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#i don't want to claim this part of me without knowing more because my grandmother was this. but god.

sunflowersandsapphires · 7 months

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Fall Drabbles, Day 6

prompt: beanie

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader

summary: Matt takes an interest in your knitting.

warnings: swearing, sweet fluff as always

a/n: This one is all over the place because I'm thinking through a new fic for later this year, but it's still cute (I think). Hope you all enjoy!

w/c: <1k

“Let the marathon commence!” Foggy exclaimed, turning out the lights with a malicious laugh, before immediately lighting a few candles (that he claimed were for “the vibe”, but you were pretty sure it was because he was too chicken to sit in the dark while watching scary movies.)

Tilting your head towards Matt, you shook your head ”Remind me how the two of us got roped into a movie marathon?”

Though you and Foggy got along really well, your interests aligned more closely with Matt's. Whether that was because you'd known the blind lawyer since he was picking fights at St. Agnes, or because you were an introvert who preferred a good book to the cheesy special effects of Foggy's favorite films, it was unclear. Yet here you were, planted comfortably next to Matt on Foggy's worn out couch, about to work your way through his top five scary movies.

While you had little interest in the activity, you had no idea why Matt had signed up to take part in it. Not only were movies not something he regularly indulged in, for obvious reasons, but he had previously admitted to you that horror movies were some of his least favorite because all of the jump scares were ruined by the audio descriptions.

Shifting so that his shoulder pressed up against yours, Matt chuckled. “Because Fog asked us to, and we would do just about anything for him.”

You grumbled in dejected acceptance, unzipping the large pocket of your bag and pulling out your crafting supplies.

“Woah, what's all that?” Foggy wondered aloud as he sat on Matt's other side.

“Knitting stuff,” You shrugged, unspooling the color you were holding and threading the giant needles. “I'm behind on Christmas gifts.”

“I don't know what I want to know more about: the fact that you're handmaking holiday gifts or that October 6th is considered 'behind' schedule.“ Matt scoffed, tucking an arm over your legs as you threw them across his lap to start knitting.

“I make winter hats for my young cousins and the members of my aunt's assisted living facility. They usually appreciate them and I like having something to do with my hands.” You shrugged, explaining the tradition indifferently.

“That's really nice!” Foggy smiled, elbowing Matt in the ribs. “You should make some for us.”

Matt rolled his eyes, “Fog, it sounds like she's got her work cut out for her without us adding to it. Besides, you already have a stack of very ugly hats from your late grandmother.” Turning his attention back towards you, he grinned, “'Have you seen the one with the giant flower attached to it?”

Smiling roguishly, you looked expectantly at the blushing blond, “No I have not. Foggy, care to model that one for me?”

“Ok, FIRST of all,” Foggy glared at his business partner, “Things that you see when I am drunk off my ass in college should be kept in confidence. Secondly, she had dementia and forgot that I was 19. And a boy.”

“What, boys can't like flowers?” You asked with mock offense, biting the inside of your lip to keep from giggling at Foggy's evident frustration.

“I WASN'T SAYING THAT!” He spluttered, “I was just explaining why I own that hat.”

“Don't worry, Fog. We won't tell anyone you're a bigot.” Matt smirked.

Foggy huffed as you laughed openly. “Whatever. Next time, I'll watch these on my own.”

“No you won't.” You giggled.

Stony face breaking into a toothy grin, Foggy agreed. “No I won't.”

While you were definitely paying more attention to the movement of your darning needles than the characters on the screen, you were enjoying yourself. Foggy's eyes were glued to the screen, still flinching at every jumpscare despite the automated verbal warnings. Matt was alternating between laughing at his friend's reactions and listening to the movie, all the while running his fingers over the feather soft yarn you were working with.

Usually, knit products bothered his skin—the wool or polyester blends scratching at every available nerve with vigor—but this material was downy and comforting. He wondered if the recipients of your painstakingly crafted gifts were as appreciative as you deserved. It was unlikely.

The quiet, consistent clicks of your needles were soothing, slowly lulling him to sleep. His eyelids must have been drooping noticeably because you adjusted your position to allow his head to pillow on your shoulder. Inhaling deeply, he tuned out the movie—choosing instead to focus on the lullaby composed by your steady pulse and kind hands.

A few weeks later, Matt was returning to his office after running an errand for a client. It was just as he left it, save for the paper box tied with a ribbon sitting in the middle of his desk.

“Fog, what’s this?” He called across the empty space.

“A gift for you from a special someone!” The response he received did not answer his question.

Unraveling the bow cautiously, Matt slid the top off the box and ran his hands around the contents inside. It was a hat, woven together with strands of that marvelous yarn you’d been working with.

“Fog,” He called to his partner, who had followed his curiosity straight into Matt’s office. “Did she make me a hat?”

“Looks that way,” Foggy chuckled, stroking the delicate material. “It’s…beautiful. Deep red, like your suit.”

“Oh,” Matt’s voice was strangled with emotion.

“Still think your feelings aren’t reciprocated?” Foggy asked coyly.

“Shut up,” Matt murmured, clenching the heartfelt gesture in his hands.

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dolleminas · 6 months

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I think the last few days really taught me (but what I secretly already knew) is that middle-class women have very little solidarity, let alone empathy for working-class women. It's not only women, it's men too, but it's just glaringly obvious when we supposedly should fight for women, up until it's middle-class women fighting for poor women. There's solidarity, up until a certain point.

Let me paint you a picture. It's summer, I've just started getting back into the workforce after years of crippling illness. I'm meeting with my job coach. A lovely woman, and we get talking about why I want to go back to work.

"Part of it is that I'm bored at home, but I'd be lying if finance isn't a motivator too."

She scoffs good-naturedly. She says, money is not important! The important thing is that you have fulfilment in your work!

I look around myself. We're sitting in her garden. The garden of her two-story house. It's bigger than my entire home. I say I would like to be able to eat, to pay rent. She brushes me off. She doesn't get it. I don't think she's ever had to go hungry.

Let me paint you another picture. I grew up in a neighbourhood full of people like me. The homes were built from the rubble of WWII. When I laid in bed, I would brush my hands over the walls and feel the grit and the dust stain my fingertips. Sometimes it would even stain the bed. My bedroom is hardly bigger than a broom closet, but it's all I know. Most of my neighbours are immigrant families and poc. That's where the government puts them. Crime is rampant. But it could be worse. My mother buys hand-me-downs from the neighbours for me. Other kids bully me for my clothes. During the christmas holidays, the school has to board up the windows because of vandalism. We sit with our coats on in class because heating costs too much.

Still, I know people who have it worse. My mother has a part-time job as a receptionist and my grandparents help. When I wear holes into my underwear my grandmother silently buys us some more. I have never known underwear without holes in them. When we go on vacation, I feel rich. I know many kids who don't. My mother only has to take care of me.

This all makes it that much more of a slap in the face to see women claim to be supporters of women, so-called feminists but have absolutely no empathy for poor women. And most of the time they don't even know it. They have an idealised world-view. A, 'just do x' or 'just do y' and my personal favourite 'well I'd never do that!' or even 'you have options.'

No. No, don't. Be quiet, be silent, listen. If you have solidarity with women, then listen about the lives you have not lived, the struggles you have not struggled with. Do not come from a place of 'I would never' because you cannot, with any resemblance of accuracy, say that until you have lived it. Poor women aren't stupid or lazy, stop thinking of us as such! Stop blaming us for the life we were born into, the life we often are unable to escape.

Sit down, listen... and don't expect poor women to have solidarity with you if you do not have it with us. You, the privileged one. The idealistic one. The one who never knew how it was like to go hungry as a little girl and have to watch your mother lie to you about why.

#honey speaks #poverty #female poverty #lower class women

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twelvemonkeyswere · 3 months

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it's been a year since my aunt passed away. she was always helpful and self-sacrificing, which she learned from her mother. like my grandmother, my aunt was also married to a man who didn't appreciate her or treat her right, but whom she claimed to love.

my aunt was, however, loved by many, and respected by even more. family, neighbors, friends, coworkers, clients. she was an accountant who put all three of her sons through school and also helped her brother in the family business. she donated her time and knowledge to the church, and helped many without charging without anybody knowing. at her funeral, a line of unknown children entered the church. they had come from the local orphanage to pay respect to the woman who had gifted her job for years so the place could keep its books in order. it made us all cry, because we didn't know.

my aunt only had sons, but was proud of us, her nieces, when we chose education and a career above boyfriends, marriage, or children. she was proud when we made the choice not to make the mistakes of our father, or the mistakes of our grandmother, her own mother. she was proud that we wanted a life of our own, in our own terms. she would give a half smile of approval that was worth millions. she had a cheekiness about her that always applauded cheekiness in others.

my aunt lost too much and too many, and gave herself away to the point of deterioration. maybe, in part, to placate loneliness and grief, but also she did it because she wanted to do the right thing. working for the well being of others is, most of the time, the right thing to do. when you have a skill that others don't, she seemed to say, you must make it useful for the good of those next to you, whenever possible.

I think she never really knew how appreciated she was. many of us didn't express it enough. some of those closest to her for sure did not show it. I am forever angry that I lost her when I was beginning to really know her, to get more of her stories. she taught me many things through action and inaction, and even more through simple words of wisdom. she deserved better. she never found comfort for many things. she was happy, too, surrounded by her children and her closest sister and friends. I danced her favorite music with her, we drank together at parties, I ate her cooking and always tried to listen when she spoke. when I said I love you, she always said I love you back. I wish we had gotten to do more of it.

you want to honor the dead, don't you? honor who they were when they lived. it's harder when their life was full of injustice. you can only work with what you have right now, can't make it better for them or console them anymore. but she was good. my aunt was good. I hope she knew it. I wish she were here so I could tell her.

#personal

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robzombies-hotwife · 1 year

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Let me preface this with the fact that I am primarily white with mixed European ancestry. I am visibly and culturally white and so are my parents and grandparents. I am legally, as identified by others, and self-identified white. I have never faced any type of racial oppression.

I have indigenous direct bloodline relatives on both sides of my family that I never talk about because I don't want to look like an asshole (i.e. "I'm 1/3000th Cherokee princess and therefore I'm a native american!!!). I know for a fact that they were forcibly assimilated into white culture or locked away in mental institutions because their white relatives were ashamed of their indigenous status. Family lore is unreliable, especially since "Cherokee" is unfortunately the tribe that most pretendians claim to be, but my mom's super into Ancestry.com stuff and so far, all family stories/memories have been backed up by documents. Shit, many of these people literally still exist in living memory by my older direct relatives, like my paternal grandmother has told me to my face about her childhood memories of her fully native relatives.

Am I, by never talking about them or the cultures that they were forced to give up, indirectly disrespecting them as much as they were disrespected in life for being indigenous? Which is more disrespectful: ignoring someone's existence or admitting it and having people get the wrong idea? When talking about ancestry, is there a concise way to say "yes, I have some indigenous ancestry but I am white" without sounding like a culturally-appropriative dick?

To be clear: I am not ashamed of my relatives at all, nor do I think I get "cool" points for this or that it absolves me from whiteness. I would never claim to be part of a tribe/culture because I'm really, really not. I just don't know how I should talk about my relatives or ancestry without people thinking that I, PERSONALLY, am claiming to be indigenous.

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whitepassingpocs · 2 years

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Omg I've been trying for so long to find someone to ask my dumb questions😭 So basically I'm in a big identity crisis, as I don't even understand a thing about the concept of race : my dad is French (the whitest white who ever whited) and my mom is moroccan (I don't know what race can be "associated" with native Morrocan people so let's just say she's poc)

And the thing is, she's dark skinned (my grandmother is the only dark skinned of her family and her children inherited her skin color), but she doesn't have any black origins, if that makes sense? (And besides, she totally refuses to be called a black woman)

As for me, I came out as white-ish, almost without any Morrocan features (except with my 3b hair) and most of the people recognize me only as French, which I'm perfectly fine with that

And that leads to my big problem : I don't consider myself poc at all, and I only connect with my french side. I've never faced racism, never felt oppressed (tho I've never felt privileged but ehh I'm not sure) and moving to Morroco surprisingly only made things worse

And the fact that Moroccan people (along with other North African countries) are considered as white by the American Census makes me only more confused, since I asked to all of my morrocan friends and they absolutely refuse to be called white

So when people ask me what race I am, I just say I'm white and that's it

So is it okay for me to call myself white, even tho I'm technically mixed ?

