#i swear to god i have some kind of gene where men either see me as a sex object or their freaky little friend whos a boy but a girl

[newfeeling77]

if i ever feel insecure or upset when i see a man do something sweet for his girlfriend and ive never had a man do anything sweet for me i just ask her a few questions abt him n his habits n then i walk away w enough reasons not to want to deal with having a boyfriend

[acopenhagenarmy]

RESPECT - 3

Pairing: BTS x reader but mostly hyung-line x reader

Mafia!au - gang!au - assassins!au

Word count: 3.6k ish

Warnings: Mentions of violence, swearing and some fluff if you squint. 

Summary: Growing up in one of the biggest and most feared mafias has it’s perks, but what happens when you and you’re friends are suddenly shipped off to the other end of the world? Will you stay together or will the world you live in tear you all apart?

Part one / Part two / Part three / 

Taglist: @purpletaehyung92 @jinmydarling​ @diefranzel​

You woke up the following morning after a good night sleep, something you were incredibly grateful for, because today was the day of your first classes. You didn’t quite know exactly what you’d be learning on this school, and whenever you or the boys had asked in the past, the answer had always been: “You’ll find out one day”

A quick shower later and you were out the door, walking straight for Jimin’s room as usual. It was a little weird that you wouldn’t be heading for the gym, as you’ve done every morning for the past three years. But you guessed it would be best to get a new routine as long as you were here, maybe the two of you would grab a coffee each morning like every other normal pair of siblings in their start twenties?  No, that didn’t really sound like the two of you…

You knocked on the door one time, which was quickly opened by a very bare chested Jungkook. He was beautiful, there was no denying that. He had a body that looked like it was shaped by gods. And even though you’d seen it a million times before, during and after workouts, it still made your breath hitch.

“Good morning Y/N!” He took a step aside to make room for you to enter their shared room. You looked around the space, it was bigger than yours, but then again, they were two people so that was only fair.

“Jimin is styling his hair, he’s been in the bathroom for ten minutes, so I guess he’ll be done in five” He laughed a little at his own statement, Jimin was known for being the late one and even more known for his hair.

“Fuck you Kookie!” You could hear your brother yell from the bathroom.

You sat down on one of the beds as you watched Jungkook as he got dressed.

“How did you sleep Kook?” You ran your hand over the tiger stripes on your arm, calming some of the nerves you had for the upcoming day.

He shrugged.

“Okay I guess… It’s kind of weird sleeping in another bed, but I guess I’ll get used to it. How about you?”

“Pretty good, but then again I think my massive hangover, the jetlag and so on had something to with it”

Jungkook finally put on a shirt as he ruffled his hair a little, something he had learned always made you a little sheepish.

“Sure, I guess sleep was what you needed then”

Jimin then entered the room making the both of you look his way.

“Hey you, what are you doing here?” He walked over and placed his hand on your shoulder as he squeezed it a little. The two of you had what people would call the twin gene, you always knew when something was bothering the other, even if you weren’t in the same room.

“I don’t know to be honest. It just feels weird to break our morning routine, so I just figured we could do something before class starts. I like that your face is the first I see every morning”

He gave you a big smile, one of those that made his eyes disappear into crescent moons.

“I would love that Y/N”

You knew that he would agree before you asked, but somehow you were still relived. You could almost physically feel some of the weight lift from your shoulders. Make you release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding in.

“So, what should we do then? I mean we can’t just sit around, that’s not really our style” Jimin said.

“How about we go out and explore some of this gigantic building, and figure something out?”

“You got yourself a deal sis!”

---

When you stepped into the gym for your first class you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your lips. The giant hall looked very similar to the gym you had left back home. The boxing equipment hang in the ceiling and on the walls, as well as the ring that was placed in the center of the room.

A man walked in and stood in front of the class, taking in every one of the young and eager people that stood before him.

“Listen up people! Every day, from now until the day you leave this place, will start here. The first three hours of every day will begin in this hall. This is the only place in this entire city you can beat the living shit out of each other, and only if I give my permission”

He was a giant, at least two meters tall, and almost just as wide, he had biceps that almost looked bigger than Jungkook’s thighs. An impressive sight, one that made you smirk a little. But unlike those doe-eyed women in your class it wasn’t because of his looks, no, a man like that had perfected his skill, and you were honored to learn from the very best.

“Pair up people, two and two and warm up”

You could see the spark in Jungkook’s eyes as he dragged Hobi to the nearest punching bag. He had a jump in his walk when he was happy, one that only enhanced his bunny looks.

You turned towards Jimin, as he held out his fist for you to bump, he smiled, and you returned it instantly.

“I guess we’ve found our morning routine after all, huh?”

You laughed as you quickly wrapped your hands to protect them from the possible injuries, and unlike most of the people in the hall, the two of you did it in mere seconds.

“Yeah we sure have” you laughed, but as your sentence ended you threw a punch towards your brothers face, one he stopped a centimeter before your fist would’ve broken his nose.

“You’re just as big a bitch in the morning in New York as you are in Seoul”

“Don’t worry brother, I’ll be in a much better mood after I kick your ass a few times the next few hours”

Your quickly redirected your other arm to aim for his gut, another punch he avoided quiet easily. Causing the both of you to smile. The two of you fought in the sidelines of the gym, just like you would’ve done at home, warming up the bodies and teasing whenever the other was to slow to block a punch.  

And not far away stood Taehyung, daydreaming as he watched how your body moved. He had never been a big fan of hand to hand combat. He understood the importance of knowing how to defend yourself without a weapon, but weapons were his thing!

Taehyung was what his members called a trigger-happy man-child. He always had a minimum of five weapons on him, and every single one of them was hidden. He might not be a geek when it came to computers like Namjoon, or a poison master like Seokjin. But he knew his weapons, and he had a serious doubt that he would every be caught in a situation where he would be without one.

“Look at him, he’s pathetic” a curly haired man close to him said to his friend.

“Shawn, please stop, will you?”  

At no point did Tae realize that the two men, standing only a few meters away, was talking about him. You and your brother had his full attention and he was captured in another world, a world of beauty, bruises and blood.

“Does he seriously think he’ll ever have a chance with her? I mean she’s the most powerful woman in all of Asia, if not the world! Does he really think he’d ever stand a chance? She’s the kind of woman who would eat him for breakfast, and not in a hot kind of way”

Jungkook and Hoseok both stood close enough to overhear the talk between the two men, and as much as they both felt sorry for the Min’s maknae, there was no way in hell they were gonna blow their cover to save his pride and reputation.

Shawn clearly had an opinion about you, and as your men it was their job to figure out if this guy, were your friend or enemy. And up until now he didn’t leave either of them with a very good impression.

“He might just be admiring their combat style?”

“Seriously? Because I really don’t think so. They are up to something, I’m sure they are. And don’t worry my man, when I’ve figured it out, she’s gonna be thanking me”

“She doesn’t really strike me as the type of woman that needs saving Shawn”

“She does, they all do in the end. They are women for god sakes!”

Hoseok cleansed his jaw as a raging fire took over his eyes. He stared at the man before him, and if eyes could kill, Shawn had been dead right then and there. Jungkook looked at his friend with concern.

Just as his brother, Jungkook could feel the rage in his veins, but he was much better at containing it. He had practiced that since his first fight. His emotions were put into his fighting, every single drop of rage, jealousy and lust was redirected into every punch of his opponent’s face.

Hoseok took a step forward, set out to give this person a piece of his mind. The only thing stopping him was Jungkook’s hand on his chest, stopping him in his tracks.

