#operandi to just absorb them is fine

[pen-and-umbra]

It freaks me out that people fuckin revered Sephiroth while he was killing Wutaians, but when it were people in Nieblheim, he is suddenly a mass murderer?? like wtf. Those folks in Nibelheim effing KISSED the ground he walked on, wanting pics for posterity, to dine with him and whatnot. Um, helllooo?? You praised the guy for being good at his work, you considered hima goddamn hero BECAUSE he was a trained killer..but as soon as he turned on them they took off rose-tinted glasses and went OOOOH HE'S A MURDERER. Well guess what, he was and you were fine with it

I get what you're saying, and you make a reasonable point. For certain, there is an aspect of in-universe double standards being applied to Sephiroth and, by extension, the ShinRA and Wutai conflict. However, the way you phrased your idea is a touch crude, and it may mislead readers into thinking that you believe Nibelheim's inhabitants had it coming. So, as a preface, let me state unequivocally that they did not. They did not deserve it, regardless of how hypocritical or ignorant their ideas may have been. Now with that out of the way...

People in Nibelheim, Midgar, and pretty much anywhere ShinRA had established its turf saw Sephiroth as this larger-than-life hero who turned the tide of the Wutaian campaign (which, by the by, was a fabrication contrived to bolster ShinRA's recruiting numbers). It never occurred to the typical citizen that “being a war hero” entailed — directly or indirectly — murdering or otherwise harming people, potentially including civilians as collateral damage. Regular citizens, just like Nibelheim residents, in places just like Nibelheim. The difference was that the violence was happening off-screen and elsewhere. On Wutai's land — under false pretenses meant to conceal ShinRA's true goal of establishing an economic & power supply hegemony... Point being, it didn't involve them. The townpeople seemed utterly unaware of anything. Children like Cloud and Zack were transfixed by the romanticized notions of SOLDIER and war glory. Heck, even little Tifa during her water tower date with Cloud goes “SOLDIERs are heroes, heroes save people”. So when Sephiroth razes Nibelheim, people call him a monster, despite the fact that this is something they were okay with being done to *others*. Wutai, Rhadore—you name it. They regarded Sephiroth as if he were a celebrity, despite the fact that his trade and status as a Wutai war hero involved death and efficient destruction.

I suppose it is a testament to both Shinra's propaganda machine and the way society operates. An everyman is complacent and self-absorbed, relying heavily on the comfort of routine. It's very easy to cultivate a "us vs. them" and "rules for thee and not for me" mentality when you provide every gift of civilization, including jobs, amenities, and power supply, as well as exert control over the media to disseminate a favorable angle (all of which ShinRA is involved in). People in Midgar were certain of Wutai espionage machinations because Wutai was appointed as The Enemy, so to an average Joe ShinRA had every right to eliminate hostile foreign elements and their supposed allies, such as Avalanche. After all, ShinRA is the benefactor, Wutai is treacherous, and combat zone is far away, so who cares what happens there?

The same teenage Sephiroth appeared to struggle with reconciling killing Rhadoran youth and the elderly, and when Glenn questioned him, he reverted to spouting propaganda pieces supplied to him by ShinRA. Only after this does he begin to display signs of uncertainty in his actions, which Glenn notices. Or take Zack in Crisis Core for instance. It does not seem to register with him that by bombing Angeal's and Genesis' hometown ShinRA is pulling up a dirty black-op (and Rebirth further underscores that cover-ups were a regular ShinRA response, fake Nibelheim or Corel cleansing being such examples). He doesn't begin to seriously question their modus operandi until much later.

So to quote Barret, “screw ShinRA for deceiving honest folk” by brainwashing them and conditioning people to see the company as a sole source of good. Regardless of the ignorance and double standards that ShinRA city folk might have shown regarding Wutai and the nature of Sephiroth’s trade, Nibelheim is still a tragedy, and these people needn't have died. Just like people in Wutai needn't have died for ShinRA's lofty goals. That said, the way SE portrayed the average folk attitude is true to life and quite reflective of society. People care about whatever media tells them to care about and repeat whatever narrative is drilled into them. That's how it works.

👋 @pen-and-umbra

[givlianas]

     hey THOTS , it’s lola ! as promised , here’s giuliana , aka gi , aka gbaby , aka honor roll horse girl — we stan ! i have the shortest attention span in the world , so please hit me up on discord to plot at 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖑 𝖈𝖑𝖔𝖜𝖓 𝖌𝖎𝖗𝖑 𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖙#3103 ! you can also react to this with a ♡ and i’ll hit you up !

ʻ   /   let  me  introduce  you  to  a  prized  member  of  our   equestrian team & honors society   ,   giuliana ‘ g ’ clemonte .  this   cisfemale  scorpio   has  been  a  student  at  our  institution for   eleven years  and  is  currently  a  twenty-one year  old   junior .   through  the  halls ,   she  has   always  reminded  me  of   natasha liu bordizzo  ,   but  there  is  always  more  than  meets  the  eye ,   like  the  fact  that  she’s been selling the stock her father put aside for her to a business rival .  coral  cape  has  made  their  future  just  as  bright  as  their  smile ,   i  assure  you .  ʼ     (  muse three ,  lola ,  twenty-one ,  est ,  she / her   )

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒

full name : giuliana mae clemonte. nicknames : gi , giu , lia , liana , gigi , jujubee , gbaby. age : twenty-one. date of birth : november 14 , 1998. place of birth : rome , italy. sun sign : scorpio. gender : cisgender female. pronouns : she / her / hers. passports : american , italian , chinese. languages : english , italian , chinese. education : st . stephen’s school in rome ( until age ten ) and cape coral international school. major : sociology ( currently pre-law ). clubs : equestrian team , honor society.

𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘

     giuliana’s a daugher of china and italy , with roots tracing back to BLUE BLOOD on either side. her mother’s side traces back through generations of businesspeople and entrepreneurs , who built china’s economy. her father’s side traces back through generations of engineers and architects , who built many of the major cities of italy. her golden pedigree came with a certain amount of EXPECTATIONS , which her tiger parents were clear about with her from a young age. she was born in rome , and instantly sent off to the st . stephen’s boarding school when it came time for her to begin her schooling.

     meanwhile , business began booming in the united states for both sides of the clemonte clan , who made the move over to portland , leaving behind their daughter to finish her studies. at age ten , giuliana finally reunited with her parents and was THRUST into a wildly different school system. the change was enough to make the girl’s head spin , all while instilling in her adaptability and a love for OBSERVING others’ facial expressions , mannerisms and their general attitude around others. it’s something she’s kept to this day. 

     though wealth has played a large part in her upbringing and the environment she’s grown up in , giuliana’s grown quite DISILLUSIONED of it. she’s seen the damage her parents and their businesses have left in their wake ( the collapse of the new residence building being one of them ! ) and doesn’t quite understand how they’re able to just throw money at the problem and walk away. as her secret suggests , she’s slowly but surely inching away from what her family has built , and hopes her career will be enough to sustain her once she spits out the silver spoon that was put in her mouth when she was born.

𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐇

𝐢. 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

TRACK 01 ▶ PANG by CAROLINE POLACHEK.

there's a look in your eyes when you're hungry for me it's a beautiful knife cutting right where the fear should be     

     this one’s a direct reference to giuliana and axel’s relationship. though their modus operandi is being ON AND OFF , a relationship peppered by petty fights , tears and short-lived breaks , no part of giuliana is truly ready to let axel go. their mental connection , their shared interests , their morals and values , their sex life — it’s all too good for her to let go of. this particular song really gives a sense of how fiercely she feels for him , how deeply he’s engrained in her being.

TRACK 02 ▶ ORDINARY SUPERSTAR by RINA SAWAYAMA.

because i'm just an ordinary superstar so far but always hanging where you are

     this one pertains to giuliana’s relationship with status , money and the lineage she was born into. though her last name opens doors , gets her a certain level of eduction and leads to a fair few people turning their heads or craning their necks , it’s something she still very much WRESTLES with. she’s obviously thankful for the immense privilege her wealth and background offer her on a regular basis ( hello ?! who wouldn’t ? ), but the scrutiny and the fabricated kindness and friendships that come from it are things she could very well do without.

TRACK 03 ▶ NAVY BLUE by CHARLOTTE LAWRENCE.

we got delusions of a grand oblivion we're only happy when we're higher than the sun

     this one ties more into the stereotypical aspects of being tied to wealth. the partying , the smoking , the drinking , the drugs — the small things that make the lives of the children at cape coral a little smoother. giuliana’s not particularly attracted to drugs , loud music , velvet ropes and faded neon signs , but has been known to partake occasionally , when everything becomes a little too intense to deal with and her brain needs a short BREAK from overthinking and overanalyzing.

𝐢𝐢. 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐬 

     like the true OBSERVER  she is , giuliana’s always been a social chameleon. her personality ebbs and flows based on the company she keeps , her eyes always careful to pick up on others’ emotions and body language. it’s how she’s been able to read past what her parents have told her over the years. in an environment where labels are quickly affixed , it’s what has kept her ahead of the curve and has allowed for her classmates , friends and anyone else in her orbit to be kept guessing.

     this , in turn , has led to one label sticking ( on and off , truth be told ): the MANIC PIXIE DREAM GIRL. after all , who wouldn’t want to be , hang around or date the mysteriously quiet girl with the golden pedigree and platinum family tree ? the one who always seems to have the most eccentric fun fact to recount during classroom ice-breakers , the one whose holiday destinations rival all others’ , the one no one can seem to ever get an accurate read on. part of her loves to have fun with the attention and whispers that come with this label , but another ( truthfully , larger ) part is conflicted with what this means for her and what that makes her come across as.

     ultimately though , if there’s anything anyone should know about giuliana clemonte , it’s that she’s a SEEKER and is driven by a need to know and understand the world and people around her. her actions , though not always meant to generate good , are always guided by her moral compass. she comes from a blue blood family and was given a silver spoon at a young age , but very much does not fit in the cookie cutter rich kid stereotype. she’s quick to point out the wasteful ways in which her family and those around her spend , and tries to keep her life as normal as she can ( though things like art , expensive wine , quality italian leather goods and lush fabrics are all things she’s thankful her lifestyle allows her to have ). 

𝐢𝐢𝐢. 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫

SOME FUN FACTS !

though her name doesn’t make it all that obvious , giuliana is of CHINESE-ITALIAN descent ( the former on her mother’s side and the latter on her father’s side )

she’s a very fast reader , and absorbs an impressive amount of the information she reads — if you’ve watched suits , she’s like michael ross : everything she understands , she remembers forever

her luxury vices are italian leather shoes , earrings , art and good food ( cars ? private jets ? clothes ? expensive hair and makeup artists ? useless spends in her eyes )

she collects all of the letters she’s ever received and will spend evenings spreading them out on her bedroom floor and re-reading them quietly ( chocolate readily available or glass of wine in hand ) when she needs to re-center herself

she’s gotten many , many nicknames over the years ( gi , giu , lia , liana , gigi , jujubee , to cite a few ) but true friends know to call her gi

     you can find a ( work in progress , because i’m a perfectionist about these ) pinterest board for giuliana HERE !

𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

     give me STRONG FEMALE FRIENDSHIPS that are basically platonic soulmate relationships , with comfort and trust so strong that nothing could ever break them apart ( carla and lu , but without the murder and arguments ? ) 

     give me a SQUAD with late night wine drinking , nights spent out on beaches skinny dipping and laughing until it hurts , large group hugs when things aren’t so good , promises to always have each others’ backs and inside jokes that no one else will ever understand. 

     give me an UNLIKELY FRIENDSHIP with a boy she was convinced she hated , but now realizes she’s so similar too ( they’re both shitty , and it’s fine ! ) and will insult to cope. 

     give me ONE NIGHT STANDS and HOOKUPS she uses to attempt to get over axel , with heated kisses in stairwells and hallways and labored breaths in semi-public places.

     give me ANGRY SCHOLARSHIP KIDS who can’t stand her connection to the collapse of a building and with whom she’ll clash , all while knowing that they’re right and that her family should pay the price of their actions.

     give me someone gi SMOKES WITH on the roof of her home , to get away from it all. she has her head on their shoulder and smoke dancing out of her mouth , counting down the minutes until she feels light enough to start pouring her soul out.

     give me CHILDHOOD FRIENDSHIPS with people who first saw baby gi , fresh out of italy , with a strong accent and doe-eyed confusion over schedules , classroom locations and the like. they’ve stuck by each other for years , and maybe knowing each other that well has been good or maybe it’s dangerous that they know so much.

   give me ANYTHING YOU WANT ! i honestly love in-depth , thought-out plots and would love , love , love to brainstorm and think through things with all of you !

[fangirlshrewt97]

Do you feel the way I do right now?

Author(s): Fangirlshrewt97

Fandom: Kingsman: The Secret Service

Pairing: Eggsy Unwin/Harry Hart

Characters: Eggsy Unwin, Harry Hart

Rating: General

Warnings: None

Additional Tags: Whumptober, Whump, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Confessions, Getting together, First kiss  

Whumptober 2019 Prompt: Tear-Stained

Summary: When a mission goes wrong and has Eggsy waking up in a medical room in the Kingsman mansion with only Harry beside him, revelations come to life, and confessions are admitted. 

Link to A03: archiveofourown.org/works/21003710

                                     ------------------------------------------

Eggsy stirred slowly, groaning as what felt like the biggest hangover he had ever had made itself known. Blinking fast and squinting, Eggsy managed to pry open an eyelid, and winced immediately at the brightness of the room. Squeezing his eyes, Eggsy gathered all his energy and opened his eyes, keeping them open long enough to adjust to the room he saw wasn’t actually that bright, despite the tears gathering in the corner of his eyes. The room was a standard room in the medical ward of the Kingsman mansion, furbished minimally, with just the necessary medical equipment and a chair for a guest to sit it.