(I'm so sorry if I sounded offensive, it wasn't my intention at all, I'm just very new to all of those questions regarding race, as I don't even understand this concept (never grew up with it), but please please tell me if I was impolite/offensive)

(I have more stupid questions like this but let's just stick with that one lol)

hi! It's not offensive or impolite to ask questions you're personally struggling with, don't worry!

So, I've never been comfortable telling people how they should identify because it wouldn't be fair of me to do that with so little knowledge of who you are. You're the expert in your personal experience here. I'm only here to give general advice that you can take or leave.

I want you to know firstly that you aren't alone in feeling this way. This blog is full of asks from other white presenting mixed people with similar feelings and experiences. You're not alone.

Many people who have non-white heritage who are white passing identity as white because it's easier than explaining everyone their complex identity. That's okay! Especially if that's what you're most comfortable doing! Others may just identify as "mixed" or another general descriptor. Your family is Moroccan and you've lived in Morocco. It would be fine for you to just say you're Moroccan, you don't necessarily owe an explanation of something that's the truth.

Also, racial, ethnic and national identity are three separate things. You may see yourself as racially white, but you're also ethnically Moroccan/French and you're nationality is the country you identify as where you're from.

There is no right or single way to be anything. There's no one way to be Moroccan. There are Moroccan people all over the world who look different, come from different places, have different racial and national identities but are still no less part of that diaspora. One of my best friends is Palestinian/Chinese, she claims both regardless of her looks because it's who she is.

What I'm trying to say is that for white presenting people we occupy a unique space of being able to choose, if we want, who we are. Only you can do that and if you choose to be white, that's your right to make that choice. It's also your right to chose to honour your Moroccan heritage and make the effort reconnect, if you choose. It's up to you and only you.

All I will say is, if you were truly white, you wouldn't be asking these questions. White people who are unequivocally white do not question their identities, they do not lay awake at night wondering how to say who they are, or write long messages contemplating and qualifying who they are. This is why race has not and never will be just about how you look. Race is an awareness that you're socially different from the racial majority. While you may not have experienced racism, being acutely aware that you haven't because you have blood relatives that have is not a white experience.

I will say that the American census is bullshit. The only reason SWANA people are catagorised as white is because that was the only way the government would allow them to seek asylum in the US. it's rooted in racism. It's not a guide to how you personally should identify.

Finally, it's okay just not to label yourself. It's okay to just exist as you are. You're not obligated to boil down your experiences to a single label. It's okay to just be.

Best of luck 💕

#moroccan #SWANA #mixed problems #mixed poc #north african

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thedatingproject · 2 years

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Date #3 - Dallas

Honestly I had a very good vibe about Dallas. I really, really thought I'd like this guy. But...I'm getting ahead of myself.

A little bit of facts about Dallas:

He is only a couple of days older than me. 8 days to be exact. We are both October babies.

He is very cute

He brings forth this happy "golden retriever" energy

He is committed to his work and loves what he does as a Data Analyst

Doesn't believe in star signs or MBTI kinda personality tests, and didn't let me analyze him beforehand...which I actually found interesting

He told me straight up that he wasn't looking to date casually. That he was serious about meeting someone who wants to build a life with him etc. I found that very attractive too.

He texted me everyday since we matched up (that's 10 days until the first date) sending cute voice notes and just catching up about our day-to-day stuff. I loved the energy he brought to each interaction

We have a couple of mutual friends so of course I asked one of the closest ones if he was a decent guy. She said she knew him when they were 19 and that he's really nice.

He loves to travel a lot

We both share a common love for food. We bonded over our love for Asian cuisine! It was something I found myself liking a lot about him

He's lived alone since he was 19 years old, since his parents split. He has one older brother. He loves his family, but isn't particularly close to them.

So those are the facts. None of them gave off major red flags or anything. Actually, all of them made me like him. Genuinely.

It's safe to say, I wanted this date to go well. I'm not really sure if it did.

The day of, he changed our venue from a Chinese restaurant that we both wanted to try to a fusion Asian restaurant that was fancier and in a different part of town (that had me rethinking my whole outfit in the last minute). At the time, I thought of it as effort, but now I realize it was because it was closer to his office. Still okay. All good.

He asked and confirmed the time with me as 6pm so that he could make a reservation. I'll admit. That literally gave me heart eyes. A guy who takes charge and makes a plan is something that is really attractive. You know, when the venue change happened, I thought I should tell him that maybe a reservation should be made but that would be me leading with my masculine energy - something I'm trying to avoid in my dating life. I don't want to be the one who controls everything. I'm glad I let it be so he could show more of himself.

Then at 5.45pm he texted me and asked if we could push it to 6.30pm as he was caught up with some work. If I had already left home, planning to be there at 6pm, and had no other plans in between, that last minute time change would have been inconvenient. I know myself. It would have annoyed me. Fortunately, I was already in the city and visiting my grandmother so it all worked out.

When I was booking the Uber, he asked if he could pick me from the office. Also fine. Why waste energy if it is already on the way? And it allowed us to arrive at the restaurant together without one of us having to wait awkwardly. Still good.

While we are walking to the restaurant through the car park, this guy was walking pretty fast and ahead of him. I'm a short girl. He is 5'10. To keep up with his stride, I'd have to run. I called out to him and told him so. I tried to be real cute about it too. "Please don't make me run on our first date. Will you slow down a bit?" I expected him to listen, not ignore me and keep walking at his pace, making me walk behind him like a puppy trailing after him. I think that was my first turn off.

The restaurant was nice. The vibe and the food was really good. He was familiar with the menu and thought we should order two shareable dishes. I agreed and let him make the decision for me, claiming I had decision fatigue from a long day but in reality I wanted to see how he would react to having to take charge. I think he did it well. He wasn't hard and fast about it. He gave me a few options and let me make the final decision.

He ordered me a really nice cocktail and one for him. While I was sipping that one cocktail, he ordered more. Throughout the night, I think he polished off 4 cocktails and 2 beers in total. For a first date on a Thursday, I felt that was a bit of a red flag. Or at least, it didn't match up with the values I was looking for.

The conversation flowed easily. He was unconventional, didn't beat around the bush with small talk about travel aspirations or what we liked to eat, and got down to the real stuff. The moment I said that I don't eat beef, he questioned it. Why? What is the religious reasoning? He wanted me to question myself and I kinda liked that. We talked about our standards for relationships and expectations in such a way that got deep and intellectual. This part, I actually liked.

When it came time to settle the bill, I offered to split. I ended up paying for all his drinks and I found that a little annoying. I could afford to pay but that's not the point. The man had 6 times what I had and we split equally. I found that disrespectful on a first date.

We both decided to part ways at 8.30pm. Me, because my friends were leaving and I hoped to share a ride with them. Him, because he had to go back to work to finish some stuff off.

His office was on the other side, a bit far from where my friends were going to pick me up. I swear to God. The man would have up and left me if I hadn't spoken up. Major red flag, for sure. At that moment, I thought to myself, screw going with the flow. I needed to prioritize my safety and therefore I flat out asked him to stay till my friends arrived.

I texted him a couple of hours later saying I had a good time. I didn't lie! At that time, I had not processed the date as a whole and was only focusing on how good the conversation felt not to be stuck on asking someone "what's your favorite color?" He said he felt the same.

Then after that, until the next morning, nothing. Nothing about if I got home safely. Nothing about whether he got home safely. I mean...I always thought that is like common courtesy. Isn't it? In the morning, he was like "Sorry I crashed last night." I still haven't really replied.

Should I go on a second date with this guy? What if this was all first date awkwardness?

I am still undecided.

#dating as a millennial #infj dating #fifty first dates #dating experiment #dating #infj relationships #infj #gemini

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lucifer-is-a-bag-of-dicks · 2 years

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so I just learned that my great grandmother was an Aboriginal/Islander woman, like not white passing either, somebody in the family has discovered a photo of a woman who has been positively identified to be my grandfather's mother, and even in black and white she is very much very obviously very indigenous

my grandfather doesn't take after her at all, he's all Scottish like his father, and she either died before my mum and her siblings could meet her or when they were too young to remember

the reason that this is such a big deal to my family is that my grandfather had never mentioned it, and my grandmother would swear up down and sideways that her mother in law was not black if her ethnicity was ever brought up, which apparently it had been by I presume some other older members of the extended family who had met her before

my mum and her siblings never knew why there was a rumour that she was a black woman, any time they asked my grandmother she wouldn't shed any light on the situation, she would just continue to insist until she was blue in the face that she was absolutely NOT Aboriginal or Islander, and my grandfather would just say nothing on the matter at all

finally having evidence has kinda put a real spotlight on my grandma, now we know the reason she was so defensive was because she knew damn well that her mother in law was a black woman, and she chose to hide that from us, presumably out of shame if I had to guess

I don't know if any of my family has called her out on it yet or even shown her the photo, but I can't imagine anyone's particularly keen to be the one to do it, it would probably be a hell of a confrontation, I know my mum would kill me if I did it (I'm not very good at being diplomatic with this kind of thing and that side of the family is volatile)

I love my grandma, I have spent a lot of time with her growing up, she's always been wonderful to me, but like many grandparents I always knew she had the touch of old folk racism in her, she is an adamant defender of being able to use the N word however she likes despite all of our attempts to educate her

but I always sort of assumed that that was where it ended, that she wasn't really racist, she was just old fashioned, maybe assumed isn't the right word, hoped might be more accurate

so finding out that she kept a huge part of our family heritage a secret out of shame, a heritage that wasn't even hers, it's got us all a bit shaken, does my grandad feel ashamed? did she make him feel ashamed?

it sits in stark contrast to my dad's side of the family, who have bent over backwards to track our family tree and all know the exact name of my grandpa's one very distant aboriginal ancestor, he was a good few generations away but they're all proud to know his name, even if that's all they know

if we'd known about our great grandmother we could have learned a lot more about our family tree, gotten in touch with our indigenous heritage, we might have even known who our tribe was or what language they spoke

I would love to look into it now, but since I was never raised to feel like I belonged with that community, I wouldn't know where to start, I would feel out of place, I don't look indigenous at all, I don't feel indigenous at all, I don't feel like it's okay for me to claim my heritage since I was never raised in it and I don't even look like I belong there, I wonder if that would have been different if I had known from the start

I want to know more about my family history and culture, but I don't know how to do it without being disrespectful, without feeling like I'm pushing myself into somewhere I don't belong

I don't know if I will ever learn more about her side of the family, I don't know if my grandad will ever talk about her, and even if he wanted to my grandma probably wouldn't let him

it's disappointing to know that her racism was that deeply rooted, that it didn't just stop at the N word, it was probably naive to ever think it did

#lula's life #tw racism #not an angry rant this time I'm just sad

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alottanothing · 3 years

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Kismet

Summary: Evie prepares a meal for the stranger who helped her and finds herself more than a little smitten.

Previous Part: Hope

Word Count: 5707

Warnings: Language

Tag List: @ramilicious, @txmel, @edteche2, @gloriousdarkangelsworld, @diasimar, @xmxisxforxmaybe (Let me know if I missed you, or if you would like to be added to the tag list)

A/N: Okay, I almost didn't get this up today because I was up most of the night sewing kilts for Highland Weekend at the Ohio Renfiare. BUT I stayed awake and did my final read-through, so this should be mostly okay. I skipped a couple steps in my editing to get this up on time but I think, for the most part, it's okay. If you see a grammatical booboo, just ignore it, I'll get in here sometime this week with my other two editing steps and find it, then repost this. Capisce? Okay, cool...now. I hope you enjoy it, I also hope my trying to phonetically write Mer's accent doesn't get too annoying. I know you really shouldn't write accents, but I think it helps add to the characters. And I do try to keep it to a minimum so it doesn't get annoying. Thanks for the love the first part received last month! I know waiting so long between updates is a bit sad after weekly updates with LtR. But life is busy right now and once a month is all can guarantee.

Jonny did not know how to keep a house.

In fact, Jonny did not know how to do much more than drink, argue, and get into fights. He was nothing but a thorn in Evie's side—never mind how much she needed him for a place to lay her head. A necessary thorn was still a thorn. Given the opportunity, she would rip it out as soon as she could and dress the wound promptly so she was finally able to heal better. She stayed only because she had no other choice. And every time Jonny raised his voice or stumbled in reeking of alcohol and red-faced, Evie could hear her best friend's warning in her head. Cynthia had begged her not to go with him, but she hadn't listened.

