dust spots

taylor to other artists: “i love and support you endlessly because we’re all just trying to do our jobs and love our fans” *dusts off #2 spot on the charts* “but know your place”

Part 10 of Lance Bonding with the Lions!!!!

Green took them to a house. A house that they have never seen before. Well, most have never seen before. “Where are we? Why did Green send us to someone’s house?” Keith questioned. It was eerily quiet around the house, as if no one was there. They were in the kitchen of the house. Some of the dinning chairs were pushed out as if someone was in a rush to get out of it. The lights were off, making the window hanging above the sink the only source of light. Specs of dust were dancing in the beams of light. There were unwashed dishes in the sinks, begging to be cleaned. It was clear to see that someone lived here, but everything was a bit..disheveled. Pidge’s eyes were wide, walking forward and dragging her fingers across the top of the chairs. “This..this is my kitchen. M-my home.” There was a sudden knock on the door. “Coming!” Pidge gasped as she heard the voice. “Th-that’s my-” her eyes began to cloud as her mother went to answer the door. Her hair was slightly out of place as she ran her fingers through it to try and make it presentable. Her blouse was wrinkled and small spots of dust and dirt covered her pants. She had dark bags under her eyes, which were unnaturally red as if she had been crying for a long time. In all, she just looked…tired. She attempted to fix her hair one last time, and then she opened the door. This time, it wasn’t Pidge who was the only one to gasp. “Oh! Um, hello. Can I..help you with something?” Her mother asked. “No,no! I’m from the Garrison and-” “Did you find anything out! Please tell me!” She frantically questioned. “N-no. I’m sorry. I’m just a student at the Garrison and I heard about what happened. I’m sorry about your husband and son, Mrs. Holt.” Her shoulders slumped, but she kept a smile on her face. “It’s alright. I guess I got a little too excited. So what bring you here, Mr..?” “Oh, sorry! That’s probably really rude of me. The name’s Lance.” Lance gave her a warm smile. “I would give you my signature finger guns, but as you can see, my hands are kinda full.” And full they were indeed. The team gaped as Lance carried in multiple boxes and containers, somehow balancing them all. “Let me help you with those! We can set them on the table. I apologize for the mess.” Lance chuckled at her. “Don’t worry about that! I have like 6,000 siblings, so our house is its own natural disaster.” She smiled at him and set everything down. “So Lance, what brings you here today.” Lance uncharacteristically turned sheepish. He stared at his feet and twiddled his thumbs. “Sorry if this is weird, but um, I heard about what happened with you and your family. I couldn’t imagine what you must be going through; if anything like that happened to my family, I think I would go insane.” Lance began to speak quickly as he grew more nervous. “So, I got to thinking; when I feel sad or angry or whatever, what does my mama do for me? Then it hit me: she cooks! So yeah, it may seem a little weird, but I-I made you dinner. I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I pretty much made everything I knew. I hope you don’t mind Cuban food. But if you do, just tell me what you like and I’ll go and make it!” Pidge’s mom broke into a wavering grin as small tears trailed down her cheeks. “Oh shit, you’re crying! I-I mean shoot! Sorry! Oh great, I made you food you don’t like, made you cry, and just cursed right in front-” “Lance!” She interrupted his rambling. “I’m not mad or sad! I’m…happy. It’s just so touching that you thought to do this. And you made this all yourself?” Lance rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh, well mama gave me the recipe and directions, so it wasn’t completely all me.” She gave Lance a bone-crushing hug. Lanced stood in shock for a moment, but quickly recovered and returned the hug. She pulled away and turned toward the stairs. “Katie!! Come down for minute please! A lovely gentleman has just brought us dinner!” “Not right now, mom! I’m working on something and I’m on the verge of a breakthrough, I know it!” The team watched as Pidge’s mom sadly shook her head and walked back toward Lance. “Ever since they disappeared, she’s locked herself away in her room, working on..something. I’m afraid she’ll make herself sick with all this..” she smiled sadly. “She won’t be down for a while, but Lance, would you like to stay for dinner?” “O-oh, well I would really love to, Mrs. Holt, but I’ve got to get back before the Garrison before they find out that I..snuck out.” “Lance!” She exclaimed. “Hey, hey! It’s okay!” Lance smirked. “They’ve never caught me before anyway! I better get going; it was nice to meet you!” “It was a pleasure to meet you as well.” Lance reached the door and was about to walk out when she stopped him. “Lance, wait!” Lance turned around and paused. “If you were to ever be with Katie or see her or anything…watch after her for me please, will you?” Lance smiled softly. “Mrs. Holt, it would be my honor. I know I’ll never take her brother’s place, but I promise you this: I will try with everything in my being to be a good friend to her. Maybe she’ll even see me as a temporary older brother, just until we find her real one.” Her mom couldn’t speak, so with watery eyes and a shaking smile, she nodded. Lance gave her a wide grin and left. “….thank you, Lance.”
~~~~~
The team were back at the hangar. Pidge had wet trails on her cheeks where she had been silently crying. “He made us dinner. H-he took me in as his little sister, and I didn’t realize…” Green gently pressed against Pidge’s forehead with their nose before stepping back. A silent hum passed throughout the hanger. Slowly, the Black Lion, who had remained silent, raised up and made their way to the team. Black crept up to them and slowly lowered himself in front of Shiro. Shiro met his Lion’s eyes. “Alright, Black. Show me.”

Good afternoon Tumblrtopia, the next photography challenge for the Abstract Challenge is.. ICM or Intentional Camera Movement, or the purposeful movement of your camera during a long(ish) exposure.. This is my favorite type of abstract photography, and I have to warn you, it can be very addictive because it is so much FUN!!!

All you’re going to need for this challenge is a camera. You can use ND filters if you have them, but it isn’t something you need to use. I tend to shoot most of mine in the late afternoon or towards sunset, and a cloudy overcast day will work too. The example I’m using was shot in the afternoon on a overcast day. The photo is of ornamental grass that was swaying in the breeze. My ISO is 100, my Fstop is F22 and that gave me a 1/6 second exposure. I made my movements resemble the way the grass was growing and swaying, kinda at an angle.. The one thing to remember when shooting ICM is this, mimic the landscape.. for trees you’re going to want to pan vertically, for a horizon you’re going to want to pan horizontally. If your subject is flowers, then try using a circular motion or a “shiver”, but there really isn’t a set way to shoot anything using this technique, there are times I have moved the camera with a flick of my wrist or on the diagonal, it really is trial and error! There are 2 downsides to this technique.. 1 is because you need to use a higher Fstop, you’re going to see spots, lots and lots of dust spots that you’re going to need to get rid of.. and 2 you’ll need to take loads of shots to get 1 that works, you will delete more photos than you keep..

