#god i LOVE writing this nasty bitch already but the end of every sentence feels so SLIMY!!!

[debtsunpaid]

@asteritm / continued from here

party pooper. oh hey clarice, it's nice to hear from you! how are you? how's life? i'm doing really well, thanks for asking! crunch anything tasty lately? party pooper. drop the first t in texting, throw in an s actually. and he's still getting the hang of it but he can't get better without practice you know. what better time to do it when he's supposed to be paying attention? party pooper. — on a scale of one to five, how bad is it? one being distracted but functioning and five being cannot carry a conversation to save his life? i have to know, for record keeping purposes, and then yes — i might give him some breathing room. do you know how fun it is to drive a man a little insane with a picture or two? i bet you do, one way or the other. party pooper. whatcha talking about? anything fun?

[sms] handle with caution. gods, you even text the same. no wonder you two fuck like rabbits, it must be like screwing a mirror for him. not to impugn your good looks by comparison, darling — and of course, i'm delighted that you're well. how goes your training in ... whatever it is he claims to be teaching you? CS.

[sms] handle with caution. yes, yes, i'm well aware of the context. and the contents. and his password, much to his dismay. artfully posed, by the way; what i wouldn't give to have your body. CS.

[sms] handle with caution. oh please, child. it's the easiest game in the world. with men, you'll reach the madhouse long before you could ever hope to reach the truth, every time. and no, i cannot think of anything i would rather do less than rate the depths of john constantine's lust, thank you ever so much for asking. CS.

[sms] handle with caution. business of course, what else? although that particular discussion seems to have effectively stalled, at present, thank you again. as much delightful nostalgia and secondhand embarrassment as i'm finding in the ... sordid details of your extracurricular activities, need i point out, to you of all people, that it would be far more professional to get it on on your own time? rather than, for example, mine? CS.

[sms] handle with caution. [IMG ATTACHMENT] besides, your man here is already averaging a 3.5 over little more than a tasteful glimpse of cleavage and a quarter-body shot — i'm sure you can do better than that. than him, for that matter. CS.

[sms] handle with caution. i know, i know, dreadful of me. and i did say i wouldn't pry. the heart wants what it wants, i suppose, regardless of such ... trivial hurdles as simple rational thought. i can relate to that, at least, but i do wish you'd let me set you up with at least one of the more ... lucrative matches on hand. after all, even if it didn't pan out, it couldn't hurt to keep up at least an appearance of availability, in your position, hm? CS.

[give-jack-a-lightsaber]

Borrowed (Chicago PD x Officer!Reader)

A/N: Hi again to those few people that pull through my fics when my lazy ass decides to write (lol♥) and hello to newcomers who stumbled with me haha. It’s my first time trying to write a gender neutral reader!! so please if you see something that is grammarly incorrect feel free to let me know (and also please remember that english is not my main language). I struggled with the ending and the title so sorry about that ): 

Warnings: blood, death.

Word counter: 1903.

The room was silent. Every member of the Intelligence Unit was staring at the board where seven photos of seven different people were under the title of 'VICTIMS'.

But the hardest part was that they knew who was responsible. They even had the monster in interrogation, taunting them, always almost confessing. Almost.

They watched him walk out, making eye contact with every one of them with a smile on his ugly and perverted face.

Not. Enough. Evidence.

"Okay enough moping around" says Voight from the door of his office. "I'm not waiting for another call to inform me that there's a new body. We know how he acts, how he chooses the victims, what are his preferences, where he hunts. What do we need?"

"To be one step ahead of him" replies Atwater.

"Exactly. Someone call Platt up here, I have an idea and I hope it's last one we will need" order the Sargent and started to explain the plan to his unit.

---------

"What do you need Hank? Sorry for the delay, today is a bit crowded downstairs" asked Platt from the top of the stairs.

"I need to borrow one of your officers, if that's okay with you" answered Voight.

"Every time some of you said that sentence to me it ended with my patrol officer working up here, if you promise me to give her or him back to me at the end I'll bring you my big guns" joked Trudy. "Someone especial?".

"It's for an undercover gig, so they need to look similar to this victims" he explained while showing her the photos.

"I have someone in mind already, I'll send them right up".

--------

A knock on the door pull the sargent out of his mind and signaled the officer to come in.

"Hi sir, I'm officer Y/N Y/L/N. Sargent Platt send me here but she didn't say much, there's something I can do for you?".

"Yes please take a sit, I'll fill you in what's the issue here".

After talking the details about the case and the suspect, Voight saw his team back from the assignments he had ordered and went to present to them his last hope.

"Team, this is officer Y/L/N and hopefully the end of this son of a bitch" commented the grey haired man.

Everyone was stunned silent for a few seconds, eyes trailing to the board and back to the first responder in front of them.

"Oh wow, I-I really see the resemblance" said Y/N watching the photo of a particular victim that was an almost carbon copy of the patrol officer. "It was the first victim you guys found right? Uhm sorry, it must be really hard".

"Yeah it is but thank you for coming" said Kim shaking their hand. "I'm sorry for asking but I don't really remember you from when I was patrolling, are you new?".

"I'm kinda new in this district, in a few months it will be two years but I also work on other place in daylight so I take all the night shifts I can here so, I don't see much of anyone" Y/N joked and surprisingly bringed a smile on the unit members face.

They hadn't smiled since they caught this case.

---------

"Okay, I want you to go through everything again. Go" ordered Voight.

"Entering the club looking a bit self-conscious but not to much, looking around a bit and going straight to the bar.  Looking at the door and my phone then act like if I got stood up. Act a little tipsy but not drunk" Y/L/N listed, just like they have been practicing all afternoon until it was time to leave.

"What's your distress signal?" asked Halstead.

"What about... Popcorn?" they asked.

"Sounds pretty good to me" answered Adam with a half smile while finished testing the hidden microphone and camera.

"Hey remember that none of us can get in the club without tip him off, he know all of us but you so if you don't like something you call it early. It's a really private club and even with a badge it'll take us a beat to get in" said Voight looking very serious.

"Don't worry sir, I know I'm in good hands and I promise you that I will give my best to end this for good" Y/N smiled reassuringly at them.

--------

Just like they planned, the monster had settled his attention towards the undercover patrol officer that now was sitting in a bar stool nursing the second beer of the night.

It was a waiting game now. That took an hour and a half, one more beer that was "accidentally" spilled and a tequila shot, but he finally made his move.

Y/N was good. Every piece of information they have gathered about this guy was being used carefully but also effectively.

"If you want I can show you around. I  know this place can be a bit intimidating on your first time here but I promise you, it gets so much better" he proposed. Got him.

"Yeah please, if it's not bother. I'm really trying new things but I'm kind of a introvert and-it's just really hard sometimes" Y/N half smiled him, "I really appreciate this".

They walk through the club, crossing the most weirdest, grossest and explicit zones until they got to a hallway full of rooms.

"And here we have the bedrooms" he presented, "I'll show you my favorite, everytime I'm here I use this one. I bought it so no one can use it and I can come here whenever I want. It's like my lucky charm".

"Okay everyone, be prepared" said Voight through the radio from his car outside the club. "I can feel we are close but Y/L/N's safety is objective number one".

"Wow t-this is... " Y/N stammered looking around the room, plastic covers were on the bed, couch, floor, walls... Except the ceiling. "Uhm, unique".

"Yeah it is" he smiled darkly locking the door and looking through a drawer that was next to it.

"Uhm do-do you smell that?" the officer asked walking backwards while looking for something to use as defense.

"Smell what?" The murderer asked putting on some gloves and searching for his hunting knife, still giving his back to his soon to be victim.

"Maybe it's my imagination but it smelled like popcorn for a second". Distress signal sended and received.

"Move! Now!" barked Voight through the radio while pulling out his gun and running towards the door.

"You look so much like someone I used to know" he said finally turning around and locking eyes with the officer that was now almost pressed to the opposite wall of the room. "Huh, I guess you kinda find out what I like to do here".

"The plastic covers were a bit much but with those gloves and the knife you just confirmed it" Y/N gulped, keeping the pen hidden from his vision.

"Wow by now all the people I brought here was shitting and pissing themselves, even after I gutted them" he mused walking slowly towards them. "Still, this is a nice surprise. I love when they put a little fight, very entertaining".

"Yeah well if you want entertainment we can go through all the training from the academy" Y/L/N smiled smugly at him when his face dropped, "I know it from memory".

"NOO!" he raged and run at the police officer with his knife but in retail getting stabbed in his arm with a pen, making him drop the hunting knife.

Hard punches swinged from both sides, all meeting their ultimate objectives. After a few nasty ones, the fight continued on the floor with the unfortunate overcome of the serial killer who was now on the top of the officer almost strangling them.

A commotion could be heard in the distance, distracting the assailant enough for the law enforcer to reach the knife and stab him in the guts, twice.

"I ended you" Y/N said to him, through gritted teeth and looking him in the eyes.

But... He smiled. That now bloody and perverted smile appeared and then an excruciating pain on the neck that sent an almost electric shock through their entire body.

The door was flunged out of its place and the Intelligence Unit barreled behind, spotting two people laying in a growing pool of blood. Their suspect with a knife in the abdomen and their colleague... With a pen stabbed in their neck, slowly chocking with the pouring blood.

"Oh God, call an ambulance right now! Request all the patrol cars, firetrucks, whatever the hell is available to clear the traffic towards the Chicago Med!" Voight yelled while going straight to his officer and putting pressure on the wound. "Hey kid, hold on okay? Help is coming".

"Hey Y/L/N come on, I owe you that beer so you ain't going anywhere okay?" said shakily Jay taking their bloody hand.

"W-we e-end it-t" Y/N chocked out, spitting accidentally a bit of blood into some of their clothes, looking at the team and then straight to the Sargent eyes.

"What do we have?" asked the paramedics as they entered the room, requesting a second ambo but rushing towards the officer who's condition was more critical.

"We need to leave right now!" yelled the paramedic loading the stretcher in the ambo and closing the doors.

"Halstead, Atwater and Rojas go behind, clear everything in your path, that ambo gets to the hospital in time record" barked Voight, turning around to look at the half dead criminal. "You and I are going to have a chat".

---------

It's been an hour since patrol officer Y/N Y/L/N was wheeled in through the door of the Chicago Med. The waiting room is full of blues. One could though that a big name, a big charge is in the operation room right now... But no.