“Don’t do it Hobi, he’s not worth it and we both know that Y/N wouldn’t like us meddling in her business”

Hoseoks eyes had so much hate in them. His love for you were known by everyone except you, his need for you was bigger than his need for the air in his lungs. He wanted to protect you from everyone and everything, his life’s mission was to keep you safe. So this scenario was killing him.

A person falling to the ground was what dragged the boys from their discussion, and in the other end of the hall they saw Jimin now in laying on the floor. The laugh that followed made every man in the room stop and stare.

It was a laughter so contagious most of those who’ve heard it now had giant grins painted on their lips. Jungkook glanced towards Shawn, even he was affected even though he did his best to hide it.

“Imagine that Justin, getting your ass handed to you by a girl. Do you think he falls to the ground because she’s his leader or because she’s a girl?” Shawn said.

What he didn’t think of was the fact that the hall had been almost completely quiet after you had beat Jimin’s ass to the ground, so words that had previously been muffled was now clear to hear for everyone.

Jungkook had in a millisecond pushed Hobi out of his way and had now Shawn’s neck in the palm of his hand as he pushed the American boy towards the nearest wall.

“What did you just say about her?!” Jungkook was the strongest and best in hand to hand combat, he had dedicated his skill to you and your family and taught you everything he knew. You were almost as good as he was, almost. Which meant that when Shawn criticized your fighting skills, he criticized Jungkook as well. Something he most certainly didn’t appreciate.

Shawn smirked a little at Jungkook as you quickly turned on your heel and ran towards the drama that was unfolding only a couple of meters away.

“Jungkook!” You yelled as you curled your hands into fists.

You were ready to fight him, and he knew that. You’d done it before when he was out of line, and usually you were able to talk him down, but he was so close to seeing red and beating this kid up in front of everyone. Even if it compromised his spot in the school, no one disrespected you and walked away without a scar.

He lifted his arm to punch, but you were able to grab it only millimeters before Shawn’s perfect sculpted nose would’ve been ruined by his fist. You were fully focused on your friend with a stern look painted on your usually kind and beautiful features.

“Walk away from this Jeon”

You were able to pull his attention away from his victim, but you’d broken his spirit. He’d never seen himself as a Jeon, he considered himself a Park, in fact you all did, but you had to think of the bigger picture. And if hurting him meant he would stay by your side and finish this god forsaken school, well then, that was a price you were ready to pay.

He slowly loosened his hand from the neck he wanted to break and bowed before you. Then he stepped away leaving you alone and unprotected as he stood beside Hoseok.

“I know you don’t know me, at least not from anything more than reputation, but if I ever hear you disrespect me or my men again… You will suffer the consequences”

You turned on you heal to walk away as your eyes met Jimin’s who stood a little behind, he smiled. You felt you’d handled this right with no blood spilled.

“I see… In reality you do none of the fighting. Is that how the Parks do it? Huh? If that’s the case, then you are nothing more than a housewife who send your men into battle to die”

Jimin’s eyes lit up, a spark of playfulness took over him. He was a little pissed off that you didn’t have your katana with you, but then again if you did, Shawn would most likely had lost his head by now.

“Take his ear Y/N, when he won’t listen to you, he doesn’t deserve it” He whispered.

A sinister chuckle was all that left your lips right before you pulled one of Jimin’s knives from its holster in his belt. You swirled around on your tip toes and then, let the knife fly towards Shawn’s face. He didn’t get to blink, nor flinch, before the blade had secured itself a spot in the wall, and it didn’t mind the flesh that stood in its way.

“Learn to listen to those who are above you little man. I might be a woman, but that doesn’t make my unworthy”

You walked away before anyone had the chance to question what you’d just done. In the room surrounding you was all you could hear Taehyung’s laugh muffled together with Shawn’s screams.

---

You stood against one of the walls and looked up at the sealing as you tried to calm your heartbeat. You knew you’d fucked up, and you hoped that you’d be able to talk some sense into Dominic, so that he wouldn’t expel you from the school.

He stepped into the room and walked behind his desk without even looking at you. He threw his glasses on the table and after he sat down, he buried his head in his hands.

“You are making my job very difficult Y/N… I wasn’t expecting to handle something like this so soon”

You took a few step forwards as you said; “I know sir, and I’m sorry. But I just… I had to do something! It’s bad enough that people in my own gang start to question me and my leadership skills, but I need to put myself in respect while I’m here. I need people to know that they should fear and respect me, just as their parents fear and respect my father”

He looked at you for a few seconds before a sigh escaped his lips.

“I know. I knew it would be difficult for you, you are the first female leader we have, to roam these halls. But did you have to dismantle the boys ear Y/N?”

You looked at your hands and smiled as you rotated your ring around your finger. The smirk gave you a sinister appearance as your eyes went cold, the spark and fun disappeared in less than a second. And then you looked back at Mr. Holland.

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t” You shrugged.

What you did might not have been the wisest in the situation, the best thing would probably had been to kick Shawn’s ass in the ring instead, but the psychopath that hid inside all of you took over, and she wanted blood.

“Try using your words in the future, or at least your fists”

A light chuckle filled the room.

“Trust me sir, if I wanted him to die, I would’ve let Kook finish him. This was the better outcome. What I do is different from all those before me and those who are here this year, and if blood is how I earn the respect I deserve then so be it. I’m ready to pay the price for that”

You could tell that he was concerned, but at this point you didn’t care. You were no princess in need of savior, but for some reason you needed to make that very clear to every man around you except your father.

He knew in his heart and soul you had what it would take to do this, if you didn’t, he would’ve picked Jimin as his successor instead of you.

“You are a strong woman Y/N, but you are stubborn. There are other ways to command respect apart from spilling blood. I know your father has taught you that. You need to find a way to do that without becoming a tyrant, because they are never on top for long, in the end their people rise up against their oppressor. Find another way, find your way”

You stared him down as you held back the need to bide the inside of your cheek. Your arms were now crossed over your chest, you knew deep down he was right, and you hated every second of it.

“Is that all?”

“That’s all for now, but please don’t let it happen again”

Two steps later you were out the door. Your blood was rushing through your veins, anger building up in your chest. You saw nothing and heard nothing, not until your body was slammed up against the wall and a pair of hooded eyes were all you could see.

His hands were warm and soothing as they held your shoulders back. Normally every instinct in your body would tell you to run, but instead you relaxed completely as he touched you.

“Breathe Y/N, okay? Just breathe”

Your eyes darted between his and your body trembled as he pulled a little further away from you, but he never let go. You had never studied anyone up close like this before.

His brows were low set above his eyes, giving him a somewhat gentle expression. His eyes were small and turned downward a little, but there was a gentle and almost loving spark hidden in the brown irises, right underneath the cocky demeanor he tried so desperately to pull off.

You could see his lips move, but you heard nothing. They weren’t thick nor thin, but as he talked, they revealed a pout every now and then. One that pulled on your heartstring and made you smile.

Just like you he was in a trance, he had no idea why he came to see you, no idea why he wanted to make sure you were okay, but before he could even talk himself out of it, he was outside Mr. Hollands office. And now that you were so close to him, so close to being in his arms, he didn’t want to let go. He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

“Calm yourself, don’t let the rest of them see you like this. You can’t let them know you are hurt by this”

You pushed him away instantly.

“I’m not hurt!” You spat out.

“Okay right let’s go with that” He leaned up against the wall opposite from where you were standing as he smirked with his arms crossed.

“I’m not!” You yelled out as you hit the wall three times.

By the third blow you could almost feel your skin ripping from the bones against the black brick wall. You rested your forehead against it in a desperate try to cool the fire you felt burning within.

A sigh was all he heard as he watched you. How your hell fell down your shoulders, he could glimpse the skin on the back of your neck. When you sat down on the floor, with your back against the wall to study your hand, he did the same.

