#Supermarket Tabloid

[morffyne]

[lemoncrushh]

You Said You'd Never Leave

Summary: You worry that you can no longer handle being Harry's girlfriend.

Warnings: angst, insecurities, mentions of body image issues and anxiety

Word Count: 1735

A/N: Another angsty blurb from my 2016 collection, most likely based on a prompt. Famous Harry x reader.

Juggling the bags of groceries in your hands, you turned the key and shoved the door open with your knee. Not bothering to close it behind you, you made it to the kitchen without dropping the bags until you reached the counter. That was when the tears began to fall. You rested your hands on the countertop while your vision blurred as you let it all out. Your entire body shook with sobs. You couldn't do this anymore.

You suddenly heard a sound, causing you to stand up straight and wipe your eyes. But you quickly realized it was just something outside, a neighbor mowing his lawn, or perhaps the postal carrier. Remembering that you'd left the front door open, you walked over to shut it, turning the lock. You leaned against the closed door, your shoulders still shaking and your heart pounding in your chest.

"Stop crying," you told yourself, wiping your soaked cheek with the back of your hand.

You returned to the kitchen to unload the groceries. As you put the vegetables in the refrigerator, you secretly wondered if they would go bad after you left.

After you left...

You shook your head, hurrying to put the rest of the food away before another flood of tears came. Then you headed for the bedroom where your dress hung on the closet door. You stopped in the doorway when you saw it. You'd almost forgotten you'd hung it there the night before. It was long and black with a deep neckline. Although you'd been hesitant to wear it, Harry had told you you'd look beautiful in it.

Trying your best not to cry again, you walked into the adjacent bathroom and turned on the water for a shower. Then you deliberately undressed, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.

You didn't like what you saw. Worse, you didn't like what other people saw.

Your body and overall physical appearance had never been an issue until you'd started dating Harry. Sure, he thought you were beautiful and told you so constantly. But it never seemed to be enough to chase away the inner demons, the voices in your head that told you he was too good for you, and completely out of your league.

Of course it didn't help that everywhere you turned someone was talking about you, posting pictures of you either alone or together. They would criticize what you were wearing, commenting on your curves or some minuscule detail that you'd never even thought twice about before. The magazines printed trash about you, sometimes twisting a story or even making one up completely just to shut you down.

You'd been dealing with this for a while now. You'd moved in with Harry nearly three months ago, and you'd dated for another five months before that. One would think you knew how to shake things off and let them be. But you couldn't. It got to you. It scarred you.

You even had Harry fooled. Not that he didn't know what you were going through. He saw it firsthand. He knew it bothered you. But he had no idea to what degree. You acted cool as a cucumber when you were out, and assured him many times over that seeing the tabloids and pap pictures didn't mean a thing to you.

It was all a lie.

As you stepped into the shower, you recalled the look on the woman's face in the supermarket. She'd looked at you like she knew you and for a moment you even glared at her, trying to place her from somewhere. But when she glanced at the magazine on display and back at you, you knew she was scrutinizing you, mentally nit-picking every little detail about you. You'd turned around to pay for your groceries when the young cashier's jaw dropped.

"Oh my God," she'd said, halfway between a squeal and a cough.

You'd quickly paid for your items and made your way out to the parking lot, not giving the girl a chance to say anything beyond have a nice day. You could feel the eyes on you. You couldn't see them, but you knew they were there. You'd driven home in silence until your phone rang, scaring you and causing you to nearly run off the road. You'd known it was Harry, but you didn't answer.

After the shower, you dried off with a towel and returned to the bedroom. You eyed the dress hanging up, but instead opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. You knew you wouldn't be wearing that dress tonight.

You weren't sure how long you'd been sitting on the edge of the bed, staring into space when you heard the front door open. You didn't bother to answer when Harry called your name down the hall. You didn't even look up when he stopped in the doorway.

"Hey," he greeted. "Did you get my message?"

You lifted your head slowly then. You'd forgotten to play back his message.

"Sorry," you muttered. "I was in the car when you called."

"Oh," he said, stepping into the room. "No worries. I was just saying I'd be a little late."

"Okay," you nodded solemnly.

"Something wrong?" Harry inquired. "I thought you'd be dressed."

You looked down at your t-shirt that you'd already forgotten you'd put on. You took a deep breath and lifted your eyes.

"I'm not going," you replied.

Harry furrowed his brows. "What? Why not?"

You ran a hand down your face and bit your lip. Then you picked at a thread in your shorts.

"Because I'm tired. I can't do this anymore, Harry."

The tears threatened to well in your eyes again, but you forced them at bay.

"What? Can't do what?"

"This," you threw your hands up. "This relationship. Being Harry Styles's girlfriend."

Harry was silent but you felt the bed shift as he sat down beside you. Then he took your hand and threaded his fingers through yours.

"Baby..." he breathed. "Talk to me. Tell me what happened."

Your chest ached with the sobs that were threatening to emerge.

"It's not one thing that happened, Harry," you explained. "It's everything. I feel them looking at me. Everywhere I go, they're either glaring at me or talking about me behind my back."

Harry squeezed your hand, remaining silent, knowing you still had more to say.

"They say horrible things. Not just about our relationship, but about me personally. My body, how I'm not good enough for you. And they're right."

"[Y/N]," Harry finally spoke, "Baby, I-"

You freed your hand from his grasp and rose from the bed.

"I know it comes with the territory," you interrupted. "I know you've told me this time and time again. And I get that. But I can't shake the way it makes me feel. It hurts, Harry."

You crossed the room to stand in front of the dresser, your back to him.

"I think it's best if we end this now," you confessed.

You didn't turn around, but you heard Harry curse under his breath. You hated to hurt him. You loved him, and loved being with him more than anything. But you couldn't live like this any longer.

"Do you remember the night you moved in?"

Your breath caught at Harry's question. You nodded slowly.

"A lot of things were getting to you then. But we talked it through. And I swore I loved you and I would always be here for you. That it wasn't about them. This is you and me. Do you remember that?"

"Yes," you whispered, turning to face him.

"You said you trusted me. You said you weren't going to leave, no matter how hard things got."

You sighed, your shoulders dropping.

"I know I did," you choked. "But I was fooling myself, Harry. It's just..."

As your words trailed off, Harry stood up and stepped closer to you.

"It's just what?" he asked, reaching for your hand.

"It's just too hard." You felt a tear trickle down your cheek as you took a shaky breath.

Harry lifted his other hand to your cheek to wipe it away. As your eyes met his, you realized that he was crying too.

"Please don't go," he begged. "I need you."

"Harry..." you shook your head. "How could you possibly need me? You have the world in the palm of your hand."

"I need you to remind me what's real, what's important. I need you to be here when I get home so I can see your beautiful face and kiss your lips and hold you tight. I need you, [Y/N]! I love you. Please. Stay."

The tears were falling like mad now as Harry wrapped his arms around you and you fell into his chest.

"I love you so much, Harry," you cried. "But I don't know if it's enough anymore."

"Why not?"

"I feel like I'm having an anxiety attack every time I go out," you swallowed. "Everyone knows who I am and they hate me and..."

"Hey...shhh..." Harry rubbed your back, soothing you until your body stilled.

"Listen to me," he demanded, lifting your chin with his hand. "We'll get through this, okay? It might take a little more time."

"I can't stay inside forever," you argued.

"I know. But we'll think of something. I'll get you a bodyguard if I have to, just to put you at ease. It'll be okay, [Y/N]. I promise."

You stared into his green eyes that pleaded you to agree and understand. Every time you looked at them, they seemed to melt away all your anguish.

"We don't have to go tonight," Harry added, surprising you.

"Really?" your eyes widened.

"Yeah," he nodded, running his hands up your arms. "It's just a stupid party. We can stay here if you want."

You felt all the heaviness lift from your shoulders in that moment. All of the worry washed away with his words.

"That sounds wonderful," you said just before his lips met yours.

"I love you," Harry murmured against your mouth.

"I love you, too," you replied.

"And I promise I'm here for you. I promised it months ago, and I still do. I believe in us. I believe we can make it. Do you still trust me?"

"Yes," you nodded, never more sure in your life. "I trust you."

