#he was so viscerally uncomfortable with the idea of the kiss scene happening because of chance doing it mid argument cause it goes against

[couldbebetterforsure]

Chance’s loser dad: If the woman you love is arguing with you, just kiss her! That’ll shut her up!

Certified Angel™️ Suzu Orimaki and the cool men of the Orimaki family: If the woman you love is arguing with you, just listen to what she has to say and communicate with her!

[shirks-all-responsibilities]

Oh my GOD the INTENSITY of this in-progress fic, everything has such fateful WEIGHT, I liiiiiiive for it in fic, I was as completely absorbed and sucked into their world as they are with each other, everything dropping away while reading and in parts I couldn't be bothered to tend to anything IRL because I HAD TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED NEXT AT ALL COSTS AND NOTHING ELSE MATTERED cuz the tropes and the whole angsty-soulmates-fatefully-finding-one-another-to-roughly-and-obsessively-fuck-the-sadness-and-pain-out-of-each-other-but-ope-it's-become-so-much-more GIVES ME LIFE, whew!! This is what fic is forrrr! It's JUST what I was looking for to distract myself from certain recent events. And that masterlist summary you wrote? Masterful, who wouldn't be instantly obsessed with this fic reading that?

Reading this I was constantly in awe of a line, a phrase, of a WORD, of the way meanings and feelings and reflections are seemingly found around every corner of the page.

And like all great smut, you write with such interiority about how things FEEL physically and emotionally to be the recipient of our BIG BOY Frankie and allllll that entails for reader and her past traumas and ways of dealing with pain. These two FUCK my godddd!! But there is really something special here that I can't explain.

And this line???? THIS LINE?????? "He needs to fuck you deep and full, find you in that place within yourself and wreck you there. He needs to make sure you’re alright. Make sure you’re real. Make sure you’re his." HE NEEDS TO FIND YOU IN THAT PLACE WITHIN YOURSELF AND WRECK YOU THERE? *stares at wall for 40 minutes in contemplation*

The Frankie worship in this is just *chef's kiss." I mean: "You watch him walk back toward you, his naked body glistening with sweat, highlighted in shadows in the warm lighting. You think about how beautiful it is, about your extensive, intimate knowledge of it. How it feels under your touch, every single part of him. How this knowledge is now constituent of the woman you have become. You know the callousness of his palms that catches at your clothes. You know the silkiness of his curls around your fingers, the smoothness of his chest against your breasts, the taste of his mouth and the bobbing of his pebbled throat between your lips. The thicker skin of his shoulders, tanned and freckled. The coarseness of the darker hairs under his navel, and how they feel rubbing at your clit. You know the weight of his cock in your hand, on your tongue, inside your walls." YAAAASSS GIRL GIMME A SOLILOQUY.

And in so many places I was just in awe of the sentiment of the idea being expressed, like this: "Your mind keeps wandering to the previous Friday, when you sat nestled into Frankie’s side as he drove aimlessly. To the smooth fabric of his jacket under your cheek, to the heat of his chest, to his solid breadth. You stop it. The memory is always a thought away. But it shouldn’t be summoned at random. You can’t risk its erosion. There won’t be another one." WHAT A WAY of treating a memory!! Of giving a memory such precious and irreplacable importance that the sheer thought of it might corrode it. Obsessed with this.

I love her inexperience, those lines about how "no one seems to notice" that's she's different after having done something so supposedly unlike her when really she has had a life of having no sense of self or what she really wants.

And then there was the way you wrote reader's pain. That scene with Adrian when she wakes up from the hospital is one of the most quietly but viscerally upsetting scenes I have read, it made me SO uncomfortable and upset for her that I was practically crawling out of my skin, the way she is so vulnerable and the sinister way he completely and contemptuously disregards her needs and comfort and humanity, the REAL fear and anxiety she feels and how unsafe she feels was PALPABLE. And the way the beeping of the heart monitor/equipment is woven into the scene was ABSOLUTELY MASTERFUL, I was just STUNNED, to have it culminate at the end of the scene with the beeping underscoring the sheer horrifying panic she feels that she may lost Frankie forever? INCREDIBLY DELICIOUS ANGST AND SCENE BUILDING. And that line about her feeling like a "butterfly pinned in a glass case" was just…

I feel like I haven't even scratched the surface of all the great things about this fic, about how you characterized the reader, about Frankie's dark edges and softness all within him, about all the details…there's SO much in this fic that I think most of us are intimidated to even try to respond. Loved this one.

And I'm just looking at the masterlist seeing there there is only ONE more chapter and then only an epilogue like 👀👀👀👀. SOOOO beyond excited to read what you have in store for the last two installments of this story!!!

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 5

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. Time flies, in room number 2. How much longer do you have, just for the two of you?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange bedroom besties 🧡 It's been a hot minute, I sincerely apologise. Thank you to everyone who stuck around, I hope it was worth it, and thank you to everyone who just passed by 🧡 @frannyzooey my love, thank you for your help on the Americanisms, invaluable as always 🧡

Word count: 13.8k

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Chapter 5: Time in a bottle

It’s late when you pull into the parking lot. Dusk cloaks the motel in its fuzzy veil, the surroundings fading in diffuse shadows. The single-story building stands out in the twilight, akin to an old ship. Wooden poles for masts, hanging lamps swaying gently in the briny breeze, their lights blurry in the muggy air. Tacky and warm, it wafts in through your car’s open windows, dampening the exposed skin of your forearms and the back of your neck. 

On the passenger seat, your iPhone’s screen glows in the semi-darkness with an incoming call. 

Adrian.  

“What now?” you sigh, through clenched teeth. 

Your eyes dart up to Frankie’s truck parked in front of you. The word FORD stretched in chrome letters on the tailgate, shining bright in your headlights. 

The familiar pull awakens between your constricted lungs. A pounding, greedy little tug compelling you to get out of your car and cover the distance to the room as quickly as your step will carry you. But you want to calm your nerves first. Slow down your heart rate, deepen your breathing. 

That discussion you had with your father, earlier this afternoon, still clings to your frame. The humiliation conveyed by his carefully chosen words like tar, black and viscous. You can almost smell its foul stench. And you don’t want to bring any of it inside. 

It’s only the third time Frankie gets here before you, if you count that very first Friday back in September. And the second, since you came back from Colorado earlier this month. The pressure in your rib cage eases at the memory of that sweet evening. 

All day long, you had rushed through your counting routine. Through the long, icy corridors of your glass prison. Rushed on the 589 northbound. Rushed to strangle the uncertainty of his presence there. 

It was a few minutes past 7pm when you parked next to his truck, his early presence cranking up your anxiousness. You got out of your car with an anguished scowl, and you all but ran toward the porch, toward the brass number 2, shoes scuffing the gravel. 

The door swung open the very second you stepped under the overhang. A flash of dimple, and his arms wrapped around your waist. He scooped you up from the floor, swift and easy, carrying you inside. Hungry kisses, teeth scraping at your jaw, down the line of your neck. A throaty husk of Happy New Year, Lee Abbott, as he tugged your clothes off your body that thrummed with his scent and his voice and his arms and his taste. 

With the density of him. 

He lifted you again, your short, giggly yelp bouncing across the room as he hauled you over his shoulder with an easy force. His steps long and balanced, as if your weight was inconsequential to his strength. 

In the dim bathroom, he put you down directly into the tub. There, he unbuckled his belt and slid down his jeans, looking at you with a mischievous grin you’d never seen before and that fitted his gorgeous face a little too well. 

“Told you I’d fuck you in this shower.” 

Thirty seconds later, you were standing together under an aggressive stream of scalding water, his broad back shielding you from the high pressure, steam blurring the tiles and the mirror. You pressed your face into his neck, hands splayed over his chest, feeling it heave with his low, rumbling chuckle. 

“ That’s the best I could do. This place is trash,” he scoffed, lips grazing your ear. 

“ It’s perfect,” you laughed. 

Another notification lights up your screen, yanking you back into the stifling cab of the sedan, to the nagging cramp poking your rib cage, to your hindered breathing. 

It glowers at you, bold black letters over a steel gray rectangle. 

MESSAGES 

Adrian

Your eyes flicker back to the red truck, your face crunching into a grimace. 

“Shit,” you grit, grabbing the phone and quickly pressing the home button before you can change your mind.  

The lock screen fades as the message app pops open. You squint against the brightness of the glowing white screen. 

I made it, babe. I fucking made it. You’re talking to the new senior partner of Balmer & Steigt.  Fuck yeah. I finally get what I fucking deserve.  

The gray ellipses start blinking underneath the bubble. You frown, bracing yourself. 

I couldn’t have made it without you. This is your victory as much as mine.

You scoff, but the dread-inducing ellipses keep bouncing happily. Fantastic. There’s more coming.

I got you something. Something fancy for my fancy girl.

“Oh, hell no.”  

Leaning down, you pick up the roomy I ❤ NY tote bag Ava got you as a Christmas present and dump your phone into it, before stuffing the bag under your seat. 

If only you could take a full breath. If only your chest would expend. It’s not that bad, really. A few months back, you would have been physically unable to keep going with your day after that conversation with your father. Let alone drive. You’d have suffocated, chocked up on your panic, until you’d been left with no choice other than to gulp down a pill, or two, or three, topped off with a swig of gin. The bitter taste of surrendering. 

Is that what it means, to give oneself some grace? You’re doing good, you’re doing better, you’re doing your best.

Closing your eyes, you exhale through pursed lips and ease down your shoulders. 

He had you called into his office by his secretary, as you were about to leave, bag in hand, counting steps. 

But you were expecting it. In all honesty, you’re surprised it’s taken him this long. Four weeks since you came back from Beaver Creek. Four weeks of defying his strict, outdated, misogynistic dress-code. 

The very first morning, you stepped out of the mirror-lined elevator on the 15th floor wearing high-waisted, wide-legged slacks and a loose button-up, the sleeves folded high on your forearms. And flat derbies.  

Nervousness, sitting heavy and queasy in the pit of your stomach, beating loud against your eardrums. Prickling under your armpits, raising the hair on your nape. 

Kaytee’s eyes widened as she caught sight of you walking by her office, before she remembered to police her expression. The shock on her face turned into something else, something worse. Lurking in the lift-up corner of her lips, in the smugness coloring her cheeks. Something sardonic. Condescension. 

“ You can’t spend your life trying to be someone else. ” Ava’s words through the receiver the previous night were a dizzying swirl inside your head, as you walked down the glass corridors, coworkers and subordinates watching you with a similar shocked expression, that blurred their features into one subdued, frightened face. 

But who the fuck am I, Ava? you wanted to ask, the only sound on the line that of your short breathing. How did you know who you were? Always. From the very beginning of your life. How did you know how to be so unapologetic about it? 

Had it been your gift to her? Does self-confidence require love? Or guidance? Is it innate? 

All you know, at this point in your life, is that wearing clothes that you chose for yourself seems like a sound first measure. One that you can actually undertake. 

And with that in mind, you stepped into your father’s office, your heart pulsating in your throat, to take a seat across from him, his clear desk standing like a wide canyon between you.

Now, your steps are nearly silent on the shifting gravel, as you walk across the parking lot, fingers brushing along the cool metal of the truck as you pass it by. That pull toward Frankie propelling you forward, inescapable, irresistible despite the nasty sensation oozing down along your legs like thick-flowing tar, weighing your gait. 

On the porch, you pause. On Friday evenings, this is when you shed your old skin. Healing wounds, scar tissues. When you set your eyes on the canopy as it swallows the sun, pink-orange dusk fading to dark. Grainy photographs, forgotten vacations. This is when your spine straightens, when you take in the horizon and let it deepen your breathing. When you ready yourself for the life you’ve chosen, between the brown carpet and the yellow curtains and his arms. 

But it’s already night. The darkness has erased the horizon and your old skin won’t shed. 

The door opens, a draft ruffling your hair.  

The first thing you see is the crease between his brow. The tick of his whiskered jaw, and then, his dark brown eyes, appraising the tension that winds up your body, appraising your silence. His grunt, like an echo, distant. 

“You sat in that car forever. I was about to come out and get you.”

The concern in his voice rattles something deep inside your belly. You’re not bringing any of it inside that room of yours, you think, as he pushes away from the door to let you in, as you cross the threshold, but it’s stuck to you. Your father’s voice. The tremendous power it still holds over you. His disappointment. Your failures, plural. All the wrong choices. 

His hat is set on the desk. His suede jacket is draped over the back of the angular wooden chair. Your gaze lingers on it, you can almost feel the comforting softness of the fabric under the pads of your fingers.

He stands a few feet away from you, giving you space. Dark mahogany searching your features, your posture. His hands propped on his hips, like that other night in the parking lot, after he’d seen the fresh scar in your hairline. 

You face away from him. The smell of the room is familiar, in a comforting way. Musty. Dust and the faintest perfume of industrial laundry detergent coming from the starched sheets. He’s pulled the bedspread off the bed. It’s folded neatly on the floor underneath the window. It rises tears along your throat, the idea of him prepping himself, prepping the place, alone in this room where you’ve waited for him countless times and hours. Guilt scrambles your brain, over what, you’re not entirely certain. Keeping him waiting? You failures, plural. All the wrong choices. 

“Lee.”

His voice seeps in through the blackness coating your skin, like warm and persistent little droplets of sweet amber.

You turn to face him, at last. An awkward upper-body twist, feet rooted to the brown carpet, teeth clenched around the lump in your throat. He’s wearing that gray threadbare t-shirt you love, the one with a v-neck, and your eyes find the dip at the base of his throat, the fireworks of freckles between his collarbone. Tears well up, too strong to hold back, and you shut your eyes to the muffled sound of his booted steps on the matted carpet.  

You’re drifting, enveloped in his warmth, his scent, leather and musk. The contact of his skin as he curls a large hand around your nape, tucking your face into the curve of his strong neck. 

His arm wraps around your waist, drawing you closer, flush to his chest, and he presses his chin to your temple. You let go, surrender, honey dripping thick and golden along your loosening limbs. 

His pulse beats solid and steady against your cheek. You breathe him in, a hindered inhale at first, and when your shoulders begin to drop, a deeper one. A single tear escapes. It rolls down the round of your cheek into his skin. Your palms skim up to the plane of his back, soaking in his heat, and he presses you in harder, his forearm aligning with your spine, fingers spreading at the base of your skull. 

Time stretches. He holds you. You lean in. 

Later, after he’s helped you climb into the cab of his truck, you keep your eyes on him as he rounds the red hood.

Sitting behind the wheel, he puts the key in the ignition and, looking at you, tilts his head to the left. 

“C’mere,” he says, and you scoot next to him, biting down a relieved sigh as you slide over the seat bench. 

He leans over your lap, grabbing the middle seat belt, and buckles you in, then himself. You settle in, with your head against his shoulder, and your hand on his thigh, soft cotton, worn denim. Under your touch, his firm muscles ripple as he drives you into the night, into oblivion. The steady motion lulling you to sleep.

Alongside the deserted road, trees and bushes roll out in the headlights as the truck swallows miles and miles of asphalt. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble after a while, fighting drowsiness.

“Don’t be. You wanna talk about it?” he adds after a pause.

“No.” 

You shake your head, your voice so low you’re not certain he’s heard your answer.

“Doesn’t have to be now,” he says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Your head bobs with his bunching muscles as he releases the wheel to bend his arm at the elbow, fingers threading through your hair. Without lifting his eyes off the road, he leans in, and pecks a pointed kiss on the crown of your head. 

Your eyes close. The image of the bedspread neatly folded underneath the window flashes through your mind. You can’t seem to get used to his tender gestures, to his attentions. You hope they will never stop. You hope you will never get used to them. 

The emotion washes over you, a soft wave, and you float with it. In the cab of his truck, in his scent and his hold, you feel free of all doubts. Fear and pain cannot find you here. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced so far, a strange feeling, potent and all encompassing, albeit one that doesn’t need to be dulled or tamed. 

The words come out of your mouth as a surprise. 

“I think I don't want it to define me anymore. My family, I mean. Where I come from.”  

This is a new state of mind. Or perhaps it’s been there for a while, a mere shadow on the wall, something you couldn’t clearly discern. Suddenly simple to comprehend and articulate.

“Yea. I get it,” he says.

And you know he does. 

You open your eyes, and take in a deep breath, fill your lungs with that distinct old leather scent that clings about him, and the smell of vintage Bakelite from the dashboard, so specific to his truck.  

“Music?” you ask.

“Sure, good idea. You like Jefferson Airplane?”

You nod, brushing your cheek against the cottony fabric of his t-shirt, leaving a little bit of you there, for him to find later.

“Yes. I like them.”

“Jefferson Airplane it is, then,” he answers. 

Gently, he bends forward, mindful not to nudge you too much, and turns on the stereo. His thick fingers push the tape that’s already there into the slot, and your lips curl with an explicit thought, unlike any you used to have before meeting him. Crude, but welcome pictures that now constantly crowd your brain. 

He keeps the volume low, and with the round rumbling of his quiet humming, your mind slowly drifts off again. 

You’re about to fall asleep when a thought surfaces, skirting the edges of your consciousness. 

“Frankie?” you quietly call. 

“Mmh?”

“Are you… Were you in the military?”

The humming stops, his silence abrupt, and his shoulder tenses under your cheek. Pushing away from it, you risk a sleepy glance at his face, plunged in the semi-darkness. It’s not dark enough that you don’t recognize the cocking of his jaw. 

“Frankie?” you ask again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“I’m a pilot,” he cuts in, pausing to inhale deeply. “I was in the Army for nearly twenty years. I got a discharge a couple years back.” 

You remain silent. His eyes flicker quickly between you and the road, and you give his thigh a strong squeeze with your left hand, before resting your cheek against his shoulder, eluding his searching gaze.

Volunteers is crackling through the speakers, but you don’t hear the music. Fully awake now, your mind is reeling with those scattered, minute parts of him you picked up Friday after Friday to stash them away in your subconscious. His puzzle of shadows. All the things that now make perfect sense, and the ones you’re dying to unravel. 

His quiet assertiveness. His hands, quick and sure. His silences. His commanding tone. That long, sideways scar etched on his left flank. 

His early rage, and his anger too. The flight forward, dimming his eyes, where deep rich mahogany now glimmers. 

The zip ties. Your eyes grow wide, a gasping sound catching in your throat. You’re not ready to address how much you appreciate this particular skill of his, considering where he picked it up.  

Your imagination produces a clear vision of him in a US Air Force uniform, the fabric stretched over his broad shoulders, and you bite your lip, your entire body covering in chills. 

Frankie has yet to say another word. Something raises your consciousness, something in the scowl sharpening his features as he scanned your face for a reaction. 

Images flash through your head. The 8 × 10 picture displayed in your father’s office in its platinum frame, for every visitor to admire. Smooth faced and confident, his sleeves rolled up high on his lean forearms, your father’s shaking hands with Reagan in front of a colorful assemblage of containers, in the industrial quarter of the Tampa Bay Harbor, during the 1984 campaign. His coldly handsome face split by a smile, larger and more genuine than any of those he ever addressed you, let alone Ava. 