It's a colleague. A pair. A friend.

Dr. Halstead approached the waiting room joined with Maggie after treating the wounded officer. Clearing his throat to gain the attention and quiet the whispers, he informed them.

"I'm so sorry to inform you that officer Y/L/N didn't make it" sighed Will. "When they got here the blood loss was tremendously big but the second we had to take the pen out was impossible to recover. They didn't gave up quickly, Y/N wanted to keep fighting but the body couldn't anymore. I'm sorry guys".

"And when you can please, pass by the nurse station or just look for me if you know a family or significant other phones so we can contact them" said Maggie with a sad smile, leaving them to mourn their family in peace.

Slowly the law enforcers went back to their duties with a heavy heart but pleased with the rumors about Voight having taken care of the son of a bitch responsible for their loss.

The last ones to left were the Intelligence Unit. They catched the bad guy, the case was solved but it didn't felt like a win. Every one of them felt guilt, rage, sadness in one big wave that made them spechless all the ride to the precint and while they dressed in their formal blues preparing for the funeral.

District 21 didn't won that day.

[mccnyoongi]

I challenge you to write filthy hobi smut. As filthy as you can. It can be sweet at the end but throw your sappiness aside (which I love by the way omg) and write pure filth!!

+ anon said: I JUST REALIZED REQUESTS ARE OPEN AND I CAN BE FILTHY SJFJSKJD GOD BLESS U !!!! Smth with hobi and lots of biting + possessiveness?? pretty please?? praise the Lord amen 🙏🙏🙏

my first hobi drabble :( love his fine ass…

⇢ word count: 800+

⇢ warnings: dom!hobi, porn w like a semblance of plot, coworker!hobi, hate fucking, degrading language, possesive!hobi, mentions: oral (m recieving) & spanking, zero fluff to be found

Jung Hoseok is wholly enraptured by you, and it’s just that fucking simple. Or it would be that simple if he also didn’t hate your guts with an ardour that would shock anyone that knew him at all, but that doesn’t matter. Thankfully you can’t say anything sarcastic, bratty, or downright fucking annoying right now, like he knows you usually would, from a full year’s experience of working alongside you at this monotonous, grey walled office.

After over 365 days of butting heads, passive-aggressive comments, exasperated sighs and a steady rise of sexual tension that you had been denying since day one, he’s finally found a way to shut you up. With his cock stuffing you full, to the point of stuttering moans while your bent over his desk in his office, the same one you had whined about him getting instead of you. You’re whining for a much different reason now.

You whine for the hand he has on your cheek, pressing your face into the wood of his desk; for the ache in your jaw that had erupted when he fucked the entirety of his length into your throat without abandon, and for the sting of his hips slapping against your ass, cheeks already pink from earlier abuse from his unyielding hands.

It’s all so fucking delicious and you resent him even more for it.

“God you’re so fucking wet, soaking my cock, my desk- maybe I’ll have you clean it up after-” and how could you forget his filthy mouth- he’s been running it non stop from the moment you two had first kissed, frustration and tension finally bubbling over. Nasty words and degrading names tumble from his hypnotizing lips as easily as he’d recite company statistics at the weekly Monday morning meetings. “You love this, huh? Love how my cock fucks this slutty pussy, fucking the bitch out of you,” you hate that he’s right.

“H-hose-ok,” and you hate the way he’s making you stutter through your words, and you know you couldn’t form a full sentence even if you tried.

“What? You can’t take it,” he laughs, though it’s breathless, most of his energy being spent on sharp thrusts, making sure he fills you to the brim every time. “That’s a fucking lie and you know it- I can feel the way your cunt sucks me back in, how it’s fucking weeping for me.”

He’s revelling in every reaction you give him, your eyes screwing shut and your hands gripping at the edge of the table in a desperate attempt to stay on earth while he actively drags you to heaven- or is it hell? 

“Can’t believe it took me this long to claim you,” claim you? He laughs again, sensing your apparent confusion. “What, you thought this was a one-time thing?” 

He’s pulling out of you, letting you whine as your pussy flutters around nothing, practically begging him not to leave. “Up.”

You must be out of your mind, controlled only by your undeniable need to be fucked by a man you’ve only ever seen as insufferable, because you obey without a second thought, standing to your full height on shaky legs, worried about your balance without a solid surface underneath you to rely on. You don’t have to worry for long, because Hoseok is turning you around so the two of you are face to face once more. 

You take him in, struck by his raw beauty, even while he’s drenched in sweat and his hair’s a mess. His eyes, normally playful and bright, now hold a new darkness, even beyond his blown-out pupils. His chest, though you can only see a small portion of it through his half-buttoned work shirt, is shining and panting. Fuck, he’s gorgeous.

You’re pulled from your lust-induced ogling by him manhandling you in the way he’s already figured out you love- another infuriating thing about him is his raw intuitiveness. He can figure out what makes someone tick within an hour of knowing them, and he’s got your fucking number, that’s for sure.

He lifts you to sit on the desk and you give the varnish a fleeting thought, wondering how it’ll fare by the end of this, whether Hoseok will keep his promise of cleaning up your collective mess. Your jumbled thoughts are dissipated by him once more when you feel his cock, painfully hard, against your own center, and it’s all you can do to not beg him immediately.

“If you think I’m letting this sweet cunt go,” he doesn’t break eye contact as he speaks, not even flinching at the vulgarities, and you feel the muscles in your thighs jump. He shakes his head and leans forward, inching closer to you until your noses are just touching. He smirks when even that amount of skin to skin contact makes you shiver.

“That’s not how this works, sweetheart. Not now that I’ve gotten a taste of you, now that I know that behind that frigid fucking facade, you’re a simpering bitch, desperate to be fucked. I’m gonna take you everywhere I can so you can’t even sit through a goddamn conference call without flooding your panties because just being here reminds you of how much you love being a slut for me. No, you’re mine now, sweetheart. All fucking mine.”

[toshis-puppycat]

Lap Dance

A/n: So I'm a whore I guess lmao. I felt so embarrassed writing this and I dont even care if it's bad. I hope yall enjoy.

Warnings: daddy kink, lap dance. Honestly idk but it's there

——

Y/n seemed to spend all her time with them, the "Losers club" they called themselves. Meeting Bev in college was a godsend because she was able to meet the rest of her friends, getting along with all of them. Well most of them, Stan was an ass to her since they'd met. But she loved going over to their apartment and just goofing off, it also pissed Stan off but that was just an added bonus to her. You got to hang out with the best group of friends you could ever hope for and piss off an asshat at the same time. Today you all opted to spend the night in, and play something you felt so nostalgic for. Truth or Dare. 

Richie suggested it, and the dumb fuck you found yourself calling your best friend. 

"Y/n! Truth or dare?" Richie yelled at you.

"Dare." You said confidently, Richie always made you all do the weirdest shit whenever you chose dare. 

"I dare you to give Stan a lap dance! And you have to wear something tasteful." He said, the laughing atmosphere dropped. Stan wasn't even in the same room as you guys and Richie decided that as his dare?

"Richie, why didn't you just dare something easier!" Eddie yelled at him.

"And why the fuck cant she just give a lap dance in what shes wearing?" Ben asked.

"Y/n is hot but if your going to give a man a lap dance, you gotta wear the right stuff." Richie said. You rolled your eyes, and grabbed what he'd bought you earlier. 'That's why he bought this for me. What a little shit.' You thought.

"I'll do it." You said, standing up from the couch you were sitting at. Eddie looked at you horrified. "I'm not backing down from a dare, Eds." You told him. "I'm no bottom bitch." You said to the group, they all laughed at that. Of course you weren't but Stan was an ass to you all the damn time. You couldn't deny it, hed made you leave pissed off beyond belief more times than you could count. "If I see you when I come out of the bathroom though, I'm beating the shit out of you Richie." You heard him curse and walked to the restroom to change. Richie was truly a little shit, but the man did have good taste in lingerie. The black lace bra and panties set with a garter belt and stockings, plus a robe to go with it. He said you just had to have it and now you agreed with him. Because despite all the arguments you had with Stan, you wanted him to know he was missing out on you. When you put everything on, you had to thank Richie even more. You looked hot, 'maybe this wouldn't be so bad to do' you thought, unlocking the door and quickly looking outside for any of the others. You heard them all in the living room still, and you've never been so grateful for a hallway. You quickly made your way to Stans door, and knocked. 

"Its unlocked!" He yelled, you smirked. He wouldn't be saying that if he knew it was you. You opened his door and quickly walked in, locking it behind you as you closed it. He was sitting at his desk, and his back was facing you. "Is y/n still here? I dont want to be out there if she is." He said. You narrowed your eyes at his back. 

"Nah, sadly this bitch is still here." You said, he quickly whipped his head around to face you scowling, his chair turned with him. The scowl dropped just as quickly as it appeared, being replaced with a shocked look, he was wearing sweatpants and didn't have a shirt on. "Awe what is it Stanley? Cat got your tongue?" You asked, walking towards him.

"Y/n, get the fuck out of my room." He said, glaring at you. Too bad it didn't do anything but fuel your anger. 

"Nah, I think I'm gonna stay. I gotta say Stan, your room is nice." You said, stopping just in front of him. You saw him looking over you, and how his eyes ended up glazing over a little before he looked at your face. You leaned forward, placing your hand on the back of his chair and put your knee on the side of his leg. You could feel the heat coming off him through his sweatpants. "I'm gonna give you a lap dance Stanley. And you're going to sit here like a good boy for me. Okay?" You asked. You didn't really care, to be quite honest. You liked how he was looking at you, you liked that he was speechless for once. Not having some nasty retort to throw at you. He nodded, and you smirked. "Good." You said, placing your phone on his desk hearing it play Beyonce's "Partition". Then you were dancing, literally using his own goddamn chair to move around, and whenever you ended up on his lap you would roll your hips and pressed yourself against him. You relished in all the low groans he made every time. Served him right, trying to be a jackass like he did. The song ended too quick for your tastes, and it ended with you being in his lap again. You felt so smug, Stan didn't seem to be able to form a coherent sentence at all. It was exhilarating knowing you did that to him and kinda hot. You felt yourself flush a little at how close you two were now. When you were dancing it was different, you didnt stay in his lap for long then. You felt yourself flush even more knowing just how much you both enjoyed what you did. You could feel him against your inner thigh. His hands moved to your hips before you could even register anymore, quickly picking you up and going to the bed, dropping you and quickly getting on top, quickly spreading your legs by getting in between them. 

