#then i got more successful than him and in a tale as old as time

[pynkhues]

Oooh I’d absolutely love to listen if you’d ever want to share your experience with the differences in male and women writers 👀🤍

(x)

Hahaha, mm, look, I should disclaimer this with the fact that a lot of the men and women I spoke to at the writers centre weren't necessarily writers so much as they wanted to be writers?

The writers centre I worked at was a non-profit arts support service, so we were separate from the authors guild / union, but basically the organisation they'd refer people onto a lot for anything from people wanting to do creative writing workshops and masterclasses to people needing advice on preparing their novel manuscript for submission to legal advice on publishing contracts or even just connections to bookstores. It was a real mix of stuff, and our clientele ranged from absolute beginners and hobbyists to probably some of the most famous Australian authors working. I'd say most of the membership though was early career writers who had probably had a couple of short stories published, and were hoping to get a novel out.

I worked there for five and a half years and it really burnt me out. It was a pretty gruelling job, the pay was shit, and while a lot of people calling up were lovely, a lot were calling either to vent about rejection or were in a crisis mode usually because they'd just been preyed on by self-publishers and vanity presses and were now stuck in contracts that would financially ruin them.

But yes, haha, in my experience of working there and talking to writers literally all day, every day, from across the spectrum of experience:

Men will never sign up as a member (ergo pay their dues), donate or support the Centre, but WILL take advantage of the free advice line. I think we worked out at one point 92% of our paying members were women, yet I'd say over half the calls I took during the day were men.

Men consistently think they've written a hit. Quotes I've never forgotten include "This'll be bigger than Dan Brown and Robert Ludlum combined", "Now, is it you I should talk to when the bidding war starts?" and, my personal favourite: "I've written the greatest book since Federation."

They WILL send you their manuscript even though you are very clear that you do not read manuscripts at the centre. We are eight staff, we have 4k members, it is not possible.

Sometimes! Those manuscripts they send you will have capital I Images on the covers of them to 'catch your eye'. The worst one I ever saw was a woman stark naked spread eagle with a swastika photoshopped over her vagina.

Men do not think workshops will help them. They know enough and if you suggest a workshop on, say, writing fight scenes, or preparing your manuscript for publication, they will get audibly annoyed at you and usually wrap up the conversation.

Men will call to ask you why their self-published book isn't selling on Amazon like it's your fault.

Men will call to ask you why their traditionally published book isn't selling anywhere like it's your fault (I don't know, man! Probably because publishers have no marketing budgets anymore!)

Men are Never Wrong and also Always the Victim, which I guess is basically what you'd expect, haha.

[orionsangel86]

I watched X-Men 2000 tonight. Yup the Deadpool and Wolverine brain worms got me - at least for a little while - so I figured I'd rewatch the old movies that I havent seen in over a decade and have basically forgotten entirely at this point.

You know what really stunned me? Even more than the slow pace, serious tone, actual dedication to telling a coherent and interesting story with layers of meaning and social commentary attached to it, as well as a sincerity that's been missing from most superhero films since the MCU was born (thanks Josh Whedon).

Nope, what shocked me most was this:

This is a perfect specimen of a man. Look at him. He's gorgeous. But look at his chest? His arms? He's muscular, he's pretty well toned, he's hairy. He's definitely got a six pack - but it's nicely covered by a healthy layer of fat. His skin is plump, he has a bit of squish to him. He'd probably be great to hug (Jean Grey certainly gives him a good squeeze lol).

When he sits down he looks like his stomach will roll just nicely. Like a stomach should.

I know my point here is obvious. It's just that scrolling the Deadpool and Wolvering tag is basically 50% "oh they definitely fucked in the Honda Odyssey" (yes lol) and the other 50% is just horny posting over Wolverine's topless scene like the entire site suddenly adopted Deadpools horny brain.

I gotta give props to Hugh Jackman for his dedication to turn himself into an actual comic book character - because that's what this new movie does. It gives us a comic accurate Wolverine in practically every way (except for his height lol) the suit is amazing, the cowl was a joy to see brought into live action. The body too though was straight out of a comic book artists male power fantasy.

What I wanted to emphasise was that this:

Is extremely tough on the human body. What I wanna know is how long he starved and dehydrated himself for before filming this scene? How long before they shot this did he last drink some water? Because damn that must have been tough. The oil and the lighting probably help further emphasise the muscle, vein, and sinew definition. It's probably similar to how body builders prepare before a show.

Nothing about body building is healthy though. So in the coming weeks as the whole entertainment industry rides on the coat tales of this movies success, and everyone goes crazy over Hugh Jackmans physique, please don't feel pressured into thinking that his 2024 physique in the movie is remotely realistic - or realistically attractive. Like I get the fantasy sure, but come on. I'd personally rather lie on a cushioned bed than a concrete floor.

Deadpool may disagree with me, but he's a masochist lol.

Oh and whilst I stand by the shade I threw at the MCU above, I think Wolverine's different physiques in the movies is a good standard of comparison for how much superhero movies have changed. Because when superhero comics first started getting adapted I think a lot of the choices made were about how to bring them to live action realistically and believably and the attitude was to try not to make them look ridiculous. The first X-Men movies definitely do this.

It was about bringing the comics to life in a way that fit in our world. But over the years, as audiences got more and more used to comic book movies the movies became more and more like comic books and less like a realistic adaptation of a comic book. Does that make sense? So as the movies attempted to bring the comics to life in a way that was less realistic and more comic accurate, the demands on the actors to sculpt their physiques to meet the standards of comic book art became normalised.

I think Deadpool and Wolverine is the MOST comic book accurate of all superhero movies made in the past 2 decades. Half the time the images from the movie look like they could be literally pulled from the pages of the comic books. The story is convoluted and stupid, the plot is barely there and is full of gaping plot holes and elements that don't fit any past stories. The action is ridiculous, extremely fast paced, gratuitous, and violent to a hilarious level. But it's so entertaining, joyful, exciting, and laugh out loud hilarious throughout.

It reminded me a LOT of my attempts at reading through the Deadpool comics (I've read a lot of them but no where near all of them).

To sum up this rambling message with multiple points, I'll say that Deadpool and Wolverine is a really fun movie that I thoroughly enjoyed, but make no mistake there is nothing real in it at all. It is almost literally a comic on screen. Don't expect anything more than that and you'll enjoy the experience.

[syoddeye]

consequence / hyacinth

price x f!reader | 1.9k words series directory tags: exes, angst, references to depression. a/n: an ex boyfriend. a story. a kiss. ☕

a surprise trap door. an errant self-driving car. a jet engine falling from the sky. anything to get you out of this.

hyperbolic? maybe. necessary? absolutely. forty-five minutes, and you haven’t gotten a word in edgewise. ben drones on about his studio and his upcoming exhibition. you brought this on yourself by doing the polite thing and asking him how are you?—lesson learned. 

it hurts. it blisters to hear how happy and successful he is and how he’s moved on from the breakup. as if he didn’t leave you hanging with a dinner you couldn’t afford after admitting that he cheated. he hasn’t asked about your wrist, your old flat, or your art career.

eventually, he stands. sets you free.

“i should go, long trip home,” he says, eyes glued to an incoming text. “it was lovely to catch up. thanks for holding onto this junk for me.” he hoists the box off the seat beside him and tucks it under an arm.

you let him kiss your cheek. “yeah. of course.”

he doesn’t look back. you wish you could do the same. 

