#Fucking. Who let this woman drive professionally. Why.

[lionblaze03-2]

Kind of obsessed with Pam stardew valley. Btw. If anyone even CARES

[sunnypopoki]

❝A LIAR’S OBSESSION❞

YANDERE DRABBLES #1 . . .

☆ ━━ [ yandere! husband x AFAB! reader ]

TW ; foul language, yandere content, sexual content and language, no pronouns used for the reader, stalking, obsession, toxic relationships, mental / emotional abuse, and more.

╳ This is not meant to be romanticized. If you or any of your loved ones portray behavior such as this, please consult into a professional. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. You have been warned. ╳

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who hates to leave you alone. Each morning he clambers out of bed or has to go on long business trips, he grits his teeth and glides his fingers across your sleeping figure. Why did he have to leave? Couldn’t he just work from home?

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who never fails to make you breakfast before he has to leave for the day. Always homemade. Want pancakes? He’ll make them. Want eggs with toast and bacon? He’ll whip them up as fast as he can. He finds joy in acts of service—no matter what time of day or if he’s running late. Even if he’s behind the clock, he never leaves in the morning without making you breakfast.

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who always sneaks a bite and hums around when he imagines you eating his food. Fuck. He really wanted to say.

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who mutters profanity as he drives to work. If he crashed his car and was sent to the hospital, maybe he’d be able to spend more time with you. You could coddle him and he could usher you to kiss him better. His skin warmed at the thought. Oh, he’d do anything for some kisses.

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who hates everyone but you. Forcing himself to work at his desk, snapping at anyone who came in looking for him. So what if he was their boss? He didn’t give a shit. They just needed to follow his orders and leave him the fuck alone.

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who scares all his employees. They know he’s obsessed with you, which is why they won’t even mention your name at work. They don’t want to find their head cracked open because they accidentally said something too close, too inappropriate, and uncomfortable…

Because the last time your YANDERE! HUSBAND heard someone gossiping about his relationship at work, they wound up in the hospital with a head cracked open and significant head trauma. If they remembered he did it, they didn’t share. Because who would snitch in a situation like that? Not when they could still vividly remember his eyes; cold, dangerous, emerald green.

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who constantly checks what you’re doing, where you’re at, what you’re up too. He doesn’t care if it’s stalking. He has to make sure you’re safe, that you haven’t just deserted him. It’s a good thing you usually always stay at home. Each time you have to go somewhere, he goes for a break (without telling anyone) just to take you there. A precious woman like yourself can’t go out alone, that’s dangerous.

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who speeds back home with good control. Whizzing down the highway as rain splatters across the windshield, zipping in between cars, blasting soft music on the radio. He always drove with amazing ease. Obviously, he was used to speeding.

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who barrels back inside and tackles you into a hug each time he’s done with work. Pulling you into him, inhaling your scent, feeling the warmth of your body pressed up against his own. A shudder goes down his spine every time. Being away from you for a minute physically hurts him.

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who refuses to let you go. Because what happens if you let go and you never want to hold him again? He won’t allow something like that to happen.

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who has big hands. Large, strong hands who could break your bones if he wanted too—but with you? He was gentle. He was soothing. He’d rather shoot himself in the head than hurt you… because what if you hated him? What if you tried to divorce him? He wouldn’t allow that. He refuses to let that happens

His arms tighten around you. His chest was tight. “Hm, can I kiss you?”

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who melts when you look up at him and nod. He could gaze in your eyes and forever be lost

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who kisses you in every way he possibly can. It always starts off tender and slow (he won’t scare you away because then you won’t come back) before heating up, his large hands grabbing your waist and squeezing it, yanking you into him as he tilted his head further into you. Kissing with tongue, clashing teeth, and ragged breaths.

He can’t get enough. There’s nothing you could do that would give him enough. He gets dizzy off your overwhelming scent, losing breath as he kisses you more and more and more and more. Fuckkkk! He couldn’t get enough. He wanted more! His large hands roamed your back, his heart flipping when he heard you take a gasp for air each time he pulled away momentarily.

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who feels sick to his stomach each time you pull away from his kisses and tell him that you want to do something else. Why? Why do you want to do something else? He wanted to do you. Flip you up on the kitchen counter, yank your dress up, and feast on the one thing he’s been dying to feast on since he started married you. To see you come undone by his fingers and tongue alone, the way your face scrunches up and your moans bounce off the walls. The sounds you’d make… oh, fuck. He wanted it so bad—

But he won’t. Because you don’t want that. And if he did do that, you’d never want to be with him again… and he has to keep you close. He needs too.

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who doesn’t rush you when you tell him you don’t want to lose your virginity yet. He knows you’re scared of sex, it’s not because you hate him. He knows you’re insecure (why? He has no clue) so he knows you don’t want to expose yourself to him. At least not yet. He doesn’t rush you because the moment he does, you’ll hate him. He’d rather wait. Sex won’t be as enjoyable if you hate him.

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who still touches you inappropriately afterwards. As you two go to watch a movie, he will kiss your neck and nip at your collarbone, relishing your movements each time you forget about the screen altogether. What? He’s not forcing you to have sex with him. He’s just giving you a taste of some foreplay! There’s nothing wrong with that.

“Hm, your neck is so pretty marked up like that…” he whispered. “Love your little gasps.”

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who tries to see your face contort in pleasure each time he gets. Whether it be by an “accidental” grind or a purposeful touch between your legs. He always has to hide his frown when you eventually shove his hand away, making his jaw click to the side. You never notice. Why would you notice? He’s the “perfect” husband.

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who still enjoys spending time with you even though he’s pent up. He loves cuddling into you, even if it’s not sexual, as the two of you watch a movie. He likes watching scary movies with you. The way you jump and grasp at his arm, the way you constantly close your eyes and look at him when you’re too scared to look at the TV.

Sometimes he has the urge to purposely scare you himself. What would you look like when you jumped, flinching away from him? What would you look like when you realized it was just him joking around? Would you melt into his arms, allow him to kiss your worries away, play with your hair?

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who gets jealous each time a hot actor comes on the screen. He glances at you throughout it, watching as you gnawed on your bottom lip, even though you told him that you, and he quotes, “don’t have any celebrity crushes.”

What a liar. As he watches you stare at the screen, green eyes darkening at the thought of you ogling some other man, he’s quick to distract you with needy kisses on the sensitive part of your neck. When your breathing hitches, he drags your head to the side to look at him. You know he’s jealous. He always looks scary when he’s jealous.

“Your husband is right here.”

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who groans when it’s time to go to bed. Why couldn’t he stay up a little bit more so he could spend time with you? The sooner he goes to bed, the sooner he has to wake up and go to work again.

He could just lock you up. Being you to work with him. His employees wouldn’t say a thing, he’d make sure they didn’t say anything. He could just keep you by his side forever. Use you whenever he wanted. He was quick to push these dark thoughts away.

No, no. He had to make sure he didn’t push you away.

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who clings to you when you try to get up. You have to pry him off just to get ready for bed. After another ten minutes, twenty minutes if he’s lucky, you can get up.

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who jumps in the shower before going to bed. He had to be clean for you. He wanted you to like the smell of his freshly clean hair, the softness of his skin, the warm curves of his biceps and chest. He also had to be clean, just in case you miraculously changed your mind and said you wanted to have sex with him.

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who always lets out his pent up stress in the shower. Chasing after his own release, biting his lip so you didn’t hear the grunts and whines falling from his lips, eyes rolling back. He was getting more and more impatient every day. Sure, he didn’t marry you for sex, and he’d live without it—but FUCK, he wanted to pound you into the sheets and breed you.

When would you allow him to do it? Even if you didn’t want kids, even if the idea of having a ton of mini yous around the house irked him, he wanted to see your face when he spilled inside you.

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who purposely walks out of the shower with just a towel around his waist to see you get embarrassed. He liked the way you averted your eyes and smiled, biting your lip, too shy to watch him out some clothes on. Not that you did any of this. He has yet to even see you under your underwear—but that’s okay. He can manage and wait.

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND you climbs into bed and presses kisses to your temple. He pulls you close and wraps his arms around you.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much. I don’t want to live a life without you. I’d die without you.”

“I love you too.”

“You won’t ever leave me, right?”

You smiled. “Of course not.”

Your YANDERE! HUSBAND who grins at the response. Good. All those efforts to keep you away from other people, to make sure you didn’t have any other friends other than his company, was paying off. All the lying was working. You weren’t dumb by any means… he was just better. But that’s okay.

He wouldn’t allow you to leave even if you tried. He’d chain you up and keep you as his forever if you dared even suggest the thought of divorce or separation from him.

Because you’re his.

Only his.

This Drabble was based off one of my yandere books online! Please check out my YANDERE HUSBAND story called “Muzzle [yandere mafia husband x female! reader]” online.

You can find this on both QUOTEV and WATTPAD. If you like this story, please make sure to star, heart, or comment on the stories to show support! I also have a discord server if you’re interested…

Thank you so much for reading this Drabble! Make sure to heart and comment if you want to see more content like this.

[bunnivez]

Modern! Zoya…

Her first job was as a tattoo artist. Most of her costumers were women, they would specifically ask for her to do their tattoos; both because of her amazing work and the other… to get a close look at her. Whats better? Zoya is aware of the many women she is pulling (๑>؂•̀๑)

Imagine you two meet randomly bumping against each other and turns out you work at the shop right next to the one she works at!

Or you got recomendad by your friend to go to a certain shop to get your tattoo done, telling you to specifically ask for a woman named Zoya since her work is more professional and she is more trusted to give you great results.

She used to live in an apartment until she got a husky… I mean she it wasn’t like she couldn’t afford an average house but damn, she now has to pay more…

Has a love-hate relationship with her dog TRUST. Often complains of their sudden howling and the amount of hair they shed.

“It’s 1:30AM why the fuck are you howling like that!? You sound like you’re dying!” “Oh my f… You know i’m tempted in leaving you bald so I don’t have to deal with having your hair on the couch.”

At the same time however, they are also her best buddy and friend. There are times where she even lets them sleep with her on bed… For at least an hour before Zoya falls asleep and accidentally pushes s them off the bed in the middle of the night.

Yes she is a messy sleeper, god knows how the heck she ends up with on leg on the headboard and the other hanging on the bed. She snores like a dad…

Like even her huskey got scared for a second and kept barking until she woke up.

Listen, when going out she has this whole badass outfit, rings on her fingers, chains, unbuttoned blouse, a whole ass fit that screams “DADDY”

And then there are times where she just pulls up to the grocery store with an “Idgaf” outfit… Yet somehow she still looks hot. Jorts, a black baggy shirt, socks with the damn sandals or crocs combo (ಠ_ಠ)

Has a tongue piercing and you cannot tell me otherwise. If not, it is definitely her nipples.

Dark or alcohol filled chocolates girly. She isn’t a fan of overly sweet stuff.

Once choked on boba balls.

Honestly she can be romantic at times. She takes you to dates often— if not she plans something you two can do at home. Like cook, watch movies, play games or something.

Motorcycle rides with her are very common, more so with the fact that she doesn’t really own a car… Which she did confess that she may or may not be the best at driving.

Who knows how the heck she managed to stay alive with the many incidents she’s had while driving.. I guess she’s immortal.

Has an electric guitar, she posts videos on TikTok playing it and they get pretty high views! Like 406.1k views or something.

Her reposts mainly contain of two things; brain rots, lesbian.

Takes the most silly pictures of you and posts them on her story.

Source ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° .

