stranger's advice

Internal Conflict:  Five Conflicting Traits of a Likable Hero.

1.  Flaws and Virtues 

I’m sure you’ve heard this before, but characters without flaws are boring.  This does not, as many unfortunate souls take it to mean, imply that good, kind, or benevolent characters are boring:  it just means that without any weaknesses for you to poke at, they tend to be bland-faced wish fulfillment on the part of the author, with a tendency to just sit there without contributing much to the plot.

For any character to be successful, they need to have a proportionate amount of flaws and virtues.

Let’s take a look at Stranger Things, for example, which is practically a smorgasbord of flawed, lovable sweethearts.

We have Joyce Byers, who is strung out and unstable, yet tirelessly works to save her son, even when all conventional logic says he’s dead;  We have Officer Hopper, who is drunken and occasionally callous, yet ultimately is responsible for saving the boy’s life;  We have Jonathan, who is introspective and loving, but occasionally a bit of a creeper, and Nancy, who is outwardly shallow but proves herself to be a strong and determined character.  Even Steve, who would conventionally be the popular jerk who gets his comeuppance, isn’t beyond redemption.

And of course, we have my beloved Eleven, who’s possibly the closest thing Stranger Things has to a “quintessential” heroine.  She’s the show’s most powerful character, as well as one of the most courageous.  However, she is also the show’s largest source of conflict, as it was her powers that released the Demogorgon to begin with.  

Would Eleven be a better character if this had never happened?  Would Stranger Things be a better show?  No, because if this had never happened, Stranger Things wouldn’t even be a show.  Or if it was, it would just be about a bunch of cute kids sitting around and playing Dungeons and Dragons in a relatively peaceful town.

A character’s flaws and mistakes are intended to drive the plotline, and if they didn’t have them, there probably wouldn’t even be a plot.

So don’t be a mouth-breather:  give your good, kind characters some difficult qualities, and give your villains a few sympathetic ones.  Your work will thank you for it.

2.  Charisma and Vulnerability

Supernatural has its flaws, but likable leads are not one of them.  Fans will go to the grave defending their favorite character, consuming and producing more character-driven, fan-created content than most other TV shows’ followings put together.

So how do we inspire this kind of devotion with our own characters?  Well, for starters, let’s take a look at one of Supernatural’s most quintessentially well-liked characters:  Dean Winchester.

From the get-go, we see that Dean has charisma:  he’s confident, cocky, attractive, and skilled at what he does.  But these qualities could just as easily make him annoying and obnoxious if they weren’t counterbalanced with an equal dose of emotional vulnerability. 

As the show progresses, we see that Dean cares deeply about the people around him, particularly his younger brother, to the point of sacrificing himself so that he can live.  He goes through long periods of physical and psychological anguish for his benefit (though by all means, don’t feel obligated to send your main character to Hell for forty years), and the aftermath is depicted in painful detail.

Moreover, in spite of his outward bravado, we learn he doesn’t particularly like himself, doesn’t consider himself worthy of happiness or a fulfilling life, and of course, we have the Single Man Tear™.

So yeah, make your characters beautiful, cocky, sex gods.  Give them swagger.  Just, y’know.  Hurt them in equal measure.  Torture them.  Give them insecurities.  Make them cry.  

Just whatever you do, let them be openly bisexual.  Subtext is so last season.

3.  Goals For the Future and Regrets From the Past

Let’s take a look at Shadow Moon from American Gods.  (For now, I’ll have to be relegate myself to examples from the book, because I haven’t had the chance to watch the amazing looking TV show.) 

Right off the bat, we learn that Shadow has done three years in prison for a crime he may or may not have actually committed.  (We learn later that he actually did commit the crime, but that it was only in response to being wronged by the true perpetrators.)  

He’s still suffering the consequences of his actions when we meet him, and arguably, for the most of the book:  because he’s in prison, his wife has an affair (I still maintain that Laura could have resisted the temptation to be adulterous if she felt like it, but that’s not the issue here) and is killed while mid-coital with his best friend.

Shadow is haunted by this for the rest of the book, to the point at which it bothers him more than the supernatural happenings surrounding him.  

Even before that, the more we learn about Shadow’s past, the more we learn about the challenges he faced:  he was bullied as a child, considered to be “just a big, dumb guy” as an adult, and is still wrongfully pursued for crimes he was only circumstantially involved in.

But these difficulties make the reader empathize with Shadow, and care about what happens to him.  We root for Shadow as he tags along with the mysterious and alternatively peckish and charismatic Wednesday, and as he continuously pursues a means to permanently bring Laura back to life.

He has past traumas, present challenges, and at least one goal that propels him towards the future.  It also helps that he’s three-dimensional, well-written, and as of now, portrayed by an incredibly attractive actor.

Of course (SPOILER ALERT), Shadow never does succeed in fully resurrecting Laura, ultimately allowing her to rest instead, but that doesn’t make the resolution any less satisfying.  

Which leads to my next example…       

4.  Failure and Success 

You remember in Zootopia, when Judy Hopps decides she wants to be cop and her family and town immediately and unanimously endorse her efforts?  Or hey, do you remember Harry Potter’s idyllic childhood with his kindhearted, adoptive family?  Oh!  Or in the X-Files, when Agent Mulder presents overwhelming evidence of extraterrestrial life in the first episode and is immediately given a promotion?  No?

