#Tiffany’s Dirty Thirty

[guiltswept]

( willa fitzgerald. cis woman. she/her. ) - let me introduce you to a member of the eversley family, imogen eversley is the eldest daughter. they are thirty-two and are known as the magnet to the family because they are effervescent, capricious, and prodigal. when you get to know them, you think about a swan drowned in its own pond and its sprawled, feathered halo floating in the dirtied water; leaning precariously against a balcony banister as a lover takes delight, numb to the ongoings of the party below. but they’re still an eversley, nonetheless. this character is penned by: (james. 25. est. they/them).

content warning for... teenage pregnancy, adoption mentions, and implied domestic abuse ( nondescript ).

profile.

full name — imogen thomasin radcliffe eversley.

nickname(s) — gen, ginny ( family only ).

place of birth — hampshire, england, united kingdom.

date of birth & age — february 24th, 1992. thirty2.

gender / pronouns — cis woman, she/her.

sexuality — bisexual.

occupation — fashion designer; failed. violinist; failed. painter; failed. art connoisseur. socialite. world traveler. philanthropist. winery board member.

astrology — pisces sun / scorpio moon / cancer rising.

labels — the magnet ( others considered: the robin / the thespian / the philanthropist / the fervor / the hedonist / the illustrious ).

residence — eversley estate ( previous residence: radcliffe manor, yorkshire ).

traits — worldly, vindictive, sanctimonious, resplendent, prodigal, wanton, blasé, sumptuous, capricious, grandiose, indulgent, inconsiderate, self - serving, condescending, effervescent

interests — non - profits; and smiling for the cameras. silks, furs, pearls. cashmere. parties; dancing - switching from partner to partner. partaking in a fifteen - step selfcare routine every morning and a twenty - step selfcare routine every evening. red lipstick. cigarettes, cigars; the occasional vape and the occasional joint. the occasional bump. sweet red wines. the summertime the french countryside. idle gossip; innocent flirtation. sharing a bed. hoarding her wealth. club music. the occasional argument. breaking things; particularly glass.

aversions — cheap fabric and fast fashion. american beer. others being privy to her outbursts. losing; admitting defeat. others disagreeing with her. things outside of her control. losing her voice. being an embarrassment; being caught off - guard. sparkling juices ( go big or go home? ). the texture of velvet. the concept of golf. being perceived in a way she wouldn't like to be. grocery shopping. bicycles. when produce is older than a few days ( it's not fresh if it wasn't picked that morning ). poor weather.

most played — a mistake by fiona apple.

notable features — meticulously curled blonde hair, purposefully disheveled with each manicured finger that runs through it; bright green eyes that spark arguments whenever they're referenced as hazel, like - get a grip.

general disposition — a practiced litheness to every movement; a head held high, and sanguinity that nearly feels forced.

character study — daisy buchanan ( the great gatsby ) & marie antoinette ( marie antoinette ) & holly golightly ( breakfast at tiffany's ) & emma woodhouse ( emma ).

background & events.

being the second born means being the second best; and imogen eversley would spend the entirety of her childhood overcompensating for it. if the eldest were anything like their father, then imogen was like their mother. or - she tried to emulate the matriarch, to the very best of her ability. elegance, grace; a certain poise that she couldn't imitate, no matter how hard she tried.

it had always been clear to imogen that she'd never be their parents' favorite; god knows the competition was stiff. she tried anyways; picked up hobby after hobby, only to be met with a natural mediocrity that even the finest tutors couldn't teach out of her. she met each failure with anger, with frustration; with tears and screams, echoed throughout her childhood bedroom, void of comfort. never publicly - never in front of her family. her own private tantrums; all for herself.

however splintered, shattered her own ego may be - imogen always graced the corridors of their home with a practiced smile; practiced grace, practiced elegance, a practiced caricature of ignes. never her own person - just mimicking those she wanted to be.

the only time she felt - herself, truly and wholly, was in her teenaged years - with the son of one of their estates' staff. their secret meetings became the only thing imogen truly looked forward to; the only place where she could be stripped of her façade, where she wasn't an eversley, but just imogen. and then she fell pregnant.

teen pregnancy; the first person she told was her aunt cressida; more alike than imogen would've cared to admit - partial shame in the fact, partial fear that it only affirmed that she'd never be like their mother. aunt cressida brought comfort; brought everything she knew not to expect once her parents found out about her pregnancy.

adoption mention; she was right, of course. as soon as the news was broken to them ( rumors floating the corridors, whispers among the staff, the averted gaze from who she supposed would be her child's paternal grandparent ) - imogen was whisked away. gone for a year, without a single trace. a special abroad program, her parents would tell their friends, their family; her own siblings. the year stretched like a decade; lasted like a second - both forever, and instant. a blur. naturally, she didn't keep the child; its adoption had been set up the moment she left the estate.

imogen returned to eversley estate a year later, and nothing has ever been the same since. a tighter leash, and a gaze in her parents' eyes that only affirmed her worst fears. she was a disappointment; and once that opinion was held - it would never change. she leapt at the chance to go to university far away; an actual abroad program that would take her out from the estate, that would lessen the grip around her throat.

the degree is useless; something art or philosophy related, pretentious, and incredibly imogen. she spends her time in different european cities, writing essays on philosophers she doesn't care about - on art she doesn't understand; drinking into the early hours of the morning, arguing beliefs she doesn't hold while being peppered in drunken kisses from people she's met the same day. when she graduates university - not much changes.

years pass - and imogen's rarely been back to the estate. sometimes for the holidays, but sometimes it's a postcard from whichever island she's decided to spend christmas at. she's been around the globe at least three times; sometimes she stays in a country for months at a time, sometimes days. everything is up to her own whim - and she still chases the euphoric high her first love gave her. technically, henry radcliffe is her twenty eighth love, but numbers are arbitrary.

they marry almost as soon as they meet, their relationship only months in, but his family's of wealth almost equal to her own, and of course it must be fate that they, two wealthy brits, meet in bora bora of all places ( fork found in kitchen ). it's an extravagant wedding, held on the radcliffe property ( maybe it's the hurt in imogen's heart, but she refuses to have it at the vineyard ) and an attraction for both family and friends to gawk at.

implied domestic abuse; the first year is dreamy; or maybe imogen's head is just in the clouds - but it plummets quick. it becomes increasingly apparent that henry is not the man imogen thought he was. that his honeyed words were just that - honeyed. sweet enough to soften... everything. she knows she has to get out - that whatever their marriage became wasn't love, not anymore. she knows - she has to contact charles. she has to contact her father.

and charles eversley handles it. what he does, or rather, who does it for him - imogen doesn't know. all she knows is that henry's on an indefinite work trip, and that she's packing her bags and moving back into her childhood bedroom for the time being. part of her is - surprised at the swiftness. that she'd been helped at all. part of her is waiting for the catch. there's always a catch, isn't there?

introspection & details.

in childhood, imogen was an overbearing, wannabe overachiever who just managed to achieve. she's always felt like a part of hector's shadow, lurking only a few paces behind him. her ego's always been incredibly fragile; and it doesn't take much for her to break.

is prone to fits, or outbursts - or breakdowns; whichever takes fancy. it's when she becomes - so overwhelmed by the stress and weight of - everything, that she just completely shuts down. often resorts to violence - has broken many of her own possessions in her childhood. she's always hidden her outbursts - and has gotten better at managing them. for the most part.

in fact, she hides all of the... unsavory parts of her well. her demeanor is always languid, lithe - relaxed and unconcerned with the estates' happenings. on the inside, she's biting her nails until blood draws.

she loves to host parties; loves to mingle with others, loves the attention - loves to chat, especially when it's meaningless. especially when she can talk about herself. has hosted many charity galas, mostly for that purpose. and for the orphans! always for the orphans!

she's extremely socially unaware; most worldly topics escape her, despite her numerous travels. she can get away with it for the most part. it also doesn't help that she's - patronizing at best, thinking she's above most because of the money she's raised and donated for charity ( even if some of them are just fronts ).

imogen doesn't know how much bananas cost at the grocery store. or most produce for that matter. maybe the most likely out of her siblings to just throw a wad of money at something and assume it's exactly paid for.

unironically downloads and pays for those video skit apps that always have ads on tiktok like "i'm the fated luna to my professor, the alpha king!". unironically enjoys them. is also prone to terrible, terrible romance books. the littler the plot, and the greater the smut - the better. hasn't read nonfiction since university.

many were surprised when imogen first married ( though, naturally she's now - separated? divorced? widowed? ) because of her... habit of acquiring multiple lovers at a time. she's never been a long - term person, not since her first love. even now, back at the estate - imogen may or may not be involved with a few family friends... or staff. they always say old habits die hard.

extremely charismatic when she wants to be; has a deep, inner need to be loved and admired. hates being alone for too long - has a tendency to drink by herself, which either causes havoc or causes her to spiral.

selfish and narcissistic; will always think about herself first ( besides her family... sometimes ) and is a strong believer of selfcare days ( where she does nothing but lounge by the pool ). she's terrified of getting older - of looking old; is terrified of the day where she becomes undesirable, and therefore truly worth nothing.

[chorusgirls]

𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚃𝚁𝙰𝚁𝚈 𝚃𝙾 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙼𝙰𝚈 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁𝙳, 𝙸𝚃 𝙸𝚂 𝙿𝙾𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙱𝙻𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝚂𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙰𝚃𝙴 𝙰 𝚃𝚁𝙸𝙲𝙺𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁. 𝙸𝚃 𝙾𝙽𝙻𝚈 𝚃𝙰𝙺𝙴𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙴 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙻𝙳.

…  ALIAS / NAME   …  solange lahiri.

…  NICKNAMES   …  known under various aliases and monikers. referred to as la pantera in various parts of spain, andora, and portugal, along with the night fox across the south of france. accepts any pet name.

…  BIRTH NAME   …  redacted.

…  AGE   …  thirty-three.

…  GENDER  …  cis woman.

…  SEXUALITY  …  bisexual. kinsey scale 3.

…  CIVILIAN OCCUPATION   …  jazz singer at godfather house of blues.

…  CRIMINAL ASSOCIATION   …  jade tribe soldier, freelance cat burglar & con artist .

…  NOTABLE ATTRIBUTES   …  doe eyes, salacious body, and most particularly the combination of the two.

 …  CHARACTER INSPIRATIONS   …  selina kyle ( detective comics ).  regina lampert ( charade ).  janet colgate/the jackal ( dirty rotten scoundrels ). maría elena ( vicky cristina barcelona ).  holly golightly ( breakfast at tiffany's ). mirtha jung ( blow ).

( + ) alluring, passionate, charismatic, persuasive, witty, adaptable, sensual, warm, competitive, flirtatious, voracious, coy.

( - ) vindictive, possessive, unpredictable, insatiable, manipulative, dishonest, jealous, eccentric, unreliable, delusive, mercurial.

𝚂𝙿𝙰𝚁𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚃𝙴𝚂. * trigger warnings: gang activity, implied age gap, mention of fertility trouble, murder, mild gore, suicide, parental death.

as a child, you once use a shell casing as a hard candy. six months old with a gnawing pain, and your mother finds you with a hollowed-out bullet between your gums. before taking it out she hoists you onto her hip, brandishing the moment to your father like a postcard: just look at your daughter. a coo, not a reprimand. when he leans forward, chucking your fat little chin, the affection only blooms brighter: incorrigible love, all for putting the killing thing in your mouth.

it's not the metal that poisons you, but the rest of what you're weaned on. the only child of an aging criminal emperor, your family rules mumbai and the shadow beyond with a traditionally held & elegantly dressed fist. beyond just the apple of your father's eye, you are the fruit bowl and the orchard too — where once he had dreaded the thought of a daughter, your birth shifts both his heart and his vision. when your mother's womb bares no other children, it does not matter: it's your head, scented with rosemary and bathed in milk, who will one day wear the crown. a little shadow, they call you, not for your quiet existence (you learned to raise your voice above the echo of gunshots in the compound, your mouth its own pistol, never to be outdone) but how tightly you share your father's. he says it's lesson, learning by proximity, but the pair of you know the truth: it's the close-keeping of a treasure. neither of you can bare separation.

sat beneath the shadow of a pomegranate tree in the back of the family estate: that's where you watch your father die. your mother's hand is slipped into yours as the gun raises, but it's your fingers who hold tight. a steadying force, as solid and hard-boned as the gaze you level at the usurper. the man who would be a king killer looks little more than a desperate boy with those shaking hands, older than you but young and untested enough to believe this is the way you build a kingdom. blood sprays your bare feet. warm. thick. mother wails, just as hot, just as molten. you'll join her later in the privacy of a home turned prison — grief emptying out your whole body, so violent it voids your stomach, leaves you retching on the cool marble floor — but now you only look. stare. fix him with the eyes that will not flinch, watching as he recedes to claim what was once yours.

you are married to your father's killer on the grounds watered with his blood. it is your choice of location just as it is your pain, your memory, your plan. mother dresses for a funeral, barred from the ceremony. it's like watching you walk to your death. you cannot afford to explain your decision to her, nor express the reason for your disagreement: the only way to tear throat is to kiss it first. only two years between the bookends of death and ceremony, but a lifetime stretches between it: time rendered thick and acidic with all that you must do to convince him of your choice. it was your power, you promise, palm on the place his heart would be, now it is what i have found beneath it. it's impossible to distinguish the look of hunger your husband wears at the altar to the ravenous one he will wear later, in the bed chamber: the starvation for your beauty identical to that of your legacy. you allow him to put his mouth on both and pretend to roll down his throat.

the cost of retribution, as the gods dictate, is as great as the crime: a quarter of your life, spent at the side of your father's killer. the dissolution of your father's empire, its rubble stuck irrevocably to your soles. the life of your mother, taken at her own hands: unable to watch any longer the unnatural crime of your union. but revenge comes, all the same. it comes like crows to the corpse, black clouds to the summer sky. inevitable. six years of plotting, and finally you destroy that which shattered you first; despot-husband dead, legacy stamped out. you do not leave with nothing when it is all over: it is the last known flight of a criminal's private plane, chartered to an unknown location in western europe before disappearing.

your various lives as a zoetrope, each version of yourself seemingly separate until you spin fast enough: lover, thief, artist, grifter, impersonator, photographer, forger, heiress. all these variations, these distinct new selves, yet the story only goes round and round on a wheel: you throw yourself into the role, the new country, the life. you find love where there is none, create it like god. you steal whatever is not bolted down to the floor. and when it tires out under your feet, when the grounds shrink and leave you painted into a corner ⸺ you climb the walls. that's how you come to new york, the crumbs of a southern french villa stuck to your heel, glancing up at the burned neon sky through sleek black glasses: open up darling, i'm home.

SUMMARY : only child of one of india's largest organized crime rings watches as her father's operation is usurped by a rival, only to be forced to marry him to further legitimize his takeover. after six years of an intimate, gnarled long con, solange brings down her despot husband at the cost of crumbling her father's legacy too. at twenty-four, having slain a false king and carrying a guilt she'll never acknowledge, solange leaves to europe to begin a new life — the first in a series. grifter, con artist, cat burglar — she has as many criminal occupations as she does aliases. after a recent, lengthy stint in the french riviera, she's hurricaned into new york under the name solange lahiri.

𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙲𝙰𝙽𝙾𝙽𝚂.

exceptional verbal mimic. give her a half hour in earshot and she'll replicate your voice.

the hat game is unrivaled. she's got one for every occasion, and then several more.

talks a lot with her hands, but it's a long con to distract you from where they're going (your wallet, your purse, your jewelry)

there's no easy way to say this, but her tits are always physically or metaphorically out. it's just part of the look.

has a very well-adjusted cat who has been carted all over the world with her. technically he is one of the most expensive cats in the world (seriously), being an f1 bengal she stole from his previous owner. sola has renamed him paul newman. he's surprisingly chill except when left without enough space to run around. much like his owner he will then start clawing shit up.

was briefly a british wag, dating one of manchester united's stars. probably jamie tartt coded. looooved the attention.

realistically and despite how outlandish some of sola's escapades are, subconsciously or otherwise she's playing it very safe. not only an incredibly talented thief, but primed once upon a time to inherit a crime ring — but she contents herself with stealing jewelry and spouses? a shame really. someone call her on it.

gluttonous in all aspects of life. food, drink, laughter, sex. she doesn't do anything in moderation

prefers an artisanal coffee shop, but pops into starbucks regularly to snag something off their bar. thank you easily exploitable mobile ordering honour system

𝚆𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙳.

this energy. where's my homoerotic sapphic fight scene

rival from the hanging man. solange actively joined a gang outside of the heist leaders because she wanted a little <3 fun competition <3 and she's decided you're in a personal rivalry. all the better if this other person is just ? literally what did i do to deserve this im just tryna get through the day

girlies whose friendship she has acquired through compulsive charisma

a past fling/relationship with someone who vacationed in one of her hot spots

a mark she's taken on not for jade tribe purposes but because she can't sit still ever :) personal project

anybody in any avenue of law enforcement who has previously or currently worked on a job of hers that solange is currently fucking with

somebody (probably older, possibly a head of a gang??) who knew and worked with her father !!! bonus points for knowing her as a kid

[witchcraftandburialdirt]

💞 Robin's secret fantasy that he hasn't voiced to anyone? + Abel's thoughts on it? (if you want) 👀

💞 MEME Any dirty questions you may have for them and they HAVE to answer honestly!

⎯⎯⎯⎯ Robin's secret fantasy that he hasn't voiced to anyone?

"Mmm... I think the idea of...well, uh, Danny just...taking me when he pleases would be extremely enticing but-- uh, well, obviously with consent beforehand! I trust him with my life and I think it could be a fun way to spice things up but...I don't think I could ever express that to him without him teasing me. Whether its him on top or making me kneel infront of him and taste him-- I....It sounds fun! Oh...or him waking me up by uh...well, the free use idea...again." A pause... "Alternatively...I break into Tiffany's at midnight. Do I go for the vault? No, I go for the chandelier. It's priceless. As I'm taking it down, a woman catches me. She tells me to stop. It's her father's business. She's Tiffany. I say no. We make love all night. In the morning, the cops come and I escape in one of their uniforms. I tell her to meet me in Mexico, but I go to Canada. I don't trust her. Besides, I like the cold. Thirty years later, I get a postcard. I have a son and he's the chief of police. This is where the story gets interesting. I tell Tiffany to meet me by the Trocadero in Paris. She's been waiting for me all these years. She's never taken another lover. I don't care. I don't show up. I go to Berlin. That's where I stashed the chandelier."

⎯⎯⎯⎯ Abel's thoughts on it?

"Ah, while I am quite grateful for the inquiry I am afraid I have little place to judge - my fantasies are far worse than anything his mind could conjur up. As long as it passes the time and fills my stomach, I do not mind what the boy dreams up."

[gyrlversion]

𝗖𝗮𝗿𝗱𝗶 𝗕'𝘀 𝗕𝗶𝗿𝘁𝗵𝗱𝗮𝘆 𝗖𝗲𝗹𝗲𝗯𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗣𝗵𝗼𝘁𝗼𝘀 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗠𝗮𝘆 𝗛𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗠𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗱 👀🥂 ......................................................... Cardi B's dirty thirty cabaret-themed party on Tuesday was celebrated at Poppy nightclub in West Hollywood The mom was styled by @kollincarter in a red satin @garosparo bullet bra corset Her party guest included Hennessy Carolina, O.T. Genasis, Chance the Rapper, Tyga, Alexander Edwards, GloRilla, Ice Spice, Wale, Tiffany Haddish, DDG, Jamie Foxx, Karrueche Tran, Destiny Odom, Shenseea, Terrance Mann, YG, Coco Jones and Chloe & Halle Bailey She was gifted with a $300k Crocodile Birkin Bag and ice for his wrist Scroll to see all 6 photos and follow if you are keeping up with trending news Topics: #cardiballaccess #wavesetcephus #waveset #kulture #KultureKiari #kulturecephus #news #popculture #newspage #facts #fact #entertainment #entertainmentnews #belcalisalmanzar #kiaricephus #OffsetCardiB #cardibsbirthday https://www.instagram.com/p/CjoCnw-u0lp/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[the-pale-goddess]

How is Miss T spending her 30th birthday?👀✨ Does she celebrate it? How does she feel about the 3 and the 0?

Anon, my beloved! Can’t thank you enough for this question and your interest in Tiffany! You’ve made my heart so full 🥹❤️❤️❤️

The big 30 deserves a triple celebration, and that’s exactly the gift I’ve given to my girl 🥂 I went a little overboard with this response, sorry 😅

Warnings: we’re discussing E&T, so expect references to some adult activities jsvksvskvs

Actual birthday

Tiffany insisted that reaching 30 is not a big deal, so she chose to work on August 22nd.

Waving her twenties goodbye wouldn’t make any real difference in her everyday life, but it was symbolic, and this seemingly irrelevant detail put her in a weird, reflective mood.

Ethan knew it was a pretty big deal for her after all. For weeks prior, he watched her stare in the mirror looking for new wrinkles (there were none, but she would always find a reason to shake her head at her reflection and sigh) or plucking out stray gray hairs.

He could tell she’s got a lot on her mind, but she put her brave face on, covered her melancholy with a thick layer of humor and tried to deal with it on her own without burdening others as per usual.

The prospect of entering thirties made her feel a bit lost and confused. Usually confident and fearless, Tiffany suddenly didn’t know which path to choose and how to do it. But the reckless times of irresponsible youth, even if she rarely acted that way, were over. She lost access to that gray area of life where mistakes were allowed. She had to make some life-shaping decisions, and she had to make them soon.

With no hesitation, Ethan decided to be the distraction and support Tiffany needed while her self-searching quest continued.

You bet that E&T were late to work that day 🤡 Tiffany’s ever-caring and thoughtful partner made sure her day started on a high note: with a hearty breakfast in bed and morning sex.

He got up early to spoil her with her favorite Italian style omelette, freshly squeezed orange juice and delicious coffee.

Though he tried his best to be as quiet and sneaky as possible, T woke up anyway. Careful not to ruin the surprise, she pretended to be asleep, but Ethan saw through her act.

Then fucked her senseless just the way she likes.

The afterglow snuggling made it impossible to simply leave the bed and get ready for work, so they stayed in a little longer, enjoying each other’s company and engaging in pillow talk.

Inspired by the occasion, Ethan felt the need to verbalize some of his thoughts.

„You’re well aware that I’m not fond of birthdays, but…I’m immensely grateful for you, and I want you to know how special you are. How important you are to me.”

