#THIS IS AN ELITIST FREE ZONE

[crys-sp]

if you get this, answer with three random facts about yourself and send it to the last seven blogs in your notifs! anon or not, doesn’t matter, let’s get to know the person behind the blog <3

OK LET'S GET TO IT.

1) So. I've been writing since I'm 13 (like everybody i started as a cringy teen posting not really good fanfictions on some website). But pretty quick I've been dragged to roleplaying forums where I start to really think about Characters, Stories, Style, and Writing with other persons? From 13 to 18 years old, then a big break, short story short I think I met all kinds of roleplayers (including elitist ones who nearly made me give up writing). With the increase of rps servers, I came back stronger (I was 25 I think), really decided to have FUN, that's when my writing started to get better and better because I didn't forbid myself to play different kinds of characters, totally out of my comfort zone. I also met incredible people who are still my friends now. I started writing one-shots (still in french) one year after I discovered Hamilton see what a musical can provoke in you.

2) I wasn't particularly into musicals before Hamilton, cliché isn't it? But even if it's really the first one I loved, my favorite is actually Starry, a musical about Van Gogh. (PLEASE THE SONG ARE SO GOOD)

3) My first internet pseudo was Crystal, but since people were used to calling me Crys... It stays. Also if you want to know how to pronounce my Tumblr's name, one time someone pronounced it "crispy" and I think that's adorable. So you call it this way if you want.

Again feel free to spam me with this game, i'm absolutely ready for more random facts. 🙋‍♀️

[citizen-card]

a good show that might interest you is a politics-heavy sci-fi anime called legend of the galactic heroes with many similarities to historical characters and situations you seem interested in, it's one of those "elitist" old school anime & people to this day cannot agree on what the show's actual politics are because the setup of the two main factions is: the Free Planets Alliance broke free from a greater galactic empire to form a democratic state, but is now struggling with the empire waging war to re-conquer it + corruption of the government and emerging tendencies towards authoritarianism due to frustration with how slowly the apparatus of democracy moves, all of this seen through the eyes of yang wen li, a pacifistic strategic genius who gets promoted higher and higher because of his skills but only joined the army to pay for his history degree and even though he agrees with the FPA's cause, would prefer to do literally anything else than shoulder political responsibility, and on the other side is an upstart young nobleman called reinhard von lohengramm, who as a child swore he would become galactic emperor to free his older sister from being the current emperor's concubine, and thus has a motivation for rising through the ranks that isn't just personal gain, so on the way there he does his best to clean up the nepotistic and greedy nobility, forming a team of his loyal, competent and somewhat quirky admirals very similar to napoleon's marshals, becoming a sort of benevolent dictator in the end, but he also acknowledges that once he dies there is no guarantee that this system on its own can stand (and leaves his wife in charge as regent until either their son comes of age or she decides to give the empire a constitution).... so as you can imagine people are having all kinds of Takes on this, from how justified yang is in constantly stepping down from the role of dictator offered to him just to stick to his democratic ideals and because he considers himself personally unfit for the role even though it would be perhaps the best short-term decision, to people arguing if reinhard's arc is a pro-imperialist übermensch fantasy or a reasonably good examination of what the best possible version of that particular system could look like, to whether the earth cult and war profiteers of the demilitarized zone are meant to be an antisemitic dogwhistle or not, absolutely every kind of discourse is happening around this😅😅😅 it's quite the time investment bc the 80s anime is 100+ episodes (+ several OVA films), with... let's say dated animation in places (there is a modern remake but i know nothing about that), as well as most of the plot happening via conversations, so even for me it was a bit of a chore sometimes to start watching again after breaks from binging it, even though i wouldn't say it got boring per se.... so yeah, it's one of those things where i get it if you don't want to get into it immediately but still, i think you'll do yourself a favour if you put it somewhere on your watchlist😇

ooh that sounds really interesting! love looking at things that i can make historical parallels to and i want to see what the discourse is about so i'll check it out!!

[sasquapossum]

(Composed elsewhere on the topic of going car-free; presented here without further comment.)

Of course it helps that I live in Copenhagen

This is the real crux of the problem. It's relatively easy to go car-free if one lives in a real, live city and never engages in activities that require transporting significant amounts of gear into more remote places - hiking and camping, canoeing and kayaking, skiing and snowboarding. More can be done, certainly, but it's entirely feasible.

Unfortunately, here in the US, there are too many people already not living in cities. When you see those figures saying a majority of people live in cities, they mean that percentage live in metro areas including suburbs and parts of cities that are more like the suburbs than like the dense core. For example, I used to live in Detroit, where there used to be large tracts of single-family homes requiring a significant hike to anything else but a church or school. That's less true now, but only because the city has been depopulated, not made more walkable in any useful sense. Public transportation was crap then and is probably worse now.

Lots of people are "stranded" in suburbs where even the town center - if there even is one, and often miles away for some - is dead after 5pm. The already-at-capacity cities can't accommodate them. Not all at once. Yes, there will always be some who can run away from the problems where they grew up (forfeiting the ability to influence zoning or any other policy) but a more general transition will require a huge amount of demolition and reconstruction. That's disruptive, expensive, and carries its own massive environmental cost. It will take decades, and it will also require people who stay to fight the NIMBYs and change the policies that keep things the way they are.

That's why the "I hate your car" rhetoric is so unhelpful. Especially from people who never made their own decision to live in a city (leveraging their parents' decision) and/or who ride bikes purely for sport or recreation and yet still try to claim the super-environmentalist mantle. I know many actual bike commuters and kudos to them, but I also see plenty of people transporting their $10K bikes on top of their cars several miles to the starting point for their recreational rides. Dumping on suburban dwellers, without distinction, is dumping on those who are transit-poor, and no better than dumping on those who are poor in other ways. It's just elitist sneering.

If we really want to solve this problem, we need to do two things. One is to increase the livability of the cities we already have, e.g. with better pedestrian/biking and mass transit infrastructure plus more affordable medium-density housing. The other, I think larger, effort needs to go into changing the suburbs in place to be more environmentally benign. For example, imagine the typical mall or office park converted into a village center with everything you need for day to day living - e.g. grocery and hardware stores as well as clothes and jewelry and luggage. Replace the massive parking lots and six-lane highways with a bus lane, a separate bike lane, medium-density housing, and some park land. Now you have an actual functioning village, with far less disruption and environmental cost than a wholesale move to the city. For all the talk about the "missing middle" in building sizes, I think it's a shame that the missing middle in community sizes tends to be overlooked. We don't need more people living in dense urban cores, with their own characteristic costs and problems. We need more - and more human centered - villages and towns. It's the dichotomy between super high density and super low density that we need to smash.

[cadavercowboy]

The one downside of Edward McMunson is all the elitists who can identify James Hetfield by a single strand of his asscrack hair thinking they’re special and trying to gatekeep 80s metal from everyone else.

[delafiseaseses]

“If you want to see the fate of democracies, look out the windows.”

“Look out the windows, Mr House? Look out those windows behind you? The windows high above New Vegas? Above the land you claim ownership of? House, I don’t care if Las Vegas was anything to do with what happened two hundred years ago, maybe that’s what you imagine is still out there, but I’ve seen New Vegas already, House:

I’ve seen monsters in suits running casinos, monsters you put there. Monsters you knew were monsters.

I’ve seen elitists concerned about the idea of food becoming a staple rather than a luxury, all while secretly wishing to consume their customers. Their past you knew and their attitude you created.

I’ve seen a former home of a new civilisation, a place that was thriving undistrubed since the Old World, concreted over as a shadow of it’s former glory. The home of the man who saved my life from you’re rogue casino owner, who you’ve clearly have always look down on. That doctor once said that wherever he went, people never left eachother alone. I guess I know who he was thinking about now.

But those windows don’t just see as far as you’re “glorious” Strip, House. A man I met over in Freeside, The King of Freeside, I guess you may know him as said that while you allowed those Three Families to become rich, you left everyone else living in the shadow, fighting for the crumbs. They rose from your apathy, “... the best of a bad situation.”, a situation you caused. Not democracy. You. Robert Edwin House.

Children chase rats within walking distance of your Strip for the stewpot of a food vendor.

I saw someone try and get into your Strip, desperate enough to run past your robots. He didn’t last a second.

I saw people living in a sewer, they mentioned the dangers lurking further in the sewers. Children live in those sewers, Robert. Are you going to concrete them too?

Beyond The Strip, beyond Vegas I found a camp. NCR run, not the nicest place, the people in poverty, scammed... some were stolen and I won’t say what I know happened to them. They were drawn to your Strip, House.

Of course, it’s a desert. What did you say earlier? Oh, yes, “A radioactive desert where humans subsist in a barbaric state? Difficult to glorify convincingly.“, oh what a greater state you have created, House. With an attitude like that, what a state it shall become.

What did RobCo build, House? What great things did it make? Protectrons? Sentry Bots? You’re fucking Securitrons? This Pip-Boy is probably the best thng.

In case it’s not clear yet, Rob, I’m not going to be working with you. I just wanted to make it clear just why that was before I removed the ‘Autocrat of the Free Economic Zone of New Vegas’.

You’re toys won’t save you. If there is an afterlife, you’ll be meeting a lot of people from that desert you loath so much very soon.”

[frenchy-wino-jerkface]

I wish I lived in a world where culture and arts weren't the victims of a propaganda, meant to keep the general public away from them, and drive people to mass-produced best-sellers and blockbusters instead.

You love pop music and hiphop ? Guess what, you'll probably love classical music as well. Most music halls make prices for people under twenty-five or thirty. In France, it costs 10 euros to go to a classical concert if you're my age, while it costs at least 50 to go see a pop artist live. Classical musicians are more talented, work their asses off and are mostly underpaid. They're looking to move you with the most well-written music in History. If you don't like it the first time you go, try again, and again, like you did with books. Every concert is different, you just "not having the codes needed to understand" is a load of crap. If you'd like to sing, play, or compose, you could even join a music school. You can rent an instrument at your local instrument maker, and the conservatory is mostly free in a lot of countries.

