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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 years ago

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The Man in his Castle

Warnings: noncon sex. Let’s not be fools here. You know what I write.

This is dark!Charles Blackwood and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A co-ed discovers that money is still king.

Note: Charles is fun because he’s already horrible. I know my summary sucks but I hope you all enjoy this. It takes place in the 1960s so keep that in mind and enjoy! But let me know what you think in reblog or reply and slap a like on there <3

There were more than a dozen girls squeezed into the windowless classroom in the basement of Victory Hall. The book club had grown quite a bit since your first week on campus. The Brownies, you called yourself. An ironic play upon a lifetime of ridicule.

Every Friday night you met in some abandoned room bartered off the registrar and set to discussing your most recent read. Sheila was the leader; bolder than you as she fostered your sprout of an idea. She was cooler, calmer, and by all means, more radical. And she was a senior.

The flock of freshmen looked up to her and the few other older girls in the group. She had brought along with her, Linda and Patty; the former with her stiff turtlenecks and the latter her faded beret. These were the types your mother had warned you against. Peddling their liberalism in the name of Kennedy and Kruschev.

That week, your group had chosen Miller’s famed play, The Crucible; still relevant despite a decade past. Though the red scare had faded to orange, there was still a breath of suspicion in the air. As people marched in the streets and sat-in at diners and cafes, the old breed was growing nervous. The world was about to change, with or without them.

You sat amid the circle with your worn copy against your knee. You took turns reading the lines and pausing to discuss the intricate and yet overt allusions made by the playwright. The furor of the blacklist which still lingered in the air. A paranoia much broader than years before. No longer just the Reds, but all who spoke of equality and freedom; no longer exclusive to a single group. The same tensions which kept you in the basement with the dingy old desks.

You couldn’t help but smile at the group of girls. When you’d arrived on campus, you were certain you’d be the same loner as before. Solitary nights spent barricaded in your dorm only to lose yourself in the crowd of the lecture hall.

But Sheila had changed that. She was in your elective Lit class, filling a void in her audit so that she could graduate on time. You had lost yourself in a discussion of Marx and the mounting tensions with the East; not that they ever really subsided.

Then she invited you to meet Linda and Patty for a drink. Your lack of ID didn’t keep you from the chance to make friends as she knew the doorman by name. That was when you mentioned the club. It was just you and your friend, Elsie. Not really a club, more so a pair of girls with nothing better to do. But Sheila liked it and the next week, she had six new girls to add to your duo.

Now, you were a full blown corps. The three seniors and at least fifteen freshmen, a few in between to fill out the circle.

Sheila snapped her book shut and declared the end of the night as she checked her watch.

“We’ll finish next week,” She chimed. “Granted we don’t devolve so easily again.”

The girls giggled and began to pack up. You stood and shoved your book into your leather bag. Sheila stood with Linda at the back of the circle and Patty offered a goodbye to each girl as they left. Most did so in pairs or trios. Safety in numbers.

Your dorm wasn’t far and so you would keep a brisk pace with your keys in hand. You turned and Sheila called to you before you could reach the door. You spun back and neared her and Linda.

“Hey, you need a walking partner?” She asked. “Me and Linda are head down the The Cask. We’ll be headed past yours.”

“If you’re headed that way,” You accepted eagerly.

You helped rearrange the chairs and desk with the three seniors. Patty left on her own as Sheila locked the door. You walked on her right as Linda kept to her left and made your way out of the depths of Victory Hall. The night was cool but not bitter. You pulled your collar up as you passed between the carefully trimmed hedges.

“You sure you don’t want to come for a drink?” Linda asked. “Seeing as Patty ditched us.”

“Oh, you know she has that boy waiting for her,” Sheila countered.

“Um, no, I have an early morning,” You replied. “But thanks.”

“What about next weekend?” Sheila asked.

“Next weekend?” You wondered.

“Wanna come to a party?”

“A… a senior party?” You glanced over at her as you tucked your hands in your pockets.

“Oh, no, it’s not on campus,” She trilled. “But I think you’d like it.”

“Off-campus?” You said surprised. “Really?”

“A bit of an older crowd but…” She lowered her voice, “Of a similar mind as us.”

Your eyes widened. You blinked at her and she laughed.

“Oh calm down, they’re no interlopers, merely open-minded,” She assured you. “You have to realize that this little club, that’s a children’s game. If you’re serious, these are the people you need to rub shoulders with.”

“I don’t know. It’s pretty seedy downtown and the last time--”

“Downtown?” She scoffed. “Oh, this is different from that hole in the wall.”

“Where--”

“Uptown, actually,” She preened. “You know, we do have allies with money. They hide among the enemy until we can truly act.”

“I don’t know. That sounds--”

“You worry too much. It’s not illegal to meet people who think like you do,” She said. “Otherwise us Brownies would be akin to the mob.”

You laughed at yourself and watched your scuffed shoes on the sidewalk. “I guess you’re right. Um, what kind of party is it, exactly?”

“Wear something nice,” She picked a thread from your jacket. “Fancy dress hides a humble heart.”

You nodded and gripped the strap of your bag. “Sure, why not?” You shrugged.

“I’ll see you in Lit,” She stopped just outside your gate. “I’ll give you the details then. You should ask Elsie to come with you.”

“Alright,” You breathed. “Yeah, I’ll ask her.”

“Have a good night,” She sang and Linda echoed her.

“You, too.” You smiled.

You turned and unlocked your gate as their heels continued down the pavement. You let yourself inside and listened until there was silence. You were happy to have friends, happier that you were so much alike, but the thought of a party had your stomach aflutter.

🏰

You found your only formal dress. Rather, your most formal dress. A long-sleeved black number that flared at the knee. You wore the simple silver chain your mother gifted you for your high school graduation and a pair of kitten heels. You hugged yourself with a red shawl and grabbed your purse.

Elsie waited just outside your dorm room. She looked as nervous as you felt. The lack of details gave both of you the jitters. You were two shy girls who found each other among the sea of students. You took comfort in knowing you weren’t the only one in over your head.

And Sheila would be there too. She could help you maneuver your way through this maze of etiquette and idealism.

You took a bus as far as you could but at the last stop, you were still three blocks away from the place. Blackwood Manor. Sheila’s loopy cursive marked it on the corner of paper. The house on the hill, she said, can’t miss it.

The gates towered over you as you approached. Tinted lanterns lit the walkway and you pressed the button over the small speaker box. A dull voice greeted you from the other side.

“Um, hello,” Elsie squeezed your arm as you bent to speak into the box. “We’re here for the party.”

“Par-ty?” The voice said.

“We’re friends of, uh, Sheila.” You replied nervously.

“Ah, yes, Miss Sheila.” The crackle died and the gate clicked.

You looked to Elsie and a man in grey neared from the other side. He pulled open the gate and removed his cap as he waited for you to enter. A car drove up, its bright headlights washed over you, as you walked up the drive and the gates man spoke with its occupants.

At the front door, you met with a man with grey hair and the same even tone that rose from the speaker. He took your shawl and Elsie’s coat and directed you to the next room. You detached Elsie from your arm and gave her a look. She smiled tensely and smoothed the front of her dress.

The sparkle of the chandelier drew your eyes first. The light refracted from the crystals and illuminated the large room. Men in suits stood around with drinks in hand and chattered. You heard the next guests enter behind you and stepped out of their way.

You spotted Sheila in the far corner, a broad pair of shoulders left her barely visible. There were several other girls you recognized; Linda. Darla and Colleen, two other Brownies, and even a couple girls from your Lit class. Every women in the room was barely that; they were all bright-eyed co-eds amid a conclave of stiff-lipped men.

You felt a chill crawl up your spine but resisted the shiver. You were just anxious about all these strangers. It was natural to be a little nervous.

Elsie followed you across the room and smiled at Sheila over the shoulder of the man she spoke to. She waved you over and the man turned to look at you. His blue eyes flicked from you to Elsie and back again. His expression was placid as he buttoned his jacket.

“Charles, these are my friends,” She introduced you and Elsie, “And this is Charles Blackwood, our host.”

He seemed to recall himself and shook your hand and then Elsie’s. His grip was firm and his expression unbreakable. He was entirely unimpressed by you and your plain black dress.

“You have a beautiful house,” You offered. “I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere so… grand.”

“It was my grandfather’s,” He said tersely as his eyes explored the room. “Sheila, if you’ll excuse me, I must speak with Gerald.”

“Of course,” She kissed his cheek and his lip curled before he walked away. “Sorry about him,” Sheila turned to you. “He’s a bit antsy, you know? Always is on nights like these.”

“I never…” You looked at Elsie as her eyes bounced around in wonder, “I never would think anyone who lived like this would you know, agree with us.”

“Oh, but we already know money isn’t everything,” She said. “You know, these men, they know that and they want to use their money for good. They want to make sure that students like us make it through college and go on to speak our truth to the world.”

She stopped a man passing by and took a wine glass from his tray. She offered you it and grabbed another for Elsie and herself. She batted her lashes at the waiter and returned her attention to you.

“Which is why you should loosen up and talk to some of these men,” She advised. “They are much preferable to the boys on campus and much more powerful. My second year, I had my tuition paid in full by one of Charles’ friends.”

“Wow,” Elsie gasped. “Really?”

“Consider it a grant,” Sheila explained. “Spread the wealth, right?”

“I suppose…” You uttered.

“Oh, there’s Patty,” Sheila perked up. “I knew she’d be the last one here. Pardon me a moment.”

“Alright,” You turned and watched her go as she waved over the heads to her friend.

You brought the glass to your lips and the alcohol burned your nostrils. Your stomach turned and you lowered the flute. Elsie drank deeply as you glanced around. A man with thick silver hair and a sharp aquiline nose stared at you from across the room.

You fidgeted and slipped behind Elsie to set your glass down.

“You should take it easy,” You warned her as she gulped down the wine.

🏰

The man with silver hair introduced himself as Harry. You weren’t fond of him as he talked of his new car and something about a cottage up north. You were confused. Sheila intimated that these people were like you; maybe not communists are heart, but left-leaning at least. They surely didn’t sound like it.

You glanced around for the umpteenth time and frowned. You didn’t see Sheila or Linda or Patty. Elsie was with a man in a striped suit, Darla and Colleen sipped from glasses as they listened to a pair of men banter, and you were stuck in the corner with this grey-haired boor.

You excused yourself, claiming to need the powder room, and walked along the wall as you searched the room. The seniors were gone. And something else caught your eye. The men drank from their stout tumblers and the women, more aptly girls, all held champagne flute. Yours was still on the table, untouched.

You neared Elsie and excused your interruption as you turned her away from her companion. You lowered your voice.

“Have you seen Sheila?” You asked.

She shook her head and wobbled. She giggled as she steadied herself with your arm. “Nope!”

“How much of that have you had?” You took her glass from her.

“This is only my…. Third,” She counted on her fingers.

“Well, I think three is enough,” You said. “Why don’t you come to the restroom with me? Splash some water on your face?”

“No, no,” She shrugged you off. “I’m talking to Gerald.” She turned back and smiled at the balding man. “He has a fellowship.”

“Elsie,” You drew her back. “Something’s… wrong.”

“What do you mean?” She hiccuped. “It’s all quite fine, isn’t it?”

“Just…” You peeked over your shoulder. “Wait here for me, okay? Don’t go anywhere else.”

She rolled her eyes and you sighed. You left her reluctantly and stopped a waiter as you neared the main archway. You asked him where the restroom was and ducked into the hallway. You passed by the foot of the staircase towards the next and paused.

You peered around the wall and pulled back. You slipped off your heels and looked back at the room that swirled with voices. You tiptoed to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. You searched for a mechanism but there was only the intricately wrought handle.

You went back to the stairs and listened to the buzz from the front room. You climbed a step at a time as your ears perked up at every creak and crack. You wondered what had happened to Sheila and the others. It was unlike them to leave early. And why was the door locked?

You found a window and carefully turned the latch. You shifted it up and cringed as the wood loudly rubbed together. You stuck your head out and stared down at the grass below. There was a tree not far from you, a few windows away.

“Can I help you?” The voice frightened you and you hit your head on the window as you reeled back. You turned to your host, Charles, as he leaned against the bannister.

“I was… looking for Sheila.” You lied.

“Oh, outside?” He wondered with a smirk.

“Well, no, I just needed a breath of fresh air so I thought…” Your voice trailed off as he stood straight.

“The party’s downstairs,” He said evenly. “I’m sure you just missed her.”

You stared at him. His eyes sparkled with mischief. Your heart dropped and your heels threatened to slip from your sweaty hand.

“She’s gone,” You said. His lips curved again and he chuckled. “What’s going on here?”

He inched forward as he pushed back his jacket and shoved a hand in his pocket.

“She did her job. Delivered what she promised.” He said coolly. “Can you blame her for cutting out?”

“What--” You backed up until you were against the window ledge. “I don’t understand.”

“You tried the front door, didn’t you?”

You blinked and your shoes fell from your grasp.

“You think you can get to that tree? Even if you moved a few windows to the left?” He got closer. “Or maybe… you think you can get past me.”

Your lips parted as his features hardened. His brow twitched as he held your gaze. He didn’t look away as he knelt and grabbed your shoe. He took your foot and shoved the kitten heel on. He did the other and stood.

“Let’s go back to the party,” He growled. “It’s only just getting started.”

🏰

You stood against the wall as the room spun. Your chest was filled with doom as you looked around at the girls in their sheath dresses and chunky heels. Many shared the same glazed look as Elsie. They swayed just a little, giggled airily, and their eyelashes drooped. They were barely awake on their feet.

The man who answered the door stood beside you. He squinted at you every now and then. Charles had told him to keep an eye on you. You watched the host of the event disappear through another doorway. You thought of the invisible lock and the tree just a few windows down.

It was that crushing sense of defeat when you knew loss was imminent but unavoidable. So you watched it slowly creep forward until finally you had to submit. You shivered and shook your head at yourself. Sheila had done this. Ensnared all these girls in whatever sick game this was.

Time dragged. You watched the servers offer their tainted champagne and the girls all too ignorant to realize that something was amiss. Your eyes stung and you gripped your purse tight. Whatever was planned, it couldn’t be good.

The clinking of metal on glass silenced the room. Your eyes were drawn with every other to the other side. The men exchanged knowing looks. The girls were confused but not suspicious. They looked to Charles as he relinquished the glass and knife to a server. He grinned at his rapt audience.

“Shall we commence with our evening?” He asked; the men nodded and mumbled in agreement. The girls frowned and wavered on their feet. “Very well. Girls…”

He waved an arm to his left and the waiters, now free of their trays, dispersed to herd the girls to the other side of the room. You were led along with them and stood in the row of drunken co-eds. For a moment, you wished you had drank the wine. That you could be as oblivious as the rest.

The girl at the head of the line was ushered forward to stand beside Charles. Her red hair hung in ringlets and her cheeks were rosy with alcohol. He asked her her name and she slurred “Carrie.” He repeated it for all to hear and shouted a number. Ten thousand.

A man raised his hand and Charles called eleven thousand. Another gestured and the number went up again. Again. Again. Carrie was visibly confused as she tried to keep up. She couldn’t. She was sold for twenty-five thousand and ushered into the arms of her buyer.

Elsie was next. She could barely stand as she struggled to keep her eyes open. Eighteen thousand for the mousy-haired girl. Colleen went for about the same and Darla was in tears as she was bartered for an even twenty.

You were near the end of the line. You marched up to the front and bit down as you stared at the bourgeois bastards. Harry was the first to bid for you. Your stomach flipped. Then another man you hadn’t even spoken to. You could see only his hand as he reached above the crowd.

The bids bounced back and forth, Harry cursed as he wondered who was so determined to have you. You sold for forty thousand to the faceless man. You were shown out the side door by a waiter as the last girl was brought up to stand by Charles.

You stood alone in a long dining room with a large table and more than a dozen chairs. You turned as the doors slid closed and faced the grey-haired man who had greeted you in his monotone at the door. You thought he was the help. You grimaced at him.

“You?” You sputtered.

“No,” He said blandly. “Not me.”

“Then…” You couldn’t finish as you were certain you knew the answer.

You swallowed and spun away from him. You gripped the back of a chair and placed your purse on the table. The furor from the other room reached a peak and then began to dwindle. The grey-haired man glanced at the doors.

“I must attend to the coats,” He announced. “Do not stray. He will be mad.”

You sighed as he slipped through the door. A hand kept them from closing and you watched the doorman rush away. Charles stepped through and shut the doors. He took a breath as he turned to you. He fixed his lapels as he stopped across the table from you.

“What?” You hissed as he stared at you.

“No… thanks?” He asked.

“Thanks?” You narrowed your eyes. “For what?”

“Don’t tell me you wanted to fuck one of those old men?”

You blanched at his language and your lip curled in revulsion. He laughed.

“Don’t worry. I only need… a maid.” He smirked.

“A maid?” You wondered.

“Cooking. Cleaning.” He tapped two fingers on the table as he spoke. “They ever write about that in your books?”

Your eyes were glossy as you gulped. You were furious, frightened, and frustrated.

“You girls think you know it all,” He scoffed. “There’s a lot they don’t put in books.”

“No, there are horror stories,” You assured him. “Of repulsive monsters and their nasty ways.”

He chuckled and rounded the table. He stopped just beside you as his hand closed over your purse. He slowly lifted the strap from your shoulders and batted your hand away before you could stop him.

“Trust me,” He said as he flipped it open and looked inside. “There is no monster like me.”

🏰

You were shown to a room with a barred window. It didn’t matter as it was in the basement and so narrow that you couldn’t hope to fit through it. The door was locked but even so, there was a man without. You could see his shadow under the door and hear him cough every now and again.

You didn’t sleep much. There was a blanket on the floor beside some dusty boxes. You sat against the wall and dozed in spurts. The night replayed in your head on a loop. Then all those moments you’d spent with Sheila. How she had lied so easily. Was she even a student?

Didn’t matter now. The sun rose slowly through the small window and the door opened shortly after. You were given a black dress, stockings, and a pair of black shoes. Nothing else. You were taken to a shower hidden in the cellar; the water was cold and you washed quickly in the closet-like restroom.

You dressed and contemplated turning your underwear inside out. They were too worn to re-use. You left them with the rest of your clothes and emerged in your uniform. The man in black who had spent his night outside your door was mute. You weren’t sure entirely if by choice.

Your first task was to clean the main room, still dirtied from the party. The grey-haired man, Albert, told you so and recited your list of chores. The kitchen would be next and then you were to sweep the upstairs corridors and check every room in case it needed dusting or new linens.

It took you hours to tidy up after the previous nights’ guests. When the glasses were cleaned, you stacked them in the cupboards and wiped the counters. Alone, you went to the back door. It was locked too. The windows on this floor only opened two inches. You cursed.

You climbed the stairs with a broom and pan and set to the endless tedium of sweeping every corner. That took another hour, if not more. You emptied the pan downstairs in the bin and returned with a duster.

You knocked on each door before you entered. Most were pristine and required only a touch up. When you reached the end of the next hallway, your rap was answered as the door opened from the other side.

Charles wore only an undershirt and pants as he looked you up and down. He waved you in wordlessly. You entered and set to dusting the mantle and all its ornaments. He moved around behind you and stopped in a doorway just left of the bed.

“I expect you to do more than dust in here,” He said. “Grab some fresh linen when you get the chance.”

He slipped through the door but left it open an inch. You huffed and continued on lazily. Call it spite or your fleeting mind. You tried the window. It opened but there was no way down. You closed it and turned away.

You went to find the sheets and when you had discovered the trove of pressed and folded cotton, you returned to the room. You could hear the soft ripple of water through the small doorway. You set the sheets down at the foot of the bed. You cleared the wrinkled clothing from the chair and dropped them in the hamper.

“Girl,” Charles’ deep timbre called sternly. “Girl.”

Your cheek twitched. He knew your name. You sneered and quickly wiped it away as you neared the door. You pushed it open hesitantly as you peered through.

“Towel,” He demanded.

He sat in the deep tub, his dark hair damp and his broad chest bare above the water. You tore your eyes away and grabbed the towel from its rack. As you faced him, he stood and the water dripped down his body shamelessly. You unfolded the towel and held it up so that you could not see all of him.

“Well,” He waved you closer and snatched it from you.

He stepped out onto the bathmat and fanned the towel around his body. You looked away quickly and a soft chuckle escaped him as he secured the towel at his waist. He passed you, his wet arm touched your sleeve and he neared the mirror as he admired his freshly shaved face.

“Did you make the bed?” He asked.

You shook your head and turned to return to the bedroom.

“Wait,” He stopped you. “That’s ‘yes, sir’ or ‘no, sir’.”

“No, sir,” You said bitterly.

“Then you better get to it,” He rebuffed.

You swept through and moved the new sheets to the chair before you stripped the mattress. He leaned in the doorway as he watched you. You could feel him as you moved around the bed and stretched the cotton over the corners. You spread out the top sheet and replaced the quilt over top. You changed the pillowcases and fluffed them.

Done, you bundled up the old bedding in your arm. He went to the bed and dragged his fingers along the quilt. He grasped the blankets and tore them from the mattress.

“Tuck in the edges,” He said. “Now, fix your mistake.”

“Yes,” You gritted. “Sir.”

You dropped the old sheets in the chair once more and set to redoing your work. He stood at the foot of the bed and when you slipped past him, you felt a brush across your ass. You ignored it, content to think it was natural friction, and carried on. You could feel the heat of his gaze upon you and as you faced him, it was confirmed.

“Very nice,” He commented. “You learn… quickly.”

“Quicker than the others?” You asked. “Huh? How many have you bought? What did you do to them?”

“Oh, you’re mistaken,” He said. “I’m not a buyer, I’m a seller… but well, I decided to indulge myself last night.”

Your mouth was dry. You turned and grabbed the linen again. As you backed up, you were stopped by a figure behind you. His arm stretched out around you and he held his towel out. Slowly, he released it and it flapped to the floor.

“You don’t learn that quick though,” He mused as his hand settled on your shoulder. “You think I would spend that much money on a maid.” His fingers crawled along your neck. He gripped your jaw as he pressed himself against you. You felt the prod of his arousal through your skirt. “But it was fun to watch you try.”

“Why me?” You breathed as he gripped your arms and pulled them away from the laundry. The bundle fell to the chair and drooped down onto the floor.

“Because you’re the first to figure it out,” He answered.

“Please,” You begged weakly as he pulled your arms back and rolled his hips so that he poked you.

“Get on the chair.” He ordered.

Your breath caught in your throat. You stood staring at the yellow wallpaper with its golden lilies. You turned slightly and he caught you.

“No, don’t turn around.” His voice sent a shiver through you.

Your lip trembled and you lifted a knee, then the other. His hands ran up your arms and around your back. He shoved you so you caught yourself against the back of the chair. You tensed as his hands fell to your hips and over your ass.

He squeezed and stepped between your ankles so that his legs were against the seat. He ran his hands down your thighs and kneaded through the skirt. He reached the hem and slowly raised it an inch at a time. When it was higher than your stockings, your hand flew back to stop him.

He grabbed your wrist and twisted until you cried out.

“If you scream, there’s no one here who will care,” He snarled. “And they certainly won’t help you.”

He pushed your hand away and tore your skirt up over your ass. He slapped you so hard you yelped. You could feel the heat of his palm across your ass even after it was gone. He bunched your skirts around your waist and hummed in approval.

“You look nice in black,” He said, “Better out of it.”

You kept your eyes forward. You couldn’t have looked at him if you wanted. This man, this stranger, was touching you like no one had before. And he meant to do more. Because he owned you.

His hand snaked around your hip and down your pelvis. He tickled the hair there and slid lower. You tried to press your thighs together but your ankles hit his legs. He tutted and leaned against you.

“I’m being nice,” He warned. “I don’t have to be.”

You grabbed his hand and shoved it away. He struck your ass again as he stood straight. He grasped the back of your neck and pushed your head down against the back of the chair. Your fingers clutched at the cushion beside your face as he held you there.

“I told you last night,” He pinched your thigh. “I can be the worst fiend you’ve ever known.”

He pushed his knees up on the chair between yours. His fingers crawled around your hip again and along your pelvis. He pushed two down along your folds. He rubbed your bud with his middle finger as he spread your lips. He flicked and teased until your hips bucked.

“Not so bad…” He purred. “Am I?”

“Stop,” You begged as his grip tightened on your neck. “Why are you doing this?”

“I can’t just let you go,” He said. “That’d be a poor investment. Even you could see that.”

He dipped his finger inside of you and you inhaled sharply. He drew it in and out and added another. Your thighs shook and your fingers bent against the cushion.

“You don’t realize how fucking lucky you got,” He pushed his palm to your clit as he rocked his hand. “Those other men; old men, they’d fuck you for two seconds before they blew. Leave you there, unsatisfied, discarded. The girls never last long.”

He curled his fingers and moved his hand faster.

“The men get bored. Naturally, they’re greedy,” His nose tickled your ear as his breath glossed over your cheek. “Or maybe the girl gets pregnant. No good. Send her away. Don’t care where, just don’t want to hear about her ever again.”

He nuzzled your hair as your breaths grew laboured. You found it hard to resist the heat that radiated from his touch. You shook as you tried to force the ripples back down.

“So, you keep me happy, girl,” He sneered. “And you might just last.”

You squealed as you came. You were ashamed and astounded. You’d never felt so… much. Never felt anything so deeply. You quivered around his hand and he slowly drew away and wiped his wet fingers on your bunched up skirt.

He reached between your thighs and you felt his length rub against your ass. He teased you and dragged his fingers along your ass. He pressed his tip to your skin and guided it down. He squeezed your neck and you whimpered. He pushed against your entrance and paused.

“You’re not…” He began and thrust inside of you all at once. “Well, it doesn’t really matter.”

Your walls ached as he filled you. The pain was nothing compared to relief that washed over you. You hadn’t realized how much you longed for that feeling. His hand slid from your neck and he gripped your shoulder. His other went to your hip and he rocked his hips.

You grunted as he thrust. You wanted it to end but you also didn’t want him to stop. He was relentless and impatient. You expected little else from the steely man. You quaked as his pelvis slapped against your ass. The noise echoed off the corners of the room, interspersed with his low groans and you pathetic mewls.

He moved your body against his as he plunged deeper and deeper. He sped up, driven by your helpless moans as you clawed at the upholstered chair. You wanted to get away as much as you just wanted to grab onto something steady. You turned your head back and forth as your nerves flared. You shook and gasped as you came again.

“St-st-stop,” You pleaded. “Stop. It’s too--”

He slammed into you so hard you shrieked. He didn’t let up as he crushed you against the back of the chair. He snaked his hand up in front of you and groped your tit as his other arm wrapped around your neck. His thick muscle choked you as he pounded into you and the chair creaked dangerously. You trembled as the ripples washed over you and you skin tingled with the heat of the man behind you.

His thrusts turned sharp and furious. His arm tightened around your neck as he pulled his other hand back. He pushed into as far as he could, holding himself there for just a second each time. His heavy breaths were like hungry growls in your ear.

He pulled out of you suddenly and you felt his knuckles against your ass as they moved frantically. A warmth spurted along your lower back and his hand slowed.

He sighed and unhooked his arm from around your neck. He climbed off the chair and smacked your ass again. It stung so much you were certain there was already a bruise.

“Clean yourself up.” He demanded as he sat on the bed heavily. “Then take that damn dress off.”

#charles blackwood #dark!charles blackwood #charles blackwood x reader #dark charles blackwood #we have always lived in the castle #au #fic #one shot #dark fic #dark!fic #read the warnings

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mydrug-is-dragonage · 4 years ago

Text

Veda Adaar, Life after Bull

Victory. Triumph. Glory. Pride. What we usually feel when we win a battle. The quiet grief of cutting down lives, regardless of how worthy they are of death, but the warm joy, knowing we saved someone or something or everyone or everything from a grand or small evil.

Victory. We stood on the balcony, crowded together, together again for the first time in years. Thom and Sera, Divine Victoria’s watchful eyes, Cassandra and Varric’s constant disdainful flirting, Cole and Maryden’s quiet affection, Dorian and Vivienne both wine drunk trading insults, the quiet acknowledgement of a friendship that grew against both of their wills. Josephine and Cullen arguing, treating the terrace like battlements, more performative as they both know the end is closer than the beginning. Solas, our own personal god, long-gone into the eluvian. We’re all here, we’re all together. All of us, but Bull.

Triumph. The weeks have passed, a quick and effective rebuke from the Arishok, King Alistair and Empress Celene accept it quietly, no time for war with another battle floating above us in the air. Back at Skyhold, a skeleton crew, these days just Harding and me spend our time in the battle room, staring at maps; Leliana’s other protégés are always off on missions. Sera pops by every now and then to see Dagna with bees and trinkets and little things to remind me that she’s never really gone. The best day, or the worst depending on the audience, Sera and Dagna came up to my room, giggling, presented me with a crossbow for where my arm ought to be. “Widdle’s a wizard, yeah! You’ll be on rooftops sticking it to people too big for their breeches in no time!” I thanked them, and sent them away. This is love, at least for Sera. Her love is violence and showy maneuvers, dancing with both hands and feet shaking about.

Glory. Josephine writes me letters, telling me to eat, to ask Cullen to write back. After a few months, she finally pens, “I know I am no longer your formal ambassador, but as your informal friend I find it painful to admit what has been sung in the inns and halls. Bards have taken your loss and turned it into song. Unlike what Maryden had composed, these are unfortunately mocking in nature. People have taken the final act and written it as the whole narrative, my lady. A play premiered in Val Royeux putting you at the center of the conflict, as the one who allowed it to happen. If you desire, I can put an end to this. Divine Victoria recommended assassins, but I’ve temporarily dispelled her more primal desires. Likewise, Mr. Arainai also reached out, grateful for the assistance you had given him evading the Crows. I similarly told him no. Above all, regardless of what action we take, I want you to know I am sorry. You’ve lost much, suffered more than so many of us. I’m sorry, Veda. I love you.” It wasn’t unexpected, bards sing, playwrights write. They tell the tales people want to hear. Immortalizing betrayal has always turned them into legends.

Pride. A cold morning, one with little to be done, Charter and Rector off in Nevarra, the crows neither coming or going, Lace came into my room, “Sorry to bother you, V, we’ve got a vistor.”

“Avoidable?” I ask.

“What an impossibly rude question, darling.” I looked up from my desk and saw her horns pointing from the stairway.

“Oh, Vivienne, I wasn’t expecting you,” I said. I don’t stop the smile on my face. For all our differences, we’d become like sisters. On her best days, she’d fawn over me like a mother.

“That’s Grand Enchanter now, My Lady Inquisitor.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Lace said, excusing herself. I waited to hear the door close, then the other. Vivienne stood, graceful and stoic as ever. A few more moments of silence, then she broke into a smile. She took off her hat, placed it on the sofa, and walked towards me, arms splayed.

“Oh, my dear, how I’ve missed you!” I stood up, robes draping and hiding me.

I leaned into her hug, resting my head on hers. “Grand Enchanter, really Viv?”

“One must keep appearances, darling. Besides, imagine if Bull heard you call me…” She heard it as it left her mouth. “Oh, my sweet, I’m so sorry. While we should have anticipated his betrayal, I know the loss must weigh on you heavily.” She nestled further into my chest. I breathed out, for a moment just Veda, not the Inquisitor, not the betrayed lover, not the important person forced upon me. I was mortal, Vashoth, tall and strong and being hugged by someone who loved me enough to allow me to be small and weak. We settled onto the couch. I pulled my legs in front of me

“You know better than anyone. I remember, I was there when you lost Bastien.”

“And I was there when you lost the Iron Bull,” she sighed. “We are sisters in grief, as well as sisters in victory. We’re sisters in success, although your’s has had its struggles as of late. I assume the Divine told you of the bards?”

“Josephine.”

“The Nightingale sending a gentler songbird. Wise.”

“I assumed it would happen. Charter brought back the lyrics and playbook from what she considered the more consumable tales,” I said.

“They’re vile, darling. I offered the services of the Circle. The Divine declined. I assumed she had sent assassins.”

“No, I turned down the offers.”

“You’re losing political capital, my dear. If you want to return to the world, recruit who you need to defeat Solas, you’ll need allies. New allies, old allies. It will require quite the force and connections. You know you have the Circle, as much as we can politically sacrifice in this turbulent time,” she said.

“It isn’t the first thing on my mind, at the moment,” I said.

“And why not darling? If you choose to remain in obscurity at some point it will no longer be a choice.”

It’s spring, it is the last night at Skyhold before we leave for the Exalted Council. Cullen and Josephine have been up bickering most the evening, finally put to rest. I settle into my room, sitting at my desk, twiddling my pen. My bag is packed, the horses are ready. The door creaks open. I don’t look up, I can smell him from here. Even after a bath he smells like home, smoky and warm. “Hey, Kadan.”

“Hey,” I say, “they finished?”

“Well, Cullen is now arguing with Cabot which gave me enough time to get the serving girls to feed Josephine. She wanted to get back to bickering, but I asked her if the itinerary had been checked. So I think they’re fine for now.”

“They’re just worried about tomorrow, the coming weeks. It’s normal,” I say,

“You’re the one who grew up with humans. They worry too much, but it makes them easy to work with. Like clay.” I smile and look back down at my papers. “Enough work, Kadan. You can’t do anything more today.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Are you going to make me?” I smirk.

“Oh, is this what we’re doing?”

