissal, Dean is ready to get back to their house. The weather’s nice, so instead of working on one of their cars he’s kind of thinking about helping Cas in his garden. They’ve got some good vegetables coming up, and Sam and Eileen are supposed to come to dinner tomorrow, so it might be nice to harvest some lettuce and carrots.
All of those plans fall apart, though, when Jack disappears momentarily while Dean is in the middle of trying to get Cas to stop talking to Barbara from the knitting group. He comes back with a plate wrapped in foil, and Dean stops tugging on Cas’ hand to look at Jack.
“What’s that?” Dean whispers.
“Cookies,” Jack replies. “Cas and I made them yesterday, remember? For the potluck?”
Dean blanches, and then tugs on Cas’ hand again, finally getting his attention. “Hey sweetheart,” Dean says, “What is this I hear about a potluck?”
“Oh,” Cas replies, “I completely forgot to mention it. But Jack and I made cookies for it.”
He forgot, my ass, Dean thinks to himself, but once again he can see that there’s no getting out of it, so he lets himself get led to the parish hall. 
The things he does for love. 
The fact that Dean doesn’t know anybody here isn’t as much of a problem as Dean anticipated, because everyone seems to know Cas. At some point, they get cornered by the priest’s wife, who waxes poetic over the cookies they brought and then turns her attention to Dean. 
“And we have heard so much about you, honey,” she says, the flowers on her big Easter hat bobbing, and Dean is fairly certain her name is Tracy. “Cas is always talking about his family.”
“All good things, I hope,” Dean jokes, and Tracy nods along.
“Absolutely!” she laughs, and then strikes up a conversation with Jack about vacation bible school this summer, and Dean files that away in his head to mention as an absolutely not later. Something about God himself being a bible school leader feels a little bit wrong, and Dean isn’t even religious. 
He turns his attention back to Cas. “So you talk about me, huh?”
“Of course.” Cas inclines his head and says, “But watch out for Elizabeth over there. I showed the knitting group a picture of us and she said you were ruggedly handsome. I think she has a crush.”
Dean laughs. “Don’t worry about that. You’re stuck with me.”
Dean knows that he’s stuck with Cas, too, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. If Dean had to design a perfect Sunday morning, this definitely wouldn’t be it, but it makes Cas happy, and he couldn’t ask for anything better than that.
(Even if Dean doesn’t realize until later that he accidentally set a precedent that he would be more involved in Cas’ social life. Little does he know that this summer he’ll find himself helping fix the church’s old wooden flooring and will somehow get coerced into flipping burgers at the church’s Fourth of July cookout. But that’s a problem for future Dean.)
98 notes · View notes
momowho34 · 3 years
Text
So that story about Dionysus being the son of Persephone is awful and gross for like 10 different reasons but can we stop and just appreciate how amazingly they would get along? Like dionysus has mysterious chthonic connections on his own and both of them show evidence of being preceded by really old and dangerous figures and they both have rebirth themes and agricultural themes and I just keep imagining
(This isn’t for a fandom it’s just straight up Greek mythology btw)
———————————————————————
Styx: Yeah idk, I just... found him here?
Dionysus, after wandering into the underworld and passing out next to the river Styx, wearing dramatic grape vines, drunk as fuck, tired, entirely oblivious to anything ever, should be totally harmless but still has the faintest aura of the maddened screams of the dying and the roar of lions drifting around him: hnngh???
Persephone, tearing up: *gasps* new bestie!!!!
Styx: ??????
———————————————————————
Persephone, during their weekly visits, painting his nails: *sighs* it’s just.... so exhausting to be raised from the dead every year, y’know? Really fucks with my beauty routine. I love seeing my mom but being brought back to life is just a little tedious. Dying is like so much easier.
Dionysus, feeding Cerberus ghost pork chops under the table with his other hand: oh sweetheart I know. I’ve died and been reborn three times, did you know that? Exhausting. Every. Single. Time.
Persephone: omg dish!!!!
———————————————————————
Persephone, on the way to the fields of Elysian with Dionysus: I just don’t understand why you had to kill him! He was so close to reuniting with his wife... er- whatever her name was, but they were really cute and you know how I am about love stories I just... I’m so upset!!!
Dionysus, carrying Orpheus’s soul over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes: look, he was ruining my vibe, okay? I really value my vibe! That’s just how it is. Besides, he lost his chance to find her in the living world when he turned around and saw her. Now he gets to reunite with his lover.... dicey-universe or whatever her name was.
Orpheus, weakly: Eurydice, my beloved that I lost, oh how her beauty was- ack!
Dionysus, frowning, wacking Orpheus over his shoulder: hush, you. We’re almost there. If you start waxing poetic or singing about tragic love again I will throw you into Asphodel so fast-
Persephone: oh don’t pretend that you didn’t come down here to save your wife a long time ago.
Dionysus, scoffing: okay, but that’s different! I am allowed to be here. Ariadne just came down for a little visit, she wasn’t planning to stay dead!
Persephone: .....I’m not entirely sure you understand how death works, dionysus.
———————————————————————
Hades, sighing: honey I don’t want to limit your friend circle, it’s just that it’s dangerous for someone to traverse between realms like this!
Persephone: I’m telling you though, he is a death god!
Hades: darling I’m finding it hard to believe that the god of wine and partying is-
Dionysus, turning the corner, with his horns and thrysus and slit pupil eyes and leopard skin and somehow giving off ancient old god eldritch abomination energy despite wearing sunglasses and drinking a smoothie: ‘Sup fuckers.
Hades, backing away: dear fucking Kronos yeah that’s a death god, that’s a really old death, that’s an old as Tarterus death god, holy fucking shit okay have fun sweetie he’s free to hang out down here whenever he wants I’m going to go throw up have fun you two bye no way I’m fucking with this shit not today-
———————————————————————
(tw: people talking about sex)
Persephone: okay but you can’t have had sex with that many nymphs! I know those girls! Boroe, Khonoris, Nikaia, Methe, Pallene-
Dionysus, sighing: Okay, okay, it wasn’t that many nymphs and humans! Just... look, let’s stop talking about my love life and talk about yours, hmm? Like did you have any other romantic escapades other then Mr. Scary Pants here?
Persephone: hmmm.... well there was this one really cute guy that I hung out with for a while, Adonis. He was pretty great, honestly.
Dionysus: ooh, Adonis... I remember him, he was really cute- shit, sorry, I had a fling with him too but this isn’t about me, go on.
Persephone, rolling her eyes: ugh, of course you did. Anyway, he’s no use to me dead, and he got killed by Ares.
Dionysus: oof, Ares. Fate worse then death. Why was he killed by Ares?
Persephone: because he slept with Aphrodite, Ares really hates it when people sleep with his girlfriend.
Dionysus, reminiscing: oooohhh, Aphrodite. Now she was definitely something, I remember this one time we- why are you looking at me like that?
Persephone:
Persephone: you.
Persephone: you never told me you slept with aPHRODITE- *assorted sounds of screaming and crashing*
———————————————————————
Demeter, exasperated, during the summer months: oh by the Titans, you can’t seriously be telling me that you’re friends with Bacchus of all people.
Persephone: but why! He’s an agriculture god, you two should get along! Plus he’s not dangerous- ok, he’s a little dangerous, but like, not to me!
Demeter, sighing: sweetheart I assure you, it’s not about if he’s dangerous-
Dionysus, popping through a window, looking at Demeter: heeeyyyyy! yo, it’s Bread Basket, my favorite bestie!!! I’m doing real good at this domesticated planting thing, I’m a born natural at it hahaha!!! I just wanted to let you know that I’ve been taking really good care of the vineyards you helped me plant, absolutely no fires or villager beheadings so far! I promise no more screw ups- *glances behind him* oh my gods you stupid fucking satyr’s, that is the ONE plot of land that you’re not supposed to- Sorry Demi, gotta go good luck with the.... whatever it is you do, bye!!!
Persephone, staring in awe as Dionysus runs back to the fields and desperately tries to corrall the satyr’s in his cult that are munching on grape vines as the maenads cheer and throw sticks in the background: wow. I’ve never... ive never seen this side of him before.
Demeter, putting her head in her hands: yet another reason why I wish I had your luck, Kore.
———————————————————————
Dionysus, standing next to persephone, watching Psyche skip away with a box of beauty cream tucked under her arm: ....You know she’s gonna open that box.
Persephone: yep.
Dionysus: and that it’s going to kill her?
Persephone: yep.
Dionysus: and that doesn’t bother you?
Persephone, sighing: look, have a little faith in Eros. He’s a resourceful little shit, he’ll figure something out, and watching Aphrodite realize she’s been bested by her own son will taste like poetry. I can’t wait to see it.
Dionysus, whistling: damn gurl you hold a grudge.
Persephone, narrowing her eyes: only against Aphrodite. Only against Aphrodite.
———————————————————————
Dionysus: anyway I was *Baby Melinoe grabs his arm and he freezes* oh my god what is that
Persephone, laughing: that’s just my daughter, Dionysus. I think she likes you.
Dionysus: fuck. Oh gods. um- uhhhhh- what I do with it, I don’t know- I don’t know what to do with it-
Melinoe: *laughs*
Dionysus, sweating: oh no. Why did it make that sound? Did I break it? Is it- is it broken??? What am I supposed to do with this??? Is it okay????
Persephone: gods this is so going in the fucking scrapbook.
Melinoe: *latches onto Dionysus’s arm as he continues to panic*
Dionysus: persephone is it okay? Is it broken? Persephone I’m not kidding your husband honestly freaks me the fuck out I don’t wanna break your kid oh my gods
Persephone: she usually doesn’t like people she doesn’t know-
Melinoe: *starts to climb on him*
Dionysus: oh fuck, no no no what is it doing, Persephone I’m not kidding what is it doing, what is it doing Persephone get it off me oh my gods I’m not joking perSEPHONE-
131 notes · View notes
cassiopeiasara · 3 years
Note
Westallen 52+70
Marriage of Convenience+Locked in a Room (so this def got away from me and turned into a full fic that’s also on ao3 here).
Here’s the thing about Iris West, she never breaks a promise. Even one made at nine years old before Barry loses everything.
They’re at his house. His mom smiles from the kitchen telling Iris of course she can stay while her dad works late. She likes Nora’s smile, it’s bright and warm just like the Allen’s home.
