#Jibe Pictures

[gutsby]

Wingman

Pairing: Himbo!Joel x Reader

Summary: Your bestie braves the tampon aisle for you.

Warnings: 18+. Period crackfic starring Himbo!Joel—don’t take it too seriously. R has a uterus that hates her. Mentions of blood, cramps, & hangover-induced puking. Dirty talk, f!masturbation. One (1) Mean Girls reference.

Word count: 1.7k

You were fucked ten ways to Wednesday if you didn’t get your hands on some soap, a steamer, and a supersized box of maxi-pads in the span of the next eleven minutes.

Joel Miller moved like molasses on a flat slab of granite.

“WILL YOU HURRY— THE FUCK— UP?”

Your cheeks were hot. The night air was cold.

Every other word that managed to claw out of your throat was punctuated by a breath—your stomach clenched, and the sex organ below it was in hysterics.

Joel continued to lace up his loafer, clumsy as ever.

“O-kay, okay,” he hummed, “Steamer, soap, and, uh…”

“Pads!”

“Uh-huh. Right. So what kinda…blood stuff is it, again?”

The words were like an aspersion on his tongue. At the ripe old age of forty-seven, Joel still hadn’t quite learned to jibe with the menstrual product lingo, and it showed.

“Heavy flow. Any brand. With wings,” you hissed.

“Boneless or traditional?”

And if he hadn’t been standing outside the truck, foot propped up against the driver’s seat while he tied his shoe, you likely would’ve smacked him upside the head. The glare you gave him was sufficiently vicious to extinguish the smirk, though. Your hand made a fist in the front of your dress, and you groaned, leaning inward.

Joel got the picture and finished his bunny ears quick.

“Sorry.”

Then, a little more sheepish as he straightened up,

“I’m goin’. Be just a minute.”

And he was off.

Your body curled into a ball as soon as he left. It cried in pain, to nothing and no one around but that fugly slut, the nastiest skank bitch you’d ever met, your uterus.

There was no way you and Joel were making it to this rehearsal dinner. You needed to be at the venue by 7:00, the clock on the dash read 6:11, and you were, currently, twenty miles shy of Fredericksburg with a rag between your legs and your best friend scouring the local H-E-B.

That afternoon you’d been running late, so of course you’d thrown on your thin, satin, pre-wedding-ready dress before you left—and forgotten a change of clothes. Joel had been hungover from all the batshit bachelor party antics, so of course you’d had to stop three times along the way just so he could throw up on the side of the road. And, though your friend was many, many things, discreet was not one of them, so of course he’d told you, point-blank, when he saw you reaching for something in the backseat with your butt sticking up:

“You been pissin’ tomato juice or somethin’?”

And you’d looked back in abject horror.

Of course your period had come a week early and made you bleed straight through your bright yellow dress.

Maria was your best friend. You were her maid of honor. Tommy’s groomsmen happened to be the most fuckable bunch you’d ever seen—save for Joel—so there was no way you’d be caught dead at that dinner with the flag of Japan on your ass. And Maria had bought the dress just for you, so you felt like you had to get this bloodstain out.

You lifted your head to peer out the window. Even with the help of a fistful of ibuprofen, you could barely move.

6:29

“Dude, where are you?!”

It was like your phone and the FaceTime call to Joel had just materialized on their own. The man on the screen was blinking slow. Ogling something in front of him.

“So ‘L’ stands for…long?” he said after a beat.

“No, that’s light, Joel, I need a heavy one.”

“This one’s got cardboard in it, I think.”

“That’s a tampon applicator, dipshit.”

In a blink, Joel’s eyes flitted to his phone. His nostrils flared, and he met your gaze with a scowl of his own.

“Well how the hell am I supposed to know that? Only stuck two— three things in a pussy before and it sure as fuck wasn’t cotton,” he griped, and if he were any less mature he likely would’ve rolled his eyes. Drama king.

You winced as another cramp rolled through you. You shook your head and tried to regain your composure.

“Just find a heavy-flow. pad. with wings. for me. Please.”

Joel sighed and turned back to the shelf, eyes searching.

It shouldn’t have been this hard, but it was. You had no doubt Joel had never willingly touched a pussy product before in his life, so the road ahead was treacherous. Silently, you felt the urge to tell him he had no business being in pussy at all if he didn’t bother to learn what came out of one every month, but you let him cook.

His dark, greyish brows drew together in concentration. He leaned forward and reached for a box. Then stopped.

Went low to grab another, before pausing to show you.

“Very close, Joel. That’s a pantyliner.”

You felt somewhat like a mother showing a headstrong four-year-old how to copy shapes onto paper. No, darling, that’s a diva cup—and be careful with that crayon. Joel stood and he stewed and, by the look in his eyes, you’d already resigned yourself to another ten minutes of this back-and-forth rummaging at least.

Then you shifted in your seat, pushing your legs down a bit. They rubbed, of course. In spite of the pain that had seized your whole lower half, you felt a sweet, dull pulse.

You stared hard at Joel’s face on-screen to make sure he hadn’t seen it in yours, but damn that friction felt nice.

Sensitivity elevated with the influx of hormones, no doubt, you sat tight and tried to enjoy the feeling on purpose for a moment. You slowly sucked in a breath.

“Aw, hell, there’s just too many’a these damn boxes.”

You flexed your thigh muscles and let out a sigh.

“I don’t know how y’all do it,” Joel grumbled.

Keep looking, Miller. Just keep looking.

Slowly, your hips began to stir, and one small grain of pleasure gave way to a jolt—a twist in the pit of your belly that made the pain less grating. You leaned into it more.

Holding your phone, you could feel when Joel let out a frustrated groan. The sound low and almost enticing.

Wait.

Wait.

“Gross,” you said out loud, half-whispered.

You couldn’t help it. Joel was one of your closest friends; a man who loved beer die, Pall Malls, and Keith Whitley like nobody’s business and gave suffocating bear hugs whenever he was sweaty just to gross you out. You weren’t supposed to find men like that attractive.

But when the grit of his voice was just so nice…

“What?” Joel stopped to look down again.

“What?” you shot back, instantly.

A frown tugged at his lips.

“What’s ‘gross’? Me?”

Not…exactly, no.

More disgusted with yourself than anyone else, you clamped your legs together and shook your head. You tried to swallow, as if the action might suck the pleasure down with it, but the hot, throbbing sensation only grew.

You were practically grinding into the towel that had been stuffed between your thighs when you heard:

“Wings!”

An exceptionally proud Joel displayed a box of extra heavy-duty maxi-pads, with wings. He was grinning.

You weren’t sure if you thanked him next, congratulated the man, or what. You probably strung some words together and tried to return the smile as best you could, but who knew? The next thing you saw was that the line had gone dead, the truck was silent, and all that could be heard above the hum of the engine were your moans.

You braced yourself against the seat and rolled your hips even harder. Out of habit, you caught your lip between your teeth to prevent a louder sound from escaping, but then you remembered there was no one to hear you but you—for now. Your palm pressed flat on the dashboard, your knees squeezed even closer, and your vision flooded with soft, minuscule pinpricks of an all-too-familiar hue.

The only thing new to you here was Joel—the thought of him had never crossed your mind in moments like these.

But now you were closing your eyes, humping the seat with nothing between your body and the old, weathered upholstery but a scrap of fabric. And you were moaning his name. Imagining a face that was littered with coarse, grey stubble—you might’ve teased him for that once or twice before—and lips that were soft. So soft against your own that you wouldn’t think twice if he tried to slip his tongue inside and hold the sides of your face as he filled your cunt to the brim. In fact, Joel’s mouth would be a welcome distraction. Knowing how foul he was in even friendly confab, he’d undoubtedly be whispering the most vile things in your ear while he fucked you.

Reminding you, quietly, that you made such a pretty cocksleeve for him—why didn’t we try this sooner?— and how you’d be the sweetest thing if you just gave his cock another squeeze and made yourself cum all over it.

The mental image of that alone was inducement enough.

You felt a hot, euphoric band of something start to give way inside you. It tightened up, twisted—then snapped. Your mouth fell open and your thighs clenched tighter, grinding desperately in tandem with a pace you’d hoped Joel might’ve set if he were laying there underneath you. You clung to one last thought of him gripping your hips and bruising your walls with the force of his cock driving in and out, over and over again until, eventually, his cum was leaking out through each fluid thrusting movement. It was all your body could take, conjuring thoughts of his load spilling into you and onto him in warm, wet, sticky—

Whistling.

Someone was whistling outside. Walking up to the truck.

You were still coming down from the staggering heights of your climax when the driver’s side door swung open. You blinked furiously, as though to drive all the filth and depravity and need from your eyes before he could see.

It didn’t matter.

Joel was too amped up off a white plastic baggy to be concerned with much else as he plopped down beside you and smiled—beamed, really. Completely oblivious.

Your extremities were still twitching with the residuum of bliss when he reached for your hand. His eyes somehow warmer than they’d been all that day, they sparkled and shone and crinkled at the corners in a way that seemed to say the words before his mouth had uttered a sound.

“I got three boxes to be safe…”

Joel was really too sweet.

“…and some chocolate for your cramps…”

Always so considerate.

“…and you look real pretty when you cum, by the way.”

This motherfucker.

[plussizefantasia]

Troubled Hearts

Read parts One and Two here: Fluttering Hearts Unsure Hearts

Warnings: guy being creepy, threats of violence, drinking (not reader) we're getting into the angst here guys sorry

a/n: hi, hello, I'm alive sorry for falling off the face of the planet. When I went to go grab the link for part two I realized that I hadn't updated this story since JANUARY!?!?! here is my formal apology: sorry. My goal is to have parts four and five up sometime this month so I can be ready to jump into CozyTober when it starts. Anyway, much love I hope y'all are still interested in the story if not I understand.

Kili Durin x Human!Soulmate!reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Kili must hate himself, there is no other reason for why he’s putting himself through this. Months have passed since you had kind of sort of opened up to him and he couldn’t get you to do it again. He’d been spending his nights the same way, a constant presence at the bar. No matter the weather, the dwarf prince would be posted up on a stool. He slowly sipped the same pint throughout the entire evening and his eyes followed you like a hawk. 

You would have thought that his attentions would have waned by now, you’ve been busy with the bar, Brant unable to keep up in his old age. You figure that he was letting you take control. You never really planned to set down roots in Dale, it was supposed to simply be a stop on your journey. 

You had stumbled into the town late one evening and needed a place to stay, despite the tavern not being an inn and not technically having an extra room, Brant was kind enough to let you stay for the night, as long as you worked it off the next day. One night turned into a week, turned into a month and you realized just how much you enjoyed working at the tavern.

You enjoyed feeling needed, even if it was just to refill someone’s glass. You enjoyed putting in effort and watching yourself get better at all the different skills necessary for a place like this, and you enjoyed the subtle anonymity of it all. Nobody really knew why you were there and nobody had really asked either. Your past didn’t follow you and if you were lucky it never would. You had worked hard and carved out a little life for yourself here, a life that you loved.

Well, a life that you loved most of the time. Up until those nights when every man was just a little too drunk, every woman glared just a little too much and your skin felt just a little too wrong on your body. You did your best to let it all fall off your back, to push through and let yourself be lost in your work but you didn’t always succeed.

You were not sure what hour of the night it was, it seemed that within these four walls, time flew and stood still all at once. What you did know however was that you were getting sick of Roland’s jeers and jibes. You were sure that it was his way of flirting, but you had never really ascribed to the type of flirting where you tore the other person down in the hopes that they begged you to build them back up. Roland was a dick. It was as simple as that and if he thought he had a chance with you he was sorely mistaken.

He had yet to get that through his thick skull though. You balanced a tray of pints above your head with one hand and a tray of food in the other. You expertly wove in between patrons, making your way to the back where Roland and his men often gathered.

“Ah, here she is. Lovely lady with a body to match.” He didn’t wait for you to place the tray down on the tabletop next to him. He just reached his arm around your waist and pulled you closer to him. His hand digging into the flesh there and making you move towards him to try and get away.

“What do you think lads? Don’t we make a pretty picture?” There were slight nods from the men around you, most of them had eyes only for the ale you were still holding. You noticed that this was often the case. Roland spoke and told stories, he was loud but nobody ever really listened to him.

“I think… that I have more work to do so if you would kindly remove your arm from my waist…” You looked at him, arching an eyebrow. “Before I have to remove it for you.” 

He chuckled deeply in his throat but followed your instruction and released you.

“Alright Gents, here are your pints and your pies, anything else for tonight?” Nobody spoke up, except for a few mutters of thanks. “Well, you know where to find me if that changes.”

You made your way back up to the front of house, sliding behind your bar and releasing a deep breath.

“I don’t understand how you do it.” You look up and into the eyes of the dwarf who just spoke.

“Do what Kili?”

“How you let him treat you like… that like you belong to him.”

You bristle at this. “I belong to nobody but myself Your Highness.”

“I know this, and you know this, but the brute doesn't seem to get it.”

“The brute is manageable Kili, he and his friends give this place far too much business for me to be anything less than civil with them.”

“Civil is fine, I just don’t wish to see you get hurt.”

“I appreciate that Kee, but I can handle myself.” 

“I never thought you couldn’t, I just want you to know that you don’t have to handle everything on your own.”

“I’ve been on my own for a long time, it's not easy to give that up.” You see a customer flag you down a few tables away. “Know this, my dwarf prince, should I need protecting… you’re the one I’d ask.” You smile at Kili and pass him offering him a small smile as you get back to work.

The night continues much the same, people come and go. The group in the back gets steadily more rowdy and you glance at the clock every once in a while hoping that the hands will have moved further than they have.

You serve food and drink to several patrons throughout the night, most kind some not as much. You were being truthful with Kili when you had told him you’d come to him. You just didn't think you’d ever need to. Your past wasn't the nicest and you’d quickly learned to take care of yourself because the people who are supposed to take care of you won’t always be there when you need them to be.