For the next 2 weeks, we are working in collaboration with Lets Talk Photography photoprompt,  Please use the tag “photoprompt” (in one word) as one of the first five tags along with abstract challenge (2 words, no hyphen) as one of your first 5 tags, and you can also tag myself @amymontico and @stephiramona in your post to help us find your image..  As always, just have fun and experiment with the speed in which you move your camera and your subject material..

When We Collide (Part 16)

Pairing: Assistant!Y/N/CEO!Luke

Rating: NC-17

Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

Summary: He is the definition of high class smart ass, swimming in Dom Pierre Pérignon champagne and has never seen the shadow of poverty. She is underprivileged, lives in a messy dorm room on sale and struggles working as an assistant after being thrown out of college. But how will they collide when Luke makes Y/N pregnant after a drunkenly one night stand?

When We Collide on Wattpad

“Out of all the days we could have possibly done this, you chose this day to be the one?” You looked over your shoulder tiredly to see Luke hover over a few brown boxes, the concentration on his face showing he barely heard you. 

“When I need something to be done I want it to be as fast as possible.” He shrugged like the heat outside wasn’t causing him any distraction at all. Maybe it was just the hormones making you sweat like a monkey.

“You’re insane.” You mumbled more to yourself than him and continued to go through the many CD cases he had in one of his drawers, you didn’t even know they were there in the first place.

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The Anarchists vs. the Islamic State

Brace Belden before a battle in Syria in November. Courtesy of Brace Belden

By Seth Harp for The Rolling Stone. February 14, 2017 [x]

On the front lines of Syria with the young American radicals fighting ISIS

On the morning of his first battle, Brace Belden was underdressed for the cold and shaky from a bout of traveler’s diarrhea. His Kurdish militia unit was camped out on the front line with ISIS, 30 miles from Raqqa, in Syria. Fighters stood around campfires of gas-soaked trash, boiling water for tea, their only comfort besides tobacco. “I’ve never been so dirty in my life,” Belden recalls. When the time came to roll out, he loaded a clip into his Kalashnikov and climbed into a makeshift battlewagon, a patchwork of tank and truck parts armored with scrap metal and poured concrete. Belden took a selfie inside its rusty cabin and posted it online with the caption “Wow this freakin taxi stinks.”

The rest of the militia piled into an assortment of minivans, garbage trucks and bulldozers, and rode south into territory ISIS had held for more than three years. Belden was manning a swivel-mounted machine gun, the parched landscape barely visible through the rising dust, when he spotted a car packed with explosives revving across the desert toward the Kurdish column. Before he could shoot, an American fighter jet lacerated the sky and an explosion erupted where the car had been, shaking the earth for miles around.

It was November 6th, 2016. The Kurdish militia known as the YPG – a Kurmanji acronym for People’s Protection Units – had commenced a major offensive to liberate the city that serves as the global headquarters for ISIS. The YPG was backed by U.S. air power and fighting alongside a coalition of Arab and Assyrian militias. Also within their ranks, though scantly reported, was a group of about 75 hardcore leftists, anarchists and communists from Europe and America, Belden among them, fighting to defend a socialist enclave roughly the size of Massachusetts.

Belden, who is 27, started tweeting photos of the front shortly after arriving in Syria in October. The first widely shared image showed him crouched in his YPG uniform, wearing thick Buddy Holly glasses, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, a stray puppy in one hand and a sniper rifle in the other. “To misquote Celine,” the post read, “when you’re in, you’re in.” He has since amassed 19,000 followers under the handle PissPigGranddad, puzzling the Internet with a combination of leftist invective and scurrilous bro humor. Tweets like “Heading to the Quandil Mountains to lecture the PKK about entitlement reform” are followed by “The dude with the lamb bailed so now we’re fucked for dinner.”

Belden had no military experience before joining the YPG. He lived in San Francisco, where he arranged flowers for a living. Before that, he was a self-described lumpenproletariat, a lowlife punk and petty criminal with a heroin habit who started reading Marx and Lenin seriously in rehab. Once sober, he got involved in leftist causes, marching for tenants’ rights, blocking evictions, protesting police brutality. As he prepared for the Middle East, his girlfriend thought he was going to do humanitarian work. She was “not stoked,” Belden says, to learn that he planned to fight alongside the YPG.

The first phase of the Raqqa offensive was a mission to take Tal Saman, a satellite village of 10,000 people 17 miles north of Raqqa proper. “We pushed up to Tal Saman till we had it surrounded on a half circle,” Belden says, “then we just bombarded the shit out of it.” Refugees poured out of the village, seeking protection behind Kurdish lines. “Hundreds of civilians coming across for days in a row,” Belden says. At night, his unit stayed in whatever building they’d just taken, camped out on rooftops in the excruciating cold. “The first week we were out it was awful,” Belden says. The stepmother of a fellow volunteer from the U.S. had gotten Belden’s number. She kept texting to make sure they were eating enough.

The march on Raqqa slowed to a halt after two weeks, as the YPG consolidated its hold over a string of liberated villages. The YPG controls a region of 4 million people in northern Syria known as Rojava. Its tens of thousands of motivated fighters have been battling ISIS for five years. American as well as French warplanes have been covering their maneuvers with airstrikes for the past two, forcing ISIS off the roads and highways and open desert, and back into the urban strongholds of Mosul and Raqqa. Now, the Kurds are kicking the door down in both cities.

But the YPG is not your typical ethnic or sectarian faction. Its fighters are loyal to an imprisoned guerrilla leader who was once a communist but now espouses the same kind of secular, feminist, anarcho-libertarianism as Noam Chomsky or the activists of Occupy Wall Street. The Kurds are implementing these ideals in Rojava, and that has attracted a ragtag legion of leftist internationals, like Belden, who have come from nearly every continent to help the YPG beat ISIS and establish an anarchist collective amid the rubble of the war – a “stateless democracy” equally opposed to Islamic fundamentalism and capitalist modernity. They call it the Rojava Revolution, and they want you.

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Imagine Chris trying not to break his promise.

A/N: This was meant to be a one shot, but um- I have a feeling I have another mini series on my hands. Oh God, forgive the bad timing. 😂 It probably won’t be a full-blown mini series, just a few parts. 🤷🏻‍♀️ I’ll see the comments then I’ll decide.

Chris stood outside your apartment block, leaning against his car as he waited for you to show. It was the same drill every morning, ever since your script was bought by Paramount and he was hired to be the director. You didn’t drive and Chris was- well, he was a good guy with a heart of gold; he was always more than happy to go out of his way to drive Sebastian Stan’s baby sister. It was more because of his fond feelings towards you than a favor to his best friend that he was making these detours. And speaking of Sebastian, Chris couldn’t help but think back to what your brother had instructed him to do about his feelings for you.