Recollections of those dragging hours you spent in church as a child, beads of sweat dripping along your spine as you sat in the sweltering heat on a hard wooden bench, rigid and still like a marble statue for fear of being reprimanded. 

The hateful, vehement speeches your father would burst into at random, your mother pinching your arm for you to listen, this is important. The uneasy feeling sitting in the pit of your stomach, like bile, like nausea. Wrong. This is wrong. A feeling, not an idea yet. It grew with you, expending, to become impossible to see past by the time you started high.

The list of names in your father’s neat handwriting, scrawled on a crisp piece of paper, that he handed you before driving the entire family to the polls for your very first election. The sheer terror, primitive in its hold over you, prickling on your nape as you systematically disregarded his instructions, choosing the names followed by the three letters DEM. 

The rare political meetings you secretly attended in college, the pamphlets in loud colors and bold letters, that you read hidden from your roommate’s prying eyes, as if they were satanic verses. Reproductive rights! Demilitarization Now! No to privatized prisons! End gun violence! 

Petitions you signed with a shaking hand, because what if your parents found out? What if they heard of it? A dread so profoundly anchored at the very core of your psyche that you have never told Ava any of it, even when she would chastise your lack of interest in politics, your lack of involvement, lest she’d reveal your treason to them in the heat of an argument.

Could this be when you started finding yourself? In your diverging convictions? Could it be enough? Could it count? 

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask tentatively.

He huffs a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. 

“You’re a hell of a fast learner, aren’t you?”

“I have a very good teacher,” you shrug, trying to ignore the sharpness in his tone. 

Curiosity overthrowing your ingrained fear to displease, you ask, “What kind of aircraft do you fly? Planes? Helicopters?”

He simply nods, and your cheeks heat again at the notion, your heart racing. 

“I’m very impressed,” you whisper. “I can barely parallel park.”

“I’m sure you got plenty of other skills,” he answers, softer. 

“No. I really don’t.”

—

Frankie walks briskly across the parking lot, carrying a take-away bag and a six-pack of beer. His head hung low to shield his face from the thin, mid-February drizzle. His denim shirt sticks to his back with humidity, and sweat from the drive. It’s pulled uncomfortably taut across his shoulders. 

He steps onto the porch, hands too full to open the door or even knock on it, so he gives it three light kicks. A tiny screw pops out from the curved top of the brass number two. The whole thing swivels upside down, swinging like a pendulum.

“Jesus christ, this fucking place,” he scoffs.

The door flies open, and you’re here, with that bright, earnest smile and your wide, luminous eyes. You’ve tied your hair up in a casual do, but you’re still fully dressed. He likes those slacks on you, snug on your curves, wide on your legs. It fits you so much better than the tight pencil skirts you used to wear when he first met you. Those made you look like an 80s porn producer fever dream. But these trousers transform your gait, your entire demeanor, into something more relaxed. More confident. He could watch you strut around the room for hours. If only there was more time.  

He catches a glimpse of the mesh fabric of your bra, peeking out from the cleavage of your open shirt, and he mentally curses the corporate fucks who get to work all week around you.

“Hey, Frankie.”

The sharp, familiar pang rips through his chest at the sound of your voice, light and cheery. That ache he waits for seven excruciatingly long days to experience again.

“Hey, baby.”

As you let him in, he feels the tip of your fingers brushing his thigh, as if you need to make sure he’s here in the flesh. The miracle of you wanting him, still. 

“What’s in the bag?” you ask, dragging the chipped chair away from the desk, so he can set down his bounty. 

His eyes fall on your graceful nape as you crane your neck to see what’s inside the bag, too well-behaved to touch it without having been invited to do so. 

“Didn’t have time to eat. I took something for you too, I hope you don’t mind. Did you eat? Are you hungry?”

“I don’t usually eat before I come here,” you admit. “I drive in straight from work,” you add, heat visibly creeping up your neck and ears.

He takes off his hat, ruffling a hand through his hair to conceal a smug smile. 

“And you’re not starving, by the time I’m finished with you?”

“Quite the contrary, actually. I feel pretty full when you leave.”

Your lips stretch into a wide grin you’re ineffectively trying to hold back. 

“That so?” he chuckles, propping his hands on his hips. For countenance. 

Pride glimmers in your eyes, as it does every time you make him laugh. He knows it’s mirrored in his eyes. Your levity is his reward. 

Everything about you is unbearably endearing. He’s not sure if he’s hungry for food anymore, or if he’s not going to go straight down on you. You’ve already prepared the bed, that ugly bedspread neatly folded under the window. He could lay you prone on your stomach, lower your trousers to your knees, perk up your pretty ass and eat your sweet cunt from behind.

His hunger for you sizzles along his spine, sparkling in his loins, imperious and distracting. The sensation is delicious, and for once, he takes the time to revel in it. He’s so used to barging in here and just taking. He doesn’t savor, not really, not until after he’s had you at least once. 

He’s not proud of his unbridled hunger, the consequence of seven days’ worth of pent-up frustration, chasing your perfume on his clothes and the ghost feeling of your cool, smooth skin under his palms. That ever-growing obsession for your scent, for your eyes, and that crippling craving for the sounds you produce when he moves inside you. That high he gets when he makes you feel good. Every time he gives you what you want. 

And there’s the absolute black-out on all communications between you throughout the week that drives him out of his mind. He knows that’s the tacit deal the two of you struck at the very beginning. No phone number, no address, no marks. Hell, he didn’t even know your name until you gave it to him at Christmas. Only, he’s left in the dark for seven consecutive fucking days, with no means to check up on you, and no way to make sure you’re safe. 

He understands the necessity for secrecy. But the more time passes, the less it makes sense. 

So come Friday night, he needs to crush you under his weight. Needs to feel your flesh gushing through his splayed fingers and hear you mewl his name, eyes rolling to the back of your head, your body tensing up in his hold before it shatters around his cock. 

He needs to fuck you deep and full, find you in that place within yourself and wreck you there. He needs to make sure you’re alright. Make sure you’re real. Make sure you’re his. 

And his control might be tenuous, but he sure loves the way you lean into it. 

You’re still smiling when he takes a step closer behind you. Lowering his face into the curve of your neck, he inhales you there, that spot behind your ear, where your subtle scent becomes heady. He feels your chest rising with your own deep breathing, and he pictures your eyes fluttering shut. His hand skims the curve of your hip, sliding up to the swell of your breast over the smooth fabric of your shirt, gripping you roughly as he takes your earlobe between his lips and sucks on it. His hips move against your ass of their own volition, his cock half-hard, fucking twitching.

“Frankie,” you whine.

“Yea?”

He licks a broad stride up your neck, collecting the tangy taste of your skin, mixed with the chemical one of your perfume. 

“What’s in the bag?”

“What bag, baby? Oh, right.”

It’s a beat before he can detach himself from you. His cock is beating hard and angry against the confining fabric of his jeans. With a light brush of his knuckles along your side, he reminds himself there’s also pleasure in the anticipation. The word sits in the back of his throat, like a knife ready to bleed him dry. Concupiscence. 

Ripping the paper bag open in the middle, he smooths both sides neatly over the desk, and points at the three rolls wrapped in tin foil.

“Took three burritos, and some fried beans. There’s one beef, one pork, and one vegetarian, in case you don't eat meat.”

You look at him with a twinkle in your eyes, your grin getting wider than he’s ever seen it. He braces a hand flat on the desk. 

“Oh, I eat meat, I thought you’d know that.”

The words have barely left your mouth that you burst into a fit of giggles, covering your face with both hands.

“Christ, woman!” he laughs. “Alright, sit down. Let’s get proper food into that mouth of yours, for once.”

Together, you unfold the bedspread and arrange it over the foot of the bed. The thing is already stained, and you mutually agree there’s no need to make a mess of the white sheet just yet. 

Letting you pick between the two richer ones, he takes the vegetarian burrito, and you start eating together, two open cans of beer at your feet. 

His bites are ravenous, while you nibble gingerly at your food, holding the burrito with two hands, the foil crackling between your fingers. After a few bites, however, you start eating in bigger chunks. 

“This is delicious,” you moan with your mouth full. 

Is he getting jealous of a fucking burrito now? Is that where he’s at?

“What, you never had a burrito in your life?”

You wince, and he immediately regrets the teasing skepticism of his tone. 

Setting the food down, you dab a paper towel to the corner of your mouth, catching a fleck of sauce. There’s grace in all your movements, even the tiniest ones.  

“My mother monitored everything I ate. God forbid I put on any weight,” you explain, a hint of bitterness in your voice. 

He lowers his hands, eyes trained on your averted gaze. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” you tell him, looking up at him.

There’s that quiet resignation painted all over your face. 

“Try me.”

“You’re thinking I’m a grown woman, old enough to make her own decisions.”

He shakes his head. “Was actually thinking your mother sounds like the exact opposite of mine.”

Your mouth curves into a sad attempt at a smile.

“I don't judge you, Lee. We all do what we can with what we got dealt with.”

A slight frown knits your brow, as you seem to consider his words. 

He has spent a lot of time, lately, reflecting over his own choices, and the many places where they’ve led him, for better or for worse. 

Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria. Libya and the most dangerous places in sub-Saharan Africa. Nearly everywhere in South America. Twice over.

Over the fucking Andes, and to Tom’s funeral. 

Choices that also made him Lua’s father. 

Crossroads that have taken him all the way to that shithole bar, last year at the end of August. Conscious decisions that brought him here, into this room. Into your arms. Into your life.

A chain reaction he wouldn’t alter, he knows it now, even if he was given the chance for a do-over. 

He used to consider things as definite. Choices as absolute and irrevocable. It took him becoming a father, and meeting you, to understand his mother’s words. Paso a paso, she’d say, watching him with a tender, knowing smile as he rushed toward his life. Paso a Paso, Francisco. 

You eat in silence for a while, and he keeps watching you. That sharp pain solidly entrenched inside his chest, blooming through his heart, he has to make a conscious effort to breathe around it. 

He bought you the food you’re eating right now. Drove to his favorite place, stood in line and placed his order with you in mind. And you’re enjoying it. In fact, you’re demonstrating an impressive appetite, hungrier, messier with every bite. Sauce dripping down your chin. Pink flashes of tongue licking it from between your fingers. 

He could get used to that. Providing for you. Taking care of you. In more than just one way. Sharing the mundane routine of a daily life together. 

But this is not real. Whatever is happening between the four walls of this shitty motel is not ground for life-altering choices. 

“Do you want to share the pork one?” you ask, crinkling the tinfoil wrapper into a compact ball. 

“I’m good, baby,” he answers with a soft smile. “You can have it. Just make sure you’re still hungry for more meat when you’re done.”

—

Adrian has gifted you a new purse from another French luxury brand. It’s a square-shaped thing cut from some grayish reptile skin, with a matching tag and a decorative lock hanging from its handle. It looks insanely expensive and ridiculously vulgar, its tackiness almost cruelly ironic. Like a rich people’s inside joke.  

Somehow, you’re vaguely aware this model is exclusive and can’t be bought online or even in stores, however high-end. It has to be ordered, and there’s a waiting list. Useless knowledge you probably gathered from one of your mother’s magazines. A family of four could most likely live comfortably for a whole year for the price of this thing. 

Incidentally, there’s a new perfume clinging to Adrian’s clothes when he comes home late at night. The first time you caught a whiff of the heady fragrance, intense vanilla and white musk, it reminded you of the stunning blonde with feline hazel eyes. 

The gift immediately felt less like an expression of gratitude for your support than like a reward for your silent compliance. But it’s of little to no importance. The bag sits idly at the bottom of your walk-in dressing. Unused, containing what’s left of the love and respect you once harbored for the man. 

Every so often, you think about it, as you cruise along the 589. It makes you smile. A wide, Cheshire cat grin, one that bares your front teeth, and you wonder if it’s cruel of you to smile about the end of something that used to mean so much. Something that meant nearly everything. You wonder if you’ve ever been cruel before. Intentionally, that is. 

Then, you conclude you don’t care. This particular kind of cruelty feels far too good. Too righteous. You could get used to it. 

And you keep cruising along the 589 northbound. 

—

“Mark Twain or Lewis Carroll?”

“Oh god, Frankie, I don’t know…” you moan, too distracted to think straight. 

Teeth ghosting a bite over your neck, he wraps a kiss around your skin, sucking on it. Not sharply enough to bruise, but enough for you to clench hard around him.

In the past few weeks, he’s become playful. It’s new to you. Was it always a part of him, constituent but buried underneath the scars and the years, or was it born from your touch? 

He’s become talkative, too. Talkative, and curious. But then again, perhaps he always was. Only, not with you. 

Thus, there are new rituals between you. Secrets exchanged behind the shielding partition of the yellow curtains. Murmurs shared underneath the droning of the ceiling fan, in the golden lighting from the quaint bedside lamps.

Some of his questions can pose a challenge. You’re not always certain about the proper answer. The right one. You were raised to say what was expected of you. Taught to speak to please, not to speak your mind. To wait for your cue, and hold your thoughts in between.

Frequently, you hesitate, afraid to trip on your words. 

But he doesn’t easily relent. He’s playful and curious. But above all, he’s patient and persistent.

“I don’t know,” you repeat.

“You know. Come on.”

“Okay, um… Lewis Carroll. I love– I love Alice.”

“Oh yea? You do? You like following big white rabbits to strange places, huh?”

His chest shakes with his raspy chuckle, and you laugh, until he pulls you in closer, sheathing himself deeper inside you, and your laughter plummets into a throaty groan.

Seamlessly, these new ceremonials have replaced the old ones, the ones that were carried out under wary gazes, in appraising silence.  

Now, you don’t always count your steps on Fridays, but you leave work earlier, and when you arrive at the motel, you try to engage Raul in conversation. His discomfort is obvious, bordering on annoyance, as you disrupt his concentration while he’s busy drawing charcoal landscapes of jagged mountains. But these past two weeks, he seems to have loosened up a bit. Either you’re wearing him off, or he’s trying to get rid of you faster. 

On the porch, in front of room number 2, you watch the sun slowly sink into the canopy of trees in an explosion of tangerine pink. Every week, the sunset creates a different palette of orange, but your emotion continues to be whole and unaltered. 

Before stepping in, you flick the upside-down brass number. It smiles in greeting, swinging on its one remaining screw.

You wish the place carried Frankie’s scent. It never does, of course. As you fold the comforter and prop it under the windowsill, the only smells wafting around are that of laundry detergent, dust, and the faintest hint of mold. 

There’s nothing tangible for you to hold on to in his absence, and this is by far the most difficult. It creates a vacuum, a fertile soil for foul, festering thoughts. Doubt, dread, agitation. During those seven days apart, there is no text or voicemail on your phone you can turn to for reassurance. No photo booth pictures stashed inside your wallet. No clothes of his to drape over your body and keep you warm and safe. Keep you sane. 

Every so often, when you cannot find sleep, you convoke the memory of his gray t-shirt, the one with the v-neck and the pilled fabric. The sensation of the slightly rugged cotton under the pads of your fingers. The immediate comfort gently lulls you to sleep. 

There is one thing, one thing only: the receipt from the burrito place, that you retrieved from the wastebasket after he’d left, that one time he brought you food. It’s tucked between two pages of your Moleskine planner. You’re not sure whether it’s cute or downright pathetic.  

You had thought the want, the yearning, would ease with time. It only kept spreading to every corner of your existence, every aspect of your life. Instead of only missing his touch, you now miss his voice, too. His choice of words, the cadence of his speech, the pace of his gait. His crinkled-eyes, dimpled smile. The way he rolls up his sleeves, leaves the top buttons of his shirt open, and the way he undresses. His three-finger hold on his glass. His long reflecting pauses before he speaks. The freedom and safety you experience with him.

You just became better at handling the longing. Recently, you have become very good at handling numerous things. Quietly but steadfastly defying your father’s injunctions to comply with his dress code. Adrian’s glaring eyes of blue, their silent judgement. Ava living a life of her own, far away from you. 

Reading helps. You hadn’t read in years, and you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it. Now, you carry a book with you everywhere in your I ❤ NY tote. In these last moments before he walks into the room, you lie on your side across the motel bed, your head propped on your hand, and you read.

And when Frankie arrives, everything makes sense again, everything is justified. 

The wooden door creaks open, the brass number swiveling frantically, and his relief upon seeing you lights up the dim room. Hushed greetings, his large hands curling at your waist, pulling you into him, a husk of Hey, baby, his lips barely leaving yours while he tugs at your clothes, undressing you already. 

There’s rarely any other form of preamble beyond an occasional variation of Fuck, I really missed you, Lee , his teeth trailing down the line of your throat, sinking in just shy of a bite. Out of breath, out of time. 

The wait is over. 

Does he still come here to escape? Does he come here for you? His urgency hasn’t abated. But his intent feels different.

Stop me, skin on skin, chest to chest, the weight of his body covering yours, calloused hands hooked on your shoulders for purchase, pounding into you loud and ruthless. 

Stop me, crouched over you like a devouring beast, his face buried into the crook of your neck, shallow breaths and gripping hands, grinding deep inside your heat. 

Stop me, and what you hear is, I trust you. 

Deep grunts thrumming out of his throat, tumbling from his plush lips into your skin, a searing branding, an invisible mark. 

His plea. Lee.

He comes right after you do, pulling out just in time to spurt hot and thick over your arching body, or inside your wanting mouth. 

Later, when his spend has dried on your skin, when he’s kissed the soreness better, when your breathing has slowed, he brings you a glass of water, and waits until you’ve drank it all to bury his face between your legs, or fuck your throat if you begged him to. 

And on some Fridays, he goes by the desk to sit on the rectangular chair. He positions it sideways from the framed mirror. Says the reflection distracts you. It’s true. 

You could spend hours watching him. Watching him move, watching him sleep. Watch the care he puts in the way he handles his clothes and his truck and your pliant body. Watch him button up his jeans or tie his belt around your wrists. Watch his curls catch the light as he combs his fingers through them, the working of his throat, the pulsating throb of his heartbeat in his strong neck. The dip in his collarbone. The darker scar on his side. The muscles of his shoulders and his back, rippling under his freckled skin. Watch, and map those freckles with your lips. 

You could spend the rest of your life with him.

“C’mere,” he beckons, with a little tilt of his head, and a light pat on his thigh.

You get up from wherever he left you lying, the bed, the rough carpeting, the bathroom tiles, and walk over to him on wobbly legs. There, he draws you into his lap in a face-away straddle, his hands on your waist guiding you, firm and gentle, as he makes room for himself inside of you. The tip of your toes barely reach the carpet once you’re seated, and you have to rely entirely on him for balance. You like that. 

He braces his strong arms around you, and you keep your fingers curled around them, reclining against him, against his warmth. You like the sticky sensation of your combined sweats gluing your loose bodies. Your back molds to his chest like it was shaped for this very purpose. 

Your head tips back onto his firm shoulder, and he props his chin in the curve of your neck. The slight swaying of your hips is languid and slow, barely perceivable, in the same way the earth’s revolution around the sun is imperceptible to its inhabitants. 