Yeah, me neither.  And there’s a reason for this:  ff your hero gets what they want the entire time, it will be a boring, two-dimensional fantasy that no one will want to read.  

A good story is not about the character getting what they want.  A good story is about the character’s efforts and their journey.  The destination they reach could be something far removed from what they originally thought they wanted, and could be no less (if not more so) satisfying because of it.

Let’s look at Toy Story 3, for example:  throughout the entire movie, Woody’s goal is to get his friends back to their longtime owner, Andy, so that they can accompany him to college.  He fails miserably.  None of his friends believe that Andy was trying to put them in the attic, insisting that his intent was to throw them away.  He is briefly separated from them as he is usurped by a cute little girl and his friends are left at a tyrannical daycare center, but with time and effort, they’re reunited, Woody is proven right, and things seem to be back on track.

Do his efforts pay off?  Yes – just not in the way he expected them to.  At the end of the movie, a college-bound Andy gives the toys away to a new owner who will play with them more than he will, and they say goodbye.  Is the payoff bittersweet?  Undoubtedly.  It made me cry like a little bitch in front of my young siblings.  But it’s also undoubtedly satisfying.      

So let your characters struggle.  Let them fail.  And let them not always get what they want, so long as they get what they need.  

5.  Loving and Being Loved by Others

Take a look back at this list, and all the characters on it:  a gaggle of small town kids and flawed adults, demon-busting underwear models, an ex-con and his dead wife, and a bunch of sentient toys.  What do they have in common?  Aside from the fact that they’re all well-loved heroes of their own stories, not much.

But one common element they all share is they all have people they care about, and in turn, have people who care about them.  

This allows readers and viewers to empathize with them possibly more than any of the other qualities I’ve listed thus far, as none of it means anything without the simple demonstration of human connection.

Let’s take a look at everyone’s favorite caped crusader, for example:  Batman in the cartoons and the comics is an easy to love character, whereas in the most recent movies (excluding the splendid Lego Batman Movie), not so much. 

Why is this?  In all adaptions, he’s the same mentally unstable, traumatized genius in a bat suit.  In all adaptions, he demonstrates all the qualities I listed before this:  he has flaws and virtues, charisma and vulnerability, regrets from the past and goals for the future, and usually proportionate amounts of failure and success.  

What makes the animated and comic book version so much more attractive than his big screen counterpart is the fact that he does one thing right that all live action adaptions is that he has connections and emotional dependencies on other people.  

He’s unabashed in caring for Alfred, Batgirl, and all the Robins, and yes, he extends compassion and sympathy to the villains as well, helping Harley Quinn to ultimately escape a toxic and abusive relationship, consoling Baby Doll, and staying with a child psychic with godlike powers until she died.

Cartoon Batman is not afraid to care about others.  He has a support network of people who care about him, and that’s his greatest strength.  The DC CU’s ever darker, grittier, and more isolated borderline sociopath is failing because he lacks these things.  

 And it’s also one of the reasons that the Lego Batman Movie remains so awesome.


God willing, I will be publishing fresh writing tips every week, so be sure to follow my blog and stay tuned for future advice and observations! 

Friendly reminder that it’s a good day to respect local artists and not demand that they change their technique to fit your personal standards

Friendly reminder that it’s absolutely okay for artists to want to improve by their own standards and nobody else’s

Friendly reminder that not every artist is trying to be perfect like half this community for some reason believes and that drawing for fun rather than to be “good” is a thing that exists

Friendly reminder that it’s okay for artists to be proud of their own work

Friendly reminder that artists are people

The Only Exception (Part 3)

Summary: AU. Reader is given the task of running a popular love advice internet show when her coworker is fired. Her cynical attitude toward love makes her offer some harsh advice, and more than a few hearts are caught in the aftermath. Will hers be one of them?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 3,523

Warnings: language, fluff, wishful thinking, hot firemen, sarcasm, cynicism, bad jokes, drinking, sad story retelling (mentions of death and loss)

A/N: Moving right along…and yes, I used a Keep Reading line. Also, shout out to @redgillan for making my day brighter.

Part - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4

Originally posted by kittyseb

Keep reading

All Night Long

Originally posted by iwishicouldfindthewords

Originally posted by locareprimidas2

Request: Imagine meeting Juice in a carpark at 3am and he’s worried about your safety and it makes you cry a bit because you feel like you have no one to call a friend anymore and Juice stays with you all day.

~

Hmm.

It wasn’t unusual for your best friend to turn up at your house unannounced. But usually you were home when she did.
You parked your car in the driveway and hopped out, slinging your bag over your shoulder and bumping the door shut with your hip.
Knowing her, she’d probably forgot to pay her power bill or buy groceries and was taking full advantage of your open door policy. You didn’t mind, because when your cupboards weren’t stocked, or your water was running cold you knew you could turn to her.
You only hoped that she hadn’t woken up George. Your fiancé had had a late night at work on the night shift and you had slipped out as silently as you could when you left for work this morning.
But the office had been quiet and your boss had decided to let you all go home early.
You walked quickly to the front door, humming to yourself as you went and you swung the door shut behind you before dropping your bag to the floor.
“You better not be eating my oreos!”
You kicked off your shoes and walked into the lounge.
Huh.
No one was in there.
You headed for the kitchen and when you saw that it was empty too you frowned and put your hands on your hips.
And that was when you heard it.
A moan.
Coming from down the hall.
You gulped and almost instantly felt sick to your stomach.
With careful footsteps you crept down the hallway.
“Mmmm!”
You took another step.
Another moan.
Two more steps.
“Fuck! Yes!”
One more step.
“George!”
You stopped outside your bedroom door.
With a shaking hand you turned the door knob slowly, careful not to make any noise.
Another moan.
You took a deep breath and threw the door open.
It was almost comical, the way they jumped,  their eyes open wide like a deer caught in headlights.
Scrambling to grab at the sheets and cover their naked bodies.
Their mouths bobbing open like  fucking goldfish.
Your fiancé, in bed with your best friend. Your best friend, in bed with your fiancé.
Your fiancé.
Your best friend.

