#who spent a decade as a teenager shutting out every single person she could. which was easy bc. it's space

[secondhand-sonder]

girls when the kindness is still there despite everything

[prorevenge]

Manipulative Power hungry Aunt torments my family for years. Costs her $300000

Dealt with my shitty manipulative abusive Aunt all my life, finally got revenge.

Players: Myself (M late 30s), Sister (3 year younger), Aunt (Older "Sister" to my Mother), Mother (Single Mom, adopted, no blood relation to my Aunt). Cousins (3 total, 1M, 2F. I have good relationships with them now, mostly).

My estranged father who had been living several counties over, is pretty much out of the picture by the time my parents got their divorce when I was 9. Due to financial hardship, we were forced to live with my Aunt and the nightmare of a household we would soon find ourselves in. My Aunt married into Georgia "Wealth" and you can figure out what that means on your own. She had 3 kids and eventually caught her husband having an affair. It's a huge scandal, she gets the house, the kids and a fat payout from the family attorney. This is important because my Aunt didn't do a damn thing in her life to earn her money, her house, her lifestyle or basically anything. She was born poor along with my Mom.

Under her household, she was drunk with power. Years of therapy have allowed me to recognize that certain people when in a position of power, get a perverse pleasure in ordering others to do their bidding. She was the strictest of authoritarians in every possible way you could imagine. Chores had to be completed by an exact specific time. Vacuuming by 3:45pm, Dishes by 3:55pm, Laundry days for my Mother us kids were Tues/Thurs 5:35pm-7:55pm. If it was still running, she would shut the power off for the two units. As we grew older, her own kids opted to stay with their father for full time custody and she had them on Weekends. Even they couldn't stand her when she was in charge and in the house. As time passed, she got them less and less opting for alternating weekends as Highschool activities took precedence over time with Mother.

For my sister and I, the large 6 bedroom house was not ours for the taking. My mom had to pay rent as well as rent for 1 bedroom as that was all she could afford on her salary. We had to share a bedroom until my second year of HS. All the while there was 1 spare unused bedroom available at all times. My Aunt needed this for "Guests" when they stayed over. Not one guest stayed there in the 10 years I was under that roof. Finally the church we attended told my Aunt to give up the spare bedroom so my sister can have her own room as it was "unhealthy" for two teenagers sharing a room together like that. That infuriated my Aunt because someone told her what to do in her own household. My sister and I got the brunt of her wrath. As my Mom's salary was tapped out, my sister and I had do extra chores like mowing the lawn, trimming the shrubs, cleaning the pool which we could no longer use without her being outside watching us.

My Aunt's behavior was becoming more and more outrageous and disconnected from society. For example, she had always snapped her fingers when she wanted to get someones attention, but it was getting far more frequent and she would blow up into a tirade if either my sister and I didn't obey. Her own kids tried repeatedly to tell her that the shit she was doing was wrong but she wouldn't listen.Eventually they wanted nothing to do with her outside of the home. She was a tyrant there and repeated intervention to get her to see the folly of her ways would fall on deaf ears.

I Snapped:

All through HS I had no confidence as a person. I was weak willed and growing ever distant from friends and society. I say this in all truthfulness and fear, that had circumstances continued the way they had been going, I could very well had taken a gun to myself or worse, to others around me. I was that bad off.

I had just graduated HS and started my first semester of community college. I'm 2 weeks into my classes attending from home when my Aunt drops a bomb on me. "You owe me $$$ for this months rent, the same amount for next months rent as well. It is the 27th after all. You're an Adult now. You're out of HS and working now, so you need to pay rent" The fuck? I blew a fucking gasket as I yelled back. "You can't just suddenly decide to charge me rent just because you feel like it. I need 30 days notice, I have rights".

My Aunt yelled at me some bullshit excuse that she had discussed this with my mother and it was decided that I needed to pay my own rent now. In some miraculous backbone move, of which I still have no idea how I stood up to her, I yelled right back at her, "If I'm an Adult, then treat me like and talk to me about rental agreements. I'll start paying you rent in 30 days starting the 1st." I turned my back to her and walked away with my fists balled tight. I was furious with anger but I walked away. My Aunt saw my fists from behind and screamed bloody murder that I was going to attack her. No, I wasn't. She snapped her fingers at me repeatedly on my tail to get my attention but I didn't turn around. I needed to cool off and clear my head. As I turned the corner, she grabbed my wrist hard yelling "I'm not finished talking to you". I threw my still balled up fist forward keeping with my stride to break her grip as I hadn't stopped my momentum. This caused her grabbing arm to slam hard into the corner of the wall that I had just turned into. She screamed in pain but I left the house and took off.

The aftermath of that incident was that my Aunt called the cops on me in an attempt to press charges. She was taken to the hospital and suffered a fractured wrist and she was put in a cast/sling (don't know as I never saw it and never inquired further). Her story changed every time she told the cops what happened while my story was spot on every time. I can still recall that moment down to the smell in the house, where I was facing, the working and non-working lightbulbs etc. Forever ingrained in me. I was kicked out of the house and I couldn't visit my sister or my Mom there at the house again. Fine by me as I didn't want to see my bitch Aunt ever again. I was happy to meet my Mother and sister at the local diner or outlet. We could be ourselves there and not hostages in our own home.

Years Later:

My Mom wised up and got out of that abusive relationship with her sister and moved out on her own. She got a temporary nice place, invested wisely and with the help from the church, got help getting a place of her own. In 2009 after the housing crisis, she bought her own place that she could never have afforded on her own prior the Market crash. But some good came out of it. She wept knowing my Sister (and her family) and myself can come visit any time and stay.

Over the years I've been able to forgive my Aunt. Not forget, Forgive. I've let go a lot of my anger and hatred toward her that she put me through. When she has no leverage or control over us, she's a somewhat decent person for being a total bitch of a person. My Cousin's have calmed down, heard my side of what happened those years ago and know what kind of person I am compared to what kind of person their Mother is. They chose to believe me and know I didn't hit her or strike her or beat her across the face like she continues to claim.

The Revenge:

While I have been able to forgive my Aunt for what she has done to me, I cannot forgive her for what she did to my Mother. Kept her in financial hardship for a decade while she sat on a bank account full of cash and assets. Or what she did to my Sister. Forced her to pay for damages because the water heater burst while my Aunt and Mother was away one weekend leaving my sister at home. She didn't discover the flooded rooms for hours. My Aunt's reasoning, "It was her responsibility to watch the house." Not the responsibility of the home owner to maintain/replace the water heater before it goes. Lets leave that Upfront $5000 financial burden before the Flood insurance kicks in on a 16 year old girl.

I've had little to no contact with my Aunt since I was kicked out of the house nearly 2 decades ago. But I do keep in constant contact with my cousins. While I'm not going to divulge what I do for a living, I can say that I work with and for the Government. I've worked my ass off getting to where I'm at today. I'm known for being truthful, wise and giving good advise when asked. Because of this, I often talk financially with my cousins. All of whom are money-smart and are doing well for themselves. They often then relay this information to their scheming mother who has no mind for business and investments. All that money she got from her house sale, her divorce settlement, her previous investments is pretty much gone. I spent YEARS planning on the perfect trap and it took a long time to prepare everything to make sure everything appeared right.

IANAL and I don't pretend to know the law but I do know the regulations and laws pertaining to insider information. This is not that. 100% certain of it and if I ever go to court, I know my lawyer has a solid case in my defense. But is this a grey area, most definitely. I let slip to my Cousins about some future real estate plans near my Aunt's new area of living. It "may" be worth a lot more because of future development taking place in the area. All of that was true and backed up by what was in the News paper and New Construction signs that newly appeared on Google Maps (at the time). The rest was fabricated by myself backed up by actual information I looked up on real estate websites and on projects I was working on through my work.

The Telephone game takes place and a few weeks later I presume, my Aunt starts making phone calls to real estate agents trying to buy lots of Land in the undeveloped shitty area of her new house. Over the course of a few months to a half a year, she spends $300,000 of her last remaining savings on land hoping it will pay out when the area around it gets developed in the upcoming years.

Only, HUD/Government/City doesn't have any plans to develop in those immediate areas. In fact, analysis showed that building in those areas was poor planning and would cost the tax payers twice to three times as much as the land was not environmentally sound. It was best to build 6 miles away.

This post was long overdue because it's been over 2 years since my Aunt purchased Land that is basically worthless. See, she won't sell the land unless she gets at least the same price she paid for it because she's the OWNER of that land. Can't tell her what to do on her own land. Sweet Karma strikes in a way I couldn't possibly have foreseen. My cousin informed me that the value of the land has decreased significantly because it's not environmentally sound to build anything commercial there. But it's zoned for commercial use. Currently 3 of the 4 blocks of land she purchased are just weed farms next to eye sore abandoned buildings or industrial complexes. Nobody can build on it and nor does anyone want to buy it. Sucks to be her!

Best part is, my cousins have absolutely no idea that I set them up for their Mother to take the fall. These environmental results are relatively new and the perfect cover to say why the Project changed locations 6 miles away.

TL:DR Abusive Aunt torments my family and myself for a decade and more. Decades later, I am in a position to trick her buying worthless land. Icing on the cake, that land can't be used for it's intended purpose and has devalued significantly.

(source) story by (/u/Limecherrry)

[sssuperbartola]

Head first Into Love

ok ok ok okokokokokOK, SO! Hear me out. There was this video on Instagram that had HUGE Inukag vibes, and I had to write something about it because come oooooon this is them, 100%.

So. I had this idea, right? Then it turned into a little one shot featuring our beloved OTP Inukag in that particular scenario and later on I decided to dedicate this as a late super incredibly God help me say how much I procrastinated on this bday gift for our beloved @keichanz aka Lusty, aka our Lady and Saviour The Queen Slut, and of cooooooouursssssee...I completely wasted 3 months into writing this thing AND LEMME TELL YA, it did took a lot of time, trying to find inspiration or just the will to live ya know?

BUT, it is finally finished!

And now everyone can finally indulge in some “best friends to lovers real quick” Inukag Modern!AU, featuring the come back of TikTok! YAAAAAAAY!

And again: HAPPY LATE BDAY @keichanz ! LOVE YA BELLA FENICE!

I’m outside

Kagome quickly sent the text on her phone and leaned back in her car seat. She made a point to turn off the car engine as soon as she parked right in front of her best friend’s house, already knowing he would not be ready on time, like usual. 

And people complain about women taking too much time to get ready! 

Obviously they never met Inuyasha. 

No matter how much effort he put into looking like “he just woke up like that”, that guy sure had his own beauty schedule - caring for his absurdly long silver hair and being on top of his list. Kagome had now learned every single trait about him, which only made it even easier for her to tease him whenever the occasion arose. Nothing wrong with a little self-care. Since his hair was such a huge part of his own persona it wasn’t unexpected from him; Kagome herself had lustrous hair to take care of. 

Still, she at least planned in advance, which he did not, and that was what she teased him about the  most. Speaking of which...

i hope u’re at least half way through ur hair, or i can just come back in 2 hours

She hit ‘send’ while biting her own lip in a futile attempt to restrain the shit-eating grin on her face. She could almost picture him, with a scowl on his face, and a long frown while looking at his phone. 

When he didn’t reply immediately she assumed he was indeed too preoccupied with his silver mane to answer her - or at least check for her message - which only further supported her theory. Really, Kagome couldn’t help but think about how much more comfortable they had become, to the point in which she could so openly joke with him and not fear him barking at her, like he did with other not-so-close friends.

Sure, it has never been that easy from the start. With them having almost completely opposite personalities their first meetings were mostly a back and forth of witty remarks. Primarily name calling - they were kids, what kinds of conversations were they supposed to have? - and generally, them ignoring the other’s presence. 