"You think you're so fucking funny? Don't you?" He said, looking you furiously it was a little less scathing knowing he had an erection that he was currently grinding into you. "You always piss me off but this, this was too deliberate for you. You've wanted to get fucked haven't you?" He asked, you whined in response to him. You were soaked, seeing Stan react the way he did was definitely something that could make you act this way. He smirked, and moved a hand down between your legs, putting pressure on your clit through your panties. "God you're soaked. Did dancing on me do that for you? Are you that needy for such little contact to make you this wet?" He asked, looking at how your eyes widened and your hips jerked upwards against him. He smirked at your reaction.

"You want me don't you? You would love it if I fucked you right now? Wouldn't you?"

You didn't even try refuting him, the way he was just moving his hand on you, how he was grinding into you was making you go crazy. "Come on beg me, babylove. I might do it if you beg me." You whined again and he dropped his head to the base of your neck, nipping at you and kissing at just the right spot.

"Please, Stan. Please, please, please." You whimpered, you felt him smirk against your neck before he resumed with biting. 

"I bet you're so used to people just giving you what you want. And you know you sound so cute begging like that. You cant even form a sentence for me? But Im barely touching you." He said, moving your panties to the side and sliding a finger inside of you. Relishing how you jerked into the sudden intrusion. "God you are so wet." He groans out, a high pitched whine comes from you and you can see the facade he put on crumbling. 

"Please, daddy. Please fuck me." You whimpered out. Stan stopped moving, and you squirmed at the lack of movement, but suddenly he pulled his finger out and started struggling to pull his pants and underwear down.

"Think you can be good for me, babylove?" He asked, smirking when you eagerly nodded your head. "Good girl." He whispered, before kissing at your neck. "You know you always acted like such a bitch to me. Picking fights, pissing me off. I should've know you just needed to be taught a lesson." He breathed out, as you whined. "I'm gonna enjoy this, babylove." He said before kissing you. He pushed your panties to the side again and lined himself up, slowly sinking into you and bottoming out. "God you're so tight." He groaned out, and with a shuttering breath he started thrusting. Your hands moved to his back and you gripped at his shoulders. "You're a good girl for daddy aren't you, babylove?" He asked, you nodded frantically, eyes wide and you tightened around him. He groaned again, his hips moving faster. You could already feel yourself tipping over.

"I wanna cum, daddy please." You whimpered out, he chuckled. 

"Already?" He asked, smirking at how you couldn't even talk and looked at him with pleading eyes. "Okay baby, you can cum." He said, your eyes glazed over and you tightened around him even more moaning his name as he kept thrusting. He shuttered at the feeling and he felt himself reaching his own limit. He was getting sloppy with his movements before he finally buries himself in you, releasing inside you with a groan. He laid on you for a little before getting off and moving to your side, holding you close and listening to you shift to lay on him. You two laid there for a few minutes, breathless. 

"We should do that again." You said, still breathless and Stan looks down at you smirking again. 

"Yeah, we should babylove."

[thepartyresponsible]

this was originally one of the halloween fics. the prompt was blind date + dark magic.

so here’s a fic about cursed james rhodes going on a blind date with may parker, friendly neighborhood witch.

“It’s a date,” Tony says, from a safe distance. “She’s gorgeous. She’s lovely. You’ll have a great time.”

James half-asses his way through a counting exercise he learned back in MIT, when he was having that trouble with Tony getting drunk and falling asleep in the fridge. It doesn’t help much, but, by the end of it, he feels less inclined to throw a wrench at Tony’s head.

“Tony,” he says, “I can get my own dates. I don’t need you to---”

“I’m better at it,” Tony says. Which, statistically, is probably true. When Tony Stark asks a woman on a date, she tends to agree, even if the other half of the equation isn’t actually Tony. “Anyway, you’ll like her. She’s perfect. She’s already agreed. Don’t stand her up, Rhodey, or you can start upgrading your armor yourself.”

“Yeah, I already do that. I went to MIT too, asshole.”

Tony rolls his eyes theatrically. Which is probably the only way Tony knows how to roll his eyes. “Christ,” he says, “I’m so sorry for setting you up with a beautiful, smart, charming woman, widowed and alone in this terrible city, without a--”

“Fine,” James says. Because it’s Tony, so he was always going to agree. And also because he really, really doesn’t want Tony to get to the part where he starts describing him. “Fine, yeah. Sounds great.”

“Great,” Tony says. He beams over at him, and James tries his best to hold onto his scowl, but it melts under the force of that grin, the way it always does.

  Tony sends him to some Italian place, and James knows immediately that the woman must have picked it, because it’s far too reasonable for Tony’s tastes. It’s just a normal place for normal people, and it’s a little unfair that he knows immediately who he’s here to meet, because she lights up the whole restaurant just by sitting at a table.

The thing is, whatever Tony might think, James isn’t bad at this. He gets about as many first dates as he wants. It’s just that, ever since college, the second and third dates have almost disappeared. He’s never really been able to figure out why.

He tells Tony it doesn’t bother him, and he has plenty of other things to focus on, but, now that Tony’s settling into what seems to be a comparatively functional long-term relationship, he’s been treating James’ ongoing bachelorhood as some kind of challenge.

Which means blind dates with beautiful women. Which isn’t something to complain about. But it’s starting to feel like some kind of endurance trial, getting shot down so many times in a row.

The woman notices him before he’s even made it past the hostess. She blinks, straightens, and then beams over at him, and James thinks, begrudgingly, that he’s going to have to thank Tony for setting this up. She’s stunning, and not in that sharp-eyed, vaguely scary way Tony tends to prefer.

But, as he gets closer, her face freezes. By the time he reaches the table, she’s staring at him with an expression that could politely be described as concerned confusion.

“Hi,” he says, because he’s flown damn near 140 combat missions, and so he probably has to at least make it past the introductions. “I’m James Rhodes. Tony said--”

“Yeah,” she says. Then she blinks, visibly recovers, and stands up, hand outstretched. “Hi, yes. Wow, sorry. I’m May Parker.”

They shake hands, and then they sit, and then a smiley waitress stops by to get their drink orders before bustling away again, leaving them alone in silence.

He’s about to ask May how she knows Tony when he catches her squinting at him like there’s something on his face.

There’s an awkwardness here that he really, really doesn’t want to deal with.

He tips his head back. “Did not Tony tell you that I’m---”

“Cursed?” she asks, which is absolutely not how he planned to finish that sentence. She leans forward, eyes intent, staring harder than ever. “No, he didn’t mention it. Does he know?”

He blinks at her. “Excuse me?”

Her eyebrows climb higher, and he shouldn’t be charmed by the expressiveness of her face, because he’s pretty sure he’s just been insulted. “Do you know?”

He’s spent years having conversations with Tony that start midway through whatever point Tony was making in his head before James showed up. He’s learned, over time, that the best way to correct confusion is to acknowledge it. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She stares at him for a second longer. “Sorry,” she says, “this is weird. But can you just--- here.” She digs in her purse, comes out with a pen and what appears to be a receipt for breakfast tacos. She slides both across the table to him. “Write it down.”

“Write what down?” He’s going to kill Tony. He is. For real this time. But he’ll have to get through this bizarre date first. Reflexively, because his mother raised him to be polite, he picks up the pen.

“What she did,” May says. There’s a second of tension, like a weight settling on James’ shoulders, and then she smiles, and something tugs.

When he looks down, he’s scrawled a message across the receipt. That would be less creepy, probably, if he’d known he was doing it. And also if he hadn’t used his non-dominant hand.

Lisa Lawson, “You’re mine”

He stares at it. May reaches over, tugs it closer, spins it around, and makes a soft noise that might be exasperation or contempt.

“College girlfriend?” she asks.

“Okay,” James says. “What the hell?”

He’s seen weirder shit. He’s spent most of his life as Tony Stark’s best friend. Tony Stark, who hangs out with super soldiers and Norse gods and women who can lift trucks with sparkly red magic. He has seen shit so weird that this barely registers as odd, but it’s still a little startling, because he hasn’t thought about Lisa for years.

She was the kind of mistake a lot of people make when they’re young, back when obsession looks like passion and too much looks like not enough. She’d scared the hell out of Tony, which James had tolerated right up until she started actively trying to split them apart.

That last day, junior year, she’d found him talking to a classmate about scheduling a study session, and she’d damn near climbed into his lap in the middle of the coffee shop. “You’re mine,” she’d said, and then she’d kissed him so hard she’d managed to split his lip.

After that, James and Tony had taken a weekend trip to the tropics, and, by the time he came back, she was gone.

He figures Tony paid her to go away. He never asked.

“She wasn’t very strong,” May says, slowly. She’s squinting at his mouth. “It’s kind of clumsy. But she definitely meant it.”

“I’m cursed?” James says.

She smiles again, and he really wishes she’d stop doing that, because he’s trying to focus on the idea that Linda Lawson maybe cursed him twenty years ago.

“It’s ugly,” she tells him, sympathetic the way people get when they have to tell you they watched someone pull a hit and run on your parked car. “You have a history of women losing interest after they kiss you?”

James blinks. He blinks again. “Son of a bitch,” he says.

Twenty years. Twenty years of this shit.

“Not all of them,” he says, feeling bizarrely defensive.

“No. Of course not. Look at you.” She gestures at him in a way he finds immensely flattering, and then she shrugs. “You should kiss more witches,” she says, decisively. “Like I said, she wasn’t very strong. Any of us could’ve taken care of that for you.”

“That’s what I need to do?” he asks. “Kiss a witch?”

She tips her head back, thinks it over. “Well,” she says, after a moment, “there are rituals you could do. That spell’s an old one. It’s rooted deep, probably wouldn’t be easy to get rid of yourself, but…you could, if you wanted. If you don’t want any more magic on you.”

“You know a lot of witches?” James asks. He knows one, but, since Wanda’s never said anything, he’s not sure she counts. Maybe there are different kinds of magic. Maybe she didn’t know enough to read it.  

And he’s decidedly uninterested in asking Wanda to kiss him, anyway. She’s about twenty years too young, and the shit she can do with her hands creeps him out. He doesn’t want her mouth anywhere near his face.