“Why are you’re here Yoongi?” You never met his eyes, you focused completely on your hand instead of those beautiful eyes.

“I don’t know” He said, it was nothing more than a whisper, but you heard him none the less.

Yoongi cleared his throat a few times, almost to clear the air from the tension there was between the two of you.

“What are you gonna do now Y/N?”

“I don’t real- wait how do you know my name?” You smirked and once again your eyes met his. He almost lost his breath completely. He shrugged and started playing with the earring that hang in right ear.

“I have my ways, but don’t worry I’ll keep it to myself if that’s what you’d prefer”

A heat blossomed in your chest as well as your cheeks.

“Thank you, I’d appreciate it, at least for now. But to be honest I don’t know what to do, at least not right now”

He nodded.

“If you need help or just someone to talk to, I’ll be there listening and trying my best to give you some advice”

With that Yoongi stood up, sent a smile your way, and then he left you.

[fandomoniumflurry]

Anise

Sam Winchester x OFC Marta

for @spnabobingo​ Square: Gunpowder/Leather/Anise

for @spnkinkbingo​ Square: Free Space

for @deanandsambingo​ Square: A/B/O

Rated M for Mature: some sex and swearing, abo dynamics, rut/heat

“I swear to God, you take one more step, I will pull this trigger.” The fire in her eyes proved the seriousness of her statement. Her hands didn’t shake and her body gave no hint of relaxation nor fear, only determination and steadfastness. Seeing that she would not be backing down, Sam stopped and slowly raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t even think of playing hero, Hercules. Toss the gun.” Her head gestured as if she could see the pistol in the back of his jeans, right through his stomach. 

Sam’s nostrils flared, more out of annoyance than intimidation or defiance. He pulled the gun from its resting place and made a show of slowly tossing it in her direction. “Call off your bodyguard too.” The Winchester’s face fell and his eyes turned to where his brother was waiting in the shadows. “If you don’t want a bullet through Shaggy’s head, I’d come out and play, Scooby Doo.” She held her gaze on the younger man as she addressed the eldest that stepped out of the brush. “Seems like I’ve found the island of the Amazon Wonder Men.” She stated with a straight face and Dean’s eyes rolled. “Get rid of your piece too, Ken Doll.” Her head gestured again as she eyed Dean from the corner of her peripheral.

“How did you know I was out there?” The elder questioned as he pulled his own gun and tossed it to her feet. 

She scoffed a light laugh as she turned her gaze slightly more toward him, Sam still clearly in her sight. “Are you shitting me? You two are the smelliest Alphas I’ve ever scented. I could smell you coming a mile away.” Dean’s lips pursed as he internally cursed his own genetics. “Gotta say though, you two do smell good. Mixture of gunpowder, leather and …” Her face wrinkled in thought before she sniffed the air. “Anise.” Dean seemed confused by the word and looked to his brother for explanation. The younger shook his head, this not being the time for an herbalism lesson. “Just take it as a compliment, will ya?” 

They couldn’t pick up any kind of scent from her however. This caused Sam’s face to wrinkle and she caught him trying to catch a whiff as a breeze blew through her hair. “You won’t catch anything. I got a good witch doctor that whips me up some damn good suppressants.” 

Dean’s head nodded slowly as he flashed a crooked smirk. “So you’re an Omega. Pretty tough and feisty for a ‘Mega.” 

Her eyes lit up again with a burning flame as her head jolted toward him. “You’d do good to keep your fucking mouth closed about things you don’t understand.” He saw her finger twitch and he quickly took a half step back, lowering his head as if in submission. 

“What do you plan on doing with us? We can’t just stand out here like this until the end of time.” Sam spoke, grabbing her attention away from his brother once more. “You don’t seem like the cold blooded killer type.” 

“You don’t know me!” She growled, pushing her gun out further, her arm rigid and tight like a coil that could unfurl and fire at any moment. It appeared that she was losing her edge, whatever insecurities she had were being prodded to cause her rage to rise. This made her even more dangerous with a gun in their direction. Sam nodded and silenced himself, lowering his head in mirror to his brother. 

The heightened emotions seemed to burn through her suppressants because it was that moment that a new scent wafted through the air. Sam’s head shot up at the smell and fear flashed in her eyes when she realized what was happening. The arm with the gun fell and with a spin on her heels, she darted off in a flash. Sam moved to take chase but Dean was there with a firm hand to his chest to stop him. The taller man took in a slow breath, cleansing his nostrils of the lingering smell and composing himself, offering Dean a nod of thanks. 

“Do you think she’s the one that kidnapped the tourists?” Sam questioned as they made their way back to the Impala. 

Dean adjusted the collar of his jacket to block out the cool air before shrugging. “She’s our only suspect right now. The sooner we find her the better and hopefully, when we do, she’ll be in a better mood. And not have a gun.” Sam chuckled lightly, nodding in agreeance before they both climbed into the car, missing the fact that their perp was lingering in the darkening blackness of the treeline. 

She was coated in sweat, body quivering and her breathing quick and labored as her heart thudded rapidly in her chest. The suppressants were supposed to prevent this and yet here she was, thrown into the worst heat she had ever experienced since she presented at sixteen. She knew what had triggered it but didn’t want to accept it so it was just time to disappear again. She was good at that, running away without leaving a trace. She’d been doing it her whole life and she never really planned on stopping. No matter how good he smelled and no matter how much she wanted to chase him down, she took off running in the opposite direction. 

They weren’t even back to the motel before Sam was in full blown rut. The fever was so bad that Dean had to put him in an ice bath the moment they got to the room. It took far too long to fill the tub with one ice bucket and an ice machine all the way down the hall. Neither brother could understand why it had come on so early and so fast. The boys had a routine, their ruts usually coming around at the same time. They had time to prepare and make plans but this came with no warning so there was no preparation for this. 

She didn’t get very far either before she was down for the count. But unlike the Alpha, she was alone deep within the mountains, a tiny shack hidden in the trees. She had been alone for years but this time, all she wanted was to be held, to be knotted, to be loved. She wanted someone to help her through this time to the point it made the ache even worse. She had never wanted to have an Alpha to rely on until that damn Sasquatch showed up and destroyed the walls she had tried so hard to build up. 

“I can’t just leave you here and go out to look for some mysterious Omega!” Dean hated arguing with the stubborn younger Alpha. The eldest Winchester was tired and frazzled, without an idea of what else to do. 

“Then fucking call Cas!” Sam growled, his hair sticking to the sweat coating his face. His brother heaved a sigh, nodding in acquiescence. 

“You don’t know her name and you can only give me a brief description of how she looks. And you expect me to just magically find her?” Castiel’s deadpan expression caused Dean to narrow his gaze at the angel standing before him. 

“She smells like cocoa!” The youngest Winchester pushed out through ground teeth. Cas looked judgmentally toward the older brother and Dean pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. 

“The last place we saw her was out in the woods. She headed north up into the mountains. That’s all I got, man. You gotta find her somehow. He refuses anything else and this rut is bad. He’s gonna let himself die. If he’s like this, I can only imagine what state she’s in.” Dean explained, his arms crossed over his chest, his concern and fear not hidden well beneath the firm wall of composure. 

Castiel’s shoulders lifted as he took in a slow breath and let it out with a nod of his head. “I will do the best I can. I will help Sam rest first.” He made his way to the bedside, placing his hand upon the thrashing Alpha’s forehead. Within a moment, the man calmed and drifted off into a deep sleep. The angel looked to the other Winchester now before the rush of wings preceded his disappearance. For the first time in a few hours, Dean finally sat down.

