plush seats


Interior Pullman Car.

Beveled mirrors, ornate carvings, and polished brass were the hallmarks of travel in a Pullman parlor car, such as the one depicted here from 1893. First-class passengers enjoyed plush swivel seats and could eat their meals in equaling lavish dining cars. The wealthiest Pennsylvanians owned their own luxuriously appointed private cars.

Credit: Courtesy of the Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania

Night Drive

Summary: In which you help Bucky combat a sleepless night by going on a night drive.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 2,366

A/N: Oh hey, it’s me. I guess I’m back.

Originally posted by krisletang

The screaming starts late that night. Or maybe it starts early that morning; it’s too dark outside your window to be sure of the time.

Rubbing the sleep out of your eyes is easier said than done. Your slumber had been a deep one, as the fatigue from two sleepless nights in a row had caught up to you. Once your head hit the pillow, you were convinced nothing could possibly wake you up.

Nothing except the sound of Bucky’s screams in the room down the hall from yours.

Keep reading

Touché // j.j.

You can’t pin point when. Somewhere between the steady typing and the flipping of pages, between the constant supply of french fries and chocolate milkshakes, between the occasional eye contact and the brief smiles. Somewhere between the hours of three and seven o'clock, you fell.

To be specific, you fell in love with Jughead Jones, Riverdale’s resident tall dark and handsome, at least in your opinion.

It started one afternoon when Pop’s was busier than usual, every booth and table full except one.

“Do you…do you mind if I sit?” You ask, rocking slightly on the balls of your feet. “Everywhere else is full.”

You expect him to say no; he is, after all, Jughead Jones, and this is, after all, Riverdale, probably the smallest town in the world and everyone at least knew of everyone else, and you definitely know of Jughead and his preference to being alone, especially when he’s writing.

Jughead ceases his typing, locking eyes with you. He glances around the diner, almost surprised at how many people were in it.

“I’m not the best conversationalist,” he says, looking back at you, “I can’t promise anything good.”

This surprises you, you expected a flat out no or for him to even just ignore you.

“I’m not looking for conversation,” you say, shrugging, “just somewhere to sit and read my book while enjoying a milkshake.”

“Depends,” he smirks, folding his hands in front of his laptop, “what flavor milkshake?”

“The best one of course,” you smile back, “chocolate.”

Jughead smiles, actually smiles, and nods.

“Yeah, yeah you can sit,” he says.

You thank him, sliding into the booth and setting your bag next to you. You pull out your book, thanking the waiter as he set down your milkshake.

“Oh, I’m Y/N by the way,” you say, stirring the drink a bit.

“I know.”

You raise your eyebrows, tilting your head to the side.

“You know who I am?”

You remind yourself again that this is Riverdale, probably the smallest town in the world, where everyone knows everyone.

“I know more than you think,” he smiles.

“You take this dark and mysterious thing seriously don’t you?”

“I thought you weren’t looking for conversation?” He raises an eyebrow, half a smirk on his face.

“Touché,” you say, opening your book and settling into the plush seating, sipping occasionally at your milkshake.

This continues for days. Regardless of whether Pop’s is bursting at the seems or it’s just you and him, you always sit together. The two of you sit in that booth, you with a book in one hand and a milkshake in another and Jughead with his laptop on the table and fries next to it.

“You know,” Jughead says one day, fingers still whizzing across the keyboard, “you can sit somewhere else if you want.”

“And ruin the work we’ve been doing?” You smile, “I’m good.”

He stops typing, you feel his eyes on you.

“And what work are we doing exactly?”

“Bonding, Jug,” you say, turning the page.

“Is this what bonding is?”

You look up at him, shrugging.

“What would you call it?”


Weeks pass, the time you spend at Pop’s growing from a one or two hours into several, your time together stretching into early dusk.

“Hey Jug?” You ask quietly one day, closing your book for once.

He notices, he stops typing, he even half way closes the top of his computer.

“What’s up?”

“How’d you know who I was?” You ask, stirring your milkshake. “That first day…you said you knew who I was before I told you. How?”

“This is Riverdale,” he says, “I think it’s physically impossible to not know someone in this town.”

Jughead opens his mouth to continue, then closes it. You can see the wheels turning in his head.

“I notice things, I notice people,” he resumes finally, “I notice when people are different and you’re different. A good different, but different.”

With that, he raises the lid of his laptop, eyes focusing back on the screen.

“You noticed me?”

He looks back up at you, a smile on his face.

“Course I did.”

When you get to Pop’s one day about a week later, Jughead’s not there, Archie is.

“Oh um…hi,” you say, stopping short in front of the booth.

“Hey, Y/N right?” He asks, motioning for you to sit.

You do.

“Yeah, that’s um…” you shift your weight slightly, feeling uncomfortable, “that’s me.”

“Sorry, this must be awkward,” Archie says with a smile, “I’m Archie.”

“Yeah, I know who you are,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Archie’s eyebrows scrunch up slightly in confusion.

“Sorry, that sounded weird,” you rush, “I just mean, you’re a sophomore on varsity football, the whole school knows who you are.”

Archie smiles a bit, nodding.

“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” he shrugs, “anyway, Jughead sent me.”

You feel your shoulders relax involuntarily, leaning back into the seat.


“He had to stay after school, make up a test or something,” Archie explains, “he told me to come tell you that he’d be here though, just a bit late.”

You smile.

“Thanks Archie,” you nod, “that’s really nice.”

“Anytime,” the boy replies, smiling, “look uh…this may sound super weird but um…you and Jughead…is that anything more th-”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head, “no we’re…we’re just friends. At least…I think we’re friends. We just…we sit together and we do our own thing. That’s all.”

“I know Jughead, that’s definitely a friendship,” he smiles, “okay, I gotta head back to practice before I’m missed but yeah, he’ll be here.”

With another smile he scoots out of the booth.

“Archie,” you stop him, looking up at his face, “look um…god this is going to sound crazy but…is Jughead…is he seeing anyone o-or som-”

“No,” Archie cuts you off with another smile on his face, “he was, for a bit but…not anymore. Do you like him?”

You’re surprised by his bluntness, your eyes widening a bit.

“I uh…n-no I was just curious,” you shake your head, pulling your book out of your bag, “you better get to practice, don’t want coach to bench you.”

Archie smiles again, always with the smiling, and walks out of the door just as Jughead walks in.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” he says, sitting down across from you.

“I didn’t know we had a set schedule,” you smirk, tilting your head slightly, “nice of you to send your friend though.”

Jughead looks at you, a sarcastic smile on his face.

“Didn’t want you to think I stood you up,” he says, pulling out his laptop.  

“Don’t you have to be on a date to get stood up?” You ask, sipping at your milkshake as Pop places a basket of fries in front of Jughead.

“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” he replies, shrugging.

“So are you telling me that these are dates?”

This time you surprise yourself with your own bluntness, and Jughead as well. He recovers quickly though, the shock on his face only evident for a few brief moments.

“You tell me.”

There it is, his smile, his actual smile. Not a smirk, not some no effort half smile, an actual, full blown, Jughead smile.

Looking back on it, you think that’s when you first knew, when you first realized that you were falling for him.

The rest of the night is spent in silence, well, besides the sound of Jughead’s typing and your book pages begin turned.

You arrive at Pop’s the next day to see Jughead already sitting at the booth, typing furiously. That didn’t surprise you. What did surprise you, however, is the chocolate milkshake already sitting on the table in front of your side of the booth.

“I didn’t see you at school today,” you say, sitting down, “did you skip?”

“Yeah, yeah I um…” he pauses, finishing the sentence he’s typing before looking at you, “I got here this morning because I forgot one of my notebooks and I sat down to finish this paragraph I was on and uh…next thing I knew it was one o'clock in the afternoon so I…figured I’d just stay here.”

“Archie asked me if I knew where you were,” you say, “he came up to me during lunch and asked if I knew if you were sick or not.”

“What did you say?”

“The truth,” you reply, “that I didn’t know.”

Jughead nods, looking back down at his computer screen.

“Jug?” You ask, looking at him with furrowed eyebrows.

He continues to type, oblivious to your calls of his name.

“Juggie!” You exclaim, finally drawing his attention.

“Sorry, got caught up in the story,” he shakes his head, “what’s up?”

“What’s going on with you?” You ask, sliding your book off to the side. “You seem…I dunno, off.”

“Sorry just um…a lot of stuff on my mind I guess,” he says, shrugging.

“About Jason or…other things?” You ask.

“It’s nothing important.”

“Juggie,” you say softly, sliding your hand across the table to touch his arm, “if it’s bothering you this much, it’s important. You can talk to me, always.”

“We’re friends right?” He asks, closing his computer all the way.

“Yeah, yeah course we are Jug,” you nod, “please, tell me what’s going on.”

And he does, he tells you everything. About his parents splitting up, about his dad being part of the Serpents, about his mom taking his sister and leaving, about living at the drive in, about living at the school, everything. And you let him talk, you let him go on for as long as he needs with no interruption, just listening.

“Sorry if that’s a lot but um…I needed to get that stuff off my chest,” he finishes, taking a deep breath, “thanks though.”

“Come stay with me,” the words are out of your mouth before you even think them through, but you don’t take them back, “seriously Jug, my dad’s away on business and my mom won’t care, we’ve got room.”

“No Y/N I can’t expect that from you I do-”

“Juggie, you’re my best friend,” you say, cheeks burning slightly, “please, let me do this for you.”

Jughead looks down, staring your hand touching his, both of your fingers practically intertwined on top of the table.

“Are you sure it’s okay?” He asks after a minute or two silence, looking around the diner. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“I’m absolutely positive it’s okay,” you reply, catching his gaze, “but I’m not going to force you.”

“As long as you’re sure,” he says, nodding, “I’d really like to not live under the stairs like Harry Potter.”

You were right, your mom doesn’t care, she even convinces your dad that it’s okay for Jughead to stay with you, and after three weeks of it, you’re convinced it is the single best idea you’ve ever had.

The two of you still spend most of your time at Pop’s, something about the neon lights and plush seating and the constant supply of chocolate milkshakes makes you feel more at home than you do at your actual house. Or maybe Jughead does. Maybe Jughead makes you feel like you’re home.

“Do you ever wonder how some people end up with the worst luck?” He asks one day, eyes never leaving his computer screen as he chews on this thumb nail.

The two of you are going on four hours at Pop’s that day, and you notice that Jughead has barely written anything.

“Are we talking about Jason?” You ask gently, closing the book you were reading and placing it on the table.

“We’re talking about everyone,” he says cryptically, “how some people are born with everything they could ever want available on a silver platter and others are born with nothing, but somehow the golden boy ends up with the worst kind of luck.”

Jughead rarely ever spoke directly about Jason Blossom, you knew by now how to read between the lines of his novel-ish tone of voice.

“I think that it doesn’t matter what you’re born into,” you reply, “I think what matters is the choices we decide to make throughout our lives, and that that’s how we end up with good or bad luck, by the choices we make and by how we live our lives.”

“Jason never had to make a choice though,” Jughead exclaims, closing his laptop and sliding it out of the way, “that’s the thing, he never in his life had to make one choice for himself and somehow he still ended up murdered.”

His bluntness surprises you, this being one of a few times he directly tells you he’s talking about Jason.

“He did make choices, Jug,” you explain calmly, “everyday, just like you and me. He made the choice to let his parents give him whatever he wanted, he made the choice to follow that stupid book Chuck made up, he made the choice to be with Polly regardless of what his parents said, he made the choice to try and fake his own death so he could be with her without fear of them, he made hard choices, some of them more tough than you and I will ever make in our entire lives.”

Jughead stares at you, and for a minute you think he’s going to get up and leave.

But then he grabs his computer, mumbling a quick thank you under his breath and he begins to type furiously.

That night you’re laying on your bed, Jughead in the guest room across the hall and you can’t help but feel like he’s a million miles away.

You can’t sleep. Grabbing your phone, you squint at the brightness before you’re able to turn it down, looking at the clock.

2:37 am

“He’s probably asleep,” you whisper to yourself as you unlock the device, fingers moving almost on autopilot to Jughead’s message thread.

Can’t sleep, you awake?

You lay the phone on your stomach, staring up at the dark ceiling and willing your body to sleep. The vibration of the device pulls you out of your thoughts.

You okay?

You smile, two simple words causing happiness to bubble up in your stomach.

Yeah, just can’t seem to sleep.

You want to come talk?

If you don’t mind.

You’re always able to come talk to me.

You don’t reply, instead you get up out of your bed, quietly opening your door and then closing it behind you. You take three quick steps across the hallway, opening and closing Jughead’s door as quietly as you did your own.

“Hey,” you say softly, standing in front of the door.

Jughead props himself up on his elbows, the first thing you notice is the lack of a grey beanie upon his head.

“Hey,” he says back in the same tone, “you okay?”

Those two words again, this time sounding even better as you can hear him say it in his own voice.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you reply, pushing some hair behind your ear nervously.

Why are you nervous? You ask yourself as Jughead motions for you to come join him. It’s only Juggie.

You slide under the covers, but only because the room is cold, and you’re next to him, but only because it’s his room, and his arm is around your shoulders, but only because he’s a good friend and he wants to comfort you.

“Why can’t you sleep?” He asks, rubbing his eye with one hand.

“Did I wake you up?” You ask.

“No I was working on my book,” he explains, pointing at the computer on the bedside table, “don’t change the subject.”

“I dunno…overthinking I guess,” you reply, shrugging a bit.

“About what?”

“Everything I suppose,” you say, “about how if Pop’s wasn’t full that one day or if I had decided not to go then we probably wouldn’t have ever met. About how if I hadn’t continued to sit there we probably wouldn’t have become best friends, about what Archie sa-”

“Archie?” Jughead cuts you off. “What about Archie?”

You curse yourself silently. You didn’t mean to say anything about Archie.

“Nothing, nothing,” you reply quickly, but the look on Jughead’s face told you that he wasn’t going to let it go, “okay um…back that one day when you sent him to Pop’s to tell me that you were going to be late uh…he said that you had been seeing someone but that you weren’t anymore and I was…I guess I was just thinking about who it could’ve been.”

He’s silent, more silent than you’ve ever experienced with the many months of knowing him. Minutes pass, they feel like hours. Finally, you decide to break the silence.

“Juggie?” You whisper.

“Sorry I um…” he shakes his head, raven colored hair flying everywhere, “why were…why were you thinking about that?”

“Curious, I guess,” you explain, “sorry if that seems intrusive or weird or whatever bu-”

“No no it’s…it’s okay,” Jughead replies, wrapping his arm around your shoulders a bit tighter, “it…it was Betty. We had a thing for a few weeks but in the end we decided we were better off as friends.”

“A few weeks?”

“Before I met you, we stopped about two days before that day at Pop’s”

“And are you?”

“Am I what?”

“You and Betty, are you better off as friends?”


You nod, falling into silence once again.

This time Jughead breaks it.

“Look I’m not…I’m not good at this whole feelings thing,” he says, “Betty was the first girl I ever really had those types of emotions for but it wasn’t…it wasn’t what I’m supposed to feel. Or rather what I want to feel.”

“Do you know what you want to feel?” You ask, tilting your head up to look at his face.

He looks almost angelic in the pale light streaming through the semi-closed blinds.


“Do you know anyone that makes you feel like that?”


The answer comes quick, almost too quick.


Another pause.

“I can’t say.”

Your stomach drops on slightly, but enough for you to feel it nonetheless.


“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he rushes, running one of his hands through his hair, “it’s just that I don’t really know how to.”

“You’re a writer, Jug,” you say, “I know you’ll figure out how to tell her. You’re good with words.”

“Not when it comes to these kinds of words,” he laughs lightly, “I don’t want to mess up.”

“Don’t psych yourself out,” you encourage, regardless of the weight on your heart, “maybe you don’t need your words this time, maybe actions is the way to go. I believe in you, I know you’ll figure it out.”

Jughead finally looks at you, dark hair falling in front of his face as it’s still free of the infamous crown beanie.

“Actions?” He repeats.

“Yeah, you know what they say,” you smile, “actions speak louder than words.”

He blinks a few times, it’s almost like you can see the thought processing through his brain.

And then suddenly his hands are cupping your face and his lips are on top of yours, your eyes closing as if they had minds of their own. You’re shocked, who wouldn’t be, but it only takes a fraction of a moment for your mind to kick into gear and then your kissing him back, one hand on his shoulder and the other on the back of his neck.

If I’m dreaming I hope I never ever wake up.