May smiles again, a little crooked. “I know enough,” she says. “If you’re asking if I know any witches who’ll kiss you--”

“Would you?” he asks, and then thinks, on reflection, that he maybe should’ve been a bit more charming about the request. He hasn’t even bought her dinner yet.

She laughs, bright and amused, and then leans across the table. The kiss is sweet and quick and over before James can remember to close his eyes, but it sweeps over him, a buzzing, tingly, pleasantly tongue-against-a-battery kind of sensation that works from his lips down to his toes.

“Holy shit,” he says. It’s like a release of pressure he didn’t know had been building, a weight he’d carried for so long that he’d forgotten how it felt to be free of it.

“Sorry,” he says, when the older woman in the next booth shoots him a nasty look. “Excuse me.”

May laughs, and she’s still laughing when the waitress finally comes back with their drinks. And then May has to explain to the waitress that, no, they aren’t ready to order, because they haven’t even opened their menus yet. James is no help. He’s staring at May, struck by the way the sunlight falls against her cheekbones and the way his lips are still buzzing from that kiss.

“Is it going to feel like that every time I kiss you?” he asks, the second the waitress is out of earshot.

May chokes a little on her wine and then laughs a laugh that is almost a giggle, and it occurs to James that there’s something delightfully dorky about her, this beautiful woman who is maybe a witch.

She tips him a wink that is overdone and ridiculous and still, somehow, worryingly effective. “Well,” she says, smirking into her wine. “I guess you’ll have to find out.”

[blueboxesandtrafficcones]

You’re My Best Friend

(Ooh, you make me live, now honey!)

In response to this prompt from this list, sent a very long time ago now, but after giving in and asking my beta for help (the lovely @stupidsatsuma!) I was finally able to come up with something.

Rated PG-13 for occasional bad language.

AO3

---

Ellie trudged up the path to Hardy’s with a yawn, thinking of the lovely dream from which her alarm had thrown her.  The specifics were fuzzy now, but she had a vague, calming sense of… peace.  Of being on vacation with someone she loved, of no responsibilities other than choosing where to go for meals.

A stark contrast to the chaos getting the boys up for school had been; she’d ultimately had to leave them to her father’s care to make it to Hardy’s on time.

She was so lost in her thoughts that it wasn’t until she was on the patio she realized that the sliding glass door was open, and what was more, Hardy was talking.

How could he already know I’m here? she wondered, only to reach the doorway and find him with his back to her, speaking to an empty room.  He was already dressed, ready to go but for his suit jacket, and stood with one hand on his hip, the other in front of him where he could peer down at the writing.

It was a pose she was greatly familiar with, though usually a room full of detectives stared back at him, rather than his furniture.

“Who can tell me what the most important job is, for police?”

Ellie leaned silently against the door frame, watching him watch the empty room.

“You are aware that walls aren’t people, right?” she finally commented, when he didn’t continue.  “They can’t actually answer.”

“Ellie!”  Hardy spun around, eyes widening as he caught sight of her.  “Bloody- is it already seven?  Sorry, just a moment.”  He folded the paper up and tucked it away, shrugging on his jacket and hurrying to the desk for his briefcase.  “Can you…” he asked vaguely, waving towards the kitchen, and she fetched the two prepared travel thermoses full of tea, pausing to remove the lid from ‘hers’ and take a few, greedy gulps, sighing softly as even just the smell of the caffeine started to work on her.

“Let’s go,” he barked, gesturing her towards the door with his trademark impatient scowl, and she moved, rolling her eyes and replacing the lid.

“All right, all right, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Ellie sighed, eyeing him speculatively as he locked the door and they started back down to her car.  “Can I ask-”

“No.”

-

They traveled an hour out of town towards Bristol for what turned out to be a five minute interview.  Back in the car and on the way back to town, Hardy spent rather longer than usual complaining about the wasted time.

“All I’m saying is-”

“What were you doing?” Ellie interrupted around minute twenty-three, unable to take another second of his bitching.

“What?”

She took her eyes off the road long enough to give him her best don’t be thick with me glare – bringing the day’s total up to every significant male in her life.  And it’s only half eight.  “What were you doing when I found you at your house?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does if you’ve gone barmy.  Honestly, why were you asking your walls what our most important job is?”

Hardy grumbled for a moment, sinking deeper in his seat, but she waited him out.  “I was practicing,” he finally said quietly.

“Practicing?”

“For tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”  Ellie ran quickly through their upcoming work events, and came up with nothing other than a few budget meetings and a semi-annual sexual harassment seminar where she would have to listen for days afterwards as he ranted about stupid people unable to keep their hands to themselves.  “What’s tomorrow?”

His exasperated gaze burned a hole in the side of her head, making her flush.  “The thing, tomorrow,” he said vaguely.  “For Fred’s class.”

“What?”  She nearly slammed on the breaks in surprise, just managing to keep the car under control.  “What thing for Fred’s class?  What are you talking about?!”

“You don’t know?”  Hardy sounded surprised, but she barely noticed, frantically trying to recall anything related to Hardy, Fred, or Fred’s class.  “Sorry, Miller, I thought you did.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ellie said through gritted teeth, failing miserably at keeping the hurt feelings away.  “Explain.  Now.”

He shifted next to her, running his fingers through his hair as he spoke carefully.  “Last week, when Fred came to visit you at lunch, he wanted to talk to me, remember?”

He waited for her to nod, which she did, only vaguely remembering the instance.  For reasons unknown to her, her younger son had taken a shining to her partner, and found him absolutely hilarious.

“Anyway, what he wanted was… his class is doing a career day, and he’s asked me to come in and speak.  I was practicing my spiel when you arrived this morning.”

A lay-by was only a few yards ahead and she pulled in hard, having to stop and put the car into park before closing her eyes and leaning her forehead on the wheel, fighting back nausea and horror.  Why didn’t he ask me? her heart cried, aching, as she tried not to cry in front of Hardy.  Why didn’t he want me?

“Hey, hey, hey,” Hardy said softly, soothingly, resting his palm between her shoulder blades.  He didn’t rub, let his hand just sit there, but it helped to anchor her.  “He couldn’t ask a family member, Miller, otherwise he’d have asked you – he told me so.  It’s all right.”

“What?”  To her horror she sniffled, but he didn’t comment except to hand her an honest-to-God handkerchief.

“He wanted to ask you but it couldn’t be a relative,” he repeated.  “I don’t know why he didn’t tell you about it at all, but that’s why he didn’t ask.”

Ellie chanced a peek at him, only to find the most caring, sympathetic expression she’d ever seen on him – possibly even more so than It was Joe.  “Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped without heat, pressing her lips tightly together.

“Sorry.”  His expression didn’t change, though he removed his hand, and she gave an involuntary moue of regret at the loss of the warm touch.

“Not your fault, I suppose.”

“That’s a change.”  His lips twitched, and she reluctantly smiled back.

Clearing her throat she straightened up, rolling her shoulders in an attempt to ease some tension there.  “Erm, sorry about…” she gestured, leaving the sentence unfinished, but as always, he knew what she meant.

“S’all right.  D’you want me to drive back?”

Ellie gave two slow blinks in surprise, jaw dropping.  “That’s the first time you’ve ever offered that!”

“Well?”

“Oh, don’t be stupid,” she scoffed, putting the car in drive and checking her mirrors.  “The day I let you drive will be the day the world ends.”

She pulled out, snickering, and after a moment, Hardy groaned.  “I told you, I have no relation to that bloody actor,” he insisted, as he had often had to do.  “Besides, you’re hardly driving a Bentley.”

“I note you’re not denying being a demon,” Ellie teased, but he only huffed, crossing his arms and sitting back.

To keep from getting lost in her thoughts she turned on the radio, and it only took two notes to recognize the song.  For the second time in fifteen minutes she nearly crashed the car, this time because of laughter, but managed to keep control and sing along with the music.

”Oooh, you make me live, now, honey!”

The rest of the ride back to Broadchurch, Hardy sulked.

-

At half-nine the next morning, he stopped at her desk and crossed his arms.

“D’you need something?” Ellie asked without looking up from the training video she was watching.

“Time to go.”

“Go where?”

Hardy sighed heavily.  “Please, can we not do twenty fucking questions again?  Won’t I get plenty of that soon enough?”

“Oh.  Oh!  Erm, have a good time, then,” she paused the video to smile up politely at him, wondering if he could see the dark circles under her eyes, would know that she’d cried herself to sleep the previous evening.

He nodded but didn’t move, just staring at her expectantly.

She stared back, raising her eyebrows.  “Did you need something?”

“Time to go,” he repeated, giving his trademark woe is me heavy sigh when she didn’t move.  “C’mon, shake a leg.”

“Why am I going?” Ellie asked stiffly, wondering if he was being deliberately cruel.  It wasn’t like him, though she knew if they polled the entire office, she would be the only one to think he didn’t have a cruel, nasty bone in his body.  At least, not for anyone other than murderers and the like.  Even then, it was more about justice for victims than hatred for criminals.

“You’re my partner.”  Hardy said it so matter-of-factly, with a casual shrug, that a little bit of the pain her heart eased.  “I can’t talk about my job without you – you’re half of it.”

The balloon of her hurt popped like that, deflating, and she couldn’t help a smile.  “Well, if you insist.”

-

A half-dozen other family friends of Fred’s classmates had been pressed into presenting as well, but Ellie was the only guest, and stood at the back of the classroom watching.

It had been gratifying when she walked in and Fred all but tackled her, shrieking with glee to see her, and she smiled even wider to see his greeting to Hardy had been significantly tamer, though still more enthusiastic than he was at others, taking him by the hand and tugging him to the front of the room.

She’d had a vague idea before, but now, watching him interact with a classroom full of six-year-olds, it was clear that Hardy was a natural with children.  He talked with them, not at them, keeping them engaged for the entire ten-minute presentation.  Despite the heaviness of the crimes they typically investigated in CID he kept it relevant and age-appropriate, and the kids loved it, shouting out questions and answers to the point where the teacher and other guest presenters looked fairly irritated.

Eventually he was cut off, returning to the back of the room to stand next to Ellie and watch the next guest drone on about insurance.

“You did well,” Ellie murmured, earning a pleased, hopeful smile from him.

“D’you really think so?  I mean, I would certainly hope.  I don’t want to embarrass him,” he whispered back, glancing around, and she had to grin at how many of the children smiled at him and he waved back.