Tiff (being Tiff) joked in response, saying that Ethan’s advanced age made him sentimental. The truth, hovewer, was evident; her heart filled with overwhelming happiness—she was exactly where she wanted to be: loved, in love, and accomplished, with bright future ahead of her. The thought brought her comfort and boosted her confidence. Little did she know that in a few months her world would turn upside down 🤰🏻ksbksbskbs

Edenbrook celebrated Doctor Addams with a lot of noise—slightly embarrassed and deeply moved Tiff received many wishes and small gifts from fellow doctors and her favorite patients.

After work, E&T had a low-key dinner in one of Tiffany’s favorite sushi restaurants, then drove home to get the finest dessert on the menu 😏

Speaking of desserts…Ethan almost forgot about the most important part of his plan, the birthday cake—a criminal offence, really. After they finished each other They finished the day eating the fancy cake on the balcony, their spent bodies loosely wrapped in the sheets.

Tiffany was obsessed with the choice: vanilla supreme made with custard sauce and Bourbon vanilla, homemade blackcurrant jam, hazelnut dacquoise. Devouring this deliciousness under the stars, comfortably seated in Ethan’s lap as they watched Boston twinkle at night, was definitely worth the wait.

Of course Ethan received a rich reward for his efforts: T went extra with her dinner outfit and new lingerie. She’ll do anything to make him speechless 💅🏻

Birthday party

The gang wouldn’t let Tiffany say goodbye to her youth without a proper party, so she accepted her fate and decided to give in: a fun celebration for her friends takes place on Saturday. One of her sisters, Cynthia, is coming over from San Francisco.

It’s even more special because she organized it with Sienna (whose birthday I HC to be in July)—Miss Trinh waited a month just to have a joint birthday bash with her bestie.

Birthday trip

Last, but not least: a special gift from Ethan! In two weeks, he’s taking Tiff to Ireland where she’ll finally have an opportunity to explore her roots.

Their sightseeing focuses on Galway (her grandparents’ hometown) and the country’s most beautiful natural wonders such as the Cliffs of Moher or the most scenic routes of The Ring of Kerry.

The most exciting part of their vacation, the Galway trip, was meticulously planned by Ethan with the expert help of Tiffany’s Nanna offering some bits of their family history. Unrelated fun fact: Mrs Byrne adores Ethan to bits—she was actually the first and only person in T’s fam to give him a warm welcome.

Initially, they intended to mix Tiffany’s thirty with Ethan’s fourty (30th December for my Capricorn King 🫶🏻), but in the end decided to use his birthday as an excuse for another Eurotrip around January/February (*coughs* remember The Tape?).

I posted a little peek into T’s bday trip shenanigans, you can find the ficlet here ❤️

[infernal-fire]

five types of love.

what to expect: smut, swearing, friends w/ benefits arrangement, mention of Imposter syndrome, fluff, angst, heartbreak, overstimulation, implied creampie, rough sex

a/n: a little warning; you will be choosing your ending - there is a happy one and a sad one. a huge shoutout to @mollygetssherlockcoffee​ and @angrybirdcr​ for talking to me about the fic and offering such amazing advice! and @tuiccim​ was so damn lovely, even offered to beta this (though all mistakes are my own).

summary: you once heard that there were eight types of love. you only knew of five; the five that caused you to fall for one, blue-eyed menace.

Ludus: uncommitted, casual love that can attribute to a flirtatious and fun conquest. Not to be mistaken for Eros.

“I think we’re forgetting the reason why the mission failed in the first place. If the older fellow took a suggestion once in a-”

“-Tony, you know damn well that there were civilians in there.”

Steve and Tony glared at each other from across the briefing room. The tension in the room was exorbitant, but then again, it had been that way since Bucky joined the team. 

“This is exactly why we need the new girl. You super-soldiers and billionaires are getting tangled up in each others’ asses and forgetting about what it’s like for the normal people,” Rhodey sighed.

“The last thing we need is another trainee fucking up orders,” Tony snorted and began messing with his tech. The projector flipped through random screens, FRIDAY most likely filtering out the irrelevant news. 

“If you have a problem, maybe you should say it to his face,” Steve seethed, now standing up to match Tony’s stance. Usually, this type of jab at Bucky wouldn’t rile him up, but the super-soldier was at his wit’s end following the events of the latest mission.

Beside him, Bucky lightly tugged on his friend’s hand, signalling him to disengage.

“You’re with them?” Tony incredulously questioned Rhodey. 

“I’m with the idea of calming this room down.”

“Besides, she’s already been prepped for her first mission,” Natasha piped up. “We’re supposed to have a sit-down in 5 minutes... that is, if you boys can get your shit together.”

The room broke out into a chorus of muttering and everyone settled in their seats again. Captain strode to the front of the room and pulled up his game plan, fiddling with the map FRIDAY was projecting. 

You, on the other hand, could not decide how to act in front of the Avengers: Laidback? They wouldn’t take you seriously. Know-it-all? No, that was Stark’s play. Timid Tiffany? If you wanted to seem secretly conceited? Sure. That would work for now.

When Vision floated out to bring you in, you didn’t even flinch at the unforeseen phasing. Impressed at your lack of a reaction, Vision faltered before ever-so-courteously introducing himself. 

Could this sentient being laugh of his own volition? You gave him your name and dramatically curtsied to test your theory; he could laugh, and you were pleasantly surprised to find that it was not at all robotic. 

You felt the room intently eye you as you ambled to your seat beside one, blue-eyed menace. You half-expected the team to introduce themselves, but who were you kidding - anyone could hear the argument from three corridors away. There was no point in pretending like they wanted you here, but that wouldn’t deter you.

You glanced at your neighbour, met with the pleasant face of the one and only. James Buchanan Barnes was known to be a handsome devil, but the reputation of the Winter Soldier often precedes him; that, unfortunately, does not stop you from eyeing him. 

When he caught your stare, you scolded yourself. You’re such a creep. 

When he smirked at your ogling, you praised yourself. Oh, hello there. 

This is gonna be fun.

Eros: sexual, passionate love that is fueled by lust.

It didn’t happen after the first mission; he had the decency to wait until the fourth mission to knock on your door. 

You had been putting away the last of your belongings, finally adjusting to the grandiose living conditions the Avengers Tower provided.

As soon as you unlocked your knob, the door flung open; Bucky's stare was partially inhibited by his hooded eyes. He hadn’t always looked at you like that. 

Like what?

With unadulterated craving. 

That day, he strode in like he owned the place. You didn’t expect the shove that caused you to land on your bed with an oomph. Bucky wasted no time, climbing onto your form, straddling you. By the time you understood what was happening, a single finger was pressed into your lips.

“Either tell me you don’t want this right fucking now,” he leaned in, close to your face, “or shut the fuck up and let me use you.”

You whimpered in response.

“Not good enough.”

“Use me.”

That’s all the affirmation he needed. 

You pushed off the bed to try and meet his lips but he firmly pinned you down by your shoulders. Bucky reached into your panties and circled your clit without hesitation. It only took some swivelling, his intense gaze and the unexpected plunge of his fingers in your channel to make you see stars. Bucky had made you come before kissing you.

When he finally slotted his lips against yours, it was nothing short of all-consuming; you hadn’t even realized the absence of clothes on your body. Had it been ten minutes? Or thirty? It was hard to tell when you were being ravaged by another.

He made you come twice more: once with his fingers’ repeated dipping and pressing into the soft, spongy part of your cunt. The second time was with the talented sucking and flicking of his tongue. Technically, it was the third time.

None of your past partners had been this steadfast in their duty to pleasure you. You were already putty in his hands, ready to be moulded according to his needs. Part of you was ready to tap out, unable to fathom the likelihood of coming over his cock again, but the better half of you needed it.

In your orgasmic haze, you failed to notice that his clothes were being discarded - if you did, it would have given you the opportunity to gawk at the body that you so desperately wanted to see shirtless. When you finally registered his naked person, your hand involuntarily traced the connection between the metal arm and flesh. He threw his head back and groaned before kissing you again. 

He pulled off, just enough to get a good look. 

“Look at you, all fucked out. I didn’t even put my cock in.”

He pumped his shaft with fervour before pushing the blunt head against your slit. You winced at his attempt to put it in.

“Made you cum three times and you’re still too fucking tight,” he muttered and ran his length up and down your folds. Once he had accumulated enough slick he tried again, this time, successful.

You moaned as he slowly sunk in and buried his cock to its absolute limit. If the walls of your pussy had a voice, it would be absolutely hoarse. You also realized that he only bestowed the three orgasms in hopes of reprieving the pain of the stretch. Without the preparation, he might have torn you in half.

When he began moving, the only thing that was slow or soft about him was his lips against your skin. The thrusts were punishing; if it wasn’t obvious that he was angry before, this made it clear as day.

You screamed and moaned, alternating between keening and arching your back; the pleas did nothing to falter his furious pace. The smacking of your skin was only heightened by the slick that your cunt produced in attempts to accommodate his length. Every time he pulled out, his balls were connected to your sex with a string of come.

If someone told you that you could come five times within forty minutes, you would have face painted and dressed them up like a clown.

Now you laid in bed, being used like a rag doll, begging Bucky to stop you from coming a sixth time that session. It was usually the dirty talk that got you off, but he hadn’t said anything aside from the occasional ‘shut up’ or ‘shhh’. His movements alone had you convulsing around his length.

His thrusts didn’t get sloppy. Rather, they increased in force, as his cock sought space beyond your cervix. You tried to scream, but all that came out was more broken tears and cries. At last, he let out a pornographic moan as his load flooded your insides. Sure, you had let past boyfriends come in you, but you never actually felt the liquid shoot up inside you, until today.

Following the pop sound that his cock made as it pulled out, you whined again. You could feel your heartbeat throb down there. 

He flipped you onto your stomach and smacked your ass, laughing at the way you sobbed in pain before disappearing from your room altogether. 

He was gone as fast as he showed up. 

And he ruined everyone else for you.

In all fairness... you asked for it.

Philia: the deep, virtuous love that is formed in a good friendship. Lovers share a strong bond when Eros and Philia feed into each other.

What started as a release from the frustrations that accrue on the battlefield turned into a deep connection that neither of you had anticipated. Sex had only been used as a tool in the act of psychological detachment until that day. 

It was a failed date of some sort: either you had been stood up or the guy was a total moron. You could wrack your brain for the memory, but in any matter, it was all irrelevant now. 

You were upset, not just at your lack of a love life, but at the imposter syndrome that had weaselled its way into your liveliness. Feeling like you weren’t enough was catching up to your daily life and even Bucky had noticed the hesitation during your post-mission escapades. 

Before you knew it, your hand was knocking on Bucky’s door at the ripe hour of 1 AM. 

You heard the muffled thumps of his footsteps and considered booking it out of there, but before you made up your mind, the door opened.  As you had predicted, Bucky was wide-awake. 

“What?” 

You had wanted to sass him for his tone but decided against it since you were the one who interrupted his 1 AM activities. You shook your head from the clouds and mumbled incoherently, starting to walk away. The coldness of his metal arm abruptly gripped your wrist.

“Are you okay?”

You hated that question. You could be doing so good, holding in the burden of a horrible week, but the moment someone asks you that question, the dam would disintegrate into dust, only to be washed away by the inevitable waterworks. 

The sob you let out didn’t loosen his hold. He let you cry and watched as you tried to wipe away the unrelenting tears, still refusing to close the gap between your bodies. Finally, you shuffled into his arms where he bear-hugged you, cupping the back of your neck and holding it to the junction of his neck. 

"You smell nice,” you sniffled. 

He lightly chuckled before dragging you into his room and seating you on the bed. He ordered you to stay there and rummaged around his cupboard before pulling out a bottle with red liquid sloshing around. 

“You keep that in your room?” you snickered, wiping your nose with the back of your hand, before blanching at your state. Hell, he had seen you naked, how you look right now is the least of your concerns. 

“In case of emergencies,” he winked. “This seems like a real emergency.”

A fresh wave of tears pooled in your waterline as you peered at your hands that were picking at each other. 

“I don’t have wine glasses, so we can just chug.”

Bucky stuck out the bottle and you grasped it firmly before gulping one-fourth of it. That’s all the coaxing it took to get you to spill. 

You don’t even remember what you talked about, but before either of you realized, 3 AM blinked on the digital clock that hung above the bed frame. You were almost asleep, now resting on Bucky’s lap while he occasionally hummed or offered his two cents. Right before you drifted off, the super-soldier lifted you, placing you under a cover. He climbed in from the other side, one hand cupping your face, the other snaking around your waist.

“Thanks, Buck.”

“It’s gonna be okay. You’re okay,” he whispered.

Your eyes drooped but swiftly opened as Bucky leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. His lips barely touched yours, grazing their presence, but you moved, tenderly catching them. He returned the movement, the delicacy of his actions reflected in the softness of his eyes. 

You pulled away and the two of you wordlessly bore into each other’s eyes. At last, you succumbed to the fatigue, as did he; both of you resting in the others’ possession. 

Mania: an unhealthy, obsessive love that plagues the mind.

It was the third time Bucky didn’t show up at your door after a mission. Three missions, each of them ending in something that would have indubitably pissed him off - after all, they were HYDRA bases. That’s when you first suspected it.

The second was when you noted his intentional avoidance of your presence. Whether it be the kitchen, the gym or the hallways, the stealthy ex-assassin didn’t have trouble actively dodging you. Initially, you chalked it up to wanting space or simply taking a break.

Then you heard it.

Why was it that your gut told you to go right then? All this time you had been biding, yet it was at this precise moment that your hunch asked you to speak to him. It could’ve been the duration of the month that it took you to prepare yourself, but it had to be now. You raised your hand, prepping to knock on the door, but stopped.

Your hand froze mid-air. The elegant laugh of another girl sounded behind the door. It was faint, the noise slightly suppressed by the wall between you. 

It could be anyone. 

But it wasn’t. Your intuition, the one that told you to come here right now, was wise enough to know that this wasn’t just anyone. It was her. 

You cupped your mouth to stop the sob that threatened to liberate itself from the confines of your constricted airway. You fell forward, onto your knees, as if to pray to the gods to not let it happen. But it already did.  You let go of your mouth, gasping for air from holding your breath all this time. 

Shoulders sagged and spine bent, you stalked back to your room like a zombie. Face devoid of all emotion, you fell onto the corner of your bed and crumpled into a ball.  For twelve hours, you laid there. Sometimes sleeping, other times letting the tears leak out of the corners of your eyes. Memories of his fingers weaving through your own, the pleasures that chilled you to the bone. Most of all, the way you held his head to your chest as he whimpered about the nightmares that invaded his nights. It felt like those things happened to someone else. Nothing more than a distant memory.

Your heart clenched, tugging on the heartstring that you once thought was connected to him.

-

It was as if he knew you stood outside his door that day. There was an unspoken agreement to never speak of it. Yes, yes, don’t ever speak of it. The dam that you built so carefully will come crashing down.  He stopped avoiding you, but you wished he didn’t; it was crueller to be reminded, easier to pretend he didn’t exist. 

Be honest with yourself.

You didn’t pretend like he didn’t exist. 

In fact, the first thought after waking up? Bucky. Last thought before going to sleep? My Buck. Every time he wasn’t around? James Buchanan Barnes.

Please, don’t act like every waking moment isn’t spent loving him. Because deep down, you know what’s true.

He never did introduce the mystery girl to anyone at the Tower, but you knew his disappearance after missions could be credited to her. Did he take out his anger on her as he did to you? Or were you nothing more than a toy?

Guilt was one of the few emotions you could make out from the rare occasions you caught his stare. Longing was there too, but you couldn’t be sure that you weren’t projecting.  Months went by, waiting for thoughts of him to abandon your disturbed mind. The time never came.

As promised, he ruined anyone else for you. 

Pragma: the type of love that endures all shortcomings. Committed relationships that stay in love have an element of significant Pragma to them.

a happy ending.

That relationship may have ended but it didn’t mean he would come back to you.

He did come back. But he wasn’t yours.  Bucky made that clear when two more relationships ensued the last. Each time, the buffer period between them was filled by you. 

His back-up plan. That’s what you had been reduced to. 

After the third time he brought a new girl, you’d think you would be used to it, maybe even uncaring. Unfortunately, the opposite would always prevail.

Steve caught your fist and tutted, commenting on the bad form. You stopped, shook your shoulders and began hopping on the balls of your feet again.  Jab, jab. Swing.  At first, you’d imagine the faces of those girls. Nowadays, it was easier to envision the pads Steve held as his best friend’s face. 

“Bucky’s girl broke up with him.”

“Oh,” you made out, focus slightly wavering. 

“You know what happened?”

“Are you asking me ‘cause you wanna know or because you already know?”

“I already know,” he sighed, lowering the hand pads. 

He exhaled your name, shaking his and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “When are you two gonna stop playing around?”

“I really don’t understand, Steve.”

“You know why she broke up with him?” You blinked, tongue poking the inside of your cheek in anticipation of an answer. 

“He moaned your name during sex.” 

“God, that’s so corny,” you huffed, now beginning to make your way out of the boxing ring. 

“So what, you’re gonna do nothing? Keep letting him use you?” Steve jogged to catch up to you.

“No,” you faced him, “I’m not letting him use me as a fallback anymore. I’m putting an end to it.” 

Steve pursed his lips and shot you and exasperated look before shaking his head.  “Don’t let something good go to waste.”

It used to be something good.

You wondered if you could hold up the promise you had just declared to Steve; in the past, you failed every time he showed up at your door. Bucky knew exactly how to play into your emotions, how to say the right things every time. And just like that, the next morning you’d end up in his arms. That stops today.

Determined, you practically punched the button to go up on the elevator and impatiently tapped your foot. As the doors slid closed, you took one look at yourself and turned away, fighting the urge to fix your appearance for him. The doors opened again and you check the floor number, ready to step out, but stopped at the sound of your name.  His ex. You almost ran off, unwilling to put up with an angry ex, but she called on you again. You sheepishly stood there, as if you were the one who did something wrong, until she stepped in and pressed the button to go to the lobby.

The silence stretched on, much like your patience. Does she even know who you are?

“We were both fooling ourselves.”

You turn to check if she was speaking to you. Her stare was unwavering and she maintained eye contact that almost made you squirm.

“We both love different people.” She smiled, an obvious melancholy tainting her face. You stood there, absolutely clueless as to how you should respond.

“It’s too late for me, but it’s not for the two of you. Just... don’t let him go. He’s one of the good ones.”

You turned again, now looking down at the ground. Even if she expected you to say something back, it was impossible, at this point. Your mind was in shambles, everything she said contradicting the choice you made five minutes ago. 

After what seemed like an eternity, the doors opened and she stepped out. She turned one last time and nodded as if you knew what to do now. 

Bucky’s door was unlocked. You called out his name, barely above a whisper and sauntered with hesitation lining your every step.  Nothing. Empty. He wasn’t there. 

It was a sign. You almost ignored the advice his ex gave, ready to walk into his room and end things. Your shoulder slumped as if your bore the weight of the world on them as you slunk back to your room. Now it would take another outburst or another month to prepare yourself to talk to him again.

As the days went by, you barely saw him around. It reminded you of the times he intentionally ignored you, except this time, you weren’t sure it was intentional. When you did see him, it was clear that he wasn’t doing good; his beard was unkept and scraggly, the bags under his eyes heavier than any trauma he carried. You pretended as though you didn’t notice and went about your routine. 

1 AM

A knock sounded at your door. You knew who it was, how could you not, but hoped it wasn’t him anyway. The encounter would most likely end with tears or sex and you didn’t favour either outcome. 

You waited a minute. Maybe he would leave if he assumed you were asleep. The knock sounded again.

You cracked the door open.  Whatever you were expecting, surely, it wasn’t this. Eyes red and puffy, it was clear he had been crying and most definitely not sleeping. 

He held up a wine bottle, and chuckled pathetically at himself. 

“Maybe this is bad idea,” he sniffled and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his left arm. 

It didn’t feel right to say anything. Rather, you opened the door wider and beckoned for him to step in.

“Emergency?” you asked with a little smile. God, you were so close to crying and he hasn’t even said anything.

“Oh yeah. Big emergency.”

He sat on your bed and felt the sheets, trying to remember the feeling of it on his knees. The days he would buck into you while you clutched them like a vice. The soldier pursed his lips and watched as you settled beside him.

“You don’t have to talk... if you don’t want to,” you said. Your voice cracked and you almost smacked yourself for being so weak around him. 

“But I do. I should talk. I have so much to say... Can I explain?” He turned to face you, reaching out for your hands, holding them in his own. You didn’t say anything, opting to return his request with a pleading look in your eyes. He knew what the look meant: just don’t break my heart. Again. He took a deep breath in acknowledgement, trying to form the words that would help you understand. 

“I can’t believe I hurt you. I swear, I didn’t know I was doing it, at first.” You mustered your best unbelieving look, almost scoffing for good measure. “No, really,” he hastily added. 

A few tears streamed down your face and you frantically tried to wipe them. Bucky took one look at you before he began breaking down, tears slipping down his face.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to cry... I just- I don’t understand? I thought things were good?” you questioned. You had given up on trying to wipe your tears, as did he.

“I wasn’t supposed to fall for you. And by the time I realized, we were so far in. Then I found a distraction... and I really thought I was over you,” he paused, wondering if he should continue or not. You showed no sign of speaking up, so he went on.

“I didn’t think you cared. I didn’t think you felt the same way. I was so convinced that you wouldn’t blink twice but then... but, I-... I heard you at the door that day. I wanted to kick her out and hold you, but I-...”

“But you what? You what, Bucky?”

“I thought it was too late for us. I thought I ruined everything.”

“Then why are you here now?”

“Don’t be mad,” he murmured, retracting his hands and fiddling with his fingers.

“I don’t think anyone can ever replace what we had. Maybe... still have? Because you’re it for me. I’m sorry it took me this long to realize that. I was on the brink of losing myself.” He looked up at you, eyes brimming with a new wave of tears. He mumbled your name weakly, croaking out a please at the end.

You curled in on yourself and fell into his arms, hoping that was enough of a answer.

“I can’t promise you that everything will be back to normal by tomorrow morning... but with some time, I can learn to trust you again.”

Above you, Bucky hurriedly nodded. At the state he’s in right now, you suspected that you could ask him to sell his soul and he would agree.

“And if you ever break my heart again-,” 

“-I would die before that happens,” he finished for you, kissing the top of your head for good measure.