Oh, how she wished she had.

Luckily, Jonny wasn't the kind of man who liked to stay home which eased the ache of the ever-present thorn in her side. Whatever money he did have, he spent out on the town—the town being New Orleans. Like Evie, Jonny had been born and raised in the Big Apple, the noise and the chaos was part of him. As such, he hadn't taken to the quiet suburban life Bridge City offered as well as Evie. She liked the quiet, easy flow of the sleepy town. Her housemate loathed his new home. He thrived in disarray, thus, he found a group of like-minded young men to run amok with in the neighboring metropolis every chance he got.

If Jonny had been any sort of amicable company, the notion of him leaving most every night to wreak havoc several miles away would have been upsetting. Thankfully, his penchant for city life meant a good portion of Evie's days were spent out from under Jonny's tyranny. The hours he was gone were blissful and calm, and she relished in them. Whether she was creating art or tending to chores around the old house, Evie didn't care as long as Jonny wasn't there—never mind how lonely the routine often was.

Evie had never gotten the chance to meet Jonny's maternal grandmother, though she suspected she would have liked to. Unlike her grandson, she seemed like any other sweet elderly woman judging by the furnishings she'd left behind. There were dozens of lace doilies, and table cloths with soft patterns, decretive china even, but it was the plethora of photos the old woman kept that told Evie she'd carried a kindly heart. All of them were kept in pristine albums or intricate frames; they were the only barbles that seemed to have been cleaned or dusted with any regularity which spoke of how much she must have treasured them. Evie loved those tiny trinkets and black and white memories. It didn't matter that they were not her legacy of family heirlooms to keep, she adored them anyway.

She couldn't count the number of times she'd replaced a broken frame that had fallen victim to Jonny's drunken belligerence or scrubbed tirelessly at a stain he'd left on the patterned tablecloths. It proved to be a hefty undertaking, but dwelling in the fantasies of someone else's history let her forget the grief of her own. She was willing to sacrifice a little elbow grease if it allowed her mind to roam away from the shadow that never really seemed to vanish.

For all the effort Evie put in on the interior, the cottage held little in the way of curb appeal. The porch was sunken in the middle, the paint was peeling off in chunks, and the yard was mostly weeds. Worst, however, was the screen door which squeaked so loudly, every dog in the neighborhood howled in protest every time someone crossed the threshold. The outside needed love that Evie simply didn't have the energy to lend. Despite the grit, however, the foundations were sturdy enough that she didn't worry. The cottage proved to be stronger than she looked—a feat Evie felt she had in common with the old house. And while it was a swell enough place to rest her head, it never truly felt like home. Home was somewhere safe, and as long as Jonny lived under that roof she wasn't safe. Not really.

Fortunately, Jonny wasn't home when Evie returned after her run-in with Mr. Shelton—Mer, she corrected herself with a hint of a giddy smile. Without her housemate there, her evening promised to be hopeful instead of lonely, and she wasted no time in figuring out what to make for dinner.

With her red pumps replaced by her worn-in slippers and her blue checkered apron secured around her waist, she set a pot of water to boil and dialed the phone conveniently located in the kitchen. Every evening she called her sister-in-law to pass the time and keep up on unimportant gossip back home; this time, however, Evie was excited to finally have some good news to share.

"You got the job, didn't you?" Cynthia Clarke asked on the other end, sounding hopeful. "I knew you would."

Evie grinned, still amazed how the sound of Cyn's voice always seemed to settle some of the ever-present anxieties buzzing in her head. She missed her friend so much.

"I didn't even say yes."

"Did you or did you not get the job?" Cynthia pressed.

"I did," Evie confirmed and her smile grew hearing her friend cheer on the other end of the phone.

"See! I knew it." Cynthia said. "My gut feeling is always right."

Evie rolled her eyes and shook her head fondly.

"I think I'm gonna like working there too, so that's good." she mused as she stood at the stove, eyeing the pot of water she’d set to boil.

"That's so great, Ev. I'm so proud of you." Cynthia paused before continuing. "So, what are you up to tonight? Avoiding Jonny?"

"Sorta," Evie nodded even though she knew her friend wouldn't see.

As she continued to watch her cooking pot of water she told Cynthia all about her trouble with Jonny's car and the man who'd been so kind to help her.

"Wait. You invited the stranger over who fixed the car?" Concern was heavy in Cyn's voice, and Evie half expected a lecture to follow.

Despite knowing each other since childhood, Cynthia had taken on the role of her protector since Evie's family was no longer in the picture. The war had claimed Evie's father, and brother—although they'd never found her brother, Jimmy after he disappeared behind enemy lines. Evie never lost hope that Jimmy would one day be found, Cynthia though, was certain her husband was never coming home. After Cyn’s brother, Charlie, died at Normandy Cynthia had difficulty believing anyone was going to make it home. As for Evie's mother, losing a child and her husband to the war was too much for her tender heart and she passed not long after. Ever since, Cynthia was overcome with the need to act as Evie's guardian.

"He wouldn't let me pay him," Evie explained. "So I'm making him dinner—it seemed like the least I could do."

"I suppose…." Cynthia didn't sound convinced, if anything she sounded slightly irritated there was no quick way for her to argue the logic. "Just be careful, Evie. You don't know this guy—he could be another Jonny Doyle. Or worse."

"He's not," Evie said quickly. She wanted nothing more than to tell her friend all about how benevolent Mer was, but she decided against it. Cynthia would only argue that point somehow.

A long pause followed, and Evie wedged the receiver between her ear and shoulder so her hands were free to work on the meal.

"So, what are you cooking?" This time, there was a hint of jest in her friend's tone when she spoke.

The art of cooking was one creative outlet that Evie struggled with, second only to music. In her youth, her mother did all the cooking—it was a passion of her mother's—thus Evie had done little more than watch in wonder as her mother whipped up meal after meal effortlessly. Breakfast she the meal she was probably best at, apple pies too, but anything beyond that Evie required a step by step guide to prepare. And even then she lacked confidence. Thankfully, when she'd fled south, she remembered to grab her mother's cookbook. It was a cumbersome tome with yellowed pages and notes scribbled into the margins: a piece of art itself cultivated over years of collecting recipe after recipe starting the moment her mother stepped off the boat that brought her from Ireland. And like a witch and her spellbook, Evie depended on it.

"Spaghetti with garlic bread," Evie admitted feeling as though the meal lacked a certain something.

Pasta was something she knew held a low degree of difficulty when it came to preparing. Surely she couldn't mess up pasta.

“Mmm, I can almost smell it,” Cynthia said.

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously,” Cyn replied. “You’re mom’s spaghetti recipe was always my favorite.”

A doleful smile pulled at the corners of her lips, thinking back to her mother happily cooking in the kitchen as she sang a Celtic tune. It seemed strange that those moments would never again play out, instead they’d become bittersweet memories Evie could only relive in her mind.

“Mine too,” she murmured, suddenly missing her family.

Neither of them said anything for a moment, and Evie’s mind roamed the dregs of her grief before blinking back into reality and the hope of something happy to come.

“I need to go, Cyn,” Evie told her friend with a sigh. “I don’t want to burn the garlic bread.”

Cynthia chuckled and said her goodbye, only after making Evie promise to call her in the morning to let her know how everything went.

With her second hand restored after hanging up, Evelyn reached for her mother’s cookbook to give the steps another look over to ensure she had done everything and added every herb and ingredient she was supposed to. She’d followed everything perfectly, even factoring in the little notes scribbled into the margins left there by her mother—those she smiled at fondly and traced the fading ink with her fingers. Everything was as it should be. Even so, without a taste, Evie knew the sauce she had prepared would never be as savory as what her mother made so effortlessly.

“You were the artist in the kitchen, Ma,” she said with a shrug. “I’ll stick to paper and canvas.”

For the smallest of a moment Evie thought she would hear the warmth of her mother’s laugh, and when it never came she sighed again, trying not to dwell on the shadows behind her. What mattered was the light ahead.

Despite her lack of confidence, the meal came together without any severe hiccups. The noodles were not overcooked, the sauce was a complementing mix of savory and sweet (though, as she had guessed after a tiny taste, was not nearly as good as her mother's) and the garlic bread was nicely golden. A small tingle of pride manifested in the form of a surprised, but satisfied, smile as she surveyed the dinner before her.

“Not bad, Ev,” she told herself, knowing her mother would have been delighted.

With the cooking done, Evie threw a glance over her shoulder to the clock mounted on the wall, triggering a surge of anxiety to bubble in her gut. Stranger, perhaps, was the amount of excitement coursing through her veins. It was as though all of her happiness was riding on whether or not she would see Merriell again. None of it made sense; the man was little more than a stranger. The coupling of nerves and delight was not a feeling that put her ill at ease, however. She trusted it. And it was that peculiar sensation that seemed to fuel her movements.

With a few minutes to spare, Evie wandered into the small bathroom to freshen up. She made sure her hair was still pinned the way she liked—up and pretty. Her make-up was holding up nicely despite the heat; all she needed was a fresh layer of lipstick to complete the illusion of a put-together young lady. It wasn't often she wore a dress with heels and a face of cosmetics—she liked to when the opportunity arose, but she was just as comfortable in a pair of old overalls and smudges of charcoal on her face.

Just as she wiggled back into her red pumps—discarding her worn-in house slippers with a couple of calculated kicks—a knock on the door signaled Merriells arrival. Immediately a grin curled onto Evie's lips and her heart began to pound an anxious-excited rhythm. A blush threatened to color her cheeks to give away the torrid muscle beating in her chest—her ever yearning heart already making leaps and bounds for a man she had known for mere hours.

Don't be ridiculous—she warned herself taking in a deep breath to curb the eagerness coursing in her veins. Untying her apron, she tossed it along with her discarded slippers and went to answer the door, taking one last deep breath to steady the fervor in her heart.

Merriell had changed and showered. The sweet bouquet of his shampoo coupled invitingly with the musk of the aftershave he'd chosen, making it difficult for Evie to keep from soaking in the scent he carried. His curls were still somewhat damp—too much moisture in the air to keep the heat from drying them on his way over—though they fought to spring back into their previous fluff. The grease-covered, jeans he'd been wearing had been replaced by a nice pair of tan slacks, and the buttoned shirt he wore was a soft shade of green that made his eyes glitter a deeper emerald as he stood under the glow of the porch light. All Evie could do was stare—utterly beguiled—every rational thought in her head lost to her.

Mer smirked, amused by her ogling. "Hiya."

Evie blinked, coming back to reality, suddenly feeling foolish, and uttered a nervous "hi" before swinging her arm to invite him inside.

"Come in."

Merriell's smile grew as he crossed the threshold, inhaling deeply. "Mm, smells tasty in here."

He gently forced a bottle into her hands as he passed on his way to investigate the savory smells in the kitchen.

"I wasn' sho what ya was makin', but I figured wine usually goes with anythin'."

"Oh, thank you." Evie glanced at the label, unable to read the French words printed there. "You didn't have to bring anything."

"I know," Mer shrugged, placing his hands in his pockets. "I just wanted to make a good impression."

There was something almost boyish when he smiled then—cheeks coloring pink ever-so-slightly—that made him even more of a mystery. One Evie was eager to solve.

"Well," she said placing the bottle on the kitchen table. "It should go perfectly with dinner."

His expression lost a hint of its boyish charm as it grew into a look of delight.

"Make yourself at home," Evie gestured vaguely between the table and the sofa in the living room as she ventured to the cabinet where the stemware was kept.

She placed two crystal glasses on the table along with the wine and retraced her steps to fetch some of the nicer china Jonny's grandmother had kept. Mer watched her, his gaze, gentle and attentive, and a little bit yearning as she methodically sat the table.

"Need help with anythin'?" he asked finally.

"Nope," She replied with a smile. "Everything is almost ready."

The hearty red sauce on the stove was beginning to boil again which told her it was hot enough to serve, and Evie eyed the pot with scrutiny, praying silently her attempt at cooking would go over well.

"I'll pour us a glass then," Mer announced.

"Great, lemme…" Evie spun to fish for the corkscrew in the drawer of misfit utensils, finding it, only to turn to see Merriell holding his lighter against the neck of the dark bottle just below the cork.

Before she could ask, a loud pop sounded, causing her to jump as the cork went flying.

"Oh my goodness!" she laughed, a little surprised, a little impressed. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Mer shrugged, a sly expression on his features, and left her question unanswered.

"How much ya want?" He held the open bottle over the top of her glass, waiting patiently.