He pulls away too soon for your liking, both your chests rising and falling little faster than usual.

“That thing you said about actions,” he says breathlessly, “I believe it.”

You smile wide, Jughead pressing his forehead against yours.

“You were talking about me?” You ask, still a bit shocked.

Jughead nods a few times, a smile on his face as well.

“I like you, Y/N,” he finally says, “I know that’s not poetic or artistic or anything like that but I just…I don’t have any other words. I really like you.”

You think your face is going to split in half by the giant smile you can’t keep off your face.

“Juggie,” you bite your bottom lip lightly, shaking your head, “god I can’t even tell you how much I’ve been wanting you to say that.”

Jughead’s smile widens and you swear the room brightness a bit.

“I’m really glad you couldn’t sleep tonight,” he whispers, laughing quietly.

“Me too,” you smile even wider, if that’s possible, “Juggie I’m…I’m really really happy right now.”

“God I am too,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “do you maybe want to have dinner with my friends tomorrow? I know they’re going out after the game, I can finally introduce you, properly too.”

“Ooh, dinner with the friends,” you say sarcastically, “I don’t know, you think our relationship is ready for that? We’ve only been together all of five minutes.”

Jughead laughs loudly and you shush him, the two of you falling silent to make sure your parents were still asleep.

“My dad will kill you if you wake him up and he finds us like this,” you whisper, shaking your head, “but in all seriousness, do you think it’ll be awkward for Betty? I don’t want to cause any trouble or anything I know you guys ar-”

“Y/N,” he stops your rambling, a soft smile on his face, “it’ll be fine. Betty and I are good, like I said, we’re better off as friends. Trust me, she’ll be okay. I wouldn’t bring either of you to meet each other if I didn’t think she’d be okay.”

“Okay, I’ll come to dinner with your friends,” you say, “on one condition.”

“Oh god, what?”

“I get to wear the infamous beanie,” you rush out, reaching over Jughead’s body and plucking the hat from on top of is computer.

“Y/N!” Jughead exclaims, trying to grab the hat back from you.

“Hold on hold on,” you say, pushing his hand away.

You put the beanie on your head, smoothing your hair out under it and looking back up at him.

Jughead stops struggling, half a smile on his face.

“Well you do look adorable,” he says, brushing a stray piece of hair off your cheek.

“I wear the beanie tomorrow,” you ask with raised eyebrows.

“You can wear it to dinner,” he compromises, tilting his head to the side.


Jughead keeps his word, and when the two of you leave your house that evening and head for Pop’s, he takes the beanie off his head and places it on yours, shaking out his hair. Jughead intertwines your fingers together, smiling at you and at how happy you look.

Jughead explains his friends to you, telling you a bit about each one of them as you both walk towards the diner.

“They’re probably going to say something,” he says, “about the beanie.”

“Have any of them ever seen you without it?” You question.

“Archie has a few times, Betty once or twice,” he explains, “but other than that, no.”

Jughead’s warnings were a bit understated. In fact, when the two of you walk into Pop’s and find his friends at a booth, it seems all conversation in the entire diner ceases.

“Jug,” one of the girls, Veronica, says, mouthing wordlessly for a few seconds, “you made it, we thought you weren’t going to come for a while.”

“Yeah, yeah we left a bit late,” Jughead shrugs, “guys um…this is Y/N. Y/N, this is…well this is everyone.”

Once the awkward formalities were out of the way and Pop had brought over everyone’s celebratory milkshakes (the football team won that night), everything felt normal.

You laugh at all the jokes, even tell some of your own. You feel like you’ve been part of this group for years, and you know Jughead can tell.

“Hey um…sorry guys I gotta take this,” Jughead says after he pulls out his phone.

“Juggie?” You ask. “Everything okay?”

“What? Yeah,” he replies, “it’s just…it’s my mom. I should take it.”

“Yeah, yeah of course go ahead,” Betty says, “we’ll keep her company,” she smiles at you.

Jughead thanks them, walking out the door to the diner with the phone up to his ear.

“So,” Veronica says, holding her head up with her hands, “you and Jughead.”

You furrow your eyebrows.

“Oh come on, don’t make her spell it out!” Kevin says, “he’s letting you wear his most prized possession for pete’s sake!”

You feel a blush spread across your cheeks, looking down at the half empty milkshake in front of you.

“I think you guys make a cute couple,” Betty says, licking some whipped cream off of her straw.

“Thanks Betty,” you reply, smiling again.

“This is going to sound awkward but uh…” Archie trails off, “has Jug told you anything about what’s going with his family an-”

“Yeah,” you cut him off, “he has. About everything, including his dad and that stuff. He’s um…he’s staying at my house. Has been for a couple weeks.”

Veronica smirks, Betty elbows her in the ribs. Archie and Kevin rolls their eyes at the two girls.

“Hey, I think he’s talking about you,” Kevin says, nodding in Jughead’s direction.

The four of you look over at him, you watch as he talks into his phone with a huge smile on his face, running a hand through his hair to push it back every couple of seconds.

The night draws to a close all too soon, everyone heading back to their houses as you and Jughead walk hand in hand down the asphalt road.

“I think that went really well,” you say, smiling at him.

“I agree,” Jughead says, stopping you both from walking and standing in front of you.

Before you can ask what he’s doing, he places his lips on yours, cupping your cheek with one hand while simultaneously tilting your head up. You feel him lift the beanie off of your head, but honestly you don’t really care. He pulls away with a smirk, fixing his hat back on his head.

“Archie,” you say, looking over Jughead’s shoulder.

“Really?” He asks with semi-wide eyes, “that’s what you’re thinking about in the middle of our moment?”

No, god you’re an idiot,” you shake your head, pointing over his shoulder, “Archie’s window, which happens to show Archie watching us right now.”

As soon as Jughead turns around Archie slides his curtains closed, causing you and Jughead to burst out in laughter.

“Did you kiss me just to steal your hat back?” You ask in a fake shocked tone.

“Possibly,” he replies, quirking an eyebrow.

“Touché Jones, touché.”

Rotten Judgement - part 4

AU!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Hercules!AU After selling your soul to save your lover’s life, you become one of the Lord of the Underworld’s slave. Bucky is obsessed with one thing: collecting hearts. But why?

Word Count:1,877

Warnings: -

A/N: I died three times while writing this. I dedicate this one to the sun, kindly f*ck off. I hope you like this one, some fun stuff coming soon :)

Rotten Judgement - Masterpage

You and Steve walked hand in hand down the street, enjoying the cool breeze. You knew you had angered Bucky, but you didn’t care. You would deal with him and his silly pride later. Right now, you wanted to enjoy your time with Steve. He was charming and, quite literally, perfect.

“I’ve got a friend who wants to meet you,” Steve said.

“You told your friends about me?” A slight blush crept up his cheeks, making you chuckle. “Relax, Cap. I’d love to meet your friends.”

He gave you the most beautiful smile you’d ever seen. It made your stomach do a pleasant flip. You felt your face heat and bashfully lowered your eyes.

It’s too cliché, you thought. Get a grip, girl!

Keep reading

Commoner Dick Grayson falling in love with a Princess

•Dick was known to be a flirt around town.

•With an easy going personality and a charming smile he was quite popular throughout the towns.

•He was also really smart and even though he wasn’t brought up royally he knew a lot of manners.

•His good looks eventually got him noticed throughout the royals and within time he got employed to be an advisor

•As a princess you didn’t really follow the typical guidelines.

•You refused to let a man guide and instruct you.

•And you actually had more women employed in your castle than men.

•Upon meeting you, Dick was advised of your behavior and to accommodate that he did not flirt with you.

•But when he saw you, oh dear, it was so hard not to.

•For a princess you had a down to earth vibe and you had a basket of ribbons that he later found out was for the younger girls that worked in the castles.

•You were beautiful and kind.

•And he was at a loss for words.

•When he kissed your hand he may have kissed it for too long.

•He was distracted on how soft and warm your hand was.

•He quickly perked back up and with a nervous grin returned to his work.

•You gave him a curious glance but didn’t ask more.

•Dick’s feelings only grew as he saw you more and more each day.

•You weren’t afraid to get your hands dirty and frequently rode your horse around in the afternoons.

•One day before Dick rode off to town you quickly galloped your horse to his direction.

•"Mr. Grayson may I ask where you’re going?“

•"Princess Y/N! I was going to ride to town.”

•"May I join you?“

•This caught Dick by surprise

•"Certainly, would you like me to fetch a carriage for your passage?”

•You scoffed, “Plush seats don’t nearly give you as much pleasure as riding on a horse.”

•Dick grinned, “You are correct Princess.”

•On the ride there Dick’s thoughts were swarming.

•What should he say? Does she have to say anything?

•"I heard you have younger siblings Grayson.“

•"Yes princess.”

•Y/N gave a soft look, “Call me Y/N, princess is a too much to handle.”

•"Certainly Princ- Y/N"

•"How many siblings do you have Mr.Grayson.“

•"I have three younger siblings named Jason, Tim, and Damian.”

•"Ah, do you they miss you? You are gone frequently.“

•Dick smiled glumly, “I must do to support them.”

•"They can be employed to work for me. It must be hard to be apart.“

•Dick realized right then that this is what you wanted to talk about.

•You wanted to help him out.

•"Ah no! Prin- Y/N It’s fine!”

•"Dick it’s fine. I know it’s tough and people keep telling me I need more male workers in the house.“

•You casually got off your horse and walked to the lights of the town.

•Dick was in awe of your generosity and before he could think grabbed you in and pulled you in for a hug.

•His hug was warm and when he pulled back and his face was so close to yours.

•He inched closer so that his lips gently touched yours.

•It was so enjoyable before the realization came in and he shoved you back.

•"I am SO sorry! I- I didn’t know what I was think I can’t -”

•"It’s okay!“ You quickly stopped him.

•You tried to come towards him but he backed up.

•"You’re a princess Y/N I can’t kiss you… or love you.”

•"Status doesn’t matter.“

•Dick refused to look at you.

•So you walked right up to him and lifted his head to meet yours.

•"Status doesn’t define anything.”

•And with that you kissed him.

•Enamored by you, Dick wrapped his arms around your waist to bring you closer.


he only brought you to the most expensive places, because they had plush changing room seating for him to wait in while you tried stuff on. he sat on the fur covered sofa, five security guards just a few meters away. 

you opened your door, looking out at him with a grin.

“how’s it look kitten?” he asked, “why dont you let me see?”

you walked out of the change room in the dress he picked out. it was gorgeous, smooth silky material that hugged everything perfectly. The Joker eyed every inch of you and stood up, approaching you with his arms open. he licked his lips hungrily and a growl sounded in his chest, “you look puurfect kitten.”  

Rental Contract (Namjoon/Reader)

Originally posted by simondismydaddy

Summary: Late, late, late. You were always late - to work, on bills, and more importantly, on your rent. Fortunately, your landlord is kind enough to help you find alternate ways to pay for that pesky rent you were always late on.

Genre: Smut - Alternate Universe

Words: 6K+

Author: Admin Kaycie

Tags: Oral, fingering, dirty talk, dom!joon, etc. 

Note: To clarify any confusion, I am reposting my old fics from BGS/theofficialrapmom here on HOBI since I previously removed them from Tumblr. Please do not attempt to send in plagiarism claims, as I assure you, I am the original content creator. For any questions, please feel free to contact me privately off of anon. Anonymous messages in regards to the reposting may be deleted if deemed rude/hateful.

Keep reading

His Wife in Hiding

Warning: None

Word Count: 1933

Summary: Unbeknownst to many, Klaus Mikaelson is a married man but years ago, after an explosive falling out, she left Klaus and he’s been chasing her ever since. But when Klaus finds her hiding out in New Orleans…

Pairing: Reader x Klaus Mikaelson and Reader x Elijah Mikaelson (platonic)

Part Two

This morning had been extremely productive for you. You’d worked out, organized and cleaned your lavish apartment, you’d caught up on your favorite shows and successfully mastered the spells you’d been studying in your grandmother’s old grimoire and you’d done it all before the clock struck noon.

You’d practically raised Marcel so he allowed you to practice as much magic as you wished.  

You were in the parlor with a cup of tea and good book when you heard a knock at the door.

You flinched, startled. You rose from your seat with your brows furrowed. You so rarely received visitors and rarely left the house. Marcel’s men would gladly do you the favor of running your errands, hoping that it would bring them favor with Marcel and move them up in the ranks. After living a life such as yours so full of drama and despair this apartment, so peaceful and quiet had become your safe haven.

With caution you moved towards the door. You glanced through the peep hole and released the breath you didn’t know you were holding. You sighed in relief and threw the white double doors open with a flourish.  

“Hello, brother,” you said with a bright grin.

Elijah Mikaelson returned your smile wholeheartedly. “Sister,” he said in greeting. He looked you over, taking you in, in that over-protective, brotherly fashion of his. “Isolation has been good to you.”

I dipped my head in thanks. “I’m glad you think so.” You stepped aside so that Elijah could come in.

Elijah sauntered into the apartment. He was the only member of the Mikaelson family that could enter your apartment. In fact, he was the only Mikaelson who even knew that you had an apartment. The less people that knew your location the better.

You shut the doors behind him. Turning around you met his worry-filled gaze.

You cocked your head to the side, taking him in. He’d gotten here in a rush. You could tell from his heavy breathing and his tousled hair and clothing. Elijah Mikaelson was usually well put together and ready for anything. His hair was always well done without a flyaway in sight. His clothes were usually wrinkle-free and as immaculate as he was. Something was wrong and he was doing a poor job of hiding it.

You put your hands on your hips. “What is it, brother?”

“Klaus is in New Orleans.”

You sucked in a breath. Your heart hammering in your chest.

“He knows you’re here. You have to move. Now. If you want to escape.”

You moved around the apartment in a literal blur. You knew this day would come. No one and nothing could stay hidden forever. Especially not from a Mikaelson. Let alone from Klaus Mikaelson.

“He’s a hybrid now. He’s awoken his werewolf side.”

You swore under your breath as you gathered your necessities and most prized possessions.

“How did he find out?” you asked, on the verge of hysteria.

“One of the witches told him.”

Your blood began to boil beneath your skin. When you got the chance, when you returned to your home in New Orleans, you would hunt down that witch, feast on her flesh and use her bones for tooth picks. You shook your head as if shaking the thoughts of bloodlust and revenge out of your head. You needed to be of clear mind. You needed to be in top shape if you were going to do this.

When you’d packed the last of your things, you looked around the apartment with tears in your eyes. These walls had been the closest thing you’d had to a true home in centuries. It had been your safe haven after years of running from your former husband and now it was time to part ways. You’d prayed that this day would never come and now it was here.

Your future was a blank slate and you hated it. You preferred having a destination in mind when it came to running.

“Got everything?” Elijah asked.

You nodded, swallowing the bile that had risen in your throat.

Your former brother-in-law opened the door and waved you over to it.

You nodded again and picked up your full suitcases and headed out the door and into the warm sunshine. You inhaled the clean fresh air. It was a stark contrast to the stuffy air back inside but you would still miss it all the same.

Elijah took the suitcases from your hands and placed them into the trunk of an awaiting black sedan. “I’ve taken the liberty of procuring a car for you. I hope you don’t mind.”

Tears pricked at your eyes. You shook your head and laughed, “No. No I don’t mind.”

You ran to him, wrapping your arms around your brother’s neck. “You are the best brother I’ve ever had, Elijah.”

He laughed, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“Don’t you dare tell Kol I said that!” you threatened.

He laughed harder. “I won’t, I promise. I love you too, y/n. I wish that our time together wasn’t cut so short.”

“As do I,” you agreed. “I’ll let you know when I find a safe place.” You told him, stepping out of the embrace. “I only wish that I could tell Marcel goodbye and thank him for his hospitality.”

“I’ll give him your love,” he assured you, opening the passenger door for you. “I’ve compelled the driver to take you anywhere you wish.”

“You are too kind to me, brother. I don’t deserve you.”

He pecked you on the cheek as he ushered you inside the sleek vehicle. “Don’t talk like that. I love you. Stay safe.”

“You do the same. I love you.”

With some reluctance he closed the door and sent you off.

And then you were riding through the noisy, crowded streets of the French Quarter. You watched enviously as trumpets blared and people danced and sang and paraded down the streets and sidewalks like no one was watching. A pang of jealously hit you square in the chest. For a moment you decided that it wasn’t fair but then you remembered that it was your own fault. That’d you’d chosen this life and made this bed and now it was time to lay in it. You were just a moment ago, planning to feast on some poor witch’s flesh.