“I love you,” you whimpered, “so fucking much.” 

“I love you too. I really love you too,” he affirmed and encased you with his arms again.

Though there had been some rough patches on the road to happiness, with Bucky by your side, you felt as though you could make it through anything; for that, is the power of pragmatic love.

an unfortunate ending.

The tears that would’ve been shed during the ceremony have dried on your pillowcase about five hours ago. Now, you sat beside the team, waiting for her to walk down the aisle. 

Bucky looked nervous, as if he were reconsidering his life decisions. The little devil on your shoulder was holding onto every little thing he did: the wrinkle of his forehead, his repeated tugging on the suit and his flustered glancing around. Oh lord, and when he accidentally locked eyes with you? You may have bitten your lip and looked away in contempt but the shoulder-devil was as persistent as ever.

He secretly still wants you.

Shut up.

He wants to call it off.

Get a life.

At last, the lucky girl stood at the end of the winding path and you couldn’t help but sneak a look at the groom. His tension and nervousness crumbled at the sight of her; it was difficult not to feel happy that he had found the one that made him feel this way. 

It may have been him for you, but that notion was long forgotten, a nuisance of memory at most. Your love for him, regardless of the storms it has endured, is no longer respected or wanted by either party.

If he loves her, why does he come to you when things get bad?

You shook your head at that, having no answer for the nature of his secret infidelity. It was nothing more than taking out his frustrations on you - much like the old days.

Your reminiscing was cut short when a voice asked everyone to rise for the bride. You stood and straightened out your outfit, flicking off the little white petal that clung to your maroon dress. A hand grasped your own, and you turned to see Steve smile reassuringly. You squeeze his hand in appreciation and turned your attention to the white-clad figure walking down the aisle.

And that’s all you remember. You wish you could recall the rest of the wedding. You really do. Too preoccupied with what was going to happen after the event, you disassociated from the ordeal altogether. No matter how hard you grilled yourself, nothing would come to mind - dissociative amnesia only occurs as a protective coping mechanism during traumatic events; was that what Bucky’s wedding was to you?

What type of question is that?

For once, you agreed with the little red beast that sat on your shoulder. Long ago, the first time you saw someone else Bucky’s arms, the devil pierced the pitchfork right through the angel’s heart. These days, it was all you could think of. 

After the bride and groom exchanged ‘I do’s’, you willed yourself to stay a while longer. Your only companion, Steve, slow danced with you in silence, knowing that whatever he says would be of no consolation. Bucky did have half a mind to ask you for a dance, but he saw you leave. You didn’t think anyone did. He waited for you to turn and look at him one last time, but you never did. It’s okay, he thought. I didn’t deserve her anyway.

No one saw you after that.

On your bed, Steve found a single note that didn’t explain anything more than what he already knew. If anything, it simply affirmed that you were gone for good. Your things packed up, no trace of a person ever having lived there. Even if he pulled some strings, it would take years to find you again. 

After all, you had already been lost for quite some time.

hey folks. i know this seems a little desperate-sounding but i would really appreciate reblogs and would absolutely love to hear your thoughts on the story. what was you favourite part? which part made you feel some way? i really love knowing these things. love each and every single one of you.

Masterlist

Shoot me a message or fill out the form in my bio to be added to my tag list!

[winterscaptain]

tali i have kind of a weird question? growing up my family never watched a lot of classic/common movies (we were FIRMLY a veggie tales house) so I have No Clue what like half of the movies you mention are? like I've never seen footloose or what a wonderful life or die hard? or practically... anything you've ever talked about :(

(also ive never seen mean girls but thats a oersonal failure cas I just. forget to watch it?)

do you have a fav/good movie i should start with cause I feel like I'm missing out on so much :(

hi honey!! you’re so valid, and i had LOTS of veggie tales experience growing up. i know you asked for one, but i went a lil ham on this list because you’ve unknowingly touched on one of my favorite hobbies

okay so i have a big list for you, but it’s in really manageable chunks!! i went to theatre school at the school that houses the Best Cinema School in the World (fight on, usc) and i have Opinions™!! 

if anyone has any other recs not on this list, drop em in the replies!!

i’ll put these in order of my preference/pop culture relevance, so it’s all subjective and idk what your taste is like, but if you have any questions im always here for you!! i’ve added a few notes and disclaimers along the way

this is a really good list to go off of, in general! 

okay so here are my top seven films that i never get tired of watching, in order.

skyfall

that thing you do

captain america: the first avenger/captain america: winter soldier

inglorious basterds*

the sound of music 

knives out

blazing saddles**

* inglorious basterds is a quentin tarantino movie, and tarantino isn’t for everyone. his films are always really bloody, intense, and rife with bad language. i don’t like him personally, but i love his work. this is, in my opinion, his best and funniest work

** blazing saddles is a mel brooks movie, and he’s REALLY offensive and inappropriate in his satire. it’s definitely an iconic comedy, but not to everyone’s taste. it’s one of those movies where you’re actually allowed to laugh at the really horrible jokes because it’s an equal-opportunity offense-fest lmao 

so here are some other genres and films that are a good foundation!

IN GENERAL!! i don’t like remakes. if there’s an older version of the movie, watch that one. trust me. 

i’ve also bolded a couple of key favorites on this list

romantic comedies

my best friend’s wedding

the ugly truth & 27 dresses (katherine hiegl movies ROCK)

sleepless in seattle & you’ve got mail (meg ryan and tom hanks own my ass)

when harry met sally

movies based on books/short stories

to kill a mockingbird

the book thief

the hunger games trilogy

divergent

chronicles of narnia

pride and prejudice (2005 or the bbc miniseries)

3:10 to yuma

based on a true story

ford v. ferrarri

three billboards outside of ebbing, missouri

moneyball

zero dark thirty

the king’s speech

black mass

apollo 11

documentaries*

ken burns’ civil war

ken burns’ baseball

paris is burning

blackfish

free solo

the hunting ground 

* please be advised, some of these documentaries cover some disturbing and distressing subjects. please engage responsibly!

superhero movies

iron man

the dark knight*

wonder woman

scott pilgrim vs the world (okay give me this one)

spider man 1, the amazing spider man, and spiderman: homecoming (all different spidermans, all great movies!

deadpool**

* tdk is really really dark, but the performances are immaculate.  ** deadpool is wildly inappropriate, so don’t take the R-rating lightly! it’s so funny though. so so fucking funny. 

teen favorites

10 things i hate about you

mean girls

she’s the man

easy a

heathers

70′s icons

jaws

monty python and the holy grail

butch cassidy and the sundance kid

star wars trilogy 

dirty harry

80′s classics

alien (technically in ‘79 but feels like an 80′s movie)

dirty dancing

john hughes movies!! the breakfast club, st. elmo’s fire, pretty in pink, sixteen candles, some kind of wonderful

back to the future

footloose

princess bride

90′s flicks

the matrix

three men and a baby

thelma and louise

pretty woman

notting hill

a league of their own

lgbt +

our own private idaho

brokeback mountain

moonlight

philadelphia

call me by your name

love, simon

some of these movies don’t get everything right. if you do choose to engage, engage critically and let the art make you feel something. 

tom hanks movies

yes he gets his own category

joe v the volcano 

castaway

big

saving mr banks

movies where the government saves matt damon

the martian 

saving private ryan

interstellar

jason bourne (technically he saves himself, but he’s still funded by the government)

war movies

fury

band of brothers

full metal jacket

the last full measure

war horse 

1917 

hacksaw ridge

westerns

django unchained

the magnificent seven

true grit

the good the bad and the ugly

a fistful of dollars

old hollywood

an affair to remember

breakfast at tiffany’s, roman holiday (audrey hepburn is an icon of the era)

any alfred hitchcock movie, but psycho and rear window are my faves

these movies don’t get everything right. they are a product of their time and often come with insensitive and unironically offensive cultural baggage. if you so choose, engage critically. you’re still allowed to enjoy the movies, just understand what’s not acceptable! 

christmas movies

it’s a wonderful life

white christmas

a christmas story

the holiday

die hard (some people don’t think this is a christmas movie. i disagree.)

the family stone

a year without a santa clause

halloween movies

hocus pocus

beetlejuice

anything by tim burton - the nightmare before christmas, the corpse bride

the shining

the blair witch project

get out

cult classics

the rocky horror picture show

the room

reservoir dogs

jennifer’s body 

point break

these are WAY more fun with friends - please quarantine responsibly, but it's so worth the wait to watch this with a big group of people.

[artificialqueens]

End of the Day (Crystal x Gigi) - Ashley

A/N: The plan was simple. All Crystal had to do was pretend to be her twin for one week: sit silently in seminars, only leave her room for her basic necessities and stick closely to the set of rules she was left with. Only the rule that stated she “mustn’t bother the bitch from downstairs” became a lot harder for Crystal to follow once she had laid eyes on Gigi Goode.

Hope you guys like this!! Think of it as Breakfast at Tiffany’s meets She’s the Man only at a Russell Group where there’s a stereotype around every corner. Sending infinite thank you’s to Meggie for being a fab beta. p.s thanks so much for all the lovely feedback for Everything Has Changed (I could have cried reading some of it)…xoxo Ashley.

“No way.” Crystal dropped the pencil she toyed with, a laugh squeaking out of her throat at her sister’s audacity.

“It’s only a week,” she pleaded over the phone, the voice that had convinced Crystal to do stupid things since they were children making its reappearance.

“You seriously want me to pretend to be you just so you can jet off to Majorca to see that creep?” 

“Yes!” Elle ignored Crystal’s clear disdain. “That is exactly what I want. We used to do it all the time in school.”

“You’re crazy, actually insane.”

Crystal was used to her sister’s wild antics, but this plot may have been a step too far.

“But you love me.”

“I hate you.”

“It’s not like you have any plans.” Elle held no hesitation in poking the bear - the boundaries between the two twins almost non-existent.

“I have Depop orders actually,” Crystal snapped back, a tiny part of resentment that her sister was attending one of the best universities in the country whilst she was sitting at home making jewellery rising inside of her body but not quite breaking the surface.

“£200.”

Crystal stopped in her tracks - now she was listening.

“It won’t work anyway, people will notice!”

“They won’t. I don’t speak to anyone in my college anyway and my course friends won’t say anything, just stay in bed all day once you’ve been to my seminars. I’ll even give you my Disney+ password.”

A hint of worry rose in Crystal’s mind; she wondered how her more outgoing other half had managed to go to university and not make friends in her accommodation. Where Crystal was shy and nervous throughout the entirety of her education, Elle had never been afraid to put herself out there, always surrounded by one group of pretty girls or another. “So what am I supposed to do in these seminars then? It’s not like I have an extensive knowledge of anthropology is it?”

“All you have to do is sign in and sit there pretending to type - they don’t even pick on you I swear. And it’s the last week before we break up so everyone will be really chill.”

“£300,” Crystal responded, the idea of escaping the four walls of her bedroom whilst making three months of her usual income beginning to tempt her, cursing internally at how easily convinced she was.

“I can’t give you £300.” Crystal could hear that her sister was talking through a grin despite not being able to see her face, the grin that meant she’d won.

“Well, you can’t go to Majorca then.”

“Three hundred pounds it is,” Elle agreed. “But you better get me a decent Christmas present.”

“Deal,” Crystal responded, knowing she had already purchased her sister’s gift two months prior. “Now, tell me absolutely everything I need to know about collegiate life.”

“It’s a good job. I knew you’d say yes and already planned this part out.” Elle beamed, proud at her ability to convince her timid younger-by-ten-minutes sister to do almost anything.

***

If secondary school was supposed to be a jungle of cliques, then Elle’s college may as well have been the Amazon rainforest.

Walking through the incredibly hard to find dining hall for breakfast, Crystal could make out almost every university stereotype she could think of, each confined to their own special hold.

From the druggies to the athletes, to the Oxbridge rejects, to the girls who borrowed daddy’s credit card - they were all there and thriving. A small part of Crystal wanted to go and sit with who she decided were the artsy girls despite knowing her sister wouldn’t be caught dead doing so.

Trying not to draw attention to herself, she kept her head down as she made it to the front of the queue, Elle’s clear step-by-step of how she approached meals playing through her head on repeat, the weeks of planning for this moment all coming into play.

Only at that moment, she panicked, the child’s paint by numbers that were her instructions started to turn into a set of IKEA diagrams without captions in her brain. Wishing she’d stuck to eating a pot noodle in her sister’s room, Crystal’s body froze in a state of fear after dolloping a ladle of baked beans onto her toast. A tonne (or maybe ten tonnes) of bricks smacked her right between the eyes. She knew she wouldn’t be able to pull this off. The lack of self-confidence she always battled with ran thick through her veins, her thoughts turning to ways she could go home and return to the comfort of her hometown, willing to sacrifice her sister’s already flagged attendance and the three hundred pounds to be watching Bake Off with her mam in the kitchen.

It almost happened in slow motion, time losing its speed as the boy behind her walked into Crystal’s back, propelling her tray forward onto an unsuspecting blonde. An unsuspecting blonde who seemed the opposite of dumb.

“What the fuck?” She snapped her head around to Crystal, thick brows furrowed and pink lips pursed.

“I’m sorr-” Crystal started, beating herself up internally at how she had managed to do the exact opposite of laying low despite being only one night into her weeklong mission.

“This won’t come out!” The girl started turning her neck frantically to the back of her shirt, the white satin stained bright orange.

Her mouth opening but no words coming out, Crystal didn’t have a chance to apologise again before the girl had a swarm of minions dabbing her back with tissues.

“It’ll be okay, G.” One of them took her hand.  Crystal wanted to burst out in tears like she usually did at the smallest sign of conflict, pinching the skin on the back of her hand and looking at the white ceiling lights to stop herself.

“So long as people look where they’re going.” The girl, G, cast a terrifying yet beautiful scowl in Crystal’s direction before sauntering away.

So much for laying low, she sighed before leaving the queue herself, her body tingling as if she’d hit her funny bone over a dozen times. The girl’s stare still imprinted in the back of her eyes.

Having narrowly avoided a panic attack, Crystal thought hard about her old coping mechanisms and tried her best to remain positive as she did after these situations, sitting down at an empty table and giving herself a pat on the back that she had at least passed as Elle without any doubts, ready to take the rest of her day by storm (also known as sitting in silence and occasionally nodding her head as a bunch of middle ages men discuss human evolution and diversity).

***

Having achieved three B grades by the end of sixth form and the award for ‘most creative’ in their final assembly, Crystal always thought of herself as somewhat intelligent and capable of living in the real world despite her decision not to go to university like her sister.

Yet there she stood, her face in a scowl and her fist in a ball, completely and utterly perplexed by the laundry system.

After sleeping in her sister’s dirty sheets the night before, she had arrived back to the college with hopes of resting her head on a pillow that wasn’t mascara stained and washing her face with a flannel sans toothpaste blobs (which was basic hygiene in Crystal’s opinion, but she hadn’t expected anything more from her twin). Only those dreams were temporarily dashed as she spent an entire thirty minutes pressing buttons and swiping the card Elle had left her manically against an aged machine. 

Thirty-six internet searches and two desperate phone calls to her sister later, Crystal was beaming at the sheets swirling around, not a care in the world at how much of a psychopath she would look to anyone entering the room, the stress she had previously faced in getting the machine to work inducing her to stay and wait for the clothes to wash instead of leaving them like normal practice. 

Elle had seemed happy on the phone, gushing to Crystal about how tanned she’d gotten in such a short space of time and how delicious all the food was - Crystal shutting her down quickly by reminding her that such a tan would only alert their mother to the fact she’d spent a week abroad visiting the sleazy holiday rep she’d fallen in love with that summer rather than in the brown-bricked, straight from a horror movie, sixties’ style complex that Crystal was currently residing in.

Crystal made a mental note to text her mam later and tell her how much she was enjoying her time “visiting her sister” - knowing fine well that talking to her on the phone would probably cause her to crumble and confess their scheme.

She had always been a family orientated person, always choosing a night in the house watching movies over playing out with friends, crying buckets the day her sister moved out and started a new chapter of her life without her. It was clear her mother wanted her to get out into the world, knowing she was capable of more than selling jewellery online, but unlike her sister, Crystal wasn’t quite ready to leave her home yet, needing that extra push to get her feet moving that just hadn’t come her way yet.

She figured that spending a week pretending to be her sister may actually be a good start.

Lost away with her head in the clouds like usual, Crystal was snapped back to surface level as her phone chimed to signal the end of the cycle, only to find herself even more frustrated when she realised that no dryers were free.

Today really hadn’t been her day. 

She personally blamed the lack of lucky necklace around her neck (Elle telling her specifically during their planning stages that she would never wear such a monstrosity and Crystal following suit despite knowing it was only entrenched in their rules because her sister thought it was ugly). Her secret superstitious side kicking in, she thanked herself for bringing some of her jewellery making gadgets with her, figuring she’d have to make her own version of it, for now, it wasn’t as if she had any better way to spend her evening.

Seeing a dryer with two minutes left until it timed out, Crystal figured she’d simply wait until it had been emptied to use it, allowing her brain to return back to Pinterest for a short period of time.

But ten minutes passed and no one came to empty the machine.

She glanced at the other piles of clothes that lay on top of the machines, figuring it was normal to remove other people’s when none were free, the thought of her sheets staying wet and crinkled making her feel uneasy.

Opening the dryer, she was hit immediately by a waft of lavender, reassuring herself that it was okay to move the clothes and feeling almost proud of herself for making a leap the old Crystal would have ran from in fear of awkwardness. 

Being her most careful, she picked the clothes one by one and started to fold them, her brain subconsciously admiring the mystery tartan-wearer’s sense of fashion and wishing she had the confidence to wear some of the outfits. That was when her hands met a satin blouse, a familiar satin blouse with an orange tinge on its white back.

Before she had time to process that the clothes she was moving belonged to the pretty girl from breakfast, Crystal’s train of thought was interrupted by the devil herself.

“Admiring your handiwork?” She strutted over and snatched the shirt back from Crystal’s hands.

Crystal couldn’t quite place her accent but she knew it was Southern. Her overactive imagination hearing the girl whisper dirty thoughts to her in that posh voice without being able to stop herself.

Oh, fuck.

“I’m sorry.” Crystal turned to her, not even attempting to act like anything other than the soft wimp she was inside. “I didn’t mean to.”

Crystal looked into the girl’s eyes, almost seeing her melt a little before her.

She felt the tension between them, dense and heavy in the air.

“It’s fine,” the blonde responded, losing the passive-aggressive tone she’d carried beforehand but still not sounding entirely sincere as she began to throw her clothes into her hamper. 

Crystal couldn’t help but gawk a little as she began to strut away, her body swishing like a model’s as she made her way out of the room, pausing for a second at the door.

“Can you do me a favour, though?” the girl called back to Crystal.

‘I think I’d give both of my kidneys to you’ Crystal thought. Only it instead came out as an awkwardly stuttered, “Erm, sure.”

“Turn your music down, please.” She shot a sarcastic smile in Crystal’s direction. Crystal felt it burrow straight through her chest cavity and into her fast-beating heart. “I know that anthropology may be a bit simpler than most degrees, but some of us really struggle to work when all they can hear is your shit music directly above them.”

Her mouth dropping open to catch flies as the girl left the room for good, a pang of realisation hit Crystal.

Opening her phone and flicking through the dramatic guide to her sister’s university life that was now saved at the top of her notes, she found what she’d been looking for:

“12. DO NOT, under any circumstances, bother the bitch downstairs.”

Too late, Crystal thought to herself, wondering how many more of her sister’s rules she would have broken by the end of the week.

***

Crystal would be lying if she said she hadn’t been watching out for the blonde that week, whose name she had figured out (after an intensive Facebook stalking session) to be Gigi. 

Yes, she was lying low, not leaving Elle’s room other than for seminars and to eat - but that didn’t stop her from taking stolen glances at the girl across the dining hall or walking up that second flight of stairs to the room just a fraction slower than she did the first flight.

Three days at university and she’d somehow turned back into a fourteen-year-old girl fantasising about the most popular girl in the class.

Except this time, the popular girl didn’t even know her real name.

She felt like Tracy from Hairspray - one look and she could hear the wedding bells playing in the back of her head. 

But at the same time, Crystal knew what was at stake - leaving their interactions to intense eye contact and mumbled “excuse mes,” knowing that even speaking to Gigi again could blow her entire cover.

Yet, she somehow managed to do exactly that on Wednesday night. Or, technically, the early hours of Thursday morning.

At first, Crystal tried to ignore the argument below her, drowning out their voices with her headphones (partly because she felt like she was intruding and partly because listening to people screaming at each other, like a lot of things, made her cry). However, as the war below was still awaiting a cease-fire, snippets of conversation slid their way into the room.

“Why do you have to do this on every night out?”

“I just want what’s best for you.”

“You don’t know what’s best for me.”

She could hear the pain in Gigi’s voice heighten right before her door slammed, Crystal wincing in bed at the sound.

Expecting to hear male footsteps stomp away, Crystal was surprised to instead hear lighter ones, making their way up the stairs and past her landing, a muffled sob travelling through her door.

Looking out of the window, she squinted in the dark until she saw the red glow of a cigarette from their fire escape, the hum of an unfamiliar tune making its way through the thin walls.

She knew it was a risk, but it was one that Crystal couldn’t help but take when she thought of the beautiful girl from the laundry room freezing in the cold.

Grabbing her sister’s spare dressing gown, she made her way onto the landing, taking a deep breath before going out onto the fire escape.

Logic and speech pushed to the back part of her mind, Crystal simply made her way over to the other girl and sat down beside her, placing the dressing gown over her slim shoulders.

Even in the dark, she could see how perfect Gigi was.

The mole on the side of her cheek.

The soft pout on her lips.

Despite the mascara smudged down her face and her eyes stinging red, Crystal thought she looked like an angel.

“Hi,” Gigi spoke to her, dropping the cigarette she smoked on the floor and pressing it out with her trainers. 

“Hi,” Crystal spoke back, unsure of what to say to the girl, blood rushing through her at a rate of knots, nervous filling her body and bursting through her head like she was some sort of human kettle.

“I guess you know what I mean about the music now.”

“Yeah.” Crystal nodded in the dark. “It’s noted.”

“I’m sorry about Karl…” Gigi trailed off, taking some time before speaking again. “He just gets like that sometimes when he’s had a drink. I know he doesn’t mean it. I guess you know that.”