MASTERLIST | KO-FI | FEEDBACK

[mrspeechless]

The apprehension was starting to boil over. What felt like hours of jerking now sore and exhausted muscles against hellish cords of rope amounted to nothing. She was no freer than she was the moment they'd left her. In her head she thought it'd be so simple to get free. She'd even wear that confidence on her shoulders, glaring at the robbers menacingly as the second pair of her own underwear was callously packed into her mouth despite how much of a nuisance she thought shaking around her head might be. She'd even spat noticeably muted curses their way, doomed as those words were to be effectively blockaded by the half roll of tape brutally squeezing her bloated cheeks and forcibly spread lips. When those masked bastards chuckled at her indignant show of attitude her ego deftly deflected the blow. Even after one of the men gripped her by tape-buried cheeks and said "You'll get loaded into the van last" she was still convinced that somehow the joke would be on them. There was no possible way she'd allow herself to be taken as just another object from her home. That was the stuff of film, tabloid news pieces at supermarket checkouts, raunchy romance novels shelved in the very back of bookstores. But as time drew on, the knots of their ropework remaining pristine, the muscles of her jaw beginning to ache from wasted time spent flexing lips and working her tongue against the panties trapped in her mouth, the weight of her helplessness started to compound. A dense knot tighter than any found on the ropes that lashed across her meekly struggling body grew in the pit of her stomach. She'd even tested the limits of her gag a few times, leaning her head to the nearest window a few feet away and letting loose screams that roared like a lion's in her throat yet only mewled like a cub's when filtered through the front of the tape smothering her lips. A tingle of fear would flow through her with each attempt, realizing just how quiet they'd made her. There came a point where deliberate and cautioned attempts to squirm and pick at her knots devolved into panicked and labored struggles that on more than one occasion nearly had her chairbound form tumbling to the floor. Intrusive thoughts of what they might do with her if she couldn't escape started to seep in, causing her to let out heavily stifled whines of panic with each fruitless and frantic tug against her cruel binds. But in the end she was a victim not only to the evil of the men holding her captive, but to the callous unfeeling march of time. They were coming back, and she could feel the heaviness of the tears starting to well in her wide eyes when they finally returned for her...

[rod-emperor-of-dune]

Nosferatu?

lets do a game

[delusionsofgrandeur13]

CASUAL

tim drake x reader

prologue

not nsfw yet but will be!

series inspired by Casual by Chappell Roan

readers can expect: fem reader x tim drake. party/alcohol mentions, reader drinks, isn’t really affected. creepy drunk guy/unwanted flirting. sexual innuendos.

●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●

you’d seen him before, of course. on the cover of trashy tabloids in supermarket lines, ordering coffee at the college cafe. but this was the first time you’d seen him at a party.

you pull down the hem of your dress, red and so tight breathing was out of the question. you lick your thumb and, bending down, try to rub out the scuff on the toe of your right doc marten. you take as big of a breath as the dress allowed and put the most confident smile you could onto your face. you weren’t used to going to these kinds of frat parties, where the member’s lives were funded solely by old family money. the frat house had been paid for by lucius fox for his son to have somewhere ‘suitable’ to live. it was bruce fucking wayne’s former frat. you can’t imagine you’ll even talk to anyone the whole night. why would you? those kinds of boys were never your type, ever. but they were lydia’s. she’d been invited by her guy of the month, and in turn, invited you as emotional support. the laws of friendship demanded your attendance.

“you ready?”

you nod as lydia links her arm through yours, and pulls you up the pathway to the door of the frat house. you can hear the bass pounding through the windows, the house dark yet full of sound. a boy leans up against the dark wood, his arms crossed lazily. he lifts his head up, looking you both up and down, lydia in purple, you in red. something about him made you want to run home, yelling excuses for why you’d used a coupon at the store the other day and why your dress was secondhand. he sniffed, nodding, and moved aside to open the door for you both. the music washed over you in a wave, a little disorienting.

as soon as you crossed the threshold, lydia squeezed your arm and darted up the stairs, where her guy was waiting. you look around, trying to not fold in on yourself. the keg was in the corner, with some guys looking rather eager for anyone to volunteer to keg stand. you veer in the other direction. groups of people every so often burst into laughter, and you shiver. old money laughter was chilling. couples were scattered throughout the house, grinding on the stairs, sitting on each others laps on the couch.

you hadn’t been in a relationship for two and a half years, and every person since then had just been sort of a rebound..and then another rebound, and another, and another. you didn’t miss your ex, you just were no longer sold on the lovey dovey, ooey gooey, valentine’s day, til death do us part type of love.

the island in the kitchen was topped with marble, and you blinked, harshly reminded again of where you were. you grab a red solo cup, laughing internally at the fact that no matter who was throwing the party, those cups were present. you mixed yourself a rum and coke, more coke than rum. a frat house was a frat house.

your neck prickles, and you turn with your drink, leaning up against the island. the vibes of this place were giving you all kinds of heebie jeebies. a blonde girl in a pristine white tennis skirt flounced past, giving you a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. you return it, your expression turning into a grimace as you catch a glimpse of the guy making his way towards you. his light brown hair was cut way too short for his face shape, and nose was crooked like it’d been broken multiple times, then reset, then broken again and left like that. his green eyes were watery, red and bloodshot. he looked at you, hungry, and you felt like you were in a lion’s den, your flesh about to be stripped clean of your bones. his left hand was preoccupied with holding an entire bottle of vodka, which, with a glance at the label, said it was bubblegum flavored. your mouth twisted, thinking of the way that would taste coming back up.

he put his free hand on the counter next to you, cornering you. he leaned down, his breath telling you exactly what bubblegum flavored vodka tasted like.

“i haven’t seen you before. why?”

the rum and coke mixture in your mouth soured at the thought of this guy getting any closer to you.

“it doesn’t matter because you won’t be seeing me again.” you try to sidestep him, but he moves closer, setting his vodka on the island.

his arms were bracketing you in now, and your heart rate picked up speed. you silently begged lydia to come down the stairs and save you, but it was hopeless. the look in his eyes made you curse yourself for coming, for being anywhere that he was. he opened his mouth to say something else, but froze, looking at something over your shoulder.

“eric.” the voice came from behind you. it was masculine, and it sounded friendly enough, but you and eric both seemed to understand the underlying warning. he grabbed his vodka, leaning away, but still a step too close.

“tim.” eric nodded to whoever was behind you, his demeanor suddenly almost..respectful.

he then gulped, which you would’ve laughed at if he wasn’t still so close to you. your neck prickled again. he mumbled as he walked away, grumbling into the mouth of his bottle about frat presidents and how unfair it all was. he shot another glance back towards the kitchen before turning the corner, his lip curling.

you didn’t turn, instead taking another swig from your plastic cup. it crinkled in your hand as you relaxed your grip on it. someone was tapping out a rhythm on the marble. it sounded impatient, and you internally rolled your eyes before turning around. tim drake wayne was standing behind you, leaning his forearms on the countertop. his thick dark hair was coiffed in a way that probably took him hours but was meant to look like it just air dried that way. his jeans were tailored, but sat low on his hips. the dark fabric of his sweater looked like it would cost a month’s rent, and you had to resist the urge to reach out and feel it between your fingertips.

he stopped drumming his fingers, and your face grew hot, realizing you’d basically just been checking him out. he returned the favor, looking you up and down with half-lidded eyes and a cheshire cat smile. if eric was a lion, tim was a black panther. he’d probably play with you like a yarn ball, batting at you until you unraveled. being in his presence felt dangerous. you felt the burning gaze of a few others in the room who would probably cut off their pinky finger to be in your position. you shifted your weight off of the counter, standing up to walk away. you got two steps, stopping when tim called out after you.

“no.” he said. you spin, taking in the look on his face, his eyebrows pinched like a petulant child. you felt your own eyebrows raising as your entitled-rich-boy tank reached capacity.

“..no? what do you mean, no?” you replied, incredulous.

“don’t leave.”

“right. bye!” you turn to go find lydia, stopping in your tracks when tim suddenly slides in front of you. you suck in a breath, surprised at how fast he can move.

“maybe i wanted to talk to you.”

“what if i don’t want to listen?” you retort. his dark blue eyes flash, and the cheshire cat smile stretches across his face again.

“then don’t. give me your wrist.” he raises an eyebrow like a challenge, holding his hand out.

you comply, not really understanding why, and he’s pulling a pen out of his jeans, uncapping it. his grip on your wrist is firm but not painful, his hand warm and surprisingly calloused. the pen bites into the skin attaching the seam of your wrist and hand.

“there.” he finishes writing, pocketing the pen. “a new accessory to match that dress.”

the digits of his phone number wrap your wrist like a bracelet, and your heart stutters a little, your cheeks pinking.

“thank you?” you say, your words coming out as more of a question than you realize.

he winks, dragging his eyes up the length of your body again.

“maybe next time i’ll give you a pearl necklace.”

you blink and he’s gone, his lean back disappearing behind a corner. your heartbeat thumps in time to the music. you never thought you’d be in the presence of a wayne, let alone get one of their phone numbers. you stare at your wrist, memorizing the numbers like there’ll be a test on them later. lydia appears, her makeup smudged and her hair undone. she grabs your arm, shaking it a little.