The time flew by faster than you’d thought, you’d apparently been lost inside your head for most of the night. The only light was that of the candles on each table and the fireplace next to the kitchen which was miraculously still lit. You’re not sure how, it's your job to keep it going and you know that you hadn’t stoked it all night. 

The darkness outside creeps into the space and more and more people begin their journey home. All your regulars settle with you or get glared at for their insistence that they’ll pay up next time. Eventually the space empties… mostly. Roland and his friends have settled a little but they still sit vigil in the back of the space, you lost count of how many rounds they’ve had but none of them are belligerent so it couldn’t have been more than eight. 

“Y/N, Another!” One of his comrades yells toward you. You forget his name, Roland’s never-ending cycle of yes men made it difficult to learn names, so at some point, you’d stopped trying.

���I don’t know if you Gent’s noticed, but we’re closed. Go home, I’m sure your wives are wondering where you are.”

“What the old lady doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” The same man yelled out, his remark setting off a burst of laughter from his buddies.

“Come Y/N, one more round and we’ll leave when we’re done.” Roland turned his body to face you and what you imagine to be his attempt at a suave smirk graced his face. 

“Sorry boys, but closed means closed, settle your tabs and go home.” You roll your eyes at the grumbling and whining that come from the group of grown men but do not sway in your decision. One by one they come and hand you some coin, some thank you and some say nothing but all of them leave as they were told.

Roland is the last to come up, as he so often is. “I don’t know why you spend so much time here, if you were mine you’d not have to work one more day in this place.”

“Well, I’m not yours and I like working here.” You place your hand on your hips and cock one out to the side. 

“Yet.” Roland leans over the bar and licks his lips. You lean back in order to put distance between your face and his. 

“Not ever.” You firmly reply. “I am your barmaid nothing more, the sooner you get that the sooner you can move on wooing the other ladies this wonderful town has to offer.”

“Ah, but none of these other ladies stir me as much as you do.” His grin becomes sharper and he moves even closer to you. 

The space behind the bar isn’t very large, big enough for one person really, and with how far he’s leaning you can feel your back brushing against the shelves behind you. 

“The only thing I want from you Roland is payment for your tab and for you to leave.” Your voice carried the weariness that was creeping into your heart, men like Roland rarely took no for an answer. You didn’t want to have to hurt him, it would be hard to explain. 

“Such harsh words darling, I promise I’m not nearly as bad as you think I am.” He reached forward and grasped your wrist. You pulled away instinctively and his grip hardened. “I think you might even like it.” Your face screwed up and you bared your teeth ready to rip out of his hold.

“Get your hand off her.”

Your head whipped to the voice. Kili. Why was he still here? How long had he been here? How much had he seen?

“Piss off runt, this is between me and the lady.” Roland didn’t move his eyes away from you.

“Remove your hand from my One or lose it, you oaf.” Kili growled from the corner of the room. The sharp sound of metal reverberated from the space and if you thought the rage on Kili’s face was intense, it was even more striking with a sword in his grip.

Both you and Roland were looking at the dwarf now. Your lips had parted and your eyes widened. Not only because you were sure blood would be spilled tonight but because of what Kili said. A thousand thoughts ran through your head all in the same second. You had to shake yourself back to the present.

Roland’s grip on your wrist slacked a bit and you took the opportunity to bring your arm to your chest. Your eyes bounced between the two men. You looked around behind the counter, searching desperately for something you could use. You let out a breath when you caught sight of the wooden handle resting on top of a wet rag.

“Pay the lady and leave, like she asked.” Kili took a step closer to the brute his posture reminding you of a coiled snake, muscles tight underneath his skin and ready to strike. 

“I do not take orders from dwarves.” Roland’s voice had deepened, his frustration bleeding through into every syllable. His hand reached out towards the axe holstered on his belt.

“You will either leave here with your dignity, or you will not leave at all. That I can be sure of.”

“Mighty words for an imp.” Roland pulled his axe from his belt and took a step towards Kili. As much as you might like to see the two fight, and you really did.  You needed to stop this before it started. 

You grasped the knife that had been lying on the towel and firmly drove it into the counter in front of you. The noise stopped both men in their tracks and they turned their heads to you, not yet dropping their battle stances.

“Enough. I will not be cleaning any blood off these walls tonight. Roland, you're drunk and daft-  a combination no woman in her right mind would want. Leave and don’t show your face here again. There are plenty of other places to drink, choose one.” You look into his eyes as you rip the knife from the wood, pointing it towards him and gesturing towards the door. 

He grumbles but holsters his axe and begins to leave.

“Oaf, you forget something?” Kili called out to him. You cut your eyes to the dark-haired prince narrowing your gaze on him. “Or are you the type of man to run out on his debt?” 

Roland turns slowly and his hand flexes by his side. He takes a large breath before grabbing a small leather bundle from his coat pocket and throwing it up on the counter. Kili smirks and nods his head. 

Roland lets out a low growl but continues on his path, pushing past the doors and onto the street. You don’t move until he turns the corner. At which point you deflate. Your head falls forward like a puppet without strings and you take a deep breath to soothe your racing heart.

“What was that?” Your question, head still bowed.

“What?” Kili takes a step toward you and you shoot up.

“What was that Kili!?” Your chest heaves with every breath you take. “I had it handled, I don’t need you coming in here and threatening people!”

“He put his hands on you!” Kili shouts.

“So you pull your sword?! I do not need a bodyguard Kili let alone one with a temper as bad as yours.” You throw your hand up and drag one across your forehead. “Know this, Your Highness, I have no intention of being claimed by you.” Kili’s eyes grow wide and he opens his mouth to speak, “Do not think I don’t know what a One is, I have traveled these lands for a very long time.” You interrupt him. “I have been claimed by far too many men far too many times, I told you, I belong to nobody but myself now. Do you understand?” You look into his eyes, waiting for a response.

“I have no intention of claiming you, I simply wish to share my life with you.” 

“That is very sweet Kili, but you don’t me. You cannot possibly wish to spend your life with me.”

“Then let me get to know you.” He pleads, “I have never felt like this before.” He takes several steps towards you, pulling your hand into his own and looking up into your eyes. “They say that being with your One is the greatest joy a dwarrow can know. I have had a taste now, being in your space, speaking with you, hearing your laugh, and seeing you smile. It has made me feel more alive than any battle and made my heart more full than it has ever been. I will not force you into anything, I care for you too much for that but I will plead with you. Please amralime, give me a chance to make you as happy as you make me. Let me stay by your side and know you not just as a friend but as a partner, through all things.”

His words steal the breath from your lungs and the beat from your heart. They make you feel like you're flying and sinking all at the same time. There is a part of you, deep down that is screaming for you to give in, to let him love you. 

“Kili I-” You pause, “I am tired. Tired of a great many things. I-I I think you should go.” You turn from him and blink back the tears that flood your eyes. You hear him sigh followed by the creek of the floorboard he stands on as he shifts his weight. He does not speak though, simply drops his arm from where it had been holding your hand and makes his way to the door. 

You hear it open and your shoulders tense, the chill air floods into the room and nips at your skin. Then the door shuts and you're alone. Not for the first time, you question if this really is all for the best.

taglist: @bunnybabe-babydoll @kokochanel111 @shiinata-library @oneiratxxia10 @targaryenteam @sunnysidesidra @shadowrose13-blog1-blog1

[sketches4mysw33theart]

To Indeed Be A God

The title has almost no bearing whatsoever on the writing, I'm just obsessed with the Dead Poets Society right now.

Pairing: Henry Winter (The Secret History)

Summary: A drowsy morning at the country house with Henry Winter involves a row around the lake, a breakfast picnic, and falling asleep in the boat.

Warnings: Google translated phrases, please let me know if these are wrong!

Check out my previous Henry Winter piece!

I awoke to a throbbing in my head, a contrasting harmony to the soft twittering of birds floating in through the open window. I couldn’t resist the groan that forced its way from my mouth. It felt as though my head was being split open repeatedly, like a misguided executioner was standing at the head of my bed and swinging an unsharpened axe.  

It was several moments before I moved at all after I had rolled over, my body feeling scarily heavy yet weightless at the same time. I had little desire to so much as breathe manually, let alone open my eyes and face the merciless joy of the sunlight.  

As I lay there, eyes closed firmly, hands grasping the thin silk duvet, flashes of the previous night came to me as though through a camera’s lens.  

The dinner, a large affair to mourn the passing of the twin’s beloved dog. The wine sloshing in the Abernathy’s prized crystal wine glasses. Those same glasses raised in multiple toasts and clinking together like blood-soaked moths in the candlelight. Charles at the piano playing melodies of sweet summers past. The bottle of Bourbon passed between us without a care for tumblers. Francis plucking Camilla from the armchair she had curled herself up in to stumble around the library in a clunky dance. Bunny’s face, lined with confusion and acidity, watching us all through rolling eyes. Richard’s reflection, gaping at the chandelier-lit room through dazed eyes, as I stared out of the window, looking for stars but finding only my own distorted face.  

And Henry, tall and proud and stoic and quiet. Him I could picture clearly, as sharp and focused as a still life portrait. He’d drank as much as us, more, yet he’d never fizzed over like we did. Only watched from the sofa as we exploded like fireworks, flashing reds and yellows reflected twofold in the whites of his eyes through his glasses.  

Then, me falling into place beside him, head spinning in dizzying circles even as I laid it back on the plush sofa cushions with my eyes shut, light popping behind my eyelids.  

Then, him whispering to me, the soft, cold anchoring of his deep voice, but either I couldn’t tell what he was saying, or I was not in tune enough to listen.  

Then, I was there, waking up in bed. 

I opened my eyes when the pounding in my head began to lessen, allowing the bird song to wash over me rather than suffocate me. The thick curtains were open, weak sunlight creeping across the oak floor and furnishings, lighting them up like whisky. It was cool, that early morning chill before the last of the lingering summer heat could settle in again.  

I watched the floor for several minutes, praying for my headache to cease. Of course, praying never did anyone much good. Henry would be disappointed.  

I didn’t have a clock in the room I stayed in during nights at the country house. Francis’s great aunt, whose room that used to be, couldn’t stand them. She felt they made her rush.  

Still, I could guess it was early. There was no noise. Francis wasn’t singing in the kitchen as he made breakfast, Charles and Camilla weren’t bickering meaninglessly in the depths of the house, Bunny wasn’t honking his laugh at some ridiculous jibe. There was nothing except pure tranquillity.  

I knew of one other person, for certain, who would be up so early. That was motivation enough to get out of bed. Still, it was a struggle. My body fought it as I sat up, pushed myself to my feet, scrabbled through my bag for clothes, and checked myself over in the mirror to make sure I looked presentable. 

Finally, I exited the room, closing the door with a soft click behind me. The hallway was quiet, eerily so, and I paced down it, focusing on the soft, luxurious carpet against my bare feet over the pounding of my head. 

On the stairs at the end of the hallway, Francis was curled up, still fully dressed, like a small child unable to stay conscious on a drive back from the beach, snoring obnoxiously and fiercely cuddling a near-empty bottle of whiskey. His overcoat tails were tangled between his bent legs, pale, slender ankles poking out conspicuously from his half pulled-off socks. In the country house, this was not an uncommon occurrence. 

I clambered over him, trying not to catch his limbs or face with my foot. As though sensing my presence as he slumbered, Francis uncurled his body, spreading himself out across several steps and out of the way of my bare feet. Smiling, I leant down to pat him gently on the cheek, careful not to disturb him. He looked incredibly peaceful, for once.  

I left Francis on the stairs, snoring in the shadows of the half-shuttered windows, and headed towards the library. There was a fair chance Henry would be there and, if not, I would likely spot him on my way over. 

As expected, it did not take me long. Henry valued the morning hours, the weak light illuminating the thick pages of his books, the quietness of a dawn tainted only by the songs of the birds.  

He was sat outside, of course, fully dressed, a suited silhouette through the ornate glass doors, a splatter of ink against the canvas of autumn. Although I pushed open the doors as softly as I could, his head shot up as soon as it began to squeak. 

“Good morning,” he said, with a smile. “Drink up.” A slight gesture of his hand brought to my attention a full glass of water and a sleeve of ibuprofen sparkling in the cool, creeping light. 

“Good morning,” I mumbled, fumbling with the package in my desperation to push out two of the pills. When I managed to do so, I swallowed them quickly with a large gulp of water, which I drained gladly straight after.  

Once I’d swiped at my lips, I took the few steps to his seat. Standing behind him, I rested my hands on his broad shoulders and bent down to press a kiss to his cheek. I caught the smile on his face, which did little to lessen the furrow of his brow. 

“How’s the translation going?” 

This question elicited a heavy sigh from him. “It’s all wrong, unfortunately. The verbs won’t translate well, and these sentence structures are ridiculously tricky.” 

“Boreís na to káneis éfkola agápi mou,” I breathed into his ear, bringing my fingertips to his sharp shoulder blades. You can do it easily, my love. 

He laughed. “Óchi ótan eísai étsi, den boró.” Not when you’re like this, I can’t. 

I hummed humorously, spreading my massaging fingertips along his taut shoulders. Spread out before us was the house’s garden, as pure and fierce as Eden, coming swiftly to life in front of my eyes. The sun was just emerging, lingering in the far east like God, watching His creations come to life as on the seventh day. Henry was watching it too, finally relieving himself of his books in favour of the glitter of the autumnal flowers, Gomphrena and Didiscus and Goldenrod. 

It wasn’t often I was up early enough to catch Henry on mornings like this. Despite our circumstances, we never shared a bed during our stays at the country house, primarily because Henry didn’t want to disturb me during our short vacations, or so he said. But also, because, I believe, he was rather shy about our activities around the rest of the Greek class. They knew, of course – we were never as subtle as we thought - but, still, there was something prudish lying within Henry. Or perhaps it was possessive. Not that it matters now, I suppose. 

“Let’s go to the lake,” he said, suddenly, startling me from my observance of a large bee bumbling its way drunkenly through a flowerbed.  

