#these men have raised my standards so fucking high

[ourshadowstallerthanoursoul]

Bassists are the MOST UNDERRATED, MOST UNPROBLEMATIC, CUTEST, SEXIEST members of a band and these two are the proof.

PERIOD.

[rottenlittlefink]

You genuinely need to heal I’m not even kidding if u still feel falsely validated by the “Preferences” being abused/unalived/turned into baby mothers/etc that shit is still devastating why are u so happy other women are being abused. Another woman being unalived doesn’t mean that he loves you. Being male identified will literally end u, sis.

Think about *why* you associate your crush literally MURDERING his “preference” with him “loving and desiring” you, instead. Do u hold the subconscious belief that he would do the same to you and blame it on you being dark skinned because he hates himself? Sis, WAKE UP, THE PROJECTION!!!!

[inkskinned]

what is with men being mad any time a woman raises her voice where did that even come from. someone posted a video of a small electrical explosion, and the top comment was of course the woman screams. the second comment is women try not to scream challenge, level impossible. i had to go back and watch the video again. there is, somewhat fainty, a little gasp emitted off-camera, more of a yelp than a scream. it is mostly lost in the crack of the explosion. afterwards, you hear her voice, shaken, say, are you okay?

i am helping one of my friends train her voice pitch lower, because she wants to be taken seriously at work. she and i do each other's nails and talk about gender roles; and how - due to our appearance - neither of us have ever been able to be "hysterical" in public. we both appear young and sweet and feminine. she is cisgender, and cannot use her natural voice in her profession because people keep saying she appears to be "vapid". we both try to figure out if our purposeful voice lowering is technically sexist. is it promoting something when you are a victim to it?

a storm almost sends a pole through a car window. in the dashcam, you can hear the woman passenger say her partner's name twice, crying out in alarm. she sounds terrified. in the comments, she is lambasted for her lack of calm. how is that even fucking helping?

in high school, i taught myself to have a lower voice. i had been recorded when i was genuinely (and righteously) upset; and i hated how my voice sounded on the phone speakers when it was played back. i was defending my mom, and my voice cracked with emotion. it meant i was no longer winning the argument: i was just shrieking about it.

girls meet each other after a long summer and let out a little joyful scream. this usually stops around 12-14, because people will not tolerate this display of affection (as it has the effect of being passingly annoying). something about the fact that little girls can't ever even be annoying. we are trained to examine each part of our lives (even joy) for anything that could make us upsetting and disgusting. they act like teenage girls are breaking into houses and shrieking you awake at 3 in the morning. speaking as a public school educator: trust me, it's not that bad, you can just roll your eyes and move on. it does not compare to the ways boys end up being annoying: slurs in graffiti, purposefully mocking your body, following you after you said no. you know, just boy things.

there's another video of a man who is not allowed to yell in the house, so he snaps his fingers when he's excited about soccer. the comments are full of angry men, talking about how their brother is unfairly caged. let him express himself and this is terrible to do to someone. eventually the couple has to address it in a second video: they are married with a newborn baby. he was trying not to wake the infant up. there is no comment on the fact women are not allowed to yell indoors. or the fact that it could have been really alarming or triggering for his wife. sometimes i wonder if straight men even like women, if they even enjoy being in relationships with them.

for the longest time, i hated roller coasters because it always felt inappropriate and uncomfortable for me to scream. one of my friends called me on it, said it was unusual i'm so unwilling. i had to go to my therapist about it. i don't like to scream because i was not raised in a safe situation, and raising my voice would have brought unsafe attention towards me. even when i am supposed to scream, it feels shameful, guilty. i was not treated kindly, so i lack a basic form of self-protection. this is not a natural response. it is not good that in a situation of high adrenaline - i shut up about it.

something very bad is happening, i think. in between all the beauty standards and the stuff i've already discussed - this one feels new and cruel in a way i can't quite express. yes, it's scary and silencing. but there's something about how direct it is - that so many men agree with the sentiment that women should never yell, even in an emergency - it feels different.

is the word shriek gendered automatically? how about shrill or screech? in self defense class, one of the first things they tell you is to yell, as loud and as shrilly as you can. they say it will feel rude. most women will not do this. you need to practice overcoming the social pressure and just scream.

most women do not cry out, even when it's bad. we do not report it. we walk faster. we do not make a scene. what would be the point of doing anything else? no matter what we do, we don't get taken seriously. it is a joke to them. an instagram caption punchline. we have to present ourselves as silent, beautiful, captivating - "valuable."

a woman is outside watching her kids when someone throws a firecracker at them. she screams and runs towards her children. in the comments, grown men flock together in the thousands: god. women are so annoying.

[gh0stsp1d3r]

Best friend!Stevo helps shy reader cum after hearing about all of her less than mediocre hook ups. Maybe when they’re done stevo says something like “goddamn, you should’ve told me you felt that damn good months ago. Left me completely in the dark, man 😔”

I love this sm omg. Proofread

𝒢ℴℴ𝒹 𝒻𝓇𝒾ℯ𝓃𝒹𝓈

Warnings- p in v, afab reader, mention of bad hookups, making out, oral (f)

You and Steven, or Stevo, were good friends. He found you interesting, and although you might not seem like it to some, he thought you were pretty damn cool.

You hung out on your bed, listening to the person on the tv. You didn’t expect the knock on your door. You slowly got up, in no hurry. They could wait, whoever it was.

You opened the door slightly and the first thing you saw was the blue hair. You opened it more.

“Stevo?” You asked softly, confused at the sudden sight. You had a blanket wrapped around you, it was pretty early.

“Hey, hope you don’t mind.” He let himself in. You weren’t shocked at this point, you shut the door and looked at him.

“What’s up?” You asked.

“I just wanted to see you. Haven’t seen you in a while.” He shrugged, putting his hands in his pockets.

“Oh.”

“How are you?” He asked. You yawned.

“Tired.” You laughed.

“Why didn’t you show up yesterday? To the party.” He asked blatantly.

“You know parties aren’t my thing.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“Well, your already here. You want coffee.. or something?”

“Sure.”

You both sat down on your bed now, as he looked at a note on your desk. He furrowed an eyebrow and picked it up.

“Had a great time last n-“ he read out loud.

“No, no!” You groaned when you heard it, trying to take it from him, but he lifted it in the air and continued to read it.

“And I was wondering if you wanted to meet up at-“

“Stevo!” You whined, as he laughed loudly, you climbed on top of the man but he continued to read it. Your cheeks heated up.

“From Josh.” He said in a swoony voice, you rolled off of him and folded your arms.

After a little while, he asked with a laugh, “So, was he any good?

"No. I can't go. He was just awful," you said with a shudder.

“Why was he horrible?” He asked, interested now.

“It’s not important-“

“No, I feel like I need to know now.” He laughed, raising his eyebrows.

“So many reasons.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t wanna..”

“C‘mon, give me the details.”

You sighed “These few months, all I’ve had is these not very good hookups. Maybe my standards are high or maybe these men just can’t fucking fuck.”

“Mm. Probably both.” He joked.

As you struck him in the arm, he quickly muttered a soft apology.

“Anyways, this guy was an asshole. First, he didn’t take off his shoes in my damn place, and he didn’t until we started to have sex. Then when he did, he was sloppy, I think he was a virgin.”

He made a face at your words.

“It gets worse. None of them have made me orgasm, I had to fake it. I haven’t had one for months.”

“I could help with that.” He shrugged. You looked at him, thinking he was joking. But no, his face made it seem like he was indeed serious.

“"Stop," you said with a small laugh as you looked back at the TV.

“What? You don’t think I could?”

“You’re joking. It’s funny, Stevo.”

“I’m not.” He said, his tone serious this time. You both stared at each other for a moment, before leaning in. He made it so he was on top of you, cupping your face and kissing you.

He slid his tongue into your mouth, making you moan out in the process. Once you both moved away, a string of saliva followed. He quickly began to unbutton his pants, and you took off your shirt and bra.

He then looked at your pants, taking them off quickly, throwing them along with the rest of your guys clothes. He was quick, and he stared at your almost naked body.

You looked away and crossed your arms, feeling shy under his gaze.

You feel his hand on your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

“Don’t.” He said. He then moved his way back in between your legs. He pulled your panties down, he looked up at you, and he put his mouth on your pussy.

His hands gripped your thighs as he licked like it was his last meal. Your noises motivated him, he focused on your clit, licking a stripe up the bundle of nerves.

You moaned out his name, his ego grew at every one you let out.

You had a firm grip on his hair.

“Stevo- Im-“

He didn’t stop, in fact, his tongue worked faster, it felt heavenly on your pussy.

You came on his face, your first orgasm in months. He came up from in between your legs, licking it from his lips.

You thought for a while about how your best friend had just eaten you out. He had just helped you get your first orgasm in what felt like forever.

Your thoughts were interrupted when he pulled his boxers down, you were shocked by his size.

He asked what was wrong when he saw the expression on your face, a proud smirk on his lips.

“Are you sure that's gonna…”

"We'll find out," he shrugged, a playful glint in his eyes.

Your eyes fixed on him with an intense desire, a desire that he reveled in.

He stroked his cock a few times in front of you, as you laid in front of him. He moved his cock to your entrance, looking closely at your reaction when he slid into your pussy.

Your face scrunched up and he stayed still inside you for a little.

“Okay. Move. Please.” you nodded.

“Yes ma’am,” he said jokingly, starting to move deeper inside, his hands were on your sides as he started to thrust slowly at first.

But you needed more. “Stevo- faster-” you said

He listened, his thrusts turned quicker, a lot quicker than you expected the man to be. He was thrusting at a brutal pace, slamming his hips into yours.

“Fuck. You feel amazing.” he moaned out, throwing his head back for a moment, fully enjoying this moment.

Both of your guy's noises were the only thing that could be heard, bouncing off the walls.

He focused on the way you squeezed him, fuck, you felt amazing. He wanted to be buried in your pussy forever.

He loved the way your eyes were screwed shut and the noises that came from your mouth. It was something straight out of his biggest wet dream.

“Stevo!” you cried out, he was hitting your g spot, and you loved every second he thrust his hips into yours.

He knew you were about to come, he could tell by the way you were squeezing him so hard it was harder to move in and out.

He just listened to the way you cried out his name, and the way you came on his cock, it truly did feel like a dream, he was sure he’s never had pussy this good.

He came after you, starting to slow down his movements as they got slightly sloppy.

He pulled out of you, the both of you breathing heavily. He just looked at you and flopped down next to you.

“You should have told me you felt that good months ago. I feel left in the dark.” he turned his head to you, and you turned to him with a giggle.

“Well, now you know.”

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

reading update: july 2024

full disclosure: I started out July in a bit of a mental lurch, really feeling stuck in a rut. there are a lot of reasons for that, absolutely none of which need to be shared with the general populace of tumblr dot com, but suffice to say that I was feeling listless and reading was not a high priority. I was pretty content to accept that this was going to be another month where I didn't finish a lot of books. I was too busy for most of June, and now too unfocused and bummed out in July.

and then that ended up not being the case. I think I can chalk that up to three things:

very early in the month I realized that none of the reading I had been planning on getting to was grabbing my interest at all, so I did something drastically different: picked up a YA memoir that I bought at pride on the recommendation of a bookseller. not my usual kind of reading at all, but YA is very readable and memoirs grab me fast because I'm nosy, so I figured it might be great for getting out of a rut. and boy, was I right!

Akwaeke Emezi also has a new novel out, and if you don't know then please note now that I'm a person second and an Akwaeke Emezi fan first. their newest novel was a sinister joyride, non-stop twists and turns that I couldn't put down until I saw the characters through to their bitter ends.

and, of course, over in the Dungeon Meshi manga I got to Mithrun. I've only had Mithrun for a couple of chapters, but if anything happened to him I'd kill everyone in this dungeon and then myself. even if I hadn't been able to read anything else, that would have kept me running back to the library for more Dungeon Meshi.

all of which added up to a fairly voracious appetite for books being reignited in my brain, and my second most book-heavy month of the year so far (still haven't beat May, but there's time). sick!

so - what have I been reading?

Delicious in Dungeon Vol. 7-10 (Ryoko Kui, trans. Taylor Engel, 2019-2022) - mannnnn I know I'm not saying anything that hasn't been said elsewhere, but Dungeon Meshi is so. fucking good. the way that Kui starts to raise the stakes of the story and grow the world beyond the core band of adventurers is so conscientious and well-done, timed perfectly so it never feels like having an undercooked heap of fantasy exposition thrown at you all at once. instead everything proceeds at a perfect simmer, leaving me feeling like the frog in that pot of boiling water who didn't notice how dire things had gotten until it was very suddenly too late and I was screaming bloody murder at a book. things have gotten so dire that I'm yearning for the days when fighting a red dragon was our biggest problem - and yet, through it all, every character remains rendered with humanity and compassion, no matter how scary, dangerous, or outright alien they first appear. I'm not naming any spoilers, but I need [REDACTED] to fix shit ASAP in Vol. 11 and [SUPER REDACTED] is on my shitlist fucking forever. also Mithrun sweetie you're perfect, do as many crimes as you want.

