#that or going to bed earlier yester helped.

[mimiri22-6]

I'm not even halfway through the most recent episode and I am Terrified for Arlin

I think I'm gonna have to save the 2nd half for tomorrow because I am actually getting tired. I worked today and I finally listened to the

[dipulb3]

2021 Ford Ranger Tremor is ready for your overlanding expedition

New Post has been published on https://appradab.com/2021-ford-ranger-tremor-is-ready-for-your-overlanding-expedition/

2021 Ford Ranger Tremor is ready for your overlanding expedition

In recent years, not only have sales of pickup trucks increased, interest in overlanding — the phenomenon of off-grid adventure travel to remote destinations in specially prepared vehicles — has skyrocketed. This off-road pastime’s dramatic rise in popularity predates COVID-19, but today’s pandemic somehow makes the idea of zombie-apocalypse-ready 4×4 ownership suddenly seem like a sensible investment.

Like

Beefier suspension and tires add capability

Torquey engine = good tow/payload ratings

Class-leading ground-clearance

Visual tweaks look sharp

Don’t Like

Dated interior

No front locking differential

Significant fuel economy penalty

MSRP is competitive but costs as much as an F-150

In any case, the Blue Oval’s product planners didn’t necessarily have Armageddon in mind when they came up with the 2021 Ford Ranger Tremor, but that doesn’t mean this pickup wouldn’t make for a good truck upon which to build out an end times overlanding rig. Even if you’re not a prepper, as far as social-distancing machines go, Ford’s go-farther 4×4 is better suited than most.

After a long hiatus, the Ranger reentered the North American market in 2019 and its popularity has been gaining steadily. Last year, despite the coronavirus hamstringing new-car sales, Ranger sales actually increased, with the model claiming the midsize pickup segment’s second-place sales slot behind Toyota’s Tacoma. There’s still a lot of daylight between the Ranger and Tacoma on the sales charts, however, and Ford figures much of the hill it has to climb is with the type of buyers who gravitate toward the Taco’s many TRD off-road models.

2021 Ford Ranger Tremor is ready for your overlanding gear

See all photos

Now, the Tremor isn’t a standalone model, it’s actually a $4,290 package that can be added atop the truck’s mid-grade XLT and range-topping Lariat trims. The Tremor starts by incorporating most of the performance and aesthetic hardware from today’s existing FX4 off-road package and adding Ranger’s Sport Appearance trimmings. Combined, those two option groups normally total about $2,000, so after spending a couple of weeks with this model both on and off-road, the nearly $2,300 cost premium for all of the Tremor’s additional gear feels like a pretty solid value.

Like other Rangers, the Tremor uses the same 2.3-liter EcoBoost turbo I4 mated to a 10-speed automatic transmission. Good for 270 horsepower and 310 pound-feet of torque, this is still one of the torquiest and most modern drivetrains available in a midsize truck. The engine has more than enough oomph to tote this 4,571-pound pickup around and the stop/start tech is well behaved to boot.

The Tremor package is available exclusively on four-wheel-drive SuperCrew models with a five-foot bed.

Nick Miotke/Roadshow

Foxy suspension and a geometry lesson

The Tremor’s main upgrades are centered around the Ranger’s suspension, with the headliner being a set of expensive Fox 2.0 shocks, including more sophisticated remote-reservoir units on the rear axle which pair with Tremor-specific leaf springs. The front end gets new springs, too, along with different control arms and a thinner anti-roll bar for better off-road articulation. The steering system is tweaked, too, with unique knuckles to help accommodate the demands of the Tremor’s larger 32-inch General Grabber off-road tires which wrap a set of Magnetic-painted 17-inch wheels.

All of this new hardware yields a modest 0.8 inches of additional ground clearance for a total of 9.7 — slightly better than a Tacoma TRD Pro. Most of that increase is due to the larger tires, which also lend this truck a slightly more planted, 1-inch-wider stance. So equipped, the Tremor’s approach angle is 30.9 degrees, departure is set at 27.1 degrees and breakover angle is 24.2. Those are improvements of 2.2 degrees, 1.7 degrees and 2.7 degrees, respectively.

Spendy Fox 2.0 monotube dampers feature remote reservoirs for better thermal management on the rear axle.

Ford

On-road manners and visual tweaks

While these modifications are designed for off-road use, most of these trucks will still live on pavement for the vast majority of their days, so it’s good to know that this isn’t such an extreme setup that the Ranger’s on-road demeanor has been ruined. The ride is a skosh softer, and there’s a bit more body roll when attacking corners on dry pavement, but the difference is neither alarming nor offputting. If anything, the ride quality is actually more agreeable than the last Ranger I remember driving. Better still, the truck’s all-terrain rubber doesn’t drone on the freeway the way a lot of big-lug off-road tires can. The Tremor may be an off-road-focused package, but over the course of several weeks, I found it more than livable as a daily driver. 

I even dig the subtle Tremor-specific visual tweaks. There’s a unique grille with red-outlined nostrils and the blacked-out bumpers and wider wheel lips give a bit more stance and presence. Look a little closer, and you’ll probably note the front steel skid plate, the pair of rear tow hooks and the running boards. The latter sit higher and tighter than the optional side steps you can get on other Rangers, but don’t worry, you can still unbolt ’em for better off-road clearance. There’s also a splashy, retro-look graphics package available, if that’s your jam.

The Ford Ranger’s interior is no great shakes, even with some Tremor-specific touches.

Ford

Dated cabin with a few extras

Inside, the Ranger’s cabin is largely the same as ever, which is to say, not very impressive. Yes, there are modest Tremor-specific touches like the script logos and suede-like panels in the seatbacks, plus a useful set of rubber floor liners and black dashboard trim. I also appreciate the six-pack of auxiliary power switches designed to easily accommodate extra lights, an air compressor or myriad other useful accessories. But otherwise, the interior feels pretty dated. Believe it or not, this XLT actually still has a switchblade ignition key (fortunately, Lariat trims get pushbutton start).

Even though Ford invested a bunch of money in Ranger when it returned to the US in 2019, it wasn’t a brand-new truck upon arrival, as the same basic generation had been selling overseas for years. Despite a bunch of upgrades meant to bring the truck in-line with the heightened refinement expectations of US consumers, the Ranger’s interior is the easiest way to date this truck. Its plastics are almost universally hard, its infotainment lives on a small-ish touchscreen that isn’t flush mounted and isn’t running the latest version of Sync. Even the last-generation F-150 feels far, far more advanced and substantial, let alone the freshly redesigned 2021 blockbuster now wheeling out of dealers.

To be fair, the cabins of midsize pickups are all quite disappointing these days, whether you’re talking Ford, Toyota or General Motors. Jeep’s Gladiator is somewhat better in terms of tech, but it’s very expensive. In fact, only the Honda Ridgeline really feels up to snuff all the way around, but because it’s a unibody, many buyers won’t even look at one. This Ranger’s cabin remains in the hunt, but interior niceness is a prime reason for potential buyers to consider stretching to even a lower-end F-150.

Lackluster fuel economy

If you’re thinking fuel efficiency is a good reason to go with this smaller truck, you’re going to want to think again. Partly because of its larger tires and blockier profile, the Ranger Tremor only manages a straight 19 miles per gallon across the board (city, highway and combined) according to EPA estimates. That’s a surprisingly stiff comedown from the standard Ranger 4×4 XLT’s 20 mpg city, 24 mpg highway and 22 mpg combined.

