#feedback with gumption

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

the twinkle lights

lilac, chapter fifteen

a/n: yes that is lorelai gilmore in that moodboard and yes that scene those are screenshots from is partly the inspo for this chapter.

summary: “Yeah, sorry, it’s just a bit chaotic right now. The last of the guests just arrived and I haven’t even had time to go up and change yet. I’m still in fucking jeans.” 

warnings: lumberjack!frank castle x reader, lumberjack AU, past domestic violence, crazy ex trope, wedding, alcohol consumption (not by reader though), fluffy phone call

word count: 2049

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As yet another heavy sigh flowed from your lips, you tried to force your tense shoulders to relax as you felt the steam, from the coffee cup centimetres away from your mouth, kiss your weary features. 

Hidden away in the corner of the inn’s kitchen, you sat slumped on a small stool, the one usually tended for reaching the stuff in the upper cabinets. But just as you took your next sip, keeping it small so as to draw out the eventual emptiness and the fate that came with it, the doors swung open and in burst the rotund visage of Donna, all done up from the bottom of her clacking heals to the peals hanging low from around her neck.  

“What’s up, sluts!” her booming voice caused your father to jump and the piping bag in his grasp to nearly slip, though the entrance didn’t affect the sheriff who leaned against the far counter. His gaze stayed directed out the window where rows of foldout chairs were half set up. The remaining bubbles in Donna’s slender, lipstick-stained glass sloshed around as her eyes beheld the towering cake standing on the central worktable. And like a child, the inebriated woman couldn’t keep her fingers to herself as she reached out and swiped her finger through one of the swirly flowers piped around the tiers, “uh! Yum!”

But before she could bring the treat up to her lips, Harvey’s hand tapped over hers as he snapped, “no! Don’t you even dare!” raising up a finger and waving it in her face as he warned, “I have been working on this all week and I will not let you ruin it the last second!”

“Urgh, Harv, you’re so uptight, darling,” she rolled her eyes then held out her champagne flute, “here, why don’t you have a little glass of bubbly to calm your nerves?”

“Donna, just–,” you could almost make out the steam that spewed out of his ears, “get out of my kitchen! The rest of the night you’re not allowed in here or else–… or else…” he rapidly lost all of his gumption as he struggled and improvised a threat, “I’ll–… I’ll have Otto arrest you!”

Clearly not paying attention at all, Otto finally turned to face the rest as he overheard his name, “huh?” he raised his cosmopolitan up to his lips and took a small sip, “did you just say something about me?”

“Hah,” Donna laughed condescendingly, “sure he is, honey,” muttering as she sashayed around the kitchen table, “that’s funny… Otto, arrest me, his best friend of nearly 40 years, that’s–, oh!” her murmuring came to a screeching halt as she rounded the cake and your obscured figure came into her field of vision, “Y/n! There you are, you naughty, naughty girl! I heard a scrumptious little rumour that you were swapping saliva with a certain lumberjack in the Lilac Inn’s very own lobby just a few days ago… so, tell me, is he as great as I’d imagine?”

Exhaling lowly, you didn’t have the energy to humour her, “I thought you said you’d help with the decorations.” 

“Oh, I persuaded a few of the groomsmen to finish up the final touches for me.”

“You–, okay, alright, sure…” you begrudgingly took the last drink of your coffee and set it down on the table, “I give up.”

Turning to the small-town sheriff and causing her party dress to swoosh in the process, Donna smirked, “hey, did you see the groom’s uncle? The bald one? I heard he’s recently divorced… you wanna go hunt him down?”

With the hand not clutching his pink drink, Otto linked arms with Donna and said, “sure, why not,” before the eccentric duo disappeared out the side door that led into the garden.

With now only yourself and your father remaining in the kitchen, you puffed out a long exhale before pulling yourself up to your feet, the soles aching slightly from how much you’d been running around. 

“You alright, pumpkin?” Harvey lifted his gaze from his crouched position next to the tall dessert, bending over so close that his moustache nearly touched it as he kept a close eye on the whimsical patterns he slowly decorated on the white wedding cake. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you sighed, patting his shoulder gently as you passed, “just wish I had time for a longer break… wish me luck.”

“Good luck!” he called after you before you pushed the doors to the dining room open. 

The wall of noise hit you at once as you exited the kitchen, like running straight into a brick building. It was like a storm of music and loud conversations all throughout the packed inn. Willing your fists to unclench, you tried to prolong the purposely deep breaths you’d focused on just minutes before. 

Casting your glance out the tall windows, you spotted a few men, half in their suits, the jackets thrown off and the cuffs rolled up, stringing up twinkle lights from one tree to another. Swiftly, your gaze travelled further down and zeroed in on the set tables before you, across the neatly folded napkins and the various names on the place cards, one of the centrepieces especially caught your tense eye. Because of the immense stress you were already enduring, the slight askew nature of the vase, of both white and pastel purple lilacs you’d cut just this morning, made you feel as if drawing in a proper breath was the most difficult thing in the world.

Rushing to adjust it, even if it was just an inch, it still managed to bring a minuscule bubble of peace to your mind, sadly one that swiftly burst when two kids stormed through the room, one of them waving a sear piece of white cloth of his head. Promptly discerning what precisely it was they were playing with, you caught them right before they managed to rush back out of there. 

“Wow!” you held them by the shoulders and kneeled down to be at their level, “hey, you two,” you tried your hardest to lighten your tone, “you mind giving that veil to me?” 

“No, it’s mine!” the small boy clutched it to his chest. 

“Okay, uhm,” you sighed, trying not to lose your patience in front of these children, come off as some scary fairy-tale witch and make them cry, “how about you give me this so that I can return it to Emma and then I tell you where the secret, magic swing is?” 

“A magic swing?” the slightly taller girl’s eyes grew wide, “where?”

“It’s gonna cost you if you wanna know,” you held out your hand.

“Hmm,” the young boy squinted his eyes a moment before he cracked, “fine,” and gave you the veil, “where is it?”

“Behind the gazebo and in the direction of the pond,” you straightened back up and folded the accessories gently, “right there’s a huge tree with a swing on it.”

As they scurried off as fast as their little feet could take them, you turned and marched out into the lobby with your eye set on the grand staircase, but before your hand even reached the bannister, a frazzled man stopped you. 

“Hey, miss?” however just as he called for you, the sound of your ringtone buzzed in your pocket, “miss?” 

Fishing out your phone and not looking at the ID, you picked it up and briefly spoke into it, “hold on,” before twisting it away from your lips and turning to the mousy-looking man, “yes?”

Holding up a crisp white shirt, he pointed to one of the cuffs, “one of my buttons fell off and I–“

“Okay, hang on one second, I’ll find you a sewing kit. I just need to return this to the bride first,” you held up the veil.

“Alright, thanks,” he nodded and backed off into the sitting room to the side.

Beginning your ascend of the stairs, you turned your haphazard attention back to the phone, “hello?”

“Y/n?” Frank’s deep timbre flowed from the phone and seeped into your very core, “is this a bad time?”

Passing a few rowdy bridesmaids on the steps, they nearly bumped into you and caused you not to comprehend a single one of the words Frank had just said, “what?”

“I asked if this is a bad time,” he repeated as you reached the top of the steps, but as you did, the shrill wail of a baby, cradled in its mother’s arms, pierced your very soul. 

“I–, uhm, what?” you whipped your head around and spotted the hall closet off to the side, “I’m sorry, just one second,” and rushed to duck into it. The thin wall didn’t manage to drown out all of the noise, but it did get quiet enough for you to finally hear yourself think again. Switching on the dull lightbulb, “fuck…” you let yourself slide down the length of the door till you sat on the floor, “there,” you exhaled slowly, “hi, now I can hear you. What’s up?”

“Are you alright over there?”

“Yeah, sorry, it’s just a bit chaotic right now,” resting the veil in your lap, you stretched out your legs, “the last of the guests just arrived and I haven’t even had time to go up and change yet. I’m still in fucking jeans.” 

“Sweetheart, it’s you,” his smile shined clear through in his low voice, “you could easily pull off wearing jeans to a wedding if you’d like.”

Feeling the corners of your lips gently tug upwards at his words, you breathed out, “so, did you just call to talk about the fact that I’m still in jeans and not the jaw-dropping green dress I got, or was there something else you wanted?”

“I just called to check in, see how you were holding up, but also to make sure you’re still up for tonight.”

Letting your spine rest back against the door, you shared, “honestly, the thought of going over to yours as soon as this is all over and they don’t need me anymore is the only thing getting me through the day without having a fucking meltdown…”

Letting a low sigh flow from his lips, you heard him ask, “you sure you don’t need me to get over there?”

“You’re sweet, but no, it’s alright,” you smiled, your fingers gently fiddling with the veil, “actually, it’s probably good that you’re not here. With the way Donna’s already enjoying herself with the champagne, you might end up as her next husband before the couple says I do.”

