#like it SUCKS to teach about tremendous hatred. it really does!

[kvothes]

trying to tell my students who matthew shephard was like. you need to know this. i’m sorry. i wish you didn’t need to know this. i wish this hadn’t happened. but if you’re gonna study queer history you need to know this.

[aion-rsa]

Shameless Season 11 Episode 11 Review: The Fickle Lady Is Calling It Quits

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This Shameless episode contains spoilers.

Shameless Season 11 Episode 11

“We’re adults now. This is what adults do. They move on.”

Shameless tows the line over whether Frank Gallagher is actually wise or just so high on his own supply that he’s convinced himself that he’s a street smart genius. The truth of the matter is irrelevant because either way Frank still makes bold declarations as if they were the word of God. He’s a non-stop repository for nonsensical advice and Frank’s teachings have been present through every season, even if they’re lessons that the Gallaghers actively ignore. 

“The Fickle Lady Is Calling It Quits” pushes a narrative where characters need to either move forward or slow down, but a greater source of wisdom that influences the episode’s structure is the laundry list of life lessons that Frank has spewed out for eleven seasons. This direction turns Shameless’ penultimate episode into one of the most emotional and impressive entries of the season and provides the right direction for next week’s big finale.

Previous seasons of Shameless frequently treat Frank like an unrepentant derelict and there are times where he even operates as an outright villain. This final season has worked hard to humanize Frank as he transitions into this feeble stage of his life and it’s been a very powerful experience. Now, an episode away from the very end of Shameless, Frank is at his absolute worst and at this point there’s no hatred towards this passive father figure, only pity. William H. Macy looks utterly lost in these scenes and he’s really put everything into this final season. Macy actually deserves some award consideration when the time comes and this is the episode that he should submit. 

Frank is usually the one that drives the chaos forward in Shameless, right down to the previous episode, but “The Fickle Lady Is Calling It Quits” turns into a somber celebration of all things Frank Gallagher as Liam graciously tries to remind Frank of the indomitable fighting spirit that’s defined him for his entire life. Liam throws Frank’s own advice back at him when he tells him, “Either you run the day, or the day runs you.” 

This episode feeds off of the energy between Liam and Frank from the previous installment and it’s appropriate that Liam is the one that’s with Frank during his weakest moments. Frank can rest easy knowing that Liam is living proof that goodness has come out of all of his selfish behavior over the years and somehow this child has been able to synthesize his ramblings into practical advice.

It’s a lot of fun to return to this farcical side of Frank’s character, but the comedic sensibilities of Shameless continue to be all over the place this season. There are some legitimately funny and subtle jokes throughout this episode, but there are also ridiculous setpieces where good samaritans get steamrolled by a truck. Shameless has always had a dark sense of humor, but it needs to have a little more confidence in itself and not resort to such broad gags that come close to breaking the reality of the show’s universe. Mickey’s consternation over housing complex guidelines feels more natural, and is funnier, than fatality punchlines or extended TikTok dance routines. 

Mickey and Ian’s time in Chicago’s West Side becomes surprisingly fulfilling and it achieves the right balance between comedy and drama. This new lifestyle puts Mickey and Ian at odds with each other and it becomes a strong dissection of their characters as well as how far their relationship has come. Their material is full of great character moments, like how Mickey needs to listen to car crashes and general destruction as a white noise machine to help him peacefully fall asleep. Mickey’s discomfort over his new life becomes so severe that he has to sneak back into the Gallagher house and get up close and personal with the crime and chaos that echoes through the South Side. 

I don’t expect Mickey to completely regress and be unable to forge ahead with Ian in this marginally swankier life, but this feels like a reasonable temporary hurdle for him to clear before the series concludes. Despite how this West Side lifestyle is a productive change for Ian and Mickey, it’s still something that Ian made official while Mickey wasn’t completely on board. It’s an understandable schism between them and the episode is smart to tease them falling back onto old habits, only to do the opposite. 

“The Fickle Lady Is Calling It Quits” teases infidelity and disappointing decisions, but their selfless resolution to the problem is one of the sweetest moments from the entire season and basically what I’ve wanted from these two all season. Every character in Shameless has been through a tremendous amount this season and it’s impressive how Mickey and Ian’s conflict resolution methods have evolved from the volatile place that they were at when the season began.

Mickey and Ian display genuine maturity with their relationship issues and it’s a level of synergy and consistency that Debbie craves. Everyone is considerably worn down from the events of the season and is close to their breaking points, which in Debbie’s case finally causes her to take a long look at why her romantic endeavors have all been so toxic. This introspective attitude is good for Debbie, yet the victim mentality that she adopts and her anger that Frank has “ruined love for her” is a little too simplistic. Debbie has been in healthy relationships that failed because of preventable problems that she instigated. 

Debbie polls the people in her life on how to build connections and stay together when her family is on the cusp of separation, which does carry a level of poignancy, even if not all of the insight that she acquires from the experience is healthy. It’s a storyline that works as well as it does here specifically because it’s juxtaposed around so many changes and goodbyes. Debbie does productive work to better herself, but the direction of her endgame is more than a little confusing. 

“The Fickle Lady Is Calling It Quits” parses out several scenes where an aggressive woman named Heidi causes a wave of mayhem promptly after she’s released from prison. Initially it looks like Heidi’s roaring rampage will intersect with Carl’s new police gig and provide him an opportunity to take down this menace and become a hero again on the force. That’s not at all what happens and it’s madness that Heidi is meant to instead provide closure for Debbie! 

