#I feel like they could do a REALLY good Christmas alt for someone

[childofaura]

What are your thoughts on ichikawa halu? They did Legendary Caeda, Resplendent Cecilia, Baby Ilyana, Summer Micaiah, Rearmed Ophelia, Halloween Rhea, Tatiana and Duo Ymir + Eir.

They’ve mostly drawn women so far but I would like to see them tackle an Owain/Odin alt or maybe even a Brady alt but I think that Lissa and/or Maribelle would’ve benefited from ichikawa’s artstyle.

I really enjoy their artwork, and I LOVE their work for Halloween Rhea.

So I'll break it down.

Firstly, I like their expressionwork. It's not crazy expressive like Argon or Nishiki Areku, but it's very expressive nonetheless (Where it applies, lol):

And side note, I love their effects during the crit portraits.

But also their original designs are pretty awesome; Rhea looks very pretty, Summer Ymir and Eir have well designed swimsuits (without looking too goofy), and then there's Re-Armed Ophelia and, despite my minor gripes, Resplendent Cecilia:

The designs are pretty neat, and Cecilia's is still very pretty and nice to look at.

I think it also goes without saying that their posework and their color/lighting/shading work is pretty on point. They have a very vibrant color style.

For some criticism, like you mentioned, they haven't really drawn any boys, but I have a feeling they'd easily be able to draw some boys in the child range. If we ever get Duo Kanas, I think they'd have no trouble tackling the other gender. That and I don't think their range for drawing girls is too huge, it's really just young and maybe SOME mature adults. But again, they have a type and IS keeps assigning them that type.

I think I'd put Ichikawa Halu at an 8.5/10. I'm usually pretty happy to see their artwork and that Summer Ymir and Eir they did recently was really fun.

[ah-b-plus]

Excellent. Took several years, but made it to the end.

Ambition: Nemesis spoilers by the way.

I should add some of own commentary on this, probably, so here we go.

I originally began playing Fallen London in I think 2021, because I saw a gif of a meme of a kid rapidly speaking on Discord with the captions "Play" on the top of the gif, and "Fallen London" on the bottom of the gif and I was like, 'hmmm, what is Fallen London?'

So I joined out of curiosity, and the rest was history.

I played Fallen London for like a year before dropping it. I did do that Whitsun, as I had hapennies when I came back, and maybe I did do a bit of Chime's Grand Clearing Out? Could be misremembering. I wasn't around for the whole Horticulture thing, which, is a shame, honestly would have wanted to be a part of that, but yeah.

Regardless, I started Ambition: Nemesis simply because it seemed more story based compared to the others. My main account wasn't really roleplaying at this point, and to this day, it really isn't. It has my general username, and even if I tried to translate it into an OC, I feel like it really wouldn't work, which, well, made the story somewhat lost on me, unfortunately.

That said, it wasn't like I had some fun. I remember being absurdly scared of Seeking, especially since I never encountered it until Christmas, because I remember looking at Eaten Sacks and just seeing the whole **do not do this** sort of thing and I just freaked out. These days, I would gladly accept a crumb, but back then, I was new, I was scared, the well was a black hole I wasn't ready to jump in yet.

My main account ain't jumping in there at all even now anyways.

Eventually, I did drop Fallen London. It kinda just faded from my memory. There wasn't a day when I went, NO MORE LONDON, it was just, yeah, shrug, forgor.

Fast forward to around last Hallowmas, after sorting my bookmarks, I saw Fallen London, and that shit hit me like some correspondent shoving everything violant down my eyes.

And so I got back into it, and even began several different alts, three dedicated to the other ambitions, two to seeking, which one is to toss themselves into the void and the other is to turn back, and one that's just a mailman.

Also, they are much more proper OCs than my main account.

As such, shenanigans ensued. My attention was sort of divided between all these ambitions and just the resource intensive seeking, so I kinda was just all over the place like someone had just tossed all of my paperwork onto the floor and said, 'fill it all out'.

It was fun though, maybe I'll go in depth for each of the accounts later but back to Ambition: Nemesis

Honestly, I was kinda just stuck on Knifegate for a while. I did some of Heart's Game and Great Game Renown grinding, selling off stuff and stolen kisses as I did. I am so thankful I lucked out and got the success on the first try, my god, a good half of those knives were from before the Rat Market update halved the price of those knives.

Either way, now at the end of the Ambition, I can say, yeah, pretty good. It's pretty character driven, which uh, helps out my other OC writing for lore, but, considering my main account wasn't made for RPing in the first place and was just there to be there... Yeah, I couldn't really enjoy it in the same way as I have been with the other ambitions, simply because I didn't really make a character to RP with here. It was just me existing.

Still, I did manage to get to the end. My first Ambition finished. A great accomplishment still, if I say so myself. Maybe I'll do it again with another account just to slip much more into character. But not right now.

If you're still here reading my ramblings, stand up, move around, raise a cup of whatever suits your fancy, and drink deeply. It's still a time of celebration.

A new true denizen of the neath joins the rest, after all, and I hope to see more of the neath in all its beauty.

[talenlee]

Prototype 22.12 — The Wrapup

New Post has been published on PRESS.exe: Prototype 22.12 — The Wrapup

Well, time to take a loss.

Chunk 1

okay what did I actually do in this time. I think the main thing I did was rearrange the templates for each game. I’m still set up to make DrivethruCards card setups for these things – and well, these games aren’t made for that.

I’m gunna have to do something about that in the new year. Maybe make a point of rebuilding my template outset.

Don’t know what happened here, I think I missed something.

Chunk 2

As I write here I know I’m behind the curve, a lot. I think something that affected me a lot more than I thought it should was this transitional period, where the previously extant platform of twitter’s failure and my subsequent seeking alternatives, has really had an impact.

I haven’t known where my audience are looking, but also, I haven’t been doing the things to gather my audience.

Today, on the 20th, I’m going to do some prototyping, and it’s going to be ugly and fast. I need to get stuff done, I need to get the very basics blocked out.

This became a thread on mastodon that I lost track of.

Chunk 3

Well, okay, time to admit it.

As I write this, it is Christmas Morning. 12:48 in the morning. I have gotten basically nothing done for these games. I am unhappy with this, but also, I think that I think it’s very reasonable, now I’m looking at it, for something to have given up in this month.

You gotta wear your losses as well as your wins, I think. Like when I’m up at midnight on Christmas, thinking that I need to make sure the remaining days I have in this month are focused on other work, and it’s CHRISTMAS I may have to accept that some of the things I do aren’t going to get done.

I dunno, is it silly to be sitting here at Christmas morning thinking ‘shit, I have work to get done today?’ I think that’s a reasonable sign that I don’t have the time in this month to get time to sit down and do graphic design that’ll get meaningfully resolved in the next four days.

Part of it is the destruction of twitter as a space I can feel comfortable creating. I definitely need what Mastodon offered, but also, Mastodon is reaction-light. I’ve got to focus on that space as practice, and I’m willing to see the way this kind of month of failure as a time when it’s worth looking at what’s different. So, first up:

Chunk 4: Alt Text

This is more or less a thread from Mastodon, replicated.

There’s a thing I’m concerned about with Mastodon that is an unenforced norm, and how as with all things social, it’s predicated on its exclusions. I am not good at doing alt text. I mean I do it all the time when I post here but I also post way less here, because whatever it was I was doing, I feel I ‘have’ to do alt text for it. This means I’m less likely to snapshot-dump-post things here.

This is by no means meant to say ‘alt text is bad’ or ‘people are bad for wanting alt text’ or even ‘alt text being the norm infringes on me, an abled person who doesn’t need the alt text.’ It’s about the real meaningful friction that changes how I relate to the platform.

I don’t know if you know how I tweeted, but I was pretty one-sided; I followed very few people (around 50), and of those people, a lot were mostly muted because I wasn’t paying attention to their timelines. Twitter was, to me, a scratch pad where I could dump notes and thoughts and jokes to work on for later, develop if it got a lot of ♥s and reconsider if someone pointed out an error.

This is not typical behaviour! I am (still) a very antisocial social media user. I think of myself as ‘releasing’ stuff and presenting it to an ‘audience’ which you may absolutely not think of as a way to see you that’s fair!

So when I’m throwing images into tweets (or toots now), in a thread about game design, that’s basically a form of note-taking, a scribbled notebook

and stopping to provide alt text often involves having to determine what, on the design I’m even talking about and how it’s meaningful

This is not to say ‘ugh, I don’t wanna alt text, people who ask me to are bad’ because nobody has done that and I don’t imagine anybody would.

It’s just one of those things that creates the pause and ‘oh, should I Do that here?’ reaction that interrupts the flow and stops Mastodon from feeling like an intuitive replacement tool for a useful purpose

I am thinking about this because I’m gunna give it a shot and see if going back through later and alt-texting things later is going to be a useful practice.

In Summary

Acknowledge the material limits you have. It’s okay to admit failure. I still want to do this, I still want to finish some of these games off. If I hadn’t tried, I wouldn’t be writing this on Christmas morning, admitting to myself that…

Yeah.

Yeah, I couldn’t do this, not in these circumstances.

and that’s okay!

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

#2022GameProject #GameProject

[citrus-lady]

Could you do a soulmate au with Aizawa deku and bakugo with the thing that they can hear their soulmate sing? That’s my favorite version. Other than the paper skin and injuries one

Sure thing! As always characters are all 18+

Aizawa

For the most part, Aizawa loves the fact that he can hear you sing and he thinks you have a really nice voice. 

The only exception to this is that your singing can sometimes be distracting if he’s teaching or doing hero work. Aizawa has pretty good focus but it's hard to think or talk with his soulmate screeching in his ears sometimes. 

It also depends on what and how you’re singing. For instance, if you’re singing something soft and sweet then it’s easier to focus rather than if you’re screeching ABBA or screamo at the top of you’re lungs. 

He prefers you to sing something less obnoxious but he still kind of likes it when you sing loud and badly because he thinks it’s funny, just not when he’s trying to teach, please. He already has to deal with his students loudly screeching. Denki totally sings Africa by Toto all the time.

Some of his favorite times to hear you sing is when he’s trying to fall asleep, in the shower, or cooking in the kitchen. Again this also depends on what and how you sing. Please don’t start singing the Krusty krab pizza when he’s trying to fall asleep. 

He isn’t much of a singer himself, but once in a great while, he’ll sing something to you, usually when he thinks you’re about to go to sleep or are sad. 

Sometimes he even sings with you if he knows the song, it makes him feel like he is bonding with you and makes him feel more connected. 

He wouldn’t mind if his soulmate sang in another language that he couldn’t understand. He would still think it's beautiful, and it may even prompt him to learn the language so he can understand what they are singing. 

Sometimes when he gets distracted in a conversation Midnight or Present Mic will tease him. Not All Might though, he just smiles knowingly. 

Overall, Aizawa will find comfort in 

Deku

Deku is such a wholesome boy and always gets excited when he gets to hear his soul mate sing. 

Even if he hears you in class or in training he is happy. It also helps motivate him to do his best. 

If you are singing something particularly sweet or heartfelt he might even cry a little bit. 

If you are singing something silly or in a silly fashion then he can’t help but laugh, even in class or in training. When you do this he can’t help but wish he can see what you’re doing and scoop you up in his arms. 

He just thinks you sound so lovely, almost like an angle. One time you went Christmas caroling and he was almost convinced that you were.

Deku’s pretty shy and really doesn’t sing a lot, but sometimes he hums tunes to you. He only really sings with you when he’s alone. 

He often tears up when he sings with you, soft boi just can’t help it. Singing with you, of hearing you sing in general, always makes his heart race and his need to be with you stronger. In those moments he can only think of two things, meeting you and become the best hero he can be so he can protect you. 

He loves listening to you sing on his way to and from school. If you sing consistently at that time of day he doesn’t even bother with headphones. He just walks to the sound of your voice and lets it motivate him. 

Deku just feels so loved when you sing and it motivates him to do his best. 

 Bakugou

I love the idea that Bakugou’s soul mate constantly sings rock/alt and screamo music. 

The first time he heard you he was actually a little freaked out/annoyed. Like what the hell is that noise? Why is someone screeching? 

Lit thought you might be hurt or in trouble the first time he heard you’re screamo. 

After a while, though he starts to vibe a bit. He won’t like it if you distract him during class but he doesn’t really mind if you sing during training. 

He acts annoyed but is actually pretty proud of his soul mate's voice. He thinks it's so powerful and moving, yet so sexy and sweet at the same time. 

Occasionally he’ll brag about you if the topic comes up. He’ll tell everyone about how badass his soul mate is and how cool they must be. 

It’s a good thing that Bakugou also likes the same type of music, he wouldn’t tolerate someone filling his head with crappy songs. 

Bakugou is probably the most likely of this bunch to sing with his soulmate as long as he’s ALONE. He wouldn’t be able to take the embarrassment of being caught and teased by his friends or his parents. Someone would definitely be on the receiving end of his violence if that happened. 

He actually sounds pretty good too, it wouldn't be a bad idea to start a rock band with him. 

If you were an actual singer in a band or something he might even consider playing drums for you. 

His favorite time to listen to you is when he’s chilling in his room and can vibe/sing with you or when he’s training and it feels like you’re singing his own personal theme song or something. Plus during training, you’re rock music enhances his anger and violent tendencies. 

[meowizard]

My dangit grandpa non-despair headcanons bc it's 00:36 and I'm trash

Gundams scarf? It's a comfort thing

I've said it before and I'll say it again he never takes it off and hides in it when he's embarrassed

I also hc him as neurodivergent so

Makoto rlly likes cats and cats like him

If he's late it's probably bc he saw a cat on the way there and spent 5 minutes petting it

Mius left leg is a prosthetic

In her fte she says she was in an accident so it could be from that

She passes the straps off as a kink thing by wearing them on the other leg too

The way everyone finds out is bc she takes it off and throws it at kokichi

She's ultimate inventor-ized it and it has many modifications (including a compartment for condoms bc safe sex is cool kids)

Akanes favourite christmas decoration is tinsel

Byakuya can't cook for shit apart from coffee

It's 90% of his diet anyway

Chiaki is that person in just dance who just moves their arm and gets a perfect score

Meanwhile Leon is on the verge of tears next to her, leaping around for his life to rasputin

Chihiros music taste is noise

All their playlists go from caramelldansen to money machine to welcome to the black parade to [insert Lithuanian death metal song] and their face is :3 the whole time

Chihiro also gets taka into 100 gec accidentally

It was a joke

He was the one who asked for 'trendy music everyone will know and like'

He also accidentally rick rolled the class gc with a 'Listen to this song I found =)'

Leon wouldn't speak to him

Ibuki can literally sleep anywhere

Sayaka is really interested in gothic/alt fashion but has to keep up appearances as an idol

Fuyuhiko is really good at painting nails and is hella cryptic when asked why or how come

He just says smth like 'you all should know by now that how one of such my status is pushed'

Real trump type grammar when he feels cornered (which is whenever you ask him a personal question)

But dw he's not a trump stan

Mahiru listens to Blondie

And owns a lot of vynil

Himikos favourite movie is kikis delivery service

Mukuro also loves ghibli movies

Sakura likes to paint

Mostly scenery

She carries around on of those pocket watercolour sets when she goes walking (sometimes aoi joins her)

Also whenever they go to the beach she'll sit and paint the sea between swims

I also think bc she puts a lot of pressure on herself to be constantly training swimmings not rlly smth she can do for pleasure

Literally forgot her gf was the ultimate swimming pro but yeah aoi too

They learn to have fun together

Sayaka uses 🥺 and ✨these✨

Himiko is into astrology but in an ironic way

'I can't do that rn the stars aren't aligned' 'we wouldn't get along you're a taurus' 'my horoscope said someone would force me to do something I'll regret so no'

Keebo likes succulent plants

Sonia doodles on her hand when she's bored

But when she sees other people do it she chides them about ink poisoning

She's kidding

Kinda

[trillian-anders]

four christmases

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

warnings:  slight violence, angst, fluff, smut && SPOILERS

word count: 16k

description: part 2 of 5. CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS, PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVE NOT WATCHED THE FILM. you’ve been working for the thrombeys for four years now,the last three years of your service being a glorified babysitter to the most annoying, self-absorbed, dickhead hugh ransom drysdale. These are the four christmases you’ve spent with the thrombey/drysdale clan during your times of service. 

a/n: this story is brought to you by season 4 of schitt’s creek and maybe 12 cups of coffee. it felt like it took forever to write, but i’m happy to bring it to you. this is the follow up for my other ransom one-shot ‘the assistant’. i hope you guys like it! 

2018

What a fucking asshole. 

“You have to be there, it’s your job.” Ransom huffed indignantly. You rolled your eyes from the passenger seat of his beamer, tablet open in your lap as you scrolled through your sister’s amazon wishlist. 

“I have a family too Ransom. I can’t just abandon my own family on Christmas just because you can’t get along with yours.” His knuckles turned white against the gear shift. Nothing else mattered, only him it seemed, and his whining Mommy complex. 

“You were hired to assist me,” Ransom pulled into the drive of his house, tires crunching on the gavel, “So assist.” What a fucking tool. He quickly exited the car not looking behind him to see if you were following into the house, but leaving the front door wide open with the expectation that you were coming right behind. 

You had just hopped onto this assistant gig a few months ago. There you were minding your own business as fall began, working for a temp agency, when Linda Drysdale rang you up and asked you to come work for the family again. You had recently been tutoring one of the youngest of the clan, Meg, with her English coursework for her last school year. The pay was good and you were kind of let down when they opted not to keep you on after summer concluded. 

Babysitting Ransom paid well, better than it had been to help Meg out, but was it really worth the price? Ransom was a fucking child. You cooked his meals, washed his laundry, and were forced to tail him as he went about whatever business he deemed worthy of his days. Just until 9 pm, that’s all you had to do. Twelve hours a day, five days a week. Off Sundays and Mondays. 

It felt like too much and not worth the paycheck. Even if the trust-fund asshole spent his days flirting around from one party to the next. More often than not he found himself a body to bring home leaving you to get an uber back to his place just so you could get your car to go home, or worse yet having you sit awkwardly in the backseat of the car as whoever was in the passenger seat desperately tried to give him road head. 

He loved it. You know he did. Eyes flitting to yours in the rear-view mirror as a girl ten years younger than him fumbled with his belt. A fucking smirk on his face. You wanted to punch him, but your sister’s private school tuition held you back. 

You followed him into the house, one you had just spent the entire morning cleaning as Ransom slept off his hangover. The prick had dropped his coat on the floor adjacent to the coat hook, shoes haphazardly kicked off beside it, glaring at him as you picked them up while he drank orange juice straight from the carton. 

“I’ll pay you time and a half if you come.” He bartered. 

“You don’t pay me anything,” You scoffed. “Your Mom pays me.” 

“Exactly.” He tossed the carton back in the fridge, coming around the counter to get closer to you. He dropped his voice in what he probably thought was a seductive whisper. The fire it lit in your core would lead you to believe that it actually was a seductive whisper and you just fucking hated him. “I’ll make it worth your while.” He drug a finger down your cheek softly. It only caused you to roll your eyes, batting his finger away and stripping yourself of your coat you turned back to him, 

“I want triple.” 

Your sister was going to be pissed, but she’ll survive once she realizes you were able to get her a new laptop for school. A compromise. 

She cried. 

The Thrombey’s were probably the worst people you’ve ever met in your entire life. Harlan was prideful, pompous. He cared about his family, to an extent. He created them after all, his monsters. 

Linda was okay, but she was a lot like her father. She felt as though she was better than everyone else simply because she ‘built herself from the ground up’ yeah, if the ground was a million dollars gifted from Daddy. Her husband, Richard, was a glorified sugar baby, you were sure at one point he was a real estate broker, but Linda had the business, he just rode on her coattails. 

Walt was a whiny bastard. He was meek. He walked around with a cane and you weren’t sure he even needed it. It could totally be a ploy to try and gain more sympathy from his father. His wife was a drunk, you couldn’t remember her name, but it didn’t matter because she wouldn’t talk to you anyway. You can’t talk if you always have your mouth wrapped around the lip of a martini glass. Their son, Jacob, was a little alt-right shit. Every comment that came out of his mouth was a dig on some less privileged 99% and if you didn’t need this job you’d shove his head in the toilet yourself.

That leads you to Joni and Meg. Joni and Ransom had both been given an allowance every month. That’s the way they were mostly the same. How they differed was that Joni was at least attempting to have some sort of entrepreneur business where she gained some income, but not enough to live the lifestyle she was accustomed to. She had Meg in this expensive ass private school that cost more than your salary a month and Meg found this group of liberal women and now she was becoming the extreme opposite of Jacob. They often bumped heads, with Meg slowly giving in. She always gave in. This was her family and as much as she wanted to fight for the 99% she never actually wanted to be one. 

But it was fine. 

It didn’t really matter. 

You just wanted to go home. 

Ransom hasn’t had an empty hand all day thanks to you. “If I’m ever without a drink,” He said on the way over, “You’re walking home.” So this is where you’re standing, with Marta and Fran, you sipping on a weak mimosa that Marta had compromised on, waiting for the day to be over. 

Ransom’s eyes met yours from across the room, hand raising his glass, the last little mouthful swishing against its side. You sighed and rolled your eyes, turning to grab the decanter behind you, walking over to fill his glass. “So I told him to shove it up his ass,” Linda was telling Harlan a story, “If you think for one moment I would give in to anything less than market price you’re out of your mind.” Please love me, she was saying, please see that I’m the best child you have. Harlan’s eyes were dazed, not looking at hers. Thinking. He was always thinking. 

The only time Ransom didn’t need you was when he disappeared into his Grandfather’s office. Presents were handed out just before, new iphones, apple watches, macbooks, cartier bracelets, rolexes, a couple of little bonus checks to their allowances, the spirit of Christmas was definitely lost on this family. 

It doesn’t matter. 

You had just filled Ransom’s glass before he entered the study and you knew he wouldn’t need you until some kind of argument broke out with his Grandfather and you had to be ready to leave the house at a moment’s notice. 

“How’s it goin’ kid?” Richard always kind of made you uncomfortable. He seemed normal, but you were uncomfortable in a ‘this is a rich older white man who liked to corner you alone’ kind of way. For the most part he’s been harmless. 

One time, this was early on when you first started to tutor Meg, he found you in a similar way. Alone, in the kitchen. This was one of the first times he had met you and he was sure to let you know, “You’ve got a really pretty face, you know that?” Ew. Thanks? He had gotten close, too close. “How’d a pretty girl like you end up as a tutor?” That’s worse. And cheesy. This looked like one of those times, except he’d been drinking since 8 am. 

“I’m fine thanks.” You had been trying to find a minute of peace. There was always someone talking in this house, during ‘debates’ there were usually three or four. This was supposed to be a break. Ransom having been passed off to another wet nurse he could suck off of while you got some rest, and maybe sneak a couple of those expensive chocolate artisanal cookies for good measure. Richard grinned at you, not in the way Ransom would when he was fucking with you, but something more predatory. He was feeling ambitious. 

“I just wanted to give you this,” He slipped an envelope across the counter to you, hand resting on it, waiting for you to take it. As your hand met the envelope, he did the fucking worst thing he could possibly do in this moment, and took your hand. Your heart was racing and you felt wildly uncomfortable. He held your hand, taking a step into your space, body crowding yours against the counter. You stared him down, please just let me go. Please just fucking let me go. “How’s my son treating you?” He asked. What exactly did he think you were doing for his son?

“Fine.” You swallowed harshly. Please just let me go. You could smell the whiskey on his breath, face coming closer to yours. 

“If you ever need anything…” Closer and closer. You wished you could pull back completely, get out of this situation, but the vice grip he currently had on your hand was making it difficult. 

“Y/N.” Your eyes snapped over to the doorway, Ransom. His jaw was clenched, face flushed from what you were sure was an argument with Harlan. “We’re leaving.” Richard turned and smiled at his son, releasing your hand. You quietly slipped the envelope into your jeans pocket, backing yourself away from him, and joining Ransom across the room where his eyes hadn’t yet left his father. It wasn’t until you made it to the front door, grabbing your coat from the coat rack did he stomp his way out of the house, digging his car keys from his pockets. 

“Ransom I don’t think you should be driving-” You started, but he turned to you, eyes wild. This scared you. 

“Get in the car.” He demanded. Fuck, he’s drunk.

“Ransom you’re drunk, you can’t drive right now.” His eyes looked behind you and you turned to look at his family, peeking out through the curtains to watch the show. He quickly grabbed your arm, tugging you to the passenger seat, wrenching the door open and shoving you in, slamming the door behind you to circle around to the drivers side. “Just let me drive.” You pleaded. He slammed his own car door, revving the engine and quickly whipping the car out of the driveway. 

He wasn’t saying anything and Ransom always had something to say. 

“Ransom-”

“Shut the fuck up.” His knuckles were white against the wheel, eyes staring straight ahead as he began gaining speed. 

60 mph,

65 mph,

70…

“Slow down!” He was scaring you, these roads were winding and dark, his high beams only did so much and you weren’t sure how many deer you’d be seeing tonight. His foot was heavy on the accelerator. 

