#‘so you’re the new schoolmarm’

[strawbfairyy]

i always forget how insanely queer the beginning of “dear peggy” is and then it hits me in the face and i go hey. what. who allowed this. and THEN hawkeye goes “ah, this mad gay nightlife” and then i just truly lose it

[wardenparker]

You’re So Vain - Chapter 1

Dieter Bravo x female Reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

Oscar winning star Dieter Bravo’s reputation is suffering after the debacle of “Cliff Beasts 6″ and “Beasts of the Bubble”, so his management team has signed him on to a publicity stunt to find his soulmate and show the world a softer side of the erratic and unpredictable star. The plan quickly go awry, though, when Dieter’s soulmate wants nothing to do with him. 

Rating: Teen. But this blog is *always* 18+ Word Count: 5.7k Warnings: *Blanket warning for chronic illness, cursing, and deceased family members. This is a Dieter fic, folks, so there absolutely will be discussions of drugs, drug use, and addiction.* Enemies to lovers, family hardships. Summary: Dieter meets with his team about their new strategy to fix his image problem, and you battle your best friend about how to respond to it when the campaign goes live.  Notes: Welcome to the Soulmate Sunday Family to our favourite Trash Can Man, Dieter Bravo! This is my first time writing anything enemies to lovers and Keri and I are having a blast with the secondary characters for this series. Hopefully you guys will enjoy it as much as we are!

Dieter slouches down in the stiff conference room seat, unsure why they couldn't spring for something more comfortable. Fuck knows they charge through the nose for their services so chairs that didn't feel like the pew at St. Mary's when he was six and forced to go to every damn Mass because his abuela was convinced that his soul was damned, wasn't beyond unreasonable in his opinion. Hungover and desperately craving a snort of something, his eyes narrow behind his sunglasses. Ridiculous indoors to some, but he needs them against the bright florescent lights in the conference room. "It wasn't a big deal." He huffs defensively, folding his arms over his chest and looks over at the grim faced, horribly dressed suits that represented his team.

"Maybe not to you." Libby, his manager of twenty years, shifts in her seat and holds her hands in her lap like an unhappy schoolmarm. "But Paramount rescinded your last offer and I had to dig my claws into the Ray-Ban reps to keep them from ditching your endorsement contract." The venti, 3-pump, skim milk, no foam, extra hot chai tea latte in front of her is now cold and that makes her madder than she likes. If she didn't appreciate the huge fucking percentage she gets from being Dieter Bravo's representation, maybe she wouldn't be sitting here pissed off and she could have enjoyed her coffee. Right now, the fact that she cares about him as a human is secondary to making sure his career doesn’t tank. "Dee, I don't think you understand how bad a beating the Bravo brand is taking right now."

"The Bravo brand." He curls his lip always hating the way Libby would say that. Like he was a fucking sneaker or some shit. "I don't understand why this is being blown out of proportion. I did coke. I always do coke. It's not like it's a big fucking secret. I was bored and fucking trapped in that goddamn hotel shooting the movie you—" He points his finger at PR manager Phil, a snarky little shit that reminded him of a weasel. "Told me would be a fucking piece of cake. An 'easy payday' as you put it."

"It would have been if Carol Cobb hadn't tried to incite a rebellion." Phil contends, draining the last sip of his own coffee from a travel mug that was definitely half whiskey.

"Here's the thing." Libby sits forward in her chair again, wishing she had just put her plan into motion before talking to Dieter about it, but the rest of the team had overruled her on that. "Just because coke is a thing that you do does not mean that the rest of the world was going to be okay with it. Or that your fans were going to be okay with it. Now, we are going to have to do a rehab stint. No," she frowns again. "Don't roll your eyes at me, I already called Promises and got you your usual room. But we're going to need more than that this time."

"So what are we talking about?" He asks, looking around the table, very unhappy about the idea of going back to that fucking facility. He didn't give a shit how nice it was, it was all bullshit. "Visiting a few hospitals and kissing sick kids? I'm not a Marvel character." He scoffs. "I would look like shit in spandex."

"We have a very unique endorsement lined up for you," Phil tells him, looking around at the rest of his team. They had gone around and around on this idea for a week before making a move towards it and the fact that it landed well with the company in question was like early fucking Christmas for them. "Mate Marks."

"The soulmate app?" Dieter frowns, looking between the people on the opposite side of the table from him in confusion. "Wha— no." He spits out, shaking his head. "No, nope, not going to happen." He tells them quickly and starts digging into his pockets, looking for the acid that he had misplaced. "I'm not pretending to endorse that bullshit."

"You're not going to pretend anything." Libby tells him flatly. "It's all already set up."

"After this meeting I'm going to release the first social media burst." Phil adds firmly. "Dieter Bravo is looking for his soulmate."

His agent - Malcolm - pulls a press release out of the folder in the middle of the table and smacks it down in front of their client. "When people hear about this there are going to be a lot more Dieter Bravo fans in the world."

"We're launching an international search for your soulmate." Libby goes on. "Mate Marks will weed out the obvious phonies and pass the decent possibilities on to us while you're in rehab. I'm sure it won't take long to find them. By the time you get out, we should have a name and address. We'll take a camera crew to their front door, and you will be charm itself."

"I don't need to find my soulmate." He whines, pouting and nearly stamping his feet like a petulant child. He doesn't want to find his soulmate. Is actually terrified of it, if the truth were to be told. Afraid of rejection, not being good enough. Needy and petulant were not traits someone wanted in a soulmate. "I'll build a hospital in a third world country or whatever."

"The wheels are already in motion, Dee." Of that, Libby made sure. She's known him long enough to know that finding his soulmate isn't on top of his list of life goals, and therefore long enough to care what happens to him. He thinks she's a cold bitch in a business suit and sometimes she can be, but Libby Pryce does give a fuck about her clients. Finding his soulmate will be good for him. As frustrating as he can be, Dieter has bright spots. "Ten days in rehab and your soulmate. That's the price of getting your career back on track."

"There's nothing else I can do?" Dieter demands, looking around to the stone-cold faces of the fucking vultures he pays. Desperately wanting to be thrown a bone.

"Well," Phil shrugs his shoulders. "You could always do the full two weeks for once."

Dieter slouches back again, glowering at all of them and kicking at another chair under the table. "Fuck me." He groans, begrudgingly accepting his fate.

"If you're lucky." Libby agrees brightly, satisfied that he isn't going to fight back too much on this little publicity stunt. He can be stubborn as a mule when he wants to be. "This is going to work, Dee. And who knows? Maybe you'll even like them a little."

"I fucking doubt it." He huffs, wondering how quickly this incident will blow over so he can go back to his life.

"Well, since we've had a chance to touch base on all this." Sliding the press release back into its folder, Libby surveys the team at the table with satisfaction. "Let's get you home so you can pack, okay? We'll have a car bring you to Promises and you can look forward to a little rest and relaxation while we get down to the dirty work of finding your soulmate."

“Right.” Dieter rolls his eyes and pushes himself to his feet, finally finding the pill that he had been looking for and pops it to his mouth. “My soulmate.” He murmurs, wondering what kind of person the universe picked out for him.

******

"And the man in the back said, "Everyone attack" and it turned into a ballroom blitz...and the girl in the corner said, "Boy I want to warn you it'll turn into a ballroom blitz...ballroom blitz..." Singing along with your After School playlist as you cook dinner in the empty house is fairly par for the course on a weekday. It's your little ritual, enjoyed as an indulgence after you've gotten home from work and before your best friend - and sister-in-law and housemate - returns from picking up her little girl from daycare after her own long workday. Tonight will be a baked chicken and kid-friendly mashed potatoes and zucchini, all things that you have carefully learned to cook to accommodate your niece's copious dietary restrictions. The sound of the front door brings you out of your revelry and you turn down the volume on the speakers in the kitchen. "Steph?" You call your best friend's name as you thoroughly wash your hands in the sink. "How was work?"

Stephanie grunts, dumping her keys and trying to kick off her shoes while she holds the increasingly heavy child in her arm. “Talk about it later.” She calls out, immediately heading up the stairs to bathe Nora where she had had an accident after refusing to wear her pull ups.

"Got it!" You turn to grab the open bottle of wine from the fridge and a glass out of the cupboard, pouring out a glass for Stephanie and topping off your own. Now you're extra glad you picked up some ice cream at the grocery store when you stopped for dinner ingredients on the way home.

There are days Stephanie Valeria swears she would never have survived the last few years without you. You are her best friend, more than that - you are family. Moving in with her when her husband - your brother, Shawn - had succumb to his battle with long Covid, you were the only reason she was barely afloat. Although most months, the medical bills that come in make her soak in the bath and cry after Nora is asleep. “Come on baby girl.” She watches as her daughter holds onto the bar installed in the bathroom to help her from falling as she starts to strip her down. “After we clean you up, we can go see what Aunt Gigi cooked for dinner, okay?”

"'Kay." Nora looks up at her mom with tearful eyes, understanding just enough in her little mind to know that her mother is sad. "I sorry I got messy, Mommy."

“Don’t you worry about that.” Stephanie crouches down and thumbs away the tears in her daughter’s eyes, reminding herself that the young girl couldn’t help her body sometimes doesn’t let her know her needs. She had just wanted to be like the other kids and she wouldn’t shame her for that. “We’ll get everything fixed up like it didn’t happen, okay?”

"'Kay." She nods her little head seriously, being at an age where she tends to take her mother at her word in all things except when extra dessert or watching a movie past bedtime are concerned.

After a quick bath, Stephanie brings her downstairs and walks into the kitchen. “Say hi Aunt Gigi!”

"Hey, there's my girl!" You kneel down and open your arms for a hug when you hear them behind you, guessing that Nora must have had another accident since she's scrubbed clean and in new clothes. The toddler screeches a happy "Gigi!" and comes straight to you, giggling happily when you swing her up in your arms and set her on your hip. "Did you have a good day at daycare today, sweet girl?"

"Uh huh." She nods and gives you a sweet smile before she rocks forward, nearly catapulting herself out of your arms so she can see what you are cooking. Because it's nearly an everyday occurrence, Stephanie doesn't have a heart attack and walks over to the fridge to start pulling out Nora's evening medications to get them ready to take with dinner. "What's dinner?"

“Herb roasted chicken, zucchini, and Nora’s very favorite mashed potatoes.” You smile gratefully when Nora claps at the announcement. Because of how sick she is, sometimes she’s too nauseous or in too much pain to eat and even smelling food can make her cry at those times. Right now, though, she seems to be okay. “And for dessert there’s pound cake and cherry sauce. So we’re definitely gonna eat all our veggies, right sweet girl?”

She pouts but gives you a begrudging nod. She doesn’t love zucchini, but you make it taste almost yummy. Instead, she zeros in on the important thing. “Cake!” She squeals happily.

“That’s my girl.” Carefully setting her down again, you nudge the second glass of wine you poured toward Steph with a tired smile. “And grown-up juice for Mommy and Gigi.”

“When can I have that?” Nora asks, eyeing the liquid that looks like juice.

“Probably never, sweetie,” Steph tells her honestly. “People with the kind of sickness you have can’t drink grown-up juice even when they’re grown-ups.” The list of dietary restrictions for Nora is far longer than the list of what’s good for her, and struggling to make the same bland ingredients taste good in different ways to her four-year-old has been something she has been grateful for your help on. “Remember the word the doctors taught you? Digestion? Grown-up juice is a no-no for digestion.”

“This is bullshit.” Nora huffs under her breath, using her mother’s favorite saying when she isn’t happy with something.

“Nora Skye.” Steph’s eyes narrow at her daughter in that way that looks intimidating, but you can tell she’s trying not to laugh. “What did you just say?”

In the way that young children will do, push boundaries, Nora narrows her eyes back at her mother. “This is bullshit.” She repeats a little louder.

“Alright.” Steph shrugs, crossing her arms at her daughter matter-of-factly. “Little girls who curse don’t get dessert, so I guess no cake for you tonight.”

Nora scrunches her face up in a combination of horror and bewilderment. “You say it.” She accuses plaintively, like that is a good reason that she should be allowed. “All the time, when you look at the ‘fuckin’ bills.”

“That’s three times, Nora Skye.” Steph knows that her daughter knows curse words are bad words, but since she’s self-aware enough to realize that the girl probably wouldn’t be hearing these things if not for her, she just sighs. “No dessert for three days, end of discussion. You know that bad words are for big girls.”

“Not hungry anyway.” The younger girl huffs under her breath, wiggling to get down from your arms with the beginnings of tears in her eyes.

You sigh, leaning back against the stove with a drawn face as Nora runs off to her room as fast as her little legs will carry her. There truly are days when you just don’t know what to say in situations with your niece and being a bystander in this particular moment makes you feel like you’re a shit aunt on top of everything else. “This is why I teach high school.” You murmur softly, shaking your head.

Stephanie scrubs her hand down her face with an exhausted sigh. “Maybe I’m being too hard on her.” She murmurs after a moment. “She’s four, she’s not a teenager.”

“Maybe we just save the swearing until we know she’s gone to bed? She’s getting it from both of us, and the last thing you need is to get a call from her kindergarten teacher next year when she’s moved on to compound swears.” Although the image of a five-year-old saying motherfucker does amuse you more than it should. “How was work?”

Another heavy sigh, and Stephanie pulls the wine glass towards her as if all the answers to her problems can be found in the bottom of the glass. She gulps down a large sip and looks over at you with only a slight amount of panic in her eyes. “They have to cut my hours.” She tells you, biting her lip and taking another large sip of her wine.

“No…” That means your extremely tight budget is about to get tighter, and the stress level in the house is about to go up again. A house that you can’t really afford anymore and a stress level that is already three stories past the roof. “I’m so sorry, honey. Did they give you a reason?”

Her lip trembles as she tries to fight back tears, feeling hopeless once again. “Not enough hours for everyone and I call out a lot.” She closes her eyes, desperately wishing she were stronger, feeling like such a failure in life. “I miss Shawn.” She whispers.

"Steph..." Without hesitation, you set your glass back down on the counter and wrap your friend up in your arms, gently swaying from side to side just like it's Nora against your chest and not her mother. "I miss him, too, honey. Every day." Your brother was always an emotional rock. He had a killer job that he could do from home for half the week, and he had the practical know-how to get things done around the house without having to call a repairman ninety percent of the time.

Shawn and Steph were perfect compliments - a doer and a dreamer who combined forces to make things always feel possible even when they were far-fetched. And Covid had reduced him to a shell of himself before it took him completely. "I'll see if I can find something better than waiting tables for summer work this year. We'll get through it, I promise." Even if you have to take two summer jobs, or god forbid three, you'll do whatever it takes to bring in more money. The school year only has a week left and then you can be working on lesson plans and paperwork any old time of day. You will find a way to help.

"I can't ask you to do that." Steph practically sobs, feeling guilty that she can't do this by herself. The life insurance was quickly eaten up by the medical bills but still didn't put a dent in them, and their savings had dwindled down to nothing while he was battling the virus. "I— I don't know what to do." She confesses softly. "I started looking for another job, but I'm scared to leave. Not have health insurance for Nora - shitty as it is."

"You're not asking me, honey, I'm offering." You just hug her tighter, grabbing a paper towel off the roll on the kitchen counter with one hand and slipping it to her to let her keep crying. "We're family. We take care of each other. End of story."

"I shouldn't have to." She takes the paper towel and wipes her eyes. "I should be able to do this on my own. Shawn trusted me to take care of Nora and myself and I'm - I'm failing."

"Of course Shawn trusts that you'll take care of Nora." The instinct to hold her tighter would probably smother her so you run your thumb soothingly over the peak of her shoulder. "But that also means knowing when to ask for help, Stephy. You're not a failure if you can't do it alone, you're just human." Having moved into the house while your brother was sick, you saw firsthand the way that Steph would look at things as her burden and her burden alone until you just stood in the middle of the mess and forced her to accept your help. "And honey...it's not your fault that Nora is sick. That came from Shawn's and my side of the family, so literally none of this is your fault in any way. We're going to get through this as a family."

"I –" She gives another great, heaving sigh and her shoulders sag under the weight of everything that she is feeling. "Enough with me bringing down the mood." She pulls back and shakes her head as if to shake of the negative feelings. There wasn't a whole hell of a lot that she could do right now anyway.

"Go check on your little sailor and I'll put dinner on the table." You offer, wiping the remnants of tear tracks from her cheeks. "After dinner we can break out Woody, Buzz, and Jessie and watch Toy Story 2?" Nora's current film addiction happened to be a little retro but she's in love with it and it will make it that much better when the Lightyear movie comes out soon.

Steph chuckles and shakes her head. "God save me." She murmurs, reaching out and taking your hand to squeeze gently. "Thank you." She whispers softly.

“Anything for my favorite sister.” You shoot her a wink and a grin as she heads toward the stairs, then start pulling out plates and utensils to set the table. Tomorrow, you decide, you’ll start applying for extra summer work. Whatever it takes.

Stephanie takes the stairs slowly, walking past family photos, Shawn holding Nora with a giant, beaming smile on his face. Running in the yard and chasing after the curly haired girl, both of them laughing and Nora seemingly carefree. Her issues hadn't made themselves known yet, leaving 2020 to dump all the nightmares onto her family in one swoop. Coming up on her daughter's door, she hears the soft hiccups, indicating that she had been crying. Understanding the feeling completely, she knocks so she doesn't startle her and pushes the door open. "Hey sweetheart." She calls softly, seeing her sitting on her little bed and holding her doll in her arms, the last one that her father had given her. Again, making another pang of guilt flood Stephanie. "Are you ready to talk?"

“I’m s-sorry I said bad words, Mommy.” Nora hiccups, kicking her little socked feet on the edge of her bed and looking down at the doll in her lap. While she knows she did something wrong she doesn’t really understand what’s so bad about some silly words. But it still made her mother upset.

"I know." Softening, she walks over and sits down on the bed, wrapping her arm around her daughter and pressing a kiss to her braided hair. "I know we've talked about bad words before, but I know that it's not fair that I say them when I'm frustrated." It’s true, she had gotten bad about hissing the curses under her breath and obviously Nora was picking up that habit. "How about we both promise really hard not to say them, okay?"

“Does Auntie Gigi get to say them?” She asks, sniffling into her mother’s embrace but trying hard to understand the rules.

