#I. ignore that I wrote Janice

[justkillingthyme]

If YOU’RE Melina… and I’M Melina…

THEN WHO’S DRIVING THE DETRAGIGANT

[captaincapsicle83]

The Little Pests

Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary- Sam’s friend, an IT worker for Stark Industries turned new recruit, has a crush on an avenger. Being a good wingman (hehe, get it?) does everything he can to get the reader and Bucky closer, even enlisting the help of other avengers.

It’s almost obnoxious actually.

Pairings: Bucky x Reader (main romance, rest platonic), Sam Wilson x reader, Clint Barton x reader, avengers x reader

TW: Cursing, Sam and Clint being silly, “suicide” but like, it’s a bobs burgers reference (you’ll see)

A/N: I was bored, so I pushed aside EVERY OTHER WIP I should be working on (about eight separate ones), left all my drafts open, completely ignored my old, geriatric ideas, and wrote something off a whim

Behold, my capricious work of art

“And, this is our kitchen, that’s our toaster. The toaster is always broken don’t try to use it,” Sam says. His right arm is on your shoulder, the left gesturing around the room, showing you around he compound.

“Why doesn’t it-” You’re cut off by a man with light brown hair swatting the toaster with his fist.

“You whore! I want my poptart!” He grunts.

“He’s why,” Sam shakes his head, and rolls his eyes. Clint Barton; Hawkeye, Destroyer of toasters.

Clint whips around, disgust evident on his face, “Oh, no, no, no, Sir. Don’t act like I’m suddenly the only one to blame here. Take a look at Mr. Banner and his anger issues, the cyborg, or, better yet Sammy, look in the fucking mirror.”

You decided right then and there that you liked Clint. “Sammy” scowled at Barton, before motioning for you to sit at the table. He had already shown you around the rest of the compound, including your room, making the kitchen your last stop.

As Sam rummaged through the cupboards, Clint sat in a chair across from you, groaning and huffing like an old dad with aching joints (Clint couldn’t be more than in his thirties or fourties’).

“Are you here to fix the toaster?” He asks you, his voice sad and his eyes even sadder. He was like those little animals with big eyes of pleading in Disney films.

“No, I’m sorry. I could try,” you suggest the last part, and he perks up. He sits up straight in his chair, rather than sprawling, and shifted to drumming his hands on the table.

“Met anybody else yet?” He asks, Sam still looking for food with not much luck.

“Nada, just you and Sam,” You say, truthfully. You had honestly expected more traffic, but were just the same grateful to be mostly undisturbed.

“Oh, good, you’re lucky. After us, it all goes down hill,” He “tsk-tsk”’s. “Let’s give you a run down. There’s Bruce and Tony, they’re our brains. They don’t sleep. They’re, like, tier two after Sam and I. Also tier 2, we got Natasha and Wanda. They’re scary. I will not elaborate. Tier 3, Vision, Thor, Rhodes, Spider-Kid. Mostly uneventful around the compound, Visions here the most, other three not as much. Then there’s our senior citizens in the bottom tier. Steve and Bucket. If they were a spice, they’d be flour.”

The way Clint was talking, it felt like the scene in mean girls where Janice and Damien find Cary in the bathroom. You were giggly at his little hand motions and theatrical way of painting the scene.

“What makes you and Sam tier 1?” You ask, Sam coming over with two jars of peanut butter, spoons sticking out of them.

“Birds!” They both yell to each other. When you make a face at Sam’s offer of a jar of peanut butter, Clint takes it right away. You watch in wonder as the two bicker with each other, getting the feeling they were the only ones who found themselves to be “tier 1.”

***

You had been with the avengers for, say, about 7 months, finding it easy to make friends and have fun between missions and SHIELD duties.

“Well,” Clint was saying to you and Sam, the three of you sitting at the compounds dining table, coloring with crayons on printer paper. “I’m glad you two are having fun, because I am going to kill myself.”

He holds up a poorly manufactured picture of a duck. You all convulge into a set of late night giggles.

It was four am, and you had all just returned early from a mission. After a mission, especially one where you could sleep on the way back, you sometimes found it nice to unwind with your teammates.

As you all tried to compose yourselves, you didn’t even notice someone else enter the kitchen part of the kitchen, not until Sam called out to them that is.

“Hey, Buck, what’s up?”

“Hmm? Nothing. Coffee,” He looked startled, then straight back to basically being dead tired. The bags under his eyes looked like they just took a trip to Costco.

He looks reluctant, and like his mind has to do a lot of mental gymnastics to convince himself to do so, but ultimately he sits down at your table.

You’re drawing a picture of some birds (well, what was supposed to look like birds) in a little bird house. Your heart was beating about 10 decibels faster, and your hands became more unsteady.

Clint and Sam both privately took note of your change in demeanor. The way instead of using circle motions either your crayons, as you had been, you were pressing harder and going up and down. And how you simply just layer them on the table rather than back in the box. And the short sweet glances sent to one new person at the table….

***

Private messages between Sam Wilson and Clint Barton that you should never have seen, had you not been playing candy crush on Clint’s phone one Saturday morning. You’re a snooper, you snoop, it’s what you do.

Wednesday 5:36 am

Clint: Are you sleeping bbb

Sam: that best better not stand for what I think it does…

Clint: Y/n left me after you and Bucky did. Think the girl needed time to fantasize

Sam: YOU NOTICED TOO

Clint: I see everything, always

Sam: ominous

Sam: Clinton have you ever watched the bachorlette

Clint: I loveeee where this is going

Sam: I think she has a little crush

Sam: we should set them up

Clint: I can already see the kids

Clint: they’ll be names Sam and Clint of course

Clint: after us

Saturday, 9:29 am

Unread

Sam: did you destroy my fucking coin master village 17 times???

Sam: Barton, your ass is grass and I’m gonna mow it

***

Dead. You promised Clint and Sam they were dead.

At first, you thought it was just a joke. Until the advancements started.

It was Thursday, the team gathering for a dinner, as they did every once in awhile. As soon as you entered the room, you saw Clint and Sam basically playing musical chairs to keep an empty seat open next to Bucky Barnes.

“Are…Are you two okay?” Steve asked, genuine fear and concern on his face.

“Totally.”

“One-hundred percent.”

“Why wouldn’t we be?”

“You’re acting weird captain.”

Steve sits, slack jawed, at a loss for a response. As you walk towards the table, your shoulders are grabbed by Clint, who is saying in a sickeningly sweet and chipper voice, “Y/n! Goodness, great to see you! Sit here! There’s a spot next to Bucky! You know Bucky! You love Bucky!”

You were a *mess* the entire dinner, unable to completely focus on anything but breathing patterns.

As the evening was coming to a close and others were dismissing themselves, you made cold hard eye contact with Clint, seated directly across from you. His hands were folded on the table like an innocent school child.

“Barton,” you said, your voice stern. “Wanna play Chinese Checkers?”

He shakes his head violently, but says, “Sam does too.”

Sam gets up from the table, so fast, his chair knocks over and silverware clatters.

You quickly jump up, chasing him down the hall. Clint follows, brandishing a phone camera, a will, and a way.

The rest of the group was frozen now, looking in bewilderment at what was going on. Or rather, their lack of knowledge of what the hell was going on?

“Anybody have input?” Tony asks after a long silence. Everyone looks equally lost.

They all look when a thud sounds in the direction your trio went.

***

Bucky and Steve are walking track to their rooms, later that evening. Steve had mission reports to do, and Bucky had thoughts to process and a diary to write in.

“So, what do you think of the new girl?” Steve pokes the bear, hoping to get a rise out of his friend.

“Hmm, oh. I dunno. She’s nice, I guess,” Bucky shrugs, and Steve’s goofy little smile grows like the grinch’s heart.

“Really? Because you look liked you were having an awful lot of thoughts tonight at dinner. And, you know, you stare at her long enough every other day…”

“Do not.”

“Do so.”

Bucky stares at Steve, unknowing of what to do in this situation. He shrugs again.

“So what?”

“So? So you should, oh, I don’t know, have a real conversation with her instead of just breathing into each others general directions. It’s nauseating having to watch Sam and Clint push you guys into the same space.”

Tonight may have been the first time you noticed, but in truth that kind thing happened in many many scenarios. Even before Clint and Sam connected that dots that you liked him.

They wanted their ship to sail.

***

“You took a shower!?” Clint says to Bucky, in a low and shocked voice. He held an incredulous look on his face, one Bucky wanted to smack right off.

“Yeah, try it sometime,” Bucky quipped.

“Y/n’s in her room,” Clint took a sip of his coffee. She has loads of paperwork. Probably will be in there all day.”

Bucky’s mouth opens and then shuts, not wanting to know why Clint was helping him. In truth, he wasn’t. Clint was helping you.

Within minutes, Bucky was outside your door, giving himself the cutest, peppiest of peptalks. Albeit, in his head because he could not handle the embarrassment of the e door opening to you seeing him babbling like a madman.

So when you did open the door, he tried flashing a warm smile. At the sight of it, you thought you would simply just faint. Right there, thud on the floor.

While your brain was debating whether you would prefer internal or external bleeding of the skull (internal, you decided, wouldn’t mess up your hair) Bucky cleared his throat.

You looked into his blinding blue eyes, the way a deer looks into headlights (meaning any minute you would get hit by the car…)

“Hi,” Bucky breathes out.

“Hi,” you say, your voice cracking.

You wanted to choke yourself out.

“I have something to tell you,” he starts. “Or- or I wanna talk to you.”

“…oh…” FUCKING CHRIST! Oh?? That was the best you had???

“Look, y/n I’ve sorta…I like you, quite a lot. And I’ve been nervous to talk to you or tell you about it, because I really don’t like opening up about my feelings. But-”

You cut him off by pouring out, “Ilikeyoutoo!”

“You- oh…Well…this wasn’t as bad as I had thought then.”

You let out an awkward chuckle, “Yeah, guess not.”

He doesn’t say anything, the two of you staring into each others eyes. He starts to lean in, his perfect face getting closer to yours. The action feels magnetic as you lean closer.

You take in his features. His brow, his chiseled jawline. The symmetrical two sides to his face, like if you took a meat clever down the center, you’d have matching halves.

Just as you can feel his breathe on your lips, right before the two of you can make contact, you both jolt apart at the sound.

Clint falls from your ceiling, Sam landing on top of him. The metal grate that filtrated the air in your room was below them, broken ceiling tiles, pink insulation and regret strewn about your flooring.

“I’m gonna kill you.”

[thebunnybabyblog]

I love being so delulu that I will look at a character some asshat wrote and literally just ignore all the shit they wrote for them and make them baby. Like what do you mean he was an evil bastard to children and everyone around him??? He’s literally a lil baby??? Like how can a baby bully children Janice??? HES A FUCKING BABY JANICE!?!?!?

[alto-tenure]

Fandom: Layton’s Mystery Journey (sorry if this is cheating!)

Ship: Emiliana/Kat

Character: Janice Quatlane

I mean uh. I sent Whiskers Great Ace Attorney specifically, so LMJ-specific isn't cheating. I'm sticking to game-only for the sake of this.

Favorite character: Emiliana

Least Favorite character: Britannias. ACAB is always applicable (ignore my favorite), but even more so for him.

5 Favorite ships (canon or non-canon): Uh. Katriana. Whatever people call Cesar Chance/Taboras Lloyd. I'm fond of Pipper/Liza...uhhh, I don't really feel strongly about any other ships

Character I find most attractive: meh

Character I would marry: meh

Character I would be best friends with: the waiter!

A random thought: I wonder how many people end up being in the Ratman network.

An unpopular opinion:

My canon OTP: Bess/Benjy I guess?

Non-canon OTP: Katriana <3

Most badass character: Katrielle

Pairing I am not a fan of: Sorry, people who ship Katrielle and Ernest...I just can't really see Katrielle reciprocating his feelings. I think seeing more nuanced portrayals of their relationships that dug into how Case 12 affects them would help, but I don't think I could ever really see it.

Character I feel the writers screwed up (in one way or another): Ernest. The twist with him could REALLY have used more foreshadowing (like how he would react to Katrielle getting buddy-buddy with the Seven Dragons, for instance).

Favourite friendship: I do feel strongly about Katrielle & Ernest's friendship. I think...they're similar to how I feel about Claire & Dimitri, but with much lower stakes due to being nowhere nearly as tragic.

cut here for length, but I did answer the rest!

when or if I started shipping it: It was Katrielle Layton: Wanted that really cemented it for me.

my thoughts: I really like Emiliana growing to care for Katrielle and respect her as a rival and as a friend, as well as developing respect for Katrielle's methodology.

What makes me happy about them: Rivals to lovers is a really fun trope.

What makes me sad about them: Emiliana has a pretty strict moral framework that I think is not impossible to reconcile with Katrielle, but will take a lot of work to really develop.

Things done in fanfic that annoys me: This isn't really a bad thing, but I do wish there was a little less 100% fluff in the tag. It doesn't annoy me, I like the fluff, but I wish there was more variety.

Things I look for in fanfic: I'd love more stuff like the fic I wrote last year, but not written by me, lmao

My kinks: nope, not answering this here

Who I’d be comfortable them ending up with, if not each other: I respect the people who ship Katrielle and Lucy immensely.

My happily ever after for them: they reconcile their conflicting moral frameworks

How I feel about this character: I like Janice :) She's a neat character and I really like the parallels to Hershel.

All the people I ship romantically with this character: obviously Melina. and also Emmy

My non-romantic OTP for this character: her and Hershel

My unpopular opinion about this character: uhhhhhhhh I don't even know what the popular opinions are, ngl. I guess...I wish we had gotten more pre-canon flashbacks to establish her dynamics with the Whistlers?

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: I think she should take a break from music and figure out if she wants it for herself or if she wanted it because Melina was by her side doing it. I think she ultimately comes to the conclusion that she does like it, though.

My OTP: Janice/Melina <3

My OT3: a while ago @magicwhiskers29 and I were kicking around an Emmy/Janice/Melina triad after I shared some lines from my Janice/Emmy fic with her about how both Janice & Melina admired Emmy and her abilities. in my head there's also a version of this where Janice and Melina are still sharing a body when this happens

[rottedbrainz]

So I’ve been thinking about Tibbs and the aftermath of Rose passing, potentially have a drawing idea with Tibbs and Terri (I can’t remember which incorrect quotes post it was, think it was yours, but I love their TnT*tm* friendship) 

Idk if you plan to write a story about this so feel free to ignore this if you don’t wanna go too much into spoiler territory but what was life like for Tibbs and the kids following Rose’s passing??

I do plan on writing about it soon. I'll probably make the fic I wrote on ao3 a book that's solely Rose and Tibbs fan fiction. Plan on doing the same for Rand and Jamie's story too.

As a small side note though. I like to imagine an alternate universe where nothing bad happened to anyone and Rose got to hang out with Terri, Tina, and Lena.

But to highlight a few things. I call Lips "Buddy" since I write him before he did the whole thing with the trumpet and got the nickname Lips.

Now onto the stuff you asked about.

Everyone took it their own way.

It what finally tipped Janice and Jamie's relationship and Janice moved out.

Jamie stayed behind to help her dad and Lips. She was coping with it her own way as she tried to stay busy with work and college and driving Tibbs to places he needed to go.

To steal a little bit of Nora and Hannah's conflict, Lips was younge whenever Rose passed. He knew why his dad and sisters were sad, and at the time he was sad to. But as he got older some problems started to in sue as he didn't actually know how Rose died. Issues between him and Tibbs rise whenever he finds out though.

After the accident Tibbs refused to drive at all. He felt horrible about it and he wanted to cry about it every single day.(idk if you get what I'm implying. You can message me and i'll give you more details if you'd like.) If someone suggested he drive he would give them nasty looks with the most harsh and cold "No." If he found himself behind the wheel, he would start to hyperventilate and have panic attacks. He shoved his feelings on down and focused and taking care of Lips. He put on his happy smile like nothing ever happened. He keeps the crystal necklace he gave Rose around his neck at all times, even whenever he's sleeping. Every year on thier anniversary he tends to solely his Rose bush. Jamie eventually does put him in therapy, because man does he fucking need it. They all do.

I would like to think that in his silver fox years he would try to date again. It would be hard for him to, but I know he can do it!

[ocalaghan]

Watched Inside Man over the last two days (I just cannot resist a British crime drama with David Tennant) and it's so fucking wild.

It's like normal for the first 30 minutes and then dives a hard left into absolute dark madness and it's just insane from there on. And I really enjoyed it? It had some comedy that kept it light among all the really heavy shit (like Dillon just being really funny and likeable despite being a horrific serial killer).

I really thought Ben was going to die. I guess, hopefully, things work out alright for him but that's fucking rough. I did not expect Mary to die though.

I do have to ignore the fact that Harry getting them all into this predicament in the first place was a bit moronic. Hard to explain at first, but he could've just said to Janice, "Listen, the USB isn't mine, it isn't Ben's, it was given to me by this guy at church and I can clear it all up by taking this down to the police station now and they can take it from there, no need for you to go and mistakenly blow up my son's life." Even if Edgar denied it to the police, they'd probably be able to deduce fairly easily that Harry nor Ben have no other evidence of CSEM but Edgar likely does, somewhere, because he had to get the images onto the USB somehow. And his mum clearly knows.