“hey, all good to go? what’s that on your wrist?”

you shake your head, dropping it down by your side.

“nothing.” you smile at her, linking your arm through hers. “how was it?”

[starstruckunknown-princess]

Snapdragon - Bruce Wayne x Reader

Snapdragon (Antirrhinum) - Meaning: Presumption, deception

Summary: Reader thinks her boyfriend, Bruce Wayne, is cheating on her. Bruce tries to figure out how to tell her about his nighttime activities.

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

Word Count: 1864

Warnings: Suspected infidelity, angst, discussion of insecurities, a little bit of gaslighting/misdirection from Bruce, Alfred is a sassy bitch, Bruce is a mopey bastard, cliffhanger ending

Day 12 takes a sharp turn back into angst! I wrote this with the Christian Bale Batman and Michael Caine Alfred in mind, but use any Batman/Alfred you fancy. Also, sorry for the cliffhanger.

In Bloom Masterlist

Part 2: Snowdrop

Likes, Comments, and Reblogs are incredibly appreciated! ❤️

Bruce was cheating on you, you knew it. He hadn’t spent the night at your place in weeks, was texting you back at odd hours at night, and whenever you did manage to pin him down for a date he seemed disengaged, preoccupied, like he would rather be elsewhere. 

Dating Gotham’s Prince was difficult enough as it was, press following you everywhere and your face showing up in supermarket tabloids — you were just a regular person, you didn’t come from money or rub elbows with Gotham’s social elite, you had a regular boring desk job to pay the bills. 

You met Bruce by accident one day when you were on your way into work. You weren’t paying attention and almost walked into oncoming traffic, but Bruce had caught your arm just as you stepped off the curb, spilling your coffee. You’d turned, ready to give him such a tongue-lashing, but a motorcyclist zipped by at an ungodly speed right where you’d been about to step. Bruce then offered to replace your coffee and escort you to the office (“For your own safety,” he’d insisted with a  devilish smirk that you couldn’t say no to). 

You’d been dating ever since, almost a year now, which surprised most of the press. Numerous gossip sites were speculating about how you’d managed to keep Bruce’s interest for that long, but you’d learned to tune all their shit out. 

The insecurity you felt now stemmed from Bruce’s own behavior, not the latest expulsion of bile from the gossipmongers online. You’d texted Bruce to meet you at your place after work, only receiving a thumbs-up emoji back. 

You weren’t worth a real response. You weren’t worth his honesty. You weren’t worth him.

Shaking that insidious voice out of your head, you decided you needed a drink. In the middle of pouring yourself a glass of wine (box wine, another reminder of the insurmountable differences between you and Bruce) a knock sounded at the door. 

Looking through the peep hole, you saw a large bouquet of flowers held in front of a tired-looking Bruce. You opened the door and let him in, accepting the flowers and a kiss on the cheek. 

“Hello, gorgeous,” Bruce said, lingering near your cheek and stepping closer, putting his hands on your hips and pulling you closer to him. You tensed in his grasp, and he immediately let go, lifting your chin with a finger so you had to look him in the eye. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” 

Looking into his baby blues was a little too much to handle, so you simply nodded and moved away from him. 

“Yeah, just gonna get these in water,” you said, lifting the bouquet slightly. Fishing the one vase you owned out of the cupboard, you filled it at the sink. Bruce followed your movements, hands in his pants pockets while he watched. 

“I’ve only got a few minutes, unfortunately, but I was hoping you were free this Friday for a proper date,” he offered, smiling in his charming way. You only hummed your response, focusing on rearranging the flowers so they looked nice in the vase.

You had a speech prepared, known exactly what you wanted to say to him to get him to confess that he was cheating. Now that he was here, however, your well-formulated hypothesis was harder and harder to grasp. Like smoke, it dissipated the more you tried to catch it. 

“You sure everything’s okay? You seem tense,” Bruce observed. That was your cue, and you knew you had to take it before he got any closer. Once he had his hands on you, every rational thought would flee and you’d be at his mercy. 

“Are you cheating on me?” you asked, fighting to keep your composure. You’d never been good at confrontation, so you figured the best way to handle this was firm, direct, like ripping off a band-aid. You tried to put on a confident air even though your insides were practically liquifying with nerves. 

Bruce sighed, “We talked about this, you can’t believe anything you read on those sites. They’re just in it for the clicks-”

“I’m not-! I didn’t get it off the internet, it’s just…you’ve been distant lately, and I can’t think of any explanation other than you found someone more…in your league,” you explained, wrapping your arms around you in an effort to comfort yourself. The insecurities you felt earlier were slipping into your words, despite your best efforts to shove them aside.

Bruce softened, took a step toward where you were standing in your kitchen. When you didn’t flinch away, he laid his hands on your shoulders. “Babe, you are in my league. Hell, you’re way above my league, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks.” 

“I don’t either,” you said, “but this isn’t coming from an external source, it’s what I’ve noticed when it’s just the two of us. You seem distracted, like you don’t want to be in the moment with me. And it’s a rare occurrence that you text me back before midnight, if at all.” 

Bruce’s hands stroked down your arms, warming your skin. He leaned down into your eye line. “I’m sorry for that. I didn’t know you were feeling that way, I’ll be better about being present with you, I promise. There’s just been a lot going on at work and it’s been…busy, I’ve been busy, you know?” 

You nodded, “I know.” 

“But,” he said, unhooking your hands from where they’d been holding your elbows, “Now that I know, we can fix it. I’m gonna do better. Thank you for telling me.” 

You let him unfold your arms and bring them up around his shoulders, resting them there and bringing his hands to your lower back. He kept his grasp loose until, against your better judgment, you tightened your arms and pulled him into a hug. He returned your embrace, planting a gentle kiss to your forehead. 

When he held you like this it was easy, too easy, to forget your stupid insecurities and let yourself trust him. In his embrace, every imperfection you nitpicked about yourself ceased to exist. He was a safe space — well, until recently. 

Bruce said your name quietly to get your attention. You looked up at him. 

“I love you,” he said, the look on his face betraying the heartbreaking truth of his statement. 

You pushed up on your toes and kissed his lips quickly — any slower and you’d completely melt into him. 

“I love you too, Bruce.” 

________

Later that night…

Bruce was well and truly fucked. He’d known it was only a matter of time before you noticed his odd behavior, the late hours, the preoccupation and distractibility. Fuck! 

He and Alfred had rules, dammit, and he should’ve followed them. 

No more than five dates or two months, whichever comes first. 

They’re never allowed to roam the house unsupervised. 

Most importantly, keep feelings out of it. Sex and companionship, nothing more and nothing less. 

But it was different with you. You’d…surprised him, which he didn’t think was possible anymore. You were funny and gorgeous — not his usual type, but still enchanting — and a little spiky, which only intrigued him more. For the first time, Bruce wanted to get to know someone on a deeper level. Maybe it was age, or he was finally ready to admit he wasn’t an island, or maybe he was just sick of the endless line of vapid, waifish model-types he usually dated, but whatever the reason you came into his life at exactly the right time and you were…perfect. 

What was the old saying, nothing good can stay? The truth of that statement weighed on him as he pulled off the suit, tossing the pieces haphazardly all over the cave, leaving a trail to where he eventually settled in his computer chair. 

“Y’know, sir, while kevlar is good at stopping bullets it does rather badly when left unattended on a damp cave floor,” Alfred scolded gently, bending to pick up the pieces of Batman. Bruce only grunted at his butler, pulling up the dossier he’d been preparing on the Joker. The last few weeks it looked like the psychopath had reemerged, which is why he’d been so preoccupied. Gotham barely survived the last scrape with that psychopath, so Batman had been doggedly hunting him after the sun went down. 

“Did you stop by her place, then?” Alfred asked, referring to you. “She seemed rather insistent on it.”

Bruce paused, then sighed and turned to face Alfred. “She thinks I’m cheating on her.” 

“Not exactly an incorrect assumption,” Alfred joked. Bruce flashed him a glare, but the butler didn’t notice. “Well, we knew this was coming didn’t we? Once you started breaking the rules for her, it was only a matter of time.” 

Bruce internally groaned, not wanting to admit Alfred was right. “I just wish I knew what to do. She’s the first person in a long time that I’ve actually wanted to have around. Present company excluded, of course.” 

“Of course, sir,” Alfred said. “You’ve arrived at a crossroads, if you don’t mind me saying. You either tell her, or you don’t.” 

“How do I know if I should tell her?” 

“That answer lies in how much you trust her to keep your secret.” 

“And how do I know that I won’t lose her even if I tell her?” Bruce asked, voicing his biggest fear. Painting a target on your back as well as his, and then being shoved out of your life. 