75

80

85

“Ransom please!” You cried. His breathing was heavy. His eyes were moving wildly left to right as he moved the wheel to turn.

90

95

100

You were going to die. This was it, this was the end. The car hit the open road, the interstate, and to the left of the on ramp you had just flew through was a cop. Their lights started flashing, red and blue filling the car as Ransom kept accelerating. It wasn’t late at night, probably around nine or so. There were other cars here as Ransom kept gaining speed, swerving in and out of traffic. “You’ve got to pull over!” You yelled at him.

105

110

115

“Ransom for the love of god, fucking stop!” His eyes looked in the rearview, two cops now. It was then he began to slow down, moving over to the side of the road, your heart still racing in your chest. You relax your fingers which you didn’t even realize was gripping Ransom’s bicep in a steel grip. Both of you breathing heavily inside the car. It wasn’t until the cop heavily banged on the window that either of you even moved. 

“Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to step out of the vehicle.” A bright flashlight in your face as you dug around for his registration and insurance in the glove box. Exiting the car and circling to the trunk as Ransom was handing the four cops bills from his money clip. Why the fuck did Ransom have a money clip full of hundreds? Ransom’s eyes met yours as he stuffed his money clip back in his coat pocket before tossing you the keys which you caught awkwardly. 

“Take me home.” 

You looked over at the cops who were getting back in their squad cars before quietly getting in the driver's seat and shutting the door. Your heart was still pounding and as the adrenaline began wearing off you suddenly grew very tired. 

“Drive.” You didn’t want to hear his voice. You never wanted to see his face again. You never even wanted to hear his name again. 

“You’re the fucking worst.” You could feel yourself crying. That was the most terrifying experience you’ve ever had in your life. 

“Well you’re fucking my father so,” He sunk down in his seat. “I think I have some competition.”

“I’m not fucking your father!” You exclaimed, hand hitting the steering wheel. You hear him scoff from the passenger seat.

“Not today since I walked in on you. Which is funny, you put on this whole show about not wanting to be around my family and what was it all for? A fucking ploy so I didn’t know.” Ransom didn’t fucking know how much of a goddamn idiot he was being right now. 

As the gravel crunched beneath the tires of the beamer, your argument continued. “I’m not fucking your father, I’ve never fucked your father, and I never will fuck your father.” He wasn’t hearing you. 

“Is this why Linda pays you so much?” He scoffed, exiting the car. He looked at you from over the roof and continued, “So you keep Richard out of her bed?” You hadn’t stopped crying. Still half going from fear and the other half from frustration. It was so goddamn cold out that the tears were freezing against your cheeks. 

“Ransom, I am not fucking your father!” You yelled, “The reason she pays me what she does is because the exact fucking thing you’re doing right now.” He rolled his eyes, walking up to the front door of his house, 

“Give me my keys.” 

“No.” You were still standing by the car, keys fisted in your hand. “You’re being a fucking asshole right now.” 

He clenched his fist, slamming it into the front door before turning back to you and yelling, “Give me my fucking keys Y/N.” You both looked at one another for a moment. 

You took a deep breath. “I have nothing to do with your father Ransom. My only job is to wait on you like a fucking servant and that is what I get paid to do. Not be your fucking punching bag when your family turns out to be a bunch of dicks-”

“Give me-”

“I’m not finished!” You screamed. Tears were still streaming heavily down your face and Ransom stood five feet away from you awkwardly letting you continue. “I don’t deserve this Ransom. I really fucking don’t. You literally almost just fucking killed me. So you’re going to say you’re sorry, you’re going to go into your fucking house, you’re going to give me what you promised me for even having to deal with this shit tonight, and you’re going to give me the rest of the week off.” 

It was silent for a moment. The two of you standing in the cold Massachusetts air in silence. Your face was starting to burn and as the silence stretched on you began to doubt everything you just said. Fuck this could cost you the job. The envelope Richard had handed you weighed heavily in your pocket. Hopefully it would be enough to hold you over until you could get back to the temp agency. 

Ransom let out a breath he had been holding, turning fully to you, and walking down the two steps of his porch. You flinched back away from him, looking at his knuckles that were split and bleeding from punching the door. His eyes met yours and he looked like he was debating something. 

“I’m sorry.” His words were soft and whispered, hand coming forward with an open palm, waiting for his keys. You gently gave them back to him. That soft, whispered, ‘I’m sorry’ stunned you. You didn’t expect your yelling to actually work. You expected to be fired. His keys jingled as he reached in his pocket and brought that money clip back out, extracting a bundle of hundreds and holding them out to you between two fingers. “Go home.” 

That was never spoken of again. The thing with Richard in the kitchen, being pulled over on 95, the screaming match that ensued, and nothing was ever said about the solid gold, $6,500 cartier bracelet that was by no doubt wrapped at the store that was waiting for you when you arrived back at work five days later. 

2019

“What did he do?” You were sweating. It was so fucking hot in here, but you were afraid to take off your coat. The fanfare in which the detectives had pulled up to your apartment complex was embarrassing, quickly bringing you down to the police station and shoving you in an interrogation room. 

“What did who do?” The man who had introduced himself as Lieutenant Elliot asked you. Shit. What the fuck did Ransom do? The death of Harlan Thrombey was sudden, right after his birthday just two weeks ago. It was unsettling, the suicide. The funeral was uncomfortable to say the least. Ransom told you to go and then didn’t go himself so you stood there like some weird interloper on the tails of everyone’s grief. 

You were going to throw up, you’ve never so much as gotten a speeding ticket but suddenly you had a kilo of coke on you and an unlicensed gun. “Where were you the night Harlan Thrombey committed suicide?” You picked at your fingernails. 

“I was at the party,” Your throat was so dry, you were afraid to touch the glass of water they had set before you, “I always feel strange around the family so unless Ransom needs me I try to hide out in the kitchen.” 

“You’re his assistant?” Elliot asked, “He doesn’t have a job, so what exactly do you assist with?”

“I’m pretty much his babysitter.” You explained, “I make sure he doesn’t get into too much trouble…” It’s ironic right? You bit your bottom lip. “Why am I here exactly?” The other man in the room, Wagner, spoke up, 

“Hugh Drysdale has been arrested in the murder of Harlan Thrombey’s housekeeper.” Elliot gave him a dirty look. 

“Fran’s dead?” The shock was evident on your face. You leaned back in the uncomfortable metal chair, discarding your coat and scarf and taking a large mouthful of water. 

“You seemed surprisingly absent from Hugh’s side throughout the aftermath of Harlan’s suicide, why is that?” The third man spoke up from his spot sitting in the corner of the room, the thick southern accent was almost comical. 

“Ransom gave me time off,” You recalled, voice trailing off as you finish your sentence, “He said I could go to my sister’s cello recital…”  Did he really kill her? “Why would he kill Fran?” It made no sense. “I mean, he’s an asshole, but murder?”

They played a recording. Ransom in his own, self-righteous, pompous voice. Fuck me. What a fucking idiot. “So tell us where you were on the dates in question, spare no details.”

You had thought it strange, Ransom had left you stranded at the Thrombey house and you were forced to find your own way back to his house to get your car. It wasn’t at all strange that when you got to his house his car wasn’t there. You’d just assumed he’d gone out. It wasn’t uncommon for him to go out after finding arguments with his family. But the next day when he suggested that you take the week off, spend time with your sister, go to that recital you didn’t know he knew about, you checked his forehead with your wrist.

“Are you sick?” You had asked. He gently pushed your wrist off of his forehead, giving you a terse look. 

“Harlan committed suicide last night, the funeral is tomorrow, but after that you should take some time. I need some time.” Your heart broke a bit. Yeah Ransom and Harlan butt heads all the time, but they were practically the same person so it made sense to you that they would fight. Both prideful assholes. 

“I’m so sorry Ransom.” Should you hug him? You didn’t know. You two didn’t have any physical contact really. You’d never seen him hug anyone. So no, no hugs. “Is there anything I can do for you?” You opted to just gently lay your hand on his wrist. His eyes met yours for a moment, silence. 

“Just come to the funeral.” With that he stood up and walked away. 

That’s why it was so off-putting when the bastard didn’t even show up to the funeral and as you stood there with his sobbing family you figured next time you saw him you were going to spit in his coffee. 

“I haven’t seen him since the day before the funeral.” You admitted to the officers. “He asked me to go, and didn’t even show up.” 

“If we have any other questions we’ll let you know.” And you were released from questioning, but you had so many questions yourself. Arson? Fran? He attempted to murder Marta. Was this worth it? The fucking asshole never had to work for anything in his life, and even now as you stood in the courtroom waiting to see what bail would be set as so you could relay to Linda, you wanted to smack his pretty little face for being such a fucking idiot. 

A bailiff read out the case number and in walked Ransom. You’d never seen him in any outfit that cost less than your rent and here the bastard was, walking in with a black and white striped jumpsuit, the county jail logo stamped in red on the back.  You were the only person that showed up for him. Linda was half waiting for you to text her a dollar amount so she could pay his bail, the other half of her was debating on whether to leave him there or not. At least, that’s what she told you anyway. 

You could only imagine what you looked like to him. Your eyes were puffy and red from just crying in the parking lot for an hour in between getting questioned and coming to his hearing. Before that the detectives had taken you practically from your bed. But you were here, in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, coat pulled over the ratty thing, and snow boots on your feet. It started snowing this morning. 

His eyes caught yours as soon as he entered, but he quickly looked away. It was like a goddamn movie, his wrists cuffed to his waist, a chain leading down to the cuffs around his ankles. 

Ransom Drysdale murdered someone. 

A chill went down your spine, “Bail set at a million dollars.” And a gavel. Cameras clicking behind you. Thirty minutes later you were waiting for his release. You handed a dry cleaning bag with clothes to the officer at the front desk. 

Ransom Drysdale murdered someone. 

It wasn’t long before the secure, thick, metal door behind the metal detectors opened and Ransom was walking through it back to you. He wouldn’t meet your eyes, quickly circling to the desk to get his phone, wallet, and keys back. The garment bag was shoved back in your hands containing the clothes he was wearing when he was arrested, and then he was out the doors of the county jail, speed walking to your car. His was taken in as evidence. 

You used your key fob to unlock the car, Ransom wordlessly climbing in the passenger seat and slamming the door behind him as you settled in the driver’s. This was uncomfortable. You drove in silence for a minute, awkwardly leaning over to turn on the radio. The song only played for a second before Ransom leaned over, smacking the button to turn it off again. 

“Just say it.” He spat out at you. Your hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. 

“Say what, Ransom?” You were scared of him now and he could tell. He breathed harshly through his nose. You could feel his eyes on you. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me if I did it? Why I did it? Yell at me for being a fucking idiot?” He threw his hands up in frustration. There was a beat of silence more, “Say something.” 

“I don’t know what to say!” You really didn’t. What do you even say? You’ve been cursing him for a while. In your head. Cursing him since you left the interrogation earlier. You didn’t know what any of this meant for your job, if you’ll be able to keep your sister in school, if you’ll be able to even afford the apartment you two live in right now. And all because Ransom wasn’t getting anymore fucking money from his Grandfather the fucking prick. 

“Anything. Fucking say…” He leaned over in his seat, growing close to you. “Are you scared of me?” He smirked. Not in his, I’m playing with you and getting my way, smirk. And not in his, I’m making you weirdly uncomfortable and it really gets me off, smirk. But some sick sinister type of smirk that made your stomach roll. 

“You fucking murdered someone Ransom.” You said between clenched teeth. He studied you for a minute before settling back in his seat. Silence took over until you made it to the front door of his house. Lawyers should be coming by in about an hour to start working on his case, his parents should be here soon as well seeing as they were backing all of this. 

“You think I would hurt you?” Ransom asked as he stripped himself of his coat, purposefully letting it fall to the floor just so you’d have to pick it up. You left it there. He turned to look at you, still in the doorway of his house. “I killed Fran because I had to.” He spat. “It was for the bigger fucking picture. You want to be paid don’t you? You like having money right?”

“Your Mom pays me Ransom.” You stated calmly. His voice was escalating in volume as he continued.

“So fucking what? Who bought you that fucking coat, huh?” He was talking about the expensive wool coat you are currently wearing. He bought it for you after seeing that your old bubble coat had stuffing pouring out of the right pocket. You didn’t ask for it. “Who pays for your fucking phone, huh?” You had a month-by-month plan before. Ransom gifted you and your sister iphones sometime in the spring, saying that he needed to be able to reach you without having every call get dropped due to bad reception. Your sister’s was just because they were buy-one-get-one, or so he said. You didn’t ask for it. “And that fucking bracelet on your wrist too? Is my Mom buying you jewelry? Or just me and my fucking Dad?” He was still under the impression that something had gone on between you and his father apparently. 

“That’s it! I’m done.” You yelled back at him. “I fucking quit.”  You stripped the coat off your shoulders and tossed  it on the floor beside his watching his mouth snap shut. You wiggled the bracelet off your wrist and threw that down on top of it before slipping your phone out of the side pocket of your yoga pants and throwing that on the pile. “I’ll mail Julia’s phone back to you.” You still hadn’t stepped foot inside the house, turning to walk back to your car when Ransom’s thundering footsteps could be heard behind you. 

Fuck he was going to kill you. 

It had continued to snow throughout the morning, the soft white stuff still falling heavily from the sky as you rushed to your car, you had to get away. You didn’t make it far before Ransom’s arms wrapped around your body from behind, tugging you tightly to his chest. You let out a loud scream before he covered your mouth with his hand. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He whispered quickly into your ear. “Please stop, I’m sorry.” His large body was bent over your back as you were crouched over trying to get him to release you, both of you breathing heavily as you settled against him. “Y/N I’m sorry.” He slowly started walking the two of you back toward the house, “I’m not gonna hurt you!” He shouted as you tried to bite his hand. He uncovered your mouth, arms loosening. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” He repeated a little more calmly. 

He brought you back into the house, shutting the door softly behind him. You wanted to leave, eyes tearing up. What the fuck were you supposed to do now? Ransom stood for a moment with his back against the door before peeling the wet socks off of his feet. You hadn’t realized that he took his shoes off when he originally came in. His feet were bright red from the cold. You glanced to your left at the knife block there, slowly backing away. 

“No, no, no, I’m not going to hurt you.” He sunk down to his knees. He looked like a fucking idiot, face flushed from the cold, kneeling in front of the door. He slowly made his way over to you, not rising from his knees, shuffling forward with his hands open and facing you. Your heart was racing as he stopped at your feet, slowly moving his arms to wrap around your waist, burying his face in your ratty old college sweatshirt. 

He was hugging you. Actually hugging you, on his knees, face turned into your belly. You could have sworn he whispered, “Please don’t go.” But you couldn’t be sure. 

A pot of coffee was made, coats picked up, and floor mopped before the lawyers and his parents arrived. The only evidence of your earlier fight was the absence of the cartier bracelet you refused to put back on. It sat heavily in Ransom’s pants pocket. Their discussion was loud in the living room and no one looked up as you lay the coffee and finger foods on the coffee table, Ransom’s cup unmade for him out of spite. As you turned to make your way back to the kitchen, Richard’s hand shot out to grab you harm, halting your movements, 

“Grab me some Macallan for me, would you sweetheart?” Your eyes flit over to Ransom, who’s jaw twitched, sharing a look with you before looking back to his lawyers and mother. 

This was none of your business, but you needed to know what your future was going to look like. Were you out of a job? If Ransom went to prison there would be no one to babysit. So yeah, you would be. He admitted on tape to arson and murder. Pre-meditated arson was minimum of 10 years, Murder was 30 years. He’s looking at at least 40 years in prison. He would be an old man before he was even allowed parole. 

The group grew silent, or you couldn’t hear them as you started dinner for that evening. You were sure the four of them would be staying. “Y’N, would you come here please?” That was Linda. 

You made your way over to the group, shuffling nervously in your wool socks. “Yes Mrs. Drysdale?” Linda smiled, 

“It’s back to Thrombey now, but that’s another issue.” Hmmm. “If I was willing to pay you…. Say four times what you’re making now, would you take Ransom’s house arrest? That is, if we are able to work the judge down to that.” 

“House arrest?” You looked to Ransom confused, he wasn’t meeting your eyes. “Murder and Arson-”

“The only proof they have is the recording, the only thing they’re going to be able to pin on Mr. Drysdale here would be the attempted murder of the nurse.” A chill went down your spine, 

“You tried to kill Marta too?” You asked Ransom, incredulously. He didn’t respond, popping a cube of cheese into his mouth. His lawyers made you uncomfortable, they were definitely sleazy and you knew money could get you far in the justice system. If that recording was 75% of the evidence against Ransom and it was suddenly and accidentally destroyed, they would only have what was actually witnessed. 

“Well, would you?” Linda asked again. 

“I uhm… I have a sister who lives with me, I can’t just-”

“I’m sure there’s someone else who can take care of her. How long would it be for?” She looked to the lawyers, “Two or three years?” This was impossible. You couldn’t. Linda looked back at you. “How about this…” She leaned over and clasped your hands softly. “We will pay for your sister’s school, her housing, everything she needs while you’re doing this for us, and you’ll still get paid what I originally offered.”

“If Ransom gets house arrest?” You asked. 

“Yes ‘if’.” She was selling it hard. Julia could stay with your aunt. She didn’t live far from where the two of you currently reside. The majority of your income went to her school, books, clothes, rent, and groceries. Having all of that taken care of would mean you’d be getting four times your current salary and not having to spend any of it. Just for a couple years. 

“If Ransom gets house arrest,” you looked over at him, his eyes briefly meeting yours, studying you it felt like, “If he does, I will do what you need me to do. But I don’t even know how-” Linda’s hands quickly released yours. 

“We will figure that out when the time comes,” Linda has a shit eating grin on her face, “Write up a contract.” Directed at the lawyers, “Now, how are we going to get our hands on that recording?” That’s it. You were dismissed until they needed you again. 

“Why would you do that?” Ransom asked you. Everyone had left a little bit ago, you were busy washing the dishes, knowing as soon as this task was finished you’d be able to go home and this day from hell would be over. 

“Do what?” There was a piece of cheese melted on the side of the casserole dish that wouldn’t fucking come off. 

“Agree to take my punishment?” You paused in your scrubbing, 

“That’s if they actually settle on house arrest.” You finally unwedged the cheese, rinsing off the casserole dish and placing it in the dishwasher. 

“Hmpf.” Ransom had been cold and distant since he burrowed his head into your belly. Has to make up for his extreme weakness then. “But why?” He asked again.

You turned to him, eyes staring directly into his. You watched him fiddling with the gold bracelet you had taken off earlier, it was in his hand down by his side. “It’s what you said earlier right?” You scoffed, removing the rubber gloves from your hands and throwing them in the sink. You walked closer to him, not breaking eye contact. “Because I need the fucking money.” 

The two of you didn’t talk for the rest of the weekend. Usually there was texting here and there, ‘Where are my grey socks, the ones I usually wear with the navy Ralph Lauren slacks?’ or ‘Next week when you meal prep for my weekend can you make me this?’ with a link to a recipe. ‘Pick me up a pack of magnums on your way in.’ Fuck you. 

You got him regular Trojans. 

Monday was Christmas luckily enough, and you knew you weren’t going in. Ransom didn’t even text you to see where you were. His account was rapidly depleting funds, you checked every once in a while. 

234.72 ETRN-STD

523.50 DRNK

435.62 HAWTHNE

The list went on. Multiple spots a day over the weekend. That’s who he was going to be now, the old fucking white dude who sits at a bar all day hitting on girls uncomfortably too young. How many giggling 18 year olds would you kick out crying and screaming the next day? Disgusting.  

“Do you have them?” Them meaning the cookies that were currently at the bottom of your reusable Aldi bag. Your sister, Julia, was off to your right, setting a pot with water on the stove to boil. It was Christmas, just the two of you, and with the aftermath of everything that was going on with the Thrombey/Drysdale clan, you were happy to get some time off to relax. You might even push it so that you wouldn’t have to work tomorrow. We’ll see if Ransom texts you. 

“Of course I do.” This bag has been in your closet all weekend. There’s a bakery near your apartment that your Mom would take you to all the time, every time you got an A, won a game, gotten an award. Everything they made reminded you of her, and it was something you craved more than anything. Every Christmas they would make these fresh baked cookie packs with all kinds, chocolate chip, double chocolate chunk, snicker doodle, gingerbread, white chocolate macadamia, chocolate and peanut butter. 

Every Christmas, after dinner, you and your sister would slouch in front of the TV with scalding hot cups of hot chocolate and devour almost the whole box. Every year except last year when at the time your sister was home alone watching The Grinch you were in a car with Ransom going over a hundred miles an hour and scared for your life. This Christmas, Ransom would not be getting between the two of you, food was cooking, lights in the living room were dimmed. The tree was all lit up and the presents you had exchanged earlier that morning sat unwrapped beneath it. 

Christmas music was playing softly on the tv as you heard someone knock on your front door. 

“Coming!” You yelled. It wasn’t uncommon for a neighbor to have forgotten something, sugar, butter, milk, that they needed for dinner. It wasn’t uncommon for you to answer your door without looking through the peephole. What was uncommon was Ransom Drysdale standing sheepishly on the other side. His cheeks, nose, and eyes were red. The cheeks and nose from the cold, the eyes probably from the alcohol you could smell on him. You sighed heavily, feeling a headache coming on, “What are you doing here?” 

“Bar called me an uber and I didn’t want to go home.” He explained quickly, words slurring slightly. 

“Your parents-”

“Fuck my parents!” He yelled, you quickly shushed him, looking down the halls to see if anyone was peeking out into the hallway. “Fuck my parents.” He said quietly. 

“Ransom…” You sighed, stepping out into the hall, closing the door softly behind you. “What do you want?” His eyes were glazed, he shrugged dumbly, swaying forward. “Okay big guy,” I guess this is happening, “Come on.” You quietly ushered him inside, shutting the door softly behind you. 

“Who is it? Oh, woah.” Julia’s eyes bugged out of her head, shifting over to you. ‘Murderer’ she mouthed. 

“Go set the table.” You ushered Ransom over to the small table that could barely seat the two of you let alone a third, quickly brewing a pot of coffee and keeping an eye on your sister who was scared to get to close to him. “He’s harmless Julia.” You reassured her, or were you reassuring yourself so that you didn’t feel like such a bad guardian, letting a murderer into your home. He was past angry drunk Ransom, which is probably why the bar kicked him out, he was sad Ransom right now. You’d never seen him cry but this was probably the closest you were going to get to it. He was quiet, sat in the chair just staring as you and your sister finished dinner. 

You poured him a cup of coffee and a glass of water, hoping to sober him up enough that you could safely send him home later on. The three of you sat down to eat. Ransom staring listlessly out the window. You made him a plate and told him to eat. And he did. You told him to finish his water. And he did. You told him to finish his coffee. And he did. This was almost terrifying. He hadn’t said anything since ‘fuck my parents’, and he looked dead on his feet. 

“Send him home,” Your sister pleaded. The man hadn’t moved. Cleanup had already started and finished, he was still nursing the third glass of water you’d given him. Cookies were warming in the oven. His eyes were less glassy now. He was slowly sobering up. The large helping of mashed potatoes and three bread rolls he ate didn’t hurt either. 

“He’s my boss, I can’t really kick him out.” You explained, “Let me get him sober enough that I know he’s okay and then he’ll go home.” She rolled her eyes at you, stirring the pot of hot chocolate on the stove, adding more chunks of chocolate to melt. Ransom, still unspeaking, didn’t protest when you moved him into the living room, setting him up in the recliner with his own cup of hot chocolate and three cookies, before snuggling down with your sister and watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas. You moved only once when he tapped the mug against your arm. 

More.

“I’ve never done anything.” He said. “Never went to college, barely graduated high school.” He was rambling to himself, maybe to you? “I’ve spent the entirety of my adult years inside someone’s cunt.” 

“Alright, Julia. Time for bed.” You ignored her whining protests. The movie wasn’t over yet. “Please?” You begged her. She hated Ransom. You knew this. She knows you know this. ‘All he does is take you from me.’ is what she once said to you. Just to treat you like shit. 

“I have no money.” Ransom’s eyes met yours. “None.” 

“I know Ransom.” He scoffed. 

“I’m no better off than you now.” 

“You still have your house. I’d say you are still better off.” You started cleaning up around him, letting the asshole sit in his self-pity. 

“C’mere.” It was a quiet request. The Grinch was packing up his sleigh in the background. You dropped the two mugs you were holding onto the counter, circling back to the recliner. Ransom’s hand came out soft, wrapping around your forearm and gently guiding you to sit in his lap.

“Ransom, I don’t think this is appropriate.” You tried to pull away, heartbeat beginning to pick up. His still bloodshot eyes raised to meet yours. 

“Please hold me.” Fuck. What were you supposed to do with that? Heart melting you sunk into his lap, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him in tight. It was quiet for a while. Sitting with the credits rolling, Ransom’s arms wrapped around your waist while yours were wrapped around his shoulders. Comforting him from whatever crisis he was currently going through. 

