#the sign is absolute satisfaction as a piece of media

[yujateaandpi]

was talking about Bluey to my mom the other day and she said, “oh that’s the nice family that moved, right?” and despite having to rectify that statement (“they decided not to sell the house in the end, remember?” “Oh right”) I was pleasantly transported to a world where the Heeler family were just some nice neighbors we once knew.

[painless-innit-colourful]

A small snippet of some Clingyduo fluff from Quackity's POV, set during early New L'Manberg, featuring enough headcanons to shake a Techno at. Think Clingyduo fluff with a side of Quackity having a little too much fun messing around in government. Warning for me being waaay too soft.

Quackity’s office in New L’Manberg’s government building is sparsely furnished, cozy, and covered wall-to-wall with cut-outs from tabloid magazines.

The headlines inspire gossip; the photographs flaunt scandal. And all of them are about him! Now that he thinks about it, Quackity sees the Manberg tabloids for what they really were: vultures, picking at the carcass of a once great nation and ripping it into easily-digestible pieces of shock media, designed to raise eyebrows and get rumours racing the streets. At the time, he loved it, soaked up the attention and revelled in the spotlight. Nowadays, he spends work hours finding and smoking out the worst of the animals hiding behind their typewriters. 

After all, when Manberg became L’Manberg again, many of the establishments sighed, changed their signs a second time, and rebranded for Tubbo’s administration, and that included the insidious ‘news stations’. He knew that his… relationship with Schlatt raised some eyebrows, but it was treated less like a government sex scandal and more like ferocious journalism open season. While he mostly stuck up the magazines featuring his face on the front, some of them happen to feature side columns about the exiled political opposition, or Niki's small rebellions, or Fundy's link to Wilbur, or Tubbo. It was the most fun the gossip press had had since they found out Eret - ‘King of Treason’ as they called him - had kept a close friendship with Fundy, First Son of L’Manberg, during the glory days of the first administration. 

Quackity remembered with some satisfaction the afternoon he’d figured out which paper ran the front page story ‘Traitor Tubbo? Secretary Spotted With Exiled Friends’ days before the Manberg Festival. Tubbo had given him a stern talking to about breaking the windows and equipment of local businesses. Then he’d turned around, took off his jacket, and flashed him a quick smile. 

All in all, a win.

The reason he thinks about this topic as he leans back in his chair, he supposes, is the photo glowing dimly on his phone screen. Because Quackity knows his President has a secret. He watches it - him - wander aimlessly through the centre of town, eyes scanning his surroundings with a contented smile. Incidentally, the same smile he wears in the picture, eyes closed, peacefully sleeping with his arms around Tubbo.

History is a flat circle, they say: Quackity didn’t think they meant quite like this. Yet, somehow, in a massive feat of coincidence, once again the President is sleeping with his Vice.

Obviously not in the same way. While his and Schlatt’s arrangements were… infamous and embarrassingly public in their beyond-businesslike-nature, Tommy’s not sleeping his way to the top. Quite the opposite in fact: the two boys’ friendship seems to have survived the Manberg Rebellion and all the suspicions surrounding who the traitor was unscathed, and they cling to each other as much as, or more than, they did pre-election. The trust has been maintained, and that’s how, Quackity supposes, Tommy ends up passed out in Tubbo’s bed more nights a week than he does in his own. Ironically, that same trust means Tubbo leaves the door to his room in the government building unlocked. And with all that, they are in the situation where three nights ago, Quackity went to pass Tubbo some papers he’d finished sorting after hours, knocked on the door, heard no reply, and tentatively entered to find two government officials passed out, wrapped in each others embraces, mostly still wearing their uniforms and half buried in a stack of collapsed papers. The whole composition of the scene rather reminded Quackity of a renaissance painting, and before he knew it, he’d snapped a picture for evidence.

He keeps checking on them, each night, remembering his old habits of keeping an eye on Tommy especially from the Cartel days. Three nights ago they were curled around each other like a pretzel. Two nights ago, Tubbo was sitting with his back to the bed, a collapsed pile of cue cards in his lap. Last night, they were sprawled on top of each other, the duvet in a heap on the floor. Quackity turned the lights down, picked up the cards and tucked them in, sometimes feeling more like their dad than a member of the cabinet. He glances out his window again, where the two boys have met in the middle of town, and Q wonders with some amusement where he'll find them tonight.

In a way that should be obvious by now, the tabloids would have a field day with this. He can already picture them trying to twist it into a scandal, see the comparisons that would be made, and imagine the interview they’d try to wring out of Tommy. Any journalist that attempted it would probably lose a canon life. He can only laugh when thinking of the chaos he could potentially unleash.

But, nah. While it’s a funny thought to entertain, he wouldn’t. For starters, if either found out, it’d probably be him losing a canon life. But there’s more to it than that. The media can be merciless after all, and there’s no denying that they made the lives of the Manberg cabinet a special kind of hell. They’ve just got done stamping that out of New L’Manberg - bringing back that culture would not be wise. Moreover, he knows that the last thing the young President needs is the press hounding him about his friendship with his Vice, all parallels drawn to a certain deceased President included. Sometimes he stands with his shoulders curled forward, like he’s Atlas carrying the weight of the server on his scarred shoulders. Sometimes he looks at the flag like it’s more of a burden to bear than a blessing they inherited. Better that this stays in the walls of the government building.

Besides, Quackity would much rather show it to Tommy himself and see his reaction in real time. Because would it be worth potential bodily harm to see his reaction to evidence of his soft side?

Absolutely.

[thedistantdusk]

Private

Thanks to @floreatcastellumposts for Brit-picking and @el-eye-zee-aye for organizing the Harry/Ginny Discord birthday challenge! This was a lot of fun! T for language/mild sexual humor. 

On AO3

________________________

Being the significant other of the most desirable wizard in Britain doesn’t come without drawbacks. Ginny knew that from the off. Even the earliest days of their raw, rekindled relationship were marked with requests for interviews, a trend that continued throughout the summer of 1998. When she returned to Hogwarts that September, reporters took it upon themselves to sneak onto the platform, capture her and Harry’s final, departing snog… and then reprint it, absolutely everywhere. Without their consent.

Her decision to pursue professional quidditch after Hogwarts made the situation both better and worse. On one hand, the publicity became less random. Less speculative. As soon as she signed with the Harpies, her privacy was protected — at least to some degree. Press events were soon planned and targeted instead of the sporadic, anxiety-inducing sneaks attacks to which she’d become accustomed.

The trade-off, of course, is that when press events do happen, they’re dreadful.

Utterly, completely dreadful.

Ginny sits in the enormous purple armchair and bites the inside of her cheek. She hates interviews like these… ones of the aforementioned dreadful variety. This one is with Sandra Richardson of Witch Weekly, a woman known for her propensity towards twisting words and taking statements out of context. But it’s part of the job, Ginny reminds herself for the thousandth time that morning. She must sit through six of these per year, each before a match. She must be generally pleasant and polite. She must represent her team well.

And above all else, she must not lose her temper. Right.

“Don’t be nervous, dear,” croons a dripping, saccharine voice. Oh. Ginny swallows. Sandra Richardson, here for the interview.

Sandra places the tray on the table between them and shoots Ginny a wink as she begins pouring tea for each of them. A younger, more naive Ginny might have trusted Sandra from her appearance alone. Her gold jewelry and buttoned blouse make her seem more matronly than predatory. But just as she plops down in her armchair, brushing a lock of her coiffed blonde hair from her forehead, Ginny catches a look in her eyes that she’s all too familiar with.

Ambition… red-hot, glowing ambition. The type she’ll chase with everything she has.

Yes. Ginny sits up a bit straighter. The interview hasn’t started, but she already sees it for what it is. The whole thing now reminds of scoldings in Umbridge’s office.

“Sugar?” Sandra gestures towards a polka-dotted dish in front of them.

Ginny forces a smile. “No thanks.” Merlin knows she won’t be drinking it. This is what they do, these reporters; they lull you into a false sense of security with their tea and their biscuits and their grins. Once upon a time, Ginny was thick enough to fall for that — for the manipulation disguised as courtesy. Now, she’s a bit wiser.

“Interesting,” says Sandra, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh?” Ginny can’t fathom why, but she has a feeling she’s about to find out anyway.

Sandra slowly sips her tea before she lifts her quill and notebook. “Are you abstaining from sugar for… any particular health reason?” she asks, her lips curled in a coy smirk.

Ginny gets the unnerving sensation that the interview started long ago. She refuses to give Sandra the satisfaction of a true reply.

“Nope,” she replies brightly, clasping her hands in her lap. “Just not my prefere—

“—Mm,” interrupts Sandra. “Because I hear that sugar and caffeine often trigger morning sickness. Did you know that, Ginny?”

Ginny’s forced smile remains in place. In truth, she’d expected something like this. Their wedding is soon — very soon. People have been pestering them about their reproductive plans for months. Sandra certainly isn’t above the masses.

“I didn’t,” Ginny says smoothly. “But let’s discuss quidditch. It’s why I’m here, after all!” She shoots Sandra a knowing wink and hopes that conveys when she can’t say: mind your fucking business, you cow.

Unfortunately, Sandra doesn’t take the hint. “It’s now 6th August, Ginny. Officially in between the birthdays of you and your Chosen One.”

“Well spotted,” Ginny notes, still grinning. “Who needs calendars when we have you?”

There’s a beat.

For just a second, Ginny thinks she’s gone too far… but she soon realizes that with Sandra, there’s no such thing as a boundary.

“We’ve all swooned over those photos of him holding your niece — oh, what’s her name…” Sandra taps her teeth, pretending like she doesn’t know the answer; Ginny’s blood rises to a low simmer. “Victoria?”

“Victoire,” Ginny grits. Little gets her back up faster than bringing oblivious children into things. Especially when they’re used for manipulation tactics.

“Oh yes, that’s right,” Sandra croons. “Victoire!” She places a hand over her heart as if reliving a poignant memory… as if she’s had any bloody involvement in Vic’s life. “She’s such a gorgeous baby, isn’t she?”

Ginny forces a laugh. “You’d know, I reckon, since you’ve seen her! Now.” She clears her throat. “I’ve a game in two weeks against the Falcons. Let’s discuss—”

“In time,” Sandra says, waving a manicured hand. To her left, a fluttering of movement catches Ginny’s eye. Shit. The white feathered end of a Quick Quotes Quill furiously darts through the air as the tip scribbles on a notepad. When did Sandra take that out? She thought for certain that Hermione banned them…

“But for now, let’s focus a bit on you, eh?” Sandra presses, her cloud of blonde hair brushing against her shoulders as she cocks her head. “I’m sure readers would be titillated to hear about how your fiance has been in quarantine for over a month. What’s that been like?”

Ginny snorts. Oh, for the love of -- that’s what she’s getting at?! The complete non-story of Harry being quarantined?

“That’s… not very exciting,” Ginny replies. Because it isn’t. With a bored voice, she begins the thousandth recollection of exactly how and why her fiance hasn’t been able to leave the house for two weeks. “Harry was raised by muggles and wasn’t exposed to Dragon Pox as a child. With the latest outbreak in London, the Auror Department wanted to keep him home until they’re finished with the latest preventative potion.” Ginny picks at a piece of lint on the velvet couch. “It’s quite dull.”

Just like this interview.

The remainder of the sentence remains unspoken in the air, but Ginny hears it resonating in her head so loudly she almost jumps.

Sandra just gives her a knowing smirk; Ginny feels a rush of relief that the woman isn’t a Legilimens. “I don’t know. Sounds like fun, having a man all wrapped up for you, 24/7?”

Ha! This time, Ginny really does laugh. Seriously, what is the media obsession with constant sex? She’s about to launch into an explanation about how it’s thoroughly possible to be too bored to shag, but Sandra cuts her off with an even more horrendous question.

“Remind me,” says Sandra, leaning in close. “How old were your in-laws when their Chosen One was born?”

Oh, for the love of—

Ginny bats her eyelashes fiercely. “I’m sure you know,” she says through gritted teeth, “since you’re asking this question. But seeing as how we can’t bloody ask them, I don’t find it appropriate to—“

“Lily Potter was nineteen when she fell pregnant,” Sandra says through a stage whisper. She claps her hands together as if she finds this a truly revealing statement. As if anyone isn’t capable of reading the bloody gravestones and doing the math.

Ginny clears her throat. “Good to know. So the Harpies only have one more match this year, and—“

“You’re 19,” Sandra adds, continuing the conversation she’s only been having with herself. “The rumors around London are that the quarantine is bogus. Has Harry already quit his job to be a stay at home dad? He’d love to have his own Chosen Ones, Miss Weasley.”

In retrospect, Ginny will realize that this comment is the final fucking straw. She could handle the false flattery. She could see through the batted eyelashes and the singsong lulling into complacency. But she cannot — will not — stand for this complete cow spreading rumors about Harry.

But instead of handling any of it maturely, she rises to her feet, glares at Sandra, and provides a retort so lewd, so scathing, that it rocks the tabloids for months.

And with a triumphant quirk of her eyebrow, Ginny turns on the spot and disapparates, leaving Sandra’s dropped jaw to tremble as the Quick Quotes Quill continues scribbling so fast it scratches the parchment.

Even before her feet touch down, she regrets the whole ordeal.

She doesn’t regret telling Sandra off, mind — but with a wince, Ginny accepts that yes, she does regret how she did it. She regrets that she’s just given the cow enough ammunition to paint her as a true villain. She regrets that she involved Harry and—

Harry.

Ginny shudders. Harry, who values his privacy above everything else. Harry, who won’t discuss anything about her in interviews, but still gets this adorably lovesick grin whenever her name comes up. Harry, who loves her. And trusted her.

Fuck.

Ginny pinches the bridge of her nose, her stomach sinking, and wonders how in hell she’s going to talk her way out of this one.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t have long to ponder how she’ll break the news. In the blink of an eye, Harry’s coming around the corner. Poor bloke. It’s not like he’s got much else to do but await her return. This whole quarantine experience is uncomfortably reminiscent of Sirius' last months of life. She can't ignore the ghostly memory of Dumbledore’s gentle chiding that energetic young men (and women, she supposes) don’t do well cooped up, cut off from the outside world...