In an uncharacteristic show of affection given that their relationship was built on insults and distance, she took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.  “Really.”  Ellie smiled up at him, seeming to short-circuit his brain – his expression froze before going soft and thoughtful.

It wasn’t until they walked out of the school that she realized they were still holding hands, when they had to let go to get into the car.

“So, back to the office?”

Hardy cocked his head, surprising her with, “Why don’t we get lunch first?”

-

They ended up at a little roadside café, taking a few minutes first to stare at the menu.

Once ordered, though, Ellie felt a weird vibe, inexplicably nervous.  It’s just Hardy, she reminded herself sternly, but the butterflies in her gut refused to leave.

“So-” they started at the same time, laughing softly as the tension seemingly broke.

“Go ahead,” Hardy encouraged, folding his arms on the tabletop and leaning forward.

She grinned back, matching his posture.  “I was just going to say, you did very well.  The kids loved you, though none more than Fred.”  Her son had looked positively enamored, and she was looking forward to his recap that night at home.

“I enjoyed it.”  His tone said he was surprised, a wistful quality to it she didn’t immediately understand.  “I had to do the same for Daisy, once, when she was… oh, a wee bit older than he is.  Her classmates seemed to enjoy my presentation, but Daisy…” he trailed off, staring down at his hands, an old sadness clear on his face.  “She was embarrassed, said I didn’t do it right.  That I’d made her the laughingstock of the class.  Tess, she went to the presentation too but didn’t speak, agreed.  They both thought I was shit.”

Ellie’s heart broke for him.  She was brutally aware of what it felt like to be rejected by your child, and once again felt anger at Tess on his behalf.  “I’m sorry.  Is that why you were so nervous?”  Unthinkingly she reached out her hand, putting it halfway across the table, surprised when he settled his on top.

“Yeah.”  After a moment he rallied, looking up again and smiling.  “Never mind, all in the past.  But, really, I’m pleased he was satisfied.”

“Well, I was certainly was happy,” she teased, trying to concentrate through the warmth of his hand on hers.  “You said some awfully nice things about your partner – she sounds great.”

Hardy kept looking at her, the heat of his gaze almost enough to make her uncomfortable.  “She’s one of the best detectives I’ve ever met,” he said truthfully.

Ellie’s eyes widened, cheeks burning, and she dropped her eyes to stare at the tabletop.  “Don’t exaggerate,” she mumbled.

“It’s true.  She’s also the best friend that I’ve ever had.”

Unbidden, the lyrics to the song from yesterday flashed through her mind – on the surface it was a nice song about friendship, though one only had to listen to the lyrics to realize it was a love song.

Oh, you're the best friend that I ever had/I've been with you such a long time/You're my sunshine and I want you to know/That my feelings are true/I really love you/Oh, you're my best friend

Peeking up at him from below her lashes, she found him watching her, a strange peace on his face.  Like that her nerves disappeared, and for the first time since Joe’s arrest, she had a clear vision of her future, of what she wanted life to look like.

“You help restore my faith,” she said softly, tentatively, “whenever this world is cruel to me.”

Hardy’s expression lit like the sun, a dazzling smile appearing, and she waited with bated breath to see if her message was received, and possibly, maybe returned.

“I know I’ve gone off and left a couple times now,” he replied slowly, hand pressing hers into the table, “but I seem to keep coming back to you.”

For the second time in as many days tears pricked at her eyes, though this time, they were of happiness.

“You’re my best friend.”

It was awkward, with the table between them, but they managed to meet in the middle and share a sweet kiss, one that promised many more.

Ooh, you make me live.

[amorningshadeofyellow-blog]

What Time Is It? (A Day in the Life with Intrusive Thought OCD)

The last week or two has far surpassed the brim, overflowing with stress and wonder, lack of this, lack of that, thinking, thinking, thinking. Since coming back from Tulane, I think I’ve managed to scrape the bottom of the barrel a little less elegantly. It’s been an unexplainable place, surrounded by an unexplainable feeling, but the least I can do is try. Explaining my OCD is not something I do to make you feel bad for me, not something that I do to gain pity points. It’s embarrassing. I was one of the smartest girls around; I still am. Where does it make sense to be consumed- literally consumed- in thoughts that are so infantile, so small, so stupid and pointless? It doesn’t, but this is my attempt to explain the mental process and impact my OCD has made. 

There are a handful of types of OCD. Most people associate OCD with cleaning, organizing, scrubbing your hands 18 times in an hour or flipping a light switch 6 times. There was a YouTube video of a guy who was performing some sort of spoken poetry about his OCD and the girl he loved. I always thought about that. With the little research I’ve done, I’ve found that the basic types are as follows: those who clean, those who organize, those who check, those who hoard, and those with intrusive thoughts- the obsessives. Obviously, my case is the latter. In slight description, the cleaners are the ones who scrub hands and surfaces, afraid of germs and contamination. The organizers are fixated on symmetry, things being centered and equally, those who organize their desks so precisely that if a pen moves two centimeters- they know. The checkers are those who check door locks, light switches, stove tops- often so obsessed with the idea that there will be a fire, a break in, something fo the sorts. The hoarders are obvious without description. Then, there are those of us that suffer from intrusive thoughts. My kind. Those who will be having a normal day, walking the halls to class or driving along the road, and suddenly an unwarranted and unwanted thought presents itself. This begins an obsessive-compulsive cycle, and it’s where I’ve struggled for many years. Where you’re able to see the compulsion- the cleaning, hoarding, flipping light switches and organizing desks, mine is far harder to detect. My compulsion- the relief- it comes in many forms. I need far more reassurance than the average human solely because I’ve depleted my ego and don’t think highly enough of myself to take my own word. It’s hard to make people understand it because we all worry. Where I differ is that my worry is an all consuming part of my day. Not every day. Some days, I don’t worry so much. Some days, when there’s no stressors and I feel the sun on my face and am confident in my body and mind- I do alright. Others, I quite literally think I’m the worlds most embarrassingly psychotic human being. So, I’m still learning. The compulsion aspect of my disorder still confuses me. The routines I go through to relieve the anxiety isn’t always the same, but there’s a compulsion. The thirty texts, the drinking, the sudden stopping myself from eating or sleeping, the texts, the texts, the endless flow of words that keep coming, the apologies on top of apologies. It doesn’t really make sense to me, and I guess that’s because I still think of the man switching the light off and on. 

To further indulge in the intensity and persistent nature of these thoughts- I want to explain how a day may work for me. I wake up. What time is it? 7:45. So, I should leave by 8:35 at the least because getting my bags out of my car and parking, locking the doors and situating my things so I can grab my coffee from my console will take probably four minutes, three or four to walk to class. I’m doing my makeup. My eyebrow hair grows so strangely. I should pluck these, but is it going too look too sparse right here? I think they’re too dark, but I don’t have time to really go back and change it. If I waste the product more I’ll have to buy another brow pencil by the end of April. They’re twenty-one dollars. I have three-hundred and six dollars in my bank account, but less than a fourth a tank of gas. However, I go to San Diego Monday, so I only need gas to go to Jackson for classes these next two days and then Saturday to clean the office. I should fill up before I go to San Diego in case I spend too much there. It takes thirty dollars to fill up my car. My seventy dollar car insurance already came out of my account, but I still need to pay those medical bills. Shit, my medical bills. I’m sure at least one has gone to collection. Is my credit going to be terrible now? How do I fix that? I should ask my mom. I hope my credit isn’t bad. three hundred and six minus thirty is two hundred and seventy six. That should be fine. Maybe I can afford another brow pencil. God, what time is it? 8:06.

 I feel my window to see how cold it is outside. Probably 60 degrees. I’ll wear a skirt and crop top. I think I’ve gained weight. I’ve been eating less. Did I? I shouldn’t weigh myself. If I weigh myself I’ll be upset all day long if I have gained weight. I didn’t eat that much yesterday. Maybe it’s lower. I weigh myself. I’m .2 pounds less than I was yesterday. That’s fine. Okay. I’m just over thinking it. I think my hips are too noticeably big. My hair is too dead on the ends, too, but I should wait to get it trimmed. Would bangs look cool? My face is too round. What if they make my face look fatter? I’m straightening my hair. I need to buy a hair mask or a heat protectant. This is probably why my hair is dead. I could leave it natural more, but I look less put together- more messy. Did I have a quiz today? No, I don’t think so. I think that’s next Thursday. My grades. Fuck, my grades are probably terrible. I wonder how much extra credit I’d have to do. Is Tulane going to accept my credits? What if I just wasted three thousand dollars at Union? 8:28. I should brush my teeth. I should put my pajama tshirt back on in case I get tooth paste on my top. God, my car is so nasty on the inside. If I have lunch with mom today, maybe I’ll just eat a salad or smoothie for dinner. I don’t want to be bloated before San Diego. I have pictures to take. What if I miss my connecting flight? I wonder what they do. Can I bring a razor in my checked bag? I don’t want to buy $20 razors there to shave my legs. 

I grab a water bottle and get into my car. Oh, I have less gas than I thought. I check it constantly as I drive. I drive past my ex boyfriend’s house on my way to pick up a friend for breakfast before class. He’s home? He’s never home on Mondays. Is he okay? Is his brother sick? Did something happen with his car? Does he need a ride? Is he mad? Did I say something this week that put him into a rut and now he’s depressed and can’t leave bed? I should text him. There are already ten texts sent from me from our discussion yesterday. Am I being too annoying? I bet he’s annoyed. Why do we even still talk every day? Did he ignore those on purpose? I think he read this one sentence as rude. I didn’t mean to be rude. God, I look like such a bitch. Maybe I should apologize. I’ll apologize. I text and explain that I drove by to get a friend in his neighborhood. Are you okay? Is your brother? Just wanted to make sure nothing was wrong. I go to breakfast. Panera is out of espresso, so I can’t get coffee. What if I get tired today? I slept eleven hours last night; I should be fine. I slept eleven hours. That’s too many. Am I getting depresses again? No, I think I feel fine. I feel happy. Yeah, I think I’m good. Okay. Should I eat a bagel? That’s too many carbs. You’ll be able to tell in this skirt. I go to class. He hasn’t texted, but he isn’t awake this early. Lauren hasn’t texted either. It’s been over a whole day. Did she get back to school safe? Is she that busy? Why aren’t I ever that busy? How come other people are so busy and never near their phones, but I’m never busy. Should I be studying more? I don’t have the money to go out. Where are all of my friends? I should go back to Tulane. My friends are there. I don’t want to get depressed again though. Maybe it’ll be better on meds. I had fun last weekend. I’m excited to go back in April. 