They’re in the middle of math worksheets when Barry asks.
“Iris?”
Iris tilts her head. “Yeah?”
Barry fidgets with his pencil. “Do you want to get married one day?”
Iris laughs. “Yeah but dad says I’m not allowed till I’m 35.”
Barry’s eyes go wide. “That’s a long time.”
Iris nods. “It is, but I’ll probably find someone before that.”
Barry nods in return. They’re silent for a little while longer before he speaks up again. “If you don’t find anyone, would you marry me?”
Iris considers him a moment. “That’s forever from now, Barry. What if you find someone?”
He shrugs. “If I don’t? And you don’t?”
Iris holds out her pinkie. “I promise.”
Barry’s cheeks go pink as he links his pinkie with hers.
A year later when he’s crying in her lap and she’s stroking his hair, he whispers “would you still marry me one day, Iris?”
She wipes his cheeks. “Sure, Barry.”
Neither one of them expects their thirty-fifth birthdays to arrive with no spouses or children but as with many other millennials, the future never quite looks how they expected.
Barry is over one evening helping repair Iris’ kitchen sink because her super is useless and Joe’s back won’t allow him to do tasks like this anymore.
Iris blames the latest lifestyle article for why she brings it up at all. CCPN has been running a series on women and how much their lives have improved but also the struggles of modern times. Though thirty-five feels nowhere near old, Iris has been made all too aware that her statistical odds as a well educated black professional are not as much in favor of a spouse as she would like.
She swings her legs on the counter after she hands Barry the wrench he asked for. “Hey, Bear?”
There’s a small grunt of acknowledgement below her.
“You remember that time we were nine doing homework at your house and you asked if I’d marry you?”
There’s a clang of tools and a curse as Barry slides out from under the sink. She feels bad as she watches him rub his forehead, a small red spot appearing.
“Yeah,” he says quickly. “W-what made you think about that?”
She shrugs. “Well we’ve hit our time limit.”
He shakes his head. “Iris, we were nine. Thirty five feels ancient at nine.”
She crosses her arms and peers down at him. “You backing out on me now, Barry?”
He stares at her a moment. “Are you serious?”
“I don’t give out pinky swears lightly.”
He tilts his head up at her and she thinks, not for the first time, that he’s grown up to be so much more than the scrawny nerd she knew in school. He’s still a nerd of course but he’s filled out and can actually throw a punch almost as well as she can. Not to mention, he’s the director of the CSI division and often travels to consult for departments in other cities. He volunteers in the summers at various science camps, laughs at all her jokes and is so useful at trivia night. He’s still her best friend, she could do a whole lot worse.
“What about that Eric guy you were seeing?”
She rolls her eyes. “It only took one drink to realize he’s not worth my time. What about Tina?”
He scoffs. “She left with our waiter.”
Iris hops off her counter and pats Barry on the shoulder. “Look, I know we actually have time but why waste it on these losers when we could be with our best friend?”
Barry looks at her a long time and she’s sure he’s going to say no. In fact, she resigns herself to it when he slips back under her sink to finish fixing it. She shouldn’t be disappointed nor surprised really. Maybe it was a stupid idea anyway. Barry has always been a romantic and Iris’ practical appeal isn’t exactly the most enticing.
She wonders if he’ll leave as she opens the door for the takeout she promised in exchange for his labor.
“I’m assuming you’ll come live with me then? You’ll have a handyman at your beck and call and you’ve already waxed poetic about my floor plan.”
Iris drops her chopsticks. “Really, Bear?”
Barry smiles bright and warm and Iris can’t help but think of Nora. “Yeah.”
***
Barry really should have warned her about the laundry room. It hadn’t occurred to him of course because the faulty lock always meant he kept the door open.
She’s in the middle of pulling on his Millennium Falcon t-shirt when a breeze slams the door shut.
“Damn,” he whispers.
“What?” She asks as she flips her hair from the collar of the shirt. 
It’s curly today. CCPN is under new management and with the recent round of legislation around hair styles, Iris has opted for more time with her curls both at home and at work. Barry, of course, has no complaints. He’s loved her hair ever since he heard the soft clink of the beads at the end of her braids when she approached him in kindergarten.
He points behind him, trying hard not to linger on the vision that is his wife in his clothes. Wife, he’ll never get over that.
“The door. It doesn’t open from this side.”
Her eyes go wide as she rushes to pull the handle to no avail. “Damn,” she mutters.
“Yeah,” he says as he scratches the back of his neck.
She knits her eyebrows up at him. “What are you doing home so early?”
“I had court this morning,” he gestures at his suit, “and I haven’t switched out my bag with fresh clothes yet so I swung by so I could have something for the lab.”
Her eyes linger on his tie, a hint of a smile playing at her lips and he hopes she doesn’t read too much into his choice. Six months into their marriage and Barry is still terrified Iris might guess the depth of his feelings. There had been countless times over the years he wanted to share how he felt.
That night on her dad’s couch as he cried and asked if she might still marry him. Middle school when he had the good fortune of a foster family that lived in Iris’ neighborhood and didn’t judge him for his anger or his desire to see his dad. High school when he broke up with Becky and hoped Iris’ concern was less friendly consideration and more because she’d prefer to be his girlfriend. The time she confessed she thought no one might love her the way Eddie had.
Yet, he’s stayed silent, sure that if Iris felt anything close to him, she’d say something. He never forgot his childhood proposal but he’d been so sure Iris had.
Call him a fool for settling but no woman could ever match his best friend so when she’d called him on their old promise, he couldn’t resist. Thus here he was locked in a room with the woman he’d always dreamed might be his wife and nervous she might finally see the truth.
“I’ll call Dad,” she says before she looks around and sighs. “My phone is in the kitchen.”
Barry pats his jacket, thankful he finds his phone there. “He got called to a scene but Cecile was on her way to pick up lunch for the both of them, I’ll see if she can swing by.”
Iris sighs in relief. Cecile thankfully picks up but it’ll be two hours and Barry’s phone dies shortly after. He leans against the wall while Iris hops up on one of the machines. Barry tries not to think of the activities they’d get up to if they had gotten married for more typical reasons but it’s hard when Iris is drowning in his shirt and pouting her lips as she looks around the room.
“So, what should we do?”
He shrugs. “Well, um-“
“What was your case about?”
He relaxes slightly, thankful for a subject that will definitely distract from his irrespirable wife. He starts to explain the case, leaving out any confidential details and Iris gets that look on her face where he knows she’s listening but slightly lost in the science of it all. He used to think it annoyed her but she confessed a couple years back that while she didn’t understand it all, she did find it fascinating.
“Barry?” She whispers after he’s done and a comfortable silence settles between them.
“Hmm?”
“You think we should have kids?”
He stumbles slightly against the wall. “Um, do you want to?”
She bites her bottom lip and he finds that after an hour in such a small space, he can’t resist the image that pops up in his brain of kissing it free. “I think so. I know there’s always adoption and I think I’d be down for that if you are but we could try the biological way first.”
He assumes that like their marriage this might be a practical arrangement. After all, they sleep in separate bedrooms, careful not to let their family see that part of their house often. They decided the particulars of their marriage were no one’s business but their own and they let their family and friends stay blissfully ignorant.
“So did you want to try a fertility specialist or something? When did you—“
“Hey, Bear?”
He watches her slide off the washing machine and inch closer to him, fiddling with the edge of his tie. “Yeah?”
She smiles in a way he’s always dreamed of but never seen. She tugs at his tie to bring him closer and leans up bringing them close enough to kiss. “Why don’t we try it the traditional way first?”
Barry raises his eyebrows and squeaks out “you mean like now? Together? Here? Like right now?”
She chuckles darkly. “Yeah, we could—”
“Barry? Iris?”
“In here!” Shouts Iris. He expects her to jump away but she waits until they hear Cecile jiggle the doorknob and only then does she step away slowly.
Barry can barely catch his breath as Iris thanks Cecile and sends her on her way. He walks into their living room on shaky feet and wonders what to do next.
Iris leans against the door after seeing Cecile out and winks at him. “Why did you wear that tie, Barry?”
He tilts his head. “B-because you gave it to me.” And told me I look nice, he thinks. And smiled at me.
She smiles and saunters toward him. “Why did you marry me?”
His heart races as he considers denying the truth. The same truth he’s been so afraid to reveal for years but Iris wants children and is looking at him as if he should hope and so he does the brave thing. “Because I love you and I’ve never wanted to marry anyone else.”
Her smile melts from seductive to just soft. “Yeah?”
He nods.
She leans up and kisses him, chaste but lingering, the second kiss since their wedding day. “Me too, Bear.”
His heart leaps in his chest as he leans down to kiss her the way he’s wanted to for years.
When they part, she whispers, “you’ll be late for work.”
He shrugs and wraps his arms around her waist. “They’ll live.”
29 notes · View notes
icantwritegood · 3 years
Text
Chapter 13 of Rootbound
I am posting this early today because I won't be in my house tonight to post it at the usual time 👍
Ricky and Tinsley whenever they're trying to have a single normal conversation:
Tumblr media
It was late afternoon and the sky had been dim since morning. The curtains in Ricky and Darla’s room were closed and the crackling fire was burning low. Darla watched it from where she lay under the duvet, watching the sparks that popped out of the wood, watched them for the split second they existed before they faded away. What happened to a spark once it faded, she wondered? Did it still exist? Could it still cause a fire?
Her husband slept beside her. His breaths were skipping, catching in his throat, making his chest alternate between rapid panting and stillness. She turned over to look at him. He was halfway on his back. His throat was damp, his hair was stuck to his temples like black filigree. She scooched forwards so that her body was flush against his, and she slipped a hand around his hip and into his boxer shorts – he was hard, just as she suspected. He reacted to her touch, a trembling sigh from his mouth, his hands clenching against his pillow. Darla brushed his hair back from his ear and whispered, ‘Ricky, wake up.’
When he had woken, when he had looked at her face and registered his surroundings, she had him spit on her hand before she pushed it back into his boxers. She felt him squirming against her, and she hooked a leg over his hip in an attempt to keep him still. Her free hand was in his hair, holding his head down so she could hear every gasp and sigh and whimper. She could feel his hips beginning to rut forwards into her hand, his thighs tight and trembling. His hands twisted into the sheets. When he came he said her name, and it melted into the air like hot wax.