Heidi literally threatens to shoot Franny with a revolver and minutes later Debbie is ready to spend the rest of her life with this loose cannon. The most frustrating thing is that next week’s series finale will likely hint at a happy future for this fresh couple, but based on everything that’s known about both of these characters it seems like it’s destined to go up in flames, perhaps even more quickly than previous relationships.

Carl doesn’t get to take out an angst-ridden recidivist, but he does still find some peace and gain a better understanding of his calling after a season of being frustrated. Carl’s impassioned speech is long overdue, eloquent as hell, and completely right. It also would have been justified several episodes back, but at this point Carl’s pent up frustration over what he’s witnessed at the police department makes sense. 

It’s encouraging that Carl embraces his demotion and uses it to find clarity. It’s still hard to say if this police direction for Carl’s character was worth it in the end, but thankfully it doesn’t suck out his soul or leave him bitter at the world. Joshua Malina is such a hyperbolized schlub through all of this, which is entertaining and also reflects the greater level of incompetence that surrounds Carl while he attempts to do honest police work. 

Carl and many of the Gallaghers are caught in flux when it comes to their new lives, but Kevin and Vee already have Chicago in their rearview mirrors. Vee and Kevin represent a force of confidence and their resolve towards Louisville inadvertently helps many of the Gallaghers work through their own sources of stress. It even feels natural that the person that Kevin and Vee sell their house off to turns into a break for Lip to diminish the colony of ulcers that have been brewing in him all season. This blessed development also doesn’t feel contrived because it’s an opportunity that Lip ultimately botches. 

Liam reminds Frank that he’ll have both good and bad days, but this cautionary advice becomes even more applicable to Lip’s story. It’s heartbreaking how everything sours for Lip and there’s such palpable tension through it all. This is supposed to be Lip’s easy way out to a happy ending and it instead quickly becomes a nightmare. It’s very clear that something is about to go wrong and just how poorly Lip has handled this situation. It’s a slow motion car crash of drama to the worst degree.

This sword is left to hang over Lip as the episode concludes and he almost seems to accept the cloud of hopelessness that’s formed over him. It’s a sad, hollow version of Lip that doesn’t feel dissimilar to Frank Gallagher and his decision to go out on his own terms. Frank’s concluding moments are devastating, but they’re also the only time in the episode where he feels empowered. It’s a turn that fundamentally changes the tone for Shameless’ series finale and has the potential to bring out the best in each character. There’s now a small sliver of hope that Fiona might show up, whereas I was previously convinced that this was impossible.

“The Fickle Lady Is Calling It Quits” is the strongest episode of Shameless’ final season, it contains some of William H. Macy’s absolute best work from the show, and it instills some optimistic confidence for what the series has planned for its final installment. The Gallaghers’ lives are far from over and there’s still a lot that these characters need to figure out before the series’ conclusion. The tragedy that strikes in the episodes’s final moments is a strong catalyst that should bring everyone together and deliver a series finale that’s just as much about togetherness and supporting each other as it is about new beginnings and closing the door on the past. 

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

It will also absolutely end on its own terms, just like Francis Gallagher.

The post Shameless Season 11 Episode 11 Review: The Fickle Lady Is Calling It Quits appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[ladybugsfanfics]

Shut Up And Kiss Me [7/?] | Tom Hiddleston x reader

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x reader

Style: part 7 of ?

WC: 4.3k

Warnings: cursing, Tom being a gentleman, 

Summary: You and Professor Hiddleston have been colleagues for many years now, and through those years the hatred for each other has only grown. Now, as a new school year starts, you’re being told that you have to share a classroom or a class. Neither are happy about the outcome, but knowing you’ll never come to an agreement, you let the class choose for you. Team-teaching is rare in 2019, but it is a lot harder to do when you can’t stand the person you’re doing it with. 

A/N: oof, this part took a long time for me, but I really like it and I hope you do to ^_^ also, thanks to @adefectivedetective for helping me with the idea of a play, it helped tremendously and I had so much fun writing it <3<3 enjoy!

send an ASK to be added to the taglist ^_^

Previous | Series Masterlist | Part Eight

It’s deathly annoying to relay the message to your best friend, and Benedict, and to the other few people (that’s a lie; there are no other people) you’d told about your payback on Hiddleston. Reality is; he’s just too kind. Yeah, you can be a bitch, but there’s a limit to how big of a bitch. 

Still, it sucks to not do a carefully planned out prank which would peg him down a notch and also (was supposed to) make him lose a little bit of the reputation he carries around that does him no good―honestly you’re getting sick of it. 

But you can’t do anything now. 

Hiddleston is just too nice. He offered to drive you home more than once last week after he did so two weeks ago. He offered to help you with your research―how he would be of help neither you nor he knows, but he offered and they say it’s the thought that counts. And worst of all, when you’d complained about Chris’s last day being Thursday, he had offered to take the whole Creative Writing class, giving you the chance to spend more time with the one week fling you’d had. 

There is just too much nice emanating from the person that is Hiddleston, and it’s getting on your nerves because you can’t be mean anymore. Now, mean makes you sound like even more of a bitch than you can be at times, and the times when you’re actually being a bitch, you sound even worse. That is a problem.

Maybe that’s a new reason for hating Hiddleston; he is so nice you can’t hate him that he makes you look like a horrible person―which is very wrong (though not always)―and he doesn’t even look guilty about it. 

The audacity. 

He even has the audacity to look kind of… handsome?... where he sits across from you in the café. This had been your idea, as a thank you for letting you cut class and go on that date. You’d asked Friday night, before you left to enjoy your weekend. 

“Hey, I just wanted to thank you again,” you said. “You hadn’t had to do that.”

He waved it off and gave you a smile. “No, it’s okay. I hope it was worth it, though? Did you get to say a proper goodbye?”