You're a fan of graphic novels, manga, graff, comics? Good news, your museums are also largely free almost everywhere in the world, and collect the most influential pieces of each era. Art schools are waiting for you, or tiny fine arts workshops ran by your neihborhood that barely cost a dime. Love reading and writing? You've been lied to, it's not either you're talented and you don't have to force yourself, or you're not talented and should give up: go to college, get into a Writing Major. Libraries also have ridiculously low fees, go borrow or buy every damn book you want, and throw away your Kindle. Don't even look at Amazon.

Wanna know what it feels like to be an artist? Work on it. Be interested, invested. Artists are trying so hard to help specialise young artists and share their crafts, but the only artists selling their products have rigged the system and made it more profitable to be less educated, make loops and call them "prods" to sing or rap on, change art schools into design schools. Classical arts are either a hobby or not profitable, and that's just unbearable. The art world is struggling all around the globe, because we are slowly making it obsolete.

Getting cultured is an act of resistance. Don't bite into the bullshit calling it elitist or unnecessary, true classical arts fanatics are just a bunch of nerds who are looking to make you love their shit. Love art, gobble art up, work on your craft, become talented artists with all the techniques you can get your hands on. And if you don't want to do that, at least properly support artists by not taking the easy road, and going out of you comfort zone.

[blackmissfrizzle]

Meet The Furys

Characters: Erik Stevens x black!reader, Nicky Fury x daughter!reader

Summary: Its time for your dad to meet your boyfriend.

Warnings: None

A/N: Based off this imagine. After almost a year its finally here! I hope you all enjoy it.

“Okay, remember to play nice. My dad can be intense.” You warned Erik before ringing the doorbell.

“As long as he ain’t on some fuck shit.” Erik was already not too fond of the work your father did.

“Erik!”

“Aight, I’ll be nice.” He changed the tune of his story when he saw the crazy look in your eyes.

The front door opened and revealed Tony Stark. “What are you doing here?” You asked shoving the cake in his hands.

“Nice to see you too, kid.” He kissed the top of your head. Despite your love-hate relationship, Tony was like a big brother to you. Actually, all the avengers were like older siblings to you.

“Stevens.”

“Stark.”

Erik and Tony greeted each other. Neither one liked the other. You believed it was because there was no room big enough to hold both of their egos.

“Please you two, no arguing today. I got enough to worry about.” You continued to venture into the house.

“Erik, my man!” Sam came up and clapped Erik’s hand and gave him a one arm hug. “What you been up to?”

Tony leaned into you and asked, “Why doesn’t he greet me like that?”

You rolled your eyes and turned over your hand. “You know why.”

“Shit, nothing. I’m just out here trying to survive.” Erik ended the clap with a snap. He hit Sam in the middle in the chest. “I see you hitting them weights. You out here trying to get swole?”

“Nah, man I’m trying to get like you.”

“Trust me you don’t wanna be like him.” You interrupted the nigga-fest before it went too far.

“She’s always hating.” Erik whispered to Sam. “I’ll get at you later.”

Erik followed you throughout the house. The two of you constantly stopping to greet everyone. Eventually, you made it outside to see your dad at the pit.

“Hey Daddy!” As you reached up to kiss his cheek, you had to restrain yourself from hitting Erik when you heard him mumble, “I’m the only one she calls daddy.”

Nick put the spatula down and hugged his baby girl. “How is it possible you get more beautiful every time I see you?”

“I get it from my daddy.” You boosted his ego. “Anyway, there’s someone I want you to meet.” You tugged on Erik’s hand to bring him next to you. “Daddy this is Erik, Erik this is Nick Fury.”

Erik stuck out his hand to shake your dad’s. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

Nick looked at the young man’s hand for some time. Before everything went down in Wakanda, Nick heard of Erik or better yet Killmonger. He wanted to bring him into SHIELD, but decided he was too volatile and stubborn for the organization. Now that same man is dating his baby girl. Fate had a cruel sense of humor.

“Hmmph.” Nick looked Erik up and down before shaking his hand. “You treating my daughter right?”

“Yes, sir. I’m the one you should be checking on.”  Erik rubbed up and down on the bicep you hit him on earlier. “She’s always hitting me.”

“Don’t act like you don’t deserve it. You always testing me.” You bucked at him.

Erik was about to mush your head, but he remembered his surroundings and that he was supposed to be making a good impression. “See, you got a little thug over there.”

“She ain’t the thug I see.” You knew your dad would be snarky when he met Erik, but you didn’t think he would be going this hard this early.

You saw Sam behind Erik, cracking some joke with Bucky. Quickly, you motioned for him to come get Erik. “E, you wanna go grab a drink and dig into that cake before anyone else can?”

Erik looked to you if it was okay for him to leave. Even though he was already itching to leave he didn’t want to piss you off.

“Yeah, go.” You waved him off. “Me and Daddy need to have a talk.”

With your go ahead, Erik took off. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold his tongue.

Once Erik was out of earshot, you poked your dad in the shoulder and got on his ass. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Nick played dumb as he flipped the burgers.

You flicked your dad’s ear and quickly got out of arm’s reach. “That elitist nigga bullshit you just pulled by calling Erik a thug.”

Nick gave you the full Fury glare that was usually reserved for Tony. He pointed the spatula at you. “You got that one free lick. You don’t get anymore.” Closing the pit, your dad came next to you. “And the last thing I wanna be is one of those siddity niggas. I just…I just expected you with someone different that’s all.

“Elitist bullshit.” You mocked him by singing.

He held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, I was a little elitist. I’ll be better, I promise.”

If you consider better as not talking to one another then better happened. The barbecue was tense due to the obvious animosity between your dad and boyfriend. No matter how hard you, Sam, Bruce, and Steve tried to ease the tension, somehow your dad and Erik found a way to throw off-hand comments. And Tony was no help because he liked to add fuel to the fire.

The straw that broke the camel’s back was when Sam complimented Erik’s hair and your dad mumbled, “I don’t know why you young niggas think that’s a good look.”

Erik’s smile before he said anything told you everything you needed to know, and you knew there was no way to stop it. “I’m sorry that your receding hairline made you cut your hair. But hey, you rock that Samuel L. Jackson look.”

“What’s wrong with Sam L? That man got style.” Nick looked at Erik incredulously. He choose the wrong one today. “And while we on the subject of hair. Son, if you can’t grow a full beard then at least have the sense to cut that shit off.”

You almost spat your drink out. Erik’s been using some oils to grow his beard completely and it was working so well, you thought it was full. Leave it to your dad to find the last patch.

“At least I’m not dressed like Shaft. Nigga it’s 85 degrees right now, why you got on that hot ass leather duster for? Ole Little Bill lookin ass with an eyepatch.” Erik refused to be outdone by this old head.

They continued to trade jabs. It was like watching a tennis match when neither player could score. Each jab was hitting its mark. If this wasn’t your dad and Erik, then you would be cracking up like everyone else.

You needed to stop their bickering before it got too far. Out of the two, your dad would be the easiest to stop. “Daddy!” You called out to him, trying to redirect his attention.

“What?!” Both Erik and your dad turned to you. When you saw your dad’s face processing that Erik answered as well, you knew right then and there you would have to kill Erik. You’ll just tell T’Challa and Shuri that he died in a horrible car crash. It would be believable, because that nigga doesn’t know what a speed limit is.

Sam slid out of his chair in silent laughter, Tony spat out his drink and was howling in laughter, Steve’s face flushed red in embarrassment for you, Bucky looked like he wanted to congratulate Erik, Wanda and Nat offered you sympathetic smiles, and Peter was confused to why everyone was in a state of shock.

That shit-eating grin was wiped off Erik’s face when he looked at you. Was it possible to plan your own funeral, he thought.

“Y/N, why did he answer you?” Nick asked his lovely daughter. He knew his daughter was grown and she was most likely doing grown people activities, but that didn’t mean he needed to be blatantly reminded of it.

“Cause I’m her daddy, nigga!” Erik was done playing nice. Nick Fury needed to know he was serious about you and he wasn’t going anywhere.

Tony wiped tears from his eyes. “This keeps getting better and better.” Nat kicked the leg from under his chair causing him to fall.

‘Thank you’ you mouthed to her. Tony obnoxious ass was next on your hit list after Erik.

Standing up, Nick pointed between him and Erik. “Me and you about to have a little talk.”

You tried to follow them inside the house, but your dad stopped you. He said they needed to have a talk man to man.

The longer they were away, the more you worried. For sure, you thought you would hear yelling. Neither one of them were afraid to get loud. Maybe one of em killed the other, you thought. Nah couldn’t be, neither one would go quietly.

Suddenly, your dad’s laughter was wafting through the air and that didn’t happen too often. Rounding the corner was a happy Erik and your dad, laughing with each other like they just weren’t at each other’s necks.

“What is this?” You asked surprised that they weren’t arguing.

Erik came to your side and kissed your temple. “Me and your pops came to an understanding.”

“And that is?”

“None of your business.” Your dad told you, leaving you speechless. Wow, did your dad and Erik have secrets now?

You asked Erik the same question and got the same answer. Erik was your best bet to tell you their secret, so you pinched him to get him to spill the beans.

In less than five seconds you felt a flick to your ear. “Keep your hands off that boy. I forgot how mean your little ass can be.”

You grabbed your ear and looked at your dad in awe. “What the hell is this?! Y’all friends all of a sudden?” You had to be in the twilight zone, because now your dad was defending Erik.