You want to deny the nightmare before you; it just had to be a nightmare, right?
Not him. Not her.
You had always thought you’d known what you would do in a situation like this. You thought you’d fly into a rage, pummel his chest with your fists, drag her out of your bed by her hair, scream until your throat was raw.
But you didn’t do any of those things.
You stood, frozen with shock, only able to stare.
In the faint distance you hear George, stuttering his explanation.
The cliche ‘its not what it looks like’ as he stands, clutching the pillow to his crotch as if you’d never seen his dick before.
Now she was scrambling, wrapping the sheet around her naked body as she slid off the bed.
You saw her lips, mouthing ‘it just sort of happened’ and ‘it doesn’t mean anything’ but you didn’t hear her.
You didn’t hear him pleading with you.
Your mind was racing but you still stood, unmoving.
“We didn’t mean for this to happen!”
We.
We.
We.
Something snapped inside you and you slid the ring off your finger, throwing it in his face before clenching your fist and swinging it into his jaw.
“Fuck you!” You screamed.
“Fuck both of you!”

~

“Come on, (y/n). Cheer up.”
“Cheer up?! Are you fucking kidding me Chelsea?”
Your sister rolled her eyes and slammed another shot before forcing a glass into your hand.
“I didn’t mean it like that. Just ya know, maybe its time to move on.”
“Jesus christ.” You took the shot and gestured to the bartender for another round. “You do realise I was engaged, right? To be married?”
“Look, I get its a shitty situation. He’s a scumbag and she’s a hoe. I get it. But you cant dwell on it forever.”
“Its been a week.”
“Thats six days too long, babe.”
You both took a shot.
“Plus, I never liked him anyway.” She shrugged.
“You didn’t?
“He wasn’t right for you. He wears crocs, (y/n). In public.”
You laughed and took another shot before spinning on your stool and looking around the bar.
“What am i gonna do?”
“Get drunk. Fuck a stranger.” Chelsea shrugged.
“Great advice, sis.” You rolled your eyes. “Really though, where do I go from here?”
Your sister sighed and turned in her seat too and she leant back against the abr.
“Honestly? I don’t know what you’re gonna do. But I know who Im gonna do.”
She winked at you and slinked off her chair, walking confidently to the table at the back of the room, where three guys sat.
You sighed and ordered another shot. For now, you were allowed to feel sorry for yourself.

“Your call has been redirected to a prerecorded voice messaging system. Please-“
You hit end and sighed.
Why was it that no one ever answered the phone when you needed them too.
It was the third number you’d tried. First, you’d tried Sarah, your friend. And then another friend, but she had sent you to voicemal. And then you’d tried Susan from work. God you didn’t even fucking like Susan, but you just needed someone to talk to.
As much as you loved your sister, and her coping methods, you just needed to voice your thoughts.
Nothing was making any sense anymore and no matter how much you drank you couldn’t wipe the memory of that day from replaying in your mind.
You didn’t know which betrayal was worse.
Absentmindedly you rubbed the spot on your finger where your ring used to sit. At least you hadn’t married him yet. Thats gotta be a positive, right? Silver lining or some shit.
“Hurry up!”
You looked up from your spot on the bathroom counter and sighed.
You couldn’t hide in the bathroom of a bar forever.
“Just a sec!”
You splashed some water on your face and dabbed it dry wiht a paper towel before you headed back to the table.
“(Y/n)! Where’d you go?!”
You slid back into the booth next to your drunk sister, who threw her arms around you.
The guys from earlier had been shouting drinks all night, and all though you didn’t mind their company, all you wanted was to hang out with your sister. Alone.
“So, (y/n), tell me about yourself.” The guy in front of you smiled. TIm, you think his name was.
“Id rather not.” You sighed.
Chelsea nudged your arm and you rolled your eyes.
“(Y/n) here just got out of a shitty relationship.”
You frowned and the guys looked at you curiously.
“He cheated on her.” Chelsea whispered, loudly. Vodka always did go straight to her head.
“With her best friend!”
You lifted the glass in front of you and downed it before slamming it down on the table.
“Well you know what they say,” Tim said, a smirk on his face.
You looked at him with raised eye brows, an unamused look on your face.
“The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”
You grimaced.
“Im going home.”
Chelsea grabbed your arm and tugged you back into your seat but you shook her off.
“Are you coming?”
Chelsea looked between you and the guys who were watching her expectantly.
“Im gonna stay, sis. You should too!”
“Suit yourself.”
You turned your back and headed out of the club, trying- but failing to ignore the laughter coming from the table and tears stung at your eyes.
For a moment you considered ordering another round of drinks and getting black out wasted.
But everything in this bar was becoming too much; the Bon Jovi blasting through the speakers, the clinking of glasses, the raised voices battling to be heard over each other.
You decided against it and headed for the door.
The night air hit you and you tugged your jacket tighter around yourself.
You walked to the carpark and sat down on the curb, pulling out your phone and dialled for a taxi.
The operator told you there’d be an hour wait, and after trying the only other cab company in the area and being told the same thing, you sighed and booked it anyway.
Why had your sister dragged you to the bar furthest from your motel?!
It was too far to walk, and you didn’t really have the energy.
Looks like you’d just have to wait.