You nodded. “Yeah, it was really nice. But, as a repaying, what do you say we grade these stories together? Over coffee? Sunday, maybe?”

To be honest, you hadn’t expected him to say yes. And you’d both established there is nothing more to it than wanting to grade the first stories together, and a way for you to give back what you feel you owe.

But it annoys you that the thought drunk you had so many weeks ago has to linger at the back of your mind. Now of all times. It’s not like you haven’t thought so before―you can’t deny facts. 

Hiddleston is handsome, always has been and probably always will be. But that doesn’t mean he has to dress up for work and coffee with you. After all, he isn’t supposed to like you very much, yet there he sits;

His ginger hair is slicked back, curling up under his ear and in his neck. Every now and then he adjusts his glasses, either by lifting them entirely or by using his middle finger to push them back―considering how much he does the latter, you’re almost certain he’s sending you a message, one you would expect, but because everything else seems wrong, the message seems like something else. The blue eyes he hides behind the frames flicker over the words on his screen with an intensity you haven’t seen before. He keeps looking at it, scrutinizing the story and continuously making notes―the sound of his keyboard is slowly getting on your nerves. 

But, to be fair, it’s his clothes that triggers the handsome thought most. He wears the same sweater as always, dark blue that clings to his arms but falls a little everywhere else. The pants he wears are the same as always. The first time you saw the look, when you first met him, it was fancy and sophisticated, but now it feels old. 

Yet, at this very moment, it suits him in such a way it’s almost… You don’t have a word for it, but the way it has you swallow a lump in your throat and try to refocus your attention on the words on your screen doesn’t sit well. 

Benedict may have been right in assuming you’ve never really hated him, but that does not mean you like-like him. He’s handsome, you were attracted from the first moment you laid eyes on him, and that’s it. There’s nothing else to it. 

Drunk you probably admitted to him being handsome. Drunk you tried to say you like him, have a crush. Drunk you is known for being wrong. Plus, mixed with sleep deprived you, they are both known for making rash decisions. 

You shake your head. There is no need for this mindset, no need to contemplate Hiddleston, or his looks. All you have to do is read this story, comment on it and grade it. And then do that with the next one, and the next, and hope that you’re not too caught up in thoughts to not properly do your job. 

No.

You can do it. You can read the sentence. 

You can’t read the sentence. Nope, it’s all blurry. Fuck. “Uhh, I’m just gonna go… you know,” you say softly and gesture in the direction of the restrooms. 

Hiddleston looks up at you and nod, no real expression on his face. And is fast to turn back to the task at hand―if you’re correct he’s probably already read and graded a third of his stories. You’re still stuck on the first one. 

But you shake that thought off as well, get up and find the restroom. 

You close the door behind you and take a deep breath. There should be no reason for this, no reason for everything to bubble to the surface because something changed in the last month that distorts the ideal you got from him from the last three and a half years. 

The Christmas Party is a long time since. He’s probably forgotten, even if you haven’t. After all, it’s within you the guilt lies. Oh, I wish I could hate him. 

You shake your head and move to the sinks. Despite wearing some make-up, you turn on the sink and splash your face with cold water. It runs down your skin in a tickling manner, but it’s better than the heat that had made its way there. If you blush in his presence, so much as show any sign of weakness, blood will be spilled, and it will be yours. 

A deep sigh and a dry of your face makes for five minutes later. Where all you do is stare at the face in the mirror and ask what’s going on. But you know what’s going on; you’re becoming friends, or at least colleagues that can work together. 

So you nod, walk back out and sit down across from him with a newfound sense of courage and confidence. It makes it easier to concentrate on the work ahead, easier to concentrate on the story in front of you. 

God, I hope this isn’t going to be a regular occurence.

---

Being told there’s a Monday morning meeting is not the news you need when you step into the teacher’s lounge to steal a cup of coffee. Literally anything but the news of a morning meeting would be fine―especially when the person relaying the news is Hiddleston with somewhat of a smirk playing on his face that grows bigger when you groan loudly. He may be nice, but he still has some spark left. 

You walk together into the meeting room, where every professor have crammed themselves inside. There are no free chairs and the two of you lean against the wall in the back, hoping it’ll be over before it even starts. 

“You know what this is about?” you ask Hiddleston. 

He shakes his head. “Not a clue. Maybe there’s some change in something?” 

You cock a brow. “Change in what? Pay? Could use a raise now that I think about it.”

The comment gets a chuckle as a response, which has you smile triumphantly. Hiddleston doesn’t say more before Dean McHallan stands at the front with a nervous smile and a note card in his hands. 

“Hello everyone, so lovely that you could all take the time out of your morning to cram in here. I know it’s a bit crowded, but I hope you can bear with me,” he says with a small smile. The chatter dies down and every professor looks at the dean. “Now, what I have to say will probably surprise a few of you, but also make some happy. We have been asked to do a play in front of the students.” A groan erupts amongst the faculty, quickly hushed by McHallan. “Not long, it will only last for about a month with only one show, but with a message we want to give. Now, the play was written by our lovely drama teacher,” ―he gestures to a woman who stands at the side with a big smile― “and we have already figured out who should play the parts, seeing as there might be a rather few number of you who actually would volunteer to participate.”

McHallan sends a new smile out in the room. “Now, let’s see here.” He pulls the paper closer to him. “The male lead has been handed to Tom Hiddleston.” 

There’s a little cheer, but mostly uninterested clapping. With the exception of the drama teacher who looks Hiddleston’s way with a big smile and a flirtatious flutter of her lashes. Hiddleston himself gives a smile and nods, accepting the role just like that―probably not too weird seeing as the man always wanted to make it as an actor. 