But the overall theme and the way Harry's story linked up to Jefferson's was interesting. I wish we got to learn where he buried his wife's head but at least we got given clues of why he murdered her and why he feels remorse for that, but not for keeping her head hidden.

Everyone's performances were amazing but I didn't find Janice or Beth very likeable. I figure Janice was supposed to be a bit odd because she was more of a loner but Beth just had a really irritating attitude through a lot of it. They wrote Mary a bit nuts as well. I don't know why all the women on this show had to be bananas.

Anyway, really good, just what I wanted to watch yesterday, it was enjoyable.

[birindale]

I'm curious to hear your overall thoughts on the original Princess of Power.

While Filmation's He-Man had to come to an end, due to TV stations not being willing to pay for TV show episodes beyond 100, it was still a bold move to carry on Masters of the Universe in a girl-centric show.

From some of the interviews you've posted, it doesn't sound like Mattel Marketing had much faith in PoP, saying things like "Oh, she's a flanker brand: she'll succeed, increase gross doll sales, and when she stops selling after a couple of years Barbie will gobble up the increase."

It especially struck me in the interviews about the Star Sisters engineering how much more creativity and tooling money "action dolls" took than fashion dolls. It's a bummer to think of so much heart and intellect was being poured into something doomed to be short-lived.

She-Ra has of course had two limited revivals, in a (predominantly male) adult collector form for MotU Classics, with no action features and sculpted hair, and then as more conventional dolls when SPOP debuted, but being canceled after only a few characters.

So what do you think would be the ideal way to handle these characters?

my thoughts on the original? six words:

capitalism is the death of art.

i wrote like four thousand words about it but ultimately it boils down to Mattel ignoring market research because doing so was cheaper in the short term, which killed the original toylines & had already squashed Janice Varney-Hamlin’s original pitch for an action doll.

the same 1984 FCC repeal which allowed He-Man and She-Ra to have tv shows at all marked a sharp decline in 'gender neutral' toy advertising, which had been on the rise since the early 70s. In 1975, <2% of the Sears toy catalog was marketed to a specific gender. By 1995, it was nearly half--numbers that hadn't been seen since WWII.

By reinforcing binary gender norms, the toy industry is able to capitalize on specific play patterns (what was once ‘homemaking’ is now ‘disney princess’) and condition the market to accept pink taxes, and.

Okay I’m starting to rant again. Reining it in. No death threats this draft. Anyway Mattel killed both toylines by trying to maximize their profits & Filmation was doomed from the moment RankinBass realized it was cheaper to outsource animation to other countries. Hell, from the moment the SCG was formed. It’s so much cheaper to extract value from people you’ve fucking colonized and. uh.

No. okay I’m fine. I’m fine. We’re just gonna move onto the modern toys now.

MOTUC is its own can of worms for me. On the one hand, they didn't have the Filmation design rights until like 2012, so there are a lot of things they couldn't do, but the number of MOTU vs POP figures has always been disheartening. And the bios... it's gotten better since Penny Dreadful & gbagok have come aboard, since they're like human encyclopedia for MOTU lore, but in the early days, when Toyguru was in charge?

I should be nice but i’m still annoyed he’s making me check his youtube channel instead of just answering my questions like a normal person. what does “near future” even mean. When is “soon”??  i am currently disinclined to be charitable towards your lore, Scott! answer my riddles three or i start listing grievances!!!

The Dreamworks toys... honestly, I think the big failure there was marketing. For one thing, I never saw a single advertisement for them until I went trawling through the official Youtube channel (and that video put me off very quickly). And I can recognize that I'm not the intended demographic, you know? I’m like thirty years old & i’ve never been into dolls. Did kids like them?

My ideal toyline would have an emphasis on accuracy. Looking as on-model as possible. When I was a kid my favorite (non-stuffed) toys were those little pokemon figurines; articulation isn't really necessary for me as long as the figures can stand up by themselves. The Super7 toys were pretty good, I just wish they had more of them--or that they were sculpted in more interesting poses. But that line, too, suffered from a dearth of advertising. Who can buy these toys if they don't know they exist? Especially during the pandemic, when fewer people were willing to linger in the toy aisle and happen upon things--that's when you should be promoting shit. hell, put a bumper at the end of the episodes if you have to. as long as it was skippable idt there would be much flak for that, given we all signed up to watch a toy-based cartoon in the first place.

the type of toy i prize above all others, though? the kind of shit i went bananas for as a child & still delight in to this day?

toysets.

give me a crystal castle toyset with a little pocket guide on reading first ones' script. give me castle bright moon (WITH A MAP. PLEASE). a hordak's sanctum set that's the only way to get an imp figurine--kids love evil lairs & adults love collecting. a little Darla set that comes with spacesuits if the toys themselves are still Dolls.

but that’s not cost-effective. so. yeah

[incorrectsmashbrosquotes]

League of Villains: Now Hiring! 1

King. K. Rool, Ganondorf and Ridley, having rented out the Mansion’s theater for their little employment drive, were sat at the judges table.

Ganondorf: Alright, we are accepting applicants starting now. Remember the rules, if you don’t impress us, you’ll be kicked out of the mansion into the boiling pit of fire and will be rejected from joining the League of Villains. *K. Rool whispers something into his ear* What?… What do you mean the pit of fire was uninstalled?… A cheese jacuzi? Who approved that? You know what, forget it, we’ll deal with it later. First applicant, come forward.

A purple robot, skeletal in design with a large dome of exposed glass, revealing multiple moving parts, entered the stage.

Greetings, my fellow villains in arms! I am Dr. Nefarious, number one galactic threat of my galaxy! Inventor of the Biobliterator, destroyer of squishies!

Dr. Nefarious: And writer of the famous screenplay, Night of the Living Squishies. An epic romantic action comedy space opera were all organic life is succesfuly exterminated. By me.

Ridley: Oh, you wrote that one!? I’m a big fan myself. I loved the part where the tiny people were eaten alive by robot chickens.

Dr. Nefarious: Why thank you! I had my doubts about that scene. Very glad you enjoy it.

Ganondorf: …Getting back on track, I see you have a decently impressive track record here. Nearly wiped out organic life, almost altered time and space so that evil always wins. I’m quite particular to that last part.

King. K. Rool: I’m picking up on that almost part, though. Nemeses foil your plans.

Dr. Nefarious: Oh, they did. Ratchet and Clank, and that walking slab of barely processed flesh Qwark always manage to show up and ruin my evil plans! But soon, and I promise you this, I will anihalate them off the face of the universe, along with all the organics, and ensure a THOUSAND YEAR REIGN OF-

Nefarious suddenly freezes up, and the sounds of a soap opera start coming out of his mouth:

Janice: Oh, Lance. I don’t care if you were the evil twin brother of Englebert all along. I love you for who you are.

Lance: Oh, Janice, there’s a terrible truth I must confess to. I’m… I’m not Englebert’s evil twin brother.

Janice: Lance?

Lance: The truth is that… I’m YOUR evil twin brother!

Janice: Lance, no!

The judges all glance at each other in confusion, before K. Rool signals one of his minions to carry the robot off the stage.

K. Rool: Well, that was weird.

Ridley: Yes. Who knew that Lance would have been Janice’s evil twin brother all along. I definitely didn’t see that one coming.

Ganondorf: Ignoring that, and how horrible that soap opera sounded, I’m labeling him as a maybe. Next!

[wish-that-i-was-buckys-girl]

hey! could i possibly request a blaine one shot where the reader is another girl working on the ski patrol with blaine and they absolutely hate each other, but one day they get stuck in a snowstorm during work and end up lost for a few days? and during those few days they just get more and more lied up with each other until they just end up hate-fucking our in the open? it can end however, but i’ve been dying for some blaine action🥰🥰thank you💕

Thank you so much nonnie! I enjoyed writing this so much. I hope you enjoy it too!

Warnings: Fat Shaming, smut, slight bullying.

If there are any misspellings I’m sorry! I wrote this all on tumblr and didn’t get a time to proofread it in a different document.

Ice, Ice, Baby.

_______________________________________________

You walked to the cafe for hot chocolate at seven o’clock in the morning to prepare for your shift. It wasn’t easy being on ski patrol, that’s for sure.

Dads always tried hitting on you while you were trying to watch their wives kids struggle to learn the most basic of skiing. You just nodded in agreement and smiled a little to get through the conversations. Wouldn’t wanna get written up for being “rude” to a paying member of the resort. It wasn’t always so bad, some of the dads were kind of cute, and they always tipped well if you just did the bare minimum of looking good and reacting to their advances. You weren’t even supposed to get tipped, but that didn’t stop them. However, you didn’t enjoy watching their wives glare at you around dinner time. You could always feel their eyes burning into the back of your head.

Although you absolutely loathed the attention from the dad’s (besides the occasional tip), there was one reason why you absolutely dreaded going to work every day.

Blaine. You could say he was the Blaine of your existence. Shitty dad jokes always crept into your head due to how much time you end up spending with them.

You had tried being nice the first couple of weeks into the job, only to be met with incredible amounts of misogyny and downright assholeishness. God, you hated him. It was so unlike you to hate anyone, but the kid was ruthless.

He always made nasty remarks about the way you look, whether it was your facial features or your weight, he had it covered. Even though he always tried to get his friends to join in on the action, they never did. Everyone else liked you at the resort. Blaine was the only problem.

You made your way up to your snowmobile, tredging in the deep snow with your backpack and snow shoes on. You secured your hot chocolate and your backpack before riding it all the way up to your post. The post wasn’t too bad by itself. It was close to a nearby cabin in case of emergencies, stocked with food, with working water and electricity to last for up to a month. Even longer if it was less than 4 people.

You finally arrived at your post, hoping Blaine wouldn’t be there yet.

He was.

Fuck.

“You’re looking plump today y/n, more than usual. Must be from all the hot chocolate you’ve been drinking” he said laughing to Chaz. Chaz just rolled his eyes under his sunglasses. You could tell.

“Ha ha Blaine, you’re so original. It’s not like I’ve heard that one before yesterday. Or the day before that. Or the day before that.”

“Yeah, well I think saying it everyday is a good reminder. Maybe I’ll see you in the resort gym one day because of it.”

“Why? Is it cause ya wanna see my tits bounce in a sports bra? Get ya all hot and bothered?”

Blaine just gritted his teeth in response. You could tell he wanted to say something, but didn’t cause he didn’t want to give you the wrong idea. Or the right idea.

Blaine always had a pretty girl on his arm. You doubt he was attracted to you, but you say those things because it shuts him up every time.

You bundled up extra today. The news said there was a possibility of a snow storm, but it was highly unlikely. Still, the wind chill was extremely cold today, making you double up on the clothes underneath your snow suit. You wore a beanie, mittens, and a scarf too, just in case.

You and Chaz chatted for a while, Blaine giving you resentful side glances and a few eye rolls here and there to show his detest towards your interaction. God, what was his fucking problem?

At about noon, Chaz took his lunch, leaving you and Blaine alone for at least a half an hour.

Silence filled the mountains. Barely anyone was out on the slopes due to the potential storm coming, but that didn’t stop your job from making you go out anyways.

The silence was broken with a call from the walkie talkies. It was your manager, Janice.

“Get off the slopes, news just confirmed one of the worst snow storms to hit this side of the mountain in three years. I repeat ge-“

The walkie talkies went silent. The wind began to pick up, starling both you and Blaine. You acted quickly, knowing this could be a life or death situation. You both hopped on your snowmobiles to get to the cabin nearby. Unfortunately, Blaines wasn’t working. You quickly shouted “Get on!” Reluctantly, Blaine hopped on the back of your snowmobile. Thank god it was his snowmobile that wasn’t working. You’re not so sure Blaine would’ve rescued you if it was your snowmobile that died and not his.

You reached the cabin just in time, the snow finally picking up with the wind. You quickly grabbed the keys from your snowmobile and stuck them in the front door.

“Hurry! Jesus Christ we’ll die at this rate!”

“I’m trying asshole! Stop yelling at me!”

The door finally swung open. You and Blaine rushed inside, aggressively slamming the door behind you and locking it.

Both catching your breath while clutching onto your things, you made eye contact.

Of course you thought.

Of course I’m stuck with the one goddamn person who hates me in the middle of one of the biggest snowstorms of the decade.

Blaine didn’t hold back what he was thinking.

“Great, I’m stuck with Fat Albert with minimal supplies. We’ll be out of food by tomorrow.”

You scowled at him snd stood up.

“THAT’S IT. First of all, I’m not fat. Second off, even if I was, that is none of your goddamn business to make comments on it. I have fat on my body. Just because I’m not the twink of the century like you doesn’t mean I should be degraded for it. We are stuck here for god only knows how long. If you just shut up I’m sure we can make it through this. But you’ve got to stop being such a fucking asshole to me all the time.”

Blaine just stood there and rolled his eyes again at your response. At least he didn’t open his loud mouth.

Such a fucking drama queen.

_______________________________________________

As the sun began to set, your stomach started to growl, loudly. You resisted eating all day due to Blaines comments, but you knew you had to eat at some point.

You gathered the courage to make your way into the kitchen to look around.

Thank god they keep this up to date regularly.

There were tons of cans of different soups, ravioli, spaghetti, fruits and vegetables, and non-perishables that would keep you sustained for a long time. Especially with only two people being in the cabin.

You decided to microwave some of the ravioli. Just as you opened the microwave door, it shut again with a hand directly planted on the glass.

“Well well well, what do we have here? Is two ton Tony looking for a little snack?” Blaine said in a mocking tone.

“Fuck off Blaine. It’s dinner time, I’m hungry and I know you are too. You just haven’t eaten yet to prove a damn point and humiliate me. Now if you don’t shut up I will eat all the food and make sure you starve to death.”

He grimaced at your response and walked to a cupboard to look for food of his own. Thank god. You swore you were five seconds away from giving him a swift punch to the face.

You both ate your dinners in separate rooms. You didn’t want to interact with each other more than you had to.

After a few more hours of existing in separate rooms, you decided you wanted to fall asleep for the night. You casually walked into the bedroom, having absolutely no pajamas to change into, you figured you would either sleep with the clothes you had on or just sleep in your underwear. There were enough blankets to keep you warm if you did end up choosing the latter. As you walked into the room you noticed something horrible.

There was only one bed.

How could this even be possible? There were supposed to be four, as most times three to four people were on ski patrol.

Then you remembered three out of the four beds were taken out two months ago, as they were desperately disgusting. The shipments for the new beds hadn’t come in yet, figuring a situation like this wouldn’t even happen at all.

Go figure.

You decided since you got to the bedroom first, you’d have the bed. Fuck Blaine, he’d been an asshole to you the entire time you’ve known him, he can sleep on the damn couch.

You began to strip, thinking it was wise not to smell up the two sets of clothes you had to last you for god only knows how long.

You ended up sleeping in a bra and underwear. Normally you wouldn’t have even worn the bra, but considering Blaine was in the building and you couldn’t lock the bedroom door, you figured it was the safest bet.

As you crawled into bed you heard footsteps heading towards the bedroom.

Here we go.

Blaine entered, looking just as bewildered as you did when you found out there was only one bed.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

You ignored his comment, simply rolling over under the covers.

He stormed over to the bed and ripped the blanket off, revealing your half-naked body in the process.

You became infuriated.

“Hey!!! Do you fucking mind!” You said screaming and grabbing for the blanket.

Blaine stood there in a daze for several seconds, not expecting to see as much as he was planning on seeing.

Thank god I had my bra on.

You expected Blaine to have a comeback to seeing your body. Something about a beached whale ending up in the bed, or anything along those lines. Surprisingly, he didn’t. He had nothing to say at all. He just turned around and slammed the door behind him.

What the fuck was his issue? Whatever it was, he better fix it fast. Your patience was running thin, and it was only day one.

_______________________________________________

Several days had gone by, and the snowstorm wasn’t slowing down at all.

Blaine had ignored you at all costs. If he had to interact with you, he always made some snide comment under his breath. This somehow pissed you off even more. At least before you didn’t have to guess what he was thinking, he said it directly to your face. Now, you had no clue what he was saying about you. God it made your blood boil.

It was around lunchtime again when you saw him. You had chosen to eat chicken noodle soup that day, as you had been colder that day compared to most others.

On your way out of the kitchen, you bumped into Blaine.

You heard him make a comment under his breath again, something alone the lines of “.......fucking bitch.......where you’re goin.”

You had had enough.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

He was taken aback by your abrasiveness. Nonetheless, he still had a response to your question.

“I said, watch where the hell you’re going you fucking bitch.” He enunciated slowly, in a condescending manner.

You were done.

“I’ve had enough of this fucking bullshit Blaine. Why the hell do you hate me so much? What the hell did I ever do to you?”

“Your looks have insulted me from the day I met you. I learned all that I needed to know by just looking at you.”

