#get it? donut? finally a physical hole in his middle

[caelanglang]

(Pops up menacingly)...

MAKE SKK ANGST!!

BTW love ur art!

donut test me.

but thanks :))

[yuzukult]

Oh my gold! I really love your series From Home. This is actually one of my fav and I tend to reread it a lot. Thank you for sharing this wonderful masterpiece! And also, can I ask for a drabble from "From Home" where Jungkook will finally ask her to marry him- Thank you! 💖

— a from home drabble 03 title: donut rings word count: 1,322 prompt: when jungkook proposes. warnings: none! pg clean baby. some bad words tho. a/n: as requested!! i... sat on this for a while!! sorry. i got distracted and somehow it got lost in the depths of my other docs. :D hopefully this is good enough for you guys !! :D

“You’re doing it all wrong,” you snap, snatching the dough from Jungkook’s hand while rolling your eyes. “With those muscles, I thought you’d be better at kneading it harder.”

Jungkook smiles, a hearty laugh escaping from his chest as he shakes his head at your reaction. You’re still impatient, oftentimes shoving him out of the kitchen when he attempts to put effort in lending a hand, but you’re strict about him entering your “zone.” He’s doing his best though; he’s learned to make pasta (using the uncooked pasta from boxes in supermarket aisles and not freshly made dough that you prefer), and even cook rice in the rice cooker.

But spontaneously, he thought that teaching himself (or well, watching the Food Network show him) how to make homemade donuts from scratch would impress you. After all, just because you got the girl doesn’t mean you suddenly stop trying.

“I thought you weren’t going to be home until later,” he grins widely, cheeks and forehead smeared with flour, not to mention the dust that sprinkles across his apron and even onto his t-shirt underneath. “I wanted to surprise you.”

You scoff. “Surprise me with a messy kitchen?” Clicking your tongue, you nudge him to the side with your hip. “Sounds more like you’re asking me to get all pissy.”

Jungkook walks over from behind, snaking his arms around your frame while nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck. “I wanted to do something for you since you’ve been so swamped at work lately. Wouldn’t it be nice if you came home to your hot shot boyfriend making donuts?”

Sighing, you roll out the dough to be half an inch thick before reaching over for your donut cutter. “No. Especially when he’s doing it wrong. What’s the point of doing this if you’re just gonna fuck it up?”

Sometimes, your words can come off harsh. But Jungkook knows the love behind it, because there’s a lot of it and your actions are there to show it. The upgraded apartment the two of you share, to the furniture you bought together, and to those date nights that occur at least once a week, something you and him had collectively put a plentiful amount of into, Jungkook can confirm your love is real.

“Baby,” he calls you out warmly with that infatuated look on his face. “There’s obviously a learning curve. Gimme some time, will you?”

What really softens you is the way he still kisses your shoulder lovingly, disregarding your sharp tone because he can differentiate when you’re actually mad and when you’re just nagging. It slowly tugs a slight smile upon your lips, and the way the corner twitches signals Jungkook that he’s broken the barrier.

“How about we fry them together? That way you can see if I’m doing it wrong and correct me.”

“Fine.”

It’s a repeated and revisited lesson that Jungkook learns—home is not always physically a place, but sometimes and more often than not, is found in a person. A physical home is just a shelter, someplace where home is located.

And it’s you. You’re home.

He thinks about times he’s studied abroad, lived in Busan, at the estate, his old apartment and now here, how he’s lived in so many places but none of them felt like… this. This is what home is, and Jungkook would be an idiot to not tie it down while he can.

“Mingyu is engaged,” Jungkook casually mentions the name of a coworker he’s been spending a lot of time with lately while cautiously observing your reaction to the news. You don’t budge. “He’s been… waiting to propose for her for a while, and although she never stated the time, he figured he would guess and he did well… obviously.”

“Mmm,” you hum, unamused and not entirely listening. “Congrats to him.”

“Which brings the question—“

“When are we getting engaged?”

Jungkook freezes when you lift your head up to lock with his eyes, stunned at the boldness of your question. He was going to ease his way into the topic, but you’re faster than him.

Silent, he isn’t quite sure what to say. You’ve left him speechless, buffering like a YouTube video that refuses to load.

“Well?”

“I—“ he’s stuttering over his own words. “Well, yeah, I sorta wanted to know that.”

By now, there are a couple of donuts that have been fried and cooled, resting on top of a rack on the counter, and they’re starting to look tempting for reasons other than for eating. “Well, would you like to get married?”

He gives you that ‘you-know-the-answer’ look, but the expression you counter back with has him caving into defeat to give a straightforward answer. “Of course I want to marry you. You know I have—it’s never not crossed my mind. But I know how you are. You’re in no rush to do any of that, and that’s totally fine, I can wait—”

“Okay, let’s get married.”

Choking on his own saliva, it takes him a couple minutes to regain his breathing back to normal, but you continue to stand there, blinking blankly with metal tongs in hand as the donuts fry in a pool of oil in the pan. It’s a blunt way to execute a deeply important question like that, but coming from you, there doesn’t seem to be any stress or burden that carries with it that it normally does when people prepare to ask.

“What?”

“You want to get married. Let’s get married.”

“But you don’t want to get married.”

Grabbing a donut off the metal rack, you peek through the hole in the middle to glance at your awfully confused boyfriend, standing there in complete confusion at your unpredictable actions.

“Jeon Jungkook, you may think I don’t want to get married, and you’re sort of right. I don’t,” his shoulders drop at this revelation, admittingly disappointed by your confession, but you’re not done just yet. “But… I met you, and frankly, I still didn’t want to get married. When we started dating, I can’t exactly say that I felt like I was ready to get married, or the thought ever crossed my mind but… especially lately, I… I don’t know. It’s not like we have to get married but I like the idea of that for us.”

“So…” He chews on his bottom lip anxiously. “Does this mean…”

“Whenever you’re ready to get married, I’m ready.”

Face bright, Jungkook straightens himself in excitement. “Well, if you say it like that, it makes me wanna get married now.” Eyes skimming the room, nothing quite catches his eyes until he spots the donuts sitting on the rack. “How about…” Grabbing one, he peeks at you through the hole this time, taking your hand in his.

“My finger isn’t that big.”

“We can get the jewelers to readjust the size.”

A mischievous smile on his face, he can’t help but still push the donut onto your ring finger and hold it up into the light. “So, does this mean we can for real for real get married? I can call that jewelry store and set up an appointment. This… this is nice but… I wanna get you something better.”

Examining the donut that splits your fingers far apart in size, you can’t help but let out a laugh. “I guess that would be more appropriate and sustainable than a donut on my finger.”

“Well, you still look pretty nonetheless,” he says cheekily, holding your hand against his chest, just above his heart. “But you’re right. A donut would start molding.”

“Not to mention fall apart. It’s already crumbling because we’re moving so much.”

“Mm. Least our love isn’t crumbling.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Jungkook.”

With a kiss pressed to your palm, he smiles warmly into it. “I love you.”

And with a swollen, threatening to burst heart, Jungkook’s favorite phrase spills from your lips.

“Love you too.”

[helaintoloki]

#1 in the 50 Wordless Ways to Say “I Love You” with Five from TUA?

a/n: everyone say thank you to claire for helping me come up with this

taken from this prompt list

It’s been a really long time since you last had the chance to unwind and relax without having to worry about schoolwork, your parents’ impending and probably inevitable divorce, or any other shit that was important enough to eat away at your time. Now that it’s Friday you plan to catch up on all the good comic books you haven’t had the chance to read yet and finally pick up the novel that’s been collecting dust in the corner of your room. It’s a simple way to spend the evening and start your weekend, but lately simple has become a constant though appreciated comfort in your life.

After putting on your favorite vinyl record and setting up your reading spot (the ledge of your window) with snacks and the comfiest pillows you have, you take your stack of comics off the shelf and carry them over to get situated. However, the flash of blue light and the sudden presence of your pleasantly annoying friend in your room startles you into dropping the whole stack, and you watch defeated as the carefully plastic sealed books go fluttering down onto the carpet beneath you.

“He said no again,” Five scowls as he immediately begins to pace around your room, prompting you to sigh as you begin to pick up the mess. So much for a quiet Friday evening.

“Hello Five,” you greet calmly whilst returning your comic books back onto their respective shelves.

“He thinks I’m not ready,” he nearly snarls, looking to you like a man deranged with wild eyes and unruly hair. He’s too upset to notice the fact that one of his shirt tails is untucked from his uniform and his tie is crooked, and for his sake you don’t bother to mention it; it’ll just tick him off more.

“I’m doing fine, thanks for asking,” you reply in a neutral tone, but the sarcasm is there and Five lets out an annoyed sigh in response. He knows he’s being rude, but he’s too angry for pleasantries at the moment.

“Sorry,” he apologizes quickly, subduing his anger for a moment so that he can acknowledge you, “but this is complete bullshit! I know what I’m doing and I know I’m ready to time travel!”

“Five, why don’t you just stop and take a breath, you’re going to wear a hole in my carpet and then I won’t be able to buy another one because that was the last one they had in the store,” you complain, and this earns you a glare in response.

“If he’d just let me time travel I could go back and buy you a thousand of those tacky carpets!” Five exclaims.

“Oh, boy,” you sigh, and you know if you don’t do something soon Five is just going to combust right in the middle of your room and that won’t be any good. He’s trembling with rage like a feral little chihuahua, and you honestly half expect him to start foaming at the mouth.

“Five,” you call to get his attention, taking his shaking hands in your own and giving them a tight squeeze. The physical contact stops him in his tracks, his brows furrowing slight and shoulders rising up in slight apprehension. His first instinct is to pull away and shake you off, but his body is inclined to maintain your touch and so he stays. His trembles and shakes have dwindled significantly, and now he is only slightly sweaty and unhinged. “This is exactly why your old man doesn’t think your ready.”

“Y/n-“

“No, shut up, I’m talking,” you interject, because you know if you don’t assert your dominance in the conversation Five will just talk over you, “you need to take a breath and calm down. You really think you’ll be able to time travel when you’re all riled up like this?”

Five glowers at you and has to refrain from giving your hands an extra tight squeeze, but he knows you’re right and he hates you for it. He should have picked someone less intellectual and practical, but then again he liked when you challenged him. It made things exciting, gave him a rush he never got when conversing with his idiot siblings, and he had to appreciate you for it. You really were a good friend, even if he refused to say so out loud.

“You’re literally the smartest person I know, if anyone’s going to be able to time travel it’s you, so I really don’t think you should rush into it just yet,” you advise. “I know how awful it is to admit when your parents are right, but maybe just this once old Reggie knows what he’s talking about.”

A long sigh leaves Five, and he isn’t sure why the hell he’s still holding hands with you, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t feel really nice and soothing to his jumbled up nerves. His shaking has stopped completely, and this time he does give your hands the gentlest of squeezes.

“I hate to admit it, but you’re right,” he finally says. “Sorry for ruining your night.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” you assure with a small smile. “In fact, I’m kind of in the mood for some hot chocolate. Wanna go to Griddy’s?”

“I do,” Five nods with a faint smile before spacial jumping the two of you down to the donut shop. Thank god Five has someone like you to keep him in check, because he knows good and well that you’re often 90% of his impulse control. Your talk will keep him at bay for now, but Five can only wait for so long before he throws all caution to the wind and travels without his father and without you.

He really should have listened to you.

[jimincanbreakmyspine]

Oh baby • Knj pt. 2

🌻 Kim Namjoon x Single mother Reader

🌻 Genre: fluff, angst, smut

🌻 Word Count: 1,628

🌻 Warnings: Grinding? Implies they have sex? I don't know.

🌻 A/N: I actually had 80% of this written but my phone shut off before I could save it. Also there was kinda a big plot hole in the last chapter, Y/n knew who Namjoon was, she was dating Choi Minho and doesn't necessarily get "fangirlish" around idols.

Walking into my studio I'm greeted by my best friend Bee. "Good morning Y/n and Minnie." She comes around the reception desk and hugs Minnie, making eye contact with me showing she already knows why she isn't with Minho. "Minnie baby, go wait for me in the class and here take this." I hand her my phone knowing she would plug it into my speaker and dance. She kisses my cheek and skips to my classroom.

"Please explain to me me why you won't file for full custody of Minnie?" Bee asks as soon as we see Minnie is gone.

"You know I wouldn't win easily, Minho has his whole company to back him up while I have nothing, he makes more money than I do even though I have my own business teaching people to dance, he's an idol. There's no way I could win the case knowing how powerful and corrupt his company is, I might as well just have joint custody." Bee places her hand on top of mine. I look at her and see the sadness in her eyes, she understands what I'm talking about. Choi Minho is my ex boyfriend. Minnie's father.

"You know, you're an amazing mother. You're basically raising your 6 year old daughter by yourself, while running your own business. You never have time for yourself though." I look at her and see the mischievous glint in her eyes. "I say, you leave her with your parents for the night and we go do something. Let loose for once, you know?"

"And by let loose you mean get drinks and get laid?" She chuckles knowing I'm right.