You leaned back against the soft leather seats.

“Where to, ma’am?” the driver asked. It was the first time he’d spoke since you’d met him.

“The nearest airport please.” You told him in a small voice.

You still hadn’t figured out where you were going. Mainly because there was nowhere else you wanted to be. New Orleans was home. You wanted to go back to your apartment and reminisce about the good old days with Elijah. You wanted to baby and cook for Marcel. You were tired of running but you were tired of fighting too.

You sighed and closed your eyes, leaning your head against the plush leather seats.

You were nearly asleep when the door opposite of you opened.

Your eyes flew open. You gasped in horror when you saw who’d just gotten in your car.

“Don’t I get a goodbye too, love?”

“Klaus,” you gasped.

“Calm down, my lovely. I only want to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you!” you spat.

“Good. Then you can sit here and listen.”

“And if I don’t want to?” you challenged.

“You want to keep running from me then go ahead,” he invited. “Be my guest. I’ll even give you a head start if that’s what you want.”

You folded your arms across your chest and gestured with your hand for him to go on.

He cleared his throat, dramatically.

You rolled your eyes in response.

He opened his mouth to speak but he let out a rare nervous laugh.

“What? You wanted to talk so talk.”

He rubbed at his beard. “I never thought I’d get this far,” he told you with a grin. “I’d dreamt of the day that I’d get to talk to you. To beg your forgiveness and now that we’re here, you’ve got me tongue-tied. Just like when we were kids.”

You turned away from him, biting your lip.

“I love you. I’ve always loved you and I’ll never stopped. The day you left was the day when immortality felt more like a curse than the gift I’d always made it out to be.”

“Why is that?” you asked him.

“Because what is the point of forever without you?”

You leaned your head against the window with a soft thud. “Don’t do this to me,” you whined. “We’re not good together Klaus.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because it’s the truth! Together we are chaotic and deadly and cruel and I don’t want to be that anymore!” You said turning to looked at him.

His eyes were clear, blue, calculating and smoldering, they raking over you with unmistakable hunger that sent chills down your spine. “Leave it to you to focus on the negative.”

“And leave it to you to be the one to act like the negative never happened.” You said throwing up your hands.

“I know what happened and I know what I did. What we did. But I would take it all back if I could, if it meant that you would come back to me or that you would have never left in the first place.” He inhaled running his hand through his curly, ginger brown hair. “We may have been chaotic, deadly and cruel but we were also happy and madly in love. We belong together, y/n. Don’t you see that? We were meant to be together, always and forever.”

“But at the expense of other people, Klaus.” You told him. Anything to keep from him how his words affected you. You loved it and hated it when he got all romantic like that. You wrapped your arms around yourself.

He sighed when, leaning back against the seat. “I can’t make you stay but I’m begging you not to go. Let’s work this out, my darling. I know we can. There is no way in the world that you could have forgotten how good we are together.”

You remained silent.

He put his face in his hands. “I won’t come after you if you choose to leave again. And if you decide to stay and you want to work this out, I’ll be staying at the old plantation. If you want to stay and live in peace…I’ll leave you be.”

He leaned in towards you.

Your breath caught.

He kissed your temple and then your cheek.

His lips were warm against your skin. You were relishing in the familiar sensation of his lips on you when he pulled away.

You sucked in a breath.

“Stop the car.” Klaus told the driver.

The car pulled to a stop in the middle of the road. Thankfully they hadn’t been moving very fast but that didn’t stop the drivers behind them from furiously honking their horns.

Klaus looked back at you one last time. You could see the fear in his eyes. You could tell that he thought this would be the last time he’d see you.

Klaus stepped out of the car and walked back in the direction of the French Quarter. You watched him through the back window until he disappeared from your line of sight.

“Ma’am?” the driver called, startling you.


“Still to the airport?”

For a moment you couldn’t speak. You were so torn. “Yes…to the airport,” you said unsurely.

Author’s Note: I had such a good time writing this! Please let me know if you enjoyed this story and if you would be interested in reading a part two!

Part Two

Private Jet- Tom Holland One Shot

Pairing: Tom Holland X Reader

Prompt: (Requested by @wingsanddarkness ) hi! I love your writing :) can you write a story about how tom and zendaya talk about reader’s first time on a private jet, and let slip some shenanigans that happened

Word Count: 670

Notice: This is more of a blurb than an one-shot, due to the small word count.

A/N: This was my first request and I am not very good at “shenanigans” (I’m not a funny person), so I apologize for this ahead of time.


“You’re going to love Spain.” Tom said as the car pulled onto the runway.

“You said that about Singapore.” You laughed.

“And was I wrong?” He asked.

“No.” You replied.

“I bet you that I’m right about Spain too.” He stated confidently as he helped you out of the car.

“We’re taking a private jet?” You questioned, looking at the lonesome plane.

“Have you ever been on one?” He grinned while nodding his head.


“Well, this is another thing you’ll love then. Come on, the others should already be on board.” Tom took your hand and led you up the stairs to the jet.

“Y/N!” Harrison cheered upon seeing you enter.

“Hey, Harrison.” You smiled, giving him a hug.

“So, this must be the famous Y/N.” You heard a voice behind him. You let go of your friend and saw Zendaya standing behind him. She held a casual hand out to you. “Hey, I’m Zendaya, but you probably already knew that,” She laughed lightly.

“Y/N, but I guess you already knew that as well.” You replied.

“Tom would not shut up about you on set.” She said, as you two sat down in plush seats facing each other.

“All good things, I hope.” You responded.

“There are only good things about you.” Tom stated, sitting beside you. He put his arm around your shoulder and kissed you head.

“Tom, calm down on the PDA.” Zendaya exclaimed as Harrison took his seat.

“Fine, then.” He pouted, but kept his arm around you, “You know, guys, this will be the first time Y/N’s ever been on a private jet?”

“Really?” Zendaya asked and you bashfully nodded.

“I’m not a celebrity, so I don’t really get to experience a luxurious lifestyle.” You replied.

“Private jets are so much better than normal airplanes. You get to be as loud as you want, you get better food-”

“Lots of legroom.” Harrison added.

“No one kicking your seat.” Tom inputted.


“The bathroom’s nicer. It’s living the life.” She ended.

“I would think so.” You laughed. While the four of you got distracted in a conversations about random things, the pilot took off and you were flying in the air, en route to Spain.

“How much longer is this flight?” You asked Tom with a yawn, as you snuggled into his chest. By now, the four of you had hit the boredom/sleep stage of the flight.

“We’ve got about five more hours.” He replied. “Just go to sleep if you’re tired, love.” He yawned as he spoke and his fingers played loosely with your hair.

“Do the love birds ever stop?” Zendaya asked Harrison with a giggle, pulling out her phone.

“I think it’s gotten worse.” Harrison answered and Tom blindly threw his empty water bottle at him.

“Shush.” He muttered.

“Look at the lovebirds, everyone! Tom and Y/N are hands down the cutest couple in the world. Look at them.” As Zendaya videotaped for her story, she zoomed in on the two of you cuddling together in a reclined chair.

“Let us sleep in peace.” Tom whined, making you laugh.


“So, how was your first ride on a private jet?” Tom asked once the jet landed in Spain.

“Very luxurious.” You replied, standing up and stretching your legs.

“We told you- a million times better than regular planes.” Zendaya stated.

“Definitely.” You nodded.

“And the destination is totally worth the journey.” Tom said, taking your hand and leading you to the jet’s exit. You were awe by the beauty of Spain, despite only being at the airport.

“Okay, you were right about Spain too.” You sheepishly admitted, making Tom laugh before he kissed your cheek.

“I knew it.”


Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader

When Clint Barton, knocked on your apartment door and asked you to join the Avengers, you were dumbfounded. A small part of you knew he would ask you to join. When you first met him, it involved saving him, after all.

At first you were tempted to close the door on him, but since he had become a close friend, you decided against that. After letting him in, he spent the whole time trying to coax you to join. Out of all the extravagant, righteous, and quite ridiculous reasons to join, you firmly refused. Until, he said a name you hadn’t heard in years.

Your reluctance to joining the Avengers stemmed from the fact that you preferred to work off the grid. You shied away from the limelight. Another important fact was that after your years kept as a Hydra experiment; you were not prepared to put yourself into a position where your powers could be used for the wrong. The fact that Hydra had infiltrated SHIELD did not help at all, despite Captain America’s successful crusade of stopping them.

So as you stood outside the Avengers compound and stared at the looming A on the building, you reminded yourself that it would all be worth it in the end.

“Ready to go in?” Clint asked you. He gripped your suitcase to him and, with his free hand, gestured to the entrance. “Everyone’s waiting for you.”

You fidgeted with the silver band on your ring finger. It gave you comfort, and the strength you needed to take your first steps into a new life.

Keep reading

Colors // j.j. soulmate!au

Everyone is born with a stripe on their wrist with a color denoting which emotion they are unable to feel until they kiss their soulmate (once they kiss them, a smaller stripe of their color appears in their stripe)

Ever since he can remember, Jughead Jones has never gone a day without wearing a cuff over his left wrist, covering up the colored stripe he was born with. Although meant as a kindness, the cuff only helps strangers know that whatever he couldn’t feel was embarrassing enough to require to be covered.

Subconsciously, he fiddles with his cuff as he stares at the computer screen.

“God, why can’t I be happy with how this is turning out,” he sighs, throwing his head back against the booth.

His ears fill with the sound of giggling, opening his eyes to see the upside down image of his best friend.

“You okay Juggie?” She asks, raising an eyebrow.

“As good as I can possibly be,” he replies as she sits down across from him, “writers block sucks.”

“The absolute worst,” she says, nodding.

The two teens don’t miss the look of pity they receive from the waiter as he sets down their order, his eyes locked on the pair of black cuffs adorning both of their wrists.

“Do you ever wish soulmates weren’t a thing?” She asks, running her fingers over the cuff. “Or that the universes came up with a less sadistic way to lead us to them?”

Jughead shrugs, looking down at his wrist.

“I suppose,” he replies, “I think I wish more that I was blessed with something I didn’t have to cover.”

The girl nods, all too aware of the various pairs of eyes tracking her and Jughead’s wrist like a puck at a hockey game.

“God I just wish they’d stop staring!” She practically shouts, all but slamming her shake back down on the table.

“Y/N,” Jughead says gently, placing her hand on top of hers in a calming fashion.

“I know, I’m sorry,” she says, sighing audibly, “it’s just tiring. Between the looks my parents give me and the things people say at school…it’s ridiculous.”

“I know,” Jughead gives her a half smile, “I know, you know I understand. And it’ll go away, I promise.”

“They just,” she shakes her head, looking around the diner, “they get to live their lives with no hinderance, they get to walk around with everyone automatically knowing that whatever they can’t feel is deemed somewhat normal while we have to go through this unrelenting torture of everyone pitying you.”

“Bad day?” He asks, he knows she rants about the universe when her day has been particularly rough.

She sighs again, lowering her head into her hands as she nods.

“The worst,” she mumbles.

Jughead nods, closing his laptop and sticking it in his bag as he stands, holding his hand out to her.

“C'mon,” he says, “let’s get out of here.”

Y/N smiles, taking the boys hand and following him out of the diner, their hands still intertwined as they make their way down the gravel.

“Why do you think we were cursed with these?” She asks.

“The stripes or these specific colors?” He questions.

“Both I suppose,” she replies, “the colors mostly.”

“Because we are those special few the universe feels can handle some bad luck,” he replies smoothly, “we are the ones that have to deal with this trail because we are the ones equipped to handle it.”

“I don’t know if I am Jug,” she sighs, letting the boy lead her over to a park bench, “I can’t stand not feeling this anymore.”

“Do you,” Jughead furrows his eyebrows, “do you know what yours is?”

“Well I…yeah,” she says, swallowing roughly, “when I was younger, like eight or nine maybe, my mom got me a new cuff and she was helping me take off the old one. It was off before she realized she left the new one downstairs, she went to go get it and forgot that I didn’t have one on. So I looked I mean…how was I to know how bad it is,” she explains, looking down at her wrist, “do you know what yours is?”

“Not exactly but I’ve worked out at least a few that it could be,” he replies quietly, “after almost seventeen years there’s really only one or two that I think it could be.”

“I should’ve been paying more attention to you,” Y/N says, leaning her head onto his shoulder, “maybe I could’ve figured it out.”

“It feels sad to talk about it,” Jughead replies, “even though we both know that ours are sad ones, I mean we’ve had them covered our entire lives, but it still feels sad talking about it.”

“Did you here about Archie and Veronica?” The girl changes the subject. “Apparently they were talking and he just kissed her and boom, he could suddenly feel fear. Must’ve been quite a shock to him. And V too, she went this long without feeling jealousy and now she can.”

“It’s the same way for Kevin and Joaquin,” Jughead says, “They get together and suddenly Kevin can feel anger and Joaquin can feel worry. Crazy how this stuff works.”

“Crazy how it seems we’re the only ones in the school who don’t have soulmates yet,” she sighs.

“Care to tell me why your day was so awful?”

“Mom asked me if I found anyone quote attractive enough to kiss,” she says, shaking her head, “and when I said that it was none of her business and that’s not how I go around looking at the world she yelled at me and told me that I’m never going to feel l-whatever my stripe is.”

“If you want to tell me you can,” he whispers, “I know it’s not usually the thing people like us talk about, but you can tell me.”

“Not today Juggie,” she replies, subtly whipping the corner of her eye with her finger, “maybe someday, but not today.”

“My mom told me I should try Dilton,” Betty says a few weeks later while sitting in the student lounge, “can you imagine? Me and Dilton Doilye?”

“You never know,” Veronica shrugs, her hand laced with Archie’s, “sometimes it’s the person you least expect.”

“Oh please,” Kevin rolls his eyes, “like anyone thought you and Archie weren’t meant to be.”

“Besides, I don’t mind not feeling pain,” Betty says, looking down at her orange-stripped wrist, “might just stay single forever.”

“Well not all of us are blessed with that luxury,” Jughead snaps, looking up from his book for the first time during the conversation.

“Jug,” Y/N says softly, shaking her head once.

“Not sorry,” he grumbles, sinking down further into his seat.

“Sorry guys,” Betty says, her eyes dimming slightly, “didn’t think.”

Y/N can’t help but feel all four pairs of eyes on her, ducking her face further into her book.

“No one special in your life Y/N?” Veronica asks.

If only it were that easy.

“Nope,” she replies simply, turning the page in her book.

“Jughead?” Veronica throws the same question his way.

“Not unless you count Y/N,” the boy says, making the girl roll her eyes.

“Thanks Jug,” she says, shaking her head, “I feel special now.”

“Have you guys ever kissed?” The raven haired girl asks, practically making Jughead fall out of his chair.

“Me and Y/N?” He asks, closing his book and sitting up properly. “No.”

“Why not?” Veronica asks. “I mean it can’t hurt.”

“You think me and Jughead are soulmates?” Y/N questions, raising her eyebrows.

“I don’t know if you are,” Veronica explains, “but I know that you won’t know unless you try.”

“That’s insane,” she says, “you can’t just go around kissing people to find out if they’re your soulmate or not.”

“Why not?” Betty asks. “I kissed Archie, and Kevin. Even considered Veronica until her and Archie found out they are soulmates.”

“Jesus you guys,” Jughead says, “it’s not that simple. You have to feel something before you just kiss them.”

Y/N’s face falls slightly, but she nods.

“He’s right,” she replies.

“And what exactly do you have to feel?” Betty questions.

“I dunno…but you have to feel something,” Jughead replies.

Betty studies the faces of her two friends, raising an eyebrow slightly.

“Hmm,” she says, nodding once, “okay.”

“No you didn’t see it,” Betty stresses, “you two were too smitten with each other to see her face when he said it. She likes him.”

“So what if she likes him,” Veronica says, “that’s not how it works. She can like him all she wants,  but it’s the universe that decides who’s with who.”

“Even so,” Betty replies, sitting back in the plush seat, “I asked her to come early, I want to talk to her.”

“Well here’s your chance,” Archie mutters as the other girl walks into the diner, sitting down next to Betty.

“Hey guys,” she says, “where’s Jug?”

“Coming later,” Betty answers, “I asked you to come earlier, I wanted to talk to you.”

“Why? What’s going on?” Y/N questions, eyebrows furrowing.

“I was wondering,” the blonde starts, “you and Jughead…is anything going on between you two?”