Time lingers, in long lazy stretches, infinite moments in the amber lighting of the room, in the friendly shadows. In the heart of the night, and the folds of your existence. The low husk of his voice like honey in your ears, his words vibrating from his chest to your back, to your core. 

You can hear the smile in his tone. If you close your eyes, you can see it.

He asks about your taste in books, music or movies, food and entertainment, and tells you about his. Silly games of Would you rather? and Never have I ever. 

Scrunching up your nose under your pinched brow, brain cells scrambling back together inside your hazy brain, you try to produce coherent answers as his lush lips trace intricate patterns along your skin, your throat, your shoulders, nimble fingertips rolling your nipples into hardened peaks. A scrape of his teeth, followed by the wet glide of his tongue, soothing over your flushed skin.

Sometimes, you feel so full it’s overwhelming. The sensation, the emotion strangles the air out of you. Your cunt flutters around the thick, stiff girth of him, and he lets out a gravelly groan, cock throbbing inside your snug walls. Your slick pools down onto the coarse curls at his base. It’s like a virtuous circle. Everything feels right with him. 

After a while, when you’ve melted inside, when amber twirls in your bloodstream and your thoughts have turned to swirling molasses, his hand slides down along your stomach. His calloused fingers parting your folds, he starts rubbing at your clit, telling you that it’s time to come for me, baby. 

And when you do, he comes with you, shoving you down and deep onto his pulsating length, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. His mouth pressed to that sensitive spot over your pulse point, his feverish grunts sizzling against your damp skin. 

When he comes inside you, when you come together, you are made brand-new. Anything’s possible. There’s nothing you can’t do. 

The elating sensation is your favorite daydream, sitting at your desk, over dinner, stuck in traffic, or in the blue hours before dawn. It sustains you throughout the week. The promise of it tingles in tense anticipation, from the crown of your head to the tip of your toes, when you watch him walk over to the desk and fold his tall, massive figure into the ugly chair. 

Week after week, question after question, you come into focus between his arms. It’s terrifying, and exhilarating. You keep getting better at it.

It’s a bittersweet ache, tender and addictive, to learn about his existence outside this room of yours. The borderless confines of his life. Of him. The details he chooses to confide in you, about his childhood, his past, and his present, in the dead of the night, his body wrapped around yours, chasing the contact of your skin. Chasing your touch, your softness, your understanding, when he used to grunt away from it. Like a threat, with bared teeth, and a shake of his head. A forbidding. A not yet. 

It makes sense to you now. There’s an absolute about him. An all or nothing. You’re not sure when it happened. The tipping point. Perhaps in the bathroom, on that sunny morning after Christmas, when he crowded you against the sink with a wolfish look turning his gorgeous face dark and threatening. You think it was meant to scare you. One last attempt. Your last chance to recoil and escape. 

You didn’t. You kept blooming, unfurling into your own limbs under the dark depth of his gaze, reflected in the black-edged mirror. You pressed back into him, the solid, steadying bulk of his body, of his broad chest. You pushed back and sunk deeper into his world. 

Today, he had to scoop you up from the floor where you were lying, boneless, in the wet mess he drew out of you. 

When he stormed into the room, you could still hear the engine of the truck revving. A scowl shadowed his face. Fidgety, tightly wound up, he began undressing you without a word. Unceremonious in his need, an echo of those early days, when he was imprisoned in his past, when his strength was unrestrained, when violence was his sole language. 

Fingers digging into the tense muscles of his shoulders, carding through his hair, you sought eye contact, softly cooing, I’m here, Frankie, I’m here, until your voice got through him. Until he heard you, slowing down, drawing you close. His forehead smearing sweat over your temple, his ragged breathing fanning the shell of your ear. His fist clutching the fabric of your shirt in a ball, with a push-pull motion, torn and primal, I need it, Lee. Please, I need you.

You relented, gave into it, lose and pliant as he bent you over the desk with a press of his palm, flat between your shoulder blades, as he pulled your panties to the side and lined himself up, as he thrust into you in one ruthless shove, down to his base. The clasp of his watch biting into your flesh. He was still fully clothed. 

Pulling on your wrists with an iron grip, he drilled into you at a brutal pace, skin catching at your entrance along his length, and you bit your lips through it, nearly drawing blood, until, at the very center of you, the pain turned into something blindingly pleasurable, bright and searing. A shockwave, erupting from your core, fast spreading along your limbs, lighting up every nerve-ending. 

Tensing under his constraining hold, bucking against his grip, you cried out his name, your back achingly stiff. Slick gushing out of you fast and hot, as your legs trembled uncontrollably, and through the din of it all, his rumbling growl, a guttural string of Fuck, before you slumped onto the desk and he fucked his own release into you. 

When he let go of you, he had to lay you on the carpet, where he collapsed next to you, chest heaving with exertion. Time blurred, you might have spent the whole night lying there, staring blankly at the popcorn ceiling, but he got up to undress.

He’s cradling you on his lap now, gently rocking into you. The slow and steady rhythm of his heartbeat aligned with yours, you’re bathed in his warmth, enveloped by his musky scent. You play along, searching your brain for answers. To his questions, and yours.  

There’s no evidence of his earlier outburst, saved for his thumbs drawing circles on your wrists where his fingers left a bruising indent. And of course, the wet spot on the carpet. 

Nuzzling your jawline, he trails a path of messy, lazy kisses down the column of your neck, capturing the tender skin between his plush lips, his tongue peeking through them.

“I should read it again. Alice. Read it so long ago. When I was a kid.”

Humming distractedly in agreement, your head lolls back on his shoulder. 

“Did I hurt you, earlier?”

Your eyelids fly open. His voice is barely a murmur, no more than warm breath grazing your ear, and you feel him throb inside you. 

“I don’t want to hurt you. I never want to hurt you.”

The vulnerability in his words shoots through your heart like a bullet. You free your arms to twine your fingers with his. 

“What happened today, Frankie?” 

His chest stiffens underneath you. 

“Nothing. Nothing happened. It’s more… It’s the date.”

The overhead fan hums over the room, louder than your breathing, louder than his. 

“A year ago, I agreed to a mission. With my former teammates. It was… It was bullshit. From the start. Nothing went as planned.”

He pauses and you wait, still and silent. 

“One of us got killed.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, squeezing his hands with all of your strength.

A chilling, bone-deep dread settles over your body in the sweltering heat, so cold he can probably feel it. You don’t want him to. 

“You said you resigned a couple of years ago?” 

“I did. I worked for the private sector, on occasions. It’s over now.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Fuck no,” he snarls. “But some of my friends did. I– I had to go.” He clears his throat. “I chose to go.”

“Do you miss him?”

He doesn’t answer for a while. Lifting his hand in yours, you give his knuckles a long, open-mouthed kiss. His forehead rests heavy against the back of your head, his eyelashes a fluttering caress on your nape. 

“For a long time, I felt responsible for his death.”

His words are dense with defeat. With sadness, and fatality. They sink heavily into you, into your bloodstream. You don’t need a mirror to know what his face looks like at this very moment. Your body will remember it, even if you live long enough to forget your own name. The pitch-blackness of his beautiful eyes, the stern crease splitting his brow, imploring for your touch. The tightness in his jaw. The downward curve of his plush lips.

That first night at the motel comes back rushing like a flood, like a wildfire. His roughness, the urgency saturating his actions, the anger in his grief. His bleeding wounds, invisible, evident, glaring. He reached for you through his despair, clutching your body, clinging to the idea of you. 

Are you real?  

I don’t know. 

A dry sob wells up in your throat, but you swallow it down. 

“What do you think now?”

“I think it doesn’t matter who’s responsible for his death. His girls are still orphaned.”

Between your lungs, the wild creature curls up into a ball. Its tears fill up your heart. There isn’t any pill or alcohol strong enough to numb this pain of yours. But it doesn’t matter. You want to feel what he feels.

You turn around. You kiss him.

—

“What about this one?”

He should be leaving soon. But your body’s soft and relaxed, curled into his side on the rumpled bed. Pleasantly cool in the muggy atmosphere of the motel room, in the dawn’s indigo hues. Your thin fingers hover gracefully over his skin, tracing the outlines of his scars, and it’s like you’re reshaping his entire body, all of his wounds, and his whole life, with the gentle touch of your fingertips.

“Frankie, what’s this one?”

He should be leaving soon. The sun’s about to come up. 

“Did you save it for last because it’s the largest?” he deflects with a smirk.

Folding an arm over his chest, you prop your chin over it, frowning exaggeratedly with your jaw shifting to the side. He laughs so hard that your head bobbles with his shaking belly.

“That supposed to be an impression of me?”

“You recognized yourself,” you smile, sitting up next to him.

He should be leaving soon. And you know it. You’re giving him the space he needs to get up and get out. He fucking hates it.

“Stay here,” he says, curling his fingers around your arm as you’re about to get down from the bed.

The look you give him awakens the pain in his chest. You peer through the curtains, into the blue morning sky, and your gaze returns to him with a silent question. 

“Come on. Please. Just a little longer.”

It’s not lost on him that he should be the one getting up. Not pleading.

The mattress creaks in protest as you move over it on your knees, sitting in a straddle across his hips. 

“Yea, that’s better,” he smiles, smoothing his palms over your thighs. His left hand slides up to palm your breast, and he notices he hasn’t taken off his watch, tonight. It’s the second time this month.

“What’s this one?” you ask again, entirely undistracted, measuring up your hand to the length of the darker patch of skin. 

“Okay,” he sighs, “I crashed a chopper near– wait, I can’t actually tell you that.”

“Jesus, Frankie,” you gasp, spreading both hands over the old wound, as if to stop a ghost bleeding. Your eyes have grown so wide, they eat up half your face.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s old. Wasn’t a big deal.”

It had been a big deal, at the time. There had been talks of awarding him a Silver Star for that mission.

“Did it hurt?”

“Mostly my pride. It wasn’t that bad, don’t worry. Nothing compared to what my sister threatened to do to me if I didn't leave the Army.” 

“I can’t say I blame her. I would have probably done the same.”

“Ok, my turn. What’s this one?”

His left thumb skims along the thin line on your inner thigh, and he feels you tensing under his touch.  

“It’s nothing,” you snap, taking your hands off his skin as if you just got burnt. 

He presses his thumb into your soft flesh. The pain in his chest accentuates, radiating down to his stomach. 

“You’re cheating,” he says, as softly as he can. 

You face away from him, gaze flickering up to the window again, and you start moving away, but he holds you firmly in place with both hands on your waist. 

“Lee. Tell me what it is.”

Seconds turn into minutes, the only sound in the room that of the ceiling fan’s motor, and the pain grows stronger, pulsating from his neck to his gut. Your eyes remain trained on the window, lost somewhere beyond the curtains. 

“I had several more like this,” you start. Your tone is detached, your voice distant. “Smaller ones. On the back of my arms. When I was 17, my mother took me to a dermatologist. He removed them with laser treatment.” 

You pause, and look down at him. 

“She got me fixed, so I could find a good husband.”

His fingers dig into your flesh. It’s a full minute before he remembers to breathe, through his nose, because he can’t unclench his jaw. The chest pain turns into blinding, white-hot rage. His truck is parked outside and in his mind, the sequence of actions is crystal clear. Get you dressed. Get you in the cab. Drive away with you as far as the road goes, and never come back here. 

“It burnt like hel—“

“You’re perfect, you know that?” he cuts in. 

“I’m really not, Frankie,” you calmly answer. “What I am is a coward.”

He sits up with a cinch, cupping your face so you can’t recoil from him. Somehow, this would be easier if you looked upset. If you were crying. Showing any kind of emotion, really. But you’re far beyond that. 

“I can’t let you say that. Not when you risk everything to come here every week.”

“Alright, so I’m a selfish coward,” you say with a joyless little smile. 

“No. You’re perfect. You’re my perfect girl. Say it.”

It’s there. Your unbending will, your steel-hard determination. In your defiant gaze and your pinched lips. In the distance you're trying to put between your body and his. 

“Okay, fine. Don’t say it. I’ll keep repeating it until you believe me. I can be fucking persistent, you know?” he adds, falling back onto the pillows.

“I know you can,“ you say, lifting a leg off the bed.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he nearly growls, a bruising grip on your thigh, “I’m not done with you.”

His clipped tone appears to be more effective on you. You sit back down, let your shoulders relax, and the palm of your hands find his skin again. Distant gaze, cold touch.

“What’s this one?” he asks, the blunt fingernail of his thumb grazing the grid-shaped scar on your left knee, his tone barely a question, and to his surprise, you come alive with a spark in your eyes. 

“Oh! This one’s a good scar. I like it.”

You adjust your position over him, slotting your folds over his resting cock, and a coiling heat stirs in his loin.

“I had a bicycle when I was a kid. The most beautiful bicycle in the entire world. Red, the exact same shade as your truck. With a round cushion protection on the frame, I don’t know how you call that, and the letters MBK painted in white over it, you know the kind?”

He nods, and you continue talking. 

“I would spend hours riding it. I would disappear for entire afternoons. It was heaven. And maybe you’re not going to believe me, but I was pretty reckless on that thing.”

“Oh, I believe you.”

You’re smiling again. 

“Well, one day, I was too reckless. I hit the brakes too abruptly and I skidded over gravel. I flew ten feet away from the bike and I tore my knee open. I got home covered in blood, my parents were furious.”

A vengeful smile curves your lips, one he’s never seen on your face.

“They confiscated the bike. My mother said it wasn’t ladylike, and my father said– I can’t remember his exact words, probably 'you can’t damage my property,’ or something along those lines. They never let me on a bike again after that.”

“How’s that a happy story?” he frowns.

“I didn’t say it was a happy story. I said it’s a good scar. I got to keep this one. It reminds me of what I’m capable of. Even when I want to forget.” 

The sun is rising. A new day colors the sky in vivid bronze. The light filters into the room through the yellow curtains, dust particles suspended in the air, suspended like Frankie’s life when he can’t be with you. 

He should leave, but instead, he’s going to fuck you one more time. Pump you full of his come. Brand you with his essence, mark you as his in the only way he can before he has to let you go back to face those people who put murder on his mind.

His hands skim along your thighs to the swell of your ass, roughly kneading the round of your cheeks. His grip settles on your hips, and he bucks up into you, ever so lightly, his length hardening between your lips. He sees it on your face, on your profile bathed in the first ray of sunlight. The moment when you register his intention. The shift in your body, the echo to his desire. So powerful, so immediate, it’s almost like black magic. Your mouth parts open, your back arches. You press down on him. 

“That serves him well, your father,” he says, sliding you slowly over his cock.

“How’s that?” you ask, voice laced with lust. 

“Look what you’re riding now.”

—

The pillow is damp underneath your back, sweat exuding from your every pore. The last days of March have been unforgiving. You find yourself longing for a room with a proper air conditioning system, instead of the motel’s weak, outdated fan that only swishes hot air. 

Frankie’s searing touch doesn’t help. Stroking the back of your arm in a repetitive up-and-down motion, he’s laying across the bed, his head resting heavy on your lap, his long hair curling in every direction in this sweltering atmosphere. 

Instead of shying away from the discomfort, you embrace it. With your fingers twined in his locks, you lean into his touch, focusing on his high forehead, and the crease in his brow. On his long eyelashes, the curve of his lips as he speaks, the working of his throat. 

Ignoring the dark blue rectangle of night sky, gradually lightening up behind the musty curtains.

Dawn used to be a deliverance. From your thoughts that the night painted black. From the wait, when Adrian wouldn’t come back. From a forced rest that never really came, another disappointment, another let down, another part of your life requiring the artificial help of chemicals. 

Now, you resent it. Dawn is when Frankie leaves you behind to go back to his family. Dawn is when he’s the happiest, with his child, without you, in a realm over which you have no grasp. 

A rational part of you acknowledges that it’s easier if he leaves before the sun rises. It prevents you from yearning for things you’re afraid to want. Things you cannot have. A life with him in broad daylight. A life without shame. 

Recently, he’s become increasingly reluctant to let go of you. Dawn finds him wrapped around your body. Last week, he stayed past daybreak, and fucked you in the sunlight. 

The brighter tone of his skin, the lighter shade of his curls, the depth of his mahogany irises hit by a sunbeam, everything was like a knife through your chest.

“Lee?”

The caressing timber of his husky voice brings you back to the soft amber light from the dusty lampshades, to the humming fan, and the blue rectangle. 

“I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“I asked if you like it. Your job.” 

“God no, I hate it! Sales productivity statistics and accounting manager, can you picture me?”

He huffs his breathless chuckle, the one that sends tremors rippling through your chest. 

“Not really, no.”

“I’m terrible at it, and it’s a problem, but no one says anything because daddy runs the company. I don’t understand why he insists on maintaining me in this position. It’s like a power play. He needs me to be miserable.”

Frankie’s hand pauses, fingers digging into your flesh, and he cranes his neck to peer at your face. You give him a reassuring smile. A genuine one. 

“Is that what you studied at university? Accounting and statistics?”

You wipe your sweaty brow with the back of your hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Yes. But university was a golden parenthesis. I minored in Russian literature. Not a skill that easily translates to the employment market, but Richard was thoroughly pissed,” you say, wiggling your eyebrows. 

“My little punk.”

His smile is brighter than the midday sun. Your index finger darts to the dimple in his right cheek. 

“I really like this,” you whisper, your voice dropping, thick with heat and arousal. With affection. “And these,” you add, scraping your fingernail over the bare patches on each side of his jaw. 

“Mmh. I’ve noticed,” he says with a smug expression. 

“Oh, you have?” You try to laugh off your embarrassment, but what comes out is a quivering sound, betraying the want that hinders your throat. 

He grabs your hand and brings it to his mouth, closing his plush lips around your index finger, wrapping his tongue around it. Your belly quakes. You clench around nothing. 

He releases your hand, and you hope he’ll get up and move over you, but instead, he reaches for your arm again, resuming his rhythmic strokes. 

“So what would you do, if you didn’t do this?” he asks. 

You sigh, glancing up, and you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror above the desk. 

“I’ve no idea, really. I never allowed myself to consider the possibility.” And before he can prod any further, you add, “What about you? What would you have liked to do, if you hadn’t become a pilot?”

The diversion doesn’t fool him, you know it. You’re acutely aware of his gaze, scrutinizing your face. You picture the familiar, pensive frown. His hand leaves your arm as he suddenly gets up, air hitting your damp skin where his head was lying. 

A few strides, and he steps into the bathroom, disappearing behind the partition wall. The tap runs for a moment, and there’s the distinct sound of wrung out fabric before he comes out, holding the hand towel. 

You watch him walk back toward you, his naked body glistening with sweat, highlighted in shadows in the warm lighting. You think about how beautiful it is, about your extensive, intimate knowledge of it. How it feels under your touch, every single part of him. How this knowledge is now constituent of the woman you have become. 

You know the callousness of his palms that catches at your clothes. You know the silkiness of his curls around your fingers, the smoothness of his chest against your breasts, the taste of his mouth and the bobbing of his pebbled throat between your lips. The thicker skin of his shoulders, tanned and freckled. The coarseness of the darker hairs under his navel, and how they feel rubbing at your clit. You know the weight of his cock in your hand, on your tongue, inside your walls. 

