#and i KNOW he didnt speak to her since shed often bring it up to me like 'i wish your bf talked to me more so i could be like his mom too!'

[stressedjester]

just chilling when I suddenly remember that time I caught my ex peddling MY experience of being groomed by a 35 yr old woman when I was 18 when he self-reportedly only spoke to her once or twice and when I confronted him he said that it was just my BPD somehow making me remember things wrong and he never apologized bc he didnt want his followers to realize that he was a liar

[ask-the-party-god]

Ask The Party God - Timeline

the pre-terezi-gang timeline post is here

height references over here

hi, im jade! everyones favorite party goddess and trans doggy girl~ but you already know that! if youre reading this, it means youre interested in learning more about my reality, because paradox space is fucking weird like that and you cant really be sure all the time

as far as im aware, everything up to the point where we beat the game happened without deviations from the alpha timeline? so this is what rose has talked about as a ‘terminal timeline’, or ‘post-canon’, or whatever the hell that is supposed to mean

we got to earth-c, and i settled in the troll kingdom because trolls are cool, dave and karkat were in the neighborhood, and the caverns are close by so i can visit rose and kanaya speedily as well! i still do have my old tower out on an island, with my workshop and garden, but i almost never sleep in it, too far away and isolated from everyone...

then one day i found this old active server in the furthest ring keeping tumblr active and i thought, hey, why not have some fun? ;D

as for the others...

my darling sis june egbert! she lives in the consort kingdom, but has been thinking about relocating elsewhere lately! she went through a rough patch right after the game, unsure of what to do and full of all sorts of doubts and questions, but shes doing a lot better nowadays! specially now that terezi is back, shes been a lot more peppy and hanging around with the lalondes particularly!

rose rose rose rose~ happily married to her wife kanaya, duh, but that doesnt make her any less of a flirty cutie! a while back she got really sick for a bit, and weve been keeping an eye on her just in case it happened again, but its been all good ever since! she helps kanaya at the caverns a bunch, which makes her schedule busy busy... and you didnt hear this from me, buuuut words out on the street that she and kanaya may be warming to the idea of having a kid! <3 well see how that goes!

one cool dude~ daves a little bit of a shut-in honestly! and honestly i dont blame him? he must be tired after all the timeline and time travel shenanigans, so he spends a good chunk of his time hanging out in his and karkats house! hes kind of awkward about opening up with feelings and stuff, and ive been trying to nudge him to be more open for a while! but with all the craziness thats been going down lately, and more people coming and going and getting together, hes starting to consider things he hadnt before~ hopefully, some specific someones? ;)

janey! my uh... ecto-mom, technically, although we see each other more like cousins than anything else! she still owns crockercorp, but ever since jasprose has been around, she has been spending a lot more time at home and just hanging out with her friends, which really, sounds a lot healthier than the big business thing she had going on a while back! she enjoys teaching me baking stuff, but doesnt have much patience for my decorating skills ;p

grandpa! and grandson technically, hehe, jakes kind of a weird case, hes a mixture of a shut-in, a celebrity and an adventurer! he can spend up to weeks at a time without leaving his manor, but then hell have full weeks of interviews and hiking, and thats not to say anything of when he and dirk put out another episode or two of their dumb comedy talkshow... hes often busy with stuff, but hes still a good pal and can clear his schedule in seconds if we need him for something!

one sweet nb dude! rox really is... something else, really! fun to tag along at a party, fun to chill at home playing games, fun to talk about more serious stuff and open up with him, he really is just solid as they come! hes been hanging out a lot more with june since she got out of her depressive slump, but sometimes i wonder if junebug finds weird to get flirty with roxy, considering im pretty sure we made out in front of her at some point or two... hehehe

dirk! if daves a bit of a shut-in, hes a shut-in times two, which is weird because youd think someone stuck in post-apocalyptic earth for so long would want to hang out more? not to say he DOESNT, though! hes around jake often enough, and keeps close to jane, roxy and dave specially! we dont see each other too often, but we HAVE been messing around with robots and planning out to upgrade our respective self-bots for funsies!

aradia! we only met briefly in dreams for the longest time, but i knew already that she was a riot! she came with terezis group after she finally found vriska, and seems pretty happy just... kind of... being around and watching shenanigans ensue! i actually dont know where she lives, but she drops by occasionally, because im apparently pretty ‘fun���... cant say i disagree ;)

sollux is blind, and not dead, and WILL kick you in the shins if you keep prying about how exactly he ended up like that, which is fair enough! he spends a good chunk of his time with aradia, and im not sure if theyre dating or not...? but hes been around the other trolls a bunch! specially kanaya, apparently theyre good friends that go way back! i guess they both DO style their hair similarly, with the side spike thingies...

the other half of the dave-kat duo! swooooon~ really though, i cant remember the last time i said “dave” or “karkat” without talking about the other shortly after... buuut theyre just roomies, and hell get awkward and grumpy if you even so slightly IMPLY otherwise, despite the fact everyone knows they fall asleep leaning against each other during friday movie night! roooolling my eyes~ with the rest of the living trolls having arrived, hes been a lot more willing to go outside, which im glad for! its healthy to get some fresh air from time to time, and specially hang out with friends!

oh-la-la, miss maryam-lalonde herself! kanayas the matriarch of the caverns, and quite the busy gal, having taken it upon herself to supervise her entire species reproduction and well-being... in my opinion, she needs a good vacation from time to time, and to be less of a workaholic! >:o ive been helping her occasionally in the caverns, and as of late weve begun trying to mess around with ectobiology for some troll-human crossing experiments with... not good results so far... but hey, rome wasnt built in a day!

terezis back, yes! after spending YEARS out there looking for vriska, she managed to find her and come back, the madwoman! personally im not sure why anyone would go to such lengths for... her... but also, its not my bond, not my place to speak, she obviously really loves her a bunch! with vriska no longer lost in the middle of the furthest ring, shes started to catch up with everything going on with earth-c, and i think shes really going to like being around! specially with how much june and the rest have missed her ;)

troublemaker extraordinaire herself! shes... well, shes vriska, im pretty sure she stole that eyepatch from sollux? so you just know she up to no good already >:/ speaking of her eyepatch, im not sure WHY shes wearing it? whatever kinda wound she got, she doesnt like mentioning it, despite bragging about defeating english at every chance she gets! terezi says they found her popping in and out of consciousness in the furthest ring with some messy wounds, and that shed probably been hovering out there after the fight for years... doesnt seem to have humbled her in the slightest <.<

callieeeee! theyre super sweet and wonderful but also really shy and awkward! they live with roxy but manage to outdo dirk in terms of shut-in-ness... they also totally like roxy but is unsure about approaching those feelings considering the whole species thing and whatever, ive been trying to get them to open up for a while now! weve written fanfic together and drawn grids, so i can definitely tell theres some attraction there, even if theyre afraid of acting upon it just yet <3

jaspie is roses bane, and the one cat that made me get used to their smell enough that i dont bark at them instantly anymore! im pretty sure she crashes at janes often, and is just as outgoing and flirty as i am around earth-c parties and bars, which is saying something honestly! i wont let her dethrone me as the party god, though >:)

and finally davepeta! theyre staying with june for the time being until they can get settled around and see what they want to do here! theyve also dropped by dave and karkats a bunch, which i most certainly dont mind! i definitely appreciate some help in bringing a romantic vibe into those twos lives~ ;o

and thats about it! theres also the nannasprites and tavrosprite and arquius, but they pop by so sporadically and rarely that i dont know what theyre doing a majority of the time... we lost track of gamzee after the session so hopefully hes totally gone, and we havent heard any message from caliborn in years... and with the furthest ring broken and the black hole sealed, leaving a weird white empty space right in the middle of reality, im not sure what our chances of bringing back the other trolls are :( but still, we keep living on happily over here and having our fun slice of life ending together!

id say after everything weve gone through, we deserve a big break, dont we? hehehe <3

also, particularly important events that happen and are recorded in this blog will be tagged as timeline shenanigans!

[wee-chlo]

I know it seems like RDR1 negates the sacrifices of RDR2 so here’s a happy thought.

Jack, sad and depressed and bitter and alone in the run-down ruin of Beecher’s Hope, finding the journal Arthur and John ended up sharing. Reading it. He doesn’t remember much of what they talk about, he was only four, but there are very faint memories of moving a lot. Names that seem vaguely familiar.

It becomes a bit of an obsession with him. Like vengeance but a little lighter, a little more hopeful. He transcribes everything in the journal because the thing’s falling a part a fair bit, and then starts trying to figure out who these people are.

One thing leads to another and suddenly he’s running around to Valentine and Strawberry and Blackwater and Saint Denis, or the places that hold the historical archives of those towns. He’s pawing through paperwork and going through slides of newspapers finding scraps about the Van Der Linde Gang. 

He finds out where Mary-Beth is first, since she’s a writer with a mailbox for fan letters and official correspondence. He writes her a letter that he’s rewritten a hundred times or more and gets one back within a week bubbling with joy and excitement and inviting him to meet her. He gets a haircut, shaves, takes a bath. He didn’t do any of those things much before but recently he’s found it’s easier to get into places if you don’t look like a deranged hobo.

Mary-Beth is beautiful and elegant and kind and has an excellent memory. She tells him about Arthur and John and Dutch and the gang. She remembers Kieran fondly and Lenny and Hosea with grief and love and Micah with disdain. She tells him about Miss Grimshaw and Pearson and Karen and Javier and Bill. She directs him to Tilly, who she keeps in touch with.

Tilly is older now, but still kind and understanding and with no patience for nonsense. She’s married to a good man with two children who scurry underfoot as she and Jack talk about the gang. He’s taking notes. He’s always taking notes. Sometimes he forgets, he’s so engrossed in what she’s saying, but she’s good about gently reminding him to. She directs him to Reverend Swanson.

The Reverend’s the easiest to find but maybe the hardest to get a hold of, being a respected reverend with a large congregation, but when Jack sheepishly approaches him after a sermon, he enthusiastically ushers the young man into his office. Swanson wasn’t young during the heyday of the gang and he’s old now, his red hair and mustache grayed out and joints achy enough to need the support of a cane but he’s still remarkably sharp.