"Come on we haven't gone out in forever! I'm sure your parents would love to babysit Minnie." Knowing she was right I gave in. How could I say no? After agreeing to the plan I walk to my classroom. When I walk in, Minnie doesn't notice me. She's too focused on on her graceful movements. Minnie is a talented dancer for a 6 year old. I figured she would be, Minho being an amazing dancer and me who has always danced. Soon she notices me.

"Come dance with me mommy." I walk over to her and dance with her. My body moving to the beat of Monsta x's song Dramarama, Minnie's favorite song to blast in the apartment.  Soon the song ends and my daughter lies on the floor exhausted. I chuckle at what she says.

"That donut did me no good today."

Soon class starts and she goes to her corner watching me teach and play her games.

__________________________________________________________________________________

"Hi mom, are you sure you're fine watching her?" I was currently at my parents house dropping off Minnie.

"Oh Y/n you know we don't have a problem watching her. Go have fun tonight. We understand." I hug my mom and dad after thanking them getting into Bee's car. Soon we are on our way to the club.

Sweating body's grind all over each other, all over the place. Bee drags me over to the bar.

"Two of your cocktails please." The bartender grabs our drinks and slips Bee a wink. "I think I found my treat for the night." She says taking a sip of her drink. I cringe both mentally and physically.

"Please never ever say that again." We laugh and after finishing around cocktail we head to the dance floor. I away my hips to the beat. Letting the music control my movements since I don't feel my buzz yet.

"Okay I think wearing jeans was a bad idea. I'm going to go get another drink." I walk over to the bar, waiting for the bartender to notice me.

"Well hello again." I look over and see him. The man from the coffee shop this morning. Kim Namjoon. Leader of BTS. "Mind if I buy you a drink?"

"Go ahead." He orders our drinks and it comes immediately.

"Now, I'm assuming you don't have a husband. Am I right?" I shake my head. And turn down to look at the drink in my hand.

"No and I plan on keeping it that way. I've never been married. Unless you've been living under a rock for the past 6 years you've probably seen the few articles regarding Choi Minho and my daughter." I finally make eye contact with him.

"I don't really take a look at articles regarding many artists these days actually. I think my friend Taehyung has mentioned Minho and news surrounding him but that's only because they acted together."

"Oh trust me, I know Taehyung. Nice kid. Minnie loved him. Misses him too. She enjoys your music, if she isn't listening to Monsta X it's you guys." His face lights up.

"Ahh so you do know who I am." I chuckle.

"How could I not, your face is all over Korea." We talk and order more drinks. Being able to tell I'm not sober.

"So what exactly do you do for a living?"

"I own my own dance studio. Mostly teaching pop and hip hop to middle schoolers to older people, but I studied contemporary the most in school." Dancing has been my first love. Ever since my mother put me through dance camp in 2nd grade."

"After dance for so many years of being an idol my body still rejects dancing." He leans into my ear and whispers in a husky voice. "Maybe you can give me a private lesson."

Maybe it was all the stress of Minho. Of being a single parent. Maybe it's because of all the alcohol in my system but as soon as he said that I'm dragging him down to the dance floor drinks forgotten. Facing my back to him and placing his hands on my hips. The music and alcohol flowing through my system. We both sway together.

"By the way I think you look absolutely beautiful tonight." I turn around and wrap my arms around his neck.

"You don't look too bad yourself." Sudden he brings his head down to my neck. His breath ticking my neck.

"Wouldn't this look bad for you? Choi Minho's ex seen with bts member Namjoon." His lips end up on my neck.

"Maybe we should really go somewhere private then?" Maybe it really the alcohol in my system. Next thing I know we're in the back of a cab making out on the way to his place.

"Okay love birds we're here." Namjoon pays for the cab and he drags me inside. Taking me to his room.

________________________________________________________________

The first thing I wake up to is the sun shining in my face and the sound of a shower going on. I shoot up out of my bed. Except it's not my bed or my room. I look around the room and see my clothes from last nice all over the room. Oh god where am I? Where's my phone? I need to go pick up Minnie. I gather and change into my clothes, quickly texting my mom I'll pick Minnie up by 10 seeing it was only 8. just as I'm buttoning my pants I hear the bathroom door creak open.

"Oh good morning Y/n. I would you like anything for your head? Water? How about a shower?" I couldn't help but let my eyes trail down from his face to the towel around his waist.

"Uh... no it's okay I need to go and um pick up Minnie." He walks over to dresser and grabs a bottle of aspirin. Handing me the bottle.

"Thank you but I really should get going. It was nice seeing you Namjoon." Without letting him say anything I walk out of his room not knowing that I was in his dorm and seeing Kim Seokjin look at me with a horrific expression on his face. I try to quickly get out of the walk of shame I haven't experience in such a long time. I wish I never had to experience it ever. I get in a cab and make my way to my apartment.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Minnie extremely happy to be back home. Of course she loves spending time with my parents. I think she just enjoys being home with me. Currently we were on our way to pick up snacks and dinner. I thought it would be a good idea to have a movie day considering I still have a minor headache  from the previous night

"Mommy can we get pizza? And ice cream? Oh how about-" I cut her off.

"Woah slow down, yes we can get pizza but we can't get a lot of sweets, okay? So you can either have ice cream or candy." Minnie pouts as I chuckle. Deciding she wanted ice cream instead.

"Okay baby, you have to choose." Minnie couldn't decide which flavor she wanted.

"You know, you could get the chocolate dipped cones with both the strawberry and chocolate ice cream." Me and Minnie both look and see Namjoon getting ice cream himself. Minnie runs over and grabs the boxes of ice cream he was talking about.

"Okay well thank you Namjoon, we'll be on way. Come on baby." We start to walk away until he calls out.

"Hey Y/n, can we talk?" Really? If this is about last night it's not a good idea to talk about it. Especially infront of my 6 year old.

"Now's not a good time actually. Maybe soon other time." For a moment I thought I saw a flash of hurt across his face before I walked away.

"I like Namjoon. He's nice." I look at Minnie smiling.

"He really is."

Taglist

@namjoonsslutakakoreanmanswhore

[secular-jew]

Zio Upbringings and Kvetchings in the Trumpian era

Zio Upbringings and Kvetchings in the Trumpian era.

I'm an American Jew who has does not suffer from moral wavering. I'm also an American Reform Jew that is neither Kashrut nor Kosher-observant.

My synagogue growing up was located in the the Boston suburbs, nestled amidst Protestant communities and dotted with Jews who somehow landed a port shy of Ellis Island. Attended shul almost exclusively during important Holidays and Hebrew school weekends through Bar-Mitvah.

At the age of 10, I remember the start to the Soviet-armament-supplied multilateral Arab-state war against Israel, a Pearl-Harbor style event lasting three harrowing weeks and almost wiping Israel off the map.

Word spread fast to reach North American Jews some 5,500 miles (8,800 kms) to the west. I remember hearing the tragic news Saturday morning during Yom Kippur services. The attack occupied 100% of the Sermon delivered by our Rabbi, who was known as Moses because he actually looked and spoke like Moses. He worried aloud that this could portend the end of our homeland, but concluded that the spark of Zionism was eternal: something that could never be extinguished by modern would-be colonizers. This thought that resonated deeply inside my soul.

This was thankfully a war that Israel survived, but was also a battle that Golda Meir ultimately lost, as she resigned just 1 month following her Labor Party's 1974 election win. Remember her final words as Israel's leader: "I have reached the end of my road."

My first physical intersection with Israel occurred in my late teens and early 20's, when I visited extensively what was the modern chapter of an 4,000-year old ancient Jewish story. Exploring 1979-1982 Israel meant stints to some obvious places; Jerusalem, Tel-Aviv, Haifa, Jaffa, Tiberius, and Eilat, Sinai (including a climb up/down Mt Sinai), the northern Golan Heights, the donut-hole known as Hebron, and the Dome of the Rock, the Jew's oldest extant relic. This is the place where Abraham is said to submitted to God's request that he sacrifice his son. Strange how this shrine has now submitted to a colonialist Islamic overlord.

Then came the Kibbutz experience, which meant living the communal lifestyle in Lower Galilee, sleeping on cots in the international guest quarters, up at 4:30am transported out to the fields, and picking pears until it got so hot, you felt like you were standing on the side of the sun.

All well worth the effort as the work day ended around lunch, at which point, we ate a lot of hummus and squeezed copious quantities of ruby-red Israeli grapefruits chilling in large stainless steel refrigerators. After lunch, we cooled down in the community pool, and in the evenings, hung with our Israeli contemporaries while listening to Bob Marley or the Doors, and smoking hashish for the first time. These are two experiences that transcended culture. I felt so at home, and even gained a Sabra girlfriend by the name of Rachel רָחֵל‎ (pictured).

In short, what I considered to be a typical Reform Jewish-American upbringing. (Or American-Jewish?)

Fast forward to present political leanings. Raised a JFK-liberal (liberal in its true meaning; rooted in idea-tolerance and acceptance of diverse views).

As a middle-schooler, I recollect being enamored by McGovern, although not sure exactly how or why. We were all indoctrinated into believing Nixon (one of the greatest friends to Israel, not something I had any clue about) was innately evil. Looking back at that period now, my political stylings appear to have been crafted mainly by academia, the news media, and my peers - all who seemed driven by a sanitized, 1980's version of TDS that could have been called: 'Nixon Derangement Syndrome.'

Once legal age, I was a 'de rigeur' Democrat, which thankfully lasted only a few short minutes. Not able to cast a vote in the 1976 election, I remember nonetheless favoring Jimmy Carter, a folksy down-to-earth ex-peanut-farmer who seemed very popular in the state of Massachusetts where I grew up. Carter morphed into nothing less than a clueless and spineless "progressive" who oversaw the dismantling of principled American leadership.

In high school, a few of us in the dormitory got to stay up late every night to watch "The Iran Crisis–America Held Hostage: Day "xxx" (where xxx represented the number of days that Iranians held the occupants of our U.S. Embassy hostage). The only TV in the building was located in the dorm-masters living room. I watched sitting next to my hall-mate Abdullah Hussein, the same person who became the King of Jordan and who sits on the Hashemite apartheid throne today. We had many discussions in which I defended Israel and lauded her accomplishments in defeating Arab imperialism, while Abdullah retorted with accusations of Jewish occupation and bloodlust at Deir Yassin. I did not have enough knowledge of the incident or of earlier examples of Arab genocide (such as the Hebron massacre and other Jewish genocides) to counter-punch effectively.

During my college years, I tended towards Democrat "moral" policies and candidates, until that goofy Georgian came along. At first, I naively admired Carter's straightforward folksy persona. But eventually, the President’s peanut incompetence drove me to #WalkAway from a party-lone Democrat.

I was proud of myself for making an independent decision (pun intended) and have little idea if any of my peers followed suit, but suffice to say, I have voted forcefully against Democrats up and down the ticket pretty much ever since, with a few exceptions. I consider Trump an pragmatic Independent masquerading as a Republican, not dissimilar to Democrat Bloomberg - who as Mayor of NYC masqueraded as a Republican.

Much as my odium for Carter drove me to #Jexit and advocate for Reagan, my contempt for Obama's virulently anti-America values drove me to become a self-assertive 'deplorable.' Between Reagan and Trump, every other voting-booth decision appeared to present itself as largely a Hobson's choice between a lesser of two evils.

Although Trump possesses virtually no tact and represents the antithesis of my personal style, I appreciate the skill and speed with which he accomplishes things, from building tall luxury residential condos -- to creating a global brand, to the refurbishment of Wolman's Rink in Central Park. His support of Israel, unlike his predecessors, is legion, documented, and consistent. Trump not only moved the Embassy to its rightful place, not only installed an incredible Ambassador, not only praises Israel at every turn, he constantly rebukes Israel's enemies (who should be everyone's enemies). I love that Israel renamed the Golan Heights in his honor. It's almost better than getting the Rec Room in the Ft. Lauderdale condo named after someone rich in your extended family.

Today? There's no political party for me. The Democrats are a shrill hodgepodge of looney-tunes and ill-tolerant blabbermouths who are given way too much airtime on CNN and what I now call MSLSD (aka, MSDNC).

In terms of policy, On social issues like marriage equality, I'm a dyed-in-the-wool Liberal. On local/national fiscal issues, I'm a decided Conservative. On international affairs, I'm a Hawk who majored in International Relations while attending Sciences-Po in Paris (an excuse to massively inhale croque-monsieurs) and firmly believe the US had relevant ethical global leadership responsibilities, a mantle given up by Europe. This meant leading from the front, not from behind. My philosophy became characterized by the notion that appeasement of tyrannies led by autocrats or theocrats was a policy doomed to failure, proven again and again throughout every civilization. Appeasement in the face of aggression has led to more death and destruction, and more insecurity, not less.