And if you know all this, then, isn’t he yours? 

He circles the bed over to your side, by the window, and sits next to you. 

Delicately, his fingers circle your wrist. He lifts your arm, and brings your hand to his lips, nuzzling the relaxed curl of your fingers open, to press a kiss inside your palm. His eyes briefly flicker shut as he inhales the transparent skin of your inner wrist. 

Lowering your arm, he starts running the towel along it and you jolt at the contact of the cold, wet fabric, letting out a short whimpering sound.

The sensation is sudden, seizing like an electrical shock, but the relief is immediate. The coolness radiates on the surface of your feverish skin, soothing your thoughts. Eyes fluttering shut, you relax into it. 

“Maybe an architect,” he starts, the towel gliding up to your shoulder, “or a carpenter. Build stuff, for a change. Instead of destroying them.”

Goosebumps break out along your arms, on your nape, as he skims the towel over the plane of your chest in slow, meticulous movements. As he rounds your breasts with reverent care, one, then the other, your nipples tightening in peaked buds, the low rumble of his voice filling your mind, his words boring into your heart.

The towel brushes up, tracing your collarbone, left, then right. Higher along the column of your throat, curling to the side of your neck. A droplet of water rolls down between your breasts, running along your stomach to end its course into your navel. You sigh.

“I could… run a small business, building houses or crafting furniture. In a small town, somewhere up north. Somewhere with seasons,” he says. 

The towel wipes over your trembling belly, over your mound, down your inner thigh. He’s slow, precise, thorough. Careful and gentle with your limp limbs. You’re sinking into the mattress, and floating over it all at once. 

You lift a heavy eyelid, your dazed gaze landing on his gorgeous face. He’s solemn, focused on his task. 

He readjusts his position on the mattress, so lightly the bed barely moves, and twists his torso to reach down your leg. 

“You could be my accountant.”

Your eyes shoot open. He’s facing away from you, wiping the towel under the arch of your foot.

“The last thing you want is to have me as your bookkeeper,” you whisper, your heart beating in your throat. 

He turns around, looking straight at you. Soft sad eyes, cold hard stare. 

“That’s all I want for the rest of my life, Lee. Be with you night and day.”

—

Everything seems to hinge on you now. 

His balance, his happiness, his redemption.

You filled a void, a hollowness inside his chest, he carries you with him wherever he goes. A pale shade of yellow and celadon green. 

He tries to convince himself it’s harmless. That he’s not doing anything wrong. That it’s easier this way. Easier than the drugs, easier than placing that burden on his daughter’s shoulders. He tells himself the peace you bring him makes him a better man, and a better father. Makes him worthy again. There might even be some truth to it. 

He’s not so sure if he deserves the second chance. If he deserves the parts of you that you confide in him. Your past, your regrets, your secret victories. Your hindered aspirations and the shores of your inner island, within his reach. The touch of your cool skin. The strength of your embrace. The veneration in your eyes. Your trust, your faith. Your time. 

But he wants to believe it. It’s more of a fundamental need, really. 

And as long as he’s with you, the illusion holds. When you’re sitting next to him in the truck, singing along to the tunes playing on the old crackling stereo as he drives to nowhere, when his body’s wrapped around yours in the dark, when he murmurs against your temple everything and anything that runs through his mind, when you’re coming undone between his hold, with his name on your lips. He believes he can be as good for you as you are for him. 

But it’s a thin fabric. One that tears the very minute he steps outside the room, leaving your sleepy form tucked under the starchy sheet. 

Day after day, until the next week, he’s left on his own to fence off the thoughts that plague him. 

The voice inside him, relentless, somber, asking how much longer this can last. How long before the consequences on your life are irreversible? How long until that man who’s not your husband finds out, and takes action? What repercussions would you face, then? 

He knows what he’d be capable of if he ever met him. He doesn’t like to think about it. 

You won’t open up about your life with him, no matter how much he prods and pry. He knows your strength. And he chose to trust it.

Seven months, and one week. He sat down with the cardboard calendar hanging above Lupe’s desk at work, and counted. His mind crowded, overflowing with what ifs. 

What if he took you out of this shitty motel, for once? Not just to drive into the night, but on a proper date. Dinner. A movie. Fucking lunch. A weekend somewhere. An entire vacation. 

What if he took you out of your life? 

Lupe started dating this Marcus guy back in December. Now she’s staying at his place every other night. The man is decent, one of the best paramedics he’s worked with, honest, reliable and steadfast. The kind of man Lupe deserves, and that he doesn’t mind around Lua. 

He should move out of the house. Lupe hasn’t said anything yet, but it’s just one more grace she gives him that he hasn’t earned. Every time they see each other, Will hints at it, the allusions becoming increasingly less subtle. 

The truth is, he sees no point in moving forward with his life if it’s not with you. If it’s not to take care of you, and provide for you. Watch you thrive, keep you safe.  

A couple of weeks back, when he’d first thought about it, he’d deemed the idea crazy, painfully aware of all the frustrations a couple’s daily life entails. 

Now, it’s the only choice that makes any sense to him. 

—

The airport terminal is bustling with flocks of tourists. Noisy families with children too young to travel, transient businessmen and women, groups of youths of dubious soberness flying out after spring break. 

Ava stands out in the crowd, her tall frame topped with a short bob of bright purple hair, and you spot her immediately. Standing on your tiptoes, you wave at her until she sees you and starts running in your direction.

She all but leaps into your open arms, and you both grab at each other, leaning into the embrace, laughing. You inhale her scent, searching for that baby smell in the crook of her neck.

“Oh my god, pup, your hair!” you exclaim. “You look terrific!”

“Yeah? You like it?” she asks with a broad smile, running her fingers through her locks. 

“I love it! It’s perfect for you!”

In turn, she takes you in, looking you up and down, and lets out a low whistling sound.

“You look good, too. You look better than good. You look gorgeous!”

“Oh shush,” you gesture bashfully, but you can’t hold back your own smile.

The two of you walk to the parking lot to retrieve your car, immersed in bubbly conversation, oblivious to the moving crowds around you.

Driving out of the airport, you glance at the sign indicating the 589 northbound and smile at your precious secret, before making a left turn south.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks, “I’m hungry! Feed me! Feedmefeedmefeedme!” she chants, before breaking into a high-pitched giggle.

“Alright, alright! Hold tight, I’m taking you somewhere special. Do you like burritos?”

“Who doesn’t like burritos? Wait, what? Burritos? Do you even eat burritos? Who are you and what have you done with my sister?”

You had to type the address from the crumpled receipt into your GPS. Until today, you’ve never allowed yourself to go there. Not on your own.

It’s a small cantina with tiled walls and concrete floors, colorful trinkets arranged in pyramidal displays behind the counter, chalkboard menus and an endless list of drinks. Star-shaped lanterns are hanging from the ceiling, and the staff is busy but jovial.

Lunchtime on a Saturday, the place is packed with couples and kids, and your pulse accelerates. You hadn’t considered the possibility of running into Frankie and his family. 

You place your orders, and after a short wait, you secure a spot in the back of the restaurant. Sitting on high metal stools behind a round table, you catch up on the past three months as if you hadn’t texted every other day, speaking with your mouths full, sauce dripping down your fingers.

The life she’s built for herself in New York treats Ava better than anything you could have hoped for, anything you could have helped her achieve, had she stayed here. A job in a cutting-edge art gallery, where her vibrant personality and her flair for networking are not only recognized but valued, a bustling social life, more thrilling projects than you can keep track of, all of it balanced by Polly’s grounding presence by her side. 

Your choices and sacrifices, justified.

Ava puts down the crumbling remnants of her vegetarian burrito to wipe her mouth, and takes a sip of her margarita.

“You sure you don’t want to drink anything?”

“I’m drinking something,” you answer, pointing at your iced tea.

“Whatever you say, girl,” she shrugs.

“It’s too bad you’re not staying with me. It’s idiotic, you’re only here for a couple of days and you have to sleep over at Jules’.”

“Listen, even if your douchebag of a fiancé had agreed to have me, which I know he didn’t, I don’t want to see his ass face.”

“Alright,” you concede, “valid.”

She nearly chokes on her margarita. Setting her glass down, she gives you a pointed stare, emphatically scrutinizing your face.

“Okay, seriously, what’s going on with you? How are you? I mean, that’s obviously the wrong question, you’re fucking thriving. What happened? What’s happening? New medication? Are you finally leaving him?”

“I’m not taking any medication,” you answer with unexpected satisfaction. “But no, I’m not leaving him.”

You catch yourself before you can add another word. 

“Are you still seeing that other guy?”

You nod, dipping your head, heat creeping up your neck. Why are you like this?

“I take it he likes burritos, am I right?

“You are correct in your assumption, detective,” you quip with a grin.

There’s a pause as Ava seems to consider her next question. It’s always so easy for you to forget that she’s a grownup now. That she knows you at least as well as you know her. That she has the capacity to outsmart you. The notion flares pride in your chest.

“Is he married? Is that why you haven’t run off together in the sunset yet?”

“I’m not sure if he’s married or not.”

“What does he do in life?”

“I don’t know.”

Ava throws up her hands. 

“Girl! What do you know?” she exclaims with only half-feigned exasperation.

I know what’s important. He’s a father. He’s a friend and a brother. A pilot and a veteran. He's thoughtful and observant. He’s organized and practical. And a reluctant sentimental. He learned to swim in the Pacific Ocean. He’s capable of cold-blooded violence, but it will break him. He’s capable of infinite tenderness. And it will save him. 

You pull a face, communicating how little you care about what you don’t know. Your sister shifts on the hard stool. She frowns, and when she speaks next, her voice is low, her tone conspiratorial.  

“Adrian doesn’t suspect anything?”

“Of course, he does. Or he did. His attention is elsewhere, for now. Seems serious.”

“Again?”

“Again,” you nod. 

Ava squirms on her stool again, probably trying to restrain her temper. 

Your mind wanders, jumping back through time at light-speed, to when you first met Adrian. To the way he used to hold your hand when you started dating, squeezing your fingers with his. Letting you choose the wine, opening doors for you. To the affection in his smile, and how fast he started calling you babe . The glimmer warming his cold blue eyes when he introduced you to his family. The way he leaves the bathroom mirror splattered in toothpaste every time he brushes his teeth. The way he lets his alarm ring off forever after he’s gotten up even if you’re still in bed, even on weekends. 

The ease with which he admitted to all his flings, whenever you confronted him, but never confessed to the one with his coworker, the ambitious young lawyer. 

Would you admit to having an affair? Would you use that ugly word that make you crawl out of your skin? Would you deny it? Could you answer No, I’m not seeing anyone? Could you bear the betrayal of denying Frankie’s existence? The truth of what you share, but can’t define?

“Your fiancé is a bag of dicks,” Ava finally says, shaking her head. 

“His obliviousness suits me for now,” you remind her.  

“I don’t understand why you don’t leave him,” she snaps back, forsaking her reserve. “He got his big promotion, he got what he wanted! And Richard loves him, it’s not like he’s going to fire him just because you two broke up, right? You don’t really love him anymore, do you?” she adds on second thoughts.  

The words spill out of you unchecked, once more. Just like in the truck with Frankie, back in January. Months, years for the idea to mature below the surface of your conscious thoughts, the reflective process unbeknown to you. 

“I’m scared, Ava. I’m scared shitless. I want to leave. I’ve been wanting to leave for so long. Adrian, the company, that fucking ugly apartment.” 

“Well then fucking do it, Lee!”

“If I leave, I have nothing. No job, nowhere to go.” 

And if you could give up a relatively comfortable life, would you be able to renounce the refuge of your sadness? Of your life between the folds? 

“You have money,” Ava counters. “You have shares. Sell them. Richard can’t stop you. Get a lawyer, if you have to. One that’s not on Adrian’s payroll. And then you can fuck your man Friday every day of the week, how’s that?”

You think about the folded bedspread under the windowsill. About the wet hand towel brushing up your skin. The trucker hat on the desk, and his fingers splayed on the steering wheel. The pleading arch of his brow. 

You think about that space between Frankie’s chin and collarbone, that contains your safety, your desires, and all of your hopes.

“I don’t… I don’t know if I should leave a man for another one,” you whisper. 

Ava’s eyes widen. She sits up straight, a smirk tugging the corner of her lips. 

“I don’t know either, but it looks like this one fucked some sense into you. The irony.” 

She’s withholding something, you realize. It’s in her uncharacteristic pauses, her sideways glances. Surprisingly, human interactions were simpler when pills kept you numbed and oblivious. Being attuned to everyone’s minute expressions is a daily trial. 

“Why don’t you move to New York with us?” she eventually asks. “We can take you in until you find a job there, for as long as you need.”

There’s that we again. People talking about you in your absence, judging your choices, plotting your future. 

“I don’t know how to do anything, Ava. I have zero skills.” 

“First off, that’s not true,” she retorts, relentless with her well-rehearsed arguments. “And then, Polly can help you find something. Lee, if you can leave this company, there’s literally nothing you can’t do.”

Suddenly, you feel exhausted. Weary and old. A bone-deep lassitude. And at the heart of it, the realization that this is a liminal sequence in your life. 

“Is that why you flew here for the weekend? To ask me to come away with you?”

“Are you mad?” she asks with a face. A little girl’s expression, afraid of being scolded. Your little girl. 

“No, I’m not mad, pup. I can’t be mad. You came back for me.”

“Of course, I came back for you. I was never going to leave you behind, silly.”

****

[dixie12]

secret!sub!jonny, and pat finally finds out!

Jonny is acting weird. Like, really weird. They won the cup less than three weeks ago- Jonny should barely be sober, should be reaping the rewards of captaining the team to a second cup: free drinks, the admiration of the entire city, and the bevy of subs quite literally throwing themselves at his feet whenever he steps out of his front door. And sure, Jonny had seemed to enjoy it all for the first week or so, going out with the guys, letting them douse him in champagne, giving throaty victory speeches at the parade and chugging beers that adoring fans tossed at him. 

But the fun seemed to melt away pretty quickly after that, with Jonny getting tense and twitchy. He’d still go out with the team, probably because he knew Pat would physically drag him out if he tried to bow out this early in the celebrations. But he was distant, constantly checking his phone, eyes taking on a faraway look that was almost familiar to Pat, though he couldn’t figure out why. And despite the gorgeous men and women who approached Jonny every night, Pat didn’t think he’d picked up even once. 

It was one thing to hold off during the playoffs; Jonny was big on focusing and not being distracted, and “not wasting unnecessary energy, Pat.” Sure, planning a scene could take a little work sometimes, which Pat never minded, even during playoffs, but he understood that Jonny had always felt differently about that. But it was the off-season now, and they had weeks until they needed to start thinking about upping their training or even going to the convention. Now was the time to indulge. Pat certainly was; day-drinking, golf and baseball games during the hot summer days, a different sub in his bed most nights. 

Jonny had never really talked about his hook-ups in the locker room, not the way some guys did, visceral play-by-plays of all the paces they put their subs through, but Pat had always assumed he was just a gentleman, didn’t want to kiss and tell. Or, well, spank and tell, or whatever. But he���d never have predicted that Jonny would turn celibate when his popularity in the city had never been higher. Last night, an actual Playboy model, one who Pat recognized immediately, spent close to an hour hitting on Jonny, standing close, looking up at him adoringly through her lashes, stroking his shoulders and snuggling herself under his arm whenever Jonny moved. Instead of taking her up on the incredibly obvious come-on, Jonny looked even more awkward than usual. Pat watched as Jonny shifted himself away from her, putting distance between them, angling his body away from hers, eyes wary and back rigid. The girl gave it her all but finally realized it wasn’t going to happen tonight, walking away from Jonny in her four-inch heels and showing off an ass that nearly made Patrick cry with envy. 

Even from across the bar, Pat could see how tightly Jonny’s jaw was clenched, the tension radiating from his body. Pat watched as Jonny threw back the rest of his drink and turned, walking right past their table and out of the bar. He didn’t even throw a glance in their direction, heading straight into the street. Pat exchanged confused looks with the rest of the guys, but no one seemed to have an answer for Jonny’s behavior. Pat pulled out his phone, looking for a text from Jonny to at least say he was heading out. He had a lot of offers to party, and text threads with most of the team that just amounted to them texting “we won the cup!!!” back and forth every day, but nothing from Jonny. Pat sent him a quick “everything ok, man?” but then let himself be distracted by the boys.

In the morning, well, afternoon, to be honest, when Pat woke up, he still hadn’t heard anything from Jonny, and seriously, that was enough. Whatever was going on with him was getting worse instead of better, and Pat was sick of it. He had nothing on his schedule for the day, and he decided that he was going to drag the truth out of Jonny one way or another. He usually texted Jonny to let him know he was coming over, but at this point, he was worried Jon might actually throw the deadbolt on him. No, the element of surprise was definitely what he needed.

He thought about bringing food as a peace offering, but if Jon was already feeling off for whatever reason, he probably wouldn’t appreciate the gesture. Providing like that was something that doms did for their subs, and while Pat and Jonny didn’t really let that stop them most of the time, Pat didn’t want to start things off on the wrong foot. Better to make sure Jonny felt comfortable in his own space before Pat started digging for answers. 

Pat walked the few blocks to Jonny’s apartment, rolling over possibilities in his mind on the way. Jonny definitely wasn’t seeing anyone, so relationship trouble wasn’t on the list. He’d just seen Jonny’s family when they were in town for the parade, and they were all doing great, his parents enjoying their retirement and David back in school studying sports management. They shared the same agent, and Jonny had been on fire during the playoffs, so their contracts shouldn’t be a concern, either. By the time Pat arrived at Jonny’s apartment, he was no closer to an answer than when he started, but starting to worry even more. If it wasn’t something obvious, but it was still stressing Jonny out this badly, maybe it was serious. Could Jonny be sick? A wave of horror washed over Pat as he remembered a few hard hits Jonny had taken over the six weeks of playoff hockey. Maybe the concussion was back? He hurried in the front door of Jonny’s building, unable to wait any longer. 

Jon’s doorman waved at him, asking if Pat wanted him to call up to Jon, but Pat shook his head, grateful when the doorman just nodded and pointed towards the elevator bank. Pat had to stop himself from pacing back and forth in the small space, focused on taking a few deep breaths, fighting his growing sense of panic.

He barely waited for the doors to open before he was off, half-jogging down the hallway to Jonny’s apartment. He grabbed his keyring, flipped to Jonny’s and unlocked the door, giving a quick knock as he walked in.

Jonny was sitting on his couch, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees, head hanging between them. He looked… fragile, almost, like he was struggling to hold himself together. Small, in a way that Jonny never was. 

“Hey, man,” Pat started, and Jonny’s head bolted upright, clearly surprised. Jonny’s apparent shock made Pat even more uncomfortable; a dom should never be caught by surprise like that in his own space, should always be acutely aware of his surroundings, ready to defend them at a moment’s notice. Admittedly, Jonny’s high-rise, protected as it was by a 24/7 security desk and locked door, wasn’t exactly vulnerable, but Jon’s inattention still made Pat’s skin crawl with unease.