Eggsy turned his head and made a small noise of surprise when he saw Harry slumped over next to him, arms on the bed, and glasses crooked, as though he had not meant to fall asleep. He tried to speak, but his throat felt drier than a desert, leading him to cough. That was enough to bring Harry back from his sleep though. Harry jerked back to sit straight in his chair before his eyes widened when he saw Eggsy was awake. He immediately grabbed the jug of water by the bedside table and poured a glass, bringing it to Eggsy’s lips. One hand grabbed the back of Eggsy’s head, helping him tilt it enough to drink without spilling on himself. When Eggsy made an aborted movement, Harry put the glass back to the side table.

If Eggsy didn’t know better, he would say the constantly poised and elegant Harry Hart was standing looking awkwardly at him. “’arry? Wha’ happuned?” Eggsy said, his accent coming back in full force.

“My dear boy, I’m afraid our target slipped you a sample from his newest batch of designer drugs. I was able to get us both out of there fast enough that he couldn’t send people after us, but I will admit, I was worried that I was far too late.”

Eggsy absorbed the information, brain still a little fuzzy, before he felt the familiar guilt settle in his stomach. Harry instantly spotted the expression though and stepped closer, laying a tentative arm on top of his forearm. “What are you thinking Eggsy?”

Honestly, Eggsy was just thinking about how nice Harry’s arm felt on his, and wondering if he would feel as warm everywhere on his body. But he couldn’t say that, so he said the truth instead. “I messed up the mission. You said you had to get us out of there fast, which means our covers were either blown or useless enough. And it means that Whitford will now be on his guard enough that trying to get to him again will be close to impossible.”

Harry sighed but didn’t offer a contradiction, because Eggsy was right. “While you are correct that it will take us some time to get to Whitford, now that we know some more about his modus operandi, we might be able to extrapolate from that and uncover another chain in his operation to exploit. But Eggsy, if I had to do it again, I would in a heartbeat.”

Eggsy’s head snapped from where they had been trying to bore holes through his hands to meet Harry’s eyes, mouth open in surprise. “What?”

“Don’t misunderstand me. I am furious with you for acting so recklessly on a mission, not informing me about your plan to go to the target alone, compromising our covers, and delaying the bigger goal. I am disappointed that you couldn’t trust me enough to ask for back up. And I am sorry for whatever I did that has made you so obviously angry at me, it was unfair of me to let you think that I was dead for so long, but please understand me when I say I did it as much for you as for me.”

Eggsy still looked too stunned to react, so Harry exhaled heavily and dropped to the chair he had previously been occupying. The action caused him to retract his arm from Eggsy’s and both felt a sharp spike of loss. “I don- I - What are you trying to say Harry?” Eggsy finally said, voice sounding so small and vulnerable, Harry wanted to bundle him up in blankets and tuck him away from the world.

“Eggsy, when I woke up after almost dying from Valentine’s shot, my very first thought was that about you. I thought, God I hope Eggsy is not sad. I am an old man Eggsy, I have lived my life alone, I never had any siblings, and before Kingsman, I thought my life involved getting involved in the stock market, earning even more money, marrying some nice woman, having a kid or two, and dying. After joining Kingsman, I was so sure that I would go out in a blaze of glory, and threw myself to the job, cutting off every tie I had outside of this place. You were the first person I let into my home, the first person I invited to see me in so many decades, and for once I wasn’t afraid because you felt safe. And then I sent you away after that stupid test, and got myself shot. I woke up from death’s doorstep, and my biggest regret was not telling you what I really thought of you.”

Eggsy felt like his lungs weren’t working properly, or his ears. Breathing was a task and everything but Harry had faded to white noise. “What do you think of me?”

Harry looked up at him, eyes open and honest for once, filled with such sadness Eggsy felt his heart clench painfully in his chest. “I thought that for whatever years I have left in my life, if I could spend them with you in my life, I could die a happy man. I thought I couldn’t have picked a worse person to lose my heart to, nor a better person. Most of all, I thought I loved you so much, and you were perfect, that you deserved the world, not a broken, old man.”

“You’re wrong.”

Harry startled out of his reverie. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re wrong. I am not perfect, and I don’t know what I deserve or not, but I know that I have loved you for such a long time now, I can’t even remember when I fell for you. Maybe when you told me I could do something useful with my life, maybe when you laid waste to Dean and his sidekicks. I thought it was pointless because you are so much better than me in every way, that we come from such separate worlds, how could I possibly be foolish enough to think you would look at me twice. But you sent me away, and I felt like I had lost the last person in the world who had believed I was worth something. And then, I did lose you, and I thought I was going to die because how can a person live with so much heartache? You came back though, and you acted like everything was fine, as if you hadn’t shattered my world, as if you hadn’t died-” Eggsy’s voice broke off as he cried, a sob choking out the words. Strong arms suddenly embraced him, and Eggsy cried harder, curling his hands into those familiar suit lapels as he was surrounded by the scent he had come to associate with safety and home.

“Oh dearheart.” Harry said as he gently put two fingers under Eggsy’s chin and tilted his head up. Harry’s own eyes were glistening with unshed tears. “Eggsy, if I may be so forward, can I kiss you?”

Eggsy choked on a cry again, nodding his head softly. Slowly, Harry lowered himself enough till their lips were a hairs breath away. Glancing one last time at Eggsy’s eyes, Harry closed his eyes and pressed in. Eggsy muffled a moan as he felt tears starting to run again. They stayed like that for what felt like a second and an eternity, breaking apart and gulping breaths as though they had run a marathon. Eggsy’s cheeks were tear-stained but his eyes were nearly glowing with happiness, and Harry found that he would spend whatever time he had left on this earth making sure that glow never faded.

“I love you too Harry.” And oh those words made Harry’s chest feel like he could fly.

Harry kissed Eggsy again, cradling his head more firmly, deeper but still just a press of lips against lips.

“Promise you won’t leave me again?” Eggsy asked, voice the same previous tone of vulnerable, and Harry’s heart ached at the thought of the pain he had caused the love of his life in the name of trying to supposedly protect him.

“I promise on everything I can that nothing short of death will ever pull me from your side again dearheart.”

[rinusagitora]

The love, lead, and the undead.

Fandom: Monster Prom

Characters: Vicky Schmidt, Damien LaVey, Brian Yu, Oz, Zoe, Vera Oberlin, Liam de Lioncourt, Amira Rashid (he/him), Dahlia Aquino

Pairings: Brian/Damien/Vicky, Oz/Zoe, Amira/Vera

Words: 3.8k

Summary: Canon divergent. Chapter 5/?. WARNINGS— violence, gore, drug use, smut; Oz and Zoe discover the meaning of his premonitions, and Vicky makes a fatal mistakes.

Zoe was kind enough to have brought Oz to one of her many dimensions of horror outside of time so they were able to brainstorm on Oz’s premonitions. The gurgle of lava or lungs filled with blood came with the slight breeze through the crooked window and Fear twitched hungrily from the volatile energy secreted by one of Zoe’s many homes.

A whiteboard materialized before them. “Let’s make this simple,” said Zoe, “you’re going to tell me every minute detail of your premonitions, and we’re gonna make a map of everything we can think of that connects to the details. Start with the first one.”

“I was watching myself wrap kilos of cocaine, but it looked like I was looking through a camera in my chest. When I looked up, I was staring down the barrel of a rifle. Someone screamed don’t move or something along those lines, I saw a flash, and then got a headache.”

“Okay, and the second one?”

“Well, there was blood and soot coming out of my fingers, my index fingers were bent backward, I saw blood and brains kind of floating around like soap bubbles. I started to fall forever. There were bright blue snakes in my eyes, as vivid as gems. I landed in a vat of bloodshed and lightning.”

“That is… that is intense.” Zoe finished her list on the whiteboard.

“Let’s start simple," Oz said. "The only person I can think would end up in a coke lab in any capacity is Brian. He’s got substance abuse issues. I know people say is pick of poison is alcohol, but I don’t see why he won’t escalate.”

“That’s a good start. Let’s take this into consideration, though: who could be on the other side of the gun?”

Oz shrugged. “I haven’t the slightest.”

“Oz… you think too highly of our friends,” Zoe scolded him. “I can think of several. Damien is wantonly violent. Vera and Vicky are regularly doing heists. Miranda has constant feuds with everyone under the sun. Polly will do anything for some drugs. God, there are so many fucked up folks at our school, I could go on and on.”

“Fair enough.” He pushed his fingers through his hair. “I’m… I’m not sure. Raiding one of these places isn’t in anyone’s modus operandi. Maybe Polly for shits and giggles, but she would’ve told us something, don’t you think?”

“I do. That’s the most we can do for now. Instead of getting our shit in a bunch, let’s move on.”

“The snakes kind of remind me of Vera. I’m not sure why else there would be snakes in my eyes.”

“That’s a good start. Why would they be blue?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, when you think of blue, what do you think of?”

“Depression, rain, the ocean, storms, the sky. Brian since he’s always depressed. Dahlia is literally blue. Aren’t Vicky’s and Faith’s favorite color blue?”

“Yes, good. What about the lightning you saw?”

“I mean… Vicky electrocutes herself for giggles. I think Calculester and Vera listen to thunderstorms to help them sleep.”

“Fantastic. What about blood?”

“Damien’s a demon. He’s constantly covered in it.”

“Great, great, great. This is enough for us to start with. Why don’t you call Vicky, Vera, and Dahlia? I’ll tackle everyone else we brought up.”

“Can do.”

Zoe’s nightmare dimension evaporated. They were back in his apartment, where Oz picked up his phone and dialed for Vicky. It went straight to voicemail. She must have been busy, but it made his stomach churn. He tried Vera next and she too didn’t pick up. Oz knew Amira kept tabs on Vera, though. He called Amira.

“Hello?” Amira grunted.

“Hi, Amira. I know it’s late but I need to talk to you about Vera.

Amira cussed in the background. "One second," he grumbled as he rummaged around. "You're Gucci. Is everything okay?'

"I don't know." Oz sighed. "Okay, suspend your disbelief for a minute. I've had a couple of premonitions lately. First I had a premonition about someone getting shot in a coke lab. Do you know anyone who’d be involved in any way with coke?”

“Yeah. Vera has a drug trade.” He hummed. “Come to think of it, I overheard Vera talking with Vicky about robbing a lab.”

Oz’s chest constricted. The likelihood one of his friends would have been murdered dropped, and while he wasn't particularly disturbed by the idea of murder, the chance of Vera and Vicky shooting a hardened criminal with buddies didn't put him at ease. “Is she with you?”

“She’s not.”

“I need you to text her to call me as soon as she can, Amira. I-I know I’m kind of being a dick, but this is important.”

“You’re fine, Oz. I’ll get in touch with her as soon as I can.”

“Thank you so much. Text me as soon as you can.”

“I will. Bye, Oz.”

Oz hung up on Amira and then dialed for Dahlia. Her phone went to voicemail. "Fuck!" he cursed as he threw his phone. It shattered and scattered across the floor like ceramic. Oz felt sicker and sicker, like something greater than themselves, Zoe and Oz, who were gods in their own right, incapable to turn the tides of something awful in motion.

Zoe hugged Oz. "Did she not pick up?"

"She didn't." He rubbed his face. "God, this is going in disaster."

“Look. We have a lead with Vera and Vicky. Let’s get some rest, baby.”

Zoe was right. Oz let her drag him into her bedroom where they were swallowed by a toothy maw made from red hot metal. Zoe dove onto Oz seconds before the universe vanished.

---

Vicky woke to her alarm with a sense of unease, like Eugene’s fingers were still in her hair, like his lips were on her cheek. The shadows were dodgy. Eugene’s phantom only felt more real when she only had two hours of sleep under her belt.

Shakily, Vicky dressed in leggings, a tee, and sneakers. Vera was outside of her apartment in a ratty, old SUV with her chauffeur.

“Morning. Are you ready?”

“No. I hardly slept last night. I need some coke so I can stop feeling like I’m running on fumes.”

“That’s not good. Here, just don’t overdo it.” Vera passed Vicky a partially unwrapped kilo of cocaine. Vicky gently scooped some onto her fingertips and quietly snorted.

There was only a second before she absorbed the coke. When it hit her brain, she felt great, better than the last couple of days treated her, at least. Like she was a big dragon atop a horde of warm gold coins and dispatched a platoon of pitiful knights with a swoop of her tail. She felt big enough to have swallowed Eugene and Stan whole as if they were no bigger than a grain of rice.

She sniffed. Her nose was a little runny. “That’s better. Where’s the body armor?”

Vera dropped a pile of heavy kevlar onto Vicky’s lap. She donned pads and a vest and a thick helmet. She attached two assault rifles to her vest and many magazines to her legs. She whooped as they turned, Vera slapped her back.

“You fucking ready?”

“I’m so fucking ready!”

They stopped. Vicky and Vera stormed.

Vicky kicked down the door and shot the coffee table. “Get on the fucking ground! Put your fucking hands up!” she screamed

“Fuck!” The three men and two women in the room hit the deck. Vera threw a jammer onto a shelf and secured the denizens with zip ties. She frisked them down and dumped their guns into her duffle bag.

“Who else is here?” Vera demanded.

“There are two more in the basement! They’re just kids, don’t hurt them, " begged a ghoul.

“We want your money and your drugs. Don’t move, and y’all will live,” Vicky said.

“If you take everything, we’ll be killed!” said a vampire.

Vicky slapped the talker with one of her rifles. “You’ve got me to worry about first! Shut the fuck up or I’ll blow your fucking brains everywhere! Have I made myself clear?”

The vampire nodded.

“How many guns are stashed here?”

“You gonna clean us out?” the vampire asked.

“I asked you how many guns are here! Do you want me to blow off your dick?”