Out of no where, you decided to shove him. You shoved him so hard he hit the wall behind him.

He looked confused and offended.

“Did you just shove me?”

“I don’t know, did I just shove you? Or did you trip over your enormous fucking ego?”

Blaine stood up tall and pinned you to the wall.

He looked you dead in the face, his eyes piercing into you with anger and something else...

You returned his stare, hopefully having the same effect on him that he was having on you.

After staring at each other for what seemed like an eternity, Blaine kissed you, hard.

You resisted, you resisted so much but your head didn’t have anywhere to go. After a few seconds you gave into the kiss, slowly moving your lips with his. You hated to admit it, but his lips were so soft. It was like kissing clouds surrounding the gates to heaven.

Finally, Blaine pulled back and began staring into your eyes once more. Again, you lept at each other. You grabbed his hair and the side of his face, while he grabbed your hair and your ass to hike up your leg against his hip. Your lips were on each other in no time, sucking and pulling on both his lips and his tongue.

God you were so turned on.

You hated that he made you feel this way but fuck if he wasn’t good. He felt so goddamn good.

He hoisted you up against the wall, your legs wrapping around his hips as you continued to aggressively make out like the two horny twenty-one-year-olds you were. After kissing for five minutes straight, Blaine put you down so you could both remove your pants.

You spoke first “We don’t tell anyone about this.”

Blaine just nodded in agreement, eager to put his cock inside of you.

He hoisted you up against the wall for a second time, wasting no time shoving his cock into your pussy.

“Ohhhh fuck Blaine... go slow go slow...”

You also hated to admit it, but he wasn’t lacking in at least one department.

He smirked, knowing it was too much for you in such a short amount of time.

“What’s wrong y/l/n, can’t get fucked right either?”

“Maybe if you fucked me better I wouldn’t have to complain so much.”

All the talking had allowed time for your pussy to become soaked. Blaine could feel how wet you were. He also noticed how tight you were.

“Fuck, your pussy has been this tight the entire time and you never told me?”

“Oh Jesus Christ just shut up and fuck me before I change my mind Blaine.”

That’s all he needed to hear. He also took it upon himself to take that as the cue to go as fast as he needed to.

He started pumping in and out of you at a rapid pace, making absurdly loud slapping noises in the process.

You couldn’t help but moan into his neck, his name on your lips every ten seconds.

“Fuck, fuck , fuck Blaine don’t stop! Oh god don’t fucking stop.”

He loved hearing his name come out of your mouth like that. In all honesty, Blaine has wanted to fuck you since the day he met you. He suppressed that lust with crude comments, hoping the feelings would subside. Guess that didn’t work out too well.

“Yeah you like that baby? Huh? Like that I’m fucking your pretty pussy?”

“Oh god yes Blaine! Fuck me harder!”

He wasted no time, pounding into you as fast and as hard as he could. You couldn’t help but let your eyes roll in the back of your head as he fucked you so good you thought you were about to see God himself.

Blaine loved seeing you like this, drained by him fucking you relentlessly. In fact, he loved it so much he felt the need to repress his feelings once again, which would be his last effort in trying to do so.

“I still fucking hate you, oh god, oh fuck.”

You looked at him, dead in the eyes, and said “Bold words coming from a man who’s cock is in me.”

All he could do was smile, going in for another kiss while he continued to plow you.

Both of your moans filled the cabin, screaming with no shame, knowing for a fact no one would hear you.

You felt a tight coil forming in your lower stomach, causing you to hold onto Blaine’s shoulders tighter.

“Oh fuck Blaine, I’m gonna cum, oh god I’m gonna cum.”

Blaine took it upon himself to whisper more comments in your ear as you reached your climax together.

“Goddamn right you’re gonna cum on my cock. This is my pussy. No one else gets to touch it, just me. Cum for me baby, you can do it.”

You both screamed as you came, Blaine unintentionally spilling his seed into you. Thank god you remembered to bring your birth control pill.

Just as you two were coming down from your high, you noticed something out of the corner of your eye.

Not something, but someone.

It was Chaz.

You hadn’t noticed while you were fucking, but the snow had cleared up enough just for a one person rescue party. Chaz had come in just moments ago. However, he didn’t say anything. He really didn’t have anything to say. He was stunned.

As you both stared at Chaz, you were the first to speak.

“Well, fuck.”

[pessimistbynature]

Ok. still not comfy with posting. But I’m infuriated at the moment. And I feel like saying nothing is being apathetic or complaisant to the issues in fandom. Which as of late, are incredibly alarming. I’m not the kind of person to do that. On that note.

What in fuck's name is going on in the ZK fandom right now?? For a fandom that prides itself on its inclusivity and its ability to take in criticism and progress with it in mind, we're doing a deplorable job. I myself am a WOC, and have experienced the harm that comes with fetishization. It's terrifying, and dehumanizing, and disturbing, and makes you feel all kinds of disgusting. It’s a grave issue, and its being completely ignored here. And, in case it's not clear, fetishization directly feeds racism, in a most overt of ways too. It makes it easier, in a way, to continue perpetuating racial bias and objectification of POC. To disregard that would be asinine, and astonishingly ignorant. (If you're interested, Janice Asare wrote a fantastic article on it in Forbes.

I am not East Asian, so I cannot in good faith speak over those who are directly impacted by this Sh*rtless Zuk0 Sunday 'event'. (Though one thing is obvious, it's a blatant fetishization of a literal malnourished 16-year-old. It's weird.) To understand more about how fetishization and the purity culture that seemed to have sprouted in the fandom disproportionally affect POC in the context of this situation, you must go listen to East Asian creators. And listen with the intent to understand, not to rebuke or argue. (Yet remember, these people are not here to educate you, you must do that on your own.)

But here's what I can say: Stop using Women of Color as a diversity card if you're not going to listen to them. I'll reiterate. Stop using Women of Color as a diversity card you are going to ignore their (incredibly valid) criticisms. It has become very obvious that POC cannot mention anything without being torn apart for every word. It has come to the point where people no longer feel safe, and it's disgusting. Racism is still racism when it's hidden behind false words and insensitive posts. And that's not accounting for the outright racism loads of people I follow are experiencing. What happened here?? How did this shit get so immoral, so fast? And when will people (and by that, I mean white people) realize that when it comes to racism, the most crucial voice will always be that of those affected by it?? Learn to shut the fuck up, for all of our sanities. 

[regrettablemeasure]

[CW: talking abt queer theory and mentioning a transphobic author]

Listen im not saying compulsory heterosexuality DOESN'T exist in some shape or form, but ignoring even the modern way its been used to try and shame and enforce the "gold star lesbian" standard onto us - the theory originally was written straight up by a transmisogynist.

Adrienne Rich was the author who first penned Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence in 1980. And yes, I have actually READ it. It's only 32 pages long and not that difficult to get through. (more info and sources are under the cut)

Despite the book having what I do think are very good viewpoints and ultimately a good intention, its completely irresponsible to ignore the fact that the woman was a classic TERF. She was a gender essentialist and was a HUGE supporter of Janice G. Raymond (who wrote The Transsexual Empire: The Making of the She-Male). Raymond even shouted her out in that awful book. They were bros. I know its sad to acknowledge a lot of older lesbian authors were transphobic, and I know it was 40+ years ago. I DO think there is a level of needing to acknowledge the time period where things were written and what was considered progressive and socially acceptable back then. But I also don't think its fair to just completely ignore that the woman who penned a theory that now is being used by a LOT of radfems and their supporters today to go after gay women that don't hold up to certain "standards"... was written by a transphobic person.

Its almost as if I don't pull these TERF criticisms out of my ass from nothing. Isn't that something!

When Rich wrote about focusing on other women as a way to uplift other gay women, she meant to look upon other gay women in a positive way. To listen to them and understand THEIR viewpoints, especially because we don't have a surplus of text, art, etc. in the public conciousness made by gay women. Ironic, then, that both she and modern day TERFS use it as a way to splinter the community and silence women that don't fit in their boxes. To try and forcibly slingshot us back into heterosexual space where we inherently don't belong.

You need to know your history but, especially with Queer Theory or any subject matter you want to debate, also know the person BEHIND that history. I think its very important to read these authors but you also need to update your own belief as the world moves forward. Comphet was written in the 80's and its always going to be stuck that way. If you're reading this post, it means you're a Currently Alive Person, which means you're malleable and need to be willing to update your views for the betterment of gay women. Don't come to me with this comphet bullshit unless you actually have read the original essay and are willing to come to grips with everything stated above. There's a reason a lot of queer women are leaving the term behind.

I also implore you to read "What Kind of Times Are These" by Jennifer Boylan. Shes a trans woman who did enjoy parts of Adrienne's writings like a lot of us do - but also discusses how it was important for Adrienne's views to be publicly acknowledged. Instrument in the Shape of a Woman by Alison Rumfitt discuses her, too. It's never been a "cancellation" of Adrienne and writers like her, because its true that they've contributed a lot to the community. But holding their WORST beliefs accountable and bringing them to the forefront is mandatory for the queer community - especially for queer women- to grow.

Sources (including a link to the essay): X X X X X

[lezliefaithwade]

Being An Actress

I remember the moment I decided I wanted to be an actress. I was walking across the parking lot of my high school after an undoubtedly stellar performance as Portia in an all-girl production of The Merchant of Venice when my father turned to me and said, "Do you think you might want to do this for a living?" At the time I remembered feeling a little insulted. My grades were excellent. Didn't my father think I could be a lawyer or a veterinarian or a psychologist? It wasn't that I didn't love to act, but everyone I knew who wanted to be an actress was either egotistical or unstable. Not that one was mutually exclusive of the other. What did this say about me? No one in my family acted, although my Grandmother often hinted of an unsubstantiated family connection to Hermoine Gingold. Occasionally my parents would take us to see a play or listen to a concert, but only to help make us well-rounded individuals. When someone would go on about the Sound of Music my father would roll his eyes and say, “How can I take a nun singing on hilltops seriously?” And I found myself admitting that he had a point.

When I was four I appeared on Romper Room for an unprecedented two weeks. At the time my best friend, Mary Lou, had been selected for the local cable network but her incredibly shy demeanor had her mother worried.

“She’s gonna sit there like a sack of potatoes.” Mrs. Dean told my Mother who quickly suggested that I accompany Mary Lou for moral support.

“What do I have to do?” I asked my mother as she was tucking me into bed.

“Just be yourself,” she replied. My mother knew exactly what that meant. Naturally loquacious I kept things hopping on the set by constantly commenting on the camera man kissing the teacher. When asked what my father had in his garage, I remarked that it was presumptuous to even assume we had one. There was some discussion about a third week, but Miss Dawson put her foot down and said I was stealing the show.

Soon I was taking dance classes and skating lessons. My first stage appearance was as a rabbit in the famous ballet, Bugs Bunny's Birthday Party. I was excited because we second tiered rabbits were going to eat sandwiches on stage. Then disaster struck. The sandwiches were going to be peanut butter and I hated peanut butter. Teary eyed I complained to my mother who told me to grin and bear it. “That’s acting,” she said.

In grade four I wrote a play about a pair of motorcycle lovers and sang Baby Driver while they straddled their desks and rode off into the sunset.

“Hit the road and I’m gone.

What’s your number?

I wonder how your engine feels?”

“Okay,” Mrs. Orcutt interrupted, “I think that’s all the time we have for that today.”

After my father gave me his blessing to pursue a career on the stage, I decided to explore all of my options. I auditioned for an amateur theatre company and played bird #4 in Aristophanes’ The Birds, and a milk maid in Galt MacDermot’s musical adaptation of Shakespeare’s Two Gentlemen of Verona. Not exactly earth-shattering roles, but I knew there was a pecking order (no pun intended) and that dues must be paid. In Niagara Falls, where I lived as a teenager, there were two amateur companies. The youth group that took over the Firehall Theatre in the summer months of July and August, and the adult group that staked their claim the rest of the year. The youth company was run entirely by a handful of 18 to 20-year-olds who took themselves very seriously. We stretched ourselves artistically, which is really just another way of saying that were out of our depth. I remember as Bertha in Pippin I had to say, "Men raise flags when they can't get anything else up." At the time I had no idea what that meant but I certainly enjoyed the response I got every time I said it.  

The amateur theatre company in the neighbouring city of St. Catharines were doing large scale musicals with professional directors and a cast of a thousand. Even I could tell the difference between Garden City’s production of West Side Story and the Niagara Falls Music Theatre Production of A Shadow Box. We told ourselves that we were doing something significant for the five or six audience members who sat in the dark to watch us perform. “At least they can appreciate art.” we told ourselves, ignoring the occasional snore beyond the footlights.  When someone who had seen our production complained in the paper that “…smut didn’t belong on stage.” I was devasted. “Some people just don’t know a good thing when they see it,” I ranted, “It’s a Pulitzer award winning play.”  I forgot that we weren’t Tony award winning actors.

Anxious to spread my wings and get a taste of the real thing, I auditioned for a one-act play festival at the nearby University and managed to get the part of an uptight bible thumper in an original musical called A Hundred Bucks a Week. It was the story of a topless shampoo parlourist who castrates a guy with her teeth. Did I mention that it was narrated by a cat? I still remember singing:

“We all must be as babies in the garden.

Smiling with our mouths all bright and new.

Innocently smelling lovely roses.

Not prying with our fingers in dog doo.”

Needless to say, my father was a little shocked when an actress appeared on stage topless while I sang my heart out in a futile effort to convert her. This time as he walked me across the parking lot to the car he suggested that perhaps I should seriously consider journalism at Carleton. “Impossible!” I stated dramatically, “I’m an actress.” And I actually believed it.

I arrived at University wearing vintage clothes with frizzy hair and John Lennon glasses. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to be Doris Finsecker from Fame or Janice Joplin. My dorm room-mate was an engineering student who was the first to know of a kegger and had never seen a play in her life. She often returned to our room late at night reeking of booze and sludge water after spontaneous dips in the Detroit River.

At theatre school I was told I couldn’t dance, I couldn’t sing, I had speech impediments and a wandering left eye that would completely destroy any hopes of a career in film “Too bad you didn’t have it looked at when you were a kid,��one professor told me, “It’s easily treatable if caught when you are young.” At the age of five I was a frequent visitor to Sick Kids Hospital for my eye and wore a patch over my glasses for a year. It didn’t cure me. So much for trusting the knowledge of my professors. Strike one!

I began to sink under the pressure of looks and expectations. While the rest of the women in my class wasted away proclaiming to have eaten nothing but broccoli over Thanksgiving, I gained seven pounds over a new found love of peanut butter and developed a bad attitude towards anyone who encouraged me to “feel space”. When my teacher overheard me mutter under my breath one day that I hated improve she called a class meeting to discuss why I hated her. Everyone stared at me shocked and disappointed. Why was I resisting the pu-pu platter of techniques spread out before me? “You’re a very stubborn actress,” the teacher announced, “but I’m going to break you.” That was strike two.

At my first semester tutorial I was told that I had talent, but I wasn’t tall, thin or pretty enough. “You have the face of Sally Field,” the department head told me, “but the body of Kathy Bates.” Strike three.  I went home for Christmas and announced to my father that I was dropping out to focus, instead, on getting into a proper theatre school in New York. After all, I reasoned, it’s where I really wanted to be anyway.

There is probably nothing quite as depressing as returning to your hometown in the middle of winter when all of your friends are away at school having the time of their lives. The overall perception is that you have failed. It didn’t help to think that I had willfully brought myself to this point in time. The phrase, “small fish in a big pond” kept going around in my head. While my best friends were acing all of their classes and dating interesting freshmen, I was eating cookies, and counting the days until everyone would return to amuse me. In the meantime, I moped around the apartment, wrote letters to theatre schools and read a lot of plays.

“You have to get a job.” My father announced and for the first time I was forced to slog my way through the want ads in a half assed attempt to find work at either a wax museum or a fudge shop. Completely unqualified for anything except theatre, I was forced to become a chamber maid at a tacky little hotel near Clifton Hill. Picking up after the kind of clientele that honeymoon in tacky hotels in Niagara Falls is enough to get one thinking seriously about their life choices. Maybe Dad had been right. A career in the theatre wasn’t looking so good anymore. Something had been tarnished from University and I couldn’t pretend that my trajectory to success was going to be one clear straight line to the top. I’d hit rock bottom and was picking up the condom rappers and dirty Kleenex to show it.

There have been many times in my career when I’ve been very close to throwing in the towel and becoming a real-estate agent or a tour guide.  At each one of those moments of genuine universal surrender something miraculous always happens. That year it was a letter of acceptance from the Neighborhood Playhouse in New York. By now my father, less convinced that I could make a go of it, made me a deal. If I could find a place to live in Manhattan within a week, he would allow me to go. So, I boarded the train in Buffalo and headed for the Big Apple.