They went to the noodle place in town for a late dinner. It was raining hard and the windows were cloudy, opaque. People did not stop coming in and out of the restaurant, picking up takeaways in white plastic bags, but only two tables were occupied – Ricky and Darla’s, and a family at the table near them. Darla ate her noodles and ignored the Irish accents around her and tried very, very hard to imagine that she was back in London, perhaps in Soho, at a sushi bar with her friends, and afterwards maybe they would go to a club and get wasted and sleep with strangers like it was a competitive sport.
Ricky sat across from her, poking at the beef on his plate, his left arm still in its sling. He had yet to look at her. Something had come over him in the last few weeks, something gritty and dark, and he had begun to lose that polished edge that she had always encouraged in him. He shaved less, he didn’t bother with hair products – no wax or salt spray or volumizing mousse – and he had stopped religiously moisturizing his face and hands. Even his shirt was rumpled, the collar untidy, the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, as if he hadn’t been bothered to roll them the epic distance to his elbows.
‘Ricky, you’re beginning to look like Bernard Black,’ said Darla.
‘Good thing or bad?’
‘Bad, Ricky. Very bad.’
‘Hm. Alright.’
Then, quite out of the blue, she said, ‘Are you happy with me?’
Ricky looked at her. ‘What?’
‘Are you happy with me?’
‘…Are you happy with me?’
She rolled her eyes, setting her chopsticks aside. ‘This isn’t some game, Ricky. I’ll specify – do you think of someone else when we’re together?’
Ricky poked at his own noodles, his eyes downcast. ‘Well, I think it says a lot that you have to ask me that question while I don’t even have to think twice when it comes to you. I know you think about other people. All the time. The ones you go away to see, the one who gave you that stupid perfume…’
‘You said you were okay with us being- being flexible. This wasn’t something that just fell into being. We talked about this. Explicitly. And you said you were okay with it.’
‘Maybe I’m not.’
‘Then maybe you should’ve said that earlier. Much earlier. Instead of moping around and complaining and making me seem like the bad guy.’
Ricky shrugged, an awkward attempt due to his sling. ‘I don’t know. You never exactly seemed open to talking about it.’
‘Ricky, I’m open to talk about anything, all the time, and you know that.’
‘No. That’s just what you like to say. Maybe you even believe it. But it’s not true. You’re completely unapproachable. I never know how you’re going to react. You might be fine or you might start a world war. It depends. I just don’t know what it depends on, and that’s what gets me.’
Darla picked a beansprout from her dish and crunched it between her teeth. The juices were watery and hot, and gone too soon. ‘I think we need to leave. Being out here, in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to do… You’re acting a little crazy.’
Ricky’s shoulders slumped and he let his head fall into his hand. ‘No I’m not. I’m fine. And I’m so, so sorry we had to come here unexpectedly. I didn’t know my dad was going to fuck off into the mountains and die.’
‘I want to leave,’ she repeated.
‘Then go!’
Darla stared at him. She stared until he looked away and started eating his dinner again. ‘You wouldn’t have said that to me a month ago.’
‘Things change,’ he muttered.
‘What changed.’
‘Things. Everything.’
‘You talk utter nonsense sometimes, Ricky. I worry about you.’
‘Well that’s a first.’
She scrunched up her napkin, patted her mouth with it, and set it aside. ‘Who were you dreaming about earlier?’
Ricky looked at her from under his brows, a tangle of steaming noodles halfway to his mouth. ‘Huh?’
‘Who were you dreaming about? Why were you hard?’
‘Darla-’
‘I know it was a sex dream, Ricky. I could hear you. If I hadn’t been there to wake you, you would’ve just come in your underwear like some- some pubescent teen. So come on. Tell me.’
Ricky had put the noodles in his mouth and was chewing them rapidly. ‘I can’t remember. I can never remember my dreams. It was probably you.’
‘Ricky,’ she said, her voice and face equally flat. ‘Don’t lie to me. You hardly even fantasize about me in reality. So last chance – who was railing you in your dream?’
‘Why does it matter? It was just a dream.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Unless it was someone you know. In reality.’
‘It wasn’t,’ he said quickly.
‘Who was it then?’
‘Fuck off, Darla!’
The neighbouring table went quiet, and the family gave them a filthy look. Darla returned it before focusing on Ricky again. ‘You’re acting very guilty right now, Ricky.’
‘Ah, yes, guilty. Of course. Would make sense, seeing as you’re my judge, jury, and executioner, apparently.’
He dropped his eyes back to his plate and started cramming noodles into his mouth with fervour. It was true, perhaps, that he had dreamed of hands that weren’t his wife’s holding his wrists to the bed, of a mouth that wasn’t his wife’s kissing his neck, of a set of hips between his legs that brought enough pleasure to make him sob. But what was the matter? It was only a dream. It changed nothing.
Darla was still watching him. ‘Was it Tinsley?’
‘Would you shut up, Darla,’ he snapped. ‘Who fucking cares who it was?’
‘You’ve been hanging out with him a lot recently,’ she continued.
‘Hanging out? Like we’re teenagers?’
‘Fine. You’ve been spending a lot of time together recently. Alone.’
‘Am I not allowed?’
‘Are you in love with him?’
Ricky snorted his disdain. ‘No. Are you in love with any of your lovers?’
‘No. That’s why I have multiple. You, on the other hand, have one.’
‘He’s not my lover. We haven’t even touched each other. And we never will. Because I don't want to.’
‘I know you don't touch each other. Instead, you go out of your way not to touch each other. Which is more telling than anything else.’ She waited. ‘I know I haven’t been very nice to you-’
‘Nice to me? You haven’t been nice to me? You’ve been the worst, Darla. You’ve been the worst thing in my life for a long time now.’
‘Why didn’t you say so?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose saying it would’ve made it true.’
‘Don’t wax poetic with me. It was true whether or not you said it. Saying it would’ve just made you brave. And you are brave now. Braver than you used to be. Braver and stupider.’ She picked up her bag and got to her feet. ‘See you back at the hellhouse.’
---
Pompadour would often disappear for the entire day. It was not unheard of for her to take herself off down to the beach to chase seagulls and splash in the waves, and most lunchtimes she could be found in the town begging for scraps off the daytime employees. As a result, she was a hefty canine with thick rolls on her neck and jowls that swung and slobbered.
‘You need to put that dog on a diet,’ said Holly.
‘I don’t overfeed her,’ said Ricky with his nose in the air, flipping over a handwritten letter in his hand. ‘And I bring her for walks every day twice a day. I don’t know what else you want me to do about it.’
‘I want you to make sure she stays within the grounds! She goes off down to town and terrorizes lunch-goers.’
‘She doesn’t terrorize them. They like her. In fact, Pompadour’s the only one out of this family who is liked by the town. She’s a good representative. I should get her one of those collars that look like a shirt and tie, and call her “madam” and serve her her warm milk in a mug that says #1 Boss.’
‘One of these days she’s going to get hurt,’ said Holly, brushing at the fans of grey hair that fell into her eyes. ‘She’s going to get very hurt, and you’ll rue the day you didn’t get her under control.’
But when Pompadour wasn’t harassing lunch-goers, she was at Ricky’s side. She followed him around the house. She sat outside restaurants and cafés and bookshops while he was inside. She slept at the foot of his bed, or, when Darla was away on one of her trips, she slept right beside him, often draping her heavy body across his. When he was happy, she was happy. When he was sad, she laid her head on his neck and felt the teardrops filter through her fur and to the skin below.
He was the only one for whom she would sit, for whom she would roll over, and to whom she would give the paw. Despite Ricky’s brooding appearance, despite his unfriendly eyes and his dark clothes and his black leather gloves, there was always a collection of dog treats in his right pocket that he would feed Pompadour when she so much as looked at him and wagged her stubby tail. She loved him above all else, and because of this Tinsley knew there had to be some loving side to Ricky, something soft and caring, something that smiled and laughed and said, ‘Good girl, who’s the best dog?', something that hugged and kissed and cuddled.
It was a rare dry day, and Tinsley had perched himself on the steps outside his office in order to have a cigarette. He heard the clinking of a collar, the light tapping of nails against the path. Pompadour was on her way over, white drool swinging from her jowls, threatening to stain his shirt. Tinsley gave her a pat on her big head nonetheless.
Pompadour’s owner came down the path after her. He stopped a metre or so away. He was eating a red apple with obnoxious crunches and slurps. When a stray drop of juice ran down his chin he wiped it away with his coat sleeve.
‘Morning, Ricky,’ said Tinsley, standing up after a prolonged silence.
‘No. Don’t stand. Gives me a crick in my neck.’
‘Apologies for the inconvenience.’
Ricky sank his teeth into the apple and tore away a hunk of flesh, revealing the dark seeds nestled at its core. ‘Heard the book is coming along leaps and bounds.’
‘Almost done.’
‘Holly’s already organizing the launch. Can you believe that? A party to celebrate my father’s disappearance. A mere party. It should be a national fucking holiday.’
‘I get you weren’t his biggest fan.’
‘You don’t miss much, do you? The brightest bulb in all the land.’
Tinsley bit back his acidic response, swallowing it despite the sting it left in his throat. ‘Right. Well, have a good day.’
‘That’s it?’ said Ricky, following his path up the steps with only his eyes. ‘Am I too crude for your liking?’
‘Not at all. I just can’t bring myself to pretend I care about your, uh, strife.’
‘That’s alright. We all need someone in our lives who just doesn’t care. It’s good for the soul.’
Tinsley smiled at this, just a small one. ‘Wise words.’
‘That’s me. Beacon of wisdom.’ Another crunch of teeth into crisp apple flesh. 'You always give me a run for my money, Tinsley, so why not today? Call me an asshole. Do something, for God's sake. Come on. I'll give you cold hard cash if you punch me in the stomach.'
'Don't tempt me.' Tinsley continued on up the steps. 'Maybe you wouldn't be so bored if you got yourself a job.'
Ricky spat on the ground. 'I'd rather keel over.' Then he was off towards the beach, chucking his apple core into the gutter, Pompadour at his heels.
