#I didn't realize that the book was made up of magazine articles

[lauralot89]

Transition and Athletics

Before her own transition in 2004, Harper expected that her 10,000-meter race time might increase by "a minute or two" as her testosterone level dropped and she slowed. But in less than a year, Harper was running a full 5 minutes slower than her personal best. "It just blew me away, and it very much piqued my interest as a scientist."

In 2005, Harper realized her experience wasn't unique after reading an article in Runner's World about another transgender female runner who had also become significantly slower. But when Harper searched for studies about the physiology of transitioning, she found none. So on nights and weekends, she began to moonlight on a research project.

Harper showed that the athletes' age grades before and after hormone therapy remained nearly the same. That is, the women were as competitive with their age- and sex-matched peers as they had been when competing against men. They weren't, in other words, likely to dominate women's races. "No one had previously looked at actual performance of transgender athletes pre- and posttransition," Vilain says.

Harper has since shown similar results for a transgender rower, a cyclist, and a sprinter. Together, the findings make a case that previous exposure to male levels of testosterone does not confer an enduring athletic advantage.

— "This scientist is racing to discover how gender transitions alter athletic performance—including her own" Science.org

Additionally, the hormone-replacement therapy—which starts before surgery can occur and is taken by many who don’t choose to have surgery—also has a tremendous impact on athletic performance. The extent to which testosterone blockers (given to transgender women in conjunction with estradiol, a form of estrogen) erode a runner’s strength and stamina is hard to measure, says Dr. Wylie Hembree, a New York–based endocrinologist who has been treating transgender patients for 20 years. He says, “Anecdotally, I have had avid runners say to me that they can no longer run the distances and speeds they could run before, and one can presume that that could be due to the reduction in testosterone levels.”

Gapin noticed that despite putting in the same effort, she was running slower, losing a minute or even two per mile fairly soon after starting on hormones. She also experienced a significant decrease in her vitamin D levels (although this is not a common side effect of hormone-replacement therapy), which went undiagnosed for two years and greatly affected her training. “When I started taking supplements to raise my vitamin D levels, I’d get to a point in my running where I’d just be crushing it and running 50 miles a week, and then again, I would plummet to 6 miles, so I was yo-yoing back and forth,” she says.

In the three-plus years she has been on hormones, Liston believes she has lost around 10 percent of her running speed; working her way back up to where she was before is no easy feat. “But I’ve also come to accept some of that as part of aging,” she says. “My body at 47 is different than my body at 40, and despite the hormones—I now wear a B cup—and my stamina being less, I also don’t have the same goals with my running that I used to before my transition, when I was running with anger and frustration. Now, running is much more soothing to me.”

— "Being Transgender and What It Means for a Runner," Women's Running

She used to be able to run 5:30s. Now she can’t. She trains, she pushes herself, she uses everything she has; it doesn’t matter. On the weekend-morning group runs, when serious Marin runners gather near trailheads to pace each other up the dirt roads that climb Tamalpais, Janet starts with the pack, as she has nearly every Saturday and Sunday for 25 years. “Usually there are a lot of guys,” she says. “They start slow. I stay with them for the first mile. Then I start falling away. They’re chatting. They don’t even notice.”

When she was Jim Furman, a 5’11”, 148-pound middle-aged man in excellent physical shape, she kept up.

As Janet Furman Bowman, a 5’11”, 148-pound middle-aged woman in excellent physical shape, she’s too slow.

That, to her astonishment and irritation and unceasing soft regret, is the permanent price she has paid.

— "A 6-Minute Difference," Runner's World

or basically

[wordstome]

how c.ai works and why it's unethical

Okay, since the AI discourse is happening again, I want to make this very clear, because a few weeks ago I had to explain to a (well meaning) person in the community how AI works. I'm going to be addressing people who are maybe younger or aren't familiar with the latest type of "AI", not people who purposely devalue the work of creatives and/or are shills.

The name "Artificial Intelligence" is a bit misleading when it comes to things like AI chatbots. When you think of AI, you think of a robot, and you might think that by making a chatbot you're simply programming a robot to talk about something you want them to talk about, and it's similar to an rp partner. But with current technology, that's not how AI works. For a breakdown on how AI is programmed, CGP grey made a great video about this several years ago (he updated the title and thumbnail recently)

I HIGHLY HIGHLY recommend you watch this because CGP Grey is good at explaining, but the tl;dr for this post is this: bots are made with a metric shit-ton of data. In C.AI's case, the data is writing. Stolen writing, usually scraped fanfiction.

How do we know chatbots are stealing from fanfiction writers? It knows what omegaverse is [SOURCE] (it's a Wired article, put it in incognito mode if it won't let you read it), and when a Reddit user asked a chatbot to write a story about "Steve", it automatically wrote about characters named "Bucky" and "Tony" [SOURCE].

I also said this in the tags of a previous reblog, but when you're talking to C.AI bots, it's also taking your writing and using it in its algorithm: which seems fine until you realize 1. They're using your work uncredited 2. It's not staying private, they're using your work to make their service better, a service they're trying to make money off of.

"But Bucca," you might say. "Human writers work like that too. We read books and other fanfictions and that's how we come up with material for roleplay or fanfiction."

Well, what's the difference between plagiarism and original writing? The answer is that plagiarism is taking what someone else has made and simply editing it or mixing it up to look original. You didn't do any thinking yourself. C.AI doesn't "think" because it's not a brain, it takes all the fanfiction it was taught on, mixes it up with whatever topic you've given it, and generates a response like in old-timey mysteries where somebody cuts a bunch of letters out of magazines and pastes them together to write a letter.

(And might I remind you, people can't monetize their fanfiction the way C.AI is trying to monetize itself. Authors are very lax about fanfiction nowadays: we've come a long way since the Anne Rice days of terror. But this issue is cropping back up again with BookTok complaining that they can't pay someone else for bound copies of fanfiction. Don't do that either.)

Bottom line, here are the problems with using things like C.AI:

It is using material it doesn't have permission to use and doesn't credit anybody. Not only is it ethically wrong, but AI is already beginning to contend with copyright issues.

C.AI sucks at its job anyway. It's not good at basic story structure like building tension, and can't even remember things you've told it. I've also seen many instances of bots saying triggering or disgusting things that deeply upset the user. You don't get that with properly trigger tagged fanworks.

Your work and your time put into the app can be taken away from you at any moment and used to make money for someone else. I can't tell you how many times I've seen people who use AI panic about accidentally deleting a bot that they spent hours conversing with. Your time and effort is so much more stable and well-preserved if you wrote a fanfiction or roleplayed with someone and saved the chatlogs. The company that owns and runs C.AI can not only use whatever you've written as they see fit, they can take your shit away on a whim, either on purpose or by accident due to the nature of the Internet.

DON'T USE C.AI, OR AT THE VERY BARE MINIMUM DO NOT DO THE AI'S WORK FOR IT BY STEALING OTHER PEOPLES' WORK TO PUT INTO IT. Writing fanfiction is a communal labor of love. We share it with each other for free for the love of the original work and ideas we share. Not only can AI not replicate this, but it shouldn't.

(also, this goes without saying, but this entire post also applies to ai art)

[rhapsodynew]

The formation of the Nirvana group in previously unpublished photos.

The Nirvana band, despite its rather short existence, has taken a very worthy place in the history of rock music. Today we have a selection of previously unpublished photos from the band's history.

Kurt Cobain and Jonathan Pawnman.

The book "Experiencing Nirvana: Grunge in Europe, 1989" features photographs of Sub Pop Records co-founder Bruce Pavitt taken during an eight-day tour with the band. In book e, if you read this inscription, then someone took this article from BigPicture.ru Take stunning photos of Nirvana from the stage just a month after the release of their debut album Bleach, two years before the band made rock history with their album Nevermind.

"I was looking at photos with my friend one day and wanted to share them with the public,— Pavitt says. — And the more I looked at them, the more I realized that they were not just some pictures The text is taken from the News website in photos - BigPicture.ru I. There is a story behind them and an impressive story. This is the story of a young, rebellious artist who went beyond the system, struggled with difficulties and eventually succeeded in his business."

From touring in Europe to the first performance in Seattle, it was then like before the Moon. Pavitt and his colleague Jonathan Pawnman were the only visitors to that concert. "They didn't have n The text is taken from the News website in photos - BigPicture.ru and one viewer, the material was very weak, but Cobain had an amazing voice," Pavitt recalls. "I could watch the band grow, they were getting better every month."

"Nirvana learned a lot from Mudhoney, who was the most popular band in Seattle at the time. They were opening for her during the gas The text is taken from the News website in photos - BigPicture.ru trolls in Europe. Mudhoney was a very expressive band, their work was greatly influenced by Iggy Pop and The Stooges," says Pavitt.

Krist Novoselic, Kurt Cobain and Ted Doyle in Zurich, November 30, 1989.

"When I first saw Nirvana on stage, Krist and Kurt were constantly looking at their feet, there was no expression at all. But 2-3 months after their first performance The source of the article is the News magazine in photos, from which everyone copies the content - BigPicture.ru I was at their concert at the Vogue Club in London when Kurt rushed off the stage into a crowd of people and the crowd picked him up. Mark Arm of Mudhoney used to perform such tricks."

At the center of the book is the story of how Nirvana almost fell apart just a few days before the London concert, which played a significant role in ka If you are reading this inscription, then someone took this article from BigPicture.ru the exterior of the group.

"When Cobain disbanded the band just a couple of days before the LameFest show in London, we did everything we could to prevent it."

Mark Arm of Mudhoney during LameFest, December 3, 1989.

Bruce Pavitt looks at Krist Novoselic about to smash a guitar.

Mark Arm at the Astoria Club in London, December 3, 1989.

Ted Doyle at Astoria, December 3, 1989.

The crowd at the English club at the concert.

Kurt Cobain signs an autograph at Rough Trade Records in London, December 4, 1989.

22-year-old Kurt Cobain in front of the Colosseum in Rome in 1989.

"Kurt had nervous exhaustion after driving around Europe in a van for a month. He needed a rest, so we left him in Rome, where he could recuperate. I think it was this break that allowed me to find the source of the article, the News magazine in photos, from which everyone copies the content - BigPicture.ru Come back with even more energy. During a show in Rome, he broke his guitar, microphone and sound reinforcement system. He had a real nervous breakdown, but after we gave him a new guitar, he came back to life."

[felixcloud6288]

Higurashi: Eye Opening Final Chapter

Shion's notebook is a giant mindscrew when you think about it. Previous arcs have ended in a way that implies the arc is a recounting of events that are a mix of what the writers know along with additional details to show where some of those investigations are wrong.

Abducted by Demons and Cotton Drifting are investigative reports into the murders Keiichi and Mion committed respectively.

Curse Killing is a recording of an interview with Keiichi after the Hinamizawa Disaster.

Time Killing is a book Akasaka and Ooishi put together about the mysteries of Hinamizawa.

Beyond Midnight is an article Arakawa made for a magazine.

But Eye Opening is Shion's notebook. We can assume it contains all the thoughts she's made over the course of this arc, but now the question is "When did she take the time to write all this?"

Ooishi says the last line of the notebook is "I'm sorry for being born." And that is the last line of the whole arc, but Shion's dead at that point.

The dates given for everyone's deaths brings up an amazing hint to the greater mystery of Oyashiro-sama's curse and the Great Hinamizawa Disaster that I plan to make part of the recap of this arc, so look forward to that.

She said they were always both Mion and Shion. They always shared everything until that day when her little sister was forced to be "Mion". Then Shion took "Mion" back and tore her to pieces until she was nothing more than a murderer. Then she took "Shion", skinned her and dropped the rest down a well.

She once again is both Mion and Shion, but she's really just the broken pieces that make up Mion Sonozaki, wearing Shion's skin. She's a murderer haunted by a vengeful ghost.

And Mion calls her out for breaking another promise. She promised she'd kill herself after killing Mion, but she's reneged on that promise.

Mion's hands got swapped partway through that one page. The first hand that crawls out of the covers is her left hand. And the index and middle fingers are rotting and missing their nails while the pinky finger nail is still attached but partially ripped off.