I arrived in New York at around 2:00 PM on a very, very hot day in August. I walked straight to the library, took out the Village Voice, circled an advertisement seeking a room-mate for a four-bedroom brownstone on the Upper West Side, was interviewed at 7:00 PM and secured my living accommodations within twenty-four hours. It didn’t matter to me that I had no idea who the three men I’d be living with were. The place was nice and the price was right. I think I heard my father drop the phone when I called to tell him that I had accomplished the impossible. Studying in New York proved to be the best and possibly the worst thing that ever happened to me. I developed a philosophy of acting that has served me in every way, but it also created a high standard that hasn’t always been easy to live up to.

_________________________________________________________

A few years ago, I was invited to direct a production of Blue Stockings at the same University I had so unceremoniously departed from those many years ago. Parallel universes collided as images of my past kept imposing themselves on the present. There was the quad I had been initiated in. There was the building where I’d slept and laughed and cried. There was my window with the view of the cemetery and McDonalds. There was the library where I looked up the address of every theatre school in New York. There was the theatre I did my practicum in, all pretty much the same as the day I left it. The walls, hallways, buildings hadn’t changed, but I had. I didn’t need reassurance anymore. I didn’t need someone to tell me what I wasn’t or couldn’t be. If only we could teach students the value of tenacity and resilience.

I enjoyed directing that class. I hope I encouraged and inspired them. I was happy when they came to rehearsals in sweats and tee shirts, less concerned about how they looked than we had been. More confident in their choices. More involved. On Opening night after the cheers and flowers and the congratulations, it felt good to climb into the car and head for home. I’m not cut out for institutions. I don’t like the brick and the neon and the bureaucracy. Still, it was good to make my peace with that time in my life. On the four-hour drive to Niagara I was thinking about the young people I had just worked with making the transition from student to actor. Maybe some of them will end up in New York. Maybe not. The thing about acting is it can take you anywhere…from Romper Room to the stars with a few tacky hotels in between.

[chanoeyreblogs]

The One With The Flashback (One-Shot)

I wrote this one-shot taking from episode thirteen of season one and six of season three (and published on my Wattpad https://my.w.tt/Xa7JBcAvrZ where there are more of them)

We were all at Central Perk. Ross sitting in the armchair and Rachel on his lap, while Joey was sitting at the table next to the couch where Monica, Janice and I were sitting. I was dating Janice again and she was there, laughing at our nonsense and telling stories, until she hit her curiosity.

"Janice has a question. Who of the six of you has sleep with the six of you?" she asked.

"Wow, it's like a dirty math problem," replied Phoebe.

"I'm sorry, the answer there would be... None of us," said Ross.

"Yes," confirmed Rachel and looked at her boyfriend next. "Yeah. And you know what? If that doesn't change soon, I'm going to dump you for somebody who puts out."

"Come on!" Janice ironized. "Over the years none of you ever, y'know? Got drunk and stupid?"

"Well, that's really a different question," said Joey.

"I'm sorry, I find it hard to believe that a group of people who spend as much time together as you guys do has never bumped uglies," she insisted.

"Well, there was that one time that Monica and Rachel got together," Joey fantasized.

"What?" Monica and Rachel were asking synchronously and Rachel hit back. "Excuse me, there was no time!"

"Okay, but let's say there was. How might that go?" he said with a malicious smile.

"Okay, okay, well then answer me this. Has any of you ever almost...?" she was still trying to get our answers and we all became embarrassing, trying to hide the truth.

"Does anybody need more coffee?" Rachel was getting up from her boyfriend's lap.

"Yes, I'll take some," replied Ross.

Joey stood up from the chair and pointed at the window.

"Hey, there's a dog out there!"

Phoebe picked up her coffee from the coffee table and started talking to Monica to outwit Janice's question, while I kept pointing at the ceiling, pretending to want to show something up there.

The truth is, something's happened between two friends from the gang. It wasn't Rachel and Monica, but Joey and I. Yeah, Joey. And that was the last time his father was with us in our apartment.

Flashback on

Joey and I were sharing the hide-a-bed in the living room. I wasn't sleepy, I was worried about work, because the next day would be a bit rushed. As for Joey, well, he just fell asleep and rested his head on my shoulder. I ignored this situation, there was no problem. He was even cute at that, although shortly afterwards I felt the need to use the bathroom. I needed to get up, but I didn't want to wake him. I tried to move as little as possible so that Joey wouldn't wake up, but it was unsuccessful.

"What's it?" Joey asked while open his eyes.

"You fell asleep on my shoulder and I tried to go out to the bathroom, but carefully so as not to wake you up and I failed."

"Oh!" he smiled embarrassed when discovered that he fell asleep on my shoulder. "Sorry, Chan."

"No problem. Since you woke up, I'm going to the bathroom."

"Okay."

I came back, Joey had his back to me, trying to sleep. I went to bed, and I tried to do the same. A short time later, Joey got restless, stirring his legs.

"Hey, Kicky. What're you doing?"

"Just trying to get comfortable. I can't sleep in my underwear."

"Well, you're gonna!"

A few seconds later he turned facedown upwards, leaning on the backrest of the hide-a-bed and began a conversation.

"I've been thinking. Y'know, about how I'm always seeing girls on top of girls..."

"Are they end to end, or tall like pancakes?" I ironized.

"Y'know what I mean, about how I'm always going out with all these women. And I always figured, when the right one comes along, I'd be able to be a stand-up guy and go the distance, y'know? Now I'm looking at my dad, thinking..."

And I interrupted him.

"Hey, you're not him. You're you," I pulled my body back, to support me on the backrest of the couch. "When they were all over you to go into your father's pipe-fitting business, did you cave?"

"No."

"No. You decided to go into the out-of-work actor business. Now that wasn't easy, but you did it! And I'd like to believe that when the right woman comes along, you will have the courage and the guts to say 'No thanks, I'm married'."

"You really think so?"

"Yeah. I really do."

"Thanks, Chandler," snuggles up to me and I do the same with him. "You know? I can't sleep."

"Neither do I, because you're restless with your legs."

"It's just that underwear makes me uncomfortable when I go to sleep, you know? It keeps squeezing...

"Yeah, I got it, Joey," I interrupted him before he talked nonsense. "Do you want some warm milk? I think I'll prepare for myself."

"I do," he replied smiling, hitting me with a slight punch in the arm.

I got up and warmed up some milk while Joey kept waiting for me lying there. I put in two mugs, one for him and one for myself. I handed it to him.

"Here, Joe."

"Heey! Thanks, Chan."

We took a few sips and were silent.

"Are you sleepy already?" I asked.

"Nope. You?"

"Me neither."

"Great, so let's talk until we're sleepy," Joey suggested. "How's work?"

"You know it's funny you ask exactly the job? I confess I haven't been happy lately. I need a vacation."

"I believe it. You've been very exhausted, Chandler. You really need to rest."

"Yeah, I know!" I replied. "And you know what? You remember Shelley, that my co-worker who, two months ago, tried to get me a guy for a date?"

"How could I not?" Joey laughed, until he realized that I was staring at him seriously, then he stopped laughing. "Yeah, I remember."

"So, after that, I said I thought it was Brian, not Lowell, that's all right, except when she said Brian is out of my league"

"Oh!" Joey frowned.

"Oh, yeah! I'm not giving a damn about it, after all, I'm not gay, right?" Joey nods, confirming with me. "It's just, you know? It is annoying to feel insufficient not only for women, but also insufficient for men, do you understand me?"

"Oh, Chandler! Stop it, man!"

"Seriously, Joey! And after this conversation about you finding a girl who gets married and all, I wonder if this is going to happen to me either," before all, I really sent Janice away a few weeks ago on New Year's Eve, it was just under a month and I was always a little unlucky when the thing was women.

"Of course you will, Chan!" he said giving me another slight punch in the arm. "You're going to find an amazing girl and she won't be Janice!"

"Really?" I asked with a soft smile.

"Of course!" he replied by turning his body sideways, facing me and giving me a slight slap on the chest. "Why do you think you're insufficient?"

"Well, I don't know."

"Come on, Chandler. Stop it, man! You're an attractive guy, you're independent, you're funny, you're charismatic and you're a nice guy."

"Do you think I'm attractive?"

"Yes, I really do," Joey replied with sincerity. "If I were gay, I wouldn't waste the opportunity to get you," and we laughed at each other. "So stop to think you're insufficient, okay?" he said, putting his hand next to my face, staring me in the eye, a little closer to my face. "You're an amazing guy!"

It seemed weird, but I felt my instincts, a force inside me, an impulse, to kiss Joey. It wasn't right. Since when would that be right, especially with your best friend? However, the force of the impulse was greater and I kissed him.

I felt Joey's soft lips on mine. He appreciated it and gave in to the desire to kiss me. I penetrated my fingers in his hair and, with the other hand behind his neck, I pulled his head close to my face, allowing me to kiss him intensely. I layed on Joey, who let me wrap my arms on his body and our kiss was hot at that situation, but we had to stop and I decided to do that. We were panting.

"I-I'm sorry, Joey. I, I, um, I didn't want to make out with my best friend," I was unbeliever about what had just happened and he just stared inexpressive at me.

"Well, uh, it's okay. It was impulse on your part and I kind of surrendered," he replied feeling a little embarrassed for having surrendered the kiss, smoothing in circles his fingers from the other hand that he had made a fist. "You're not going to tell the guys what happened here between us, huh?"

"Just because I was already thinking of telling them tomorrow about making out with the womanizer from our gang?" I said and he lifted one of his index fingers, gaping and scared, as if he meant I wouldn't dare comment on that. "I'm kidding, Joey," I said seriously and rolled my eyes.

"For a moment I thought it was true," he said laughing nervously, slipping his body under the covers and leaning his head on his pillow shortly thereafter.

"No, this is going to stay between us, okay?" I was laying my head on the pillow.

"Okay," he noded. "And that was only a friend comforting the other, it was not a big deal."

"Exactly. It was not a big deal," I agreed with him that we both felt that there was nothing wrong, though I had enjoyed it. "But at least my kiss was good?"

"Yeah, yeah. You're a good kisser," Joey replied with a more harsh and strong intonation, not looking at me.

"Really?" I smiled lightly looking at him and he looked at me.

"Well, I, well, I thought... Know? You're a good kisser. I'd recommend you to the girls," he replied without intonation this time.

We stared for a few seconds and he came with his hands on my face and kissed me. I gave up the kiss this time. Joey came over my body and kept kissing me. He asked for the passage of his tongue and I allowed him to. That make out with Joey was amazing. The funny part was I didn't think it was weird to do it. Maybe because it's Joey, because I feel comfortable with him. It lasted for a while, but we had to stop. Again, panting. We didn't want to wake up his father, who was sleeping in his son's room, and his mistress, who was sleeping in my room, with the noise that our make out did, especially with the squeal of the hide-a-bed.

"Joey! Joey! We can't keep doing this..." he interrupts me.

"But it was so good!" Joey made a godly expression.

"That's why! The kiss was very good!" I replied kinda desperate.

"It was, wasn't it?" he smiled convinced.

"Seriously, Joey!"

"Okay, okay."

"Let's go back to sleep and pretend it never happened," I said turning my back on him, lying my head on my pillow again. I scratched my throat and wished him good night in a harsh voice this time. "Night, man!"

"Night!" he replied with the same intonation. A few seconds later he calls me without the intonation, "Chandler?"

"Yes, Joey?" I said rolling my eyes, not moving my body.

"Can I sleep without my underwear? It's just that I can't even sleep in my underwear," he ask me in a sweet tone.

"All right..." but I was interrupted by him again.

"Thanks!"

"Ow, ow, ow, I didn't finish what I was going to say. I was going to say 'all right, but you'll have to sleep on the floor'.

"Oooh, man!"

It would be weird to tell my girlfriend that my best friend and I were making out, right? We haven't told our friends, much less to my girlfriend. But that memory was good, it really was. The best of all, it didn't compromise our friendship. And no, we didn't do it anymore, and I didn't keep it my mind to repeat it someday. I just didn't know about Joey with that.

[faveficarchive]

Coup de Grace: Part 1

The Last of the International Dilettantes

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Mel/Janice

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: From the Author:

The fabulously ill-tempered archaeologist Janice Covington and Southern-Belle-in-Exile Melinda Pappas gradually discover the real truth at the heart of the Xena Scrolls, in a story that darkly plays with time and memory, loss and desire, and the nature of what is real and what is not.

The stars all seem motionless, embedded in the eternal vault; yet they must all

be in constant motion, since they rise and traverse the heavens with their

luminous bodies till they return to the far-off scene of their setting.

—Lucretius

1. Still Life with Assistant Professor

Cambridge, 1948

At precisely 12:19 p.m. on Saturday, June 11, 1948, after sitting on the back porch and consuming two meatloaf sandwiches, drinking half a beer, pondering the uneven lawn begging to be mowed as well as the rutted wood rot in the roof beams of the porch, thinking that she didn't want to go to Venice to some damned boring conference anyway, then wondering why she didn't want to go anywhere and would rather stay and home and paint the kitchen ceiling and pull weeds out of the garden and just watch her lover fall asleep in the sun, after all this fermentation of thought aided by the American institutions of beef and beer, Dr. Janice Covington, the restless, relentless archaeologist and world explorer, fully realized that she had been domesticated.

She exhaled, as if some intangible pseudo-virility within her had been deflated.

Then she burped, and this small, crude action comforted her.

Janice laid back on the porch, head pillowed on a forearm, ignoring the empty, yawning lawn chair—she could not tolerate being civilized any further. Smoke from her cigarette drifted up into the rafters of the back porch. Out, damned rot! she thought, scowling at the poor old beams. She had warned Mel about this, when they bought the house—that it was less sturdy than it looked. But its shabby genteel, struggling-academics-meet-haunted-house ambiance possessed great appeal to the Southerner, who reveled in a very regional penchant for the Gothic. Not to mention that the house, drafty in the winter, also possessed incessantly creaking floorboards and a regularly flooding basement. Nonetheless, Janice reluctantly admitted to herself that she liked the house. Oh, hell, I love it. It's ours. She sat up abruptly, as if the happy thought would strip it all away. I've been waiting for two years for the other shoe to drop. 

She continually expected to wake up some morning in a leaky tent somewhere in the middle of nowhere: alone, on a site...lucid and miserable and no longer part of this living dream. Or she would wake to find a "Dear Jane" kinda letter propped against the sugar bowl (no, Mel would take grandma's sugar bowl with her. Against the toaster, maybe?) on the kitchen table : Dear Janice, I cannot go on any longer loving someone as short as you. I'm going back home to my fiancé, who was 6'4" in his stocking feet. You can keep the car. Love, Mel. Never mind the fact that the fiancé was now, most definitely, a former fiancé and married to another woman, and who kept sending Mel annoying photos of his newborn son, who had a strangely large head, like a mutant turnip....now there's someone who desperately needed the Pappas gene pool. But so far, practically every day, she woke to the smell of coffee, to Mel in the kitchen, loose hair spilling over a bathrobe, frowning over the newspaper. This world, I swear, she would drawl.

This world. When Janice was younger she kept a journal, in which she wrote about the things she was learning from her father. When she was 19 she finished one particular notebook with a litany of names—all the places she'd seen thus far. Under the dark canopy of night and tent, everything seethed with possibility, and she would recite the list in her mind: Hierakonpolis. Athens. Syria. Alexandria.

The litany kept her company, and for a long time it felt like her only friend. Through the holes in the old tent she would see stars.

Cairo. Rome. Istanbul. Thessalonika.

It had not occurred to her then to wonder if she was happy. Because everything had seemed possible. She looked around the yard. And the amazing thing was, it still felt that way. 

Add Cambridge to the list.

*****

"Ah, my little Mad Dog. My poor, little, housebroken Mad Dog."

Upon murmuring this benediction, Paul Rosenberg leaned back into the soft leather chair at the study's desk, and put his feet up on it, ignoring Covington's entreaties about doing so. Janice was always so nervous in the study—which she considered Mel's room—as if she were in the tomb of Tutankhamen himself and fearing some ancient Carolinian curse, should objects be tampered with. Carefully, he stretched his long legs over the desk, avoiding the thick, vellum-paged notebook, covered with lines of Greek, and an English which, to him, was as indecipherable as the ancient language, given the florid, tangled serifs of the bold hand. He knew instantly it wasn't Janice's handwriting, having encountered her painstakingly neat printing while they worked at Neuschwanstein. The chair carried a faint whiff of Mel's perfume. He smiled and closed his eyes for a minute. 

His brief, fluttery daydream of a certain leggy, blue-eyed brunette was disrupted by the disgruntled tones of a certain small blonde: "Hey, asshole." 

Janice had lured him from his penniless life in New York to an equally penniless one in Boston, with the promise of a teaching post for him at the college. When this drunken promise failed to materialize (I would've known she was drunk on the phone if I hadn't been drinking myself!), he found music gigs in town, tutored here and there, and acted as Janice's Boy Friday, a position that dictated nothing much more than picking up her dry cleaning (skirts being an unfortunate fact of life for a female professor, even one as lowly as she) and trying to discern the fate of the scroll she viewed at Neuschwanstein at the end of the war. You've still got the military contacts, buddy boy, she had said to him. Paul opened his eyes and smiled broadly at Janice, a toothy grin crowding his ten o'clock shadow, his open madras shirt flapping in the breeze from the window, revealing a slightly yellowing white v-neck undershirt. "Yes, my little Mad Dog?"