It wasn’t until a particular day, when both their parents were late to pick them up from Kindergarten, that they caved and spent some time talking to pass the time and to feel less lonely. Turns out, they weren’t all that bad, and were much better company than they had thought. The image they had for each other completely vanished and left in its place a friendship that still lasted to this day. 

Thinking back, Kagome couldn’t help the small smile that appeared on her face. The affection she held for that boy never ceased, but only grew stronger each moment they spent together, and Inuyasha never failed to remind her of the same. They had been together through thick and thin, talked each other up for important events, they confided in each other, had even their own arguments like everybody else… But in the end there was nothing that could break such strong bonds.

She sighed, absentmindedly looking around the nearby houses from her car window, once in a while glancing back at Inuyasha’s to see if the half-demon would appear at all. Of course, he was nowhere in sight, and that made her heavily sigh yet again, this time not just out of exasperation. 

Because there was still something Kagome had kept hidden from Inuyasha for quite some time now… And that was the huge crush she developed for her lifetime best friend. 

Clichè, true, but what can you really do about it? You can’t tell your heart who to fall in love with. 

To her credit, she did try dating a couple of guys already - with Inuyasha always there to encourage and support her, which only made her even more lovesick for the man. It left her unable to take things further with the guy she was seeing, because she only had one guy she truly cared about...And that was a certain stubborn, smug and - for quite a few years - devilishly handsome half-demon. 

She never found herself comfortable enough with other guys as she did with him, and while she did try to come to terms with it, thinking that it would never happen, something inside of her screamed to just come out with it already and be done. 

She couldn’t make these feelings fly away, so the least she could do was to put them on the table and see what happened. Because, let’s face it: Inuyasha had never been into “more than friends” - or at least that’s the vibe he went with for all these years - so she didn’t have that much to go with. Regardless, to be thoroughly done with this whole thing, Kagome had to act, and today was the day.

Looking back at Inuyasha’s house one more time to make sure she had time, she quickly unlocked her phone to open her latest discovery in technology: TikTok. 

Because if she had to blame anything for what was about to happen, that was this godforsaken app which, somehow, got her an idea on how to even do this whole confession thing better. After endlessly scrolling through the videos, she stumbled across a trend where people - ok, teenagers mostly - recorded their love confessions to their best friends and, from what she saw, most of them turned out pretty good. 

Everyone was happy and with their own happy ending and she would be lying if she said that she wasn’t a bit jealous of them. 

It looked so easy for them, and her heart beat faster each time she tried to imagine her and Inuyasha in one of those situations. And that’s where the idea came: ‘why don’t I record it?’ she thought. 

Because of course it wasn’t like he could’ve rejected her with a phone recording them, right? 

Nothing to be embarrassed about, right?? 

Best case scenario: she had the event saved and cherished on her phone forever, something she and Inuyasha could rewatch over and over. Worst case scenario: she would delete it and then shut herself in her room, never coming out again and remaining single forever. 

Yeah, that was a great plan.

She gripped the steering wheel and... she was shaking? ‘Oh great, anxiety is what I really need right now...’ Kagome mentally whined. 

What the hell was wrong with her today?! 

It’s Inuyasha we’re talking about! Her best friend. This was just a normal day off for them after a loaded week of work. They were going to take a stroll in the city, maybe grab some food, and eventually, she would force herself to finally tell the man she has known for more than a decade that she loved him. 

Who knows? 

It is just 4:30 pm on a Saturday - there are endless possibilities, right?

Suddenly, her phone buzzed, snapping her back to reality. It was a reply from Inuyasha. ‘At last, he’s alive’ she thought.

gimme more time woman, you came 2 early

Kagome snorted, rolling her eyes into the back of her head as if she could hear his half-assed gruff tone. She shot back:

i’m as punctual as i can b, now get ur hair done or we’ll b late

don’t tell my hair what to do

fine, ur butt then

don’t tell my butt what to do either :P

He was such a dumbass, and yet she was utterly, hopelessly, in love with him. Their little exchange did manage to calm her down a bit, but she couldn’t be too distracted right now. She needed to get herself together, damn it! She had a mission to complete. 

Kagome took a deep breath and prepared her phone. She opened the recording section on the TikTok app, put it on a holder, just above the AC and, as she saw a familiar white mane and a dashing carminic red t-shirt coming towards her, she pressed record, just before Inuyasha opened the car door and climbed in.

“Hey there,” he greeted with all the carefreeness in the world.

“About time, did you get your makeup done?” Kagome smirked.

“Dunno what ya talking about - I’m handsome by nature,” he shot back, a grin plastered on his face.

“Yeah, suuuure, I’ll pretend I didn’t have to wait for a full 30 minutes after we agreed to meet... Actually 30 minutes ago!” she replied sarcastically, shooting him a not-so-impressed look.

Inuyasha all but mimicked her expression. “Ya know you could’ve just come inside and waited for me there, right? It’s not like you’re relegated to the driveway.”

“Yeah? Well, ya know that...” and so they continued to get even more foolish and more ridiculous, to the point they busted out laughing, tears in their eyes. Even though they completely missed the whole point of their banter, Kagome couldn’t help but get happier and sillier every time she and her best friend engaged in roast wars. 

It was moments like this, when her chest was bursting with happiness, that she was reminded of how lucky she was to have met Inuyasha. 

It wasn’t until their laughter died and their breathing slowly evened that she remembered her phone was still recording. A quick glance to where it was discreetly hidden was enough to make her mind snap back to her original plan. 

The sudden moment of silence that followed forth was Kagome’s cue to act. 

It was her moment.

With one more furtive glance towards her phone, she felt her jaw set and her heartbeat furiously thunder in her chest. Then she turned to Inuyasha, first with her eyes, then with her whole head.

 She couldn’t have foresaw that Inuyasha was facing her as well, yet she could’ve sworn that he looked...nervous? Worried? 

She didn’t have time to process that.

It all happened in a blink of an eye, but it felt heavy as if in slow motion.

And then…

B O N K!

One second she was staring into those beautiful golden eyes...and the next she was holding her forehead with her hands in pain. Actually, her forehead and her nose, too, were throbbing with pain. She let out a long hiss in between her gritted teeth, already picturing a livid on her face next morning.

She held to them for dear life, trashing back and forth in her seat, and while she tried to regain some control, some violent shuffling on her right caught her attention, and after forcefully peering one eye open, she looked at her side.

And Inuyasha was there, face flushed red while his hands were tightly pressing on his nose, his whole body shaking because of...laughter? 

Was he laughing? 

Did she hit her head so hard she wasn’t seeing straight? ‘What’s wrong with-’

Then, something dawned on her. And she bursted out laughing too.

Because in the midst of her actions, to try and go for Inuyasha’s mouth, she hadn’t realized he had done the same thing. They synchronized their movement so well, that they ended up smashing their faces together, in a weird attempt to kiss each other.

The moment their eyes met, another fit of laughter overcame them, so strong that it had them both gasping for air, faces beetle red - both for the pain and the embarrassment - and completely trashed. A good while passed before they could even breathe enough air to make some sort of thoughts.

With tears in their eyes, it wasn’t long before they realized something incredible just happened.

“Did you just...tried to kiss me?” Inuyasha breathed, his chest still heaving as he tried to breathe. His expression was a good mix of awe and relief. Kagome took in his appearance, almost forgetting to answer the question.

 “W-ell, weren’t you also...trying to kiss me?” she timidly replied, unable to completely meet his gaze, but only managing to glance back and forth between him and her surroundings.

“That doesn’t answer my question, Ka-go-me” Inuyasha teased, the amusement in his voice barely hidden. 

Kagome finally swung her head so fast towards him, an expression of utter disbelief on her face. “Yeah well-! Y-you came onto me too! What does that mean then, Inu-ya-sha?” she all but sang to him, while also inching just a little bit towards him.

“I didn’t come onto you, I was leaning forward! You’re the one who smashed her face on mine!” “Oh, come on, it wasn’t that hard! You’re such a whiny baby!” she huffed.

“Correction: a whiny baby that you tried to kissssssss...” Inuyasha dragged out the words while never dropping his huge smirk. A smirk that Kagome wanted to wipe out of his face. Possibly with even more kisses- Anyway!

“Oh you! - wait... you were leaning towards me,” Kagome pondered out loud, her brows furrowed, “...you were... does that mean…?” she breathed the last part, chocolate eyes coming back to look at Inuyasha.

An impish smile tugs at his lips, “Keh!... I guess the cat’s out of the bag, uh?”. He set his eyes on her, his face still red as a tomato. Kagome searched through his eyes and could only see genuine tenderness in them, and it was enough to make her heart soar.

A stupid grin appeared on her face “...You really feel that way?”

Inuyasha can’t help but grin back at her. “Yeah, I do… And...I have for a long time, actually.”

Kagome couldn’t suppress the little gasp of surprise that came out of her as one small hand covered her mouth. There was a glint in her eye that made her whole face lit up even more, making her even more beautiful in Inuyasha’s eyes.

“I...me too” she murmured softly.

The hanyou chuckled, incredulous at her words. 

“Damn... all this time?”

She nodded. 

“Guess we’re both hopeless dorks.” 

He turned to face her fully, one of his hands making its way to tenderly hold her hand as they laid listlessly in her lap. He gently squeezed them, then tenderly whispered to her, “I don’t mind that in the least.”

Kagome squeezed his hands back, she felt as if her heart might escape her chest at any moment, the love she had for this man so strong.

Never in a million years could’ve she imagined that not only her best friend was indeed in love with her, but that he also had felt this way for such a long time.

She inched closer to him, firmly holding him in her gaze.

“Yeah, me neither.”

Golden orbs stared back at chocolate-brown ones, the silence between them never once awkward or too heavy. They basked in each other's presence, without the need of any futile comment or explanation.

Ignoring the soreness of their noses, they both leisurely leaned forward. One of Inuyasha’s hands snaked around Kagome’s neck, and his fingers wove into her long hair; she placed her hand on top of his smooth, solid chest - her fingers softly gripping his shirt. 

Soon their lips met in a delicate kiss, all the while Kagome’s phone silently recorded their magical moment.

[joannaoftarth]

Should I continue this?

Tags: Sex Worker!AU, escort!Jaime, voyeurism, loneliness, longing

 - - - -

Taking a deep breath, Brienne takes a look around, hands on her hips, her thin blue top clinging to her sweaty chest. Finally done. The last box unpacked. Brienne Tarth, daughter of a little island with same name in the Stormlands, raised by a single dad, mocked for her looks her entire life, after more of a decade of hard work, has made it to the top. CEO of the most succesful high-class security company in Westeros, she has just moved into the famous Red Keep, the high-priced apartment building for the rich and beautiful. Well, she isn't beautiful. But hella rich. If she told her young, hard studying teenage self how much money she'd have one day, she'd never have believed her. She could probably buy Tarth at this point. After all, it has been family owned once upon a time. Brienne pins the thought to her mental wall of plans and goes to take a long bath in her ridiculously big bath tub. Finally, she can actually relax in a bath. Over an hour she enjoys the hot water, the bath salts and the meditating music. Tomorrow, the stress will hit her full force. She needs to be prepared. What she isn't prepared for is the view from her bedroom on her return. She doesn't have curtains yet and the building resembles a fork, meaning the next row of apartments is right across from her. And - for whatever reason - the curtains aren't drawn either. Brienne's jaw drops. A woman, pressed against the window. Naked. A man behind her. Also naked. The first is holding on for dear life as the second's trying to pound her through the glass, apparently. From the sweat on his face and chest she can tell they've been at it for some time. A shudder runs through Brienne. Tension builds in her abdomen. Heat rises from between her legs up her body, flushing her cheeks. His tight grip on her. His puffed up chest, the drops of sweat running down his defined muscles, making them glisten in the sparse light that's coming from somewhere to the right. His jaw clenched, his full blonde hair sticking to his forehead. He's an animal rutting into that poor woman (who doesn't look in pain at all). Suddenly, as if he's heard her thought, he looks up - straight into her eyes. Brienne freezes to the spot. She can't move. She can't breathe. She can't think. Like an idiot - or a pervert - she simply stands there and watching two people have sex. Dressed in merely a royal blue bathrobe. And the guy has the audacity to smirk at her. He doesn't stop. He doesn't slow down. He just smirks at and carries on. She keeps watching him. A few minutes and then he comes, his beautiful face turning into a grimace. Brienne can feel it. She feels it like a tiny explosion that's sending wave after wave of  shameful pleasure rushing through her. Seven hells, she's coming. Coming with him. They are totally in sync. When he's done, so is she, breathless and...alone. She looks up at him, feeling cold and so fucking empty, and he is looking right back, chest heaving. The smirk is gone and for a moment she imagines she can see...understanding. Finally, she runs. Back into the bathroom, where she's going to hide for an hour, trying not to die from embarrassment. Curtains. She definitely needs curtains. Tomorrow. At first light.