“Pat,” Jonny said, looking away quickly, and that, too, was unusual, the lack of eye contact a startling departure for Jonny. “I, uh, wasn’t expecting company,” he continued, and his voice was quiet, projected towards the floor rather than Pat.

Pat was at a loss for words, unsure of what to say and unsettled at Jon’s behavior. He waited for Jonny to fill the silence, but Jon didn’t say anything else, didn’t even get up to offer Pat a bro-hug or a drink, just kept hanging his head, fidgeting with his hands so much that Pat longed to go over to him, grasp Jonny’s hands in his own and settle him down. He shook his head once, trying to get a handle on himself. Doms didn’t need “settling down,” not from other doms, at least, and Pat didn’t know where the urge had come from. Jonny just wasn’t acting much like a dom right now, and it was messing with Pat. 

The silence hung in the air for a few more moments, and then Jonny visibly gathered himself, taking a deep breath and looking up at Pat. 

“Sorry, man,” he said, voice flat but sounding a little more like himself. He gestured down at his phone and continued “just got a text from Dan. His grandfather died, and he has to go to France for a few weeks, handle the estate.” His voice trailed off at the end, eyes taking on that same familiar look Pat had been noticing recently. Pat waited for more of an explanation, but none came. He knew that Dan was Jonny’s childhood best friend, that they usually hung out when Jonny went back to the Peg over the summer, but he had no idea why his grandfather’s death was hitting Jonny so hard.

“Sucks, man. You guys were close, then?” Pat guessed, unable to come up with another reason why Jonny seemed so upset.

“No. I’d never actually met him, he moved back to France like thirty years ago.”

Pat was even more confused now, but he kept his mouth shut, waiting for an explanation. Jon’s shoulders hunched down even further, like he didn’t have the strength to hold himself up anymore.

“I just... usually, Dan and I..” Jonny was struggling, words forced out a few at a time, breath coming more quickly, “we.. he.. He helps me out,” Jonny finished, and his voice broke on the last word. He turned to look at Pat, then, and he looked impossibly young, expression crumpled and miserable. His eyes were wide and lost, filling with tears, and Pat saw fear there. Fear that he knew he would never see from a dom, but that his hindbrain recognized right away.

Later, he was so incredibly thankful that he moved on instinct, ignoring six years of etiquette, decorum and careful boundaries. Ignoring all of it in his haste to get his hands on Jonny. At the time, it felt impossible to do anything else. He was at Jonnys’s side in just a few steps, dropping onto the couch next to him, cupping the back of his neck with one hand and pulling Jonny down into his chest. Soothe, his mind insisted. Make it better. Make him safe. And Pat did, holding Jonny close, stroking his hair with one hand while the other rubbed circles on his back.

“It’s ok, baby, I’ve got you,” Pat whispered. He didn’t know what exactly he was expecting, for Jonny to fight him, maybe, jerk away and ask what the fuck Pat thought he was doing. Pat felt the strong muscles of Jonny’s back tense under his hand for just a few seconds before his entire body melted, letting Pat take his weight. 

Pat kept them there, pet names and praise falling easily from his lips, as he felt the world snap into place. It almost made sense, now. Jonny rarely picked up, never talked about his hook-ups. He flushed red in the locker room sometimes, and darted his gaze away when reporters complimented him. He was unusually touchy with his family, letting his mother muss his hair and kiss his forehead, letting David push him around. Taken together like that, and stripping away the underlying assumption that Jonny had to be a dom, it painted a pretty clear picture of what Jonny had desperately been trying to hide all of these years.

Fuck.

A sub. Jonny was a sub. A sub who was desperate for a kind touch and a sweet word right now. Pat remembered that strange phone call from last summer, when Jonny sounded so fucked out, calling him ‘Patrick’ before Dan took the phone away, and the last piece slotted into place. Dan must be Jonny’s dom, or at least a dom that Jonny felt comfortable submitting to, probably the only one. It explained why he always disappeared to Winnipeg right after the season, virtually unreachable for a week. And it explained why Jonny was so upset that Dan would be out of the country. Pat figured Jonny had been getting by on sheer determination, willing himself to just make it back to Winnipeg where he could finally let go, finally be himself, and finding out today that that wouldn’t happen must have broken him.

Shit, judging by how easily Jonny was accepting his touch, he probably hadn’t submitted for close to a year now. Pat couldn’t imagine getting up every day, making it through four brutal rounds of the Stanley Cup playoffs, playing his heart out and leaving it all on the ice the way that Jonny had done while fighting down the instinct and desire to submit. Never being able to let go the way his body would have been demanding, yearning for. Never being able to let his guard down for an instant, always vigilant against people finding out. Pat was filled with pride at Jonny’s strength, but there was an unfamiliar feeling of shame, as well. Unfamiliar, but not unknown, and Pat recognized it as the feeling he got when he’d let his sub down. When someone had put their complete trust in him and he was found undeserving of it. Jonny wasn’t his sub, but Pat still felt responsible for him now. He knew Jonny better than anyone, and he’d been blind to this secret that seemed so obvious now.

Jonny stirred against his chest, and Pat stroked a hand under his chin, tilted his head up to look at him. Jon’s pupils were blown wide, eyes glassy, cheeks a rosy, delicious pink. Pat had never seen a sub look more beautiful in his submission. 

He wanted Jonny to get whatever he needed out of this, knew it was what was right for Jon’s physical and mental wellbeing to let him stay in subspace, but the couch was getting uncomfortable. He looked around for a kneeler for Jon before realizing that there weren’t any. Weren’t any accessories, actually- no cushions, no cuffs strewn around, no paddles or crops, and his heart broke again at what Jonny was depriving himself of for hockey. For the team. For Pat.

Pat reached behind him, hands grabbing for a pillow from the back of the couch. He found one, dropping it on the floor, and nudged Jonny gently. Jon’s eyes opened slowly, eyelids fluttering like he was dragging them against a heavy weight, and his breathing was slow and deep. His brow creased as he looked up at Pat.

“Patrick?” he asked, and that one word came out in such a honey-sweet reverent tone that Pat knew immediately he never wanted to hear anyone else say it again.

“Yea, baby, I’m right here. Just want you to be comfortable,” Pat answered, gesturing down at the pillow at his feet.

“Is,” Jonny cleared his throat, “is this ok?”

“Sweetheart, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

[crimsonandcloverwrites]

ok bhah ch11 my longest yeah boi ever

i’m literally... so excited I can’t even read it ok ok

oh no not the wedding invitations not this

i swear to god if we have to go through this wedding. knifeemoji

listen I have a fear that we’re gonna get the break up and the car accident same as canon dear god don’t put us through that either

no fears *literally everything that could make bhah more painful* several fears dot meme

god not the jamie invite. she cant even do it. another sign from god you are choosing to ignore

straight to Jamie’s house oh

lmao the red door I just worked out that’s a hill house reference from when I was wondering in like ch3(?) lol the inner workings of my dumbass brain never stop

“can we talk?” it’s happening what is happening

Dani was so tired of lying oh my god

my heart is literally beating so fast

alone in Jamie’s room bro wtf wtf

Jamie is just so soft and understanding always always aaaahhhhh

fuck she just wants out of this wedding so bad but she can’t even tell him

AAAHHH SHE KISSED HER OH MY GOD IT’S HAPPENING

fuck fgkjhdfkjgh this is not good oh no. Dani finally finally fucking doing something for herself and Jamie so aware that this cannot be happening like this right now

and yet both of them just falling into it anyway oh my goddddd

jesus christ jesus christ “Dani had half crawled into Jamie’s lap, kissing her with a fierce and fervent heat” I am on deaths door

god they’ve both wanted this for so so so so long I can’t believeeeeee

(i am so thrilled that y’all just went there right away btw)

“Please, just - I just want to feel how I’m supposed to.” oucchhhh Dani

god her just... knowing. after one kiss w Jamie that she can finally do it and talk to him and end it and it’s so terrifying but goddd yes

“You think I can ever say no to you?” oof

“Ask,” Jamie breathed. “Ask me.” fucking fuck the power of this line oh my god Jamie is so fucking ready to jump of a bridge for her it’s- the dedication the love the longing the everything I am going insane is it too early to start drinking at 1pm

you’re not you can’t NOT THE CANON DINER SCENE

fuck this is like watching a car crash i can’t look away it’s so fucking visceral and nerve-wracking and painful

but god I’m so proud of her for finally saying what she wants

oh thank fuck y’all didn’t take him out with a passing delivery truck

“You must have known. You know me.” oh god this sentiment always kills me

“She couldn’t say it — the words ‘I’m gay’ forever out of reach — so instead she said, “I can’t.”” my whole body is on fire oh my god this is.... too fucking real

jesus christ the near miss w the truck are u trying to kill me (i actually kind of love that Dani will have to deal w her feelings w him face to face instead of having to bury it all in grief like in canon I am so excited to see how y’all handle that)

a fucking HOUR in the car dfkjghdfkjh the torture

oh honey. literally both of them suffering so much ouch

her favourite saucepan pls this is all so awful and sad but that make me laugh so much the poor confused little duck I am glad she has her comforts

god poor Dani

"Is she here to cook something?"  fgkjdhfkgjhfkjgdf

“No. I think you’re brave.” oh

“We’ll figure it out." listen listen I am undoubtedly losing my mind god this is soft

“She had spent so long being asked and not asking. Never asking. She never dared. To ask was to be known, to be made visible, words forging reality as surely as a smith’s hammer. And yet Jamie waited, letting Dani gather the courage herself.

"Can I -?" Dani said, "- stay?"” please fuck I am just so !!!!!!!! about Dani getting to know what she wants and having a fucking voice. just !!!!!!!!

“Jamie inviting her in” fucking just both of them finally getting some of that quiet courage w each other I am yelling so much

“Dani knew that it wasn't just her feeling this, that it had never just been her.” YOU’RE GODDAMN RIGHT BABEY

““But you do?” Dani asked. “Want to?”

Jamie’s answering laugh was brief and incredulous. “You have no idea.”” I AM: HOOTIN. AND: HOLLERIN

“I am here” hello? hello I am not coping I am on another plane of existence. DANI FINALLY FEELING SO PRESENT AND WHOLE IN THIS MOMENT

god they’re just holding each other i’m tearing up. Jamie is her home

Dani finally sleeping through the night ow my fucking heart

Mikey’s so chill about all of this sdkdhfdkj I love him

Jamie going out n buying her favourite jam... god the tenderness. love is stored in the strawberry jam and the hairdryer

hmmmmm her attraction to Jamie is so closely tied to a lot of really hard feelings this is gonna take a bit to work through huh???

aw Jamie going to Carson I am so happy she has her little band of gays to help her rn

I love that she can just kiss her now when she gets the urge like maybe chill out a lil just landing all these surprise kisses but like good for u girl. good for both of u

the warmth of the house hmmmmm I love that she’s found this esp because she is perpetually cold and Jamie is always warm but keeps it like that for the kid (and probably for Dani too) aaahhhh

cgjkdfhkjgh Dani is so thirsty poor Jamie trying to keep them in check. these moments are so fucking loaded holy shit

Dani Jamie and Mikey are the cuuutest lil family aw

god the tentativeness between them trying to figure this all out and the casual intimacy and just. all of it is so much and so beautiful to watch unfold

i love this little bubble inside Jamie’s house and Jamie kind of drawing the curtains around them both physically and metaphorically while she lets Dani figure things out and lets it settle between them

it’s all about the hands

oh my god Hannah instantly asking if she needs a place to stay she really is the best

soft little mornings with her Jamie like... once Dani finally defeats the ball of guilt in her chest there is so much goodness to look forward to and I am v glad she has that right now even as she is still struggling a bit. my girl needs all the sweetness in her life

also the idea of Jamie getting to wake up to sleeping Dani in her bed every morning after a lifetime of trying to repress her feelings... god

heh she’s already figuring out all the ways to push Jamie’s buttons god these two are going to have some fun w each other

this idea of learning the creaking floorboards of a new home is so... warm

Jamie leaving all the curtains drawn for her oh my heart keeping her safe keeping her safe

Nan would be so proud of ms Dani u know it’s true

awww Mikey comin home to keep her company

Mikey Dani time is always so sweet I love them

my god Dani n Jamie are so intense w each other and just so full of fucking desire... when those floodgates finally open will they even survive

oof Dani is dealing with soooo much ugh. Jamie always there with a gentle way to bring her back down to earth tho my hearrrtttt

“You’re allowed to be happy.” she is SHE IS ty Jamie Taylor voice of reason

a pinky promise to deal with everything together awwww

“why are you so good to me” “you know why” oh my goddddddd. that’s so soft that’s so gentle that’s so much love

Dani finding little bits in herself in media god i love this

Dani Mikey hours best hours

god Carson... sweet boy. And Judy sending over a whole bunch of food oof just. these quiet little reminders of their love for her. Dani’s about to go through a whole bunch more emotions huh?

fkjdfkjgfh Mikey going into protector mode when Carson is there pls i love hm

ohmy “our room” aaaaaaahhhhh

god Dani expecting him to be upset with her I am so fucking emotional. I relate far too much to Dani in canon and in this story and it’s just. painful as hell to see someone go through the things you know hurt the most holy shit

please Carson is so sweet and understanding and telling her he’s proud of her is making me cry so much I can barely see

this whole like.. uncomfortable but relief-filled kind of coming out between her and Carson is so so beautifully done I can’t stop fucking crying

“God, you two were agony to watch.”  fglkdfgkjdfhkjgh Carson a voice of the people

“You deserve to be happy.” - Carson and also me and also everyone reading this

god he is so wonderful!!!!!! this reminder that she’s not alone and everything will be ok!!!!!!! Carson I love you so much

the box being described as “the beating heart of their childhood“ god the imagery

Jamie so sweetly making room for her and welcoming her into a home I am emotional again the tears have really been unlocked now I’m gonna be a mess the whole rest of this chapter (i say as if I haven’t been already)

the really sweet way Jamie gets her to open up and trust her with the things that have been on her mind

and Dani doing the same for her god this gentle honest space between them makes my heart feel so full I am just so happy that they’ve got each other

“I want you to stay.” please (also now I’m thinking about AE putting Stay on her Jamie playlist jesus christ I am being tortured)

they get... to wake up.... in bed together. i’m so close to crying again when will this stop

i kind of love there hasn’t really been any like... just no more kissing u know but we still get this insane intimacy between them in a way that’s not them shying away from the way they want each other but so carefuly and sweetly and honestly coming towards each other

awww them always waking up all tangled is so cuuute (also Dani feeling so safe and comfy with her that her subconscious is like lets latch on she is good she is home)

lmao Dani having to mediate between these two dweebs and their playfights is so good

Jamie having her lil family surrounding her aww

(also i just noticed the rating change oh god)

sfkjfhdg Jamie looking at her hips all dark eyes and wanting we’ve all been there girl

“you can look” BOLD DANI MY BELOVED

god these two........ the grabbing her silver chain god @ google how to breathe properly??????

“Then show me.” oh my god

fkgjhdfkj so much electricity they shorted out the power

“this is just as nice” when they’re just hugging please they are so soft

i love that there’s just like... gentle soft banter between them in these quiet moments so much

“Dani, give him more homework.”  ghrfjkhjgkjgh

god the heated cheek kiss

this ‘game of chicken’ god they’re just.... really in it huh this is so fun

hmmm Dani going through the suitcases and sort of being able to bring some of herself/her past into this new place is so nice

heh this lil family and their snowfights are so cute

:( she can’t bring herself to eat Judy’s food

Jamie bringing her flowers oh soft

ugh they’re just so softly melting into being together it’s so sweeeeeeeet

“You’re lovely.” and the way Jamie just sinks into her with Dani’s fingers in her hair pleeease I am dying this is so warm

aaaahhhh they’re dancing soft soft soft

“gray eyes fluttered closed, as though the weight of Dani’s touch was too much to bear” god i am..... aaaahhhh

“a gentle calm settling within her. It had seemed that for all her life she had waited for the quiet of this” y’all this is so beautiful and lovely and wonderful and all the good things

ah that kiss. kinda feels like their first real kiss where they just get to be god I am so happy “a profound sense of finally” oh oh oh that’s such a pretty concept

god I love how much they just want each other that second kiss and them just all over each other is perfect and having to try and reel that in and being able to because they know it’s not going anywhere please it’s so so good

god Dani vs Desert Hearts I love this callback and the entirely different circumstances of her watching it again

dsjfhdkjfh oh no Dani losing her mind at Jamie touching her knee god these two have got the biggest storm coming

dfkdjhkgdjh god them like.... trying to take things slow but still letting things happen while having to be aware of Mikey is so funny but I kinda love it and how indicative it all is of them being so grown up and able to approach their relationship in such a mature way. as much as I wish they’d had their teenage love story I do like that it’s unfolding this way now.

“it struck Dani then that she couldn’t remember ever laughing while doing this.” aww

Mikey’s “oh gross” hahahaha poor kid

god this is so funny

“ferret kid” jamie why are u like this sfkjhdfkjf

oh lordt it seems we have reached the unabashedly horny phase good show ol’ chaps

god they’re still so soft tho this is so fun to read

i looove how flustered they both make each other w just their presence. it’s just so !!!!!!

lmao Dani knowing exactly what to do to drive Jamie insane is fdkgfdkjgh perfect amazing show stopping more neck kisses more teasing more barely restrained desire i love it

“the reckless rush of being in each other’s arms” AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH

lmaooooo Mikey Jamie is going to lock you outside if u keep doing this

the fact it can just fade back to comfortable companionship too is like. ugh i love them together

“Yeah. You can touch me whenever you want.” oh jesus

“No more interruptions, no more waiting, no more holding back.” it’s happening god it’s happening everyone stay calm (also the slow build to this point has been so fucking perfect y’all are writerly geniuses)

lmao Dani is like please can we just get naked why do u want to watch a movie I am literally right here

oh she is not waiting anymore THAT’S MY GIRL GO GET EVERYTHING YOU’VE EVER WANTED I LOVE YOU

“What do you want?” god the tension

aaaaahhhhh just. them being so out of their minds with want but still all nervous and wanting to check in but still just. wanting this so much god this is *chef’s kiss*

lmao Dani already having the hair pulling thing figured out is so good. poor Jamie lol is she even going to survive this

god the fact they’re both still fully clothed n still getting this fucked up just making out n grinding on each other I love this for them

mum just came in to tell me dinner is ready I AM ALREADY EATIN GOOD

lmao fuck I am just... so thrilled for Dani finally getting to experience this get ur whole world rocked baby u deserve this

thumb in her mouth i-

“my idiot” pls that’s so soft

“You have me.” i know this is like. horny but it’s also so romantic sfgkjhdfkjg

ayoooo Jamie’s tattoo excuse me while I lose my mind a lil bit

my god Dani is so impatient to get her naked I love her for it so much “I just want to feel you”... ma’am

Jamie being all nervous is so cute aw

god having this lil moment where they just call each other beautiful n get all cute about it while they’re fully naked n grinding on each other.... perfection

god I can’t stop thinking about every other mention of Dani having sex w Eddie and it just being like adequate or like her not letting him touch her and now LOOK AT MY BABY GO SHE’S REALLY HAVIN THE TIME OF HER LIFE LITERALLY BEGGING TO BE TOUCHED LET’S GO LESBIANS LET’S GO

I feel like I’m like cheering Jamie on rn sfjkghdfkj u guys need anything? some snacks? a condom?? ur doing great!!