"Stop calling me that," she snapped. He had been relentless about the nickname, ever since hearing Mel employ it in an equally teasing fashion one day, as she shipped Janice off to work: Mad Dog honey, y'all sure are pretty in that dress! Now she stood before him, scowling, hands settled along her hips, in blue jeans and a dirty white t-shirt. He suddenly wondered if she had seen A Streetcar Named Desire recently, or if Marlon Brando had taken butch lessons from her. "Whaddya got for me? You call that number down in Washington?" 

"Ah. Well, I got stonewalled. That's what I got." He sighed, and toyed with a fountain pen from the desk. "I can't get the file. Sorry."

"You're kidding me. They won't even let you see a file?"

He shook his head. "I tell ya, I really ran up my phone bill trying to track it down. All I found out was that the scroll had been returned to the family of the owner before the war. Presumably the family that the lovely Fraulein Stoller bought it from. They live in Venice."

"Venice," Janice repeated dully. 

"That mean something to you?"

"There's an international archaeology conference there next month." Then, to herself: "Damnit, I need a name, at least." He murmured, "That's a coincidence."

"I hate coincidences, Paul." She paced in front of him. "Who's the bigwig in charge of all this?" She felt a familiar burn in her gut: the excitement of the chase. Is it happening again? I've still got it, then?

"Some general named Fenton, in Washington. I spoke to a flunky in his office. We got to bullshitting about the war, and he was the one who told me the scroll is in Venice. But that's all he would tell me."

Janice stopped pacing. She stared at him. Another coincidence. "The general is Jeremiah Winston Fenton?" "None other." Paul glanced at her uneasily. "Why?" "I'll be damned. Mel knows him. He was an old friend of her father's."

"Old Dr. Pappas knew everyone, it seems."

"Comes in handy."

"I see. So...you think Melinda could sweet-talk him? Is that your plan?"

"No." Janice sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. "She hates him. Said he's a creepy old bastard."

"Somehow I can't hear her saying that," Paul noted wryly. 

"Her exact words were, 'He's quite a terrible old man.' " She mimicked Mel's accent to perfection.

"That's pretty good, sweetheart. You sound just like her," he said admiringly.

"I get a lot of practice. But let me translate it into our lingo: He's a bastard. He put the moves on her, not long after her father died."

Paul shrugged. "Surely she's used to beating them off with a stick," he said, with forced carefulness. You don't want to be on that list of terrible men, do you, buddy? He was content just to be in Mel's orbit. Or so he believed. Given the strength of the relationship he witnessed between the two women, he knew he had very little choice in the matter.

"We're talking hours after Dr. Pappas's funeral," she snorted.

"Oh." He winced. "Lovely."

"Yeah. I don't want to put her through talkin' to that asshole again." Additionally, she was wary of using Mel's charms in this way, given the near disastrous results with Catherine Stoller. Near disaster? Okay, definite disaster. She was quiet for moment, but Paul didn't like the strange glint in her eye.

"Get the phone, will ya?"

*****

Paul's hand grew sweaty as he gripped the phone, and the business-like woman answered. "Melinda Pappas calling for General Fenton!" he barked into the receiver. Janice gave him a thumb's-up sign. He nodded, then handed her the phone. She made a great show of wiping her hand after touching the slimy receiver, but no sooner than she did, Paul could hear, from his close proximity, a deep male voice on the line.

"Why, General Fenton, is that you?" she began. Eerily, her voice had taken on the accent and cadences of her lover's. "Yes, it's me, Melinda. I know, it has been simply too long. Yes, yes, that is too true! So! How was your war?"

Paul rolled his eyes.

"Oh yes, I was abroad for a while, in England. I did so want to help the cause, and I was kept out of the WACs 'cause of my terrible nearsightedness." Janice giggled like a demented schoolgirl. "General, stop! Y'all are too much! My eyes do not look like sapphires! Well, maybe just a teeny bit, I suppose. You're so sweet. A summer sky? No, no one's ever told me that before! Well, now, I did have a purpose in callin' you…I've been so desperate for help. Yes, I am positively desperate!" Janice sat up straight, breathless as a Gene Tierney heroine. "You see, I have been continuin' the work of my Daddy—God rest his soul—and durin' the war I was fortunate enough to view a certain scroll at this lovely little castle in Germany—Neuschwanstein, yes. Now I'm sure you know, given how eee-fficient the military is, that it has been returned to its original owner, but I would so love to have a look at it again, so I need to contact the individual who is in possession of it. I had one of my manservants call your office earlier, to see if they would provide any information of their own free will—but I'll be darned if your Yankee bureaucracy didn't have me hog-tied! Yes sir, I bet you could just picture that: me, all tied up! What a sight! I was madder than a hornet's nest." A pause. More male rumbling. "Oh my, yes, you better believe it, sir! I do have a terrible temper. Why, just the other day I found one of the servants spit-polishing my silver! Usin' his disgusting saliva on the tea service that my great-grandaddy fought and died for, defendin' it from Sherman's fiends! I was so furious I could've cut off his balls and fed them to the hounds…" Janice's voice dropped menacingly. "They do so love the smell of blood, it arouses them for the hunt."

Paul conveyed a frantic plea to stay in character via a well-placed kick to the shin.

Janice grimaced, then cleared her throat. "Er, as I was saying, I would so love it if perhaps you could intervene…" Another pause. A bright smile lit up the archaeologist's face. "Oh General," she cooed seductively, "you are wonderful. I am entirely indebted to you. Uh-huh..." Janice picked up a fountain pen and scribbled down some information in the notebook in front of her. "Yes indeedy, I will call that lieutenant...and I certainly hope you read him the riot act!" Another pause. "No, I'm not living in South Carolina, or even in North Carolina anymore..." An unfortunate inspiration occurred. "Why, I'm livin' in New Orleans now! You sound as excited as I did when I moved here! Ah got together with a bunch of my old sorority sisters from Vanderbilt, and we all chipped in and bought a lovely old house down in the French Quarter. We call it the Rising Sun."

He buried his head in his hands.

"If you're ever down that way, well, you just try lookin' me up." Another peal of feminine tittering. "Oh, you're just awful! Uh-huh. Really? Well, red is my favorite color, you know…mmm-hmmmm. I would love to talk longer, General, but my manservant just brought in my mint julep and reminded me about gin rummy with the girls this afternoon. Why, yes…" she grinned at Paul. "He is a big strapping man, how did you know?"

Paul heard a loud click at the other end of the line. Janice looked at the phone in surprise. "Got him all worked up," she muttered.

He shook his head in pure disbelief. "You are out of your damn mind, Janice."

"That ain't no way to talk to a lady, mister."

"You're no lady, even when you're pretending to be one. And I tell you, if she ever finds out—"

Janice jammed a finger in his face. "She's not gonna find out unless you tell her, and if you do, I'll feed your balls to the hounds—"

"I'd like to see you try, butchling, 'cause we might as well face facts here—"

She grabbed his shirt, yanking him up out of the chair, knocking over the notebook.

"—you're pussywhipped!" he shouted gleefully.

Both parties felt a breeze from the study door, now opened by the woman who, indeed, without a single doubt, had them both pussywhipped. Mel stood in the doorway, her face slightly flushed from her brisk walk from the campus in the midday sun, carrying the leather satchel that once belonged to her father on her shoulder, and with a needless cardigan sweater draped over one forearm, poised like a waiter with a towel. Her pale, well-formed arms were bare in the summer dress she wore. Judging from the slightly dazed expression on her face, she either heard Paul's exclamation or was suffering a mild form of heat stroke.

"Hi," Mel greeted timidly, feeling as if she had interrupted some intimate scenario in a house that was not her own.

Both Paul and Janice mumbled hellos.

"Um..." Mel began, as she deposited both satchel and sweater on the study's couch. 

Paul straightened his abused shirt. "Hey, didn't you tell me you guys got meatloaf?" Before Mel could affirm, he darted past and down the hallway into the kitchen.

Janice remained sitting, now cross-legged, on the desk, prompting a scowl of disapproval from her companion. The archaeologist jumped off the desk immediately, sending loose papers scattering in her wake, and inadvertently wounding the fountain pen, which proceeded to bleed blue ink all over the desk's blotter. 

Mel sighed deeply.

"Sorry."

"This word—" Mel tried again. A parade of nervous tics commenced. First she nudged her glasses with a knuckle. Beneath the becoming blush, Janice could see the little linguistic wheels spinning in her lover's mind: Pussywhipped. Transitive verb. Pussy. Slang, obscene.... Then she scratched her cheek and tugged nervously on her ear.

The bullshit generator kicked in. "It's all part of the Mad Dog legend, baby. You know lots of things are said about me, and ah, this is one of those rumors...that, ah, I liked to abuse cats."

"I see," Mel responded, drawing an imaginary line in the carpet with the tip of her shoe, perhaps indicating a rapidly lowering threshold of nonsense. She took a step toward Janice. Who retreated with a much larger step of her own. "You know...dogs don't...like...cats..."

"If that is the case, then, wouldn't it have made more sense for Paul to call you a pussywhipper?" Mel said the word cautiously, as if afraid of mispronouncing it.

Oh, to hear that word rolling off that tongue. Language covered in honey. "Now Mel," Janice muttered, taking another backstep and colliding with a chair, "you know the intricacies of American slang cannot be easily dissected and understood fully without further research. There is also an arbitrary element at work, which we must take into account—"

"Good Lord, you are becoming an academic."

Janice gaped at her, hurt. "That was low!"

"My apologies, Assistant Professor Covington." Mel grinned at her; then, gradually, both the smile and the warm blush faded. "Did you sleep at all this morning?"

"Huh?" The archaeologist feigned ignorance. "Sure, once you were gone. You take up a lot of space." As do the nightmares in my head. "And you snore like an old man," she added softly.

The smile returned to Mel's face. "No one says you have to sleep with me."

"Actually, it's in the 'Rules for Pussywhippers' handbook. I must suffer for love."

"Perhaps," Mel suggested, "I should just ask Paul about this word. Hmmm?" She turned on her heel for the door. The little blonde panicked; she knew Paul would crack as soon as Mel took the meatloaf away from him. With a running leap, Janice jumped her, piggybacking effortlessly onto Mel's back. The Southerner oofed in surprise, then giggled, but bore the weight effortlessly, instinctively grabbing the legs that locked around her waist, and opting not to think about the dirty heels digging into her clothes. "Is this pussywhipping?" she asked in mock innocence. "Or a prelude to, perhaps?"

Janice laughed. "Will you stop for a minute?" She tightened her arms slightly around Mel's neck and shoulders. 

"I will find out what that word means," the translator proclaimed.

"Of that I have no doubt. You're the most stubborn woman I ever did meet."

"You bring it out in me," accused Mel.

No snappy retorts came to Janice's mind. She was too close to the nape of Mel's neck, and inhaled her scent with the ferocity of a junkie. The roller coaster rush through her blood left her dazed and senseless, and resistant to sequential thought. "How's your Italian?" she mumbled into Mel's ear.

"What? Oh, just fine. It's sittin' in the back of my brain, with my French and my Latin, playin' backgammon. Why?"

"That's a surreal answer."

"Such a non-sequitur deserves it."

Janice kissed her cheek. Several times.

"Hmm. That's a better non-sequitur."

"Baby," the archaeologist purred, "we're going to Venice."

Mel craned her neck to look at Janice in surprise. "You changed your mind?" In previous discussions concerning the conference, Mel had taken Janice's lack of interest as a sign they would not be going. She had been surprisingly disappointed, wondering, with some amusement, if she herself were the one growing restless.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Good question, wondered Janice. I just got caught up in the chase again. Figures as soon as I accept settling down, it starts up again. "Tell ya later," she replied as Paul stomped back into the room.

"Hey, you guys are out of—" he stopped, blinking in surprise at this playfulness. Simple horseplay, or Lesbian foreplay? I don't want to know, do I? Whatever it was, the obvious love made him feel about a dozen kinds of ambivalence.

But that happy look in Mel's eyes, and her big grin, seemed to override everything for him at that moment. "We're goin' to Venice," she blurted, like a kid, breathless, as she lugged Covington toward the door.

Paul managed a small, wry smile. "Send me a postcard," he said wistfully.

2. The Spell, Unbroken

Venice, 1948

For Jennifer Halliwell Davies, another trip to Venice was…another trip to Venice. The city was like a drowning woman, a dying dowager thrown on a reef: It was alive, though just barely, and as such did not interest her. She could not even remember how many times she had been in the city, let alone this particular palazzo, one of many built during the Renaissance by the powerful Cornaro family.

But there was one thing in Venice that interested her: a certain woman, who stood in the crowd milling in the courtyard below.

She'd had a premonition—well, not exactly that. She'd met a fellow in the hotel bar the night before, some poor anthropology professor from Harvard, who hit her up for as many vodkas as she was willing to buy. And when she discovered that the chap knew Janice Covington and had said that the esteemed archaeologist was attending the conference as well, Jenny would have stormed Moscow itself and raided Stalin's liquor cabinet just to keep him talking.

And there she was.

Jenny hid herself, allowing a large vase to provide her cover, as she stared at Janice through her fashionable turista binoculars.

Upon closer inspection through the looking glass, she noted that Janice wore a man's white oxford shirt, bright against her tanned arms, and it looked clean. Must've been laundry day yesterday. The pants were khaki, as they usually were, and the wild strawberry blonde tresses were twined carelessly into a messy braid. The only things missing were the leather jacket and the foul fedora, older than the Dead Sea Scrolls. Perhaps the abomination passing as a millinery item had finally faced its overdue demise. Nonetheless, the good doctor looked quite prepared to lead an impromptu expedition into the most appalling of canals.

Despite the never-changing attire, she thought Janice looked different somehow. The small article she encountered almost a year ago in Archaeology magazine, about the so-called Xena Scrolls and Dr. Covington's role in their recovery, mentioned that she had served in the war—was that why Janice looked more mature?

The archaeologist was nodding politely at the older woman who had engaged her in conversation—whom Jenny recognized as a White Russian expatriate, just another international dilettante like herself. Her brows knitted in curiosity as she realized what was different: There was no impatient, angry scowl on Janice's face.

Jenny felt Linus's presence before he said anything—or, more accurately, she felt his mustache tickle her ear. "You were right," he burred.

She frowned, then lowered the binoculars. "Not totally useless, you know."

Linus smiled. "Never said you were, darling." His arm drew around her waist in an affectionate squeeze. "Aren't you going to go say hello to her?"

"Should I?" She tapped the lens of the binoculars irritably, then pushed away a loose strand of her blonde hair. "I suppose it's tempting."

"I'll leave it to you." Linus touched the knot of his green silk tie for the umpteenth time. Then he slicked back his dark brown hair with the damp palm of his hand, twitched his mustache to make sure it was in place, and allowed his hand wander back to the tie.

"If you don't stop fussing with that, I'm going to hang you with it," his wife hissed. "You're worse than a woman."

He raised a thick eyebrow. "I always thought you liked that about me," he parried pleasantly.

She smiled at the familiar retort. After almost ten years of marriage, the minutiae of their lives—the jokes, the jaunts, and the lovers, shared and not shared—flimsy on their own accord and meaningless when dissected, held them together more than any illusion of love or fidelity.

"You haven't seen her in over five years," her husband reminded her. "The spell is broken, is it not?"

She said nothing.

"You know what she's like." Linus prodded with the delicacy of a ham-handed surgeon. "Girl in every port...."

...and I was just lucky Alexandria was a stop on her itinerary.

"I would be surprised if she's here alone. And," he added, ignoring her homicidal glare, "Covington is an awful lot of bother. She breathes trouble like air."

Jenny turned her gray eyes to her husband. "That was part of her appeal, you idiot," she growled.

Linus rolled his eyes, unable to comprehend this. "Oh, righto. Forgot that bit. As I said, I'll leave it all to you, dear. If I should run into her first, I'll just tell her you're at Baden Baden with the masseuse again and you can remain up here, hiding."

He succeeded in making her laugh. His lines around his eyes crinkled as he grinned, and then softened as he grew serious.

"What?" she prompted.

"Don't get hurt, hmm?" He kissed her cheek, trotted down the stone steps leading into the garden, and she turned her attention, once again, to the woman in her sights. "And Jenny?" he called, turning around suddenly to face her again.

"What?" she shouted irritably.

"Don't give her any money!"

Oh, you cheap bastard. "Fine!" she retorted, as he melded into the crowd. With another sigh she put the small binoculars back in her purse, snapping the bag shut. I think I need another drink first. She lost herself for a few minutes, staring into the crowd. Linus wants to see her again. Wants her to come to Alexandria. What about what I want?

Jenny had to admit that she didn't have a clue about that.

