#i just wrote this to sum up my feelings so i wont be fighting anyone

[yelenadelova]

The Problem with the “Mad Woman”

I’ve seen a lot of people speculating that Wanda will become a villain by the end of WandaVision. Here is why I desperately do not want that to happen. This will get quite long so I’m including a tldr and putting the rest below the cut. But I’d really appreciate if you gave it a read if you have the time.

tldr; The “Mad Woman” trope is the trope in which women “go mad” or turn evil after acquiring a certain level of power. Many people are theorizing that Wanda will fall into this trope. This trope is damaging for many reasons. Media is excessively fixated on the suffering of women. And this trope sends the message that women cannot handle their grief and cannot manage their power the same way that men can. This trope can be extremely damaging to the girls and women who look up to these characters. I truly hope that this trope is avoided with Wanda’s story in WandaVision and beyond.

DISCLAIMER: I’ll be talking a lot about Wanda and occasionally other Marvel characters. I will only be referring to the versions of these characters that exist in the MCU. I am not knowledgeable enough on their comic origins and stories to speak on them.

One trope that I have noticed in my consumption of media over the years is the “Mad Woman”. This trope often occurs when a woman faces a huge loss and is overwhelmed by grief or faces continuous challenges and roadblocks to their goal. No matter how a character arrives their the end result is always the same. The woman “snaps” and “goes mad” committing acts of violence, lashing out, making grabs for power, betraying people she loves, etc. One famous example of this trope is the case of Daenerys Targaryen, who after facing the loss of multiple loved ones and failing to gain the acceptance of others, suddenly went mad and burned an entire city to the ground. There is speculation that we will see Wanda face a similar fate. Theories often dictate that Wanda will be so overwhelmed by losing Vision (as well as other important figures in her life such as Pietro and Natasha) that she will use her powers to lash out at others, harming anyone who gets in the way of the reality she is creating and eventually becoming a villain in the MCU who must be stopped.

Let’s get into the first reason I hate this trope. Media seems to be obsessed with the suffering of women. It’s of course not uncommon for any character to suffer greatly regardless of gender, especially in franchises like Game of Thrones or the MCU. A certain amount of pain and loss is to expected. However, when it comes to female characters their stories too often center around this pain. Female characters are more often shown being overwhelmed by their pain or being unable to move past it. Male characters are more likely to be seen soldiering through and moving on. By centering so many female storylines around this pain it gives the message that women are less capable of handling these feelings of grief. 

A second reason this trope is damaging is the idea that women cannot handle their power. When a woman is given great power, political, magical, or otherwise, she is often shown as being unable to handle the weight of it. With Daenerys, this was seen in the form of her becoming “corrupt” as she gained more power in Essos and Westeros. With Wanda we see that the more she masters her powers and abilities the more she seems likely to “go mad” and use them for evil or her own selfish reasons. I have no problem with the storyline of powerful women feeling like monsters and addressing these feelings. In fact, I think it can be quite compelling. It is an interesting story to see a woman deal with the way society, and often the character herself, views her as a monster. It can lead to great character development to see these women come into their own with their power and wield it well. However the problem lies in the fact that this so rarely happens. Instead we see women being unable to handle their power. The character either becomes a victim of their own power in a way, being driven mad by it. Or they taste power and become corrupt. It establishes a precedent that tries to discourage women from any sort of ambition or power.

This trope establishes a sort of glass ceiling of powerfulness. If we look at Dr. Strange in the MCU, he wields similar magic to Wanda and is quite powerful. While he may struggle with knowing how to use his power and fighting for good he does not go mad or become a monster. This trope largely exists to keep women in check. Once a woman reaches a certain power level she goes mad. This gives off the message that women are not capable of holding the same power as men. We as women just don’t know how to handle it. If a woman manages to become extremely powerful without going mad she is often deemed “OP” or “overpowered” by the fandom, think Captain Marvel. And if a woman never accumulates this level of power she is often looked down upon by fans for not being powerful enough, think Natasha Romanoff. 

I think this trope is often the result of not knowing how to write a developed female character or a storyline for them. Women often meet these fates for “shock value” and these stories are often written and produced by men. There are so many stories that can be told with these powerful women. We can see them overcoming these feelings of being a monster, struggling with their own mortality, finding love, feeling isolated, taking on a leadership or mentor role, or any number of storylines. And we do see these storylines. We see them with male characters all the time. Male characters with the same power levels as these female characters have compelling and interesting storylines not focused entirely on their inability to handle power. 

While this trope may not seem like a big deal it can be extremely damaging to women and girls who look up to these characters and find solace in them. It sends the message that they cannot handle the same power levels that men can. It sends the message that they cannot handle the same levels of grief and trauma without going mad. I have seen firsthand fans of characters like Daenerys struggling with the fates these characters meet. They feel afraid that any ambition in their own lives will lead them to be rejected, outcast, and seen as mad.

When it comes to whether or not we will see Wanda’s story and development fall prey to this trope, I think the jury is still out. Much of Wanda’s storyline in the past has focused on her feeling like a monster and being overwhelmed by her powers. However, previous movies have, in my opinion, dealt with this well. We see Vision telling Wanda that he is not afraid of her and that he wishes everyone could see her the way he did. We see Wanda saying “I can’t control their fear, only my own”. I truly hope that Wanda’s story in WandaVision and beyond focuses on this idea that Wanda’s powers do not make her a monster. She is just a woman who has been through so much pain and is hurting. She needs help. She needs to heal. If she does end up “going mad” I truly hope we see a redemption arc that allows her to find peace. Her story and character can be compelling in so many ways other than madness.

In conclusion, I am so incredibly tired of the sexist “Mad Woman” trope. And I am tired of the damage it has done to the psyches of women and girls. It’s time we learn how to tell new complex and meaningful stories about these powerful women. It’s what they, and we, deserve.

[moveslikebuckywrites]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Light Angst, Feelings Realization, Retrospective

Another one for the weekly Ineffable Outliers prompts!  The prompt this time was Bonfire Night and uh...it kind of got away from me? But I’m happy with it anyway!

-------

November 5, 1940 – In a bookshop in Soho, an angel reminisces.

Don’t you Remember, The Fifth of November, ‘Twas Gunpowder Treason Day, I let off my gun, And made’em all run. And Stole all their Bonfire away!