---
Tinsley slept through the first few rings of the phone, but when he woke his hand had already extended itself towards its glowing amber face. He plucked it from its cradle, his eyes still half-closed with sleep as he mumbled ‘Hello’, but despite the fact his voice and his body were still slow and heavy, his mind was alert and panicked.
‘Is this Charles Tinsley?’
‘Yes. Uh, speaking. Who’s this?’
‘This is Garda Michael Reddy. I have Ricky Goldsworth down here at the station. He was doing eighty in a fifty zone, and there’s a good amount of alcohol in his system. Are you available to fetch him?’
Tinsley clamped a hand over his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose, hard. ‘Christ. Christ, you’ve got to be kidding me.’
A chuckle, as if this was a common response. ‘Unfortunately not.’
‘Look, can I give you his sister’s number? I’m really not available to get him.’
The Garda agreed, and he copied out Ruysch’s number as Tinsley read it out. Then he said goodbye and hung up.
Tinsley turned over, but he had already abandoned any hope of going back to sleep. His limbs felt weak and fragile with the ghost of a shock from long ago. The last time he had received a call in the middle of the night, it had been to inform him about his mother, about the house, about the fact he should probably come down, but a warning that there was nothing left to be seen, that he should be prepared for the sight. But they hadn’t told him how to prepare for the sight. They hadn’t told him how to steel himself to set his eyes on his childhood home, the blackened sticks, the piles of ashes and twisted metal, the black burnt shapes of objects that had once formed part of his heart. They hadn’t told him to prepare for the smell – acrid, stinging, throat-rasping – they hadn’t told him to prepare for the feeling of ash laying on his teeth and coating his tongue. And his mother, sitting with the paramedics, smoking a cigarette, as if a cigarette hadn’t been the cause for the wreckage left before them.
He determinedly thought about Ricky instead. He pictured him in some dank cell, reminiscent of a castle’s dungeon, blind drunk, talking nonsense, probably in the throes of despair, wailing and thrashing like an infant with a fever. Ruysch could go down and pick him up and bring him home. What was he to Tinsley anyway? A recurring irritant, a borderline bully. There was nothing about Ricky to like, no reason for Tinsley to care about what trouble he got himself into. So Tinsley turned onto his back, folded his hands on his midriff so he could feel the rise and fall of his own breaths, and closed his eyes. The world outside was silent but for the distant roaring of a motorcycle. It must have been foggy outside too, as he could hear a few ships out on the water blasting their foghorns every two minutes. He took a deep breath and let it out in one long huff.
He didn’t change out of the faded t-shirt he had been sleeping in. He just pulled on the jeans he had left on the floor from the day before, fetched a pair of socks, laced up his runners, and threw his jacket on. It was drizzling outside, so he snatched his umbrella from the kitchen sink on the way.
Ruysch’s car was already there by the time he walked down the road. Inside, she was talking to two uniformed Gardaí. She didn’t appear hostile. In fact, she appeared just as irritated as they were, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. Tinsley shook his umbrella outside the door and placed it in the bucket provided. Ruysch beckoned him over to the small group.
‘What brought you down here? Instinct? Or did he call you too?’
Tinsley nodded. ‘Where is he?’
One of the Gardaí looked at him and said, ‘He’s in the interview room at the end of the hall. We’ve advised Ms. Goldsworth here to talk to him. This isn’t his first time getting caught driving under the influence. He’s on record for the same accusation in the UK.’
‘Which I was unaware of,’ muttered Ruysch. ‘The lying little bastard.’
Ricky didn’t look up when they came in. His hands were on his lap and his head was hanging so far forwards it was almost touching the table in front of him. Ruysch smacked him across the back of the head to bring him back to the present.
‘Ricky, you idiot. What the fuck were you thinking?’
He sniffed and looked away. When he spoke, his voice was a mumble. ‘I don’t know. Why are you here? I asked for Tinsley only.’
‘Why? So you could get him to keep this quiet? I would’ve found out anyway, Ricky.’
‘And I wouldn’t have kept it quiet,’ added Tinsley.
‘Where were you going?’ demanded Ruysch. She didn’t sit down. She was too antsy. ‘What were you doing racing around the back roads at three in the morning? And those roads are so close to the water. For God’s sake, Ricky. Honestly. You’re thirty years old. And where’s your sling? You’re still meant to be wearing it. God, I shouldn’t have to be looking after you anymore.’
‘I was just driving. I felt like driving.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Fine. I was- I was meeting someone.’
‘You were meeting someone? Who? Why?’
‘A friend.’
Ruysch inclined her head in a warning manner and said, ‘Ricky.’
‘I was meeting someone for sex!’ He scowled at the two of them before looking back at the table. ‘I just got caught on the way back.’
Ruysch sat heavily into one of the chairs provided. ‘You were meeting someone for sex? A stranger? In the middle of the night, in the dark? Are you crazy?’
‘Maybe.’ Ricky sniffed again. ‘It was fine. It was a woman, I wasn’t in danger.’
‘It was a woman as far as you knew,’ said Tinsley. ‘You could’ve turned up and been met with a nasty surprise.’
‘I know her from real life,’ said Ricky icily. ‘I didn’t meet her on some sleazy website, thanks.’
‘Well you won’t be meeting her again for a long while,’ said Ruysch. ‘They’re disqualifying you from driving for six months, and you have to go to a course of AA meetings.’
Ricky closed his eyes. He swayed slightly in his chair. ‘Six months.’
‘Listen, I’ll get onto Jules. She won’t be able to do anything about the disqualification but she might be able to do something about the AA meetings, since you’re not an alcoholic.’
Tinsley cleared his throat. ‘I wouldn’t be so quick there.’
Ricky sat upright in his chair. He looked at Ruysch before looking back at Tinsley. ‘Excuse me?’
‘You drink a lot, Ricky. You and your wife. Are you telling me that you’ve been oblivious to that until now?’
‘Fuck off. You’re full of shit.’ He looked at Ruysch. ‘Tell him he’s full of shit.’
Ruysch twisted her fingers through her hair and said nothing.
Ricky put on the steadiest voice he could manage and said, ‘I am not an alcoholic.’
‘Then explain the position you’re in right now,’ said Tinsley. ‘Explain it to me. Start to finish. The floor’s yours.’
‘I don’t have to explain dick shit to you, asshole. God, I can’t fucking stand you. Always strutting around, all holier-than-thou. You’re nothing. You’re a shitty journalist in the middle of fucking nowhere. Who gives a fuck about you? Who cares about what you have to say? Not me. Not anyone. So fuck you.’
Tinsley focused very hard on not allowing a hand to whip out of his jacket pocket and slap Ricky across his impudent face. ‘Right. Well, you’re an alcoholic who just lost the use of his car for six months, so I don’t think I’ll hold any judgement from you to very high standards.’
Ruysch pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. ‘Can you both shut up for five seconds. You’re a couple of bitches. Jesus.’
Ricky continued glaring at Tinsley, who glared back and said, ‘I think you should spend tonight sobering up in a cell. Might teach you an unpleasant truth or two about yourself.’
Ricky lurched to his feet, but he was too unsteady to make anything productive out of the movement, and only stumbled backwards against his chair. He gripped it to stay upright. Ruysch eyed him worriedly.
‘Maybe Tinsley’s right,’ she said.
Ricky shook his head voraciously. ‘No. No, he’s a bad influence on you. I don’t want to stay here. I want to go home.’
‘You’re wasted,’ said Ruysch.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re wasted,’ repeated Tinsley more sternly. ‘You can’t even see straight.’
‘I’ll go and tell the guards he’s staying,’ said Ruysch. She left the room without looking back, like a person abandoning a puppy outside a pet rescue, knowing that if they looked back even once they would cave in.
Ricky spat and cursed and shook his last crumpled cigarette out of the box. He lit it. Tinsley didn’t bother alerting him to the sign on the door, the one with a big red line through a black-and-white cigarette, the one that said No Smoking / Gan Caitheamh Tabac. No doubt Ricky had already seen it.
‘Where did they catch you?’ asked Tinsley.
‘Just out the road.’
‘It was a stupid thing to do,’ said Tinsley. ‘I didn’t know you were so desperate to dip your wick. Well, I suppose I could’ve guessed, if a gun was put to my head, but…’
‘Fuck off, Tinsley.’ Ricky turned away before turning back just as brusquely. ‘I’m not like you. I can’t live forever with no one touching my dick but me. In fact, I think there’s something wrong with you. Are you a virgin? Have you ever even had sex? Living out here in the middle of fucking nowhere like some old hermit. You’re thirty years of age, for fuck’s sake. Act like it.’
‘You’re telling me to act my age? You’re thirty years of age too and you’re still running off to hook up with strangers in the middle of the night. Did you have sex with whoever you met, in the end? Was it all worth it?’
‘Nah. I got whiskey dick.’
‘Devastating.’
‘I went down on her just so that she didn’t entirely waste her time. Speaking of which, my wife said I should take some pointers from you.’
‘From me? I’m flattered.’
Ricky took a long drag on his cigarette, watching Tinsley through the smoke. ‘What say you come up one night and the three of us fool around a little, hm?’
Tinsley shook his head. ‘I like my love life monogamous.’
‘You could potentially save my marriage, you know. Maybe add another year or so of life to it.’
Tinsley shook his head again and exhaled once through his nose. ‘Have you ever heard of that lifeboat that capsized and there was a professional swimmer on it who drowned because everyone tried to cling to him?’
‘Ha.’ Ricky paced from one wall to the other before coming to an abrupt halt. There was a glimmer in his eye, the same glimmer that showed itself whenever he had something tart and witty on the tip of his tongue. ‘Maybe you’re particularly talented at oral because you spend so much time sucking yourself off.’
Tinsley snorted. ‘You need to grow the fuck up. You have a wife, for Christ’s sake. Can you not just stick your dick in her and be happy about it?’
‘No, but apparently you can, whore.’
Tinsley laughed, but it wasn’t a jovial sound. ‘Make up your mind, would you? Am I a virgin or a whore?’
‘You take after your dad – preaching purity one second and unable to keep it in his pants the next.’
Tinsley slapped him. He laid it hard across the side of his face. The impact stung his hand, made his palm tingle and sweat. He met Ricky’s stunned, watery eyes. He didn’t feel much remorse. Only when Ricky raised a hand to feel his face, as if expecting blood on his skin, did Tinsley falter.