“Me and Jug?” Y/N stutters out. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just curious. I’ve seen some of the looks the two of you share every now and then,” Betty says.

Y/N’s stomach drops, heart beat quickening as she shakes her head.

“No…no it’s nothing like that,” she whispers.

“Oh c'mon Y/N,” Veronica chimes, “you know you can tell us anything. You like him don’t you?”

Y/N feels tears pricking at the edge of her eyes, finger nails digging into her palms as she wills them away.

Stop it. Just stop it.

“No,” she swallows.

“Say no all you like,” Betty says, “we don’t believe you.”

It’s as if her rib cage closes around her lungs, the lack of air making her brain fuzzy. She shakes her head again, this time to get rid of the tears more than to reiterate her argument.

“I don’t,” she says.

You don’t understand.

The trio give the girl knowing looks, causing her to dig her nails in further.

“You don’t understand,” she whispers, looking down at her lap.

“I’m sure we all understand having a crush on someone,” Archie laughs.

Y/N repeats her words, Veronica scrunching her eyebrows together.

“And what exactly don’t we understand?” She questions.

“I can’t feel…” Y/N stops, shaking her head again, “I can’t.”

“Y/N?” Betty notices the girl on the brink of tears, eye widening in worry. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t,” she says breathlessly, standing up and tucking some hair behind her ear.

Betty grabs the girls wrist, fingers coming in contact with the leather cuff covering the stripe.

“Y/N tell us what’s going on,” she says, “we didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You don’t understand,” Y/N sighs, looking at her three friends and shaking her head, “none of you do. You all have your soulmate or you have the freedom of at least being able to see what you’re missing. You have the ability to share with other people what it takes to make you complete and I…we…me and Jughead don’t have that. You don’t understand.”

“I’m still confused,” Archie says, “exactly what don’t we understand?”

“I can’t feel love,” she admits, tears flowing down her cheeks, “that’s what you don’t understand. I’m incomplete, I can’t feel that. That’s why I don’t…I can’t like Jughead because I can’t feel that emotion.”

She rushes out of the diner, unknowingly passing by Jughead in her whirlwind of tears and short breaths.

“Was that Y/N?” He asks, setting his bag down on the seat. “What happened?”

“I’m an idiot,” Betty sighs, “that’s what happened.”

Archie and Veronica take turns explaining what transpired between the four of them before he arrived, Jughead’s eyes widening with practically every word.

“And then she said that she couldn’t…” Veronica trails off, shaking her head, “I’m sorry, that’s not my secret to tell.”

“I have to go find her,” Jughead says, throwing his bag to Archie, “she can’t be alone.”

“We don’t know where she is,” Archie replies, tucking the messenger bag next to him.

“I do.”

Ten minutes later Jughead arrives at the park on the outside of Sunnyside, sighing happily when his eyes rest on her hunched over figure.

“Y/N,” he says, walking up behind her as she sits on a swing, feet dragging on the ground.

“H-how’d you find me?” She asks, tear tracks evident on her face as he sits on the swing next to her.

“You always come here when you’re upset,” Jughead replies, “you’ve forgotten that we’ve been best friends for basically our entire lives.”

“Did they tell you what happened?” She questions quietly.

“Most of it,” Jughead replies, dragging his foot in the dirt, “up until right before you rushed out. Veronica left off at you saying you couldn’t do something.”

Y/N felt another tear roll down her cheek, barely holding back a sob from escaping her lips.

“Y/N?” He asks worriedly, getting off of the swing and kneeling down in front of her. “What’s wrong? You’re freaking me out a little.”

“It’s so overwhelming Juggie,” she says, “not being able to feel complete. Feeling…feeling so empty all of the time I can’t…I can’t handle it anymore.”

Y/N doesn’t hear the boys response, instead she stares down at the cuff on her wrist, eyes watering at the sight.

“I can’t wear this anymore,” she cuts Jughead off from whatever he’s saying, “I can’t have it covered anymore Jug. I can’t.”

She shakes her head vigorously, fingers scratching over the leather until she practically rips it off, the deep red stripe all but glowing in the dusk light.

The sob finally rips from her body, tears freely falling as she tries to avoid Jughead’s gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head again, “you shouldn’t have to deal with this, I’m sorry.”

“Shh shh shh,” Jughead places a hand on her cheek, wiping away a few tears as he shakes his head, “don’t say that. This…this is nothing we can’t deal with, okay?” He smiles as softly as he can. “We both knew that our stripes weren’t the usual colors, this does not make anything different.”

“No you don’t understand,” she hiccups slightly, “Jughead, I can’t feel love. Even on the scale of those that need to be covered this is the worst.”

“Stop that,” he says, “you’ve lived seventeen without feeling this, you’re bound for a break down sometime huh.”

She tries her best to laugh, making more of a breathless sputtering sound than anything else.

“Tell you what,” he says softly, “do you want me to show you mine? Maybe it’ll make you feel better?”

“I don’t want to put you in that position,” she shakes her head.

“Nah, I want to,” Jughead says, “you’ve shown me yours, it’s only fair.”

“Okay,” she nods, swallowing.

She watches as he unstraps his cuff, the bright yellow stripe practically lighting up their faces. Her face dries up almost immediately.

“Oh Juggie,” she sighs, her fingers brushing over his wrist.

“Yeah well,” he shrugs, “we both knew it wasn’t something good.”

“But Jug you haven’t,” her brain searches for words, “Jughead you haven’t ever fe-”

“Ever felt a day of happiness in my life?” Jughead lets out a short breath. “Yeah, I know.”

“Jughead,” she tries to formulate words again, throat dry, “kiss me.”

Jughead almost chokes on air, eye bugging out as he looks at her.

“What?” He shakes his head. “Y/N you’re not thinking straight.”

“Yes I am,” she nods, “Betty was right, we might as well get it out of the way. We don’t know if we’re soulmates or not and this is the only way to be sure.”

“I meant what I said Y/N,” he argues, “you have to feel something before you just kiss someone.”

“That’s the point Jughead, I can’t feel anything like that,” she pleads.

Jughead looks up at her, heart beat quickening as he stares at the girl he never dared to think of as more than a friend.

“I think…” he swallows, nodding slightly, “Y/N I think I like you, scratch that, I know I like you. And I’m scared that if we do this that we won’t be together and I don’t think I can handle that.”

Y/N sucks in a deep breath, nodding.

“You’re right,” she says quietly, “you’re right I’m sorry I was…I was being stupid,” she looks down at her wrist, “feels weird, not having it covered.”

Jughead looks down at the ruby red stripe covering her wrist, then at the yellow one over his.

“Promise me something,” he says, breaking the silence that had been hanging in the air, “promise me that if we do this and nothing happens, we’ll still be friends.”

“Jughead, nothing can stop us from being friends,” she says, “not this or anything else, I promise.”

“I just don’t want you to be disappointed Y/N,” he says quietly, intertwining their fingers together.

“I don’t care what happens,” she shakes her head, “I just need to feel like I’m trying. I need to feel something. And I trust you, more than I trust anyone.”

“Okay,” he whispers, rubbing his thumb over her cheek.

Jughead brings his lips up to hers, eyes closing as they kiss each other. The feeling of her lips on his is almost enough to overcome the feeling of heat erupting from both of their wrists, Y/N pulling away from him with a small gasp.

“Oh my god, Juggie,” she says breathlessly, smiling as she looks down at her wrist.

The two teenagers watch as their respective colored wrists are now broken by a new line splitting it in half, Jughead’s yellow now with a thin red stripe in the middle and Y/N’s the opposite.

“Is this happiness?"Jughead asks, unable to keep the smile off of his face. "I feel like…I feel like I’m full of sunshine or something.”

Y/N laughs, tears pricking at the edges of her eyes.

“I feel like my heart’s going to explode,” she says, looking at him, “I…I love you, Jughead. I mean, obviously I’ve never felt…whatever this is so I’m guessing it’s love and I love you.”

“God,” he smiles even more, tucking some of her hair behind her ear, “I love you too Y/N.”

Jughead uses his thumb to wipe away a tear from her cheek, pulling her up from the swing and into his arms.

“At least tell me that these are happy tears,” he says.

“Yes yes yes,” she says, laughing a bit as he smiles, “yes of course.”

“Good good,” Jughead nods, “god I can’t stop smiling.”

“I don’t blame you,” she says, “you’ve never felt happiness in your life, it’s got to be overwhelming.”

“Kiss me again,” he whispers, “please.”

“I dunno Juggie,” she teases, “aren’t you supposed to feel something before you kiss someone?”

“Shut up.”

Jughead pulls her lips back onto his, happiness still bubbling in his stomach as she places her hand on his cheek.

“I’m so glad we don’t need those stupid cuffs anymore,” she whispers, a smile on her face, “I hated them.”

“I’m glad it’s you,” Jughead replies, “nothing makes me happier than the fact that it’s you I get to spend the rest of my life with.”

She blushes, the red looking more like pink in the dwindling sunlight.

“Whoa there Jug,” she teases, “lets not get ahead of ourselves.”

“The universe says we’re meant to be together,” he replies, cupping her cheek with his hand, “and who am I to argue with the universe?”

“I love you,” she says, the words foreign yet familiar on her tongue.

“I love you too,” he says, kissing her softly.

“We should probably go talk to everyone else,” she says quietly, “I think Betty’s kicking herself for what happened, we gotta show her that in the end it was a good thing.”

“Kiss me one more time, then we will,” Jughead requests.

She agrees, pressing her lips to his for a few more seconds.

“I’m never going to get tired of this feeling,” Jughead whispers as they walk back towards Pop’s.

“Never gonna get tired of me?” She questions.

“Not in a million years.”

brookevs  asked:

Could you do prompt 1 with peter? Btw I love ur writing❤️

Anon: hi! I love your writing! could you mabye do prompts 1 and 4 with peter? 💫

did sOMEBODY ASK FOR MORE PETER???? I AM HERE TO DELIVER. (thank u so much both of u I’m so happy you enjoy my stuff 💗)

#1 “You’re n-not, um, w-wearing anything under that, are you?”
#4 “Are you trying to turn me on right now or are you really just that oblivious?”


for this one I was imagining those comfy red leather seats that AMC theaters have (if u ever been to AMC u might know what I’m talkin about). I did my best to push through this brain fart and finish this one, I hope you like it 💞 

Just Be Quiet | One shot

“Are you sure you want to see this?” Peter asked, his brows furrowed as he looked at the poster for the movie his girl had pointed to. He didn’t know this movie even existed, and it didn’t look like anything that would be of interest to her. They’d been dating for months and had plenty of movie nights for him to know what her taste in cinema was like, and it sure as hell wasn’t some fluffy wannabe ‘Notebook’ film.

“Yes,” his girl said, wrapping an arm around his waist. “My friend saw it last week, she said it’s got some pretty…intense scenes.”

Rolling his eyes, he slid a twenty under the window and read off the film title to the cashier.

“Meet me in the theater with popcorn?” she wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Sure thing,” he grinned, giving her one quick smooch before heading towards the concession stand.


He walked into the theater to see only two other couples in the theater. This movie must be terrible, he thought to himself. She had picked the seats in the very back row, against the wall. She was already propped up comfortably with the footrest out, waiting for him. Careful not to drop their popcorn, he made his way up the steps in the dim theater and plopped down in the seat next to her.

“Got us a large,” he offered her the bucket. “But with you I’m sure it’ll be gone before the previews are over,” he joked.

“You know me so well,” she snickered, grabbing a handful of popcorn.


Thirty minutes and half a bucket of popcorn into the movie, she peeked over at Peter from the corner of her eye. Despite the poor quality of the film hew was totally engaged, of course, and didn’t seem to notice when she adjusted herself in her seat and edged closer to him, until she was against her arm rest. Snuggling up as close as she could, she rested her head on his shoulder and felt him give her a light kiss on top of her head.

A few minutes later and she was growing even more restless, and rested her hand on Peter’s leg, drawing circles over the fabric of his jeans with her finger. She paused for a few moments, waiting to see if he had noticed or cared, before taking it a bit further. Glancing up at him, she began slowly rubbing her hand up and down his thigh, getting dangerously close to his dick.

Feeling where she was going with her hand, he snapped out of his concentration on the movie and looked down to see her staring up at him.

“Are you trying to turn me on right now or are you really just that oblivious-” he said before she leaned up and cut him off with a deep kiss. Terrified to draw attention to the two of them, he sat still, feeling her tongue in his mouth as she nearly devoured him. When she finally broke away he stared at her with wide eyes.

“Are you crazy?!” he mouthed to her, to which she bit her lip and carefully slid out of her chair and climbed into his, settling in next to him with one leg propped over his, causing her already short skirt to slide up even more. Trying to save her the embarrassment of flashing anyone who might glance back at them, he grabbed the material and tried to recover her crotch area when she held his hand still over her.

“You’re n-not, um, w-wearing anything under that, are you?” he stammered. Smirking, she pushed his hand underneath her skirt and his fingers slid over her clit. She was already soaking wet for him, and suddenly her begging to see some shitty movie that no one had heard of, on one of the slowest nights of the week, made sense now.

But he didn’t get a chance to pull her into the hallway and confront her about it, before he could utter another word she was unbuttoning his jeans and slipping her hand under his boxers. He gripped the armrest as she wrapped her hand around his length, slowly stroking and preparing him for her.

“A-Are you sure this is a good idea?” he whispered, his voice cracking as her thumb brushed over his slit.

“Relax,” she purred in his ear. “Just be quiet.”

Carefully pulling his jeans down a little further, his cock sprung free from its cloth confinements. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a condom, unwrapping it and sliding it on for Peter before grabbing the armrests and lifting herself off the chair to position herself over him. Peter pressed one hand against her back to hold her steady, positioning the head of his cock against her entrance. She slowly lowered herself down on him, biting her lip to hold back her moaning as she felt him fill her.

Peter’s mouth fell open and his head fell back against the seat, praying to whatever higher power that was above them that he wouldn’t slip a moan and get the both of them banned from the theater forever. She remained still on top of him for a moment, adjusting herself before she held his hands on the armrests, and began slowly rocking her hips.

She started out slow, painfully slow. Just enough for him to feel the smallest bit of friction inside her, but nowhere near enough for him to get off. She focused on carefully moving her hips over him, spreading her legs open a little more to accommodate more of his length and clenching herself around him. Her eyes repeatedly darted between the two couples in the theater, watching for the moment one of them might hear something suspicious and turn around. She wasn’t exactly sure what she’d do if someone saw them, she was only banking on not getting caught.

After many agonizing minutes of incredibly slow thrusting, she felt Peter’s hands gripping her hips. Turning her head to get a look at him, she almost moaned and blew their cover right there. His head was laid back against the plush leather of the seat, eyes closed as he focused on every little movement she made over him. His mouth hung open, the smallest breaths escaping every now and then as he tried to hold his composure, and god he was struggling. She reached back and brushed her hands through his hair and his eyes fluttered open, glassy and silently pleading with her.

Steadying herself on the armrests, she began thrusting a little faster, the heat pooling in her abdomen the moment the friction between them picked up, finally enough movement for both of them to feel something. Peter’s grip on her loosened, his hands rubbing up and down her sides and her head fell back as she felt herself getting closer to her climax. She clenched herself around Peter again and felt him wrap his arms around her, gently pulling her back into the seat with him, his hips beginning to move underneath her.

“Be careful,” she whispered between breaths. 

“Don’t worry, I got you,” he murmured, tugging her earlobe gently with his teeth before he resumed thrusting up into her ever so gently, feeling bolder and reaching down to play with her clit. She slapped her hands over her mouth, immediately looking around to make sure no one had taken notice of them.

“That feel good babe?” his voice rasped in her ear, and she nodded in response, a small whimper rising in her throat.

Minutes later, her orgasm began to overtake her and he felt her walls clamp down on him as her body shuddered against him. He sunk his teeth into her shoulder to stifle his groaning, and she gripped his thighs, her mouth falling open and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to scream. He slowed his thrusting as she finished her orgasm, leaning back into the seat with him. He trailed his hand up and down her forearm as he felt his heartbeat slow back down.

“You sneaky girl,” he mumbled, smiling against her skin.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy that more than the movie,” she chuckled in response, turning her head to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Wanna blow this popsicle stand then and do some more enjoyable things at my place?” he grinned.

“You’re such a dork,” she snorted, sliding off his lap and adjusting her skirt, checking over her shoulder to make sure she didn’t moon anyone. “Let’s get out of here.”