Alfred laid a comforting hand on Bruce’s shoulder, like he always did when sharing a hard life lesson. “You don’t, Master Wayne.” 

The hand left his shoulder and Bruce turned back around, each man now going about their usual business. A few quick incident reports later Bruce made his way upstairs to his bedroom, hoping with how tired his body was that sleep would claim him quickly. 

No such luck.

Instead, he tossed and turned, going over every possible outcome of the inevitable conversation.

Option 1: He tells you about Batman, you accept it, and the two of you make it work. This, of course, was the ideal scenario so he knew that wouldn’t be the outcome. Nothing in his life worked out ideally. 

Option 2: He tells you about Batman, you freak out and break up with him, and you become a huge liability. Giving you that knowledge would be like handing you a grenade with the pin pulled out — if you held onto it, you were both safe, but if you let go…Kaboom. And how long could you hold onto a secret that big, that dangerous?

The last option was that he doesn’t tell you, you continue to assume he’s cheating on you, and you break up with him eventually. He loses you, but you remain unaware and therefore safe — from his enemies, from prosecution, from whatever else came from being Batman's girlfriend. 

Around three in the morning Bruce’s mind was made up, his next steps planned, and resolve steely, but he waited until half-past five (a more normal wake-up time) to text you. 

‘Dinner at my place tonight. We need to talk.’ 

Read Part 2 Here

[clubbing-at-219]

"Jeffrey is a very, very, very private person," said his lawyer, Gerald Boyle. “He's very cordial, very polite, very, very ashamed of what he is." His demeanour changed only once. The afternoon the case went to the jury, he carried into court a copy of a supermarket tabloid with his picture on the corner. The headline read: ���Milwaukee Cannibal Kills His Cellmate.' The accompanying story said Dahmer also ate the man. "Isn't it amazing what they come up with?" Jeff quipped, flashing the tabloid which had been doctored to include The Milwaukee Journal masthead.

[sohannabarberaesque]

"FREDDIE--!!!"

(No wonder that Daphne was right to chastise Freddie in A Pup Named Scooby-Doo for believing too much in supermarket tabloid "news" stories--even if his uncle ran the National Exaggerator such.)

the National Enquirer - 1957

[armoricaroyalty]

Rosalind of Armorica: The princess will see you now

Crown Princess Rosalind wants to become the most accessible member of the Armorican royal family. Is she ready for the pressure?

It’s hard to escape Crown Princess Rosalind. The 27-year-old heir to the Armorican throne is seemingly everywhere: cutting ribbons at hospital wards in Nordienne, meeting with conservationists and gamekeepers in the highlands north of Bortaine, smiling on the cover of glossy supermarket tabloids.

The omnipresence is part of a deliberate strategy, according to the Crown Princess. “We can’t hold ourselves apart from the people we serve,” says Rosalind. “We need to be hypervisible. We have to be real to our people, not just faces on stamps.”

Previous | Chapter Start | Beginning | Next

author's note: I never do recreations, but I did recreate this 2021 Tatler cover because it was just really striking. Thank you to @warwickroyals for sharing the Tatler graphic with me!

article continues below the cut!

Of course, hypervisibility is nothing new to the mega-popular heir to the Armorican throne. Already a superstar within her home country, Rosalind rose to international prominence after accompanying her father on a state visit to Uspana in November 2017. At just 27 years old, she is already considered one of the most accomplished living royals. In 2012, she graduated from the elite Allard University with dual degrees in economics and music performance. Two years later, she launched herself into full-time royal work, quickly racking up 34 patronages, ranging from the national ballet to the Ministry for Sustainable Energy. Last year, she completed over 400 engagements on behalf of her father. In terms of extracurricular activities, Rosalind is an accomplished tennis player, speaks six languages fluently, composed the score for ANN’s upcoming documentary on sustainable energy Green Horizons, and owns an international real estate portfolio valued in the hundreds of millions.

Sitting across from me at a private supper club in the tony Pearl District, she brings a relentless, focused energy to our conversation. Everything about her conveys poise and intensity, from her impeccable posture to her ad-exec smile to her sensible suede pumps. Her favorite rose-shaped brooch (purchased by her great-grandfather in 1962 and worn by both her grandmother and great-grandmother) adorns the lapel of her cropped jacket, which the diminutive Crown Princess has paired with wide-legged trousers. Her smile doesn’t waver as the conversation turns to her relationship with her father.

"We have very different styles. [My father has] never given an interview, and well, look at me now!”

“His Majesty is very supportive,” Rosalind says. “We work together very well, and in the last few years, he’s really come to rely on me.” It’s a bold claim for a member of the normally self-effacing and media-shy Armorican royal family, but it’s backed up by the numbers: including his weekly visits with the prime minister, the reclusive King of the Armoricans carried out just 131 engagements last year, approximately one third the number completed by the overachieving Crown Princess. “We have very different styles,” she laughs. “He’s never given an interview, and well, look at me now!”

"I suppose [my parents] meant well, but [my upbringing has] been quite a disadvantage."

Crown Princess Rosalind is the oldest child and only daughter of Andre, King of the Armoricans and former hockey pro Elise Sutton. According to Rosalind, the King and Queen—then the Duke and Duchess of Arbor—tried to give their children an “informal upbringing,” away from the pressures of royal life. “I suppose they meant well, but it’s really been quite a disadvantage,” she confesses. “When I meet my peers internationally, it’s very clear that they were more directly brought up to rule. I used to feel so behind. I’ve had to work hard to catch up.”

“Was it difficult, growing up as a member of the Royal Family?” I ask.

“No,” says Rosalind, hesitating. “But I think that it was difficult to be royal in my family.”

“I think that it was difficult to be royal in my family.”

[ellie-24]

Just A Fan

A/N: I recently saw all the 1977 Hawaii pictures again and oh they make me so soft every time. His health failed him, his personal life frustrated him, but he looked so happy and relaxed on this (last) vacation and really enjoyed himself.

Sooo I had to write a little something for dear Big Daddy Elvis. It's literally just horribly self-indulgent fluff. Enjoy!

This is also a veeeeery late response to the writing prompt: "Isn't that mine?"

Word count: 3.3 k

March 11th 1977, Polynesian Cultural Center, Hawaii

Cara noticed him right away. Of course, she's been looking for him. Word got around at campus that he would be here tonight and to say she was exited would be an understatement. Unfortunately she of course wasn't the only one who heard about it. She already dreaded the masses that would form around him, waiting to get a glimpse.

Others might say they wouldn't have recognised him right away when he entered the open-air pavilion. In fact, at first it seemed like nobody noticed him at all.

His jet black hair and sideburns more grown out and partly hidden beneath a white, frizzy bucket hat. The sparkly, heavy jumpsuits he usually wore replaced by a comfortable looking light track suit, emphasising the sight swell of his belly. Beautiful blue eyes hidden behind tinted glass. She hoped he'd take them off, even if just for a second so that she could see them. It's not like never seen his eyes, she'd stared at them longingly for hours and hours, never growing tired of them.

Whether she was staring at his face on one of the numerous records she owned, pausing his movies to fully take in a particularly cheeky expression that she loved so much or just sitting in front on the many, many posters on the walls of her dorm room, pretending he was looking right back at her.

He looked different. Different than he looked on stage, different than he looked on those posters, different than he looked 10 years ago. She was very well aware of that. The whole public was aware of it. Not only aware of it, but bothered by it, apparently.

The amount of mean spirited headlines she's read, plastered at the front of cheap tabloids at the gas station, at the supermarket, seemingly everywhere she went. Everywhere for the entire world to see. Surrounding, following, haunting her.

Cara never understood it. Her love for him never faltered, after obsessing over him throughout her whole childhood her fate was finally sealed when she saw him live for the first time in 1972. She was just 15 years old and she vividly remembered begging her parents for weeks, months to take her to the concert. Two more followed in 1974 and 1975 and each time she just fell in love with him more and more. Since moving to Hawaii for university she hasn't had the opportunity to see him again. But now he was here, closer than he'd ever been before and she felt like a giddy teenager again.

Cara pondered for a while, tugging at the hemline of her short sun dress, her eyes laser focused on him the entire time. The native dances presented on stage weren't the main attraction, at least not for her. There were of course whispers in the audience with most people risking a short glance towards the King of Rock'n'Roll sitting among them, but nobody really dared to approach him and instead appreciated the actual show. It was refreshing to see him as part of an audience enjoying other people's perfomances.