“Shove it somewhere no one will find, not even you.” Sebastian had told him. “Her career is just blossoming, Chris. It’s bad enough people think Paramount bought her script because of me, if they find out the two of you are…” Sebastian didn’t have to finish his sentence because Chris knew exactly what people would say if they found out you were dating him; the director hired to make your first script into a movie. “I know you care about her, so don’t do this to her.”

Chris sighed because he knew Sebastian was right, he couldn’t let his being with you overshadow your first big break. So he made a promise, a promise that kept him from making a move until the filming and the press tours were done. He’d been just friends with you for so long, what was another six months? It wasn’t like he hadn’t told you how he felt and you could’ve been taken from him at any second; you knew exactly how he felt and you’d told him you felt the same way. You just shared your brother’s concerns and asked politely if the two of you could remain friends until the movie was done and all the dust had settled.

Chris spotted you as soon as you walked out of your apartment building. He chuckled because he could tell from the way your earphones were in, you had forgotten the drill again. You didn’t forget, you just expected him not to drive an hour out of his way to come get you because you’d told him time and time again you were fine taking the bus or a cab. But time and time again, he’d show up at your door ready to pick you up for work.

You were listening to Taylor Swift’s ‘I Know Places’, trying hard not to wince at the irony of your situation. Her song was the perfect depiction of your current relationship with Chris, though it had not yet blossomed as you didn’t know places you could hide away with him. You wished you did, but you knew it wouldn’t have been that simple even if you did; it was never simple when you were constantly under the limelight. The limelight that was worst now that you were starting to make a name for yourself, and not just known as Sebastian Stan’s baby sister. You liked Chris, but you didn’t want to throw your career away before it even started. You couldn’t, especially when being a screen writer was everything you’d ever wanted since you were a little kid. You could still remember how you would write little skits and Sebastian would act it out; your brother was always so supportive of you, you couldn’t disappoint him now.

“Good morning,” Chris stepped in front of you as you started to walk past him. You jumped back, yelping, then huffed when you realized it was just Chris. “Sorry,” he chuckled, gently pulling your earphones from your ears. “I forget that you always have your music up really loud.” He passed you the cables and you chuckled, unplugging it from your phone and stuffing it into your bag. “I see you forgot you have a personal chauffeur.”

“I see you went in the wrong direction again,” you quipped and he laughed. “You know you don’t have to do this every morning, I’m perfectly fine taking public transport.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “I am an hour out of the way, Chris. I’m dragging you out of bed way too early, you-”

“You need to realize that I’d drive two hours out of my way for you,” he cut you off with a smile and you found yourself smiling along with him. “Now,” he slapped his hands together, rubbing them with delight. “Have you had breakfast? 'Cause I haven’t and Frank’s Bistro is,” he threw his thumb over his shoulder, “calling.”

“Do we have time?” You asked and he nodded without even glancing at his watch. “Chris,” you laughed, grabbing his wrist to look at the time. It was 7:30AM, and neither of you had to be at the studio until 10AM. As the drive was- from your place- one hour and forty minutes, the two of you had time for breakfast. “Okay,” you released his wrist and he smiled, moving beside you as the two of you walked down to Frank’s. “Breakfast is on me.”

“I prefer breakfast on a plate,” he leaned in and teased with a whisper in your ear, “but I’m more than happy to have you after.” You blushed, but laughed as you shoved him playfully. “Aren’t you glad Seb isn’t here to keep me in check?”

“No,” you tried not to smile as you bit, making Chris laugh so hard he grabbed his left pec. “It’d be much better if he were here,” you said out loud, then thought to yourself when you felt your heart flutter at the sight of Chris, “'cause you’re not the only one that he needs to keep in check.”


• • • • • • • •


After Frank’s famous Belgian waffles, you and Chris sipped on chai teas and chatted. You still had time before you had to start the drive, and with Chris’ driving- you could afford a few extra minutes. It was always nice to spend time with Chris. You’d been a fan of him since his Johnny Storm days so one could only imagine your excitement when you heard your big brother was going to be working with him on Captain America.

The first time you met Chris was on the set, after weeks of bugging Sebastian- he finally agreed to take you. He was very hesitant about bringing you along knowing how badly you crushed on his co-star. Sebastian had always been a very protective older brother because of the ten year age gap, if he could- he would’ve kept you from all the bad in the world. Of course this didn’t mean he thought Chris was bad, he just wasn’t mentally ready to see you with a guy; a guy he saw you having forever with. He knew you’d bug him to bring you onto the set eventually, so he spent the weeks leading up to that moment to scout Chris out. It was the first time he’d worked with Chris Evans and he needed to know if he was good enough for his baby sister; it didn’t take long, just like it didn’t take long for you and Chris to become close.

Seven years of friendship might make one question why you and Chris didn’t date before you made your big break. You could blame Sebastian’s overprotectiveness, but that wasn’t the main reason. Yeah, he didn’t want you to date Chris until you turned twenty-three at most. But even after you did, you didn’t feel ready to be in a relationship with someone as futuristic and intense as Chris. It wasn’t a bad thing to be because you were the same, you just knew if you’d gotten together with him at the wrong time- you’d lose an amazing guy who you could easily marry and have kids with. You wanted the timing to be perfect, and just as it came close- your script sold and Chris became your director, killing all chances of dating him for a while.  

“I know we’ve been friends for a while now,” Chris began and you tuned back into the conversation. “But I still feel like you haven’t told me everything there is to know about yourself. So what are you hiding from me, Miss Stan?”

“Please,” you laughed. “We’ve been friends for seven years, you know everything there is to know about me. Even some incredibly personal and blackmail worthy details,” you reminded him and he suppressed laughter at all the deep, dark secrets he’d found out about you over the years. “I’m an open book, Mr. Evans.”

“As open as you are, I’m sure there’s a hidden chapter somewhere.”

“Nope, not this girl,” you shook your head. “What you see is what you get.”

“Well, if you ever think of anything,” he smiled, “You know I’m always here for you, right?”

“Yeah, I know,” you reached over the table and patted his hand, “you’re a really good friend.”

“Friend,” he repeated, grimacing. You rolled your eyes with a bit back smile because you knew he was just being overdramatic; he knew very well where he stood when it came to you and your feelings. “Wow, that- that is really hurtful, Y/N. I mean- I’ve professed my love for you and you hit me with a 'you’re a really good friend’. That is stone cold,” he pressed his hand to his heart, “you’re breaking my fragile heart.”

“Like you believe you’re in the friend zone.”