"Aunt Gigi is going to try hard not to say them too." Steph promises, smiling at how much she loves her Aunt Gigi and wants to be like her. Thank god for you and that silly, sweet nickname you had come up with. Her own mom wanted to be called Gigi. Had cooed and clapped when her only child had announced she was pregnant with her first child. Only to be taken from this earth before she ever got to meet Nora. Six months pregnant and just really starting to show beyond the 'have you gained weight?' comments, you had saved Steph's sanity at the funeral, blurting out that you were going to do double duty. You were going to be Nora's aunt and her Gigi, thus Aunt Gigi was born.

“No more bad words at all.” Nora seems to at least be able to get behind a family effort and she nods in her mother’s arms. “I sorry,” she repeats sadly, not liking when her mom or Gigi is upset.

"It's okay baby." Another kiss to her head, a soft, soothing hand that strokes her gently. "I think I was a little too harsh on your punishment." Stephanie has such a hard time taking away desserts from Nora, especially ones that she can eat, during times when she can eat. "How about instead no dessert, we go to bed thirty minutes early tonight?" She offers. "Ten minutes for every bad word?" It's fair, and still reinforces that there are consequences for bad behavior.

“‘Kay.” Though the prospect of still being punished doesn’t sound like fun, Nora perks up at getting cake back. However, one very important question still remains. “Do I still get to have a bedtime story?”

Stephanie laughs, the first bright spot in her rough afternoon and she grins down at her daughter. "You still get a bedtime story." She assures her, always wanting to reinforce that love of reading and storytelling. "Let's go downstairs and eat, huh? Aunt Gigi might think that we don't like her cooking anymore."

“But we doooooo!” Nora jumps down from her bed and thunders downstairs with the resilience that only little kids seem to have.

Stephanie takes just a second, chuckling and shaking her head before she follows after her daughter.

******

The bottle of wine comes out again after Nora has gone to bed, and you and Steph are sitting in the backyard with your glasses of grown-up juice swapping TikToks or telling stories from the day. Since your seniors have already graduated it’s coming up on final exam time for the rest of your students, which puts you in an interesting spot as an art teacher. Instead of proctoring tests you’re observing presentations, and that means you’ve had some absolute doozies in terms of bullshit that the kids have tried to get away with. Not being particularly artistically talented is one thing, but claiming that your final project was influenced by the great Renaissance painter Kurt Cobain definitely qualified as zero effort.

Steph leans back, looking up at the sky and smiles. She might be drowning in debt and sometimes hanging on by the edges of her fingernails, but she loved this house. Purchased with Shawn, she had conceived Nora in house, brought her home from the hospital and even, devastatingly, lost her soulmate here. This space holding so many memories for her the back yard that she and Shawn had renovated as soon as the keys were in their hands. The plans for a pool never happened but Nora enjoyed the kiddie pools when she got them.

“I just want to watch dumb TikTok dances, why must I watch ads?” You bemoan, having accidentally closed the app while flipping between videos. Now, on the reopen, you’re ready to swipe the ad away immediately when you see that it’s for Mate Marks. There is nothing that the soulmate matching app could possibly offer you, and you self-consciously tug at the long sleeves of your shirt that you wear despite the summer night’s warmth. The less you look at your shared marks, the better for your sanity. It’s in that split second, though, that the audio on the ad erupts. A classic rock-style instrumental track plays over a clip of him. Dieter Bravo hugging fans and waving in a collage of promotional video moments all cherry-picked to make him look his ‘best’ and seem less like the selfish asshole the whole world knows him to be. “Finding my soulmate would mean the world to me.” The audio says, in a way that makes you wonder if it’s just spliced together from interview sound bytes. “I’m hoping they’re out there somewhere, ready with an open mind and an open heart.” You shudder, nearly throwing your phone across the backyard in an effort to shut the damn app quickly, but it’s too late. Steph’s head has already perked up. “Fudge. No.” You tell her immediately, strained with the effort of not immediately letting loose every swear you’ve ever heard in your life. “NO.”

"He's looking for you." Steph rocks forward violently and snatches your phone out of your hand so she can watch the ad. "Oh my God, he's looking for you!" She squeals, looking up at you and grinning. "Come on! You aren't the least bit curious?"

“No.” You repeat rather violently, picking at your long sleeves again. “I have absolutely no desire to be a publicity stunt because I’m sure that’s all that that is.” Any and all mention of your soulmate is considered strictly off limits in your house - even Shawn had abided by that rule despite your older brother loving to tease you - ever since his marks started showing up on you as a preteen to the usual curiosity had been frustration for you. “I’m sure somebody else has gotten his tattoos by now. Let him find them.”

"You still aren't over that?" Stephanie huffs and rolls her eyes, reaching for your arm and shoving up your sleeve to reveal the large black triangle. "It was years ago and it didn't even happen to you. You know, he might have changed? He was just starting out, fame and all that bullsh-oney" She cuts off the curse. "Bologna. Like it or not, you are Dieter Bravo's soulmate."

“I do not like it.” Snatching your arm back, you pull your sleeve back into place with a grimace. “I’m perfectly happy in my life and I don’t need it interrupted by some self-important butthead,” the word does not even begin to describe what you know of the man.

"It could just be his public persona?" Steph doubts it, but there is always that chance. Act obnoxious in front of the cameras either for attention or to keep them from looking too hard at him.

"After this long?" You have no doubt that it could have started that way, but after a few decades it's more than likely just who he is. "Would you really want him around Nora? All the drugs and the completely reckless behaviour? That's not the kind of person who would be a good influence over her."

"I think that he can't be all bad." Stephanie tells you. "Honestly, I've watched all his movies, he's a good actor. A great actor actually." She shrugs when you give her a shocked look. "What? I stream them when I'm in my room since you want to pretend he doesn't exist. I never stopped being a fan, even if I was disappointed."

"Steph, the man looked you straight in the face when you asked for his autograph and walked away." The incident may be ten years past, but it had cemented your poor opinion of the universe's choice for you and you had sworn the day it happened never to give Dieter Bravo the time of day ever again. Since then you have not watched a single minute of film or read any interviews with him, and you certainly do your best to never think of him. "The only reason I give soulmates any credence whatsoever after the train wreck of a match I'm stuck with is because you and Shawn were soulmates."

"And?" Stephanie had been completely crushed at the time and slightly embarrassed but she also realizes that she was perhaps in the wrong for how she had ambushed him. "He is just as entitled to bad days or just saying no as any of us are." She reminds you. "He didn't owe me an answer. Would it have been polite? Yeah, but I also didn't have to walk up asking him for anything."

"I don't understand how you can be so forgiving." You shake your head, finally taking back your phone and closing the app to shove it into your pants pocket. "I hope the closest we ever get to that man is three feet on a sidewalk ten years ago."

“I don’t think you should just ignore your soulmate.” Stephanie murmurs quietly, rubbing the hand where her own soulmate mark, some dumb little tattoo that Shawn had gotten, a little star, had disappeared when he died. She had only gotten it replaced, duplicated on her skin, just after last Christmas. The money was a gift from her parents in Shawn’s memory.

"Well, I'm not entering some stupid contest." That isn't up for debate. Not even for a second. "If he wants to do a Prince Charming tour of southern California and show up on every single doorstep with a shoe and a sob story, maybe I'll actually look him in the eye and say 'no' to his face."

"Would you really?" She huffs out a laugh and shakes her head. "I honestly think you enjoy disliking your soulmate."

Grumbling slightly in indignation, you drain the rest of the wine in your glass in one go and pour a whole new one. "If your soulmate was Dieter fudging Bravo, you'd dislike it, too."

"I don't know." Steph shoots you a grin. "He is kind of hot. In that messy kind of way. Plus, I've heard he's great in bed."

"Oh gross." The gagging noise you make is animated just like the way you shudder in your seat. "Forty-something is too old to be relying on the messy-artists-are-sexy trope. And I want to know how much those girls were paid to sing his praises." Many - many - years ago the two of you had swooned over a younger Dieter Bravo in fan magazines, but those years are far behind you.

She smirks over her wine glass and hums. "It wasn't a girl that was spilling the tea." She doesn't completely believe your stance on your soulmate. You protest too much for it to be true loathing. Always wondering if you were scared of 'Dieter - fucking - Bravo' being your soulmate. Afraid that you wouldn't be enough for the eccentric star.

"Whoever they were, I'm sure they were compensated amply for their positive statement." You slump in your seat, arms crossed while you sip your wine with a scowl. "There is nothing he or I could possibly do for each other to make each other happy. End of story. So I have no interest." It's what you've told yourself for ten years and you'll be damned if you're going to let that philosophy go by the wayside now. Not when you have a career you've worked for and your family to help take care of. You wouldn't let God themselves get in the way of that.

"Whatever you say. " She's learned over the nearly twenty years as your best friend, that sometimes the easiest thing was to let something drop. You had a tendency to dig your heels in and held a grudge like no other. "I'm sure that he will be wrapped around some young starlet soon enough."

"Which is a whole other reason to pay this Mate Marks publicity stunt absolutely no mind." The decision is made in your mind, and that is that. You've gone your entire life with only your closest friends and family knowing the truth about your soulmate. There is no need for anyone else to ever know.

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @katheriner1999 @littlemousedroid @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @hardc0rehaylz @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42

YSV: @tortor-mcgee @hnt-escape

My Masterlist!

[scapegrace74-blog]

New Ways of Turning into Stone, Chapter 3

A/N As promised, Jamie returns in this chapter.  He has an appointment to keep, after all.   Because I can’t think of anything more creative, this chapter is entitled “Second Appointment”.  For previous chapters, your best bet is to check out the story on my AO3 page.

The week both crept and flew past, like one of those dreams in which she ran until her lungs burned, but never managed to get anywhere.  Kinetic motion trapped in amber.   Claire never did tell Geillis about her excursion to Corstorphine Hill over the weekend, embarrassed by how it had ended.  

And now it was Thursday.  She’d opted for a protein smoothie for lunch, a meal with no chance of leaving leafy residue between her teeth.  It was likely wasted vanity.  As two o’clock drew near, she bargained with herself to abandon any hope she may be harbouring.  Jamie Fraser had shown no interest in participating in the psychiatric process during his first appointment.  Fraternal obligation had brought him to her office once, but he didn’t strike her as a man who yielded the reins of his life easily.  It wasn’t likely he would return.

When it came his distinctive knock, crisp and insistent, caught her unawares, even though she’d just been staring at his name in her planner.  She hastily pushed the items on her desk to one side, patted uselessly at her curls, and called out for him to enter.

“Good afternoon, Doctor Beauchamp,” he greeted cautiously.  “Miss Duncan told me tae come straight in.”

There was something different about him today.  His clothing, certainly.  Instead of casual wear, he wore trousers and a button down, wet splotches over the shoulders attesting to the fact that it had begun raining again.  And while he still took up an inordinate amount of space in her small office, he seemed... diminished, somehow.  A paler echo of the fireworks display of his first visit.

“Of course.  Please have a seat, Mister Fraser.”

“Jamie, if you will,” he corrected as he settled gingerly into the armchair.  “Mister Fraser was my Da.”

Something about his tone and the fact his laser blue eyes wouldn’t meet her own as he spoke the words caused her to lean into his statement.

“Did your father pass away recently, Jamie?”

A moment, an indrawn breath of panic, and then it was cleverly masked with a wry glance.

“Aye, last year.  An’ yer no’ very subtle, doctor.”

“I didn’t realize subtlety was called for,” she parried.  “You made another appointment, and I specialize in grief counselling.  Why else would you be here?”

Despite the fact that it wasn��t productive from a psychiatric point of view, she enjoyed his reluctance to hastily expose his inner demons.  Too often, her practice required her to work carefully in order to avoid shaping the pliable emotions of her patients.  While obviously hurting, Jamie had an unflinching, unalterable quality that she admired.  Not to mention that the intellectual game of cat and mouse they were playing was wildly stimulating.

“I suppose I enjoyed our conversation,” Jamie teased.  “An’ Miss Duncan’s shortbread.”

With an awkward squint that she imagined was meant to be a wink, her patient rose to investigate the current offerings on her tea table.

“Och, petit fours!” he exclaimed with childlike glee and perfect French pronunciation.  “There was a caf�� none too far from my flat in Paris tha’ made these.  I’d often grab some on my way tae the office.”

He returned to the desk with a small plate of the pastries, pushing it towards her as he settled into his seat.

“No, thank you.  I’ve just eaten.”

Like a searchlight, his bright eyes didn’t miss much.  He glanced significantly at the half-empty plastic smoothie container to one side of her desk.  Rather than chide her for her austerity, as Geillis frequently did, he instead made a show of biting into each of the four little squares until there was nothing left but crumbs.  Her stomach muttered in complaint.

“What did you do in Paris?” she asked as he finished his snack with a contented sigh.

“Oh, a wee bit of this and that,” he demurred.  In response to her exasperated look, he continued, “I started out at the Bourse.  Futures, options, arbitrage, that sort of thing.  I have a good ear fer languages, sae from there I went into foreign exchange.  Import export, and the like.”

“You’re a financier?” she asked, somewhat more incredulous than she ought to be.  She wasn’t certain what she had pictured James Fraser doing for a living, but greasing the wheels of capitalism definitely wasn’t it.

“Was,” he corrected.  “I quit an’ came home tae Scotland last year.”

“When your father died,” she guessed.

“Aye.”

She once again had the sense of standing in front of a locked door that Jamie had no intention of opening.  Rather than hammer uselessly on its stubborn surface, she nimbly diverted the conversation sideways.

“What do you do for work now?”

A slow blink followed by a dawning smile indicated he was aware of her stratagem.

“I’m a carpenter.”

It was rare for Claire to be truly surprised by people.  She made a living reading their unspoken cues.  Twice in the same conversation was unheard of.

“A carpenter?” she repeated as though she hadn’t heard him perfectly well the first time.

“Aye.  Like Jesus, ye ken?”

With a quicksilver grin, Jamie launched into a description of his current occupation, which involved the making of reproduction antiques and custom pieces for clients around Scotland.  She realized with a start that she’d read an article about his business in a popular local magazine.  

International financier.  Self-made entrepreneur.  Tall drink of water.  James Fraser had a lot of things going for him.  And yet here he sat, paying her by the hour to listen to him avoid talking about whatever hardship had befallen him.

She mentally composed a list of the topics he was deftly avoiding with his charming anecdotes.  His father’s recent death.  The reason behind a radical change in career.  Living in the city on account of unspoken ‘family obligations’, even though his verbal reminiscence of the Highlands was so poetic it damn near made her cry.  There was something raw just below the surface of his nonchalance, and her innate curiosity cried out to find out what it was.

“You told me last week that your sister, Jenny, insisted you attend counselling.  But you said that you’re handling matters fine on your own.  Can you tell me why your sister believes otherwise?”

It might have been amusing to see such a large man squirm in different circumstances.  His left hand furrowed through his hair, setting the autumn waves on end.  His mouth, so recently relaxed and mobile as he eagerly shared the details of his craft, froze in a pained frown.  She considered whether she had pushed too hard too soon.

“I gave a lot of thought tae what ye said when we parted last week,” Jamie began at last.  “Tae be honest, it haunted me.  Jen kens me better than anyone, an’ while I like tae complain tha’ she meddles where she doesna belong, the truth is she’s truly scared fer me.  An’ even if I dinna agree tha’ my lifestyle is cause fer concern, I owe it tae her tae try tae sort myself out.  I owe her far more than that,” he finished with a rueful shake of his head.

“What kind of lifestyle has your sister so worried?” she probed.

“Whisky, women and song,” he quipped, before adding, “Weel, I canna carry a tune, but twa out of three isna half bad.”

He tried to smile away the awkward tension that descended on the office, the air ripe with unspoken words.  Claire felt disappointment whirlpool in her gut.  Just another charming rake, after all.  It really shouldn’t matter, and yet somehow it did.  More than she dared to admit.

“Yes, well, the road of excess leads to the palace of consequences, ” she sniffed at last, angry at herself for sounding like a schoolmarm.  What a bore she must seem to him, with her regimented behaviour and rigid morals.

Jamie rose abruptly, and for a half-second she imagined he might lunge at her, or storm from the room.   Instead, he spun around to face the door.  Without a word, he untucked his shirt and began to expose his lower back.

Claire was momentarily stunned silent.  Just as she managed to draw a deep enough breath to censure Jamie for his highly inappropriate strip tease, the golden velour of his lower back transformed without warning into a furrowed landscape of scar tissue, ripples and craters left by some massive trauma.  The air left her lungs on a questioning sigh.

“I ken all about consequences, Doctor Beauchamp,” he stated.  “I live with them every moment of my life.”

Her fingers found the knotted skin, surprisingly warm and mobile beneath her touch.  A shiver shimmered over the unmarred muscle of his flanks.

Before she could find any appropriate words of apology, the office door opened and Geillis stuck her head in.  She barked a cough upon seeing Jamie’s state of undress and Claire’s position, leaning across her desk.  Doctor and patient jumped apart like opposing magnets.

“Sae sorry for the interruption, but yer three o’clock is here.  Should I tell her ye’ve been... delayed?”

Jamie muttered an obscenity under his breath which Claire whole-heartedly seconded.  There was no way Geillis wasn’t going to be utterly insufferable about this.

“Mister Fraser was just leaving, Geillis.”

With a lewd wink and a nod, the door closed.

“Look, Jamie...” she began just as he apologized.  “I’m sae sorry, lass.”

They both laughed nervously.  Jamie finished tucking his shirt into his pants and turned to face the desk.

“I hope this willna cause ye any difficulties with Miss Duncan,” he began, eyes wide with concern.

“No more so than usual,” she sighed. “Geillis is a good friend.  She just... doesn’t know when to quit, sometimes,” she explained.

“Sounds jus’ like my sister.  Perhaps we should introduce them.”

She smiled, struggling to find something else to say to move past the moment.  She could hear Geillis and her next patient conversing just outside the door.  There was no time left for subtlety.

“Will I see you again next week, Jamie?” she asked, giving up on finding a more oblique way of phrasing the question that was reverberating through her mind.

Jamie’s bashful smile dipped towards the floor, causing his hair to fall in front of his eyes.

“Aye.  I’ll even keep my clothes on, if ye ask nicely.”

