#and my customer service voice is… american??? i just panic and start putting it on i can’t help it

[fingertipsmp3]

Whenever someone has a really nice soft voice, like a good therapy voice or kindergarten teacher voice, I’ve always gotta wonder whether they talk like this naturally or is it like my customer service voice

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

date night, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

summary: A first date is always nerve-wracking. It can made you anxious and shaky - but alas for Jungkook, he’s anxious and shaky for a slightly different reason. After all, his date is his dom.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; non-idol!AU; dom/sub themes; (slightly) public vibrator use; feels; a ball gag is involved; smut (overstimulation, striptease, m-masturbation, mild restraint, cowgirl); noona dom!reader x sub!Jungkook

Technically a continuation of customer service and ii, but can be read alone.

--

“Sorry, I’m late, Jungkook. Work ran a little longer than I would like.”

He turned around in his chair, looking startled. “Oh, no, it’s fi–”

He froze in mid-sentence. You walked around him, slowly removing your long black coat. One shoulder first, and then the other. It lingered on your arms for just a second before you slid it off, placing it with one fell swoop in the back the dining chair. Red silk blouse with a small black bow at the neck, tight black pencil skirt. Sheer black tights, slim black heels. You sat down, slowly lifting your lashes to view your date.

Jeon Jungkook.

He stared at you; mouth slightly open.

“Something wrong?”

Jungkook looked down at his black t-shirt and black jeans. At least he was wearing a gray pinstriped statin dress shirt as a jacket. You appreciated the low neckline of the shirt.

“N-no,” he gulped, sitting down slowly. He almost missed the chair. You raised an eyebrow at him. “I just… I’ve never seen you wear something like that.”

You tilted her head. “You did ask me on a date.”

Jungkook’s ears flushed red. He placed his hands over them, trying to hide. He was in public, after all. It was a nice restaurant, in the more upscale part of town. People were dressed a lot less fancy than you were, but then again, that’s how you operated.

Plus, making Jungkook embarrassed was now one of your life goals.

You picked up the menu, crossing one of your legs over the other. The round table was small and your movement raised the end of the tablecloth, your heel gently scraping against Jungkook’s pant leg. He started, brown doe eyes shaking. You calmly opened the menu, retreating your foot as you did so. Jungkook scrambled with his, first holding it upside down, before righting it.

“Are you nervous?” you inquired casually.

“U-um…” Jungkook stuttered, gulping. “A little.”

“Did you put it on?” you asked, not looking up from the menu. It was American steakhouse cuisine, hotel-style. The pan-roasted salmon caught your eye.  

“… Y-yes.” Jungkook’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m s-sorry I had to ask how to put it on.”

You lifted your eyes from the text, looking straight into his brown orbs.

“Do not apologize. Asking questions is good. I was happy to answer you.”

You said it very seriously, no playfulness. He chewed on his lip and nodded tightly. Your gaze softened and you placed your menu down for a moment.

“Jungkook.” You spoke quietly, your hand covering his. “It’s me.” You smiled at him. You traced his knuckles, running your fingertips over them. “You can tell me anything, remember? Any question, any frustration, any thought you want to share with me, I will listen.”

His lips parted; eyes locked with yours. You withdrew your hand with a gentle smile. He lowered his head, swallowing thickly. You took that as your cue to look back at your menu.

“… Thank you.”

Your eyes floated back up as Jungkook held the menu over his face, not wanting to show you his tears. Or maybe not you specifically, but the people around you. You wanted to reach over and pat his head, but you let him discreetly wipe his eyes behind the menu before resurfacing, cheeks flushed. A lone, fallen tear clung to his sharp jaw. You reached forward delicately and flicked it away. He turned his head to look at you, eyes wide.

“My pretty boy.”

The mole under his lower lip quivered. He mouthed the words back to you – my? – and you smirked a little.

A waiter came and asked what you would like to drink. Jungkook ordered a red wine and you simply asked for water. He frowned at you, tilting his head.

“You can order something more. I’ll pay.”

You chuckled. “We’ll split it. Besides, I need a clear head.” You rested your elbow on the table and balanced your chin on the back of your hand, cocking a single eyebrow. “For you.”

You didn’t need to touch Jungkook’s pulse to know it skyrocketed.

“Aren’t you… going to turn it on?”

Your free hand slipped between the folds of your coat behind you. The small, sleek black remote was tucked in your inner pocket. You pulled it out, playing with it on your fingers. Jungkook’s eyes widened, watching your every move. You stopped, holding it between your index finger and middle finger. Eyes on Jungkook’s brown orbs, teasing smile on your lips. Then you lowered your hand under the table.

“What if I don’t turn it on at all?” you wondered out loud.

Jungkook squirmed in his seat. “N-noona…”

“Hmm?”

He pouted at you, putting on his best puppy eyes. “Don’t be mean.”

The waiter showed up again with your drinks. He asked you what you wanted to order, staring at your face for far too long. It was the kind of stare you knew, the fascination of your authoritative presence paired with your sharp winged eyeliner and stained red lips. That and your clearly professional style of dress. You were already in command mode from teasing Jungkook. One look at Jungkook’s stiffened stance and you knew it was bothering him. You spoke slowly and deliberately, forcing the waiter to hang on to your every word.

“Of course,” the waiter concluded, scribbling your order down. “And for you, sir?”

Jungkook’s jaw was so tense that he had to unhinge it for a second to respond. “Ah, the ribeye s-steak–”

You pressed a button under the table, expression unchanging.

Jungkook’s body immediately tensed up, eyes wildly flickering to you. You took a long, slow sip of your water, face blank.

“And how would you like it done?”

“Medium rare,” Jungkook gritted out, fingers holding the menu so tightly that they were turning white.

“Sides?” the waiter said pleasantly.

“Asparagus and roasted p-potatoes.” He kept staring at you, the panic evident in his eyes.

“An excellent choice. I’ll take your menus.”

Jungkook hesitated for just a second before handing it over, instantly clenching his hands into fists when the waiter turned his attention to you.

“I’ll put in the order right away.”

“Thank you,” you replied cheerfully.

He turned his back and Jungkook shut his eyes, sucking in a tight breath. You played with the remote under the table, not quite paying attention to him. You pressed another button and Jungkook gasped, hands spreading flat against the table.

“N-noona… it’s too g-good…”

You raised your eyebrows in mock surprise. “Ah, my hand must have slipped.” You flicked through the settings absentmindedly, Jungkook jerking slightly next to you. You got it back to the original setting, a steady, low vibration. “Sorry about that.”

Jungkook took one look at you and you didn’t even try to hide your slyness.

“I f-feel it everywhere,” he whispered, voice trembling.

“That’s what a cock and balls vibrator does, Jungkook,” you replied, each word turning Jungkook redder and redder.

“Don’t say that too loud,” he pleaded, eyes darting from side to side. The music and chatting were far too loud for anyone to hear your words. But that didn’t matter, because you could tell from Jungkook’s shallow pants and blown-out pupils that he was far too turned on by the idea to tell you to stop.

“Safe word?”

“Euphoria,” he said automatically, brown orbs back on you.

You turned off the vibrator. His hand shot out, grabbing yours under the table.

“N-no.” Jungkook’s breathing hitched. “You… don’t have to stop.” His fingers touched the remote’s buttons, running over them. He pulled his chair forward, pressing his hips into the seat. His eyes on yours, begging for more. You smiled sweetly and leaned over, lips on his ear. He stiffened, hand tightening around yours. You breathed hotly against his skin, hearing his soft gasp as you did so.

“Naughty boy,” you purred, running your tongue across his earlobe, lightly flicking his earrings. “Does it feel good knowing I control your pleasure? Does it feel good knowing you please noona?”

His fingertips dug into your skirt, the faintest whimper against your ear.

“Wanna please you so bad, noona.” Jungkook’s voice was nearly a desperate whine. “Don’t care who sees. I just want to be good for you.”

You placed a chaste kiss on his ear and retreated, pulling your hand out of his grasp. He slowly opened his eyes, his dark brown orbs smokey with lust. If you asked him to get on his knees right now, you were quite sure he would have done it.

“I’m going to wash my hands,” you announced, standing up.

Jungkook looked up at you, startled. “O-oh.” He sounded disappointed.

“You should too.”

He gazed at his hands with a confused expression before standing up.

“Okay.”

-

Jungkook stood in front of the restaurant’s bathroom mirror, rolling up his sleeves. The pinstriped satin fabric was being stubborn and refusing to stay up, so he had to fold it all the way to his elbows in order to wash his hands. He turned on the water and looked himself over as he rubbed the soap over his knuckles. Jungkook thought he looked pretty good today, with a little bit of eyeshadow and curled eyelashes. He tried, at least.

But it really was nothing compared to how she looked.

He chewed on his lower lip, feeling his heartbeat accelerate as he thought of her clean eyeliner, her glowing skin, her pretty red-stained lips. The lip color matched her red top, a small detail that Jungkook appreciated. And she carried herself so well, head high, unafraid of the world.

He wanted to be like that, just like his noona.

“Nice tattoos, man.”

Jungkook jolted out of his thoughts. The man on his left was complimenting him. But before he could say anything at all, the vibrator on his crotch came to life. His eyes widened, trying to hide his surprise in the mirror. Oh god.

“O-oh!” He turned off the water with his wrist. What was she thinking? He was right next to someone! Literally less than a foot away from them! And there were other people in the bathroom too–

The vibrations increased a notch.

“Thanks.” Jungkook jerked slightly, heading for a stall immediately. The man blinked, confused as to why he would go right after washing his hands. But Jungkook couldn’t give less of a shit as he threw himself inside the stall, silently gasping as the setting changed again to a slow but rough vibration that radiated all the way up to his chest. He moaned under his breath, leaning against the door, thrusting his hips into the air. Fuck. It felt so good. Even knowing that other people were around him, only a thin wall away, made it feel even better.

Jungkook knew it was wrong, he knew it was bad, but it felt, so, so very good.

He had to touch. No one was looking, right? No one could see him, right? He looked around him even though the only things around was the beige walls of the stall and the toilet. He unbuttoned his jeans. It felt like he could hear it, but perhaps that was only because it was against his body. The setting changed again – to a faster, harder, triple beat – and Jungkook nearly collided with the wall beside him, legs shaking. Unrelenting, continuous pleasure rocketed through him. He mouthed her name into the air, eyes half-lidded and hazy. If only she could see him now. If only she was right there, watching him, eyes on him and only him, watching him suffer by her hand…

He nearly whimpered out loud at the thought.

He tried to pull the zipper down, but it must have hit the vibrator unexpectedly because he instantly heard a sharp whirring sound. Jungkook immediately zipped it back up, terrified. He pressed his ear against the door, trying to tell if anyone heard. It was hard to know. He could hear running water from the sinks. Hopefully that masked the noise.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Hastily, he tried to pull it out, nearly moaning as the action pressed the zipper down onto his crotch, amplifying the vibrations on his inner thighs. He looked at the screen, seeing the text notification.

Having fun?

It was not a mistake. She had turned it on deliberately.

He struggled to stay silent, teeth sinking into his lower lip as he typed a response.

Someone will know.

The three black dots flashed for only a moment.

Not if you’re quiet, pretty boy.

His cheeks burned hot. Oh, how he loved it when she called him pretty. He could almost hear her saying it too, in that seductive, dark tone of hers. It never sounded mean or malicious when she said it. She said it like it turned her on and that was all Jungkook wanted.

Let’s see if you can last one minute.

He furrowed his brows. It already felt like hours, but he had only been in the bathroom for a few minutes.

One minute of

Jungkook accidentally pressed send even though he wasn’t done with the message yet. He meant to type, “One minute of what?” but his hand slipped because, all of a sudden, the strongest vibrations he had ever felt in his entire life attacked his cock and balls, heavy, thudding, rough and so good. He shoved a knuckle in his mouth, biting down hard as it assaulted him, bolts of pleasure going up his thighs and ass, every nerve on fire. It took every fiber of his being to stay silent and not scream. His eyes rolled back his head and he felt pre-cum soaking into his underwear. Oh, shit, he was a fucking mess. He pressed his back fully against the stall wall, breathing hard around his knuckle as the back of his free hand, still holding his phone, pressed down on the vibrator, increasing the sensation across his thighs, spreading it to the deepest points of his body.

His entire crotch throbbed at the assault. He couldn’t take it off. He couldn’t stop it. He was helpless, trembling, barely able to stand, forced to feel the constant, almost overpowering, arousal until she decided it was time to stop, until she released him from her grasp.

And that was exactly what Jungkook wanted.

-

You sat at the table, your phone in your hands, a small smirk on your lips. Your eyes watched the seconds on your timer app tick down, down. Perhaps a minute was too long. Well, actually, you were simply impatient to see Jungkook again. It frustrated you that you couldn’t see his reaction, but you knew it would have a good result. Trust the process.

You put your phone down and pressed the off button. Then you calmly tucked the remote in your coat.

“Here you are, miss.”

The food arrived. You moved out of the way, letting the waiter put down the savory dishes. The waiter was trying to catch your eye. You tucked your tongue in your cheek and raised your eyebrows slightly. It was very likely that he wasn’t going to hit on you. It took someone real fucking brave to hit on you and this guy wasn’t it.

Real brave and on his knees, begging you with his arms tied behind his back.

“Thank you,” you said simply as Jungkook finally appeared. His dark, curled hair was around his eyes, slightly sticking to his forehead. He looked haggard, as if he had just run a mile. He glared at the waiter, but he was already leaving.

“I don’t like him.”

“He’s not going to do anything.”

Jungkook puffed his cheeks. “How do you know?”

You picked up your knife. “He doesn’t have the balls to do anything.”

Your eyes locked with Jungkook’s. Dark brown pools of lust, shimmering with jealousy. Your lips upturned into a slow smile.

“How is noona’s little pet? Satisfied?”

Oh, he looked so delicious and innocent when his eyes went wide and his ears turned red like that.

-

“A-ah…”

“Shh…”

You wiped him down gently with a warm, damp cloth, kneeling in front of him. His black jeans and underwear were on the floor. They definitely needed to be washed. The vibrator was beside you, slick with pre-cum and sweat.

“I-I can do it, noona,” Jungkook whined, head tipping back. He was sitting on his bed, legs spread for you as you wiped him clean. His cock and balls were red and sensitive.

“Let noona take care of you,” you murmured. “Aftercare is important to me.”

Ah, his neck looked so delectable exposed like that. But, no, you had things to do You stood up, taking the vibrator with you. He was only in his black t-shirt, legs spread, eyes closed and head tilted back, resting on his elbows. Looking like a full twelve-course meal. You turned away from the sight, heading for the master bathroom. You turned the water on, cleaning the soft silicone with Jungkook’s gentle soap. You let it soak for a moment. Your black briefcase was open on the counter and you folded the microfiber towel you used, placing it in a plastic bag before sealing it.

You were always a stickler for details. Being prepared was always better than making do.

You lifted your head as you heard Jungkook approach the doorframe. He still hadn’t bothered to put pants on. This guy. It didn’t surprise you.

“Can I help?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head gently as you drained the water to double rinse the toy. “You should rest. You had a tiring dinner,” you added, a hint of teasing in your voice.

He pouted and came up to you anyway, watching you clean. “You’re so careful.”

You chuckled. “I like to keep clean, that’s all.”

You turned off the water and shook off the excess. You grabbed another spare microfiber towel from your briefcase, drying it off.

“You’re always prepared too.”

You shrugged. “When there’s an important task at hand, you bring your tools.”

You stopped moving. Your eyes lifted, looking straight into the mirror. Jungkook’s fingers were playing with the black bow of your blouse. He was so close to you that you could feel his heat, his breath on your hair.

“You always take such good care of me.”

He looked at you underneath his lashes. You knew what he was doing.

“There’s always a bitter to my sweet,” you replied, edge of warning to your tone.

He pulled gently at one end of the bow, teasing it apart.

“Even if you’re poisoned,” Jungkook whispered against your scalp, the sides of his lips curving upwards. “I’ll drink you anyway.”

You wrapped the vibrator in the towel, placing it on your briefcase. Your hand came up and you wrapped each finger slowly around his, stopping him as the bow fell into two black ribbons. You exhaled, long and deep, trying to calm your racing heart. Jungkook’s expression changed. He looked a little lost.

“Why don’t you want to show me your body?” he whispered, voice trembling.

You let out a small puff.

“Are you scared I won’t like it?” His brows furrowed with worry. “Because I will. You’re the prettiest woman in the whole world.”

You smiled into the mirror. “There are a lot of pretty women in this world.”

Jungkook shook his head furiously, his long hair flying everywhere. “No one like you.”