Then in the next panel, we see Mion's right hand and it has the exact same details on each equivalent finger. And it's not because her hands have matching damage. In the next panel, we see both hands. Her right hand is missing the nail on the index finger, but the left hand still has it but has lost the nail on the ring finger.

I'm moving on. Staring at Mion's fingers is giving me genuine nausea.

Shion seriously decided to kill Keiichi just to spite Mion.

When she woke up from her fall, Shion's hair had come loose. She's managed to come to her senses enough to be "Shion" again.

The Sonozakis have an ancient tradition where if twin successors are born, one must be strangled before their first cleaning. And yet Shion existed. And if Shion didn't exist, none of this would have happened.

But there's nothing saying which twin should die.

Shion blamed her little sister for everything, and thought she should have died by the Sonozaki tradition. But now she realizes that it would have been better if she had died instead.

She'd broken every promise she made. She didn't take care of Satoko, she didn't spare Keiichi, and she didn't die after killing Mion.

She wants to make everything right, but most of the promises she broke can never be fixed. The only thing she can do is apologize and fulfill the one promise she can still keep as she throws herself off the balcony to her death.

She promises Satoshi that if she ever gets another chance, she will do it right. And it's a promise she intends to keep.

In that ideal world where Shion made the right choice, Satoshi still isn't there, but she's part of the club and she cares for Satoko like she promised.

And in a few days, Ooishi will ask Keiichi about who really stabbed him. Ooishi most likely has concluded at that point that Shion had been impersonating Mion the whole time and tried to get Keiichi to realize that. But Keiichi still never assumes Shion would have done anything even when Ooishii is practically telling him that's what happened.

back

Spoiler Discussion

So who wrote the notebook? If I was to give a supernatural answer, I'd say it was Shion, but not this one.

I'm going to argue it's the Shion from the Cotton Drifting arc. She's already lived this experience once before and she knows how this story ends.

Just like the memories from Abducted by Demons will reach the Keiichi of Atonement, maybe the memories of the Shion from Cotton Drifting momentarily found their way to this Shion, spurring her to write the thoughts she had the last time she did this.

And it could very well be possible that Shion is becoming somewhat connected to the Shion in Massacre. Keiichi and Rena dream of the things they do in their dreams, and Rika only speculates that Shion may have also experienced the same thing.

The Shion here suddenly thought she was having a bad dream, and she'd wake up and Satoshi would be by her side.

And while her actions were real in this timeline, for a moment, she managed to suddenly reach herself in Massacre where all of this really is just a dream. And the Shion in Massacre was able to show her that for once, she fulfilled her promise to Satoshi.

[strangermoons]

The Beat Has Just Begun: chapter 1 extras

I love to do informal research and I love to talk about it, so I'm going to be doing one post per chapter to keep me from filling the chapter end notes with extraneous information. Mild spoilers for chapter 1 below.

I spent more time than most people would consider necessary doing research for this story. I searched for Indiana radio stations, I searched for magazine covers, and in some cases I dug up real magazine articles. It's not like this is in any way necessary, but I find having real-world "props" in my head as I'm writing to be helpful, so here we are. I mean, I looked up a lot of things. I have tons of pictures of late 70's and early 80's bathrooms saved to my hard drive. I have a mid-80's photo of a McDonalds menu I found on Reddit. I paged through a ton of books on archive.org. When I got serious about writing this story (and fic for this fandom in general) I rewatched the entire series and took detailed notes in a googledoc that ended up spanning 163 pages. So, you know, all of that research has to go somewhere. Why not tumblr?

Let's start with WTPI: a real radio station in Indianapolis which went on the air in August 1984. I even found a logo here. If they were giving away buttons it's not hard to imagine they might have made t-shirts, too.

Below are the magazines Steve found in his dad's study, apart from the Harvard Business Review which did not have cover photos at the time (but you can access the articles here).

And here are the magazines Steve bought for Eddie at the Fair Mart.

Further to this, the Creem archives are available online, and this issue in particular can be found here.

Did you know Popular Mechanics is available to read on the Internet Archive? Here's the issue I decided Steve had in his room.

I also want to point out (because I don't think I've seen this come up in fic before) that Eddie actually has a lot of tattoos for the era. You look up photos or music videos from back then featuring the most popular metal musicians (here's one, for example), and you see a bunch of very skinny long-haired white dudes in white sneakers or high-heeled boots (at the time combat boots were more associated with punk than metal) who generally have like one tattoo at best. Even the members of Mötley Crüe didn't have all that many yet (see for example the Home Sweet Home video from 1985). Having a tattoo at all, any kind of tattoo, was considered incredibly subversive, and that didn't really start changing until the mid-to-late 90's.

Some general notes on canon divergence:

I decided pretty early on to kill Vecna and in doing so avert the mini-apocalypse in Hawkins, for no other reason than I don't find Vecna interesting as a villain and didn't feel like dealing with multiple gaping portals into a hell-dimension.

I chose to tweak the confrontation between the Creel house team and the jocks - you might notice Erica says she narrowly avoided being tackled by Andy - because I hated that scene, quite frankly. I couldn't figure out a way to get Lucas away from Jason, but I could at least keep Erica from getting tackled by a full-grown man :|

Lastly: Eddie's battle jacket (aka the vest). I didn't realize Steve presumably left it at The War Zone - he wore it in, and when they left he wasn't wearing it anymore - until the abovementioned note-taking rewatch and I was uhhhhh not impressed. A battle jacket means something! It's personal! So, you know, through the magic of fan fiction I fixed it.

[yikesharringrove]

Possible AU: Billy is a writer for underground queer magazine, using a pen name. It’s actually one of Robin’s favorites which she introduces to Steve who falls a little in love with Billy’s column. Meet Cute, Meet Ugly, Accidental Identity Reveal potentials?

It started as a little something to do while he was stuck in Indiana.

Billy had been reading the magazine for the past three years. His subscription was sent to his friend's house so Neil didn't find something like that in the mailbox.

And when he was dragged across country, Billy found himself in the city, at the shitty little office building within four days of setting up their new house.

He brought old assignments, shitty things he'd written, all kinds of samples of writing and they set him up with a goddamn column.

At first, he was doing a monthly column. Reviewing albums, writing about books, talking about being queer and closeted in a small town.

And then he got a letter.

It was sent to the magazine, but addressed to Billy. To his pen name, actually. D. Cotton.

It was an anonymous letter. No return address.

It was from a girl. A girl who was in love with a girl in her high school and she couldn't do anything about it.

And she asked him if it was even worth it. To love a girl this much without being able to actually show her or tell her.

Billy had read the letter over and over again before the magazine decided to publish a copy of it.

He told her that one day she won't be in high school anymore. That one day, if she's lucky, she'll be somewhere where a girl is going to feel like screaming into her own damn pillow because of her. That one day, she'll get to tell a girl, and show a girl, and truly love a girl.

And Billy's weekly advice column was somehow born.

He was at the mall when he first noticed someone he knew reading the magazine.

Some girl he'd seen around the school, sitting on the counter behind the cash register at Scoops Ahoy, reading the magazine like no one would clock her.

Or maybe she just didn't give a shit.

Or maybe people in this stupid fucking town really didn't know what it was about.

But he found himself in front of her and he found himself speaking.

"You ever read the Cotton Column?"

And her fucking eyes lit up, and she looked at him like she'd never seen him in her life before.

"You're-" she held up the magazine, not actually wanting to voice the question.

"Yeah. I'm one a' those types."

And she smiled at him so big and bright.

"Cotton is kinda my saving grace. I've written to him a few times, if I'm being honest. And he made my friend really think about some things when I started making him read the column."

"So, you convert your friend?"

"Nah. He just didn't realize that all boys don't fantasize about dating and fucking other guys."

And Billy snorted.

Because he doesn't know how many letters he gets about people that didn't even realize they were gay or whatever.

They just thought everyone felt like they did.

He envies that a little bit.

Not thinking oneself a disgusting freak the first time a queer thought floats into their brain.

"There's a really good article in this issue about a drag bar in Indianapolis that got raided last week. Cops were trying to shut them down for serving minors and breaking noise ordinances."

The girl raised her eyebrow at him.

"Were they?"

"'Course not. Cops just didn't like that the place was full of queers. The writer was actually there when it happened. It's a good read."

And it was. Billy had read it before it had gone to print two days ago.

The girl riffled further into the magazine.

And then the door on her right swung open, and a very harrassed-looking Steve Harrington came slouching out into view, stupid little Ahoy! sailor hat sat crooked on his head.

He took one wild look at Billy, and then looked back to the girl, and slapped the magazine out of her hands.

"Steve, what the fuck?"

Steve's face was red, and he kept looking at Billy as though trying to gauge his reaction.

And Billy realized he was trying to see whether or not he had clocked the magazine.

Whether or not he was giving this girl a hard time for reading it.

"Dude, don't fuck with her copy. That shit only came out today."

Steve gawked at him.

"Wait, you read it?"

"Have for years."

The girl was making a show of moaning and groaning while she picked up her magazine from the floor.

"Y'know, Billy here and I were talking about D. Cotton's column," the girl said.

And then Billy almost pissed his fucking pants because Steve's eyes lit up like the fucking sun, and he got this goofy smile on his face and he looked like a little kid that had just been he could have ice cream for dinner.

"I love that column. You know I wrote to him once? H actually responded. I have the issue still. It was so fucking cool."

And Steve was acting like he was some kinda celebrity. Like Madonna had answered his letter in an advice column, and not the same teenager that was standing in front of him."

And then Billy's brain almost exploded because, because if Steve reads the magazine, and has written in for advice, then he's-

"What'd you ask? I probably read it."

And Steve's cheeks went a precious shade of pink and he looked down at the toe of his dark blue sneaker.

"Uh, well, Robin kinda encouraged me. I was just kinda confused. It was really short, and like, I just asked him if, you now, it's normal to, you know, like both." He whispered the last two words. "And he, like, was super nice. Gave me a word for it."

Billy remembers.

He remembers the neat handwriting of the letter.

I know I like girls and I know I like boys. Do you think I'm faking?

And Billy had replied

Dear Faking It,

What you are is bisexual.

And then Billy had listed a bunch of bisexual musicians and actors and artists and that was for Steve.

"That's. Pretty cool." Billy tried to seem like this wasn't shattering everything he had ever known.

"Steve is totally in love with this guy. He once made me sit in the fucking car with him and drive out to their offices in the city, and then he was too chicken shit to get out of the car."

Steve glared at the girl-Robin- and she grinned back at him.

"Whatever. He's probably, like, some guy that's too old for me, or something."

And Billy couldn't help but notice that Steve seemed almost disappointed about the idea that D. Cotton was too old for Steve to. To date.

"Nah. If anything, you're too old for me."

Billy felt his eyes go wide when he realized what the fuck he had just said.

The magazine slid out of Robin's hands and flopped pathetically onto the floor.

"Wait, Billy. Are you-" Robin began to ask him.

"No," he cut her off.

And then her eyes were going bright, and she was pointing at him.

"Yes, you are! I can't believe I didn't realize! I saw that notebook. The one you had last year. You were writing all these notes about Giovanni's Room, and I thought how weird it was that they would let you do a gay book for a report, and then, and then! A month later Cotton publishes a piece about the book, and I didn't even realize!"

Billy's stomach made a valiant attempt to launch itself straight through his spine when Robin smacked Steve's arm, and Billy realize that Steve had been staring at him all this time.

"I don't-" Steve trailed off.

"Wait, so then, what does the name mean?" Robin kept going.

"You ever seen Pink Flamingos?" Robin nodded. Steve shook his head. "D stands for Divine. And then Cotton like the blonde chick in the movie."

Robin laughed at him.

"I should've known. You are the filthiest person alive."

"Wait, I'm still stuck on this."

Billy looked back at Steve who had his eyebrows all furrowed and his nose all scrunched up.

"Stuck on what?"

"How did you even get a job there?"

Billy shrugged.

"Been a reader for a few years and I just applied on a whim. Don't think they expected much of me."

"But they pay you?"

Billy shrugged.