you order another cider and resolve to not remain looking like the miserable slump you are.

~~~~

>> are you in town?

>> if you are, i could use a drinking buddy

john’s hair is still damp when he spots her at a two-top in the garden, nursing a cider. he waves, then ducks inside for his own drink. his head buzzes with whatever this invite means.

he checked with the florist twice to ensure the flowers arrived intact at her place. made the woman on the phone read back his apologetic note and bit his tongue when she reminded him it wasn’t her ‘place to say whether it sounded good enough or not’. he never heard if she liked them.

there’s a stiffness to her smile but relief in her voice. “you came.”

“‘course.”

“how’re you?”

in six words or less, he knows something’s off. he eases onto the seat, trying to exude a sense of humor and not telegraph his one hundred questions. “undercaffeinated, but i’m more interested in how you’re doing.”

“i noticed you hadn’t stopped in.”

“didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“about that. it was rude of me to kick you out without warning.”

guilt isn’t what he wants. he adjusts course to shoulder the blame. “i crossed a line.”

she isn’t having it. “please, it was rude. i know you weren’t trying to…”

“cross a line? overstep?”

her mouth wavers undecided between a frown and a smile. “you didn’t know. i could’ve explained. spare you £45.”

you. little.

“so you did get them. the note, too?” she nods. “then why the radio silence? hyacinths a bad choice?”

“no, they’re perfect. i just. i sort of froze. i had a rough couple of days.”

the hangdog expression she hides with the glass makes his chest hurt. “i’ve been told i’m a decent listener.”

“it’s a long story.”

“i got time.” he offers quietly. “just got back. caught me in the shower, actually.”

her eyes narrow, curious. “did you dress and come straight here?”

“well, it’s generally frowned upon to walk around naked.”

he beams at her laugh, her shaking shoulders. for a moment, her whole face lights up. it relaxes her posture as it peters off, leaving her looking less like a cornered mouse than when he initially sat down. 

“so.” john pushes carefully. “the paintings.”

her smile lapses into something unreadable, a pause to find the right place to begin. her fingers trace the table’s grate.

when she finally speaks, she refocuses. meets his eye. good. he doesn’t want to twist her arm to get the story. the tale starts innocently enough.

the woman is hannah, her best friend and a ceramicist. they met on the first day of her mfa and were paired for the terms project shortly thereafter. they quickly became inseparable, until his girl met ben.

~~

“i can’t talk about hannah without talking about ben. to talk about ben, you need context.”

john leans in. his thick eyebrows lift in a silent go on. 

“they say it happens when you’re not looking, right?” you nervously laugh, smiling at the table sheepishly, unable to meet his eye. “well, i met ben at a networking event. last place i thought i’d find a date, rubbing elbows with alumni. but he introduced himself, said he liked my portfolio book. told me about his work and all these shows he’d done. he took me to lunch the next day.” 

you wince at the memory, crystal clear and acutely embarrassing. how starry-eyed you’d been. your throat dries, sandpaper scraping down your esophagus at the thought of ben scribbling his number on your wrist. you clear your throat.

“then he asked me to dinner. during lunch.”

if john’s disgusted or disappointed, he doesn’t show it. his self-control is infuriating yet reliable. steady where you’re shaky.

why can’t i be like that?

you push on.

“without diving into minutiae, i eventually had to introduce hannah and ben. they hounded me, because if i wasn’t with one, i was with the other.” 

“jealous of each other.”

“i think so. i agonized. they’re big personalities, i thought they’d clash.” you replay their first meeting in your head. you have a thousand times. “and they did.”

~~

‘differing artistic opinions’ and ‘absurd expectations’ are the root causes of the squabbling she describes. her words, not his.

(he thinks of less charitable ways to characterize interpersonal conflict.)

barrages of text messages competing for her attention. underhanded attempts to get her to cancel plans with the other. emergencies that turned out to be trivial. guilt trips. one particularly ugly screaming match at a mutual friend’s birthday.

(if it were him, he thinks, they’d’ve lost privileges long ago.)

“it took weeks for them to come around to the idea of each other.”

“what was the catalyst?

“me again.”

john hums. he watches her rest against the back of her seat, her arms crossing and tightening over her chest. compressing herself as much as she can. embarrassment rolls off her in waves. he doesn’t say a word, afraid he’ll cut what courage she’s mustered off at the knees.

she has her own idea.

“can we—are you finished?” 

his glass is two-thirds empty, and he polishes off the rest. a fist squeezes his heart when her lip twitches at his abruptness. she makes it difficult to be collected with his interest.

“where to?”

“where else.”

it’s a challenge, defending oneself from an insistent, bullying cat. cece shows no mercy.

“she likes beards.”

“does she see many beards?”

“just a theory.” she leans against the cushions, watching him and the cat, a glass of water held in both hands. “yours is the only one she’s tried.”

in the end, after negotiations, cece loafs between them. her purr a white noise.

“where were we?” her tone suggests she knows precisely where.

“the truce and you.”

her eyes find a spot past his head to rest. he’s tempted to tilt his head into her line of sight, assuming that nudging her on home turf’s a safer bet than in public. but the hesitant, almost imperceptible exhale that leaves her keeps him still.

“alright. so. me.” her chest expands with another sigh. “i was already struggling two terms into school. really struggling. when i applied, i had this clear vision, but then classes started, i met my peers, and suddenly it felt like everything i thought i knew just disappeared. nothing looked right, nothing felt right. i pulled constant all-nighters. sat through brutal critiques. i’m lucky i had thick skin from my job, otherwise, i might have dropped out to join a convent or the circus.”

immediately, his mind conjures the image of a tattooed nun, swiftly followed by a tattooed strongwoman. his lip quirks. he hastily buries what those do for him. later. 

their gazes meet briefly to share a smile.

she licks her lips after a drink and sets the glass aside.

“they realized their bickering wasn’t helping, so they put their heads together. kind of forced us to become the three musketeers. they helped me where they could, and things smoothed out between them in the process. he found her ceramics shows to exhibit. let her move her wheel into our joint space. we were in close quarters, and i needed it. i needed them.”

a couch width is suddenly too far a distance with how she crumples. something difficult passes over her face, and she excuses it with a shrug.

“despite their joint efforts, i barely scraped by that first year. i was burnt out, miserable, and i spent two weeks holed up alone, trying to not go off the rails.”

oh, sweetheart.

“where were they?”

“hannah was visiting family stateside, and ben was traveling for work.”

not that his schedule allows flexibility, not that he’s behaved the perfect partner in the past—but john knows instantly that he would not have left her. he’d’ve been there. the more he hears about ben, the more he wants to meet him. come to a violent understanding. impart a lesson or two on loyalty.

“when ben returned, he told me he decided to move here to ‘reconnect with the country’. something about ‘capturing and celebrating the bucolic’. he wanted long-distance, but i, uh, i said i’d rather quit and move with him. we fought and he called in reinforcements. at hannah and ben’s…encouragement, i finished out the term. and it nearly killed me. as you know, i withdrew.”

john often reads between the lines. a vital skill, interpreting indirect and unintended communication. what’s unsaid. shame pulls her inward again, a moment where she seems smaller. swallowed by the enormity of whatever she doesn’t say. can’t say.

“i know they were disappointed. they didn’t need to say anything. hannah felt abandoned, and ben burdened by my tagging along. i got this awful feeling the morning we left and i ignored it. i was convinced leaving school behind and taking a break from art would fix me.” 

cece stretches, stands, and allows herself to be scooped up. 

she holds the cat under its front legs, bringing their faces closer together. “but it’s like that saying or whatever. ‘wherever you go, there you are’. i got here. settled in. and i was still a loser.”

it’s instinct.

“you’re not–”

she bulldozes.

“i started working at the café. ben booked murals. he painted the big one a few streets over.”

he’s familiar. “the one with–?”

“yep.” she releases cece. “he tried to get me to paint. he begged me. but i couldn’t do it. things took a turn last summer when ben won a huge job in the city, which snowballed into an invitation to exhibit. hannah got busy with the final stretch of the program, and couldn’t visit much.”

“so you were alone again.”

“yeah.” her voice thins, then breaks. “alone again.” she digs the heels of her palms into her eyes before a single tear drops off her lashes. 

john’s beside her before doubt seeds itself in his mind. one arm gathers her to his side, his chin lifting then settling atop her head when she tucks closer. his other arm winds around her, and the slight tremors of her distress ripple through him. she’s quiet, not quite sobbing, but sucking in deep breaths. he rubs her back in a slow circle, murmuring nothings.

“what do you need?” he asks as she gradually stills.

she sniffs. 

“sleep.”

without thinking, he kisses the crown of her head. “okay.”

john only catches a glimpse as she hands him a quilt. but he sees them. blue hyacinths, pinned and drying above her bed.

“sorry. this is all i got. you set?”

he smiles at her sweet, tear swollen eyes. 

“yeah. i’ve got all i need.”

[askthestans]

Hey Stan, can you tell us stories about your brother Sherman being a total square?

Stan and Ford: At the same time. You mean Square-mie?

Both of them laugh, not in a harsh way, but the kind of lighthearted chuckles that usually come from one sibling teasing another. It's obvious they love their older brother, but... like most siblings, they'll always jump on a chance to make fun of one another.

Stan: Oh, he always hated that nickname! Look, Anon, lemme first introduce ya to the official scale of Pines fun-ness. At the top, there's me, for obvious reasons. Second best is Mabel, also for obvious reasons. And... He pauses, putting his hand to his chin. Damn, I gotta say, I think Ford's next-

Ford: I am as much of an adventurer as I am a scientist.

Stan: Yeah, definitely Ford, despite his dorkiness and obsession with... He gestures at Ford's honors and trophies for grades and intelligence related successes from childhood. That garbage. Good grades and other crap. And then-

Ford: Definitely our nephew, Dipper and Mabel's father. Works in IT, very smart, has a little bit more of Mabel's fun-loving nature. But far less adventurous than you or I. You and I could never live a boring suburban life like he does.

Stan: Grinning. Then, near the very bottom, you've got Dipper. No offense to the kid, but he's Ford's smarts but minus Ford's rebel streak. Walkin' wet blanket at times, always askin' how many laws we're breakin' while we're out havin' fun... although me and Ford are teachin' 'im to grow past it, as much as his parents will let us corrupt 'im. But he at least likes to have fun, I'll give 'im that. So that leaves us at-

Ford: Way at the very bottom of the Pines fun-ness scale, you have... Square-mie. He coughs. Shermie, sorry.

Both men howl with snorts and laughter again, barely able to explain why.

Stan: Wiping a tear from his eye, wheezing a bit. Okay, okay, Anon, picture this: take Dipper and his dad's wet blanket crap and crank it up to 1000. This guy? Our brother? Good ol' Saint Sherm? Guy's never even had a parking ticket his entire life! He won't even jaywalk! He never goes even one mile per hour above the speed limit! He's like the human equivalent of white bread. Of unflavored oatmeal. Got average grades, got a boring old suburban house with a literal white picket fence, had an average job-

Ford: Shudders. I have no idea how he worked as an IRS accountant for decades.

Stan: Ugh, don't remind me. He's always barkin' at me. "Stan, you pay your taxes yet this year?" this. "Stan, you need to contribute to your civic duty.", that. Cripes, ol' Sherm is like the anti-Pines. A Pines is supposed to laugh in the face of rules and authority. This guy huffs whatever authority's smokin' like he's part of a cult. Even when we were kids, he'd always do chores even when he wasn't asked. Kept his room clean as a whistle. Barked at me to do my homework and foiled our pranks when he could. Pure goody two shoes, so much he'd make an angel blush. I think all of our Ma's rebellion genes went to us, and Pa's strictness went to Sherm.

Ford: Yes, so after I returned and we explained to him what had happened, he...

Both men fall into a snicker fest again, unsure who will stop laughing first long enough to tell the story.

Stan: Holy mackerel, he... he... Snort. Picture Dipper at, like, seventy years old, but with an even bigger stick up his ass and even less muscles somehow. Gets told this long, convoluted as hell tale about me fakin' my death and pretendin' to be Ford for three decades, Ford gettin' lost in sci-fi sideburn land for just as long, the world almost ending with Sherm's grandkids along for the ride... just mind bendin' stuff... and the first words outta his mouth... and for reference, this guy never swears, and he never has thrown a punch at anyone... he's so square he's a cube! But he just says...

He wheezes, so Ford has to finish the story.

Ford: Snort. He raises his voice a bit, likely to mimic Shermie's. "I just knew I shoulda kicked your asses more when we were kids."

The two howl and cackle with laughter, leaning on each other for support.

Stan: And then he just... walked away, out his door, down the street to the gas station, bought beer for the - and I'm not kidding - the first time in his life, and sat back down in his old man chair and faced us as we just stood there, gobsmacked, while he cracked one open and drank it with an expression like a man betrayed. And he said-

Ford: "You two knuckleheads are lucky I'm even older than you, 'cause if I wasn't, I'd plant my loafer up your ass! You're gonna sit down, shut up, and let me drink this crap while I process whatever the f*ck I just heard and how many goddamn taxes you owe. And then maybe I'll think about huggin' your sorry asses."

More laughing.

Stan: I'm not sure if he was more mad about the taxes, or the fact that I'd faked my death all those years ago, or... the world ending part where Dipper and Mabes coulda been hurt... or maybe because we drove him to drink and swear and threaten someone for the first time in his whole goddamn life, all in the same day, he... Chuckles. He never really said. All I know is, is I don't think I've ever had my jaw that close to the floor in my life.

Ford: Honestly, I think we just kind of... broke him. Even still, I think he blew our minds more than we blew his.

Stan: He laughs a bit more, then shakes his head. Pfft, can you imagine Sherm kickin' our asses, anyway? He'd probably gently nudge one of our shins and give up. He's too nice for anything worse. That's the thing with our brother: he may be boring as sin, but... he's a good guy.

Ford: He always protected us from bullies when we were kids. Carried us home whenever we sprained an ankle or broke a bone.

Stan: And bought us ice cream whenever we asked, and fixed our bikes, and patched us up, scared the "monsters" outta our closet, and taught us most of what we know. Kind of like a second Dad, honestly, and one a lot less grumpy. A bit more somber. And he helped our parents out in their old age when we weren't around, until the... well, you know. 'Til the end.

Ford: His smile fades, then he sighs, expression a bit bittersweet. And he did actually hug us.

Stan: He scratches the back of his head, a bit embarrassed, but smiling fondly. For three hours straight.

[currently-reading-a-book]

A Tale of Two Minds

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: The seemingly shy Dr. Spencer Reid is interrupting you at the library, but don't let his quiet demeanor fool you...

Genre: smut

Warning: crime scenes; talking about murder, heated kiss, made up facts (let me know if I forgot something)

Word 1118 Count: words