‘I didn't-’
‘Don’t apologize,’ said Ricky. ‘You’ll ruin it.’
Tinsley studied the bright red patch on Ricky’s cheek. ‘I’ve never hit anyone like that before.’
‘Huh. You’re a natural.’
Ricky had to admit, the slap had knocked some of the alcohol from his system and recalibrated his sight somewhat. He could see Tinsley’s hands by his sides, fidgeting – there was a watch on his left wrist and he adjusted its brown leather strap. He could see Tinsley’s legs. They didn’t move from in front of him. He wished they would. He wished Tinsley would walk out of the room and out of the station and out of the town and keep on walking, forever, until he died from exhaustion.
‘Maybe you don’t take after your dad,’ said Ricky. ‘Maybe you somehow take after mine.’ He sniffed and rubbed at his cheek with the back of his hand. ‘This is the part when you’re meant to say you’ll never do it again.’
Tinsley set his jaw and looked aside. ‘I’ll do it again if you bring up my dad again. So how about that.’
‘Alright. Consider the lesson learned.’
‘And don’t call me for shit like this. I’m not your emergency contact.’
‘Then why did you come down?’
Tinsley looked down at the floor and scuffed the heel of his shoe off it a few times. ‘Because I’m an idiot.’
Ruysch returned with two Gardaí, and they bid the sullen Ricky goodnight. Ruysch led the way out of the station and across the car park. She apologized to Tinsley for the entire mess. It was clear in the lines of her face that, although she was trying her very best to appear unperturbed by the situation, it had upset her quite a lot.
'My brother,' she explained, 'has always been a bit of a troubled soul. Hopefully this will teach him to think twice before trying to get a quick nighttime thrill again.'
'Hopefully.' He cupped the back of her neck and kissed her forehead. 'Go home and get some sleep, Ruysch. It'll be fine.'
---
The next morning, Tinsley stopped into the café across the road from his office. He wanted to do what he usually did – buy a single cappuccino and take it across to his office to sip upon while he skimmed through a newspaper or two before the emails started flying in and proper work started for the day. Instead, he found himself leaving the café with two cappuccinos, and instead of going straight across the road to the offices, he turned right towards the Garda station. He scolded himself the entire way. He reminded himself that Ricky was a spoiled brat who had brought this trouble upon himself due to his reckless stupidity and therefore he most definitely did not deserve a hot cappuccino with a single sugar in it, as he liked.
The Garda on duty led him to Ricky’s cell. It was clean and plain, with a single bed and a thin sheet, and a pathetic excuse for a pillow. They had seemingly offered Ricky a pair of pyjamas, but the offer had remained unaccepted, the folded clothes lying on the floor beside Ricky’s coat, trousers, and shoes. He had slept in his shirt.
Paper cups also littered the ground beside his bed, all once vessels for ice cold water. A basin with a meagre amount of vomit – mainly bile – sat beside them.
‘Rough night?’ said Tinsley to the Garda beside him.
She shrugged. ‘Hangover something terrible. What did you expect?’
Movement on the bed. Ricky turned onto his back with much grunting and groaning, and he glared at Tinsley with eyes so red they may as well have been weeping blood. He sat upright in the bed, slowly, very slowly, clutching his skull as though there was a bomb within it that would explode with any sudden movement.
‘Did you bring paracetamol?’ he croaked.
‘No.’
‘You could’ve asked for some earlier,’ said the Garda before tutting and going to fetch some from the kitchen. ‘Making it look as if we haven’t been looking after you.’
Tinsley watched Ricky sitting with his face buried in his hands. ‘I brought you a coffee. I suppose you can make do with smelling it until she comes back and unlocks this cell. Have you ever been in a cell before? I’ll admit, it suits you something shocking.’
‘I don’t want your coffee.’ Ricky tucked himself back into the bed, hiding his face behind the covers. ‘Fuck off. I’ll wait for Ruysch.’
‘Do you remember last night?’
‘Not vividly. But I feel like I should hate you.’
‘Maybe you should.’ Tinsley looked at the plastic lids of the coffees in his hands. One had been stained with brown splotches by a bit of rogue foam. ‘I was… I wasn’t the nicest to you. It was late. I was cranky. And even if you deserved every bit of it, I still want to apologize for what I said. And did.’
‘Apology acknowledged. I’ll let you know in due course if it’s been accepted.’
Tinsley stared at the pale blue covers underneath which Ricky lay. ‘I’m trying to be the bigger man here, Ricky, but I’m not going to be made a fool of either.’
The Garda returned with yet another paper cup of water and two white tablets. Ricky edged his bare legs out of the bed and tentatively sat upright. His hand still hovered beside his head, just in case his brain fell out of his ear and he had to be ready to ram it back in again. He took the tablets and the water. When he swallowed them down he appeared to be trying very hard to stop them from coming right back up.
‘You’re welcome,’ said the Garda, pointedly.
He ignored her. She departed the cell with a roll of her eyes, which Tinsley mimicked in solidarity.
‘You taking him home now?’ she asked. There was a slight pleading edge to the question.
‘Not a chance. His sister will swing by and get him.’
‘Grand. Ten minutes so, and I’ll be back.’
Tinsley stepped into the cell and approached the bed. He set the coffee down on the floor beside Ricky’s socked foot. He stayed hunkered down in front of him.
‘Where’s your car? Did they tell you what they were going to do with it?’
‘Towed. At my expense.’ Ricky’s words were tearful. His hands were shaking and he attempted to still them by clamping them between his knees. ‘God. God, I’m a fuck-up. I’ve fucked everything up.’
‘Ricky,’ said Tinsley, and he placed a hand on Ricky’s knee. His skin felt hot and feverish. ‘Just wait until you get home before thinking about all that. Maybe talk to your family. Definitely have a shower and a proper night’s sleep. You look like shit.’
‘How did you do it?’ whispered Ricky, looking at him from between tangled locks of hair. ‘How did you do everything right? How do you always know what to do? I feel like I- like you-’ He went quiet, and he plunged his head into Tinsley’s shoulder and wept. ‘God, I think I’m cursed to never be able to do anything right. And even when I do something right it finds a way to go wrong.’
Tinsley gave the back of his head an awkward pat, trying not to think about the tears and snot and drool that were probably working their way into the fabric of his jumper. ‘You, uh, you’ve been having a rough time lately. Things will be difficult for a bit.’
‘I’m not asking for your sympathy. I’m asking you to- to-’ He went quiet again, and weak, and altogether very small. ‘I’m asking you to tell me what to do. Tell me how to do it right. All of it. From start to finish.’
Tinsley took a soft hold of his face, and he guided it away from his shoulder so he could look at his eyes – black, bottomless eyes that one could dive into and never resurface from. It would be sweet and terrifying, like drowning in honey, or tree sap, or whipped cream. ‘Go home and get some rest.’ He stood up, moving back towards the cell door. ‘Brush your teeth first.’
‘I have some gum,’ said the Garda, joining him with a ring of keys in her hand.
‘Yeah, toss him one of those. He reeks.’
Ricky snorted. ‘Yeah? Well you reek of cheap cologne.’
Tinsley stopped walking, looking back at him with an eyebrow arched. ‘It’s not cheap, thank you very much. It was a present from my grandparents last Christmas. And of course you’d think I reek of it since you had your face right against my neck. Maybe keep your distance and it won’t seem as bad.’ He walked on. ‘Asshole.’
16 notes · View notes
abluescarfonwaston · 3 years
Text
Loid opened the door.
“You’re married!?” A female voice screeched.
Loid closed the door. Holding it closed as the person on the other side banged against it frantically.
“Loid?” Yor’s voice was high and concerned. Butter knife clenched in her hand. “Who’s that?”
Anya’s eyes went wide. Loid pressed his forehead against the door as it pounded.
“That.” He lamented. “Is my sister.”
“Stop yelling. The neighbors are staring.” He scolded when he finally opened the door.
She shoved past him. Taking in the apartment. Surveying their domain before her eyes settled on them.
She was all blue eyes and wild blond curls.
His sister.
Yor’s hand stayed tight around the butter knife. Half afraid she attack.
The hand not holding the knife was firmly clasped between both of Loid’s sister’s. Blue eyes drilling into her as she opened her mouth – undoubtedly to comment on how quick it must have been or how she wasn’t good enough or how she didn’t approve- and said,
“You deserve better.”
The door clicked closed behind Loid as he sighed. “Olivia –don’t.” He plead.
“No you seriously do. I once listened to him wax poetic about bumblebees for eight hours straight and I once watched him dive into an empty swimming pool and-“
“Yor, Anya, meet Olivia Stahl. She’s been working abroad the last few years. She was an intern I helped train during residency.”
“You helped train me?” She turned on him. “I’m sorry which one of us drank that spiked cocktail just to prove a point about how strong his liver was? Because I specifically remember telling you not to drink it and then you downing it in one go because-”
He did not make eye contact with her. Eyes train well above her head as he continued on ignoring her. “I didn’t realize she’d come home. Lovely to see you again Olivia but I only made enough for three so you’ll have to be going now-“
“Auntie!” Anya jumped out of her chair and hugged her leg. Halting his shoving her back out the door. “I missed you!”
There existed gratitude and irritation in equal measure in his heart. Gratitude that Anya had decided to play along with the situation. Irritation that her ploy would slow his removal of Olivia.
Olivia smacked his stomach with the back of her hand. “Well your daughter has decided I’m staying so I’m staying! It’s fine I’ll just eat your portion.” She settled herself down in his seat with a smirk. Anya stared up at her expectantly. Olivia smacked her forehead and dug around her bag pulling out a small figurine. “Sorry I didn’t bring your official present Anya. I heard he’d tricked some poor woman into marrying him and I forgot your gift at home.”
She’ll just pick something up later and pretend she got it abroad.
“But maybe you can keep an eye on this little fellow for your Dad until then?”
It was a small figurine of a bumblebee. Incredibly lifelike. Its eyes tiny ordered hexagons. She frowned and shook her head.
He plucked it from her palm and set it on the counter. “A Bombus Fernaldae. Will you drop this joke? It was one time.”