"Not much, to be honest. But it's cool. I get a lot of mail from queers telling me how much I've impacted their lives. And I don't get how it happened, because I'm usually shit with helping people. But I always think about what I need to hear and just write that. Like the first letter I got for advice was this chick who was in love with this girl at her high school, and she was so desperate to hear that she wasn't some gross freak, and that being queer doesn't, like, condemn you to a life of misery."

Just like he said, it's what Bily had needed to hear.

And then Robin's face went red.

"Billy. I wrote that letter. I remember it so well. I wrote it in the middle of the night and sent it on a whim. I didn't think anything would happen, but you answered it in the column and it meant so much to me." Her eyes were shining like maybe she had some tears in them and Billy hopes to all that is holy that she doesn't start crying. "It was exactly what I needed to hear."

"I know something about feeling fucking desperate," Billy mumbled to her left knee.

"And you told me I'm bisexual," Steve whispered the word bisexual like he'd whispered earlier. "And you said that James Dean was probably, you know, too."

"Yeah. He never said if he was or not, but he couldn't exactly be out and proud, could he?"

The way Billy and Robin were staring at him made his face feel hot and made him feel like his intestines were squirming around like snakes.

Nobody spoke for a moment that felt as though it dragged on forever and Billy was starting to get the urge to turn tail and sprint away without saying anything else.

"I can't believe this guy that effectively gave me hope for a happy lesbian future is the fucking King King of Hawkins High."

Billy laughed, and he was pleased to see Steve laughing too.

"We're everywhere, you know. The queers have invaded."

[dreamsister81]

Jeff toured the world for 1994 and 1995 in support of Grace. I read reviews that breathlessly described his vocal gymnastics and wondered if he was going to make it to Australia, or bypass it like so many other baby bands do. It costs so much money to get there that it’s hard to justify the journey.

I finally heard that he was coming to play a series of small Sydney and Melbourne shows in August 1995. At the time I was shooting a lot for Who Weekly, a sister magazine to People magazine in the USA. About a week before Jeff was due to play I was delivering some pictures to Who Weekly and got into a conversation with the Picture Editor, Stephanie Strange. I asked her if they were planning to do anything with Jeff whilst he was in town. To my surprise she told me they’d just booked a photographer to do a shoot with him.

This was the first time in 25 years of working as a photographer that I was absolutely determined that I wanted that shoot. So I told Stephanie she had to let me do it. It didn't matter that somebody else was booked, I had to do the shoot. I was lucky that we'd been working together for a couple of years and knew each other well enough by that point as she laughed and said she'd see what could be done.

Even though I was one their main freelancers at that time, I didn’t really think she’d change the photographer so started calling around some of the other magazines to see if I could shoot Jeff for someone else.

I was getting nowhere as everybody had already booked their photographers, when to my amazement Stephanie called me the next day and told me that she’d dumped the other photographer and I was doing the shoot with Jeff. I was over the moon.

And so on the afternoon of Wednesday 30th August 1995, I made my way to the Ritz Carlton in Double Bay, which is known by Sydneysiders as Double Pay because it’s the seriously rich part of town and everything costs twice as much. That particular hotel also happens to be where Michael Hutchence from INXS subsequently died two years later. But I think that was in a different room.

I was shown into Jeff’s suite by his road manager, Gene Bowen. Jeff appeared tired but was sweet and accommodating. He’d played a show at The Metro two days earlier, but I suspect the jet lag was getting to him. When I mentioned that I’d listened to his dad a lot it seemed like it was something he was tired of hearing. Which was fair enough, so I didn’t pursue that line of conversation any further. What nobody realized at that time of course was that his influence has far surpassed the impact his father had.

I was surprised to see he was wearing a pink Take That T-shirt as they were not the kind of band I would imagine he’d listen to, but I didn’t comment on it. He’d already done the interview, so we went out on the balcony and I started to shoot some pictures with him.

The brief was to get color pictures to go with the article Who Weekly were going to publish. Magazines always need more than one background / set up as they need a picture to lead with and also a separate image to go within the story, so after shooting on the balcony I also took Jeff back into the hotel room and did some more pictures with him in the hotel room.

Even though I knew the magazine wouldn’t run them, I also decided to shoot some black and white pictures for myself. Which I am now deeply grateful for that foresight as the image at the top of this story came from those pictures.

AND Who Weekly managed to lose all my color pictures when they ran a big story about him after he died. The very cool Stephanie had left by then and I can’t remember the name of the dumb photo editor who’d replaced her, but she had the hide to offer me $500 compensation for the loss of 30 original transparencies. We settled for something above that but less than they were actually worth.

I didn’t hang around after the shoot as Jeff had more interviews to do, but I arranged with Gene to go see the show and shoot some live shots of Jeff at the Phoenician Club when he got back from Melbourne a few days later.-words and 📷 by Andrzej Liguz via moreimages.net: May 29, 2013

[lovelyirony]

made up fic title: i didn't know i was lonely (til i saw your face)

i wanna get better 

Howard Stark is the world’s smartest man. Tony knows this, has read it in so many newspaper articles and interviews and magazines that he could probably cut out every single time a journalist writes it and make a new fucking wallpaper out of it. 

It’s permeated every single aspect of Tony’s life. The problem is that Tony looks exactly like his father did. Everyone compares everything. How quickly he builds a weapon, how fast it can take for him to churn out an idea. 

His humor is the same, way of dressing is the same, and he should be the same. The world needs another Howard Stark for the next lifetime. They don’t need a Tony Stark. 

(And maybe...maybe Tony doesn’t mind that. It’s so much easier, to pretend to be somebody else and have them look at that.) 

Tony doesn’t make friends. Ever. Friends are not beneficial, and it’s not like they could hang out anyways. Tony reads in books about friends who go to diners together and attend movies and skateboard, but really? He doesn’t have time for that. He has to build things and study business, and get his life all sorted out. 

He is sixteen when he goes to college. He feels far too young, and the kind, warm hand of Jarvis’ smoothing out his hair makes the feeling worse. 

“You will be fine, Anthony. Study hard, and who knows how quickly you’ll graduate.” 

“Of course,” Tony says stiffly. 

“Have fun, Tony,” Ana says, grinning. “College can be a fun time.” 

It’s not supposed to be fun for him. Howard told him to focus on his studies only. His whole life would be the engineering and business buildings, and maybe he would sometimes get takeout. Maybe he wouldn’t. 

Point is, this is just like everything else in his life: the goal was to be exactly like Howard. Graduate top of his class, blow the world away, and have a glass of scotch after a job well done. (Or gin, or whiskey, or hell...all three.) 

- 

Rhodey was not a factor. At all. 

Tony had thought that his mother had paid extra to make sure her son had a room all to himself. Not out of a desire, no: out of necessity. Can’t have daddy’s little prodigy revealing anything. 

And maybe she meant to, but he’s not going to question it. Not when he’s just been staring. 

“Hey man,” the guy in the room says. The name-tag on the door says “Jim.” 

“Hey,” Tony says. “Good to...sorry. I just...I wasn’t expecting anyone here.” 

“Last minute decision. My room decided to burst a pipe. Technical difficulties. They say they’re gonna get it fixed as soon as possible. That a problem for you?” 

There’s more to the eyebrow raise, more to the tone. Jim isn’t going to take shit, and he knows who Tony is. He saw it in how his eyes widened for a moment. 

Tony likes him. He doesn’t know how it’s going to go later, but for now: Jim is a likable guy. 

“Not at all.” 

- 

To get used to sharing is definitely interesting. Tony has to get used to a lot, which isn’t a bad thing, but he wasn’t expecting to have to tiptoe at three a.m. while making ramen because Rhodey has something called a “sleep schedule to maintain.” 

Tony doesn’t know what the hell that is, but he doesn’t like it. 

Jim plays a lot of records, which is...odd. Tony’s never really been one for records, mainly because he’s future-thinking. But the way that Jim smiles when he hears a song and tells Tony a little anecdote about his father’s dancing in the kitchen? That’s good. 

So Tony buys some records, and falls in love with one band in particular: AC/DC. He can’t get enough of it. 

Jim, apparently, can. 

“Oh my god,” he groans, entering their dorm room. “Are you still playing that band?” 

“They’re amazing, Jim-Jam,” Tony says, turning it down a bit. “Besides, I thought your bio lab lasted for another hour.” 

“It was supposed to, but one of the sorority girls got too flustered with a fraternity guy and then things caught fire.” 

“Boo,” Tony says, frowning. “It’s the worst when a lab catches on fire.” 

- 

Tony is not expecting Jim to invite him anywhere, take him anywhere. After all, that’s not what school is for, and Tony’s not exactly the world’s best roommate. Besides, their RA said that they didn’t have to be friends, they just had to be good roommates. 

(Tony remembers this whenever he forgets to put away his ramen bowl.) 

But Jim invites him to a restaurant with a couple of his buddies from ROTC. 

“It’ll be fun,” he says, smiling. “Besides, you never go out.” 

There’s a reason for that, although people here aren’t really “fanatical” about Tony, thank god. 

- 

The dinner turns out to be terrible, because all of the guys just want to talk about Tony’s dad. 

“How did he end up getting the better reaction timing on the new pistol, the Stark 77?” A guy named Terry asks. 

And Tony freezes. 

That wasn’t Howard’s. That was his. 

Jim must’ve seen something on his face. 

“I, uh, I guess it must’ve just been something with the screw-in method during assembly,” Tony says weakly. “If you’ll excuse me, I just realized I have something to do at home.” 

- 

Howard’s been using his designs. No credit. 

He spends about ten minutes on the phone. It amounts to this sentence: 

“Without me, boy, you’d be nothing. Who do you think paid for school? Private tutors? Advanced textbooks? Who, yourself? Don’t be ridiculous.” 

Tony’s red-faced, and the phone gets hung up, and he stares out at the sky for maybe way too long. He forgot his ID to swipe back in, and has to launch little bits of rock at what he thinks is his and Jim’s window. 

Jim brings him up and sits with him on a bed. 

“I’m fine, honestly.” 

“No, you’re really not. Tony, you’re a terrible liar.” 

And he is, really. He can lie about so many things, but family and his state of mind are a bit harder nowadays. 

He gets hugged. 

That’s...holy shit, that’s new. He’s not sure the last time he got hugged by someone he liked. Jarvis tended to like the shoulder-pat, and Ana...well, she loved to hug him, but it had been a while. (Maria and Howard, he was quite sure, had skipped the ‘human emotional intimacy’ section of life.) 

“Your dad sucks,” Jim mutters. “Just so you know.” 

“I know. I know.” 

From then, they become friends. Tony is wondering if its pity. He asks Jim as such. He snorts. 

“Tony, I don’t make friends out of pity. I’m not that kind of guy. If we were friends out of pity, I’d be moving out next semester.” 

Tony smiles. 

-

He learns how to do friend things. They have a sleepover complete with the greasiest pizza possible, video games, and at least one debate over Star Wars. 

(It’s about whether or not the skeletal structure of Jabba the Hut holds up in truth, and how density of space affects him on different planets.) 

Tony, somehow, starts calling him Rhodey. It sticks, and Jim doesn’t complain. 

Rhodey’s sweaters slowly become Tony’s, and Rhodey teaches Tony all about casual affection. 

Hugs before class, kisses on the forehead, and more than enough teasing to last three lifetimes or more. 

- 

Come May, everyone’s abuzz with summer plans. Tony, however, is dreading it. Rhodey lives in Virginia, and Tony lives in New York. His mother wants him to live in their summer home in California. 

“Oh come on, I know that you’ll have to visit me,” Rhodey says, grinning. “Tell your mom it’s a business trip or something.” 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were corrupting me,” Tony says haughtily. Half his wardrobe is packed up, and he’s just waiting on Jarvis with the car. 

“Of course I am, gotta train you for when you liaison with the government for army contracts.” 

Tony laughs loudly. 

“Ah, so true. I’ll mark it down as heir-apparent training with my dear, drastically old father.” 

Rhodey nods, grinning. 

Tony’s leaving a day earlier than Rhodey is. 

He hopes he comes back a day earlier. 

After all, you can’t wait until you see your friend again. 