“Oh you didn’t know?” I laugh. “I thought you knew it all, everything I needed, Ben-Hassrath training, remember?” He smiles and walks towards me, I slide back in my seat and he scoops me up.

In bed, his heart pumps slow and heavy in his chest. I trace his body with my hands, his arm around me. Our horns rub against each other, small grooves from the years of lying here together. “Better?” He asks.

“What do you think?”

“I know. I just want to know if you know.” I lean up and kiss him.

“Yes, better.” He smells better when he’s sweaty. Something about those early days, seeing him tear through crowds, watching his arms lift and push those heavy swords and axes. Long before, when the Chargers still existed, when he wasn’t just my man, but their man.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

“I’m sorry, you know,” I say. For a moment, he’s silent, sitting in the grief.

“You made the right choice. You made the only choice. You led like a Qunari.”

“It shouldn’t have been my choice. I should have let you decide,” I say.

“No,” He says, clipped. “You are the Inquisitor. It was your decision, to keep the alliance or lose it. You made history. You stopped a batshit insane darkspawn from destroying the world.”

“I could have stopped him anyway,” I say.

“We don’t know that. The Tamassrans used to say, ‘When there are no right choices, the right decision is the one you make and the one you live with.’” I nestle into his chest.

“I’m happy the Qunari have kept you here.”

“Me too, Kadan.”

“I love you, Bull.” He pulls me closer into him. For a moment, I wonder if he’s crying.

“I don’t want you to be angry, Viv,” I said.

"Oh what now darling? First you go into solitude like a hermit, what’s next?” I put my legs down and pulled my robes back. “What’s this?” She looked, at first with curiosity, then her eyes widened. “Veda, oh Veda, are you?”

My eyes well, “Yeah, Viv. I am.”

She covers her mouth, the first time I’ve seen her truly shocked. “And is it…?” With that question, the tears fall. The heavy sobs wrack my chest and Vivienne crawls towards me, arms draped around my shoulders and I cry into her chest. “Oh darling, of course you’ve been distracted.” She rubs the back of my head, stroking my neck as I calm down. “Should I ask Harding for some tea? Juice? No wine, of course.” I shake my head. “Oh dear. Who all knows?”

I swallow and trap my tears in my chest. “So far you, Leliana, Thom, and Cassandra. Lace knows, and she’s kept questions from Charter and Rector to a minimum.”

“You haven’t told Josephine?”

“How could I? What could I possibly say, ‘Oh yes, enjoy your new career in Antiva! By the way, I’m carrying the betrayer’s child! Send my love to Yves and Yvette!’”

“I don’t think keeping it secret is much wiser, my dear. People will know, especially once the child is here. Do the Qunari know?” She asked.

“As far as Leliana’s sources know, no. Bull was loyal to the end, they had no reason to think he’d do this, especially when it hadn’t happened in the years before.”

“When did this happen?”

“Right before we left for the Exalted Council,” I said.

“Oh.”

“I know,” I said. “He must have known. I can’t decide if this was kindness or cruelty.”

“What’s that line he always said, darling? ‘When it’s a hostile target, you give them what they want. When it’s someone you care about, you give them what they need.’”

The tears well again. My hands slide to swollen belly. “It isn’t what I wanted. I had never even considered it. He was Qunari enough that I knew we’d never have a family.”

She reached a hand towards my belly, “May I?” I sniffed and nodded. She placed her hands on my stomach, on top of my own hands. “If this isn’t what you wanted, then it must have been what he thought you needed.”

“He couldn’t have known we’d win. He fought like he meant it. He struck me with his blade. He wasn’t fighting to lose.” The anger and grief mixed in my throat.

“He wasn’t, he never did, darling. But he knew you. He knew us. He knew you’d bring me and Cassandra. He knew what the Qunari could and couldn’t do. He believed in you, at the end. Just as he had at the beginning, my dear.” I took a hand from my belly and moved it to the outside of my horn, the groove still there from the years spent lying together.

“I’m not planning on bringing my child into the public life. We’ll have a few years, at least, presuming we aren’t all destroyed by Solas,” I said.

“Shh, no reason to worry about that right now, darling. We have today’s troubles and tomorrow’s troubles.” She sat back and blinked away her own tears. “I’ve never been an aunt before. I’ll of course send over a suite of clothes and supplies from Val Royeux.”

I wipe my eyes and smile, “Are you going to be an aunt or a Grandma’am?”

"Oh you miserable louse, how dare you?” She said, the tears finally pouring from her eyes.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #inquisitor #adaar x bull #iron bull #the iron bull #inquisitor x bull #da #dai #fanfic #dragon age adaar #bull x adaar #dragon age vivienne #madam de fer

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cecilspeaks · 5 years ago

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173 - The Hundred Year Play

Quoth the raven: [bird noises] Welcome to Night Vale.

Listeners, some exciting news from the world of theatre! The 100 year play is about to reach its final scene. Yes, this is the play that has been running continuously since 1920. Written by a brilliant playwright Hannah Hershman, designed to take exactly 100 years to perform. And the tireless volunteer of the Night Vale Players Playhouse have been going through those scenes, one after another, for decade upon decade. There’s little time to rehearse, for each hour brings new scenes and each scene will only be performed once the play moves on, in order to keep up with the tight schedule needed to execute the entire script before a century elapses.

It is a monumental work of theatre, but like all work, it must some day cease. Today, specifically. I will be in attendance at that historic moment, when the final scene is performed and the curtain closes on the 100 year play. More soon, but first the news.

We bring you the latest on the lawsuit “The estate of Franklin Chen vs. the city of Night Vale”. As you know, this case has grown so large and complicated that I’ve not had the time to discuss it in my usual community radio broadcasts. But instead, have started a true crime podcast called “Bloody Laws, Bloody Claws: The Murder of Frank Chen”, in which I strive to get to the truth of just what happened on that fateful night when five-headed dragon Hiram McDaniels met Frank Chen, and then later Frank Chen’s body was found covered in burns and claw marks. It’s a confounding mystery. The Sheriff’s Secret Police announce that it seems really complicated and they’re not even gonna try to solve that sucker. “Oh, what?” a Secret Police spokesman muttered at an earthworm he found in his garden. “You want us to fail? You wanna see us fail? That’s why you want us to investigate this case, to see us fail at it?” The family of Frank Chen say they merely want the appropriate parties, in this case the city of Night Vale, Hiram McDaniels and an omniscient conception of God, to take responsibility for their part in this tragedy. The trial is now in its 10th month, and has included spirited re-enactments of the supposed murder by helpful Players Playhouse performers in between their work on the 100 year play. 3 changes of judge and venue due to “some dragon attacks and constant interruptions from a local audio journalist, who hosts a widely respected true crime podcast”. Still, with all this, we near a verdict. Judge Chaplin has indicated she will issue her ruling soon. “Like in the next year or so?” she said. “Certainly within 5 years. Listen, I don’t owe you a verdict, just because you’re paying me to do a job, you can’t rush me to do it. The verdict will be done when. It’s. Done.” Chaplin then huffed out of the courtroom followed by journalists shouting recommendations for episodes of their podcast to listen to.

I was present, you know, on opening night of the 100 year play. Ah, how the theatre buzzed! Of course this was partly the audience, thrilled to be at the start of such an unprecedented work, but mostly – it was the insects. The Night Vale Players Playhouse had quite a pest problem at the time, and still does. It’s difficult to do pest control when there is a 100 year long play being performed on stage at every hour of every day. The curtain opened those many years ago on a simple set of a studio apartment, a kitchen, a cot, a window overlooking a brick wall. A man sits in the corner deep in thought. A doorbell rings. “Come in, it’s open,” the man says. A woman enters, flustered. She is holding a newborn. “There’s been a murder!” she says. “The victim was alone in a room, and all the doors and windows were locked. “My god!” the man says and springs up. “Who could have done this, and how?!” the woman tells him: “It turns out to be the gardener, Mr. Spreckle. He served with the victim in the war and never could forgive him for what happened there. He threw a venomous snake through an air vent.” The man sits back down, nodding. “Aah! So the mystery is solved.” As a playwright, Hannah Hershman did not believe in stringing up mysteries a second longer than was necessary. The baby in the woman’s arm stirs. “Shush, shush little one!” the woman says. The man looks out the window where he cannot see the sky. “It might look like rain,” he says. “Who knows?” Thus began a journey of 100 years.

And now a word from our sponsors. Today’s episode is sponsored by the Night Vale Medical Board, which would like to remind you that it is important to drink enough water throughout the day. Drink more water! Your body cannot function without water. Without water, you are just dust made animate. Water forms the squelching mud of sentience. Try to have at least ten big glasses of water. Not over the entire day, right now. See if you can get all ten of them down. Explore the capacity of your stomach. See if you can make it burst. You will either feel so much better, or an organ will explode and you will day painfully. And either one is more interesting than the mundane now. You should drink even more water than that. Wander out of your door, search the Earth for liquids. Find a lake and drain the entire thing, until the bottom feeders flop helplessly on the flatlands. Laugh slushingly as you look upon the destruction you have wrought. The power that you possess now that you are well hydrated. Move on from the lake and come to the shore of an ocean. All oceans are one ocean that we have arbitrarily categorized by language. The sea knows no separation, and neither will you when you lay belly down on the sand, put your lips against the waves and guzzle the ocean. The ocean is salty. It will not be very hydrating, so you’ll need to drink a lot of it. Keep going until the tower tops of Atlantis see sky again for the first time in centuries, until the strange glowing creatures of the deep-deep are exposed, splayed out from their bodies now that they no longer have the immense pressure of the ocean depths to keep their structure intact. And once you have drunk the oceans, turn your eyes to the stars. For there is water out there too, and you must suck dry the universe. This has been a message from the Night Vale Medical Board.

20 years passed without me thinking about the 100 year play. You know how it is. One day you’re an intern at the local radio station doing all the normal errands like getting coffee and painting pentacles upon Station Management doors as part of the ritual of the slumbering ancients. Then 20 years passes and everything is different for you. Your boss is gone and now you are a host of the community radio station, and there are so many new responsibilities and worries and lucid nightmares in which you explore a broken landscape of colossal ruins. So with all of that, I just kind of forgot the 100 year play was happening. But they were toiling away in there, doing scenes around the clock, building and tearing down sets at a frantic pace, trying to keep up with the script that relentlessly went on, page after page. And sometimes one of the people working on the play would wonder: how does this all end? But before they could flip ahead and look, there would be another scene that had to be performed and they wouldn’t have a chance. So no one knew how it ended. No one except Hannah Hershman, the mysterious author of this centennial play.

Soon after becoming radio host, during the reading of a Community Calendar, I was reminded that the play was still going on, and so decided to check in. I put on my best tux, you know it’s the one with the scales and the confetti canon. And then took myself to a night at the theatre. I can’t say what happened in the plot since that first scene, but certainly much had transpired. We were now in a space colony thousands of years from now, and the set was simple, just some sleek chairs and a black backdrop dotted with white stars of paint. A woman was giving a monologue about the distance she felt between the planet she was born on, which I believe was supposed to be Earth, and the planet she now stood on. I understood from what she was saying that the trip she had taken to this planet was one way, and that she would never return to the place she was born. “We… are… all of us… moved… by time,” she whispered in a cracked, hoarse voice. “Not… one of us dies… in the world… we were born into.” Sitting in my seat in that darkened theatre, I knew two facts with certainty. The first was that this woman had been giving a monologue for several days now. She wavered on her feet, speaking the entire four hours that I was there. And I don’t know how much longer she spoke after I left, but it could have been weeks. She was pale and her voice was barely audible, but there was something transfixing about it, and the audience sat in perfect silence, leaning forward to hear her words. The other fact I understood was that this woman was the newborn from the very first scene. Not just the same character, but the same actor. 20 years later, she was still on that stage, still portraying the life to the child we had been introduced to in the opening lines. She was an extraordinary performer, presumably, having had a literal lifetime of practice. And that was the last time I saw the play, until tonight, when I will go to watch the final scene.

But first, let’s have a look at that Community Calendar. Tonight the school board is meeting to discuss the issues of school lunches. It seems that some in power argue that it isn’t enough that for some reason we charge the kids actual money for these lunches. They argue that the students should also be required to give devotion and worship to a great glowing cloud, whose benevolent power will fill their lives with purpose. Due to new privacy rules, we cannot say which member of the school board made this suggestion. The board will be taking public comment in a small flimsy wooden booth out by the highway. Just enter the damp, dark interior and whisper your comment, and it will be heard. Perhaps not by the school board, but certainly by something.

Tuesday morning, Lee Marvin will be offering free acting classes at the rec center. The class is entitled “Acting is just lying. We’ll teach you how acting is just saying things that aren’t true, with emotions you don’t feel, so that you may fool those watching with these mistruths.” Fortunately, Marvin commented: “Most people don’t want to be told the truth and prefer the quiet comfort of a lie well told.” Classes are pay what you want, starting at 10,000 dollars.

Thursday Josh Crayton will be taking the form of a waterfall in Grove Park, so that neighborhood kids may swim in him. There is not a lot of swimming opportunities in a town as dry as Night Vale, and so this is a generous move on Josh’s part. He has promised that he has been working on the form and has added a water slide and a sunbathing deck. He asks that everyone swim safely and please not leave any trash on him.

Friday, the corn field will appear in the middle of town, right where it does each September, as the air turns cooler and the sky in the west takes on a certain shade of green. The corn field emanates a power electric and awful. Please, do not go into the corn field, as we don’t know what lives in there or what it wants. The City Council would like to remind you that the corn field is perfectly safe. It is perfect and it is safe.

Finally, Saturday never happened. Not if you know what’s good for you. Got it? This has been the Community Calendar.

Oh! Look at the time. Here I am blathering on and the play is about to end. OK, let me grab my new mini recorder that Carlos got me for my birthday. It’s only 35 pounds and the antenna is a highly reasonable 7 feet. And I’ll see you all there.

Ah. What’s the weather like for my commute?

[Shallow Eyes” by Brad Bensko. https://www.bradbenskomusic.com/]

Carlos and I are at the theatre! The audience is a buzz, with excitement yes, but also many of them are the insects that infest this theatre. The bugs became entranced by the story over the years, passing down through brief generation after brief generation, the history of all that happened before. The story of the play became something of a religion to this creepy crawly civilization. And so now the bugs are jittering on the walls, thrilled to be the generation that gets to see the end of this great tale.

The curtain rises on a scene I recognize well. It is the simple set of a studio apartment. A kitchen, a cot, a window overlooking a brick wall. A man sits in the corner deep in thought. A doorbell rings. “Come on, it’s open,” the man calls. A woman enters. She is very old, tottering unsteadily on legs that have carried for her many many years. “Please take my seat,” the man says with genuine concern. “Thank you,” she says, collapsing with relief onto the cushions and then looking out, as if for the first time, noticing the audience. I know this woman. I first saw her as a baby and later as a 20-year-old. It seems she has lived her whole life on this stage, taking part in this play. “My name,” the woman says, “is Hannah Hershman. I was born in this theatre, clutching a script in my arms that was bigger than I was. My twin, in a way. I started acting in that script of mine before I was even aware of the world. I grew up in that script, lived my entire life in the play I had written from infancy to now.” And she rises, and the man reaches out to help, but she waves him away. She speaks, her- her voice is strong, ringing out through the theatre. “The play ends with my death, because the play is my life. It is bounded by the same hours and minutes that I am.” the audience is rapt, many have tears in their eyes. Even the insects weep. “Thank you for these hundred years,” Hannah Hershman says. “This script is complete.” She walks to the window. “It might look like rain,” she says. “Who knows?” The lights dim.

Thunderous applause, cries of acclaim, and Hannah Hershman dies to the best possible sound a person can hear: concrete evidence of the good they have done in the lives of other humans.

Stay tuned next for the second ever Night Vale Players Playhouse production, now that they finally finished this one. They’re going to do “Godspell”. And from the script of a life I have not yet finished performing, Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Many are called, but few are chosen. And fewer still pick up. Because most calls are spam these days.

#welcome to night vale #welcome to night vale transcripts #episode 173 #the hundred year play

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boneswriteswords · 5 years ago

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I Like The Way You Move - Leonardo

A/N: This was something that started as a self-insert Mikey fuck but turned into a dom-ish Leo moment and I’m not sorry. (No that’s a lie, I am sorry that I never got my self-insert Mikey fuck)

Enjoy. Or not. IDC man, you control whether you read it or not.

Its smut.

Pairing: Leonardo x reader

Word: ~3100

You hitch your backpack so its sturdier on your shoulder as you approach the building your studio was renting space in, sending a quick text to Leo that you made it safe.

Not that you needed to. You knew he was watching you. Ever since you and him tipped into the 'we aren't together but we actually kind of are because I don't have eyes for anyone but you but neither of us have made an actual move yet because this is kind of like foreplay and its exciting' territory, you could feel his eyes on you everywhere you went. At home. At the gym. At your favorite shops. At the park. At work.

Everywhere.

And he was there as you weaved in and out of the people in the city as they rushed to get wherever they were going, watching as you slipped the key into the lock and went inside. Watching as you entered the fifth story room and waited for the other dancers to arrive.

He was always watching.

Guarding. Protecting. Treasuring.

You have never felt more safe in your life.

Even the rowdy construction men who hooted and whistled like the pigs they are whenever you passed by the construction zones down the block from the studio didn't register as a threat to you anymore, despite being triple your size and aggressive.

Leo was bigger. Leo was stronger. Leo would never let them harm you.

You sighed dreamily, feeling the stirrings of arousal pool low in your abdomen as you thought about him.

How he'd grip you tight against him to pull you from those who would try and take you from him. How his body would shield yours as he tore the hands off anyone who'd even think to touch you without permission. How he'd carry you away and check you over thoroughly to make sure you were unharmed....

The door opened, ripping you from your daydream, and Mila walked in, smiling at you and tossing her bag near yours. You made polite conversation until the rest of the students and Mr. Parker arrived, doing everything you can to try to ignore the wetness in your panties.

"Y/N," Mr. Parker calls once class is finished, motioning you over in the universally recognized signal for 'I need to speak to you.' You pull your baby blue sweater on - something you deliberately picked because you knew Leo would feel some type of way about seeing you in it - over your bodysuit and make your way over to him, making sure you are directly in front of the window.

"Yes?" you ask, tilting your head to side.

"I just wanted to congratulate you again on all your hard work," he smiled, green eyes squinting, "You are one of the most talented dancers I have ever taught and you deserve the role of Ella."

You beam under the praise, "Thank you sir. It means a lot."

"But," he exclaimed abruptly, "make sure you practice! You may be the perfect dancer but Ella is a powerful woman. Fierce! Confident! Sensual! She is more than just perfect landings and pirouettes! Her soul is one with her body!"

You promise, unable to keep the grin from your face. You had been cast as the lead character - Ella - in an new play created by a well-known playwright and it felt like all your hard work over the last few years was finally getting you some where as a professional dancer.

Mr. Parker rolls his eyes fondly as he ushered you out, "Bright and early tomorrow Y/N."

And you do come in bright and early. So early in fact, that it isn't even bright out and Leonardo hadn't even finished his patrol before you had left your apartment and there is no one at the studio and there wouldn't be for hours.

Which he wasn't too happy about but you couldn't be bothered to care when his message suggested your 'punishment' would not necessarily be something you wouldn't like. He kept it as vague as he possible could but the undertone of arousal and promises had you aching for the rest of the day.

Still, despite the wetness between your legs, you eventually manage to channel Ella in all her sensual glory. You can feel her energy, her passion, her elegance streamline into your very veins as you go through the routines. She envelopes you, guiding you until you are no longer alone in your body and you can feel her as deeply as you can feel yourself. There is a buzzing under your skin where she has settled and you feel warm all over.

You end the final routine with your knees splayed and head tossed back, forming an arc with your spine, gaze resting on a blank bit of ceiling as you try to regulate your breathing back to normal. There is sweat dripping down your body, sticking your bodysuit even closer to your skin.

So far gone into your head space as you were, you almost didn't realize that you were being applauded.

But when you did, you jumped, terrified. No one was supposed to be in the studio aside from you. You snap your head around, scrambling into a less vulnerable position off the hardwood floor, eyes zeroing on the intruder.

Leo's eyes are dangerously dark as he leans against the wall by the door, strong arms folded over his hard chest. His makeshift armor was gone but his weapons were placed on one of the chairs in the corner, suggesting he had been watching for a while.

"Leo!?" you question, voice no more than a whisper. He smirks, straightening up and making his way over to you until he was standing in front of you, blue eyes looking into yours.

The Ella inside of you nudges to the front of your brain, whispering 'Get closer.'

"What-what are you doing here?" you ask, leaning in to him a bit before you overthought it.

"I saw you through the window," he purred, "I wanted a closer look."

"O-oh."

He tilted his head down and for a brief moment you thought he was finally going to make the move. The move that will transform the current state of your relationship with him into the one that you both wanted.

"Keep going, lovely. I want to see it again," he murmurs, the faintest touch of his lips on yours as he does and your breath stutters, a whine bubbling and dying in your throat. You loved being called soft, feminine nicknames - it made you feel womanly and perfect and beautiful - and the timber of his voice molding around the world did wonderful things for you. His dark eyes roam over your face, licking his lips, before stepping back and taking his place by the back wall.

You turn back to the giant mirror, taking in your wanton appearance, the very visceral, physical effect he has on you obvious, and take a few deep breaths before calling Ella back to the forefront.

You start the routine over from the beginning, determined to give Leo a show. You ease into it like you would if you were alone. You were used to him watching you and the proximity of where he was didn't change how you felt about it. Besides, Ella was powerful and self-assured. She knew what she wanted and she takes it without hesitation.

With her at the helm, you felt like, maybe, you could too.

Landing on the bar after a high jump that has your thighs burning, you break the silence. "I like when you call me lovely. And sweetheart. And a good girl." You can see him in the reflection in the giant mirror, watching you shamelessly, and your body hums in pleasure.

His eyes narrow, smirk widening, "Do you now?"

"I do," you choke out, an admission, but suddenly Ella is gone and its just you now. The confidence is gone but its too late to take it back. Leo is on his feet and crowding you again, a hair's breath away and smelling way too good for it to be natural. He smells like man and strength and slowly dissolving restraint and you want to bury yourself in him.

"You like when I call you a good girl," he repeats calmly, eyeing the way your body is perched on the bar and putting his hands on your hips, "Then I guess you wouldn't mind is I called you 'my good girl' hmm? You want to be my good girl, lovely?"

A whimper rips from your lips before you can stop it and you nod desperately, no longer caring about anything aside from his hands on your body. He runs them over your legs before skirting back upwards and over your nipples through the bodysuit. Electricity fires through you at the touch, pushing back into his hands as he flits them over again.

"You like it when I touch you sweetheart?" he coos, catching you as you buckle, keeping you from collapsing onto the floor.

"Yes," you whine as he hoists you up like you weight nothing. With his mutant strength, you probably don't and the possibilities that the image of him holding you up invokes sends a thrill down your spine. He hums darkly, setting you on the ground, moving your hands to his shoulder to brace yourself so he could wiggle the bottom half of your bodysuit and leggings down.

A flash of insecurity floods over you as he tosses your clothes off to the side and grips you so your body is flush against his, fingers dancing along the edges of your soaked panties. Leo's face is set in stone, stoic aside from the darkness flashing in his eyes, and you worry that your body isn't what he wants. Maybe he doesn't like what he sees?

"I always new you were pretty, lovely," he grumbles, his fingers flexing and pulling at your body, encouraging you to press into him and grind into him. You could feel the bulge in his pants pressing into your mound and you try not to buck into it. "But this - you naked and needy and dripping - is so much prettier than I was ready for."

"I don't- I-I" you gasp as his hand trails down your back and grips your butt, spreading your cheeks wide and kneading the flesh.

"I'm a lucky turtle," he growls, voice somehow deeper and darker than before, "I see the way people look at you, princess. I see the way they move closer to you to get a better look or catch a whiff of your perfume. I see them watch you as you walk by, saying crude things about your body, your mouth. I see them want you. But they can't have you, can they?"

It takes you a minute to realize he wasn't asking a rhetorical question. "N-no Leo."

He hums approvingly, "And why is that honey?"

"B-because I'm your good girl?"

"That's right lovely. You are MY good girl. And you wouldn't look at any of them twice. Not when you have me at your beck and call. Not when you know I'll come running to you."

The impromptu confession of his devotion sent your skin buzzing and you could feel yourself calming down, the edge of desperation softening into a dull throb. This was more than sex. This was more than a game. This was a real connection bleeding into a different form of intimacy. He found you desirable but it ran deeper than lust.

A low rumbling churr vibrates under Leo's plastron once he focuses on your lace panties - dark blue and soaked even darker. Leo's large hand cups your face and you nuzzle into the comfort of it. The turtle's fingers are strong and thick as he pulls you to him so his lips could meet yours. His tongue wastes no time in forcing its way into your mouth, leaving you breathless as desire coursed through you. It was everything you had imagined but nothing at all at the same time.

"Princess," he murmurs against your mouth, "so sweet."

The praise envelops you like an aphrodisiac. Leo's fingers trace the edge of the lace before moving down, taking two fingers and swiping across your soaked entrance over the soaked fabric. Little sparks danced across your clit at the touch and you tried to grind down into his hand, whimpering when he pulled his hand away.

"So wet baby," he groaned, kissing you again hungrily, "Want me to touch you? Stroke your pretty little clit and stretch you nice and wide for me?

You nod, almost mad in your lust, bucking into his hand, "Please Leo. Want you. Want you so much. Don't make me wait." You are rewarded with another bruising kiss.

He removes one of his hands from your body to untie his pants and drop them onto the floor. His cock is huge, bigger than anyone you'd ever seen before, and dark with blood. You always pictured him to be proportional to the rest of his body but the reality surpassed all your fantasies thus far. He was going to be so big inside you -the stretch...

"I've thought about this princess," Leo murmurs, dark blue eyes fixed on your face again as he kicks his pants away from him and moving closer again. You could feel his cock against your belly, smearing precum on your skin. "Thought about how you'd look. How you'd feel. Hot and tight and mine. How'd you taste. Have you thought about me? Have you thought about me when you touch yourself at night? When you stick your pretty little fingers in your pretty little pussy?"

Shaking, you grip onto his arms to steady yourself and nod, "Yes, Leo." His fingers edge underneath the panties and slid them off you and you launch yourself forward into his arms, burying your face into his neck and clinging to him. You spread your legs, dripping as he teases your clit with his finger before tentatively testing the give of your entrance.

A load groan erupts from his mouth when it slips right in to the first knuckle and you clench around him, trying to pull it in further.

"Oh my lovely girl," he sighs, claiming your mouth in another kiss as you whimper and buck in his grip. "So good for me. All wet and wanting. I'm going to stretch you out nice and good."

"Please," you whisper, head tilted back as he moves down your neck, biting and nibbling licking as his finger slides deeper inside of you. He drags you right to the edge of an orgasm before pulling his finger free, grinning at the long winded whine it drew from you.

"Uh uh my good girl," he shushed, "You will come on my cock or not at all. Do you understand? Do you want to keep being my good girl?"

"I want to be your good girl, Leo please," you whine, canting forward to kiss him again. You could feel yourself being lifted, large green hands guiding your legs to wrap your legs around his waist so he is the only thing holding you up. The head of his cock nudged against your entrance as he hovers you above it and you try to cant down onto it, needy and wanting.

He pulls away from your mouth, panting, "Tell me I can."

Arousal made you slow and stupid so it took longer than it should have for you to understand what he meant. When you did, you trembled and nodded, pleas falling from your lips like a mantra.

Leo smirks, adjusting you in his grip before lowering you down, pushing the bulbous head of his cock into you. You fall against him again, licking and kissing his neck and shoulders as he lowered you down slowly, his cock sliding in inch by inch until you were stuffed full.

The stretch was so good. You feel so good.

Leo swears under his breath, nothing more than a growling whisper of words as you clench around him. He can feel you expanding around him, convulsing as you adjust to his size and grinding down to gain desperately sought friction.

Lifting you up, he adjusts his stance a bit for better leverage before gripping your waist hard and slamming you back down on him, praising you as he does. He's panting, breath ghosting over your slick skin as he lifts you up and down, impaling you over and over again like a rag doll. His lovely little fuck toy.

There are actual tears in your eyes from how wonderful it feels to finally be joined with him. Months of teasing and playing and flirting culminating into this desperate, passionate act of mutual adoration. You had waited so long for him.

"Oh baby girl. I'll never make you wait again." Had you said that out loud? As much as you wanted to be embarrassed, you couldn't be - not with the way he was thrusting inside you, hitting your special spot, and kissing your face and mouth.

"Feels - feels," you moan, breath hitching as sweat drips down your face and back.

"How does it feel lovely? Tell me."

"Feels so - so good. Leo. Leo! Leoleoleo!" You cry as you cum, writhing against Leo's plastron as he fucks you through it, hand slipping down to toy with your oversensitive clit. White lights dance behind your vision and you arch into the touch at the pain.

And oh, he likes that.

"Oh," Leo growls, sparks of fire dancing behind his eyes, "I'm going to enjoy you."

You preen, limp in his arms, and his pace builds until hes slamming into you brutally. When he cums, its deep inside you, burying his load and filling you up. A grunt forces his way out of him and you squeeze as much as you can around him, fucking him through it like he did for you.

You were always big on reciprocity.

You slump together onto the floor in a tangle of sweaty and sore body parts, enjoying the high as it ebbs between you both. He gently pulls out of you and you whimper at the loss and the feel of his seed trickling out of you.

Minutes tick by in silence before you open your eyes and stare into his. He's watching you intently, trying to gauge your reactions. He wants to know how you feel, how you are taking this new change in dynamic, if its something you want long term now that the game is over. He wants to know if you are his.

You smile, keeping your expression soft as you reach out for him again.

A beat and his smile presses against yours.

~~~~

End

~~~~

#tmnt imagine #leonardo #leonardo imagine #tmnt #tmnt 2 #My writing #teenage mutant ninja turtles #lemon

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currywaifu · 5 years ago

Text

𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: should we rest for a little longer? 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩: minagi tsuzuru/reader 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: sfw 𝐰𝐜: 2.7k words

𝐚𝐧: i just want to take care of this tired boy

He was asleep again.

“And you’re being a creep again,” Your friend nudges you, and you nudge him back with a vengeance. You peel your eyes away from the sleeping brunet to frown at the boy beside you.

“I’m not being a creep. I’m just… concerned, I guess.” As soon as the words leave your lips you find yourself cringing a bit. It sounded off, almost like you pitied him. If anything, the right way to phrase it probably would have been-

“I kid, I kid,” your friend raises both of his hands, almost defensive, “it’s because you’re a fan of his, right?”

Your lips purse at the suggestion, neither offended nor angry but not very pleased either.

“I suppose,” you say, eyeing the professor that entered the room.

Fan. That sounded wrong too, despite being the truth. You have watched all of Mankai Company’s plays, ever since your little sister dragged you to one since the boy she liked was playing one of the leads.

“Ahh, so cute!” Your sister was shaking you for what might have been the nth time that night, but you weren’t so focused on Romeo as you were Mercutio.

When you saw a familiar face standing on stage beside the pink-haired boy, you were rather surprised. You couldn’t pretend you knew him, but you did see him here and there on campus. You might have even shared a class together and you just never noticed.

You didn’t peg him for an actor.

Curiouser and curiouser.

You checked the website where you booked your tickets again.

Minagi Tsuzuru, Scriptwriter

Interesting.

Somehow, even though he wasn’t in the next play, you found yourself watching more and more. You’d swear up and down that as a theatre fan, you wanted to support deserving local productions; while not exactly false, it was hard to deny your admiration for Tsuzuru’s scriptwriting.

An almost inaudible yawn breaks your reverie and your eyes settle on the familiar green of his jacket. Did the professor just not care? Well, perhaps it was for the better. He probably needed a nap, more than a nap if you were honest.

“Lend me a highlighter real quick,” your friend whispers.

When you pass him the marker, its bright turquoise hue brings you back to your original thoughts.

Were you really just worried because you were a fan of his?

The next time you see Tsuzuru is at a cafe that had ‘the best hot chocolate ever!’, or so your little sister proclaimed.

“Eh? You’re Mercutio, right?”

Specifically, at a cafe where Tsuzuru was currently working at.

Do you let your sister do the talking? You don’t wanna disturb him at work or anything. Besides, it’s not as if you’ve ever talked to him, so other than telling him your order there really wasn’t much else to say.

“… really likes your scripts!”

“Ah, really? Please keep supporting us, I’ll make sure to keep improving!”

The corners of Tsuzuru’s eyes were crinkling as the corners of his mouth slid upwards.

Eh? Why was this boy suddenly giving you an angelic smile? What happened when you spaced out? Wait, didn’t your little brat of a sister mention something about scripts?

“Ah, yes, I’ll keep watching your plays!” You smiled quickly, lightly kicking the younger girl’s feet from beneath the table. Did you say anything to her about your admiration for Tsuzuru or something, or did she suddenly get observant?

She was lucky you weren’t so petty or you would have outed her crush on Sakuya to his troupe mate then and there.

“Oh, by the way,” you begin to lower your volume to be sure, “is the hot chocolate really that good?”

A small chuckle barely escaped his lips before he shrugged, positioning his clipboard to take down your orders. “You have to try it to find out.”