~

“Shit.”
You tried the lighter again, hoping desperately to see a flame but just like last time the lighter sparked before dying out.
“Need a light?”
You jumped and turned to look behind you.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just um.. I have a lighter,” The guy said, holding out an old zippo lighter and a warm smile on his face.
“Thanks.”
You flashed him a smile and took the lighter. Your hand met his and you couldn’t help but notice how warm they were.
You lit your cigarette. It was your fifth smoke since you’d come outside but you always smoked like a prostitute when you were angry. or nervous. Or drunk, for that matter.
“Are you waiting for someone?” He asked.
You passed the lighter back to him and he shoved it deep into the pocket of his hoodie.
“Cab.” You answered and took a long drive. “They said it’d be an hour. But that was well over an hour ago.”
“Huh.” He sat down next to you.
You turned to him and raised an eyebrow.
“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself, I’ll wait with you.”
“Its okay. I’ll be fine, really.”
“I dont mind.” His smile was warm and he seemed genuine. You shrugged and he pulled his own pack of cigarettes out of his pockets.
You looked at him and this time you really took him in.
His mohawk, his tribal tattoos on either side, the plain black hoodie he wore. His warm brown eyes.
You both sat in silence as you smoked, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
“Im (y/n).”
He smiled warmly at you. “Juan Carlos.”
You smiled back at him. “You really don’t need to wait with me, Im sure they wont be long.”
“Its fine, really. Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be on these streets alone.”
You blushed and looked away.
The streetlights shone down on you, illuminating your features and Juice studied you the best he could without staring.
Why did he even care? He didn’t know you. Why did some stranger seem to care more about you then your own friends and family.
The emotions you’d been fighting to hold in all week suddenly washed over you and you turned away as a tear rolled down your cheek.
Juice took once last drag of his cigarette before flicking the butt into the gutter. He heard a sniffle and noticed your shoulders slowly shaking.
For a second he was alarmed. What had he done?!
He didn’t want to make you uncomfortable but he couldn’t just ignore you crying.
Fuck it, he thought.
He didn’t speak. He just wrapped his arms around you and held you tightly.
Which only seemed to make you cry harder and he rocked you slowly.
“Fuck.” You laughed humourlessly and wiped your tears away.
“Im sorry.”
“Dont apologise.”
You turned to him. His brown eyes were filled with worry and a sad smile was on his lips.
He looked into your eyes. God, there was something so beautiful about eyes that have just cried. Glistening with unshed tears and wet lashes, like an open window into your soul.
He was overwhelmed by the emotion you held in your eyes. Your face was almost blank, but when he looked into your eyes he felt every emotion that had washed over you. Your eyes betrayed you, letting him see all the pain you’d been fighting so hard to hold in.
He rubbed your back gently before pulling away and rummaged through his pockets.
You looked away, cursing yourself for breaking down in front of the cute Puerto Rican boy.
When you looked back he had a joint in his hands and he gave you a sheepish grin.
You laughed and he lit it, taking a long drag before offering it to you.
“You smoke?”
“Yeah,” You shrugged and took it between your fingers.  “I mean, I haven’t in years. My fiancé hates it.”
“Your engaged?”
You blew out a long cloud before shaking your head.
“Not any more.”
He nodded slowly and silence fell between you once more, as you passed the joint back and forth.
“Everythings so fucked up.”
Juice stood, tossing the burnt out roach into the street.
He held out his hand and you looked up at him with raised eyebrows.
“Come on,” He smiled. “You can tell me everything over pancakes.”
You smiled and bit your lip, checking the street to make sure your cab hadn’t finally arrived. It hadn’t, and you were strangely relieved.
“Its 3am. Is anything even open?”
He nodded. “Theres an all-night diner in the next street. They do this thing called the Juan Carlos special. Some genius invented it, its world famous. You really should try it.”
You grinned and took hold of his warm hand and he pulled you up, that goddamned smile all over his face.