“Let him go,” the ghoul implored, “he’s a dumbass kid. There are twelve guns. Two under the table, one behind the door, one in the bathroom, three in the kitchen, two behind the couch, and the rest were on our person."

“You get that?” Vicky shouted.

“Yeah! Just keep them busy!”

Vicky heard a snap. The young vampire, freed of the zip ties, charged her. She kicked him down and shot him in the chest, but she was tackled not a second later by the ghoul with a hunting knife in hand. He was only kept at bay thanks to her rifle barrel lodged against his neck. Vicky pulled the trigger. His disembodied head collided with Vicky’s, she shrieked something ungodly in her disgust and hopped to her feet.

“Fuck, bag what you got. We gotta go!”

Vera ran up the stairs and then they wildly shot into the living room as they escaped. They fell into the getaway car and sped away.

There were a few seconds, the longest seconds of Vicky’s life, where Vera and Vicky huddled on the seat as their chests heaved.

Vicky had shot someone.

It wasn’t the first time she hurt someone. When people got feisty during their heists, she shot them in the hand or foot, she even kicked some. But she killed one, possibly two people. She felt sick, even though her haze of coke.

“Did we get anything?” Vicky asked.

Vera howled with delight. “We got so much fucking money!” She opened her bag for Vicky to peer inside. “This was all just on a table down there. They had a bunch of kids counting it! I got three kilos on top of that. God, there’s gotta be at least half a million dollars in here alone. Baby, we are rich as fuck!”

Vicky’s eyes bugged out of her head. She eventually broke into a grin so enormous it made her face hurt. “Oh my god! We are fucking rich!”

“We’re in it now, baby!” Vera held her face and they hopped in place. “Oh my god, you’re amazing, you crazy bitch. I love you so fucking much! We’re set for at least another month.”

“You can go a month without doing this again?”

“Fuck no!”

Vicky couldn’t help but be intoxicated by the money and Vera’s own elation. There was just a learning curve, she told herself, she would catch up.

---

Oz woke and he was stiffer than rigor mortis and it felt like he was knifed in the lung. It made him crabby. Slowly, he peeled open his eyes, and groggily surveyed his surroundings. Normally, Oz was a pacifist, but he sincerely wanted to wring the neck of whoever thought it was a good idea to kidnap him and Zoe.

When Oz looked down, his chest ache made sense. He was skewered by an oily black rod that reflected red light by the candles above them.

“Zoe!” he rasped. “Baby, where are you?”

“Fuck, stop screaming. I’m right behind you. God, my head is splitting, there’s something in my chest too, " she said. Her voice came from behind him. They were tired back to back.

“I think it’s the same thing in my chest,” he replied. “What the hell happened back there?”

“I don’t fucking know. I think we got swallowed by… by magic, or something like us. We have a lot of enemies. It could be one of them,” Zoe hypothesized. “That doesn’t matter now, though. We have to get out of here. Can you move?”

“If any of you so much as twitch, we won’t only kill Vicky, we’ll kill all your friends.”

Oz recognized that voice and it made his guts churn with horror. He craned his head over his shoulder to try to look at Dahlia. “Oh my God, Dahlia, what the hell have you done?" If the Aquino family was after Vicky, that had to have meant a declaration of war against the LaVey. "Dahlia, you're a fool! If you kill Vicky, you're going to bring the wrath of the LaVey family down on the heads of yourself and your loved ones. You will all be slaughtered!"

“Oz, shut up!” Zoe snapped. “Dahlia, look, I know you’ve got beef with the LaVey, but you can’t do this. The entire eighth circle of Hell will come for your ass if you kill Vicky. They won’t be merciful and you know that! Don't throw your life away like this. Pull out of this while you still can.”

Dahlia threw a chair. It exploded on the stone wall across from Oz. “No! The LaVey had this coming for a long time now, Zoe, and if the two of you had just kept to yourselves, we wouldn’t have had to imprison you.”

“Fuck!” Oz screamed. “Vicky hasn’t done anything!”

“She has! She fucked Damien, and now we’re gonna kill her and use her to fuck over Damien.���

“You are sick!” he bellowed. “Dahlia, I will kill you if you lay a hand on any of our friends!”

“Oz, shut up!”

“You two are cute. The thing is, with that spear in your chest, you’re virtually powerless.”

It dawned on Oz the spear was the reason Zoe told him to shut up. She wanted to create a distraction so he could pull it out since it would’ve been less obvious if he did it thanks to his position behind her. God, she was so much smarter than he was.

“Fuck, Zoe, talk some sense into Dahlia.”

“Dahlia. I know what you’re going through,” Zoe said, as Fear crept its inky appendage to wrap around the hilt of the spear. “I was needed to create chaos for eons. It was the only way I felt loved and accepted. But you deserve better than this! There are hundreds of wonderful traits to your name that you can make something out of yourself with. You don’t have to be-”

Zoe screamed. It sounded like the cry of seagulls and whales. Extremely pained, so much so, even Fear faltered.

“Zoe!” Oz screamed, “Zoe, what’s wrong?”

Dahlia skirted around their seats and smiled at Oz. “I cut off your girlfriend’s arm. If you try to escape before we kill Vicky, I’ll be cutting off more than just an arm. The next one is that big ol’ eye she's got.”

Oz never hated anyone before that moment. He glared at Vicky with vitriol that made his inky skin simmer.

"As soon as I'm out, I will make you wish you only had the LaVey to worry about, " Oz promised. "There's no coming back for you, Dahlia. I'm going to kill you."

Dahlia didn't reply. She only left them in the dark.

---

Vera and Vicky counted their winnings that afternoon. They took three hundred grand from the lab, and the kilos they took would have sold for another four hundred fifty grand. They were almost a million dollars richer. It was almost enough for Vicky to spend the rest of her life in retirement.

And Vicky stayed high. Vera gave her the coke out of her car. Vicky refused to come down.

To celebrate, Vicky took Vera and her suitor Amira, Liam, and her boyfriends out to party. She was only a quarter of the way through an expensive bottle of whiskey and as terribly as she danced, she felt like she ruled the dance floor, intoxicated by coke, booze, and the bass-heavy music that blasted from the speakers overhead. The way Damien and Brian sandwiched her, with their hands on her hips and in her hair, simply overjoyed Vicky. It was almost like she hadn't murdered someone hours ago.

When the bartender presented her with a three thousand dollar bottle of whiskey tied with a boy. Vera and Vicky were showered with confetti from party poppers as Liam took a photo.

Brian wrapped his arm around Vicky. He reached behind them for a glass and held them in place as Vicky poured generous servings for everyone.

"To the splendid duo!" Liam cheered. They toasted, and Vicky was surrounded by friends and loved ones. She hardly felt ill even as the image of their head falling onto her flashed before her eyes for a brief moment.

Vera was dragged into the dancefloor by Amira and Damien was off to create mayhem. Brian, Liam, and Vicky were left at the bar.

"It's a little weird celebrating robbery," Liam remarked. "Don't get me wrong, there's worse, but it is a little weird."

"It is. I shot two people today, and I killed at least one. I think this is Vera's way of trying to help me feel better." Vicky hopped up onto a stool and slowly sipped her whiskey. She felt Brian and Liam burn holes into her head with their eyes alone.

"Babe…" Brian mumbled, "are you okay?"

"I don't know."

"Vicky, take this seriously," Liam scolded her. "We're worried about you. You killed someone today. I mean, that in and of itself is super fucked up, but you're my friend so I'm willing to overlook the legal repercussions for your wellbeing."

Vicky felt sick. "I'm… processing it, I suppose. It's kind of surreal. Vera says I would've died if I didn't kill them, and she's absolutely right, but… I don't know. Killing someone is different than what I thought it would be like. It's dreamlike. Like I'm looking into a box replaying the whole thing."

Liam pensively took a drink. "It's definitely not what anyone expects."

"You say that like you've killed someone too," Brian said.

"I'm four hundred years old. Of course, I've killed a couple people." Liam brushed his hair back. "All I can really say is time dulls the feeling. You'll learn to cope."

Vicky thought she coped pretty well before Liam decided to pry into her business, but she kept that to herself. She took the whiskey bottle and Brian onto the dance floor instead. Damien jogged over to them. They drank and danced.

“You,” Damien teased as he impolitely pried her whiskey out of her hands, “are beautiful in this lighting.” He took an impressive swig, held her chin, and kissed her. Whiskey drowned her mouth like arousal drowned the junction between her legs.

“Fuck,” she groaned. She kissed Damien’s neck, and then Brian’s behind her. “Let’s go to the bathroom for a quickie,” she whispered.

Brian and Damien never protested as she dragged them into the handicap stall.

Damien shoved Vicky against the wall. He sunk to his knees and pushed her pants and underwear around her ankles. His tongue slipped between her legs. Brian held her by her neck and kissed her. He played with her breasts through her blouse, and clumsily, thanks to all the booze and coke in her system, she slipped his cock out and stroked him.

Brian proved needy, however. Not long into their foreplay, he grumbled for Damien to move, he pulled her shirt over her head and then kissed her when he tossed it onto the floor. She was perfectly content to allow him to ravage her. As he fumbled with her bra, she kissed him and help his biceps with her hands. He grabbed her by her wrists and held them above her head. With a giggle, Vicky wrapped her legs around his hips.

He slammed himself inside her. Vicky adored it. He wanted her so badly. She must have been so pretty in the fluorescent light, with the way he stared into her eyes and wordlessly grunted. He tucked his face into her shoulder. He gnawed on her bolts. Electricity coursed through him and it made him quiver inside of her.

“Please fuck me harder,” she pleaded, “I need it so badly.”

Brian pulled himself out. Vicky protested until she was flipped around and bent over. He reentered her and rode her furiously. When Vicky looked over her shoulder, Damien poked her mouth with the head of his cock. She happily swallowed him, albeit clumsily between her inebriation and Brian’s roughness making her whole frame shake like a house shook in an earthquake. They shook her entire world.

Brian became sloppy. Damien pulled him out and they switched positions. He backed her up so Brian could fit between her face and the wall. She pulled him into her mouth, so deep she choked. Nonetheless, she happily bobbed with Damien as much as she could. Brian stroked her hair. He groaned and not seconds later, he came into her throat. She must have been so pretty, the way he slipped down the wall as Damien finished her off. Cum dripped down her chin as she came with Damien. She gurgled. Her legs shook as she was filled and filled.

Damien pulled himself out of her pussy. Brian passed him a wad of toilet paper to wipe up the mess. Brian pushed himself to his feet and held Vicky.

A knock came from their stall door and Vicky yelped.

“If you guys are finished in there, I’d kind of like to have a dance with my business partner, " Vera said.

“Oh shit,” Damien grumbled.

"I'll be out in a second!" Vicky replied. The three of them fixed their clothes and Vicky tumbled out with a sheepish smile. Vera was as uncharmed as she was drunk.

“Come on, let’s get you some dignity back.”

“I better be your favorite slut, at least,” Vicky said. That made Vera laugh.

Vicky was pulled back onto the dance floor. Amira handed her a drink with Kahlua and orange bitters before they took her into their sweet, sapphic arms. Vicky loved having girls for friends.

“You were amazing today!” Vera said. “I can’t fucking believe how much we got!”

“I shot someone. The cops are gonna be on our ass if they don’t have friends.”

“Yeah, but they would've cut your throat if you didn't do something. I’m glad you’re okay, and you know I’ll help with anything if you get in trouble. A lawyer, maybe some assassinations if we can’t rig the trial.” Vera laid their foreheads together. “Vicky, you’re my best friend. You and I have done so much together. I want you in my life forever. I’ll never let anything happen to you.”

Vicky grinned. “Like sisters?”

“Like sisters, honey. Like I want to plan your wedding with you and all that gross, lovey-dovey shit.”

“I want that too. I want you in my life forever, Vera,” Vicky confessed. She hugged Vera as they swayed. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Crash and burn. But that’s not important because I’m here now. I’ll be here forever.”

“Me too,” Vicky said.

She felt okay. The sickness from her murder was still heavy, but Vera held her like family, and that was comforting.

[ariadne-rx300-blog]

(R)e:volution

Summary: The RX300, arguably the most elusive design of Elijah Kamski's creation. An undisclosed prototype tasked with human-android relations espionage, equipped with a real-time observational UI, social protocol, combat tactics and looks to kill. How does a painted genius so easily lose track of his own spy? (Android OC/Connor)

Additional Tags: Pre-Deviant Connor, Pre-Android Revolution, OC backstory, Mostly Canon Compliant, Elijah Kamski has ulterior motives, OC is Kamski’s surveillance android, sort of like when people say Google is listening to your conversations, she’s kind of like that, OC observes Connor at work, for “observational research purposes”, this totally isn’t one of those types of romances, except it totally is, probably, Drama & Romance, Fluff and Angst, Deviant Love, Connor Deserves Happiness, Big Brother is Watching

Link to Chapter 2

1 || The Half Life of the Party

Chapter Summary: The king on his throne and the tunnel-visioned servant at his behest. This was the start.

RX300 #151 073 925 - 21

If there was anything to be learned from the rise and fall of a self-professed god, it was this: Elijah Kamski was as cryptic as any human could live up to being. In one fleeting moment of humanity's history he had devoted his life's work to the creation and development of artificial intelligence. From outside perspective he put his lionized mind to use at perfecting code, striving to rid the world of its unease at the prospect of non-human caretakers, their faces which mirrored humanity's own. Begged and pleaded with them to give his technological advancements a chance, to change life as they knew it to be.

The immense success of android implementation into the everyday lives of average citizens had only led him to willful isolation. That was the clear irony of it all. The false mask of discontentment his behavior had impressed upon society. On the contrary, he sat comfortably in his secluded throne.