~oOo~

Brienne gets the curtains. Blue and pink, the colours of her old family sigil which still hangs above the mantel in Evenfhall Hall on Tarth. While she is hanging them up, he is watching her. Wearing a jeans, bare chested, a cup of coffee in his hand. His hair wet from the shower. It's 2 in the afternoon. Did he just get up? Don't engage, she thinks sternly and climbs on the foot latter, concentrating on hanging the blasted curtains. She thinks it again when he waves at her, smirking that knowing smirk. Her fingers work faster and as soon as they are on the rails, she angrily pulls them close. Keeps them drawn for a month. Works like crazy for a month. But then... But then, one night, when she's stressed, exhausted and lonely, her eyes are straying to the curtains. Wondering. It's after midnight. Too late? Not late enough? Maybe he isn't there. ...Maybe he is. Brienne withdraws her eyes, tries to focus on something else. Looks around in her giant apartment, walks the rooms for something to do. All she hears is silence. Her feet carry her back into the bedroom. To the curtains. Feeling somewhat save cloaked in darkness, her long fingers curl into the heavy cotton. Pulls it to the side, only one blue eye peeping through. He's there. Gods, he's there. And she watches. Watches him fuck this woman. A different one. Watches him thrust into her. Watches his hands grab her hips, her shoulder...her neck. Feels the ghosts of his fingers on her skin. The ghost of his cock inside of her. Like before, arousal floods her and her eyes focus on his face, this beautiful face, drinking in his sight, the power of his hips, the strong stance, the surity of his every move. When he comes, so does she. The woman is laughing and turns around, they speak and joke. They kiss. She hates it. The woman pats his cheek and slaps his ass as she walks away from the full length window. He chuckles, turns and looks after her (giving Brienne an excellent view of his absolutely perfect little hiny), runs a hand through his full blonde hair - and turns back to the window. Giving her the front view. Dear Gods in the seven heavens. And then he smiles at her. Directly at her. Brienne shrieks and jumps back, her heart pounding in her chest. How did he- ?! ~oOo~ Although she doesn't want to, she returns to the window. Night after night after night. For almost a month. She finds out his routine. And it is a routine. It's almost always the same. He brings home a woman - there are so many! -, he pours them a drink, they talk for  a while on the couch. Until he gives them that smile (it's so different from the ones he gives her, so...fake), takes their drink out of their hand, kisses their neck - and then the rest. Even from the distance she can see how fantastic he is. The women all leave satisfied. None of them stays over, never. He always showers after and, only wearing sweats, spends an hour or so in a black leather lounger, nursing a tumblr of alcohol, staring into the darkness - or at her. Sometimes, she lets him, her cheeks aflame with shame and embarrassment. It's only fair. In these moments, Brienne realizes how very alone she is. Because this, them sitting in their loungers and staring at each other gives her so much comfort. There is a calmness in his eyes that somehow soothes her to a point where she goes to bed and sleep. Sometimes, he watches her. She leaves her curtains open wide enough for him to see her as she settles in. He's always there, standing right in front of the window, giving her a sweet little smile. Watching over her until she falls asleep.   She hasn't slept that well in years. ~oOo~ If it had been up to her, it could have gone like this forever. Brienne was sleeping well, was attacking her day relaxed and energetic. It is one of these mornings, however, when this little bubble bursts. He's there. In the elevator. Her elevator. It dings, the doors slide open and. There. He. Is. Wearing shades and that damned smirk. Brienne's heart goes full stop. As does her mind and her body. He has to hold the door open for her. His arrogant chuckles shakes her out of it. She hates how this little noise rains down her back, leaving goosebumps. It turns her instinct to flee into stubborness. Straightening to her full height, she steps into the cabin. Her heart is pounding like crazy. She presses the button to the lobby and takes a step back. It's a long way down. Silently she begs him to not say a word. He does. "You smell lovely." She wants to punch him in the face. When he receives no answer, he chuckles. Adjusts his shades. He smells fantastic. He reaches into the backpocket of his very tight jeans and pulls out a card. Holds it out ot her. Brienne stares at it for a long moment. A golden lion on white paper. Then at his hand. She's spent hours watching his hand. A shiver down her front, pooling between her legs. She hates that her fingers are shaking when she finally takes the damn card. As she turns it around, her heart skips a beat. His name. His number. Jaime. It fits him perfectly. He couldn't have had a different name. Her heart is thumping in her throat. Involuntarily, her eyes rise up to his. Damn those shades. She would have loved to see those eyes. She never quite figured out if they are green or blue. His smile gets crooked and she realizes her mouth is hanging open. She snaps it shut. She doesn't know what to do. To say. How to act. At work, she has a firm personality in place. Confident, firm but fair. She can't slip into it now. This man has seen her in a towel. In her nightshirt. She has seen this man naked, having sex, climaxing and post-coital. She has seen him on his knees giving oral countless of times. Shouldn't she have the upper hand? Shouldn't she be the confident one? As if he is reading her mind, he explains all of these past weeks with one sentence: "I'm a whore." Brienne blinks. He is still smiling. "Companion. That's the fancy word the rich use. But in the end, that's what it is. They pay me, I fuck them. Sometimes accompany them to an event, a party, a charity, you name it. I clean up nice. You should see me in a tux." Another smirk. "I have time in my schedule for one more client." She's so busy trying to comprehend what is happening that she is completely missing what he is offering. "W-what?" she stumbles like an idiot. He takes a step towards her. Takes off his sunglasses. Green. His eyes are green. A deep, crystal sea green. Beautiful. His touch comes so unexpected she flinches. Once again she freezes to the spot. His fingertips slide up her bare arm. Goosebumps explode on the entirty of her skin. She doesn't like being touched. She longed to be touched by him for weeks. And now it's happening and her mind is so fuzzy she can't believe it's truly happening. Jaime... His eyes. His eyes. "I'll take good care of you", he whispers, his voice so soft, his look so tender. I'm not a ten-year-old, she wants to shout at him. Doesn't. Instead her lips part and she leans in. A flash of something in his eyes she recognizes too late. All of a sudden his hand is in her neck and he's pulling her down and - His lips are warm. Incredibly soft. When his tongue comes, she parts her lips and lets it in. A noise comes out of her she's never heard before. Immediately his arms come around her, pull her close. So close. He's so warm. So strong. So very strong. She sways. Wants to steady herself. "I've got you, sweetling", he whispers against her lips. Kisses her again. Tears fill her eyes. Before she knows what she's doing she's clinging to him like a drowning woman. He's so wonderfully tall and strong. For the first time in her life she doesn't feel like a freak in a man's arms. He's got her. She never wants to stop kissing him. Unfortunately, the elevator dings and the doors slide open. "Oh my!" Brienne jumps out of his arms. With a head red as a tomato she mumbles a hasty apology to the elderly woman waiting to get in the elevator. His hand curls around her wrist, but she pulls herself free and runs. Her driver Podrick hesitantly makes her aware that her lipstick is smeared. Brienne spends the next few minutes fixing it. Her fingers shaking. Her heart drumming. His taste lingering in her mouth.

 - - - 

What do you think? This is just a first, rough draft. But I think there should be more sex worker AUs in our ship. I’m also playing around with an escort!Brienne idea...

Oh maaaaaan, all these plot bunnies. Will they ever get written?!

[marvelousbirthdays]

Happy Birthday, anerdykat

February 14- Brock Rumlow/Trip/Skye. I'll leave first words up to the author, but I'd love for it to start in San Juan and Brock to have been working UC for Fury, spying on Whitehall, for @anerdykat

Written by @ozhawkauthor 

Brock knew everything was going to shit when Agent 33 called in from Vancouver to let them know she’d failed to capture Raina. Whitehall was seriously pissed off SHIELD thwarted his brainwashed agent.

“She got a tracker on the bitch, at least,” Whitehall said, looking at his phone and the moving dot on it. “I’m sending Ward to retrieve her. Go with him, Rumlow; take a quinjet squadron and shoot Coulson out of the sky if he tries to resist.”

“Sir,” Brock said, with a nod of his head, turning on his heel and getting out of there quick-time.

Shit, shit, shit. I need to get in touch with Fury!

There was no time. Fury was somewhere in Europe and he only had time to send a quick text and hope Fury would have time to pass it on to Coulson before they intercepted the Bus.

He’d mind the mission a lot less if he didn’t have to take orders from that backstabbing little prick Ward, too. There was something seriously creepy and disturbed about that guy, and Rumlow had spent a decade undercover in Hydra dealing with bastards who’d sell their own mother for advancement.

And that didn’t even touch on that wacko Doctor Zabo dude and the freaky as fuck Obelisk thing Whitehall was trying to weaponize.

Hydra out of the shadows were way worse than Hydra undercover, and literally nobody knew that better than Brock Rumlow.

At least, by virtue of the fact most of Hydra’s foot soldiers had been taking orders from him for years, he was able to commandeer a single-seat quinjet and take command of the flight part of the mission. He might have to blow his cover, but nobody was going to be blowing Coulson and his team out of the sky while he had weapons at his fingertips.

“Agent Ward’s brought out two women, Commander Rumlow,” one of the former STRIKE agents he’d sent onto the Bus with Ward advised him on a private channel.

“Say what? Who’s the other one?” Rumlow frowned at his flight displays.

“Ward called her Skye.”

It meant nothing to Rumlow, apart from someone else he needed to try and get out of Hydra’s clutches alive. With Ward’s jet detached from the Bus, he punched buttons fast, bringing up a different channel again.

“Director Coulson,” he rapped out. “This is Agent Two One. Repeat, this is Agent Two One. Come in.”

“Coulson’s busy, Two One,” a female voice said after a moment of endless silence.

“That you, May? I’m flight lead on the quinjet squadron alongside you. We have orders to shoot you down. Advise your tactic.”

He waited, knowing any moment now Ward would give the order, and if he didn’t, Whitehall would order it done. May knew what had to be done; if she could come up with an escape plan which didn’t involve him blowing his cover by shooting the other quinjets down, she’d give it to him.

“Stay covered, Five Five,” May said. “We have operational cloak. I’ll switch it on and blow flares and chaff when you take a shot.”

Risky, but it would leave his cover intact, and he’d need it if he was going to prevent whatever the hell Whitehall had in mind down in Puerto Rico. Damn that weird Nazi bastard anyway: he was so paranoid he wouldn’t share even the smallest snippets of information. Spying on him was more nerve-wracking than fighting Steve Rogers in an elevator.