~

“Jesus.” You whispered under your breath as the waitress placed the food on your table.
Two plates each loaded with a four inch stack of pancakes, two waffles, a jug of maple syrup, banana, whipped cream, and a shit ton of bacon. The ‘Juan Carlos Special’.
Juice grinned and tucked in, stabbing into the pile of bacon with his fork.
“You not hungry?” He asked with a mouthful of pancake.
You laughed and shook your head. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Bacon. Always start with bacon.”
You picked up your fork and stabbed a piece of bacon, moaning when the flavour hit your tongue.
Juice grinned across the table.
“So, tell me everything.”
“You really wanna know?” You sighed.
He shrugged and lifted the jug or maple syrup and poured the whole thing onto his plate.
“Only if you want to.” He waved a forkful of pancake in the air. “Look, I’m shit at giving advice. But sometimes it helps, ya know. Talking to a stranger. Outside perspective and all that.”
“He fucked my best friend.” You blurted out.
He paused, forkful of pancake hallway to his mouth.
“Seriously?”
You nodded.
“Asshole.”
And just like that you opened up. You told him everything. You told him about your best friend and how you’d met in kindergarten. You told him about your teenage years where you and her would get up to all kinds of mischeif. You told him about the first time you met your fiancé, about your relationship, about the proposal and moving in together. Everything. Right down to when you opened that door and saw her riding his dick.
And he listened. Like, really listened. He hung off every word, asked you questions, interrupted you with mutters of ‘douchbag’ and ‘asshole’.
“So my sister dragged me out tonight to try cheer me up but she ditched me for some random guys. And no one else answered their phones.” You sighed. “I just feel like I have no one.. ya know? Like Ive lost everything.”
“Gimme your phone.” Juice said and pushed away his now empty plate.
You raised an eyebrow.
“You buy me pancakes and then rob me?”
He chuckled and held out his hand.
With a roll of your eyes you handed him your cell phone.
His fingers went to work and you watched him.
You didn’t even know this kid. And yet he was here for you; more than any of your friends had been. He had listened more than your own sister. He made you feel so.. comfortable.
You looked away from him and eyed the diner. Its checkered floors, shiny red booths, CocaCola posters from the fifties framed on the walls. Neon lights hung in the window and near the back was an old jukebox playing some Meatloaf balled.
He handed you back your phone and you glanced at the screen.
New Contact. Juice.
“Juice?”
“My friends call me Juice.” He explained.
You hit edit on the screen. “I prefer Juan, if you don’t mind?”
His whole face lit up and he was thankful you were too busy looking at your screen to notice the blush creeping up his neck.
“Whenever you need anything. Talk, or pancakes. Call me.”
“Thank you, Juan. Really.” You smiled.
“Anytime. So tell me, how do you feel about revenge?”

~

“Are you seriously breaking in?” You hissed.
He shushed you and you glanced around nervously while he hovered over the lock.
“Juan, seriously. Im not really keen on getting arrested.”
He sniggered and pushed the door open before reaching inside and flicking the light switch.
“Calm down, (y/n). You aint a crim just yet.”
He pulled you inside and shut the door behind you.
Your eyes widened as you took in the room; the pristine white walls, bob marley posters. Shelves stacked with different jars and bongs. And of course, that undeniable smell.
“So you work here or something?”
He shook his head and headed behind the counter.
“Nah, I own it.”
“Seriously? You own Clear Passages?”
“Sorta.” He shurgged. “Twenty percent anyway.”
You nodded and paced the store,your arms swinging by your sides as eyed the different strands on the shelves.
Juice rummaged under the counter.
“You sure you wanna do this?” He asked as he pulled out the container he had been searching for.
You bit your lip and nodded.
Juice searched your face for any uncertainty before nodding and sliding the container into his pocket.
He turned and grabbed a sachet of the shelf behind him before heading out from behind the counter.
“C’mon.” He grabbed your hand and pulled you towards the exit, flicking off the light as he went.
You entered the street and he locked the door behind the two of you.
“Its too far to walk, and I don’t have my car. The cabs-“
“I’ll take us.” Juice interrupted.
“Okay.”
You walked in silence, Juice leading the way.
The streets were becoming quiet as the early hours of the morning rolled in and you shoved your hands deep into the pockets of your jacket.
You neared a gas station and Juice pointed into the car park next door.
“My rides the one in the corner, you can wait there if ya want?”
He headed inside and you nodded, stopping at a vending machine and pressing the button for a can of coke.
The can dropped and you reached inside and lifted it out. You cracked the lid open as you walked and took a sip.
The car park was nearly empty and Juice had pointed to the corner.
You lit a cigarette before perching on the hood of the sedan and leant back, studying the stars shining in the night sky.
A few minutes later Juice left the store, plastic bag in his hand and you propped yourself up on your elbows as he neared.
He sat on the hood next to you and took a sip of the coke you offered him.
“Get everything?”
He nodded.
“His house or hers first?”
“His. He works nights so he wont be home.”
Juice nodded and leant back against the car and you both looked up at the stars.
“Whose car is this?”
You turned to him, your brows furrowed together.
“You pointed to it.”
He shook his head, an amused look in his eyes.
“I pointed to that.”
You looked where he pointed to the carpark next to you. The carpark occupied with a Harley Davidson Dyna.
You slid off the car and glanced between the bike and Juice, who was now smirking at you.
You walked around the bike and immediately noticed the fuel tank. More accurately, you noticed the M16 with the Grim Reaper scythe on a pole, and the words that made you freeze. ‘Sons Of Anarchy’.
You turned back to him,  eyes slightly wide.
“Your in a gang?! Jesus, you don’t look like a biker.”
“Firstly, we’re a club, not a gang. And what does a biker look like, exactly?”
You shrugged. “I dunno. Your not even wearing any leather? And you don’t have a beard. Or a potbelly.”
He chuckled. “Sorry to disappoint. I can grow a pretty great moustache, though.”
You scrunched up your face and he laughed again before handing you his helmet.
“This really not a problem?” He asked you as he swung his leg over.
“Nope.” You answered as you bucked the strap beneath your chin.
“Have you ever been on a bike before?”
“Nope.”
He grinned. “Hold on tight. And lean with me.”
You took a deep breath and nodded before holding onto his shoulder and swinging your leg over the bike.
You held onto his sides and he rolled his eyes before pulling your hands tighter around him.
He kicked up his kickstand and started the bike. The engine rumbled beneath you and you squeezed him tightly.
He turned and met your eye.
“You okay?”
You nodded.
Slowly the bike began to move, and once he entered the street he turned the throttle, gaining speed.
You gulped as he turned a corner but you leant with him like he had told you, despite wanting to lean in the opposite direction and he sped up, making your hair blow out beneath the helmet.
Gradually you relaxed, your grip around his waist becoming looser and you sat up straight.
The scenery rushed past you in a blur and a grin spread over your face.
You had never felt more alive.