She had tossed her guns outside just because she couldn’t tolerate the lingering scent of gunpowder. Her leather jacket was locked away in the car with the leather interior. And yet the smell of him still lingered, like it was permanently burned into her nostrils. She swore and cursed in Spanish, yelling at God for besetting her with such horrid genes. 

But these prayers didn't reach God. No, they reached the ears of a blue eyed angel that was on the hunt for her. The lack of scent hid the angel from her senses until she spotted him out of the corner of her eye, standing near her bed. Letting out a scream, she slid off the bed and dropped to the floor. She didn’t get a good look at him and didn’t even cover her nakedness before everything went dark. 

“I had no time to explain.” Cas stated flatly, Dean covering his eyes with his hands the moment he spotted the naked women in the angel’s arms. 

“You couldn’t have at least gotten a blanket or something?” The Winchester questioned, his nose wrinkling when he caught her scent. Castiel didn’t answer, simply pushed past him to lay the sleeping Omega next to the knocked out younger Alpha. “We might wanna get outta here before they wake up. I really don’t want to see that side of my brother.” Cas didn’t give him time to prepare before he teleported them both away, leaving the pair in the bed. 

She was the first to wake, confused and groggy as her eyes slowly adjusted to reality. Her brain processed things slowly and it wasn’t until she began to sit up that she was reminded of her uninvited visitor. She was still naked but she wasn’t in as much pain, as a matter of fact she felt calmer, peaceful, safe. As she took in a breath, she would know why. The sweet smell of anise, coated in leather and dusted with gunpowder. 

Her head turned and there lay the large stranger she had ran from hours before. He was sleeping peacefully and she had never seen anything more beautiful. She didn’t even question how she had made it here, how he had found her, simply accepted the fact that they were back together. She didn’t know his name, where he lived, what he did for a living, it didn’t matter. He was hers and she needed him more than anything. 

She didn’t wait for him to wake up before she straddled his hips and began to roll her own against him. She groaned, throwing her head back as her slick coated his erection. He was definitely proportionate, perfectly long and thick just like the rest of him. Her hands came to rest on his firm chest and his eyes slowly opened to meet hers, a fire of lust and desire flashing in his hazel hues. 

“I’m Marta and I need you to fuck me now.” She spurted out, thick with her arousal, quiet and timid. He swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths as he seemed to hold himself back. “Please.” She whimpered as she rolled her hips. 

His fingers dug into her hip bones as he growled deep in his throat. “I’m Sam and I’m going to take care of you from now on.” His mouth crashed against hers and he easily rolled them over, wasting no time burying himself inside her. This first time would be quick and hungry but the couple would get to know each other deeply over the next few days. The final day of Sam’s rut, he would claim her, making her his forever. 

“Is it safe?” Dean asked after he knocked on the motel door. The two chuckled, cuddled up, a naked mess of limbs in the bed they barely got out of the past few days. 

“Give us another half hour.” Marta called out to the man she couldn’t wait to meet, having heard so much about him already. 

“Make it an hour!” Sam called before burying his head in her neck and nipping at the flesh.

There was an audible from outside the door. “I’ll be back in a few hours.” He stated flatly.

[lovelyirony]

Ironwidow fake dating and cousin Sharon matchmaking

Nat and Tony have been friends since seventh grade, when Tony made fun of her drawing and in retaliation, Nat stuck a pencil in his thigh. 

He grinned at her after sneakily getting a tissue from the front desk. 

“You’re pretty good, Nat.” 

“My name is Natasha.” 

“Not to me, it’s not.” 

So it becomes Nat and Tony. Tony and Nat. They do everything together, from attend the eighth grade pool parties and hate all of them to the freshman orientation in high school where they make fun of the senior leaders and sneak into the admissions office to make sure they have at least one class together. (And then change the schedule when they don’t.) 

Tony has been in love with Natasha Romanoff since the first eighth grade pool party, when she showed up in a full wet suit because she didn’t like the way that their classmate Ivan liked her. 

But, he hasn’t done anything about it. Why is that, everyone asks? Just ask her out! 

Well, Tony has a special talent that is medically known as “anxiety,” but he also has common sense. 

Natasha Romanoff is beautiful. She has gorgeous red hair, eyes that know everything about you before you even think they do, a wicked sense of humor, and a sense of self that is beyond anything Tony’s ever encountered. 

Tony stays up until three a.m., doesn’t give a shit about his appearance so he is frequently rushing to school with the worst bed hair imaginable, and also wears possibly the most out-of-style clothing ever. 

Like right now. A pair of jeans that’s too short and he cuffed only on one leg, a shirt that’s advertising some college Howard made him visit, and he’s pretty sure that the plaid he layered it with has a coffee stain down the back. 

He’s proven right when Sharon wrinkles her nose. 

“Dude, you seriously haven’t done laundry since two weeks ago, have you?” 

“Do I smell bad? Do I?” 

She leans in. 

“No, just like old coffee. So regular. We’ll see when Nat comes. Or you could confess your love to have her not roast your choice of apparel.” 

Tony scowls, adjusting his backpack. 

“Do you have another topic, or are you just that boring?” 

“I could also tell you about World War One,” Sharon adds. “I just read about it in one of those stupid textbooks I have to carry around. Did you know that the French are actually the worst at war?” 

“Yes, everyone knows that. I think they know that too.” 

Nat’s already at her locker. She looks gorgeous with her jean jacket, the new patches sewn on. 

“Looking cute,” Sharon says appreciatively. “Do you think you’re gonna get dress-coded for the ‘fuck men’ patch?” 

“Not if they want me to write an article on how the club fund got cut but the football team got another new field within four years,” Nat says. 

“Still a good article,” Tony says. “If you could still get into a college without a reputation ruined. You know how much schools care about sports.” 

“More than education at times!” Sharon cheers. 

Nat snorts, bringing Tony into a hug. 

“Nice to see you, dude. Ready for history?” 

“Not in the slightest. We’re probably talking about government procedure again while our teacher waxes poetic about the justice system. I think I might try to change the FDA’s home screen again.” 

“You know, they might catch on after the fourth time of you inserting random YouTube videos to different links.” 

“It’s the Federal Department of Agriculture, I highly doubt they care,” Tony says, rolling his eyes. “Besides, I’ve already proven that I’m probably better with technology than the government itself.” 

This was true; Tony had hacked into the official website of the White House with shitty hotel Wi-Fi and half his sanity. (It was flu season, he’d had way too much Ny-Quil.) 

School passes by with little incident, all things considered. A classic Monday, with the only real excitement being an announcement of no school the following Monday for a staff meeting. 

It isn’t until Tony gets home to find both of his parents home and in the same room, waiting for him, that he starts to panic. 

“Is this an intervention?” Tony asks. “Did I do something bad?” 

“Not yet,” Howard says. “Although I wouldn’t be surprised.” 

“Dear,” Maria reprimands. “No, there’s an event that we want you to attend.” 

“Want or need?” Tony asks. “I was supposed to hang out with my friend Bruce to work on his genetics lab.” 

“I’m sure the lab can wait,” Howard scoffs. “You’re in high school, for god’s sake.” 

“Bruce is doing lab work for Culver,” Tony says. “He got early acceptance, so he’s doing a weird deal so he gets college credit and a year off early.” 

“Impressive, dear,” mom says, smiling. “But this event is something that you can’t miss.” 

It’s a goddamn family reunion. Maria’s side, but still. At least Peggy and Sharon would come. 

Family reunions on the Carter/Carbonell side are…interesting. A lot of loud people, aunts that couldn’t stop cooking, and at least one uncle that would say something marginally horrible and cause a rift for at least six hours where everything was tense. 

Sharon had to take this advantage carefully. 

So she got her own email into the family chain of them–a mistake by all accounts, but one that should be committed sooner rather than later–and tells the family that Tony is bringing his girlfriend, Natasha. 