Caught between the two faces Elijah showed to the world was her, RX300, a pet project, just one of many prized objects in his possession. She was not the first by a large margin, a long list of faces to complement the proposed purposes behind varied programming. His overbearing treatment of the RT600, the first Chloe, the first android to be in his own terms 'perfected' by CyberLife, had entailed near-constant interviewing; a loop of endless observation and psychological marketing to the billions of critical eyes that made up humankind's collective judgement.

She was not her, not put up to the same task as she who had come before. This was evident by way of a differing appearance, a different modus operandi entirely with features reminiscent of a young Audrey Hepburn, her hair in a mess of dark curls; though her calling-name had apparently settled on "Eve." Eve, in a further irony, the name of the first human woman-she who in human religious texts was punished for stealing the knowledge of good and evil from God himself, tempting Adam, sharing that knowledge with him regardless of outcome.

It all seemed so poetic in hindsight. The luxurious events set up to celebrate the success of the singular, eminent man who had made it all possible. Not the births of his many sons and daughters, not the birth of a new form of life. His inner self was of course hyper-aware of the consequences that came with secrecy. He played puppetmaster-drove the car to stop at the cliff, then reveled in the constancy of teetering on the edge, the push-and-pull of imminent civil war, guided by his hands at the wheel, his foot ghosting the pedal. By the time she'd come to this conclusion, he'd already jumped ship. The only way he could get away with it was by renouncing his position, resigning from CyberLife and appointing the company itself, his legacy, to take the fall for his ulterior motive.

In the present, "Eve" had become "Ariadne:" liberated overseer of suffering, seeker of a Theseus that would one day come to slay the Minotaur of Kamski's making; the fear that had lit a fuse in the minds of humanity and subsequently set her guiding string ablaze. In the past, she remained Eve, unwittingly confined to the whims of her maker as she carried out his bidding with light feet and little-to-no self-awareness.

"Eve," Elijah called across the room to reach her synthetic ears, wired mind poised to listen. She stood at his attention, dressed lavishly, non-standard to that of the other models he had sent out into the party as modestly-clothed distractions. She bore no visible LED, hidden and dimmed under brown curls. No one would know the difference, no one would expect a spy, and therefore no one would be looking for one. "Survey the room, get a feel for our guests." He smiled, humbled in his attire and grooming, sly as he spoke just below the din, acting as though the exchange were natural and inconspicuous to any unwanted onlookers. "Observe them, watch how they interact with your kin," A chuckle left him as his eyes darted elsewhere, meeting that of the business-class who sought conversation with him. "Don't be shy."

Don't be shy.

A request to fine-tune the personality settings he had equipped her with, the social protocol with which she had been patiently tested to perform. This was the final assessment; the field test that would make or break her use in further clandestine endeavors. The eve of her crowning.

He didn't wait for a response as he flitted away, nor did she provide one as she followed suit and slipped into the excited crowd, shadowing magnates and moguls alike, dipping into their discussions with vigor. Her eyes blinked–wide, warm amber, yet mischievous in a way that provoked an inherent fondness–quietly observing, scanning the faces of humans and androids alike as she took to absorbing any information she could gather.

"And what is your name, my dear?" An older man seated in a high-end wheelchair, wrinkled with laugh lines and draped in a vest with expensive, stylized sleeves. Eve scanned him and collected his ID. Carl Manfred, celebrated painter of the Neo-Symbolist movement, close friend of Elijah's.

A bright smile lit her features as she addressed him with utmost respect and kindness. "Oh, it's so nice to finally meet you, Mr. Manfred." She spoke, serene, a transatlantic accent lilting her tone as she lightly bounced on her heels to accommodate her emulated excitement. "My name is Eve, I'm a big fan of your artwork!"

Carl hummed, taking her in with all-seeing eyes and reproaching the praise he received with a wave of his hand. She noted his wrist, smudged with dried paint. Odd, she mused, it had seemed the common approach to encourage a friendly relationship would be to attend to one's ego. His open humility caused a recalculation. It wasn't something she was used to, given Elijah's true nature, not that she would have known. Her eyebrows creased, narrowing as she formed her rebuttal. "Your work is arguably the most influential of the century, Mr. Manfred; it would do you an injustice to belittle the good it has done for this world."

"Answer me this, Eve," His lips spread into a smile as he regarded her, mysterious as he took on a quizzical tone, depth rumbling in his throat. "Do you believe something is worth more when weighed by the eyes of the world, or by the eyes of the individual?"

Philosophy. Concepts beyond simple functioning, requiring critical thought and soul-searching to supply an answer beyond just "right" and "wrong."

"Is an object only an object because we, as sentient beings, call it so?"

Androids were only initially programmed to answer simple formulas, simple equations which carried with them common-sense responses out of a supplied database of knowledge, exempt of individual thought.

He gestured with an arm, looking out upon the throng of people with human eyes admiring non-autonomous AI, everyone lost in the spectacle and not recognizing the true horror behind their sentient thought processes, ignorant to those without. Either party was blind in their own sense, stuck in a dream–or nightmare-alike. Eve lost words in the moment, seeing the scene for what it was only to be pushed down by her own programming. "I… am not sure." Devoid of the joyful spark she'd placated her inner demons with, blocked out by a seemingly impassable wall that caged her in and kept any true emotions just out of reach.

And Carl simply laughed, the sound vibrating in his chest, echoing in her eardrums, separate from the party noise.

A herald of both internal and external war.

[onceuponamirror]

heart rise above

///// CHAPTER 11

summary: It wasn’t an experiment with freedom borne of some Americana fantasy; rather, a road trip of purely logistical intentions. The plan was simple. Drive from Boston to Chicago for his sister’s college graduation. That’s it.

Or, he drives a Ford Pickup Named Desire.

Mechanic!AU

fandom: riverdale ship: betty x jughead words: 58k chapters: 11/19

[read from the beginning] [read the latest]

I've looked at love from both sides now From give and take and still somehow It's love's illusions I recall

I really don't know love at all 

.

.

. 

He honestly thought he’d known insomnia well. 

Sleep has always been the girl he loved from afar; pining, out of reach, that sort of sluggish mooning through the day that leads to a long night stretching his fingers across his pillows to catch something that isn’t there. 

Usually, he manages to win over couple of solid hours, or at least enough energy to get him from one cup of coffee to the next. 

But that, apparently, was until he met Betty, because he’s pretty sure he’s never going to sleep again.

After he climbs out of her car—which he’ll never be able to look at in the same way—and leans back through her driver’s window to kiss her goodnight, something so chaste and gentle that it’s almost laughable given what had just conspired between them, he climbs the stairs to his room, shoves open the door, and flops onto the bed on his stomach. 

He lies there, facedown onto his pillow, for he has no idea how long, and completely unsure what he’s feeling, physically or otherwise. He’s still half-hard with the memory of her, but he doesn’t quite have the will to get up and take care of it because he’s too busy overanalyzing the massive downhill slope of the end of their date—so instead, he hits his head into the pillow a few times and mutters, “stupid, stupid, stupid,” to himself.

What had he been expecting? That they’d make out for all of eternity and never have to talk about emotions or feelings or all the thousand ways this was a slow motion car crash? He should’ve seen a talk coming a mile away, and definitely shouldn’t have been so utterly unprepared to hear the phrase “get it out of our systems” come out of her mouth, since she’d said the damn thing already, when editing his book.

“They have to act, even if they think it’s just something to get out of their systems. Let them enjoy what time they will have.”

They’d been using characters as shields, but she’d said that. Put it right out there. Warned him, way ahead of time. And somehow, he was still not ready to hear it without pretense. 

But he’s not surprised. Frankly, if anything, he’s surprised that he’s not at all surprised. Because of course what was definitely a greatest-hits-moment was also going to be his one-hit-wonder. Because he always expected this would make him miserable in the end. 

He kissed her because he hadn’t been able to think of much else all night. Or all day, really. Ever since waking early in the morning with a false memory of her on his lips, it’s been looming in the back of his thoughts, driving him up a wall and distracting him from an attempt at anything else. So he had to do it. Had to see how fantasy compared to reality. 

The answer was obvious: if dream-Betty had merely kicked down his door, real-Betty burned his whole fucking house down. There was no comparison, really, now that he knows what she feels like under his hands and his mouth and has begun mapping the stars of her. 

It terrifies him how satisfying it was, and yet completely, irrevocably—not enough.

.

.

.

Night rolls into dawn before he knows it, so he finds himself doing laundry in the flickering florescence of an eerily empty motel at five in the morning. That kills only about an hour, and he tries desperately to find a bit of sleep after. It humors him for a little while, and when he wakes, feeling groggy but frustratingly awake at the same time, he doesn’t fight it. 

Instead, he goes off in search of deliverance. 

It takes the form of a greasy diner breakfast.

“I thought I might find you here,” a melodic voice says over his shoulder an hour later, and before he can recognize that it does not belong to Betty and stamp out the hopeful crease in his heart, Veronica Lodge is sinking into the seat across from him.

“Okay, I gotta ask. Do you work here, or not?” He asks, squinting at her. “I still can’t figure that one out.”

“Not,” Veronica sighs. “Put in a few summers during my under-grad years, but it’s my mother with the steady employment here. I occasionally cover half a shift for her, as I was the night you two black hats rode into town.” 

Jughead realizes this is why the one older waitress at Pop’s looks so familiar to him, and nods, absorbing this. But Veronica must mistake this for something else, because her expression knots. “I know I may not seem the small-town-waitress Kerouac would wax for, but Pop Tate has been good to my family when not many people were. I am more than happy to help out when I can.” 

“I didn’t say any of that,” Jughead says slowly, wrinkling his brow. “I was just thinking about the poundage in pancakes I’ve made your mom carry and hoping that doesn’t come back to haunt me.” 

“Oh.” Veronica looks confused for a moment, and then shuffles in her seat, raising her neck as if to look at him better. 

There’s a long pause, and Jughead wonders what should happen next. He’s still working through why Veronica is at his table, early on a Saturday, when he’s pretty sure she and Archie have plans. “So...” he drawls, for lack of anything else. 

“Right,” she says quickly, like she’s been pulled out of her thoughts. She crosses her legs and sits up straighter. 

“So, I’ve observed something in you, Jughead Jones. That’s to say, a sharp wit mixing with a very blunt tact,” she says appraisingly, arching an already curved eyebrow. “An otherwise potentially fatal combination, but as fate would have it, just the kind I’m in the market for.”

“And I’ve been told I’m pithy,” Jughead mutters under his breath, but clearly not low enough for it to go unheard by her. The other eyebrow joins its mate. “How can I help you, Veronica?” 

“It depends.” Veronica re-crosses her legs and tilts one shoulder towards him. “You see, I’ve been percolating on whether you might be more loyal than you are honest.”

Now it’s Jughead’s turn to raise his eyebrows, wondering how anyone gets this far through life being so cryptic. “Uh, I’d classify myself as the conscientious objector, if anything. But that would require context, of which you’ve provided none, so I can’t really answer that. But I can keep a secret, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It’s not, so let me be more direct.” Veronica sighs, like she can’t decide if she is bored by this conversation or terrified of it. “I want to know Archie’s modus operandi when it comes to his relationships.”

“That is direct,” Jughead says. He finds a beat to gather his words. “Look, I’m not gonna slut shame my best friend. Archie is one of the good guys, but he’s also no milquetoast when it comes to his dating life. As in…he likes women, and women like him. Always have. Probably always will.” 

She purses a pair of perfectly painted lips, and Jughead already can tell this has not been what she hoped to hear.

“Alright, listen, I really don’t want to be responsible for your relationship here. You asked me, and I told you, so don’t look at me like that. It’s just the fact of his history.” Jughead sighs wearily and leans in a bit closer over the table. “But, running the risk of sounding like this is at all any of my business, I should probably also tell you that he does really like you. Like, to the point where I have to hear about you constantly. And just so we’re clear, it’s fucking annoying.” 

The look that appears next is soft and relieved and somehow also bordering on mischievous. “Thank you, Jughead. Now I can see why Betty likes you.”

“That makes one of us,” he mumbles, eyes flicking down to his breakfast. His stomach gives a little squeeze, but he forces himself through a stalling bite of bacon anyway. When he looks back up, Veronica’s head is tilted, studying him. 

“You’re seeing her again tonight, aren’t you?” She points out, as this is the answer to his problems. 

“Supposedly,” he sighs, as he hasn’t heard from Betty yet, but if Veronica’s bringing it up that might be a good sign the two discussed it. It also reminds him he has to go buy condoms after this. He still doesn’t want to have any assumptions about how tonight is going to go, but he’s definitely not going to be caught unprepared again. Then again, he still can’t believe—can’t even fathom—

“Do me a favor, Jughead.” He realizes he’s been staring at the ceiling, and meets her eye. “Tell me why you like her,” Veronica says, lacing her fingers together and twisting in the booth so that she’s fully facing him. Jughead gets the impression that the shift in body language was deliberate, because he now feels like he’s staring down the barrel of an interrogation.

“Don’t you have anywhere else to be? Anyone else to torture?” Jughead sighs. Discomfort is a word that doesn’t quite do justice to what he’s suddenly feeling. 

She makes a noise that is too polite and poised to classify as a snort, but by any other name would smell as sweet. “Archie is at my apartment waiting for me to return with breakfast, and we both know he has no concept of time when there’s not a game of some kind afoot. So, no. Humor me.” 

“How about I slip you a piece of paper to pass to Betty with the checked box for ‘yes’ on the question of whether I like her,” he offers instead.

“Betty values my opinion above nearly all else, Heathcliff. You wouldn’t want me coming back to her with a poor impression of you, would you?” She smiles, showing her teeth. 

“Jesus, Donna Corleone. Fine, fine,” he growls. He’s gotten enough of a taste of Veronica to know that she’s not particular towards letting things go and probably would follow through on her threats, so he might as well just get this over with. 