It was that smile, that hair, those eyes, that carried her through the rest of her week, aloft on the anticipation of something utterly forbidden.

[onekisstotakewithme]

It’s Thursday, my dudes

“Howdy stranger,” BJ says, leaning against the doorway with a huge grin on his face. “New in town?”

“Yes.” Hawkeye looks at Peg, who winks at him. “This the new schoolmarm?”

“Can we come in, or do we have to show ID?” Peg asks, her voice low and warm.

“Show me your hankies first.”

“Uncle Hawkee!” Erin says, throwing herself at him.

Hawkeye knees down just in time to catch her, his hand coming up to cup the back of her head as he hugs her. “Hello there, little lady. Are you here for the gold rush too?”

“The wedding, Uncle Hawkee,” Erin giggles, pulling away.

“Are you excited?”

“Uh huh! I get to be the flower girl! I get to throw flowers at people!”

“And you’ve got the arm for it,” BJ says.

“Now let us in, darling, before we cause a scene,” Peg adds.

“C’mon in, what’s mine is yours, et cetera,” Hawkeye says, opening the door to let them in. “Are you getting taller again, Erin, or have you just been drinking too much ginger ale?”

Erin laughs. “You’re silly. Ginger ale doesn’t make people tall!”

“No? What does?”

“Growing up,” Erin says proudly. “Daddy said so.”

“Uh huh.”

Peg closes the door behind her, and walks over to Hawkeye, standing on her toes to press a kiss to his mouth. “Hello darling.”

“Hi,” Hawkeye breathes, before kissing her back.

“Anything for me, sailor?”

“If I’m the sailor and you’re the cowboy, which one of us is the lawyer?”

“Must be me,” Peg says, grinning as she crosses her arms.

“I’ll take it,” Hawkeye says, as BJ wraps his arms around him and dips him, making Hawkeye laugh into his lover’s mouth as they kiss.

“I’ve been dipped!” Hawkeye says, flopping back on the bed, Erin laughing as she jumps on top of him, whacking him with a pillow.

“Well, Hawk, did you miss us?”

“Boy did I ever,” Hawkeye says, and then tosses a pillow at BJ. “Now c’mon, you’re behind.”

BJ and Peg hop onto the bed too, the four of them laughing together, reunited at last.

[ccohanlon]

berlin notes, 2

Tolerance, openness, occasional moral ambivalence, and a bolshy anti-authoritarian streak pervade the everyday in Berlin but its administrative processes are much the same as other German cities — which is to say, they require a lot of paperwork.

A simple change of residential address can involve several hours of form-filling and queuing, beginning at the local bürgeramt (or city recorder), where every resident of the city, regardless of nationality, is expected to file their current address. Last week, I had to provide an updated proof-of-residence document, an anmeldebestätigung, to my local finanzamt or tax office.

I arrived at the finanzamt, on the ground floor of a drab, ‘60s Soviet-style block on the east side of the city, at eight a.m. but it was nearly ten before my number was called. I presented my completed form to a stone-faced woman behind a desk in a cramped, windowless office. Without a word, she went through it, line by line, ticking my responses like a grumpy schoolmarm. When she came to the section about my occupation, she paused.

“You have not answered this,” she said, in English. Clipped consonants made it sound like a reprimand.

“Um, no. I didn’t know what to say.”

“Who is your employer?”

“I don’t have one.”

“You are unemployed?”

“No.”

“So you are self-employed.’

“Not really.”

“I see,” she said. But she didn’t. There was an uncomfortable pause. “I should have an answer here, please.”  She handed my paperwork back to me and nodded towards the door.

Later that day, I was having coffee with a friend of mine, an American woman who had worked as an art director and events promoter in the city for nearly a decade.

“Lebenskünstler,” she said.

“What?”

“That’s what you should have put down: lebenskünstler. Look it up. It means, literally, ‘life artist’.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“It’s an acceptable occupation in Berlin. Even for legal purposes.”

The concept of a lebenskünstler does not translate quite as simply as the word itself. Neither a dilettante nor a flâneur, that over-hyped archetype of 19th century Parisian literature, the lebenskünstler is someone who has turned living itself into a decadent, artfully stimulating and careless performance – non-art-as-art, a sly hustle, somehow subversively inert. They’re rarely inclined to make or do much; if anything, they prefer to insulate themselves from the stressful Sturm und Drang of actual creation.

No-one I’ve met in Berlin can tell me with any precision, quite where the word came from. There’s the slight whiff of the streetwise about it, which suggests it might have first turned up in the Communist east of the city. After the Wall went up, the arts on the wrong side of the River Spree went underground, and hip, chaos-compliant hustlers, who saw themselves as something akin to performance artists, worked the back-channels at a few border posts to bring in what they could of western jazz and rock ’n’ roll, comic books, and poster art.  But the first lebenskünstler, in attitude if not name, were around in the Weimar years. This brief, doomed goldenes Zeitalter between 1918 and 1933 was one of the most fertile, intellectually and socially, in northern European history. Radical new ideas in the arts, architecture, industrial and graphic design, science, and philosophy were conceived and nurtured not just in Berlin but other German cities, notably Frankfurt, as well as Vienna, in Austria. But Berlin was the heart of it.

The lebenskünstler were the first adopters of a polymathic Weimar culture reconfigured as a lifestyle. They were participant rather than productive – this is elemental now to the definition of a lebenskünstler, but inspired then by the unconventional educational experiments of the day. More likely, they emerged, bleary-eyed and debauched, from the ooze of Berlin’s transgressive cabarets (pansexual promiscuity and recreational drugs were no less rife in Berlin then than they are today). Wherever they came from, they were eager receptors of a relentless stream of ideas, adapting them to already colourful, personal intellectual and creative spectra, then transmitting them to disparate, literally subterranean, cultural fringes.

Today, there is nowhere in the world with quite the same spill of interdisciplinary intellect, let alone the same depth, intensity or originality, as Berlin in those heady, if jittery, pre-World War II years, even if it  was eventually staunched, first by the rise of Nazism, then by academia.

Now it has all but dried up.

Those who don’t get neue-Berlin’s gestalt might dismiss the 21st century lebenskünstler as con-artists, role-players, or poseurs. But this ignores their enduring presence and influence — as club promoters, social provocateurs, pop-up entrepreneurs, rogue programmers, artful muses, cultural ‘influencers’, salonistes, and street hustlers. Their essential equanimity copes with a post-Wall pace of development that is so fast, everything feels aleatory and impermanent.

Then again, I like to think that all of us who live here are, to some extent, lebenkünstler.

Ich bin ein Berliner. Ich bin ein lebenskünstler.

First published in the Griffith Review (online only), Australia, 2015.

[randbwrite]

La Comtesse Chronicles Chapter 4 Part 3

Words:1179

TW: Death, Graphic Violence, Blood CW: Vampires, Assassins

B: Her use of a term of endearment had Cal turning several shades of coral, a curious expression crossing his face, one neither were used to seeing...or feeling...on him. What’s this, someone’s feeling bashful? Would certainly make for good teasing material later, Derrick tucking away the information as ammunition for payback. About time someone could affect his friend like that. All the painted ladies of the court had never gotten that reaction out of the supposedly scurrilous assassin. 

Things turned serious much more quickly from then on. This “Comtesse” called Cal a young man and he was again feeling like a lad being reprimanded by his schoolmarm, something he’d left behind ages ago...in the future. Oy, this difference in years was going to take some getting used to. Speaking of, Mr. Nothing Can Bother Me About This Whole Affair. Yes...long name. But called for, given the circumstances. One floating and the other walking behind, Cal had some questions for his buddy. Like, a lot of them. Especially while he tried to pretend watching Ernest and Armand being tossed around like rag dolls was an everyday occurrence.

“So...anything you wanna tell me?” 

“Like what? M. la Comtesse said questions would wait till we were out of here.” 

“Questions for her. You on the other hand have some answering to do.” Cal paused for a breath and gawped at fire spreading over an invisible shield. CGI could only hope to capture the incredible show he was watching. “How much of this were you already aware of?” He gestured broadly at the display, shuddering involuntarily, recognizing the snap of a man’s mind broken.

Derrick’s eyes never left the scene playing out; knowing exactly how both elements played out when combating for dominance and being caught in the crossfire. Being invulnerable and watching someone else at the mercy of one stronger was...a unique experience. Give it enough time, they’d have exhausted each other before one won out. The same sire, no particular style or finesse bothered to be learned, neither had a leg up. Soon it was over, permanently.

“All of it.” 

He could list every ability the Citadel full of assassins carried and which ones didn’t have any. He knew their limitations, their quirks. Watched them spar, experiment, seen the aftermath of things they’d thought to keep secret. Cal didn’t need more of an explanation than that, knew well enough by the dearth of questions. To cut off the one his friend for once was trying to decide how to phrase diplomatically, he did Cal a favor and answered it anyway. 

“Yes, I am one. Figured out yet I haven’t exactly aged since you got here?” 

“Naw, assumed you were one of those blokes with great genes. This makes more sense I guess. ...Thanks.”

A look exchanged the words that went unsaid. Gratitude for keeping an eye out for him, in ways Cal hadn’t been aware could’ve been an issue, fishing his sorry behind out of a battlefield, whole lotta things that wouldn’t be spoken aloud. 

That was all they had time for, as the dreaded doors all too many had walked through and met a gruesome end were right in front of them. Cal’s fight or flight was kicking back in, self-preservation typically meaning staying as far away from these chambers as possible unless unequivocally summoned. His poker face wouldn’t reveal it, but the lack of his signature grin told all. 

Derrick might as well have been carved from stone. He’d never once entered these chambers, instead experienced with each and every member on the council under different circumstances. Still, with every confidence in la Comtesse, he paced after her, head held high before them for the first time in centuries. They wouldn’t be forcing him to take a knee, not today. 

Whatever they’d expected to happen, neither of the pair accompanying the pure blood could have anticipated what she did next.

Would seem none of the assassins did either for that matter, which was almost more surprising. Centuries-old tacticians, strategists, generals, and rulers, people who held the whole of Europe in their merciless thrall, and together they proved defenseless against the fury of Comtesse.

Silence had greeted them upon their entry, and silence reigned in their absence. Shock? Plotting? Acceptance? ...All of the above? The council had known going after her was risky, but perhaps had become too complacent in their invincible dynasty of power. She had unequivocally proven them wrong. 

No one would mourn their leader’s fall. Hyenas had more respect for the dead than would be shown a man who’s tenure had sown nothing but fear and contempt. He had until Comtesse and company left the Citadel’s gates before an eternal vengeance began. Never again would his name bring fear into the hearts of those who heard it. The threats promised died with his enhanced abilities. 

The halls were abandoned, any echoes purely in the imagination of the ones remembering. The foyer too, devoid of life. If not the bodies of their fallen comrades, then the spectacle witnessed in the council room deterred any from considering an approach. 

The pair offered new life did not hesitate. There was nothing about their past that could have any hold on them and...hey, the one person who had treated them with a speck of decency had given invitation. Even though she was also downright terrifying. It didn’t seem real, despite everything pointing to the obvious conclusion. How could it be anything but? Imagination had never conceptualized this outcome. However, it may take time before the implication, the reality of it all sank in. Course, seeing the leader who was the symbol of their subjugation to the Assassin’s League dethroned certainly solidified the situation. 

Their answer was a unified yes. Though phrased differently. 

“You will have my unwavering loyalty for the rest of my life, this I swear.” 

“So dramatic! But yeah, what he said. Obviously, I don’t have an issue not fighting on the side of the angels, but if there were any such thing I’d say you come the closest. Avenging angel, maybe.” 

Cal bounced on the balls of his feet, ever antsy. Better look on him than the lethargy from earlier; the waxen sheen was a mite bit concerning, however. Contrarily, an aura of tranquility radiated off of Derrick, relief hanging around shoulders pulled back as if freed from some oppressive weight. It was at him that Cal was caught gawking this time, though the typical crazy grin was soon to replace it. Aww and here he’d promised he wouldn’t get emotional. Not sure when, but eh. 

“Guess you’re stuck with us, Lady Comtesse. To the ends of the earth and back, if this one’s beatific mug is any indication.” 

A thumb was jerked in Derrick’s direction, only to have surprise replace the scamp’s cocky expression. Derrick used his enhanced reflexes to catch and muss up Cal’s already wild tangle into a rat’s nest, the pair behaving as bickering brothers do. Where’d he been hiding that speed?!? Ach...so much to learn.

[filthysweetie]

James Bond drabble

Prompt: “You’re seriously like a man-child.”

day niiiine. feel free to request if ya want :) 

———————

The clacking of keys being pressed and murmured conversation was always something of a comfort for Q, it meant that everyone was working, keeping their operatives safe and making the new generation of tools that would help make them safer. It meant that no one was yelling for an agent to just keep breathing, the extraction team is so close—keep breathing or trying frantically to figure out where a cyber attack was coming from as the lights flashed red and everyone went deadly silent. 

It was a comfort that was being rudely interrupted. Sure, 007 was quite as a church mouse, and he was far enough away, but it was like having a fox in the hen house and Q was the haggard farmhand. 

Q took a sip of tea, trying in vain to block it out. For some reason, that just brought the man more into focus. Q felt his eyebrow twitch. 

“Alright then 007,” Q turned and had to stop himself from putting his hands on his hips like a disapproving schoolmarm, “you’ve got my attention.”

Bond saunters over as if he’d just happened to be around and Q was the one demanding his attention instead of the other way around. 

“Yes, Quartermaster?” Bond asks looking at Q with that patented half smirk. Q is not here to play that game, “What is it you want, Bond?”

“Is it not enough to want to admire the work of one of the best divisions in the Queen’s service?”

Q doesn’t both responding outside of a well timed snort. 

Bond gives a little shrug, “Maybe I was bored.”

“And watching us watch computer screens is so invigorating.” Q looks at his watch. 002 isn’t set to start her stakeout for another two hours, and it is a low risk mission to begin with (not everyone is as…colorful as Bond).

“R, you have the conn.” Q says to his right hand woman and steps down from his post as R takes the mantle. 

“Was that a Star Trek reference?” Bond asks, voice laced with amusement. 

“Really 007,” Q grabs his windbreaker, his mobile, his second mobile, and his tablet, “we are a room full of computer geeks. Of course it’s a Star Trek reference.”

Q walks from the tunnels that make up Q-branches home. 007, of course follows. They go further into the bowels of the bunker, where the test chambers are. It’s always colder here; MI6 isn’t about to heat the whole of this unending maze. They arrived at the labs soon enough, as Q made his way through the rows, looking for a particular prototype, he was pleasantly surprised enough that Bond didn’t immediately start picking up weapons—especially as some of them weren’t altogether stable yet.

“Gun?” Q asks over his shoulder, “or throwing knives that go boom?” Bond’s head snapped away from the curves of metal he’d been admiring to Q’s face, his look of shock morphing into one of feral joy.

“The knives.”

“You are seriously like a man-child.” Q sighs, “One that unfortunately has approval to blow things up.” He grabs the set and gets them over to a proper testing room. 

“You’re the one giving me that approval, dear Q.”

“And I pity the world for it.”

Q sets the knives down, gets through his speech on safety and testing prototype materials that Bond at least has the decency to nod through if not actually listen, and then he gets the hell over into the observation room. 

Bond in action…well it’s definitely something to behold. His movements are always so fluid, the languid arch of his body as he throws the knife. It may or may not have Q a little distracted from watching the knives in action. Q watches him on grainy CCTV footage often enough, sometimes even on his own, much superior, visual equipment, but there’s nothing like seeing it in person. 

The first knife lands in it’s target with a satisfying thud, but the promised boom is nonexistent. 

Q pressed the little intercom button and repeats; “Press firmly on the handle a half inch from the blade as you’re pulling back to throw.” Reilly did refill the explosives, didn’t he? Q looks down at his notes and misses the next throw—and this one goes off without a hitch. It seems to cause a reaction in the already embedded knife that didn’t go off though…Q jots down the time to review on the footage later. 

Bond throws a few more of the knives with relish, testing the weight of them, their trajectories. He also presses the button, then lets it go without throwing. Q’s not above admitting his heart jumped a little bit at that. Is the idiot trying to get himself killed? Everyone would certainly think Q did it! Not that they would be able to follow through with any kind of punishment (he could destroy them all), but still, the rumors. It would have Q-branch in a flurry for at least a week. 

Q presses the button again; “Do try and be careful, Bond.”

007 gives a mock salute and throws without looking; the knife successfully hitting it’s target and explodes. 

Q writes a few more notes, satisfied with the impromptu test, “Alright, go get them.”

Bond makes a face and Q can’t help but roll his eyes as he hits the intercom button again, “of course we made them reusable. Reduce, reuse and recycle and all that. They only have one charge each,  in case whatever you hit tries to throw it back, but they’re still perfectly serviceable knives.”

Bond trots down to the other side of the test room and finds within the black aftermath of the explosion his 10 playthings, looking extremely pleased. Q won’t admit the little burst of pride that comes with knowing his invention has passed double-0 muster, but it’s there none the less. 

When Bond exits the testing room, Q’s already waiting at the door. 

“Alright, lets have it.” Q says and Bond goes off;

“The weight is a little top heavy, but that’s to be expected. The trigger is concealed well, and seems difficult to accidentally press—”

Q hums, “don’t think I forgot your stunt with that.”

“—And it’s not awkward to do mid throw when you know where to press. I’d suggest some minute differences in the color—the black blends in too well with the residue, which would make it harder to retrieve during a mission. How in the hell did you make them survive an explosion they make?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Q mumbles more to himself than Bond, writing one more note before tapping the program closed and looking at the deadly agent in front of him, “Alright, I’ve given you your attention, are you feeling much better now?”

“How could I not?” Bond’s face falls back into that familiar half smirk, but his eyes are a bit brighter than before, “How can I ever repay you?”

Q resists the urge to roll his eyes now that the recipient can see him, “Don’t loom in Q branch.”

Bond leans against the wall like a regular old Casanova “But how else will you know I’m desperate for your attention?”

Q can play that game, “A normal person would just ask me to dinner.” It might even be fun. 

Bond’s grin gains that predatory edge, “Well, my dear Quartermaster, may I take you to dinner?”

It will definitely be fun.