They both love each other, she knows that much. Tony looks at Nat like he could give her anything in the world, and Nat looks at him with so much vulnerability that she always says she doesn’t have. 

They’ve liked each other for a while now. Sharon wishes that it wasn’t at her family reunion that she was doing this, but it was either that or a dance for high school, and that’s far too much work. 

Tony, understandably, is stressed. 

“Does she even know she’s going?!” Tony yells. “Holy shit Sharon, she’s going to meet like eighty of us!” 

“Yeah,” Sharon says. “She just doesn’t know that she’s supposed to be your girlfriend.” 

“Sharon.” 

“Yes?” 

“Run.” 

Sharon squeals as she skids out of the room, Tony chasing after her. He’s not really going to do anything about it, but he still has to text Nat. 

i am. so sorry 

lmao it’s fine. sharon just said i’m going to the reunion. why? 

funny story…

fuck what’d she do 

she emailed everyone that i was bringing you as a girlfriend. and i’m not really going to spend the whole weekend correcting it. 

gotcha. operation: fake dating commence! 

thank you nat. seriously love you 

Nat reads the message, but doesn’t respond. Of course Sharon would pull something like this. She knew that Nat liked her cousin, probably since they were kids. 

And now she had to pretend to be his girlfriend, something she actually wanted very much to do. 

She gets a text from Sharon. 

Please don’t wear your jean jacket with all the patches. It’s very cool, but you will start a fight in my family and win. But then you aren’t allowed to come back :( 

Natasha sends her back the middle finger, but then promises not to bring it.

This brings up the subject; what do you wear to a family reunion? 

- 

Tony’s fidgeting in the car as he goes to pick up Nat. His mother was very surprised. 

“You got your father’s distinct habit of not shutting your mouth,” she says with a chuckle. “But I do suppose the gazes say it all. Every Carbonell man looks like he’s in love before he says it, so–” 

“Mama, not now!” Tony hisses. Natasha’s making her way to the car, backpack slung around her shoulder and an elegant handbag in the crook of her arm. 

“Hey Ms. Carbonell,” Natasha says. “How are you?” 

“Doing good, better now that I get to have you with us,” she teases. “Anthony over here never told me that he was going to have you on as a special guest.” Natasha sends a raised eyebrow over to Tony. 

“Oh?” 

“I forgot,” Tony lied smoothly. “You know how I get in the labs. Just completely forget everything I’m supposed to remember.” 

The conversation is easy after that: just a few little anecdotes that Nat and Tony have gone over last night over the phone. They had confessed that they liked each other a year ago, had kept it extremely low-key since both didn’t want to fuss with it, and that was that. 

“How come Sharon knew but I didn’t?” Mom pouts. 

“She’s an imp,” Tony answers. “An imp who doesn’t know how to keep business to herself.” 

Their family fills up a small inn out of the way, and Tony sighs as he sees three of his aunts already conspiring at the bar. 

“Be prepared for a barrage of questions.” 

“Roger that.” 

Natasha is whisked away by the ladies with a few compliments to the cute flats she’s wearing and her favorite type of perfume. Tony gets led over to Sharon, who is playing darts with Trip and their kind-of-but-not-really-cousin, Ricardo. 

“What have I missed out on?” Trip asks, grinning. “Heard some girl was crazy enough to come and date you. She’s a looker, Tony.” 

“Thanks,” Tony says. “But yes, crazy enough to date me. Sharon knows how crazy it is, I practically get the same gene from her.” 

Sharon rolls her eyes, landing another bullseye. Ricardo curses. 

“How do you always manage to do this?” 

“Practice for this exact moment,” Sharon says with a grin. “Go get me a drink. One of the good ones.” 

“You seriously get him to do your bidding every single time,” Tony says with a laugh. Trip excuses him to see Uncle Erik, leaving Sharon and Tony alone. 

“So. You liking your new status of boyfriend?” 

“You seriously need to stop meddling,” Tony scowls. “Just because I like her doesn’t mean she should be in on this.” 

“She doesn’t mind,” Sharon scoffs. “Besides, I think Aunt Angie is going to tell her about the cardboard incident.” 

“Oh my god–” 

Natasha saunters over, grinning devilishly. 

“So. Naked and a cardboard box for modesty? Why am I not surprised at the innovation, Tony?” 

“Dammit,” Tony swears. “I’m going to learn something embarrassing about you. I’ll ask Clint.” 

“Like he’ll tell.” 

The reunion goes about as well as expected. Uncle Daniel finally spills the beans and says that his son who couldn’t make it was going to bring his girlfriend that no one likes, but they canceled at the last minute. 

“They’re horrible,” Tony says. “I’m serious. They’re the kind of people that take advantage of old people.” 

“Gross.” 

They gravitate closer to each other. While Natasha doesn’t have a problem with this, it’s bittersweet. Every time Tony casually puts his arm around her and tells another story about how they snuck into the office to match schedules and his family coos and says it’s so cute, and Sharon smiles at them. 

It stings, to be this close and yet knowing that it isn’t at all real. 

Tony lies awake at night. Becuase this is nice. All of his family loves Nat, so does he, and it seems…possible almost. To have her this close, smiling at him like she has. 

So it’s not a good idea, but he goes to her room at three a.m. She’s still awake. 

“Why are you still awake?” 

“Watching funny videos. Why are you awake?” 

“That’s why I’m here. Follow me.” 

They go into the courtyard. It feels…nice outside. Tony’s wringing his hands. 

“What’s got you so nervous?” Natasha asks. “And why at three in the morning?” 

“I think this is literally the only way I could do it,” Tony says. “Only time my family shuts up.” 

“Go for it then,” Natasha says. “You have until four, when your baby cousin wakes up. Lorenzo?” 

“Got it,” Tony says, smiling. “Um, well, I–” 

“What?” 

“Oh fuck,” Tony curses. “Listen, I’m just going to say it. I’m just going to say it.” 

“You’ve said that twice.” 

“Iloveyou.” 

“What?” 

“I…I love you,” Tony says, sighing. “I’ve loved you I think since eighth grade, and I’m now telling you because I don’t think I can just go on with life without telling you. I also realize that you’re stuck at the family reunion until this is over, so now I realize I’ve put stress on you and I’m sorry, I can fake my death if you really want me to, so–” 

Natasha envelops him in a hug. She kisses his cheek, looking at him in the dim light of the lanterns. 

“You absolute fool. I love you too.” 

It’s the first of many “I love you’s.” 

Sharon takes credit for the relationship, and Tony and Nat let her. She’s also the maid of honor and meets her future wife, Maria. 

Tony and Natasha don’t go to the same college, but compete against each other in the trivia clubs that both schools have, and so they spend other time together. Natasha shows him her favorite tea shop downtown, and Tony shows her all of the hideaway spots he uses for studies. 

(And to hide her away from Rhodey, who will tell her anything and everything that’s embarrassing about Tony.) 

Right after college, Tony and Nat move into an apartment. 

About a year later, Natasha holds out a gold ring for him to put on, asks if they really have to get married in a fancy church, and watches as Tony tears up and hugs her. 

“I told you!” Sharon crows when they reveal the rings. “I told you that you would get married!” 

“Okay loser,” Natasha says. “Then you’re the maid-of-honor. Congrats on throwing my bachelorette party.” 

“I’m making us go paint-balling.” 

Tony rolls his eyes, but looks at his now-fiancee. 

Things will be good. Aren’t they always? 