A/N: As always, any criticism is very welcome. Sorry for any spelling or grammar mistakes. English is not my first language. Not proofread.

Anyway, enjoy :)

✧ 🎀 -------------------------------------------------------------- 🎀 ✧

The building was huge. The dull grey walls ran through the whole building, seeming to never stop. You could easily get lost in one of the many departments of the FBI. An outsider would declare this building old and labyrinthine. However, for you, it was home or the closest place to one. Of course, you only have limited access as you’re just a trainee. You could only get inside the school side of the building, but you only needed the library to feel safe. Every possible minute of your free time you spend there. Being surrounded by piles of thick complicated books, trying to study every field of knowledge that exists. 

The sternmost part of the library was your favorite. Nobody was there and you could enjoy your peaceful solitude. This was also the part where unsolved closed cases were located. Reading through them, trying to find a repeating pattern, and making an accurate profile. Hoping the police can then find a suspect that fits the criteria. With this method, you have quite a success and solved relatively a lot of cases. That is actually how you got into the special program of the FBI. It all started when you were solving a case of strange murders your local police couldn’t solve. It turned out the priest took justice a bit too personally. You analyzed the victimology of the murders and started to make a profile. The police just needed forensic evidence, which luckily was found quickly. 

As you were nearly done with your profile on a murder case, in deep focus, someone disturbed your beloved peace. 

“You know sitting on the ground could raise your potential of getting sick by over 18%.” A shy voice stated.

Letting out a breath, you snapped your head around just to see a guy with long blond curly hair. You lowered your glance a bit and saw his ID Card. Your eyes shot open. You're on your feet within a few seconds. “This can’t be true, can it?” you thought.

“You’re Dr. Spencer Reid!”, you said, a bit too enthusiastic.

He backed up a bit, startled by your elation. He hesitantly nods his head. Of course, you heard of him, like everybody did. Maybe you liked him a bit too much, like not everybody did. 

He worked at the Behavioral Analysis Unit (BAU) of the FBI and was also a professor at the academy. One of his most impressive traits was undoubtedly his intelligence. It was hard not to be impressed by the breadth and depth of his knowledge, which set him apart from others. You would often hear amazing stories about how his mind solved cases. He was incredibly skilled at what he did and a huge role model for many, also for you. Working with him was always a dream for many and again of course you dream about it too, maybe even more than others. “Suddenly, you remember your position. You’re a forensics student and he was an agent, even a doctor to begin with. Another point would be that you had a crush and didn’t want to scare him away.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I was too excited,” you slowly admitted, locking down.

Embarrassment was written across your chubby face. He took a step closer, gaining confidence. He smelled incredible, masculine yet fresh and pine. Just like you imagined.

“I see you’re trying to solve the “Lucifer Case” and have you gotten any further with it?”, he asked, trying to break the awkwardness.

You look into his eyes, trying to read him. Confused why he would show any interest in you, you try to find out any motive by analyzing his body language, but you can’t find anything too convincing. A moment later he was standing beside you, looking through the files spread around you on the floor.

“I was just about to finish my profile before you interrupted, Doctor Reid”, you told him quietly. Your shyness got the best of you. 

“Oh, please call me Spencer, Y/N”, he responded promptly, “and I apologize for interrupting you.”

Your cheeks heated up. Looking at him shocked, he looked back smiling. Too astounded to notice that he had called you by your name, which you hadn’t told him yet. 

“Wait, how do you know my name?”, she questioned him embarrassingly late.

His smile got bigger. Even though he was close before, he reduced their distance some more. Now your back was pressing against the bookshelf, unable to escape his intense gaze. 

“Your reputation precedes you, Miss Y/L/N.” he hushed seductively. 

You swallowed hard, staying quiet. “What could this mean?”, you thought to yourself. Everybody in the study facility always said Spencer Reid was a shy nerd, but now you’re standing in the library with him towering over you.

“I was very impressed by your profile of the Cryptic Puzzle Killings,” he whispered into your ear, “it was a genius profile.” His voice was sending shivers down your spine.

“Doctor Reid,” you stuttered, but then interrupted you.

“it’s Spencer, remember?” You couldn’t think straight anymore. “I was holding back too long, I couldn’t resist any longer Y/N, please forgive me for my bad-mannered roughness,” he muttered as his lip brushed faintly over your neck. This was the moment your breath stopped. Am I dreaming? 

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he muttered as he placed sloppy kisses around my neck.

“No, don’t stop.” That was the only thing you could say; his hands feeling too good on you. How he griped your hips pressing your hips more into his clothed erection. Feeling his touch like hot burns all over your body.

“I needed to use this opportunity,” he breathed .

As you wanted to reply to his confession, all of a sudden, another voice was calling for Spencer.  Your cheeks flushed even more at the thought of getting caught with Spencer at this situation.

“Spencer, I said I would talk to her!” A stern voice was speaking with such authority. 

Spencer quickly stepped back, taking all his warmth with him. You were looking around, overwhelmed with the situation, trying to figure out what was happening. Still feeling hot after your heated situation with Dr. Reid. Spencer was now around two meters apart from you, smiling at you shyly. His duality will kill you someday. 

“Hotch I am here,” he quickly yelled back.

Whispering a quick apology to you before the tall black-haired guy showed up before us. His firm eyes looked into yours. He was standing in front of you with a straight face. Frankly, he seemed like a strict guy who didn’t understand any jokes. You’re starting to get the feeling that you did something bad. Your mouth got dry.

“Are you Y/N/Y/L/N?” the man asked you.

You nodded your head skeptically. Unsure of what consequences it might bring.

“I am Aaron Hotch, Supervisory Special Agent and Unit Chief of the BAU,” he continued, “And I am asking you Y/N to join the team of the BAU.”

Your head began to spin. 

[mcntsee]

There was this boy…

Summary: Y/N shares a tale of her first love with the Crows.

Warnings: Not much other than ooc Kaz and alcohol consumption.

Note: I’m more of a angsty writing typa gal, so here’s some fluff for now. Let me know what you guys think.

In the dimly lit confines of the Crow Club, the Crows gathered around a secluded table, basking in the afterglow of a successful heist. Glasses clinked, and raucous laughter filled the air as the alcohol flowed freely. Kaz, Y/N, and Matthias sat with relative sobriety amidst the drunken revelry, observing their inebriated comrades.

Jesper, his cheeks flushed and eyes gleaming, leaned toward Y/N with a mischievous grin. "So, Y/N, have you ever been in love?" he slurred, barely able to contain his curiosity.

Y/N's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Of course, Jesper," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of mystery. The Crows leaned in, their drunken curiosity piqued.

"There was this boy," Y/N began, her eyes sparkling with memories. "I met him near the harbor when I was just a wide-eyed nine-year-old. He had this mischievous smile and eyes that seemed to hold a million secrets. A captivating presence that drew me in. He was the first person I ever truly loved."

Confusion clouded the faces of the Crows. They exchanged glances, unable to decipher who Y/N was referring to. Only Kaz, ever perceptive, held a hidden smile, understanding the truth behind Y/N's words.

“We were inseparable. We would spend our days exploring the harbor, sneaking into places we weren’t supposed to be. We had a sweet tooth that knew no bounds, and we’d devour candy like it was our secret treasure.” Y/n paused for a second to compose herself from the small chuckle that managed to escape her lips, “Whenever times got tough, we’d help each other steal food, laughing as we escaped the clutches of hunger.”

The Crows listened with rapt attention, their faces reflecting a mix of curiosity and sentimentality. The image of two children forging a bond over stolen treats warmed their hearts.

Y/N’s voice grew softer, her eyes distant. “We shared our hopes and dreams, our fears and vulnerabilities. It was as if we created our own little world, shielded from the hardships that surrounded us. He was my confidant, my partner in mischief, and my first taste of love.”

Nina, her words slightly slurred, leaned closer. "What happened to him, Y/N?" she asked, her voice tinged with genuine curiosity.

A tender smile played on Y/N's lips as she replied. "He changed. Life took him down a different path, one far from the innocence we once shared." she replied, her voice steady, "but my love for him didn't."

Y/N’s gaze drifted across the table, locking eyes with Kaz, the only one who knew the true identity of the boy from her story.

The Crows, their senses dulled by alcohol, cooed at the sweetness of Y/N's confession, their questions dissipating into laughter and sighs. Meanwhile, Matthias, ever vigilant, noticed the lingering glances between Y/N and Kaz throughout the evening. An inkling of suspicion gnawed at him, planting seeds of curiosity that would bloom in the days to come.

As the night wore on and drinks were consumed in abundance, the Crows bid each other goodnight and stumbled off to their respective rooms.

What they didn't know was that Y/N's steps veered away from her designated room, drawing her toward Kaz's quarters instead. The door closed behind them, and the atmosphere shifted from the revelry downstairs to a more intimate setting.

In the hushed whispers of their shared secret, Y/N and Kaz laughed and marveled at the obliviousness of their companions. They reveled in the fact that the Crows had no inkling that Y/N's tale of first love was a covert homage to their own hidden bond.

As silence settle, Kaz moved from his previous position near y/n. His gaze met Y/N’s, and a mischievous smile played on his lips.

“Care to join me for a moment?” Kaz asked, his voice holding a hint of intrigue.

Curiosity piqued, Y/N nodded, joining him near the record player. The room was enveloped in a nostalgic melody, its soulful notes casting a spell of tranquility.

As the music filled the room, Y/N couldn’t help but remark, “What a lovely choice. I didn’t know you were a fan of this genre.”

Kaz’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “There’s more to me than meets the eye, y/n,” he replied, his voice infused with a touch of playfulness.

They stood there, amidst the gentle hum of music, engaging in lighthearted banter and sharing whispered stories of their day. Their laughter mingled with the nostalgic tunes, creating an intimate symphony that resonated within their hearts.

A comfortable silence settled between them, a testament to the depth of their connection. In that moment, Kaz extended his hand with a gallant gesture, “Care to join me for a dance, Mrs. Brekker?”

Y/N’s eyes sparkled with delight as she placed her hand in his. “I’d be honored, Mr. Brekker,” she replied, her voice filled with a warm affection.

They swayed to the timeless melody, their steps graceful and in perfect sync. The world outside seemed to fade away as they reveled in the simple joy of being together, their laughter intertwining with the music.

In the embrace of their dance, Y/N and Kaz spoke volumes through their movements. Each twirl and sway conveyed a love that transcended words—a love that was hidden, yet tangible.

As the music played on, they allowed themselves to get lost in the moment, cherishing the intimacy they shared. Their smiles spoke of a shared secret, a commitment that only they held dear.

And as the final notes of the song faded away, they remained locked in a tender gaze, their hearts speaking a language known only to them. In that stolen moment, they were reminded of the strength and beauty of their hidden love.

Their laughter resonated in the quiet room, an acknowledgment of the unspoken bond they cherished. They knew that their story would forever remain known only to them, a treasure woven into the tapestry of their lives, while the Crows slumbered, oblivious to the truth that danced in the shadows of their own revelry.

[flowercrowngods]

Suggesting/Requesting Eddie having a crush on the valiant knight Steve Dustin goes on about, not realizing it's Steve "the Hair" Harrington and the way he reacts when he realizes they're the same dude. Cue adjustment period.

hi! first of all thank you for the prompt 🥰 i slipped and kinda decided to take your ‘valiant knight Steve’ quite literally and made this a medieval/regency au with knight steve and bard eddie, kinda enemies to lovers. it totally got out of hand, so this is part 1, with all my apologies to your original prompt 🤍🌷

Eddie smiles as the fields and forest that surround Hawkins come into view, kissed by the early afternoon sun with more affection and richness than the city probably deserves. It looks different this time of year, the green seems deeper than he left it, and nostalgia paints him a picture of glory and welcome that would make any traveller linger at the sight. 

He knows it’s only the magic of coming home, the thrill of having been gone so long that he needs to learn his town a-new, and the curiosity of a poet that makes his heart beat faster; but it’s his life’s blood to embrace all of that. So he spurs on his trusty horse to make it home even just a minute sooner. 

The people’s reactions to his arrival come in multitudes, though Eddie can respect the healthy dose of mistrust with which they regard him. He has made a name for himself after all, a bard more than a jester these days, but most people don’t tend to forget the pretty face they chased out of the city on multiple occasions. 

He lifts his head in greeting as he passes the elderly Wheelers as they’re tending to the flowers lining their windows, and grins with glee at both the disapproving scoff and the wary nod he gets in return. 

He’s in good spirits. Great spirits, in fact, the sun shining down on him, welcoming him and lighting familiar paths for him to tread again after years of absence. Hawkins will see his glory, his success, his victory, and it will pale in jealousy and regret. They cannot chase him away this time, not with the title of royal bard and winner of the bardic competition three years in a row. 

If his travels have taught him anything, it’s that he is pettiness acts as a wonderful motivation.

Of course, he shall also see his friends again. One of his saddlebags is half full with their letters that have accumulated over the years, all of which Eddie has kept for reasons of muse and a heart entirely too soft for his own good.

Most of all, though, even more than proving his worth and success to his city and its people, it is curiosity that brings him home. 

Dustin and his friends have been mentioning a most valiant knight, waxing poetic about his glorious deeds and his kinder heart — or, as poetic as they get, which is hardly at all. Which consequently made Eddie write no less than five ballads about the stories they told him, three of which have made it into songs yet, one of which he was made to play in every tavern on his long journey back to Hawkins and to Princess Nancy herself on more than one occasion.

The Knightmærs, as he calls his little collection of poeterey, his pride and joy about a man he has yet to meet. Tales about maidens saved and brothers defeated, hearts stolen and retrieved with the gentlest gestures, and children protected against the evils of night, expecting naught but friendship. And friendship he got. 

If Eddie’s heart picks up yet another notch at the thought of meeting this knight as the familiar city walls tower before him, he allows it for a second before announcing himself to the guards. They looked wary upon his approach and blanch now as they hear his name; Eddie does not hide his laughter this time and preens as he is told to ride on. 

“Oh, Hawkins, old friend,” he mutters under his breath, not even bothering to hide his smile. “You and I shall have so much fun, shan’t we?” 

~*~