“Hey!” says the man in question, flashing her a smile. “That was a quick one! Thought I heard you, but you’re—“

“I fucked up.”

Her whisper echoes in the flat. She stares at her trainers, her face burning.

She blinks up as Harry shifts in place; his smile is nowhere to be seen, replaced with the look she knows and hates. Harry’s jaw is set, his eyes narrowed in concern. He’s doing the whole I’m-strong-for-you-but-I’m-afraid.

“Erm. Ok?” he asks, gesturing towards the couch. “Would you like to...?”

“I’ve said something during the interview I shouldn’t,” Ginny adds, biting the inside of her cheek. “Something I definitely, definitely shouldn’t.”

There’s another pause. Ginny worries, just for a second, that she’s scared him or that he’s somehow already heard.

But she should’ve known him better. Because in a split-second, Harry both senses exactly what she needs... and acts on it.

He wraps her in his arms and rests his chin on the crown of her head. He presses her face to his chest and guides them both to the couch and makes soothing murmurs and brushes the hair away from her jaw.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says gently. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you claim, but—”

“It is,” Ginny whispers, miserable.

Harry shrugs. “Well, I can’t possibly know until you tell me, so—”

“She— she mentioned your mother.”

Harry’s chest stiffens as he draws a sharp breath; she gets the impression he’s trying very hard to wait until she’s done to interject with words of support.

“She... Sandra... she mentioned that I’m nearly 19, your mother was 19 when she fell pregnant, and—”

Harry cuts her off with a snort. “And does she think that was on purpose? I mean I’m happy I’m here, but yeah...” He shifts her in his arms, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I don’t seem entirely intentional, given the circumstances.”

“Well, babies have a tendency of showing up like that,” Ginny replies dryly. “Sandra did raise a good point about making sure we’re... being careful.” She grazes a fingernail up his arm and relishes when his skin erupts in gooseflesh.

For a fleeting, victorious second, Ginny thinks she’s distracted him. She thinks she’s achieved her ultimate goal of turning his attention to the 24/7 sex they’re alleged to be having.

But she should know better, really, that Harry would ever be fooled when it comes to her.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Harry rumbles, his voice gentle but firm. “Not like I’ve got anywhere else to go, after all. We can sit here for the next few weeks if—”

“She asked when we’re having kids. And not just in passing,” Ginny adds, raising a pointer finger. “No, Harry, she pushed. Over and over. She suggested I was already pregnant, she brought up your mother, she asked when I’d function as the vessel for the Chosen One’s offspring…” She trails off with a sigh. “So. Finally, I snapped.”

He takes her still-extended pointer finger and gently pushes it into a fist. “What did you tell her?” he asks, kissing her knuckles. “Because from what I’m hearing, it sounds like she deserves it. Honestly I’m surprised you didn’t—”

“Isaidwhenyoustopfinishingonmytits!”

There’s another pause. “Erm, sorry, what was that? I didn’t quite—”

“I said,” Ginny repeats, her voice strained, “that we’ll have a baby when you stop finishing on my tits!”

Fuck.

She groans, sliding her hands over her face. Recapping this is somehow worse than living it the first time. Speaking it to Harry changes the stakes. It turns the situation from hypothetical to absolute. It solidifies that she fucked up... she really, really fucked up.

And she’s so lost in humiliation, so buzzing with horror, that it takes her a second to realize that Harry isn’t buzzing for the same reasons. Although he’s certainly shaking, isn’t he?

A second later, she dares to peer at him through her fingers. To her delight, Harry’s not furious — he’s laughing!

And when they make eye contact, his silent shaking transforms into full-body laughter. The type that sends tears to his eyes. The type that’s infectious, contagious. The type that makes her want to laugh, too.

“So I take it you’re not… angry?”

Harry wipes his eyes. “Ginny,” he says weakly, “I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe! Did you actually think I’d be angry over that?” He snorts, pressing her against his chest again. “No. For once and for all, no. She crossed a line, and she got what was coming.”

“But you hate attention,” Ginny moans into his shoulder. “You hate big displays and personal things being public and—”

“But I love you,” he says softly, kissing her temple. He gives a dry chuckle that sends tingled through her body. “And to be honest, you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t go off on people. Especially when they deserve it.”

She sighs, pulling back. She has to see his face to confirm. To reassure herself. As she’d suspected, Harry’s just giving her a wry smirk. His green eyes are flooded with warmth as he peers back at her. Even after all this time, he still looks at her like he can’t believe she’s there. Like he can’t believe she’s his. His smirk grows to a full-on grin, and Ginny bites her lip; she thinks he’s about to provide some sappy, lovesick rebuttal.

Instead, he replies with something that’s simultaneously the absolute best — and the absolute worst.

“Besides,” Harry says casually. “Joke’s on them. We both know I’d never have the self-control or coordination to finish on your tits.”

With that, she laughs... really, truly laughs. She relaxes against his side, letting the soothing rhythm of his voice wash over her. He laces his fingers through hers. He plays with the strands of her hands.

And by the end of the night, she’s thankful for exactly two things: her fiancé in quarantine, and the contraception that will keep them from enacting Sandra’s plan for a long, long time.

[p-and-p-admin]

Interview given to The Severus Snape and Hermione Granger Shipping Fan Group.  (sharing here Admin approved)

https://www.facebook.com/groups/199718373383293/

Hello Emma Ficready and welcome to Behind the Quill, it’s wonderful to finally have the chance to chat with you.

Many readers will know you already from works like “Chimaera” and “Sins of the father” for those that don’t,  a Trigger Warning from Emma that  their works contain graphic violence and abuse and may cause distress to some readers. 

Okay, let’s jump right in. What's the story behind your pen name? It's actually my previous name! Although very apt for a fiction writer. Though it's pronounced more like Thick - Reedy, I use it over my new name because my partner does not know I'm a fiction writer, and I  don't think they'd react well if they found out, it's something they'd struggle with. I'm a long term partial carer for them and they have some mental health issues, so I try to avoid any situations that could be a potential trigger. Plus I like having something all to myself. Which Harry Potter character do you identify with the most? I think I would say I probably relate to Severus Snape the most. I can relate to how 'damaged' he is, and how much the bullying he endured as a child, affected the adult he became. Do you have a favourite genre to read? (not in fic, just in general) I think I like to read angst the most, as to me that's more real, I don't generally read stories that are entirely fluffy all the way through. I love a happy ending, but  I can't cope with total fluff because I find it unrelatable, life isn't sunshine and daisies all the time. Do you have a favourite "classic" novel? I don't know if it's old enough to be classed as a classic, but I'd have to say 'To Kill a Mockingbird' by Harper Lee. At what age did you start writing? Very young. I had my first poem published by aged 10. How did you get into writing fanfiction? After being heartbroken at the end of Harry Potter series , I just wanted more and I had been reading fanfiction stories for years. I was constantly looking for stories, I'd get this thought in my head and it was like 'I wonder if I can find a story about this' and when I couldn't I just thought... well why don't I write it? I also find the writing very cathartic. What's the best theme you've ever come across in a fic? Is it a theme represented in your own works? I love hurt / comfort fics. I'm a sucker for it. It is something that I represent quite a lot in my fictions, because I can see both Hermione and Severus in that role in their own individual way. Hermione who is constantly a champion and a voice for others, and Severus who is there quietly and thanklessly fighting for others the entire time, I can see both of them naturally falling into those roles of 'saving' someone , without it being out of character. What fandoms are you involved in other than Harry Potter? I'm not particularly active in any other fandoms, I have always been a Buffy Fan and I love the Inheritance cycle books by Christopher Paolini , though short of reading other fanfictions I am not active in the community like I am with Harry Potter. If you could make one change to canon, what would it be? The epilogue, probably the  most common answer you get  and I know everyone is going to expect me to say because she never should've married Ron, but I can see her marrying him and subsequently divorcing him as being true to Character but I'd change the epilogue because I don't think Hermione would or should ever have settled for being a ministry worker, she deserved so much more. Do you have a favourite piece of fanon? I don't know if this counts but... Severus's Patronus changing after he survives the war. I see the doe as symbolic to the debt he felt he owed her, and I like the thought of the visual change of patronus, representing the emotional change he goes through in accepting the past and moving on now he feels that he's fulfilled his promises. Do you listen to music when you write or do you prefer quiet? Quiet! I love music, the heavier the better actually, but I have to be in the right frame of mind for it. Otherwise I can sometimes get sensory overload. I hate white noise and things like asmr, I often wear hats or headbands, or have my hood up to block out some noise. What are your favourite fanfictions of all time? How long have you got? Honestly that's not an easy question to answer, and it doesn't have one answer. But I could say that some of the stories I find myself reading over and over again are 'Sin & Vice' , 'Another Dream' and 'Lay me low'. There's no way I could write all my favourites down here, but they're the ones I re-read most often. My favourite WIP is probably ' Inkstains' Are you a plotter or a pantser? 90% Panster. I will literally have one small idea, it could  be one small interaction, one conversation or one event that pops into my head and I will end up writing a story around that one small thing. My story signs entirely stemmed from the one interaction of Severus handing Hermione the note. I knew I wanted that, and then it was by the pants from then on How does that affect your writing process? It means that I do update my stories in a regular order, so no one story is left too long without an update. I literally sit down, crack my knuckles and go 'right, I'm writing the next chapter of this story now. I write it and post it as soon as it's finished. I write from my phone too, so I apologise for any grammatical or spelling errors, auto-correct is the bane of my life at times What is your writing genre of choice? Have you read my fictions!? Interviewer: Well yeah, but I’m asking because you’ll be new to at least  some of the audience. (chuckles) Ha. Sorry. Angst, all the way. I write angst and hurt/comfort, very dark stories as I pull a lot of my ideas from the real life experiences of myself and friends I met in therapy. Writing about trauma is very cathartic for me and helps me process my own feelings about my own history. Which of your stories are you most proud of? Why? Did it unfold as you imagined it or did you find the unexpected cropped up as you wrote? What did you learn from writing it? How personal is the story to you, and do you think that made it harder or easier to write? That's a tough one, as there are elements to all of them that are important to me. None of the stories I write quite unfold like I imagined they would, they just sort of take off and I'm along for the ride. I'd be remiss not to talk about Not the Same girl at this point, as that story has probably had the biggest impact for me, the responses it's had and the people reaching out to me, both positively and negatively. I've had some outright hate over that fic, and abusive messages to the point that I almost gave in altogether and I think because of that people will expect me to say Not the Same girl is the fiction I relate to most, and while I do draw a lot from personal experience it's actually Father Mine as that resonates with me on a more personal level, that and an as yet unpublished WIP I have in the works, I think the huge dichotomy of feedback I've had for stories like Not the Same girl though, have both given me a thicker skin to the hate and encouraged me through the sheer overwhelming amount of people who’ve reached out, that find the stories cathartic in dealing with their own trauma, which is gratifying as an author to do that for people, when I myself am looking for that same release in writing it. It's great to have this mutual satisfaction and it's really rewarding. What books or authors have influenced you? How do you think that shows in your writing? I think probably going to refer back to Harper Lee and to kill a mockingbird. The whole premise of telling a story that no one wants to hear or acknowledge, the things that are widely known but rarely spoken about. In “To kill a mockingbird” it's sexism, racism and prejudice against others based on their mental health or intelligence but we still see this so much in daily life, about how much hate and horror and suffering is seen in day to day life, the trauma that so many people have suffered is widely known but swept under the rug because it's easier. No. Hell No. Fuck that. Hiding doesn't change any of it, it may be under the rug but it's still there. People rape other people, people hurt other people, people discriminate based on gender, sexual preferences, skin colour, occupation, people have suffered in life and are damaged by it. Acknowledge it. Don't  brush it under the rug, don't ignore it because it's more comfortable for most people, shine the light on it and say. "This is real. This happens. We need to acknowledge it and we need to do something about it"  And I think that's shown in my writing , I don't glorify  anything, I'm not writing snuff but I don't hide anything either. I make people see this is something that I won't gloss over. Does it make you uncomfortable? Good , it should. If people are uncomfortable , at least they are acknowledging the realness of that situation and not ignoring it. Do people in your everyday life know you write fanfiction? How true for you is the notion of "writing for yourself"? Nobody knows I write fanfiction,  I use a previous name and I very much write for my own cathartic relief. I chose not to share that I write fiction because I'm a carer for my partner, I don't know how they'd react, it could honestly go either way where they'd be absolutely fine or it would trigger them and I'd have to stop, that's the reason I keep it to myself, I'd hate to do something that would mean I'd have to stop writing, not when so many people are so emotionally invested in the stories that I write. How important is it for you to interact with your audience? How do you engage with them? Just at the point of publishing? Through social media? Reviews man. Reviews are the nectar of life, I read every single one and though I don't have time  to reply to most, trust me when I say that I treasure each one and appreciate them immensely. I have my social media which I find the easiest way to speak to people , I have my own Page on Facebook and I'm on a number of SS/HG groups. It's hugely important to me to speak to my audience and I really encourage them to get in touch with me, I'm always happy to talk about my work and people have been in touch just to talk about their feelings or emotions that have been triggered by my work and I welcome it all.  I mean, I've got people translating my stories them into French, into Russian...it's crazy, I never expected it to be so popular and I am always happy to hear from people. Though I apologise if I don't respond straight away,  I have to write on the sly and sometimes real life takes over, so I can't log in for a week or more at a time.   What is the best advice you've received about writing? First and Foremost, write for yourself. The rest is just gravy. What do you do when you hit writer's block? I move on to another story. I always have more than one WIP at any one time, If I can't find inspiration for one, I'll update another, or start a jumble of notes for others. There's always something that needs to be written down, even if it wasn't what I had planned on. Has anything in real life trickled down into your writing? Very much so. Almost all the trauma and hurt and situations that appear in my stories are either translated from my own experiences or those of people I know. Do you have any stories in the works? Can you give us a teaser? I had a number of stories in the works! When A Cure For Magic is completed, I will most likely post the next one up. I can't give too much away , but the next story is called "Catching Fire" and will be an incredibly dark story, with a lot of morally grey characters. Any words of encouragement to other writers? Just do it.  If you want to write it,. write it. First and foremost write for yourself. Don't listen to anyone who's negative ,or unsupportive. I get so many people message me saying things like 'I want to be a writer', but don't know where to start' and to which my answer is you already are a writer. Writing is 99% mental, you have the words, they're there in your head, you just haven't put them down yet. Thanks so much for giving us your time.   Any time , it's been great and I'm happy to answer questions any time , thank you for inviting me.