“I’m not your boyfriend, so…” He trailed off, pressing his lips together to hide his smile. You rolled your eyes and he laughed, reaching over the table to take your hand in his. “Maybe Seb really needs to be around when we hang out. What do you think about changing our male lead?” He joked and you laughed, but your eyes remained on Chris’ hand playing with yours. “What’s going on in that pretty little brain of yours?” He asked, squeezing your hand to catch your gaze.

“Pretty little brain of mine?” You scoffed, pulling your hand away. He chuckled as you said, “that seems slightly offensive, Mr. Feminist.” You knew he didn’t mean offense, he’d never do anything to offend you ever. “Let’s see, what goes on in this pretty little brain of mine.” You smirked at him as you repeated his phrase and he winced with a smile. “Well, story ideas- but that’s obvious.” He nodded. “Fluffy puppies like Dodger.” He smiled. “Gummi Bears.” He chuckled. “And one very handsome man.”

“One very handsome man by the name of Chris?” He smirked.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, “how’d you know I was thinking about Chris Pratt?

"Oh wow,” he tried not to laugh as he feigned offense. “That is- wow, Y/N. Low blow.”

“No,” you reached for his hand and smiled sweetly. “There’s only one Chris I think about.” He smiled as you entwined your fingers with his. “It’s not Pratt, or Pine, or Hemsworth.” His smile widened and you tried not to laugh as you wiped that smile off his face with, “it’s Chris Wood.”

“Very funny,” he rolled his eyes and you giggled, drawing your hand back. There was a short moment of silence that brought the two of you to the reality of your situation, saddening you and Chris. “This is a lot harder than I thought it’d be,” he admitted, licking his dry lips.

“Me too,” you sighed.

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Part 2

Stitches

When I stay at my parents’ house I sleep in the room of a girl I’ve never met. I am called by her name. I see her clothes in the closet and her things in the drawers. They don’t fit me anymore. I hold up the dresses, the T-shirts—did they ever fit me? And if they did, what was that girl like? I run my hands over the smooth surface of her life in my mind. Every thread is in place, but my rough fingernails snag and ruin it.

I can play pretend at being her if I try hard enough. She has my nose, shares my favorite color, cross stitches the rhythm of her thoughts like me. During the period where she blurred into me, we learned to sew. X’s in neat lines, rows of prayers.

Embroidery starts with intricacies, stitches I squint to see. They are never the same color as I expect at the beginning, numbered skeins of embroidery floss organized before use. Three stitches like my mother taught me. Secure the thread on the fabric. One for an anchor, two for luck, three for insurance. Always leave a tail of thread. The stitches must be small and perfect.

My mother taught me to sew, her mother taught her, it’s the earliest form of female self-expression. Women teaching girls teaching their daughters to create in careful, useful ways. Whip stitches, back stitches, cross stitches, the secret ways that women learned to survive.

I am not a woman; still the craft has been passed to me.

People on the street call me miss and ma’am and remind me of my needle and thread beginnings, how the tail dangles from the piece I’m working on and gets tangled. My heritage is cross stitched and hanging on the wall in my childhood bedroom, sewn by my pregnant mother twenty years ago.

           I hear my mother cry through the thin walls of her house, she asks God why did I have to be like this. What happened to her daughter. I ask God to take the damage out on me instead, spare her from what my existence does to her. In her eyes, I am burning; in her eyes, I am not enough.

When I was thirteen a distant ER doctor sewed my tear-stained chin up. Fell off a bike that I was too small to be riding, growing up too fast, trying to fly away. Saw my bone for the first time, jarringly white, like I was free of sin. The doctor numbed it, I sobbed. I can still feel the pull of the thread, the butterfly needle, the this won’t hurt a bit. Couldn’t sleep on my side for a week, my chin dripped mucous and antibacterial ointment. The stitches tickled for three days. I still have the scar.

My mother sat me down in the kitchen two weeks later and cut them out carefully, sewing scissors, healing flesh. A different kind of pull, like a bad spirit leaving my body. I trusted her; twenty years of embroidery made her hands sure.

Two years later I came out to my parents, sitting on the same kitchen chair. I played it off as casual—there are worse things to be—and didn’t meet their eyes.          

When I stumble across my dad’s search history, I see articles with titles like “Trans-Trending” and “Why So Many Millennials Are Bisexual” and “Just A Phase?” and it’s been five, almost six years. I know he’s still trying to make sense of it. I wonder why he can’t just ask me. I wonder why I can’t ask him either, why I whip-stitch my lips together when I go home to him. He talks about his daughter with pride in his eyes. I bite my tongue at the she and silently replace it with they.

I’ve never said anything, and I don’t know if I ever will. I’m afraid of the response I’ll get, ashamed to be stripped down to bone.

I wake up in a cold sweat. I dream about my grandmother’s delicate hands quilting scraps of fabric while her husband went on strike and her family ate mostly love. I watched her hands shrivel and falter, caught the needle as it dropped. It pricked my fingers crimson; she was buried with her thimble. The fabric she stitched lays over me during the night. There are too many holes to keep me warm; the wind sings it to shreds. I shiver and she places her hands over mine, the last of her warmth.  

I am sewing her skin to mine; she is living through my young and trembling hands. Intricacies, keeping us stitched together. My mother did the same thing, I think. She has a bookshelf of patterns, some she’ll never sew. I silently leave a space in my home for the patterns to become mine. The empty spot gathers dust, yawning at me. There are pieces to be rearranged on my walls, beautiful, finished works of needlecraft.

I try to become the front of the embroidery, carefully created without a stray thread. The back is not supposed to show once it’s finished, covered with felt or a frame. I try to become the front; I am and will always be the wayward ends and the furled knots with their blurry shape and messy colors.

I’m not what a woman should be. I’m not even what a woman is. I stitch the confusion into my work, try to make some sense of it by organizing patterns. My thoughts grind against each other like transverse faults. Healing comes slowly, if at all. I let the fading light stream through the blinds of my apartment window and warm my face.

I make do—intricacies, French knots, squares in circular feminine boxes.

 My mother looks as me like my queer body is dirty sometimes, trying but falling short of understanding. I try to see nobility in my queerness where my mother sees sin.

Mistaken Identity

Words: 2453

Request:  Anon said: “Could you do a Thranduil x reader, where they are married, and she is usually always in fancy clothes. One day she tries to get into the throne room in more plain clothing, and the guard doesnt recognize her, so they end up throwing her in the dungeon, and when Thranduil finds out hes enraged, and shes irritated.”

Pairing/Characters: Thranduil x Reader

Notes: This ended differently than how I had originally planned, but it turned out!!

You had the entire day off. For once. No responsibilities were nagging at you to be completed. No handmaidens were knocking the doors down at the break of dawn to have a moment of your time, trying to get you prim and proper for the day’s meetings.