It's becoming evident, sadly, that history promises to repeat. Why? This seems to happen in a matter of a few generations. Case in point: Millennials (aka snowflakes) who are too far removed from the trauma of warfare to comprehend evil. Millennials steeped and indoctrinated in re-written and falsified academic narratives. Millennials who virtue signal intolerantly through the lens of victimization. The generation that seems to have lost a sense of moral courage and severed any emotional ties to the 'never-forget' tragedies that are meant to not be forgotten.

My thoughts on our homeland:

I'm a devout 2-state (Israel-Jordan) Zionist as per the 1917 Balfour Declaration and affirmed by the 1920 San Remo Conference (attended by Chaim Weizmann). I see Israel as an inherently Jewish state in its DNA, but which is secular in its jurisprudence.

Next year in Jerusalem.

[pinkletterday]

Writer's Year In Review

This year has been a revelation. I went from deeply, irrevocably believing I can't write fiction at all to knowing that I'm actually pretty good at it!

It's given me the confidence to find work as a freelance writer and editor in real life, after years of unemployment and anxious paralysis resulting from chronic illness and trauma. A lot of other factors also helped but the fic writing played a huge role in getting my shit together.

General Fic Stats:

Word Count on AO3: 92284

Fics posted to AO3: 23

Favourite Fic:

Kiss It Better (Westallen).This fic is my baby. I love little Iris and little Barry in it so much, the hurt and confusion in each other they attempted to heal, how that healing carried into their adult love and family. It will always and always be my favourite thing I have ever written. Wee!stallen is my jam, and the reason I ship them so damn hard.

Do Not Go Gentle (Westallen). Ngl, I love this for the sheer amount of truly gratifying comments. Every single one of them have been emotional and flaily. It all makes me feel like I may have finally levelled up. Hallelujah. xD

Funniest Fic:

The Care and Feeding (Queenwestallen). This is my ultimate OT3. This fic, written as a list and discussion is 95% humour and contains some of my best banter and (I feel) characterization. An element I'm really proud of is how I managed to center and include all their important non-romantic relationships in their conversations. Iris's boisterous female friends, Oliver's friends, Cisco and Caitlin's snarky commentary all shoehorned themselves into the list with hilarious and wholesome results. 

It's not a popular OT3 but I feel like it's a good first attempt to drag this ship to water. xD

Cutest Fic:

Dancing Queen (Olivarry). Even after a year this contiues to be the fic with the highest kudos ratio (except for the more recent one) and the second most bookmarked. I love getting comments on this because they are all some variation of "my teeth hurt. I have diabetes!" xD Well, I did build it around a rainbow sprinkle icing sugar donut, but there is a significant dollop of angst there in the middle. A flangst donut.

Your Vigil In My Keeping (Westallen). This fic has less than 200 hits but has the highest kudos ratio of all. I guess kid fic isn't everyone's cup of tea, but Wee!stallen is cute af yo. I headcanon the origins of Barry and Iris's steadfast partnership in this story, where her faith and belief in him is as strong as his protectiveness of her, all tied up in the language and innocence of children.

Kinkiest Fic:

WA Smut and Kink Collection. I literally just posted this yesterday lol. So far it's just a face-sitting short, but I have quite a few hard and soft kinks lined up. Westallen needs more hard smut tbh, and they have such a unique powerfully loving dynamic that every kink I'm writing has required me to come at it a little bit sideways with a whole lot of emotional focus.

Saddest Fic:

Three fics I can't choose from.

Do Not Go Gentle (Westallen). This is basically Iris's grief and fear in a raging tempest, and it's strongly implied that the future Nora has warned them of will come to pass regardless of what they do. The fact is that there already is and will be a timeline where Iris loses Barry, just as there must be one where she won't, because that is the nature of potentiality. 

The Paradigm of Uncertainty (Westallen). This was a drabble almost, that ruminates on the probability that speedsters do not erase timelines but abandon them, along those versions of their loved ones. It's as @rkwago's brilliant comment says: "Iris hurts in so many weird, cosmic ways that her life is almost an eldritch horror house," which is the most perfect description ever of what it means to be a time traveller's wife.

The Universal Constant (Gen, background WA). A lot of people find the way Barry goes off on Joe cathartic in this fic, and so do I. But it's not so simple. I don't think Joe was wrong to form the views he did, or that anyone was in the wrong really. As @sophiainspace pointed out, it's a mediation of grief and love, their parallels and continuations between parents and children and lovers. The fact that it takes Henry's death for Barry to find the adult language to articulate to Joe why he will always believe in his father's innocence is a tragedy that cuts three ways.

(This fic is also the reason I have a folder in my drive marked "how to get away with murder" and probably a likely reason to get me arrested one day. xD)

Most Popular Fic:

Strangers In The Cold (Coldflash). The Coldflash fandom is a joy to feed. This was my first smut fic which was preceded by an entire chapter of banter about nothing in particular (except it ended up establishing a background that gave birth to the Coldflash vs Olivarry polyam series) And holy wow, for a newbie writer, the response has been amazing. Looking back, I wince at a lot of writing mistakes and its undeniably rough, but it really bolstered my confidence.

(I feel a little guilty that all my other CF stories are still in my WiP folder while I update the polyam series at snail's pace.)

The Shape of Us (Westallen). I wrote this on tumblr half-asleep one night, half as a rambly headcanon...and woke up to literally one hundred freaking notes. What the hell. Now at over 260, it's the most popular fic I've ever posted on tumblr.

I never consciously intended it to be a body-positivity fic but apparently women really relate to the insecurities of growing older and watching our bodies change with marriage, children and the sheer hectic pace of life. Even my non-fandom friends reblogged it simply for its representation of "real women". Barry's response is my own wish fulfillment fantasy; the sort of total acceptance and validation that we wish we could hear it the times we can't find it in ourselves. In light of the virulent body-shaming Candice Patton has been subjected to ever since she was revealed to have gained a fuller figure in S5, I'm very glad to have written it.

Least Popular Fic:

Carry On (Gen) This character study of Oliver Queen only has 135 hits a year after posting, which is par for the course with gen. But has a solid 12% kudos ratio, which means it's probably as good as I think it is. It's one of my favourite and easiest fics I have ever written.

Love Me Like You Do (Olivarry) Lordy, if my first Coldflash smut filled me with confidence, my first Olivarry smutfic all but ruined it. I struggled with it for a long time, unlike SitC, which I suppose shows in the over-descriptions. I got carried away with the quipping and I guess Barry topping at all is really not popular with slash fans?

Still, I'm honestly toying with the idea of deleting and rewriting it. At least it was a learning experience - don't write smut unless it makes you feel horny yourself.  

Most Challenging Fic:

Do Not Go Gentle (Westallen). I think the reason stories you knock off in two hours are instantly popular while the ones you slaved over for weeks barely get any attention is because the process is reflected in the ease of reading. But this one is an exception. It was an absolute monster, taking three weeks and several revisions to wrestle into submission - and it paid off in spades!  Going by the response, I seem to have achieved the wow factor I was going for.

My only regret is that I posted it on tumblr before the last revision that finally made it work, so that too many readers saw the lacklustre version rather than the polished one.

Honorable Mention:

A Stitch In Time (Olivarry for now, eventual Queenwestallen) Baby's first multi-chapter! Admittedly chapters 3 and 4 have been languishing in my drive for a few months now and this thing has 100% more deleted scenes and outtakes posted to my tumblr than the actual story on AO3. But I'm so proud of it! I learned to write action scenes because of it, how to write climaxes, dream sequences, news articles and tell a story in several different formats. It made me rediscover my empathy for Felicity and write her as a PoV character, think deeply on Laurel Lance's losses and give voice to her struggles, and explore how a real friendship and understanding could evolve between Oliver and Iris out of their mutual love for Barry. (Centering female characters within manpain narratives, ftw! Otoh, I centered Iris so much it veered off the Olivarry rails into Queenwestallen territory on its own)

There is so much meaty conflict and delicious looming disaster in this story that I'm determined going to keep at it, even if slow and steady. If only to bring the light of Barry/Iris/Oliver into the world. xD

Holding On (Olivarry). This real-world disability AU deals with chronic and mental illness and the precariousness and personal demons of that reality. I tore out the rawest parts of my life for this fic and put them on display so that I couldn't bear to show it to anyone for a year after it was written.

I'm very glad I did finally brush it off and put it up because it has struck a chord with so many people, especially other Spoonies. The low number of hits on a fic that deals in hurt/comfort rather stings, as I can't help but think the disinterest is because of the "disability" and "neurodivergence" tags. But I still think it's one of the best things I've written and one I'll always be proudest of.

General Reflections:

Things I've learned over the past year of writing:

- Self-deprecation is not my friend. I need to be honest enough with myself to acknowledge when my writing is good, because either I self-validate and build confidence or I become a black hole of insecurity where validation goes to die. And if I think I'm a bit better than I actually am, it's not just okay but necessary to believe it.

- What I call writer's block is perfectionism, anxiety and physical and mental fatigue. If I don't eat, sleep, hydrate and acheive a relaxed mental state, I won't be able to write. 

- Momentum is more my friend than any amount of inspiration and motivation. Sitting my ass down and make it a habit to churn out X number of words a day, even bad writing, will do more to help me than polishing an idea to a high shine. 

- If I don't forgive myself for the stories I can't write I'll never write anything. I am doing this for free, to share the love and joy and therefore obligated to no one. 

- I'm capable of writing things I don't have the first idea how to write. My fingers on a keyboard can paint the picture my brain can't visualize. 

I don't believe in New Year's resolutions, but I am going to make it a personal goal to write at least 15k words per month, learn to stick to a posting schedule where possible.  and end next year with an additional 150k words posted. 

To everyone who follows this blog, commented, reblogged and liked my posts - I see and remember and appreciate every one of you. You're the reason I feel seen and valued and why I am motivated to keep writing through all the difficulties life throws at me. <3<3<3

[tjkiahgb]

Episode Recap: 2.15, “Perfect Day 2.0″

The episode starts with the GHC thinking about how to spend their last week together. Cyrus says, “It’s the world’s saddest countdown,” which isn’t true.

This is the world’s saddest countdown:

(This is a joke about someone doing a poor cover version of the song “The Final Countdown” by the band Europe. They were big in the 1980s. Ask your parents what the 1980s were.)

They decide they’ll recreate their perfect day, which, in my opinion, is a mistake. Perfect is a crazy bar to clear. You shouldn’t aim that high. I say aim to recreate a fairly good to decent day, like the time I spent a whole day eating Bagel Bites and watching a marathon of “House Hunters International.” Or the day I had three meals that were just fine and saw a cool cloud. Or the day I slept through.

The GHC commits to the plan, though, and get their bikes fixed up to take off on adventure.

They begin by doing some of the shakiest bike riding I’ve ever seen and Andi says this:

Which feels like a personal shot at me, because that’s all I’m doing here. I’m reading into everything. Including this line of dialogue. Which is a personal attack.

The GHC bikes through the countryside into the woods in search of pumpkin donuts, which seems like an Autumn-based seasonal product? Is this Autumn still? I thought last episode they were trying to get Buffy to stay until the end of the school year, so I assume it’s Spring-ish? I’ve lost all control of the timeline. I want to assume it’s Spring, but I have a tough time believing this store would do something so stupid as to sell pumpkin donuts out-of-season when there’s so much good, fresh fruit available! Who runs a small business out in the middle of the woods like this?!

Also, this seems way off the beaten path. They did this same trip years ago? Like when they were small children? That’s a lot of rope to give 8 year olds. Celia let Andi bicycle into the woods and buy sugary treats, huh? Ok.

Anyway, the GHC get cider and pumpkin donuts.

Back in town, Jonah gets an anxiety-induced attack.

Jonah appears to just be going everywhere now in a constant state of panic. He bursts into the music store where Bowie’s hanging out, panting and pacing. 

He’s also wearing half of a Def Leppard shirt and half of another shirt that’s also maybe a different Def Leppard shirt? I can’t make heads or tails of it. It just says “Def Le” and becomes another shirt. Like Jonah’s having so many panic attacks, he’s ripping his shirts in half and piecing them back together at random.

Bowie tries to calm him down and teach him some guitar chords. Jonah plays the chords with body language of someone defusing a bomb.

Bowie asks if he wants to play more. Jonah asks if the store manager will mind, which, of course not. If you don’t want hippy-looking dudes and teenagers just hanging around your store, playing music and not buying things, then you don’t open a guitar shop! It comes with the territory! Bowie invites Jonah to come watch him play a show sometime. Jonah agrees.

The GHC get ready to leave the food shack in the woods when they discover 2/3 of their bikes have been stolen, which is horrible. Used to be you could go out into the middle of the woods and not have to worry about crime. Nowadays? The world’s going to heck in a hand basket, I tell ya.

I wonder where TJ is.

Buffy says they should call Bex. Andi doesn’t want to because they need to recreate their perfect day down to the smallest detail. She thinks they can all ride on her old bike, which they can’t, so they start walking.

A bee, possibly the one that came near him earlier in the episode, comes after Cyrus. Cyrus takes off running.

I don’t know if it’s Josh the person bleeding through or Josh the actor is doing an amazing job pretending to be a very uncoordinated character, but every physical thing Cyrus does, from bike riding to running, looks incredibly laborious.