“Now,” he said when the moment came, having already reserved for himself the right to take the shot.

It would take a team of forensic videographers weeks to figure out that the shot he took never made an actual connection, and by the time they even started looking, hopefully he’d have killed Whitehall, Ward, Zabo and every other maniac who thought themselves somehow superior to the rest of humanity just because they lacked a moral code.

“It’s done, sir,” he reported to Whitehall over the radio.

“Good. Now get your ass back here, Rumlow. We’ve work to do.”

“Sir,” he acknowledged, turning the quinjet and pushing it to full power, sparing a brief glance to the shimmer over the sea far below that marked the cloaked Bus.

Hurry the fuck up, Coulson. I don’t think I can do this alone.

* * *

He hadn’t met Raina before, and there was something very odd about her, he thought, as black eyes fixed on him for a long moment before she looked away. The other girl Ward had dragged off the Bus was just a scrap of a thing, not much more than a teenager he thought at first glance, but the rage in her eyes as she looked around made him reassess. She was dangerous, and probably unpredictable, and Grant Ward didn’t have nearly as good a read on her as he thought. Deliberately, Rumlow stepped between Ward and the door, forcing the taller man to stop in his tracks.

“Out of my way,” Ward snapped.

“I think you’d best recall just who you’re talking to,” Rumlow said, his voice soft and silky. “You don’t give me orders, now or ever. Or would you care to go a few rounds on the mat, to remind you who I am?”

Ward paled and shifted his weight just slightly, leaning away from Rumlow, but Skye noticed. Her eyes flicked back to Rumlow, narrowed assessingly. He wished he had some way to let her know he was on her side.

Maybe sticking a knife in Ward’s guts would do the job.

* * *

As it turned out, Skye was ahead of him, because he delayed to shoot Whitehall, though the Doctor fled when he realized Rumlow had turned. She used a gun, though. One of Ward’s own, unless Brock missed his guess. He gave her an approving nod even as he relieved her of it, before bending to check on Ward.

“Not bad. Next time, aim to the right.”

Skye’s eyes widened as he released the safety and put two rounds into Ward’s forehead, and a soft gasp escaped her lips.

“Never leave live enemies behind you,” Rumlow advised her. “They have a terrible habit of making a comeback to haunt you later. Don’t you watch horror movies?”

She shook her head, looking wide-eyed from the cooling corpse back to him.

“I wish I had more time to teach you, but I don’t. Raina’s gone down into the tunnels and I have to stop her. Go to this address. Coulson’ll find you there.” He tried to push a card into her fingers, but she resisted, something dawning on her lips that might almost have been a tremulous smile.

“I can’t,” she said softly.

He was so focussed, the words didn’t really register. “You have to. I can’t keep you safe and save the world at the same time, sweetheart.”

“I’m not leaving you, not now that I’ve found you. Trip’s here somewhere too, I can feel him close, and he’ll want to meet you.” She pushed up the sleeve of her black top to show words scribbled on the inside of her forearm.

Rumlow stared. “Well, fuck,” he said finally, and Skye’s smile widened.

“Later, if we survive.” Grabbing his free hand, she pulled. “Come on. We have to stop Raina!”

Stunned, he followed along after her for a few moments, until they got out into the hallway and found Coulson standing over Whitehall’s body with a gun in his hand.

“Oh, nice work, DC,” Skye said.

“Not my work.” Coulson looked at Rumlow with a raised eyebrow, his gaze tracking down to his hand joined with Skye’s. “Agent 21.”

“Sir. We’ve got a problem down below…”

“We’ve got more than one,” Coulson said grimly.

* * *

Even with Coulson’s orders added to Brock’s pleas, Skye refused to leave with Coulson.

“Trip’s down in those tunnels. I can feel it. And I’m the only person apart from Raina who can definitely touch the Obelisk without turning to stone. There’s no way I’m leaving it with her.”

Coulson met Brock’s eyes, and a small shake of his head told him what he was pretty sure he already knew; Skye wouldn’t be dissuaded.

“Come on, then.” With a sigh, he handed her back the gun she’d shot Ward with. “Remember what I said - next time, aim for center mass.”

“Got it.” Her hands were steady as she accepted the gun, and he looked back at Coulson.

“Get everyone out you can, Director. We’ll take care of the problem down below.”

“Good luck,” was all Coulson said, before he ran one way and they went the other, heading for the hole the Hydra agents had succeeded in cutting into the tunnels below before Brock killed them.

“There are a lot of dead Hydra people lying around,” Skye noted as they stepped onto the winch lift and Brock hit the button. “Your work?”

“They’re no loss to humanity, trust me. Sick bastards, the lot of them.”

They had to stand close together on the lift, and he was intensely aware of Skye, of her slight size and the scent of her hair, sweet and somehow spicy at the same time.

“So, Agent 21?” Skye looked up at Brock quizzically.

“Three times cooler and better looking than James Bond,” Brock responded automatically, and Skye choked on a giggle.

“I was wondering what your actual name is.”

“Oh.” Abashed, he shut his eyes briefly. “Brock Rumlow. And you’re Skye…?”

“Just Skye.” She looked away, lips pursed.

“And you mentioned Trip?” He was dying to know if that was their third, if this ‘Trip’ and Skye were already bonded - the way she’d said she could feel Trip under the city seemed to indicate it.

“Antoine Triplett.” Her smile returned, sunshine in the darkness of the ancient underground city. “Don’t speak to him until we’re out of here, okay?”

He blinked, and then realized what she meant. “Because if I don’t, that means we survive. Or at least, that he and I do.”

“Which is a good guarantee to have, right now. This place is really fucking spooky.”

It was as spooky as anything he’d ever seen, and considering some of the shit he’d seen with SHIELD and Hydra, that was really saying something. Rounding a corner, they came across a massive black man standing stock still in the middle of the corridor.

“Mack!” Skye gasped, running forward. The big man seemed to be in a catatonic state, hands hanging lax at his sides, his eyes far away. Skye’s jaw clenched. “We’ll come back for you, okay?”

They could hear noises up ahead now, ran faster, and then Skye shouted “Trip!”

Brock saw him then, a lean black man, handsome and strong, with a face which looked as though it smiled easily but right now was drawn in an expression of worry.

“Skye!” He looked askance at Brock. “Who’s this?”

Don’t speak, don’t speak… Brock clenched his jaw so hard he heard his teeth squeak. He should have asked Skye what his words were. She must know.

“Agent 21,” Skye said with a quick grin. “Three times cooler and better looking than James Bond.”

Trip’s expression was hilarious, but he shook it off. “That way to the chamber at the center of the labyrinth,” he pointed.

“Raina’s down here with the Obelisk. We have to stop her.”

A weird, unearthly music seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere; Brock clutched at his head, noticing that although Skye reacted the same way, Trip didn’t seem able to hear it.

“What the hell is that?” Skye gasped.

“What?” Trip asked, staring at her, and Brock decided he should risk speaking.

“If he can’t hear it, I don’t think he should go in. Tell him to stay with your friend Mack and we’ll come back for him,” he told Skye, carefully not looking at Trip.

“He’s our soulmate, don’t speak to him, do as he says,” Skye said hurriedly, and Trip’s eyes went very wide.

Brock couldn’t resist. Taking a step forward, he grabbed Trip by the back of the neck and planted one swift kiss on his lips before winking at him and taking off running again.

They slipped into the chamber just as the stone doors were grinding shut, finding Raina with a beatific smile on her face and the Obelisk on a pedestal.

“You.” Raina’s smile disappeared as she saw Brock. “You’re not supposed to be here!”

She didn’t appear armed, but he still moved between her and Skye, raising his gun. “Sorry to disappoint you and all.”

“That won’t work down here. Something about the city stops it.” Raina nodded at his gun.

“Good thing I brought backup weapons.” He drew the long knife he kept in his right boot and kept moving towards Raina, intent on killing her for her part in this whole deadly mess.

“Brock.” Skye’s voice stopped him in his tracks, and he looked around to follow her gaze to the Obelisk, splitting open to reveal a core of glowing blue crystals.

That unearthly music seemed to intensify as a mist started to pour off the crystals, and instinctively he moved back. He’d seen all sorts of ugly chemical exposure in his career, and nothing that bright a blue could possibly be conducive to his health.

“Brock!” Skye screamed this time, and he saw to his horror that a weird stone was beginning to creep over her skin. Trying to take a step towards her, he looked down and saw the stone climbing his own legs.

This isn’t good, was all he had time to think before the stone covered him entirely and the world went dark and still.

* * *

Seeing her newly-found soulmate turn to stone right in front of her eyes was even more horrifying than turning to stone herself, Skye thought afterwards, as the stone shattered away from her body, but then she saw him breaking free of his own stony prison, cloaked in some sort of light so bright it hurt to look at him. In that bright light she saw one last horrifying glimpse of Raina, spiked and scaled, before the transformed woman fled the chamber and Rumlow reached Skye with a single leap, the light around him somehow fading out as he seized her in his arms.

“Are you all right?” he demanded, and she clung to him desperately, feeling curiously grounded by the solid strength of his arms closing around her.

“I feel weird.” It felt as though her skin was buzzing somehow, and the earth was definitely trembling under their feet.

“We gotta get out of here.”

The Obelisk had closed back up, and Skye lunged forward instinctively to snatch it up, wrapping it in her jacket and hugging it close to her side. “We can’t leave it here!”

The ground was seriously shaking under Brock’s feet, but strangely as Skye ran to his side, the trembling seemed to still, although he could still see cracks zig-zagging up the walls.

“We gotta get out of here,” he said urgently. She was staring at him, and he frowned. “What?”

“You’re glowing.” She waved a hand at him, and he frowned, looking down at his hands. There was indeed a shimmery golden light under his skin.

“Okay, that’s kind of freaky,” he said, and as he spoke, the light brightened, and the low roar of the earthquake deepened, though he and Skye were still standing on still ground at the centre of it all.

“Time to bail,” Brock made the snap decision that everything else was going to have to wait until later, and Skye nodded.

As they ran back through the tunnels, they came across Trip and Mack. Mack was walking, or rather staggering, one arm slung across Trip’s shoulders. Without even thinking about it, Brock grabbed Mack’s other arm to help, gesturing to Skye to lead the way.

At the winch lift, it was clear they couldn’t all go up together.

“You take Mack first,” Trip told Skye. She got a mulish look on her face and opened her mouth, but Brock immediately backed Trip up.

“He’s right. Weight distribution. Heaviest and lightest go together. That means you and the big fella. He’s hurt, besides, needs medical attention. Get him topside, Agent.”

The note of authority in his voice had her moving, at least, stepping grudgingly onto the platform.

“Don’t know what you think I can do if he falls,” she muttered, but she hooked her arms around Mack and hung on firmly.

“Just don’t forget to send it back down for us,” Trip called as the pair ascended.

Left alone, Brock and Trip stared at each other.

“So,” Trip said after a moment, “hello there.”

Brock grinned. “That was the best you could come up with?”

“Any clever lines I might have managed were knocked right out of my head when you came back glowing.”

“I was hoping it might have been the kiss that knocked you senseless.” Brock grinned and Trip grinned back.

“That? Nah. Wouldn’t even call that a kiss. You’ll have to try a lot harder to impress me.”

It was definitely a challenge, and one Brock was more than happy to accept. They were kissing passionately when the winch came back down, and they were still kissing as it carried them back up.

[forwantofasking]

Space Husbands Crossover Prompts - Day 25

De-aged AU –  from @qingcong‘s prompt list ChristmasNew Year’s present.

( I was just kind of amused by the idea of Hal s a horny teenager, ngl... )

He has so much energy.