You chuckled. “You haven’t seen it.”

“I know already,” he insisted. He moved behind you, hands hovering over your figure. “I want these legs. These hips. This ass.” He bit his tongue; afraid he had gone too far. When you didn’t berate him, he continued. “This waist. This chest.” His tone changed, becoming tenderer, gentler. “I want these arms around me. These hands to hold me, to touch me.” His fingers brushed your cheek. “These eyes to watch me. These lips to say my name, to smile for me.” Jungkook let his fingers trail down. He placed his palm under your chin, making eye contact.

“Look how pretty you are.”

You smiled at your words repeated back to you. Your hesitation remained. Your chin brushed against his hand as you spoke.

“There are a lot of doms out there, Jungkook. Different ones, maybe better ones,” you said calmly. “I’m just the introduction. The one who opened the door.”

You didn’t want to get attached. You didn’t want to get your hopes up that someone was actually interested in you and not your ability to turn them into a crying, pleasure-filled mess. You had been in a lot of relationships. Long ones, short ones. Meaningful ones that taught you life lessons. But they all ended the same.

The you they wanted was the version they wanted to see. You couldn’t blame them. That’s how you presented yourself, after all. That’s the version they were given, not the insecure you, the unconfident you, the weak you. If only for a second you could control yourself and not start a relationship by straight up fucking them.

Ah, the foolish you.

“Noona.”

Jungkook leaned his chin against your shoulder, staring at you through the mirror. You slowly looked up at him, not realizing your eyes had drifted away.

“For you, I would do anything.” Jungkook didn’t look away from your moment of weakness. “I would bleed. I would sweat. I would cry. Anything. Not because you’re a dom.” Thump. How was it possible for someone to have such soft brown eyes? “You’re you. You’re the one I want to walk through the open door with. You’re the one I feel comfortable with. You’re the one who let me be who I am.”

You chuckled, lowering your head, but Jungkook lifted your chin back up, smiling at you.

“I’m really not that cool, Jungkook.”

He leaned his head against yours. “But you are. Look at these clothes.” His wiggled his eyebrows at you, making you laugh. “Look at that smile.” He nuzzled your hair, breathing in your scent. Your hands were braced on the counter and he placed one of his over yours, thumb caressing your fingers. “I don’t want to run from you. I don’t want to escape you. I want to be tied up by you. I want to serve your every whim.” He began to play with the black ribbons of your red blouse again, gasping into your hair. You let him. It was too late now.

“I want to be your pretty boy, noona.”

Fuck.

You sighed slightly in disbelief. What was this, the third time you were falling for him? You must be crazy, letting him drag you into his desires, giving him what he wanted every single time. What were you going to do, say no?

Fuck no, you weren’t.

You grabbed his hand once again, squeezing hard. Jungkook started, seeing your cold gaze in the bathroom mirror.

“Get on the bed. Naked.”

-

There were two things you always kept with you.

Your smartphone and a ball gag.

Why? Old habits die hard. Besides, a lot of people could use a damn ball gag and do you a favor by shutting the fuck up. You had zero tolerance for the intolerant and ignorant.

You placed it in Jungkook’s mouth, shushing him softly as he whimpered, doe eyes wide as you affixed it on, nice and tight. You were straddling his chest, still fully clothed, the black ribbons of your bow brushing against his tan, toned pecs.

“That’s a good boy,” you purred, placing a kiss on the gag. He mumbled your name, muffled by the rubber ball in his teeth. You lifted a hand to your ear playfully. “Ah, what’s that? You’ll keep your hands on the bed like an obedient boy and not touch me?” He was shaking his head but you ignored him, straightening. “That’s a good idea.”

He was attempting to pout around the gag and it was adorable.

“Now, now, if you listen well, noona will reward you.”

You scooted back a little, your pencil skirt riding up. His eyes went wide, seeing the garters holding your sheer thigh-highs up. Your hand slid down his chest, feather-light. He was non-verbally pleading for more but you retreated your hand, quirking an eyebrow. You lifted one of your legs and pressed your knee between his thighs, forcing them apart. His eyelids fluttered, a muffled moan as the silky pantyhose rubbed lightly against his cock and balls, already sensitive from the events prior.

“Look at me,” you commanded.

He did, clenching fistfuls of sheets, breathing hard. The inky black tattoos of his right arm were a stark contrast to the white sheets. His arms were flexed taut with anticipation. You played with the buttons of the red silk, slowly undoing them one by one, almost lazily. The smooth fabric slid off one shoulder, revealing one of the molded cups of your satin, longline bra with delicate black lace. You gently pushed off the second shoulder with two fingers, leaving it half-hanging on your arms, still tucked into your skirt.

Jungkook’s eyes were so big you were half-afraid they were going to fall out of his head.

You teased the ends out, tossing it aside. It slipped to the floor with a soft flump. You took the art of the striptease seriously. Thumb and index finger on the side zipper of your skirt, using the other hand to hold it taut so the zipper fell apart perfectly. It slid down your legs, landing onto Jungkook’s thighs. One leg out and then the other. You reached down and gently pulled it back with one hand. The stiff fabric fluttered across his semi-hard cock. He hissed, pressing his head against the pillows.

“Very good so far.”

His eyes lit up at the compliment. You slid off his body, and he lifted himself to his elbows, confused. You turned around, looking back at him with your peripheral vision. One handed, pinching the hooks of your bra. You heard him swallow loudly. You held the cups, letting the straps fall down your shoulders naturally. You hooked one finger on one of the straps, pulling your bra away from your body, dropping it onto the floor. Then you slipped your thumbs on each side of your panties, pushing down, down, not bending your legs, your ass in the air.

Jungkook’s moan was stifled by the ball gag.

You turned around slowly, one hand under your breasts, fingers curled and taut. You grazed your nails across your breasts, gasping softly as they scraped your hard nipples.

His cock was insanely hard, sticking straight up as his eyes roamed over your body.

“Go ahead,” you purred, standing at the end of his bed. “Touch yourself.”

Jungkook whimpered, his hands drifting up his thigh. You pressed your index finger against one of your nipples, pushing it in a slow circle. He groaned as he wrapped his hand around his cock, eyes glued to your breasts.

“Not what you wanted to hear, naughty boy?” He shook his head, whining as he slowly stroked himself, his other hand cupping his balls and rubbing them softly. They must still be sensitive and throbbing from the vibrator and he was heightening the dull ache by touching them more.

Fuck, he really was perfection.

You placed your hands under your breasts and kneaded them, your nipples bouncing in the air. You could tell he wanted to rip off his ball gag and beg for more. You watched him touch himself, curious about how he would feel inside you. It made you wet just thinking about it, your juices sliding down your thighs. Your fingers drifted down your stomach, smirking as Jungkook’s eyes followed them.

“You wanna be in here, handsome boy?” you breathed, tongue licking your teeth. You parted your legs lightly, spreading your pussy lips with two fingers. It made a wet, squishing noise as you forced it open.

You saw Jungkook grip his cock hard, stopping his own orgasm. His whole body shuddered, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. His jaw was clenched tight, pupils dilated.

You removed your hands from your body. Walked around the bed, followed by Jungkook’s eyes. Stopping right next to him, you forcefully turned his head to face the other way, unfastening the ball gag. It fell from his mouth, bouncing on the bed. Your fingers danced across his neck, tracing his chiseled jaw. It was wet with saliva and you smeared it against his lips. He gasped and you slid two fingers into his mouth, pressing his tongue down.

You climbed onto the bed, condom in your free hand.

“Ready for your prize, pretty boy?”

Jungkook moaned, the sound vibrating though your hand.

“Y-yes, noona.”

You pulled your hand back, strings of saliva snapping against his lips. You pushed him back against the bed, his dark hair shading his eyes. You took a moment to tuck some behind one ear.

“So handsome.”

You unwrapped the condom and slid it onto his cock. The lubrication seemed to help him – he groaned, back arching, eyelashes fluttering. You positioned yourself above him.

“Jungkook.”

“H-huh?”

You smirked and sank down.

It hit him hard – the oversensitivity, the teasing, the edging he did himself – and he nearly screamed, your hot, wet vice wrapping around him, taking him in slowly. His neighbors were probably not pleased with this, but you didn’t care. He tried to grab your hips but you slapped his hands away, grabbing his wrists and pinning them down next to his head.

“N-noona, ahh–”

You shoved the rest of him inside you forcefully, clenching your jaw as he entered you. Oh, fuck, he felt so good, so hard, filling you just how you liked. Your name tumbled out of his lips, but you gave him no time, already snapping your hips into his, grinding into him, squeezing him. He groaned, unable to fight you as you rode him roughly, the loud, wet slaps of your bodies filling up his bedroom.

“It’s too g-good,” he whined, his hot breath against your lips. “P-please, noona, I-I can’t last…”

“Are you saying you’re going to cum before me?” you growled, your grip on his wrists tightening.

“I-I’m trying not to,” he begged. “Your pussy is t-too good…”

“You want to be used by me, right?” you panted, fucking him harder, hissing as he hit you in your favorite spot. “You want me to use your cock to make myself cum, to be my own personal fucktoy?”

Jungkook slammed his head into the pillows, turning to bite a chunk of his pillow to scream into. You pressed him into the bed, gripping his wrists firmly, nails digging into him. He swelled inside you, throbbing hard, pressing against your walls. His veins were straining against his tan skin, jaw clenched tight. He looked so helpless even though you knew he wasn’t. He let himself give in to you, but that wasn’t enough. You wanted him to lose his mind. You wanted to ruin him. You wanted him so bad and so much that you couldn’t hold back anymore, the familiar tension inside you pulled so taut that even you couldn’t control it.

“Jungkook, cum with me now.”

You slammed your hips down and gasped, moaning his name as you came, pleasure ricocheting throughout your nerves, your pussy throbbing and clenching as liquid spilled between his thighs, drenching them. Oh, fuck. His cock jerked inside you, hard, and he wailed your name into his pillow. You could feel his orgasm fill the condom, the head twitching against your walls, your body shivering at the sensation.

You let his hands go, falling to your elbows. Your forehead leaned against his as you reached down gingerly to hold the condom down as you slowly, slowly removed yourself from his softening cock.  You were a bit worried you had gone too far, but one look at Jungkook told you otherwise. He knew his safe word. He smirked at you, playfully kissing your lips.

“You’re crazy,” you muttered, falling against the bed. His head popped up and he kissed you again.

“So… am I your personal fucktoy now?”

You shut one eye and placed an arm over your forehead. His dark bangs shaded his eyes, making them sparkle with mischief.

“Is that what you want, pretty boy?”

He nodded eagerly, his hair flapping around. You closed both eyes and chuckled.

“Remember you sealed your own fate, Jeon Jungkook.”

-

inventory.

--

masterpost

[consumedkings-archive]

ii. damage done & damage made ✤ roman sionis/varya astakhova

words: 2.2k

summary: thanks to @starcrier​ for entertaining my daydreams about my favorite murder duo, we now have a oneshot that literally no one asked for: roman and varya, and their babies, in a tea shop. living their perfect crime lives. that’s all.

rating: m for Adult Language and threats of face-tearing

warnings: the aforementioned face-tearing, roman’s mouth (per usual), domestic murder family. babies being cute.

Mark liked his job, a lot. Working a tea shop felt like a step up from the typical entry-level customer service job, and he got a huge discount on all of the products—not to mention, flexible hours while he was balancing school and needing to pay rent, and premium people-watching. Some days, like today, the card machine acted up and he had to ask customers to put their card numbers in manually, but most of them were understanding. All-in-all: he felt pretty lucky.

So when a young couple wandered into the shop one afternoon, it felt like any other kind of afternoon for him. They matched the usual demographic that liked to stop there; well-dressed, usually a little more upper class given the neighborhood. The woman—small and slender, balancing a stylishly dressed infant on her hip—smiled at him charmingly while the man redirected a two-seat stroller to an area less clustered by shelves, slowly rocking it back and forth.

“Good afternoon!” Mark greeted as the woman approached, keeping his voice softer in case the man was trying to rock another infant to sleep. “Can I help you find anything today?”

“Hello! Yes, well—admittedly, I am not as well-versed in teas as I would like to be,” the brunette said sweetly, a little sheepish. The infant babbled happily and clutched the pendant of her necklace in his fingers.

Mark offered her a smile. “No worries. What kinds of flavors do you like? I have quite a few—”

“Varya,” the man said from where he had been pushing the stroller back and forth, “do you have my phone? I need to make a call.”

“Oh, yes. One moment.” She fished a sleek, dark phone from her purse, passing it to the man before turning her eyes back to Mark. The man, presumably her husband, dialed a number and balanced the phone between his ear and shoulder before the call connected and he started talking—his voice low so that Mark could barely hear him over Varya’s attentions. He had gloves on; black, leather, embossed with something in gold; maybe his initials?

Varya said lightly, “Flavors?”

He flushed, quickly diverting his eyes. “Yes, right. Your favorite flavors?”

“Hm. I prefer spiced teas,” she began, eyes scanning the shelves. “My mother used to make a tea with cloves and cinnamon, do you have anything like that?”

“Certainly,” Mark replied brightly. He turned back to the shelves, humming for a moment. She had had a bit of an accent; it sounded Russian, but it was so slight he couldn’t quite be sure. There were plenty of tourists and sightseers coming in and out of the shop that he’d gotten used to skimming for quick details, like accents or nice clothes or expensive jewelry. And if the gigantic rock on the woman’s finger was any indication, they were hitting all of the boxes for the people that usually walked into a boutique tea shop.

Pulling one of the jars off of the shelf, Mark pulled the cap and offered it to her to smell. “This one’s got cinnamon and cloves, but ginger and cardamom, too. I really like to make it with—”

“No, no, no, no,” her husband bit out into the phone, the stroller rolling to a stop as he stilled his attempts at keeping the baby asleep, “you listen to me, you pint-sized fuckhead, when I tell—”

Varya, completely unbothered by her husband’s vicious tone, shifted the infant to her other hip, smelling the looseleaf mixture again. “It smells so good. I think it is the ginger that makes it good. What did you say you like to make it with?”

“Um,” Mark said, trying not to stare at the man in the velvet suit saying, and I’m going to cut your fucking face off, you piece of shit, did you know that? Do you know who I am? That’s right, and I can do whatever I fucking want, and that means cutting your dumb fucking face off and putting it on display in my loft for my dinner guests, “cream?”

“Oh, that’s interesting,” she murmured idly, reading through the list of ingredients again. “Do you have those little—” She gestured with her free hand. “—to steep the mixture with?”

“Y—” Mark swallowed. His gaze flickered back to the glossy brunette, her lips pouted and the baby nestled against her neck, seemingly putting himself to sleep despite the noise. “Yes, of course. Do you prefer the, um...”

“In English, you fucker,” Roman seethed into the phone, “your—yeah, well, your boss is American, I don’t care where you were born. So tell me in English how many fucking guns are being held up in bumfuck-nowhere-Russia, you—”

“This one is nice,” Varya interjected gently, picking up one of the steel ones. “I like the ones that have a finer mesh. Less chance of getting the debris in there, you know?”

He was trying to remember when the last time he’d taken a breath was. It very suddenly all made too much sense—well-dressed couple, twins, the embossed gloves and the accent and oh my God, oh fuck, oh fucking God oh shit oh fuck I have Roman Fucking Sionis and his Russian gun lord wife in the tea shop I’m going to fucking die—

“Mark?” she prompted. The dulcet tone of her voice broke him out of the panic running through his brain. Unfortunately, the sound of her saying his first name only firmly cemented in his brain the fact that he was now assisting the wife of Gotham’s biggest crime lord in picking out a looseleaf tea.

He swallowed thickly. “H—How, um, did you know my name?”

Varya tilted her head inquisitively. “Your nametag, my love.”

“Oh,” he replied, letting out a nervous laugh. “Of course. Um. Right, those do have a finer mesh. I like them better too. It’s similar t-to the um—the kind of mesh you would—you would have in the teapot. You know. If you were going to do it by the pot. And not the cup. Like for more than one cup of tea.”

A smile ticked the corner of her lips upward. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought she was enjoying his apparent discomfort. “I do like to make more than one cup of tea, on occasion. Do you sell teapots? Can I see those?”

Mark opened his mouth to say that of course, she could see the teapots—did she want his? His personal teapot? He could run home and grab it if she wanted, please don’t shoot me in the face—when the stilling of the stroller’s movements seemed to have distressed the other twin. As soon as she started fussing, Roman threw his free hand up in exasperation.

“Do you hear that, Maxim?” he demanded. “That’s my daughter, crying, because I was so fucking fed up with your idiocy that I stopped rocking her to sleep. What? Do I want to—no, I don’t want your mother’s fucking aromatic recipe for putting infants to sleep, I’m already in a fucking tea shop!”