[marbledaesthetics]

Only on Principal | afi | part i

pairing: ashton x ofc

warnings: angst, fake (semi-coerced?) relationships, pining, swearing, slow burn, sexualization (kind of?)

word count: 1.7k

a/n: i’ve actually been holding on to this piece for awhile because i didn’t know if i was going to publish in it parts or as one long fic, but decided that i should really post something, so here it is. updates will probably be irregular, because i don’t have the next part finished or edited, but i promise that updates will come!  also, getting this moodboard was a bitch because i kept screwing up the file type

part ii

~~~

“Why are we doing this again?” Ashton was slouched in his chair, a hand tugging on the back of his hair. He didn’t even try to hide the annoyance in his voice anymore, the management had set the arrangement in stone, and he wasn’t happy about it.

"We gave you a chance to throw the paps something fresh, something to bring in new people, and you refused.” The man’s voice was tight, trying to remain patient with Ashton’s brash attitude. “This is the compromise.” 

Ashton scoffed harshly at the word, rolling his eyes as he sat up properly in his chair. “Compromise? Pretending to be in love with a person I’ve never met? That’s the compromise?”

“Like, I said you had options. You don’t need to assume that you are going to absolutely despise her, she’s not that bad.” This man, taking over for the other, was speaking casually, returning Ashton’s annoyance with ease. 

“‘Not that bad?’ You’ve paired me with ‘not that bad?’”

The man groaned, turning so he was directly facing Ashton. “Personally, I’m not a fan of her, but believe it or not, we chose someone whose company you would actually tolerate while doing the press stuff. I think you are going to really enjoy spending time with her, so please, be nice, the last thing we need is you scaring her away.” He gripped the edge of the table harshly and spoke with a tone of finality that almost made Ashton want to back down.

The two men held each other's gaze for a moment before Ashton sighed, kicking the table leg childishly. “I’ll play nice, but I’m not gonna promise that I’ll like her.”

“Great, because she’s waiting in the lobby for you to stop throwing yourself this pity party, so we can explain everything to the two of you.”

“Of course she is,” he mumbled to himself, straightening up to the table and running a heavy hand over his face.

He had thought up what the girl they would want him with would be like, already thinking up things he would hate about her. She would probably be short and platinum blonde, so perky that even he couldn’t handle it before 11 am. An innocent type, he thought, someone who embodies the management in a naggy, girlfriend-shaped package.

When the door opened, Ashton’s first thought was don’t judge a book by its cover. She looked like almost everything that he assumed she wouldn’t be, but he was still sure that nothing about this endeavor would be enjoyable. 

She was taller than he had imagined— he probably didn’t have more than two or three inches on her, and her dark locks were swept back to expose a small tattoo just behind her ear. She grabbed an open chair near Ashton, not too close, but close enough that the management could address them at the same time easily.

Ashton tore his gaze from her, looking back to the team, refusing to give them the satisfaction of showing interest in the girl they had chosen. 

They held each other’s gazes expectantly before the girl to his left cleared her throat softly and said, “Well, I’m Hylla. So, hello?” She wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to the situation, but was sure that long, tense silences weren’t going to help anyone.

Ashton looked back at her, taking in the uncertainty in her features. Her demeanor makes him want to drop his guard, but he remains strong, keeping every ounce of his attraction out of his voice. “I’m Ashton, but I’m sure you already knew that.” 

Hylla resisted the urge to flinch at his harsh tone and merely rolled her eyes, shifting back to face the team before them. “Are we gonna go over everything now?”

“Yes, so here are the contracts,” said the man sitting across from them, passing them the thick packets. “I know you’ve both already signed them but I want to remind you of a few things. So first is the time frame: this contract covers eight months, but we may extend depending on how everyone reacts to this. During that time, you absolutely cannot have any sexual or romantic relationships with other people. The last thing we’ll need is the media getting their hands on a cheating scandal.”

“I thought feeding the vultures was the point.” 

The man looked as though he wanted to strangle the smirk Ashton wore off his face, but managed to remain calm enough to continue. “Ashton, if you dare, you will be in some deep shit. This is for the good of your career, not some scheme for us to ruin your life.” He clipped his words, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Anyway, similarly to what I said before, no one outside of this group can know about this. If anyone accuses you about this being for PR, you ignore it. If you get too defensive, it will set people off.”

Hylla, who—much to Ashton’s annoyance—was actually paying attention, nodded along, thumbing through the contract as she took in the information. He couldn’t help but think that she looked kinda cute when she was concentrating. He didn’t even bother to look away when she noticed his gaze, continuing to study her even as she looked back to the man speaking.

“You two will make your first public appearance next week, after you guys know each other a little better. After that we’ll make sure you two will be in the public eye a few times a month, depending on how much exposure each outing gives us. You’re going to need to make sure the paps see you, but don’t make it obvious that you want their attention.”

The meeting drags on longer than Ashton bothers to pay attention for, and he is mildly surprised when it ends, the management team getting up and telling them to hang around the studio, get to know each other before they go public.

Once they’ve gone, Ashton makes a move to leave as well, but is cut off by Hylla.

“Where are you going?” The question doesn’t sound accusatory, but it bothers Ashton nonetheless.

“The writing room. I’m not doing this in here.” His words are curt, making him feel almost bad for the girl as he brushes past her, heading through the winding hallways of the studio.

Hylla matches his brisk pace, muttering softly in an annoyed tone until he stops, holding the door for her in such a manner that it seemed almost sarcastic. 

She entered the room, standing near the door until Ashton sat, not wanting to worsen his already sour mood. He chooses a spot on the far end of a couch, leaning back and twirling a pen he had snatched off the table in front of them between his fingers.

Hylla plops down on the opposite end of his couch, tucking one leg beneath her and propping her elbow on the armrest. Ashton’s eyes follow her, taking the time to take even more of her in. Her hair is a deep chestnut, dyed deep red at the tips, and stick straight. Now that she’s taken off the leather jacket she had been wearing, he could see her ear was just one of several tattoos that adorned her skin, and she wore a worn pair of Docs with faded yellow laces. She radiated confidence, never flinching as she waited for Ashton to finish checking her out.

“Enjoying the scenery?” Her grin was cocky, teasing him as though they had been friends for years. 

“Something needs to make this arrangement bearable.” Despite his sullen mood, he returned her grin, joking with her. “So who are you? If I need to be madly in love with you in a week, I’m gonna need to know something about you.”

“What do you want to know?” She smiles easily, raking her hand back in her hair just far enough to prop her head on her hand. “There’s a lot about me.”

“Start with the basic things, how old are you, what’s your full name, your favorite color.”

“Well, my name is Hylla Rae Narvaez. I’m 24, and probably red.”

“Hylla Rae Narvaez. A name like that’s gotta have a story behind it.” His grin is teasing, curious as to how she’d react.

“It does sound a bit pretentious, doesn’t it? Queen-like is how most people describe it,” she replies, chuckling along with him. “My dad wanted a Puerto Rican name, and my mom wanted a Greek one, so this was the compromise. What else do you want to know?”

“What do you do for a living? Other than date celebrities, of course.” The jab is teasing, but Hylla stiffens for a moment anyway.

“I’m a tattoo artist, and I do commissioned art on the side.” She speaks a little softer than before, pulling the leg that had been on the ground to her chest.

“Should’ve guessed, with all the ink. You seem like the artsy type.” His words are kind, reaching out to squeeze her knee gently. “I’m sorry I was so pissy before. I just hate that they’re forcing me into this whole thing, you know? It’s nothing personal.”

“Ahh, so you only hate me in theory?” She teases, readopting her carefree demeanor.

Ashton giggles, his eyes bright. “Something like that. It’s the principal of the thing.”

They continued to make small talk, and the easiness of the conversation was surprising to Ashton, as though they were old friends just catching up. He was shocked when he checked the time to find that they had been there for hours, just chatting. Deciding they should both go home, they bid their farewells, Ashton allowing Hylla to leave first to avoid being seen before they were supposed to.

He spent the ride home lost in thought, terrified of how easily this girl he was supposed to hate was breaking down his walls, crawling into the cracks and making herself at home.

After he was home, he meditated to sort out his thoughts, and eventually resigning with a reminder to himself to take things slowly, allowing the whole thing to work itself out. He was in this for the long haul, whether he wanted to be or not, so he couldn’t let himself fuck it up from the start.

~~~

wanna be added to my taglist? fill out this form or send me an ask (off anon)

[elopez7228]

Scenic Route 17/47

Read on AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/18268208/chapters/43229774 

Start over : https://elopez7228.tumblr.com/post/620919089893933056/scenic-route-0147

***

Leia Skywalker didn’t recognize the number on her phone screen. Granted, it was a prehistoric model, just good enough to transmit and receive calls.  No GPS, no cloud-backed messaging apps, no network connection at all. Her number was known only to a handful of people: her lawyer Amylin Holdo, her brother Luke Skywalker, her second-in command Rose Tico, and Lando Calrissian, her late husband’s best friend...and maybe one or two more former colleagues.

After a long pause, she answered:

“Skywalker.”

“Leia, it’s Galen.”

She choked on her next breath.

“Galen? Hang the hell up, do you hear me? Don’t ever call me at this number, it’s traceable—“

“No, no!  Don’t hang up!  I bought a chip, this is a burner. I’ll toss it right after I’m done. Leia, there is movement at FORCE. I have reason to believe that Phasma and Hux are after me.”

“Why do you think that?”

“They fired all trainees and part-time contracts to prevent an "information leak".  They carried out  interrogations in the IT and legal departments.  They're looking for the mole! "

"They have nothing.” Leia answered  in a somewhat unconvincing tone. “They’re all bluffing.”

”How can you be so sure?  I’m taking a huge risk staying on the job. I could be terminated at any given moment!”

“Galen Erso, calm yourself.” Leia ordered, snapping back into general mode as though she was addressing an infantryman.  “If they had the slightest suspicion against you, they would have already outed you. They’re looking for a needle in a haystack. Whatever you do, keep quiet.  If they question you, stick to the plan.”

“But I—“

“I will send you a new chip through our usual way. I’ll contact you via this number.  Do not make waves—if FORCE is running around in panic, that’s a good sign. Only two weeks left before the trial, and then you won’t have to worry.”

She hung up. What she felt inside was more tumultuous, not half as confident as the appearances so carefully maintained.  Each of her soldiers had absolute faith in her;  if she went down, they would go down with her.

She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. This could end tomorrow and it wouldn’t be soon enough. They had just over two weeks left, and then it would all be over...theoretically.

Galen Erso removed the chip from the phone and crushed it under his heel, throwing the tiny piece of metal into a trash can on the sidewalk. This whole affair had gotten the better of him. He looked down at the patches of eczema on his hands. His hair was thinning too, for lack of sleep. When he had contacted Luke Skywalker months ago, he hadn’t imagined himself caught in a whirlwind of this magnitude. He was just an engineer, a network technician. He had stumbled upon various incriminating encrypted documents while restoring Hux’s computer after a false-alarm system breach.

There they were: official documents from the Hoopa Valley Indian Reserve government confirming the existence of precious ore underground, and the contract with FORCE to mine the area in a bid for monstrous profit. Galen, a fifty-something family man who loved fly-fishing and frequent outings in the outdoors, understood the implications of opening up a new mine. Besides destroying the landscape, it put the ecosystem of the whole forest at stake.

The documents had suggested that arsenic and mercury, poisonous heavy metals used to isolate the ore from the rock, would be released in large quantities into the adjacent river. It was going to be an ecological disaster. In light of these revelations, there was no chance that this project would see the light of day: the state of California would never authorize the construction of such a monstrosity, let alone upstream of Indian territory, where they would have to hold additional discussions with the reservation’s government.

Yet a quick search in Armitage Hux's files had allowed him to discover that Governor Valorum had approved it, against all common sense.

So Galen had taken note of Armitage Hux's passwords, and hacked FORCE’s network from home, the very same network he had been paid to build, and dig deeper into the mystery.

Terrified by his discoveries, and all too aware of the risk of going to prison if  FORCE got wind of his indiscretions, he made contact with the network of ecologists most likely to listen: Earth Soldiers. Infamous for their vehemence towards multinational corporations, as well as for the grand fallout between its former stakeholders. The conflict between the Skywalker clan and the enterprise led by Snoke and Hux was hardly a secret. No one knew better than Luke and Leia what it felt like to become outcasts. Even after losing everything to FORCE, they had to pay millions of dollars in a defamation lawsuit. They had nothing to lose.

They were broke,  surviving solely on the  charity of their donors—rich strangers who engaged in virtue signaling by making a check every year to what appeared to be a hippie band talking to the birds.

Luke Skywalker was still living in San Francisco, keeping an eye on the FORCE tower, which cast a long shadow over the bay.  Galen Erso had met him in the backroom of a cantina where he had handed over all the documents he had copied from Hux's confidential files.

The plan was simple: Galen stayed in place, continued to collect information and above all, made sure not to get caught.

His data was smuggled to Luke. Never through email, never on any device with an internet connection: he knew all too well that anyone could hack the system in the same way that he did.

The documents, stored on a micro-SD no bigger than a fingernail, would be handed over to Leia and her lawyer, Amylin Holdo.  The women were the centerpiece of their plan. Luke Skywalker was too old, too cantankerous, and too well-surveilled to pull it off.  He couldn’t buy fries at a Jack in the Box without Hux and Snoke knowing the menu in detail.

Meanwhile, Leia remained in her shelter in the shadow of the Rockies, near the Denver military base where she had lived all her life, met the man who would become her husband, and raised a son who would turn away from her.

There, she was almost forgotten. The last act of this sinister tragedy thus began.