Dani crying and thanking her like this is an acceptance speech love that for her

Jamie kissing all over her face aww

I can’t believe this whole chapter is them just getting to fall in love for real

“I want to taste you” i am blushing goddamn Jamie get it

oh my god the dream. she’s literally living out her dreams

“that same focused intensity that could make kingdoms fall” I love that Jamie is just as into getting Dani off as Dani is getting off lmao GOOD FOR THEM

Dani: desperately tryin to get Jamie off. Jamie: are u sure u want to tho??? miss ma’am let the girl touch u already she deserves it (but i do love that she’s always just like.... never wanting to make Dani do anything she doesn’t wholeheartedly want to)

“You sitting here on top of me like this is doing more for me than you can imagine.”  iconic jamie moment

Jamie literally just like.... ‘you can do whatever you want to figure this out’ is so sweet I love her capacity for just. giving herself over to Dani in every way (not just the horny ones) to let her forge her own path

“It was easy to understand now, the exhilaration of it, why people went crazy for it.” god I love this for her so much everything just falling into place

they’re so soft n comfy together and it’s all just so right and lovely

i love that once they’ve started they basically can’t stop honestly get it girls u deserve all the orgasms

“When did you know?” “Sixteen years.” oof my heart she’s known the whole time aaahhhh. all these lil memories god it really was all out of love I could cry. and Jamie admitting the scarf/scar thing whew she really carried around that moment on her face for the whole world to see (also lol at Dani being so fixated on it this whole time that’s so perfect)

heh they’re so cute with their lil teasing banter exchange

lol goddamn this so so spicy I am just dfklghfjkdjghkjdf (that is to say well fucking done I can’t even speak rn)

Jamie just being like you could literally just look at me and I am turned on I... love this whole situation for her so much

god they’re really just going all in Dani is getting like the.... lesbian sex speed run amen

oh god not Karen on the phone just hang up Dani do it do it

god she is so evil

omg she told her abt Jamie go off Dani I am v v proud of u right now

and she hung up on her godbless babe i LOVE your audacity

heh Jamie so transfixed by Dani’s lil purple sweater and skirt I love her

Dani u are such a tease sfkgjdfkg good 4 u tbh

awwww she got Dani’s desk for her oh my god that’s so lovely

Dani n Jamie being entirely not subtle over dinner w their lingering glances and Carson just laughing at them fkjghdkfjgh i love it. he’s so happy for them even w his teasing aw

aaahhh i just love Jamie giving her this space and this room in the house and Dani feeling so right in it

oooh an almost “I love you” god they’re just fuckin u-haulin in love perfection huh

and now we’re back to horny hours love this for them. gotta bless that desk somehow huh!?

i love the mentions of all this soft stuff about belonging when they’re about to rail each other it really rounds it out emotionally

“Get on your knees.” OH MY GOD THE JAMIE ON HER KNEES REDEMPTION MOMENT IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING

HELL YEAH IT IS this is truly what we all deserve

oh my god literally ripping her clothes off her fuck i love how desperate they are for each other and just how into this they both are always

dfgkjdfh jesus Dani are u ever going to be able to get work done at this desk again after Jamie does.... all of this to u on it

“Good girl.” the single most powerful sentence in the lesbian language

jesus christ this is still so incredibly steamy sdflkhskhg it never ends. and them like.... experiementing a bit w some different um. approaches? lol good 4 them good 4 them (and us)

my god them instantly getting all soft after about making each other happy please they’re so dang cute

ok love that we are also getting Dani on her knees it’s equality.gif

this little “I like you” “I like you too” confession right now is... so fucking soft and like... after everything they’ve gone through they still have the power to kinda knock each other off their feet w lil things like this huh?? sappy lil shits

oh no Judy I am scared

holy shit Dani “Didn't think you'd love me anymore” owwww my heart

god Judy is such a good mama I love her so much. reassuring her she’s still a part of the family my god I am so emo. she loves her so much

aw I love this lil shared bathroom scene after so many awkward moments w Dani and Eddie in their bathroom and so many mentions of her fogged reflection. things are finally clear and it’s wonderful!!

lol Jamie well if u didn’t want Dani to get all horny u shouldn’t have worn suspenders!!!!! it’s simple math!

god Dani has changed so much this chapter which only takes place over a couple of weeks right?!?!? after so much anxiety and being so unsure of herself this is so fucking beautiful to see

stop the car thing oh my godddd. she doesn’t even care about having her own cause she’s so happy w the person she’s sharing with I’m so overwhelmingly happy

“You’re perfect.” please I will cry this chapter was so perfect (also so are the memes I cackled so much)

[sweetestlamb]

Sleeping with a Broken Heart

Summary: Late night pillow talk. Things get a little heated.

Author's note: Just a little cut scene after the latest chapter💕💕

"I can't ever forgive her."

He barely responds to her statement, those huge hands wrapped around her waist and lost in her thick tresses spilled across the pillow. He sniffles softly before stroking down the soft nape of her neck, his scent overwhelming under the plush blanket he'd tugged and swaddled them in. She has never left this kind of warmth, the scorching warmth that comes from being cared for and maybe something more that she's not brazen enough to even think.

Another first that belongs to this boy who's bulldozed his way into her broken life.

And now I'm irrefutably stuck.

"You don't have to. You don't owe her anything." The baritone of his voice sends an electric current down her spine and she snuggles in closer to hide the possible flush in her cheeks, her body is still out of her control. Easily he pulls her closer letting her find recluse in the depths of his cotton shirt.

He agrees with her so easily, asking no further questions or attempting to change her mind. Does nothing to invalidate her feelings and that alone makes her feel better, she doesn't have to do anything.

She doesn't own anyone anything.

Nobody but herself.

They simply lay there as the iridescent glow from the moon filters in through his blinds, casting an ethereal shine across the room. She makes the erroneous decision of gazing up at his face and finds herself lost in his beauty. His lashes are unfairly long and his skin is even more perfect up close, he's so handsome and she can't look away.

She grips his shirt tighter to prevent her hands from caressing those high cheekbones that have no business belonging to a boy.

She's so lost in those usurping thoughts that his words completely catch her off guard. Enough to make her choke on air.

"This is the first time I've had a girl in my room. On my bed."

He says it with a certain level of awe and something that sounds suspiciously like satisfaction and uncertainty flares in her stomach.

"You can't tell anyone about this!"

It's a stupid thing to say, she knows him well enough now. She can even say that she trusts him, he knows things about her that she would never utter to another soul but.... she's seen the other boys in their grade. Seen the machismo displays with complete disregard for their partners or the damning rumors that would follow them.

Whore. Slut. Easy.

High schoolers could be cruel she'd seen first hand how easily they would turn on each other, it had taken months to convince Jukyeong that they weren't going anywhere after her secret was cruelly posted for everyone to watch and gawk.

"Look at me." Her choice is taken away with the firm grip of his finger on her jaw, but his voice was enough to hypnotize her into complying without resistance. His eyes are hard and unyielding, "What happens between us is only for us to know. I don't want anyone thinking about you like that. Do you understand?"

How can he just make unabashed statements like that when she can feel her entire face swimming with blood?

"Do you not feel shame?"

"Of course I do. I feel a lot of things when I'm with you."

There he goes again.

Just turning her insides into mush with little to no effort, she hates it.

Or so she tries to convince herself.

"Stop making me feel like this." This time he draws away, placing his head on the fluffy pillow beside her so he can stare directly into her eyes. She struggles not to blink and look away, things are getting blurry with him looking at her like that and holding her so tightly and close.

She hadn't meant to say that, not like that anyway. She intended to sound firm and forceful trying to find resolve that she seemed to lose in his presence but everything in his eyes scream that her words have not been received that way.

He can barely contain his smile.

He looks like danger.

"How do I make you feel?"

Scared shit less. It's a lot less romantic than he's probably hoping for but truly the best way she can decipher the surge of unknown emotions that manifest when he's there looking at her like she's something precious.

Like she's delicate instead of broken and ugly.

"Nervous." She goes with instead. Barely lying.

He scoffs loudly at her reply and immediately she starts to twist away, feeling too naked and vulnerable.

But he won't let her go, his hands are like iron branding her through the thick material of his own sweater on her skin.

"How do you think you make me feel?" He shoots right back at her and she's speechless, she hadn't fathomed that he was feeling anything much less exactly what she's feeling when he's this close and she just wants to touch. He answers his own question while she's still coming to terms with this epiphany.

"You drive me crazy. Having you in my bed is driving me crazy, I can barely resist."

She stares wide eyed as he bares himself to her again, fearless where she is brimming with fear and anxiety.

Can she live like that?

She takes a steadying breath, before responding.

"Why are you resisting?"

He groans softly, starting to roll away but emboldened by his confession she rolls with him, chest to chest her head hovering above his own.

He gulps, frozen beneath the weight of her body.

"Sujin. Please. I don't want to take advantage of you. You're just sad."

"You're right. I am sad. I've been sad for a long time, I thought I would be sad forever but now you're here."

She's doing it. Her heart is pounding inside her brittle ribcage but she forces herself to keep going, to keep talking even if she's terrified of the outcome.

He doesn't say anything, she can barely hear him breathe as if he's scared to spook her. He just watches with huge beguiling eyes.

"I'm not good at this." He nods as if he understands exactly what she means and she's so grateful she could cry, "But you said I was allowed to hold on to you when I was scared. You said you were mine."

His face melts into something soft that makes her chest constrict and she wants to disappear but she knows that there's nowhere she can go that he won't follow, she was stuck with him.

"What are you doing to me?" He echoes her earlier sentiments and she feels her own control snap like elastic, she can't control her parents, can't force them to love her there's no use even trying but this, them. Here with him she has a voice and someone who listens and fuck, she just wants to stop thinking. Wants her thoughts to be nothing but Seojun, Seojun's lips, Seojun's hands, Seojun's scent all of him drowning her.

"Kiss me, please."

He moves closer, almost instinctively only stopping when they are centimeters apart.

Looking conflicted.

"Are you sure? This isn't why I brought you here. We don't have to do anyth--"

"Shut up." She whispers before thrusting her tongue into his mouth, tasting the minty freshness of his toothpaste and eagerly swallowing his little gasp of shock. He's unnervingly still under her but this does nothing to dissuade her, she would kiss him into action. This self sacrificing shit could only last so long if he even felt a fraction of what she felt with they touched. Thoughtlessly she clamors over his motionless body, straddling him and this causes a high pitched squeak and then he's moving, biting down hard on her bottom lip and running a hand up her bare leg.

When she starts to feel dizzy from lack of oxygen she pulls away, reluctantly. He looks as dazed as she feels and she smashes her lips back into his, thankful that he had the foresight to open his mouth because she could collide with his teeth. She honestly has no idea what she's doing, but the noises that he's making encourage her to keep going- to keep suckling and licking.

He starts to gasp and groan, so loud it makes her head spin. "Baby, you're not playing fair." She's light-headed from the persistent nickname, something undeniably sexy about him calling her that as she kisses him senseless, making her own toes curl.

She runs a hand through his hair gently tugging and then she feels his hips snap upward like clockwork and oh. She pulls their lips apart blushing at the wet loud pop that echoes as she breaks the kiss and she doesn't know what to do at first, this is another first for her. She's never been here before, no boy has ever gotten this close to her.

He pants harshly beneath her and when she grinds down with an experimental whine he recoils like he's been burnt, thrusting her off to the side and dragging the duvet above his waist.

It's the first time she's witnessed him looking embarrassed, it's adorable. But she'll never tell him this.

"I'm sorry. I lost control. It was an accident."

"Was that because of me... Did I do that?" It's another asinine question, they'd all received that uncomfortable sex education class and she knew about hormones but it's hard to wrap her head around the idea that she's the one that caused such a visceral reaction.

"Are you just fishing for compliments now?" He retorts, glancing away and she can see movement under the duvet and instead of fear or disgust, she feels hot and a bit curious.

"Can I-

"No."

She squints at him offended, "You don't even know what I was going to say."

"It doesn't matter. I can't handle you saying anything right now. "

"I thought you were a ladies man? Isn't this how you keep the girls coming back?"

She mentally chides herself when that smirk graces his stupid handsome face.

"Are you jealous? I told you that was just a joke. Don't be like that baby." His drawl is filled to the brim with satisfaction and she punches him instinctively, he cries out at the blow far more dramatically than necessary. The big baby.

"Don't call me baby."

The smirk grows, "You didn't seem to mind awhile ago. "

She blazes red, glaring daggers at him but she never gets a chance to rebut his statement.

Then they both jerk and freeze at the sound of footsteps on wooden floors, holding their breath in anticipation.

Softly through the door a voice carries, "Where did that boy go? He's supposed to be sleeping on the couch. "

She's never seen anyone move that quickly but fast as lightning, he's up out of the bed and throwing himself under the mattress as if the woman could burst in at any time.

That might be true and she would die of mortification.

Thankfully the door stays closed and they hear, "He must be in the bathroom," and then the soft patter of retreating footsteps.

That was too close.

She finally releases a breath she didn't realize she had been holding, greedily sucking in air.

Seojun stands up from his spot under the bed looking as scared as she's ever seen him.

She's tempted to capture this image forever.

"I should go."

It looks like it pains him to utter the words and she feels that gap in her chest, she was already so cold without his furnace like warmth.

"Yeah you should." She nods up at him, wrapping her arms around herself in a feeble attempt to preserve heat. When the urge to shiver comes over her she doesn't fight it, allowing her body to shake like a leaf in a cold autumn day.

He's lifting the blanket up and wrapping her back in his arms before she can finish shaking, "I'll go after you fall asleep."

She hides her soft grin on his chest, "Okay. If you insist."

She readjusts him on the bed, using his chest as a pillow and sleep finds her in no time. Her nose is filled with his scent and that's enough to soothe her to a land of dreams.

"Maybe you're the one taking advantage of me." He whispers into her hair, sounding fonder than he should at the accusation. "I shouldn't like it this much."

She pretends not to hear. Words are too much. 

[onwardintolight]

A few thoughts on the Han/Leia Circuitry Bay Kiss in ESB

I have always adored this scene. In recent years, however, I’ve seen a lot of people, particularly other women, commenting on how it makes them uncomfortable and gives off toxic/icky vibes. First of all, I just want to say that if that’s what you take away from this, that’s totally valid. Everyone comes to stories with their own experiences and triggers, and if this scene rubs you the wrong way, I completely understand. Consent is SO important, and it’s not 100% clear in this scene. It can be interpreted in a way that strips Leia of her agency. That being said, I’ve personally never interpreted this scene that way, and I thought I would break down why.

I won’t even argue that my interpretation was the intended meaning of the scene—I would suspect that some of the problematic ideas about romance and sex common at the time this movie came out were part of what led them to film this scene the way they did, ideas that wouldn’t (shouldn’t) fly in this day and age. But I’m writing this to offer up a different perspective on why this scene has actually always felt empowering to me personally, a survivor who relates deeply to Leia.

First of all: how did these characters get here? What is the context of this scene? 

Han has spent practically the entire movie making his intentions known to Leia and trying to get her to admit that she has feelings for him, too. She clearly does, and everyone knows it. The film makes sure that we know it, too (that long stare in the Hoth command center, anyone?). But Leia simply can’t bring herself to do it. Why? Well, for one, she lost her parents and her entire planet in the last movie. This probably makes her scared to get too close to anyone for fear of losing them, too. We also know from Leia: Princess of Alderaan that after what happened with Kier, she vowed not to fall in love again until the struggle against the Empire was over. These things alone are more than enough reason for her to resist admitting her feelings for Han. In addition, she is almost certainly dealing with PTSD from the trauma of being tortured and losing her planet. She’s likely feeling a lot of anxiety and struggling with blaming herself over what happened, which only compounds her resistance to being vulnerable with Han. Even if deep down she really wants to admit her feelings, even if she desperately craves being vulnerable and physical with him, her fear and shame won’t let her.

Han has a lot of bluster, but it’s covering a very observant and caring heart. We see this time and time again. If you look closely, you can see how he consistently notices when things are wrong with his friends and then does something about it. Despite his talk of being a scoundrel, despite the aura of cool bad boy he does his best to exude in order to hide his own vulnerable heart, he’s not a misogynistic jerk who’s just pursuing Leia for the thrill of it, to put another notch in his belt. He truly cares about her. In the first part of ESB, he’s clearly feeling very hurt by her refusal to admit her feelings for him. But even so, it seems consistent with his character that he would recognize that Leia’s struggling, perhaps even guess some of the reasons for it, and I believe that very much informs how he approaches this moment (even if he masks it to some extent with his signature bluster).

Now for the scene itself:

When Han comes up behind her in the cramped space of the circuitry bay to lend her a hand, Leia is startled and reacts in a hypervigilant way consistent with what she’s been through. She violently pushes him away, and he pulls back and gives her a little space. A conversation ensues in which she has a moment to calm down from her startle response and where they talk a little bit more honestly than before about what they do and don’t want (she doesn’t want to be called names, he wants to be treated a little nicer). This is a small but important step towards vulnerability for Leia.

When Han takes her hands, she says, “Stop that, my hands are dirty.” Her hands being dirty is just a reached-for excuse, but on a sub-conscious level, it tells so much about her inner state. She feels dirty because of all the shame she carries around. She blames herself for so much. She’s afraid that if she lets Han in, she’ll only bring more hurt to them both. Even as a kid, this struck me deeply; not because I read this scene as toxic or diminishing to Leia in any way, but because this was during a time in my life when shame and embarrassment were weighing heavily on me; when I, too, had been through some horrible things and was afraid to get physically close or be vulnerable with anybody. So I felt what Leia was feeling in a very visceral way—that sense of shame, of fear and near panic, and yet at the same time that core part of myself desperately wanting things to be different, desperately wanting to let myself be loved.

Han replies, “My hands are dirty, too. What are you afraid of?” With that, he dismantles her excuse. He addresses the shame by indicating she’s not alone—they both have fears and regrets, they’re in this together, she has nothing to be ashamed of around him. And then, he astutely hones in on the other thing that paralyses her: fear. By asking her what she’s afraid of, he’s helping her examine her anxious/panic reaction instead of just reacting. He’s helping her regain control of it all so that she can make the decision she truly wants. He’s pushing her, yes, but pushing her in a helpful way that she needs right at that moment. He’s pushing her in a way that helps her exert agency over her own fear and shame.

When she repeats “Afraid?” we see her eyes are lit up with excitement, now, another clue that she does actually want this. He points out that she’s trembling—she denies it with the hint of a laugh—but in saying that, he’s telling her it’s okay to feel the way she’s feeling. He’s giving her permission to take the opening he’s providing her. She doesn’t move away from it. She’s still wrestling with fear and shame, but she allows him to come closer, to slowly pry her doors open.