“Oh,” he swiftly mirrored the laugh that bubbled out of you, “well in that case.”

After the chuckling had died back down, you tried your best to sink into the quiet completely and enjoy the fleeting pause his phone call had granted you. 

After the moment of comfortable silence had come to a close, Frank’s voice flowed from the phone once more, “So, tell me,” the playful nature in his tone was still blatantly clear for you to pick up on, “just how jaw-dropping is that dress of yours?”

“Well,” you bit down on our grin, “I won’t be able to wear a bra with the kind of neckline that it has… and with the way that it falls on me, I might not be able to wear underwear as well,” that wasn’t true in the slightest, but he didn’t have to know if you’d slipped them off before you even put the dress on or mere moments before stepping out of the car to see him. The thought of him imagining you without them the entire night was far too enthralling not to entertain, “would be such a shame if the dress got ruined by distracting lines, wouldn’t it?”

As you heard him puff out a gravelly breath, “fuck me…sweetheart, you’re killing me here…” you simply giggled in return, “uhm, when was it again that you’ll be done?”

“Not completely sure, some time after dinner properly. I’ll send you a text when I head out.”

 “Alright.”

“You want me to try and steal some cake with me? We might need a snack a little later…”

“Oh, yeah?” he chuckled, “you planning on working up an appetite, are you?”

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[ozwriterchick]

A Joe Burrow Story...

A/Note: My first RPF, well the first I've published. I normally write Marvel (Steve, Bucky, Sam) but decided to try my hand at something a little different.

I hope you like it, if you do, please like, reblog and leave me some feedback (kindly would be appreciated..)

Fic inspired by @burreaux-drys - thank you for your amazing writing, even if it is "all over the place"

I do not own the characters in this story except the OFC/OC characters mentioned.

I do not give permission for my work to be copied, translated or in any other way taken/stolen.

Characters: Joe Burrow; OFC!Reader; OC!Readers Best Friend; Mentions of other Bengal players; OC Bengal team members (kind of)

Warnings: Mentions of stalking; Shy reader; Police; that's about it except Joe Burrow I think deserves his own warning (in a good way); Not Beta'd so any mistakes are my own

W/C: 2748

Reader’s pov

I watched the players on the field, easily singling out the one I’d come to see.  It really wasn’t that difficult, he stood out with his mop of dirty blonde hair and the number 9 on his jersey.

My eyes roved down his body to his slim but manly hips and back up again to his broad shoulders, made even broader by the padding in his practice uniform.

He was looking good, but again, he always did, especially to me.  I’ve been in love with him for a while, always from afar, and he had no idea.  Maybe today would be the day I’d get up enough gumption to actually tell him.

This was a closed practice, but that never stopped me before.  There were plenty of ways to sneak into Paycor stadium, even when it was on lockdown, if you knew what you were doing.  And I did.

My phone buzzed in my pocket and I took my attention away from practice to check.

BFF: Where are you? I’m at your place

Me: Oh, I’m out running errands, sorry.

BFF: Tell the truth, you’re at practice ogling J again aren’t you?

Me: Maybe.. Maybe not.. I can neither confirm nor deny that accusation

BFF: Well then, I’ll join you, I need to see me some Sam.

Me: It’s almost over and it’s a closed practice today, so you won’t be able to get in.

BFF: Closed practice?

BFF: They don’t let anyone into closed practices, how did.. You know what, I dno’t want to know.  Let me know when you’re home. Unless you and J are doing something after practice

Me: Will do. Love you xx

BFF: Love you too xx

As you slipped your phone back into your pocket you realised that practice was over for the day.  You slunk back into the shadows as a couple of the players and officials looked up towards where you had been sitting.  Regardless of anything else, you shouldn’t have been there and you didn’t really want to get caught and banned.

Making your way back to your car you see a line of fans waiting for the players to come out of training.  You chuckle to yourself that they clearly don’t know the tricks that you did.

For a moment you contemplate joining them, you have something you want to give to Joe, but decide maybe next time would be a better option and you jump into the car and head home.

Later that day.. Back at Paycor Stadium - Joe’s pov

I have a stalker.  There’s no getting around it any more.

I’m sitting in Coach’s office with the cops and Zac, admitting for the first time that somebody is stalking me.  I knew it all along really, but just didn’t want to admit the ’s’ word to myself.  I figured it was just an overzealous fan and that it would be ok.

Things were left on my car at training, when I was at the gym, even when I was at the grocery store but today, I couldn’t ignore it any longer.

After practice I signed some autographs and took some pictures with the fans who’d j for me.  I love my fans and I love interacting with them - for the most part.  Every fan group has those ones who are a bit.. umm, crazier than others.  Fans that would do anything to get closer to their idols.  Not that I consider myself an idol, but I know with my position and public persona, that I’m as much a likely target for the crazies as anyone else.

“So, Joe” the Detective said “Tell us exactly what happened today to make you finally call us”

“Well, I left training and headed to the grocery store.  While I was there, I took a couple of pictures with some fans, nothing major.  When I came out to my car, there were flowers on the hood and something under the windscreen wipers.”

“And this is what was under the wipers?” The Detective asked, holding up the piece of paper that had been on my window.

I nodded, and continued.  “I didn’t really think a lot of it, I just grabbed the flowers and the note and tossed them into the front seat.  Once I got home though, I wasn’t quite so sure this was an innocent interaction.”

“And why do you say that?  Joe, if we are going to find this and make sure nothing happens, we need every piece of information you have.”

“Of course detective.  Well, I got home and parked in my garage and as I got out of the car, something just felt off.  The door between the garage and the house was open but I swear I closed it before I left.  I kinda shrugged it off at first, thinking maybe my Mum had been around, or the cleaner had come even though they weren’t due for a couple of days.”

“But that wasn’t the case?”

“Well, no, once I got inside I realised some things had been moved around and then I saw the note on my kitchen bench.”

“And this is the note you found inside your house?”

I couldn’t bring myself to look at it or read it again so I just nodded and looked down at my hands in my lap.

“Joe, we need to get ahead of this” Coach said. “Detective, do you think we should do a press conference and alert the public to keep an eye out?  I’m sure this person has been around training/practice and the stadium, probably coming to game days when we play here.”

“Let’s just wait it out for now, we don’t want to scare the stalker off and not be able to find them, or worse, have them escalate their behaviour into something dangerous.”

I feel like all I can do is nod, once again.  I just never pictured myself in this situation.

There was a knock on Zac’s office door and one of the admin staff came in with a folder and handed it to Zac, whispering something to him.  I saw his eyes go wide and then he looked down at the folder.

“Ummm, detective, we may have some more information that could shed some light on this case.  We video every practice/training session and these are some stills from today’s practice that might be very interesting.”

Zac hands the folder to the detective as I sit up a bit straighter in my chair, curious about what they could have found from today’s video, given it was a closed practice, meaning nobody was able to come in and watch.

The detective opened the folder and examined the pictures closely and then handed them to me.

“What am I looking at?” I asked.

“Apparently someone was in the bleachers today during practice.  Detective, this was a closed practice today which means that this person has snuck in and possibly could be the person you are looking for.”

I peered closer at the photos.  They were grainy, a bit blurry, you couldn’t really see who it was.  It did look like a female but who could really tell.  I’m sure the police had ways of making the image a bit sharper and maybe getting some identifying details.

The police thanked Zac and I and made their way out with suggestions to beef up my security at home and at the stadium and to also be very aware of my surroundings at all times.  They didn’t think, if this person who snuck into practice today was my stalker that they posed too much danger, but you never know.

I sat for a bit longer with Zac, talking out what was happening because the only other people I could talk to at the moment were my family and my teammates and I didn’t really want to worry either group until we knew more.

On the way home, I rang my security company who agreed to schedule more regular patrols around and near my place and also to ramp up the security footage around the outside of my home.

I hated that I have to do this but I guess my safety should be number one to me and I know my Mum would kill me if she knew about this and I didn’t take these extra precautions.  It all just felt so limiting.

1 week later - Reader’s pov

I haven’t been back to Paycor.  Almost getting caught in the stadium made me back off a little bit, I didn’t want to get into trouble and be banned from practice or games in general.

I’d been following Joe and the Bengals activity on social media but it just felt so impersonal, that I was itching to get back to practice.  Actually Joe didn’t seem very active on socials the past week and most of the Bengals feed had focused on Tee, Sam and a few of the other players.  All great players but Joe was their franchise player, the top QB in the league and they should be showcasing him whenever they can.

It made me wonder what had happened in the last week.  

After I left training I headed to the grocery store to get some supplies, as my best friend was coming over after work that night for a movie night.  As I was leaving I saw Joe entering the store.  I knew he shopped here but I had never actually run into him and I just smiled at him as I walked out of the store to my car.

He has a very distinctive car and it was parked next to mine so I took a moment to admire it before I loaded my bags into the back seat and headed home again.

Later that night when my friend arrived she had some very interesting news.