"Enough," she said, tossing him a coy smirk without really meaning to.

He bit his lower lip as he smiled, chuckling under his breath when he poured a generous glass of red wine for each of them. She thanked him as he took his seat and grabbed his plate to dish out their dinner.

"How much pasta would you like?"

Mer's face lit with charm and mischief as he turned to face her.

"Enough," he grinned.

The expression on his face was playful, his smirk devious and amused by his own response and his cheekiness settled warmly in Evie's stomach. Not only did she revel in it, but she also played into his whimsy and scooped as much spaghetti into his plate as she could before coupling it with the savory sauce and a slice of bread.

Despite being only strangers, the atmosphere that bloomed that evening was not marked by any hint of bashfulness, instead, it was relaxed and amiable. Warmth that Evie had longed to dwell in again—that unrefutable kindness she'd lost with the passing of her family—flowed uninhibited from the man sitting adjacent to her. His conversation was cautious but still jovial and genuine. It was the first time since running south Evie could recall what life felt like without grief and fear weighing upon her. Merriell was a stranger, but she felt safe with him. Jonny had never made her feel that way.

"So," Evie spoke as she twirled the last bit of pasta with her fork. "What is it you do, Mr. Shelton?"

Mer cast her a look of disapproval—no doubt in retaliation to being addressed so formally—before his features softened back into a neutral, yet somehow still amused side smirk.

"Nothin' too excitin'," he stated vaguely. "The odd jobs are what I like ta do the most—like fixin' ya car this aftah noon."

Without really meaning to, Evie leaned forward, resting her elbow and chin on the table, utterly enchanted by the beautiful stranger at her table.

"You like to get your hands dirty, huh? Fixing things?" she was entirely too intrigued with the thought of what he could do with his hands.

He shrugged, suddenly modest after a foray of playfully arrogant smirks and glances. It made him abruptly twice as charming.

"I've always had a knack for it, I guess." Merriell finished the food on his plate with the help of his remaining garlic bread to mop up the sauce still left on his dish.

"What about you?" he asked after chewing. "Ya workin' anywhere?"

All at once, a proud smile lit up Evie's face. After all the excitement of seeing Merriell again, she'd almost forgotten about her good news.

"Actually, I just got a job today—the general store downtown, Southern Comfort."

Mer's face lit up too, "Birdie's place?"

"Yeah, you know it?" Of course, he knows it! She thought, Bridge City's population was slightly less than the number of people who lived in a single district back home in New York. Everyone knew everyone else.

"Sho do—I was practically raised there…ole Birdie's like a second mothah to me."

"Really?" Evie found a great deal of comfort in that notion. In fact the more she thought on it, the more she realized how similar the old woman and Mer were; they radiated the same magnetism and sincerity.

"Mmhm," he nodded, his eyes focusing elsewhere as the veil of memories danced across the contours of his features. "My mama used ta work there…once upon a time…"

"Does she still work there?"

Merriell's face lost a hit of its levity and he swallowed as though to fight off the onslaught of sudden emotion threatening to cast a shadow onto his expression.

"No…" he said softly. "She—uh—she died, about a year ago."

Shit!

Abruptly, sick knots twisted into Evie's stomach, feeling callous, but understanding of the quiet misery he hid under layers of charm and arrogance.

"Merriell, I'm…I'm sorry—I didn't mean…"

He met her eyes and cast her a quick smile—doleful, but enough to ease the awful feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"It's okay," he reassured her, reaching for his glass of wine and taking a good gulp before changing the subject. "Birdie's great—you'll enjoy workin' for her."

"I hope so…" Evie said softly, still too embarrassed to meet Mer's glance longer than a second or two.

For the first time all night the atmosphere they shared felt cumbersome—perhaps more melancholy—than she'd wanted it to get. Evie sat, worrying her bottom lip, her fingers toying with a loose thread in the table cloth as she stole quick glances through her lashes in Mer's direction.

He was nursing the alcohol in his glass with the same sadness she'd caught plaguing him as he sat at the bar hours ago. And while Evie was eager to know if his grief stemmed only from the loss of his mother, or perhaps more, Merriell was still too much of a stranger to warrant such questions. It didn't matter how easy it was to be near him, she had not earned the right to know his narrative.

A soft sigh broke past her lips as she fought to find a way to properly allay the gloom that was quickly ruining an otherwise wonderful evening. It wasn't until her eyes found their desert sitting on the counter, waiting to save the day, that she perked up.

"Got any room for apple pie?" Evie asked with a hesitant smile. She hoped he wanted to stay long enough to have a slice, though she would not have blamed him for wanting to leave.

Immediately Mer perked up too, the shadows on his features retreating with the promise of something sweet.

"I was countin' on it—seems as how you promised a slice earlier," he said with a boyish grin.

When she stood, he did too, helping clear away their dinner plates, and letting them soak in the sink to be washed later. Evie cut them each a slice of apple pie and the delight on Mer’s face made her smile too seeing him lick his lips as his grin continued to grow. Catching that flash of his tongue was like a bolt of hot lightning striking her without warning; a blush rose so quickly on her cheeks Evie had to look away to keep the blunder a secret. Thankfully, the pie was more than enough to hold Merriell’s attention away from her.

“Mmmm… Almost looks too good to eat,” he said ogling the desert in front of him.

When Evie chanced a look his way, the expression on his face caused her to chuckle, “‘oughta be, I made one for my pa every year for his birthday since I was nine. It’s probably the only thing I have any confidence in making in the kitchen.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Mer quipped as he loaded his fork with as much pie as he could.

The moment he took a bite, his brows creased, and eyes closed as he chewed painfully slow. Those few seconds were like agony. Evie’s heart was pounding in her chest with so much anticipation she feared she might faint as she watched him sample the only thing she could actually make that was worth a damn.

“Fuck me, if that ain’t the best apple pie I’ve evah had the pleasure of tasting.”

A somewhat nervous, but relieved chuckle sounded in the back of Evelyn’s throat as she watched Merriell shovel a larger bite of pie into his mouth.

“Mmm… Yep. God damn delightful.”

“Stop,” Evie said sheepishly, suddenly afraid he was overselling his reaction to keep from hurting her feelings.

“No,” he wiped his mouth and leaned across the table to meet her gaze with a sincere expression that stole away all the doubt writhing in her stomach.

“I mean it. If I wasn’t so full of pasta, I’d eat that whole damn pie right now.”

“Well,” Evie grinned softly, trying not to let her blush color her cheeks too obviously. “Thank you. And you’re welcome to take the rest of it when you go.”

Excitement took form on his face with a smirk that was sweet but roguish all at once—a sort of debonair charm that amplified his magnetism—as if his bright eyes dark curls and razor-sharp jaw did not make him alluring enough already. Again she had to look away knowing the pink in her cheeks would be too strong to combat.

“Imma have ta take ya up on that offah. An’ I’ll be thinkin’ ‘bout you every time I cut me a slice.”

That blush was unstoppable; her heart was suddenly so smitten, it felt as though butterflies were fluttering merrily in her stomach. She felt weightless with warmth and hope swelling in her bosom, fearing any slight breeze would carry her off. It was ridiculous how at ease Evie felt sitting there eating pie with a complete stranger. The conversation had been easy all night; even when it had delved into less savory topics he still made her feel comfortable. Evelyn had forgotten what it was like to be in the company of a man who wasn’t easy to anger, who was genuine and kind and wanted only to live in the moment.

For a time the whimsy of the atmosphere faded as the warmth in her heart ached, suddenly missing her brother James and Cynthia's brother Charlie. Both of them were good men, kind and genuine—like Merriell—but they had been swallowed by the rages of war. Brave young men were lost forever, while a man like Jonny Doyle was still alive How was that fair?

No matter how pleasant her thoughts could be, they always fell back to the grief that plagued her. She sighed, deeply, pushing those intrusive memories back into the depths of her mind so she could find joy once more in the moment with a kind stranger.

When Merrill finished his plate he made a beeline for the sink full of soaking dishes.

“Oh, no,” she said jumping to her feet. “I can do those.”

Merriell, however, shook his head. “Uh-uh, you did the cookin’, I can do the cleanin’.”

When Evie tried to argue, Mer simply shook his head, his grin amused but determined as he kept scrubbing the dirty dishes.

“Let me help at least,” she suggested. “I’ll dry and put them away.”

Before he could protest, she snatched the freshly rinsed dish from his hand and began wiping away the droplets of water clinging to the porcelain surface, throwing him a smug smirk that made him chuckle.

“Alright,“ he smirked.

She watched him for a moment not really paying attention to her task as he scrubbed the old plates clean, overcome with a blissful vision of peaceful domesticity. It made her stomach fill to the brim with whimsy and her heart was fluttering again; had this stranger bewitched her already? Or did what she feel bubbling lightly in her gut like a seltzer stem from an end to her loneliness—even if it was only for a few hours? Evelyn didn’t know. Nevertheless, she was intrigued with a profound feeling and she wanted to dwell in it for as long as she could.

Occasionally as he would hand a freshly washed dish her way, his calloused fingertips would brush against her skin, igniting a spark she didn’t know how to react to. It was more than an amicable tingle racing from the tips of her fingers right to her heart. And each time they touched, Merriell would cast her a gentle smile that held nothing more than his inherent charm and magnetism. She wondered if he felt it too, or if her need for companionship was playing a dirty trick on her.

When the dishes were all back in their usual places—the night drawing to a close—Evelyn realized she was not ready to say farewell to her Beautiful Stranger. She longed to stay up all night just chatting with him, she did not care about what, Evelyn only wanted to stay encompassed a while longer in the blissful warmth he brought into her life. Once he was gone, all she would be able to do was stay up and ponder the significance of those little touches and the sparks they brought.

Thankfully, Merriell lingered on the old rickety porch, one hand in his pocket, the other holding onto his plate of leftover pie, seeming to stall their inevitable departure.

“Well,” he said with a grin. “Thank you for invitin’ a stranger ovah for dinna.” He paused, glancing at the leftover pie in his hand. “Can’t recall ever having a better plate of pasta, an’ nothin’ evah gonna beat this pie.”

Evie quickly looked at her feet to hide another blush.

“It was the least I could do,” she told him before looking back to meet his eyes. “You have no idea how much of a savior you were this afternoon…”

A glint of concern flashed in his eye, his brows beginning to crease as his unspoken question lingered between them.

She thought about telling him—telling him how Jonny was nothing more than a throne in her side, and how much she cherished Merriells company—but Mer was still a stranger. It wasn’t right to unload so much onto someone she’d only known for a few hours.

Before Mer could offer any reply, the sound of screeching tires stole all their focus as an old wagon pulled along the curb—narrowly missing a collision with the mailbox. The rowdy passengers were laughing and shouting loud enough even before the door opened to let Jonny stumble out. He staggered on drunk feet and screamed a handful of profanities to his buddies in the car which made them all roar with laughter.

It was only after the wagon full of hooligans pulled away that Jonny began to stagger towards the house, and it was exactly then that Evie’s fluttering heart became consumed with panic.

She and Mer watched him cross the yard, unseen, both frozen: Evie in fear and Merriell in confusion. Jonny’s intoxication level inhibited him from taking notice of them until he was at the base of the steps leading onto the porch. Immediately, his eyes narrowed and he frowned.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Jonny, this is Mr. Merriell Shelton,” Evie said quickly, willing her voice not to shake.

The Doyle’s were not known for their hospitality, nor were they known to trust most people. Especially strangers.

“He helped me this afternoon with a bit of trouble I was having,” she explained vaguely, hoping to thwart any more suspicion. “I made him dinner to say thank you—he’s just about to leave.”

Jonny eyed Merriell, seizing him up as best he could through drunken lenses. Mer stood his ground, eyeing him back with a subtle intensity that never so much as cracked under Jonny’s scrutiny.

Finally, being the better man, Mer held out his hand in a friendly manner, “nice ta meet ya.”

Jonny cast a prolonged glare at Merriell's open hand, his brows furrowed and part of his lip hiked up in a sort of snarl. Instead of returning the kind gesture, Jonny made a show of spitting at his feet before tossing his heavy leer at Evelyn.

"Evie, do not invite any more strangers into my house. I don't care if they are dying." He shoved past them both, purposely bumping Mer's shoulder (most likely in hopes to start something) muttering as he went: "I don't trust any of these filthy southerners."