HAHAHSGSBSGAVAWHABE, IMAGINE HER LAYING DOWN WHILE YOU SIT ON TOP OF HER TO DO HER MAKEUP.

Holds you like a stuffed animal when sleeping. It’s actually so cute but it’s kinda hard to break free from her hold.

YOU GUYS PLAY ROCK, PAPER, SCISSORS, AND WHOEVER LOSES IS IN CHARGE OF COOKING.

Her cooking is actually pretty damn good! I feel like she is especially a specialist when it comes to cooking meat.

If you are too shy to order your food whenever you two are out, or pay, DO NOT WORRY, SHE LITERALLY IS YOUR SAVIOR, NO KIDDING. This woman gives no fucks at all, too shy to order? She’ll do it, hot your order wrong? She’ll go up and tell them.

Have I mentioned she gets up at 5AM just to do pushups?…

The type to randomly smack or grab your ass, she doesn’t care about the size.

I don’t recommend watching romance movies with her… she will cringe at any kissing scenes acting like she wouldn’t or doesn’t do that with you 24/7.

Not the best at dancing… Girl is STIFF.

I have the feeling she is the type to not admit that she is in pain during her period. She will act all tough and all until she can’t anymore.

(We need more comforting the ptn women on their period instead of the other way around, they also need comfort 😔)

Oh yeah did I also mention she was close to breaking your phone once? It all happened when you were scrolling through TikTok and saw a thirst trap (*cough* Rhea Ripley *cough*) and when I tell you grabbed your phone and threw it… IT HAPPENED.

Says she hates kids but has a soft spot for them actually. They remind her of Horo when she was wayyy younger.

Randomly sends you weird TikToks…. Like it’s so random and she says nothing about it.

She isn’t a fan of dresses, but she once tried it for you and it was a sight. It hugged her curves right and she kept flexing her muscles. If you take any pictures she seriously will kill you. (Especially if you send them to her friends).

If you are out she WILL text and call you every 36 minutes if she can’t come with you. And if she is too busy to pick you up she will face time you on your way home.

Has like so many posters of her favorite bands, korn, kiss, Deftones, ect.

Randomly gives you kisses when you least expect it. They are so random, you could be distracted and she will kiss your cheek, or your forehead, or the top of your head.

If she sees anyone eyeing you while in public she will pull you close and give the person a nasty look.

[sunlightmurdock]

The Odyssey | 0.5 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader (18+)

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

You leave Como, your arrival in Verona is going to make the rest of the trip much more complicated.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, power imbalance, professor / student relationship, age gap ( 22 / 33), will be smut, virgin reader, swearing, infidelity, bickering and teasing, extremely suggestive, somewhat graphic towards end, minors dni. WC: 5.8k

…

You’re driving him fucking crazy. You’re spending far too much time together. The worst part? — You’re actually listening to him now. No, the worst part about that is that you’ll listen to what he tells you, but you’re still giving him all of that fucking attitude about it.

The two of you have spent so much time together, in fact, that Bradley didn’t get another chance to get Natasha alone. It’s for the best, because she actually smiles and waves him off when he leaves this time. Normally, they’ve argued by now. He never moved on and she’s not coming back — the usual kind of stuff.

Today, she had stretched up onto her tiptoes and draped her arms around his thick shoulders, exhaling calmly against the warm skin of his neck. “We’re looking forward to seeing you again next year, Bradley.”

And then, she had taken a step back and entwined her fingers with her husbands. And Bradley hadn’t said anything. He’d looked the woman that he spent so long loving in the eye, and said absolutely nothing. And now, he’s sitting on a packed minibus to a different location, with nothing but you on his mind.

In a professional sense of course.

It’s professional, because he’s sitting here and watching you read the play that he gave you. It’s from the Gracchan period, a time where social mobility was a big focus, but the play itself is by a very wealthy man — making fun of that. It’s about a girl from a poor family of farmers who falls in love with a very powerful man in their town.

Bradley’s eyes scan the page, then flicker up to your face. Your brows are furrowed in concentration, the small playbook open against one thigh and your dictionary wedged open between yours and Bradley’s. You’re just past the first act.

“I don’t… she…?” You shake your head in confusion, lifting it to look at Bradley. “She wants to belong to him? — Like work for him?”

Bradley’s lips twitch. He gives a small shake of his head, leaning closer and taking the dictionary. He flips around a little, his shoulder pressing into yours. Warm skin, the smell of his cologne, the rumble of the wheels against the uneven road.

Pasquale’s love for the 1970s American rock pours through the car in the form of an Eagles album. Bradley knows which one. You couldn’t have less of a clue.

“She’s saying she wants to give herself to him. Not belong to him.” Bradley explains patiently, turning the book towards you so that you can see the rough translation. It’s an easy mistake to make. That’s why he has you reading the play, so you’ll be able to use the context of the scene to eliminate the mistakes you’re making.

You look up at Bradley briefly. Belong to, give herself to — you’re stuck on how that could possibly not mean the same thing, until it hits you. Give herself to. Her body, she means.

“Oh. Thanks.” You set your headphones back on your ears and turn your attention back to the play. Bradley gives you a curt nod and adjusts his sunglasses. He spreads his thighs just a little. His knee presses gently against yours, not pushing, just sitting there.

You don’t mind it much. But, you’re beginning to notice a pattern. He touches you too much. When you’re studying together, his feet rest on your side of the table, constantly nudging your ankles. He’ll get too close when you’re walking by each other. He’ll sit with his legs spread so far that you’ve got no choice but to let his thigh smush into yours. But, you don’t mind that too much.

What you do mind, is that the man in this book was described briefly in the beginning as having brown curls. And now, now that the protagonist is throwing herself at him, there’s only one person that you’re picturing playing him.

It’s not your fault. He’s arrogant, he mocks her constantly and he’s got brown curls. Sounds like Bradley. Unfortunately, at this moment in time, Bradley’s character is all too willing to make the wrong choice. You swallow softly, brows knitted together as you try to convince yourself that you’ve got the translation wrong.

That his hands aren’t trailing up, under the fabric of his skirt. Your eyes dart from the page to Bradley’s hands resting against his thighs. You study the tanned flesh, the sun-bleached, blonde hair at his wrist. The protruding veins on the back of his hands. The gold class ring on his finger.

Bradley feels you shift in your seat, your thigh knocking into his. He glances down again and quickly back to the road. Those denim cutoffs fit your thighs perfectly. But, he can’t stop himself from taking a peek at your face. Plastered in discomfort.

Maybe he shouldn’t have given you a book with a sex scene in it, but this is mild compared to some of the content in his class. This book is the introduction to virtus versus pudictia. He figures the concept will be something you get your head around pretty quickly. Men doing whatever the fuck they want and women waiting patiently for a husband. Sounds exactly like what you’ve got going on already.

It’s only a three hour drive from Como to Verona, and Bradley’s got prep work for his research here to get done. He sits there and cards through the papers like he’s working, but really he spends most of the journey just observing.

Your reaction to his syllabus irritates him, but intrigues him in a way that he just can’t explain. He wants you to stop being so old-fashioned and wake up to the concept that sex is just a natural part of life — but also, he isn’t used to being around girls like you. He has made a point of surrounding himself with people who are nothing like you.

“Hey, Bradley,” You broach the topic tentatively, and he feels you shift slightly closer to Pasquale. He sighs. You dog-ear the page and close the book of the play. His eyes linger on that, before he finally looks up at you. You shift once more, taking a deep breath before speaking. “So, I spoke to my parents…”

You’re not going home. That wouldn’t make sense. You wouldn’t have just spent three hours giving yourself a headache by trying to read a raunchy Roman play if you were going home. Bradley’s brows draw together. He sets his papers down on his legs.

Pasquale winces as he looks between the two of you — it has been such a smooth drive so far.

“My dad has spoken to the Dean, he wants me to have my own room for the rest of the trip. He’s paying.” You explain calmly, pulling your knees up to your chest and resting your feet against the bench. Dog-earing pages and sitting like a kid, it just doesn’t fit into this image that Bradley has of you in his head.

He scoffs, lips twitching under that stupid moustache. “Of course he is.”

Between the two of you, neither one is really sure what his problem is. Maybe he wants you to be more independent, maybe he just likes the way your face looks when you scowl at him. Either way, he’s an expert at getting under your skin.

“Would you rather pay?” You bite back. Pasquale cringes, leaning away from the two of you. Bradley’s stare is something to behold. He really has perfected it. It’s mean, hardened and it’s superior all at once. And yet, it still doesn’t make him look any less handsome.

“I’d rather that you at least try to get along with the other kids. It would make your life easier.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“You know what I meant.” He knows that. It doesn’t make him feel any better about the way he feels about you. But, he knows that you’re more mature than he gives you credit for. Even if you punched him in the nuts last week.

“It’s really none of your business either way, I was just letting you know.”

It’s quiet between the two of you for a while. Almost long enough for the entirety of Hotel California to play through those dusty speakers.

“Does your dad know that you’re the one who started that fight?” Bradley really can’t help it. He’s a decade your senior, he should really be more mature about things. But, there’s just something about you that makes him want to put an end to your know-it-all attitude.

“I didn’t.” You cross one knee over the other, lifting your chin and straightening your spine.

“Pulled a good handful of her hair out, kid.” He scoffs, turning his attention back to his paperwork. His tone is so dismissive that even Pasquale wouldn’t judge you for hitting him in the balls again.

“I’m not a kid!” You turn sharply towards him, scowling furiously.

“Right. That’s why you’re here, huh? — Because you’re grown up enough to stand up to your dad?” He doesn’t even look up at you. That’s the worst part. Pasquale winces so hard that he has to fight with himself to keep his eyes open and on the road. He waits for the sound of an impact, a hit, a scream — anything.

Instead, you lean in so close that the soft curve of your breast nudges Bradley’s arm. “I’m grown up enough to know that pining over a married woman is pathetic.”

“Pining? — Kid, your own fucking fiancé couldn’t care if you lived or died. Don’t fucking lecture me about love.”

It falls quiet quickly. The voices in the back of the bus fade out, everyone turns their attention towards the two of you, arguing again. You look down slowly. Bradley follows your gaze to his fingers curled around your forearm, tight. He looks back up and this is all to familiar. Sitting with you facing him, blinking at him like you’re about to cry.

“Get out.” He breathes finally, releasing your arm and sitting back against the door. Your face twists, confused. Pasquale shoots a look at Bradley — they can’t just leave a kid on the side of the road, surely. “Sit in the back. Finish that fucking play, we’ve got more to cover.”

Pasquale pulls over to the side of the winding, countryside road and steps out of the van, pulling his door open. You’re silent as you get out and step into the back, finding all of the seats taken. Abigail pushes Luke’s backpack off of a seat and gestures for you to sit with a pitiful smile. You take the spot and secure your headphones over your ears again, reaching to the Walkman at your side and skipping the song.

You don’t say another word for the rest of the drive. Bradley doesn’t even look at you. He gives you your key first just so you’ll go. This place does have an elevator, it’s just dusty and creaky and awful. You’re on a different floor to everyone else too. That doesn’t help.

You sit down, settling against the foot of the bed with your suitcase abandoned in the corner. He doesn’t know anything about your relationship. He just has so many cruel things that he could say to you — she’s all that you’ve got on him, and clearly she is a sore subject. The thought bubbles in your chest to the point that it makes your face warm. It makes you entire body hot.

That stupid look on his face. Like he knows anything about you, or Malcolm, or the way that you love each other.