Heart and Hand (Rebel Carter, 2019) - my romance novel of the month, as picked by my lovely patreonites! this self-published historical romance promised some messy f/m/m, following a biracial (half Black, half white) young lady, Julie Baptiste, as she responds to a marriage ad that takes her out west to the fictional town of Gold Sky, Montana. Julie's sort of a standard historical heroine - she doesn't care for the silliness of high society and vastly prefers the company of books, looking forward to becoming Gold Sky's schoolteacher - but her marriage has a twist: rather than marrying one man, she's agreed to marry two, a pair of friends who have been inseparable since they served together in the Civil War. this book is charming, for sure, but I can't help be more intrigued by what isn't there than what is, namely: are these men having sex with each other or not? Rebel? hey, Rebel? why is there no DP in this two husbands mail order bride book? that was, like, he bare minimum that I expected. for the love of god, why did those men never put both of their dicks inside Julie at the same time? why did we spend so much time on emotional conflict that could be easily resolved if anyone just talked to each other when Julie's two beautiful husbands could have been having sex in front of her? HELLO?

also, listen, this is such a nitpick, but I am FROM Montana and it feels personal: I know that the general poverty of frontier life isn't sexy, but god these people are WAY too well off. at one point Julie enjoys some fucking BANANAS, something that I goddamn assure you were not easy to come by in late 19th century Montana. a banana. as fucking if.

All Boys Aren't Blue (George M. Johnson, 2020) - as is proudly advertised on the back cover of my copy, in recent years All Boys Aren't Blue has been the second most-challenged book in America behind Maia Kobabe's Gender Queer. reading through All Boys Aren't Blue it was initially hard to see what exactly was so objectionable, until I realized that a queer Black person living their life with compassion and joy is the scariest thing some of these motherfuckers can possibly imagine. Johnson writes about their life growing up in the nexus of racism, homophobia, and masculinity with wisdom and endless compassion, directly addressing young people who may find themselves in similar positions to offer them assurance that they, too, can be okay. more than anything, All Boys Aren't Blue is a plea for young people to live their lives without fear and shame. it's a beautiful blessing of a book that I hope brings comfort to every innumerable kids who need it.

Little Rot (Akwaeke Emezi, 2024) - how do I even begin to describe Little Rot? definitely not for those who feel squeamish about sex crimes, I guess that's an important place to start. this novel starts with the breakup of a long-term Nigerian couple, Kalu and Aima, and follows both of them into a weekend that starts with drugs and sex parties and spirals increasingly out of control from there, drawing more and more characters into a complicated snarl of money and power. Little Rot has the seedy, lurid draw of an episode of SVU if SVU ever grew up and realized that cops don't do shit, reveling in the nastiest that Emezi's imagined city of New Lagos has to offer. cannot say this book is for everyone - few of Emezi's novels are - but god, it's a thrilling study in corruption.

The Persistent Desire: A Femme-Butch Reader (editor Joan Nestle, 1992) - this is a massive and fascinating historical document, assembled by Nestle as part of her work with the Lesbian Herstory Archives. within this collection are letters, interviews, academic essays, poems, and transcribed oral histories from all manner of self-identified butch and femme lesbians. while some of the contributors are recognizable names in the history of American queer activism (including Pat Califa, who's a bisexual trans man now lmao), others are women who were just trying to live their lives with as much authenticity, comfort, and dignity as was possible in their time. (although, notably, the vast majority of these women are white, and all but a very few are Americans. racial and cultural diversity is not one of the collection's strong suits.)

the personal narratives span all over the twentieth century, and I was really delighted to see the very frank discussions of what would be written off as "bad representation" by a lot of queer resources today: butches overdosing on toxic masculinity and getting in messy bar brawls, femmes committing outlandish acts of adultery, lesbian sexual awakenings taking place between fairly young children, and one extremely memorable instance of a butch getting unexpectedly pregnant and decided to do a little sex work on the side since she couldn't get more pregnant than she already was. I was particularly fascinated by the many, many accounts of "second wave" self-identified lesbian feminists who tried to do away with butch/femme identities and "politically incorrect" expression of lesbian sexuality altogether (that's everything but mutual cunnilingus, btw) in pretty eerie echoes of contemporary radfem arguments. at close to 500 pages it's definitely better suited to skimming and stopping to read whatever catches your attention rather than trying to read cover to cover, but I think this is a really invaluable piece of history.

American Mermaid (Julia Langbien, 2023) - this was a novel, for sure. American Mermaid is a novel about a broke, anxious high school teacher named Penelope whose novel, also called American Mermaid, is a runaway success that gets optioned for film. Penelope quits her teaching job and moves across the country to Hollywood to work on the script with two dude bros who don't really Get what American Mermaid is about, and set to work turning Penelope's weird, unsexy female empowerment novel into an MCU-style action romp with a hot young lead. the novel's strongest when it's deep in the spirals of Penelope's frantic mind, probing the conflict between her fairly desperate need for cash (she wants to be financially independent of her conservative father, she has good reason to suspect breast cancer is in her future, she wants to start a family someday) and the artistic affront she feels at watching her story be disrespected and dismantled. where it's weaker is in the extensive chapters of the story-within-a-story; while useful for context, I straight up didn't need to read that much of Penelope's novel. and the plot overall kind of felt like it fell off the rails near the end once Langbien finishes making her point about how Hollywood sucks. it's not bad, but it's also just... fine. it's fine!

How to Taste: A Guide Discovering Flavor and Savoring Life (Mandy Naglich, 2023) - how do I put this so nicely? this book is for people who are kind of dork ass losers about food, a group that I do very much count myself as a part of. I first became acquainted with Naglich's work when she appeared on a podcast called the Sporkful, which claims that it is "not for foodies, it's for eaters." I'm a fairly devout listener, and after listening to Naglich describe her efforts to become a master cicerone (one of the world's most elite beer tasters, a distinction that is taken Very Fucking Seriously) I thought sure, whatever, that's a book I can get behind. Naglich is maybe a big more entertaining as a podcast guest than a nonfiction author. in places the book can be dry or roughly constructed in a way that suggests another pass by an editor or maybe a co-writer would have helped. and straight up, there are just weird fucking typos in this book that are like. crazy to me, I cannot believe they got through. the cheap-ass cover art also suggests this was not exactly a high budget production.

but having been very mean about it, there are a lot of extremely interesting tidbits about the world of professional tasting here! it sounds awful and you couldn't pay me to do it, but here's the cool thing: Naglich is extremely aware that what she does is insane and she knows that the average reader doesn't want to learn how to identify where a coffee bean was grown just by sniffing the bean from across a room. what she offers instead are really approachable ways to be more conscientious about how you interact with and appreciate food! and she also shares some really cool info about tasting snobbery that IS bullshit, to help you sort out the stuff that actually matters and emphasize that fun and personal taste ultimately trump any "rules." it's a very dorky book but I, personally, did have a good time.

Sex Criminals Vol 3: Three the Hard Way (Matt Fraction and Chip Zdarsky, 2016) - every time I read another volume of Sex Criminals I find myself thinking "man, hang on, do I ever actually like Sex Criminals? am I enjoying this?" but then I end up placing a hold on the next one. I don't know, it's charming! it's like so very VERY 2010s in its dialogue, by which I mean it's like. you know. it's giving Joss Whedon before we all found out how bad he sucked and collectively booed him. but man, I love a story that's down to get weird, and Sex Criminals is sooooo about being weird. and yet also very normal where sex is concerned! considering this is a series all about people having freaky world-altering powers that activate when they cum, sex is treated as an incredibly ordinary thing, warts and all. I like that! I like seeing that! idk, I don't need every comic to be perfect, as evidenced by the fact that I'm actively enjoying Azrael: Angel of the Bat. sometimes the vibes are just good.

[honeybeefae]

Imagine…

You, Azriel, and Cassian had been sent to go scout out the borders of the Spring Court as Hybern loomed closer and closer. The threat of war was growing every day and while you didn’t really like the idea of being stuck with the two Illyrians you also had to obey your High Lord’s orders.

While you weren’t a shadowsinger, you had a knack to move without being seen and listen without being heard. The trip was only supposed to take two days, in and out, but when a unexpected storm had the three of you sheltering in your tent for an extra day you couldn’t help but be annoyed.

Cassian and Azriel were having their own secret conversation, leaving you out once again, while you tended to skinning the rabbits you had caught and scowling.

“What’s the matter, princess?” Cassian asked, his sarcastic smile making his eyes crinkle. “I think it would be most girls dreams to be stuck in a tent with us.”

“Most girls are idiots, especially ones who think you two would make great company.” You bite back, moving your knife a little too fast and knicking your finger.

“Look what being smart gets you.” Azriel chuckled while walking to the other side of the wall so he could watch you.

“Can you two please go back to your own conversation and leave me out of it?” You huff, watching the cut heal before turning back to your task. “Some of us are trying to make sure we have food for tonight.”

“You do care about us.” Cassian said smugly, glancing over at Azriel who was fighting his own smirk.

“I care about not getting my ass beat if I come back without you. It has nothing to do with you.” You reply with a roll of your eyes, not noticing the wisps of shadows creeping behind you.

“Are you sure?” Cass prods, suddenly invading your personal space. Before you can move away he uses two fingers to turn your head towards him. “You feel nothing for us?”

You swallow thickly, your body heating up involuntarily. Fucking Illyrians.

“Nothing.”

It was a half truth. You felt many things towards them. Annoyance at their arrogance, anger at their inability to take you seriously, jealousy when they came home with multiple women every night.

You would be stupid not to recognize their attractiveness. It seemed to be an Illyrian trait, with their tan skin and dark hair. Who wouldn’t find that hot? However you had standards and morals, you refused to sleep with people you work with and you refuse to add anymore fuel to their massive egos.

“Why are your cheeks flushed then?” Azriel commented from his corner, eyebrow raised. “Why can we smell you?”

Your body had indeed betrayed you. It was present in the air, just faintly, but enough to notice. You also picked up on their musk and it made your nostrils flair.

“It’s a normal bodily function.” You defend, your voice higher than you would’ve liked. They both shared a look. Busted.

“We can help you with that, little mouse.” Azriel hummed, watching as you stood up to try and distance yourself from them. “All you have to do is say the word.”

“I don’t want your help,” You frowned, chewing your bottom lip. The wetness of your cunt was already making your panties damp. What was wrong with you? “Or yours.”

Cassian stood and walked up to you until you were chest to chest, his eyes dark. “When was the last time someone took care of you? I haven’t seen anyone come visit you since you moved in with us.”

“It’s, it’s none of your business.” Your voice is wavering and you curse in your mind. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I can do it myself.”

You shivered when you felt two tendrils of smoke, no, shadows, wrap around your bare skin of your arms. Azriel appeared behind you, trapping you between the two men.

“I think you do. I think you want us to take care of you.” He whispered into your ear, smiling at Cassian when your eyelids fluttered.

“You’re just too stubborn to admit it.” Cassian added, his fingertips ghosting over your collarbones.

“I…I don’t…” Your resolve was crumbling before your very eyes. How did you go from hating them to yearning for them this quickly?

“It’s okay to take the things you want, princess.” Cassian bent down, grasping your hand in his much larger one before guiding it lower and lower until he stopped you right at his waistline. “We certainly do, isn’t that right Az?”

“Mmm.” Was Azriel’s response, his breath hot against your skin. “We do. And we see something we want right now.”

Your breath was coming in short pants as your brain short-circuited. Ever since you had arrived you had fought against their natural attraction, distanced yourself in the name of morals and standards. but as they pressed against you, offering you something you didn’t realize you so badly wanted, how could you say no?

(Pls tell me y’all want more of this bevause holy fuck this was so hot to write)

[igotanidea]

Backyard : Jason Todd x stripper!reader

The plan was simple.

Get inside the strip club, gather some intel on the newest and yet already one of the most influential crime lord in Gotham and get the f out.

The last part got a bit more complicated, when Jason figured out that on this particular day, in this particular club a bachelor’s party was taking place.

Shit was not enough of a word to describe the situation he found himself in.

Should have gone dressed in his Red Hood gear instead of civilian mode.

Should have never let Dick accompany him.

Two hot guys in the club full of horny men and girl strippers trying to lead a mission.

One dying inside, the other going with the flow.

What could possibly go wrong, right?

Well while Dick was having the time of his life, Jason actually tried to focus on the task and uncovering the identity of the guy who was recently raging terror on Gotham. Tried being the key word here. Instead of pursuing the wild game he found himself being a prey rather than a hunter. A bunch of unknown girls tried to grope him, seduce him, damn, even give him a lap dance, all that making Jason’s hair stand on his head as he struggled to reach the back door and break free.

What was a torture to him, seemed to be a lot of fun to his adopted brother though.

And what was even worse, was the fact that Dick, with his charming smile and  ladies-swooning attitude, would probably end up knowing more than him and it made Jason grit his teeth and clench his fists.

“You look like you need  a smoke.”