Reverend Swanson and Jack talk for a very long time about more than just the gang. Jack didn’t tell Mary-Beth or Tilly about Ross and the riverbank. He told them about Uncle and Abigail and John but not Ross. Not Ricketts or the family he left as broken as his own out of spite. He tells Reverend Swanson though. And Reverend Swanson takes the same stories that Tilly and Mary-Beth told, the ones that Abigail and John were too heartbroken or angry about to tell, and turns them into words of encouragement. Faith. Hope. How men with violent pasts can move past them, live good lives, redeem themselves, live and die with honor and dignity. He recites a piece of scripture he would say often to the gang, eyes a little soft with memory and sadness and wistfulness. 

“They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings of eagles; they shall run and not be weary; and they shall walk and not faint.”

Will you read me that passage Reverend Swanson used to read? You remember that?

Jack Marston did a lot of things after his father died, and a lot of things after his mother died, but he never cried. He’d had to be strong for his mother, so he’d grit his teeth and blinked past them and by the time she’d died and he’d buried her next to John on the hill above Beecher’s Hope, they’d all fossilized in his chest, locked at the base of his throat like a scream. 

Here, though, he feels something snap like a wishbone in his chest, and they just spill out.

“Jack?” Reverend Swanson asks gently.

“I couldn’t remember it,” Jack says. “M-Mama asked me to read that and I... I couldn’t remember.”

That’s not quite it but it’s close enough. Reverend Swanson seems to have some experience with men like Jack. He smiles and nods and reaches over and takes Jack’s hand in his and lets him weep.

Charles is harder to find, in a reservation far up north in the Canadian Yukon. People there aren’t terribly interested in telling him where Charles lives and don’t really seem to buy that he’s an old friend, so he just asks them to let Charles know where he’s staying. 

Charles finds him a day later, still a bear of a man, still surrounded by this air of silent, simple serenity. Jack wonders if he’ll ever be able to do that. He doubts it.

Charles speaks softly and simply. He doesn’t gush the way Mary-Beth did or meander the way the Reverend did. He doesn’t beat around the bush or shy away from harsher memories. The treatment of the Wapiti tribe is still a bitter thing, something sharp around the edges that Jack hesitates to press, but he offers details the others didn’t have. He was a rider when the others were at camp. 

Like with Reverend Swanson, Jack feels an instinctive need to speak. To tell Charles things he didn’t tell the others out of shame or fear or a desperate need to forget. Maybe because Charles offers details like that of his own, things that he clearly doesn’t enjoy talking about but because it’s Jack...

“I killed Edgar Ross,” Jack says quietly when Charles mentions Hosea. Charles pauses.

“Why?” He asks, and that brings Jack up short.

“Because... because he killed my pa!” he stammers. “He hunted us down and, and...” Bile rises in his throat, that old scream that he didn’t let out, the smell of blood and his mother’s sobs and the screams of horses and guns and...

“Is it over now?” Charles asks, cutting off his thoughts easily. Jack doesn’t know what to say. Charles smiles slightly, sadly. “Let it be over now. It’s what they wanted for you.” 

Jack feels tears tearing at him again but this time he fights them back.

“You deserved better,” he says, his throat tightening and betraying everything he’s trying to hide. “You all deserved better.”

And he finds that he isn’t just talking about the Van Der Linde Gang,  who all died somehow, either grandly or softly or in some small, dark way that left them waking up at night in a cold sweat. He’s talking about the Wapiti Tribe, and Eagle Flies, and Rains Fall. He’s talking about Beau Gray and Penelope Braithwaite. He’s talking about those legendary gunslingers who lived on the run or died in the dirt. He’s talking about Lyndon Monroe and Thomas Downs and Luisa Fortuna and Nastas and everyone but himself, who was too stupid to let things go, too stupid to do what his mother begged him to on her deathbed and just find a quiet place to live and grow old and die.

“Maybe,” Charles agreed, standing and holding out a hand for Jack to shake. “Too late for that, though. Better to keep going.”

[dreadhaus-literature]

{Story} Cold Comfort

What’s a mortician to do when the love of their life is just out of reach? A temporary replacement is just cold comfort for the time being. It can’t last, after all—

True love never dies.

Chapter One

A Dreadful Dalliance sits at the end of a long, forested road, the gate-keeper to a sprawling cemetery that will eventually be the resting place of every soul in New Senzannini. The Mortuary has been in operation for nearly a decade and has earned it’s sterling reputation as a thoughtful, caring place to bring your loved ones for their last rites and a compassionate send-off to the next stage of life. Owned and operated by Dot Dreadful, the Mortuary handles all post-mortem operations, from the preparation of the departed to the funeral arrangements, and though the morgue is fully staffed with plenty of attentive, devoted staff, there’s only one mortician on staff--Dot. Now that the owner of the Dalliance was growing too pregnant to be on her feet, or surrounded by the chemicals necessary to do her job, it left a gaping hole to be filled or New Senzannini’s only mortuary was going to be temporary closed. That wasn’t an option, and that left Dot Dreadful with only one alternative.

“You’re hiring a temp?” Felina Frenzy, known more intimately by her birth name Monica, glanced up at her best friend with a curious tilt of her head. “Do they even have temporary morticians?”

Dot Dreadful didn’t glance up from the stack of papers in her hand; there was so much involved in handing her business over while she was on maternity leave and she should have started preparing for this months ago. “Ah, yes and no. It’s something of an unspoken code that you help out a fellow mortician if they need it. We often consult with each other on difficult preparations or if one of us is handling a coroner’s report dealing with suspicious circumstances. That sort of thing.”

Monica nodded, turning back to the training manual in her lap. “Were you able to find someone to help you out?”

“The city coroner offered but he’s...” Dot paused in her reviewing, glancing up at the ceiling. “How do I put this diplomatically...he does as well as one would expect a coroner to do when dealing with living, breathing bodies after he spends all day with cold, dismembered corpses.”

Monica laughed, nodding. “Makes sense. So he wouldn’t be any good handling the people aspect of the job.”

“Definitely not.”

“I mean, you know I’m always fine to help you out,” Monica crossed one leg over the other, meeting Dot’s gaze over her desk. “But I don’t know why you think I’m going to be any better handling the people aspect of your job.”

“You’re better with people than you think, you just don’t like them.” Dot turned back to her lists. “I don’t like people either but I manage this job just fine. You’ll be a peach, you always are.”

“...But you’re not expecting me to do the hack and slash part of the job, right?” Monica ventured. She didn’t and wouldn’t tell Dot no, but it wasn’t like she had the technical training to prepare a corpse for burial.

Dot shook her head. “Not at all. I thought of a compromise. Since you offered to help where you could, I figured you could handle the managerial side of things, keep the staff running smoothly, sort of...just sit in this chair right here.” Dot patted the arm of her desk chair. “You’d be the boss, supervising the day to day operations, and I’d hire on a temporary mortician to solely be responsible for the more hands-on part of the job. You guys would tag-team it.”

Monica looked thoughtful before she nodded. It seemed a solid enough plan. “But the city coroner wasn’t interested in working that way?”

“Roger’s a decent guy, but he’s also been the city coroner for like, eighty years,” Dot exaggerated dryly. “He wants to work this alone, and I just don’t trust him to handle the entire process. I’m not going to ask you to try and deal with his gross man ego while you’re doing me a favor, holding this place down while I’m off.”

“I would have been fine, Dottie.” Monica closed the lid of the training binder, handing it back to Dot since the woman as still adding pages to the already thick instruction manual. “I’m not unused to men’s egos.”

“I know, love, it’s not about you not being able to handle it, but more why would I subject you to that when you’re doing me a favor? Especially since I was able to find a mortician who had no problem with staying below and just prepping the bodies for you.”

To Monica, that sounded reasonable enough and why wouldn’t it be? A Dreadful Dalliance has been Dot’s first baby, but now that she had actual babies on the way she needed help taking care of her “firstborn”. Monica had been friends with Dot for years, since before the Mortuary, so of course she’d been here through it’s conception and it’s construction, and it’s subsequent years of operation. How many hours had she spent with Dot in this office, working on her own projects? Being a novelist and illustrator afforded Monica plenty of freedom to set her own schedule and since her newest literary masterpiece was circulating and topping lists, she had some much earned downtime--granted one might not consider managing a mortuary as “downtime” but Monica knew the staff here was pretty much self-sufficient and short of just sitting in here and being present should any emergencies present themselves, it really wouldn’t be too taxing. Dot had spent the last couple weeks preparing that thick manual for Monica to have and she’d also insisted Monica call her if need be. Dot may be approaching the bed rest phase of her pregnancy but that didn’t mean her vocal chords didn’t work--Monica didn’t say this, but she was going to do whatever she needed to not have to call Dot. She wanted to do this, to help Dot out when she needed it, and with Dot taking care of the second part of her job with finding a temporary mortician, it all seemed to be falling into place without a hitch.

“When do they start?”

Dot reached over for her desk phone. “They already have, actually.” She pressed the intercom, connecting her to the morgue in the basement. “Can you come up to my office please, Glad?”

“Can do, Miss Dreadful!”

The chipper reply to Dot hadn’t been what Monica was expecting, especially coming up from the dark, cold recesses of the morgue. She actually blinked in surprise, but Dot just flashed her a smile and turned back to scribbling last minute notes in the margin of the list in her hand.

A scant few minutes later and there was a knock on Dot’s office door before the new hire let himself in and Monica got her first look at the partner she’d be working with over the next several weeks.

“Monica, this is Gladwyn Charles. Gladwyn, this is my closest friend and your new boss, Monica.”