He barely makes it to the home he has been sharing with his uncle since the ripe age of twelve with minimal fuss, unsaddling his horse and guiding her to the trough, when he hears it. 

“Eddie!”

Halting in his motions the currycomb, he looks up from the rusty brown that shines red like embers in the sun and spots Dustin racing down the street towards him. 

He lowers the comb and steps around his horse, grinning at his rapidly approaching friend. 

“Why, good day to you, young traveller, what brings you to my humble abode?” 

Dustin doesn’t falter in his approach, doesn’t even slow down, and Eddie braces himself for impact. Years of experience have made him quite practiced in handling tackle-hugs, but Dustin has grown quite a bit since he last saw him, and they both stumble backwards when Dustin’s arms wrap around Eddie in a way that seems to press all air out of his lungs. Eddie laughs as he hugs his friend back with as much ferocity. 

“I’ve missed you! I was writing to you this morning when I remembered you said you’d come this week. I didn’t think it would be today!” 

“I came as soon as I could. Such is the Munson way, or did you forget?” 

Dustin shakes his head and finally lets go, though Eddie yearns for another hug. It’s been too long. The boy has grown. He’s hardly a boy anymore, though he shall always remain as such in Eddie’s heart. He smiles and ruffles Dustin’s locks, realising with a pang that they’re almost of a height now. 

An ache like homesickness settles in his gut and wears on his heart heavily. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, smoothing out the curls he’s put in disarray. “It’s just been too long. And I’ve missed you, too. You’ve grown quite a bit since last we talked.” 

“I have!” And he looks so proud of it, too, preening a little under Eddie’s faux scrutiny, and it’s what makes him pull Dustin against his chest again. 

Eddie continues taking care of his horse, feeding her, combing through her mane, making sure she has as much comfort as he can provide after their long days of travel. Dustin sits on the fence and watches him tend to her, feeding her the occasional apple when he thinks Eddie isn’t looking. He hides his smile and pretends not to see. 

God, but he has missed his friend. 

Their twosomeness is rudely and entirely too quickly interrupted by Lord Harrington of all people, who hurries down the street in search of Dustin. 

Eddie never did like the lord and his pompous appearance coupled with his rude personality. He always acted like a prince among men, subject to many a jest in Eddie’s younger days. On one memorable occasion, Eddie managed to steal the lord’s clothes and swap them with his own, making him walk about in linen rags and torn-up trousers. 

Days later, all of his lute strings ripped just as he was getting ready to play at the tavern, and he never messed with Harrington again — even though there was a parcel three days later with new lute strings and his old clothes he had made the lord wear. No note attached to it, because Lords didn’t stoop down to converse with lowly peasants even for revenge. 

So, seeing Harrington now on the very first day of his being back, it sours Eddie’s face and his humour. 

“Why, Lord Harrington,” he speaks before the man can get a word in. “To what do I owe the displeasure of seeing you here? Have you suffered a fall from grace yet, or was it a hit in the head that left you disoriented, bringing you to my humble abode?” 

Harrington frowns at him, though Eddie deems to detect confusion more than distaste. 

And then he has the audacity of not even answering to Eddie’s ruse, simply ignoring him and instead turning around to Dustin. 

“Dustin, Master Clarke is expecting you. I will not cover for you once more.” 

“But—“ 

“Spare me,” Harrington says, hands on his hips now, and Eddie is starting to feel defensive over Dustin. How dare his lordship come and steal his best friend away when he hasn’t even been home for an hour yet? 

Before he can get so much as a word in, however, Dustin is already jumping from his perch on the fence and trudging towards Harrington, rounding the man and leading the way up the hill towards the castle. 

“I’ll come back later, Eddie,” Dustin says over his shoulder, and then he is gone, rounded the corner, out of his sight. 

Harrington, however, lingers. Eddie raises his eyebrows in question and challenge, and the Lord scoffs a little. It’s like he wants to say something — but what could it be? What could Lord Harrington have to say to him, years after they last saw each other? 

He does look stunning, Eddie has to admit with a grudge against his self and his integrity. The golden light of the afternoon sun catches in his hair, likening it to strands of gold that kings and queens pay alchemists across the world to procure. Eddie, for a moment, feels like he has found it in Lord Harrington’s hair and the skin of his face, but he quickly snaps out of it, cutting off that particular train of thought before it can run away form him. 

“I hear you are a bard of great renown these days.” 

The words catch him off his guard, for Eddie was sure that the Lord would not attempt to converse. Yet it seems that propriety still has a tight grip on him. 

Does Harrington like his ballads, his plays, his poetry and sonnets? Has he heard them? Or has he heard of them? Has word travelled across the countries, telling of Eddie the Bard and his brave-hearted muse his soul yearns for and his quill bleeds for?

Eddie is not sure which option thrills him more, but whichever one it is, it makes him smile, feeling quite bashful and yet proud. 

“So you hear,” he says, approaching the stiff Lord. “What exactly is it that you hear, my Lord?” 

He swallows, following Eddie’s steps with his eyes, turning his head when the bard circles him slowly. “I hear you sing of beasts slain and brothers banished, a knight at the heart of your ballads.” Eddie smiles at that, knowing that Harrington has at least heard of two of his Knightmærs. I hear it sounds like mockery, the knight but an object of your hyperbolic fascination and flowery imagination, his pain and bravery nothing to you.” 

He stops dead in his tracks, his feet planted right before Harrington. The Lord looks like he is taking personal offence to his works, and it irritates the bard. 

“And what, Lord Harrington, would you know of fascination, pain and bravery? I cannot imagine you have faced a lot of hardship in your life, and the only acts of bravery you had to chance upon were mislead in the name of false honour.” 

“False honour,” Harrington repeats, his words like poison, sharp and dangerous as the sword’s blade at his hip. “You would know something about that, I imagine, telling stories of which you have no idea. Immortalising glory where there should be sympathy.” 

Eddie studies him, the frown between his brows, the hard line of his jaw, set and calmed to keep more words from spilling. Imposing, this Lord is. A sight for sore eyes even in his  purely misplaced anger. 

Eddie huffs, his eyes travelling between the Lord’s where they are standing so impossibly close. 

“Sympathy,” he repeats. “Nobody, my Lord, wants a ballad of sympathy. It is glory that the people seek!” He steps back from Harrington, gesturing with his arms as he dramatically recounts the lessons he has learned over the years, passionate for his craft. “Glory, heroism, heartbreak and love! Yearning and longing and deeds of an aching heart, that is what the people want to hear. That is what deserves to be immortalised in art, in poetry, in song! I shall forgive you for being so painfully unaware of this, my Lord, but I shall not stand to be in your company much longer, calling my work lacking or a mockery when it is borne out of nothing but loyalty, fascination and love.” 

They are close again, because Harrington did not step back when Eddie approached him once more, his feet planted like a tree, fierce and strong and unbudging. 

It is intoxicating, though Eddie blames half of it on the passion and the rage, on the bravery that possessed him to send the Lord away, or the fierceness with which he came to his muse’s defence. 

Harrington swallows again, his eyes wandering over Eddie’s face once more, lingering at his lips, both their jaws set in determination and perhaps a sudden tension.  

“Forgive me for insulting you with my company,” he speaks at last, his voice nothing but a rasp. “You will find there is an irony to your words soon. I shall not rob you of that discovery. I ask you do not take it out on our mutual friends when you do, Munson.” 

And with one last glance, Harrington turns on his heel and hurries up the hill, too, leaving Eddie puzzled and quite dazed upon the lingering warmth of their close proximity. 

When did Harrington become so handsome? There was a fire in his eyes that Eddie got to witness for just the blink of an eye, but he wonders where that comes from, what it means, and what other secrets he holds. 

Perhaps, if he cannot meet his muse, the knight Dustin has only ever referred to as Steve, Harrington might serve to inspire a ballad or two himself.

~*~

Harrington catches his eyes on more than one occasion over the next days. Eddie is invited to the castle to play for Princess Chrissy, though she greets him like an old friend and makes him sit close to her at the banquet. Right beside Harrington, who merely nods at Eddie, his fists clenched as Chrissy asks the bard about one of his ballads — the one about the valiant knight slaying a horde of monsters to keep the kingdom’s children safe. 

The Lord must really hate Eddie’s work. It fills him with spiteful glee, for some reason, and he makes sure to play and recite all of his Knightmærs that night. Harrington excuses himself when Eddie hasn’t even made it halfway through his songs, and he doesn’t return that night. 

He takes personal offence now and vows to make the Lord’s life as difficult as he can. 

But still there is no sign of Steve. 

Eddie is starting to get frustrated. 

He was supposed to be here, stand tall and proud with a smile on his face upon seeing Eddie, sweep him off his feet, make him swoon, dare Eddie to fall in love with the face long after the name. 

His mood is sour, and only sours further when Harrington rounds the corner and stumbles upon Eddie who is tuning his lute for tonight’s banquet. The annual royal tournament is set for the next morning, so everyone is in a good mood. 

Well, everyone except Eddie. And Lord Harrington, by the look on his face. 

“Munson,” he says, straightening before he bows his head in greeting. “Forgive me, I was looking for some quiet. I shall look somewhere else.” 

And, somehow, that is enough to snap his patience that was already wearing thin. “Why can you not stand being in my presence, sir?” he asks, rising from his seat. “Does it disgust you so to be around mere peasants?” 

Harrington looks taken aback, shock and confusion clear on his face before a frown takes its place and washes away all further emotions. 

“It is not your presence that bothers me, nor the nature of your birth.”

“And yet you leave every time I so much as strum a tune, Lord Harrington, ready to throw both caution and propriety to the winds. Leaving me to wonder what it is that I have done to deserve such treatment.” 

Eddie finds himself walking closer and closer to the Lord, coming to a stop not one foot before him. He is drawn in by his presence, his charm as alluring as his cold silence. Everything about Lord Harrington intrigues him, horrified as he is to admit it. But with Steve not around to catch his eye and captivate his heart and mind alike, he simply has to find inspiration elsewhere. 

And the way Harrington’s face is taken over by a dangerous expression is the most inspiring, alluring thing he has seen in a while, even though it is directed at him. 

“How can you have the audacity to feign confusion over my disdain, bard,” he hisses, and Eddie shivers slightly. Harrington does not even have the sense to step back, staying right where he is, so close, so improper. “How can you pretend it is not my life you have taken and made your own, singing songs and telling stories, making into nothing but a jaunty tale recited by drunkards with no regard to the blood it was written in.” 

Eddie blinks, not quite catching up with the point Harrington is making. 

“What—“ 

“You sing your ballads, your histories, your Knightmærs like you know what they mean. Making a mockery of me, stealing from me every chance to tell my tale in my own voice, in my own tempo. Entire kingdoms will know before I will have had the chance to wake up from a nightmare, and they sing about it, sing about pain they did not have the misfortune to suffer, sing with a smile, with booming voices because you make them. And yet the only one without a voice remains the one who slew the beast.” 

Lord Harrington speaks to him as though he takes offence at the content of Eddie’s ballads, offence at the reality of their background. But what right does he have to take offence when his songs are based on heroic deeds, recounted to him first hand by his very best friend. What right does Harrington have to question the truth behind them? 

“If it is a matter of truth that concerns you, let me reassure you, my Lord, that all of my ballads are based on true events. I ask that you do not call me a liar, no matter how great your dislike of my craft.” 

“It is not a liar that I call you, but rather a thief.” 

Eddie gasps, offended now. “What do you suggest I have stolen, then?” 

“A person’s right to their own story. To their own nightmares. A man's right to flee from the horrors he lived through, acquainting every tavern in this kingdom and the next with his horrific and desperate deeds.” 

“How dare you call his deeds horrific,” Eddie hisses now, feeling protective over his knight. “How dare you accuse me of ill intent when every word out of my quill is written with nothing but love and admiration.” 

“For whom?” Harrington challenges, disdainful and cold. “Only for yourself, your vanity, your overgrown sense of artistic ambition.”

“No,” he shakes his head, hands clenched into fists as he finds himself incredibly close to Lord Harrington, their faces only inches apart now. “It is love for this person I have never met, whom my dear friend has told me about. A man who has kept me awake at night as I was pouring over letter after letter, hoping he should be well. It is a love so strong it has to be turned into art, into song, love that should be sung in every voice of the kingdom.” He scoffs, stepping back to catch his breath. “I do not expect you to know such a love when all you have in your cold heart is disdain for all things beautiful. You would never know bravery if it looked you in the face, you would never know love if it was the very fabric that makes this world. It would slip through your fingers, my Lord, for you would be busy yearning for the day your life found its meaning.” 

He is seething, heaving breaths, out of control over the words tumbling out of his mouth. Insulted in his pride and his muse, offended, hurt. Confused, still, as to why the Lord hates his songs with such vigour. 

“Is that your opinion of me?” Harrington whispers, though even in that toneless voice of his lies so much that Eddie cannot begin to decipher. 

“Yes,” he whispers back, the fight leaving him now, the very air sucked out of the room they share. “I believe I made that clear just now.” 

Harrington takes one step closer once more, but Eddie does not budge. 

“Then I suggest you forget that knight of yours,” he says, quiet and final. “And forget the idea you have of love. To love someone is not to turn his nightmares into song. To love someone is not to look him in the eye and insult his very existence even further. You love yourself, your craft, your mind. But you do not love him. You would not recognise him if he shared the same breath as you.” 

Eddie huffs, just barely able to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “And what makes you so sure of that, Lord Harrington?” 

A smile twitches his lips, though there is no mirth, no glee. “You have just proven it to me, Mr Munson.” He takes a step back and evades Eddie’s eyes. “I believe you should return to the fest now. Good night.” 

And with that, he turns around and leaves. 

Eddie finds himself rooted to the ground, air returning to the room now but still he is unable to catch his breath, staring ahead as he is. 

Words echo in his mind as the picture paints itself and a horrible, horrible realisation dawns on him. 

You will find there is an irony to your words soon. 

How can you pretend it is not my life you have taken and made your own?

But you do not love him. You would not recognise him if he shared the same breath as you.

You have just proven it to me, Mr Munson.

But… There is no way. There is no way that Dustin’s friend, Dustin’s knight and protector, his saviour, Steve, should be the same as Lord Harrington with his careful, quiet, disdainfully quirked eyebrow. 