“What I need is five minute alone”

“Well I’m sorry to break it to you pea brain, but this-” the girl, who judged by the outfit was another stripper, waved her hand around the backyard of the club “-is as close to alone as you can get here.”

Right.

As if the couple making out against a wall, going way to close to public sex, a homeless man sleeping next to the dumpster and a few shabby wild cats, tearing with their teeth something that was definitely not suitable for eating, even by animals, could be described with that word.

Jason sighed half in frustration, half in relief.

“Fuck.”

“Mhm. Yeah, close enough.” the girl agreed as her eyes landed on the man who was now drilling the woman against the wall, apparently causing her enough pleasure to let out a breathless moans.

“You’re enjoying exhibitionism?” Jason raised an eyebrow at girl’s unamused gaze.

“I’m learning new techniques.” She spit out.

“What?”

“Don’t make me say it again, pea brain.”

“Hey!”

“What? If you believed it, you truly deserve the nickname. I’m a stripper not a prostitute.”

“Is she one?” Jason pointed towards the other woman and reached to his pocket in search of a lighter and cigarettes “Fuck!’

“Nah, she’s just faking for the hell of it. Touch starved one, if you ask my opinion. Would settle for what she can get at a club like this. ”

“Do you have a fag?” Jason couldn’t care less about the answer, more focused on getting his own high and calming nerves, that was something he needed at the moment.

“I’m not sharing with a stranger.” She chuckled “seems way too intimate to me.”

“So what, you only give the guy a pipe on a third date?”

“No one got that far.”

“So you’re a stripper with a high standards?” Jason smirked

“Well. As the movies show, there are only three reason of why a girl is a stripper.”

“Don’t tell me you are a sucker for Pretty woman or another bullshit like this.”

“Nah. I’m just a working girl who has to raise a three year old illegitimate child and has no real qualifications for other job.” She send him an innocent feigned smile and tossed a pack of cigarettes his way.

“Three year old kid huh?” he caught it mid-air and lighted one up immediately exhaling deeply, when the familiar scent and flavour of nicotine filled his lungs “How old are you?”

“Rude.” She leaned on the railing “And you only proving my point.”

“Which is?”

“Pea brain.”

“Made you believe I believed that bullshit story, didn’t I?” another  cloud of smoke flew into the air, quickly joined by the other once the girl started to enjoy her own cigarette.

“Congratulations. A guy from a good house just tricked a stripper in the club. Great job, buddy.”

“What makes you think I am a guy from a good house? Maybe I’m a pervert who –“ he stopped for  a second as the sound of woman and man coming chimed into the sentence “maybe I’m a guy like this?”

The unnamed girl only smiled and shook her head causing her hair to flow around her face.

“If you were a guy like that you would just stay inside letting Candy or Chastity give you a lap dance.”

“Are those real names?”

“Pea brain.”

“Right. Sorry.” Jason chuckled involuntarily, much to his own disbelief. “What’s yours then?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Pretty much why I asked.”

“Pretty much why you run away from the inside and found yourself here.”

“How do you even get clients? You’re insufferable.”

“And I got big mouth. Comes in handy sometimes.”

Before he could stop himself he chuckled again.

Jason Peter Todd, Red Hood, adopted son of Bruce Wayne was smoking outside the strip club, with a working girl, having more fun than he ever had in his entire life.

“It’s not comedy central, stop laughing.”

“You could be a stand upper for sure.”

“Well – if you think about it, I am kind of a stand upper…”

This time Jason fully laughed and the girl couldn’t help a tiny smile on her own face.

“Jerk.” She threw his direction biting on the inside of her cheek, focusing on the cigarette rather than on the guy next to her.

“Bitch.” Jason’s reaction was immediate and completely instinctive.

Any other girl would probably take that as an offence but she was familiar with the fandom and popculture classic.

“What demon are you after, Winchester?”

“Too many of my own to go looking for more.” He sighed

“Yeah tell me about it.” She did the same and for a moment they just stood in undisturbed silence. Even the cats seemed to sense something was going on and went completely quiet.

“What’s your name?” Jason finally asked “for real, not the stripper one and not the fake one you’re probably thinking about giving me.”

“You first.”

“Oh no. I’m a gentleman. Ladies comes first.”

“Idiot.”

“Moose.”

“Stop it!” she laughed at another TV series reference

“Tell me your name.”

“Yy/n” she said finally “Happy now?”

“Rapturous.”

“Splendid. You owe me  a cigarette, now you know what girl to give it back to.”

“Sounds like you’re asking me on a second date.”

Before she got a chance to come up with some quick respond, another working girl came out the club clearly searching for y/n, giving her just one warning look before her eyes travelled to Jason and then back to y/n.

“Fine!” Y/N rolled her eyes in frustration “god damn it, there’s something like a break for fuck’s sake! What the hell is happening now? I swear one day I will burn this hell hole -” the rest of the sentence died behind the door along with the walking away girl.

Jason was finally left alone.

Truly alone.

But it felt oddly dissatisfying to smoke by himself in the dingy backyard, that suddenly became grey and empty.

Y/N.

A girl who seemed to have all the answers.

Infuriating and keeping a man on his toes since the first minute from the meeting.

And who called him pea brain.

Jason smirked to himself, while still smoking the borrowed cigarette in the empty backyard of the strip club.

Letting himself forget the mission for a moment.

don't worry people we'll get "there" ...

[queen-haq]

Fic: Grudgingly Yours (Part 4)

Fic: Grudgingly Yours (Part 4)

Summary: You are a general surgeon, working in a hospital that’s slowly sucking the life out of you when one day you’re given the offer of a lifetime.

A.K.A  - An arranged marriage fic :)

Pairing: Billy Russo x You

Rating: R

Masterlist (contains links to my other stories and this one)

Chapter 4

You bit down on your bottom lip, looking at the project plan for the next few weeks. Ideally you would have loved to open a hospital but that was beyond your current means. As a compromise, you made the decision to go with an urgent care clinic in your childhood neighbourhood. There was a lot of administrative red tape to get through before you could even begin working on your plans and that’s why you’d engaged two of your closest friends for help. Jacintha was a marketing executive for a healthcare company, and Ritu was a financial analyst, and they were the perfect people to guide you towards your goals. The three of you had accomplished what needed to be done today, and were taking a break now.

 “Any more pizza left?” Ritu asked.

 You peeked through the boxes. “Nah, we finished it all. I can order more?”

 “No, I had too much already,” Ritu said, drinking her glass of wine.

 Jacintha was scrolling through her phone, her feet up on the couch. “There’s no one here that’s even remotely interesting,” she grumbled. “Everyone’s either ugly or a fuckboy.”

 You laughed. While Ritu was happily married, Jacintha was single and on the lookout for fun dates. Except her friend had very high expectations and there weren’t that many men that met her standards. “Maybe you should venture outside Manhattan,” you offered.

 “I’d rather shoot myself than date a guy from Jersey.”

 “My thoughts exactly.”

 Hearing Billy’s voice, you turned around to find him standing at the entrance to the room. Dressed casually in a maroon jumper, black jeans and signature leather jacket, he appeared amused as his eyes languidly took in your friends. When you’d seen him earlier today he was heading out with another woman – so why the fuck was he back and interrupting your night?

 Irritation surged through you. You’d made up an excuse about Billy being busy when Jacintha had inquired about his whereabouts, but now he was here and that meant you had to put on a show for your friends. “Thought you were gonna be gone all night, honey.”

 Both Ritu and Jacintha watched him curiously, with Jacintha taking the lead in approaching him. “Glad you made it home, Billy. Didn’t think we were going to meet you today but I’m glad you’re here.” She reached out to hug him, and you noted how Billy returned the hug with enthusiasm. “I’m Jacintha, Y/N’s would-be maid of honour –“

 Ritu scoffed.

 “- if you hadn’t gone off and eloped with her,” Jacintha continued, sticking out her tongue at Ritu.

 You rolled your eyes, watching as Ritu made her way towards Billy.

 “Only way Jas would’ve been maid of honour is if I turned it down.” Ritu extended her hand out to Billy. “Hi, I’m Ritu. And we need the complete story behind this whirlwind romance. Y/N’s being way too tight-lipped about the details.”

 His response was a gorgeous smile. “I don’t know what lies she told you, but eloping was her idea not mine.”

 What the fuck? Spotting the wicked glint in his eyes, you knew he’d thrown you under the bus on purpose. Asshole!

 “Come on, Billy. Don’t lie to my friends,” you teased, sauntering over to where he stood. “They’re gonna think I didn’t have a wedding on purpose.”

 Jas frowned. “Did you elope just to get out of picking a maid of honour?”

 You put on a fake smile. “Look what you did, sweetheart.”

 His voice was nauseatingly sweet. “Just being honest, love.”

 “So tell us about yourself, Billy,” Ritu prodded.

 “Like you guys didn’t google me?” Billy fired back.

 Jaz confronted him with a raised eyebrow. “We did. What we found wasn’t great. Definitely not the kind of guy who deserves Y/N.”

 “Okay. That’s enough.” You walked over to Billy and grabbed his hand. “Can we talk alone?”

 Dark eyes bore into your soul. “If you insist.”

 You dragged him away, leaving your perplexed friends watching after you.

 Once inside the spare office room, you closed the door behind. “Why are you here?”

 Billy cocked his eyebrow, smirking as he strut toward the couch. Sitting down, he regarded you with amusement. “Last time I checked this is my place.”

 “Wrong. It’s your grandfather’s and he gifted it to both of us. So you can shove that bullshit.” You glared at him with hostility. “We had a deal. You stay out of my way when I have people over.”

 He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

 Exasperated, you crossed your arms. “Do I harass your dates when you bring them home?”

 “My dates don’t take over the entire place.”

 “Upstairs is your area, downstairs is mine. That was your rule!”

 “That Jacintha’s cute.”

 Irritation surged through you at the abrupt change in topic. “Don’t hit on my friends.”

 He cocked his eyebrow. “Figures you’re the jealous type.”

 “I’m not jealous, you moron. I just don’t want you creeping on them.”

 “Tell me something. That whole scene during dinner, standing up for me, bitching out the old man, that was all an act, right?”

 “What are you talking about?”

 He leaned forward. The smile from before was now replaced with a somber look, his dark steely gaze holding you hostage. “You planned it, didn’t you? Plotted with him so you’d look good to me?”

 “What makes you think I care enough to do that?” You held his stare, challenging him back. “Whatever issues you have with your family, it’s none of my business. I only stood up for you because I fucking hate bullies. I already told you that. But if you don’t believe me, I don’t give a shit.”

 His eyes remained on you, unwavering and hostile, staring at you intently. “Let me see your phone.”

 You scowled. “No.”

 “Why not?”

 “Why should I?”

 “Because I want to prove something to myself.”

 “How’s my phone gonna help with that?”

 “Let me worry about it.”

 “Go fuck yourself.”

 He smiled. “Show me your phone and I’ll keep my distance from your friends. That work for you?”

 “Fine.” Taking out your cell from your back pocket, you approached him. You unlocked the screen and handed it to him. “Here. Have your fill.”

 You regarded him cautiously while he scrolled through to look for any incriminating conversations between you and Alistair. There would be none, just a whole bunch of missed calls from the old man since the night of the dinner party. And a vague text message where he threatened you.

 “You’ve been ignoring his calls. Alistair won’t like that.”

 “He’ll get over it.”

 “He’s dangerous when he’s crossed. And you pissed him off by standing up for me.”

 “I can take care of myself,” you huffed, grabbing your phone back from him.

 “You have to be so flippant about everything?” Billy asked.

 The fake concern in his tone was infuriating, like he actually cared about you when it was the farthest thing from the truth. “Don’t pretend like you give a shit about me.”

 He cocked his eyebrow. “Is that what you think? At least with you I know what I have to deal with. If he takes you down, I have to worry about what he has planned next. That’s the only reason I’m warning you.”

 “Whatever.” You slipped your phone back into your pocket. “Now, please get the fuck out.”

 “Who’s Calvin?”

 You froze. Of course the fucker noticed all the text messages from him. “None of your business.”

 A cold smile curved Billy’s lips. “Boyfriend? He seems to be, texts you a lot.”

 “You jealous?”

 “Keep dreaming, sweetheart.” He leaned forward and picked up a random magazine that was on the coffee table. His voice was casual, deliberately calm when he spoke next. “Just curious about how your boyfriend feels you marrying me for money. Calvin okay with the golddigger lifestyle?”

 “He lets me make my own decisions.”

 Billy’s voice reeked of sarcasm. “Sounds like a real man.”

 “He is.”

 Billy scoffed.

 “Why are we even talking about this? I don’t butt into your business, do I?”

 “Oh, you didn’t tell Gwen we were married?”

 You rolled your eyes, remembering the blonde from a few weeks ago. “That was once. You’ve had other women here since then and I haven’t bothered them.”