“Now?” I questioned, surprised. Henry enjoyed the mornings because of the quiet solitude they offered him, the time to be alone with his books and his papers. Things he valued even more, I think, than me. 

“Would you like to?”  

I was still sleepy, even more so after taking the ibuprofen Henry had laid out. Still, I could picture how lovely it would be: the drowsy, sun-laced walk through the dandelions and uncut grasses, the heady smell of nature flourishing around us, the somniferous sound of waves lapping at the gently rocking boat, the mesmerizing feeling of floating on air. 

“Yes,” I said, “I would, actually.” Henry was always confidently persuasive. Eerily so. Not that I would have needed much persuading, really. I just liked to think there was something magic about him.  

He sighed, stretching out his aching limbs as he got to his feet. Pre-emptively, he removed his jacket and folded it meticulously, leaving it on the seat of his chair. “Good. Perhaps we should take breakfast with us?” 

It was a wonderful idea, and we slipped back inside to prepare a breakfast picnic: a full bottle of orange juice, a half-full stoppered bottle of champagne left over from the previous night, a package of strawberries, a selection of pastries bought from Camilla’s favourite bakery on our way to the country house the previous morning, and a packet of large blueberry muffins.  

With our breakfast packed in an old wicker basket, we set off into the morning sun, meandering through the budding flowers and tall grasses, clasped arm in arm. It wasn’t a particularly long walk to the lake, but we lingered meaninglessly on the way, I to admire the nature and wildlife, and Henry to momentarily relieve his arm of the picnic basket and watch me with a smile when he thought I couldn’t see him. 

Eventually, we made it, and eagerly hopped into the lonesome boat oared at the makeshift jetty, picnic basket still in hand. Considering it was so early, Henry was alive with vigour, and rowed eagerly, pushing us quickly to the centre of the lake. He had been somewhat withdrawn over the last few weeks, particularly during our days at the country house, so seeing him come to life among the falling birch leaves was a gift.  

We covered one lap of the lake at a fairly quick pace, talking about our latest classes, Julian’s theory of Dionysiac architects (which was, essentially, that the secret language they spoke was more akin to modern day English than any other language throughout history), and the startling resemblance that morning of the pond and surrounding countryside to Jan Brueghel the Elder’s ‘Odysseus and Calypso’ - one of my favourite paintings.  

Henry slowed as we began our second lap of the lake, and I watched his concentrated expression in the water’s reflection.  

“Aren’t you tired?” I was feeling a little peppier now, despite the rhythmic sound of the waves lapping gently at the boat, and I knew Henry had been up significantly longer than I had. “Can I take over?”  

“No, you don’t have to do anything.” I was still watching him in the warped shine of the water, and he caught my eye through the fairy-dust covering of birch leaves. “Just sit right there and look like you do.” A smile flittered across his face briefly, and I shook my head, laughing.  

“If you say so,” I said, still laughing. Henry rowed on and began to fill the silence with his stream of thoughts on Heraclitus’ ideas of opposites, and how the philosopher decreed Hades and Dionysus as the same God, a belief Henry was strongly against. Occasionally he’d break his speech to mumble a suggestion for his translation, which he no doubt tucked away into another corner of his mind for later. 

At some point, I lay back across the seat of the boat, head coming to rest on the lip, one hand stretching over to trail in the lukewarm water. Francis had said once that one of the neighbours had seen leeches in the lake, and Bunny always swore blind that there were water snakes in there. Yet, still, we all went out on it as often as we could, swimming and fighting and trailing our hands through the ripples.  

Listening to Henry speak tantrically and feeling the warm water kiss my fingertips was as delicious and satisfying as being carried in Charon’s boat across the rivers separating the worlds of the living and the dead. I wanted it to last forever. The best kind of purgatory. Psuche. 

But eventually, we did come to a stop, once Henry, with some difficulty, had managed to turn the boat and situate it towards the centre of the lake. I sat up and stretched, groaning at the creak of my bones.  

As I heaved the picnic basket up on to the seat, Henry balanced the oars properly, wiped at his brow, and rolled up his sleeves, eying the cutlery and plates I was laying out. He must have been starving.  

I looked to him to ask if he had any preference for pastries as I began doling out them onto our plates, but the question died on my lips when I saw a constellation of bruises flowering in a strange pattern along his freshly revealed arm. They were fresh, a shocking purple tinted with red. 

“Henry,” I exclaimed, croissant held in one frozen hand. “What in God’s name have you been doing?” 

He furrowed his brows at me, following my eye line quickly. I saw him flounder for a moment, but in a flash, he was as composed as the Queen’s Guard.  

“Don’t fuss, it’s nothing. I fell in the garden yesterday morning, those damn dogs left more garbage on my front path. Is that for me?” 

I believed him, of course. It was a perfectly sensible answer, and certainly not the first time something like that had happened. If only I’d known... 

I gave him the croissant, and finished plating up the food as he poured two Mimosas into the old teacups we’d packed, using far more champagne than orange juice. We ate in a comfortable silence, broken sporadically by random thoughts and anecdotes; we were both slipping into fatigue once more now the sun was fully risen, not too warm against our skin, and the inebriating smells of flowers and the birch trees were reaching out to us, woody and smoky like winter night’s gone by.  

Four Mimosa’s later (between us), we had finished our breakfast, and were lying, nearly unconscious, in the boat, which was very slowly bobbing its own way around the lake once more. Henry was stretched out completely, arms acting as a pillow, and I was tucked in on my side next to him, resting my head on the broad stretch between his shoulder and chest. 

God knows how long we stayed there in the boat, moving listlessly without direction or need, bumping lightly against the bank until one of us made the effort to lift a foot and push us away, listening to the birds' tweet and fly above us, feeling the gentle caress of the birch leaves across her skin, hearing the soft intermingling of our breaths just over the gently lapping water as it granted us passage, seeing the shades of light and dark through the shield of our eyelids. Zoe. The divine life of God. 

When we were roused, the air, the very nature around us felt different, alive, charged. The sun was crawling towards the centre of the sky, but several dark clouds were on its heels. Hours must have passed.  

I came back to life first, awaking as though from death’s sleep, drowsy and confused. What came to me, however, was the distant call of my name, the familiar cadence of the voice. Francis. It was Francis.  

As his shouting got closer and slightly more frantic, I pushed myself up with one hand braced against the smooth wood of the boat’s sole, using the other to first wipe the sleep from my eyes and then shield them from the sun.  

Francis was on the far bank, heading towards the small jetty, and waving his arms as though welcoming in a plane. He was, I noticed with some amusement, still wearing the same clothes he was in when I’d stepped over him that morning. I waved my free hand at him, and he shouted my name again. “Are you insane? We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Is Henry with you? It’s gone 12, you know.” 

I couldn’t muster up the energy to respond to him, but I did lay a hand on Henry’s shoulder to shake him awake. With a bit of resistance, he came to, and sat up in the same sluggish manner as me, stretching out his arms, back, and neck. 

Francis called to him now. “Henry? Henry! Bring the damn boat in, will you? Julian’s coming to dinner tonight, and I need everything to be ready.” 

Henry waved his fingers at him, a dismissive acknowledgement, a king sending away a disobedient courtier. Finally, he opened his eyes, landing his gaze directly on me. He smiled, pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth so quickly I did not have time to respond. “Piso ston politismó,” he said lowly, a melancholy look setting in his features. Back to civilization.  

He situated himself carefully on the seat while I stayed where I was watching him like I was at the feet of one the post-Socratics. He picked up the oars once more and started rowing us back to bios. Back to life. 

[altcvnningham]

shotgun

adler x f!bell

summary: quick rough drabble inspired by this post, a little by this post, probably should look at the first one for picture reference bc damn it’s confusing to write read on ao3

tags/cw: established adlerbell, f!bell, she/her pronouns, cold war era, shotgunning/smoking, but bell doesn’t, adler is a nasty meanie and makes her wc: 450~

a/n: my brain wouldn’t let me sleep until i wrote it so i wrote it. small, messy, barely edited . bon apetit sickos

“Adler,” she winces, her hands wrenched around the thick forearm he deftly curls around her, locking her in place against him. The chafing of his leather jacket pinches against her back as he presses his chest into her from behind, pinning her hips forward into the darkroom table. She whimpers, neck straining to turn her head away. “Adler- stop.”

But he doesn’t listen- doesn’t much care to, the scruff of his jaw nuzzling catlike against her soft cheek, sandpaper and velvet. He presses a smirking kiss to the corner of her mouth, pursed tightly in her refusal to humour his stupid game, while his hand steadies her head for him to continue his teasing assault. His cigarette, half-smoked, stays perched in that hand as he stamps a kiss upon her cheek, flushed red and seared hot with her embarrassment.

“C’mon, Bell,” he croons, turning her face with a firm hand to look his way. She resists at every point, just as he'd expected her to. He’ll give it to her, she’s stubborn- just how he likes her, he supposes.

He smooths back her hair, cigarette still in hand, then tightens his forearm around her as he brings it towards himself. A mocking jibe as he goes.

“You’re a big girl, aren’t you? You can take it.”

“I don’t want it,” she whines, a shake of her head made stiff and rigid as he presses his temple tight against hers; with a flinch of her watery eyes she watches as his hand comes around her face, towards his own, slowly pulling the cigarette into his mouth much too close to hers.

The smell is acrid, burns to even breathe in, yet she can’t deny the sobered part of her that yowls its craving for it, her system clean of nicotine now for… how long? A few weeks- no- months? Actually, when did she stop? She could have sworn it wasn’t long ago she’d been perched beneath a rain sheltered overpass, smoke in hand as she watched city lights glint in the distance… but where? When?

She’s awarded little time to mull it over before Adler’s face is squashed too close to her own, cheek to cheek and his mouth a hairs-width from breaking the corner of her lips as he lodges the cigarette between his own. It’s a cruel joke, she thinks, the way he goads her, corners her, bends her boundaries all pliable to his liking- Adler’s way of staking some nasty, childish claim over her, she reckons.

A shame then, that she doesn’t half mind it. A shame, when he takes a drag, slow and deep, then turns his head towards hers to pry her lips apart with his thumb, open her mouth, and bitterly exhale the smoke inside.

[six-eyed-samurai]

HEHEHEHEH >:3 all im saying is rindou x popular!reader? like bratty and full of herself. REGINA GEORGE. REGINA GEORGE READER. but not actually

SORRY IF THIS IS CONFUSING I JUST WANNA KNOW WHATYOU THINK AND IF YOURE WILLING TO WRITE IT OK LOVE YOU MWAH MWAH MY WHIPPED CREAM ON TOP OF THE PERFECTLY WARM HOT COCOA WITH THE SMALL BUT REALLY TASTY MARSHMALLOWS <3 (almost typed mushrooms LMAAOO)

A/N: PLEB MY BELOVED TERIYAKI PEACH I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK ME SO LONG YOU ALREADY KNOW MY EXAMS AND SHIT BUT RAAAAAH ALSO I NEVER WATCHED MEAN GIRLS (the number of people about to murder me rn) SO I HOPE I'M ACCURATE, PLEASE ENJOY IN RETURN FOR THE VIP I LOVE YOU TO PLUTO AND BACK (Did someone say mushrooms? Well, I am a fun-guy- get it? GET IT?!) WARNINGS: Swearing and breaking the fourth wall. Nowhere says the Haitani brothers attend high school, but nowhere also says they don't, so here they do.

🌸First of all, let this be known that the one and only Haitani Ran came up with that title and is responsible for the whole story below (or so he claims, because I did about 80% of the work typing this out).

🌸Anyways.

🌸You meeting each other was probably inevitable - the Haitani brothers the head delinquents of Roppongi, you the literal head of every single popular girl clique.

🌸Do you hit off at once? Absolutely not. You made a very cutting comment about Rindou’s hair, even after your terrified girlfriends (minions) warned you about who he was and similarly Rindou called you a wannabe with fake Prada and your makeup was smudged.

🌸What a great start to a friendship! From that day onwards every time you both caught side of each other it was snarky jab after snarky jab at each other’s hair, clothes, shoes, speech, grades, lunch, anything you both could think of.

🌸Rindou hates you because you’re just such a prissy, spoilt princess brat with hella nice hair. You just hate him because who does he think he is to insult your fashion taste? So what if he’s a total bad boy delinquent? What about it?

🌸Ran thinks it’s hilarious. Rindou cannot not talk about you even when you’re not around, even if it’s just the repetitive complaints of your usual petty annoyingness, and gee, Rin-Rin, are you really that obsessed with them that you even still think about what colour their nail polish are in the middle of a fight? It’s almost worth missing a nap, Ran decides, when he can record Rindou spluttering out protests and declarations that you’re the ugliest, nastiest girl he’s ever met.

[Ran turns the camera to his face] I think my brother is a kindergartener afraid that girls have cooties. Sigh, he was supposed to be the more mature of the two of us.

🌸Even your traitorous girl clique were shipping you both! Even after you told them to shut up! Ugh! You don’t need them to stalk out his socials, you don’t need them yammering about how you always greet him in the corridors (”Did a dog shit on your shoes, Haitani?”), you don’t need them taking pictures/photoshopping you both together. Just, ew.

🌸Once again, so what if both your rivalry was turning into a…really weird obsession?

🌸You were pretty sure you hated Rindou with a burning passion, but one day you caught yourself studying your figure in the mirror, judging - judging?! - your own outfit by his standards: what sort of comments would he make this time? Is he going to jibe that you had finally found a skirt shorter than you? Are you actually wondering if he’d like it?!

🌸You CANNOT be seriously breaking one of the sacred rules of no pink on Wednesdays right now either just because Rindou had once made a muttered remark this being the only thing that looked good on you.

🌸Rindou was quite certain as well that if he could, he’d run a bus over your snobby ass but…here he was, cringing at whatever made him stop by the roadside asking if you needed a ride home since it was raining. Not because he cared or whatever. He hoped you got soaked to the bone sitting on the back of his motorbike. And that your hair gets messed up from wearing his helmet.