You whisper a congrats to your coworker, who gives you a tight lipped smile in return. 

The dean coughs to get the attention back to him. “Now, for the female lead.” He takes a break, gaze travelling over the women in the room. “Y/N Y/L/N!” 

You blink. Frown. Stare at McHallan, who shoots you a smile from where he stands at the other end of the room. Hiddleston mumbles congrats and laughs at your expression. Most shrug, not really caring, but a kind of shriek erupts and everyone turns to see the drama professor glaring your way. 

“Excuse me,” she says, “how can she get the female lead in a play I wrote?” She gestures to herself. “Drama teacher,” then to you, “history teacher. Do you not have eyes?” 

“I agree with that, she can get the role if she wants to,” you say nodding. 

Of course, McHallan shakes his head and in your peripheral vision you see Hiddleston shake his, too. “We picked names from a hat, everyone has been assigned something so don’t go crazy from one role, okay?”

That discussion went over fast. You sigh and roll your eyes at Hiddleston’s smug expression, and then listen as McHallan lists the other characters and who were assigned them (Benedict got a tree, though he looks happy about it). 

---

The students file into the classroom as you read through the script. You read through it last night, or some of it, but you need to know if you read correctly at that last part. Because if you did―well, it won’t go well. For anyone.

“Awfully dedicated for someone who doesn’t want the role,” comments Hiddleston. 

You look up at him to see him put down his bag and shrug. “Did you know that the interaction in this between the two leads is the opposite of ours?” 

He nods. “I read through it last night. Not sure how you’ll pull it off.” 

“‘Not sure how you’ll pull it off’,” you mimic, “excuse me, but they kiss! They kiss.” 

“What are you worrying about? It’s just a kiss.” Hiddleston smirks and you swallow the feeling that shoots up at the thought of kissing him. You’re not sure whether you want to throw up or just need to eat something, but the twisting in your gut is not one of pleasure. 

Shaking off the thought, you put down the script and look up at the students in front of you. The chatter flows through the room, some seeming to be about what you just put down. Hiddleston coughs for attention and it quiets down, but their interest is piqued and a few hands shoot into the air. You nod for one of the boys on the first row to speak.

“Is that paper you were holding the reason you weren’t here on Thursday? Are you going to leave for an acting job?” 

You shake your head. “No, the paper and my absence on Thursday do not correlate. And no, I am not leaving for an acting job, because that script is for a play we professors are putting on for you guys.”

If it’s possible for multiple people to share a frown, that is what the thirty students do. “Why? And who are you playing?” a voice asks from the back row. 

“We were lucky enough to get the leads,” says Hiddleston and you roll your eyes. 

“Correction. He was lucky, I was unlucky because I do not want it.” 

Another ‘why?’ pops up. 

“First, I am no actor. Second, I’ll be playing opposite this dude and the two leads are love interests. I am not… I just don’t think I'm good enough of an actor.” You shake your head and press your lips together. 

“Can you show us some?” asks a voice in the middle. You can’t detect who said it, but you would love to let them know never to ask that, but before you can answer no, Hiddleston nods, says loudly ‘yes, sure’ and pulls out his script. 

You glare at him and try to put on a mask for the students. Some laugh seeing your resignation as you pick up the script again. “What do you want to see?” you ask, not wanting to choose anything. 

A chant of kiss scene erupts and your mind goes blank. That’s where we are, wow great. 

Hiddleston smirks, the same one as before. “Afraid of playing out some of it? Maybe they’ll boost your confidence enough to go through with this?” 

You sigh. “I wish I got the same role as Benedict. I would die just to play a tree.”

But that doesn’t help now and you find the―thankfully―only kiss scene in the script. It’s near the end with a long dialogue before it happens. Already now, your gut churns at the thought, nerves creeping up your arms and back, filling you with dread. This will never turn out good, especially not when you’re acutely aware of your students stares―at least they’re more attentive than usual.

“For context sake,” says Hiddleston, “before this a lot of things have happened that have caused the two characters to be rather wary of each other.” 

You nod, sigh and look down in the script. You don’t know the words by a long shot, but you know Hiddleston starts at least. And then he does. 

“I’m sorry.” You look up at Hiddleston and see the regretful look he sends you. “I didn’t mean to… it sort of happened.”

A deep breath. “How does that matter? That’s not an excuse, nor an apology.” 

Hiddleston takes a few steps closer to you. Your heart pounds in your head reading over the words he’s about to say. “No, it’s not. But it’s the best I have.” You look up and lock eyes with him, lock eyes with deep blue, so full of regret, eyes. “I love you.”

Your throat feels dry but you look back down in the script. “Not enough,” you say and despite the fact that you should look up and in his eyes, yours stay trained on the script. 

“How much is enough? What else do I have to do to prove my love?” Hiddleston tilts your chin up with a finger―god he’s a good actor―and you see the sadness that coats his face. “I would kill for you, love. I would―”

“It doesn't matter what you would.” You look back down in the script, losing Hiddleston’s gentle touch. “It matters what you did.” You take a step back, creating bigger distance between the two of you. 

Hiddleston meets your look and then glances down in the script. “Tell me what I can do. There has to be something.” 

You swallow the lump in your throat. You ignore your gut wrenching, the sweat coating your back and the obvious tension that lies like a blanket over the room. In your peripheral view you can see the students watch the two of you with curious interest, but instead, you let the pause break and open your mouth.

“Let me punch you.”

There’s a snicker in the student audience but your eyes are trained on Hiddleston’s reaction. He sighs, nods and opens his arms. “As hard as you need to.”