“Girl, Joe Burrow has a stalker!”

“What?  I mean, how do you know this?”

“I heard some of the detectives at work today talking about it.  Apparently someone left some things on his car at the grocery store this afternoon and after he got home, someone had broken into his house and left him some kind of note - I don’t know what it said but they are beefing up security at his house.  This is huge.”

“Why haven’t they said anything about it though?”

“Well, they probably don’t want the person escalating to even more dangerous behaviour, although they may be too late for that if whoever it is has already been inside his actual house.”

That conversation has stayed with me, to be honest.  I couldn’t imagine how scared Joe must have been to go to the police about it all.

Today I was heading back to practice.  This one was open but I thought I’d stay in the background anyway, amongst the other fans and not up front like I usually try to be.  Fate, as it seemed, had other plans.

As practice was finishing, a surge in the people there pushed me towards the side of the crowd, closer to where the players exited the field.  As Joe walked past he looked at me and smiled and did a double take.  Did he recognise me?  Is he curious of who I am?

I decided to make a quiet retreat and wait outside for him and hopefully get the balls to talk to him, or give him the gift I had for him.

A few of the players dribbled out of the stadium towards their cars, all stopping to sign autographs and take pictures with the fans.  

Joe’s pov

I walked out of the stadium towards my car and it always fascinates me how many people stay after practice to talk to, take photos with and get autographs from the players.  I still struggle to understand that some of them are here exclusively to see me.  

Given recent events however, it makes me more cautious as well, and I hate that because I love giving back to my fans.

As I went along the line of fans, I saw one at the back who looked kind of familiar.  I waved her over and said “Do I know you, you look very familiar?”

“Oh, umm, you don’t know me” she said quite shyly. “We bumped into each other at the grocery store last week.”

“Oh yeah, well it’s nice to meet you, did you want a picture?”

“Uh, sure” she replied and got her phone out.

We took a couple of selfies and then she quietly said “I have something for you” and as she reached into her bag I got really nervous.  Maybe this was my stalker.  Now that I think of it, she’s at training a lot, and yes I did see her at my grocery store just before that stuff was on my car.

I nervously looked around for security and mumbled some excuse about forgetting something and sprinted back into the stadium and straight to Zac’s office.

Reader’s pov

I can’t believe it, I finally got the time, opportunity and guts to talk to Joe and he ran off.  I started to put the drawing I’d done of him back in my backpack when I looked up and saw security coming towards me.

I quickly walked towards my car and managed to get in and drive away before they got to me.  I hope they didn’t catch my licence plate and haul me in for questioning.  Just my luck I’d get in trouble because of an innocent meeting at the grocery store.

Maybe this was my sign to just find a new hobby?

Another week later - Joe’s pov

Once again, I’m sitting in Coach’s office with the detectives who this time have some good news.

“We’ve made an arrest” the detective told us.

I breathed a sigh of relief that this was over “That was quick, how did you get a break so fast?”

“Well, it all came down to the fans.  Those at practice helped us out with some info, and your observations also  gave us some insight.  We tracked the person down and an arrest was made this morning.  We have some pretty tight proof, so you may not even have to testify, but if you do, we can probably put them away for a few years.  At the least, you can get a restraining order that prevents them from coming near your house, or the stadium, or generally within about 500metres of wherever you are.”

“Thanks detective, I'm so relieved” I said.  “Did they happen to say why they did it?”

“Just a big fan, a bit lonely and wanted to be closer to you but just went about it the wrong way.  Kinda feel sorry for them, but you know, we can’t let emotion into it, otherwise we’d never catch anyone.”

“Well, thanks again detective” Zac said “We are more than grateful for your speedy resolution to this issue.”

1 year later - Reader’s pov

I walked into the lounge room and smiled, I couldn’t believe I was here.  The misunderstanding from 12 months ago led to a beautiful friendship between me and Joe.  I got over all my nerves with him and we were now able to laugh and joke about the situation.

The police did clock my licence plate that day at training, and they did come to my house and question me about the stalking.  I didn’t hold anything against Joe for thinking it could be me, I was awkward and nervous and shy whenever he was around and he obviously just didn’t see my vulnerability.

But at the next training session, he saw me again and came to talk to me.  He asked me if he and I could have a conversation over coffee, so we went and he told me they’d arrested his stalker and he apologised profusely for thinking it could be me.

He said that when I’d told him I had something for him and reached into my bag, he freaked out and just left.

I laughed and told him that I’d drawn him a picture and I’d love for him to have it if he wanted it.

We chatted for a while longer and then went separate ways.  We’d swapped numbers so that I could arrange to give him the picture and we ended up texting back and forth most days.

I’m not sure if anything will come of this but a good friendship but you never know…

[pleasuretrade]

hi here's the very rough(!) first chapter of a fic that i'm not done with.

if anyone wants to beta or just offer feedback i would be grateful :') but i'm writing this very slowly and don't plan on seeing it done for at least a few more months

March x Healy

Summary: 1980. March and Healy take your classic "reunite me with my estranged adult child" case and may or may not wind up getting involved with a cult, irritating 80's toys, shady business, gardening, and drugs. Oh, and they're pretending to be boyfriends because that's totally a perfect cover??

Rating: 18+ for the eventual porn

Length: I'm gonna guess 30k? I'm at 15k rn and we're maybe halfway through. frankly i got no idea

Tags that aren't exhaustive and mostly aren't applicable to this first chapter, but just a sneak peek: pretending to be boyfriends and there's only one fucking bed anyway bitch, March wearing jeans

 The thing about kitsch dolls was that they were supposed to be cute. In abundance they became disturbing. An uncanny noise of soft pastel abstraction, dotted with innumerable eyes, staring at you from living room walls and display cabinets. It didn’t help that almost all of them were religious; angels with halos, praying children, robed biblical figures. March felt like he might combust if he made direct eye contact with the teeming mass of holy ceramic.

“March, did you write that down?”

 Holland whipped his head toward Healy, and then at their client, and then at his open, empty notepad. See, you shouldn’t have that many dolls in one room, it’s distracting. It’s weird. “Sorry, ma’am, could you repeat that?”

“Benjamin Larry Hooper. We called him Benny.”

“Bejamin….L… Hooper… Benny.” March mumbled, pen dashing across the page with a show of gumption.

 Mrs. Hooper nodded at him, all patterned dress and curled hair, hands placed politely on top of their respective thighs. “He was fifteen when he left, he’ll be twenty-six now. Tall for his age, I’m sure he’s giant by now.”

 Holland wrote in big block letters: DOB 1953 TALL

“This is my most recent picture of him, just a few months before he left.” Mrs. Hooper, Francis, reached across her doilied coffee table to hand Healy a framed photograph. It was obviously some kind of family reunion, the photo lined with folks like a tin of sardines. “That’s Benny.” she said, tapping a young man sitting cross legged in the very front row.

 Benny Hooper looked like any other fifteen year old at a family reunion, irritated or bored or both. He had a great mop of hair, a downright halo of pitch black curls reaching every direction. The slacks and short sleeved button-down were probably not his normal choice of attire, so that wouldn’t be helpful even if the kid had disappeared less than a decade ago. The shot was too wide to memorize the details of someone’s face on top of being old. The Benny in the photo hadn’t even finished puberty yet. Overall, the photo wasn’t great.

“Very helpful, thank you. We could use any other photographs you have, too.” Healy smiled pleasantly the way he did. It was freakish, the way the guy could go from deadpan bruiser to soft-eyed teddybear in an instant.

 Holland smiled along, ignoring the everpresent eyes of Mrs. Hooper's kitsch, even though he knew that there was no chance in hell they were finding Benny Hooper.

-

 “There’s no chance in hell, man.” March lit his cigarette in the passenger seat and donned his sunglasses.

 Healy tapped his fingers where he rested his arm in the open window. “We have a lead.”

“If you wanna call maybe seeing a glimpse of someone you haven’t seen in eleven years driving a truck a couple of times a lead, sure, we have a great lead. Can we stop at Hammy’s? Told Holly I’d bring home dinner.”

“Y’know, I bet I could count on two hands the number of times you’ve gone proper grocery shopping since I’ve known you.”

“That’s not true, you went grocery shopping with us like two weeks ago.”

“And you bought eggs, bread, a gallon of neon colored juice, a gallon of whiskey, and five frozen pizzas.”

“Are those not groceries? Is that not sustenance?” March waved his cigarette for emphasis.

“Anyway,” Healy redirected, taking the turn toward Hammy’s, “all we have to do is stake out the spot she saw the truck, right?”

“If everything worked out just that easy we’d be out of a job, Jack.” March took a drag from his cigarette, thanking the stars that loaded, aging ladies were willing to shill out for the most unfeasible asks imaginable time and time again. Healy let it sit because he knew it was true by now, well over two years down the line as a PI.