Aziraphale could hear chanting out in the streets, the old ditties mixed with the newer ones.  He always preferred the old ones.  Time marching on and all that, but still.  He was glad some were actually out celebrating.  It was hard times right now, during this war.  Never let it be said you could keep a good Brit down, he supposed.  Though he wished it would all end soon.  Was starting to feel like the End Times in London these days.

It had felt that way for a while for Aziraphale.  For seventy-eight years now in fact.

Seventy-eight years, six hours, and forty-three minutes if he wanted to be exact.

Aziraphale remembered Guy Fawkes, of course. Not that he remembered much about the man per se, but he did remember him.  Hard to forget someone who nearly blows up the king.

He did enjoy the bonfires though.  The revelry and happiness that came with them even in the early days.  It was one of the things he secretly looked forward to every year, deep down inside where he’d never let anyone know.  As time went on, he’d sit in his bookshop, pretending not to notice the commotion outside, but loving the happiness coming from the people all the same.  

After all, it wasn’t a sin to cut loose once in a while.

Years passed and then the fireworks came; he hadn’t been a fan of those at first.  Too loud, too scary.  But he’d learned to appreciate them over the years.  The beautiful colors that humans could coax out of a few chemicals, painting the sky in dazzling stars.

He’d convinced Crowley to come see with him once, knowing the demon’s love for human ingenuity.  For some reason they had just made Crowley sad and he’d slept for three weeks1.

Aziraphale didn’t invite Crowley to Bonfire Night after that, and he didn’t ask why it upset him.  The angel liked to think he had more tact than that.  No, if the fireworks bothered Crowley, he’d leave it be.

But that was then, and this is now.  He settled in with his glass of wine (which would conveniently become a lovely single malt as the evening went on) to remember.

Remember, as he did every year, not the fifth of November 1605, but the fifth of November 1862.  

Seventy-eight years, seven hours, and twelve minutes since his world had been turned upside down.

He set aside this time, every year, to remember and to hope.

Seventy-eight years, seven hours, and fifteen minutes since he’d seen or heard from Crowley.

Seventy-eight years, seven hours, and sixteen minutes since he’d spat out the word “fraternizing” at his best friend like he couldn’t care less.

Seventy-eight years, seven hours, and seventeen minutes since he’d been asked to do the one thing he couldn’t do.

I’m not giving you a suicide pill, Crowley.

Aziraphale’s entire world had come crashing down around him with two words.  Two words, nine letters, one small piece of parchment.

The means to an end.  ‘Insurance’, Crowley had said.

Aziraphale pondered as he always did what Crowley meant by that.  He came to the same conclusion he always did; if Hell ever turned on Crowley, he wanted an easy way out.

Selfish as he was, Aziraphale couldn’t give him that.  Feelings and emotions that he’d been fighting tooth and nail since the Garden.  Since Mesopotamia.  Since Golgotha and Rome and the Globe and everywhere in between clawed their way out to the surface that day, wrenching him open and bleeding there in the middle of St. James for everyone to see.

A world without Crowley was not one that Aziraphale wanted to live in, and so the angel had panicked.  Had fallen back on their old habits.  His old song and dance of what if (what if the Arrangement is discovered, what if my side finds out, what if your side finds out), the same old pushback he always gave.

He hadn’t wanted to push Crowley away.  He’d wanted to pull him closer, beg him to stay.  Aziraphale would’ve fought all the hordes of Hell just to keep Crowley safe; he had been a soldier once, flaming sword notwithstanding.

But he’d been weak, he’d stormed off.  Left Crowley standing there on his own, the last image of the demon, scowling and hurt, burned into his mind with startling clarity even now, after all these years.

After seventy-eight years, seven hours, and thirty-four minutes.

The Bonfire festivities that night had gone by and he hadn’t even bothered to look out his shop window.  Too upset with himself, too upset with Crowley.

The thought of Crowley leaving him here alone was…well…excruciating.

He’d slammed the door of his bookshop, not even bothering to reopen that day.  He’d screamed and he’d cried, and he’d even prayed a couple of times.

But now that the flood had bubbled over, there was no putting it back.

Aziraphale was an angel, and he was in love with a demon.  A realization that had no place to exist and also no place to go.  Even if Crowley were still around, what could they do?

My side doesn’t send rude notes, Crowley had told him once in a cell in the middle of revolutionary France.

What would either side do to them if Aziraphale had acted on it?  What would either side do if Crowley felt the same?

Of course he didn’t, there wasn’t a possibility of it.  Demons can’t feel love, everyone in Heaven knows that.  Just like they know demons are inherently evil at all times, that demons don’t care about kids or carpenters from Galilee or floundering Shakespearian productions or stuffy angels who get themselves locked up for being peckish.

Seventy-eight years, eight hours, and six minutes and his wine had indeed changed into a single-malt scotch.

Thoughts like these didn’t do for sobriety.

Aziraphale was in love with a demon, and that demon was not currently speaking to him.

He spared a glance out the window at the drunken revelers.  Not a good night for that, not since the bombs started dropping.  Technically Bonfire Night had been suspended by parliament due to the war, but this was Soho and Soho was always a party.

Aziraphale finished off his scotch and sent a quick blessing out to the revelers.  They’d all make it home in one piece before any bombs fell tonight.

As for the ever-shattering broken pieces of himself, he’d have to pick them up himself.

He had a meeting tomorrow, with British intelligence.  Apparently, they had need of a bookseller for something very important.

---

January, 1941 – In the rubble of a church in London, an angel feels relieved.

He came back, to save me.

Seventy-eight years and he came back.

Swooped in at the last minute, every bit the dashing hero.  Well, save for the hopping, but that’s to be expected.

Seventy-eight years and he was back, they were still friends.  He still meant something to Crowley, though what that was he couldn’t say.  

A new name, a new plan, and one bomb later, Aziraphale felt his life falling back into place.

A warmth, radiating from where his heart would be if he were he human, spreading throughout him.  Filling him with waves of love; waves of relief.  

Aziraphale watches as Crowley cleans the dirt off his sunglasses; he’s overwhelmed with affection for the demon.  Seventy-eight years had done nothing to wall off the broken dam of feelings released back in 1862.