Galen waited for instructions from Leia Skywalker even as the anxiety ate him alive.

The lawyers crafted their game plan.  Earth Soldiers soldiers mobilized media and networks, to the satisfaction of FORCE’s white-collar lawyers, who were delighted by the free advertising.

Governor Valorum bit his nails despite smiling at the camera, his jaw clenched and his neck dripping with sweat.

Snoke, Hux, and their field operative Phasma refused to underestimate their enemies and redoubled their efforts.

The infamous Kylo Ren, secretly Ben Solo, paced the length of a hotel room, frustrated, humiliated, and obsessed with a young British maverick who had the resourcefulness and the virtue to escape him at every turn.

Rey Jakku, oblivious to the chess board unfurling around her, scratched BB8’s head as the dog lay in her lap, cried silently on a long-distance call to England.

[foreverlogical]

President Donald Trump fumed in his remarks to the press last week: “What they’ve done is a disgrace, and I hope a big price is going to be paid. A big price should be paid. There’s never been anything like this in the history of our country...”Trump’s fury wasn’t directed at Russia’s interference in the U.S. elections, but instead at the Obama administration’s efforts to investigate the Kremlin’s malign operations. And his account of a phone call earlier in the day with Russian President Vladimir Putin suggests—as the Kremlin quickly inferred—that as Trump confidently wraps up the “Russia hoax,” Putin can be confident Trump’s in his corner, if not in his pocket.There’s Nothing Generous About Putin’s Coronavirus Aid to US

During that phone call, as Trump told reporters, he told Putin the investigation of Russia’s interference in the U.S. elections by Special Prosecutor Robert Mueller was a “Russia hoax.” And since Russia is under heavy economic U.S. sanctions for its election-meddling, such a dismissive description would seem a clear signal Trump wants that restrictive regime to come to an end. If there was no meddling and it was all part of a conspiracy by Barack Obama, why would you punish the falsely accused Putin?Trump’s remarks, coming amid a flurry of questions about COVID-19 at a press opportunity with the governor of Texas, had started with a musing about sharing ventilators with Moscow, then Trump pivoted to elaborate on a theme mentioned nowhere in the official readouts of the call by the White House or the Kremlin.“And that was a very nice call,” said Trump. “And remember this: The Russia hoax made it very hard for Russia and the United States to deal with each other. They’re a very important nation. We’re the most powerful nation; they’re a very powerful nation. Why would we not be dealing with each other?”“But the Russia hoax is—absolute, dishonest hoax,” Trump continued. “Made it very difficult for our nation and their nation to deal. And we discussed that. I said, ‘You know, it’s a very appropriate time.’  Because things are falling out now and coming in line, showing what a hoax this whole investigation was. It was a total disgrace. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you see a lot of things happen over the next number of weeks. This is just one piece of a very dishonest puzzle.”One of those “things” that are “falling out” is the attempted dismissal of criminal charges against Mike Flynn—Putin’s dinner companion at a gala for the Kremlin propaganda organ RT television in December 2015. Trump’s overtures sounded very good to Kremlin ears. The upending of an investigation into the Russian election interference implies the end of sanctions against the perpetrators, if Trump can work his will on Congress.While the tidbits revealed by the American president were notably absent from the White House and Kremlin readouts, which also omitted any mention at all of the said commentary about Russia’s election interference, the Kremlin did note the “satisfaction” of both presidents at the conclusion of the phone call. Exchanges between the two leaders have become, in fact, unusually frequent in 2020, and Russian analysts have taken notice. Indeed, they have offered up some extremely ambitious predictions, anticipating that the standoff between the United States and Russia eventually will play out bigly in the Kremlin’s favor.

Vitaly Mankevich, international-relations expert and the president of the Russian-Asian Union of Industrialists and Entrepreneurs, told Komsomolskaya Pravda—one of the most popular newspapers in Russia—that “the United States will abandon excessive pressure on Russia, since it does not pose an existential and ideological threat to Trump’s America (unlike the USSR during the Cold War). The White House will probably even try to pull Russia over to the U.S. side, offering investments and lifting sanctions.” Mankevich further predicted “a decrease in American activity in the Baltic states, Eastern Europe, the Balkans, and the Middle East.”Perhaps the tastiest bargain of all would be the anticipated handover of Ukraine to the Kremlin, in exchange for Russia’s support of the United States in its brewing conflict with China. Komsomolskaya Pravda concluded: “The United States may give Ukraine to Russia in an exchange for an alliance against China.” While Ukraine obviously is not Trump’s to give, the country is heavily dependent on the U.S. assistance for its very survival. Information revealed during the impeachment proceedings laid bare President Trump’s callous disregard toward Kyiv, combined with his overt longing to cozy up to the Kremlin.  On a larger scale, Vitaly Mankevich predicted the disintegration of NATO and the opportunity for Russia to re-establish a  hold over Eastern Europe unseen since the times of the Soviet Union. Of course, Mankevich emphasized, “this scenario is relevant only if Donald Trump is re-elected for a second term in November of 2020.”The ongoing motivation for Russia’s continued election interference explains why the English-speaking Kremlin-controlled networks have latched on to reports that aim to discredit former Vice President Joe Biden, while also presenting the U.S. democracy as “a sham,” with no one worth voting for. Destroying faith in the U.S. electoral process is one of the most important goals of the Kremlin’s anti-American propaganda. Another aim is to exacerbate the divisions in American society, but Trump is aptly accomplishing that—with or without Russia’s help. Trump’s re-election would provide a bouquet of benefits for the Kremlin and Biden’s considerably higher poll numbers are discussed with concern in the Russian state media.While the English-speaking bullhorns of the Kremlin have zeroed in on Tara Reade’s allegations against the highest-polling presidential candidate, the Russian state media back home quietly acknowledged that the timing of Reade’s disclosures clearly indicates an effort to undermine the candidacy of Biden. During his eponymous evening news show, host Vladimir Soloviev dismissively described Reade’s disclosures as a typical pre-election ploy, designed to erode Biden’s support (crude even by Kremlin standards). But that has not deterred the English-language state media from pushing the Reade accusations in hopes they’ll successfully torpedo Biden’s chances.The main incentive for the Kremlin’s ongoing support of the Trump presidency was eloquently summed up by Karen Shakhnazarov, CEO of Mosfilm Studio and a favored pundit on Russian state television: “Trump is a weak leader—and that is great for Russia. It’s also good for China.” Describing Trump as a synthesis of Mikhail Gorbachev and Boris Yeltsin—Russian leaders of the past associated with the disintegration of the Soviet Union and the weakening of Russia— Shakhnazarov expressed his hope that Trump would bring about the destruction of the United States of America, akin to what happened to the USSR.But let’s return to the matter of ventilators that segued into Trump’s musings about his phone call with Putin.“I suggested if they need—because we have a lot of ventilators—if they need ventilators, we’d love to send them some, and we will do that at the appropriate time. We’ll send them some ventilators.”Question: “Did he take you up on it? Did he say—”Trump:  “Yeah. We’ll be doing that.”On this matter, the Kremlin’s commentators were far from enthusiastic. The absurdity of buying ventilators from Russia in April, only to offer U.S. ventilators to Russia in May, laid bare the propagandistic nature of such exchanges. And there’s this: Faulty Russian ventilators of the same make and model have caused fires and killed coronavirus patients in at least two Russian hospitals to date. It is unclear whether the potentially faulty Russian ventilators are currently being utilized in American hospitals, or sitting in storage as dormant metaphors of the Kremlin’s Trojan gifts.     

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[littlemissrainhoe]

Here’s my piece for the @knb10thannizine. A huge thanks to the mods who hosted this project. I had a great time working on this. I hope y’all enjoy this. ^^

-

Title: Immortal for a Limited Time [AO3 Link]

Summary:

We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we know. - Lemony Snicket

Death champions no one. The same holds true for seven special people: bound by friendship, camaraderie and one great love for basketball.

Rating: General Audiences

Relationships: Generation of Miracles & Kagami Taiga

Warnings: Major Character Death 

-

Death champions no one.

It is but a simple truth, an eventual reality that one has to accept. Not even the greatest king nor the sneakiest thief could ever escape its clutches.

Yet somehow it still manages to elude even the most brilliant of us all. Its power of misdirection knows no bounds. Its presence lurks at the back of the mind, yet is not acknowledged until it manifests itself from what seems like nowhere and punches one in the gut.

The same holds true for seven special people: bound by friendship, camaraderie and one great love for basketball. They had such dreams, big ones—all of them including one another, despite tight lips and vehement denials. Though not outright, all seven were always in the periphery. They didn't have to say them, of course; they already knew—and nothing was going to stop them.

(But death does.)

.

.

.

 Akashi Seijuurou died at the hospital, surrounded by a plethora of sweet-smelling flowers that masked the scent of bleach and death.

He was found by a nurse, the look of absolute peace and satisfaction of a great man etched on his aged face. "It looked like he was coming home from a long journey," she would later describe to curious colleagues, perhaps embellishing her story a bit to sound more poetic.

At age ninety-two, he had accomplished far more than what his late father had. Right after finishing his Ph.D. with flying colors, he took over as CEO for his rapidly deteriorating father, proving that he is an Akashi through and through early on in his career. He continued to uphold the Akashi name, and even brought it to greater heights. He led the Akashi Corporation fearlessly and efficiently, turning it into a powerful empire that stands among the leading zaibatsus in the world.

Unlike his father who ruled with an iron fist, Seijuurou was known to be a compassionate and mindful leader; strategic and sharp, but never ruthless. He was loved and admired by all.

"My father was a great man," his eldest son said during his funeral, with a note of pride and sincerity that was missing during a similar speech done five decades ago. "If there is anyone in this world I aspire to be, it will always be him."

The media adored Seijuurou, going so far as releasing a special magazine in honor of the late Akashi, covering everything from his early childhood to his last days. His regimes as the student council president of both Teiko Middle School and Rakuzan High School did not go amiss, as well as his strong relationships with his family and friends over the years. Even his prowess on shogi was not overlooked, highlighting some of his more interesting plays.

In the eyes of many, he will be remembered as one of the most powerful and influential men in his time. However, to a certain few, he will forever be known as the invincible captain of the legendary Generation of Miracles.

 .

.

.

 Up to this day, the driver of the simple sedan would insistently say that he didn't see Kuroko Tetsuya, age twenty-nine, cross the road that dark and dreary night.

A man in his thirties, an ordinary salaryman. Family of three. Has been living in Tokyo for most of his life. Has no connection whatsoever with the victim. No malicious intent and solid alibi. After the collision, he immediately contacted an ambulance and attempted to resuscitate the bleeding man. He was later found by police officer Aomine Daiki, who happened to know the victim.

"I didn't see him! I swear I didn't!" would always be his answer, half-crazed from the accusations and growing guilt. The police had him checked for any signs of intoxication to find none. Even surrounding CCTVs would confirm that he did not speed a red light. Curiously, it was as if Kuroko Tetsuya was a phantom, an after-image in the rain, that even the cameras hardly picked him up until after the accident.

The doctors tried to revive him, but he passed away after a few hours.

It was but an unfortunate accident in the rain, but it took away a life nonetheless.

He was survived only by his grandmother.

 .

.

.

 As with most things in his life, Midorima Shintarou's death was predicted by Oha-Asa—or as much as fortune-telling can predict death and disaster.

Though relatively healthy at eighty-seven, when Oha-Asa came on with a particular medical warning for Cancers, Shintarou knew his time had come. Like a cat who recognized its end was near, Midorima Shintarou left his home after carefully saying goodbye to his family to purchase his lucky item of the day.

As the medics came to take away the venerable doctor who suffered a sudden heart attack in the middle of the department store, no one paid any mind to the rolling marker pen that fell out of the dying man’s hand.

 .

.

.

 Kise Ryouta did not so much die as he went missing.

At forty-two, he was one of the best pilots Hyperion Airlines had to offer. But when a freak incident took out both engines, his plane crashed into the ocean with only 17 survivors.

To this day, his body still hasn’t been found.

 .

.

.

 Murasakibara Atsushi found out he was dying of diabetes when he was thirty-four years old, which he pretty much expected. If anything, what surprised him was that it didn't come earlier. He never did get to control his eating habits; it only grew worse with age. He didn't continue playing basketball after college, focusing on his patisserie training in France, thus allowing his body to deteriorate with the lack of exercise.

Akashi conferred with his doctors every time he visited, and Atsushi knew he consistently asked even Midorima and various other specialists for a second opinion. Himuro constantly fussed over him like a mother—perhaps even more than his. They were very stubborn about all this.

But Atsushi was more stubborn.

"Muro-chin," he mumbled, attempting to get comfortable on the hospital bed he easily dwarfed. "You should go home. Ami-chin must be worried."

Himuro furrowed his brows. Had he always had that much wrinkles on his forehead? "Ami understands, Atsushi. I—I want to be here, okay? Don't worry about me."

He gave Atsushi that phony smile again—the one Muro-chin gave him whenever he tried not to show him what he really felt. Atsushi had seen it so many times, even more so in these past few months, and it’s still annoying. Atsushi wondered what Muro-chin would do if he punched him this time around.

Kaga-chin would probably get mad at him if he did. Better not then.

"Just go home, Muro-chin. You look like a ghost. Eat lots of cake. That would make you feel better."

Himuro chuckled. It was weak, but it was there. "That only works for you, Atsushi."

Atsushi only shrugged, as if saying, "So?"

There's that look again, but it was so fond and teary that he could only look away.

If there was anything Atsushi could pride himself in, it's the fact that he knew himself. Denying his feelings were one thing, but he knew his body—its wants, its needs, and its limits.

He knew he didn't have long. It was getting harder to breathe. The lub-dub in his chest was getting slower, heavier. His joints constantly ached, irritating like an itch he couldn't scratch.

Regretting his (admittedly) bad habits had no merits. For one thing, he never regretted eating what he did. (Though that wasabi-barbeque-pina colada-mix-flavored pudding was quite close.) Maybe he should've gone back to playing basketball, even from time to time, but he couldn't really bring himself to regret it. If anything, he regretted being in the mercy of nurses who refused to give him what he wanted to eat.