Incidentally, that’s also the same combined-cycle rating as a 5.0-liter V8-powered F-150 4×4, which gets 16 mpg city and 22 highway (let alone more efficient F-150 options like the 2.7-liter EcoBoost, diesel or PowerBoost hybrid). Again, these numbers are competitive within this segment, but not unlike the interior accommodations mentioned earlier, the Tremor’s efficiency comes across as disappointingly yester-tech.

The 2.3-liter EcoBoost isn’t much to look at, but with 270 horses and 310 pound-feet of torque, it doesn’t need to be.

Nick Miotke/Josh Krzywonos/Roadshow

Off-road performance and towing/payload

I spent a wintry day at Holly Oaks, a newly opened quarry-turned-off-road playland in metro Detroit to test the Tremor’s mettle. With a mix of hard-packed frozen ground and mud-and-snow slurry, this ORV park was a suitably tough test for this pickup. Better still, I enjoyed practically free run of the place, as it was closed to the public, enabling me to go back and try the same trails and obstacles in different drive modes while taking different lines to assess the truck’s full capabilities.

Like the FX4, the Tremor features Ford’s Terrain Management System, so you can poke a button and optimize the vehicle’s various drive and brake systems for whatever surface you’re about to roll over (it’s kind of like the dial-a-nap controller on your vacuum). Ford says it recalibrated the Tremor’s traction control for this model’s larger, knobbier tires for better traction on gravel and I found the system worked equally well in the slushy stuff as it did on the hardpack.

One thing that’s nice is you can cycle through TMS’ modes on the fly. I primarily relied on Grass/Gravel/Snow for hills, but when I was just having fun intentionally sliding around at speed on the flat stuff, I chose Sand mode (and occasionally Mud and Ruts) to allow for more wheelspin to indulge my adolescent need for rooster tails.

Like the FX4, the Tremor also features Trail Control, which is Ford’s low-speed, off-road cruise control for both ascending and descending hills at preset speeds from 1 to 20 mph. It’s really, really useful and confidence-inspiring tech, as it allows you to focus on steering the vehicle without having to worry about modulating the pedals. Combined with the Ranger’s other electronic aids and the Tremor’s upgraded hardware, the entire package is so capable that these assists ultimately remove some of the sense of challenge and accomplishment of off-roading. It’s nice to know it’s there, but sometimes, it’s just more fun to go manual and do it yourself.

At moments like this, a forward-facing spotter’s camera would’ve been really convenient.

Nick Miotke/Josh Krzywonos/Roadshow

That said, there are a couple of hardware tricks that I wouldn’t mind seeing on the Tremor’s spec sheet, including a front locking differential. A rear e-locker comes standard, but there’s no front-axle equivalent like a Chevy Colorado ZR2 or a Jeep Gladiator Rubicon, so you’re ultimately going to give up some ability when rock climbing. Fortunately, the vast majority of the time, you’ll never know it’s missing.

On the other hand, there’s one thing you will definitely miss while off-roading: a forward-facing camera. I didn’t have a pal to stand outside in the blustery cold to help guide me over and around obstacles, and when on steep ascents and descents, you can’t see over the hood to know what you’re about to crawl over. While it’s understandable that an older and more-affordable midsizer like the Tremor might not yet be offered with 360-degree camera coverage, a low-mounted front-facing camera would be mighty welcome and would provide a further point of differentiation from lesser Ranger models.

As it is, the Ranger’s tidier dimensions are inherently easier to manage off-road than a full-size truck. There’s less chance of scraping your fancy Cactus Gray paint in narrow forest passages and tight turns are easier to negotiate than they’d be in an F-Series, as well.

Off-road, you really appreciate that this turbo four has so much low-end torque and it’s great that the transmission has so many gears to choose from; you never feel like the EcoBoost is straining to get you through, even if it does sound flaccid compared to competitors’ V6 engines. All that torque helps on-road, too, delivering a best-in-class 7,500-pound tow rating or 1,430 pounds of payload in its 5-foot bed. Those numbers are right at the head of the class, and they’re important metrics when building an overlanding rig laden with lots of heavy gear.

Pricing and final judgment

So, the Ranger Tremor isn’t a high-speed off-roader like a Ford F-150 Raptor (or even the overseas-only Ranger Raptor), nor is it a hardcore rock crawler. This truck feels like it’s been designed to sit right in the middle capability-wise, which could have resulted in a vehicle that feels muddled and indecisive, like one that can’t figure out what it’s designed for. Instead, the Tremor seems like it’s found a capability sweet spot. It’s quite good at a variety of off-road disciplines and that makes it a better baseline platform for customizing if you haven’t decided what kind of off-roading you really want to commit to, be it desert bombing, overlanding or forested mountain ascents.

If you’re someone who off-roads a lot, the 2021 Ranger Tremor is big fun, but it isn’t cheap. Whereas a non-Tremor XLT SuperCrew 4×4 starts at $35,940 (including $1,195 destination), an XLT Tremor will run you $41,900 delivered — without extras. An option-free, top-trim Lariat runs $46,275 in your driveway, but it includes niceties like a B&O audio system, leather seats, navigation, remote start and adaptive cruise control. With options including the Technology Package ($995 for adaptive cruise, navigation, etc.), spray-in bed liner ($495), remote start ($195) and SecuriCode keyless-entry pad ($95), my XLT tester rings up at $43,680 delivered.

Overall, the Tremor is competitively priced within its segment (a Tacoma TRD Pro starts at over $45,000), but this Ford’s base MSRP is also really close to that of the new F-150 XLT 4×4 with a 5.0-liter V8. The F-Series is a much, much more advanced machine with similar efficiency.

Of course, not everyone wants or needs a full-size pickup and the number of buyers splurging on smaller, costlier, factory-backed hardcore off-road specials like this 2021 Ranger Tremor appears to be growing every day. In order to stay competitive, it’s important that Ford play in this space. And you know what? Despite this truck’s shortcomings, I still kinda dig it.

[dorms-fic-archive]

EreAni 30 Day OTP Challenge -  NOT SFW REBOOT [6/30, under the skin]

Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin, because I hadn’t seen anyone else attempt this with the pairing. [Ao3 | FFNet.]

a/n: New opener and historically-appropriate details, ft. Annie's POV just to make things interesting.

06. Fingering

Rating: NC-17

There's an weighted ache below her gut that has been stirring since yester-day afternoon. It wakes her first, come morning, insistent and pulsing, but there's nothing to show for it; still, she gears up accordingly, because a detour to the infirmary is unacceptable, and she's fought through worse fevers once divested of the body of the beast that sleeps beneath her skin.

So she won't be doing any practise with ODM gear, or horseback riding; not that she'll miss it. The mare assigned to her hasn't taken kindly to her like Krista's, and the stench of wet hay and horseshit just makes her surlier than usual. The point is, she'll fight through her pain like anything else. Tells herself as much when she brushes aside Carolina's concerns once before they leave for morning drills, then again during breakfast. She can feel Hoover's eyes on her, a constant, subtle expression of concern that she can appreciate without acknowledgement; even Braun's a little nicer. She doesn't want to ask anyone for help unless it's unavoidable.