 His intense, lingering stare remained affixed on you, making you feel unexpectedly self-conscious. You were in jeans, an oversized t-shirt, and wearing no make-up. It was supposed to be a casual night in and you’d dressed accordingly, but you weren’t prepared for Billy to give you the kind of look that speared right through to your soul. His stillness made you nervous, making you feel like he was plotting your death or something. You preferred it when he espoused hateful rhetoric instead. “Anything else?” you prodded. “Or can I go back to my friends?”

 “Do whatever you want.”

 Despite the insolence in his words, his voice was a husky, throaty drawl, smooth like whiskey, like he was trying to seduce.

 Or maybe you were just being an idiot.

 Without saying anything else, you turned around and walked out.

 ***

 Upon returning to your friends, they surrounded you immediately.

 “What’s going on?” Jas asked.

 “Nothing,” you replied, trying to maintain your calm exposure.

 “You’re lying to us,” Ritu piped up.

 You started stacking the empty pizza boxes. “What do you mean?”

 “That’s not how newlyweds act!” Jas accused.

 “Why? Just because I’m not all over him in front of you guys? That doesn’t prove anything!”

 “None of this makes sense. You elope with a guy none of us even knew you were dating, supposedly because the two of you are so madly in love, but that’s not what we saw just now. You guys looked like you hate each other!”

 You ran your fingers through your hair. Shit.

 “Tell us what’s going on. Are you in trouble?” Ritu asked.

 “Whatever it is, just tell us. We’ll help you.”

 Guilt surged through you as you stared back at your best friends. They were genuinely concerned and worried about something happening to you, and there you were lying to them. You sighed, taking a seat.

 Then you started telling the truth.

 ***

 A week later you walked into the penthouse suite, your feet aching in the stilettos you were wearing. Jas and you had gone out to dinner so she could give you notes on the prenup. Even though you’d reassured her multiple times that your lawyer had vetted it thoroughly and negotiated the best terms for you, she wasn’t convinced and insisted one of her contacts, a prominent divorce attorney, review the details. The lawyer did have some feedback but ultimately agreed it was a good deal. Finally Jas was convinced you hadn’t lost your mind with this deal, and the two of you went clubbing after. You were used to staying up all night from working at the hospital, but the whole heels thing was new to you.

 Sighing, you undid the straps and threw the shoes aside, groaning with relief when your feet hit the ground. As you started walking back to your room, you cut through the living room only to find Billy sound asleep. You stopped for a second, simply watching him. Not sure why he was even downstairs, but there he was on the couch, in a black razor tank and jeans, sleeping on his side. There were a couple of empty beer bottles on the coffee table. He was facing you, hair ruffled, eyes closed, one arm tucked under his head and the other splayed on his side. Watching him as he laid there, you had to admit he really was a beautiful man – as long as he kept his mouth shut. You usually liked them stocky and broad-shouldered, gym guys who you knew could lift you without much trouble, but Billy was lean and toned. Not that he wasn’t muscular, he definitely was, but you doubted he could pick you up. Or that he’d want to. You saw the women he slept with, you were definitely not his type. And you had no interest in being one of them.

 You sauntered past him and headed for your room.

 An hour later you were freshly showered and dressed in a silk robe, eating Greek yogurt in the kitchen to satisfy your late-night hunger cravings when you heard a crash coming from the living room. Worried, you quickly marched towards the noise. Upon entering the room, you found broken glass shards from the beer bottles atop the coffee table and Billy on his knees, one hand gripping the edge of the table while the other was clutching his chest.

 His skin was flushed, slick with sweat, eyes stricken with panic. He looked like he couldn’t breathe, as if he was dying.

 Immediately you switched to doctor mode. Rushing, you sat down next to him. “Are you hurt? Bleeding? What’s going on? Talk to me,” you ordered, keeping your voice normal and calm so as not to agitate him further. With an expert touch you examined his hands to make sure he didn’t cut himself - he didn’t - and swiped the beads of moisture from his forehead.

 His breathing was ragged, he didn’t speak, a wild expression on his face matching the far away look in his eyes, like he was somewhere else at the moment.

 You started rubbing his back, hoping the physical contact would tether him to reality. “Billy, you’re fine. You’re okay.” Repeating yourself over and over again, you soothed him, stroking his back, caressing the hair on the nape of his neck, your other hand covering his chest where his heart resided.

 It took a while for his heart to return to normal speed. The entire time he was locked in your embrace, pressing into you, squeezing you tightly like his life depended on it.

 After a short while, Billy finally spoke. “It’s hot. I’m hot.”

 Voice husky, body warm to the touch, you realized he needed some air. “Do you want some water?” You attempted to move away but he grabbed your hand that was on his chest and held it in place.

 “No. Just need to take this off.” In one quick gesture he pulled off his tank and threw it aside. You tried not to stare at the wounds on his chest, burn marks and lashings, like he’d been tortured. They were fully healed, a few years old from what you could tell, but the scars remained, forever haunting him. Your heart ached, realizing he must have gone through sheer hell to survive that.

 Your fingers caressed his chest. “You should get some sleep.”

 Billy finally met your gaze. The emotion in his eyes made your stomach clench with anxiety. There was no anger, no contempt, just raw, stark need for something you didn’t understand. His dark eyes were crystal clear, no cloudiness in them, like he was seeing you for the first time.

 And then suddenly he stood and lifted you up, carrying you over to the couch behind you both. He sat back on the cushion, you straddling him, one arm encircling your waist while the other hand fisted the back of your hair.

 Eyes locked on one another, breaths trembling, you swallowed audibly as you waited for him to say something, do anything. But he didn’t move, didn’t speak, only watching you.

 Minutes passed, every second feeling like an eternity.

 Your heart was pounding in your chest, so loud you worried he could hear it. Could he? Could he see how he was affecting you? That your nipples were hard and your pussy wet from grinding down on his jeans? That his heated skin pulsed through you like a vibrator and you felt every brush, every stroke, every touch of his fingers strumming you like a guitar?

 You didn’t know why you did it, why your fingers curved around his throat, why the other played with his earlobe. You were teasing him, taunting him, daring him to make a move. To take you.

 Electric jolts ran through your body when he unexpectedly moved in closer, the top of his head brushing against your mouth, his lips blowing soft air on your neck as he inhaled you in. “You smell so good.”  

 Wetness pooled between your legs, your body taut with tension. Your arms wrapped around his neck and shoulders, holding on tight. Did he know what he was doing to you? Was it a ploy? How could he sound so desperate and vulnerable and still be playing you?

You didn’t understand, because you couldn’t think. How were you supposed when his erection was nudging your thighs? There was no fucking escape from him, he’d ingrained himself in you completely. Wrapped around every inch of you, next to you, under you, all-consuming solid presence of his body overwhelming all of your senses.

 “Will you stay with me?” he whispered, soft, gentle, making your heart pulse the way your body did. “Help me sleep?”

 There was nothing else you could say. “Yes.”

 You couldn’t turn him down, not the part that was trained to heal patients, nor the woman in you that was utterly exposed to someone who was begging for help.

 And so when Billy cradled you in his arms and maneuvered you both to lay down on the couch, his hand squeezing yours as he pressed a warm kiss on your temple, you simply closed your eyes and let the warmth sweep over you.

A/N - Um, thoughts? 

[assortedseaglass]

The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Twenty Two

Tom Bennett x Bess Vaughn (OFC)

[Masterlist]

Volume II Summary: Tom escapes occupied Europe to find home irreversibly changed. How will Tom and Bess cope when what was once familiar has changed forever?

Warnings: Strong Language, Angst, Smut, Violence (fairly mild), Depictions of War, Mentions of Death, Depictions of PTSD, Injury Detail, Era typical Sexism, Era typical Homophobia, Mentions of Sexual Assault, Mentions of Domestic Abuse (very brief), Depictions of Reproductive Health, Suicidal Thoughts, World on Fire Spoilers.

A/N: Characters we haven’t seen for a while? Trauma from way back in volume one? You betcha. Posted in haste, will fix mistakes later.

Fucking war.

Tom ripped open the cardboard packet of his Marlboro’s just in case. Nothing. No Rita Hayworth. No Betty Grable. Not even Vera fucking Lynn. He lit a cigarette and sighed.

A pint of pale was put on the table before him. Through a haze of cigarette fog and beer-blurred eyes he looked at the barkeeper.

“We’ve had men in here trading their old cigarette cards. Anything for something new,” he scoffed and picked up Tom’s three empty glasses. “’Waste of resources’, ‘s’what they say on the wireless. You’d think a bit of leg would do everyone good. Keep morale high.”

Tom took a long gulp of the beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his jacket sleeve. “Well, if you ever run for office, you’ve got my vote. Bring back the tart card.” He raised the half-drunk glass but the man had already walked away. “To Winston fucking Churchill!”

From their position at the bar, a few patrons looked over their shoulders at him. None could have been younger than fifty. “What?” Tom said to them, his volume a touch too loud, eyes dark over the rim of the glass. They ignored him.

“Dunkierka!”

Tom screwed his eyes shut. It had been hours, but still Grzegroz’s voice rattled around his mind.

“Dunkierka!”

How strange, incredible really, that he could be transported so quickly to the battlefield once more. One moment he was playing football with Jan in Mrs Chase’s garden, the next he was watching the man with the terrified eyes screaming at him on the beach.

“Shoot me!”

“Fuck.” Tom downed the rest of the beer. Eight o’clock. The pub was busying now. He’d arrived not an hour before, having walked from Mrs Chase’s back into town. Now, the shift’s had changed at the dockyard and the factory, and the weekend was free for these men to take.

The table wobbled as Tom used all of his weight to stand. He blinked hard. A rush of blood drained from his head and he faltered. A lifetime’s worth of bad memories did not mix with four pints and an empty stomach.

Tom wasn’t drunk. Not by his standards at least. Instead, he was balanced on a precipice. A precipice that could turn the night into one of infinite wonder or have him fear the world by 8 o’clock next morning. Would it send him down the Palais with Bess? Hadn’t she said there was a dance on? Or would it be a night in the pub, taking on any Tom, Dick or Harry that dared, and sleeping under a bench? Tom found he didn’t care which. One drink more would do him right. Let Lady Luck decide.

Tom wasn’t drunk. However, he did not slide onto the bar stool with as much grace as he would’ve liked and a few men tittered. “Another pint please.”

“Right you are, Tom.” The barkeep gave him a wary look but poured the pint all the same. He’d seen enough soldiers and marines to know that if they weren’t drinking in his pub, they were out drinking and making a nuisance. God knows he remembered the last war well enough.

Another pint appeared before him, and Tom watched the foam settle. He leant forward, caressing the cool glass, and took a long, pleasured sip.

“How’s the navy treating you anyway, Tom?”

“The navy? The bloody navy? Can’t even steer a pedalo.”

Tom jolted and looked over his shoulder. It had happened the night before too, and that morning. Drifting off, he’d heard his father’s voice. “My brave, brave boy.” Only to wake up and have reality hit him hard, all air leaving his chest before he’d taken his first waking breath. His dad was gone.

A glass smashed in the corner of the pub and a roar of laughter rang up.

“Watch it! You lot break anymore, and you’ll be paying.” The barkeeper sighed. “Tom?”

“You what?”

The barkeeper watched him. “Ah, don’t worry about it, son.” He patted Tom’s arm and made his way to the end of the bar. Tom’s eyes followed as the man collected a sweeping brush and gathered the broken shards into a pile. One of the men in the party was gesturing wildly around, trying in vain to help. It was Fergal Vaughn.

“Sit down, man,” the barkeep said good-naturedly. “You’re a hindrance, not a help.” 

Fergal flopped into his seat, the beer he held spraying everywhere. The friends surrounding him laughed. Sweat gleamed on the old man’s brow, his face red and shining. When he spoke, flecks of spittle flew from his mouth, and he laughed so hard Tom feared he might keel over for lack of breath. 

“Jesus Christ,” Tom muttered into his pint. Well, at least the old bastard isn’t at home, bothering the girls.

There was a great commotion and Tom looked back to the party. Fergal had stood abruptly, his round belly pushing the table and knocking yet more glasses. He raised his near empty pint of Guinness in the air. “To my Cora, and to her Roger!”

The men cheered, raising their glasses and swigging their beers. “To her roger!” The two men nearest Tom cried and fell about laughing. Fergal swiped at them pathetically but giggled at their joke.

Tom should have laughed too. Should have joined in their merriment. But sat there, five pints deep, listening to Fergal Vaughn’s witterings while the ghost of his own father lingered just beyond reach, Tom felt his blood curdle. On the step of the stool, his leg began to bounce. The din of the pub’s patrons gave way to the swirling of blood and breath in his ears. 

 “Dunkierka!”

Tom slammed his fists into his eyes and tried to rub away the sound. Fergal guffawed behind him. 

“You don’t think I’m genuine?” 

“Are you, son?”

Bess’ voice joined the fray.

“You’ve never committed to anything or anyone. It’s not because you’re a womaniser, or because you don’t believe in the war. It’s because you’re a coward.”

“Just fuck off!” Tom shouted. He didn’t hear the way the pub stilled. Didn’t notice the way the man beside him got off his stool and shuffled away. Slowly, the noise around him picked up as everyone ignored the screwball at the bar. 