“Then two hot chocolates, and a strawberry creme crepe for me.”

“Chocolate covered banana pancakes, please!”

As he took down your orders, you caught a glimpse of the dark circles under his eyes. He seemed to be fine when he was talking to the two of you, but a part-time job along with university and theatre probably took a lot out of his energy.

“Eh, isn’t this-“

“Don’t say anything.”

So when you ended up with a chocolate-drizzled banana creme crepe and your sister got strawberry topped chocolate pancakes, you let it slide. The hot chocolate was actually pretty good.

You were only supposed to borrow a reference book for one of your classes, take down some notes, and then scramble home.

So what were you doing?

You wanted to sit somewhere further down the library where it was quieter when you stumbled upon Minagi Tsuzuru, fast asleep with several papers scattered haphazardly on the desk.

The two of you weren’t close or anything, but you wanted to encourage him somehow. Sometimes sleepless nights were really necessary, you’d be a hypocrite to vouch against them, but you wanted to tell him to persevere somehow.

You set your bag down on an empty chair, bringing out a green sticky note pad and a ballpoint pen.

...

When Tsuzuru wakes up it’s from Juza lightly, well as lightly as Juza could, nudging him awake. He waits for his eyes to adjust to his surroundings, wondering how long he’s been asleep. The first thing he spots is Juza’s purple tupperware, wildly contrasting the off-whites and blacks and browns his things usually were.

The second thing he notices is a green sticky note stuck on one of his notebooks.

Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise!

Les Miserables, a line from the finale song if he remembered right.

No name or hint from who could have given it.

He found himself humming the song on the way home.

“This presentation will be a paired work activity… and as usual, I’ll be pairing you up.” Several people groaned audibly, while two girls whispered excitedly behind you.

“I wonder if she’ll couple me up with someone?”

“Ahh, I hope I get coupled up with…”

Seriously, coupled up? Since when were you all Love Island contestants?

You knew this professor was highly acclaimed to be some kind of “yosei of love” or matchmaker or whatever, but weren’t they expecting too much out of her?

“This is a class, not a mixer,” your friend began to say, “is probably what you’re thinking right now. Am I wrong?” He looked awfully smug and you couldn’t resist rolling your eyes.

“More along the lines of ‘this isn’t a reality tv show’, but that works too.”

“Prude.”

“Should you really be insulting me? Prof is probably gonna pair us up again and I’d be stuck with you for a whole week.”

“What’s wrong with that? We became friends precisely because she thought we’d look good together. Of course, it didn’t work out, unless?” He started wiggling his eyebrows and you smacked his arm.

“Dumbass. Well, she’s probably hoping we’re some kind of slow-burn pair and keep us partners,” you predicted. Somehow his smugness increased tenfold, looking as sly as a fox.

When the professor calls your name you perk up, head-turning to her. Even seated three rows away from her you could see her eyes sparkling with mirth.

“Please pair up with Minagi Tsuzuru.”

Your eyes immediately sought for the familiar figure in front of you, until you felt a soft tap on your shoulder from behind you.

He greeted you by your surname, a small smile on settled on his face. “Looks like we’re partners. I didn’t know we had a class together.”

“Ah, yeah, it’s nice seeing you again.” You reply, discretely reaching over to your ears as if to hide them.

“Right!” The two of you looked over to your friend as he clapped his hands together, “Looks like I just got called! Take care of my babe, Tsuzuru!” You were so, so close to slamming your face on the wooden desk, instead deciding to shoo him away with the motion of your hand.

Turning back to Tsuzuru, you give him an awkward laugh. “Don’t mind him, Minagi-san. He acts dumb, but at least he’s consistent.”

He stands up, shuffling his things and for a moment you forget that he’s actually pretty tall. Transferring to the seat beside you, he shakes his head. “If you think that’s bad, wait until you see what I have to deal with.”

“7 younger brothers, and 2 honorary younger brothers that I had and have to deal with on the daily.” Despite his visible tiredness, his tone suggested that he didn’t mind having to look over them so much.

“I only have my little sister, but she’s as much of a pain as she is cute.” Your eyes lock with turquoise, and both of you simultaneously release a sound between a sigh and a laugh.

“Older sibling night hours?” You offer.

He lets out an appreciative hum, “More like older sibling noon hours, really.”

It’s been two hours since you’ve gotten up from your chair. It’s not that you don’t like Tsuzuru’s company, far from it actually, but your back was starting to hurt and you were getting real fidgety. You needed a walk.

“Minagi-san, do you mind if I get something to drink?”

“Not at all, we’ve been at this for a while.” At his signal, you stood up from your chair and fished through your bag for your wallet.

Pausing, you turn back to look at him for a couple of seconds. He was typing furiously fast, but his eyes were droopy and lidded. If you asked him if he wanted anything he’d probably say no, but that didn’t mean you weren’t gonna try giving him something. He mentioned not having a least favourite food, so coffee milk would probably do, right?

Tsuzuru’s eyes tear away from his laptop, catching you staring at him. Before he could ask if something was wrong, your body suddenly tensed before dashing off.

He sighed, letting his eyes rest for a bit while you were still out. He barely got any sleep last night, and the light emitted by the screen was starting to make his retinas burn. Despite his drowsiness, he manages to let out a small huff to mask his growing smile.

Your ears were red again.

...

Discretely hiding the milk cartons as you re-entered the library, you jokingly wondered if Mankai Company’s playwright would be asleep on a library table again.

“No way,” you murmured in disbelief, setting the cartons on the desk the two of you occupied. There was neither the click-clack of his keyboard nor swift ASMR scribbling on his notebook. Hadn’t you only been gone for 5 minutes?

You debated waking him up for a moment, maybe even teasing him for immediately falling asleep as soon as you left. Maybe you’d press the cold drink next to his cheek to shock him.

You do none of those, and let him sleep for as long as possible. He said he didn’t have any work for the evening so no harm, no foul right?

Unzipping your pencil case, you spot your trademark green sticky notes. You had thought about giving him another note again but never found the opportunity to until today. Of course, if you wrote one now he’d definitely know it was you.

It was sorta embarrassing, but you didn’t mind him knowing.

Ah, but you didn’t really want him to see it while you were in front of him?

“Let me just,” muttering to yourself, you hid the sticky note in one his jacket’s pockets. He shifted slightly, causing your heart to stop for a moment.

Don’t wake up, don’t wake up…

When his eyes don’t flutter open, you let out an audible sigh. Well, whether the brunet was asleep or not you still had work to do.

30 minutes pass when the actor finally woke up. He’s still a little dazed and thoughts still a little muddled when he sees you out like a light in front of him.

Maybe, as he’s walking back home, the humiliation and shame of falling asleep while waiting for you would hit him;

but right now he’s focused on the golden rays of the setting sun hitting your gentle, sleeping features and he’s absolutely entranced. Tiny sighs, soft breathing, a picture of peacefulness.

Seriously, Tsuzuru? Just because you like his scripts. Just because you had your similarities. Just because you had a serene sleeping face. Just because your ears turned red around him and was he allowed to hope?

Did you even see him for more than just Tsuzuru the Mankai Company Playwright? Tsuzuru the actor? Tsuzuru who’s in a class with you?

Last month, he thought of you as a sincere fan. Last week, he thought of you as his cute partner.

And what about now? His mind couldn’t supply him an answer right away, but that was okay. There was time for that tomorrow, and the days and weeks after.

His hand extends forward to pet your head when your eyes blink open and lock with his own.

“Minagi-san?”

He thaws himself out of his frozen stupor and quickly moves to take his hand back. Unexpectedly, you reach your own out to keep it in place.

What were you doing?

“Were you going to…” You trailed off, and by the way your eyes averted from his gaze he could tell you were too embarrassed to finish the question.

“Yeah,” he replied quietly, “Sorry.”

For a few beats, only silence was exchanged between the two of you; then you spoke up again.

“I don’t mind,” some more beats, “you can, you know.”

There are questions left unsaid, but instead, he lowers his palm down slowly, hovering with a bit of hesitance left.

“If it’s you,” you start, “it’s okay.”

“Okay.”

His fingers glide over the soft strands and begin caressing the top of your head.

The concept of time itself didn’t seem to exist as both of you soaked in each other’s quietude. When was the last time he felt all his worries didn’t exist? That he wasn’t constantly worrying about his family, or finances, or university, or scripts.

“Minagi-san,” you began, tone still soft as though not to ruin the atmosphere they created. “It’s important to get some rest too, okay? I worry… I don’t want your health to suffer, so please take care of yourself.”

A rush of endearment overcomes him and if you paid an ounce of attention to his fingertips brushing against your cheeks as he played with your hair, you don’t mention it. He whispers your first name and watches as his index paints a peach across your skin. Your lips part and the palpitations in his heart increase at a pace that can’t be normal.

“I can’t pretend to know, offer to carry your burdens,” you pause, placing your hands atop of his free one, “but if for a while I could relieve you of your stresses, I’d like to stay by your side.”

Oh.

He moved his hand from beneath yours and interlocked your digits together. “Then take care of yourself too.”

When you looked like you were about to protest in confusion he squeezed the palm of your hand lightly, drawing circles on them with his thumb.

“Alright, I promise,” you whispered.

A dozen or so seconds of nothing but tranquility passes when Tsuzuru breaks the silence. “Should we rest for a little longer?”

His eyes have a teasing glint to them, a look rare on the brunet, and something else you can’t describe other than it makes your heart skip a beat.

“We should be heading home now,” you said, almost regretfully, “but our project still isn’t done, so…”

An oath of next time.

It really wasn’t any of Masumi’s business, but wasn’t Tsuzuru in a particularly good mood tonight? The younger boy had no plans to be nosy, but it was getting weird. What if he was planning something with the director? He had to make sure he wouldn’t get in the way.

Quietly, he peered over Tsuzuru’s shoulder to look at the green paper the college student has been staring at for the past five minutes.

I’ve heard it said that people come into our lives for a reason, bringing something we must learn, and we are led to those who help us most to grow.

Oh, wasn’t this from one of the musicals the director liked? The dark-haired boy didn’t know how to interpret it, but if it meant he wouldn’t have to share the director as much that was fine by him.

want to order again?

#a3!#tsuzuru minagi #minagi tsuzuru #a3! tsuzuru #a3! act! addict! actors!#cafe: dessert menu #a3! game #a3 tsuzuru #tsuzuru minagi x reader #tsuzuru x reader #reader insert #i want to take care of this boi

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mamacesawrites · 5 years ago

Text

A Roman Rose

Word Count: 1504

A/N: Just a little writing exercise. I used some randomizers as prompts. Hope you enjoy, feedback is appreciated.

Warnings: blood mention, sexual intimacy implied, request more if needed

Ao3

“No. Not really red, but the color of a rose when it bleeds.”

— Anne Sexton, excerpt of “Song for a Red Nightgown,” The Complete Poems.

Logan walked down the dark street. He was hungry, though all the restaurants around him were closed. He checked his watch. 1 am. He smirked, looking for his next meal would be easy. The type of people who were roaming the streets at that time of night were the types that tasted best.

He had traveled everywhere. His feet had taken him farther than any human would ever walk. He had many lovers, many friends, and many enemies. He had learned so much. Immortality meant that he could forever study. As his mind aged, however, he had no need for people. He was tired of the changes the world had made. So quickly, humanity had built a great empire that he hadn’t been able to imagine.

He thought of these things as he smelled the air. His first meal of his new life, in the city of New Orleans, had to be special. He had just moved to the city under a new name. Logan Gaines, going back to a classic. A particular favorite alias of his. He had so many names, so many different lives. He kept his nose slightly lifted. He wanted to be invigorated. The first meal of this new life should be only the finest.

His particular tastes were unconventional to the others of his kind. Some called him a snob, or told him that all humans tasted the same. However that was not his experience. He found that he desired a particular...type. He preferred creators. Poets were very sweet to him, while playwrights were a specialty. Painters were good appetizers. Authors, oh authors, those were the juiciest of all. The greater the talent, the greater the taste.

One other thing his kind also found baffling about him is that he never killed. He only used his ability to thrall his victims into never remembering their encounters. It also was a good way to keep leftovers around. He had no desire to try to cover up a murder, plus he still held some form of morals from his first life.

He paused at the corner of the street. He smelt a very sweet, yet somewhat familiar scent. Had one of his previous meals come to the city? Very likely, given humanity's ability to move was more convenient than ever before. He walked toward the scent. Perhaps it was a poet. From the strength of the aroma he knew it was an intellectual, great taste. Definitely worthy of a celebratory first meal.

As he grew closer, his mouth watered. Still, he couldn’t place where he had the blood. The faces of his meals blurred, but surely someone as delicious as this would be memorable. Or perhaps, he had only tasted this blood long ago. He could never be too bothered to remember every bite for long. He did admit to himself, the curiosity helped increase the thrill of the hunt.

He came upon a hotel that would give anyone goosebumps. It definitely looked what humans would consider ‘haunted’. Logan knew better, ghosts were only a reality in the memories of the mind.

As he climbed the stairs and wandered the halls, he felt his fangs start to drop. Must be a very delicious drink.

He stopped outside the door of the source. He paused before knocking. His hesitancy bothered him, but he couldn’t place a finger as to why. Where was the excitement? It had just been there a moment before. Now he felt...was that nervousness?

His mouth still watered, and his headache reminded him of why he was there. He shook his head, hoping to dismiss the foreign feeling. Perhaps it was over-excitement at what he was about to do.

He rapped on the door quietly enough for other visitors not to be disturbed, but loud enough for the person on the other side of the door to hear.

He heard the grunt, male, definitely. He wanted to guess more, but this familiar unfamiliar situation gave him a thrill he hadn’t felt in over a decade. Not since he last had a lover. He felt a ping of pain at the fleeting thought. Then it hit him as the scent grew closer. He nearly made the connection but it was too late, for the victim had opened the door.

“Roman…” he breathed. The former lover on his mind must have been conjured by cruel fate to be standing there. He was wrapped in a plush red robe with golden trim. His body was definitely many years older, but he aged well. The man before him was thirty five years old. More beautiful than when Logan had last left him as he slept all those years ago.

The man tilted his head in confusion. “Do I...know you?” Logan noticed his eyes squinting. Probably due to late night exhaustion.

“It’s me, it’s-” Logan nearly choked on the words so they came out in a squeak, “Foster.”

Roman’s eyes widened. Then he rubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes. Then he looked back to Logan. “No...no, it can’t be…”

Logan opened his arms. “Yes, it can be, and it is.”

Of all the reactions Logan expected, he was not expecting to be pulled inside the room by his collar with the door being slammed behind him. Roman took advantage of his surprise by pushing Logan against the wall, forearm to Logan’s throat. The movement of the other caused the smell of the sweet blood to waft into his nostrils. His fangs fully dropped. Roman, now very alert, was able to see the change to his mouth.

“Oh, I see. You’ve come to finish the job? Huh? You’ve come to finish your meal,” Roman growled. “What gives you the right to show up at my door, fangs dropped and shock in your eyes? Why leave for over a decade, then return when I am no longer youthful and full of beauty?”

“But you are beautiful,” Logan said without thinking. He had a habit of speaking without forethought around Roman. He was baffled. “You’ve aged well, my rose.”

Roman shut his eyes and loosed his grip. “How dare you call me that after all these years…”

Logan took the moment to strike. With inhuman speed, he turned Roman in his arms so that he was against the wall. Logan couldn’t help the growl that escaped his throat.

“These years have meant nothing to me, my rose.” Logan ran his nose along Roman’s neck. He felt the heart rate of the smaller man increase. The blood thirst grew stronger, as well as Logan’s desires. “I have been away from you for over ten years, yet the moment I come into town your blood has called me to you.”

Roman squirmed. “You-you have no right,” he protested, but his voice was wavering. Logan could tell by the tension that grew upon his thigh that Roman did not mean his protests.

He drew a finger over the other side of Roman’s neck, finding deep pleasure in the flesh growing warmer at his touch. “May I drink from you, my rose?”

“Yes,” his prey breathed, “Yes please.” So easy

Logan did not hesitate before indulging himself in his desires. Roman gripped his collar, moaning in pleasure. He never seemed to fear the vampire when he drank. That, or he felt some sort of sick pleasure from the pain. Perhaps he was a masochist. Most writers were.

Logan paused when the grip on his collar started to grow lighter. With great control, he pulled away. He licked over the wound so as to stop the bleeding. He pulled away to see the desire in Roman’s eyes. Oh, how he had missed those eyes in his isolation. How he never realized before the affect this man had on whatever soul he had, Logan did not know.

Roman leaned up on his toes to kiss Logan, his tongue moving delicately past the sharp fangs. The taste of his blood mingled on their breaths. He pushed his hands in Logan’s hair. “Foster…” he whispered against his lips.

Logan chuckled. “I’m sorry to correct you, but I am Logan now.” He pulled away to see the curiosity in Roman’s eyes. Leaning down to nibble at his ex-lover’s ear, he whispered, “Nice to meet you in this life, my rose.”

Roman trembled. “Logan,” Logan moaned into the man’s neck. The new name coming from those tantalizing lips made him feel a new desire he hadn’t experienced in the old life as Foster.

“Logan, can we please continue to our other...post meal activities?” Roman begged, “I haven’t been nearly as satisfied in so long,” he whined.

“Much obliged.” Logan stated before lifting Roman up. They never broke their kiss as they made their way to the bed.

Definitely a good first meal in my new life, Logan thought as Roman fell asleep on his chest after. He closed his eyes as the sun rose. His dreams were filled with secret desires for a longer time with his no-longer-ex lover.

Let me know if you wanna be added to a ship’s taglist!

#Logince #Romantic Logince #vampire AU #Mama Cesa writes #writing exercise #sanders sides #logan sanders #roman sanders #blood mention tw #tw mentions of sex #vampire logan #human roman

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purrincess-chat · 6 years ago

Text

Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s Spite Playlist: Original CH12

I finished! And I left it all as one chapter, so next chapter will be out next week sometime! I plan to update this fic once a week for the next 8 weeks until it’s finished, so get your bodies ready!

Previous First Next

Chapter 12

“Al? You okay?”

Alya blinked, flicking her gaze over to Nino sitting beside her wearing a worried crease on his brow and swallowed down the lump in her throat.

“I…” She shifted back to the phone in her lap. “I don’t know.”

“You’re upset.” It was a statement, not a question, and Alya bit her lip as tears welled in her eyes before burying her face in his shirt with a nod.

“She picked someone else!” She wailed finally, and Nino wrapped his arms around her, leaning his head against hers. “Why didn’t she come to me?”

“Maybe she didn’t have time,” Nino suggested, rubbing her back. “The akuma was on the other side of town, so maybe she needed someone close.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” she sniffled, sitting up. “I’m probably overreacting.”

“Ladybug and Lila are bffs, so why don’t you ask Lila to talk to her for you,” Nino suggested, and Alya smiled.

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” she said as Nino brushed a tear from her cheek. “Thanks, Nino.”

“You know I’m always here for you,” he said, and Alya stretched up to touch her lips to his.

“I know.”

The next day, Alya entered the school with stiffened shoulders. Her peers were all chatting about the new hero, and she kept her head low as she headed to the locker rooms.

“Hey, best friend,” Lila greeted with a smile, leaning in to kiss Alya’s cheeks.

“Hey, can I talk to you in private for a minute?” Alya asked, and Lila seemed to sober.

“Of course,” she said with a cautious tone as she followed Alya to a secluded corner of the courtyard. “What’s up?”

“You’re friends with Ladybug, right?” Alya started.

“Yeah, we’re like this,” Lila crossed her fingers then cocked a brow. “Why?”

“Well, with the new superhero…I just wanted to get some inside deets for my blog. What’s the story? What happened to Rena Rouge? That sort of thing,” Alya said carefully.

“Oh, is that all?” Lila laughed, seeming to relax. “Well, she usually consults me before she picks a new hero because she values my input. I don’t know all of the details on Malin, but I can totally ask for you.”

“Could you?” Alya perked up.

“Totally. I can even see if she’ll give you a private interview,” Lila winked, and Alya grinned, pulling her in for a hug.

“Thanks, girl. You’re the best,” she said, and Lila smiled, hugging her tightly.

“Don’t you forget it.”

***

“Hey, you made it!” Macy took Marinette’s hands and planted kisses on her cheeks. “Is Adrien coming?”

“He said he was,” Marinette retrieved her phone from her purse to check her messages.

“You two should sit together,” she insisted, and Marinette’s eyebrows raised. “Eliott told me about your feelings, and I’m totally supportive. I’m a huge fan of his, but you two seem really close, and I’d never want to start anything over a boy. It’s not worth ruining our friendship.”

“Macy,” Marinette smiled, pulling her in for a hug. “You’re the best.”

“No, you are. You’re amazing, and if Adrien can’t see that then he has poor taste,” Macy said with a wink. “If you ever need a wingwoman, I’ve got your back. I’m a really good flirt too, and I can teach you all kinds of tricks.”

“I might take you up on that. I’m hopeless,” Marinette rubbed the back of her neck, and Macy smiled, placing her hands on her shoulders.

“Don’t worry. I’ll set up the perfect scene for you two,” Macy winked. “He won’t know what hit him.”

“Who won’t know what?” Adrien quirked a brow as he and Martin approached.

“Oh, nothing,” Macy said with a coy lilt. “Just girl stuff, you wouldn’t be interested.”

“I get it. Keep your secrets,” Adrien held up a hand with a playful grin.

“Come on, Eliott reserved us seats in the balcony,” Macy said, taking Marinette’s wrist and leading the way.

As promised, Macy sat Marinette next to Adrien and toted Martin off with her to “get a drink.” Adrien seemed oblivious to her plans but unbothered by the extra alone time with her.

“So, your dad let you come, huh?” Marinette said, and Adrien rolled his eyes.

“He’s typically more amicable toward other rich people,” he said, leaning against his fist. “I guess he figures I’ll behave.”

“Either way, I’m glad. I’m happy that I get to spend time with you,” Marinette said with a shy smile, and Adrien perked up.

“I know. I didn’t mean to be a downer. I’m really glad he’s letting me out. I’m always happy when I’m with you,” he said, and Marinette felt her heart skip three beats.

“Yeah, it’s great. Not that he doesn’t trust you, but that we can hang out, I mean. It stinks that he doesn’t trust all of your friends and keeps you at home, and I’m sure it must be hard for you, and…I’m gonna just stop talking,” she deflated and turned to face forward awkwardly, kicking herself.

“It’s fine. It is hard, but I’ve got really great friends like you who understand, so that makes it better,” he said, and she reached out hesitantly at first to place her hand over his.

“You know I’m always here for you if you want to talk about it. Any time,” she said, cheeks pink, and Adrien searched her soft expression before a smile curled on his lips.

“Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me,” he gave her hand a squeeze as Macy and Martin returned then clasped his hands together in his lap.

Marinette and Macy exchanged looks as the lights in the theater dimmed, and Marinette bit back a smile. Macy nudged her proudly with a giggle before they tuned into the play.

Eliott played a wonderfully convincing Chat Noir in her expert opinion, and even Margot didn’t do too bad as Ladybug. Though, she did find fault with their kiss scene at the end seeing as she and Chat were so not like that, but she supposed Paris wanted what it wanted even if it couldn’t be further from the truth.

“You. Were. Awesome!” Macy tackled Eliott the moment they met up afterward.

“Thanks,” Eliott rubbed the back of his neck. “I think that was my best performance.”

“You play Chat Noir so well, Eliott. Throw on a blond wig, and I’d swear you were him,” Marinette teased.

“I’d believe it,” Adrien chuckled. “I’m impressed at the quality of your playwright’s puns.”

“They’re almost as cheesy as the real Chat Noir’s,” Marinette laughed, and Adrien shot her a glare.

“Not feline the cat puns, Marinette?” He folded his arms over his chest and cocked a brow.

“Purrhaps she just doesn’t find them funny,” Eliott added with a wink.

“Then she has a very purr sense of humor,” Adrien smirked, and Marinette rolled her eyes, shooting him a playful grin of her own.

“I just think his comedic timing needs work. They’re saving Paris; shouldn’t he take his job a little more seriously?” She placed her hands on her hips.

“Meowch. No appreciation for good comedy with this one,” Adrien shook his head.

“I may have to reconsider purrmitting you to attend my after party on my yacht,” Eliott said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You have to make one cat pun to be admitted.”

“Do I have to?” Marinette slumped.

“We can chat about it on the way,” Macy giggled, and Adrien and Eliott praised her contribution.

“Yeah, we’ve gato go,” Martin pointed to the door, only adding fuel to their laughter, and Marinette sighed.

“Betrayed by all of my friends at once,” she shook her head. “That’s cold.”

They all paused, giving her expectant looks, and she crossed her arms over her chest with a groan.

“Please leave meowt of this,” she rolled her eyes, and they all threw their heads back with triumphant laughter, applauding her as she curtsied and blew sarcastic kisses.

“Alright, I guess you can come,” Eliott teased, draping an arm over her shoulder as they walked.

“You guys are insufferable,” Marinette sighed.

“You love us though,” Adrien said, wrapping an arm around her waist as Eliott caught sight of Lisette.

“Go invite her,” Marinette said, elbowing his side.

“What? Who? I wasn’t- you’re…” Marinette gave him a stern look.

“Hey, Lisette!” Marinette called, breaking out of their grip and approaching the small girl with buns across the lobby.

“Marinette!” Eliott hissed, cupping his head and chasing after her.

“Who’s Lisette?” Adrien asked.

“A stagehand Eliott has a crush on,” Macy answered.

“Ah,” Adrien nodded.

“Lisette,” Marinette smiled sweetly.

“Hey, you’re…”

“Marinette,” she held out a hand. “Eliott’s friend.”

“Yes, you were at dress rehearsals,” Lisette pointed to her in recognition. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s up,” Eliott interjected, clamping a hand over her mouth, and Marinette gave him a prompting look. “Um, just I’m having a party on my yacht if you wanna come. Margot won’t be there.”

Lisette’s cheeks flushed, and she clutched the hem of her shirt in her hands.

“Sounds fun,” she said, rocking on her heels. “Let me go home and change then I’ll come over.”

“Okay, great!” Eliott said a little too loudly. “I’ll- We’ll see you there.”

“Great.”

“Cool.” Eliott turned abruptly, toting Marinette back to the group. “Okay, I deserved that revenge.”

“She likes you,” Marinette smirked, and Eliott couldn’t hide his smile.

“Shut up.”

“Oh la la, Eliott’s got a crush,” Macy giggled, fanning herself as they made their way out to the limo.

“Shut up!”

“Leave him alone. Love’s a delicate thing,” Adrien chided.

“Thanks, Adrien.”

“But Marinette is right, she seems into you,” he added, and Eliott covered his face with his hands.

“Hey, don’t be like that. We’re happy for you,” Marinette said, placing her hand on his shoulder. “She likes you. Have some confidence.”

“Do you really think so?” He bit his lip.

“Yes, it’s so obvious,” Macy rolled her eyes. “She’s always stealing glances at you in class, and she turns pink the moment she sees you. She’s smitten.”

“Talk to her tonight. I’m sure she’ll be happy,” Marinette urged, and Eliott pressed his lips together to hide his smile.

“Okay.”

Marinette glanced around at her friends throughout the evening, talking, laughing, a small smile curled on her lips as she considered how lucky she was. After everything that happened with Lila, she was in a bad place feeling unappreciated, abandoned, and angry. Martin and Eliott liked to say that she helped them, but truthfully, it was their friendship that saved her first. They showed her that true friendship did exist, and that real friends didn’t abandon one another.

Finally, her gaze rested on Adrien, the one thing she still had left from her old school. A true friend who had stuck by her when everyone else left. She was glad that he hadn’t fallen victim to Lila as well. Losing her best friend was painful enough. She couldn’t imagine how it would have felt to watch the boy she loved turn on her too. Even if they were only friends, she’d take it in a heartbeat.

“Adrien, you and Marinette should totally check out the upper deck. You get a really good view of the Seine,” Macy suggested, pointing up with a wink.

“My yacht is the same way. Come see, Marinette,” Adrien took her wrist and led her up, Macy mouthing a “you’re welcome,” as they passed.

“I’ve always thought the Seine was prettier at night,” he said, leaning against the railing. “Something about the reflection of the lights on the water just calms me down.”

“Same,” Marinette nodded, clasping her hands together in front of her, and Adrien glanced over with a smile.

“How are you holding up with everything?” He asked, and she pursed her lips.

“I’m doing better now,” she said after a moment. “Somethings are still kind of rough, but I’m grateful for my friends. And…for you.”

“I know you’ve been through a lot lately. I’m just glad you and I are still friends,” Adrien said softly. “You’re someone I don’t ever want to lose.”

Her cheeks flushed as he tucked a loose strand of hair into place, relief washing over her, and taking a leap, she took a step toward him, curling her arms around his waist. He pulled her in tight, rubbing her hair as she buried her face in his shoulder, tears spilling over in thick streams.

“I’m really glad I still have you,” she sobbed, and Adrien leaned his head against hers.

“You’ll always have me. I’ll always be watching out for you,” he murmured. “Always. I promise.”

***

Alya drummed her fingers on her phone as she stood among a crowd of reporters waiting for Ladybug and Chat Noir outside the Louvre. She just wanted answers, and being selected to be Rena Rouge meant she had some sort of bond with Ladybug, right? Surely she’d be open to clearing everything up for her.

“Ladybug!” Several reporters cried as the heroes exited the museum, camera bulbs flashing as several microphones competed for her attention.

“What’s the story on this akuma?”

“Can you confirm that you and Chat Noir are dating?”

“Do you have any leads on tracking down Hawkmoth?”

“A student got punished for wandering off on a field trip; no, we are not dating. Stop asking! And as of right now, we have no leads, but Chat Noir and I are doing everything in our power to keep you all safe,” she said smoothly, refusing to look at Alya in the crowd.

“Ladybug,” she spoke up, and reluctantly, Ladybug shifted to face her. “Um, I was hoping to get an answer to a question many of my followers have. What happened to Rena Rouge, and will Malin be a permanent replacement, or was he a temporary stand-in?”

Everyone’s eyes fixed on Ladybug, though her gaze was held by Alya. Something flashed in her eyes, an uneasy expression Alya had been seeing on her own face lately. Those big blue eyes were filled with pain, hurt, and regret, but Alya couldn’t for the life of her think why.

“I only give Miraculouses to those that I trust,” she said simply, holding Alya’s gaze for a long moment before turning away and grabbing her yoyo. “No more questions. Bug out.”

“Wait!” Alya called, and Ladybug glanced over her shoulder. “Lila Rossi, a good friend of yours said that you always consult her before giving out Miraculouses, is this true?”

Ladybug’s eyes narrowed, and she pressed her lips into a firm line. “That girl is no friend of mine.”

With a flick of her wrist, she tossed her yoyo and shot off, leaving Alya standing with her jaw hanging open.

“I’ll be happy to take a few more questions,” Chat Noir said, stepping to the center, and all the microphones pointed at him as Alya quietly backed out of the crowd.

Her heart hammered in her chest, a painful lump blocking her throat as tears welled in her eyes. She had to wonder if knowing the truth was any better than living in ignorance. What did it all mean? Did Ladybug not trust her anymore? And why would Lila tell her they were friends if Ladybug said they weren’t?

Because she’s a liar.

The thought flashed in her mind briefly, Marinette’s familiar voice ringing in her ears, bringing a stabbing pain to her chest, but she shook her head to clear it. She didn’t know what to believe anymore, but she’d get to the bottom of it tomorrow. One thing was for sure, if Lila was lying, then Alya had a lot of apologizing to do.

***

“Hey, bestie,” Lila smiled the next day as Alya approached wearing a pensive frown. “Why the long face?”

“I talked to Ladybug yesterday,” she said, and Lila straightened. “She said you’re not her friend, and she totally blew me off.”

“Oh no, I am so sorry, Alya. This is all my fault,” Lila’s face fell into her hands. “Ladybug and I got into a huge fight about the whole Malin thing because she didn’t consult me, and we aren’t on the best terms anymore.”

“Wait, she didn’t consult you about Malin?” Alya’s eyebrows furrowed.

“No. I wanted her to get Rena Rouge, but she insisted on this new guy, and I didn’t want to argue with her at the time since Paris was in trouble and all, but when I tried to bring it up later, she totally flipped on me,” Lila shook her head.

“Wow, that doesn’t sound like her,” Alya said, lowering her gaze.

“You didn’t hear this from me, but speaking as a former close friend of hers, Ladybug has some serious control issues. If you disagree with her even a little bit, she snaps,” Lila snapped her fingers. “She’s not even really that nice away from the cameras. It’s all just a role she plays for show.”

“I had no idea,” Alya said, running a hand through her hair. “I’m sorry, girl. I never should have doubted you.”

“It’s okay. Ladybug is a very convincing liar,” Lila sighed. “I forgive you.”

“So, if Ladybug consults you for all of the Miraculous assignments, then you know who I am, right?” Alya said softly, glancing around. “You know that I’m Rena Rouge?”

“Of course!” Lila whispered. “Who do you think recommended you for the job? That’s what I was so upset about Malin. I didn’t want her to turn her back on you, but we shouldn’t talk about your identity so openly.”

“You’re right,” Alya nodded, a smile curling on her lips. “It’s nice to know I have one true friend.”

“Aww, come here,” Lila pulled her in for a hug. “Ya know, who needs Ladybug anyway? You don’t need to be a superhero to make a difference.”