“Why do you think the kid really left?” Healy asked after a while, expertly flat when Holland had figured out eons ago that the guy really was invested in each case, even the small ones.

“I don’t know, too many doilies? An aversion to puce colored carpet? I wouldn’t stay long either.”

 Healy ignored him. “I find it hard to believe he just up and left for no reason.”

“Maybe Mrs. Hooper’s chicken is dry.” Healy purposefully hit the curb pulling into Hammy’s, jostling March’s cigarette nearly out of his hand. “I mean, it’s not like it matters. Even if we find the kid, he’s not comin’ back. Ten fuckin’ years. Remember that girl, Arrow or Rainbow or whatever she named herself?”

 Healy grunted in reluctant remembrance. They’d found her after a long, boring two months and by the end of it all she’d had to say was ‘thanks for letting me know my family's looking for me, you can go now.’ Not that it mattered much to Holland. They made out with enough money to take a couple of weeks off so they could take Holly to Catalina Island. She got food poisoning on the first day but still claims it was the best trip they’d been on in years (which wasn’t very meaningful considering they’d gone on maybe three of them since she was little).

“Guess you’re right.” Healy parked the car in the crowded parking lot. The line at Hammy’s was always so damn long. “Not getting paid to psychoanalyze the guy.” He sounded reluctant. Any time Healy couldn’t slip in one more act of Good it made him feel like a failure. It was something March secretly admired, however harebrained it was. He glanced a punch off Healy’s shoulder before getting out of the car. “That’s the spirit.”

-

“So why do you think he really left?” Holly asked through a mouthful of burger.

“Jesus, you two should become shrinks.” March grumbled.

 Healy sat comfortably sunken into the couch, a March sitting cross legged on the floor on either side of him. “It might be useful to know.” he added.

“Right. Like maybe you’ll be able to narrow down what kinds of places he’d go if you knew.” Holly agreed.

“Our only lead is a truck. Anyone can drive a truck. I don’t care why he’s driving it. All we have to do is follow.”

“So you admit, it’s a lead.” Healy pointed at him with a french fry.

“It’s a crumb of a lead. It’s the suggestion of a lead. It’s a lingering scent of maybe a lead.”

“Says the guy with no sense of smell.” Healy winked at Holly, who bit her lip to stop her smile from blooming. “A lead’s a lead.”

“Did you notice anything about Mrs. Hooper’s house? Like, anything that might make someone want to run away?” Holly was fifteen and already putting in more work than March.

“Yeah, puce carpet.”

 Healy nudged March with a socked foot. “She seemed nice. Boring, maybe. Said her husband died a few years ago and her other kid’s off at college somewhere, so the house was pretty quiet.”

“Boredom could drive someone away.” Holly said thoughtfully.

“And if it did that still gives us absolutely nothing to go on. Some kids just hate their parents, alright? Guy probably just hitchhiked to New York or something.” March said.

“Sounds nice.” Holly murmured under her breath. Healy nudged her with his other foot.

 March, begrudgingly, loved the gentle way Healy mediated. Fatherhood was something Holland hadn’t really been prepared for, much less being the single dad of a teenager. It didn’t help that he was a big time fuckup or that Holly was too smart for her own good. Having another person in their lives— having Healy in their lives— was a saving grace.

 Recently, Holly had started dating her first boyfriend. Or at least the first that she’d admitted to when she’d lost all plausible deniability after that time they’d picked her up from school and seen her drop some young punk’s hand like a hot iron. It was a point of contention now, between Holly and Holland. Boys were pigs, and Holland would know, he used to be one. It was one of the endless number of things Healy had become referee over, but also something Holly had adopted a near constant attitude because of.

“So when are you starting the stakeout?” Holly asked, fiddling with the cracked straw of her milkshake. March looked at Healy for an answer. He was always better at managing their schedule. Unlike March, he usually remembered what day of the week it was. Healy looked back at him and shrugged. Wasn't like they had another case on, much to the dismay of their wallets. “Tomorrow, I guess.”

 Holly got that look on her face. “Can I come?” Tomorrow was a Saturday.

 March shook his head. “Don’t you have normal teenage things to do? Shouldn’t you be like sneaking vodka out of someone’s mom’s cabinet on a Saturday?”

 Healy chimed in before she could argue. “It’s gonna be boring anyway, Holl. You’ll be sitting in the backseat twiddling your thumbs all day.” She knew that. She’d been on stakeouts with them before. But Healy’s say was more valuable to her than her dad’s, apparently, so she dropped it.

 It was late when Healy headed home, agreeing on the asscrack of dawn to reconvene and start their stakeout.

“Why doesn’t he just live here? You guys spend every day together anyway.”

 March wandered into the dimly lit kitchen for a glass of rye. Their (second) rental, real house unbuilt as ever, was always so still when Healy left. Another item on the laundry list of things March tried not to think about. “Because he’s a grown man, Holly, with his own house.”

“I wouldn’t call that dump a house, and anyway it’s an apartment. He should be sleeping here and not in an attic with a laughtrack that plays until two in the morning.”

“Well then you can invite him to stay for a sleepover next time. You guys can paint nails and read magazines.” Holland wasn’t stupid. He knew that wasn’t really what girls’ sleepovers were like. One time he’d walked in on Holly and her friend eating donuts and saying such depraved things about Joe Strummer that he’d vowed to not open the door without knocking ever again. He never looked at that Clash poster on her wall the same way.

 Holly scoffed in time with the ice tinkling into Holland’s tumbler.

-

 The sun shone way too brightly for Holland. When he’d woken up he’d still been a little drunk, but now out of the house and into Healy’s car a hangover had eagerly seeped in. They’d agreed to start the stakeout before the sun came up, but March had skillfully convinced Healy to take him through a drive-thru breakfast and they were running late. He now nursed a coffee as the sun rose into the perfectly wrong spot in the sky. They watched cars zip lazily by from the corner of a parking lot.

“I just think it would be good to have a dog around.” They’d had this discussion every other day for a month now. March wanted a dog in the house for the very logical reason of alerting them to intruders, Healy nay-sayed because he was a killjoy with no imagination.

“I’m telling you, March, putting in a doggy door just isn’t gonna be enough for a German Shepherd. And we all know you’re not gonna walk it.”

“Why do you even care so much, man? It would be my dog.” And more importantly, why did Healy even have a say in whether or not they got a dog?

“I care because I’d somehow get stuck taking it out half the time. And your sorry ass wouldn’t train it. We’d have an untrained, overpriced menace tearing around the house.” The house. Not Holland and Holly’s house, but The House.

“Well, whatever, even if that was true it’d make a good guard dog, right? No one’s getting past a pent up, feral German Shepherd. Might shit on the carpet but it’ll take a guy’s dick off. Balls too.”

“You should really consider a shrink. I think you’ve lost your damn mind.” Healy shook his head, but Holland caught his smile.

“You taking new patients, doc? I’ve been told by my teenager that I’m a headcase.”

“I could make some room in my busy schedule. Gonna cost you about the same as a purebred German Shepherd, though.”

 March smiled and leaned back into his seat. Absolutely nothing of interest was happening outside at all, which was just fine now but give March three or so more hours and he’d start going stir crazy and the headache wasn't helping.

 Mrs. Hooper had seen the truck twice, once in the morning and once in the early evening, which gave them an unfortunately broad window of time. She’d described it as a white, short cab semitruck, maybe a GMC, with a small trailer on it, which narrowed it down almost not at all. It sounded like every third short haul semi chugging around Los Angeles, of which there were many. Very many.

 The only thing they had to go off of was that the second time around she’d seen what she thought was some kind of blocky hand-lettering on the driver’s side door, done in “nearly illegible” multicolor. When Healy had asked what she meant by “multicolor” Mrs. Hooper had only elaborated as “horribly garish.” So at least there was that.

 The odds that the guy driving the bespoke truck was this Benny person were essentially zero. That was about half their cases these days, desperate longshots funded by desperate rich people. The other half was still taking photographs of idiots who fuck with the curtains open. It was wearing a little thin. Couldn't people invent more important problems to investigate? Whatever. A job’s a job’s a job.

 The coffee in March’s cup had gone cold just in time to meet the creeping heat from outside. He downed the tepid sludge before wrenching the little metal fan out of the back seat and plugging it in. It whirred to life gracelessly.

“Hey.” Healy tapped him on the arm, which startled and excited Holland enough that he flung his empty coffee cup onto the floorboards.

“What—what, you see something?”

 A short cab semi puttered toward them from a distance, aiming for a perfectly timed red light. Healy pulled up the binoculars and squinted through them, waiting for the cab to pull into view enough to see the driver’s door. March’s breathing was shallow in anticipation.

 The truck moved, and Healy tutted, and March could see the glaringly blank door even without the binoculars. “Driver’s blonde. Ginger beard.” Healy said, still staring through the eye pieces like the truck and driver might magically change. “False alarm.”

“They’re all gonna be false alarms. This is gonna be like finding a needle in a haystack, only the needle was never in the haystack to begin with.”