In the script, your character walks back to him, so you do the same. It says to lightly punch him, to act as if you take out your frustration by repeatedly hitting his chest and then, with tears streaming down your face, curl into it and let him embrace you. To be honest, you could use the hug, and you could use the punching bag. So you lightly do what it says, not really punch him but you make it look like that, and for some reason you’re comfortable enough to act like you’re crying and curl into Hiddleston’s chest. His strong arms secure you tightly, and you feel the heat rise in every inch of your body by how close you are. 

And then it’s the kissing part. You’ve read it more times than you can count. You know the words, the acting. But you don’t want to admit to it. 

The students are all quiet, probably leaning close and you hear someone whisper about the kiss coming soon. 

You pull from the embrace, though still close to him you look up at Hiddleston. He looks down at you, a pained smile on his face―completely in character―and then the words, spoken as a whisper, “Kiss me.”

Thankfully, oh so thankfully, Hiddleston smiles and pulls away, turning to face the students and bowing. You use a moment to realize what’s happening, but do the same as him and plaster on a smile. It’s not like your heart is beating a mile a minute. Like you wanted the kiss, no you didn’t. That’s silly. Weird. 

No, you shake it away, take the compliments that you are more than a good enough actor, and then relish in getting to actually start class. There are other, more important things than a play happening, and one of them is to teach a class. 

---

Lunch on Friday doesn’t come fast enough. After a class and then using your spare time―usually used for research, grading papers or planning classes―have gone to learning to play a role you don’t want to play, you need the break. The drama teacher, albeit angry about the whole ordeal, helps you out whenever she can and you’re grateful to her for her help, especially in knowing what message she wants to come across with the play, but it’s tiring. 

You slump down in the chair across from Benedict, mumbling a ‘hi’ to him and Eddie. They both cock their brows in you direction but neither says anything as you bite into the sandwich you prepared that morning. 

“Grumpy today, or?”

You divert your gaze to Hiddleston, who sits down in the free chair and places his lunch on the table. “Oh, how nice of you to comment on the fact that I don’t enjoy seeing your face.” 

He chuckles. “Sorry, what’s going on?”

“The usual this week. McHallan said we’re doing this for a month with one show, and I don’t wanna do this at all. The show we had on Tuesday was more than enough,” you say and take another bite. 

“Is she hard on you?” 

You finish chewing before answering, swallowing with your hand in front of your mouth―manners, right? “Hard? She glares at me during the entire thing. I bet she wrote it all just to be able to play the lead herself and kiss whoever got the male lead, and considering how happy she was when that was you I bet you’re that person.”

“Wait?” Benedict gets your attention. “You have to kiss?”

“Yes, Mr. Ignorant, we do.”

Benedict holds up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, I find it amusing. But either way, I don’t have the script since I have no lines and… thank you for the information.”

You roll your eyes and take another bite of your sandwich. 

Hiddleston smiles, amused probably. “She’s a little mad about that part. Especially after Tuesday and we showed a scene for our students and they ended up writing small paragraphs of us as a couple. They are, I think it’s called ‘shipping’ us now.”

“Oh, tell them welcome aboard. A lot of us have been doing that for a while now.” Benedicts comment only gets him a glare from you, something Eddie seems to find very funny, so you send one his way, too. 

“I just don’t see why we have to. I don’t want to kiss his ugly face,” you say. 

“It’s a play. It won’t last long,” replies Hiddleston. 

You press your lips together and find the picture you sent of it to Y/BFF/N earlier in the week. “It says here ‘kiss for thirty seconds, tongue is appreciated’. They want us to make out in front of the whole college. Excuse me but I can barely stand your face. The only good that would come of it is that I would have my eyes closed and wouldn’t have to look at you.”

“Well, at least you know what’s it like to make out with someone with a beard,” comments Benedict. 

You count to ten in your head. “I’m going to let that slide because I don’t hate you, but you are on thin ice. Be sure I’m not certain I want to help you next week after all. However, I’m there for your kids and not you, so you might be lucky.”

Eddie snickers from where he sits, a grin on his face and eyes flickering between you and Benedict. “To be honest, I thought this would be a quieter table, but I was wrong. I don’t mind, though.”

Hiddleston smiles. “Had she not been here, it would have been. But a little less fun, though.” 

You sigh and decide not to comment. It’s neither worth it, nor do you really have a good comment. At least he called you fun. 

 ---

Usually, you wouldn’t make the trip to the store on a Saturday meant to be inside and do nothing. Yet, there you find yourself, walking determinedly to the hot chocolate section and picking up a box of powder to make instant hot chocolate. On the way to the register, you swing by the candy department and grab your favorite chocolate. 

Yeah, it’s that time of the month. 

You manage to grab with you a bag of chips as well, and some berries, and oh, pastries look so good. Yup, chocolate donuts it is. 

As you stand in line, you’re certain you saw a ginger bob of curly hair. And you’re correct, as Hiddleston comes to stand in the queue behind you. 

“That’s a lot of chocolate,” he says and you nod. “Baking something? Or just relishing in it being Saturday?”

You nod. “Sure, we can say those are the reasons.”

“Oh, oh. Sorry, I don’t think that far.” 

You shake your head. “Don’t think about it, it’s really nothing. I’m just grateful there’s not much pain right now.”

Hiddleston nods. “I have heard that isn’t exactly lovely.”

“So,” you say, “what are you doing here?” You place the items you have―which became more than planned―on the conveyor belt, putting one of those rectangles to separate your items from Hiddleston’s and the guy in front of you. 

“Here for a last minute shopping, really. Found out I lacked some food,” he says. 

You nod. “Food is smart, that’s true.” 

“Yeah.”

The silence lasts after that until you get your total. You put your card in and type the code and press ok and… rejected. “That’s.. I’ll just try again.” And rejected. 