Today was one of those days, you laughed to yourself as you settled lower into the fluffy pillows of the bed you shared with your husband, Thranduil. Raising your arms, you stretched under the thick furs of the bed, relishing in the comfortable mattress.

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✭ ✮ Linkin Park || Hybrid Theory Starters ✮✭

                                            Papercut

  • Paranoia’s all I got left.
  • I don’t know what stressed me first–or how the pressure was fed.
  • But I know just what it feels like to have a voice in the back of my head.
  • It’s like a face that I hold inside–A face that awakes when I close my eyes–
  • A face that watches every time I lie–A face that laughs every time I fall!
  • So I know that when it’s time to sink or swim.
  • That the face inside is hearing me right underneath my skin!
  • It’s like I’m paranoid lookin’ over my back
  • It’s like a whirlwind inside of my head.
  • It’s like I can’t stop what I’m hearing within–!
  • It’s like the face inside is right beneath my skin!
  • Your paranoia’s probably worse!
  • I don’t know what set me off first but I know what I can’t stand? Everybody acts like the fact of the matter is I can’t add up to what you can.
  • The sun goes down and I feel the light betray me–!

                                        One Step Closer

  • I cannot take this anymore!
  • I’m saying everything I’ve said before!
  • All these words they make no sense…
  • I find bliss in ignorance.
  • The less I hear the less you’ll say–but you’ll find that out anyway!
  • Just like before…Everything you say to me takes me one step closer to the edge– I’m about to break!!
  • I need a little room to breathe cause I’m one step closer to the edge!
  • I find the answers aren’t so clear and I wish I could find a way to disappear.❞ 

                                         With You

  • I woke up in a dream today to the cold of the static and put my cold feet on the floor–I forgot all about yesterday.
  • I’m remembering I’m pretending to be where I’m not anymore.
  • A little taste of hypocrisy and I’m left in the wake of the mistake, slow to react.
  • So even though you’re so close to me–you’re still so distant and I can’t bring you back.
  • It’s true the way I feel as promised by your face.
  • The sound of your voice is painted on my memories.
  • Even if you’re not with me, I’m with you.
  • I hit you and you hit me back– the rest of the day stood still.
  • When things go wrong I pretend the past isn’t real.
  • Now I’m trapped in this memory.
  • No matter how far we’ve come–I can’t wait to see tomorrow.

                                         Points of Authority

  • Forfeit the game before somebody else takes you out of the frame and puts your name to shame!
  • Cover up your face–you can’t run the race–the pace is too fast and you just won’t last.
  • You love the way I look at you while taking pleasure in the awful things you put me through.
  • You take away if I give in.
  • My life, my pride is broken.
  • You like to think you’re never wrong–but you’ve lived what you’ve learned.
  • You have to act like you’re someone and you want someone to hurt like you.
  • You want to share what you have been through.
  • You love the things I say I’ll do–the way I hurt myself again just to get back at you!

                                            Crawling

  • Crawling in my skin, these wounds they will not heal!
    Fear is how I fall–confusing what is real–!
  • There’s something inside me that pulls beneath the surface–consuming, confusing..
  • This lack of self-control I fear is never ending.
  • I can’t seem…to find myself again.
  • Without a sense of confidence and I’m convinced that there’s just too much pressure to take.
  • I’ve felt this way before–so insecure!
  • Discomfort endlessly has pulled itself upon me–distracting, reacting.
  • Against my will I stand beside my own reflection..

                                          Runaway

  • A constant wave of tension–on top of broken trust–the lessons that you taught me I learned were never true.
  • I find myself in question–they point the finger at me again.
  • Guilty by association–you point the finger at me again!

  • I wanna run away and never say goodbye.
  • I wanna know the truth instead of wondering why.
  • I wanna know the answers–no more lies.
  • I wanna shut the doors and open up my mind.

  • Another wave of tension has more than filled me up.
  • All my talk of taking action–these words were never true.
  • i wanna run away and open up my mind.

                                              By Myself

  • What do I do to ignore them behind me?
  • Do I follow my instincts blindly?
  • Do I hide my pride from these bad dreams–and give in to sad thoughts that are maddening?
  • Do I sit here and try to stand it?
  • Or do I try to catch them red-handed?
  • Do I trust some and get fooled by phoniness, or do I trust nobody and live in loneliness?
  • Because I can’t hold on when I’m stretched so thin–I make the right moves but I’m lost within.
  • I put on my daily facade but then–I just end up getting hurt again–By myself.
  • I can’t hold on to anything, watching everything spin–with thoughts of failure sinking in!
  • If I turn my back I’m defenseless.
  • To go blindly seems senseless.
  • If I hide my pride and let it all go on then they’ll take from me ‘till everything is gone.
  • If I let them go I’ll be outdone, but if I try to catch them I’ll be outrun.
  • If I’m killed by the questions like a cancer, then I’ll be buried in the silence of the answer. By myself.
  • How do you think I’ve lost so much?
  • I’m so afraid that I’m out of touch.
  • How do you expect… I will know what to do–when all I know Is what you tell me to.

                                            In The End


  • It starts with one thing and I don’t know why because It doesn’t even matter how hard you try.
  • All I know–time is a valuable thing–watch it fly by as the pendulum swings.
  • Watch it count down to the end of the day–the clock ticks life away–It’s so unreal.
  • I kept everything inside and even though I tried, it all fell apart..
  • I tried so hard–and got so far, but in the end it doesn’t even matter.
  • I had to fall to lose it all.
  • But in the end it doesn’t even matter.
  • I tried so hard in spite of the way you were mocking me–acting like I was part of your property!
  • Remembering all the times you fought with me–I’m surprised it got so far.
  • Things aren’t the way they were before.
  • You wouldn’t even recognize me anymore–not that you knew me back then.
  • But it all comes back to me–in the end.

                                              A Place for My Head


  • I watch how the moon sits in the sky in the dark night–shining with the light from the sun.
  • And the sun doesn’t give light to the moon assuming that the moon’s gonna owe it one.
  • It makes me think of how you act for me–you do favors and then rapidly just turn around and start asking me about things that you want back from me.
  • I’m sick of the tension, sick of the hunger– SICK OF YOU ACTING LIKE I OWE YOU THIS!!
  • Find another place to feed your greed while I find a place to rest.
  • I want to be in another place.
  • I hate when you say you don’t understand–you’ll see it’s not mean to be.
  • I want to be in the energy, not with the enemy–a place for my head.
  • Maybe someday I’ll be just like you and step on people like you do and run away  the people I thought I knew!
  • I remember back then who you were–you used to be calm, used to be strong–used to be generous but you should’ve known that you’d wear out your welcome.