“Marta ruined everything” He whispered into your neck. 

“No Ransom, you did.” 

2020

The trial, fuck me, the trial. The whole fucking family showed to watch Ransom crash and burn and get exactly what he deserved. Well that and to stare down Marta Cabrera who sat with the prosecution in some shiny new digs, a stunning gold cartier bracelet on her wrist. That was familiar. Ransom’s cheap bought apology. There was a tension there, you knew. He always had a thing for ‘the help’. You wondered if that’s where he had been this past week. But it’s strange isn’t it? This whole situation. It was unsettling and for some reason you felt irreversibly used.  

“I knew the knife was a prop.” And that was that. Audio recording gone, attempted murder charge whittled down to aggravated assault. A slap on the wrist. Two years of house arrest. And here you were, in Ransom’s home with a fucking house arrest bracelet making your ankle itch. Unfucking believable. Ransom had sat in the courtroom, head raised, armani suit, legs crossed and body relaxed. He knew he was getting out of this from the minute he walked in. 

The Thrombey trial that was supposedly going to last three months only lasted a week. You still had a job, and in a remarkable turn of events Linda Drysdale and their legal team got exactly what they predicted. 

“I’m going out.” Was the first thing Ransom told you as you unpacked your clothes. He had half thought to buy you a bed and a small dresser that he haphazardly got someone to shove between his Pam Anderson Baywatch poster and the unplugged Space Invaders original arcade console. This was a 90s teenage boy’s dream bedroom. And now it was yours. He didn’t give you much time to respond and he was gone. 

They say that you never really know someone until you live with them. And you’ve never felt that saying more true. Ransom was a fucking asshole. 

During your previous employment schedule you would come in at 9 am with breakfast and let him know of anything he needed to do that day, if his Mom needed him for whatever reason, events his was scheduled to go to, dates he promised he’d keep. He’d let you know what to cancel and what he would get ready for, and then you were off. Cleaning and maintaining the home to the best of your ability, binge watching tv shows, trying new recipes from pinterest. 

Ransom was disgusting. 

Clothes discarded all over his floor, bedroom, living room, hallways. Beard trimmings all over the sink and what you would hopefully assume were more beard trimmings lining the bottom of his shower. You really didn’t want to think about Ransom’s pubic hair situation. He would do things like take his coffee mugs into his room or into the study and leave like a sip left in each one, letting it sit there until the milk began to curdle. Wet towels shoved into corners and every morning when you went in to make his bed it was like he was running in his sleep, loose and fitted scrunched in the corner of the foot board, duvet thrown off and pillows with half off shams. 

He was doing this shit on purpose. 

And you hated him for it. 

It wasn’t long after the trial that he began a steady routine. Gym, breakfast, some puttering around the house, making plans and then he would go out. And that’s when we come to this, 

“He said he would be back and we would have breakfast together.” The girl was pretty, but her voice was annoying. 

“I’m one hundred percent sure he did not say that.” You stood with arms crossed in the doorway, watching her fix her face in the mirror propped against his bedroom wall. An old antique thing that didn’t match with the decor of the house at all. 

“Hmpf.” She glared at you, “Fine, when he gets back, we’ll see who is right.” This was before you became practiced at this kind of thing. 

You felt your phone buzz in the pocket of your jeans, 

Is she gone yet? 

Fucking prick. 

“I’ll have him call you when he gets in,” You explained, “He has a lot to do today, I’m sure if he said you’ll go out for breakfast it’ll probably be another day.” 

“I said.” She stepped up to you, “I’m staying.” Fuck. You rolled your eyes and walked past her into the room, 

Not leaving, come deal with her yourself

He had been waiting down the street like a psycho, waiting to see her leave so he can come back home, but it’s not really working out in his favor. You could feel her eyes on you as you made the bed and picked his laundry up from the floor, tossing them two feet away into the laundry basket you left in his bathroom in hopes he would actually use it. The socks left discarded beside it was a clear message of disregard, a ‘fuck you’ from a petulant child. 

You could hear the door slam downstairs. Great, you looked at the girl who was scrolling through her phone curled up in the reading chair in the corner of his room, he’s pissed. You could hear his stomping feet climb the stairs and the girl looked up from her phone hopeful towards the door. 

“Alright, time to go.” He huffed, coming into view. The girl stood from the chair, shifting over towards him and trying to wrap her arms around his neck. “Nope. Let’s go, your uber is here.” 

“But, I-” She began, you could see tears welling up in her eyes and you began to feel bad for her. 

You were never one to have one night stands. You had one serious boyfriend when you were in college, but when your Mom got sick you had ended it and moved back home. You hadn’t dated or been with anyone else since. You just didn’t have the time. That being said, this girl honestly thought Ransom had a heart. She was naive and young, younger than you. Your heart hurt for her, but honestly, no one should be with Ransom anyway. 

His birthday dinner had soon come and gone. Linda and Richard sat around the dinner table eating Ransom’s favorite foods you’d spent the day cooking for him. Drinking whiskey and wine, Ransom’s glass never empty. You’d had a few glasses yourself with the tapas style dinner you’d put together. A beautifully iced spice cake sitting on the counter with unlit candles for dessert. 

This was the night that Ransom blew up on you for the last time. The night he cried into your neck, drunk and unstable. Clutching desperately at your body for comfort, burying himself against you all touch starved and needy. This was more intense than last Christmas where his dry eyed stare begged you to hold him in an uncommon moment of weakness. 

He was so hard to read sometimes and you were never quite sure where you stood. You knew you really hated him sometimes, other times… not so much. The more you knew his parents, the more you understood why Ransom was an ungrateful shit to begin with. You almost couldn’t blame him for how he turned out.

Almost. 

“Help me with this.” He stood in the doorway to the small office he never used. It was pretty much just for show. A large wooden ornate desk, his macbook, and a bookshelf full of books you know he probably never read. Including the ones penned by his own Grandfather. 

There were beginnings here. Multi-colored post its lined the desk, laptop left on the seat of one of the chairs in the room. 

“What is this?” You asked him, fingers plucking a post-it from the desk,

Crime of Passion?

He had been watching a lot of true crime documentaries lately. It didn’t help but creep you out. This man, a murderer, suddenly extremely into serial killers and murder itself. 

“I’m going to write a book.” He explained. His face was in a grin, almost giddy. 

“A book.” You looked at him incredulously. Your eyes drifted over to Harlan’s novels sitting stacked on another chair, spines finally cracked and pages thumbed through, sticky tabs stuck throughout the pages. You pointed to them, “A book?”

“Yeah,” He gestured around to the post-its, “What do you think?” It’ll keep him busy that’s for sure. You sighed, sticking the post-it back on the desk and looked at him. He was waiting, expectantly, why did he care what you thought about this?

“Is it gonna be about Fran?” You asked awkwardly, he scoffed,

“No, I’m gonna write books like my Grandfather wrote,” He plucked a post-it from the desk, showing you,

Wife murders husband?

“I’m gonna write a mystery novel.” 

He was good. You couldn’t lie about that. And you wouldn’t. This was a strange thing. The routine changed. Gym, breakfast, writing, lunch, writing, dinner, and then he would go out. His mind was moving faster than his fingers could and you were left reading a new chapter or two every night. You’d once loved Harlan’s novels. Your Mother was obsessed with them. It was partially why you had even taken the job tutoring Meg in the first place, but you know what they say. Never meet your heroes. 

Harlan was kind in some ways, funny, but proud. His pride is what eventually killed him you’ve found out. The medicine Ransom had switched wasn’t his cause of death, his refusal for help was. 

Ransom was as good as he was, better even. 

“He’s got a lot of me in him,” Harlan said to you once, “He could have everything I’ve ever had if he would pull his head out of his ass.” 

This was promising. 

You were honestly afraid when Ransom first said he would be writing a novel. What if he wasn’t a good writer? Could you really lie and try to support him even though it was absolute garbage? You supposed you would have to. You were relieved to find out that it was unnecessary. 

He slipped a red pen into your hand when handing you this last chapter, the book almost finished. “I want to see how you react to everything,” He explained, the book was coming to the climax, you were a chapter away from the big reveal and the aftermath, his hands gently massaged your shoulders before he bent at the waist, wrapping his arms around you from behind as you sat on the sofa. “Do you like it?” His hot breath brushed against your ear, a tingle went down your spine. 

“Ransom,” Your hand came up to lay over his forearm, brushing the skin with your thumb, “It’s amazing.” You could almost feel the grin that stretched across his face, he turned, pressing his face into your hair where you could swear he laid a soft kiss before releasing you. 

“Of course it is,” Here we go, “I’m a fucking Thrombey.” His fucking smirk. That's what he left you with, returning to his office to pound out the last two chapters. 

It was a process. The editing, printing, shipping off to multiple publishers. He got replies after a month. 

Eager replies. 

Whatever Ransom wanted, Ransom got. The lucky bastard stayed lucky.

“Look Babe.” Ransom dropped a heavy box on the table in front of you, “Look at this shit.” He grabs a knife from the block on the counter, slipping it under the packing tape to open the box revealing glossy black covers. He first fucking novel. There. Printed. A picture of a fireplace, chair facing it, empty. A blood soaked carpet. He picked one from the box, opening it. And there in the forward, the dedication, Harlan’s name…

...and yours. 

“Don’t get all big headed about it kid.” He smirked. Your heart was racing in your chest. 

“Why would you…” Your fingers gently traced the letters of your name, there in print, as it would be on every copy sold. 

“Wouldn’t have been able to write it without you being chained to my house, only seems fair.” He shrugged. “We can call it even.” You scoffed,

“Dedicating your book to me hardly makes my doing your house arrest for you even Ransom.” He smirked again, flipping through the pages, seeing his words in bold print. 

“I think it’s plenty fair,” Okay, now you wanted to smack him, “You live here for free, you eat here for free, and you get paid pretty well to do so.” His devilish eyes met yours over the top of the book he was still thumbing through. “If anything you’re still ahead because you’re the kept woman of a bestselling author.” 

“A kept woman?” You dropped the book onto the table. “I’m not your fucking whore Ransom.” 

“Not yet.” Audibly you made noise of protest, internally your core thrummed with heat. 

“Never.” You packed up your tablet and the new book, attempting to walk around him to go sit out by the fire pit for a while. His large hand gently grabbed your upper arm, tugging you into his body, wrapping his arms around your shoulders, your arms trapped between you.

“Tell me you’re proud of me.” He whispered into your hair, his voice suddenly soft, heartbreaking. 

“I am proud of you Ransom.” You shifted your belongings to your left hand, tugging your right from against his chest to wrap around his torso. “I’m very proud of you.” 

Book published, royalties rolling in, Ransom was making his own money now. He was more cocky than ever. Proud. The, I-don’t-need-you-anymore-mom, attitude. But can you still pay my babysitter? The girls came more easily than ever before, not that they didn’t come easy before the bestseller. 

Every. Night. 

Sometimes two girls were leaving in the morning, gently ushered out the door with promises of a phone call and a, “I’ll let him know.” It made you feel dirty, betraying almost. Like you were supposed to be on these girl’s side instead of cleaning up after Ransom’s mess. 

You could gag. The milky condoms, two of them, tossed haphazardly aside on the hardwood floor of Ransom’s bedroom. Disgusting. You could hear him laughing at you now. 

“It could be you,” He says, “Just say the word.” If you weren’t so irritated with Ransom for this very thing your panties would be dripping with the thought. 

He’s sitting at the kitchen island forking soft scrambled eggs into his mouth, cheesy with peppers and onions, the way he likes them, the way you made them, when you come downstairs. “You could at least throw the condoms in the fucking trash Ransom.” He looked up from his eggs to you, peeling off the latex gloves you’d just used, smirking. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Asshole. 

“You’re disgusting.” You begin on the dishes, taking a sip of your now lukewarm coffee. You hear the stool scoot back against the floor, “That wasn’t an invitation.” You said, hearing his approach. His arms wrapped around your middle as you began to scrub. His head rested on your shoulder. 

“You love me.” He slowly rocked your body side to side, “You love how disgusting I am.” You tried to shrug him off of you, but he held you tighter. Since last Christmas when you curled up in his lap and held him for two hours until he was sober enough to leave you he’d been slowly getting more and more affectionate with you. He was touch starved, hungry for it. The intimacy of holding and being held. 

You didn’t picture Linda as much of a hugger.

The house was decorated. It was the least he could do for you really. This was the first Christmas since your Mother died that you and your sister wouldn’t be completing your tradition, but you tried not to think about it. Ransom humored you just after Thanksgiving, bringing home a fake Christmas tree, ornaments and lights. You’d ordered a couple of extras online and three stockings were on the mantle, Christmas lights lined the windows giving the house a warm glow. 

“I’m sending everyone in my family a copy.” He told you, “a signed copy.” Of his book. Rubbing their noses in it. The book has firmly held the number one spot on the New York Times Bestseller List for weeks. Already over a million copies have been sold. Whether its due to the fame of the not-murder trial or Harlan’s legacy you couldn’t be sure, but even without those things the book was incredibly good. 

Ransom could have made it on his own, a long time ago. 

“You don’t think that’s a little crass?” He released you long enough for you to finish loading the dishwasher, watching you place the pod of soap and shut it like he didn’t realize that’s actually what you’re supposed to do. 

“Fuck them,” He scoffed, “They’ve always hated me.” 

“To be fair,” You turned to the soft sweater clad man leaning against the kitchen island, “You’re an asshole.” 

He smirked, “Yeah, but that’s why I’m so charming.” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. 

It could almost be domestic. The way things were now. So different from before. Yeah Ransom was still bringing a new girl home almost every night and sure you could hear them fuck from your bed on the other side of the wall, but for the most part it was always just the two of you. 

His parents never ventured out here much anymore, since his book was published he had a deadline for the next book that needed to be completed so he wrote almost every day now, sometimes for hours. You made his every meal, on the odd occasion you’d order out. Sometimes when he needed a break he would come sit on the sofa with you as you watched whatever show you were currently obsessed with. One time you walked in on him watching Love Island by himself and you hadn’t let him live it down yet, maybe not ever. 

He grew soft, sweet almost. A kiss against your palm. Hugs from behind as you worked at the stove. A snuggle of feet under his thigh as you watched Miracle on 34th Street by a crackling fire. Wordlessly anticipating each others needs. It spoke to a high level of intimacy. Something you both chose to ignore. 

It was nice. 

He didn’t go out on Christmas Eve. Not only because his usual bar was closing earlier than normal because of the holiday, he assured you, but because he wanted to stay in. Snow was falling thick outside, a foot of it already blanketed on the ground. To tell the truth you didn’t want him to go out in this weather anyway. You knew he was willing to drive a little drunk and he didn’t exactly obey speed limits. It was safer here. 

You were still reeling from the argument you had with your sister earlier in the night. You called her to see what she was doing, but she was at a friends house and wanted nothing to do with you. Since the house arrest you haven’t exactly been on speaking terms. She wasn’t Ransom’s biggest fan and didn’t really understand why you needed to do this. You could kind of blame it on yourself for her having no idea how much money you needed to keep her in school, her cello and lessons weren’t cheap and nor are the electronics she seemed so attached to. This two year sentence you were playing out for Ransom would put you in the green, far in the green, so far in the green that you were willing to put up with all his petty bullshit and be okay with your sister hating you if it meant your futures were secure. 

After all this was over, you might just be able to go back to school. 

“Are you hungry?” You removed your feet from their spot beneath his thigh, grabbing both of your now empty mugs, padding over to the kitchen. Your stomach had just begun to growl. The stew you had simmering on the stove was ready to eat. 

“Yeah,” Ransom replied, not turning away from the television. Santa’s trial had just began. It was a strange thing, having him watch classic Christmas movies, soft in sweats and a comical christmas sweater you jokingly bought him. “I look good in anything.” He said. He wasn’t lying. 

You poured two bowls full, bringing over a plate with some crusty bread he was kind enough to go out and grab for you earlier in the day. “Thank you,” He said softly as he took the bowl from your hands, eyes still not moving from the screen. He quickly spooned some into his mouth, 

“It’s hot.” You said, his only reaction being trying to rapidly cool it in his mouth, his tongue probably burned. He gave you a glare, before resting the bowl on the coffee table. This could almost be a relationship. The two of you together. In this oddly domestic moment. He was the only man in your life right now, it wasn’t like you had many options for seeking others. 

That’s why you would get so hot and bothered with him. And that’s the only reason. 

He had never seen A Miracle on 34th Street before. You’d think with how old fashioned Harlan was he would have at least seen it once or twice, but then again, any time spent together as a family was always strained and argumentative. 

Even when he was a kid though? He was the first grandchild. His mother was the first child of Harlan. You were sure when he was a child he was spoiled rotten, more toys than he could play with, never wanting for anything. But that wasn’t exactly true. The touch starved trust-fund baby didn’t get the one thing kids need the most, more than presents, toys, electronics. Real genuine love. 

His Mother loved him to an extent. It’s why you were the one on house arrest instead of him, but she thought loving him meant giving him whatever he wants. When we all know that’s not what kids want. They want to be told no, given structure, rules. How many times have you gotten into arguments with your sister because you didn’t allow her to go roam the streets at night without supervision or give her money for some stupid thing she wouldn’t be even bothered with in two weeks?

But you could also see how no one really knows how to raise a child and you just try your best. Having Harlan for a Father couldn’t have been easy. 

Under the tree that you’d decorated and in the stockings you’d hung were presents. Ransom had everything he’d ever wanted, but you couldn’t help but want him to have something to open tomorrow morning. Granted it wouldn’t be much, but it’s the thought that counts. In the fridge you already have most of what will go into tomorrow’s dinner made. Hopefully your sister thinks about your extended invitation and Ransom can go pick her up at some point tomorrow. You missed her, a lot. Your heart ached with wishes that she was here right now. 

Ransom’s eyes had gotten shifty. The movie was coming to an end and his bowl was empty. “Did you want more?” You asked him, thinking that would be the cause of his shiftiness, maybe indecisive? 

“No.” He cleared his throat, “I’m not going to be home for dinner tomorrow.” You weren’t sure you heard that properly.

“You’re not going to be home….” You started, picking his bowl up from the coffee table and standing, “For dinner on Christmas?” 

He was scared to tell you, that’s cute. Your body was bristling with anger as you took the stew off the stove to cool before you could properly store it. He didn’t move from his spot on the couch. 

“My Mother wants me to go to this dinner with-” 

“So every other time your Mother wants you to do something it’s ‘fuck you’ and ‘eat shit’, but when we’ve already made plans for tomorrow and my sister-” You felt tears prickle in your eyes. “What the fuck Ransom?” His face was stoic from the couch. 

“Why does it matter?” He asked, “I stayed home tonight!”

“And that makes up for it?” You stood at the kitchen counter, staring across the room at him. “I already started on dinner, Ransom. You couldn’t have maybe said something while I was prepping all of this?” You gestured to the fridge. He shrugged. 

“I didn’t know that was all for tomorrow.” His face still betrayed no expression. 

“She can come here,” You offered, “We can have dinner here.” His eyes shifted away from yours to watch the rolling credits. 

“She doesn’t want to.” He stood from the couch, rounding towards the tree slowly, searching. 

“Why not?” He was being shady about this, the whole situation was strange. “I already have all of this food prepared and I can’t pick up Julia myself… Ransom?” 

“She doesn’t like being around you.” He stated honestly, he picked a box out among the presents under the tree, eyes meeting yours as he fumbled with it. 

“What?” You get it. She’s technically your employer. But she’s never had any issue dropping in for dinner or putting you to work on some task for herself. 

“Listen,” He came closer to where you still stood, your chest tightening. “Y/N, I hate my family-”

“Then why are you going to-”

“I have to do this.” His cheeks were flushed, you could tell he was uncomfortable. “My therapist… I don’t want to do this.” He slid the box across the counter top. “I don’t want to go, but I have to.” 

“Is this supposed to make me feel better about it?” You scoffed, picking up the gold wrapped box. His mouth opened and then quickly shut without speaking. You sighed heavily, a headache coming on. “I’ve got nothing, Ransom. All I wanted to do tomorrow was spend some time with my family and if you’re not going to be around…” 

“I know, I can maybe go pick your sister up in the morning?” He offered. Your eyes watery, staring at him. He doesn’t get it. Your heart was aching a bit. 

“You’re such an asshole.” You spat, leaving the present still wrapped in front of you, thumbing the thick wrapping paper. 

“I know.” He swallowed. 

“What does your therapist want you to do?” You never talked about what went on in his therapy sessions. He was too closed off after them, drank too heavily, lashed out too easily. You’d let him slowly work through his refractory period and let him cozy up to you once he was feeling better. 

Ransom felt awkward, you could feel it. He was uncomfortable. 

“Why does this matter so much to you?” He asked. He was turning. He got too emotional. “It doesn’t matter what I have to do or where I have to do it. I said I would go pick Julia up, I’m giving you what you want.” 

“Fine.” You were staring each other down. “I’ll let her know you’ll be there to get her around noon and then you can go have dinner with the people you hate.” He rolled his eyes, 

“I don’t know what you think this is, Y/N.” He scoffed, “You still work for me, we’re not playing house here.” 

“Then stop making me.” You spat back at him, both of you in a similar stance, hands gripping the edge of the stone counter top. 

“I’m not making you do anything.” There was a rage growing in his eyes. 

“You are, Ransom. I take care of you like you’re my own fucking child. I clean up all of your messes, I cook all of your fucking food, I do everything for you.” 

“I don’t ask you to.”

“You don’t have to! You literally just expect it of me.” You yelled. 

“Because it’s your job.” He laughed, throwing his hands into the air. “I have no loyalty to you Y/N. None.” Fine.

Fine.

You hated him. You fucking hated him. You were doing all of this for him. And you’ve never felt more dumb in your life. The house arrest bracelet on your ankle felt heavier than ever. It itches like mad. 

“Fuck you Ransom.” You rounded the counter, moving towards the stairs when he grabbed your arm. 

“Take the gift.” He slapped the box into your hand. 

“I don’t want the fucking gift, Hugh.” He looked taken aback for a moment.

“Don’t call me that.” His hand fell from your arm, stepping closer to you. 

“That’s what you want, right?” You asked, “You want me to do all of these things for you and take care of you and fucking hold you when you need comfort but when I’m fucking trying to make things easier for you, you’re all the sudden ‘I have no loyalty to you.” 

“Wait a fucking minute,” He growled, “I take care of you too. Who the fuck buys all the shit you want on a fucking whim? You’re in the mood for curry, I get you curry. You make a comment about how you really want to decorate for Christmas and who fucking gets you everything you need to do that? You say that you really want to get into fucking knitting and who gets you all the fucking shit you need to fucking knit?” 

“Buying me things doesn’t mean you care about me Ransom.” You shook the box in your hand for emphasis. “All I wanted to know is what your therapist wants you to do tomorrow, you can go have dinner with your Mother. It’s fine. I just wanted you to fucking open up to me.” 

“I am open with you!” He yells, “You know more about me than anyone else in my fucking life, it’s hard for me okay? I can never escape you, you’re always fucking there. I don’t get to fucking-” He placed his hands on his hips, turning from you. He let out a heavy, slow breath. Calming himself down. “I don’t want to go tomorrow, trust me Y/N, I really don’t, but I have to.” His eyes met yours, softer this time. 

You felt like some part of you was being irrational. This dinner might help his growth. Whatever milestone he was reaching with his therapist, this could be really good for him. But you also felt a little selfish, you wanted him here, with you. You felt more like his family than anyone else. Or at least, he felt more like your family and he should be here to spend Christmas with his family. You knew he felt at least somewhat the same, if the gifts addressed to Julia under the tree from him were anything to go by. You wanted him here, but he wasn’t yours. 

“I’m sorry.” You whispered, the tears that were once threatening to spill, now did. “It’s fine.” Your head was pounding. “It’s fine.” 

“I know it’s not,” He said softly. “But we can maybe do presents and lunch before I go,” He gestured towards the tree. “I should be back in time for the Grinch.” You were shaking a bit as he approached you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you tightly against his body. “I’m sorry baby.” He was so warm, a little sweaty from arguing, but warm. “I’ll make it up to you.” A soft whisper into your hair. 

The little gold box was soon opened, a new rose gold cartier bracelet slipped onto your wrist and Ransom left you and your sister the next day wearing the sweater you had so carefully knit for him. 

2021

Your breath hitched in your throat, back arching, a loud moan breaking from your lungs. How was he so good at this? Ransom’s tongue was at work between your thighs, large hands cradling your hips, burying his face in your moist heat. You were so close to cumming. And he knew it. 

“Oh god,” you moaned, bucking your hips into his face as you rode your orgasm until your body was too sensitive to continue, Ransom moving his attentions to press his lips sloppily against your thighs before making his way up your body. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he lamented as he pressed his lips to your flushed cheeks and panting mouth, parting your thighs fully around his hips to tease your opening with the blunt head of his cock. “So fucking beautiful.” He moaned into your open mouth as he breeches you. 