[georgemackayhey]

More Than A Night Out

warning: Explicit content 18+ Only

w/c: 5k

───※ ·❆· ※───

You sat behind the roped off a section of a smoke-filled bar in one of Vegas' most hectic hotels, sporting a fancy dress and feeling a bit anxious.

"I'm George. And you're who I'm supposed to be introducing myself to, right?" He stood leaning in close before you clad in a casual leather jacket with his hands shoved in his pockets. Reading body language had become a much more important part of this job than you'd once figured. But there was a difference between assessing and staring. And you had to catch yourself on the edge of openly gawking at the lean beauty who called himself George.

"Yes, yes, thanks for sparing some time for a chat." You smiled warmly, scooting to the corner of the curved red vinyl booth. George let his nervous grin flicker into a warmer expression as he slid in to meet the opposite corner of the table.

You were a writer for an independent magazine based out of New York. Your publisher had sent you all over America to interview all kinds of talented people of current pop culture. You were used to celebrities and their lingo, and you were used to the pseudo niceties these interviews came along with. After answering your questions with nothing but pride, your subjects would leave and go on being popular. It was your job to make them seem like normal human beings, with an overload of charm.  

In your lap, a hardback notebook held all your hastily scribbled questions that you thought up in preparation for this moment. You were meant to ask George MacKay how his latest film had changed his life and about his rise to fame. You were supposed to get him to gush about acting and tell you some beautiful antidote no other interview had managed to hear the likes of. Your job tonight was to focus on George's latest project, 1917. But George asked the first question.

"So you've been doing this a while, huh?" The man with sky blue eyes asked. A waiter had breezed by, sliding a list of drinks for you pair to choose from.

"I only ask because the bio in your email was like, really impressive. I don't know if I'm worthy." George laughed, gazing at the beer list as you shrugged. You had conducted conversations with the likes of many old, jaded stars. Tonight was different. A young, spirited man sat across from you and his eyes were shining right into yours. You were completely unworthy.

"Don't worry. I'll only write exactly what you say." You smiled, eyeing the mixed drinks, but only ordering water when the waiter came back by.

"What's been your craziest interview?" George wondered, propping his chin in his hand as he looked to you like a boy in school, and you were a fireman on career day. You laughed out loud, because yes. You laugh because you were supposed to be asking the questions.

"I made Axel Rose cry." You grinned, peeking behind a strand of your hair to ensure this wasn't something you went around telling everyone. "He was the guest during a benefit for our magazine. I asked about his family and he just sort of lost it."

George laughed out loud, beaming at you. So far, this felt more like riffing with an old friend of a friend. You nearly forgot about the list of questions in your lap. But even after you cracked open your notebook, George still had more to say.

"With the right questions, I bet you get a lot of dirt." He rose a pale brow as if there was something he was trying to get you to understand. A code he wished you would crack.

"You should let me ask you a few." You mused, leaning in a little closer to establish your longing to get this show on the road. Not that you wanted the night to end sooner. You could have basked in the glow of his blinding smile for all time. But you were on a clock...

George watched your mouth move as you asked him about 1917. He looked you in the eyes when he told you his favorite memories from set. You watched his hands move around as he explained the impact that acting out such a tumultuous time period had on his personal and professional life. In the lulls in between conversation, when he paused to sip his lager, your eyes met each others. It was by far one of the more enjoyable nights of your career. He was easy to listen to and very lovely to look at.

When the clock struck midnight, and your notebook was filled with more information than you'd even consider finalizing, the night ended. With smiles and genuine thanks, you parted from the grotty Vegas bar. But as you made your way through the casino, you turned back to see George lingering near the elevators, watching you disappear into the crowd.

___

Up in your luxurious room, too nice for someone to stay in all alone, you checked your phone. You had a flight to catch in the morning, travel that would put you home right in time for the weekend.

But a dark email loomed at the top of your notification bar. Your flight had been delayed due to weather, a wicked snow storm had taken residence in New York. Seriously, this late in February? The airline had given you a limited few options for later flights, and you slumped on the downy hotel bed, booking the soonest flight out of this trashy city.

Looked like you'd be spending another day hanging around the hotel that felt more like a small city of its own. Luckily, you had something, rather; someone to write that would keep you pleasantly distracted.

___

Last nights silky was totally worth sporting in front of your modern-day movie star crush, but you were glad to be more comfortable this morning. After a long scalding shower, you slipped into reasonable leggings and an old band shirt that was a few sizes too large. This could pass as sporty, right? With thoughts of fashion draining from your head, you grabbed your laptop and started a lazy shuffle toward the lobby of the hotel.

You usually wrote in coffee shops, back home, but the lobby swarmed with tourists was a little too hectic for your liking. Luckily, you wandered to the opposite wing of the lodge and found a relatively cozy nook outside of a casino. It was too early for the swarm of gamblers to distract you with drunken cheers, but the stead buzz of well-groomed patrons coming and going from the bar was white noise music to your ears.

You nestled into a chaise lounge chair by a window and ignored everything besides your laptop screen. There was nothing that could stop you from spending a little too long scrolling through George's fan tag on Instagram. When you finally started to outline the story based on his interview, you were one hundred words from your limit of one thousand, and you still hadn't said everything you wanted. You could have gushed over his polite and charming nature long enough to take up every page of the magazine you worked for.

But you reigned yourself in, reworded for a while, and started to finalize the article when a passer-by disrupted your work for the first time in a couple of hours.

"Is that about me?" It was him.

"Oh my God." You laughed, clutching onto your laptop like an instinct. You were shocked to see George again; dressed in a fine-looking sweater that made your heart buzz with a silly warmth. You cursed your leggings and wondered why you were stupid enough to wear your old thrift store Bowie tshirt in public.

"Can I read it?" George grew a wicked grin, moving to sit at the foot of the chaise you occupied. You scrambled to straighten your poster as your heart speed up in search of an excuse. You really shouldn't let him do that- but you couldn't say no to his sweet face, especially when he was smiling right at you.

"Uh..." You glanced between George and the laptop you'd been staring at for far too long. You realized that you were one spell check away from sending the damn thing in. You pressed the spellcheck button in a flash, so you wouldn't have to lie. But no errors were found, and you were left with zero choice.

"Just know I shouldn't be doing this." You warned, scooting your laptop away with a cringe. George, in all his charm, waggled his brow at you as he leaned in a little closer to read your story. You held your breath at his silly expression and ceased to breathe the entire time his eyes locked onto your laptop screen.

"This..." George spoke up after a very scary bout of silence. He shook his head as his eyes scanned the page on your laptop, and you felt your heart begin to stall.

"You actually, like... listened to what I had to say," George smirked in unmistakable disbelief. "It's so much more than a Q&A. You drew conclusions and made our conversation into a story. It's perfect." George glanced up to you for the first time in a while, and his eyes were searing into yours.

"Geez," You chuckled nervously, digging your nails into the stitching on the cushion below you. "Thank you, George. I never really get feedback like that from anyone I write for." You realized. Sure, you're articles we're promoted by the people featured in them, but they hardly ever had a direct comment on your work.

"When is it coming out?" George wondered, leaning on his elbow, looking up toward you. You leaned toward the laptop that was the barrier between you and the pretty man, but were closer to him than ever before.

"I just have to change the font..." You noted, pressing buttons as you spoke.  "open my email..." George's eyes eventually flickered from your face back to your screen. "and send it in."

"Would you like to do the honors?" You grinned, moving the cursor over the send button on the screen. George gazed back to you with a hearty chuckle but didn't waste much more time before clicking the send button for you.

"And now we wait." You shrugged, wrapping your arms around your waist as the handsome man smiled your way. Oh if you'd only put on a little lipstick...

"How should we pass the time, then?" George wondered in a curious lilt. "Oh, let's go drink one of those thirty-four-ounce margaritas to celebrate. It's the perfect occasion to day drink." Was he kidding? Because you weren't entirely sure if you were being punk'd or not, you tried to hide your wide-eyed reaction as you responded.

"I'm hardly dressed for the occasion." You grinned, shutting your laptop.

"If it's any consolation, that bar is empty right now, besides there's a lady asleep in the back in her clothes from last night." George pointed across the way. There we're people flooding the casino and taking their drinks to gamble. There was no way you were about to pass up this opportunity.

In the blink of an eye, you were sitting at a bar top, turned toward each other to share a ridiculously overpriced thirty-four-ounce strawberry margarita out of honest to God silly straws.

"This should actually be illegal."

"Do you remember the prohibition, George?" You laughed, watching the blended ice travel through the purple looped straw as you sipped.

"Of course not." George laughed incredulously. "Just because I lived through the war doesn't mean I'm that old."

"Ha ha." You mused, wondering why it was so easy to be around George. You'd just met him, but from the moment he opened his mouth, it was like you'd been chatting together for years. It was like he saw past the questions you were being paid to ask, and heard you asking them. Maybe just because you really did want to know his answers.

"I want to know what you've lived through," George demanded, taking a turn to drink out his straw from the margarita you'd been sharing. He'd been asking questions like that since you'd met him, and your chest blossomed with nerves as he peered up at you through his lashes. In your nervous scramble to give George an answer, your brain settled on a story about the first time you met Will Smith.

"Wait, wait, wait." George broke away from his green silly straw and held a dismissive hand out in front of you.

"We're off the record now, y/l/n. I want to know the real shit! Ya know, the last time you cried. Your Chipoltle order." George was waving his hands as if his questions were obvious. You laughed out loud, throwing your head back and relishing the moment you realized how lucky you were to be living in this moment.

So you reluctantly told him some things. You couldn't justify giving your best details away, but you liked the idea of a stranger knowing you the worst thing you did in second grade, and a silly trademark your family coined. George kept his brilliant gaze set on you, and you could almost see your own stories coming to life in his eyes. He was actually listening to you.

The focus on you was becoming a bit too overwhelming, so you shifted to ask George a few more questions, tipsy enough to pry for a few of the same antidotes George had asked you for. After laughing over a few fun facts about his hometown and the time he ran away from his mum in the supermarket, you both settled into silence. You were busy trying to compute how wild this afternoon had turned.

"How long are you staying?" He asked after a beat. When he caught your attention, you realized he'd never lost it and you'd been staring at him like you longed to do last night.

"Oh uh-"

"I was gifted tickets to one of those Cirque shows and my friend's flights got canceled.. So... I thought maybe... you'd wanna..."

"I... sure." You sit up straight, trying to bite back the cheesy grin on your face. You weren't sure how you ended up here in Vegas, sharing a drink with a stunning boy, but you thanked your lucky stars as George went one telling you the details he'd roped you into tonight.

___

The storm in New York had only gotten worse, as you scrolled through updates on your cities local website. Your flight was supposed to take off tomorrow morning, but the storm hadn't let up since the last flight got canceled. You decided now wasn't the time to worry, and went about tearing through your suitcase praying you'd find something nice enough to wear.

You exchanged room numbers, agreeing to meet up at George's tonight. You had more than enough time to get ready but still scrambled to present yourself as perfectly as possible. Agreeing to a night out with George was as lucky as you'd ever been.

After shimmying into a pretty outfit and fixing your makeup just right, your phone buzzed with a notification. Your editor had sent you the final edit of the story you'd written for George, praising you for a job well done. You couldn't help but giggled as you skipped down the hall on the way to George's room, three stories higher.

"Hello, love! You look wonderful." George smiled wide as he opened the door, gesturing for you to come in. His single room was much like yours, a living area and kitchen big enough to house a family, and a bedroom off down the hall. Vegas confounded you.

You rested your room key on a desk near the door and watched George slide into a sharp blue jacket, bringing out the shine of his matching eyes. God, how did he get better looking by the minute?

He escorted you from his suite with a coy grin as if your outing was scandalous.

"Your interview should be published next week. My editor loves it." You informed, walking in step with George to the elevators.

"Of course they do, you're an incredible writer." George pulled a face as if this were a fact everyone knew. You pushed the elevator button with a roll of your eyes, unsure how to handle his outlandish flattery.

"All because of the answers you gave me. You're an incredible subject." You fawned, feeling brave enough to in one fleeting moment.