Varya let out a little sigh. “Excuse me one moment, Mark.”

“Sure,” Mark replied, scratching his forehead. “Sure, no worries, take—um, take your time.”

She swept away from him, returning the happy infant to the stroller and pulling from it the fussy one, bouncing the baby a few times before she said, “Romy, you know Yuli only likes when you bounce her. Trade me.”

Mark watched as Roman’s mouth downturned in a firm frown; he eventually acquiesced, taking the crying baby and offering the phone to Varya, who planted the phone against her ear and pushed the double stroller outside and into fresh air, taking with her the conversation which quickly shifted into a foreign language. For what it was worth, as soon as the little girl was in Roman’s arms, she almost immediately stopped fussing—though he did bounce her and make his way over to Mark, brows furrowed despite his daughter’s happy babbling.

“What one did she like?” he asked, less silken than his better half.

“What?”

“The tea,” Roman answered, squinting. “What tea did she like?”

“Uh,” Mark said, “the—uh, this one. Sir.” He held out the jar, but Roman waved his hand in dismissal.

“Pack some of that up. And the—whatever the fuck this is,” he added, gesturing at the steeper. “That too.”

Mark pulled one of the bags out from the drawer, working quickly despite the tremble in his hands. “Just the steeper? Sir?”

Roman had turned his attention back to the curly-haired baby, waving a gloved finger in her vision to keep her occupied, when Mark had posed his question. “What? Speak up, I’ve got a chatty infant here.”

“She—she wanted to look at the teapots, too.” Mark packed the looseleaf tea into the bag. The scale remained untouched. The idea of taking the time to weigh the tea and charge appropriately had completely fled his mind. “S—Sir.”

“Huh.” Roman squinted at the wall of teapots, seeming to deliberate for a moment. “We’ll take that one. The black and gold. And the steeper, and the tea.”

“Sure. For sure. Good choice. That’s my favorite one,” he added, realizing somewhere in his brain that he was babbling but that he couldn’t stop. “It’s hand-made, so it has—um, it has like...Little flaws, that make it worth a lot, because it was made by a famous—”

Varya returned to the shop, phone tucked away and only their doe-eyed son in her arms again. She gave Roman’s shoulder a squeeze with her free hand and then turned her attention to Mark, smiling prettily. “That’s the one he picked out?”

Mark nodded, hesitated midway through packing the pot. “Yes. Do you like it? Did you want a different one? I have some new ones in the back—”

“It’s perfect,” she assured him. She looked at Roman, glowing, and reached up to press a kiss to his cheek. “I love it.”

The blonde looked pleased. “Yes, well, who knows you better than me?” And then: “What did Kuznetsov tell you?”

Hurrying through the packing, Mark managed to get everything rang up amidst the couple’s idle chatter—which consisted of Varya explaining that ten thousand guns were held up in Kazakhstan, which was not Russia, but used to be part of Russia, at which point Roman waved his hand and went ‘whatever’—and ran the man’s heavy, black card through the card machine.

The machine beeped three times in alarm, and Mark felt his stomach plummet. The fucking machine’s broken, he remembered, with despair. Oh my God, oh my God, I’m going to fucking—

“What?” Roman barked out. “What is it?”

“The—the um, the machine is—I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “The machine is broken and I h-have to have you—put in the card number manually—”

The man made the most indignant sound, but before he could attempt to get fired up all over again, Varya said, “Romy, why don’t you load the twins up in the car? Armazd already put the stroller away. I’ll finish up here.”

Roman’s mouth pressed into a thin line, and then he said, “Alright, V,” and accepted the second infant into his other arm, toting them both outside. Varya looked at Mark and smiled sympathetically, holding out her hand for the machine; Mark handed it over, absently pulling at a loose thread on his apron as she started carefully inputting the card number.

“Do you have children, Mark?” she asked conversationally. “A partner?”

“Uh,” he replied very intelligently. “N-No. No ma’am. I mean, miss. No, I don’t have either of those, miss.”

“It is definitely a life change,” she said by way of agreement, pocketing the card and waiting for the machine to process. “Suddenly, your hands are full all the time.”

A nervous laugh bubbled up out of him, and he nodded his head; the seconds ticked by, agonizing as Varya hummed and gathered up the bag until it finally beeped its approval of the transaction.

“Thank you, my darling!” she called over her shoulder. “I am sure I will be back.”

“Welcome,” he replied weakly. He watched her make her way to the door, nearly out; it wasn’t until his shoulders slumped in a bit of relief that she stopped and turned to look at him, a sly little smile on her face.

“Before I forget,” Varya began, “perhaps, if you find yourself thinking about any of the conversation you heard today—you know, about business—it is best to keep it to yourself. It is not particularly confidential, you see, but...Well, I would just hate to feel like I could not bring my business back here because I cannot trust you.”

An unpleasant little chill sprinted down his spine. He shifted on his feet, wetting his lips for a moment as he tried to figure out what it was he wanted to say; how many times could he swear up and down that nothing he heard today about guns or Kazakhstan to assure her that she wouldn’t have to worry about it? That he would literally rather put pencil shavings in his eyes than put the Sionis target on his back?

“Mark,” she said, “all you have to say is that you understand.”

“I do,” he blurted out quickly, “I do understand.”

She smiled brightly. “I knew you were a good boy. Have a lovely afternoon!”

Just like that, she swept out of the shop; he was finally alone. Mark slumped into his chair, passing a hand over his face for a moment—long enough for him to sit up, press his face into the palms of his hands, and say:

“I have to quit my job.”

[ginger-grimm]

Mitzy Hall Prologue

Ventured outside my comfort zone for the first time to write a prologue for my American Horror Story: Hotel plot bunny Mitzy. I hope you enjoy this.

TW: BLOOD, GORE, MURDER, MENTIONS OF SEXUAL ASSAULT

Mitzy Hall leaned down towards her baby girl, giving her a kiss on the forehead. “Be nice to grams, okay, sweetie?” she asked softly. She knew Ariel was too young to understand, but liked to talk to her as much as possible anyway. Ariel giggled, waving her little stuffed cat around. Mitzy smiled at her. She didn’t want to go out to her job. Not on Christmas Eve. She knew Ariel wouldn’t care but she did.

But Mitzy’s grandmother Violet was sick and she couldn’t rely on the state to help financiate their life. Someone had to pay the bills, so every night Mitzy would go out on the streets and do what she had to to ensure her family's survival. She grabbed her jacket from the chair and blew Ariel a kiss, smiling as she watched her daughter play with her toys. Mitzy took a peek into her grandmother's room.

If Violet knew what she was doing to bring more money in, she would probably beat the living shit out of her. She was already asleep, the lung cancer making her weaker by the day. Mitzy often tried to grapple with the thought of her grandmother being gone soon but until that happened she would enjoy every moment with her. She grabbed her purse and her keys and headed out the door.

----------

Mitzy closed her jacket tighter as she walked up to the doors of the Hotel Cortez. She had been walking the streets around the building for a couple of months at that point. The hotel was beautifully designed and built. The giant swinging doors alone made her feel even more poor than she already was. She wanted nothing more than just get the gig over with and get back home to Ariel and her grandmother, but these kinds of customers wanted her services for hours sometimes.

The young girl walked into the hotel. She had been walking around in stripper heels for hours and her feet were killing her. Part of her couldn’t wait to finally sit down. The hotel seemed even more grand on the inside. The architecture was beautiful and the lobby alone was decorated nicer than her house. She took a deep breath and walked up to the front desk. Mitzy didn’t know if the person behind it was trans or simply a cross-dresser, but they were dressed fabulously either way.

She gave them a hesitant smile. They gave her a bored look. “May I help you?”

“Yes, I am here to meet with someone. His name is Grant. Richard Grant,” Mitzy replied. She wanted to get it over with fast so she could get back home before Ariel woke up. “Could you give me his room number, please?”

She looked at the name tag sitting on the counter. Liz Taylor, it read. Liz sighed. “Let me check the guest book,” she said. Mitzy didn’t know if Liz was just perpetually annoyed or if she didn’t like her but the conversation was getting awkward and she just wanted it to be done. “Room 276. Try not to make too much of a mess.”

Mitzy’s mouth hung open. She didn’t know why Liz was being rude to her, but she didn’t like it. “Have I offended you somehow? Because I’m sorry if I did.”

Liz put a hand up to her heart. “Not at all, sweetheart,” she insisted. “But I’ve been seeing you walk the streets for the past couple of months. You’re too young to be doing that shit. You know that, right?”

Mitzy rolled her eyes. She had heard that more than once. And she knew it was true. “I’m aware. But the bills aren’t going to pay themselves now, aren’t they?”

“Whatever you say, darling.”

Mitzy scoffed, turning away from the counter. “Thanks for the information. Have a good night.”

“Wait!” Liz called out. Mitzy sighed but turned around to face her nonetheless. “Stay safe up there, alright? The guy seemed kind of sketchy. If you need help, just ring the front desk. Don’t say anything, just ring.”

Mitzy smiled at the woman. “Thank you. Will do,” she assured her. She walked away off to the elevator. She walked inside and pressed the button for the right floor. As the doors closed, Mitzy let out a sigh. Her heart was racing. She had never met a customer anywhere but in their cars. But he was paying extra and she needed the money. The closer she got to the floor, the more her heart started racing. Maybe she should listen to Liz and go. She was too young for this. Too stupid.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. She gulped and walked out into the hallway. The young blonde looked at her wrist watch. It was almost time to meet him and Mitzy wanted nothing more than to just run. She walked up to room 279 and knocked on the door. “Come in,” she heard a voice say. The voice sounded higher than she had expected. She opened the door and walked in, seeing a boy about her age sitting on the bed, waiting for her. “Hey,” he greeted shyly.

“Hey there,” she greeted with a fake smile and her overdramatic sultry voice. She had learned quickly to just please the men and get out. No what, if and but’s. “Nice to meet you,” she told him. Richard had been the one to call her, though his voice sounded deeper over the phone. Maybe he did that to hide his own insecurities. He was on the overweight side of the body spectrum and clearly seemed shy. He wouldn’t be the first of that kind that Mitzy had to work with. These were the kinds of guys who usually couldn’t get a woman in real life, so they got with hookers instead.

Richard got off the bed, straightening out his sweater. “You too. I didn’t know you would be so young.”

“You look pretty young yourself. Is this your first time with a professional?”

Richard chuckled nervously. "My first time in general."

Mitzy fought the urge to sigh. These were her least favorite customers. They expected too much and in the end they were always let down. Instead, she smiled sweetly and walked up to Richard. "Well, then let's make it one to remember."

Richard's breath hitched and Mitzy pushed down her feelings of disgust. She had been doing this job for almost a year but she had still not gotten over it. She had thanked the stars every day that she wasn't a virgin when she started out.

Mitzy put a hand up to his chest, having developed a routine to her job at this point. "You got the condom or do I need to get one?" she asked. Plenty of guys had demanded to go raw, citing that it felt better. But Mitzy wasn't an idiot. She wasn't looking to get pregnant again or catch something from the perverts on the streets.

Richard nodded. He seemed a little scrambled, nervous. Mitzy chalked it up to him being young and this being his first time. Lord knows she had had a full on panic attack after her first gig. "Sit down, I'll get it."

Mitzy nodded and Richard walked off into the bathroom. She sat down on the bed with a quiet sigh. "How old are you, anyway? If I may ask."

"Eighteen. How about you?" Richard asked back.

Mitzy halted for a second. Yeah he was her age but he could still be some kind of undercover worker here to bust here. She was starting to become nervous again. "Nineteen," she finally called out. It was a lie, but what did he care as long as he got his dick wet?

"You sure about that?"

Mitzy narrowed her eyes. Why did he care? Granted, she had asked first but that was more small talk to shake off her nerves. "Yeah."

"Mmmh," she heard him go. A confused expression crossed her face and she was starting to consider ringing the front desk. "Have you ever had these intrusive kinds of thoughts?"

"What?"

"You know, like, wanting to hurt someone in your family? Your friends? The neighbourhood cat."

Mitzy gulped. She would have chalked this up to him being socially awkward, playing a stupid prank on her. But she had heard stories of the hotel. It had housed plenty of killers over the years. Hell, the architect himself was an infamous serial killer. 

She slowly got off the bed, trying not to make a creaking sound. "I can't say that I have, sweetie. Why?"

"Well…" Richard trailed off. Mitzy wanted to break down and cry, but she could do that once she had gotten out of there. "I have been having these dreams. For years now. I killed a neighbours cat recently. It felt good."

Mitzy hurried towards the door. She needed to get out. Go back home. Stop doing this job forever. She would be nicer, like when she was a kid. Do better. Raise her little girl. Help her grandma get better somehow. She had her hand on the knob, ready to twist it, when Richard sprinted over and clasped his hand around her wrist, twisting it so hard it nearly broke.

Mitzy shrieked. "Where do you think you're going?" Richard asked. His voice sounded different. Scarier.

"Let me go, you psycho dick!" she demanded, trying to pull her wrist from his grip. She attempted to push him away but he was too big. "Please," Mitzy whimpered. She gasped as she felt a sting in her side. She looked down. He had stabbed her.

Her mind began to race. She just wanted out. She wanted to go. He pulled out the knife. There was blood. It gushed all over her corset, turning the white fabric red. She kicked Richard in the groin. He hunched over in pain.

"Help!"

She banged on the door - over and over again. "Somebody help me please!" she screamed, her voice sounding strangled. The door was locked. She hadn't even seen him do it. She sobbed, trying to get it open. Mitzy raced over to the phone. Just ring, Liz had said. "Just ring," she whispered frantically.

She picked up the phone, her fingers bloodying the rotator as attempted to ring the front desk. Her fingers slipped and before she could get back to it Richard grabbed her from behind, tossing her tiny body onto the bed like a rag doll.

He straddled her entire frame. Mitzy fought for air. "No, please," she begged. Richard grabbed both ends of the scarf around her neck, pulling it together tightly. Her hands immediately shot up as she struggled to breath. She sobbed, the strangled sound of them turning Richard on like never before. Mitzy scratched and scratched at him until she passed out.

When she awoke again she saw her underwear discarded in the corner of the room. Her corset had been ripped off. Her eyes fluttered as she attempted to suck in some precious air. Richard chuckled at the end of the bed. "In the movies they always make it seem like strangling would kill someone quickly."

Mitzy sobbed once more. Her whole body hurt. She just wanted out. Back to Ariel. Her attempt to sit up was quickly thwarted by Richard. He held her down by the throat. Mitzy was too spent to fight back. Richard pulled the knife out of his back pocket, dragging the stainless steel across her neck, down her chest and over her stomach. "I have always wanted to do this."

He raised the knife, Mitzy's eyes widened. He stabbed away at her stomach. Mitzy let out strangled cry after strangled cry. By the time Richard was satisfied Mitzy's whole body was covered in her blood. The entire bed was covered in her blood. Richard was covered in her blood. And yet, she was still alive. Her gurgled gasps for breath coming out in raggedy heaps as she struggled to hold on. Richard chuckled. He quite enjoyed her will to live. He grabbed the scarf again, strangling her into unconsciousness.

He would repeat that process for hours. Violating her, stabbing away at her tiny body, strangling her until she passed out. Eventually, she just didn't wake up again. When he was satisfied with his work, he cleaned off all the blood on him, grabbed his stuff and headed out.

----------

Liz Taylor had been working at the Hotel Cortez for quite some time now. She had seen many gruesome murders. But none of them quite as bloody and tragic as this one.

When Richard Grant came into the lobby and handed over his keys to the room, Liz had hoped that the young prostitute from down the street was simply washing the shame off her body before returning home.

But after half an hour she still hadn't returned and Liz had gotten worried. The guy had seemed sketchy from the start and Liz had wanted to keep the girl away from him from the beginning. When the older woman stepped into the room and saw the young girls body hanging off the bed she nearly threw up.

It was a nightmarish sight. Her intestines hung from her body. The entire room was covered in her blood. She had nearly been decapitated. Liz sighed. She would have to call the cops soon but had to take care of something else first. She turned around in the hallway, watching as a bloody Mitzy came stalking down the hall, crying out for someone named Ariel.

Liz closed the door to room 276. She walked up to the ghost of the young girl. She would have to disappear before the cops got to the hotel. She sighed, knowing she was in for a long night.