You wish you had longer to sit and stew. Instead, you’re interrupted by his stupid, big fist slamming against the other side of the door to your hotel room. You know it’s him because he’s the only one rude enough to do it. Unsurprisingly, when you tear the door open, he’s the one in the hall. Without saying anything, he brushes past you and walks inside, then lifts up the textbook in his hand.

“Let’s get this shit over with so that we don’t have to see each other later.”

You wouldn’t be foolish enough to think he was here to apologise, but still, his attitude makes you want to hit him with that textbook. But, he’s got a point, and you would rather not see him this evening either. So, you sit down on the bed and fold your arms over your chest.

He takes a look at you and frowns, then does a survey of the room. Wardrobe, your own bathroom, two nightstands, suitcase rack, floor lamp. No desk. Begrudgingly, he takes a seat beside you on the bed.

“Alright, the play that I gave you,” He exhales like that will make him let go of all of the anger he’s holding on to. It doesn’t. “It focuses heavily on the sexual roles of men and women in developing Rome. Did you pick up on that?”

You watch him open the textbook and flip through, searching for something in particular. It really would be quite easy to tear the book from his hands and get him with it. It’s a hefty book. Instead, you shrug your shoulders and leave him with a simple, “I guess.”

He looks up at you, bored. “You guess? — The male main character had a wife, a girlfriend and a mistress. The female main character devoted herself solely to this one man, that she knew was never going to be hers. What do you think that suggests about gender roles back then?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do know, stop acting like you’re stupid.” He bites back. There’s a second where you stare at him and both of you take a moment to decide whether this is going to become another argument. You sigh softly.

“It’s patriarchal.”

“Right,” Bradley nods, “So there were these concepts back then called—“

The lesson goes on, and the more you engage, the less hostile he becomes. As much as you struggle when it comes to reading text excerpts and answering the questions he gives you on those, it gets to the point where you’ll crack a joke and he’ll laugh. That’s got to be diplomacy of some kind.

Both of you grow unintentionally closer, shifting periodically, leaning closer to see the text, or look at a picture. So, when you’re stumped by a question and you turn sharply away from him and throw yourself down, smushing your face into the pillow and growling in frustration, he finally realizes just how close the two of you have gotten.

You, laying on your front on this double bed, groaning into the pillow. Him, close enough that if he moved his leg, it would graze your hip. Bradley stares at you for a moment, then — while you’re not looking — lets his eyes trail. Along the feminine length of your legs, up over the curve of your waist in those cut-offs.

He lifts a hand and strokes it tenderly over the top of your hair, careful not to catch of tug at your lengths. He repeats the motion a few times. You feel him shift closer.

“It’s alright,” Bradley says quietly, stroking your hair back with a surprisingly gentle hand. “It’s a hard class. That was good. You’re doing well, I’m impressed.”

“Please,” You scoff without lifting your face from the pillow. You shift just a little and hook your arms under it, hugging it closer to your body. His eyes dart down to the way your back curves into your eyes, then slam shut. He should make an excuse to leave. “The only thing that could impress you would have happened a hundred years ago.”

“You know that this course focuses mainly on things that happened from —“ Bradley stops correcting you as you turn your head and glare at him. His eyes are trained on your face. He’s not looking at the way those denim cut-offs hug your figure, but fuck, he’s thinking about it. “Nevermind.”

He stares forwards. His hand is still resting in your hair. He should move it. He should leave. He hasn’t ever felt like this — countless students throwing themselves at him and he’s ignored every single one. He’s being ridiculous. It’s just the forbidden fruit effect. The proximity.

He should move his hand. He just can’t take his eyes off of your face. The swell of your lips. The slight scrunch of your nose. The narrowed look in your eyes. Bradley lifts his hand.

Then, he takes the length of your hair resting against your cheek and brushes it softly back, revealing the rest of your face to him. He shifts his hips, sitting just a fraction closer, making you easier to reach as you lay at his side.

“I mean it,” He says quietly. Your lips quirk softly, almost a smile. You’re about to tell him that he’s probably never spoken to you so kindly ever. Then, he speaks again. “You’re trying. I see that you’re trying. You’re doing a really good job.”

His thumb swipes softly over your temple, guiding your hair back further out of your face. The smile fades from your face. Then, you’re just blinking up at him. Your face is calm. His doesn’t reveal anything.

Slowly, his thumb swipes along the same trial. Over the skin covering your temple, just slightly into your hairline. It doesn’t even cross your mind to move. Maybe because you’re too thrown off by this sudden tenderness, maybe because you don’t actually hate this feeling.

The third time, he doesn’t follow the same route. His thumb swipes tenderly along the skin of your cheek, gently trailing in a small circle along the apple of your cheek. Further down. You stare up at him. Your heartbeat betrays you, thudding away in your chest as his thumb leaves your cheek and meets the corner of your mouth.

His eyes dart from his thumb to your eyes, studying your expression briefly, before he looks down again. You’re silent as he swipes his thumb delicately over the plump skin of your bottom lip.

“What did you mean earlier? — About Malcolm?” Your sudden question surprises the both of you, putting an abrupt end to the out of body feeling that was fogging Bradley’s mind. He blinks, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he pulls his hand away from your face.

“What?”

“You said he wouldn’t care if I lived or died. Why?” You push yourself up from your front, settling onto your knees instead. Bradley’s brows knit together. The only thing he can think to say is your name. He stumbles it out, baffled. “You don’t even know him. Why would you say something like that?”

He could turn this into another screaming match. Avoid answering until you’re yelling so hard that you’re blue in the face. But, he won’t. He deserves answers too — he’s tired of that night clouding his head, having no idea if you remember or not.

“Because he left you on the side of the road to freeze to death last December,” Bradley’s suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he’s sitting on your bed, alone in your room. Your face twists in confusion. He’s not done yet. “And the only reason you didn’t freeze to death was because I hauled your ass into my truck and drove you to your parents’ house.”

He’s expecting to have to elaborate further, but you know exactly which night he was talking about. You remember the three days after blacking out that Malcolm wouldn’t so much as answer the phone to you.

“No you didn’t.”

Bradley raises his eyebrows at you. He wishes there was something he could show you, some way he could prove to you how fucked up you had been when he had found you on that curb.

“You were wearing a blue dress with sparkly shit on it,” Bradley says, his voice too calm. You were. You woke up still in it the next morning. “Open-toed heels.”

What the fuck were you thinking? — In the middle of December?

“Your parents live at the end of a long street with a bunch of Oak trees on it,” They do. Last house on the left. You stare at him, unblinking. “Your room is on the second floor, at the back of the house. Your window overlooks the swimming pool. I called your fiancé from that stupid fucking pink phone on your nightstand eight times before he picked up.”

Your chest shudders with the next slow breath that you draw in. He sits there, watching you try to rationalize what he’s telling you. There’s too much information for it to be a lie. The look on his face tells you that he isn’t lying.

“You… spoke to Malcolm that night? — What did he say?”

Bradley makes a face, then turns his chin towards the ceiling and sighs. He looks down and rubs his rough palm over his jaw, shaking his head at you. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he left you in the fucking snow, unconscious.”

The air conditioning unit rattles behind you, making you all the more aware of the sweat starting to bead on the nape of your neck. You swallow softly and look down at the textbook between the two of you.

“We were fighting that night, but he — I think I — I think I ran off…” Your memories of that night are fuzzy. Truthfully, you can’t even remember what the two of you had been arguing about, much less what happened for him to be so angry even days later. “Whatever happened wasn’t his fault—“

“No?” Bradley interrupts, a level louder than he had been previously. You pull back from him subconsciously, bracing yourself on the bed behind you, trying to find purchase in the sheets. “It wasn’t his fault? — Anything could have happened to you, you know that? — What kind of man lets someone that they love put themselves at risk like that?”

“He probably didn’t realize. I’m sure he thought that I got a cab. Wait, Bradley, what did you say to him?”

Wait, Bradley, what did you say to him? — He’s looking at you, but he’s had this conversation before with Natasha. All those years ago. Seconds before he had answered her and watched any love she had had for him ebb away.

“We had a conversation.” Bradley answers you dryly. Your brows knit together, leaning just slightly closer. “I asked him where he was. If he knew where you were. He asked me if you were still sulking on the curb outside of the quad. He knew exactly where you were.”

Finally, he renders you speechless. For the first time, maybe ever, you’re left without something to say to him. There’s a brief silence between the two of you before he speaks again.

“What were the two of you arguing about that night?” Bradley presses.

“I — I can’t remember. Something stu—“

“Why did you kiss me?”

Your eyes go round, widening incredulously at the man sitting on the other side of your bed. The man that you’ve spent the last week and a half screaming at. The smug, over-confident man ten years older than you who refuses to dress his age or pay grade. The man who threatened your fiancé back in December.

“What?” You shriek, pushing up onto your knees and scrunching your face up at him.

“You sat in my car and begged me not to take you into your parents’ house. You kissed me. I dragged you out of the truck and put you to bed.” Bradley says it so calmly — you wonder how often he has thought about this moment to be able to recount it so easily.

You look him over. There’s no more distance between the two of you than there would be between a driver’s seat and a passenger seat. Obviously you were out of your mind that night, running away from Malcolm and not kicking and screaming when this oaf had put you in his car. But there’s not a chance in hell that you would have kissed him. You can’t stand him.

Still, here with just the two of you, you’re not sure how it would benefit him to be lying about this.

So, you take a deep breath and try to ignore the heartbeat thudding in your ears. You stare at him. His hair is neat enough. Short at the back and sides, curly on top. It would have been shorter when he was in the Navy, but you remember it being longer at the beginning of the year. You hadn’t shown up to many of his classes, so you can only guess at what he wore during the winter. Vaguely, you’ve got a memory of him in grey slacks and a navy sweater. Still not wearing a tie.

If he had come straight from his office, he would be in his work clothes. You would be sitting in the passenger side of his truck. It was snowing out, so you know he would have been cold. The sun-kissed pink hue on his cheeks was probably still there, just frost-chilled in variety this time. His facial hair is always neat. Everything tidily shaved, his moustache always trimmed. He’s certainly not ugly.

Long lashes. A slight bump in his nose, like he might have broken it once, but it suits him. Slightly raised scar tissue on his cheek, his throat. Lashes that touch the bone of his eye socket when he closes his eyes. Freckles dotting his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. Eyes that can’t quite decide whether they’re brown, black, amber or hazel. Pink, plush lips.

Ah. That’s where your attention catches. You practically take a mental snapshot of the place where your eyes land. The hollows of his cheeks, the scars on his left side. His strong jaw, usually clenched when he’s looking at you. The thick length of his neck, his protruding adam’s apple, the gold chain usually visible just inside of his collar. Those thick, reddish pink lips.

Pushing up on your knees, you lift your gaze and find him already staring. He knows exactly what you’re about to do. His hand finds your hip and grabs at it roughly as you put one knee in front of the other and crawl to him. He guides you where he wants you and lifts his other hand, cupping your jaw.

His rough palm sits against your jaw bone. Tenderly touching your cheek, just slightly grazing your throat. Eclipsing the side of your face with the magnitude of his hand size. Even up close, you’ve still got no clue of why you would kiss him. Well, nothing that you can rationalize. No explanation that would make any kind of sense to you on any regular day.

But, if you’re being honest with yourself, it’s because you know that there is no rationalizing this. The want that you feel for him just doesn’t make sense. His fingers curled around your hipbone, pressing roughly into the denim there — it doesn’t make sense.