Unsure of who Karl was, or why she was supposed to know that, Crystal began to feel like she was drowning. Only instead of jumping on the next lifeboat, she swam down deeper for Gigi.

A part of her was afraid, afraid she’d read the aura surrounding the other girl so wrong, afraid that Karl was her boyfriend.

“Mmhmm,” Crystal responded, maybe a bit more high pitched than she naturally would have.

“Don’t get me wrong, he’s my best friend. But sometimes a part of me thinks that he just doesn’t have any idea who I really am if you get me.” 

Crystal couldn’t have understood any better at that moment.

All she wanted to do was tell her. To tell her how hard it was when everyone expected you to be the same as another person. How awful it felt when they never knew the real you, only a shell of the more outgoing sister.

Only she couldn’t, so she did the next best thing and placed her hand on the girl’s forearm, instantly getting a shock at how cold she felt.

“Do you wanna go inside? We can make hot chocolate,” she suggested, noting how Gigi’s body relaxed under her touch.

“He’s still in my room.” Gigi rolled her eyes. “I just can’t deal with him right now, it needs to be left for the morning.”

“You can stay in mine,” Crystal asked, squeezing her grip ever so slightly.

What was she doing?

This wasn’t part of the plan.

And it was certainly breaking some of the rules.

Potentially all of them combined.

This was a bad idea. A very bad idea.

But nothing filled her with greater relief then when Gigi finally responded: “If you don’t mind, thank you.”

***

At first, she felt awkward as she let Gigi into the room, especially considering the fact it wasn’t hers. But after two hot chocolates each she had felt the most comfortable and at peace as she had since masquerading as her sister.

She watched as Gigi’s eyes made their way around the room, a kid in a sweetie shop, gawking at the treasures around her.

“What’s that?” she spoke between sips, pointing towards Crystal’s craft box that had been haphazardly set up on her sister’s desk.

“Oh.” Crystal went to pick it up, a flutter of warmth rushing through her at the thought of someone, let alone Gigi, being interested in her jewellery. “Just some bits and bobs I make.”

“These are so cool.” Gigi held a pair of scarlet earrings up and examined them closer, her mouth opening slightly as she focused. “Like the ones you had in the other day.”

Crystal’s face turned a deeper red than the earrings, the thought of Gigi remembering what she wore sending shivers down her spine - her head telling her heart on an auto loop that no matter what she thought about Gigi, all of Gigi’s returned thoughts were instead about Elle.

“Yeah,” she choked out, nipping her skin to bring herself back to reality.

“You should sell these!” Gigi gasped as she rooted through more of Crystal’s collection. “I sell the clothes I make on Depop, we’d make a great team.”

Crystal didn’t get a chance to respond. She was too busy picking the pieces of her exploding heart from the carpet and trying to put it back together again.

“In fact.” Gigi grabbed her phone and began to search.

Crystal decided that her thinking face was even cuter than her regular face.

She was in deep. Too deep.

 “I think I follow an account that does stuff like this, let me think, something to do with crystals…”

Way, way too deep.

“I’m feeling a bit tired.” Crystal blurted awkwardly, getting mad at her mother for never placing her in acting lessons as a child, ready for the inevitable week that she’d have to pretend to be her twin sister or else she’d be kicked out of university and murdered by their family. Seeing the almost defeated look on Gigi’s face, she tried again. “But you can show me in the morning?”

“I’d love that.” Gigi smiled.

Crystal wanted to rewind time just to hear that sentence again. She wouldn’t be too greedy, she’d only listen to it one more time. Two at a push.

Making sure to go into the en suite as Gigi got changed, Crystal returned to find her in bed, already asleep, her hair a sprawl of honey against the pink pillows.

She waited a second before turning off the light and getting into bed beside her, something about lying next Gigi sending Crystal into a sleepy haze despite the way her heart had been beating so fast just moments before.

She could hear Gigi breathing, snoring just a little, finding her own breathing starting to sync along.

Sleep was only minutes away from taking over her body when she heard it, the muffled cry coming from the other side of the bed.

“No.” She heard Gigi mumble as she tossed from one side to the other. “Don’t go.”

Crystal placed a reassuring hand on her arm without thought. “Are you alright?”

Gigi woke startled, her eyes beaming at Crystal like a young deer caught in the middle of the road.

“I’m fine.” She realised her surroundings and threw the quilt to one side, moving her body down to the bottom end of the bed. “I best be off.”

“Hey.” Crystal sat up, flicking the lamp on by her bedside. “It’s alright, we can-”

But before she could finish, Gigi was gone. Nothing more than the faint smell of lavender on the pillows and the dark ring of hot chocolate in the bottom of her sister’s mug.

***

Making her way back into the college that evening, Crystal waited by the entrance for a few moments, wondering if she could manage to get to Elle’s room without passing the drinks and shenanigans that were currently taking place in front of her, wondering if she could manage to make it without passing Gigi, more precisely.

Tesco carrier bags full to the brim of every comfort food she could gorge on (salami, cheese, salt and vinegar crisps and three different bars of dairy milk to be precise) as she watched her sister’s Disney+ alone, Crystal concluded that the coast was clear and made her way to the bottom of her stairs without passing Gigi.

The words of the note she had posted under Elle’s door the day beforehand were still dancing around Crystal’s mind like a puzzle that even Professor Layton couldn’t solve:

“Elle, please forgive me for this morning. I don’t know what happens when I get like that..we’re all having drinks at around 8 tomorrow if you wanna join? - Gigi.”

As much as she longed to join Gigi for a drink, Crystal knew that she couldn’t. She’d already put too much on the line, allowed herself to get too close, too emotionally invested. A short text from Elle asking if everything was okay scared her straight, there was too much at stake. Yes, she wanted more than anything to be the one who comforted Gigi the next time she had a nightmare, to make jewellery for her and kiss her forehead whenever she looked stressed. But family meant everything to her, and she knew if anyone were to find out what they’d done, the consequences wouldn’t be worth it. 

About to make her way up the stairs, Crystal felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Let me help with those,” the boy motioned to her bags, his voice familiar.

With dark hair slicked back, and skin the colour of caramel, it took Crystal a second to realise where she knew the boy from, remembering his face next to Gigi’s in their corner of the dining hall.

“I’m fine, they’re not heavy.” Crystal tried to walk away but was stopped by his voice, yet again.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come help? It’s been a little while, Elle.” He grinned, a smirk in his eyes that Crystal couldn’t quite trace.

“I’m sorry, I’ll have to catch up with you later,” Crystal responded, trying to remain calm on the outside as her insides reached peak panic mode, her brain mentally scanning her notes for anything mentioning this boy. Her search found no results.

“Oh I get it,” he laughed. “It’s one of your games.  Sure, you wanna catch up later.”

That’s when the realisation hit Crystal. Her sister was having sex with this boy. And she completely failed to mention it.

Trying to think of something to say, a heavy silence lingered between them. Broken by a familiar tone that managed to scare her half to death and turn her on at the same time.

“Karl.” Gigi shook her head as she made her way down the staircase, carrying what looked like a sippy cup of vodka red bull in her hands. “Do you mind not trying to shag every girl in college for five seconds?”

“I’ll see you later, Elle.” He muttered before strutting away with Gigi, Crystal making out the word ‘cockblock’ in their hushed conversation as they left.

She knew that Elle didn’t tell her everything.

Just because they were twins they didn’t have to know every detail of each other’s lives, even though they spoke every day. Crystal always knew that. But a part of her heart stung at the thought of her sister not even telling her about a boy she was sleeping with. Is that how far apart they’d grown since Elle came to uni? 

Fighting back tears, she made her way up the stairs and tried to call her sister. She knew she was being silly; a part of her had just thought she’d know when her sister was sleeping with someone. So many questions ran through her mind. Was Elle safe? Did she love him? Why didn’t anyone know? 

She tried to call again, no answer.

Gigi must have known, Crystal figured - slotting together their interaction the night before with the one they’d just had. Is that why Elle didn’t like her? Why they weren’t friends? Why she’d told Crystal to avoid her?

She answered on the fifth call.

“Hey, babe, I really can’t talk right now.” 

Crystal ignored her sister’s words, dropping her shopping outside the door and moving out onto the fire escape, the cold breeze hitting her face harshly.

“Who’s Karl?” 

“Oh.” She heard her other half’s surprise, she could see the look on her face, high definition in Crystal’s mind. “I told you not to speak to people, for fuck sake, Crystal.”

“Who’s Karl?”

“I can’t speak about this now.” Her tone lowered, clearly someone else was in her company.

“Who’s Karl?” Crystal asked again, not even stopping to think about how dramatic she was being.

Only her sister had hung up before she could get an answer.

Crystal didn’t know how long she’d been out there when she heard the door open, she didn’t even know if she was still crying or not.

“Hi,” Gigi spoke, almost a whisper, as she approached her. “We gotta stop meeting like this, hey?”

Crystal watched Gigi’s face drop a little at the sight of her, looking hurt the second she got close enough to see her tears.

“Yeah, I-” Crystal started but was swiftly interrupted.

Normally in films, it happened after a moment. 

The pair would talk, get deep about their issues, reach a comforting solution then sit for a moment in an all-knowing silence.

Then they’d look into each other’s eyes, letting them flicker down once or twice before meeting again, that lock not leaving until they were shut.

Next came the strand of hair, pushed away and tucked neatly behind the ear.

Finally, the kiss, slow at first then growing in passion.

Only Gigi had no patience.

It took Crystal a second to react, to realise what was happening, to press her lips back against Gigi’s, to race her hand through the other girl’s hair.

It was unexpected.

Yet it felt nothing but natural.

And right.

“I’m sorry.” Gigi pulled away, pausing to bite her tongue between her teeth, a nervous side of her appearing that Crystal had not yet seen. “I know that’s like the last thing you’re meant to do when someone’s upset but, I don’t know, you just looked so sad and-”

This time Crystal wasn’t going to let her finish.

She felt Gigi’s hands wipe the stray tears from her face before moving right down her body to her waist. Moving her body closer so she was almost straddling the other girl, Gigi pulled away for just a second to let out a breath. 

Crystal moved her hands round to Gigi’s back, further and further down until she was granted a nod of permission, letting them slide over the silky fabric of her skirt.

Before Crystal knew it she was being pushed back to the ground, Gigi’s long and beautiful body towering over her, as she got to her knees and began to kiss Crystal all over.

Gently, methodically, slowly. 

Crystal’s mind was carried away, far from reality and refusing to take away from the moment in front of her.

“I knew you wanted me.” She felt Gigi’s breath tickle her ear, sending hot flushes down her entire body, reaching her hands out to touch the other girl’s breasts.

“Fuck, Elle.” Gigi grinned, flicking a switch in Crystal’s body as she pushed herself backwards away from her touch.

She’d almost forgotten that part.

Looking at the other girl’s confused face, she was lost for words, pulling the strap of her vest top back in its place. She knew she couldn’t do it anymore, she couldn’t keep lying. She would have let Gigi sleep with her thinking that she was someone else. She’d become a monster. She had to tell the truth.

“What the fuck?” A voice came from the door behind them, Karl’s confused face flicking between the pair of them. “Is this a joke?”

“Shit,” Gigi muttered and stood up, but Crystal was frozen in place, her hands and feet turning numb with anxiety, the sky around them warping in time. “I can explain.”

Crystal watched as Gigi chased her friend back into the building, listening to her tell him she was sorry and she just got carried away. Listening to Karl ask if that was why she’d told him to stop sleeping with her. Listening to Gigi explain that it wasn’t it, that something had just changed recently. Listening to her life crumble around her.

And then she heard nothing at all.

Even when she knocked on Gigi’s door later that night, ready to give her the explanation she needed, Crystal heard nothing at all - eventually giving in and retreating to the cave of Elle’s room, with no plans to leave it until their train pulled in at the station. 

***

Looking up at the hideous brown bricks in front of her, Elle Barge never thought she’d be so relieved to see the college in her life.

One day earlier than she was supposed to return, she hoped that Crystal would forgive her for withholding some of the stuff she’d been doing at university, thinking that they could have one fun night together before getting the train home the next day, giving at least a hint of truth to their family when they arrived back.

Besides, her holiday romance meet-up hadn’t exactly gone the way she had planned when she accidentally met up with his wife. Hence her early departure.

She figured she’d just have to chalk this one up to being a good story to tell, throwing away her sadness at the thought of having a best-selling novel about her awful love life someday. 

Heck, she’d probably already have half of it written with just stories about Karl.

Walking up the stairs to her room, she rolled her eyes at the sight in front of her.

One thing she certainly had not missed was Gigi Goode braying on her door to tell her to turn her music down.

Surely, Crystal wasn’t irritating her, Elle thought to herself. The only music Crystal ever played was One Direction and she hardly blasted it.

“Ahem.” Elle coughed loudly enough for Crystal to hear from inside the room, praying she’d understand with her magic twin sense not to come out (also quickly texting her not to incase the magic twin sense failed them. Elle did not want a repeat of that time in year nine when Jackie Cox asked if they could read each other’s minds).

“Hey.” Gigi turned to face her, a strange look on her face that Elle couldn’t quite decode. Tension started to seep through the stained carpet and up the walls like lava.

“Hi?” Elle raised an eyebrow to her, more of a question than a greeting. 

“I’m sorry for ignoring you before,” Gigi started, nodding her head as she got into the rhythm of her speech. “I was just scared and I didn’t know how to say it but I can now. Please just listen and wait ‘til I’m done, I have to explain.”

Minefields began exploding inside Elle’s brain.

She simply nodded.

“I’ve been fucked over in the past. And it still scares me today. You know the other night? That was it, I haven’t felt myself get close to anyone in a while. And I know it’s bad because of Karl and I’m a shitty friend to him but honestly, I think that this is something bigger than that, cause I’ve not felt it for a while. And I think you feel it too. Look, I’m really shit at this but something changed this week, I saw you in this light I’d never caught you in. I might sound mad but I think that I need you.”

Looking back at the girl in front of her with dismay, Elle spoke back the only three words that rang through her brain at that moment.

“What the fuck.”

And then her door opened, her sister’s face peeking out around the corner, clad in the same expression she used to have whenever she’d spilt juice on the carpet or smashed plate. Her hair matted and eyes puffy, Elle immediately moved to her side.

And then Gigi uttered the three words as well - only adding a “fucking” in there too for good measure.

Killing the silence that lingered for some time, Crystal spoke the fastest sentence Elle had ever heard all in one breath: “I’ve been pretending to be my sister so she could go get fucked by a Spanish guy.”

“Wow.” Elle looked back and forth between the pair, recognising a glint in her sister’s eyes that was certainly not there before.

Crystal prepared herself and walked up to Gigi, placing her hand on her arm. “I wanted to tell you so bad. I was going to but then Karl came and everything got messy. I know you probably can’t forgive me, but I saw that bigger thing too and I let myself get carried away in it.”

Gigi looked between the pair and raised a hand to her mouth, letting out a hearty laugh. 

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Elle pleaded, fear rising inside her.

Silence filled the landing again, the twins standing sheepishly as they gave time for Gigi to process.

“If I’m honest I think I’m less confused now.” Gigi turned to face Crystal and grinned, showing an emotion Elle didn’t think the Barbie doll was even capable of showing. “This makes a lot more sense.”

Elle watched as her sister grinned back, seeing the genuine happiness on her face and throwing away all thoughts about whether or not she’d get in trouble.

“I think I might just be able to forgive you.” Gigi looked her up and down, pouting her lips in a joking manner. “If you let me take you out so we can talk this through over dinner?”

“Yes,” Crystal responded without hesitation.

“But first, could you tell me your name?”

“Crystal.” Elle watched as her sister reached out and shook the other girl’s hand, proud of the growth in confidence she could see - happy to see the return of the happy-go-lucky Crystal who wasn’t too scared to try anything new that she knew as a child.

“Crystal,” Gigi repeated, smiling to herself. “So Crystal, do you go to uni or just hang around at other people’s?”

“Maybe next year.” Crystal smiled back a sense of optimism in her voice. “Are we going for this dinner or what?”

Although it took her a minute to take in what she’d seen, a strange feeling inside of her as she waved her sister goodbye for a date with her bitchy downstairs neighbour, Elle couldn’t help but think that her disaster vacation had all happened for a good reason. In fact, she found herself almost shedding a tear as she heard her sister laughing at something Gigi said on their way downstairs, figuring that she might just see more of her sister than usual next term (and being nothing but happy about it).

[maatryoshkaa]

young god | chapter 1

serial killer!han jisung au

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11| 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | epilogue |

genre: angst, thriller, romance

pairing: han jisung ( stray kids) x reader

word count: 1.9k

warnings: mild language, mature themes + violence

description: when your best friend Felix sets you up on a blind date with adorable medical student Han Jisung, you find yourself falling for his sweet words and dark eyes, and the even darker secrets he hides behind his charming, angelic smile.

watch the trailer here!

1 | blind date

You were beginning to wonder if you’d been stood up.

Mia’s Diner was usually busy, bustling with students and townspeople alike, but today it was nearly deserted: just you, two students studying in a booth across the room, and an old man reading what seemed to be a newspaper upside-down in the corner. A lone waitress was stacking clean milkshake glasses behind the counter.

It was raining hard outside, the drops sounding like impatient fingers tapping at the window beside you. As you peered through the glass, you caught a glimpse of a boy on a rusty bike, waiting to cross the street. Yang Jeongin, you recognized -- the delivery boy. A silver Walkman was tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, his lips mouthing the words to a song, a halo of dripping blonde hair sticking out from underneath his hood. He was smiling, despite the fact that it was pouring buckets, and he’d likely been up doing deliveries since 6 in the morning. Yang Jeongin was always smiling.

The light flashed red, traffic halted, and the delivery boy sped away. 

Turning your attention back to the empty seat in front of you, you sighed.

Your date was thirty minutes late.

Your mind was running over all the ways you were going to give Felix hell when you saw him in class tomorrow; how you were going to explain to him that you’d been stood up on the blind date he’d arranged for you. 

“You know what they call me? The Matchmaker of Miroh Heights. Has a nice ring to it, huh?”

You’d groaned as your best friend wiggled his eyebrows. Felix loved playing wingman. As the school photographer and a talented journalism major, he was the one who came up with the “Cutest Couples” section in the campus newspaper -- photoshoots and candid shots of pairings, most of which he’d set up. Still, you’d never thought that his...work...would extend to you.

It had been a while since you’d entertained the notion of love. You’d had your fair share of unrequited crushes and relationships that had not-so-pleasant endings, so the moment you’d enrolled into college and the workload had swept up your entire schedule, you’d left love on the backburner. You kept telling yourself that the right person would come at the right time -- but Felix seemed to have other ideas.

“Let’s see...Hyojong? Ah, no, I forgot -- he’s taken by that pretty senior. Lucky bastard.” He huffed. “Or...Seungcheol? Nah, doesn’t seem your type. Ah!” He snapped his fingers, making you jump. “I know!”

“Felix, for the last damn time -- I don’t need a boyfriend right now.”

“Just one date? Please?” The blond boy hung up the last photo, a mischievous glint in his eyes visible even in the dark room. “I know a great guy -- health sciences major and everything. You two are practically made for each other.”

“I’m a psychology major, ‘Lix. I don’t know -- you know I’m no good at blind dates--” you caught sight of his puppy-dog expression, and sighed in defeat. “Fine! Fine. What’s his name, then?”

The school journalist flashed an impish grin. “Han Jisung.”

Han Jisung.

He was the reason why you were here, sat in a near-empty diner on a rainy Sunday afternoon, waiting for a date to show up while a pile of psychology coursework waited for you back at home. 

Maybe he couldn’t make it, you told yourself -- it was pouring buckets outside. Maybe it was better to swallow your hopes and head back. Biting your lip, you pulled out your phone, tapping on Jisung’s contact (courtesy of Felix) and typing. 

New Message

Hey, I’m y/n! I’m really sorry, but I had to leave.

Your finger hovered over the Send button, hesitating. What if he was on his way? Or got caught in traffic? Still, it had been over thirty minutes…

You were so caught up in your dilemma that you barely registered the sound of the diner door swinging open, and the sound of wet footsteps squeaking until they stopped at your booth.

“Hello!”

You nearly threw your phone into the face of the boy who had spoken, his hand shooting out to catch it before it fell to the floor. Drenched from head to toe from the rain -- cheeks flushed and breathing hard as if he’d been running, dark hair falling in his wide eyes, lips spread in a breathless smile -- was your date. 

His other hand was hidden behind his back as he handed your phone back to you, cool fingers grazing yours as your eyes met. 

Well, shit.

He was absolutely, devastatingly, adorable.

“O-oh, hi!” You stammered. “You’re…”

“Jisung,” he finished for you. “Han Jisung.” He glanced at the empty seat in front of you. “May I…”

“Yeah, of course!” Your heart rate was steadily increasing, and you wanted to slap yourself. It’s just a blind date, y/n, stop getting your hopes up--

Your gaze fell on the hand he was still hiding behind his back as he slid into the booth. Noticing your stare, Jisung slowly and sheepishly pulled out a small bouquet of roses.They were an unusual colour -- a faint, peachy pink rather than the conventional ruby red. 

They were also falling apart, clusters of wrinkled petals dripping and blown askew from the wind and rain, no doubt. 

“They’re for you. I mean, I completely understand if you don’t want them, it’s just--I passed a florist’s on the way here, but it started raining, and--”

“I love them,” you blurted, and, seeing Jisung raise an eyebrow, you giggled. “I really do.” 

You gingerly took the misshapen bouquet from his hands, bringing the flowers to your face and breathing in softly. They smelled pleasantly of petrichor, and something else faint yet sweet.

Jisung watched you, a smile playing on his lips. “You’re -- really pretty.”

You felt the blood rush to your face, your tongue tying into knots and betraying you oncemore. “O-oh,” you squeaked, “th-thank you?”

He chuckled as the waitress came to take your orders for drinks and food.

As she left, Jisung’s gaze wandered around the vintage movie posters, records, and other retro paraphernalia that decorated the diner’s interior. “This place is something else.” 

“Right? Every time I come here, I think I’ve stepped into a movie. Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Dirty Dancing--” you blushed. “Sorry. I probably sound like a nerd.” 

Jisung turned back to you. “Don’t apologize. What’s your favourite kind of movie? Rom-coms?”

“Psychological thrillers, actually,” you admitted shyly. Good gosh, that intense stare in Han Jisung’s eyes was making your heart do somersaults in your chest. “But romcoms are not far behind.”