🌸You treating him to the boba cafe that nearly opened the next day was also strictly returning a favor so you didn’t have to owe your biggest nemesis. In fact, HE should owe you for making you wash his stupid jacket that he had forced you to wear that night as protection from the storm.

🌸Rindou sasses you right back, but yes, he supposes he owes you another drink. And another. And another. And another.

🌸At this point it’s so obvious the only reason none of you have admitted you’re practically dating already is because of your egos and reputations.

🌸That is, until one day when you’re strolling home by yourself and scrolling on your phone to scoff at Rindou liking your latest photo, A FEW DAYS AFTER YOU POSTED, you’re cornered by several members of a gang with a grudge to settle with the Haitani brothers - what better way to do so than to target Rindou’s girlfriend (see, if they were targeting Ran, they’d have to target every girl in the neighborhood, playboy that he is).

🌸Now you might be a prissy mean girl but that don’t mean you can’t kick ass physically. One of them made the stupid mistake of trying to grab your arm and EW, WRECKED YOUR NAILS? You slapped him pretty hard for that…and the rest too, with your new handbag, which made you even more pissed off, because hello, that shit was designer?!

🌸Also, congratulations, you've managed to make them all extremely self conscious while unconscious with your jibes about their appearances.

🌸Unfortunately that can't help you when more of them show up and you're outnumbered. At least you're going out with a bang…but not in the way you think when Rindou’s motorbike suddenly plows through them, engines revving, an irritated expression on his face.

“The only one who gets to piss my girlfriend off is me, so hands off.”

🌸Most people would've thanked him once he was finished knocking them all out but you immediately start berating him for taking so long in arriving.

”You really took your sweet time driving here, so of course I just decided to head home myself! I didn't need you to accompany me!”

He rolls his eyes because if he ignores your ungratefulness he can see your fingers trembling as you picked the items fallen from your bag, evidence of you still being shaken up. This (bratty) behaviour was just your…coping mechanism? Or maybe just typical you. “Then how'd you get surrounded so easily?”

“How was I to know people wanna beat me up today?!”

“You know what, stuff it and get on the bike. I'm taking you home whether you want me to or not.”

You stuff it and get on the bike. Rindou only uses that tone when he's worried.

🌸Aaand then it's only when you're on your doorstep do you realize what he had said.

🌸Rindou sees you frozen and raises an eyebrow. “What is it this time?”

“You called me your girlfriend.”

“So I did. You're not? Aren't we going on dates and everything? Sorry, “outings just between the two of us”?”

“We never talked it out or agreed on anything official!”

“I didn't know we needed to file a form and get a stamp of approval in order to go out.”

“OMG, you're so annoying I can't even - fine, I’ll…be your girlfriend. The moment you get a better haircut.”

…

“WIPE THAT SMIRK OFF YOUR FACE! Ugh, gotta go redo my makeup now.”

“Stop talking about my hair then, before you look at yours.”

He's still smirking as he leaves.

🌸So now Rindou has not one but two divas in his life. He can't decide which of you is the lesser evil, because on one hand he has Ran killing his wallet with all his dye jobs and on the other you're demanding his wallet for that new pair of heels he's pretty sure will break in less than a day.

🌸What are dates like? You dragging him off to clothing/shoes/jewelry stores, mall dates where you empty him of all cash on dessert and boba, going to the latest trending cafe while you judge everyone around you, spill all the gossip at school and naturally, talk about yourself (Rindou secretly eats your cake and zones out when the last one happens).

🌸If you've seen that reel of someone digging a hole in their cake to secretly reach the other person's cake…you know what Rindou does now.

🌸However both you and Rindou's favourite kind of date is when you're just driving around aimlessly in your shiny sports car with the wind blowing through the windows and the only fights are over your music choices: popular ones from Instagram (you) and whatever strikes Rindou's fancy.

🌸Has Ran attempted to gatecrash your dates and plead to drive your car? Absolutely. Have you let him? No. It's one of the few things you and Rindou agree on.

🌸You can be pretty annoying with that full of yourself attitude, “camera eats first!” mindset and double meaning words, but it's only annoying because Rindou has to go clean up your messes and apologize - apologize - to whoever was dumb enough to incur your wrath lest you get into trouble (for the millionth time). You'd never admit it, but you'd stopped directing any of that bxxchiness at him a long time ago.

🌸For anyone that did something wrong to Rindou though? Hell hath no fury like a woman with an ego bigger than Jupiter and a protective instinct for her man.

🌸If Japan has prom, you both would be crowned king and queen. If someone's hosting a party, you both would be the ones rocking the dance floor. If any of this happened, it's because you forced Rindou and he can't say no, however much he grumbles.

🌸First kiss was probably during some heated argument in front of everyone and Rindou claims he only instigated it because he wanted to shut you up. You reveled in the gossip that came with such a scandalous affair but yes, he took you very aback with the “Because I love you, dumbass?!”

🌸(Ran recorded everything and posted it on his super secret fan account following his favorite crack ship, the two of you.)

🌸Rindou doesn’t strike me as the jealous type. He KNOWS, however full of shit you are, you ain’t going to leave him for any of those losers just staring at your ass. To him they’re just minor annoyances, like flies - bothersome, but easily dealt with. Besides, who’s crazy enough to take THE Haitani’s girlfriend?

🌸You don’t get jealous much either, or so you claim. It’s quickly proven false whenever you snap spitefully at any girl who dares to lay a manicured hand on him - you won’t even tolerate your own girlfriends. You’re proud of the fact he’s so attractive, but that makes you even more possessive, because some deep, dark, insecure part of you is afraid he’d leave you for a similar girl, because surely there’s no difference between you and them. Just petty, bratty, arrogant mean girls.

🌸”I’m just going to get this tattooed on you, because for the hundredth time, sweetheart, I’m not going to leave you for some airhead bimbo. You’re more than just a face, and yeah, you really need to get off your high horse sometimes, but I’m still here, aren’t I?”

🌸The sappy moment is ruined when you sniffle and slap him lightly for making you cry and ruin your mascara. Rindou sighs (how many times has he sighed throughout this piece of writing already?)

🌸Average conversation between you and Rindou:

“I’m not surprised he got beat up with that kind of hair…is he trying out a new style from the slums?”

“Mhm. Couldn’t even throw a punch properly.”

“I bet you put him in his place, bae.”

“I’d kill myself if I didn’t.”

🌸And if the person in question overhears?

“Oh…we were just, you know, discussing your ah, state of hair. Bad hair day? Thought so.”

“That black eye really goes well with it, don’t you think?”

“Now that’s why you’re my boyfriend.”

[dailyrothko]

Hi! I was wondering if you had any opinions on the play Red by John Logan? Really admire the Rothko work you do!

First of all, thank you.

Secondly, I think I maybe in a weird position to critique this. I have read almost everything written about Rothko that I know exists. All the books, all the articles I could find and all the interviews I can put my hands on where people who knew him talk. I actually have you guys to thank for this because until this blog got popular, I didn't know much about his life other than the basics. But, feeling some responsibility to my "Audience" and chosen subject, I tired to educate myself in this niche.

Because of this, one naturally forms a picture of the person in your head based on these collected impressions. I think most people don't really know much about him, at least until recently.

I am thankful that the play was an entrée into the art for a lot of people. Like the Rothko episode of Mad Men, many people are brought to awareness of the Rothko through these other mediums and I think that's really cool.

The thing though is that John Logan wrote the movie Gladiator, and you can tell. I see nothing bad about that kind of drama, it just doesn't jibe with my impression of Rothko, While Rothko was sensitive, upset at times, neurotic and opinionated, careful and studious, but he was not this bellowing pontificator that I feel is represented in the play. Again there's nothing wrong with making a drama of it, it's just something that I divorce from Rothko's actual character. I used to have a job reading movie scripts for an actor and you find a lot of common devices people use to make the drama effective, and I feel Red uses a lot of those to good effect. Every play or movie I have ever seen about an artist takes the task of making a largely internal process, external enough for the audience to become engrossed in.

Rothko was sensitive, well-spoken intellectual man. Many of his friends speak of his great tenderness and generosity towards them. The play seeks to pit him and his assistant as two poles of the art world, the new encroaching on the old. Again, fine as a dramatic device but Rothko painted alone, and he talked about painting to no one, ever. Anyone who knew Rothko says he never discussed his art. So any conversations in the play are entirely fantasy.

So, basically I think the play is entertaining and hopefully gets people interested in the art, but I wouldn't take it like a biography of Rothko! And that's really my main point, not to knock the play but to point out the differences between fact and fiction.

Here's some context:

"When I've seen my father portrayed, I've sort of winced, because it doesn't sound like him or come across like him. He was a very warm, humorous person, I remember him telling me silly stories as a child. - Kate Rothko

"As I see him, he was a very loving, essentially feeling man. He was loving and lovable. He liked to put on a rough show. I mean he liked to talk tough. He presented to me a softness. And I was full of my Oriental, religious view of things. I never attempted to talk to him about it because he didn't respond to it. I took it that it was his concern with the world which was from boyhood because of his parentage and finding the same ugliness and stupidity in the art world as in the world that made him so convinced that life wasn't worth living." -Wallace Putnam

Mark is often presented as off-putting; however, he really was quite warm, nurturing and could be very funny." - Regina Bogat

"(Rothko had) a genuine charitable impulse. It grew out of real sympathy. I don't think it was a put-on in any way, nor for self-aggrandizement...there are numbers of cases in which while he was alive he helped persons and always anonymously. He never wanted it known, nor did he ever talk about it." - Stanley Kunitz

*forgive typos, my brain does not see them until weeks after the fact

[lulublack90]

Prompt 23 - Accident

@wolfstarmicrofic June 23, word count 898

Previous part First part

Sirius hadn’t even bothered to get into his own bed and had gotten straight into Remus’s bed. They’d snuggled close and whispered stories to each other until Peter had thrown his pillow at them and told them to shut up, before falling back to sleep.

McGonagall found them in the morning as they were tucking into their breakfasts. 

“Today you will be collecting all the dirty washing from each cabin and washing it. Ensure that you make careful notes of who’s washing is who’s. We find it easiest to wash each cabin’s washing together, so even if items of clothing get mixed up, at least they are in the right place.” She turned to leave. “Oh, and Mr Snape will be joining you.” She arched an eyebrow at them, daring them to question her. 

“Yes, Minnie,” They said together glumly. She rolled her eyes at them and strode away, not bothering to correct them. 

“Ha,” Sirius exclaimed triumphantly. “We finally wore her down lads. Only took what, three years? I knew we’d be victorious.” 

Each person had their own labelled wash bag so that should make life easier for them. 

Snape was waiting for them outside the main hall, his face screwed up in disgust. 

“Okay, we’ll get Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Kelpie,” James pointed to himself and Peter. “Sirius, Remus, go get Hufflepuff, Sphinx and Centaur, and Snape, you can get Slytherin and Phoenix.” James clapped his hands together, “If we do this efficiently we’ll be done in—” Sirius jumped on him, knocking him to the ground and covering his mouth. 

“Don’t you dare say it. Every time you say ‘We’ll be done in no time,’ something always goes wrong. So don’t you dare!” Sirius removed his hand from James’s mouth. 

“No time!” James crowed from the floor.

“Damn it, James! Whatever, let’s just get on with it,” Sirius groaned. They split off to go collect the washing.

“Animals!” Sirius complained as he stuffed dirty washing into the bags the Hufflepuff cabin had failed to use. 

“Yup,” Remus replied as he gingerly picked up a pair of underwear with the owner’s shorts.

The other cabins weren’t much better. They somehow ended up first back to the laundry room. There were three washers and three dryers. Remus looked down at the twelve bags in their hands. This was going to take all day. 

“Well, let’s get started then, I guess. Do you have your phone on you?” Remus asked. 

“Yeah, why?” Sirius pulled it out and threw it to him. Remus emptied one of the bags onto the floor. He moved some of the items about and took a picture with the bag next to it, then gathered everything up and put it in a washing machine. 

They repeated the action until all the washers were full and filling with water. Sirius flopped onto the floor.  “Now we have an hour to kill before that’s done,” He pulled Remus gently down to the floor with him. “Whatever could we do?”

“Whatever it is, do it elsewhere,” Snape sneered at them as he dumped his own bags on the floor beside them. 

Sirius hopped to his feet and offered his hand to Remus to help him up.

“Come on Sevy, stop being such a grump,” Sirius jibed as he began emptying the bags Snape had brought in and taking photos of the contents. 

“Who needs to go through this many clothes? I'm asking you, Sirius,” James grunted as he tossed an overfull bag in Sirius’s direction. “I swear you have more clothes in there than the rest of us put together.” Sirius shrugged. 

“Some of us like to have options, James.” 

“Some of us are spoilt brats,” Snape muttered under his breath. 

“Far from it, Sevy,” Sirius beamed at Snape, having heard what he said. 

“There are mops and buckets in the main hall for you to mop in there,” McGonagall appeared behind Peter, making him jump and squeak and putting a stop to whatever Sirius was about to say. “I want the floor, all the tables and all the chairs cleaned. There are cloths for those. Do not use the mop on the tables,” She narrowed her eyes at Sirius, who held up his hands in surrender. 

“Don’t worry, Minnie, we’ll have it sparkling.” McGonagall sighed and left them to it. 

“Sirius put a timer on your phone, then we know when to swap everything over,” Remus suggested. 

He and Sirius took pictures of the clothes James and Peter had brought in and then went over to the main hall to join the others. 

“It was an accident, Snape, calm down,” James was standing in front of Peter, trying to calm a seething Snape down. 

“No one knocks over three buckets of water accidentally.” Snape spat back. 

“It really was an accident, stuff like this just happens around him,” James snapped back, beginning to lose his cool. Remus went over to Snape to try to defuse the situation. 

“Severus, why don’t you go get changed, we’ll cover for you, and we’ll make a start in here,” Remus suggested. Snape stormed off, leaving a trail of bubbles behind him. 

“Today is not going to be fun,” Peter said sadly as he gathered the buckets to go refill them.