After so long relying on mental and emotional strength, it’s a small wonder to feel the physical power of his body in the brilliance of a prime he’s almost forgotten. So strong, in fact, he’d thought it a ploy at first - then laughed when he understood the truth of it. The triumphant grin that practically bared his teeth at the wannabe warlock brought an oh so satisfying tempest of fear and uncertainty spiraling into his ring, and really, that should have been more than enough.

If it weren’t for Jordan’s sudden, frantic shriek from below, it would have been.

Human teenagers are… a handful.

In truth, Sinestro had assumed they weren’t terribly different than Korugarians. After all, they seemed to share a good deal of physiological traits and predilections. Warm blooded, generally mammalian, skin, bones, mostly water. They even shared the same vaguely star shaped arrangement of limbs and similar basic needs for food, water, shelter and companionship. Even reproductively they were relatively close (which wasn’t all that strange given how easily Korugarians apparently bred with just about anything, he’d found.)

But most importantly, he’d always thought he had a fairly good grasp on the human process of aging after all the time he’d spent dealing with the various Earth lanterns in the past. Even the mild surprise with Rayner was quickly adjusted. In fact, he’d been under the impression the man was fairly representative of humanity’s adolescence, given so much of how he’d acted. Soranik’s relationship with him had developed later on, after all, and she had been only just out of a similar stage as far as he could guesstimate.

He is, apparently, very, very wrong.

“Come ooooon~!”

“Jordan, we have been over this.”

He can hear the pout. “It’s been a week already!”

“Yes, which should be more concerning for you, I think, than the state of your sex life.”

“Well I can’t do anything about the spell and I can do something about my sex life,” Hal snipes back, quickly back into the same snit he’s ended up in approximately every 30 minutes since this entire ordeal began.

“I am not sleeping with you.”

“You know, for a Super Villain, you’re really uptight about this.”

Sinestro sighs and just arches a somewhat amused eyebrow in Hal’s direction. No matter his irritation, he can’t help but find it entertaining to watch someone who should have been the greatest Green Lantern all but vibrate with his inability to expend energy or focus properly hardly at all. “Am I?”

Hal - or rather a younger, ganglier version of Hal - jabs a finger at him. “Don’t give me that bull. I’m not actually 15 and you know it.”

Sinestro’s smirk returns. “And yet you are compromised, are you not?”

“I-! That-!” Hal sputters, flailing for words as impotently as the willpower that has thus far eluded him shy of the most desperate circumstances. Eventually he bursts out with, “You try focusing when all you can think of is your dick!”

The smirk deepens.

“Ooooh no, no I told you before-”

“Jordan, you and I both know your lack of focus is only part if your issue with that ring in your… current state.”

“Yeah, well, that part is an easy fix, you know!”

“You have hands.”

“You’re unbelievable.” Hal throws his arms up and spins away to expend more of the pent up energy all but bursting from him. “We’ve fucked for, what, two decades now-?”

“- Three -“

“Three decades, and now you won’t touch me because I look-“

“- and act -“

“- like a teenager. That is not true.”

The other eyebrow comes up. “Is that so?”

“Yes, ‘it is so’,” Hal snarks back.

Sinestro takes a step forward, immediately within Hal’s personal space, and catches his chin, lording his height with the simple motion. “Jordan.” It’s remarkably easy to catch Hal’s attention with a bit of physical proximity and a single, commanding touch. For just a moment, the maelstrom of emotion crashing within the human sharpens almost entirely to tremulous anticipation. It’s a bittersweet sort of almost-fear he’s grown accustomed to over the years. “Do I have your… full… attention?”

“Yes-“

Thaal’s grin turns indulgent and he leans down, just shy of brushing their lips together. The soft crack at the end of the word is rather endearing, no matter the rest of the situation. “Good.” His free hand settles on Hal’s hip as the other slides slowly down the soft skin of a human neck. “Now tell me… what are you feeling right now?”

Hal makes a soft noise in the back of his throat that’s familiar even if it’s a bit higher than normal. Still, he leans into the touch with a small smirk of his own, arching his neck and leaning up to steal a kiss with an impish sort of gleam in his eyes. “I think you know that already.”

Admittedly, it’s rather fascinating to watch Hal’s years of experience peek through the thrum of insecurity and lust keeping him captive otherwise. Still, he has a point to make, and one of them has managed to maintain their strength of will in all this. “I do,” he murmurs, firming his hold at Hal’s waist to push him back on to his heels again. “I know that even now it’s not lust that has you… trembling.”

“Thaal-” His name sounds dry on Hal’s lips.

“Hal Jordan,” Sinestro interrupts, brushing a thumb along the edge of Hal’s jaw, “you are drenched in fear.”

“Sin-“

“And you have been for a week.”

Another soft whine swallowed back beneath his fingers as they wrap around Hal’s throat.

“Do you think I wouldn’t notice?” He hums, leaning down again to hover just shy of allowing more of the touch Hal is all but vibrating with a need to feel. “Did I not teach you… that focus is not the only thing required to wield a green ring?”

“You know-” Another swallow and Hal visibly struggles to keep himself from pushing away, his hands curling uselessly against Sinestro’s chest. “You know I… can’t-”

“Can’t?” Sinestro echoes and dips down to press his words against Hal’s throat, “or won’t?”

“… God that’s hot,” Hal all but whines, pushing uselessly against Sinestro’s chest when he feels more than hears the man’s quiet laughter. “You’re a real ass, you know that? Is that- Is this the game plan? Seducing me into a yellow ring? Really? You’re an asshole. A completely unredeemable asshole.”

Sinestro’s laughter becomes more apparent as he straightens enough to catch Hal’s lips with his own, now with intent. “Your vocabulary worsened,” he points out as they part.

Hal huffs. His ring sputters and spurts green light and fizzles out again, which only seems to drive Sinestro into deeper laughter. “Of course you think this is funny.” He pushes away again, but Thaal locks his arm around the small of Hal’s back, holding him in place. “Sin-“

“My point still stands.”

“Shut up and give me the damn ring so I can kick your ass.”

[ryanmeft]

My Favorite Performances of 2016

These are the 15 movie roles this year I most felt deserved highlighting. Man, there were some great roles this year, introduction, introduction, introduction, how many words does this have to be? You don't care and I certainly don't. On to the list!(Note: except for the top two, this list is in no particular order).

Glen Powell (Everybody Wants Some!!) The entire cast of Richard Linklater’s spiritual follow-up to "Dazed and Confused" is one riotous bundle of joy (and a cure for the usually cliche portrayal of college kids), but Glen Powell's Finnegan is by far the standout. The scene that makes his character comes at a party for the "artsy fartsy" crowd when, after encouraging a freewheeling spirit of sex, booze, drugs and rock 'n' roll throughout the film, he actually gets for real hurt when his proteges crash his chances with a girl he happens to like. Finnegan is on the cusp of adulthood and leadership heading into one of the most tumultuous decades of American history, but he's not quite there yet...and it's the leftover, subtle vulnerabilities of the kid during his last days of youth that make him so unbelievably endearing. If there's any justice in the world, EWS!! will do for him what Dazed and Confused did for...well, most of the cast.

Tilda Swinton (A Bigger Splash) The (in my opinion, overblown) controversy over Swinton's Doctor Strange role sadly overshadowed her performance in this Fellini-esque story of beautiful people behaving in decidedly un-beautiful ways. Playing a major, David Bowie-esque popstar who has gone near-mute from the stress of living in public, Swinton has few lines but somehow manages to steal the show from a simmering Matthias Schoenaerts and a manic Ralph Fiennes. Being mostly robbed of the ability to speak, Swinton has to convey a massive range of emotions largely with body language---a task she accomplishes with all the skill you'd expect from one of the world's greatest actresses.

Natalie Portman (Jackie) Frail and tough, honest and veiled, open and censoring---Portman's portrayal of the most famous First Lady in American history is riddled with contradictions that, in her hands, become a coherent character. She can sink to the depths of unbearable anguish at a moment's notice, and five minutes later it is as if nothing very bad had happened. Yet, there's always something boiling under the surface...perhaps an understanding that history will forever place "JFK's wife" next to her name, whatever else she may do with her life. At times, Portman seems to barely hold it all in, yet when we leave the theater she is still a mystery. Maybe that's how it should be.

Joel Edgerton (Loving) Rarely does more go unsaid or understood than passes behind the face of Joel Egderton as Richard Loving, one half of the married couple whose simple wish to live in their home state of Virginia dealt a death blow to laws banning interracial marriage in the United States. Edgerton says little, and when he does it is in as few words as possible...every one of which speaks his entire mind. Key to the performance, though, are scenes of him simply sharing intimate moments with wife Mildred. At a time when the stereotype of the traditonal American husband and father of yesteryear is often held up for all the wrong reasons, Edgerton's performance is crucial.

Emma Stone (La La Land) Until near the end, the music is the driving force of La La Land. Then someone asks the character of Mia to "tell a story", and Emma Stone delivers one of the best scenes of her career. The strength of the "Audition" number redefines what has come before for the character, and solidifies her as both someone we can really root for, and the personification of dreamers, however hopeless they might be. The final look she gives Ryan Reynolds in the film speaks more than a page of dialogue ever could.

Viola Davis (Fences) Before the era of feminism, there was an unspoken agreement between married couples in the U.S.: a wife was to put up with her husband's shit, even when he was full to bursting with it. It was hard to pick one of the two main performances in "Fences" to single out, but ultimately Davis's simmering cauldron is the heart of the story, enabling her to both survive and love life with her deeply, deeply flawed husband. Unlike Denzel Washington, who gets to vomit forth an endless stream of anger throughout the film, Davis is tasked with saving her one great outburst for when it is most needed and has the most impact, creating a scene the trailers should not have featured; it should have been allowed to burst on audiences like water from a broken dam, rolling over everything in its path. Five minutes later, she's calm again, but she's also a different woman...or maybe just another woman who was hiding behind the first all along.

Sunny Pawar (Lion) The trailers all emphasize the adult Saroo's search for his home, but the bulk of the movie is taken up with a young Saroo getting lost in the first place, and Dev Patel is overshadowed by 8-year-old Sunny Pawar...not an easy feat. Like Quvenzhane Wallis and Jacob Tremblay, Pawar takes a role that could easily have been phoned in (since we have natural sympathy for kids) and makes little Saroo into an enormously relatable character, a lost boy whose stomping ground is no Neverland. It isn't any wonder the filmmakers keep coming back to him in flashbacks after his character is grown. He's the heart of the film.

Hailee Steinfeld (Edge of Seventeen) I swear, my generation moons over the era of John Hughes High School comedies so much they seem to forget that being awkward, out-of-place and unable to wait for the day after graduation day isn't unique to them. Every year we get a handful of largely unheralded comedies about that very topic, and Hailee Steinfeld's performance as a morbid, confused and, yes, aggressive (bad female! bad!) teen who openly discusses her sex life, alcohol habits and dark, dark, dark humor elevates "Edge of Seventeen" to the top of the pack. With acerbic wit, pinpoint aim, and unflinching pessimism, Nadine Franklin manages to skewer not just every aspect of High School life but many of life in general. The only target she routinely misses? Herself.

Kate Beckinsale (Love & Friendship) It is exceedingly rare that a woman in the movies can be aggressive and acidic at the same time. Kate Beckinsale's Lady Susan is such a character. It is impossible for all but the most ardent feminists to actually like her, and you'd never want to be drawn into her poisonous circle of rumor, manipulation, innuendo and life-destroying gossip, but you have to admire her for taking charge of her own life at a time when women were tasked with hosting guests, looking pretty and shutting up. These days, she'd almost certainly be described as a sociopath, wrecking lives for her whim and amusement, yet you can't look away. She's the year's best villain...or is she?