Even in the hospital, he kept requesting for his snacks, sometimes even going so far as rejecting his doses when they didn't comply. The nurses were quite exasperated with him. A man of such hulking stature—not to mention diabetic and dying—shouldn't be sulking about not getting his Maiubo.

"I promised Kaga-chin that I'd do the eating for him," he reasoned to a particularly irate head nurse.

But maybe, just maybe, his biggest regret was leaving his friends behind.

That's why he made sure to hand them snacks (smuggled in by Aka-chin) whenever they visited him—the most generous he'd ever been, really—as a simple thank you for always being there for him. He hoped that it could bring them the same kind of joy he got whenever he ate his favorite snacks.

In his funeral, his friends brought him baskets of pastries and snacks. They knew he would've appreciated those more than flowers.

 .

.

.

 Aomine Daiki wasn’t supposed to die at thirty-six, but when a perp got away from his bindings, he took the blow that was supposed to be for his partner. He died instantly.

Though he’s eternally grateful for Aomine Daiki, Tsuchiyama Kagami would wonder what made his chronically lazy and perverted senpai jump in to save him. They were just recently assigned together and based on his reputation at the station, despite being a brilliant officer, Aomine Daiki was not the type of person to play hero.

It was a question he would never get an answer to, but he would think of Aomine Daiki for the rest of his career.

 .

.

.

 Perhaps the hardest death to accept was Kagami Taiga's. Out of all of them, he was the first to go. Nineteen was too young, was it not? Everyone thought so as well.

A Modern-Day Hero, or so the papers said. The news about the fearless fireman who rushed into a burning house to save a seven-year old girl who was stuck inside. The girl made it out safely. Unfortunately, the young fireman did not: a light snuffed out too early.

"He’s a hero," the little girl's mother said in an interview, her eyes filled with tears as she held her daughter tightly in her arms. "I will be forever thankful to him for saving Hitoka-chan."

But awards and gratitude would not bring a dear friend back.

Of them all, it was Aomine who had the least control over his emotions, raging and yelling over his casket with the despair of the one left behind as Kise tried to hold him back through his tears.

He was the last of them to see him alive, just having finished a round of basketball a week before. It was jarring to see Kagami just laying unnaturally still, paler than he's ever seen him, in a tux that he was sure itched like hell had he still been able to feel.

It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.

Never again would they hear his voice, tinged with excitement and determination. Never again would they play the sport they love together. Never again would they see him soar.

"Why the hell did you have to go and be a hero, you dumbass?"

A lot of people came to visit his remains and paid their respects. His family all the way from America, the various friends he made throughout his stay in Japan, his colleagues from the fire station, his classmates at university and his teammates, the people he’d played basketball with, and the people who was inspired by his courage; so many people who hadn’t been in the same room for years, suddenly seeing each other again in what could only be a morbid reunion.

"Mere words cannot express how much I am indebted to Kagami Taiga," Akashi said during the eulogy. "He was my—no," he corrected himself. "He was our saving grace. His light never stopped shining bright, and even after all that has happened, not once did he stop sharing that light with us. Kindly, willingly... selflessly." Akashi glanced at the white coffin, his eyes full of emotion.

"Until the day we join him in the afterlife, we will miss him dearly."

[fromtheringapron]

Royal Rumble ‘90 Fan Picks: A Review

Last year, I graded promos of the participants in the 1990 Royal Rumble match. It was a super fun time, but we’re not done with all the early ‘90s goodness yet. While the pre-match promos are an excellent piece of character work, the more enlightened among us would know they weren’t the only ones who went public with their thoughts on that day’s event. If you owned the Coliseum Home Video release (which I assume would be everyone), you’d see an exclusive segment where the fans in attendance give their picks on who’s going to win.

Needless to say, this is an utterly delightful segment. It’s a raw, honest look into what human beings were like at the start of the ‘90s. Years and years from now, when we’re all dead and buried, this will be in a time capsule as one of our last vestiges to a particular time in history. Also, thankfully, it’s a glimpse into the absurd mark-dom of early ’90s wrestling fans, unblemished by Internet snark and social media savvy. Their thoughts are pure and ridiculous and perfect for riffing all at once. Bless them all.

Anyway, let’s take a look and see who the masses in Orlando thought would go all the way in the Rumble 30 slappin’ years ago:

The Man in Black: We start with a fairly boring young man who thinks The Ultimate Warrior is going to win because of his strength and wrestling experience. Um, okay? About as basic and unimaginative as his opinion is his fashion sense. Entirely draped in black, could easily be mistaken for one of those goths who popped up around the mid ‘90s for the Undertaker. Also, what’s up with the Canon shoulder strap? Surely he must’ve taken some photos. I want live photos to surface of Saaphire striking Queen Sherri mid-slap. I demand it.

Potential Murder Suspect: Honestly, I don’t know whether to find this dude endearing or creepy. The tone of his voice says fun and flamboyant, but the eyes being covered by those massive sunglasses gives me the heebie jeebies. What are you hiding from us, my dear sir? Anyway, he says Hulk Hogan will win because of his 24-inch pythons. His next TV appearance, I’m guessing, was on America’s Most Wanted. 

Fighting Frat Bros: So next we get two guys who just came from the nearest keg party to argue over whether Hogan or Warrior will win. I’m not sure if the producers forced them to do this to hype WrestleMania VI, but I will say you can’t possibly script some frat dude saying the Warrior will win because he’s “a monster wrestler.” The pro-Hogan one of the pair argues the Hulkster will because of, you guessed it, his 24-inch pythons. People in 1990 were really fascinated with the pythons. Neither bro is the star of this bit, however. That honor instead belongs to the the clueless dude in the Bret Hart shirt behind them looking totally befuddled and seems to have wandered to the Orlando Arena by accident. What a gem.

Most Hated Woman in America: Literally all this women says is that Mr. Perfect is gonna win the Rumble to get absolutely crapped on by everyone around her. She was then presumably disowned by her family off-camera. Also, she’s wearing a Hulkamania shirt as she says this and it’s like, um, sis, whose side are you really on? The chorus of boos is led by a tie-dye clad fellow who seems to be under the impression he’s attending a Grateful Dead concert.

Smarky Smarks: Ugh. Look at these smug little shits. You just know they get off telling all the marks about the latest Meltzer scoops from the Wrestling Observer. Give it 10 years and these would probably be the same dudes on the Net ranting about how Taka Michinoku and Dean Malenko should be main eventing WrestleMania, could wrestle The Rock out of his boots, blah blah blah. They pick Mr. Perfect to win because of course they do.

Our Lady Peace: Wait, who’s this? Who is this sentient being arisen from hairspray and cigarette ash? She swoops in with the fervent call of I’M SORRY TO DISAGREE WITH YA that immediately swallows our smark bros whole. She asserts that Jake The Snake is going to win. This queen has rescued us from their nauseating self-satisfaction with her tried and true Jake fandom. Ma’am, if you’re still bopping around south Florida somewhere, you’re a hero. Maybe you still think Jake is gonna win the Rumble, I don’t know. We’ll always have this document of your good deeds to remember you by.

Bill Eadie’s #1 Fan: Easily the most random pick comes from this gentleman who, um, picks Demolition Axe because “he’s the only one that can beat Andre The Giant.” His friend appears to be on the verge of laughter. I can’t tell if this is a deliberate troll job by these dudes or what. Funnily enough, I could actually see Bill Eadie with some sort of cult following amongst smart fans who knew of his extensive pre-Demolition career, but as our Rumble winner? Come on now.

Hit Girl: So this youngster picks Bret Hart because “he’s really neat and has a good chance.” This is chilling to watch. She has no idea how hard her hero will disappoint her. He will fail, having his elimination barely on-camera. Her world view will become jaded. Years later, she will enact revenge on him and orchestrate the Montreal Screwjob. If you’re looking for the real mastermind behind it all, look no further. Vince was just the fall guy.

Shady Lady: This woman, who appears to have stolen Gorilla Monsoon’s glasses, predicts Roddy Piper is gonna win because “he’s got great legs, even if he does wear a skirt.” We’ll need to unpack this. First off, I really want to know how Piper’s gorgeous gams will lead him to victory, although if he came there to chew gum and kick some ass, the legs may help him out with that. Then, in the second bit of that statement, she suddenly turns heel. Even if he does wear a skirt? Is that shade? Did she take notes from Bobby Heenan? To go from thirsting after Hot Rod to dragging him in a single promo is some legend shit. The Attitude Era began right here.

Silver Fox: Wait, so this guy clearly works at the arena, right? Look at how he’s dressed. There’s a name tag there but, alas, the Orlando sun leaves me unable to read it. Anyway, he thinks “Jimmy Superfly” is gonna win because “he is the best.” And then he does a hilariously pathetic Jimmy Snuka impersonation, which I can only assume was so awful that he was fired from his Orlando Arena job later that day.

Pretty Fly for a White Guy: This guy never stops to catch his breath at any point during this bit. It kinda stresses me out. He thinks Randy Savage will win because the Royal Rumble is named after royalty and the only king is Savage himself. Clever reasoning, my dude! He then holds up a piece of abstract art resembling a sign. It’s supposed to depict Sherri, but we only get Sherri’s eyes looking directly into our souls. Fans in the early ‘90s were avant-guard trailblazers in their own way.

Saaphire’s #1 Fan: This child picks Dusty Rhodes to win because “he’s got a really good manager.” That manager, as if I need to remind you, is Saaphire, who isn’t a manager and is actually a crazed Dusty fan who was picked from relative obscurity. It’s so easy to mock this, but I appreciate the pure innocence in his answer. Plus, I like the idea that Saaphire has this amazing wrestling savvy to bring Dusty to the winner’s circle. Did you know that Saaphire invented the Canadian Destroyer and the Spanish Fly?

And that’s a wrap. Woof, what a segment. They don’t make ‘em like this anymore. So, who do you think will win this year’s Royal Rumble? I’m picking Demolition Axe. After all, he’s the only one that can beat Brock Lesnar. 

[murphyric-blog]

Trending digital marketing resolution 2020

As 2019 kicks off business are searching for new competitive benefits and ways that to connect with a lot of customers.digital marketing had no signs of deceleration down or stopping wherever currently the business owners are centered on strengthening their digital marketing efforts for the coming year.

If you still feel like your head is spinning from 2019. 2020 promises to be even more disruptive and its isn't just new technology changing the game. Before I jump to discussing the career as a digital marketer, let me go back a few steps and start from the basics.I know -it is tiresome for some of you (I can already see you with your mouth wide open. Please do not yawn). Digital marketing includes techniques such as Search Engine Optimization, Social Media Marketing, Pay Per Click Techniques, and email marketing. We are on the Internet and are using the majority of our time on the Internet to search, buy and browse .

The scope of digital marketing is nothing but magical.

41% is the current growth rate in the digital marketing industry.

The Scope of Digital Marketing in India and How to get started?

With the ever-changing market trend each industry or business has got to sooner or later perceive the scope of digital marketing and incorporate in their selling strategy.With a lot of range of player getting into the digital marketing market the scope of digital marketing career has additionally inflated manifold.. 

Some of the digital marketing careers are:

1. Digital Project Manager

The world has already moved online. Has your job moved with it? Where do project manager’s nowadays? Gone are the times of managing work by using pen and paper, dry erase markers and sticky notes . saving Word documents and spreadsheets in a folder on your computer is a thing of the past.

So just what is digital project management? It’s a streamlined process of managing online projects from concept to completion, within budget and using a certain amount of resources. It involves planning, delegating, tracking, reviewing, and measuring results — usually all done using project management software. The goal of each project is totally different, but the overarching objective is to grow business and see valuable ROI from the project. Types of comes will vary from events to digital content comes.

2. Become a youtuber

You can choose to become a full-time You Tuber in a selected niche.You need to target the standard of content and building your audience base on YouTube.Once you start getting subscribers and views, you can make money with YouTube monetisation. you can earn money by just uploading videos on youtube with great content as content is the king .

3. SEO Specialists

SEO career is a part of Digital Marketing field. making Career in SEO is becoming popular in India and If you see the history and recent advertisements on popular job portals, you will find that the need for well-trained SEO professionals in India is growing day by day. Almost each little or massive businesses who have web site is currently investing in SEO to urge prime ranking in Google.

Presently SEO has emerged as a booming career and therefore the demand for SEO professionals is growing quickly as a result of the rise in digital awareness, growing on-line competition, increasing net and mobileusers in India. SEO is not just job or career. it is a combination of multiple skills which you will use to get website on the first page of Google. As i said, SEO isn't simply a career option; SEO may be a should have ability which is able to assist you build your career in Digital promoting. SEO is a component of Digital promoting that is growing in india quickly. Learning SEO is good start for your career if you're passionate about promoting, websites, writing, blogging, analytic and learning new skills.

4.Be a professional blogger

Firstly i'll like to say that no one is going to get you money for free, no matter what you do.Blogging is just too similar to business and a bit like in business however coming up with, punctuality, management, quality, loyalty, and promotion i.e.how you attract your customers have their own importance, is same in the case of blogging.No business is 100% safe.Simply, however passionate and dedicated you're for blogging as a career?

Many digital promoting professionals opt for full time blogging as their career selection.With dedication and toil, many professionals are not successful bloggers in their chosen niche.Bloggers will generate financial gain with advertising & affiliate promoting methods.

5. Earn with Affiliate Marketing & Ad Sense:

You can begin your blog/website/app in an exceedingly specific niche of your interest and at first exerting to create traffic & viewers. After generating sensible traffic, you'll be able to create a decent financial gain with Ad Sense & affiliate promoting techniques. Affiliate marketing is where you earn commission with every successful product sale you generate through your affiliate referral links whereas Ad Sense is a display advertising platform where you earn money by showing ads on your website and your earnings mostly depend upon the CPC of your keyword

6.Start freelancing service

With the current Indian economy optimistic and poised towards fast growth, new and rising business models are progressively cementing there position within the market.For instance, E-commerce in india has already unfold across various sectors like consumer goods, sports and nutrition, aid and food to call a couple of.