I sit in my lecture. Is it noticeable that I’m writing in my journal? What if he calls me out? I’m going to at least listen to the verse in case he calls on me to read. What if I pronounce a name or city wrong from the bible? That would be so embarrassing. Is anyone else here secretly not religious? Probably the girl in the Frank Ocean shirt. What time is it? twenty two minutes until I’m out. I’m not hungry. I have an hour and a half until my next class. Should I write? What if I don’t have time to finish it and get uninspired? I shouldn’t spend money. Where is that coffee shop on campus? No, spending money is bad. I need to save for car insurance. I may buy those concert tickets if I don’t spend a ton in California. The lecture is over. I walk to my car. It’s way colder than I thought it would be. These people are shivering. I either look stupid or incredibly warm blooded. People totally think I look stupid in this outfit. I drive around. I’m wasting gas. I should just go sit in the parking lot at school. He texted. Everything is okay, he just has plans on another day so he’s working today. I text to see if I can bring a record by and drop it of since he’d like it. He says he wishes I wouldn’t. Is it personal? Is it me? What did I do, was it phrased wrong? Does he think I’m being too serious? Is he tired of me? He’s probably tired of me. I’m going to Pet Smart. I go and look at the hamsters and how sweet and small they are. I smile at them and watch them run around and play for probably ten or fifteen minutes. I want a hamster. No, I’d be too lazy to clean the cage. They are so sweet, though. How long have they been in there? Probably too long. That’s so sad. Peppermint oil. That calms me down. I feel like I’m going to have an anxiety attack. Why do I feel like this? I think I’m going to cry. I text again: Are you mad at me? Can we talk about some things? I know I said a lot yesterday, I’m sorry. Can I just say some really simple things and you can tell me what you think? Did I say something wrong yesterday? Are you sure everything’s okay? I know I’m worrying like I said I wouldn’t, but I need to start off on a good foot to stick to it. I don’t know what I’m even saying. I’m being annoying and pissing you off. I know there are way too many texts on my side and I feel so stupid. Can you please just find time to tell me if things are okay? 

I text over ten times, probably twenty. From 11;15 until he texts back around 3 something. I’m at the oil change center. Where do I go? I look so stupid. I have no clue where to go. The lobby of this place is full. I have to sit at the kid table. Everyone in here is old so they probably do think I’m a kid. It’s so gross outside, I hope it doesn’t make me sad. I should take my anti-depressants. It’s past noon, maybe I shouldn’t. It will keep me up. It’s so strange to me how tired I can be and then as soon as something bothers me, I’m awake for the next four hours. You’d think I’d be a normal fucking person for once in my life, but no. God, I look so annoying. I understand why I got broken up with now. It’s so cold in here. Do I have homework? I think that worksheet was for later this week. I should check when the next assignment is due. He’s typing, I’m anxious. Those thirty seconds are completely pit-of-your-stomach. What if he says something mean and I cry in this lobby? I should go to the bathroom in case. They called my name. My car is done. I sign paperwork. I go to my car and drive home. He tells me he knows to ignore what I said earlier- I’d been like this every day for the last ten days. I’m too stressed. It’s too obvious. Why do things hurt my feelings so easily? I’m driving. I tell him I’m driving and I’ll ask the two questions he told me he’d answer when I get home. So, I type out a condensed version of what I’d said yesterday- asking for patience and forgiveness when I know that’s stupid- when I know he understands and is willing to joke around and act like I’m not a freak. He’s too kind. I know he was overly kind to me in New Orleans because he wanted me to feel emotionally strong. He knew it would be a rough weekend. Lauren texted. She’s alive. We talk. I don’t have time to explain why I’m anxious- I don’t really know why. She sends me a meme. My phone is going to die. I come off of all of my worry after the talk I have about my worry and how he reassures me that I have nothing to worry about- I’m not being forgotten, I’m not hated. He’s far too funny for me. Does my senes of humor seem too immature? Does he even get this joke? The song playing right now is sad, I hope it doesn’t impact my mood. 

I’m at home on my bed. I tried on my bikini again before I go to San Diego. It looks so much worse on me now. Is it because I’ve gained weight? No, I weighed myself this morning and hadn’t gained weight. Maybe, I’m bloated. I just drank a lot of water. I wanted to take pictures in this, but I’m not going to now. How many days- today is.. Wednesday. Tomorrow I have New Testament early in the morning. Then, I have gym. I don’t think I’ll go. I always look so stupid in there. She tried to make us play volleyball last week- can you believe that? There are like ten people in that class and none of us know one another. It’s so awkward. I always feel so awkward. I hate working out in front of people. I think I’ve eaten too much today. I had coffee this morning, a kind bar, then I ate some edamame and grain crackers. I had a small bowl of tomato soup and a piece of toast with it for lunch. I think I’ll skip dinner. I’ll drink more water and maybe it’ll flush everything out. I should drink this last beer today so I can have the next four or five days to not drink anything except water. Why is my chin so itchy? Oh, he texted again. Bangs? He thinks I should get bangs? I’d look terrible with bangs. My face is too round. Yeah, just looked at myself in the mirror, and I definitely see a double chin. I don’t think they’d look good on me. That one girl in high school had incredible bangs. Would he still think I was pretty if i got them? What if they make him think otherwise and then he doesn’t like anything about me? Maybe I should do it. Change is good. My ends are dead though so I’ll just start with a trim. Dinner. I shouldn’t eat dinner. If I do, I should do like a banana or something. 

My skin itches. Is it just because it’s hot in here? No. No, why is my neck so itchy? Moisturizers break me out. Do I want to break out or relieve this? I could leave it alone. Where is my peppermint oil? I look crazy typing this. I won’t post it. It can stay in my notes for a long time. Honestly, I think a whopping three people read this. If you put that, you’ll look like you underestimate and are fishing for compliments. What do I type next? How do I transition back to something else? It looks too choppy. What if people actually think I’m a really shitty writer and just pity me because I have so much fun with it? I think some things are okay. Some things. I should write more. I know he won’t text back; he’s busy. Should I text just to tell him the good news? Does it look like I’m lying to get his attention? It’s just good news. It’s just something I’m happy about. I don’t think he cares, but maybe he just finds it nice to see me excited about things. I think I’ll tell him, yeah, this text is too long though. What words can I take out to make it look shorter. That sentence is pointless- too explanative. Back space back space back space. Posture. Sit up straight. This is why my spine looks so weird. I need to stop hunching my shoulders over. Jesus, I hope my mom doesn’t check my checking account. I spent so much pointless money last week. I feel so guilty. Maybe I can return it. I don’t think so. I’ll keep it. The jewelry is cute. Yeah, at least I have some for the pictures I take in San Diego. I’m so excited. I need to download my music so it’ll play. I should watch a movie today too. God, I need to go to the theater and watch some stuff this week. I may do that tomorrow to  pass time.I hope he doesn’t think I’ve showed up for him. I just want to come see some movies. Im behind. I saw Red Sparrow a few weeks back. It was good. Tulane housing emailed me. They want to call me tomorrow. I think they just want to clarify my situation, but if they tell me I’ll be in freshman housing I think I’ll cry. How do they even do that? There isn’t enough for everybody. I want to live in Paterson. I’d have a balcony and be close to everything. My friends would be closer too. What if they put me in JL? Oh, my god. I think I’d actually drop out. What if I get depressed again? I can’t even walk past my old dorm without feeling gutted. Too much happened there. Too much happened. I suddenly feel so sad. I remember being there and looking in my old window and seeing another girl live there. It was like that was the only part of campus that I never existed in. I felt wanted everywhere else. I think I was wanted at least. It felt good. I wonder if people would actually come visit me. I would love that.I’d get to show people the city. I just hope I don’t get sick again. I’ll be on probation when I first come back, and I just think maybe my classes will be too difficult to handle. If I slip, what if they kick me out? Just because my grade wasn’t good? What if they give me like math or science when I first come back? I’d fail and they’d kick me out because I’m supposed to be doing way better than just average. What if I gain weight? Bruff was so gross. I don’t want to go back and gain weight. I’ll have to start going to the gym. I do miss their gym. I’d just need workout clothes. Sometimes when I get too hot and workout without eating, I wind up passing out. I need to stop doing that. I need to take my vitamins.T That’s why my hair is dead. I haven’t been taking them. 

I should go to sleep. I should sleep. It’s 9 pm. Where is my birth control? There. There. I need to refill this tomorrow. I’ll refill it on my way home. Wait, I was going to go to the theater. I’ll do it Friday. I have the pill for tomorrow. So I can do it Friday before they close. Would bangs actually look good? I’m going to turn on a show. I think I’ll have a nightmare if I watch this one, so I’m going to skip it. All of these look interesting, I just can’t sit through anything that has bad acting and they all look terribly acted. I should write a screenplay. I could be an actress. I hated The Ritual. It gave me a nightmare from hell. I should take another shower. I need to throw up. I think I’ve eaten too much. If i gained half a pound, I think it’ll ruin my day tomorrow. Yeah, my mood won’t be good. I’m going to ruin my teeth. I need to make sure I take care of my teeth. I’ll double brush and double floss. That will be okay. I’ll call my dentist in the morning. Why hasn’t anyone texted me back? Did mine send? Yes. They sent. Stop texting. You look so bored and pathetic. Sleep. Go to sleep. I think he hates me again. I think I said something wrong. What time is it? 

[naomi-l-tiessen-blog]

Tips on Breaking Out of Your Writing Hiatus

Helllllooooo everybody ~

Happy Thursday Blogday!

Well, we’ve all been there. We didn’t mean for it to happen, but it just…did.

We stopped writing.

Life got busy. I’ve never been a fantastic multi-tasker, and back in the summer of 2016, it seemed like suddenly everything was happening at once. I was playing roller derby, and had practice 3 times a week. I was still working full-time at the hospital. And on top of it all, I was in the process of moving to a different city, soooo packing, packing, packing. As much as I didn’t want it to, writing sort of went onto the backburner, and then it slipped off completely. And I let it. I didn’t even think twice about letting it not be a priority. One week became one month, then two months, then three months, and then I stopped counting.