“It was not just one time! And the fact you could identify what kind of bee it is says plenty about how much you secretly like it.” She turned her focus to Yor. Ignoring Loid’s put upon sigh. “So tell me how he managed to trick you into marrying him.”
“I- well I actually asked him?”
Her lips curled with revulsion as she stretched the word “Why?” into an eight syllable groan.
Loid sat down with a new plate serving himself a new meal while Olivia ate the remains of his old one. “Eden requires children who apply to have two married parents. She was helping us out.”
You’re telling her that? I thought we were keeping it quiet.
“Oh I gathered what you got out of it but I was asking what she got out of it.”
“She doesn’t owe you an explanation Olivia.” He scowled. Olivia yipped in pain drawing her legs up onto the chair.
“Don’t kick me!”
“Don’t interrogate my wife.”
“Is it blackmail? If you need me to get rid of him for you I can-“
“I’m not blackmailing her!”
The conversation rapidly dissolved into bickering. Full of stories and inside jokes that were thrown and discarded far too quickly to unravel.
Loid ran his hand through his hair for the fifth time in as many minutes. The floof levels rising higher and higher. His locks growing more and more bedraggled as they continued.
Anya’s wide eyes snapped between the two of them like a riveting tennis match.
“Actually,” She started, interrupting the flow of their verbal sparring. Loid froze mid stab of the steak on Olivia’s plate. Suddenly remembering they weren’t alone. “Loid helped me out. Being single at my age can attract the wrong kind of attention.” Screams of the people the secret police dragged away filled the space between words. “And my brother was worried. I was very lucky to meet Loid when I did.”
Olivia side eyed Loid. “Lucky. Right.” She smiled brightly at Yor. “You have a brother?”
Loid settled back into his chair, the impish grin falling away as the conversation drifted to calmer waters.
“Walk me out?” She requested after the last of the dishes were put away.
He nodded. Anya’s eyes followed them out the door.
“Anya you have to finish this if you don’t want to miss spy wars.”
Her focus turned back to the homework with a groan.
She offered a cigarettes to him.
“I quit.”
“For your fake family up there?”
He shrugged. “We’ve both read the studies. Seemed as good a reason as any.”
She blew out a smoke cloud. “Sure but it’s not like cancer’s going to get a chance to kill us.”
“Was there a point or did you just want to make my laundry more difficult?”
She hummed. “Can’t it be both?” Elbowed him.
He settled against the brick wall with a sigh. “What’s the job?”
“Get a solid night’s sleep? How’s that for a mission.”
His head tapped against the wall. Eyes closed and face turned upward to the hazy sky. It did nothing to hide the lines of deep seated exhaustion.  “They send you to do a psych eval?”
“Should I?”
“I’m fine.”
“Fine like I’m just overworked but am actually fine or fine like you’d get your makeup perfect before going in for an eval?”
“My makeup is always perfect. Yours however-“ He tilted his head to peer down at her. Tossing a cheeky grin her way.
“Is impeccable.”
“Just like I taught you.”
“You did not!” Shoving him. He bobbed to the side dramatically before returning to his position. “They seem nice.”
“They are.” His eyes found the carton in her hand longingly. He tore his eyes away. “Bombus Fernaldae huh.”
“Going to pull a cuckcoo bee on them when the mission is over?”
“The mission comes first.”
“Not going to turn you in for wanting more asshole.”
His eyes dragged up to their window as she took a drag of the cigarette.
“We can’t be more than we are.”
“Did you just make a bee pun? Cause I will tell the entire department. I’ll report you for that. Assault on a coworker.”
“I rented a castle and they barely batted an eye. No one will believe you Nite Lite.”
“I have an actual title these days you know.”
“And I promise I will never use it.” He assured like that was the problem. Which it wasn’t. He pat her head. She considered biting it off. “Just overworked. This has been. Good for me I think.”
“Aside from the potential cleanup?”
“I try not to think about that.”
She snorted. “She deserves better.”
“Of course.”
“Don’t agree with me. It doesn’t make you less of an asshole.”
“She knows it’s fake. It’s not like I’m lying to her about that.”
“Oh so she knows that. Great and I’m sure your brat totally got the memo about how-“
“Stop.” His voice heavy and dark. “I didn’t design the mission.”
The smoke curled in the air. “Yeah I know.”
Cold threaded its ways slowly into their jackets.
“Did she actually propose?”
“She did. I was so shocked I fell flat on my face.”
“Ugh! Don’t tell me shit like that! Literally no one ever believes me when I tell them what a mess you are! It’s Agony! Agony you hear me?”
“So sorry my lying is more effective than your honesty.” He leaned over her. “It’s this handsome face of mine. People instinctively think I’m put together.”
She gripped his smug face. Shoving it away as he pushed against her. “I will break your handsome face and then we’ll see if anyone can put you back together!”
He laughed as she shoved him away. She stopped.
It sounded genuine.
It had been so long since she’d heard him laugh like that. Not since his last partner had been –
Twilight cocked his head at her questioningly.
“She still deserves better than you and your knockoff curries.” She told him one last time. Stamping out the cigarette butt with her shoe.
But it seems like she might be good for you.
95 notes · View notes
transsexualhamlet · 3 years
Text
sherlock holmes reactions part 4 (?) ive lost count already but unsurprisingly ive grown even more attached to him
using this as the cover image because i made him a playlist. cause im awful
Tumblr media
no legit this is gonna need a read more because it's SO LONG SHIHEWIESHEFSHIEWHF
Had three mental breakdowns this week and realized i do in fact kin sherlock motherfucking holmes. this does not bode well for anything in my life mentally I've diagnosed him with so many things
Oh boy lol you want the list I think hes autistic (undisputed honestly) plus also adhd but on top of that there's the manic depression and uhhh the bpd lmao I dont even think that's it those are just. the obvious ones
But yeah man's a fucking mess and a shit person but in the same way as me so 👍
Some highlights I thought were very funny:
watson: we are in fact going to be waltzing into a place where people are Shooting People you do not have your gun. this is a problem
sherlock: don't worry watson I have my trusty stick!
watson: visible pain
This clearly happens like every day or so with them
but yeah there were some really honestly sweet scenes with them at the apartment and why am i getting soft over the crusty man being gay
have you considered tho. have you considered them
have you considered sherlock, who usually only plays absolute garbage on his violin serenading watson to sleep when he was tired and in pain and watson being so fucking in love with the man and waxing poetic about falling asleep to his music and waking up to see him fallen asleep on the couch next to him and oh my god them
They're just really sweet together for such a completely dysfunctional couple so much of the time lol I just. Sherlock being like.
Sherlock half of the time: watson you're fucking stupid. no i won't take care of my personal needs stfu. watson get a goddamn life. watson shut up. watson no one cares about your goddamn opinion. no i need to disturb you in the middle of the night it's for science. hey watson mind if i manipulate mansplain malewife
Sherlock the other half of the time: HELLO SIR YOU ARE MY FAVORITE MAN TO EVER MAN HELLO MAY I SPEND THE REST OF MY DAYS WITH YOU HELLO I WILL DO ANYTHING FOR YOU WE ARE PERFECT MATCHES I LOVE YOU AND I NEED YOU YOURE SO MUCH BETTER THAN ME PLEASE MARRY ME
They're... they certainly are.
ALSO OH MY GOD.
THIS ONE TIME WHEN SHERLOCK WAS JUST PACING AROUND THE ROOM AT 3 AM GOING "IT DOESNT MAKE SENSE >:(((" AND HUDSON LIKE BARGED IN TO COMPLAIN AND THEN WATSON WAS LIKE DUDE YOU GOTTA STOP DOING THIS AND PROCEEDS TO SAY THE LINE "YOU ARE KNOCKING YOURSELF UP, OLD MAN"
BAHGHSFHGRHEWHEWHIFEW
BRB SOBBING
CALLING HIM AN OLD MAN???? KNOCKING HIMSELF UP?? I DONT KNOW WHATS FUNNIER
The main highlight of this part was I have now gotten to see him have a great time watching his homo homie get married
Its so fucking funny.......
I was prepared for a funny reaction by yuumori sherlock's face when he said it lol but. Damn i was really not prepared tbh
watson: I'm engaged!
sherlock: *pained groaning*
watson: do you... not like her?
sherlock: no she's fine she's great you'll be wonderful together bUT I HATE IT WHEN PEOPLE ARE HETEROSEXUAL WATSON DO I HAVE TO MARRY MYSELF THEN WATSON? ARE YOU GOING TO MAKE ME MARRY MYSELF.
watson: yeah... yeah... fair, I feel really bad because you did this whole case and I got a girlfriend out of it and all you got was me leaving you alone fuck man im sorry what are you gonna do without me
sherlock, highly sarcastic: dont worry watson I've always got my handy cocaine! *pulls it out and gets high in front of watson just as he's about to leave*
watson: *in fucking agony*
sherlock: good for you!
I DONT EVEN- THIS SCENE KILLED ME MULTIPLE TIMES OVER WHAT
ITS SO GODDAMN NONCHELANT ABOUT IT SHERLOCK IS JUST LIKE YEAH I WILL IN FACT NOT BE MENTALLY HEALTHY IF YOU ARE NOT WITH ME 24/7 BUT WHATEVER YOU DO YOU /S
I'd like to apologize to watson on sherlock's behalf lmao. man is being a bit too codependent on main
The last thing about sign of four I do need to address is yeah, there's the Horrific Amounts Of Racism in that one and the whiplash hearing it is just ridiculous because they seem to be so knowledgeable in all other areas and fairly... politically correct, taking sherlock's original misogyny as a purposeful character flaw, but then they just mention someone indigenous once and suddenly its all parrotting racist propaganda and just... really awful shit. There's no way I'm gonna speak for the group that just got absolutely hate crimed here but anyone can tell the author just has no clue what he's fucking talking about and it's physically painful.
And I don't know, it's just so bad it seems out of character? Doyle's making these motherfuckers say shit that honestly, Sherlock would know better about. And especially Watson. Come on, you cannot tell me watson is mentally capable of being prejudiced against someone. Please do not make him that way.
I'm not sure how to handle it specifically, or what's the proper way I should handle something like that in a media I otherwise like. Is it ok to say Doyle was clearly a piece of shit on the matter and separate those characters from his bias or is that insensitive?