In the heart of enemy territory, there is no one she can talk to besides the nurse, whose kindness leaves Annie feeling disgruntled and undeserving. The nurse, of course, will never really understand why, despite a cruel, calculated maturity in her eyes that sets her apart, Annie's not developing quite as fast as some of the other female trainees, stunted not only from malnutrition or the gruelling physical demands of using ODM gear, but her best-kept secret; if she lives to the full extent of her assigned term, she certainly won't be having children: the Marley already saw to that when they gave her the shot.

And yet she bleeds like any other girl. It should be an insult.

In the present, it's just another day out on the training field; the sky is unpleasantly bright, the clouds burn an impression into her eyes even when she closes them. There are some cadets like her, out training with the faux-rifles, but most of them are inside, given the heat, perhaps studying the inner workings of their manoeuvre gear with the nearest instructor, free-climbing on the cliffs offside base, or else finding other ways to avoid the approaching humidity, if they're smart. It's not yet laundry day.

Annie's only out here because she made a promise to get in some hand-to-hand practise with Jaeger — grudgingly. She could use a distraction to ease the monotony of this quotidian lifestyle. Jaeger remains an easy target on which to take out her frustrations, and his guileless nature is something that she has yet to understand, or try and question.

It's definitely not one of their more inspiring spars; she's able to block his offense without much trouble, but a few well-timed kicks are enough to reignite that heavy, throbbing pain and she shoves him back prematurely, wincing. Probably he'll think he must have gone too hard on her — never-mind the ludicrous idea of showing him mercy — but Eren isn't like most cadets, and so he calls: "Oi, you all right?"

"Fine. I didn't expect your counter, that's all." She steadies herself with unnecessary emphasis, squaring her shoulders, and digs her left heel into the dry earth.

Jaeger doesn't move. "Are you feeling all right?"

"None of your business." She raises her fists. "Come on, again."

He hasn't committed himself fully to the act; sensing that, she goes for his shin, ducking under his arm when he tries to block. The kick lands, eliciting a yelp of pain from Jaeger, but the pain and wooziness surge with that momentum, compromising her form.

She hisses, struggling quickly to right herself. There's not enough nutrition in the Academy's ordinary stew-and-bread to sustain any girl through puberty without risking the limitation of the body, much less a fully-operating Warrior. Most of the older female trainees are smart enough to choose bed-rest, or else avoid overexertion.

Jaeger's definitely noticed something is wrong, even if he doesn't know what. "You shouldn't push yourself — it's too hot for that. Want to take a break and get some water before we —?"

"The enemy isn't going to be merciful," she says through gritted teeth, but she can feel herself straining to keep in-place. "Come at me again, or we're finished for to-day."

He stares at her as though he might divine the reason for her change in attitude. So Annie decides to take the coward's way out and turns from him entirely.

It's not the first time she has shirked training. She carries herself stiffly, brow furrowing.

The main grounds and the wilderness beyond this split the difference at the edge of the field. She continues on, into the trees knowing she won't be missed — but Jaeger does not go off to the well like he suggested. Instead, he's tailing her. Now, either she could lead him to an early death, or… something else. She gets the feeling he would probably follow her anywhere, just to watch her operate. And it's not like a simple rendezvous is exactly a foreign concept to other trainees….

Or maybe her own reckless behaviour is simply rubbing off on him. She doesn't see fit to ask.

The forest only gets thicker as she progresses; when she thinks she's a good-enough distance from any onlookers she stops, uneasy, and poses the question without turning around: "Following me into the woods, Jaeger?"

"You're slacking off again," he accuses.

He really is an honest boy. "So?"

"So, I should make sure you aren't gonna — I dunno, sabotage the training equipment or somethin'."

She has to smirk at that. "It's going to look strange if you stay here with me." She turns around, pleased to see colour in his cheeks.

"Don't make it weird." As if self-conscious, he looks around the general area but there's nothing but wilderness. "Anyway, I thought we were sparring," he says. "You cut out earlier than usual, and you were holding back —"

"I don't hold back, Jaeger," Annie snaps.

"And you're a shit liar," he mutters, "I bet you weren't even in pain."

Annie's haughty smirk turns to something like a grimace. "You don't know how to leave well-enough alone, do you?"

Jaeger grunts ambivalently, watching her boots. "So, is this another lesson?"

Annie scoffs. "No. Go back to train with Arlert or something."

"Come on," he says bluntly, "you've been acting funny since we got out on the field. Are you gonna tell me what's wrong, or am I supposed to leave you here and hope you come back alive?" It's a genuine enough display of exasperation — or even worse, concern — that she forgets the pain, just for a few seconds. "You're always on about keeping my guard up — am I supposed to ignore you if you're hurt?"

Annie shuffles backward into the safety of a nearby tree and resists the urge to double over. "We can still — spar."

She'd meant it sarcastically, but Eren groans: "You can't be this stupid."

"Of course not, Jaeger." He stalks over to her with no small amount of trepidation, just gauging her expression or lack thereof. She's not sure what he's waiting for, but the idea of letting anyone this close while she's compromised is horribly inadvisable — and Eren, like the nurse and Mina Carolina, is just another Eldian who can't be expected to understand exactly what she's so afraid of —

"W-wait—" her palm splays against his chest; Jaeger hesitates. She glances at him, dazed. "What are you going to do?"

"I was gonna walk you back to the infirmary," Eren clarifies, suddenly more pragmatic than irritated. "Why?"

Annie shakes her head. "That won't — help me."

His brow furrows. "Oh — is it something embarrassing?" Annie shrugs, studying the divot of his collarbone, flinching when he tips her head up. "You, uh, can tell me, y'know."

It strikes her that Eren might've already caught on. She's nonplussed before she remembers: Ackermann. The thought only deadens whatever iota of hope she might've possessed to be left alone and, hot with shame, she snaps: "It's none of your goddam —"

He exhales sharply. "C'mon, put your arm around me; I can help you walk."

Though flushed, Annie is quick to salvage what's left of her composure: "It's not — I'm only bleeding, Jaeger."

He seems to relax, somewhat. "Oh. Then — c'mon, I can get you something for this."

"What?"

He flusters somewhat; she's definitely not as familiar — or perhaps familial — as whatever bond he shares with Ackermann. "If you're just, y'know — I can take you to the infirmary, and they'll be able to help you." Annie continues to stare at him uncomprehendingly; unwilling to relent, Eren takes her by the shoulder. "Oi. D'you have anything for this?"

"Back at the barracks — it's all right, though." She's scowling, her voice lowered to something much more furtive. "I should've told you before."

"Well, you've gotta let the instructor know. You can't be running around and bleedin'." He's caught off guard when Annie grabs his wrist. "What are you doing?"

The silence between them subsists — for five, seven, ten seconds — before she answers: "There's another way you could help me."

"Hunh?"

Adrenaline resurges. Her lips are dry when she licks them, anxious. "You could touch me."

Now Eren is the one staring incredulously at her. "Uh. How is that s'posed to stop the bleeding?"

"It won't, you idiot," she snaps, flushing terrifically, "it'll just help with the pain."

"O-oh." There's an awkward pause. "So, does… does it hurt much?"

Annie scoffs. "I've had worse."