The silence is palpable, something hanging in the air that needs to be said but cannot possibly be said.

“That was very kind of you,” the angel says, trying to find something to fill this silence.

“Shut up,” Crowley retorts, but there isn’t any bite to it.  If Aziraphale weren’t mistaken, he could’ve sworn he heard some fondness in there.

“Well, it was,” Aziraphale says trying to tread lightly, “No paperwork for a start…”

The angel isn’t sure what to say.  There’s too much to say.  How do you sum of seventy-eight years of missing someone, of worrying about someone, of loving someone from a distance?  How do you even begin to?

No one ever wrote prophecies about something like this.  Wait a minute…

“The books!  I forgot all the books,” the angel starts to fret as he is wont to do, barely registering Crowley walking past him, “They’ll all be blown to…”

He stops when he hears a crunching sound, like brittle bones cracking.  He turns and sees Crowley, holding out a leather satchel.  The same leather satchel that Mr. Harmony had sequestered Aziraphale’s precious books into.

Aziraphale reaches out for the bag, and their hands brush.

“Little demonic miracle of my own,” Crowley says from behind those dark glasses and oh what Aziraphale wouldn’t give to be able to see the demon’s eyes right now.  To read into all of this, to see if that fondness in Crowley’s voice reaches all the way to them.  

“Lift home?” Crowley asks as he turns and walks away.  His voice is soft, possibly even tender.  Aziraphale can’t move, he’s too stunned.

There’s no reason for Crowley to save his books.  There’s no benefit in it for him.  Nothing except Aziraphale’s happiness; how could he have missed it?

Flashes of love; plain as day.

Flashes of love, painting beautiful colors.  Copper and charcoal; potassium and barium.  Strontium, lithium and all of the rest.

No, fireworks are nothing compared to the colors he can see now.  The only thing that had ever compared to these colors were the stars, as seen up close in the early days of heaven.

“You coming, angel?”

“Yes, of course, sorry lost in thought,” Aziraphale stammers as he rushes to catch up with Crowley.

He’s back, he doesn’t seem to be angry with him, and for the first time in a very long time, Aziraphale lets himself feel hope.

---

1 – It would be a few centuries before Crowley would tell Aziraphale about his time before the fall; painting the skies with stars and planets and nebula.  He hadn’t seen them up close in so long, and the fireworks only reminded him of what he’d lost all those millennia ago.

[bubblyani]

Bold moves, No assumptions (Tuck Hanson x Reader)

Tuck Hanson One Shot

Genre: Fluff

Author’s Note: Ever since I watched “This Means War” I was quite disappointed with the ending aka Tuck not being chosen. Didn't make sense cause clearly he was the better choice. Enraged with this and his forced ending with his ex, I wrote this for anyone who shares the same frustration.Tuck Hanson, you deserved better. And here is my tribute to you <3.

P.S: Didn’t Tom Hardy looked supa fine as Tuck?

You played safe in most situations in your life. And never dared to do something out of your comfort zone.  

But you always convinced yourself to be stronger and make some bold moves; you were just waiting for the right time to do so.

Working as a part of HR at the Agency might not be as exciting or glamorous, but you did enjoy it. You get to help people with internal matters and you took great pride in it. You’ve made friends with people within and outside of your department and some of them were simply a joy to know.

Agent Tuck Hanson was definitely the best one.

As time went by, you developed quite a soft spot for this charming gentleman of a Brit. He never failed to greet you at work and make your presence known. He would always try out your baked goods with much enthusiasm and you couldn’t help but respect his work ethic. His partner and best friend FDR, was nice too, but you could tell right away what kind of a guy he was. And you didn't really buy into that. Tuck might not be as smooth of a talker as FDR, but you appreciated his sincerity and romantic nature as a person.

When Tuck told you about this girl he found on this dating site, you were happy for him. But at the same time, you felt these feelings, which could only be described as “sour”. You kept ignoring this ‘sourness’ when it all went so well with Tuck and this girl “Lauren”.

But this became such a complicated screw up, when FDR accidentally ended up liking the SAME woman. At first, this immature fight over the same girl seemed so hilarious in your eyes. But when they started to use their power with background checks on her for interests and “sabotaging” each other’s attempts, you realized this was going WAY out of line.

“I don’t know guys, this seems a bit too much, and someone’s gonna get huuurt” you voiced your opinion with a tone of concern and a disapproving look.

And you could tell that Tuck always got embarrassed, as if he realized the insanity of their actions. But he quickly changed heart considering the competitive nature between the two friends.

You even remembered the day when the Heinrich assignment was completed. That was when Lauren finally made the choice. You found Tuck talking to Lauren when the medics arrived, and you remembered how he tried so hard to not let the rejection get to him. Even though you stood far away, you heart felt heavy and you felt bad in his place. You even questioned yourself as to why would you be THIS emotional for someone else’s loss.

That’s when you fully knew, how much you cared for Tuck Hanson.

All of this, flashed through your mind as you indulged on some nachos, looking out to the tables ahead, watching FDR and Lauren cozy up together, laughing, kissing and enjoying each other’s company at the Annual State Fair on a Thursday night.

Since the Lauren incident, Tuck enjoyed your company more often and you didn't mind it all. And when Tuck said he would be going to the fair with a date, you were more than happy to be there to rescue him if anything went sideways.

You just didn't really expect to see THEM there, at the same place, in the same time, together, rubbing it all in Tuck’s face, if he ever did see them.

Suddenly you felt frustrated and angry, but you were also bold. A part of you was surprised when you got up from your seat to walk over to the ‘happy couple’.

 “Lauren? Lauren Scott?”

“Oh hey (Y/N)! Didn't expect to see YOU here.” FDR got up happily to show off his new girlfriend. “Lauren...this is (Y/N), she works in HR at the uh…Agency”

“OMG…Hey! Nice to meet you (Y/N)!”

You and Lauren shook hands. You couldn't help but be awed by Lauren, with her golden hair and beautiful smile; she definitely exuded rays of sunshine.

No wonder Tuck fell for her, you thought.

“Yeah, you too. Um…sorry to barge in like this, but uh…I just…I just-” you took a deep breath. “I’m really happy for you guys, really. But I just gotta ask, woman to woman.  You really picked FDR over Tuck? REALLY? REALLY?” your voice grew louder by the word. And you swore your expression might have changed into something not so pleasant.