And yet, when the strong hand on the side of your jaw pulls you forwards, you’re all too willing to lean all the way into him and kiss him. Softly, slowly. Your bottom lip between his, controlled even though all he wants to do is throw you down on his bed and kiss you like he means it.

Bradley figures that’s a bad thing, that he’s in control of the situation enough to be gentle with you, but not to stop himself from making this mistake. His tongue swipes softly against your lip at the same time his hand tugs at your hip. You wobble forwards, he parts his thighs and tugs again making you land unceremoniously against his legs.

You can feel the abandoned textbook digging into your ankle. Its glossed pages, open and forgotten.

His hand trails from your jaw, around to the back of your neck. He feels you tense against him as he pulls you close by your neck and your waist, lifting, and then planting you on your back. The second that your spine touches the sheets, you tear your mouth away from his with a gasp.

He stills, kneeling between your parted thighs, staring down at you. You glance down. He watches your brows knit together and follows your gaze down to the necklace that has slipped from his shirt. You lift your stiff hand from your side and reach out for it. He swallows as the delicate tips of your fingers graze the gold cross. You wonder where his dog tags are. Why he’s wearing this today. If he just wore the tags for Natasha’s benefit, maybe.

“I didn’t know you’re religious.” You breathe out. He’s just close enough to be able to hear you. His hands flex around the pits of your knees, skimming down your calves.

“I’m not,” He answers you quietly. “It belonged to my dad.”

You breathe out hard, but it doesn’t make that weird feeling in your chest go away. You just keep on staring at that dangling necklace. Something keeps you from looking him in the eye. Fear, shame — lust — you’re not sure exactly what it is.

Turning your head, you’re met with the sight of his flexing forearm, planted beside your head. Bradley watches through darkened eyes as you reach out once again, starting at the back of his hand. You trail the vein in his skin from his fist, up along the inside of his forearm, onto his bicep. Stopping at the hem of his white t-shirt sleeve.

Bradley leans down, moving to the side to catch your mouth. This second kiss is different from the first. It’s all him. His tongue swipes your bottom lip and you’ve got the sense to press into him, to open your mouth. Both of you are surely aware of how dead still you’re laying, the way your hands are balled in the sheets at your sides.

But, you lift your chin and chase his kiss like he’s got your next breath. He pushes harder against you, his tongue pressing forwards and grazing yours. Suddenly, your hands aren’t so still any more. They’re up and shoving at his chest.

“What are you doing?” You gasp, horrified.

He sits back on his knees and stares at you. You’re right. What the fuck is he doing? — You’re one of his students, and fuck, your father would never let this go. Your fiancé too. Fuck, your fiancé.

“Keep your tongue in your mouth, what is the matter with you?” You snap at him, sitting up swiftly and hitting his chest with another hard shove. Bradley stares at you. Never in a million years was he expecting your issue here to be with the fact that he’d barely grazed your tongue with his.

“Excuse me?”

“Your tongue, you animal! — What do you think you’re doing?” You pull your legs out from between his thighs and shift away from him, leaping off of the bed. His jaw falls slack, staring at the way you’re glaring at him from the bottom of the bed.

“Kissing! — What? — Are you telling me that you’ve never—“ He shakes his head, trying to make sense of what he’s hearing. He knew you were inexperienced but french kissing has been popular in the US for a lot longer than you’ve even been alive.

“No, I haven’t! — What kind of girl—“

“Alright, stop yelling, stop yelling!” Bradley stands up swiftly and catches hold of both of your biceps. Quieting, you crane your neck back to look at him. He looks down at you and exhales. “That was a mistake. Right?”

His thumbs brush gently along the backs of your arms. You’re silent, just staring up at him, but he gives a quick nod anyway. That’s good enough. Squeezing your arm, he lets you go and then moves.

“Fuck. Okay,” He runs a hand over his jaw and turns, dizzily trying to collect his things. “We’re good. We just need to not get in each other’s way, get you a C — and then we’re out of each other’s hair.”

There are so many things you want to say. Even more that you want to ask him. But, you don’t. You just nod silently at him and tuck your hands behind your back. Then, you make the mistake of glancing downwards. The khaki colouring of his shorts has never looked as indecent as it does now.

Bradley doesn’t need to follow your gaze to know what you’re staring at. He knows all too well that he has been rock hard since he first grabbed at your hip. The little squeak you had made had sent every red blood cell in his body rushing south, and the way you’re staring at his straining dick now doesn’t help.

You make it worse too. There’s no shock on your face, you’re not saying anything. You’re just staring at the way his thick length is pressing against the fabric of the shorts, hard, and because of you. Natasha, that you had understood. She had been touching him and she was undeniably gorgeous. And they had history.

“Stop —“ Bradley pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand and dips a hand into his shorts to adjust himself with the other. That still doesn’t stop you from staring. He frowns at you. First you don’t know how to kiss, and now he’s realizing that you’ve probably never seen a dick either. “For fucks’ sake.

Your eyes finally go wide as he grabs the textbook, turns on his heel and leaves the room with a slam of the door. You flinch at the sound, suddenly completely alone in your room, reeling. Ashamedly, your first instinct is to call Matthew.

Bradley walks down the hall, takes the stairs, and into his own room. It’s empty, meaning that Luke’s probably in Robin’s room. Bradley should be an adult and go and lecture them both. Instead, he slams the door to their bathroom and twists the lock. Cold water probably would have been the best thing to do. Instead, letting the warm stream soak his body, his clothes ditched on the floor, he feels like he can finally breathe.

Truthfully, your fiancé is the furthest thing from his mind. The fact that you’re his student has never felt as minuscule as it did when he was kneeling between your thighs and watching your delicate fingers toy with his necklace. You’re graduating. This is just extra credit. If you had passed the first time, you’d be out of his class already.

All the excuses in the world doesn’t make it okay that he has kissed you twice now. But, that doesn’t stop him from trailing his palm along his toned stomach, wrapping a hand loosely around the base of his cock and planting his free palm on the tile in front of him.

Upstairs and three doors to the right, you’re sitting criss-crossed on the same bed that you had just kissed your professor in with an old plastic phone pressed to your ear. The line rings, and rings until it feels like you’re about to burst into tears until finally his voice comes through on the other end.

“Hello?”

“I need to ask you something and I need you to please answer me honestly. Okay?”

…

Tags: @thedroneranger @batdanceq @wkndwlff @cassiemitchell @himbos-on-ice @bradshawsbaby @damrlova @fudge13 @xoxabs88xox @mak-32 @sihtricswife @callsignvenus @callsign-joyride @harper1666 @krismdavis @sheisanangell @thecitysgraveyard @cherrycola27 @sugarcoated-lame

[hauntedandmurdered]

You know what feels like a fucking slap in the face? Hearing over and over again that Silence of the Lambs is a bad horror story that only people with a sick brain can get excited about and making the claim that Hannibal and Clarice's relationship is toxic.

This goes out to anyone who can't and won't understand the message and depth that Thomas Harris was trying to convey. May your eyes be blessed. <3

With this work, the author of this tetralogy has created a concept, which is of central importance as a wake-up call for both literature and films, even nowadays. How? By developing a strong female protagonist who tries to assert herself in a world dominated by men. No matter what means she uses, no matter how successful she may be, she is not appreciated but sexualized because she is a woman. Her gender determines her position in society and her career at the FBI. Clarice Starling is the damn heroine of this story and is not recognized for it. She is repeatedly confronted with contempt on various social levels.

There is only one person in the story, her antagonist, the cannibalistic serial killer and psychiatrist, Hannibal Lecter, who respects her for her intellect, kindness and purity. This is part of the special charm that develops throughout their peer relationship. She is the first person during his imprisonment to whom he answers questions. In contrast to all the others who have tried before her and whom he despises for their greed and selfishness, Clarice treats him with respect, despite all his deeds. It is the small but significant details during the interrogations down in the Baltimore state hospitality for the criminally insane that give clues as to how something develops between the two.

Hannibal may be a murderer, but he is also a professional psychiatrist at heart. By letting her work through the trauma of her childhood and gaining insight into her soul, he gives her the relevant clue to see her mission through: the gift of self-absolution. He understands that despite what has happened to her, Clarice is genuinely a good person and that what drives her is ultimately courage and purity, not greed for prestige and self-promotion unlike the FBI. He values her for being on the same level of intelligency. They are equal.

They are also linked by a significant event in their childhoods: both grew up as orphans and lost loved ones. This drastic break changed the lives of both of them, albeit in completely different directions. While Clarice has never given up hope and the pursuit of good, Hannibal has turned his back on precisely that. This is most likely why he admires her, for the small glimmer of light in her that was destroyed in him a long time ago.

Hannibal, from whom one least expects it, shows compassion.

The touching of their fingers during their last encounter for the time being is therefore an indescribably captivating moment; it is the first and only physical intimacy they share.

[episodicnostalgia]

Star Trek: The Next Generation, 123 (May 2, 1988) - “We'll Always Have Paris”

Written by: Deborah Dean Davis & Hanna Louise Shearer Directed by: Robert Becker

The Breakdown

The Enterprise crew are prepping for shore leave (gotta boost crew morale after Tasha’s death, y’know), when a bunch of time-travel-ish space-whimsy plagues the ship by causing people to slightly rewind-and-replay a few seconds of their current conversations/tasks.  It’s a fairly minor inconvenience as far as Galaxy class shenanigans go, but it’s enough for Picard to postpone shore leave for at least 45 minutes (plus commercials). And wouldn’t you just know it, shortly thereafter a distress signal comes in from one Paul Manheim, a renowned scientist whose whole deal involves professionally mucking around with time, so naturally Picard puts two-and-two together.  However, the mere mention of Manheim (a man Picard admits to knowing only by reputation) causes the otherwise stoic Captain to become so tense that even Data starts taking notice.

So what gives?

It just so happens that Paul Manheim is married to a woman (Janice) who used to be Picard’s flame back in the day.  Essentially, Jean Luc ghosted her on the same day they'd agreed to meet to say goodbye, before he shipped off to pursue his Starfleet career. You see, he was “afraid he would lose his resolve to leave," since he loved her so much. So, he did a really unkind (one might even say, casually cruel) thing and left without saying anything to, y'know spare HIMSELF the pain. Anyways, breezing-right-past-unpacking-any-of-that, they would tragically never speak again until this episode. But it all works out very amicably, which is nice I guess, and they finally say a farewell the way the way he ought to have the first fucking time. so it all works out*.

*[If I'm being honest though, Janice is a way better sport about the whole thing than I would have been.  Like, she pretty much just lets him off the hook; to my knowledge that’s the last we'll ever hear of it.]

While Picard’s drama plays out on the side, the rest of the episode deals with the weird time-loop phenomenon that Manheim caused via (surprise surprise) a radical experiment gone wrong.  Long-story-short, Manheim created a temporal rift-or-whatever that causes moments in time to replay in inconsistent ways [sometimes you redo a moment in time, and other times you end up running into an earlier version of yourself; basically whatever helps move the plot along].  Apparently Manheim was working on the theory that there are actually infinite dimensions, and that our perception of time is… yada yada yada.  Honestly, I can't remember the explanation, but I promise you it doesn't matter. All we need to know is that somehow Manheim has untethered his consciousness so that he can perceive multiple dimensions (presumably of the “multi-verse” variety) at once, and it’s driving him crazy.  Not only that, but somehow the affect of Manheim’s temporal rift also has cascading universe-ending consequences if left un-mended.