Cyrus ends up with his foot in a hole. He loses his shoe to nature. They try to figure out how they’re going to continue when, dear God a county sheriff officer is right up on top of them in her SUV. She came up really quick and out of nowhere like some kind of spirit guide of the forest that drives a very quiet Ford Explorer and rescues lost children.

The sheriff offers them a ride and they start getting into the car.

Meanwhile, Jonah and Bowie are having themselves a little jam session.

Bowie figures out there’s more going on with Jonah and that he’s having panic attacks. Jonah admits he’s not seeing a doctor about it, and though he doesn’t want to keep having them, it seems his plan is to just tough it out, ducking into random places to wait out his constant attacks until he either finds himself back in a relationship or... dies of old age? I’m not here to judge anyone’s choices regarding their mental health, but I got to say, I feel like that’s not going to work.

Jonah asks Bowie not to tell Andi. He says he won’t, but adds that he thinks she’d understand, which, yeah, probably. She’s been friends with Cyrus for this long and he’s like a walking panic attack. I’m sure she’s figured out some stuff by now.

Bowie says Jonah has talent and offers to give him lessons. I guess it’s a pretty lucky thing Jonah came into the music store where Bowie was and didn’t run into the bakery or something. Although, he could also have a talent for making pastries. The world will never know now.

Back in the woods, the GHC finally finish getting into the sheriff’s car. It took them a very long time. At least two static scenery transition shots worth. They see their stolen bikes being ridden away and ask the sheriff to stop the thieves, but the sheriff gets a call about a grand theft auto, so she’s got to go to that. Used to be you could park your car in town and not have to worry about it getting stolen. Nowadays? Heck in a hand basket. Heck in a hand basket.

What do you think TJ’s up to at this very moment?

The sheriff drops them back off at the donut place. They realize too late that they left almost all of their stuff in the back of the cop car. The sheriff is gone before they can get her attention. (Life pro tip: if you want a police officer to come to you, all you need to do is commit a crime, like violating a noise ordinance, or getting publicly intoxicated, or armed robbery. There’s almost literally no place you can’t commit a crime. Get creative. The GHC, for example, could’ve burned down the closed donut shop. Arson would’ve brought the sheriff back with all of their stuff in a hurry.)

Cyrus’ phone has 2% life in it. Buffy wants to call Bex to come get them, but Andi doesn’t want to give Bex the satisfaction of knowing she was right. Andi goes to tell Bex, but then bails as Cyrus and Buffy scream and the phone dies. Bold move on Andi’s part. I, too, would rather die in the woods than let my parents know they were right about something trivial.

Andi admits this craziness is all because she wants Buffy to leave with a good memory. The bee returns and stings Cyrus.

Look, off-topic maybe a little here, but I’m with Cyrus in his hatred of bees. I know, I know, everyone now is all like, “Bees are important. The bees are dying and we don’t know why. It could ruin the planet! Save the bees! Save the bees!” I’m like, nah, kill ‘em all. Do it. And while we’re at it: wasps, yellow jackets, any bug that can sting or bite. Dead. All of them. Also, cockroaches. They don’t sting or bite, but I hate them, too. Let’s just do it and see what happens. I bet we’ll be fine. And if not, the human race can go extinct knowing that at least we took the bees with us. That’s enough of a victory in my book.

Anyway, the GHC march through a field and are saved by a Deus Bex Machina (this is a really good joke, trust me). Bex takes them all back to town and to The Spoon where they joke about their misadventure. It won’t be remembered as their worst day, but possibly their craziest.

They then see two boys wearing shirts from the Alpine slide they never made it to and jump to the wild conclusion that those are the bike thieves. With rage in their eyes, and madness in their hearts, the GHC vows to get revenge.

They run out of the restaurant and steal the two boys’ bikes. They get 30 feet away before realizing the bikes they’re on aren’t theirs. Then they laugh wildly about their larceny.

Used to be a time you could park your bike outside the local diner and not have to worry about it being stolen by a group of maniacs. Heck, hand basket, and all that.

They suddenly remember they only have a week together again and the mood sours. They hug and say they’ll see each other tomorrow. Andi and Cyrus go to return the bikes and Buffy does this:

She turned around! Which, as anyone who’s paid attention to the show understands, means she:

a. likes Andi

b. likes Cyrus

c. likes stolen bikes

We’ll have to wait to find out, though, because that’s where the episode ends.

Unrelated, but I bet whatever TJ was up to during this episode was good. Like, I bet he was off practicing free throw shooting, or helping the elderly eat food or something. Whatever he was doing, I bet it wasn’t thievery, which is more than I can say for some of the characters on this show.

[it-was-so-human]

Everybody's waiting for the next surprise

Her family was falling apart and Sansa can’t fix it and she can’t force pumpkins down their throats no matter how hard she tries. Jon and Sansa. ~2,200 words

Also on AO3

@jonxsansafanfiction Day 3 - Pumpkins! 

Autumn was undeniably Sansa Stark’s season. There was just something about the crisp clean air and excitement that came with Halloween and the changing leaves. 

(Leaves that were a perfect match for her auburn hair.)

((And autumn trees paired with a cute sweaters and killer boots? It made for a stellar Instagram post.))

But even though she was home now, it just didn’t feel right. October was supposed to be cold and instead it was currently a balmy 67 degrees which made little to no sense (expect for you know, climate change.)

At this rate, they would never have a chilly autumn. And who knows what winter would be like? 

Sansa needed the kind of cold that you feel in your very bones to make everything feel real.  Right.

She sighed deeply. The cold would make things feel right, even though nothing has been right in quite some time.

Sansa just wanted to be a little girl again, sniffing that her dad made wear her North Face parka over her sparkly princess costume while trick or treating. Tiara on her head, waddling down the sidewalk on a chilly autumn (early) evening.  

She had transferred back north this year for her sophomore year. Going to college in the south was a bad idea. As cute as dressing up for tailgates sounded in theory, she was a northern girl and belonged up north. Besides, Michigan was in her blood, and she had basically broken faith with the Starks when she went elsewhere. That spot was where her parents went on their first date, around the corner was Robb’s fraternity, and that’s where Bran twisted his ankle after a football game.

She just belonged here. (Go Wolverines!)

And Jon was here too, a senior now and had been so very good about taking her under his wing. From well-timed coffee breaks to walking her home from the library at night to taking her to parties without acting ridiculously protective. 

(Jon was… who Jon was… is complicated. His mother was her father’s childhood family friend. He had adored her. Lyanna had Jon very young and she died when Jon was still a toddler. Raised by his Uncle Mormont, a stern former army commander, it was natural Jon was drawn to the chaos and warmth of the Stark home. He was also conveniently her brother Robb’s best friend.

She remembered ugly whispers when she was young that Ned was Jon’s father. Ned had always treated Jon like a son and they did have similar coloring. And despite there being no truth to the gossip, Jon was always a point of contention between her parents. Maybe that’s why Sansa never really warmed to Jon, she was always Catelyn’s little shadow. 

Besides, he would rather run around with Robb and Arya. He never had time for playing dress up with her. But now that they’re older, she can appreciate his brand of thoughtful seriousness.)

((And this lovely smile he would send her way every now and then that made her just feel.))  

There was another reason it felt right coming back north. Since her father passed away last spring, she wanted to be closer to home. Closer to her family.

Her mother dealt with the grief over losing the love of her life by throwing herself into helping Robb succeed at the family business.

Robb who was overworked and looked like the weight of the world was on his shoulders at 24. Stressed and exhausted after taking over his father’s role. 

But there was still Arya, Bran, and Rickon and they needed her and she wanted to be there for them. Her heart was aching to be there.

Halloween was their dad’s warm up for the holiday season. They were one of those families. Respected in the boardroom, Eddard Stark however was a family man first and foremost. What’s the point of so many kids if you don’t have matching holiday sweaters, her father would simply shrug. 

Her parents went all out for the holidays. The Thanksgiving turkey was comically huge, the Christmas tree towering, the lights outside the house absolutely blinding, the Easter eggs intricately decorated.

She had planned to get the family to their favorite farm last weekend, they could pretend to get lost in the hay maze and mildly spooked by the middling haunted barn. Go to the orchard and pick apples and drink warm apple cider with a sprinkle of cinnamon and buy the boys apple cinnamon donuts and watch them get the powdered sugar all over their faces.

But the farm was closed because the world was against Sansa Stark, and when she finally found a suitable replacement pumpkin patch everyone was busy.

But now it was the weekend before Halloween and she just knew her plan was going to be great. This weekend, they were all hers. Her mom and Robb were going to be holed up in the offices of Stark Enterprises but they boys would be home and she was so sure she could convince Arya to hang out as well.

She readied herself for the hour-long drive home, a trunk packed with pumpkins and carving supplies and freshly baked Halloween-themed treats to eat while watching a silly scary movie (and she even used real milk and eggs and butter despite being a vegan herself because she loved her family and was a terrible phony but whatever).

The weather was barely nippy when she left her dorm, but she pulled on a soft rust-colored seater and grabbed a scarf anyways. She smiled in the mirror, feeling seasonally appropriate and ready. Her family would be together and she could already feel a warm glow go through her.  

A warm glow that turned to bitter ash when she arrived at the Stark family home.

Arya was running around getting ready for a costume party and Bran shrugged her off claiming that he had to go to an academic decathlon practice.

When she finally smiled down at Rickon, he argued that he was too old for Halloween and was going to his friend’s house.

Keeping a smile on her face though it felt so very empty, Sansa tried to persuade her youngest brother that he and his friends could come over instead and they could all carve pumpkins together.

Arya made her way down the staircase, rolling her eyes at the scene, “Just let it go, Sansa. No one cares about your pumpkins.”

Sansa feels as if she’s been given a physical blow, but mages to nod, trying to hold back tears.

She knows that’s just how Arya is—once just your average sisterly rivalry, there relationship had only grown more tense and biting. (She wasn’t the best big sister growing up, but god she’s trying so hard now.) 

Their Nanny, Old Nan, just gives Sansa a sad smile and pats her cheek, offering to make her a mug of hot chocolate (because no one ever remembers she gave up dairy two years ago.) 

So Sansa leaves the house, her heart breaking a little bit more. Her family was falling apart and no matter how hard she tries she can’t put together the pieces and it was all her fault.

Because her father was dead because of her.

He died on his way from the airport. If I didn’t call asking for help… or if I didn’t date that asshole Baratheon boy… wasn’t seduced by his stupid fucking fake charm…. wasn’t such a child when Joffrey scared me that night... so much that dad needed to come pick me up.

She remembered how on that last phone call her father had promised her one day she would find someone brave and gentle and strong. But that felt like a lifetime ago.

Because ever since now mother is on the verge of a mental breakdown, and her older brother’s a workaholic, and Arya is cruel, and her sweet brother Bran has become unrecognizably cold, and Rickon who would always give her tight body crushing hugs only runs away from her.

And Sansa can’t fix it and she can’t force pumpkins down their throats no matter how hard she tries.

She didn’t want to go back to her dorm with all her supplies defeated, to be judged by her roommates who were annoyed the transfer girl would rather go home than take up their invite to go out. 

So instead she pulls up to Jon’s apartment. He gave her a key, and he and his roommate Sam should be at some party or something so she can just hack a pumpkin in his living room.

She walks in, first dropping off the fresh vegetables she picked up for him in the fridge. (God that boy would go weeks without lettuce or a piece of broccoli if he could.) 

Then she spreads newspapers on their table for her carving station. While Jon’s apartment is untidy because you know, boys, it’s definitely not unclean. It’s actually pretty cozy. 

She knows she’s taking advantage of the kindness of a boy she barely acknowledged growing up, but she doesn’t know where to go. 

And she just wants to stab her pumpkins.

It’s actually pretty cathartic, stabbing a pumpkin.

An hour later, she hears the door open—looking up to see Jon Snow walk in. His thick dark curls are mussed from the day, a heavy book bag hanging off a shoulder.

He doesn't seem surprised that she's in his apartment committing sever pumpkin-cide.

"Arya called and said you might be here." His voice is gentle and she hates that he probably feels sorry for her. She hates feeling like this. 

She shrugs, continuing to whack at her pumpkin

Sansa's quite artistic, very handy at painting and knitting and most Pinterest-y crafts.  

She really should be better at carving a fucking pumpkin. But she really isn’t.

“I brought you something,” he says coming to sit next to her, crossed legged on the floor. “A treat. You know, for Halloween.”

He hands her the Best Dessert in The World, a slice of vegan lemon cake. (Because Jon always remembers she gave up dairy two years ago.)

She tells him thanks, but continues to whack away at her sad pumpkin.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

No, no she doesn’t. But it’s so very hard to keep inside right this moment. 

“They blame me.” She feels her face crumple as a sob escapes her followed by another.

“Sansa, no one blames you. They love you and your father loved you. It was an accident. You know this.”

He wraps his arm around her, and places a firm kiss to her forehead.