The man Dot named was still in the process of ducking into the room when she made the introductions, his impressive height making the frame of the door a little bit of a hazard. He was wearing a floor length black latex apron but all that did was elongate his already tall frame even further; it stopped at his ankles, revealing polished black dress shoes that were a compliment to his black slacks and the white button-up dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He had on a bow-tie that was red rather than black, and that fiery crimson adornment drew Monica’s eyes further up to the same blaze of red that surrounded his head like a halo. Gladwyn Charles was a true redhead, his hair the color of blood, a stain of rose around his pale skin and he wore it long, braided and over his broad right shoulder. it nearly reached his waist, but it seemed even the braid couldn’t tame all the wavy strands, as curls sprang free to frame his square features, brushing the hollow of his freckled cheeks. Gladwyn had a dusting of freckles not unlike stars across the bridge of his nose and the crest of his cheeks, bringing Monica’s gaze to his long lashes and the deep, rich forest green of expressive bright eyes. His glasses were perched a little low on his nose; the frames were silver and square, fashionable and sleek, but Gladwyn’s smile didn’t speak of arrogance that came with wealth. The smile was big and bright, but as Monica continued to stare at him it only seemed to grow...bigger, brighter, reminding her of an animal baring it’s teeth. It was almost aggressive, his smile was so prominent, but nothing dangerous reflected back at her in those eyes--eyes that were riveted to her face. Gladwyn didn’t even turn when he closed the door, keeping his gaze on Monica as he pushed the door closed with one long-fingered hand.

“Ah, Miss Frenzy. It’s an honor to finally meet you,” Gladwyn made a show of wiping his hand one final time on his slacks before offering it to Monica. “Miss Dreadful has told me so much about you. I feel like I already know you.”

Monica stood to take Gladwyn’s offered hand. “M...Monica, please. And your name is...?”

“Gladwyn.” He laughed a little sheepishly, but still hadn’t taken his eyes off hers. “I know it’s a little unusual. You can call me Glad if you’d like. Or Charles, or Charlie. Even Smiley!”

From her desk, Dot’s eyebrow rose. “Smiley?”

“It’s a nickname from college.” Gladwyn answered Dot, eyes still on Monica as he kept hold of her petite hand. “Because I smile all the time.”

Monica would have ventured to bet it had more to do with Gladwyn’s smile being...hard to forget. It was almost painfully wide, as if he were the world’s nicest man. She gave Gladwyn’s hand a firmer shake, and though he released her hand...she felt the reluctance. She’d let his hand go several dozen seconds before he finally released her, but she tried to push that from her mind. Dot had warned her years ago that morticians were sometimes...odd. Like those who work in IT, only certain people want to play with the dead all day long; typically it’s those who don’t play well with the living. Gladwyn was probably just a little awkward from interacting with those who can’t interact back, day in and day out.

“Nice to meet you, Gladwyn.” Monica stressed his name, ensuring she said it right. Gladwyn’s eyes brightened.

“I assure you, Miss Frenzy, the pleasure’s all mine.”

“Monica, please.”

Gladwyn paused, his throat working before he spoke, inclining his head down in a show of respect and slight reverence. “...Monica.”

With Gladwyn much closer, Monica was able to discern even more from the tall mortician--like his tattoos. She could see at least four, though three of them were thick black bands on his left wrist, leading up to his elbow. When he finally turned to face Dot, Monica was petite enough to see there was a smiley face tattooed behind his right ear. Smiley really did seem to be a moniker that fit this unusual mortician. Gladwyn was tall and thin, but he wasn’t without some muscle mass. Now that he was closer, Monica could see his forearms and biceps laced with sinewy muscle, likely from lifting dead weight all day, and though his slacks left a little more to the imagination she assumed his entire frame was the same way., and she’d felt for herself how strong his hands were. Gladwyn was definitely not what came to mind when one thought of the word mortician; well, except for that smile. That was not a normal man’s smile, but Monica also couldn’t put her finger on what was wrong with it. Did he smile with too many teeth? Was it just too...eager? She shook her head slightly as if to clear it, moving to take her seat again--almost startled back into standing with Gladwyn extended his arm to help her into her seat before he took the chair next to her. When she looked up at him, intending to thank him, he smiled at her and her voice died in her throat. Eager was definitely a good word to describe Gladwyn’s smile.

Little did Monica know, but eager was a good word to describe Gladwyn Charles as a whole. The Dalliance’s newest hire initially comes across to others as unassuming, even if he was on the tall side with a head full of long, flaming curls. Gladwyn never minded that he had a tendency to blend in a little in the background; he’s perfectly fine with allowing someone else the spotlight because he’s a perfectly polite gentleman. Nice guys may finish last but Gladwyn would happily smile in the face of anyone quipping that at him with a, “True, but the tortoise always beat the hare, didn’t he?” before turning back to the task at hand. Gladwyn has gone through life with the intelligence to understand human nature, and the self-awareness to know he doesn’t always fit in. He’s aware he’s a little awkward but that awareness also allows him to fake it, to cover his tendency to make others uncomfortable with a self-deprecating joke or by being so polite others simply can’t be rude to him. If one were to ask Gladwyn he’s not sure why others are so put off by his smile; he thinks his smile looks just fine! After all, he practices in the mirror. His teeth are straight and white, and his eyes sparkle a little when he smiles--so what could possibly be wrong with him? Friends in the past have told him he just looks a little “creepy” or “crazy” when he smiles, to maybe try not smiling so widely...but if he’s happy, why shouldn’t he smile with all his teeth? For all his intelligence, Gladwyn can’t figure some aspects of human nature out, and that was one of them. Being too eager, too friendly, too clingy was perceived as a bad thing and he just didn’t understand that. That was why none of his friends ever stuck around for long. That was why none of his previous relationships ever worked out. Gladwyn simply cared too much. He was simply too eager.

Gladwyn slowly lowered himself into the chair across from Monica, eager green eyes devouring her in a way he knew he had to get under control, it wasn’t socially acceptable for him to stare this long but it was an enormous struggle. He’d never seen anyone so beautiful before in his entire life. Dot had told him a lot about Monica, he’d listened with his usual attentiveness but now, now he was calling upon his memory for every single detail from his previous conversations with his employer for the tiniest morsel he could glean about Monica. Even as his mind worked, his eyes did their job in committing everything he could about her to memory; her bone structure was impeccable, feather-light and delicate, and he ran his tongue over his suddenly dry lips at the urge to pepper kisses along her jaw just to follow that tempting line to her throat. Monica sat like an empress in the high-backed chair, her posture so regal he felt the urge to shy away, to shrink back because he didn’t deserve to be so close to her...but how could he not be? Who could possibly stand to be away from such an ethereal creature? Was she even real? Gladwyn’s long fingers pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, the focused lenses providing him with further admirings to commit to memory. Their eyes were the same color, green, but hers were brighter than his, a feminine compliment to his masculinity that made his heart skip a beat in his chest. Her hair was short, a bob that complimented her profile so devastatingly he had to slowly grip his fingers along the arm of his chair to stop from wanting to touch her hair. It shimmered, caught the office lights as if flirting with him, teasing him with how soft it must feel.  And he knew how good she smelled; he caught the wisps of her perfume to the moment he’d stepped into the hallway outside the office and now that he was close enough to scent her effortlessly he focused on dragging the scent of her into his lungs, desperate to commit the scent to memory so he’d be able to recall it at will.

The simple act of meeting had never been so poignant to Gladwyn before in his entire life. How many hundreds of people had he met in his decades of life? None of them compared to this, none of them had ever affected him like this, like Monica. He knew her name was Felina to the public but she’d told him to call her Monica, the same name Dot was able to call her...that must mean something. To Gladwyn, it did. She’d shaken his hand, smiled at him and insisted, twice, that he call her by her birth name. A name intimate, known only to family and friends...that included him, now. How nice of her! How sweet...who would have thought a woman so beautiful, so stunning, would also be so kind?

“Gladwyn?”

The older mortician blinked behind his glasses, before turning to Dot. “Y-Yes? I’m...terribly sorry, I must have spaced out.”

Dot laughed, eyebrows raised. “You are wearing a face mask down there, right? Those are some pretty strong chemicals we work with.”

Gladwyn took the easy out with a gracious laugh, his rich tenor a compliment to that ever-present smile on his pale face. “Yes, of course, of course. A thousand pardons, what were you saying?”

“I was saying, Monica is the one I was telling you about, who will be sitting in my chair here while you’re working down in the morgue. She’ll be handling the operations, managing the rest of the staff and funeral arrangements. She’s got full authority and she knows how this place should run,” Dot looked between Monica and Gladwyn with a smile. “And love, Gladwyn has been familiarizing himself with the morgue downstairs over the past few days, shadowing me, and shouldn’t have any problems handling the hack and slash part of the job.”

Gladwyn cleared his throat slightly, his red brows pulling in at the center as a barb of jealousy seared across his chest. He’d known Dot for a couple weeks, knew her to use terms of endearment liberally and it had never bothered him before, but just now, her use of love directed at Monica rose like bile at the back of his throat. He didn’t particularly like that...and he didn’t particularly understand why.

Monica and Dot were both unaware of Gladwyn’s inner turmoil and confusion, mistaking his throat clearing and the shifting in his seat as mere fidgeting. Monica nodded, returning Dot’s smile before she turned it to Gladwyn.

“Shouldn’t be too much of a problem to keep this place running smoothly while Dot’s gone, right?”

“Hm?” Gladwyn locked gazes with Monica before that smile of his returned in full force. “Oh, I highly doubt it. You seem a very capable woman, Mis--er, Monica.”

Monica’s laughter was a touch nervous at the compliment, most especially coupled with the sincerity behind Gladwyn’s glasses. He held his smile while he held her gaze, and Monica had to resist the urge to blush under such open attention. He was certainly a...nice guy.

“I drew up manuals for both of you while I’m gone, and Gladwyn I told Monica to reach out to me if you guys run into any problems.” Dot tapped Monica’s manual on her desk; Gladwyn’s was down in the morgue and he’d already been making use of it. “The Staff has already been prepped to treat the two of you as co-owners while I’m gone, so you shouldn’t have any issues there either.”

“Seems you really have thought of everything, Miss Dreadful.” Gladwyn sat back in his seat; his gaze appeared to be on Dot...but he was watching Monica out of the corner of his eye.

“I highly doubt it,” Dot replied, resting her chin on her hand. “But, I trust Monica and with you here to help her, Glad, hopefully it won’t be too rocky for her.”

“You have my word, I’ll look out for her.” Gladwyn’s smile was once again aimed at Monica. “She’ll be in good hands.”