Both men turned to you and simultaneously repeated, “None of your business.” You decided to give up for the moment. You would have to divide and conquer to get any info.

The rest of dinner went really well considering where it started. Instead of roasting each other, Erik and your dad ganged up on Tony and it was your turn to laugh at his pain and suffering.

At the end of the night, it was only you, your dad, and Erik left. On your way out, Erik promised your dad he would come to his poker night and that they could hustle Tony out of some money. These niggas were really best friends now.

Finally, in the car you could try to pry some information out of Erik. Your dad would never tell you what they talked about. He was the king of secrets.

“What?” Erik’s lip slightly curled up when he felt you staring at him.

“What did you and my dad talk about earlier?” You pinched his arm. “And don’t tell me it’s none of my business.”

Erik slid his eyes at you when he came to the stop sign. “Imma handle that ass when we get home.”

“Promises, promises.”

Erik shook his head at you. He contemplated telling you the truth and decided to give you an abridged version, because he knew your ass wouldn’t stop bugging him until you got something. “All you need to know is that we both have your best interest and love you. Anything else you wanna know, you gotta ask your pops.” Taking the hand that was intertwined with his, Erik kissed the back of your wrist.

That answer would have to do for now. Just like Erik said you could get the rest from your dad with a lot of  begging and honestly, Erik might tell you more, because either way you looked at it you were daddy’s little girl and neither one of them would want to disappoint you.

Tagging:@lostennyc @chaneajoyyy​ @vikkidc​ @ginghampearlsnsweettea @honeyflii​ @youwishiwasyobabymama​ @just-juicee​ @quietpoeticheart​ @soufcakmistress​ @twistedcharismaaa​ @marvelmaree​ @thickemadame​ @titty-teetee​

[moldisgoodforyou]

lost time (chapter two)

pairing: rafe cameron x oc

warnings: drinking, cursing, mentions of sex

wordcount: 1.6k

MASTERLIST

_______

By some strange coincidence, Rafe and Sophie were in the same section of their debate class. (Some might call it fate. Sophie would call it a curse.)

It was one of the less popular general education options in the communications section that all Ohio State students had to pick from, but they were both drawn to the idea of the challenge while enrolling. The class was fairly small for a gen ed, only about 40 students. When Rafe walked in on the first day, two minutes to start, he spotted Sophie immediately. She was poised with her notebook laid out, colored pens and all, and Rafe couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He deliberately sat opposite the room from Sophie, hoping and praying they would never be paired together. It was fun to argue about useless things at parties, but less fun in an educational setting. About a month into the semester, the thing he wanted least, happened. 

“Rafe Cameron...and…” Their professor trailed off, scanning around the room to find him a partner for the timed debate. Sophie kept her eyes trained on the doodles in the margin of her notebook, only halfway paying attention as she added another. She had been chosen once at the beginning of the semester and briefly entertained the short debate, something trivial about reality TV, but was left disappointed by her partner’s lackluster effort. “Sophie Flint!” 

At the mention of her name, her head snapped up, caught off guard. “Hm?” 

“You’ll be debating Mr. Cameron, here. Come up to the podiums please.” Their professor instructed. 

She sighed under her breath and rose from her seat as Rafe did the same, both of them standing at the podiums at the front of the classroom. Sophie laced her fingers behind her back, lifting her chin slightly to acknowledge Rafe. He just smirked. Asshole. 

“Alright, you two know the rules, keep it civil. Five minutes.” Their professor glanced down at her list of topics. “You’ll be debating...ah. Should golf be a sport or not? I’ll let you pick your sides -” 

They spoke at the same time. 

“Of course it should.” 

“God, no.” 

She held back an amused smile. “Alright. Carry on.” 

Sophie nodded curtly, then turned slightly toward Rafe, stating her position. “Golf courses are an absolute waste of real estate.” 

“Hold up - Professor Welch, are we talking about the sport or the course?” Rafe interrupted the debate, annoyed as he tugged at his cap. 

Their professor just shrugged. 

“Well you can’t have the sport without a course. Unless you want to play completely in the rough, which, with your skill level, you probably -” 

“Ms. Flint.” Professor Welch warned. 

Sophie barely held back a smirk. “Right. Anyways, courses are about 100, 200 acres on average? And say there’s at least 32,000 courses in the world. So by that standard…” she paused for a moment, doing the mental math. “You have roughly four and a half million acres of land occupied by golf courses.” 

Rafe raised his eyebrows, curling his fingers around the edge of the podium as he leaned slightly toward her. “I don’t see an issue with that. Golf is a valuable, fairly low-impact sport that provides an outlet for many. It’s accessible even past retirement, so it’s a sport that grows with you.” 

“Except the sport is classist. It’s expensive and typically located near neighborhoods that at least have a middle-class income. It’s only accessible past retirement if you have the option to retire, or if you retire with enough spare change to keep up the hobby.” She explained, almost seeming bored. “Not to mention, golf courses are destroying the environment.” 

“No they’re not.” He shot back. 

She raised her eyebrows at the meager comeback. “They are. What’s the one thing you need the most to keep the fairways groomed?” 

Rafe thought for a moment. “Water. But you can just use rainwater -” 

“Great, except most courses don’t.” She interrupted, rolling on. “It’s a huge waste of resources just to water the grass, instead of using that land for farming or preserving the biodiversity of the area.” 

“Thirty seconds.” Their professor chimed in, keeping an eye on her watch. 

Rafe hurried to make his point, knowing he was losing the debate by miles, but Sophie cut him off before he could even speak. “Not to mention, circling back to the sport being elitist, most courses require a country club membership to even play a round -” 

“You belong to a country club, Flint, that’s hardly a leg you can stand on.” Rafe interjected just as their professor called time, a broad smirk tugging at his lips as he sensed Sophie’s frustration at not getting the last word. 

“Enlightening.” Professor Welch turned back to the class. “Show of hands, who won?” The majority of the class voted for Sophie, only a few frat boys raising their hands in support for Rafe. The bell rang and their professor nodded as the class started to pack up and shuffle out. “Right then, don’t forget to read chapters three and four this weekend!” 

Sophie just rolled her eyes at Rafe’s smirk and grabbed her backpack, starting off down the hallway with a satisfied smirk of her own. Sure, he might have gotten the last dig, but she clearly had a stronger argument. 

“Sophie!” She didn’t need to glance over her shoulder to know it was Rafe calling out after her. “Flint!” She ignored him again as he jogged to catch up until she felt his large hand grip her arm. “Hey, I’m talking to you.” 

She yanked her arm out of his grip but turned around anyways. “Get your hands off - oh.” She mumbled the last word as she saw her phone clutched in his hand. 

“Chill out, you just left this behind.” Rafe offered it to her and she took it, giving him a short smile. 

“Right. Thanks.” 

“Hey, um. You did good, I didn’t know all that stuff.” He tried, offering her a rare compliment. 

“It’s well.” She corrected before she could stop herself. 

“Huh?” 

“Well. I did well, not good.” The second it left her mouth, she regretted it.

Rafe scowled slightly at the correction. “Whatever. See you next class.” He headed off, shaking his head. She stood there for a moment, watching him go and silently cursed herself in her head. Would it be that difficult to accept the compliment?

_________

“You need to get over yourself and just go say hi.” Sophie’s friend and roommate, Julia, interrupted her train of thought as Sophie was completely zoned out later that night, staring across the bar at Rafe. He wasn’t even doing anything remotely interesting, just talking with his friends and drinking the Wednesday special dollar beers, but there was something about the backwards cap - that damn backwards cap - that did it for her. 

Sophie shook her head absently, taking a moment until she redirected her gaze. “Huh?” 

Her other roommate, Allie, shook her head with a smile at Sophie’s delayed reaction. 

“Oh my god.” Julia snapped in front of her face to get her attention. “Look, if you’re not going to make a move, can I?” 

“Can you - what? With Rafe? Rafe Cameron? Like, my Rafe?” Sophie stuttered, slightly in shock. “Why?” 

“Have you seen him? He’s cute. And he’s always been nice at parties. I need a date for the Theta party this weekend, please?” Julia asked, shooting a glance over at Rafe. He caught her eye but his gaze shifted over to Sophie for a moment as he sent her a nod of acknowledgment and a raise of his glass.

“I - um, fine, yeah, whatever.” Sophie knocked back the rest of her drink as a final statement, not wanting the conversation to last any longer as she flushed just slightly under Rafe’s stare. “I’m getting more, do you guys want something?” 

After a chorus of no’s from her friends, she pushed her way up to the bar alone. A few moments later, Rafe sidled up next to her, ordering a drink and leaning against the bar to face her. Sophie tried  her best to ignore him, keeping her gaze trained on the glowing neon signs behind the bar. 

“Not gonna say hi?” Rafe asked. 

It took everything in her for Sophie not to roll her eyes as she turned slightly toward him. “Hi, Cameron. Are you free this Friday?” 

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Are you asking me out?” 

That was enough to warrant an eyeroll. “No.” (She bit back the ‘no, stupid’ that threatened to roll off her tongue.) “My friend Julia doesn’t have a date for the Theta party. Are you down?” 

“Oh, shit, yeah.” He turned as their drinks arrived, sliding enough cash across to cover both of them. “The taller one, right?” 

Sophie tried to grab his cash back and cover her half before the bartender could take it, but she noticed too late. “Yes, the tall one. Here.” She shoved the $5 bill into Rafe’s hand. He just pushed it back into hers, taking her hand and closing it into a fist around the bill. “Rafe, I don’t want your money,” she tried again. 

He grinned. “So you can cover me next time we go out, then. What’s Julia’s number?” 

“Right.” She sighed and gestured for his phone. He handed it over easily. “Um, I don’t know it off the top of my head and they have my purse, but. Here’s mine and I’ll pass it on.” She typed her number into his phone quickly, saving her contact then handing it back.  