Italian purring emanated from just beyond the open doors of the palazzo. She knew, even with her back to them, that it was Vittorio Frascati, who owned the palazzo. She did not know him well—she vaguely recalled being introduced to him once before the war—but the old man, scion of a prominent Venetian family and descendent of a doge, was high profile among the wealthy international set. And now he was oozing his lecherous charm on some hapless female. "Is it not the finest Cornaro in Venice?" he was murmuring.

Jenny turned around, just for a peek. She expected to see some tittering blonde barely out of university, but this one made her raise an eyebrow appreciatively; Vittorio did have taste after all, she marveled. The small, dapper man had linked arms with a tall, bespectacled black-haired beauty, who smiled at him graciously. Jenny wondered if the woman was the wife or mistress of a famous man, or even, perhaps, famous herself. Her clothes were impeccable: a silk blouse of deep blue, a darker matching skirt, both items flattering and elegant.

The woman nodded at the old man. "Grazi, Vittorio," the woman replied, honoring him in his native language. "You have been very generous with your time. And very helpful."

"And you have been generous to humor a babbling old man, Melinda." He squeezed her arm affectionately, then disengaged from her. "I hope you find what you are looking for." He kissed her hand, smiled, and returned indoors to maintain his Gatsby-like aloofness from his own party.

Jenny found herself alone—and exchanging smiles—with the beautiful woman, who looked faintly embarrassed to have been fawning, however subtly, over a wealthy and powerful man.

"He's quite a charmer," Jenny said to the woman.

"That he is," the woman agreed. Her low, indolent drawl was from the American South. She came closer to Jenny, and that was when the Englishwoman noticed that the stranger was about half a foot taller than she, almost as tall as her husband. "If I wanted to marry for money, he'd be the one," the Southerner added.

Jenny tried to stifle a grin. "You seem the type who would marry for love instead."

The woman smiled mysteriously and said nothing, but absently touched a ring on the smallest finger of her left hand. It was a silver ring, a nice complement to the expensive watch (Cartier) and the pearl earrings (real).

"I'm Jennifer Davies," she said, offering a hand.

The tall woman enfolded it in one of her own. "Melinda Pappas."

"Let me guess..."

"Hmmm?" Mel mused, raising an eyebrow.

"You're from Virginia!"

It was the "Guess the Accent" game. Mel was well acquainted with it; it had made the first few months of living in New England sheer hell. "Er, no, I'm afraid not."

"Tennessee?"

"No."

"Kentucky?"

"No."

"Definitely not Texas."

"Certainly not," Mel affirmed, a touch haughty.

"I'm afraid I've run out of Southern states," Jenny said, almost apologetic.

"South Carolina," Mel provided, the syllables languishing in her speech like Janice Covington on the sofa after one bourbon too many.

"Good heavens." Jenny paused. "Does each compass point have a Carolina?"

Mel laughed. "No. Just North and South."

"And what brings you to this party, this conference?"

"I'm a translator," Mel supplied succinctly.

"How fascinating. I barely stumble through English, let alone any other language. What have you been working on?"

"Well, it's a bit of an ongoing project. I'm translating a series of ancient writings, known as the Xena Scrolls."

For once Jenny was glad she wasn't drinking, for if she were, she would have choked. Then providence, divine and sadistic, threw a sunbeam down to highlight the silver ring on Mel's finger. Oh bloody hell.

"So," Jenny enunciated carefully, "you must know Dr. Covington."

***** Janice frowned in the general direction of the palazzo's great doors, wondering where Mel was. She scowled into the dregs of her wineglass, then returned her gaze to the house. Venetian architecture failed to impress her, and she had opted not to go on the impromptu house tour that Count Frascati offered to them. But she knew Mel's motivations were more than a desire to see the palazzo; the Southerner had hoped that the Count would know something about the Falconettos, the elusive, aristocratic family that had owned at least one scroll authored by Gabrielle of Poteidaia. So far all they knew of the family was that the patriarch had died at the end of the war and his son, his heir, could not be found.

The old maze of the city, though, intimidated her, and she frequently found herself getting lost whenever she was alone, tooling around the city with the ridiculous—and essentially useless—hand-drawn map that Mel had given her. "Don't get lost," Mel always said to her. And the archaeologist always scoffed at this: Lost? She, who could navigate all five boroughs of New York (even Staten Island!) with ease, who knew Alexandria and Cairo like the back of her hand, who, as an ambulance driver during the war, had the smallest streets of London and Paris committed to memory?

"Venice is a tricky city," Mel had said. "It's a changeling." She had paused dramatically, and if you aren't any kind of goddamn warrior you sure did inherit a sense of drama from that damn woman, Janice had thought to herself. "Kind of like the South," Mel then added, both wistful and mysterious.

This was typical. Whenever Mel liked anything, it reminded her of the South.

This is what I get for taking her up North, thought Janice, with a trickle of guilt. Endless nostalgia and romanticism.

Janice deposited the empty glass on a tray that sailed by, piloted by an overworked waiter. No sooner was it out of her hand than a fresh drink was thrust into her hand. "Hey!" she exclaimed, half-turning to berate the waiter.

Who was already gone. Standing in his place was Jennifer Davies.

Oh shit. Janice's sudden desire for Mel to be there was not because she wanted her lover to witness what could be a potentially ugly encounter, but because she knew that the ever-responsible Mel would, if nothing else, ensure a safe return to the hotel after Jenny had beaten her to a pulpy state of unconsciousness.

"Janice," she purred.

"Jesus," blurted the archaeologist.

"Not quite, love." The Englishwoman sipped at a glass of pinot grigio. "Almost didn't recognize you without the hat. And the jacket. You seem almost naked."

Janice rolled her shoulders nervously, then squared them, both gestures dying for the roguish finishing touch of a leather jacket. She studied Jenny. The Englishwoman was still lovely, with her mess of dark golden curls now tamed into a respectable looking bun, her gray eyes, usually mischievous, still possessing a lively glint. But what that glint meant now, Janice was not sure. All she felt was gratitude that Jenny was not enamored of firearms. "Good to see ya," Janice mumbled. Goddamnit, Mel, where are you?

"It's surprising to see you." Jenny swallowed. "I thought, for a while, you might be dead."

Is her hand shaking? "What?"

"Not long after the war I ran into Andrew Curran. He said he saw you in London, in '44. And they were sending you to the continent, right into the heart of it."

Janice remembered that. She also remembered he borrowed ten quid and never paid her back. Andrew was a writer, an old friend and ex-lover of Jenny's, and a RAF pilot during the war. "I'm glad Andrew made it."

Jenny ignored this. "I've spent five years wondering what's become of you."

Shit oh shit. Somehow an I’m sorry seemed pointless in the face of this weighty fact. "Guess I shoulda sent word."

"Perhaps. But eventually I knew you were all right: Your scrolls are making you well known." Jenny sipped the wine. "You have them all now?"

A tiny frown, and the familiar furrowing of her brow. "Not all of them. There are more."

"Really, Janice? Your translator thinks you're wrong." Jenny smiled, relishing the stunned look on her former lover's face, and tilted her head. Janice followed the direction of the motion. They were not difficult to spot, because they were both two of the tallest people at the party: Linus and Mel, together, talking.

Shit oh shit oh shit. "You've met Mel." Janice was, initially, too surprised to ignore the implications of what Jenny claimed Mel had said about the Scrolls. "Quite by accident. We started talking, and found out we had a mutual acquaintance in you, my pet. Then I introduced her to my charming husband, and they've been blathering about Mayan architecture for the past twenty minutes. Terribly dull. Oh Janice, don't glare at me like that. I'm not saying your little concubine is a bore. Actually, she's not so little, is she?"

"No, she's not," snapped the archaeologist.

Rather defensive, thought Jenny. "Not that it's a bad thing," she amended.

"It's not. I never have to worry about changing light bulbs or gettin' things from the top shelf in the pantry."

Always ready with the wisecrack, Janice. That hasn't changed. "At any rate, she's lovely, and very smart. Don't worry. I said nothing to her of our—shared past, and I'm sure Linus won't either."

"I'm not worried about that."

But Jenny could tell from the nervous clenching of the archaeologist's jaw, that this wasn't quite the given that it was declared to be. "To be frank, dear, I didn't think she was your type."

"If that's your polite way of sayin' she's out of my league, I know that." Janice glared at her.

"She's out of everybody's league, darling." Jenny said it lightly, but felt it deeply, miserably, in her bones. She would have been prepared to compete with a woman—or even a man—for Janice's affections, but not an Amazonian demigoddess. "They look good together," Jenny observed, as they both watched Linus and Mel. "My husband and your lover. Both so tall. Like some Nazi-Nietzschean super breeding couple." As she'd hoped, Janice did chuckle at that. Nice to see I can still make you laugh, if nothing else.

"And I thought I was pissed off about being short."

"I'm pissed off about a lot of things, love."

"Even after five years, baby?" Janice raised an eyebrow.

Jenny resisted the diminutive and what it stood for: an obvious attempt at being charmed. Unfortunately, as she stared into the green eyes and ached to kiss the lips, she realized it was working. "She wears a ring."

"Yeah," Janice grunted. "Is that a crime or something?"

"No. But it's the ultimate symbol of marriage, of commitment. Isn't it?"

The infamous Covington sneer of defiance made an appearance. "So suddenly you're an expert, since you're married yourself? You might as well wipe your ass with that piece of paper."

Ah, Janice, I have missed you. I needed to feel something, and you're it. Who else would talk to me like this, who would let the truth fly like that? She wanted to take Janice in her arms, and forgive her, and make all the promises that she knew she couldn't keep. Our mutual marriages appear to be in the way of that. Mine has always been flexible. But yours? She watched Janice watch Mel. This was also something new, this naked look, a vulnerability slowly crossing Covington's face, like a blind man negotiating an intersection.

"Just admit it. You're in love with her. And it's something bigger than anything you ever felt for me."

Janice closed her eyes. "Jenny, don't do this. Don't start." A little too late for that, big mouth, she chastised herself.

"I'm not starting anything. I'm finishing it." Jenny glared into her wine, watching the surface of the liquid spin like a hula hoop. "You left it a bit sloppy, a bit unfinished in Alexandria. Didn't you?"

Alexandria. It was the last time they had been together. Janice remembered little of it: Hazy golden blurs of fucking, of drinking. Of the haunting urge that built in her head to see Mel again, until it became so strong and desperate that she sold her mother's wedding ring just to get enough money to buy a plane ticket home. She had left Jenny without saying goodbye. She remembered sitting on the edge of the bed, money in her hand, watching Jenny sleep. And then moving, as if in a dream, for the door. "I guess I did," Janice replied softly. "I regret that." The musing tone gave to the words all the weight and substance of a feather. But it felt, to Janice, as if she were now a different person, someone not capable of that behavior. For she could never see herself doing that to Mel, ever again. Especially since I gave you a ring and I said I didn't need a ceremony or a church or a God. I don't need anything except you.

Jenny, of course, knew none of this, and even if she did, would have remained as  impassively impressed as she was now. "A hell of an apology."

Okay, I tried noble, now I'm back to the bitch. "Well, what the fuck do you want from me?" snapped Janice.

She wanted to slap Janice hard—very, very hard. But instead, she opted for the humiliation of throwing wine in her face. The sudden violence of the gesture possessed the emotional impact she wanted, as she watched the archaeologist flinch, if only ever so slightly.

"Try to explain that to your dashing Southern belle," she said quietly.

*****

Inevitably, at any type of social gathering, Mel eventually reverted to wallflower status; she felt most happy quietly observing other guests.

Especially Janice. At the moment, however, the archaeologist was not visible from where she sat, on a stone bench, at the periphery of the crowd. But then Janice was walking quickly toward her, whistling tunelessly and betraying her nervous restlessness by tapping a clenched fist against her thigh.

Mel straightened in distress when she noticed the dampness of Janice's cheeks. Crying? she wondered. But once the small blonde sat down next to her she realized it was not the tracks of tears, but a sheen of white wine. Luminous clear drops were falling happily, willingly, into her cleavage.

"Oh, dear. And we were proceeding so nicely, without incident." Mel murmured. She handed her companion a clean yet wrinkled napkin.

Janice blotted her face dry.

"Could have been worse, I suppose," she added, discreetly checking for bloodstains or bruises.

"I suppose," echoed Janice with a sigh. "But white wine does possess a certain sting."

"Would you care to tell me what happened between you and Mrs. Davies?"

"Mrs. Davies?"

"She was the last person I saw you talking with. Did she do this?" Mel gestured at her lover's face.

"Ah, dear Mrs. Davies."

"Yes. What of Mrs. Davies?"

"This conversation is beginning to remind me of that crazy book you were trying to make me read."

The "crazy book" was by Gertrude Stein. What Mel found to be a fascinating exercise in the modern use of language had sent Janice scurrying for the comfort of her old friends Raymond Chandler and Dash Hammett.

"Don't change the subject, darling. Especially when it's about a woman who still seems to be in love with you."

"So you figured that out, huh?"

"Yes. I'm pretty good at decoding the obvious. You should have seen me when the Hindenburg blew up."

Mel had hoped to bring a smile to the that lovely face, but instead Janice frowned, wrapping the napkin around her fist, the white contrasting with her tanned hand, like a bandage. Like the gauze and cloth slapped on her during the war, like the handkerchief Harry gave her when she scraped her knuckles on rocks during an excavation in Macedonia. Four days later he was dead and all she had was his handkerchief, covered with her own blood, and his dreams, and his debts.

"I didn't know she'd be here," Janice admitted quietly.

"Of course not. But when...when were you with her?"

Janice continued to stare at her hand, watching the white cotton flutter as she wiggled her fingers within it. "Last time I saw her was in '43. It was one of those on again, off again things. I met both of them…" she exhaled, scowled in thought. "….oh, I think it was 1940. Harry called their set 'the international dilettantes.' They threw parties, they traveled, they nosed around on digs, acting all curious and trying to buy anything that struck their fancy. No one took them seriously. They were kind of on the fringe of things. In a way, so was I, but no one could say that I didn't do my time in the field, and that I wasn't serious about what I was doin'." She shot Mel a wry look. "I thought you were one of them, one of those types, when I first met you."

Mel shrugged. "Well, I guess I am.”

"No," teased Janice, "you're a debutante, not a dilettante, honey."

"Gosh, I do get those words mixed up in my pretty little head!" Mel drawled.

Janice laughed. "There's a lot in that pretty little head, I know. In fact, I've always thought you should be the one teaching, not me. I'm just a digger at heart. Anyway," Janice continued with a sigh, "we kept running into Jenny and Linus—Athens, Cairo, Syria, you name it. They were always around. Eventually we all became friends...and, with Jenny, more than that."

"And Linus? Did he know? Does he know?"

Janice snorted derisively. "Oh yeah. He knew all right. In fact, he gave me money for a couple of my digs. 'Cause I was fucking his wife and keeping her happy."

"This made him happy?" Mel frowned, confused.

"Linus and Jenny have what you might call a marriage in name only. He's nouveau riche, Canadian. His family was looking to make themselves classy by marrying off their dissolute son to a woman with background. Jenny's got the lineage, her father is a squire or something stupid like that...they have this big country house...but no cash flow. It's a perfect set-up. They're fond of each other, and for all I know they may actually fornicate with each other every once in a while, but usually they go their separate ways when it comes to companionship of that kind."

"Oh." Mel blinked, pondered something meaningful to say. "At least she's not a Nazi."

Janice laughed in amazement. "No, she's not. She's worse." Morosely she stared at the ground, then scrutinized Mel. "You're taking this awfully well," she accused.

"I don't see the point of getting upset over something that's already happened." Mel chewed her lip. How to convey reassurance, with an innocuous touch, what inept words cannot…whoever thought that language would fail me, of all people? Even now there were moments when she could not trust her body, her movements, as if any casual sign of affection would tell the world what she was, and what she felt. Her fingers twitched, she steadied her hand, and plucked at the khaki pant leg, gently, teasingly.

Janice looked at her.

"I don't care about that."

"Jesus, I do not deserve you. Damn this stupid thing. Why did we come to this party anyway?"

"It was your idea," Mel reminded her.

Janice made a pretense at scanning the crowd. "I thought we should get out. Some people might think fucking in a hotel room for a whole day is unhealthy."

"I wouldn’t take you to be one of those types, Janice."

"And I never thought you'd turn out to be a sex fiend with unlimited energy." Janice reached out and took the wineglass from the large hand, permitting her fingers a brief electric entanglement with Mel's own. "But you are, aren't you?"

Mel thought, for a moment, that Venice had just sunk another inch.

The archaeologist drained the glass. She swallowed. Her lips glittered, wet.

"Do you want to go back to the room?" Janice asked. She pressed the empty glass into Mel's hand. Her palm brushed along the knuckles curled loosely around the expensive Venetian stemware.

She took the soft smash of Vittorio's fine wineglass as a yes.

*****

In the sanctuary of their rooms at the Hotel Danieli, Jenny lit up a cigar in honor of Covington. She puffed furiously. Like to see that Southern ninny try to smoke one of these. The spiteful thought came too soon, as the smoke strangled her and she proceeded to hack violently. It's like tasting death.