 Finally, Healy let the binoculars fall into his lap. “I ever told you how much I love your optimism?”

[kingofthewilderwest]

Your tags on the 'whose smarter' poll made me flashback to that episode of DoB. Final ep, I think, Cast Out prt 2? And anyway it literally ends with Snotlout (disobeying Hiccup) and acting recklessly with his plan. Hiccup tells him "You proved sometimes recklessness can be courageous" and I just remember being like "THIS from the kid who took on the Red Death on one dragon with a flammable tail fin. Like the similarity/hypocrisy got me--when Hiccup went after the Red Death he was a hero.

I love this. It's really about framing. The HTTYD series provides us certain narrative perceptions, lenses, by which they have us view the characters. Going outside the lenses to look at characters's actions more objectively, and there's that... bias... haha, yeah!

Hiccup constantly doing reckless things is treated as more permissible by the show's framework. His reckless and/or impulsive decisions are treated as gutsy, genius solutions rather than haybrained schemes. And Hiccup tends to be rewarded for those wild plans narratively by having those succeed.

Even though Hiccup gets semi-called out on unnecessary recklessness in RTTE - like testing a flight suit - it's portrayed narratively to viewers as humorous rather than flaws to learn from (as per Snotlout). And when Hiccup makes mistakes, the narrative treats feedback from "equals" like Astrid or people in greater authority like Stoick as what we viewers should care most about. It's not that Ruffnut, Tuffnut, or Snotlout lack feedback about Hiccup's decisions, but it's not treated as criticially. We're not "meant" to reflect on it, most of the time.

"You just proved sometimes recklessness can be courageous" is so much a part of Hiccup's choices that the phrase could be etched on his tombstone. But it's Snotlout taking a moment of gumption that's called out as so risky it's potentially "dumb." And frankly, across the entirety of DreamWorks Dragons, Snotlout brings up many points of prudent caution.

There's a hierarchy the narrative gives us - Hiccup the leader, Astrid and Fishlegs as "more competent" members of the group, and the twins and Snotlout as "less competent" members of the group (our comedic relief). The narrative wants us to sometimes treat this as a gang of equals, especially by RTTE, but the way conversations and situations get presented, solved, and saved means that this internalized hierarchy never leaves. That means that who the audience members take most seriously gets impacted.

I mean, as you said yourself, it's Snotlout disobeying Hiccup - a word that carries authority, as Hiccup is the leader of the Dragon Club during the early DreamWorks Dragons series. In HTTYD and HTTYD 2, Hiccup disobeying Stoick, while ultimately resulting in good ends, also carries consequences. Hiccup disobeying Stoick resulted in the village nearly getting killed. Hiccup disobeying Stoick brought Drago's attention onto them. But by the TV series, I think Hiccup's disobedience is usually seen as a good (by my shoddy memory), but Snotlout's disobedience is seen as him not being "as good as" Hiccup - but is that actually, objectively the case, outside the show's framing?

I don't have the Freaktastic Knowledge I did in ye olde days of analysis where I could list off three hundred specific examples to prove my points, but this is my memory impressions of the series. Snotlout balks at Hiccup's plans lots of the time - and he doesn't not have a point. In another series, Snotlout would be correctly identifying three hundred things that could go wrong, might have gone wrong, or will actually, in fact, go wrong. But Snotlout as a comedic relief character, and then a defiant character opposing Hiccup the Hero who comes up with the correct plan because he's got protagonist armor... means sometimes Snotlout's legitimate points get lost to viewers.

There's a reason why, even now, ROB's Defiant One's conversation between Hiccup and Snotlout still resonates clearly in my memories.

Snotlout: Oh, you are so smug! Hiccup: Me? Snotlout: Hiccup's so smart! Hiccup's so brave! He killed the Red Death! He trained the dragons! He's got the metal leg! Hiccup: Metal leg? That's what's bothering you? That's where you're going? Metal leg? Snotlout: No! It's everything the leg is attached to!

Snotlout made mistakes in Defiant One. Let's not forget that context. But while Snotlout yelling at Hiccup can be read as Snotlout not being "as good as" our hero Hiccup who saves the day... it strikes me because it shows the imbalance of treatment between Snotlout and Hiccup. "Everything the leg is attached to" is the prioritization of Hiccup and - by this point - Hiccup expecting to be prioritized.

Actually listening to Snotlout is a fantastic way to experience the TV series. He's bitter. He's grumpy. He's defiant. He's downer. But that's because he sees holes. He has a **PRACTICAL** side that butts heads with Hiccup. I'm someone whose thinking processes are similar to Snotlout - it's easier to shoot down a solution for its mistakes than come up with a new one - but it's an important role to have. In an actually existing friendship group, you need someone who's down to earth enough to make sure your out-of-the-box thinking friend (Hiccup) doesn't come up with something so wild it's not really going to work. We need an intelligence that sees holes. Otherwise, we start floating off into things that won't work as we expect them to, or adopting ideas that haven't been tested with robustness.

Snotlout's a legitimately smart guy. The fact that Astrid and the others shoot him down is partially because of his character, partially because sometimes he can be a dummy (as can we all), but partially because of their own flaws. Listen more to Snotlout, y'all. Some of Hiccup's plans work because Luck.

Similarly, we can talk about the framing of Fishlegs spewing facts (treated as providing information) versus the Thorstons spewing facts (treated as a novelty quirk rather than intelligence). Just because the Thorstons do it in a dorkier, more trollish matter does not negate the fact that they are BRIMMING, purely BRIMMING, with an ENORMOUS amount of factual knowledge! Does Fishlegs actually have more factual knowledge than them? No, it's just a different area. He's got concentrated knowledge on dragons. They've got in depth, niche knowledge of a large variety of topics. Fishlegs, Ruff, and Tuff are all dang smart.

From a meta standpoint, the twins's intelligence is treated inconsistently. But I prefer me my smart Thorstons who just have spacey heads, trollish senses of humor, and thrillseeking behavior.

[talkingtea]

Answering the question the other anon asked the guy interviewing Eric seems to be a great one. I was listening ladies with gumption podcast and he sent feedback where he talked about not liking the episodes without Candice, not liking this arc in general and that he probably wouldn't watch the show without her and that they are being weird this season. I hope this comes through in the interview. LWG girls also vouched for him. It might be promising.

That’s good to know.

[writergrls-blog]

My first published book. As Time Goes By: The Fall of Grace Morgan. (It's a trilogy, with this book having two parts included) The third installment is finished and ready to publish.

Just waiting on some news back. It's exciting and nerve wracking. So much competition.

I have three books waiting to publish but I was disappointed in Amazon. I am trying another route. Wish me luck!

This first novel is based on historical fact. Written before Oppenheimer, the movie folks...I published it on Fanfic in three parts.

Got some pretty good feedback so got some gumption and a backbone and went for it. It's been a rollercoaster ride so far, highs and lows. I wouldn't have missed it for the world though.

'His Girl Friday' meets the 'Right Stuff'

A love Triangle between two dynamic, enigmatical men who vie for the love and affection of a spirited, opinionated rebellious woman.

Lovely Grace Morgan was born in the wrong time. Struggling in a man's world of preconceived ideas about a woman's place…Grace must overcome the stereotype her life has become.

Longing to be a reporter, she accidentally falls into the story of the decade. Publishing it would mean going against a man of great power who is heading a governmental project that has been labeled 'Top Secret'.

It doesn't help that this man is charismatic, charming as hell and determined to get his own way in this matter. Brigadier Thomas J. Ellis always…gets his way, it is said.

The man is immediately drawn to Grace's rather flighty, energetic, up-beat persona despite his better judgement.

All he is interested in at first is…a sexual encounter. Those emotions deepen as time spent in the young woman's company reveals another side to Grace that is both intriguing and endearing.

Sample Read on Amazon E-Book 2.99

https://barnesandnoble.com/w/as-time-goes-by-elise-c-davies/1144528425

https://walmart.com/search?q=Elise+C+Davies&facet=brand:Elise+C+Davies

[kamreadsandrecs]

By Elisabeth Egan

Consider the books that lived in the classrooms of your youth. Didn’t it seem like those stories materialized as if by magic, complete with illustrations, a title and a sturdy hardcover? There wasn’t a lot of discussion about how a book arrived in the world, or the arduous creative process behind every collection of words on a page — not just the ones lucky enough to snag an ISBN.

Dave Eggers is working to disrupt this dynamic (although he wouldn’t use the word “disrupt” in such a context). In 2017, the author of “A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius,” “The Circle” and “Zeitoun” — among many others — was working on a middle grade book, “The Lifters,” when he started talking with his editor Taylor Norman and fellow author Mac Barnett about how to involve kids in the creation of books written for them.

“We had the idea to try to collapse the space between young readers and publishers and authors and give them a peek behind the curtain and let them see manuscripts in progress,” Eggers said in a phone interview. “We started cooking up this idea of showing students or classes written manuscripts and saying, ‘What do you think?’ To show them the process as it went along.”