Rafe nodded with an easy grin, hand lingering for a moment as he took back the phone. “Even better. See ya Friday, Soph.” He gently bumped his elbow against hers, hands full, before heading back to his crew. It wasn’t lost on Sophie that she was left standing there, again, without the last word.

taglist: @oopsiedoopsie23​ @butgilinsky​ @taiter-tots​ 

[friendoftheelves]

People, what is somethings you wish writers knew about your culture, I'll start (I'm English):

If you say British-English I will riot. It's standard English, American English is just the most commonly spoken version of English, being the dominant culture

Nobody cares about sports at Secondary school, I didn't realise my school had sports teams until like year 11 when I saw them leaving and it was just a casual observation

Also Primary school = reception to year 6 or ages 4 to 11, Secondary school = years 7 to 11 or ages 11 to 16, Sixth Form (attached to a secondary school) and college (independent from a secondary school but otherwise same thing) = 16 to 18. Primary school to Secondary school is compulsory, after that you have to attend some form of further education whether that be an apprenticeship or sixth form/college is up to you. It is common to have a compulsory uniform for secondary school and less common for both primary school and sixth form/college. Primary school and sixth form/college uniforms are noteworthy whereas a lack of compulsory uniform in secondary school is noteworthy

American culture is the dominant one, we have watched and read a lot of American media

If you're poor, you live in a council flat and probably have free school meals, "trailer trash" isn't really a thing because trailers just aren't a common occurrence, the only group I can think of that commonly lives in "trailers" is 'gypsy' who are their own community and live in motorhomes. Discrimination against them is common but not in your face, which I will explain in a bit because that is its own point

People care a lot about both rugby and football and if you call it soccer and act all superior about you will make a lot of people mad because British football officially came first and a lot of languages call it something that sounds very close to football in their language and American football is closer to rugby in how it looks to us so it is a very sore point

Also, in case you haven't gathered, Britain is subtly anti-American we had an empire and we are bitter we lost it so seeing America get to where we were is something Britain does not react well to

British culture is all about pretending everything so normal and subduing, ignoring and otherwise refusing to acknowledge what strays from that "normal" so unless we are forced to openly acknowledge it we will not and then we will passive aggressively snipe at it. American culture is all about being in your face, British culture is all about pretending we don't see what's wrong. We refuse to acknowledge we even had an empire

Class is a big deal. The elites in our culture have historically been their own one and this is still seen today. Class divide is what defines us. We have things like the house of commons and the house of lords. Rather than the rich ending up in positions of power due to society falling to prevent their privilege, British culture and actively encourages elite power. There is still discrimination but because of the importance of class divide and the British refusal to acknowledge our own faults, it presents differently. Race is seen as it's own class below working class and there is discrimination between the white classes. The working class are seen as beneath the rich and the rich are seen as 'upperclass tw**s'. The middle class are then seen as traitors and having abandoned the working class because the elite government has purposefully drafted policies to ensure that happens

Also,all of the above applies to English culture. There are three countries in Great Britain and 4 countries in the UK. England, Wales, Scotland and North Ireland and the divide between these countries is clear. Scotland actively hates England, Wales passive aggressively hates us and Ireland is a mess we created (I would suggest waiting for someone who is Irish to explain that because I don't know enough about it and it is an incredibly complicated topic which plays a significant role in politics)

Also we dislike the French, Britain and France are rivals because we have been fighting on and off for centuries but the French are still seen as equals. We dislike them but we will fight alongside them if if comes to it

Also accents are important, because of the class divide, if you have a working class accent you are being discriminated against, if you have a posh accent you will be hated but people will respect your 'authority', no matter how much they hate

Oxbridge is elitist but there are so many other great Unis across the UK

To American media specifically, stop romanticising British culture, I have never seen the academia aesthetic you are portraying and it irritates, we are not just the rich upper class, look at our history people you portray and because of the class divide it hurts to see that as our only representation

Also London is its own thing, Britain does not recognise London as representative of Britain and London does not like everywhere that is London, it is the most diverse and the biggest city in the entirety of England by a large margin, it does not feel like the rest of Britain

On that point, there are many, many other cities and other towns outside of London, please acknowledge them (having never been to a lot of cities I can't explain them to you)

London does have divides within it such as the divide between North and South of the river, the South does not want to be part of London and the North refuses to acknowledge it. The Northern edge of London is also up for debate, for me it is the edge of Zone 3 (on a tube map) and the other side of the North circular by car but for others it might be further in or out so be aware of that. There is also divide between the post codes for example Wood Green and Tottenham, both have the same council (Haringey) but there is a clear divide between them only further emphasises by Haringey having two MPs one for Tottenham (David Lammey) and one for Wood Green and Hornsey. Both Wood Green and Tottenham have bad reps but the Wood Green half of Haringey starts drifting into middle class at its edges with Hornsey being solidly middle class so be aware of the variation in boroughs

And, London has no centre. It is a city that grew with its country and absorbed the surrounding towns. So if you say the centre of London people will assume you mean a specific part in zone 1 but will not know which part you are talking about and will assume you are talking in a generalisation. If they are traveling with you though, they will expect further clarification, don't say the centre and expect me to know where

Also, there is no space between houses in England, they are mostly semi-detached. I once watched an episode of escape to the country where someone tried to find a detached house and just struggled massively. You either have to pay loads of money or be in the middle of nowhere before your house is fully detached and it will still be only the same distance away from another house as the average American house is. We have one of the highest populations in Europe but a small land mass

Going on from that, Britain is definitely European and has a lot of shared culture whilst still obviously being it's own thing (like every single other country) but Britain acts like and will get mad at the suggestion that they are European like any other European country because 'we are entirely seperate and on an island and how can we not have become our own thing' the actual variation is because Rome (contrary to what the school system will teach you) had very little impact on Britain so we aren't as similar to the other Latin speaking countries as is expected, the main reason we are still similar is because of the impact of Norman conquest. Also everyone underestimated the effect of Scandinavian and Germanic culture on Britain because we act like all they did was pillage when in fact they settled down and where embraced by Briton (unlike Rome which did actually pillage and subjugate Britain without being widely accepted) so that's why there is variation. We are very European but not in the way people expect so Britain refuses to acknowledge it

Honestly British culture is a lesson in tolerance versus acceptance. But there is still active discrimination as people of colour and the LGBTQ+ can attest

Also Christianity is baked into Britain to the point that even atheists follow Christian customs without questioning it but significantly less extreme than France which just stops on Sundays (but is acknowledged as a Christian country so you know) and 'pagan' - so, in this case, Celtic, anglosaxon and Norse - culture has effected us being carried down in fairy tales and witchcraft

Some of this will be upsetting to many people as it should be because British culture hurts, it discriminates without acknowledging it and I want people to know that. I want people to see that when they write about it because the alternative is writing about Britain as if it has faults and that would be so much worse. So writers, please bear all of this in mind when talking about Britain, even and especially, the ugly parts

This has been a white, middle class, Londoners, perspective on Britain and no I will not call myself English because the divide between England and London means that being a Londoner rather than just English matters in this context

I would recommend listening to the perspective of Brits from other groups, such as England, Wales, Scotland, Northern Ireland, working class, upper class, Brit of colour, non-passing queer folk, Muslim, Hindu, Indian (the largest immigrant group is actually Indian and that's just immigrated in their lifetime rather than born British and Indian), Jewish (especially Jewish I can talk about that on another post but let's just say the Jewish have never been accepted but always been part of Europe) and so on, to get a more comprehensive view of Britain

[flightofaqrow]

💔 Have you ever been jealous of a ship, group, plot, that wasn’t yours?

Munday Takes

Short answer: Yes, to probably all of them, if I’m honest.

Long answer: Envious might be a better word than jealous. It’s not like I want these things all to myself, I have just wanted to be a part of them also, or to have kind of my own special piece.

It can be really rough when the dash is all active and then suddenly goes silent, and I can just tell everyone’s off on a discord server or something that I’m not part of. (I’ve actually been able to join some recently at least, which has made me happier than I think most of you realize.) 

RP cliques have happened, and I’m not going to bemoan that. I don’t actually think there’s anything wrong with cliques as long as the group isn’t like... purposely being elitist or attacking people or some other malicious thing. People are allowed to have their groups and write within their comfort zones of partners. I’ve been on both sides of that. But being on the out can definitely be lonely and make you question your place. 

I’ve done single ship and character exclusive ships in the past. I haven’t enforced that here because it doesn’t seem to be a thing most people do in rwby rpc, but I do tend to be most happy and comfortable with character exclusive ships. That’s mostly less jealousy and more laziness, though lol. I’ve found that if I’m already seeing content of (ship partner) x (duplicate muse) on the dash, I’m less motivated to write for it. Like... I’m already being fed, no need to make my own content and no gap that I’m filling for my partner, so why bother.  

Idk if this sounds crazy, but I’ve had an interesting switch at times where Qrow has gotten jealous over certain muses, even if I couldn’t care less, and I kinda have to pull him into a corner of my brain and explain/remind him how multiverse works, lmao.

Sometimes I do get envious if someone gets to threading a plot first or thinks of it before I do, but I just keep that to myself, and again, go “oh well” and just sit back and enjoy the content right there for free. Like damn, ya’ll really share your talents like that, I love it here.

Anyway, yeah, I’m not immune to insecurities, but if I start feeling that way, I just stay in my lane about it and just redirect into building what I already have with the amazing people around here willing to indulge me.