Linus emerged from the large bathroom while unknotting his tie to find his wife sprawled, unladylike, on the couch, her skirt hitched up to dangerous heights and a cigar in her mouth. "You know," he began, "Byron called Venice 'Sodom on the Sea.' " He sat down next to her, draping a large hand on her bare thigh, not in the least tempted by the smooth skin. "So one would think, whatever your misfortunes with the lovely doctor, you would find a bit of...entertainment elsewhere." He squeezed her leg with gentle affection. "The night is still young."

She unfurled smoke at him in lieu of a response.

He coughed loudly. "Darling, put that foul thing out before we all go up in flames."

She dropped it in the half-empty champagne glass. It fizzled, just like all those hopes I had of being back in your bed, Janice.

Linus took her hand. "Look, I know it bloody hurts, but she's happy. Can't you tell?"

"Yes." She flopped against him and pressed her face in the dark soft night of his black jacket. No crying. Not yet. Not now. She took a deep breath, its jagged rhythm suggesting the inhalation of broken glass. It fucking feels like that, anyway. "She'll be coming to Alexandria?" The tiny pleading voice was almost lost against the breadth of his jacket.

He shrugged. "The invitation was proffered to both of them. You can lead a horse to water…."

"…but she'll end up drinking bourbon anyway." Jenny sighed and sat up. She stared at the ceiling, then at her husband. Time to ask the tricky question. "Lye, this really has nothing to do with me, does it?"

His standard trick, in attempting to look innocent, was widening his dark eyes.

"Why do you want Janice in Alexandria?" she asked slowly, knowing she would get the answer he always gave, the answer that, in his so-called line of work, he couldn't help but give her.

He smiled. "You know what I'm going to say…"

"Say it anyway."

He rubbed his chin. "I need to keep an eye on her."

*****

Mel had decided that they should never leave the hotel room. Because she was both deliciously happy, yet deeply mortified. What kind of looks might they get when they dared to leave the sanctuary of the room again? If this were a room in the Bible Belt, we might get away with saying we were holding a small revivalist meeting or something. I could even throw in a hallelujah. For, if the proverbial fly on the wall were, say, a blind nun, this creature would have been most impressed by the Christian devotion of Dr. Covington, as she chanted "Jesus" over and over again, so lovingly, so frequently, so breathlessly. The repetition had indeed made Mel downright nervous, triggering dormant Methodist tendencies, and distracting from the extremely pleasant task of servicing the good doctor. Blasphemy upon blasphemy. I really am going to hell...if I still believe in that. Her quasi-theological ruminations derailed as Janice climaxed, blonde head slamming back into a soft, fat pillow, with one final cry for Christ. Her mouth glistened, as if she had swallowed stars, and her eyes were dazed, unfocused, and happy.

Mel decided that hell was worth this.

"Keeps getting better and better," mumbled Janice, before rolling on her stomach and falling into a light slumber. Mel indulged a bad habit and sprawled practically on top of her, cheek against shoulder blade, hips to butt. She was on the precipice of sleep herself when the soft growl of Janice's voice reverberated against her.

"I was a shit." The words were almost smothered by the pillow to which they were addressed.

Mel could not see her face. "What?"

"With Jenny. I was a shit."

Her hand swept down and felt the scars along Janice's thigh, then the resultant shudder that the touch brought, one of desire or remembrance, she did not know. She wondered if Janice herself knew. "I don't care." The words tumbled out of her mouth. It was true. It also appeared cruel somehow. She wondered, ever so briefly, why she didn't. Love, the great blind spot.

"You should."

"Why?"

"The last time I was with her…I could think of nothing but you." Janice whispered this, sighed, then stretched, the action rippling her body.

Mel rode the current of flesh. "Am I too heavy for you?"

"No. Don't move." And she added, almost shyly, "I like it."

Some emotion caught Mel by desperate surprise, a nameless, rootless anxiety, and she knew now Janice's own fear of having it all taken away, of the dream dissolved. She thought of the other woman who, in this city, at this moment, also loved Janice Covington. If fate were crueler, she wouldn't be here now. Usually, Mel possessed a powerful ability to find common ground with others; empathy had caught up with her at last.

"I love you anyway," she said.

3. Lucky

Cambridge, 1949

Dr. James Snyder sat at his desk, focusing a passionate amount of attention on his pen. He twirled it in his fingers, aligned it with the stack of papers in front of him, picked it up again. "You don't think she'll bring a gun, do you?" he muttered, half-joking.

The Dean, sitting on a worn leather couch near his desk, only smiled.

"Of course, you've heard the rumors…."

"Hmm," was the Dean’s noncommittal reply.

"…she killed an entire Nazi patrol single-handedly. Didn't she get some sort of commendation? And I have a colleague at the University of Texas who said that she pistol-whipped him."

The Dean pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Oh, dear." This response did little to assuage Snyder. "I'm relatively certain that Dr. Covington is capable of behaving herself, Snyder. We've had no incidents in the two years she's been on staff." Just a rash of infatuated coeds, he thought.

Nonetheless, when the door opened and the small woman, wearing dark trousers and a rumpled khaki shirt, strode into his office without being formally invited, Snyder felt his palms go clammy and every muscle in his back knot itself. He was not comforted either by the tall woman who lingered shyly near the door. Great, she's brought a second. He only knew of Melinda Pappas via her rising professional reputation, but wrongly assumed that the translator was as ill-tempered as her companion.

"Hiya, Snyder," Janice said as she flopped in the chair facing his desk. She nodded at the Dean, who sat at her left. “Old man."

The Dean grinned, amused. "Hello, Janice."

The archaeologist craned her neck to gaze back at Mel. "Join the party, Stretch."

Mel rolled her eyes, and reluctantly approached. She was not faculty and enjoyed no special status, despite tutoring and being a regular denizen of the library, and thus felt uncomfortable at being privy to matters among the staff. Even if it they were about the Scrolls. But Janice had insisted that she attend the meeting. You're my partner, Janice had said. And, she thought as she took the seat next to Covington, I really like the sound of that.

"Hullo, Miss Pappas," Snyder said.

"Hello, Dr. Snyder. How are you?"

"Oh, just fine." He smiled at the polite, blue-eyed beauty. "Stretch, huh?"

"Mmm."

"Didn't know folks call you that."

"They don't," Mel replied firmly. She flicked a sidelong glare at Janice, who shrugged.

Snyder blinked. "Oh."

A stake was now driven through the heart of casual conversation.

Janice cleared her throat. "Why are we here, Snyder? I assume it has to do with the dating of the Scrolls."

"Correct, Dr. Covington. Er, the results of the carbon dating are in."

"And?" Janice prodded impatiently.

"Well, it is a little later than you initially thought."

The archaeologist shrugged. "They were damn difficult to date. That's why I was so broad on time period."

"I quite understand. In general, that's the safest, most practical route. But now with the advent of radiocarbon dating, we can be much more accurate. Statistical probability is the basis in calculating the half-life of C-14, but no one can really predict the rate of decay, and a standard deviation exists in every case, which is—"

"Snyder, I don't need a goddamn lecture on the process, okay? Just tell me what you found."

The befuddled and frightened academic mumbled something which sounded like "churlish beans in sentry." In fact, this was precisely what he said. For within the great roaming recesses of his mind he thought that perhaps Covington would be satisfied with this response, would smile, shake his hand, declare him a genius, perhaps even buy him a drink.

Instead, her gaze cut him like a diamond on glass. She straightened from her lounging, relaxed position. He saw her flex her hands and became utterly convinced that even her fingernails possessed muscles. "Come again?" she requested smoothly.

Snyder swallowed, thought a quick prayer and a farewell to his wife. "The early sixteenth century."

Another silence dropped, like a theater curtain after a botched performance.

Until it was broken by Janice. "Are you shitting me?"

"Calm down, Janice," the Dean urged.

The only thing that kept Janice from jumping up was the sudden warm hand that, mindless of their location and the parties present, gave her leg a comforting squeeze. She looked quickly at Mel, whose stunned expression nonetheless betrayed the assurance of the gesture. "There has got to be a mistake," Janice snapped. Mel nodded numbly. "This is still a very new procedure. Someone made a mistake."

It was now Snyder's turn to be riled. "No mistakes can be made in this process. I checked the results several times. I dated several pieces of parchment."

Janice stood up and began pacing. "But the typology of the instruments—the scroll casing, the stiles—it all fit in with the time period."

"The stratigraphy confirmed this?" asked the Dean.

"Yes! Do you know how far down I had to go? They were in a tomb, for Christ's sake!"

"Those artifacts—the scroll case and the writing tools—did date well within the time frame you assigned," Snyder agreed. "As did some of the pottery you brought from the same location. But it's the actual scrolls themselves that do not: the paper."

"So this was all a ruse. They're fakes." Helpless, inconsolable for the moment, Janice leaned against the windowsill. It was the only thing that kept her standing.

"Or very cunning duplicates of the originals," Mel added softly.

The Dean smiled. He didn't know Covington's partner well, but what he knew, he liked.

But before he could pursue this line of thought, Snyder threw in, "Oh, who cares how real they are!" The women and the Dean stared at him. "They're a fascinating discovery! Somebody was clever enough to write in ancient Greek, use the proper materials to make them look like ancient scrolls, found a case somewhere, then buried them for posterity, thinking they played a massive joke on the world. You know, like that MacPherson fellow, who invented Ossian."

"Or they are copies of the original scrolls, which are still missing, as Miss Pappas proposed," the Dean added. "What do you think, Dr. Covington?"

Janice's fury was spent for the time being, otherwise the hand pressed against the cool windowpane of Snyder's office would've been bloodied by shattered glass. "I don't know what to think," she whispered.

"I know what I think," the Dean retorted. "I think you're lucky."

Janice shot him a curious yet homicidal glance.

"Your father spent his entire professional life looking for those scrolls. Yet you, barely thirty, made this discovery, and in a war zone, no less. They may not be the real thing. But they're a damned sight closer—and more interesting—than anything Harry Covington found."

"Watch what you say about my father, old man," Janice grunted.

"Janice." Mel sounded the warning.

"My father laid the foundation for me to find what I did. He did thirty goddamn years of legwork chasing after these. If he hadn't died when he did, he would've found them." She drew a breath to refuel her fury. "If you want me off the faculty now, fine. I don't give a damn. I didn't have much of a reputation before I came here. It doesn't matter to me. So I'll resign."

Alarmed, Mel stood up. "No. Wait a minute—" She exchanged a look with her lover. 

How much of the bravado was shock, and wounded pride? Janice's desire for legitimacy—for someone to take her work seriously—was very much a part of why she accepted the position at the university. It complemented her wish, however seemingly tenuous at times, for a stable life.

"That isn't what I want," the Dean replied quietly. "I want you to find the real scrolls."

"You believe they exist," Janice stated warily.

"I believe that if they do exist, you'll find them. And if this is, as Snyder suggests, some kind of fantastic fraud, you'll find that out as well."

"All for the greater glory of the old alma mater, eh?"

Once again, the Dean proffered his smug smile. "Anything you uncover would benefit the university, as long as you are under its auspices. And as far as I'm concerned, you are." The older man stood up. "Let's give you a year to come up with something. I know that doesn't seem like much time, but if, at the end of that year, you give me enough reason to continue the search, I'll extend the expedition. After you spend a semester in the classroom, of course."

The Dean extended his hand for Janice to shake. She stared at him suspiciously.

"Don't be a bad sport, Covington. I'm giving you an opportunity to do what you do best. And you're damned good at it, I know that. Have a proposal on my desk in six weeks."

Her hands remained idly on her hips.

He chuckled and withdrew his hand. "I look forward to seeing what you'll do." He winked and picked up his walking stick, and a hat. "I'll get my money's worth out of you, my girl." He nodded at Snyder and Mel. "Dr. Snyder, Miss Pappas, good day."

Janice was staring into space. "Money's worth?" she mumbled. Her gaze snapped to the doorway where the Dean had departed. She stomped over to the door, flung it open, and shouted down the hallway at his retreating form: "You already get your money's worth out of me, you old sonofabitch! Do you know how goddamn low my salary is? You're wringing me dry, you cheap bastard!" She drew in another breath with which to launch another tirade, relented, growled, and stormed down the hallway after slamming the door.

Mel yanked her glasses off her face with a groan and massaged her temples.

Snyder gave her a timid look. "She really doesn't want tenure, does she?"

*****

The odd, arrhythmic typing of Mildred, the department secretary, was punctuated by the strange thwaps emerging from one of the offices nearby. She paused in her task, wondering when the noise would cease, and if the perpetuator would notice that her typing had stopped, but the angry sounds continued. She sighed, and took a cigarette out of the pack she kept in her top desk drawer. She was halfway through the cigarette, and pecking halfheartedly at the letter in the typewriter, when Mel arrived.

The stout middle-aged woman exchanged a look with the Southerner. "You want the bourbon?" Mildred asked. She hadn't the chance to ask Janice if the professor wanted the emergency bottle of hooch—the little archaeologist had barreled past her with such speed and anger.

Mel shook her head. "I don't think letting her drink will help in this instance."

"Actually, I meant for you."

The translator laughed so faintly that it was barely an exhale of breath. "Ah, no, I don't think so." A finger stemmed the tide of her eyeglasses, sliding down her nose.

"If I hear screams I'll call the police," Mildred remarked as Mel entered the sanctum sanctorum.

The lack of time spent in the office was reflected in its bare décor; the assistant professor was rarely in it except to brood and meet the occasional student. Pieces of wood—representing two and a half years' worth of grading midterms, finals, papers, and resisting the advances of romantically deluded students—were scattered on the floor, along with the woman responsible for them and the large, cracked dent in the side of the desk. Janice smoked a cigarette and regarded the pile of tinder, as if a merry little act of arson would cap her day.

"Paul Bunyan," Mel said. She half-leaned, half-sat along the desk.

"Get me an ax, then, so I can destroy it properly." A baseball bat, which lay beside her, worked well when she grew tired of kicking the desk, but a sharp object would be ever so more pleasing.

"You're very lucky the dean likes you, honey."

"Lucky!" Janice exploded. "You're as bad as he is." She pushed at the woodpile with the toe of her boot. "I should have let Kleinman keep them," she said softly.

"No, you shouldn't have," Mel countered. "They may not be the Scrolls, but they are still Gabrielle's words. And as such they are sacred."

Janice ignored this. "Why does it seem impossible to get to point B from point A?" she mused. "I thought I was already there. Thought I had them." Thought I had it all. She looked at Mel, who had her arms crossed and was staring into space, thoughtfully. I am incomplete without you, but I'm incomplete without them as well.

"Zeno," Mel muttered absently.

"Huh?"

"One of his paradoxes—about how all motion is impossible. You recall—?"

"Oh. Yeah." Janice, in reality, had totally forgotten anything to do with Zeno, or much of anything she was forced to read as an undergraduate. "Is there really a Gabrielle or a Xena? Are we so sure that these just weren't stories our fathers created? They fed us these legends, these make-believe stories. We ate it all up. We were kids. And then it seeped into our subconscious, these myths. They're universal. A shared hallucination."

"I never suspected you were a Jungian, Janice."

"Are we descendants of heroes and bards, or forgers and pranksters?"

Mel's lips tightened, set in their familiar stubborn grimace. "You deny what you know to be true."

"Do I?"

"You have the dreams."

Janice said nothing. How long did you think she would say nothing, would wordlessly hold you after you wake up screaming? How long would she politely ask you how you've been sleeping, and settle for your half-hearted lies?

"Will you sit there and tell me that those nightmares you have…that they're just about the war? Can you tell me that?"

The dreams were about the war, at the very least. What her mind refused during the day, what it would not acknowledge, her body whispered in the ragged gossamer of scars: This happened to you. And then the brain would finally rebel, subconsciously. 

More recently, they were tenacious—and they went further than ever, extending into a darker past: Lying in snow, stomach bathed in blood, daylight faltering around her, in the blue glow of a winter world devoid of sun. She looks at her hand, watches it fall...onto a plank of wood, where it is bound by a Roman soldier. And what was too horrible to contemplate, too awful to bear, was that she doesn’t die alone. There is a broken body next to hers.

Yet you managed to smile for me. I still remember the first time you smiled at me—really, truly smiled. It was hesitant, shy, belying the reputation of the warrior and the coldness of your eyes. This piece of you—so fallible, so human, you gave to me. The stupid, stubborn farm girl who followed you.

"Hey." It was Mel's soft drawl, snapping the spell. The chill she experienced every time after the dream was aroused once again, and the hairs on her arms stood, stiff in fright. Until Mel smoothed them, rubbing warmth with her palms.

Janice swallowed, stood up. She simmered, paced. Mel sighed inwardly, and waited for the inevitable.

"Goddammit!" she screamed, and kicked the desk once again. More chips of wood spiraled from the desk, like gymnasts executing backflips.

Mildred is calling the police.

A finger, not as callused as it was once when they first met, was thrust at the translator. "It may be all fine and well for you to hear fucking little voices inside your head, but not me, baby! Not me!"