TAGGING: @hughstheforcelou​ @firsthorror​ @eddysocs​ @raith-way​ @foxesandmagic​ @reggiemantleholdmyhand-tle​

[mockingjayne12]

Take Me Home

(Jamie x Claire / Outlander Fic)

CHAPTER ONE:

Toes wiggle further underneath the blanket, chipped black varnish sinking her deeper into the darkness she sits in.  Pale freckles against even paler skin, hip bones jutting out through the sliver of space exposed in the stolen, oversized shirt she drowns in.  Half truths burn on her lips, screaming loudly in the settled wine at the bottom of her stomach.  Bound coffee stained words rest in her lap, speaking to a universal yearning for something she can’t utter but felt she’d grasped once before, fleetingly slipping through her gold ringed fingers.  Grown out, curly, dark fringe lays a veil over pools of blue, blearily leaving an image of what once was, the swirling memory of regret that continues to grow.

“You are my home,” she’d whispered to him, tears having threatened to mix with the beauty disguised as chaos, a breath away from ending them both.

For somewhere, once, she thought she had been truly seen, but found she was soon forgotten.

xxxxx

ONE YEAR EARLIER

Claire sets the plate back down, blowing her curly tendrils away from her forehead, an exasperated sigh escaping along with her patience with this day.

“What’s wrong this time?” She hears Rupert ask, bending to see her through the metal of soon to be waiting dishes, the heat lamp setting off a warmth that only leaves her feeling sweaty, her curls threatening to throw a tantrum along with the customers.

“They want the inside of the bread taken out…’too many calories’,” she says, momentarily ditching her English accent to put on her best impersonation of what she knew to be the typical toned voice that frequented the establishment, with a roll of her eyes, letting Rupert know she thought it was just as ridiculous as the raised eyebrows staring back at her.

She doesn’t miss his murmuring curse, and fights back a laugh - Rupert being one of the few friendly faces that has been around as long as she, working the trenches of customer service day in, day out.

Turning to wait for the remade food, she rests against the counter.  It’s a relatively slow day at the restaurant, the lunch crowd having subsided, only the few stragglers, straddling a meal at a time of day that made little sense, but allowing her more time to make a mental list of things she needed to do when she got off.  At the top of the list, stop and get cat food before Adso decided to lay claws to the walls in protest of his lack of sustenance.  

��I just had a guy tell me he wished I had more Daddy issues so I’d work at a strip club,” Claire’s coworker, Gillian, says with a flourish of her hands.

Claire makes a grimace, her face scrunching up in disgust.

“Not even the worst thing I’ve heard this week,” Gillian says with a shrug, blowing off the comment along with all the others that were meant to go in one ear and out the other, an endless cycle of demeaning words thrown at them, expected to be swallowed with a smile all in the name of “customer service.”

Claire traces the silver line indented on her hand, as the plate of remade food makes its appearance once more, ready to be served.

“Thanks, Rupert,” she tosses over her shoulder at the grisly man, Gillian staying behind, waiting for her.

“So are you doing the catering job tonight,” Gillian throws back at her, as Claire comes back to the cutlery station, meticulously folding forks and knives into linen napkins.

“I don’t think so,” she shrugs, blowing her fringe out of her face once more.  An errant curl refusing to submit to her frustration, dangling over her eyes, bouncing with the movement of her head.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Gillian hits Claire’s hip with her side, their heights significantly varied.   A raised brow and a quirk of her mouth suggesting there was no way that this party would be fun in the slightest.

“A bunch of rich, entitled people…” Claire starts, only to be interrupted.

“Eating out of the palms of our hands…literally,” Gillian says with a wink.

“I hope not literally,” Claire teases, sticking out her flat tongue.

“Think of the extra money…and you know, if you happen to meet a rich guy that can give you a good fuck,” she says a bit louder than intended, a customer looking up from their meal.

Claire shoots a knowing glance at her friend.  

Flashing a smile at the appalled woman, Gillian throws her head back.

“I’m gonna pay for that one,” she says with a shake of her head.  “See, now we have to pick it up, because I’m not getting a tip from that prude,” she gestures towards the woman.

“She’s your table, not mine,” Claire says with a smirk.  “I’m going to pass,” she says, putting the linen bundles into their bin.  “I’ve got a new book and I…don’t do actors,” she says with a huff.

“Come on, I’ll drive, it’ll be…”

“If you say, ‘fun’ I’m definitely not doing it,” Claire warns.

“Fine, it’ll be…monetarily beneficial,” she grins.

xxxxx

The flutes of champagne balance precariously on the serving tray Claire carries with her, her hands attempting not to shake enough that she send the gold liquid onto anyone, but as she scans the room of men who think they hold more power than they do, congratulating themselves on being masters of their craft,women lapping up the chance to be in their presence, she can’t help but picture a slip of the hand that’s not so accidental.

Glancing back, she sees the event coordinator motioning for her to smile, and she turns back, her eyes threatening to roll all the way back into her head.

It doesn’t matter, as long as you’re wearing this uniform, you’re invisible, Beauchamp.

The thought echoing a sentiment that had taken root in her for some time, yanking on a thread that could potentially unravel her ever so carefully constructed shield, whose protection she’d shrouded herself in before facing the day, for without it would leave her bare to the thoughts that would surely leave her with nothing but the ugly truth.

Her finger rubs at her hand, her eyes darting around at the extravagant decor of flowers and crystal jewels, only the biggest and best for, whoever this celebration was for.  Another Hollywood party that mattered very little, a host of people begging for the attention that would make a connection, garner them a return for the years of hustle they’d put in.  Exhausting.  The smiles on their faces were likely as fake as the one she now had plastered to her own face, looking more like a grimace than anything close to resembling happiness, as she offered up more alcohol to people that surely didn’t need anymore courage to make bad decisions.

“Whiskey on the rocks, sweetheart,” she hears behind her, turning around to find a balding man with a graying beard and a sinister grin on his face, suggesting he was a man who always got what he wanted, and as his eyes did a slow once over her, catching on the open button of her shirt,  she finds herself wanting to shrink into herself, her hand running over her palm, the bloom of panic tingling, before rising to her full height, which isn’t much shorter than this man, biting her tongue at the urge to tell him to go fuck himself.

“Right away,” she says with a grit of her teeth, quickly turning to head to the bar to grab the request.  Giving the bartender the order, the woman looks as irritated as the rest of them, but throws a knowing grin her way.

“Fucking Americans and their ice,” she mutters under her breath.

“Careful, Sassenach, they might hear ye,” the soft bur of an accent sends a jolt through her, causing her to hit the tray, sending the remaining few glasses of champagne everywhere.  The shattering of glass attracting the attention of the guests only briefly, a stray comment thrown out about clumsy help hitting its target, before they go back to ignoring her.

“Fuck,” she says under her breath.

Turning quickly, she fumbles to pick up the broken glass, a rise of red lighting her cheeks on fire, incensed with anger and frustration.

Reaching for a piece of glass, she sees the tray in question appear before her, an offering to gather the mess she’d created.  Looking up, she sees the man with the voice that had sent her reeling, a mop of curly red hair, looking like it had been attempted to be tamed, but had given up and decided instead to hang in perfect disarray.

“You don’t have to—“ she tries to get out, but he’s already gathered most of the remaining bits of glass onto the tray, peeking at her through his curls she sees a glimpse of blue that seem to pierce her, a flicker of something close to recognition passes through the sea like a wave, gone just as quickly, paired with a grin of understanding bristled in a stubble that begs to prick her finger and break the spell that seems to surround them.

“It’s the least I can do, seeing as it’s my fault,” he shrugs, the grin only growing wider, as he lifts his head, his bent stance has the kilt he’s wearing rucked up to where the muscles in his legs tease her, and she quickly averts her eyes, catching the raise of his eyebrows at having seemingly caught her glance.

“You’re right, it is your fault,” she says, straightening to a stand, and he peers up at her for a second, making her shift nervously from foot to foot before he stands, her eyes catching the glint of a scar contouring his cheekbone in the light.  An imperfection that grounds him in reality.  She moves to push her hair back from her face, having a hard time reconciling what she must look like next to this man.

She hears his gruff laugh, and swears it vibrates through her chest.

“I uhh, didn’t get you, did I?” She asks, her flustered mind only kicking itself at the excuse to roam over the expanse of his chest, slightly soaked, she immediately turns to grab a napkin on the bar, moving to blot his shirt, pressing gently on his chest, only having it dawn on her that she’s touching him when his hand comes to gently grab her wrist.  Her breath momentarily stilted, his fingers warm on her pulse - simultaneously skittering her heart to beat faster while leaving her with a sense of peace, like being held too close to the sun, a tranquil warmth threatening to burst her into flames, she pulls back on reflex, and he lets go, freeing her, instead of keeping hold.

“’Tis alright, Sassenach, a wee bit of spilled alcohol never hurt anyone,” the breath of his words washing over her, and she steps back with the napkin.  Her nose scrunching at the derogatory word he kept using like it was an endearment.  His smile rises at her blowing a stray curl out of her face.  “Especially when it’s champagne, “ he playfully grimaces, clearly not a fan of the bubbly.

“Too true,” she shrugs, turning to grab the whiskey she’d all but forgotten in her haste to completely drown this charming man in her work.  Her usual response to flee begins to rise in her - the calm she’d felt in his presence shifting, as the man whose whiskey she held approached the makeshift stage with a microphone.  “Ugh, here we go,” she rolls her eyes.

“Not a fan?” He asks, looking amused by her clear disdain.

“The only thing worse than actors are the people in charge of them,” she says, before catching the eye of Gillian, a curious smirk on her face, making her way towards Claire.  “Anyway, I hope I didn’t keep you from…whatever it is you’re doing here,” she looks down at his kilt again.  “Are you the entertainment?”

His eyes widen at the suggestion before biting back a laugh.  

“Something like that,” he says with what she swears is a twinkle in his eye.

“And now help me in introducing the reason we’re all here, actor James Fraser…”

The applause of the entire party seems to grow exponentially around her.  Glancing around, she tries to find where the man in question is hiding, until she feels the words whispered in her ear.

“At least I’m not the worst…”

The curly mop of red making his way towards the stage, shirt soaked, kilt  swaying with every step, and a smile that keeps glancing back at her.

Bloody Hell, Beauchamp.

[chisie12]

Gency Week Day 3: Daffodils/Chivalry + New Beginnings

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19071907/chapters/45384892

Day 3: It Must End Before Beginning

She then traced another scar before continuing in a softer voice. “I always get this feeling that I knew you because your face always gave me this sense of… familiarity, like I’ve seen it before.”

“And you’d definitely not find another face like mine,” I joked, seemingly feeling much lighter than I did in the last three weeks. I was elated. Just, absolutely positively elated! If she remembered loving me, that meant Angela shared the same feelings as I did before. Didn’t that mean I had a chance still? I could make her fall in love with me all over again and we could always start anew!

She returned my smile and settled my hand back onto the table before putting some distance between us. She wasn’t sure before but seeing those scars brought upon an ache deep in her heart she hadn’t known she could feel. Each and every line, no matter how faint or deep, they drew her in like a moth to a flame. Why though? She was just an ordinary cafe owner, but the young man before her had told her otherwise. Dr. Angela Ziegler, the head of medical research for an organisation long fallen — Overwatch — before then being recruited into the Investigation Bureau as head of medical staff. Everything sounded so surreal. Her? With medicine? God no. The most ‘healing’ she could do was bandaging a knife cut!

She fiddled with her fingers while letting out a sigh. Her eyes met his and she held her gaze, all traces of her tenderness gone in a blink. Yes, she remembered the wisps of the love her heart used to have, the familiarity, the mere comfort his presence held, but —

That was not her. Not anymore.

Other than the gut of a feeling, she had nothing else to go by. No memories or even the slightest form of recollection. Nothing. The best part was that she felt nothing, nothing for him at all.

“Look, Genji. I don’t want us to have a misunderstanding and I feel like I need to get this straight.” Taking another deep breath, she took a step back but that small increase of distance pulled my heartstrings taut. A bad premonition washed over me and I met her steady gaze. Even her customer service smile faded away. “I may remember loving you, but that’s clearly in the past. Right now, I don’t really know you well and I don’t feel the same.”

“B-But…”

‘Then why your tenderness? Why treat me so well? Why —’

My thoughts were interrupted when the door to the cafe opened. I opened my mouth to say something but Angela had instantly plastered on her customer service smile and greeted the newcomer, my presence seemingly vanishing into nothing. I watched in anguish, choking on air, as I vividly saw her eyes suddenly brightened and a beaming smile — bigger than any she ever gave him — upon realising who it was.

“Jacky! Jack!” she giggled and quickly circled the table to bound up before him. “My knight! Hehe.”

Jack chuckled at the bundle of joy rocking back and forth on her heels as his attention immediately focused onto her. He patted her cheek affectionately in case he soiled her spectacles with his fingerprints. “I told you not to call me that.”

“No way, sir. I can’t follow your orders,” she teased. With a grin, she led him to his usual table by the window and helplessly, he followed, knowing full well that she’d continue in her stubborn ways. Dusk was beginning to fall and it was already after work hours. People were making their way home or for dinner, to brave the traffic or wait it out, or people like him, visiting a cafe that was out of their way just to see someone.

Angela scanned the blond man, taking notice of the fine lines evident on his face and shadows beneath his eyes. Fatigue was clear from his slumped shoulders and slight scowl of his eyebrows. “Rough day at work?”

“Not really. It’s confidential but just,” Jack sighed. “We’ve just been trying to catch this guy but he’s too slippery and smart. We’ve already caught his right hand man but it seems like he’s willing to sacrifice a few key men to save his own hide.”

“Sounds difficult,” Angela tenderly rubbed the space between his eyebrows with her thumb. A small ministration, not in any way explicitly loving, but she was tender, soft and gentle as she cared. “But don’t think too much about it now. I’m sure you’ll catch him. Do you want your usual?”

“Yes, please Angie.” Jack smiled softly at her, the adoration so clear in his gaze. When she came back, she had in her hands a cup filled with soft green tea and a plate of food. “Mushroom, steak and cheese?” He asked upon seeing the pie.

“Yeap, saved the last one for you.”

“You’re an angel.”

“I know I am. Enjoy,” she sang.

He picked up his cup of Antibiotica and took a bite of his food as she left to tend to a few customers that were entering. The moment she left, his attention was solely on the food and drink at his mercy. He was famished, having to work more ever since Angela’s ‘resignation’, but as he ate, he felt the piercing stare boring holes into his skin. The hairs on his neck bristled, as if rebelling against being put under such pressure. With a sharp gaze and an alert mind, he lifted his head at the direction, only to have it fall away into shock and panic. Why was he here?

'No one was supposed to know. At least not yet.’

However, thanks to the years of war-hardened experience, as fast as the panic came, it left just as quick. Calm and steady like a rock in the river. He gave the other man a little wave and that was when the man stood up, the chair scraping against the floorboards suddenly exceptionally loud and clear, and made his way over.

I pursed my lips and fisted the ends of my scarf. I saw the way she looked at him, the way she tender lovingly cared for him, and it wasn’t hard for my enhanced senses to pick up the scent of the exact blend of Antibiotica in his cup. I stared and stared, but I wasn’t dreaming. That was definitely him; The same typical American blond man with blue eyes upon that chiselled face, muscular and tall, and a charm to his smile. It was a face I couldn’t forget and one I couldn’t be more familiar with as well. I inhaled. Deep breath in… before letting it all out through my nose. Yet, the flames didn’t calm. Instead, they were blazing in a level headed manner, like a calm ocean before the storm hit, and underneath the surface were gremlins fanning the fury, the confusion, the uncertainty. There was a myriad of questions buzzing in my mind, the next not more pleasant than the one before, but all of them revolved around one thing —

“How long have you known, commander?” I spat through gritted teeth when I stood right before his very eyes.

“Good evening to you too, Genji.” Commander Jack Morrison picked up his cup, lifted his chin and calmly sipped at his green tea. The smell of it caught my attention, a blend of leaves that’s become extremely familiar in the past three weeks before it was pulled away by his displeased tone. Crossing his legs and pursing his lips, he flatly replied, “That question of yours implies that I kept a secret from you. Although I disagree, I also possess no obligations to inform you of the affairs of my life.”

“But you knew!!” I growled with eyes narrowed. “YOU KNEW!”

Jack merely side eyed me after I slammed my hands on the table, ignoring the stares of the other customers and workers.

The stench of the green tea began to smell nauseating. The warm, calming aroma now wretched, and my anger reached a whole new peak just watching, watching him sip, sip without a care at his tea. My growls deepened and my fingers dup deep into the wood. “You fucking knew she was here! Why didn’t you tell us!”

Jack remained unfazed at my outburst, but it was that emotionless, unaffected expression that fuelled the fury that boiled in the pit of my stomach to overflow.