[mcmairy]

Top 5 Best Cars from the 90s

It's a fitting time to seem back on a particular golden age of the automotive arts. No, I'm not talking about the 60s. I'm talking about the 90s. Yes, the age that gave us boy bands, "Beverly Hills 90210," and therefore the Geo Metro. Believe it or not, that decade gave us some truly memorable rides that are too often overlooked. And, like now, things like design, power, and therefore the thrill of driving were on the increase , the economy was kickin' butt, and Nirvana ruled the airwaves. (OK, Nirvana might not be around anymore, but we do have the Foo Fighters.)

While it's tough to mention that each one of those cars would make solid investments, each offers a singular experience and therefore the certainty that you simply won't blend in with traffic. (Just be prepared with an honest story whenever you stop to refill .) And if you're within the marketplace for a replacement set of wheels, don't miss our collection of the simplest new cars that are anything but subtle.

Nissan 300ZX Turbo Z32 

Spiritual ancestor to the legendary Datsun 240Z of the 70s, the 300ZX was Nissan's second-most successful design. Unfussy and nicely proportioned, aimed toward besting performance benchmarks Porsche 944 and Corvette C4. By most meaures, they succeeded. Twin-turbos delivered 300 horses (comparable to a Ferrari 348), which was newsworthy when the car launched in 1989. It featured advanced tech like four-wheel steering, all for around thirty $-large, a terrific bargain. Autoweek called it "the world's most thoroughly modern sports car," when it launched in 89. By the mid-nineties it had been that far better , though it started losing ground to newer competitors. considerably a work of art in terms of design, it's aged well, a robust counterpoint to Nissan's currently overwrought lineup. Values are climbing, slowly but steadily. Maintenance for turbos of the age are migraines-inducing. If you'll brave that, expect to pay only between $4,800 to $17,000 for a sleek, sensuous dream car.

BMW 850i

With slightly quite 7,000 sold in North America over seven years, sightings of 8-Series Bimmers are rare. Despite being a technological tour-de-force boasting many industry firsts, it had been not an enormous hit for BMW. it had been imbued with impeccable workmanship, and owning one today is for the fiscally stout, as maintenance and repair costs are often staggering. If that's not enough to disuade you, the rewards include strutting around in one among the foremost drop-dead gorgeous cars of the past 25 years. Sexy, lithe, and mildly aggressive by today's standards. A grand tourer meant to sprint the Autobahn at high speed for hours on end, that regal five liters V-12 powerplant pulling seamlessly. (A 4-liter V-8 was available too, but why bother?) Though you'll be forgiven for expecting more for an eye-watering $130,000 in 2017 dollars. In truth, the 850, with only 300 horsepower, and lacked that certain road-feel drivers had come to expect from propeller-badged cars. Still, its desirability factor is off the charts, but be prepared to spare a stack of benjamins as these aren't only holding their value but climbing. choose later year models and expect to pay upward of $85k for a 1994 or newer.

Corvette ZR1 C4

The brackish waters between pre-'67 Sting Rays and therefore the latest C7 generation of Corvettes typically elicit yawns. In between beats the guts of a predator, a powerful iteration of what was otherwise an unimpressive car. In 86s General Motors teamed up with British specialty car maker Lotus to develop the world's fastest production car. The resulting bespoke LT5 motor placed the ZR one 'Vette squarely among the world's top performance machines circa 1990. the primary and only non-pushrod 'Vette engine to the present day, it is a 375 horsepower fire-breather with a top speed of 180 with zero to 60 in 4.3 seconds at 7,200rpm. By 1993 output was raised to 405 hp, adding to its stunning all-round capability. Easily on par with elite European supercars of the late 20th century, it remains the simplest value of any Corvette. The ZR1 option package added $27,000 in 1990 to the $32,000 base price, crazy a refund then. A mere 6,939 ZR1s were built, assuring its status as a collectible, though the market hasn't yet trapped . The LT5 engine is taken into account indestructible, as many endurance records will attest. Maintenance costs are much less than most other snowflakes in its class. one among the simplest looking cars of its era, they have been fetching between $20,000 and $40,000.

Porsche 928 GTS

Intended because the replacement for the venerable Porsche 911 within the late 1970s, the 928 went big for its final act. While the market is heating up for these late models, reaching in more than $100,000—more than when new—it's not too late to leap in. Prices are bound to climb since only 406 of those unique, stylish, and powerful Grand Touring cars were shipped Stateside. calculate expensive maintenance, but with 17 years of refinement, Porsche had time to sort it out, so reliability isn't an enormous concern. Beneath that sleek hood lives a 5.4 liter V8 gem, muscling 350 horsepower to speeds in more than 170mph. Its styling are often polarizing, though its adherents believe it to be one among most beautiful cars ever. which will be a stretch, but there is no question it possesses a particular something. Even more impressive within the flesh, crouched low and wide during a menacing crouch, the spiritual ancestor to the Panamera features a legacy all its own.

Mercedes-Benz 500 E

Years later in Stuttgart someone thought to use that very same formula to the essential , schoolmarm-variety E-Class sedan. Though during this case it had been likely more a response to their Teutonic rivals on the opposite side of the Black Forest who had been enjoying success with the M5, itself a hopped-up 5 Series sedan. Unlike the bawdy GTO, besides, the Germans were the proverbial wolves in sheep's clothing. Only the astute observer will notice the subtle differences in stealthy sedans that did not betray what lied beneath all that modesty. The 500 E, later to become the E500, is very collectible and wanted , though not out of reach. Developed with Porsche, it's built sort of a tank and borrows a 5-liter V8 from the 500SL sports tourer, delivering 326 horses. Naught to 60 for the nearly 4,000 pound beast is under six seconds. Hand-built in limited numbers, it is a true classic to have and knowledge daily. Average price for a well-maintained, fairly low-mileage find is within the $40,000 range.

[egg2k16]

movie idea #5: lesbians in the wild west. Like, ok, there's this widow, played by Amy Adams, let's name her Harper Myers. She lives all alone on her farm ever since her husband, dear James, died. She's a few months pregnant, and is able to keep her farm bcus she hunts animals and sells their pelts at the local market. So she’s getting known for her pelts and tanning services, and all that jazz, getting a respectable reputation. She’s a very focused, somewhat serious lady. Hey, she’s gotta work

and like, suddenly this rich couple moves in, the Howards, Mr. Thomas Howard and his wife, Delphine (played by Margot Robbie). They came from New York, and have moved to Arizona bcus of some “man thinks he’s cool” reason, w/e, who cares about him, and his good wife comes along and is going to start working as the schoolmarm. She’s very giddy and joyous, and excited to live here and meet all the new people and be able to teach! When they arrived, Harper was at the store, exchanging skins for meats n foodstuffs. She looks over to the chatty Delphine, looks back at the clerk, and rolls her eyes, “They’re not gonna last the winter” The clerk chuckles, agreeing

Delphine goes around the neighborhood, meeting w the parents of the kids she’ll be teaching. Everyone thinks she’s such a doll, a real sweetheart, they’re all happy to have such an excited and promising teacher for their kids. When Delphine gets to Harper’s house, she’s all bubbly and cheerful, giving Harper whiplash bcus She Wasn’t Expecting. This. Delphine sees that she’s pregnant, and asks about it, when are u expecting, how is she, how is the baby, is this her first kid, what names has she been thinking of? By this time, she’s already entered the house, sat down, and was drinking tea w Harper, who has No Idea how this happened. Delphine asks for her husband. “He’s not here anymore” “Oh, what happened?” “He died” “Oh... I’m sorry, that must’ve been terrible!” “Yeah, well, you know” Delphine taps her cup, looks up at Harper with genuine sadness, then finishes up her tea and visit. At the door, she tells Harper, “Now, when the time comes, I would love to help you bring your baby into this world! Such a magical experience, having a child.” “Do you have any of your own?” Here, Delphine slightly cringes, clears her throat, straightens out her gloves. “Uh, no, sadly” “Okay, well, I’ll be sure to call you” “Great! See you then!” Delphine steps off the porch, walks a ways, turns back to wave goodbye, then gets on her horse and continues on her way. Harper watches her leave, patting her tummy and telling her baby, “You’re gonna have one interesting teacher”

Delphine gets to be loved by everyone in town, her goodwill has lifted everyone’s spirits. Her husband is doing some dumbassery or w/e, frankly no one cares. Delphine is helping clean up and fix the school, getting her hands dirty and all! She picks up her skirts, putting up her hair, not letting all the grime and dirt get to her. (Thru-out the movie, we actually see this as a theme of Delphine letting go of her frilly styles n ways to become more solid n, well, butchy person)

Harper sees her, and starts to See Her. They become closer friends, Harper helping her learn about life out here in the West, Delphine doting on her bcus she’s got no one to look after her, “and that, darling, simply won’t do!” Harper even starts making a finely made fur coat for her to give on Christmas, which when the day comes, Delphine is amazed at the craftsmanship, immediately puts it on, and claims it’s "the best coat I’ve ever worn in my life! No really, dear, this is just,” she softly touches the fur, looking up at Harper w something like adoration in her eyes, “Thank you, for the best gift I’ve ever gotten.” Harper goes red in the face, tries not to smile so hard, looks away, shrugs, “It’s nothing, really.” “No, it’s everything” Delphine says as she walks to Harper and holds her hands. This is the moment when Harper realizes that she’s fallen for her best friend

Skip a few months, Harper’s belly is fuller and rounder. At Delphine’s request, she’s stopped skinning and tanning, and just shoots the animals n lets Delphine skin n tan them. They have dinner by the fireplace. Delphine is wearing trousers, boots, n ties. She’s got her hair up in a French twist. One night she says, “I should cut my hair” “Yeah?” “Yeah, I should.” She does!

When the school starts up, Delphine is getting ready to prepare for the first day of classes, when someone comes in, blustering and panting. “What? What happened?” “Your husband, he’s injured!” “...What” So, here’s the thing: [here we have a quick montage] Thomas had decided to head West bcus he’d read some cool books about the subject, n wanted to face the elements n be a cowboy, baby. He was out hunting some deer w some dudes, fell down a deep ditch, hit his head, broke his leg, is bleeding a lot, lost consciousness. They rushed him to the hospital (well, technically, the doctor’s), and the doctor says that Thomas fractured several bones, has a punctured lung, might have a concussion, has lost A Lot Of Blood. Buddy he’s not gonna make it.

Delphine rushes to the hospital, but at the same time, Harper is being rushed inside, her water broke n is gonna give birth Right Now. Now Delphine is forced to make a choice: either go w her husband and be the dutiful wife that she’s supposed to be, or go w the woman she loves. Camera does a slow zoom to her face, she’s looking between the two pathways. She looks off to the distance, then snaps to look in a specific decision. Camera cuts to Harper finally giving birth, and being giving her baby, her baby girl. She hugs her, crying bcus she’s holding her baby girl, her baby! She looks up and smiles at Delphine, who can only hug her and kiss her forehead

We cut to see Delphine in the schoolhouse, teaching the kids about math. Harper knocks on the door, steps in holding her baby w one arm, in her other hand a small basket. She heads to the front of class, saying, “Sorry, excuse me, sorry for interrupting” and gets to Delphine n hands over the basket. “You forgot your lunch, dear” “Oh, thank you darling!” Delphine gives her baby a kiss, “Hello Clio! Here to bring mommy her lunch?” Harper smiles, then turns to leave, “Mommy has to teach all these children. I’ll see you at home. Study hard, kids!” Harper n Clio leave, waving goodbye. Delphine waves back, smiles, then shakes her head, turning back to her students. “Alright, now where were we...?”

End movie

[rumbelleshowdown]

Who’s to Blame?

Author: Popcorn Prompt: “Not my fault.” Group: F

Rumplestiltskin, the most feared creature in all the lands, sat at his wheel turning straw into gold, lost in the mindless serenity that came from the repetitive task.  The whole world seemed to fall away while he worked his wheel, most days it was the only peace to be had for the dark imp.  The distant sound of humming broke through his bubble of solitude and he allowed the corner of his mouth to quirk up.  He would never admit it to anyone, and definitely not to the one singing, but he’d managed to find a different kind of peace these days.  Long afternoons spent drinking tea and eating sweets in the great hall or sitting in the garden while teasing his maid who never let a quip go unanswered.

A cacophonous sound pierced the air and shock of fear pierced his heart.  Without a thought, before he was even aware of it, he was using his magic to teleport to the side of his Belle.  Nothing in the castle should be able to hurt her and no one should be able to get in, but knowing that did nothing to stop his panic.  He was at her side in an instant, and it took another second of blind terror to realize his little maid was perfectly fine, the suit of armour she was standing beside, was not.

“I know what this looks like,”  Belle began with a sheepish smile.  “But it’s not my fault.”

“Oh?”  Rumple smirked.  “I suppose the armour pushed itself over?”  He twittered.  “Or maybe a strong breeze blew through the window and did the deed?”  He turned to look at the windows of the hall, all of which were shut tight.  “Hmm, it must have been a very strange breeze, to leave the window closed.”

He turned back to Belle who did look a little bashful, but he had more anxious energy in him that had nowhere to go now that he knew she was safe; a little bit of teasing was harmless.  Rumple made a grand show of looking around the hall before turning back to her.

“Or maybe it was a dust bunny come to life!  It ran down the hallway in a flash and before you knew it, the armour was on the ground and the little creature was gone!”

“You’ve hit the nail on the head.”  Belle countered.  “I was attacked, it was simply dreadful.”

Her response wasn’t exactly what he’d been expecting, but he didn’t let that trip him up for too long.

“Did you have to do battle with the fluffy monster then?”  He asked.

“I did,”  Belle replied.  “It was a dreadful fight, many times I thought surely I would be swallowed up but as you know dust bunnies simply can’t stand the sight of feather dusters, and I was able to ward it off.”

“Perhaps if you spent more time dusting and less time reading it wouldn’t have gotten to such a size.”  Rumple said.

“Ah, but you’re knowledge on dust bunnies seems to be out dated.”  Belle replied.  “It doesn’t matter how often I dust, they’ll always come back, and there’ll be more of them each time.  I’m surprised there aren’t more giants roaming your halls, given the size of this place.”

Rumple hummed, and then poked the armour with his toe, getting back on the track they’d left for talk of dust bunnies.  “But the armour, dear, how did the dust bunny manage to push it over? Or perhaps there was a herd of them?”

“I was just getting to that part.”  Belle said with a sniff.  “As soon as I was done doing battle with one dust bunny a whole brigade of them seemed to swarm from the cracks and crevices.  I was simply surrounded!  There was nowhere for me to hide, and no way I could fight them all off, unless I had more protection.”

“Thus the armour?”

“Thus the armour.  But it’s dreadfully heavy, and dust bunnies are known to be fast and light.”  Belle said, with all the seriousness of a schoolmarm.

“Indeed, everyone knows that.”  He replied.

“So it seemed my plan had failed and I was doomed to be eaten by the terrible balls of fluff, until…”  She trailed off and despite himself he wanted to know what she’d say next.

“Until…?”  He prompted.

“Until the windows, sealed tightly shut a moment ago, burst open and a great breeze blew the bunnies away, leaving myself and the armour in peace.”  Belle said.

“And yet the window is closed up tight now.”  Rumple replied with a smirk.

“It was a very polite breeze; it saw itself out and closed the window behind.”

“What a wonderful guest, a sight more polite then most guest the castle sees.”

“Indeed.”  Belle said.

“But that leaves the armour standing, the hall empty and the window closed, how did it come to be in a pile on the floor.”  He asked.

“I was just getting to that part.”  Belle replied.

“Do tell.”  Rumple smiled.

“Well,”  The story that followed grew more and more outrageous as Belle talked and with each question Rumple asked more details were added to the story.  It could never be said that Belle hadn’t picked up a few ideas and storytelling techniques from all the books she had read.

Each new idea was countered with a more absurd question but none of it left Belle daunted, she simply added more to what happened.  Soon a canvas of words were laid out before him as to how and why the armour had come to fall.  What should have taken mere seconds or minutes to explain became an epic adventure with twists and turns of every kind, there were heroes and villains and more dust bunnies, but no matter what it simply wasn’t Belle’s fault the armour had fallen over, and at this point that had been forgotten by both of them anyway.  But there was one last thing Rumple had that he knew she couldn’t counter.

“So you’re saying all of this happened, while you were humming?”  He smirked but Belle tilted her chin up and smiled back.

“Of course, and I can tell you why…”

[gaslightwestern]

Character Interview                                                        

Guidelines: Answer these 12 questions in the voice and manner of your character(s) and then tag as many or as few writeblrs as you would like.

Thank you for the tag, @ratracechronicler​! I’ll do my main three. Slightly NSFW.

Jack: Really? You’re going to put all three of us together in the same room? Warren: It’s almost like our writer is a bitch. Charlotte: *Looks like she is in dire need of several stiff drinks*

1. What did you have for breakfast?

Jack: We’re on the road so dried fruit and meat, along with black coffee. Charlotte: If I had access to a stove I could make us a proper breakfast. Sigh. Warren: The whore I woke up next to. *Charlotte and Jack look at the camera like they’re on The Office*

2. Who was the last person you crushed on?

*Their confused looks are met with a modern dictionary as ‘crush’ was invented after 1882* Charlotte: My late husband, Thomas. I doubt I’ll ever “crush” on anyone again. Warren: Crush isn’t the right word to use.... Jack: *Sighs softly while looking at Charlotte*

3. What is your favorite read?

*All three get excited* Warren: Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman, James... Charlotte: ...Dickinson, Fueller, Austen, any poetry by the Romantics.... Jack: Everything they said plus Poe, Dickens, Alger is okay if I’m drunk and don’t mind trash. Warren: Any newspaper article on The Cobalt Gang as well. Jack: Why don’t any libraries appear in our story?

4. Do you put both socks on first, or one sock, one shoe?

Warren: What the devil kind of question is this? Anyone who does the latter should be shot.

5. What can you cook perfectly?

Charlotte: Eggs, pancakes, chicken, beef, ham, any kind of roast really. Pretty much all of Thomas and Sam’s favorites. It took a lot of practice though. Jack: I can cook lots of things, but I don’t know if I can cook anything perfectly. Warren: Me? Cook? *Snorts*

6. If you could choose a pet, what would it be?

Charlotte, Jack, and Warren: A dog!