  • And now you see how quiet it is, all alone.

                                               Forgotten


  • At the core I’ve forgotten–the middle of my thoughts.
  • Taken far from my safety–the picture is there .
  • The memory won’t escape me..but why should I care?
  • There’s a place so dark you can’t see the end, the skies cock back and shock that which can’t defend.
  • The rain then sends dripping an acidic question–forcefully, the power of suggestion.
  • Then with the eyes shut, looking thought the rust and rot–And dust– a small spot of light floods the floor.
  • Light pours over the rusted world of pretend.
  • The eyes ease open and its dark again.
  • In the memory you’ll find me with my eyes burning up.
  • The darkness holds me tightly until the sun rises up.
  • Moving all around–the screaming of the ups and downs is pollution manifested in perpetual sound .
  • My memory now is like the picture was then–when the paper’s crumpled up it can’t be perfect again.

                                            Pushing Me Away

  • I’ve lied to you the same way that I always do–this is the last smile that I’ll fake for the sake of being with you.
  • Everything falls apart–even the people who never frown eventually break down.
  • The sacrifice of hiding in a lie is that everything has to end.
  • You’ll soon find we’re out of time left to watch it all unwind.
  • The Sacrifice is never knowing why I never walked away, why I played myself this way.
  • Now I see, you’re testing me–and it pushes me away.
  • I’ve tried like you to do everything you wanted too.
  • This is the last time I’ll take the blame for the sake of being with you.
                                              

observing-silhouette  asked:

Hey there, hope you're doing well! Firstly I just wanna say that I've been struggling with writers block the last couple of months, but your writing has really helped me get past it. You've inspired me to give writing my all again and for that I just wanna say thanks! Secondly I'm currently working on a Swapfell fic and I was wondering if you had any headcannons for the SF!skelebros? I love the way you portray them~!

I’m so glad to hear that you’re feeling inspired!  =D  I’d absolutely love to read your Swapfell fic, so send that wonderfulness my way~.  

& also, can I just say that your art is amazing?

I should also have a tiny disclaimer that I’ve been told my SF!bros aren’t exactly the norm, and that the backstory/healing magic stuff I’m about to go into is something I just made up on the spot.

SF!Sans:

  • Captain of the Royal Guard
  • Calls himself the MALEVOLENT SANS but is known as the Tiny Tyrant by most of Snowdin.
  • Has the shed set up as a cell/interrogation room, with barbed wire wrapped around the bars.
  • The cell contains a filthy dog bed, with water and food bowls.  The floors are strained.
  • is an absolutely horrible cook.  He makes burritos, filled with glitter and meat doused in vinegar.
  • His puzzles aren’t puzzles, but traps, and they’re intricate and ingenious.  They involve quite a few spikes and nets made of razor wire.
  • His eyelights are blue, as is his magic.  
  • He’s highkey thirsty, but hides it behind accusing the other person of flirting.
  • Easily manipulated if he’s ego’s stroked just right.
  • Uses the term “WORM” when degrading someone, and “MANGY MUTT” or “LAZY PIECE OF GARBAGE” when degrading his brother.
  • is incredibly strong but still has Papyrus do his dirty work sometimes.
  • Calls Papyrus PAPY when not insulting him.  
  • Lets his emotions rule him when he’s angry or upset enough.  Snowdin trembles in fear of his tantrums. 
  • Claims his standards are THE HIGHEST POSSIBLE STANDARDS because he’s never found anyone WORTHY OF A DATE WITH THE GREAT MALEVOLENT SANS.

SF!Papyrus:

  • Used to work in The Lab with the Riverperson
  • Smokes dog treats to calm himself down– and regular cigarettes in a pinch.  
  • Sans hates when he smokes in the house, so he usually smokes in the shed or the basement.
  • Chain smokes when he’s stressed.  Also frequently drinks.
  • Uses the term of endearment “darlin’” casually.
  • is much more subdued around his brother, whom he calls “m’lord”, of course.  Around him, Papyrus rarely puns, and while he offers advice, he usually doesn’t go against Sans’s demands.  
  • When he’s away from Sans, however, he’s more of a wise-cracking flirt.  This is purely because he doesn’t want to steal the spotlight from his bro.
  • Capable of remembering RESETs.  
  • Hates riddles. 
  • Has a higher LOVE than Sans
  • Capable of using healing magic, but only Sans knows about that.  
  • “Dog” aesthetic.  From Mutt, to the dog treats he smokes, to the collar/leash combo.
  • Always eats whatever Sans cooks without complaint.
  • Has found that barbecue sauce is the only thing that possibly gets the lingering taste out of his mouth.
  • Papyrus lost his tooth in a fight, when he was defending Sans in the scuffle listed below.

Backstory of the bros:

Papyrus is the older brother in my version of them, and he raised Sans as a babybones.  When things went sideways in The Lab, Papyrus became more withdrawn; he stopped sleeping, instead spending his nights secretly trying to decipher the Riverperson’s riddles to figure out how to fix the machine.  He obsessed over it for a while, and the timeline distortions made him apathetic.  He took to drinking and sleeping with various monsters after a long night at Muffet’s. 

His care-taking of Sans slipped through the cracks.  He hadn’t noticed that his brother had been getting picked on at school because he was a smaller monster, one with a squeaky voice and a bark worse than his bite.  It made him an easy target.  

Sans was late coming home from school one day, and when Papyrus woke up from his nap (he’d been up all night in the basement, obsessing over the riddles and simultaneously chain-smoking and heavily drinking), he went looking for his brother, only to find him getting beaten up by several monsters.  In retaliation, Papyrus unleashed hell on them.  He ended up in a fight with their parents before it was over, and several monsters winded up dusted.  

By the time Papyrus got home with Sans, his brother was horribly injured, two giant cracks going through his skull, splitting it open over his eyesocket.  His ribs were cracked, his leg was broken…

And Papyrus was injured, too.  

His drive to protect his brother was what unlocked his healing magic–something he’d only ever read theorems of in The Lab.  Not many monsters are capable of wielding two different forms of magic, save for Boss Monsters like himself.  He was able to heal his brother for the most part, although his healing job was sloppy.  

However, it came at a price.  It damaged his SOUL in the process.  
He almost Fell Down.

Sans had to step up, to try to come to grips with the fact that his brother was comatose, staring off into space on the couch for nearly a week, his HoPe at an abysmal 1.  He wanted to become stronger so he could protect both himself and Papyrus–especially given the fragile state of his brother’s SOUL.  

He vowed to join the Royal Guard.

Papyrus pulled through, and he gave up on his obsession with the machine.  Instead, he spent more time building up his brother’s confidence, spurring him on to reach his dreams.  He became fiercely protective of Sans after almost losing him.