So, when the time came that I finally decided to pick up the pieces of my nearly finished manuscript, I was sort of at a loss of what to do. I had stopped in the middle of a chapter (ouch), and said chapter was a heavy duty one (double ouch). I had no clue what to do. I knew that I had overcome the hardest part by accepting the fact that I had screwed up, but somehow, it didn’t seem as simple as sitting down and writing again. In truth, I didn’t feel worthy to write. I almost felt like I needed to confess my sins, plead for forgiveness from my abandoned novel baby, and join a Seven Steps Program or something.

All this sound familiar?

I have done a good chunk of research, and have come up with ten useful tips on how to overcome the mountain that is known as Hiatus. Some of these may work for you, and some of them may make you cringe so hard it looks like you’re seizing. But whether all of them apply to you or not, they are still little gems to put in your writer bank!

1) So, first and foremost, allow yourself that pity party your brain is begging you to have. Eat junk food, wallow in guilt, maybe cry a little (ahem *points to self* moi), and procrastinate a bit more. Get it out of your system. And then, when you are finally ready to face the music (…manuscript?), move on. I know, I know, weird tip right? “But Scarlette, everyone else tells me to stop beating myself up immediately!” Ooook. Well, you’re going to feel guilty regardless of whether I tell you to or not. So let’s all just be real about this. You’re a human being. You feel things. You’re going to feel guilty about abandoning your baby and letting it collect dust. You’re going to want to beat yourself up about it. Use that to push yourself forward. Do it. Do ittttt. And then carry on.

2) Start slow. Maybe do some writing challenges or exercises. Do a writing prompt or two...whatever it takes to get the brain juices flowing (ugh...that sounds nasty). For me, I went back momentarily to fanfiction. Writing fanfiction was my safety blanket for a long time, and it felt nice to be on familiar ground while I more or less tried to un-rust myself. And really, much to my relief, it didn’t take long to get my groove and confidence back. One thing to keep in mind is that it's not a race; you need to figure out what works best for you to get back in the swing of things. It may take a couple writing prompts, or it might take an entire fanfiction. Go at a pace that is good for you. Your novel baby knows you are working hard. It’s not going anywhere. It’ll be there when you are ready. It’s not a race. Unless you have an epic deadline….then this is super awkward…may I refer you to my previous blog regarding motivation?

3) Do research. And by research, I mean reading. A lot of it. And I don't know about you, but sometimes when I'm reading, I'll find myself thinking, "Well fuck, I could've written this better." Yes. Hell yes. Use that. DO THAT. GET WRITING.

4) Once you are actively writing, allow yourself to get into the groove, and don’t stop. Unless you desperately need a pee break, sustenance in the form of snacks and liquids, or it’s a family emergency, don’t stop. Whether it’s for a page, or thirty minutes, or 500 words, or an entire chapter/scene, write your little cynical, introverted heart out. You’re going to force that groove out of its hiding place, the stubborn bastard.

5) Set a concrete, measurable goal.  “Write.” is not gonna cut it, trust me. I’ve done it before where I’ll get home after work, look at my Honey-Do List and see WRITE in big, aggressively bold letters staring back at me. I’ll then toss the list aside, grab my video game controller, and say, “Well, technically I wrote all day. Charting on patients counts as writing, right?” No, no it doesn’t. Give yourself something to work towards, such as a word count, page number, or set a timer and tell yourself that you’ll write for the next hour without stopping.

6) Don’t edit as you go. For the love of God, don’t edit as you go. Accept the fact that you are going to be rusty, and move on. Right now, all that’s important is getting words out of your noggin and onto paper. Save the editing for later. That’s what drafts (and drafts, and drafts) are for. The minute you start analyzing what you are writing, you’re going to only focus on how awkward and rough things are sounding, and you’ll lose your gumption to push forward. Instead of thinking, “Writing, writing, writing,” you’ll be thinking, “Shitty, shitty, shitty. Oh God, make it stop.” No. Bad. Don’t do that.

7) Accept the fact that your writing style has most likely changed. It's going to be almost comical re-reading and editing my first draft of HBE, considering I started writing it in 2014 and have grown so much since then. And by comical I mean I'm going to cry. A lot. But that’s the harsh truth of going on hiatus in the middle of a project. Things are bound to change. You aren’t the same writer you once were when you first started. Maybe this change is for the better, or maybe it’s for the worst. But guess what? You won’t actually know the answer unless you START FRICKEN WRITING.

8) Maybe start somewhere you were once really excited about. Now, I don't normally recommend this...I’m a fan of writing in chronological order, but if you are stuck on a killer scene and are dreading going back to it, especially now that you are feeling a bit out of touch with your writer side, maybe start somewhere a bit lighter, easier. Maybe there’s a scene you’ve been dying to get to, and you know that you could totally make that scene your bitch. If the only reason why you haven’t already pounced all over that scene is because of a fear of breaking out of chronological order, then you’re being stubborn and silly. Come on. Try it. Give in to my suave charm and give it a shot. It could be a confidence booster! And then, when you are feeling ready, go back to that killer scene and kick its butt.

9) Build up your habit/restart your ritual. Some people throw dance parties right before they get to writing. Some people like to read right before they dive into their own work as a way to be inspired. I personally like to clean my entire house about 15 times before I finally decide to sit down and write (DO NOT RECOMMEND). What was your previous ritual? Did it work for you? If it didn’t, switch it up! Instead of waiting until nighttime to write, perhaps get to work in the morning when your mind and body are refreshed and not weighed down and jaded by the day yet. Maybe try location writing. I know, I know, the idea of getting out of the house might seem awful and panic-attack inducing, but it might help stimulate your brain juices (ugh…said it again), and inspire you. Find a quiet little coffee shop, or hunker down in the corner of a book store. Get your favorite coffee/tea/cleverly disguised alcoholic beverage (no judgement), and write until closing time. Find a ritual that works for you, and perform it until it becomes a habit. Think of it as your bedtime routine. The moment you start doing this ritual, whether it’s brushing your teeth, washing your face, or putting on your PJ’s (this doesn’t work for me, considering I wear my PJ’s all day), something triggers in your brain, telling it, “Hey, it’s time for bed! Hooray!” The same will happen with your writing routine. The minute you initiate the writing ritual, your brain is going to register what is happening and jump into Writer Mode.

10) Revamp that outline. It's going to help remind you of all the hard work you’ve already put into your manuscript, how far you’ve come, and the fun things to come. Set aside some time to laze out on the couch with a glass of wine, and read your outline from start to finish. Not gonna lie, chances are it’s going to make you cringe a little *once again, pointing to self*. You might find plot holes, or god-awful ideas that sounded so good at the time but what the hell were you thinking? Were you wondering why I mentioned an alcoholic beverage earlier? This is why. You need to sift through all the bullshit and find the reasons why you fell in love with your novel baby in the first place. Get excited all over again. Review it, revise it, love it.

Bonus Tip: When you are done writing for the day and about to pack it in, set yourself up for success. Organize and prepare for your next writing adventure so that it isn't like pulling teeth when you attempt to convert brain vomit into word vomit. Personally, I like to stop in the middle of a sentence. I might know how I want that sentence to end right then and there, but I save it for the next day. So, when I open up my manuscript and see that half-done sentence just begging to be finished, I can easily do it. BAM! First sentence done. Piece of cake. I’M ON FIRE! Now onto the next one. It's a bit of a mind game, I know, but it's also a confidence booster for me.

And that’s it! See, jumping back into that novel doesn’t seem so terrifying now, does it? And keep in mind to take these with a grain of salt; some of these will work for you, and some of them won’t. Everyone is a unique, delicate flower, and not every drop of water from the watering can is going to make its mark on you. God. Cheese please. It sounded so much better in my head.

With that said, I post new blogs every Thursday, and if there is anything you’d like me to discuss, feel free to message me on here, or tweet me @ @ScarletteStone

Until next time, my beautiful, delicate flowers:

Happy writing!

[irlbop]

Finnrey, Reylo, and Goddamn Human Decency

Okay, so let’s sit down and dissect the situation since my buddo, Sithskywalker, has only been met with harassment in her attempts to do so. Initially, I was going so ask that we try and settle this but frankly and ashamedly towards y’all, I know that that is an impossible task to expect.

               Let’s start with something simple before we get into the complexities of this entire Reylo/Finnrey debacle: Reylo is, at best, problematic. At worst (of which it is most often appearing to lean toward in my observation), Reylo is ignorant in the lightest term that I can think of. Now, the beautiful thing about ignorance isn’t always intentional; in these cases, it is obliviousness and, if the oblivious one is willing, this can be adjusted. But in more commonly observed cases, the ignorance I’m seeing is done out of spite and with an intention to inflict pain or disturbance. And no, don’t go “Just let me ship it!” or “It’s my freedom to ship it!” or “But did you see the way he – ” No, no, no, no, no, no, no. There’s a myriad of issues surrounding the Reylo situation on a scale regarding what a healthy relationship is, regarding race, and your own personal consideration for your fellow man as well as the films this entire fandom is based around. If you stick around, great. If you’re seeing the same things you’ve heard before, then maybe the problem isn’t the fact that you need a billion reasons to cut through your skull. Also, trigger warning for rape, abuse, and racism

Abuse: I’m going to say this right upfront and now: I have never been in an abusive relationship, nor have I survived sexual assault. I’m lucky. I am blessed. But my experience isn’t everybody else’s. therefore, it’s important to consider the situations of those who haven’t gone through life without an invasion of personal space or emotional boundaries. If you don’t believe me, look at the media: We’re constantly smitten with the guy who “takes what he wants” and can literally shove the object of his affection against a wall and suction his face to hers. This is often done during the “chase” stage and while many (including myself) buy into it at first, if you take a moment to step back and actually analyze the situation, it’s actually disturbing. I could probably write a good page or two on just how the media practically contorts and romanticizes some actually abusive traits but I’m already on this bad boy. 

But the point is, when you take Kylo Ren’s actions out of context and mix it with the whole “rough-loving bad boy” persona we’ve been spoon-fed since God knows when, it’s easy to contort it into something appealing. But for some people, it’s not. For some, seeing Rey get smacked against a tree can bring back literally painful reminders. Seeing him trying to basically mentally manipulate isn’t an opportunity for him to read her mind about how she’s “totes thinking he’s a hottie” so then they start making out or whatever. To be frank, romanticizing this situation was under absolutely no intention of the director, screenwriter, producer, etc. It’s exactly as it’s meant to be: hostile, ambitious, and nasty as it should be between enemies. Nothing more, nothing less.          