Portals like Zomato and Flipkart have sucessfully exploited the Indian on-line markets and remodeled into globally competitive corporations with massive scale growth and ascension being their agenda.There is absolutely no limit to the range of work you can do as a freelancer.

There is a lot of general stuff like web site Development, Content Writing, SEO promoting, Graphic style etc.Freelancing has given immense opportunities to talented buds where they can show their skills and earn handsome amount to make their pockets happy. there are couple of benefits of freelancing such as :

Flexible work timings

Becoming your own boss

Stress free life

Work satisfaction

And at last time for other activities

7. Chief Marketing Officers

A Chief marketing Officer (CMO) is liable for overseeing the look, development associated execution of an organization's promoting and advertising initiatives.Reporting on to the chief officer, the CMO's primary responsibility is to come up with revenue by increasing sales through sure-fire selling for the complete organization, mistreatment marketing research, pricing,product marketing, marketing communications, advertising and public relations.

From reviewing copy to approving campaign proposals, chief promoting officers usually work alongside CEOs associated are an integral piece of business operations.

skills required for chief marketing officers:

Superb analytical skills

Demonstrated ability to lead and inspire a team

Outstanding communication and interpersonal skills

Flexibility

Passionate customer advocacy

Thorough information of promoting principles, brand, product and repair management

Deep understanding of changing market dynamics

Entrepreneurial spirit

[lets-talk-appella]

The Underwear Incident

Bechloe Week Day Two - Jealousy

Summay:  Beca Mitchell is one of the most famous music artists in America. She gets a lot of attention from her fans, which occasionally makes Chloe a little jealous... established Bechloe. For Bechloe Week Day 2 - Jealousy.

Word Count: 3.9k

AO3 and FFN

Chloe isn’t quite sure how her life got to this point. If someone had told her seven years ago that Beca “I don’t even sing” Mitchell would one day sign with DJ Khaled to headline a national tour, she would have laughed in their face.

Moreover, if that same someone had told her that one day, she’d be dating that grumpy little alt girl, she’d never have believed it.

But now, as she watches from backstage as Beca commands the entirety of the St. Paul Target Center arena, her lips still tingling from the kiss they’d shared before Beca started her show, she wouldn’t change a thing.

It was the eleventh performance of her nineteen-date national tour and Beca seemed to be savoring every minute of it. Chloe smiled to herself at the roar of the audience, warmed up by opener Hayley Kiyoko. They loved Beca. Why wouldn’t they? Beca is so loveable, her beautiful features and breathtaking vocals only accentuated by the theatrical stage lights and the slight echo of the sold-out stadium.

Beca’s eyes flash, as they often do, to her at the side of the stage. Like always, Chloe sees the dumbfounded ecstasy Beca feels at having actual fans showing up at her concerts. And, like always, Chloe grins back her endless support, having chosen to accompany Beca on her tour before beginning her semester at vet school. She knows Beca appreciates having her there to ground her.

As Beca’s fourth song of the night ends, a group of fans in the front row tosses a bouquet of roses on stage. Chloe sees Beca’s smile widen even further as she stoops to sweep the flowers into her hands. She leans in to smell their perfume, grinning, and says into the mic, “For me? Thanks, they smell amazing! I’ll just set them here for now.”

She turns to place the bouquet delicately near the back of the stage where they will be safe from her movements and dancing. As she does, Chloe spots another fan, a teenage boy, leaning forward, holding out what looks like a piece of paper.

Beca reaches over the heads of her security team to grab it. Chloe smirks; Beca had always wondered at the necessity of having security and often did things like this just to annoy them.

“Holy shit, this is beautiful,” Beca says for the arena to hear as she examines the paper. She holds it up to cover her face so the screens can see it and broadcast the image. The boy had drawn Beca’s likeness extremely well, somehow capturing the light shining from her dark eyes.

“Absolutely gorgeous,” Beca compliments again, and Chloe can see from the smile that overtakes the boy’s face that she’s just made his day. Beca turns again to take the art to safety, catching Chloe’s eye and dropping her mouth open in a look of utter awe. Chloe merely smiles back and shrugs. She loves how kind Beca is to her fans, as if she still can’t believe they’re all there for her.

“Thank you guys so much!” Beca calls once the art is safely stored with the flowers. The crowd roars, her fans screaming in support.

“I think, as some extra thanks, I’ll sing a new song I only just finished writing.” Even louder screaming follows her announcement, and Chloe laughs as Beca has to wait for the tsunami of noise to die down before she can speak again.

“It’s called ‘Your Body,’ and I’ve never performed it live like this before, so bear with me.”

She glances to the side at Chloe to ask permission and Chloe nods her assent. Beca had written the song for her during the first leg of her tour.

“It’s for someone pretty important to me,” Beca continues over the sound of even more screaming. “You know who you are.” She grabs the mic stand and uses it so that her hands are free.

Chloe smiles at the sentiment. Their relationship is, at this point, a secret. It had been Beca’s idea to hide her identity, not wanting the media or intense fans to pursue Chloe or interrupt their privacy. Of course, there were countless rumors online and in the tabloids about who Beca might be involved with; anyone from Tom Hiddleston to Hayley Kiyoko herself were considered possibilities, much to both her and Beca’s amusement.

As the opening slow notes of the song play, a hush falls over the arena. Beca begins what is probably the sexiest song ever, at least in Chloe’s opinion. Beca’s lyrics ring out, full of the love and lust that describe their relationship perfectly.

Chloe shivers, awed by how different the song sounds belted out on stage as opposed to sung softly in her ear while in bed. Her eyes rake up Beca’s body, lingering on the slow, sensual twist of her hips and the flexing of the lithe muscles that stand out under her skinny jeans. The back of Chloe’s neck warms when her gaze rests on Beca’s hands, twisting and moving in the air without hindrance of the microphone, as she recalls vividly what those hands are capable of. Beca’s eyes are closed, the look on her face one of complete concentration, her perfect lips forming every word of the song so tenderly it makes Chloe’s heart ache.

Beca looks both absolutely beautiful and incredibly sexy at the same time and Chloe finds herself staring, admiring her girlfriend’s entire being.

However, it seems she’s not the only one admiring Beca in that moment.

A sudden movement catches Chloe’s eye, shattering her concentration on Beca. Her attention shifts instead to the front few rows of the audience, specifically to an arm raised back and poised to throw something small on stage. The arm shoots forward, the hand releasing the object, and Chloe watches the gift to Beca fly through the air, twisting over other fans and over Beca’s security to land on the stage near her feet. Chloe cranes her neck to see what it is. When she finally does figure it out, her stomach twists painfully.

It’s a lacy black thong, clearly a piece of lingerie. Someone had thrown their panties on stage at Beca. While Beca was singing an incredibly sexy song. Written for Chloe.

Um. No.

Chloe searches the audience for the culprit, finally spotting her. There’s no mistaking her; the girl is grinning proudly, unembarrassed even as others in attendance turn to stare at her. Her eyes are focused on Beca, clearly waiting for some sort of response. Chloe’s jaw clenches in anger. The girl is gorgeous. And she’s a redhead.

Chloe tries to shove down her immediate jealousy, knowing instantly that she’s overreacting. It’s just another intense fan, no big deal. Besides, Beca’s probably really weirded out by it. She’s not usually the type to enjoy something so forward.

She looks back to Beca, expecting her to ignore the panties entirely. However, Beca, finally catching sight of the garment, raises her eyebrows in surprise and smiles awkwardly at the girl who threw them. Then, without pausing her singing, Beca bends down to snatch up the thong, twirling it around her finger a few times before tucking it into a front pocket so that it hangs out for the whole arena to see. Then, she winks directly at the girl.

The air rushes out of Chloe’s lungs. Her first reaction is one of mild disgust. Who knows where those panties have been? Well, actually, she has a pretty good idea, and ew. Beca needs to wash her hands, like, now.

However, her disgust is almost instantly shoved aside by furious disbelief. Her Beca just put some other girl’s underwear in her pocket. No. Unacceptable. Now that girl is probably getting all sorts of mixed messages, especially because Beca’s relationship status isn’t officially known. How dare Beca do that? No. Just no. Did Beca forget who she was dating? Is that all it takes? Some lacy panties tossed up on stage during a sexy song? During her sexy song?

Chloe sees red. She’s so angry that all she can do is glare at Beca, who finishes the song only to sing three of her other chart-topping hits immediately after. Chloe barely hears them, blood still pounding in her ears. She knows Beca keeps glancing at her, confused by the death glare she’s transmitting, but she can’t bring herself to stop. Beca should know by now how jealous she gets.

“Okay, I’m going to turn it over to an instrumental piece I composed and produced a while ago, so hang tight and I’ll be back soon!” Beca’s voice, resonating over the arena, crashes into Chloe. Beca’s taking her usual intermission about three songs earlier than she normally does.

Chloe looks up to see Beca jogging off stage and directly toward her, concern written over her flushed and slightly sweaty face. Chloe raises an eyebrow, waiting. Beca has some explaining to do.

“Chlo, you okay?” Beca asks when she arrives next to Chloe. “You’re looking a little off.”

“Oh, am I?” Chloe fires back, taking satisfaction in the way Beca hesitates before responding.

“Yeah, um, you look kind of pissed.”

“Hmm, I wonder why,” Chloe spits, feeling her temper rise again. No way can Beca be that clueless.

Except – “Um,” Beca says quietly, looking lost. “I wonder why, too.”

Chloe raises her eyebrows imperiously and gestures sharply down at Beca’s pocket, from which the offensive black thong still dangles. Beca’s gaze follows her point, and Chloe can tell from her puff of breath that she’d forgotten the panties were still there.

Beca looks up at her sheepishly, but Chloe doesn’t give her time to defend herself.

“Beca Mitchell, you put some – some floozy’s panties in your pocket right in front of me!” she yells, knowing that the sound of Beca’s instrumental break and the screaming of Beca’s fans will prevent her voice from traveling far.

“That?” Beca asks incredulously. “Ah, come on, don’t call her that. It was just so the girl wouldn’t feel bad. You know I like to make them happy!”

That was the wrong thing to say. “Now she thinks you’ll be making her very happy!” Chloe argues back, leaning forward to get into Beca’s face.

Beca rolls her eyes at the implication, making Chloe’s hands clench into fists. “Chlo, you know it isn’t like that. It’s just something fun, a joke. It went with the song.”

Chloe opened her mouth to tear into Beca again when Beca interrupts, looking at her seriously. “Besides, babe, how many pairs of underwear have you thrown at random singers?”

Chloe blinks, sidetracked. Damn. Beca knows her too well. She can remember at least three separate incidences where she’d thrown either panties or a bra up on stage. And those were just when she was sober.

Forcing herself to rally, but already feeling her anger abate, Chloe replies, “That’s… that’s beside the point! You shouldn’t have done it! She’s basically asking you to cheat on me!”

Beca smiles at her slightly, as if sensing that their fight is already on its way to being over. “Dude, calm down, it doesn’t mean anything! And, remember, they all think I’m single, so….”

Chloe crosses her arms with a huff, glaring away from Beca off to the side.

The concluding measures of Beca’s instrumental break permeate the air and Beca raises a hand to reach out to Chloe. Chloe only turns away further, still annoyed. Beca sighs and says, “Look, I gotta go. I’m sorry, I swear it’s nothing. Here –”

Chloe glances at her to see that Beca has taken the panties out of her pocket and is trying to hand the garment to Chloe. Chloe wrinkles her nose and says sharply, “No, thanks.”

Beca takes her hand back and sighs again. “Can we talk about this after?”

Chloe doesn’t respond.

She feels Beca’s eyes on her, full of worry, and has a flash of guilt for making such a big deal out of it. Before she can say anything to amend it, though, Beca turns away to jog back on stage to her yelling fans. She moves to where she’d already placed the flowers and the beautiful drawing and drops the thong with her other souvenirs.

As Beca greets the crowd without glancing at her, Chloe lets her stance and posture relax, dropping her crossed arms to let her hands play with her jeans. She knows she overreacted. Beca’s right; she’s thrown enough undergarments on people’s stages to know that it really doesn’t mean anything. It’s a fun joke meant to flatter the artist, not meant to lead anywhere. And even if that girl did have hopes for a good time in return, Chloe knows in her soul that Beca would never do that to her. To them.

What they have is too important.

Chloe sighs, already regretting how she’d handled that. She glances up at Beca, who has still not looked her way. Chloe bites her lip; she hopes that Beca’s not distracted now, worrying about the status of their relationship instead of focusing on her music and her fans.

Releasing her lip to quirk her mouth thoughtfully, Chloe knows she needs to think of some way to make it up to Beca. She wants to capture her attention and make the biggest apology possible. She thinks for a moment until her eyes fall on the pile of souvenirs. She smiles slightly, a plan forming.

With one last look to Beca on stage, her eyes closed and singing her heart out, Chloe turns and rushes away, down the backstage steps until she finds an exit sign. She follows that to end up near the side of the fan section. Ducking and weaving around the hordes of hysterical concert-goers, Chloe makes her way to a stadium exit. She flashes her security pass at a guard, who lets her leave the arena and move into the main part of the building where Beca’s voice is much more muted. Her eyes land on the main front doors, and she dashes out and onto the street.

Her head swivels as she tries to spot any kind of convenience store or retail outlet, anything that might have what she’s looking for. Not seeing anything, she jogs around the Target Center, eyes scanning desperately. She knows Beca’s going to notice her absence before long, and, while a small part of her takes petty satisfaction in knowing it will teach Beca a lesson, her rational side knows that she needs to minimize Beca’s anxiety over their argument. She pulls out her phone and types frantically into Google Maps, knowing she won’t get anywhere by running around.

The first result to pop up is just over two blocks away. Perfect. Glancing at her phone to confirm the street name, Chloe starts jogging again, moving quickly to get where she wants to go. She can see people stopping to stare at her, and she doesn’t blame them. She knows she must look insane, now running at full speed to get to her destination.

She’s there in minutes, breathing hard, thankful for her gym routine. She dashes inside the store, moving immediately to the section she needs. She grabs the first item she sees and flies toward the register, not looking at the size or price, only wanting to check out and get back to Beca as soon as she can.