A hand shot out to grab Jack’s collar but the blond man sat there still unimpressed, but his muscles were tensed and his body slumped in a deceptively relaxed manner. His nonchalant expression further fuelled my fury, the rage stirring at the cyborg in me. Signals were blaring, metals overheating — not from overwork, no. It was from the sheer, utter control of not ripping his fucking American head off!

'Fuck his 'no obligations of not telling us’! Isn’t it fucking courtesy to inform? We’ve gone through bloodshed together! Wars together! Weren’t we a family? Or don’t you think her old teammates would have liked to know!? I fucking would!!’

“Genji!” A scream. “What are you doing!”

Just inches from Jack’s collar, a dainty hand latched onto my arm and I jerked to a stop midway. Her fair flesh, tinged with a slight pink, was a clear contrast to my cyborg one. My heart thumped as her fingers tightened their grip. She roughly pulled my arm down to the side and I let her without even a shred of resistance while my gaze was fixated on her hand. It was so small, the slender fingers barely gripping across my arm. As it tightened, nail digging into the metal, I felt the warm heat of her blood and I painfully craned my head up, only to flinch at the fire in her eyes, as if I’d accidentally touched a boiling pot. My shoulders fell, the energy sapping out of my body and into hers.

My eyes dropped, falling from her eyes and back to her hand. Of course, she’d protect Jack. Of course, I’m the bad guy. I’m no longer the same Genji in her heart — or in her memories.

“Just what were you doing!” Mercy seethed under her breath. “You can’t —”

“Of course I can’t!” I cut her off with a snap. This time she flinched back at the tone and I froze. Just what had I done? Yet, steeling myself, I summoned the remaining ounce of my anger, my courage, and continued. “Of course you’d be protective over your knight in shining armor. Isn’t he just the greatest?“ Yes, I definitely heard and remembered what she called him. My knight. Just great. Of course, every woman would want their knight in shining armor. No one loved those in the darkness, where we crept and hid, doing the dirty work for those in the light. And I regretted the words only a long time after. "The perfect American poster boy. Perfect for you.” Not like me. A cybernetic monster.

But I couldn’t hate her, even if she did create me into this monstrosity that I am — something that no one will ever love. Did they think I wouldn’t have noticed? The subtle mutterings under their breaths, the isolation, the fear? No one in the bureau liked me, with the exception of those from Overwatch. Even so, I’m still grateful; She still gave me another lease in life.

Her mouth hung open in shock before it twisted into an ugly scowl — yet why did it look beautiful to me still? Please, heart. Stop aching.

I watched silently, face set in stone. She was like a charging defibrillator, the pads held ready at bay, just biding its energy as sparks went off around her. But I’d let it hit me. Let it come before ending this. No need for anything more.

“You —”

Another hand, a larger and more calloused one gently draped over hers before prying her fingers away, slowly as though the glass would break. “Let me.” A deep, husky breath, and it sent shivers down my spine.

I’ve never seen the commander like this before. Soft and gentle, with the same tenderness that I knew all too well.

I used to look at her like that — I still do.

As the warmth of her fingers disappeared, I recomposed myself and faced Jack with a straight back, and spoke before he did. The air was becoming heavy, suffocating even. I breathed in a sharp inhale, the pressure curling around my heart but the smell of the green tea assaulted my senses, forcing me to choke and wheeze as the acid shot up my throat. I couldn’t. This was becoming way too much for me. Angela’s glare was sharp, like a dagger pierced through my heart and her dissatisfied scoff made the dagger dig in deeper with a good old wiggle too. An invisible force closed in, squeezing the organ further as it ached and bled.

I already hurt her. I don’t deserve her. And I can’t bear to be here anymore.

“I apologise for any offense earlier, commander. Have a nice meal. I’ll be taking my leave now.”

And thus, I turned on my heel without a single glance back. I seemed fine, that’s for sure. But my fingers shook, lips quivered and I felt a warmth in my eyes that I haven’t felt in years. Tugging the scarf higher, I took to the roofs with just the softest whimper and disappeared into the night, wishing so much: I could disappear forever.

Jack stared at the door swinging close, an indescribable feeling arising.

“Jack?”

He reigned in his feelings and smiled at a worried Angela. He patted the hand on his arm. “I’m fine. Are you alright?”

She shook her head. “I should be asking you that. That was quite rude of him.”

“Think nothing of it.” Jack seated himself again and this time, she followed. “Does he come here often?”

With a nod of her head, she began to explain, “He normally comes in the morning when I first open the cafe. Sometimes he’ll be here with his two other friends, a Lena and Jesse?”

“Jesse like a cowboy looking man?” Jack warily smiled.

“Mhmm. That’s him.” Angela sighed and stared at the half eaten pie. “Wait. Are they your colleagues? Genji called you ‘commander’.”

He could only resign himself to fate and nod. “Let’s not talk about that anymore. I’m more worried about you. How are you holding up in the cafe?”

At the mention of her cafe, her worry transformed into joy, oblivious to the quick change in topics. Her eyes twinkled and she was beaming. “It’s going great! It doesn’t get too busy sometimes but I love it! I was planning to have daffodils for the next theme next week since it would be four months since the cafe was opened. “New Beginnings”. Fitting wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, it would be.” Just as the words left his mouth, he couldn’t help but think, ‘Four months already? Had the time pass that fast?’

“I really don’t know what I’d do without you,” Angela continued. “I don’t remember much in my life since I woke up from the hospital but you’ve always been there for me. Thank you.”

A stifling sensation gripped at him when he forced out a smile. “You’re welcome. I was just lucky that I was there when I saw you unconscious and bleeding on the floor of your apartment.”

“Yeah, that was lucky. Must have been fate or something,” she pondered. He watched lovingly as her eyes looked up in thought and her head cocked to the side with a pout on her lips.

‘It wasn’t fate, Angie.’ He thought solemnly. ‘It really wasn’t.’

“But now you’ve helped me start this cafe! And it’s a dream come true. How’d you know I would have loved this?”

As she turned her head to him, he bitterly laughed in his heart. ‘I sure knew indeed. Way back when you were head of medical research, you mentioned you’d open one when you retire from the battlefield and healing.’

“Oh, I’m not sure. A lucky guess?”

“You sure are lucky, Jacky.” She didn’t pursue further into the topic and leaned back onto the chair. “It was a good new beginning for me. Thank you.”

“And you’re welcome.” Jack smiled and finally resumed his meal. “How’s Mei coming along? She working well?”

“Yeah, she is! She makes really good iced drinks, and her bubble tea is to die for! I personally love the passion fruit black tea one. Just amazing.”

“She’s earning money for her expedition right?” Jack swallowed a mouthful of pie but his eyes never left hers more than a second.

“To the Arctic I think.”

Jack hummed a little under his breath. It was good for her to have reliable colleagues to work with. There were few customers that were arriving at the cafe on a Friday night, with only a few university students appearing for an evening snack, though they were mostly eager for Mei’s bubble tea. Jack and Angela laughed as they chatted, a nice little bubble for themselves as she took her break.

“Mei, could I please have your daily special today?” A young university student asked sweetly.

The cheerful woman behind the counter laughed. “Of course! Anything for you!”

As Mei turned around to begin her magic, the door to the cafe slammed open with a loud bang as it hit the connecting wall and a loud, boisterous voice cried out, “What about me, snowflake!?” She stared at the doors, a furrow in her brows while her rounded tassel tinkled in her hair. She was not in the slightest bit surprised at the chaotic man before her. “Where’s my bobba!”

A resigned sigh escaped, but a smile played off her upturned lips. “You want some? Get in line.”

“But snowflaaaaaake, I travelled so far to come see you.” The man ambled to stand before her and the university student scooted away, a slight fear in her eyes. Mei looked up at him as she fought to keep her mind straight. He was tall, just standing there with that toothy grin, so sure that she’d give in.

She ignored the cheeky glint in his amber eyes with a roll of hers. “Go line up. I’ll make you your favourite if you do.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You can drink Angela’s coffee.”

“Noooooo,” he whined, but seeing as how Mei wouldn’t budge, he pouted and took a huge step back, the metallic stump thumping against the floorboard. “Fine. I’ll wait.”

Mei chuckled at his sinister little laugh as he rubbed his hands together before telling the student, “I’m sorry for making you wait. Your bubble tea will be ready soon.”

Jack stared at the man that just came in with a frown. ‘I know that man… but where?’ The man had blonde hair that was slightly singed and his hands were stuffed into the ragged cutoff shorts. The black tank top hung loosely on his lean body and he tapped his foot albeit impatiently. He clenched and unclenched his hands, one of flesh and one of metal.

Feeling a heavy stare on his back, Jamison Fawkes, or better known as Junkrat, tilted his head back with an arrogant scowl. Upon seeing a familiar face in the room sitting next to a pretty blonde lady, he grinned toothily at the agent. “Hello there, commander. What’cha doing nowadays? Definitely not catching me! Wahahaha!”

The voice snapped Jack out of his thoughts as it finally clicked. “You!” He stood up from his chair. “Aren’t you in prison?”

Junkrat giggled evilly and showed him two fingers held out as a ‘V’. “I’m out, mate! Have been for a week now! It’s a new beginning for me!” Jack gritted his teeth as he watched Junkrat wiggled his hips and mockingly grin. “Can’t do nothing about, mate! I ain’t doing anything wrong. Hehehe.”

“Behave yourself, Jamie. Or you’re still having that coffee,” berated Mei from behind the counter as she handed the student her drink.

“No —” Noticing that he’s next in line, Junkrat immediately hopped to stand innocently before the counter with a grin, the words of refusal swallowed back down. “I’m sorry. I’ll behave. Do I get my drink now, snowflake?”

Mei glanced at Jack whose face was as black as the pot’s bottom. She knew that there was nothing the commander could do because technically, an ex-convict buying bubble tea wasn’t really a crime.

“Snowflaaaake,” Junkrat whined. “Baby, my bobba.”

She turned her attention back to him with a serious look, but her eyes danced with mirth just hearing him say 'bobba’. He hasn’t stopped with that ever since she taught him that. “Get your ass thrown back in jail and no more bobba for you.”

“Nope!” He straightened himself like an upright man. “Definitely not! The juice they served in prison were gross. So fake. Blergh. Don’t ever want to drink that again.” As Mei served his iced passion fruit black tea, he leaned in close across the counter and winked. “And if I went to prison again, how am I supposed to see my good, sweet little snowflake?”

Mei scrunched up her nose. “Hmph. All you ever do is bully me.”

“Ya sure ‘bout that, snowflake?” his eyes curved like crescent moons as he grinned.

"Yes, now shoo. Go back to your Roadie. I got customers to attend to.”

Mei waved her hands at him as another customer arrived. Junkrat could only walk towards the door with the straw in his mouth and call out, “Roadhog! Come in ‘ere. There’s plenty of space by the windows.”

Jack Morrison watched on agitated. Angela’s gaze shifted from him and to Junkrat who was now accompanied by a tall, large man before sighing and returning back to work. “Go take a break, Mei. I’ll take over.”

“Alright, Angela!” Mei chirped before joining Junkrat and Roadhog.

The old commander watched the happenings in the cafe, swept his tired gaze around the cafe, before finally staring at the heliotropes sitting before him. Soft purple petals swayed with the breeze while its roots stayed firm in the potted soil.

‘New beginnings, eh?’

He reached out to caress a petal, the velvety sensation somehow calming on him worked up nerves. His other hand reached out to pick up the cup of unfinished green tea by the side and brought it to his lips.

Crack.

He froze at the sound, the miniscule crevices clear beneath his fingertips. Lifting it higher to level with his eyes, he frowned at the crack lining the side of the cup, from the rim down to half the cup’s length, but the liquid stayed inside. For now.

‘That. Is not a good sign.’

[cyberbullyingessay957]

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[vivaciousyellow]

re: furiously happy, but replace happy with --

“anxious and wanting to, but consistently failing to actually, puke so now it’s just a family of gremlins playing that really intense korean version of dodgeball in my stomach but like there’s a family feud they’re subconsciously trying to resolve by invoking amity through the sense of nostalgia this childhood game inspires and so everyone’s simultaneously passive-aggressive and aggressive-aggressive, weaponising words into insults and rubber balls (heh) into, well, harder balls (heh) armed with the force of momentum and you know what, it’s just a lot to deal with”

dear victoria,

i have something to confess.

there’s been this small emotional, mental, psychic parasyte that’s been steadily and persistently gnawing at me, but at a pace where i can maintain the integrity of the the rest of my body whilst this thing resides in the shadows, sustained by my weakness, guilt, anxiety.

i feel like prometheus!!!!

not sure i’m doing making the best metaphorical argument here.

i’ll start from the beginning.

early last month, this solicitor from softbank, an atm/verizon/internet service provider type, rang my doorbell. i readily opened the door. i don’t know why. i could have easily just not. my guard’s been let down, living here. that healthy bit of Chicago suburbia paranoia has basically vanished.

mostly.

i mean i still look behind my shoulders for ghostly nightmares, but otherwise, real live human beings don’t seem so scary anymore. everyone’s so kind and patient and understanding to this stupid gaijin. just that, any idea of any sort of interaction between me and them makes me shit my pants sometimes all the time. the sentence structure thereof suggesting that perhaps i am not a real live human being. has the imposter syndrome gotten that bad?

but anyway, so like. i opened the door. short paragraphs of japanese landed superb uppercuts into my soft winter belly. something about my current internet service. something about slower internet speed. something about me nodding yes in puzzled agreement because i seek to be constantly agreeable, relatable, and “no” is a syllable my tongue gets stuck on. something about can i come in? i said yes again? something like he thought he should ask, me being a single lady living alone. i do remember specifically using my pshhh-nawwww-u-gud-bruh laugh in response.

he had such an amiable, jaunty air about him. what a damn good salesman. or am i just that weak against any little bit of nice, smiley one-on-one communication?

fuck.

i’m pretty sure i mildly disassociated as he was talking. he was explaining how softbank was better, and how the transition between jcom and softbank would be seamless. he even asked if i would like him to call jcom on my behalf to tell them i was switching services.

wait you know what. i think it was only around this time when i realised he was a salesman. the original narrative i had, i guess, just immediately imagined was that jcom was getting absorbed into softbank and he was here to tell me about the company-wide Big Change that had just happened and that softbank was now just taking inventory of jcom customers.

am i just that slow creative and imaginative?

but, at this point, i felt like i had already ventured so deep into this interaction that i couldn’t get out. more so, i was so overwhelmed by the torrent of chumminess he was directing at me. like his affability was a weapon. wait, actually, combining the former water-inspired metaphor with the latter simile, i was like an evil witch of the east meeting her demise at the hands of a young japanese male dorothy, who was splashing lethal niceness onto my defenseless body.

i had completely written myself off as having become the newest victim to this brilliant corporate strategy of exposing mostly socially anxious, always afraid, and recently depressed potential customers to friendly, conversational, energetic salesmen. suddenly i was calling their regional hq or something to confirm my personal information. and then suddenly i was saving his number into my phone. all the while, making light conversation about my unusual, very not legit phone number (another headache), my early bird sleeping patterns, his opposite night owl lifestyle. to make the - unprompted! (really putting myself out there you know) - explanation for said early-bird-ness, i made the bold assertion in embarrassingly broken japanese that i ran every morning. he left with the promise of calling me again to set up more details.

after he left, i immediately panicked.

first, wowowowoowowowow i sustained a prolonged conversation in japanese! in which i spoke about 5% of the time. but still! he asked me questions and i answered! audibly! and we laughed over the realisation that i probably had a lot i didn’t understand. but he understood that i didn’t understand and even said aloud for me what i was thinking -- is it that feeling of ‘you don’t even know what you don’t know?’

eye contact.

mutual wry chuckle.

second, in replaying the interaction a dozen times in five seconds, i began to panic specifically about needing to run everyday now to make up for this oral contract i made to him that i have been and will continue to run. wow, i should do that too, so healthy!

then, it finally hit me what just happened, as i stared at the copy of the contract he gave me. the absurdity of it all, including my reaction, is still hitting me.

i could have just said no.

or just give one of those small, apologetic smiles while shaking my head “no” and closing the door.

or just not answer the door in the first place.

instead, it’s been a month. he’s called five times personally. they’ve called four times from the company phone. softbank has stuffed my mailbox three times with thick letters labelled “important.” someone came personally to my door this past saturday morning. and he came personally again tonight. and i’m sad this didn’t perfectly follow a neat 5-4-3-2-1 pattern.

in return, i’ve let the phone go to my non-existent voicemail seven times. i’ve outright rejected two of those calls. i’ve had three anxiety attacks. and of course, i now never answer the door.

there’s this incredible guilt. you know, cuz he was so nice! he spent so much time and energy coming to my door, explaining things to me. and i gave him a false hope, an empty promise. i played him, going so far as to demonstrate how i successfully saved his phone number. then it was resentment at how unreceptive they were being to my diligent, patient, faithful, very clearly very rude ghosting. i’ve very quickly made this very small circle back to guilt.

hm hold on.

if there are only two points, can it even be called a circle? 

but circles don’t even have points so.