He hummed in approval, an odd glint in his eyes. “So you’re into psychology?”

“Well, I’m majoring in psychology, so I kind of have to be -- although it’s been pretty hard on me as of late.” You sighed, suddenly remembering the mountain of final assignments weighing on your shoulders.

Jisung leaned in closer, resting his chin on his hands. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“It’s just--my final project.They’re testing our ability to communicate with and analyze a patient,” you explained. “Kind of like a therapist simulation. We’re supposed to find someone and, like, apply psychological concepts by giving them mock counselling over the course of a few months. And by the end of it, we have to write a conclusive report on their mental state. I can’t find anyone who’s willing to be my patient, which honestly makes sense -- it’s such an invasive topic.”

Jisung was silent for a long moment, dark eyes unreadable. Finally, he sat up a little straighter, cocking his head to the side. “I could be your patient.”

You blinked, mouth falling open. “Wha--are you sure? I mean, you really don’t have to--and it might take up a lot of your time--”

“I wouldn’t mind spending more time with you,” he replied, eyes glinting, and your heart skipped a beat. 

“R-really?” You could already feel an incredulous, relieved smile spreading on your blushing face.

Jisung chuckled. “Just to see you smile like that, trust me -- I’d do anything.”

You were infinitely grateful that at that moment, the waitress arrived with your food. You weren’t sure your face could get any redder. You knew you were a hopeless romantic at heart, and had told yourself time and time again not to be swayed by sweet talk, but this was...different. There was something genuinely sweet in Jisung’s words -- he said them so honestly, with an almost childlike simplicity. 

You sipped your drink in a feeble attempt to regain composure. “My turn to ask the questions. What’s your favourite food?”

“Cheesecake,” Jisung replied instinctively. You watched him bite into his burger and giggled at the way his round eyes widened even more before he practically inhaled the rest.

“Favourite season?”

“Winter.”

“Least favourite colour?”

Jisung froze, a weighted silence falling over the table. He swallowed, hard, before replying quietly, “Red.”

When you peered at his face, you felt an icy chill trickle down your spine. His warm brown eyes had darkened and grown impossibly wide, and the colour had drained from his cheeks. Had you said something wrong? You looked down at your clothes -- a soft, oversized beige cardigan and light blue jeans.

“W-well, it’s a good thing I’m not wearing red, then, huh?”

“No.” Jisung shook his head slowly, and his shaky gaze met yours. You felt your mouth go dry at how lost his eyes seemed -- bottomless pools of pitch black. “No, I’m sure you would still look pretty in red.”

As if on cue, your cheeks turned a bright cherry hue.

Deciding to change the topic, you cleared your throat. “What about dogs? Do you like dogs?”

Almost as quickly as it had come, the dark look vanished from his face. “I love dogs!”

By the time the waitress brought the bill, Jisung had you in stitches over a joke he’d made, and you’d long forgotten about the whole ordeal.

The rain had stopped when you two stepped outside. Behind the knitted clouds, the sun was setting, its rays of light seeping through the stormy sky like veins in marble. Jisung’s features were painted a soft gold, warm eyes sparkling as he turned around to face you. His hair was a strange colour, you noted -- under the dim lights of the diner, it had appeared a light brown, but now that you were in the sunlight, it looked more blond. It had also been dripping wet, soaked from sweat or rain or both after running all the way to you, but it had dried off now, the ends curling in his eyes.

Maybe you’d had one dose of sugar too many in your drink, because you suddenly found yourself wanting to touch it. So you did just that, fingers reaching for the soft, fluffy golden locks and ruffling them playfully. Jisung’s eyes held yours the entire time, his gaze questioning. 

You huffed. “You’re cute, okay?”

He broke into a smile that made your heart flutter. “Okay.” 

Cheeks blazing at your own sudden boldness, you quickly pulled your hand away, fingers lightly grazing the side of his cheek before you stepped back. “I--I’m gonna get going now. Thanks for a great time!”

“Of course. See you next time?” Jisung winked, handing you the bouquet of peach roses.

“S-see you!” With that, you turned and practically ran across the street, heart still threatening to leap out of your chest as you fought the butterflies in your stomach and the smile sneaking onto your face.

Behind you, Jisung’s face darkened, smile slipping from his lips as you disappeared from his sight.

[hadestownmodern]

Mom’s Group

Hi! I’ve made the decision that I’m really only on here to post now, but I hope everyone is doing well!! Here’s your Eurydice and Persephone crack!

-Danielle

--

              It starts off as a serious conversation, but does not last long in that realm. Eurydice had come over to visit straight after a morning of meetings at the bar, Melody glowing with excitement upon seeing Junie. Persephone’s sitting at the kitchen table with a flyer in her hand, tapping her fingers on the impeccable white wood.

              “Imagine this,” her voice calls Eurydice over, “imagine me at a play group. Makin’ friends with the same moms that send their kids all over town with nannies that raise them until they want to look like mamas.”

              “You wouldn’t last a second there.” Eurydice states the fact as it is, moves to the fridge for a glass of water. Her movement is encumbered by her large, beautifully rounded pregnant belly, her second little girl just as much a surprise as the first. Persephone nods her head in agreement.

              “You wouldn’t last too long yourself.”

              “You’re right, but imagine what it’s like in there. All those women competing to see who’s the best mom, probably forgetting which kid is theirs?”

              “Let’s go.”

              “Oh, no.”

              “Oh, yes.” She grins. “We can go, watch the other moms judge each other…maybe you’re right though, you wouldn’t make it.”

              “I’d make it longer than you.”

              “Want to bet?” It’s the shine in her eyes that seals the deal before Eurydice can agree or disagree, the word bet a game Persephone won’t stop until she gets to play.

              “What are we betting?”

              “If you can make it longer than me at this playgroup without throwing a fit or makin’ the other moms upset, I’ll give you one night of watching Melody. Whenever you choose.”

              “And if you win?”

              “I’m sure Hades wouldn’t mind a night just the two of us.”

              Sunday morning, the pair is a sight to see. They walk together to the mom’s group, Persephone holding Junie’s hand as she dances. Eurydice’s pace is a bit slowed by the weight of her belly as well as Melody being strapped to her back, wearing her so frequently a decision she’d been adamant about continuing. Everything feels exclusive here-even the building, where they’re greeted by a doorman and directed to the appropriate room. Both moms feel a bit out of place, Eurydice’s anxious feelings double as she looks around at the ornate, perfectly pristine surroundings. The room of the door is opened, some glass windows allowing them premature access into what they’ll be getting themselves into. Eurydice stops to stare into the window, eyes widening upon seeing the mass of ponytailed moms and their perfect children.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but how old are you your skin looks amazing.” They’re greeted as soon as they enter the room, barely a moment to catch their breath or take everything in. This mom looks about thirty, with shiny auburn hair and scarily perfect teeth. Eurydice answers without pause.

              “Oh, I’m sixteen. I had my daughter when I was fourteen. What a wild ride. Y’know, because of the braces.”

              The woman at the door looks between Persephone and Eurydice attempting to hide her shock, mouth opening and closing as she fails to form a response.

“I’m marrying her father as soon as we’re old enough. He just got his license, we’re so proud.”

Persephone keeps her composure with absolutely no difficulty, nodding her head. She watches as a group of women standing near the door raise their heads, keep their narrowed eyes trained on the newcomers. Eurydice looks around innocently, waving at the women who stare as Persephone helps her remove Melody from her wrap.

“You’re sixteen?”

              “I’m kidding,” She says, wondering if the woman at the door hadn’t been able to read her joking expression. She’s not embarrassed, simply bewildered that her joke had been taken so seriously. “I’m not sixteen. I’m also not forty, if that’s what you thought-I’m somewhere in between there.” They enter the room and are greeted with a wall of women in yoga pants, children playing peacefully with a large wooden play structure in the center of the room. Junie trails next to Persephone, holding her hand and observing the other children just as Persephone and Eurydice skeptically eye the crowd. Everyone in the room seems to know each other, stopping in smaller groups to gossip while their children run in circles around the room. They’re all dressed in pristine, perfect clothing-Eurydice notices this with a skeptical eye. She wonders about the moms holding new babies while dressed in white-how they choose to risk it all having rambunctious, messy children while in such a made-up state. Having her Melody is enough-even Junie, who refuses to get messy on her own accord, trails the occasional dusting of flour from her cooking.

              But none of these children play, not in the way her wild, toddling baby does. These children are perfectly conditioned. A group of boys runs around the perimeter of the room in competition, neatly staying in their own lane as their mothers look on. She can see the word Harvard on their lips, and she holds back her own disgusted laughter. Another group of children walks cautiously along beside the play structure, and several of them turn to look at their mothers before making a single choice. She can hear moments of go ahead, or, no, you’ll get dirty, and immediately feels bad for the way the children walk such a thin line.

              “Oh, look at you.” Eurydice feels a hand on her stomach at the same moment she notices the tall, skinny blonde traipsing toward her. She recoils at the touch, covers her bump as her eyes subconsciously narrow at the offender. “You’re so cute! How far along?”

              “Uh, six months.”

              “And another, too?” The stranger gestures to Melody, who’s toddling in the space around them with a handful of cheerios and a continuous babbling. Then, she turns her attention to Junie.

              “Hi honey, why don’t you go play with the other kids? I can come and help you say hi,”

              “I’m six and I don’t need help saying hello.” She’s very matter-of-fact with her tiny, confident voice, and she holds her head high as she scans the crowd. There isn’t much that interests her here, where the children play so cautiously. She chooses to follow Melody’s trail instead, holding one of her chubby hands and cooing to her affectionately. They’re a sight in identical floral cotton dresses, Junie’s long, beautiful curls a stark contrast to Melody’s dark hair in two tiny pigtails. Eurydice turns her head to hide her tongue-in-cheek smile as Persephone merely shrugs at the blonde.

              “She’s very independent.”

              The woman takes her cue and leaves them, and for a moment they stand in the doorway with a shock. There’s a lot to take in here, this environment full of moms discussing Whole Foods and yoga, and Persephone is unable to form her sarcastic comeback before another group comes up to them, grinning with an overwhelmingly cheering façade.

              “You’re new!” One of the moms puts her arm on Persephone’s shoulder, another immediately going for Eurydice’s stomach. The young mother’s face grows dark and she steps backward, hot with anger. Before she can say anything she can see the beginnings of gloating in Persephone’s eyes and catches herself, taking a breath.

              “Please don’t touch my stomach.” Teetering on the edge of a long rant, this is all Eurydice can manage. The narrowing of her eyes, however, is more than enough to have the unknown woman walking away. She holds her belly protectively in her hands, rolling her eyes at Persephone’s wild grinning.

              “So when you watch Junie tonight, I’ll have to remember to pack her blanket. And she’s really into that princess game-Orpheus will be okay with wearing all those jewels. Maybe I should make a reservation,”

              “Oh, shut up because I’m about to slap the next Tiffany wearing ‘my kid can’t get hurt’ mom who tries to touch me and I need to breathe.”

              “I’m just sayin’, your chances aren’t lookin’ too good.”

              “Oh, you’re funny if you think this is over.” Eurydice laughs, points to the low area of the room, where Junie stands with Melody’s hand in hers and the other hand on her hip. Persephone recognizes the face of complete irritation on her daughter’s face-the expression that Demeter coins an exact copy of Persephone’s. You get back what you were as a child. Persephone watches Junie throw one hand into the air, a dramatic roll of the eyes. A handful of the other moms are watching, too, as her daughter’s volume gets louder.

              “Juniper, what’s going on?”

              “They said they can’t play what I want to play because they’re gonna get dirty so I said that was stupid, and then they said Melody can’t be my best friend because she’s a baby and she’s not a baby.”

              “She called us babies!” A boy chimes in from his place on the floor, arms folded across his chest. The group of children is just sitting there, a stack of pristine wooden blocks on the floor. The other children take turns stacking blocks on top of each other in a perfect little rectangular house. It’s a far cry from the typical mode of play that her daughter takes; artistically driven, imaginative and meticulous in her own way. There’s a clear line between her daughter and these children, between herself and the moms in the room. They’d all been raised here, in the wealthiest part of the city. They’d all known each other since birth, lived that established life with the same sorts of goals in their heads.

              They hadn’t gotten to live in the tiny farmhouse, to feel the grass beneath their bare feet, spend their days making mudpies and helping in the garden. They hadn’t gotten to be children-not in the wild, unashamed way that Persephone had. And it twists Eurydice’s stomach; Eurydice, who’d had her childhood ripped from underneath her, had been forced to grow up too fast…the luxury of this room on the thirtieth floor of a building with windows all around it, where their children thought nothing of wearing clothes that would cover things like groceries and rent when she’d lived alone in her little ramshackle studio apartment.

              Looking over at Eurydice, Persephone realizes by the way her eyes are trained so intently on their daughters that she must be at her breaking point as well. She’s just about to raise her white flag when Junie groans, turns from the group of children with a pout.

              “Mama, I don’t like these kids. They play boring. Can we go play in the park and me and Melly can run?” It takes everything for Persephone to hold her laughter as she agrees, moving to the little table where they’d left their things. One of the spectator moms, close to a carbon copy of the others, swoops in to where Eurydice waits with the girls.

              “I’ve been dying to get at that belly, you’re so cute!”

              “Do you seriously think it’s okay to touch a fucking stranger like that?” Eurydice doesn’t even look at the other moms as she makes her retreat, Persephone close behind. It isn’t until they’re waiting for the elevator that the moms burst into laughter, Eurydice rolling her eyes with a wildly irritated sort of humor. There is no clear winner that night, just dinner with their husbands, Junie and Melody asleep in her bed.

[theajaheira]

(via https://open.spotify.com/playlist/42wZ51TgoyxD4xv0xPblT7?si=fOBdq5sJRjSWyGEcyvogXQ)

@angelinthefire and a very nice anon asked about my calendiles playlist, so here it is! i put some feels-specific lyrics under the cut because every song on this playlist has a very different giles/jenny vibe (except for the bay city rollers cover of i only want to be with you, which i really only put on because i take one line from one episode as rupert giles gospel).

i posted a version of this about two years ago, but. it’s been a while since then. now: thirty songs, nearly two hours, AND over the last five-ish years, i have organized this thing so that the mood loosely follows the canon trajectory of giles and jenny’s relationship!

(PLEASE talk to me about this playlist you will make my DAY. or give me song recs! that is welcome as well!)

1. friday i’m in love (the cure)

i don’t care if monday’s blue / tuesday’s grey and wednesday too / thursday i don’t care about you / it’s friday i’m in love

2. there she goes (the la’s)

there she goes / there she goes again / and i just can’t contain / this feeling that remains

3. she’s so high (tal bachman)

first class and fancy-free / she’s high society / she’s got the best of everything / what could a guy like me ever really offer?

4. would you be so kind (dodie)

oh, would you be so kind / as to fall in love with me? you see i’m trying / i know you know that i like you / but that’s not enough, so if you will / please fall in love

5. stop desire (tegan and sara)

i can’t deny, i’m begging for attention / dropping hints, hoping for some tension / getting tired of making all this racket / waiting on you to get your ass in gear

6. i won’t say i’m in love (hercules)

who’d you think you’re kidding? / he’s the earth and heaven to you / try to keep it hidden / honey, we can see right through you

7. accidentally in love (counting crows)

how much longer will it take to cure this? / just to cure it ‘cause i can’t ignore it if it’s love

8. i only want to be with you (bay city rollers)

‘cause you’ve started somethin’, can’t you see / that ever since we met, you’ve had a hold on me?

9. must have done something right (relient k)

we should get jerseys / ‘cause we make a good team / but yours would look better than mine / ‘cause you’re out of my league

10. give your heart a break (demi lovato)

the day i first met you / you told me you never fall in love / but now that i get you / i know fear is what it really was

11. jackie and wilson (hozier)

she blows outta nowhere, roman candle of the wild / laughing away through my feeble disguise / no other version of me i’d rather be tonight / and lord, she found me just in time

12. collide (howie day)

i’m open, you’re closed / where i’ll follow, you’ll go / i worry i won’t see your face / light up again

13. louisa (lord huron)

do you know what loneliness does to a man? / turn him into the walking dead / i may have died, but your lovin’ raised me

14. manchester (kishi bashi)

oh hello / will you be mine? / i haven’t felt this alive in a long time

15. love don’t come easy (the moody blues)

but then again / i don’t think i’ve ever looked / had the time to spare / the will to share with you

16. between my teeth (orla gartland)

you need me, i don’t need you / just admit it / admit it / oh, i’m too broken to fix you too / i admit it / i admit it

17. i couldn’t be your friend (tegan and sara)

now you wanna say i was a liar / led you astray, i won’t deny it / i did what they thought would be good for me

18. supercut (lorde)

and in my head / the visions never stop / these ribbons wrap me up / but when i reach for you / there’s just a supercut

19. fuel on the fire (bear’s den)

there’s a demon in the server / and histories we cannot erase / you’re so close and so far away / you’re so close now

20. s.o.s (abba)

where are those happy days / they seem so hard to find / i try to reach for you / but you have closed your mind

21. the story of us (taylor swift)

oh, a simple complication / miscommunications lead to fallout / so many things that i wish you knew / so many walls up, i can’t break through

22. she lit a fire (lord huron)

i have been trying to find her, wanna give all i’ve got / she lit a fire and now she’s in my every thought

23. agape (bear’s den)

so tell me how long, love, before you go / and leave me here on my own / i know it / i don’t wanna know who i am without you

24. i’ll be waiting (adele)

please forgive me for my sins / yes, i swam dirty waters, but you pushed me in

25. breakfast at tiffany’s (deep blue something)

i see you, the only one who knew me / but now your eyes see through me / i guess i was wrong

26. all this and heaven too (florence + the machine)

but for all my education, i can’t seem to command it / and words are all escaping and coming back all damaged / and i would put them back in poetry if i only knew how / i can’t seem to understand it

27. fidelity (regina spektor)

i never loved nobody fully / always one foot on the ground / and by protecting my heart truly / i got lost in the sounds

28. the night we met (lord huron)

i had all and then most of you / some and now none of you / take me back to the night we met

29. vanilla twilight (owl city)

i’ll watch the night turn light blue / but it’s not the same without you / because it takes two to whisper quietly

29. world spins madly on (the weepies)

and everything that i said i’d do / like make the world brand new / and take the time for you / i just got lost / and slept right through the dawn / and the world spins madly on

30. i will follow you into the dark (death cab for cutie)

no blinding light / or tunnels to gates of white / just our hands clasped so tight / waiting for the hint of a spark

[theyrealllegends]

Careful (Roger Taylor x Reader)

Chapter Summary: The day after the party the boys took you to is a day to take care of each other’s hangover and the day Roger dies his hair. You’re feeling a bit angsty about him being gone on tour soon but he finds his ways to distract you from that. 

Author’s Note: This one feels super fluffy to me but I don’t even know if it really is. It ends quite smutty, I guess but you could skip that if you don’t like it. Also, I think the next chapter will be more interesting? Hope you still enjoy this one!

Words: ~4k

Warning: Everyone is hangover, drugs, mentions of sex, a handjob maybe - rated mature!

Chapter 8

Previous Parts

You woke up because someone stormed into your room. 

“Tiffy, have you seen that blond th- Oh, there you are! You stupid fucker, waking up the whole neighbourhood and then slipping in our innocent girl’s bed!”, Freddie rambled while Roger was barely conscious. 

“Shut the hell up”, he just whispered, pressing his free hand to his temple. “Just shut up and leave okay, you don’t want me to freak out right now.”

“Mary’s making pancakes if you want some”, Freddie told you as you turned around, moaning and pressing your face into Roger’s bare chest. He put his other hand on your back, streaking you softly. 

“Shit, Rog, why’s everything spinning?”, you mumbled to him, making him snort. 

“Babe, if only I knew.”

“You two are such bores! You didn’t drink half as much as I did and look at me! Blooming life!”

“Man, you’re still drunk that’s why!”, Roger moaned. “I’ll ask you again in a couple of hours.”

“I want teeeeea”, you told him as it was your dominating thought.

“And I want to have another scotch. Should we move?”

“Ugh”, you just let out, making him chuckle, before he softly removed his arm from under your head to sit up. 

“Oh, sweet Jesus, Tiffany!”, Freddie almost screamed, making your ears hurt like crazy. “And you, don’t you ever yell at Mary and me again if all that makes you do is getting dirty with Tiff.”

“Man, can you -“

“Listen, Rog, I love you but I’ll kill you if you’re not fucking careful with her, you hear me.”

“Please, don’t dad me right now!”, Roger tried to interrupt him, moaning again as he tried to get up while he couldn’t see straight for the love of god. 

“Tiffany is a treasure and you need to treat her like that”, Freddie told him seriously. 

“And you think I don’t know that?”, Roger replied grumpy, patting past Freddie, almost running into your doorframe. 

“You alright, love?”, Freddie asked you in a sweet voice. 

“I feel sick and tired and hungry and tired.”

“That’s what happens if you’re fu-“

“Rog, come back and hit Freddie for me!” You heard something in the kitchen that sounded like dropped cutlery but there Roger was, ruffling his sweats up with one hand, his free hand balled into a fist. 

“What’d he do, angel?”

“I just wanted to get that point across. Don’t ever talk to me like that again or it’ll be two against one”, you told Freddie, giving him a smirk. 

“You clearly didn’t pay attention when my mother pulled out these horrible book. I was a boxer when I was younger and you two are pretty souls but no competition”, he let you know with a snort. 

“I fell asleep in the middle of your sentence, that argument’s invalid”, you let him know, trying to hide that you actually were impressed. You moved to the open side of your bed and Roger offered you a hand to get you on your feet. “Thanks”, you whispered to him when you leant onto him to stabilise yourself. “God, I hate this.”

“Come and eat something, hm?”, Roger asked you softly, while he carefully ran his fingers over your hair. You moved to the kitchen slowly, sure you’d faint if you walked fast and you just dropped yourself on one of the chairs. 

“You’re the devil don’t come close”, you told Freddie who just laughed. “I’m serious, you’re always making me drunk.”

“I’m good at that, though.”

“Yeah and I hate you”, you said, as Roger came into the kitchen, covering your shoulders - two thirds of your body actually - in a gigantic coat. 

“Someone must’ve killed all my cats for that thing”, Freddie commented, making you listen up. 

“YOUR cats?”