He tried to calm himself and, naturally, thought of Bess. Almost half-past eight. She’d be at the dance by now. Hair rollered for once, a brush of lipstick. Tom’s body hummed with a warmth that had nothing to do with the alcohol. Who would she dance with, without himself or Albie there? Roger? From Fergal’s exclamations, it sounded like a night for celebration. Would Lois be there, singing with Connie? He hadn’t thought to ask Lois about her shift on the ambulance. 

“You made his life hell when he was alive and now you can never make it up to him.”

The last words Lois hissed at him before he crumpled and made his way back to Bess. She’d spat them at him like a weapon. She’d meant to hurt him, and hurt him it did. The moment she’d uttered them Tom saw every disheartened, disapproving and disappointed look that had shadowed his father’s prematurely aged face. Each one, directed at him. 

Yet another glass was placed next to him. An amber tot of whisky. “From Fergal,” said the barkeeper. Tom glanced over his shoulder to where Fergal had another pint raised in his direction.

“To Tom,” he slurred. “No doubt he’ll be stealing another of my girls away from me.” Fergal smiled at him and the other men silently raised their glasses.

Tom pushed the whisky away. “No thanks.” 

“Right you are,” The barkeeper said after a moment, taking the glass away while eyeing something over Tom’s shoulder. With a hard smack, a meaty hand landed on Tom’s back and he didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The heavy breath and stench of ale told him everything. 

“Rude to refuse a drink from your father-in-law-” 

“You’re not my father-in-law.” Tom continued to stare straight ahead at the optics behind the bar.  

“I’m as good as!” Fergal chortled. “And don’t you tell me I won’t be one day,” he tried to lean on the bar beside Tom but stumbled. Despite himself, Tom reached out a hand to steady him. “With Cora engaged, everyone will be looking to you and Bess.” 

“Let them look.” 

Fergal wobbled, leaning forward slightly to observe Tom. Fed up, Tom stared back at him, watching the man struggle to stand straight. 

“God, you look like your Dad.” Fergal said after an unnaturally long pause. Tom snorted. 

“You made his life hell when he was alive and now you can never make it up to him.”

“We all miss him terribly, me and Bess especially,” Fergal continued. Did Tom miss him? He supposed he did not. He hadn’t been given enough time to comprehend the fact he was dead, let alone miss him. “My favourite drinking partner.” Fergal finally found the bar and leant upon it. 

“You’re doing alright, to me.” Tom watched the men in the corner watching him.

“Ah, but none were like your Da-A drink!” Fergal cut himself off. “Another whisky for me and Tom.” They appeared before them in an instant. Seemingly, the barkeeper hadn’t thrown them away. Fucking rationing. 

“I don’t want it,” Tom pushed it back and Fergal made to sip his own. 

“To Douglas!” The Irishman roared. 

“Stop!” Tom grabbed Fergal’s hand before the drink could reach his lips. “Stop.” 

“What’s gotten into you, boy? Used to love a drink with me and Albie and your Da-”

Tom stood from the bar and Fergal staggered backwards. “I’ll not share a drink with you, you fat old bastard. Not in my dad’s memory. Not when you’re like this.” 

“Now just a minu-”

“You’re a drunk!” Tom spat in Fergal’s face. He was towering over the man now, and for a flicker of time, Fergal looked like a scared child. “I’ll not drink to my dad’s memory, when it should have been you in his place.” 

Fergal looked like he had been struck. Tom didn’t care. A year’s worth of war, the immediacy of his grief, the way it awoke the longing he held for his mother, years of watching Fergal ruin his daughters. Tom felt every bruising blow life had dealt him, and was presented with the perfect outlet for his rage. The man before him. 

“My dad fought for what he believed in. Did I agree with him? No, but I damn well do now!” Tom was shouting and the barkeeper laid a hand on his arm. He wrenched it from his grip but lowered his voice to a menacing hiss. “He didn’t have much, but he did enough to make himself proud. To make me proud. Gave everyone the time of day. Grafted. Put up with me,” his voice wobbled. “And then there’s you. What have you ever done?”

Fergal opened his mouth but Tom cut him off. “Who do you think’s gonna look after you now Cora’s engaged? Do you know what?” He grabbed the whisky and raised it in the air. “Here’s to Roger. If it weren’t for him, Cora would be left to a life looking after you with not one bit of thanks.” He downed the drink with a wince. “And Dot! You’ve spoiled her beyond reason. Five minutes in the real world will ruin her, Fergal! Don’t you remember the last time!? All them battered men coming back, what they did to the women waiting for them at home? And Bess!” Tom’s voice cracked and he jabbed a finger into Fergal’s fleshy shoulder. “Do you know how many nights she’s spent crying because you said she wasn’t woman enough, like Cora and Dot? Or how you never stood up for her at school? It was Etta marching down there every day to set Frank Smith and Walter Watson right. Etta giving the teachers a bollocking because you didn’t have the guts. What did you do? Fucking nothing. Only thing you’re good for is fucking fertiliser-”

It happened quick as a flash. Fergal grabbed Tom by the scruff of his collar and hoisted him over the bar. Glasses clattered around them and the murmuring of the pub crescendoed to an excited clamour. The edge of the bar was rammed into Tom’s ribs as Fergal held him there, leaning over and growling in his face. Any trace of drunkenness was gone. 

“You’re one to talk, my boy.” He shoved Tom again, and Tom felt his head hit one of the pumps. “Fucking off to join the navy was the best thing you ever did. Brought nothing but shame to your father, and now you’re doing the same to my Bess.” At the mention of her name Tom struggled to get up. “You’re only courting my daughter because I see how happy you make her, God knows why, but when you get yourself blown up, well, it’ll be all the better.”

“ENOUGH!” The barkeeper bellowed, reaching between the two of them. Two of Fergal’s friends pulled him backwards off Tom, and he slid off the bar. “ENOUGH!” 

Tom straightened his jacket, stared down at Fergal and laughed bitterly. By some miracle, Fergal’s whiskey still sat unbothered amongst the debris of their argument. Tom downed it in one and, with his hands in his pockets, swaggered from the pub and into the night.

“-our Florence tailored her mam’s old dress. I suppose Bess could help you with that. And Roger will have a mourning suit, won’t he? Or will he get married in uniform? Oh, that would be best I think, that beautiful air force blue. It’ll look excellent in your wedding photograph-”

On discovering Cora Vaughn’s engagement to Roger, Queenie Warren had not drawn breath. Her curls bouncing animatedly as she spoke, Queenie quizzed Cora on everything from the colour of her bridesmaids’ dresses to whether the cake would be fruit or Victoria sponge.

Bess had tuned Queenie out ten minutes ago. Instead, she leant against the bar, glass in her hand, cigarette between her lips, and watched couples spin around the dancefloor. She wondered if the Palais would ever be as full as it was before the war.

The red lights of the room hid a multitude of sins. The floor was becoming sticky under foot, and wallpaper was starting to peel from the high ceiling. The darkness did well to hide the few couples, and the fewer men. Indeed, it was mostly full of women from the factories. There were some fellas that Bess recognised from about town, and other uniformed men she did not recognise, no doubt visiting women they had met on the front, or nurses from the infirmary.

Dancing at the centre of circle were Roberta and the teacher from the primary. With so many of the men off fighting, it was the first time Bobby had been able to step into the light with the woman, under the rouse of needing a dance partner. Hiding in plain sight, Bess had never seen her happier. Indeed, when they turned so that Bobby could look upon the bar, she caught Bess’ eye. Bess winked, and Bobby giggled. Tough, feisty Roberta actually giggled.

“-you’ll have your hands full soon I expect, Bess.”

“Pardon?”

Queenie was watching her eagerly. “A wedding dress and bridesmaids’ clothes for yourself and Dot. That’s an awful lot to be doing.”

“She’ll have to ask me first,” with a smile Bess nudged Cora, who looked up from gazing at the modest ring on her finger.

Her betrothed was not far away, sharing a drink with Frank Smith and a few other lads from the air force. He was bright and merry, and though the others congratulated him, Bess noticed the glances they cast the bride-to-be and her sisters. Namely, herself.

Bess knew what she was doing when she’d stepped out that night. Bedecked in a pinstriped suit, she wanted people to look at her. She felt deflated after Tom’s flit from Mrs Chase’s and his inability to confide in her. This did just the job to make her feel powerful again. She’d seen Marlene Dietrich where something similar in a copy of Vogue she’d read years ago at the atelier. It just so happened that they had a pattern there too.

A man cut across Bess’ vision of Bobby on the dancefloor. “Fucking dyke,” he muttered as he passed. Bess stood straight, prepared to defend her friend from the man, when she faltered. As he passed, the man looked over his shoulder at her, eyeing her suit from sharp collar to perfectly-ironed trouser.

“Don’t be jealous she’s a better dresser than you!” Dot piped up, just as Cora took her glass.

“That’s enough sherry, Dot.”

Before Dot could so much as take a breath to retort, the Palais’ double doors burst open. Even over the playing of the band, the noise caused the sisters to jump and cast their eyes towards the doors.

Bess knew that silhouette.

Against the streetlamps outside, the figure staggered sideways before moving forward towards the bar. With his hands in his pockets, he nearly fell over, and a few people rushed to help him. He brushed them off and, ascending the steps to the bar, smirked lopsidedly at the group.

“Bobby,”

“Tom.”

The enmity that lingered between Bobby and Tom had dwindled of late, and Bess tensed at the renewed hostility.

“How’s your friend?” Tom wobbled as he glanced around the old ballroom, his words dripping with intentional sarcasm. Roberta said nothing. “Suits you well, doesn’t it? No men about.” He swaggered towards her, his body a millisecond behind the movement of his feet. Bess prickled with mortification. All evening she’d been worried about him, what he was thinking, what he was doing, and it turned out he was the same as any other man; leaving their problems at the door of the first pub they came to.

He staggered a step towards Roger and Frank. Frank, having experienced Tom’s devastating right-hook in childhood, edged backwards.

“Watch yourselves, lads, she’ll be giving your girls ideas.”

He can embarrass himself all he likes, but leave Bobby out of it. In three high-heeled strides, Bess placed herself between Tom and the others. “Enough,” she said warningly. Tom eyed her. There was a hint of pride in the dark blue of his eyes. Then he glanced at her suit.

“If I didn’t know you better,” Bess could smell the beer on him. The stale cigarettes. “I’d say you were going the same way as your Roberta.” He looked her up and down, amusement evident on his features.

At this closeness, Bess’ worry returned. When he’d returned, the first thing she noticed about him was the hollowness of his cheeks. The way the skin clung his cheekbones like wax. In the red light of the Palais, his pale skin looked near translucent, and his eyes…

His brow bone jutted forward, casting them into shadow. Below, the soft skin beneath his lower lashes sagged, as though gravity was working harder to root him in one place. She’d seen this dogged look before. On her father. What a sinister concoction; grief and grain.

Gently, as though calming a wounded animal, Bess whispered in Tom’s ear. “Go home, my love-”

“I haven’t got one,” Tom slurred, blinking slowly, that ridiculous smile still plastered on his face.

“Albie’s bed is always made up, just sle-”

“In a dead man’s bed?” The sisters and their companions each took a sharp breath. “I’ll not be tempting fate, ‘my love’,” Tom tapped Bess on the nose. “Besides, I’m here for a dance.” He held out a hand, the other still firmly in his pocket as he swayed on the spot. “Come on,”

“No,”

There it was. That wrinkled brow and jutted jaw. He knew he was pushing it. Still, as he always did, he carried on.

“Why do you have to go around winding the rest of us up? That’s what you do.” Vic’s voice joined the chorus of ghosts in Tom’s mind. He shook his head.

“Come on,” he waggled the hand he held out to Bess. “Gotta dance with my best girl while I’m back.”

“I said no.”

With speed unexpected of a drunk, Tom made a beeline for Bess. Just as his arms made to grip her close to his body, someone blocked his path.

“Go away, Tom.”

His held jolted backwards before his body, and he stumbled. “Fuck,” he said. In this light, in this state, the Vaughn girls all looked the same. Steely, dark eyes were boring into his. It was only the smaller stature of the girl before him that gave it away.

“Dotty-”

“Go away-”

“Oh shut up, Dot. You’ll never get a fella with a mouth like that,” Roger and Cora straightened at the bar. Bess came to stand at her sister’s side. Frank gripped Queenie by the arm and steered her away. This was it. The showdown. The two cockiest kids in Longsight. Dot Vaughn and Tom Bennett.  “Shut up and use your mouth for something useful-”

SMACK

The force with which Dot walloped Tom near gave him whiplash. Like a felled tree, he hit the ground hard. No sooner was he looking up at the three red-headed furies, was someone dragging him along the ground. For the second time that night, someone had Tom by the scruff of his collar. His feet struggled to find footing as whoever had hold of him pulled him towards the door. He looked up.

“Fuck me. Didn’t think you had it in you Rog.”