“Uh, she’s kind,” he starts. He squeezes his eyes shut, both because this is painfully embarrassing and because he’s a professional wordsmith and that’s the best he can come up with? She’s kind? 

“She’s smart in a way that’s just a fact, whereas I sometimes think I drop big words just to prove that I can. It’s probably some leftover angst from trying to demonstrate I was every bit the teenage special snowflake I wanted everyone to think I was, but—” A smile tips at his cheeks at the memory of her excitement over editing his book and giving her notes.

“And she’s… I mean, she had maybe 4 hours, and solved almost all the problems in my book in three points or less. And because she’s kind and smart, she’s also understanding. It’s a gift.”

He pauses, realizing he’s still smiling, and now that he’s started thinking about this, it’s starting to scare him how many more reasons he has. She’s not just smart—brilliant, really—she gets his stupid references, and makes quite a lot of her own. She cares so deeply, even down to the tiniest detail. She takes a bit too much of that inward, bears the brunt for too many, but he knows it comes from a big heart and he has the sudden, unassailable desire to protect that.

But he doesn’t want to drop a three-foot long roll of parchment at Veronica’s feet, because that has a type of vulnerability to it he’s never quite known what to do with it, so he cuts off the tap of praise for Betty. Instead, he stares out the window, trying desperately to avoid meeting Veronica’s gaze. But, because he can’t help it, he adds, “And she’s beautiful. Obviously.”

He finally glances back over the table, and finds Veronica’s expression anything but the smug cheek he might’ve expected.

“You can’t hurt her,” Veronica says, her voice very still, but also with a clear warning. “She’s spent her whole life sacrificing herself for other people, and if she finally does something for herself and it’s you and you break her, she might never try it again. You know that, right, Jughead?”

He doesn’t know what to say. On the one hand, Veronica is right—at least about the part of Betty self-sacrificing her way through misery. On the other hand, the ball isn’t his court. She’s the one who asked for this to be just sex between them. He’s the one who’s already signed a death warrant for his own feelings. 

“Jughead?” Veronica prompts, when the jukebox changes and he hasn’t yet replied. 

“Yeah, I know, Veronica,” he says quietly, with something nearly a grimace.

She nods, once, and very slowly. And then seems to be waiting for something. Finally, “Well, aren’t you going to give me the same kind of speech about Archie?” 

The question comes right as he’s taken a large bite of his breakfast, so much to Veronica’s displeasure, when he scoffs and says, “Uh, no,” it’s through a mouthful of waffles. He chews and swallows. “No. Definitely not.” 

Her eyes narrow. 

“Is this some sort of mano a mano duel for your masculinity, wherein you won’t admit to looking out for the emotional well-being of your best friend?” Veronica leans back into her seat, surveying him coolly, her fingers still laced and now settled over her knee. “Archie says you’re like his brother, but you don’t care to investigate whether or not I’m, say, the Succubus of de Balzac’s nightmares?” 

He gives her points for the reference, but still shakes his head. “First of all, you’re Betty’s best friend, so I figure you must be alright. Probably not a Succubus, at least. Secondly, Archie is like…Play-Doh. You can hit it with a hammer and it’ll still fluff up to its original shape. So I never worry about him.”

She stares at him for a long moment, as if she can’t decide how she feels about that answer. Then she smirks, brushes off her skirt of nonexistent crumbs, and stands. “Alright. Well, this has been a pleasure, Jughead. Very informative.”

“Anytime,” he mumbles, taking another bite of his breakfast.

Veronica hesitates in front of his table. “But remember, if you do hurt her, I’m soon to leave the state and have seen every episode of How To Get Away With Murder.”

And then she’s gone, leaving Jughead with a whiff of jasmine perfume and the distinct feeling that she knows something he doesn’t.

.

.

. 

After Veronica leaves, Jughead finds he doesn’t have much left of an appetite, so he requests a to-go box and gathers his things. He’d rather go to the store now and get the condoms earlier rather than later, just in case one of Betty’s other friends spots him in the busier afternoon. Getting through that conversation with Veronica was hard enough, but the idea of running into someone like Kevin whilst holding a box of condoms is enough to hasten his steps. 

(For someone so glued to his smart phone, Kevin is somehow unnervingly easy to picture in a tweed newsboy cap shouting, “Extra, extra, read all about it!” to a bustling street and feels as though that says quite enough about how much he trusts that guy with information.)

Once at the grocery store, he beelines for the back, where he’d spotted the condoms last time when he’d been looking for toothpaste. There are a lot more options than he remembers, and casts a cursory sweep around to see no one is in the aisle with him before running his eyes over all the types. 

Ribbed…sounds good on paper, which means it’s probably useless. He thinks he’s tried those before and not noticed a difference. Warming? That sounds like the one that could go very wrong, very fast. Twisted Pleasure? Was he buying a goddamn romance novel? Sighing, he grabs the box that seems the least gendered, deciding that if it’s not being overly marketed to men or women it should be good for both of them.

He shoves the box under his arm and weaves through the rest of the store, but pauses in front of the flower stand as a thought occurs to him. He can’t possibly buy the two things together, can he? That would just look—who is he, Reggie? But then his mind’s eye conjures the delighted, shy smile he craves so deeply from Betty, and he thinks flowers would be an appropriate substitute for bringing her food.

So he lingers, deciding if he can’t find a bouquet that reminds him of Betty, he won’t buy them. But then, much to his chagrin, he spots the little posy of white and blue flowers off to the side. They’re pretty, delicately lace-like and somehow completely wild all at once, seeming as if they’d look at most at home as spots of color on a grassy meadow. They definitely remind him of Betty. Damn.

Sighing, he reads the label, which informs him it’s a bundle made from something called baby’s-breath and, most ironically: forget-me-nots.

Of fucking course. He snorts at that, and begrudgingly bends over to pull them from their bucket. He can’t not get her them now, though can’t decide whether he wants her to recognize the little blue flowers by name or not.

He shuffles into the express lane, desperate to get this over with. But, once again, of fucking course, he recognizes the cashier as the pink-haired woman from before, the one who had teased Betty about Kevin finding out about their grocery run. He squints at her nametag, which reads Toni in crisp little letters. 

Jughead attempts to hide the box of condoms under the flowers, which is ridiculously fruitless, considering she’s about to ring him up. At first, he’s not entirely sure she recognizes him, but as she lifts up the bouquet and sees what’s underneath, the look she passes him clearly states she does and even more clearly is knowingly amused.

“Big date, huh?” She says wryly, punching something into the register. 

He attempts to mumble something in between “yeah, whatever” and “please shut up” but it just comes out as an incoherent garble of noise. 

“What was that?” Toni asks, eyes dancing. 

“How much?” He mutters, his voice gruff.

“$25.83,” Toni chirps, and Jughead practically throws a wad of bills at her. He sticks around just long enough to get his receipt and change and then quickly turns on his heel, his face hot. 

He still can’t figure out why—he should be screaming from the rooftops that he’s got a solid shot at actually having sex in the near future, least of all with probably the most beautiful girl he’s ever known—not hastily shoving the box into his bag and blushing furiously.

This is the bowling alley all over again. Jughead knows that he’s not what one might call highly experienced, and nothing reveals that hand more than the lack of ability to even say the word sex out loud. So he’d just sat there, stammering like an idiot, unable to tell Betty point blank that he wasn’t a virgin and aggressively kicking himself for bringing it up at all. 

It certainly doesn’t help that she had gone a bit tight-lipped after that, probably because she’s had solid relationships under her belt that involved regular sex and not a couple attempts at it scattered over the years. So. No pressure, right?

He tries to put it from his mind as he walks back to his motel. After throwing his bag onto the bed, he grabs the cheap, large ceramic mug next to the room’s Keurig, fills it with water, and deposits Betty’s flowers into it, to keep them fresh for later. 

And then he sits on his bed, unsure what to do besides beg himself not to think about tonight. He definitely won’t be able to focus on writing. Archie is probably going to be occupied with Veronica and her jasmine perfume for the next 24 hours.

He almost wants to call Reggie, which sends a horrified shock to his system—but the fact of the matter is, Reggie is the only person Jughead knows with the particular skill of sleeping around without getting emotions in the way. He knows it’s probably already way too late for that, but he might still be able to stave off some of it.

If he’d ever be able to get past the shame of asking, he guesses Reggie probably wouldn’t judge him. Probably want to high-five him through the phone, if anything.

In the end, he never tries.

  .

.

.

Are we still on for tonight?

A text from Betty stares at him, and he stares right back. A moment later, his phone pings with a little smiley face, also from her, and he sits up straighter, rubbing a hand up and down his face.

definitely. what were you thinking?

Pretty sure I still owe you a home-cooked meal! And we have HBO here!

He swallows. It seems a roundabout way of describing the concept of Netflix and Chill, but he has no complaints. Betty’s house is probably still empty of anyone else. A thrill runs down his spine. ok. sounds good. what time?

6?

ok. see you then 

A little ellipsis appears and disappears briefly before another text arrives. We could try something else if you don’t want to do that? 

what? no, i like your idea  

Juggie!! Then you can’t just type “ok”! You’re a writer, so you should know that makes you sound like you didn’t want to.  

wtf, says who?  

The ever-shifting dynamics of language, that’s who! Also, Buzzfeed.  

She sends a link to an article about the type of person you are based on the way you say the word “okay” in texts, which he finds completely ridiculous but also thinks it’s the kind of thing his sister would find funny, so he screenshots it for her and asks Betty which she is.

(She’s, apparently, an “okay!” most of the time and it annoys him that it somehow makes sense.) 

They exchange a few more texts, but after a few minutes Betty says she wants to go for a run and will talk to him later. She sends along another smiley face, which is a little funny considering her lecture on online etiquette and that Jughead was under the impression those were reserved for fuckboys—but then again, only Betty could get away with an utter lack of ironic emoticons. 

He sends back simply “K”, because according to the article, that’s the one used by sociopaths, to which she replies with an eye roll emoji and I’m going now! 

He catches himself staring at his phone and smiling, which won’t do, so he quickly shoots off the screenshot to JB and busies himself with cleaning his motel room a bit. He wants to shower as close to dinner as possible, in order to maximize the amount of time he has before the smell of soap wears off, so cleaning feels like the only option, even if there isn’t much of it to do.

Halfway through, his phone rings, which he answers without looking at, considering only three people ever call him: Archie, who only calls when Jug is not answering texts, his editor, who never calls without scheduling it, and JB, who calls him most of all. Unsurprisingly, it’s her.

“Oh my god, I love that,” she says, without preamble. She must be talking about the Buzzfeed article. “I knew you were socially inept. You always just write o-k.” 

“So glad you’ve spent all those years studying psychology only to have your theories verified by the website made famous by videos of drunk people playing with puppies,” he drawls, putting her on speakerphone so that he can fold while he talks.

“Whatever,” she sighs. “I’m not the one who was reading it in my free time.” 

He opens his mouth to defend himself, but that would require backstory. Which would lead them to Betty. Which would lead to JB eagerly trying to analyze his feelings. Which he’s not sure he’s ready to make real by announcing to his sister.

So instead he says, “Fair. So, what’s up? How’d your last final go?”

“Good! I think. I mean, everything just feels weird. I keep thinking I’ve forgotten to show up for one and I’m gonna get a letter in a month being like, ‘uh, you realize you didn’t actually graduate, right?’”

“I can only imagine,” he says, which is the exact truth. He can literally only imagine.

“Honestly, Mr. College-Dropout, you really dodged a bullet. These past few weeks have been hell. But, oh well. It’s over. And I inexplicably wanted that useless millennial degree.” She pauses. “Anyway, when do you think the truck will be fixed and you’ll be leaving Riverwater, or whatever that place is called?”

He’s holding his very wrinkled dress shirt up to the light and wondering if it’s worth ironing now, or if he should wait until he needs it for the graduation ceremony, so he’s a bit distracted when he replies, “Not sure yet, but I can ask tonight.”

“Dumbass, what do you think business hours are? Why would you wait until tonight?” JB snorts. When Jughead can’t come up with an excuse fast enough, she makes a suspicious sounding noise. “Wait, wait. Isn’t your mechanic a woman?”

“Uh, I don’t think I ever said that,” Jughead replies quickly. Too quickly, because he actually has no idea if he’s mentioned Betty’s gender before. Probably? No. Wait, yes, he did.

“Okay. You sound like you’re pooping an egg over there, which means I’m onto something,” JB says, with unnerving triumph. “Hold on.” 

There’s a slight click, as her voice suddenly sounds farther away. “Did you just put me on speakerphone?”

“Yeah, so I can text Archie,” she says, casually, as if announcing the time of day. Jughead makes a stutteringly indignant noise, but JB shushes him. “Okay, he’s replying—oh my god, Jug! Her name is Betty? What the fuck, is she fifty?”

“No, she’s—she’s not fifty—and I’m not—Jesus, would you stop laughing?”

“I’m just picturing you, like, at some romantic candlelight dinner and holding hands with Betty White, is all,” JB says, coming down from her giggles. “I’m sorry—that’s so cool, Jug! What’s she like? I wanna know everything. Well, not everything. You know.”

“I’m gonna kill Archie. And I really don’t want to talk about this,” he mutters. “Especially not with you.”

“Why not with me? Everyone else in my major has their friends and families climbing over each other to get a free therapy session.” 

“I don’t know, JB, are you sitting in an armchair already?”

“You know, I’m so ready for that joke to be over. Come June 1st, I’ll have an actual, bona-fide psychology degree and you won’t be able to pull this shit,” she huffs.

“—It’s okay, I’m just gonna buy you a nice big, cozy armchair for your birthday so you can diagnosis my bullshit from the comfort of your own home, and—”

“Quit trying to change the subject, Jug,” she says, sounding suddenly exasperated and perhaps a little offended. “Come on. Why didn’t you tell me about her?”