Shock sent Evie's jaw slack; this time the redness in her cheeks was a symptom of embarrassment instead of infatuation. She should have known Jonny would say something rude and uncouth. Without another thought, she grabbed Mer by his sleeve and pulled him across the lawn until they stood next to his truck parked along the curb.

"I am so sorry about him," she said, crossing her arms and glaring at Jonny's house, ashamed and angry.

Mer shrugged as he placed his partially eaten pie in the passenger seat through the open window before fixing his hands in his front pockets.

"Ya boyfriend's a bit of an asshole."

"He is not my boyfriend," Evie corrected vehemently. "I don't think he knows that though. I'm just staying here until I can figure some things out."

Merriell was quiet a moment, nodding silently. It seemed as though he was taking his time processing the whole situation. There was compassion on his face and behind his eyes, but it was guarded somehow. Evie caught it though and she was grateful when he didn't ask the questions plainly forming in his mind.

"Well," he said finally, his tone light as one corner of his mouth quirked into a grin. "Since he ain't ya othah half, I feel more inclined ta leave ya with this…"

Gently, Merriell caressed her upper arm as he leaned forward to plant a tender kiss on her cheek. He let his lips linger slightly longer than was common for such an act, that all at once wove a new hopefulness into her heart.

"Dinna was swell," he added as he pulled away, his smile somehow more charming than it had been all night. "Hope I see ya again, Evie."

"Me too," she murmured.

Evie watched as he got in his truck to leave, her hand held to the cheek he'd graced with his kiss. And when he drove away, it took everything inside of her to keep from running after him.

#Beautiful Stranger Series #Merriell Shelton x Original Character #Merriell Shelton #Snafu Shelton #HBO War #The Pacific #The Pacific Fanfiction #Rami Malek Fanfiction

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rataltouille · 3 years

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GEOMETRY OF THE HOLY MOON (1 AM): A SHORT STORY

GENRE: surrealism, literary fiction.

POV & TENSE: this little space is not enough for how wild the form is so i talk about this later!!

SETTING: a small desi village, 1924-25.

TONE: dreamy, unsettling, melancholic.

THEMES: faith vs reality, how people perceive others and how they perceive themselves, grief dealt the wrong way.

AESTHETICS: the splash of water on a quiet night, thick clouds obscuring the sky, rippling the moon’s reflection on the water. the intensity of a garden in spring, the emptiness of a dying town, the suffocation from being singled out. hands grazing lightly but never fully held. a lingering sadness behind your laugh. believing in things you shouldn't believe in. putting faith on a starless sky.

STAGE: completed first draft, 4085 words.

LOGLINE: a young boy, surrounded by loss, claims to talk to god. the story follows him and his conversations with this god, all while his village spies on him as he weaves his way around the two most crucial and lonely years of his life.

LITERAL LOGLINE: on today’s news let’s talk about a small backward town that hates sad little boys who worship god, even though the place is lowkey a cult!!

CHARACTERS:

THE SUMMER BOY: he’s around thirteen, and he’s very emotionally attached to his past. he lost his family at a young age to an unstable force, so he spends his time talking to himself. he’s a quiet, demure and sweet person, always willing to help others. he’s outwardly oblivious and sees only the good in people to a point where he doesn't understand when they’re trying to do him wrong. but! considering how the story [like a lot of my others] has themes of perception vs reality, it needs to be said that he isn't all that innocent. he’s rather impulsive and rash, never afraid of hurting himself [and thus accidentally harming others].

A GOD: is he real? do we even know if he’s an actual god? a very elusive figure despite having a lot of screentime. he’s a surprisingly humanised character and arguably the one with the most empathy. he has a soft spot for the boy and the two have a deep bond which is not common for a human and a god to have. you don’t get insight to what the other gods are like, but they’re implied to exist. this story has a very messy and hazy view towards religion and godhood and their nature towards humanity, and this vague figure, a dreamlike character, is proof enough of that.

THE VILLAGE: okay so in general these people suck. the village consists of, well, the village, but they’re very fluid in the way they appear in the story? as in for the most part they appear as a collective, a unit. one character, the summer boy’s “friend”, is somewhat separate considering he’s a pretty important character. it’s very hard describing this unit of a character but essentially they’re the main antagonistic force and they hate the protagonist for seemingly no reason.

WHAT GOES DOWN:

sometime around this time, the boy chances upon meeting his “god”, this being who lives up in the clouds and whom he talks with often, except you don't know if this god is real or not. that’s one of the recurring themes of this story: what’s real and what isn’t. it’s :) a fun time :) for sure :)

essentially Things Happen And It Only Gets Weirder. i cannot even try describing what happens because it’s all very spoilery but let’s just say that this is a very sad story but not even in a “this makes me cry” manner, but rather in a “this is so fucked up wtf why”. the prose of this is very, very hazy and thick, in a manner that’s both smooth and suffocating. there’s also a lot of moon and water imagery which we love. i love the atmosphere + the setting—colonial india— as it’s a subtle but key element to the plot.

FORM:

OKAY YES be prepared for the true colours of how unhinged i am. i apologize for the form brainrot.

POV: so in this story i really said “what if it had all three of the main povs... jk jk... unless 😳😳” and then proceeded to use all three povs. you’re probably wondering, how did i do that? WHY did i do that? and my answer to that is: 🙂

the first-person pov: the summer boy narrates in first person. his pov takes up about 40% of the story, and this is where we unlock family backstory + how he feels about the various forces playing into his life. he’s an extremely unreliable narrator and he knows it; his narration oscillates between very naive and very self-aware, and this effect is pretty disconcerting. the summer boy is kind of a walking contradiction and we love that conflict.

the second-person pov: a god narrates in second person. his pov takes around 20% of the story, and his scenes all involve his conversations with the boy. his pov is extremely detached, and suspends belief because he seems awfully made up. there’s an edge to the prose in his narration, where you know that something's off, but you can’t exactly pinpoint what.

the third-person pov: the villagers narrate, either as a collective, or as an individual figure, in third person. they take up the other 40% of the story, and there are so many different people and differing opinions with this, and every time we read a third person excerpt it’s a different person, and this is mostly used to add onto the different ways in which the boy is perceived. this is also where the structural part of the form gets really wacky.

STRUCTURE: if my story isn't told in vignettes is it my story though /j. gothm is told in vignettes, each one between 50 to 500 words. the first and second person bits are normal-ish vignettes, with straightforward narration. the third person vignettes, on the other hand, are super assorted. we have a lot of epistolaric sections— there’s a letter, a folk song [which was found around the summer boy], and most of the conversation is told as just plain dialogue without tags. there’s also a phone call transcript, and finally some normal chunks of prose. what am i doing wtf.

also to add onto this the story is told non-linearly. 😀 the only thing that keeps me from going insane is the fact that there are chronological tags before most vignettes [also the manner in which they're tagged differs from pov to pov. for example a few of the third person conversations are marked just as “sunday” or “thursday”, while the summer boy’s narration is marked with the full date and year]

in all this clownery i completely forgot to mention what the tense was [the way everything else was so complicated that i forgot tense was a thing lmao] and good news!! it’s the only sane thing about this story!! it’s told fully in present tense. thank everything.

AN EXCERPT:

okay i’m once again not sharing much because this will be submitted to litmags 🧞

[The boy is scrawny as always. He carries an air of diswant— even death had rejected him when the plague killed only his grandmother— but walks like he doesn’t notice. He smiles at them, jitters, and wipes his hand across his knees. Blood comes away in thin, translucent lines. He saves it on the kerchief he keeps tucked in his shirt, careful to dirty the cloth even more. The villagers scrunch their noses in disgust; who knew how old and rotten the kerchief was, or how long it had carried blood like the unwashed sword of a warrior?]

also by the way this excerpt is in square brackets because it is a third-person interjection in a vignette that is otherwise first-person [at this point...]

SPARE THOUGHTS:

this was inspired by a conversation i had with my grandfather, where he was telling me about how people used to sing songs to the skies, as a way of devotion to a specific god. he used the [loose translation of] the english word “yearning” to refer to the emotion the singers would invoke, and that sparked the concept of a disillusioned young boy who talks to the moon as a way to please the god he’s in love with. it’s a very softly disconcerting story and once again deals with the theme of “perception vs reality” which if you know me and my work, is the theme i’m forever obsessed with.

i really like how this turned out? the atmosphere is exactly how i wanted it to be, and there’s so much i have to add on as i edit and i’m really looking forward to that. this is also the only short story i’ve written where i knew which litmag i’d love for it to be published in? like i never write things with publishing in mind, but for some reason while writing this story it occurred to me that it would be a perfect fit for this specific magazine and i love that. anyway if you’ve made it through the post till here,,,, bless you and your braincells. and that’s all for today!!

#am writing #writeblr #wtwcommunity #atlastracking #ofcolourtracking #crabappletracking #tw death #tw plague #tw blood #the way this post gets increasingly incomprehensible...#love how my blog has just descended into pure chaos post-hiatus #geometry of the holy moon (1 am)#god complex #god complex intro

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theangryjikooker · 2 years

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Hi!

I'm the Anon who asked if I needed to be army to be a jikooker. Thank you, I liked the way you answered by not being toxic. I don't consider myself an army because I don't contribute into BTS stuff like many do. Also, army sometimes scare me. So without the label I feel more comfortable.

Alright so to your questions towards the end, I knew BTS but never explored them. Bwl was on my playlist because of Halsey, I never cared to know their names. But then purple hair JK started dancing on my Instagram reels, I wanted to discover them. I tried but still couldn't connect with them. A compilation video of BTS skinship popped up. Hobi kissing JK neck, pink hair JM kissing JK neck, rest I don't remember. So I wanted to watch on what context they were all kissing each other 😂😂

Saw few interviews, episodes from run/bon voyage/its/etc. This is how I learned about almost everything in BTS. Started loving JM JK flirty interactions, saw jikook analysis and anti analysis videos and the comedy compilation also. I say I don't have a bias but I can't neglect jimins charms anymore.

Anyway the point is BTS music is groovy, I like it. Jikook, I like the idea/theory of their love story that circulates in the fandom. I look forward to jikook vlives and ot7 vlives (because jikook will be there). Rest members I don't really look forward to but have no hate for them. They exist so BTS exist and so jikook exist in here. Respect to all of them. It's like I love my Mom but that doesn't mean I don't like my aunt/grandmother/sister/dad(?).

Don't know if I am making sense but I believe, to be an Army you need to explore all members even though you have bias? I don't and I can't put the efforts because of my laziness. I consider myself just a fan of BTS and not army.

Hi, anon, thank you for following up! ╰(*°▽°*)╯

I hope you haven't been getting criticized liking Jikook but not being an ARMY, that's pretty shitty of people to say that. I get where you stand, too: I really have a hard time connecting with other K-pop bands, but a member or two might stand out to me, and I end up keeping some kind of track of them (but lazily and inconsistently). No shipping, though, I'm stopping it at Jikook. 😂

LMFAO @ the comparison with the love for your mom but not your extended relatives. But yeah, I get what you mean. Not being interested in the other members doesn't mean anything more than not being interested in them, and that's fair. I appreciate you coming back and letting me (and anyone else reading this) know that shippers aren't cut from the same cloth. I would argue that non-ARMY shippers have more interesting things to say because they're technically "outsiders," and it can be further evidence that Jikook might have a little something-something going on, or at the very least have enough sparkling chemistry that can attract viewers even outside of ARMY. I find that cool.

I think the belief amongst ARMY (and I would assume other fanbases of other K-pop acts) is that to be an ARMY, you have to respect all the boys. That is first and foremost what ARMY prioritizes. Some ARMY even frown on shipping and think the practice itself is disrespectful, but to each their own. Liking a group's music is part and parcel of what it means to be a part of their fanbase, but no one is stopping you (nor should they) from looking into members that you're intrigued by. You're not claiming to be an ARMY, so that shouldn't be offensive to anyone (it shouldn't be offensive to anyone, but I can only speak for myself).

If you ever have any other thoughts on Jikook jikooking, you're always welcome to share them here! 💜

#TAJ asks #not army anon #jikook #kookmin

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strangergrove · 4 years

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× VOL 001 × 04.19.2020 ×

TUMBLR | @bambixxblue AO3 | moonlight_xx

× these hearts adore (every other beat, the other one beats for) ×

WORD COUNT: 10,569

CHAPTERS: 2/?

My Tumblr prompt fics all in one place. Some pining, some angst, but usually always a damn happy ending.