Oh no…here I go.

“REALLY? I mean…WHY?” you continued.

“Uh…(Y/N) I’m sitting right here-“ FDR interrupted.

“FDR PLEASE! Just PLEASE!” you motioned him to shut up.

“I get it, FDR is a softie underneath all that smooth, ladies man bullshit. But what about the good guys? What about people like Tuck? He is the perfect gentleman. And from what happened between you guys, all seemed to go so well right? Sorry for sounding so nosy, I know this seems over line. But seriously Lauren, I just don't understand. Yes, FDR is a lovely person and he has had a rough time growing up so yes he needs the right girl. But so does Tuck! You met HIM first, you liked HIM first. And In the end you decided to go with THIS GUY? SERIOUSLY? I just...I don't get it. There was barely anything wrong with that man, he was really in love with you, you know. You really made a HUGE MISTAKE!”

Lauren looked like she just got slapped. And FDR was pissed off big time, but trying to repress his anger. He quickly got up rushing towards you.

“Lauren I’m SO sorry, (Y/N) can be a LITTLE crazy sometimes” FDR began,

“(Y/N) maybe you should go home”

“I’m FINE! Don’t worry I’m leaving I’m leaving!” you shook his hand away from you.

“By the way, It was nice to meet you Lauren” your expression changed, you couldn't help but smile sincerely at Lauren. Cause in truth, Lauren seemed like a great gal.

“You look really pretty” you turned to walk away. For a second, you felt this huge burden leave your shoulders. 

“(Y/N)!”

You turned to find Tuck running up to you “Where are you off to luv?” 

“I’m going home, I’m not feeling so good” you replied with a tight smile.

He eyed you sternly, “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“Trust me, I’m fine. Sorry Tuck” your voice grew softer, patting him on the shoulder.

FDR approached Tuck, who watched you walk away with a confused expression.

“Is (Y/N) okay?” Tuck asked his friend. “Well she certainly didn't seem right in head to me” FDR replied angrily, shaking his head.

“I really don't follow” Tuck got even more confused.

“Tuck, you’re not gonna BELIEVE what just happened”

----------

As much as you didn't want to face FDR the next day at work, you also wanted to apologize for being a jerk in front of Lauren. You came to work early as usual. As you were heading to get a pot of coffee, you stopped by Tuck’s table to check up on him.

“Good Morning Mr.Hanson…or should I say Handsome?? Hah!” you greeted him teasingly. He smiled warmly while typing some emails. “ ‘Morning Luv! You feeling better today?” he closed his laptop to look at you.

“Oh it was just a headache, a good night’s rest did the trick” you gave him thumbs up, automatically looking over to FDR’s table “What happened to FDR?”

“Oh he took the day off today so wont be coming in” Tuck replied, turning side to side on his chair.

“I see…Oh! Dude…how did the date go last night?”

Tuck opened his mouth but stopped himself to think of a better reply. Chuckling, he went “Oh…you know, didn't work out that well” he shrugged his shoulders. You didn't believe him. “What? That's insane…I saw the lucky lady and she looked hawt!” you folded your hands leaning on FDR’s table. “Yeah I guess, but we didn't really click that well in the end” he replied nonchalantly. You still didn't believe him.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that Tuck. Maybe it didn't work out for a reason. So, have hope!” you cheered him and while walking away to get that coffee.

“I will ” Tuck whispered, watching you leave, and hoping you were right.

--------

Few days later, you heard some colleagues talking about this dangerous mission Tuck was assigned to, and how he will be going out to the field. You rushed to look for Tuck, finding him leaving his table to get ready.

“Please…please be careful, and promise me you’ll be okay” you felt so corny, saying all these things to him. Tuck, touched by your worried reaction, reached out to hold your hand.

“Don't worry luv! I’ll be fine, I promise” he sounded sure. You nodded in acknowledgment, trying not to be distracted by the warmth of his touch.

------

Hours later, Tuck returned to the Agency after a successful mission, but also with a few bruises. He insisted he didn't need a cleanup. But with your persuasion, a medic came by to fix him up. When the medic left, you came in to the room and sat on a chair next to the door, facing a sitting Mr. Hanson on a chair next to the bed, looking exhausted.

“ You really didn't have to call on medic for this, luv” Tuck pointed at the several cuts and scars on his face which didn't seem so severe.

“Doesn't matter the severity, you needed cleaning up.” You crossed your legs “I heard you did a great job today, I’m REALLY proud of you, you know” you meant every word you said, smiling.

Tuck smiled back, but quickly looked down. Pursing his lips, he looked up and spoke shyly,

“FDR told me what happened at the fair.”

You felt the whole world crashing down on you as if the worse nightmare has happened. You wanted to get away from this room.

“I’m so sorry about th-“ you quickly got up

“No please! Don’t go “ Tuck said hurriedly, motioning you to stay. “Please stay” his voice got softer. You slowly sat down, afraid of what might come out of his mouth next.

“To be honest, it felt quite nice to hear that someone was speaking on behalf of me...”he continued, his blue eyes on you, begging for you to look back at him.

“But I just got to ask...why? Why would you do that (Y/N)?”

You summed the courage to look up at him, praying you won’t get your heart broken by rejection.

“You know, I’m not the one to pick a fight Tuck, I really am not” you began,

“…But that day, when I saw them together, I just couldn’t take it. Why must FDR only deserved to be happy and not you? Why must that happen when you did nothing but be a great guy. The spying thing was CRAZY, I WILL say that. But even from the beginning, Even WITHOUT the spying, you were doing SO well and you STILL didn’t get the girl. And it JUST PISSED ME OFF” the more you spoke the braver you sounded. You sat on the edge of your seat.

“And it pissed me off a hell lot cause I...I...” with eyes closed, you took a deep breath, clenching your fists.

“I have liked you for a really long time Tuck”

You maintained eye contact as you finished. 

There it was, bold move number two.

You couldn’t read Tuck’s expression, but it did look as if he wasn’t expecting that. 

“(Y/N)!-“ he let out a chuckle. “What?” You were dying of curiosity. He moved around in his seat as if to calm oneself. Was he nervous?

“You might have not known this, but when I first met you in the Agency, I thought you were quite lovely” 

Your heart skipped a beat.