From there, Han declares out loud what she’s been too ashamed and afraid to admit: that she likes him, and that one of the reasons why is that he’s able to help her wrestle with things like this, to help her live on the dangerous side for a change, to help her set her true desires free.

She continues to argue (“I happen to like nice men”), but she’s almost smiling at this point, completely lost in his closeness, her body language speaking her desire. Her banter at this point is just a way to fill the silence and assert some control over her feelings.

She’s let him approach her this closely, and since her initial statement of shame, she hasn’t moved to leave or shown any sign of rejecting his advances. In fact, every indication is that she is very much into this. Saying what she wants out loud is still really scary, but Han knows that. So, after making his intentions very clear through his words and through his own body language, after slowly closing the gap between them and giving her plenty of time to react and reject his advances if she so chooses, he finally kisses her. It is not sudden; it does not come as a surprise to her. She does not squirm or stand there as if frozen. Instead, she meets him halfway, kissing him back passionately.

I certainly don’t mean to suggest that someone not saying no or not moving away equals consent. People can freeze under trauma. But Leia, while certainly afraid, doesn’t seem to shut down. On the contrary, she seems to welcome it and participate in it fully. Ideally, consent would be crystal clear, without a doubt, but I think there’s much in the context of this story to indicate that Leia very much wants this and that she gets to make this decision for herself.

The deleted scene is even better, because it makes her agency and consent even more perfectly clear. After an initial kiss, Han pulls back, looking at her questioningly to see her reaction. “Okay, hot shot,” she says, and initiates the next kiss herself, drawing him closer again.

Sometimes, when you’ve built up walls of fear and shame, you want someone to push past your defenses in a way that feels safe and respectful. I’d argue this is exactly what Han is doing here. Han has given her permission to be vulnerable and respond the way she really, truly wants to, even if she’s unable to say it out loud quite yet. He’s made this a safe place for her to dismantle her walls for a moment. He took things slowly, making sure she had time to react, to pull away from him, to say no. She doesn’t. She takes his invitation, and finds the moment of freedom, vulnerability, and passion she’s wanted for so long. She lets herself be known.

[misscrawfords]

The Rise of Skywalker: Part One

I have lots of thoughts and feelings about TROS. Most of them negative. For three days I’ve been alternating between raging and crying. Finally, I’ve felt able to start writing.

This is a negative review. If you loved the film then this might not be the post for you. I am very sensitive to what happened after TLJ. And I want to reassure anyone reading that I would never turn criticism for a film (which is absolutely a valid response to seeing something that you disliked and are trying to understand) into personal attacks against the actors or creators involved or, worse still, fans who liked it. If you liked TROS, can’t bear to hear any criticism of it, and still choose to read my posts about it, then that is on you. (I really shouldn’t have to say this but this is a hellsite.)

This post contains spoilers for TROS... and Jumanji 2. Go figure.

Things I liked:

·       C-3PO and everything he did. This droid is the character I identify with most in the entire SW series (which probably says some uncomfortable things about me but this is not the time!) and he had such a big and important role and his quips were genuinely great and funny and I loved everything he did. Apart from – but more on that later.

·       Ben Solo. Uh, other people have talked about his little shrug and his “ow” and his smile – oh god, his smile. Ben Solo is amazing. It’s a shame that – but more on that later.

·       I didn’t hate Rey Palpatine. I mean, I literally wrote this story when I was 13 when I made Hermione Voldemort’s daughter as a way of explaining her inner darkness and had her team up with Harry (with whom she had a telepathic bond) to destroy him. (You can read the story here if you really want to.) So it would be pretty hypocritical of me to hate this plotline. I enjoyed seeing angry, feral Rey on screen, I enjoyed seeing a female hero confronting her capacity for destruction and darkness. I was okay with the idea of a final face-off between a Palpatine and a Skywalker and how this is a way of bringing final balance to the Force. This was pretty interesting and I’d be up for this. I much prefer Rey Nobody but as a concept I’m not actually against it. Unfortunately the execution – but more on that later.

·       I really enjoyed more of Finn and Poe. I love both of them as characters. I mean I can’t think of a single bit of dialogue that was meaningful between them or what they accomplished in particular for they had some fun moments.

·       Finn and Jannah’s conversation about being ex-stormtroopers was a lovely scene, a moment of much-needed quiet and reflection and bonding in a film that was far too hectic and crowded. Shame it went nowhere.

·       Reylo kiss? I mean, that was cool.

·       Unironically, I loved Hux. He was snarky and his revelation of being the spy because he just hated Kylo that much got the biggest reaction in the cinema of the entire showing. Admittedly it was derisive laughter as we all realised what a clusterfuck of bad writing this film was, but still. It crossed over into so-bad-it’s-good territory. Hux gave me considerable pleasure in a film that otherwise made me very angry.

·       My favourite scene in the film was when Rey and Kylo fought on Pasaana over the transport ship with Chewie (apparently) on and Rey blows it up. The cinematography was amazing, it was a visual representation of both balance and building on the lightsaber breaking scene in TLJ while upping the stakes considerably and Rey’s reaction of visceral horror when she realised what she had done was truly shocking and unexpected. To have Chewie killed off so suddenly like this for no reason except that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time and the stakes are high and this is a desperate war with casualties – genius. A perfect way to make Rey and Ben even more similar – both having killed father figures – and have Rey confront her dark side as she wrestles with what she has done and the consequences of having a non-unified relationship with Ben while also being in a position to truly empathise with him – this was exactly the content I had signed up for. But it was the moment that it was revealed that Chewie was still alive that I realised what I’d only suspected before then: that this film was terrible and I would not be able to trust any emotion it was inviting me to feel.

Fundamentally, I think that this film is incredibly poorly written and emotionally dishonest. It is telling that I saw Jumanji 2 earlier in the day and out of the two films, the only point at which I cried was when Milo decided to stay in Jumanji as a horse. Why did I cry? Because Milo and Grandpa’s relationship had been gradually built up over the course of a film that was not afraid of quiet moments and building a narrative of a relationship that revealed what it needed over the course of several meaningful scenes. It allowed Milo’s decision to stay to be both a tragic loss but also a happy ending for him. Truly bittersweet and in a way that everyone can relate to. The loss of a dear friend to illness is a horrible but human thing to contemplate. To be able to set this friend free through a metaphor of a beautiful death and afterlife is genuinely moving and hopeful. Unfortunately TROS did not manage to give me any such emotions or elicit a single tear.

At least not till afterwards. I’ve subsequently cried a lot, some of it over the tragedy of Ben and Rey in a film that promised hope, but mainly for myself and the other (mainly) young female fans who have poured all their knowledge and intelligence into analysis of TFA and TLJ and who seemed to understand the story that was being told and who had been promised more of this story in the interviews and trailers released prior to this film – and who are now feeling like absolute garbage as this film throws out its own mythology for an incoherent, self-serving mess that in many ways defies analysis. The only thing I feel really capable of analysing is how much it doesn’t work, as opposed to what the film is trying to do. Where is the symbolism? Where is the metaphor? Where is the hero’s journey? Where is the heroine’s journey? Where is nuance? Where is everything that was set up in both TFA and TLJ? IDK, I can’t see it. It’s a kick in the teeth.

So, no matter how many individual things I was able to enjoy at the time when watching TROS, they end up being meaningless because the entire film was so bad. I can’t feel pleasure thinking about the good bits because they were mired in context (or lack of it). I can’t feel genuine sorrow about the fate of Rey and Ben because the execution of that fate was so poorly done. I don’t even mind that Ben died. It was always an option and the story of redemption followed by death is a very common story, a very Christian story. Though the death of Christ to save us from our sins, is crucially followed by resurrection. I mean, literally everyone can and does die. That doesn’t make you special. If you’re going for a Christ metaphor, you kind of need resurrection too. But I’m not sure that was exactly what they were going for with it; it was a mess and the execution made little internal consistency.

It may be that if I watched the film again, my problems would be lessened and I would see new things in them and they would make sense. I’ve read some twitter threads of people who are making connections and finding explanations on a second or third viewing. But the problem is that I shouldn’t need to see a film more than once to fundamentally understand it. I don’t mean picking up on new and interesting features and subtext which a good film, like a good book, rewards you with on multiple viewings. TLJ does that. But you should be able to follow what the ultimate meaning of a film is when you see it first.

If that is the case, then the ultimate meaning of TROS is that the good are good, the bad are bad, change is rewarded with death, a character who was once alone ends up alone again, plot coherency is sacrificed for whatever explosion or cool backwards-reference is needed at the time, death is not the end except when it is, there is no cosistency and consequently no emotional impact. And apparently it is a happy and hopeful ending? The tonal disconnect with the story being told and the way it was shot and the music being played and the clear intention of the people making the film is utterly jarring.

To famously quote Macbeth:

It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

This post is already too long so I will go into my criticisms in more detail in a further post. Stay tuned!

Read Part Two here.

[myownsuperintendent]

For the past almost seven months (I started on December 31), I’ve been watching The X-Files for the first time, at an average of one episode a day.  And of course I’ve been loving it, and of course it quickly became my new obsession. Today I finished, which is bittersweet, and I decided to make a list of my personal top ten and bottom ten episodes.

Top Ten, in chronological order (this was VERY HARD): 1. “Squeeze”—For me, the scariest episode. Tense and exciting all the way through. 2. “Beyond the Sea”—I obviously liked many of the previous episodes, but this one took the show to another level.  It’s moving and character-revealing, and Gillian is so great. 3. “Duane Barry/Ascension/One Breath”—Chunking these together since they’re really a three-parter with “3” stuck awkwardly in the middle.  Definitely my favorite mythology episodes: they’re super tense, the plot actually makes decent sense, there’s great acting from everyone, and I love Tram Operator Threatening Mulder. 4. “Clyde Bruckman’s Final Repose”—This one is basically perfect.  If I tried to quote favorite parts I’d have to quote the whole thing. 5. “Pusher”—A perfect balance of things that make this show great.  It has what I call the Three T’s—terror, tension, and incredible tenderness between Mulder and Scully. 6. “Jose Chung’s From Outer Space”—Laugh-out-loud funny and clever.  The Alex Trebek cameo is my fave. 7. “Never Again”—All sorts of weird and uncomfortable and wonderful.  A really interesting look at Scully that feels different but never feels wrong. 8. “Triangle”—If I had to pick just one, this would probably be it.  It’s a well-done story, it’s visually interesting, and it contains the only kiss I didn’t know about in advance; I screamed aloud when it happened and went around smiling all day. 9. “The Goldberg Variation”—I generally wouldn’t describe the non-MSR portions of the show as “darling and sweet.”  This episode is an exception, and I love that the monster of the week is not a monster at all (and the MSR is also darling and sweet, for the record). 10. “Hollywood A.D.”—This one’s so funny; I like the self-referential humor, and Scully running back and forth in the background kills me.  The chemistry is also perfect here. Honorable mention to Fight the Future, which is not an episode, but is the greatest romantic film of our age.

Bottom Ten, in chronological order (this was not so hard, although it’s heavily revival-weighted): 1. “3”—This was the first episode I really disliked.  There’s no Scully, and I don’t like seeing Mulder kissing other people. 2. “War of the Coprophages”—I know there are objectively much worse episodes than this one, but it is FULL OF COCKROACHES; I find it viscerally disgusting.  Once you’ve had to kill the monster of the week in your own bathtub there’s no pleasure in watching it on television. 3. “Kill Switch”—Nothing that I’ve ever seen from William Gibson makes me think that he has any idea how to write women who aren’t some weird male fantasy.  I find his Scully pretty out of character. 4. “First Person Shooter”—See above.  I hate the police station scene. 5. “Jump the Shark”—This one’s really incoherent; I assume you have to have seen the spin-off to make sense of it because it doesn’t stand on its own very well.  I also just find Fletcher really annoying. 6. “William”—This episode makes no sense on either a character level or on a level of how things work in the world (how can you do an adoption in one week?).  It’s horribly mean and unfair. 7. “My Struggle”—At first I thought this one wasn’t so bad, but when the plot kicked in I changed my mind.  It’s unclear and nonsensical. 8. “Founder’s Mutation”—When you finish an episode and one of the few positive remarks you have to make is “Scully’s scrubs were a nice color,” it’s not a good sign.  I don’t like how this one handles its subject matter. 9. “Babylon”—Some episodes of television offend you morally, some annoy the hell out of you, and some fill you with intense secondhand embarrassment.  “Babylon” does all three. 10. “My Struggle II”—There’s really nothing to like about this one.  The story is again nonsensical, and why would they waste one of six episodes on a story where Mulder and Scully barely interact at all?

[ganymedesclock]

The first time I ever saw anything about Lancelot was someone talking about Lance "getting a taste of his own medicine," as if some inappropriately timed (and somewhat annoying) flirting toward Allura is equal to getting kidnapped, having his autonomy ignored, and developing Stockholm Syndrome. So I was pretty put off by the pairing. I think it's all fine and dandy for ppl to explore different things in fandom, but it's a scary idea to actually want all that to happen to Lance in canon imo.

Honestly, I resent the implication that Lance creeps on anyone. Yeah, he flirts, but frankly it feels almost like a kind of affectionate teasing.

The thing is, Allura is one of the two leaders of the team and in every other area, we have seen, abundantly, that Lance heeds and respects Allura’s judgment. The one time we have seen Allura totally lose patience with Lance- when he’s flirting when she wants serious answers, right when she’s first met him- she had him on the floor in seconds.

Basically, if Allura was more than mildly annoyed by Lance’s flirting, 1. she’d absolutely say something and 2. Lance would absolutely step the fuck down.

Lance is not the kind of person to creep on others. When he asks for a kiss for good luck and Platt is the one who obliges him, Lance’s response is, well, he feels bad being kissed by a mouse but he’s not going to kick up a fuss, it’s just him going to Blue without any protest or complaint. The one thing you could possibly take issue in is Lance’s persistence but even then, it feels like kind of a joke between them.

Knowing that Lance tends to be respectful in other regards, to Allura specifically, that he’s someone who would be upset if Allura’s feelings were hurt- that he’s someone who took it pretty gracefully when Nyma actively led him on and manipulated his feelings to hurt him and steal Blue- I can’t see Lance characterized at all as someone who would badger others incessantly because he feels entitled to their attention. That’s where I draw the line- Lance would love people to pay attention to him and he tries to start conversations in that direction, but he has never acted like someone owes him attention or love. For anything.

And Lance seems to highly value his relationship with his mom, and he takes Plaxum completely seriously as a professional and an ally, and while he was surprised to find out Pidge was a girl, his reaction was just surprise. In the long term we see it changed absolutely nothing about how they relate to each other. And, as I have mentioned, Allura is the leader of Voltron and she is someone who Lance takes orders from on a regular basis. Lance does not have a problem with respecting women. 

Knowing Allura’s development as a character has been to open up more and more with the team, that from the start she’s been clear about her expectations, that she comes from a history where she expects people to hear her out and listen to her and has reacted very harshly to people trying to boss her around- I can’t see Allura biting her tongue and rolling her eyes if Lance was making her genuinely uncomfortable.

So, that specific spin on it is reducing Lotor to the harmful stereotype of the predatory gay villain, treating him creeping on Lance not as a genuinely uncomfortable hurtful thing but “comeuppance” for a lesson Lance really doesn’t need to learn, in disproportionate punishment for Lance’s flirting, which is pretty clearly rooted less in any attitude towards women that Lance has, and more in the fact that Lance, as a kinda insecure person, wants people to like him, and part of that is him wanting others to see him as suave and charming. Which is to say, since his character development has already worked a lot towards addressing and moving forwards from his lack of self-worth…

(everyone remembers the seventh-wheel comment but not that Lance, before and after, is contesting it heavily with the whole sharpshooter thing, and the episode showcased that Lance does have specific unique talents and he is both aware of them and receiving positive feedback for them- specifically from Shiro, who’s explicitly his personal hero!)

…I think Lance is already in a great place to grow organically out of the more “needy” insistent side of his flirting, and it’s pretty rich to slam him for that when I cannot tell you how many shows I have seen that have a character full-tilt bothering and refusing to respect the boundaries of their love interest for days on end and this is depicted as harmless endearing puppy love.

It’s cheap to Lotor to make him nothing more than Lance’s “karmic” punishment, especially when Lotor’s behavior in DotU seemed pretty clearly to me like the juxtaposition of sexist writing (the bad guy is gonna steal your girlfriend, hero! look out!!!) and a genuinely tragic thing of he just plain desperately wants to have a genuinely positive connection with someone and has no idea how to ask or look for this. (in GoLion he’s subconsciously trying to recreate the only really supportive relationship he’s ever had in his life, which, sure, in practice that was really uncomfortable and led to terrifying Oedipus implications, but that’s… pretty sad)

So I feel like in the first place, if the point that the narrative was trying to make about Lotor is he’s lonely and starved for positive affirmation, even from a pure writing standpoint, it doesn’t make sense to have him creep on someone. Especially because just as much as we’ve seen of VLD Lotor, he seems charismatic and able to play an audience, which requires being pretty in tune with how people around him are feeling.

I feel like that would really discourage him from attempting to force people to spend time with him if what he actually wants is to feel like someone cares about him. Because he could tell if someone’s only there because they’re trapped or desperate enough to try and seduce him and being either a means to an end, their only option, or a malicious force, isn’t a role that would reassure someone if again, their main problem is they feel unloved. Especially, again, the writers have talked up Lotor as someone with a sense of chivalry- so being presented with a hostage and “you like pretty ones, right?” would be about as exquisitely uncomfortable for Lotor as it would be for the person being tossed at him like a piece of meat.

And I stand by everything I said before about this, and one more concept I’ll toss out here is: the writers of VLD have done a lot to explore the abuses of the galra empire in a way that is not unnecessarily uncomfortable, or outright torture porn, to watch.

We know exactly what they’re doing, and that they’re hurting people, but we don’t have to see Shiro being hacked into with scalpels, blood and screaming everywhere, to know that he experienced medical torture pretty significantly during his missing year. Rather, they use very effective storytelling and placement of exposition to give us the idea without making us sit through a graphic torture scene. Instances like Slav and Thace where it’s actually onscreen are short-lived and brutally effective for their scarcity- and used to establish other factors about the situation.

The more explicitly shown abuses are things like Morvok’s robbery of the taujeerians, or the Olkari’s forced labor- things that are wrong, and rightfully uncomfortable, but not viscerally painful to watch.

It would be impossible to maintain that minimal-and-effective nature by introducing a major character where a major factor of how he relates to the main heroes is specifically very uncomfortable. There’s unnerving and abusive qualities to how Zarkon and Haggar relate to the people around them, but this is managed carefully by the writers- and while not many people will encounter dominating space tyrants and mad science wizards in their lives, there are very unfortunately a lot of people who have encountered creeps who won’t take no for an answer in relationships.

Especially since the writers seem to be angling for a more sympathetic Lotor- and in past incarnations he has been, generally, more sympathetic than Zarkon- it doesn’t make sense to make him harder to watch than his father. 