[the-revisionist]

The Argentinian Maneuver, chapter 2

Note: There is some angst in this chapter, but no specific mention of abuse (sexual, physical, or otherwise). After this chapter it will be better, promise. 

ii. Entertaining Mrs. Greenwood

As follows the current pattern of her interior life, Gillian usually finds herself depressed and discouraged after these dinners with Caroline—even more so when she dwells on the ludicrous banality of being a middle-aged woman acting like a infatuated teenaged cow. Her ideal conception of a midlife crisis had involved a Porsche and cabana boys, and not this. She attempts convincing herself that it’s hopeless to even fantasize about anything beyond a friendship and that she should just leave it. She’s obviously not Caroline’s type anyway and besides that, Caroline needs a genuinely good, useful, worthwhile partner—not someone who ticks off all the boxes on an audition form for The X Factor: brain-dead trailer trash, drunken slapper, damaged goods. Olga may not appear the ideal long-term mate either, but at least she has a seemingly endless supply of wine, charm, and rather flawless skin. 

She had foolishly hung her hopes on the basis of one meager incident anyway, which occurred the day after she informed her father and Celia that Robbie was gone and they were getting divorced. One evening after supper she drove over to Caroline’s house to make the announcement and found their parents sitting expectantly in the kitchen awaiting her arrival, as if anticipating some sort of highly entertaining one-woman theater show—like she’s Carrie Fisher, bless, but without the talent and even worse taste in men. 

Caroline, already aware of breakup, also lingered in the kitchen. She leaned against the counter while nibbling digestives and with the same hawkish anticipation of impending emotional, intellectual, and psychological carnage that she displayed while watching University Challenge.

  The pressure was all a bit much and Gillian attempted calming herself by clasping her hands like a host at an awards show. “I’m glad you’re all here.” 

“You asked us to be here,” Celia reminded her. “And besides, we live here.”

“What’s wrong?” Alan blurted. “Are you ill?”

“I’m fine, Dad.” 

“Is Raff ill? Is Calam all right?” 

“No,” Gillian said irritably, “no one is sick—”

Celia barely restrained a sigh. “Is this going to take long, dear? Our little theater group is having a conference call later this evening to discuss our fall production. We may do Joe Orton!”

Caroline squinted at her. “Mum, have you ever read Joe Orton?” 

  “I know he’s controversial, but really, I’m quite open-minded.” 

Alan exhaled and made a show of looking around the room.

“What? I am!” 

Pinching her brow, Gillian was a second away from shouty swearing when Caroline intervened. “All right,” she said in her best headmistress tone while gently shoving Gillian into a chair, “Gillian needs to talk with you about something, so let’s all settle down and listen to her.” 

She gnawed on her fingernails, realized that they kind of hurt when she did that and maybe she should stop doing that not just for now but maybe forefuckingever, then Caroline provided the happy distraction of a cuppa. She slurped the tea quickly, took a breath, and plowed through: “Okay, I wanted to tell you—I mean, I’m all right, really, but, um, it’s Robbie and I—well, it’s, it’s over. We’re getting divorced and he’s moving out, leaving. Well, actually, he’s, he’s left already. He’s emigrating. To Canada.”

The moment did not have the huge dramatic impact she anticipated, probably because they knew as well as anyone that things were not right, had never right between her and Robbie since the day they married. And even before then. 

“Oh,” Celia said. She sipped her tea. 

Alan, however, managed a bit more surprise, as well as the additional bonus of genuine concern. “But why? Did something happen?” 

“No, not really, it’s just, you know, a build-up of a bunch of things.” 

Alan persisted. “Like what?” 

“Like, like—” Helpless, she glanced back at Caroline, who gave an exaggerated, what can I do, you never listen to me and as a result you’re in the shit now and I hereby retire as your unofficial life coach shrug.

“It’s—he fell in love with someone else.” Gillian blurted out the lie.

Then Caroline mimed blowing her brains out by pointing two fingers at her own head and dropping the imaginary hammer of her thumb.

     Alan looked gobsmacked but unfortunately Celia was now interested in the soap opera unfolding before her: “Really?” she squealed. 

“Yeah, see, that’s, that’s why he’s moving to Canada. She lives there. She’s law enforcement too—it’s how they met. On a chat board for um, coppers and the like. She’s, ah, a Canadian Mountie. Her name is Molson—Gladys Molson.” 

Increasingly alarmed, Caroline frantically whisked her hand across her throat and mouthed shut it down at Gillian. 

“How did you find out?” Celia asked. 

Alas, it was too late and Gillian was off to the races. “On computer, he was, he was, dumb enough to leave his email open one day and I saw it. Bloody eejit. They were having, you know, sex online—cybersex. I confronted him and he admitted it. He swore he would dump her and that we would try to work on things, and we did—we tried. I mean, we really, really worked so very, very hard on it—the relationship. I tried but I felt humiliated. I mean, he, he—” Gillian lowered her voice. “—he wanted me to do certain things that reminded him of her.” 

Celia leaned forward. Alan recoiled. Caroline ate more biscuits.

“Like, he, he—he wanted me dress up as a Mountie. And God help me, I did. The whole bit. The hat, the red uni. Spurs—yeah. Spurs. Spurs and everything.”

Celia murmured, “That’s quite a bit of information, Gillian.” Alan made a dyspeptic sound of distress. Caroline frowned into the void of the empty biscuit box. 

“But it was hopeless, just hopeless.” Gillian took a deep breath. “So I told him to go! Go to Saskatchewan to be with her.” She flung out an arm in what she hoped was the general direction of Saskatchewan. “’Cause I thought it were no good, keeping him here, hanging on to him, us both being unhappy. I kept thinking, you know, of um—you know, what Sting says.” She paused dramatically. 

“‘De do do do, de da da da?’” offered Caroline from the peanut gallery. 

Gillian glared at her. “If you love someone,” she intoned slowly, “set them free.” A dramatic downward head turn—immaculately copied from Mary Astor playing the femme fatale in The Maltese Falcon and conveying shame, vulnerability, and the desire for an Oscar—signaled the end of the performance.

There was no applause, but Celia patted her hand and said, “You did the right thing, love.”

Scowling, Alan folded his arms. “Why, that bloody tosser!” 

This seemed the final and most appropriate word on the matter. 

Thirty seconds of silence in mourning of Gillian’s now-terminated marriage followed, before Caroline offered more tea to everyone. Gillian wanted either a good stiff drink or the opportunity to roll around in a padded room and scream until hoarse, but dutifully she drank her tea while her father and Celia commenced discussion of matters Canadian. 

“Do Mounties still wear spurs? Ride horses and such?” Alan mused.

“I don’t know,” replied Celia, “but it’s got me in mind of that old song—do you know the one I’m thinking of, love? The one about spurs, one of those cowboy fellas sang it—”

“Oh, I know which one you mean—think it was Gene Autry!”

Then to Gillian’s consummate horror, they both started to sing it:

I’ve got spurs that jingle jangle jingle As I go ridin’ merrily along And they sing, ‘Oh ain’t you glad you’re single?’ And that song ain’t so very far from wrong

By the time they decided to go play it on the piano in the other room, Gillian was face down on the kitchen table groaning and yearning for imminent death, whiskey, or both. 

“Think you’ll get a BAFTA for that performance, Dame Gillian. At least the worst is over now,” Caroline said. 

“You’ve got a bloody fucking geriatric musical going on in your house and you think the worst is over?”

“Kind of a catchy tune, don’t you think? It could be your theme song. But guess what—I’ve got a prezzie for you.” Caroline opened the refrigerator and started rummaging around in it, all while singing along tunelessly—oh ain’t you glad you’re single?—to the accompaniment of the voices and piano from the living room. As the digging intensified she bent over and not that Gillian needed confirmation—well yes, she desperately needed it, so very very much—but this simple gesture granted ample, curvy corroboration that Caroline’s ass looked as stunning in jeans as it did in a tight posh bitch skirt.