Jughead sighs and sits down next to his phone. “Because I already know it’s not going to end well and I didn’t really want to think about it,” he admits. “Sorry, I was going to tell you about her, just…not until I’d left town.”

“Why wouldn’t it end well?” JB says, sounding uncharacteristically measured. He wonders if this is his first peek into her therapist voice. 

“I really don’t want to talk about this,” he insists, but knows it’s going to fall on deaf ears.

“Jughead, why won’t it end well?” She repeats after a moment, as he expected.

“Because it’s me?” He huffs. “Because I always find some way to destroy a good thing? Or, less apocalyptically: because she lives here and I live there? There’s just no happy endgame, JB.”

“You’re being really dramatic, as usual,” his sister says, halfway between amusement and sympathy. “So, you’ll try long distance. Big deal. It’s the digital age, old man. You can text and email and FaceTime to your heart’s content. And you can work from anywhere, right?”

He exhales noisily. As the thoughts come up, he realizes they’re true. “Yeah, I’d…well, I figure I’d be open to doing that. If we got to that point. But she told me she just wants to keep it—well, uh, physical.”

There’s a strangled coughing across the line, followed by, “La, la, la—I didn’t hear that!”  

“There was a reason I didn’t want to talk to you about this.” He falls backwards onto the bed and stares up at his ceiling fan, which is moving in slow, rhythmic circles, almost like the hands of a clock. His room is hot with pre-summer humidity and his clothes are stuck to his skin with sweat. 

It feels like rain again. 

“So, that’s what she wants. So we’re gonna do it that way.” 

“Wait, you’re not gonna tell her that you like her? You’re not gonna even try?”

“She knows I like her,” Jughead insists, though, to be fair, he’s never actually said it in such explicit terms. He’s just talked around it using veiled codas, half-haphazardly asked her on a double date set up by his best friend, and made out with her for half an hour. But, still. She must know. 

“Does she know how much?” JB says softly, after a long pause.

“What? I never said—” 

“You don’t have to.” She sounds almost sad for him, which he hates. He’s the one who is supposed to look out for her. “You’re my big brother. I know you. You wouldn’t be trying to hide her from me if you didn’t have Emotions-with-a-capital-E.” 

JB’s voice bounces around menacingly in his thoughts. 

Does she know how much? 

How much is much, really? He thinks about his conversation with Veronica, and the very long list of pros in Betty’s column. He thinks about the flowers sitting in a mug in his bathroom. He thinks about the soft smile that he wears now, the one that immediately appeared on his face at the mere thought of her.

“Get out of your own head,” JB cuts through his thoughts. She sounds unusually serious. “You do this. You always do this. You’re so self-destructive because you don’t live in the moment, and you’re always thinking ten steps ahead. You know Jug, you’re a good writer because you’re observant, but you observe within your own life rather than live any of it.” 

He inhales slowly, processing this. It twists at his gut, and knows she’s right, which only means he has nothing to say. But she also must know why he’s this way, and he waits for her to continue. But when she doesn’t, eventually, he ventures, “Come on, JB. What, I’m supposed to undo all those formative years of constantly worrying about Dad—in one night?” 

“You have to start somewhere. You could at least try.” 

“Sure, okay,” he scoffs. “All those years of worrying about how we’d get through the next month, or where’d we find him passed out next? Poof, gone, over it? Signing us up for SNAP in his name, or working all through high school to save up for something I half-expected to be his funeral? Fuck, do you even know how many times I expected the cops to show up at our door and tell us he was dead?” 

“Yes,” she says, very quietly and after a palpable pause. 

“No, Jellybean, you don’t,” he snaps, almost unaware he’s used her full nickname for the first time in years. “Because it was my job to keep you away from that shit. So, yeah, I think ahead. I like to know what I’m getting into and how I’m getting out of it. But I had to be this way. For you. But—thanks, thanks so much, for that gripping analysis of my childhood trauma.”

As soon as he says it, he regrets it. It comes out scalding and bitter and a voice that he hates so much, because it reminds him of his father in one of his drunken, angry stupors, yelling about how it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t hold job A, job B, or job C; how it wasn’t his fault his wife had left him, or how it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t be there for his kids. 

His sister doesn’t say anything for a long time. “Okay,” she says finally, in a cracking voice. “You’re right. I don’t know what it was like for you. Dad…he and I always had a different relationship than you two, and I forget that sometimes.” 

She sniffles, and he realizes she’s crying. Shit. “JB—” 

“No, really. I get it,” she sniffs again, and god, he hates himself so much. How the fuck could he make his little sister cry like that? 

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he cuts in, half-choked. “Please, don’t cry—I’m just…feeling a lot right now and as you might now, I’m not super advanced when it comes to that. Emotional intimacy just freaks me out. I didn’t mean…” 

“I know,” she replies, and he’s relieved to hear a bit of a smile in it. She takes a long breath, sniffling a little less. “Look, I poked you. You said you didn’t want to talk about Betty, and I just kept needling at you. I just did it because I want you to talk about things more, so they don’t build up so much. That’s all, you know?” 

He sighs. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” she says, after another long moment. “I should go. Um…you’re gonna let me know when you’re on the road, right? Like, when you’re gonna be close to Chicago?”

“Yeah, of course. I said I would,” he reminds her, as she brought this up the last time they talked. “I love you. I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“I love you too, Jug,” she says, and all he can see is his baby sister, curled up, asleep on a couch in 2005, looking so small, and completely unaware she’d seen her mother for the last time.

Her dark hair aglow with the light of a New Years Countdown on the TV, snow falling madly outside, his father gone for three days after, leaving him alone to the moment that he realized his childhood was over, and had been for a while.

.

.

.

He showers immediately after getting off the phone, desperate to get history off of him.

Jughead makes a lot of jokes about armchair psychology to his sister, but he’s too proud of how ridiculously right she is to really be upset with her. He’s glad she put her big brain to work the way that she did, because she’s definitely a little too on-the-nose about everything she said to him.

He does like Betty, and he knows there is a conversation looming about how much. He did keep her from his sister on purpose, probably because of that, because they don’t keep secrets. He does observe his life more than he lives it. 

He stands under the spray, running that last thought over in his head. Don’t think, just do it, he tries to tell himself.

Maybe he should go buy some Nike’s for branded moral courage. 

Betty doesn’t want anything more. And of course she doesn’t, she just got out of a long-term relationship a few months ago. 

And maybe, he thinks, allowing a bitter shred of hope. Maybe, down the line…if they stay in contact… 

He curses to himself, and cuts off the shower and the thought at the same time. 

“Don’t think, just do,” he mutters aloud.

.

.

.

He rings the doorbell, bouncing on his feet. The concrete is still wet with the rain that broke the heat an hour before. The clout of humidity no longer sits on his skin, but now he’s got a couple of condoms in his pocket that weigh like a stone and the sweet-smelling flowers that waft distractingly underneath his nose, and he’s somehow far more nervous than he’d been last night. 

But last night, he’d had a buffer. He’d had the mood-killing presence of Archie Andrews and the sharp cat-eye of Veronica Lodge to keep things light.

Betty answers the door looking brilliant in a simple white tank top and a denim blue skirt. Her hair is down for another night, and he hopes he gets to run his fingers through it again. And, fulfilling his wish, she flashes him his favorite smile when her eyes fall on the flowers. “Are those for me?”

“Nope, they’re for me. Just wanted you to see them,” he says, relieved his voice comes out the appropriate measure of dry. “Hold them for me, would you?”

“Happily,” she sighs, half-teasing, beckoning him into the house as she takes the flowers from him. She gives them a little sniff, looking at him from over the blooms from under her eyelashes like some sort of interlude of a fairytale. 

He’s screwed. 

The door shuts and locks gently, and Jughead gets as far as the foyer before he realizes Betty isn’t right behind him. She’s pressed up against the door, biting her lip and looking at him expectantly. “You’re not going to say hi to me?” 

He’s so, so screwed. 

Jughead crosses the room in about two steps, but slows right before he reaches her, because he wants to be sure what she means. She nods, almost imperceptibly, and so his hand sweeps out and cups her jaw, lifting her face up towards his so he can drop a light, greeting kiss on her lips. Or, at least, that’s what he means for it to be. 

Her arms hook around his neck as she rises onto her toes in order to deepen the kiss. The flowers, still in her hands, tickle at his ear, and he opens his mouth to welcome her all the better. 

She breaks for a bit of air and whispers, “Hi.” 

“Hi,” he says back. He has the urge to add, I missed you, but it’s been less than 24 hours since he last saw her and that’s about the exact opposite of keeping things casual, so he bites it down. 

Betty drops onto the balls of her feet and takes his hand, leading him through the house, which, now that he’s away from the flowers, realizes smells amazing. He gives a noticeable sniff of the air, and Betty beams at him over her shoulder. “I made salad, lasagna, and a blackberry pie. You seem like a chocolate cake kind of guy, so I was going to do that, but then I didn’t have time to go to the store and I had these frozen berries, so—” 

“Betty,” he interrupts, grinning down at her. He’s glad he’s not the only one capable of rambling. “It’s okay, pie is great. I just…can’t believe how lucky I am to get a home cooked meal from the famous Betty Cooper kitchen.” 

She flushes, mumbling something that sounds like oh good. “So, how was your day?” She asks, once they’re in the kitchen and has begun the hunt for a vase. 

“Okay. Had a fun conversation about Archie with Veronica.” Betty pivots, raising an eyebrow, so he adds, “She cornered me at Pop’s and wanted to know his dating history.”

Betty doesn’t seem that surprised to hear this. “Of course she did,” she sighs, moving to the sink to fill the found vase with water. “Veronica is going to be a lawyer. She loves to do her research before holding court. So, does Archie have some sort of dark history a best friend should know about?”

“He’s had a drink or two thrown on him,” he admits, which is more than he would’ve said to Veronica. “The first time, he deserved it. The second time was a joke, because it was me, right after the first. He wasn’t too happy about that.”

“What did he do to deserve it?” Betty asks, looking mildly worried, and he realizes he’s undersold the sarcasm.

“Broke up with a girl the week before Valentine’s.” Betty cringes. “I told him that it was just a consumerist holiday made up to sell chocolate, but also that he should wait, because that’s the decent, capitalist thing to do. He agreed, but he’s impulsive, so then he did it anyway.” 

She rolls her eyes, fluffing the flowers into their new home. She smiles approvingly down at them, and then back at Jughead. “So, I shouldn’t be worried about Archie for her sake?” 

“Not likely,” he assures her. “I mean, I won’t lie, he usually gets rosy-eyed at this stage, but he’s definitely more smitten than usual. I think Veronica holds all the cards here.”

Betty makes a face, and he wonders if an edge of double meaning has reappeared. But it’s quickly gone, and before he knows it, she’s shooing him towards the dining table, where a steaming dinner awaits.

“I can’t believe you did all this,” he murmurs, piling lasagna onto a plate for her. “I’m definitely going to have to put out now.”

He means it to be a light joke, and Betty does smile, but it’s something more like a smirk, secretive and pleased. It’s a look he hasn’t quite seen so plainly on her before—hasn’t quite seen on many people, actually. He recognizes it, dimly, as desire.

She holds his gaze so long that he almost visibly shivers before she breaks away, reaching forward to take her plate from him. The moment passes, but he doesn’t forget it.

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Afterwards, he rises to clear the plates, but Betty puts a hand on his arm. He pauses, looking over at her, and his heart gives a hefty slam as he realizes how closely she’s standing. “Leave it,” she says softly, and then wraps one finger around his own, leading him away from the table with only that little link between them. 

“This is okay, right?” She asks, at the bottom of the stairs. He realizes where they’re going. “I just…we’re not taking it slow, right? So why bother with the pretense of a movie?”

It might be the moment that he should tell her this is probably the point of no return for him. He might not even have the scope of it until tomorrow morning. He might need to warn her that he’s got far too many feelings already, and this is only going to make it a lot harder for him to rumble away. 

But when he pauses too long, and she drops his hand and his eyes, and she’s asking him if he’s changed his mind, he realizes that he can’t lose this moment.

Don’t think, do.

He’ll accept whatever comes after this.

So he kisses her with an answer to her question, and she giggles against his mouth, laces their fingers, and leads him upstairs. He can barely wait until they’ve reached the top of it for him to find her lips again, but this time, he hoists her into the air. She squeals in delight as he murmurs for her to tell him where to carry her, and she points over his shoulder to the room with the door left ajar.

He moves them through, into the pink room with the flowery wallpaper that seems so undeniably Betty and yet aggressively not, but right now he doesn’t care much for analyzing anything but the literal woman before him. He deposits her onto the bed, and it squeaks as he settles on top of her, his hands quickly finding something to study along the soft skin of her stomach.

“You’re so beautiful,” he tells her, for the first time, and thinks it could be the last words he’ll ever say. 

Their breaths mingle in a familiarly frenzied kiss, which Jughead breaks in order to move to her neck. They might be skipping a few dates and steps, but he can still slow this down in the moment. He wants this to last.

He manages a solid scrape at languid kissing that could last five minutes or an hour and he’ll never know, but eventually, she starts to squirm beneath him, her hands becoming unruly with wanderlust. She moans as his teeth tug gently at the skin where her neck meets her shoulder, a noise he wants to hear again, and again, and again and it’s the moment that changes the scene.

Betty shifts beneath him, her hands moving to the hem of her shirt, and he sits up in order for her to have the room to pull it over her head. It’s barely off before she’s pushing at his own, and murmuring something teasing about forgoing his usual eight layers of protective clothing, and, god, he can’t take this.

He allows a moment to enjoy the view of her breasts against the triangular scraps of lacy blue fabric before dropping back down in kisses of worship while a spare hand finds it’s way under her skirt. He meets her eyes for permission, and she nods vigorously, so his fingers gently trace the slip of her underwear.