Jaeger exhales, slow and shaky. "Well, if I…" — he strokes the inside of her leg, seemingly unable to verbalise the gesture — "you're sure it'll, uh, help?"

"You're going to get blood all over you," she mutters, as if this will dismay him.

"Yeah, I — maybe you should take those off first?" He motions to her chinos. Annie gazes at him a long, long moment, eyes brimming with relief, lingering doubt; all Eren does is offer her a nervous half-smile. "Well, I'm not a girl. So I dunno how it feels for you."

She would tell him to shut up but she's shivering under his scrutiny. She unbuckles her boots on her own, and lets him drag it all to her feet before kicking off her chinos like they've offended her personally. His hand moves over her naked thigh and she looks away.

"Oi," says Eren. "Are you really sure about…?"

"Are you?" she mutters, almost wary of him by this point.

His hands are warm on her naked flesh. A fresh swell of pain causes her to bite her lip — unexpectedly, he leans in to kiss her brow, and her hands fly up instinctively to ball in his shirt. "What should I…?"

She takes in an uneven breath. "I want you to touch me." Gingerly, she spreads her legs; there really isn't much to see besides the blood, she thinks, but Jaeger looks on in awe, or perhaps concern. The air tastes damp, and his hands are gentle — it's heady enough to frighten her.

She goes quiet again, averting her eyes. It's when he starts stroking her again that she self-corrects: "Nngh — I dunno, just…."

"D'you want me to stop?"

"No!" she snaps, exasperation tangible in her voice, melting when he parts her. "N-no, don't stop."

"O.K." He's rubbing slow little circles. Her hands ball up at her sides. "Are you sure you're all right?" He sounds afraid, but not of her.

"Yes," she stresses, all in a breathy hiss, head snapping up. "Don't worry about me, I-I'm…" Eren kisses her temple. His touch is rough and unpractised, but somehow timorous, and he keeps rubbing. He's not even hard. With one hand, Annie scrabbles feverishly at his chest for want of something better to do, while the other hand reaches down to stop him. "Th-that's enough," she mumbles, "I'm ready."

"Hunh?"

Annie widens her stance, breathing out slow. "Come here." Stifles a groan when he pushes into her without resistance.

"Does it hurt?" he mutters, wide-eyed.

"Not because of you."

"O.K." Gives her two fingers and she's shuddering, at his mercy; the idiot hasn't even rolled up his sleeves.

"Jaeger," she gasps, unable to stand it anymore and reaching out for his arm, "stop, you'll get blood on your clothes."

"Hunh?" He seems to realise what she's getting at. "I can always wash this later."

She snarls at the thought of having to explain herself to anyone else but him, and shoves him back, trailing blood. "Don't be stupid," she spits with unneeded vitriol.

It's clearly upsetting her more than him, but he shrugs out of his jacket, left only in his threadbare shirt. His right hand is still splotched up to the wrist. Annie sucks in a shaky breath when he approaches, and his fingers knead up her thighs, leaving ruddy blotches — she feels more like a cadaver about to be gutted.

She's relieved when he doesn't put his fingers in immediately. Just knocks her clit around with his thumb, which isn't terrible or anything, but won't replace the ache that turns to throbbing in her belly. "Jaeger," she almost whimpers, pathetic with need. "Put your fingers in again."

He glances down at her so earnestly she wants to mock him, moans instead when he obliges.

"Can you…?" she holds up her own hand, fingers crooked. Eren blinks, frowning slightly. "Inside me," she elaborates, going pink again.

"O-oh." His palm flattens against her and his fingers curl, drawing a gasp out of her. Eren stops. "What is it…?"

"It's… fine." A subtle strain creeps into her voice even as she's raising herself to the touch. "You can go harder than that."

He leans in, kisses her nose. She makes a surprised noise that half-catches in her throat, throbs in accordance with his touch, and he drags his fingers up inside until he's cradling her in heel of his palm. He keeps his eyes on her face; rather, the fringe of her hairline, the tip of her nose, because she's looking away, panting softly.

"Is it good?" he mutters.

"Shut up, Jaeger," Annie groans through her teeth, unable to conceal her blush. Her hair is still tied up, a little dishevelled, and she's shoved a hand up her own shirt, flushed all the way down to her throat and clavicle. She grips his jacket, afraid he'll slip away. Unexpectedly, he's drawing his fingers out to circle her again; Annie whines.

"Tell me when you're close." Her face contorts. Her fist smacks the tree at her side and he envelops that hand in his as if it will somehow negate the sting. "Relax," he says, not-so gently this time. Annie's hand twists viciously in his.

"Eren," she grits, pushing back against the heel of his palm, "I-I need — your hand, just — harder." Pressing her steadily against the tree, he starts pumping his wrist and she can hear the slick noises he's making. Annie gnaws at his shoulder through the linen and her muscles contract, which seems to alarm him, slowing down out of consideration before she clamps her legs shut, turning her face up to snap: "I said harder, goddam it."

It's almost funny the way he blenches: "Shit, you're gonna break my fingers."

Annie gives up the ghost, nips at his chin, murmuring: "I'm close, you idiot," before ducking into his shoulder again. She wraps her arms around his frame in an awkward embrace; he's not a particularly tall boy, but he's still broader than she is. Jaeger presses a kiss to the crown of her head. He starts to slow down and she barks: "Harder!" and he grunts, shoving her into the tree and her breath won't come back in time and she bites down hard on his jacket to stifle a low cry; overstimulation brings a painful undercurrent.

And Jaeger's tilting her head up, and when their eyes meet she jolts, unable to accept in full that she's been cornered, disarmed. There's alarm in his expression, yes, but something else, too, different than the ordinary enthusiasm that he shows every time they train together.

"Annie?" She tries to make a sound but all that leaves her is a ragged whine. She feels his knuckles brush impulsively over her brow to smooth back her bangs, and her eyes flutter open again. He hesitates, then kisses her cheek, chaste. "Oi, did you…?"

Annie makes a strained noise, like she's wounded. As he pulls away she grabs a fistful of his shirt before he can escape completely, resting her forehead on his shoulder, gradually becoming tense again.

"Are you all right?" he mutters.

Her shoulders lift. "It's not going to make the pain stop. Just a little easier to deal with."

"Oh," says Eren. She stares at his hand as he revokes it, the colour stark on her thighs; discontented, he makes an unsuccessful effort to wipe his hand on the tree, then leans down to hand her back her trousers. "Thanks," she says gruffly.

"Yeah," says Eren, and does not watch her redress, tongue-between-teeth. To combat the horribly awkward silence brewing between them, he adds, unprompted: "My dad, he was a doctor, so I reckoned…." His ears turn pink. "I've never heard of anyone doing that before."

Annie can feel herself flushing. "I shouldn'tve let you do that."

"You asked me. I could have said no."

"That's not — just forget it," she grumbles.

When he gathers his courage, looks her way, he's boyish again. "So," she says, uneasy on her feet. He offers his good hand. She takes it, like she's about to shake but he holds it firm.

"So," he echoes. "Infirmary?"

Annie shrugs half-heartedly, but offers no snide rejoinder.

a/n: I've covered menstruation in a past fanfic, Hindrance, and now we're apparently diving into the relatively unhygienic concept of menstrual masturbation.