[dcemeadcwes]

( cisfemale | she/her | madison bailey ) —— isn’t that DORCAS MEADOWES? yeah that is them, sitting there at the SLYTHERIN table with those other SIXTH years. when sybill looks into that crystal ball of hers, she sees spirited debates, worn out converse, half smoked cigarettes, breaking curfew, distressed jean jackets, messy buns, black coffee, avoiding family functions, and sunglasses to hide a hangover. anyway i’ve heard they’re pretty FREEWHEELING, HIGH-MINDED, and PUGNACIOUS. apparently they’re FOR THE LIGHT and PUREBLOOD but i’m sure that’s not related. 

hey hi hello how ya doin. i’m baz and this is my chaotic, pain in the ass dorcas.

here is her pinterest and stats page. i’ll eventually get a full bio and her wanted connections up, but this is what i have for you for now!

abuse mentions tw! nothing graphic, but they’re in there! 

born february 13th, 1960 in bristol, england.

which means: aquarius sun, leo moon, sagittarius rising. do with this what you will.

her parents are geoffery and aida meadowes. they’re not wealthy or the most elite within the pureblood community, but they’re extremely proud of their lineage - something dorcas never really understood. 

because they weren’t the most elite, aida worked ten times as hard to make it appear as if they were. it was a major point of contention for doe’s mother that they weren’t as well known or respected as she thought they ought to have been.

when dorcas showed no interest in pureblood society and began asking the wrong questions in front of her mother’s friends, she quickly learned how unacceptable that was. 

more often than not dorcas and her mother would end up getting into screaming matches after social gatherings - aida insisting that dorcas was intentionally embarrassing her & trying ruin the family name, while doe argued that the opinions of others shouldn’t matter as long as they were good people with kind hearts.

it was then that she realized her mother and the people she surrounded them with were far more interested in the purity of their world rather than the integrity of it.

from that point on, the meadowes home was a war zone. with her father traveling for work more often than now, there was no buffer between dorcas and her mother. hateful insults were hurled across the table at breakfast, by noon dorcas was a blood traitor and lucky her mother didn’t disown her, kicking her out of their home. every time dorcas left her room was a new attack on how she failed her family as a daughter and was an embarrassment to the wizarding world as a whole.

this became the norm for dorcas, which made adjusting to life at hogwarts quite easy when she was sorted into slytherin. those who didn’t already know her by name, quickly came to find she wasn’t they stereotypical slytherin. she may have been cunning and ambitious, but she hardly subscribed to their elitist views when it came to blood status.  

it took a while, but dorcas eventually found other like-minded students - both in her house and others. 

in the five years since she came to hogwarts, dorcas has garnered quite the reputation. wicked intelligent with a sharp tongue, dorcas has proved herself as someone who isn’t afraid to get their hands dirty, both in the classroom and outside it.

when dorcas heard about ‘for the light’, it was a no brainer. she’d already been vocal about her disdain for those who thought their blood status made them better than others and was clear about how she thought the ones behind the recent attacks and deaths should be dealt with. 

with her birthday right around the corner, dorcas was thrilled when dumbledore came to her about joining the order and, just like with ‘for the light’, she agreed without a second thought. she was counting down the days until she turned seventeen and could officially join.

personality

dorcas is a biiiiig softie, but because of the way she grew up, she’s got this hard, prickly exterior. once you break through it, though? all the love. all of it. you’ll have a friend for life and the most outrageous adventure buddy.

sarcastic af and she’s vicious if you wrong her or the people she loves. if there’s anything she got from her mother, it’s her temper. 

insanely competitive, even over the smallest things. it’s why she loves quidditch so much. dorcas isn’t the most graceful loser, but she tries. 

will tell you, with her whole chest, that she doesn’t give a fuck what you think about her. she doesn’t live to impress or please anyone but herself. if she does care what you think, you’ll never hear it from her mouth, but she will work just the tiniest bit harder to make sure she makes a good impression.

when it comes to flirting and dating, she puts on a good front and talks a lot of shit, but baby girl is not super experienced and has only been in a handful of relationships. she may hide it, but dorcas definitely goes into full panic mode whenever someone she finds attractive flirts with her or shows any kind of affection. she’s also pansexual, so please feel free to send my girl into full gay panic mode. lmfao.

wanted dynamics

these will eventually expand and make it to a page on doe’s blog, but for now !!!

former friends! people she knew before coming to hogwarts? before she really started to push against her pureblood roots. they could have had their falling out either before or after they started school! i’m not picky & we can talk details, but we love the angst!!

chosen family! also love the lil gang of misfits that chose each other as family trope. give me all of that. these would be the people who’ve broken through doe’s prickliness and gets all the soft!doe. any one who gets the shitty family, come at me. shared trauma? here for it.

exes/flings! any and all genders! this is suuuper open, so if you think our babes may have potential for a past or potential for something in the future, slide in these dms!

loathe entirely! please give doe someone to fight. just pure, unabashed hatred. again, not picky on the details! we can flesh it out in the dms!! 

honestly, if you made it this far, bless you! lol. i’m so pumped to finally start plotting and writing with y’all! 

[funkymbtifiction]

Reading through the subtypes of the four the social appears to suppress more at least in a public setting than a self preservation does . Yet the show the greater range of their feelings in private. They seem to be the type that could confuse others seeing how different they are in different circumstances. I thought fours can never hide who they are so does the social subtype make them self conscious and why they feel shame? Does make them only able to express themselves in a comfort zone and?

Rose in Titanic is a prime example of an average-health social (so/sx) 4. Bitchy, self-involved, elitist (”The difference between Cal’s taste and mine is that I have some”) and focused on her separateness and the horrors of her life, but also aware of what is socially appropriate and what is not, when it comes to being asked certain questions (”You are very rude, you shouldn’t be asking me this!”). As a soc-first, she feels a certain obligation toward her mother and toward appearing a certain way, but she doesn’t suppress her feelings in any way and often asserts herself in public in a contrarian manner that supports whatever she is feeling at the time (such as listening to Mr. Ismay at the dining table, finding him absurd, and then bringing up a Freud comparison about compensating with a big boat). Rose tries to go along, be polite, etc., but only feels truly free when able to act completely on her feelings (”I know this doesn’t make any sense... [but it’s what I want, so] I trust it”) and go against society in every possible way.

Being soc-first is basically being aware of others in comparison to yourself, of their needs in addition to yours, and in having an overall awareness of how you fit into society -- but for a lot of 4s (I learned this listening to the Enneagrammer 4 podcast, which is a good 4 exploration -- and if you are a mistyped 4, you are going to go WTF is this? and be angry at all the elitist negativity the 4s express, lol) feel physically ill at the idea of others judging them for their appearance or whatever and to erase that side of anxiety (tying in with their fear of judgment / rejection / abandonment), they adopt a militant anti-social stance and construct a deliberate image of “this is who I am, deal with me.” Dependent on the wing, they will either conform more to society (3) or go with a ‘grunge’ approach (5). And yes, the 4 typically feels more comfortable expressing self around those they trust not to reject them for it.

- ENFP Mod

[dontcallmecarrie]

Whenever you feel like it I would love to see what Maria's up to as a neutral Moriarty in By Dawn's Early Light. Thanks for such fun 'verses.

“Call for Juno,” they’d say. “She can help.”

.

Tony did not question how his mom worked.

Partly out of self-defense because she’d somehow figure out a way to twist the conversation until he was half a second from talking about the Kilian Incident, and partly out of plausible deniability.

Well, no, make that mostly because of plausible deniability. Look, all he’ll say is that he didn’t get to Siberia all by himself, and leave it at that, okay?

So if his mom keeps getting progressively better-informed, until she can somehow get a dossier of intel that’d rival any of the alphabet-soup agencies out there, Tony’s not about to ask.

.

Here’s the thing: Tony clearly remembers when his mom’s network stopped being a low-key ‘keep an ear out’ thing, and started getting into ‘…I think she might be gunning to be a Bond villain’ territory. 

Can clearly put a date on it, even: three days after SHIELD rolled into town, and noticed that the mechanic’s assistant didn’t show up to school, and it became obvious that they’d somehow stumbled upon the last known location of the missing Stark heir.

Fun times. 

Especially because in the time since, he and his mom’d been too busy dodging the small army of private detectives and g-men to be able to get wind of where Uncle James had been disappeared off to. Howard’s money meant no stone was left unturned, and more than once it’d been a bad dye job or hastily-applied makeup or DUM-E’s lockpicking skills or just sheer dumb luck that kept Tony one step ahead of his father.

So yeah, in retrospect, some aspects of his mom’s network makes sense. What with it having come under heavy fire during that entire debacle, and having to piece it back together was no small task either. Tony may not get the particulars, but he could understand that much just fine.

Certainly, he wasn’t going to quibble about just how fast she was capable of getting international plane tickets— 

And then JARVIS entered the cloud, and things were never quite the same.

.

Tony knew his father had friends in very high places, it was part of why they ran.

The first time his mom called in a few favors, though, was…something. 

As was the discovery that for all that she’d taken a less physically-active role in the lifestyle they led, she was no less present than before, as evidenced by the laws that were now rolling out and Tony probably shouldn’t be proud of the fact that his mom was now officially a criminal mastermind but honestly he was more impressed by the number of politicians she’d blackmailed to even get it on the books because holy crap.

[Even if he knew some of them were just out of petty spite, like the new zoning laws she’d somehow managed to get past solely because the homeowner’s association in that one town was comprised entirely of elitist jerks.]

.

Most of the time, Tony’s happy trying to live a quiet life, content in trying to be just another face on campus at Culver U while Uncle James gets back on his feet after another involuntary ice nap. But if his mom needs a hand, they’re both already out the door.

That’s when Iron Man comes out of retirement, why Renegade comes into being. 

She doesn’t normally; only in emergencies, only when push comes to shove and there’s something she needs stat that requires…special handling. Like when there’s people who need better hiding than what Witness Protection can offer [JARVIS did the heavy lifting, but Iron Man was needed for help relocating]. Or when there’s an asshole stalker creep who thinks that since the local police doesn’t have a cruiser parked outside, it’s a free pass to continue harassing [Uncle James didn’t regret breaking his jaw, that time]. 