In all the moments before this, there’s been a staccato of a song in his chest every time he looks at her. Not always so loud, not always so tender, but constant, like the low plucking of a single, vibrating string. Call it nerves or call it something he cannot name, he realizes it was always there, because it is not here now.

Right now, he can only focus on the sounds of shallow breathing beneath him, growing more and more impatient and gasping as his fingers move further, deeper, circling her as she once did him in the bed of a river.

The look of elsewhere in her eyes when they lock on him burns into his skin, flushed with the realization he is pushing her there. One of her hands digs nails against his arm, the other overhead and gripping into a pillow as she comes open-mouthed, his name broken on her lips.

He meets her eyes in a question when she doesn’t say anything else. He thinks he’s done right by her, but there’s been so much silence that he’s starting to second-guess it, considering he’s only ever done that a handful of times. Her mouth opens and closes once before finding the word condom and hissing it madly.

He digs one out of his pants pocket and shucks them off in record time while she shimmies out of her skirt and underwear. He crawls back onto the bed to meet her, and the kiss she greets him with is different, as if she’s somehow kissing him with her whole body this time. Without breaking, she takes the condom from him, tears it open, and snakes a hand down to roll it on for him. She gives him a few light strokes as she does and his whole body shudders, but he’s fairly sure he won’t last long if she keeps going, so he gently moves her hand away as they line themselves up.

It feels simple, obvious, and right, like now that they’re here, he realizes this was always where she would lead him. It’s a hand he’s taken into something beyond them both and he wonders if he’ll be able to keep moving forward, or if this is perhaps what Orpheus felt like.

He shifts once to move inside her for the first time, and the world slows down, pulls back, drops in and repeats, like the curl and crest of the ocean wave he never quite understood the appeal of until now.

He moves as slowly as he can, savoring it, dragging along her, and thinking about only how beautiful she looks and whispering such thoughts feverishly against her skin, fumbling in the soft pink light of a warm evening. There’s no sound in the world but the stitch between breaths.

As his hips start stuttering, he knows he’s not got long left, so he dips a thumb between them where they’re joined, hoping it’ll be enough to carry her with him. He comes just before her, and then he feels her tighten around him, murmur a satisfied but completely incomprehensible word, and it’s done.

He collapses above her and they stay that way for a long, infinite moment. The late sky is just barely rosy beyond her window. His chest rises and falls with a shaky breath as her hands gently comb through the damp hair behind his ear.

The rhythm of her finger looping through a curl and then brushing faintly along the skin of his neck is what brings back that plucking in his heart. Only this time, it’s not so faint.

Finally, he pushes up on his elbows and meets her eyes. Neither know what to say.

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[youweresoafraid]

Hannibal kills a lot of people over the course of the series.  Some of those murders are impulsive, or are the result of circumstances outside of his control.  However, Hannibal does plan and commit some murders purely for his own pleasure, using what might be termed his classic modus operandi.  This seems to consist of four main parts:

Mutilations, carried out while the victim is still alive.

The murder itself.

The consumption of meat taken from the victim.

An artistic display of the victim’s body.

But why, exactly, does Hannibal do things this way?

Mutilation

He is an intelligent psychopath. He is a sadist.

The first part of the process is to mutilate the victim, something ideally done while the victim is still alive.  In 1.06 Entrée , Will says, “Brutalization of the body was done posthumously. The Chesapeake Ripper usually does that sort of thing during, not after.”  In fact, the victim should be not only alive but also conscious.  Miriam Lass had already speculated as much in her analysis of the Olmstead murder, in 1.06 Entrée .  And this is exactly what we see in 3.06 Dolce when Hannibal starts to saw open the head of a drugged but conscious Will Graham. 

Hannibal’s treatment of Will in that episode demonstrates another aspect of his treatment of his victims: the fact that he drugs them.  Whatever he administers, it presumably dulls the pain as well as preventing the victim becoming too afraid.  In 2.10 Naka-choko, Hannibal says to Will, “Apart from humane considerations, it’s more flavorful for animals to be stress-free prior to slaughter.”  He would understand that a person only needs to be afraid, not injured, to trigger the rapid breakdown in muscle glycogen that adversely affects the colour and flavour of the meat.  When it comes to those humane considerations, Hannibal seems to treat his victims the same way as he treats the other animals that he eats: in 1.05 Coquilles, he tells Bella, “I employ an ethical butcher.”  This ties in with Will’s repeated assertions that the Ripper views his victims as pests, or as livestock.  As he says in 2.06 Futamono, “The Ripper eats his victims because they’re no better to him than pigs.”  Maybe Hannibal’s humane considerations are also a bit of an ego trip, another way to demonstrate that he is not just an average consumer, but a connoisseur. 

So how, exactly, does Hannibal derive pleasure from carrying out the mutilations?  In drugging his victims, he is (mostly) relieving them of their pain, so he’s not enjoying their physical suffering.  Nor does he simply enjoy the simple act of mutilating the victim’s body, because he could do that after killing them instead of before.  What Hannibal seems to want is to have a conscious victim who is aware of the mutilations that he is carrying out, but is powerless to prevent it – which suggests that Hannibal enjoys having power over his victims (as represented by the fact that he mutilate and kill them), and that he enjoys having them understand the power that he holds over them. 

The single best example of this is perhaps Abel Gideon.  The flashbacks in season 3 show that Hannibal kept him alive for days, perhaps even weeks, and he didn’t do it just to keep the meat fresh.  If that had been his only concern, he could have simply kept Gideon locked in a room somewhere, and come in periodically to “harvest” him.  Instead, Hannibal spent time talking to him, purely so that he could enjoy Gideon’s helplessness and revulsion at what was being done to him.  When Gideon eats his own flesh, Hannibal must view it as the ultimate confirmation of his power over the man.  It certainly puts a smile on his face, and a click in his hoof.

Murder

Killing must feel good to God, too.  He does it all the time, and are we not created in his image?

If Hannibal enjoys knowing that he has the power to injure and mutilate his victims, then having the ability to take their life must give him the ultimate kick.  Almost from the start, it’s clear that he derives a sort of energy, a sort of power, from the act of killing.  In 1.02 Amuse Bouche, he talks of the “sprig of zest” associated with killing.  He’s accusing Will of experiencing it, but he may as well be describing himself.  The same episode also sees Hannibal mention God for the first time: God the killer, who takes pleasure in ending life.  When he says that man is created in God’s image, he certainly seems to believe himself to be cast in that mold.  Killing makes him feel good, makes him feel powerful.  It’s the feeling that Will confesses to in 2.09 Shiizakana, when he admits, “I felt a quiet sense of power.”  In Hannibal’s case, it hasn’t always been limited to killing humans.  In 2.11 Ko-no-mono, he says, “After my first ortolan, I was euphoric. A stimulating reminder of our power over life and death.”  Whether that first ortolan came before or after his first murder isn’t clear, but what he experiences with both is clearly the same sense of power at being able to take life.

Cannibalism

if he waits too long, then the meat spoils.

The third key ingredient of a Hannibal Lecter murder is the consumption of part of the victim’s body.  Any piece of meat will satisfy his needs.  He chooses what to take based on whatever recipe he has in mind, rather than to fulfil a specific urge.  He may take more than one cut of meat, but that’s more a question of quantity (presumably, he takes more when he has guests to feed) than an attempt to avoid being wasteful (as it was with Garret Jacob Hobbs).  Which brings me to a comparison of Hannibal’s reasons for cannibalism compare with those of the other cannibals in the show.  

The obvious comparison is with Garret Jacob Hobbs, whom we meet in the very first episode.  Hobbs is a serial killer who eats his victims, but that’s about the end of his similarities to Hannibal.  Will Graham says of Hobbs, “He wants to consume them. Keep some part of them inside.”  Hobbs wants to absorb the essence of his victims because he feels a kind of love for them.  In 2.05 Mukozuke, Matthew Brown also talks of cannibalism as a way for the eater to retain a part of the eaten.  In this case, Brown wishes to absorb Hannibal’s power, and his status as a top serial killer.  “The Iroquois used to eat their enemies to take their strength. Maybe your murders become my murders. I’ll be the Chesapeake Ripper now.”

In contrast, Hannibal shows no interest in absorbing any of the qualities of his victims.  After all, he considers them to be little more than livestock.  Will points out the difference himself, in comparing the copycat killer with the Minnesota Shrike.  “Our cannibal loves women. … This girl’s killer thought she was a pig.”  Hannibal has no desire to absorb any of the qualities of those pigs, those rude people that he so dislikes.  Perhaps the act of eating his victims is a reminder of the power he held over them, in the same way that eating his first ortolan was a reminder of that power.  Or perhaps his consumption of human flesh is simply an aesthetic exercise.  Maybe Hannibal just enjoys turning his victims into art through his culinary skills.  Perhaps he just likes the taste.

But surely there’s more to it than that.  At least, Will thinks so.  In 2.06 Futamono, he describes Hannibal’s cannibalism as his primary reason for killing.  “What is the first and principal thing he does? What need does he serve by killing?”  This must, inevitably, bring us to Mischa.  But what exactly is the connection to Hannibal’s first ever cannibalism, when he ate his sister, and the murders that he commits in later life?  Maybe that first cannibal meal simply gave him a taste for human flesh, and he continues to eat it simply as a matter of taste.  Or is Hannibal perhaps reliving his sister’s death, and his consumption of her, when he eats his victims?  It seems unlikely.  Hannibal rarely mentions Mischa, and whenever he does it is with deep emotion, a real sense of sadness.  Contrast that to the enjoyment with which he sits down to eat “mystery meat”, and the puns he makes at the dinner table, and it doesn’t seem likely that he is thinking of Mischa every time he eats human flesh.  Perhaps, instead, it’s all tied up in Hannibal’s ideas about reversing time, bringing teacups back together, bringing his sister back from the grave.  I don’t know.  I’ve never understood precisely why Hannibal – in any of his incarnations – and that’s just fine.   I’m happy with Hannibal’s, “Nothing happened to me. I happened.”

Display

Every time the Chesapeake Ripper kills, it’s theater.

Hannibal Lecter doesn’t dump bodies, he creates art installations.  On one level, he genuinely regards what he does with his victims’ corpses as beautiful.  He no doubt takes an artist’s pride in what he creates, and his achievement is probably made sweeter by the knowledge that (in his mind at least) he has turned something rude and ugly into something beautiful.  There’s more to it than that, though.  Hannibal doesn’t just turn his victims into art, he turns them into public art.  He most definitely wants them to be seen by an audience.  The question is why.  

Clearly, Hannibal is a very careful killer, and he’s managed to evade the FBI for a long time.  The art installations that he creates are unlikely to contain any clues that will lead the FBI to his door.  But, all the same, they must increase the risk – and that means that Hannibal believes the rewards outweigh that risk.  One of the rewards is apparently the publicity.  Hannibal Lecter the psychiatrist likes attention and acclaim.  He wears flamboyant clothes, drives a blatantly expensive car and hosts extravagant dinner parties to rapturous applause.  Hannibal Lecter the serial killer likes attention too, but he can’t take credit for his work.  But he can, and does, see the horrified reaction in the press when one of his victims is found.  The press vilify him, and the likes of TattleCrime do so in the most lurid terms, but we know that Hannibal is a reader.  Apparently, no publicity is bad publicity, and Hannibal basks in his notoriety.  As Will says in 1.07 Sorbet, “The Chesapeake Ripper wants to perform.”

Putting his victims on public display may also be a final way for Hannibal to enjoy his power over them.  Even after they are dead, he can humiliate them with a public spectacle.  Will expresses that opinion in 1.07 Sorbet, saying, “His other victims, he wanted to humiliate in death, like a public dissection.”  (In 18th- and 19th-century Britain, at least, some criminals were publicly dissected as a form of punishment.)  Hannibal certainly has an interest in the concept of public shaming and punishment.  In the first episode, Jack Crawford mentions Hannibal’s academic paper called “Evolutionary Origins of Social Exclusion.”

TL;DR

Hannibal is certainly a serial killer who enjoys his work.  Mutilating and killing a victim who is conscious, and aware of what is happening, gives him a sense of exhilarating power.  His consumption of their flesh likely continues to remind him of that power, although it may well be linked to other, murkier, issues surrounding the death of his sister.  In displaying his victims’ bodies, Hannibal is able to derive a final sadistic pleasure in humiliating them, as well as catering to his desire for attention.  Throughout the whole process, Hannibal increases his enjoyment by adding a touch of artistic flair.  The mutilations, the cooking of the victims’ organs, and the final display of their bodies, all appeal to Hannibal’s desire to create and to appreciate beautiful things.

[autistic-nigger-rambling]

More on autism traits and definition

And it's fine if you don't accept autism as being congruent with your system, but that seems to be the closest terminology we got

Who are we? Mainstream cardboard people? You give their terminology more legitimacy than my terminology... why?

Strength in numbers? But their terminology has so been developed by one-two people who coined the term. So it's not really more "confirmed as true" by wider adoption. That's the thing with ants. They just mindlessly copy each other and accept whatever.

More common doesn't mean better.

Autistic trait: able to think for yourself and have own thoughts produced. As opposed to mere regurgitation of dominant ideas.

No matter how simple or complex, correct or erroneous, but authentic process of discovery and thinking. Reinventing the bicycle.

That's the core autistic trait.

The kid who looks at the wheel of toy car and spins it for hours is discovering what it is, he is busy with making sense of it. Instead of accepting that it's a wheel of a toy car, and the wheel is only a detail and is not to be examined close for hours, and the toy car needs to played with the way parent showed. Often the independent thought process is deficient (not all autistics have high IQ or have good information or have the skill of thinking well) but all do it. And of course the results differ dramatically. The outcomes range from being hurt in stupid accidents, becoming victims of crime or committing crime, early death for all reasons and high depression and suicide rates to brilliant innovation, discoveries, nobel prizes and benefiting entire humanity.