There's a lot I missed in my endeavor to write about this previously. Because my nerdery knows no bounds, I grant you this concept: Self-adhesive pads weren't a thing until the 1970s, so if a woman was going to use a pads they had to wear belts, suspenders, "sanitary panties," (underpants with hooks/tabs/something else to hold the pad in place)—or else figure out some way to keep the pad stationary. In regards to menstruation, pads were either homemade or the women walked around bleeding through their clothes—hence, in some areas, like factories where there were a lot of women workers, they'd have straw laid on the floor to absorb the mess.

I'm pretty sure I'm overthinking this, yes. But hey, these trainees are all walking around in WHITE PANTS, and they already have harnesses for the ODM gear. So perhaps it's not implausible, given the co-ed nature of the training corps, that such matters would be taken into account—but I digress. If by some chance you want to read more about old menstrual tech, here's a link.

[tipsycad147]

5 Ways to Reset Your Life with Tarot

This article was written by Melissa Cynova

"I've only known for ten years that 'No.' is a complete sentence."—Jane Fonda

If you consider the Self as a skeleton, and all of the wants, needs, and that which you hold dear to be the skin on your bones and the muscles and sinew that helps us move, you start to have a picture of what it is to be a human. You begin with this plain and simple person. You are happy. You are a combination of your genetics, your soul, and your environment. It's pretty idyllic for a bit, as you start turning into yourself. You read books, you listen to music, you turn like sunflowers to those things that light you up. In short, you build yourself.

The problem comes when other people start flinging things at your developing self and screw it all up.

These words usually (not earlier, if we're lucky?) start hitting us at about the time we find our anger and more complex emotions. They label us as wrong, and the image of "right" is handed to us. These labels stick in us like thorns. They cover up the skin that we're building and make us wish to be not-us. We wish to be different, even when we're still unfinished. We change course to please others, and that which pleases us gets left in the background.

The thorns have lots of different names. Ugly. Stupid. Fat. Weird. Bossy. Difficult. Different.

All of these names mean the same thing: You are not enough. You are not smart enough. Pretty enough. White enough. Feminine enough. Right enough. You need to change the everything about yourself so that you match up to these arbitrary standards that move around when you're not looking.

It took me approximately thirty-six years to pull most of the thorns that I'd accumulated over the years out of my skin. At 44, I've only just stopped bleeding.

I wrote a book about pulling out the thorns. Tarot Elements: Five Readings to Reset Your Life breaks down our complex selves and histories into five distinct sections and readings. The Earth reading talks about our Home. The Air reading, our Mind. Fire is our Body, Water our Heart, and Spirit our Soul. I thought it would be easier to reset your entire life if you take one part at a time, you know?

There are five tarot readings in the book that help you take yourself apart, remove the things that make you bleed, and move forward from right here and now.

It's not easy to look at your life so closely. To forgive the you from the past or to change habits. It's not easy to decide that this life right here is not the one you want. In order to find the correct path, you have to turn around and go back a bit. To forgive and bless Yester-You so that you can truly see that you tried. That you really truly tried your best, and that the opinions of others Are. Not. True. Sometimes you need to take a few steps back to get a good view of what's really going on in your life. Is it good, or is it comfortable? Are you happy, or just less annoyed than usual?

For example, there is a difference between a house and a home. A house is a place where you live. A home is a place that lives with you for the rest of your life. If someone asks you where home is, do you think about your parents' house? Your grandparents'? The apartment you had after college? If your answer is anywhere but the home in which you now live, the Earth reading is for you. This reading helps you look at your life objectively and see what might have become furniture for you. Have you gone through your storage area lately? How about under the bed? Do you really need all of those sheets? What if you donated them to an animal rescue place? You'd have more room and make some animals happy. These are the benefits to squinting at your life and getting a bigger picture of it.

The Air Reading asks you how bored you are, really. Do you like your job? Do you feel like you belong? Like you're challenged? Do you feel excited about doing the work and being a part of that environment? In my experience, being bored causes people to get into trouble, and being dismissed causes people to spiral into anger and depression. I never suspected that my job was the problem until I was in my forties. I would always blame myself for the problem and try to make it work. When I couldn't and I left (or was asked to leave) I'd go to a job that suited me a little better and damn—what a difference.

The Fire reading asks you to look at your body in the same specific and calculating way that you will look at your heart and soul. What is sticking to you that doesn't belong to you? Which habits and behaviour patterns are getting in your way? Can you meet yourself exactly where you are and move home from here? This is not a beauty magazine reading to tell you how to get thinner thighs in thirty days. Your thighs are just fine the way they are. This is about becoming okay with where you are today, forgiving and thanking yourself in the past, and making a plan for the future. There is no shame or blame here. There is only walking away confident.

Can you pull those thorns out? It's hard. After a while, they become like layer of armour that protects us from the world and all of the bad things in it that might be pointed at us. Carrying these insecurities and anxieties with us keeps us from trying too hard, or for trusting too easily. They work really, really well—until you notice something.

The thing about armour is that yes, it keeps everything away from you. But it also keeps everything away from you. If your thorny armour is keeping you from living your most authentic life, it's not worth it anymore and it's time. Time to bleed a little and heal a lot.

Then it's time to move on, unburdened.

Melissa Cynova When Melissa Cynova was fourteen, a kid in her class gave her a deck of tarot cards for unknown reasons. She's been reading ever since. In addition to being a prolific tarot reader, she teaches classes at her kitchen table and at tarot conferences.

Goddess Bless! GrannyMoon

★☽✪☾★ http://GoddessSchool.com https://twitter.com/GrannyMooninVA https://grannymoon.wordpress.com/

[winterheart17]

[one shot] The Last Goodbye

TITLE: The Last Goodbye

CHAPTER NUMBER/ONE SHOT: One Shot

AUTHOR: winterheart17

WHICH TOM/CHARACTER: Tom

GENRE: Romance, Angst

FIC SUMMARY: How do you tell someone you love you’re never seeing them again?

Rating: T

Author’s Note: So, this was inspired by Grey’s Anatomy (I won’t pinpoint which scene so as not to give away spoilers) but the premise of it was indeed drawn by something that transgressed there. I’ve had this sad angsty one shot playing around in my head for awhile now and as you all know, I’m trying to get back to writing consistently. I would say two one-shots within 2 weeks is a pretty good start! If you have any comments or feedback, I would so love to hear from you. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy it!

“I love you,” he whispered.

I felt his lips press ever so gently against my right shoulder and there was that dull ache throbbing in my chest again.

“I hate you,” I breathed, the words slipping out almost effortlessly – a habit ingrained in me even in the earlier days of our relationship.

But today, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was finally some ounce of truth in them.

You’re not supposed to see me this way…

“Aren’t you going to turn around to look at me, darling?” he murmured and I closed my eyes, willing for him to leave.

No, stay.

And that lump at the back of my throat refused to go away no matter how many times I swallowed.

“What are you doing here, Tom?” I asked, the words passing through gritted teeth.

He was silent for a second, almost as if wondering which words to choose carefully in this situation.

“You wanted to see me, didn’t you?” he finally said, quietly.

Yes.

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes – I wanted to scream. I wanted to scream that the blood in my veins were singing for him and that this was cruel of him.

“That is why I’m here, is it not?” he pressed on.