During one of his more lucid moments, Manheim gives the Enterprise gang the necessary codes to bypass his lab's security protocols, and Data beams down to do some obligatory emergency-space-science; in this instance, placing a canister of anti-matter into a time-rift-fixing machine (no time-lab should be without one).  There’s a brief complication where Data has to coordinate the application the anti-matter to a precise countdown (for unspecified plot reasons), but then he splits into three versions of himself (for unspecified temporal reasons) with no way to tell which one of him should insert the antimatter at the end of the countdown (why not all three, you ask? Also unspecified).  Anyways, the middle Data figures out he’s the right one (with no further explanation as to how he came to that conclusion), and he's correct, which is pretty handy.

With the rift patched up, Manheim’s mind is also conveniently restored, and spared from any residual side affects that one might expect from having one’s consciousness volleyed between dimensions.  Thankfully he’s learned his lesson and vows that things will be different between him and Janice, who he has apparently been neglecting (that woman sure can pick ‘em), and this time he’s going to… keep doing his experiments?  But… *checks notes* uh, yeah no, that’s somehow correct. He’s just going to be more careful, moving forward, and apparently that’s good enough for Janice! So the universe can rest easy knowing that Manheim’s work will continue to go unchecked, except he promises to avoid any more catastrophic mistakes!

I certainly wouldn’t have any concerns.

The Verdict

God, this was dull.  I actually had to watch the episode twice, because I was so bored the first time that I zoned out, and forgot what happened. A little digging on memory-alpha reveals production was temporarily halted by the writers strike of ’88, because the script hadn’t been completed, which honestly explains a lot. On the one hand we have Picard grappling with regret and doubt over a lost love from his past, and on the other hand you have Paul Manheim trying to control the flow of time while ignoring his present relationship with the same woman Picard has longed for. I’m not saying it would win awards, but I shouldn’t have to point out the obvious thematic potential between those two threads any more than I already have. But the end result ends up being… just nothing really.

For starters, the relationship between Janice and Picard was just so underwhelmingly civil.  Don’t get me wrong, I do appreciate it when adult characters behave like adults, but the point of this story was to address a regrettable choice from Picard’s past. And yet, when the two literally-star-crossed lovers finally meet for the first time in decades, the conflict between them amounts to little more than a quaint conversation, and an acknowledgment that mistakes were made. Janice offers almost immediate forgiveness, while barely (if all all) holding Picard accountable for his actions, or even addressing the longstanding emotional grief. 

Apparently the writers (Shearer and Davis) did want Picard and Janice to do the nasty, but that was kiboshed by the various powers-that-be. Now, I’m not saying that would have necessarily been the right way to go, but it certainly would have been more interesting than what we got.  Even a passionate kiss (or something to that effect) would have gone a long way to selling me on the idea that these two people had longed for each other, not to mention addressing Janice’s strained marriage to Manheim, and the internal conflict she ostensibly is meant to feel.  It’s not like the writers were being at all discreet about ripping off Casablanca, so why remove the one thing from that story to help make this narrative slog halfway interesting?

As for the time-dilation subplot, it just felt thematically disjointed, and ends up becoming kind of an afterthought.  Manheim also has virtually nothing in the way of a character arc.  You’re telling me he was SO obsessed with his work that he became an absent husband with a singular obsession, and in the end he’s still going to keep being obsessed, but he’s also somehow learned his lesson?  The script seems to genuinely back the idea that Manheim’s quest to control time shouldn’t be reevaluated at all (outside of avoiding of repeat the specific errors from his previous attempt), and that he and Janice will somehow be much happier (and safer) this time.  If I didn’t know better, I’d say there was some behind the scenes editorializing/censorship at work here.

But then again, who cares?

1 star (out of 5)

Additional Observations

You know, for a shining utopia that has rid itself of capitalism’s shackles, there’s still quite an emphasis on concepts like ‘careers’, and officers struggling to maintain steady relationships due to the demands of the job.  Kirk was an absentee father who never had time find a steady relationship, Spock’s betrothed dumped him via gladiatorial combat, Riker and Troi’s on-again-off-again romance was mainly off-again until the movies finally let them settle down, and Worf- …well Worf’s wives just get murdered, but that’s basically the Klingon equivalent of getting dumped. Now we have Picard, who evidently ran like a coward from the love of his life because of his crippling commitment issues. Speaking of the dear Captain…

Picard really IS an asshole: This episode establishes Picard as something of a heartbreaker, but the writing is so nonchalant about it, you almost wouldn’t notice.  This highlights one of the issues I’ve had with this season, generally speaking.  Apparently there was an intentional aversion to addressing character flaws/interpersonal conflicts amongst the crew, even when the story required it (because humanity had advanced beyond conflict and selfishness, you see), yet, Picard has spent much of the first season as a cranky, ill humoured, fuddy duddy (excuse my language). The thing is, I actually kind like how he starts off as cold and over-serious, and then begins to warm as the show progresses, but I have my doubts that the shift was executed with much thought or planning (maybe I’ll change my mind as I watch more episodes). Here especially, there was an opportunity to actually address some of his emotional short-comings, which is sadly overlooked.

Troi-SPIRACY: I have nothing concrete here, but this episode features a pretty classic example of Troi’s “I have abilities and can sense something is wrong with you” nonsense, when she approaches Picard about his emotional bagage. Like, oh really Deanna? Could you “sense” Picard was feeling “strong emotions”?  Surely it wasn’t the fact that he went as rigid as a lamp post at the mention of some random dude’s name, or the fact that he aggressively striking the palm of his hand with a tightly folded towel, did you?  No, I’m positive it must have been your magical powers picking up on the same thing the entire crew was also noticing. I’m telling you, Troi is a fraud who is so good at her job that she’s convinced everyone she has powers.

Holo-Horrors: So Picard loads up a holosuite program of some 24th century Paris Café, which comes fully staffed, and filled with customers (all holograms). Each of these holo-folk seem to have complex internal lives, with access to the full spectrum of human emotion, and relationships with histories. One of them (who is talking to a friend about her relationship woes) reminds Picard of Janice, even though she is otherwise entirely unique. So does that mean the ship computer is generating fully realized sentient background "programs" just for the sake of realism? I dunno man, the holosuite tech really does seem a lot more dystopian than I remember it being, growing up.

[famiglia-lealta]

Takes a deep breath.

The reason why I find Xanxus x Neri an interesting dynamic to explore is in that pursuit of what drives antagonists - how cruel and malignant a villain can be, to hit someone where it hurts in the most insidious ways they can. I've mentioned before that Xanxus is one of those characters that is just downright terrifying because of how brick-wall he is. You don't really get to see anything other than that closed off, powerful wrath exuding beast of a person that would burn you to ash just for breathing wrong.

Here you have this woman - who just turned up around an assassination group of all things and refuses to leave - who is constantly huffing her silver linings and spewing positivity all of the place to your men who are supposed to be unrivaled trained killers. Even worse when these supposed exceptional hard as fuck assassins just start allowing Neri to hang around because she 'makes them feel good'.

This annoying little creature becomes something of an embodiment of everything that he hates. Constantly talking about how she loves her daddy, when Xanxus's old man couldn't even bother to explain how he was adopted and froze him in a block of ice. Neri and her spiels of problems can be solved without violence, just a little bit of kindness and tolerance - to a man who saw how love and kindness made an old fool weak. Who got his ass kicked by a bunch of school-kids yammering about the same kind of bullshit.

It would be far too easy just to snuff the light out. The dynamic that breeds instead is far more malignant. After all, why just outright kill somebody, when you can watch the whole process of shame and self-disgust over and over again? The taste of hypocrisy, of breaking that self-righteousness down until she's no better than the rest of the shitty humans she surrounds herself with - that's the best brand of suffering he could ever ask for.

And so, it's about Neri trying to find logic and reason in Xanxus's actions, the why of what he does, to unravel and understand as she does, but there's really nothing to find. He is, he does, because he can. Shoving his foot into the faces of the weak is cruel amusement - and sometimes, it's bored apathy. He can just do whatever he wants, and there's no rhyme or reason.

On the other hand - Xanxus is aware of how terrified Neri is {both of him and} of looking 'unprofessional'. How important that image is to her, to look completely unflappable, that she deserves a spot amongst the big boys. Keeping every undesirable emotion under strict lock and key - even desire itself. Breaking that lock and forcing Neri to look at herself as no better than they are - therein lies the 'ship' part of it, if you can even call it that. Because if she really was so professional and above needing relationships, needing to give into base human needs, whether it be a need to kill or hurt another person, or to just be with another person - she wouldn't let Xanxus's poisonous words and actions affect her as much as they do.

To that end - Xanxus represents a hard truth that Neri doesn't want to acknowledge. But with the vast differences in power and position between them, she's dragged kicking and screaming to have to. It leans more towards 'dubious-con' than 'non-con', a confusing cyclone of different elements. Because Neri definitely hates him. But he also represents a knife of several truths, jabbing it into the bloodstream, leaving her thrown for several days at a time. He's of a much more superior position in their organization, and there's the expectation of respect and submission - though Neri is stubborn on what she will and won't allow.

Lays down. Just these two highly emotional characters, flirting along dangerous edges and the idea of family and loyalty but what are the connotations of how one might need one another and JUST. ALL THE THEMES!

[bonesandpoemsandflowers]

Today, for the first time in 5 years, we lost track of the day. The cleaners come every other Monday, to clean the house. This means that every other Sunday, we desperately pre-clean the house. Because we're two adults with ADHD who have somehow made it to the socio-economic tier where it's normal to have scheduled professionals to come clean your house--we live in the suburbs and use the same service as our bougie SES peers--but we're always, like. Never quite sure that it's supposed to be this way so we might as well get our money's worth, pre-clean to make the cleaning deeper, in case this time is the last time.

And this week we just totally fucking forgot, which is fine. Monday morning at noon my beloved stirs out of sleep before I do because he hears noises in the basement. Nudges me awake. Decides it's probably not a break-in because it's Monday, high noon, in the suburbs, as established. Peeks outside, sees no new cars. Still creeps down the stairs with a weapon out, just in case--peeks his head out the door to the second stairs, to the basement, hears a vacuum.

"It's not Monday-Monday, is it?"

And I swear up and down it isn't, while we go upstairs and put away certain things and get our clothes on.

But it is, of course it is. Which is fine. I texted someone local about this and she's like lol HOW? could you forget? it's just every other week!

And I have one of those moments again where I'm like, damn. I don't fucking know you people.

You've never lost time, have you, never had weeks of waking up at 3 PM, not knowing what day of the week it is, let alone which Monday it might be in relation to any other Monday, 3 PM not because either of you works graveyard shift because neither of you, strictly speaking, works in a way that pays taxes at this point in your lives.

Between us--not telling you who exactly claims what--we have involuntary psych holds and jail time and drug dealing experience and MANY rounds of being disowned and disinherited and banned from family dinners. And we have shared experiences, like the time the wife of a guy we didn't even know very well asked us to find him because he'd gone on a bender for the first time in years and we sat in the car for a while after wondering how we're gonna explain that we found him because we got a lead on a likely hotel and I followed the smell of smoked crack to his room. Never in my life have I felt more like a twitchy itchy working dog. It was my job to drive the guy to some NA meetings after. I don't know that it helped. I sat in the back and drank coffee, assigned to babysit this process, like he might bolt if left to his own devices. Maybe he would have, who can say? Maybe he knew he would have, which is why he submitted to the ordeal. We didn't really talk about it. Or anything else, either.