Except, Lord Harrington collected Dustin from Eddie’s home, speaking with him in a tone filled with such familiarity, they cannot be mistaken as anything but friends. 

And Lord Harrington had listened with such rapt attention when Eddie played his jaunty tunes and the well-known classics at the banquet days ago, looking like he enjoyed Eddie’s play. His face had only soured when people started requesting his newer original songs, his fists clenched upon the opening chords of The Knight and His Nightmare, leaving the hall altogether when people requested more. 

You sing your ballads, your histories, your Knightmærs like you know what they mean. 

Eddie’s heart falls when he realises what he has done. How blind he was to the frowns and the tension, how deaf to the hints and insinuations, how ignorant he was of the pain he inflicted on Lord Harrington. Lord Steven Harrington. Steve. 

His Steve. And yet not his at all.

He falls back onto the bench, dazed, as the weight of his realisation settles inside his chest. 

onwards to part 2

[denaliwrites]

Tales of Daring

Scrooge McDuck x GN!Reader

Summary: Scrooge catches you in his Money Bin.

Soundtrack: DuckTales Theme by Felicia Barton

Requests: Open!

Warnings: I... I'm so... I don't even know what to put here. What the fuck, man. What did I do to deserve this?

"It's not every day I catch a thief red-handed," a Scottish voice purred from behind you. You hadn't even heard him effortlessly dive into the seemingly infinite pile of gold that you'd had to rappel into, and now he had you at a disadvantage. What were you supposed to do with that?

Well, you certainly wouldn't beg for mercy. It was exactly what the old coot wanted, and you couldn't give him that.

"It's not every day a thief makes it out of your Money Bin with a pretty penny to show for it," you replied, holding up a giant, glinting ruby. Light bounced off it, sending scattered shards of red all over the room. One lit up the grin on your bill.

"Tha's a bit more than a pretty penny, wouldn't ye say?" he asked. You heard some coins shift behind you, signaling his moving closer to you.

Your grin grew just a fraction.

"To you, I'd think it's little more than a pretty trinket, wouldn't you say?" you teased, shooting him a look. He didn't seem as amused by your twist on his words as you were. No matter. "Would you really miss this little token, Scrooge?"

You watched as he shivered at the way you said his name. His eyes bounced around the bin contemplatively in an attempt to play off the reaction he'd had to you. "I know all the coins and gems and trinkets in this bin as if they were my own children. Of course I'd miss it."

"Then it should bring you some comfort, shouldn't it, that it's going to a good home?"

"I hardly think bein' sold on the Black Market for a wad of cash is 'goin' to a good home.'"

You feigned offense, laying a hand dramatically over your heart. "Scrooge! I'm hurt you'd think so poorly of me. Of course it's not going to the Black Market. It's going to a very reputable buyer. Hired me to steal it from you and everything."

"How much is 'e payin' ye, then?" Scrooge asked.

Now it was your turn to shiver -- though the one that danced down your spine was a bit more... anticipatory in nature. "Not nearly as much as the ruby is worth," you confessed lightly. "But we both know I never was one to back down from a challenge."

He was suddenly on you, his hands pinning yours behind you while his chest pressed flush against your back. A gentle shushing whisper blew past your ear before he spoke, "And how goes yer little challenge, eh? Would ye consider it successful?"

You shot a look back to him, along with a grin. "Well, I got your attention, didn't I? I'd call that a win."

He grunted in amusement before shifting his hands so that one was still holding you by the wrists, while the other delicately plucked the ruby from your grasp.

He held it up within your line of sight, twisting it so the lights bouncing off it danced along the walls. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked, though even as he spoke of it, his eyes were on you.

"You're not so bad yourself," you purred.

He unceremoniously threw the ruby back into the sea of gold with a sigh, then released you with a grunt that seemed a lot less amused than before. "Same time next week?" he asked.

"Of course."

"Off ye pop, then. I've got a meetin' in ten..."

[vintagegeekculture]

So even though it's kind of the Marvel line, Stan Lee and Jack Kirby didn't really quite reignite Superheroes, the Flash was around a good bit before. But nothing would have been the same without Marvel breathing new life into the genre. What state do you think comics would have been in if instead of writing the Fantastic Four Stan Lee had quit to go sell used cars? Was it inevitable someone would have paired with Jack to do it? What would comics and pop culture look like now instead?

I'm a Marvel True Believer first and foremost, but I think you're underselling how enormously successful Justice League of America was from 1960-1969. Marvel books, especially Fantastic Four (at the time, the "flagship" Marvel comic of the 1960s) regularly topped the polls as favorites for the serious fans in 60s fanzines like Alter Ego, but they were not top sellers until 1970, when Marvel acquired their own distributor. Prior to that, Marvel published their books through DC, who made sure Marvel's runs were lower. They also limited the amount of books that Marvel could print, which is why books like Tales of Suspense had two characters in them (Captain America and Iron Man shared a book). As soon as Marvel got their own distribution, they pushed DC out of the top selling lists.

Justice League of America was a huge success when it came out, for a reason that may surprise people: nostalgia. Essentially a revival of the 1940s heroes, it was a huge hit because the adult audience bought it.

It's interesting how nostalgia itself as a cultural concept with actual power is a kind of recent phenomenon. Prior to the 1980s, there were huge volumes of books aimed at old people like Hallmark's "Remember When?" books.

I do think the single greatest what-if of the Marvel Age is one you didn't mention: what if Joe Maneely had lived to work on the Marvel Universe?

Whenever Stan Lee was asked who the greatest artist he ever worked with was, his response was unexpected: Joe Maneely, a name that even some serious fans of the Silver Age may find unfamiliar. But Joe Maneely worked with Stan extensively in the 1950s in Marvel's non-superhero comics like Black Knight and Yellow Claw. He was a beautiful artist, a professional who was always punctual, and even more so, he understood and developed the "language" of comics, and had an even better relationship with Stan than Jack Kirby did, who, by all accounts, was a genius artist but was, interpersonally, a difficult, sullen wound collector who had difficulty keeping friendships (as his Captain America co-creator Joe Simon can attest; he and Jack had a "breakup" long before he ever met Stan).

Meanwhile, contrast all those interpersonal problems with the difficult to get along with Kirby, with how Joe Maneely used to draw him and Stan holding hands and walking through the park together and so on.

The downside is that Joe Maneely died at a young age, 1958, in a tragic accident where he fell between railway cars, all 3 years before Fantastic Four. He was the biggest Atlas-era Marvel artist to never work on the Marvel Universe.

A Marvel Universe with Joe Maneely as the major creative force alongside Stan Lee is a change so deep and fundamental I have no idea what it even would look like.

[hlficlibrary]

Hi ✨

Do you know fics where they are soulmates/true mates(if it's ABO) but one of them or both fight it at first?

Ohhh yes I do, anon! You have hit upon something I love very much and am currently writing haha. So here are some fics for you...

Light, Spark and Fire (series) by green_feelings / @greenfeelings

Life’s pretty ordinary for Harry. He lives with his best friend, got into university just like he’s planned, and manages to support himself just fine for an unbonded omega. If he sustains that lifestyle by getting paid to help alphas through their rut every now and then, that’s nothing to be hung up on. Until he’s hired by an alpha that turns everything upside down.

Or, Harry’s working on taking Louis’ walls down, until he builds his own up.

Only by @allwaswell16

Although Louis Tomlinson lived most of his life on the most remote island in the world, now he’s ready to leave home, attend university, and maybe have a chance at finding his soulmate. Prince Harry Styles reluctantly leaves London for yet another diplomatic visit, this time to the tiny island of Tristan da Cunha.

Or the one where the electric touch of Louis’ soulmate isn’t enough to discount that he's a bit of a dickhead.

Sometimes You Just Know by @2tiedships2

“Dear diary. Today is going to be a good day, and here’s why...”

“What are you doing?” Louis mumbled as he bit into a piece of toast.

“It’s been almost two years and today Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson reunite. Louis is very excited about…”

Louis’ chair screeched along the kitchen floor as he flew up out of his seat, quickly grabbing the paper from Niall’s grasp. As he scanned the page he found it amounted to lines of nothing.

“What is this?” Louis asked again. “We’ve discussed how Harry Styles will never be spoken of in this flat. I don’t care how long it’s been.”

Niall snatched the paper from Louis and proceeded to draw a line across the page before writing.

“Today is the day that he-who-shall-not-be-named is coming to dinner.”

Or the one where Harry and Louis don’t believe in soulmates… until they do.

accept it, my love (you're mine) by skipper / @skipperxao3

It’s said that soulmates are just an old tale. Most believe it to be accurate, but none more than Louis Tomlinson.

It’s a single conversation with his one and only. After months of visions, feeling his pain and joy, Louis is finally facing him.

But to his astonishment, Harry wants nothing to do with him.

Or, the 1920's fic in which Louis Tomlinson, a successful architect, gives up drawing buildings to fall in love with the homeless boy who’s captured his heart.

[romana-after-dark]

Blessed Be The Fruit

Commander!Joel Miller x Handmaid!Reader

Series masterlist

Summary: A few decades into Gilead’s conception, you head into your first posting as a handmaid after an affair with a guardian landed you in trouble. Determined to keep your head low in order to keep your son safe, you take on the moniker of OfJoel. Commander Miller has very little to do with you and mrs. Miller regards you with disgust, however you find solace in an unlikely friendship with Commander Miller’s daughter from a handmaid 14 years ago, Ellie who just got done with wives school. You and your friend, Ofthomas start teacher her and her friend Reilly under her mothers nose. Slowly, Commander Miller begins spending time with you and you begin to learn more about the man he was before and an affair begins outside the confines of the ceremony. Although initially you go along with it out if survival, you find yourself falling for the version of Joel you saw in these late night rendezvous.

Which Joel is really him, and how will he react when his own daughters secrets are revealed?

Content and Warnings: DARK JOEL! DUB CON!

Although no violent rape happens like in TWW, reader is under systemic misogyny and a society of ritualized sex abuse. Everything other than the violent rape scenes, everything that happen in either The Handmaids Tale book or show are liable to happen here including but not limited to discussion of rape, child abuse, child marriage, ritualized sexual abuse, sexual abuse in general, acts of violence, major character deaths, mentions of miscarriage but never shown and never pregnancies we know of. Big ole homophobia warning, specifically in regards to lesbophobia. As for Joel, PIV sex, breeding kink, degrading (slut, whore etc but thing like Raider!joel) forced breeding and breeding kink, power dynamics, Joel is not the good guy but he’s also not the worst, slightly rough sex but not violent. Warnings are liable to be added as the story goes but I’ll always update. As always if I miss something please tell me, but i extensively label my warnings and in the end media consumption is your own choice. If you would like to know if this is a happy ending or not you can message me and I’ll tell you that way I don’t spoil for everyone but you can decide if this is for you.

Immersability: Reader has long hair, can conceive children theoretically. At one point, she has to pose as Ellie's mother and I know this can be loaded in terms of skin tone. I am no genetics expert but I know dark skinned parents can have white passing children, like Lional Richie and Nicole Richie. It's up to you to see if this is going to take you out of the story or not.

Support writers, reblog and leave comments!

*****************************

Aunt Lydia said your first posting would be a difficult one, but that she took pride is matching up Handmaids to the right households and said she thinks it will be a solid posting. A peaceful household is the best conditions to conceive a child in, after all. Stress isn’t good for the baby, dear.

She gave you all the details, everything you needed to know. You would known as Ofjoel for the time of your posting; three years unless you conceive, God willing. Commander Miller was known as a fair man and a good father to the child he had, a 14 year old named Elizabeth who had only recently returned from wives school. Gildead had been eagerly awaiting news of her being betrothed, but Commander Miller was very particular. Nothing but the best for his daughter. Elizabeth was the product of a handmaid that had been posted with him 15 years ago at the advent of Gilead; one of the first 3 successful children of the new state. Their family had a bit of celebrity in that sense. Joel had declined handmaids for years ever since, saying he had his child and it was only fair that others got a chance. A good man, dear, always thinking of his countrymen. 

Mrs. Miller, she warned, can be a bit particular. But that shouldn’t be a problem for a well behaved girl like you, dear. You were well behaved, that was true. After you were taken away from your life with your husband, your son was taken and given to an unknown high ranking family. All you wanted to do was be passive and quiet and behave so no harm came to your son.

“Ah, welcome. Blessed be the fruit.” A beautiful woman in blue with dark hair braided back greeted you at the porch. Behind her was a young girl, Elizabeth you assumed, who looked less than thrilled to be there and behind her was a Martha. In front of Mrs. Miller, however, you see him. He was tall, handsome, a strong alkaline nose and medium brown curls slicked back in an attempt to tame them. 

Aunt Lydia spoke for you. You weren’t to speak unless spoken too. “Thank you, may the lord open! Mrs. Miller, Commander Miller. Oh, Elizabeth! Look how you’ve grown!” Lydia greeted the teenager who refused to put on a smile.

“Elizabeth, be polite.” Her mother chided, but it wasn’t until Commander Miller whispered a small ‘Ellie’ that the girl put on a small and curtsied.

Mrs. Miller invited aunt Lydia in for tea, but she declined, saying goodbye to you and telling you to be good before you were ushered inside. As Mrs. Miller introduced the household, you felt Commander Miller’s intense stare on you, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

“Our daughter, Elizabeth, is to be betrothed soon, God willing.”

Elizabeth groaned. “Great.”

“Your attitude is exactly why we can’t find you a match, young lady.” Mrs. Miller snapped, turning to her daughter with a glare. “That and the fact you keep sneaking second helpings-”

At that, Commander Miller walked over to where his wife was berating the girl. “She hasn’t found a match because I haven't found anyone suitable for her. She’s a shining star of Gilead, Gina, and I’m not going to send her off to just anyone.”

You watched as Mrs. Miller glared at him before her eyes fluttered over to you, and suddenly you felt like the outside you were. 

Commander Miller kissed the crown of Elizabeth’s hair, gently nudging her off. “Go to your room, I’ll walk you to Reilly’s after I’m done here, alright?” Women couldn’t walk alone, God forbid. It was for your safety, right?

Elizabeth rolled her eyes, but agreed and left the room, the commander looking back to his wife. “You have to stop berating her like that, she’s a good kid.”

Mrs. Miller walked a step closer. “She’s a brat, she’ll never have a successful marriage if she can’t submit to her-”

“Woman, I told you to drop it!” Commander Miller’s voice raised up just a little, enough to tell his wife to leave it alone.