“Don’t worry, they’re perfectly fine I was jok-“

“No, I mean, you have CATS?”, you interrupted him, your voice reaching unexpected highs. 

“Oh, man, she’s fair competition”, Freddie told Roger with a grin. “I think I have - Mary, love, how many cats do I have?”

“Oh there’s… Tom and Jerry, three, four… Four or five I’d guess”, Mary replied, finished the pancakes and putting them on a plate for the four of you.

“Freddie, are you gonna bring them here?”

“I was planning to when we were done with the flat but now everything’s so crazy. We were thinking to bring them before the tour so they could keep you company.”

“Fred, I’m fucking scared of cats, they’re - damn, they belong to you, I get it - they’re children of the devil, really.” Freddie laughed to a point were his eyes started tearing. 

“God, you’re an angel, Tiffany, such a sweet angel! And Rog, why don’t you put on one of your outrageous jackets yourself, no-one wants to see the hickeys you’re so eager to show off there.” You blushed when you realised you must’ve caused them but Roger just shrugged it off. 

“I’m too hot right now, man, I dunno why.” He sat down next to you to finally give Mary’s breakfast some attention. “Thank you, by the way”, he told her and she smiled. 

***

After breakfast, you found yourself in the living room, watching TV with a still shirtless Roger who snaked his arm around you again, yawning. 

“May I?”, he asked again, cuddling into you. 

“The last time you asked that I didn’t regret letting you do what you wanted to”, you said, making him chuckle. 

“I’m glad you liked it. Was scared I overstepped your boarder or something”, he mumbled into your skin. 

“You did but in a good way.”

“We should do that more often, then”, he suggested with a grin.

“You wish”, you laughed, leaning in to peck his lips for half a second. “We’ll see, hm?”

“Whatever you want, love.”

“Rog”, Mary interrupted you softly, knocking on the doorframe as if to ask for permission to enter.

“Freddie wants you to come to his room, he says he’s too weak to walk.”

“He even kills the mood without being present”, Roger said, getting up moaning. You followed him, wrapping yourself tighter in his jacket. Freddie’s room was similarly as stuffed with clothes as Roger’s if not an even bigger mess and it was incredibly hot but Mary went to turn off the heater and let him some much needed fresh air. Freddie was smoking, looking pale.

“What is it, mate?”, Roger asked him, noticing, too. 

“You were right”, Freddie admitted weakly. 

“I love being right but I can’t follow you.”

“About my hangover. It kicked in and it’s a fucking bastard.” Roger snorted while you returned to the kitchen to get a bottle of water for Freddie. 

“Do you happen to have pain killers, Tiff?”, Mary asked you, taking the water with a thankful smile. She got onto Freddie’s bed and helped him sit so he could drink. 

“I think I do, hang on.”

“Don’t bother, love, I don’t want them anyway”, Freddie told you.

“But Fred, you -“, Mary wanted to argue. 

“That’s why he asked for me”, it dawned on Roger. “I got you man, but you’re explaining that to the girls.” He left the room and you looked at Mary in confusion, unsure what to do and looking at the different fabrics Freddie had put up on his walls, noticing that he actually had squeezed a piano in his room, until Roger returned and got onto Freddie’s bed as well. 

“He didn’t say anything, did he?”, he asked Mary who was eying the shoe-box he’d brought in suspicion. 

“Nope, but I get it. I’m gonna check if you have the ingredients for scones.”

“I don’t think we do but pasta would do the job”, Freddie mumbled into her shoulder. “I fucking love you.”

“Love you, too”, she laughed it off, kissed him quickly before she got up and passed you with a soft smile. You finally realised Roger was grinding weed to put it on a paper and you rolled your eyes.

“What did I say about the cops?”, you demanded his attention, making him pull a face.

“I’m not doing this for myself right now!”

“Please you two, keep it quiet. Tiff, I’ll only ask you this one time, but please stop being a lawyer for the next thirty minutes, my head kills me.”

“You wanna come ‘ere?”, Roger asked you with a grin before he had to lick the paper, his eyes never leaving yours while the tip of his tongue curled out between his lips. It didn’t make you blush but you felt this tingling sensation in your thighs again that made you somewhat uncomfortable. You ended up on Freddie’s bed as well and cuddled into Roger after he’d given Freddie the weed. 

“I didn’t mean to offend you earlier, darling”, Freddie actually explained himself as if he wanted to get better karma or whatever. 

“I know, don’t worry, Fred”, you let him know while he took a deep drag and exhaled the slightly blue smoke. 

“You wanna taste?”, he asked you and your blood went cold when you realised that he actually made you feel like it would be okay to do something that was lawfully wrong.

“I’m gonna pass”, you just told him and he nodded, fine with that. Roger moved behind you, leaning closer into your back while moving towards Freddie.

“Do you mind if I -?”

“God, Rog, no, I’m not your mother.” The boys chuckled and you could tell from the look in his eyes that he would’ve been happy to lean in and kiss you again already. Freddie was dying to ask what was going on between the two of you but he forced himself to stay quiet this one time since he didn’t want to pressure you. 

“You two look good together”, was everything he commented to see your reaction and you just smiled while Roger took it with a nod. 

*** “God, that smells awful”, you said and Freddie nodded, leaning into the wall behind him.

“If it does the job then I’m good”, Roger shrugged it off, checking again if he’d missed any spot of hair with the bleach. You grabbed the paintbrush from him to help out with some strands he couldn’t reach in the back of his head and neck but then he was good to go and while the die sunk into his hair you actually started to get excited for the result. His hair indeed was pretty light afterwards and you slapped half the tub of your hair mask on it so it could get it soft and not-frizzy again overnight but Roger was glad your eyes were still shining when you looked at him. 

You prepared dinner for him and Freddy with Mary and the boys were singing Doing Alright, Keep Yourself Alive and lastly your secret favourite Seven Seas of Rhye to keep you entertained. 

“When’s your tour starting again?”, Mary asked over her Pasta. The others had them with meatballs while you only went with tomato sauce. 

“By this time in three weeks, we’ll have left”, Freddie told her, his hand moving to her leg for a moment. 

“It’s UK only, this time but if it goes well they might send us to the US and Japan later that year”, Roger told you and you smiled because of his excitement. 

“What about your studies, though?”, you had to ask. 

“What about it, love? It doesn’t bloody matter!”, Freddie declared and Roger’s arm was around you when you raised an eyebrow. 

“I’m gonna finish mine for sure, I just don’t know when at this point.”

“That’s something, though”, you said and Roger nodded thankfully. 

Later that night, you could hear Freddie play the piano to Mary. You were in your room by yourself and your heart started aching when you heard it. He wasn’t only playing things you knew, but also trying some new tunes, you could tell. You could even hear him muffle some texts through the wall, imagining how it must be like for Mary to be with him those moments and it almost made you cry. You didn’t really know why, maybe you were emotional because you were going to get your period soon, but it eventually got the best of you and you ended up in front of Roger’s door, almost not daring to knock but to return to your room. You did it in the end, though and Roger smiled when he let you in. 

“What is it, love?”

“I just - I don’t know, I think I felt a bit lonely”, you explained, tugging a strand of hair behind your ear nervously. Roger walked over to his bed, patting on the empty space next to him to make you join. “You were working, weren’t you?”, you said when you got under his covers as well. 

“Nothing important”, he shrugged it off, lacing his fingers through yours. “Don’t want you to be lonely when we’re both at home.”

“You’re not gonna be home soon enough, anyway.”

“Tiff it’s only going to be one show in September, then I’ll be back with you until the real tour starts in October and I’ll be with you for Christmas, if you want me to. I promise, babe. It’s only three concerts outside of the UK and I’d take you to all of them if you wanted to.”

“I’ll be at the London ones for sure, I’ll have to see with the rest. My dad would kill me if he knew I was skipping class.”

“I can ask Miami to talk to him”, Roger suggested, his hand moving under your shirt slowly. You closed your eyes as you felt electric-like shocks wherever his skin touched yours. Heat started to erupt in your stomach, making your head spin a little and you almost didn’t answer. 

“Please, don’t”, you just mumbled. “I want to keep working with him, not having to attend his funeral.” It made Roger chuckle, while he was studying your face. Your eyes were closed, your lashes resting on your cheekbones. Your skin was so light and clean and he knew how soft it was, it made him want to touch it; your lips were parted just a tiny bit and they looked perfect to him, to a point where he couldn’t resist but lean into you anymore. 

“You will, Tiff and you will do great things”, he whispered, making you shutter. Your lips were so close to each other, when you opened your eyes you met Roger’s gaze and he fell, hard. Your eyes were endless to him to a point were he couldn’t look any longer, but had to close his eyes and seal your lips with his. You breathed him in, the smell of his body mixed with the faint hint of his cologne and cold smoke; you could smell the bleach and feel the mask in his hair but it didn’t matter when you buried your fingers in his locks. He pulled you onto himself and very carefully deepened the kiss, like he was asking you for permission before his tongue met yours. You rocketed your hips into his slowly, carefully, making Roger moan under your lips. His fingers started tingling from the sensation of your skin on his and he softly moved one hand from your hair to the hem of you shirt and onto your back. He caressed you softly, running the tips of his fingers up to your ribcage and then down over your bum, giving your back goosebumps. You leaned into his touch, moving your lips from his to his neck and his chest over his ribcage and down to his bellybutton. “Fuck, Tiff”, he mumbled, running a hand through his hair and gripping your shoulder with the other one. “You sure you wanna -?” His erected penis hit your boobs while he spoke, making him moan lightly and you blushed by the sudden lust you felt. Your mouth got watery at the thought and you were surprised because you didn’t really consider yourself the type of girl to give blowjobs. 

“I can if you want me to”, you still told Roger who was barely able to hear you, his head was somewhere else since you were so close to his member and there wasn’t a steady bloodstream going to his brain anymore since that wasn’t where it was needed. 

“Don’t wanna push you to do it, love”, he got out somehow and his eyes fell close after he looked at your for three seconds and saw how you were sitting up on him, your fingers softly tugging on the hem of his sweatpants. He gripped your hips when you moved too fast for his liking, biting his own lip which you really liked seeing. 

“I tried it when I lost my virginity”, you told him, feeling safe while he didn’t look at you. “Only to find out later he spread that I - you know - suck at sucking it.”

“What a stupid bastard”, Roger said, sitting up so your lips could meet his. “How was it, though? If you wanna talk about it.”

“It’s really been overshadowed by the fact that he wasn’t as serious with me as he made me believe”, you tried to explain, Roger’s eyes full of understanding and his jaw clenched in anger when you told him: “He wasn’t my boyfriend but I didn’t think he was seeing other girls, too. But I talked to one of them later and she’d found out he was only dating young girls to make them willing to give him their virginity.”

“That’s gross”, he said and you nodded. 

“I don’t know if it was good, I can’t really compare.”

“Bet it wasn’t. Did it - did it hurt?”

“Yeah, but he said that’s normal.”

“I mean, I guess it is, but he should’ve made sure you were comfortable and enjoying it”, Roger said, his fingers running through your hair.

“I can’t believe I’m telling you”, you admitted and he chuckled.

“I won’t tell anyone, love. And we can drop the subject if you want. Where were we?”, he teased you before he leant in again to kiss you softly. You smiled into him, as he wrapped you in his arms softly. Eventually, his lips started moving to your neck, your jawline and you earlobe again, making you hum into his hair. “If you want to, we can just repeat what we did last night and then see where this is going”, he suggested in a soft whisper. 

“I - I would like to go first, if you let me.”

“You can always experiment with me, love”, he said, making you giggle. He rested his head on his pillows again, looking at you with a soft smile. You let your fingers run over his tummy again, moving down onto the fabric of his pants until you were touching him through the fabric of the sweats. Roger’s eyes fell shut and his lips parted just a little, making him look like a sleeping god. You softly pulled on his sweats and the briefs he wore under it and he moved beneath you so he could lift his hips and you could undress him. You looked at him for a second, in fear if you were honest before Roger softly touched himself. “You just do it like that and I’m perfectly fine.”

“I was just thinking that you’re at least two times bigger than this dumbass”, you told him, making him snort. Roger rested his head on his free arm, looking at you with a shit-eating grin. 

“You wanna try me or not, babe?”, he teased you again, his eyes falling shut when you replaced his own hand with yours. His cock felt warm and veiny and you could see how much he liked it in his face. It was fun to look at him, really, explore his reactions when you went faster, gripped him tighter or brushed your thumb over his wet tip. He seemed to be the most sensitive there, his jaw clenching and his breath getting heavier. When you used your other hands to first cup his balls and then continue to palm him, he got the arm out under his head, gripping on one of his blankets until his knuckles turned white. 

“You seem to like that”, you whispered to him and he laughed breathlessly. 

“You’re a natural, Tiff”, he said, his fingers running over your knee softly. “And your hands are so soft, that’s driving me crazy.”

“You - you want to cum, Roger?” You gripped him tighter while you spoke and his whole body stiffened, pulling a moan from deep down his throat. 

“That’s up to what you want, Babe.”

“I’m not sure if we should be having sex right now”, you whispered and he stroke your knee again, softly. 

“Whatever makes you comfortable.” His breath was still heavy and he was sweating, but since you only lightly touched his tip, you thought he should be alright. 

“I mean, after you yelled at Freddie and Mary, I’m sure he’d walk in on us on purpose.”

“I think he’d listen at least, I wouldn’t want that either, you’re right.”

“Do you think he’ll sleep over at her place at some point?”, you asked him with an innocent look, making Roger grin. 

“I think she has this obnoxious roommate, I mean she’s her friend but she’s probably like me when it comes to her and Freddie banging, I guess. But I hope he’ll soon, I can ask him if you want me to.”

“You’re talking about that?” Roger actually blushed when you caught him but smiled when you did so to calm him down. 

“I can keep this a secret if you want me to. But I think I’d talk to him about it at some point if you wouldn’t. He tells me stuff about Mary all the time. We’re trying to help each other out, I guess.”

“I like that you’re such good friends with him.”

“Me too, but can we stop talking about him while you have your hands on my dick?”

“What do you want me to say, talk dirty to you?”, you were the one teasing him with a smile, gripping his shaft harder, making Roger’s eyes roll back for a second. His hands gripped on your thighs tightly, his jaw was clenched. 

“I’m not gonna last that much longer”, he told you in between heavy breaths.

“Is that alright for you like that?”

“Of course, babe.” You really had him turn into a sweating, moaning mess after he pressed the words out. The veins on his arms went visible as we gripped on his sheets again, trying to hold his curses to himself and his voice low at least. “Can you go - a little faster, please, Tiffany”, he pleaded making you grin. You liked that control you had over him, giving him what he wanted but you could still tell it wasn’t enough to finish him off, even though he really wanted to. “God, you make me feel so good”, he whispered, one hand is his hair. “Tiff”, he continued, his fingers starting to shake. “Fuck, I’m gonna - I’m gonna cum, love”, he moaned, biting on his fingers to keep quiet when his sentence made you fasten up your moves, now eager to let him come. He was moaning and repeating your name like it was a prayer and when he came, hot and thick cum covered your fingers and the downer part of his belly. “Shit, Tiff, you really know how to finish me off”, Roger told you with a weak smile, trying to catch his breath, before he slowly moved over to his nightstand, getting some Kleenex for the both of you. You cleaned your fingers until there was only a small white drop on your pinky and you licked it off before you really knew what you were doing. “How do I taste?”, Roger asked you, his husky voice low and dangerous. 

“Good. How do I taste?”

“Hmm, not sure. I think I should try you again to spark my memory.”

Tags:

@discodeakyy @crazyweirdocalledfriday @blondecarfucker

[fordarkisthesuede]

At the Brink of Midnight - Chapter 9

*Arrives two days late with Starbucks* ‘Sup, guys! σ( ▼∀▼)σ These past 96 hours have somehow filled me with a weird chaotic energy, and I pumped out the longest roller-coaster of a chapter I’ve ever done in such a short amount of time!!! Thank you, whoever sent all the writing vibes my way!!!! ★>d(,,･ε´-,,)⌒☆ I’m sending out strong vibes to everybody in return! *May you get hit by the writing bug and have the opportunity and energy to completely translate your ideas to printed words!*

Buuut a big note before we get to the good stuff:  I realized too late that the original events of S2 take place in Spring. Like…April. I was writing all of this with the thought that S2 took place in fall; I mean, the characters can wear a leather jacket or a couple of layers comfortably, so I thought “yeah that sounds like early autumn”. Nope! So that means that for this story’s timeline, everything gets shifted into where it should be. On the downside, that means I had to go through and edit all the bits where it said “it was totally spring, you guys”. On the upside… IT’S NOW OCTOBER!!!!! THE SPOOKY SEASON THAT COMPLETELY FITS WITH WHAT’S GOING ON!!! And coincidentally, it’s my favorite time of the year, so I love writing about it even more! I get to add in a thing here and there about the spookiest time of the year, so I’ll have a nice list of what those little changes are uploaded here soon if you don’t feel like re-reading the whole thing. A re-read isn't necessary though, just keep in mind that the humid air of rainy spring in the city is replaced with chilling fronts and even more cloud cover than usual. Why am I bothering with this? Because I’m a stickler for keeping with canon as much as possible and I feel like an absolute fool for not remembering what goddamn time of year it was to begin with. (I mean, I went so far as to download all of TeamFourStar’s play-through because I watched it so often, you think I'd remember to go back and watch the very beginning once in a while…)

Anywho, thank you all again for your continuously loving support!!! 

♡~(ɔ ˘3˘)˘⌣˘ c)

Important Spoiler Tags: drugs (mentioned), swearing, canon-typical violence, electric shocks (mentioned), torture of flowers, flirting, almost an excessive use of emoji, crying, romantic dirty thoughts

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Read on Ao3 or continue below:

Chapter 9:  Grapevines

Bruce Wayne couldn’t remember the last time he’d conducted a meeting from his home office. It wasn’t as if he didn’t use it – the desk surface had hardly any dust settled on it and two empty coffee mugs he’d forgotten about on two different occasions just happened to be stacked behind the monitor – but it felt strange, like a lot of things did lately.

He knew part of the reason for that was watching houses down in the Batcave right now. Knowing he wasn’t alone in the house was comforting, but knowing there were two cops outside the Manor’s front door just waiting for a chance to grab his best friend-cum-houseguest was not, and knowing that they were both close to being thrown in hot water was even less so.

He figured the other reason he felt strange was because he was slipping back into his old habit as if it had never been shelved in the first place. He had time to kill before the video meeting started, so he’d been scouring for information on “Pam”, Jonathan Crane’s ‘old friend’.

There were a few Pamela’s in Gotham, but only one fit within Crane’s age-range and attended Gotham University at about the same time:  Pamela Isley, a forty-four-year-old former botanist with a record that ran the length of his arm. Theft, assault, threats, and attempted poisonings all done in the name of extreme environmentalism and social activism were sprinkled in her history before and after her days as a researcher, and according to GCPD records, she was now suspected of running her own drug-ring under the moniker of ‘Poison Ivy’. (Bruce found several recorded instances of people claiming to be Poison Ivy, most of whom were already arrested.)

Bruce would’ve wondered why on Earth she hadn’t been thrown in prison when she made a bomb-threat at a wealthy businessman several states away nearly a decade ago if he hadn’t seen her mug-shot from back then. At thirty-five, she looked every bit as beautiful as a top-billed Hollywood star, with natural orange-red curls cascading over her pale shoulders and ample bust in chemically-tamed waves, flashing the camera a come-hither stare that made it look like she was trying for a part in a high-budget porn flick rather than standing in front of a height chart for her criminal record. Pamela’s charges were mysteriously swept under the rug.

The latest photo he found of her reminded him a bit of those ‘cougar’ dating ads he’d seen – the older Pamela was blowing a kiss to the camera with a mocking look in her dark green eyes. Bruce glared at it. There was little doubt she was using people to cover for her constantly, and when she was in trouble, she managed to wriggle out of it with her looks.

Not this time. She was friends with Dr. Jonathan Crane, and that meant she wasn’t going to get out of this unharmed. The second his virtual meeting was over, Bruce was heading towards Toxic Acres, and hopefully the wounded Crane would still be there to see Batman’s fist hit his –

Bruce snapped out of his thoughts at the buzz of his phone. A message from the BatComputer…?

I’m bored :/

Bruce blinked down at the screen. John had found the emergency messaging system. Of course he had. He was just grateful that the encryption software on his phone was still up to date. Just what else did John poke his nose into down there…? (There was the chance that John would see files he shouldn’t, but Bruce kept those under a thumbprint encryption. He shouldn’t even entertain the thought.)

Stake-outs are usually pretty boring.

It wouldn’t be so bad if you were down here tho! :)

Bruce hovered his thumb over the keyboard, unsure of what to say. The feeling was kind of mutual, if he was being honest; having another person around on a stakeout would at least keep his mind wandering into the worsts of what-ifs and double-checking every last security issue…

No movement on either houses btw. Been reading Crane’s docs in the meantime but it’s DREADFUL!!! I feel like I’m reading a sleeping pill… =_=

You finish your WE stuff yet?

Meeting’s not for another 20 minutes. Been looking up stuff on Crane’s “friend”.

Oh??? :o Do tell!!!!

Bruce couldn’t help but smile at the enthusiasm.

Pamela Isley, former botanist w/ criminal rec., mostly extreme protest kind of stuff. Good chance she’s the head of a drug-ring that moved here a couple months ago; their leader goes by “Poison Ivy”.

They went to college together, but Pamela moved back here recently.

hMmMmm…. That means no burning the place down if we’re stuck! Bad fumes everywhere xP

Bruce focused on the word “we’re”. He hadn’t been planning on bringing John along. He wanted him safe, at home, where no one had a chance of seeing him and he wasn’t put in harm’s way…

Oh!!! You’ve got a bunch of sticky electro-shockers around - do you mind if I tinker with them? :3c pleeeeaaasssee?

What are you thinking of doing with them?

Making one BIIIIIG shock-bomb, of course! ;D I can wire them together so the shock spreads evenly in the space while it’s discharging.

Bruce reconsidered bringing John. He was still learning to curb his impulses, so being outside in a fighting environment would be a serious gamble, but... Maybe that could be their advantage, too. Bruce made a mental note to go dig out the spare bullet-proof vest from his closet’s secret panel.

You can do that?

I played around with making something like it before, but……well, you know.

Time + supplies for that project were low att. I figured I could always go back to it later anyway.

Bruce felt like his heart had deflated and swelled in such a short time that it hurt.