However, it appears too many people refuse to understand this or even begin to fathom it. Furthermore, they actually take it upon themselves to harass those who express discomfort over people making goo-goo eyes at what can practically be a reminder for a very dark time for them. Someone I loved had PTSD and I can attest to this just by observing him: That shit does stuff to you. You can still smile, you can still laugh. You can even go on with your life and do what people expect you to do i.e. go to school, get a job, maybe even start a family if you so please it. But trust me: It doesn’t leave you. You can’t “get over” something that hits you so hard that it streaks right down into your soul. I can’t even begin to imagine what it feels like. Many people can’t.      

But it’s for that very reason that you have no right to march up to somebody who has it and tell them to “suck it up.” Because if you’re telling them to suck up something that has impacted them for the rest of their lived, then you should certainly be able to suck up criticism over a fictional relationship that you will probably forget about once you realize that shipping doesn’t pay the bills or help take care of student loans. You can’t be petty over something that’s literally hurting somebody else, it makes you look like a disgusting waste of human. Especially since we’re entering an age where the goddamn assigned leader of this forsaken country has very likely committed those acts upon others, is getting away with it, and is basically doing every and all things that he and his stooges can to assure that it keeps happening. You know that thing that a girl in Africa made? That sorta condom-like thing with teeth that goes inside her and will shred the dick of any man that tries to put it inside her without her consent? If you don’t and want to know why this isn’t a thing here, it’s because it’s illegal in the U.S. It’s literally seen as a form of torture. So a man’s pride and literal junk is worth protecting more than a woman’s safety. Yeah.            

But I digress: Reylo has no bones to form a healthy relationship. Stop acting as though it does. Because what does have a proper foundation is Finnrey. Which leads us to …

Race: Disclaimer, I think both John Boyega and Adam Driver are fine men. Both physically and based on their personalities. I harbor no ill will toward Adam, nor any favoritism towards John. I don’t even really ship anyone! However, this is something that needs to be said because after the bullshittery I’ve seen go down on buddo’s blog, I felt it needed to be done. But geez, where do I even begin to delve into a centuries old and ongoing system bent and formed to assure Caucasian superiority on an educational, residential, aesthetic, etc. level? Hmmm … I guess, once again, we’ll start with something simple: Why is Finnrey superior not by opinion, but by overall character?         

Let’s see … Finn is Rey’s first ever friend, by meeting him she was able to eventually come to terms with the reality of her situation, thereby meeting Luke (whom is 98.99% likely to be the father she had been missing), they shared an experience, they protect each other, they care for each other, Finn literally risks death just to get her back and she picks up a weapon she previously wanted nothing to do with to assure that he couldn’t get hurt anymore, and, most important of all, they goddamn respect one another. I’m not going to bring in the fact that it’s all but canon now because honestly, it shouldn’t be this hard to express the characteristics of what can present a decent foundation for a healthy romantic relationship. Especially because if you care about the loving aspect, then you should care about Finnrey. (If you care about a lusting aspect, then you only care about sexual characteristics which can still be found in Finnrey. If you do that in-character with Reylo, however, it’s extremely predatory since, you know, Kylo hates Rey and Rey hates Kylo.)             

So after taking all these factors into count, it begs the question, why don’t more people ship Finnrey? Well, kiddios, the first term of the day is “systematic racism.” Systematic racism, also called institutionalized racism, basically refers to a form of racism expressed in practices on a social and political level ranging from and entwining into literally anything from schooling to income, to criminal justice, wealth, healthcare, living situation, who’s considered beautiful, and, yes, relationships. Don’t believe me, you can literally read articles on anything from black women with white husbands getting mistaken for hookers or watch the movie Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner.          

Anyway, how does systematic racism tie into who we find more appeal with? Well, some centuries ago as Europeans started to venture outward more, it eventually become common word that dark things were associated with badness and white with goodness regardless of what sense it made (Jesus was more black than white, for example). Since then, this mindset has spread like wildfire. Or the smallpox the English brought over. In countries where dark-skinned persons are the norm, they’re more likely to promote or run advertisements with lighter-skinned people. And if they can get their hands on a white person, you know they’re gonna. This is because the white person is, in far too many cases, portrayed as the everyman. This is why we’re quicker to recognize when a protagonist is a POC – it’s just not an everyday occurrence.

We see this in our movies all the time with a white man being cast as the lead, or when they’re presented and promoted in rapid succession compared to their colored cast mates and so on and so forth.

And the thing is, this shit starts early. If you Youtube “Doll Test”, you’ll see small children (including black ones) calling the white baby doll good and the black baby doll bad. They even refer to the white doll as the pretty one, whereas its darker counterpart is ugly. The problem is, the media often does very little to help destroy this mindset so it often ends up blossoming into what we see today: sympathy for white killers, fictional or not, out of finding them physically attractive. (If you come up in here and tell me this isn’t true, I will smash your fucking face into the screen of a laptop and make you read all the bitches whining about Dylann Roof’s death sentence or how many twits wanted some other white boy killer to go free and creaming themselves after he showed up to court in a shirt expressing pride over his killing. I don’t have time for this bullshit.)

Basically, what we end up doing is sparing sympathy for lighter-toned people because, institutionally, light means good and dark means bad. (This is actually also a thing in the black community where lighter skinned people are treated differently than darker-skinned ones but this is also a story for another time.) Does this sound reminiscent of anything? Perhaps a fictional non-canonical pairing wherein people make excuses and slander the names of the characters’ actors to justify a notably unhealthy interaction over an actually more stable one?

Furthermore, while it’s becoming more commonplace in commercials and TV shows and film, the image of a black male and white female is met with criticism. I’ll admit that the reasons honestly differ among ethnic groups but for the most part, it’s usually a criticism born simply from the fact that it’s a black man and a white woman. Remember when I said Europeans began to use their position to promote ideas that pretty much raised their position for just being white? This was a favorite tactic used in America in the 18- and 1900s. The idea was that white women were fragile and needed to be protected from the brutish black bucks. A black man near a white woman would surely cause her harm! This was displayed in many forms from posters to pamphlets to D. W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation wherein a rowdy and completely buffonish cast of blackface-donning actors were portrayed in scenarios that included harassing a delicate flower of a white girl, as well as lustfully celebrating over the ruling that they be allowed marriage to women women (which received more applause than being allowed placement in government).

So where have we seen people portray a black male as barbaric, invading on the safety of a young, white female and threatening her by so much as touching her hand? Could it be … in movies where the black man is a rapist or a thug? Maybe … in real life where numerous white women have claimed assault on an innocent black man but nobody dared to investigate the matter further? Or perhaps … a disgusting amount of Reylo-shippers, who have literally gone out of their way to portray John Boyega as a beast rather than a man and actual friend to coworker Daisy Ridley?

I could go on a tangent about how insulting this is not only on a racial scale, but also in regards to demeaning the situations of people who have actually been in unpleasant or altogether awful interactions with genuinely awful people but, like I said, this is what we’re focusing on right now.

But in the end, do you know what a lifetime of this can do to a POC’s mindset? I can think of an example: The second term of the day is “internalized racism.”   

As the name would suggest, internalized racism is when a person of an ethnic group displays racist traits towards members of their culture, including themselves. This can come about in many ways but one thing is for certain: it’s linked with institutionalized racism. You see, it gets quite easy to think very negatively of something that people subtly or even outright portray as a bad thing. Even if that thing looks like you. Maybe you’ve seen far too many black people get arrested on the news; maybe you just don’t feel pretty with your corkscrew curls and earthy skin; maybe you just feel an inherent need to hold your purse close to you when you see a big, black guy walking down the street despite the fact that he’s just making his way down the block to run an errand. The point I’m trying to get at here is that there’s various ways or showing or even experiencing internalized racism. I’ll be the first to admit that I experience it. I’m trying not to; a lot of people may be. But it’s hard to undo something you didn’t know existed until recently, or what keeps growing back with the constant exposure after every time you think you’re free from it. But this is no excuse to go out of your way to keep feeding it.

So anyway, when I talk about internalized racism, you probably have an idea where I’m going with this: Black Reylo shippers, we need to talk. What exactly is it that you find appealing about this dynamic? Be real with yourself. Is it because Adam Driver is attractive? That’s all fine and good, but that has nothing to do with his character. What exactly does Kylo offer Rey? By comparison, what does Finn offer Rey? If you feel Finn, after an entire film’s worth of interacting with her, offers Rey nothing whereas Kylo, after maybe a total of 15-23 minutes (most of which involved him using his fucking unstable lightsaber on her), offers her something, then it may be healthiest for you to step away from shipping for a while and think about what you truly do respect. If shipping is just an outlet for you, fine. But you should make sure that that outlet reflects what a good relationship is to you: not some sadistic, abusive game of predator vs prey. If that is what you want, then you seriously need to stop focusing on shipping and start focusing on your psyche.

All in all, there just a shit ton I could’ve said or still want to say, but I think this is long enough and most of y’all have either dropped out or have left to write an insult of threat without reading the entire thing or considering why it’s being written in the first place. Plus, I’m tired. Physically tired, but mostly, I’m tired that this shit actually needs to be said to a bunch of people who think their asses are grown enough to recognize what a relationship is, yet end up sending disturbing content to anyone who even so much as looks uncomfortable at the crap they’re promoting. Star Wars was never meant to be this way; no fandom is. But it’s because of inconsideration and intentional ignorance that things collapse. If you still feel a need to ship Reylo over Finnrey – especially if you have to actually change peoples’ characters and basically rob them of their principles – then maybe it would be best if you stepped away from shipping and asked yourself, “What does this say about me? How do my reactions towards people who do not agree with me reflect what I actually feel?” Because if you’re still willing to ship these two when it’s looking like they’re probably cousins alone, then you’ve got more issues to work out than just the fact that somebody doesn’t agree with your ship.

TL;DR – Reylo is a result of the entwined workings of the social romanticism of abuse and downplaying of female respect and a multitude of racial issues, including institutionalized and internalized racism and you need to go sit down and think about all this and what it says about you before you even so much as try to counter it. And for the rest of you where you stand by your stretching, I quote my brother: “Just say you hate black people and go. it’s not that deep.” It really isn’t; we can see you in your kiddy pool of defense.

@sith