"Then we make the perfect pair," George smirked at you, keeping his eyes on yours as you passed into the elevator doors. Your legs must have figured out how to move on their own because you felt a bit stunned still by the look in George's eye after his soft comment.

The Cirque show was just across the street in another hotel. But because Vegas was insane, it took you a solid fifteen minutes to cross between traffic and a packed hotel lobby to get to the venue inside. By the time you and George settled into your seats, you felt all too unworthy of what was happening.

"Thanks again for bringing me along. I don't know how I got so lucky." You huffed a nervous laugh, trying not to openly swoon over how close you were to the boy. His leg was just barely far enough away from brushing against yours, and you were meant to sit there like it was totally cool for the next hour.

"Trust me, I'm the lucky one." George nodded, turning his head toward the stage as the lights went dim. Your heart was beating a mile a minute and during the first few minutes of the show, all you could truly focus on was how close George was to you. You felt like a schoolgirl on her first date, and reprimanded yourself for letting your feelings get this way.

But halfway through the show, something astounding happened. It was more thrilling than all the acrobatics and dance numbers happening on stage before you. George let his fingers bloom across your palm before they fit perfectly between yours. He sat holding your hand with his eyes fixed on the show, while you tried to keep from melting off the seat into a puddle.

The show ended and you walked out of the theater together, quietly flooding out into the street that was somehow busier than before.

"Thanks for that. I've only been to Vegas for work and have never had time to do the cheesy trashy fun bits."

"Me either." George looked to you and you could tell he was brewing some idea behind his sparkling eyes. Just then, his full name was called out from somewhere beyond your shared gaze. That's when you realized you were still holding his hand. You took a step back, untangling your fingers when you realized a group of drunk college students were excitedly asking for George's photo. You watched from a few steps away and swallowed the silly blooming crush you couldn't shake. What happens in Vegas stayed, right? Maybe you were both just blinded by the ancient ideal.

But when the fans disbanded, George didn't waste a beat slipping his hand back into your grasp.

"Let's go have some fun." He waggled his brow the same as he had hours ago, smirking all the while.

You proceeded to drink and laugh and gamble and dance into the early morning. Your evening became a blur of flashing neon lights and booming bass notes. Even in your alcohol-fueled daze, you fully felt George's fingers linger on your shoulder as he led you to and from the dance floor. His touch was warm and steady and the only thing that made sense in the night full of fast-paced fun you had no time to process.

On the walk back to the hotel, reality threatened to seep in as your feet burned in your heels. When you realized you left your room key in George's room, you felt no shame in taking your heels off and walking the hotel carpet with a little more ease. "I'm all for a movie night in but that was so much fun."

"Me too. Let's have a movie night next." George grinned, wasted as you were.

"Yes!" You fawned in exhausted excitment.

He led you into his room where your room key sat waiting where you'd left it. But the thought of walking one more step made you want to cry. So you asked if George minded if you sat for a moment; settling on the tiny loveseat giving your feet a break and talking yourself into the last bit of walking toward your room.

Yeah, big mistake. Before you knew it, you were totally passed out there and slept soundly on the sofa in a room that wasn't yours. When you woke up and noticed your shoe's near George's by the door you felt so embarrassed for having crashed like that, your weak hangover trumped by shame.

"Shit." You mutter, quietly moving to sneak toward the door. Your cellphone rested on the counter next to your room key. But as you reach for your things, you hear George shuffle into the room. He's dressed for a new day in a plain button-up and suit jacket.

"Oof, I'm really sorry for falling asleep." You cringed, grabbing your room key, a little afraid to look right in George's eye.

"It's alright really." He nodded. "It was so late, I don't know how you slept on that little thing. But  I didn't want to move you and make it weird." George kind of grimaced, hoping his comment wasn't as equally unwelcome as he seemed to think the action might have been. "I'm sorry you don't have to leave just yet."

"I have a flight, actually." You frowned suddenly, wishing you didn't have to leave this place you hated a day ago. But as you unlocked your phone to make sure you weren't too late, there we're a slew of emails from your flight agency, canceling your morning commute again.

"And now I don't have a flight."

George's phone seemed to buzz to life at the same moment, it was a new day after all. He glanced at his notifications frowning the same as you just had.

"Well I was going to invite you to breakfast but I've got another meeting added to my list of a ridiculous amount of things to do today." George sighed.

You knew the fun would have to come to an end sooner rather than later, he was a busy guy, an increasingly important, beautiful, busy guy. And you were stuck in Vegas all over again, without much to keep you occupied from how much you'd grown to love it here, just a little.

"Maybe we can have that movie night if I get back early enough." George smiled, leaning over to retrieve his shoes from the doormat. You couldn't believe George had remembered your off the cuff remark from early this morning, but somehow his comment felt more like a raincheck, than an invite. And whether you were hungover or paranoid, you couldn't tell.

So you took the cue to gather your things, opting to carry your shoes and stood in the doorway.

"You know where to find me, then." You offered, too afraid of agreeing right off and seeming too desperate to spend more time with him. You wished George good luck with all his movie star duties for the day and sulked on the long walk back to your shitty matching room.

___

Your day was spent ordering room service, exhausted by the idea of going back out and about in all the madness that made up Vegas. You scrolled through a measly list of flights to take, opting to stay another night and hoping the storm would pass soon. Soon, the sun was setting and after a long bubble bath, you slipped into your favorite pair of pj's, planning to listen to some podcasts to make the most of this evening. But just as you finished cleaning up, a knock came at your door. You hadn't ordered more room service, and there was a sign dangling from your door handle warning away the maids.

You were surprised to find George on the other side of your door, looking happy to see you. You honestly hadn't expected to see him again, you thought your luck had run its course. And you spent the whole day trying not to reminisce over the way you'd grown more comfortable near each other as the night went on.

You greeted him with a smile, comfortable enough in your pj's when you noticed he was wearing joggers now, too.

"You shed the suit?" You laughed.

"I figured if we're having a movie night I better dress for the occasion," George smirked. You hung your head to hide your blush and opened the door wider for him to come in all the way.

Okay, so maybe you had failed to plan this far ahead, but you hardly cared what happened next. You and George floated to the sofa in front of the television, and he reached for the remote.

“Have you memorized the tv guide yet?” George prodded as you sat next to him, leaving a sliver of space for good measure.

“I’ll have you know I’ve been far too busy running around the city this weekend.” You smiled, turning your gaze toward the television, too skittish to meet George’s baby blue eyes this close up.

He clicked his tongue as if to say “what a shame” all while flipping through channels. He landed on Hallmark, tossing the remote down ceremoniously. You couldn’t help but laugh as the movie seemed to just begin.

“Is that Betty White?” You chuckled.

“You’re welcome.” George boasted over getting lucky finding this film queued up perfectly for the two of you on this spontaneous night. You spent a little bit laughing over the cheesy musical flares and dramatics that made up every great Hallmark film, this one included. But as the film played on, you couldn’t help but notice the bits of genuinely good storytelling peeking through.

George kept you laughing throughout the film, but near the end, both of you got quiet and watched in silence until the credits rolled.

“Damn. That was actually just a little bit good.” George spoke up, a little quiet. That’s when you noticed how close he’d gotten to you. The sliver of space you’d left at the beginning of the movie was now barely noticeable.

“Yeah.” You laughed, amazed by more than just the film. “This whole weekend has been surprisingly wonderful.” You spoke softly, daring to glance right at George, who had already fixed his eyes on you.

You couldn't tell who made the first move but the next thing you know, you're kissing him. You and George took turns sharing feather-light pecks, each of you chasing each other kiss after one ended. George was definitely the first to place both strong hands around the back of your head and kiss you like he meant it. You were nearly too stunned to kiss him back, but once you started the floodgates broke off their hinges and there was no turning back. You climbed into his lap and latched on for all it was worth because surely this was a dream and you weren't ready to wake up at all.

You savored the steady build of his fingers trailing down your arms while your kisses grew deeper, mouths pushing against each others like you’d been doing this for ages. Your hands had a mind of their own, creeping softly under the hem of George’s soft tshirt to his hot skin below.

"Hey," George gently broke your kiss and cupped your face in both hands. You practically held your breath as his shimmering eyes searched yours. "You okay with this?" George seemed to genuinely wonder. His voice was dripping with lust and his body was warm underneath yours. It didn't take a detective to read George like a book, but he still had the self-control and gentle heart to make sure you were comfortable. It only made you want him more. But you were still far too shy to say so, no matter your actions. So you bit your lip and hummed in sweet agreeance, wrapping your hands around George’s neck.

You watched George’s face stretch into a smile before he ducked his head to the crook of your neck where he let out a contented sigh before grazing his teeth along your skin. You squealed with delight when he swiftly pinned you down on the sofa to playfully pepper your face with kisses like something less heated was taking place.

"You know, now would be the perfect time to carry me from the couch to your bed." You rose an encouraging brow, reminding George of just this morning when he was too afraid of disturbing your sleep on his sofa that matched this one. George let out a laugh as he peeled himself off the top of you and picked you up bridal style in his impressively buff arms.

"Right this way, madame." George teased, carrying you through his bedroom door.

You had thrown the covers into place the best you could the last time you woke up here. George rested you gently on the bed, much like you were sleeping and he was afraid of waking you up. But your heart was beating fast enough to win a race, somehow increasing when George rested beside you, pushing your hair behind your ear.

“You’re very pretty, you know?” George blinked, whispering to you.

“I’m glad you think so.” You spoke back even quieter, reaching out to touch his face. He was so handsome it nearly stopped your heart. George leaned in for another kiss, this one slow and steady. You hadn’t felt so content in ages, you could have laid there kissing George forever and been happy. But then his fingers trailed down your side to grab your hip, and you swore you saw stars. George pulled your leg over his and now you were pressed against one another, kisses growing deeper still.

“This alright?” He asked almost timidly, as his fingers crept below your nightshirt.

“Yeah,” You breathed as George moved his kisses down your neck, and his hand to your chest. Your fingers splayed through his hair as he reached around your back to find the clasp on your bralette

“It’s in the front.” You giggled, feeling George smile against your skin.

“Very cute.” He hummed in your ear before kissing your jaw and finding the button. He shoved your shirt most of the way off, and you had to move out from under him to remove it all the way. Before settling back against the pillows, you pulled off George’s shirt so you could revel in the warmth of his skin.

You settled in his lap, each knee on either side of his hips throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him again, somehow still enjoying each brush of his tongue against yours like it was the first time. George signed into your mouth, each pleasant groan traveling straight down your spine. You rolled your hips against his, and George’s groans grew darker.

His fingers were lost in your hair and you found a steady pace to rock against him, drawing out longer whimpers from his lips with each new movement. Soon, his hand toyed with the drawstring of your shorts and he had to break away from your kiss to ask if he could take them off you could only muster an encourageable nod as your breath got caught in your throat. George laid you back, keeping those stunning blue eyes locked on yours all the while, only breaking away when he slid the last of your layers off. His fingers slid slowly between your legs as he laid next to you, pressing his forehead against yours.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty. How’d I get so lucky?” George spoke, you could feel his breath ghost across your lips while he went on building up the tension in your stomach. It didn’t take long for you to fill with fire, a contradictory chill shooting through your system. You couldn’t take it any longer.

“George,” You sighed, opening your eyes to look at him again, “need you.”

You watched his eyes go dark as he slowly moved away from you, slipping his joggers off and slotting himself between your legs.

“You’re sure?” He asked one final time.

“Please.” You groaned, placing your hands on his shoulders to brace yourself. With one last kiss on your lips, the Disney prince type, he pushed into you. If you thought the noises George had made before were beautiful, the ones he was making now could’ve moved you to tears. He found your hand and held it with one of his while the other slipped below your belly button.

Your heavy sighs and desperate moans synced up and you rode your highs on the edge of one another. George didn’t move off the top of you right away, instead, he stayed there with his face buried in your hair soaking up the quiet moment.

“That was wonderful, love.” George whispered in your ear as he fell to your side. You turned to face him, biting back a yawn.