Alya glanced down at her phone, pursing her lips. She pulled up the Ladyblog, thumb hovering over the delete button as Lila wrapped her arms around her shoulders. “Do it. You’ll feel better if you put it all behind you.”

Alya bit her lip, hesitating momentarily before hitting delete and erasing a year’s worth of hard work in an instant. Countless late nights, dangerous battles collecting footage, all of her hopes and dreams and theories gone at the touch of a button. Ladybug didn’t trust her anymore, and now the feeling was mutual.

***

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Ladybug sat on the edge of a roof, staring out over the city with an emotionless expression as her partner approached. Her eyes were drained, empty, lifeless as she stared ahead, and Chat sat beside her patiently.

“I knew it would happen,” she said finally, blinking and shifting her gaze to her lap. “I knew she would wonder.”

“Alya?” Ladybug nodded. “You did pick someone else to take her place without a real explanation.”

“I had my reasons,” she said, swinging her legs. “I need people that I trust by my side.”

“I wasn’t questioning your decision,” he shook his head. “You know I trust you 100% no matter what, and truthfully, this time I agree with you.”

“I guess it’s not that I don’t trust her,” Ladybug said with a sigh. “I mean, I don’t doubt that she would still work with us, but she’s just hanging out with Lila, and after everything…I can’t work with her.”

“I understand.”

“I know that sounds selfish, but I can’t put my feelings aside.”

“No one’s asking you to.”

“I know we have a duty to protect the city, but if I can accomplish that with someone else then why go through the heartache?” She cupped her face in her hands.

“Bug,” Chat reached out to place a hand on her shoulder. “You did the right thing. No one is doubting your judgment. You and I need people we can work with and count on, and if Rena Rouge isn’t it then it’s time for Malin to step in.”

She peeked through her fingers at him, and he flashed her a warm smile.

“You have a very important job to do. Don’t worry about stepping on toes. We have to do what we can to save everyone, and we can’t do that if we’re emotionally compromised,” he said. “It’s not selfish. It’s our job.”

Ladybug lowered her hands, a small smile on her lips as she linked an arm through his and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Thanks, kitty.”

“You’re welcome,” he chuckled. “I just hope you’re not thinking of replacing me.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” she giggled, tightening her grip. “I know I can always rely on you.”

“Good. Then we’re on the same page,” he leaned his head against hers, gazing out at the Seine.

Normally, being in a position with her like this would have drive him crazy, but as they sat together so intimately, he felt an overwhelming sense of calm and warmth. In that moment, she wasn’t the love of his life, she was his best friend.

“Until next time, m’lady,” he bowed theatrically as they stood to leave, and she pressed a hand to her lips with a giggle. “I’m always here for you if you need me.”

“I know, Chat,” she said, stepping forward and stretching up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for being someone I can lean on. It means the world to me.”

Chat smiled as she jogged off, waving casually before touching his cheek. It was strange that her kiss hadn’t sent him into overdrive, but he felt oddly comfortable with it. It was an appreciative gesture from one friend to another, no romance involved, and he was content with that. He wasn’t sure when his feelings for her had changed, but when he looked at her now, he didn’t see a lover – he saw a friend.

Ladybug swooped down into the street, ducking behind an ad stand before letting her transformation drop. She wanted to get some coffee before heading home so she could stay up and work on her designs for Clara’s presentation the following week. She was really close to finalizing a few of them, and now that she’d gotten a lot off her chest about Alya, she felt a weight lifted from her shoulders that left her ready to work.

Rounding the corner, she crossed the street to a quaint little café before a waterfall of silky, red hair wiping a table in a dingy green apron caught her eye. Was that…

“Gabrielle?”

#miraculous ladybug #mdcsp original #marinette dupain-cheng #adrien agreste #mdcsp #ml salt #my writing #salt fic #spite fic

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shadow-and-quill · 6 years ago

Text

.:Aftermath:.

Characters: Ritsuka Aoki (male Keeper), Saeha Moui (female Keeper)

Rating: General.

Origin Date: 15 March 2019

Being alive was a victory in itself.

--------------

Ritsuka was not used to being a man of worry. He was paranoid, scrutinizing, and had contingencies for his contingencies, yes. But he didn’t worry. It was because he was always prepared.

But not this.

Something he should have expected. Though the probability of a brazen open-street attack was so low, it had racked and stacked itself low in his mind.

And so the Keeper had paid for it.

Days after the attack and he was sick of being in bed. And was sick of the rain. He was at least propped sitting up this afternoon, pillows behind his back as he looked out the Hingan building’s windows. As soon as possible he’d washed his face, combed and braided his hair, and did everything possible to get his appearance back in place.

Just because he was bedridden didn’t mean he would look like a mess. In fact, it was /because/ of that that appearance was much more important. The miqo’te would not show defeat or submission in the face of this. Now he had to be quiet and cautious and assess who could have carried this out. And that meant biding time in the safety of the Temple.

Bai Biming was the owner. He remembered the paperwork now. As a foreign buyer the deed had come across his desk to make sure there would be no negative connotations to lending out property to the playwright. All things had checked out clean.

All this bloody rain.

A small sigh as Ritsuka closed his eyes. Everything hurt. Saeha had managed to sneak him his medication but even that along with the painkillers had hardly eased that bone-threading pain. Every joint was achy, stiff. Being stuck in bed didn’t help. He flexed his hands, fingers, ankles, toes. Everything to keep them limber, try to ease back their flexibility. But it was short-lived.

His breathing had improved with his personal treatment but nowhere near to normal maintenance. When the cat took a deep breath in, he was unable to to do so fully and its release was shaky.

All signs that his late mother had in her life.

Wonderful.

The bureaucrat was not a religious man. However he had to thank /something/ that the healer for The Pearl was smart enough to catch the link in the bloodline and had treated Saeha young enough that she didn’t present symptoms of the same bloodline disease. At least, not yet. They would know in a few more years. The window for symptoms tended to start in puberty and the respiratory issues hadn’t onset. That likely meant she would live ailment-free.

It was these victories that kept Ritsuka going. His hand moved to run through the dark hair nearby. Now that Saeha had been allowed into the clinic she had rarely ever left and even slept in his bed like those old days. The kitten was in deep slumber and curled against his side.

And still it was raining. The Shirogane skies were dark and grey. The ocean in the distant was rolling, white-capped. Fitting for his mood.

His physical prowess would be diminished. For how long, he didn’t know. The pessimist in the miqo’te said that it could be permanent. Perhaps whatever poison his attacker used unintentionally aggravated the disease to worst stages.

Or there was always the fact that it wasn’t an accident. If that was truth, he truly had quite an enemy out there. Ritsuka kept his treatments secret, locked away. There would be no sign he was ill to those around him. The only on that had known was Saeha and the kitten wasn’t dumb. She knew better not to talk about such things.

It could be simply coincidence.

Now what? As much as the young man wished to return back to the bakufu offices with his head held high and undefeated, that wasn’t a possibility. His defenses and ability to fight back was diminished and pride wasn’t worth his death. He could continue his work...

Paperwork could be sent to his residence and ferried here. That would be a way to say ‘I’m alive, now what?’ This was all under the assumption that the one looking for him to be dead was someone in the government.

Ritsuka sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Even that motion hurt. There were too many avenues and now his choices of reacting were lower than before.

Rest. Recover. And in time, gather further information.

He’d put too much effort into carving out a stable life even if he had to stay on-guard. He’d do everything he could to rebuild that security and safety net for Saeha. She deserved it. It was all he could do.

And it was all he lived to do nowadays and damn anyone that tried to take that from him.

#short story

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hellyeahrpmemes · 7 years ago

Text

※ SHIT I HEARD AT COLLEGE ※

a thrilling saga of shit i’ve heard at college; these are all from my first semester of sophomore year. feel free to change names/pronouns/etc.! more ‘shit i heard/said’ starters!

“The porn industry is moving swimmingly.”

“We all need men. Go find them.”

“It’s not an opera, bitches, it’s a flight.”

“Don’t look! It makes their dick bigger!”

“I have my own place and I can light as many candles as I want.”

“I’m not a librarian, sir.”

“How’s your sack lunch, bitch?”

“Stab me in the ass and turn me into Kim Kardashian.”

“I stayed up another hour just to cry.”

“I just got a nude and I don’t know how to feel about it.”

“I’m gonna go stab my eyes out now.”

“We get it. You have a big truck and a small penis.”

“It’s an epidemic, Karter!”

“There’s no cups, so I’m using a bowl. To drink apple juice.”

“Fuck y’all, I’m eating Fruit Loops!”

“I don’t know my superhero name, but here I am with my can of Lysol and my plastic fork.”

“Your list of things to do includes making the best 2000s playlist of all time and fighting me at Cheesecake Factory.”

“This is borderline human abuse.”

“How do you feel about fluorescent lighting?”

“I’m sorry, I’m on a college budget, I’ll give you two nickels and a paper clip.”

“We couldn’t say hell, because… Catholic school problems.”

“I don’t want them to call me and be like, ‘we’re about to drill into your face!’”

“Ugh, yes, the hot TA, what club are you in?”

“My rat bastard dad? What about him?”

“I have an idea that I’m positive no other human has ever had: butter flavored ice cream.”

“I hate myself, but I’m funny, so…”

“This man loves puppies and he is not afraid to say it.”

“There’s just something about stale food that I really like.”

“I like how we’re watching our upcoming death on TV.”

“When I get wasted, I want to fight. It’s a problem.”

“My boyfriend got really drunk and started drinking nectar out of the hummingbird feeder.”

“He currently has a child.”

“That’s a good way of getting rid of a baby.”

“He can’t look at his dead parents or his alive children.”

“I can’t focus on reading, ‘cause I just wanna watch Drake and Josh.”

“My roommate loves manifestos. Especially the Communist Manifesto.”

“Have you studied his naked body or something?”

“Okay, we got our Greek tragic playwrights: there’s Sophocles… there’s Euripides… uh… Isosceles?”

“We’re so stupid we click things that say ‘click here for here’.”

“So there were just 95 loose pigs.”

“This is called shaming.”

“I can’t be the only person who says ‘meatballs and spaghetti’.”

“What could go wrong? …oh, shit, I’m on fire.”

“Don’t call Kourtney unless you wanna suck dick tonight.”

“There’s no one around. He’s talking to his dick.”

“Just ‘cause it’s Greek doesn’t mean it’s sophisticated.”

“I hate myself, but I hate her more.”

“I don’t know anything about it, but it has bread in the name, so I want to try it.”

“Just… don’t breathe this class.”

“Megan: secret crop top wearer.”

“I’m embracing my aesthetic while you’re embracing… Jon Hamm’s face.”

“What are we doing tonight besides homework? …and bread?”

“I’m witnessing a breakup right here in the Starbucks line.”

“I nominate Gushers as a snack suggestion, but, like, a lot of them. All of them.”

“I have a strong immune system.”

“I was so worked up about the bolo ties.”

“Also, I was wine drunk, so…”

“Does she hit him? I hope she hits him.”

“Only Matthew McConaughey drives Lincolns.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m totally a Republican… Pence is daddy…”

“After that… is the exact same thing… from a different angle.”

“All my life, I’ve been striving to be better than Kidz Bop.”

“Is ‘slaveitude’ a word?”

“Ted Bundy was attractive. People knew him.”

“I feel like whoever’s in charge of the Reese’s company is really high right now. Like, putting Reese’s inside of Reese’s.”

“One beer bottle on campus might be a problem, but if there’s 8, they’re props.”

“With elevators, it’s not claustrophobia. It’s that I don’t trust the government.”

“Headphones: in. World: out. Notes font: ugly.”

“You know that’s a felony, right?”

“That’s a… fourth or fifth impression kind of story.”

“That means she definitely fucked a member of Kiss.”

“I feel free, but also ugly.”

“This is my unassigned assigned seat, and if any of you take it, I will fight you.”

“I went to the Home Depot, bought a bunch of lights, put them up in the air, and said ‘this is art’.”

“Because I was a full New Yorker, I just kept walking.”

“We almost died, but our last meal would’ve been free, so…”

“What’s a funeral like in 2017? GIFs and memes.”

“I would like to thank not only God but also Tinder.”

“I sat through a 40 minute argument about how Justin Bieber started the Cold War.”

“I’m just walking down the hallway, thinking about ways to throw myself down the stairs and make it look like an accident.”

“Now, if it was Kidz Bop, I’d go see it.”

“Don’t name your kid Ethelwold.”

“Shoulders, chest, pants, shoes: a vision for America.”

“My dad’s not getting dick from anyone.”

“I’m a shady beach and y’all are my shady beaches.”

“Oh, no, don’t write that down…”

“At Chipotle, God himself picked those avocados and put them in the guacamole.”

“It should be a holiday: Ohio awareness day.”

“We should go to a nice place. A formal place. California Pizza Kitchen.”

“What do you do in geology lab? Dissect rocks?”

“What great weather for a mental breakdown.”

“He’s not computer generated; he’s actually that large.”

“I’ve done some soul searching and I think that ranch dressing is my favorite food.”

“I almost said his birthday was in 1926. It’s like, we got a little bit of an age gap.”

“Are you physically running away from the situation?”

“I will personally call Papa John to tell him that he’s the reason my life isn’t going right.”

“I can’t wait for middle-aged sex now.”

“I should’ve known, there aren’t two eclipses in a year!”

“I walked around with a bear taser for a year and a half.”

“I found out that the guy I have a restraining order against has been peeing on my car for two years.”

“He fought the devil in jeans and no shirt.”

“She threw my fucking pillow off of the balcony!”

“Tickets are for something fun. Paying the check is not fun.”

“It’s Halloween, calories don’t count on holidays.”

“Well, you know how I said we met in philosophy class? Well… Elise doesn’t take philosophy class.”

“You got it wrong. You said 56 point 2. The answer was 56 point 2.”

“Do I want that horrible sock tan line that I had for five years back? Yeah, I do.”

“I got drunk, threw up, got high, and came here.”

“It’s Titanic blue. I’m the Heart of the Ocean, bitch.”

“The only rat bastard in our lives is Russ.”

“The beats are so good, but the words are such trash.”

“I had to fight someone in the elevator yesterday.

“…I’ve awakened the Demigorgon.”

“We solved the great hiccup epidemic of 2017.”

“Watch out, Kansas, I’m coming for you.”

“Do not associate my birthday with math terms.”

“That’s some Hunger Games type shit.”

“Fuck y’all, I hope you trip and die.”

“I’m very confused and also cold: an American tale. A five part miniseries, this fall on HBO.”

“I am Mrs. Grey! Bring me the kink!”

“I really wanna make a shirt that’s all Comic Sans.”

“I was thinking about Panera’s mac and cheese in a bread bowl, and I started crying.”

“We’re gonna steal your WiFi, but it’s okay, because Panhellenic love.”

“I have confidence that you’re not gonna get pregnant within those two hours.”

“See if this card works. I mean, it should work, but, like…”

“I think my favorite part was slowly dying.”

“All they serve is chicken salad, so you really have to like chicken salad.”

“I have three papers and a test this week, I don’t have time for feelings to resurface.”

“I’m living a life. Not my best one.”

“When you write a report on a book you’ve never read.”

“Don’t tell me what to wear when you wear Crocs to the bar.”

“I have listened to literally nothing but Hallelujah and My Heart Will Go On all day today.”

“Oh my god, Elise, you fucking bitch, get your shit together, and write your paper.”

You know what I’m really devastated about? I’m all out of Fruit Roll-ups.”

“We’re gonna be teachers. We have school forever.”

“I don’t want your sympathy, I want your anger.”

“Clowns… doorknobs… the color yellow… ducks… I’m quoting Victorious…”

“Did you just say ‘hey Sophie’ to not include me? ‘Cause, guess what, bitch, I’m still here.”

“I live here, I know when we have salad!”

“I think Satan’s middle name is cumulative.”

“I will put up with my moose husband for however long I need.”

“I’ve literally been down here for an hour and a half waiting for these nonexistent cookies.”

“I’m keeping a detailed list of Elise’s hickeys.”

“I’m an adult, I say as I eat my Fruit Roll-up.”

“Oh, my practicum grade is in! Let’s see… 36.”

“SOS, I’m in bed and it’s so comfy, but I need to get up to study, what do I do?”

“Get up. Only a few more days until we can sleep all we want.”

“So you’re admitting you live in the woods.”

“I don’t know if it’s finals stress or if this is actually the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, but I’m crying.”

“It was optional, don’t make me feel bad for skipping class.”

“I’ve heard that, if enough people fail, they’ll have to curve it.”

“How do you even study for this?”

#rp memes #roleplay meme #rp sentence starters #roleplay sentence starters #mine #shit i heard

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notarelationship · 8 years ago

Text

A Crime Against Pizza (co-authored with @mshoneysucklepink)

From this prompt: "Your pizza keeps getting delivered to my house by mistake and I need to talk to you about your choice of toppings AU" by @ashesinyourhair from the @dailyau.

Rating: PG (for innuendo) Summary: Some people are very particular about their pizza. Warnings: Pineapple on pizza, orgasmic descriptions of pepperoni, egregiously overused italics, general idiocy. Stoner Brett. ~3100 words

AO3

First this happened. Then this happened. Super thanks to @snarkyhag for the awesome beta.

The only saving grace about exam time, Blaine thought, was that somehow it made pizza taste even better. He wasn’t sure if it was some psychosomatic reaction or the perfect balance of protein, carbs, and fat traveling through his bloodstream straight to his brain - but it set off his reward center like nothing else. Except maybe a good orgasm (ideally brought on by something other than his own hand, thankyouverymuch).

The only problem was his roommate. Sam HATED Blaine’s preferred toppings of pineapple and ham, (“it’s fruit on pizza, Blaine, and fruit is healthy, it totally defeats the point of pizza being junk food! It makes it, I don’t know, less junky!”) Which was why he considered himself lucky that Sam had a nighttime photo shoot. Nothing was stopping him.

He dialed his favorite pizza place, telling himself he’d eat the leftovers for breakfast in the morning before Sam could bitch about it.

“Ouch!”

It was the fifth time Kurt had accidentally pricked himself with a pin while working on the partial costume that was barely holding together on the dress form. This was his final project for his Advanced Costume Design class, and it was about to look like a costume for Sweeney Todd instead of Hamilton (hmmm, maybe he could pass it off as from the “Battle of Yorktown?”). His vision was swimming in spite of all the coffee he’d ingested and...oh, he hadn’t eaten. That explained things; his blood sugar must have been off-balance.

He checked the fridge--nothing. He had been so busy with final assignments and living off bagels from the library coffee shop, he hadn’t gone grocery shopping and the fridge was only full of Rachel’s vegan friendly favorites. There were the kale chips she had bought on a whim, some tofu (ergh), and some homegrown kombucha from the farmer’s market that he was certain was becoming sentient. He briefly considered sauteeing up her seitan and vegetables into a stir fry, but he still had so much work to do and just the thought of cleaning up the kitchen afterward was more than he could bear.

He opened the drawer of menus and instantly salivated. He hadn’t had pizza with real cheese on it in months. Tonight not even Rachel Berry could stop him from getting his pineapple and pepperoni fix.

There was a reason the guys at Vanelli’s called their new delivery boy “Stoner Brett.”

Blaine was up and at the door before the delivery guy could even finish knocking.

“Uhhh, you order a,” the delivery boy who reeked of pot drawled, squinting at the label on the side, “a large pineapple?”

“Yeah, that’s me. Here you go,” Blaine said, handing over 25 dollars and taking the pizza box. “Keep the change.”

“Dude, cool,” Stoned Delivery Dude smiled and left. Blaine closed the door and went to set the pizza on the coffee table. He grabbed a plate, knife and fork from the kitchen, a handful of napkins (it was New York pizza) along with a soda from the fridge, and sat down to his mid-study reward.

“Mmm, come to papa,” Blaine moaned, as he opened the box.

And was immediately disgusted.

There was pepperoni on his pizza.

Now, Blaine understood that pepperoni was the most popular and stereotypically classic pizza topping. He figured it was an easy mistake to make. But it didn’t stop the queasy feeling they gave him. Little red nitrites, their edges crisped and curled up like the floors of Hell, their centers filled with a light yellow puddle of grease. Spicy little grease pools that dripped everywhere, and anyone who ever had to get grease stains out of polo shirts would empathize, he was sure. And with pineapple? No, just...no. The saltiness of the ham paired so well with sweet pineapple; slightly dry balanced with juicy bursts. But pineapple juice mixed with pepperoni grease?

Blaine would have cried if he weren’t so nauseous. And hungry.

He decided, maybe he could just delicately pick the pepperonis off? He picked up one, and gently attempted to pull it off the cheese...and the grease splashed back onto his shirt.

“GODDAMNIT.” He called Vanelli’s again, to try to get a replacement pie.

Kurt stomach growled and he looked up from his sewing and saw the time. It had been almost an hour since he’d ordered his pizza.

“Oh my god,” he mumbled to no one, reaching for his phone. He was just about to dial to find out where his food was when Rachel came noisily into the apartment.

“Kurt! You will never guess who I ran into tonight at yoga - Jesse St. James, from high school. You remember him?”

Kurt scowled. Yes, he remembered Jesse-St.James-from-high-school. He did not approve.

“Yes, but Vanelli’s never delivered my pizza so hang on; let me call them and you can tell me all about -”

The downstairs buzzer rang before Kurt could push the numbers. The caller ID’d himself as the pizza delivery guy so Kurt buzzed him up.

“I hope that’s the Vegan Double, Kurt, I am starving,” Rachel followed him to the door, standing behind him and looking skeptically at the delivery guy. Kurt didn’t recognize him, but he definitely recognized the slightly sour scent of streetcorner weed. He made a face and paid the guy, but he didn’t have the heart to skimp on his tip, even with the tardy delivery.

Kurt set the box on the dining table, “Rachel I didn’t order the vegan one,” Kurt said, opening the box. “You weren’t here so I opted for - not this.” Kurt stared at the pizza. It was almost right. He could have sworn he’d ordered pineapple and pepperoni, but that was definitely ham on the pie. Whatever, he shrugged to himself. Pork is pork.

“Gross.” He had almost forgotten Rachel was standing there. “I don’t know how you can eat that, Kurt. Those poor pigs, and all the milk for that cheese belongs to the baby cows -”

“Calves, Rachel. They’re called calves.” Kurt rolled his eyes.

Rachel sat across the table with her most judgmental look. “They are baby cows, Kurt.”

“Whatever Rachel. I am starving and I am eating this pizza,” he said. But he knew he’d give in, he always did. And usually he didn’t even mind. He liked eating healthier, he felt better, and it was good for his occasionally fluctuating weight (although that had been less of a problem as he’d gotten older). But sometimes he just wanted a real freaking pizza. “Go make yourself something. I’ll stop at two slices and eat the rest tomorrow after my exam. I still have to finish up the project for my costume design class and then we can watch a movie and have popcorn with that vegan butter you like, okay?”

Rachel grinned. “That sounds like a perfect night Kurt. Thank you!”

After the pizza mixup from the other night, Blaine was hesitant about ordering from Vanelli’s again. They had brought him a new pie, with the proper toppings, and he left the other for Sam (who, as expected, picked the pineapple off and threw it in the trash, what kind of monster…). But they had ordered once after that and it turned out fine, though the last delivery person was different (and decidedly not high as a kite), and the order had been correct (however, with Sam home there would be no pineapple). Blaine assumed they had fired the stoner from before.

Blaine sighed with relief when he came in from his last exam. He had sent his final paper in earlier that day, and with that another school year was behind him. He had a couple of weeks until his summer internship started, and for now he felt like celebrating. As far as he was concerned there was no better way to celebrate than with his favorite pizza. With the biggest puppy eyes Blaine could muster, Sam bent to his will and let him pick the toppings (“but I’m totally picking the fruit off!” he said).

“You’re the one best friend that anyone could have,” Blaine sang at Sam, as he went to take a shower, leaving Sam to answer the door.

Less than a week after the ham pizza incident Kurt was buried under a History of Design project and two back-to-back finals, one for his Advanced Playwrights class and the other a monologue from The Tempest for his Shakespeare class that Kurt was finding to be a miserable bitch to memorize. The further he got into the monologue the worse he got.

It took him about fifteen more difficult minutes to realize that he hadn’t actually eaten since breakfast, and that was probably why his brain wasn’t putting words together in any proper order, much less the order William Shakespeare demanded.

As good as the ham and pineapple pizza had been, he was still craving his favorite pineapple with pepperoni. Ham was fine, but a ham and pineapple pizza was just so boring. Pepperoni was spicy and chewy, and Vanelli’s had that special way of cooking the pepperoni so that they curled up around the edges and the tasty grease pooled deliciously in the center of each slice, like tiny bowls of processed pork product soup.

“God yes,” Kurt moaned as he thumbed open his phone and called the shop.

“Blaine, pizza’s here!” Sam shouted.

Blaine came out of his room, barefoot and wearing a fresh shirt and pair of jeans, pressing the moisture out of his curls. “Great, I’m starving! Wait,” Blaine sniffed the air, then at Sam’s clothes, and got a strange sense of deja vu. “Why does it smell like a Phish concert in here?”

“Probably because the pizza dude was totally stoned out of his gourd,” Sam laughed, as he opened the box.

Blaine didn’t even need to see the pepperonis before he knew they were there. “Damn it. I gotta call them back, get them to send a non-stoner to bring us a new pizza.”

“Um, why don’t you just give it to this Hummel person?” Sam asked.

“What Hummel person?”

“The person whose pizza this is? I looked at the receipt on the side. They only live two floors above us.”

Forty-five minutes later there was a knock on his apartment door, which made no sense unless Rachel had forgotten her keys, because they had a buzzer and everyone in the building was careful about not letting in someone without keys. Kurt looked through the peephole in the door. There was a guy on the other side that Kurt thought he recognized as one of the two guys who lived downstairs. The two cute guys. They’d never exchanged more than a polite nod, and neither he nor Rachel had been able to figure out whether they were a couple or not.

Oh well, cute guys don’t randomly knock on my door every day, he thought, as he opened it. It was one of the cute guys - the one who usually used too much gel in his hair (though not tonight and ooh those curls were sexy) - and he was holding a pizza box.

“Hi, can I help you?”

Cute Guy scowled. “I believe this is yours?” He lifted the edge of the box and Kurt could see his perfect pepperoni and pineapple pizza inside.

Kurt grinned. “Oh wow, thank you!” He reached out and took the box. “But how did you -”

“Know it was you? Your apartment number was on the box.”

“Oh, duh, of course! Well, thank you, um…”

Cute Guy extended his hand. “My name’s Blaine....”

“...Kurt.”

Kurt juggled the box to his left so he could shake hands with his right, and when their hands touched there was a spark. Blaine sure did have the prettiest eyes Kurt had seen in a long time. Maybe in ever. He wondered if Blaine might like to share his pizza. Or possibly his bed. “Would you like to come in?”

“Um, okay.”

Blaine was all ready to be super judgemental about whoever this Hummel person was, because he was perfectly allowed to judge based on choice of pizza toppings alone. But when the door opened, he wasn’t expecting the hot guy from the mailboxes. Sam was always teasing him that he was having an imaginary affair with the guy he ran into when he was getting the mail (and he wasn’t wrong). He can’t believe he never registered which apartment was his.

“Thanks for bringing up my pizza. I swear they mess this up every time.” Come on Kurt, you can be flirty. “Can I get you a drink, or do you want to share a thank you slice?”

How could someone so gorgeous have such awful taste in pizza toppings? He hoped it didn’t show on his face.

“I just have to ask one thing,” Blaine said.

Kurt turned from setting the pizza box on a table, raising an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Why pepperoni?”

Kurt’s mouth dropped open. “Um, why not pepperoni?”

Blaine cringed internally, because this guy was so cute and wrong about pizza but still cute with such a melodic voice. But he had to know, because pepperoni was gross.

“Excuse me, what’s so gross about it?” Oh damn, he said that out loud. Well, in for a penny...

“It’s just so highly processed, and the way it curls up, and the grease pops out of it and settles into these icky, oily pools -”

“Very delicious grease, I think you mean.”

“- and you can’t pick them off without getting the grease everywhere. They are a crime against pizza! And with pineapple? How can you ruin such a perfect, juicy, succulent fruit, that just bursts with sweetness in your mouth?”

Kurt could think of something he’d like to burst in his mouth, all right. “All true. And don’t forget the occasional flash of tart the pineapple sometimes supplies,” Kurt said. “I suppose you would pair your pineapple with ham?” Kurt’s voice had gotten higher at that, and Blaine thought he might have moved a bit closer. He may even have licked his lips.

“It’s only the best balanced companion to pineapple. The ham has that little bit of smoky dryness and salty tang that pineapple pairs so nicely with.”

“But it’s just ham. It is literally the topping most commonly paired with pineapple. It’s so, so -” don’t say boring Kurt, you’re still trying to impress this guy, “predictable.”

“Predictable, huh?” Blaine said, and oh, he could watch Kurt’s lips purse around pronouncing words that start with “P” all night (even if one of them was “pepperoni”).

“Pepperoni is spicy, hot, it makes your mouth feel alive, Blaine. It - mmpf”

Blaine’s mouth was definitely alive, and it was living all over Kurt’s.

Kurt let out a squeak, but gripped Blaine’s shoulders, pulling him closer as they both settled into the kiss.

“Oh my god!” Blaine pulled away. “That was - I don’t know what that was. I am -”

“Do not say sorry.” Kurt pulled Blaine’s face with both hands and kissed him again, angling his head so their mouths slotted together, his tongue licking into Blaine’s mouth. Kurt pulled away when he finally needed air, and Blaine took a step backward. “Wow, um. Okay.”

They stood for a moment, evaluating each other.

“Would you like to stay for pizza?” Kurt asked, waving a hand backward toward his probably cold pie.

“No,” Blaine said.

“Oh. Well okay, I guess I read this wrong…”

Blaine panicked and grabbed Kurt by the arms. “No, I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant. I mean I won’t stay for that pizza. We can order another.”

“And, um, what should we do while we wait?”

Blaine gave him a sultry gaze. “I have some ideas.”

Three months later…

Blaine was sitting on the sofa reading through a magazine when the buzzer from the street went off.

“Hey babe, can you get that?” Kurt shouted from their bedroom. Their bedroom.

“Sure. Are we expecting someone?” Blaine pushed the buzzer. “Hello?”

“Delivery.” came the muddled voice through the tinny speaker.

“It’s a surprise!” Kurt sang from the other room.

They had only been living together for a few days, long enough to have most of Blaine’s things moved in while Kurt moved some of his out-of-season things to Rachel’s old room. It wasn’t like they even had that much stuff, it was just the act of combining their lives that made it seem like so much more.

It had seemed sudden to their friends, when Blaine moved into Kurt’s apartment, but with Rachel cast in a series shooting in Los Angeles and Sam moving back to Kentucky to be with his parents for a while, it had seemed like the obvious choice to both Blaine and Kurt.

“A surprise, huh?”

Blaine opened the door to find...Stoner Brett.

The pizza delivery guy. (They found out his name after another two misdelivered pizzas, and three calls to Vanelli’s. Everyone there called him that. It seemed fitting.)

“Hey, Sto--uh, Brett,” Blaine said.

“Yo, dude.” Brett looked confused a moment. “Am I in the right place?”

Blaine laughed and fished money out of the jar by the door. “Yeah. I moved.”

“Woah. Cool.” He grinned and put up a fist for Blaine to bump.

Kurt came out of the bedroom as Blaine took the pizza. Brett looked even more confused. “Wow, dude, did you move too?”

“Um, no?” Kurt said, as Blaine put the pizza on the table. Brett stood for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure he was even in the right dimension, but eventually shuffled off without a word. Kurt brushed it off. “So, I thought to welcome you, we could have a compromise pizza!”

“Compromise, huh?”

“Yes,” Kurt said, as he wound his arms around Blaine’s waist. “Pineapple all over, but ham on one side for you, and pepperoni on the other side for me,” he punctuated with a wet kiss to Blaine’s lips.

“Aw, that’s so sweet!” Blaine cooed, as he leaned over and flipped open the box lid and… “Oh, you have got to be kidding me!”

They both stared into the box: the pizza had all the pineapple on only one side; the other side had the ham and pepperoni together.

“Well, we can’t blame Stoner Brett this time,” Kurt mused. “He only delivers them, he doesn’t make them.”

“So, what do you want to do?”

“Well, you know how I feel about pork, Blaine. Why settle for just ham and pepperoni when I can have sausage here at home?” He gave Blaine’s ass a squeeze and led them back to the bedroom.

That pie went cold. From then on they started ordering their pizza from Jimmy’s Famous instead.

#a crime against pizza #klaine fic #daily au prompt #mshoneysucklepink #slayediest

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ncstings · 5 years ago

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distracting kiss as another one for benjie & georgia i mean!!! ( i guess it fits? )

he said this would be good for her. whatever the fuck that means.

“closure at the least.”

closure? who needs fucking closure when you’re perfectly fucking happy in new york, with your friends, and your hot scottish boyfriend, and your family barely even crosses your mind.

“seems there’s a lot unresolved there.” he says.

what the fuck does he know?

but there they were, in line to get their luggage checked at the air port. after weeks of heated conversation. after benjamin assured her that in the end, he’d support whatever she wanted, but he believed it was right just to be there. georgia always told him he didn’t know what kind of family she had. and they knew of unsavory families. georgia’s shared details of maggie’s siblings, and her lack of parents in adulthood. they know that vincent has no family anymore. but georgia explains this is very different than that.

it’s all fake. nothing matters. she’s not that person anymore.