In a motion she didn't quite register herself she got up and started walking. She wouldn't talk to him. No, she really didn't want to bother him when he was on vacation, with his guard down. He seemed so content not having to perform at the moment and she didn't want him to feel like he had to just for her. It's just that she wanted to see him up-close. And if she had to pretend to go to the bathroom to walk past him, coming as close as possible even if it was only for a passing glance, she'd do that.

"Hey, isn't that mine?" She heard him say when he was within earshot. He looked at the brown-haired man sitting next to him, who she quickly recognised as Charlie Hodge. Elvis snatched a glass of what looked like orange juice from his hand and laughed as he brought it to his lips, leisurely sipping on it.

Cara halted against her will, freezing at the spot. Seeing him like this, so relaxed and carefree was a wonderful sight and she couldn't tear her eyes away from him.

He suddenly rose from his seat and she urged her body to move and not just stand there and stare at him like a complete lunatic. He had his head turned back towards his group as he walked nearly bumped into her, only catching himself last second.

"Oh sorry, honey, I didn't see ya there." He gave her a quick once over and promptly beamed at her, making a pleasant shiver run down her spine. "Ain't ya just a sweet little thing?"

Cara's eyes widened as she realised he just talked to her. He just talked to her. She wanted to say a million things but the words got stuck in her throat. This was it. Her chance to talk to Elvis Presley and she was about to mess it up.

It seemed like hours passed where she just stared up at him, not able to utter a damn word. Head spinning, she felt her knees going weak.

"Hey honey, ya alright?" His voice was now latched with concern and she continued staring up at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

Her mind raced, trying to think of something to say, preferably something smart. At least she managed to open her mouth now, but only a little squeal came out. It would've been better if she'd just kept her mouth shut entirely. The spinning got worse and her ears started ringing as the moment dragged on and on. His beautiful, more than familiar voice became a dull background noise and she couldn't make out what he said.

"Aww, you're a little nervous? Don't got no reason to, sweetheart, promise. I won't bite, okay?" He drawled with his signature charming half smile.

Cara has dreamed of embracing him her entire life. How many times she's pictured it, holding him, letting him hold her. Being so close to him, pressing her body against his, feeling his warmth. She's thought of this scenario at least a thousand times. Her arms around his neck as he kneeled over the edge of the stage, leaning down to give her a kiss.

Never in a million dreams it would've occured to her that the first time she'd hug Elvis Presley would be because her legs went limp and she had to physically hold onto him to prevent herself from falling as her vision blurred.

He momentarily grunted as she leaned against him for support. "Hey, hey, honey, careful. I gotchu, you're alright." His arms wrapped around her middle, holding her steady before moving her towards a cushioned seat. He sat down with her splayed sideways across his lap, her back resting against the armrest.

Once he had her settled on his sturdy thighs he extented one arm and gestured around as if shooing away somebody. "It's okay, Charlie, I got her." He rasped, sounding a bit winded.

His scent surrounded her as she was pressed against his soft, yet strong body. An immediate feeling of comfort and safety rushed through her and she subconsiously tried to get even closer to him.

His whole body vibrated when he cleared his throat and she gasped when he shifted again, adjusting his grip on her. Now her head rested against his shoulder, if she moved just a little bit lower she could probably feel his heart beating rapidly.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" His voice was calm next to her ear.

"Cara." She whispered, black spots still dancing before her eyes.

He nodded, his whole attention on her. "Cara, that's nice. I'm Elvis."

She blinked up at him. Had he really introduced himself right now? "Yes, I know that." She breathed, her eyebrows furrowed in disbelief and wonder and her eyes shining.

He chuckled softly and carefully brushed some strands of hair from her sweaty forehead. "Now, Cara, I want ya to take some deep breaths, okay?"

She did as she was told as best as she could and slowly her head felt a little less fuzzy. He's pulled down the zipper of his track suit somewhat, exposing his wide chest, golden chains resting over the thick, dark hair.

This had to be a dream.

"Honey, what are ya doin'?" He asked when he saw her fingers digging into her waist, his voice a bit alarmed. He removed his shades to give her a stern look.

Cara swallowed hard when she looked into his eyes and her voice trembled when she spoke up. "Pinching myself."

It took him a moment to register but then started laughing heartily, his belly shaking against her. "You're a cute little thing."

She's essentially passed out in Elvis Presley's arms. She wanted to die. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his whole entourage staring at her, assessing the situation. They must think she's completely crazy. "Oh god, this is so embarrassing."

"Nah, no reason to be embarrassed, little one." He murmured and threw a look over his shoulder, waving the curious onlookers off, telling them with a glare to mind their own business.

"I'm sorry." She attempted to get up, despite her ears still feeling like someone stuffed cotton in there, but he quickly tightened his hold on her before cupping her chin.

"Don't apologise, little. Ya just gonna stay here for just a minute."

She'd stay for the rest of her life if he'd let her. In theory. But she really didn't want to make this even more awkward and weakly shook her head. "Uh-"

"Those little legs and feet are still a bit weak." He interrupted her with his strong hand moving towards her thighs, rubbing and squeezing her softly, silencing her in an instant.

For a moment she just stared up at him, lost in the gentle and caring look in his eyes. She had to, she just had to do it, she thought as she reached up and gently cupped his cheek. The feeling of his soft skin against hers made her jump, still not quite believing that this was really happening.

His fingers moved to brush over her ankle, toying with the clasp of her platform sandals. "Gotta take these off, don't want you to fall the second I set you down again."

Cara just nodded and continued to stare up at him, her eyes moving rapidly as she tried to take in every little detail. The way his plush lips hung open the tiniest bit. The way his eyebrows were furrowed in concentration as he worked on her shoes.

When he tilted his head slightly and offered her a view of his neck she could see black strands of hair sticking out from beneath the hat. Just as she wanted to start playing with them he turned his head back and looked down, catching her studying him. From that angle she could see his small double chin.

"Not even close." She whispered to herself, barely audible.

"What's that, honey?" He asked and briefly leaned over her to put her shoes aside.

"Not even close." She repeated and blushed as she realised she had to explain her thoughts now. "I mean, uh, seeing your face on screen, or from a distance when you're on stage." She shrugged. "It doesn't even come close."

"What, the wrinkles so bad?" He joked, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.

Cara shook her head. "Doesn't come close to how beautiful you are."

He leaned in closer with his lips pursed and brushed through her hair as if inspecting her scalp. "Ya sure ya didn't hit your pretty head somewhere?"

"No, I didn't. I really mean it." She whispered with a frown, not liking his self-depracating comments.

He paused and looked down with a bashful smile after a few seconds. "Oh, thank you, sweetheart, that's, uh, a-awfully kind of you."

"Just honest." She shrugged and carefully ran her fingers over his cheek again, through the course, yet soft hair of his thick side burns and wiped away some of the sweat that had gathered there.

"Stop, honey, it'll go to my head." He gently chided her as she kept complimenting him.

"I hope so."

He averted his gaze and resumed to stroke her ankle, gently massaging it now. There was a bit of pink on his cheeks and Cara marveled at the fact that she was able to make him flustered.

"You know, when I was at one of your concerts two years ago a girl next to me passed out as well and I had to take care of her for like twenty minutes. I was so angry at her." She let out a small laugh at the chaotic memory.

"You've been to one of my concerts?"

"I've been to three." She nodded with a proud smile.

He raised one eyebrow. "Three? Lord, should have saved that money for college, little one."

"It was worth it..." She trailed off, not sure if she had the nerve to continue talking.  "I always hoped to get a kiss, at least a scarf. Each time... But I never quite made it to the front."

"Aww, honey." He cooed ruefully as if he was personally responsible for her bad luck. As if it truly bothered him.

It was only a second later that she felt his pillowy lips against hers. Butterflies erupted in her stomach and she froze while he casually made her biggest dream come true. He didn't just peck her lips, instead he lingered, even added a bit more pressure until she closed her eyes with a sigh.

They were complete strangers, yet the connection between them was very palpable as he kissed her slow and gentle, his finger grazing along her jaw. His breath fanned over her cheek and tickled her slightly, causing her to squirm a bit in his arms, but his soothing touches on her body calmed her down somewhat. When he finally pulled away from her the dizzy feeling returned and she squeezed her eyes shut before opening them again, blinking a bit disoriented.

Elvis saw the colour draining from her face again for a second and let out a small laugh. "Stay with me, sweetheart." He softly patted her cheek.

"Uh-huh." She responded, waving away. "No, yeah, I'm good."

He looked back to Charlie on instinct, his head whipping around, before turning back to her. With a frown he slowly scratched his neck, looking regretful. "I don't have a scarf, little. Uh, I-I'll give you this. That okay for you?" He removed one of the golden rings he was wearing, pulling it from his ring finger and holding it out to her.

"Oh, no I can't take it." Her eyes widened and she raised her hands in protest.