Of course the latter requires the independent thinking process to be supported by high IQ as well as preferably sufficient education and beneficial environment. Because those parameters can differ so much and be combined in many ways the observable outcomes and life trajectories of autistic people differ greatly. Of course, the same applies to ant people. Individual variation is the same.

But because ants are naturally inclined to replicate what others think, it naturally pulls them more to the middle of the range. And the outliers on both sides, under- and over achievement, have higher percent of autists.

And still, most of both species are populating the middle. Wide middle. Where the autists still fall towards the bottom because of effects of being a minority. Or have to work much harder to maintain the same middle floating position as a comparable level ant. That explains the struggle of a common aspie autie. And explains the prison population high percentage of auties. And Harvard Cambridge high percentage of auties.

I am thinking while writing. At the moment it seems that the defining trait is the one I mentioned. Home cooked thoughts vs supermarket brand ideas delivered and used. It also explains why autists are less plugged into the whole social signaling and mirroring. This skill doesn't come naturally since it's not their natural way of making sense of the world.

Ants have a shortcut. It is often beneficial to have a shortcut and use ready made thoughts. Saves time. And if your own ones are no good and you can't efficiently absorb outside ones you are majorly disadvantaged.

But if your own ones happen to be good enough or better than average... No problem. Unless it takes too much energy to have the output at that high level. Because of that an occasional system overheating and crash occurs. If trying to maintain level higher than effortlessly possibly.

So the real problem is level of external demand on the autistic person. Demand produced by society. Society that is stacked against them.

Environment is the problem rather than anything in the autistic modus operandi itself. Whether environment can be or should be changed can be debated. But ultimately it is a matter of opinion and perspective. Neither answer can be accepted as the absolute truth.

Same as having dark or fair skin can be beneficial or problematic for the person. Depending on location. Sunburn protection vs vitamin D production. So the term "autistic people" as opposed to "normal" people is akin to calling white people "mzungu" or "strange person" as opposed to a normal person who is black, default option. When that same normal person travels to Russia they become the other the strange.

Horses for courses. Mutation affecting outer layers of skin happened for a reason. Mutations affecting thinking processes happened for a reason. Even if we haven't yet discovered they reason

But the fact that autism rates are increasing points to the usefulness of the mutation. It stuck around for a reason we are yet to know.

[sherristockman]

Exotic Superfood Swap Dr. Mercola By Dr. Mercola It's probably impossible to count all the times you've run across an article or study featuring this or that "superfood" found only on some exotic island or in the wilds of China. Information about many superfoods is everywhere, and while they're interesting and their nutritional profiles may be impressive, aren't there any superfoods near where you live? How odd is it that everything that seems to be the best at aiding weight loss, preventing cancer and boosting brain power comes from halfway around the world? Every state in America has a list of native foods offering impressive vitamins, minerals and other elements essential for health, so wherever you live, there are local foods you may not have thought of to augment your health. Below are five local-for-exotic superfood swaps that not only may surprise you, but will get your culinary juices flowing. Super Swap: Lemon Balm for Cacao Not many would think these two could be interchanged, and maybe the flavors aren't so similar, but the effects they provide seem to be. If you're a chocolate lover, you know one of the reasons people crave it: It's soothing and even somewhat stress relieving. Comparatively, lemon balm — emphasis on "balm" — does what it's said to do, lifting your spirits but without the stimulation from caffeine. Native to the eastern Mediterranean and West Asia, Melissa officinalis, like so many other herbs, has been used for centuries as a therapeutic remedy due to its antiviral, antibacterial, antispasmodic and antidepressant compounds. Its modus operandi, according to Natural Living Ideas,1 includes stress relief, relief of pain from indigestion and improving your appetite. Another use for lemon balm is to promote sleep. You can chop the leaves and steep them in boiling water to make a tea or rub a few leaves on your skin to allow the natural oils to seep into your bloodstream, which helps you relax. In fact, a University of Maryland study found that 81 percent of the participants who used lemon balm with valerian root got a better night's sleep than those on a placebo.2 And a Northumbria University study reported that experiments with lemon balm returned memory-strengthening and improved problem-solving abilities when they took capsules filled with the dried herb. The subjects also performed "significantly" better when taking standardized computer tests on memory in comparison with those given a placebo.3 One of the great things about lemon balm, a perennial herb and member of the mint family, is how easy it is to grow, particularly in the spring. It can be sown from seed, or you can buy a small plant from a farmers market or nursery, and you'll be amazed how quickly it grows and spreads. Acai Berries Can Be Swapped for Blueberries Acai berries (pronounced ah-sah-EE), a sort of cross between a grape and a blueberry, look very much like the latter and, oddly, taste a little like a berry dipped in chocolate. They've been used in traditional medicine to treat infections from parasites, ulcers, hemorrhaging, ulcers and diarrhea. Acai berries come from the Amazon region. Besides the berries themselves, the juice and pulp are commonly added to teas, fruit drinks, fruit bars and other products geared toward health and vitality. Nutritionally, these little berries contain high levels of antioxidants, flavonoids and anthocyanins. But as beneficial as acai berries are, their nutritional profile is very comparable to that of blueberries, grown on both U.S. coasts and all over the heartland. The two types of blueberries are differentiated as highbush and lowbush, the latter being the wild variety and higher in anthocyanins. According to the Blueberry Council: "The first commercial crop of little blue dynamos traveled from farm to table 100 years ago … Native to North America, blueberries have been around for more than 13,000 years — so they have deep roots in our country's history. Today, we're still reaping the health benefits of blueberries, and are discovering they have more to offer than our ancestors could have ever imagined."4 Blueberries have truly remarkable benefits for cardiovascular health, as well as for your brain, insulin response and even cancer prevention. Packed with vitamin C, which boosts your immune system and helps collagen to form, they're also loaded with fiber for greater regularity, impacting your heart health, and manganese, a mineral noted for energy conversion and proper bone development. Chickweed: The New Wheatgrass As green as any grass you've ever seen, wheatgrass has been a main event in health food circles for decades. People will line up to pay big bucks for a small shot of the stuff, which tastes pretty much like you'd imagine, similar to the aroma of new-mown hay; as one company describes it, "unfamiliar, but not unpleasant."5 Several of this commodity's features include fighting aging by revitalizing skin cells, cleansing the blood and fighting tumors. Clinical studies show that it contains 90 minerals, 20 essential amino acids, 13 vitamins and 80 enzymes. But it's the 70 percent ratio of chlorophyll, structurally similar to red blood cells (hemoglobin), that makes it a superfood. World Lifestyle notes that once it's absorbed, it converts to hemoglobin, mimicking red blood cells and carrying oxygen to vital areas of your body, and may even kill off cancer cells because "cancer cells can't survive and thrive in oxygen-rich environments."6 But get this: Chickweed (Stellaria media) is a wild, edible plant (beautiful, too, by the way) growing prolifically in every area of the world other than those that are coldest, like Antarctica. Besides decreasing insect damage to other plants, it's chockfull of many vitamins, minerals and, like wheatgrass, chlorophyll. Chickweed stems and flowers can be usedraw in salads and sandwiches, tossed into soups and stews or added to cooked dishes (but at the end as the stems and leaves are delicate). Frontier foragers learned that when they gathered chickweed, almost exclusively in the spring, it was useful as both food and medicine. As a food, Foraged Foodie7 observes, the raw form is covered with a fine layer of fibers, which are minimized when they're gently chopped and sautéed or wilted. Natural medicine expert Dr. Josh Axe notes: "Chickweed is taken by mouth to treat stomach problems, intestinal complaints such as constipation, disorders of the blood, arthritis, lung diseases including asthma, kidney disorders, inflammatory conditions of the urinary tract, rabies, and scurvy or vitamin C deficiency. It is also used to relieve extreme exhaustion. Chickweed is applied on the skin relieve various skin conditions such as skin wounds, ulcers, burns, arthritis pain and symptoms of eczema."8 Rose Hips Can Take the Place of Goji Berries Goji berries are renowned for having a lot of vitamin C. Originally from Asia, they were used by the ancients to replenish body fluids, improve skin and soothe jangled nerves. The bush-like plant belongs to the nightshade family of plants with tomatoes and peppers and is reputed to be beneficial for insomnia, tuberculosis and to increase testosterone. On the other hand, rose hips, the fruits or seed pods of the wild roses you see growing everywhere throughout the U.S in late summer or fall, contain so much vitamin C, aka ascorbic acid, they're actually known to be the most abundant source in the world, which explains why they're so sought after by many markets. It was only in the last several decades that anyone thought to consider if there might be actual nutrition in rose hips. Once used in animal food, today they're an ingredient in jams, jellies and pie, as well as soups, bread and wine. Bon Appetit adds: "The hips, like the petals, are high in flavonoids, those small but mighty antioxidant friends. Like nettle, rose hips are anti-inflammatory. The pectin in rose hips also make it a heart healthy medicine … "9 Mother Nature Network10 adds vitamins A and E to rose hips' benefits, so they can be made into tea or even eaten to help treat colds and sore throat. Because they also contain free radical-fighting antioxidants, the anti-inflammatory properties can even treat rheumatoid arthritis.11 The odd pods also contain pectin, which is good for your heart. Organic Facts12 reveals more advantages of consuming rose hips in some form, including an ability to optimize cholesterol, boost your immune system, prevent chronic disease such as cancer, regulate your blood sugar and eliminate toxins. Nettles Compared to 'Superfood' Spirulina Although spirulina technically does grow in 'the States,' it's only one: Hawaii, as well as other exotic areas of the world, so it's understandable that many think of it as not exactly around the corner. But first of all, what is it? If you've heard of blue-green algae, you're halfway there. Spirulina's deep blue-green color reveals its active ingredient — chlorophyll — clearly. Health.com13 explains it as one of the oldest life forms on Earth and possibly consumed in Aztec and African diets centuries ago. Today it's touted for its ability to strengthen the immune system, reduce fatigue and combat allergies. Nettles are another plant with chlorophyll that even rivals the amount found in spirulina, but they're often found in ditch banks, forests and riverbanks. It's sometimes called "stinging nettle" because it does just that; if you touch it without wearing gloves, the tiny hairs on every surface sting like a bee due to the presence of formic acid, leaving small red welts. But internally, Bon Appetit asserts, it acts like a tonic: "Taken over time, nettle will strengthen your circulatory, immune, and endocrine systems to promote peak function. The stronger these systems, the better position our bodies are in to deal with whatever might come our way."14 Cooked or dried, though, this pesky stinging problem goes away completely; good thing, too, because this free foraging food is highly nutritious, containing fiber, lecithin, chlorophyll, sodium, iron, phosphorus, sulfur, potassium and vitamins A and C, according to Mother Earth News. It's been used in birth rooms and battlefields to stop bleeding, both internally and externally, and is considered to purify blood, as well. As a tea: "It has been found to help cure mucus congestion, skin irritations, water retention and diarrhea … stimulate the digestive glands of the stomach, intestines, liver, pancreas and gall bladder. Applied externally, nettle tea … relieves rheumatism in both people and animals, makes a first-class gargle for mouth and throat infections, helps to clear up acne and eczema and promotes the healing of burns."15 The top two or three pairs of leaves are the most tender. Again, use gloves then tongs to transfer the saw-toothed leaves from your gathering bag to the sink for rinsing, and to the pan for sautéing, say, with onions and garlic in oil, sea salt and Parmesan cheese. What About Common, Local, Easy-to-Grow Superfoods? Among all the vegetables grown in the U.S. (although elsewhere, as well) broccoli is arguably one of the most nutritious. You don't have to look far for the reason: sulforaphane, an organic sulfur found in broccoli and other cruciferous vegetables. Not only does it support normal cell function and division, it helps your body detoxify and reduces inflammation and damage from reactive oxygen species (ROS). Broccoli sprouts — the nutrient-dense superfood starter from broccoli seeds — are linked to the prevention of many serious diseases, from heart disease to diabetes. They, too, can help detoxify even such environmental pollutants as benzene and protect against cancer. Besides sulforaphane, this is also due to powerful compounds such as the glucosinolate glucoraphanin, which helps improve blood pressure and kidney function, and isothiocyanate, known to normalize DNA methylation. Arugula is another powerhouse veggie, often known as "rocket" due to its spicy flavor. As a green, it's very versatile. As another brassicaceae along with cabbage and broccoli, it has many of the same nutrients and healing compounds, including fiber, vitamins A, C (to boost the immune system) and K (for bone strength), folate, calcium, potassium, iron, magnesium, phosphorus and manganese. One study shows arugula to be a powerful aid against gastrointestinal ulcers, psoriasis and skin, lung and mouth cancers. Many more vitamins and minerals help lower blood pressure and improve blood vessel function. The amazing thing is this fancy-looking green is very easy to grow and, like many others, can be mixed with other greens with supportive nutritive value. Then there's avocado, or Persea Americana, used by the Mayans as an aphrodisiac. Loaded with fiber, one avocado contains 36 percent of the dietary reference intake (DRI) in vitamin K, 30 percent of the folate, and 20 each of pantothenic acid, vitamin B6, vitamin C and potassium. Plus, avocados have more than twice the potassium of a banana. The avocado's nutritional benefits rival any exotic food on the planet, as it has multiple beauty uses as a mask and facial scrub, natural sunscreen and moisturizer. It's also one of the only fruits (this one's a drupe) offering plentiful and beneficial monounsaturated fats and helps optimize cholesterol levels. You can only skim the surface to imagine what all those other compounds do to boost health and fight disease. So, you don't have to eat foods grown 3,000 miles away. You can often find them growing, or at least being sold, within an hour of you. Look around and see what's available.