7. How is your relationship with your parents?

Warren: Great. They’re both dead so they can’t be disappointed in me. :D Charlotte: Like Mr. Howard’s, mine have passed on as well. I miss them terribly but I have been blessed with a second father, Mr. Sam Quinn. He’s an absolute gem of a man. Jack: My mother is dead as well, but I still miss her too.

8. How do you feel about marriage?

Jack: Oh, well, I’d love to have a wife and a family of my own....but I can barely afford myself...so....yeah. I want a lot of things I can’t have... Charlotte: Considering marriage laws in the 1880s would force me to concede my wealth and co-ownership of Quinn’s Firearms to my new husband, I’m never getting married again. Warren: Next question.

9. Do you fold your clothes before bed?

Jack: Yes. Warren: This question assumes I have anything but the clothes on my back. If I’m naked, my clothes are usually strewn about the room.*Jack gives him a look.* Jesus, where did you find him, Charlotte? He’s like a schoolmarm. Charlotte: Don’t be rude. To answer the question, yes, except for my dresses or skirts that cannot be folded.

10. What does your dream home look like? And where would it be?

Charlotte: A big, two-storey farmhouse on top of a hill looking down over Fort Worth. Light blue wooden panels, a narrow green barn where the animals are...*Glares at Warren* Jack: I just want to own a home. I don’t care what it looks like. I’m tired of renting and landlord and tenements and filth... Warren: My mansion on Fifth Avenue was pretty much perfect. *Glares at Charlotte*

11. What’s your worst habit?

Charlotte and Warren: Ruminating about the past. Jack: Sometimes I act without thinking and I wind up in trouble. Charlotte: Sometimes? Jack: ........all the time.

12. What do you do for a living and how do you feel about your job?

Charlotte: I’m the co-proprietress of Quinn’s Firearms and sell guns for living. Recently, I’ve also taken up bounty hunting. Both jobs suit me just fine. *Smiles at Warren* Warren: I’m the de facto leader of the Cobalt Gang, the worst bunch of outlaws west of the Mississippi. I’m very good at it. Good luck catching me, Charlotte. Jack: I’m a reporter for the New York Tribune. I love it, but if my boss fell into a pit of lions and got torn to pieces I wouldn’t mind. Charlotte and Warren: O_O

Tagging @ardawyn, @maskedlady, @writingmyassoff, @nyxnevin and @nikolettawrites.

[destroyyourbinder]

looking at instagram

There are hazy pictures of children having fun in spring-green new grass, the sun or maybe the filter sparkling. A photo of a man laughing, relaxed, he's wearing a soft cotton shirt, and it's not wrinkled. Dynamic black and white photos of people my acquaintance knows, a coworker, herself, their skin texture looks like granite, like muslin, like acrylic sculpting medium, like something under lights that's very "Interesting," to men in glasses holding wine and pontificating like bowerbirds strutting over little pebbles and bits of fur.

I'm angry. I look like dough, like a laundry pile at the end of a week, maybe two. I'm custard piled on itself, dingy men's shorts pulled up way too high over the bottom dollop. Nobody's captivated by my pock marks or my uneven peach fuzz. I look like who my mom was afraid I was going to be, except I'm not even that exciting, I'm a monster made of felt cut out by shaky kindergarten hands and unraveling tape. Dandruff gets under my fingers when I scratch my head. There's no social media where I can post the sensation of my stomach gurgling after I eat fistfuls of mozzarella from the fridge, and nobody would Like it anyway. When I shave my head there is no confident, bold, sharp picture I can take, tattooed and muscular arm curved up over my new haircut to casually hold the phone. There's just tiny bits of hair in the bathroom rug and yellow light that makes my face look puffier than I thought it was.

I feel the bile rise in my throat. So-and-so bought a house, my sister bought a house, friend after friend after friend is having a dinner party, moving to California, getting married at a place with "Estate" in the name. There's pictures, lots of pictures, of breezy nights and big smiles, a colorful world of delight and ease, everything I wanted from life incarnated in the bodies of straight people and lesbians prettier and happier than me. I pull a piece of cat hair out of my teeth and listen to the neighbors shouting at each other on the street, and I imagine what it would be like if my body didn't ache, didn't feel like a jumble of nonsense the consistency of dogshit and balsa wood. My apartment smells like mold. I make nine-sixty-something an hour after taxes. I don't know how to use Instagram because at twenty-whatever I've managed to become both old and out of touch, but I do know how to let Instagram make me feel bad.

In the photo, a guy I know looks rugged, cheeky, like a man with a story to tell but who might pull a quarter out from behind your ear instead. In reality, he's an old gay guy who both lurches and flops about at the same time, his too-large T-shirts hanging off his hunched shoulders. When he's feeling sprightly, he does a little ungainly but joyful Charleston, a grin on his face goofier than his little kicks, which show off the dirty bottoms of his fluorescent Converse shoes. I see him a lot in the back office at work or the break room, which are dim and yellow, making his ruddy face and greying stubble an undifferentiated jowly mass. But this guy also has lots of pictures of his own, that he shows me sometimes, of himself when young, with friends all dressed up in alternative 80s gear, all eyeliner and teased white hair. He smiles when he flips through the pictures. I don't know what he is remembering. I see a lot of cool people I've never met; he tells me this picture was even used in an ad for a local fashion hotspot back in the day. Then, swiping up and down with his fingers, still smiling but using a tone of voice that's a particularly terrifying variety of cheerful sarcasm, he tells me most of the people in these pictures are dead.

He knows I know why.

When I scroll through that woman's Instagram I am angry, maybe, because there's nobody to see me, nobody to remember what I did. The endless dullness that characterizes my days is not something I myself remember; I have the barest sense at all, even, that it is too dull for memory. There is something particularly disgusting to me that this is how most women have lived their lives, a parade of dishes and diapers, the inside of their heads taken up by minutiae about the state of the carpet and lists of birthdays. I've fallen headfirst into it, softly, like a particularly cushy pie on a grandmother's windowsill or the pillowy bosom of a schoolmarm. As a child I was particularly offended I was not noticed for who I was, or who I thought myself to be, at least, and what my mom did manage to notice was a nitpicking ritual of continual impropriety; what was on the floor but shouldn't be, what spot I missed on the counter with a sponge, which hairs were out of place and what crumbs were in the corners of my lips, what smile wasn't on my face and when. In retrospect I don't know if I was more offended on my behalf or hers, and if I was a selfish little shit about it whether I was more enraged by the idea that I was lost under her omnipresent fussing or that my proper development into a woman involved filling my head with such an eye.

I used to scream at her that I would not become like her, and I guess I didn't. I'm gay, for one, and live in a city, full of the types of people she imagines when she neurotically checks and rechecks the locks on her doors. I don't have children, a husband, a credit card, a mortgage, but I do have what I never wanted from the legacy of women, which is enormous spans of time where I fiddle with a sponge, a spoon, tiny meaningless papers, buttons on a cash register. As a child-- and embarrassingly, as an adult ill-prepared for reality-- I screamed because I insisted by the declaration of my lungs that my life would be different, it would be about intensity, perceptiveness, truth, integrity, adventures, journeys, big huge concepts that would bowl me over and spill out of me like a living mystic channeling forces of the universe. I used to read for hours and hours as a child, usually epic fantasy or science fiction I probably shouldn't have been allowed to put into my prepubescent brain; sometimes I used to hang upside down off the couch and read upside down just for the hell of it, to shake my world up a bit. I moved onto philosophy and hours of mopey music through headphones in the dark when I got older. I was delusional about what my life would be like, about what life would make me into. The big huge concept that would end up bowling me over was mediocrity, mundaneness, the stuff men on Reddit call women "vapid" for.

Hannah Arendt was a really smart woman, the kind of woman I thought I might be someday. She said a whole lot of shit that was really deep, and when I was still chasing the highs of thinking that there were neat-o discoveries to be made in this world that made you Somebody to see them, I thought that "the banality of evil" was the most profound thing I ever heard. When I encountered it for real it wasn't profound, just banal indeed. Evil is soul-sucking in a special fucking way, it sucks the life out of you in the way that alcohol shuts off first the part of your brain that lets you know you're drunk. Something's gone and you're all screwed up about it but you're gone in a way that won't let you know what left, there's just rage disguised as irritability and crud on the counter and a bus that doesn't show up. Sometimes you get to look right into the sucking hole, a yawning abyss of multi-generational societal depravity and institutional apathy, when you're sitting next to a homeless woman on a bench downtown with legs so swollen she couldn't go anywhere even if she had someplace to go. I gave her five dollars on most days of my commute because I hoped at least she could eat something, and she deserved the dignity of being seen by somebody, but honestly she needed somewhere to sleep and a bunch of somebodies to do something about her health. A lot of fucking evil had to happen to a lot of people for buildings full of suits to exist on the same block as this lady. A lot of fucking evil had to happen for people to accept this as normal.

What evil has to happen for women to accept their lot, whether it's accepting that the cumulative buzz of your life-inspiration be directed towards holding up a glass in a particularly enrapturing photo on Instagram, or whether it's accepting that you're gonna have to spend another night on the bench? I cry sometimes knowing that no one will remember my mother; all she will leave behind is a gravestone next to a man's and a legacy of psychological scars on her daughters, who nobody will bother to remember either. My mother's life is worth a book or two, but I couldn't get it out of her even if I tried. I don't think my mom even knows she has a story, just petty dramas she tries to escalate into a validation that she hasn't disappeared yet because she can hurt somebody. I don't know the homeless lady's story or how she ended up begging on a bench downtown each day. I hope with all my heart she finds a place to live out her life, a little home where she can use a scooter and have enough to eat, where five dollars isn't the difference between confirmation of the world's cruelty and God's presence. She showed me a video once on her phone of a preacher that she followed, a woman who she said she saw at a big church event in the South; she could go places once, and I don't know how she ended up so she couldn't go anywhere anymore. Maybe she doesn't know-- maybe when you can't go anywhere anymore the point is that you don't think you got there and you don't think you're getting out, you're just there right now, but also always were and somehow forever will be. Maybe you're watching buses go by all damn day and feeling your tongue go numb from saying "spare a dollar", or maybe your finger's getting red from wiping the snot under your kid's nose, time passing only when the tissues are gone. They don't take shots of this shit. There's no filter for "life's over, but not yet."

I wish what I felt could become great art, maybe even just shitty art, that it could mean something, that I was something; dudes have generations of scholarship-worship trailing behind them because they wrote paeans to being existentially bored, because they discovered what it's like to look at a damn soup can and slapped it in a museum. Maybe I'm just jealous, but, you know, I used to stock groceries, and I spent a lot of my time looking at damn soup cans. I think I now know why Val shot him.

[jesbakescookies]

Birds and Bees

This was supposed to be a random one-shot but as I was writing it, I realized I was writing the Negan from my fanfiction Rear Window. 

So please consider this a prequel one-shot to Rear Window. It's okay if you haven't read it, but I thought that those of you who have, might enjoy thinking of this as the time before Negan knew Kayla.

AU one-shot, no zombies. It contains cussing and smut, as well as a healthy dose of Negan humor.

This was a prompt from a friend. "Negan teaches sex-Ed.”

Thanks for the idea @lovesjdm! I hope you and @soythedemonqueen enjoy it!

I don't own the Walking Dead etc. I just play with it, like an overgrown child.

"Alright, alright. I want asscheeks in seats." Negan hollered, smacking a yardstick against the large desk in front of the class.

Handing a pile of paperwork to the boy in the first seat, Negan instructed, "Everybody take one and pass it along. This is reading material. Do not draw dicks on it. Do not write little love notes to your moon faced girlfriends and do not make any goddamn paper airplanes or so help me, you'll be running laps until your grandkids have gray ball hair. You got me, Stephens?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's what I like to hear." Negan drawled, slumping down in the rolling deskchair at the front of class. "Now you little pud pullers are in for a treat today. We have a special guest speaker and I want you clowns to behave."

"Who?" A kid in the center asked after raising his hand.

"Nurse Andrews is going to stop by for some... educational instruction." Negan rasped, a smile twitching at his lips at the idea of it. The new principal had mandated all Sex-Ed classes be taught by Co-Ed instructors, meaning Negan and Nurse McNiceTitties would be chatting about the birds and the bees to a bunch of fifteen year olds.

After class, if Negan got his way, he'd put a very large instructional manual on the subject matter, straight in her inbox. Hell, maybe even in her outbox, if she was a dirty girl.

"Now I don't want any damn shenanigans today." He instructed, raising his hand to count off all the ways the idiots could fuck up his chances of landing the hottest piece of ass at school, since the librarian transferred from Tolleson. Sarah was last fall's conquest and he was still avoiding the stage-four clinger like the clap. Negan was hoping the cute little nurse would provide him with much needed release, without all the strings.

Scanning the room, he stared down the biggest pains in his ass, while listing off his shit list.

"Number one, no dick or boob jokes. I'm the only one here funny enough, to pull that shit off, so don't-even-try-it. Number two, do not and I repeat, do not use the example condoms given to you, as water balloons."

The group broke into laughter, until Negan scowled deeply and slid a silencing glare over the room. Truthfully, he found that shit, funny-as-fuck. However, seeing as the last incident, ended with the principal reaming him a new asshole, Negan wanted to dodge that shitfest if at all possible.

"If I see a bunch of rubbers busted across campus, I will make you wish your parents double bagged it, before they went twenty toes. I will shut that shit down. Are we clear?"

A round of affirmative nods and grunted yeahs, echoed across the room. Moments later, a tap on the door announced his latest obsessions arrival and had him rising to open the door. Turning back to the classroom of twenty-five male students, he threatened, "Do not embarrass me."

After waiting for the group to nod in agreement, Negan opened the door with a wide grin. "Well, if it ain't my favorite medical professional."

Leaning against the doorframe with crossed arms, Negan blocked her from entering and let his hooded eyes trail down the sexy little things body. The woman was more than a foot shorter than Negan, the loose bun she wound her red hair in, giving her a couple more inches.

'Not as many as I'll give her later.' He thought with a smirk.

Her ginger complexion wasn't unhealthy, having more of a peach tone than a ghostly white and her rosy lips and sculpted brows fit her heart shaped face perfectly. She wore a pale grey cardigan and tight black skirt that showed of her curvy hips and shapely calves. The sexy secretary look had Negan's dick twitching and balls aching to slap against that apple shaped ass, he swore he could bounce a quarter off it.

Rolling her pretty blue eyes, the petite redhead murmured, "Am I allowed to come inside or am I teaching in the hall?"

"Oh I'll let you come inside, dollface. Hell, maybe even outside, if you're the adventurous type."

Sighing in frustration, Nurse Andrews brushed passed him, leaving behind the tantalizing smell of something sweet and mouth watering. While greeting the students, the redhead wrote her name on the chalkboard.

"Hello, class. Most of you have met me in the recent weeks but I'll go ahead and introduce myself, for those of you who haven't. I'm Ms. Andrews and along with your physical education teacher, I will be providing you with valuable information. This information is very important for you and your future well being, so I'd like all of you to pay attention and take this course very seriously."

"Damn, you sound so strict." Negan murmured next to her, a grin curling his lips as she blushed under his gaze. Licking the corner of his lip, Negan added, "I never would've guessed, but I like it. Very… naughty schoolmarm."

Rolling her eyes again, the school nurse wandered further down the chalkboard away from him and wrote down a list of topics for the day. Negan stood nearby, his head cocking slightly to the side as she bent over to finish the long list. He could see the barest lace edge of a pair of thigh high stockings, the sight causing his needy dick to throb.

'Fuckin hell.' He growled inwardly at the idea of bending her over the desk and pushing the little skirt over her curved ass, exposing the nylons and what promised to be a tight kitten.

"Okay, where would you like to start?" Ms. Andrews asked, interrupting his filthy fantasy, her jewel toned eyes rising to his.

"Oh, I got a couple ideas." He drawled, before biting his lip in thought.

Clearing her throat awkwardly, she offered, "I suppose I can start then, since you're so… overwhelmed. Everyone turn to page fifteen in your Health Sciences textbook. We're going to talk about the female anatomy."

"I think I should take this one, Ms. Andrews. I'm an expert in this subject."

"More than an actual female?"

"You have... no idea."

"Be that as it may, I will be taking over this part of the course." She informed, her eyebrow cocking haughtily. The expression made his throat bob, as he swallowed thickly, the challenge in her eyes causing his blood pressure to rise.

"If you say so, nurse."

Pursing her lips, she turned to the students and began her detailed explanation of the human female anatomy. The words were scientific and medical in natural but every time one slipped from her pretty pink lips, Negan had the urge to taste the part spoken about.

"The areola…"

All he could think about, was the shade of pink her perky nipples probably were and if they'd taste as sweet as she smelled. Watching her shift her weight, from pointy heel to pointy heel, Negan felt his mouth dry, as her calves flexed deliciously. He wanted to throw them over his shoulders and bite them, while giving her 'what for' on the teacher lounge table.

"Negan." Her voice broke his dazed stare from the delicate bones above her fuck-me heels and realized it was his turn to speak. Clearing his throat, he took the textbook from her and flipped to the male anatomy chapter.

"Page fifty five." He instructed hoarsely, leaning against the front of the desk, his long legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle. "I know all of you perverts are well versed in your gear by now, but we're going to gross you out by telling you what exactly is inside that dried apricot of yours."

"Jesus." He heard her mutter under her breath, her arms crossing with a huff.

Flashing her a wide grin, Negan began reading the paragraph of the vessels in the testicles and the human erection. Droning on with the required information, he ended the bland speech by slapping the book shut and asking, "Any questions about your tool bag?"

"No." They all answered emphatically.

"Great. We all know how boners are made. Now onto the good stuff, right?"

The school nurse touched his arm and whispered, "Maybe I should do this next part."

"Why do you say that?" Negan drawled, his lips tugging at the corner, as she flushed under his hooded stare.

Huffing out a breath of frustration, she murmured, "Because these kids don't need to learn how to be promiscuous. They need educational information on being safe and the results of not doing so."

"Please say promiscuous again but slower and softer like." He rasped, his eyes darkening as she stared incredulously at him.

"Negan." She growled, the sound turning him on more than anything else, ever before.