Fuck.

“Let me pay.” Hiddleston looks at you, a trying expression on his face, but you don’t have much choice. 

“I’m paying you back,” you say matter-of-factly. 

He nods. “Sure, you are.” He smiles at the woman behind the register when it goes through and says yes to the receipt. You snatch it from him and put it down in the bag you bag your groceries in. It’s not much, but it’s enough and you saw the price, you will pay him back. 

You wait for him to bag his own items before exiting the store together. When you near your car, you glance at him. “I will pay you back.”

“You need information to do that.” 

“I have my ways.” 

He nods. “Benedict, I presume?”

You nod. “Yeah, see you Monday.”

“Bye.”

And then you get in your car with a churning gut, a sweat-ridden back and the feeling that you might not be able to pay him back. But at the same time feeling a strong need to punch him for being such a gentleman.

He doesn’t have to. He doesn’t have to do anything. 

Which is exactly what makes it so hard to ignore that flutter in your stomach at the thought of him. 

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[acelucky]

I left work early today, I got half way through the day, I’d already cried in the toilets twice and just... I couldn’t do it. I went into the toilet again and watched the end of the short film ‘Grandpa’ based on Raymond Briggs’ book, I know I’ve spoken about this movie movie and how I often dream about the ending... I then watched the ending of the Snowman. I was uglyyyyy sobbing, so my lovely managers drove me home and made sure I was okay.

I figure one of the best things I can do is write out about how I’m feeling about my grandfather, my mother, their deaths. It’s gonna be long, I’m gonna cry writing it but I think it’ll be cathartic and quicker than writing in a journal. 

Also y’all today is Blue Monday so it fuckin’ figures you know? 

Here come the content/trigger warnings because there’s a fair few....Death, suicide, emotional manipulation/abusive parenting, blackmail, eating disorders, self-harm, depression and discussing PTSD. 

As those of you who saw yesterday, my grandfather passed away in the early hours of Sunday morning. In a way it was a relief, it was a long time coming and he’d been sick for some months, diagnosed with terminal cancer just over a week ago.

I’d thought about whether we should go see him again, but we’d already said our goodbyes in December and made peace the best we could. I realised if I saw him again and he was like his old self, or accidentally called me Cathy (his daughter/my mother’s name) or started talking about my mother and how she died, or got angry at us... well it wasn’t worth ruining the somewhat nice memory we had from last month. 

His death for me is closure, and whilst closure is good (I guess the real closure is at the funeral) there’s parts of this closure that I didn’t want. It was a thing I didn’t want to end because I had hope beyond hope, that somewhere in the middle of the madness that is my mother’s family, I might get answers, I might get an explanation, a sincere apology, I might receive some of the things I was promised. With his death there is a death also of that hope. I suppose in a way, whatever was said, nothing is going to bring my mother back, nothing can make up for the years we’ve had of pain and fear and confusion. Nothing will take away the fact that all three of his children and two of his grandchildren were left with many mental scars, depression, anxiety, alcoholism in some instances, self-harming in others, suicide in the case of my mother.

Now, it wouldn’t be fair to lay all the blame at the feet of my grandfather, especially so recently departed. My grandmother has something to answer for also, all the adults do, the world/society does and of course my mother/individuals themselves. I do have happy memories of my grandfather, he had this smile, he gave hugs like a teddy bear, he was one of the few people who did encourage me when I said I wanted to work in the film industry, he gave me some money when I was younger which helped, he used to teach me history, tell me stories of all the countries he’d lived in... He’d teach me about Australia and about what Dubai was like once upon a time, he’d recall takes from his youth, how his father was the manager of the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. He’d tell me south African folk talks... He was wise in many ways and foolish in so many others.

He was the richest man I’ve ever known and yet with all that money, he couldn’t buy happiness. He could have made a real difference in the world, but he didn’t. He shouted at his children and grandchildren, he emotionally blackmailed us, threatened to disown us from the family if we did things he didn’t like (get tattoos, date people that weren’t of the opposite sex, he didn’t like the idea of us dating people who weren’t white...) He was sexist, racist, homophobic and it wasn’t just an elderly thing, there was hatred there...At times it softened, at times he demonstrated that he was growing, understanding even, becoming a better person, but then something would happen and it would be back to normal.

I developed an eating disorder because of him (as did my mother) and have never been confident with my body or my looks, a lot of this is down to how he used to speak to us. I used to self-harm when I was younger because it was a behaviour i’d learnt from my mother, it was behaviour that I didn’t think was even that strange, I was so used to being shouted at or told what I was doing was wrong. The pain was a short release from everything else. 

He struck fear into the hearts of all his family, to the point where every time the phone rang my mother would have a panic attack and shake and rock backwards and forwards on the floor in tears. 

My grandmother told me when they were younger, an exorcism was performed on the family. I don’t really have a lot to say about this, neither does anyone else, that’s all I know.

My mother went on a pilgrimage to Walsingham, when she returned she was never the same again, so driven was she, so committed to the idea of ending her own life. She believed she heard the word of God in the Cathedral, believed he spoke to her and told her it was her time to join him. It’s pretty fucked up, I don’t have much else to say about this.

There is a sorrow for a thing that could never be, a type of nostalgia for a life, a love, a grandfather that never existed.

I spoke to my uncle in New Zealand and he feels the same, my grandfather spent half his life retired, he could have done so much more. He promised to show me and my brother and world and didn’t. Promised to take me to LA, to send me to the New York school of Film and didn't. He could have made it up with his eldest son, but he didn’t. He could have helped my mother more, and didn’t. After my mother committed suicide, my uncles, grandmother and grandfather sat round a table for the first time in years and vowed to try, for the rest of us. my grandfather dominated the conversation, shut everyone else out and that was that.