This time, I couldn’t hold it back any longer. I whipped around to face him, snapping, “I thought we had said our goodbyes yester—“

But the words dried up in my throat and the tears I had been fighting so hard to hold back pricked at the corners of my eyes. And there was that dreaded acridity at the back of my throat and nose again.

Don’t. Don’t do this.

He smiled almost sheepishly, glancing down at the white shirt he had on – the first two buttons unbuttoned with his sleeves rolled up. Exactly the way I had always loved it on him.

My heart stopped.

“I had to,” he said, softly, raising his hands on either side nonchalantly.

My hands consciously reached up to touch my head that was now clean shaven and bald – his eyes following the movement and I saw sadness cross his face.

“You’re still beautiful,” he breathed and I had never wanted anything more in this very moment than to leap in his arms and tell him that I was never letting him go.

“No, you’re beautiful,” the words tumbled out of my mouth in a hushed tone.

He smiled. The corners of his lips turning up ever so slightly and I wondered how it would feel to never see it again.

Agony knifed through me and my knees almost buckled at the unbearable thought.

He looked around the hospital room – cold and clinical and I hated it. I hated that this would be our last memory together.

That our love would die within the four walls of this very room.

I wanted to scream until my voice was hoarse and nothing could ever come out from me. Till I was sore and exhausted – and would think of nothing else. Till the pain enveloped me whole and I would finally be able to find peace.

“We have about another 10 minutes?” he wondered aloud, and I grappled with panic.  

No, no, no.

There was so much more to say, there was so much more to do.

I reached out to grab his hand urgently, as if wanting a sign that this was real. That he was real.

“I’m here,” he said, gently.

For how long more?

The words were on the tip of my tongue but instead…

“You know that I love you, right?” I asked, the words sounding like a cry. Like an aching cry for help.

He smiled, before nodding ever so slightly.

“Of course I do, darling,” he replied, but it wasn’t enough.

I gripped at his hand tighter, shaking it so that he knew I was serious.

“Eve—even when I… when I would say ‘I hate you’, I—I—it was a jo—“ I stuttered, stumbling over my words as the sobs began to take over.

I could barely breathe, everything felt crowded in this hollow space of my chest and I wanted to throw up.

“Shh… shh… I know, I know,” he whispered, pulling me in closer as he held onto my shuddering body, trying to quieten me.

“I know it was your way of saying ‘I love you too’,” he murmured, his lips pressed against my forehead and the tears came hot and heavy.

“I—I didn’t tell you I loved you enough. I—I should have said it in our last phone ca—“ I heaved, my hands clutching at his shirt – tears soaking through it.

“But you showed me,” he bit out, and I could hear the strain in his voice.

“Everyday you would show me,” he said in an empty laugh.

I shook my head against his chest, the pleas dying on my lips.

Please stay with me. Please stay with me.

“I don’t wan—want to d—do this. I’ll sto—stop them,” I sobbed, my hands balling into fists.

But before I could get another word out, he had pulled away from me. His blue eyes staring into mine intently as he shook me by the shoulders.

“You have to do,” he snapped, even as I opened my mouth to protest.

“You have to do this for those are still alive,” he hissed and my heart broke all over again.

No. no. no.

I shook my head, refusing to come to terms with it.

I was in denial – I didn’t care.

“You have to d—“ he started again but I didn’t want to hear anymore.

“I’ll lose you all over again,” I cried out, the words torn from me and I couldn’t breathe.

There was only crying. Sobbing. Heaving.

Everything else I wanted to say dried up. There was only love.

Love. Love. Love.

And the pain that came from it.

Don’t you understand? I can’t lose you again.

“Haven’t you already?” the words came soft.

Soft yet heavy all at once.

I sucked in a deep breath, looking up at him through wet lashes and tear streaked cheeks.

And there he was, looking at me. Looking at me as if I was the only thing that mattered in this world and he was trying to find a way to make things right.

To make me right before…

“You need to have this tumour removed, sweetheart,” he whispered, a shadow between his brows.

“Bu—but it’s benign… it’s…” I started to argue and he turned his face away, his arms going slack.

“It’s causing you mood swings, it’s causing you hallucinations and that is no way to live,” he seethed – an argument we had rehashed one time too many.

His eyes were electric blue and his jaw was taut as he looked at me like I was a child that needed placating. That needed to be reasoned with.

“Living without you is no way to live,” I begged.

I couldn’t bear it.

I wouldn’t survive.

I wouldn’t survive sleepless nights all over again only to eventually fall asleep and wake up to the realisation that he was gone. That he had been gone for a year now. But I was still here.

I was still waiting for him to…

“But you will live,” he pressed on, his eyes searching mine and I knew the fight was lost.

He was lost to me.

I turned around, fumbling to reach the edge of my bed to sit.

My legs could no longer hold me up.

I was tired. So very tired.

I hunched over and held my head in my hands.

“Hey,” he murmured .

He crouched down, hands placed gently on my knees.

“Your white shirt is still hanging in the closet,” I whispered, my voice cracking.

“I know…” he said.

It’s still waiting for you to come home. To come home to me.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed, beckoning me to look at him.

And I did. Oh, how I did. And I wanted to be given another 60 years to do just that.

Will I remember you in 60 years? The exact colour of your eyes?

“You’ll find someone else, maybe marry, settle down…” he said, tenderly, as if reading my mind.

No.

I wanted to protest violently.

But before I could, he brushed another tear away with the back of his finger and I was transfixed.

I wanted this moment to last forever.

Because we both knew that it would be childish to say ‘I would never’. And we were beyond that.

“It won��t be the same…” I replied, weakly.

Nothing will ever be the same again.

He tipped his chin down and smiled, his eyes crinkling up warmly as I wondered which part of him I would miss the most.

“There are all kinds love in this world, but never the same love twice,” he said, softly.

“F. Scott Fitzgerald,” I exhaled, almost as if afraid he would slip away.

His eyes twinkled when he looked up at me next, but I could see the pain there.

I could feel it in my bones.

I swallowed.

“Promise me no matter how hard things get, you’ll never stop reading your romance novels,” he pleaded.

Burning tears welled up once more.  

He was afraid.

He was afraid I would no longer be the daydreamer he had fallen in love with.

He was afraid I wouldn’t know how to live.

“I---“ I started to say, but before I could finish it, a knock came at the door and we both looked up.

No.

A sense of dread washed over me, rooting me to the spot as two nurses entered and my doctor entered briskly.

“It’s time,” one of them said and the panic I had worked so hard to quash began rising again.

I looked at him, eyes wide and mouth open and he tightened his hold on my hand even as they asked me to lay down so that they could wheel my bed into the Operating Theatre.

My mind went blank, the only thing I could do was look at him.

Really, really look at him.

This is the last time.

“I’ll be here all the way,” he whispered, and my throat was hoarse.

Nothing came out.

Except tears.

“I’m here,” he said, over and over again.

Even as we passed the glaringly fluorescent ceiling lights in the corridor, I made out his face. I wanted to burn the image of him into my mind so deeply that 10 years from now, I would remember every line on his face, every freckle on his face.

I wanted to ask if he had been in pain the night he had died.

I wanted to ask if he had known that I would have told him I loved him if I knew that would have been our last phone call before that drunk driver ran a red light.