A nervous flutter of butterflies rushed up Monica’s ribcage and she had to look away; Gladwyn was clearly a man who wore his heart on his sleeve and the genuine show of emotion in his eyes, on his face, made her nervous. Who was so nice this early on? Was it possible for someone to just...be this kind? It had to be, because here he was, giving her a million-watt smile with promise written all over his face.

“Then I guess there’s only one thing left to do.”

Monica took the reprieve where it was offered, looking up at Dot. “What’s that?”

Dot gave her a smile, looking between Monica and Gladwyn with her hands out in a gesture. “How about dinner?”

The Tower was a high-end restaurant with an established clientele, but there was nowhere New Senzannini’s literary elite and established death beautician couldn’t eat if they wanted to. There was no need for a reservation and the trio were ushered from the hostess podium to the best table in the restaurant, immediately; afforded their privacy but with attentive staff at the ready. Dot eased down into her cushioned seat with a sigh of relief to be off swollen ankles but it was something Monica missed, because Gladwyn was standing beside her chair with it pulled out for her, gesturing to it with that curious smile of his. She offered him a nervous but grateful smile in return as she slowly sat down, startled at how easily he settled her against the table. Even for the muscle she’d seen he was stronger than he looked, but Gladwyn would argue she weighed next to nothing at all. He had half a mind to order for her to ensure she was even eating enough; a thought that darkened his brow as he settled into his own chair to Monica’s left. Now that they were out of the Mortuary, Monica could see all of him as he was out of his apron and he filled out his tailored suit well. He’d also rebraided his hair before coming out and with his wealth of hair pulled back from his face in an elegant french braid, Monica had to admire Gladwyn. He was a handsome man. As if sensing her staring, he turned to face her, his smile catching the ambient lighting and she had a new appreciation for his bone structure, the way the shadows flirted with the hollows of his cheeks, the high cut of his brow.

“I’ve never eaten here. Have you?”

“A-Ah, a few times,” Monica nodded. “I’m...surprised you haven’t.”

“Why’s that?” Gladwyn’s head tilt reminded her of a puppy.

“You...well, don’t mind me saying so but you look like you come from money.” Monica was hopeful the low lighting of the intimate restaurant hid her blush well enough as she moved her napkin to her lap.

“Why would I mind such a sweet compliment?” Gladwyn’s voice was rich and warm as he regarded Monica. “I do, come from money, but I don’t get out much. Surely Miss Dreadful has explained we morticians don’t keep much living company?”

Monica couldn’t help the laugh. “I a-am her only friend.”

“Hey hey,” Dot snapped her cloth napkin before pointing between the two of them. “That is a thousand percent by choice. Other people are the worst.”

“I’m not gonna argue with that,” Monica put her hands up, but as she moved to take the menu from their waiter, she was surprised to momentary silence when Gladwyn reached over, took her menu, and then handed it to her. “T-Thank you.”

“Of course.” Gladwyn’s tone was still warm, amiable, but he cut his eyes to the waiter as if daring the other male to say something. When the server cleared his throat and turned his attention to Dot, Gladwyn returned his gaze to Monica and his entire posture relaxed. His smile had never wavered.

The entire premise of dinner between the three had been Dot’s way of breaking the ice between her best friend and the new hire at the mortuary. She didn’t want to leave Monica with this new mortician for hours and hours a day, for weeks, perhaps months, without forming a sort of tentative relationship between the two, for Monica’s comfort level more than anything else. Part of why she’d hired Gladwyn was because he was such a nice guy. She’d called every colleague, boss, and even two of Gladwyn’s college professors to run him through the wringer to make sure he came out squeaky clean but every test Dot put him through, he passed. Everyone had something nice to say about Gladwyn, that he was an eager student, a polite co-worker, a diligent employee. He never called in sick, he never had any brushes with the law; hell, one of Gladwyn’s old employers stated he actually said, “Please,” and “I’m sorry,” to corpses if he mishandled them or when he needed to do something particularly invasive. Gladwyn was polite to a fault, and he was a certified nice guy. Granted, a couple people had mentioned his smile giving them the creeps, and Dot had to admit there was something a little off about it, but you can’t judge a guy by his smile, right? Besides, finding a mortician who wasn’t considered at least a little creepy was like finding a needle in a haystack. Dot had interviewed enough fish-eyed weirdos to know, Gladwyn was as good as she was going to get on such short notice. Judging by the swelling in her ankles just from the walk from the Mortuary to her truck and then into the restaurant, Dot was days away from being confined to bed--so as the saying goes, beggars can’t be choosers.

Still, Dot lifted her water glass to her mouth as she looked between Monica and Gladwyn; they seemed to be hitting it off well. Gladwyn’s smile was a prominent thing, Dot noticed he really did smile all the time, but it seemed different when he looked at Monica. Dot noticed things like this, she paid attention, but it didn’t raise any alarm bells. He simply seemed to really enjoy Monica’s company and honestly who wouldn’t? Dot had been friends with the other woman for over a decade; she knew the kind of effect Monica had on others and even if Monica would deny it to her grave, Dot knew better. Gladwyn was proof enough; the man was hanging off her every word. Dinner would be the first step to solidifying a good relationship between the two, and as long as this went well, Dot would be confident in going on maternity leave knowing her best friend, and her place of business, were in good hands.

“So, I know plenty about you Gladwyn but Monica doesn’t,” Dot turned to the duo as the waiter took their drink orders to the bar. “Why don’t you tell her a little about yourself?”

Gladwyn would have opened a vein to get Monica to talk about herself, but he swallowed that graphic visual with that smile of his, moving his hands to his lap as he nodded a few times, his attention swiveling to Monica effortlessly. “Well, what about you like to know?”

Monica blinked a few times, unsure what to ask. She floundered a little before blurting out. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Corpse blue.”

Gladwyn dropped his reply like a body onto the table, so serious in his delivery that Monica was left staring at him, her eyebrows slowly creeping upward. “R-Really?”

“Oh, no!” Gladwyn shook his head with a rich laugh. “I’m sorry, no, that was a little mortician humor. It’s just blue, my favorite color is blue, it’s just, you know the corpses turn blue when they’re frozen. I thought I’d have a little fun with it.”

Dot rolled her eyes as she reached for a hot roll from the bread basket at the center of the table. “You know our type of jokes never go over well with anyone.” She gave him a pointed look as she tore open the steaming bread. “Especially when they’re that corny.”

Gladwyn’s laugh was sheepish but genuine, and Monica had to respect a guy who could laugh at himself.

Throwing him a bone, she joined in the laughter, nodding. “No, no, I get it! That was, that was clever.”

Gladwyn paused at the compliment, his posture straightening not unlike a flower given a little bit of sunlight. His eyes were riveted to watching Monica’s chest rise and fall with her laughter, his own pulse quickening as he swallowed around his attraction to her. Did she have any idea what she was doing to him? No one ever really laughed at his jokes; he knew they were a little awkward and probably not in the best humor, but she called it clever. She thought he was clever. His pulse reflected just how much he liked that, basked in that knowledge, that such a beautiful woman found his wit to be...worthy of her beautiful laugh. It had sent him over the moon to walk into this restaurant with her; he saw the way heads turned, the whispers that the Felina Frenzy was here and though he felt that curious jealousy again, part of him using his impressive height to shield her from inquisitive, needy stares, there was also pride that he was there with her. That others recognized she was there with him. He really liked that thought.

“May I ask the lady’s favorite color?” Gladwyn took the opportunity to get to know Monica same as she was doing with him. He was eager to know her inside and out.

Monica gestured with a smile. “Blue, too.”

It may not be a monumental thing, sharing the same favorite color as someone else; there are only so many colors in the rainbow, after all--but Gladwyn felt that connection like a bolt of lightning. They...they shared a favorite thing? It brightened his smile, widened it until he felt his cheeks ache but he welcomed the sensation. It made him so happy!

“Excellent choice,” he complimented with a conspirator’s playful wink, trying to play it cool when inside, his heart was turning somersaults. Monica’s laughter was light but genuine and it was wreaking havoc on Gladwyn’s nerves, shredding him until he was rubbed raw, left vulnerable to the next tempting thing she was planning to do. He swallowed again, looking up gratefully as their drinks were brought to the table.

“That better be a virgin,” Monica eyed Dot’s Bloody Mary, and Dot gave her a playful look.

“Only thing about me that is, obviously,” she gestured to her generous bump before taking a sip of the blood red concoction.

“What did you get?” Monica turned to Gladwyn, trying to keep the conversation between them going. She knew without having to ask Dot that the reason they’d come to dinner was so she and Gladwyn could get better acquainted...it just helped he was easy to talk to.

“Ah, you’ve caught me, I’m afraid.” Gladwyn lifted his foaming glass with a sheepish grin. “It’s a Dry Stout. I’m Irish every day of the year, not only on St. Paddy’s.”

Monica eyed the glass; it was so dark she couldn’t see through it, and almost resembled coffee though she knew it to be an ale. She laughed a little at his joke, missing his grin brightening in response as she was still admiring his drink choice.

“What have you gotten?” Gladwyn took a swig of his drink, curious eyes on Monica’s beverage choice. It was peach-colored, bubbly, and served in a long-stemmed champagne glass.

“It’s a Gigi,” Monica supplied. “My family is originally from Italy so I’m pretty well-versed in expensive cocktails from Europe.”

Gladwyn’s laughter was honest and washed over Monica as he gave her his undivided attention; she could definitely respect that the man was genuine, there didn’t seem to be anything fake about him in the few hours she’s known him. It was laughter she joined in on, picking up her flute for a gentle, feminine sip.

Gladwyn watched her without blinking, committing her movement to memory with ease; she moved with the grace of a feline, her manicured nails a compliment to the expensive cocktail kissing her lips the way he longed to do--Gladwyn came from wealth and affluence, he knew what it was to be among the elite but Monica was simply on another level. It didn’t surprise him in the slightest to hear her family was of money, she carried herself like a queen and why shouldn’t she? Her throat worked as she swallowed and Gladwyn felt it like a punch to his gut; his muscles actually tightened, his abdomen turning flips as he struggled to get his attraction under control. Monica was doing something awful to him, stealing all his attention and he’d never once felt such a strong pull to another human being in his entire life. The more time he spent in her company, the less he was confused by what was happening. Love at first sight wasn’t an easy thing to dismiss, but it was an easy thing to pin.