~

“Motherfucker.”
He stopped walking and stood next to you, glancing in the direction you were glaring.
“Whats wrong?”
“Thats her car.”
He saw the pain in your eyes as you looked at your best friends car, parked where you used to park yours; in the drive way of the house you had shared with your fiance.
He grabbed your hand and gave it a squeeze.
“Come on.”
You nodded and moved forward, dropping his hand.
Juice couldn’t help but smirk as he watched you creep across the street, your body hunched and your head glancing from side to side and he snorted as you army rolled behind a bush.
He walked casually across the street and smirked as you hissed at him to hide.
He knelt down next to you and you turned to him with wild eyes.
“Do you want us to get caught?” You whispered angrily.
“Jesus christ, we’re not breaking the law.”
“Sorry, I forgot you were a gangster.” You rolled your eyes. “You probably don’t care if we go to jail.”
He fought a laugh. “Its a club, not a gang. And its your house, (y/n). You have a key.”
You nodded and pulled the hood of your jacket up and pulled it as low as it could go.
“So whats the plan, Chief?” Juice whispered.
“You start out here. I’ll head inside.”
Juice nodded and watched as you crept to the front door, silently fumbling with the keys.
Meanwhile he pulled the can of spray paint out of the bag and got to work.
You pushed the door shut behind you, careful not to make any noise.
You felt sick as you looked around the house. The moon was bright tonight and the room was dimly lit. After a while your eyes adjusted and you looked around the room.
The photos of you and your fiancé were still littered over the mantel piece and everything looked just as you’d left it. Except the heels scattered next to the door, and the coat draped over the back of the sofa.
You gulped and tip toed into the kitchen.
Every Wednesday afternoon you had baked. Brownies, cakes, cookies. You had always liked baking and George had always loved tasting whatever you had cooked up.
No matter what, there was always some fresh baking in your cupboards.
Which was perfect, because you knew when George got home he would head to the cupboard and eat whatever baking he could find, without a second thought.
You placed the container Juice had given you in the cupboard, smiling to yourself.
George wouldn’t even notice that these brownies were.. special.
Next you headed for the refrigerator.
Your best friend staying here meant that you didn’t need to make two stops tonight.
Every morning she had a big glass of orange juice.
You pulled the carton out of the fridge and opened it carefully before dumping the powder in and shaking it gently, making sure it dissolved.
It was only a laxative, completely natural, Juice had reassured you.
You knew she had a big meeting tomorrow, and you smirked. Its a shame she would be glued to the toilet.
You had just placed the carton back into the fridge when Juice entered the room.
“You ready?” He whispered.
“Almost.” You reached for the drawer and pulled out a large knife. You gave him a wink and grinned.
His eyes went wide as he saw the wild look in your eyes and the smirk on your face and he grabbed your wrist.
“Are you crazy?! Put it down.”
“No.”
“What are you gonna do?! Stab her?!” He hissed at you.
You rolled your eyes and left the kitchen, Juice hot on your heels and you stopped when you reached the lounge.
“Hold this.” You passed him the knife.
“Why, you wanna get my prints on the murder weapon?!”
You scoffed and tip toed over to the mantelpiece.
Carefully you lifted the first frame. It was a photo of you and George on your first vacation together.
You pulled the sleeve of your jacket over your hand and pressed your palm against the frame, silently shattering the glass.
You placed the frame back on the mantel and repeated the process with the remaining frames.
Juice watched you and when you were finished you walked back to him and grabbed the knife.
He followed you through the front door and pulled it shut behind him.
You locked the door and shoved the keys back in your pocket.
“Whats the knife for?” He whispered.
“This.”
You walked across the driveway and stabbed the knife into the front tire of her car.
The air hissed out and you pried the knife loose before stabbing each of the remaining three tires.
Juice had crossed the street and you walked over and stood next to him.
He draped an arm around your shoulder and you both looked at the house.
Juice  had done well with the spray paint and you smiled as you looked at the work he’d done.
‘Cheat’ was spray painted in large letters on the garage door. He’d written ‘homewrecker’ on the bonnet of your friends car and the walls of the house were littered with other profanities, and next to the front window of the house he had painted a large penis.
“Nice touch, Picasso.”
He bowed and you both laughed.
“So what now?”
“We wait a few hours and then I ring his work and make an anonymous tip about the staff using drugs. If he eats the brownies he’ll fail the drug test and lose his job.”
You smirked. Sure, a part of you felt bad for what you’d done. But it was only a very small part of you, and you pushed those thoughts to the back of your mind.
Slowly Juice pulled you away and you walked together in silence back to his bike were you’d left it further down your street.
He passed you the helmet  and you both hopped onto the bike.
You pressed your cheek to his back as he rode through the night, the crisp air brushing over you and you closed your eyes.
He smelled good, his cologne mixing with the faint smell of weed and the scent filled your lungs.
You clung to him tightly, his warm body pressed against yours.
You felt light, like all your baggage had finally been left behind you. Who knew all it would take was one night with a Puerto Rican biker boy.
The bike slowed and you finally took in your surroundings.
He had brought you to the water tower on the outskirts of town.
“Come on, we gotta hurry.”
He dragged you to the ladder and you shook your head.
“No way. I ain’t climbing up there!” You crossed your arms over your chest.
Juice rolled his eyes and tugged your elbow gently.
“Trust me, it’ll be worth it.”
His eyes were full of promise and pleading and you sighed.
“Fine. But if i fall to my death please make sure they dress me in something cute. I don’t wanna be buried in these jeans.”
And you started to climb.
He didn’t know why you disliked those jeans so much. From where he was looking, they looked great on you. Although he was climbing the ladder beneath you, and honestly it wouldnt matter what you were wearing, this view made your ass look great.
It only took a few minutes to reach the top and you stood shakily on the platform.
“Holy shit.” You whispered.
You could see everything from up here.
The shining lights of all the houses in Charming and even Lodi.
Everything was so small.
Juice sat down, swinging his legs off the edge and resting his arms against the lower railing.
You copied him and he pulled out another joint and lit it before offering it to you.
Together you shared the joint and together you watched as the large glowing sphere of the sun rose slowly into the dull morning sky. It cast sunbeams in every direction as it illuminated the small town, like an arsonist setting the sky on fire.
Below you in the trees birds began to chirp a background melody as the pure scattered light lit up every inch of the land below you.
Your breath paused in your lungs and you wished time would stop.
In this moment everything was forgotten. You forgot the heartbreak you’d endured, the betrayal. You forgot the boring motel room that was now your temporary home. You forgot that no one had been there for you when you needed them most.
But the one thing you didn’t forget was Him.
The first night you spent with Juan Carlos was a memory that would live on inside you forever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@i-want-to-be-watered-by-roger @danleto97