With a huff, Mrs. Miller left the room mumbling that he can deal with the help, and how this is why they were getting a new handmaid and baby in the first place.

As she walked away, Commander Miller scrubbed his face and sighed, eventually looking over towards you and seeming startled by your presence. He sighed again. The way he looked at you… he didn’t look past you like everyone else seemed to do, he didn’t look at you like furniture. “Ellie’s going through a phase right now. Gilead has seemed to forget that teenagers are still teenagers, no matter the birthing crisis.”

You want to ask him whose fault that was. You want to remind him that he was one of the sons of Jacob who created this entire system… but you weren’t looking to die today. 

“She’s a good kid, smart.” He pressed on, like he was looking for a response. Smart was an odd choice of words. Women weren’t meant to be smart, they were meant to be pretty, fertile, godly, kind, demure.

You down cast your eyes. “Of course, sir.”

Commander Miller urged you along showing you all the parts of the house. The bottom floor held the kitchen where you would be helping the Martha, Lisa, the dining room, parlor, all the miscellaneous living areas and way in the back was Commander Miller’s office. Upstairs was a second bathroom, the master suite, Elizabeth’s room (or Ellie, as he called her), and Lisa’s room and then yours towards the end. He excused himself there.

“Make yourself as comfortable as possible.” He urged. It  was strange, the way he acted was not how you had expected. For such a  prominent commander  whose daughter was almost like royalty, you expect a harsher man; someone to match his wife’s strict standards. However, it seemed he was… almost normal, whatever that meant. “I’m going to walk my daughter to her friend’s house, but I’ll be back if you have any questions. Lisa would probably appreciate some help with dinner for once.”

“Yes commander”

You were in elementary school when Gilead was formed. Your parents were christian and church goers so you were allowed to grow up with them in the lower class regions and were married off to another man of lower stock, and it was years before you became pregnant with your son. Problem was that this son looked nothing like his father, and a paternity test revealed your secret, landing you in the position you were at now.

The day dragged on. Between you and Lisa, there wasn’t much to do to keep the household clean for the three other people that lived there, even with Mrs. Miller’s strict standards. Tomorrow you would meet your walking partner, and hopefully have activities to fill more of your day until your first ceremony.

That night, you woke up to use the bathroom, but when you walked out you were met face to face with Commander Miller. He was even taller like this, even dressed down out of his boots. White tee shirt and dark pants were under his long road and his previously slicked back hair was unfurled into soft, messy curls. His face was still sweaty; he smelled like sex. You hadn’t really thought if Commander’s still fucked their wives… but you suppossed there was no reason not to. Gina was beautiful, after all, and so was Commander Miller.

He towered over you, breaths almost shared in the close confines of the hallway. “Sorry.” He murmured in a whisper and moved, heading downstairs to his office or a midnight snack. A little shaken at being so close to a man, a man of such rank and power… that very power emanated off him in wafts of manly musk. You ran into Elizabeth as you exited the bathroom and she looked as startled to see you as you did Commander Miller.

“Excuse me.” She said as she slipped past and you re-entered your room, only to peek out as she was tiptoeing down the stairs and turning towards Commander Miller’s office. It was strange to see, but you supposed fathers were fathers, no matter the horrors they created for other women. Did he realize he was setting his own daughter up for this life? Especially a girl as headstrong as she seemed to be?

The sun was bright, the early fall only requiring  your long sleeve dress as you stood outside but behind the gate of your new home, Mrs. Miller standing beside you to make the introduction. Your walking partner was your next door neighbors handmaid.

“Ofthomas is my brother-in-law’s handmaiden. I assume you’ll meet their family this week, we usually keep weekly dinner’s at each other’s homes every Friday, we host this week. Tommy- Commander Miller, I mean, is certainly… interesting. Very kind, but don’t like me catch him being kind to you alone.” Mrs. Miller shot you a warning eye and you understood. Despite having wives and handmaids to fuck, men were never satisfied. 

“Ofthomas, there you are. You’re late.”

Ofthomas curtsied. “Apologies, Ma’am”

“Hm. This is Ofjoel, our new handmaiden.”

You bow your head and Ofthomas bows back, and Mrs. Miller opened the gate, allowing you to begin your walk to the store. To say you were nervous was an understatement. You could never tell who an eye was, and certainly couldn’t tell who a true believer was. Did Ofthomas believe everything she had been taught? It was never safe to say anything, never safe to question or complain to a single person lest they turn you-

“So what’s your real name?” Ofthomas asked.

You jolt, turning to her in shock. “Excuse me?!” Wide-eyes, you wonder if this is a trap, she had to be trapping you, right?

Ofthomas smiled at you, it was friendly but teasing as if she knew you’d react like this. Her dark hair peaked out of her wimple, as uncontrollable as she was, it seemed. “My name’s Angela.”

*****************

@my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @dins-riduur-anthe @morallyinept @fan-fiction-floozy @med494 @taliarose12 @flvrdoll @k-ra @sam-2me @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @moriartyyouwhore @hereforthepedrofanfic @alwaysmicado @noisynightmarepoetry @kyloispunk

[sugarplumpowder]

My friend B.

A while back, I was asked to share some real-life observations, and one memory that always comes to mind is about an old friend I’ll call B. Our friendship had a tendency to blur the lines, and eventually, he dropped the classic bombshell: “I’ve got feelings for you.” I didn’t share the same feelings, and we ended up drifting apart, but I still find myself reflecting on those moments from time to time. We were both young - B was around 23, and I was a few years younger - just trying to figure life out.

B stood about 5'11", with dark hair that brushed the nape of his neck and piercing green eyes that probably melted a few hearts along the way. He had tattoos covering his arms and upper body, giving him the appearance of someone who was just one jam session away from starting a garage band, yet somehow never quite got around to it. With his soft-spoken, laid-back vibe, he balanced out the crazier escapades we often found ourselves in. In hindsight, I appreciated that calming presence more than I realized at the time.

One unforgettable quirk of B’s was his sensitive nose. He had a small, slightly ski-slope nose that fit his face perfectly, but was also the cause of much distress. Even the lightest touch could trigger an uncontrollable sneezing fit, a fact I discovered one afternoon while we were hanging out.

We lounged on his bed, heavy metal music playing in the background as we playfully debated something utterly ridiculous - like who would win in a fight, a bear or a shark. In the middle of our banter, I impulsively booped him on the nose, not thinking much of it.

His expression shifted instantly; his eyes widened, and his nostrils flared. He inhaled deeply, and I could see the anticipation building in him. “Oh my god. I’m going to sneeze,” he whispered in a hushed, panicked voice tinged with desperation.

In a flash, he yanked his shirt over his head, just in time to cover his mouth as the first sneeze erupted downward, sending a wet spray across his chest. The sneezes came in rapid succession - quiet yet powerful, misting his skin with each exhale.

“Hup-tsssssh, hip-tssssshoo, hup-TSSSH!” Each sneeze shook his body, echoing in the room with intensity. I watched as his face flushed a deeper shade of crimson with every outburst, sheer desperation filling his eyes - a mix of surprise and surrender.

I couldn’t help it; I burst into laughter, my heart racing at the sheer absurdity of the moment. “What was that?!” I teased, barely able to contain my amusement. He shot me a sheepish grin, a hint of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. “Oh my god, my nose is just so sensitive; I have no control over it.”

Though he did his best to cover up, the evidence was undeniable - his shirt was stained, the dampness spreading from where he had sneezed.

That was my first encounter with B’s sneezing fits, but it wouldn’t be the last. As our friendship developed, his nose seemed to react to everything around him - dust in the air, the sunlight streaming through the window, and even the faint trace of my perfume lingering in the room. It felt like he was cursed; every time he looked outside on a sunny day, I could see the anticipation building in his eyes. I would brace myself, knowing it was only a matter of seconds before a sneeze would burst forth from his sensitive nose.

Those were definitely some wild memories from a time when life was simpler and a lot more carefree. If you’re up for it, I’ve got more wild tales about B’s sneezy antics that’ll definitely keep you on your toes.

XOXO

[munsonfamilyband]

I'm in the mood to give Steve good parents so fuck it, here we go.

Steve's dad, I always name him Richard, was lower middle class growing up, he wasn't poor but he also wasn't anywhere near his mom, Elizabeth. Betsy was the child of Italian immigrants (I personally love the idea they're Sicilian) and her dad had managed to open a thriving business when he first emigrated. She grew up wealthy, but her parents always made sure that their children knew that they weren't special - experiencing the discrimination her parents went through as immigrants definitely helped with making that message stick.

She was a cheerleader in High School but she also worked on the school newspaper and worked as a camp counselor during the summers. Steve's dad was a mathlete and head of the debate club. They met when Betsy approached him for an interview for a recent debate success.

Betsy was best friends with Sue Anderson (she was a bridesmaid in her wedding to Charles Sinclair) and friendly with both Karen Childress and Joyce Moldano until Karen started ditching them to hang out with her "boyfriend" Ted Wheeler (both Sue and Betsy tried to get her to see that he was much too old but she wouldn't listen). Joyce was a more complicated falling out that happened slowly as Lonnie Byers started showing interest and then started isolating her from all of her friends. Betsy still sent a gift to Karen, both for her and her new baby, when she found out that Karen had given birth. She also went to Joyce personally with lasagna when she heard about Lonnie running out of town.

Rich was best friends with Donnie Henderson, pushing him to pursue Claudia Yount when they were juniors, going on double dates with them when he and Betsy got together (after she got sick of his longing looks that he thought he was hiding and wasn't so she asked him when he was taking her on a date). He and Charles Sinclair were mathletes together and he gave Betsy tips to pass along to Sue when she had spilled that her friend had a crush on him. Rich had always been friendly with Jim Hopper Jr. but he was also friends with the Munson brothers and they didn't seem to like him that much. Wayne seemed nicer so on one occasion Rich tried to approach him and ask if he had done something to offend them, but Wayne had been two years older than him at the time and just scoffed and told him to run home to daddy.

(Years later he found out that Al had told Wayne that Rich had said something rude to him about being trailer trash. He only said that because he had been pissed seeing Rich sit with Lizzie Franklin at lunch, having forgotten that they were on the debate team together, nevermind the fact that almost everyone knew that Rich was gone on Betsy Lombardi.)

Betsy loved to read, and when Steve was little she would read to him all the time. (It's part of why they missed Steve's dyslexia.) As he got slightly older she started reading her favorite fairy tales to him, and then eventually when he asked for something new she broke out the Hobbit and they would cuddle up in his race car bed and she would read until he fell asleep.

Rich loved sci fi, any kind he could get his hands on. He would record episodes of Star Trek and he and Steve would sit on the couch together on Saturdays and spend all afternoon and night watching it together. When the first Star Wars came out he and Steve went together to go see it, then made them both lightsabers out of cardboard when they got home. Betsy would find them in the basement wearing blankets secured with safety pins like robes and dueling with their lightsabers. She managed to get it on tape once.

When Steve got to middle school his parents couldn't avoid the travel they needed to do for work any longer. Betsy went out and got them a very expensive cell phone and made sure to put the number on the fridge so Steve could see it and call anytime he needed them. They also made sure to call at least every other night, but in the early years it was often every night and only got less frequent when Steve got to high school.

They sent him little gifts from wherever they were staying, Steve getting a package at least once per trip. Sometimes it had candies and snacks, sometimes it was figurines and magnets, sometimes they even sent him clothing they thought he would like (Betsy keeps his measurements updated regularly so they can send him things that fit).

As Steve got older he went through the period of feeling embarrassed by how close he was to his parents, so he often didn't tell people about them other than saying that they weren't home often.

When he went through the events of '83, he managed to hold out for 3 days of not wanted to bother his parents before he called and begged for one of them to come home. Steve knew contracts, and he knew that the NDA the government made him sign wasn't legally binding without his parents there, so he could tell them everything. His parents were home a day later and he fell into his mom's arms and told them everything. The following year he was too out of it in the hospital from the concussion Billy gave him to properly give his parents number. When he got home, after Hopper refused to let him out of his sight for 4 days, he was able to call them and his mom rushed home, arriving that same day. A similar thing happened after the mall fire in '85 except his parents had been called by Sue about the fire so Steve never managed to call. When they arrived at the hospital it was only Steve and Robin, who they loved instantly.

When they heard about the earthquake on the news, they both immediately got on a flight home. Only, that was finally when everyone else learned about them because Steve's room was very full. Betsy had tunnel vision and ran to Steve's bedside, petting his hair while he blinked awake, while Rich went to Robin and pulled her into a tight hug that she returned without hesitation. Everyone else in the room was completely confused by these two people's appearance until Robin introduced them, so Steve could sleep again.

A month or so later Steve came to them, clearly nervous, and explained that while he did like girls he also liked boys and he might have a boyfriend, maybe? Betsy and Rich glanced at each other for just one moment of eye contact before they both stood and pulled Steve into a group hug. They reassured him that they loved him and just want him to be safe, then they demanded to meet this boy that has Steve so flustered.

Later that week they were reintroduced to Eddie, who had been unconscious when they had come to the hospital. Instantly they adored him. Rich and he had a long conversation about Star Trek and rock music, Eddie even giving Rich some recommendations for some metal that he might like. Betsy somehow had an even longer conversation about Lord of the Rings and she even grabbed a notepad when he started explaining Dungeons and Dragons to her. Steve was definitely jealous that his parents were taking up all of his time with Eddie but he was also so glad they liked him, and very clearly approved of him.

When Eddie went to the Harringtons years later and mentioned wanting to ask Steve to illegally marry him, Betsy burst into tears and grabbed Eddie in a bone crushing hug. Rich clearly had tears in his eyes and clapped a hand on Eddie's shoulder and told him they whenever they did it, wherever they did it, they would happily be there and would love to be involved in planning however they could.

[weaselle]