“It’s probably rude to ask your age, Gladwyn, but I’m having a hard time pinning you,” Monica set her glass down, meeting Gladwyn’s gaze effortlessly--because he was already looking at her. “So can I ask?”

“You can ask whatever you like, my dear.” Gladwyn would have aged himself with such a formal saying, but at least the slight accent in his rich tenor made sense now that he’d given away his heritage (as if his hair and freckles hadn’t been enough indication) and that endearment certainly came out smoother than the ale in his hand. “But I’m thirty-seven years old.”

“You don’t look it,” Monica reassured, but that was only partially true. Gladwyn didn’t look to be near his forties, but he carried himself that way, and his smile had some age behind it. Likely, due to his ever-present smile, he also had smile lines near the corners of his mouth and around his eyes.

These lines deepened at her compliment and Gladwyn reached over, putting his surprisingly warm hand on her knee. “Thank you, Monica. That’s incredibly sweet of you to say.”

Monica’s gaze dropped to Gladwyn’s long fingers and she felt him squeeze her knee in response; he made no move to remove his hand and she didn’t...know if she should consider this forward of him or not. She was dressed in black slacks and a ruffle-sleeve button-up, having wanted to start looking the part of boss since she would be taking over for Dot but she could feel the heat of Gladwyn’s hand through the fabric of her pants. She would, for some reason, have assumed his hands would be cold as the corpses he worked on daily, but his hands more closely resembled the fire of his hair.

Gladwyn hadn’t even thought before he touched her--he just acted, closed the distance between them as if he had to do it. He cursed that she was wearing slacks and not a skirt, a dress, so anxious was he to feel her soft skin. He knew it was softer than a lily would be, and he knew she smelled sweeter, too. He slowly dragged his gaze up from his hand on her knee, up her front to lock gazes with her and he searched her face--not for signs of refusal but for acceptance. She had to feel what he felt, didn’t she? There was no way only one soulmate would be feeling the instant connection, the attraction that was driving him to complete distraction. There was no other way to describe what he was feeling but soulmate; everything about her clicked like a puzzle piece Gladwyn had been missing his entire life. She didn’t shy away from his smile, she shared the same favorite color as he did; she laughed at his jokes and she found him to be clever. He knew she thought he was nice because she allowed him to pull out her chair for her and she wasn’t pulling away from his touch, now. She had to be feeling what he was...perhaps she was simply shy? Well, of course she was, she was a proper lady. A right beautiful one. A woman who deserved to be wooed properly, courted in the way a man of Gladwyn’s upbringing could. His smile deepened, and he gave her knee another longing squeeze before he slowly, reluctantly removed it. He wouldn’t push his luck, now that he was more convinced she shared what he was feeling, that slow-burning but all-consuming fire that was licking at his heart like flames.

“Are we ready to order?”

The server started at the head of the table, or perhaps it was simply Dot being pregnant, but it allowed Gladwyn a moment to wrangle with his returning jealousy--because any moment, the man was going to turn to Monica and speak to her...and Gladwyn really hated that. He was staring, unseeing, at his own menu, his mind narrowing to how he was going to...deal with this. He’d never considered himself a jealous man before, had never felt such raw, biting emotion in all his life but then he hadn’t known his soulmate before today. Monica was beautiful, a siren’s call to any man and while he would never blame her for such beauty, no it was his good fortune she was breath-taking, he didn’t have to like others noticing her. His eyes slipped from his menu, moving discreetly to Monica and again, he felt his pulse spike, his throat run dry, and he fidgeted in his seat. If he needed proof, he had it; physical proof. His body reacted every single time he looked at her.

“And you, Miss?”

Monica shifted, her eyes on her menu. “I’ll have--”

“Would you order for me, Monica?”

Gladwyn interjected into the conversation without much forethought; he was only grateful what he’d said made sense. Monica seemed to flounder a little, and he could regret catching her off-guard...but she took her attention off the waiter and it reinforced he’d done the right thing. Gladwyn had to fight to keep his smile from going smug that he’d so easily gotten her attention back.

“O-Of...course, but I don’t really know you very well?” Monica faltered, looking worried. “What if...I order something you won’t like?”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having.” Gladwyn set his menu down on his plate with his smile lighting his eyes. “You have impeccable taste. You can’t steer me wrong if it’s good enough for you.”

Monica’s smile was still nervous, still unsure, but Gladwyn looked like he’d made up his mind and she could only nod, turning to order for herself...and for him.

It was a small compromise, Gladwyn still hated that she spoke to the waiter, loathed that the man was admiring her so openly, but at least he’d staked something of a claim on her in front of the other male. It made him feel better, sated his childish, unfounded jealousy--no, it wasn’t unfounded! He had a right to her, to the other half of his soul. That was how it worked. That was the reward for the way he felt about her; he felt so strongly, of course he wouldn’t want someone else looking at her, thinking about her. No one had the right to even dream of touching her, no one except him.

Dinner did what Dot had intended...and it did a little more than she’d intended, at the same time. The two hours passed by in the blink of an eye, the trio exchanging stories, learning about one another and as the time passed, the more Gladwyn became convinced of what he felt to be true. Monica was the other half of his soul, the fabled soulmate promised to hopeless romantics and skeptics alike. She was perfect; she was beautiful, hauntingly so, in that he knew she would be in his dreams tonight--if he was able to sleep from wanting her. She was witty, humorous, intelligent; she was clever and her sarcasm was so biting he nearly wished to be at the receiving end just to feel the scrape of her teeth. When Monica smiled she stole the light from the room; she was radiant, and Gladwyn felt himself drowning every time she turned that smile to him. Her voice was what silk was made of, sliding over his skin until twice he’d nearly dropped his fork against his plate when she said his name. It was...too soon, perhaps, to think of late nights with her body wrapped around his but he couldn’t stop himself from going there, from crossing that sordid line because she aroused him so fervently his appetite was of an entirely different sort. He’d finished two stouts in the hopes it would douse the fire building in his belly but all it did was warm him further, made his brain a little hazy so that the lines between right and wrong blurred further. He was seated beside an angel, his angel, and the expensive food turned sour in his mouth for want to sample her instead.

This must be what it felt like to be lovesick, to be so enamored with one’s adoration that food and drink lose their taste. Gladwyn seemed to have fallen down the rabbit hole with no hope to catch himself on the sides--would he have? If he were honest with himself, no, he wouldn’t have. He dove headfirst down this trap, chasing Monica’s laugh, her voice, the way she looked at him, smiled at him. The way she made him feel should be criminal, he was already so addicted to the man he was when she looked at him. The glasses were emptied, the bill was paid, and all too soon reality was severing his time with Monica and for a fleeting moment he panicked at the void that would be left when they went their separate ways for the night.

“Thank you, Gladwyn,” Monica stood with his help as he pulled her chair out for her, and his smile was a little subdued but still present as he held up her jacket, for her to slip into it.

“It’s cold outside,” he prompted, fighting to keep the hard edge from his voice when it seemed she was going to simply take it from him. He wanted her to wear it. He wouldn’t have her catching cold, and his smile broadened when she slipped her arms into it. “There we are. That’s better, hm?”

Monica’s smile was a touch shy as Gladwyn’s large hands rubbed up her arms, smoothing her jacket and warming her further beneath the expensive fabric. He placed his hand at the small of her back, giving his head a nod toward the door and he tailored his steps to match hers despite their staggering height difference.

“So, what do you two think?” Dot turned from the front door of the restaurant, the valet sprinting out into the snow to retrieve her truck. “Think you’ll be okay to work together for a while?”

Monica turned to look up at Gladwyn but he was already looking at her, and he gestured to Dot with a nod of his head. “Ladies first.”

“I-I, yes, I don’t see any problems.” Monica gave Dot a smile, knowing Dot would be looking for any signs that Monica wasn’t comfortable--this would be a question Dot would ask again when the two were alone in her truck.

“I’m delighted to hear that, as I can assure I’m very much looking forward to working with Monica.” Gladwyn tore his smile away from Monica when he felt Dot was still staring at him. “You’ll be fine to relax at home, Miss Dreadful. We’ll have no problems working together.”

Dot looked between Gladwyn and Monica, making a thoughtful noise at the back of her throat but she nodded, her smile reaching her eyes. “Good. Then you’ll be in charge of the morgue 7AM, Monday morning, Mr. Charles.”

Gladwyn gave Dot a nod, but his attention was already turning to Monica as Dot’s truck rolled to a stop in front of the restaurant. He moved his hand from the small of her back, already loathing the space between their bodies and knowing there’d be more, much more, over the weekend. It was all he could do to keep himself calm with the reassurance that he’d be working very closely with Monica on Monday.

“It was a pleasure getting to know you, Monica. I’m very much looking forward to continuing to get to know you during our time together.” Gladwyn bowed his spine, no hesitation as he pressed his lips to her cheek. “I will see you soon. Take care of yourself until then.”

Monica’s fingers trembled as they settled on Gladwyn’s arm, and she felt his hand steady her waist in response. “H-Have a nice weekend, Gladwyn. I’ll see y-you Monday.”

“I look forward to it.” Gladwyn straightened up, replacing his hand in his pant’s pocket, watching Monica take hold of Dot’s arm, the two girls leaning on one another as the valet opened the door into the winter cold.

Without a word, he gave his keys to the valet but kept his gaze on Monica as she entered the truck, and as they drove off, he kept his gaze riveted to the vehicle disappearing in New Senzannini’s generous traffic. It wasn’t until Monica was out of sight that he was able to look away, the spell of her presence lifted enough for him to feel...completely and utterly alone. The smile dropped off his face fast enough to shatter on the marble floor beneath his dress shoes, and the valet nearly tripped coming back inside after retrieving Gladwyn’s car.

It would seem the only thing creepier than Gladwyn’s smile was when he didn’t smile, but for the first time in his life, he found he had no reason to, at the moment. The reason was currently driving further and further away from him, to live a life separate from him, where she didn’t have to think about him, didn’t have to see him, where he couldn’t see her, where he couldn’t touch her...