“No, they do. They do and they should.”  She talks to a therapist but that reality was always there and she’s afraid it always will be because it’s true. 

“No one blames you. I was there the night you called. Robb and Arya both threw fits because they wanted to come too. Were ready to kill your boyfriend themselves. How could they blame you?”

“Jon…” she whispers. “They’re mad and I can’t do anything right. I can’t fix it.”

“No, just the other day Robb was telling me how thoughtful you were to send him freshly baked cookies at work. That you cared enough to, even during your midterms. How happy it made him.”

She gives a small nod in response and he continues.

“And Arya wouldn’t have gone to Homecoming if you hadn’t found her that perfect dress.”

“I bet Gendry thought she looked beautiful,” she sighs.

“I bet he did. And I wouldn’t take Bran personally. He’s fourteen and there’s this cute girl named Meera on the decathlon team.”

She should be miffed that Jon Snow knows more about her siblings lives than she does, but she can’t find it in herself to be.

She only burrows closer to him and feels his cozy sweater against her cheek, relishing the warmth of his body.

He lost his mother when he was so very young, and she feels guilty at taking so much comfort from him when she still has so much. But he doesn’t seem to mind, and she’s very grateful.

“You’re the sweetest girl I know. No one else has ever made sure I eat my vegetables,” he teases before continuing. “And you’re adored, Sansa Stark. You don’t need to fix this. It’s just going to take time.”

There’s a comfort in his words, but she still feels like whining. Just a bit more. It feels too good, being held by him.  

“It’s not even cold,” she grumbles.

“You’re going to be so mad when winter comes and you have to trudge to class in knee-deep snow,” he says, his hand drawing little comforting circles on her shoulder.

“But I look cuter when it’s cold,” she managed to sniff. 

“Sansa Stark, you always look cute and you know it.”  

Who Jon was… was complicated. He was boy who used to jump out dressed as a ghost to scare her, the sullen teen who grudgingly let her paint his nails, the boy who held her as she sobbed after her father funeral.

Jon was… he was... he was Jon and he was hers. He had always been there and she never wanted him not to be. He was brave and gentle and strong. It was complicated, but also so very simple.

“You think I’m cute?” She shouldn’t ask, it was indulgent and silly and he probably just thinks of her as some stupid kid sister or something and she’s making a fool out of herself but she really can’t help it.

He breathes deeply, shakes his head slightly before letting out a choked laugh.

“I think you’re beautiful.”

It’s so earnest and god she’s turning red and in her periphery she sees that his cheeks are also sporting a nice healthy blush as well.

And she can’t help but feel like she’s glowing a bit inside. But he seems so uncomfortable now so she decides to take him out of his misery.

She is sweet after all.

“And what about my pumpkin?” she asks, lifting it up and turning side to side, modeling it for him

He smiles, one of those Jon smiles, rolling up his sleeves.

“Your pumpkin, on the other hand, looks a bit sad. Hand me a cutter.”

[withabackpackandcamera]

February 20th, 2020

Day 6: To The Paradise That Is El Nido

Another flight, another early morning. I actually didn’t get to the airport as early as I had hoped so I was unfortunately unable to chill in the lounge prior to takeoff. Instead, I quickly grabbed two donuts at Dunkin Donuts as they were calling for last passengers for my flight and made it to my seat with plenty of time to spare. Before I knew it, we had landed in Puerto Princesa.  

At the airport, I took a quick moment to figure out how I was going to get to El Nido from here. There were a couple options, most notably by private van vs bus. I sat and looked through each option as the arrival terminal cleared out. I eventually decided, after weighing pros and cons, on a private van and it ended up being the best option.  

Outside the arrival terminal, I found the area where I was to sign up and pay for my van ride. Pricing wasn’t too bad for a 4-5 hour ride to El Nido. What was bad, however, was the fact that we (others who had already boarded the van and I) had to wait around until our van was about full before we took off. And that meant we had to wait until the next flight arrived before possibly leaving for El Nido. We ended up waiting for probably close to an hour until we finally took off. I used that time to get some drinks from the convenience store and to scope out my spot in the usually-highly-sought-after front passenger seat. What a win! Not only could I avoid car sickness on a presumably windy route to El Nido, I also had more space (there was a seat between me and the driver in the front that would end up being unoccupied), had a window to lean on, and could control the A/C however I wanted. Clutch!  

Eventually, we left the airport with an almost full van. We drove and made a couple of stops along the way for snacks, stretching, and at the halfway point, made an actual lunch stop at Halfway Coffee Shop and Restaurant. At the roadside restaurant, I was the only one to order food and ended up getting some chicken adobo and steamed veggies to go with my rice. All for the price of 190 Philippine pesos. It was pretty good. I’m sure the others were hesitant given we were in the middle of nowhere and it was unclear how the hygiene would be. But no issues! After probably close to five hours of driving, we finally made it to El Nido. The trip ended up being pretty quick with our master driver zooming through the roads and with my attempt to sleep the entire ride. Glad that time went by so quickly. I arrived in El Nido probably early afternoon and from the bus stop, I walked up the road to Spin Designer Hostel, where I would be staying for the next two nights.  

After checking in and getting settled, I went out for a stroll through El Nido Town and along the beachfront just to explore what the area was like while the sun was still out. Along the way, I caught sight of a local basketball game going on and stopped by to take a quick glimpse. Those guys were not very good, hahaha. I then continued my leisurely stroll through the small streets in town until I circled my way through and back toward the main road. At this point, I started my slow walk toward Las Cabanas Beach, where I was hoping to catch the evening’s sunset.  

And it was far. WAY further than I thought it’d be. What seemed like a short distance on the map ended up being more like 5 kms. I didn’t realize this until I was about 1.5 kms into it and the sun was starting to race toward the horizon. After ALL that walking, I finally decided to pull the plug and hail a tricycle to take me the rest of the way so that I wouldn’t miss the sunset I had set out to see. The experience of riding in the tricycle (which was essentially a motorcycle with an attached body and sidecar) was fun and before I knew it, I was close to where I needed to be to catch the sunset.  

I walked through the touristy shops and quickly arrived at the beach where I finally caught a glimpse of the blue water and the sand. I walked along the beach and water as I made my way to Las Cabanas Beach as the sun was starting to set in a less-than-impressive sky. And unfortunately, the sunset didn’t get too much better once I had arrived at the best spot to view it. I stuck around for a bit until the sun physically disappeared from the sky before retracing my steps back to the main road. At this point, I was kind of hungry but too lazy to go looking for a good food place to try in town. Instead, I walked into the nearby McDonald’s and got myself my basic, go-to meal of a cheeseburger and chicken nuggets. Because I was also thirsty, I made the mistake of trying out McDonald’s wintermelon milk tea with pearls... and gross. It was too thick and way too sugary. The pearls were actually better than I expected but still.. I can’t imagine anyone ever buying that stuff. Afterward, I took a tricycle back to my hostel and during the ride, chatted with my driver Darwin. A nice guy.  

Once I was back at the hostel, I found that the bar attached to the hostel was hosting a Sports Night. So I decided to go down and check it out for a bit. Because I didn’t know anyone yet, I just grabbed a seat and ordered a mango smoothie before eventually finding interest in a pool game occurring on the stage there. The game some guys were playing on stage was definitely pool but the equipment and the way things were set up was a tad different than what I was normally used to seeing. But it was pretty neat to see and then try. After a while of watching, some of the local guys (one guy named Prince, the other guy’s name I forgot) gave me a pool stick and I got a chance to play a couple of warm up games as well. Anyhow, I ended up entering the pool tournament. At first, my partner was going to be the really good guy whose name I forgot. But then, he swapped out and it was going to be Prince... before he swapped out and I was partnered with some other random guy who wasn’t all that great. But we ended up teaming up and, unfortunately, losing in a super close (almost a great comeback) match to the eventual winners, Philippe (from Zurich) and his partner. We lost by one after I missed the very last puck we had to get in that would have capped an extremely crazy comeback (we dug ourselves a hole after playing pretty poorly for much of the match). Sadness. And my competitive side was so disappointed. I would’ve won a nice Dri-FIT tank too! But I guess the silver lining from it all was that we took the eventual champs to the brink and were the ones closest to taking them out.  

The rest of the night, I played some ping-pong with Philippe and watched the rest of the pool tournament before calling it a night. Didn’t do much else knowing that tomorrow was going to be a packed day island-hopping. Should be fun!  

5 Things I Learned Today: 

1. In general, there are two main travel-by-land options to El Nido from Puerto Princesa Airport. The first option, which I took, was via a private van. It’s a little more expensive but it’s usually more comfortable and faster. However, the private vans usually don’t take off for El Nido until they are packed to the brim. And that means that most times, you have to wait a while until that happens. The other option, which is by bus, is usually cheaper, can be just as crowded if not more, likely more uncomfortable, and takes longer to get to El Nido.

2. Armored vehicles in the Philippines are the funniest looking vehicles ever! They look like wimpy, weird-looking mini tanks that don’t look like they could protect anyone’s money, haha!

3. Basketball is seemingly much bigger in the Philippines than soccer. I can see why Kobe was so popular here (RIP Kobe and Gianna).

4. In the Philippines (and maybe other places in the world), there is an interesting version of pool that is played on a wooden table with only four corner pockets. On the surface of the table is chalk powder that is sprinkled on, just like in shuffleboard. You use 12 thin, circular puck pieces that consist of two different colors, numbered 1-12, as your balls, with a clear, thicker puck as your cue ball. There is no “8-ball”. The 12 pucks are placed in four color-alternating rows of 3 (in the shape of a rectangle) for the break. To determine who gets to break first, you hit the cue puck into the opposite wall and see who can get the puck the furthest away from the wall (i.e. who hits it the strongest head-on). Once the game starts, it’s the same as regular pool. However, if you scratch the cue puck, the other team places the cue puck right outside of the pocket it fell into. If you scratch AND hit one puck in, the puck that went in will be placed in the middle and the cue puck will be placed at the hole it went into. First to hit all their colors in wins. Pretty fun version, and really fast-paced.

5. El Nido kind of reminds me of Krabi, Thailand but just a bit busier, more lively, and louder... comparatively.

[simplifyingforces]

Prepare to Interface [AO3 link]

Rating: Explicit Fandom: Red vs. Blue Characters: Dexter Grif, Dick Simmons Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons

The Temple of Procreation has an algorithm. Simmons doesn’t understand it.

Simmons' HUD vitals flashed ominously at the edge of his vision as he stumbled down the hallway toward the base's storage wing. It wasn't supposed to end this way. Years of waiting, hoping, wishing -- all undone by something as monumentally stupid as this.

He stopped for a second to catch his breath, slamming his hands against the wall. If he could just make it to those sweet, solitary, air conditioned storage units, everything would be fine. Perfectly, forgettably fine. Like he wasn't about to lose his virginity courtesy of an alien-made, planet-wide aphrodisiac fine.

God, he hated Blue Team sometimes. Stupid Tucker and his stupid alien sword, casually activating temples without even entertaining the possibility of something so minor as actual, real life consequences.

Statistically, the number of pregnancies alone would put the planet under a level of strain so severe that it could cripple the entire infrastructure before they even had a chance to rebuild. He'd said that at least twice, along with a lot of other good, solid reasons backed up by peer-reviewed empirical data. He just couldn't remember them all at the moment.

"Never thought I'd see someone so set against losing their virginity," Simmons whispered to himself mockingly. That had been Tucker's only response to his perfectly sensible objections. Like it was all personal for him.

Like anyone wanted their first time to be someone coerced into wanting them.

And there it was. The other main reason for his concern, otherwise known as consent and immediate impact on individual, familial, and communal dynamics! Just because it sounded like the subtitle to a scientific study didn't make it any less true.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t open to the potential merits of the temple. He’d conceded that Chorus might benefit from a jump start to the reconciliation process, and it made some kind of weird sense on a macro level to give everyone 24 hours of ”ravenous sexual frenzy” as a means to accomplish it. He supposed.

But his own micro level life didn't need that bullshit.

Forget what Santa had said about sensitivity to the intricacies of consent as plotted into the temple's algorithm, too; if someone had been interested, they would have spoken up by now, what with him being a war hero and all. Tucker had made that perfectly clear. Tucker had also been much more of an asshole than usual lately.

Simmons absently rubbed at his collarbone. Even with the slightest pressure from the armor bearing down on it, he imagined the stitches pulling against his skin and drew his hand away. They'd been so lucky, again. Again and again, and hopefully they would no longer need to be. Church wouldn’t need to, at least.

He violently pulled his thoughts away from the Staff of Charon and started back down the hall. The heart rate monitor in his HUD placed him at 142 BPM and rising. What would happen if he didn't fuck? Santa hadn't even talked about that. He could already see the headline: War Hero Dies, Determined to Remain a Virgin.

Grif would love it at least; assuming Grif wasn't also dead from a decided lack of temple-induced fucking. He hadn't even been there to know that there was temple-induced fucking to worry about. Grif had shown zero interest in showing up at the temple today -- or for any other mission lately, for that matter. Maybe if he had been there, they wouldn't be in the position they were currently in. Grif could have-- could have-- well, probably not done anything at all, if Simmons was being perfectly honest, but at least he'd have been aware. At least he wouldn't be on his own, wondering what was happening to him right now and why.