“Actually, I thought you were very beautiful, and seeing you around always cheered me up” you blinked fast; you didn’t know how to react.

Am I dreaming? 

“I even went so far to assume you already had a boyfriend-“

“You what?” That escaped your lips faster than you could think. Loudly too. 

Tuck smiled, he found your reaction adorable. “ Come on (Y/N)! Was I wrong to assume that? Why would someone like you want someone like me?” 

“You CAN’T say that! That’s my line ” you protested, to which Tuck burst out laughing. You couldn’t help but chuckle. You adored the way Tuck laughed. You loved seeing him happy.

Fuck! I really like him. 

“Anyways, after a while the Lauren thing happened, and then with Katie again and, nothing seemed to fit right with me” his tone changed, and it was sad.

You just had enough of this. You just couldn’t take it. 

Standing up, you slowly walked over to him, not breaking eye contact. Tuck looked surprised as you suddenly sat on his lap. You longed for courage as your hands found his face, fingers touching his skin so softly. 

Savor this moment.

Slowly moving forward, you kissed him. 

Savor. 

You kissed him like it was your first and last time. 

This. 

You kissed him, trying to pour all your feelings into one kiss cause you were afraid this will be your only chance.

Moment. 

5 seconds, it lasted 5 seconds.

You removed your lips from his, giving him a soft smile, stroking his cheek with your thumbs looking at his fazed expression. You sighed deeply. You got up.

Frankly you really didn’t want to let this one go.

To your surprise, neither did Tuck. 

He grabbed your hand, his grip hard as steel, so strong you fell back to his lap. You looked at him with shock. 

“Tuck, what are y-“ 

“No more assuming,” he breathed, pulling you to a kiss.

Kissing Tuck was lovely. Tuck kissing you was magical. But when this was fused together, it was just fireworks. It certainly didn't seem so unfamiliar; at least not by the way Tuck was touching you. He held you up so you could straddle him. Lips were in a conversation of its own.

Where the fuck have you been?  

You felt butterflies in your stomach as you felt his hands run up and down your back, finally settling down to your waist, pulling you even closer to him. The kisses turned deeper and more passionate. The distance between the two of you got smaller, to the point of the bodies grinding against one another.

Tuck broke off the kiss reluctantly, and you suddenly returned to earth.

“(Y/N)…uh...I…” he panted, gently holding your cheek “ as much as I would like to continue THIS, I really want to do this RIGHT, you know, take you out on a date first” he spoke earnestly, looking in to your eyes.

You giggled, “Hehehe…yeah true. I’d like that too…” You felt so ecstatic you hugged him super tightly,

“Finally, I have you ALL to myself” you whispered excitedly to his ear.

“You can’t say THAT!  That’s MY line” Tuck responded teasingly, hugging you back.

Tuck WAS the better guy, and he made YOU the better girl.

With the help of a few bold moves you will never regret.

Check out my MASTERLIST for more

[friendshipcampaign]

An Illuminating Conversation

Some downtime between Ditto and the Necromancy Book.

As the others prepared to return to the castle, Ditto hung back. She'd join them eventually, but she wasn't nearly ready to close up and move on, now that they were only just getting somewhere.

“Hey, can you hear me when I talk,” she asked the book, “or does it need to be written?”

The book didn't respond. She shrugged and cut a bit of paper from the roll she'd gotten from Kriv.

“Fair enough,” she said out loud, dipping the end of the quill in ink.

Okay, book, she wrote, we've-

Ditto paused, then crossed out the word “we've.” She continued.

Hey, can I call you 'Book'? Do you have a name?

She tossed the scrap of paper into the book, which snapped shut. It chewed the paper for a moment. When it opened again, the swirling ink began to coalesce into words.

You may call me the Tome of Mynskay.

Ditto looked at the name, silently grateful that she wouldn't have to try and say it out loud.

Okay, Tome of Mynskay, she wrote, we've dipped our toes in it, gotten a feel for the temperature. Now let's dive into the real stuff. Show me how to resurrect the dead.

Her handwriting looked awfully thin and sketchy next to the heavy blackletter writing the book “spoke” in, but she doodled a couple of skulls around the word dead, in case that helped a little.

The book responded, I can explain the ritual to you. But beware! Should you attempt it and fail you will doom both body and soul forever! You won't even get a cool zombie servant out of it.

“Yikes.” Ditto said. “No pressure or anything...well, we won't get anywhere if we don't take a look at least.”

Understood. Explain the ritual to me, she wrote

Wait, the book said after a pause. Aren't you a wizard? I'm pretty sure you said you were a wizard.

...Yes. Ditto wrote.

Wizards can't raise the dead. You know that, right? Or am I the first knowledge of necromancy your pitiful eyes have ever beheld?

"I knew that." Ditto said out loud as the ink continued to spiral and swirl, forming more words. She folded her arms. "Probably. Maybe. Shut up."

I can teach you how to animate the dead, the Tome said. How does that sound? A nice zombie, maybe work your way up to some ghouls? Creeping claws are a nice place to start if you've got a handy supply of murderers. Mwahaha! Handy! You see, that was a . . . oh, never mind.

Ditto winced at the mental image of what the Tome was suggesting. She was glad she was writing and had a little time to think about what she wanted to say. If she seemed too squeamish, it might close her out again.

I get it, claws, good one. And thanks but I've really got my heart set on a bona-fide raising. But I don't have to do it myself....

She considered what she knew about raising the dead, besides vague theory. The only real-life instance of it she'd ever witnessed was when the someone, a duke or something, that lived near where she was staying got killed in a street brawl, and all the local clerics were fighting over who got the honor of bringing him back.

...We don't have a cleric, though. Ditto wrote.

"I mean, there is a cleric" she muttered to herself, "but getting her involved is probably a non-starter."

The book replied, Have you got a bard? Or a paladin, but they'd have to be extremely powerful. I can't imagine anyone with that sort of skill would associate with riff-raff like you.

Ditto frowned, annoyed. Not for the first time, she wondered whether this book took her seriously enough to really show her the good stuff, or whether it was holding back. Maybe she needed to act more...necromancer-y. Show a little edge.