...for now.

Gladwyn pushed open the restaurant doors with one strong hand, ignoring the biting cold wind as he stalked toward his waiting car. Monday wasn’t too far away. Besides, the weekend gave him time to prepare, to make room in his life for a very special new someone. It had to be perfect. Everything had to be perfect.

Just like she was.

Stay tuned! ♥ Next Update: February 17th!

[itsjayyyy]

January 10, 2019 12:13 pm

it’s a week after i planned on writing an update, but it’s a thursday so i’m technically on time. I worked tuesday, as i said, and on wednesday rose came over. we first went to the mall so i could show her how decrepit it was, and got auntie anne’s there. I like the mini pretzel dogs, but hate the hot dogs inside them; i just like how the pretzels are rolled up to look like croissants and how the hot dogs imbue the bread with that umami flavor. Then we went back to my place and watched train to busan (the main character was the same guy from coffee prince!), and then went to baanchan for dinner. I remember that she borrowed a shirt and got a stain on it and took it home and said shed wash it but i can’t remember which one. thursday and friday i just kinda lazed around, relaxed for a few days before the semester started. i signed up for postmates, and just today i got an email saying the prepaid card was sent to my address so i’ll activate it when i get home. the weekend was work, as always.

i would like to thank every god for allowing me to live so close to campus, because if i had to wake up any earlier for my 7:30 am calc class i would die. On the first day I woke up at 6, but tbh the earlier i have to wake up, the longer i have to take to get ready so I was kinda rushing and ended up forgetting my wallet. I didn’t want to give up my parking space to go back to get it, so I took the on campus shuttle back to my apartment to pick it up, since i needed my id to get my textbooks. got my textbooks (with no line whatsoever!), went to my evening classes, then went home. oh, and apparently i’m so bad at math. i saw my schedule’s weekly chart and said “oh nice, i have a 4 hour gap in the middle of the day for studying or getting lunch” but apparently it’s a 7 hour gap, from 8 am to 3 pm. coolio.

my calc professor was a bit timid, and has a slight accent. the first day i made the mistake of sitting in the back like last year, and could not focus on a word he said. psychology was chill, we just covered the syllabus. apparently, the psychology department (not my professor) mandates that all intro psych classes’ grades are 10% participating in psychology studies, bc otherwise nobody would volunteer to help them. i hate being forced to do anything, so of course I’m gonna lie and fuck with their studies. asl was my fav class, it’s at 6:30 when campus is empty. we just learned the alphabet (and by that i mean she ran through it once and then we had to go to the front of the class and introduce ourselves). the whole class is immersive, meaning that even on the FIRST day of class we weren’t allowed to speak. as if i understood a single thing she said. there’s a cute girl in that class, we didnt speak to each other (obvs) but when i got stuck while introducing myself, she helped me out since she was in the front row. can i just say i’m PISSED that it seemed like everyone was fluent in asl while i barely knew the alphabet. yall this is an introductory class.

tuesday was a disaster. i woke up at 6 again, but was so beat from the day before that I decided to skip calc, on the grounds that it was all just review and the first unit was my best anyways. i forgot to set a follow up alarm, though, so i woke up naturally at 8:55. and then looked at my class schedule. and saw that my next class was at 9. luckily since i live by campus i was only 6 minutes late, but i forgot literally everything (didn’t bring my phone or my backpack) except for my wallet. I didn’t even have time to shower, or brush my teeth, or comb my hair. immediately after i was done with that class i went home and did all of those. I also went to the pet store to get a new filter for my fish, since my last one broke (after 2 years of having it, which i think is a good lifespan). I installed that, knit more of my gloves, then went back on campus for programming at 6. The professor didn’t even cover the syllabus, he just jumped straight into the lecture. one kid asked about the structure of the class, and at that point he gave a quick summary. it was clear we were all expecting him to start the lecture with the syllabus. i’m so annoyed that last semester i deleted codeblocks, the program used in the course, because i thought i was done with it, and now i have to reinstall it. tuesday evening i watched hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy, which i watched when i was like, 7, but forgot most of. 

wednesday, i woke up at 5:30, so that i would have more time to get ready. I sat in the front of calc, and took really great notes. we finally started getting into psychology, all about behavior and stuff. I did one of their stupid studies before class, it was this survey about “human social perception” but honestly it was asking about how lonely i am. and when you have to actually sit there and quantify how many friends you have, and how often you see them, it really puts it into perspective. kinda felt called out.

ya know how every semester, i creep on webcourses’ list of students in my class? well the cute girl in asl is named “anna” (as per how she introduced herself, it was the only name i could catch), and there’s only one anna in the class, and she has a crazy last name so it was p easy to find her on ig and twitter. i was scrolling down her twitter when i accidentally liked one of her tweets. i quickly unliked it, and i didn’t think she would have gotten the notification bc it was a retweet anyways, but shortly after that she followed me. and then i remembered that my most recent tweet was “so uhh whos gonna tell the cute girl in my asl class that i want to go out with her bc it sure as hell ain’t gonna be me” (cue my death). i deleted it and hoped she didn’t see it, but honestly if she followed me she prob saw it. i hoped that maybe bc i don’t have my real name listed on twitter that she wouldn’t know it was me, but in class i introduced myself as “jay” bc i forgot the symbol for s. pls kill me. and this all happened like 10 minutes before class started. I sat in the back, though, so we weren’t near each other. but at the end of the class we did an activity where we got a card with a word, and we had to find the person with the same card by signing it. we did like 4 rounds, and i was hoping we wouldn’t be together, but in the last round we were. we didn’t talk tho, and as soon as it was over i was gone. 

despite my period being nowhere near, i had a huge depressive episode last night. like, by her ig and twitter, she’s a Distinguished Gay in which she did a high school summer program with Stanford where she did heart surgery on a porcupine, and was an award winning thespian, and has tons of friends and a supportive family, where i’m the complete opposite: no friends, failed 3 classes, family hates me, chose a low paying career, needs alcohol to cope with life. This is one case where opposites don’t attract: she’s not gonna want to be with someone whose life is a complete mess. And then i just got to thinking about how rose tells me that mom lowkey thinks I’m a complete dissapointment for being gay and she only puts up with me bc it’s the muslim thing to do, and how the only way i can make her happy is me being single my whole life so she wouldn’t have to know. how i can never have love. and then rose texted asking for an update and i just kinda lashed out at her. why does she feel the need to tell me about mom talking shit? why would i want to hear that? yea i get the whole “don’t let others talk shit behind my back” idea but sometimes ignorance is bliss. i just don’t want to feel like a pile of shit for once in a while. and of course I’m still so resentful about the way that mom and dad treat rose like a damn golden child while i’ve never gotten 1/10 of the support she has.

This morning i went to calc, then comp, didn’t really pay attention in either. while in comp, heather texted me and was like “we should meet up soon.” rose also texted me; last week we were planning to meet up today but it was kinda dicey since we had that issue last night. and anyways at 11 she said “i got a job interview with izziban at 4, should i go” and i was just like “yea sure” bc i really don’t give a fuck. she always puts everything before me so why bother. then she got all like “if something’s wrong you need to tell me i can’t help if i don’t know what’s wrong” like, how about you read what i sent you last night, that details EVERYTHING that’s wrong. she later said she was gonna skip the interview bc she already has a job and she’s gonna do uber eats, and that she was just gonna have lunch with mom (since mom loves her enough to cook for her) and then head out my way. heather responded that we should meet at 1 today, so i told rose. rose said “should i wait for yall to finish and then come by?” but i havent responded bc i don’t want to see her (ever again).

I soft blocked anna on twitter bc i didn’t want her to see me talking about how i wanted to kill myself on main lmao. anyways i’m gonna go get a smoothie.

[ashsinmywcke]

First Blood // Chapter One

How old do you have to be, to be called a Woman? Where is the line between the child and the potential mother? For some people these questions have fairly straightforward answers – when you get to eighteen, or twenty one, or sixteen. Some people use events, the first time you bleed, or have sex or get married. Some people are a little more intelligent, they'd say such a thing comes down to individual maturity.

I know the day I became a 'Woman'. And it wasn't down to any one of these things, I didnt welcome it either. It just fucking happened to me like a natural disaster.

So here it is. I'll start from the beginning.

The sound is like this; a band of elastic pulled taught between two points, shaping the ragged screams which resonate over it like a bow sawing so hard over a violin that the strings scrape against the neck, and the horsehair breaks up into a hundred individual strands. And then nothing but a slack gurgling, muted by blood. A dull thump.

With a reflexive motion, I find myself standing. The woman in the seat behind scolds at me for blocking her view.

The puncture in my palm, caused by my vice like grip on my clutch purse, yields a cool drip of blood which runs down my middle finger and drips onto the floor by my foot. The crystal studded purse falls from my hands and shatters into two pieces on the floor like something stupidly fragile. I watch with far away eyes as they roll the body off the straight board f the guilloteen onto a black stretcher, then place the dismembered head at the top. They carry the woman away as if they were paramedics.

I bend double and a jet of searing yellow bile is ejected from my throat down the front of my dress and all down the back of the seat in front. I can feel it burning in my nose. The woman jumps to her feet and shrieks, as if my vomit were the most terrifying thing in the world. She's asking me 'what's wrong with you!?' angrily, again and again, but everybody else's faces, save the few who I've managed to disrupt in about a six foot radius are still turned toward the platform. Some are even applauding. I retch hard again but this time there's nothing to bring up save a long line of spittle which dribbles to the floor in a string as my knees give way under me, the knee split in my black silk gown tearing all the way up to the thigh with a crack as I hit the floor. I don't feel the impact but my eyes turn skyward as I go into free fall and I watch every heavenly body streaking across the black night sky like fireworks, leaving trails in their wake. The light scatters, diffuses and eventually becomes so bright that I clasp my eyes shut against it.