"Told you not to say the words, James," Sirius sighed dramatically, picking up a cloth and wiping the table closest to him.  

Next part

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Crushed 15

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, manipulation, cheating, sleazy behaviour, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your next door neighbours hook up, bringing to surface deep-seated feelings.

Characters: Colin Shea, Jonathan Pine

Note: Please scream at me!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you like my dog loves belly rubs (that’s a lot). Take care. 💖

After an early morning phone call, your mother insists on coming to town for lunch. You couldn't bear to tell her everything over the phone and frankly, you don't know how much you should tell her. You remember in high school when you were sent home after Kelly Harris dumped mud in your lap, your mother was more irritated to have you home than empathetic. 

You watch through the peephole before you sneak out. You haven't slept but you can't be sure Colin hasn't returned. There's enough noise in the building that it's hard to discern who's coming or going. 

When you do emerge, you flit quickly to the first floor and dip out, looking over your shoulder for either Colin or his vengeful girlfriend. You get through the lobby without trouble but you're not in the clear. Surely the day holds nothing but trouble, regardless of where it comes from.

You check the time as you wait for the cab. You refer to the text your mother sent before she set out and give the driver the name of the restaurant. You've never been there before and you're certain it's well out of your price range. Another debt for the tally.

This is the last thing you ever wanted. It makes all this drama seem all the more ridiculous. You’re a grown woman and this is what you’ve come to. Back to square one.

You approach the restaurant doors and enter with a sheepish grin. You don’t know that you own anything that wouldn’t be underdressed for this bougie brunch locale. Once more, you look at your phone. Crap, she’s there first. That means you're late even if you agreed on nine.

The hostess shows you to the table where your mother waits. She has her compact out as she touches up her mauve lipstick. She doesn’t acknowledge you or the hostess as you sit. She snaps shut the mirror and sips from her stemmed glass of orange juice.

“About time,” she drawls, “oh, and nice to hear from you after all these months.”

Her eyes finally deign to land on you. You gulp. You should’ve taken the chance of talking to your father but ultimately you know it’s not up to him.

“You’ve been so busy with Geri’s wedding–”

“Don’t try to guilt me for your neglect,” she warns, “you should be happy for your sister. Her fiance is a charming man. You’ve met Colton, haven’t you?”

“Once or twice,” you grumble. Family get togethers weren’t exactly your favourite memories. “I’ve been waiting on my invite–”

“Invite? You’re a bridesmaid. Geri sent out that email months ago. Is this why you weren’t at the fitting?”

“I didn’t… I didn’t get an email.”

“You’re wrong. Certainly, you must be. You and the rest of the girls are bridesmaids. You have to be. And it might be good for you to be involved in a wedding at least once,” she tuts. You don’t miss the jibe. Yeah, not like you have much hope of walking down the aisle.

“I’ll… I’ll call Geri and clear things up,” you say, “how are the others?”

“Well, Maeve is graduating this year. Always exciting. She’s thinking of joining Audrey at her alma mater. And Livia is somewhere in Spain again.”

“Ah, yeah, she sent me some pictures,” you say.

“And you? What are you up to?” She challenges. She’s not genuinely curious.

“Well,” you take a breath, pausing as a server comes to ask what you’d like to drink. You get the same as your mother and peruse the menu.

“Well…” your mother prompts.

“Yeah, um, I…” you shake your head, you can’t even look at her, “I am on leave from work so… not much.”

“Leave? What does that mean?” She hisses.

You feel your eyes tinge. You look at her. Why is she so different to you? Your other sisters can spill all their worries and whims but you, it’s always judgment. You can never do anything right.

“Uh, I thought maybe it might be a good time to–”

“Ah, pardon,” you’re interrupted before you can sputter out the revelation of another failure. You cringe as you recognise Jonathan’s silky lilt. Why? How? Do you even dare questioning fate anymore? “I just, I had to say hello.”

You force a smile and look at him, trying not to falter in front of your mother’s all-seeing gaze. She sits up, and lets out a hum of surprise as she sees Johnathan. Her lashes give a telling flick.

“Hello?” She utters quizzically.

“This must be one of your sisters,” he says as he runs his hand up the sleek lapel of his blue jacket, “very pleased to finally meet you.”

“Sister? Oh, do not flatter me. I am her mother, Eugenia,” she introduces herself with a smug smirk, “and how do you know each other?”

“Uh, oh,” you stutter and send Jonathan a desperate look. Do you tell her you’re his disgraced former employee? Or maybe just business acquaintance. She’s going to know eventually, that’s why you’re here. “Jonathan is–”

“Jonathan Pine,” he introduces himself, “honoured to finally meet you.” He looks at you, arching a brow before turning his attention back to his mother, “you both must be so excited for your elder daughter’s upcoming nuptials?”

“British?” She intones with intrigue.

“You’ve caught me out,” he grins, “your daughter’s been rather helpful in getting me acquainted with this country. Very lovely…” he peeks at you again, “hardly as lovely as her. You’ve raised a rather endearing daughter.”

“You…” she blinks in confusion, sending you another flabbergasted peek, “you and my daughter…” she lets the suggestion hang. Jonathan does too as he gives you an option; come clean or take the bait.

“I was waiting to introduce you at the wedding,” you blurt out, “I… it’s new.” You say, each word jarring as the lies piece themselves together on your tongue, “and I thought,” you look at Jonathan pointedly, “he was out of town.”

“Business trip was canceled, rescheduled to a business breakfast,” he slithers, “I’m meeting Gerry soon,” he checks his watch, “but I will be sure to tell the hostess to put your bill with mine.”

“Oh–” you squeak.

“Oh my,” your mother trills, “you are too kind. That is…” she gapes at you openly, “you… you’re with my daughter. Her?”

He chuckles lightly, “why wouldn’t I be with such a beautiful woman?”

“I didn’t mean– I don’t– I’m very surprised,” she exclaims shrilly, “she never mentioned, but then again, she’s always been so private. So shy. And you seem like such a lovely man.”

“I like to think so, but please, she is not the lucky one,” he preens and steps towards you. He places his hand on your shoulder and bends, grazing his lips across your cheek, “go with it,” he whispers. 

You turn your head just as his lips aim for yours. He kisses you and the air leaves the room. Your chest ties tight and your entire body tingles. Oh, wow. You’re too swept up in the sensation of his unexpected kiss that you can’t remember why you were so off-kilter a moment ago.

“Now let me not interrupt further. A mother-daughter reunion,” he puts his hand to his chest, “how sweet.”

He backs away and dips his chin. He turns on his heel and crosses the restaurant as you stare after him. The server approaches and sets your drink in front of you. You drink it in the silence of your mother’s disbelief.

“Well, you’ve done finely,” she says in a stunted cadence, “I… he’s so handsome. And tall. And blond!”

“Mom,” you plead as you nearly choke on the orange juice.

“Well. Even you must realise he’s very… dashing as they’d say in his home country,” she flutters her lashes dreamily, “oh, yes, you must bring him to the wedding. He’ll look wonderful in the photos.”

You wet your lips with your tongue and nod. You look down at the table, still buzzing as your lips warm up. You can’t stop thinking about that kiss. It nips away at the anger that kept you up all night, but hardly solves your anxiety.

You can’t tell your mother you expect to be evicted in the next month or that you lost your job. So what now? How do you untangle the knot that only grows bigger and bigger?

💗

For once, your time with your mom is less than torturous. She keeps her barbs dull enough to leave you only bruised. Her mood is a touch above neutral, which for you, is an accomplishment. You’re content but not entirely at ease. You have a lot to figure out.

You bid her goodbye just outside the patio seating and wave to her as she unlocks her luxury car. You watch until you see her get in and let out a sigh. Shit. Not only do you have Jonathan to worry about, but you don’t expect Colin to be AWOL much longer.

So what do you do? Go home and face the music or call Jonathan and try not to melt into a puddle of embarrassment. It was a nice favour of him to pretend but you don’t want to assume anything. High hopes and stupid girlish fantasies got you into all this.

As you walk along the curb, a short toot draws you to a stop. You turn as the whir of a car window steals your attention and you face the familiar car. Jonathan leans over the passenger seat to see you.

“You’re not going to run away again, are you?” He asks.

You twist your heel into the pavement and bend down. You furrow your brows as that big question needles between them. You can’t lie anymore, you can’t just wait for the truth to come out, you just have to ask.

“How did you know I was here?”

His brows lift and his eyes roll to the side. He gives a guilty grin, “I hope you don’t… misinterpret it but I… staked out your building.”

“What?” You puff out.

“Yes, I know, it sounds very bad. And I won’t claim it was entirely sane but I wanted to see the police take him away after I filed the report. To be sure you were safe and then… I sat stuck in my own head. Wanting to run up those stairs and knock on your door but also terrified you wouldn’t answer,” he shrugs, “and I followed you because I worried you might run into him, but that’s only half the reason…”

You swallow and step closer, “Jonathan, what are you doing?”

“Being crazy,” he lowers his eyes bashfully, “I know, you don’t need two madmen after you.”

You shake your head and reach for the handle. You open the door and get in. He sits back, watching you as you move your purse into your lap. You stare at the dashboard.

“What is going on?” You turn your head and look into his beautiful blue eyes, “what is this?”

“I don’t…” he begins.

“You’re my boss.”

“I was.”

“I never should’ve dragged you into this–”

“I’m so happy you did,” he murmurs.

“Jonathan, please,” you beg, “it’s not right–”

“You quit,” he insists, “so what isn’t right?”

You pout and sit back, turning straight and looking up at the upholstered ceiling of the car. You don’t know what to say. No, you don’t know how to say it. Except…

“I’m stupid.”

“What?” He scoffs.

“I’m stupid because… I’m scared and lost. And I can’t make you follow me through that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Feelings don’t just go, they just get complicated,” you explain, parsing through the stirring in your gut, “I hate Colin, I’m scared to hell of him, but I still… feel some of those things I felt.”

“Oh, but darling,” he reaches over and rests his hand above your shoulder, “I know feelings don’t just go. Mine certainly won’t.”

“Feelings? For me? Are you sure it’s not pity?”

“I only pity myself for how deeply I’ve fallen,” he breathes as you sense him leaning in, “the first day I saw you, I knew. I’ve never been much of a romantic but I have to confess something.”

“What?” You shy away, sensing how close he is.

“I knew how to use the coffee machine,” he admits, “I just needed an excuse.”

“You… did?” You look at him. He’s so much closer than you thought.

“Oh yes, if you hadn’t helped with the machine, I would’ve failed miserably in front of you at making copies. And if that didn’t work, well, I suppose I’d just have to make a mistake in my numbers,” he purrs, “you would’ve helped me, wouldn’t you?”

You quiver out a breath. You want to collapse into him, you want to let him make you forget everything but him, and yet, you’re so afraid. You’re afraid to believe that this could ever be real for you.

He doesn’t let your fear win. His lips are on yours again and that’s all you need. Nothing is left but that moment, the feeling of his mouth on yours, how his hand comes up to frame your jaw and cradle your cheek, his other creeping behind your head as he clings to you desperately. You can’t help by latching onto his collar, diving into his need.

You don’t stop until you're dizzy and breathless. He pulls back, hovering before you, thumb tracing your cheek bone as his other hand tickles your neck. His eyes search you, admire you, you’ve never been looked at like that.

“May I drive you home?” He asks softly, nuzzling your nose with his.

[gilverrwrites]

Never Been Kissed

Pairing: Adam Milligan/GN!Reader

Plot: This is another re-write of an old fic of mine. Canon divergent, where Adam never went to the cage, and instead joined his brothers in the family business. Per Dean’s advice, the reader asks Adam for help with something.

Rating: General

Words: 1086

Please remember: Not to stress about dumb shit.

You look up from the book you've been too distracted to read, and your eyes settle on Adam. He’s sitting at the motel's minuscule excuse for a dining table, flicking through his own book, and occasionally jotting down notes. 

Your mind was reluctantly, but firmly set on Dean's suggestion. 'Suggestion' probably wasn't the correct term, more like a joke. A few weeks ago, you'd let it slip to him that you'd never been kissed, and ever since the teasing has been relentless. You'd begged him not to tell anyone, and he'd kept his word, but you paid the price dearly in whispered jibes or whenever you were alone together. Before leaving to pick up food with Sam, he'd jokingly suggested that you ask Adam to teach you how to kiss. Followed by planting a sloppy one right on your cheek. It had earned some questionable glances from his brothers, but thankfully nobody had questioned it.  

Now you sat on the bed, unable to keep your mind or eyes off the man you were considering asking for help. 

Admittedly, you had more than a bit of a crush on him. He was handsome, and smart, and always knew how to make you laugh. You were confident he wouldn't intentionally make you feel bad for asking. However, the thought of asking, or worse, the idea of being rejected made you want to crawl under a rock. 

"Why don't you take a picture." The sound of his voice veered you from your train of thought. The cheeky smile he gave you immediately made your face heat up. You shuffled back on the bed and attempted to hide behind your book, silently cursing yourself for being caught staring. 

"Sorry." Was all you could manage in response. 

Adam laughed at your response. You watched from the corner of your eye as he stood and crossed the room, stretching as he did so. The weight of his body settling on the end of the bed made the mattress bounce, but you refused to look up at him. 

"Hey." He flicked the side of your foot, trying to garner your attention. "What's up with you? You're acting weird."

"Nothing." You mumble, still refusing to look at him again, too embarrassed by what you'd been thinking. 

"Come on." He continues to nudge your foot. "Talk to me, tell me what's wrong." 

You finally let your book fall into your lap and look up at him, biting your lips as you consider whether or not to come clean. When he raises his eyebrows at you, urging you to talk you decide to take the leap. 

"Okay, fine. If I ask you to help me with something, which you can totally say no to by the way, will you promise not to laugh? Or be mean?" The words spill out. 

Adam's brows furrow at you, and you can tell he's holding back an amused smile as he responds. "I promise… to try." 

You force yourself to maintain eye contact as you continue. 