The pilot said nothing, only continued to drag Tom from the Palais. The clacking of high heels followed the pair, and as Roger hurled Tom onto the damp road outside the dancehall, Cora came into view.

Tom lay there for a few seconds, looking up at the dark sky as drizzle speckled his face.

“Get up.”

“You gonna fight me, Rog?” He received no reply and, with great difficulty, stood up. His head was beginning to pound, as though his brain was fight to break free from his skull.

Roger’s arms were folded against his chest. Tom had never realised, despite Roger’s lanky height, how imposing he was. In his uniform, he looked like the perfect poster boy for the British military. Beside him, Cora glared.

“Where the hell have you been?” Her voice was quiet, challenging him to dare to fight back. Tom rolled his shoulders and squared his jaw.

“Pub.”

Cora tutted. “I might have guessed.”

“Saw your dad there,”

“I’m sure.” Cora’s eyes hadn’t left Tom’s. Her feet hadn’t faltered. All that distinguished her from a statue were the few strands of hair waving in the cold night air.

“Gave him a piece of my mind-”

“A very small piece then.”

Tom snorted. “Was there celebrating your happy news. Congratulations, by the way.” He added as an aside. “Never seen him at the pub so happy, usually there to forget his own fuck ups. Wouldn’t catch me in that state-”

“You’ve got a nerve.” Cora snapped. “Dadda’s got his faults but don’t think for a second that you don’t have your own, Thomas Bennett.”

Cora walked towards him, her steps so slow and purpose that for the first time in his life, Tom was scared of her. She folded her arms and looked at him with disgust.

“You’re not the only one that’s suffered-”

“Tell you about this afternoon, did she?” Tom shouted. Cora raised her eyebrows and he silenced like a petulant child.

“No, Bess didn’t,” Behind her, Roger watched on. He didn’t move, flanking her like a sentinel solider. “But I’ve known you long enough to know you’re a jumped-up little shit who never put much store by other people’s feelings, BE QUIET!” she shoutedwhen Tom opened his mouth to argue. “You’re not the only one that’s fighting. That’s lost someone. Roger flies over Germany every other night, looking at the destruction we’re wreaking. Coming home to discover who he lost along the way. You know Vernon was the last to go down? Disappeared over the Channel. I don’t suppose you’ve thought for one second that Lois lost her father and her fiancé?”

Tom shifted uncomfortably.

“That we loved your father too? That we lost our Albie?” Cora’s voiced wobbled and a few tears fell from her eyes. Her gaze, however, did not waver. “I can’t imagine what horrors you’ve seen, Tom, but it isn’t plain sailing here. The fear of getting bombed every night, worrying if we’ll ever see you all again? Pretending it’s all smiles when you come home in case you see the cracks and crumble. Because what’s the point of fighting for a world that doesn’t exist anymore?”

Finally, she brushed her tears from her eyes. With a shaky breath, as if to set herself right, Cora straightened.

“It’s not the world against Tom Bennett. I know it feels like it-”

“No you don’t.” Tom said bitterly. “You don’t have a fucking clue.” And with the little pride he had left, he turned on weak legs, stumbled down the nearest ginnel, and vanished from sight.

Next morning, Bess rose as the sun crept over the brick red houses of Longsight.

Beside her, Dot and Cora were sleeping soundly, their arms cast over each other’s waists. Slowly, so as not to wake them, Bess drew back the quilt and crept onto the landing. The floorboards creaked and she stilled. No-one stirred.

Tentatively, she opened the door to her father’s bedroom.

He was slumped, half sat against the cold wall, atop his bed. Albie’ remained empty, his folded jumper and photograph sat neatly on top of the covers.

A swell of dread rushed over Bess and she felt sick. So it had been dadda stumbling around the house, not Tom.

Fergal’s misuse of alcohol was no secret about the street, and every neighbour knew his routine. His daughters knew it better. Six o’clock. If Fergal wasn’t working as an air raid warden, he would arrive home from the dockyard, ready for his supper. After reading the newspaper and listening to the girls talk about their days, he would depart for the pub at approximately twenty past seven. If drinking at The Crown, he would be allowed room under one of the tables and arrive home next morning with the milk float or the postman. If The Red Lion took his fancy, Old Arthur, for that was what the girls had always called the publican, gave him board in the small flat he kept above the pub. Only if Fergal drank at The Swan did he stagger home, for Mrs Mallory always cast him out at eleven o’clock.

On tiptoe, Bess hurried down the stairs. The hammering of her heart doubled. Tom was not slumped on the piano stool, nor was he at the table or in Fergal’s armchair.

This was it. His years of aggravating, pestering, hiding, skiving and shirking had finally caught up with him. Or, someone had caught up with him.

Terrified, worried and entirely unsure of what to do, Bess busied her hands by rummaging through the Welsh dresser drawers. Flicking through dressmaker’s patterns, ones belonging to herself, her mother and her sisters too, she pulled out a set for women’s slacks.

For Kasia¸ she thought. Well, that was that job done.

Curled up in her father’s armchair, Bess watched the world beyond the window wake up. Mrs Mason collected the milk bottles from her front step. Dennis Warley, the miserable postman, began his rounds. A few men Fergal’s age cycled to work. She looked at the clock. Half past six. At seven, she would wake Cora, and together they would hunt from Tom. What good was it now, when most of the city was still sleeping? Who could help?

A sudden wailing caused Bess to startle. She jumped up from the armchair, clutching the trouser pattern to her chest. Dot looked lazily up from the table. Cora placed a plate of bacon and eggs upon it, and hurried to the window where baby Vera, in her Moses basket, continued to cry.  

“Got used to living alone and don’t want to share the bed?” Dot poured herself a cup of tea.

“Probably fed up of your snoring,” said Cora good-naturedly, the delight of Roger’s proposal radiating from her. “But Bess, love, why were you sleeping in the armchair?”

“I must have just drifted off,” Bess brushed the frizzy hair from her face. “Went to check in on dadda’s room. Tom didn’t stay last night, Cora.” Much to her surprise, Cora did not seem worried. Instead, she raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. Bess felt the temper she inherited from their mother spark into life. “Cora?”

“Connie said she saw him last night, on her way to her shift on the ambulance. Was with Frank and some other lads.” Dot said through a mouthful of food. Cora tutted.

“He-oh. Ok,” Bess deflated, relief Tom was alright and embarrassment at her assumptions fighting for pitiable dominance. “Connie was here?” She moved forward to take the now whinging Vera from Cora.

“Mhmm,”

“Dorothy Vaughn. Don’t eat with your mouthful.”

Dot swallowed pointedly at Cora and turned back to Bess. “She brought Vera over.”

“Why?”

Dot faced her sister fully and grasped her cup of tea eagerly in her hands. After new dresses, Dot’s favourite thing was gossip. “Lois had to go to the infirmary. Was helping a family out of a house that got hit in the raids last night over in Fallowfield, and the house came down around her. She’s fine,” Bess had gasped. “Cut her head but just fine. That’s why Connie brought Cora. Lois is resting.” Dot punctuated her news with a long slurp of tea.

Bess sat at the table beside her sister, Vera now settled back to sleep. “Tom won’t know, about Lois, he’ll have no idea-”

“Doubt she wants him to know.” Dot said matter-of-factly. Again, Cora tutted.

“Dot, stop being cryptic and-”

“Well,” Dot launched herself into hurried speech. “Connie told us that Lois told her that her and Tom had an argument the day he got back-something about Douglas dying and him not knowing-anyway he got all angry with Lois saying that if she’d been there then he-Douglas that is-might not have died-”

“Breathe, Dot.”

“-and of course Lois didn’t like that and gave him a piece of her mind about working on the ambulance and doing her bit for the war effort, and then Tom-get this Bess-Tom turned round and said her job was to look after Douglas and Vera!” She took a deep breath and another sip of tea.

The anger caused by Cora’s apathy was nothing compared to the flame roaring into life now. Bess’ cheeks reddened, her eyes darkened, and a rigidity settled in her bones that God himself could not have shaken.

“Oh he did, did he?”

Three miles away, in a terraced house that edged Cringle Park, Tom Bennett woke. The bedsprings beneath his back were hard, a few pressing into his bony side, and the frame wobbled as he struggled to get up.

Bile rose to his throat and he lay down again. Above him, the ceiling spun. At its centre, the ceiling light had been draped in a rose silk scarf. Turning his head slowly so that it lolled on the pillow, Tom looked over the vanity table. Make up covered its counter, and few dresses in reds, pinks and purples were crumpled on the stool.

Beside him, the clock read just after eight o’clock. Its ticking was so loud inside his head it sounded like machine gun fire, and he groaned. The knock that came at the door was thunderous and Tom thought the sound alone would make him vomit.

“Morning, pet,” A high voice said. “Brought you a cuppa. Poor thing,” a soft hand touched his forehead, as though testing his temperature, and brushed the hair from his eyes. “You know you’re always welcome here.”

Tom rubbed his bleary eyes and took the tea from the person above him. Perfectly manicured nails, ringlets, red lipstick and the overpowering smell of lavender.

“Cheers, Queenie.”

Notes: Cigarette cards (sometimes called tart cards, if they had women on) were banned in Britain at the start of 1940 because the government indeed declared them a “waste of raw material”. I don’t know about elsewhere, but in Britain “to roger” someone is to have sex, usually in a bit of a rough manner. In research, I also read a study about the increase in domestic violence post-WWI, in households with soldiers returning to civilian life. Fuck war and fuck the men that start them. 

Thank you to @arcielee, who helped me unfuck this chapter more than she realises! There’s a line direct for one of our chats in here. And thanks again to @theoneeyedprince for help with the Polish. Below is the inspo for Bess’ outfit. Saw it and knew she’d wear it.

Tags: @aemonds-wifey@multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234@babyblue711 @heimtathurs @exitpursuedbyavulcan @myfandompromptsside @allthefandomtherapy @reblogedworks @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol@beiigegalx@skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools@aquakaris @its-actually-minicika @whoknows333 @arcielee @honeymaltgelato @girlwith-thepearlearring @fangirlninja67 @evita-shelby @cherievictore @shmexie @ewanmitchellcrumbs @blairfox04

[artemis1214]

MEET ESME ROSE LUCIANO!

Hello! 👋🏼

These are some headcanons for my Hazbin Hotel OC, Esme! If you would like to read more about Esme's story, you can check out my Wattpad story "A Siren's Spell".

HELLA SPOILERS AHEAD!

Human Life (1900-1932) 

As a child, Esme was very friendly and bubbly. She was everyone's best friend and the little major of Manhattan. 

Would love to pet the horses leading the carriages in front of her father’s bar. 

Esme’s mother would always try to keep her away from the family ‘business’, but little Esme always found herself listening in on the men's conversations and meetings. 

Natural flirt as a teenager, but only had one boyfriend in New York.

Natural mother figure to Anthony from their connected families.

Cool aunt vibe for Molly and Anthony. (Would buy them ice cream on the regular when their parents weren't around).

Would float in a raft in the Hudson River, smoking a cigarette in the summer. 

Very protective of her younger sister, would stand up to bullies, and get in trouble with the nuns at school. 

Raised Catholic. 

Libra.

Used by her father to lure men to his work and steal their money. 

Gets "too involved" in the business and gets sent to New Orleans to basically hide away.

Has a very seductive luxurious transatlantic accent, but alone drops to a casual crisp New York tone. 

Accent drops completely when upset or cursing.

Always smells like vanilla and strawberries.

Lots of chocolate martinis, vodka cranberries, and red wine. 

Long hair because she hates thinking about fitting into societal beauty standards (no flapper hair here!).

Heavy sweet tooth. 

Big bookworm.

Theme Songs: 

“You don’t own me” 

"My Days" - The Notebook on Broadway

"Roxie" - Chicago

"Gangsta" - Kehlani

"So, this is love?"

Always carries a silent pistol in her purse.

Very charming, seductive, playful, and secretive. 

Steals Mimzy's spot as the head girl at the speakeasy.

Singer, burlesque performer.

Also plays piano.

Alastor watches her from the back of the parlor, tapping his finger on his whiskey glass.

Meets Alastor immediately but senses something ‘off’ about him. 

Hella sexual tension right off the bat. 

Threatens him with her pistol when she discovers who he is. 

Not phased by many of Al’s doings as she watched her father kill men all the time. 

“You don’t scare me." 

Has a smart mouth that often gets her in trouble when men. 

Has spit in men’s faces before.

“Fuck you.” These are her two favorite words for them.

Is disgusted by men. 

“Men are dogs, I like my dogs on four legs.” 

Very possessive, protective, and jealous. 

When the two get married she becomes similar to a New York mob wife. 

“No Alasta, you’re not killin’ on a Sunday! Sunday is a holy day - plus I made meatballs!” 

Goes for the eyes when she kills people, “You really do have pretty eyes, wonder how long they’ll take to cut out.”

Will ship the remains to their parents as a “warning.” 

Going to the water when she is stressed out, usually the dock near her house.

Alastor will drive fast down empty roads so she can hang out of the car and let her hair flow.