I don't know, I was Not a fan of it and I'm glad to see they've at least finally shut up about the guy
But anyway yeah, uhhhh onto the short stories because I'm trying to read those before I get to the final problem
Scandal in Bohemia was a fucking ride, first of all, before we even get to Sherlock's girlboss arc we have to discuss how gay the whole situation was and how Doyle's attempt at making them less gay failed spectacularly
Like he's all "ah yes I need to marry off watson and uhhh make sherlock ummmm interact with a woman so they dont look gay" but he does it SO BADLY that it makes them look EVEN GAYER
cause i mean, even the conversation they had about watson getting married back in sign of four was gay af, but how Doyle handled things afterward was in no way straighter.
Cause you know, the man kind of wrote himself into a corner with the fact of Watson narrating these stories. So Watson has to be around to witness them, and to witness Sherlock's own thought process rather privately, so he has to be around sherlock at night, a lot. But trying to come up with a reason for that happening just... it didn't occur to Doyle. He just went. Ah yes this makes sense. And it's Watson just like Sleeping Over At Sherlock's like every other goddamn day and every time his wife leaves town and having them basically still live that cute domestic home life but they have absolutely no excuses for doing it anymore. It's quite funny
Like it was gay already the way they interacted when they officially lived together but it was like, a necessity for them. Now it's not, Watson just comes over because he goddamn wants to, and it's hilarious to me.
LIKE IDK I THINK THEY KIND OF BROKE UP FOR A YEAR OR SO BC OF WATSON GETTING MARRIED AND THEY LIKE DONT HAVE CONTACT WITH ONE ANOTHER BUT ONE DAY WATSON JUST INEXPLICABLY HAS THE URGE TO COME VISIT SHERLOCK ON NO NOTICE AND THEN SUDDENLY THEY ARE TOGETHER NEAR 24/7 AGAIN LIKE BARELY ANYTHING CHANGED AHIEHOEWH
SIT DOWN AND TRY TO TELL ME THOSE ARE NOT HOMOSEXUALS
Watson walks in on no fucking notice after a full year and Sherlock is just. In the middle of some experiment obviously but hes like
Sherlock, carrying around unidenfiable chemical mixtures: W A T S O N you look good you look good! i see you've gained seven pounds!!
watson: uh. thanks??? Hey lol *awkwardly waves* Uh um Wanted to Uhm sEe you
Sherlock: ABOUT gODDAMN TIME AND YES WONDERFUL LOOK LOOK SIT DOWN I HAVE THINGS TO INFODUMP ABOUT
watson: :) ok :) *turns to camera* and we were back to the old days
sherlock: makes a deduction
watson: wowwwwwwwwwwww !! so true bestie !!
sherlock: !!!!!!!!! :))) !!!!! :))) uh fuck im supposed to be smooth Its Elementary Lol
watson: *turns to camera* when i stroke his ego like this and compliment him he blushes like a girl like i just complimented his dress so i do it more because he likes it. this is a homie trait
watson: well i should probably get going! my wife will notice that i am gone my dear buddy bro homie!
sherlock: NO DONT LEAVE IM LOST WITHOUT YOU (pretty much a direct quote lol) your. wife doesn't. get back home until monday. I know this because I am smart and definitely have not been stalking you.
watson: alright :)))))
AND THEN HE FUCKING SLEEPS OVER LMAO FUCKING HOMOS
So yeah they're right back where they were before pretty much and there's a case bc of course there is
And honestly I think this short story specifically was so insane mostly just because of how absolutely fast it all went. Yuumori kind of made me believe the original Irene Adler was more of an important character than she really is? And I think that's. Honestly so funny. Motherfucker shows up for ten pages, girlbosses her way around town, and changes sherlock's entire opinion of the female gender while still keeping him gay?
LIKE NO LOL SHES NOT IN ANY WAY A LOVE INTEREST AND WATSON GOES OUT OF HIS WAY TO SPECIFY THE FACT THAT IN NO WORLD WOULD THEY HAVE BEEN ROMANTICALLY INVOLVED BECAUSE. SHERLOCK. DIDN'T DATE WOMEN.
HE WAS JUST??? SO IMPRESSED AND SHELL SHOCKED BY HER EXISTENCE HE DECIDED IT WAS TIME FOR GIRLBOSS APPRECIATION DAY TODAY AND ALL DAYS HENCEFORTH???
AND THEY HAVE LIKE O N E INTERACTION?? God, the power this woman(?) has. Watson looks at her once like. damb shawty 😳 and she's like "no<3" and he's like FUCK
Like yeah it's pretty much just the king walking up like "help girl the whore is blackmailing me" and sherlock being like "ok lol this will be easy" and then it proceeded to not in fact be easy or even possible
sherlock like... posed as a dead body and tried to get her to give up the location of the photo but she out-acted him and skipped the town the next day after doing the 'good night mr. sherlock holmes' thing with sherlock completely tricked
and she just. sends a letter like "dear sherlock holmes. you're a fucking idiot and i think it's funny that you lost. nice job tho mad respect" and sherlock just SHORT CIRCUITS
the king comes back a bit later like "hey Dude where's my Photo" and sherlock's like oh yeah uhhhhhhhhhhh about that and the king is like HOW COULD IT POSSIBLY HAVE BEEN THAT GODDAMN HARD i would have dated someone more noble if she wasn't so pretty i swear im on a whole different level from her
and then. GIRLBOSSIFIED SHERLOCK HOLMES RESPONDS "from what I have seen of the lady, she seems indeed to be on a very different level from your majesty" ABSEHHESHEFHHFES ROASTED
and the dude just LEAVES
After that I read a few more of the short stories and well the highlights I got from that pretty much were these conversations
Watson: sherlock. honey. have you. eaten anything today
Sherlock: IT DIDNT OCCUR TO ME DEAR WATSON
Watson: ITS FIVE PM
and:
Sherlock: *having one of his Moment Moments at three in the goddamn mornig* GRRRR CRIME ISNT WHAT IT USED TO BE
Watson: MY DEAR SHERCOCK WHAT IS CRIME S U P P O S E D TO BE LIKE ACCORDING TO YOU
Sherlock: no one's original anymore fucking copycats
Watson: so you want the criminals to make things harder for you specifically.
Sherlock, exasperated: yes!
I love them your honor.
15 notes · View notes
thefudge · 4 years
Note
Do you have any Romanian (language or just content-wise) media recs? Particularly novels and poetry but really any must-sees/must-reads are welcome!
uuuu! 
my brain is too fried right now to do any kind of exhaustive list so i’m gonna rec a few things that i know you could get your hands on/available in translation:
for two thousand years, by mihail sebastian - really heartbreaking yet also lucid, adventurous and darkly humorous memoir of a Jewish writer in his youth at the height of nazism in romania (there’s even a Penguin classic of it)
diary of a short-sighted adolescent by mircea eliade - a funny and bittersweet bildungsroman about a bookish teenager who wants to read everything now and be the cleverest person alive while also struggling with being super lazy and unmotivated because he’s young and restless, it’s very #relatable. but it’s also fascinating to read this in opposition with “for two thousand years” because eliade entertained legionnaire nazi sympathies at one point. (also, you should check out his novellas too, especially the fantastic ones)
anything you can find in translation by gabriela adamesteanu - just lovely, delicate prose about growing up, being an adult, inhabiting your body and your feelings in an oppressive world 
the hatchet by mihail sadoveanu (apparently, there is a translation) - a lot of people give this novel flak, mostly because we had to read it in high school, but it’s a great and deceptively simple little novel that says a lot more about people than it cares to admit. the action takes you through several villages in the East-Carpathians, where a peasant woman goes in search of her missing husband. it’s a fascinating mixture of crime and folklore and mythology. 
any novella by costache negruzzi, but especially “alexandru lapusneanu”, another classic we had to read in school and which gets a lot of flak. it’s so bonkers and #quality-trash. let’s just say there’s a scene where the power-hungry voievod/prince lapusneanu enacts a red-wedding situation and builds a pyramid of freshly severed heads to impress his lady wife *swoon* 
the forest of the hanged by liviu rebreanu - i know people argue this isn’t his best novel, but it’s got the most heart. it’s the story of a soldier/philosopher in WW1 who falls in love with people again. that’s it. he falls in love with people, and the war and everything in between doesn’t matter anymore. or it matters only as it pertains to people, and people alone. 
gallants of the old court by mateiu caragiale - a bizarre gem of early 20th century Romanian nightlife, a wonderful, orgiastic fugue, feverish and infuriating. it’s mostly about rich men and social-climbers getting into existential trouble, but also into real trouble. normally, because the action takes place right before WW1, this would signify the end of an era. but we don’t really have a beginning or end. we are part-balkan, part-french imitators, part-whatever-sticks. nothing moves us, and everything does. and that’s why it’s a sort of love/hate letter to romanians 
in terms of poetry, some personal faves:  nichita stanescu, ana blandiana, monica pillat, marin sorescu,  a.e. baconsky, lucian blaga, emil brumaru, nora iuga, marta petreu, nina cassian. and yes, mihai eminescu, our national poet, though i’m often in two minds about him.  
poetry in translation is really hit and miss because of the “untranslatable”, so here’s two lines from a poem by nina cassian, because i want to show you what i mean:
            De când m-ai părăsit mă fac tot mai frumoasă             ca hoitul luminând în întuneric. 