"Can you… Would you teach me how to…" You trail off, too embarrassed to finish. 

"How to what?" He climbs over the array of research scattered across the bed and sits beside you, leaning back against the headboard. You suck in a breath as you feel his shoulder brush against yours. "I can't help if you don't tell me what it is." 

You force down the urge to cringe at the words you're about to say, closing your eyes as you brace yourself before blurting; "Canyouteachmehowtokiss… please?" 

The room falls silent, a part of you expects him to laugh at you or crack some kind of joke like his brother had done, but nothing. Hesitantly you open your eyes and sneak a quick look at him. 

His face is black, besides the twinge of confusion in his eyes. 

"You've never kissed anyone before?" He asks as you shake your head in reply. "Ever?" 

"No. Never." You frown, his lack of an immediate answer is making you self-conscious. You start to pull your knees up towards your chest, but he stops you, resting a hand on your thigh and guiding your legs back down. 

"Well, I could teach you." He begins, bringing his hand back up to rest under your chin, turning your head to face him completely. He leans in closer as he explains, and your breath hitches. "But it's kind of something that just comes naturally." 

You copy him when he parts his lips and closes his eyes. A moment later you feel his warm lips press against yours. To your own surprise, you're the one who deepens the kiss by leaning in closer, pressing your lips onto his harder. You shiver when he reaches behind your ear, scratching his nails gently against your scalp. 

Adam pulls away briefly, lips ghosting against yours as he speaks. "Open your mouth, just a bit." 

You do as instructed, and Adam traces his tongue across your bottom lip before delving into your mouth. Impulsively, you grab onto his shoulders, pulling him closer. When his tongue moves against yours you imitate the motion, flicking your tongue against his and enjoying the lingering taste of cola. At the same you drop a hand from his shoulder, rubbing it against his chest. Your stomach flips as you feel his lips curl into a smile. 

The sound of a key in the door startles you both, and you shoot away from each other, aware that it will be Sam and Dean returning with food. You bury your head back in your book and Adam strides quickly back to his spot at the table, immediately pretending to scrawl something down.  

"Food." Dean announces as he comes through the door, dumping the greasy brown bag of junk food on the table in front of Adam. Sam follows close behind, heading straight for his laptop and taking the only other chair. 

"Great, I'm starving." Adam states, immediately grabbing the bag and rummaging through it. 

You join the boys at the already crowded table. You attempt to reach over Adam to search for your own food, but he swats you away. Before you can complain he hands you your container, and you clock the folded piece of paper underneath it.   

Sheepishly, you sneak a peek at the contents as you head back to your spot on the bed. The words "We should do that again (;" are jotted on it. You smile to yourself, slipping it into your pocket before sitting down and digging in.

Thank you for your time 💖

[green-eyedfirework]

Slade waits none too patiently in the foyer, documents in hand, waiting for the steward to fetch his master.  He’s not quite sure if this is a jest or a trap, but he’s in no mood to be diverted.

When he’d first received the letter, he assumed it was a rejection.  A late one, especially since his suit was no doubt rejected on sight, but with Wayne travelling, Slade merely presumed it had taken some time to get through all the paperwork.  He had not, in his wildest dreams, expected an acceptance.

“Lord Grayson is ready to receive you now, sir,” the steward remarks, tone curt.  Slade is well aware that these aren’t normal visiting hours, but he’s in no mood to wait for afternoon.  He will get to the bottom of this, and now.

To his surprise, he isn’t led to the parlor but deeper inside, to an office.  Slade opens his mouth to ask—he was under the impression that Wayne hadn’t returned from his trip, and the acceptance was signed in Grayson’s hand—but the steward opens the door and announces, “Lord Wilson.”

It’s not Wayne waiting inside.  It’s Grayson, sitting at his father’s desk, pen in hand, papers strewn about, the very picture of an overworked lord.  “Lord Wilson,” Grayson greets, standing with a smile.  “Please, come in.”

Slade arches an eyebrow at the omega and takes in the clearly commandeered space.  The sense that he’s missing something grows.

“Lord Grayson,” Slade says, ignoring Grayson’s smile and taking a seat without being offered one.  “Or is it Lord Wayne?  I wasn’t aware that you were master of the house now.”

Grayson’s smile doesn’t falter at the jibe.  It’s too even, a careful mask.  The trepidation grows.  “I am merely taking care of business while my father is away,” Grayson replies.  “What brings you here, Lord Wilson?”

Slade stares back, unamused.  He tosses the letter of intent and its corresponding acceptance on the desk.

“You know very well why I’m here.”

Grayson finally reseats himself, reaching out to the papers with polite curiosity.  He glances over each one quickly, clearly familiar, and looks back at Slade.  “Everything appears to be in order,” he says.  “Is something the matter?”

Definitely a trick.  This is quite far to play a jest, even for an omega barely an adult.  Grayson has to be aware of the consequences of Slade taking him seriously, which means he truly intends the courtship.

“You accepted my suit.”

“Yes?”  Grayson has the temerity to look confused.  “Were you not serious about the offer?”

No.  No, Slade was not.  Not because he doesn’t want Grayson—any alpha with eyes would want Grayson and having only one hasn’t stopped Slade from noticing Grayson’s fierce charm.  Putting comeliness aside, Grayson is the eldest child of the richest man in court, has a title and lands of his own, and is well-educated.  He was no doubt inundated with courtship offers the moment he turned eighteen.

And Slade expected his offer to be buried amidst the rest.  There was no way Wayne would seriously consider an alpha his senior for an alliance with his son, not with so many other available options.  Slade’s offer was perfunctory.  An expected suit, not one to be taken seriously.

“Stop prevaricating,” Slade snaps back.  Something flashes across the omega’s face before it settles back into placid blankness.  “You know full well that my offer is not the greatest of the untold number you’ve received.  And yet you choose to accept it?”

“You do yourself a disservice, Lord Wilson,” Grayson replies shortly.  “You have many fine qualities and—”

“Oh?” Slade leans forward and watches the omega swallow.  The desk is large, intended for an alpha to command across, and Grayson, for all his posturing, is not an alpha.  “What qualities are those?  Previously married?  Nearly thrice your age?  With near-adult heirs?  You cannot tell me that your father’s fortune has fallen so low that he’s resorted to selling his children.”

Slade offered a substantial bride price—high enough to be insulting.  Slade married into nobility and the court never lets him forget it, so Slade ensures that they never forget how far his fortunes have swelled.

“If the bride price is point of contention,” Grayson seizes upon the distraction, “then we can surely renegotiate—”

“Grayson,” Slade cuts him off.  “Enough.  Just tell me why.”

Grayson colors slightly and opens his mouth again, but thinks better of it at Slade’s hard glare.  The silence stretches and Slade makes himself comfortable.  He’s not leaving without answers, no matter how long it takes.  Desperation practically wafts off of Grayson, and Slade wants to know why.

The omega finally straightens, albeit with hunched shoulders, and meets Slade’s gaze.  “Lord Wayne is missing.”

“Excuse me?”

“He hasn’t replied to letters in a few months and attempts to reach him have gone astray,” Grayson repeats.  He looks drawn and wan now that he’s confessing, the smiling façade faded to leave lines of stress and tension.  His scent, earlier pleasant and welcoming, has turned faintly sour.

“And that connects to the offer how?” Slade asks.

Grayson draws himself up again, a touch of fire in his gaze.  “I have reached my majority, but my siblings have not.  They will be remanded into the custody of our closest alpha relative until Damian comes of age.  The prospects for said guardian are unideal.  However, if I marry, then my husband can act as regent for House Wayne.”

“So you decided to choose me,” Slade drawls, more than a little incredulous.

Grayson takes it as a question.  “You have a title of equal stature.  You manage your businesses well and will not drive us into ruin.  You have raised two children—” Grayson politely sidesteps the matter of Slade’s eldest child—“and you are a respected member of court.  No one will challenge your claim as regent.  And,” Grayson exhales, “you are a man of your word.”  His blue eyes are wide and guileless.  “I trust you to keep my family safe.”

Slade leans back in the chair to think.  Grayson…is not wrong.  If Wayne truly is missing—he needs to put out feelers to check—then the Wayne pups would be shuffled off to their closest alpha relative.  Slade doesn’t know who that is off the top of his head, which means a custody fight.  A messy affair by all accounts.  The youngest one is the only alpha, which would leave the others at the mercy of their guardian’s whims and Grayson helpless to stop it.

In that regard, Slade is definitely a better option.  Grayson is right—Slade would be able to assume control of the regency.  No one would dare to cross him, as they might for a younger or less powerful alpha.  Slade has his own lands and children to manage, he would be less inclined to steal from the Waynes.  And Slade does pride himself on his word—promise or threat.

But it still smells off.  The Waynes have many friends in court.  Slade surely cannot be Grayson’s first option.  And that last statement reeks of manipulation.

A lesser alpha might’ve fallen for it.  Slade looks Grayson in the eye and says, “No.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re lying to me,” Slade leans forward, letting his growing anger waft out into the room.  “I don’t know about what or why, but I don’t take kindly to manipulation, Lord Grayson.”  Grayson opens his mouth, but Slade talks over him.  “I have never before given cause for enmity between our families, but I do not appreciate games and trickery.”  He hardens his expression and his scent.  “You will tell me the truth, or you will be unable to hide your father’s disappearance for much longer.”

Grayson gapes unflatteringly at him, scent completely soured.  It appears he was telling the truth about Wayne’s disappearance, or at least partially, because desperation and disbelief war on the omega’s face.  He looks like cornered prey and no small part of Slade wants to close in for the kill.

“You can’t,” Grayson bleats out.

“I very easily can,” Slade retorts.

“You—you have no proof!”

“I don’t need proof,” Slade replies.  “All it takes is a few words in the right ear.  You bear the burden of proof.”

Grayson opens and closes his mouth a few times.  He’s beginning to look distraught.  Something in Slade’s chest twinges, but he ignores it.  “You can’t,” Grayson repeats, but quieter.  Less a rejection and more a denial.

“Just tell me the truth,” Slade sighs.  “Tell me why you accepted the offer, and I swear I won’t breathe a word of this entire conversation.  It will be as though it never happened.”

There’s a flash of anger despite the stricken look.  “How can I trust you?” Grayson spits back.

Slade arches an eyebrow.  “I thought I was a man of my word.”

Grayson flushes.  For a moment, he looks ready to lunge across the table, and Slade can feel his interest swell.  But Grayson manages to compose himself, scent locked down, face rigidly displeased, fingers white where they clench at the table.

“Very well,” he says, clipped.  He’s looking over Slade’s shoulder instead of at him.  “The truth is that I chose you because you already have heirs near their majority.  The truth—” he swallows, jaw going tighter—“the truth is that I—I am not untouched.  And such, I chose a partner that might not require that of me.”  He exhales sharply.  “I see that I’ve erred.”

Slade stares at him.  Grayson does not meet his gaze.  Instead, he stands, movements jerky, and Slade can tell this audience is at an end.  “If I’ve satisfied your curiosity?” Grayson says acerbically.  It is very much a dismissal.

He gets up without protest, but he can feel Grayson’s gaze boring holes in his back.  The steward escorts him to the door with stiff, unsmiling courtesy, and the door slams shut behind him with resounding finality.

Slade realizes he left the papers with Grayson, but decides to leave it.  Grayson can shred them at his leisure.

~#~

Slade really does put the conversation out of his head.  He sends out his own trackers in search of Wayne to verify what Grayson told him, but otherwise he leaves the situation behind him.  Grayson is not the first omega to fool around without thinking of the consequences.  Or to dally with an alpha and realize too late it would make an unwise match.

Either way, it is not his concern.  Slade thinks no more of it for weeks, until he hears Grayson’s name at a party and his healing involuntarily sharpens.

It’s at Luthor’s, so the general vibe of sleaziness has deepened as the evening stretches into night and the party segregates.  The parlor is full of alphas and, as tends to happen in such puffed-up, posturing company, they’re all trying to outdo each other with boasts.

Desmond’s speaking the loudest, flush with wine, expression twisted into gleeful satisfaction.  “—swear on my mother’s grave it’s true,” he says, grandiose.  “You never met an omega so desperate to be broken in.”

“Wayne keeps them all locked up tighter than his vaults,” one of his companions scoff.  “How’d you get your hands on the boy?”

“Wayne’s been gone a while and he’s left the coop unguarded,” Desmond laughs, imperiously beckoning for another cup.  Slade realizes he’s drifted closer to the knot of leering alphas.  “A couple of glasses of wine, maybe a little extra, and the boy was practically falling into my lap.”  Even the skeptical alphas are leaning in as Desmond continues, relishing the tale, “He cried so sweetly when I took him.  So defiant—at least until I got a knot in him.”  A round of laughter.  Something smells sharp and smoky, like building rage.  “And, gents, you cannot imagine the flexibility of the little whore, why, you can practically bend him in half—”

Slade tastes blood in his mouth.  Desmond is on the floor, splattered in wine, wide eyes around the ruin of his nose.  Slade can smell nothing but the scent of his own vicious hatred.

“Slander Lord Grayson again,” Slade growls before Desmond can do more than splutter, “and you will lose your tongue.”  He’s unleashed his scent, dark and furious and possessive, and several alphas in the vicinity back away in the face of the challenge.

Desmond, however, is too stupid or too drunk.  He staggers upright, sneer in place as he tries to stem the blood from his broken nose, and retorts nasally, “It’s not slander, and none of your business besides.”  His free hand drifts towards his side, perhaps a concealed weapon.

“It appears you’re dangerously misinformed,” Slade says sharply.  He doesn’t need a knife to intimidate.  “I’m courting Lord Grayson.  It is my business.”

Desmond lurches forward and Slade holds his ground, hands still fisted tight—

“Your beau is a two-bit whore,” Desmond whispers harshly, smelling like blood and humiliation and rage.  “Cheap and used.”