"But now I want ya to have it." He slipped it onto her thumb, and gently held her clammy hand in his, completely engulfing her.

Cara stared at the glittery piece of jewelry on her hand, the metal still warm, wondering what she'd done to deserve this. "Oh, thank you." She choked out, tearing up a little.

He drew circles over her temple in a calming way. "You're welcome, sweetie."

"I'm a mess." She laughed nervously and closed her eyes, trying to stop the tears from flowing. "I'm talking to Elvis Presley and I'm a mess."

"Shush, little, you're not a mess. I don't wanna hear any of it."

"I'm sorry."

He shook his head and ran his thumb over her lips, making her breath hitch. "Now, what are ya being sorry for? Quit apologising, okay? I get to hold a pretty girl in my arms. Made it worth to come here in the first place." He chuckled in an attempt to cheer her up, to make her smile.

Now it was Cara's turn to blush furiously and his grin widened. "Finally got some colour in your face again. You're feeling a bit better, honey?"

That was a good question. Was she feeling better? She wanted to weep, laugh and yell at the same time, but he didn't need to know that. Instead she just put a hand to her burning forehead and smiled a little. "I think so." Her voice sounded a bit hoarse, the emotions still overwhelming her.

Elvis made no attempt to get up however, let alone loosen his grip on her and continued to gently massage her bare calf, apparently not yet ready to part with her. Luckily she felt the same. So they just enjoyed the feeling of being close to each other, a mutual understanding between them.

"Ya, ya wanna come and see my next show?" He suddenly asked out of the blue.

She nodded so quickly, she almost hurt her neck. "I'd love to. But-"

He brushed through her hair. "I'll make sure you're gonna sit in the first row. I'll arrange it. Then I'll give ya a scarf."

"You already gave me this." She pointed to her thumb.

"But you wanted a scarf, honey, it's that simple. And you'll get a scarf, you'll see." He insisted as he grasped her hand pressed a few kisses to her knuckle.

"Elvis." She paused and bit her lip. The amount of times she said, cried, screamed his name, one should think she's used to it. But using it to adress him directly felt incredibly strange.

He continued toying with her fingers. "What's on your mind, honey? You want another kiss?" He drawled with a small smirk, making her tummy flip.

What she wanted to say to him is that he was too kind. Way too giving. That he shouldn't be so worried about pleasing her, she was just a fan. That she enjoyed kissing and hugging more than anything else. But by the genuine and earnest look in his eyes she realised how much he needed it for himself. Doing everything in his power to make her happy, to satisfy her like they were old friends or possibly lovers, even though his girlfriend Ginger Alden only sat a few feet away from them.

She pressed her lips together, deciding not to voice her thoughts and just said the two words that came to mind, that she'd wanted to say to him all these years. "Thank you."

He furrowed his brows and licked his lips. "What for?"

She held his gaze and put a hand on his chest, feeling the thick patches of hair under her fingers. "For being you."

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down and he sniffed once, his nose scrunching up. That tender look on his face nearly made her melt as they just looked at each other, forgetting the world around them and all its problems. Then he nudged her with a lopsided smile. "Ya want that kiss now or what?"

A smile tugged at her lips as well and she managed a small nod, mentally preparing herself. She was sure that if she continued talking she would just start crying hysterically so she just grabbed onto the soft fabric of his track suit, slightly pulling him down.

He started to lean down, but before he could touch her lips again he opened his eyes with a playful twinkle. "Just don't pass out on me again, little one."

She could do that for him, she knew she'd do anything for him. Just like he did everything for her, driving her crazy and keeping her sane at the same time. And she knew she'd treasure that moment forever. She had a feeling he'd treasure it as well.

..................................................................................

Thank you to my lovely sister wives @be-my-ally @thatbanditqueen @vintageshanny @whositmcwhatsit @missmaywemeetagain @peskybedtime @from-memphis-with-love @shakerattlescroll

[theshitpostcalligrapher]

Alexander Hamilton gets gay married to Misha Collins for the optics

this is what every single supermarket tabloid reads like to me

Askbox is closed for new requests, I'm recording these old ones on the to-write document

[morffyne]

Albertsons August 2023

[sehtoast]

Like Real People Do (Depowered Homelander x OC)

spidersona oc, depowered homie, silly sweet domestics, bittersweet almost, i love him | Fic Directory

prompt 3 : grocery shopping

@cozycornerevents

The simplicity of human life has been one of the greater hurdles for Homelander.  If not for Benjamin, he doubts he’d do more than stand like a fool, list in hand, hoping for some Vought assistant to show up and do the insurmountably mundane task for him.  But… those days are gone.

It’s taken him a long time to get to this point.  Going out in public after losing his powers seemed a feat greater than flying ever was.  It was petrifying to imagine someone recognizing him as he was now, all scruffy and dark-haired, so pitifully human with his eyeglasses.  He’s never quite sure if it’s a compliment or insult when Benjamin tells him no one will notice.

He settles for it being neither.  This is him now– Homelander is simply who he used to be despite how he still clings to his old identity.  He’s just John now.

Just John.

John, who walks hand in hand with his secretly-super boyfriend through the aisles of the supermarket, doing his best to spot the items they need.

New toothbrush.  Mouthwash– not that weird stuff we got last time.

John, who was learning bit by bit, day by day, what it means to have that normal life he’d always dreamt of.  Picket fence or not, this was it.

Pasta noodles.  Chicken breasts.  Lettuce.  Hot sauce.

The mundane.  The ordinary.  A far shot from the way he’d been raised.  

Mini Spidey-O’s Cereal.  Paper Towels.

Something that little boy in the lab could’ve never imagined. 

Coffee creamer.  Milk.

Something the man he was a mere two years prior could’ve never fathomed.

Chocolate ice cream. Frozen blueberries.

Things the man he is today will never take for granted.

Flowers, because you deserve them, pumpkin ♥

“What?” Ben asks with a playful smile.

And someone who makes each little moment worth more than all the power in the world.

“Nothing,” Homelander mumbles, his cheeks burning a light pink.  Still so odd how something as simple as goddamn grocery store flowers can make him turn red– make him feel appreciated.  Not that simple twenty dollar bouquets were the extent of Benjamin’s gifting to him– certainly not, it was just…

So goddamn simple.

“D’you have your rewards card, sweetie?” The cashier asks him.  An older woman by the name of May who he’d come to appreciate during these trips.  Thursdays were their grocery day specifically so they could chat with her.  She doted on them.  Dubbed the boys ‘her favorites.’

John’s awkward stacking on the conveyor belt ceases and he fumbles for his wallet.  She scans it despite the little nervous shakes in his hands that he won’t quite be able to quell until they’re back in the safety of their home.  May gives him a sweet smile and starts scanning, passing each item down to Benjamin for bagging.

He has to ignore the tabloids and magazines adorning the checkout lane. 

Homelander Vanished. 

Abandoned by Our Hero. 

Years since his ‘retirement,’ yet his old image stares him down wherever he goes. He keeps his focus on May and Ben to spare himself the burn of agony and shame. When his eyes try to wander back, he makes himself stare at a magazine with Ben's mask printed on the front. 

Along Came a Spider. 

How a Bug Brought Balance. 

She strikes up her regular small talk.  The weather, the bustle of the city– and damn that traffic, she always says.  Ben giggles back and forth with her, and Homelander pitches in from time to time.  She talks about her grandchildren for a while– Shaun and Emily, the absolute loves of her life, the stars in her sky– then grins widely as she scans the bouquet. 

“Boys, forgive an old woman for being nosy, but when is the wedding?”  

Both him and Benjamin smile wide and turn a shade or two red.

“Maybe someday,”  they both tell her in unison.

“Good,” she says over the beep of the scanner.  “I want a front row seat, y’all hear me?”

They grin and giggle the whole way home about it, hands joined over the center console of the car.  

Marriage… 

“Well, y’know… Vought did put my last name on your papers.” Ben hums. He never told Homelander the ugly reason why it was done, but John didn’t need to know that.  His elation at the liberation of finally legally existing was all that mattered.  “In a way, aren’t we kinda already sorta married?”

Homelander blinks a few times in rapid succession as the thought nests and roots in his mind.  Are they? 

“I swear, May gives us some weird realization every time we go.” The bug grins.  “Here I thought she couldn’t beat that whole ‘it’s impossible to kiss yourself anywhere but on the lips in the mirror’ bit, but she outdid herself today, huh?”

John squeezes Ben’s hand tighter almost out of instinct.  Despite the cool air blowing from the air vent, he couldn’t fight the sting of tears in his eyes. 

Married… 

“Hey, you okay?”  Ben murmurs as they approach an all too convenient red light.