#thirdgradegeometry:)))))))))))))))))))

i’ve been only just barely surviving the cringe attacks from flashbacks of all the interactions i have with classmates and professors at school. each conversation, however brief, protracted, intimate, and/or engaged indiscriminately torments me like a schoolyard bully who comes in an inclusive variety of shapes and sizes whose lunch money equivalent is emotional labour. for myself.

and i’ve been really trying to snap myself out of my march-april depressive funk. and i really feel like i’ve been mentally doing that butt wriggle you do at the start line of a track meet when you’re readying yourself to make that dash into productivity, positivity, and...pretty good vibes? (i’m a serf in the great fiefdom of literary devices that is alliteration). i downloaded furiously happy by jenny lawson. because i’m so in love with the idea of overcoming those emotional pitfalls if not just out of sheer spite - and also with her authorial voice. it’s hilarious. and i’m halfway through! but while i’m trying so hard to pretend, each time i fail to assert myself to softbank and finally let them go, becomes an unfixable dent in my “pretend you’re okay!” facade. and i don’t know how to be okay with that.

and so, i don’t know how to even begin imagining me answering their calls without hyperventilating.

but he was literally waiting outside my apartment complex today so i’m not sure if i’m ever gonna leave my room again. if my professors ask, i’ll just chalk it up to 2 kool 4 skool. just another arrogant american with questionable work ethic?

i’m thinking i’ll write a card rejecting their advances. and then if i see a softbank salesmen, i’ll chuck the letter at them and run in the other direction.

and i’ll even end it with

much love,

ying

[thebarsondaily]

A Barson Valentine's Day by A Magical Shipper

Title: A Barson Valentine’s Day Author: @amagicalshipper Rated: T Prompt: Tease Summary: Barba struggles to create the perfect first Valentine’s Day for he and Liv. A/N: Written for the Barson Valentine’s Day Fic a Thon on Tumblr. This can be read with my other Barson holiday stories or as a standalone.

Rafael Barba was a very confident man, nobody ever doubted this. There was very little he could not accomplish when he set his mind to it. Nerves were not something he was use to experiencing either in court or in his personal life. However when it came to his relationship with Olivia things were different. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust what was between them he just wanted to make sure he was doing things the right way. It had only been about six weeks since New Year’s Eve when they had been snowed in together by that blizzard and finally admitted how they felt about each other. Now here they were at the next holiday one that carried so many implications, one that he was determined not screw up, Valentine’s Day.

He really wanted to show her a special night, the problem was that he had kind of forgotten about Valentine’s Day. They has been in the middle of a trial that had just wrapped yesterday. They had all been at their usual place celebrating the conviction when Finn smiled at him and made his comment.

“So I guess you and Liv will have a pretty good Valentine’s Day now, right, Counselor?”

Barba felt panic start to set in he was grateful that Liv had stepped out to call and check on Noah, of course he was surrounded by a bunch of cops and they did not miss the change in his demeanor. Rollins was the first to take a jab at him.

“You forgot Valentine’s Day didn’t you!” She said with a laugh.

“It’s not that I forgot it so much as I am just not exactly sure what day today is.” He admitted sheepishly

The squad stared at him in disbelief, “It’s February 13th, and Valentine’s Day is tomorrow.” Finn told him dryly.

“You better get to work, I’ve had Amanda and mine’s plans for weeks now,”  Carisi bragged earning him an eye roll from everyone.

“Plans for what?” Olivia asked as she rejoined the group.

“Valentine’s Day.” Carisi answered all too happily.

“And I was telling them that the plans I have are a secret.” Barba recovered quickly, drawing muffled laughter from the others.

“Oh is that so? Well, tease all you want but I have pretty high expectations.” She told him with a wink before giving him a quick kiss. “I’ve got to run, Noah’s not feeling well, see you all tomorrow.”

“I can come too” Barba offered quickly partially because he wanted to escape the endless teasing of her team.

“No, stay finish your drink. I’m just going to go home and get him settled.” She said shaking his head.

“Ok, I will call you later.” He have her another quick kiss ignoring the groans around them.

Everyone waited until Olivia had left the bar before the teasing began.

“Nice save counselor.” Rollins started

“Yeah, but now he has to deliver.” Finn added.

“Good luck on that with on such short notice.” Carisi laughed.

Determination over took Barba, “I promise you Liv will have a Valentine’s that she will never forget.” He said before throwing down enough cash to cover everyone’s drinks and heading out on his way to save Valentine’s Day.

He quickly found himself in a department store among all the other last minute boyfriends and husbands. He scoured the store moving from department to department trying to decide on the perfect gift. The giant stuffed animals were not Olivia’s style but he did pick one up for Noah a giant dinosaur with a bow around it along with a picture book about dinosaurs which were his latest obsession. Dragging the dinosaur along he moved to the jewelry department but wondered if it was too soon in their relationship for jewelry. He saw several men browsing the lingerie department but didn’t think this was the time for that either. He was about to give up when a sales lady approached him.

“Can I help you Sir?” She asked him.

“I’m trying to decide what to get my girlfriend for Valentine’s Day?” He admitted

“I see, first one?” She asked

Barba looked at her in confusion, “No, I’ve had other girlfriends.”

The sales lady laughed, “No, I meant your first Valentine’s Day together.”

Barba blushed slightly with embarrassment, “Yes, sorry.”

She smiled, “And let me guess you started dating after Christmas?”

Barba nodded again, “New Years, we got snowed in together, but we have worked together and been good friends for several years. “

The woman smiled at him again, “Come with me I think I can help.”

She lead him to a section of the store that he had somehow missed it was almost a separate room, it had big pink hearts and a sign that said, “Cupid’s Workshop”.

“We use it for Santa at Christmas time but we also help people put together the perfect Valentine’s Day gifts. Fill out this questionnaire about your girlfriend, take a number and cupid will call you when it’s your turn.” She explained handing him a clipboard.

Barba was a bit unsure but decided at this point he had nothing to lose at this point. He read through the questions realizing he did not know the answers to several. Dress size? Bra size? Underwear size? He had no clue, Olivia’s body was absolutely perfect whatever size she wore. He was about to get up and leave when “cupid” called his number.

He hesitantly made his way to the table where another bight, perky young sales woman was waiting to help him. He nervously handed her the questionnaire and told her some more about Olivia. She nodded happily and said she had the perfect idea, one of their custom gift baskets. She helped him around the store selecting items, body wash and one of those mesh things he had seen Olivia keep in the shower, a bath pillow, some new pajamas that would be nice but not something that would be overly suggestive. The woman suggested a nice bottle of wine and a pair of glasses to go with it. Barba new he couldn’t go wrong with wine.

“Now how about jewelry?” the woman asked.

“Is it too soon?” Barba asked.

“No, not for some earrings or a nice watch maybe?” She suggested.

Barba nodded as they made their way to the jewelry counter and they selected a new watch for Olivia. When the returned to the workshop Barba realized that cupids did not work from the generosity of their heart.

“All right Mr. Barba that will be $700 plus delivery.” She told him with a peppy smile.

“$700 this is some kind of extortion you are pulling on boyfriends and husbands that are helpless.” He practically yelled.

“You should have read your question are carefully Mr. Barba.” She said pointing to the bottom where he had signed agreeing to pay fifty dollars an hour and an extra twenty percent on all items to pay for cupid’s services.

Barba rolled his eyes wondering how he had be outmaneuvered by a department store. He handed her his American Express along with the dinosaur and book he had been dragging around for Noah. He glanced at the rows of baskets behind the counter and wondered just how many other men had been swindled today.

Barba called Olivia first thing the next morning, “Happy Valentine’s Day Mi Amor.”

“Good morning and Happy Valentine’s Day to you, I missed you last night.” She told him as they spent more nights together than apart.

“I missed you too, how is Noah feeling?” He asked.

“He’s still coughing a lot and has a bit of a fever, I’m going to stay home with him today. I’m sorry but I guess whatever you planned is going to have to take a raincheck.”

Barba sighed with a bit of relief since after the gift buying experience he had forgotten to make any actual plans.

“No problem, how about I just pick up dinner and bring it over?” He offered

“That would be nice, thank you for understanding.”

“Oh, also you should be getting a delivery today something for you and Noah, hopefully you can enjoy it later. “ He told her thinking that after caring for a sick child all day a nice bath, fresh pajamas, and wine would probably be nice.

“No other clues, Counselor you are such a tease.” She laughed.

“I’ll see you tonight Liv, I love you.” He laughed.

“I love you too, Raf.”

Several hours later Liv had just gotten Noah down for a nap when she heard the buzz from the outside of the building.

“Delivery for Lieutenant Benson” the voice came through her speaker and she let them up. She smiled when she opened the door and was greeted with giant dinosaur. She took it and the book from the delivery guy and pointed to the table where he could place the basket he was also trying to carry it. As soon as he left she hurried over to it to see what Barba had sent her. He mouth fell opened as she looked over the contents. Was this really what he sent her for Valentine’s Day? It wasn’t really their style, but maybe they could give it a try. As promised Barba brought dinner from their favorite Italian place and her favorite bottle of wine. Noah, still not feeling well had gone to bed early and they had enjoyed dinner to themselves.

“Hey, I see Noah got his dinosaur and book, did you like your basket?” He asked her as they were finishing dinner.

“I did, I was really surprised by it.” She said honestly.

Barba smiled proudly, “Well let me clean up this and you go enjoy some of it.” He said before giving her a long kiss, which Olivia read as more suggestive than he meant.

Oliva slipped back into the bedroom examining the contents of the basket as she laid them on the bed. The lingerie, if that’s what you called it was all black, there was a blindfold, handcuffs and other “accessories”. She took off her clothes and had just slipped on the “outfit” when she heard Barba coming into the room and instinctively she threw her bathrobe over it.

“Hey, you doing all right? Do you need anything?” He asked wondering why he hadn’t heard her running a bath yet.

“Yes, I was just getting ready, some of this is new for me.” She said hesitantly.

Barba looked at her in confusion, “Liv, its bath wash, pajamas, and wine.”

It was now Olivia’s turn to be confused and she slowly stepped away from the bed revealing the “accessories”, watching the red creep over Barba’s face feeling some relief that a mistake must have been made.

“Liv, I didn’t send this I promise, I wouldn’t, well not that I wouldn’t want to but I wouldn’t assume or pressure you, or…” He stammered

Olivia smiled and crossed the room to him placing a kiss on his lips, “I trust you.”

Barba breathed a sigh of relief as he quickly pulled out his phone, “I’m calling that cupid right now!”

“Cupid?” She questioned.

A sheepish look came over Barba as he sat down on the edge of the bed a confessed the whole story, how he had forgotten what day it was because of the trial, how the squad had teased him and he felt the pressure to make Valentine’s Day perfect. He then told her about the department store and how he had been entrapped by the Cupid Department. By the time he was finished Olivia had tears running down her face from laughing.

“Barba, until you said something in the bar yesterday I had forgotten what day it was too.” She admitted.

Barba looked at her in disbelief, “You couldn’t have just told me that?”

“And ruin your perfect plans?” She teased to which he rolled his eyes. Then she smiled a somewhat wicked smile at him, “Well we do have all these things now and it would probably be a shame to let them just sit here.”

Barba’s eyes grew big as he suddenly wondered what was under her robe he reached across the bed pulling her closer and undoing the belt of the robe. His eyes and other things growing at the same time when he saw what was beneath it.

“You better not be teasing now.” He said pulling her onto his lap letting her robe fall to the floor. She answered by kissing him until they fell back against her bed ensuing they both had a Valentine’s Day they would remember.

The End

[feathersforthesoul]

In less than two years, I traveled to 9 different airports, and boarded a plane 20 times. Every airport and country was unique of course, from the glamor of the Charles de Gaulle to the organized chaos of Najaf. Every experience has been so different. But the last trip I made back home was the worst. Can you imagine a day lasting 30 hours? Because that’s how long that day was for me.

It started off first when I had to say my good-byes to my husband before my parents and I departed. Every day leading up to the last, we couldn’t imagine the moment that we had to leave each other. And when it happened it was unbearable. But we had to go. It was 2 am. We got onto the plane, and 10 minutes before departure, my mom started passing out. She hadn’t eaten in 12 hours and had very low blood sugar, but we didn’t know that at that moment so it was just pure panic. The flight crew got her food and a kind lady in front of us gave my mom some medicine for nausea. Though I had planned to sleep that 4 hour flight, I refused to shut my eyes until I knew my mom was okay. We landed in Paris 6 am and I was exhausted. So exhausted that I didn’t pay attention to the fact that my flight to London was different than my parents’ flight. After boarding a plane more than a dozen times in the passed year, it was a stupid mistake. 

So I missed my flight. Not knowing what to do, we went to customer service and they said the only flight available was to D.C. at 1 pm, which would mean I had to wait another 4 hours in Paris alone while my parents and my luggage were en route to London and then Detroit. As my mom was boarding their flight she was upset that she had to leave me alone, and I was too. But I had to put on a brave face and reassure her that I’ve traveled alone before and that I can take care of myself. So I got my new ticket and waited. But here was the tricky part: I was told that when I arrive in D.C., I had 3 hours to switch airports that were 30 miles apart. That was on my mind the entire time. I used the internet mostly to search ways to get to the next airport as fast as I could, or if it was even possible to do so. I was also worried about having a recurrence of this massive and scary headache I had on a previous flight. A headache so bad I seriously thought I was going to die. So I kept checking, double-checking, and triple-checking that I had medication. I was so stressed, but having traveled alone several times before I knew I could handle it. A few bumps along the road are okay as long as Allah is watching. 

While waiting in line to board, I momentarily noticed a bag that had hebrew on it. But I didn’t notice the person holding it. I looked down the entire time because I was afraid of making eye contact with anyone that would judge me for the hijab on my head. I tried my best to keep a happy face on. To get to the gate, we had to board a bus to the plane. I put my carry-on luggage in the back of the bus. I got on and decided to stand next to some seats while holding on to a pole for balance. The girls sitting next to me were the only ones talking on the bus, and their voices carried. Suddenly one of them got a notification of an attack in Tel Aviv by a Muslim, and she started saying “OMG I was just there!” In that moment, I realized that she was the one with the Hebrew bag. I felt instantly uncomfortable. But I stayed silent. I tried to block out her words, but I couldn’t help but hear that “they are so aggressive”. I knew what “they” meant. I felt all eyes on me on that bus. It was not a good feeling. But I stayed silent.

When we arrived to the gate of the plane, I had to wait until everyone left the bus so I could grab my luggage from the back. I was the second to last person boarding the flight, and I was beyond exhausted. A man and his wife and child were in front of me blocking the way while putting away their luggage and getting their seats ready. So I waited. But I was nervous because from what I saw, everyone was seated, which made me worried that there would be no room left for my luggage anywhere. Just another thing for me to worry about. The man and his wife took their time, but when they apologized for taking so long I smiled and said “it’s okay”. Finally, they sat down, and I walked a few steps before seeing a woman walking in the opposite direction. I let her through to her seat, and because I was looking down, I never noticed the man that was right behind her. So I took one step and felt an elbow on my chest push against me. I looked up and saw the tall man point to his left and say “Um. My seat is right there.” The man just pushed me with his elbow because his seat was right there. I don’t care if I was running into the guy willingly, he should have not pushed me the way he did. I let him through to his seat and said “You didn’t have to push me.” And then I walked away. I don’t know if he heard. Sound waves don’t travel very far inside of an airplane, at least from my experiences. But it didn’t matter.I found my seat and of course, just as I thought, there was no room for my luggage. So they put it in a fridge-type thing. I didn’t care. 

All I wanted to do was cry. Cry because I missed my husband. Cry because my parents were hundreds of miles away from me. Cry because a zionist was next to me. Cry because a man pushed me. Cry because I just wanted to go home. So I cried until the plane reached the clouds.

I fell asleep for a little while and awoken to the sound of the flight attendant walking past me. Two African men were sitting next to me, and I asked one of them if the flight attendant was passing out headphones. He said he was. Then he asked “You want one?” I told him that it was okay, but before I could he yelled out, “EXCUSE ME!” to the flight attendant. He came back and gave me a pair of headphones. After being pushed by a man, it was nice to see some kindness. I fell in and out of sleep the entire 8-hour flight, wondering and worrying about if I was going to arrive on time to get to the other airport in D.C. 