Ben Foster (Hell or High Water) Chris Pine's well-meaning father is our anchor to this story of two desperate brothers in hard times, but Ben Foster is the anarchic, destructive force that keeps our eyes glued to the screen. Whereas Pine's dad doesn't think of himself as criminal and Jeff Bridges's sheriff has spent far too much time watching old westerns, Foster knows exactly what he is: a violent criminal whose psycopathy he might be able to turn to his brother's aid in one last blaze of glory. There's never really a question of him surviving the story; he's not a man, he's a storm, and he's here to rage harder than he ever has before blowing himself out.

Naomie Harris (Moonlight) Talk about embodying multiple people in one role. Harris plays mother to a young, gay black man at three different stages of his life, but she's not the kind of perfect mom the movies prefer. She's a drug addict at a time when the War on Drugs refused to treat such people with any sort of humanity, and she's got a temper to match the times; when she screams hurtful words at her own son, the decision to remove the audio from the scene makes her come off as near-demonic. Simplicity, though, isn't really what Moonlight deals in, and there are layers and regrets to her revealed as the film goes on. Her final scene asks a rather important question: should any time be too late to be forgiven?

Anya Taylor-Joy (The Witch) For the most part, horror will forever be considered beneath the notice of those who hand out accolades, which means even if you turn in one of the most startling performances of the year, it doesn't really count if it's in this genre. That's a shame, because unless you count a tiny, uncredited role from 2014, Taylor-Joy makes the most impressive film debut of any actress this year. Called upon to do things involving animal blood and demonic possession that a more image-concerned person might spurn, she handles the role of a teenage girl whose family is being assailed by the forces of hell by taking it all absolutely seriously, which is essential; any hint that she thinks anything she's doing is silly, and the film falls apart. There's reason to question whether anything supernatural is really happening in the New England wilderness of the late 1600's, but no reason to doubt the strength of Taylor-Joy's performance.

Ryan Reynolds (Deadpool) Not everything has to be so serious, something Deadpool would probably remind you of right before delivering a kick straight to your kibbles and bits. As the star, producer and driving force behind the hilariously raunchy R-rated superhero flick, Reynolds is the most eminently watchable and entertaining a comic hero has been outside the suit since Robert Downey Jr. swaggered into the Iron Man armor. Mel Brooks once famously described his films as rising below vulgarity, and whether Reynolds is taking time out to break the fourth wall or making incredibly lewd comments at his blind, elderly, female roommate, he's bringing the spirit of "Blazing Saddles" to a genre that sometimes really needs to get over itself. In a year where "Batman vs. Superman" took itself more seriously than a second heart attack, Reynolds's Merc with a Mouth is the filthy, over-the-top cure the doctor ordered.

And my top two performances, starting with my choice for Best Actress:

Isabelle Huppert (Elle)

In arguably the most challenging role this year, which comes in certainly the most challenging film, Huppert plays a woman who, after being raped, plays a cat-and-mouse game with the rapist. Whether she is trying to catch him or get caught again is another question. The role was turned down by multiple more well-known actresses, before being taken by Huppert, who deserves to be more well-known outside her native France. Key to her performance is that her character is not altogether very likable, and if she were not a victim of a heinous crime, you'd have a real difficult time feeling empathy for her. That takes far more guts, I think, than playing out brutal scenes of assault, since we tend to demand our heroines be pure as the driven snow.

Casey Affleck (Manchester by the Sea)

He's been turning in the best work he possibly can in every role he's had, big or small, for two decades, always overshadowed in fame by his older brother, but this year is Casey's. Angry, violent, adrift and bereft, Lee Chandler is a man with no purpose in a world that demands every man have one, not that he grasps himself on that level: he's simply a man who has been struck over and over until nothing but armor remains. Forced to deal with the issue of custody for his nephew after his brother dies, he portrays a truth no man wants to face: not all of us are cut out for responsibility. Despite this, Affleck walks a fine line, making Lee simultaneously a jerk and someone you'd really like to see come out on top. Unfortunately, as Lee well knows, the world just isn't that simple.

Honorable mentions: I limited my list to 15, and even after expanding from ten it was still difficult. There are lots of great roles that didn't make the cut, and here are the ten that really gave the winners a run for their money, in one big list. If you don't see your favorite, remember: it doesn't necessarily mean they weren't good, just that I can't possibly list them all.

Kristen Stewart (Cafe Society) The Cast of Don't Think Twice Royalty Hightower (The Fits) Meryl Streep (Florence Foster Jenkins) Lou de Laage (The Innocents) Ruth Negga (Loving) Lucas Hedges (Manchester by the Sea) Jessica Chastain (Miss Sloane) Pretty much everybody in Moonlight (Moonlight) Katie Holmes (Touched With Fire)

[musetotheworld]

Kara gets really hurt whilst Cat is away

“Carter, get your things together, now!” Cat yells once she can think, once she can look away from the screens that so recently had shown one of her worst nightmares.

“Mom, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” Carter asks as he runs into her room, worried look on his fave as he responds to the panic in her voice. It’s not something he’s used to hearing, very little has the power to terrify Cat into showing a reaction these days.

“Just gather your things, we need to head back to the city.” Her tone now is controlled, fiercely so, she doesn’t want to give Carter more reason to worry. She doesn’t want to explain, because explaining will make her think about it as well.

Instead she calls her pilot to see how quickly they can fly home, how long it will take. And when he tells her it will be at least three hours before he can prep the plane, let alone begin to plot a flight plan, she nearly hangs up on him then and there. A deep breath or two has her control returning, and as calmly as she can she tells him to fly the plane back to National City as soon as he’s able, but that she’ll find alternate arrangements home.

She’d sworn when she bought the jet that she’d never fly commercial again, but time is of the essence and the thought of waiting hours for a flight is too much. She needs to be back in National City now, curses the distance that means she has to wait no matter how quickly she’s on her way.

“All packed, mom,” Carter says as he waits in the door of her room, still looking worried. “What’s going on?”

“Supergirl was hurt,” Cat says, not explaining more than that. She knows if she tries, the words won’t come.

How can she explain to Carter the horror that was watching Kara slam into the ground as she fell from the sky, the horror of watching her still form carried off by government agents? How can she explain the hurt and pain that’s had her running these past months, away from a kiss that should never have happened, but that she can’t stop thinking about? How do you tell your son you fell in love with a god? Or explain that even a god can bleed?

Even the three words she can speak rock Carter’s certainty in the world, she can see in his face. Because Supergirl has been hurt before, but never so badly that Cat has panicked, never so badly that she’s gone running home. And Supergirl isn’t supposed to be that fragile, that human. She’s strength personified, an unchanging icon for humanity to hang their hopes on. She’s an ideal, and it’s too easy to forget the person behind that image. Too easy to forget that no one is immune to death.

Carter doesn’t push for more than that, seems to understand that Cat’s control is just a mask, that she’s being strong for him. And Cat is thankful for that, even as she feels guilty. She’s the parent, she should be comforting her son, but the image of Kara falling has turned her into the one who needs comfort, and Carter can tell. He stays close all through the airport, leans his head against Cat’s shoulder for the entirety of the flight, not saying a word but giving her a grounding focus to distract from her swirling thoughts.

He doesn’t even complain when she has a driver take him to his father’s house, and Cat is distracted for at least a few minutes by how grateful she is that her son is so amazingly mature and understanding. She’s not even sure how she’s going to get into what’s sure to be a top secret government facility, can’t imagine a single reason they’d allow a teenage boy in with her, but Carter just hugs her fiercely before heading off without complaint, his only request that she tell him how Supergirl is doing as soon as she can.

It takes long enough to get a response from someone who can tell her what’s going on that Cat feels constantly on the edge of screaming. Each second drags on, the memory of the one time she’s felt Kara’s lips against her own taunting her as she tries to focus on getting answers. She’d thought at the time, and during the months since, that one kiss was too many, that she should have been strong enough to resist temptation when it was offered. But now that Kara is hurt, now that there’s a chance it could never happen again, one time will never seem like enough.

She’d thought leaving and staying away was for the best, that letting Kara into her life, into her heart, would be a mistake. She’d thought that her heart was too bitter, too cold, too closed off to ever love Kara the way the girl deserved.

Based on the way her chest feels tight, the way every breath is a struggle, she’d been wrong about that.

In the end it takes some of her best blackmail material to get answers, but Cat doesn’t care. She’d throw away almost anything at this point to know Kara was okay, a few secrets she’s been sitting on for decades seems like nothing. And she can’t claim they don’t get results, after running a pen half out of ink and contributing to at least an acre of deforestation, Cat is finally allowed entrance to the DEO, ushered immediately to Kara’s side where she lies unconscious.

The agent from Myriad is standing at her side with a protective look on her face, but something in Cat’s demeanor seems to quell her instinct to lash out, and they stand silently together watching Kara rest, Cat practically counting the seconds between each breath as she drinks in the reassurance that Kara is alive. Hurt, battered, still unconscious, but alive.

After two hours standing there, barely moving, the agent, Alex Cat finally remembers, literally pushes Cat onto one of two cots several agents had brought in, finally speaking for the first time since Cat had entered the room.

“She won’t wake up any time soon, and if you stand there any longer you’re going to collapse, and I’m not willing to worry about you because you’re stubborn as shit, not when I should be focused on my sister,” she says, filling in a piece of the puzzle that Cat probably should have figured out sooner.

“Will you wake me when she does?” Cat asks, settling onto the cot with barely a grimace. She’s slept on worse, years ago, would sleep on worse now to stay at Kara’s side.

Alex looks like she wants to deny the request, but a glance back at Kara’s too still form takes the fight out of her posture. “I don’t think she’ll wake before you do, but if she does then yeah, I’ll wake you.”

“Thank you,” Cat says as she lays back, the emotions combined with the length of the day catching up to her, and she’s asleep before she can do more than offer a silent prayer to the universe let Kara be okay.

The next day is spent waiting as well, though Cat can see a bit of color returning to Kara’s cheeks as the hours pass. And Cat’s never sat so still for so long in her life, but somehow this time it doesn’t chafe. She’s waiting for Kara, would wait years, and a few hours phase her not at all.

Finally Kara stirs, and Alex is the first to her side, a sharp glance at Cat keeping her out of the way as she does a quick scan of Kara’s vitals, tension lessening with every returned result. “Hey Kara, you with us?” she asks quietly as Kara’s eyes flutter open, slamming shut again the next second. “Slowly now, you know the drill. You’re as human as the rest of us for a few days, I’m afraid. Take it nice and slow.”

This time when Kara’s eyes open they stay open, and Cat has to fight down a wave of tears when the relief hits her. “How long was I out this time?” Kara asks, wincing as she carefully moves each of her limbs. “Because from the way my back feels, you’ve had me laying here for a while.”

“We’ll get a more comfortable bed for long term stays at some point, but I don’t want to encourage you to need them,” Alex teases, and Cat smiles at the easy relationship between them. “You’ve been out for about a day and a half, scared the shit out of us all.”

“I’m sorry,” Kara whispers, and now Cat feels like she’s intruding. “He was faster than I thought.”

“He was faster than we all thought,” Alex reassures her, carefully covering one bandaged hand with her own. “But you need to learn to pace yourself, you really scared us this time. Even dragged this one halfway across the world to check on you.”

Kara starts in surprise when she notices Cat standing in the background, glancing between her and Alex in confusion. “How are you here?” she asks, finally focusing on Cat when Alex gives her no answers. “Why are you here?”

“I saw you fall,” Cat says as she slowly walks forward, grateful when Alex not only doesn’t stop her but also steps away from the bed to give them space. “I needed to know you were okay.”

“You were in London,” Kara points out, staring up at her with an unreadable look on her face. “Which means you flew halfway across the world to be here right now.”