And so the Young Editors Project was born. It works like this: The program matches an author with a classroom of students who are roughly the target audience for a particular work. The writer might pose specific questions — for instance, Eggers said, “I’d like to know if you think there’s enough foxes in this book” — and the kids provide feedback.

“Most writers that participate get all these very sweet, exclamation-filled notes from classes and students all over the world,” Eggers said. “Every so often they might say something that is very astute and might provoke a rethinking of a page or a sentence.”

Or, as Lemony Snicket put it in his endorsement on the project’s website, “At long last, writers can get free advice from strangers without approaching them in the street.”

The YEP proposes several ways for authors to thank budding reviewers for their input, including acknowledgment by name in the final product (another word Eggers wouldn’t use in relation to literature).

Lo and behold, in his new book, “The Eyes and the Impossible,” which debuted at No. 2 on the middle grade hardcover list, Eggers thanks a slew of early readers hailing from the United States, England, Australia and Canada.

Presumably, this crew learned a valuable lesson while evaluating Eggers’s drafts: Pros need help too. “We’re always telling students that every author goes through 10 or 12 drafts,” Eggers said. “It’s always a process, no matter how many books you’ve written. A lot of writers think if their first draft isn’t perfect, then they’re not a good writer.”

In fact, with enough gumption, they might see their own name on the spine of a book someday.



[kammartinez]

By Elisabeth Egan

Consider the books that lived in the classrooms of your youth. Didn’t it seem like those stories materialized as if by magic, complete with illustrations, a title and a sturdy hardcover? There wasn’t a lot of discussion about how a book arrived in the world, or the arduous creative process behind every collection of words on a page — not just the ones lucky enough to snag an ISBN.

Dave Eggers is working to disrupt this dynamic (although he wouldn’t use the word “disrupt” in such a context). In 2017, the author of “A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius,” “The Circle” and “Zeitoun” — among many others — was working on a middle grade book, “The Lifters,” when he started talking with his editor Taylor Norman and fellow author Mac Barnett about how to involve kids in the creation of books written for them.

“We had the idea to try to collapse the space between young readers and publishers and authors and give them a peek behind the curtain and let them see manuscripts in progress,” Eggers said in a phone interview. “We started cooking up this idea of showing students or classes written manuscripts and saying, ‘What do you think?’ To show them the process as it went along.”

And so the Young Editors Project was born. It works like this: The program matches an author with a classroom of students who are roughly the target audience for a particular work. The writer might pose specific questions — for instance, Eggers said, “I’d like to know if you think there’s enough foxes in this book” — and the kids provide feedback.

“Most writers that participate get all these very sweet, exclamation-filled notes from classes and students all over the world,” Eggers said. “Every so often they might say something that is very astute and might provoke a rethinking of a page or a sentence.”

Or, as Lemony Snicket put it in his endorsement on the project’s website, “At long last, writers can get free advice from strangers without approaching them in the street.”

The YEP proposes several ways for authors to thank budding reviewers for their input, including acknowledgment by name in the final product (another word Eggers wouldn’t use in relation to literature).

Lo and behold, in his new book, “The Eyes and the Impossible,” which debuted at No. 2 on the middle grade hardcover list, Eggers thanks a slew of early readers hailing from the United States, England, Australia and Canada.

Presumably, this crew learned a valuable lesson while evaluating Eggers’s drafts: Pros need help too. “We’re always telling students that every author goes through 10 or 12 drafts,” Eggers said. “It’s always a process, no matter how many books you’ve written. A lot of writers think if their first draft isn’t perfect, then they’re not a good writer.”

In fact, with enough gumption, they might see their own name on the spine of a book someday.

[atmymercy]

Hello! Hope you are well 🐞

Can you please describe my future spouse? R ♎️sun

hello r! i am doing well! thank you for the kind thought.

for you, i got the strength, 7 of coins (reversed) & the knight of swords (reversed).

your future spouse is somebody who looks like a grumpy. you know what i mean? like grumpy from snow white. they're going to be a person who is prone to frowning or looking like they're having a bad time, even though they are probably having a perfectly normal day and secretly a sweetheart! lol it's just the face or vibe they give off naturally. and in all reality, they totally have the strength and gumption to get anything done as long as they put their mind to it. watch them move mountains if they so choose! though i have to admit they will have days where they won't have that same drive and their motivation will drop. they always overcome it but sometimes their thoughts are too harsh on themselves and that's really too bad. thankfully they have that strength that always pulls them through! they're a keeper! lol

hope you enjoyed it! please give feedback or buy me a coffee when you can! if you want to explore this further, please consider a private read as well. also thank you for sharing with me!♡

love & light!

-tea

as always, my rules & info are in my pinned post if you're interested in a reading of your own!

[brandmeat67]

The expertise of Intralesional Fluorouracil Pertaining to Orbital Vascular Defects

The following, we all show metastatic lymph node Sixty four (MLN64, STARD3) as well as oxysterol-binding protein-related proteins 1L (ORP1L) determine 2 subpopulations regarding Ce. MLN64 is found on a that contains your cholesterol transporter ABCA3, whereas ORP1L localizes to a different populace involving Ce made up of Niemann Pick type C1 (NPC1), any cholesterol levels exporter. Endocytosed cargo goes through MLN64/ABCA3-positive chambers before that grows to ORP1L/NPC1-positive The. The MLN64/ABCA3 pockets #Link# period among Ce as well as lcd tissue layer and frequently contact "later" ORP1L/NPC1-containing . We advise a couple of stages associated with cholestrerol levels dealing with at the end of endosomal pockets: 1st, cholesterol makes its way into MLN64/AB-CA3-positive chambers in which it can be recycled on the lcd membrane layer, and then #Link# , cholestrerol levels gets into ORP1L/NPC1 endosomes that will mediate cholesterol levels upload towards the endoplasmic reticulum.The mRNA translational management protein, Musashi, takes on an important function inside mobile or portable destiny dedication by means of sequence-specific interactions together with pick targeted mRNAs. In growing come cells, Musashi exerts repression involving targeted mRNAs in promoting mobile period advancement. During originate mobile differentiation, Musashi focus on mRNAs are usually #Link# de-repressed as well as converted. Just lately, we've got documented an necessary requirement for Musashi for you to one on one translational activation regarding goal mRNAs through Xenopus oocyte meiotic mobile or portable period advancement. Inspite of the significance about Musashi throughout mobile or portable routine regulation, just a few target mRNAs have been fully characterized. Within this research, we all document your identification and also portrayal of your brand new Musashi focus on mRNA within Xenopus oocytes. Many of us demonstrate that progesterone-stimulated translational service with the Xenopus Musashi1 mRNA can be controlled by having a practical Musashi binding component (MBE) within the Musashi1 mRNA 3' untranslated place (3' UTR). Mutational trouble of the MBE stopped translational account activation associated with Musashi1 mRNA and its particular connection using Musashi necessary protein. Additional, avoidance of Musashi purpose via microinjection involving inhibitory antisense oligonucleotides stopped progesterone-induced polyadenylation along with translation with the endogenous Musashi1 mRNA. As a result, Xenopus Musashi healthy proteins manage language translation in the Musashi1 mRNA throughout oocyte growth. Our own benefits indicate that the structure regarding sequential and also reliant mRNA translational handle applications associated with leading progression via meiosis are usually strengthened by simply an intricate compilation of nested, good feedback coils, which includes Musashi mRNA translational autoregulation. These types of autoregulatory good opinions coils will boost a poor initiating signal right into a strong commitment for that oocyte to progress from the cell cycle and become qualified for conception.Mol. Reprod. Dev. 79: 553-563, Next year. (Chemical) Next year Wiley Newspapers, Corporation.Techniques. CONAART (Consorcio Argentino de Artritis Temprana : Argentine Range regarding Early Rheumatoid arthritis) can be an gumption associated with several rheumatology centres around Argentina. People have been included whenever they had a minumum of one or maybe more swollen joint parts and also < 2 years regarding illness length. Interpersonal, market, comfortable, hereditary, medical and laboratory files had been recollected. In the beginning visit every calendar year, X-rays involving extremities were performed and traits as well as pharmaco-economic files had been re-collected. Results. A total of 413 sufferers were provided.

[valeriemperez]

Soooo, at what point do we stop giving Funko the benefit of the doubt and consider the possibility that they don't want to make Iris because she's Black?

Which isn't to say that they've never made Black characters. Obviously, they have. But at this point they seem to have a habit of leaving noteworthy characters of color (WOC, in particular) out when they make some of these lines. It's starting to look suspicious as hell to me, tbh.

I’m DEFINITELY side-eyeing the hell out of them. I actually talked to some Funko employees about it a few years back at SDCC, and they promised it wasn’t up to them and they would make Iris specifically if they could because of the high demand for her. They said the reason they couldn’t was Warner Bros. not releasing/signing over the rights to make her yet, which is... Such a stupid choice to me. 