Slade is interrupted from Desmond’s imminent strangulation by the arrival of Luthor, who appears to have finally noticed a disturbance in his domicile.  “What is going on here?” the host demands as he marches towards them, the others gladly getting out of his way.  Through the French doors, Slade can see the rest of the party peering curiously.

“Desmond slandered Lord Grayson,” Slade spits out, just barely resisting from tearing that sneer off of the alpha’s face.  “And I take insult on his behalf.  I presume you have a suitable venue for a duel, Lord Luthor?”

Luthor is clearly delighted at the prospect of a show during his party and quickly shuffles them off to a courtyard.  The rest of the party begin to ring the yard, murmurs rising to chatters as rumors spread.  Desmond, Slade is pleased to note, is starting to look shaken.

“You choose the weapon,” Slade calls out.  Luthor’s set up a table with blades and guns from his collection.  Desmond glares at him as he shuffles over.

In the interim, Slade is found by a familiar face.  “What are you doing?” Grayson hisses the moment he reaches him, face remarkably pale.  Slade can only guess what version of the truth reached him.

“Defending your honor,” Slade replies flatly, because Slade isn’t expecting gratefulness but Grayson’s tone is all accusation.  “Desmond—”

“You’re causing a scene,” Grayson hisses at him, his scent sour and sharp.  “And you have no right to call a duel on my behalf!”

“You accepted my courtship offer,” Slade reminds him.  While Grayson stands there spluttering, Slade plucks his handkerchief free and tucks it into a pocket.  “Thank you for your favor,” Slade says pointedly.  The longer Grayson argues with him, the more tongues will wag.

Grayson flushes and steps out of the dueling area, though not before throwing Slade a poisonous look.  Desmond’s glance over is equally venomous, though his is tinged with fear, not worry.  “I’ve chosen pistols, Wilson,” Desmond calls out.  “This is your last chance to bow out gracefully.  I will accept an apology for your assault.”

The alpha is too cowardly to face him in bladed combat.  Unluckily for him, Slade has kept his shooting skills sharp as well.

“Pistols it is,” Slade accepts easily, looking over Luthor’s selection before making his choice.  He tests the weight of it and checks the cylinder.  “Unfortunately, you already had a chance to back out.  I will not give you another.”

Desmond growls and Luthor looks delighted.  The crowd is loud and anticipatory.  Slade doesn’t trust Luthor as far as he can throw him, but with a whole party of witnesses, Luthor has no choice but to be impartial.

Even in a fair fight, Slade can best Desmond.  With the man drunk and injured, there is simply no chance.

The courtyard is cleared for them to stand, back to back.  Luthor counts them down.  The crowd waits with baited breath.

Slade reaches the last step, twists, and pulls the trigger.  Desmond falls, dead, before he can loose his shot.

The vicious thrum of satisfaction is only tempered by the sight of Grayson’s pale, stricken face.

~#~

“Grayson,” Slade calls out rather louder than he’d like, but his quarry is stalking away from him and not inclined to slow down.  “Grayson.  Wait.”

Grayson does not wait.

“Richard!” is loud enough to be heard by any stragglers in the garden, and the omega finally turns, whipping on Slade with intent.

“Leave me alone,” Grayson snarls, voice low but no less venomous for it.  “I have no wish to speak with you.”

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset,” Slade says, bewildered and annoyed, the gleam of victory fast fading.  “I defended your honor—”

“Oh, is that what you thought you did?”  Grayson laughs, high and sharp.  His expression is strangely fractured—an imitation of his earlier composure, but shifting too much to be real.  “Well then, my many thanks to my noble savior!”

He turns on his heel, but doesn’t get far before Slade grabs his elbow and wrenches him back.  Irritation has tipped over into anger and the first flickers of fury lick at him.

“What in God’s name are you crying about?” he snaps, boxing the omega against a nearby tree.  He modulates his tone lower at the sound of twitters in the distance—he is not in the mood for any interruptions.  “I killed Desmond for what he said about you.”

Slade should’ve taken his tongue, but the alpha is dead and the matter moot.

“After ensuring that everyone at the party heard of it!”  Grayson angrily shakes off his grip, glaring back just as fierce.  “Thanks to you, my reputation is now mud.”  He ducks out from under Slade’s arm.  “If you’ll excuse me—”

Slade blocks Grayson from walking away.  “I shall challenge anyone who dares to repeat it,” he promises, blood singing at the thought.

It’s been far too long since he’s had a good, hard fight and while he isn’t in the habit of charity, this could be a most amusing diversion.  He has to admit, he does enjoy the omega all fired up and it clearly pricks at his pride to be rescued by Slade.  If he gets the omega hot and bothered—well, chastity is undoubtedly not one of his virtues, and Slade can be a far more thorough lover than Desmond.

“For how long, my lord?” Grayson hisses, voice breaking in what Slade is startled to realize is a hitch.  “How long before you end a courtship you never actually started?  How long before the rumors swirl that you cast me aside because there was truth in Desmond’s slander?”  In the moonlight, his eyes glitter like sapphires.  “What a pretty tale, that you defended my honor.”

Slade is taken aback.  “I wasn’t—”

The first tears spill down the omega’s cheeks, but he doesn’t take notice of it.  “You force me to divulge my secrets, you use that information to destroy your enemies, and you have the gall to demand I be grateful?”

“Grayson—”

“Good bye, Lord Wilson.”

Slade stares, stunned, as the omega stalks away.  That was not the outcome he was expecting.  Grayson is not entirely wrong—Slade has to admit that he wasn’t thinking about the consequences of his decision prior to making it, he only remembers wanting Desmond dead, but the sheer sharpness of his dismissal is both abrupt and cutting.

He narrows his eyes as he watches Grayson leave.

[writtenfangirl]

More of secrets and good luck charm. Pls.

Secrets and Good Luck Charms pt. 2

Someone asked for a part 2 so here it is! I hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing this.

I've always loved reading people's comments about the things I write and the wonderful support my writing gets is honestly my biggest motivator.

Part 1

“I can’t believe this!” Charles thundered as he paced across his apartment. “How can they say these things about you?!”

“Hmm,” Y/N hummed, only half listening to her boyfriend’s rant.

She’d heard a variation of his rant before, his fury at the terrible things people were saying about her whenever Charles posts a picture of her or they’re spotted out and about by the paparazzi. She’d heard him say these things almost as often as she’d heard the horrible comments people say about her. 

Their barbed words never really bothered Y/N. She was never the kind to let the opinions of strangers get under her skin, especially since she’d heard far worse before. Unfortunately, her boyfriend wasn’t immune to the shortcomings of his so-called fans.

“This is despicable, cherie!” He cried out as Y/N mindlessly scrolled through her phone, “how can you not be bothered by this?”

Y/N looked up from her phone, stopping Charles from his pacing. “Cha, please stop pacing. You’ll make a hole through the floor.”

“Cherie, if you could only read—“

“I’ve read them. They post those comments on my profile too,” Y/N said, waving him away as she went back to her phone. 

“And you weren’t hurt?”

“I’ve read and heard worse.” And she truly had heard worse, sometimes from the people that mattered most to her. As someone who had always been a big girl, it always seemed like everyone in the world thought she wasn’t aware of what she looked like. She’d heard all the fat jokes, heard all the jibes and the little backhanded compliments that people thought would somehow make her lose weight but only served to do the opposite. The things people were saying in her and Charles’s comments section was tame in comparison to what she’d heard growing up. At this point in her life, she doubted these people could say something to her she hadn’t already heard before.

But Charles wasn’t used to the same things she was and though he took his own criticisms to stride, he couldn’t take the negativity directed at the love of his life in stride. His mouth flew open, his face gobsmacked. “Cherie.”

Y/N glanced back up again, her expression impassive. “Charles, I swear. Don’t worry about it. I’ve heard all of these comments before and I’ve heard even worse. The things they’re saying about me is nothing compared to what my family has said about me in the past. Look, I was prepared for this when we started dating. I am not some maiden in need of defending.”

Somehow, Y/N’s words didn’t soothe Charles. If anything, he looked even more horrified. “Y/N! You can’t be serious. What do you mean worse?”

“Oh, you know, worse. I promise, the things they’re saying are nothing compared to what I’ve been through growing up. I don’t mind it. Promise.”

“You can’t think I’d be okay with that, Y/N.”

“There’s nothing to be done about, Charles. It is what it is.”

“Still,” he frowned, “I’m sorry you have to go through this, Y/N. It’s not fair.”

“It really isn’t,” she said with a sigh of resignation.

“Well, I need to say something otherwise I’m no better than them.” He huffed before he took a seat beside Y/N on the couch. 

“You are so much better than them, Cha,” Y/N said as she abandoned her phone and pulled him into her embrace, his head nuzzling against her neck. He could feel her steady pulse, the smell of her heady perfume momentarily washing away his worries. “I’m serious. Don’t worry about it.”

“I should publish a statement,” he muttered against her, “I should say something.”

“You don’t think it might make things worse?”

“Do you?” He pulled away, peering at her from his lashes. “Do you think it will make things worse?”

“It might,” she shrugged. Charles wasn’t entirely sure how or why, but Y/N’s lack of a response, her impassivity and utter disregard for the situation, had his heart breaking. Was she so use to being treated this way that she’s grown immune to the heinous things people were saying about her? 

“Why aren’t you more concerned about this, cherie?” He frowned. 

Y/N smiled, a small reassuring thing that did nothing to quell Charles’ frustrations. “Charles, do you think I’m beautiful?”

“Don’t try to change the subject.”

“Humor me, babe, and answer the question. Do you think I’m beautiful?”

“Inside and out,” he declared without hesitation. 

“Does your family love me?”

“You know they do. Maman thinks you’re the daughter she never had and my brothers adore you.”

“What about your friends? Have they ever said anything bad about me to you?”

“No. They think you’re one of the best things to ever happen to me and that if I ever break your heart, I should get ready for a fight,” he grinned despite himself. 

“Then that’s all that matters to me,” Y/N said softly, her fingers curling around his dark hair before trailing down his neck, softly caressing him as if her touch could somehow dispel the demons plaguing him. “You’re the ones who matter, Charles. Not them. You and your family and your friends. I couldn’t care less about strangers on the internet calling me names.”

“But, Y/N, I can’t take it,” he frowned, relishing the feeling of her touch. His own hands found themselves on her waist, at the small space devoid of any clothing, his thumbs rubbing circles on her soft skin. “I love you and I don’t understand how people who are meant to support me can say such terrible things about you, the woman I love and who I fully intend to spend forever with. You don’t deserve this.”

She wasn’t entirely sure how she could reassure her boyfriend that she really didn’t care about the things people were saying about her. When she agreed to a relationship with Charles, she went in it with both eyes open. She understood what she had to give up to be with the man she loved and she was more than willing to give up her privacy and even her peace of mind if she could be with Charles. 

Truthfully, she hadn’t even thought about all the negativity. All she thought about was the anxiety that came with the territory of loving an athlete who competed in one of the most dangerous sports in the world. She hadn’t thought about what people would think about her. And, when the hate comments came pouring in, she really couldn’t bring herself to care. She didn’t have any space in her left to absorb the negativity, not when there were better things to worry about. 

But Charles had been so guilty. Y/N had only asked him to introduce her to his loved ones but it had been his choice to reveal their relationship to the world. He thought about the horrible things people were saying about her and struggled to take it. He saw Y/N as the beautiful, kind and fantastic person that she really was and he took any hate towards her personally. 

“It is what it is, babe,” Y/N said, trying her best not to sound flippant. 

“I wish I can do something. I’m really sorry, cherie. You don’t deserve this,” he sighed sorrowfully.

“Don’t apologize. You aren’t the one saying these things about me.”

“But I’m the reason why they say them!” Charles exclaimed. “If you were with someone else, they wouldn’t be saying these things. If I hadn’t told them about us then none of this would be happening!”

“Charles, stop,” Y/N said firmly, “don’t do this to yourself. Don’t torture yourself like this. I love you and I will never blame you for the actions of other people, do you understand?”

He took a deep breath. “I just wish there was something I could do. I got you in this mess. I should do what I can to get you out.”

One of the things she loved about her boyfriend was his tenacity and his single minded determination to accomplish something he wanted. He wasn’t going to let this go, not unless Y/N said something. She knew that if she told him she wasn’t comfortable with him releasing a statement, he’d drop it. But it’s not like the situation can get any worse and if Charles can feel better by doing this, then she might as well let him. “If you really want to say something, I won’t stop you. I love you and I support you in everything you do, including this.”

He peered at her from his lashes, his face turning hopeful. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Do you want to read what I’ll say after or not?”

She paused. Did her opinion really matter to him so much? “I can read it if you want me to.”

“Of course I want you to. Your opinion matters to me very much.”

Despite herself, she smiled. Charles’ compassion and consideration for her had her heart soaring higher than a kite. There was a time when she’d doubted his affection for her, when she thought Charles’s feelings for her to be disingenuous. Now, she wonders how she ever thought the worst of him. Charles, despite how perfect he may appear with his Disney-prince like good looks, amazing sense of humor and superior personality, was just as human as she was. He was as prone to his insecurities and self-doubt as Y/N was but that was likely why she loved him so much.

It’s easy to love someone for their perfections. It’s a lot harder to love someone’s flaws. Luckily for Y/N, she loved all of Charles with her whole tender heart and she rather suspected, with the way Charles was looking at her as if she hung the moon and the stars herself, that he loved all of her with his whole tender heart too.

[sneezemonster15]

2 anti arguments

Sasuke moved to fight Orochimaru because of Sakura's words

Why would Sasuke look at Sakura's lips and then get mad when she smiled at Naruto if he wasn't jealous

Can you debunk

I am sure I have talked about this before, as have multiple others. Never mind, let us see.

As for your first question, there's nothing to debunk. Sasuke did get triggered by Sakura's jibe, but it would be wrong to say that he was entirely motivated by her words. That would be selective reading, which is quite immature and misleading, as it gives an incomplete picture of the story and characters. It's the wrong way to judge media.