God hates me, Gillian thought. “Oh yes, you do have something for me all right.” As she said this aloud, she amended her previous thought to, God hates me and I’m a pillock.

“What?” 

“Gesundheit.”  

“Shit, I thought I threw out that yogurt—wait, wait, here we go, ah!” Caroline pulled a bottle out of the fridge and triumphantly slammed it on the table in front of Gillian. “Check it!”

It was a bottle of Dom Perignon, glistening and enchanted, glowing and throbbing like a bounty of trapped fireflies and sweating as gloriously as David Beckham in an ad campaign where he’s playing footy in his underwear and most likely high off his tits because he has realized he has no singular purpose in life anymore except to reflect upon the psychological damage he inflicted upon his children because of their daft names. 

“Told Olga we needed something good to celebrate your divorce,” Caroline said. “Pretty sweet, eh?”  

   “It is.” Gillian nodded at the bottle, which she now wanted to marry more than she ever wanted to marry an actual living person in her entire life. “What depraved sex act did you have to do for that?” she asked Caroline.  She did not really want to know. Well, she did. But she didn’t. Well. 

“Oh, nothing too traumatic,” Caroline replied breezily. “Just dressed up as a Canadian Mountie. Spurs and everything! I hear it’s all the rage now.” 

Gillian’s mouth twitched. She drummed the table. “Left m’self wide open for that, didn’t I?”

“You did indeed. Your imagination is truly frightening at times.” Caroline pulled out champagne flutes from a cupboard. “Come on, grab the bottle, let’s go outside. Hurry—my mother can smell champagne at twenty paces.” 

“It’s cold out.”

“Oh listen to you, super-butch farmer whining about the cold.” Caroline grabbed her hand and tugged and again Gillian thought of fireflies, except this time she imagined them wreaking glowing havoc in her stomach, in her veins, and setting forth on a fluttery mission to besiege the chambers of her heart and she supposed Caroline was right, she had a ridiculous imagination. 

Outside they popped the cork with happy shouts and the champagne froth glinted silver-pale against the deep blue scrim of evening. Gillian greedily gulped from the bottle while Caroline went inside to fetch her something warm to wear. She brought out some huge, bright, puffy-ish jacket, obviously Lawrence’s because it reeked of teenage boy. After two glasses, and while comically swaddled in the ridiculous coat, Gillian lay down on the picnic table and stared up at the stars. Caroline was saying something about the stars and how the night sky seemed brighter here than in Harrogate, how she liked bringing Flora out here to look at the stars sometimes, and how doing so was sometimes the best part of her day—and here Gillian was all too aware of holding her breath, as if a plume of air would rend the fabric of moment beyond repair, but even in her happiness she was too acutely aware of that last bit from Caroline, that sometimes the day’s end was its best part. 

“Is work all right?” she asked with characteristic bluntness. 

“Yeah. It’s fine.” Fine was never fine with Caroline, but she did not interrupt. “It’s a challenge. I need that. But hey, I think I have street cred at last.”

Gillian sputtered with laughter. “S-street cred?”

“Yeah. Street cred.”

“You go on a drug run with your students?”

“No, just told one of them to fuck off. Felt very satisfying. If I’d still been at Sulgrave I would’ve been sacked on the spot.” 

“Street cred. Streeeeet cred.” 

“Yeah.” This said somewhat defensively. 

“Caz?”

“What?”

A giggle as frothily potent as the champagne just consumed bubbled through Gillian. “The thing about street cred is, is, the second you say ‘street cred’—you don’t fucking have any.” 

By the time she finished the sentence she was laughing so hard she nearly rolled off the picnic table and would have if not for Caroline, doubled over with laughter, leaning against her and blocking the descent. 

Then the inevitable Celia bellow from a doorway only prolonged the laughing fit: “What on earth are you two doing out there? It’s freezing out!”

It was freezing, and once inside a decision was made to consume more alcohol, this time a Chablis and Caroline went on about the notes of citrus and pear and its minerality and salinity and that pretty much put a nail in the coffin of street cred.  Driving home was then completely out of the question, so Caroline offered her the guest room—or “the tomb,” as Celia called it, because it was so relentlessly cold and drab—but she fell asleep alone on the couch after everyone had gone to bed and while watching the version of Wuthering Heights with Lawrence Olivier and Merle Oberon.  She conked out just after Edgar and Cathy married, the last thing she thought before surrendering to sleep being poor David Niven. 

In the morning she woke to the sound of snoring, which immediately brought homicidal thoughts of Robbie to mind until she remembered that he was gone, gone, blessedly gone for good—and realized she was sleeping in the embrace of a certain snoring someone who felt soft and strong and smelled nice and who obviously had breasts of the nice, pillowy variety. A stiff tilt of her head and a sleepy squint verified that yes, not only was she on Caroline’s couch, but also on Caroline. And without the faintest idea of how the hell that happened. 

Untangling herself gracefully and without waking her hostess would be an impossibility. Particularly when a panic attack set in. Gillian twitched, squirmed, and flailed as she tried to slip out of Caroline’s arms. Caroline awoke with a snort and muttered “hobnobs,” then grunted in pain as Gillian then elbowed her in the stomach; Gillian flailed and squirmed some more, nearly lost her balance, and as she blindly reached for support accidentally latched onto Caroline’s face and narrowly avoided poking a very lovely blue eye. But even half asleep Caroline steadied her until she breathlessly clambered to the platonic lifeboat at the other end of the sofa. 

“Jesus Christ.” Caroline sat up, groaned, and rubbed at her back. She wore quite nice pajamas, a navy blue jacquard print with tiny white diamond shapes that screamed Harrods. Bleary-eyed, she stared at Gillian. “That was like trying to take a cat to the vet.”  

“Sorry. S-sorry.” Gillian scrubbed at her face vigorously; it was too early in the morning for compulsive apology. “Why—why’re you out here?”

“Well, it is my sofa in my house,” Caroline joked. 

Gillian said nothing; she was far too busy scavenging the rubbish bin of memory looking for a scrap of explanation as to why this horrible wonderful thing, waking up in Caroline’s arms, had occurred. 

“Couldn’t sleep, I came out to see if you were still watching that movie, because I have to say, Merle Oberon was pretty sexy back then.” 

Caroline always provided too much detail in her lies. Also, during the part of the film that Caroline had watched last night, she referred to Merle-Oberon-as-Cathy as a “pea-brained twat.” 

Disbelieving and wary, Gillian shook her head. 

Caroline smothered a yawn with her hand. She flopped back into the couch’s embrace. “You don’t remember?” she asked gently. 

“Fuck sakes, Caroline, if I remembered, I wouldn’t be asking you, would I?” she snarled, and then felt so ashamed that this time she could not even muster up the obligatory but worthless sorry. 

Caroline chose not to respond in kind. They sat on the couch quietly for a long minute in which Gillian decided the best thing might be to slink out the door right now and apologize later. 

“You were crying,” Caroline finally said. 

At this—confirmation of her nightmares bleeding uncontrollably into the lives of others—Gillian curled into herself. 

“First I thought it was Flora. You know how it is when they’re that age. Always puts you on edge a bit, turns you into a light sleeper. But it wasn’t her I was hearing. It was you.” On the pretense of stretching again, Caroline managed to scoot closer to her; Gillian realized there was no other safe retreat from physical closeness at this point except, perhaps, another country. 

“I wasn’t sure if you were awake or still dreaming,” Caroline continued, “they say you have to be careful about not waking someone out of a nightmare or a similar state like that. So I just sat with you, and you quieted down eventually, and, well, I guess must have fallen asleep out here.” 

While holding me. All night long. You beautiful liar. 