Or maybe she is finishing off the last of that bourbon.

"I thought that I really accomplished something: I found the Xena Scrolls. They were real—or so I believed. And then, I thought, just maybe, I could have a simple life. Where I could just be myself. Not the descendent of some naïve brat who changed personal philosophies like underwear. Not the daughter of some obsessed grave-robbing bastard carrying on the crazy family legacy. I wanted it all normal." She regarded Mel thoughtfully. "You made me want that. Just a house. A steady job. And a girl who loves me."

“I know,” Mel said softly. “I’ve wanted the same thing.” She paused. “Come here.” Janice hesitated in the face of the gentle order, remembering the same words in different circumstances: The first time they made love, when she had stood, fixed in the doorway, neither resisting nor giving in, afraid to take the leap into the bedroom, until Mel, sitting on the bed, had uttered those two words. She had felt as if she were opening up Pandora's box, propelled by an unknown energy and motion, by fatal curiosity. And she felt that way again, now. Afraid of what you'll find.

She permitted herself to be held, to let Mel prop her chin upon her head. And afraid of what you’ll lose. She had lost Harry to this search—even before he died.

The blue of the dream was the abyss and the salvation at once, beribboned together.

Mel pulled back and looked at her. And the blue of these eyes? "Weeks ago you were excited at the prospect that there were still scrolls out there to be found."

"That was when I thought they were real."

"They are real."

Janice said nothing, frowned, let Mel's thumb press a temporary cleft in her chin.

"It'll be you and me, under the stars," she said.

As it has been always been.

"How bad can that be?"

Janice did not know. They hugged again, she placed her head against Mel's shoulder, and for the moment she could ignore the chill of the dream and could draw upon the strength of Mel's words. She loved the certain, the tangible, the sure thing. Now she gave herself over to words not written down, belief neither felt nor seen, and a love that, more often than not, she did not understand, nor felt she deserved.

[ragnarachael]

Her.

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Word Count: 1,271

Summary: You go into work after your eventful weekend getting over your grocery shopping experience thinking that you'd have a normal Monday at work. Oh how you wish it was normal.

A Note: i told myself that i didn’t need to put this out today. here i am. putting it out. today. it’s fucking 4 in the afternoon and i’m out here with a sequel already. i’m attached to this series. there will be a third part, thank @spider-slutt for giving me inspiration to write this out, please don’t try to hate me too much.

Warnings: There’s no real warnings yet, but there’s mentions of a gun near the end of the piece. Part One Part Three Part Four Part Five AO3

It was an early Monday morning when you walked into The Square Diner.

Cold air hung in the dining area where the tables were, due to the sudden snow that decided to hit New York City.

You loved it.

You waved to some of the regulars who were happily sipping at coffee while they looked at their menus, still bundled up in their winter coats and scarves.

If only you were so lucky.

You made it to the small back room and started to work on tugging off the warmth and security of your jacket, hanging it on one of the free hooks, along with your bag you’d brought your college work with you for your break.

A normal, average, everyday Monday.

You came back out in your uniform, already genuinely debating on pulling your coat back on and praying your boss didn’t see you wearing it.

Ignoring the idea you’re quick to grab a small waist apron that was already armed with various pens and a server pad nestled in the semi-deep front pockets, ready to get to work.

You’re the only other server besides Janice that’s there this morning, the cooks happily conversing in the back.

The atmosphere is light.

Your morning slowly gets busier, serving a few regulars and newcomers, trying extremely hard not to curse out to any man who just so happened to try and flirt with you.

The audacity.

By the late morning, your section of the diner was almost empty, your usual party of three coming in before sitting at their usual booth.

You sent them a wide smile as you made your way to their table, pen and server pad at the ready.

“Welcome back to The Square Diner, you guys. The usual?”

Click. Shift.

“We’ll actually start today off with some coffee, if that’s okay, Y/N,” Matt said kindly, turning his head in the general direction where you stood. 

You were quick to scribble on the server pad before smiling, drawing a small symbol at the top of the ticket that you insisted on using whenever the Lawyers of Hell’s Kitchen came in.

“Of course! I’ll be back with some mugs.”

You were quick to get the three mugs and place them in front of Karen, Matt, and Foggy before filling them up three-quarters of the way before carefully sliding the creamer cups and sugar up a bit closer to their hands so Matt didn’t have to feel around or get directed by Karen and Foggy too much.

“Creamer’s on your left, sugar’s closer to the right. I’ll check back in with you in a bit to see if you’re wanting anything else, alright?” You said kindly, your smile growing as they thank you as if you’ve just given them water after walking through a desert.

You’re in the middle of placing the coffee pot on the dock when the bell to the diner rang and someone sat at the breakfast bar, that was also sadly your turn to serve until your break.

“Hi, welcome to The Square Diner, what can I get you?” You said as you turned around, only to almost freeze in your place.

It was her. The girl Peter was with that night.

Who said that this could happen? In all the places of New York-

“Hello! Uh, I’ll just take a coffee for right now, thank you.”

Inhale. Force Smile. Turn.

You grabbed a mug from the small rack in the corner of the counter behind the bar, quick to place it in front of her as she read the menu and grab the coffee pot to fill it three-quarters of the way.

“Let me know if I can get you anything, alright?” You forced your smile to look more authentic.

The girl smiled and nodded as she looked at the menu.

You let your smile fall quickly after you placed the pot back on the dock and went back to Karen, Matt, and Foggy’s booth.

“Have we decided on what to order for your late breakfast?” You questioned, letting a small smile come up as you held your serving pad and pen in hand again.

Click. Shift. Clear throat.

You were quick to write down their orders and relay them to the cooks before you were practically forced to turn your attention to her.

“Have you decided on anything, ma’am?” You asked.

Wow, she really brings out the customer service voice out of you.

“Oh, um, yeah, I’d like..” She started, trailing off slightly as you quickly got your pad ready to write her order on a new page before she spoke up, looking at your face. “You look familiar..”

Oh no. No, no no no.

“I work here as often as I can between classes-” You offered before she cut you off, her face lighting up.

“You’re the girl that Peter ran after in the store the other night!” She exclaimed, seeming genuinely happy to actually meet you. You wish you felt the same, but something in you just wouldn’t let that happen.

“Oh- Uh, yeah. Hi.”

Shift. Click. Inhale. Force Wider Smile.

“You’re- you’re Y/N right? Peter’s friend?”

A friend? Friend?

“Yeah, I am,” You gritted out with your best tone possible that wouldn’t get you fired. You moved your pen to your hand that held the pad and held it out. “And you are?”

“Emily.” Her hand was weirdly soft and not at all cold in your hand as you briefly shook hands.

“Nice to meet you, Emily. Glad to put a name to the face.”

You wish it was your face that was kissed at the store that night.

“Same here! I’ll tell you my order super quick and I’ll let you get your orders, I’m so sorry for keeping you!”

You didn’t get what she meant until you glanced over your shoulder to see the food for the only booth you have. Oh.

Quickly you wrote her order and slid it to the cooks before piling the hot plates on your arms with ease, moving over gracefully to the booth the group sat at.

You really wish waitressing was an olympic sport, you’d get the gold.

You laid the dishes in front of Foggy, Karen, and Matt respectively and asked if they needed anything else.

After that point, your day got a little easier.

The Lawyers of Hell’s Kitchen left right as the diner picked up for the lunch rush, leaving you a nice tip between the three, and plans to swing by their office to get a look at some cases you could go and try to help them with.

Emily was seeming to be nice, which made you swallow your pride and try to push back that she’s your ex’s new girl.

She seemed sweet, kinda like the Snickers you devoured during your show’s rerun that night.

But your mind wouldn’t leave it at that. You kept replaying how she and Peter had kissed at the store and your sadness came back that you shook off over 48 hours ago.

It was agitating.

You didn’t have any choice to run. No choice to hide from it.

It really made you want to swan dive into the oil of the deep fryer in the kitchen during your break.

However, that was avoided.

Barely.

You were talking with one of the cooks, trying to get yourself into higher spirits when you were both on your breaks, Emily still at the breakfast bar as she ate her food.

It was all silent.

Until you heard what sounded like a gun cocking, and someone screaming as if they were in a horror film, about to get murdered.

[dailytomlinson]

Louis Tomlinson was left sour-faced after begging Simon Cowell to save his act Armstrong Martins but to no avail.

The former One Direction star lost Armstrong in the first double elimination on Sunday night's result show, as he was sent home - alongside Olatunji Yearwood - following Simon's deciding vote.  

Armstrong was forced to go head-to-head with Janice Robinson in the sing-off and while his mentor championed his performance, Simon chose to ignore Louis' pleas and ended Armstrong's time in the competition.

Robbie decided to support wife Ayda and voted to send Armstrong home, telling the hopefuls: 'Two extreme talents... can't believe either of you are right in front of me right now. I'm going to keep it sweet and simple, the act I'm sending home is Armstrong.'

That left Simon with the deciding vote and Louis gave it everything he could to persuade his boss and close pal to give Armstrong another chance in the competition.

He told the music mogul: 'If we had a meeting tomorrow you would sign him tomorrow... I'm that confident.'

Simon already appeared to have his mind made up, as he ignored Louis' pleas and decided to save Janice's place on the show.

Prior to making his decision, Simon had debated between the two acts. He said: 'I'm going to be honest with both of you - why I think you're both here is even with those save me songs they weren't the right songs for you.

'Armstrong you are interesting, Janice we've lost you since your first audition, you are the better singer but Armstrong you're interesting.'

Janice gave an emotional performance of Miley Cyrus' track The Climb. Ayda showed her full support for the former 90s singer, as she stood throughout Janice's performance and vigorously applauded the hopeful.

Armstrong sang his rendition of Phil Collins' hit True Colours. Like Janice, his performance was full of emotional as the star gave it his all. Louis said he was 'absolutely speechless and gutted' to see Armstrong in the sing-off. He said: 'What I see in Armstrong is an artist, not a contestant.'

Fans watching at home were quick to throw their support behind Armstrong, with many criticising Simon's decision to send him home.

They penned in fury: 'How’s Armstrong in the bottom 3!?

'is there a wild card thing on the show?? bc armstrong really deserves to come back

'Well I think that's enough for today... I'm just so mad because of Armstrong leaving the competition.

'ayda and robbie are always gonna save each other’s acts & simon is just a d**khead who wants to disagree with everything louis says for the fun of it. not fair at all.

Ahead of Armstrong's exit from The X Factor, Olatunji was given the boot as he received the fewest votes from the public.

Ayda seemed devastated to see the star go, as she told host Dermot: 'I'm completely devastated. I just don't get it. He smashed it last night. He brought the house down. He's an incredible human being.'

Olatunji thanked the show for the 'opportunity' as he gracefully bowed out of the series.

Simon, meanwhile, successfully had all his acts sent through to the second week of live shows, as did Robbie.

Danny Tetley was seen eagerly celebrating as he was the second to last act to be put through, while Robbie's boyband United Vibe secured the last spot going forward.

At the beginning of Sunday night's results show, Dermot O'Leary left viewers amused as he joked he doesn't get paid enough on The X Factor.

The show host couldn't resist making a dig at boss Simon, after the judging panel decided to get cheeky with him at the beginning of Sunday night's results show.

Asking Simon which acts could be under threat ahead of the first live elimination of the singing competition, the music mogul referenced X Factor's double axing, as he joked: 'I think two will go tonight.'

Sighing with dismay, Dermot rolled his eyes and vented in response: 'This is what i have to work with for six months of the year,' before adding: 'They don't pay me enough.'

Following the first live show, two acts are set to leave the competition after giving it their all for The X Factor's Greatest Showman themed first week titled 'This Is Me'.

Fans were treated to a special performance from star of the hit movie Kaela Settle, who took to the stage with the track that has made her a household name.

Sharing her advice for the contestants following her performance, she said: 'What you're already doing is enough. Stick to your guns when you forget how good you are you've got people around you to remind you.'

2017 winners Rak-Su also took to the stage to perform their new single I Want You To Freak. Speaking to host Dermot following their performance, they said: 'It feels amazing to perform in front of everybody who helped me and my friends have the 12 months of a lifetime.'

Asked who they were rooting for this time round, Rak-Su picked out Anthony Russell for the 'perseverance' he has shown, auditioning for The X Factor multiple times before reaching the live shows.

The 12 finalists have now been whittled down to 10, with both Simon and Robbie still successfully having all four of their acts left in the competition.

Simon is mentoring the girls; Bella Penfold, 19, Molly Scott, 16, Scarlett Lee, 20, and Shan, 25.

Robbie has the groups; A*, LMA Choir, Misunderstood and Vibe 5.

Following Sunday's double elimination Ayda has Danny Tetley, 37, Giovanni Spano, 33, and Janice, 37, left in her category, while Louis has Anthony Russell, 28, Brendan Murray, 21, and Dalton Andre Harris, 24.

The X Factor came under fire with viewers, with many claiming this series should be the show's last as they hit out at the quality of hopefuls competing in the live shows.

Simon is mentoring the girls; Bella Penfold, 19, Molly Scott, 16, Scarlett Lee, 20, and Shan, 25.

Robbie has the groups; A*, LMA Choir, Misunderstood and Vibe 5.

Following Sunday's double elimination Ayda has Danny Tetley, 37, Giovanni Spano, 33, and Janice, 37, left in her category, while Louis has Anthony Russell, 28, Brendan Murray, 21, and Dalton Andre Harris, 24.

The X Factor's first live show came under fire with viewers, with many claiming this series should be the show's last as they hit out at the quality of hopefuls competing as finalists.

Taking to Twitter, disgruntled viewers penned: 'Surely this is the last series of #xfactor !? Having Robbie and Ada are just scraping the barrel now!' One fan wrote, leading the troops.

Definitely the last series of #XFactor. It’s absolutely on its a**e.

'There was some rubbish on tonight. #XFactor'; 'WTF is this rubbish?'; 'Have to say on the whole #xfactor has been utter rubbish tonight.

'#XFactor this should be the last series simon dont even give a s**t about what his girls sing.' (sic)

X Factor's first live show was hampered with a massive error when the voiceover introduced Danny Tetley as Anthony Russel on Saturday. Nail-biting scenes saw the X Factor contestant stop mid-performance before restarting his song on the live show of the series.

Yet 'tearful' fans praised the singer for not letting the 'stupid mistake' unsettle him when he had to start belting out his vocals once again.However, it wasn't long before the outspoken judges turned on each other during the live show of the competition.

X Factor fans were seething with bosses for silencing Louis Tomlinson's microphone when he fought with Robbie Williams over One Direction on Saturday.

The Let Me Entertain You hitmaker ripped into Louis' former band One Direction when Simon Cowell criticised his group United Vibe during the first live show. Much to the distaste of One Direction's biggest fans, Robbie claimed his band United Vibe were 'leaps and bounds' ahead of the chart-topping boy group.

He asserted: 'You’re leaps and bounds ahead of One Direction. Better place than Take That one month in. These boys are going places.'

But before Louis could speak to defend One Direction, the X Factor bosses muted his microphone without any warning.

Fuming fans rushed to social media to share their frustration that the singer wasn't allowed to respond to Robbie's undercutting comment. The clash started because Simon made a sly dig at former boybander Robbie about United Vibe's image wasn't 'messy' enough for a boy band.

He said: 'This was better than I thought it was going to be. It all looks too stage at the moment. I don't need to tell you Robbie. It works when it's messy and fun.'

United Vibe, who were originally five singers put together as a group by the judges, drove fans wild on Twitter with their own version of former One Direction Niall Horan's song Slow Hands.

Keen to impress his mentor Louis, Armstrong Martins also sang a One Direction hit Story Of My Life when he showcased his incredible vocals.

Elsewhere on the show, Shan showcased her sensational vocals, even though Simon was away during her rehearsals this week and could only support via his phone.

Robbie confessed: 'I'm falling in love with you. You're the kindest woman in here, apart from my lovely wife.'

Ayda responded: 'I'm ok with Robbie falling in love with you. I have a spirit crush on you. I'd have super human power to sing just like that, SO WOULD ROBBIE.'

Olatunji impressed judges when he hit all the right notes with his own song he wrote just ten days ago before performing on Saturday's X Factor.

Back on the X Factor for a second time to prove she deserves a spot in the competition, Scarlett Lee sang her heart out to Aretha Franklin's A Natural Woman. The singer got a standing ovation from all four of the judges following her show-stopping performance.

Acacia and Aaliyah, who are only 14 and 15, put on a quirky performance when they sang Finesse by Bruno Mars and Cardi B.

Louis claimed: 'I love you two as individuals. I was expecting a bit more street than you. In general I was waiting for a little bit more.'

Ayda agreed: 'I totally agree I love you guys. I think you lost something. Too much stuff going on.' Robbie teased Simon: 'He is going through the man-a-pause. And unlike me, I think you can break America.'

Dalton Harris left everyone gobsmacked with his powerful performance of Life on Mars to close the show.

Louis said: 'I was so excited. I showed you off. I can comfortably say that was the best vocal of the night.'