I’m glad we went to see him in December, I decided that in the end it wasn’t worth hating him, it wasn’t worth fighting with him in his dying days. I know it must be easy to feel remorse and apologise when you’re so close to death. My grandfather was stubborn, proud and a coward. He probably feared what people would think of him when he was gone, and worried there really was a hell. He apologised in his own way, told us if we made only half the mistakes he made, we could be much better and greater humans than he ever was. He told us if we lived with more love in our hearts than hatred and shouting/anger/discipline... 

He told me he loved me, he would always love me, he HAS ALWAYS loved me. And it broke my heart, these were virtually the same words my mother spoke to 10 year old me, stood in her bedroom when she had already overdosed. The last words she ever spoke. 

He also told me how proud of me he was, it’s funny, all my mother ever wanted from him was to know her father was proud of her and that he loved her. 

The thing is, I thought about it for several years, whether or not to confront him about my mum’s suicide, about everything.. But I realised something, hatred begets hatred.... In the end, it wasn’t worth me sacrificing myself for that and letting him win. If I’d confronted him, he might have had a heart-attack and died, then I’d never of forgiven myself. He’d have written me out of the will and probably my brother (and even my cousins too) to spite us... the others don't deserve that due to my decision, it would be selfish of me. Plus, his money did little good in death... But what we inherit, it’ll be enough to make sure if I have children they have a good life, I can donate a lot to a mental health charity in my mother’s name, I can adopt a dog, I can afford the film equipment which would make up for his broken promises, I can afford to see my mother’s family in New Zealand. The word is full of so much pain and suffering, and in the end I couldn’t bear to inflict anymore on my grandfather in spite of everything he’s done. I chose to live with love in my heart and forgiveness, to be the bigger person and say - No more, this ends here.

My heart breaks because there is no resolution now, it is done. There are people who won’t understand, they’ll say grandparents die, that’s just life. I know how lucky I am, to be 30 and have 3 (now 2) grandparents left. But what people don’t realise is when half your family live in New Zealand, your uncle, due to alcoholism and depression when younger (now ill health) loves you but cannot be there for you, when your mother committed suicide when you were just 10, when you had to raise your brother, protect your father. When you had to be the one that was strong, to stand up to people like my grandfather and fight the good fight. When life isn’t remotely simple, those grandparents were more to me than just grandparents...

I feel tremendous guilt about everything, even though he doesn’t deserve my guilt, he barely deserved my forgiveness... I feel bad that I didn't call my step-grandmother last week... But then I remember

* I went and saw him last month, we said our goodbyes, told him to say hi to mum if an afterlife exists, told him how much I loved him. We hugged and cried

* They had a card, plant and christmas present from me

* i sent a letter with a photo of us to him a few weeks ago which he loved and took to hospital

* Every time I called my step-grandmother I told her to pass on my love and to hug him.

It sucks that we only got the direct number to the hospice late the night he died... I feel bad I didn’t call sooner, but what I did or did not do, would not have changed a thing. Just like my mother’s suicide, or being a victim of sexual assault and rape, or being in a controlling relationship.... The death of my grandfather triggered my PTSD in the worst ways, i’ve had nightmares, keep thinking about drinking and taking a bunch of tramadol to help with the pain... I’ve had panic attacks, been hyper-ventilating. I’ve been re-living moments, hearing my mother’s voice... I’ve been shaking and scared but I’m determined not to let this moment be my undoing. I will not give him that satisfaction in death. I know it is not my fault, I don’t have to carry this guilt on my shoulders anymore. I hope that with his death I finally learn how to let it all go, at long last, this pain has cut far too deep and I cannot let it go any further....

Links to Grandpa if you need a cry - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UbXF2oASor0 

[flauntpage]

A Guide for NBA Stars Stuck Playing on Christmas Day

The NBA released its Christmas Day schedule for the upcoming season last night and everyone is very excited about the Milwaukee Bucks big matchup against the New York Knicks. But are their hidden costs here? Sure games on Christmas are good for you, the sports viewer looking to hide somewhere, but they are bad for almost everyone responsible for coaching, playing, refereeing, stadium-staffing, or floor-waxing on the big day.

Waking up on a day that, for most of the western world, is meant to be a day of family, celebration, trees, things of that nature. It’s the holiday EVERY fucking person celebrates to some degree or another, be it as a religious sacrament and celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ, an exploration of the bottom of capitalist impulse and an opportunity to teach children how to consume so the economy can stay big and healthy, an excuse to gather the family and eat ham or some other pig product, or, if you’re a real traditionalist, a Pagan Celebration of the birth of the sun, the source of all life and matter in the universe, the only TRUE observable God, a fiery ball of indifference hovering off in the distance, waiting for the ozone layer to collapse so it can burn us all to a crisp.

LeBron James, the floating ball of energy the NBA currently revolves around, has been vociferous in his criticism of the tradition:

“If you ask any player in the league, we’d rather be home with our families,” James said in 2010 before his Miami Heat were set to play the Los Angeles Lakers on the road. “I think the people that even set the games up would rather be home with their family during this day. It’s not just a regular holiday. It’s definitely one of those days that you wish you could wake up in the morning with the kids and open up presents.”

Ahh, the double-edged blessing and pain of the Christmas Day game! Certainly, playing in one implies that you are a member of a certain class of team, a squad who accomplished big things the year before and seems poised to accomplish much more in the year to come. BUT, the price of this fame and success is alienation—from your family, from the the traditions of your youth, and from the celebration of the broader world.