I wanted to ask if he felt the palpable pain of everything we would never be able to do – all the conversations we would never have, the laughter we would never have, and the tears we would never share.

I wanted to ask if he knew that some days I had prayed wishing that he had only left me for another woman. That he was still around. That he was still alive.

Because anything was better than this.

Than this sad, sorry existence I called life.

“We’re here,” he murmured, jolting me out of my dazed state.

I closed my eyes, trying to shake the bright glare of the overhead lights while they hustled and jostled in the background.

“It will be a whole new world when you wake up next,” he whispered, leaning in closer to press a tender kiss on my forehead.

Without you.

I felt hollow.

Without you.

The words rang loud and clear in my head over and over again until I wanted to spit the taste from my mouth.

A mask was fitted over my nose and mouth and I knew it was coming.

All that I had been dreading was finally here.

“I need you to count backwards from 10…” the doctor said, her voice hazy and distant as a slightly sweet smelling gas began to fill up the mask.

I blinked, inhaling it.

10…

“I would have loved you for another 60 years if I could have,” he choked out, and I could barely breathe through the pain.

9…

His eyes were blue. Bluer than I had ever remembered them to be. Except he was crying. Tears rolling down his cheeks as he leaned in closer and closer.

8…

He took in a deep breath.

“Darling, it’s time to stop paying for my number just… just s--so you can listen to my voicemail,” he said, his voice cracked and broken.

I wanted to shake my head but I couldn’t. I felt light-headed.

7…

My lids felt heavy.

6…

“Keep the white shirt,” he whispered and my heart shrank. I knew what was coming next but I couldn’t fight.

I was tired of fighting.

I wanted to sleep.

I wanted to get away from it all.

5…

“Give everything else away…” he said, tenderly, tears finding the way to his lips.

4…

“I’m not coming home,” he breathed, his body shuddering – building a sob in my chest.

But it wouldn’t come out.

It couldn’t.

3…

“I’m not coming home but I love you. God, how I love you,” he cried out, gut-wrenchingly.

I wanted to hold him. To tell him that it was going to be okay.

That he could leave now.

That no matter how badly I wanted him to stay, I understood.

I understood that he wasn’t coming home to me anymore.

2…

He leaned in closer, his lips pressed against the shell of my ear and I knew that I was losing him all over again.

And that this time, he wasn’t going to come back.

This was it.

“I love you,” he whispered, urgently, as if I would ever forget.  

I felt his lips against mine.

Softly.

Gently.

Tenderly.

I hate you.

1…

“I love you too.”

[stillthewordgirl]

LOT/CC fic: To Make It Possible, Ch. 1 (of 12)

When Sara Lance wakes up in a timeline she doesn't remember, with a man she can't let herself care for, she's desperate to return to the world she knows. But the longer she's here, the more she wonders... And wants.

Thanks to @larielromeniel for the beta! Can also be read here at AO3. (Will put it up on FF.net late.)

“All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake up in the day to find it was vanity, but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible.”

--T.E. Lawrence

At first, she assumes it’s a dream.

The arms around her are warm and solid, but it has to be a dream. Right? Sara Lance moves her head just a little, cheek rubbing against the upper arm that’s tucked underneath her, and comes to the muzzy conclusion that her dream lover…sleeping companion…whatever…is a man, based on the roughness of the hairs there.  

Of course, why would she be able to feel that so clearly, in a dream? The thought actually elicits a sleepy smile, even as her head continues to whirl. She’s felt other things, far more strongly, in dreams, but why this would rank among them…

Her head is spinning so badly she can’t focus. She takes another deep breath, feels the man whose arms are around her sigh against her hair, senses…

No. This is definitely a dream. Definitely. Because she knows that elusive scent of pine and peppermint, knows it even though she can only smell it in memory, memory and dream, now, as it’s long since faded from the parka that she wouldn’t even admit to stealing from storage…

His arms tighten around her, and this doesn’t feel like a dream. It doesn’t feel like a dream at all.

She freezes despite herself, sucks in a breath, screws her eyes shut, wills herself to wake up.

Instead, she just hears a lazy voice next to her ear say, “Sara? Is something wrong?”

No. Yes.

No.

She’s flung herself out of the bed before she can even articulate the thought, landing on a plush blue-gray carpet and rolling, barely registering her current lack of nightclothes even as she lifts the hand with the knife she’d known, known, was tucked into a corner of the headboard….

…and throws.

She never misses, but she does this time, and for a long moment, both she and the man in the bed just stare at the razor-sharp blade that's thunked into the headboard, so close, so very close, to the hand he's stretched out toward her.

"Sara," Leonard Snart repeats carefully, "what the fuck?"

Everything around her is not what it should be, from the room that's very definitely not her cabin on the Waverider to her current state of undress. But he's the thing she can't take her eyes off, not for a variety of reasons, from the fact that he's the second most deadly thing in the room to the fact that he's shirtless, at least shirtless, though she can't see past the sheet tucked around his hips, and...

She scuttles backward, still not taking her eyes off him, grabbing a blanket off a chair and wrapping it around herself in a move that perhaps has no true defensive value, but makes her feel a bit less... exposed. He watches her, tracking her movements but not so much as twitching, and it's the sheer lack of self-consciousness in him that convinces her that this is no Leonard Snart she'd ever known in life, not the teammate and friend and almost and not the rat bastard...

"When am I?" she lashes out verbally. "Is this the Dominators again? Because it's not going to work, I'll..."

At that, he does sit up, holding up both hands to show her he's unarmed. She can't help staring, even in her current state of semi-panic, at the lean muscle on arms and chest and the scattering of scars she'd always suspected were there.

"Sara," he says yet again, tone even. "I think you're dreaming. The Dominators are gone. We kicked their asses about four months ago." A pause. "It's April 2017. Same as it was yesterday."

Yesterday.

I think we broke time.

"I went to sleep on the Waverider yesterday," she tells him numbly, despite herself. "Passed out, really. We'd crashed... we'd damaged something... the timeline..."

"No." He moves, freezes as she drops into an attack stance. "The Waverider's fine, Sara. Mick had to take it to the Vanishing Point; he dropped us off yester..."

"No, he dropped you off, not even yesterday." The words bubble up, full of all the emotion she didn't let herself show while it was all going on. "In 2014, where and when they got you. I didn't even... " Why is she bothering to do this? She takes another step backward, then grabs for the shirt and pants she'd glimpsed there during her earlier motion.

"Sara." The feeling in his voice sends a chill through her even as she tries to harden herself to it, because this isn't real, it can't be. "I'm sorry; I don't know what the hell is going on, OK? We'll contact Mick, get the Waverider back here, ask Gideon..."

She's tugging on undergarments and pants under the blanket, trying to feel like she's not wearing another woman's clothing, trying not to listen and fall into another woman's life, to fall for this... "Where am I?" she interrupts him, glancing his way, but avoiding the expression in those blue eyes. "This isn't the ship."

"We're in Central City." A pause, one so tense that she nearly makes the mistake of meeting his eyes. "I can't... we... needed a home base and you said it made sense..." His voice trails off as she takes a step backward, pulling the shirt on also under the blanket, shaking her head in denial of his words.  