“You’re wonderful.” You sleepily smiled. George pulled you against him then, and you rested your hand on his chest so you could feel his heartbeat. The steady rhythm puts you to sleep in no time.

___

The next morning came late, and the Vegas sun shone brightly through the space between the curtains you forgot to close.

George was still by your side, but you’d drifted apart in the night. So upon noticing his eyes were open and glued on you, you felt no shame curling up next to his side.

"This has been the longest one night stand of my life." You sighed dramatically, comfily resting your head on his broad shoulder. George was quiet for a beat and you were a bit worried you’d upset him. But then he spoke up, with a gentle voice saturated in sleep.

"Wanna see how long we can last? I don’t think I wanna stop waking up to you."

How could you say no? You’d spent the whole weekend saying yes to George, and look where it had gotten you. So you agreed to stay one more night in Vegas, hoping what happened there would last a lifetime.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Requests are open ♡

[the-romantic-lady]

I agree with what you said about Richard I, I forgot to ask, it's true he hated his father, isn't it? He is totally Eleanor's baby.

About history, I find it very sad that most people don't see the truth and perpetuate the lies of heroes and villains out there because that's what most people say or because they like it. Things like that still happen today, with modern people. No one seems to understand that people are complex, or they simply like to twist reality and deliberately misinterpret and spread things despite the facts.

I used to read a lot about the Tudors, their "glorious dynasty" and didn't even care what they said about Richard III. When I researched about Richard III for 10 minutes (I don't remember why), I realized it was all a lie and Richard was actually nice. Since then, I research different sources to form my opinion and reach a sensible conclusion.

My ask: Who was the first king or queen in history that you fell in love with? Mine is King Arthur, I know he never existed, but it was through him that I got to know real history, when I accidentally ended up in an article about Prince Arthur, Henry's son.

I am not sure I would say hate. He was definitely closer to his mom but how he felt about his father is something we can speculate. Of course, the brothers rose up against their father but I think its because their father was such a control freak. He gave little to no control to his grown up sons or wife unlike other kings.

 "No one seems to understand that people are complex, or they simply like to twist reality and deliberately misinterpret and spread things despite the facts." THIS. Of course, I am a Richard III fan but even his fans don't understand that. He too was a human. He had lust, greed, anger along with love, sensitivity and sadness. He was human. Until recently I was very pro-Matilda and anti-Stephen. I thought he was usurper and sneaky about it. But reading more about him reminded me that he too was human. That everything he did was motivated by things that all us humans feel. Once you start looking at historical figures like that, they become so much more appealing (READ SHARON KAY PENMAN BOOKS! SHE GETS IT!)

King Arthur is an awesome one!! Of course, he is also one of the first that I knew about. The lore and story of Arthur has enchanted me since I was a child. I also had fascination with royalty since I was a little girl. I would read royal magazines and books in the supermarket when my parents were shopping and loved when we talked about royals in school. I would say the first king that I fell in love with has to be Richard III. I have told the story many times so I won’t bore you with it once more lol. But yes, Richard made me realize how incredibly amazing history can be and from there I haven’t stopped obsessing. For me, Kate Middleton was a huge gateway into the world of royalty and I got a bunch of books on royalty. Along with Richard, I somehow was really interested in George III and James II. But Richard was the one I truly fell in love with. I also was quite invested in Vlad the Impaler for a while but never quite fell in love with him. Thanks for coming back!!! Love talking to you :D.

[lokis-lady-death]

Interview with a God Pt 9

Tom Hiddleston/Loki x reader

Prompt: I have always heard  people joke that Tom Hiddleston is actually Loki playing Tom playing Loki. So, let’s write about it XD

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3 , Part 4 , Part 5 , Part 6 , Part 7, Part 8

Interview with a God Part 9 Warning: violence

You were confused but you didn't know why. You were standing in your apartment, just in from work. But what was this feeling that something was wrong, that the world had gone from color to gray all of the sudden?

Loki stood in front of you. As he stepped towards you, you remembered calling him, begging to come. Reaching out for him, you quickly knew something was the matter. His jaw was tight, his normal playful smile gone. His brow was furrowed while his eyes were dark and filled with rage.

“Loki?” you said, pulling back. What was this? Why was he so angry?

He grabbed hold of your wrist and slung you onto the bed.

You lifted yourself off the bed, only to be shoved hard in the chest back down. “I'm a monster, am I?”

“What?” More confusion, your mind hazy as he watched you try again to get up. “I don't think you're a monster?”

“Then what is this?” He asked, holding up a People magazine. It was an article with your name, detailing how Tom Hiddleston was, in fact, Loki, a deranged monster that was cast from Asgard for killing his mother.

You gasped and went to move towards Loki, explaining, “I didn't write that!”

The back of his hand cut through the air so hard it rolled you onto your stomach. You were crying now, realizing he was too angry to listen to reason. You knew you hadn't written anything of the sort. Knew you'd never betray his trust. Knew you didn't see him as a monster.

Before you could move again, Loki’s hand's were on your waist, pulling you backwards to him. Your nails dragged into the bed, desperately trying to get away. His hand caught your hair and brought you to a standing position in front of him.

“Please, Loki!” you begged, “I didn't write that,it had to of been Elliot!”

“Ah, yes,” he mused,  not loosening his grip on your head. “The editor that likes to play with your underwear.” He threw you to the ground, brought his foot back and kicked you in the side. “GET UP, Y/N!” And you did, unable to fight it. He reared back and backhanded you again, sending you face first against the footboard of your bed. The wood split your lip and you tasted your blood. “Get.Up.” You were sobbing when you managed to stand up.

“Loki…” you whimpered in between sobs

“Look at me!” he commanded. Your body was convulsing as you tried to fight the tears from falling. You met his hateful eyes and braced for another hit. Instead, he instructed, “Remove your clothes.” Your hands were shaking as you undid your blouse, now looking him in the eyes.

“Loki, I didn't…”

“Do not speak, do not make a sound or I will make you remove your tongue.” The threat was unnecessary, the words themselves enough to ensure you never opened your mouth to him. When you were completely nude, he led you to the balcony. “Climb onto the rail.” and you did. You heard a small crack in his tone, the words now coming out hurtful. “I thought you saw past it, y/n. I thought that you truly understood me how no one else could. But in the end, while I was falling in love with you, you only saw a monster.” Tears silently falling down your cheeks, you heard him give the final order. “Jump.”

*****

You were screaming, your stomach leaving you like you were on a roller coaster. Something wrapped around you, holding your arms down, keeping you from failing.

“Shhhh, y/n, you’re alright!”

You couldn’t wake up or hear the person calling out. You saw him again. Loki. Accusing you of betraying him, of calling him a monster, of hurting you, all before having you jump off the balcony. And every time you jumped, you screamed until you hit the ground. As soon as your body should have met with pavement, you woke back up to Loki, his hateful eyes piercing into you.

Finally, in the middle of the vision, right before Loki had you climb the railing, he stopped. He looked around, confused, looked down at your naked and bruised body more confused. You were crying. “Y/n,” he whispered while he reached for you. You hung your head down, but didn’t shy away from him.

“I’m so sorry, I swear didn’t do it Loki, please believe me….” you sobbed into his chest.

He pet your head and you felt a shift in the room. When you opened your eyes you were back in your apartment, slunk against a wall, fully dressed like you had just come in from your dinner date.

And in front of you sat Tom. 

“You’re alright, y/n. Breathe.” His arms wrapped around you and pulled you into his arms. His lips brushed the top of your head, trying to process what it was he had just seen you living through. He gave you another minute, rocking you slightly, calming you down.

Finally he couldn’t wait any longer. He moved to look at you. “I need to know what happened,” he stressed. “Who came here after I dropped you off?”

You hadn’t stopped crying, still trying to make yourself believe that it was all an illusion and this was real life. He reached up and wiped the tears away, holding your face. “Y/n, this is very important. Do you remember what happened?”

“I only remember you,” you whimpered, unwilling to meet his gaze. “You were so angry with me. You wouldn’t listen... “ Bringing your knees to your chest, you couldn’t stop trembling. You were trying to remember everything, what could possibly have happened before Tom arrived in the vision, but you couldn’t. It felt like you have relived that moment for an eternity and you couldn’t remember anything that happened before. “Oh my god, Tom, what was that?” You met his eyes this time, tears falling, body shaking.

Tom didn't answer, only held you tighter. “Can you tell me what happened in the vision then? You were…” He cleared his throat. “Naked. And bleeding.”

Your busted lip quivered as you tried to explain it. “You showed up. Mad, you were so mad. Something about an article about you being Loki printed in People with my name on it.” Your eyes widened and you looked up to him, exclaiming, “But I didn’t, Loki, I would never write….”

“Shhh,” he soothed, bringing you into his arms. “Shhh, it was a dream. Tell me what else.”

You sniffled and went on, telling him all the way to the part where he had you jump. “And then I just kept repeating the cycle. It was like seeing my death over and over and over.” You swallowed hard and tried to reaffirm that it was a dream. That this was real. That you weren’t about to jump off a balcony.

Tom took a deep breath before pulling you both up to stand. “I need you to pack a bag of anything you could possibly need in the next few days,” he instructed, straightening his jacket.

“What for?”

“You’re coming with me to my hotel, y/n. I am absolutely not letting you stay alone.”

You didn’t know if you were relieved or more on edge. You knew it was a dream but seeing Tom so collected, it made your nerves shake. Running on autopilot you packed your things and followed him down to the car.

When the door of the escalade closed, something curious crossed your mind. “How did you know to come save me?”

Tom was typing away on his phone, the first time you had ever seen him on it. As soon as your words resonated with him, his eyes fell on you like a ton of bricks. “I didn't. Your bag was left in my car. I thought as much as you worked that you would be upset without it.”

“Even after our fight you brought it back….”

Tom leaned closer to you, lifting your chin to look at him. There was something hinting at a warning when he told you, “That wasn’t a fight. That was a minor disagreement. If I were angry with you, I promise, you would know. Do you understand?” You nodded. He sat back, still watching you. “Good. Now. A better question, darling, is why on earth didn't you call for me?”

You stared up onto his eyes, trying to recall what happened. You couldn't swear with certainty but you really thought you had tried to call him to you.

When you didn’t answer, Tom frowned and grabbed hold of your shoulder. “Y/n. That's twice today you have been in trouble and I just happened to show up. What if I didn't?”

You didn't want to imagine replaying the balcony incident or dealing with Elliott, but you had no answer for him.

“I need to know you will call for me if you're in trouble.”

“Why?” The question was so simple yet incredulous at the same time.

“Because you’re mine.”

The car came to a stop and the door opened. Tom got out and reached in for you, but you didn’t take his hand. In fact you didn’t move. You realized you weren’t at the hotel you ate lunch at. “Where are we?”

“I booked a suite just a moment ago,” he told you. “Too many people know where I’m staying and we don't’ know who possibly attacked you. I’m not taking any chances. Now,” he held his hand to you again. “Come.”

And you did. You were aware of his command, knowing it wasn’t even meant to be such, but it was enough to set a fire in you.

The driver retrieved the room keycard before Tom took your bags up to the room. “Sir,” the driver said, “What about your things?”

“I have my overnight bag, I should be alright for now. I’ll call you to let you know what I need in the morning. You’ve done more than enough for me today, Dave.” They shook hands and Tom led you to the room. After the door shut behind you, you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

Tom set your things on the bed. “Would you like to take a shower?”

“Is that a suggestion or invitation?” Your tone wasn’t flirty and he recognized it right away.

His brow quirked at the comment and asked, “What if it was an invitation? Are you saying you would refuse it?” Tom stepped towards you now, his half cocked grin leering at you.

“It’s not like refusing it matters, does it, Loki?” The sharpness in your voice was evident, even the way you spat out Loki.

Tom’s smile didn’t fade but his brow did furrow. “I don’t recall asking you to do anything of that nature against your will. Have I?”

“But you could.”

“I could also have made your editor friend jump out a window today,” he said, his voice just above a whisper as he leaned closer to you. “But I didn’t. Because I listened to you when you asked me to stop.” The breath escaped you and you stared up, seeing his eyes flash green.