ALWAYS has a record on the spinner and espresso brewing.

Their house smells like coffee 24/7.

Angelic, alluring voice with a natural jazzy ring to it if she so pleases when she sings.

BIG flirt and entertainer when drunk or high.

Very strong siren eyes when she is singing, performing, or talking to someone. 

HATES spicy food (Alastor’s cooking nearly kills her every time)

Will request a seafood broil every single time he cooks for her.  

If Alastor’s mother were to be alive, these two would be BEST FRIENDS! 

She’d probably make plans to hang out with just her - not Alastor (lol!). 

Date nights of just cooking their respective recipes. 

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T LIKE MY LASAGNA?!” 

Their song is “It’s Been a Long, Long, Time” by Kitty Kallen.

COUPLE THEME SONG: ACROSS THE STARS FROM STAR WARS.

Hella foreshadowing (Padme/Anakin vibes)

Speaks Italian when upset 

Che Cazzo?!

Che palle?!

Figlio di puttana!

Affectionate pet names for those she cares for 

“Lovey” - Her sister Margo 

“My Dove” - Her daughter, Genevieve 

“Sweetheart” - Alastor 

NEVER shows up to an event empty-handed. She’ll feed everyone there. 

Love language is def quality time and cooking.

Flirts with Alastor around his secretary to make her jealous 

Basically the second in command when she's at Alastor's office.

You better do whatever Esme asks or he will kill you (no joke).

“Let that bitch hear.” Vibes. 

Brat 

Submissive/Switch

Masochist

Big softie as a mother, complete domestic. 

Loves children and animals. 

No longer works at the speakeasy.

Becomes a housewife.

Can have hella anxiety/depression.

Doesn't cope with things properly and will shut herself out from everyone if upset.

Emotionally numb from losing so many people in her life.

At the end of her story, she realizes it's going to be him or her...

"Veronica, open the door please!" Vibes.

"Where is Padme, is she safe? Is she alright?" 

“It seems in your anger, you killed her…”

BIG THANKS TO @hoomandoescosplay FOR HELPING WITH THESE HEADCANONS! LOVE YOU GIRLYPOP! 💗

[lyramundana]

Since @whatudowhennooneseesyou wants more and I’m a people pleaser, here’s another version, again based on another convo we had. 

This time is about my man, the icon, love of my life and the only person that makes me want to have children. His children only. My bias and the reason I got into Stray Kids. 

Christopher Bang

Now here’s the thing:

This man is a fuckboy. That much it’s obvious. Just look at his interactions with Stay and his messages on bubble. Not to mention he’s an aussie (and a former eshay) this men are the definition of “danger”, For fuck’s sake, his nickname among friends was “Mr Steal your girl”, which fits perfectly with a Libra’s description because that’s what they usually do: Stealing girls (and make anyone question their sexuality). 

Now there’s a wrongly extended misconception that fuckboys have to be “cold, sarcastic, too-cool-for-love type” type of dudes. That they go around wearing leather jackets, riding motorcycles and spend their days fucking everything that moves. But this isn’t it. A fuckboy is simply a man that gets off from being desired and having the people he wants at his mercy, specifically in bed. There’s not a settled manual of dressing and general behaviour to be one, the name says it all: A boy who fucks. Easy. 

Christopher it’s exactly that. He fools us with his good boy persona, acting all shy with pick-up lines but still fishing out for more. Showing off his muscles at every single opportunity he has (like that one concert where the members went to lift his shirt and he just let them, putting his hands behind his neck in surrender), but if you pay close attention, he doesn’t really hide his fuckboyish manners. I can’t explain it, but there’s something in his attitude, the way he speaks sometimes and acts, that screams “i make girls orgasm every week to relax”. 

“Does that mean I’m your daddy? MOvIng oN”

“You know what else is big?”

“Say please”

Do you need any more proof? I think not. Now back to my delulu intepretation of him:

Christopher is the type of bf that would feel that he must be the "caregiver" of the relationship. He's the one who leads, who provides, who looks after you. That's his role and you shouldn't ever take that away from him. You can take care of him for a change sometimes because he also needs some coddling and attention, but most of the time, he's in charge. I think raising his members by himself for so long has enhanced this side of him. He's very protective, very picky and a perfectionist, so his partner has to learn patience because this man can be mentally and emotionally exhausting for them.

In his toxic version, he's extremely controlling and possessive. He doesn't let you hang out with other boys, or anyone he doesn't approve of. He makes big decisions over your own life for you because "he knows what's best". He'll treat you more like an accessory that needs to look good on him rather than a person. In his mind, you belong to him and that's final. If gets hit on, he’ll accept it with zero regrets and may return the gesture. He’ll show it when he likes someone’s physically and may flirt with them, but you’re not allowed the same behaviour. He expects you to be always at his beck and call, but he’ll most likely never be completely loyal to you. Funny thing is that he truly believes he loves you and you should be grateful for all he does for you. He simply wants his partner to be the best version of themselves, and if that casually fits his standards of perfection, well, does it matter? Every single thing you do has to pass through him first. He’s the type to end fights with angry sex and call it “talking things out”. He’ll make sure you never move on from him. If you break up, he’ll be the ex that still calls you “his” and sabotages your love life. He’ll manipulate you to the point you’re totally dependant of him, his perfect delicate doll. Remember this guy is one perfectionist dude and he has very high standards, and as his partner, he expects you to meet at least some of them.

As a yandere, he’ll be pretty much the same, with the difference that he won’t look at anyone else and he’ll never be unfaithful. He’s a smooth motherfucker, and so he knows how to keep you with him subtitly without you noticing. He’ll isolate you from everyone else, planting seeds of suspicion in your mind and pushing you to overthink stuff and doubt everthing around you, becoming almost paranoid. He’ll deliberatly create situations than can be easily misunderstood so you come running to him for comfort, believing he was right all along, while he hugs you tightly and kisses your hair, smiling to himself at seeing you right where you’re supposed to be. He’ll use every dirty asshole trick during arguments to win. Gaslight, pulling out insecurities, emotional manipulation, everything. He’s mad at you for not behaving the way he wants to but he doesn’t want you to leave him either.  He’ll start fight with you with the twisted purpose of getting you to be vulnerable and having the excuse to put you in your place. He does everything for you and gets angry if you try to do stuff for him. Your autonomy is taken away and you can’t leave him. Ever. He has a way to make you feel so loved, so cared for, so desirable, that you won’t notice the darkness closing around you until it’s too late. 

As a normal person, he’s also territorial, but in a relatively healthy way. His caregiver complex is still off the roof tho. He feels like it's his duty (and also his joy) to take care of you and make sure you're content. This man, when he loves, he does wholeheartedly. He worships the ground you walk on, he sees you as a heaven sent angel just for him, he adores you and would give you the world if he could. He hates when you go to other people for comfort or advice, because in his eyes, who's gonna help you better than him? He lives off feeling needed, of having you rely on him. He doesn't let it get to the toxic point because he's mature like that, but there are times that he wishes he could hide you from the world and keep you to himself. If he's in a bad mood, the members know they only have to bring you where he is and suddenly it's all good. The bad mood might not always wear off, but at least he wouldn't snap at anyone if you're there.

He gets shy with other people's compliments, but with you? He pulls out the fuckboy manual. He loves to make you blush, push your body against him and whisper the most indecently, spiciest pick-up linea. Those wicked pick-up lines he's not allowed to use with Stay? You've heard all of them. His incessant need for control purrs when he has you all flustered and nervous under his hands, submitting for him. We treat it as a running joke but I truly believe this man is an Alpha in an alternative universe.

The type of bf to assert his claim over you by physical contact. Throwing an arm around your shoulders, grabbing you by the waist, pushing his hand in your lower back to guide you. He makes sure you're never far from him when you guys are out. Another dude staring at you too much? He moves right by your side or behind you to send him a message. He's another one that loves seeing you wearing his stuff. The type to place his coat/jacket on your legs or shoulders, not only to keep you warm, but also to mark you even further as his person.

Honestly most of your fights are because of his jealousy, because when it comes to other problems, he talks it out like a champ and communicates his feelings. The only thing that makes his blood boil is the idea of losing you, especially to someone else. He can't stand people getting close to what he considers his. Like I said, an Alpha.

If I don't stop here this post will never end. Feel free anyone to add your own opinion about the matter.

[sunwarmed-ash]

WIP wednesday

i've been rebinging House so the next chapter of Plenty to go around is essentially done. Unless the muse gets something else finished first that'll probs be sundays update

here's a teaser for ch 5 👀😈 vvvv

slut!chase, daddy kink, top!house, chase/everyone fic

Chase is showered and on his way back to the sleep lab when he's met with two highly unexpected, early morning visitors. 

Foreman’s been able to save face, and ass, for about 15 minutes, but when Chase walks in with still-damp hair and a sizable limp House & Wilson put two and two together and get slut. 

Wilson looks pleasantly amused between the two young men, whereas House’s eyes threaten homicide. 

“Well, I’m glad to see we’re upholding the Princeton Plainsboro standard of care in my absence,” House spits.

“The patient's fine-” Chase starts to insist but House is quick to shut him down. 

“Not talking to you.” 

Chase flushes red and his jaw snaps close with a click of his teeth.  

“Someone left Chase hanging,” Foreman laughs, folding his arms across his chest, “figured it was my turn to lend a helping hand.” 

Chase thinks it's ballsy, talking back to House like that. Maybe a little too ballsy. Just because the team was independently fucking Chase didn't mean their pecking order changed. 

“You’re interfering with his punishment. How can the slut learn if you undermine my authority?”

Foreman and House continue to glare at each other like they were a couple of cowboys about to draw their weapons at a high noon standoff. Foreman’s the first to fire. 

“Your training must not be that good,” Foreman shrugs, “Got him to cum twice with the cage on anyway.”

Chase clears his throat to cover an unexpected moan. And then every bit of House’s fury is suddenly directed at Chase. 

“He did what?”

“I-” Chase’s entire body flushes hot. There was nothing he could say to deny it. “I'm sorry.” 

The edge of House’s mouth raises in a smirk but Chase knows from experience that doesn't mean anything good for him. 

“Oooo naughty boy. Now Daddy’s going to have to spank you.”

---

They’ve relocated to House's office. 

The blinds are drawn but the doors aren't locked and as soon as he can, House pushes Chase down across his desk, yanks down his pants, and slaps his exposed ass cheek hard. 

“Fuck!” Chase howls, hips thrusting against the desk in an effort to get away from the stinging pain. That doesn't last long though, because when it takes too long for another swat to come, Chase is pushing his ass backward and wordlessly begging for another. 

“Nope, not if you enjoy it. Defeats the point of punishment,” House says before pushing the tip of his forefinger past the puffy entrance of Chase’s asshole. 

“AH!” Chase hisses.

“You're pretty swollen, you sore?”

“Yes Daddy…” Chase pants, resting his face back against the desk’s surface. 

“How about now,” House asks before rotating his forefinger to find Chase’s prostate. He pushes hard against it and-

“Ah!” Chase hisses, “Yes, fuck, oh my god…” 

“Good. It’s going to get worse,” House warns before he pushes a second finger inside. 

“Fuck. Daddy please…” Chase cries. His hands fly across the desk, knocking everything to the ground in an effort to find something to hold onto. The sting in his ass hurts, but the ache in his cock and balls has him begging for this to continue. 

“House…” Wilson warns, misreading Chase's noise. Chase had honestly forgotten the man was there.

House huffs his own irritation the doctors way. 

“Chase? You good?”

“YES! Please, please,” Chase pants desperately, “I’m sore, but I want it. Don’t stop.”

“See Jimmy. Nothing to worry about.” 

House twists his fingers and rubs again at his oversensitive prostate, Chase’s knees tremble so hard that if it wasn't for House’s desk, he’d fall on the floor. 

“Fuck…Daddy…”

“What? You want to cum? You don't deserve to.”

“I know, I know, I'm sorry,” Chase sobs, but in some ways he's not. Everything hurts, but just the way he likes. He’s got House’s full attention on him, and when he gets jealous, his fucks get rougher. His desire to mark his claim gets stronger. And Chase loves when that side comes out. 

“Foreman didn't cum in you?” 

“No. But I wanted him to.”

Chase can practically hear House’s eyes roll. 

“Of course you did, you want everyone to cum in you.”

“Please,” Chase blubbers. 

“What are you willing to do for it?” House asks, and before Chase can answer, House’s cock is sliding inside him and Chase melts against the desk with a pitiful whimper. 

“Hey,” House says, slapping Chase's ass, “I asked you a question.”

“Anything,” Chase groans, ass clenching hard around the man’s cock.  

“Anything?” House confirms, dragging his dick back out before thrusting sharply back inside. “Keep the cage on, for say, 3 days?”

“Hhhn,” Chase whines instead of answering because House has started up a steady pace, holding Chase’s hips firm. The angle puts immense pressure on his prostate and Chase’s whimpers only get louder. The desk squeaks under the strain, but there’s no way in hell anyone will stop. 

“Chase.”