Ambassador's daughter, how do you know what crack smells like? well. you see. I wasn't that until later and also I was a Miami girl. and homeless, for a hot minute. Weren't you infamously straightedge, isn't that a thing you write about all the time? Well, yes, but--

Think about it. A woman who doesn't know us very well, who doesn't even live in the same state, decides that fire finds fire and calls the sketchiest people she knows to solve a problem and it's--you guys! You guys were her FIRST choice! One of you is getting a post grad education at this point and yet. How do these people fucking know?

Sometimes when I get to telling stories--and you think I tell stories on here? you should hear me in person. I get it from my father, man of the people--and hamming it up, in my current life people sometimes ask something like, but how? how did you do all that shit? except they don't end their sentences with "that shit" because they've inhabited this economic their entire lives, without the fall out fall in on again off again that my beloved and I know. He's better at it than I am but the way I code switch gets me all the fucking time.

And the answer is: because for all my teens and most of my 20s, I looked extremely disreputable. Because I was! Because, also, the unmedicated hyperactive subtype ADHD on a petite girl reads to most people as either being real fuckin' high or jonesing. One time a much more famous author than me, former beauty editor that I admire, who is simultaneously more of a sheltered rich girl than me (trust fund) but with better baddie credentials (writes about doing PCP on rooftops at parties)--

One time she's on a sobriety kick and she posts a video with her friend and the comments are brutal. "She's OBVIOUSLY relapsed already. Just look at how twitchy she is, that body language." online hivemind reaches swift consensus. and I had to watch this video like three times, perplexed, because I was just sitting there thinking: she's just moving like me, and I'm--

Same set of psych diagnoses, actually: the ADHD, the anorexia. Different DIY solutions. Same doctor approved RX solutions, actually, eventually. do you guys know about the Adderall shortage, while we're on related subjects?

Point is you gotta pour like three coffees in me first thing in the morning so I can slow down and sound like a person. This makes me a VERY good candidate for selling drugs, if you skip the coffees. People would just literally come up to me all the fucking time and ask. So why not, right? Those undergrad textbooks aren't gonna buy themselves.

And that's fine. Very cool and sexy of me. And you know, I'm generous. I assume everyone I meet is a unique and faceted gem, that anybody could be a survivor, that you don't know what anyone is going through, that being born into one kind of power doesn't automatically protect you from various forms of suffering. That anybody could be like me, like my beloved, that I don't know, that I shouldn't assume.

But again and again it's like it tags me in the face, like I'm bleeding from the lip again. These people you live among here? They are NOT like you! They will never be like you. They cannot imagine being as you are, not that they want to indulge that thought exercise, either. Literally never occurs to them.

It's not imposter syndrome exactly because I think we deserve to be here. Not so deep down I think I probably believe that we deserve it more, though even deeper down the horrible truth I believe is that it's all just fucking luck, it's random, none of us deserves shit and we should be happy when we land somewhere nice, planted there by whatever tornado of circumstance. And I am! I love my nice clean house and my nice clean clothes and being able to sleep until noon on a Monday with a hot guy I really like in my bed! Our bed! We sleep on a king size memory foam mattress, the deep dish kind, that you have to buy special sheets for. And that fucking rules, my dudes!

But the people. The people. The people around us and the people at the professional events we have to go to occasionally. They don't fucking know what it's like.

But a lot of the time they know something is off--

It's not what it looks like, I want to say. I don't say this because I also want to say: and fuck you if it was. The other other other thing I get from my father, who worked anti-Narcotics in the Colombian cartel hey day, which is a whole other world of fucked up his peers today cannot imagine, do not imagine--he can't watch any season of Narcos because he's like "I knew those fucking people--"

The other thing I learned from my father is that you sheath your claws sometimes, you spend all this time and energy getting to a place where you shove your paws into shoes and you smile without showing your teeth and you go to the ball. Unlike my father I had the good sense or good luck to partner up with a fellow beast, so we watch out for each other.

But still, man, still, some fucking days, few and far between, even if it's just the tone I hear via text message I'm like--fucking fuck you people, what do you know?

[notsocheezy]

Brain Curd #146

Brain Curds are lightly edited flash fiction - practically first drafts - posted daily (haven't missed one yet!) and sometimes written with the express intention of being terrible… but, you know, in an endearing way. Please like and reblog if you enjoy - the notes keep me going!

He's gonna be Frank with you. Read the rest of The Frank Program here on Tumblr!

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome back to the new-and-improved Frank Program! I'm Frank, over in the corner is my wonderful son, Daryl, and today our guest is a personal hero of mine, star athlete David Helper-Cummings! Welcome to the Program.”

“Good to be here, Frank, good to be here.”

“Be honest with me, David, you'd rather be competing in the Olympics, am I right?”

“I'd love to be able to compete in the Olympic Games, no doubt, but it just wasn't in the cards this year. Maybe next time.”

“I really do think you're good enough to win gold.”

“Thanks, Frank, but there's just been too much happening in my life lately. The affair, the divorce, I mean, you've heard about all that stuff. It's no secret. I can barely play right now. My short game is in the toilet.”

“You've still got the most impressive drive I've ever seen!”

“Sure, sure, I can still get the distance, but there's too much on my mind. I slice the crap out of it every time. It's really throwing me off.”

“Well'n, forget all of that. Let's talk sports in general. I'm really curious to know what ya think about some controversial topics.”

Daryl closed his eyes and shook his head.

Frank continued. “David, what's your take on transgenders in professional sports?”

“Hmm? What do you mean?”

“You know, men who make themselves look like women so they can get trophies.”

“Doesn't seem to me that a real man would do such a thing. That's downright embarrassing.”

Daryl spoke up. “That's not how it works. There are very specific requirements for -”

“Daryl, will you shut the fuck…” Frank caught himself and cleared his throat. “Daryl, you don't even like sports. Stay out of it. Ya got no business talking about things you don't understand.”

“But you don't -”

“Shh! Anyway, David, it's real and it happens. There was a boxing match between a woman and a transgender, and he beat the shit out of her in one round!”

“That's awful.” David scratched the side of his head. “Can't believe they'd let that happen.”

“Actually, Dad, neither of those women is transgender. The one everyone thinks is trans just has long arms.”

“You're too damn gullible, son. You believe everything you see online? I know more about this than you do.”

“Oh yeah? What are their names?”

“Huh? Who cares about their names?”

“Did you even watch the fight?”

“Pfft. Ain't nobody got time for women's boxing! Hahaha!”

Frank put his hand up for a high five and David quickly slapped it, but realized that might not be a good look.

“Uh, for the record, I respect women's sports. I rescind that high-five and would like to apologize to all the women athletes who were offended by it.”

“Aww, come on, Davey, have a little backbone! You got no spine, man, that's why you keep slicing!”

“Hey, I take offense to that, okay? I love women.”

“No kidding,” Daryl muttered under his breath. Frank glared at him.

“Alright, alright. Forget that topic. I've got another question for ya, David, if that's alright?”

“Yeah, uh, sure.”

“Do ya think we ought to have a separate basketball league for Whites?”

Daryl put his face in his hands and groaned. David looked at his watch and pantomimed shock.

“Oh, damn, Frank, look at the time! I gotta be going. I got a divorce hearing in a few minutes.” He got up from his seat and patted his pockets to make sure he didn't forget anything. “I'll see you around, okay? Alright.”

David Helper-Cummings was out the door before Frank could even react.

“What the hell?”

“You gotta stop making guests uncomfortable, Dad.”

“I didn't make him uncomfortable! You got him thinkin’ about PC and woke! It made him nervous to say what he wanted to say.”

“I couldn't let you spread misinformation…”

“Why the hell not? It's my show, boy.”

Daryl crossed his arms. “You want me here, you gotta treat me with respect. And quit lying.”

Frank sighed. “Whatever you say, your highness. Anyway, folks, this has been The Frank Program. Thank'ya much for letting me be Frank with you.”

[agirlwithachakram]

"Am I gay?"

"Oh, sweetie, no, everyone likes prostate stimulation."

"Oh thank god I'm still straight. No, you ass, I mean not bisexual."

"Well, let's see. Spend all your time with a guy who has propositioned you at least once a week since we met, go through wives like you're trying to prove something, but you cheat on them because they're not enough, favorite hooker is taller than you, and your last girlfriend was bossy, which you liked because then you can just do what she says and it's easy to love her, and also she was basically me, who you're screwing now. You had a threesome and you complained about it. Yeah. You're gay."

"But I did love Amber."

"So you had an exception, everyone does."

"Fuck. You're right."

"You're just gonna take my word as law?"

"You make a compelling argument!"

"You need to think for yourself."

"Fine. I'm straight and I've been humoring you this whole time."

"That's so sweet of you."

"Don't people know when they're gay?"

"I know. I was inside you five minutes ago."

"Shouldn't it be about what you do like instead of what you don't? How did you know you were bi?"

"I saw a cute guy start a bar fight over Billy Joel and it gave me funny feelings in my pants, and my mommy said—"

"All right, all right. Wait, seriously?"

"Uh…yeah. Well, there was a guy in college, but we were pretty hammered. Most times."

"You've been following me around this whole time because you wanted to fuck me from the start?"

"More or less."

"But I wasn't even interested. Or, I was, but I didn't…"

"When you're in love, you do stupid stuff."

"I would've had other crushes, at least. Right?"

"You did."

"I did?"

"Yep. I can count like six dudes you got weird about."

"Like six?"

"Seven. You don't remember because you're incapable of centering your own desires."

"That's not…completely true."

"Remember when you had a mid-cancer crisis and bought a sports car you couldn't drive and ate a giant steak and all to see a woman you don't even care about? You reinvented yourself as a sitcom divorcee."

"I…like things on my own. I like theatre. That's not a guy thing."

"It is if you're gay."

"But I didn't know I was—"

"You subsume yourself and your own desires because you're still guilty about your brother to the point that you don't even know what you want. Amber told you to make your own choice and you went with her preference. I told you to pick out one thing you wanted and you got me a present. Most people know they're gay. You couldn't possibly."

"I hate when you monologue about me."

"Am I wrong?"

"No, that's what I hate about it. You're exhausting."

"You like it. We could have a guy threesome. Boys night."

"I don't even know why I care at this point, it's not like I have time to marry anyone else." Pause. "A what?"

"Dude threesome. Eiffel tower."

"No, no. They're too much work."

"Or, you think they are because you're not actually into chicks."

"I…don't know if that was why."

"I've had tons of threesomes, they're fun."

"With professionals."

"Yeah, you had one too."

"Oh goddamnit."

"Chase has good threesomes with civilians."

"I put off homosexuality for thirty years."

"Sounds like it."

"I wasted my entire sexual life."

"Not all of it."

"Fuck."

"Sure! You know I'd never deny you."

"You're ready to go again? I'm not. Hey, you said you liked it."

"Sex?"

"No, the organ, the—Don't say penis. You said you liked what it said about me."

"Uh, yeah, I liked the organ. That doesn't mean it's good for you, that means I like presents. And attention. And you."

"You're mean."

"You like mean."

"Well at least I like something."

"Where are you going? What's on the laptop?"

"I am getting us tickets to the nearest regional theater."

"Oh no."

"Looks like they're doing A Chorus Line. That's fun. I seem to remember you loving that show."

"Wilson. Plays are for making people have sex with you. Musicals are for when you're really desperate."

"And if you're desperate to have sex with me again, you know what to do."

"Fine. But you have to come cuddle now."

"I will. Once I order the tickets."

Snort.

"What?"

"Gaaaaaaaaaaaay."