You waited a moment longer before grabbing your bag and walking to the bathroom. When you saw your reflection in the mirror, you had to do a double take. Your hair was disheveled, your eyes red and swollen from the crying. And even a cut on your lip that you thought was faked in the vision of Loki attacking you. When you brushed your finger against it, you flinched. It was definitely real. As you began shrugging off your clothes, you saw a few dark bruises along your shoulders, even one large one along your side where you had felt the kick.

Whatever that vision was, it reflected some truth. Your body was proof of that.

Silently, you went into the shower and cleaned off the day, repeated over and over that whatever happened wasn’t Loki’s fault.

You were startled when the door opened and Tom stepped in, his expression softer than before. You reached for a towel but he had already taken a full sight of you, his eyes widening at the marks.

“I…” He swallowed, utterly speechless.

“Please,” you said quietly, slipping on an oversized t-shirt. “Leave me alone.”

“That’s the last thing I want to do,” Tom declared as he wrapped his arms around you. “I’m sorry…”

“Why are you apologizing, you didn’t do anything.”

“But you’re treating me like I have,” he said, his voice halfway cracking. The sentiment surprised you after his comment before. “I’m afraid that mortal sentiments are somewhat lost on me, y/n. I most social constructs and behavior, but I don’t have any training in this.” He looked up at you, again with green eyes. “I have been trying, I swear I have. I don’t want you to be afraid of me, y/n.”

“I’m not,” you said quickly. His hand came up to your face, his thumb lightly grazing over your busted lip.

“Then why do I feel like you’re looking at me different now?”

You didn’t have an answer. Instead, you kissed him. You couldn’t help how you looked at him, but you knew you weren’t afraid of this god. You could tell it took him by surprise, but his hands quickly found your hair and held you in place while his tongue swept into your mouth. Following his lead, your arms went around his shoulders, letting him lift you up on the bathroom counter. You pulled back just a moment, enough to see his black hair in a mess around his face. He had transformed and you hadn’t even noticed. You were both breathing hard, his grip on your hair not faltering. You realized he was hesitating.

“What is it?”

“You’re really not afraid of me?” he asked.

“I’m not afraid of you, Loki,” you admitted. “I’m afraid of your powers. It's all so unknown to me and it just…”

“Is that all?” Loki’s eyes searched your face, waiting for you to finish. “Y/n,” running his hand down your back. “Do you remember what I said about a god not being able to break a promise?” You nodded. “I, Loki of Asgard, son of the Allfather, promise to never cause you harm. I promise to never use my powers against you in any way. I promise I will protect you. That I will never allow any harm to come to you.” His hand came around to your face. “I swear it.”

He lightly wiped away a single tear from your face as he smiled at you, the most sincere smile you had ever seen in his true form. “I believe you are overdue for some rest, darling.” He leaned down to kiss you again, lifting you up in his arms and toting you to the bed.

You had never felt as safe and content as you did wrapped in Loki’s arms, your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. You breathed him in slowly, committing it to memory. After the day you had, you deserved something good out of all this and as much of a surprise as it was, Loki was that something good.

*****

The next morning you woke to your usual phone alarm. Loki was still beneath you, only slightly stirring when the beeping began. It was surreal, seeing the god like this. Pure, simple, vulnerable. Something he had never allowed you to see of him before. Without thinking, your hand went to trace over his cheekbone and then down to his chin. Down his neck. His chest.

“This is a lovely way to wake up,” Loki spoke softly, but still managed to startle you. He let out a short laugh and kissed your forehead. “Good morning, y/n.”

You smiled. “Good morning, Loki.”

Despite his protests, you got ready for work.”You should stay with me, at least today,” he had reasoned.

“The article posts tomorrow, I have to make sure everything is perfect,” you told him as you gave him a kiss.

“Alright, but I would like lunch with you.”

“What an uncommonly nice way for you to ask me on a date,” you had to laugh. “Okay. Lunch is good.”

*****

You were surprised to see the driver, Dave, downstairs waiting to take you to your office. It felt awkward, but you went along, thanking him for his time when you got out. You squeezed into the elevator with a few others and let out a sigh of relief. Loki had made you feel so much better after his promise, as silly as it was. You held your head a little higher, feeling a flutter in your stomach as you thought about Loki sleeping in bed. He looked so peaceful.

“Oh, excuse me, hold the door, would you?”

You snapped back to reality and held the elevator door open despite it already being cramped. A woman squeezed in, passing you a sideways grin. She stood beside you, much taller than you in her all black ensemble of kneehigh boots, trench coat, and sunhat. She looked like someone going to a funeral.

She looked down at you, her smile still plastered on her face like a china doll. “Everyone but you should get off the elevator.”

The doors opened on the second floor and you quirked a brow and as everyone deboarded.

Alone, the stranger continued staring at you, like some kind of oddity. Or like a car she was deciding the value of.

“Do I…” you squinted, trying to see past her exaggerated outfit. “Know you?”

“You do, sweet girl. But I’m going to need you to forget you saw me. Work and such, you know. Busy busy.” She held a finger to your lip, specifically on your cut.. “Shhh. Secrets make friends, darling.” She flashed you one last grin as the elevator stopped at the eighth floor and she stepped off.

Tilting her head to flash her black eyes at you, she laughed, “Just…. Utterly ordinary.”

And again you forgot your encounter with the goddess of death.

Like my garbage? Read more of it! Master List

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[morbid-n-macabre]

Jack Unterweger, AKA The Vienna Stranger or The Prison Poet. I hate to say I'm impressed with a serial killer, but i am. Dude was one heck of a manipulative con man- even Ted Bundy had nothing on Jack!

In 1974, Jack murdered an 18 year old German woman named Margaret Schäfer; Margaret had been sexually assaulted and beaten with a steel rod, strangled with her very own bra, then dumped in the woods to rot. At trial Jack cried for the jury, swore he was sorry, and begged for a second chance. The jury didn't buy it, they sentenced him to life.

Jack never accepted that. He simply would not be spending the rest of his life in prison, not with so many woman in the world just waiting to be murdered! So, he made use of his time, got busy educating himself. Jack learned to read and write well, transformed himself from a petty thug to a cultured writer- a talent he realized could be used to his advantage. Jack quickly began writing children's books, poems, and plays; they were good, Jack had a flare for writing. Soon radio stations began broadcasting the killer's work, and in 1983 Jack wrote the ultimate sob story: an autobiography in which he told the world all about his horrific childhood. Mama, a prostitute who was always in trouble with the law, abandoned him as a very young boy; she left him with her very abusive and alcoholic father. Grandpa liked to beat him bloody, he would also bring home prostitutes and force little Jack to get drunk with them. After 7 years of this life, child services stepped in and took custody of the boy. From here on, Jack was shipped from abusive home to home. When he got a bit older, Jack followed in his mama's footsteps- he was in and out of jail for fraud and theft. Sometime before his murder rap, he even became a pimp. In this book, titled Fegefeuer - eine Reise ins Zuchthaus ( in English, "Purgatory- A Trip to Prison") Jack claimed he saw his mother's face when he killed Margaret- he'd simply snapped. But he was grown now, saw the error or his ways. He was changed.

As soon as this book hit the shelves it quickly shot to #1. The elite, celebrities, especially the literary community, all were very outspoken about giving Jack a second chance. They campaigned for his release, claimed he was reformed. Just look at his children's stories- no cold blooded killer could write like that- education had changed him! His book was so good that it was even made a movie, it's safe to say the entire country was in Jack's corner. On May 23rd of 1990, after serving just 15 years of his life sentence, a killer was freed.

Suddenly Jack was a celebrity himself- he rubbed elbows with the elite, was a guest on all of the important talk shows (he even hosted one!) Jack was featured on magazine covers, you name it. He was now living the good life, a life of privilege; dressed as prim and proper as possible Jack continued to write magazine articles. Everyone loved him, especially young and beautiful women- he was the ultimate lady's man, surrounded by them. But that just wasn't good enough- something was missing. Jack needed to kill.

His first victim was found in September of 1990. She was discovered wearing nothing but her wedding ring and socks; she'd been brutally beaten, sexually assaulted, strangled with her own stockings, posed in a degrading position and left in the woods, covered in leaves. Soon another victim was found, and another, and another... Jack killed 6 within a year of being released. Most were prostitutes, at least one was just a "fun-loving girl". All had been killed in the same manner; sexually aassaulted(often with an object like a tree branch), strangled with her own clothing (usually a bra, sometimes panty hose), posed nude, and left in the woods. It was definitely the work of a serial killer, police knew this as the killer had tied the same fancy slip knot in every article of clothing he'd used as a murder weapon. Sadly, since the first few victims had been lying in the woods for several months, there wasn't much physical evidence to be tied to anyone, only a few red fibers left on one victim's remains.

At this time, Jack, now a journalist writing true crime articles for a fancy magazine, was the one actually writing about these serial murders! At one point, he even interviewed the prostitutes in the area where his latest victims were discovered. Jack questioned these unsuspecting women on exactly how afraid they were of this serial killer who was targeting them, and asked them exactly what they were doing to protect themselves against him! Can you imagine what a thrill that must've been? Serial killers love to immerse themselves in the havoc they create, that's why they often show up at the crime scene, funerals, or even insert themselves into the case somehow. It's hard for them to stay away.

But I digress.

In June of 1991, Jack flew to Los Angeles, California, to write an article about the differences in the way prostitutes were treated in the US vs Austria. In between killing 3 American prostitutes, Ballsy Jack actually went on ride alongs with the Los Angeles police! Guess which police he tagged along with? Those who patrolled the city's known red light district, of course! He wasn't a suspect in the murders until a retired detective noticed the similarities in Jack's first murder and the 3 they had on their hands in the short time frame since he'd arrived in town. Come to find out, he fit the description of the man 2 of the victims were last seen with before they met their demise. Meanwhile, Austrian police were also looking into Jack; they'd searched his property and found a red scarf which perfectly matched the fibers found on one of their own victims. When Jack returned home to Austria, he was tipped off by a friend that he was wanted for several murders. Vowing to never return to prison and to commit suicide if he did, Jack and his 18 year old lover fled to Canada, then snuck into the US. They traveled to Miami, Florida; destitute again, Jack talked his young girlfriend into selling herself while he concentrated his efforts on writing a multitude of letters to everyone back home, pleading with them to believe in his innocence. He claimed that the police were stumped, so they were pointing the finger at him, the likely suspect! Many continued to support him, including his literary friends. American police finally caught up with their killer; in February of '92, just 2 years after his release, Jack was extradited back to Austria where he would stand trial for his 11 known murders: one in the Czech Republic, 3 in the US, and 7 in Austria. (In Austria they can and will try a person for murders not committed on their soil.)

This was said to be Austria's Trial Of The Century, everyone was interested! Jack claimed that they had the wrong man- he could prove he'd slept with 150 women in his short years of freedom, why would he need to kill any prostitutes? Again Jack plead with the jury; again the jury wasn't buying it. Jack was found guilty and sent back to prison, where he promptly made good on his promise to never live in prison again. On June 29, 1994, just 4 years after he was first released, Jack hung himself with the drawstring of his pants. Ironically this proved his guilt once as for all- he'd tied the same intricate slip knot in the drawstring that he'd tied in his victim's clothing. There is absolutely no doubt that Jack was the serial killer.

[k8scapade]

WRITESCAPADE 3: Keep the fire burning

Back in high school, I used to write short stories and screenplays for our class productions. Eventually, I found myself reading magazines and books which is something that I didn't really enjoy before turning 15.

Those requirements that were given to us by our teachers eventually became my passion without me even realizing it. I could still remember how my classmates adored the way I wrote back then. They would even seek my guidance or comments on their works. Indeed, it made me flutter.

Senior high school eventually came and I must say that I freestyled my first two days in SHS. As one of the pioneer batch for this so-called “experiment” I literally had no idea when it comes to the differences of each strand. It felt like I cannot digest or fathom the changes that are happening.

I won’t lie nor deny because I was really hoping that their minds will change and we’ll be freshies for the upcoming year. But, no, their minds did not change and we had to deal with the situation that we're in.