The saleswoman stares at her when she practically tosses the item onto the counter and bends to dig in her purse for her wallet. Chloe sends her a bright smile, trying to hide her heavy breathing. The woman doesn’t comment, only smiling tightly back before scanning the purchase and taking Chloe’s offered debit card wordlessly.

“Can you cut the tags off, please? I don’t have scissors on me,” Chloe remembers to ask at the last second. The woman – her name tag says Karen – only nods and grabs scissors on her desk, removing the tags with a quick snip.

Item paid for, Chloe shoves it and her card back into her purse, denying the offered bag. With a rushed “Thank you!” she sprints back out of the store and all the way back to the Target Center, nearly plowing down an elderly man on the way.

Legs burning, she launches herself into the building, holding up her security pass in a sweating palm like a shield. She’s granted access into the arena and backstage area again to resume her previous position just off stage and in view of Beca. The whole thing had taken less than fifteen minutes.

Chloe doubles over, her hands on her knees as she catches her breath, a stitch in her side. She dimly wonders if she should focus more on cardio and less on her arms at the gym, but she really likes how her shoulders look. Finally drawing in one last huge gulp of air, she stands upright to see Beca still singing powerfully on stage. She’s got Beca’s set list memorized and is relieved to have only missed about four songs.

As Beca’s current song draws to a close, her eyes flick to where Chloe stands. Even from off stage, Chloe can see the relief in Beca’s eyes as she sends her a small smile. Chloe’s heart pangs; Beca had definitely noticed she’d left. Guilt claws at her, but she knows exactly what to do to make it up to her girlfriend. She digs in her purse, pulling out the gift and holding it at the ready, hidden behind her back.

Chloe waits patiently as Beca’s show winds down, reaching the finale before too long. Beca had chosen to end every show with a mashup of the two songs she always says started it all. Chloe approves of her decision wholeheartedly. As the opening chord of the mix of ‘Titanium’ and ‘Cups’ permeates the arena, goosebumps rise on her arms and a chill runs down her spine.

Chloe waits until Beca reaches the chorus of the song, the part of ‘Titanium’ when Beca’s eyes will lock, as they always do, onto hers as they are both sent back in time to Barden’s showers. Her heart thuds in time with Beca’s voice, waiting, straining her patience until –

Beca’s gaze meets hers, open and loving as always. Chloe pulls her arm out from behind herself to reveal the panties she’d just purchased. Beca’s eyes widen in surprise, and Chloe laughs as she lifts her arm to throw the panties, tumbling through the air only for Beca to catch them deftly in her left hand.

Miraculously, Beca’s singing continues uninterrupted by the flying lingerie. She winks at Chloe, then lowers her hand to half slide the panties under the waistband of her jeans, letting them flop out at the top. The audience goes absolutely wild, as does Chloe’s pulse. She glances into the crowd, already knowing what she’ll see. Sure enough, several members of the front rows, including the girl who first threw the underwear, are looking in her direction, clearly wondering who had tossed the garment from backstage.

Chloe looks back to Beca, who’s still staring at her. Chloe takes a deep breath, tilting her head to the side in a question. Beca nods once, heading into the final bars of her song. Chloe steels herself with a roll of her shoulders, ready for what this decision will mean for her. For them. She had guessed this would happen when she first ran out of the arena. It’s time, and it’s a good way to ensure that everyone knows Beca is hers and hers alone.

Beca concludes the show on a high note (literally) and the arena erupts with sound. Beca bows once, an awkward smile on her face that makes Chloe laugh; Beca always has been bad with compliments. She turns to Chloe, eyebrows raised in one final question, giving her the chance to change her mind. Chloe falls even more in love with her at the gesture, but she’s sure about what she wants to do.

With a final deep breath, Chloe steps out onto the stage, dazzled by the lights and the noise and the people, but keeps her eyes on Beca. Beca will hold her steady. She reaches Beca’s side in almost no time at all and automatically winds an arm around her waist. Beca throws an arm over her shoulder, drawing her even closer until Chloe can feel Beca’s heart pounding, strong and steady.

Beca raises her free hand, gesturing for some quiet. The noise level drops instantly, making Chloe revel at the power Beca has.

“So, I know there have been some rumors going around about me lately,” Beca says into the mic, still slightly breathless from her finale. “And while Tom and Hayley are both good friends of mine, I just have to say – the only person I want in the entire world is this girl next to me. Everyone, meet Chloe.”

Chloe gives an awkward sort of half wave as she senses the eyes of almost 17,000 people landing on her. Not sure what else to do, she does what comes naturally. She turns to Beca, reaches out to touch her face, and leans in to kiss her fully.

A wave of sound washes over her. Anyone in the main area of the building might well think an explosion had occurred; Chloe knows her ears will be ringing for days, but she doesn’t mind. When the kiss breaks, Chloe looks at the crowd, squinting against the bright lights to see that everyone in residence is standing, clapping, screaming, giving her and Beca a standing ovation. It’s overwhelming. It’s excessive.

It’s beautiful.

They stand there for what feels like an hour but is surely only a few minutes before the stage lights are turned off and Beca’s leading her backstage again, scooping up the gifts her fans had given her.

“So, that was okay?” Chloe asks quickly as they walk, wanting to make sure Beca is fine with going public with their relationship.

“That was more than okay,” Beca replies, her voice hoarse from the performance. “It’ll be different now, but also easier in some ways.”

Chloe smiles slightly. “No more excited fangirls,” she teases gently, gesturing to the thong Beca had picked up.

“Nah, I just need you to keep tossing panties at me and I’ll be good,” Beca responds, glancing at her out of the corner of her eye.

“Mmm. Did you like that?”

“I did,” Beca nods. “I’m assuming that’s where you disappeared to? Because I know they aren’t yours. Unless you wrestled them off some poor girl?”

Chloe wrinkles her nose at the thought. “Nope, bought them. Look, I’m sorry I went off earlier,” she adds, glancing at Beca.

Beca smiles and stops walking. Chloe looks around to see they’d somehow arrived at her dressing room already.

“It’s okay,” assures Beca quietly. “I’d probably be a little jealous if someone was throwing their underwear at you, too.”

“Well…” draws out Chloe, thinking. “I bet I can make it up to you?” She draws her lower lip into her mouth, moving close to Beca and trailing her fingers over Beca’s stomach.

Beca’s eyes darken and she moves closer as well, her breath ghosting over Chloe’s lips as she replies, “Gonna throw more clothing at me?”

Chloe smiles sweetly and whispers, “No. I’m going to tear clothing off of you.”

Quick as a flash, Beca opens her dressing room door to gently toss her gifts inside on the floor before turning back to Chloe. She grabs Chloe’s hand and the next thing she knows, Chloe is being ushered into the room and lifted onto the couch before Beca slams and locks the door behind them.

Oh yeah. She’s definitely buying lingerie more often.

[argyle-s]

THE SHAPE OF THINGS TO COME CHAPTER 35/38

Rating: Mature

Read at Ao3

Start at the Beginning

Cat and Kara Deal with the CatCo Board of Directors.

Thanks to @ifourmindbeso for her great work as a beta. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own.

Chapter 35 -  Going Nuclear

Kaldur’ahm was waiting for them as they approached the board room, holding a stack of folders Kara had asked him to prepare. Standing next to him was, of all people, Siobhan Smythe, holding a tray from Noonan’s.

“Jackson,” Kara said, giving him a small nod. “Miss Smythe.” Siobhan’s eyes opened a little wider, obviously surprised Kara knew who she was, but Kara ignored it. She took the tray from her. “Thank you, that will be all.”

Siobhan gave a slightly disappointed frown but left without saying anything.

“Are they already in there?” Kara asked.

“Yes,” Kaldur’ahm said.

Kara held out the tray to Cat. “Hold this for a moment?”

Cat took the tray, and Kara plucked Cat’s latte from it. She pushed up her glasses, then popped the lid on the drink, and after a quick check to make sure no one else was watching, she zapped it with her heat vision, making it just a tiny bit hotter than usual, before putting the lid back on and putting it back in the tray. She ignored the surprised look on both Cat and Kaldur’ahm’s faces as she took the tray back from Cat.

“Still trust me?” she asked Cat.

“Was signing over all my shares of CatCo not proof enough?” Cat asked, the smile on her face taking any sting out of her words.

Kara smiled back and had a sudden, mad urge to kiss Cat. She stepped on it, crushing it ruthlessly, reminding herself that she was just excited because it had been such a long time since she got to work with Cat on this level.

“Let’s go,” she said.

***

Cat walked into the board room like she owned it, which up until an hour ago, she had. Still, it was a habit, and one she allowed herself to fall into. She wasn’t at all sure what to expect from Kara, but she knew the show would be spectacular. She took her seat at the head of the table, staring at the nine faces who would thought they were about to determine her fate, and reminded herself of why she hated every one of them. CatCo was hers. She’d built it up from nothing, riding on the strength of her name and her reputation. Over the years, every single one of the parasites in the room had been forced on her by investors, a fact that showed clearly in the fact that of the nine of them, only two were women.

The chief parasite, Dirk Armstrong, sat at the far end of the table, and she could read the victory in his eyes. The satisfaction. He was a small man, desperate to snatch something from her he didn’t think she deserved. Never mind that she created it, nurtured it, and forged it into a weapon to wield. He wanted it, and because he wanted it, he felt entitled to it. The only thing that would hurt worse than losing CatCo, would be losing CatCo to him, because she knew he would burn every good thing she’d ever done to the ground, just to get her out of the way.

She glanced up as Kara sat her latte down in front of her, before placing one in front of the seat to Cat’s left where Jackson was just sitting down, then placing one in front of her own seat. Then Kara flung the cardboard tray across the room like a frisbee, depositing it in the trash perfectly, with a casual display of skill and contempt for the board that made Cat’s insides squirm with arousal. Little ordinary Kara Danvers.

Supergirl.

“Two assistants, Cat. Really?” Dirk asked.

Cat turned back to Dirk, giving a small shrug. She no longer felt the need to placate the man. Whatever happened here today, whether Kara was able to turn this around or not, Dirk had declared war, and Cat fully intended to destroy him.

“Some of us work for a living, Dirk,” Cat said. “We can’t all get by on our Daddy’s name and money.”

The entire board flinched, each of them shocked by the open display of hostility, and Cat smiled. They’d expected her to walk in here, broken and cowed. If they were half as smart as they thought they were, they’d have recognized the danger the moment she walked through the door. She no longer had anything to lose, and as much as she hated Cat puns, the claws were out.

“That’s uncalled for,” Roger Harris said from where he sat to Dirk’s right.

“Oh, Roger,” Cat said, “someone should have said that years ago. It might have saved us all a lot of tedium.”

“Well, if that’s your attitude, maybe we should have had this meeting a long time ago,” Amanda Baker said.

“Oh, I agree,” Cat said. “I’ve put up with all of you far, far too long.”

There. Now they were starting to see the danger signs. Something wasn’t right. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. She was supposed to be begging for her job, not coming out on the attack.

“Cat,” Jennifer Winston said, “what exactly do you think is going to happen here today?”

The entire board looked at her, expectantly.

“Oh, I honestly have no idea,” Cat said. “I do know that you expected me to come in here and beg for my job.”

“It’s not like that,” Jennifer said. “Surely you can see the position you put us in?”

“I can see that you all want a piece of my company. The one I built up from scratch. The one built on my very literal blood and tears. I can see how, the moment you think you smell blood in the water, you turn on me, too stupid to realize you’re not the sharks you think you are.”

Every one of them had gone pale, which for Amanda and Joseph was quite a feat, and it just made her smile all the more.

“But to be perfectly honest with you, I have absolutely no idea what is about to happen. I just know it’s going to be highly entertaining.”

“Well,” Kara said, “I hope it lives up to your expectations, Miss Grant.” Cat glanced over at Kara and saw her nod to Jackson, who stood up and started walking around the table, setting down folders in front of each member of the board.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the board,” Kara said as she took one of the folders from Jackson, “If you look at the packets in front of you, you will see from pages one through seven that as of eight forty this morning Pacific Standard Time, all SEC filings are complete, and a Tender Offer has been made by Danvers International to purchase CatCo Worldwide Media. Under the terms of the CatCo Corporate Charter, if a two-thirds supermajority of stock holders vote to approve the sale of CatCo, all members of the board are required to sell their shares so long as the tender offer is at least ten percent above market value. If you see look at page seven of the packet in front of you, you will see that Miss Grant transferred all her shares of CatCo to me at eight thirty-five Pacific Standard Time this morning, and I now own sixty-seven percent of CatCo stock. Page eight is a written demand for an immediate vote on the Tender Offer. Page nine is a written statement assigning all my votes in support of the buy-out. Page ten is evidence of corporate wrongdoing on the part of Dirk Armstrong, specifically emails documenting a conspiracy to orchestrate a hack of Cat Grant’s email, release it to the media, and force her resignation in disgrace. Pages eleven, twelve and thirteen include the relevant sections of Dirk’s contract stating that in the event that he is found acting against CatCo’s interests, he will be removed from the board, and forfeit ownership of CatCo stock and stock options, as well as all CatCo contributions to his retirement accounts, all contributions to the CatCo pension plan, and all profit sharing. Page fourteen exercises clause six of section four of the CatCo charter, giving the stock holders the option of demanding a vote of no confidence in the board in the event any member of the board is found acting against the best interests of CatCo. Page fifteen assigns all my votes in support of a no confidence vote. Page sixteen is a nomination for Cat Grant to act as interim chairwoman until a new board can be elected. Page seventeen is the signature page, acknowledging receipt of all of these documents, and confirming your acceptance of the Tender Offer.”

“In short, the eight of you are fired for gross incompetence,” Kara said, making a sweeping gesture towards the board members, then she pointed at Dirk, “and you, you walking personification of white male privilege, are going to jail.”

Cat had to force herself to look away from Kara, who sat in the chair next to her, looking like nothing so much as a general who’d just completely routed the enemy. It was hard, but she did it. She turned and looked at the board, and every single one of them sat there, unmoving, a look of complete and utter shock on their faces.

“This would be the part where you all sign,” Kara said in a tone that caused several of the board members to flinch.