"Okay, okay, Nurse Ratched, take all the fun out of it." He grumbled, gesturing towards the group of horny teenagers. "They're all yours."

Negan could barely control the chuckle bubbling up in his chest, as she seemed to flounder at the attention. She coughed into her hand and cleared her throat, while picking up the textbook.

"Please uh… turn to page ninety, Chapter Fifteen…. Sexual Intercourse."

Wiping a heavy hand across his mouth, Negan hid the grin giving away his total, utter amusement at her sudden shyness. Noticing his barely suppressed humor at the situation, Ms Andrews barreled full steam ahead.

"Wait, so… like you can get stuff from a blow job?" Stephens asked with a furrowed brow.

Negan snorted at the question and replied, "Think about it this way. Say you're with a girl, who'd been with someone with a vicious case of nut scabbies. She was cool with it, or hey, maybe not and that's why she kicked his scabby ass to the curb. If she'd bobbed the bishop head, she could be carrying a unpleasant surprise on those pretty glossed lips. Then along comes you, a bumbling idiot looking to stick your meat thermometer somewhere. That hot little mouth could leave more than cherry chapstick on your sack."

Ms. Andrews rolled her eyes at his description and added, "What your teacher so elegantly put, oral sex can lead to the transference of sexual transmitted diseases from mouth to genitalia and vice versa."

"Yeah, that's what I said." Negan drawled, flashing her a smirk. "Now some things can be cured with some knob butter."

"Medical intervention.

"But a lot can't be." Negan ignored her input. "You could be stuck with a lifetime of itchy balls and weeping dicks. So… as much as it blows to wear condoms while getting a blow, at least your dick won't fall off afterwards."

"Wearing a condom during oral sex is the best way to avoid contracting contagious venereal diseases." She translated into adult.

"That's what I said." Negan repeated, his lip twitching as she let out a long frustrated sigh.

"So like, if a girl like… does it a lot it's bad right?" A messy haired teen asked after the awkward descriptions of types of fornication.

"Man, I told you. Stacy's a slut." His friend added with a grin.

Whistling sharply at the latest barrage of inappropriate statements, Negan growled, "What did I tell you about talking shit, Jeffreys? After school detention tomorrow."

"What? That's not fair!"

"You know what else isn't fair, this world subjecting others to idiots like you. So shut your trap, stop bad mouthing people or I'll have to call your mommy." Negan threatened, his eyebrows raised in challenge.

Scoffing loudly, the kid countered, "Pfft. She won't care. She hates Stacy."

"Oh… you thought." Negan chuckled gruffly, while taking a seat on the teen's desk casually.

Leaning closer he spoke quietly and calmly, "See I'm not going to rat on you kid... No, no… I'm going to ask her out. You know, wine and dine her. Show her a good time. I know she's been lookin'. Maybe I'll take her to that Italian restaurant she's always telling me about at our parent teacher meetings. She's a real looker, your mom… Hey, maybe I could be your new stepdad. Would you like that, son?"  

The kid became paler and paler as Negan spoke, his fingers gripping the pencil in his hand until it snapped. Glancing down at it, Negan returned his narrowed eyes to the horrified teen. "Or, you could stop being a royal case of crotch rot and stop talking shit about people."

Nodding numbly, the kid sank in his seat with dread still roiling in his stomach. Negan stood up and returned to the nurse's side, flashing her a smile. He noticed she looked a tad flustered, her eyes wider and brighter. He could tell she was both impressed and hot for his performance.

"You like that darlin'." He rasped lowly, his lip twitching as she seemed to startle at his question.

"T-that was inappropriate."

"But it was awesome." He drawled, winking at her. "Alright, you slack jawed idiots. Let's talk about how to protect your johnson from foreign invaders. This is a prophylactic. Also known as, a contraceptive, condom, rubber, jimmy hat, meat sack, dick shrinkwrap, raincoat and my personal favorite, boner bag. These guys are the first line of defense when it comes to STDs and pregnancy."

"But they aren't one hundred percent effective." The redhead added, stepping forward to speak the stats that she had memorized. Negan smirked as she prattled off on the chances of catching unattractive diseases and teen pregnancy. After the kids seemed thoroughly horrified at the graphic descriptions of revolting and decidedly, boner killing horror shows, Negan took the reigns on the demonstration.

"Okay, so… you decided not to wait. The moments right, your partners down with it." He drawled, feeling surprisingly embarrassed to handle a banana in front of the sexy school nurse. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her covering a smile, as he had his own moment of performance anxiety. Clearing his throat roughly, Negan instructed, "don't bite the wrapper, you're bound to tear it and there's no love, without the glove."

A low chuckle had his neck heating up and sweat to prickling at his temples. Negan wasn't someone who blushed at attention, but as he unrolled the stupid condom over the very impressive banana, he was as red as a Mormon in a whorehouse.

"There." He grunted, holding the defiled piece of fruit up in the air. "The big guy is ready for some fun with Ms. Chiquita."

"That's if you still want to and your partner does. You can always change your mind." She added, her eyes scanning the group. "There's no shame and shouldn't ever be any anger if someone changes their mind."

Negan nodded with the statement and leaned against the desk with thickly crossed arms. "Good point, Ms. Andrews. Let's talk about the word 'no'."

Looking over the teen boys, he spoke evenly and firmly. "The word no, means stop what you are doing and listen to what they are saying. No does not mean maybe. No does not mean try harder. It does not mean you have a reason to be angry with or hurt someone for saying it. No.. means.. no."

Staring them down with narrowed eyes, Negan drawled, "I want you to think about how it would feel to find out a woman in your life, maybe your mother or your sister, hell maybe your great aunt Linda… think about how it would be, to find out someone didn't listen to them when they said no. Think about how that would hurt them, how unfair and disgusting it would be for your loved one to be abused and disregarded like that. Think about it when you get pissed off because your partner changed their mind. You do not force someone to do something, they do not want. Do you understand me?"

The room was quiet for a long moment as the serious conversation sunk in. Negan scanned the room looking for anyone not paying attention or blowing off the speech but saw none.

"Understood?"

"Yeah." Was mumbled throughout the room.

"Excellent. Now we're going to watch a brief video about the miracle of childbirth. It should ruin sex for you until you're thirty." Negan drawled, shoving the ancient VHS tape in the equally ancient VCR.

After hitting play and turning the lights off, both Negan and Ms. Andrews headed to the back of the room. Slumping into one of the desks, Negan folded his arms across the top and kept his eyes on the trouble makers of the class. He felt the nurse staring at him but made sure to wait to acknowledge it. When she began to fidget, Negan rasped, "I know, I know. I'm inappropriate but the topic is one that pisses me the fuck off, so scare tactics were necessary."

"I was going to say I was impressed at your handling of it." She replied softly.

"That's not the only thing you'd be impressed at my handling of." He murmured with a grin.

Rolling her pretty eyes, the redhead muttered, "Do you have to always do that?"

"I know, I know. Bragging is unappealing but in my defense, I am really fucking awesome at handling my-."

"Stop. I wasn't talking about that. You always sexualize everything."

"That's because you turn this delicious shade of pink." Negan flirted.

"Shush." 

"Did you just shush me?"

"Yes, so... shush already." Her lips were pouty and pink, the quirk in the corner, telling him she was entertained but fighting the urge to admit it.

Chuckling under his breath, Negan leaned closer and murmured, "Doll, you couldn't shush me if you sat on my face. Actually I'd like to see you try that out. Who knows maybe it'll work. What'd ya say?"

"I say you're incorrigible."

"You love it."

"I love when you shut your mouth."

"So you want me to what, just sit here and look pretty?" He drawled, giving her his most cheeky smile. Rolling her eyes, she retorted, "sounds about right."

"So you think I'm attractive then." He smiled cockily.

"I think you're annoying."

"Annoyingly attractive." He quipped, bumping her with his elbow. "Stop pretending you weren't watching me fruit roll-up that banana without imagining me-."

"Stop." She growled, her eyes flashing to his. "You're being inappropriate."

"Yep."

"Do you ever shut up?"

"Nope."

"You should have that checked out."

"Well, that is a fine fucking idea." He drawled lowly, his mouth hovering near her ear. "Would you mind giving me a physical? You know, for scientific purposes."

Scoffing loud enough to have the boys heads turning back, the woman's cheeks turned that delectable shade he loved.

Clicking his tongue, Negan winked at her and whispered, "You're disrupting class, Ms. Andrews. I'll see you in after school detention."

"Pfft. Stuff it." She quipped, her eyes narrowing but the dimple in her cheek told him she was smirking under that scowl.

"Glad-fucking-ly." He rasped, his grit painting a vivid picture of just how much he wanted to. Flicking her eyes to his, the fiery redhead started to speak, but was interrupted, as the group of monsters set on destroying all of Negan's hard work, erupted into horror filled screams. Clenching his teeth, he glared at the screen as the bun was grotesquely expelled from the oven.

"Cock blockers." He muttered, slumping down, as the school nurse rose to turn the lights back on and stop the tape. Negan sulked for a moment, his dick ready to stage a revolt from the shear amount of heavy lifting it kept doing all afternoon.

'Easy big guy. Soon.' He grunted, while rising to his feet.

The class went much to be expected, red faced teenagers and exaggerated gagging sounds when discussing the menstruation cycle. Negan confiscated two notes and three crudely drawn dick pics, which he made sure to pocket because they were hilarious and he had a collection already. Don't fucking judge a man for his hobbies. Eventually he gave two teens detention for asking if the nurse could give them a demonstration of proper female condom usage.

Negan leaned against the desk watching the petite woman erase the chalkboard, her ass swishing with every swipe of her hand. He chewed his lip to contain the groan when she bent over to pick up a paper airplane.

"Fucking assholes." Negan grunted at the sight.

The chuckle she released extinguished his irritation at the little animals disobeying him, but the pointy paper flying towards his face had him growling again. Smacking it away, he wagged a finger at her. "You could've poked my eye out."

"Don't be a baby."

"You should know better as a medical professional." Negan drawled, watching her pack her bag up.

Snorting, she glanced at him and retorted, "Well as a medical professional, I diagnosis you as being full of shit."

Huffing out a laugh, Negan swaggered towards her, his eyes trailing down her body. "That's some foul language for a lady."

Biting her lip, she watched him approach with wary eyes. "I should go."

"Why's that? You got somewhere to be?"

"I have stuff to do."

"Like what?" He asked, reaching out to tuck a wild strand of red hair behind her ear. Negan watched the flush rise up her cheeks, highlighting the sprinkle of freckles across her nose.

"Paperwork."

"Well, fuck. Why didn't you say so, that's sounds really fucking important." He deadpanned, flashing her cocky grin.

"Shush." She muttered at his teasing, her lips pursed to keep the smile from her face.

"You know what I told you about shushing me." He rasped, leaning closer to get another whiff of her delectable smell.

"Stop being a pervert." She huffed, while trying to leave the classroom. Negan could tell she didn't want to leave but was embarrassed at the conversation. Grasping her wrist loosely, Negan drawled, "It's part of my charm."

"It's not very charming."

"Yet you like me."

"I don't like you."

"I find me attractive."

"So."

"So you do?"

"Jesus, obviously your good looking." She growled, pulling at his grasp but only barely. "It's your mouth that's the turn off. Now let me go."

"Doll, you haven't even let me use my mouth on you. Believe me, it is not a turn off." He drawled, reeling her closer to murmur into her ear. "Let me show you, just how good I am with my mouth."

Negan watched her swallow thickly, her eyes flicking to his before dropping to his lips. Swiping his tongue across the bottom one, Negan could see her resolve crumbling as his thumb stroked the delicate skin below her wrist.

"Come on, sweetheart." He rasped, tugging her closer to brush his lips against her temple. "You know you want to."

"What happened to no means no." She muttered, her eyes still glued to his mouth.

"You haven't said no." He replied, a smirk tugging at his lips when she rolled her eyes. "Keep rolling those pretty little peepers of yours and their bound to roll right out of your pretty little head."

"So you think I'm pretty?" She mocked him for his pestering earlier.

"I think you're fucking gorgeous." Negan drawled, reeling her into his chest and cupping her face. "and I think you want me to kiss you, as bad as I want too."

He watched her lick her lip, subconsciously readying herself for what was about to happen. Leaning forward, Negan kissed her softly, plucking at her soft pink lips as she began to sink into his chest and hands. Soon the kiss deepened and he got to taste every sweet corner of her pliable mouth.

Pulling away for a breath, Negan drawled, "You still need to go do paperwork?"

"What paperwork?" she rasped, her eyes dark and mouth swollen.

"Exact-fucking-ly." He growled, nipping her bottom lip before pulling away. Smirking when she pouted at his sudden retreat, Negan wandered to the classroom door and flipped the lock to make sure they weren't interrupted by some nosy asshole. Negan wasn't going to let the opportunity pass and he sure as fuck wasn't going to let some moron wander in an ruin his chances of burying his bone in the hottest piece of ass in the tri-county area.

As he headed back towards her, Negan took in her heavy breathing and flushed skin. She was more than gorgeous, she was beautiful and the longer Negan looked her over the more he began to notice.

"You really are beautiful, you know that?" he rasped, the grit in his voice causing shivers to run through her body.

"I.."

"You're a typical woman huh? Don't know how hot you are."

"I just don't see myself that way."

"Well let me show you how fucking attractive I think you are." he growled, his hands laying heavily on her hips as they shuffled towards the desk.

Backing her up against the table top, Negan couldn't stop his hands from gripping every square inch within reaching distance. Her ass filled one hand, as the other cupped her face and neck. He rolled his hips against her, pressing her into the hard surface.

"Goddamn, you are so sexy." He growled as her hands yanked him closer by a handful of shirt.

"We shouldn't do this here."

"No, we shouldn't." He rumbled, his mouth dipping to her neck as he kissed and sucked a hot path along the skin. "But we're going to and we're going to enjoy the fuck out of it."

Slowly unbuttoning the sweater she wore, Negan groaned as he found the lacy camisole below it. The silky fabric barely hid the soft curves of her breasts, the delicate bra underneath pushing them up and together. Dipping his face into the warm cleavage, he licked and sucked on the exposed curves.

"I want to die face down in this titties." He growled, nipping the flesh as her sweater and cami was shed. His hands stroked her skin and massaged her hips and ass, nothing was enough. Negan wanted to touch everything and everywhere, all at once.

"Negan." She moaned as his hand pulled her bra down enough to tongue at her exposed nipple.

"Yeah, baby girl." He growled, brushing his teeth across the puckered skin. "You like it when I touch you?"

"Yes." She hissed as he tugged on her nipple sharply.

"Good girl." He drawled, before ordering, "Turn around."

The little redhead seemed confused at first but surprisingly followed his directions. Humming at the sight of her pale back and the tight skirt that still highlighted her decadent ass, Negan gripped both her hips and pulled her flush against his groin.

"You want this, darlin'?"

"Yeah." She moaned as he ground his dick against her center from behind. "Enough talking about it."

"You telling me to shush again, doll?"

Glancing over her shoulder she murmured, "Maybe, what'll you do if I am?"

"Fuck." Negan rasped, snapping his hips against her, while pressing her into the hard surface. Dipping his head into the curve of her neck, Negan kissed and nipped his way to her ear before whispering, "I think I'm going to have to show you how talented my mouth is. Maybe you'll stop telling me to shut up."

Pulling the chair over, Negan took a seat to bring him at eye level to her ass and hips. Glancing over her shoulder with wide eyes, she muttered, "What're you doing?"

Negan smirked as he slowly pushed her skirt up and over her ass, exposing the fuck-hot thigh highs and garters he knew lie below. The soft curve of her ass was covered in lacy panties that had him practically drooling at the sight of the damp fabric.

"Fucking hell." He growled, leaning forward to take a bite out of the soft flesh. The squeak she emitted at the sharp nip had him laugh gruffly, his teeth flashing bright as she scowled back at him.

"Aww, don't be like that darlin'."

"Are you going to just tease me or are you-." her words were choked on when he grabbed her panties and tore them off leaving her stockings and garter in place.

"Hey!" she exclaimed before moaning lowly as he brushed his thumbs across her wet core. Negan growled deeply as the pads of his fingers slid effortlessly through the wet lips.

"Goddamn, sweetheart. You. Are. Soaked."

"Fuck." She gasped as his tongue took a long swipe up her center, as he spread her open.

"That's very unladylike." He rumbled behind her with a chuckle, his eyes taking in the flushed skin and trembling thighs.

"Does anything about this seem very ladylike right now?" She asked, squirming in front of him waiting for more.

"Touché." He grunted before diving in face first into the tastiest pussy he'd ever had. Twirling his tongue through the quivering lips, Negan sucked a delicious pattern over her hood, while plunging a finger inside her clenching walls.

Her moans urged him on, his eyes flicking up her body to see her face pressed into the desk with clenched eyes and parted mouth. He growled deeply as she ground back into his mouth, her body begging for him to make it cum.

"Like that?" he rasped, while inserting two fingers into the tight little core begging for more. Plunging them in and out, while sucking on her swollen clit, Negan listened to her moan and sigh, her eyes fluttering open to watch him from over her shoulder.

"Do you?" he asked again, licking her arousal from his lips as he worked her over with his fingers.

Nodding she murmured, "Yes."

"You wanna cum on my loud mouth huh?" 

"Yes." She moaned, her head thrown back as he sucked her clit deep into his mouth, while fingering her quickly. "Please."

Growling like a wild animal, Negan kept his pace hard and fast as she began to shudder and shake below his mouth. Soon she pushing back onto his fingers, grinding her pussy against his face greedily. He couldn't get enough of her taste and scent, the man rutting his face into her folds deeper and hard.

"Oh fuck." She moaned, her head thrown back as she came long and hard all over his tongue and lips. He felt her walls fluttering and squeezing his plunging fingers as he continued to lick and suck her sensitive hood and clit.

When all that was left were spasms and mewling, Negan gave her core one more long flat tongue swipe, before smirking at her flustered, sweaty state.

Slowly he unbuckled his pants, his hands moving efficiently and precisely, as she watched him with hazy eyes.

"You like that baby?" he asked, stroking his impossibly hard dick, while looking over the wet core still dripping in front of him.

"Yeah."

"You want me to put this inside you?"