Is he?  Hell, will he ever be?

He just nods.  It’s not abnormal for him to have his silent little mood shifts.  He’s sure Ben will understand. 

Besides, that was too big of a question.  In truth, he’s mystified by the idea.  Once upon a time, he dreamt of putting a ring on Ben’s finger.  He knew, though, that Vought would never let them be public.  They could never in a million years dream of it without a trillion pounds of consequences being dropped on their heads.  Public backlash, too, given the general views of his former fanbase.  But that never stopped him from imagining another world.   He’d have walked Ben out on stage in front of the masses, dropped to one knee, and popped the question then and there– and damn it he might cry in the moment, but would that be a bad thing?  To hear his little spider agree to spend eternity with him, to slip that little band on his finger and feel his heart bloom in his chest– would it be wrong to feel it in his very soul?

Homelander sniffles himself from his stupor when he feels the soft thud of the car pulling into the driveway.  

Home.

Where he’s safe and loved, always and forever, with that dork who insisted upon carrying every bag in all at once by himself.  The same one who wasted no time at all in pressing a warm kiss to his lips and gazing at him with a cosmos worth of love in his eyes.

Homelander shuts his eyes and leans in to press his forehead against Ben’s.  There’s groceries to put away and dinner to be made, but for now it doesn’t hurt to bask in the presence of the love of his life.  If he lets his mind wander far enough, right now, right then, they’re swaying gently to their first dance as an officially married couple.  They’ll have just tied the knot, and everyone that matters will be there.  He feels Ben’s arms snake up around his neck and he wraps his own around the bug’s waist.

Times like these make him miss his powers more than anything.  Once upon a time, they’d do exactly this above the clouds, spinning slowly in place.  The world was theirs.

Perhaps, though, it still is.  

Perhaps they’d never lost it at all.

link insertion busted, ao3 link here

[humbledragon669]

Script to Screen comparison: Episode 2 – The Book P1 – large changes

Standard Intro

Having followed the episodes through with the Script Book, I've tried to break the differences between the original script and the end result on screen into a couple of different categories:

Large changes (whole scenes/multiple lines of script). This blog post will cover these only (for brevity) – the other categories will be covered separately.

Things that are in the original script but not in the finished episode (I'm calling these deletions).

Things that aren't in the original script but are in the finished episode (I'm calling these additions).

Things that have been changed (I'm calling these ones amendments).

Not all of the changes fit neatly into one category or the other (there are shades of grey...). The first three of the differences will be presented within bullet lists, with a description. The last of the categories will be presented in a table. I'll make comments about anything I find particularly notable after each category.

Large changes

Scene 204 has been cut from the finished episode. This would have served as an additional introduction to War, and provides details of the paper that she works for (which is apparently a very trashy supermarket tabloid), as well as the opinions of other journalists about her writing, which is mysteriously “a la minute” when it comes to global conflicts.

There’s a small exchange between Crowley and Ligur (with the latter communicating through the television), where Crowley points out that there shouldn’t be trust between demons. Ligur threatens Crowley with some of unnamed methods of the Spanish Inquisition that Crowley has identified in his reports to Hell.

Scene 207, the signing of the peace treaty, was originally set to take place in a hotel conference room (with the participants seated at individual tables), instead of a tent in the middle of the desert (with the participants standing in front of a single table). The participants are described as being “happy and at ease”.

A small handful of lines about the process of the signing of the peace treaty are missing from the finished episode.

An exchange between the peace treaty participants about the credibility of the newspaper that War writes for have been cut.

The ordering of the scene showing Agnes being burnt has been changed for the finished episode. Originally, there was a scripted to be a shot of Adultery Pulsifer realising that things were about to end badly before Agnes’s second pyre speech. This was to be combined with the shot of the barrels of gunpowder and nails, which has been relocated to the middle of the following scene. Lastly, Adultery’s cursive was originally placed before Agnes’s knowing smile.

There are two lines from Anathema (as a child) where she expresses her disgust at having to “do kissing” (including the prophecy this takes place in – 1401) that have been cut.

Scene 220 showing Anathema (as a grown up) and her mother discussing Anathema’s packing and saying goodbye before she leaves LA is missing from the finished episode.

A small exchange between Newt and Tompkins (the office manager) where Newt is fired in front of the whole office has been cut.

An exchange that Shadwell has with a passer-by during his evangelical rant has been cut. In it is a thinly veiled accusation that the passer-by is a witch.

The original script covered a lot more detail of Anathema unpacking at Jasmine Cottage.

Part of Scene 107 (from episode 1) has been inserted after the scene where Crowley terrifies his houseplants. The only part of the scene that remains, which is of a telephone conversation Aziraphale has with an unknown customer, details the history of Agnes Nutter’s book.

The original exit from the scene showing Newton’s induction into the Witchfinder Army included a shot of a “gentleman caller” arriving for Madame Tracy, and some preparations she was making for his arrival.

Aziraphale’s assertions that there will be records available are missing from scene 233 (the journey through London in the Bentley).

There is a short exchange between Aziraphale and Crowley in scene 233 that have been cut. In it, they discuss the possibility of claiming asylum with the other’s side should they be unable to find the Antichrist.

Scene 238 is missing several components from the finished episode:

Anathema was scripted to be wandering from the village green towards Hogback Wood.

She is also supposed to be scribbling in a notebook.

She was described as annotating a map.

Pepper and Wensleydale were seen walking past her.

Scene 240, showing Aziraphale and Crowley approaching Tadfield Manor is considerably different in the finished episode:

It was scripted that the Bentley would be seen pulling up to the Manor (not already parked).

There are three shots described as taking place through a rifle sight: one without Aziraphale and Crowley, one with both, and the final one focussing in on Aziraphale (there is only one in the finished episode, focussing in on Crowley).

Crowley and Aziraphale were only afforded a single footstep towards the Manor in the original script.

The paint spatter on Crowley is described as being on his shirtfront, not his bare chest.

Crowley and Aziraphale both hit the floor in the original script (as in the book).

Crowley both sniffs and licks the “blood” before realising it’s actually paint.

Scene 242, showing Tompkins coming to, has been repositioned to cut into the previous scene. It was originally placed after God’s voiceover speech about the history of the Manor.

There is a small exchange between two of the office workers about the “people from Purchasing” that is missing from the finished episode.

Scene 245, an exchange between Tompkins and an IT man, has been cut.

Norman’s battlefield speech has been cut considerably. It’s largely more of the same bitter tripe he’s spouting about his colleagues.

Scene 246, containing Norman’s battlefield speech, has been repositioned to cut into the discussion between Crowley and Aziraphale about the morality of the demon’s actions in giving the conference attendees real guns. Its original position was immediately before the same discussion.

There is a chunk of police activity, including sirens, flashing lights, and an announcement made over loudhailer, that has been cut from the finished episode.

Crowley’s dismissal of Aziraphale’s insistence that he is ethereal (not occult) and the following shot of a policeman realising that the gun he’s holding is fake are both missing.

Scene 254, showing Anathema taking observations by moonlight, has been repositioned to take place after Crowley’s proclamation about the consequences of failing to find the Antichrist. It was originally placed immediately before the conversation between him and Aziraphale in the Bentley as they drive through Tadfield’s country lanes.

Scene 256, showing Anathema cycling along a dark country lane, has been repositioned to cut through Aziraphale’s statement about flashes of love. It was originally positioned immediately before his assertion that there’s something “very peculiar” about the area.

The stage directions in the script provide a lot more detail about Anathema’s belongings and how she sits with them in the Bentley.

The script suggests Anathema’s exit from the Bentley should have been a much more chaotic affair, with her trying to scoop all of her belongings up from the seat. The camera panning down to reveal the book left on the floor has been added to the finished episode.

There are a few lines from Mr. Young about his trying to report Dog as missing to the relevant authorities that are missing from the finished episode.

A small exchange between Mr. and Mrs. Young about what she is doing getting out of bed late at night (checking on Adam, which she covers up) that have been cut.

The beginning of scene 267, showing Adam settling down to sleep, has been repositioned to the end of the scene showing Mrs. Young’s POV into his bedroom as she checks on him. It was originally placed after Mrs. Young has returned to bed. There are differences here too – it was originally scripted that we would see him close his eyes, and that Dog would be lying on the pillow beside his head. We also get an additional shot where the camera pans over the shelves in Adam’s room.

Scene 269, showing Anathema returning to the site of the accident to look for her book, is missing from the finished episode.

A miniature spat between Crowley and Aziraphale about whether they should have taken Anathema’s address after the accident has been cut.

There are several details showing Aziraphale’s preparations to read Agnes Nutter’s book in the script that didn’t make it to the episode: making cocoa, getting a pad of paper and a pen, and repositioning a lamp.