He felt so fucking good. You’d never get over it, you were sure. Ransom was patient, biding his time. He wasn’t that guy who had to be as deep inside you as possible, chasing his orgasm by stabbing your cervix. Over time he mapped out the location of your g-spot, shifting his hips and cock to brush against the spot with every thrust, working you up and making your eyes roll back in your head. 

Those girls screamed with good reason. Just as you did now. Gushing wet around him as you came for the second time, looking up wantonly into his flushed face, lips swollen from first kissing and then pulling you apart with his tongue. Your fingers curled in his chest hair as he picked up pace, chasing his own release now, your hips lifting off the bed to aid him.

“So fucking good baby,” His eyes screwed shut as he moans, arms trembling, “You fuck me so good baby.” He sat back on his haunches, pulling your hips roughly to his, your sensitive clit grinding against his pubic bone almost bringing you over again as he cums. Hips stuttering into yours as you feel him empty himself into you. 

His head tilted towards the ceiling, eyes dropping to find you, hands still gripping your hips and as much of your ass as he can manage. “I love you.” 

It never gets old. 

He said those words to you ever chance he got. It was as if he was trying to make up for a lifetime without it. Love. 

Early morning sleepy soft kisses, I love you.

Silent breakfast with your feet in his lap, I love you.

Scratching his back as you peered over his shoulder while he was writing, I love you. 

Feet stuffed under his thigh watching Outlander and drinking hot tea, I love you.

Buried deep inside you, panting mouths a breath apart, bodies flushed and sweaty, sheets damp with cum, I love you.

“I think you’re the only person I’ve ever loved.” 

It was intense. His love for you.

He tried hard. He didn’t know how it was supposed to work. A real relationship, a real honest to god loving relationship. But he was trying. 

The first few months of the relationship you gained a lot of new jewelry, a new iPad, clothes, shoes. “You don’t have to buy me things to prove that you love me, Ransom.” 

Then came flowers and lots of them. Sometimes just one, sometimes a bouquet. Regardless there were multiple vases that stayed filled throughout the house, always with fresh flowers never given time to fully wilt. 

After that was the touching. Always some sort of physical contact. Whether you were cuddling on the couch or a blink away from sleep with his ankle wrapped around yours, if you were in a room together there was always some sort of contact. 

Your house arrest bracelet was removed, and a gold anklet replaced it. You were free to leave, live on your own. Move out and back into that shitty apartment with your sister, but this was early days in the newfound relationship with Ransom. 

He’d bought you a house. 

He’s paying for your sisters school.

He’s paying you to still work for him.

It was a Victorian. The house. Not at all like his contemporary cube he knew you despised. A rich dark brown with a large porch. Much too big for just you and your sister, so 6 months after the two of you moved in, Ransom sold his house and moved in too. 

Julia was warming up to him. At first she wasn’t a fan. It took a long time, many dinners with Ransom, ‘family outings’, you hoped she could see the way he treated you now. The way he’s kind of always treated you. Her love was easily bought with the new house, her latest generation iPhone and the fact that she now had a monthly allowance. It didn’t stop you from making her get an after school job at the school library though. 

Now with a house of your own, you were doing something you’d always dreamed of. Watching Ransom try to hang Christmas lights. 

“I’ll just pay someone to do it,” He offered, looking skeptically at the boxes you had placed on the dining room table, “I’m not going up there to do it.” 

But there he was, up there doing it while you looked up at him from the bottom of the ladder. “This is the fucking worst.” He exclaimed, taking the light clips and attaching them to the roof. “Why are we doing this?” 

“Because you love me and you want to make me happy.” You laughed. He rolled his eyes, squinting against the sun. 

“I’m not so sure,” He attached a few more clips within reach before steadily climbing down the ladder. “I think you’re trying to kill me.” 

“I’m the beneficiary on your life insurance right?” You jokingly asked as his feet hit the ground. He laughed at your bad joke, 

“I think that’s in pretty poor taste, but…” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, “Yes.” 

“Julia should be home soon and then we can decorate the tree,” You wrapped your arms around his middle, capturing his lips with your own, “And make some cookies,” You kissed him again, 

“And have a drink.” He smirked against your lips. 

“You have a therapy appointment today,” You walked over to the steps, “You’re not having anything to drink.” He rolled his eyes at you once more, shooing you into the house as he re-positioned the ladder to go back up and finish stringing the lights. 

You had to be proud of him. Court mandated therapy ended when your house arrest did, but he still went every week. At first it was due to a little pushing by you, but eventually he made the appointments on his own. He was getting better. Still a dick, but that was his nature. He wasn’t quick to anger anymore, his emotions took a more level head. And he was now publishing books twice a year. He’s got five books out now, and almost 100 million copies sold. Which is incredible. 

You started back to school, Ransom wanting to start his own publishing company, “I’m paying for you to go to business school as an investment in our future.” He claimed. Once you were done with school your job would be to then help him open his own publishing company where you’d overlook everything. A daunting task, but it was hard not to believe in yourself when Ransom made himself your own personal cheerleader. “You’re brilliant,” He would say, “You’re so smart, you’ve just been dealt a bad hand until now.” 

And now he was stacking that hand to the best of his ability. 

Finals had been last week and you still marveled at the fact that as you poured over your last assignments and studying, Ransom would make you coffee and massage your shoulders whereas you would usually do the same for him as he was finishing a book. 

You’d gone to a couple therapy sessions with him, the first time he’d invited you was strange and you didn’t know what would even be discussed, but as you sat in the session and he was finally completely bare to you, you couldn’t help but feel like it was his idea and not his therapist’s. 

That session changed the dynamic between the two of you for sure. 

After the dam broke, the two of you having sex for the first time and Ransom’s admission of love it wasn’t easy. He was still an asshole and as someone who had never been in a relationship before, this first real relationship, he didn’t really know how to behave. 

You had one session a month together and it was probably one of the best ideas Ransom ever had. 

He was a little sullen when he came home later that night, coming to curl himself around you as you placed the cookies you and Julia had baked earlier into the decorative metal tins you had just bought. 

Sometimes it was like this, sadness. His lips gently pressing themselves against your cheek, his body tightly pressed against yours trying to pull as much comfort as he possibly could. “I don’t want to talk about it,” He whispered softly, “Not yet.” 

“Okay.” You knew what he needed and what he needed was a little bit of time. You offered him a cookie, chocolate and peanut butter, still warm. He took it gently from your fingers, pulling away to go to his study, but not before pulling you into a soft lingering kiss. An apology for what you knew would be a distant night. A ‘I don’t know when I’ll be coming to bed’ night. You were sure you’d have three new chapters to go over in the morning.

You loved the snow. Almost a foot of it had fallen overnight, frosting the windows and giving your home a beautiful Christmas glow. It made your home feel cozy and well slept as you stretched your limbs out, hand coming to run across Ransom’s back. So he did come to bed after all. You rolled over to face him, laying on his belly, arms folded under his pillow facing you. 

God he is beautiful. 

You hated it about him. So handsome. You brushed his fallen hair out of his face, pressing a kiss to his scrunched brow. He was letting his beard grow out for the winter. It made him even more attractive, the bastard. 

Julia was just getting up for school, standing in the kitchen in her uniform, eating toast and facetiming a friend. She was in a carpool, this house you lived in, while comfortably distanced from others, was in a neighborhood of other kids that went to her same school. Something you’re sure Ransom took into account when buying this house in the first place. You drove the kids to school on Friday when you didn’t have any classes. Today was a different parent’s turn. 

“Can I take some of these to school?” She asked, picking up a tin of cookies. 

“Yeah, but take the red one.” You popped a k-cup into the keurig. “Those haven’t touched any nuts.” 

“Mila’s Mom said we can go to the mall after school to go get presents for the pollyanna our class is having, is that okay?” She was such a good kid. Getting older now, she was almost ready to learn how to drive, something you’d been dreading, but for whatever reason Ransom was really looking forward to. 

“You have money still?” You asked, preparing a second cup of coffee for the sleeping bear upstairs. 

“I mean,” She smirked, “Unless you want to give me more…?” You rolled your eyes, turning towards your younger sibling. 

“What time will you be home?” The car had just pulled up outside, horn letting out a quick ‘honk’ to let her know they were here. 

Julia shrugged, hugging you, “We might get dinner, but probably no later than 8. I’ll text you.” She shrugged her coat on, opening the front door as you called behind her, 

“Text me when you get to the mall and when you’re on your way home!” 

“Okay!” She yelled back, trudging through the snow to the car.

“Keep your location on!” You could almost feel her roll her eyes at you, 

“Okay!” Annoyed this time.

“I love you!” You shouted as she got in the car, slamming the door behind her. Your phone chimed with reply, 

love you too

With that you went to rouse the sleeping man upstairs. 

He groaned unhappily when you woke him up, but it was quickly soothed by the coffee you’d supplied him with. 

Christmas was quickly approaching. The first Christmas you’d be spending together as a real, honest to god, family. In your own home, ready to begin your own traditions. The house was beautifully decorated and almost always smelled like cookies and a Christmas movie or music was always playing in the background. 

There was a truly sweet moment you’d wanted to commit to memory for the rest of your life. Julia rolling out cookie dough, Christmas music blaring obnoxiously loud and Ransom coming out from his study yelling, 

“I can’t write anything in a house this loud!” Walking over to the sound system and turning it down to a soft ambling. Your sister and you looking at him and laughing, the red faced lumberjack quickly losing steam as he realized he was wearing the hideous Christmas sweater you’d jokingly bought him last year. “It’s the warmest sweater I own.” He claimed. Sure. Sure it is. 

He turned the music back up a little louder, coming to a happy medium. His embarrassment waning as he looked at the two of you in the kitchen. A family that didn’t argue with every other word. People who genuinely loved each other. Something he never knew he wanted or needed. He came over to you, gently clasping your hands before tugging you into his body to ridiculously dance around to Jingle Bell Rock. The three of you peeling with laughter. Was this even real life anymore? With a soft parting kiss and a peak over your sisters shoulder to steal some cookie dough he was reluctantly walking back to his study, coming to join you twenty minutes later after finishing the chapter he’d been working on all day. 

The three of you spent the rest of the night in the living room, watching the cheesy A Christmas Prince series on Netflix and eating what was sure your body weight in popcorn. Cozy with your little family. 

“Do you think she’d like a puppy?” Ransom whispered into your neck one night. 

“Do not.” You were close to sleep, just about to drift off, when his question stirred you awake. 

“I always wanted a puppy when I was a kid.” He pressed a kiss against your neck, fingers gently tugging your nipple. 

“I’ll be the one taking care of it,” You whimpered as his other hand sunk between your thighs, “Do not get her a puppy.” His lips met your shoulder and you turned in his arms, thighs parting as he lightly stroked your clit. 

“You’ll get there.” He pressed his lips against yours, teasing your entrance with his fingers, his now hard cock nudging against your thigh. “You’ll warm up to the idea.” 

“No…” You whined, his fingers beginning to stroke your g-spot, his body coming to lay over yours, his eyes half lidded and lips wet and red came to meet yours as he removed his fingers and replaced them with his cock. “Fuck.” His fingers laced themselves through yours, pressing your hands against the sheets as he began to rock his hips slowly into yours. 

“You’re so sweet on me baby,” He mouthed against your lips, “So sweet on us.” He moaned. Your hips ground against his with every thrust. This slow love making that was making you gush around him, pussy making obscene sounds with every tilt of his hips, gently brushing the parts of you that make your legs shake. He chest close to yours, the begging in his eyes, 

“You’ll be such a good mother,” His hips met yours a little harder on that one causing you to gasp, pussy clenching around him. “Gonna give me what I want for Christmas?” He asked. He did this sometimes, knowing you were still on birth control and the actual relationship was still relatively new, the two of you had been together for almost a year now, you knew that he’d been toying with the idea of having a baby. You’d talked about it in therapy recently. 

“I love you,” He moaned, his hips build up a little speed as your legs came to wrap high around his waist. “I can’t wait,” He groaned, “So good to me.” His lips capturing yours passionately as his hips stalled, grinding himself against your g-spot, pubic bone rubbing your clit as you found your orgasm, pussy gushing wet dripping down his thighs onto the bed as you moaned into his mouth. 

“You’ll be such a good mother baby, such a good fucking mother.” His hips picked back up in pace, “I’d do anything for you baby. Anything.” He was chasing his release now, thrusting against your sensitive clit making you reel again before releasing your hands and grabbing your thighs, pushing them back high against the bed, just making you take it. You both had to try to be quiet here, your sister on the floor above you, your hand covered your mouth as you tried to muffle the loud obnoxious squealing that came uncontrollably as his hips slapped against your ass in this position. Sweat forming on his brow and head thrown back as he groans through his teeth, feeling him empty his seed deep against your cervix. 

In all the years you’d known him Ransom was never a kid person. He didn’t like small children, but he also didn’t come into contact with them often which is why it was so strange two months ago when he originally brought up the idea. “I think we would make pretty okay parents,” He said, “Better than mine definitely.” It made your heart flutter, thinking of a life with him. Knowing that he was also thinking about a life with you, but it’s just not the right time. 

What wasn’t surprising about any of this was on Christmas morning, after breakfast and the exchanging of handmade sweaters, new books to read, a couple new apple watches, and your sister and you receiving matching earrings, a gorgeous little blue nose pit bull puppy, one that reminded you of your childhood dog was brought out with a little pink bow around its neck. Ransom ignored your glare as he handed the sweet little thing to your sister, who was crying in happiness. 

He would remind you later on that he found you cooing to the sweet little thing only a few minutes after that, the puppy curled up in your arms, licking your fingers in earnest. 

“Don’t you have something else?” Julia asked him. 

“Julia this is plenty,” You scolded, “He’s gotten you enough.” She rolled her eyes. 

“It’s not for me.” She laughed. The little puppy sleeping in her arms and you scratched it behind it’s ears, turning to Ransom who shifted nervously to one knee, a ring box open in his hand. 

“Stop it.” Came out from a very watery smile. He licked his lips, tugging his bottom one between his teeth before starting, 

“You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.” 

.

.

.

TAGLIST //

@littlechillies @hellizhelusive2 @notbexmader @marvelouspottering @whitequeenasitbgan @Thegraylaway @readermia​ @i-believe-in-unicorns-and-you @princess-evans-addict @perplexed3001 @deidrashouseofpain @hailmary-yramliah​ @sleepycvpid​ @joannaliceevans-fanficblog​ @starlywars​ @gifsbysimplysonia​ @rocknbasil​ @imnotelasticheart​ @wannabegonnie @d1sconnect3d​ @heyguyz13 @unimomajo @this-is-serenaa​  @bookish-shristi​ @auroussss​

[bulletballet-arch]

REALLY LONG  CHARACTER  SURVEY. RULES. repost ,   don’t  reblog !    tag 10 ! good  luck ! TAGGED. I took this from Minnie’s archived Bioshock blog. I’ve been looking for this meme all this month. TAGGING. @hammurabicomplex. @bluuxriising. @ Me - for Sal on @bulletsoverbensonhurst​. @immaterialed (charlie) @soypeor (bella) @svmmercmance​. @mrflayed. and you!

BASICS. FULL  NAME :  Eve Delores Littlejohn NICKNAME : Evie, Little Evie (by her maternal side of the family), Delores, Didi NAME  MEANING / S  Eve is from the ancient Hebrew name  חַוָּה (Chawwah), which was derived from the Hebrew word חָוָה (chawah) meaning "to breathe" or the related word חָיָה (chayah) meaning "to live". Delores is a variant of Dolores, meaning "sorrows", taken from the Spanish title of the Virgin Mary María de los Dolores, meaning "Mary of Sorrows." Littlejohn is a surname that has historically been found in England and Scotland. With potential origins being either ‘to distinguish a beloved child that was not the eldest.’ Or, ‘a contradictory nickname for a large man.’ HISTORICAL  CONNECTION? : She’s named after her grandmother, Evelyn Hollins.

AGE : 42 BIRTHDAY :  June 2 ETHNIC  GROUP : Black-American. Meaning she’s mixed with a lot (Some of her relatives are respectively Creole and Italian) but uses Black as a catch-all term. NATIONALITY :  American LANGUAGE / S : English, Italian, Spanish, Latin, some French SEXUAL  ORIENTATION :   Bisexual ROMANTIC  ORIENTATION :  Biromantic RELATIONSHIP  STATUS : Verse dependent, usually married -or connected- to Salvatore Scozzari in some way. CLASS : Upper-Class HOME  TOWN / AREA :   Brooklyn. Spent time between Bedford-Stuyvesant - with her paternal grandfather and Park Slope - with her maternal grandparents.  CURRENT  HOME : In her childhood home in Bedford-Stuyvesant. PROFESSION : Ballet Instructor. Former Professional Ballerina. ( Other verses see her as a professional thief. )

PHYSICAL. HAIR : Black. In terms of her natural hair, Eve has springy, 3C hair she seldom shows off because she was raised in a family where straightened hair was deemed presentable and professional.  EYES : Thin almond eyes. Dark brown. NOSE : Straight and small. FACE :  She has a prominent, high forehead, that’s accented with high cheekbones and a pointy chin. LIPS :  Full. COMPLEXION : She has a light brown (tawny) complexion.  SCARS : None major. TATTOOS : None. HEIGHT : 5′4″ BUILD : Eve has a slender build. One of those people who have been small and petite since childhood. Despite this, she also stays skinny because she is obsessively conscious of the food she consumes. The older she gets the more she weighs, however. USUAL HAIR STYLE :  Her hair is cut short. Reaching her shoulders in a neat, even bob. She either curls it in a retro fashion or curls the tips. For work she wears it in a traditional, pinned bun. USUAL FACE LOOK : In public, she appears stoic for the most part. Any emotion shown (such as the length of a smile) is carefully calculated. She has to seem perfect.  USUAL  CLOTHING : Form fitting dresses. Incredibly chic and fashionable for the time. Shoes include heels - never open-toed, unless she has on stockings. Extravagant earrings. Jewelry that can include either necklaces, crosses, pearls, or dainty rings. Prone to wearing black sunglasses in public.

PSYCHOLOGY. FEAR / S : Thunderstorms, airplanes, creatures like weasels, snakes and ferrets, break-ins, men she doesn’t know, harm coming to her children ASPIRATION / S :  Formerly wanted to become a major [black] ballerina in the elite world of ballet, now she just wants to expose more [inner city children] to dance through her job. Personally, she wants her children to change the world in some form or fashion, too. Eve also has good ideas on improving the community, but at the moment has no idea how to go about these ideas. POSITIVE  TRAITS :  Generous, compassionate, patient, protective NEGATIVE  TRAITS : Strict, sullen, hard to read, represses her emotions, secretive MBTI :  Advocate - INFJ-T ZODIAC :  Cancer TEMPERAMENT :  Melancholic ANIMALS :  Lioness VICE / S :  Pride & Lust FAITH : Christian. Grew up Baptist, but Catholic influences have been around her since childhood. Attended a Catholic High School in Park Slope, her grandmother Evelyn was also a practicing Catholic.  GHOSTS ? : Yes and no. She feels that objects formerly owned by the deceased posses the essence of their previous owners and that they essentially live on through these pieces of property. AFTERLIFE ? : Yes. REINCARNATION ? :  No, but it’s a romantic concept. ALIENS ? : No. POLITICAL  ALIGNMENT :  Democratic ECONOMIC  PREFERENCE :  She likes being where she’s at now. But honestly, being upper class is all she’s ever known. SOCIOPOLITICAL  POSITION : Bourgeoisie, basically. The Littlejohn’s represent The Historical Black Elite.  EDUCATION  LEVEL : College level. FAMILY.

FATHER :  William ‘Bill’ Littlejohn MOTHER : Linda Littlejohn ( nee Hollins ) SIBLINGS : None EXTENDED  FAMILY : Amos Littlejohn (paternal grandfather) Liza Littlejohn (paternal grandmother) Evelyn Hollins (maternal grandmother) Giuseppe D’Aietti (maternal grandfather) and a wide host of cousins, aunts and uncles.

FAVOURITES. BOOK :  Night Song by Beverly Jenkins. The Color Purple by Alice Walker. Some sort of old, French erotic novel that was published before she was born. MOVIE : Eve watches films along the lines of...Waiting to Exhale, Beaches, The First Wives Club and Fatal Attraction. She loves Made-For-TV movies from the time period. In regards to plays, her favorite one is Sunday In The Park With George. 5  SONGS :  Meet Me On The Moon / Essence of Sapphire / No One In The World / People / The First Time I Saw Your Face  DEITY :  Persephone  HOLIDAY : New Years Eve, Christmas, Thanksgiving. Major holidays during the colder season. MONTH :  October SEASON :  Autumn PLACE :  The dance studio she works at. WEATHER : Sunny, but cool. SOUND : The voices of Anita Baker and Sarah Vaughn. A skilled hand running over piano keys. Soft trumpets. Running water. Cats making chipper little meows. SCENT / S :  Perfume, floral scented lotions, her partner’s cologne TASTE / S :  Caramel, the tang of dark chocolate, strawberries coated with either chocolate, or sprinkles of white sugar. Light Vinegar.  FEEL / S : Performing in front of an audience. Hot water engulfing your skin after a long day. Satin - whether it be the fabric of her clothes or sheets, your fingers tightly intertwined with another’s, feeling your significant other’s chest raise and lower against your skin with each breath they take. ANIMAL / S : Cocker Spaniels, Afghan Hounds, Cats, Birds - she loves all ( well, a majority ) of animals. NUMBER :  Doesn’t have one. COLOR :  White, Pink, Gold.

EXTRA. TALENTS :  Dance, Eve is trained in ballet when it comes to her main verse. She has attended ballet classes since the age of eight and ever since then she placed all of her focus into it. Similarly, Eve has always had the makings of a good artist - as a child she enjoyed drawing and had informal art lessons with a man who lived in the basement of her grandfather’s brownstone, but she never invested into that half of her. BAD AT : Singing, Being interviewed, Public Speaking (as in Speech Giving), Decision Making TURN  ONS :  Charisma, Leadership Skills, Temperature Play, Phone Sex, Heavy Kissing, Light Roleplay TURN  OFFS :  Public Sex, Tearing [ Her ] Clothes, Threesomes, Cruelty, Senseless Violence HOBBIES :  viewing plays & some musicals, reading romance novels, shopping, working out (she was into the whole celebrity VHS tape exercise trend), playing tennis, decorating AESTHETIC :  Vintage Black Glamour, Black Ballerinas, Champagne and Wine Glasses, Paintings by Melinda Byers and Edward 'Clay' Wright QUOTES :  "I'm bad with words, I hope you're good in reading eyes." / "There are truths I haven't even told God. And not even myself. I am a secret under the lock of seven keys."

FC INFO. MAIN  FC / S : Lynn Whitfield ( A Thin Line Between Love & Hate ) ALT  FC / S : Kylie Bunbury ( Twisted ) OLDER  FC / S :  Lynn Whitfield ( Greenleaf ) YOUNGER  FC / S : N/A VOICE  CLAIM / S : Lynn Whitfield

MUN QUESTIONS.

Q1 :   if  you  could  write  your  character  your  way  in  their  own  movie ,   what  would  it  be  called ,  what  style  would  it  be  filmed  in ,  and  what  would  it  be  about ?       A1 : Recently I decided that if/when I try to write anything serious about Eve again, it’ll center on her being a jewel thief because it presents me more fun, and emotionally diverse, opportunities. That and I have a very specific cover image in my mind. Ideally, her adventures would be a series of books. I have no title in mind, no idea about how ‘it would be filmed’ ( although a style replicating 90s films would be excellent, film grain and all. ) but, I do have a bunch of plots in mind that I really don’t feel like typing out here.  

Q2 :   what  would  their  soundtrack / score  sound  like ?         A2 :  Her score would have a vintage sound (or a jazzy Spike Lee sound, if you will) with instrumentals by Dorothy Ashby (a Jazz Harpist) the Ahmad Jamal Trio, Pharaoh Sanders, Yusef Lateef and Tarika Blue. For music with lyrics, the soundtrack would include the likes of Julie London, Sarah Vaughn, Ella Fitzgerald, and Dionne Warwick.

Q3 :   why  did  you  start  writing  this  character ?   + Q4 :   what  first  attracted  you  to  this  character ? A3 :  Whenever I make NPCs for my character’s lives I actually can’t just let them just be NPCs. I start thinking about them too much. Developing them too much. And then I’m like, ‘wow! I really like this character!’ Eve was a different character when I began writing her, and likely wouldn’t be considered the same character as she was previously, if I told someone in real life who knows about my writing (like my grandma) about all the changes she has undergone. Originally Delores was a university professor, because I thought it could lead to interesting interactions with college-age muses. And her previous history with the mafia was also something interesting to tap in. But then I started thinking about what was realistic, what wasn’t realistic, what did I feel comfortable/interested writing? What didn’t I feel comfortable/interested in writing?  So as time went on, things would alter about this character. And the new things I came up with attracted me more. 