If I take them at their word, then that means WB is still planning something “bigger” - like maybe they were waiting for the movie because they thought two Irises wouldn’t sell, but it’s still based in racist thinking. They continue to underestimate Iris’ popularity and power, even as they change parts of their entire model thanks to her.

[mtreebeardiles]

Trials & Tribulations, Prologue

Some pre-ME1 Evvy for this fine wednesday. 

Full piece on AO3

----

A sharp salute and gray eyes meeting his own before training on the wall over his shoulder were all David Anderson had to work with for a first impression. 

 He'd read about the kid, of course, reports public and not-so-public, an interest kept on the periphery. Feathers ruffled, deals made, but it was from Kahlee that he'd first heard about Everett Shepard. 

 "Second exposure case, very rare." Quiet hums over glasses of wine, and it didn't matter that dinner was had clusters apart. Stolen moments were what you made of them. "He was supposed to enroll in the joint classes we've developed with the Alliance, for latecomers who've already enlisted."

 "'Supposed to?'"

 "He refused."

 Seeing the young man face to face, noting the stubborn set to his jaw, the distrust in those eyes, he could believe he'd've had the gumption to turn the opportunity down. 

 He just wasn't sure why. 

 "Have a seat, Commander," Anderson said, gesturing to the chair across from his on the other side of the desk. Not his desk, not his office, but serviceable enough. There was a fraction of hesitation, a tension in the young man's shoulders, and Anderson could only guess at the numerous reasons why that may have been. Perching on the edge of the chair, rigid, and Anderson thought it was a mix of things. Nerves, fear. A fair amount of confusion. 

 "I've heard some impressive things about you," the Captain went on, tapping a datapad to life. Shepard's file flicked onto the screen, along with Anderson's own notes. 

 A glance up, wary eyes on his a moment before they slid away. "Thank you, sir." Quiet, but firm. If he had better control over his body language, Anderson thought as he sat back in his seat, even he would have a hard time getting a read on him. 

 "Moved up the ranks at a steady rate since enlisting at eighteen," Anderson said, flicking through the data. "Positive feedback, for the most part. A few altercations…" 

 Shepard's mouth tightened into a thin line, and Anderson caught the bob of his Adam's apple as the young man swallowed. 

 "…but overall, your service so far has been exemplary. I understand you have a hearing in June?"

 A tongue flicked out to lick at bitten lips, but the man's voice was steady as he murmured, "Yes, sir."

 "We could have it sooner, if you like." 

 That got a more substantial reaction, those eyes shifting to lock with his again. 

 "Kid's got eyes like ice." A shake of the head and a derisive snort, but Anderson was patient. "Spooky. Skilled, though, so no real complaints, Captain."

 'Unsettling' was another word he'd heard used to describe the young man before him. Cold. He could see it, but there was more -- a fragility along hardened edges, a desperation carved into chapped lips, a weight too big for those narrow shoulders and he was barely in his twenties. Eyes that had already seen so much, a body that had already been through so much, but this wasn't a cold-blooded soldier sitting across from him. Anderson was sure of it.

 "We couldn't confirm much, but a good portion of his pay goes towards a 'P. Shepard,' back in New York. No relation so far as we can tell, just the last name connection. Seems clean, but the kid can clearly hack and encrypt."

 How old were you, Everett Shepard, Anderson thought as he considered him. When you started supporting another person? What has it cost you?

 What else are you willing to pay?

[ozwriterchick]

Sneak Peek..

A/Note: A sneak peek of a new fic I started working on. All of my writing so far has been Marvel. Recently however, I've been reading some NFL fics and, while I never though I'd write a RPF, this one just popped into my head the other day.

Anyway, mostly inspired by @burreaux-drys, who writes some great stories - feel free to share with others and give me feedback (please be kind, as noted this is my first rpf).

It doesn't have a name yet and it isn't planned out so I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 1

Readers pov

I watched the players on the field, easily singling out the one I’d come to see.  It really wasn’t that difficult, he stood out with his mop of dirty blonde hair and the number 9 on his jersey.

My eyes roved down his body to his slim but manly hips and back up again to his broad shoulders, made even broader by the padding in his practice uniform.

He was looking good, but again, he always did, especially to me.  I’ve been in love with him for a while, always from afar, and he had no idea.  Maybe today would be the day I’d get up enough gumption to actually tell him.

This was a closed practice, but that never stopped me before.  There were plenty of ways to sneak into Paycor stadium, even when it was on lockdown, if you knew what you were doing.  And I did.

My phone buzzed in my pocket and I took my attention away from practice to check.

BFF: Where are you? I’m at your place

Me: Oh, I’m out running errands, sorry.

BFF: Tell the truth, you’re at practice ogling J again aren’t you?

Me: Maybe.. Maybe not.. I can neither confirm nor deny that accusation

BFF: Well then, I’ll join you, I need to see me some Sam.

Me: It’s almost over and it’s a closed practice today, so you won’t be able to get in.

BFF: Closed practice?

BFF: They don’t let anyone into closed practices, how did.. You know what, I don’t want to know.  Let me know when you’re home. Unless you and J are doing something after practice

Me: Will do. Love you xx

BFF: Love you too xx

More to come....

[hxmosuperior]

for the silm ask meme, 14, 17, 19, 21, 22, 23, and 24?

14. Saddest moment in The Silmarillion?

Fingon's death, I think, cause you have the sense that they are trying so damn hard to prevail against Morgoth, his cry when greeting Turgon's troops is "Behold, the day is come!", and then he dies, and it's like, idk not to get fake deep but the hope of the Noldor sort of dies with him, he's the Valiant one, the one who long before Beren and Luthien has already snuck into Morgoth's lair and took back what was dear to him, really the closing out on an age of Kings (Turgon didn't have authority outside Gondolin, and Gil's Kingship didn't come really to full potential till the Second Age), "and death was his reward" for his bravery, his estel, so to speak.

17. Are you glad the Last Battle isn’t in the published Silmarillion?

Yeah, I prefer it without because it feels more "living" without it? Because we already have the Doom of Mandos that shadows over the entire book; the Second Prophecy of the End of Days feels too limiting, as if everyone's actions will have to fall to that inevitable conclusion, but if it were only alluded to and not included in full, it makes it feel as though it gives more interpretations more room to breathe and stuff.

19. You get to save one character from dying. What would they do instead?

I would save Feanor probably, because I feel like he's very much a person who seeks to defy fate, and if he were still alive, I feel as though it would definitely change the sociopolitical landscape of Beleriand drastically. He would be on the front lines (and his sons would likely serve as his lieutenants). His paranoia is likely a big snarl to work through, but I feel like Fingolfin's crossing the Ice would assuage that fear of his somewhat, as it proves that those who crossed have enough gumption or devotion (even if they only wished to rule their own lands or confront him, they still willingly damned themselves by the decree of Mandos for it).

As for the High Kingship, it'll likely be a reversal of the canon Silm, with Feanor as High King but the Nolofinweans and Arafinweans doing their own thing, so long as it doesn't oppose Feanor's own mission. Maedhros is likely the diplomat in this situation, which is definitely going to be an overtime job. I feel like his presence might even be enough to offset the potential Thingol intended with a Quenya ban, as he is notably very much a stubborn linguist, though there's likely less reason this time around for the Arafinweans to keep the Kinslaying a secret from Thingol, and the ban might be enacted even earlier if only because the secret was revealed out of their spite for Feanor.

It might even lead to full-blown conflict between the Sindar and the Noldor, but on a characterization level, I feel as though the Nolofinweans and Arafinweans would have caught more of their deserved culpability this time around. The Arafinweans would have to acknowledge they were willing to follow the person who killed their mother's kin into exile (and use the boats that Feanor procured through Kinslaying). Likewise, it's possible the Nolofinweans would have to confront their own role in escalating the Kinslaying (iirc, the Feanorians were pushed back twice by the Teleri when they tried to steal the ships; not until the Nolofinweans joined the battle did it become a full-on Kinslaying.) It's hard to scapegoat a man who's still alive, and ready and willing to vehemently defend himself after all.

Political issues with the Sindar aside, one thing's for sure though, Feanor would absolutely adore the dwarves, and like Curufin and Caranthir, would definitely learn Khuzdul even if he acts like a nerd without social graces meeting the Dwarven lords. As for humans, they do possess a distinct lack of reverence for the Valar as Feanor himself does, and I think he would feel some degree of connection for them to that extent, especially considering his views of death as something of permanence due to Miriel's death, even if philosophical conversations might end up devolving into sort of a mutual feedback loop affirming the flaws of the Valar.