Sticks and stones will break my bones but candles will burn your pages and they're almost as easy to get. Ditto wrote. Anyway, we've got a bard. She can do some pretty cool stuff. One time she blew a note so well it healed a bunch of us and changed her outfit.

The book seemed to consider--the ink swirled for longer this time before resolving into words.

Well, it's a start. Oh, and don't bother threatening me. I really don't care what you do to me, but let one lick of flame touch me and I'll shut up for good and then you'll have nothing to work with at all. How would you feel knowing that you had a chance to bring back someone you loved and you threw it away for the sake of a petty temper tantrum? How long would you keep refreshing that spell before you gave up and let them rot? It's all up to you. Like I said, I don't care either way.

Ditto stared back at the reply, and made a mental note to never be edgy again.

I wouldn't ever burn you. She wrote. I mean. Even if you weren't alive, burning a tome filled with hidden knowledge of magic is one of the most horrible things I could imagine doing. It occurred to her that aside from maybe snapping at her with those teeth, the Tome of Mynskay probably couldn't defend itself if it really thought she meant to harm it. No wonder it got so upset. She added, promise and underlined it to show her earnestness.

She took a deep breath and got a new scrap of paper out.

Okay, okay. So. We have a bard. Will you show her the spell if I call her in? She wrote.

I can certainly explain the requirements, the Tome wrote.

Ditto didn't feel like getting up or leaving the book, so she stood on the table, cupped her hands and yelled "HEY VOSKI! CAN I TALK TO YOU?" She then sat back down and went back to writing. Voski'd come in her own time.

Great. Good. Sorry about the candle comment. She paused, nibbling on a now ink-stained fingernail. Let's say, hypothetically, this turns out to be a little out of her league...is there any kind of...shortcut we can take?

You already said no to zombies, said the book, its pages drooping at the edges. It was a little hard to tell, but Ditto thought it might be sulking.

An idea occurred to her. She went to a drawer and got out a few candles. She set them on the table a safe distance from the book and light them one at a time, then covered the window, hoping that made for a spooky enough atmosphere to improve the book's mood.

If it helps, she wrote, we've got the soul handy. I mean, really handy. On a hand. Cause it's in a ring? So we definitely know where it is!

That's one complication out of the way, the book conceded. Many a resurrection spell has failed for wont of a free and willing soul. The power requirements, however, are quite fixed. You won't be able to override them that easily. And of course, there is the matter of the material components. How many diamonds do you have?

Ditto winced. Right. She vaguely remembered an acquaintance of hers back in that city where the duke was raised saying it was such a waste to lose a jewel so precious just to bring back another useless noble.

Uh...currently? She wrote. As in here and in our possession? I'd have to count to be sure but I'd say...probably...none. None exactly.

Of course, said the book.

It didn't have a face, of course but Ditto was sure she could picture the expression it would have made if it could at that.

Well, you'll need one, and a large one at that. The cut doesn't matter, but it must be a single diamond worth at least five hundred golden coins. And you must accept that it will be destroyed without trace when the spell is cast.

...Well, the good news is I think we can manage that. Between the six--

Ditto frowned and crossed out "six"

Five of us we can probably beg, buy or steal one of those. Well, not beg. Buy or steal, those are our options. That's at least a hurdle we can get over.

Probably an easier hurdle to make than the power issue. I mean...Voski might be more powerful than she seemed. A lot of people were. And she probably wasn't as interested in magic as Ditto was, and that might be the only reason Ditto hadn't seen her casting any of the really powerful spells like what she suspected this one was. It might be this would be as simple as Voski spending a little time memorizing the spell and then casting it. But if it wasn't...they could be waiting on months of study. Or years.

Ditto took a deep breath. Maybe teamwork could solve this problem.

Okay, she wrote I'm just...call this brainstorming but, plenty of people've made new spells building off other people's research before. We need to get Erwyn's soul from the ring to his body. We need to make sure that body's healed up and working. And we need a spark of life in it.

I'm pretty good at conjuration, which is all about moving stuff from one place to another. Kriv's good at healing. And Voski...she's able to heal people and bring them close to her, and she's all about the spark. And you've got all this brilliant necromancy knowledge. What if we did sort of a...fusion cuisine sort of thing?

She drew a couple stars around Voski's name to really sell it, and more skulls around the edge of the paper too. She felt pretty clever. Pooling different schools and types of magic to make a whole more than the sum of its parts? It didn't sound half bad.

The book's response when she tossed in the paper wasn't encouraging—it ruffled its pages in a decent impression of a sigh. A reply started to form, and though she couldn't make out any of the words Ditto was certain they were snarky and unhelpful. But the ink quickly blurred and swirled back into the center of the page. When it cleared again, a different message formed.

Who is this person you're so intent on resurrecting?

Ditto is quiet for a little bit, remembering when Tavra asked if he had any family...and she'd had to say they didn't really know.

My friend. His name is Erwyn.

The Tome was slow to respond. This time when it opened, Ditto could see the brown ink of her message swirl and sink into the pages.

Creating new spells is risky at best, it said at length. It might work. It might destroy his soul for good. It might deliver the whole lot of you to the Raven Queen. It might do nothing at all. So I have to ask . . . is that the kind of risk you're willing to take?

Ditto stared at the words, each one she read seemed to add its weight to the pressure pushing down against her chest. They spelled out the finality of their consequences in so much black and white.

It wasn't fair—no, no that wasn't it. It was entirely fair. You try to do magic that's too much for you, and bad things happen. The Tome of Mynskay was just telling her the facts. It was life that wasn't fair.

She took a deep breath, then another one, then she wiped her eyes and picked up the quill. She wrote something down and crossed it out. She tried again.

I'm not willing to take stupid risks. If there's a slim chance of success and a good chance of getting all of us killed, or his soul destroyed, or worse, then no. If this is-- she wrote something, scribbled it out, tried again. If it's something that's just beyond us, I'm not willing to make things worse. I'm not going to risk Erwyn's afterlife or all our lives just because I really, really want to fix this.

She paused and looked at what she'd written for a while. She nearly tossed it to the book as it was, then she put it down and added to it. She crossed out her first sentence, and her second one. The third stayed.