I become remotely aware that my mother is holding me by the shoulders, she's telling me to breathe. I think by now it has been at least three minutes since I last took a breath. A long pause in respiration, even for my species. My eyes open a crack and through the gap in the seats in front I make out the pool of blood on the platform, directly below where the blade had fallen. The sandstone is so stained from years of repeated coating that it seems black with decay, and under the white floodlights the pool seems more black than red. Black like oil, even as I watch one tiny rivulet find it's way to the edge of the stone platform and begin to slowly descend the bricks.

I open my lips to take a breath but the cool air makes my throat spasm and I retch so hard again that I think all of my ribs will break. My arm moves up my body and I hook my fingers under the fine string of red beads around my throat. I pull and the chain breaks scattering little rubies around me with a soft pattering. But it does nothing to relieve the rising nausea in my throat. The people are beginning to disperse, most of them not without a backward look at me. But I become aware of voices. “Oh Lords, Lords, blood! Blood!” They're shouting. What a stupid thing to say, it occurs to me. Of course there's blood, what had they expected? I feel my mother move me onto my side. By now my body feels like an invert lump of clay, heavy, useless, and pinned down by a deep pain that radiates outward from the bottom of my pelvis. It suffuses my abdomen, climbs my spine and shoots down my legs, managing to get right into my bones. “Look, there's blood!” Someone else yells. I cant move, or speak or sit up and spit in their stupid faces and curse them for their idiocy, and my own.

Laid on  my side I watch designer heels and hemlines move back and forth. Most away and out of the amphitheatre but a few move closer around me, so close I can see the gems grafted onto their toenails and the intricate black henna patterns around their ankles. I open my mouth and my lungs expand of their own volition, air rushing in before any words can come out. Somebody is calling for a paramedic but I hear my mother arguing with them, saying she just needs help to get me in the car. At this point I must have lost consciousness for at least a minute or two because when I open my eyes again there are different people standing around me. People in grey uniforms. One of them kneels down and peels away the bottom of my wet dress, looking between my legs. I try to raise my foot to kick him in the face but all I manage is a pitiful muscle twitch. He puts the fabric back in place and stands up, everything above his knee is now out of my field of vision. Still cradled in my mother's arms I hear their short conversation. But not the words, only the cadences. Like when you're trying to listen to a conversation through a wall, or what I oddly imagine an unborn child must hear, not long before it's born. Pressed to my mothers chest I hear her slow heart beat. Then hands are lifting me, the movement causes a spar of pain to form from my tail bone to the top of my neck. I scream, but it passes quickly as I am placed back down again. Then I feel the floor pull away from beneath me as the stretcher lifts, and my eyes swivel up to the sky again. Yaruna is full, and especially red tonight. My head falls to the side and my long hair half cascades over my face but through the veil I can still see the scaffold as I am borne away, much the way the dead woman was. It is only then that I actually wonder if I am dying, but the thought does not fill me with panic. Maybe there is not enough energy left in my body or brain for panic. My mother squeezes my hand and looks down at me. Silhouetted against the stars and illuminated only by the harsh glow of the white floodlights her frightened face looks different than usual. As far as I'm aware my mother has had her face re-sculpted twice, probably more times that she hasn't told me or even my father about. The doctors are very good at what they do, and we have the money to pay for good work. But looking up at her then I see odd new contours and ridges where before there had been none and in my addled horror her face becomes almost alien, almost grotesque to me. I swallow thickly and manage one word : “What?” She shushes me, squeezing my hand, and pushes the hair out of my face. My head lolls to the side again and I focus on the scaffold, it's the last thing I see, like a vanishing point on a far-away horizon, growing smaller and smaller before unconsciousness swallows me, and then nothing.

The Great Lake Ashara lays to the immediate south of the city, and is so dense in minerals that the salt crystals extend to and climb the southernmost walls. It stretches for nearly two hundred miles, end to end. At the eastern point, where the water once lay almost a hundred feet deep there is now a glistening forest of mineral crystals, forming enormous shards and valleys and bristling peaks between the spitting hot water springs which trickle downhill to the shore.

At the very edge of the waterline the lake slumbers almost completely motionless on a day with no breeze, glistening like opal over the salt shore. I shed my clothes and wade into the shallows until I am up to my waist in the warm water. For some reason I feel an instant relief. Cupping my hands I splash the water onto my face, slicking my long hair back. I wade out a little further, take a deep breath and plunge forward and down. My body feels strong. I've always been a good swimmer, and an excellent diver, but now I feel more fish than human. As if standing about on two legs were never really a reflection of my true self. I am a water animal, and swimming hard into the saturated water I reach a depth of twenty feet with ease. Stopping, I let my body turn, and look upward and I see the enormous mid day sun blazing through the water. I wish I could stay there, in the deep, warm, endless silence. I don't need to breathe for another forty minutes, but my own buoyancy is pulling me back toward the surface and all I can do is let it take me.

“Ella? ...Ells?” I open my eyes to the familiar voice. And the world starts to come steaming back through my eyes so I shut them again. I am aware that I am naked, laid flat, reclining at a slight angle against warmed stone. I am half submerged in hot water. Breathing in I feel thick, faintly fragrant steam fill my head and nose. Slowly I open my eyes. My friend Eden is looking down at me. She is ten years older than me. Her hair is lighter and shorter than mine, plaited back from her face in tight braids. Her frame is thin and delicate with narrow wrists and pronounced collar bones. Her pencilled thin eyebrows lower slightly with concern. Her complexion is pale as milk and often draws questions as to whether she is feeling well. She too is sitting in the water with me, her small body pressed close to mine. I reach out and lay a hand on her shoulder. “Eden. Where am I?” My voice is hoarse, but it works, and the pain that had crushed me so entirely has retreated to an insistent ache. I see Eden's face light up with relief. “You're fine. Your mother had you brought to the bath house, she left not long ago. She called me to ask if I would watch you.” I sit up, to the complaint of my back but I manage it. I look around. I usually visit the bathhouse once a week with the other women, but I don't recognise this room. I am not in the pure, crystalline white pools with their delicate fountains. I'm in a room lit by candlelight, the walls are a dark, polished granite, and the pool itself is hewn out of dark red marble. I look down into the water, trying and failing to string all the events together coherently. I frown. Reaching down I scoop up the water in my hand, and only in lifting it out of the maroon bowl do I notice that it too is vivid red. It is only then that everything starts to connect. Eden watches me do the experiment and pins a difficult, thin smile to her face. “You...you had your blood.” She reports what I see with my own eyes. I stare into the water in my hand, watching it as it trickles away between my fingers. I wonder how it can be. I had always assumed that it would never happen, and then, as the years wore on and it didn't, I became more sure of it. I put my face in my hands, and start to sob like a child. Eden pulls my into her arms, her hands finding my waist. She kisses my ear and my cheek. “Oh, Ells, I'm sorry, but-”

     “No!” I yell, the word resounding loudly in the stone room as I shove her away and clamber out of the tub with a splash, blood still trickling between my legs. I lean against the cool stone wall, my bare skin shimmering in the low light. Eden remains still and quiet in the marble pool, watching the blood swirl, barely visibly against the red marble. “I...I can make out that I was ill, that it was an accident.” I say the words realising how stupid they are. ���Everybody saw Ells, and your mother too...” Eden replies quietly. I turn back toward her, casting a shadow over her as she sits in the water, her grey-lilac eyes sparkle darkly in the gloom. “I don't care, you hear me? I'm not doing it.”

     “You have to...”

     “Don't fucking tell me what I have to do!” I scream, so loud the sound is painful resounding off of the granite. Eden turns her face away, her mouth is now a sad, straight line. “I'm not, but they will...” She replies in a resigned tone. “And they've had Cael Khuder picked out for you since you were twelve years old.”

     “Fuck Ceal Khuder. I'll make him hate me so much he'll divorce me.”

     “Or he'll kill you.”

Eden's words make me fall silent. The sudden, tragic death of one's dear wife is always so much cleaner than a messy, shameful divorce. Blood is pooling by my heels. I climb numbly back into the pool. The hot water relieves the cramp in my abdomen but I just stare down at the surface numbly. “You will just have to make the best of it Ells...” My friend breathes, sitting across from me. The words chafe me so hard they graze and I look up at her, my lips twisted like I'm holding a piece of sour white lemon on my tongue. “Make the best of it?” I echo, smiling horribly. “Is that what you do Eden? Is that what you tell yourself when your husband touches you? Because...” I move across the pool so I am only two feet from her, the water still up to my waist. “...Because if he knew who you really were they'd take you away, slice you up and put you back in your box and the worst fucking thing about it is...” I smile viciously. “...After that you'd like it.”

It's an appalling thing to say, but as ever Eden says nothing. She doesn't sling the barb back at me. I can tell she's not even thinking about retaliating. And its not even as if she's weak, or stupid or afraid. Actually her acid tongue is well known, and has landed her in trouble more than once. It's one of the things I like so much about her. But it's never for me. No matter how hateful I am toward her. So I take advantage of it, unfairly, I always have. But on the other hand she has always let me. She says nothing, looking down into the hot water, blood swirling around her pale skin like red clouds on a clay sky. When she looks up at me her grey-blue eyes brim with pain. And still she is silent. A part of me wishes she would move forward and hit me as hard as she could across the face. I quite want that, but not as much as I want her as she is. She is wounded and wordless, so I get my wish.

I give a start of mirthless laughter and shake my head. I am grasping, flailing. And within moments my own eyes are full of tears and I am sobbing again. Eden takes me in her arms, then lays me back against the warm stone slope of the opening of the pool. All my cruel words forgiven.

The warmth of her pulls me in and before I think too much about it my hands are in the small of her back and my mouth finds hers. I roll on top of her, pinning her down. Wet skin on wet skin. Ravenous. I grasp onto her for dear life, as if I can fill myself up with her, then there wont be room for the rest of it. For anyone else. Her long fingers fold into my thick hair and she returns the kiss for about ten seconds and I can taste her desire. As I've tasted it before and I want it, I want it because everything else seems like more pain. Again, I take advantage. Eden pushes the heel of her hand against my sternum and parts me from her with a gentle push. She closes her eyes and I know she cant look at me. A sad smile stretches her thin red lips.  “Ells, please don't do that. Please.” She whispers. I gaze down at her and I sigh deeply, letting my forehead rest against hers. My gut twists with guilt. “I'm sorry.” I whisper. “I'm sorry.” I roll off of her, onto my side. “I'm sorry I'm such a hateful bitch.” She laughs, but there's not much mirth in it, and she moves to scoop some hot water out of the deeper part of the bath with her hand, pouring it over me as if I were coals in a sauna. It soothes me. “It's alright.” She whispers simply. I just let myself lay there, and for a while neither of us says anything.