First of all, one must understand that the story is NOT about SNS vs SS. All these 'SS said this and that' kind of questions come from dull SS stans who simply refuse to see the story as anything outside of SS. For them, the story starts with SS and ends with SS. Just like NH stans. Anything other than that does not successfully register on their minds. They don't care about the larger narrative or other sub/side narratives that converge together to make the manga what it is.

The story does NOT follow the narrative of whether Sasuke loved Naruto or Sakura. It's about Sasuke and Naruto's love, Sakura is not much more than plot device for their development.

1) Okay, as for the first question, what we need to fully comprehend that it is TEAM SEVEN fighting Orochimaru, not just Sasuke and Naruto. This is the panel anon is talking about.

True, Sakura doesn't really contribute much to the battle other than screaming Naruto! Or Sasuke kun!! But the point is, the teams either pass the test together or fail the test together. Mistake of even one member will cost the entire team and Sasuke is quite aware of it.

Okay, let's see what we have already understood in the story prior to forest of death arc. What is the context here?

Even before the Forest of death arc, we as readers have understood that Sasuke's propensity of entering the fight alone and consequently fighting alone as well, did not prove to be successful or even efficient.

This was the first lesson Sasuke learnt fighting as a member of team seven. He wasn't able to take the bells from Kakashi, because he acted on his own, and ignored the aspect of teamwork. Sasuke learnt from this. He learns that in order to achieve victory, he needs to be responsible and think about the team collectively and not just individually.

Secondly, Sasuke was already treating Sakura as a team member even prior to forest of death arc.

At this point, Sasuke DID care about team seven, which includes Sakura. If he didn't, he wouldn't have done what he did as can be seen in the above panel. Sasuke gave Sakura the confidence she needed so she would not be discouraged to participate in the chuunin exams. Why would he do this if he didn't think of her as a part of team seven? He obviously saw a dejected Sakura and decided to cheer her up by mentioning her genjutsu know how (sadly we didn't see it especially demonstrated anywhere but okay...Sasuke was humouring her and we get that). Sakura undid it all when she confronted him when he was leaving Konoha but it's not like he resented Sakura at all times. When she showed growth, and she did have her moments, even if rare, low intensity or shallow at best, he also reciprocated. He is not a malicious or petty person, he wouldn't ignore the growth of his team mates, he cared about his team.

So in forest of death arc, a lot has already happened before Sasuke panics and freezes at Oro's attack. This is shown by Kishi in NUMEROUS panels. I don't know how people simply sweep it under the carpet. Sigh.

Look at ALL these panels that come before Sakura's jibe. What do they tell you?

It was not only team seven's, but also Sasuke's first time fighting such a powerful opponent. He was scared for his team, he knew that one mistake of his could cause the death of all three members. Look at how he was physically protecting Sakura, doing his best to judge the situation so they could all escape scotfree. When one is confronted by an opponent much stronger and much more more experienced than you, would you just stand there waiting for your death or would you device a strategy to back out and escape? What would be the smart thing to do? He was obviously panicky. After witnessing Oro's powers, he knew that he had no chance of winning on his own. Naruto was inside the belly of the snake and Sakura was a helpless victim that he was literally carrying. He knew that he had to give the scroll away to ensure the lives of his teammates. He was scared for their lives. And why wouldn't he be?

Even before Sakura says those words to Sasuke, we see Sasuke already thinking about Naruto's words and he is trying to make up his mind about breaking the freeze he is in and fighting Orochimaru.

The whole context is about Sasuke trying to find level ground and this is then reiterated by Naruto when he taunts him and calls him a scaredy cat, and is gradually trying to find the courage that he needs in order to fight. It's not about SS, neither is it about Sakura being the frontrunner of team seven.

Basically, the whole import of this scene is that Sasuke needed to overcome his fear and face the challenge in front of him especially because the lives of his team mates were getting threatened because of his inaction. If he didn't make his decision soon, they would become vulture food.

This is why when Sakura sees Naruto successfully escaping the snake and arriving at the scene to fight Oro, she is impressed by Naruto's strength and determination. But then after Oro incapacitates Naruto by messing with his seal, she gets panicked as well. She knows she cannot do anything except for screaming, but she knows that Sasuke can do something, he just needed to be brought out of the freeze, like pushing a deer in headlights out of the way.

And this is exactly why when she says those words to Sasuke and calls him a coward, he is reminded of Itachi and he is finally moved to action as you can see in the picture attached below.

How is he supposed to fight Itachi if he cannot even fight to protect his and his comrades' lives? How is he supposed to defeat Itachi, someone much more powerful than him, without courage and fortitude?

He is literally saying it all himself. What is so confusing here honestly? Once he sees Naruto risking his life and overcoming his fears (and taunting him in the process aka #scaredy cat hahahaha), how can he simply remain passive when his comrade is clearly risking his life to save the team?

Sakura's words definitely act as a trigger but only as a trigger, the development of this whole scene started way before Sakura's panel, for at least three full chapters, and it is about Sasuke's development, as the information that we get from this scene is about how Sasuke perceived the threat of Oro and what finally motivated him to move, seeing Naruto risk his life and then the thought of Itachi at Sakura's words. If one thinks it validates SS, they are clearly thinking with a shiprot brain.

Naruto fans and especially dumb shippers use these selective moments to prove their point while entirely erasing the rest. There's nothing to debunk, it's all already bunk (Seinfeld reference lol). SNS fans need to stop getting gaslit by these dumbasses.

2) As for the second question, it's also a result of selective reading and SS shipping brainrot rather than what's actually in the manga and I have talked about it in detail here.

[ineffableslytherinking]

Chapter 8: White Flag of my RadioStaticApple fic Red with Envy has been posted!

The television demon’s screen flickered, a small spark zapping between his antennae as he stared down at the legs casually draped across his lap. He swallowed thickly. “What are you doing?” he asked in as steady a voice as he could manage. Alastor raised an eyebrow innocently. “Just stretching out!” He leaned back a bit more, stretching his legs out further across Vox’s lap as he took a drink of his whiskey.  Vox narrowed his eyes as they swept over the Radio Demon’s face. He waited for the mocking jibe that he was sure would come, but instead, Alastor just smiled. “So, how was the rest of your week?” he asked casually. Vox blinked several times, shaking his head. Since he’d arrived at the hotel, Alastor had been acting strangely, and now Vox was starting to feel like he had been plunged into a different universe. “Alright, you hate small talk. What the hell is going on here?” Alastor’s second eyebrow joined the first in the picture of surprise. “Why, I’m just being polite!” “Yeah, and that makes it even weirder. You’re being almost nice. Or your equivalent, at least. What gives?”

[aprofessionalwithoutstandards]

Miss Pauling for the ask game 👀?

favorite thing about them She's just adorable I think her design is really really cute. I love "little lady who kills people" as a trope and the kind of "geekiness" she brings to it is so fun

least favorite thing about them I don't like how she isn't allowed to be friends with any other women :( it's just misogynistic character writing, I think she should have some kind of positive relationship with another woman at some point, even if it's just a friendship and not a romantic thing

favorite line The one where she's like Saddle! Engie, saddle 'em! Saddle 'em up!

brOTP I really really really think she and Sniper hanging out is so funny. Her hanging out with any of the mercs is funny but I think she'd jibe especially well with Sniper, who also likes guns and is weird socially and in my heart of hearts is also kind of a nerd (in a very 1960s prog rock and acid sort of way)

OTP She should fuck that old Administrator

nOTP Scoutpauling but yall knew that already

random headcanon This is a weird choice for this one but to me she's in her mid-thirties. She's definitely older than Scout to me, older than Sniper, maybe about Demo's age

unpopular opinion Idk I have a lot of them I feel like? I don't like her and Scout but I also don't like her and Zhanna. I think she would be Attracted to Zhanna but not pursue her romantically, and Zhanna would sacrifice her in a heartbeat before the group even really needs to resort to cannibalism so it just wouldn't work out

song i associate with them Hmm...... she kind of has I Monster - Back Seat of My Car (Sticky Black Vinyl Mix) energy. Don't question my vision

favorite picture of them

I love her in this whole comic in general but especially as she's hiding bodies. She's just so cute

[ID: Two panels from the Meet the Director comic of Pauling on the phone with Admin, one where she is hefting up a bag of Mann Co. "corpse-grade quicklime" and the other where she is loading bullets into a revolver. End ID]

[umlewis]

Informing Toto Wolff that he's off to Ferrari in 2025, the team boss told Lewis Hamilton to picture the Mercedes rear wing, because that will be his "perspective" next season. Although Hamilton signed a two-year contract with Mercedes back in August last year, the Briton opted to activate an escape clause that allowed him to leave after just one year.

Toto Wolff: Hamilton/Ferrari leak didn't "give me lots of options"

Deciding over F1's Christmas break that he wanted a new challenge, the timeframe reads the decision, contact, negotiations, and signing all took place over a six-week period, and after that, Wolff was informed with Hamilton telling his team boss about his move as the news began to leak. "Not a lot," Wolff told Fox Sports Australia when asked about the time difference between his sit-down with Hamilton and the announcements. "I think it was difficult for him to really tell me because he left for the Christmas holiday and was Mercedes forever. Normally that's a time where we don't speak a lot, because he's gone, because otherwise we're speaking every day. And then he came back and said, 'Can we have a coffee?' He came for coffee-that's a normal thing we're doing when the season kicks off-and he said, 'I'm moving to Ferrari,' and I said, 'Really?' Not that it shocked me, because we knew that we have a short-term contract, but the timing, at the beginning of the season... I said, 'Why at the beginning of season?' He said he just wanted to have it out and not have it as a burden. Then you've got to stay pragmatic. After that five minute shock and disbelief it was like, 'Okay, what are we doing announcement? What are we doing going forward into the season?' And he said, 'Well, the announcement is a tricky thing, because I think it's leaking.' It didn't give me lots of options."

Toto Wolff "can't imagine" Lewis Hamilton in red

With Hamilton joining Mercedes in 2013, the same year Wolff signed up, the two have been together for six of the Briton driver's championship titles, and together won eight consecutive Constructors' Championships from 2014 to 2021. It begs the question, is Wolff disappointed by Hamilton's decision to leave Mercedes for Ferrari? "No, not at all," he insisted. "I think sportspeople have a limited shelf life when they are at the peak of their performance, peak of their earning power, and that is maybe ten to fifteen years. They've got to do it and take that limited amount of time where you want to win as many races and as much as possible, and that's why I understand that he says 'I gotta go a different path, I need to reinvent myself.' I see the positives, because our years were so great and we really have a strong bond. And in the same way, we are able to separate in wishing each other really all the best. Hopefully we'll be beating him on track, and we at the same time can embark on a new route with another new driver next to George." And beating him on track was Wolff's jibe to Hamilton after the 39-year-old broke the news. "I think, first, I can't imagine him in the red. I don't think it suits him," the Austrian added, "but I think that picture is gonna be interesting. And then I told him, 'You got to really picture our rear wing, because that's the perspective you're going to have.'"

[bigfan-fanfic]

A Better Big Three (Peter Parker x Percy Jackson x Dick Grayson x Reader)

Requested by @jayfeather965 for  Can you write a fic on a game night Mariokart with Peter, Percy, and Dick?

Percy is surprised to find out he has the most normal schedule of all of them besides you.

But since he doesn't go out vigilante-ing at night, it actually makes sense.

However, Percy has insisted upon a game night.

Your apartment is a nice one, with space enough for all of you. Dick has paid for a lot of it from the money from his dad, and Bruce was happy to assist Peter because of his own work with the Justice League.

So it's fun to take advantage of this comfy place. Getting to slip a couple of pizzas in the oven, and preparing a space for game night is exciting, especially as you know that unless Dick or Peter has been captured by a villain, they'll make it over to spend all night and most of the morning with you makes it much better.

Percy tends to get a little frisky with excess energy when game night rolls around - this usually manifests in kisses and affection for you, playful wrestling from him, and sometimes Percy remembering suddenly he has a stash of blue candy to share for the night.

Peter arrives home first. Thankfully, Dick's dad supplied a secret basement entrance so that Spiderman isn't seen slinging in through the window in costume.

Percy tackles him excitedly as soon as he's through the door, swinging him around to make sure he gives you both greeting kisses.

Peter's schedule still consists of doing labs and college classes, then web swinging and getting pictures to sell to the Daily Bugle. (Considering Dick is happy to use his family wealth to support you all, but Peter and Percy are reluctant to use it, coming from poorer backgrounds, Peter mainly uses this job as a source of personal income so he can buy things for you all or for friends without getting money from you all (though he has relaxed his view on gifts).)

So more often than not he is exhausted. Which is why it's important to have these times.

Thankfully there's no web slinging or vigilante-ing tonight.

You happily direct Peter to get comfy and relax, ordering him to shower since he smells a little like the subway right now.

Dick comes in, smirking a little at how eager Percy is to see him.

"Did we get a puppy?" he teases, and Percy pokes him in the side. "Awww, come on."

"Stop being mean." Percy gives a mock-pout, and Dick kisses him.

"I think you'd be cute with a little blue collar. Give you a trident token?"

Percy shoves him and rolls his eyes, but his cheeks darken, and you giggle.

You propose putting something on tv to watch, but Percy groans, so everybody grabs a couple of pizza slices and prepares to race.

There are high stakes involved, after all.

You play the Grand Prix mode, and each tournament has something bet on it.

It starts simple, like picking tomorrow's dinner, to what movie to watch later, to the more risque things.

Dick almost never wins - he's terrible at MarioKart, but he doesn't mind losing, so he's just happy to play.

Peter and Percy get a little more competitive, and often you end up winning because they end up jostling each other and trying to distract one another.

There are playful jibes and complaints over the items used, but it's all in good fun.

In addition, pajamas are the required attire, but while there is no "strip MarioKart" rules in place, it's almost an unspoken rule at this point that the races continue until at least one person has removed all their clothes.

The night continues swimmingly - sometimes board games get played after, sometimes it turns into movie night - and sometimes things continues with other games until you need to order some more food!

But it's always great to play together and have a break from life, together.