Scenes 272 and 273 have been cut. The former of these is a simple establishing shot of the outside of Crowley’s flat, but the latter showed his dishevelled emergence from his bedroom after sleeping.

There are a few of Crowley’s lines missing from his telephone conversation with Aziraphale, recapping Hell’s current position with the Antichrist, complete with his insistence that the angel “chill” after calling him “dude”.

There are quite a few major sets of changes in this episode, with some of the larger ones consisting of the restructuring of entire scenes or scene sequences. With both instances of the restructured scenes, I feel that the revised structure is hugely effective in delivering the desired tone for the respective scenes: maintenance of mystery for Agnes’s burning, and a general feeling of chaos for Tadfield Manor. I really enjoy the change of venue for the signing of the peace treaty – there’s something cheeky about the idea that something as important as a peace treaty would be signed in those conditions, but it’s probably closer to the truth than a hotel conference room is. I’m also quite glad that so many of the supporting lines about the peace treaty have been cut – the shorter scene sequence is really successful in showing how quickly the shit can hit the fan, and that might not have been conveyed so effectively if the dialogue had been more extensive.

There are two of these changes that I am very sorry we lost (no, it’s not Crowley calling Aziraphale “dude”, I’m incredibly pleased that one didn’t make the final cut). The first is the exchange between Crowley and Aziraphale about seeking asylum of the other’s side.

CROWLEY:  I suppose […] your people wouldn’t consider giving me asylum?

AZIRAPHALE: I was going to ask you the same thing…

These two lines speak worlds to me about their respective state of minds, not least that they’re both prepared to give up what they have to switch sides, which would of course make it much easier for them to spend time together. Ultimately though, whilst I think Crowley probably would consider seeking asylum from Heaven in order to save his own skin, I don’t feel like Aziraphale is in a place where he would ask the same from Hell, so I wonder if these lines were cut because they didn’t fit with the angel’s character development at this point in the storyline. I also wonder if the two of them would have considered the possibility that the other was thinking the same thing, and whether that would have changed their mind on the whole thing.

The second of the list that I very desperately regret not seeing is the removal of this scene:

Aside from the fandom having missed the opportunity to see the house plants trying to look impressive for the demon, who wouldn’t want to see a dishevelled Crowley freshly roused from bed?! Why, why, WHY did this get cut?! I’m really hoping it finds a place in season 3, because it genuinely feels like a delightful piece of characterisation that we were robbed of.

I was intending on only doing one of these posts per episode in these script to screen comparisons, but this one is already running pretty long, and I don’t want these very wordy posts (i.e. not many pretty pictures of GIFs) to run to epic novel length. I was actually quite surprised to see how many more notes I made for this episode (50% more than for the first) as I thought it might be the case that the first episode of the series would have had a lot more background/scene-setting information that would be ripe for cutting, but that didn’t prove to be the case, not for any of my so-called “categories”.

As always, questions, comments, discussion: always welcome. See you in the next one!

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

“She played the "you can only see parts of the baby and not his face" game that all celebs play when they want a People payday for their baby. We didn't get a clear photo of Archie's face until the christening.” I’ve written in to other blogs but one of the reasons she failed her is that People has never paid for Royal baby photos so why would they start now? If I recall correctly, the Jolie Pitt twins were one of the highest paydays People might have paid for pictures. Alas with People’s new owners, the pockets aren’t that deep anymore. It’s been YEARS since they’ve paid any significant amount of money for baby photos. Unless they can sell more copies and circulation numbers have declined significantly, this never will be an option. Long story short, People will not be paying photos of non-Royal babies.

I didn't mean People Magazine literally. All the American supermarket tabloids bought celebrities' baby pictures in the late 90s through the mid-00s. People was just the more prolific one, having gotten Tom/Katie/Suri's pictures and Brad/Angelina/Shiloh's pictures.

And yes, the royals have sold their baby pictures before. Zara and Mike sold their pictures with Mia to Hello, which is the UK edition of People Magazine. So there is/was precedent for Meghan and Harry to have sold their baby pictures and People would've most likely considered buying them except the price Meghan was asking was probably too high. (The gossip suggests she was asking for William-and-Kate-level prices, which would've also been Tom/Katie and Brangelina prices.)

Then with the advent of social media, celebrities stopped selling their kids' pictures and started sharing them themselves. The whole act of selling baby photos to the magazines was to take power from the paparazzi - that's actually how it started. These were huge celebrities, pop culture zeitgest celebrities, that no one expected to get married (let alone to each other) and have children so the paparazzi/tabloid culture of the mid-00s were out in full rabid force for any crumb of information, any trace of a photograph about them and their new kids. So to make the paparazzi go away, and to make the paparazzi/tabloid photos worthless, these celebs made deals with magazines like People and Hello. It worked, until social media came along.

And it's because of social media that publications like People aren't buying any baby photos these days. The whole thing was moot to begin with. Meghan was barking up non-existent trees in the first place. She might've had better luck for a payday if she went back to Vanity Fair with Wild About Harry 2.0 or used her British Vogue edition for motherhood instead of ripping off an Australian publication with forces of change. (I think it was Australian. Don't remember and I'm too lazy to look it up at the moment.)

[blizzardsuplex]

Sunday Six (x2) + Last Lines Meme

(CW: ficlet has passing reference to physical domestic abuse)

Tagged by @naritaren and @fang-revives and @shes-a-voodoo-child. I didn't have anything I was in the process of writing so instead I asked @sequentialprophet for a bunch of flowers and wrote a (mostly) complete ficlet instead. Under the cut, etc.

Purple lilac -> first feelings of love || Bluebell -> constancy || lime -> conjugal love

When he was maybe 7 or 8, his mom took him with her to the supermarket (for once they actually did need milk). As she counted out coins at checkout, he'd browsed the newsstand offerings: the broadsheets themselves with their pages large enough to billow like a real cape when you held it behind you, the thin and rough feel of comic books, tabloids with loudly colored headlines he was apparently too young to read—not that he was much interested in anything but the pictures.

Surrounded by roughage, the actual magazine at the back shone even more in comparison. With clumsy hands he'd taken it off the rack, observed the glossy front cover from behind the thin plastic wrapping, top to bottom. In vogue: the boho wedding; under that soft purples are in!; under that the real star of the show, a pretty brunette in a loose white dress and pale purple flowers that he thought he knew but just couldn’t recall the name of woven through the waves of her hair.

"Planning to get married soon?" His mother from over his shoulder. 

"Not yet," he'd replied with the solemnity of a child who regularly saw things he didn't really understand. "I don't love anyone."

"Not anyone?"

Apparently he’d had no time for games. "Not like how dad loves you or you love dad."

She'd had to lean forward to read the words, too; the bruising around her eye wasn't visible thanks to time and makeup, but he knew it still bothered her. With his answer, though, she abruptly straightened. "You don't have to be just like us," she'd said, looking down at him with a smile that made him feel weird. "You don't have to get married at all if you don't want to. Now," she then said before he could ask what was wrong, turning, "let's bring the milk home before it goes bad, okay?"

Years later that memory came back. Rolling onto his back in what always felt like someone else's bed, he'd stared down at the floral pattern on the bedsheets he'd kicked off himself in his restlessness (a bad idea; the AC was as usual cranked all the way down). "Lilacs."

"I think those are bluebells, actually," yawned the woman lying beside him. "The saleslady said that. Don't you remember picking it out with me?"

He sidestepped the question. "Sorry, did I wake you up?"

"No. Don't worry." She threw an arm across his ribs, murmured against his neck. "You okay?" Her hot breath felt like a predator's finally catching up to their prey.

Yet he'd wanted to say something then anyway, to explain his thoughts or crack a dumb joke or simply ask do you even like bluebells? I don’t actually know. Instead, he'd done what he found himself doing constantly in this marriage: keep the truth in. Nod. Pretend to sleep and instead wonder if he'd been a sucker for always wanting this and still wanting it.

But that was now the past, no matter how clearly he could still remember it. In the present, the warm, muggy air smells bright with citrus flowers.

"Hey." A familiar hand passes several times in front of his face. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing much," he replies, flexing the toes of his bare feet. It took him a while to warm up to it, but the feeling of crushed grass and sun-warmed dirt on his soles is grounding. The presence of the other person, though, is that twicefold, her fishtail solid gold braid in the sun.

As they stare up at the wild lime tree they'd gotten out of the car for in full bloom, the sound of the highway and airport and the world beyond this random idle plot of land seems so distant. "Just grateful about how everything's turned out." "That's good," his wife says—and means, and he knows she (like him with her) will always mean. "Actually, so was I.”