And how would Grif be taking all this, exactly? His physical fitness had always been notably well below par. The effects of the temple already felt like the slow grip of imminent death to Simmons and he was at least ten times healthier.

It was also impossible to forget just how much Grif had completely disregarded his own safety on the Staff of Charon. His chest had absorbed countless hits of enemy fire, just because he’d insisted on taking point with the Grif Shot halfway through. The exact sound of Grif’s small grunts of pain had played in surround sound via comm as Simmons bled out through his armor. It wasn’t until the end -- Tucker surrounded by dead and dying and the room suddenly horribly quiet -- that Grif had stepped down, armor burned black and smoking.

He didn't need to contact Grif. Grif was probably absolutely fine. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Usually. At least forty percent of the time. When they weren't in a crisis situation.

It wouldn’t hurt to check on him. Just a casual hello, maybe a little update on the temple.

Simmons switched over to their private channel and signaled in. Grif almost always picked up there.

No answer.

He swallowed drily and started walking faster. What if Grif was with someone? What if he wasn't and was already dead? What would Sarge say if sex (or lack thereof) literally killed half of the Glorious Red Team?

Anxiety roiled in his gut, and he groaned in irritation. Ugh, he couldn't think about Grif right now! It wasn't like he could do anything for him anyway.

The storage wing doors came up on his left and he keyed in the entry code. A couple of lieutenants ran past him as he went through the doorway, completely oblivious to his presence as they giggled and tripped over one another on the way out. His eyes followed them as they passed, face warm and heartbeat racing as he took in their roaming hands. Jealousy was stupid. Who would he even want to fuck on this planet, anyway?

He closed his eyes as a deep shudder ran through his entire body. Fucking someone, anyone, right now sounded incredible. He was actually amazed at how good it sounded. He'd put a lot of effort into not thinking about sex for so long, circumstances being what they were.

Did it matter if he thought about one person over another? Say, Tucker versus Donut, or Carolina versus Kimball?

As if on cue, images started flowing in. Very graphically.

He slapped a hand against his helmet hard enough to sting.

Focus, Simmons. Keep moving.

Around the next corner, he finally spotted the individual unit doors and let out a sigh of relief. One of them had to be available.

He yanked on the handle of the first one and let out an angry noise when it didn't budge. It wasn't like he wanted to fuck all over the canned vegetables! He just needed space and time alone, where he didn't have to worry about running into anyone and embarrassing himself for the rest of his military career. The thought of actually seeing Carolina, Kimball, Tucker, or Donut right now made him want to throw himself off a cliff.

"Let me in, come on, one of you, any of you," he demanded as he went down the line, pulling at each handle. Locked, locked, motherfucking locked. Sweat was starting to form on his brow. Heart rate at 155. He was steadily ignoring anything below his waist.

Focus.

His eyes finally lit on a door wedged open with a broom handle in the far right corner. "Thank you, god," he whispered as he bolted in, kicked the broom away, and let the door swing shut, darkening the unit almost completely. He unclasped his helmet and let it fall to the floor as he leaned back against the wall. Cool air blasted from the ceiling vent onto his sweaty hair, pushing it downward.

If Simmons had been himself, he would have checked his surroundings on entry. As it turned out, intense manufactured arousal made it incredibly difficult to focus on anything other than...well, being aroused.

And in that time, someone else in the unit had noticed him.

"Simmons?" that someone else called out from behind a wall of opened, empty cans of food. "I think there's something wrong with me." The voice paused. "Like, really, really wrong, dude."

Simmons' eyes shot open in panic.

"What the -- Grif?!"

Most of the people Simmons had met over the course of his enlistment held the same ideas about the existence of a higher power. Sim troopers, freelancers, and the people of Chorus had no reason to believe some omnipotent being looked after them from behind the scenes. Not with everything they'd been through.

Simmons had never been in that camp. No, he was confident that God existed -- in fact, God had always had it out for him specifically. He'd known that since his fifth birthday, when his dad made him cry in front of his entire kindergarten class for getting last place in Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

Moments like this just continued to confirm it for him.

"Why are you in here?!" He pushed off the wall and gestured angrily at Grif's canned food wall. Grif was just on the other side of it. Close enough to touch, if he just took a few steps forward. Not that he wanted to or anything.

"I've been coming here for weeks, dumbass! Why are you in here?!" Grif responded in kind, and maybe if Simmons had been thinking straight, he would have thought about the likelihood of Grif holing up here with endless amounts of food and dark space and silence. He would have just assumed Grif's laziness for not answering a comm instead of being dead or in the middle of orgasm. But he didn't, because half of his blood was no longer in his brain.

"God damn it, Grif!" He kicked his helmet away and slid to the floor. If he held his arms against his cheeks, he could cool himself slightly off the armor metal. It helped him focus well enough to hear Grif's indignant, irritating response.

"What the hell, dude? I tell you I'm sick -- after you barge into my space, by the way -- and you get mad at me?" Grif began to haul himself up and make his way over to Simmons' side of the room.

"Stay back!" Simmons scooted away hurriedly, slamming his back against the door. Grif didn't know. He didn't know anything, and that was dangerous as hell.

"Okay, chill," Grif said, taking an exaggerated step backward. Simmons saw his head tilt down slightly, taking him in. "Wait. You look like how I feel, which, by the way, is really, really shitty. What's going on?" Grif picked Simmons' helmet up off the floor, sweaty skin shining off the dim light of the HUD as he peered into it. He clicked the headlamp on and set the helmet on a shelf so that they could see each other more clearly.  

Simmons slightly hated him for that.

"Well, if you had bothered to come to the meeting today, you would know." Simmons rubbed his temples, looking away. Of course Grif would hang out in the storage closet in his undersuit -- why wear full scale armor anymore? The war was over, and Grif's bruises probably felt a lot better that way. Unrestricted beneath breathable fabric and open to the cool, cool air. Simmons swallowed thirstily.

Silence reigned for a moment, until --

"Seriously, that's all you're going to give me? I'm trying not to die of heat exhaustion and--and-- whatever this is," Grif said as he flailed his arms in confusion, "and you're going to hang missing a meeting over my head? Cut the shit, Simmons."

"I am trying," Simmons said measuredly through ragged breath, "to focus." He clenched his fists tightly before setting them to work on his own armor. Grounding himself in simple tasks could work. Plus, he was just so hot. Maybe if he could cool off a bit, he could warn Grif. Grif needed to know.

"Focus here then, Simmons, and tell me what's going on," Grif said shortly. Simmons could see his fingers tapping against his folded arms in stiff, agitated motions in the lamplight. It was very un-Grif-like. Simmons could grab them, just for a second, put them where they'd be of better use, and --

With shaking hands, he pulled his chest piece off and placed it on the floor. Santa's algorithm was clearly bullshit. He took a knee and started methodically working on a leg, staring intently at the ground. Cool down, Simmons. Cool. Down.

"Simmons," Grif ground out impatiently, and fuck his voice, honestly, for sounding so beautifully gravelly deep.

"Grif," he said hoarsely, fumbling with the clasp on his calf. "Stop." He'd never thought of Grif's voice as beautiful before. Once he got out of this mess, he was going to write these reactions down just to prove how right he'd been.

"Stop what? You stop! No, wait; you start! Tell me why I woke up feeling like I have the biggest case of blue balls known to man!"

"Fine!" Simmons yelled, and it felt good to do it, like the smallest, greatest release. He stood and pelted the wall with the rest of his armor, satisfaction growing with each loud rattle to the floor.

"If you had gone to any of our meetings since the battle, you'd have known that conducting alien tech research is a top priority for Chorus right now." He paced as he drew on his anger to maintain his train of thought. "And Tucker's sword makes us the perfect candidates to do it. Not like you care, since you've been MIA for every mission." He paused for a second to let that truth bomb sink in, a bomb so full of truth that he actually wanted to hear Grif's inevitable excuse-laden reaction.

Instead, he got nothing but silence. "Are you even listening to me?"

And then, he made the stupid, stupid mistake of looking at Grif's face. It was unnerving how intently Grif was staring at him. Grif's body had lost all of its usual studied calmness and looked ready to spring. At him. Imminently.

Simmons let out a long, shaking breath and felt himself sway slightly, the room closing in on him and Grif in the small beam of light. Was he getting lightheaded? What was his heart rate right now?

"Forget it." Grif's voice cut through the quiet, hurried and high-pitched. "You're totally right, Simmons. I don't care enough, so you should just go ahead and take your nerd explanation somewhere else. Yeah."

"Um," Simmons responded eloquently. His anger had dissipated, leaving nothing but wanting in its wake. He should turn around and walk out. He should stop staring at Grif. He should move his ass, immediately. Right now. Any moment --

"Look," Grif continued, completely unaware of his inner turmoil. "You can tell me later, okay? I can't do this right now, with you -- I mean things! Being, you know --" He trailed off and fluttered his hands in Simmons' general direction.

The thing was, Grif had never really been the type to tell Simmons what to do. That had always been more of a Simmons-to-Grif dynamic. So Simmons should definitely go. It would be reasonable to leave. If he could bring his body back online, he would honor Grif's request, because he was someone who did the right thing. Really, he was. He didn't want to do this to Grif. He didn't. He just needed a second. Just a second to --

Without warning, Grif lurched towards him. Simmons fell backwards as Grif gave him a graceless shove, almost as if he were undecided between pushing Simmons or falling down himself. And then, inexplicably, Grif's hand clamped down hard on contact, and he pulled Simmons back towards him, making their heads bump together in the whiplash.

Simmons hissed through his teeth. Grif's touch burned through the fabric of the undersuit, and Simmons felt every part of himself radiate toward it.

"What the hell," Grif whispered, wide-eyed and half-shadowed from the narrow beam of the headlight. This close, Simmons could see one iridescent eye, and it was the clearest he'd seen Grif maybe ever. As long as Simmons had known him, he'd been awed and slightly jealous of Grif's uncanny ability to maintain the most dull and uninterested stare, regardless of person or situation. To add insult to injury, Grif's eyes were so dark that his pupils were practically invisible, giving him an added layer of immunity from the betrayal of any instinctual reactions.

Simmons had actually thought for an embarrassingly long time that Grif's eyes were black. It hadn't been until after the surgery, when Sarge had shined a flashlight in Grif's face during an implant check-up, that he'd finally realized they were a deep, warm brown. Hidden depths, he'd thought ridiculously at the time, but it didn't make it not true.

Now, Grif's closeness had let Simmons see everything, and it was so much. Too much.

"Grif," he said, and it was whiny as fuck, so annoying, he hated everything about it. What was he supposed to do? He wasn't equipped to handle this. Grif didn't know. It wasn't his fault. It definitely will be Simmons' fault if he lets this happen.

Grif released a heavy breath through his nose before releasing his grip. The loss of contact felt like losing a piece of Simmons’ own self, and it was...sad? How could a body be sad? What was the temple doing to him?

"Simmons, just...leave." Grif paused. "Please." His hand was now running through his hair, fingers agitatedly pulling at the strands as if to keep it from flying forward onto Simmons again. But he looked more at ease now. That was good. Safe.

"Well," Simmons tried to say lightly, "if you're going to bust out the niceties." He fumbled blindly for the door handle behind him.

"It might help to turn around," Grif said absently. He dragged his hand down to rub at his cheek. "Just a...just a thought."

Simmons tore his eyes away from Grif's hair, which now looked really well-tousled instead of like its usual greasy tangle. "Right." He spun around clumsily, banging his shoulder against the door.

"Fuck," he breathed, jiggling the handle. His arm still burned where Grif had touched him. "It's locked." He paused. "Wait. Why is it locked from the inside?"

Realization hit him like a lightning bolt. I've been coming here for weeks, dumbass. Weeks in which Chorus leadership had noted in meetings -- meetings Grif had skipped! -- a concerning drop in food supplies and begun creating fail-safes against smuggling. Grif's exceptional fatassery had finally gone a step too far. Why hadn't he thought for one second about the purpose of that goddamned broom handle.

Simmons stared at the door as if he could will it to open. There was nothing else to do. If he turned around, though -- if he looked at Grif -- his body sang at the thought, and he pushed down on it, hard.

"Simmons," a voice suddenly whispered against his neck, because Grif was shorter than him and holy fuck when had he gotten so close? "Simmons." Grif's exhaled breath tickled his skin, and he shivered. All he could think about was Grif touching him again. Why hadn't Grif touched him again? Grif couldn't touch him again, or it would all be over.

Simmons braced his hands against the door to stop his knees from shaking. There had to be another way out of here; all he needed to do was find it. Then he wouldn’t even have to explain the temple. It would be the most sound, practical solution to this...problem. For the best, really.

"Something's wrong with me," Grif muttered against his neck. "Talk to me, Simmons, come on, you always talk, say something, give me anything--"

Okay, Simmons, think. No other exits, no windows, nothing but Grif and his helmet’s headlight shining on their backs.