“Also blackmailed three senators and the secretary of state,” Alex points out, sounding almost impressed.

“I needed to see you,” Cat says, reaching out as Alex had done early to cover Kara’s hand. She wishes she dared do more, but it’s been months since she’d shut Kara out so abruptly, she can barely believe she hasn’t been kicked out already.

“You blackmailed government officials just to see me?” Kara asks, hope beginning to dance in her eyes.

“I couldn’t even think of staying away,” Cat admits, finally shifting her hand to rest carefully on Kara’s cheek, avoiding the bruises and scrapes as best she can. “I shouldn’t have left in the first place.”

“I think I’m still mad at you for that,” Kara says after a long minute, and Cat nods, having expected that. “But I’m also really glad you’re here now.”

And when she goes to lean up, wincing at the movement, Cat quickly leans down to close the distance to bring their lips together, pouring her apology into every soft kiss, careful to avoid putting any pressure on Kara’s bruised body.

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

[36point36-blog]

Here's My Story. It's Long, and I Swear a Lot.

Prior to my current job, I worked for my family business - a small grocery store - more or less steadily for fourteen years, from the age of 16 to the age of 30.  The store was located five or so miles from the state capitol, in the heart of a college town, flanked on one side by a sprawling campus and on the other by a large, twisting expanse of highways.  Those highways connected us to a vast network of far-flung, sleepy little towns and hamlets that most of us had never seen.  Our customer base was therefore very diverse - foreign students, frat boys, truckers, church ladies, families, foodies, and everyone in between were amongst our regulars.  There were literally dozens of customers that I saw every single day, five days a week, for over a decade.  I naturally became close with many of them, as did much of the staff - who were themselves all very close with one another.  We were not always friends, but we nonetheless came to know each other uncommonly well.  We knew each other’s families, boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, wives, pets, personal habits, quirks, strengths, and weaknesses.  Many of us became co-workers as teenagers and continued seeing each other every day well into twenties whether we wanted to or not, which meant that we saw each other’s physical appearances change incrementally over time, in every imaginable direction.  Our hair was cut, dyed, grown out, cut, and dyed again.  A few of the “boys” that were hired as teenagers started going bald in their twenties.  Some of our clothes changed subtly with the fashions of the day, became aggressively collegiate during football season, got frumpier during pregnancy, got sloppier during hangovers or bouts of depression.  Waistlines expanded and contracted and expanded again for all sorts of reasons.  All of these aesthetic changes just sort of took on a natural ebb and flow amongst the core of employees who’d been there the longest.  When you see someone every day for ten years, they eventually transcend whatever they happen to wear or weigh at any given time.  Whether they’re fat, thin, bald, pregnant, sixteen, or twenty-six, they are simply themselves at that point.  Whatever state they’re in becomes, at that point, a natural one - simply because you’ve seen them in so many states.

But in 2014, my family business closed.  It was squeezed out rather controversially by developers and replaced by a national chain store.  The aforementioned core of still-young veteran employees was heartbreakingly disbanded.  We had become adults together elbow to elbow.  We knew each other’s favorite movies and bands and donut flavors.  We had survived terrible fights, made out drunkenly in dark bedrooms at parties, cried together, laughed together, exchanged birthday presents, braided each other’s hair, covered each other’s shifts.  And then it was all over, and with grim faces and leaden hearts we begrudgingly became other people’s co-workers, other people’s checkout girls, other people’s customer service representatives.

Which brings me back to the heart of this essay or whatever it is - the paradox of former obesity.  When the store closed and I had to get another job, I was 220 pounds.  I did not actually KNOW that because I had, for my entire adult life, asked the staff at my doctor’s office not to tell me the actual number whenever they weighed me.  I would step backwards onto the scale and shut my eyes, and they kept it a secret as per my request.  But I was nonetheless 220 pounds.  When I started at my current job, roughly two dozen strangers became my co-workers and met me for the first time as a 220-pound woman.  That was in September of 2014.

A little over a year later, in October of 2015, I was on top of a ladder at work, missed a step, and accidentally head-butted the side of the light fixture.  Now, I am just about the most panic-stricken, white-knuckled hypochondriac and/or pessimist you could possibly imagine.  Every minor ailment spells imminent doom to me.  If I have a slight cough for more than two days, I become increasingly certain that I’m a modern-day “Satine,” dying from consumption in my own non-musical but equally tragic version of “Moulin Rouge.”  In my warped, worst-case-scenario mind, a UTI becomes a long-dormant strain of neurosyphilis, for which I am the Patient Zero.  A skin rash all but whispers aloud to me, “Get your affairs in order - you’re not long for this world.”  So I hit my head at work, and I naturally freaked the fuck out.  That “Concussion” movie had either just come out or was about to come out, and I also happened to have a friend who was undergoing brain surgery at the time, so general head injuries were already on my mind to an unusual extent at the time.  The next day, I had a crippling headache - maybe from hitting my head, maybe from freaking out for 24 straight hours about hitting my head.  Either way, I was encouraged by my manager to fill out worker’s comp paperwork and go to the nearest urgent care, an unfamiliar setting that only exacerbated my cold-sweated, shaky-handed anxiety.  When they finally called me back and said they had to weigh me, I was in such a frenzied state of mind that I forgot my own iron clad rules.  Without thinking, I stepped onto the scale the NORMAL way - with both eyes wide the fuck open, looking directly into what might as well have been the fucking eye of Sauron - the scale’s small, menacing LED screen.  This would eventually reveal itself to be one of those ultra-rare, movie-like moments where life as you know it - your regular-ass, everyday life - is literally and profoundly changed forever.  At the age of 30, after a lifetime of being either obese or significantly overweight, I learned for the first time that I weighed over 200 pounds.

There are no words to really describe the effect that this revelation had on me.  It was like…oh, I don’t know…being struck by lightning and beaten with a cattle prod while learning that my new husband had just been murdered.  During the nine month period leading up to this cataclysmic event, I’d actually been LOSING weight in preparation for my September wedding.  I’d had several appointments with my regular doctor, who only told me how much I LOST - not how much I WEIGHED.  She was increasingly encouraged by the small but steady progress I was making, and amazingly, despite my natural pessimism, so was I.  In fact, I was pretty damn confident on my wedding day.  I genuinely thought I looked better than I had in years - quite possibly my whole adult life, even.  I had, after all, lost nine whole pounds since getting engaged the previous December.  I didn’t see a fat bride in the mirror.  I actually saw a somewhat transformed person.  Nine pounds!  Nine of ‘em!  That damn near constituted a full-blown makeover, as far as I was concerned.

What I didn’t know at the time was that I was nine pounds less than a staggering 220 - my highest weight on record, which was added to my medical file in December of 2014, right after I got engaged.  The urgent care scale read “211,” a number that from that moment onward was permanently tattooed into my brain tissue.  Calling it a “wake-up call” would be a hilarious understatement.  When I left the urgent care clinic, my heart was pounding out of my chest.  I started sobbing the instant I got into my car.  I briefly stopped crying long enough to pull up a BMI calculator on my phone, then immediately started crying again once I’d crunched my own numbers.  Even nine pounds lighter than before, I was clinically obese.  Not even on the cusp between “overweight” and “obese.”  There was a little line graph on the BMI calculator website with green on the “normal” side that shaded into yellow once it reached the “overweight” range, then into orange for “extremely overweight,” then finally into the deep oranges and reds of “obesity.”  I was well into the orange-red zone, dangerously close to the patch of blood-red at the tail end of the line.

I went home early from work and cried myself to sleep.  But the next day, in an unprecedented act of self-improving action-taking, I bought myself a pair of drugstore headphones and I walked to work for the first time.  There were approximately 1.5 miles between my front door and the entrance of my workplace, and the first time I walked it in both directions, I felt like I was some sort of 19th century wandering pioneer or ancient nomadic tribeswoman.  That first walk TO work might as well have lasted a full calendar year - that’s how epic and sprawling a distance it was at the time, especially out in the open for all to see.  Now that I knew I fat I was, I was forced to realize that all the joggers and bikers and drivers and passengers that were passing me ALSO knew how fat I was.  This was not only taking place in a fairly small town, but also my lifelong hometown - I had worked, lived, and spent the entirety of my K-12 years within the same five-mile radius.  So, presumably, at least some of the people who saw me walking that fateful day recognized me - knew me - had known for years how fat I was.  The whole way there, the whole way back, I felt like I was jiggling stark naked down the open sidewalk for all the world to see, with a neon sign affixed to my head that read “CLINICALLY OBESE” in flashing, colorful letters.  But somehow, even though it was one of the single most embarrassing and physically uncomfortable experiences of my life, I knew that it had to be done…that it was the only way out of the nightmarish orange-red zone on that BMI chart.  I made minimum wage (still do), and I knew I couldn’t even afford an occasional aerobics class, let alone a gym membership or a personal trainer.  So I just DIY-ed the fuck out of a radically new lifestyle.

I didn’t count calories or ban refined sugars or carbs or anything, but I started eating a fuck ton of frozen vegetables and spicy sauces from the international foods aisle, and I stopped eating Annie’s macaroni and cheese altogether, which I adored and ate very frequently, always with butter, always two boxes at a time.  I copied and pasted all my beloved, rousingly violent 90s rap from my computer into the internal storage on my phone and blared it into my headphones for about an hour and a half total, three or so days a week, on my way to and from work, walking as briskly as I possibly could.  I bought some used Gillian Michaels DVDs and played them on mute with the captions on so I could at least listen to my own invigorating, murderous rap jams while I flung myself to and fro across the room and up and down on to the floor with hand weights, as per Gillian’s instructions.

I kid you not, the results.  Were.  Immediate.  Had they NOT been immediate, I might have just screamed “FUUUUUCK IT” into a bowl of peas and given up.  But I started losing weight RIGHT away, to an extent that even I (who was, mind you, utterly prepared to fail) could plainly see with my own two eyes.  A month in, I was able to squeeze into my favorite coat from six winters before, when I had briefly flirted with the mid 150s, then gotten lost in a long bout of depression, during which I began to drink heavily and rapidly slide into obesity.  Two months in, I could actually zip up my junior prom dress.  Three months in, I started to occasionally get compliments.  By late winter of 2016, during Michigan’s presidential primaries, I was comfortable enough with walking long distances that I canvassed with a genuine spring in my step for the Bernie Sanders campaign.  I continued to lose weight during this period and through the end of the winter, so when Bernie won the primary, it felt as though I had, miraculously, won twice.

Looking back, I’m 100% certain that once my weight loss got to the point where it was visible to even the least attentive observer, the overwhelming majority of my co-workers and casual acquaintances didn’t expect me to continue with it much further.  I had been 220 pounds and was now around 170.  I had to get all new clothes, and I carried myself differently.  I had already defied the odds in terms of the national statistics.  Once customers started commenting on my weight left and right, within earshot of everyone I worked with, it would have been fair to assume I would have just stopped there.  But that couldn’t have been farther from the truth.  If there was one prevailing lesson I had thoroughly learned at that point, it was that cheesiest of all maxims - basically, “what you think is impossible might actually be possible,” or whatever variation on that you prefer.  No one - DO YOU HEAR ME? - NO ONE was less likely than me to succeed.  I’m not saying that to be self-deprecating - I’m simply stating a fact.  I had never liked - or even tolerated - sports or exercise.  I had never enjoyed being outdoors.  I had never possessed an ounce of will power or self-control.  I had always, always, ever since I was a baby, eaten like a lumberjack in a cartoon or a rescued prisoner of war.  I had been overweight my entire childhood and obese as an adult.  I was also over thirty.  The deck was fucking stacked against me in a lot of ways, and goddamn it, I pushed the fuck back.  I kept going.  Eighty pounds later (36.36% total weight lost, hence the title of this blog), I’m still going.  I’m a little deaf from all the rap blaring into my headphones, and my ropy, calloused feet resemble a gnarled old ballerina’s, but my BMI went from 35.5 to 22.6.  I own (and comfortably wear, without Spanx or other control top undergarments) a size 4 Calvin Klein dress.  I walk an average of 13 miles a day.  This past Tuesday, three days ago, I walked twenty.  Alone and happily, quite unexpectedly, without a set goal or destination.