“what kind of person?” he asks.

she warns him that he’s going to be disappointed. ohio is bottom of the barrel. not like florida is bottom of the barrel where you can make jokes about it and it’s like some alternate reality. no, this was a suburb of ohio. meaning when they came in, and she forgot her deodorant, they had to go to a wal-mart. a place, she explained, benjamin had had the pleasure of never going to before. when they were hungry, the only interesting choice that wasn’t a chain, was the local chinese place. delicious, sure, but options were not plentiful.

he knew she was tense the entire time. he kept rubbing her leg or taking her hand or kissing behind the ear. in the uber ride into town, he said no matter how it turned out, he’d be right there. at least she’d have him.

and thank fucking christ for that.

they joke about fucking all the time. and usually, they end up actually fucking. but when he’s try to pass flirtations, he was met with flat comments. she was too busy with having to see the family.

“wait, i’m sorry, what’s your brother’s name?” he asks when he sits on the bed at their air bnb, georgia changing into more comfortable clothes.

“tennesse.” she sighs. “my older sister’s name is montana, and my younger sister is virginia.”

“and you’re georgia.” he finishes.

“welcome to the family.” she winces a smile. “betty and mike are a real treat.”

her shoulders feel like they’re wound up like a rubber band. it’s written all over her so benjamin changes the subject. “have you ever read tennesse williams?”

“what?” she looks up, surprised in the shift. “no.” she shakes her head.

“fantastic playwright. one of the best of the modern generation.” he nods. “i’m sure i have a play of his buried somewhere in my place, i should let you borrow one. you’d like it.” he pats the space beside him. “come lay down, you look like you’re going to burst.”

“i just might.” she chuckles, sliding next to him. not a typical position, but she finds herself bending down to lay her head in his lap. his fingers running through her hair.

“what on earth did this family do to you?” he whispers.

on the outside, it looks like your average upper middle class house. white picket, shiny cars in the driveway, two stories. five bedrooms, three baths. a finished basement. everything you’d expect in a white family’s perfect home in the perfect suburb.

they got there early. her mom said she needed help setting things up. virginia was going to get married in the backyard. apparently it was less about the money (which there would have been enough to have a perfectly respectable wedding), and more about the time frame. for some reason, they wanted to get married as quickly as they could. hence the wedding only 3 months after the engagement.

georgia bought a new dress. something benjamin points out as he sat in a chair, typing his black shoes.

“you have plenty of lovely dresses.” he mentions.

“i couldn’t wear any of those.”

“why not?” he asks.

“i just couldn’t.”

she didn’t want to admit it was on principle of impressing them. she hated admitting to herself she was still caught up in that bullshit.

the dress is soft and gentle. hugs her curves but is still playful, not showy. she liked it. a lot less scandalous then some other things she’s worn. it’s below the knee and respectable, but still her.

he tells her she looks stunning and kisses the lipstick off her. she has to reapply in the uber. tell him not to mess with it again. but she hopes he does. always.

betty opens the door and the grin is immediate. “oh darling, look at you!” she extends her arms into a wide hug, embracing her daughter tightly and dragging her inside. “so good to see you finally. i was worried when you didn’t text or call saying you came in alright.”

“i was tired.” she says in a quick response, giving her mother a half hug. when she pulls away, she clears her throat, and gestures to benjamin. “this is benjamin, my boyfriend.”

“pleasure.” he says, extending his hand.

“yes, this is the man from across the pond, i remember!”

she told them about him last christmas. her first serious partner since the big ex. they’re always hounding her about it, and it slipped out. she’s regretted it since.

“well let’s go in. i need help making the flower arrangements. ben, i hope you wont get too bored. if you want something to do, the guys are watching the game in the other room.”

“he doesn’t care about that stuff, mom.” she sighs, putting her purse on the table when they get into the kitchen.

“i like sports.” his hands are sliding into his pockets and he looks around.

georgia shoots daggers into him, but it softens in a moment. she can’t be mad. not when she hasn’t warned him.

“oh course you do!” betty exclaims. “let me get you a beer.”

“don’t---,” she’s cut off by the sound of the opening fridge, and a bottle being opened.

“here dear. the guys are just downstairs in the man cave.” she’s glowing, and it makes georgia sick. “i swear, we made that man cave and it’s like i never see my husband anymore.” she laughs, and georgia watches as she reaches for a wine glass.

benjamin has the beer in his hand, and he starts to head in the direction of the basement, but georgia follows. she takes the beer out of his hand as he’s going for a sip. “it’s eleven ben, don’t drink that.” she whispers, ducking into the half bath.

“i didn’t want to be rude.” he stands in the doorway, where she’s dumping the contents down the sink.

“i don’t want either of us drinking today.” she says quietly. her words aren’t controlling, they’re not tense. it’s almost like a plea, looking over her shoulder at him, her lips in a flat line.

“okay.” he nods. “no drinking. i promise.” he puts his hand over his chest. “do you want me to go downstairs?”

“georgie! you have to come see what we did to your old room!” her mother shouts.

“it’s fine.” she nods.

“are you sure?” he reaches for her hand. “i am here for you.”

“it’s going to be more trouble if you don’t.” she gives his hand a squeeze and steps out. “take this.” she hands him the bottle. “if you don’t have one they’ll just give you another.” she sighs, disappointed at her words as if it’s already happened.

and sure enough, her bedroom was converted. not that georgia’s been back to this house since the breakup, really. it’s been a long time. the smell of her juicy perfume is gone. the posters are off her wall. she’s not mad that it’s a crafting studio now. she couldn’t care less. but it feels like a passage of time. even more of a farewell to this youth she knew in this home. she is even more a stranger than she was before.

so betty asks. asks and asks and asks. half of the questions are questions she asks every year. how is work? home much do you make again? well what about a pension, do you have insurance? does ben treat you right? is the sex good? so is navy really a fall color like she read in her magazine? she asks if she’s talked to brad. she wonders out loud what he’s up to. her jaw tenses and she’s pretty sure she pricks her finger on a rose when she speaks of kimberly. then she says tennesse is having his third kid. jossiah, they’re going to name him. she wants to bang her head against the wall but she keeps putting the roses with the dahlia’s.

“he’s not young.” she finally says. “how old is he?” her words are a whisper, even though they’re the only one on this floor.

“forty, mom. he’s only ten years older than me.” she keeps her eyes on the flowers.

“well, does he have any kids? are you going to be a stepmom?”

“i don’t even like to assume we’re going to take it that far. but yes, mom, he has a kid. he’s a very sweet boy, but he lives with his mom most of the time, and he’s a teenager so it’s not like there’s much parenting going on there.” she doesn’t dare bring up the time she saw devon at a place he certainly should not have been.

he mother is silent for a moment, an absolute rarity, but then she speaks. “are you sure he’s going to give you what you want?” she whispers.

“i think that’s for me to find out, and you not to worry about.” she nods.

“alright, alright.” she holds up her hands. “i’ll back off.”

there’s a loud noise coming from the basement, and georgia feels her stomach churn.

“you know what?” her mother says, sipping from her second glass of wine. “you should say hello to your father.”

but georgia’s already walking away from the counter to go find out what the noise was. each step has her body trembling even more, unsure of what she’s going to find. when she finally reaches the last step, and turns the corner, all she sees is benjamin at the pool table, with her brother. her father sitting in the recliner, watching the large tv.

“hey, love.” he grins, holding the pool stick. “your brother’s not a gracious loser.”

“your man’s a cheat.” tennesse points, beer in one hand, stick in the other. he points with his beer hand. “which figures.” he shrugs, holding a stupid grin.

“figures because why, ten?” she tilts her head.

“he’s a scot!” her dad booms from the seat, errupting in laughter, which her brother follows.

“that’s not even a stereotype that makes sense dad.” she shakes her head.

“come give your old man a kiss.” he waves his hand behind the recliner and she knows she has to. she walks around and sees him. sure enough, looks like he never gets out of that damn chair. his face sags a bit more now from when she last saw him. he’s a bit rounder in the face and the belly. she bends down to give him a kiss on the cheek. “ahhh look at my girl.” he puts a hand on her arm, but she stands after giving him his kiss. she notices how he doesn’t say baby girl or beautiful girl. he jaw tenses. “what are you wearing?” he winces, reaching over for his glasses to put them on and get a closer look. “this is a wedding, not a night on the town, georgia.” he scolds, and georgia looks up to benjamin.

“thanks dad.” she nods

“come on dad, georgie’s always been the fun one.” tennesse leans on his pool stick, grinning like he knows something.

because he fucking does and she wants to smack him.

“are we having fun?” she says, giving a tight-lipped smile.

“yeah.” ben nods. “i’m sure tennesse disagrees but i’m having fun.”

“not for long, i’ll make a fool out of you soon enough.” tennesse wags another finger at him, getting ready to take his shot.

“great.” she nods. “guess i’ll go back upstairs.”

she does. it’s the lesser of two evils, she decides, being stuck with her mother arranging flowers. she reminds herself that maggie’s brother is a dead beat, coked out fool that she has to babysit still well into his thirties. she reminds herself vincent lost his parents. she tells herself her rage needs to be placed elsewhere. she pricks herself on another thorn and she thinks that’s good enough.

montana comes with her husband, littered with distant family she hasn’t seen in close to fifteen years. she gives them polite greetings but they’re there to set up the arrangements in the back, so they don’t linger long. montana’s kids run around, screaming throughout the house to the back yard.

montana kisses georgia’s forehead when she comes in. graceful, soft, gentle. she speaks as if she’s still on that stage winning miss ohion. georgia still looks at her like she wears the crown.

“you look stunning.” montana croons.

georgia thinks about the time montana threw cake in her face when she was fourteen and she nods.

but montana was the best. in comparison. at least montana had soft hands. at least montana held her hair back when she puked in the toilet from too much to drink. at least montana told the boys to get off her lawn. at least montana braided her hair after virginia cut half of it off. montana was the one with the wedding magazines.

montana was who she wanted to be.

she was better at reigning their mother in, so she takes over for helping them out. she plucks the wine glass out of her hand more often than georgia would ever have the courage to. when she looks over once when montana did it, she takes a sip herself a winks. it’s hard not to gag. feeling she’s seventeen again trapped in this too big house that closes in on her chest.

virginia finally comes two hours before the ceremony. her hair and makeup already done, they rush her to their parent’s room to get ready. georgia doesn’t go. it’s a bit too much. knowing that force is in the house. she can’t help but walk down the steps to the basement. she can only make it to the entrance, looking at benjamin sits with the group of men. what used to be three of them now duplicated to six. she clears her throat. benjamin looks up instantly, and he’s to his feet. there’s some dumb joke that someone says and ben replies that makes everyone laugh. she’s not even listening, just walks back up the stairs and goes back to that half bath where she dumped out his beer.

he closes the door behind himself and she steps forward, grabbing the hand towel off the rack and pressing it to his chest.

“what’s wrong?” he reaches up, his hand cupping her face.

she doesn’t respond. all she does is press her face into the cloth and yell. it rattles her bones, tears her throat. it peppers her eyes with the threat of tears but she wont allow the satisfaction of walking out of this bathroom with ruined makeup.

he wraps a tight arm around her and when she runs out of breath, she lets out another one.

“what happened?” he looks with concern when she steps back, leaning against the sink.

“nothing.” she takes in a deep breath. “it’s just being here.”

it’s all the little things. the little words and the little looks. the little memories. just being here; all the things she spent her entire childhood putting up with, it suffocates her now.

“we can leave.” he puts his hands on her shoulder. “we’ll go right now, just sleep in bed until our flight in a couple days. go back, forget about this.”

“no.” she shakes her head. “i’m here now. if i leave then there will just be more talk.”

“why would that bother you if you hardly talk to them to begin with?”

“i don’t know.” she sighs. “but let’s just... finish the night.”

“okay.” he nods. “i’ll stick with you for the rest of it, okay? promise.” he bends down, kissing her temple. “you need to fix this?” he says, tracing her bottom lip with his thumb.

the first time she sees virginia, the first time since she was eighteen, was when she walked down the aisle. clearly the money was put somewhere, because georgia recognizes the dress instantly. can’t help but snort when she sees her walking with pride. wonders if daddy coughed up the 15k for the dress or if she managed a loaded hubby like she always dreamed. she’s got her arms crossed over her chest and watches as she meets her beau at the end. they exchange their vows, and she notices something funny.

leaning over to benjamin, she whispers. “does he sound funny to you?”

“i don’t know, he’s pretty quiet.” he’s got his arm on the back of her chair, a thumb rubbing the skin on her arm.

thankfully, it’s a quick ceremony, and the reception begins quick enough. ben makes a passing comment about the size of their backyard and georgia laughs. explains that when their parents were away, tennesse would throw ragers, and typically there were three or four cars driving recklessly in the back yard.

they take their seat where they were assigned, and georgia doesn’t think to get up. even when family members come to say hello. she’s polite, introduces ben, and they move on. it’s clear she’s not entertaining the idea of a reunion tonight.

the bride and groom take their seat at the head of the table. georgia sits beside ben, with montana and her family beside her, and tennesse on the other side of the table, her parents at the end as well.

she knew her father was gone. sure, physically he was present, but his eyes heavily indicated the beer had checked him out hours ago. betty carried the conversations on his behalf. but her rosy cheeks and increasing volume showed she’d had a good amount of wine too.

“i took a trip to new york last fall.” tennesse switches the conversation, with grabs georgia’s attention. “you wont believe who i ran into.”

she’s already scowling at him, but her mother leans in to show she’s very curious. “who’s that?”

“bradley.” she grins. “isn’t that the funniest thing? i was doing a recruitment gig and we just so happened to be at the same event.”

“what was that, the bootlickers convention?” georgia grumbles.

“hey.” montana slaps her arm.

“he looked good though.” tennesse continues. “still the big burly guy we remember. and he was with someone.”

“oh, good for him.” betty croons.

“yes, georgia, what happened to bradley?” finally, their father speaks up, leaning around to look directly at her. “i quite liked that man. you should have fought for him.”

“dad, benjamin is sitting right here.” she growls.

“no offense, chap, but what is it you do again?” he reaches to put a hand on his shoulder.

benjamin, who’s starting to look uncomfortable, clears his throat. “i’m a professor. chemistry at columbia.” he whipes his mouth with a napkin and readjusts in his seat. “it’s really interesting actually, but teaching there---.”

he’s cut off by her father who waves him off. “that’s fine and well, but bradley you know, he was a real upstanding guy. he was a linebacker for st. johns. what did you tell me when you told me about him earlier, ten?”

“he works for espn now.” her brother says with pride, as if that’s his job. but georgia always knew her brother had a hard-on for her ex. for as proud as he was for being a major in the army, he sure wished he was a sports star.

she rolls her eyes. “can we stop please? brad didn’t appreciate me, and he didn’t support me. once he knew he was better than i was and i no longer benefited him, he left me.”

“doesn’t he date a victoria secret model now?” virginia finally chimes in, because of course she needs to add to this conversation.

“who cares!” she slams her hand onto the table.

“well i care, i just want the best for you, georgia.” her father says.

“no, you just liked the free football tickets.”

“georgia,” her mother adds.

“oh shut up, you just liked him because he snuffed me out.” her jaw tenses. “you all liked him because he had me on a tight leesh and i could never be myself.”

“if this is yourself, i’d say you’re right.” virginia sips her wine. “nice dress by the way.”

“i’ll fucking kill you.” georgia starts to get up from her seat, but benjamin puts a hand on her lap.

“we love you, georgia.” montana’s soft voice comes in from beside her, a hand on her back. “we don’t want to upset you. let’s just enjoy tonight, okay? no more talk of bradley.”

georgia looks between montana and benjamin. of course montana had the soothing voice to get her back to her cool, and benjamin’s tender squeeze to ground him in his presence. bradley would never.

“i want you all to know that i couldn’t have asked for a better boyfriend in ben. he makes me happy and makes me a better person and i love him and that’s it.”

there’s silence for a while. people poke at their foods and eat quietly with the music playing, now in a tight spot. but it’s stopped by someone clinking a fork to their champagne glass.

georgia looks up to see the groom stand. looking a bit uneasy by the conversation that unfolded in front of him. he starts to talk about thanking everyone, and how this family has given him so much. he’s still quiet, even now only seven feet away, so she leans in closer, trying to make out his voice. was it an accent? well where to?

he talks about virginia. how beautiful she was when they first met, and how none of that has changed. he brings up how happy he is to be part of this family now, how he wished his own family in ireland could have come to, but he knows they’re here in spirit.

“you’re fucking kidding me.” she leans back in her seat, fingers pressing to her forehead. benjamin’s hand finds her knee and gives it a squeeze.

everyone gives a cheers after he’s done and he sits back down, the newlyweds sharing a tender kiss, which gets them another round of applause.

clearing her throat, she leans forward again. “tell me again when you guys started dating?” she presses her lips together.

“it was about eight months ago.” the man smiles tenderly. “it’s quick but we’re so in love.”

georgia nods, running her tongue over her teeth. “ginny, when did i last call you?”

“that’s a silly question.” ginny shrugs casually. “how could i possibly remember.”

“this is ridiculous. when are you going to stop?”

“stop what, georgia.” virginia rolls her eyes. “seriously, you’re being so awful tonight. this is the first time you’re home in like years and you’re just going to be a mega bitch? on my wedding day?”

“because you never stop. because you always wanted to shut me out. you cut my hair in my sleep, you started horrific lies about me when we were literal children. when tennesse told his stupid baseball friends that i was “easy” and “willing” you just invited them into the fucking house. and what, so they could ruin my life?” georgia leans back in her chair, fingers raking through her hair. “and when that wasn’t enough you got into stanford so nyu would look like shit in comparison. you couldn’t handle me dating bradley because god forbid i date a guy that everyone likes. so you feed him more lies and tell him i’m a fucking gold digger. and when my life was falling apart after he left and i got a chance to actually make a career, well perfect, you just started a business so no one could give a shit about my career taking off. now you have your irish husband because i can’t have that either. great. you won. you are the better sister. i was weaker than montana and you could choke me out.”

virginia blinks, and then looks to her husband. “see, i told you she was crazy.”

“georgia, really, that’s a bit accusatory, isn’t it?” her mother adds. “just calm down. i have a xanax in my room, do you want me to get you one?”

“i can’t fucking believe this. i can’t believe i came.” she shakes her head. “can’t i just be happy? can’t i just be successful and with a person who loves and respects me? why can’t i just be good enough?”

“maybe you’re just projecting, g.” virginia says. for being younger, she always sounds so fucking condescending. “maybe we’re loving and supportive and you just think so low of yourself you think everyone else does do.”

there’s a sound that follows immediately. a loud snort. benjamin coves his mouth as he laughs. shaking his head, he leans forward at the table.

“what’s so funny?” virginia frowns.

“sorry.” he waves his hand, wheezing again before controlling himself to speak. “this is the most confident woman i’ve ever met. there’s not an ounce of self doubt in her body. it’s one of her biggest strengths. sometimes a bit too confident. to suggest she’s not that’s---...” he cuts himself off, thinking for a moment. “georgia what’s that word for when you make someone feel something--- that manipulation tactic.” he snaps his fingers.

“gaslighting?” she furrows her eyebrows together, a bit charmed, but mostly confused.

“yes! thank you. you’re gaslighting her.” he puts an arm around her chair. “truthfully, i didn’t know what we were going to find coming here. georgia doesn’t talk about her family much, which is fine. now i know why. none of you are scary, you’re just really off the rails. like---” he whistles, looking around. “wow.”

“ben...” she whispers.

“no, it’s okay.” he nods. “i felt pretty good coming in. you were friendly enough. sure i noticed some things. little comments and mannerisms, but what family isn’t off with their flaws. but no, that’s just when the suns up and you’re around a stranger. it’s insane how you treat your family.” he leans forward in his chair, looking at every single one of them. “i can say with confidence that i will never see any of you ever again. but i hope maybe you can sit with a grown adult man--- with a phd i might add, sir,” he looks over to her father. “calling you out on your bullshit. i hope your children and grandchildren wont have to grow up in this. and while you made georgia the woman she is, and i suppose i have to thank you for that, it seems it’s in despite of your terrible treatment. so do better. for the sake of your future family, do better.”

he starts to get up from his chair, and georgia’s going to follow when virginia speaks up. “oh, so you’re both crazy, and unbelievably rude.”

“shut the fuck up you little rat-faced gremlin.” georgia hisses.

virginia’s face tenses, and she stands, grabbing her wine glass and throwing the contents at georgia. of course, it’s a considerable distance, so the cherry liquid splashes, causing droplets to his both benjamin, and montana. but her body freezes, looking down at the stupid five hundred dollar dress she bought for this dumb wedding.

benjamin’s got a hand on her waist, holding her in place as she processes the moment. but when she doesn’t move, virginia cries and grabs her steak knife. “now leave or i’ll bleed you both dry.” it doesn’t really seem like an empty threat by the severity of her tone, but georgia knows virginia is a coward.

“classy.” she nods, grabbing her purse. “i hope you all rot.”

“georgia.” her father groans, adjusting in his seat. he pulls out his wallet, taking out a couple hundred bills. he hands it to her like it’s muscle memory.

she’s insulted, but that doesn’t stop her from snatching the money. mostly because it makes virginia’s nose crinkle in disgust. “i’m going to use this to get a nose job. oh wait, that was you.”

benjamin drags her off before things could truly get violent, as the anger was starting to burn in her younger sister’s face.

maybe if this were a different time, the tears would have burned hot and bitter down her face as they left, but the second benjamin pushed through the side gate of their yard, and they were out, she felt herself give out.

“georgia, i am so sorry.” benjamin looks over at her, walking down the driveway to the curb. he’s reaching for his phone to call them a car. “i’m so sorry i brought you back here.”

she stops when they get to the sidewalk, and she looks at the houses around them. the houses she grew up looking at everyday. wondering if their lives were any different. if they were any better.

“no, you were right.” she nods, looking over at him. “i needed this.”

“what?” he says, surprised by the reaction.

“i’ve spent my entire life with just this little strand connecting me to them. always wanting to impress, never living up. pretty much all days i don’t care but then it’s one phone call and i’m slipping back into this toxic cycle of being vicious to everyone only to get the viciousness back.” she clears her throat. “i was no better than them, benjamin.” she whispers. “i used to spit in montana’s food. i told girls tennesse had the clap. and i always told virginia she was going to need fake tits to get a guy.” she rubs a hand over her face. “wasn’t until i got out that i, you know, saw the world and grew the fuck up. they disgusted me and that pain of everything really set in. but i always had a part of me that was still with them. and now... i’m done.”

“georgia, you’re not as bad as them.” he shakes his head.

“no... no i’m grown past that now. not what i used to be but now it’s different. and i wont let them treat me like the runt anymore.” she steps forward, putting her hands on his shoulder. “i have the best family in the world in new york. i don’t need those clowns. i just need you.” she smiles. “my ivy league doctor.” she runs her hands over his chest.

“i’m sorry she ruined your dress.” rubbing her arm, he gives her a kiss to her temple. “it was going to be a new favorite of mine.”

“it’s fine. it was my fault for not assuming it was going to happen. she almost always throws something in my face.” she sighs.

“wow.” benjamin shakes his head, opening the car door for her when their uber pulls in. “i am frankly shocked your bar is so low.”

“once she threw an entire glass at me, so consider this an improvement.” she buckles herself in, and when he gets in, her hand finds his thigh. “thank you for coming with me. there probably would have been bloodshed if you hadn’t.”

“i would never have let you do this alone.” he takes her hand and gives her knuckles a kiss. “but now we can take that cash, get a really nice bottle of whatever you want, and lay in bed the rest of the night.”

“can we do other stuff?” she smirks.

“you... want to?” he looks between her and the driver. “after what happened back there?”

“i’m really high off the adrenaline of calling my sister a rat-face gremlin and telling my whole family to rot so i’m super up for it.” she nods with enthusiasm. “plus you defending me like that really added to the whole event.”

“i wish i’d spoken up more.”

georgia shakes her head. “it’s okay. there’s no defending you could have done that would have made a difference to them.” she leans over in the car to kiss his cheek. “you are amazing, you know that right?”

“i’m no linebacker though. whatever that means.” he snorts.

“don’t even.” she pulls back with a laugh. “you’re better than every football player in the entire nfl.”

“that’s a bold statement. i’m sure there’s one that could stack up against me.”

she shakes her head, her finger reaching to brush against his wrist. “they’re all dead to me.”

he grins, leaning over himself to take her face in his hands to give her a long kiss. the kind that sweeps you up. where he heart stops beating and she forgets to breath because she feeling everything he needs her to know. the kind of kiss that says i love every ounce of you. the kind that says fuck your family, i’m here.

#> ◦ georgia & benjamin .

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hysterialyywrites · 6 years ago

Text

The Playwrights of the Storms

Act 1: Scene 1

The ominous sound of thunder rumbled in my ears.

I sat on my comfortable leather couch, dressed in the coziest onesie I could find, wrapped in layers and layers of blankets with warm hot chocolate sitting contentedly in my hands. I got an overly enthusiastic “CLASSES ARE SUSPENDED TODAY!!!” text from Mia and decided that today was the perfect day to binge watch Markiplier's Amnesia compilations. Fifteen minutes into a video, right in the middle of a jumpscare, bolts of white flashed in the corner of my eye, followed by a resounding BOOM. I almost dropped my mug in shock at the sound, and suddenly the apartment turned pitch black, the buzzing of electricity dying out as the roaring winds outside seemed to amplify in volume. My eyes widened in fear, but I managed to calm down a few seconds after. I set my mug down on the coffee table in front of me, then I hastily began to pat myself down in search of my phone that somehow found its way into my onesie. I managed to grab it before I could sit on it. Unlocking my phone, I checked the time.

Half past ten. I decided to snooze for a few hours.

* * *

My eyes shot open to the incessant ringing of my phone, accompanied by an annoying vibration against the wooden coffee table. I didn't care to check the caller ID before answering the phone.

“Hello,” I answered, not so happily.

“Someone's grumpy today,” a silvery voice replied. Mia's voice, for some reason, reminded me of glazed doughnuts.

“Sorry, Mia, my ringtone is seriously annoying. Help me choose another one when I come over.”

“You can come over right now. Mom's making carbonara for lun―” “I'M MAKING EXTRA JUST FOR YOU.” “MOM THE RECEIVER'S RIGHT NEXT TO YOUR MOUTH STOP YELLING.”

I chuckled at the mock argument that instigated on the other end of the line.

“Let me change first. I'll be over in five.”

* * *

The bike ride to Mia's literally took me five minutes. Eight seconds after I was caught in one of Aunt Meg's bone-crushing hugs.

“I missed you so much, Riley!”

“Aunt Meg, you saw me last week.”

“Oh did I? Your Aunt Meg's getting quite old,” she joked, yet there were no evident signs of aging on her face. She was as beautiful as she was on her wedding day, remembering the photo albums she showed me once.

She ushered me inside, and Mia came out to greet me with a hug. She didn't inherit her mother's talent of breaking spines, but if you were looking for a good hug, Mia's got you covered.

The three of us sat down at the dining table, a steaming plate of carbonara waiting for me at my usual seat, the creamy aroma of the sauce wafting through the air. I was always a big fan of Aunt Meg's cooking.

“You never sleep after waking up at 6. Just a few hours ago you told me you were having a Markiplier marathon,” Mia said, twirling the pasta around her fork.

“The power got cut; I had nothing else to do.”

“Well, that storm was pretty bad,” Aunt Meg recalled. “You've been alone in that apartment ever since you moved in at the beginning of the year; weren't you scared?”

“I remember being scared out of my wits the first few weeks after moving in. I really wasn't used to living by myself, but I was capable of basic chores, so I just thought of it as a really overdue sleepover somewhere else. Eventually, I got used to it.”

My parents lost their jobs back in my old town, before we moved into this one. They were recommended by a friend to another area however, and they took the opportunity. They left me with Uncle Sykes, my dad's older brother, who is also my landlord, against their wishes. I insisted on living by myself, since it wouldn't make a difference if I went with them either way, with them being out all the time. Since we trusted Uncle Sykes, it was safer for me too, instead of just leaving me alone at home in a foreign city where we knew absolutely nobody.

“I hope to meet your parents soon, though. They look absolutely adorable in the postcards they sent you,” Aunt Meg remarked.

“And you look like your Mom,” Mia piped in.

“Thanks,” I smiled. “We had a Skype session last night. They're coming over next month.”

“Oh, really? That's fantastic! I'll need to look at that duck recipe again.”

“Yes, please do.”

Even with the carbonara in front of me, the thought of Aunt Meg's duck was enough to make me hungrier than I thought possible.

Three rigid knocks on the front door caught our attention.

“I'll get it. You girls enjoy your pasta,” Aunt Meg said, shooting a wink in my direction. She knew how much I loved her carbonara. She got up and made her way to the front door.

“Did you finish that book I lent you?” Mia asked me.

“Almost. I have like, three chapters left. You need it back?”

“Not really, but the author just released a second book. We can get it when the stores reopen tomorrow.”

“Now that you mention it, the whole ride here felt so creepy, like I was riding past a ghost town. All the shops were closed, and I've only seen around three people max on the way.”

“Right? I knew Dervon was a quiet town, but it's been especially quiet today.”

“You think the storm scared everyone from going out?”

“Nah, everyone's power supply got cut off too, even ours. Maybe they had the same idea as you, and decided to take a nap. I knew you were sleeping, by the way, with nothing else to do in that apartment. I just called you over before you end up sleeping the whole day.”

I stifled a laugh, but realized I had no sense of time. I checked my phone. It was two in the afternoon. I was asleep for three and a half hours.

“I wouldn't have cared though, but thanks anyway. I'm always up for Aunt Meg's carbonara,” I said, taking a forkful of pasta and stuffing it in my mouth. This was heaven on earth.

“What time did the storm pass, by the way?” I asked curiously.

“Hmm, a little around twelve,” Mia answered.

I heard the door shut and Aunt Meg came back with a grim look on her face. She looked nervous and panicked, maybe even scared.

No, not maybe. She was scared, and I know that look of fear on her face when I see it.

We didn't need her to tell us what happened; we already knew.

“Who is it now?” I asked tentatively.

It took a while before Aunt Meg was able to answer.

“Ms. Piper, from four blocks down.”

Mia choked on her pasta.

Ms. Piper was a 22-year-old teacher at the local elementary school. She was a beauty that only came once every blue moon. Both kids and adults alike were really fond of her.

“No way. She can't be gone just like that, I‒ we‒ we just saw her yesterday.”

Aunt Meg didn't say anything more.

We sat in silence.

“That's the third one already,” Mia noted.

“Yeah.”

I've lived in silence in my apartment ever since I came, but this must be the most unbearable one I've had my whole life.

Ms. Piper was always the cheerful one, the one who always lifted our spirits whenever we were down in the dumps. She was one of those people who made their jobs look so easy; even the most annoying little rascals she was able to get under control. In times of crisis she would always know what to do. Everyone respected her. She was really good friends with everyone; she was the backbone of this little old town, the support everyone needed.

And now, with Ms. Piper gone, I can only think of a million ways this town would crumble under its own weight, with their support being taken away from them in only a matter of hours, in the midst of a horrific storm.

Act 1: Scene 2

It wasn't until a month later when I finally knew why people stayed indoors every time a storm came along.

Case 1: Little Hailee, only 5 years old from prep school, disappeared from her own home during a storm one day after her parents were apparently “knocked out”. They reported sniffing a scent that smelled slightly of pine before they fell unconscious. When they came to, Hailee was gone, and was never found. In place of the little girl a note was found in her home, accompanied by a wilted rose. The note read: With this storm comes the rise of a new kingdom And all kingdoms need a princess We have given little Hailee her well-deserved freedom By making her crowning our business ⁃ Miss Harley ♥ Case 2: Jared, a 13-year-old junior high student, didn't make it home one night after soccer practice. The sky was on the brink of a storm, and when it finally fell on the small little town of Dervon, Jared never made it back. A note, however, slipped through the crack under the front door. The note read: The princess needs a brave knight, you see And your brave boy Jared was the chosen one On this cold night he takes up his sword to flee To the princess whose beauty will shine for no one ⁃ Miss Han ♥

Jared's parents threw open the door in the middle of the storm to find a wilted rose taped to their front doorstep. Case 3: Ms. Piper brought Nina, her neighbor, homemade brownies the night before her disappearance. That was the last anybody had seen of Ms. Piper. After the storm, Nina came to check on Ms. Piper, only to find a wilted rose with a note that read: The princess is still quite young, so she needs a guide Who else is better than the lady who's light on her feet? Queen Piper shall teach young Hailee the rules she should abide So that the princess will rise without age to defeat ⁃ Miss Harley ♥

It was simple; every time a storm was coming a person was always going. Away, it seems. Mysteriously. And in their place only notes and wilted roses can be found. I think it's quite poetic, however, in a very dark way.

“If Officer Don finds out I've disclosed very confidential files to a pair of 17-year-olds, he'll never trust me again,” said Uncle Sykes.

“You don't have to worry about Officer Don finding out, Uncle Sykes,” I reassured him. “We just wanted to know what's going on, and I didn't know who else to ask.”