If you want to be added to the tag list for any, or all the Sons please let me know x

The first time the gang takes a ride in a hot air balloon, it’s a breezy summer day and the blue skies are streaked with cirrus clouds, perfect for the culmination of months of planning and saving. They crowd into the basket and wave for Jonathan’s pre-takeoff photo op. As the balloon lifts off, Dustin starts in with his most enthusiastic rendition of “Gonna Fly Now”. Nobody minds this because it’s a change from his endless refrain of “Up Up and Away” on the drive up.
Once they’re in the air, Lucas muses out loud what it’d be like to spit over the edge. Dustin shuts the idea down with a “That’s disgusting,” as Max slugs Lucas in the arm to drive the point home. (“Thank you, Max.” “No problem.”) They spend the next few hours playing I Spy and debating the merits of a hot air balloon as a getaway vehicle (Lucas maintains that a plane would be a better, faster option, while Max just asks why they wouldn’t just use a car?).
Will divides his time between politely asking the pilot questions about what it’s like piloting a hot air balloon everyday and trying to unnecessarily memorize all the scenery floating by for future drawings.
I say unnecessarily because El brought Jonathan’s old camera, last week’s birthday gift, and when she’s not gazing in awe at the views, she’s immortalizing them in photographs.
Mike is also trying to memorize the scenery, but he’s more focused on the kind with awestruck brown eyes and curly brown hair who keeps grabbing his hand and smiling that beautiful smile.
The excursion ends with Jonathan and Nancy returning from their drive and taking the kids to a pancake house, where they all stuff themselves with the fluffy flat pieces of heaven and their mapley toppings of glory, all to sleep off on the drive home (during which Lucas drowsily hums “Up Up and Away” before nodding off).

Being called a liar — openly — has become a regular feature of my life as a fat person. Any answer I offer about my body, the food I eat, the way I feel, or the regularity with which I move is answered with a dismissal. When asked if I exercise, I say yes. No you don’t or Is it aerobic? it needs to be aerobic echoes back. Have you tried South Beach? is met with you probably did it wrong. When asked if I’ve engaged a nutritionist or trainer, I say yes, for several years. You probably didn’t stick to it long enough. It just takes a little willpower!

These questions — about diet, exercise, worth and will — have no answers that will satisfy their askers. My words have already been betrayed by the believed brokenness of my body, and the flawed character that created it. There is nothing I can say to counter the assumptions attached to my wide, soft frame. Coworkers and strangers offer up unsolicited advice for how to change the body I have always had, then chase it with judgment and dismissal, a scripted response, delivered as if I had not spoken at all.
Often, when we have a crush, when we lust for a person, we see only a small percentage of who they really are. The rest we make up for ourselves. Rather than listen, or learn, we smother them in who we imagine them to be, what we desire for ourselves, we create little fantasies of people and let them grow in our hearts. And this is where the relationship fails. In time, the fiction we scribble onto a person falls away, the lies we tell ourselves unravel and soon the person standing in front of you is almost unrecognizable, you are now complete strangers in your own love. And what a terrible shame it is. My advice: pay attention to the small details of people, you will learn that the universe is far more spectacular an author than we could ever hope to be.
—  Beau Taplin /// The Fiction of People

anonymous asked:

I cosplay Killing Stalking and love it but it really shouldnt be cosplayed at con, a week ago I was ready too then had to hold my friend for 3 hours to calm them down from a panic attack after them just glancing at ks cosplayers. i dont think people should cosplay it at cons if it could completely ruin someone elses weekend

Sorry what happened with your friend anon, hope they’re feeling better and getting proper therapy.