Several years ago I started writing a book that was kind of an exploration of what the fey have become in modern times. I never wound up finishing because the plot sort of got away from me.

I've posted a couple of excerpts from it, particularly mutuals may remember seeing posts containing the Ix and the Ips, but recently i found like three chapters i thought i'd lost forever.

Here is one of those chapters, introducing Glimmer and Gleam, the looking glass twins, if anyone is interested in that sort of thing (Jinx switches dialects and accents all the time, it's a Thing about him; Helix runs into him while she is a tourist in London, and she has been trying to incorporate British slang into her vocabulary with limited success.)

...

As they hurried off the train and up a flight of stairs, Helix tried to make sense of the situation. “What was that you told him about me?” she demanded of Jinx after a few minutes of climbing.

“Nothing but a truth he won't believe hidden in the truth he knows I'm compelled to tell, in exchange for more than disbelief is worth; but less than he wanted to tell me- the proud bastard.”

Helix spent a while trying to work this out and gave up. Besides, she had more pressing questions “Um, do these stairs ever end?”

“Of course they do, silly me lass; surely you don't believe in sorcery” Jinx laughed, and winked.

“Well,” said Helix dryly “I'm still inclined to think that magic is just science I can't understand, only, if these stairs really do end, what are the chances there's a loo at the top?”

Jinx guffawed “No need to invoke the Dame, worried me lass; there's a priv near the top, sure enough.” And there was.

...

The library was grey stone, rug laden and plush inside, drapes and tapestries thick on the walls.

Nibs the Scribe turned out to be a very old and strange little man, about five feet tall, but stooped with age. He had an odd blunt face and a slopping forehead and stood before Helix, examining her like a shop keeper with new merchandise, while quizzing both she and Jinx “And it names her to the cover?” he asked Jinx.

“That it did, Nibs old friend, my own eyes told the tale.”

“And you have how many for years when it finds you?” the little man queried Helix

“I was nine,” said Helix, working her way through the grammar.

“And then you must be over here and we are see” the little man decided, and sat them down at a table while he got a trolley out and disappeared into the bookshelves.

“Jinx,” said Helix desperately, “you have to tell me what the shit, man; I am way out of my element here. Or my head” she muttered.

“Right y'are, I s'pose, “ sighed Jinx, “well.. it's the Book, innit? Ye ought never 'ave come by it Helix, lostling or no.”

“What? Dude, speak English.”

“Look you, there are many of your people that are compatible with the All Side, but have never woken up to it or found their way here. We call them Lostlings. Now that Book is from the All Side, and designed for a .. a strange Working, and fit for a specific mindset at a certain age. And you, lost me lass, come along at that age, all trimmed to suit it, and find the one that I mislaid.”

No pin dared drop as Helix sat looking at him.

“Yeah right,” she said, finally. “Jesus Christ, where are we even sitting right now? How can this really… really? I mean… really??” Helix looked around herself “did you like, y'know, put acid in my coffee?”

Jinx tilted his head, “Do yas truly not believe in spellcraft 'n' gods? Amazing.”

“Magic.” Helix said slowly, “Is just. Science. I don't. Understand.”

Jinx looked at her as if gauging her ability to reason. Finally he said “Then do you understand that each of the particles in The Book which you found is a Worked Creation, and each of those is its own limited consciousness? With a body and a will to direct it? And there are among us beings whose bodies have stopped aging, whose minds are redesigned? And can you understand that the One Side which you are from is .. is a spectrum out of the available rainbow? And that the Laws of Physics as you call them that you are just now grasping are only a ninth of the Laws that govern the Single-Yet-Multi-'Verse?”

Helix was quiet a minute, thinking. “Nnn… nano-bots, genetic manipulation, multidimensional string theory?” she ventured, and then was forced to sit for several minutes trying to tell Jinx everything she could remember understanding about nanotechnology and string theory.

Jinx looked at her for a minute, and burst out laughing. “That. Is. Amazing. I mean not really, no, but, you've gotten so much closer so quickly. I mean, yes, some of what you said are the things I said… in the way that a rubber ball is the same thing as it's surface area. I s'pose you might, if you were taught by a specialist for a few years, be able to understand the basics of even maybe most of it, given enough tutoring.. and perhaps a few modifications.” Jinx paused. “No, challenged me lass, you'd best stick to calling it magic,” he said, finally.

Helix sat as Too Good to Be True and Too Frightening to Be True and Too Real to Be Untrue fought a small tournament in her skull. She leaned back into the safe cushions of disbelief “Come on, Jinx, I gotta stop this nonsense and go back. Or maybe I wake up from this ricockulousness and go get my passport?”

“Passport! Shite! Thank you for reminding me. Stay here” and with that, Jinx got up and hurried off into the books.

Helix, hardly having slept in so long, put her head down on the table, trying to digest it all. "Oh no, it's not magic," she thought sarcastically, as her mind gently closed the shutters on her and took itself off for a nap, "it's just that they've figured out how to actually cut her in half."

Helix woke up face down on a wooden table surrounded by books, saw the time, and panicked. And when she finished panicking about the possibility of missing her passport appointment, and considered where she was and what she could be panicking about instead, she collapsed sideways off her chair in a fit of laughter.

Jinx poked his head out from around a huge pile of books, and said, “Well, laughter's rarely a dangerous or permanent affliction” and returned to being one of two stacks of books having a conversation. Helix subsided to giggles.

"I bet he really could so turn himself into a stack of books," she thought in delirious delight, "With science. And a wand." and she giggled some more. Gradually she remembered her appointment and wondered aloud, “Do I even need a passport anymore? Am I even in the real world anymore? HA!” she suddenly burst out, “LET'S SEE THE N.S.A. RECORD THIS CONVERSATION!” and she hopped up and did a little dance around the room, pumping her fists triumphantly.

Jinx and Nibs looked at her like a pair of dog-sitters worried the aged poodle they're watching might not live 'til the Mctaggarty's vacation ended. Concluding she wouldn't die of whatever was wrong with her, they turned back to their research.

Helix wound down like a top, coming to rest back on her chair. “Seriously though,” she said after a moment of quiet, “should I still be trying to get to my passport appointment?”

Jinx didn't look up from reading “Of course you should, only not yet, you've got a while still.”

“I think,” said Helix, “and I could be wrong here, but I think it's quite soon, actually. It's just, I worked so hard to get my appointment”

Now Jinx looked up. “What are you on about, confusing me lass? I made yer appointment. For tomorrow night. That is to say, at this point, much later this evening.”

“No, but, and I'm really fairly certain about this part, I made an appointment to get my passport for ten thirty this morning.”

“And more requirements for bring All Side License offices is having All Side provisional permit, One Side passport, and One Side birth certificate.” Nibs interjected, finger holding his place on the page. Jinx and Helix stared at each other in shared dawning of comprehension.

“Oh no,” moaned Helix. “Profusions of Paperwork Perfidy!” Jinx swore. Nibs caught on to the situation. “And how many time is between now and FIRST passport appointment?” he asked.

Jinx and Nibs (who turned out to be surprisingly spry) rushed around, filling Helix’s hands with a cascade of items and her head with a hopeless jumble of descriptions while they argued about some problem concerning dual transfers that escaped Helix entirely.

“Aye, Jinx, and if she is not making the return- Helix you, this is being 17b schedule of acquaintance and a new seeing eye, take- then she is open advantage to the twins and being a card in the hand of the Lord,” said Nibs, giving Helix a sheaf of papers and a small rectangular box.

“Yes and truly, Oh Nibs, therefore- Here, Helix, red is Unacknowledged blue is All-ignored, never wear both at once- therefore back she comes with them to cancel such, and that's an end to that!” said Jinx pressing two rings into Helix’s hand. “I don't see a more likely way, Oh my me no” Jinx concluded, apparently winning the argument. “Alright, dashing me lass, you're kitted up proper, if a touch old fashioned. Let's see if we can set up a meeting with the Looking Glass Twins.” He stood still and lifted his hat long enough to pull an eyepatch down into place. “let's see,” he said staring into space, “which one, which one, right… next scheduled location… damn. What about her sister… right, right…. no…still no… brilliant!” He raised the eyepatch, tucking it back under the edge of his hat. Then he held his wrist up to his mouth and said, “Jingo! Jingo! Heeeeeere Jingo!” and shook the belled bracelet he wore.

Jinx had a lot of bits and bobs about his outfit, but was very quiet when he moved. Helix had never heard any bells from Jinx yet, but this one tinkled now. Jinx paused a moment and winked at Helix “They never come on the first call, you know” and shook the bell again. “Jingo!”

There was an answering tinkling sound, which grew louder. All three of them turned towards the sound, and after a few seconds, a dust mote there seemed to rapidly grow until a small black cat wearing a slender spiked collar with a tiny silver bell appeared to leap into the room from somewhere that was simultaneously six feet from them and very far away.

She ignored Nibs completely, walked distrustfully around Helix, and wound between Jinx's legs. He leaned down and rubbed her ears and said, “There's a precious pretty, now. I've an errand for you, lady kitling” The cat stopped purring and sat with her back to him, tail lashing. “Now, don't be like that, Jingo me kit, it's even one you'll like, just like old times” The little cat put her nose in the air. “Easy and fun, I promises, sweetest, come along.” Jingo sniffed and ignored him for a second, then turned her head over her shoulder and looked at him. Jinx grinned “So, see my little lovely… I need you to break a bathroom mirror in the One Side.”

A minute later, they stood in front of a full length mirror in another room. Jinx, who was kneeling, finished giving Jingo some kind of complicated coordinates, and bumped foreheads with the diminutive feline. Jingo tamped down like a leopard seconds away from dinner, and did her entrance in reverse, simultaneously leaping six feet and a million miles away into nothingness.

Jinx stood. “And now to earn a smile from the Lady.” So saying, Jinx pinched a coin from the air and flipped it, calling “heads!” then, slapping it on his wrist, lifted his hand to reveal it tails. Before them, the mirror flashed, and the reflection of a woman stepped from the edge of the mirror into view. Helix looked around. There was no woman in the room with them. She looked back in the mirror. There was very definitely a woman standing there, in a white sun dress, with platinum hair. A tiny dragon of liquid silver hovered over her shoulder.

Spying Jinx, she laughed. “Oh Jinx, of course it's you, you silly thing; what happened to my scheduled mirror?”

“Ah, weell, I am ever loath to postulate, but I s'pose it could be that my Jingo may have crossed paths with it.”

“Clever Sir, and should I wonder the mirror I default into be shared by the Left Hand of the Lady? Oh well done, sir, good game!” and she laughed again. “And so?” she said, “I do have Work, you know.”

“A small boon of you and your sister, if you would be so kind?”

“Well enough, do you have the means?” she asked, petting her little dragon on the snout.

“Aye” Jinx held out his hand and Nibs gave him the small mirror he carried.

“Step forward, please,” the mirror lady said. Jinx did so, and pointed the mirror in his hand at the one on the wall. In the reflection, there was an infinite series of the woman in the wall mirror, who turned her back on them to face an image of her own back in the reflection of the hand mirror. Then she reached into the reflection of the hand mirror and laid her hand on her own shoulder.

Next to Jake, from the mirror Jinx held, a woman's hand reached out, and into the mirror on the wall. It grasped the refection of the woman by the shoulder and pulled her out of the wall mirror into the room with them, then withdrew back into the hand mirror with a shattering sound, as the lady in the room let go of the reflection she'd pulled from the image of the hand mirror and pulled her own hand of the mirror on the wall. It sort of looked like an infinite line of women with their hands on the shoulder of the woman in front all took a step backwards, and then there were only two: the woman now in the Library with them and her reflection where she had been. The woman turned around, so that both she and her reflection were facing Jinx.

The pair were identical in every way, except, Helix noticed, the little dragon actually in the room with them looked like it was made of living cut diamond instead of mercury.

Jinx swept his hat low in a bow, “Shimmering Ladies, I present a guest of mine, Helix the One Sider; Helix me lass, meet the Looking Glass Twins, Glimmer and Gleam,” he leaned over and said out of the side of his mouth, “Ye can tell 'em apart by their wee beasties, Flect and Fract”

“Uh, nice to meet you,” said Helix while Jinx grimaced at her uninspired phrasing. The twins giggled in unison.

“Now Ladies, I have a wee boon to ask: it seems young Helix has an appointment in the One Side that she cannot make, nor miss, if perhaps you would bless me with a favor and see her safely to her room in London, and let her pass back through on the return?”

“Oh Jinx, smuggling lostlings are you?” The lady in the mirror chimed in, “And you're sure you need both ways? One would be easier.”

“Oh my me yes, both ways, and no mistake.”

“What then for our troubles, Oh Jinx on High, the least not that we've missed an appointment of our own?” asked the lady in the room.

“Why, my gratitude, of course! Which is not so very inconsiderable, no?”

“Ah Jinx,” said the one in the mirror “We'll have need of better coin than that.”

“Well then, I could tell you something worth the trouble if you like, and call it even.”

“Hmm.” The sisters looked at each other, like one woman staring into her own reflection.

“Fair play,” said the one in the room, at last, “Share your news, Jinx of All, and we shall guide your lostling home and back, oath-unbroken.”

“Oath-unbroken, this there is: The Ix have waked, and threaten the calm of All and most; even the Dame's Right Hand fidgets.”

Twin platinum eyebrows quirked at once “That is news- and news within. Huh. Come along then Helix of the One Side, let us see you home.” Jinx nodded at her, so Helix took Gleam's offered hand, and was pulled with her as they both stepped from the room and into the mirror.

[rom-e-o]

After Wolf and Bess get together, at a "small" gala the Twins and girls attend, an old, pretty face from their past shows back up. Not Isabel or Belle. They would be welcomed.

Turns out, years ago when the Twins were in their 30s, Marley took on another apprentice. She was quite young, early-early 20s, smart, but more ambitious than anything. Like, so ambitious it was both an asset and flaw.

She didn't stay working for Marley long as she was snapped up quickly by even bigger bosses due to her talents, both in numbers but mostly in bed. Yeah, she's one of those people. Which I mean, get your bag, I guess? Can't say I agree with the methods, but as long as you're not hurting people, better for my mind to keep out of it. (Also, yeah, she most likely got her position with Marley by exchanging some favors.)

She was never romantically or sexually involved with the Twins. They were rebuffing advances hard and barely registering people's sexes by that stage. But she was definitely interested, and in Wolf especially. She did a lot of the street work with him, always opting to accompany him even if she had other duties in the office. Yes, she propositioned him. A lot. Again, he never bit. Honestly can't tell you if he even ever considered that she was being serious. Not very long after finally getting the vibe this thing was never going anywhere, she dipped and got taken on by a fish bigger than Marley.

Then, years later, she shows up at this party. Successful, married, well known, stunning and vibrant. She's got everything.