Uncle Sykes wasn't born to be a landlord; he was a cop. He was a highly-respected, well-trained cop. His father was the landlord, but when he passed, Uncle Sykes had to step down from his position and take his father's place. He still keeps in touch with the officers at the station, and they keep him up-to-date as well. To me, he looks more like a stay-home officer than a landlord.

Uncle Sykes eyed me warily. “I hope you girls know what you're doing,” he said, leaving the apartment.

“At least we know when the next abduction happens‒”

I looked Mia dead in the eyes.“

If the next abduction happens,” Mia corrected herself, “we know it's going to be written by Miss Han.”

“Who in the world are Miss Han and Miss Harley anyway?” I asked, frustrated and tired of not knowing.

“Relax, Riles, we'll get this. No worries!”

“Ugh, I hope so.”

“But...”

“But?”

“...how will we know who their next target is when none of their poems are giving us a clue?”

“Well, obviously they wouldn't give us a clue, Mia. They're kidnappers, and unfortunately they're not stupid.”

She gave me a look. “You know what I mean, Riles. If they were kidnappers off the street they wouldn't even try leaving notes like these. They'd never risk it. These ladies aren't just any kidnappers; they're smart and crazy, and that is never a good combination. They're just playing with us with their stupid notes.”

“You're contradicting yourself.”

“Riles!”

I laughed. “Sorry, sorry! I was just trying to lighten the mood.”

Mia gave a sad smile. I shared the same smile.

“Well, let's get to thinking; they don't have a specific criteria of targets, and their notes have no hint of a clue. We do know, however, that the notes were found after the abduction took place. That's all we know as of now. Where do we go from there?”

Silence.

Mia groaned in frustration. “I have no idea! I'm getting really irritated now.”

I laid my head on the couch and placed my arms over my eyes. I was dead tired and I was getting a headache.

“Maybe we should continue this tomorrow,” I suggested.

“Yeah,” Mia stood and gathered her stuff. “I guess so. Oh, and don't forget, we have a biology test tomorrow!” she said on her way out. The door shut before I could even reply.

“I basically don't care at this point!” I shouted the through the door.

A few minutes later, I got up from the couch and got ready for bed. As soon as my head plumped onto my pillow, I fell asleep within minutes.

Act 1: Scene 3

A few days passed and we still weren't getting anywhere.

I like to think that we were still safe as long as there were no storms, but I'm not going to push my luck. I'm still going to try to figure this out.

As I was eating breakfast, I could feel another headache coming. All I could think about were those wilted roses and those stupid notes and their stupid point and their stupid rhymes and‒

I got it.

“I got it!” I said, slamming my fists on the table.

What if the notes weren't given after the abduction?

What if they were given before?

That changes everything! If the notes were given before the abduction, that would serve as our warning, and since they don't use codenames for their victims, that would make saving the targets easier!

For the rest day, I told Uncle Sykes and Mia about my discovery, and they said they'll keep their eyes out for any notes and roses that may come by.

All that's left to do now is to wait.

* * *

“Have you noticed anything strange about my mom recently?”

I looked up at Mia. “Not really. Why?” I asked.

“Well, it's just... there are times when she's just her perky, normal self, but there are these times where she just acts so... formal and... regal around me, I guess. I don't know how to explain it, it's just so weird. And the way she smiles at me sometimes... god, I get so scared. It's like she's a completely different person and it's freaking me out.”

“Is that why you asked if you could come over today?”

“Yeah, she was being weird today. But she was fine yesterday. I don't know what's going on.”

I thought about it. “I'll walk home with you tonight, and I'll see for myself. Okay?”

She looked so scared when she just stared back at me.

“You'll be fine, Mia. She won't hurt you. That wouldn't be very... Aunt Meg of her,” I smiled.

She did her best to return it. “Thanks, Riles.”

* * *

When we got back to Mia's, Aunt Meg wasn't home. Mia breathed out a sigh of relief.

I started looking around the house.

“Riles? What are you doing?”

“Snooping, obviously.”

“Why?”

“Don't you want to know why Aunt Meg's been acting weird recently?”

“Well, I do, but... to think she'd do something... bad... I can't‒”

“Mia, it'll be fine. If anything's going on, we'll help her out, okay?”

She stared at me for the longest time. She stood so stiffly, like a soldier on alert.

“Okay?” I repeated.

“Alright, alright,” she finally said, relaxing. She then proceeded to join me in my search for... anything, basically.

I knew her house inside out. I knew every nook and cranny; I've been here more times than I can count.

What I didn't know was, there was a trap door right under their carpet in the hallway. As I was about to grab the latch, I heard Aunt Meg's voice come in through the front door.

“I'm home!” she sang. The same Aunt Meg I knew since I first met her.

“Hey, Mom,” Mia said reluctantly. “You okay?”

“Of course I am! Why would you ask that?”

“Hi, Aunt Meg!” I chirped.

“Oh hello, Riley! How are you?”

“I'm okay, Aunt Meg. I just walked Mia home,” I said cheerily. “I'm on my way home now, though.”

“Oh, alright! Be safe, okay?” advised Aunt Meg. She seems to be fine.

Mia came up to me and gave me a quick hug before I left.

“I'll come back tomorrow,” I whispered.

“Okay,” she whispered back.

She let go, and I made my way home. All I could think about the whole trip back was that trap door.

Act 1: Scene 4

“Good morning, Riley.”

Everything Mia described as formal and regal was right before my eyes. This was a completely different Aunt Meg and this was freaking me out.

She

was freaking me out. She had the aura of a queen: uptight and royal. She stood like one as well, as rigid as I've ever seen a lady try to attempt. I wanted to get out of here as soon as possible.

“Oh, um, good morning, Aunt Meg.”

“Mia's in her room. She's waiting for you,” she smiled.

God, that smile was as terrifying as Mia said.

Just as I passed Aunt Meg to climb up to Mia's room, my nose picked up on a scent. My memories were sharp enough to remember what that is, and what that means. I felt fear rising up in my chest.

We needed to leave, like, right now.

“Mia, let's go,” I called as I opened her door. She wheezed past me in three long strides and was basically sprinting down the stairs as I tried to catch up.

“Bye, Mom,” Mia said with a forced smile.

“Bye, Mia,” replied Aunt Meg.

I nodded goodbye to Aunt Meg, or whoever that was.

“You see what I mean?”

“Yeah, I see it... who was that?”

“That's the thing, Riles. I have no idea.”

“But did you notice her scent?”

“No... why?”

“She smelled slightly of pine.”

* * *

I came home from school tired and hungry, and groaned at the fact that I still had to make dinner. However, when I made my way to the kitchen, a meal was already prepared, with a note from Uncle Sykes saying, “Made your dinner tonight. Take a break.”

I should thank him the next time I see him.

I busied myself with dinner while watching TV. The rest of my night was pretty chill, and I never knew I let my guard down until I heard the rumbling of thunder outside my window.

My head snapped around so fast I thought my neck would crack, and my fears were confirmed when I heard another cackle of thunder in the distance. The winds were vigorously shaking the trees, and the distinct sound of raindrops hitting the pavement below was enough to make my heart leap to my throat.

Before I can even properly register the storm, a note slipped through the crack under my door. I jumped out of my seat from the dining area and hastily made my way to the door. I grabbed the note and threw open the front door to find a wilted rose taped to it. My blood turned cold as my eyes scanned the note:

The princess is in need of a companion Who else better than the one closest to me? Princess Mia shall accompany young Hailee at her mansion And all of the kingdom will celebrate in glee ⁃ Miss Han ♥

I brought the note up to my nose.

Pine.

My hands balled into fists as I scrambled to the couch to find my phone. As I grabbed it from under the pillows, I glanced up at the window. I began cursing silently under my breath as I dialed Mia's number in panic.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Fou‒

“Hello?”

“Oh thank goodness. Mia, you have to‒”

“Did a note come by?”

“Yes, but Mia, listen to me, I need you to leave the house right now.”

“What, why?”

“You're the next target, and Miss Han‒”

“But wait, what about Mom? She's not home yet.”

“Was she acting weird today?”

“She was fine when I got home.”

“Then if she's not home, she's safe. Just get out of there now.

I'm coming to get you.”I hung up. I'll tell her about Aunt Meg and Miss Han later, when we're all in our right minds, because now, we are definitely not in our right minds.

I needed to move. A storm was brewing.

* * *

“Uncle Sykes!” I yelled as I opened his front door. He really ought to lock his place up at all times.

“Uncle Sykes!” I yelled again and again, but received no response. He must be at the station. I don't have the luxury of time to go to the station and explain the whole situation to him, so I left the note on his table and sent him a quick text.

“Mia's in trouble. Come over ASAP.”

I sprinted to my bike right after. I threw all caution to the wind as I blindly pedaled towards danger, my five-minute bike ride taking forever in this storm. I find Mia on the other side of the road directly in front of her house, freezing in the cold of the rain. I got off of my bike halfway and ran to hug her, happy she was still here, safe and not missing. Yet.

I pushed that thought aside and asked her if she was okay.

“Yeah, I am. Thanks, Riles.”

In the midst of this awful storm I could her eyes were bloodshot. She must've been crying the whole time. Well, who wouldn't be crying in this kind of situation?

A pair of headlights temporarily blinded us and my fear was evident in the shaking of my legs, partly due to the cold, mostly due to the fear. I was freezing and scared, and I had no idea what to do next. I didn't come prepared with a plan; we were done for.

“Girls! Get in the car!”

I know that gruff voice when I hear it.

“Uncle Sykes!”

“I got your text. Hurry up and get in the car!”

I turned to look at Mia. She looked so helpless and fragile; she doesn't deserve this. She needed to get out of here.

I ran to the driver's side of the car as Mia hurriedly got in in the backseat.

“Uncle Sykes! Listen!” I had to yell over the rain. “Take Mia away from this town! The city where my parents are at shouldn't be too far from here! You guys meet with them and don't ever come back!”

“Riles, what are you saying? You're coming with us, right?” Mia cried.

“I have unfinished business to do in that house!” I pointed to Mia's place.

“Riley, this is not a good idea! I'm not having this conversation! Get in the car now!” Uncle Sykes said furiously.

Suddenly the street lamps and every single house on the block turned dark. The power's been cut, and we were running out of time.

“Just go!” I yelled.

I sprinted to the house as I heard Uncle Sykes click his tongue and Mia yelling over the sound of the rain, telling me to come back. The screeching of tires on asphalt gave me a feeling of relief, even as the fear in my chest was growing ever stronger. Sorry, Mia, Uncle Sykes. But I have to check that trap door.

I sprinted to the said trap door in the eerie darkness of the house and was surprised to find it already open. I used the flashlight from my phone to help me get down the ladder, and as I landed on solid ground to what seems like a closed-off chamber, my nose caught the slight scent of pine. I was overcome with nausea, and my eyesight was getting blurrier. I collapsed to the floor and felt the world grow dim. I heard the muffled sounds of footsteps and voices, praying it wasn't Mia and Uncle Sykes who had decided to come back. A few seconds later, I was engulfed in darkness.

Act 1: Scene 5

Finale

“You really out to conceal that horrid scent of yours, Miss Han.”

I munched on a glazed doughnut as I admired Miss Han's handiwork from the sides.

“How could I possibly do that, Miss Harley? It's my signature scent!” states Miss Han. Her regality got on my nerves sometimes.

“Well, it's thanks to your signature scent that stupid Riley was able to pick up on our tracks. We might have to relocate, seeing as four people have disappeared in one night. This was not part of the plan, Miss Han.”

“Oooh, excellent rhyme you've got there.”

I gave her a look. “I'm serious, Miss Han. Why did you target Meg's daughter of all people? And sent a note to Riley of all people? This would only end in disaster for us!”

“Well, why did you let Riley take charge, Miss Harley? You've been lying in wait in the same body for so long, you know you could just take over whenever you wanted, right?”

She had a point. “I decided to let Riley have a little bit of fun, let her play hero in this little act of ours. You should've seen her. Or me, in this case. She was yelling at her dear uncle and friend, telling them to get out of town. Apparently, that didn't end very well for the three of them.”

I stood by Riley's Aunt Meg, who I lovingly called Miss Han, and admired the kingdom we have built together.

In the center was little Hailee sat on her throne, dressed in the prettiest gown Miss Han had prepared. Her posture was befitting of a princess, hands on her lap and a crown on her head.

To her right was the brave knight Jared, donned in an armor that suits a young man as himself. His right hand rested on the hilt of his sword, standing rigidly in alert as a knight should do for his princess.

To the left of young Hailee was the beautiful Queen Piper, poised with grace as her arms and legs were raised in a pirouette. I remember Riley finding out Ms. Piper did ballet, so I decided to add a little character to the lovely queen by arranging her position in a way that defined her. It was challenging to hold the pose, but I managed to do it anyway.

And the last two characters of our lovely little play, although the man was uncalled for, was lovely Princess Mia in a gown that rivaled little Hailee's, situated in front of the throne with her hand outstretched to the younger princess. Beside her lay Sykes the Slave, hunched over in ragged clothes, posed in an action of scrubbing the floor with an old rag.

And the magic in this setup is that they no longer have to worry about hunger and thirst and aging. This will be their kingdom for eternity, and we are the playwrights.

“Miss Harley,” Miss Han turned to look at me. “Perhaps we should get going soon.”

“Yes, Miss Han,” I agreed. “We have another storm to catch.”

‒ End of Act 1 ‒

Written: March 14, 2016

#short story

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emmagreen1220-blog · 6 years ago

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New Post has been published on Literary Techniques

New Post has been published on https://literarytechniques.org/hyperbole-in-literature/

Hyperbole in Literature

Hyperbole was one of the literary devices most favored by the Elizabethan and Romantic authors; most of them dealt with exaggerated feelings and larger-than-life characters, so it’s only natural that both their similes and their metaphors were hyperbolic. Modern writers, however, would probably sound melodramatic if they used the same bloated language; so, unless they are satirical or Gothic horror writers – they usually do not. In an exciting development, however, modern magical realists tend to use even more exaggerated hyperboles than Renaissance playwrights or 19th-century novelists; but they give them an interesting spin. See of which type below.

10 Examples of Hyperbole in Literature

#1: Homer, Iliad IX.379-392 (~ 700 BC)

I loathe his presents, and for himself care not one straw. He may offer me ten or even twenty times what he has now done, nay—not though it be all that he has in the world, both now or ever shall have; he may promise me the wealth of Orchomenus or of Egyptian Thebes, which is the richest city in the whole world, for it has a hundred gates through each of which two hundred men may drive at once with their chariots and horses; he may offer me gifts as the sands of the sea or the dust of the plain in multitude, but even so he shall not move me till I have been revenged in full for the bitter wrong he has done me. I will not marry his daughter; she may be fair as Venus, and skillful as Minerva, but I will have none of her: let another take her, who may be a good match for her and who rules a larger kingdom. (tr. Samuel Butler)

In the first book of the Iliad, Agamemnon, the commander of the Greek forces at Troy, offends Achilles, his greatest warrior, by unrightfully seizing the latter’s war prize, Briseis. As a result, Achilles withdraws from the battle altogether, and the Greeks start suffering loss after loss. Desperate, Agamemnon admits his error nine books later and sends Odysseus, Ajax and Phoenix to Achilles with an apology and a bunch of presents. Achilles’ anger, however, is so overwhelming that he rejects the offer in a remarkably hyperbolic language which gradually intensifies to culminate with the claim that even if Agamemnon could offer him “gifts as the sands of the sea or the dust of the plain in multitude,” he would still be unmoved. Aristotle uses this quote in his Rhetoric (reference) not only as an example for hyperbole but also as proof in favor of his opinion that “those who are in a passion most frequently make use” of this literary device.

#2: Gospel of John 25:21 (~ 100 BC)

Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written.

The Bible – especially The Old Testament – is rich with hyperbolical expressions. For example, the land of Canaan is described in Exodus 3:8 as “a land flowing with milk and honey” and Solomon is said to have made “silver as common in Jerusalem as stones, and cedar as plentiful as sycamore-fig trees in the foothills” (1 Kings 10:27). The verse above, however, comes from the New Testament: it is the last of the last canonical gospel, that of John. The idea behind it is pretty straightforward: only a small part of Jesus’ actions has been documented: no book could ever describe all of them, because, simply put, there have been so many. In the opinion of noted Bible commentator, Joseph Benson, the strangely personal “I suppose,” softens the hyperbole; “if this be one,” he adds, reminding us that even a glaring hyperbole can seem truthful to emotionally invested people.

#3: William Shakespeare, Hamlet V.1.254-256 (1603)

I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers Could not with all their quantity of love Make up my sum.

After the priest declares that Ophelia’s death “was doubtful” and that she may not be granted a proper Christian burial, Ophelia’s brother Laertes jumps into her grave. A second later, Hamlet, whom Laertes suspects to be the reason for Ophelia’s suicide, does the same. To justify his decision, he utters these three verses, whose meaning goes along the lines of “if Laertes has the right to do it, then I have twice the right.” Or, to use his numerical hyperbole: forty thousand times the right, since that’s precisely how many times Hamlet claims his love for Ophelia is greater than the one of her—or, for that matter, any other—brother.

#4: Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels (1726)

Golbasto Momarem Evlame Gurdilo Shefin Mully Ully Gue, most mighty Emperor of Lilliput, delight and terror of the universe, whose dominions extend five thousand blustrugs (about twelve miles in circumference) to the extremities of the globe; monarch of all monarchs, taller than the sons of men; whose feet press down to the centre, and whose head strikes against the sun; at whose nod the princes of the earth shake their knees; pleasant as the spring, comfortable as the summer, fruitful as autumn, dreadful as winter: his most sublime majesty proposes to the man-mountain, lately arrived at our celestial dominions, the following articles, which, by a solemn oath, he shall be obliged to perform.

Monarchs have adorned themselves with hyperbolical titles ever since Ancient Mesopotamia. This is what—among other things—Jonathan Swift tries to mock in this exceptionally long introduction to the law which should allow Gulliver some freedom in Lilliput. Even though Lilliputians are merely one-twelfth the height of Gulliver, they don’t seem that unwilling to exaggerate how their “most mighty Emperor” is “taller than the sons of men” and how the dominions of his country span to “the extremities of the globe” even though barely “twelve miles in circumference.” Of course, neither they nor Swift stops there; by the end of the sentence, one gets the feeling that what the great Irish satirist is ridiculing here is the very nature of hyperbole, the notorious hallmark of deceptive flattery.

#5: Mary Shelley, Frankenstein (1818)

The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attempt to pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw.

The sentence above is uttered—there’s no way of knowing whether in shock or relief—by Victor Frankenstein, after his brother Ernest informs him that the murderer of their youngest sibling, William, has been discovered. However, Victor knows that the murderer is none other than his gruesome creature, which is why he has a hard time believing it. It would be easier—he says in the conventionally excessive language of Gothic novels—for one to run faster than the winds or keep a mountain stream in check with a straw than to catch the murderer of William. It turns out that the murderer Ernest has in mind is someone else—William’s nanny, Justine—which leads to another emphatic exclamation by Victor, speckled with two common hyperboles: “Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it is wrongfully; everyone knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernest?”

#6: Herman Melville, Moby-Dick (1851)

Nantucket! Take out your map and look at it. See what a real corner of the world it occupies; how it stands there, away off shore, more lonely than the Eddystone lighthouse. Look at it—a mere hillock, and elbow of sand; all beach, without a background. There is more sand there than you would use in twenty years as a substitute for blotting paper. Some gamesome wights will tell you that they have to plant weeds there, they don’t grow naturally; that they import Canada thistles; that they have to send beyond seas for a spile to stop a leak in an oil cask; that pieces of wood in Nantucket are carried about like bits of the true cross in Rome; that people there plant toadstools before their houses, to get under the shade in summer time; that one blade of grass makes an oasis, three blades in a day’s walk a prairie; that they wear quicksand shoes, something like Laplander snow-shoes; that they are so shut up, belted about, every way inclosed, surrounded, and made an utter island of by the ocean, that to the very chairs and tables small clams will sometimes be found adhering as to the backs of sea turtles. But these extravaganzas only show that Nantucket is no Illinois.

The tall tale is a fundamental element of American folk literature. In its essence, it is a tale related as if factual, even though obviously exaggerated. In his first description of Nantucket in the fourteenth chapter of Moby-Dick, Herman Melville borrows and reworks some of these tall tales told by the natives (and their “gamesome wights”) to describe how extraordinarily barren is the island of Nantucket (in fact, Encyclopedia Britannica informs us, even its name can be translated as “sandy, sterile soil tempting no one”). Hyperboles abound: since they are living on a sun-scorched “elbow of sand,” Nantucketers have to import even thistles and consider every blade of grass the equivalent of an oasis!

#7: Mark Twain, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court (1889)

There did not seem to be brains enough in the entire nursery, so to speak, to bait a fish-hook with; but you didn’t seem to mind that, after a little, because you soon saw that brains were not needed in a society like that, and, indeed, would have marred it, hindered it, spoiled its symmetry—perhaps rendered its existence impossible.

Want to see a literary device used to its best comedic effect? Then, leave it to the master of masters: Mr. Mark Twain. In his AH/SF-satire of the notion of romantic chivalry, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, an American engineer named Hank Morgan suffers a blow to the head and is somehow transported back to Medieval England. Naturally, he knows much more than everyone else there—yes, including Merlin—which is why he is able to ridicule the not-so-very-smart inhabitants of Camelot in the manner presented in the sentence above. Apparently, as far as Twain I concerned, a Medieval society such as the one idealized by the Romantics is possible only in the absence of any shred of common sense intelligence.

#8: Flannery O’Connor, “Parker’s Back” (1965)

The skin on her face was as thin and drawn as tight as the skin of an onion and her eyes were gray and sharp like the points of two icepicks.

“Parker’s Back” is one of the eleven stories which make up Everything That Rises Must Converge, Flannery O’Connor’s posthumously published short story collection. The sentence above is part of the description O’Connor gives of the wife of the title character, a skinny woman named Sarah Ruth. So as to direct the attention of the reader to this feature of Sarah, she exaggerates it, just like a caricaturist would do in a visual representation. No wonder that caricatures are sometimes called visual hyperboles.

#9: Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967)

It rained for four years, eleven months, and two days.

This is the powerful opening sentence of the sixteenth chapter of Gabriel García Márquez’s celebrated masterpiece, One Hundred Years of Solitude. It is written in the style of magical realism which makes prominent use of hyperboles such as the one quoted here. The sentence sounds almost biblical in its exaggeration (Genesis 7:12: “And rain fell on the earth forty days and forty nights”), but Márquez goes a step forward—not merely in terms of the length, but also through the use of precise numbers. We tend to accept as true precise numbers more than we believe rounded ones, and this makes Márquez’s hyperbole even more powerful and fantastical.

#10: Salman Rushdie, Haroun and the Sea of Stories (1990)

There was once, in the country of Alifbay, a sad city, the saddest of cities, a city so ruinously sad that it had forgotten its name. It stood by a mournful sea full of glumfish, which were so miserable to eat that they made people belch with melancholy even though the skies were blue. In the north of the sad city stood mighty factories in which (so I’m told) sadness was actually manufactured, packaged and sent all over the world, which seemed never to get enough of it.

Salman Rushdie’s Haroun and the Sea of Stories is a children’s book—but, just like Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, it is also a work of magical realism, both authors’ trademark technique. In fact, Rushdie’s opening description of this saddest of all cities may be a hat tip to a hyperbolic account by none other than Márquez, specifically this sentence from One Hundred Years of Solitude: “the world was so recent that many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point.” Be that as it may, it’s important to note that works of magical realism make use of absurd exaggerations and hyperboles quite often; the trick is that they don’t treat these hyperboles as hyperboles, but as factual claims, thus making them even more powerful and conspicuous.

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how2to18 · 7 years ago

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THIS IS PART XV of LARB’s serialization of Seth Greenland’s forthcoming novel The Hazards of Good Fortune. This is the last week of our serialization of the book but it isn’t the end of the novel. To finish the novel, you can pick it up in bookstores or order it upon its release on August 21st. Links to pre-order the book are below.

Greenland’s novel follows Jay Gladstone from his basketball-loving youth to his life as a real estate developer, civic leader, philanthropist, and NBA team owner, and then to it all spiraling out of control.

A film and TV writer, playwright, and author of four previous novels, Greenland was the original host of The LARB Radio Hour and serves on LARB’s board of directors. The Hazards of Good Fortune will be published in book form by Europa Editions on August 21, 2018.

To start with installment one, click here.

To pre-order (and finish the book) on Indiebound, click here; on Amazon, click here; at Barnes & Noble, click here.

Chapter Forty-Nine

The weekend had been taxing for Nicole. She spent most of it holed up in the hotel suite frantically trying to figure out who had hacked her. She still had no idea. Her friend Audrey called on Saturday to commiserate and invite her to Nantucket, but Nicole declined. She felt safer in the city. As far as Nicole’s vague plan to somehow repair her marriage, the release of the tape rendered the degree of difficulty nearly insurmountable. Not only was it humiliating for all the obvious reasons, but she had inadvertently added another layer of stress to Jay’s life, and knew her chances of getting him to reverse his decision existed in inverse proportion to his anxiety. She surmised it was still DEFCON 4 in her husband’s head. She wanted to talk with him but not enough time had passed. Yesterday afternoon she contacted Bebe. To Nicole’s relief, Bebe did not sound angry on the phone, nor was her affect in any way chilly. Jay’s sister made sympathetic noises and when Nicole asked if her sister-in-law would join her for a drink after work the next day Bebe was game.

They met at the Oak Room in the Plaza Hotel. Nicole was in a corner, nibbling mixed nuts, nursing a glass of chardonnay. Bebe sat down and ordered a vodka martini. Nicole thanked her profusely for coming, a crumpled a cocktail napkin in her hand. Nerves. When Bebe asked how she was doing Nicole looked down, shook her head, and moaned. She put the napkin on the table and with the index fingers of each hand proceeded to smooth it out. It was around six, and the bar was starting to fill up with after-work pleasure seekers and several tables of tourists. The waiter placed Bebe’s drink in front of her, glanced at Nicole—did he recognize her? She hoped not—and departed. Bebe took a sip and gazed into Nicole’s watery eyes.

“What possessed you to make a tape?”

“I was drunk; it was idiotic. I was mad at your brother.”

“You were going to show it to him?”

“No. I don’t know. I wish I could unwind everything.” She told Bebe about their fight before he left for Africa, her desire to have a child, his unwillingness, and her resentment. “I keep telling myself I’m going to call my therapist who I haven’t talked to in five years, but I don’t want him to judge me.”

“He’s a therapist. They’re not allowed to judge you.” One of the many reasons social success accrued to Nicole was because she exuded a potent mixture of refinement and aplomb that captivated men and women alike. She operated in a matrix of hints and signals. Her default mode was one of surpassing subtlety, but with the decision to take Dag to bed she had precluded that approach and the luxury of indirection was no longer hers. Too much was slipping away too quickly.

“Who do you think put that tape out there?”

“You’re asking me?” Bebe said. “How would I know? I have no idea.”

Nicole was at a loss. “I might as well ask the waiter.”

Bebe studied the martini.

“How can I help?”

“Talk to Jay,” Nicole suggested.

“And say what?”

“I love him, I’m horrified by my behavior, and I’ll do anything to get him back.”

“I’m not sure he’s going to be receptive to that message right now, but when I talk to him next I’ll try to figure out what he’s thinking, and if it’s appropriate, I’ll say something. All right?”

Nicole effusively expressed her gratitude. Bebe told her she had to get going. Franklin had invited her to a fundraiser for Christine Lupo, and because she enjoyed harassing her cousin, and wanted to take the measure of the woman who was prosecuting her brother, she could not resist.

“Wait a minute,” Nicole said. “Franklin is hosting her in his home? Why would he do that?”

“To be fair, I think he arranged this before Jay’s—” Bebe searched for the right word—“setback happened.”

“Franklin should have canceled the event,” Nicole said.

“Franklin,” Bebe said, “should have done a lot of things.”

When the waiter brought the check, Nicole took it and placed a credit card on the table. She began to say something, hesitated, then asked, “Do you think Franklin would mind if I came with you?”

“Probably.”

A look of concern clouded Nicole’s worn face. Continually recalibrating her social position was exhausting and, given its downward trajectory, destabilizing.

“You really think he’d have a problem?”

“Yes,” Bebe said. “Which is why you’re going to be my date.”

The Statue of Liberty set against the velvet jewel box lining of New York Harbor at night never failed to move Christine. She stood at the window of a Tribeca penthouse in a guest bedroom having gone there to take a phone call from her daughter, who had a question about homework. Christine remembered when her parents brought her downtown as a small child, how they pointed to Ellis Island, the portal through which her grandparents passed on their journey from Italy to the Bronx. She remembered standing on the docks for the bicentennial celebrations, July 4th, 1976, captivated by the sight of the tall ships sailing upriver as bouquets of fireworks burst overhead, tendrils of light illuminating the New York and New Jersey shorelines. Recalled bringing her children down here to see the display on a more recent July 4th, and how she had told Dominic Jr. and Lucia they were all part of a chain and that one day they would bring their children to watch the celebration in the harbor. Her relationship with Dominic Jr. had deteriorated since he discovered what she had done to his T-shirt, but he would get over it. Mothers and sons found each other in the end.

Perhaps she would stage a photo op for her campaign on Liberty Island, one mighty, torch-wielding woman in the shadow of another. A link with history, an image for tomorrow. Her immigrant grandparents could not in their wildest imaginings have conceived that their granddaughter might rise from Arthur Avenue to become the Governor of New York.

The idea of charging Jay Gladstone with a hate crime was Lou Pagano’s, but this didn’t matter because, as District Attorney of Westchester County, she would get the credit. It was a bold move that would demonstrate her credentials as a crusader against racism and generate support in the black community (plummeting since the nonindictment of Russell Plesko) while doing nothing to antagonize law enforcement. It was an elegant legal maneuver that was sure to pay political dividends. But the decision to add the charge to the indictment had not been arrived at easily. Pagano called her at home on Sunday and was surprised she had not immediately agreed but instead had asked for time to think about it. To charge Jay Gladstone with a hate crime was to raise the stakes considerably. The bar for proof was high, but it could serve as a useful bargaining chip, should he decide to accept a deal. More important, it would send a signal to voters that she was sensitive enough in matters of race to bring the weightiest charges against one of New York’s ruling elite.

Again, she called Franklin Gladstone. Now that they were about to augment the original indictment with a charge that would immeasurably compound its severity, she felt the need to at least mention it as a courtesy so her patron would not be caught off guard when he heard about it. Franklin told her not to worry and expressed his admiration for her integrity.

To Christine’s pleasure, the hate crime charges had led the local news that evening. She noted with no little satisfaction that Imam Ibrahim Muhammad had called a well-attended press conference during which he commented that while the Westchester County District Attorney’s office should have brought charges against the officer who killed John Eagle, the new ones against Jay Gladstone were “a positive step in her relations with African-Americans.”

All of this was going through her mind as she tore herself away from the view to greet the guests at the fundraiser Franklin and Marcy Gladstone were hosting for her gubernatorial candidacy. From the other room came the restless sound of money.

Despite the retention of a prominent interior design team, Franklin and Marcy had expensively decorated their penthouse loft in no particular style. The gathering of more than a hundred that filled the living room and spilled out on to the deck was a glittering portrait of achievement. A smattering of media people gathered in a corner listening to Roger Ailes hold forth. Across the room, Rupert Murdoch chatted with the actor Jon Voight. Near the free bar manned by a white-jacketed waiter, Ezra Gladstone and his twin brother Ari sipped artisanal beer and engaged the daughter of a casino mogul with whom they were exploring a co-venture. Dr. Bannister and his wife chatted with Michael Steele, who had recently become the first black man to chair the Republican National Committee. It was a coup to have attracted such prominent African-Americans.

A hedge fund manager approached with his wife and asked about Wall Street regulation. Several others immediately were drawn to her orbit, and so Christine Lupo began to work the room.

Standing in front of a framed pair of boxing trunks worn by the heavyweight fighter Sonny Liston, Franklin was talking to a bond trader from whom he planned to extract a six-figure contribution when he noticed a woman scanning the crowd. It was his cousin Bebe, chatting to another woman who had her back to him. He immediately realized that Bebe’s companion was Jay’s wife. He had invited his cousin as a courtesy never imagining she would attend. That she had brought Nicole was an overt provocation. Why had Nicole come? Franklin immediately crossed the room to greet the women.

“I didn’t expect to see you two,” he said, approximating friendliness.

Bebe said, “You invited me, didn’t you?” She was drinking club soda. “Nicole wanted to come. Who was I to say no? I like your loft.”

Franklin nodded at Nicole, who smiled uncomfortably and said something about how it was important to listen to all political points of view.

Franklin to Bebe: “Haven’t you been here before?”

“Remind me,” she said. “When would that have been?”

Franklin’s parrying skills were minimal, but his arrogance rendered them unnecessary. Rather than offering a wisecrack, he said, “Well, I’m glad you’re here tonight. I think Christine’s going to make a hell of a governor.”

Bebe raised her well-tended eyebrows. “She seems like a strong-minded woman. I’d like to meet her.” Franklin looked stricken, which only heightened Bebe’s determination. Turning to her sister-in-law, she suggested the two of them immediately say hello to the candidate.

“She’s getting ready to speak,” Franklin said.