1. peach, curve of an ear, coffee grounds, veined hands, thunder

2. ways to say 'i love you' - 'i brought you an umbrella.'

The writing in this is so exquisite. It feels like cracking open a favourite book on a rainy Sunday morning, when the rest of the world is still asleep. It's comforting and poetic and incredibly heartwarming.

The first chapter takes us along on a sweet little vacation to California, a last hurrah of sorts, before the kids head off to college. It's sweet and peach-soaked and you can feel the ocean breeze against your skin with every passing word. It's the exact brand of happiness our boys deserve.

The second part is an achingly beautiful redemption for Billy. He learns how to let his wounds heal, learns how to let others in, learns how to trust and love. His initial interactions when he meets Steve are so precious and it shows how complex of a person he is, the softness beneath his concrete shell. I will devour any update to this amazing collection.

× the light of day shows me how ×

WORD COUNT: 39,173

CHAPTERS: 7/7

And from Robin, a single picture: the official cast list.

ROMEO MONTAGUE...BILLY HARGROVE

JULIET “JULIAN” CAPULET...STEVE HARRINGTON

Ah, fuck.

(or, Steve and Billy are in ballet school. They're cast in LGBT+ Romeo and Juliet. Featuring mutual pining, angst to fluff, and an Ancient Slavic demon cult. It gets weird.)

This is such a fun read. The spattering of background into the story really carves out the characters so well, choreographing the story in such a way that you fall into their lives without realizing it. You sit down to watch Steve practice his role for Julian and suddenly find yourself wondering if that small stutter you just saw has anything to do with any number of little details you know of his past. You see Billy storm across the studio floor and know that he’s trying to bury something that keeps resurfacing, but he refuses to let anyone help him.

It’s wonderful watching the way the boys play off of each other, pushing one another to better themselves in both their dance and their personal lives. Watching Steve fumble with his newfound and confusing feelings is sweet, hopeful, just waiting, waiting for it to tip over the edge, for the boys to fall into the space they’ve always belong: by each other’s side.

I’ve never done ballet, only watched it here and there in movies and shows, but I fell in love with this story, the way their dances are described, their movements. So if you’ve never been that into ballet, don’t let that deter you from reading this story. It’s so much more than just ballet.

× friends should sleep in other beds ×

WORD COUNT: 13,517

CHAPTERS: 2/2

It isn’t easy being in love with your best friend.

It especially isn’t easy being in love with your best friend if he’s the practical-Godfather of your university.

(or, 'I won't let anyone hurt you; you're safe with me' prompt fill where Steve thinks his love is one-sided but it absolutely isn't. Feat. loving girlfriends and Hawaiian vacations.)

This story is beyond achingly stunning. It’s all whirlwinds and longing and the white-knuckle deathgrip of trying to hold onto something you’re convinced is going to slip away. The deep, binding relationship between Billy and Steve is beautiful and heartbreaking and hopeful at the same time. Both characters have obvious trenches of emotional trauma they’ve had to trudge through to get where they are, trenches they’re still slowly crawling their ways out of.

The words are so wonderfully crafted that I felt the sway and break of Steve’s emotions at the same time he did. I felt the longing, the sorrow, the sputtering flame of hope that just refuses to gutter and die. I want to say I wanted more of this story, but I don’t know if my heart could have handled it. No, it was the perfect length, detailing the long harrowing journey of love and friendship, of finding family that doesn’t come from blood, of holding desperately onto things that are worth the bruises they leave on your fingers.

TUMBLR | @cameorabbit AO3 | CaffeinatedBunny

× Life Is Sweet ×

WORD COUNT: 8,676

CHAPTERS: 4/4

Snapshots of domestic bliss, between loving boyfriends.

(This story will be marked as complete but I will be adding chapters as the muses come to me or when I need a break from some of my larger wip)

This wonderful little collection offers us a sweet insight into the boys' relationship. We get small glimpses into the boys' pasts that add layers to the stories. We get to see little snippets of Steve's relationship with his mother and grandmother. We get to see Billy's insecurities.

Each story has it’s own little theme, if you will, from baking Christmas cookies to battling insecurities in their relationship. Each story gives us a little more, brings us a little deeper into these boys’ lives, adds that next layer to them that has you coming back to see how they’ve developed. I'm looking forward to any future additions to this collection.

× When I run out of road (You bring me Home) ×

WORD COUNT: 5,316

CHAPTERS: 1/1

The road back to Hawkins Indiana is long and tedious with neither of them really wanting to reach their destination; so to distract them both Billy has a plan to make it as pleasurable for both of them as he can.

Uffda. This was a fun read. Now, before I dive into the review, just a heads up: this is a PWP with dom/sub. And apologies in advance for my inability to be eloquent about smut.

The dynamic between the two was a joy to read. Steve's mannerisms as a baby and the way Billy handles him as his Daddy was fantastic. It's not heavy dom/sub here, but you can tell they've had this relationship for a while. They're both comfortable in their roles and both know exactly what they're doing, and how to get a rise out of each other. But between the power play and the drops of backstory, there's actually some beautiful writing here, too. There were a few lines that I found myself rereading just because they sounded beautiful.

Also, I just have to say... The way Billy handles his own cock... Why do I love that so much? Just little things, too, like tapping it against the steering wheel while he's teasing Steve.

× I'll Keep you Mine ×

WORD COUNT: 3,926

CHAPTERS: 1/1

Billy's forged a kingdom and took an empty throne, and he'll burn anyone and anything that tries to take it from him.

(My Dudes this whole story is pretty much the Grumpy Possessive one claims the Sunshine One - Literally. And I ain't even mad.)

Here we get a gorgeously written tale that spins the events of the Upside Down in a different light. I don't want to spoil what that is, as it's not explicitly stated in the summary or tags, so you'll have to read to find out! This idea could easily be fleshed out into a much longer piece, but there's also something about just getting a small taste of an idea that is very enjoyable.

There is this persistent sense of danger beneath all the beautiful imagery. It's in the pacing of the story, in the way Billy needs to claim Steve. We get enough of a taste of this otherness to want more, to want to see exactly how everything unfolds.

TUMBLR | @wickedlydevious AO3 | wickedlydevious

× Weak Hands, Weak Lungs, Strong Heart ×

SERIES: Strong Heart

WORD COUNT: 2,771

CHAPTERS: 1/1

After the events at Starcourt Mall, Billy is recovering in the hospital and bored out of his mind. The only bright spots are when Max comes to visit.

And then Steve Harrington starts visiting too and that's even better.

There is a very beautiful light and warmth throughout this story. Billy's character feels so accurate, and the way he deals with being in the hospital and everything that entails is exquisitely portrayed here. What Billy has to deal with in the wake of the Mind Flayer grates against his entire personality, but it forces him to step outside of his comfort zone, outside of himself, and relearn how to interact with people, namely Steve.

The thing I loved most about this story is that we get to see these different facets of Billy, facets that maybe even he didn't really know were there, ones he never allowed himself to show because of his father. Still recovering, still being dependent on other people forces these different aspects of him into the world, and it's beautiful. It creates this very special sort of relationship between Billy and Steve that is just so pure and heart warming. I'll definitely be coming back to this when I need a spark of joy.

× Weak Backbone, Strong Convictions ×

SERIES: Strong Heart

WORD COUNT: 3,212

CHAPTERS: 1/1

After the events at Starcourt Mall, Steve starts bringing Max to visit Billy at the hospital.

And then Steve starts visiting on his own.

The sweetness continues with the second part of the Strong Heart series. The events of the first part are retold, but this time through Steve's POV. I've always loved the idea of telling the same events from different perspectives and this did not disappoint. The events may be the same, but you feel them differently than when they were told through Billy's perspective. Though the tone of the previous installation is ultimately uplifting, it's clear Billy is struggling. This part, however, is overflowing with hope, which only adds to the already beautiful feeling of the last piece. Don't think that because you already know the events that will take place because you read the last part that you shouldn't read this one. It's beautiful and moving and there are moments added that would be a shame to miss out on. I really hope this series continues, because it is wonderfully uplifting, but it stands strong all the same, just as it is.

× T(h)ree Mistakes ×

WORD COUNT: 4,559

CHAPTERS: 1/1

It’s their first Christmas in their own apartment and Steve reluctantly tasks Billy with getting the tree.

Mistakes are made.

This is a great read for the holidays. Billy's tree-getting adventures brought back so many memories of going to the tree farm down the road from our house as a kid and making a day of trying to find a tree that didn't look like trash and wouldn't break the bank. The feel of the story is cozy and sweet, like a warm and sleepy holiday morning. The kids, now teens, make a short but fun appearance that really makes this story feel like it's about found family.

This story is like coming home, rounding up all of your best friends you haven’t seen in ages, and making a night of the holidays. It’s sipping eggnog, the lights turned down low, and listening to the sweet croon of gentle music somewhere in the house. This story is comfort and happiness and love. Now I want some hot apple cider...

QUESTIONS? VISIT THE FAQ

FIND ALL VOLUMES HERE

#Harringrove #Harringrove fic #fic rec #creator spotlight #billy hargrove #steve harrington #billy x steve #steve x billy #Creator appreciation

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lovelyshadowynightmare · 4 years

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Robert Lacey Thinks the Royal Family Could Have Treated Meghan and Harry More Fairly | Vanity Fair

What a load of tripe! Honestly the siblings were in an amazing position. They could do anything and never have to worry about the funds to do so. Unlike William and Charles who always only had one path. Even though Charles does have a degree in archeology and anthropology, and William has a fine arts degree and flew air ambulance. Had Harry or even Andrew wanted to be a Dr., Scientist, Computer designer, anesthesiologist, Engineer, anything really, they would have had funding and support. It is their own faults they did short stints in the military and were playboys instead. They could have accomplished full satisfying professional lives with full support of the entire Royal family if they had wanted. And still fulfilled their duties as a part of the Royal family. Had Harry been doing something worthwhile he might not have felt like he was in his brothers shadow. He is just lucky he has his title to trade in the real world, because men without degrees who are not Royalty don't get Multimillion dollar Netflix deals!

Halfwit Harry, could have had whatever life he wanted. Had he told his Grandmother and Father after George was born "I want to give University another go". "Now that William has a son I feel free to pursue my passion". " I am interested in mental health and want to get a degree ". Do you imagine anyone, I mean anyone would have stood in his way? No, George was born in 2012. Instead of getting serious finding his own life in 2012, that was the year of the naked Vegas pool party. The man was 27 years old. Plenty old enough to know he needed to forge his own path.

I do not mean being in the military wasn't honorable. Harry served 10 years, he was not career military. Andrew did serve for 20 years, but hasn't done much since. The siblings of the heir are treated, differently, but both Harry and Andrew were in a position to build any sort of life they wanted after leaving the military. Most people do something after leaving a 10 year military career. Bottom line, men without titles and without degrees are not given multimillion dollar Netflix deals, so I would say his title landed him in a good financial position. So he can stop his" poor me, not the heir pitty party. " Could it be because he's not bright enough with only one O level? Doubtful, I know a few successful businessmen with lower education records! I don't care that Harry, or Andrew didn't make much of themselves other than working for the firm. The point is Harry's apparent resentment that his brother has the top spot and best engagements. The point is Harry had every opportunity and chance to do anything he wanted. OUTSIDE BEING A WORKING ROYAL. Instead he just didn't. It isn't about how the Royal family treats the siblings. It is about what they choose to do for themselves.

Princess Anne was in the Olympics. She understood it was her life and her responsibility to be happy. She managed that and to also honor her place in the Royal family.

What I do remember is Harry telling the whole world that Megan would now have the family she never had! Would he have said so if there were difficulties in the family? I do not think so. He and William and Kate were always doing things together and on top of it, it turned out that Megan had quite a family herself after all. A lot of them who had been very good to her but not good enough apparently to be asked to the wedding. Now claiming how the black life’s matters demonstrations were wonderful never mind the riots and destruction, but her own black and white, family who were good to her have been forgotten as though they never existed.

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paceywittergayboatman · 3 years

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Jess is the Gay Subtext Gilmores Gay Meta

Jess within the Gilmores Gay subtext is Rory’s mirror. He has a lot in common with Rory: a negligent father who left, a mother who relies emotionally on him or isn't able to deal with her trauma and can't express love in an entirely healthy way, who are both into reading as an escape and a career path, both of there parents get remarried and have another kid and there are also legally cousins. He's also gay in the subtext(link at the bottom for my mini post on that.)