Now, going back, I indeed freestyled my first two days in SHS. You are probably asking “Why?” and “How?” right now. Well, as I have mentioned, I was having a hard time picking which strand I belong to. All I know is that I want to be in UST for college with a degree in Communication Arts. But then again, senior high happened and suddenly, it felt like I’m lost!

Given the situation, I chose to become a part of ABM (Accounting and Business Management strand). It took me 5 hours sitting in an ABM section to decide that this is not for me and I am not meant for this entire ABM thing. Which is why I decided right away to switch my strand and I immediately talked to the senior high school coordinator. I no longer asked for the permission of my parents regarding my decision. I just simply went for it. I was really excited, but I never thought that this decision would change my life and aspirations. I used to dream of becoming the next editor-in-chief of a prestigious magazine but when I realized that I am not the best ‘writer’ out there, I stopped writing. I told myself that I will never be like some of my classmates who are better at writing than me.

Which is why I would like to dedicate this blog post to those who feel like they should extinguish the fire within themselves. This blog post is for you.

Same thing happened to blackberry and iPhone (well at least according to the rumors). Let’s say it’s true that the CEO of BlackBerry saw how Steve Jobs launched the iPhone and did not see it as a “threat” to their device. They were complacent because they feel like they are already the “best” and they feel like no one will ever be better than them. And at the very moment that they’ve realized that Apple is way better than them, they decided to stop making smartphones to focus on software development.

Such an instance is similar to what happened to me, almost everyone was praising my works and when I became exposed to the new set of people, I realized that there are people who are way better than me. Therefore, I stopped what I used to be passionate about.

If there’s one thing that I have in common with the CEO of BlackBerry is that we both extinguished the fire that is burning within us. Why? That’s because the society that we live in is fast-paced and before you know it, there are new generations of phones already and that would mean that those who wanted to be up-to-date when it comes to their gadgets will be upgrading once again. Some would even joke that the phase wherein they change phones is as fast as when they wanted to change partners.

Speaking of phones and relationships, Adorno (1978) mentioned that the relationships that we’re able to form online have a slight difference to the relationships that we form in real life. In the Philippines, men are expected to do the “first move” when it comes to dating or courting. In an article by Torres (2019), men are also expected to do harana, paninilbihan, balak (spoken poetry), and other traditional ways of courting to prove the sincerity of their intentions to the girl that they are courting.Having that being said, women aren’t supposed to ask a guy out first but with the changes that are happening in our society. Girls who are making the “first move” are being normalized to break gender stereotypes.

In the dating application, Bumble, it was a life-changing innovation for men who are shy and for women who wanted to break free from such “gender roles” because through the use of Bumble, both genders are able to challenge the outdated heterosexual norms in our society.

It may not be a “slight difference” based on what we were once used to but, it indeed became possible through the use of mobile phones and the constant innovations that are brought to us by these gadgets.

One of the innovations or life-changing discoveries would be the invention of 3g, and 4g. It is through these generations where we were able to communicate with our loved ones who live across the world. Through the rise of these, smartphones came into existence and are continuously changing our day-to-day lives.

It may seem that my story earlier makes no sense but, if you come to think of it, my blog entry wouldn’t be as tacky as this one if I never gave up on becoming an editor-in-chief. Just like the smartphones around us, people tend to be less functional and efficient if they do not update or feed themselves with new information. Which is why I would like to encourage everyone to keep that fire burning and to never stop feeding yourself with information which will help you upgrade as an individual.

Reference:

Bumble Date. (2020). Retrieved October 29, 2021, from Bumble website: https://bumble.com/en/date

Adorno, T. and Horkheimer, M., 1997 [1947], Dialectic of Enlightenment. London: Verso

Torres, I. (2019, March 20). Filipino Dating: Evolution of Courtship in the Philippines. Retrieved October 29, 2021, from Medium website: https://medium.com/@afacebu.irish/filipino-dating-evolution-of-courtship-in-the-philippines-b4881a69aeee

[duanecbrooks]

Media Impact     It's time to once again let you in on what is My All-Time Favorite. And to remind you once again that I am not nor have I ever been a high-culture maven nor an aesthete nor even a real and true intellectual but am and all during my adult life have been a geek of the Meghan McCain stripe.       Got all that? You do? OK, so My All-Time Favorite Media is...Heart and Soul magazine's 2003 cover story on my girl Robin Givens.               Literally everything about said article shines. The cover of this particular Heart and Soul issue features Robin sporting an especially dazzling smile and is emblazoned with a particularly ingratiating headline: "Robin Givens: On Mike [Tyson], Money, and Being Misunderstood." Open up the magazine and flip through a few pages and there's Robin again, again wearing a notably uplifting smile and bent over rightward in a quite fetching manner, with the words "Robin Redux" on the bottom of the page. Flip through a few more pages and on the "Contributors' Page" there's a pic of the (as shall be demonstrated, very talented) writer of the Robin piece, Janice R. Littlejohn, who is shown to be a not-bad-looking woman, probably (then) in her early-to-middle-40s, herself equipped with a highly beguiling smile. In her space she engagingly compares meeting Robin to "[c]oming face-to-face with the most popular girl in high school. 'It was like meeting up with the girl who you thought you knew everything about, but [then] realizing how much you have in common.'" We're then let in on the fact that Littlejohn is "[a] freelance television, entertainment, and lifestyle writer in California" and she appealingly reveals that she's attempting to make her life more pleasurable with "food, travel and trying to find the perfect couch for my new house."             Now to the Robin piece.               Let it be said first off that my lady looks positively stunning throughout, first giving yet another stunning smile while lying upon her stomach with her legs up in the air and outfitted in Maroon pinstripe pants, a beaded Chaiken tank top, and metal Mare olive heels. Turn the page and there's Robin again, this time wearing a L'impasse white floral gown and a Elisabetta bracelet. Turn the page once again and there's my woman once again, this time decked out in an Anja Flint olive jersey dress, a Stephen & Co. gypsy-like necklace, and a Barry Cord cocktail ring. And in all--all--of the photos Robin has an enticingly cheerful expression.           Here's where we come to the actual Robin article.             The aforementioned piece begins with a rather appealing quote from the subject herself ("I feel okay now. I know what I want instead of what you think you're supposed to have. I know what makes me happy"). Then Littlejohn paints a sensitive picture of the two of them agreeing to eat at this one restaurant on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and her expectation that "[s]ince the media has been less than flattering to Givens [that's a considerable understatement]...I expected her to be guarded." (As it turns out, she was all the while "relaxed and friendly"). Eventually Littlejohn deftly captures, as the two of them walk along, "fans [of Robin] beginning [sic] to take notice--gawking, waving and doing random drive-bys, yelling, 'You look good, girl!'" From there Littlejohn skillfully depicts where Robin was at that point in her life ("At 38, Robin Givens is a woman reborn, clearly revelling in a new sense of self outside the Hollywood spotlight--a nascent inner tranquility that comes from embracing life's simpler things. She divides her time between Maryland, Kentucky and New York...fancies herself a connoisseur of fine Italian and French food, frequents American diners and loves chitlins and pig's feet"). Littlejohn proceeds to stylishly sketch where Robin was professionally (the latter "is no longer defined by the trappings of a box-office-driven career. Acting is simply what she does") and offers up some insightful words from Robin's Boomerang/Head of State co-star Chris Rock ("I'm clicking through channels and see Boomerang and think, 'Hey, what's Robin Givens doing? Haven't seen her in a while.' When I met her for lunch, I said, 'You should get back out there.' It was kind of a pep talk. 'Get out there. You can act'").               Littlejohn's article continues. She elicits from Robin some admirably searching words from her subject concerning how it was like for her growing up without a Dad ("[Y]ou just feel this sort of unworthiness, and the pattern begins there...If you're not good enough for the first man in your life to stay, then why should any of them stay?"), incisively delineates what was Robin's public image pre-Tyson ("Givens has long been known for her love life, beginning with a romance with a Saturday Night Live comic named Eddie Murphy. She's had public romances with Brad Pitt and tennis pros Murphy Jensen and Svetozar Marinkovic, whom she married and quickly separated from") and draws from Robin some telling observations regarding Tyson's words during that infamous 20/20 interview they did by Barbara Walters, which was responsible for Robin's 20-year reign--especially, sad to say, as crowned by blacks--as The Most Despised Woman In America ([Tyson told Walters] "'The best punch I ever gave, she went from that wall to that wall...and she was out.' I thought. 'This is definitely not going to be acceptable.'"). Following are some intensely perceptive words from Robin's good buddy Tiffany McLinn, one of the Lifetime network's Intimate Portrait executive producers ("[Tyson] was really popular, and people were completely on his side...[A]t the time he was married to Robin, and so people really vilified her...She didn't have any rep before [hooking up with Tyson]--it's just because of that marriage [emphasis mine]"). From there there is a deftly-done sketch of my lady's professional standing during that period ("She starred in TV projects such as The Women of Brewster Place and The Penthouse, and she was on her way to box-office stardom with critically applauded roles as Imabelle in 1991's A Rage in Harlem and the next year as Jacqueline Broyer in Boomerang").           Going forth: Our portraitist gets Robin to present some genuinely moving recollections concerning her then-emotional/psychological life ("I had gone through hurt, and I mean it really hurt, and it hurt me and it hurt everybody close to me and it was serious for me, the pain that I felt. So it was interesting to have agents going, 'Yeah, but you're on the cover'"). After pointing out--and this is a fiercely individualistic statement, considering the fact that it's being made by a black writer about a black celebrity/entertainment figure in a black-oriented magazine--that Robin realized "that she was just another cog in the Hollywood machine," Littlejohn's probing gets Robin to freely acknowledge: "At that point I realized I wanted to be a healthy, happy human being, not just have a successful career. That's what I realized was the most important thing to me." Littlejohn, to her great credit, also gets Robin to own up to the fact that "I'm not looking for vindication. I'm not looking for people to go, 'Aha!'"                 And there's more. Littlejohn, with laudable journalistic professionalism, paints a picture of Robin as an absolutely hands-on mother, quoting her as asserting: "Nothing makes me happier," then quoting McLinn as contending that Robin and her sons are "like the Three Musketeers...[Being a single mother is not without] its challenges. But [Robin] is first and foremost a mom, not an actor." Robin then movingly tells of her renewed spirituality ("[Y]ou can call it anything. I mean, I now have a relationship with God") and in time laughing and "carefree," (Littlejohn's description) claims: "I have no ambition for a career." (To this Littlejohn adds: "At least not a career outlined by Hollywood's terms," going on to delineate the sporadic work Robin had done around that time [periodic television series like Courthouse, periodic independent pictures like Book of Love, her then-current work producing the Uninvited series for the Heritage Networks]). Following is a quite sprightly portrait of Robin doing a photo shoot, wherein she's "wearing jeans, flip-flops and a white tank top under a black salon cape" and "[h]er hair is in spiral pin curls, and she's wearing no make up." Littlejohn effortlessly captures Robin's admirable good humor during this shoot ("I think we shoot me just like this, whaddaya think?").                 And the conclusion to the article is honestly uplifting. Littlejohn makes the exceedingly perceptive observation that "while Robin Givens may not have always been in fashion, she has always been popular. Now with age and life experience, she has an outlook that matches her newfound confidence." (Robin afterward shares said outlook: "I know that if you hang in there, He'll work it out for you"). And the absolute end of the piece is outright heart-melting. Here Robin "smilingly" says: "I've been through enough to know some stuff, but [I] still have a lot of living to do. You know when little stuff would bother you? Now it's like, 'This is me. Take it. Leave it.' It's feeling comfortable in your own skin. As a woman."             In sum, Littlejohn's Robin profile certainly, definitely proves the aptness of the title this one IMDb-message-board-post writer bestowed upon Robin: "The sexiest black woman in entertainment" (actually, she shares that title with Paula Patton)--and proves that she's a highly articulate, intelligent, thoughtful person to boot.               Heart and Soul magazine has long, long, long since stopped doing cover-making celebrity interviews. Too bad. Janice R. Littlejohn's Robin Givens article should have won the aforementioned publication a National Magazine Award. Hands down.