It’s tremendously sad, in its way, but the cost of success is inconvenience. And anyway, not all hope is lost: the human mind and spirit are ingenious, and there is plenty of holiday joy to be found out there on the road, in whatever strange city you may find yourself in. And so, for the convenience and edification of the players who will be stuck away from their families on December 25, we offer some suggestions for how they can cope.

12:00 PM ET: Milwaukee Bucks vs. New York Knicks

This is a big moment for the NBA’s kind, long-limbed, muscular boy, Giannis Antetokounmpo, the Greek Freak. It's an opportunity to absolutely lay waste to a team full of chumps and bums in front of an increasingly irritable crowd who will absolutely be looking for an opportunity to turn on the Knicks somewhere around Giannis’s thirty-seventh or so point. The rush of demolishing your opponent while they slowly lose support from their home is the biggest shot of adrenaline you can possibly feel, it’s basically the thrill of winning a war.

There’s no reason for Giannis to leave this feeling behind once he steps off the hardwood. Instead of shuffling back to the hotel and playing Fortnite or whatever it is youths do in hotel rooms, I implore Giannis to take to the Manhattan streets, steal cars, and declare homes and businesses to be “The Property of the Freak, Now.” He should recruit anyone he sees drifting on those cold Christmas streets to come inside the warm arms of the Freak, to huddle together and create a mass of human beings that will lead a movement to make Giannis the King of New York. Not in some corny-ass sports way but, like, actually the king, owning the fiefdom. He will knight dudes and dole out lands to vassals and arrange marriages to remain powerful and rich. The whole domain of the City is within your reach, Giannis… you just need the followers, sitting there on the streets for the taking.

3:00 PM ET: Oklahoma City Thunder vs. Houston Rockets

After taking a beating at the hands of the vastly superior Houston Rockets, Russell Westbrook is going to go back to his hotel room and carve everything he did in the game into his mattress, so he can more deeply engrain his various minor accomplishments into his mind and soul, as he does after every game.

For everyone else, though, a cleansing will be needed from the pure filth that builds inside the mind and spirit when you play for the Oklahoma City Thunder. They will need to get in a car and drive out to the Texas desert—no water, only a big block of salt and some cold pre-game buffet raviolis for sustenance—sit on the sand and just sweat, sweat until there's nothing left in you, sweat until you've drained out all the hatred and loathing and complicity in lining the pockets of a dude who made his fortune fracking, leaving you an empty vessel. Watch the sun set off into the distance and spend some time just, like, looking at the stars, alone and empty and happy for a split second. Then get back into the car and drive back to civilization, where you will suck in all that evil once again.

5:30 PM ET Philadelphia 76ers vs. Boston Celtics

Woof, Boston. No one wants to be ANYWHERE less, but on Christmas, it really takes it out of you. A rational person would fake an injury, chill at home and read a book, but professional athletes live to compete, so that’s probably out of the picture.

The only MORAL thing you can do, here, is walk out of that stadium and go door to door, barging in on every Christmas celebration you can find, and trying your damnedest to convince everyone you talk to that it’s time for them and their family to move anywhere—ANYWHERE—to get away from Boston. Ben Simmons can talk about Australia, with its Kangaroos and outbacks, neither of which Boston has. Joel Embiid can celebrate the virtues of the great nation of Cameroon, which might not be perfect, but is, at the least, not Boston, Massachusetts. J.J. Redick, unfortunately, will try to convince a poor family that they would be better off in North Carolina, but accidentally be slowly sold on Boston and wake up the next day with a gross haircut and his number retired in the Garden. Tragic, really, but so is LIFE.

8:00 PM ET Los Angeles Lakers vs. Golden State Warriors

The Bay Area: really lovely, if not for all the wind. LeBron James, separated from his family and annoyed at the ritual he gets forced into every year, can find some peace in one of San Francisco’s many municipal parks, where he can take advantage of the winter weather and gently fly a humble kite while wearing a massive, Nike branded pea-coat. As he looks at the kite, getting yanked to and fro by the wind, his mind will naturally drift to his broader life, like that kite up there, staying afloat only by the providence of his tremendous control.

Sooner or later a gust or a dip will hit, and the kite will fall or somehow lose control. In this moment, LeBron will feel the chill of fate, pulling at his soul. Was that wind?, he will think. Will the Lakers make a move that will plunge them into the bottom of the league while he’s still there and make him look like a colossal asshole? Is it the vagaries of injury, which can strike at any second? The bottom falling out of one of his many projects, some shit beyond his control sending him scattering in the wind? Is it his children, disappointing him? His wife or a business partner leaving out of nowhere? Certainly, the kite can’t stay up forever, he will think. I am in control now, but the gusts of life will come, and then what will I do? Can I keep the kite afloat, or raise it in the air once more?

10:30 PM ET Portland Trail Blazers vs. Utah Jazz

Well hey, if you’re gonna be traveling for work on Christmas, there’s no better place to be than Utah. The Mormons are the last practitioners of The Great Christmas Kitsch Arts, and they will fill your mind and your heart with holiday joy as you listen to their choir, devour their unnervingly perfect Christmas cookies, and go caroling in their beautiful neighborhoods, each more immaculately decorated than the last.

And, bonus: since you, as an NBA player, are a millionaire, you can purchase access to the basement of the Mormon Tabernacle, where the yearly orgy designed to establish balance in the broader world will be happening. Butts and dicks and limbs, flying everywhere, getting inserted into everything, holiday themed bread puddings falling into your mouth and onto your privates, ALL FOR THE PURPOSE of exorcising the impurities and sins of the world and burying them deep under the ground and away from the surface. No one does Christmas like Utah, you better believe it.

A Guide for NBA Stars Stuck Playing on Christmas Day published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/