I’m gonna talk about episode 6.8. In which Rory and Jess talk and he essentially awakens something in Rory that brings back a part of herself that she lost. He also meets Logan but that for later on.

In the scene Jess and Rory talk after not seeing each other for awhile:

JESS: Yeah, and I didn't think you'd believe it if I didn't show it to you in person. (takes out a book and give it to her)

RORY: Well, colour me curious. A book. (reading the cover) "'The Subsect'...written by Jess Mariano."

JESS: It's no misprint.

RORY: You wrote a book?

JESS: A short novel.

RORY: You wrote a book?!

JESS: And through a fluke, I got it to these guys that have a small press, and they read it. I don't know if they were high or something, but they decided to publish it.

RORY: You wrote a book.

Subsect sounds a lot like subtext huh? By this time in the show he's already kind of admitted he's gay.(ill put a link at the end of this for that) So he does reflect her.

But then he goes to leave and lo and behold they run into Logan. We already know that Logan is gay given other things(link down at the bottom) So we know all the people in this scene are gay so put that into context makes this make sense. I’m gonna link the clip here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QnTsSPKyzG0. Logan and Jess to put it plainly are eye fucking and Rory looks very umcomfortable:

RORY: No. Hey. When did you get back?

LOGAN: Couple hours ago.

RORY: Oh, I...I thought you were getting back tomorrow.

LOGAN: I thought I'd surprise you, Ace.

RORY: Well, I'm glad you did 'cause you get to meet my old friend, Jess. This is Logan, my boyfriend. Logan, this is Jess. He's in from out of town. (uncomfortable silence) Wow. That sounded so grown-up. We're at the age now where we say things like "in from out of town" and "old friend", 'cause when you're young, all your friends are new, and you have to get old to have old friends. (uncomfortable chuckling from Rory. Logan extends his hand to Jess)

LOGAN: How you doing? (they shake)

JESS: Okay.

RORY: We were just gonna go grab a bite to eat.

LOGAN: Great. Well, how about if we all go together. Is that okay?

JESS: Okay by me.

LOGAN: Good

RORY: All right. Good. We were actually at a loss for where to go, so you actually saved us.

LOGAN: Call me superman. (at Jess) Why don't you follow us.

JESS: Sure. (Logan puts his arm around Rory's shoulders and stears her to the passenger side of his car. Rory is a bit uncomfortable with the gesture)

Two things to note, Rory refers to jess as her friend, and Rory is in the script said to be uncomfortable. Which confirms my earlier theory.

They got to dinner and this shit gets gayer:

GAN: So...what do you do, Jess?

JESS: Oh, this and that.

LOGAN: Describe the "this". Describe the "that".

RORY: He writes.

LOGAN: You write? Impressive. What do you write?

JESS: Nothing important.

RORY: He wrote a book.

LOGAN: Oh, you penned the great American novel, Jess?

JESS: Wasn't quite that ambitious.

LOGAN: So, what are we talking here? Short novel? Kafka length or longer? Dos Passos, Tolstoy? Or longer? Robert Musil? Proust? I'm not throwing you with these names, am I?

JESS: You seem very obsessed with length.

LOGAN: I'm just trying to get a picture in my head, that's all.

RORY: It's a short novel.

The use of length is homoerotic. Despite Logan being classist Jess is still flirting with him.

LOGAN: (at Rory) Any good?

RORY: I haven't read it yet.

LOGAN: Yet? Well, at least you'll have one reader. That's something.

JESS: Yeah.

LOGAN: You know, I should just write down all my random thoughts and stuff that happens to me and conversations I have and just add a bunch of "he said, she said"-'s, and get it published. You got a copy on you?

JESS: No.

LOGAN: You should send me a copy.

JESS: Sure. And where do I send it? The blond dick at Yale?

Ok so again the use of dick is very homoerotic.

Jess is upset of course:

RORY: Jess, wait. (he stops and turns to look at her) Jess, I'm sorry.

JESS: We shouldn't have done this.

RORY: He's just in a bad way lately.

JESS: He's a jerk.

RORY: He was. In there, definitely. I'm so sorry.

JESS: I read that guy the second I saw him. I should have begged off.

RORY: Well, I didn't want you to.

So he read him, implies that Jess know Logan’s gay. He’s figured him out sexuality wise.

Theres more:

JESS: No, no. I mean with you. What's going on with you?

RORY: What do you mean?

JESS: You know what I mean. I know you better than anyone. This isn't you.

RORY: I don't know.

JESS: What are you doing? Living at your grandparents' place, being in the DAR, no Yale...why did you drop out of Yale?!

RORY: It's complicated.

JESS: It's not! It's not complicated.

RORY: You don't know.

JESS: This isn't you. This, you going out with this jerk, with the Porsche. We made fun of guys like this.

RORY: You caught him on a bad night.

JESS: This isn't about him. Okay, screw him. What's going on with you? This isn't you, Rory. You know it isn't. What's going on?

RORY: I don't know. I don't know.

So Jess being her mirror is acknowledged when he says he's knows her better than anyone.

Jess leaves and Rory and Logan fight:

LOGAN: Look, I'm sorry I came back early. I really messed things up here.

RORY: Jess wrote a book. He wrote a book, and you mocked him.

LOGAN: I did not mock him.

RORY: He's doing something.

LOGAN: Good. Fine. He's doing something. Everybody in the world's doing something. More power to him.

RORY: I'm not. I mean, what am I doing? I'm living with my grandparents.

LOGAN: That's temporary. Have a drink.

RORY: Temporary can turn into forever.

LOGAN: You're not living with the Gilmore’s forever.

RORY: I'm palling with my grandmother and being waited on by a maid. I come home, and my shoes are magically shined. My clothes are magically clean, ironed, and laid out. My bed is magically turned down. I'm in the DAR? I'm going to meetings and teas and cocktail parties?

Rory is having realization about her life because of what jess said to her. The fights not over yet:

LOGAN: Again, temporary. Have a drink.

RORY: And wasting my time partying and drinking, just hanging out doing nothing.

LOGAN: Whoa, whoa, whoa. (he gets up) Don't pull me into this.

RORY: I didn't say anything about you.

LOGAN: Yes, you did. Don't make me feel guilty for your drinking and partying. That's your choice. I'm not forcing you. When I ask you out, you can say no

RORY: It's all we do.

LOGAN: It's not all we do.

RORY: It's all you do.

LOGAN: Well, it's my prerogative, you know. You're damn straight. I'm gonna party. I'm gonna do it while I have the chance because come June, my life is over.

RORY: Oh, yes, your horrible life. Let's hear about it.

LOGAN: Got a week?

RORY: You have every door open to you. You have opportunities that anyone would kill for, including me.

LOGAN: No one's stopping you from making whatever you want happen. Go into journalism. Go into politics. Be a doctor. Be a clown. Do whatever you want.

RORY: It's not as easy when it's not handed to you.

LOGAN: Really? It's all so easy for me? (getting upset) I don't want that life. It's forced on me. You talk about all these doors being open? All I see is one door, and I'm being pushed through it. I have no choice. You try living without options.

Logan is stuck within a heterosexual playboy idea of himself that isn’t him. And so he parties to cope.

RORY: How hard are you fighting it?

LOGAN: I didn't tell you to quit Yale. You did that. I gave you one month, you went beyond that month, and it had nothing to do with me. It was all you. Now, you want to change? Change it, but don't blame me. Don't you dare blame me. You know what? Why don't you go off with John, Jack, whatever his name is?

He's not claiming responsibility because he's an asshole, but also he doesn't know how to be a boyfriend because he's gay. He's uncomfortable with Rory relying on him emotionally because he's viewing it as romantic and the gay guy in him doesn't like that. Rory's comment about him fighting is the text is noting his struggle with compulsory heterosexuality. Rory leaves and as we know she does break up with him and jess comments to her bring her back to herself.

my other links

https://jessandroryaregayfightme.tumblr.com/post/635171090892783616/doyle-paris-and-logan-and-the-milk-metaphor

https://jessandroryaregayfightme.tumblr.com/post/634824232687255552/yale-gay-subtext-in-gilmore-girls

https://jessandroryaregayfightme.tumblr.com/post/633010606083112960/logan-huntzberger-isnt-just-a-lazy-straight-man

https://jessandroryaregayfightme.tumblr.com/post/632166174651727872/so-its-time-for-another-homosexual-gilmore-girls

https://lupineluke.tumblr.com/post/634255134572036096/wait-but-youre-forgetting-the-most-important-part

#jess mariano #rory gilmore #logan huntzberger #Gilmore girls #Gilmore girls meta #gilmore girls

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valandherweekofwonders · 4 years

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I really wish my mother would acknowledge and understand her part (or rather, lack of) in my upbringing in an abusive hyper-religious community (also sickeningly homo/transphobic, misogynistic and xenophobic). I wish she would actually listen to me for once and hear me out instead of shutting me up to tell me she's broken and I need to feel bad for her because I fucking don't. She's done nothing to make her situation better, she has had so many chances and she has done nothing. And she has done nothing for me, or my siblings in actually helping us learn. She claims she's the one who taught me about my body? She never spoke a word about it to me. My grandmothers and aunts never let me lift my skirt or cross my legs. I did not ever understand that masturbation was normal (and something girls could do) until I was 15. She beat me and called me a whore and humiliated me in front of my father when I was raped. I was 13. She never even asked what really happened, she actually fucking assumed a 13 year old girl wanted to have sex. She denied this memory to this day and also frequently says, "If you had told us what happened we could have help you." I resent my mother so much. So fucking much. What she has done, has not done, her absolute sad excuse for mothering. How she just let me be raised by a handful of people that rotated week by week and I did not run to her when I scraped my knee, I ran to whoever was closest. I just fucking hate it all so much. I don't want anything bad to happen to my family but fuck I hate living with them and seeing them everyday. If I lived elsewhere, I think out relationship would be better. I am so angry about everything. And the other day, my mother shut me up as I finally started opening up about my abusive relationship and the sexual abuse and she told me I have to forgive him to heal and I say fuck her and fuck that. She really fucking said that after I explained why I can't forgive. She's really so fucking daft that she says that to me and then tells me to stop crying. As I've gotten older, I've had more freedom and I've become able to make my life better, more bearable while in this home but it's so painful. I want to escape. I feel so trapped in this family. Invasive, invalidating, manipulative, loud, angry. And I hate I HATE when my best friend (who's traditional in comparison to me) tells me to look on the bright side that I have a home, that I have someone who loves me and yes that is true but please don't tell me to stop being in pain, to stop being upset. I am so fucking tired of it. Everyone keeps telling me that and I want them to shut the fuck up. They don't know what my family did to me, they don't know what they let happen. They don't know! I am just so fucking sad and tired and quarantine has been miserable in regards to this, spending so much time with my family. The family that doesn't live here too, always calling, always facetiming, always fucking there. I just want to be able to talk on the phone and listen to music without being anxious of someone listening in. This is just a rant, I'm just so angry, and I'm in an important period of my life so I'm really trying to break free from the hold the church, the community and my family has had on me my whole life. I am okay, I know I will be okay someday because 10 years ago I prayed to be able to have less than I do now. So I know I'll make it out and I'll create a life free from all this.

#ezra.txt #i'm okay i'm angry bht i'm safe and okay #i'm good at taking care of myself when i need to #I've been far more vocal and assertive this year and I'm proud of that #okay I'm going to dye my hair black and maybe paint my nails and then go to sleep #dying and cutting my hair serves as my little fuck you to the community of people who have had comments about me my whole life #telling me how i should look #to be a lady to be pretty to be natural alluring attractive to men #they love telling me whenever a guy looks in my direction even though i publicly state i fucking hate knowing that & it makes me uncomforta #anyways good night everyone please stay safe #long post

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lyllyan-weiss · 5 years

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LONG Character Survey: Lyllyan Weiss

BASICS.

FULL NAME: Lyllyan Aster Weiss

NICKNAME: Lyl, Lily, Lil' Lily.

AGE: 21

BIRTHDAY: 11th Sun of the 6th Astral Moon (November 10th)

ETHNIC GROUP: Auri|Xaela (In Eorzea)/ Human (Out of World)

NATIONALITY: Eorzean (In Eorzea)/American (Out of World)

LANGUAGES: Eorzean, Draconic, basically anything due to the echo.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: She is Bi. Swings both ways. She loves all.

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Biromantic

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Depending on the different routes on the story, she will be either single or taken.

CLASS: Jack-of-all-trades

•Knows everything and knows how to play everything.