Wait. His helmet?

"I'm sorry," he said to the wall, and then pushed back hard, sending Grif sprawling with a yelp of surprise.

Simmons turned and leapt forward, fumbling for the helmet, the light careening wildly against the walls. "Come in, hello? We're stuck!" he cried out as he jammed it on his head. His hands itched to touch Grif's skin. "In here. Alone. Anybody?"

Comms couldn't be down, not for all of Chorus. That was impossible. He scrolled frantically through his HUD until he got to the alerts screen and read:

COMMS SHUT OFF FOR DURATION OF TEMPLE EFFECTS BY ORDER OF PRES. KIMBALL

"Right," he sighed, shoulders drooping. "Of course. Privacy is important, and," he let out a short, defeated laugh, "who'd be able help us right now anyway?"

He pulled the helmet off and dropped it on the floor. The light faced somewhere left of them, leaving them in semi-darkness. Below him, Grif was concerningly silent.

“Grif?” He looked down, heart pounding. “Did I kill you?”

“No. Not yet at least,” Grif muttered. Unlike the unnerving panic attack from earlier, he’d seen Grif like this before. You know, relatively calm, but also bright-eyed, slightly flushed and...wriggly, for lack of a better term. It had never been personally directed at him. Some things you just couldn’t avoid after sharing a room for long enough. Especially when your roommate decided to look at porn with you in the room.

This still wasn’t personally directed at him, Simmons reminded himself firmly.

“Look,” Grif said from the floor, "can we be real for a second?" He bit his lip and let out a soft, frustrated noise as he shifted restlessly. "I need to get off. Like, now."

Simmons could actually feel the flush that spread across his cheeks as he took Grif’s words in. This is happening. This is happening. This is happening, his brain supplied helpfully. His body stepped in to painfully remind him that it was completely and totally on board.

Grif glared up at him. "Come on, dude. Throw me a bone here.”

Simmons swallowed. Grif was proposing it, so it was fine, right? Or the algorithm made it okay for Grif to propose it. And for him to accept it, if he was understanding it correctly. "Me...me too. I guess.”

Grif nodded in satisfaction, and squirmed on the floor for a bit longer before settling on an apparently slightly more comfortable position. "So, obviously neither of us are happy about it or anything. But I -- we -- gotta do it, man."

"Right, okay.” Simmons paused. “Do what exactly?"

Visions swam in his mind of what Grif could say. What he wanted Grif to say. Correction: what the temple wanted him to want Grif to say. Obviously.

"Uh, the bare fucking minimum. Also, losing your virginity like this would be pretty awful, so. Win-win."

"Win-win," Simmons echoed, voice cracking slightly.

He was going to touch Grif, and they were going to get off. Together. Grif was going to touch him and he wanted him to. He could admit that, right? It was the temple, after all.

"Okay," he said, heart in his throat.

"Okay," Grif repeated, and it was so anxiously giddy, Simmons felt himself grimace. It wasn't Grif's fault. It wasn't Grif at all actually, so Simmons might as well make it easier.

He knelt down next to Grif. "Uh." What came next, exactly? He made an aborted motion towards Grif's chest. “Should I...?”

Grif reached out and pulled Simmons on top of him by his undersuit.

The effect was immediate. "Oh god," Simmons breathed, eyes squeezed shut. He could smell Grif's sweat. Only two layers of undersuit separated his suddenly embarrassingly hard dick from Grif's leg.

Grif let out a pained sound before his hand landed on the back of Simmons' head, sifting through his hair in a way that would have been soothing under literally any other circumstance. He reflexively bucked against Grif instead, scalp tingling from Grif's fleeting touch.

When Grif pushed back, he felt hardness against his hip and moaned. Actually moaned, like a horny teenager. Jesus Christ. The sound of it rang out disgustingly in the almost silence.

Almost, because of Grif's loud breathing, which Simmons had attributed to Grif's general state of health until he actually listened to it. He'd never made anyone respond like Grif, not in almost thirty years of living. It's the temple, his mind whispered at him, as he hitched a thigh between Grif's legs, craving another breath, another sigh, another anything at all.

"Fuck," Grif choked out, chest vibrating against Simmons. He slid his hand down to rest on Simmons' neck. The heat of it felt like jumping into a hot tub on a cold day, scalding water that made his skin break out in goosebumps.

He clenched his jaw tightly to suppress a new wave of noises from escaping into the room.

And now he sounded like a duct taped hostage. How incredibly sexy. The temple was a miracle worker if Grif’s libido survived all of that intact.

Wait, why did he even need to sound sexy? Simmons shook his head, planted his hands on either side of Grif, and pushed up and away for better leverage. It was so much easier to remember how things stood from here. They had been forced into this, Grif was the least intimidating person he knew, and so if it had to happen, who better? Just two guys helping each other out in their time of need, totally casual and mutually rewarding. So what if Simmons could still feel everything: Grif's fingers digging into his wrist and Grif’s stomach expanding outward to brush against his arms and Grif’s dick grinding on his leg, gradually making his undersuit wet? That was fine. He was just the most convenient option.

Simmons closed his eyes and concentrated on the steady, agonizing slide of pleasure until it began to lead to a rhythm that made his mind go hazy. Below him, Grif kept taking in long, shuddering breaths. It was the perfect spot, perfect pressure, more euphoric than any jerk-off session.

And then Grif did the worst possible thing. An unforgivable thing. He started fucking talking.

"Holy shit, Simmons," Grif whispered frantically, bringing him completely out of the moment. "Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit." Simmons felt Grif's hands on his hips, patting him as if to convince himself that Simmons was actually there.

"Simmons, ah --" His breath hitched and he arched up, hands gripping tightly. "That's good, so good, it's perfect -- you're perfect --"

Simmons jerked forward roughly enough to move both of them a good foot across the floor. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck.

"Simmons? Do you like it?" Grif babbled beneath him. "Does it feel okay, or good, or --"

"Shut up," Simmons said tightly as he pressed down against Grif's leg. He desperately fixated on Grif's Adam's apple, ears prickling. It wasn't Grif. It wasn't him. It felt so good, though, hearing his name that way.

From Grif. His mind stuttered and came to a halt.

The lazy back-and-forth that had been so mind-numbingly good before was now woefully inadequate. He felt impatient with need. It burned him from the inside out, and he leaned into it.

“Okay.” Grif’s voice broke and wavered. Simmons jumped slightly at the sensation of Grif’s fingers running against his stitches. It was a weirdly gentle gesture. “Good.”

Simmons sniffed loudly as the pressure mounted under his skin. Grif’s irritating, insistent touch made him want to scream. Why were his eyes watering?

And then, Grif’s soft, shaking fingers slid away and upward to stroke his cheek, less delicate than clumsy. He could look up; it would be easy enough. Grif swallowed hard, the Adam's apple slid downward, and Simmons felt his stare, but kept holding on and away, grinding down hard and fast and panting. He was close, so close, fuck.

If Grif would just stop talking, they could finish getting off and forget this ever happened. But Grif had never listened to Simmons, not once in all their years together.

"You -- your face -- Simmons," Grif stuttered, and it was wobbly and wanting and full of unspeakable things. Grif pushed up hard and let out a startled sound from deep in his throat before falling limp, chest heaving.

"Goddamnit, Grif," Simmons gasped. "I'm gonna -- gonna --" He went taut as he shuddered into climax. "Nnnngh."

He let himself lay on top of Grif for a moment and tried to catch his breath. He had never even hugged Grif before, and now he felt like he was falling into a chasm, dark and terrifying.

He needed to get up.

"Uh, Grif, about the temple," he started haltingly, before he lost his nerve. "It causes --"

A rumbling snore interrupted him.

Simmons sighed and shifted slightly over to Grif’s side. There was come drying in his undersuit and Grif shouldn't have this much pressure on his bruises. But he was warm, and there was nowhere else to go. Also, sex with another person had been a lot more tiring than Simmons had thought it would be.

For awhile, he lay in a state of sleepy semi-panic. Should he get up? Would Grif think it was weird that he hadn’t gotten up earlier? Who cared what Grif thought anyway? Did he care? The algorithm had clearly been all wrong -- it had made two people who couldn't even procreate fuck, hadn't it? So neither of them should care about any of it, least of all some post-coital napping.

But what if Grif did?

"Shut up," he murmured to himself as he concentrated on Grif's even breathing. Eventually, he drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Simmons woke to bright light flooding behind his eyelids.

"Oh look, Freckles, we have found more best friends laying down together in the dark!" Caboose's helmet stared down at them, framed by fluorescent light. "Santa says you can come out now."

Simmons pulled away from Grif so fast, his head hit the floor. "Caboose! Uh..." He looked up from the ground and groaned when he saw pink armor.

"Heyyyyy, guys! I can't believe it! I mean, I can believe it -- well, we all can, really --"

"Fuck. Off. Everyone," Grif's flat, tired voice came from behind Simmons. Simmons sat up abruptly and discreetly checked himself for decency. Somehow, Grif had found the time to put his own helmet back on. "I'm trying to sleep."

"Fine, Mister Grumpy Pants," Donut pouted. "And here I'd thought you'd be a little more happy." He stared meaningfully at Simmons before following Caboose down the hall, leaving Simmons scrambling to catch the door before it closed.

He cleared his throat as Grif made his way back behind his canned food wall. "Do you, uh, want to talk about it?"

"Did you or did you not hear me the first time, Dick?" Grif said, voice devoid of anything beyond irritation.

"Oh, thank god." Simmons grabbed his armor and fled, propping the long-forgotten broom handle in the doorway on his way out.

Simmons never directly tells Grif about the temple. He knows Grif knows when he joins Simmons at the lunch table the next day and says, "Fucking Santa and fucking Tucker," and they leave it at that.

When Donut and Tucker come in and ask for a million details, Grif threatens to gut them with the Grif Shot, and Simmons is infinitely grateful. It’s honestly better than any other conversation they could have mustered up on their own.

Simmons is also infinitely grateful that Grif doesn’t bring up his terrible sex noises or his pathetic almost-tears.

No one mentions the algorithm at all.

Simmons sees Grif in the showers later and locks eyes with the wall until he leaves. No one says anything to anyone, really, since most of the room's got their own horror stories and the scars to prove it. Thank god he has his own quarters. He has no desire to see anyone else out of armor for the foreseeable future.

That night, he jacks off and thinks of Grif's voice, just to see. Simmons, you're so good, Grif-in-his-mind says, you're perfect. He thinks of how Grif's open face might have looked, his gasps, all the things the temple made him do.

It fucking sucks.

[pendragonfics]

Doesn’t Phase Me

Paring: Vision/Reader

Tags: female reader, Vision is sweet, fluff, computers, set after Age of Ultron and Civil War, some spoilers for Captain America: Civil War, angst. 

Summary: The stray computer science prodigy of Mr. and Mrs. Richards finds her way into the Avengers, working for the team's tech, and falls head over motherboard for Vision. Vision, however, doesn't get why he's accepted so quickly by her...

Word Count: 1,543

Posting Date:  2017-02-25

Current Date: 2017-06-10

As a computer programmer and a hardcore nerd who barely saw the light of day save for when the mechanics were outside, you were one hundred percent enamoured when you saw Vision enter the compound after the battle overseas. It wasn't like you were a field agent, anyway, there was no use for you in Ultron's fiasco (especially if he knew that there was a person who was quick enough at coding to falter his plans). Thus, Fury had you deep undercover, off the internet, and waiting for the return of everyone. 

When you saw how he floated, walking as if on water above the ground, you couldn't help but analyse the handiwork of Dr. Cho, of the two resident scientists who had helped make Vision come to be there before you.

"I'm _________, resident computer mechanic-slash-programmer," you hold out a hand for him to shake, watching him eye your hand, and then slide his crimson palm in with yours. "You must be Vision."

He nods his eyes examining you, "That I am. I assume by your title that it is you who I will go to for physiological examinations for someone of my kind." His voice is even, melodic like you remember of Tony Stark's AI J. A. R. V. I. S. had been, but unlike what you'd researched the original AI's corporeal body to have been.

Tony clapped him on the back, releasing his hand from the grasp. "That's right, buddy. And over here, just down the hall is where we all sleep; we've got a room for you too..." Even as they walked away, you could see Vision glance behind him, taking you in once more before he and Stark turned the corner, and inside you, a pull of your heartstrings. Even if you weren't one semester off having a PhD in computer mechanics, you were still allured to him, like he wasn't just born a few weeks ago, but years ago like a regular human.

---

You're fine-tuning the designs for the replacement for James Barnes' arm half a year later, and while you're not angry at Tony Stark for blasting the poor guys prosthetic off, you're quite into the mechanics of what makes up the arm in the first place. In all, you're a big ball of emotion but rather fangirling over what makes the ex-Winter Soldier super powerful. You're so into the project that you hardly hear the chair beside you scrape back, and a figure sit upon it. 