“If you don’t introduce us,” Bebe said, “I will. Come on, Nicole. I want to talk to her.”

Nicole excused herself and went to refill her wineglass as Franklin grumpily accompanied his cousin across the room. From her position near the bar, she watched Franklin introduce Bebe to Christine Lupo. The politician was pretty and relaxed, two qualities Nicole felt herself to be decidedly lacking at present. Men beset Nicole whenever she stood alone at a party; they would babble and flirt, gauge their chances with the unobtainable. But tonight, many of the guests had probably watched her have sex with D’Angelo Maxwell, so she had no idea what to expect. The amateur porn shattered the illusion of her inviolability. A spasm of self-doubt seized her. Why had she come? Did she really want to face the woman who was trying to send her husband to prison? Was it only because she could not endure once again returning to her hotel suite alone?

A familiar-looking man in a business suit approached. Mannequin handsome, with graying hair and a friendly expression, he seemed to know her. Who was he?

“Nicole?”

“Yes, hello, you are—?”

“Fred Panzer, Lynx News.”

That was it! She didn’t know him, just recognized his face from television. Immediately, she wanted to retract the warmth of her greeting.

He said, “I’m a little surprised to see you here.”

“You don’t know me so why would you expect one thing over another?”

Panzer shrugged. “No reason.” She looked over his shoulder for someone else to talk to. “Have you thought about doing an interview?”

“About what?” She knew what but wanted to make the creature say it. The wine in her glass was disappearing again.

“Recent events. Get your version out there, gain control of the story.”

“I think you want to contact my husband.”

“He won’t talk to us.”

“Because he’s a very intelligent man,” Nicole said.

“Jay Gladstone would be the get of the decade today. He’s O.J. in reverse.”

“What does that mean?”

“Famous white guy who killed an African-American. The trial’s going to be a circus.”

“My husband didn’t kill anyone.”

“Dag’s still in that coma, isn’t he?”

Nicole briefly thought about tossing her drink in Panzer’s face but preferred to consume the dregs of the glass. Now another problem presented itself. Marcy was slicing through the guests like a Coast Guard cutter, headed in her direction. What could that woman possibly want? Marcy might ask her what she was doing here or, worse, suggest she leave. Without saying goodbye to Panzer, Nicole tottered off to find a bathroom. There was one adjacent to the kitchen where the busy wait staff were working. She felt their eyes on her as she passed through.

When it came to audacity in another woman, Christine Lupo was of two minds: Since it was the quality she cultivated that allowed her to achieve her exalted position, she admired those who possessed it. But when it was employed by another woman to challenge her, she found it distinctly less appealing. Men she squished like they were bugs. They didn’t scare her the way women did. This Gladstone lady had fixed her with a dark-eyed gaze and, as Franklin gaped like a trout, was saying, “To not at least convene a grand jury seems like a remarkably tone-deaf response to what happened. How can black people have any confidence in the government if they don’t get their day in court?”

“I’m sorry, tell me your name again.”

“Beatrice,” Bebe said. The nickname was for people she liked.

“Well, Beatrice, to answer your question, I don’t think about what works for me on a personal level because that would be a betrayal of the contract I have with the citizens of this state. You’re a New Yorker?”

“Born and bred.”

“Well, I will never betray you. I weighed the facts and made the best decision for the citizens of Westchester County.”

“You’re dying to be governor,” Bebe said. “Aren’t you?”

“I will be governor.” Then Christine Lupo winked at her interlocutor. “With the help of people like you.”

Wanting to end the conversation, Franklin said, “I think it’s time for the DA to speak.”

As the host led the guest of honor to safety in another part of the room, Bebe watched them. While she was not going to mention her brother’s case, she had intended to test the politician. The DA was a formidable adversary, self-possessed and unyielding. Words bounced off her armor. Jay needed to prepare for war.

Where was Nicole? Bebe peered around the room, searching for her. Had she gotten flustered and left? That would be understandable.

Marcy approached and demanded to know whether she was enjoying herself.

“Immensely,” Bebe said.

“How’s Jay doing?” Marcy asked, with barely concealed relish.

“Under the circumstances, he’s all right.”

“What he did? It’s a shanda!” Bebe looked at her quizzically. “D’Angelo, the tape—” Her voice trailed off as if she could barely bring herself to enumerate his transgressions. “Why did you bring her?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Hmmpf,” Marcy said, a noise intended to convey that to respond would be beneath her. But curiosity won out: “Try me.”

Before Bebe could answer, Franklin tapped a spoon on a glass and called the room to order. Without bothering to excuse herself, Marcy flew to his side and when everyone had turned their attention to the host and hostess, Franklin introduced Christine Lupo as the next governor of New York. After the polite applause died down the district attorney spieled with great conviction about lower taxes, more police, and eliminating regulations that limit what businesses can do. Attentively, the wallets listened. “And for everyone in this room who works on Wall Street, I want you to know that a Lupo administration will be in your pocket.” Far from humorless, the district attorney knew how to land a well-timed joke. After the briefest pause during which the marks realized the verbal slip was intentional, a wave of laughter rippled through the room. She shouted: “I mean on your side!” and the levity rose.

In the wings, hands clasped at his waist, Franklin beamed. Christine Lupo was his politician and who could identify her ceiling? The DA had everyone reaching for their checkbooks.

Nicole spent five minutes locked in the bathroom, several of them staring at her reflection in the mirror. How could she have let herself sink to such depths? The dalliance with D’Angelo was bad enough, her role in his current predicament unbearable, but an emotional collapse in its wake? That was inexcusable. Malingering for days in a luxury hotel suite swilling champagne like some dissipated royal was not how she had reached her enviable station in life, and neither was hiding out in Franklin’s bathroom. Why did she not stand her ground with Marcy? She couldn’t let that virago intimidate her. Why should she care what Marcy thought? Marcy was a rigid, conformist nonentity, mother of three spoiled children, all of whom would be living in a cardboard box under a bridge were they not born Gladstones, a woman whose entire existence involved doing the bidding of her overbearing husband. Marcy was nothing.

Nicole reapplied her lipstick and touched up her eye makeup. She wanted to have a word with that Lupo woman.

When Nicole emerged from the kitchen, her target was addressing the packed room. She pushed between two tall bankers to get a better view. There was Franklin, staring at the guest of honor adoringly with Marcy next to him, thrilled to have famous people in their home. There were Ezra and Ari, those charter members of the lucky sperm club. The Lynx reporter lurked near Bebe.

The guests were rapt. Nicole could not understand it. Yes, the politician was a compelling woman who seemed in control of her life in a way that shone a light on Nicole’s precipitous fall. But Christine Lupo struck her as decidedly second-rate, an ambitious hack whose road company charisma stood in sharp contrast to that of President Obama, the only politician Nicole had truly loved. Why had she not done more than just say hello to him at the Waldorf dinner? She had been too distracted by Dag. She remembered his speech in Chicago the night he was elected. The poetry of his words had brought her to tears. Christine Lupo droned; the moneyed mollusks opened. Who were these pasty-faced white people? And who were these black people? What were they doing in the enemy camp? Could none of them discern the falsity at her core? The clones of these men and women packed Washington to the rotting gills. Nicole knew them, worked with them, slept with them, and now their avatar, an empty suit with padded shoulders, intended to use the power of her office to ruin Jay’s life.

“A few minutes ago, I was looking out the window at the Statue of Liberty, and I thought of my grandmother who was born in Calabria, Italy, and took a boat to Ellis Island where—”

From the back of the room, Nicole said, “You’re a fake,” loud enough to be heard. Several pairs of eyes swung in her direction. The attention only emboldened her. Christine Lupo stopped in the middle of a sentence and looked in her direction.

“Excuse me,” she said.

A woman shushed Nicole, but she paid her no mind. “You’re a big fake and shame on you for using Jay Gladstone to advance your political career!”

Several people made hissing noises to indicate their displeasure. Who is that woman, someone said. Oh, for heaven’s sake, said another, it’s Jay Gladstone’s wife. Is she drunk? Jon Voight and Roger Ailes were gaping at her. As Nicole continued to interrupt the DA, the quiet downs and shushes increased in volume. The Lynx reporter filmed with his cell phone.

Franklin moved in her direction.

Nicole was undeterred. Louder: “You need a well-off white man on the docket so you can prove you have no racial bias, but you didn’t have the guts to lock up the cop who killed that black guy.”

The two bankers flanking Nicole moved away from her so Franklin, his face tainted with rage, had a clear shot. He seized her arm, pushed his face close—the tip of his nose pressed against her hair, she shuddered in revulsion—and whispered, “Everyone’s sorry your phone got hacked, but you should leave right now.”

“Franklin, it’s okay,” Christine Lupo said. He looked at her questioningly but did not release his grip. “Let the lady speak.”

Under his breath, he hissed, “Goddammit.”

Nicole wrenched her arm away and said to Franklin, “You’re a putz.”

How much had she imbibed? There were the two glasses of wine at the Oak Bar, two at the loft—wait, no, one and a half at the loft. She wasn’t that drunk. A little food might help. Perhaps she’d grab a canapé on her way out. Nicole cleared her throat and focused on the district attorney: “The people here tonight, who have a lot more in common with my husband than they do with that poor black man who got killed by a policeman, they’re all nodding in agreement because by crucifying Jay you absolve them of their sins.”

She waited now, pleased with her insight, the freedom with which she expressed it, and wondering if Christine Lupo would respond. Would the Christian reference disturb Marcy? She had more: “Who made you Pontius Pilate?” The smile on Nicole’s face after delivering the last barb was disreputable and rakishly appealing, the kind one uncharitably recalls when sobriety reasserts itself. Nicole deployed it like a ninja.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Gladstone,” Christine Lupo said from the front of the room. Her manner was noncombative. “You look better in person than you do on the Internet.”

There was a brief pause while the refined attendees contemplated whether it was permissible to display their delight at this insult, concluded that Nicole deserved it, and burst into sustained laughter followed by applause. Nicole felt hot, blinding shame that rose from her feet to her calves, her hips, belly, up through her back, flaming her neck and thickening her tongue. The entire room was mocking her. Why had she not left ten minutes earlier? Why had she come at all?

Christine Lupo concluded with, “I can’t comment on a pending case.”

Bebe was at her side. They were in the elevator. The air in the street refreshed her.

“That was impressive,” Bebe said.

“I don’t care what those assholes think of me.”

Bebe asked if she was all right and Nicole told her she was, and that calling out Christine Lupo was liberating. Heckling was not Bebe’s style, but she was impressed with Nicole’s commitment, rash though it might have seemed. Her brother was already in bad shape. It was hard to see how his wife’s outburst could make it worse.

They chatted about the presidential election during the cab ride uptown.

Nicole hoped Bebe would tell Jay exactly what his wife had done, although she wasn’t going to ask her. If Jay’s sister performed that modest task, the wretched humiliation Nicole experienced in Franklin’s penthouse would be worth it.

What was it Franklin had told her? Everyone’s sorry your phone got hacked. How did he know someone hacked her? None of the accounts she read had mentioned that detail. No one knew that that horrid clip had come from her phone. What else would have provided it? No one used video cameras anymore. Franklin had assumed—that was all. But the more she thought about it, the less sense her conjecture made. Franklin wasn’t clever enough to guess something like that. When she returned to the hotel Nicole sent the following text to her husband:

Franklin hacked my phone. He’s the leaker.

Chapter Fifty

It was a serene Christine Lupo that gazed across the East River at the Queens skyline from the backseat of her town car as Russell Plesko drove north on the FDR. Pagano’s request had gone through, and the cop had been assigned to the DA’s office where he filled in on an as-needed basis. The evening had been an unmitigated triumph. Christine’s ability to charm a roomful of New York City honchos had her thrumming with confidence. They didn’t just respond to the message—they loved her. Her policies, humor, and improvisatory ability combined to showcase considerable political skills and all of it resonated with the donor base. Even that slatternly wife of Jay Gladstone was a gift. The interruption had allowed the district attorney to display poise, forbearance, and quick-wittedness. The woman had opened fire with both barrels and Christine had crushed her without sacrificing likeability. What a nasty person that pipe-cleaner skinny, entitled, rich bitch seemed to be. Christine thought of the Bronx nuns who taught her at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow. They would have loved the poke she delivered. What kind of depraved world was this where people leaked sex tapes on the Internet? She wondered if the woman had done it herself. This suspicion made her think of Dominic Lupo and the personal dishonor she had suffered as a result of his behavior. At least the evidence of his sexual incontinence wasn’t smeared all over the Internet.

Poor Jay Gladstone. She immediately froze the sympathy she felt and examined it. The declaration became a question: Poor Jay Gladstone? Yes, yes, he was a man made of blood and sinew and a beating heart. Christine Lupo understood what it was like to have a spouse who was a curse. Her quarry was an estimable man—It’s what made him such valuable prey—brought down by a poor choice in mates. Certainly, his predicament was thornier than that, the car had not run over D’Angelo Maxwell by itself, but none of the auto-da-fé he was enduring would have occurred had his wife honored her marital vows. As for the fiasco that had taken place in the basketball arena, the man had paid for his sins in the currency of shame.

These thoughts created a disturbance in her well-ordered moral universe. Before this evening, Jay Gladstone was only a prominent citizen charged with crimes, an abstraction. But seeing his wife tonight—flushed face, firing squad eyes—listening to her aria of abuse, had brought Jay into sharper focus, and the picture that formed was of a human being who was suffering. And suffering caused by a cheating spouse was something about which Christine was not without sympathy.

Then what of mercy? Well, mercy was not exactly hers to dispense, was it? That was more God’s bailiwick. Why was she even thinking these thoughts? Sin and mercy were not helpful when considering a defendant in a pending criminal case. Sin and mercy were ideas, and she needed to stick to facts. If the luxury of a Jesuitical debate were permitted, she would never prosecute anyone. Many of the accused that came under her purview had partners who betrayed them. Humanizing a defendant was against the rules.

As the car sailed over the Third Avenue Bridge and north on the Major Deegan Expressway, Christine realized that something about Jay had been peeled back by his wife’s presence and it kept niggling at her because it felt familiar. She and Jay were public people with families in the process of fracturing. Until recently, they both had been paragons, the kind of citizens others were encouraged to emulate. The vehicular assault charges he faced? Had she not done something similar in the parking lot at work? Sean Purcell had bumped a demonstrator with her official vehicle. Knocked the woman down. A black woman, no less. It wasn’t on the cataclysmic scale of what Jay had done but to pretend there was no parallel would be disingenuous. Had that been racially motivated? Of course not! Moreover, Christine knew it was an accident. By a stroke of luck, no one had reported that incident. Who knows what cynics might have made of it? What if what Jay had done was an accident? What if his lawyer’s claims were accurate? Was she persecuting him? Reasonable people might disagree on whether there was a political tinge to the initial indictment and the subsequent hate crime charge but Jay Gladstone would get his day in court. That was the beauty of the system. She needed to stop seeing moral equivalence where there was none. Ultimately, all that united them was philandering spouses. It was impossible to have anything in common with someone so wealthy. Still, her cerebral push and pull would not cease.

They were riding east on the Cross-Westchester Expressway.

“Russell, what do you think about Jay Gladstone? Do you think he’s guilty?”

Plesko did not answer right away. Christine waited. She didn’t want to influence him so did not offer a further prompt.

“Permission to speak frankly?”

“Granted,” she said.

“He did it, that’s pretty obvious. But did he mean to do it?”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

“People wanted to hang me,” Plesko said. “Like they could all read my mind. But no one can do that. I don’t care who they are. If Gladstone says it was an accident, I believe him.”

“Even after what he witnessed? He accidentally ran over the man he caught with his wife?”

Plesko adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see his passenger. “Does he seem like a violent guy to you?”

“I indicted him.”

“Hey, look, you gave me a break, and I’ll always be grateful for it.”

“Tell me what you think,” the DA said.

“I guess you can’t let everyone off.”

With all the certainty at her disposal, she declared: “Jay Gladstone has had enough breaks.”

By the time she climbed out of the car in her driveway Christine had convinced herself it was true.

Her mind returned to Jay as she lay in bed. Their fathers were both men of the Bronx, first-generation Americans who served in World War II, raised families in New York, pillars of their respective communities. Bingo Gladstone was a version of Mario Lupo with a lot more money. Like something caught between her teeth, the similarities continued to nag her. To her growing consternation, all of it added to this nascent kinship with Jay that she found harder and harder to dismiss.

Twenty minutes later, when she could not fall asleep, Christine went to the kitchen to make a cup of herbal tea. As she waited for the water to boil, she booted up her laptop. Jay had an extensive online presence. Christine skimmed sports pages and business sites, noted his philanthropic activities and the awards he had received. There was a group photograph with Archbishop Desmond Tutu celebrating Universal Children’s Day that she had previously missed. It was not the profile of a criminal.

When the kettle whistled, she brewed the tea, spooned honey into the cup, and returned to the computer. On a real estate site, she typed in Jay’s Bedford address, which for reasons Christine did not want to think about she knew by memory. Up came a single photograph and a description. The image of the palatial house on a hundred and twenty acres, with pool house, barn, paddock, and bridle paths did not produce resentment or envy or in any way stick in the DA’s craw. Jay Gladstone had Sultan of Brunei money, but he employed thousands of people and paid untold millions of taxes into the public treasury. In her view, this was how America was meant to work.

Since the separation from her husband, Christine occasionally found herself missing, not Dominic Lupo exactly, but the companionship he had provided. Case in point: The night of the incinerated T-shirt on the backyard grill. Had Dominic been there, she would have asked him to play the heavy. Something in her had loosened. It was energizing.

She finished the tea, rinsed the cup, and put it in the dishwasher. Went upstairs, but instead of getting into bed, she slipped on a pair of jeans and a sweater. Checked on her sleeping children and went downstairs. Closing the back door quietly behind her, she climbed into her black Lexus sedan, slipped La Boheme into the CD player, and backed out of the garage.

Chapter Fifty-One

Just after eight the same evening, Bobby Tackman arrived at Jay’s Bedford estate to conduct a simulated interview in preparation for the real one. The communications expert reviewed a list of fifty likely questions and made sure his client had responses to each of them. The theme of the evening was Apology. Keep apologizing, he advised. Then apologize some more, and you will be redeemed because America loves a redemption story.

When Tackman left, Jay called Herman Doomer. A team of attorneys was preparing to wage war with the league, but the lawyer warned him that when facing a player boycott, their influence was limited. “You have to knock this interview out of the park,” Doomer said. Jay asked what was going on with the Planning Commission regarding the Sapphire situation. Doomer had made inquiries, but as far as he knew, no new information was available. Jay had hoped to hear from Aviva since he had withdrawn from participating in the commencement, but she had not returned his calls. With all of this on his mind, he shambled to bed.

It was a surprise to find the house situated on a dirt road bounded by low walls built from stones. This evocation of the rural past left Christine strangely moved. She, too, yearned for a time before the current fractiousness, when America had a common purpose. What were Jay’s political preferences? Her Internet scavenging revealed he had made contributions to Democrats and Republicans. What he believed in, she recognized, was the efficacy of the system.

She parked on the road in front of the property, turned off the headlights but left the engine idling. The night was cloudless, pricked with stars, and a half moon impassively shone. Although the house was dark, several security lights painted the grounds in pale yellow. A single light illuminated an upstairs window. Probably on a timer, she thought. From a fawning profile on Forbes.com, she knew Jay owned horses and wondered if whoever looked after them lived on the premises. Lowering the car window, she inhaled the pleasing earthy scent. An owl broadcast its presence. A breeze disturbed the branches. Homes like this one often had security cameras, but none were visible.

She placed her hand on the steering wheel and saw her bare ring finger, moonlit. For ten minutes, she observed the house. No cars passed. Christine had never done anything remotely like this. The burning of her son’s T-shirt, she knew, was indicative of the heightened emotional state she was in, but this amounted to stalking. As long as it did not become a habit, she believed her behavior on this night was justifiable. How else to get a feel for her adversary if not by entering his world? She wanted to know what it was like to be this man, to live in storybook surroundings with a gorgeous young wife and a geyser that spouted money. She imagined him riding a horse along the edge of a luminous meadow, wind at his back, savoring yet another victory. And then he was not alone. There she was, Christine Lupo, the girl from Arthur Avenue, astride a golden palomino. The two of them, together in the gloaming, the broad land spread out intoxicatingly before them, like a Technicolor movie. She could almost hear the brass and strings swell on the soundtrack. Christine had never ridden a horse. Once, as a girl, her father had put her on a pony at a church fair in Yonkers. What was she doing on an imaginary horse next to Jay Gladstone riding into a Hollywood sunset? Smirking at the silliness of it, she repressed the vision. Jay Gladstone and Christine Lupo together in a sylvan fantasy, on horses, no less. It was ridiculous.

Jay was drifting off when Nicole’s text arrived. Was Franklin the mastermind? Nicole certainly thought so. It was impossible to know if she was drunk and raving, or if it was true. He turned off his phone, but could not get back to sleep. For half an hour, he lay in bed listening to the night and trying to slow his rampaging mind. Was Franklin capable of treachery on this level? It was not beyond the realm of possibility. But could he have acted so aggressively? Jay did not realize he possessed that degree of malevolence. Perhaps he had underestimated him. As reprehensible as it was, Jay had to give his cousin credit. The sheer chutzpah of the gesture was impressive.

The road in front of the house rarely saw nocturnal traffic and Jay listened as a car engine hummed in the distance increasing in volume as it rolled past and then died away. Several minutes later he heard another car. It got louder as it drew nearer but then the sound did not recede. A lone vehicle in the middle of the night was not a welcome sound. Someone had parked in front of the property. He lay there for a few seconds, but when he did not hear the car go away, he climbed out of bed, crossed the hall, and entered a guest bedroom in the front of the house where a timer light was on.

Sitting in the car, Christine was in a reverie. Dominic was gone, she had a career-making case on her hands, and with adroit handling, there was no reason she could not spin it into political gold. Thomas Dewey was a New York prosecutor, and he had nearly become president. No one knew how far she could go. Then the light in Jay Gladstone’s upstairs window went out.

Jay immediately saw the car at the end of his driveway. It was not there because of a flat tire. Whoever it was, they were there for him. In a way, he had wanted this. It was why he was reluctant to be saddled with personal security even after the rampage at the arena. He went to the safe, opened the combination lock. Removed the gun, felt the heft of the weapon in his hand. Checked the clip. Fifteen rounds. Boris had shown him how to shoot.

He walked downstairs and sat in a chair facing the front door with the weapon on his lap. He thought about prison versus death and concluded death might be preferable. He wished he could have resolved the situation with Aviva. His will was in order. The floor was cool against the soles of his bare feet. He wondered who would say Kaddish for him.

After sitting there for ten minutes, his nerve failed him, and he called the police. The cop on duty the night of the accident arrived at the house. Officer Wysocki. He acted like he was pleased to see Jay and asked how he was doing. He told Jay there were no other cars on the road.

When Wysocki left, Jay drove into the city.

Chapter Fifty-Two

The next morning, he did not make the mistake of arriving at the office alone. Behind a flying wedge of corn-fed security, he made it through the demonstrators without incident. He had coffee. He met with Bebe and Boris and briefed them on his preparations with Tackman. The Sapphire matter was taking suspiciously long to resolve and Bebe told him she was going to reach out to someone she knew in the city bureaucracy to find out what was going on. Jay told Boris to prepare to fly to Hong Kong the following week to familiarize himself with the Asian branch of the business and brief Bebe when he returned. When the confab was over, Bebe stayed behind and reported what Nicole had done at Franklin’s house the previous evening. They were in the sitting area of Jay’s office. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

“She was battling for you.”

“That’s not the way to do it,” he said, rubbing his temples.

“Nicole wants to save the marriage.”

Jay opened his eyes and regarded his sister. “Would you stay married to someone like that?”

“You remember that secretary who worked for Dad in the late seventies?”

“Miss Sloves?” Bebe nodded. She had a throaty laugh and always acted pleased to see him when he visited the office as a gangly teenager. “What about her?” Bebe’s knowing look spilled the old secret. “You can’t be serious.” She slowly nodded.

Layers of certainty, conviction, and belief began to dissolve. Jay found himself searching for words to express inchoate thoughts. His father, who had coached him in youth basketball, who had passed him the Torah at his bar mitzvah, had been prowling around Manhattan unpeeling his secretary? It was inconceivable. “How do you know?”

“Mom told me years ago. She almost left him, but she didn’t.”

The news caused a tectonic shift in Jay’s perception. The ground swayed. Foundations adjusted, recalibrated. For his entire life, he had modeled himself on his father, held him up as a shining example of how to be a man in the world, prostrated at the feet of his exemplary life when all the time, in this most basic measurement of goodness, Bingo was an imposter, a failure. But as much of a punch to the solar plexus that this represented, in some indeterminate way that he could only begin to discern, it was a relief.

When Bebe left the office, Jay lay on the sofa and thought about his father and how he had behaved in the wake of this dalliance. He reviewed family dinners, Sundays watching football, skiing and sailing vacations, business meetings, shows, charity events they’d attended, endless conversations shared about topics distant and local, and there was nothing he could remember that hinted at Bingo carrying on with his secretary. So, did Jay have to reexamine his perception of his father, adjust his place in the pantheon? Did he have to demote him?

It was with all of this still reverberating that Franklin appeared. Jay did not want to deal with his cousin, who was standing at the foot of the sofa looking down at him over his gelatinous belly.

“Your wife caused quite a scene last night,” Franklin said, satisfaction mixed with the outrage he was impelled to convey.

“I heard. As you know, I can’t control her.”

“Someone needs to. She’s an embarrassment.”

His cousin’s presence further agitated Jay, who rose from the sofa and lumbered to his desk where he flopped into the chair. He thought about the text he had received last night from Nicole: Franklin hacked my phone. He’s the leaker. What had led her to that conclusion? Could it possibly be true? It was certainly of a piece with Franklin’s surreptitious financial maneuvers.

“What did you want to talk about?”

“You’ve got a lot on your plate,” Franklin said. “For your own well-being, I think maybe you shouldn’t come to work until things cool down.”

Here was the Franklin he knew, blunt, artless. Bebe had said nearly the exact words, but her intent was far different.

“Did you hear what happened to me on Saturday night?”

“It was all over the sports page.”

“But you didn’t call or text to see if I was all right?”

Franklin ignored the question. “Fans, Christ, they’re fuckin’ fickle! You okay?”

“Yes,” Jay said. “Thanks for your concern.”

Never before had he felt vulnerable to Franklin. The dynamics of their relationship had been set years earlier and had remained static. Jay believed that Franklin had come to accept the structure of the company and was satisfied with his role. For his cousin to use the current situation to try and maneuver him out of the way seemed entirely out of character. But that appeared to be what was going on. He second-guessed telling Doomer to delay bringing legal action.

“What do you know about that tape?”

Franklin regarded him uncertainly. “What do you mean?”

“Was I not clear? Do you know anything about how that tape got out there?”

“Only what I read,” Franklin said.

“You’re sure?”

“What are you asking me? It’s awful. It’s a crock of politically correct bullshit what’s happening to you. I’ll tell you something, Jay, I never liked Nicole. She was beneath you. Between you and me, if I had walked in on Marcy schtupping some guy, I would’ve killed them both.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s what you would have done.” Jay had not checked with the hospital since yesterday. He made a mental note to do that when he finished with his cousin.

“Crime of passion,” Franklin said. “People understand.” He made a brisk motion with his hand as if to wave away culpability.

“About the tape?”

“I sympathize, believe me. I do.”

“Did you leak it?”

Jay saw Franklin’s slack body stiffen, the planes of his face become rigid.

“What? No! Me? Wha—?” Franklin shook his head vigorously. “No, no, no. Why would you say that?”

“You know nothing about it?”

“Jay, come on! Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’m going to tell you one thing, and then we’re done.” Jay paused to let the weight of what he was about to impart sink in. It appeared Franklin might say something but his only response came from his shoulders, driven upward by the tension he was unable to conceal. “If I find out you had anything to do with the leaking of that tape, I will cut your legs off. Between that and what else you’ve been up to, I’ll have you so tied up in court you’ll be afraid to leave your house without calling your lawyer to see if it’s allowed.”

“I had nothing to do with it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I know what’s going on in Asia,” Jay said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Let’s not get into that now. Did you or did you not hack my wife’s phone and leak that tape?”

“Did I hack her phone? I can barely work a fucking blender.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Hand to God, Jay.” Like a Boy Scout taking an oath, he held his hand up.

“Hand to God? Now I know you’re bullshitting.”

“You don’t trust me? Go fuck yourself.”

“Go fuck myself?”

“You got what you deserved,” Franklin said. “You’re an arrogant schmuck, and you always were.”

He left the office, barreling through the door and slamming it behind him. The room was silent as a cave. Absent Franklin’s sulfurous presence, it felt strangely empty. Jay still had no idea if Nicole’s accusation was valid, or if she had been drunk texting. He had assumed it was the latter. After having confronted Franklin, he was unimpressed with his denial. There was a risk in trying to ascertain guilt. If Franklin was culpable, the ramifications for the future of the business were profound. But a rupture in their relationship was inevitable anyway. It was going to happen as soon as Jay informed Franklin of the lawsuit he intended to file.

An unfamiliar sensation overcame him, and his heart began to tom-tom. He cursed to himself. Was this a heart attack? Unbelievable. Franklin will have finished the job. He remembered that a coronary event was often accompanied by pain radiating down the arm. Was it the left or the right? He didn’t feel pain in either one. He willed himself to relax and took several deep breaths, letting the air run slowly out of his nose, which he was able to do since the swelling had decreased. A minute later his heart rate ceased its campaign of terror.

When Jay reached Dr. Bannister, the surgeon informed him there had been some hopeful signs since they had last spoken. Something about brain waves that Jay did not have the bandwidth to absorb but had encouraged the doctor. He called Doomer and inquired about the situation with the league. Doomer reported that the commissioner was intransigent. The league was insisting that he sell the team. In desperation, Jay pulled up the list of NBA owners on his computer. He knew them all from league meetings and considered himself friends with several of them. Of the twenty-eight calls his secretary placed, she managed to reach five of the owners. Jay jumped on the phone with each. He wheedled and inveigled. He recounted his history and reminded them of his sterling reputation. They listened dutifully. But of these five men, all of whom expressed sorrow at his predicament and conveyed their sincere sympathies, none would speak on his behalf in public. Too sensitive, was the consensus.

Bastards, Jay thought.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Late that afternoon, the television crew arrived at the apartment to set up. Bobby Tackman paced and offered silken words of encouragement as Jay sat in a chair with a bib over his shirt having makeup applied by a quiet young woman with a nose ring and a tattoo of a peace sign on her forearm. She treated him professionally, which he took to be a positive sign.

Jay was in the kitchen nursing a glass of whiskey when Anderson Cooper arrived and said hello before conferring with the producer, a fussy man in a snug suit who seemed barely out of his teens. Jay freshened his drink and as the whiskey slid into his bloodstream he began to feel its effects. Nervousness receded. It occurred to Jay that in many ways he had been preparing for this his entire life. Always he had chosen to rein in his personality, content to let the light shine on Bingo. This self-abnegation had begun when he was young and continued until his father’s passing. But now circumstances required Jay to step on stage, and he was ready.

Tackman continued his magpie chatter, but Jay was no longer listening. He visualized himself conversing sagely with Anderson Cooper about the scars of American history, the travails of black people, and “the deep well of empathy I’ve drawn from my whole life.” He pictured the easygoing host nodding sympathetically. He imagined viewers across America, around the globe, and all of them coming to see the untarnished quality of his soul. Church Scott (that traitor!) didn’t know what was in his heart? Jay would show the world. He took another sip of whiskey.

“Ten minutes,” a production assistant said.

Jay slipped on his suit jacket. Tackman looked him over. The consultant did not like the picture.

“You need to lose the suit. Put a sweater on.”

“I always wear a suit in public.”

“Millions of people are going to watch this and you’re going to remind them of their boss. A sweater makes you more relatable.”

In his bedroom Jay selected a gray cashmere number with a V-neck. As he pulled it over his head, the soft material masking his face, he felt dizzy so he sat on the bed. To steady himself he took several deep breaths. His balance returned and he felt a surge of energy. He wanted to talk, get a few things off his chest.

In the living room, Jay sat in a director’s chair next to Anderson Cooper, who was checking notes on a clipboard. A sound technician pinned a microphone to him. The television lights were warm, but he was not uncomfortable. Behind one of the two cameras, Tackman stood next to the producer and gave a thumbs-up. A voice said, “Rolling,” and Anderson Cooper introduced Harold Jay Gladstone as a real estate executive and NBA franchise owner to the millions of viewers who would be watching the interview later that evening.

“Please call me Jay,” he said.

“All right,” Anderson Cooper said. Then: “Are you a racist?”

Man, Jay thought, right out of the gate. But he was ready.

“I am not a racist. I made a terrible mistake and I’m here to apologize to all the people I’ve hurt. I don’t know how I could say such disrespectful words. I’m so sorry.”

“Who, specifically, do you want to apologize to?”

Jay was ready:

“There are so many people, starting with D’Angelo Maxwell.” Here Jay paused. Acknowledging this first seemed like the wisest course. He wanted the first apology to resonate like a bell. “I feel terrible about what happened to him. I wish I could undo it. When he recovers I will do everything in my power to make it up to him. He’s doing better, you know. I talked to the doctor this morning, and he’s improving.” Again, Jay paused. He wanted to allow any helpful information time to register. “And I hurt my wife, Nicole. She didn’t need this. I blew up her life.”