Q5 :   describe  the  biggest  thing  you  dislike  about  your  muse.         A5 :  I have a love/hate relationship with Eve’s quiet demeanor. On one hand, I think quieter characters need love and the ability to be fully dimensional but on the other hand, writing louder characters has always been more fun for me. But really, Eve’s guarded behavior makes writing her stressful in some cases with others because sometimes...if I’m going to be honest...people don’t know how to carry a thread and interact with someone of her demeanor effectively. 

Q6 :   what  do  you  have  in  common  with  your  muse ?       A6 : We’re both black, we’re both into art (although our exact interests and aesthetics with art differ)

Q7 :   how  does  your  muse  feel  about  you ?         A7 : Realistically she would think I need to take better care of myself.

Q8 :   what  characters  does  your  muse  have  interesting  interactions with ?   A8 :  We skippin’ this question.

Q9 :   what  gives  you  inspiration  to  write  your  muse ?       A9 : Films such as, “Waiting to Exhale,” “The Kitchen” and “Widows.” Books by Alice Walker, like “The Third Life of Grange Copeland” as well as her short story, “Roselily.” The historical mob figure Stephanie St. Clair.

Q10 :   how  long  did  this  take  you  to  complete ?       A10 : A few hours.

[forbidding-souda]

jeez, i like this blog. how about writing Soda, Kirigiri, Mukuro, Celeste, Hagakure, Ouma and Kiibo with albino s/o? some cute general hc and some hcs about dealing with their sensetive to sun skin and eyes and weak health at all, and with people who bullying them for their appearance? thanks, have a nice day.

Kazuichi Souda, Kyoko Kirigiri, Mukuro Ikusaba, Celestia Ludenberg, Yasuhiro Hagakure, Kokichi Ouma, and Kiibo with albino S/O

Ya’ll are opening my horizons to different things wait I love this. 

Ever since this request popped into my ask box I’ve been excited to write it sorry it took so long! Kisses xx

-Mod Souda

Kazuichi Souda

He’s basically your designated driver when you need it.

Any questions you have at all about trying to read signs from a distance or if there’s anyone nearby that might make fun of you, he’ll answer you. He’s good at defending you.

Since he’s semi intimidating, if you’re with him, people just think wow look at the alt couple. Some people assume that you don’t naturally look like that, too.

When he first met you, he’d wave to you once you exited school, not realizing you could hardly see him with the sun outside.

You sun burn easily, too, and his first solution to this was to try and get you to wear one of his jumpers.

I mean - yeah but also no.

Once tried to convince you to wear his beanie to but you assured him that that will not protect you from the sun.

Your social scene was never too active because of the way you are. But Souda understand this too, on a less medical sense. 

He always tries to get you to hang around his friends, as well.

He’s always there to remind you that you are not a curse and that he loves you, kissing your skin and holding you close.

Since you were bullied throughout your kid years, when you finally were around his friend group, you were surprised that all of them were nice.

He is a very good person to be with when it comes to things like, of course, being nervous about who you are. 

He’s helpful and will work harder to get money to buy anything you need to help you live more comfortably.

Surprises you with flowers a lot. Not necessarily bouquets but just small flowers lying around your room.

His favorite thing to do is just surprise you with small things hidden around the house. Your favorite drink, small sweats, things that make you happy.

Kyoko Kirigiri

She’s a very intelligent girl, and she holds a lot of power.

“Remember to bring your sunglasses,” she’ll always remind you.

Has extra gloves for you, too.

Requests to change some of the lightbulbs in the classrooms just in case they are the type that hurt you.

She’s also a very good cuddler, too! She’ll run her fingers up and down your arms or play with your hair.

Doesn’t like to go on dates outside, which is fine by you.

Instead of outside dates, she’ll watch your favorite movies with you, or ask you questions to learn more about you.

She’s a curious cat when it comes to what makes you you.

You try to reciprocate the energy, but she doesn’t like to answer all of the questions you give her.

All the questions, all the questions, all the questions! You almost think she’s making a journal about you.

Sometimes she’ll take you out in the night in December, putting Christmas lights around the neighborhood. 

Someone will have to get on the other’s shoulders, often, but that just makes everything so much funner.

Especially when the tiny bit of snow falls from the sky.

Seeing Kyoko in the snow is like watching an angel.

Mukuro Ikusaba

She doesn’t quite understand what albinism means.

But she knows that it’s something serious, and you aren’t like other people.

Anything you tell her she’ll try to remember.

For your birthday, she got you a parasol. It was your favorite color, too! 

Twirling it in your hand while the two of you walk together is everything!

You got her a matching one, too, the both of you can twirl your parasol’s together.

She gets you a lot of random presents, things you don’t even know where she gets it from. Posters of your favorite musicians are you favorites.

When she moves into your house, she adds a lot of decor to your room. Things like plants, adding shelves for her books, and different stuffed animals her sister stole for her when they were homeless.

She’s very much an indoors person, but she is willing to do the shopping and cooking whenever you don’t feel well.

Can carry you, too. She’s surprisingly strong. 

Not that she can carry you, let me correct myself. She will carry you.

Also will fight anyone who disrespects you.

Celestia Ludenberg

She has a collection of parasol’s in her house, and will definitely allow you to dress up in her gothic lolita clothes if you so desired.

She likes touching your skin, too, definitely.

Everything about you is beautiful to her.

Being next to you in public makes her proud that she was able to date someone like you. 

Will help you in any way. 

But she always wants something in return. A kiss, nothing serious. Maybe showering with her if she’s feeling lonely enough.

“You’re invited to the mansion with me when I become rich,” she coos one night, turning to her side to look at you.

To her, the invite was a serious thing. All of her life she dreamed about being alone in the house with all of those boys. But if you’re there with her, then it might be a little better.

She is dreamy when it comes to skincare, and will always massage your face. It’s usually when you come back from being outside, and the sun has bothered your eyes, she will draw her thin fingers across your face to try and ease at least some pain.

But she’s such a drama queen sometimes, wondering why you can’t just go have tea with her sometime. Both of you settled on going when the sun is down, or when the clouds are thick. 

Because tea with her is fun, actually. Makes you tune into your inner lolita subculture.

Yasuhiro Hagakure

He’s a dummy sometimes.

“Hiro, can you grab my sunhat?”

“Sure thing!”

You step outside, asking him where it is.

“I forgot to get it, wait-”

His body is really large, and he can shade you if you get too overwhelmed. Not to mention that he easily drapes his jacket over you, sometimes.

This boy cares a lot!!!!

He listens to your every last word and complaint!! If you are in pain? He’s gonna take you home immediately!

A lot of strangers like to stare at you, sometimes taking pictures without you noticing.

He always calls them out, often yelling in public to defend you.

You defend him, too, sometimes having to bonk people on the head when they gawk at him.

But he’s an outdoorsy fellow when he’s not constantly in fear that the yakuza would kill him.

You don’t get to see him all that often. It’s a little disheartening.

He comes home whenever he can to give you big hugs!

Kokichi Ouma

He’s a little goofer sometimes.

Sometimes you have to go out without him, and it’ll never go well.

You’ll be almost out the door. “Where are my sunglasses?”

“Oh, I don’t know, S/O. Where are they?”

“You little shit.”

He always wants to go with you when you go outside. Just because he likes hanging out with you, also because he thinks your routine is very interesting.

Sneaks up on you all the time. Especially in public. 

It’s your least favorite thing ever when he does it when it’s sunny outside. 

But if someone tries to bother you, though, he will trip them or spit on them or even push them out of the way.

A lot of his DICE members will join in too, terrorizing them even days after. 

Every time he spends the night, he wakes up earlier than you, and always makes you a cup of tea/water/coffee for you when you wake up. 

He definitely gives you hugs from behind, too. Not even to surprise you. He just really likes wrapping his arms around you from that angle.

Draws you little pictures of yourself to leave around the house. It’s weird when he hasn’t came over in a while and yet you still find little post-it notes all over.

Kiibo

He has a very big brain! But he still asks a lot of questions about it.

He makes, almost forces, you to eat a lot of healthy foods so your physical health can improve a bit. It’s very annoying, but you do it for him.

Surprise kisses are what he’s good at! He will wake you up with kisses, give you nightly kisses before he turns off, and give you kisses throughout his day.

And he keeps his eyes on you!! Like all the time!!

Because he worries, and he tries not to let you know, which fails.

“Kiibo, you don’t have to worry.”

“I-I’m not worried! I just... love you a lot.”

You laugh, “you are worried because you love me.”

It makes him blush every time you tell him that. 

He loves you with all of his heart, it’s scary sometimes!

He didn’t think it was possible to love someone so much!

So he likes hearing you say you love him all the time. 

He doesn’t like the sun that much, and his ventures outside are shortlived, so you don’t have to worry about being forced to go out for whatever reason. 

[valaks]

Hey Valaks! I love your blog and your writing!

Please could you do 1, 10 and 18 for the writing asks?? 🌺

Thank you for the ask! I have added a cut to hopefully not be that person clogging up the feed XD

1. Tell us about your current project(s) – what’s it about, how’s progress, what do you love most about it?

I have a few collabs outstanding like Gemini and a Kabir/Alex sequel to Reunion (It’s rated T at the most so still kid friendly) with Lupin and Devil Went Down to Georgia with Galimau. My utter love for both of my collab partners for pulling me through at a time when I’ve been really struggling. I have a WIPs List but I’ll confess to not having touched most of them in quite sometime (partly from life, partly because I’m not sure how interesting they’d be to anyone else other than me which influences my writing more than I would like to admit):

Good Intentions: Smithers never thought he’d be anyone’s moral compass, he was no angel to sit in anyone’s shoulder but trying to keep Alex Rider from following in the ruthless footsteps of his father or worse his former handler, Alan Blunt is as close to hell as he can imagine. (Wherein Alex becomes head of MI6 we watch his morality slip away form the eyes of an increasingly frustrated and heartbroken Smithers - it all culminates when Alex uses a child “just as an informant, simple information gathering” but hidden behind the charming smile of John Rider and the brutal coldness of Alan Blunt’s words is Alex Rider dying as he says them (Smithers just hopes there’s still a part of the boy he once knew in there to mourn)

Walk the Line: Alex thought he was done with SCORPIA. But they kept creeping back into his life in the most unexpected of ways. He thought he could at least count on it being on the other side until he gets teamed up with Walker, his former classmate and current CIA spy. Unfortunately he still hasn’t been able to figure out whose side Walker is really on - attempted deep cover op like his dad, repatriated rogue spy back on the “good” side, or SCORPIA double agent? He doesn’t know but at least he’s nice....in that obnoxious American way.

Temperamental: (Sequel to Sentimental which isn’t all that popular and you would need to read it for the sequel but basically amnesiac Yassen whose memories stop pre John’s betrayal set during the Stormbreaker mission and features him trying to come to grips with the use of chemical weapons against children and how to handle Alex once he snaps back to reality which is where this starts) Yassen had promised Alex Rider that he would be safe from the world of spying but fate had other ideas. In the days after Sarov’s failed plan, Yassen scrambles to find where MI6 have hidden his wayward charge without drawing Rothman’s attention. A request from one of their existing clients to look into suspicious activity at his son’s former school prompts Yassen to investigate under the guise of offering security. He should have known where there was trouble there would be Alex.

10. How would you describe your writing process?

Lordy do I ever not have a good answer for this. Typically it involves an idea hitting me and then the determination: would this idea work better as a short to post on tumblr (because the set up would take away the tension or would require a multi chapter which is not really my strength), as a prompt to lob out into the ether for someone better and brighter to touch on, or a fic. Once fic is decided I determine whose perspective the fic would be the most interesting from either because it would create the most tension or their internal monologue/background knowledge would add the most to it. Then the summary is written and a title is chosen. If it’s something I’m really passionate about and I already have it in my head I tend to write it all in one go, if there’s more I need to chew on then it’s a series of dates with the Evil Writing App. The final determination is whether it’s good enough for Valaks or if it gets sent to an alt account.

18. Do any of your stories have alternative versions? (plotlines that you abandoned, AUs of your own work, different characterisations?) Tell us about them.

Allegedly. I’ll try to go in order of posting -

Ruthless has a sequel where Alex just goes *quiet* once the initial dust as settled it’s unnerving to everyone because they’re not used to having to wonder just what Alex is thinking, at least not behind closed doors but what happened isn’t exactly something that can be recovered from easily, not when Alex isn’t sure who all’s in on it no matter what they’ve told him. Failure is the AU where I considered what would happen to Alex to make him want to torture.

Alibi was originally going to have Yassen show up in the end but I found it far more fascinating if MI6 was just testing Alex so out went Yassen and in went Ben. The sequel to it was torn apart and turned into Warm Reception because I wanted to trope flip SCORPIA comes to Brooklands and decided that it was more logical to have a small fight in Mrs. Bedfordshire’s lobby than anywhere else and I wanted to explore some side characters instead of Ben.

Providence’s sequel thoughts ended up inspiring Gentleman’s Agreement but I did write a small short for it “Yassen and Alex encounter each other on mission. Surprisingly they are working to mostly the same goal - Yassen needs to kill the millionaire who Alex needs to get information from. “I suppose I could answer some questions for you, Sasha. /In Russian/“ “Is now really the time for a language lesson?” he ground out in frustration but the man pointedly ignored him “/Fine but I don’t know some of the words/“ “/Then there is no better way to learn/“

I mentioned the Sentimental sequel but changing Sarov to come first and probable for almost a month before Yassen figures out he’s missing made the most sense. It was also a bit of fun at the Yassen would absolutely take Alex away from MI6....just to throw him in a school and throw away the key. Almost had him send him to Point Blanc but decided that wouldn’t quite fit all that well and wouldn’t be as interesting as if Alex had already gotten his feet back under him with MI6 and now sees that Yassen was right that MI6 would just use him until he’s dead but that doesn’t mean Alex wants to be anywhere near Yassen. Julia Rothman might have other ideas when she finds out what her newest second in command is hiding.

Gentleman’s Agreement.....there’s a lot of thoughts on Sequels and AUs, a lot of them have been written by better people, but that fic was written in 45 minutes so there wasn’t much time to recharacterize or change scenes. It did get Turncoat aka the Alex saves Yassen fic I wanted so badly.

Blood Brothers is a fic I really worked hard on considering how John would feel about his son being thrown into SCORPIA assuming Alex was of age. A rocky marriage was characterization that didn’t quite fit what I imagined would have happened but did fit the story so it stayed in. It was a fic that was supposed to get expanded on - the competition between Hunter and Yassen and Nile and Alex who is desperate to beat his Dad and his “apprentice”. I think two teenagers thrown against each other with a bit of a bone to pick, especially Yassen and Alex who can both hold a grudge even if one runs hot and the other runs cold, would have been compelling and a little fun but the premise and specifically John’s characterization doesn’t quite work out to me.

Found and Legends both have their plotting done but it’ll never see the light of day

Little Moments and Sweetest Thing were my guilty pleasure writing pieces for a while and I have about 1000 DMs of scenes for both of them that are lost to the sands of time and an embarrassing amount of self indulgence

Mates has a follow up ending for those who needed resolution in the comments of it. I’m not sure I did a good job of showing that Tom was in a semi abusive relationship since a lot of people seemed to blame him for him and Alex’s breakup. Most of my headcanons for how their relationship goes have them splitting much sooner just because of Tom’s own home life and either being unable to relate/talk to Alex and drifting away because his Mom throwing a plate at his head isn’t being hung over crocodiles but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt or because Alex is just too dangerous/jumpy to be thrown back into a school environment and lashes out even unintentionally especially not under the pressure of being seen as a failure. School is also a barometer of just how much he’s lost of himself and his childhood, bonus points for Alex being completely upfront with Tom about everything he’s done

In My Sights has an AU where this is all post Christmas at Gunpoint and Yassen is there because he knows Ian is already at Sayle’s factory and will have to be...handled. So two weeks of just getting Alex trained for the protection he might need, connecting him to resources, etc. Ian finding out that Yassen had been there was part of a draft at one point which was included Alex wondering about an all too sincere goodbye from Ian “who never hugged him” but I can’t find the snippet anymore ;__;

A Warm Reception was an alternate version. Originally I wanted it to be Alex watching his last chance at normality slip from his fingers and then the crushing realization that it was something that was his own doing, not even MI6 but Skoda who he had picked a fight with and the accompanying breakdown but then decided that Mrs. Bedfordshire was the right way to go upon writing the summary. Because everyone loves some Outsider POV

Adopted was supposed to be a one chapter throw away trope flip of K Unit adopts Alex. I kept it pretty consistent with Amitai and Lil Lupin’s K Units, tried to add in some more characterization just in how they treated some of the details. It has an alt ending/chapter where they find out Alex is Cub when they pull him from Three’s tender mercies almost by accident. I was persuaded into light humored fluff via guilt trip.

The Truth and Other Deadly Weapons has Ben acting exactly like he think he would in front of everyone but my AU was that this interaction happened in the field and absolutely shattered Ben’s trust in him partly because he had worked for the other side and partly because even if it ‘wasn’t as bad as it looks’ it showed a severe lack of judgment. It also featured several chapters of Alex running into the glass ceiling that is having “Member Malogosto Class of 2004” on your resume. Was going to feature Alex running into Walker as well and into problems within MI6 and the CIA but that was eventually cut and it was kept to one chapter.

Guardian....Guardian holds a very special place in my heart. I was given the prompt of a Monster Fic and I wrote what I knew but the interesting parts were all the ones that come after the story but might come across to a general audience as Hogwarts School of Prayers and Miracles. The plotting done post this was going to feature baby Angel Alex reuniting with his parents but...they were strangers to him and so he stayed with Yassen more and more, followed him, learned from him....it encompassed everything from the dynamics of broken families to reflections on theology and references from the Good Book....which is why it’ll never see the fandom but has a very special place in my heart.

In another, more perfect world Glocking Around the Christmas Tree is the Die hard fic this fandom deserves but as Lupin and I untangled the plot of the movie more and more we just couldn’t make it into anything that would be coherent on paper so it was changed and changed and is now a half finished sad abomination that sits on my works list only because Lupin would kill me if I took it down.

Hot Shot was supposed to feature my current favorite character that is not Nile Abara, John Crawley but I wimped out and changed it at the end because I swore I would write the Crawley fic that we all need. Hear me out: John Crawley knew and worked with John and Ian Rider, was respected by both of them, was recruited by SCORPIA within one year in the field, is the Chief of Staff of MI6, the man who “no one gets a knife in the back without him signing off” and is also the man who walks his dog to check on Alex. There’s a mentorship waiting to happen there, preferably in a nice work study program during college where Alex finally gets to see the repercussions of his missions and Crawley helps try and pull him back from the black mark that SCORPIA would have put on him.

My personal fluffy favorite is the spinoff of Devil Went Down to Georgia where Joe Byrne did pull Alex out post Skeleton Key and brought him home. There’s a pretty extended one about where Tom ends up after Mates. There’s also an actual sequel but ask me no questions and all.

Skipping a few collabs and Febuwhump fics but Burning Questions was just supposed to be Branded - a fic where upon being captured by Razim he is brought in and forcibly branded to differentiate the appearances of Alex and Julius (since Razim has decided to have him killed after shooting the Secretary of State). As a result of the pain levels spiking when Alex actually sees that the SCORPIA logo is branded onto his cheek Razim considers that emotional pain might be something to investigate. There’s a couple thousand words on it, one day I might polish it up.

First Impressions is supposed to be a mirror verse of Alex working for MI6 which includes Three as Blunt, Rothman as Jones and of course Sagitta as K Unit while he’s up against his father as Yassen and Yassen as Crawley. But it was cut down significantly even if the ideas are pretty fun to consider.

Sorry this was probably more than you bargained for but it was fun to get everything out there so thank you for asking

[anneshirleywasmychildhood]

Shirbert, plz.

Coffee shop AU: Who is the barista, and who frequents the coffee shop?

So, first off Gilbert is a sleep deprived doctor who need coffee every three hours or he will literally collapse. It also doesn’t help that the barista in the hospital coffee shop is really pretty. He even talks to her some times if he’s pulling the midnight shift and there’s no one around. She’s going to grad school for creative writting and, ironically, doesn’t drink coffee. Prefers tea apparently. Gilbert is kind of suspicious she might be an alien. 

Next Christmas he gives her a bag of really good earl grey tea. She gives him his large coffee with four shots of expresso on the house. A couple months later she invites him to her birthday party. Well, her friend Diana was there dropping off a dress for Anne to wear when Gilbert came in to get his third cup of coffee and she invited him. It was a flapper dress, since Anne was turning 25 and celebrating her roaring 20s with a roaring 20s party. Later that month he got over his nerves and asked her out. She said yes, and later it is revealed that Bash won the hospital betting pool the doctors and nurses set up.

Highschool/College AU: Who is the straight-A student, and who’s the backrow slacker?

Anne is the straight A student. She raises her hand at every opportunity and knows every answer to every question. Her notes were the most meticulous in the entire school. Gilbert, the exact opposite. He never raises his hand, never takes any notes, and never pays attention either. The weird thing? Anne is only 2nd in her class. Gilbert is first. No matter how hard she tries, he tries less, and she still losses to him. Every single time. It doesn’t help that Mr. Phillips kinda hates Anne and gives Gilbert praise just to spite her. Eventually, they join the debate club and their rivalry goes into overdrive. Well, it’s kind of one sided. Anne tries furiously, Gilbert doesn’t try at all. 

Rivals to loves AU: Who takes their rivalry seriously, and who is half in it just to push the other’s buttons?

Just like above, Anne takes their rivalry very seriously but Gilbert just likes the idea of her thinking about him at all. 

Enemies to lovers AU: Which one switches sides?

Gilbert would do anything for Anne, including changing sides. 

Soulmate AU: Who is eager to meet their soulmate? Who absolutely does not want to meet their soulmate?

Anne wants to meet her soulmate so god damn badly. It’s all she’s dreamed about her entire life. At 12 years old, she waits eagerly with Diana to see the first words he will say to her. Then she sees them. “Carrots.” Her face goes as red as her hair. Diana, well versed in Anne’s self esteem issues, immediately assures her that it might not be as bad as it sounds. A few months later, in a nearby hospital, Gilbert and his father stay up late into the night waiting for the words to appear. “Back off, and leave me alone.” Gilbert didn’t know what to say to that. “Well, at least she knows how to speak her mind,” her father said. 

Two years later, his dad is finally out of chemo and they move out of Charlottetown and back to their small village of Avonlea to a very warm welcome. When Anne first sees him and asks about him (she had come to Avonlea after he had left for Charlottetown.) A very nice boy, apparently. Good, he wasn’t someone who would, for example, call her carrots. Josie sees Anne’s smile and quickly reminds her and everyone else that Gilbert belongs to Ruby (Ruby’s soulmate says “hi” the first time he sees her. It did not narrow it down much, so Ruby decided through the power of delusion that it’s Gilbert). Anne nods, and knows that he’s not her soulmate so she should back off. He sees her too, and is entranced. 

In class, they are reading Pride and Prejudice. Anne is completely absorbed in by the book and Gilbert is completely absorbed by Anne. He tries to get her attention but can’t. He leans over to her desk and in a moment of frustration pulls her hair and calls her “Carrots”. She swivels around and uses the hardcover book she was reading to smack him upside the head. “Back off and leave me alone,” she said instinctively, then realised what he had said. He realised what she had said. A small smile spread across his face as horror consumed hers. 

Gilbert pursues her, knowing that they would end up together. Anne is in totally in denial, insisting that just because hers says carrots and his says back off doesn’t mean they are actually soulmates. Eventually, Anne comes around. They have their first kiss and then get married and no, she never again doubted that they belonged together.

Single parent AU: Which one is the single parent? (Alt. if they’re both single parents: Which one is open to starting a new relationship from the start? Which one is never planning on finding love again… Until they meet the other and are instantly smitten?)

Gilbert is the single father to Delphine. Originally her godfather he was forced to assume the role of single parent when her parents died in a care accident. His entire life revolves around her and he would never do anything to jeopardize her happiness. Which is awful because he has been developing a little bit of a crush on her 4th grade teacher, Miss Shirley-Cuthbert. Featuring a young Delphine that attempts to parent trap her dad and her teacher together. Spoiler alert: it works.

Doctor AU: Which one is the long suffering doctor? Which one is the patient?

We all know this one: Gilbert is a doctor. Anne is his clumsy patient.

Bodyguard AU: Who is the bodyguard? Who are they protecting? Which one is secretly pining for the other?

Anne is a highly successful romance writer. Gilbert is meant to protect her. But he has fallen in love with her, and that’s making his job complicated. Anne has found herself having a “protector” side character in every one of her recent books. There was a white knight in “Midnight at Morningstar Castle” who layed down his life to protect the heroine. The scientist in “Stars Above” spent the entire book keeping the heroine safe and though she was in outer space and could only see him though a tiny screen she described him as “incredibly handsome” three times. “Tough Choices in Tough Times” had the protector in the love triangle this time, since he was a humble farmer in the great depression trying to make sure the heroine didn’t have to sell her farm even though she has feelings for the bank manager’s son and if she accepted his marriage proposal she wouldn’t have to worry about the farm. In the end, the bank manager’s son left the bank to live with her on the farm and work the land with her, but there was a lot of fans who liked the protective farmer better. Now she’s nervous because her next book is straight up about a famous gunslinger meant to escort the young daughter of a not so well liked politician across the country to her new fiancée but ends up leaving him to be with her gunslinger. The thing is, she wrote this alone. She only sees Gilbert whenever she goes on a book our so how does she travel across the country with him in 20-ish different cities across the country without letting him know what the book is about because then he might think it’s about him (it totally is, the cowboy is literally called Gilmore) and wacky highjinks ensues.