I don't expect bringing someone back to life to be easy or safe. I don't. I'm not stupid. If we made a plan, and it was a good, solid plan, and we had very, very good reason to think it would work, that the chance of failure was slim and everyone involved knew the risks...Then, she wrote one word, crossed it out, and replaced it with many words. I think I would be willing to try. But I won't risk all that on a stupid plan if we don't know what we're doing. And I don't know if we know what we're doing.

She wrote the words “I know I don't,” and scribbled them out so violently that she felt the tip of the quill break off. She stared at the paper for a while. Then she took out a knife, re-cut the tip of the quill, and dipped it in the inkwell again.

...Do you think...this is futile? she wrote, then tossed the whole thing in.

The Tome snapped the paper up, then seemed to ponder for a while. A long while...apart from the description of the last day of her apprenticeship, this was the longest message Ditto had fed it. She wondered if there was a word limit. She wondered if it could read all the things she'd crossed out. Mostly she wondered what she would do if the Tome answered "Yes."

When it finally opened again, it read.

Not futile. No. We'll see how powerful Voski is. And if she's not ready yet, we'll see how powerful we can MAKE her!!!

There were some marginal stars around Voski's name, as if it was mimicking Ditto's style of writing, and after a frankly excessive number of exclamation points, it added, Do you think she'd be good Dark Lord material?

Ditto breathed a sigh of relief. Everything from the words, to the stars peppered around Voski's name made hope rise in her again.

I bet her eyeliner skills are fantastic, she wrote.

She smiled and made to toss the paper into the Tome's waiting maw again, but hesitated. A thought occurred to her, and she sat back down and started writing again.

Tome of Mynskay? Can I ask you a personal question?

I hardly see how I could stop you, the Tome replied

You could ask me not to. I wouldn't ask it if you did. Ditto wrote.

Go ahead. This conversation is the most interesting thing that's happened to me all century, so I'll tolerate a bit of nosiness.

Do you...like being in that library? I mean, it's all dark and spidery, so I guess the aesthetic is good, but it's been locked up for so long, and no one comes in to talk to you, plus if no one's ever maintaining it there's probably a bigger risk of mold and that sort of thing. Do you...want to be there?

What an odd question, said the Tome.

Ditto watched as the ink swirled and shift, half-formed phrase almost coming into existence and dissolving again. It didn't seem to know how to respond.

Because, when this is over, I could take you back there. Probably. I mean the logistics of that might be complicated, but let's not think about them right now. I could take you back there, but I don't have to. Not if you don't want to go back.

And where would you take me instead? It asked.

...Dunno. Ditto wrote. You could stay with us. I don't know if traveling is any fun for you, but that's an option. Or maybe I could try to find a library that people actually use somewhere and bring you there. I even know a Lady of the Fey, and she had a bunch of guests the last time we were in her hall. I bet at least one of them has a pile of skulls or a tower filled with bats and ghosts. I guess it would depend on what felt right to you.

Hmm. It considered. Well, I suppose I don't mind remaining with you for a while. The other books back at the library were terrible conversationalists.

Ditto nodded, then took a last scrap of paper, drew a grinning skull on it and tossed it in.

[everlarkingjoshifer]

So I wrote a letter and I would like to share it with you all!

Mr. Trump,

My name is Cinthia Zuniga. I am writing to you today to inform you why I do not and will never support you. I will not support your Cabinet, who who are composed of xenophobic, sexist, white supremacists.

You see, Mr. Trump. I am a woman, a feminist who will fight for the rights of every human being, I will continue the fight that many Americans started back in the late 19th century. The goal that we still continue to strive for, despite the years of abuse, disrespect, and blatant ignorance that people like yourself and the GOP have heaped upon us for decades. Planned Parenthood will continue to strive to help serve women like myself who have seen or lived through sexually transmitted diseases, teen pregnancies, unsafe abortion methods, and illnesses that have manifested themselves in the form of cancer, among others. We will continue to fight for our lives and the lives of our future children, who hopefully will not perished because of your ineptitude and misinformation.

I will continue to fight because I am also a former undocumented immigrant from Peru who was greeted by Lady Liberty at the age of six. I did not come here to steal jobs or to take opportunities. When I was born, I was deemed a blue baby, a term used to describe a child born with a severe cardiac malformation. If my father had not brought me to the United States, I would not have survived childhood. I did not have the chance to enjoy childhood as any normal kid would. I tired easily and have been on the brink of death on many occasions. I was not even allowed to cry for fear of tiring myself to death. I came under dire circumstances, and yes, I am fully aware that it was an indiscretion on my father’s part to allow me to stay. However, he could not bear the pain of parting from me any more than you can separate yourself from your family. Such was his love, that he threw caution to the wind and committed what you would call a crime. You see, Mr. Trump I am my father’s only surviving daughter. My father could not bear the pain of not watching his only daughter grow up, he also could not tolerate the thought of his daughter growing up in a world of extreme poverty. We did not grow in a grand house. We have never had the chance to borrow the small sum of a million dollars to begin anything anywhere. Our only chance was a sponsorship from a brother which allowed my father to travel to the United States.

As I grew older, Iwas made aware of my immigrant situation. I took steps into rectifying my then illegal status. I proceeded to become a resident while still paying taxes. I worked jobs you wouldn’t even think about in your wildest dreams. I was paid very poorly and worked long hours only to be fired, not because I was a bad employee but because I had no way of backing up my status here. So yes, Mr. Trump. You may call us lazy criminals, killers, rapists, but we have consistently shown you that we are not any of those things. After all, you could verify the amount of immigrants who have tirelessly worked for you, only for you to rip us off. We have gardened your yards, we have taken care of your children, we have been your maids, your construction workers, your custodians, and even your factory workers.We have helped make America a flourishing democracy and in return, you have ravaged our image to your heart's content. We do not glorify our uncertain circumstances, but we are and will continue to be proud of our heritage with and hold our heads high with dignity.

I will continue to fight you and those who have backed you relentlessly because I have a child with special needs and the fact that you mocked and ridiculed a man with special needs appalled me to no end. Is this what I’m expected to look forward to now that you’re in office? To have my child relegated as an object merely to be made fun of? I absolutely refuse to treat my child like an object. She is the greatest gift and joy that life could have ever afforded me. She is a seven year old little girl, who happens to be autistic. She is and has always been a sweet girl who greets anyone she meets with a generous smile. I hope you will not have to face the unpredictability of having a special needs person in your life. They would not only feel ridiculed and isolated, but powerless and attacked. Special needs people are not idiots. They do not need to be mocked for you to feel grand, to earn the false respect that has been given to you.