Panting at his question, the redhead nodded shyly at the question but wiggled her hips enticingly. Humming deeply at the sight, Negan stroked his cock with a tight fist before reaching into the desk to grab a condom. After rolling it down, Negan drawled, "You wanna sit on my lap, nurse?"

Smirking, she began to turn around but Negan grabbed her hips and growled, "Stay like that."

Lowering her onto his lap, while she faced away, Negan watched his dick slowly slid inside her. Gripping her hips, Negan set an easy pace of her tight ass rising and falling onto his lap. Stroking a hand up her spine, Negan plucked the hooks of her bra, allowing the material to fall from her chest. Sliding his hands up her waist, Negan circled them to cup her soft breasts, squeezing them and plucking at her nipples as she rose and fell onto his dick.

Negan bit into her shoulder as she continued to grind on his lap, circling her hips as he lost himself inside the feel of her.

"Fuck, doll." He growled his mouth sucking on the sweet flesh behind her ear, his breath hot and heavy against her neck. "You feel so amazing."

"Negan." She gasped, her hand raising to clutch a handful of the hair at the back of his neck.

"You gonna cum on my dick, sweetheart?" he asked, his hips rolling off the seat to impale her deeper, while he slid one hand to stroke her clit and his other to twist her perky tit. "Fuck I can feel you. You're so damn close." 

"I wanna." She moaned, her hips squirming under the weight of his heavy arm as he flicked her hood with two fingers.

"I'll take care of you, baby." Negan cooed, before rising to pin her to the desktop in front of her. Grasping her hips, Negan began rocking his hips into her sopping core until his pace became quick and sharp. The snap of flesh against flesh was almost drowned out by the heavy panting they both expelled, but nothing suppressed the screech of the table legs moving across the worn linoleum. Negan growled as she squeezed and clutched at him, her nails clawing at his thighs and forearms.

"Taking it so good, baby." He purred, his hips snapping into her ass while she moaned. "Now cum."

The sight of her head thrown back and her ass arched to let him sink as far as humanly possible, had Negan breathless. He watched with seized lungs as the beautiful woman below him came with a long string of curse words belonging to a sailor. Nothing had ever been so hot and no one had ever cum so hard on his dick before. Negan was blown away by the pure unadulterated lust he saw in her eyes when she peered at him over her flushed sweaty shoulder.

"Fu-ck." He grunted as her lips flexed and quivered around his dick, the deep hollow almost refusing his retreat with every thrust. "Damn, doll. Your kitten won't let go."

"Sit." She rasped huskily, her hands pushing against his hips.

Negan obeyed, if only because his legs felt like they were about to buckle under the weight of his aching dick. As he did, he watched the woman removing her skirt, leaving her in nothing but a garter, stockings and high heels, turn around to face him. Negan let his eyes drift over her scantily clad body, his pupils probably dilated to the point of no return, as he focused on the cleft between her damp thighs.

"That answer one of my questions." He grumbled, his lip pulled between his teeth, as she swayed her curvy shape towards him. The swish of her hips and bounce of her breasts had to be the sexiest thing Negan had ever seen.

"Which was?"

"If you were a real redhead." He replied, flashing her the cheeky grin he knew pulled her trigger.

Biting that plump bottom lip, he would kill for, to suck on, she murmured, "And that's a good thing?"

"Fuck yes it is." He growled, pulling her onto his lap to get closer to the hot little fire crotch.

Negan's eyes rolled back in his skull, as she sunk onto his aching dick, the tight lips engulfing him like a second skin. His hands move long soft sweeps across her body, rough fingertips tracing every curve and dip to her body. He couldn't get enough of the otherworldly material that claimed to be her skin. He'd never felt anything so seductive, as her muscles moving under his palms, as she rolled and rocked her tight light body onto his.

Negan groaned when she began rising and falling with a quicker pace, her hands raking through his hair to grabbed two handfuls at the back of his skull. Pulling it, the fiery woman in his lap kissed him deeply, while circling and grinding her hips against his. All he could do was clutch onto her ass and tits while she had another orgasm from riding his dick. He swallowed her guttural moans as he plunged into her with more force and focus.

After a particularly tight clench from the delectable body atop his, Negan's control broke. Throwing his head back, a forceful moan was torn from his throat, as he rocked his hips off the chair and into the tight little nurse pistoning on his lap. He could feel her quivering and trembling around his dick and under his hands. Pressing his face into her neck, Negan swirled and rolled his hips into her spread thighs, his dick pulsing and throbbing into the hot core. He couldn't see for a solid minute, his vision black from hyperventilating like some virgin sinking his first boner.

Stroking her skin, Negan cupped her breasts and kissed her neck and jaw. He could feel her sinking into his touch, the softness of her surrounding him as she nuzzled into his neck.

'Could fucking get used to this.' He thought while squeezing her ass with both hands as he placed open mouth kisses along her cleavage and neck.

"That's the most thorough check up I've had all year, Nurse Andrews." He muttered, a smile breaking out as she rolled her pretty blue eyes at him.

Combing a hand through his mussed hair, the little redhead replied, "We've slept together, Negan. I think you can drop the formality now."

"Sounds fucking good to me, darlin'." he drawled, smirking up at her. "So… when can we do this again, Lucille?"

"Who said anything about this happenin' again?" She quipped.

"Oh, doll…. Didn't I tell you? You're my girl now."

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12761404/1/Birds-and-Bees

[fem-mem-mine]

From ‘bossy’ to ‘battleaxe’ and ‘spinster’ to ‘slut’, many of the words used to describe women are laden with negativity, judgement and criticism. In Word of Mouth, Nikki Bedi and Professor Deborah Cameron explore how sexism is reflected in the English language and discuss why the words we choose are important. Here are a few of the interesting issues they uncover.

Why dictionary entries for ‘woman’ need a rewrite

In March 2020, an open letter called on the Oxford Dictionary of English to update its entry for the word ‘woman’. The dictionary, which is used in many mobile phones, offers words such as ‘bitch’, ‘bird’, ‘wench’, ‘petticoat’, ‘bint’, ‘mare’, ‘biddy’ and ‘filly’ as alternatives to ‘woman’. Under examples of how ‘woman’ could be used in a sentence, it includes the phrase: “I told you to be home when I get home, little woman.”

The letter explained: “Synonyms and examples such as these when offered without context reinforce negative stereotypes about women and centre men. That’s dangerous because language has real world implications. It shapes perceptions and influences the way women are treated.”

Can a dictionary really be sexist?

Deborah Cameron, Professor of Language and Communication at Oxford University, explains that modern dictionaries aim to record how language is actually used by people, and are based on a huge sample of millions or billions of words. As a result, they reflect sexism that already exists in our history and culture.

However, Cameron says, “some sexism creeps into dictionaries because of their own editorial decisions”. For example, she explains, synonyms like ‘bezom’, ‘filly’ and ‘petticoat’ are out of date and offensive. While those words may have a place in a historical dictionary or thesaurus, they don’t need to be in the dictionary you get with your phone.

The Oxford Dictionary is reviewing its examples to address bias and stereotyping. But it’s not the only one that needs to do it – Cameron says this kind of sexism is a “really general problem”.

Why men get more space on the page

The entry for ‘man’ in the Oxford Dictionary is much longer and more detailed than the one for ‘woman’. But, Cameron explains, this is difficult to rectify because of the two words’ unequal linguistic histories.

“The thing is, you can’t really make them balanced because the words ‘man’ and ‘woman’ genuinely are not parallel terms, because ‘man’ has both a sex-specific meaning (a male person), and a kind of generic meaning (human being) ... And it’s that imbalance that the length of the entries is reflecting.”

The inequality doesn’t end there. Cameron says the words of privileged white men make up a disproportionate number of the sources cited by dictionaries. Although things are changing, she points out that “a privileged subset of men still actually dominate the public sphere. So if you’re taking your data from, let’s say, the news media, political speeches, scientific journals, even debates on the internet, you are going to end up with more words that were written and spoken by men than women, and also more words about men.”

Words for women in positions of power

Language and power are associated in other ways too. Nikki Bedi points out that female politicians are often described using a particular set of terms that wouldn’t be applied to men. Cameron believes this vocabulary harks back to history and shows how uncomfortable our culture still is with female authority.

“Women [are put] in boxes, like there’s the battleaxe or the iron lady, or else they’re just, you know, domestic tyrants. They’re mummy, nanny, matron, the headmistress, the head girl, the schoolmarm. You know, it’s as if we can only imagine female authority in terms of the domestic sphere where historically women had power over children and servants.”

Cameron has studied the media coverage from the 2015 general election, when three female party leaders took part in TV debates. She found that “this kind of stereotyping was incredibly common... And until I did that analysis, I think even I hadn’t realised how consistent it was.”

What insults can tell us about sexism

As well as being personally hurtful, Cameron says, insults are designed to undermine a person’s standing in their community. So, by comparing the words used for men and women, we can learn about differing social norms and expectations through history.

The fact that there are so many terms of abuse that judge or criticise women’s sexual behaviour, such as ‘slag’, ‘strumpet’ and ‘trollop’, shows how important sexual reputation has been for women in society, in a way that it hasn’t for men. “To impugn a woman’s chastity could, historically, have really very serious material social consequences. And even today, these are insults that girls and women fear,” Cameron says.

By contrast, insults aimed at men are often things designed to undermine their masculinity, such as ‘sissy’, ‘cuck’, ‘big girl’s blouse’ or ‘girly swot’, and this reflects women’s historically lower status in society. “You’re comparing a man with his social inferiors, women, in order to kind of unman and degrade and shame him,” Cameron explains.

Why the words we use matter

The history and hidden implications of words can shape the way we see things. “We don’t just learn about the world from our own direct experience, we learn from the conversations we have, the stories we’re told, the representations we encounter via the mass media,” Cameron explains.

At the same time, language has the power to influence the world around us. “Many of the words we’ve been discussing are weapons. They are used to police and shame and silence and wound. But on the plus side, language is also one of the best tools we have for sort of reflecting and raising awareness about that... And that doesn’t change the world on its own, but I think it’s a necessary step along the way.”

[d3ndroica]

Big Apple 4

Part 1     Part 2    Part 3

Gale 1:53pm hey

Madge 2:00pm Hey Gale 2:00pm what’s going on Madge 2:01pm Work You? Gale 2:02pm um nothing I’m in bed bingewatching the 100 all alone waiting for eliza and bob to admit their feelings while the world burns

Madge 2:07pm ohhkay. I dont know those people but I am jelly you have to specify that you’re alone Liek if you weren’t alone would you really be texting Gale 2:17pm depends Gale 2:24pm when do you get off work Madge 2:26pm 6? Gale 2:31pm want to get pizza?

Madge paused. Was this a group thing? A friend’s thing? A welcome to the big apple thing? She flipped over to her text convo with Thom Madge 2:32pm Would it be weird if I got food with Gale? Thom 2:35pm Why would that be weird? Of course she was overthinking it. Shaking her head she went back to Gale’s text. Madge 2:36pm I’m always up for pizza. Where? Gale 2:40pm you been to Angelos yet? On 116th? Madge 2:42pm Haven’t. When? Gale 3:03pm your call. Madge 3:08pm So, is it weird if I’m in work clothes? Gale 3:09pm depends what are you wearing? 😉 Madge blushed. Okay that was not really what she meant, and maybe his text was a perfectly reasonable follow-up and yet - winkyface. Shit. Obviously he was just teasing her, not flirting - she just read into it the wrong thing. Because he was hot and she was dressed like a schoolmarm which was not how she usually went out. Her first instinct was to flirt, but (1) that was ridiculous and (2) her work clothes were too conservative to back up any flirty banter. She just didn’t want to go all the way home to change into something more relaxed.

Madge 3:09pm nothing, nevermind.  Gale 3:12pm  🙈🙊 😳 Madge 3:14pm SOO not what I meant.  Gale 3:15pm well like Thom says - you do you - but yeah that would be weird. And cold, have you been outside lately? 😉 

Madge 3:16pm OMG STOP I’m wearing clothes! Actually really boring conservative clothes. It was a dumb question. Gale 3:17pm Well as long as you’re wearing clothes I think they’ll let you in. Madge 3:19pm :P Fine. So, 6:45? Gale 3:20pm 645

Madge arrived at Angelo’s essentially on time, which she considered a win since she’d had to look up how to get there and how long it would take her. She was a little nervous, realizing she was meeting him alone for the first time. Not that she was worried about her safety, but he was still mostly a stranger - and meeting new people outside of work or school still felt strange.  She didn’t see Gale so she got a table for two and started perusing the menu. They had calzones, which was promising.

Thankfully when Gale arrived he didn’t immediately comment on her clothes. Or the fact that she was in fact wearing them, which she partly expected. She recognized him in a heartbeat despite his scarf and wool coat. He had barely made it through the door, because every time she detected movement in that direction she looked up to see if it was him. How well he recognized her as opposed to how much he was responding to her look of recognition was a mystery, but he did see her and head straight over, shaking his coat off his shoulders and draping it over his chair. 

“How’ve you been?” he asked without preamble. “Man I’m starving.” They made small talk as he pored quickly over the menu, Soon the waitress took their order and Gale leaned back in his chair with a sigh, as if settling in. 

“How long have you been in the city?” she asked.

“I’m starting to lose track,” Gale said, “which is probably a bad sign. It’s been ... almost five years. And well, I have to ask - Are you a school librarian? Because right now you remind me of my middle school librarian.” 

Madge blushed. “No. I don’t work at a library or a school. But one of my best friends is a librarian so watch what you say about them.”

“Really? I love librarians, and libraries,” Gale remarked. “Though I didn’t really appreciate them until college. Nothing beats a sexy librarian.” 

Madge looked surprised, so he asked, “Have you ever dated a librarian?”

She bit back a laugh, shook her head and admitted. “no.”

“Well then,” Gale retorted smugly. “You’ll have to take my word for it. It’s a great halloween costume too. All you need is a pair of glasses and a book.”

Madge shrugged agreement on that one. She and Delly had swapped professions on halloween a time or two, but she wasn’t about to admit to that.

“Okay, I give up,” Gale relented. “What do you do?”

“I’m a lab tech in a cancer research lab,” Madge answered rotely, as the waitress set their drinks down on the table.

Gale blinked, impressed.  “Wow, that sounds. Important.”

“It’s a great halloween costume,” she bantered. “All you need is a lab coat and glasses. Bonus points if you use an erlenmeyer flask for your drink.”

“A what?” He leaned forward; his unkempt hair fell in his eyes. “Stop sounding so smart. With those clothes and big words people will forget you’re hot.”

Madge could feel her cheeks turning crimson and babbled, “I hope so - I mean not that I think - I just I dress conservatively at work so I’ll be taken more seriously because, I don’t know, there are so many stories about young assistants and I don’t want to give them any excuses for being unprofessional.” She was getting off track. She shook her head. “But I like to think I’m doing something useful? What about you? How do you get to lay in bed all day?”

“Oh,” Gale grinned. “I take a random vacation day a few times a year, usually whenever I want to kill a customer. I’m in IT.”

“Like consulting?” she guessed.

“Software contracts,” he clarified. “Small firm, nothing you’ve heard of.” Gale picked up his drink. “I guess, welcome to New York. How are you settling in?”

She drank to his toast and nodded. “It’s been okay. Pretty overwhelming. But good I think, mostly thanks to Thom. He helped me find my apartment and everything. I’m subleasing from someone on tour, which is actually pretty great because I don’t have any furniture anyway.”

“That’s huge,” Gale answered. “That’ll give you time to figure out the city. I remember being so lost when I first came. I didn’t know anyone and it sucked. My first apartment was awful, because I didn’t know the city well enough and everything seemed so expensive.”

“Soo expensive,” Madge agreed. “It’s crazy, I feel like I need a budget or something? And I am scraping by until that first paycheck comes through. I mean, I have a little savings but it’s not going to last long here. My dad wanted to give me a loan to tide me over, but I’m only gonna do that if I get desperate. I don’t know how people do it.”

The food came and conversation lagged a little. Gale hadn’t been joking about his hunger - he devoured most of his pizza before Madge had made much of a dent in her food. It seemed for every question he asked her, at least a slice of pizza would disappear and she might take a bite or two between answers. Her calzone wasn’t amazing but it was pretty damn good, and all the cheesy deliciousness buoyed her spirits further. 

Talking about her day at work, she pictured him lazing around in bed. Hmmm. It reminded her of a question she’d meant to ask before. “So what were you bingewatching?”

“The 100? I started it a few weeks ago,” he explained. “I’m somewhere in the middle of what’s available online. It goes pretty quick. Have you seen it?”

“Mm-mm” Madge shook her head, mouth full of calzone.

“Well,” Gale explained, “it’s postapocalyptic and anything that can goes wrong does.”

She gave him a doubtful frown. “Sounds fun?” “Well sometimes I follow it up with an Archer to lighten the mood,” he conceded. “But it’s got good representation. And I can read the newspaper afterward and say ‘at least a giant wave of nuclear radiation isn’t bearing down on new york.’ “

Madge took this in. “So you still have faith in international diplomacy”

With a shrug, he amended, “Or I just don’t worry about what I can’t control.” Before they steered too close to ugly political topics, he switched tracks. “Have you been to Morningside Park?”

When he heard she didn’t know about it. he elaborated. “It’s smaller and quieter than you know, Central, and it’s got some nice trees. It’s a nice place to visit. Other than the snobs from Columbia.”

Madge laughed a little at his description. “Trees?”

“Well, you can’t call it a forest,” he argued. “The whole park is only 30 acres, that’s nothing. But it’s got a nice farm market on saturdays. If you like that kind of thing.”

When the waitress dropped the bill on the table, Madge reached for her wallet. Gale was faster. He picked it up and quickly set it down with his credit card, next to his elbow. When she held out her hand to see the bill, he shook his head. “My treat,” Gale said firmly.

Madge objected, “You don’t have to do that.” 

“You can pay for dinner after you get that paycheck,” Gale haggled. 

Madge relented. “Sounds like a plan.”

When they left, he walked her to her train. There was a moment when he said goodnight and Madge debated if she should hug him or something, but something held her back. Whatever this was, it felt too new and undefined.

Madge 10:35pm home  👣🍿🎵

Gale 10:49pm 🖕⛄️🐸  me too   sleep well princess😎

[themyskira]

THAT Wonder Woman script, part 4 of i hate everything.