Beauty in Simplicity|Ch. 1 (Yakuza!Hanzo x Hostess!Reader)

It was much too early.

Twisting your wrist you glanced at the time as it projected itself an inch above your skin, grimacing slightly at the time. ‘0714’. Carding a hand through your hair you couldn’t help the soft sigh that tumbled from your lips, the soft click-clacking of your heels against the concrete sidewalk picking up. This was ridiculously early for you. If Ayane hadn’t called you with this ‘urgent favor’, you had no doubt you would still be wrapped up in your comforter, dead to the world until 10 AM at the earliest. The older woman, who you affectionately referred to as mamasan, was your boss and dear friend but you swore that as soon as you made it to the club you were going to have a talk about your ‘business hours’. Still, you couldn’t be upset with her, it appeared that a ‘special’ client had reserved an early trial meeting and she wanted her ‘best girl’ there. Her flattery worked, obviously, pulling you out of your bed and sending you down the road towards the coffee shop on the corner before catching a cab to Roppongi.

She had kept details scant, as was normal, not wanting any prying ears to possibly pick up anything over ‘unsecure lines’. The patrons of the club valued their privacy and every girl that worked there as well as mamasan were more than happy to comply. Club Rosebud was a members only club that served the elite; politicians, CEOs, oyabun of the upper crust yakuza families, military leaders and the like. As long as they paid their dues, respected the ladies and didn’t become too disrespectful or belligerent, they would always be welcomed back with open arms. The building itself was discreet; a Vishkar commissioned project, sleek and modern with solid black privacy glass covering the outside. Ayane had balked at the thought of subscribing to the neon signs that often decorated the hostess and nightclubs in the area, instead vying for a hologram that projected the name in stylish cursive and katakana,  hard light roses and petals constantly falling down and onto the sidewalk. It was chic yet discreet, beautiful and classy; the exact image mamasan wanted to convey and what kept their clients both happy and impressed.

Club Rosebud location was a calculated decision on Ayane’s part, a street that existed an arms length away from the hustle and bustle of downtown, yet close to several embassies and five star hotels. The street was fairly calm; wide sidewalks leading to high-end cafes and bistros and a small two-lane road that had a small side lane that cars could take directly to the front of Rosebud. A side street led to a private entrance for those that required it, although it was most often used by the women that worked there as a quicker way to the back. This is where you often entered the club and where you were headed that morning.

Lifting your wrist to the panel next to the door, you hummed idly as you waited for your credentials to be verified, the small security pad turning blue before the door slid open smoothly. You barely paid any mind to the environment around you as you moved through the warmly lit hall, continuing the softly hummed song as you made a beeline towards the back. The art deco theme left the place brightly colored and yet tied together with dark walls or decor, seating plush and comfortable and inviting. A long bar was attached to a door that led to the kitchen, the different bottles of high-shelf liquor on the wall looking like twinkling gems. There were private rooms, of course, with varying themes; Japanese-style tea rooms, traditional conference rooms, hell, there was even a small private theater. Anything the clients needed, Ayane wanted to be able to provide.

You carried on past them, walking through a door that was affectionately marked ‘Roses’ Only’, signifying an employee only area. A little ways down was another door that led to the dressing rooms; a pastel explosion of a room that was fitted with a dozen pearlescent white vanities, soft lighting and two dozen or so rolling racks filled to the brim with clothing from designer clothing from all over the world. Tucking your purse underneath your personal space, you sighed as you sank into the soft pink skirted vanity chair, stretching before crossing your legs.

‘Know your enemy and know yourself and you can fight a hundred battles without disaster’- Sun Tzu.

The quote from the great Chinese philosopher sat permanently affixed to the mirror of your vanity, a silent reminder of your life’s philosophy. You jokingly would tell the other girls you worked with that you were preparing for a battle; dressing yourselves in fine silks and chiffons like they were armor, your warpaint high-end cosmetics, your simplistically intricate hairstyles your helmet. The war ground is one that you had fought proudly on for years and would continue to do so for however long your spirit compelled you to, the battle of courtesans and their wealthy, upper class clientele.

Your battle hardened statements were all in jest, of course, but you enjoyed the playful distance it allowed you to practice whenever you entered the club. You were skilled at your job and you knew what was both wanted and demanded of you. An amicable warmth, lively conversation, class and professionality, charm and attractiveness all wrapped into a package with a pretty little bow. You were fortunate. Within the walls of the club and the mouths of patrons and advertisers, you were sought after not only for your beauty and charisma but your intellect as well, known for being demurely scintillating. For now, however, you worked on accentuating the beauty that was seen before the brain, primping in front of the vanity in the changing room.

You kept your vanity clean and tidy, makeup neatly stored away and sorted in a deep blue makeup case, your hard light styling multi-tool laid across the top of it. Assorted hairsprays, perfumes, brushes, accessories and jewelry were scattered, albeit tidily across the back of your small table. A place for everything and everything in its place. Your fingers moved over your items in a practiced manner, humming softly to yourself as you considered the look you were trying to go for this afternoon.  Bold, glittering neon matte lips had become popular recently, appearing on magazines and in talk shows but you felt that it was much too flashy, at least for the client mamasan had assigned you. Your look had to be perfect, demure and respectful, enticing and seductive. Chewing lightly on the inside of your cheek, you visualized several looks before opening your eyes and looking at your reflection. You had an idea.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Hanzo rolled his shoulders as the hovercar came to a stop, eyes glancing up at the building, barely suppressing the groan that tumbled from his lips. Hanzo could feel anger begin to lap at his insides like fire, doing nothing to hide his agitated expression from his brother. Hanzo made a soft dismissive ‘tch’ in the back of his throat as he stared at the name, ‘Club Rosebud’, the fluttering flower petals aesthetically pleasing and yet…irritating.  

“A hostess club”, Hanzo deadpanned, shooting his younger brother a scathing look. The frown on Hanzo’s lips only grew deeper as Genji returned the look with a shit-eating grin, clapping his hand down on his older brother’s shoulder and shaking. “This is the last time I trust you with picking the venue Genji.”

“Relax aniki”, Genji says, his tone much too lackadaisical for Hanzo’s taste, purposefully sliding directly next to the man despite the car’s roomy interior. Genji wrapped his arms around Hanzo’s shoulder, the older pushing against the younger, drawing laughter from the man. “Rosebud is one of the classiest joints in all of Japan! I promise, aniki, even Prime Minister Sakamoto goes here!”

That earned a small upward quirk of the eyebrow from Hanzo, skeptical yet easing the shoving match he and his brother were locked in.

“I don’t think you would know ‘high class’ if it bit you on the ass”, Hanzo stated matter-of-factly, finally managing to untangle himself from Genji’s hold. Hanzo’s hands immediately began straightening the tailored black suit he wore, readjusting the deep blue button up with an agitated precision. He shot another glare his brother’s way, only earning yet another wide grin. “What exactly was wrong with Suzume?”

“No offense but during the daytime that place is boring”, Genji said bluntly, nose wrinkling up at the thought of returning to the empty, musicless, patron-less club in the daytime. “It doesn’t create a ‘welcoming’ environment! We want to make our ‘partners’ feel welcome, Hanzo! Not bore them to death in an empty night club. Plus the girls here are gorgeous and they are very generous with alcohol. You know how that loosens lips, right? Plus today is only a trial run aniki! No pressure!”

Genji wiggled his brows conspiratorily, a knowing smirk on his lips as he gently nudged Hanzo with his elbow. Hanzo gave a grunt, an unspoken, if temporary, concession that he would try this for the time being, twisting his body towards the door as their Omnic chalet opened the door. At the very least, if the location was subpar, Genji had actually come prepared for the meeting. The 25-year old had actually worn one of his nicer suits, albeit was a crisp snow white in color. The inner button up was a forest green, his cufflinks golden dragons with emerald eyes, much like Hanzo’s own white gold and sapphire ones. His younger brother had even managed to dye his garish lime green hair back to black, just solidifying how serious he was about assisting Hanzo with this transaction. Although the elder sibling had no doubts that his brother would soon dye it again when things were set in stone with the Americans.

From birth, both brothers had been molded, trained to take over the Shimada-gumi, one of the strongest and largest Yakuza factions in the Tokyo area. The older the heir and the younger his right hand man, each imbued with their own skills. Hanzo was the tactician, blessed with a naturally analytical mind with a scathing wrath that could, and would, crush anyone that dare to buck against their Shimada reign. He was protective of what was his; his family, his assets, his livelihood. Genji was the amiable social butterfly, a man able to read the room and the people around them, able to draw people to him with his innate charm. Contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t a naive playboy, his ability to disarm people allowing him to gather his fill of information before flashing even a modicum of his true nature. Both had extensive training in both hand to hand combat and various weapons; pistols, assault rifles, swords, bows. Name it and it had been in their hands. And while their father, Sojiro, still handled a bulk of the responsibilities, he trusted his two sons with managing new business deals in his stead.

Giving one last vexed grunt, Hanzo turned towards the door as Yosuke, their Omnic chalet pulled the door open. Hanzo stepped out into the subtle warmth of the spring morning, straightening up and rolling his shoulder before stepping to the side to allow his brother room to move out as well. Genji practically jumped out of the car, arms raised high as he waved at the elderly woman who was walking towards the two of them, both waving enthusiastically before each approached the other with open arms. She was short, definitely no taller than five feet tall, dressed in hōmongi-style black kimono, soft pink and creamy yellow primroses and tea roses stretching from her feet to her back then over her left shoulder and to the edge of both sleeves. As Genji spun her around, Hanzo caught sight of the simple graying bun she wore, adorned by a fresh pink-red rose pinned in her hair.

Setting her down, Genji and her continued to talk animatedly as Hanzo observed, taking in the yellow obi with the intricately tied knot. An obvious refined taste was felt in the clothing, but her nature only helped to solidify her classiness. Her gaze was affectionate yet sharp, focused on Genji yet not missing anything happening around her. She wore very traditional clothing and yet her mannerisms were nothing if contemporary; hands on hips, grabbing Genji’s chin and pinching his cheeks. However when her gaze twisted to Hanzo, the playful chiding in her tone gave way to a warm professionality.

“Shimada-san”, she said, stepping away from Genji and giving a respectful bow that Hanzo returned with one of his own. Straightening up, a small sage smile settled onto her lips as she returned Hanzo’s once over before giving a quiet chuckle. “Your brother has told me much about you. My name is Ayane Takahashi. Let me assure you that we, at Club Rosebud, are both honored to be at your service and understanding of your need for discretion. Genji has enlightened me on the company you are expecting and I do believe I have the perfect accommodations for your needs, Shimada-san.”

Hanzo gave a short half nod, disguising the look of skepticism with a small bow to the elderly woman. Her eyes twinkled as she returned the bow, turning on the heel of her foot and beginning to move smoothly towards the building. Hanzo kept himself a few paces back, Genji walking backwards between the both of them, a Cheshire grin on his face. As Ayane approached the front doors, two well dressed men, obvious bodyguards, pushed the doors open from the inside.

As soon as he stepped foot within a door they were greeted by a comfortably sophisticated ambiance; lighting warm but frosted, casting a well lit yet relaxed vibe. The soft scent of perfume hung in the air, constant yet not overpowering; base notes of vanilla, musk and amber were accompanied by notes of citrus and stone fruits. Plush fauteuil armchairs in colors of pink and key lime and powder blue and creamy peach were spaced around the room, some near wrap around black hard light tables, others stand alones with small cherry wood coffee tables placed in front of them. To the left of the room was a long bar counter, black marble with glittering gold flakes locked under a highly shined surface, ambient lighting shining beneath top shelf liquor and fine crystal glasses. The floor was hardlight as well, sturdy and slip resistance, twinkling lights following the steps of the three of them as Ayane came to a stop in the center of the room.

“This”, Ayane started, sweeping her arm left to right across the room. “Is our general sitting room and bar. This is where most of our one on one meetings between our ladies and their patrons, although small private rooms are readily available if requested. Our bar is one of the, if not the best, stocked bar in the area. However, if you do have a particular brand which isn’t located here, we will be more than happy to order it for you. We also have a fully stocked kitchen and chef on call, so if you have any requests for your guests or if you’re anything like your brother, we can supply almost any sustenance you’d like.”

There was a satisfied smile on her lips as she casted a brief glance over here shoulder, able easily read the subtle impressed look that rested on the elder Shimada’s face. Hanzo had seen some of the clubs that Genji frequented and this definitely differed from the playboy’s normal. Hanzo had half expected a gaudy interior, fraught with the acrid smell of cheap liquor and perfume, cigarette smoke clinging to everything. This was actually…nice. More than nice if he was being honest. Genji smiled, breaching the gap between his brother and him and clapping a hand down on his shoulder.

“Nice isn’t it aniki”, Genji practically sang, the smug smile on his face only growing as Hanzo rolled his eyes yet didn’t push him away. That was as good as an admission as he was going to get from the hardass.

“Security seems lax”, Hanzo stated, more to his brother than Ayane as if to pull some of the wind from his presumptuous sails. Ayane turned completely with that, her grin slick and filled mirth.

“Oh Shimada-san we take security very seriously here”, Ayane said stated warmly, reaching into her sleeve and pulling out a tablet from a hidden pocket. “We value privacy here and you cannot uphold privacy without superb security, right? Every single guest, employee and Rosebud members are authenticated into our systems. If you are not in our system, you do not get in. If by some chance, let’s say, some paparazzo snuck in here we have automated security systems that not only notify our security team but short circuits any electronics they have on their person. If they happen to fight back, well, we do have other means as well.”

Hanzo hummed softly before looking at the woman and giving a small smirk at the dangerous glint in her eye. Well, it appeared that this place could be…acceptable.

“Shall we continue”, Ayane asked with a soft chuckle and a graceful turn back around. She didn’t wait for their acknowledgement, steps picking back up as she led them down a warmly lit hallway. “The conference room your brother requested is one of our mid-sized rooms, more than enough space to accommodate up to twenty people if need be. Light refreshments and drinks will of course be provided within the fees for the room, as well as the services of my girls. Now you both are in for a treat. I have picked two of my loveliest, most charming girls to attend to both of you personally. It always looks nice to have a pretty lady on your arm, especially with those Americans doesn’t it? Oh and Genji, do watch out. She is not happy with you.”

Ayane waved her hand over a small console built into the wall, the screen coming to life as her credentials were instantly accepted.

“These doors are secured as well”, she stated simply as the console turned green and the doors began to slide open. “Just as an added measure of privacy. Ah, Aiko, Hitomi, come and introduce yourselves!”

Ayane stepped to the side as the doors to the roo fully opened, allowing the two Shimadas to enter before her. Hanzo hummed in approval as he looked around the room. Two bright, avant garde chandeliers hung over a mahogany conference table; glasses, holopads and bottles of premium spring water sitting in front of each plush, leather upholstered chair. A small bar was tucked into the corner, a small holopad denoting an automated bartending system. Across from the table was a large screen, obviously for projecting any presentations, pictures or videos to anyone who hooked up to their system. What set the room apart, however, was the sitting area that had been included. A large, cream wrap around couch sat spaced apart from the conference table, fluffy pillows and throws of various shades of orange adorning the piece of furniture. Two women were just beginning to turn as Hanzo’s eyes finished assessing the room, his focus now on them.

“Genji-kun”, the shorter of the two squeaked out, a playful, scolding look on her features as she stormed over to the younger Shimada. The woman was petite but the heels she wore placed her just under Genji’s nose. She was dressed in a glittering blue lace bodycon dress, her light brown hair styled in loose waves around her shoulders. Her hands rested on her hips, her frown faltering as Genji grinned back at her, bottom lip quivering as she tried to keep her expression downturn. “Where have you been mister?”

“Ai-chan”, Genji exclaimed, taking a half step back so he could give the young woman an exaggerated look up and down. Aiko rolled her eyes at him before cocking her hip to the side and continuing to stare him down, any real malice in her actions lacking. “You are looking as beautiful as ever. Did you do something with your hair? It accentuates your cheekbones!”

Aiko’s face lit up, her hand moving to wrap around a lock of her hair before moving to her cheek, the hard look on her face melting away as she dissolved into a fit of giggles.

“You’re lucky flattery works every time”, she stated simply before throwing her arms open and laughing as Genji’s arms wrapped around her in an affectionate huge. The two began talking back and forth rapidly, the increasing volume and pitch of their voice making him cringe.