"Look," she tells him, thus armored and letting the blanket fall to the floor. "I don't know what's going on here, but I didn't say that. I wasn't here. And I don't know what happened to time, or... or who you really are, but I'm not going to play pretend. I'm going to find out, and I'm going to fix this."

And, with a deep sigh, she finally lets herself look right at him again.

So she can see it then, the very instant he starts to fold back in on himself.

Over the course of their first handful of months on the Waverider, she'd watched his body language more than she cares to admit, noticed how guarded he tended to be around nearly everyone. She'd noticed when that careful posture started to relax around her, and she'd matched it with her own relaxation, always wondering, even as he'd said the words himself, what the future might hold...

Then he'd died.

Then he'd come back, in a way, and broken her heart in a way she'd admitted to absolutely no one.

Watching now, she sees this Leonard Snart, a man who'd seemed relaxed and almost... happy... revert to the closed-in, secretive body language of the crook who'd first walked onto the Waverider--and the arrogant asshole who'd stunned them all when he'd showed up with the Legion.

She's caused that. Here. Now. No matter what's going on, how fake a world this is, she's caused that pain, that retreat.

And despite everything... the realization hurts.

But she doesn't say anything, doesn't let it show.

This isn't real. None of it is real...

"Right," he says then, and his voice is every bit as cold as she's ever heard it. "If you'll... step out for a moment, then, I'll be with you in a minute.  

"And we can start getting to the bottom of this."

[ever-jane]

Friday 6th April 2018

I am home today. A busy week on little sleep has left me exhausted. My body feels heavy, my mind a bit fuzzy. I have bid myself to stay in bed today to rest. Sweet May has been bringing me mugs of tea.

Yester-morn, I could not settle on a style. I see Mr Fairchild seldom; he is always dapper, in his black three-piece suit and fedora; and since school, he has openly praised my style, calling me elegant, which Polly likes to tease me about, for contrastingly he would tut at her ripped jeans or muddy walking boots; thus, yesterday, I yearned to dress as elegantly as he believes me to be. After a few changes, I settled on a long summer dress and blue cardigan, and I styled my hair into a curly up-do.

Thankfully the weather was nice. The sun was out and little England felt warm. I had Radio 3 on, as I got ready, and many listeners, when they wrote in to pick or praise a piece, would also praise the morning’s sunshine. This nice weather allowed me to leave the house for the first time this year without a coat.

What did the sun shine down upon? Forget-me-nots sprouting out about the flowerbeds, tulips starting to unfurl, daisies sprinkled on every lawn. I marvelled at the wildflowers, as I walked down our short hill to the bus stop.

Polly and I arranged to meet earlier, to have lunch before meeting with Mr Fairchild. I hoped our camaraderie and the joy it brought might settle any apprehension of soon seeing our old teacher. Hopping off the bus at the station, I made my way down past the shopping streets to the quay. I had only been sat on a bench a few minutes, admiring the water, before I looked back along the quayside and could see Polly walking towards me. We waved and smiled at each other from afar; then greeted each other with a hug. We wandered along and soon found the quirky coffee shop.

Polly treated herself to a warming lentil soup; whilst I had a panini with brie, cranberry sauce and bacon. Polly told me of one of her university friends, who has recently begun reading classic books, such as Pride and Prejudice and Jane Eyre, and how she has enjoyed seeing his genuine reactions to plot twists. After eating, we played a little of the wonderful card game Marrying Mr Darcy; but before too long, Mr Fairchild popped up from around the corner, and we put aside our game, and all greeted each other with smiles and hugs.

Mr Fairchild appeared the same as ever, but looked a little worn. He kindly purchased us coffee, before asking Polly how her university course was progressing and what her plans were. They spoke of Classical Civilisations, which she is studying and which he taught us in school, and he recommended her some books on the subject. He also lamented how our old school, which had flourished under our old respected headmaster, Mr Anthony, was alas plummeting in standard under its new head. He berated the lady who had taken over his old position as head and sole teacher of the Classics department. The department had been his baby – he had created it, done all to make it grow and flourish – and now to see it suffer hurt his heart. He pitied the present students – was angry that their learning and lives suffered. Although he hoped the teachers still there were doing all they could, he feared them dejected.

Comparing Polly and myself, Mr Fairchild described Polly as a ‘doer’ – going off on adventures to university in the North and far-flung Australia for a year – and me as a ‘be-er’ – seeking a life more of simplicity and contentment at home. I thought the distinction acute. After he left, and we watched him stride off along the quayside into the middle distance, Polly said that she thought him a bit of a doer too.

He spoke briefly of Caroline’s passing. In his wisdom, he left the isolation of his home in the Devon countryside and stayed with his sister in London, his home from home, for a while, initially after the passing. He spent a few weeks there in comforting society. He talked about how taking long walks around the snow-covered streets helped him. Whilst there, he also received a message informing him that his second book had been accepted for publication. He said this good news came just at the right time for him, and that he would dedicate the book to Caroline.

He thanked us for the food hamper Polly sent him and the portrait of Caroline I sent, which he found when he came home. He sweetly said the portrait now sits on the bedside table which was on Caroline’s side of the bed. 

A coffee and a catch-up and after an hour or so, Mr Fairchild bid us adieu. Polly and I, realising it was still only early afternoon, headed back towards the shops. Polly was keen to show me a little vintage dress shop. There so many pretty neat dresses. We both agreed that Ada would love the shop. 

Playing Cluedo the other day, my friends and I were inspired and talked of maybe attending or make-shifting our own murder mystery event. Nosing around the vintage shop and then a few charity shops, Polly and I talked of maybe buying 1920s or 1930s outfits for such an event. It was lovely wandering around the shops with Polly. We parted outside the train station with a hug; Polly went to catch her train, and I headed down the path that curls along up and past the platforms. As I walked along, I admired the patches of butter-yellow primroses and sunshine-yellow daffodils on the grass slopes. Eventually, I reached the little bus stop. The day had cooled a little – the clear sky of the morning was now home to a thin wash of white clouds – so I wrapped my knitted cardigan around myself and waited for my bus.

Mamma popped around for dinner, bringing fish and chips with her, each to our liking: May, a vegetarian, had only chips; Mamma had traditional cod and chips; and I had scampi, which I prefer, and chips. I was nice to see Mamma. She set to helping May make arrangements for her present university project.

I felt guilty about not going in today and I hope my absence did not add too much to their workload. I know Anne was doing overtime today, so I hope her presence helped. I fear if I had attended, my performance would have been lacklustre and that I would have hindered rather than helped. I fear overtiring myself, as I know overworking and becoming overtired in the past has made me very ill. Tiredness can so easily become sadness. Last night, lying in bed, I felt a tear running down my cheek – I did not realise I was crying until then. It was a quiet tearfulness caused by tiredness. I knew if I did not wake up refreshed, I would not be in today, for I couldn’t risk it. For the same reason, I have purposely had a lazy day.

Still I have not felt right all day. I wonder if I am coming down with something. My limbs feel weighed down and achy, I feel so tired, and just now (around 6pm) I had a few bad stomach cramps. If it is my next period, it is very early, so it seems unlikely that is it. I had been downstairs for a little while, sitting with May, as she did university work and watched old episodes of The Great British Bake-Off; however, I have now returned to bed. I will lie down, put the radio on, and rest some more. 

Ever Jane x