(This is a complete fic but here’s the AO3 link)

[soulsuckrrs]

@queenxfthedxmned | continued thread | Elliadore & Nina

                ――――――――――― ⌽ ―――――――――――

He wasn't an idiot and knew that despite his best efforts in acting as if he had changed at least enough to fool Nina into believing that he was fine at all, there was no chance that the perceptive woman would not notice. After all, they had spent so much time together, intimate moments and behaviors that he couldn't forget. Why had he allowed the jealousy to take over and drive his every move? If anything made Elliadore an idiot it was that. He had no right to be jealous, Nina wasn't his property and they weren't together anymore.

Observant eyes caught the little tells, she felt just as affected by his presence as he did to her own and for a moment Elliadore had to fight off the urge to reach out and touch her. Let his fingers brush over her soft skin and take hold of her hand, connect them. He fought the urge and cleared his throat again, trying everything he could to regain some sort of control over the raging emotions and urges pulsing through him with the quickened pace of his heartbeat.

She wasn't doing great, he could see that much behind her soft gaze but the words that fell next from her lips somehow tore every fiber in him to shreds though he knew it to be true the moment he had first seen her. I'm on a date. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? Laugh? Pretend that the idea of her being with someone else was something he was okay with even though so much time had passed between their separation and now. Dammit, he had no right to feel the way he did, she was more than able to go on with her life, a life he had glimpsed himself in not that long ago.

"That's wonderful, I hope you're having a good time," his tone was nothing but that fake professional he put on when dealing with colleagues or associates he couldn't stand, it wasn't Nina he was upset with but this other man who had swept her up while Elliadore had not been in her life. "This date didn't leave you, did they? The old 'I'll be right back, gotta use the bathroom' trick," the bitterness in his tone was not intentional though he felt it very hotly dripping from his tongue. Eli didn't want to upset or hurt her, he was more upset with himself for feeling the things he did at this moment.

[broodyjoey]

can't believe my nmom is the most annoying person in this whole earth, literally, nothing will ever make her happy. I've gotten a job, my sis got promoted, my dad got promoted, she won the lotto, she got offered a relaxing wfh job...literally nothing, none of it she's happy about.

She can't be happy for herself and anyone else, she can't listen to a single thing anyone has to say, she won't feel remorseful when she has caused grievances to many people...She's incorrigible, she thinks the whole world spins around her! SHE LITERALLY SAID THAT EVERYTHING WAS EVERYONE ELSE'S FAULT...

She will guilt trip and sing sad songs in a "woe is me, everybody pity me!!!1!" fashion, and then turn around and gaslight and brag about how everyone can't let go but she herself has reached enlightenment because she is someone who is higher than thou. She'll get mad and gaslight even harder if you call her out on it all. OH please for god sake's, someone please get this delusional woman off her imagined high horse! It's driving me, my father, sister, grandmother, grandfather, uncles and aunties insane. This truly is the proof that she's a narc, my psych friend doesn't know her all that well yet, so I guess that he must be mistaken by her phenomenal acting skills.

Once you spend enough time that the mask starts to crack, he'll realize that my family's accusations were right. We really tried our best here, she really trying to put us all in bankruptcy and mental hospitals simultaneously with the way she's heavily gambling, smoking, and hoarding (our house is level 3 hoard going level 4; check the National Study Group on Chronic Disorganization (NSGCD) Clutter–Hoarding Scale for reference). Bless my poor father, he tried the hardest out of all of us throughout the years, he recently cleared out a big section of the kitchen so that we can walk without bumping into one another and tripping on the trash. But in record timing, she managed to clutter everything again. I can't see the damn wall again. It feels disgusting to live here, I want to die every time I look up from my phone. Any time you put in the effort to declutter, she'll scream and shout about people touching her "stuff" and she can drag on about it for DAYS, all while recluttering the whole space.

I can't stand her and her shit excuses and her shit behaviours anymore. I really don't know why my father can stand this shit...wait no, my father has bpd......congrats, we're all crazy. Real congratulations to my sister for turning out the best, but that's because she hasn't seeked mental health professionals yet. She's always been regarded as my father's clone, she literally has his weird-ish tempers.....idk, is bpd inheritable..?😭😭 bbq for reals...

I can't think of bringing a child to a place like this, like my dear I'm currently trying to leave...How can I think of marriage and bring people into this, when I, myself, want to fucking leave?? 😭😭

[oldarticles]

The Perfect Mix CD

by Jake Hurwitz

So you finally got the nerve to ask out that hot girl in your anthropology class - and when she turned you down you decided to settle for that weird girl who sits on the other side of you with the short haircut and the lisp. When you found out she was a lesbian you went back to your dorm to kill yourself; this is when you discovered that your roommate's hot cousin was coming to visit. Now it's on! After a long night of party hopping and walking through the Wendy's drive-through like a bad-ass your roommate finally passes out, leaving you and his increasingly beautiful cousin all alone on the futon. If you're a true P.I.M.P.P. (Professional I-pod Master Play-list Planner) like me you've already prepared for this moment by making the perfect mix CD. The play-list might look a little something like this:

1. Dave Matthews Band: Crash. This song automatically sets the mood before your roommate's cousin even realizes what's happening. Memories of making out with her ex-boyfriend/random strangers during DMB concerts flood her mind, and she is rendered powerless against the romantic melody of the song. Dave's soothing vocals will act as the ultimate aphrodisiac as you try to initiate a little conversation. Ask her about her hopes, dreams and fears. Ask her about her first kiss"¦ just to make sure she isn't a lesbian"

2. Enrique Iglesias: Escape. She might giggle just a little bit when this song starts to play, but that's the idea, just like roofies are the key to a women's pants, laughter is the key to any woman's heart. Soon enough the soft electric guitar will take over and you won't need any explanation as to why this song is on your CD. When Enrique hits the high "C", slide your arm around her waist, and put your free arm on her knee, if she then raises her leg over yours (Like you should be expecting.) coolly move your hand up to her thigh. Now you find yourself in a glorious little pretzel of human extremities, see how well you can tangle yourselves together, maybe you'll get stuck!

3. Eagle Eyed Cherry: Save Tonight. This song will seal the deal. Just listen to the lyrics! This song was written for you and your roommate's hot cousin. When the chorus begins to come in whisper, "I wish you didn't have to leave tomorrow, I wish that you could stay." She won't know why, but she will wish this too, and the lyrics of this song will take on a whole new meaning. Sort of like, "You and me, and a bottle of wine." It will be you and her, and a bottle of Captain, and her cousin sleeping 3 feet away.

4. The Verve: Bittersweet Symphony. This is where you make your move. Allow the violin play a little bit as you look longingly into her eyes. Lean in just as the drums kick in, she wouldn't even be able to resist her cousin at a moment like this, let alone his totally sexy roommate. Clothes will be flying off as the first chorus plays. "I can't change my mind. No, no, no", Richard Ashcroft will croon, and you and your roommates kin won't change your mind about consummating the dirty deed on the very futon you and your roommie bought together.

You will wake up in the arms of your roommate's hot cousin; she will gaze at you adoringly and thank you for the most romantic night of her life. "No," you will say, "Thank you." As you get up to walk her out of the dorm slyly hit the play button on the boom box one last time. Hootie and The Blowfish's 1994 hit song, "Only Wanna Be With You" will come on. As you share a teary goodbye the hot cousin will promise to attend your school next fall. You will make a solemn vow to wait for her, and to call and write everyday. All these promises will be vapid and empty but who cares!? You totally just fucked your roommate's cousin!

[fate-tumbles]

#LIVESTREAM

I just spent almost 2 hours writing what I thought would be one of my most favorite picture essays ever. And it had music and quotes and God knows what else in it.

Because I'll never know, because you'll never know, because Tumblr fucked up and it crash and didn't end up saving the draft. Or at least I couldn't find it.

But I came up with that idea and all my thoughts on it on the spot. And even in the raw form I felt like it represented me enough to share it because I knew the people who got it, would get it. Because I used too many references and layers, and some people can't fuck with onions.

And sometimes I start cutting my peppers instead because they feel more important at the time because that's how my brain used to work. But now I'm making it my bitch, since I know I'll always go back to the onions because I started there already. It's just not the right time for me to cut them now.

But I am capable of everything. And it's scaring me. Because now I want to live since I have so much to do, I'm wondering how I'll ever have enough time.

After my three car accidents for various reasons, I have been telling my family that I will eventually die in a car crash. But there is a reason why I didn't yet. And depending on what car I was driving and what I was doing to pay for it however much I could, I was either so grateful to survive or so. Despondent to think that it couldn't have been so easy.

I've never had a threat of suicide because I've always been too fucking chicken to actually do it myself. I've always tried, but I know half heartedly even though I thought I meant it. Because I wanted to give myself a chance to live.

Since I don't post anything to social media anymore, I didn't have anyone to bear witness, and I like that just fine.

Because I do it all baby. I can't box myself into a dating profile, but professionals and personals are supposed to know everything they know about me through my Instagram as you may?

No. To really understand why I'm about to commit seppuku is not because you're a fucking moron. Throwing yourself on someone else's sword. And inviting yourself to someone else's war on purpose than getting mad because you didn't research your tour guides enough and they let you astray. #thats ultra maga lame tbh #so sorry #hard knock life 🎻🎻🎻

You have access to my auto updating resume, and you might want me on your team because I'm a hard fucking worker. But you're too scared to even look because you know I'm going to come for your job as well too.

But you don't know that I never would because I'd be pushing you to succeed even more than me so I could succeed in my own ways. # we are not the same # thank glob # mutations rule # X-Men #freaksgive #beats

I'm already going to put competition, not collaboration, and I'm the fucking Capricorn on my merch so don't even think about it. I have receipts. And Tumblr always has my back.

And I finally know why they scream witness me before they throw themselves into oblivion. Because at that moment, they're falling into oblivion thinking they're doing what that gross dude at the top of the mountain was doing in Furry Road #funtypo #feelscute #maydelete #later but #enjoying #reading it #now #sothatcanbeenough #for me and #me only

Because he had the biggest balls and access to all the water and raped every single woman and child he made and came across. Doesn't seem like the guy I want to look up to. Even though he's put himself on the highest peak. Like I said, it's all about #perspective. Sorry I figured out the ultimate cheat code to my life and you haven't yet, but it took me a while. And I'm willing to help. Because I'm great at tech and video games and cheat codes and perma death, and whatever you're going to need in the situation because I'm also a gamer.

I'm better than you now but I've seen you succeed and outrun me every single time. And instead of getting upset, I finally get off the couch and run after you because it's fun to see if I can actually get you. Because friendly competition can exist. Because I can insult you and love you at the same time. Because you can't put me in a Venn diagram even if that's all you see your life as. Because I used to, and I used to force my thoughts into boxes. But now I'm following my thoughts and letting me take them where they lead.

[my-life-literally]

I’m not mad. I’m pissed.

No one is here right now. No one is watching.

When no one is watching, I dream of a love made up of tiny things.

I dream of chopping garlic on a wooden cutting board. I hear the sound of boiling water.

When no one is watching, I dream of someone outside of work who knows my travel schedule.

I exclude my dad and brother from the following for the sole reason that I am related to them. And therefore see them as human.