SHIELD has yet to notice the connection. Yet to realize that when they heard them say “Mission Control”, Iron Man and Renegade meant someone rather than somewhere. 

.

Maria originally started her network out of sheer self-preservation. Then things escalated and got out of hand, and…she was good. But living on the run took its toll, and maybe it was selfish but she just didn’t have the energy she used to, to be able to pack up and run at a moment’s notice. 

She’d been on red alert throughout Tony’s childhood. Had managed to eke out some semblance of peace for almost nine hard-fought years, only for it all to go up in smoke, and— 

she was tired. 

She was tired, and by now everyone was more focused on looking for her son and… her network was something she could control, and didn’t need to upend her life to do so. Tony was young, was more than happy to spend his life on the road searching for James, but Maria had spent nearly half her life now having to look over her shoulder and she refused to back down but she couldn’t do this anymore, so…time for a different approach.

.

Maria’s network started out small. 

It didn’t stay that way.

.

Howard Stark didn’t realize just who he’d married. Oh, he did the necessary background checks, but he never really knew just what kind of person Maria Stark née Carbonell was. Not until it was too late, anyway.

His loss. 

Always, and forever, his loss.

.

Originally, Maria picked Juno more out of irony than anything else. 

Picked it because Tony’d been on a Greek and Roman mythology kick when he was younger, and while he’d been happily picking through different versions of the myths, it’d come up in passing. 

Juno, goddess of marriage and childbirth. The Roman equivalent of Hera, who was eternally loyal to Zeus even when he made mistake after mistake and innocent mortals paid for it.

[Maria had burned the closest thing they had to a modern empire for her son’s safety, without question and without regret.] 

.

“Call for Juno,” they’d say. “She can help.”

[songbird-musing]

Virtuoso: Chapter One - Exposition

Enjolras is Saint-Michel Academy's brightest young composer. He runs the orchestra, the Musician's Rights board, chairs the scholarship program, teaches free classical music to children, and is in the middle of his dissertation. He has never been anything less than a prodigy, until his teacher forces him to write a pop song.

Enter the effortlessly cool Grantaire, with his smudged eyeliner and lovely guitar-playing fingers. He really digs Enjolras' "vibe," whatever that means.

Exposition

“Got a light?”

Enjolras blinked, staring at his own hands. He had three flutes in his left, two violins in his right, and a cello strapped precariously to his back.

“Um,” he answered, arching an eyebrow, “I don’t smoke.”

The stranger half-smiled, rolling his unlit cigarette between long fingers. Good fingers to play piano with, Enjolras noted.

Enjolras half-smiled back, pressing his lips together, hoisting his cello strap, he glanced up to the heights of the campus building.  

“Hang on... you’re that third year that conducted that concert last Friday, right?”

He faltered, and re-examined the boy in front of him. A sketchy mess of ink-black curls and inked arms. He was a dark smudge against the dazzling marble school. Enjolras had been to a lot of classical concerts, and people that looked like the stranger in front of him did not tend to frequent them. With the shadowy smear of eyeliner around wild eyes, and a glint of metal pierced through his nose, the boy looked like he belonged at the underground concert of a band no one had heard of. Enjolras smiled.

“That’s right. I’m Enjolras.”

“I really dig your...” the boy made a vague swishing motion with his hands, “vibe.”

Enjolras didn’t know how to react.

What was his vibe?

“I’m Grantaire. Second year.”

Enjolras’ gaze traced the trajectory of a gemstone looped around Grantaire’s neck and the stark, sharp lines of tattoo ink, which bled into the collar of his shirt.

“Well, thank you very much, Grantaire.” Enjolras looked unhurriedly into the eyes across from him, a little taken aback by their returned steadfastness. He smiled widely. “I appreciate the stroke to the ego.”

Grantaire grinned and kicked one ankle over the other. “See you around,” he said, oozing with easy grace. His vibe was pretty enviable, to Enjolras’ tightly wound, deeply engrained stiffened etiquette.

Enjolras smiled his rehearsed showman’s smile and strode into Paris’ finest institution of the arts: Saint-Michel Academy.  

~*~

“Courf,” Enjolras called, not allowing the figure sneaking up the edge of the grand staircase to escape.

The boy turned deliberately slowly, resting an arm on the banister. “Enjolras!” he beamed, “My dearest, dearest friend.”

“Your dearest, dearest luggage rack,” Enjolras said, blue eyes narrowing. “I bought your flute and your violin.”

“And my trombone?” Courfeyrac asked hopefully. Enjolras fixed him with a dead stare. “See, if you were my dearest, dearest luggage rack you would have bought my trombone. Combeferre is much better trained than you.”

“I’ll bring you a set of spare clothes, next time, as well, because you’re still wearing yesterday’s.” Enjolras retorted, offloading two instruments into his friend’s hands.

Courfeyrac didn’t look bashful in the slightest. Enjolras didn’t expect him to. He winked scandalously, the action seductive and over-dramatic. “Did you miss me last night?”

“Do you even still live with us?” Enjolras laughed, “Combeferre’s getting moody because you keep missing movie night.”

“I’m not going to be twenty-one forever; gotta get the most use out of this flesh prison as I can.”

Enjolras grimaced. “Please never recount your sexual exploits as getting use out of your flesh prison again.”

“Enjolras, my man,” Courf grinned, “That is how I will exclusively refer to it now. Laters!”

“You’re in my lecture now.”  

“Uh... Tell Johnny-boy I’m tuning up. Gotta have a quick smoke,” he mimed taking a drag of a cigarette and bounced down a couple of stairs.

“Are you high?” Enjolras asked mildly, looking past Courfeyrac’s morning-after scruffiness to his blown pupils.

“A teeny, tiny bit,” he laughed, holding two fingers together, “Last night hasn’t quite worn off, but, hey, don’t tell Johnny-boy that.”

“Every time you call him that I die a little inside,” Enjolras said drily.

“Love you!” Courfeyrac dashed away, leaving Enjolras to go into Jean Valjean’s theory lecture alone.

~*~

“Ah, Enjolras, good morning!” the professor said, glancing up from his laptop. “I said it at the time, but well done again for Friday. The faculty couldn’t have chosen anyone better for the role.”

Jean Valjean wasn’t a man quick to praise, but he had always liked Enjolras. Secretly, all the professors hoped for Enjolras on their register, longing for his ambition and determinedness and his almost prodigal writing.  

“Thanks sir,” he said, making his way to his unassigned seat in the front row. He couldn’t help but blister with pride.

A few minutes passed. Valjean looked around at the half dozen students and sighed through his nose. “Where is the rest of the class on this delightful Monday morning?”

“Still in bed?” offered a voice.

“Still in bed when they could be learning about the delights of atonal counterpoint?” Valjean tutted, turning on the projector.

“Courf is tuning up,” Enjolras said.

“Well text him to hurry, if he’s not in the room in two and a half minutes I’m locking the doors,” Valjean said.

Courfeyrac had been on the wrong side of a locked door a few too many times.

Enjolras hastily texted his roommate.

After a couple of hours of relentless note taking, the class broke apart, each student working on their own personal projects, buried in manuscript paper and notation software.

“Oh, Enjolras,” said Valjean after listening to the orchestral piece he had composed through the night.

“What?” Enjolras panicked, noticing the slight quirk to his professor’s eyebrows. He looked at the score and saw nothing out of place, “What’s wrong?”

The professor took too long to respond.

“It’s perfectly fine,” Valjean said.

Enjolras frowned, the usual marble finesse of his forehead tarnished with worry. “What’s wrong with it?” he repeated, fingers clawing into his palms.

“No, Enjolras, it’s fine. It’s lovely. It’s as proficient and melodically satisfying as your works always are. You have your unwavering grasp of harmony and you’ve handled all the instruments with your usual precision.”

“But...?”

“But...” Valjean echoed, “You’ve shown this kind of work consistently recently...”

“I know. I’ve been trying to focus on a post-Classical, pre-Romantic period to truly master it. I could compose in a more Bach-style arrangement if you want,” he said, words tripping over themselves in their haste to be known. Enjolras had never really had much criticism in any field; a slither of it sent him reeling.

“I’d actually be more interested to hear more modern influences.”

“I could use some 20th Century techniques, yes,” Enjolras nodded seriously.

“No, no... I want to see you write a pop-song,” Valjean suddenly smiled widely. “Yes, that’s what you need to do. I want a pop song.”

Enjolras’ toes curled.  

“And true commercial pop,” Valjean’s eyes were alight, and Enjolras knew he would not be dissuaded. “None of the jazz pop I know you’re already planning to write.”

Enjolras gulped, the litter of extended chords that had crept into his mind, dispelled.

“Don’t look so terrified,” Valjean said with a laugh.

“But that’s going to be so horribly boring!”

“It doesn’t have to be boring; I just want you out of your comfort zone.” Valjean kindly tapped the top of Enjolras’ laptop. “Brilliant work, as always, but let’s see something different next week, alright?”

“Alright, sir,” Enjolras said, holding back a groan.

Approximately two seconds later, he received a Facebook message from Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac always commanded words so succinctly, and had sent a gif of someone laughing hysterically. Enjolras turned to scowl at his friend, who was sniggering over his scrawled sheet of manuscript paper.  

Throughout the next hour, he composed an extremely angry 20th Century piece, full to the brim of staccato, discords and intense crescendo. He tried not to be elitist, but...pop music! The hazy glow of Valjean’s compliments had quickly worn off.  

The next class held no respite.  

“Typical Johnny-boy!” cawed Combeferre upon hearing the news, his glasses knocked from the bridge of his nose.