Pirate AU: Who is the pirate? Who is the member of the royal family who did not sign up for this?

Anne is a pirate and I'm pretty sure I already started this one.

Childhood best friends AU: Which one was super obviously in love with the other the whole time? Who was oblivious until they were older?

It was super obvious to everyone except Anne that Gilbert was in love with her. But it wasn’t till their 10 year reunion that Gilbert confessed to Anne. The next day, Anne broke off her engagement to Roy and asked him if maybe he still had those feelings. He did. They showed up to their 20 year reunion with 3 children.

[missperfectlyfine13]

A Bandaid For Your Bullet Hole (Chp. 3/?)

Read Below or on AO3/FF 

“Where are you headed? Is Jake coming home this year?” Aubrey’s voice makes Chloe’s head snap up from her suitcase.

She looks over at the confused blonde standing in her doorway. Ok, so she hasn’t told Aubrey that she’s going to Beca’s for Christmas. Something tells her that she would take offense to it, especially with Aubrey’s strong dislike for the freshman girl.

“Nope,” Chloe chirps, stuffing a pile of pajamas into the half empty suitcase.

Aubrey trails farther into the room, taking a seat on the edge of Chloe’s bed, “So where are you going then?”

Chloe swallows nervously, “Um, I’m going to Beca’s for Christmas.”

“Seriously?” there’s a serious sour bite to Aubrey’s tone, one that already has Chloe’s stomach churning, “You know you don’t have to go home with that scraggly little alt girl…you’re always welcome to come home with me.”

“I know, I thought it would be nice…and she offered,” Chloe mumbles, turning her attention back to her packing.

Chloe also hasn’t been very up front with Aubrey about how close her and Beca have become. She’s just tried to keep the peace this year with the way her best friend has been acting.

“Why the sudden change of heart?” Aubrey snaps, “You’ve said no to my offer for the last two years.”

Chloe just shrugs, because honestly, she’s not sure herself.

“Do you like her or something?”

Chloe knows that she’s just trying to figure it out, but she can’t help feeling like this is somewhat of an interrogation. She’s not sure how to respond to the question, so she stays silent, pursing her lips in a way that means ‘I’m done talking’.

Aubrey nods knowingly, her own little frown visible, “She’s with Jesse, you know that right? She’s straight Chloe.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” Chloe mumbles in defeat.

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt…ok?” Aubrey sighs.

“I won’t…I’m going as her friend and nothing more,” Chloe finally zips her very full suitcase up and stands from the floor.

Aubrey looks at her with softer eyes now, “Chlo, I know you. This is probably more harmful than it is helpful.”

“It’s just a stupid crush Bree, I can move past it,” Chloe doesn’t know why she’s defending herself so vehemently.

“Ok, I get it. Just be careful,” the blonde gives her a small smile before standing up and heading out of the room.

Maybe this is a mistake. Chloe knows what is happening. Every time she’s around Beca she feels herself falling just a little more. It’s a very slippery slope she’s on right now, one that ends up with a broken heart. Why is it that she can never help herself though?

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

Surprisingly, Beca talks off Chloe’s ear for a good majority of their flight to Seattle. Chloe had assumed she would put her headphones on and promptly fall asleep. Maybe she’s just as excited as Chloe is…although right now she’s more nervous than anything.

“So, tell me again who’s going to be there…so I don’t mess names up?” it’s probably the fifth time she’s asked it on this flight alone.

Beca chuckles, “Chlo, you don’t have to worry, I’ll introduce you when we get there.”

Chloe’s sparkling blue eyes bore into Beca’s, she hopes she’s getting the message across, “Beca just tell me.”

“Ok fine weirdo,” Beca scoots around so her left shoulder is against the seat and she’s facing Chloe, “my mom, Janette; my step-dad, Peter; and my two brothers, Lucas and Ethan. Lucas is my full brother, he’s 15. Ethan is my half-brother and he is 4. On Christmas day, my grandma and grandpa will be there, as well as my Aunt and Uncle and their families, but I’ll introduce them to you later.”

Chloe shuffles in her seat anxiously, “Ok cool, I’m excited to meet everyone.”

“You don’t have to freak Chlo, they’re super chill and they’re excited you’re coming,” Beca reads her emotions like an open book.

Chloe sighs looking up at the ceiling of the airplane, “You know, sometimes I feel so lost…I just feel like I don’t belong anywhere.”

“I’m sorry,” she can feel Beca’s eyes on her still, “but for what it’s worth, you have me. I know I’m not much, but it’s something, right?”

She knows it’s not how Beca means it, but the statement makes butterflies erupt inside her, “Hey don’t think you’re nothing, I’m so grateful I have you.”

Shortly after their conversation, Chloe falls asleep, her head resting gently against Beca’s shoulder. She finally wakes up to Beca shaking her, telling her they’ve landed in Denver for their connecting flight. They walk sleepily through the airport, and before Chloe knows it they’re back on a plane. They both settle in quickly and Chloe is asleep again, dreaming of a warm fire, mistletoe and Beca’s lips against hers…

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

When they step out of the airport in Seattle, Chloe’s eyes turn into saucers when she sees the white on the ground and the sparkling little flakes falling from the sky. Beca looks at her in amusement as she skips out into the snow, spinning around in a circle.

“Bec isn’t it pretty!” Chloe feels so carefree and happy in the moment, holding out her hand to catch a few flakes, which immediately melt against her skin.

Beca walks out past the overhang to join her, snowflakes immediately clinging to the fabric of her beanie and hair, her cheeks turning red in the chilly air. Chloe can’t help thinking that she looks beautiful.

“It’s alright I guess,” Beca smirks, “I can tell you’re from the south Beale.”

“Beca!” both girls immediately turn their attention to the voice.

A few feet away is a moderately sized blue SUV, a man who looks to be in his late forties stands next to it waving. It must be Peter, Beca’s step-dad. Both girls quickly grab their abandoned suitcases and walk over to the car. Peter looks like a genuine guy, someone that would give you the shirt off his back. He’s smiling at the two girls like he’s been waiting all month to see them.

“Hey Pete, how’s life?” Beca says casually and she throws her bag into the open and waiting trunk.

“Can’t complain, and this must be Chloe,” the man turns to look at Chloe, he’s grinning warmly, he’s got wrinkles by his eyes and a dark bushy beard.

“Yup,” Beca replies, making a popping noise on the “p” of the word.

“It’s nice to meet you!” Chloe chirps pleasantly.

“Nice to meet you too Chloe, I’ve heard a lot about you,” Peter motions to the back seat of the car, “why don’t you two sit in the back, I don’t mind being the driver,” he winks at the two.

Beca and Chloe quickly climb into the back seat of the car and they start down the road. Chloe watches the snow fall as they drive. They get on the highway; she can tell they are heading out of the city. She vaguely recalls Beca saying she lives in a smaller town just outside Seattle itself.

After about 30 minutes of driving, they are pulling up to a cozy looking two story house. Chloe would bet money on it being perfectly decorated on the inside, maybe it even smells like cinnamon or evergreen.

“Alright, here we are, home sweet home,” Pete gestures at the home as he parks the car in front of the garage.

As they step inside, Chloe’s suspicions are quickly proved correct. Off to the right of the entry way, she can see the living room, where a large tree is perfectly decorated. There is garland wrapped around the railing going upstairs and little signs and decorations everywhere…and it does smell like cinnamon.

“Come on, lets take our stuff upstairs before the ambush,” Beca nods her head to the stairs.

Chloe follows Beca closely up the stairs and down the hall. They walk to the end of the hall and Beca pushes open a door she assumes is her room. As they walk in, Chloe drinks in her surroundings carefully. The walls are covered in posters, most of them being about music. There are fairy lights hanging around the top of the ceiling. In the corner there is a fancy looking computer set up. The first thing Beca does is open up her bags containing her music equipment, which she promptly hooks up to the computer.

Chloe gingerly sets her bag down in the corner and takes a seat on the edge of the double bed in the middle of the room.

After Beca has successfully plugged in her equipment she turns around to look at Chloe, almost apologetically, “So, there isn’t really anywhere else for you to sleep but in here…I hope that’s ok. You can share the bed with me or I can get the air mattress down from the attic.”

Chloe tingles with excitement thinking about sleeping next to the brunette, “Oh that’s totes ok. I don’t mind sharing with you, the mattress would probably take up a lot of space in here anyways.”

“Awesome,” Beca looks relieved that Chloe is ok with the sleeping arrangements.

After both girls get settled, they head back downstairs. Unsurprisingly, her entire family is waiting in the living room when they enter. Her mom lights up at the sight of Beca, her brother Lucas gives Chloe a weird look. Little four-year-old Ethan looks like he could care less.

“Beca!” her mom stands up and throws her arms around her eldest child.

Beca grumbles and doesn’t even attempt to wrap her arms around her mom, “You’re squeezing the life out of me.”

“Oh don’t be dramatic,” her mom chuckles, pulling away to look over at Chloe.

“And you must be Chloe,” her mom walks over and promptly pulls Chloe into a hug.

After she recovers from the shock, she does hug back.

“I’m so glad you could come,” her mom pulls away from the hug, she says it so genuinely that Chloe truly believes she’s excited that a strange girl has invaded their family holiday, “Lucas, come say hi to your sister and Chloe.”

Lucas stands up slowly, very much fitting the angsty teenager profile. He looks so much like Beca that Chloe swears they could be twins if it wasn’t for the four-year age difference.

“Sup Bec,” he nods at his sister, then raises his eyebrow at Chloe, “so are you my sister’s girlfriend?”

If Chloe has been eating or drinking anything it would be sprayed all over the fifteen-year-old. Beca emits a quiet squeaking noise, the tips of her ears turning red.

“Lucas, you know Beca is dating Jesse, remember we told you?” Beca’s mom steps in before either of the two have to answer.

“Oh yea, I forgot about that,” Lucas stalks back to his spot on the sofa, sliding his earbuds back in his ears as he goes.

They talk to Beca’s family for a little bit, but Chloe is barely focused enough to answer their questions. Most of the time she ends up needing them to repeat themselves. She plays it off as jet lag. Truthfully, her mind is spinning with the probability that Beca is not as straight as her or Aubrey thought. Her brother wouldn’t have asked about a girlfriend if she was completely straight.

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

Beca looks nervous as she shuts the door behind them. Chloe sits down on the bed and watches as Beca paces back and forth a few times before settling down next to the red head. Beca had seemed a little anxious all night, so Chloe was glad when it was late enough for them to head upstairs for bed.

“So after all that I have a little bit of explaining to do,” Beca plays with her hands that are sitting her lap, “you know how my brother asked if you were my girlfriend?”

Chloe nods anxiously, trying to cover up how excited she really is.

“Just to clarify, I dated girls in high school…he was so used to seeing me with girls, he just assumed I guess…I’m bi,” Beca stammers nervously.

Chloe nods knowingly, “I kind of assumed so after he said that.”

“You’re not weirded out…like weird about sleeping in the same bed as me, are you?” Beca looks genuinely concerned and it almost breaks her heart.

She shakes her head stiffly, “Of course not. Beca…you aren’t a predator, you just like girls. You aren’t going to feel me up in my sleep…unless you wanted to of course,” she throws the brunette a wink, successfully turning her face red.

“Ok good,” Beca rubs the back of her neck, “I just dealt with a lot of judgement from the girls in high school, I forget that most people are pretty chill.”

“I would never judge you Bec, it would be pretty damn hypocritical,” Chloe flashes her a soft, comforting smile, “I’m not as straight as you think.”

“Really?” Beca looks genuinely surprised at the admission.

“I’ve never officially dated a girl, but I’ve thought about it…I’ve fooled around with girls,” Chloe isn’t afraid to admit the fact, she never has been.

The information seems to floor Beca a little, only a high pitched, “Oh, ok,” manages to escape.

“Thank you for sharing with me Bec,” Chloe reaches her hand out to lay it softly over Beca’s, “thank you again for all of this, for inviting me here.”

“Anytime Chlo,” it looks like she’s going to say more but instead yawns loudly.

Chloe is yawning right after her and she suddenly realizes how heavy her limbs feel, and how soft the bed beneath her is, “Maybe we should get some sleep, it was a long day.”

Beca nods in agreement, “I’m all for that.”

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

Chloe wakes up earlier than she’d like the next morning. The sun is barely peaking through the blinds and Beca is softly snoring next to her. Her eyelids are heavy, like she could fall back asleep if she wanted, but something…well more someone, prevents her from doing so.

Beca ended up turning around in her sleep, so her face is lined up with Chloe’s. She slid impossibly close to her bedmate, not on purpose, but Chloe can practically feel her warm breath on her face. The proximity of the younger girl makes Chloe’s heart hammer in her chest. Her hair is practically on top of her head, wild from sleep, Chloe thinks it’s adorable. She takes the time to study Beca’s face, she ends up staring at the soft lines and plumpness of her lips, wishing she could lean forward and softly peck them.

Maybe Aubrey was right…maybe this trip is more harm than it is good. She does know that Beca isn’t straight now, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s still with Jesse. Chloe has to respect that, as much as she’d like to shoot her shot with the freshman girl.

She’s not sure how long she watches Beca, but the sun is finally pouring through the cracks of the blinds when Beca finally starts stirring. Chloe snaps her eyes shut, not wanting to get caught staring. She hears Beca groan and feels the bed shift next to her, so she slowly lets her eyes flutter back open.

“Mm, good morning,” Beca yawns sleepily when Chloe’s eyes are completely open.

“Morning,” Chloe replies, her voice still surprisingly gravely from sleep.

“You sleep ok?” Beca asks as she rolls onto her back.

Chloe slowly sits up, the warm cocoon of blankets falling down past her torso, “Yea, definitely, how about you?”

Beca stretches lazily, her legs popping out from under the covers and her arms raising above her head, “Slept great. I’m ready for a day of fun!”

“You have something good planned?” Chloe asks excitedly.

“Well, since it snowed quite a bit yesterday…I thought we could go sledding, then maybe head into the city for a while?” Beca asks, more then tells, clearly wanting Chloe to be on board with her plans.

“Sounds great Bec,” Chloe is already beaming thinking about sledding, she’s only ever done it once before and she barely remembers.

“Cool,” Beca smiles right back at her.

If Chloe’s being honest, she doesn’t care what they do, as long as it’s with Beca. Shit, she really is screwed…

[muffinrecord]

1. How does your OC feel about their Doppel? Do they spend magic recklessly because they know they won’t become a witch, or are they afraid of their inner darkness?

Alta really dislikes it. She already has enough bad thoughts on her own, she doesn’t need a doppel tempting her with chaos too. She just wants to be good, but her doppel wants her to go back to being mean...

2. Your OC just arrived in Kamihama. Yachiyo shows up and tells them they need to leave, or else she’ll fight them to see if they’re strong enough to stay. How does your OC react?

Alta tells Yachiyo off (possibly with rude hand gestures) and fights her. Yachiyo wins. Alta is very upset by everything. Yachiyo is now number one on Alta’s enemy list and she instigates fights every time she sees her.

3. Your OC is fighting a difficult witch. It’s getting dangerous-- your oc could die at any moment. Do they try to run away or fight? How do they react?

I think Alta would keep fighting. It wouldn’t even cross her mind to run away and save herself. She’d be too caught up in figuring out what to do and how to beat the witch, sort of like a game, and forget that she could back out. I don’t mean this in some sort of noble way either-- she just gets caught up in the moment easily.

4. Your OC is eating at Banbanzai’s! What do they think of the food?

Alta eats nothing but stale potato chips and over-microwaved ramen. She’s pretty stoked to have a restaurant meal and rates it a 10/10.

5. A grief seed drops, and another stubborn magical girl tries to fight your OC over it. Both of you are in danger of becoming a witch. What does your OC do?

Alta can purify her own soul gem but... If she met someone stubborn, she’d probably rise to that stubbornness. If she ended up winning the argument and got the grief seed she’d celebrate for like five seconds before realizing “oh yeah i don’t need this” and give it back. 

The important thing though is that she could have had it if she wanted to.

If she failed at the argument then she’d add that magical girl to number two on her enemy list, after Yachiyo.

6. What school would your OC go to if they lived in Kamihama? (List of schools here).

Alta would definitely be in the Daito Academy. She doesn’t bother going to school anymore though, unless she gets dragged in by her little sister. She’s failing most of her classes.

7. Your OC fell asleep and somehow landed in medieval France! How do they react to Tart and co? Do they want to join up with the villains instead?

Alta does not recognize anyone (failing her classes remember) and has no idea about France’s old war. She doesn’t want to help any side and spends most of her time walking off in fields, cursing herself and her bad luck at getting stuck here. If the Plot requires her to do something, expect her to do it begrudgingly. 

8. Your OC is going to get an Variant Alt! What kind of Alt is it? Halloween? April Fools? Christmas? Something else?

Halloween Alta, who is wearing a skeleton costume. All of her battle lines are puns about bones. Alta doesn’t even like puns.

9. What character in the game would your OC be able to trust most easily?

Mayu. Alta is an idiot when it comes to pretty girls, and she promptly makes a fool of herself.

10. It’s time to use your OC’s Magia! What is it called and what does it do?

“Alpha Aquilae!” Alta points to a target, and a lightning bolt is dropped by an eagle, frying whoever is down below. She thinks it's the coolest thing ever and does a little victory dance if it lands.

[fly-pow-bye]

DuckTales 2017 - “How Santa Stole Christmas!”

Story by: Francisco Angones, Madison Bateman, Colleen Evanson, Christian Magalhaes, Bob Snow

Written by: Colleen Evanson

Storyboard by: Sam King, Kathryn Marusik, Stephan Park

Directed by: Jason Zurek

The Last Christmas...episode of DuckTales 2017.

Twas the night before Christmas, and all throughout the night, The kids are reminded of Scrooge and Santa's fight. Previous episodes have brought up Scrooge's Santa furore And this is the episode where we get the whole story.

The episode starts with Della, tucking her children into bed, Feeding them stories to put in their head. It's not the usual story, as her children moan, but reasons for that old elf to not be allowed in their home.

But outside of Webby, the kids aren't Santa-haters Even if he's known by the McDucks for being among traitors They hear thumps on the roof, and the kids will go to the Manor's ceiling, where they see a shadow

As the figure shows himself, their childlike wonder was not blessed...

...as it was someone else whose name starts with S.

Scrooge was preparing his defenses against any reindeer, and ensuring on Christmas, no Claus will be near. He ensures the kids they don't need him, as he is rich. See, he's able to give them all hats that itch.

It's practical, he says, though the kids think it's lame As they wanted a trampoline, a cell phone, and a video game. Before Scrooge can explain, he hears the doorbell. Carolers, Scrooge assumes, and the lies that they tell.

He opens the door, Webby readying weapons she possessed and it turned out to be our jolly old guest. Scrooge grits his teeth, and the children shout with glee...

...and then Santa falls down, nearly crushing Dewey.

It's here that I realize this rhyming is annoying you, and that's okay, because I'm getting tired of it, too. I can really only do this for a short review-ey, So the rest of this are normal paragraphs, ah phooey.

So Santa falls down and breaks his leg, and even Scrooge, with his pretty low opinion on Santa Claus, is concerned for his well being. He even has to motion to Webby to put down her grappling hook that she was apparently was preparing to put into Santa's chest. She then slowly brings out a sword. It's a joke on the same level as that spork one from a previous episode; it's a classic Webby moment.

After hearing that Frank Sinatra-esque Christmas-themed opening from the last Christmas episode, now with 100% more Della, Santa wakes up near the chimney fire. I like the detail that it's barred up to prevent Santa's usual Christmas travel, though as I was told as a kid who lived in a house that didn't have a chimney and this episode proves, he can use a door just fine. In this universe, he's real, and he proves this by giving Huey, Dewey, and Louie their video game, trampoline, and cell phone, respectively. He tries to do the same with Webby, but she pretends to like her hat better. Got to look good for the man she idolizes, after all.

That man, Scrooge, decides to reveal exactly what Santa did to get his ire: he stole something from him. All but one of the kids can't believe it, and the one exception couldn't figure out exactly what that something could be. Don't worry, this is not going to become one of those Christmas Carol pastiches, as DuckTales 2017 is a lot more clever than that and didn't feel like competing with that rat that must not be named. Instead, it's more like Santa Claus is Coming To Town, where we get to hear the origin of the holiday that Scrooge says was stolen from him. The title isn't wrong, it really is actually Santa that stole Christmas this time!

Santa doesn't have time for this, as he needs to get Christmas finished before sunrise. It is still Christmas Eve, after all. He asks Scrooge, with his belt so tight, to drive his sleigh tonight, and it takes some begging from Huey, Dewey, and Louie for him to oblige. Well, that, and Santa offers him to never come to the McDuck Manor if he does the deed. That's not the only offer, as Santa decides to tell the kids a story I thought would be the noodle incident of the cartoon.

The story begins with Scrooge during one of his business stints, selling heat-giving coal to the populace of a snow-filled village, with no buyers in one particular cottage. He finds a polar bear with a sleigh singing about bells that jingle, and Scrooge comes over to help him out. Introducing himself as Santa Claus, Scrooge finds out that he does have similar goals, though Santa prefers to warm people's hearts with toys rather than coal. Santa tries that same cottage, offering a gift for free, and they happily let him in, and he was so kind that they even allow him to bring that guest that was yelling at them to buy his coal.

The big guy ends up being the life of the party at the cottage with his new hit song, filled with people of short stature with colorful costumes, until the fire burns out. Scrooge's coal ends up saving the party, though Santa had to use his own way of selling it by just grabbing it right out of his bag and throwing it in the fireplace. This warms the hearts and the house of the cottage dwellers, though Scrooge could tell it's more because he's a friend of that jolly guy than anything else. It's quite clear Scrooge has more reason to start his hatred of that red guy beyond being named after that classic Christmas-time villain.

The hatred doesn't start just yet, though, but he is a little bewildered by an idea that Santa Claus has: not only does he want to bring this heat source to this cottage and the people who were just visiting it, but to everyone in the world in one night! Scrooge knows this is impossible, but Santa feels he knows some way he can do this. This begins a brand new friendship, and this is where Webby is confused.

Webby: Wait, Scrooge doesn't have any friends!

Understandably, Goldie is more of a frenemy, being friends with Launchpad is far too easy to count, and it's debatable if anyone is Gyro's friend, either.

We cut to what's happening in the present, where Scrooge gets on the sleigh with all of the reindeer kids would know. All the kids know Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen. If they think of any other reindeer's name, well, let's let another Christmas special sort that one out:

Olive, the other reindeer: By the way, where's Rudolph?

Comet: There's no Rudolph. It's just one of those urban legends.

Along with Santa and himself, Scrooge decides to only let the one kid who knows Santa is a fraud, Webby, on the sleigh. The kids protest, and Santa implies to them that if they go to bed, they would be on the nice list. They already got their gifts, and if Santa ends up doing his end of the bargain, it wouldn't even matter, but the nephews decide to go back to bed. One could argue that Santa could boop his nose and instantly turn the video game, cell phone, and trampoline into coal, and that one is confusing this episode with another special with siblings that wear the primary colors.

As the reindeer fly into the sky, Webby continues her anti-Santa creed, saying that she wouldn't be wooed by dolls, candles, or crossbows. That last one does end up piquing Webby's interest enough, and Santa does reveal that, yup, that's what she was getting. Scrooge tells Santa it's going to take more than that, and Webby isn't trying too hard to prove that's true. In fact, she actually blurts that she's worried that Santa wouldn't be able to finish Christmas in time, and Santa tells her, and it's all because of another artifact from that legendary Finch journal. No, I'm just kidding, there's no journal in this episode; along with the Halloween episode that also doesn't feature it, this episode was written before anything else in this season.

That artifact is the Feliz Navidiamond, a diamond that can slow down time to the point where the mission to give coal to everyone on Earth is a possibility rather than pure fantasy, and Scrooge happens to have a map that leads right to it. Said map leads to Cascabel Cavern, a cavern known for having creatures of legend defend it, including the Los Renos Voladores. Those who know their Spanish, as Scrooge does, may see where this is going. Santa didn't just have the flying reindeer show up at his doorstop one day, he had to encounter them at the cavern along with his new friend. While Scrooge attempts to use his cane to fend one of them off, he notices that Santa appears to be taming the flying beasts with his jingle bells. Again, the contrast between the charitable and caring Santa and the practical yet uncaring Scrooge shows itself here, along with the contrast between how much they're enjoying this partnership.