When I finally arrived in the U.S., I was  about 20 hours into my trip. And I wasn’t home yet. I reached D.C. about 5 pm, and I had about 3 and half hours to go through customs, drive 30 miles to the next airport, and board my final flight to DTW. Going through customs they always ask a few questions, but I realized that if I ask questions in return, then they won’t ask as many questions back. I asked two officers what would be the fastest way to get to the Reagan airport and if 3 hours was enough time to board my next flight. “Outside the airport you can get a taxi, but you gotta leave like, right now.” So I went as fast as I could. My taxi driver thankfully turned out to be a Somalian Muslim who disliked Trump and planned to leave the country once he was elected. Can you blame him? 

He drove me to the airport just in time to board my flight. I even had a little bit of time to wait next to the gate. A women at the gate desk asked if anyone wanted to check their carry-ons because there probably wouldn’t be enough room on the plane. So I checked my bag, and my bag boarded the flight. But the thing is…

I didn’t. The day wasn’t over yet.

When they scanned my ticket, my name was showing up, but it wasn’t validated or something? I have no clue. I kept telling the lady that I just want to go home. I said I had to teach first graders the next day. I was begging. After what I had been through, begging seemed very appropriate. But they wouldn’t let me on. I asked if there was another flight. She said not with Delta, but American Airlines had a flight at 10 pm. I asked if there was any room on the flight, they said I had to check at the AA ticket counter and I had to move fast. So I walked as fast as I could. I was panting as I asked the woman behind the ticket counter if they had any seats left for the last flight to Detroit. She said that there was one left, but because I was buying it late it was going to be expensive. I handed her my card. I had to go home. 

I went through security for the 5th and final time that day. I got to my gate an hour before my flight. I was so worried that my boarding pass wouldn’t work that I went to the gate desk and asked if they could double check that it would work. They said they couldn’t check until boarding. So I waited. But I prayed that there was no more. There was still a little bit more. 

My boarding pass worked alhamdulillah, and I got on the tiny plane. I had the first seat, which to me meant that I would be the first one out when the plane lands. Then I fell asleep. An hour later, I woke up. And I was still in D.C. What was happening? Apparently something was wrong with the bathroom. The captain said it would be about 15 minutes. So I waited. And I cried some more. I just wanted to go home. It was 11:30 pm, and the captain came out and asked everyone if they would rather we change planes which would take a couple of hours, or that we go through the entire 90 minute flight without using the bathroom. We all agreed to hold our bladders. 

When I finally landed at 1 am in Detroit, I ran out to see if anyone of my family members were there. There was nobody. My phone’s battery had died, so I asked two strangers that I saw on the plane if I could borrow their phone. Then I found an outlet to charge my phone. Turns out my family went to the airport three different times thinking I would be home, but I never came. So they stayed home until I called them. I waited another 20 minutes for my sister to pick me up.

And the bag that I checked? It came before I did on the Delta flight. So before I went home, I had to go to their luggage office and look in a room full of over 200 pieces of luggage until I spotted mine. Then, finally, I was home. I decided to skip half a day of work the next day because I was not ready to go in that morning. 

4 hour trip to Paris, 8 hour layover, 8 hour trip to D.C., another 6 ½ hour layover, and 2 ½ hours until I reached home. I left Beirut at 2 am, and arrived home 2 am. But factor in the time differences. If you do the math, what was supposed to be an 18 hour trip turned into 30 hours. That’s a long day. And that was the worst day. Inshallah I never have to go through that again. 

[longevitytechnologies-blog]

Google Duplex beat the Turing test: Are we doomed?

Alan Turing helped pioneer the idea of programmable computers and built one of the first general purpose computing machines, the Bombe, which decrypted the Nazi's Enigma code and saved thousands of lives. Turing's contributions to the war effort, and to computer science as a discipline, are astonishing. As Albert Einstein was to math and physics, Alan Turing was to computer science. But in the 1950s, the British government considered Turing a criminal. The irony and injustice of this is mind boggling, not just because he probably saved more British lives in World War II than any other Briton, but because his only so-called crime was that he was gay. For this, which at the time the British government called "gross indecency," he was given the choice of imprisonment or chemical castration. He killed himself in 1954, at the age of 41. It is impossible to overstate how much the loss of Alan Turing cost the world. Two years before his death, Turing was thinking about the relationship between human and computer intelligence. Today, that concept is part of everyday life, as AI permeates everything from GPS to video games to the behavior of apps on our phones. Back then, the idea that a device the size of a house designed to break codes could, someday, imitate human intelligence was about as far thinking as you could get. Turing not only understood and pioneered the idea of AI, but created some metrics by which we could judge whether we'd actually gotten to the point where AI was intelligent. THE TURING TEST Modern AI scientists have called what became known as the Turing test somewhat simplistic, because computer intelligence can be seen in a wide variety of actions beyond the imitation of human conversation. Even so, Turing's test has gone essentially unsolved since 1952. The test is simple. In Volume LIX, Number 236 (October 1950) of Oxford University's MIND, a Quarterly Review of Psychology and Philosophy, Turing published a paper, Computing Machinery and Intelligence. While there were many important concepts in this document, one concept he put forth was what he called an "imitation game." There's a 2014 movie by that name, starring Sherlock's Benedict Cumberbatch. It's about Turing, and it's worth watching. The idea of the imitation game was that both a human and a computer would be communicated with by a second human, the "interrogator." The interrogator would send, essentially, text messages to the human and to the computer and get replies. If the interrogator could not tell which of the two respondents was the human and which was the computer, the computer was said to have passed the Turing test, where a computer could so fully imitate a human that a human couldn't tell the difference. Most AI researchers will tell you that the Turing test is interesting, but it's not the point of AI. We don't need AI to imitate a human. We need AI to help us accomplish real tasks in the world. Even so, the Turing test has been "out there," toyed with by developers for years. One limited example of Turing test compliance was the old computer game ELIZA. ELIZA goes back to 1966 and the MIT AI Lab. She was limited, and just a moment or two of discussion would break the spell, but you can see early signs of Alexa in the interactions.

A short ELIZA conversation   AI, of course, has improved tremendously over the years, with AI-based conversations often the foundation of customer support phone trees, automated assistants, and other customer management tools. Still, even though modern AI systems have gotten more helpful, no one confuses them with real humans. But that may be about to change. GOOGLE DUPLEX At Google I/O last week, Google demonstrated something it calls Google Duplex. As demonstrated, Duplex is a tool for making telephone appointments. The idea is that you tell your Android device that you want to set up an appointment for a time or set of times, and then Duplex, running from the Google cloud, dials the phone and conducts a voice conversation with the person on the other end. What sets Duplex apart is how realistic it is. The conversation has the pauses, breaks, and minor exclamations that are the hallmark of informal human interaction. Duplex doesn't sound like a computer. Duplex sounds like a real person making a phone call for an appointment. Let me make this clear: there is no uncanny valley in the demonstrated Duplex conversation. You can't tell that the machine making the call is a machine making the call. It passes the Turing test, not only for text, but for an actual voice conversation. Alphabet chairman John Hennessy acknowledged this at an I/O talk. Before you dismiss this as hype from a guy in a suit, you need to know who Hennessy is, beyond just the chairman of Google's parent company. Hennessy was part of the Stanford team that pioneered RISC (Reduced Instruction Set Computing) processors, the processor technology inside nearly all smartphones. He was chair of Stanford's computer science department, dean of the school of engineering, and eventually became Stanford's president. He holds the IEEE Medal of Honor, the Queen Elizabeth Prize for Engineering (how ironic is that?), and was given a khata by the His Holiness, the 14th Dalai Lama. Just this year, he was given the ACM's prestigious Turing Award for innovation. In other words, if someone is going to declare the Turing test passed, John Hennessy is credibility incarnate. THE PROMISE OF DUPLEX AND AI So far, Google isn't promising Duplex as anything other than a disembodied appointment-making robotic friend. But it's obvious that this accomplishment has legs. The potential for human-sounding interaction has many positive benefits (don't worry, we'll get to the bad stuff in a bit). Take, for example, the idea of self-driving cars. I've been thinking a lot about these. In the last years of my parents' lives, there was a time where all they really needed was help being driven around. They were still lucid and mobile, but they couldn't safely drive. A self-driving car, accompanied by a voice (ala KITT in Knight Rider), could reduce the tech discomfort and help them make their way about town. Automated assistants might actually be able to assist. IBM's Watson has made astonishing inroads in its ability to integrate institutional knowledge and bring that knowledge to humans, assisting and recommending solutions for problems ranging from cooking recipes to supply chain, and even medical diagnosis. We can certainly envision a day where uncanny-valley-free conversations can be had with systems containing deep institutional knowledge, and where actual problems can be solved, freeing up humans to do more important work (or, at least, freeing up us hapless consumers from the unending purgatory of hold music). WHERE IT COULD ALL GO SO TERRIBLY WRONG What goes up, must come down. Where there's a will, there's a way. Where there's promise in a new technology, there's also a terrifying dark side. Simulated human conversation, freed from the warning of the uncanny valley, can have dire consequences. Let's start with a simple, Googlish example. How many of you get robocalls from so-called Google specialists? I know many of you do, because when I wrote about it, I got tons of responses on Twitter and Facebook. TL;DR: Most of the time, it's a scam. We know it's a scam, because the conversation inevitably breaks down as soon as the recorded demon dialer starts "talking". But what if the robot behind robocallers was not identifiable as a fake human? What if that call sounded and acted like it was from an actual person? How much scamming could be done if scammers could combine AI, a corpus of psychological manipulation knowledge, human-sounding callers, and the ability to scale? It boggles. Or what about all those support jobs? Right now, we in America sometimes complain when we have to talk to someone with an accent in another country. Sometimes, the complaint is about the difficulty in understanding someone with an accent. Sometimes the complaint is about the loss of American jobs. No matter what, that person with an accent in another country is still a human with a job, earning money for his or her family. But what if all those jobs, and all the jobs in emergency dispatch, telesales, and in almost anything else that requires phone skills, can be taken over by an AI network? How many jobs will be lost because of Duplex? When will Duplex start talking to Duplex? What happens when a human-sounding appointment caller reaches a human-sounding appointment maker? Will there be two computers sharing "ums" and "uhs," or will an API trigger, sending XML messages back and forth instead? What about at election time? What happens if a Duplex-like system is able to impersonate a candidate? How many citizens will think they've gotten an actual call, and had an actual conversation, with a candidate, when it's merely just another SaaS service purchased with a credit card? What about impersonation? If Duplex-like technology gets good enough, will it be possible for your phone to impersonate you? Then what happens if someone gets their hands on your phone? Will your family members think it was you calling them in a panic to lure them from the house? The darker implications of this sort of technology go on and on. Like much of the tech we've created before, there are advantages and disadvantages. But as AI gets smarter and smarter, and now, more convincing, will we need to "do something" to rein it in before we reach Terminator phase? CAN WE BOTTLE THIS GENIE? One thing we can expect is some sort of legislation requiring human-like calls to identify themselves as such. Unfortunately, in a world where calls can be made across borders with ease, legislation in one country is unlikely to protect us against attacks from other countries. Malware is illegal, and yet it's constant. Back in Turing's day, science fiction writer Isaac Asimov promoted a positive future of robots, controlling the AIs with what he called the "Three Laws of Robotics": A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. A robot must obey the orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law. Even before Blade Runner, Asimov postulated human replicant machines. In 1953's The Caves of Steel (and its sequel, The Naked Sun), Asimov introduced readers to R. Daneel Olivaw, a human replicant detective (who was also a good guy). If you ever get time, read these two books. Human replicants aren't the only future-looking things Asimov presented. He also talked about a time when people would have video conversation studios in their homes. On Friday, I'm using such a studio, in my home, to talk to three other ZDNet columnists about the future of 5G and other communications technology. Look for that to go online in a week or so. (If you want to see how one of these looks, check out our Peak Smartphone discussion from last month.)   My point, in all of this, is that technology is fluid. Nearly every innovation has a light side and a dark side. Duplex is fascinating and scary in its implications, all at the same time. What worries me is not that we might have this technology, for I'm reasonably convinced that as we get to the Caves of Steellevel, some companies will incorporate something like the Three Laws. No, it's not the robots that scare me. It's the humans, those in rogue nation states, those affiliated with organized crime organizations, and even those just a little too focused on accomplishing their goals without regard for their fellow humans. Those folks scare me, because artificial intelligence, in the hands of unscrupulous and evil-minded real intelligence, may well respond to no law. We may not be able to stop it, which means we may be living in a robot-eat-robot-eat-human world. That'll help you sleep tonight, I'm sure. One final thought for you: evil does not always come in a package with clear labeling. The UK's regressive treatment of Alan Turing was not only unfair and horrible, as well as incredibly short-sighted and stupid, it was evil. And yet, it was all done in the name of Queen and country. We need to be aware that we may deploy these AI systems for what we (or our leaders at the time) think are the best of reasons. And it may all go horribly wrong.   via Google Duplex beat the Turing test: Are we doomed? | ZDNet Read the full article

[thewaterwars]

4. The Boy with the Coin

Miracle of miracles, they landed in Columbus, Ohio, at the John Glenn International Airport. The Federal Air Marshal Service escorted Jamina off the plane, a strong hand on each elbow.

She waited in the detention room, sketching, and some airport official provided bandaids for the cuts opened up by the flight attendant’s claws. The officials at the airport had a lot more to worry about, what with the giant meteor fallout threatening life on Earth. Eventually a female marshal entered the room holding a cup of stale coffee.

“Hey.” She sighed and took a sip.

Jamina looked up, furrowing her brows, suspicious. “Hey.”

“You’ve got to be better, ok?”

Jamina tried not to smile at the big sister-ly tone. “Ok.”

“I’m serious. Shit’s hit the fan. Don’t start trouble if you don’t have to. Let people be. Take care of yourself, your loved ones.”

“Ok…”

“I’m kicking you out of here. We’ve got a lot of panic. Got to bring the people together. Fortify.”

The marshal had a strong midwestern accent. Her hair was blonde, pulled back in a bun. The uniform was a little too big for her, but she still looked authoritative as hell.

“Go on, get out of here. Be good.”

Jamina grabbed her sketch book and purse. “Thank you.”

The John Glenn airport was a typical American airport, renovated in the 80s, with long, curving lines and white-paneled everything. Random art poked up at intersections of terminal walkways. Jamina sniffed out the way to customs, and found the large room empty. Ironic that after jumping through so many fricken hoops to get a visa, she now strolled into the States like no one was watching.

But someone was watching.

Jamina ducked under the seat-belt separators and walked between the empty customs gates. The watcher followed her.

The energy in baggage claim was so tense you’d think every last person went all in on a bad hand. That was the end of this life: the stakes higher than anyone ever wanted to gamble, with a guaranteed loss.

“So what, are we just not getting our bags?” Jamina spoke to no one in particular, but she noticed a boy watching her from behind a pillar. He was a child on the cusp of his adolescence, black, more muscular than a 9 or 10 year old should reasonably be. The muscles were poking out around his skeleton, on display under a grey tank.

Jamina ignored him. She paced along the carousels, and one started moving. The hoarde pressed in, solidifying. The crowd was spinning rumors in hushed tones.

“The military’s taking over. It’s marshal law. They need the planes.”

“It’s going to be a nuclear winter.”

“Francine’s uncle’s neighbor has a bunker.”

“There’s a run on grocery stores.”

It reminded her too much of the Siege on Sarajevo. She was so young then, didn’t understand what it meant when the tensions were rising. Couldn’t prepare herself for fighting, for losing her humanity. But that was then.

Another miracle: Jamina’s bags made it. As she reached for the second bag, the boy who watched her appeared at her side and pulled the luggage off the conveyor belt.

“Thanks.”

He looked up at her with big dark eyes. A silver dollar pressed between his lips.

“Hey, where are your parents?”

The dollar fell out of his mouth, deftly caught by a hand waiting at his belly. “Brooklyn.”

“Did you come from Paris?”

“Yeah. I saw you.”

Jamina cocked her head.

“I saw you fight the flight attendant.” He laughed. “It was funny.”

She smiled. “Do you know how you’re getting home? Are you alone?”

“My brother’s here.” He pointed to a slightly older boy, more muscular, also clad in a grey tank, pulling luggage from the carousel.

“I knew this would happen.” He put the coin back in his mouth.

“What’s that?”

“The end of the world.”

“How’d you figure that?”

“God told me.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, he said it pretty clearly.”