Those that wanted to compete with Sans for a position in the Guard (it’s a highly competitive and deadly process to get in) targeted Papyrus to get to Sans.  That made the smaller skeleton realize that their bond was a weakness–he couldn’t let someone know that it was a way to get to him.  He couldn’t let them potentially dust Papyrus because of him.  

So, he started treating Papyrus like dirt publicly.  He demanded to be called m’lord, and Papyrus agreed without question.  He started demeaning Papyrus, and his brother never once talked back or refuted his claims.  Instead, he went along with everything he said, continuing to bolster Sans’s ego.  

Sans got into the Royal Guard and rose through the ranks.  He bought Papyrus the collar to show ownership–and as a way to state to everyone that messing with the MALEVOLENT SANS’S property would result in getting dusted on the spot.  He became more and more carried away with treating his brother as his literal attack dog, even pulling him by a leash while Papyrus walked behind him with a cigarette between his teeth and his hands shoved in his pockets.   

Papyrus knows why Sans treats him the way he does, and he’s fine with it because he still blames himself for the attack on Sans years ago.  Over the years, however, Papyrus has started believing the demeaning remarks against his character, which has left him with low self-esteem and even lower self-worth.  Still, as messed up as both of the brothers are, they still value each other above all else.  Sans would do everything in his power to keep Papyrus safe, and vice-versa.  All they have is each other.

(* Mobile Imagine Masterlist  )

Commish for @jamie-jim-jam who requested some hurt/comfort.

Want a commish? Hit me up!


“Incoming, Hog.”

The biker snorted and glanced over his shoulder. Off in the distance, distorted by the bikes dust trail, black spots were drawing near.

“Hang on.” he grunted, and twisted the throttle. The bike roared like a demon and ate the ground, leaving the potential threats in the dust.

Or so they thought.

Junkrat yelped and nearly pitched out of the sidecar as Roadhog screetched to a halt.

“OI! Hoggy, whats the idea?!”

“Tire spikes.”

He’d barely seen the glint of wicked spikes in time. Stretching across the road and a good distance to the side, gleaming thorns of metal bristled.

And the ambush was sprung.

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I Am Not An Artist

I have this sketchbook
in which
I keep drawing
the same forest
in autumn
where people
hang themselves
and I swear
they all
look like
me.
One might almost hear
the crisp
of the wind
dance
with the trees,
the wind,
and the bodies
if I wasn’t so far
from an artist
but everything
is so jagged
and fucked up.
It’s so hard
to sketch
with a hand
and an eye
that prefer
to tear things apart
(even the wildflowers
outside my window
look more like
machinations
than something
to be admired.)
I once tore
a few pages
from these books
and gave them
to a girl
who barely knew me,
as if
I were capable
of love,
and she dissolved
into dust
on the spot
as the paper
slowly floated
to the ground.
I left it there
to dissolve
because no one
deserves
to see it
ever
again.

@wannabewriter17

The Perfect Shot

Part Seven - Final

Originally posted by eh-just-join-the-fandom-fam

Pairing: Jughead x reader

Summary: In the aftermath of the car accident, the reader uncovers the truth of what really happened to Jason Blossom (obviously just my theory)

Warnings: slight swearing, little bit of violence

Part One

I sit beside the bed, taking his cold hand in mine. His beanie is gone. He’s almost the same shade of grey as the hospital gown they’ve cloaked him in. I’m tracing my fingers over his pointed knuckles when the door opens behind me.

“He’s okay?” a gruff voice asks.

I turn to FP, nodding. “He was bleeding internally. They operated. He’ll wake up soon.”

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konamitomoko-deactivated2017062  asked:

Is it possible for you to get sick, or have anything similar?

Alphys: Dr. Alphys here to talk to you about Monster Biology! Now, as you know, Monsters are made of two things. Magic and Matter! We don’t have the same biological makeup as humans do (Well.. Furry Boss Monsters being the exception!) But we DO have our own form of illnesses.. known as…

Alphys: That’s right! Monsters are affected primarily by spells known as Jinxes, Hexes, and Curses! That’s how us monsters get sick! We often broadly categorize them as Curses. But each type is different.

Alphys: Jinxes are often irritating or annoying, but harmless. Sometimes they can be straight up silly! They’re often compared to allergies or bruises in humans, as in they usually go away on their own. But sometimes a properly brewed potion will make them go away quicker. It’s not unusual that a Monster will stay home in bed with a sniffling jinx or something similar.

Alphys: Hexes are a bit stronger, and can lead to some serious problems if untreated. Sans let his hex go untreated, and tried to fix it himself. Now he can’t walk very well without assistance- but overall, hexes aren’t fatal in Monsters. But they can be hard on a monster.

Alphys: Finally, there’s Curses proper, these can be deadly to a monster without immediate treatment. There are thankfully very few. Two of which are the Weakness and Conduction Curses. One causes a monster to bleed off magic at a rate that they will run out of magic to hold themselves together and dust on the spot. The other causes a monster to be unable to discharge their magic, causing them to overload and explode. 

Alphys: Thankfully, all forms of curses are curable with healing magic, a despell, or the proper potion or elixir.  A cure and little bit of rest to restore their magic and they’re good as new!

Alphys: I hope this was as educational to you as it was for me! I hope to see you again next time!

anonymous asked:

Fluffy, domestic headcanons with Hanzo, please! Just something really cute :)

This was very cute to write anon, as I love a domestic Hanzo. Who wouldn’t want their own grumpy archer in the house? Enjoy!

- Is a rather quiet man at home and appreciates his peace, but would love to do outdoor activities with you if you wish. Shopping trips or going to a park together, it is entertaining enough for him to say the least. He would often carry your grocery bags without question, even going as far as to pick them up himself if you happen to have declined his offer, but put the groceries down for a minute without looking into his direction. You would be panicking slightly once you returned, but shaking your head once you saw Hanzo carrying them with him. He feels as if it is his duty to help you with whatever task you are doing, not wanting you to carry everything alone as that would be selfish in his eyes. Besides, the two of you would be arriving quicker at home as well with his strong arms secured around the bags. Be prepared if you decide to shop with Hanzo though, the man is incredibly picky and will not make his choice on items easily. Take running shoes with you to avoid getting blisters and a lot of patience, because he will drag you from store to store to find the best product for the best price. Watch out for him spending too much money as well, having grown up with all the luxury available to him within a second, the archer would need to learn how to properly follow a budget. No expensive sake anymore for him unfortunately.