Now, when I say she's stunning, here's the thing: she and Bess resemble each other somewhat. Dark curls, dark eyes (this chick's eyes are almost black they're so dark brown), cool complexion, freckles (this girl only has a few cute ones over her nose and cheeks), full lips, hippy and bootylicious, taller than average. Except this woman is willowy and petite in frame as opposed to Bess' stout shieldmaiden-esque build. She's also busty. Not Connie levels, but she's got some spectacular girls to show off compared to Bess. Woman is the definition of a bombshell, especially showing up in the dress she does which may as well just be a few strips of luxurious cloth sewn together. (But damn if they don't fit her amazingly and look more glam than the dress Bess has on.)

She's also extremely bubbly in a self-centered and sexually charged way. She sees the boys, rushes them to embrace them, and is almost immediately yapping about her life while skillfully working in references about her exploits. ("Sammy?! Charlie?! Oh my God, how are you?! I haven't seen you two in... Bloody fuck, how long has it been? At least a dozen CEOs I've been under since Marley! Hahaha! Oh, boys, let's catch up, shall we? Have I got tales to tell you! Where should I start? Oh, I know! I'll start with my first marriage. I met my first husband on his honeymoon in Bora Bora, you know. Without his clothes, he wasn't much to look at, but that's what alcohol is for, yes? He wasn't much of a fuck either, honestly, but he certainly did open my eyes to some new things I went on to try with my second and third husbands.")

Btw, she does this while the girls are away for a moment in the powder room, so when they come back they're smacked in the face with a strange woman loudly regaling their men with a story of how her first orgy was, funnily enough, in a board room. ("It certainly changed my bar for how board meeting should be handled, I'll tell you that!") Adonis looks uncomfortable to say the least. Wolf, who definitely got used to this sort of sexual talk from this woman so many years ago, has the look of, "Yep, just another Tuesday".

The women are introduced. The interloper quickly latches onto Connie being Adonis' fiancée. ("So you're what could finally get him to open up and settle down. Ha! Never thought it possible! Tell me, Darling, what's Sammy like without his clothes on? The time I had trying to find out! I thought maybe they didn't come off; maybe they were permanently sutured to his skin!")

Bess is hardly given a "howdy-do". Wolf does introduce her as his sweetheart, of course, but it earns Bess a particularly but subtly chilling gaze from the interloper. ("Girlfriend? Oh, how nice. Such a cute little thing. Young too. Finally sowing those oats, ey, Charlie?")

As the night goes on, the interloper remains latched to the group, especially the boys, especially Wolf. Wolf is always beside Bess, of course; never bites at all the hooks the interloper throws out... but he doesn't really rebuff her either? He kind of just seems... oblivious to all of her passes and insinuations. To be fair, they can be hard to pick up sometimes as every other thing that comes out of this woman's mouth seems to be related to sex. (The group is painfully aware of how many marriages she's had--on her seventh--and what each one really liked to do in bed.)

At some point Bess goes to get a drink. Much to her annoyance, the interloper comes with. As they're at the refreshment table, a conversation is struck up.

"So. You and Charlie, hm?"

"Yes. Wolf and me."

"Wolf? Your pet name for him? Haha! That's cute! Did he get that from the bedroom scene?"

"Um, no. No, he's always been Wolf to me. Even when we were friends."

"Ah. So he's not a wolf in the sack then?"

"... I really don't think that's any of your business."

"Oh, come on, Love. We're both adult women here. You're a wannabe midwife--you're not exactly uneducated about the relationships between men and women. I tried to shag your Wolf for years and couldn't make him bat an eye, and now a cherubic little girl like you comes along and suddenly, not only is he shagging, he's calling you his "sweetheart". Do a fellow girl and favor and satisfy her curiosity."

"I'd rather not."

"... Oh. Oh, I see. You're one of those."

"One of those?"

"Yeah, one of those little prudes. The little prudes that call liberated women like me "whores" and "sluts" because they're jealous I can get men and action they can't."

"Maybe you get called those things because you seem thirsty for anything with a dick that walks on two legs and actively pursue taken men."

"Ah. So the little cherub does have some bite. All right. Maybe you're not a prude."

"Maybe I'm not."

"Maybe you're something worse. One of those pious little girls that's "saving herself for marriage". As if that's something to aspire to."

"Not that it's any of your business either, but I'm not waiting for marriage."

"No. But "somebody special", I'll bet. Or "when you feel ready"."

Bess can't say anything. That's exactly what she's waiting for, what she's making Wolf wait for.

"Ha. In that case, Charlie's definitely going to need a real woman to show him what a good time is tonight. Well, doesn't the universe work in mysterious ways."

"The universe or your assistant reading the guest list for this party?"

"What's it matter when such amazing opportunities arise?"

"Aren't you remarried? Like, newly?"

"Hahaha! Oh my, little frumpy cherub, haven't you learned anything about me tonight? Rings never stop me, whether they're his or mine."

"You honestly think you can make Wolf give you a second glance when I'm right there beside him?"

"He'll have to give me all the glances if you're not here, won't he?"

"What?"

With a quick look around to see if anyone is noticing, the interloper picks up the bowl of punch and just dumps it over Bess before she can even react. "Oh my god--I'm so sorry! Typical me--just can't control my intrusive thoughts sometimes. At least it's not a total loss--this look wasn't doing anything for you."

Bess can just stand in shock and boiling fury. She hasn't endured anything like this since high school. And maybe that's what sets her mindset back to make her react like she does from here on out.

"Go home, L&D nurse. Maybe your old Marley's daughter, but you and I both know you don't belong here. And you certainly don't belong with someone like Charlie."

And with that the interloper walks away back to rejoin the group.

Bess just runs after that. She doesn't think, she just leaves the gala without a word and catches a taxi back to the cottage. It's not until she's already on the way home she thinks to let the others know she's left, and it's only text messages that start coming in that makes her think of it.

Connie: ~Hey, are you okay? [Interloper] said you weren't feeling well and decided to leave? Do you want me to come home and help you?~

Wolf: ~Are you all right? [Interloper] said you were feeling ill and left. Do I need to come take you to a hospital?~

Bess just tells them not to worry and that she's fine, just going home early to rest, and they should stay at the party. After all, she doesn't want them to see her this way. And the interloper was right: She didn't belong back there. And who is she even kidding? She hardly belongs with Wolf either.

She finds the cottage, mercifully empty when she gets there (except for Sunshine, of course) and just strips down as she beelines for the bathroom, throwing her dress in the trash on the way. Bess doesn't know how long she sits in the shower, but the water is cold before she gets out. And she cries the entire time.

(Why do I keep dreaming up all these horrible scenarios for Bess while you give me nice ones for Connie?)

OHHH BESS. ;; Bess, Bess, I want to hug her so bad.

First of all, Interloper has done the impossible - she's at Karen levels of annoying. Now, we don't know if she's abusive like Karen, BUT from the sound of her, she sound like an emotionally and potentially physically manipulative bully to others.

It is INTERESTING how she looks similar to Bess, but she's still obviously jealous of Bess:

Bess is beautiful. They look alike, after all. They're built different, but both are womanly and gorgeous.

Bess is YOUNGER than her. She seems like the type of person that would be annoyed by that, especially since she can't buy time back. she even tries to demean Bess by calling her 'cute' or 'cherubic.' Bess is a younger woman, and it irks her.

Annnnnd finally, Bess has Wolf; the prize SHE wanted but could never get, even in the 'prime of her life.' Even when they look similar. He never chose her. That must eat her up.

The way she flutters up and gets insanely personal with the Twins SO quickly is beyond tone-deaf. Like, time and place! Also, when someone clearly isn't in to you, you GOTTA take a hint!

I picture the ladies coming back from the powder room and seeing this woman accosting the boys. Wolf looks unamused and Adonis looks uncomfortable.

Connie sees Adonis looking flustered and goes in to redirect the woman's attention and help. Connie reads and clocks her pretty quick, I'd imagine. Her comment about him undressing earns a chuckle, and not a friendly one.

"Well, [Interloper] it's much easier to get one out of their clothes when there is mutual interest in the whole affair. I assure you, my Adonis and I have no such concerns. He is positively sterling in ALL regards." As then kisses Adonis' cheek for good measure and smiles. Then she gives Bess a nervous glance. You know the look, it says "girlfriend, watch out for this one."

This woman's attitude and verbiage toward Bess would catch Wolf's attention. He picks up on her choice of words, and with eat passive-aggressive taunt earns a squeeze from Wolf. His lips even skim the crown of her head as he calls her "sweetheart."

I don't think Wolf stops the Interloper from following Bess to the drink table because, honestly, it doesn't don on him that this woman would go for Bess. He thinks, "I can ignore her, so can Bess." He might not realize immediately that women play a little dirty with each other, and that perhaps she has other goals.

THEN, the punch situation. I don't blame Bess for leaving, poor woman. just to ... escape it.

When Interloper comes back, red flags are everywhere.

"Where did Bess go?" Wolf asks her, his tone only slightly suspicious. He's more concerned.

"No clue," she shrugs. "Feeling sick, she said. Stomach bug. Poor girl. Oh, but don't you worry, Wolf-y. I'll keep you entertained."

Annnnd the sirens go off. She should NOT know that nickname. His brow furrows.

Connie and Wolf text her, but her message that she left provides little comfort. She's safe, but ... it's not right. Connie stares her down, her face a mask of doubt.

C: Interesting timing of her illness, all things considered.

I: Just what are you implying?

Meanwhile, Wolf is obviously antsy. Looking around. He looks out of sorts without his Brightness at his side.

Wolf: Something isn't right. ... Sammy, you're going to hate me for this, but-

Adonis: Charlie, go check on her. I'll handle any speeches if we're called on stage, and Connie and I will ... distract our friend. It shouldn't be hard.

Wolf gives his a thankful squeeze on the shoulder and darts out. He grabs a cab and makes a beeline for the cottage. As he arrives, he texts her to let her know he's on his way. I imagine he has a key by this point, but he's not going to just creep in.

Then, he calls and leaves a voicemail:

W: Brightness, it's me. I'm outside. I wanted to check on you. You left so suddenly. If you're sick, I'd much rather help you feel well than spend another second in that stuffy ballroom and hear [Interloper] talk about ... ugh, I apologize for her. If she did anything, I need you to tell me. I can If you get this, can you just ... let me know that you're really okay? You know what I mean.

A part of him hopes he's not being too smothering, but ... he has a feeling in his gut. And he means every word. No gala is worth attending without her company.

It's the DRAMA, the delicious hurt-comfort goodness!

Meanwhile: Interloper continues to be loud and obnoxious, all while Adonis and Connie chug champagne to tolerate her.

[bonefall]

Do you think we could get a rundown of Skyclan leaders like you did for Shadowclan? From when the destruction of their forest territory started to when Skyclan broke up?

It would be a pretty short list, because of the massive interruption.

Leaders Flystar -> Cloudstar -> Spiderstar -> (RATS WE'RE RATS WE'RE THE RATS) -> Leafstar

Clerics Twigtail -> Fawnstep -> Brackenheart -> Oakstep -> (Unnamed Link) -> Pricklenose -> Skywatcher

You'll notice that the Cleric list doesn't have an interruption; that is because the Cleric took the role we eventually see Skywatcher in. They called them the Hub, after the center of a spiderweb. It was someone who would keep track of where all the dispersed cats were and pass on relevant news.

Modern Clerics evolving out of the Hub is why SkyClan's medics are so strange. They have some massive differences from a Forest Four Cleric.

There is no law against them having children. In fact, it's preferred that they did, as it's proof that they know how to care for other cats.

They can have mates, too. Echosong is actually casually the girlfriend of Leafstar.

They act more like a combined doctor/therapist than a doctor/priest. SkyClan clerics are here to treat physical and mental needs. Instead, the leader takes on more spiritual roles.

Anyway, leader succession guide;

Flystar

The destruction of the territory was happening before he was leader, but he took over when it started getting real bad in the Skyfall Era.

He was a HARDCORE kind of loyalist leader. We would know him today as a Hard Traditionalist, insisted his warriors pray harder and live better lives to prevent the destruction.

He invented the Law of the Wild, which we know as the law that bans becoming a kittypet. He did this in response to many of his warriors trying to live double lives.

Lived for a very long time, and oversaw the worst of the destruction, but Forest Four remember the story completely wrong.

The story is told that Flystar forestalled disaster with his hard ways, but Cloudstar was a weak, bumbling successor, who is ultimately blamed for SkyClan's exile.

In truth, Flystar died and left Cloudstar as a young successor. Cloudstar hadn't lost a single life or ruled for more than a year when the last acre of forest was clear-cut.

Flystar was a brown cat with black dapples on his face and chest.

Cloudstar

Gets done so, so dirty in the Forest Four history lessons. I have an entire scene dedicated to Firestar realizing that the story sounds pretty fucked up in Firestar's Quietus.

His first deputy was Buzzardtail, who was his best friend. They tried to keep the Clan together, wandering for years while looking for a new home.

In terms of personality, Cloudstar was a total worrywart. He was always preparing for the worst, and his ingenuity saved a ton of lives. He cared a lot for safety and making sure the travelers were procuring rations.

It still wasn't enough. He was a fantastic leader, soft, caring, beyond dedicated to his friends and family. Cats still died.

He was constantly missing his mate, Birdsong, and his kittens. He was notoriously amazing with the kits, often carrying them when they got too tired.

He was a big guy, too.

Displays the same vitiligo as Skystar and has a striking resemblance to him. Definitely a direct descendant.

His blotches loosely resembled an eye on his side, which ended up becoming... that.

Spiderstar

No Buzzardstar in BB. Buzzardtail died during the very long journey.

But Spiderflight knew him very well. He was her mentor.

Cloudstar died in the abandoned barn where the rats would eventually gather, every night.

Spiderflight had spent most of her life traveling, most of SkyClan had. She did not remember the old forest, just the general stretch of land that would become their Gorge territory.

She only knew what had been taken from her in stories. Kit's tales, to her, she'd been born on the move and that was where her heart was.

She picked up a lot from Cloudstar's resourcefulness. She'd always been close to the leadership, ever since she was young. Slotting into the role was easy.

Cloudstar never wanted to leave such a young successor, as Flystar had done to him, but he had no choice in the end.

She'd never been "good" at sadness. She didn't want to sit vigil in that barn with everyone else; it was too easy to give into despair if she didn't keep moving.

It was Spiderstar who settled SkyClan into the area, and she was the first Hub really. She just happened to teach Oakstep how to do it next.

Important since she only got three lives.

She had distinctive web-like stripes on her tabby body, a large "cape" over her shoulder of two big spokes connected by smaller strokes.