Webby says she can figure out why Santa decided to keep them, as reindeer are known for their long horns and good efficiency. Scrooge asks her why she even cares about this, and Webby, once again, tries to say that his fantastic flying reindeer aren't really her thing. For a super-spy in training, she is surprisingly bad at this. Her Santa hatred breaks throughout the episode as she slowly develops from someone who blindly goes with what Scrooge says to realizing that this elf may be a little more than what her idol says he is. I could see parallels with this character arc in this one episode and her development from the sheltered Scrooge fangirl who can't figure out how the real world works of Season 1 to the caring girl with some Scrooge fangirl tendencies she is in Season 3, and that's neat to see. I do think her just blindly believing in Scrooge’s stories in the beginning is a little bit of a negative, though.

While the story is happening, the episode decides it's montage time. To the tune of Scrooge's least favorite song, guess which one, we see Webby and Scrooge give gifts to various people, including Webby taking her time to give both Violet and the still-looking-like-she-did-before-that-one-episode Lena a kiss, though the latter is understandable because, as mentioned before, they wrote these holiday specials first. We also get an extended scene where Scrooge has to wade through all the Beagle Boys in the naughty list to give a gift to Bouncer Beagle, who somehow managed to get on the nice list. I did question at first how time appears to be flowing quite well in these scenes judging by the giftee's reactions, but I could understand that the Feliz Navidiamond only works when they're on the sleigh. After Santa saves Scrooge from the Beagle Boys, he says they're even, referring to something that happened after the taming of the not-Rudolphs.

In the Cascabel Cavern, we get to see the rise of a guardian, who some people might call Jack Frost though they don't call it that. No, not the Jack Frost from those guardians, I say to the people who still remember that movie exists.

No, it's a Jack Frost like the movie with the snowman. I'm sure Santa could sense that Michael Keaton film from nearly a century later, as he tries to calm the roaring snowman with a delightful gift. Hopefully it's Campbell's Soup, and then we'll find out inside that guardian was just a really, really cold little boy that's mother decided to leave out in the cold for way too long. Unfortunately, that too was the wrong Jack Frost, as this one's more like the 1997 one that had 100% less Michael Keaton and 100% more killer snowmen.

We get our big fight scene of the week, as Scrooge rescues Santa by pelting the snowman with his flaming coal, riding a flying reindeer. Which reindeer is it? It's so awesome, nobody really needs to care. With this help, Santa grabs onto the Feliz Navidiamond, slowing down time to the point where it almost seems like time has stopped, and they can just waltz out of the cave with it. In their words, they're running on Christmas time. I should point out that they don't create Christmas, as they refer to it all throughout this flashback, they just create the tradition that happens on Christmas. They don't go further than that, and that's all I will say on that subject. Rule of three dictates that there should be some other monster after this, and...well, let's just say the next enemy Christmas has to face may not be a monster or some animals with abilities beyond regular animals.

As Scrooge leaves to deliver one final Christmas present, telling Webby to keep a present as he's got it, Webby decides to ask one question that's been on her mind: why would Santa do all of this without getting paid? Santa replies that he gets the greatest gift of all, and I jokingly thought this was going to lead to him talking about the Santa Bills that he sends to the children's parents. Of course, that would deter kids from asking for those Disney playsets, so we get a heartwarming speech from Santa about Christmas being about the warmth of the heart one gets from giving gifts. A much better alternative, I'd say, it's a good speech and one fitting for a Christmas special.

There is one major thing in this Christmas origin story that hasn't been brought up yet: how did Santa giving coal to everyone to warm up their homes become only giving coal to the bad children and giving toys to the good children? They really only show the idea of the latter once, with Doofus getting a nasty looking box in his stocking, and even then, it doesn't look like coal.

The next Christmas, Scrooge barges in the door, singing his own version of Jingle Bells involving his favorite practical black rocks, and Santa has a small suggestion to make about Christmas. Instead of just giving out coal, why not bring them a special surprise on Christmas morning: a special gift for free as a promotion for their coal distribution business! Scrooge immediately balks at the idea of giving out handouts. Oh, rich people. This eventually leads to Scrooge getting into a big fight with Santa, and they break up.

This isn't the monster part, as that happens much later in the history of Christmas. In fact, they're remembering it right now, as they find that Santa's sack appears to be still filled with Christmas presents. If those are the presents with all the toys, what did they gave the children? No, not just a practical gift meant to warm people's homes rather than their hearts...

...but a practical gift meant to warm people's homes rather than their hearts and an invoice for it, too! We even fade to Scrooge, making a rather evil grin that feels like it came from another famous Christmas special. He really is a mean one, Mr. Scrooge. Now, being an outright villain may seem a bit out of character for him; he's usually only a villain when he has to play one in a wrestling ring. But, come on, do you expect a guy named Scrooge to be the good guy in a Christmas story, never mind give out handouts? I will say that his evil grin does go against any interpretation that he's doing this for good, as he implies. I mean, he's so much of a Grinch...

...he even has his own Cindy Lou Who named Jennifer, a poor girl in desperate need for anything, including warmth. She even takes this lump of coal he gives her and turns it into a toy. She's that desperate for some warmth in her heart, and no speech from Scrooge about how practical that coal could be to warm her home could change that. It doesn't take a genius to find out if this causes Scrooge's heart to grow three sizes.

To make a long story short, we get another speech from Santa about why he even bothered to have Scrooge help him, and there's even another twist about Santa here that makes this trip just that much more special. The ending is quite clever, too, and it does fit into the family side of the Christmas tradition. Since this is most likely the last DuckTales 2017 Christmas episode, it's a great ending in many ways.

How does it stack up?

I was greatly entertained as this episode arrived, As I humbly give this episode a Scrooge number of five. Now I'll say, to everyone reading this site, Happy holidays to all, and to all a good night.

Well, that's it for now, as DuckTales enters yet another hiatus. In fact, this is the last big review I'll make this year. Have a Slightly Better New Year, because it sure couldn't be worse than this one.

← The Fight For Castle McDuck! 🦆 Beaks in the Shell! →

[consultingsister-aa]

five times kissed (seb and cee but alt politics for spice)

THIS MEME for: @epiitaphs verse: alt poltical 

I.

It had started on their very first lecture with Professor Campbell. Celia has answered his question with ease, she knew all the dates, all the facts, all the names. She was just getting ready to bask in the glory of already identifying herself as best in the class when a voice, a male voice, two rows back started.

“Actually, wasn’t it Nicholson, not Nicholas?”

It was a ridiculous, unimportant fact. There was no need for him to even point it out; it didn’t change any fo the facts of the case. As Celia turned to shoot daggers at the boy, he smiled at her. Not a friendly, apologetic smile but a gloating, lazy grin. She hated Sebastian Moran.

Over the term, they continued in this fashion. Every time Celia or Seb raised a hand to answer a question, the other would sit up, lean closer, wait for someone to slip up. If there was nothing to be corrected, they offered a rebuttal. “While I see where Miss Holmes is coming from…” matched “I can understand where Moran would get that idea, however…”. It was a careful and considered game of intellectual tennis and no one was enjoying it quite as much as each other.

Six weeks in, Campbell would pause after every comment made by either and look to the other. On their final day in class before the Christmas break, after Celia had offered an almost perfect argument for the case, Campbell looked to Seb. As did Cee. Seb simple raised his hand and offered a shrug. “I think she’s right.”

Celia was furious.

They had never spoken outside of class before, other than to offer snide remarks as they waited outside the lecture hall. She found out where his room was from a friend and, upon finding it, knocked gently. And then harder. And then, harder still, banging her fist against the door. She could hear him shouting I’m coming, I’m coming from inside but continued to hammer, until he yanked the door open. As he took her in, that stupid arrogant smile returned.

“What did you mean when you said, I think she’s right? What did you mean by that?”

Seb gave a disbelieving laugh. “That you were… correct? Do you want to have a fight over that?”

“No, but you fight me on everything else. So why not today?”

“I thought you were right today.”

Celia gave a furious little huff and stormed away from his door, only to storm right back to him. “You know what I think? I think-- I think you’re an arsehole, with no manners.”

“Yeah? Well, I think you’re a spoiled brat who’d never heard the word no, in her life.”

Cee steps closer to him, teeth bared in a snarl. In fact, she’s so close she needs to tilt her head to talk to him. There are only a couple inches in their heights, but with their chests nearly touching, it matters. “I am cleverer than you. I will do better than you. I will bury you.”

His smile doesn’t drop as she hoped, in fact, he arches an eyebrow. “Is that a promise, Holmes?”

An actual growl escapes her before she throws her arms around his neck and smashes her lips against his. He reciprocates, despite himself maybe and before long, he’s letting her pushing him back into his room, slamming the door behind her. A whole semester of foreplay had been leading to that moment and they did not disappoint.

II.

Celia loved being married. Although she had not taken her husband’s name, there was something in the way her lecturers said Ms. instead of Miss that set her apart from her fellow students; especially the girls. It was that drawn-out zzz sound that did it. She was a head above the rest of them; one step closer towards the finish line. When her friends said boyfriend, she might have laughed at them, how immature. How childish. They wouldn’t know until they knew.

And this wasn’t all in her head either. Despite themselves, despite their education and personal ambition, the girls around Cee felt it too. Celia knew things they wouldn’t know for years; the secrets of a wife. Even though some of the girl’s condemned marriage as a modern form of slavery they too fell into the trappings of 1950. Everything had changed and nothing had. When Celia lay out her hand on the table, catching her ring in the light, they sighed enviously as Celia had hoped. What did it matter about her masters in law, when she had a man. Personally, she’d rather have the degree but she knew, as she moved forward in life, it would be her ability to find, capture and keep a man that everyone would be really impressed by.

It was for this reason that they gathered with her outside the lecture hall, where she had agreed to meet Seb on that Friday night. They wanted to be witnesses to it, as if being in close proximity to a married couple brought them closer towards marital bliss themselves. Cee didn’t say very much. She played it off as unbothered coolness but in reality, she was distracted by the conversion by her own excitement. It wasn’t exactly Seb she was excited for, but just to be seen with him again. To become the weekly gossip; what did Cecelia do with her husband this weekend? They all wanted to know what these strange married creatures do.

“Oh, is that him now?” A friend piped up, trying to cough over her excited squeal. Cee might have laughed at her; as if you don’t know. She looks up and lazily closes her book.

“Yeah. Alright, see you on Monday.”

“Are you not coming to Sunday study night then?”

“Oh, I forgot. I’ll see what Seb is doing. I actually might need to go into the city with him for a dinner with his boss, or something.” She rolls her eyes to make it look like she can’t be bothered with it. It’s not even true, there was a dinner the week and no partners were invited but it gave Celia a prick of pleasure to imagine them all discussing it at the Sunday study night.

She doesn’t run into his arms, instead closing the gap between them with a slow, casual walk and an easy smile. They were close enough that Seb could call out to the other girls and wave. It was nice of him to throw them a bone, Cee thought.

When she did greet him, it was with a hand on the back of his neck so she could pull him down for a long, deep kiss. In fact, knowing the girl’s eyes were on them, she stayed longer than normal.

“What was that for?” Seb asked, pulling back from her.

“Nothing. Just happy to see you. How was your train?”

III.

It wasn’t fair to say that Cee and Seb weren’t affectionate. Sure, they didn’t hold hands unless they needed to and loving embraces tends to either come before or after sex but they had their moments. People noticed the way, if Seb was setting, Celia would stand behind him and squeeze his shoulders. Or, if something thrilling, shocking or wonderfil happened, they would immediatly look towards one another, if to check in, or delight in it. And while they slept on the same side of the bed due to the fact Seb refused to get buy a double bed for the four years they slept together in university, they still did it. They had to count for something. There was cards or flowers or weekly dates but that didn’t mean there wasn’t love. Cee loved Seb more than anyone in the world and she was quiet confident he felt the same way.

Which is what made Katherine’s death all the harder. A casm had opened up between them and she saw no real way to get over it. The evening they had returned home to an empty nursery, Celia had feverishly Googles how she was supposed to feel; how to deal with the loss of a child; the staged of grief. Her own feelings didn’t align with any of them.

What she really felt was annoyance. The plan that they had agreed to had fallen apart. All that work for nothing. And there was now a black stain on her history. A bump on the road. They would have to tell people, for the next couple weeks, everyone would skirt around her like she was a wounded animal they didn’t know what to do with. How did you comfort Cecelia Holmes when she had no interest in being comforted? How to comfort Sebastian Moran, then?

She stood in the baby pink bedroom, gripping onto the cot rail, willing herself to feel the loss. The sweet little baby; that looked like every other bbay she had ever seen. So a future lost; one likely filled with trauma and resentment, with her as a mother. She banged her palm against the wood and swore. It was only then she realised Seb was behind her. Her movement was guilty, spinning around and holding her hands begind her back as if she had something to hide.

“I was just thinking of packing some things away.” She cleared her throat, motioned around the room. “I’ll ask someone if there is somehwere we could send it. Thinking of others in our time of grief, it’s a good look.” She could hear herself plotting and regretted it but it was all she wad capable of. Celia let go of the cot and moved to hold him, her arms around his shoulders, her mouth at his ear. “We’ll get through this. I think it was meant to be this way; just the two of us.” She almost said she preferred it this way but that felt too harsh; too soon. “If you need to talk to someone, perhaps you should? Better to deal with it now then have it drag out.”

When she pulled back, she held onto his face, more tired than she had seen it in a long time and she knew she was getting it all wrong. Cee, who always knew what to say, had nothing. So she kissed him instead and tried, probably failing, to put more into it than she could manage. The key phrase however was, I’m sorry. Sorry she’s not a good wife, sorry their child died and she’s talking about press opportunities, sorry he got his hopes up, sorry nothing will come of this.

IV.

“--THE PRESS ASSOCIATION IS REPORTING MULTIPLE CASUALTIES AND UNCONFIRMED FATALITIES JUST OUTSIDE THE HOUSE OF COMMONS--”

“Sydney, turn that up, turn that up!”

The TV’s picture, perched on top of a filing cabinet only offered shaky phone camera footage of the street Celia knew well. In fact, with one of the sudden movements upward, she was sure she could see Seb’s office window. The clipped tones of the BBC new anchor filled the room.

“--IS UNDERSTOOD THAT THE LONE MAN DROVE INTO A CROWD OF PEOPLE OUTSIDE PALACE OF WESTMINSTER AND THEN CONTINUED ON FOOT, WHERE HE BEGAN STABBING--”

“Call my husband, call him now, his mobile.”

Celia is already pulling on her jacket, eyes glued to the TV but listening out for the rings. By the third ring, she’s heading to the door. Usually, no rings meant he was in a meeting; the phone was on don’t disturb and she’d have to call back another two times for it to even go through; something she hadn’t ever had to do yet. If he was talking with someone, briefly, he would hang up after one ring. Past three rings, with no pick up? She didn’t remember the last time.

“Cee, you shouldn’t go into--” Syd stood up behind her desk but Cee held up a hand.

“Text me if there are any updates worth knowing. Call him again, keep calling him.”

There was no point trying to get a taxi, if there really was a terrorist attack happening in the middle of the city, it would be gridlock and the police wouldn’t be letting anyone in any way. So she would walk the twenty minutes to Seb’s office; she could cut it down to fourteen minutes if she kept up her brisk walk, ocassiaonlly, if panic set in, a restrained run.

Police tape, camera crews, ambulances and armed police officers surrounded most parliamentary buildings. The end of street was cordoned off but from her vantage point, she could see at least three sheets covering bodies. It was ridiculous to imagine Seb under one of them but it’s exactly where her mind went. She couldn’t explain it, not even to herself but she’d had a nagging feeling all day that something terrible was gong to happen, not just this, in London, but to her personally. She stares, unseeing at one of the sheets before a voice drifts across to her, one of the offers. “--Moran is going to--”

“What did you say?” She barks at him and a man seems to used to follow commands to argue with her, although she seems to have also scared him. “What did you say about Moran?”

Sheepishly, he draws closer. “Only that Mr Moran was directing his staff to--”

“To where?” Of course, of course, he’s alive. “Where is he?”

“I think they were going to Lady Chapel,” and then, as an afterthought, “ma’am.”

Celia didn’t hang around any longer that she needed to. She didn’t know why she ran this time, heels hitting the pavement with an ungodly amount of noise. If Seb was well enough to be directing people somewhere, there was no real need to worry. But something had shaken her when she had heard the news. It was the first time she had really considered what it might be like if Seb did die. They had been partners, in one way or another, for nearly fifteen years and all her future plans and hopes were pinned upon him.

She rounded the corner and stopped to catch her breath, smooth out her coat, look less worried. When she looked up, she saw him immediately; standing by the church’s doors, talking seriously with a police chief. He only glanced in her direction and had to do a double-take.

“What are you doing here?” Seb asked, moving over to her.

“You weren’t answering your phone.” Annoyingly, she’s still breathless.

“Bit of an emergency. Did you run?”

Maybe to avoid the embarrassing question, maybe because she was so relieved to see him standing, she threw her arms around him and kissed him, with slightly more passion than normal. She couldn’t say for sure, but she thought Seb kissed her back with a matched ferocity and held her a little tight than normal too. Maybe he was glad to see her too.

[path-of-my-childhood]

Taylor Swift: ‘I was literally about to break’

By: Laura Snapes for The Guardian Date: August 24th 2019

Taylor Swift’s Nashville apartment is an Etsy fever dream, a 365-days-a-year Christmas shop, pure teenage girl id. You enter through a vestibule clad in blue velvet and covered in gilt frames bursting with fake flowers. The ceiling is painted like the night sky. Above a koi pond in the living area, a narrow staircase spirals six feet up towards a giant, pillow-lagged birdcage that probably has the best view in the city. Later, Swift will tell me she needs metaphors “to understand anything that happens to me”, and the birdcage defies you not to interpret it as a pointed comment on the contradictions of stardom.

Swift, wearing pale jeans and dip-dyed shirt, her sandy hair tied in a blue scrunchie, leads the way up the staircase to show me the view. The decor hasn’t changed since she bought this place in 2009, when she was 19. “All of these high rises are new since then,” she says, gesturing at the squat glass structures and cranes. Meanwhile her oven is still covered in stickers, more teenage diary than adult appliance.

Now 29, she has spent much of the past three years living quietly in London with her boyfriend, actor Joe Alwyn, making the penthouse a kind of time capsule, a monument to youthful naivety given an unlimited budget – the years when she sang about Romeo and Juliet and wore ballgowns to awards shows; before she moved to New York and honed her slick, self-mythologising pop.

It is mid-August. This is Swift’s first UK interview in more than three years, and she seems nervous: neither presidential nor goofy (her usual defaults), but quick with a tongue-out “ugh” of regret or frustration as she picks at her glittery purple nails. We climb down from the birdcage to sit by the pond, and when the conversation turns to 2016, the year the wheels came off for her, Swift stiffens as if driving over a mile of speed bumps. After a series of bruising public spats (with Katy Perry, Nicki Minaj) in 2015, there was a high-profile standoff with Kanye West. The news that she was in a relationship with actor Tom Hiddleston, which leaked soon after, was widely dismissed as a diversionary tactic. Meanwhile, Swift went to court to prosecute a sexual assault claim, and faced a furious backlash when she failed to endorse a candidate in the 2016 presidential election, allowing the alt-right to adopt her as their “Aryan princess”.

Her critics assumed she cared only about the bottom line. The reality, Swift says, is that she was totally broken. “Every domino fell,” she says bitterly. “It became really terrifying for anyone to even know where I was. And I felt completely incapable of doing or saying anything publicly, at all. Even about my music. I always said I wouldn’t talk about what was happening personally, because that was a personal time.” She won’t get into specifics. “I just need some things that are mine,” she despairs. “Just some things.”

A year later, in 2017, Swift released her album Reputation, half high-camp heel turn, drawing on hip-hop and vaudeville (the brilliantly hammy Look What You Made Me Do), half stunned appreciation that her nascent relationship with Alwyn had weathered the storm (the soft, sensual pop of songs Delicate and Dress).

Her new album, Lover, her seventh, was released yesterday. It’s much lighter than Reputation: Swift likens writing it to feeling like “I could take a full deep breath again”. Much of it is about Alwyn: the Galway Girl-ish track London Boy lists their favourite city haunts and her newfound appreciation of watching rugby in the pub with his uni mates; on the ruminative Afterglow, she asks him to forgive her anxious tendency to assume the worst.

While she has always written about relationships, they were either teenage fantasy or a postmortem on a high-profile breakup, with exes such as Jake Gyllenhaal and Harry Styles. But she and Alwyn have seldom been pictured together, and their relationship is the only other thing she won’t talk about. “I’ve learned that if I do, people think it’s up for discussion, and our relationship isn’t up for discussion,” she says, laughing after I attempt a stealthy angle. “If you and I were having a glass of wine right now, we’d be talking about it – but it’s just that it goes out into the world. That’s where the boundary is, and that’s where my life has become manageable. I really want to keep it feeling manageable.”

Instead, she has swapped personal disclosure for activism. Last August, Swift broke her political silence to endorse Democratic Tennessee candidate Phil Bredesen in the November 2018 senate race. Vote.org reported an unprecedented spike in voting registration after Swift’s Instagram post, while Donald Trump responded that he liked her music “about 25% less now”.

Meanwhile, her recent single You Need To Calm Down admonished homophobes and namechecked US LGBTQ rights organisation Glaad (which then saw increased donations). Swift filled her video with cameos from queer stars such as Ellen DeGeneres and Queen singer Adam Lambert, and capped it with a call to sign her petition in support of the Equality Act, which if passed would prohibit gender- and sexuality-based discrimination in the US. A video of Polish LGBTQ fans miming the track in defiance of their government’s homophobic agenda went viral. But Swift was accused of “queerbaiting” and bandwagon-jumping. You can see how she might find it hard to work out what, exactly, people want from her.

***

It was girlhood that made Swift a multimillionaire. When country music’s gatekeepers swore that housewives were the only women interested in the genre, she proved them wrong. Her self-titled debut marked the longest stay on the Billboard 200 by any album released in the decade. A potentially cloying image – corkscrew curls, lyrics thick on “daddy” and down-home values – were undercut by the fact she was evidently, endearingly, a bit of a freak, an unusual combination of intensity and artlessness. Also, she was really, really good at what she did, and not just for a teenager: her entirely self-written third album, 2010’s Speak Now, is unmatched in its devastatingly withering dismissals of awful men.

As a teenager, Swift was obsessed with VH1’s Behind The Music, the series devoted to the rise and fall of great musicians. She would forensically rewatch episodes, trying to pinpoint the moment a career went wrong. I ask her to imagine she’s watching the episode about herself and do the same thing: where was her misstep? “Oh my God,” she says, drawing a deep breath and letting her lips vibrate as she exhales. “I mean, that’s so depressing!” She thinks back and tries to deflect. “What I remember is that [the show] was always like, ‘Then we started fighting in the tour bus and then the drummer quit and the guitarist was like, “You’re not paying me enough.”’’’

But that’s not what she used to say. In interviews into her early 20s, Swift often observed that an artist fails when they lose their self-awareness, as if repeating the fact would work like an insurance against succumbing to the same fate. But did she make that mistake herself? She squeezes her nose and blows to clear a ringing in her ears before answering. “I definitely think that sometimes you don’t realise how you’re being perceived,” she says. “Pop music can feel like it’s The Hunger Games, and like we’re gladiators. And you can really lose focus of the fact that that’s how it feels because that’s how a lot of stan [fan] Twitter and tabloids and blogs make it seem – the overanalysing of everything makes it feel really intense.”

She describes the way she burned bridges in 2016 as a kind of obliviousness. “I didn’t realise it was like a classic overthrow of someone in power – where you didn’t realise the whispers behind your back, you didn’t realise the chain reaction of events that was going to make everything fall apart at the exact, perfect time for it to fall apart.”

Here’s that chain reaction in full. With her 2014 album 1989 (the year she was born), Swift transcended country stardom, becoming as ubiquitous as Beyoncé. For the first time she vocally embraced feminism, something she had rejected in her teens; but, after a while, it seemed to amount to not much more than a lot of pictures of her hanging out with her “squad”, a bevy of supermodels, musicians and Lena Dunham. The squad very much did not include her former friend Katy Perry, whom Swift targeted in her song Bad Blood, as part of what seemed like a painfully overblown dispute about some backing dancers. Then, when Nicki Minaj tweeted that MTV’s 2015 Video Music awards had rewarded white women at the expense of women of colour, multiple-nominee Swift took it personally, responding: “Maybe one of the men took your slot.” For someone prone to talking about the haters, she quickly became her own worst enemy.

Her old adversary Kanye West resurfaced in February 2016. In 2009, West had invaded Swift’s stage at the MTV VMAs to protest against her victory over Beyoncé in the female video of the year category. It remains the peak of interest in Swift on Google Trends, and the conflict between them has become such a cornerstone of celebrity journalism that it’s hard to remember it lay dormant for nearly seven years – until West released his song Famous. “I feel like me and Taylor might still have sex,” he rapped. “Why? I made that bitch famous.” The video depicted a Swift mannequin naked in bed with men including Trump.