Jamina smiled. “Did he say why?”

“He didn’t have to.”

The brother appeared behind the boy and smacked the back of his head lightly. “Stop bothering the pretty lady.”

“He’s not bothering me. Just, you know, putting the fear of God into me.”

The brother chuckled, “As one does.”

Jamina looked around, not sure what to do next. She had to get to Seattle. All flights were grounded, as far as she could presume. The airport was like a packed car with no one at the wheel.

“Do you guys have a plan for getting back to New York?”

“Try to find a bus. Convince someone that money still means something, give them cash.”

“I don’t have any cash. I was going to exchange my euros at JFK.”

“You’ve got something else you can bargain with.”

Jamina’s skin pickled. “Excuse me?”

“Hopefully it won’t come to that. Look,” the brother reached down to his shoe, lifted up his pant leg, and pulled a small wad of cash from a strap around his ankle. “Here. This might just be fire tinder at this point, but maybe it can get you closer to where you’re going. As far as I can tell, not everyone believes it’s the end of the world, yet.”

“Why do you carry cash like that? What were you doing in Paris?” She took the bundle, a bit wary.

“We’re street performers.” The brother stood up taller. The boy with the coin, too. “Pretty famous actually. I’d say check us out on YouTube, but, well…I guess lucky for you, your little stunt isn’t going viral any time soon. The world’s a bit...preoccupied.”

“Thanks for the cash. Good luck.” Jamina grabbed the handles on her luggage, her purse strung over her shoulder, and stomped toward the exit. Something about that interaction got her angry.

A line of people snaked along the airport arrivals sidewalk, boarding onto a greyhound bus, which was at the front of a line of buses. Jamina started asking people what was going on, and gleaned that the Columbus Greyhound fleet was scattering to various cities. Turns out a lot of people want to be somewhere else when shit goes down, and the airport is where you show up when you want to get particularly far away.

“Any for Seattle?”

Luck struck again, and Jamina divided her wad of cash in half and held it above the crowd, trying to catch the attention of the Seattle bus driver deciding who was worthy of a seat. His gaze followed the cash down to her face, and he nodded. She pushed her way through the crowd, but there was no way she was getting both bags onto the bus. It was too chaotic to put either in the cargo compartment. She chose one, not remembering what was packed in either, and left the other on the sidewalk.

A tiny voice called out at her hip as she stepped up through the bus door.

“Fighter girl! I want to come with you.”

She turned around. The boy with the coin had slithered through the crowd to be next to her.

“Stay with your brother. Go find your parents.”

“You’re gonna keep us alive.”

“What?”

Another passenger pushed on Jamina’s back.

“You’re an important one. God said.” He reached up, handing her the silver dollar. “Don’t forget.”

The pressure from the rest of the Seattle-bound, panic-stricken Columbus defectors was so much that Jamina was nearly carried to her seat. She settled in and pulled out her sketch book, waiting for the bus to depart. She drew a circle around the coin, then kissed it, and put it in her purse.

All she really needed now was to sleep.

[allineednow]

<p>The survival stories Which powered #MeToo - WSMV News 4</p>

(CNN) -- Harvey Weinstein's predatory behavior was described as an open secret in Hollywood, one perpetuated by a culture of silence.

Complicity, like abuse, is not confined to Hollywood -- and it only took two words to open the floodgates: me too.

Millions of people from all walks of life have shared stories of abuse and harassment at the hands of powerful people since the Weinstein allegations broke.

CNN received dozens of responses and asked readers to share their stories with us.

Most came from women, though men aren't immune to abuse. The themes were familiar: a vulnerable target, a perpetrator that is powerful, fears of retaliation and witnesses who let it happen.

The cumulative effects can be lasting: missed opportunities, barriers to education, depleted self-esteem, guilt for "letting" it happen or not speaking up.

We have heard it all before. The status quo endures. This time, due to the sheer quantity of shared accounts, some see hope for change.

Memories are flooding back, galvanizing some girls while others. As their media feeds blow up with painful stories men are being jolted, too. Advocates say the way they influence policy and people are beginning to connect the dots between violence and misogyny. Could this be the time when a hashtag-inspired moment results in cultural change?

The girls CNN interviewed expect which explains why they opened up. We're not revealing their names and we could not independently verify the accounts. Here are their testimonies.

'Anxious, scared, and apparently paralyzed'

She had been shadowing a therapist . Since he was appealing and charming and she was overweight and insecure, she was flattered by his flirtatious texts asking to "rendezvous."

They were after an assessment when he told her to show him her breasts in his car.

"Anxious, scared, and apparently paralyzed, I did what he asked," she says. "People make it seem very simple to just say no, or just don't give in, or don't respond. But it can be quite paralyzing when somebody is in control of where your future may go."

After, he sent texts asking her for photographs of her body parts. Then, another staffer started texting her. She denied them both but the interactions wore down her. She felt suicidal and depressed, resulting in breakdowns in home and school.

She moved to another program, one that opened doors to another career path that was fulfilling. That's the upside, she said. The downside is she still blames herself for letting it happen and struggles with intimacy. She's yet to fully work through her own injury although she's a mental health counselor, she said. Meanwhile, he continues to practice as a therapist.

"I want a counselor who can out-counsel me," she said. "It's not a process you can hurry. It comes when it is supposed and it'll come when I want it to."

With that, she shut up.

A couple of months into a new career in healthcare public relations, the invitation to go to a seminar was. The four colleagues she went with, including her boss, made her a little nervous, but only because she feared she would not fit in. The group text messages started.

As a woman presenter addressed the crowd, a coworker mused that the speaker had "a dusty snatch." It went downhill from there.

The guys typed about breasts and breast milk, talked about wanting the speaker and hoped she would mention the word "orgasm ... five times really fast."

While going to the airport to fly home, the texts lasted. "Cabbies prefer a fantastic hug to a cash tip," wrote one man. "Only in the event that you slip them a little tongue," wrote another. And then, this time mentioning her by name, "You should try it."

When she confided in two female colleagues, she said they "told me not to be 'so uptight' and to 'have a much better sense of humor.'" She shut up.

Stay in prominent positions.

"My daughter, now 7, is why I still feel bad," she said. "I try to teach her to stand up for what is right, and I didn't do it myself."

As she struggled, he got more excited

She was in her 30s, working as a corporate trainer -- among the very few African-American women in a branch office of a leading tech company in the 1980s.

Several years into her career asked her to stay late to work on a project. He grabbed her, when they were in a conference room.

"He started trying to feel me up through my coat and I jumped back," she said. "But what he didn't know, and what most people don't know, is that I was molested as a child."

He got excited, as she struggled. He tried to kiss her forcibly. She fled the area and jumped loose.

"He tried to apologize to me the next day but I made sure that I was never alone with him. I could see the panic in his eyes," she said.

She was also afraid -- scared that speaking out would be a "career-ending move."

For her attacker, she worked for two years .

'That's just the time he's from and the way he is'

She entered a boy's club and walked right into college, never mind that half her classmates were women.

The homiletics professor, an esteemed scholar, taught this lesson her first week there: "The length of a sermon should be like a woman's skirt -- long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to keep it interesting."

Male students were invited by the director of the school . He booked for her and other girls advice about "presenting yourself in the best possible light," which included tips on makeup, manicures and heels.

He had been -- and still is -- this way was no secret. She and other women complained. Those in positions of power knew.

"The thing about the Jewish community is that we work so hard to make it feel like a family," she said. "What they'd say back to us is, 'He is like a kooky old uncle. That's just the time he's from and how he is.'"

An internship in a synagogue during the High school proved the boy's team extended beyond school. She donned her robe and was ready to face the congregation for the first time during the holiest time of the year, when pulled her of Judaism.

"I will need to get you longer robes for Yom Kippur because your legs are really distracting to me when I am trying to lead the congregation in prayer," she remembered him saying. "And it was just like a gross, really disgusting voice. It was not that he was going to order me new robes but that he wanted me to know he was looking at my legs."

'Ooh that sounds so dirty'

A month into a job as a paralegal she became the target of inappropriate comments from among the attorneys.

The woman, in her 40s, started noticing a pattern. The man swung his arms to touch her behind made sexual innuendoes and corrected himself in front of her for moments at a time right.

One morning, about what to purchase breakfast a conversation took a twist. Someone mentioned country ham and she said, "It's so salty and rubbery."

The managing partner said, "Ooh that sounds so dirty."

She told him his remark was gross and looked to her supervisor, who was there. She asked him to make the partner cease saying things like this. He did nothing.

She had been told he would not have done those things and had been a partner for years when she took her story to resources.

She and filed a lawsuit in 2012 and three female colleagues who had stories launched an Equal Employment Opportunity Commission complaint in 2011. "The three people in the criticism is 100% of the staff at that office," she said. "Every single woman had the same story, different variations."

They won on their sexual harassment allegations. The law firm broke up.

Having famous men and women share their Weinstein experiences, in addition to seeing their stories are shared by millions of women online, helped her come out with her own. "It happens to people who are regular men and women. I'm a regular person who has a family and I didn't do anything. I've got nothing to be ashamed about," she said.

'I hope that people stand up'

She worked her way up to retail purchaser from the headquarters of a chain based in the Northeast from customer service. It was a big deal for a woman from the suburbs without a college education, she said.

Until the company's boss took an interest in 15, it was going well. "It was common knowledge that this man was a creep," she said. Worse, other executives complained about having to "clean up his mess."

It still makes her so mad.

"He'd ask me out for drinks. He'd put his hand on my leg, and I would laugh it off. After, after Christmas, everyone got their bonus checks, he told me he'd write my bonus check for half, if I went out for drinks with him 40, and I would find the rest.

"Against my better judgment, I did. I was living on my own, and counted on this bonus. He asked me to hold his hands while he drove me home. Then asked if I'd hug him while I was getting out of the vehicle. He felt up my shirt," she said.

She couldn't take it anymore. She confided in another employee and found out she had experienced similar treatment. They complained to management and the company was left by her.

In her new job it took some readjusting to get used to a new boss who keeps things so impersonal, she said. Then, the Weinstein story brought back a flood of memories. She worries for girls at her old job working for this man.

"I feel very guilty. I took steps so that I could leave but I feel like me being silent just made it to happen to other girls," she said.

"I just hope that more people stand up against it when they see it and don't turn their back."

'He got what he wanted from me'

She is a flight attendant. He is a captain she called a friend. She believes he raped her while she was unconscious and drugged.

"The following morning I woke up naked in his bed, I had bruises all over my body. Because my vagina was so raw I couldn't sit down. I was bleeding that's how rough he was with me and that I had bruises on my breasts, on my hips, on my inner thighs," she said.

"I'd asked him what happened last night. I don't remember anything. I don't recall how we got back to the resort. And, he came back with a snide comment: 'I believe that you can put two and two together.'"

She took pictures of the bruises and reported it to authorities. She contracted sexually transmitted diseases and a urinary tract infection . But he only had to say it was consensual for the airline to let him keep flying, she said.

"He got what he wanted from me and I have to deal with it for rest of my life."

[writinginmygournal]

June 19/20: "Day" "One"

• Arrive v. early at airport after long strange evening of packing with many visitors. Anna, Emily, Robbie, Prosper. Some freaking out but feeling pretty good. • Ate airport "Mexican" for lunch feat. dueling live saxophones. • Am told I will be assigned a seat at gate. Head to "Sojourners" for a double Jameson on the rocks feat. the Platonic Ideal of an airport waitress/bartender. Raspy voice. Wry observations. Called me "honey" and asked me not to go. • 3 or 4 delays to flight. Surrounded by lamentations: 50% baby boomer kvetching, 50% ppl's days being ruined. Writing this now I can only think: how young I was then. How naive. Made some goofs on FB about it & had fun with that while waiting. While waiting. Another delay, a gate exchange, and I am told that I cannot board until literally everyone else has been seated. I am not told why. I am a hunk of dead coral buoyed about by the buffeting waves of airport bureaucracy. I am reminded of Anthony Oliveira (@meakoopa) & what he says about how the ways in which airports, with their functional monopolies & regular customer service brutality, function as a sort of canary-in-the-coal-mine for the immediate future of corporate capitalism. • Another snack run. Cute kids abound. White family with child on a leash. Commiserate with my octogenarian neighbor. Brief fear that I, for some inscrutable & unknowable reason, will not be allowed to board. But ah! The very last moment arrives, and off I go! Sort of! • Flight is a purgatorial blur. In brief moments I dip into covert puddles of sticky, cramped sleep. Watched "8 Days a Week" the Beatles doc — needed better headphones. Watched the first 1/3 of the new live-action "Beauty & the Beast" — wretched. Watched s couple season 1 "Arrested Developments" — still perfect. Ate what was handed to me (lasagna? yeast rolls? nutrient slurry) with neither thought nor pleasure, like the prisoner I was. Night turned to day turned to empty twilight under my useless sleep mask. All is illusory. And THEN — • Rome. We've arrived at Leonardo da Vinci. Are any American airports named for artists or scientists? or just presidents & millionaires? • Mild panic. [EDITOR'S NOTE: HA!!!] Dov'e i miei bagaglii? Get a grip Krakovsky, you're on a wild solo cruise, you can handle this. And yet...no bag. Sitting it Atlanta. OK. Put out the call on FB — Allison will be in Vatican City later -- why not? A bus to Vatican City. I start to take stock of what exactly I don't have. First order of business is a charger for my very dead phone. Great Italian practice. • Caffetteria del Gracchi. Lovely staff, charmed (I tell myself) by my earnest, mediocre Italian. Sit and scheme with a Cafe Americano for a while. • Ah-ha! I WILL GO GO WARSAW! But alas...Jakey's not going to Warsaw. I arrive, thoughtlessly, like a little baby, too late to check in. Feel something down in my feeling place. My gullyworks. Hold it together long enough to learn from a travel agent that, yeah, I ain't getting to Poland today. I do whatever any good boy in my situation might do — I call my mama. Mom is her practical, sympathetic, someone un-tender self. I get off the phone and, at long last, it's time to openly weep in an airport. My favorite. In this moment, my lowest thus far (and, G-d willing, for a while), all the forces of {jet-lag, exhaustion, homesickness, & my bizarrely powerful psychological aversion to feelings of ineffectiveness, immaturity, inefficiency, & emasculation} conspire to drag me down. But NO. I refuse! I draw my sword and slice through the moment. Time to get an exquisite Italian airport sandwich and figure some shit out. • I arrange for my bag to be sent to my hostel in Krakow. [EDITOR'S NOTE: HA HA!!!] I buy a new ticket to Warsaw. I buy traveler's insurance. No more Diaper Baby, I'm a capable Diaper Cosmopolitan, damn it!! • Emily suggests a beautiful park in Rome — a good goal for my style of not-quite-directionless wandering. Take the train into the city, hop on a tram for a few stops, but get confused, so walking. Walking. The rest of the day is walking and sweating. • See some crust punk street performers doing some pretty great juggling at a stop light. • Buy my first gelato: Pistacchio é Nocciola. Perfetto. • Find the park! First thing I see is a path named for "Anna Frank, Martire del Nazismo." Recite the Kaddish for her. [EDITOR'S NOTE: THE FIRST OF MANY.] • The park is big, beautiful, & I know we're not really in Tuscany but it feels Tuscan as hell. Beautiful Italian people walking beautiful Italian dogs. I find a bench & a clearing near a young woman doing pilates & some older folks doing Tai Chi. For some reason (maybe because I already had the tiny siddur Sara Burmenko gave me out) I feel compelled to pray Ma'ariv. I do, my version at least, with my cap on & facing away from the sunset. Toss on a T'filat ha-derech for good measure; better late than never, right? • I reserve a spot at Hostel Trustever right by the Trustevere station and get to hoofin. • While walking thru Monteverde I see some graffiti. Iron Cross. Celtic Cross. Swastika. I take pics. I get pissed. I spit on the wall. Then the plot thickens — anarchist and communist symbols, & it devolves into a fascists VS antifascists graffiti turf war. They are painting over each other, altering the messaging — lots done by the Monteverde Antifa, G-d bless them. I get nervous. I tuck my star of David necklace into my black t-shirt. I walk faster. [EDITOR'S NOTE: WROTE A POEM ABOUT THIS EXPERIENCE, WILL SHARE IN NEXT POST; IT'S OKAY.] • And now, dear reader, we're finally here. Showered & cleaned & in the same sweaty track pants. In my comfy hostel room with my friendly hostel buddy Handsome Anthony from Paris. IN TOMORROW'S INSTALLMENT: • Shopping with Allison? • Clean underwear? • Coffee? Pastries? Gelato? • A flight to Warsaw to meet Emilia and crash on her couch? • ???