• Favors caster classes above everything else.

HOMETOWN / AREA: N/A

CURRENT HOMETOWN / AREA: Shirogane is where her apartment is, but she sees Ishgard as her home that she spends her time in, and then the Crystarium had became home to her as well.

PROFESSION: Scion, Adventurer, Full time hero in both her world and Eorzea. In her world she is a waitress and an artist/animator.

PHYSICAL.

HAIR: Right now it is Brown with Light brown Highlights

EYES: Purple (Right), Green (Left)

NOSE: Small and Sharp

LIPS: Small and full

COMPLEXION: Pale but fair.

BLEMISHES: None.

SCARS: In Eorzea, her scars are battle scars that is more aligned on her back. They do not show up when she is in her world.

TATOOS: The Scion Tatoo on the part where the neck and back meet.

HEIGHT: 5'0

WEIGHT: 130lb (Eorzea)/ 150lb (Her World)

BUILD: Short, Thin and fit.

FEATURES: None really.

ALLERGIES: Rolanberries in Eorzea, Strawberries in her world.

USUAL HAIRSTYLE: Long hair with a half braid in the back in Eorzea. In her world she has short hair that stops in the middle of her neck.

USUAL FACE LOOK: Warm color Eye shadow applied lightly to the eyes and a very nude color for lipstick in Eorzea. In her world, she hardly puts make up on, but usually has dark circles due to being tired all the time.

USUAL CLOTHING: Depending on her mood, she'll go very modest, or wearing a bikini with thigh boots. In her world, she is always modest with usually a t-shirt and sweats.

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEARS: Bugs (Mainly Arachnids, spiders are the worst.) Antilions that hide in the sands. Losing her love ones. Becoming Sin Eater. Being alone. Falling.

ASPIRATIONS: Explore all of the worlds she could go to, but also to make animations that can change the world.

POSITIVE TRAITS: Stubborn, happy go lucky, Compassionate, tries to take care of everyone, protective, loving, friendly, trusting.

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Stubborn enough to push past her limits, usually getting her hurt. She so selfless that she tends to forget about taking care of herself. She can be too trusting of others that she often gets hurt in the end. She usually bottles her problems with the worry of being a burden to others. Very emotional driven (Just ask Ser Zephirin).

ZODIAC: Scorpio.

TEMPERAMENT: Artistic and Motherly

SOUL TYPE(S): The Priest, The Artisan, The Server.

ANIMALS: Cat

VICE HABIT(S): From the definition that I read, her faults are that she feels like anything bad that happens to her or her friends are her fault, and that she sometimes Envy others. But her hobbies that she enjoys are reading, triple triad, drawing, and writing.

FAITH: The Twelve. Even in her world she believes in the Twelve.

GHOSTS?: Definitely

AFTERLIFE?: I hope there is one.

REINCARNATION?: Well so far that we know, reincarnation is a thing, right?

ALIENS?: I doubt the world was made for one type of civilization, plus multiple worlds. Yes.

POLITICAL ALIGNMENT: Uh...Alphinaud does politics for me.

ECONOMIC PREFERENCE: Just trying to survive, man. Stable, I guess.

SOCIO POLITICAL POSITION: Uh... Alphinaud???

EDUCATION LEVEL: Lyllyan herself has had up to some college in her own world. In Eorzea, she has an understanding of Aether and well has learned all the classes, so being able to pick up something new, she can learn fairly quick.

FAMILY.

FATHER: Captain Carebear (Mykel Weiss)

MOTHER: She doesn't have the ability to go to Eorzea so her name is Lynn Weiss.

Siblings: Lucas Weiss(Rafien Dalarain(Deactivated)), Nathaniel Weiss(Random Guy (deactivated)), Olivia Weiss (Never been to Eorzea).

EXTENDED FAMILY: Grandmother(Nana)(Deceased), Granfather(Poppy), Fortemps Family (Rest in Peace Haucherfaunt).

NAME MEANING(S): Lyllyan is based off of the Lily flower. Aster is based off of the Aster flower, and then Weiss is a name given to those with white hair or pale complexion.

HISTORICAL CONNECTION: Um...Ascian? Amourotine?

FAVORITES.

BOOK: If its Manga, It's Rurouni Kenshin. Books would be the 'Septimus Heap' series by Angie Sage.

MOVIE/PLAY: Movie would be 'Wizard of Oz'. Favorite Play would be 'Hamilton'.

5 SONGS:

•'Seasonal Feathers' by Len and Rin Kagamine

•'Drakkar' by Distrion and Electro-Light

•'Light it Up' by Robin Hustin and TobiMorrow (feat. Jex)

•'Stitches' by Shawn Mendes

•'Perfect' by Ed Sheeran

DEITY: Thaliak

HOLIDAY: Valentione

MONTH: November/ 6th Astral Moon

SEASON: Spring

PLACE: Rak'Tika Greatwoods

WEATHER: Rain

SOUND: Ocean waves.

SCENT(S): Cherry Blossom, sweet.

TASTE(S): Favorite food is Bacon so....also likes sweet things.

FEEL(S): Fuzzy blankets, warm cloth, soft.

ANIMALS: She loves all animals! If she had to narrow it down, it would be Cats, Pandas, and Chocobos. Does Pokemon count?

NUMBER: 8 but screw Construct 8

COLORS: Purple, light green, light blue.

EXTRA.

TALENTS: Drawing.

BAD AT: Math. She used to bring her homework to Eorzea to have Alphinaud and Urianger help her.

TURN ONS: Oooo. Funny, kind, calm, generous, but also romantic.

TURN OFFS: Selfish, rude ass hoe, and killing my friends.

HOBBIES: Singing, Drawing, Reading, Exploring, Triple Triad.

TROPES: Mother Hen.

AESTHETIC TAGS: Chocolate and Caramel. Honey. Lavender and Leaves. I think that's how this works???

FC INFO.

MAIN FC(S): Scions of the Dawn. It consist of Dad and myself.

ALT FC(S): None.

OLDER FC(S): We did have an FC on Gilgamesh called Lionheart with the Tag FF8. It was one that we had started the game when we got out of beta, but moved to different server/data center.

YOUNGER FC(S): *Confused Au Ra noises*

VOICE CLAIM(S): ??????

GENDERBENT FC(S): *Even more confused Au Ra noises*

MUN QUESTIONS.

Q1: IF YOU COULD WRITE YOUR CHARACTER YOUR WAY IN THEIR OWN MOVIE, WHAT WOULD IT BE CALLED, WHAT STYLE WOULD IT BE FILMED IN, AND WHAT WOULD IT BE ABOUT?

•So, I'm already making a comic that I want to make as an animation for the story of FFXIV with my character and her friends. This character was specifically built for FFXIV, but it has a twist. Kinda like a Sword Art Online ordeal, but instead of Millions of people playing are stuck in the world, it's just like 100, but they aren't stuck, in fact they are just chosen to go between their world and Eorzea. If they die, they don't actually die, but respawn, even in their own world, but they feel how they die and the only way for them to die in any shape or form is by natural cause like old age or sickness. This would be a 2D animation in the anime style and be a multi episode series with multiple seasons. I even though about branching out to go certain routes so that Lyllyan can end up with all my favorite characters. I would call it Final Fantasy XIV: A World Reborn.

Q2: WHAT WOULD THEIR SOUNDTRACK/SCORE SOUND LIKE?

•With it being a Final Fantasy story, it would have Final Fantasy Music.

Q3: WHY DID YOU START WRITING THIS CHARACTER?

•Lyllyan Weiss was made to represent me and she still does, but also inspires me to be more like my courageous heroic self. Because of this, I have been able to do things like crossing a bridge that's in bad shape to get to the other side without the fear of falling, just to get back to my mom who went to the other side on a trip we had.

Q4: WHAT FIRST ATTRACTED YOU TO THIS CHARACTER?

•She is literally me.

Q5: DESCRIBE THE BIGGEST THING YOU DISLIKE ABOUT YOUR MUSE.

•Just like me, she is stubborn and hard working, but there are times she pushes herself way too much. She hesitates to ask for help, not because she doesn't trust the people around her, but more of trying to not burden them. Others wish she would open up to them and also rest when she can. Raha has to literally force her to rest, and she nearly gets herself killed against the first battle with Rahjit because she kept getting back up to fight even when the others beg her to stop.

Q6: WHAT DO YOU HAVE IN COMMON WITH YOUR MUSE?

•Almost everything. Major thing is that she doesn't look like me, but also I know when to quit.

Q7: HOW DOES YOUR MUSE FEEL ABOUT YOU?

• I feel like if Lyllyan and I were to meet in person, we'd get along just fine. We would play video games all day long if we could.

Q8: WHAT CHARACTERS DOES YOUR MUSE HAVE INTERESTING INTERACTIONS WITH?

•OH BOI HERE WE GOOO

- Leveilleur Twins: Alphinaud and Alisaie are very close to Lyllyan. Alphinaud used to pull Lyllyan out of class to have her hurry up and go through the story, now its chill and play ace attorney. Alphinaud, depending on what route is taken, is definitely in love with Lyllyan and is constantly teased about it by everyone. Alisaie is like a sister to Lyllyan. They have had many nights where the pulled 24 hours playing Sims. Alisaie is who Lyllyan tries to protect the most between the two. She's also the reason why Lyllyan is now Bi. Lyllyan absolutely adores her and if the route is taken, they end up being the cutest couple.

-Leon D'hart: An Alt character that I made that depending on the story and route, he is also Lyllyan's Lover. He is a character made by Square Enix to be the Warrior of Light replacement if Lyllyan did not succeed in preventing herself becoming a light warden. His story with her is a bunch of trial and tribulations, but in the end they do end up married.

-G'raha Tia/Crystal Exarch: The main story Lyllyan's Lover. Great friend to start out and tears were shed when he sealed himself into the tower. He really kept Lyllyan guessing when he was Exarch. When Emet-Selch kidnapped him, Lyllyan was hellbent on getting him back. Now she visits him at the first everyday bring stuff from Eorzea for him, and even occasionally stuff from her world. He is her world as she is to him.

-The Scions: Thancred and Lyllyan are like Big brother, Little sister. He protects her, and scolds her as such. They may act like they hate each other, but the moment either gets hurt, the other is at their sides. Though rumor has it that Thancred had feelings for Lyllyan. Y'shtola is close to Lyllyan, but is usually not around often. Shtola usually is often around to keep an eye on Lyllyan's aether since her amount is quite high compared to the others and her fellow Warriors of Light. Urianger is someone who used to hardly talk to Lyllyan, but started opening up more after the years. He had watched her grow from 15 moons to now 21 as the others, but they seem to be more special to him. Lyllyan swore to protect him if anything ever happened especially after he asked her her thoughts on his new attire. Tataru is a precious angel and if anyone was to hurt her, Lyllyan would kill everyone and then herself. Ryne, even though she is not a scion, she is a scion. Ryne worries about Lyllyan, but is often in awe of her. Lyllyan and Thancred adopted her, and she's ended up calling Lyllyan mom on many occasions.

-Ser Aymeric: Depending on the route, he would be Lyllyan's Lover and he tries to protect her when he can, be it politics or in war. He has a dream to journey with her, and though he can't do so with Lylyan Weiss the Au Ra, there is nothing saying he can't make a character and become a Warrior of Light himself and travel with Sakura Yue(Lyllyan's Alt).

-Zenos Yae Galvus: So this guy commits Seppuku and then shows up at Lyllyan's job as her new Bartender. They end up becoming friends through the job, and the fact that Zenos is bored out of his mind that he can't go kill people,but finding out later that he is back makes Square Enix themselves worried about this guy.

-Estinien: Lyllyan had adopted him as her Edgy Son. He hates it. He reminds her that he is older than him, and she retorts about beating him as a Lalafel. He usually starts brooding after that on a high building that usually takes Alphinaud and Ser Aymeric to get him down.

•I'm only stopping this cause there are so many more characters!!!

Q9:WHAT GIVES YOU INSPIRATION TO WRITE YOUR MUSE?

•Music and Playing Final Fantasy. Mainly XIV, but others do count too, but also reading all the other fanfiction and comics about final fantasy XIV.

Q10: HOW LONG DID THIS TAKE YOU TO COMPLETE?

About...4 hours? Maybe more? My hands definitely hurt from all the typing! XD

============

Tagged by @amandafullmetal

Tagging @ladyramora @ranier-layarte @scholarlostintime @fabledtactician

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