“So excitable. I’m envious, I wish I had an iota of that much energy. Although, I highly doubt I’d get half as loud…”

Hanzo’s gaze snapped to the left, eyes dancing over the woman he could only assume was the ‘Hitomi’ Ayane had mentioned. She wore an ombre strapless chiffon dress; the bodice fitted and white, the color gradient slowly trickling downward until it was a warm orange marmalade color around her feet. Her exact shoewear wasn’t clear but she stood right at Hanzo’s chin,dark eyes glancing up at him as she addressed him. A rose gold bracelet with pink and white diamond hung loosely around her wrist, shifting with the subtle movements of her hands as she commented on the pair in front of the two of them.

Her dark hair was half up and half down, loosely pulled back with a twist and secured by a pink crystal hair comb, the shape a large sakura blossom flanked by smaller closed buds. Her makeup was simple yet elegant; a soft pink glow across the cheeks, lips glossed with copper and bronze eyelids, mascara and eyeliner tight. Confidence poured off of her in waves as she stood next to the man, the smile on her lips demure and inviting, eyes respectful yet curious. The eldest brother was intrigued. While attractive people were not a rarity to either brother, he couldn’t help the way his heart picked up as he looked her up and down. Hanzo hid the gulp that unconsciously wanted to follow as he stared, his eyes locking onto hers before snapping to her hand as she extended to him.

“Oh where are my manners”, you asked softly, head tilting to the side as you admonished yourself. “My name is Hitomi. It is nice to make your acquaintance, Shimada-san.”

Hanzo lightly grabbed your hand in his, feeling a rush of lightning arc through his system at the physical contact. This was new. Lifting your hand to his lips, he pressed a chaste kiss against the back of it before looking down at you with the slightest ghost of a smile on his lips.

“The pleasure is all mine.”

Biting Their Neck || Riverdale Preferences

Archie Andrews: 

The car around you vibrated silently as a catchy tune pounded through the surrounding speakers. Humming along to the chorus, you passed by a certain ginger. You had planned on driving the muscled boy home, and having some,, fun when you arrived. “Hey, stranger.” You mused, unlocking the doors. Throwing his large football bag in the backseat, he settled into the passenger seat. “You know, today was rough. “Can we just do it in here? Please?” he pleaded, his large eyes peering into your suspicious ones. “Sure, let me just park somewhere inclusive.” You hummed in response, flashing a grin. You didn’t mind, as long as you could make the horny teenager happy. Parking in a secluded area surrounded by trees, you unbuckled yourself from the driver’s seat. Swinging yourself over so you sat on Archie’s lap, you pressed your lips to his. You feverishly pressed your lips to his neck, your pearly whites nipping at the sensitive skin. The red-head hissed in response, and you giggled. You pulled the flushed skin between your teeth before running your tongue over the bite to soothe it. “Keep going.” It came out as a guttural moan, and you continued to litter his neck with bruises. “Will do.”

Jughead Jones:

“Why did you do that again?” You questioned, placing your purse onto the plush red seat. You sat down on it, combing through your fingers; something you had been doing for God knows how long. “You could of seriously gotten hurt Juggy. At least you called. Thank you for that.” You babbled before looking up to meet his gaze. “He called you… I don’t even want to say.” Jughead groaned, his blackened eye swollen shut. You gingerly reached over the porcelain table, pressing your cold fingers against the delicate bruise. He winced, looking down. “Sorry baby. But you were my knight in shining armor.” You consoled, standing up from your comfortable spot to sit next to your beanie-clad boyfriend. “Anytime.” He chuckled, pressing a delicate kiss to your temple. You hummed in response, attaching your chapped lips to the base of his neck. “You were so brave.” You giggled, biting down onto his already-bruised neck. He moaned softly, leaning into your delicate touch. “Please. Don’t tease me. I got enough teasing for one night.” You complied, your hand grazing over his growing bulge. “Anything for you, handsome.”

Betty Cooper:

“You look gorgeous baby doll.” You complimented, your (e/c) eyes scanning over her form. Her large green eyes grew large, her pink, plump lips pursing in an attempt to argue. “Don’t even try me Cooper. You are not winning this fight. Now, I believe a ‘Thank You’ is in order.” You retorted, waving your hands dramatically. “T-Thank you.” The blonde stuttered, making her way over to you. “You are welcome. Also there is another issue that we need to discuss. I am extremely horny but you look to good to mess anything up, so I guess we can settle for dry humping?” You queued in, hoping she wouldn’t deny your request. “Let’s do it.” She giggled, swinging her leg over your relaxed form. Her hands grasped your face, pulling you into a sweet kiss. You hummed happily against her soft lips. She moved her hips against yours, pressing up against your core. Suddenly, you flipped the two of you so you were on top, and you kissed along her jawline. Moving south, you pressed hungry kisses against her flushed skin, biting down harshly. She mewled underneath you, and you grinned against her skin. “Time to go buttercup. Don’t want to be late.”

Veronica Lodge:

“Woah. Veronica.” You attempted to pull the fiery girl back in, as she was on fire. “Don’t touch me!” The raven-haired girl fired back, growling as she tried to get away from you. Something had set her off, and when Veronica Lodge was let loose, there was no stopping her. “You better chill out. Right now. Just because you’re mad at some bitch that goes by the name of Cheryl Blossom, you cannot just go around and be a bitch too. I am your girlfriend. Not some girl you can go and tell to ‘fuck off.’ You better listen to me Veronica Lodge. I am not going to sit here and let you push down everyone just because you’re mad. Now chill out. Now.” It took Veronica a few seconds to comprehend your words, but when she did, a lustful glint appeared in her eye. “God, I love it when you tell me off.” She growled, shoving you into an empty classroom. Her lips pressed against yours in a dangerous manner, and you complied immediately. Taking control of the situation, you traveled downwards, biting harshly. You could see the bruise quickly forming. She whimpered from underneath you, melting into your touch. “Try and sass me again Veronica.”

Cheryl Blossom:

“Don’t think about it Cheryl. It’s not that big of a deal. He’s not worth anything. I mean, of course he’s worth something, he’s your father..” you continued on before puling her into your arms. You could care less whether she got her signature bold lipstick on an old dress that you were adorned in, and you held her close to your chest. “Everything is going to be okay. His opinion doesn’t even matter. Just remember that, okay?” She sniffed against your shoulder, nodding softly. “Hey.” You grabbed her face, forcing her to look into your eyes. “It’s okay.” And with that, you kissed her, and hard. She complied with your touch, her quivering form crumbling under your touch. She hummed softly, combing her fingers through your hair. Nothing came easy for the poor ginger, especially with her twin brother dying. Traveling downwards, you pressed loving kisses against her neck. Biting down softly, she let out a light moan. “P-Please. I need your touch. I need you.” Soothing the bite with a soft kiss, you pulled away. “As you wish.”

Young and in love

Originally posted by mybabyoppa

(Fluff. Jooheon’s madly in love and all the members want to know about it.) 

Jooheon sat comfortably on the plush lavender sofa, his eyes falling to the floor as he smiled to himself, his eyes crinkling as his lips curled. Everyone was waiting for Kihyun to finish up some of his parts for shine forever in the recording studio.

“Yah, what are you looking so happy about?” 

Wonho questioned, his eyes looking suspicious, putting his yeezy phone down beside him. 

“He’s in love.” 

Minhyuk answered for Jooheon before messing up his caramel hair on purpose and teasing him. Jooheon laughed, moving away from the troublesome Minhyuk. His wishful thinking came true when he received a text from you, his phone vibrating on the wooden table. Jooeheon jumped to his phone, his heart pounding, and opened your message in seconds. If he was trying to hide the fact he was infatuated with you, he wasn’t fooling anyone. Jooheon’s adorable smile gave everything away as he texted you back, his eyes sparkled with glee as he was swallowed up by this magical bubble that he never wanted to pop. 

“It’s her isn’t it?! Let me see the messages!” 

Minhyuk cried excitedly as he reached out his hands to take Jooheon’s phone, only to be disappointed when Jooheon put it away in his pocket before Minhyuk could grab it. Shownu emerged from the men’s room in his lounge clothes and propped himself between Minhyuk and Jooheon. 

“So tell us, what does it feel like? Love.” 

Shownu asked, making, Minhyuk and Hyungwon giggle like children but not the deep members of the group like I.M and Hoseok, instead, they propped their heads on their elbows and gazed at Jooheon who honestly didn’t know how to describe it. The handsome man chewed at his lower lip, racking his brain as he tried to think of where to start. 

“It’s true what they say…about knowing they’re the one when you meet them. You just know, you know?” 

Jooheon started, leaning forward and engaging with his members like he was about to open up his treasure chest of secrets. His friends’ eyes widened as he began to explain how he felt.

“You know…when you’re with them. You just want to be the best, the best person you can be. You’re fascinated by their beauty. You feel their touch not just on your skin but in your heart. Even when they speak, you could listen to their voice for hours.” 

As Jooheon talked, his mind drifted to the blissful morning he had with you before he had to leave. He felt his heart throb at the memory of you cuddling up to him with sleepy eyes, your arms around him in bed and uttering those sweet three words in his ear. Like you knew he was thinking of you, you replied back, making his phone buzz in his pocket. The guys saw his face light up as he brought his phone out immediately.

“You can’t stop speaking to her! Do you think about her all the time?” 

Shownu asked, eagerly trying to peer over Jooheon’s shoulder at what he was saying to you. 

“I think about her all day, every day.” 

Jooheon answered honestly, still concentrating on his phone. He wasn’t ashamed to admit you were always on his mind.

“What about?” 

Asked Minhyuk, making Jooehon sigh and his mind race, going over everything he thought about you in an average day. 

“Her laugh, her smile, the funny things she says…everything.” 

Hoseok leaned back, his head sinking in to the plush cushions on his seat and uttered: 

“I want that.” 

“Me too.” 

I.M agreed with Wonho, wishing he had a pretty girl to obsess over and text all day. 

“Are you going to marry her?” 

Hyungwon questioned before receiving digs from the others that it was a stupid question, that it was way too early to ask something like that but Jooheon just shrugged his shoulders and was nonchalant about it. 

“It’s only the beginning between her and I but I won’t lie. I can see it. I think she’s the one.” 

The conversation was broken by Kihyun coming out of the studio and raising his eyebrow at the way everyone was so deep in thought, especially Jooheon who looked too happy to be sane. 

“What have you guys been talking about?” 

Jooheon’s stomach refused to stop fluttering as he knocked at your front door later that night with an obnoxiously big bouquet of summery flowers in his hand. Just the thought of seeing you made his pulse thump, his heart screaming with excitement. 


You cried before throwing your arms around him. The sound of you saying his name was one he could listen to forever. He hugged you as well as he could without squishing the flowers, closing his eyes and basking in the warmth of your arms. 

“Are those for me?” 

You asked, admiring them as he passed them to you. Jooheon nodded, adoring how cute you looked when you smiled. 

“Baby! What’s the occasion?” 

You asked before taking his soft hand and leading him in to your home. Jooheon stood in the hallway, his eyes turning in to TV animated love hearts as he watched you try to fit them all in to a vase. 

“I don’t need an occasion. I love you.” 

He walked up to you and passionately pulled you in to his arms, making you gasp. Your heart had never pounded so hard as you stared in to his ‘make love to me’ eyes. His plump lips moved achingly slow but ever closer to yours. 

“Say it again.” 

Show Me Who’s Boss

Request: “Can you write a credence smut with like thigh riding ??” + “Can you write another fic where credence is really sensitive to touch and its kinda smutty? Thx”

Pairing: Credence Barebone x Reader

Word Count: 1.6k


Ice and fire, a mingling of contradictory feelings arising from your attentive touch. Cold where your hands pressed against his arm, and hot when the subsequent heat flowed around the area, his blood itself pooling to the area your fingers caressed. You were just talking, smiling and chatting away with Queenie while you thoughtlessly stroked his arm, your voice drowned out by the loud alarm sounding off in Credence’s head.

It was as if time slowed whenever you connected physically with him, your eyes fluttering in slurred motions, your lips parting with gentle breath. It was like watching a calm beach shore while in the eye of a storm, his entire body shifting towards you while you stood there innocently, continuing your affectionate subterfuge. Because he knew you knew what you were doing to him, he felt in the calculated way your fingers drifted purposefully across his veins, tickling them in such a featherlight way that it made him shiver. Each darting glance at the boy was only to confirm that you were driving him mad, each subtle airy sigh and lip bite dutifully noted by Credence while his tunnel vision focused on you.

Keep reading

Mad Max: Not Your Fight, Not Your Victory

The following is a guest essay/review/ramble about the Mad Max series by my fiancé Ryan Stevenson, a teacher/writer/filmmaker with a lot of thoughts about the movies that he mostly keeps to himself. He free-wrote his thoughts today after our viewing of Fury Road, and I thought they turned out to be substantial enough to warrant a place on the internet somewhere, so, here they are. 

-Lauren Wilford

You have a right to perform your prescribed duty, but you are not entitled to the fruits of action. Never consider yourself the cause of the results of your activities, and never be attached to not doing your duty.

-The Bhagavad-Gita

Fury Road plays your sympathetic nervous system like a slide guitar. Fury Road makes every fiber of your body scream GO! for exactly two hours on the dot. Fury Road is somehow both wild, indulgent excess, where everything goes obscenely beyond what is necessary, and a razor-sharp, drum-tight, whistle-clean cinematic machine without an ounce of fat on its bones.

Needless to say I loved it. A few students and friends urged me to go see it, and asked what I thought of it, and Iʼm still processing it, so Iʼm writing it all out here. I havenʼt read any reviews yet, and a lot of this is probably stuff other people have already said better than I will. I donʼt know where to start so Iʼll just list some stray observations at first. Itʼs going to ramble a bit because Iʼve got limited time (and have been reading a lot of David Foster Wallace, which is probably rubbing off on me).


As much as I love unexpected eye-of-the-storm scenes—sudden, surreal slacking of tension for a moment of sanctuary and introspection and mystical sights—I love that this movie has precisely zero of those scenes. It has moments of quiet, but these intensify rather than assuage the anguish and urgency. The image of Immortan Joeʼs horrid Car-mada shimmering through the heatwaves on the horizon, while Max and Furiosa stare each other down in a grunting, grudging standoff, provides a textbook example of how to take tense stillness and ratchet it up into nightmarish paralysis. Again, you could feel a hundred people straining against plush seats and silently screaming GO! JUST GO!


Tom Hardy is arguably the first to put the “Mad” in Max. Mel Gibson can do arguably the most effective crazy-eye of any leading man in the history of cinema. But until now, Mad Max has been an ironic nickname—no matter how crazy his eye or his hairstyle, Gibsonʼs Max seems almost frustrated to keep finding himself one of the sanest men in a world gone utterly nuts. The opening lines of Fury Road hit this nail right on the head for us, leaving the rest of the film for Max to go full-Macbeth-mad, half-blinded by the squeak and gibber of sprites showing what was, is, and shalt be.

(I wonder if Iʼm the only one wishing Hardy had been cast as the tortured king instead of Michael Fassbender. Then again, Iʼm guilty of wishing every leading role today would go to Tom Hardy.)

All that being said, thereʼs also a part of me that wishes that aging, wild-eyed, socially- disgraced Mel Gibson had been brought back to play Max again in this film—his prodigious talent and prodigious baggage would have both made this new, tortured Max even more fascinating, and his transformation even more powerful.


Ridley Scott et al. have already authored the handbook on how to adjust the shutter for expressionistic effect, not just illusory deceit, in action scenes. Undercranking/fast motion has, like shutter angle, been used for years to subtly and imperceptibly add speed and spice to combat. But as far as I can tell, itʼs always been surreptitious “movie magic” (boy do I hate that expression), an under-the-table, wink-wink, I-wonʼt-tell-if-you-wonʼt transaction with the viewer, a pact to suspend disbelief and give the filmmakers a break. Old cinema hands appreciate the sleight of hand and feel superior about it, wide-eyed rubes donʼt even know itʼs happening.

Fury Road is the first film Iʼve seen, outside of Chaplinesque comedy, where fast motion is used without apology and without disguise. Because the whole apparatus of cinematic motion is an illusion anyway, right? Time is always being manipulated in an action movie, in order to throw our metabolism into high gear for a few hours, to give us a rush. Usually this is pulled off through quick cutting (which there are some stunning examples of here). Miller has just taken this to the logical conclusion, and rather than trimming out unnecessary shots, heʼs just giving us a fraction of the frames weʼre used to seeing. Because thatʼs what we want, right? We want things to go fast? Here you go. Things go fast now. Itʼs brilliant. Itʼs metacinematic. And it works like gangbusters. Your nervous system doesnʼt care that itʼs unrealistic, even if your thinking brain notices the trick.