Roger Harris, either braver or stupider than the rest, leaned forward, glaring at Kara. “Now just a minute-“

“No,” Kara snapped. “I don’t think so. You can sign now, or I can have the same team of cops and lawyers from the DA’s office who are, as we speak, ripping Dirk’s office apart take a good look at just who those emails were directed to, and that wouldn’t go very well for you or Miss Baker. Now, sign.”

Eight hands reached for pens, and Cat watched with unrestrained glee as everyone but Dirk signed the papers. A moment later though, her attention shifted to Dirk, drawn by the way his hands curled into fists.

“You bitch,” Dirk screamed, shoving the conference table to the side. It slammed into Roger and Amanda, knocking them both back as Dirk came to his feet, but Kara and Jackson both reacted before he could take another step.

Jackson grabbed Cat, pulling her out of her chair and pushing her away from the danger, interposing himself between her and Dirk. All Cat could see of Kara was her vaulting the table before Jackson pushed her out the door.

To Cat’s surprise, there were four cops waiting in the hallway. Two in cheap suits, two more in uniform.

“He tried to attack her,” Jackson said as he pulled her further from the door. The cops didn’t wait, they disappeared into the board room

‘’Miss Grant, please stop fighting,” Jackson said, making Cat pause when she realized she was struggling. “She will be fine,” he assured her.

Cat forced herself to straighten up. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“I understand,” he said. “I loved someone that way, once, as well.”

She looked at him, but he did not meet her gaze, instead scanning the room in the manner of a body guard she had always suspected he was.

“She’s my friend,” Cat said, the denial sounding weak, even to her.

“Of course,” he said. “I had such a friend, once.”

A moment later, the cops dragged a red-faced Dirk Armstrong from the room. The other board members trailed out after them. Kara was the last one to exit the room, and she came carrying a stack of folders, which she offered to Cat.

“The keys to your kingdom, Miss Grant,” she said with a smile.

From CatCo.com Stock Market In Turmoil Amidst Rash of Hostile Takeover Bids By Natalie Mercer

Stock prices across several sectors took a huge hit today, after previously unheard-of California company Danvers International submitted FTC filings announcing hostile takeover bids of six separate companies, including Lord Technologies, TychoTech, LuthorCorp, Queen Consolidated, Galaxy Communications, and CatCo.com’s parent company CatCo Worldwide Media. All six companies were already suffering from reduced stock prices before the takeover attempts. Queen Consolidated has never fully recovered from the death of CEO Robert Queen in a boating accident in two thousand and seven. LuthorCorp is still reeling from the recent conviction of former CEO Lex Luthor on multiple charges of murder and terrorism stemming from his attempts to kill Superman. Lord Technologies and TychoTech have both seen their CEO’s indicted in the last couple of weeks, and the reputations of both CatCo Worldwide Media, and Galaxy Communications, owners of The Daily Planet, were brought into question when it appeared that Supergirl had attacked former CatCo radio personality Leslie Willis.

Willis herself appeared outside National City Police Headquarters, making a public statement not only exonerating the Girl of Steel, but thanking the Superhero for saving her life, however, the takeover bids seemed to hit before CatCo and Galaxy Communications stock prices could recover.

While no official announcement has been made yet, but with their stock prices in freefall, analysts predict that both Lord Technologies and TychoTech have little chance of avoiding the buyouts. Predictions are mixed on the reaction at Queen Consolidated, with some suggesting a fierce fight for control, while others suggest the buyout may be welcomed by the current leadership. Analysts almost universally predict fierce resistance from Galaxy Communications, CatCo, and especially, LuthorCorp, which is currently in the midst of a leadership struggle between Lillian and Lena Luthor, both seeking control in the wake of Lex Luthor’s incarceration.

[kimyoonmiauthor]

Memoirette: How I learned about contracts and to read contracts.

Yeah, this one might sound a bit boring, but this is more along the lines of if you want to hire me for a contract job, please, please know that I’m not ignorant about how contracts work.

Also, I think that contracts (and I’ll repeat this until people get it) as the oldest piece of case law protect the client and the contractor.

About 9-13 years old, I became determined to be a writer and get published. You see, I’d been making up stories all my life, mostly to comfort myself. At the time, since not everything was digital, my Mom asked me what I wanted in the way of magazines, so determined to do this goal, and rather stubborn and single-minded as I was, I asked for Writers Digest.

I read 1 year of Writers Digest and over and over they said: “Learn to read the contracts. Don’t rely on your agent for it. Your agent will appreciate if you can read a contract.”

You kinda have to know this about me, but when I set my mind to a goal, I tend to overshoot the material that I need to achieve the goal. Even when I’m shopping for an item, I cast my net wide, research it to hell, make an internal list of pros and cons, then eliminate the things I don’t need. This means I always end up with more knowledge than absolutely necessary... but I often end up with satisfaction I got it right.

So, when Writers Digest said, “Learn contracts” the first thing I did was start reading sweepstakes contracts for limitations.

Then when I got access to the Internet, I read ALL of copyright.gov at least 5 times until I understood the entire thing. Any language I didn’t understand, I looked up or asked about. Any contract I could find, I spent time reading and trying to understand thereafter. My Dad also doubled down on it and said, it’s important to read contracts before you sign them.

Then I read every agent advice bit I could get my hands on, read about writing contracts, read about the differences between magazine writing contracts and book writing contracts, and then what I should and should not expect. I read credit card contracts before the law enacted and after they did enact the transparency with contracts. And then when I had the chance, I read lawyer advice about contracts. Pretty much, you should get it by now. If someone says to do something in order to achieve a goal I have, I always end up overshooting it. Several authors said to read everything... but I didn’t know that was supposed to be only white cishet writers in English and from Europeans and European diaspora. I thought it really meant EVERYTHING. So I read folktales, fairytales, and consumed worldwide media... and then found out that no one else was really doing that.

This meant by the time that I got pro-published, I knew contracts. Really knew contracts I’d read through every contract even when people told me not to. I had basics about contract law. I was like, I’m super ready.

In High school, I’d watched a bunch of lawyer shows and read a bunch of law cases in the past, so when we did play acting, I knew what questions to ask the opposing team to win. lol This is the typical type of thing, where I don’t know that no one else is really taking the advice that seriously, overshoot it, and then have to get my expectations down.

But this means I have and intermediate knowledge of contract, case law, from a hobbyist’s POV. I know the contract language, weasel clauses, etc. I’m not a light hitter. I know what I should expect. I know how to navigate a contracts.

Soooo.... if you want to contract me, expect that I have at least enough knowledge to know how a contract should read and function. After all, I’ve been reading them since I was a teenager.

[tissuelevelof891]

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[life-observed]

Musings from The Strangest Year on Earth

Confronting

2019 into 2020 was arguably the hardest year of my life in perhaps the most unspectacular of ways. There was no defining incident, no dramatic high point, just a lot of glowing embers waiting patiently for the wind to catch so they could burn my house to ash.

I am what one could call a chronic avoider. A runner, a hider and often (it felt), someone who lacked the ability to endure. The problem here, as you can imagine is that no matter how far you run, there is no getting away & the further I ran, the harder it was to turn around and confront the thing I was trying to outrun. I ran out of energy towards the end of the year, and when it finally caught up with me, I felt like I was out of options. I couldn’t run anymore, and I lacked the fortitude to fight. Lenka has a song called Trouble is A Friend. In it she sings, “I won’t let him in, but I’m a sucker for his charm”. The truth is, while I do not enjoy being depressed, there is something safe in knowing what to expect. So, I let it pick me up and hold me close to its cheek; large and looming, but strangely comforting in its familiarity. I had been here before, and all I had to do was wait it out until it put me down, and let me walk beside it, holding my hand until I inevitably started to get the itch to run again.

Seeing Colors

Depression is an old friend, but I had never seen it like this. For the first time, I started seeing colors in my mind’s eye; a way to give tangibility to the intangible. When it first caught up with me, I saw things through a grey fog. It was like I could see my life, but everything was grey and hazy. This I was used to. I was anticipating the slow return of color to the edges that would work its way towards the middle, and when it didn’t come, what was once an old, familiar place suddenly felt foreign and very empty. The loneliness I felt here was unparalleled. Not only had I spent the past year physically isolating from relationships I had held near & dear, now the one thing I thought I could count on was changing before my eyes. I started waking up and seeing the same scene in my head every day. A dark, angry orange sky over a cracked, dusty ground with no sign of life anywhere: dead trees and a stifling sort of silence. It was in this sky that I lost the ability to recognize my face in the mirror. When I looked at myself, it was the first time in my life that I saw a very sad stranger looking back at me. I removed pictures of myself from messaging apps, social media. I couldn’t stand to look at myself, so unrecognizable, so much like a ghost. Under this sky, I felt myself giving up.

Endurance

I say the following as a fact — not a cause for alarm. I have thought about dying a lot. It’s a thought that has come to me unbidden, even at the strangest times. One of the most frightening experiences was driving home after a wonderful two day vacation with people who I love and care for dearly, having spent the whole weekend feeling like I was trapped in a glass box. I could see things, hear things, but inside was quiet and airless. On the drive home, I remember thinking how much easier it would be to just open the car door on the highway and roll right out. I don’t doubt for a minute that I would never actually follow through, because the desire to no longer exist felt separate and removed from the desire to actually kill myself– I was just so tired. But I let it pass. At the very worst of it this year, it was no longer a given that I could just wait it out and land on my feet. Increasingly, the fear was growing that this would be the one I wouldn’t come back from. Right as I had started what felt like the final descent, my long time therapist reached out to me to say I’d been on her mind. And, at the end of my rope, I began what has turned into my longest, most consistent therapy work to date. I also went to a psychiatrist who diagnosed me with moderate to severe depression — and put me on anti- depressants which was terrifying, to say the least. I have never been great with consistency in medication, and again, the uncertainty of how long I would need them for was almost too much to wrap my head around. But what else did I have to do? Whether I took the meds or not, the time would pass anyhow. I surprised myself with how consistent I became with the medication, and today I am unsure how I would have fared had I not started. While it would be great to see an immediate shift in mood and circumstance, the truth is, what it did was lift the fog just a little bit at a time to give me a chance to catch my breath, to orient myself towards the way out. And before I realized it, 3 months had passed, and I was still standing — albeit exhausted and worn down but standing I was.

The Truth about Therapy

Endurance is one thing — we survive, swinging one day to the next until our feet touch some sort of solid ground, but what comes after? It’s like longing for a million dollars and then being unsure what to do with it when it lands in your lap. We rarely think about the in between that takes you from the depths to a relatively safer ground. Therapy is not just talking about your feelings for an hour. I find it neither comfortable, nor easy. If I have been to 20 sessions over the last 5 months, I have left 15 of them feeling worse than when I arrived. As a rule, I usually attend therapy until I am over the hump and then “get too busy” or decide it’s too much money and then fall off. It’s an avoidance technique, and I wasn’t quite sure what I was avoiding until I pushed through the first month.

Being in therapy has been painful and exposing — which is frightening to one such as myself who fears hurt and detests uncontrolled vulnerability. Strange as it may seem given the existence of these utterings, but here, I control the narrative. I can erase, delete and do anything I want with this piece. Real time vulnerability is a lot different. A working (and still not quite fully comprehensible) diagnosis for me is Social Anxiety Disorder with a little bit of OCD & Body Dysmorphic Disorder thrown in for some razzle dazzle. The SAD was easy enough to relate to, because the hallmarks of that disorder have run my life for as long as I can remember. The OCD was a little harder to accept and understand, because up until then, the only thing I knew about OCD was the familiar tropes you see in movies or books — hyper organization, rituals etc. The diagnoses aren’t really the point though. What I finally understood was: the behaviors & patterns that I have mulishly clung to for YEARS as a way to “protect” myself, are rooted in these disorders, and though they may be common, they are not all together normal.

Imagine then, being forced to look at your life and realize that you have years and years of learned behavior to undo. It is exhausting, and frankly, quite difficult. Habits are habits for a reason — they are second nature, even the bad ones. Especially the ones that you’ve convinced yourself are there to protect you and keep you safe. My thoughts operate in extremes — I am either immediately 100% successful at something and anything less is a failure. Though neither practical, nor possible, it makes the very concept of therapy difficult, because who’s ever undone a lifetime worth of warped beliefs in one session? The constant need for perfection & the subsequent failure to achieve the impossible is the albatross around my neck that makes it hard to celebrate even the small wins, because for me, it is all or nothing. It can be discouraging to go week after week, to spend thousands of dollars feeling like absolutely no progress is being made. Recently, I have found myself dragging to go, partially because I am terrified to see the things that still lie beneath, and partially because I feel like I am failing at therapy and therefore failing at life.

But I continue to go, because more important than enduring the storm with cracks in my hull is repairing them so I’m not springing leaks at every turn. The cracks are plentiful — some are beyond comprehension, some are heartbreaking, some are logic defying, & many days I am confronted with how these cracks rear their ugly heads at the most inconvenient times. I continue to go because I see the ways in which my unchecked mental illness has disrupted my life, and taken a toll on my relationships. I continue to go because though painful and some days heart-wrenching, it is the first time in years that I have felt the possibility of not walking around like a ticking time bomb, always one second from total destruction.

The Truth about Myself

So, what does this mean for me? It means that however dramatic it may seem, I have fought for my life, and continue to do so every single day. Some days are better than others — some weeks feel like a total regression and it’s hard to fight the impulse to engage in old habits. Sometimes I catch myself after the fact. The things I battle with are neither novel nor exciting, but still, they are mine. & while pride in myself is not something I am particularly familiar with, there is at least some satisfaction in knowing that the power to endure lies within me, even when I am certain I have nothing left to give.

Fear has run my life for as long as I can remember, and it would be an outright lie to say it no longer does, because I don’t do well with uncertainty, and fear has given me the illusion of keeping safe from the risks that come with being human and living vs. merely existing. Though I am still very much afraid of a lot of things, I have caught a glimpse of how having the upper hand over fear can pay off, even though I persist in my wrongness 9 times out of 10. Even though some days, I let my head get the best of me.

Yet still, I endure.