“Ugh,” Enjolras said, “Don’t call him that.”

Jehan was an explosion of colour in the room: vividly patterned cloth trousers, a clashing equally ornate shirt, a jumble of too much jewellery, and slowly dying fresh flowers in their dreadlocks. “Are you going to write the lyrics?” they asked, voice lovely and mellow with the notes of laughter still ringing there.

Enjolras died a little more inside. “I’ve only written lyrics in Italian before... And besides! Lyrics are an easy way out. A good composer should be able to convey every story without explaining it needlessly with words.”

“You’re gonna need to write lyrics, mate.” Combeferre snorted, “Oh god, I didn’t realise how much I needed this news today. My skin has cleared, my student debts have been paid off.”

“Just wondering... do either of you know of anyone interested in joining the orchestra?” Enjolras asked, scowling. “I have two new positions to fill. Two ex-members just got expelled for being terrible friends.”

Jehan tried to look sympathetic, rolling a bead across their palm. “Oh!” they exclaimed, “Have you met Grantaire?”

“No,” said Enjolras, bottom lip exaggeratedly pouted. An image of the smoker on the steps of the university wafted into his consciousness. “Wait... does he have black hair... and like...” Enjolras gestured to his face, “A crooked nose?”

“Oh man,” Jehan beamed with a nod, “He is such a cool guy. What a character! He has this energy that is just so eclectic –”

“And?” Enjolras interrupted, sharing a glance with Combeferre, who snorted. Jehan’s ramblings on energies had been timed to last hours.

“He has this really awesome vibe going on, like, he’s been writing this indie-pop stuff built on classical conventions. It’s actually amazing... I could try and hook you up... he’s like the only one I know here who writes pop...” Jehan pondered, eyes drifting away from the conversation, “Oh Enj, are you coming to that gig tonight?”

“What gig?” Enjolras unloaded his notepad from his bag and scribbled ‘music historical context’ across the top of the sheet.

“Enjolras only goes to concerts not gigs, darling,” Combeferre said in an over-dramatically refined voice.

“You totally should come. It’s this student band I’m totally into at the moment. It’s like this psychedelic, contemplative, indie, punky folk music.” Prouvaire said, “R will be there, he’s roommates with the singer. They’re both really chill. You can discuss the pop thing with him. It’s at the Musain.”

“Oh, the Musain is cool,” Enjolras said tiredly. “That’s a good venue.”

“Yeah, well, they’re really good. Just get there for about eightish.” They smiled, long eyelashes curling across their cheeks, in a lazy sort of bliss that only Jehan could achieve. “I’d offer to help with lyrics but I’ve challenged myself to only write in abstract Latin for a month, so...”

The fact that this news didn’t faze Combeferre or Enjolras in the slightest summed up Jehan Prouvaire perfectly.

~*~

“Enjolras!” Jehan cheered, looking even more luxuriated than usual. “You made it!”

The Musain was a good venue, but Enjolras hadn’t seen it much in the dark. He had usually spent afternoons there, drowning in sheet music and coffee.

“Jehan Prouvaire!” Courfeyrac whooped, embracing Jehan, in his usual, all-encompassing style.

“Are you alright after last night?” Jehan questioned, glint in their eye, “You looked absolutely out of it.”

“Yeah, I was.” Courfeyrac laughed wildly, “I’m being well-behaved tonight, though...” he paused for, what Enjolras knew to be, a well-practised dramatic effect, “No Class A’s, at least.”  

Jehan turned their gaze to Enjolras and crushed an arm around his tall frame. “R is hanging out with Éponine at the front, I’ll introduce you later.” Enjolras couldn’t see Grantaire amidst the mass of swaying heads. “The band playing now is called Chakrafied and they’re really deep,” Jehan said, letting their shoulders drift in time to the spacey sound.“ Don’t look so horrified, Enjolras, I’ve lured you over to the hippie side. Listen to Chakrafied and enjoy it!”

And Enjolras actually, kind of, did.  

~*~

The second band was made up of five members: four imposing gentlemen and an even scarier looking girl with eyeliner smeared across her face.

“I’m Éponine and we’re Patron-Minette,” she purred into the microphone, basking in the onstage lights, “We’re the scoundrels and ruffians of the Musain tonight.” Her smile was vicious. She nodded to her drummer, who sped into a series of counter rhythms that Enjolras was entirely not expecting.

Their music was wild and aggressive but threaded with a lull of tender despair at the world’s injustice. It was surprisingly melodic and Enjolras, who was a master of piano, still found himself drawn to the keyboardists techniques, which were messily executed by tattooed fingers adorned with a clatter of rings, but with a bit of refinement, could fit into a Saint-Michel’s classroom with ease.  

Courfeyrac was already in a bit of a state, giggly and flushed, dancing erratically. “Dance with me, Enjolras!” he said and Enjolras obliged. “Drink with me!”

And once more Enjolras obliged.  

When Enjolras drank, which was a very rare occasion, the usual tight coil of his body unwound into a loose end; he blushed a lot and for once stopped mentally composing symphonies.

Prouvaire reappeared when the music finished, looping long arms around Enjolras and Courfeyrac’s necks, “My boys!” they said over the hubbub, “Wanna hang in the dressing room? That’s where the real party is!”

The four walls of the dressing room were packed with limbs, the sound of loud celebrations and smoke.

“Hey, dude, quit it,” snapped a voice, “You’re going to get us thrown out.” The keys player stubbed out the drummers cigarette with his thumb. The drummer rolled his eyes and exhaled his breath of smoke into the other man’s face.

“Chill out, ‘Parnasse,” the drummer laughed, his voice far more velvety than expected. “I’m the bodyguard’s dealer, he won’t say anything.”

“Just smoke outside the fire exit door,” ‘Parnasse commanded, kicking the door open with a boot, allowing a rush of cold air into the room.

“Yeah, get out, G,” Éponine said mildly, fixing her tangle of hair in the mirror.

“Éponine!” Prouvaire said loudly, almost knocking the singer off her feet with a hug.

“Prouvaire, my dear! I didn’t know you were here!”

“Of course I was. I wouldn’t miss you guys for the world!”

Éponine preened at Jehan’s response and threw her head back in laughter. “You sweetheart,” she said, “What’s your next gig?”

“I have a poetry slam next week but the poems are read syllabically to the sound of Bach. It’s this new project I’m working on at the moment.”

“Sounds weird,” Éponine said, “I’d love to come!”

“These are my friends Courfeyrac and Enjolras,” Jehan introduced, smiling fondly at the gangly pair, “From Saint-Michel’s... this is Éponine, Montparnasse, Babet, the bassist... The weirdo in the mask is Claquesous and Gueulemer just got kicked out.”

Éponine hugged them both, much smaller in person than she had appeared onstage. Montparnasse gave a flutter of his ringed fingers. Enjolras was usually aware how much taller he was than a room full of people, but even Montparnasse towered above him. Built like a ballerina, the keyboardist was slender and wraith-like, expression not unfriendly, but not particularly inviting either: as though rearranging his face into a smile would take too much effort.  

Babet was also tall and unhealthily pale. “Nice to meet you, but I have places to be,” he said mysteriously, translucent eyes flicking quickly across the room. “Text me the next rehearsal dates, Ép. See you.”

Claquesous, or ‘the weirdo in the mask’, didn’t say anything, but huddled over his guitar, fingers dancing over the fret boards effortlessly.

“Are you alright, darling?” Éponine asked Enjolras a while later when they were all lounging on the few sofas, the sounds of other bands dancing through the walls. Her brash accent was so unlike the silken tones of her singing voice.

“Huh?” Enjolras replied, blushing, because he was a little bit drunk.

“This isn’t usually Enj’s scene,” Jehan interjected, “He doesn’t usually enter an establishment unless it has a guaranteed string quartet, at the very least.”

Éponine laughed, and ruffled Enjolras’ hair, which was a very bold move. Enjolras’ hair had never been ruffled before. “Bless your Saint-Michel heart. What do you play? Wait – let me guess...Harp?”

“Yes, actually,” said Enjolras.

“Oh, I bet you get minted doing corporate gigs... How many weddings want a pretty boy harpist? What a genius career move...” Éponine mused aloud.

“He doesn’t just play harp,” Courfeyrac added, “I haven’t found an instrument that Enjolras can’t play...” Courf snorted into his drink, eyes lost in memory. “Actually, you’re terrible at standard pop drumming, like horrifically bad,” he said, resting his head on Enjolras’ shoulder. “Sorry,” he added.

Jehan suddenly sat upright, looking around the room comically. “Where’s R?” they asked.

“Uh,” Éponine smirked and looked at Montparnasse, “Was that girl coming tonight?”

“No,” said Montparnasse fixing an eyebrow. “But I saw him talking to a different blonde girl by the side of the stage.”

“Oh,” said Éponine, looking to Jehan, “He’ll be busy, then.”

“The boy has more game than me and he isn’t even in a band,” Gueulemer complained, “That was the only reason I learned guitar.”

“Grantaire’s uglier than you, by far, and he still has more game than you,” Montparnasse said with an amused sneer.

“I should give being bisexual a try,” Guelulemer laughed.

“Not funny,” Éponine flicked her drummer’s upper arm. “Also, don’t be awful ‘Parnasse. You pride yourself on being the hottest in the band and you still don’t get laid as much as R.”

Montparnasse scowled and gestured rudely at his band mate.

~*~

When Grantaire arrived into the dressing room a while later, he appeared smudged, ruffled, and incredibly smug: the image of an utter rock star. Enjolras had to remind himself that Grantaire went to Saint-Michel’s, which made him, in at least some degree, an enormous classical music nerd.

He received a chorus of catcalls and cheers as he walked through and merely shot a wink before collapsing beside Éponine.