[zalrb]

TVD 1x04 Review

Hi all! Welcome to the fourth review of TVD season 1. Considering that I haven’t like sat down to watch a full episode of the past seasons of TVD in a few years and my memory might not be the greatest I think I will start with my usual disclaimer: I write my thoughts in real time so if I make a mistake at the beginning of this post, it will be corrected by the end. There will be anti-Damon and anti-Delena sentiments (I’m only mentioning these two because it’s the beginning of the series), and in light of recent events I feel the need to say that there may be some anti-Jenna sentiments too. I will probably bring up other shows and call attention to misogynoir, racism, anti-blackness etc. Ready? Let’s go.

1. I always wonder how these dreams work, like how much detail does Damon have to put into it? He has Elena wearing the necklace, Logan Fell is on the TV, he has the details of her room and her kitchen, like how does he create these dreams to terrorize Stefan with? Or does he go into Stefan’s head and Stefan has all these details already there so then Damon just manipulates his memory?

2. You know, sometimes I watch teen shows I watched when I was younger and I can go, yeah I can see why people went crazy for this guy even though he’s a dick. I don’t get that, I cannot see why with Damon.

3. His hair is back to be thoroughly offensive. When do they fix it for good?

4. Stefan throwing a knife at Damon’s chest is still, like, my favourite Defan moment.

5. Damon is so petty, like all he does is hangout in Stefan’s room and terrorize him!

6. “Believe it or not, Stefan, some girls don’t need my persuasion.” Damon, you compelled Caroline, you compelled Andie, and it took a sire bond for you to actually get Elena. Who are you fooling, fam?

7. Another Stefan shirtless shot! Seriously, they totally exploited his abs in season 1. Lmao.

8. OH MY GOD, STEFAN STOP WITH THE VOICEOVER.

9. Lol Jenna and Jeremy are in the other room and Elena just grabs Stefan and kisses him like ok my room upstairs RIGHT now.

10. And I didn’t realize Stefan’s reaction, he has a grin on his face but he’s lookng around like ... Really? Omg they’re adorable.

11. In every makeout/sex scene SE do there’s always a moment where Stefan or Elena pause to look at each other, even if it’s brief, just to have that eye contact.

12. Nina’s sighing pretty hard.

13. I also like how when Elena is like “Maybe we should press pause” and Stefan agrees, he has to go and sit on the other side of the room, like they cannot be on a bed together because it’ll just get that intense again.

14. Also an anon was talking about how they find it interesting the psychology behind a vampie who is in love with someone but still has the urge to feed on them and I responded that Paul was really interested in that dynamic with SE as well and you really do see it in this scene. They’re getting to a very visceral place with the physical contact so that viscera shifts into his vampirism and hunger so he has to press pause, it just adds to a whole other level of angst.

15. “I would be honoured to accompany you, Miss Gilbert.” 1864 Stefan making a comeback.

16. And Elena is fucking loving it.

17. “No yellow, jaundice go for the blue.” “I don’t like the blue.” “Well, I do.” The problem with Damon is that he doesn’t come across as a vampire, he comes across as an abusive boyfriend. With Stefan, he’s a vampire in the simplest things like the fact that he can become a fucking statue when he’s angry or the fact that he will speak a little old-fashioned and of course the fact that his veins appear when he gets too close to Elena, showing that he hasn’t mastered being in society that well. Damon just has the dialogue and the fog and the crow, he just seems like a guy who has a bunch of tricks and murders people because he feels like it so the Daroline dynamic doesn’t even feel like a predator playing with his prey, like it doesn’t feel non-human and human, he’s just abusive.

18. It’s also really sad watching Caroline look at Damon’s bite marks in the mirror. 

19.  “You can be very sweet when you want to be.” This is legit just an abusive dynamic, I don’t even want to say relationship anymore because Caroline has no free will.

20. “And Damon’s not dangerous, he just has a lot of issues with his brother, like major, deep-rooted drama” listening to Caroline speak is like listening to Delena stans.

21. “This country’s dumbed down in the last hundred years.” Oh yeah because enforcing enslavement was the pinnacle of American genius. Fucking writers.

22. Zach was unnecessary and the actor is AWFUL.

23. “I got your punk.” What does that mean exactly, Jeremy?

24. I like how everyone is blaming Stefan for Katherine when Damon is, like, 23 or 25.

25. Elena being like hmm, how do I know if Stefan is a calculating, manipulative lying and Damon is the victim, maybe Bonnie is right, is ridiculous considering that Damon tried to kiss her last episode and she experienced Damon being manipulative and called him out on it saying that it was his intention to make her feel uncomfortable. Like this is so fucking manufactured.

26. Paul’s arms though. And then Ian walks in topless like ... *rolls eyes* put your shirt on.

27. Damon, you would drive anyone to drink, you’re annoying and homicidal.

28. "If I go online will I find it [the pocketwatch] on ebay? Is that how you pay for your pot?” I know she was making a point but like how expensive does she think weed is?

29. “Yes, being a 150 year old teenager has been the height of my happiness” lol Stefan’s dry wit kills me each time.

30. “I’m not some drunk sorority chick, you can’t roofie me” that is a seriously disgusting line. And people want to argue that Damon isn’t a sexual predator?

31. Ian’s hair is OK again, I guess he, like, brushed it.

32. Tyler legitimately brought Vicki into his house through the back. Like that’s rude.

33. Caroline is rude to Liz for no reason, which is why in the later seasons, when they tried to act like she and Liz always had a wonderful relationship I side-eyed it.

34. Elena reading the registry makes me laugh because I remember the bloopers when Nina couldn’t get one name, like she just couldn’t move past it so Paul and the crew made a joke like, think of it as gonorrhea. And that name isn’t in the final cut.

35. “My therapist says I’m acting out... trying to punish Stefan” are you 16?

36. See Damon telling Elena how he and Stefan died without saying how they died and his clear pain over what they did to him and to Katherine would’ve been a storyline I would like to follow more. If he came back to MF to destroy it because of how much he hated it and he chose Caroline to get back at the Founding families, if he was still devastated by what they did but then throughout the season started realizing that Caroline and Tyler and Jeremy and Elena, essentially the descendants of these families, were actual people and developed from that, I think they could’ve had something interesting. And the show has like remnants of this idea throughout season 1 but it isn’t an actual arc for Damon because his arc is supposed to be Elena and he terrorizes the town because he feels like it, it isn’t a statement so he’s just a dick.

37. “Doesn’t it always come down to the love of a woman?” No. And this is Damon’s entire problem.

38. “That’s what you get when you bring the trash into the party” ... Carol, what? Vicki actually did nothing a “respectable” young woman wouldn’t do. Like it just doesn’t even go.

39. Yeah Bonnie is hardly in this episode. Shunted to the sidelnes for no reason. Caroline and Elena haven’t even gone over to her table to see what’s happening. Caroline I forgive because she’s Damon’s puppet right now but Elena, really?

40. I love the way Elena stares at Stefan when they’re dancing and then she giggles to herself because she’s just so happy being with him.

41. “I hope Damon didn’t drive you too crazy.” “No actually, he was on good behaviour” manipulation, Elena, that is what manipulation looks like.

42. Yes, Stefan, Damon is trying to get Elena to turn against you but you not saying anything about yourself isn’t helping matters either. I mean, it makes sense because you’re still fucked up about what Katherine did to you but you gotta budge a little, honey.

43. Oh hey Elena, talking to Bonnie who you left alone all night to bitch about your boy problems?

44. Carol didn’t even say hi to Bonnie.

45. There’s actually no reason why Damon had to bring Caroline to this.

46. I also don’t care at all about Jenna and Logan.

47. “I’m sorry, I take it all back, you are completely right about Damon”, but like Elena wasn’t even defending Damon in the previous scene, so ... what? 

48. “I’m handling it.” “Handling it? Stefan, you should be having him arrested.” Elena, why don’t YOU have him arrested? You saw the bite marks and you told Damon to stay away from her OR you’ll tell her mother, what is with the show and having characters threaten to do something they should just DO? Like, I would understand it if Elena doesn’t quite know what to do in the situation and thought she did a good job by telling Damon to stay away from Caroline because she IS 16 but her getting mad indignant at Stefan is like ... or you could do what you’re telling him to do?

49. Vicki and Jeremy, is just. Ugh.

50. Seriously this scene between Damon and Caroline is fucking terrified, rewatching it really just emphasizes just how awful the show is for the Daroline friendship.

51. And Damon being broken hearted over Katherine does not excuse this behaviour.

52. I just, how does Elena not remember hugging Caroline who was breaking down in her arms saying “I’m fine, I’m fine” every time she’s with Damon? Like how she does she just block that out?

53. Oh, ending it on the utterly useless council.

I don’t know, man, these early episodes just reaffirm my hatred for Damon.

[sarahburness]

Healing from Abuse: How I Stopped Hating The Man and Learned to Listen to Myself

“Ignoring isn't the same as ignorance, you have to work at it.” ~Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale

We’ve just passed the year anniversary of an event that has greatly changed our country. The shock of the election results last year sent waves of powerful emotions rippling through our nation.

Personally, I felt the effects as intense and immediate grief. It was as though I had just lost my dearest companion.

I had days of shock, despair, feelings of intense cold with physical shaking and episodes of vomiting and nausea, followed by weeks of sleepless nights, spontaneous sweating, nightmares and feelings of imminent danger. Everything felt like a threat. Everything felt like an unbearable reminder. It was all so devastating…and so embarrassing.

I was ashamed of how deeply I registered the experience and found it difficult to talk about even with those I loved. I was confused as to why it felt so intense, why I felt choked when I tried to speak of how I was feeling, and assumed it was something wrong with me. I was the living example of the liberal snowflake.

As I began talking to others I realized that I was not alone in this experience and I began to be curious as to why it registered so deeply with myself and some others, and yet did not in some of my friends who had similar political ideologies. They were still disappointed and disgusted with what had happened, but it did not register in such a visceral way.

Personal and systematic abuse shaped us all in invisible ways. The answers I found to why I related so physically to the event go back very far into my personal history, and if you believe in such things, my ancestral history also.

As a small child family gatherings held a sense of dread for my sister and me. While we enjoyed the food and presents usually involved, there was also the regular ritual of uncle Joe.

Uncle Joe would call us floozies and comment that our legs were too skinny, our knees looked like washerwoman knees, and no one would find us attractive.

There were also the sneak attacks of him grabbing us and holding us down and tickling us while we screamed for him to stop. It was always in the middle of the room with everyone watching, and him narrating the scene, saying how much we really loved it, how silly we sounded screaming stop because we were laughing, and everyone could see we enjoyed it.

At the beginning and end of gatherings he would demand a hug and kiss, didn't we love our uncle?

I remember feeling helpless, humiliated, and ashamed for my tears. It was expected for us to swallow our feelings and put on a happy face. We needed to be polite.

If any adult came to our aid or defense I do not recall it, and I'm sure if anyone did they would have also been told that they were being too sensitive. He was showing his love for us, and why didn't they appreciate it? We should feel lucky to have an uncle who loved us so much.

This kind of story is so commonplace, so ubiquitous, that many may read it and still question what was wrong with that situation. But this is how the very damaging abuse called gas lighting works.

The perpetrator takes advantage of someone weak or vulnerable. They deny the victim from having a voice in the story, then re-center the story to be about themselves, about how great and wonderful they are or, conversely, how they themselves are being abused in the situation. And they mostly are not even aware that they are doing it.

Even in writing this down I feel the tension in my body rise. I feel the tremors involuntarily start in my limbs, y breath gets shallow, and I have trouble even wrapping my head around the words to adequately explain the experience.

In Psychological Harm is Physical Harm Nora Samaran writes of how this kind of abuse shapes the brain and how someone can react to this behavior for the rest of their life. The systematic silencing of one's voice and denial of one's reality can cause someone to become incapable of talking about it.

Uncle Joe was not the only person in my life who behaved in this way. It was everywhere, from the doctor who told me that it didn't hurt when he burned off my warts with dry ice, to my father who told me to quit crying or he would give me something to cry about, to the teachers who seemed to always ignore my correct answers, but hear the boy behind me who repeated what I just said as if it was his own idea. It was on television, in movies, in the music I heard on the radio.

I internalized the patterns and found myself over and over in the same frustrations, the same endless arguments, the same feelings of invisibility.

I sought out the dynamic in my relationships, sometimes in more obviously abusive partnerships, but often in the subtle and almost invisible forms of minimization. I felt like I was talking, but the people I was talking to didn't seem to register what I was saying.

It was like being caught in a nightmare, where you are trying to speak but what comes out of your mouth is unintelligible. You know what you are trying to say, but what my partners heard was something altogether different. It was crazy making.

Because of the systemic normalization of minimizing and denying the feminine perspective, I came to deeply distrust my own mind.

I did not have to even be told my perceptions were not important; it was done in the subtle shrugging off of my suggestions, the deep sigh that made me feel my words were ridiculous, the automatic response of the males in my life to say “yes, but…,” “ I don't think you get what's going on,” “you are misunderstanding,” even when I was describing my own feelings or experience.

And the many years of work I did getting a handle on my own anger issues and automatic reactions made me super sensitive to the claims that I was the one being too aggressive, making too big a deal out of something or just being mean.

I automatically took on the blame and responsibility of any argument. I was being irrational, I was not being clear enough, the words I used were hurtful; therefore, they were invalid.

Mathew Remski discusses this quite eloquently from the male perspective. He talks of the behavior of minimizing being so embedded in his make up that it takes continuous concentrated effort to even notice when it is happening. And that it also takes the help of his partner continuously pointing out when it happens.

It is a lot of work to be constantly vigilant monitoring our behavior, and it can feel almost impossible to overcome. I know because I, and most other people who have had the experience of personal or systematic marginalization do this every day with our own behavior. The constant rewriting of our own experiences to fit within a system that cannot accept our true feelings, which center the collective narrative on a cis, white male perspective.

When the campaign happened, the behaviors I had deep visceral reactions to became public. Instead of being hidden away in the most intimate relationships or invisible private conversations, they were being played out on a very public stage.

I felt myself reacting to them all as if they had happened to me personally (because they had, just not by this particular person).

When one of the most powerful positions in the world was given to a person who was so blatantly abusive and disrespectful, who openly mocked his victims, who rewrote every story so the blame was scattershot anywhere but his direction, who played out the usually hidden abuses so many of us feel intimately on a scale so huge it permeated the globe, it felt to me that the years of hard work I had done to reclaim my identity had been wiped out in a single night.

It validated the claim of every person who had told me I didn't know what I was talking about; if I was uncomfortable it was because my expectations were not reasonable; if I felt abused, hurt, ignored it was hurtful and unfair to the person I was accusing; that pointing out my pain or the pain of others was downright impolite and my behavior. The mere fact that I had a perspective of my own, was intolerable.

I found relief through somatic therapy. Somatic therapy works directly with sensations of the body and translating them into the emotions that we may be storing there. It requires one to become present in the now, opening to the deeply buried layers that bubble up from the subconscious when we have knee-jerk reactions and strong emotions.

Translating the subconscious reactions we have into conscious and conscientious actions creates the space to make our hurt, and the hurt of others visible. To do this I had to dive into the depth of the grief to see where it stemmed from, not just place it was most recently triggered. This was a place that made every fiber of my being long to run away, numb out, cease to exist.

But the leaning into the pain instead of running away allowed me to recognize and accept my own feelings and reactions as tools of learning. I had to relearn to trust my instincts and see myself as a reliable source of information. I learned that I am valid, my feelings are important, and I have a right to be heard and to take up space.

I saw the ways I was complicit in my own harm. I had given up the right to my own perspective, internalized the doubt that my experiences are real, automatically responded to my strong emotions as unreasonable, and I had agreed that the feelings and needs of others were more important than my own.

When I saw that I had agreed to these things subconsciously, I was finally able to decide for myself that I did not want to do these things and could make the choice to stop.

It was and continues to be hard work. But now I listen when strong reactions come up, and instead of automatically silencing them I ask, what they are here to tell me? My anger, fear, guilt, depression, despair, all have a message they are desperately trying to get me to hear.

With deep listening my reactions can be transformed into conscious actions. Actions that let my voice be heard, centering my own story and needs, and allowing others to express what they need to express as well. It also gives me a very low BS tolerance threshold.

In claiming my own story I suddenly found it intolerable having it minimized in any way and could no longer be silent when it was.

This is a deeply inconvenient perspective to have. Going against the grain of society and allowing myself to be impolite while remaining as compassionate as I can muster leads to many awkward and uncomfortable conversations. It leads to conversations where I have to put my personal safety on the line in order to stand up for my personal integrity.

There is also the need for great delicacy and diplomacy. You cannot hope for others behavior to change when you make them the enemy. We all have the capacity to hurt; we all have the capacity to heal. I am the victim of abuse in cases related to my gender, and at times, my age, but have also been the perpetrator in cases where my privilege, be it from my white skin, my middle class upbringing, my citizenship etc. have blinded me to the ways I have contributed to the minimization and abuse of others.

Learning to have compassion for myself and my own tender emotions also requires me to have compassion for those who have harmed me. In the cases of my intimate circle, these are people I love and respect, and I want to be able to still love myself and need to allow for others to love themselves. I see the great hurt many of the people who have treated me this way carry around, you do not abuse without having first been abused yourself.

Unfortunately the abuse of toxic masculinity (the culture of oppression, patriarchal values, or the many names this behavior is known by) has become so embedded in our culture that we do not even recognize it as abuse. It is the norm; it's just the way it is.

It is invisible to the unconscious eye, until we make it visible. We are all damaged by it, but some are made to pay a dearer price, and some are allowed to gain privilege.

Those that gain privilege may have less of a motivation to change the patterns and a harder time seeing the ways they do harm and the ways it benefits them. It takes a lot of self-awareness and the ability to make yourself vulnerable. Accepting the responsibility of having harmed others and making amends is a very painful truth to accept, and so many will avoid this at all costs.

And this responsibility is passed down through the generations. If one generation cannot make amends for the harm they caused, the pain, guilt, and responsibility are handed down to the next, only the further it goes from its origins, the more subconscious it becomes, and the more difficult it is to bring the surface and recognize it.

But this is also the way it is healed, once and for all. It is not appealing work to dig deep into the ugliest depth of our suffering, to name the ways we have suffered, the ways we have caused suffering, the ways we have allowed both things to happen. But not doing it makes those part of ourselves most in need of tender care the least visible.

So in this year when all I really wanted was for this guy, who made all my alarm bells go off, to shut the hell up, I was moved to look at all the ways I had let this weak and damaged person, and so many others like him, convince me I had to shut the hell up. I lovingly listened to my own story and convinced myself to speak up instead.

About Dr. Lisa Klieger

Lisa Klieger is a Five Element Acupuncturist (MAc) and a Doctor of Medical QiGong (DMQ China). She uses decades of clinical and personal experience to bridge ancient wisdom with modern sensibilities in order to guide sensitive souls to trust their innate wisdom and embody resilient self love. You can visit her on Facebook and at lisakliegeracupuncture.com.

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The post Healing from Abuse: How I Stopped Hating The Man and Learned to Listen to Myself appeared first on Tiny Buddha.

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