Swift loudly condemned both; although she had discussed the track with West, she said she had never agreed to the “bitch” lyric or the video. West’s wife, Kim Kardashian, released a heavily edited clip that showed Swift at least agreeing to the “sex” line on the phone with West, if not the “bitch” part. Swift pleaded the technicality, but it made no difference: when Kardashian went on Twitter to describe her as a snake, the comparison stuck and the singer found herself very publicly “cancelled” – the incident taken as “proof” of Swift’s insincerity. So she went away.

Swift says she stopped trying to explain herself, even though she “definitely” could have. As she worked on Reputation, she was also writing “a think-piece a day that I knew I would never publish: the stuff I would say, and the different facets of the situation that nobody knew”. If she could exonerate herself, why didn’t she? She leans forward. “Here’s why,” she says conspiratorially. “Because when people are in a hate frenzy and they find something to mutually hate together, it bonds them. And anything you say is in an echo chamber of mockery.”

She compares that year to being hit by a tidal wave. “You can either stand there and let the wave crash into you, and you can try as hard as you can to fight something that’s more powerful and bigger than you,” she says. “Or you can dive under the water, hold your breath, wait for it to pass and while you’re down there, try to learn something. Why was I in that part of the ocean? There were clearly signs that said: Rip tide! Undertow! Don’t swim! There are no lifeguards!” She’s on a roll. “Why was I there? Why was I trusting people I trusted? Why was I letting people into my life the way I was letting them in? What was I doing that caused this?”

After the incident with Minaj, her critics started pointing out a narrative of “white victimhood” in Swift’s career. Speaking slowly and carefully, she says she came to understand “a lot about how my privilege allowed me to not have to learn about white privilege. I didn’t know about it as a kid, and that is privilege itself, you know? And that’s something that I’m still trying to educate myself on every day. How can I see where people are coming from, and understand the pain that comes with the history of our world?”

She also accepts some responsibility for her overexposure, and for some of the tabloid drama. If she didn’t wish a friend happy birthday on Instagram, there would be reports about severed friendships, even if they had celebrated together. “Because we didn’t post about it, it didn’t happen – and I realised I had done that,” she says. “I created an expectation that everything in my life that happened, people would see.”

But she also says she couldn’t win. “I’m kinda used to being gaslit by now,” she drawls wearily. “And I think it happens to women so often that, as we get older and see how the world works, we’re able to see through what is gaslighting. So I’m able to look at 1989 and go – KITTIES!” She breaks off as an assistant walks in with Swift’s three beloved cats, stars of her Instagram feed, back from the vet before they fly to England this week. Benjamin, Olivia and Meredith haughtily circle our feet (they are scared of the koi) as Swift resumes her train of thought, back to the release of 1989 and the subsequent fallout. “Oh my God, they were mad at me for smiling a lot and quote-unquote acting fake. And then they were mad at me that I was upset and bitter and kicking back.” The rules kept changing.

***

Swift’s new album comes with printed excerpts from her diaries. On 29 August 2016, she wrote in her girlish, bubble writing: “This summer is the apocalypse.” As the incident with West and Kardashian unfolded, she was preparing for her court case against radio DJ David Mueller, who was fired in 2013 after Swift reported him for putting his hand up her dress at a meet-and–greet event. He sued her for defamation; she countersued for sexual assault.

“Having dealt with a few of them, narcissists basically subscribe to a belief system that they should be able to do and say whatever the hell they want, whenever the hell they want to,” Swift says now, talking at full pelt. “And if we – as anyone else in the world, but specifically women – react to that, well, we’re not allowed to. We’re not allowed to have a reaction to their actions.”

In summer 2016 she was in legal depositions, practising her testimony. “You’re supposed to be really polite to everyone,” she says. But by the time she got to court in August 2017, “something snapped, I think”. She laughs. Her testimony was sharp and uncompromising. She refused to allow Mueller’s lawyers to blame her or her security guards; when asked if she could see the incident, Swift said no, because “my ass is in the back of my body”. It was a brilliant, rude defence.

“You’re supposed to behave yourself in court and say ‘rear end’,” she says with mock politesse. “The other lawyer was saying, ‘When did he touch your backside?’ And I was like, ‘ASS! Call it what it is!’” She claps between each word. But despite the acclaim for her testimony and eventual victory (she asked for one symbolic dollar), she still felt belittled. It was two months prior to the beginning of the #MeToo movement. “Even this case was literally twisted so hard that people were calling it the ‘butt-grab case’. They were saying I sued him because there’s this narrative that I want to sue everyone. That was one of the reasons why the summer was the apocalypse.”

She never wanted the assault to be made public. Have there been other instances she has dealt with privately? “Actually, no,” she says soberly. “I’m really lucky that it hadn’t happened to me before. But that was one of the reasons it was so traumatising. I just didn’t know that could happen. It was really brazen, in front of seven people.” She has since had security cameras installed at every meet-and-greet she does, deliberately pointed at her lower half. “If something happens again, we can prove it with video footage from every angle,” she says.

The allegations about Harvey Weinstein came out soon after she won her case. The film producer had asked her to write a song for the romantic comedy One Chance, which earned her second Golden Globe nomination. Weinstein also got her a supporting role in the 2014 sci-fi movie The Giver, and attended the launch party for 1989. But she says they were never alone together.

“He’d call my management and be like, ‘Does she have a song for this film?’ And I’d be like, ‘Here it is,’” she says dispassionately. “And then I’d be at the Golden Globes. I absolutely never hung out. And I would get a vibe – I would never vouch for him. I believe women who come forward, I believe victims who come forward, I believe men who come forward.” Swift inhales, flustered. She says Weinstein never propositioned her. “If you listen to the stories, he picked people who were vulnerable, in his opinion. It seemed like it was a power thing. So, to me, that doesn’t say anything – that I wasn’t in that situation.”

Meanwhile, Donald Trump was more than nine months into his presidency, and still Swift had not taken a position. But the idea that a pop star could ever have impeded his path to the White House seemed increasingly naive. In hindsight, the demand that Swift speak up looks less about politics and more about her identity (white, rich, powerful) and a moralistic need for her to redeem herself – as if nobody else had ever acted on a vindictive instinct, or blundered publicly.

But she resisted what might have been an easy return to public favour. Although Reputation contained softer love songs, it was better known for its brittle, vengeful side (see This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things). She describes that side of the album now as a “bit of a persona”, and its hip-hop-influenced production as “a complete defence mechanism”. Personally, I thought she had never been more relatable, trashing the contract of pious relatability that traps young women in the public eye.

***

It was the assault trial, and watching the rights of LGBTQ friends be eroded, that finally politicised her, Swift says. “The things that happen to you in your life are what develop your political opinions. I was living in this Obama eight-year paradise of, you go, you cast your vote, the person you vote for wins, everyone’s happy!” she says. “This whole thing, the last three, four years, it completely blindsided a lot of us, me included.”

She recently said she was “dismayed” when a friend pointed out that her position on gay rights wasn’t obvious (what if she had a gay son, he asked), hence this summer’s course correction with the single You Need To Calm Down (“You’re comin’ at my friends like a missile/Why are you mad?/When you could be GLAAD?”). Didn’t she feel equally dismayed that her politics weren’t clear? “I did,” she insists, “and I hate to admit this, but I felt that I wasn’t educated enough on it. Because I hadn’t actively tried to learn about politics in a way that I felt was necessary for me, making statements that go out to hundreds of millions of people.”

She explains her inner conflict. “I come from country music. The number one thing they absolutely drill into you as a country artist, and you can ask any other country artist this, is ‘Don’t be like the Dixie Chicks!’” In 2003, the Texan country trio denounced the Iraq war, saying they were “ashamed” to share a home state with George W Bush. There was a boycott, and an event where a bulldozer crushed their CDs. “I watched country music snuff that candle out. The most amazing group we had, just because they talked about politics. And they were getting death threats. They were made such an example that basically every country artist that came after that, every label tells you, ‘Just do not get involved, no matter what.’

“And then, you know, if there was a time for me to get involved…” Swift pauses. “The worst part of the timing of what happened in 2016 was I felt completely voiceless. I just felt like, oh God, who would want me? Honestly.” She would otherwise have endorsed Hillary Clinton? “Of course,” she says sincerely. “I just felt completely, ugh, just useless. And maybe even like a hindrance.”

I suggest that, thinking selfishly, her coming out for Clinton might have made people like her. “I wasn’t thinking like that,” she stresses. “I was just trying to protect my mental health – not read the news very much, go cast my vote, tell people to vote. I just knew what I could handle and I knew what I couldn’t. I was literally about to break. For a while.” Did she seek therapy? “That stuff I just really wanna keep personal, if that’s OK,” she says.

She resists blaming anyone else for her political silence. Her emergence as a Democrat came after she left Big Machine, the label she signed to at 15. (They are now at loggerheads after label head Scott Borchetta sold the company, and the rights to Swift’s first six albums, to Kanye West’s manager, Scooter Braun.) Had Borchetta ever advised her against speaking out? She exhales. “It was just me and my life, and also doing a lot of self-reflection about how I did feel really remorseful for not saying anything. I wanted to try and help in any way that I could, the next time I got a chance. I didn’t help, I didn’t feel capable of it – and as soon as I can, I’m going to.”

Swift was once known for throwing extravagant 4 July parties at her Rhode Island mansion. The Instagram posts from these star-studded events – at which guests wore matching stars-and-stripes bikinis and onesies – probably supported a significant chunk of the celebrity news industry GDP. But in 2017, they stopped. “The horror!” wrote Cosmopolitan, citing “reasons that remain a mystery” for their disappearance. It wasn’t “squad” strife or the unavailability of matching cozzies that brought the parties to an end, but Swift’s disillusionment with her country, she says.

There is a smart song about this on the new album – the track that should have been the first single, instead of the cartoonish ME!. Miss Americana And The Heartbreak Prince is a forlorn, gothic ballad in the vein of Lana Del Rey that uses high-school imagery to dismantle American nationalism: “The whole school is rolling fake dice/You play stupid games/You win stupid prizes,” she sings with disdain. “Boys will be boys then/Where are the wise men?”

As an ambitious 11-year-old, she worked out that singing the national anthem at sports games was the quickest way to get in front of a large audience. When did she start feeling conflicted about what America stands for? She gives another emphatic ugh. “It was the fact that all the dirtiest tricks in the book were used and it worked,” she says. “The thing I can’t get over right now is gaslighting the American public into being like” – she adopts a sanctimonious tone – “‘If you hate the president, you hate America.’ We’re a democracy – at least, we’re supposed to be – where you’re allowed to disagree, dissent, debate.” She doesn’t use Trump’s name. “I really think that he thinks this is an autocracy.”

As we speak, Tennessee lawmakers are trying to impose a near-total ban on abortion. Swift has staunchly defended her “Tennessee values” in recent months. What’s her position? “I mean, obviously, I’m pro-choice, and I just can’t believe this is happening,” she says. She looks close to tears. “I can’t believe we’re here. It’s really shocking and awful. And I just wanna do everything I can for 2020. I wanna figure out exactly how I can help, what are the most effective ways to help. ’Cause this is just…” She sighs again. “This is not it.”

***

It is easy to forget that the point of all this is that a teenage Taylor Swiftwanted to write love songs. Nemeses and negativity are now so entrenched in her public persona that it’s hard to know how she can get back to that, though she seems to want to. At the end of Daylight, the new album’s dreamy final song, there’s a spoken-word section: “I want to be defined by the things that I love,” she says as the music fades. “Not the things that I hate, not the things I’m afraid of, the things that haunt me in the middle of the night.” As well as the songs written for Alwyn, there is one for her mother, who recently experienced a cancer relapse: “You make the best of a bad deal/I just pretend it isn’t real,” Swift sings, backed by the Dixie Chicks.

How does writing about her personal life work if she’s setting clearer boundaries? “It actually made me feel more free,” she says. “I’ve always had this habit of never really going into detail about exactly what situation inspired what thing, but even more so now.” This is only half true: in the past, Swift wasn’t shy of a level of detail that invited fans to figure out specific truths about her relationships. And when I tell her that Lover feels a more emotionally guarded album, she bristles. “I know the difference between making art and living your life like a reality star,” she says. “And then even if it’s hard for other people to grasp, my definition is really clear.”

Even so, Swift begins Lover by addressing an adversary, opening with a song called I Forgot That You Existed (“it isn’t love, it isn’t hate, it’s just indifference”), presumably aimed at Kanye West, a track that slightly defeats its premise by existing. But it sweeps aside old dramas to confront Swift’s real nemesis, herself. “I never grew up/It’s getting so old,” she laments on The Archer.

She has had to learn not to pre-empt disaster, nor to run from it. Her life has been defined by relationships, friendships and business relationships that started and ended very publicly (though she and Perry are friends again). At the same time, the rules around celebrity engagement have evolved beyond recognition in her 15 years of fame. Rather than trying to adapt to them, she’s now asking herself: “How do you learn to maintain? How do you learn not to have these phantom disasters in your head that you play out, and how do you stop yourself from sabotage – because the panic mechanism in your brain is telling you that something must go wrong.” For her, this is what growing up is. “You can’t just make cut-and-dry decisions in life. A lot of things are a negotiation and a grey area and a dance of how to figure it out.”

And so this time, Swift is sticking around. In December she will turn 30, marking the point after which more than half her life will have been lived in public. She’ll start her new decade with a stronger self-preservationist streak, and a looser grip (as well as a cameo in Cats). “You can’t micromanage life, it turns out,” she says, drily.

When Swift finally answered my question about the moment she would choose in the VH1 Behind The Music episode about herself, the one where her career turned, she said she hoped it wouldn’t focus on her “apocalypse” summer of 2016. “Maybe this is wishful thinking,” she said, “but I’d like to think it would be in a couple of years.” It’s funny to hear her hope that the worst is still to come while sitting in her fairytale living room, the cats pacing: a pragmatist at odds with her romantic monument to teenage dreams. But it sounds something like perspective.

[yeojaa]

SUGAR HIGH, chapter iv. (w. JJK)

You're not entirely sure when it happened, though you'd come to terms with it. You'd counted the days, waiting for the inevitable. You'd truly thought you'd be okay, but by the broken, half-beating thing in your chest - you knew you'd never really been prepared.

alt summary.  You thought you’d known real love and maybe you had - it just wasn’t with who you thought.

pairing.  jeon jungkook.  mentions/involvement of ot7.

tags.  angst, break up, post-break up, comfort, OT7, slow burn, friendship, moving on, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, emotional bagge, fluff, canon compliant, jeon jungkook is bad at feelings, jeon jungkook is a good friend, jeon jungkook is a sweetheart.

rating.  general (for now?)

word count.  ~2100

chapter 4.  How’m I Doing

They say all that ever matters is timing.  You think they must be right - because no matter how good you've always been together, the timing is just never right.

He's awake before you and for once, he doesn't mind how his internal clock has him stirring before the sun has risen. It gives him time to linger here, where he belongs.

It feels oddly domestic, his arm hooked around the pillow and the other barely breaching the divide between you.  Tips of fingers ghost over where you'd be if you only shifted an inch, trailing through the heat radiating off your frame.  He exhales a sound like frustration but there's only warmth in his mouth, peeking past his teeth like rays of sunlight.  

Like this, Jungkook allows himself to daydream.  To imagine endless summer skies and you weight of your hand in his, laughter curling out of your mouth like smoke and filling the space until he's drunk on the sound.  He drifts between your cotton candy smile, so saccharine sweet it gives him toothaches, and the feel of your hip nudging his through choreography he'd love nothing more than to practice with you.  (You'd hate it - two left feet, you'd argue - but he'd insist.  You'd always say yes.)

He closes his eyes and it's you at his side, keeping him anchored to this reality he's so often surprised by.  It's you laughing with Hoseok, bursting into an impromptu slide and disappearing behind fingers when he's focused his lens on you.  It's the two of you in the kitchen, adjusting to each other with practiced ease and cowering when Seokjin reminds you both of the burning banana pancakes.  It's you swiping the rain from his eyes, pulling him beneath a shared umbrella while the sky opens above you, so heavy it sinks into your bones.

He imagines being swept away during the holidays, Christmas shopping in between trying on silly costumes, elf-hats pulled low over your ears.  He kisses you at midnight on New Years and he nearly forget about the fireworks going off above your heads - there are enough of those between you.  He finds your face in a sea of thousands, serenades you like there's nothing else in the world.  

He daydreams about all the things he's never had.  

(Whoever said daydreams hurt had never dealt with a reality like this.)

 You're studying his face like a woman possessed, as if maybe, just maybe, you could burn this image into your mind for the rest of your days.  That it could be your saving grace when he's halfway across the world and you're reminded that you're alone again.  

You memorize the slope of his nose and the gentle curve of his lips, the way the little freckle smack dab in the centre draws your attention without even trying.  You examine the way his lashes flutter with each breath, the way his forehead tenses here and there, brows drawn together by something you wish you could smooth away.

You want to give him the world. 

Instead, you're gingerly reaching out, puppeteered by your quick-beating heart.  

It feels like electricity shooting through your veins, igniting your bloodstream as the tips of fingers graze his temple.  You touch him like he's precious, crystal, about to shatter into a million pieces.  Within your brassy broken cage of bones, your heart skips a beat.  You withdraw--

"Don't stop."  He's caught your wrist in the same moment you've pulled away.  He's pleading, hopeful and sweet.

When you card through his powder puff of hair, a smile spreads like butter, too big for his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes.  A hum of contentment parts his lips and he's leaning into your touch, seeking warmth like a sunbathing cat.  You gladly oblige him, alternating between stroking the swell of his cheek, doodling nonsense into the margins of his skin, and sweeping his mop of brunette behind his ears.  

You stay like this for minutes that stretch on in silence - only broken by a vibration of his phone.

"You have to go," you speak the words faintly, muffling the sound against your pillow.  You know how you sound - disappointed and just a little petulant.  You don't mean to.  

He hums, as he always does, and catches your fingers in his own.  His large palm engulfs yours but your fingers, long and thin from years of piano practice, easily combat his.  You giggle once, soft and low, as he twines them together, gently knocking yours - his? - knuckles against your chin.

"I do."  It's like a nail in a coffin, the finality of it.  "Why don't you come by later?  Everyone will want to see you."

The thought makes you smile despite yourself.  You'd missed them, too.  "Okay."

Your acquiescence seems good enough for him and he's bright-eyed and bunny smiled, mouth splitting wide.  He's still got your hand in his, refusing to let go as he rises up, holding himself comfortably upon one elbow.  There's emotion in the way he looks at you, takes in the way your bangs drift hazy over your vision and your teeth worry your bottom lip with self-conscious abandon. 

"You'll be okay, you know."  His reassurance is stronger than the sun's rays, more concrete than the ground beneath your feet.  It's equal parts a statement and a promise.  He'll make sure you're okay - he always has.

Because he's the person who dives without thought, swimming among the shipwrecks in your eyes.  He's the one who has always brought the light to those cracked hulls and broken boughs.  He's ignored the swirling void and gnashing teeth, refusing to leave behind the buried treasure he knows sits beneath the trench.  He'll pull you to the surface, even if it means drowning in your ocean. 

"I know - I have you."  

 Once he's called for a car and you've both brushed your teeth, you wait outside the front door together.  You're sipping at coffee - or trying to - and he's leaning on the railing, light bathing his handsome face in a way that makes your heart stop.

He was your best friend but you'd be lying if you said he wasn't breathtaking.

"We've got meetings until about 3 PM.  I'm not sure what's going on after that but you can probably just come by then."  Jungkook is studying his phone, scrolling through unread messages and deftly ticking back responses.  He's got his bag hiked over his shoulder, lighter now that he's unloaded your souvenirs, and seems perfectly at ease.  Without glancing up, he's holding out a hand for your mug of coffee.  You pass it to him without a word, watching the way the steam curves  around powdery skin and drifts into the early morning.

He takes a sip, nose wrinkling in that distinctly Jungkook way, and hands it back to you.  "Too hot."

"I could've told you that,"  you murmur around a mouth of beguiling laughter, happily returning both cold palms to the ceramic.  Heat warms you to your core as you drag your lips through scalding liquid once more, staring at him unabashedly.

"What?"  He notices - of course he does - and levels you with what's meant to be a demanding stare.  Perhaps it would be, if not for the way his expression splits in half, suspicious facade giving way to a smile that could only be described as beautiful.  "Soomi-ah, you know it's rude to stare."  And there's that bunny quality, two front teeth standing center stage.

"I'm just glad you're home." 

He scoffs to hide the sudden rouge that colours his cheeks, tinges the tops of his ears.  He's immediately pulling you against his side, careful not to dislodge the cup from your hands.  It's silly, the bashfulness that rises in his chest and settles like an unfamiliar weight on his shoulders. 

Jeon Jungkook was many things but shy wasn't one of them - not really. 

He'd grown into his long limbs and wicked smile, frighteningly aware of the effect he had on most people.  He'd learnt to command it, switch it on and off so quickly it'd cause whiplash.  Gone was the timid fifteen year-old, replaced by a larger than life idol with a pouty mouth and a body that could make you cry.

But that was only out there - to them, the people who loved him and his hyungs unconditionally. 

Here, with you, he was just Kookie. Even if you rarely used the nickname now. 

(You said it didn't belong to just you two anymore, and he supposed that was true.  He wasn't just yours anymore.)

"I'm always just a phone call away," he murmurs into the top of your head.  He's said it once and he'll say it again, even if you don't believe him.  He knows it's just your stubborn nature that keeps you rooted in place, refusing to take up any more space in his life.  He also knows you'd call if you really needed him.  You always did.

You nod, the only indication you've heard him.  You know, you know. 

"Your car's here."  

It's like the ending to a bittersweet fairytale - the strike of a clock at midnight. 

He squeezes you a little tighter and you allow yourself to loop an arm around his impossibly small waist, gently squeezing his hip.  Then he's gone, taking the steps two at a time as he bounds down to meet the sleek black sedan.  You're not sure who's in the driver's seat - whether it's one of the boys or a manager or someone else entirely - but you catch the way a hand pops out of the window.  A quick wave.  Someone you know, then. 

Right before Jungkook steps into the passenger seat, he's waving as well, wrist flailing like he's boneless.  "I'll see you later!"  He calls, disappearing inside and behind the shadow of a tinted glass.  You wonder if he even hears you when you call out.

"Bye, Bunny."

 "She's back home."  There's surprise lacing the rich baritone, turning the statement into a question as soon as Jungkook has slid across supple leather.

The younger man hums, slotting his backpack between his knees.  "Yeah, recently."  He doesn't offer anything more as he cards a hand through his hair and shifts to recline fully into the seat.  He's ready to head back to the complex and take a long hot shower and prepare for the day.  Hopefully there'll be something to eat, considering how early it is.  He's sure Seokjin will have whipped something up.

"We weren't sure where you ran off to so quickly but Yoongi-hyung had an idea."  

"Why would Yoongi-hyung think I was there?"  Jungkook doesn't have time to catch himself before the his words are rolling off his tongue, seemingly held by a string that furrows his brow.  He ignores the way Taehyung's own raise, disappearing into his carefully styled fringe.  

"They talk, you know."  Whatever sixth sense the elder has seems to drive him to continue his first though, molasses heavy on his tongue in an effort to smooth whatever feathers he's ruffled.  "We all do.  She's our friend, too."  A moment of silence as he rolls to a stop, nodding politely at the halmoni that is helped across the street by what he assumes is her grandson.  "Yoongi-hyung said she'd been sad lately, so he figured you'd want to see her as soon as we got back."

Jungkook isn't sure what the emotion clawing up his throat is or why it feels like bile and envy, licking acid over his vocal chords.  He doesn't even realize he's holding tension in a vice grip until he's loosening his hand, little crescent moons dug into the soft flesh of his palm.

He shouldn't be jealous.  He doesn't really even think he is jealous.

Hurt, maybe.  That makes more sense.

"Oh."  He wonders if it comes off poorly.  By the way Taehyung shifts in his periphery, he's sure it does.  

So he clears his throat and offers a contrite smile.  These are his hyungs, his best friends, his brothers.  He knows better.  He thinks you'd reprimand him if you caught him like this.  You'd tell him they were your friends, too, and that you could never have enough people who loved you.  You'd make a point about ARMY, about the people who've raised thousands of dollars in his name and wrote you letters thoughtful enough to make you breakdown.  He'd have to agree.

An abundance of love was the best problem to have.

"She's coming by later,"  Jungkook relents, lolling his head to the side as he speaks.

Taehyung beams, boyishly handsome and relieved by the melting tension.  Long fingers tap the stirring wheel as gears turn in his head.  He hasn't seen you in forever - ages longer than his maknae - and he can't help but imagine the ease with which you'll slot back into their lives.  Even if only for a little while.

"Great.  Let's keep it a surprise."

notes.   i realized i haven't been proofreading anything so i apologize for any mistakes littered through past chapters. i'm going to start planning out future ones so hopefully there will be more rhyme and reason moving forward. @-@ 

this chapter was heavily inspired by eric nam's "how'm i doing". https://youtu.be/D46_enlxfP8