“You rocked it, as always,” he said, bumping shoulders with her. “Oh!” he looked at Enjolras and beamed, “Composer boy! I didn’t picture you as an avid Patron-Minette fan!”

“It’s Enjolras,” Enjolras said, ears tinged pink.

“We’re gonna get kicked out soon,” Éponine interrupted, “It’s nearly curfew. After party at ours?”

“I have class tomorrow,” Grantaire sighed.

“Go to bed then,” Éponine said, sounding bored, as she collected some leads and equipment. “Come on squad, we should get going.”

~*~

When they were outside, huddling under the lip of the building to shelter from rain, Courfeyrac passed his lighter around, minute flickers of deep orange lighting up the night.

“Are you coming to the after party?” Courf asked Enjolras, curled around his cigarette as if it would warm him up.

“I have 9am class,” Enjolras said, though he probably wouldn’t have gone anyway.

“That is such a Combeferre thing to say,” Jehan piped up, “You’ve been hanging out too much.”

“We are roommates,” Enjolras laughed, increasingly awkward without a matching cigarette in hand. “Anyway, he’s probably getting worried; I don’t usually stay out past midnight.”

“Oh, god!” Courfeyrac suddenly exclaimed, “I think he said he had something really important to discuss with you about Bach and maths or something.”

“Yeah that sounds like ‘Ferre,” Enjolras smiled, “I should head off. Nice show, everyone. See you around.”

Éponine pulled him into a hug because she was closest, and the boy sculpted from marble and gold weaved his way into the night, leaving the bubble of chatter far behind him.

A/N:

Hey yall this is a fic from my ao3 account, it’s a long one! If you want to see enjolras and grantaire bond over classical music then this is the fic for you! probs one of my favourite things I’ve ever written, so hope you enjoy! let me know what ya think! I’m songbird-musing on ao3 too so give me a shout!

[duskdragonxiii]

with elitist angels trying to kick humans out of heaven because theyre assholes who dont want to share, premadeath being a real and honestly likely outcome in purgatory, and im going to guess a pretty brutal mortality rate in hell- how dwindling are mortals? are they even expected to stick around very long? side not, what happens when angels realize heaven runs out of humans?

You got it! The amount of humans in hell is at an all time low bc the ones that survive thier sentence there (hell functions more like a mortal prison or dungeon than an actual world where ur free to exist) either go back to purgatory to wait in hope of one day getting to paradise. OR theyre like lucifer bro what if i become a demon too like yall sure seem to have a party down here n if he likes u he’ll be like hell yeah bro ur still gonna get the shit kicked out of u daily bc hells primary purpose is torture and penance but hey it’ll be less if u lick my floors clean or smth. The thing w being a demon tho is Lucifer gets bored of ur company and ur dead at least being a prisonder and serving ur sentance ur likely to get out. Believe it or not Lucifer is actually quite merciful if u stay on his good side that is

ANYWAY since bte takes place 800 years after the end of the world most peoples sentances have been served and there has been very very few souls coming down unless they are sent as for punishment by heaven, which is rare, angels may not like people but they dont make a point of giving severe punishments for minor transgressions. Hell these days is pretty boring. demons just go about thier lives and with no mortal realm to make mischief in they just have to entertain  themselves among eachother. Unlike heaven, Hell doesnt have a regulatd system which appoints tasks and responsibility to its divine residents so its very informal and lazy but when it gets chaotic it gets chaotic.

contrary to popular belief though, the majority of people are good. genuine and average people with genuine and average vices. its only those with an exceptional good or evil sway that get into heaven and hell. Most people reside peacefully and happily in purgatory. Which is why Purgatory is so huge and has so many zones- which shift on occasion to keep life interesting. Resident areas are only so widespread in purg because its so infinite. There are just as many if not more mortals in purgatory than there are purgatorians. 

Death is pretty bored out his tights these days which is why he has so much time to mess around but most of the work he gets these days is from hell SO

[tellywoodtrash]

khkt 28.08.19 lb

gosh, every girl deserves a mother in law like veena. saas ho toh aisi ho, warna na ho.

mummy is well aware that Raja Beta is a handful.

mild resentment feelz i am having that she expects sona to put up with that and fix her son.

ouff, i don't like this aunty. like i sympathize with the character and all, but......... her acting annoys me.

also her hatred for rohit better warrant some actual fault by him, like making a fatal mistake while operating (that a surgeon of his level should have known better than to do.) yeh nahi ki she's just mad at him for a random medical happenstance that he couldn't actively avoid.

lol nishi is suchhhhhhhh a jalkukdi. whatever stereotypical auntiness is missing from veena, koot koot ke ismein bhari hai.

yk's wry smile is everything.

yk reppin #teamSonakshi.

nishi is like oh helllll naah, not in my bedroom! this is a sonakshi-free zone!!!!!!!

askkkk her yk, ask her!

god nishi you are so elitist.

of course i'm not for sona being put to work at the age of 12, but maybe that's the only option suman had in order to raise the family on her own? it's not morally right, but then survival tactics rarely ever are.

oh ho, yk reminding her that he isn't from a family that is exactly comparable to hers either.

yeah, i find this especially disingenuous, coz nishi was grumbling about sonakshi not being sindhi, and yk isn't either? (isn't his surname kapoor or kumar or something?) why is she applying all these cut-off qualifications to rohit's spouse when she didn't while choosing someone to marry herself?

yup, typical desi hypocrisy, ki jawaab nahi hai toh incredulous topic change.

she's so easily distracted, like a magpie.

ugh.

nosy chachu yahaan bhi taang adaa rahein hain. but for once i welcome it. adaao idhar, please adaao! aur iski moti akal ko thikaane lagao pls!

lol ajit, you know they're faking and you're still shipping them. i love you, you idiot. you are truly this fandom’s in-show proxy.

ajit family ka game show host bhi hai. waah, mera multi-talented chutku!

lmao rohit's face knowing badi mumma is gonna choose them.

sonakshi's bitchface of the night #5.

oh god suman ko call to get permission for her to stay later, ffs, she a grown woman, could you stop calling her mom like she's a 7 year old over at your place for a play date????

ajit tu pitega. aaj bhi pitega.

ohhhhh newlywed's game haiiiiiiii.

relationship mein clarity in dono ko khud nahi hai, aap logo ko kya dikhayenge?

first question about gussa.  

rohit, honestly, how fucking dare you???????

also this moment has the same energy as........

joke i forever love: someone angrily screaming that they do not get angry.

............ i don't think the sippys get how to play this game. if one of them says "woh", the other is supposed to agree and say "main". this is them contradicting each other at every question.

did rohit hold up "main" for the forgiveness question?

"lekin rohit toh kissi ko asaani se maaf karta nahi."

uh yeah, easy forgiveness is for small shit like not renewing her license or feeding him karela or something. NOT FOR CHEATING ON HIS MOTHER AND HAVING A WHOLEASS LOVECHILD THAT YOU GOT ADOPTED INTO THE FAMILY. (the audacity of men, is2g.)

oufffffffff. yk coming in with a heavyyyyyyy one: "tum dono mein se zyaada pyaar kaun karta hai?"

pffffffffffft. both should have put up "main", then it would have been hort-crushingly romantic. i iz disappoint.

(also rohit ne sonakshi ko abhi se easy liya hua hai???? he at least should have put up "main" since he's the one pretending to be so in love with her????? hmph.)

ugh. don't care. i don't care about any of this nonsense until raima actually wakes the fuck up.

my question is, itniiiiiii gracious aur wholesome family mein rohit aur nishi kaise paida ho gaye?

cutesttttttttttt. i love her soooooo much.

i guess ravi bhaiyya is that trusted, if they're discussing this in front of him??? we're absolutely sure he won't go spill to vimmi????

sona is honestly too good for anyone in this damn show. a whole different planet itself for my queen! it shall have only puppies and kittens and kids below the age of 12; other pure beings who can never hurt her heart of solid gold.

yup, canon-confirmed that ravi bhaiyya is trustworthy. so it’s sona/ravi/ajit/mom, in terms of rohit’s secret-keeping inner circle.

ohhhhhhhhhh great. raima's gonna be in some hospital in mumbai. asdlkjfdslkflsdkj lord, why?????

oh thank god, he didn't see Angry Friend.... Hitesh? Ritesh? some "itesh", imma just call him Angry-tesh from now on.

ouff this aunty's acting is intolerable cruelty.

phew.

also, metaphor samajh rahe ho aap? raima’s gonna appear outta nowhere, literally come in between them, but then slip away off to her intended destination (wherever that may be), so roankshi can ultimately unite.

ouffffff, too much deep meaning nikaal diya maine traffic situation mein se.

ouff too cute, end of first date type squishy smiles.

"itna sudharaa hua dr. surgeon mujhe digest nahi hoga."

ugh, she a masochist, like all other tellywood girls. sis, learn to accept and expect respectful, good behaviour from men. have some fucking standards, pls.

oh boy samaaj seva type rambling.

... which has given rohit a social justice waala boner.

(the only boner we all should be having in these dark times. in 2k19 we only fuck with people who are into radical compassion and equal rights for all!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

"kitni alag ho tum.... raima se."

ughhhhhh, had us in the first half, not gonna lie.

ok but if raima was so hyper and restless, then how did she calm bad boy rohit down???? does not compute.

"woh jitni restless thi, tum utni suljhi hui."

god, this fucker has no sense on what to say when. literally no one in any situation ever wants to be compared to an ex, rohit. esp. one that you're so painfully hung up on. and that's what sona's face is screaaaaaaming.

lol ok sona that's a dumb question. a really dumb question. you know why.

jesus h. christ will someone please get this man to therapy?????? fucking hell, y'all own a damn hospital, surely you have SOMEONE in there who can help??????? fuck!!!!!!!!!!!