PREVIOUSLY!

Wonder Woman wants to save the world, but unfortunately -- as Steve is fond of reminding her -- she is a selfish bitch who will never be a true hero because she has never had to pull herself up by her own bootstraps.

Lucky for her, she’s about to get that chance! Because Strife (big thuggish demigod dude; don’t ask) has just chained her bracelets and left her beaten and powerless!

Also, Strife and Ares and Discount Veronica Cale are planning to take over the world with a doomsday drill. The specifics of their plan have not been properly explained, nor will they be. The logic seems to go “destroy the half of the city where all the poor people live --> ??? --> profit!”

Strife teleports Diana to “the deepest South American jungle” and immediately starts borderline-fondling her. Yeah. Again with the “chaining the Amazons’ bracelets = sexual assault” analogies.

STRIFE Beautiful. Do you think? I come here when I want to be alone.

His touch is almost invasive as he feels her weakened body.

STRIFE (continuing) And you are so alone.

He clutches her head.

STRIFE (continuing) These slackened muscles, slow reason… you want to die of shame, but you’ll do anything to live. They always do. Humans.

STRIFE (continuing) So live. For as long as you can.

He tosses her back hard and she falls, hits her head on a rock with a CRACK.

BLACK OUT.

fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou.

Thunder wakes Diana. It’s pitch dark; she’s been out for a while. She’s surrounded by a cacophony of nature and wildlife, to which she reacts “a little wild-eyed” when she realises her keen superhuman senses are gone and she can’t distinguish individual sounds.

She rolls over onto her stomach and there is a snake. A big one, eyeing her. It hisses and she looks at it with fearful incomprehension—

DIANA I don’t… I can’t underst—

It strikes at her and she scrambles back, getting to her feet. Rain starts to pepper the ground as she makes her way blindly forward, unseeing, unsure on her weak human legs.

In moments, the rain is a torrent. Diana continues moving — loses her footing and slides down a ways. It’s not a “Romancing the Stone” funhouse slide — it’s awkward, made more so by her chained wrists, and ends with rocks. Diana cries out in pain.

She gets unsteadily to her feet and stumbles to the bottom of a tree where there is slightly less rain. She is at this point as muddy and dishevelled as if she’d been out there a week. Her lips are white, and shaking.

you’re enjoying this, aren’t you, joss.

Steve is back with his gang, Sully tending to his wounds. Everyone is low-key panicking and trying to figure out what to do next. Griffin continues to be a douche.

GRIFFIN So they’ve got a weapon of mass… dragon-ness, or we don’t even know, isn’t running the bestest ever plan?

Steve is caught up in his own stoic, angsty manpain:

STEVE He didn’t get her to kneel.

He can’t even look at them

STEVE (continuing) I did.

Amazing. He’s actually blaming somebody other than Diana for a change. Although admittedly that’s mostly so he can co-opt her suffering as his own. Considering he’s spent the whole movie extolling the character-building benefits of failure and hopelessness, you’d think he’d be thrilled that she finally has this vital learning opportunity.

We cycle through a montage of Diana ~~experiencing mortality~~. She doggedly struggles her way uphill, reaches the crest only to see more endless jungle ahead of her. Tries and fails to shimmy up a tree to get some out-of-reach mangoes. Eventually manages to knock one mango off with a stick, but it falls in a stream and she twists her ankle badly.

She pushes on, getting weaker and sicker. By the time she catches sight of a village, she’s pallid, sweating, racked with coughing and close to delirium. By the time she actually reaches the village, she’s been reduced to crawling and on the verge of passing out.

I’m whipping through this relatively quickly, but rest assured, Joss spends pages describing Diana’s increasing frailty in loving detail because he is getting off on this shit.

Some stereotypical South American “peasants” take pity on her and take her into the village. An old woman brings her bread and water.

DIANA (can barely croak) I’ll repay you. It’s not charity; I’ll work. I can work.

She bites into the bread, gingerly, then cramming it in as for the first time ever, a tear runs down her face.

Let’s just pause on that: “for the first time ever, a tear runs down her face”. Joss Whedon thinks that Wonder Woman is so utterly and fundamentally removed from humanity that she has never cried. Not even as a child, apparently. Not even as an infant. Tears are completely alien to her. I mean, that is some next-level bullshit right there.

Meanwhile, in Gateway: Callas oversees further deployments of the Khimaera, which we finally get a look at. It’s… basically just a very fanciful drill.

It’s long, metal, with insectile arms and machines attached or folded in hatches under the ‘skin’. At the bottom end is the ‘lion’s head’, the multi-drill digging tool that glows with fire. The top end is the ‘ram’s head’, a digging machine with giant ‘teeth’ like the front of a bulldozer upside down, and with two curved ‘horns’ for scraping and pulling. Fire also spews from this side as well.

Two heads attached by a hundred feet of thick metal ‘serpent’s body’. Totally practical, but unsettlingly anthropomorphic.

Only because you apparently don’t know what “anthropomorphic” means, Joss.

(I’m being petty now, I know. But this is a stupid-ass doomsday device.)

We’re told that they’re ramping up for the big finale tonight, and by the time they’re done, “half the city will be gone — not our half — and the Khimaera will be en route to Beijing.”

Next on Diana’s tour of gratuitous suffering and degradation: threatened rape and imprisonment!

EXT. VILLAGE - DAY

Diana is half asleep, clearly feverish, when angry voices awaken her. She peers out of the hut she’s in, seeing:

Five REBELS (long since been co-opted by the drug trade), four men and one woman, are entering the village, yelling at an old man. He offers them a bottle liquor which they take, then one of them kicks him in the gut. Diana tries to rise but is too weak. She shrinks back into the hut.

The door is thrown open and she is pulled out, along with the rest. One of the rebels points at her and starts yelling. The man who found her explains quietly, but is slapped in the face. The head of these guys grabs Diana. Off to one side of the village, an old metal washtub has been overturned and a hidden hatch opened. Two rebels pull sacks of what must be drugs out of the pit below.

The head guy tugs at Diana’s blouse, looks down it. Smiles. But the old woman is talking now and the rebel runs his finger along Diana’s head, smells the sweat. Fever. He tosses her away like a plague dog. Other men grab her.

Diana is pushed into the pit.

Back at Spearhead, blahblahevilplotting. Kleen approaches Callas, who gives him a condescending spiel about how she sees a lot of potential in him. It’s not entirely unlike the sanctimonious talking-to Diana gave him. Kleen tells her that he’s had an eye on Diana’s friends and they’re are planning something. This gets her attention.

In the pit, a weak and feverish Diana is trapped with six or so others. A young girl is staring; she asks something in a language Diana can’t comprehend.

The old lady who first fed Diana leans out of the shadows. Speaks in heavily accented english.

OLD LADY She ask who you are.

Diana looks at them, then settles back against the wall.

DIANA It doesn’t matter.

The girl speaks again, still looking as stern as a schoolmarm. The old lady translates:

OLD LADY She say you should remember. Say they take everything away from you, except for that.

Slowly, light breaks onto Diana’s face as she hears the familiar words. She sits up, looks at the little girl.

ANGLE: THE OLD WOMAN in the refugee camp, in slow motion and from Diana’s POV, asking her name.

THE HOOKER on the Street in Gateway…

THE INDIGNANT GIRL at the club, eyeing her, from her POV…

All of these pass through Diana’s head, all asking who she is and she realises who has been watching her all this time.

DIANA Mother…

At first she looks down, shamed. But she takes a moment and looks the girl straight in the eye, new determination on her wan and bloodied face.

DIANA (continuing) Tell her I am Diana, Princess of Themyscira. Say I am chained, and humbled, but I am unbroken. (taller still) I am an Amazon.

Urgh. There’s something unsavoury in the fact that this succession of mostly marginalised people (a refugee, a sex worker, villagers terrorised by the drug trade) exist only to serve the superpowered white lady’s journey of self-discovery — who, in fact, may only be vessels through which the gods are speaking to Diana -- and this after the narrative has repeatedly called Diana out for her self-centredness in seeing instances of others’ suffering and misfortune as messages specifically directed at her.

Okay, so Diana’s got some fight back, and she puts it to work against the rebels. It’s messy, scrappy, bloody — she’s a skilled fighter, but her wrists are still chained and she’s weakened and powerless. We see the little girl watching as Diana gets the upper hand over the last guy, then—

Diana holds up her chained wrists. And begins to pull. […] Diana strains. Her straining becomes a low noise, an agonised roar, a scream of pain and resolve as in slow motion she snaps her chains apart.

…yeah. I don’t know what to make of this. Was she capable of breaking the chains all along, or was she only able to do so once she graduated the Steve Trevor School of Heroism (i.e. suffer gratuitously, decide to keep fighting, be fortunate enough not to die along the way)? And what does that say about the Amazons, who apparently had to pray their way out of their chains? Unless Athena was responsible for the breaking of Diana’s chains, too, and just held off because it’s more important to teach Diana a lesson about hubris or whatever than to save the world from Ares.

I mention Athena because it’s fairly obvious that this is the identity of the wise-beyond-her-years-little-girl.

[Diana] looks down at the girl.

DIANA Thank you.

OLD LADY She tells me she has something. A gift for you, on top of the mountain.

Improbably, everybody comes with Diana to the top of the mountain. Mostly so Whedon can milk the moment for yuks.

ANGLE: DIANA’S POV: containing nothing. Just flat dirt — and maybe a wink of sunlight hitting something indistinct.

We push slowly in on Diana as a smile spreads over her face. Next to her, the old lady looks around, confused.

OLD LADY Maybe it’s a very little gift.

She starts to walk slowly, looking down as if she’s lost a contact lens, as Diana just smiles.

OLD LADY (continuing; to the others) Everyone look around for the gift.

Right when I thought this movie couldn’t get any more stupid, Joss hits us with the friggin’ invisible jet.

Also: how is it that Diana is clearly familiar with the jet, and yet at the start of the film she’d never seen anything like Steve’s plane, to the point that she was actually surprised that it was “hollow” inside?

Also x2: why is nobody in this village questioning the pronouncements of an eight-year-old girl? Why are they just taking this shit at face value?

Diana flies off in the invisible jet. Back at Steve’s workplace, Strife materialises all “did you really think I wouldn’t find you?” Except, surprise! They’ve been waiting for him. Ben flicks a switch, and suddenly the room is floodlit and Strife realises he’s surrounded by blinking video cameras, streaming live to the internet.

The logic, I guess, is that Spearhead are taking pains to operate in the shadows, so Steve’s gang will bring them forcibly into the light. Strife scoffs that nobody will believe it, but it doesn’t take much goading to get him to go full evil rant.

Callas, watching from her office, realises that Kleen orchestrated this — it’s his part of the city Callas intends to destroy, and he won’t let that happen. How he figured out that Callas was planning to destroy half the city isn’t clear. I mean, Steve could have told him, but why would Kleen have any inclination to talk to Steve, let alone believe him?

Anyway, the point is that Diana’s plan of telling a gangster that he can “do better” and that all he needs to do is reject the role society has consigned him to was, improbably, super effective because Kleen has decided to be a good guy!

Meanwhile: Strife menaces, Steve goads, and then the Khimaera bursts through the floor underneath Strife and goes ballistic.

In the war room, the techs are freaking out; they’re not in control of what’s happening. Callas, now alone in her office, gets the emergency call — “We have a situation!” — and can only offer an hysterical, giggly, “Ya think?”

This is Callas’ last appearance in the movie. It is absurdly anticlimactic. We’re expected to just accept that this lady who’s got eyes everywhere and a finger in every pie, the CEO of this evil megacorporation that is secretly pulling the strings on every conflict in the world, just gives it all up for a lost cause because an accomplice betrayed her and her doomsday weapon misfired. Because why would somebody who’s gotten within an inch of their ridiculous world domination plans through exhaustive and meticulous planning have anything so vulgar as a contingency?

blahblahblah. Gang pile into their van, the Khimaera in pursuit. Massive property damage, etc. Strife bears down on them. Certain doom, etc. etc., until Diana flies down in her jet at the exact right moment.

She’s in The Outfit, (left by her mother), lasso at her hip. Only it’s a little shinier, the tiara a little more intricate. The colours vibrate — Diana is a superhero now.

urgh fuck off joss.

He also specifies that she has to lie on her stomach to operate the jet, giving the appearance her actually flying unaided — which implies that he’s gone with the dopey conceit of having any occupants of the plane appear visible.

The Khimaera reaches peak ridiculousness by deploying four rounded jets from its sides and becoming airborne.

blahblah air battle. Diana uses her plane to sever the Khimaera’s lion head, but then has to scramble to prevent the falling head from hitting civilians. She achieves this by taking the hit on the jet, which takes a hard, messy landing.

Steve runs to meet Diana, hits his head on an invisible wing and falls on his arse.

There’s a bit of “wtf you have an invisible jet”, and just as he’s working his way to an apology for his unending shittiness, the Khimaera comes roaring into view.

STEVE Diana, I just… everything I’ve said to you, I—

The Khimaera roars overhead, spewing fire at them and everything in sight. Diana pushes Steve down, out of the way.

DIANA Clear the streets!

She runs on top of a burning car and leaps up two stories to a fire escape, swings herself on. As she whips the lasso unto latch on higher:

DIANA (continuing) Now he wants to talk about his feelings.

GROAN.

blahblah rooftop battle. She whips out a sword — when the shit did she get a sword, she has not had a sword up till this point — and stabs it. Various mechanical arms shoot out in response, which she slices and kicks at. Have I mentioned how moronic this mechanical Chimaera is?

Oh wait no it got stupider. Another hatch opens and a gun pops up to fire at her, so she can wittily quip “I am so tired of guns” as she deflects the bullets back at the weapon and destroys it.

As Steve and the gang struggle to clear the streets — everyone’s captivated by the fight going on above them — Kleen and his crew roll up to help. Kleen’s idea of help is to grab an automatic weapon and fire straight into the air to ‘encourage’ people to haul ass.

STEVE Hey! Watch where you shoot that thing! (looking up) There’s somebody up there.

fuck off steve nobody likes you.

blahblah more fighting. Strife shows up and he and Diana sword-fight on the back of the lurching Khimaera. Again, I have no idea where Diana’s sword has come from.

STRIFE (laughing) Is this not grand? This is what we were meant for! The signs were everywhere.

what the frig is this guy’s deal? His plan went pear-shaped, the city is still standing, he got tricked by some puny mortals, his plan to get Diana out of the picture backfired spectacularly, but somehow he’s having the time of his life right now? He even tells Diana he owes her “a debt of gratitude” (he fails to specify for what).

The confrontation ends with Diana tossing off a Whedonish one-liner before seemingly killing Strife. Then she kills the Khimaera right before it smashes into the crowd in its death throes.

She holds the “ram’s head” above her in a “warrior’s victory stance” and the crowd goes wild. Why is she suddenly showboating? Does she not want to maybe check that Spearhead doesn’t have any more nasty surprises waiting for—

aaaaand Strife just bashed her from behind. Of course.

They grapple, then Strife teleports away; Diana turns and hurls Strife’s spear aggressively at Steve, and it looks like we’re about to see an unexpected though not unappealing turn in the plot— but of course, she wasn’t aiming at him, she was going for Strife, who materialises in front of Steve just in time to take the spear straight in the chest.

Strife dies, which prompts a giant apparition of Ares to appear. Ares is all ‘how dare you kill my son?’ and Diana is all ‘uh, you do know how this war thing works, right?’ I am paraphrasing heavily at this point.

Ares tells her the world will burn, etc. She can’t defeat a god. Diana says that humanity can.

ARES (laughing) The people? The people of earth, turn their back on me? On war?

DIANA Someday, maybe.

ARES I am in mankind. I am in their darkest hearts and their greatest schemes and I am never going away!

DIANA Neither am I.

She turns and starts away.

And maybe it would’ve been fine if things had ended there. But of course, Joss has to be Joss.

ARES Then you will see me again, girl.

DIANA (not turning back) Yes. Let’s keep in touch.

Ares nearly bursts with rage, but a hunk of concrete from the building above him falls right onto him and he poofs out of sight.

GROAN.

Meanwhile on Themyscira, Circe, Aethra and Hippolyta watch in a scrying bowl; cue obligatory “That’s my girl” moment. (I’m actually not paraphrasing here.)

Diana walks away from the crowd, exhausted. Steve approaches, returns her sword in a deliberately formal, respectful gesture — then ruins it by being all ‘whoa no finders keepers’ when she accepts it.

STEVE I’m aware that I’m an idiot.

DIANA Not at all.

STEVE Little bit.

DIANA Little bit. But you were right. I didn’t understand. People. I still don’t. I’ve got a lot of work to do.

fuuuuuuck offffffffff. A whole movie of Steve telling Diana she’s inadequate, doesn’t matter how many lives she saves because she is morally and emotionally unqualified to be a hero, and the only acknowledgement of his shittiness is ‘I’m an idiot’ ‘No, no! Well, maybe a bit — but you were right, I was a sucky hero!’

He babbles; she pulls him in for a passionate kiss.

You know what’s coming now, don’t you?

STEVE (continuing) Your whole life on an island with only women, and you can kiss like that?

DIANA It’s an interesting story.

STEVE It can’t possibly be as good as the one I’m making up right now.

DIANA Are you sure about that.

…of course. Of course, after a whole movie of portraying Diana and the rest of the Amazons as heteronormative, emphasising individual Amazons’ attraction to/longing for men while avoiding any mention of Amazons having romantic relationships with other women — on the second-last page of the screenplay, Joss finally acknowledges that queer Amazons exist… so that he can leer over them like a horny teenage boy.

Final scene, in Greece. Diana prays before a statue of Athena, then walks back to where Steve is waiting. He asks what she said to her goddess; she says she’ll tell him someday. Then she says she’s been thinking it would be “useful” if she could learn to read the wind so she could fly on her own, without the jet.

STEVE Reading the… okay, you’re a hell of a woman but… Diana. You can’t fly.

She throws a look over her shoulder: that neophyte incomprehension, with a little ironic smile underneath.

DIANA “Can’t”?

BLACK OUT. THE WORDS “WONDER WOMAN” HIT THE SCREEN.

THE END

…I am out of words. This script is awful and Joss Whedon should feel awful for having written it.