this roughly and poetically translates to:
          Since you left me I’ve grown more beautiful
           like the corpse lighting the dark 
and this is sort of lovely on its own, but you’d need to know and hear and taste the word “hoit” in romanian to really feel the abjectness, because “hoit” is a smelly, ugly yet also alluring, already decomposing version of “cadavru” aka cadaver/corpse. also “ mă fac tot mai frumoasă” cannot be accurately summed up in “i’ve grown more beautiful”. a literal translation would be “I make myself more beautiful”. in romanian, this is obviously idiomatic and not literal. and yet, these strange self-reflexive valences make these lines strong and eerie, as if the speaker were authoring her beauty, shaping it out of clay and darkness and “hoit”,  like a butterfly cracking the corpse’s shell to get out, but also retaining some of its mesmerizing stench. why did i pause to do a close-reading of romanian poetry??? anyway, you catch my drift
in terms of movies, a recent one i really loved was sierranevada by cristi puiu, which is a neurotic family drama that drains you but also lifts you up 
and yeah, the hype is real, 4 months, 3 weeks and 2 days by cristi mungiu really is that good (about two young women trying to get an illegal abortion in communist romania. it won the palme d’or for very legit reasons. it breaks you in small ways. the very last shot of the film you’ll carry with you forever). i also liked graduation by cristi mungiu, where a young overachieving girl is about to graduate high school and go on to study abroad, until a terrible event unmoors both her and her family. the movie turns almost hallucinatory at one point, filled with ambiguity and a kind of sleep-walking quality 
tales from the golden age by cristi mungiu (him again!) is also fantastic for anyone who wants to get a taste of communist romania and the sad-funny absurdities of everyday life. this movie is split in 2 parts and the format is that of an anthology, almost like watching several short films at once. and there is one film in the anthology that always turns me inside out, and it’s really silly, it’s this bonnie and clyde type story about this girl and boy who meet at a party and devise an ingenious get-rich scam and just run around a few neighborhoods trying to put it into practice and it’s...the sweetest, most incomplete thing. there is such a strange, lovely connection there that never gets realized, and there is a MOMENT between them where he helps her step down from this ledge and he holds her briefly to him and i remember being in the cinema and thinking THIS, this is THE MOMENT where i felt these people were real. it was such an honest, lovely moment. like the equivalent of this song. ANYWAY, why am i rambling so much??? this ask was supposed to be SHORT. 
aferim! by radu jude is also a really neat movie and provides a look into the historical romanian/rroma relationship and why it’s so messed up, yet also so organic
the death of mr. lazarescu by cristi puiu is also a great little film about a man who gets sick and goes to the hospital. and...dies, as you can tell from the title. on the surface, he dies because of institutional ineptness and a broken healthcare system. at a deeper level, he dies because we no longer know how to help people. various hospital staff in the film do try to help him and fail for various stupid or quietly heartbreaking reasons. it’s a movie about being physically unable to care. there’s indifference, sure, but also this great exhaustion of the human spirit. but the movie is also darkly funny. might not be a great pandemic watch, but then again it might be exactly what you need 
there are soooo many other classics in terms of books (morometii by marin preda, for instance, about a patriarch in a small village in the South who slowly realizes the world he used to live in doesn’t have room for him anymore, and maybe it never had) but i’m gonna end on a quote from ion creanga, one of the most cryptic classics of romanian lit:
“Şi eu eram vesel ca vremea cea mai bună şi şturlubatic şi copilăros ca vântul în tulburea sa”
my translation: “and I was cheerful like the best weather and frolicsome and childish like the wind in its cloudiness” 
and again, the words in romanian and their particular sound and bite (”şturlubatic”, “tulburea”) immediately take me elsewhere. creanga writes about childhood, but it’s never really childhood. he writes as an adult who, in my opinion, was never really a child, but a weird, small god of the land. i mean the word “tulburea” can mean both “turmoil” and “muddiness”. the wind can be anguished, but also just a little cloudy, just a little hazy, shrinking its agony, howling it in the child. it’s eerie and gorgeous. so, that’s what he does: creanga writes about children as if they were wind-like spirits. he writes stories about devils and the peasants who trick them and school books filled with spit and flies, and warm eggs stolen from nests and fairy-tales of a world that is buried somewhere inside us, but not too deep, things hidden under our clothes or nails or even in our hair. and it’s all so physical and convoluted, just like his prose. and i don’t think anyone will ever make sense of him and that’s what makes him so discombobulatingly great.
anyway, this was supposed to be...like, really short! and not gassy! i’m sorry. i love waxing about all this gay stuff. i’m so gay about it. 
realistically tho, the nearest thing you’ll find in your local bookshop is probably books by famous ‘theater of the absurd’ playwright, eugen ionesco, or novels in translation by contemporary author mircea cartarescu. both are pretty good, so go for it! (if you want to start small, i’d recommend REM by mircea cartarescu, because it’s so trippy and meta and captures that summer holiday eeriness so well. it goes well with this romanian song sung in english)
okay byeeeee 
79 notes · View notes
Text
Author Spotlight: Honeysucklepink Day 1
Tumblr media
Author : @honeysucklepink​ 
How did you get into Glee and Glee fandom?
I was actually an American Idol fan, and I had seen the previews for the show, but I had already been burned on Eli Stone and honestly didn't want to get into a show that would get cancelled after a few episodes. Plus I was watching Lost and it conflicted (I to this day have not invested in a DVR). But the same site that was recapping Idol started recapping Glee, and more annoyingly my sister was watching it (and yet hated Idol). So anyway, fast forward to the end of Lost, and suddenly my Tuesdays were free again, so I decided to tune in to the "Home" episode. This goes to show how influential fandom can be to how a show is perceived. I loved Will, I was charmed by April, I felt bad for Kurt but rolled my eyes at his pursuit of Finn. I think the only thing that has stayed consistent was being WOWED by Mercedes. I watched the rest of the season, and then I'm pretty sure they re-ran it over the summer (I swear I'm sure they did, though even by 2010 most networks had stopped doing summer reruns).
Even through the second season, I kept up with Glee and other shows via sites like MJs Big Blog and Entertainment Weekly.  But I never was in FANDOM...not until, honestly, Blaine and Darren. I knew he was coming thanks to an EW news item. I was also watching Californication at the time, and they were using his original music to promote the show (Mia's doing, I later discovered). So my joke for a while was that I kept getting hooked on these singer-songwriters from Fox TV shows (David Cook and Kris Allen from Idol, and now Darren). But also by this time I was liking Kurt more...yes I had thought his pursuit of Finn was inappropriate, but then Laryngitis and Theatricality happened and by the time Never Been Kissed was about to air I was like 'THIS BOY NEEDS SOMETHING HAPPY IN HIS LIFE.' And then Blaine sang, and Kurt smiled, and I was a goner.
But I still wasn't there-there. Not until the following summer. The tour was happening, and of course it was happening NOWHERE NEAR ME, so I followed it on social media. I had a Tumblr, but wasn't using it that much. There was a Glee Forum that I frequented much more (don't even ask what my username was, it's long-forgotten). Also, I was in Seattle for a continuing education thing, and I spent a lot of time on my computer...doing work but also taking a lot of breaks by hanging on the forums. I got sucked in...soon I was doing more fan stuff on Tumblr, drifted from Glee Forum, and well, the rest is history.
In general, what drew you into writing (and/or creating)?
I think like a lot of people it was having stories in my head that I wanted to read and, not seeing anyone else writing them, realizing I had to write them myself. Writing fic for me usually goes much more stream-of-consciousness (thank goodness for betas). Very different from the academic writing that I have to do for my career, which involves a lot of research, structure, deadlines, etc. Being Southern and coming from a storytelling tradition helps. And a little morbid, but I think a little fatalism? Knowing we all die in the end, and the idea of leaving a little something behind, something that's not a kid, but a little part of me, that someone comes across and it means something to them. Even if my actual name isn't attached to it, it's still there.
What was it about Glee that made you decide to write fanfic for it?
It wasn't like my little reader prompts were always going to get the attention of a writer, so sometimes a scene would get stuck in my head and I'd just have to write it to get it out, or a song would get stuck in my head that I wished the show would do. Sometimes it was speculation, or wish-fulfillment...I'd read a spoiler and wonder how it COULD go, or see a song done and go "pfft, not how I would have done it, I'm rewriting this." And um, let's be real, I was at the peak of my sexual health, heck I'm pretty sure the show helped me accept that yep I'm really fucking queer, and there are just some Klaine scenes that the ol' Fox Network ain't gonna show you...
Have you been a part of other fandoms before? Have you written fanfiction pre-glee?
I posted in fan communities... I was on an E! board for The Girls Next Door for a while, I was a frequent poster on college football message boards, and of course I was on some boards for Idol (and regrettably, Vote For the Worst). But those communities didn't always stick to the fandom object...like half the time on the GND boards we didn't talk about GND at all! And re: fanfiction, I never read it until season seven of Idol... there was a David Cook saga I really got into (because there was intrigue and stalking and drama), that in retrospect was very much a self-insert Mary Sue (I know that term is fraught but in this case it was SO deserved), there were quite a few "Mavid" one-shots that were pretty juicy, and oh lord there was a D/s with Clay Aiken that, if you try not to actually picture CLAY FUCKING AIKEN, was hot. I really wasn't reading a lot of LGBTQ fic. My one hand at writing fic was as a joke...there was an off-shoot of the VFTW blog, and I wrote an RPF hetero scene of Kris Allen and his wife. To this day I cringe at that. I didn't touch writing fic again until Glee and Klaine.
Is there a trope you’ve yet to try your hand at, but really want to?
I haven't really done a true "enemies to lovers" fic, but I'd like to try it sometime. Or fake dating, that's one I'd need to get inspired by the right set-up.
Is there a trope you wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole?
I can't do incest, not even in a "well technically they're stepbrothers so it's not REALLY..." Yes really it's still a NOPE. And while there have been slave fics I've really liked, like the "Def" verse? Um, I'm from the American South, my ancestors go far back enough, fuck no I'm not writing a slave AU.
How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Care to share one of them?
Oh lord, there's maybe two or three...there's one that has the premise written, that I don't know if or when I'll finish it, that has Kurt as a quarterback and Blaine as a center (the guy who is bent over right in front of the QB that passes him the ball), and it's solely inspired by a college football player that waxed poetic at a press conference about what kind of butt a good center should have, and I'll let you fill in the blanks.
***
Check out Honeysucklepink’s Fics
A Place That's Safe and Warm -  Writer and blogger Blaine Anderson just wanted to have a few drinks, hook up with his friend Kurt, and pretend for a little while that his adopted city of Boston hadn’t been attacked. He meant to make a quiet exit the morning after, but overbearing parents, a cranky roommate, and the justice system had other plans.
Later On, We'll Conspire -  My "naughty" fic for Klaine Advent 2015: Kurt and Blaine get snowed in, with an empty loft and an extra-special gift basket from Santana (takes place in Season Five, pre-5.14).
Somebody Loves You -  My "nice" Klaine Advent 2015 fic: missing scenes from Glee Season Six. Chapter titles are the prompts.
29 notes · View notes