“You seem remarkably forgiving about her behavior. What about what she did? She had relations with a player and you caught them.”

Anderson Cooper was not pulling punches. Jay pressed on.

“Yes, I did. I did. But this isn’t about her.”

He congratulated himself on the magnanimity he displayed. So far, he was hewing to the Tackman plan. This was easier than expected.

“Did you know you were being recorded?”

“Of course not. I did a terrible thing and I want to explain. I’m not sure how to say this because for a man in my position, well, everything can be misinterpreted.”

Anderson Cooper wanted some elaboration, but Jay just looked at him. He was having trouble accessing this part of what he had reviewed with Tackman. All he could remember was the apologizing he was supposed to do, and he had already done that. His mind went back to the previous night and the car that stopped in front of his house. By the time the police officer arrived at the house, it was gone. Now he wasn’t even sure a car had been there at all. The sweater was making him hot. What did Anderson Cooper want him to say?

“I think you better ask me another question.”

“You said ‘Why is everyone in this family having sex with black people.’ What did that mean?”

“That’s the question you’re going to ask now?” Jay was trying to be light, amusing. Cooper was stone-faced. “Don’t you want to work up to it?”

“It would help if you answered it. What did that mean?”

“What did that mean? It meant what I said.”

“Everyone in this family?” Jay did not respond. “Would you elaborate?”

Jay paused for a long time. The television lights were getting hotter. His lower back was swampy. He could feel Tackman’s eyes willing him to take control. To steady himself, Jay locked into Anderson Cooper’s unwavering gaze. “I have a daughter who I love very much. She’s an intelligent young person who is in a phase of life where she is experimenting. Her girlfriend is a black woman, which is fine. Nothing wrong with that. So, there’s my daughter and my wife. The word ‘everyone’ was hyperbole, something perhaps you can understand, under the circumstances.”

Anderson Cooper wanted more but Jay decided that he had said enough on the subject. He leaned back and waited for the next question. But before it arrived, Jay wanted to make another point:

“My daughter’s friend happens to be very anti-Israel and she expressed that opinion at our Seder where she was a guest. So, I admit, I may have had some residual bad feeling. But, look, I’m not saying that excuses anything.”

“What do the political opinions of your daughter’s girlfriend have to do with what occurred?”

“We had a rainbow Passover this year, black people, white people, a thing of beauty. The next day I flew to South Africa where I’m doing a major project. When I arrived home, I said a few unfortunate words that, believe me, I’ll regret for the rest of my life. That’s not how I talk. You can ask anyone who knows me. I don’t talk about people. I talk about ideas. May I tell you what I’m doing in South Africa?”

“Let’s stay on this subject for now. Who do you think released the tape?”

“I can’t say on television, but I believe I know the person’s identity and he’s someone who for his own personal reasons does not wish me well.”

Although Jay was tempted to go into more detail, he chose not to.

“When you first heard the tape, did you remember making that statement?”

“I’ve said all I have to say about those words.”

“All right, let’s talk about you.”

“I’m responsible. I have twenty-nine partners in the league. They’re an incredible group of men. I want to apologize to my partners and the commissioner. This mess lands on his desk and I caused it and I’m sorry. Stupid words. Foolish. A man gets upset, says things he shouldn’t say. I was jealous.”

Revisiting the experience was making Jay increasingly uneasy. His mouth was dry. He wanted a glass of water.

“The league wants you out.”

“The media wants me out.”

“And the league. I’ve had sources tell me—”

“Look, I put the league in a difficult position. My partners there are understandably angry. I have a lot of respect for the commissioner and he’s frustrated. But let me ask you—is what I did so terrible that it merits banishment? Is it fair that I should lose a business that I’ve been devoted to, that I love, because of a few words that are being misinterpreted? No one who knows me will tell you I’m a racist. No one. My family has been in the real estate business for generations. Years ago, not every landlord would rent to black people. There are prominent real estate families in New York City—I’m thinking of one in particular—that would not rent to minorities. That was never the Gladstone way. Back in the 1930s, when my father was on his high school prom committee, he refused to hold the event at a hotel where they were going to make the black kids use the service entrance.”

“What does that have to do with—”

“I’m telling you. I’m not saying Bingo Gladstone was Abraham Lincoln, but what I am saying is that I was raised in a liberal tradition, my parents taught me that God created everyone equal, and that’s how I’ve always lived my life.”

“Church Scott, the coach of your team, was quoted as saying, ‘I don’t know what’s in his heart, but I’m praying for him.’ What would you say to Church Scott?”

“Church Scott’s reaction to this—” Jay considered his words. “I’m disappointed. That’s my only comment. He’s a friend and I wish him well. Do you know he’s the highest paid coach in the league?”

“You say that like he mugged you.”

“He mugged me? He didn’t mug me,” Jay said. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Are you saying that because you’re his employer, he should suspend judgment?”

“In this situation, I think he should get the players to stop this silly talk about a boycott, suit up, and go win some playoff games.”

“When Mayor House of Newark was asked to weigh in on your situation, he had no comment. What would you say to Mayor House?”

“Mayor House is a fine man who’s a little confused right now.”

“Confused how?”

Jay knew he was standing on the edge of a cliff. He took a step back.

“I’m not going there. Let me just say that our family foundation has given away millions of dollars in scholarships, we’ve funded nutrition programs. Half the charitable organizations in Harlem, Bed-Stuy, and Newark have the name Gladstone on the wall because we want to help. But there’s someone else who’s leading the attack on me, this Imam Ibrahim Muhammad fellow, who happens to be a Muslim.”

“What does that have to do with the situation?”

“I want to tread lightly here because it’s a sensitive area. Some Muslims, not all of them, have issues with Jews. Some of them take extreme points of view. Some of them, quite frankly, are worse than Rumanians, who during the Holocaust were worse than the Nazis.”

“Some of them. Is that code for—”

“No, no, no! It’s not code for anything. This particular imam has been leading demonstrations against me in front of the arena where the team plays, violent demonstrations in front of my offices, spreading the most scurrilous lies. It’s pretty obvious that my personal situation is being used to advance several agendas that have nothing to do with me. But I occupy a certain position in society so people feel like they can say whatever they want. And you know what? That’s fine. The Constitution guarantees that right. Everyone just needs to be a little less sensitive, but people are extremely sensitive, they’re so sensitive it’s like no one has skin anymore, only nerve endings. So once again, I want to be clear, I apologize to everyone.”

“You have said that your words have been misinterpreted, misunderstood—”

“I have.”

“I want to give you a platform now to say whatever you want to our audience.”

“Thank you.” Jay turned directly to the camera. He paused, and then said, “Please look inside and ask yourselves whether you have ever done, or said, or even thought something that would embarrass you if it were made public. I would like to say to anyone who hasn’t, you’re a better person than I am.”

“What happened that night in Bedford?”

Jay was prepared for this. What further light could he shine on the question that would not doom his chances of exoneration? That he had been cuckolded by Dag and in a spectacularly misguided attempt to—to what, exactly? To discuss what had occurred? To arrive at some kind of rapprochement? He still did not know. Now the door was open and his restless intellect impelled him to articulate all the subtle gradations of intent that had led to the catastrophe and then dive into the waves of remorse that subsequently rolled in and gambol like a seal. But instead, he said:

“It was an accident.”

Anderson Cooper let the moment linger. Considering the circumstances, Jay was relatively pleased with how the interview had gone, and would not be lured into a rhetorical trap to be destroyed by his own words.

“That’s the extent of your comment on the subject?”

“On the advice of my attorney, that’s all I can say about it.”

Anderson Cooper recognized the immovable object in front of him and pivoted.

“Will you sell the team?”

“When Hell freezes over.”

Chapter Fifty-Four

Jay believed the insight and distress he had displayed would go a long way toward rehabilitating his image. He believed he had come across as folksy, honest, and repentant. He believed he was on his way back to the sunny uplands of acceptance and admiration. When the interview ended, the panicked look on Bobby Tackman’s face told him otherwise. Tackman took Jay aside and ordered him to not say another word to the host. He watched as the consultant buttonholed Anderson Cooper, who was being congratulated by his now ecstatic producer, a man who knew broadcast gold when he saw it, and begged him to not run the interview, a request that was summarily rejected. The television crew wrapped their gear and vanished.

Jay was in the kitchen sipping a glass of water when Tackman barged in. He made it clear that the opportunity had been outstandingly botched. Jay listened as the consultant enumerated his sins:

“You can’t apologize and then disparage your daughter’s black girlfriend, why did you express any opinion at all about Church Scott or the mayor of Newark? How would you feel if some well-meaning black man spouted off about Jews? And don’t get me started on what you said about the Muslims. I’m not even sure you and I can work together anymore.”

Tackman ordered him to not engage in further direct contact with the media until they could formulate a new plan.

As Jay absorbed this litany of transgressions, the apartment, which seemed to have cooled with the extinguishing of the television lights and disappearance of the crew, felt like it was heating up again. A mule was trying to kick its way out of his skull. He was about to respond to Tackman when he noticed the vision in his left eye had become occluded and the entire room lost definition, straight planes bending, becoming curvilinear, vibrating, melting, the floor rising and the entire space beginning to disintegrate. Tackman had stopped talking and was looking at him strangely. Jay lost his balance and crumpled, his head striking the floor. Indistinct voices rose and fell. There was so much to do and undo, and yet as consciousness slipped away, what he felt, oddly, was release.

An ambulance brought Jay to Mt. Sinai Hospital where doctors determined that he had not had a coronary or a stroke. He had fainted, the resident who examined him concluded. Probably from stress. He ordered Jay to remain in the hospital under observation for the night. A nurse inserted a needle into his arm for hydration.

Jay had been born at Mt. Sinai. Although his parents lived in Queens at the time, his mother had insisted on it because she wanted her son to be able to say he had been born on Fifth Avenue. When thoughts of his death inevitably arose, he marveled at the symmetry. Staring at the ceiling Jay felt the weakness and frustration that had become his constant companions, but, more than anything, there was the growing sense that he had slipped on some cosmic banana peel and was now in a continuous state of imbalance. From Dag to Nicole to Aviva, the ability to make things conform to the way he wanted them to be had deserted him.

Although Dag had shown slight improvement, the doctors had hinted that a full recovery might not be possible, something that would forever haunt Jay. Additionally, although it paled in comparison to how he felt about the havoc he had wreaked, he feared losing his NBA franchise and not receiving permission from the city to begin construction on the Sapphire, because those endeavors represented a significant part of his future. But what overrode all of this, casting a shadow the size of the world itself, was death. It wasn’t so much that he dreaded the prospect of nonexistence, although he had a healthy terror of that. What concerned him was that he would die now, with his reputation not just deteriorating but seemingly in free fall. How long was he going to live if stress landed him in a hospital bed? Long enough to salvage his reputation and avoid the ignominy of dying in disgrace?

It was not difficult to locate Dag’s room and because he was wearing a hospital gown, the night nurses assumed Jay was just padding along the crypt-quiet halls on a late walk. When he peeked in and saw Dag was alone, he entered and sat in the chair next to the bed.

Dag’s long, lean frame lay still. His chest rose and fell. Clear fluid ran from an IV drip into the soft flesh of his wrist. An oxygen mask covered his features. His eyes were closed. Someone had arranged for a shave, and his cheeks were smooth. Jay glanced at the squiggly green lines of the monitors.

Leaning his head back, he said to the ceiling, “I don’t do this often, but please God, save this man. Please, please Yahweh, Jesus, Allah, whoever is listening.” Humble and emotionally naked, he felt like he was performing a sacred duty. “Little help here, okay? I’m begging.”

Tentatively, he reached his hand out and laid it on Dag’s bicep. It was warm. There was a hitch in Dag’s breathing which caused Jay to start, and he removed his hand and watched Dag’s face for signs of distress. When steady breathing resumed, Jay gently returned his hand to the big man’s arm.

Heas leaned toward Dag’s ear and whispered, “I have no idea if you can hear me, probably not. But, listen. I’m so deeply sorry for this. With my hand on a Bible, I will tell you I didn’t mean for it to happen. I was angry, and because you humiliated me, I wanted to scare you. I admit that. I wanted to put the fear into you in a way you would never forget, and then I did the most unimaginable thing I’ve ever done. I will regret my behavior as long as I’m alive, Dag. I will pray for your recovery each day, and when you recover, I hope you can forgive me.”

Dag’s eyes opened. Jay was dumbfounded, tried to talk, but his tongue would not obey.

“I’m going to be all right,” Dag said.

Jay was crying, tears streaking his face. The mixture of relief, shock, and gratitude paralyzed him. Again, he tried to talk but his tongue expanded to fill his mouth and words would not come.

“How are you feeling?”

Whose voice was that? He still could not get words out.

Swimming to consciousness, he saw Doomer and Tackman at the foot of the bed. Next to them was his sister Bebe. He had been dreaming. It was morning. Through the fog, he realized the tears were real and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. He hoped his visitors didn’t notice. It was Bebe who had spoken. Her voice was soft and solicitous. Once more she asked how he was feeling.

Chapter Fifty-Five

A nurse arrived to administer another round of intravenous hydration. The hospital would discharge him as soon as she checked his vital signs. The only thing the attending physician prescribed was blood pressure medication and a few days of rest.

Jay tried to concentrate as Tackman related the extent of the damage. This took several minutes. True to Tackman’s postgame analysis, the Anderson Cooper interview did not serve the purpose Jay had hoped. The reaction, on television and the Internet, was predictably merciless. “Self-indulgent,” “non-apology apology,” and “insensitive” were leitmotifs, as were “slanderous,” “anti-Muslim,” and, of course, “racist.” Jay was a whipping boy, caricatured, lampooned, dismissed, and the consensus was that his time was over, what he represented was an abomination to right-thinking people, and the acceptable repentance, according to public opinion, was to self-immolate in the middle of Marcus Garvey Boulevard. Tackman concluded by saying, “The only surprise was that no Rumanians complained.”

“There’s still time,” Jay said. The rattle of his laugh had the gallows in it. Everything had gone so transcendently wrong it had begun to seem perversely funny.

“I spoke with the commissioner this morning,” Doomer reported. “He wants to know if you’ve reconsidered. The team is still refusing to play.”

“I’m not selling,” Jay said.

“You’re certainly within your rights to maintain that position,” the lawyer said. “However, we’ve been notified that if you don’t sell the team, he’s going to ban you for life. They can go to court and force a sale. They can get a judge to issue an injunction removing you from day-to-day management of the team by asserting that the rights of the other owners now supersede yours. We can challenge it, but they’ll win.”

“This is America,” Jay reminded them. “The government can’t seize your property because you said something stupid.”

Tackman suggested they explain the interview by saying Jay was “pre-stroke.”

“I stand by every word,” Jay said.

The consultant looked at the lawyer, imploring him to intercede.

“Jay, I think Bobby is right. You can help yourself by embracing the stroke.”

“I didn’t have a stroke.”

“Pre-stroke,” Doomer said.

“It makes you a victim,” Tackman pointed out. “The equation changes. We can suggest the entire episode, going back to the car accident, was a result of physical deterioration.”

“There could be significant ramifications for your legal defense,” Doomer said. “It’s a persuasive mitigating circumstance.”

Bebe had heard enough. “My brother didn’t get to be who he is by bending to the prevailing winds,” she said. “As long as he’s in possession of his faculties, I think we can all depend on him to make a sound decision.” Bebe held Jay’s hand. Their eye contact excluded Doomer and Tackman, who knew not to intrude. “Jay, you need to wait until you’re out of the hospital and you’ve gotten some rest. Don’t make any decisions today.”

He appreciated his sister’s advice and neither Doomer nor Tackman contradicted it. They arranged a conference call for the next day to discuss subsequent steps. Boris arrived and, after a few minutes, the others departed. While they waited for a doctor to sign the discharge papers, Jay complained: He had believed in the legal system his entire life, and now it was gearing up to steamroll him.

But he had another idea.

Chapter Fifty-Six

On a summer day about a month after Jay graduated from college, his mother invited him to accompany her on a roots trip to her old haunts. They visited her modest home on a quiet street in Bensonhurst. Several members of the Italian-American family that lived there were home and when Helen explained that she had grown up in the house, she and Jay were invited in to look around. The rooms were neat and small and Jay remembered thinking that it could not be possible that his mother, who explored multiple continents, hosted sophisticated dinner parties, and lovingly smoothed the jagged edges of her coarser husband, could possibly have grown up in such mundane circumstances. To be able to witness the distance she had traveled was to be reminded of his own astonishing luck. After lunch at Nathan’s in Coney Island they went to Brooklyn College where Helen had graduated, although did not attend the ceremony because she had to work that day and so never collected her diploma. Miraculously, it remained on file decades later:

Helen Shirley Goldstein, BA Brooklyn College, 1952

Jay was aware that his mother existed in a whorl of parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins before she married her husband and eventually became Helen Gladstone of Scarsdale, but his mental image of her earlier identity remained unformed. This tangible evidence, first her house, and then the degree, and the pride that filled her as she held it in her unwrinkled hands, enabled him to complete a vibrant picture. She seemed younger than he had ever seen her that afternoon, and so vivid. Now he was glad she could not understand what was happening to him because it would utterly violate the sense of propriety she had worked so hard to cultivate.

A wedge of purpling clouds roiled over Sheepshead Bay and by the time Jay and Boris arrived in Brighton Beach the sky was sloppy with rain. Boris slid the SUV into a parking space down the street from the Rasputin nightclub and he and Jay jogged along the sidewalk through the deluge. They breathed the salt air and heard the rough surf batter the deserted beach a few hundred yards away. Boris pounded three times on the door. A pierogi-shaped woman with six inches of teased black hair waddled past them holding an umbrella and smoking a cigarette. She was walking a small dog with the muzzle of a lion. When the dog sniffed Jay’s leg the woman said something to it in guttural Russian and jerked the animal’s chain without stopping. A moment later the door opened revealing a huge man in a tracksuit. Unkempt brown hair and a mustache the size of a pickle. He, too, was smoking a cigarette. In a borscht-flavored accent he asked what they wanted. Boris told him whom they were there to see. The man ordered them to wait and closed the door. The rain intensified. After all Jay had accomplished, after reaching the dizzying heights he had, socially and in business, he was standing on a rain-splattered sidewalk in front of a nightclub in Brighton Beach. He almost laughed at the wildly improbable nature of the situation but was interrupted by the return of the bearish man, who waved them inside.

The words were being sung in Russian but the big, sultry voice was unmistakably that of a black woman, or a white woman who was trying to sound black. The unseen chanteuse was belting the disco anthem “I Will Survive” in the language of the Moscow trials. The place smelled like a mixture of sea breeze, disinfectant, and stale cigarettes. Jay had to adjust his eyes to the shadowy darkness. The nightclub was a large, multi-tiered space ringed with tables surrounding a dance floor. On a small stage, the singer, a statuesque black woman with a huge Afro, belted the Russian lyrics as if she had been raised on the banks of the Dnieper. A laptop that stored her backing tracks rested next to her on a high stool.

The mustache motioned for Jay and Boris to wait. He approached a table where two men in suits sat listening to the performance. When the song ended, the men conferred. In English, the singer asked if they wanted her to sing another song and one of the men replied that she should audition for one of those talent shows on television, but meanwhile, they would like her to perform in the club starting this weekend. The diva thanked them, gathered her gear, and hustled off the stage. One of the men rose from the table and escorted her out a side door. The mustache beckoned Jay and Boris to the table.

It had been years since Jay had seen Marat, from whom he kept a wary distance. He did occasional favors for him, like arranging apartments for associates in Gladstone buildings, but their contact was minimal. Marat rose from his chair, smiled, and embraced Jay and Boris in succession.

Only his height was unchanged. When Jay thought of Marat, it was as he looked in the 1970s, with a barrel chest, more hair, and a coiled aspect. In his late sixties now, his hair had thinned and grayed. The Cyrillic letters tattooed on his ringed fingers had faded. His chest had shrunk, and his girth expanded. Most surprising to Jay, he smiled when he asked if they had enjoyed the singer. They assured him that her talents were exemplary.

“During sixties, in Soviet Union, all kinds of Africans showed up to attend school,” he said. “She reminds me of those days.”

Marat indicated they should join him at the table. He inquired whether they would like a drink and, without waiting for an answer, called into the darkness for a bottle of vodka. He asked after Boris’s mother, and Boris told him that she was well. Marat sent his greetings.

“Is my son causing you problems?” Marat asked with mock concern. Boris looked away, embarrassed by the teasing. Jay assured him he was not. He had trouble imagining what it must be like for Boris to have Marat Reznikov as a father.

A beefy woman with bleached blonde hair appeared with the vodka, deposited it on the table, and toddled away. Marat poured three glasses and lit a Lucky Strike.

“I’m trying to quit,” he said, taking a deep drag and blowing an impressive cloud. “You see how well it’s going.”

Boris asked if he could have a cigarette. His father lit one and handed it to him. It was a surprisingly intimate gesture. Jay had never seen Boris smoke.

Marat stared at Jay. “You look like shit.”

“It’s been a difficult time.”

“I always tried to keep my name out of the papers.” Marat waved the smoke away. “The more people know your name, the more people want to take you down. Why you go on television? I watched that interview. You dug your own grave with your mouth.” Jay did not respond. Being addressed like this in front of Boris was painful. “What kind of idiot goes on television?” Marat still pronounced it “eee-dyote.” His accent still redolent of the Odessa docks.

“My advisors suggested it.”

“Your advisors?” He spat the word like a bloody tooth. Now it sounded jarring in Jay’s ears. Marat called out for appetizers. The same waitress arrived in seconds with a plate of herring and crackers. Marat slapped her backside as she departed.

Jay thought back to the summer when he met his Ukrainian cousin for the first time. To a college student from a world far removed from the first-generation Bronx and Brooklyn experience of his parents, this immigrant seemed like a wild beast. His surface was composed, but underneath something simmered that could erupt without warning, like the steamy day when the two of them crossed a potholed street in the Mott Haven section of the Bronx, and the gypsy cab lightly struck Marat. Jay never forgot the sick feeling that overcame him as he watched his cousin pistol-whip the driver.

His mouth full of herring, Marat said, “You drove all the way to Brooklyn to see me on this beautiful day. What’s on your mind?”

Jay wrenched his thoughts back from the Bronx. He outlined his situation with the league, related that the playoffs started soon, and told Marat that a judge was going to rule on the matter shortly.

“What can I do?”

“You still know a lot of people in the sports book in Las Vegas?”

“One or two.”

“And that league referee who went to prison for gambling.”

“Not personally, no.”

“There are rumors, Marat, we discuss them at the owners’ meetings.”

“Always there are rumors.”

“Any hint of fixing in a sport can make people think it’s like professional wrestling. It would kill the league.”

“Rumors are like oxygen, Jay.” Marat glanced around the dim room, over one shoulder, then the other, to illustrate his point. “Everywhere.”

“I’m not asking you to confirm or deny.”

The expression that had been so welcoming hardened, replaced by a feral wariness that appeared at home in Marat’s weathered features.

“Boris, give us a minute,” Jay said. He did not want his protégé to witness his further abasement. Boris took his glass of vodka and retreated.

Jay leaned over the table, lowered his voice: “I only want to be able to communicate to the commissioner that facts might come to light that could cause trouble for the league exponentially worse than what my situation is causing so he’ll have to back off and figure out a way to line up behind me.”

Jay hadn’t intended to drink the vodka, but now he took a sip.

“That’s your plan?”

“I don’t have a lot of options.”

“If they push back then on top of all the other trouble, they’ll get you for extortion. Not only will they get you, they get me, and then I’m going back to prison. But, Jay, I’m not going back to prison.” Marat had done time upstate for running a gasoline racket.

“I can’t go to prison.”

Marat took another drag of his cigarette and released a plume of smoke.

“Take your medicine. I did five years. You are big boy, you can do it.”

The club was starting to feel like the middle of the night on a deserted subway platform in the 1970s, the atmosphere rank with bad possibilities. Jay started to perspire. His clothes were already moist from the downpour and now he wanted to take a shower.

“Listen to me, Marat.”

“I’m listening.”

“When you asked me to forget what I saw—”

Marat interrupted, “I’m not going to tell you I’m grateful because I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He drained the vodka in one gulp and poured another.

Jay knew his cousin would admit nothing out loud but it didn’t matter. It was a decision that went against his grain at the time and in the ensuing years he had carried like a virus.

“That’s all you’re going to say?”

“You are bigger man than your father, and Bingo was great man. Is handicap to be born with money because hard to learn how shit works. But you learned.”

Marat, philosopher.

Marat, dispenser of favors.

Marat, lands’ end court for petitioners with no hope.

Jay knew exactly how shit worked, which was why he was here in the Rasputin nightclub swilling vodka with his grizzled cousin. He reflected on his father, wondered if he would have traveled to Brooklyn to sit down with Marat and attempted to pull invisible levers that would shift the planes on which everything was built. He concluded that that is just what Bingo would have done. But Jay didn’t know if he had Bingo’s nerve. Perhaps the easiest thing would be to arrange a deal with Marat and then not live up to his half of the bargain. Marat would turn him into a pavement stain and that would be the end of it.

“I could lose everything.”

“What everything? Don’t be dramatic. You’re a fucking billionaire.” Marat picked a piece of tobacco from between his teeth and flicked it off his finger with a callused thumb. “I tell you what. Say I make a couple of phone calls.” Jay straightened his back. This negotiation is why he was in Brooklyn. “What can you do for me?”

“Whatever you want.”

“I didn’t say I would do it.”

“Marat, just ask.”

“I love basketball.”

“I do, too.”

“Remember when Russian men’s team stole 1972 Olympics from the Americans?”

“Who can forget?”

Marat smiled as if he were the one who had arranged that farce himself. He drained his glass and called for coffee. The same waitress arrived with the same speed and placed two espressos in front of them. Jay inhaled the pleasant smell. Its familiarity comforted him, but he did not touch his cup. Marat downed the shot in one gulp.

“I hear your team is worth more than billion dollars.”

“So I’m told.”

“Give me half.”

“Cash?”

“Ownership.”

His cousin was throwing him a lifeline, but it was one that would strangle him. A partnership with Marat would be like sharing a confined space with a sleeping lion. Eventually, the cat would awaken.

“That’s not possible.”

“I should risk my ass for a box of chocolates?”

Jay insisted such a transaction would be remarkably difficult to engineer. There are few businesses as public as professional sports. Owners have to vote, Marat was a convicted felon. There were ways to disguise ownership, Marat said. His name was on only a fraction of the enterprises he controlled.

“Those are illegitimate businesses.”

At first, Marat seemed insulted. At this point, Jay did not care.

“Not all of them, boychik. Not all of them.” Marat named a well-known Manhattan restaurant operated by a famous chef and informed Jay that he owned a controlling share. When Marat saw the look of surprise on Jay’s face, he said, “See, even a guy as smart as you, you don’t know everything.”

“I don’t think it can work.”

“Don’t tell me it can’t work if what you want to say is you don’t have the balls to pull it off.”

Jay said he would think about Marat’s offer and call him. Marat told him not to use the phone. He should come back and shake on the agreement in person.

“If you don’t want to do it, I understand. Big decisions are not easy. When time comes, if things are bad, perhaps then I help you.”

“How?”

“You say you can’t go to prison.”

“I won’t do that.”

“Then maybe you want to disappear.”

It was still raining when they drove back to Manhattan. Jay did not mention the particulars of his discussion with Marat, only that he had agreed to consider helping him. Boris listened and nodded. Who knew what he was thinking about his father, their relationship, and the different roads their lives had taken.

Was it worth it to make Marat a silent partner? If it could help Jay avoid prison, perhaps it was. One of the reasons he had hired Boris out of college was because Marat had asked, but also, he viewed it as a means to keep Boris out of his father’s orbit. As corny as it was, Jay wanted to be the kind of example for his young cousin that his father had been for him, someone to admire, to emulate. In going to Brighton Beach, he had utterly betrayed that idea. In the Gates of Heaven Cemetery, Bingo Gladstone lay not far from where Babe Ruth was buried. Today Jay was glad of it. As they drove over the Brooklyn Bridge and slid beneath the cloud-shrouded towers of Manhattan, the wash of shame he experienced was tempered by the distant hope that his gambit might work.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Dag’s coma lasted ten days. After a week, when Dr. Bannister and his team attempted to bring him out of it, the patient was unresponsive. The wounds were beginning to heal, but his slightly enhanced brain function proved a false dawn. The prognosis went from hopeful to guarded. The international medical team Jay had assembled could not say if he would emerge from a “persistent vegetative state.” Jamal Jones had not been back after the first week and Brittany Maxwell had returned to California to look after her children. But Dag’s brother Trey, Lourawls, and Babatunde were a constant presence, as was Imam Ibrahim Muhammad. When his friends took a break, Trey remained at his brother’s side with the imam.

Muhammad told Trey his own story: The crimes, prison time, and conversion. They discussed the fragility of existence and the innate need of humans to submit to something greater than themselves. The cross on Trey’s neck was inked when he was trying to make Church Scott’s team and he derived limited comfort from the art when he was cut loose. He told the imam that he wished it had been something more than a decoration. Now that his life had once again derailed he found himself compelled by the spiritual succor his new friend offered. The words of Ibrahim Muhammad were seductive and welcoming and offered sensible solutions to seemingly intractable problems.

At Dag’s bedside Trey perused the pamphlets the imam gave him with heightened interest. What he knew about Islam mostly came from television: Jihad, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, seventy-two virgins, a grab bag that did not cohere into anything he could comprehend. Because white people controlled the media, he viewed much of what it purveyed as inherently suspect. He wanted solace in a time of need, not to strap on a suicide vest and blow himself up. He was impressed that the Prophet was a warrior who vanquished his adversaries and had multiple wives (the Prophet actually reminded him of several guys he knew growing up in Houston). The idea of being part of a vast community of believers that stretched around the world held deep appeal. The no drugs or alcohol business might be a problem, but following every rule wasn’t the point, was it? Besides, if he had to quit, he could.

He considered the Five Pillars of Islam: Al-Shahadah (Testimony), Al-Salah (Prayer), Al-Siyam (Fasting), Al-Zakat (Almsgiving), and Al-Hajj (Pilgrimage). All of them seemed not only doable but an effective program for gaining control of a sybaritic existence defined by running errands for his brother, whom he loved, but wasn’t it time to think about his own life? Trey Maxwell needed to create some sacred space for himself. He needed to stand up and be his own man, gain inner strength, purify, and if one point six billion Muslims could be trusted, Islam was the answer, the word, the “for real” thing.

Dag’s room was on the tenth floor, overlooking the heliport adjacent to the East River. Each day the helicopters would come and go, arriving and departing in an endless cycle. One came in and another took off, climbing above the river and banking into the distance. There was something mystical about the helicopters to Trey, something he could not quite put into words. But he felt it. Then, it hit him: The helicopters lifting off reminded him of the Prophet Muhammad ascending from Al Aqsa astride his winged steed to begin his heavenly journey. His mind never used to work like that. He felt something good was happening.

When the imam arrived at the hospital the following day, Trey asked how he could become a Muslim. The imam praised him and said he knew Trey would find happiness, tranquility, and inner peace. His friends took the news in stride, which is to say they asked him if he was going to wear white robes and sell bean pies up on 125th Street. When Trey said, “Ain’t funny,” and they saw he was serious, that temporarily ended the comedy.

On Wednesday afternoon of the second week Dag was in the hospital Trey, Lourawls, and Babatunde were playing poker (Trey’s conversion did not include a prohibition against a friendly card game in Dag’s room). Exuding the false cheer of hospital rooms where the possibility of upsetting news flickers like a lightning storm on the horizon, Lourawls gloated as he raked in a twenty-three-dollar pot. Babatunde cursed and told Lourawls he had no talent for the game, it was just luck. Trey ordered the winner to shut up and deal the next hand. As Lourawls began to distribute the cards, Dr. Bannister entered with a group of residents and asked if they would mind stepping out. This was routine, Bannister saw Dag each day, and the entourage left the room. The banter continued in the hallway while they waited for the doctor to finish the examination.

Bannister emerged from the room accompanied by the residents, the graveyard in his eyes. He said, “It looks like your brother might have sepsis.” Trey had no idea what sepsis was and asked if it was dangerous. “It’s a systemic inflammatory response and, yes, it’s dangerous. His organs are failing.”

Trey asked if they could do anything to reverse what was happening and Bannister informed him they were doing all they could.

Trey spent the night at the hospital, grabbing snatches of sleep in the chair next to his brother’s bed. Teams of doctors attended Dag, changing IVs, hooking him up to different machines. As the night wore on Trey stared at the blinking lights. He talked to Allah and with every cell in his body he supplicated, begged, and prayed. Dawn arrived and, bleary-eyed, Trey watched as helicopters rose up like flying horses and arced over the river through the early morning light soaring above the pallid sun toward Arabia.

D’Angelo Maxwell died that afternoon.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.

Seth Greenland is the author of five novels. His latest, The Hazards of Good Fortune (Europa Editions), will be published in 2018. His play Jungle Rot won the Kennedy Center/American Express Fund For New American Plays Award and the American Theater Critics Association Award. He was a writer-producer on the Emmy-nominated HBO series Big Love.

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