But, I wholeheartedly disagree with you. People are allowed to cosplay whatever fictional character they want. 

Listen, I honestly think there’s a difference between an attendee and a cosplay attendee– now besides the obvious difference, hear me out;

A cosplayer works so, so fucking hard on their cosplay. Even basic, simple cosplays are a drag– I know this because I’ve cosplayed a simple character and it was still difficult to find the right clothing, the right makeup, and how to fix my hair up (Wigs are hella expensive, and I mean the good kind, holy crap)

Cosplays take a lot of determination, sweat and blood, and love to make, and once you’ve finished, you’re so proud and happy about what you finished and created! And now you get to wear your hard work to a convention, and get to be a part of the cosplay group and interact with others and hopefully take photos and make wonderful memories!

Now let’s say this is someone’s first convention going as a KS character– they’ve put a lot of work into the costumes, and are excited to go, they paid for their way into the convention and everything. 
This person has just invested money, sometimes a lot, into not just the costume, but also to go into the con, and maybe saved up to buy some nice merchandise. They invested a lot of money and time to going; normal attendees did not

I would be very, very upset, maybe even furious, if someone told me I could not cosplay a character, which I’ve worked hard on their costume, I’ve put a lot of time into looking just as I want too, and I also paid for the ticket in as is. I would feel hurt if a friend told me this. I would even be upset if I was excited and ready to start creating a cosplay for these characters, and a close friend of mine began freaking out and breaking down over the fact I’d be one of those cosplayers. I would respect their feelings, but I would also distance myself from that friend and probably take a family member or another friend who does not react that way to people cosplaying fictional characters.

Listen, as someone who has panic attacks and breakdowns from certain memories and songs, I understand the whole, “I’m gonna have a psychotic break down for three hours sorry guys.” I also understand this behavior is not okay, and many times have I even caused my own mother to go into a breakdown and become frightened of me, concerned for me and ready to physically drag me to a hospital, not because she thinks I’m crazy, but because she loves me and doesn’t want me to hurt myself, possibly kill myself.

But honestly, I think that was manipulative for your friend to have such a psychotic breakdown(3 Hours?) over these fictional characters– especially just at glancing at people cosplaying them, not even interacting with her.
I think she’s way too sensitive, and my suggestion is she shouldn’t even go to conventions until she goes to proper therapy and sorts this out. Her reaction was incredibly unhealthy, for her and those around her; what she did, my mother would have decided she is freaking out over, really nothing, and would of had her committed or hospitalized

I don’t care if a KS cosplayer ruined someone’s weekend; first of all you don’t even know them most of the time, they’re strangers, who also want to have a fun and happy weekend, make some new friends, get some cool stuff, take some awesome photos. Most of the time cosplayers don’t go and interact with others unless given the “Okay,” and wait for others to walk up to them. That’s usually how people function in public situations surrounded by strangers. 

So my advice is stay away from those cosplayers, they aren’t out to hunt you down, they actually don’t really care about your presence and are focused on making sure their cosplay stays together and enjoying the con. If their mere presence makes you panic and freak out, in public mind you, then I recommend leaving the convention all together. Do not confront the cosplayers, just leave.

They also paid to get into the convention just like you, so you really have no right to dictate who gets to go to cons and who doesn’t. Conventions are not the internet, you will be confronting a person face-to-face, and this can lead to real repercussions for how you or the cosplayer behave and act.

I say talk to your friend about this, and not guilt trip, but explain how having a panic attack over just looking at KS cosplayers is really unhealthy, and she need’s to have that taken care of.
Also, she shouldn’t be attending any conventions until this is sorted out, if she goes to a convention and behaves like this, and me just assuming how badly her panic attacks are to mine, she will possibly be escorted out or medics will go to her aid and also take her– many cosplayers will most likely not want to be around her for fear of even inciting this behavior if they learn it was just by seeing those cosplayers –not to mention, she will be shaming those KS cosplayers, just for being there. A lot of bad things could happen, so I think she shouldn’t go to any conventions til then. 

You and your friend are responsible for your own health and safety– do not pin this on others, nor should you have to baby your friend because she cannot handle the sight of people cosplaying Sangwoo and Bum. You may respect her feelings, you may be patient and kind about it, but do not allow her to manipulate and force you to do anything just for her– basically, don’t put everyone over your own happiness. 

Of course, this is your opinion, but do not go to people’s inboxes, especially cosplayers, and begin to tell them, dictate to them, on why they cannot cosplay KS characters because they have to be sensitive and aware of other people’s feelings– strangers feelings. 

Be there for your friend, but don’t enable this type of behavior. She needs proper treatment, and you should be able to talk to her about this and try to make her realize that what she did was not at all normal nor healthy for her. She needs to get to a point where she’s not projecting and combining fiction with reality– now that’s dangerous tambien. 
Also, if there are any signs of this relationship turning one-sided and toxic, I would bounce.

anonymous asked:

I want to get a quote tattoo that makes me feel inspired when feeling i'm down. What should i get ?

“Don’t take advice from strangers on the internet”