“Did you see the execution?” I ask quietly after a little while. Eden nods. “Yes, I wasn't there but I saw the broadcast.”

     “I wish somebody had told me.”

     “Told you what?”

I think a moment. Blinking in the steam and the low light, as Eden pours hot water over my skin. “I don't know. I suppose I, never really thought it was real. Or it didn't feel real.” The corners of my lips tremble as the memory comes gushing back, but I dam it up, just about. “Your mother took you when you were fifteen didn't she?” I ask. Eden nods. “Did it scare you?” She pauses a moment before her hand resumes it's action. “I'm not sure I would say it scared me.”

     “I don't believe you.”

     “No, that's not what I mean.”

     “Then what do you mean?”

With the last handful Eden's hand comes down to slide over the contour of my waist, over my hip. “I wouldn't say it scared me, because I'd say that it broke me. Every time I saw it.” She cants her head to the side. “I've seen so many now. You don't get used to it. Ever.” My gaze falls, my hand slides across the smooth base of the pool to find the bottom of her ribs. Just the touch is comforting. I notice the still healing scar from what looks like a fresh fat implant on her thigh. My fingers move downward, brushing over it. “You had more surgery? I didn't know.” She shrugs. “It's nothing really.”

     “Was it Mikel's idea?”

     “No, his mother, Lara.” I roll my eyes. “God. I wish you'd learn to ignore that woman.”

     “If you had to spend every day with her you'd understand how nearly impossible that is.”

I laugh, an actual laugh and look up at Eden fondly. My hand moves back to her hip and I give her a squeeze. My eyes move downward to her stomach. Barely three inches above the hair on her pubic mound is another scar, this one much older. Horizontal, about five inches long. “How is Abha?” I ask. She nods. “She's doing well, already speaking two languages. Lara took her out to a runway show last week, and ever since she's been dressing her up in these horrible feathered bodices.” Eden raises her brow cynically. “But she gets complimented wherever I take her, so I suppose I'll have to get used to it.” I brush Eden's cheek with a warm smile. “She'll grow out of it. I think as soon as she can think properly for herself she'll be just like her mother.” I intend the comment kindly, but the words seem to strike Eden with painful sadness. Her face drops. My brow furrows. “What?” Eden shakes her head.

     “I hope to god, every day, that she's not like me.”

[viralhottopics]

Susan Sarandon: ‘Its an easy place to put your frustrations, to blame me’

The actor discusses playing Bette Davis in the new small-screen drama Feud and why shes tired of people criticizing her for refusing to support Hillary Clinton

Susan Sarandon is here to talk about a much-publicized feud between two successful women. But, as the Oscar-winning actor and activist had made crystal clear the week before I spoke to her, during a tense interview on MSNBCs All In, shes not interested in talking about that feud.

Rather than yet another over-analysis of her role in Hillary Clintons shock election loss, shed rather turn the discussion to talk of Bette Davis and Joan Crawford, two women also pitted against each other, this time in 1960s Hollywood. In Feud: Bette and Joan, the latest FX show from Ryan Murphy, creator of American Horror Story and American Crime Story, the intricacies of their famed battle are brought to vibrant life with Jessica Lange as Joan Crawford and Sarandon playing Davis. Its a fun, snappy eight-episode behind-the-scenes reveal (the next season will focus on the feud between Prince Charles and Princess Diana) and provides a worthy reminder of the destructive influence that meddling men had in tearing the two women apart.

This is a really blatant example of trying to control two people by making sure they dont join forces, she tells me on the phone, dog yapping in the background. I think that mentality and lack of imagination you can see in all the reality shows. Thats the entirety of their plots: just turning women against each other and getting them drunk so that something dramatic happens, even if its a fight over nothing. Its always easier, I think, to suck people into drama when its negative as opposed to something thats constructive.

Susan Sarandon as Bette Davis and Jessica Lange as Joan Crawford in Feud: Bette and Joan. Photograph: FX

If thered been a Real Housewives of Hollywood in the early 60s, Bette and Joans on-set sparring while making Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? would have made for a ratings magnet. There was a pay dispute, nastiness in gossip columns, petty pranks and even physical violence. But over 50 years later, the business is different: studios no longer own stars in the way they once did and women are making headway towards equality. Competition is not what it once was.

I think that happened just in my generation, Sarandon says. I see examples of actresses just a little bit ahead of me who really saw women as their enemy and had no intention of forming any kind of alliance. Now, thats certainly not true. You might be envious of a part you didnt get but its switched to understanding that you need women as allies and that were stronger together, not divided.

Its an ethos thats been reflected throughout her career, with roles in a number of Bechdel test-smashing films, including The Witches of Eastwick, Thelma and Louise, Little Women, Stepmom and last years acclaimed comeback vehicle The Meddler. Shes also been keen to work with more female directors, having recently worked with a set of them on the production of Feud, but one area of equality that shes less sure about is that awkward matter of who gets paid what.

I dont think it matters that Jennifer Lawrence is paid 70 times more than what I am, she says. Its a business that is so subjective and I feel so lucky to be able to earn a living, and this is why to go after pay equality is a really chancy subject because if Tom Cruise has a leading lady thats in the movie as much as he is, should she get the same amount of money if shes been in the business a shorter amount of time? And should a character actor thats been in the business for 50 years not get paid more? Its a sin what happens to these supporting actors through the years where they can barely exist on the pay they get. Theres no equity in terms of value, and who knows how these decisions are made. So you cant apply that to feeling unfair because the whole fact that actors get paid as much as we do is ridiculous. I mean, what a fabulous life. I cant bitch about whatever my pay level is. I dont focus on that.

Susan Sarandon in The Meddler. Photograph: Sony

But as content as Sarandon seems, theres no denying that shes been frustratingly absent from the spotlight in recent years. Shes not stopped working but more often shes been taking on small, little-seen roles. Its not simply a dearth of scripts for women of a certain age in the industry, its also Sarandon being understandably picky. Unlike many other Oscar-winning female actors, shes resisted the urge to take on thankless roles in franchise fodder. She chose not to play the doomed female president in last years Independence Day: Resurgence (When I read the script, I couldnt understand what was going on) and the only sequel youll see her in any time soon is John Turturros Big Lebowski spin-off (something she calls a crazy film that she still cant believe they got the money for).

After the success of Thelma and Louise, many thought it would be a game-changer, showing Holly-bros that theres a sizable audience for a film about female friendship but as Bridesmaids has since shown, these hits are often seen as unlikely exceptions and fail to cause the seismic shift predicted. I think that a woman can look at a story that has a male protagonist and can identify that she could do that or be in that situation, she says. But I think its harder for male executives to imagine that anybody is really gonna get into a female lead because its hard for them to imagine. I dont think its meant to be a mean thing, I just think its a lack of imagination.

Its meant that, while shes starred in a number of aforementioned female-fronted films, shes still been paired mostly with men throughout her career. Its been a generally harmonious time, but Sarandon recalls the closest shes got to having a Bette v Joan situation. There was one gentleman, she says. He hadnt really done films, I dont think, and he was in the midst of a very successful TV run and was a heart-throb. There were definitely some problems and hed developed some habits, because in the atmosphere where he was working, he wasnt used to women challenging him in any way and was spoiled by the rules that they set up. At one point, they allowed him to leave on my reverse at the end of the day, so I was suddenly expected to do my lines with the script supervisor and him gone for my close-up.

She wont give me a name but she counts it as a rare occurrence. I dont thrive on tension or any kind of aggression, she says. But its an unavoidable part of the job, especially, depressingly, for a woman who chooses to speak her mind. While men might still be seen as brave and refreshing, women who speak out are still often painted as difficult or bitchy. Sarandon knows this all too well.

I think it is more annoying to have a woman with opinions for a lot of people, she says. I couldnt give you any solid proof that has hurt my chances in the business. Today in the New York Times, they were talking about the Academy awards and the fact that I was one of the people who didnt get a nomination for The Meddler, and [it] mentions that it might have something to do with the Clintonized Hollywood, when I supported Bernie Sanders.

Bernie Sanders and Susan Sarandon in April 2016. Photograph: Brian Snyder / Reuters/Reuters

Which brings us to the elephant in the room (or over the phone). Sarandon was a vocal supporter of Sanders as he ran against Clinton to become the Democratic pick for president. When he lost out on the nomination, she expressed her frustration and publicly endorsed the Green candidate Jill Stein instead, stating that she did not vote with her vagina. She had previously called Clinton more dangerous than Trump.

I have had a huge amount of backlash, she says. Theres been a really strong blame for a lot of things that are obviously not my fault.

A cursory scan of Twitter shows a stream of bile all the way from the Will & Grace star Debra Messing to the author Kurt Eichenwald. Sarandon remains defiant, unapologetic and frustrated with Democrats who suggest that shes let the party down.

Theres no valid argument, she says. Its just an easy place to put your frustrations, to blame me. I mean, if you read the list of people who voted Hillary Clinton and then I think its me and Viggo Mortensen on the other side. Youd have to be delusional to actually think that Beyonc and Jay Z and George Clooney and Julia Roberts and Meryl Streep, and the list goes on, were actually overpowered by the two of us.

But shes unperturbed, still hyper-aware of the daily failings of Trumps government. And despite resistance, shes continuing to show up at Democratic events, such as a recent anti-Trump rally in New York. Im focusing on reaching out and forming a coalition not only with all of Hillarys people but with people I know that voted for Trump, because we have serious work to do now, and we cant indulge in blaming or depression or any of those things, she says. There isnt time any more to look back. We have to look forward.

Feud begins on FX on 5 March at 10pm with a UK broadcaster yet to be confirmed

Read more: http://bit.ly/2mnLjtT

from Susan Sarandon: ‘Its an easy place to put your frustrations, to blame me’