Chase's answer gets punched out of him with the force of House’s next thrusts.

“Yes!” 

“A week?”

Chase’s legs are having a hard time keeping up with the thrusts.

“Y-yeah...” 

“2 months?” 

House’s next thrusts are intentionally deep. Chase feels his sanity sizzle and fry.  

“Fuck… yeah, yeah I would. I would, please- just,” Chase groans, unable to finish the sentence the next jab to his prostate leaves him gasping. 

“Wilson, put your dick in his mouth. If he keeps moaning, someone's gonna walk in here.”

[cinamun]

Now, by no means do I endorse teen sex, but teens are going to be teens and I raised two of them and I've never shied away from these topics with them. I was explicitly honest. You have to be, especially today. I didn't want them to do it not because they weren't 18 but because they weren't mentally mature enough to handle that responsibility. Teenagers think the world revolves around them and their worlds crumble at the slightest agitation. Everything is a big fucking deal at that age. Especially if you've been sheltered or have some privileges. The patriarchy started this shit by tying their worth as men to their wallets. Instead of just being kind and decent humans. We didn't set the standards, they did. Listen, truth be told my standards weren't as high as Indira's. Looking back, I wish someone would've pulled me to the side and told me. If they want to run game, make them pay. Only broke men get salty about the game anyway. Is it right NO, but it is what it is. And while I'm being honest, I would absolutely let Bishop fold me up like a pretzel. He can pull these dreads and do a little choke on the neck too. H's fine and looks like he smells goodt, I'd run my fingers through those curls and let him make me holla. Then leave whatever 5-star hotel we be staying at and block his number. Sometimes you just want to fuck the ain't shit nigga and then get the hell on.

"Sometimes you just want to fuck the ain't shit nigga." -Rich

Y'all sign up for a tee shirt in the back room. They're $25 dollars, come in black and white and sizes XS-XXXL. All funds received will go to restock the wings and cognac.

For my thesis I wrote about brain development and how the brain isn't fully mature until age 24. And the LAST to develop is the area of the brain that understands consequence. As Hope Diamond taught us, that's the prefrontal cortex. So while all these horny ass teenagers are running around cortex-less, fuckshit is BOUND to happen. Sometimes you get lucky and find a guy who sticks to his word and holds you accountable on top of the roof of the wrekka sto on prom night (and then you have twin babies with him). And sometimes you have to learn the game early because the patriarchy taught these niggas that you have a price and as long as they are hypermasculine with deep pockets, you belong to them (a certain OC whose name rhymes with windya).

Coming with the factuals as per usual, sis!

[anewnewcrest]

Chelsea: "So, what are you saying now that you've been here in Foxbury for a while?"

Riker: "I love it! The classes are so interesting, nothing like anything I've ever had in high school, and the library is amazing. David and Linc have to drag me out of there so I'll have some fun, too!"

David: "Don't act like you're some stick in the mud, Riker! You love all those parties we're going to - and your brother is the most popular with the ladies out of the three of us!"

Lincoln: "Yeah, even though I have no idea why! He's a total geek, and he looks the part! But living in the dorms is great - finally nobody to nag me, except for Riker, of course!"

Riker: "I'm not nagging, I just want to have some standard of cleanliness in my room!"

Chelsea: "I wish you'd been like that when we were still living at home!"

Riker: "Yeah... I apologize. I made this stuff so much harder for you than it should've been!"

Lincoln: "But girls like cleaning, that's what they're here for."

Chelsea: "LINCOLN EVANS! Are you fucking kidding me? Did that really just come out of your mouth?"

Lincoln: "But women were made to take care of men, that's why you exist! I don't even know what you're doing in college, you should be married by now!"

Chelsea: "I can't BELIEVE you said that, after being raised by your sister! And you two? Are you two just FINE with him spouting all of that misogynistic bullshit in front of you? Do you just pretend everything's fine when he puts down half the population?"

Riker: "Chelsea... I didn't even say anything..."

Chelsea: "Exactly! That's the fucking PROBLEM here! And Lincoln, you can forget about borrowing my Intro to Physics notes. If you think women are too dumb for college, you probably wouldn't want them anyway."

[unitedbydevils]

Mason Greenwood

A statement issued by Manchester United football club has declared that the investigative element of the Mason Greenwood internal enquiry is complete and a decision on his future with the club would be made very soon.

This near-pointless press release was almost immediately followed by an article from The Athletic which revealed CEO Richard Arnold has reportedly already told senior staff that Greenwood will be returning to United.

If Greenwood was getting moved on, this statement would have said that, so The Athletic's article does tally. There was also this shit phrasing midway through the document:

Manchester United has a responsibility to expect high standards of behaviour from players. While Greenwood was not tried in a court of law, he was charged by Greater Manchester Police for offences - acts for which there is related video and audio evidence.

Is it criminality if someone isn't found guilty? Perhaps not, but GMP and the CPS wouldn't casually 'nick' someone for attempted rape, engaging in controlling and coercive behaviour, and assault occasioning actual bodily harm if they weren't pretty sure they had a solid case.

Scott Patterson - Republic of Mancunia - raised some of the shit opinions we've all seen floating around on social media sites.

Why the fuck should I have to support another club? I've been to matches. I watch games. I support the the mens, womens and youth sides. I watch associated content. I've bought shirts and other merch. I subscribe to MUTV...

We have all made mistakes, but some are worse than others, and the charges levelled at MG are definitely amongst the worst. MG was not tried or convicted however, so he should be allowed to get on with life, but the club shouldn't grant him the privilege of being a United player.

Yeah, the police couldn't assess video and audio footage to check it's not fake 🧐

4. She might have forgiven him, but in October 2022 Mason Greenwood was re-arrested by Greater Manchester Police for breaching his bail. The terms? Not to make contact or attempt to contact the victim. Abusers often attempt to make contact, to repent or coerce. The CPS was rightly concerned by this possibility.

To clarify, I'm not saying that did happen, because i'm not an idiot who wants a libel suit against me, but it's public knowledge that he was arrested and the terms of his bail agreement.

5. There is, and hopefully the father has matured and apologised and won't commit any of the alleged offences ever again.

6. He's a footballer who was tipped to be a generational talent. If United bin him off, other teams will 100% sign him. Also, why does he have a right to play football for a living? Is the ordinary world of work below him? Could he not be a tradesman, or work in retail, perform an office job?

There's also a bonus one: 7. Who are you to judge him? I'm a man who has never abused or assaulted a partner in my life. I've made mistakes, as have we all. Too many people are out there accusing others of being 'holier than thou' but honestly, how low is the fucking bar if attempted rape, coercion, and ABH are seen as mistakes and not major red flags?!

So, what next. Hopefully the outrage on socials - as well as criticism from journalists - will outweigh the support for Greenwood and spur some pundits and ex pros into speaking out, which will then pressure the club. Not holding out for the ex players though.

Richard Arnold - at the very very least - needs to do a press conference to answer questions about Greenwood's return. I hope he doesn't take the coward's route of just doing it and bringing the lad back. We need answers.

Beyond that, I simply want Greenwood gone (as if this post had suggested anything other than that). He can have a career, just not at United. This is a new era for us. We're representing on two fronts these days: men and women. We must be a club for all, and harbouring abusers does not make us a safe and fair club for all fans to support or players to play for.

Does this mean I didn't like CR7? Damn straight. Ryan Giggs? Correct. George Best? 3 for 3 here. Talent doesn't excuse you of bad actions, nor does money.

So fucking angry tonight. This is a colossal shitshow. I might have to stop supporting my boyhood club because we're willing to be morally bankrupt just to win a few more football matches. Fuck right off.

More important than my hurt feelings are the women who feel abandoned by the club they love. If you agree with my sentiments then please go and support the 'Female Fans against Greenwood's return' group on Twitter/X. They're taking a lot of heat and flak on social for taking a stand, but it's important that the club takes the opposition to Greenwood's return seriously, and the more support we can lend to these women the better.

[anthraxplus]

the cultural phenomenon of barbenheimer has taken over my mind

i did barbenheimer with a friend yesterday and it really got me thinking.

first off - it was so weird having my local theatre be so busy. it's usually the theatre you can bet on being able to sneak anything into, and while we still definitely did sneak in a buttload of snacks, they had people actively waiting in the wings as ticket checkers. so it kinda sucked that we couldn't just do the whole thing for free. but that's a bit beside the point. the theatre was the busiest ive seen it in nearly 10 years. and i'm not gonna lie, seeing a "cultural event" happen in front of me was more jarring for that reason. and as the day went on, that image in my head stuck with me. the image that all these people showed up to watch barbie and oppenheimer.

we saw oppenheimer first, in a nearly empty theatre. we sorta did this by design - we started at 10am and picked oppenheimer first because less people would choose to be that insane. i was high and trying to get myself into an impartial mindset (even though i didn't think i would end up liking it). and i think all i should really say about oppenheimer is that it's 3 nearly endless hours that doesnt give anyone any time to breathe and ends up saying a bunch of confusing, disappointing, and outright false things. seriously, the amount of times the movie brushes off the fucking truth of the situation is absolutely disgusting. obligatory linking of shaun's video on hiroshima and nagasaki. i think everyone in the movie should be forced to answer why theyre proud of making 3 hour bland ass shit boring nuclear bomb apologia. this isn't even getting into how the famous oppenheimer quote is introduced by a manic pixie dream girl (who in reality was a stanford graduate and psychiatrist, neither of which i believe are ever touched on or expanded in the film) who hops off his dick mid-fuck, walks over to a bookshelf, picks the bhagavad gita off the shelf, opens it to the exact page and verse of the famous quote, asks him to read, and slides back on his dick between "now i am become death" and "destroyer of worlds." this movie released to critical acclaim. some are calling it a masterpiece.

after some burritos for lunch, my friend and i went to barbie. this was a packed theatre and mostly everyone was wearing pink. the red in my hair has faded to a pink, so i felt like i was part of something. kinda. anyway. some little kids were loud in the front but it wasnt much of an issue. i kept thinking of them whenever the movie would say something about the struggle to find identity in a world that hates you no matter what you do. did those little children listen to margot robbie say that she doesnt have a vagina? did they parse that? it was a great movie, if a bit scattershot. it shouldve been longer, if only to fully flesh out a couple ideas and help the movie feel a little less cramped. but they would never make a 2.5 (let alone 3) hour barbie movie that talks about not just what it means to be a woman, but what it means to be human in a world that is so often contradictory hostile and praising of you. what happens when the Other we defined ourselves by isn't static? do we become different as well in relation to them? do we stay the same? do we do both? what are women supposed to do in the world when everything they do is wrong but they're never allowed to stop doing anything? how do men develop their own identity when they are so often raised into mindsets where their individuality is replaced by similarly contradictory standards and a definition that only exists in relation to women? what did ken mean when he said he had "all the genitals?" barbie is far from perfect, but it manages to ask more honest and thought provoking questions (and offers its own interesting answers) about the nature of reality than oppenheimer does.

i'm struck by the dichotomy on display here. barbie may be the more financially successful of the two films, but it is not treated the same critically. for all barbie says, it seems to get overlooked for its (still impressive) design and acting. its metacommentary is mentioned but never discussed. its "witty meta humor" is listed as a huge selling point. oppenheimer, in contrast, is a vain and shallow film that says nothing and looks somewhat cool doing it. i wonder if there are any parallels here.

i worry for what this means for movies. a nearly empty theatre for a self-important movie that lists itself as its reason for existing is treated as if it says anything at all, and a packed theatre for a movie with a script similarly packed with commentary on our very state of being gets boiled down to "cute sets and witty banter." what did the audience members take from their barbenheimer experience? my area is not very progressive, and in my experience not very invested in growth of any kind. when america ferrera delivers one of the many theses of barbie in a tear-inducing frustrated monologue on how she's never seen as good enough no matter what she does, did the audience members feel seen? did they feel understood? or did they want her to stop talking so they could go back to looking at the cool barbie dream houses? when oppenheimer breezes through the discussion of which innocent cities to burn in an unholy fire with all the tact and deliberation a group of friends has when deciding where to have lunch, did the audience feel slighted? disgusted? or did they just want to see einstein on screen again like he's an iron man cameo?

i dont know where we go from here. it feels like a tipping point for what we want from movies, and i'm not sure audiences learned anything from the past 10 to 15 years of set-ups, tie-ins, and spin-offs. i want to believe something will come of the fact that so many people are seeing barbie. maybe, hopefully, something in it sticks with people and inspires some sort of change. just the smallest amount of evolution. right now i too feel like barbie when she sits in a park and looks around at everything the human experience has to offer, and starts crying from both joy and sorrow. a woman who is so often seen as disposable and empty understands the human condition in a way she cant express, and is overwhelmed by the crushing beauty and fragility it all rests upon. she is a human before she knows she is. she doesnt know who she is, but she knows she still Is. existence is confusing and no one knows what to do about it, and the least we could do is support each other as we figure out who we've always been. i hope this is what sticks with people instead of some half-audible dialogue about how hiroshima and nagasaki were justified. time will tell, though.