"It's a shame Mr. Barnes' arm was at cost at the end of the scuffle," the pleasant-sounding voice of Vision comments, and in turn, earns him a spared glance from the screen you're working from. "I can tell you are quite into this subject matter," Vision waves his palm around the lab you're both in, around the sketches and half-finished projects you're in amidst.

You chuckle. "It comes with being a nerd," you grin, "I mean, my parents are the one and only Mr. and Mrs. Richards, and unlike my brother, and sister, I'm just really smart. And hate it when people treat me like I'm some kind of fantastic human being just because I came from the Sue Storm's womb." 

Vision nods. "I too feel a sort of sympathy for your feelings; it would seem that people only see me for what Ultron had in mind, or as simply a freak of nature from within Dr. Cho's cradle." He crosses his legs, and adds, "But it does not matter what anyone thinks of me. I am simply who I am, and there is nothing anyone can do to change me." 

"That's the spirit," you elbow him, grinning. "I heard you're like, wicked smart too. Want to collab sometime with these projects? My physics is getting a little rusty." 

Vision smiles, rising from the chair to float above the floor. "I cannot see why not." He frowns, almost like he's caught mid-thought, and adds, voice almost off somewhere with his mind. "_______, I have noticed that you are different to the other people in the Avengers." 

You put the project down, turning to face him. You're not sure whether to be flattered or concerned with that remark, but instead of flagging those emotions, you wink, and give him two finger guns, playing it off cool. "Thanks, buddy-pal, guess I'm more rad then the rest of those heroes." 

Vision smiles at your remark, but doesn't agree. "It's not that you are 'rad', ______...what I meant to have said is that you treat me different than the other people in the Avengers. You treat me like I am a human man, carbon-based. Not...not a robot. Why?"

You feel your heart falter at that, those words. "Viz," you whisper, reaching a hand for his, "I'm sure they're just still warming up to you. And for me? You don't really phase me. You're as normal and as real as any guy here...and that's saying something, because I met Steven Strange at Dunkin' Donuts last summer after a bender, and he's basically The Matrix IRL." 

Vision takes in your words, but doesn't seem to hear them. "Thank you, _______." At this, he floats, and without another word, flies through the ceiling above your heads and into the upper levels of the base. 

--- 

It isn't for another week that you finally catch him; it's almost like Vision was avoiding your or something. But to be fair, you practically avoided the rest of the A-Team like the plague if you couldn't help it, so it wasn't all on him. But here, standing in the middle of the dining room holding a muffin, you catch him standing in the centre of the dining room table, phased so he's really in the table. 

"What's up, buttercup?" you ask him, taking a bite from your muffin. "Been busy? I haven't seen you for your daily checkup lately. Anything wrong?"

"I could not reach for the fruit basket, so I -," he pauses, not finished the sentence, leaving it open ended, traipsing off into the ether. "I don't believe I have to explain everything to those who do not require it," he said, almost like an afterthought aloud.

You nod. "Dude, it's a-okay. I'm just grabbing my muffin, and going back to my little hobbit hole where everyone avoids. I'll be out of your cape in a moment." 

At this, you turn on your heel, and start the walk to the lab feeling a little heavy in your chest. Was this emotion? Why were you feeling dejected, of all feelings because a guy was being awkward skirting around the questions you'd asked? Perhaps it was because it was an all too familiar feeling, and you were a human being and feelings came and went like yesterday's Jimmy Choo's from the Paris Hilton's closet. Perhaps it was because you'd actually bared your heart and soul to the one person who you'd actually, well, felt comfortable around, and he'd just dodging away from the matter.  

"Wait." 

Your feet take another step, and still. Turning, you see Vision, floating the way you'd first seen him do toward you, his face a mixture of emotions you couldn't quite decipher on his ruby face. Suddenly, the muffin in your hand forgotten, you reach almost toward him, wondering what sparked the word which haltered your footsteps.

"I don't understand," he muttered, "how you have constant patience and admiration for me. Many of the other people around us here at the Avengers compound do not have the same feelings." 

You feel tears building up, edging closer to the point of spilling over your face. "It's called patience, and understanding. Who you are - what you are, where you came from...it doesn't phase me, Vision. You're beautiful, unique and great the way you are. You don't need to pretend you're like me, or anyone else to fit in here. Hell, hasn't Ms. Maximoff learned that the hard way?" you ask him. "If anything, I love you for who you are, Vision." 

His hand reached for you, cradling your face, fingers smooth across your skin, carding through your hair. "Then I must be the luckiest synthesised humanoid of all time to have met you," his voice lulls you, soothes you, and closing your eyes, a stray tear escapes. "Why are you crying, _________? Is it something I said -," 

You shake your head, and without a hesitation, you thrust yourself onto him, and wrap your arms around his middle, lay your head upon his chest. He isn't like the other people you've laid your head upon; there is no heartbeat, a pulse of blood thrust around a circulatory system. There's a whirring of some kind, a sign he's real and there  and you've not just fallen asleep at your lab bench again. 

"No," you smile, the tears falling freely. "Sometimes we humans, no matter how smart or independent, cry for reasons beyond sadness." 

At this, Vison lays a hand behind your head, cradling you, bringing you closer to his chest. "Your tendencies...who you are - what you are, where you came from...it doesn't phase me, ______. I think I love you." 

You grin into his chest. "Yeah, that sounds about right...I think I love you too."

[aheartofwood]

the king arthur movie is SO BAD, guys.

imagine a baby and a kitten got together and tried to edit a movie with only the vaguest idea of arthurian legend based on the backs of the VHS of the disney version and also the lion king for some reason, and also the barest idea of how human brains can accept and understand editing and narrative. imagine a pretty good video game opening for 2001, but watched thru the haze of a really strenuous flu and it’s rented and ancient and was chewed up by at least two dogs so it’s glitching a lot. imagine a knight’s tale……………Reimagined™ (needlessly) by a team of randos who only speak italian and their ideas are being translated by jen from the IT crowd in that one episode where she pretends she can speak italian. imagine a movie with a budget of four dollars (except the budget was HUGE). imagine an opium dream within a dream of robert downey jr’s 2009 sherlock holmes where jude law becomes a boring, leathery king who has a bad habit of constantly sacrificing the silent women he supposedly loves to an undulating pile of lovecraftian horror water ladies that live in his shame toilet in his penis tower basement ONLY to super saiyan into a really bad DnD dude with a motorcycle-insignia-metal skull head and the torso of two The Rocks smashed together (sorry, The Rock) instead of (a much better) watson. imagine eragon, but somehow exceedingly, fremdschamenly, schadenfreudingly worse. not many things get both german expressions, in a gleefully terrible adverb form at that, but this movie——oh, THIS movie——-deserves them. 

the letters of the opening credits roll (or creep?) across the screen. the kerning is bad. all the T’s have a phallic, buffylike, sword motif going on and it renders the names unreadable. the colors and the blurry shots look like something out of monty python. again, who hired this editor? who watched this movie, kissed their fingertips like an italian grandma, and gently set this eldritch horror adrift on the tides of eternity to be received with fear and loathing by millions of human eyes? the elephants from lord of the rings attack the bridge from legend of zelda, and that red flamey eye guy from eragon (mordred, for some reason, in a shake n bake wig) ?? or possibly from inkheart?? is defeated. remember, we know nothing about these characters. feel nothing for them. and the trend continues. katie mcgrath appears, of course, in her standard and splendid emerald green, and then immediately dies. none of the shots in the first 20 minutes of the movie match up, we go from scenes with several people to ultra close ups of faces—-it’s like the “mmmm whatcha say” SNL skit, but serious. the movie continues to not know if it’s playing itself seriously or if it knows how bad it truly is (how bad me be?)

finally we get ONE establishing shot of a sweeping wall (maybe? the camera never stays still enough to tell) and the audience (five people) grounds ourselves, sort of. we get a whip-fast, but not whip-smart, super evolution of arthur’s childhood, in which he shoves coins into a wall (see kids!!! if u just put YR COINS IN YR WALLS instead of BUYING GODDAMN AVOCADOS, U COULD HAVE A CASTLE!!!!) and hearkens back to his character in pacific rim, bc he’s just a scrappy, vaguely appropriative white guy that loves 2 fight stuff. oh, his mom is killed when he’s young ofc. charlie hunnam eventually fucks off to the island w the sword in the sort-of stone (none of the physics makes sense in this movie?? the sword in the stone dropped into a lake, but is now in a chasm on a different island which shows no sign of the ruins of arthur’s childhood town?? in the final fight scene, charlie hunnam is several floors up from scythe-y jude law, but then suddenly they’re fighting on the top of saruman’s tower  scuse me at the whipping sea-level, then suddenly BACK IN THE TOWER bc i guess it wasn’t destroyed????? bc then it gets destroyed again??) of course, charlie hunnam is the One Man who can Grip the penis sword, even though in an interesting turn of events, They are Testing Everyone by shipping them in boats to the island (this seems like an egregious waste of resources). charlie hunnam got in this unfortch sitch bc i forgot, but the guy who put him on the boat chuckled darkly and said he was “”””getting on a different boat””””, but like, doesn’t everyone end up there?? it had the air of the DMV, on purpose, so why was this a threat? how did he avoid it for so long? are there that many people in the kingdom??? also, if i was him i’d straight up pretend i couldn’t lift it tbh and come back for it when They were getting donuts. oh, another inkheart thing—the BLONDE MOM SURVIVES (!!!??? somehow???? unexplained? she had a HOLE THRU HER BODY??) and maybe has memory loss or something and spends her days being somehow indispensable to jude law despite doing nothing but moving a plate. 

i cannot explain the rest of the plot, because i do not understand it. charlie hunnam just EXPERIENCES things with a world-weary, almost kingly worldliness, despite flashing in between being an innocent farm boy who doesn’t wanna do anything and a self-assured wisecracking hustler. there are some good jokes about boring white dude names in a medieval setting, and no more humor forever is allowed in this movie or any movies ever again. a chris parnell lookalike with a hat says he can shoot 75 yards but not 175, then shoots 175 with absolutely no introduction/buildup/continuance/jokes and spends the rest of the film as robin hood. there are some other dudes?????? more women (the brothel ladies that rescue arthur from the river ((not unlike….the prince of egypt…..)) are killed to further manpain, including lucy, who is Special for an unexplained reason. jude law murders his daughter (i guess???), who has a russian name and a tendency to sit around and stroke birds and stare sappily out the window (i feel u, johanna). everyone is wearing medieval versions of suits. there are many iterations of snake, ranging from economy-sized snake to a Giant Fuckmaster Snake Mother. at least five cloaks are cast off. eric bana becomes a literal rock. everything has the vague, shuddering feeling of an improv show where everyone wants the final word/bit. there is grit, there is dirt, there is snake blood, and there is clanking. so much clanking. charlie hunnam is bravely hurling one-liners but no one is listening. what is the sound of only one hand on excalibur???? apparently not as powerful as…………T W O hands on excalibur. 

the editing continues to be bizarre. they keep trying to do the inception thing where they talk about the plan while showing the plan, therefore (in inception, correctly) allowing us to get to the good parts, but there ARE NO GOOD PARTS or even parts at all and they don’t fully commit to the dang method anyway. the shining light of the film, an unnamed mage woman with good bone structure and sweet harem pants (and who COULD have at least been set up as morwen but was not) who can possess animals and also make a lot of dust fly around behind her, becomes charlie hunnam’s spiritual guide?? sort of?? maybe love interest??? she seems to have no interest in him or inhabiting the worldly narrative/plane of this movie. i do not blame her. anyway, she’s got the eagles from LOTR on her side. she dopes the shit out of charlie hunnam (again, why) with a literal snake and he solves his daddy/uncle issues (line @ jude law: “”””you created me”””””) in an incomprehensible nonlinear part of the narrative (she was captured, but i guess jude law let her go before hunnam got to the castle???? bc he’s Not So Bad After All? bc he was bored? eating a sandwich? fuck idk so she could have met him in the middle of fuck knows? i mean if they have medieval lyft or medieval twitter DMing or something??)  also, he may or may not have gone to a ””””””DARK””””””””island, but he did NOT solve his daddy issues there. he did, however, fight some rodents of unusual size from the princess bride. 

ok that is all the energy i have; this movie has sapped me, i am nothing in the great maw of its terribleness. other stuff happens. we have a happy ending, with 4/6ths of the Round Table built (literally and figuratively), and some Vikings conceding to charlie hunnam for no other reason than he’s a bro, i guess. line: how do u scam money out of a viking? u talk to them. SEE MILLENNIALS ALL U HAVE TO DO IS TALK AND PPL GIVE U MONEY or be born the true heir to the throne of (fake england). 

the worst part is that i don’t understand how jude law, who is 44, looks the same the entire movie and watches as charlie hunnam, who is 37, grows up and eventually challenges him. eric bana, who is 48, doubtlessly had fictional charlie hunnam arthur at like 27-35, making jude law the same age in that fiction. i guess men can just ???? play any age????????? forever??????? honorable mentions: the soundtrack, jude law’s eyeshadow, and the preview for atomic blonde.