Every start of the month, I receive help from the state as a result to my daughter’s condition. I do not spend the money on needless things. I do not even spend it on myself. That money is reserved for food and clothes and sometimes any small gift that can challenge my daughter’s intellectuality. My husband and I cannot afford to live as comfortably as we would like. We’re not even middle class, and before you can refute my reasons, I would like to add that I am a stay at home mom. I do not choose to be so simply because I enjoy it. It is not something I should do because I’m a woman who should stay at home while the man works. This is not the 1950’s. I choose to stay because I want to be present for whatever situation might arise concerning my daughter, good or bad. Mr. Trump. I hope with a very pessimistic heart that you understand the love I have for my child as you would have for your own children. You rejoice in their successes and weep at their misery. I want only to provide a good and happy life for her and her children should she choose to have kids.

I cannot in good conscience accept you or your cabinet because I refuse to accept a sexist xenophobe as the man in charge of this country. I do not revel in the many, many accusations heaped upon you. It would be like inviting Bill Cosby for a cup of tea while alone in my house. I cannot respect your blatant sexism towards women. You cannot come to me and call me a pig when it was you who has forced yourself unto unwilling, unsuspecting victims. Like them, I feel the utter helplessness and fear. I understand the way it feels to have your dignity violently taken away because of your monetary power. We are not objects, Mr. Trump. We cannot be given a score of 1 to 10 on attractiveness. We will not accept you walking into a dressing room full of underage, naked girls. We cannot and will not accept you disrespecting a woman who has gracefully run against you. If she is a nasty woman, then consider me a nasty woman who will do anything and everything in her power to discredit and sully you every chance I get.

Finally Mr. Trump I don’t consider you my President simply because I am a pagan. Like my Muslim brothers and sisters, I am not afraid of being diffferent. I refuse to be cowed for my beliefs. My husband stands with me shoulder to shoulder as an atheist because we believe that we reserve the right to worship whoever and however we please, or not to worship, if we choose. We are not the terrorists, Mr. Trump. Those you fear so much and so often are those who back your claims. Ever since 9/11, the Muslim community has been vilified and persecuted. They have suffered countless injustices under the name of your Christian god. It reminds me of the the what I read about the Holocaust and the man who persecuted and vilified Jewish people. He put the blame of a decimated and broken society on the back of Jews. He gave false and erroneous hope to the people who felt they were handed a terrible card by Fate, and also by those too rich to care. A few of course were sensible enough to ignore the wrongful edicts that were being fed through the radio and television; just as you have used today’s social media, and the entertainment industry to spew you slanderous hatred. Some were desperate for an easy way out, thereby ignoring unethical, disgusting, and downright cruel punishments in the name of a God and money. I am not here to discuss my thought and ideas on faith and religion, although you can clearly see my point of view on the matter. I am here to tell you that if I can enjoy the kind words of the Presbyterian man who was known as Mr. Rogers, be in awe of the strength of a Methodist woman who ran against you, respect a Jewish 75 year old man from New York then you are capable of stepping back and allowing people to worship as they see fit. After all, extremists come in all religions and backgrounds.

Speaking about white supremacy, I would like to add that I fully and completely support everything they are against. I do believe that Black Lives Matter. I give my thanks to Malcolm X, Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King Jr and his wife, Emmett Till, Shirley Chisholm, Tawan Boyd, Maya Angelou, Tamir Rice, Laverne Cox, and Alton sterling. They have paved the way for minorities who are now the majority to brave the waters and fight against injustice. However, we are not victims. We are freedom fighters with the sole purpose of giving others a reason to continue the fight.

White supremacy wont snuff out the light of hope to my fellow . The Native American and the LGBTQ communities have been maligned for the basic fact that there is and have been people like you in office, though not as unprepared and woefully unqualified as you. They, like me have been displaced, mistreated, disrespected, and ignored when it was convenient for you. Before the United States became what it is, Native Americans were displaced and attacked for a land that was claimed by European conquerors despite the fact that they were here first. We enslaved African’s to make profit. We persecuted LGBTQ members out of fear and misinformation. We have ravaged this land that we call home by carelessly dumping our oil on the waters. We have hunted animals to extinction for the purpose of a prize. We have willingly allowed ourselves to become and maintain our ignorance on climate change. All while claiming that we are a great country.

Well Mr. Trump, you are wrong because we are a great country despite our shortcomings. Despite the hate, and ignorance. Yes, the world is full of “Bad Hombres”, and “Nasty Women” but for the reasons you believe. We have “Bad Hombres” who have fought for freedom and the American dream. The “Nasty Women” of this country have raised children who have and will continue to improve our livelihood. It is not your GOP or even you who will make ‘America Great Again’. American is great already and it will be people like myself who will fight you tooth and nail for our rights to be equal, to make it even better. Mark my words - we will make these next four years hell, just as you made it hell for the last eight years for the President who has graciously endured your bad mouth and unwarranted suspicions. A man who has not had a single scandal, unlike you and your team who haven't been able to keep your hands clean before even stepping foot in a House that should’ve never belonged to you in the first place. We did not vote for you and I hope you continue to twitter fight your way into oblivion.

In conclusion Mr. Trump, I guess it would be redundant to say that you will never be my President. You are everything that is wrong with humanity. Your pompous ego will not be tolerated. Your once glowing, albeit inaccurate grandiosity has been diminished. I cannot in good conscience share or even respect your views because unlike you, I don’t have a nanny to raise my child. I want my daughter to be proud of where she comes from and to whom she is related to and you Mr. Trump are not the way. You seem to have forgotten that this is the United States of America not the set of the apprentice. This great, big, beautiful melting pot of a society has come together through love and understanding. Through respect and clarity of mind. We are not in a reality show where you can cut out scenes and edit dialogue. You are dealing with real lives. Whatever misdeeds you impose on us will affect us and our future generations greatly. Your cabinet along with you will be solely responsible for what could very well be the end of this already great America, but we will not let you. We will prevail. We will fight. We shall overcome!

sincerely,

A woman who is tired of your ignorance and deceit.