So much nonsense is spread around film schools and critical circles about “taking people out of the moment,” “ruining the illusion,” and so on by calling attention to the camera or the cutting or the film style. Fury Road shows just how little that matters. Itʼs an art film, really, because like all modernist art it demands, at all times, that you think about it as a movie, as an illusion, as the handiwork of a team of humans behind the curtain. Your brain knows that the whole time, and it doesnʼt matter one bit to your body. Youʼre still all-in and amped-up.

The nearest recent analogy here is Joe Wrightʼs Anna Karenina, which pulls off the same trick of intellectual meta-artistic alienation and simultaneous total emotional investment.

Maybe this is going to be one of the great productive problems of 21st century art and letters, actually. How do we learn the lessons of modernism and postmodernism, and stop hiding our tools and authorship, while letting go of some of the wry irony and cynicism of the late 20th century and using art sincerely again, for emotional and moral catharsis, even while acknowledging the artifice of the medium?


The score! Itʼs like George Crumb on crack, Philip Glass on methamphetamine, Terry Riley with tachycardia. The minimalist repetitions are less like an entrancing mantra and more like tweaking out, scratching a compulsive itch. Itʼs more intense than any score Iʼve heard lately, but it doesnʼt overpower, interrupt, announce itself like Hans Zimmerʼs score to, say, Interstellar (or anything really). Itʼs just barely keeping up with the frenetic image track. Anything less would be left in the dust by the rip-roaring editing and the titanic framings. It wails and dips, shrieks and shivers, moans and cackles, whispers compulsively and shouts profanely, judders around like a rusty wind-up toy or a daddy longlegs on a bad trip. Iʼm writing this while I listen to it, which is probably why my prose is all over the place.


At the end of the movie, Lauren turned to me and said something to the extent of “that was amazing” (or something, but it was more eloquent than that, clearly my poor memory of this exchange has something to do with the fight-or-flight state we were both in). And I said something like, “yeah, it was certainly pretty good” (or something, but it was no more eloquent than that).

Iʼm trying to figure out why I said that. Obviously my expectations were already really high, and I think itʼs because Fury Road didnʼt completely blow my mind and shatter my sense of cinemaʼs potential. And I think there are two reasons for that.

First, I think itʼs because I had seen the previous three Mad Max movies this week and Fury Road, to me, seems like no more or less than the natural destination for that uneven, weird and wonderful journey, the culmination of Dr. Millerʼs decades of brilliant, twisted, often-abominable, frequently doomed-to-failure experimentation in film form and content.

Fury Road is not an exception or a reinvention or an improvement to the original Mad Max movies, so much as a Mad Max movie where all the parts actually work, and thereʼs enough money to pay for all the gear and manpower it needs. Where the Marlovian over-reaching hubris of George Miller, deliberately denied its demands for decades, instantly gets everything it always wanted and knew it deserved.

Students and colleagues know that I have a self-imposed limitation for myself, sort of like one of Lars von Trierʼs Rules of Chastity. I never want my resources to exceed my skills, or my technology to exceed my talent. I want to make sure I earn, with years of frustrated labor, every bit of upgraded gear I buy. I want to struggle against, and even hate, the limits of the equipment I have, so that Iʼm forced to be creative with it, use it for unwarrantied, off-label applications, and generally make the most of it, suck every ounce of life out of it, and drive it into the ground before I graduate to the next thing. Iʼve found that this makes me a poorer technician, and often poorer crew worker, because Iʼm never up to date, but a better artist because it stretches me.

After watching this series, Iʼm tempted to call this the George Miller Path to Artistic Excellence. Every one of the original Mad Max movies has the deck stacked against it, either by circumstance or money or the constraints of the medium or by knowingly- unreasonable directorial ambition. That is, if the deck wasnʼt stacked against Miller from the get-go, it seems like he restacked it until it was. Every time, I think he looked at his gear, his budget, his crew, and his own talent and expertise, and said to himself, not “what can I do with this,” but “what can I just barely NOT quite manage to do with this,” and then tried to do that. Thatʼs how I work, too.

I think the second reason I wasnʼt totally overwhelmed is because I saw Snowpiercer last year, which already elevated my expectations of what an action movie could do, artistically and imaginatively and narratively and rhythmically and neurochemically and socio-politico-morally. Fury Road pulls off the same stunt a second time, and helps establish that the first experiment wasnʼt a fluke, that the results are valid because theyʼre repeatable. The greater reach and success of Fury Road (I think? Seems like itʼs more well-known, anyway) means that no one can claim they didnʼt get the memo on the new standards for action filmmaking. It sets the bar a whole lot higher for everyone. I dearly hope this provides the competition, check, and corrective the superhero industry so badly needs. I hope it lights a fire under Marvel, in particular—makes it get off its butt and hustle to keep up.

Watching The Avengers: Age of Ultron this week was actually the perfect palate cleanser. Hereʼs the best that mainstream action-adventure movies, as we know them, can offer in 2015. Now hereʼs Fury Road.

Lauren rightly observed that Fury Road makes The Avengers look like a TV show with a generous effects budget. Except a few sort of obvious hey-all-the-protagonists-are-in-the-same-frame-right-now moments, thereʼs not a lot of powerful iconography generated within the the eighteen-hours-or-whatever running time of Age of Ultron. In Fury Road, thereʼs not a frame wasted on anything that isnʼt a perfectly-composed, never-before-seen image that takes full advantage of the complete toolkit of cinema, both historic and modern, practical and intellectual.

If thereʼs anything that separates movies from TV these days, I think thatʼs probably it. The extent of the deliberate cinematic craftsmanship of each moment thatʼs expected of a film—in addition to writing and storytelling, which a TV show can do as well or better. (And it probably means that a lot of TV shows are really more like cinema—The Knick being my favorite example—and a WHOLE lot of movies, indies especially, are really more like TV episodes. Itʼs probably a flawed definition in the first place, but those are my feelings, in this year of my life at least.)


And not to keep bashing The Avengers, but the theme of last nightʼs conversation was how come we donʼt care what happens to Iron Man really, but are apoplectic with fear for the fate of Furiosa and four or five girls weʼve only known for fifteen minutes. I think this is because getting to know and love a character over time offers, in the end, a weaker jolt than the more purely mechanical effect of clearly establishing real danger and real stakes in the script.

It’s because the Marvel movies are basically just cartoons, and because we know that even supporting characters probably wonʼt meet with difficult or unhygienic deaths, and because we know that the main characters are going to be fine because theyʼre starring in movies we already know the names of, to be released five or ten years from now. This led Lauren and me into a digression about Game of Thrones killing its lead characters without warning, etc., which I think actually helps establish a more ethical, decentralized, community-minded view of the world for the viewer, etc.

Iʼd say the same thing about Fury Road. Max might not die, but he might, and everyone else is absolutely fair game. And above all, fates that are physically and existentially much worse than death are very plausibly advertised to, and visited upon, lots of characters in this movie and in this series. We REALLY donʼt want those things to happen, and our brains are straining pretty hard to will those things not to happen.

And thatʼs not just a thrill ride for us to enjoy, but a pretty damning moral exercise, because itʼs impossible not to step out of this movie and realize that to a greater or lesser degree, the exaggerated torments of the post-apocalyptic world are actually happening, on micro and macro scales, in our own neighborhoods. I donʼt know if we really have global supervillains like Loki or Hydra or Ultron to worry about in our immediate daily lives (some of my libertarian friends will likely disagree with me there). But in our own immediate local communities, we do have dangerous patriarchal fallacies, and sexual abuses on a wide scale, and toxic narratives about war and combat and the glories of “Valhalla” and manning up, and itʼs all surprisingly recognizable even in a fabulous, allegorical format. Itʼs all stuff that, like Max, we slowly realize weʼre standing right in the middle of. The moral spotlight is on us, weʼre not anonymous, weʼre not bystanders who are just passing through. And we actually can, and therefore must, do something about this stuff, about the behavior of the very people we know immediately around us.

The particular moral trumpet-call for each viewer is probably different, but the thing that spoke to me most directly was the character Nuxʼs storyline. As someone who works with a lot of adolescent guys, caught between notions of boyhood and manhood (and to make matters potentially more confusing, growing up in a world teetering slowly and very unevenly from patriarchy towards feminism as the prevailing ideology), Nux struck me as a very accurate portrait. A passionate, impressionable, sincere young guy who takes the more habitual, or sensible, or involuntary conservatism of his elders, and whips it up into partisan extremism, dark anger, and shows of machismo, feeling that itʼs his ticket to the adultsʼ table. To see Nux fired up, broken down, and relearning what heroism can and should look like in a freer, healthier world is inspiring stuff. Itʼs particularly reassuring for an educator to see that guys like this can—and do, and will— grow up and turn out OK.

The tremendous amount of sympathy and dignity Fury Road offers Nux, while still revealing the immaturity and insufficiency of his view of the world, sets it apart from being just a hateful feminist screed against manhood qua manhood (I think fewer of these exist than a lot of people fear, but whatever), and makes me take the movie much more seriously as a work striving for total empathy (which is what I’d say drama is ultimately for).


On the subjects of dark anger and shows of machismo, though: I havenʼt read it yet, but I understand that thereʼs an article out there written by a Menʼs Rights Activist-type (or possibly Christian Complementarian Godly-masculinity type) who is mightily cheesed off about Fury Road. Specifically, that Mad Max himself is routinely playing second fiddle to Imperator Furiosa, and is practically a guest-star in his own movie, and spends most of his time getting put in unpleasant binds, literally and figuratively, rather than kicking a lot of ass.

Iʼm not going to dignify this with a lot of comment about why female characters deserve as much agency in films as men do, because everyone knows I think that and everyone I know thinks that and we should hold that truth to be self-evident by now.

But I do think itʼs a point worth addressing, not only from a feminist-standpoint, but from a Mad-Max-standpoint—which I think any purported fan of Mad Max, feminist or not, should be able to get behind.


Iʼll backtrack a little to build up to this argument. This week I saw all three original Mad Max films for the first time. In spite of what you may hear about Fury Road standing alone, I do strongly recommend seeing the first three first (if youʼre over 18 and/or have a particularly strong stomach for gore and grotesquerie).

The movies are just nuts, theyʼre all over the place, theyʼre a mess, and I feel a very tender affection for them. The first one barely makes narrative sense at all and is better enjoyed as if it were a Godard film or something. The second, The Road Warrior, (aka “the one people have actually seen,” I guess) is self-evidently strong on its own merits without me needing to point them out, but is also deeply weird and unsettling and misshapen in subtle ways. (The preponderance of leather chaps and dearth of pants, for one. Lauren calls this installment Ass Max.) The third, Beyond Thunderdome, didnʼt even start out as a Mad Max story on the page, Max just got grandfathered in (which, I think, is significant).

Theyʼre all three pretty weird. Itʼs hard to know who theyʼre meant for—kids? adults? The third in particular gets infected with Spielberg-Goonies-1980s childish whimsy in its action scenes, but forgets to clean up the gore and existential body-horror that would make such a change remotely appropriate for young audiences.

In the end, theyʼre, objectively, maybe not very good, and certainly wildly inconsistent, both intra- and inter-movie. But they remind me of the many other crazy, probably not objectively-always-great, undeniably-visionary series I love, series that also have no consistency, no polish or professionalism, and too many wild aspirations for artistic greatness.

The Mad Max movies are certainly heirs of Sergio Leoneʼs Dollars Trilogy, evident in their wandering, taciturn protagonist, stunning desert cinematography, etc. (and Beyond Thunderdome cribs from Lawrence of Arabiaʼs visuals a lot, on that note). But also in the way the cast and characters get recycled, transmogrified, redeployed out of context. Bruce Spence is an aircraft pilot in the third Mad Max movie who both seems like he sort of is but then definitely isnʼt the same pilot from the second movie, like Lee Van Cleef playing the pretty menacing ultimately-good-guy Mortimer in For a Few Dollars More but then playing the fascinating but-wholly-bad Angel Eyes in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Gian Maria Volonté does the same thing with two wholly unrelated main characters in the first two Dollars movies.

And in the way that Clint Eastwoodʼs Man with No Name is actually a man with three names (Joe, Manco, Blondie), one for each film, and may or may not be the same continuous personality from movie to movie. In a way, the three movies make more sense if heʼs just a repeated concept of a character who gets into three similar but ultimately non-continuous adventures in three parallel universes or something (which are evidently populated by various Lee Van Cleefs and Gian Maria Volontés).

I like to think that Mad Max is might be a similar stock type, played three times by Mel Gibson but maybe not entirely the same character each time, getting into various scrapes in three separate instantiations of what post-apocalyptic Australia might look like. And as if to cement this interpretation for Fury Road, Miller follows Leone in recasting the primary antagonist from the first movie, Hugh Keays-Byrne, as a totally different primary antagonist in the fourth film.

The Mad Max movies also resemble the Alien series, in that each movie works hard to undermine the world built by the director of the last movie and replace it with something that the current director finds more applicable to the problems of our time. Except that Mad Max is all directed by the same guy who just keeps changing his mind and gets more money to work with each time. (Another similarity with the Alien series.) And like the Alien movies, Miller seems to struggle each time to figure out who his movie is for, what genre it belongs in (if any), what contemporary trends it should imitate (theme songs? saxophones? slapstick? kiddie stuff? Tina Turner?), whether it should be darkly funny (like Alien 4) or or somberly meditative (Alien 3) or horrific (1) or straight-up action-packed (2), and so on and so forth.

As many of my students and colleagues know, I love any movie thatʼs a big awful mess, where the seams and patches are showing, because that prompts me to think about the process of creation, about ambition, about intention and execution, about vision, about art frankly. Mad Max movies offer these meditations in spades, and on top of that are exciting and visually breathtaking and above all, a little like many other things, but ultimately like nothing else. Which is another way for an artwork to earn its place in the canon, for me—if nothing else is quite like it.

Passivity 2

But perhaps the thing I love most about Mad Max is that “a Mad Max movie” means not so much that Mad Max is the protagonist, or that heʼs even on screen very much, but that it takes place in a certain world (or rather, one instantiation of a certain type of world). And Mad Max himself is, increasingly as the series goes on, merely one citizen of that world, a world that he keeps discovering is bigger than he imagined.

And it becomes clear, slowly, that Maxʼs place in that world is both more important and less important than he might think. I think this makes a great statement about cinema— about narrative, about the whole notion of protagonists in the first place—and about what individual human action is and isnʼt worth in the real world.

In the first movie, Mad Max is barely there (much less Mad, a description he only gets a minute from the end credits) for probably the first forty minutes, a fact that most summaries of the film conveniently forget when they recount the fifteen-minute quest for revenge that provides the most memorable (because most nearly intelligible) straightforward plot in the film. In the second film, The Road Warrior, Max is a jaded self-serving survivalist who happens to wander into a conflict between townsfolk and bandits, and gradually becomes enmeshed in it, until itʼs obvious that neither circumstance nor conscience will allow him to stand idly by. Itʼs very much a samurai story or gunslinger story or Han Solo story. Importantly, though, even after he does his (significant but not irreplaceable) part in saving the townsfolk, he cannot be part of their world, and disappears into the sunset like so many of his archetypal forbearers. In the end, we even realize that it was never his story—the opening voiceover belongs to an unexpected character, and we were really telling the story of this character and his people, not Max himself, the whole time.

In the third film, heʼs hailed as a possible savior by two very different communities—one ruthlessly mercantile and industrial, one primitive and tribal—but is reluctant to take on either messianic mantle, neither of which turn out to be a good fit anyway. In the end, his actions manage to help steer both communities towards safety and stability, but sort of by accident, and the real peace comes from the actions of two complex, visionary women (Tina Turner and that tribal girl who provides the end narration) who each pull civilization up by its bootstraps and reinvent history itself.

Both The Road Warrior and Beyond Thunderdome are classical epics, really, each concerned with the founding and fate of a nation, led by an extraordinary, visionary hero. But Max is never this hero, nor is it his nation. And he plays an even less active role in Beyond Thunderdome than in The Road Warrior, left more and more to nurse his own psychological wounds, and marvel at the ingenuity and fortitude of mankind, which continues to survive and thrive produce new heroes in spite of his action or inaction.