- The archer is very tidy, making it unusual for a man to be so excellent at the jobs within a household. Not a spot of dust would be visible and the floor would be mopped almost daily. Other chores are also not a problem, Hanzo would take most of them on by himself as well, worrying that if others would do the job it would not be as tidy, no offence of course. He might have slight OCD or just wants everything to be perfectly aligned and smelling fresh. Folding clothing though, is not his strongest talent. You might have to show him how it works in the beginning, as well as starting up the washing machine. He would be quite good at cooking as well, although mostly recipes from his homeland though. Hanzo knows how to cook a thing or two, but anything new would need a proper description. His homemade ramen is his specialty, alongside some other Japanese dishes, but most of his meals are rather practical and modest, as it was the usual he went with during his years as a wanderer. You would make a good team together for that matter though, combining your cooking skills so your meals become more grant and special.

- His activities during the day besides the usual chores are rather minimal. He enjoys meditating for a long while and would probably read a book afterwards or the newspaper. Once the archer would have gotten used to a domestic life, he would have his own routine in which he plans his day and does the average labor many people do inside a house. Surprisingly, he’s not a too active person at home when he’s not working and prefers to sit on the couch with some tea or pace around the rooms. If you would have a garden outside your home, Hanzo would love to relax there as well, sitting at the table on your self-built terrace until late in the evening, when it gets too chilly to stay comfortable. You would have pleasant conversations together on your pagoda, sipping tea or sake under the summer sun and evening breeze while relishing in the peaceful atmosphere. Afterwards, you would probably head straight to bed as the sun’s rays can be tiring after some time and the day itself would honestly feel very satisfying after the sun has set.

- Movie nights are also a thing he would learn to enjoy, as there was little time for it in the past for Hanzo. He feels pleased to just do nothing for a while, instead of worrying about the concerns of his life and your safety for a change, holding you gently against him as you lay your head on his chest and stare at the screen in front of you. It wouldn’t really matter what kind of movie you were watching, he would enjoy it for your sake. He does have a soft spot for thrillers and slice of life movies though. Movies with a complicated plot or an important message are also ones he can indulge in often. You would have to coax him into staying up late though, as Hanzo has a strict sleeping routine as well and would want you to get enough sleep, so late movie nights might not be a frequent occasion. He would give a speech about your health and mood, which get influenced negatively under a lack of sleep and if you want to stay up for a while to finish that particular movie, you would have to be persistent with him. After some time though, the archer would give in and grant you your wish, not wanting to see you look disappointed or displeased with his decision, as these long sleepless nights seem to be important to you. 

- He might or might not feel very comfortable after sleeping in the next afternoon beside you as well and perhaps, these kind of days were not as bad as they seemed. He would be deep in thought about this as he lay awake, looking down at your still sleeping form, from a long night of watching those embodiments of entertainment on TV. Just this once, he would decide to lay back for the day and join you again in slumber as he closed his eyes and pulled you closer to his body, nose nuzzling your hair. You would mumble incoherently in your sleep, which only made the marksman chuckle lowly in return, pressing a kiss to your forehead before drifting off again while absentmindedly stroking your side. You both were very surprised at the time you woke up that afternoon, having almost wasted most of the day by sleeping in, but not regretting a single minute of it.

the girl upstairs.

words: 5.4k
chapters: ½
characters: betty x jughead
summary: betty cooper, the girl upstairs and jughead jones, the boy downstairs do not like each other. it’s as simple as that. right?

read on AO3

Jughead Jones lived in apartment 723A. It wasn’t the most beautiful apartment. There were cups that would linger around for days, sometimes the dishes would pile up in the sink and everything was dusty. Jughead and his long time best friend and roommate Archie didn’t really care too much until one day Archie started seeing a raven haired princess in the apartment unit above theirs and suddenly everything got a little tidier. That was fine. But Jughead had to constantly remind himself to put things into the small dishwasher instead of the sink. He was partial to his room anyway, so what did it matter? The only thing that annoyed Jughead was when the other girl upstairs played her loud music while she was clean. Between the smell of Pine-sol and Selena Gomez oozing through the floorboards, Jughead was going slowly insane.

The truth was he didn’t know her, he didn’t know a single thing about the blonde girl upstairs that for some reason always wore a ponytail. He didn’t know her interests, her lifestyle, what kind of pizza she liked. Did she like movies? He wasn’t sure and honestly, he didn’t care. The few times she had come around with Veronica to hang out with Archie, he dismissed it. Either he stayed in his room or went out for some peace and quiet. The problem with Jughead was that he wasn’t really good at making friends. He was awkward, sarcastic and overall too weird for most people. Even so, people usually got screwed over in friendships so what was the point? Jughead had Archie and really that’s all that mattered.

Betty Cooper lived in apartment 823A. It was a very organized and structured apartment. Everything had its place including the cups, the pillows on the sofa being fluffed just right and not a spot of dust in sight. Betty and the raven haired princess, Veronica Lodge, had been living together for two years now after meeting through a mutual friend and hit it off. Veronica had started seeing a red headed boy that lived below them which Betty endorsed completely. Archie seemed sweet and it didn’t mind that he wasn’t too bad on the eyes either. But Jughead Jones, Archie’s roommate, she couldn’t stand. How could one person be so rude and arrogant? Every time she had been around him, it didn’t seem like he had the time of day for anyone, especially her. But he was a lost cause and she had given up on trying to connect with him. A useless boy.

However, Betty didn’t know him, not down to the nitty gritty. She knew he wore this strange crown shaped hat, didn’t talk much to others, and that he didn’t like her. That was fine, she didn’t care… but she did, maybe a little. She grew up being a people pleaser because her mother molded her into this perfect girl next door from a young age. She got straight A’s, was valedictorian, got into college easily with a scholarship. Betty could be friends with everyone, well, almost everyone. She had tried to get to know Jughead but was quickly shut down just by a facial expression. It was almost impressive how he looked at her a certain way and that was it. Nothing more, not even an hello in the elevator if they crossed paths.

It was a Tuesday, Betty remembered, when she had caught up to Jughead as they were both walking home. She asked him if he had seen Veronica but he simply replied with a no.

“Okay, well, if she’s with Archie can you tell her to text me? I’ve been trying to get a hold of her all day.” Betty told him.

Jughead glanced at the blonde girl. “Veronica’s a big girl, I’m sure she’s fine.” He mumbled under his breath as he pulled out his keys. The two of them walked into the apartment building, Betty nearly getting smacked in the face with the door since he didn’t hold it open enough. She was stunned when he didn’t even notice and she tried not to bark a rude comment at him.

The elevator door had opened to the main floor and Jughead walked in after a mother and son had gotten out. “Don’t worry; I’m going to take the stairs.” Betty called out to him.

“No one was asking.” Jughead retorted, the elevator door slowly shutting a moment later.

The nerve this boy had.