I used to feel so interested in a man’s life. And his schedule. And his cutting boards. Now I don’t know if I can bring myself to care. I don’t care about their thoughts. I don’t care about how their ex/mom/second grade teacher/baby boomers/the guy who cut them off on the highway hurt them. I don’t care about their stupid crypto dreams. I don’t care about their stupid plans for early retirement. I don’t care about what dumb shit-for-brains man inspired them and the other feeble minded dickheads they know. I don’t care that men these day’s don’t have a public role model. I don’t care about their day, or what watch they want. Or how flannel has featured as the co-star in their dumb lives. I don’t care about what they know about car maintenance, or how much physically stronger men are on average because of women. Or how men have more life experience managing testosterone, a key reason why transwomen shouldn’t compete in professional women’s wrestling. Don’t worry ladies, they’re just looking out for our interests. Or how men are “fixers,” why don’t you fix your fucking attitude you magnificent prick. I don’t want to hear about how much they love their mother. I don’t want to hear how much they hate their mother. I don’t want to hear about how this guy they know is a “good guy.” I don’t want to hear their thoughts on what happens when you die. Or their stupid philosophies on a life well-lived. Or how much they hate dating. Or how much dating is easier for women. Or their half-baked thoughts on anti-vaxers; They’re white supremacists Kyle - and so are you, you fucking dickhead. I don’t want to hear about their irrational moods, or the dumb fucking things that make them happy, or how they went out of their empty-headed way to drive their buddies from one dumb-fucking point A to dumb-fucking point B. Or how they were raised by strong women. Or what makes them feel bad, or sad, or mad or glad. Or where The Art of War ends and their personality begins. I just don’t even care. 

I can’t even imagine talking to one. If I get asked, “have you ever been in a real fight?” one more fucking time ... I am going to set fire to the next Jiu Jitsu studio I see. 

Sir, I am a Woman of colour, living in a white-male centred, Aglo-Saxon apocalyptic fantasy world, have I been in a real fight- have you?

When no one is watching. I am a full person. I fear. I worry. I move. I am still. 

When no one is watching, I can slip into day’s of depression. I fold laundry and then fold in on myself. 

I lay in a ball feeling brown and guilty. Thinking tomorrow will be a better day: I will get up early, I will apply to that job. I will work on that report. 

When I am busier, I am happier. 

These past three days were hard. I mean like really hard. 

Older women are not helpful to talk to either. They are grumpy. I hate to say it. And they think the solution to the existence of having no-problems, is a husband, or random sex. Each articulating her idea of healing or wholeness through their favourite patriarchal lens. They say, “And have you thought about a husband?” “Why don’t you look for a man?” “You’re so very sensitive.” “Take this as an experience in life.” “I thought you would be farther along by now.” “You didn’t have sex yet? Well that’s where you went wrong,” followed by laughter. “I wanted to tell you he wasn’t good, but I didn’t know how to say it.” So let me get this straight: it was easier to say, “he loves you, I can feel it in my body, in my bones honey. Just take a chance. See him as a human. Life is about experiences and taking chances. And learning.” 

Well I don’t want to have fucking experiences. I want to buy a fucking house and die an inaccessible, incomprehensible millionaire. You don’t know the first fucking thing about me. 

“It hurts me that you’re still hurting.” Fuck off. No it doesn’t. And not a shred of curiosity. Just bullshit for days. They’re just like men actually. They’re just the men in their heads talking to each other. And then look over at me with lazy grins of people who mistake possession of horrendous levels of stupidity with Crown Chakra wisdom. And here’s a fun fact: If you have to utter the words that you have ancient womanly wisdom or insight, you don’t. If you try to convince me that when you’ll die you’ll come back to haunt me as a cat, or you and I will connect on a cosmic plain to complete our intergalactic work, I promise you, we won’t. 

I have seen this trick. Older women, seeing someone who is younger, and not loving them, but ready to try and mold and shape a psyche so it looks like theirs. “Look lady, I don’t see spending may days arguing about a 30/70 split over domestic labour in alignment with my life path. So unless you are curious about how a single male mind managed to render Middle Earth as the ultimate supporting character, and who the hell did his laundry, though I think we all know - then fuck off.” Basically, the birds of Middle Earth (who were born on the winds of unpaid labour of a woman so this man could be gifted time to have a think) bring me more fucking peace than trying to look a fucking man in the eye. 

I am conva-fucking-lescing. At least one of you was a nurse. And at one time both of you had husbands whose delicates you washed, hung and folded. Do you not recognize rest when you fucking see it? Or is that special laser-beam insight reserved for men? 

When no one is watching. I drive for miles. I stop in the middle of the sidewalk to re-tie shoe laces. I look at the clock. I boil eggs. I stretch. Spread butter. Wash berries. I watch my hair grow. I chop wood and carry water.

When no one is watching. I still smile at men. I smile at the back of their heads. We all need someone to love.

[catintheruemorgue]

annoying things they do

summary: small things these guys do that just grinds your gears a bit.

characters: oda, dazai, kunikida, twain, akutagawa, atsushi, mori, poe, ranpo, fittzgerald, steinbeck, chuuya, yosano, gin, kouyou, higuchi, alcott and lucy

these are all based off things i do or have inconvenienced my life lmfao i’ll probs do a part two with everyone i missed this just got wayyy to long lol next im posting being friends with double black 

Oda:

If you're wearing shorts and have bruises he will poke them when you're resting your legs on him. He’s silent about it too and if you yell at him he pretends to act like he doesn't know what you're talking about.

Will smack your sunburn but this one is actually an accident. He just wanted to pat you on the back because you're amazing.

Will space out when you talk too long, sometimes certain objects are just so… mesmerizing

Dazai:

Loves to jumpscare you the only exception is if it was a trigger. In that case he will just call your name and whip something at you for you to catch at random.

When you're driving he likes to reach over and honk your horn. It's almost caused so many roadside fistfights.

If he sees a dog in public he will bark and growl at it.

Kunikida:

Won’t let you on the bed without socks on. You could be sick as a dog and he’ll still enforce this rule.

Cleaning is hard because he has a hard time throwing things away. You'll spend extra time as he holds two identical pens, trying to decide which one he wants to keep. He’s learned to plan certain days in his schedule for cleaning now.

Won't let you turn up the music in the car and will keep it at a level that's so low it's annoying.

Twain:

Walks around the house shirtless but then complains about how cold it is.

Blasts his music so loud when he wakes up in the morning and it's always early 2000’s hits. It's not rare for you to have Pocketful of Sunshine by Natasha Bedingfield stuck in your head by 9 am.

Always has to climb something, this stems from his adventurous side. It's not really that annoying but when you’re in a crowded area and he runs off to go climb the tall statue, screaming at you to take a photo… Yes it is. Especially when children try and follow him and you're stuck receiving glares from the parents.

Akutagawa:

Will not let you throw any food products out. He tells you it's a perfectly good meal (even if it's not) and that he will eat it tomorrow. It’s sad because you know this stems from childhood but it’s still annoying.

Reuses the same gross, musty ziplock baggies. You keep buying new ones but he doesn't get it lol.  

Will tell you if your breath smells, hair is messy, outfit is ugly. He does not see an issue with this and it's nice knowing someone has your back but he doesn't have to be so rude about it..

Atsushi:

If he drinks he's one of those drinkers who will not let you take it from him. Keeps an iron grip on the cup. He finishes it no matter how drunk and always throws up. Thankfully he rarely drinks.

He stops to help everyone, literally even if they just look like they need help. You've been late to so many things.

Will eat anything. Once you made steak and somehow forgot about it. It was hard as a brick yet he still almost broke his teeth eating it. You think you saw some tears as he told you it was delicious.

Mori:

Listens to people's conversations in public and isn't afraid to comment, loudly, about it. You know it's loud because they either stop talking or try and confront you guys.

Comes up to stops fast and brakes so hard you feel like he does it on purpose.

Sometimes if he and Elise get into a “disagreement” he’ll try and rope you in to take his side and you always do, knowing it would probably give him more satisfaction if you chose to side with her.

Poe:

Asks for constructive criticism but will then argue with you about why you're wrong.

Always humming a song he heard Twain singing and then it gets stuck in your head too.

Will deny stupid things like why your favorite mug is in the trash or why he just let out rather loud scream in the bathroom. You know he's lying because he looks away and makes sure his bangs are covering his eyes.

Ranpo:

Will call you out on any lie even if you don't mean to lie you just forgot about some of the details.

Don't take him grocery shopping if you have a set amount you want to spend. He won't even sneak, he will just say he wants something and throw it in the cart.

Such a backseat driver even though he can't drive.

Fitzgerald:

Likes to act like he's still in his twenties and will somehow get the two of you invited to college parties where he will attempt to do a kegger in front of everyone. You end up being the one to hold him up and he always ends with a, “LETS FUCKING GO!”

Likes to ask for the senior discount even though he's not that old, he just likes to hear the women validate that he's not old.

It’s scary how he used to buy without looking and now will scream if the price on a price tag is too high.

Steinbeck:

Always looking at the grass for wheat to chew on. It's so cheesy when you walk into the city and he's got it sticking out of his mouth.

He gets weirdly intimate with nature and you feel like you're third wheeling.

Has the mentality that he has to provide for you because he is the man. He gets so shocked when he finds out you still want to work.

Chuuya:

Has a hard time making decisions you could ask him what he wants for dinner and his mind will just break.

Gets way too pissed at movies and will actually get up and walk away. Once you were kicked out of the theater because he wouldn't stop yelling at the screen. Another time he walked out you waited a whole ten minutes before you realized he wasn't coming back.

Sometimes activates his ability at night and it's so scary waking up to him floating halfway across the room.

WOMAN TIME!!!!!!!!!!

Yosano:

Will glare at you so intensely if you say something she disagrees with.

Always tries to rope you into drinking with her even if you’ve said no the past ten nights.

Will describe wounds or injuries in such detail and just won’t stop, almost like she’s trying to fuck with you, but she’s not.

Gin:

Claims to be nothing like her big brother but then will go on to make the same facial expressions and do some of the same mannerisms as him.

Will spend hours trying things on just to put it all back, leave the store and change her mind when you’re almost home. Then she’ll have you run back with her to buy it all.

Is used to sneaking around so scares you a lot. Also on the topic of being silent sometimes she just won’t respond, thinking you can just read her vibes / mind.

Kouyou:

Will judge what you eat, especially fast food but will try and steal a fry in private when you're not looking.

Will say things like, “Well that's just the way the world works.” If someone tries to share their baggage with her. You understand she’s had a pretty rough life but it's caused you to almost spit out your drink multiple times.

At functions forgets about you for about an hour while she mingles with everyone else, you could tap on her shoulder and she'll dismiss you like you're a subordinate. Until you clear your throat again you'll see the slight blush as she apologizes.

Higuchi:

She has no sense of privacy. If she hears a crash or loud noise she will bust down the door. It’s sweet but not when the noises are usually from you knocking all the shampoo bottles down again.

Horrible road rage actually puts you on edge to be in the car with her. She doesn't even have to be driving.

Likes to act like she's a professional at everything and people usually believe it because of her suit. It's so nerve wracking when she giggles when they walk away with false information.

Alcott:

Will agree to everything you suggest but you can only tell when she doesn’t want to do it when you’re currently doing it.

Yet she’s not afraid to grumble about how annoying it is when someone bumps into you and doesn’t apologize. It’s sweet but you’re left dealing with the situation if the person is aggressive enough to say something.

Always corrects your spelling or if you say something like “I could care less.”

Lucy:

Will fish for compliments in a very obvious way like, “Wow. Wish someone would call me pretty..” and then just stare right at you.

Kicks you so violently in her sleep but won't let go of you so you cant get away.

Constantly stealing from restaurants. You're banned from a couple restaurants because she got caught trying to steal a cup or salt shaker.