(Meta-cinematically, behind the scenes, Beyond Thunderdome was a story Miller wanted to tell, about the tribe of feral youngsters reinaugurating the cycle of human history, and Mad Max himself was, as much as anything, a convenient and financially-viable pretext to tell that story. He literally stumbles into the tribeʼs story and stumbles out of it again. He realizes that nothing thatʼs happening is ultimately for, or about, him, as much as it might appear to be at first. And, appropriately, the film itself was never really meant to be about him anyway.)

On-screen, over the course of three films, Max comes to realize simultaneously that no man is an island (in spite of his efforts to withdraw from civilization entirely, the moral demands of the world come find him and force him to give a damn about other people if he wants to survive) while simultaneously coming to the uncomfortable realization that he is not special or indispensable.

This is why, for me, Fury Road is the perfect culmination of Maxʼs arc (again, allowing for the fact that this particular postapocalyptic Australia-or-wherever might not be precisely the same as before, and this Max neither comes before nor after Gibsonʼs but might exist parallel to him. That is, Fury Road must come after Beyond Thunderdome in the myth cycle, but may not have any specific relationship to it on an ordered, linear timeline. Itʼs hard to precisely date, or even order, any installment. (The Dollars trilogy has the same fascinating problems.)

By Fury Road, Max is even more psychologically scarred, even more withdrawn and focused on survival at any cost, and even less the savior everyone expects. He spent much of Beyond Thunderdome trapped, bound, hanging from chains, held at gunpoint, and otherwise powerless and incapacitated, and Fury Road takes his sufferings and indignities to new levels.

Max has always been a character that things happen to, rather than a character who makes things happen. Heʼs perhaps the most consistently passive action hero I can think of. The fact that he plays second fiddle to Charlize Theronʼs Furiosa is not so much some sinister feminist coup as a natural continuation of this tendency.

As in The Road Warrior and Beyond Thunderdome, thereʼs not much Max wants in Fury Road besides his freedom, his relative physical safety, and a vehicle fast enough to help him maintain these. But as in the earlier movies, the road to independence and safety merges unavoidably with the path towards altruism and duty, and Max finds himself traveling on both for a few miles before realizing that community is its own kind of freedom, and duty is its own reward. When the time comes, he neglects to take the exit ramp to solitary safety, and throws in his lot with the community for a little while.

This means, though, that Max is always arriving a little late to the party. His arrival definitely changes things, and when he throws his resources into the pool, it suddenly makes possible certain risky schemes the community was cooking up before his arrival. “Hereʼs a guy who could help us drive the gasoline rig and break Humungusʼ siege.” “Hereʼs a guy who could defeat Blaster in the Thunderdome and undermine the pig- plant strike.” “Hereʼs a guy who could lead us to Tomorrow-Morrow land and back to civilization.” “Hereʼs a guy who could co-pilot the war rig while I deal with the bikers so we can get the wives to the Green Place. Max might be the man for the job.” (In at least half of these situations, Max is actually not quite the right man after all.)

In any case, the communities are far from powerless before Max arrives. He doesnʼt take any time to enlighten their savagery or perform feats they were too weak or naive to accomplish. He just pitches in, usually after much cajoling and bargaining. And when the community succeeds, itʼs not about Max. Itʼs their victory, because it was their suffering, their plan, their bravery, and their struggle and sacrifice that pulled it off.

True, Max did what was asked of him (usually a little less)—initially for reward, but ultimately because he acknowledged some inner sense of fellowship, empathy, conscience, humanity.

But this admission of common humanity is not a supererogatory heroic feat deserving of accolades and parades. Itʼs whatʼs asked of everyone equally. Itʼs the debt everyone owes everyone else from the moment weʼre born. Youʼre not special for doing it. Youʼre just doing your duty.

Thatʼs what the series is about, if you ask me.

By Fury Road, Max knows this drill. He doesnʼt expect to have to go through it again (privately, he really would rather be left alone with his own demons). But heʼs game. And it would be pretty senseless, tactically, for him to barge in and pretend he knows better than the people who designed the operation in the first place. (I guess I should go ahead and say “mansplain” here.)

I guess this is all to say I donʼt know what alternative the mens-rights or complementarian types would propose which wouldnʼt be, from a military standpoint, pretty dumb.

I think these guys are upset that it seems like itʼs almost Furiosaʼs movie, even though itʼs called Mad Max. They feel like they didnʼt get what it said on the package label, and didnʼt get what they paid for. What they paid for, they think, was a movie in which a man named Max is mad, and drives a dangerous car.

The fact is, though, it seems like itʼs almost Furiosaʼs movie because it IS Furiosaʼs movie. The same way Mad Max was Jim Gooseʼs movie as much as anything, and The Road Warrior was the Kidʼs origin story, and Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome is a sort of positive spin on Lord of the Flies written by George Miller that just happens to borrow the name Mad Max, and had to borrow Max himself along with it.

In other words, no Mad Max movie is ultimately about Mad Max. “Mad Max” is just what we call movies about duty and community set in a post-apocalyptic Australian wasteland with skinheads driving souped-up murder cars.


With all this in mind, it occurs to me that Fury Road could be the closest thing we have to a handbook for how men should relate to the feminist movement (or white people to racial equality movements, and so on). Itʼs your fight, but remember that itʼs their fight. Itʼs on you, but itʼs not for you. Their victory will be good for you, too, in the end, but you donʼt do it because itʼs good for you. Do it because itʼs good for them. And do it because itʼs just how things should be.

Along the same lines, Fury Road is the perfect antidote to the bad aftertaste left by white savior fantasies like Avatar.

And really, the whole series is great for this stuff—again, The Road Warrior and Beyond Thunderdome do exactly the same thing. To my mind, the only shortsightedness of the feminist hoopla surrounding Fury Road is that the Mad Max series has pretty much always had a great track record with this sort of thing, and Fury Road both is and isnʼt something special to celebrate.

It maybe just took Fury Road to make us realize that allyship—which I guess Iʼd define, in this case, as consenting to the dawning moral realization that you should, and must, subject your own needs and privileges and rights to fight for something that will not chiefly benefit you, and for which moreover you deserve no special credit for helping to bring about—is what Mad Max has always been about, to greater and greater extents as the series goes on.

(As I write this, I have just gotten into a short discussion with world-class barista and notoriously hard-to-please cinephile Lucas Alvarez, who gives Fury Road a 6 out of 10, partly because he doesnʼt feel the Max of Fury Road fills the shoes left by the Mel Gibson Max of the Road Warrior. I just told him what Iʼm trying to tell you, and he sees my point. But I guess this means the decentralization of Max as protagonist strikes other viewers as strange and unduly passive, even if theyʼre not menʼs-rights or complementarian types. Lucas, a feminist, also doesnʼt see why Fury Road gets so much press for being a feminist work when thereʼs a lot more feminist work out there and Fury Road could certainly be a lot more explicitly feminist than it is. My point is mostly that if a movie thatʼs pretty much just straight action scenes for can still manage to speak to concerns about patriarchal society and give its female characters agency and independence, without breaking a sweat, then that certainly sets the bar a lot higher for movies that have the luxury of long dialogue scenes and whatnot. I think whatʼs most feminist about Fury Road is that itʼs pretty ordinary and commonsensical in its treatment of male and female characters. If that looks hyperfeminist, that says a lot about the regressiveness of the films being released alongside it, and about us as consumers, who have been blithely accepting such films for so long. It sure makes Marvelʼs whole “hey we have Black Widow weʼve got lady concerns in our movies too” gambit look pretty paltry in comparison.)

(I guess Iʼd say that Fury Road is a feminist film insofar as itʼs the sort of story that would be more or less standard mainstream entertainment if we lived in a more equal society. The fact that we think itʼs really weird and wild and original in its treatment of gender just shows how unequal our society still is.)


This is a side point about female action heros and such, another thing Fury Road handles remarkably well. Nowadays at least, it tends to read pretty well when female characters have to fight a bunch of male antagonists (in films like Kill Bill, for example). We understand it as both a narrative necessity (bad guys prevent heroine from getting what she wants or needs, threaten her physical safety, she deals with them accordingly) and as a productive thought-provoking metaphor for the state of gender relations at large (in which bad guys stand in for forces of oppression and heroine stands in for the struggles of all women to be themselves, achieve personal goals, etc.)

But what to do when male characters must fight women? Doesnʼt this get tangled up with issues of violence against women, domestic violence, and so on? Isnʼt it irresponsible to put such a thing on screen?

Itʼs a problem thatʼs often invoked, in good faith, by feminists, and in bad faith by patriarchal male thinkers. (I call it bad faith because itʼs not so much that they care about the question itself, but because they chiefly want to find as many reasons as possible why we shouldnʼt have female action heros, or female soldiers in real-world combat, or women taking martial arts lessons, or whatever, and they think this is one of them.)

The most explicit unpacking of this conundrum Iʼve seen lately was in the climax of 22 Jump Street, although they didnʼt offer many progressive solutions to it, and ended up being paralyzed by the charactersʼ regressive attitudes. And there are other films that have male heroes engaged in combat with female villains, or female characters engaged in combat with male characters for other reasons (I feel like Black Widow in the Marvel films fights some superhero at some point). But every time Iʼve seen it, the film has made some effort to call attention to the fact that the character is a girl, and that that means violence against her is in someway a transgression of proper boundaries (even if itʼs a necessary one from a plot standpoint).

In all cases, the film goes way out of its way to show that the hero is conflicted about having to punch a lady, because sheʼs fragile and it would be unchivalrous, and so on. The film also goes way out of its way to show, and tell, that the woman is a woman, in case somehow you missed that part. Sheʼll have some wisecrack about being a girl, sheʼll break a nail and get upset, sheʼll be wearing some hyperfeminine (usually highly sexualized) outfit, or sheʼll just make a lot of yelps and whimpers at key moments to make the audience worry that the evil damsel is in too much distress. Or the whole business is played for comedy, which is usually worse in the end.

Iʼm trying to think of other examples, but none come to mind: Maxʼs fistfight with Furiosa might be the ONLY time Iʼve ever seen a male protagonist fight a female combatant on screen without hearing the filmmakers tee-heeing about it from behind the camera. Without the female character in some way being framed as a victim and the male one as a transgressor. Without the female character appearing waiflike or fragile or histrionic or hormonal, or alternatively, brutish and horrifying and somehow abominable because sheʼs too much like a man or something. Without the filmmakers implying that the male characterʼs very manhood is on the line if he either wins too unchivalrously, or loses too abjectly.

But this is a lot of patriarchal crap, so Miller just ignores it and barges through it. By staging and shooting this fight straight, impartially, and above all, well, Miller manages to neither apologize for nor sidestep the issue. He reveals it to be fundamentally a non-issue. Max fights Furiosa because he wants the truck, and because she canʼt let him take it. So they beat the tar out of each other. Thereʼs no chivalry, thereʼs no quarter, thereʼs no quipping, thereʼs no hand-wringing, thereʼs no irony, thereʼs no apology, thereʼs no allegory, thereʼs no sexual tension. And it makes us wonder why any of us felt we needed any of that in the first place.

(Once again, though, the groundwork for this was laid pretty well in Beyond Thunderdome, when Max decides he needs to knock out the young female leader of the tribe of children. Thereʼs a brief twinge of uncertainty on Maxʼs face, as though heʼs just realized sheʼs a girl, and is embarrassed to even be in such a situation where heʼd have to punch a girl, but then he sort of shrugs himself out of it, as if to say, well, I was already about to knock this person out, why does it make any difference to me that sheʼs female?)


On the subject of sexual tension, this is another thing I totally love about the Mad Max movies: except for his wife in the first film, Max never has a love interest. The movies never even play up a will-they-or-wonʼt-they tension between Max and a female character.

This is not to say that we as the viewers donʼt automatically think that any time we see a reasonably attractive female character on screen, Max is likely to notice her and weʼre likely to have some flirty banter coming up. But he never does, and it never goes anywhere. And we quickly realize that there were never any cues for a romantic liaison anywhere onscreen other than “thereʼs a pretty lady,” and weʼre so conditioned to expect any and all pretty ladies to get matched up with our male protagonists that we assume this one is headed straight for Maxʼs bedroom one way or another. We make up our romantic suspense out of whole cloth, and the joke is completely on us if weʼre expecting such a thing to happen.

I donʼt think this is just my male gaze talking, since while we were watching the original trilogy, Lauren was just as strongly expecting Max to hook up with one of the female characters whenever they showed one. “Oh hey, this must be the babe,” sheʼd say, predicting the next step in the 80s-action formula.

Afterward she astutely summed up the sexual dynamics of the complete series as “Mad Max: No Time to Bang.” The most explicit visual articulation of this comes in The Road Warrior, when a soldier of the besieging scavenger army and his lady friend are caught au naturel and in flagrante when their makeshift tent gets blown away by a passing vehicle. But thatʼs pretty much the reality for everyone in the Mad Max universe, and rightly so: this is not a story where characters have a lot of leisure to check out and chat up an attractive fellow survivalist while theyʼre barreling down the blacktop and bombarded by exploding spears thrown by mohawked hooligans.

The reason Max and Furiosa arenʼt flirting isnʼt that theyʼre reminding themselves to be polite and respect professional boundaries. Itʼs because theyʼre cognizant of the buzzsaw-wielding berserkers on the roof. Max isnʼt being gentlemanly, heʼs just not stupid enough to wonder whether a woman driving a tanker truck at a hundred miles an hour might be doing so for his attention or arousal. And vice versa for Furiosa. And when you think about it, very rarely should there be time for such a thing in our own workplaces, either, even though so many men decide to take time out of their (and their female coworkersʼ) busy schedules for it. We would all do well to remember that frankly, there is just no time to bang.


I just think it was cool how we devolved from gasoline as the rare, universally-desired McGuffin commodity of The Road Warrior, to methane and pig poop and, by extension, pig bodies as the commodities of Beyond Thunderdome, to human bodies as the commodity of Fury Road. Fluids like milk, blood, and so on, treated with the same dispassionate utilitarianism as we treat gasoline today. Dante would have gotten a huge kick out of the opening scenes where Max undergoes the ultimate contrapasso-style infernal punishment, paying for his old lust for gasoline by becoming the “gas tank” for a demonic fiend. And his redemptive decision to undergo the same indignity to save another human soul at the end. We could theologize all day about this one.

Based on the ideas of passivity and duty and sacrifice-without-reward above, a section could be written called The Universal Donor, considering Maxʼs blood type as an allegory for his character arc, but thatʼs actually the extent of my observation just now.


From The Road Warrior on, but especially after Fury Road, I have to feel that Jodorowskyʼs sprawling microbudget ultra-violent surrealist-religio-humanist epic El Topo was an artistic touchstone for George Miller, and that makes me happy.

Particularly the heroʼs descent from active to passive, selfish to self-sacrificing, and (most sacrificially of all) from protagonist to supporting character.

As I learned from reading the A.V. Club, the other spiritual sibling of Fury Road circulating in todayʼs zeitgeist is, get this, The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt. And theyʼre right. Females are strong as HELL. Thereʼs even a mashup on YouTube.

No, It’s Bucky: Part 11

Fic Type: Reader insert

Relationship/pairing: Bucky/ Female Reader

Word count:  2,665

Warnings: Bad writing (lol) A few curse words, more bad writing and more curse words

After a fight in the 12th grade, the reader and Bucky don’t speak for 6 years until the reader moves back to her home town for a work.


A/N: Here is Part 11. I think the next Chapter will be the last so guys, It’s nearly over!!!

All errors are mine.

| Part 10 |                   | Part 12 |  

Job interviews are actually the bane of your existence. How does answering a series of predictable questions show your work ethic and prove to the potential employer that you are the best person for the job?

And why the hell did you insist on being interviewed for this job, honestly!  Are you insane? Have you actually gone off the deep end?!

Your potential new boss Peggy looked at you with a smile on her face, it was a look that scared you and comforted you at the same time. With an exhale, you continued on with the interview. From what Peggy had explained about the position was that this class is the outcome of an influx of new students and no space in other classrooms. Basically you had a whole new class to teach if you accepted the position. And the pay was about double what you are making now.

Your heart was definitely torn. This was the kind of position that you have dreamed of, not many out of college students get the opportunity to have; let alone be offered a full time position this soon. And if you take the position, all you have to do make arrangements with the school you are at and then you can start Monday.

With a smile you shake hands with Peggy and make your leave. Your decision had been made. Now it was time to let everyone know.

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