If you think you can’t do it, you’re just wrong.  I may not know you, but I hope to God you give yourself a chance and try.  I can help you if you want.  That’s for real why I made this blog - I am, in so many ways, still as hot a mess of an adult as I ever was, and I’m a very unlikely mentor for anything at all, but in this ONE specific instance, I am living proof that a bunch of weight can be lost without surgery.  Or a class.  Or portion control.  Or a specific diet.  Or a food journal.  Or a gym.  Or fancy equipment.  For real. I did it. I highly recommend it.

What all too many so-called “body positivity” activists and pseudofeminists will tell you is that if you’re obese, you don’t really need to lose weight.  You’re fine the way you are.  The patriarchy or the establishment or the fashion industry or what the fuck ever are just trying to keep you down, and real women have curves, and beauty is within, etcetera, etcetera, and so forth.  Now, it’s true that curves are beautiful.  It’s true that you can be healthy and be a little overweight.  No one should be fat-shamed (or body-shamed at all) by anyone.  Bullying IS wrong.  Beauty IS within.  Cellulite IS normal.  Barbie-like bust-waist-hip ratios ARE unnatural and unrealistic for almost everyone.  I am not the enemy.  This is not a so-called “thinspo” or “proana” blog.  This is an ex-obese blog.  This is about being obese and wanting not to be.  Having been obese for most of my life, I can assure you, flat the fuck out, the alternative is better.  In all candor, it feels better weighing 140 pounds than it does weighing 220 pounds.  My doctor assures me, might I add, that it IS better.  She can hear it in my breathing and my heartbeat.  She can see it in my blood pressure.  So I do not pretend to have all the answers.   I don’t even consider myself to be a particularly accomplished human being overall.  I never finished college, I work in retail, I make minimum wage, and I’m 33 years old.  But one of the crowning achievements thus far of my entire life has been losing eighty pounds of myself, that magical thirty-six-point-thirty-six percent, and I make no apologies for my pride.  If you want to do something like that yourself, feel free to ask me anything you want, or tell me your own story.

So. Thank you for your time…and good luck.

[theartfulmegalodon]

Just a personal vent from a few years back

I’m not normally one to post much personal stuff on the internet.  I don’t generally bare my soul or seek validation, which is not to say that I judge or begrudge those who do.  I actually get quite a bit of satisfaction from reading the varying accounts of others’ experiences, being able to learn about how others have navigated their worlds, their different perspectives and priorities.

But I know Tumblr here is a place that is happy to absorb and regift the ramblings, rants, and other therapeutic vents from its users.  This is one of mine.  It’s a story based around my mother, and it’s why I’d rather not go home for Christmas anymore.  Perhaps it’s something that you can relate to, or commiserate with.  (If instead you’d rather only bother with me for my art, I’ll hopefully be posting some soon.)

I’ve never been as emotionally invested in the same things my mom is, and when I was transitioning to adulthood, and there was friction, in which she started the scolding and blaming, my natural tendency was (and still is) to be stoic and somewhat retreat emotionally.  My mother is the opposite, though.  She perceives any conflict or disagreement as a personal attack, and my lack of emotion when she ranted at me told her I clearly must not care about anything, and WHY COULDN'T SHE MAKE ME CARE?!  Additionally, our whole family, including my mom, has the resting bitch face (like, seriously small frowny mouths) and so I never stood a chance of making her believe otherwise. We've gotten far better at communicating in recent years, but I think mostly it works best long distance, over the phone where she can't read my face or body language and decide I must be annoyed or dismissive or criticizing her.  And there are still moments that are sprung on me out of nowhere. I've spent every single Christmas with my mom and mom's side of the family.  When off at school, and then having moved states away now, I still traveled home to have Christmas there.  My birthday also happens to be two days before Christmas, which has meant in the last decade that my birthday dinner often ends up getting planned for me so as best to accommodate the other family who'll be there; where they would want to go, and where would be convenient for them and their schedule.  It's also often combined with my grandmother's, which is a few days after X-mas. 

So a few years ago my mother told me "I thought we'd eat at [this place] for your birthday, will that work?" with the understanding that I can't really say no.  And it was fine.  Dinner with my mom and my grandparents.  But it's not what I would have chosen, and I was hardly the focus of the evening.  But I am an adult, and I understand the importance of keeping things running smoothly during the holidays, keeping everyone stress-free, and giving my grandparents their due attention as well.  That's all fine.  And maybe my mood just wasn't effusively happy at the time, but I was, y'know, fine. 

But then dessert comes around, and my mom will not shut up about hers.  She must have said "This is really good" about a dozen times.  "No, I mean really, this is REALLY good."  So, a little annoyed but trying to sound like I'm joking, I say, "Oh my god, if you say it's 'really good' one more time..." She frowned and did that playful-non-playful "Ohhhh, come on," and started sort of jab-punching me in the arm, clearly annoyed I was ruining her good time.  But those punches actually hurt (the woman was right next to me in the booth) and reflexively I said, "Ow!  Stop it!" And somehow that was it.  That did it.  Me losing my smile and calling her on hitting me was enough for her to close down entirely.  Her face like a thundercloud.  Her lips pinched in the mother of all offended pouts.   She barely spoke the rest of the meal, and as we left the restaurant she just stomped off (not unlike a child) back to her car, leaving me to say good night and thanks to my grandparents.  They just sort of shrugged at her behavior and gave a little sympathetic wave, but didn't say anything.  So they went their way, and I went back to mom's car.   She started driving for home in absolute silence, but for the radio, which I think she switched on to discourage talking.  It was playing Gershwin’s American In Paris, I believe, something I recognized but couldn’t place at that moment.  After a few minutes of it playing, I set out to traverse the minefield that was engaging my mother in that mood and asked if she remembered the name of the song.  She spat out the three word title, and then her mouth returned to the Pinched Frown of the Emotionally Wounded.  We continued to sit in silence with the weight of this sudden melodrama filling the car.

She’d been doing this for years, though.  Far more often when I was younger, a teenager, or in college, and I didn’t have the perspective then to see it for what it was.  I couldn’t track the pattern of her emotional outbursts, couldn’t see their source.  When she told me I didn’t care, I couldn’t always argue with that, because sometimes I didn’t. I did of course feel like a horrible daughter for not behaving the way she wanted, for upsetting her by apparently being selfish and callous and inconsiderate.  But even then I could tell that these emotional dam bursts of hers weren’t just caused by me.  I always had that niggling feeling in the back of my mind that I was being scolded (sometimes screamed at, usually cried at) unfairly.  However, for all those years, I didn’t know what to do about it.  I just weathered it, and waited for it to pass.  When she’d cried herself out, she’d usually apologize for losing it at me, but as she hugged me she would make me promise that I would change, that I would try harder, be less selfish, etc.  And I always did.

(Bear in mind that I was in every other respect NOT a problem child.  I attended school without fail. I had excellent grades, in honors and AP classes.  I was pursuing my artistic education seriously.  I had no problem friends; in fact I had very few friends at all.  Those I had were friendly, respectful people.  I never dated.  Never touched so much as a cigarette.  And I never had the slightest interest in alcohol, much less any mind-altering drug.  I didn’t party.  I didn’t go out.  I didn’t even drive.  This was true even through college.  I was, in every way I can think of, the least problematic teenager a mother could ask for.)

As the years went by, and I spent less and less time at home, these outbursts, these conflicts between us, would happen less often.  Our time apart made the heart grow fonder, perhaps.  And I liked to think she was mellowing with time, that perhaps we were approaching a level, mature playing field.  And then, in my very late twenties, this birthday dinner happens. 

And time enough had passed for me to have looked back on this pattern of behavior and see it more for what it was.  So I poked the landmine.

I said something basic, like, “What’s wrong?”  The landmine exploded: out came a torrent of accusations and hurt feelings.  The floodgates opened: the tears started almost immediately.  She had felt truly, deeply attacked.  I could just be so mean, sometimes, so hurtful!  She was having such a nice time, and then I apparently just turned on a dime and ruined it.  I just didn’t understand, she said, how hurtful I can be, and how unpredictable!  I could be so sweet one minute and then so ugly the next!  And I don’t even realize I’m doing it!  I just say the most insensitive things and then act like I don’t even care!

Yes, she was was saying this about me.  Sensing a theme?  So I called her on it.

I was sick of it by this point.  For the first time I could really see how absurd her words sounded.  I finally didn’t feel as though her description of me, or the situation, had any base in truth.  And for the first time I argued with her.  While she sobbed and raged (truly worrying while she was driving, by the way) I spoke to her calmly but sternly that she wasn’t making sense.  That she had decided on her own what I must have been thinking and feeling, and that she’d gotten it wrong.  I hadn’t attacked her.  I’d been momentarily frustrated.  I hadn’t declared her a witch.  As I told her how I’d actually been feeling, and that I hadn’t intended to ruin any kind of mood, nor had I been all that upset about it, she argued.  She could tell from my face! she said.  She just knew!  I flatly argued back.  After all, I’d only been truly annoyed when she’d started slugging me in the arm at the dinner table.  This had clearly been her way of fighting back after I’d sent the first volley, as it were.

I also told her I was tired of doing this.  Of her doing this.  That this overreaction was absurd and based on nothing.  That it was crazy to say I was the one who changed moods on a dime when I wasn’t the one who’d gone silent for the rest of the meal and stormed off in front of her parents because I’d said something a little harsh out of frustration.  I know, I know, that telling someone who’s having an emotional meltdown that they’re being irrational and overreacting is probably not the best way to get through to them, but believe me, by that point I was taking a stand for my own emotional health.  I refused to be bullied anymore into believing I was the bad guy.  As I recall, I did my best not to make it seem like I hated her, or that she was bad or evil for having these meltdowns, but I hope I made it clear that I wasn’t going to sit there and take it anymore.

I apologize for the length of this post.  I didn’t set out to write an essay.  To wrap up, the evening ended subdued and exhausted, like the limp remains of a burst balloon.  Mom went to bed, and I wondered what the next day would be like.  The next morning - Christmas Eve, mind you - she emerged from her room, gave me a big hug, apologized for the meltdown, told me how much she loved me (something she’s never failed to do), checked to see that I accepted her apology (I did), and then put on a smile.  We then began the day with good cheer as though absolutely nothing had happened the night before.

I understand my mother better than I used to.  I know that so much of the friction that’s come between us has come from the stark difference in how we each handle conflict.  I know that her emotions run high in unpredictable ways and that she knows this as well.  But for my entire birthday evening, a night which should have been smiles and warmth, I was tasked once again with weathering my mother’s irrational meltdown, directed at me, with a huge knot of tension in my chest as I tried to be the calm, collected one.

I know that many, many of you out there have been, or know others who have been pressured to feel responsible for parents’ emotional health.  In small degrees, you get stories like mine, in which I know at the end of the day that my mother truly does love me, and I’ll never be without an ally in her.  In big degrees you have all-out abuse, which I am grateful to say I’ve never truly experienced.  But I shared with you all as a cathartic exercise, and I say to those many out there who know this feeling intimately, you have my empathy, my sympathy, and my heartfelt good wishes.

(And also my gratitude that you read this monster.  You are gems, every one of you.)