I mean I’m fine with throwing knives around too but I figured that would be less discrete ¯\_(ツ )_/¯

He’d been thinking of different methods of entering the “house”. Most of them featured a silent slip-in and as little combat as possible, but he knew that there would likely be some muscle around to stop any would-be intruders, and getting a quieter jump on them would certainly be helpful. He would certainly be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed that John had thought that far ahead even back then.

If you think you can get it done within 1.5 hours, then yes.

Ha ha ha with these supplies I can get it done in like 40 mins! >:3 just you watch!!!

Btw have you seen the news?

Not yet. Why?

I was on the morning edition! At least they used a good pic ;D

But also saw a guy getting fished out of the harbor. Your handy-dandy invasion software said he’s a registered Ryde driver.

I told you not to fiddle with that.

Sorry, but I only used it the once! Promise!!!

Bruce sighed through his nostrils.

Besides I thought you’d want to know. Think Crane stole his ride and dumped him by the docks? :v

Probably. I can get the plate from up here to verify. DO NOT TOUCH THAT PROGRAM AGAIN.

Yes sir ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Bruce wasn’t sure if that message was supposed to be flirtatious or mocking.

The incoming call from Iman Avesta stopped him from responding. He figured it had to do with John’s escape and the extra security added at Wayne Tower this morning, but why was she calling him now, rather than several hours ago?

“Iman?”

“Hey, Bruce. Hold on a sec – there we go, now we can both -”

“Bruce, what the fuck?” Tiffany asked over the line. “Are you at home right now?”

Bruce almost sighed at the attitude. “Yes, Tiffany, I’m at home, in my office.”

“Uh-huh. I keep getting alerts that your basement’s messaging system is being used. Care to explain that?”

Oh. Of course. He’d forgotten Tiffany had linked her phone to that, too. It’d just…been too long, he supposed. (She couldn’t read them, though, could she? He was fairly sure it didn’t give out mass-texts unless prompted.) “…where are you right now?”

Iman responded instead. “We’re in your second office.”

“…the line’s secure?”

“Of course.” Iman paused, and Bruce knew his new CSO was choosing her words carefully. “I’m guessing you have John Doe in the Batcave?”

“Yes.”

“Bruce, did you fucking break him out?” Tiffany asked with no shortness of impatience.

“I rescued him,” Bruce said firmly. “I know what you’re thinking, and I have a pretty good idea of what you’re going to say, but listen:  I had no choice but to take him with me. One of the doctors working at Arkham has gone rogue – he’d been doing experiments on patients, and I have a feeling he’s going to continue them on civilians. I need to find him before then, and John has been helping me.”

“Helping…? You’re not bringing him in the field with you?” Tiffany said disbelievingly. “After that psychopath almost killed us?”

Bruce could still see Joker running at Tiffany, knife in hand, his psychotic breakdown in full force. He could still see him being smacked against the railing, sheer madness played over his long, bloody face as he desperately fought to stab what was his hero.

But John and Joker were as much the same as Bruce and Batman were, and they were constantly changing.

The Joker in the Batcave wasn’t the same one from Ace Chemicals.  

“I know what John did,” he answered, trying to breathe even as something wanted to hitch in his throat, “and I know how far he’s come since then. I know you both regret-”

“No, I’m not listening to this right now,” Tiffany scowled, her voice fading in the middle her sentence like she was leaving the room. “Talk some sense into him.”

Bruce heard Iman’s voice call after her, and then nothing for a beat.

Iman sighed. “I’ll talk to her. But Bruce,” she started seriously, “Tiffany isn’t the only one worrying about you. Six months can’t possibly cure everything wrong with a man whose spent his life in an asylum.” He could practically hear her chew over her phrasing. “I need to know… If John goes too far – if he shows signs of regressing…or just becoming more volatile – I need to know you’re going to put your foot down.”

“I’m more than capable of handling him, Iman.”

“Please, Bruce, I’d rather not have to pull you off another broken pipe lodged in your kidney.” She paused, and Bruce let her continue, feeling the scar in his side twinge at the painful memory. “I know you care a lot about him,” she resumed in a softer tone, “and I know you trust him. But if you doubt him at any time, you need you to step back and re-evaluate your choices. I don’t want him to regress back into the Joker.”

That was a different Joker, Bruce wanted to say. He knew that wouldn’t sound the way it should. “I promise I won’t let that happen.”

“Good to know,” Iman replied, sounding somewhat relieved. “This doctor you’re hunting – is there anything we can do to help?”

Bruce shot a look at the clock in the corner of his monitor. He didn’t have as much time left as he would’ve liked before his virtual meeting started. “Tiffany can fill you in a bit, I had her help searching Arkham’s records before. Can you run a plate for me? I think Dr. Crane is running with a stolen car; I’ll send you the details in a bit.”

“Sure. We can check traffic cams for it, too, if you’d like.”

“If you would. And the second I have anything concrete on Dr. Crane, I’m sending Tiffany the details – I need her pull as Oracle to get the word out to the GCPD before anything happens. They’ll listen to their number-one informant more than a vigilante coming out of retirement.”

“…you’re…?”

He could almost see the shock in her face. They’d had a short discussion about his alter-ego when he decided to quit the first time; she’d been incredibly understanding about the whole thing. It was almost as if she’d seen it coming.

“Are you sure?”

He was as sure. She didn’t know about the instincts broiling underneath his surface every day. She didn’t know he never really stopped being half of himself. She wouldn’t know or really understand that he just shoved it all down and aside like he did so much else just to get through things. “I don’t have any other options at this point.”

“…you know you can count on us if you need the help.”

“Of course I do.”

“Right. Well, in the meantime we’ll keep the fort over here running as smoothly as possible.”

“Thank you. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Good luck.”

The line went silent, and Bruce pulled his phone away, catching a glimpse of three unread messages.

Sorry, buddy, I was just kidding around, you know? Ha ha

Bruce???

Hello???????

Sorry, had a phone call and couldn’t reply. It’s fine.

Seconds ticked by, and Bruce began changing out of his black t-shirt and into his button-down. It wouldn’t do to appear as a CEO in anything less than a proper suit. He could leave the jeans on, at least.

“Oh! Uh…sorry, Bruce…”

He felt his heart stop for a second. That was definitely John’s voice, even though it crackled slightly from the speakers. The monitor didn’t show anything out of the ordinary. John must have been using the spy-camera feature on the Batcomputer; it was linked to most the devices in the house, and Bruce’s webcam was no exception. He’d almost forgotten it had a loudspeaker function, too.

“I didn’t realize you were…um, changing.”

Bruce glared at the webcam’s lens. “John, what did I tell you about fiddling with the Batcomputer?”

“…sorry. I was worried when you didn’t answer me.”

He sounded genuine, at least. Bruce could easily picture him running upstairs to find him, if there wasn’t a chance he would’ve been seen. “I answered you a minute ago. I was on a call with Iman,” he stated plainly, fixing the buttons on his sleeves.

“…oh, ha ha, there it is! Uh, I guess I’ll just…go, then…”

Bruce almost questioned why John was sounding nervous and distracted, but it wasn’t until he saw the webcam light wink off again that he realized his shirt was wide open, the scars littering his torso half on display from the waist up.

Thankfully, no one was around to see Bruce bury his face in the palm of his hand for a moment, feeling like his face was on fire from first and second-hand embarrassment.

It didn’t last long. Bruce took a few deep breaths as he fixed himself up, and dialed into the meeting with a fixed expression of calm, firmly ignoring the heat that had settled in his stomach that threatened to go lower at the thought that John was bound not to forget any of that.

Driving the Batmobile in full gear again was certainly something else. Bruce felt the weight of the Kevlar body armor press against his limbs as he sped down Gotham’s twisting alley streets, no one any the wiser that the Wayne’s red sports car was hiding Batman behind it. The city’s CCTV signal was scrambled with the flick of a switch as he came into driving distance of the alley’s camera, making him almost untraceable.

He’d given the Honda Accord a head-start; it couldn’t go nearly as fast as the Batmobile, and Bruce had to find a spot to safely change before going to go pick John up from his drop-off point, and the post-working-hours traffic had already gotten its usual early start. It was a slower drive than he’d like it to be, even with Bruce’s shortcuts.

The setting sun was completely obscured by a dark overcast. It made the orange streetlamps glowing over the decorations sitting here and there in windows and doors even more energetic, like every corner of Gotham was slowly growing with the energy of Halloween.

Bruce clicked the communicator in his cowl. “John, are you there yet?”

Silence for a few seconds, and then a rustling noise. “Sorry, I had to take this off for a bit. What?”

“Are you there yet?”

John giggled slightly. “Oh, yeah, I’m here. Just waiting on you, pal.”

He was already at the meeting point? How did he get there so fast? “You put everything back where it was supposed to be?”

“No, I stripped the seats and threw everything into the garbage,” John grumbled with dripping sarcasm. “Of course I did, it’d be rude not to put Jerry’s stuff back. What do you take me for?”

“…I’m just making sure you didn’t forget anything.”

“I didn’t.” There was a loud slurping noise, like the last of a liquid being sucked from a straw.

“John, where are you right now?”

“In the alley, waiting for you.”

“Did you make a stop?”

John giggled, a little louder, but not at all nervous. He was enjoying himself. “What can I say? Going out on the town with you like this makes me thirsty,” he said with a strange purr. “Besides, no one bats an eye at me when I look like this anyway.” He paused. “Well, no, I’ve gotten some eyes on me, but, uh, I think they’re more the appreciative type. I guess ZZ Top was kinda right about the sharp-dresser thing.”

Bruce felt his brows knit together. “You’ve always looked sharp,” he said truthfully, turning down a narrow alley.

“Yeah, but not thousand-dollar-suit sharp. There’s a difference! Plus I think this bullet-proof vest makes me look a little bulkier than I actually am.”

Bruce spotted him leaning against the graffiti-covered wall, a Burger Lord cup in one hand and a plastic orange bag in another. Just how much time did Bruce lose while he was changing?

John tossed the drink in the dumpster and practically jumped into the car, shoving the orange bag behind the driver seat and slamming the door shut as Bruce switched off the communicator. He took one look at Bruce’s questioning glower and gave a nervous sort of grin. “Hey, don’t look at me like that, there’s something in there for you, too.”

Bruce almost asked what, but decided that a lecture on keeping a low profile and not taking money from his house’s various hiding spots would have to wait. (Though he supposed whatever John got wasn’t expensive. He was quite frugal, and it wasn’t as if Bruce couldn’t afford to buy John whatever he wanted anyway.) He concentrated instead on heading down the twisting path towards Toxic Acres. At least the traffic over there was a hell of a lot lighter.

“Hey, when you drove me to the Batcave, did you go in fourth gear, or third?”

He wasn’t sure why he asked, but he honestly couldn’t remember. He just recalled putting his foot to the floor and keeping his eyes on the road, occasionally reaching over to check John’s pulse. “I wasn’t really paying attention to that; I concentrating more on driving as fast as possible.”

“Oh – so you didn’t know you could punch the shift down into third whenever you wanted? It was so fun! I can say I literally punched it out of the Batcave!” He laughed. “I’m guessing you can’t do that in this car?”

“…I’ve got paddle shifters.” They were starting to travel into the more deserted road leading into Toxic Acres. Bruce took a sharp turn onto the hill with the broken Do Not Enter sign, and checking that no one was behind him, flipped the switch to shift the car into armored plates and pressed the wheel-paddle for a lower gear.

They flew down the road with a whirring whine of the engine, John’s notorious excited laugh mixing with it, and Bruce allowed himself to smile a little at it, knowing his own little joyful thrill wouldn’t last very long.

John was soon tapping his fingers together in some kind of rhythm as they passed by more empty houses, Bruce moving a little slower to keep his eyes out for trouble. Sitting close to the river on the outskirts of the city, they were originally meant to be a long neighborhood for the middle and upper class to build their lives, but as the unemployment and crime rates rose, the place became abandoned. It didn’t help that the piping structure to carry water there had been faulty, making either lead poisoning or unfiltered dirty water a prominent problem and giving the section of Gotham its nickname.

“How do we know which place is the botanist’s?” John asked, his green eyes scouring the houses in front of them.

“I sent out another drone earlier for some aerial shots. There’s a place with camouflaged green-houses in the back on Aster Place.”

“Wow, you did that before I left? That was fast…”

“It was a quick job. I’m not picking up the other drone until later.”

They turned the corner onto Aster Place; the road would dead-end in a while, but Bruce knew the house wouldn’t be situated at the end.

“Oh, there’s the spot Jackie got shot at!” John pointed ahead. “I wonder if there’s a bloodstain left…!”

Bruce tightened his grip on the wheel. “We’re close.”

It was oddly quiet out there. There was no other sign of life in what was a hot-spot of criminal hide-outs. Bruce turned on the thermal vision in his cowl; a lot of the houses were actually empty for once.

Except for one. 1801 Aster Place. There were a group of people scattered around on the bottom floor and what appeared to be a lot of heat-lamps running on the top floor. If one of the people in the group wasn’t Pamela Isley, then she might have been holding up in the basement…

They left the Batmobile out of sight down the road, and Bruce and John moved swiftly behind the backs of the houses in the chilly night air, the taser bomb safely in John’s coat pocket; John was surprisingly quiet, only humming a familiar tune here and there. (Wasn’t it the theme from that old spy-thriller…?) Bruce managed to quiet him with a look, and John mimed locking his mouth shut and throwing the key away.

Two unknown people were standing in what used to be a kitchen; three more people were up in the front room of the house. There were no security cameras to be seen.  

“Stick close to me,” Bruce whispered, the modifier in his cowl deepening his voice. “We go in through the back window, take out the two in the kitchen quietly and throw the bomb up front so we can cuff the lot. If none of them are Ms. Isley, we find the basement.”

John gave him a thumbs up, pulling out the riot baton he had hidden away. (Bruce had still not remembered when he or Alfred bought that, but vaguely remembered stashing it in the towel cupboard with some other emergency gear. He wasn’t surprised John found it.)

The bathroom window’s locks weren’t difficult to break. They looked like they had been broken several times already. Bruce slid the insect screen up and slipped in through the thin opening feet-first, twisting his limbs just right to softly land on the floor. He had to help pull John through the rest of the way after he smacked his head on the bottom of the window; thankfully he hadn’t made any noise, but he did give Bruce a strange look as brushed himself off where Bruce had gripped his sides.

Bruce didn’t have time to think about it.

The two people in the kitchen stood in semi-darkness, watching through the patio windows with rifles leaning against the wall. There wasn’t so much a bare bulb to give off light. Bruce figured their eyes might have adjusted to the dark, and signaled John to follow as he crept up behind the two goons.

“I dunno, with all the hype surrounding episode four, you just know those guys are going to mess up somewhere. Remember when they decided to let Celestyne drop to his death back in season one?” The one with dreadlocks asked.

“Oh, come on, that was just to test the game’s limits. Besides, Celestyne couldn’t die; I don’t think Jane can, either,” the second person responded in a higher voice with a casual shrug.

“Dude, you know the game’s gonna make her a villain in the end, though, right? She might die…”

Bruce was ready. John was gripping the baton with a widening grin…

“Are you kidding me? They have her affection meter up so high I’m surprised the game doesn’t have a dating opt-”

Bruce slammed dreadlocked goon’s head into the wall just as the baton crashed down on the other goon’s skull, little smears of blood marking the plaster and paint with a satisfying crack.

John clutched the collar of the goon he’d struck, gripping the slightly bloody baton a little harder in his other hand. He seemed to be thinking.

Bruce took a zip-tie out and cuffed the goon’s hands behind their back, and wondered just what John was staring at until he’d turned the person around and caught a glimpse of them in the light of the window.

They were both women with little tattoos of vines creeping along the back of their necks.

If Bruce guessed right, those were ivy leaves on the vine. Poison Ivy had a loyal gang.

John zip-tied the wrists of the woman he’d struck and patted the part of her head that wasn’t wounded. “Sorry,” he whispered as if she would hear it. “Lauren’s ex,” John mumbled, gesturing to the woman on the floor as if he knew Bruce had raised his eyebrow at him.

Bruce simply swept onward, spying the door for the basement. There was a light on in the front room, and three women who looked like they could be professional boxers of different weight categories were sitting in different areas. One was sharpening a knife at the table, and another was cleaning a semi-automatic rifle as the third kept watch over a monitor showing security camera footage; three looked to be by the greenhouses (Bruce recognized the Foxglove variety growing in one under an opening in the glass, sitting next to something that looked primeval), and two were watching over the plants upstairs (marijuana, by the looks of it) and in the basement.

There was a figure in the last screen, working over a row of potted plants with low lamps. A zoom-in with Bruce’s lenses showed long red hair.

Bruce felt a hand on his shoulder, and John crept ahead him, the taser-bomb in hand: it looked like a mass of the sticky-bombs grouped together, colorful wiring connecting them all like some kind of net, and before Bruce could do or say anything, John threw it into the living room, where it tumbled into the middle of the floor.

The group began to shoot out of their seats in a second, and in the next the ball seemed to expand like a geometric toy, the wired tasers being thrown in the air with a flash before smacking people and surfaces alike as they discharged. All three people fell to the floor in trembling heaps, and John dashed out and started to cuff them, Bruce close behind.

The electric bombs were safe to touch now that they had fully discharged, so Bruce had no qualm about stomping on the lightly-burning sections of carpet underneath some of them to prevent any spread of fire as he pushed them aside. The bulkiest goon wasn’t quite down for the count; she was still conscious.

She yanked John off her fallen comrade by his shoulder and threw him into the table’s edge. Bruce threw a Batarang at her arm just as she was about to punch, and John gave a swift knee to her stomach as she flinched.

She fell to the floor with a louder crash and a grunt, pulling the Batarang out from her arm and letting it drop to the floor. “You fucker…” She said, glaring up at John before looking over at Bruce, her eyes widening as he approached with more Batarangs at the ready. “B-Batman…?”

“Yup! He’s real,” John said playfully before smacking the side of her head with the baton. “And so am I,” he added with a growl. He decided to tie her wrists behind the nearest table leg. “I hate not being able to call myself Joker like this… Really sells it better.”

Bruce felt his heart twitch at the name. “You can call yourself that, if it helps,” Bruce said gently, tying the monitoring-station woman’s wrists together, “Just not to people’s faces.”

“Kinda defeats the point,” John grumbled.

Bruce shot a look at the security monitor – Pamela Isley didn’t seem to have heard anything. Still, precaution should be used. “Let’s go,” he said plainly, sweeping out of the room with a swish of his cape.

John tucked a hand into his pocket and followed.

The basement stairs were carpeted and quiet, but Bruce was careful to walk on the outsides rather than the middle. Spiders had clearly made themselves right at home in the damp corners of the walls, and he had to duck to avoid getting the tips of his cowl’s ears stuck in one of their webs. A soft sort of click was heard behind his back, and Bruce figured John had gotten out his grappling gun.

Pamela Isley was bent over a row of exotic-looking orchids posed under heat lamps, dabbing something into the center of a blue orchid’s petals. Bruce saw several troughs full of hallucinogenic mushrooms sitting on the other side of the wall.

“There you go, my darling,” she cooed in a honeyed voice, acting like she was carefully painting the center of the flower, “You’ll soon be the belle of the ball…”

Bruce eyed the electrical box on the other side of the room. It wouldn’t do to drown the place in darkness; he’d be able to see, but John wouldn’t. The best bet was to tackle and restrain her.

Or…

Bruce took out his own grappling gun, and aimed it at Isley’s collar. One click, and it snagged her shirt with practiced ease.

“What the-?!”

Pamela Isley was suddenly dragged yelping through the air at an angle, smacking hard into one of the tables and spilling several unusual potted flowers to the floor.

Bruce grabbed her and threw her to the concrete floor, standing over her with several Batarangs in his hand as John cackled beside him.

“Jonathan Crane,” Bruce growled out, “Where is he?”

Pamela Isley sat up, shock written all over her face as she processed exactly what happened – it quickly morphed to a steely stare. “Batman,” she said slowly in a sweet voice, “I thought you were an urban legend,” she continued, wiping the corner of her mouth where a dribble of blood leaked out. “Do you always treat a lady this way?”

Bruce dragged her up by her collar and threw her against the wall, keeping her at arm’s length. “I know he bought plants from you today. Tell me where he is.”

“Or what?” She taunted, smirking widely at him. “You think I haven’t been knocked around by men before? I’ve been in whole worlds of hurt, honey.”

There was the distinct sound of the grappling wire rushing through the air, and then an enormous crash – John had taken out one of the mushroom tables, the fungi now breaking and bouncing against the floor it the scattered in the dirt.

“Whoopsie,” John hummed, a wide unnerving grin on his face, “butter-fingers.”

Isley looked rather taken aback, but the expression quickly warped into a mocking glare. “You think destroying my inventory is going to intimidate me?”

John shrugged, leaning back against a table and knocking over a several small tropical plants with a slide of his hand, shattering the clay pots and sending the plants scattering to the hard floor.

That definitely got her attention; her face paled slightly and there was tremble in her. “Stop that!”

Bruce glared at her, mentally thanking John for his quick thinking. “Tell me where Crane is and I’ll consider stopping him from tearing this place apart.”

Her dark green eyes glared at him with a slow-boiling dislike. “Let me go first.”

Bruce did a very quick once-over; she didn’t seem to have a gun holster on her, and she was definitely a lighter build than the rest of her gang. Knives were still a possibility. He decided to let go, keeping a Batarang between his fingers just in case as he stepped just out of her reach.

Pamela dusted off her green turtleneck. “I don’t know where he is, and I don’t care. He bought a few of my flowers and left,” she said, crossing her arms.

John laughed, fingering the leaves of the blue orchid she’d been attending. “With a hole in his shoulder? You didn’t even offer a band-aid for that?”

Pamela was closely eyeing the plant in John’s hand. “What if I did?”

“I know he’s a friend of yours, Isley,” Bruce growled. “You’re the only one who could know what he’s planning.”

“I told you, I don’t know,” she stated, “and I don’t care. I’m not his mother.”

“I can see why you were paying such close attention to this one,” John hummed, fingering the petals with a gloved hand. “It’s so pretty. You put a lot of effort into keeping all these, huh?” He grinned at her, almost looking like his usual self. “It’s not just some financial scheme for you, is it?”

“Of course it is,” Pamela stared at him, trying to keep her voice level; Bruce noticed her eyes kept flicking slightly downward, like she was watching the plant. “I breed and sell rare plants to collectors on the side.”