I think another main difference is probably in what happens during the Siege, as it is mentioned that the Bragollach occurred after the Noldor grew complacent. I feel as though Feanor would have been far more proactive, even the appearance of Glaurung might be pretext for him to push for full-on invading Angband, or at least striking preemptively against Morgoth. Say goodbye to the Long Peace, but at least we have more Feanorian shenanigans. Or, in a more whimsical universe, Feanor (likely with Celegorm's help) manages to capture Glaurung and train/tame him, and turn him against Morgoth.

22. What is your opinion of Fëanor?

He did nothing wrong.

23. Do you have pity for Melkor?

Yes, absolutely. I'm like, really baffled by him as a concept, in general, I suppose, like, if Eru created him as is, if all Melkor did was through Eru, does Eru sanction the horrors Melkor committed on Arda? If Melkor was created thus by Eru, and all Melkor did was through Eru, how much free will was he accorded? Was there a line between his evil as Eru decreed it, and his malice as he chose to be? Did he have a choice? Was he always destined to end up as Morgoth, Black Foe of the World?

24. Your job is to write The Silmarillion: The Musical. What is one of the songs?

This is a hard one,,,, I don't listen to many musicals lol

I think I mentioned on Twitter once that I really liked Marie Josee-Lord's cover of Les Sans-Papiers from Notre Dame de Paris as the vibe of a song about the Bragollach. It feels like there's this sense of foreboding looming underneath, and the lyrics lend themselves well to what it must have felt like for the people of Himlad and Dorthonion and Tol Sirion and Thargelion to see the fire rising on the horizon, and decide either to make their last stands, or flee south into the unknown, hoping desperately that Doriath will show mercy and let them through (they don't).

[panlight]

I have a non twilight question that maybe you as a highly educated person could help me with. I've interviewed with our local clinic, several interviews, no jobs yet, our HR isn't allowed to answer questions advice or feedback which is a crushing blow bright and early on a Monday. I just feel so stupid and unqualified and like I'm embarrassing myself, wasting people's times applying for reception positions even though I have experience and meet the basic qualifications. Any advice?

Impostor syndrome is real and it sucks!!

Two years ago I had to, as a formality, apply for the job I was literally already doing, because I had taken it over when the previous librarian retired a few months before. It was made perfectly clear to me that job was only posted so I could apply for it so everything would be in order in terms of paperwork and again, I was already doing it. But I was still like “what if I don’t get this job? What if they think I’m terrible at it and someone else who works here applies for it and they get it instead?” I was a nervous wreck about it! And then I had to ‘interview’ for it, and I was a nervous wreck about THAT even though it was with the director (who had told me to apply) and assistant director and I was all anxious and worried and then I show up and they’re like “oh this isn’t really an interview so much as a job offer, thanks for filling out the full application you could have just done the cover letter.” 

So I get it. I deeply get it! I don’t know what advice to impart other than to take a couple deep breaths and remind yourself you DO have experience and meet the qualifications. You’re not wasting their time. Plenty of people apply for jobs they aren’t remotely qualified for and inflate their resume and I wish I had that kind of confidence and gumption but I don’t. We’re hiring at work and while I’m not on the hiring committee the guy at the desk next to mine is, and he said that like only 1 out of every 10 applications were any good/met the criteria and this is a basic non-librarian job (don’t need the library science degree), so if you’ve been called in for interviews you must be one of their top applicants and if you actually have experience and meet the qualifications they were probably relieved to get your application!   I’ll cross my fingers for you! 

[blueroseblaze]

Two’s Better Than One

Word Count: 1213

WARNINGS: none

Tags: @dylan-o-yumm

You were jolted awake by the sound of your front door unlocking. The clicking noise of the lock and the following creek of the worn hinges rose you further out of your slumber. You didn’t mean to fall asleep, but the strain of working around your heavy muscles and abdomen left you utterly exhausted and with little energy left to stay awake. The familiar sound of heavy boots stepping through your threshold and being removed did make you smile despite your tiredness. Nero was home, safe and sound, hopefully in one piece, you didn’t have the gumption to raise yourself from the couch any farther.

In the dark room you could see his figure approach the couch, backlit by the warm light hanging in front of your door. You watched him shed his coat and drape it over the back of the sofa before sitting down next to you. You didn’t say anything as he laid down with you, nesting between you and the back of the couch, he maneuvered you both in such a way that you were now cradled in his arms with your ear pressed right against his heartbeat.

“Did you try to stay up again?” he asked, his voice riddled with exhaustion.

“Yeah,” you replied quietly.

“I thought I told you, you needed rest, doctor’s orders,” he said.

You snuggled closer to him, “I know, but you’ve been gone so often, I miss you… we miss you.”

You guided Nero’s hand to your swollen stomach, suddenly all your pain and soreness melted away at his touch. Every stroke of his thumb sent waves of comfort throughout every strained muscle in your body. You sighed contently, letting your eyes drift close again.

“When does the kicking start?” he asked.

“Doctor said around 25 weeks for first time pregnancies,” you replied.

There was a slight pause before he spoke again, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there last time. I don’t know why the jobs aren’t paying as much lately.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you said, “You’re just trying to provide for us, I get it. I’d tell you if there was something important you missed. At least you were here for the big one.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled.

  You sat in the waiting room with Nero at your side. You held his hand tightly even though there was no reason to be nervous. You had both decided that you wanted to find out your baby’s sex as soon as possible so you knew you were hopefully going to learn today. And if not, they can at least tell you how your pregnancy was doing.

You were fiddling with Nero’s fingers for about five minutes when a nurse walked into the waiting room, grabbing your attention.

“(Y/N)? Nero?” she asked.

Without a response you both stood and followed the nurse to the technicians room. She instructed you to sit on the bed and wait for the technician before leaving you and your husband alone in the room. You Looked around the sterile space before settling on Nero, who had taken his place in a chair.

“You sure you don’t want to place any bets?” you asked.

“I don’t want to put anymore stress on you when we find out I’m right,” he snickered, “It’s a girl.”

“What, you’re not going to trust my mother’s intuition on this one?” you asked, feigning offence, “It feels like a boy.”

“What the hell does that even mean?” he chuckled, “How do you know what a boy feels like?”

You cocked an eyebrow at him, giving him a sultry and knowing look. He laughed and then went quiet, no more quips from him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said.

“I know, it’s just fun to tease you,” you giggled.

It was then the technician came into the room, with her the ultrasound machine that was wheeled in behind her by another nurse. You and Nero both tensed up a bit when the technician situated the machine and turned to you.

“Good morning, (Y/N), how are you feeling today?” she asked.

“Good I think,” you replied, “I’m not used to being pregnant.”

Nero rolled his eyes.

“Oh, you never get used to it,” she continued as she got the machine set up, “I’m on number three and it’s still a trip. Okay if you could just lay back for me and lift your shirt.”

You did as you were told, lying back and lifting your shirt above your swelling belly. Nero approached your side, his fingers interlocking with yours at your side as the technician spread the cold gel on your skin. You squeezed Nero’s hand as the tech moved the senor over your abdomen. You both watched with bated breath as the nebulous grey void on the screen shifted as the senor moved. The tech kept searching until she stopped.

She leaned in closer to the screen as she stared at the image, slightly adjusting the sensor. She looked back at your two with a smile.

“Right here. There they are,” she said in a sing song voice.

There was silence in the room. You and Nero looked at each other and then back at the ultrasound in shock.

“They?” you asked.

“Congratulations,” she said, “You’re having twins.”

Your shock still stayed on your face until it started to melt away into happiness. You brought a hand to cover your open mouth as you felt joyful tears prick at your eyes. Your grip on Nero’s hand tightened as you let out a mix of excited gasps and laughs. You looked to your husband who hadn’t moved an inch, his face sill frozen in utter surprise. You gave his hand another firm squeeze to bring him back to reality. When you looked into his eyes you also saw joy slowly etch across his handsome face. You could see the glaze of tears forming in his eyes too.

Twins.

You were having twins.

“Would you like to know the genders?” asked the technician who couldn’t help her own smile from watching the two of you.

“Yes!” you both almost yelled in unison.

“Well if you’ll look right here,” she said pointing to the screen, “Looks like we have a boy and a girl. Congrats Mr. and Mrs. Sparda.”

At this point you couldn’t contain yourself as the tears flowed down your cheeks.

“We were both right,” you said.

  You stroked the picture of your sonograph with your fingertips, reveling at your babies before placing the picture on the coffee table, right next to the card that your father in law slipped under your front door when you had made your announcement.

“I guess twins run in the family, huh?” you joked

“I can’t wait to meet them,” Nero said quietly as he stroked your stomach.

“Any name ideas?”

“I have a few…”

You hummed as you reached up to stroke his stubbled chin, pulling him down for a kiss.

“I already know exactly what you want to name our son. And I agree wholeheartedly,” you said.

“Oh, do you now?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, running your fingers through his hair and bringing his ear to your lips, “I think Credo is a great name.”

Nero only smiled as he snuggled closer to you, both of you slowly drifting off to sleep.

A/N: Feedback is appreciated :)