“Oh good! So this won’t bother you!”

In a swift move, John cut the blossom off the stem with the bowie knife one of the group upstairs had been sharpening.

The blossom fell to the table, and Pamela Isley looked as if she’d seen a ghost.

John picked up the blossom. “Let’s see – she’s honest,” he said playfully, plucking a petal from the stem, “she’s not!” He pulled another.

“STOP IT!” Pamela shrieked, making to rush at him – Bruce pulled her back and pointed the tip of the Batarang at her face. She glanced at it fearfully, but then looked back at the flower being torn apart in John’s hand, and it looked like she was watching a child die before her eyes.

“Stop that,” Bruce instructed; John hummed and held it still. “Talk, or my partner and I crush every plant in this place.”

Isley stared at the flower in John’s hand. “I… I don’t know what he’s planning,” she said quietly, her voice cracking slightly. John only touched the tip of a petal before she spoke again – “But-! But I know… He’s building something. He didn’t say what, but he asked for some muscle - I hooked him up with some of Maroni’s old boys.” She shut her eyes and took a breath before glaring at John like he was a complete monster. “I hope the lot of them tears you limb from limb.”

Bruce forced Isley’s hands behind her back and zip-tied them. “Down on the ground,” he growled, pushing down on the top of her head. John pointed the grappling gun in her face with a smirk; a good insurance if she decided to try and elbow Bruce in the face.

Pamela shot them both a hateful glare as she knelt down, and it didn’t waver as her ankles were tied, too. “I won’t forget this,” she spat.

Bruce sent off a message to Tiffany regarding the coordinates of “Poison Ivy”’s headquarters from his gauntlet. He knew she’d get the word out before he could even get back in the car. “Tell it to the judge,” he taunted, leading the way out of the basement, not missing the sparkle in John’s eyes as he followed, the severed, torn orchid blossom having been carelessly thrown at Pamela Isley’s feet.

John gathered up the sticky bomb device before they hustled back to the Batmobile, and it wasn’t until the doors closed that he spoke, and when he did it was in a tone Bruce would almost call revered.

“So, what do we do now, partner?” He asked, a definite glow on his face.

“We go look at some of the Maroni gang’s old haunts and see if we can find anyone recently hired,” Bruce said, the voice modifier in his cowl now disabled. He glanced at his recent text messages:  one from Tiffany giving the ok on Poison Ivy, and another from Iman with the last known location of the stolen Ryde car. “After we look into the motels in the red-light district. Crane might’ve stayed there.”

John laughed to himself, but for once he didn’t share the joke; instead, he pulled out a packet of jerky from the plastic bag he’d brought along. “I knew this would be a long night,” he said cheerfully, as if he was really looking forward to the whole thing.

It was well past one in the morning when Bruce arrived back home through the front gate, the Batsuit stowed away and the plates flipped back to red. The two patrol officers were only somewhat surprised to see him arrive back. Naturally, they reported nothing new, since John had been dropped off in the Batcave first.

Sore muscles were nothing new to Bruce. The old strained climb back up to his bed was just as annoying as ever. He honestly didn’t feel like he wanted to sleep, but after following several empty leads over the city and bruising a few heads alongside John, he did admit that he was physically exhausted. He knew lying down was better than nothing, and he still had to go to work in several hours like he didn’t have a double life. At least he wasn't starving, thanks to John thinking ahead and buying him protein-and-carb-filled snacks.

He forced himself to go through his usual nightly routine, despite the temptation to just flop into bed and lay there. He looked at the bruises on his back and ribs from where John had struggled against him under the influence of Crane’s drug, and decided not to bother putting the bruise-away cream on them, nor on the new ones forming on his shoulder from where one of the former mobsters had hit him.

When he did finally collapse onto the master bed in nothing but his boxer-briefs, his brain still decided to chat away at him.

There were no leads as to who exactly Isley had hired for Crane. Bruce cursed himself for not trying to work the specifics out of her. At least he knew she was arrested for drug possession and manufacturing, as well as smuggling illegal fauna.

There was no word on the whereabouts of Jackie Lant. Her car was missing, and she’d called into work sick. Her apartment hadn’t been visited in the entire time Bruce had his drone’s eye on it, and neither Tiffany nor Iman had seen anything when they looked into Jackie’s friends’ places, either. All Bruce knew was that she hadn’t called an ambulance to fetch her from Toxic Acres, that she hadn’t been admitted to a hospital, and that there was no sign of her body either in the Acres or in the Gotham River.

She was alive, somewhere, and Bruce didn’t know what she was going to do next. He hoped she was just going to lie low until he caught Crane.

Jonathan Crane was nowhere to be found. His house was still empty. He didn’t seem to be staying at any of the motels – or hotels – around the red-light district or its surrounding streets, and nothing had come of a quick credit-card check. The Ryde driver the GCPD fished out of the River that morning had been shot in the head, and his car was so common that if Crane could’ve switched the license plate with anything and been completely invisible. They’d done a quick search of the warehouse district and found no sign of him there, either.

Bruce had the nagging feeling that he wasn’t going to find Crane until the doctor reared his head.

The billionaire rolled onto his stomach, shoving the anxious thought away as he pressed his cheek further into the plush black jersey pillowcase. There were a couple more places he could check tomorrow…

The bedroom door creaked, and Bruce’s eyes shot open, a second away from grabbing the billy-club under his pillow – he could see John’s messy hair in his dark silhouette.

“Bruce? You awake?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

“…can I come in?”

“Sure.”

Bruce noticed he closed the door behind him. Like he was planning to stay there.

That definitely put a new light onto the situation. A tense thrill was building in his shoulders as John deigned to sit on the edge of the mattress, his back to Bruce.

John was only wearing his Arkham-regulated pants, and the pale white of his bare skin almost shone in the light streaming in from the window. Bruce saw several bruises forming, one of which was from where he’d gotten grabbed by the shoulder by a Poison Ivy goon, and several more where he’d gotten knocked into.

“…I don’t think I can sleep in that guest room,” John sighed. “I mean, I tried my usual methods of sleep induction, but… It’s too big…and empty. I’m really not used to that.” His voice came out quieter and more contemplative. “I know it’s weird, but do you mind if I sleep in here?” He asked, turning halfway to look right at Bruce.

He felt trapped. If he said no, at the worst John would sulk, and at the best John wouldn’t get any sleep, and that was definitely worse for his mental health. John had mentioned before about how regular sleep cycles were supposed to help with that.

If he said yes, though, he’d know he was sleeping next to John, and there was the tiny worry in the back of his head that John might…try something. Or at least roll over too much.

“I promise I’ll stay over on my side,” John muttered, not tearing his eyes away.

“Alright.”

A sweet smile stretched on his face. “Thanks, Bruce. You won’t regret this.”

“If you keep talking, I might.”

John giggled as he slid beneath the covers on the far side of the bed, flopping one of the extra pillows down between them. “There – a no-roll barrier,” he said as if he had to explain the concept to Bruce.

It did not escape Bruce’s attention that John had decided to lie facing him and rest his arm on top of the pillow. John had pulled the covers up to just underneath his armpits; Bruce could see John's sharp collarbone and the lean wiry muscle of his chest. (Bruce made sure not to look for more than a moment's curiosity would allow.)

God, John’s face was actually his for the first time that whole night. Bruce had gotten used to seeing it in the natural makeup, but it was almost a relief to see it in its normal borderline-luminescent white. He looked like the man Bruce knew.

Acid-green eyes stared at him, flicking slightly and growing soft. “I…did want to talk to you about something, though. If it’s okay.”

“I suppose I’m still awake,” Bruce said in an attempt to lighten the tension in his arms. “Sure.”

“Do you ever…look back on something, and think about the worst thing that could’ve happened in that situation?”

He didn’t like to admit it, but he had. Usually in his worst moods, he’d think about how everything could’ve gone wrong. He’d usually think about everything he could’ve done better, too. “I try not to, but…sometimes, yeah.”

“I’ve been thinking about our fight a lot, lately,” John confessed, “At Ace. I used to think about it a lot when I got recommitted, but… You started visiting me,” he said softly, a light smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You remember when I told you I thought I’d messed things up for us?”

“Yeah.” It was Bruce’s first visit to John. He never forgot the sheer hopeful joy on John’s face upon seeing him. It was practically engraved in his memory.

“Ever since I started sessions with Crane, I kept going back to that night. He always tried to weasel my worst secrets out of me,” he said with a low scowl, “but when he started using that…toxin on me… I kept…thinking about what could have happened back there. I… I know I almost killed you.”

The sheer pain reading in John’s eyes was enough to make Bruce want to wrap his arms around him. It was beautiful and raw and honest, and Bruce found himself holding stock still, almost captivated by the expression.

“I kept seeing it. Over and over – it was like I could see myself throwing you over the railing or-or stabbing you, or...” Bruce saw tears welling up as John clenched the pillow between them. “I don’t want to come close to that again, Bruce,” he managed to say, his voice starting to hitch. “I don’t… I don’t want to kill you.”

Bruce threw his pride away and grabbed John’s hand in his. “You won’t.”

“You…you don’t know that,” John said with a light sob. “If…if I…go back to how I was… If I mess up...”

Bruce squeezed his hand, feeling the soft skin twitch under his fingertips. “I won’t pretend you’re perfect,” he said, honesty seeping through every word, “but I know you, John. I know you’re not going after Crane out of revenge, like you did with Waller. You reached out to me for help – but you were already trying to find a way to stop him without resorting to just stabbing him with the nearest shiv.”

John sniffed, a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth like he was almost smiling. “Yeah…”

“So you’re not the same person you were then, are you?” He soothed with a supportive smile. “Even if you feel you are going backward, I know it won’t be to that same point.”

“Maybe…” he said with another sniff, looking more serious. “But Bruce, you know there are things I can’t ever really stop, right? The auditory psychosis is pretty much going to stay with me the rest of my life,” he started, clutching Bruce’s hand back, “and I’m not going to lie here and pretend my pulse wasn’t pounding a mile a minute when we were fighting those mobsters out there.” He sported a small knowing grin at him. “You know what that’s like, though, don’t you…”

(Yes, he did.)

“…you know what’s funny? I used to think one bad day could turn a person completely upside down.” John managed to stroke his thumb against Bruce’s knuckle, sending a little shiver over the skin, and Bruce wondered if John knew how incredibly intimate that gesture felt as he stared softly at him from the pillow. “Especially after Waller came to town… But…I never really thought things could go back up after it. I guess it just…takes a while.”

Bruce knew there was something right in John’s line of thinking. It only took one day to turn his life on its head, and he felt he knew, despite John having no memory of his life before Arkham, that something similar had happened to him. “Well…they say time heals all wounds.”

“How much passed before yours started to heal?”

He almost didn’t want to answer. The truth was that he wasn’t sure at all if he was ever going to fully heal, despite knowing what his parent’s really were. Maybe it was because he knew the terrible truth about them that they wouldn’t ever heal right. Maybe he’d always have that miserable note in the background of his life.

“…I’m still healing.”

“I didn’t say you stopped, buddy,” John chuckled with a knowing look. “Still…got good days and bad days, huh?”

“Feels like it, yeah.” Today…was definitely more of a mixed day. Looking at John across from him, though, all honest and open, and thinking back to how it felt to fight alongside him again, and investigate with him, with that warmth and instant familiar comfort between that never faded away, he almost felt like he wanted to call it a good day. “Today might have tilted things right-side up.”

John laughed, a genuine, humored one that was almost infectious. “Now I know I’m rubbing off on you; that sounds like something I’d say!”

John slipped his hand away and turned to lie on his back, still chuckling to himself. The warmth still burned in Bruce’s palm, and he found himself reluctant to pull his hand away at all.

John turned to him once more, an all-too-familiar affection shimmering brightly in the green depths. It pulled Bruce in and made him feel like he should inch close enough to feel the warmth and security it promised. “’Night, Bruce.”

“Goodnight, John.”

John turned over, leaving Bruce to stare at the bruises forming on his shoulders. There was the terrible temptation in his hands to shove the pillow between them aside and wrap his arm around the man’s middle so he could lean into that pale, battered back and bury his face in a head of soft, green hair.

There was a worse urge, one so vivid it almost made Bruce’s head spin – he could just reach out and touch the bruises, feather-light, and trail his fingertips down the curve of spine until it arched with a pleased shudder, and Bruce could follow that trail with his mouth as far as John would let him.

Bruce turned his head away, the memory of John’s lips on his coming to the front of his mind, and he shut out the mental image of repeating that kiss right then and there, telling himself that he really shouldn’t feel that way towards someone who desperately needed support, nor to his best friend who he’d left scarred in more ways than one, and certainly not someone who was both.

It had been a long time since Bruce shared a bed with someone, and far, far longer when he shared one with someone he didn’t have sex with.

He hoped that was all it was. Just the bed’s memory getting to him, and nothing else…

Notes:  Super-sexy-plant-person-in-her-late-twenties Ivy is OUT. Cougar-aged-mobster-botanist Ivy is IN! >:) 

I really wanted a different Ivy. I’m tired of the young, uber-sexy walking plant-human-hybrid that’s immune to all toxins and diseases; plants get diseases, too, and she’s so plant-like she should have some kind of physical humanizing weakness! It’s much more interesting to have a human who’s just built up an immunity and uses her babies for weapons and business; I kept her serious environmentalist trait, though, because while I dislike the anti-hero thing she’s got going on lately and would love to see her as a straight-up villain again, we do have to relate to her somehow, and her love of nature is always going to be a good part of her. Since Harley’s older, too, I figured it would be alright if they had a ten-year gap between them, so when Pam eventually goes to Black Gate one day, they’ll be pals. ;)

And Bruce you complete fool!!!! You should’ve kissed him!!!  Why do you do this to yourseellllfff? D:

I'm sorry it took so long, but as you can tell, I had a lot to work on, and I’m doing my best to write the next chapter as quickly as I can while this nutty energy in my brain is still fresh. I’m trying to keep with my weekly schedule, but I hope you guys are okay with having a gap day, as appears to be the habit now. ( ._. ) I mean, no one yells at me or anything for being late, but I aim to please with my work, and part of that is being consistent. 

I shall continue to try my hardest! (*｀へ´*) 彡3 See you next weekend!!!

[the-pale-goddess]

If it was easy, anyone could do it. But they can’t. You can.

Tiffany’s style 

Tattoos

Body count (NSFWish)

Full Name: Tiffany Roisin Addams

Nicknames: Tiff, Rookie (Ethan), The Funny (Elijah), Tiffy (old family nickname), Rosie (granny - Roisin means little rose), Troublemaker (Bryce)

Face Claim: Jessica Lowndes

Birthday: August 22, 1992

Love Interest: Ethan Ramsey

Hometown: San Francisco, California

Education: NYU Grossman School of Medicine

Occupation: Doctor of Internal Medicine, future head of the Diagnostics Team at Edenbrook (Boston, Massachusetts)

Family:

Parents: Felicity & Darren Addams (living in San Francisco)

Siblings: Cynthia ‘Thia’ Addams + Octavia ‘Tavy’ Collins (older sisters, both living in San Francisco)

Grandparents: Fiona & Cillian Byrne (Irish grandparents, living in New York), Emma & Edward Addams (American grandparents, living in San Francisco)

Background: Irish American - her mother’s family moved from Galway to New York when Felicity was 5 years old

Personality Traits: strong-minded, empathetic, caring, stubborn, sassy, ambitious, warm-hearted, witty, perceptive, self-reliant

Random Facts:

Tiffany used to be a ballroom dancer as a child. Her goal (or rather her mother’s) was to become a professional, but a serious knee injury prevented her from following this path. Several months spent in different hospitals drew Tiffany to medicine - our stubborn girl would say that one day she'll become a doctor and find a way to fix the unfixable.

The only Irish sentiment in her family lives in her granny, Fiona. Tiff’s first time in Ireland was a special birthday trip Ethan organized on her Dirty Thirty.

Tiffany is an incurable workaholic; she doesn’t know where to draw a line, she’s extremely persistent and ambitious - where there isn’t a path, make your own.

She's good at reading people and pays attention to details, which makes her an excellent diagnostician.

The only serious relationship she had before Ethan was with her childhood friend, Nathan. They ended things when she decided to move to New York to study medicine. After him there were only flings & situationships, she didn’t want to waste her precious time and energy on romance and commitment.

She’s a huge nerd, Marvel fan & meme queen. She and Elijah have their inside jokes no one else understands. (Ethan lowkey hates it - can you even imagine Ethan Ramsey out of his comfort zone, not being able to understand a thing???? what a concept)

Cooking is an absolute torture for Tiffany. She doesn’t know why and she is constantly trying to trick herself into loving it, but it’s just not happening. She’s a great cook, though! Especially when it comes to baking - Ethan fell in love with her red velvet cupcakes.

She gives the best advice, but never uses it.

She's obsessed with roses thanks to her beloved grandmother calling her Rosie all the time.

Sienna and Bryce are her best friends.

She used to curse a lot. Being around patients (and Ethan) helped her reduce the amount of filth leaving her mouth.

She’s a certified dog mom.

[angryschnauzer]

For the Dirty Thirty: How Erik Kilmonger would go about pampering you after a long and stressful week?

If T’Challa is quiet and understated, Erik is the opposite. If he’s heard you’ve had a bad week then he’s already made all the arrangements with everything in place the second you walk through the door. And with him its all about show.

The thousand roses in your favourite colour would adorn your living room, their scent overwhelming. The glass of Bollinger champagne he’d had you before pressing a kiss to your lips. There would be a collection of pretty little gift bags hanging from his other hand;

“Sit... its time for a few treats...” he would whisper in your ear as you settled on the couch.

The first bag would be easy to tell, the small icon of the woman on the horse telling you that it contained your favourite Salted Caramels from Godiva Chocolates.

The Second bag you could tell just by the pale turqoise; Tiffanys earrings, with more Karats than a produce stand.

Finally the black bag with the pink tissue held the final treat of the night, Agent Provocateur underwear. None of the trashy Victoria’s Secret stuff for you, only the best. The Christalina Bronze Bra and panty set were stunning;

“Why don’t i run you a bath before you slip these on?” he whispers in your ear. 

Your bad day turned into an amazing night.

[ephemera]

a monologue on burning

By Sylvester Joseph

At the age of four, Xiomara Hernandez shoved me on the playground when we were in Pre-K. She kicked sand in my eyes and called me a stupidhead. I remember it so vividly, it could have happened yesterday, but it happened about thirty years ago. I’d told her that she was bossy and ugly, but I’m a weak kid at this point. I burn at the thought of a girl overpowering me, I knew my older brothers and father would taunt me because this happened, but what could I do? I was a weak kid.

I’m eight years old, I like Tiffany Marks. Who didn’t? She was the prettiest girl in class. We got paired up to do a science fair project together. She insisted on me coming over to her house to do it, which was convenient because I really didn’t want to clean my room. Eight-year-old me was an absolute pig. I confessed my feelings to Tiffany after spending two weeks going to her house and sharing moments that are more intimate than I shared with later girlfriends. She told me she liked me too, but not that way. And I felt like I was lit on fire.

At the age of sixteen, I’m dating Janice Guggenheim. Our entire relationship is her telling me how much of a loser I am and berating me for the fact that I don’t drive a car. I’m sixteen and we have sex and she’s the prettiest girl who dared ever speak to me. My sixteen-year-old brain couldn’t fathom the thought that I could ever do better, so I took it and I loved Janice in ways I probably shouldn’t have. No one should be made to feel anything less than what they are, contrary, and that’s what I tried to do for Janice. One night, Janice goes to a party without me because I couldn’t drive. She fucks some other guy, calls me up the next morning and tells me about it, every detail, how much better he was than me and how they were going to go steady and how she was sorry.

She wasn’t sorry.

Coming into adulthood, my bones crackled like firewood and my flesh felt like a black smog. Coming out of childhood, my idea of women was that they hurt. They hurt and they hurt and I looked at my poor dad and how mom just left him with three boys to raise on his own. She died, shot while on duty, she used to be a police officer and dad never stopped drinking about it. He never stopped burning, I see it in the way he sits in his chair on some nights with a bottle of Brandy. Smoldering cinders, piles of ash, he looked like how cigarettes probably felt.

I grow older, I get wiser. I learn that the thoughts of the boy who became a man weren’t exactly right. I learn this around the age of twenty-two when I’m sleeping with any girl that’ll look at me any type of way to build up a destroyed confidence. I sleep with Nia Mills and she burns me in the worst way, the type that requires a shot in the ass from the family doctor. I learned the hard way to slow down.

At twenty-six, I meet her, Lilian Taylor. My future wife. The woman who I swear is my soul mate. She smiled and I wondered where five years of my life went when we were at the altar, exchanging vows. She was magic, the secret to everything and I loved her more than she’d ever know. That’s what I thought when we laid next to each other in bed and she looked into my eyes and told me how much she loved them when she could see them without my glasses on.

I was every bit in love with her when the divorce papers came in the mail.

I’m sitting in a dirty bar, back in my hometown, my dad who’s older and tired and wrinkled sitting next to me with a drink in hand. I want to cry, I want to break and fall apart, something vital had been taken from me and I was so broken that I couldn’t even bring myself to cry. I let my head hang, I stared down at the tumbler filled with glass and whiskey that warmed the place where my chest used to throb softly, in Morse code, to her, hoping she’d hear it.

"As your father, I’m supposed to say something that’ll make you feel better or…" He trailed off, I looked over at him, a relic of something long lost and saw my future. "As your father, I’ve prided myself on one thing, I always told you the truth. I never bullshitted you or your brothers. There’s no Tooth Fairy, there’s no Santa Clause, there’s no Easter Bunny."

I stayed silent, knocked back my tumbler of whiskey and placed it back down before asking the bartender to pour me another.

"There’s no recovering from this. You lose. You lost. That’s it." He said, sipping his beer. "The rest of your days are going to be miserable at best. Don’t kill yourself, if you kill yourself I’m going to fucking be pissed. College tuition wasn’t cheap for you to just throw it all away. But you know what? I’d understand. Don’t make it right, though."

That’s what my dad told me.

My entire life has been one long message. Women are fire, they’re born fire and they remain fire until they die. They burn you when they’re played with, they burn weakly or they burn strongly, but most of all when you’re in the cold of night, when you have them and I mean you really have them…they warm the space inside of you and if I had to burn a thousand times over for that feeling…

I’d burn a thousand times and then ask to burn again.