The rarified fugue state of Gillian’s nightmares contained details so deeply buried that she thinks even her subconscious doesn’t know what the hell is going on. Months ago after a particularly bad one she woke to find Robbie sitting on the edge of the bed, gawping at her with the helpless, almost childlike incomprehension of a man with no true demons, no formidable ghosts. This lack of depth became even more apparent to her whenever he attempted comfort afterward; his embrace smothered her so that she felt as if she were reliving it, this thing she could not quite remember, because it elicited that same feeling—a blind, terrorizing free-fall into suffocation.  

“I don’t always remember them,” Gillian replied slowly. “Details and such. And when I’ve been drinking—” She forced a rough laugh. “—barely remember having them. It becomes all part of the hangover then, dry mouth, head hurting.” 

“Does your head hurt now?” 

Caroline was now slouched even further down and ever so close. Their shoulders touched. They were burrowed together into the safety of the overstuffed couch like soldiers in a foxhole, the drumfire of the past blazing over their heads and at enough of a remove that the ugliness got lost and took a circuitous path leading to this time and place, this house, this woman and, if only briefly and amazingly, had contorted itself into confounding beauty somewhere along the way. 

“N-no,” Gillian stammered.

“Good.” She reached out and brushed her knuckles against Gillian’s cheek. 

Gillian’s eyelids fluttered and that mere touch sent her mind spiraling off in a million directions—sunshine, fireworks, fields of daisies, fields of puppies and kittens, kaleidoscopes, rainbows, champagne fountains, no wait, gin fountains, no wait, rivers of wine and pizzas as big as flying saucers coming to take over the earth, and oh God if I get this insane over something like this, imagine, just imagine, what actual kissing would do? 

Caroline tilted her head and gazed at her quite intently. If it had been anyone else in the world looking at her like that, Gillian would have interpreted the look as longing or actual desire, or at least something tantamount to these states. But it’s Caroline, who is as elegantly complex as the chemical equations that she has admired and studied all her life. Caroline, who lost great happiness but gained a child in the cruelest bargain of her life. Caroline, who deserves far better than anything Gillian can offer. 

Then clamor from the kitchen—the whistle of the kettle, rattling dishes, Celia’s singsong teasing and Flora’s delighted laugh—as the house woke up around them, and the sunlight along the wall tilted at windmills of clouds and time. 

  Caroline looked away quickly but rose from the sofa languidly. Gillian watched as she stood, arched upward on the balls of her bare feet, and tucked her hands into the small of her stiff back. She rolled her shoulders and shook her shaggy, uncombed hair with such force that Gillian smiled and thought of a sheep dog. In morning light and sans makeup the fine lines around Caroline’s eyes and mouth gained delicate prominence and Celia was right, she’d put on some weight recently, but who the fuck cared, she was beautiful, always beautiful, more beautiful and more important to Gillian than anything else and she wanted nothing more than to be lucky enough to wake up to the sight of this woman every morning for the rest of her life. But all she had was this morning. Even allowing time’s prohibitive schemes, it still seemed an extravagance she did not deserve.  

  “Breakfast?” she said.

“I’ll help,” Gillian offered. She too got up. 

With immaculate aim and mocking glare, Caroline fixed her index finger upon the target of Gillian’s sternum and pressed, and it brought to Gillian’s infatuated mind that bloody old ABC song: Shoot that poison arrow through my heart. Tenderly she pushed and pushed that poison arrow until Gillian got the message and flopped into the heavenly bog of the sofa once more. 

“Not today,” Caroline said. “You’re a guest.” She grabbed the remote from the end table and tossed it into Gillian’s lap. “All that is required of you this morning is watching cartoons with Flora.” 

It sounded perfect, of course, but Gillian played along and groused about it. “If that is some sort of commentary on my intellectual capabilities—”

Caroline smiled and she was undone.

“—then you’re dead on as usual.”

[rolandfontana]

Dannemora Escape: In Defense of the Prison Guards

On June 6, 2015, two convicted killers escaped from the Clinton Correctional Facility in Dannemora, N.Y., through a tunnel they had painstakingly built. For the next three weeks, the manhunt became national news as hundreds of police tracked them through the rugged Adirondack wilderness of upstate New York.

The hunt ended when one of the escapees, Richard Matt, was fatally gunned down by U.S.Border Patrol agents near the Canadian border. The second, David Sweat, was taken into custody two days later after another shootout.

But the made-for-Hollywood story was only just beginning. Revelations that an affair with one of the Clinton correctional officers had facilitated their escape led to an investigation by embarrassed state officials, the conviction of two guards (Joyce Mitchell and Gene Palmer), two television movies, several books, and a seven-part TV miniseries.

Charles A. Gardner

Now, a former senior correctional officer who watched the drama unfold in his “backyard” has weighed in with his own version of the story. In the just-published, Dannemora: Two Escaped Killers, And The Largest Manhunt Ever In New York State, Charles A. Gardner offers not only a bitter condemnation of how state officials and the media handled the story, but a wider critique of New York State’s correctional system.

In a conversation with The Crime Report, Gardner, who is also a former municipal judge, discusses how budget cutbacks created security flaws in the prison, why sensational reporting by the media complicated the search, and how correctional guards have been the victim of unfair stereotypes.

The transcript below has been condensed and edited. The full conversation can be viewed here on YouTube.

The Crime Report: what drew you to write this book?

Charles Gardner: It was a combination of my experience with the New York State Department of Corrections, of being a local and having this escape unfold in my backyard. [Also] as a local municipal judge, I was getting information coming in from law enforcement as the escape unfolded. I was seeing that the media was getting it wrong. There was a tremendous amount of misinformation out there a tremendous amount of speculation, and it troubled me.

As the escape progressed, the misinformation intensified. I got to the point where, “My God, they’re not telling the story, they’re not telling what’s happening, they’re not telling what happened,” and it evolved into the book.

TCR: You write about a number of institutional factors and policy decisions that eased the way for this escape to occur. Please elaborate.

Gardner: There were a tremendous amount of policy changes, and changes in the law, that contributed to this escape. Just to touch on a few: subterranean tunnel inspection had stopped happening in the mid 1990s at Clinton Correctional after a staff audit. Albany felt that it was a waste of resources so they eliminated (inspections from head office). They were added to staff duties. There were 12, 13 towers scattered around Clinton Correctional Facility, New York State’s largest maximum security prison, but [after inspections in the 1990s], Albany [decided] manning half of them would suffice. I could name more. All those contributing factors snowballed into [the escape].

 TCR: What role did budget cuts play?

Gardner: The premise was do more with less. It got to the point where your correctional staff, your uniformed staff, would work for eight-hour-and-fifteen minute shifts with no breaks in the course of their day, no assigned lunch hours. They were expected to eat their lunches on the fly, there was no such thing as a break in their normal work day. So they’re expected to be on point, on post, solid, from the time that they start their day to the time that they walk out the door.

TCR: You write that the leadership in Albany didn’t necessarily make it their highest priority to catch the escapees. 

Gardner: Well again, how did we get there? You couple [all the issues I just mentioned] with the interference with the crime scene. Understand, we had an active crime scene, physical evidence hadn’t even been collected yet, and a parade of politicians and bureaucrats were walking through, to the total disbelief of investigators. It was very frustrating for law enforcement officials that this thing was just a political s—t show…with the contaminated crime scenes, with the interference with the investigation, with that political thumb on them at all times. It was hard for them to do their jobs.

TCR: I would imagine the media must in many cases report in ways that don’t make guys like you in corrections and law enforcement happy.

Gardner: Well first of all, I’m not trying to bash our governor, but when law enforcement is confronted with a crime scene, the last thing they need is some political figure to roll in with their staffers for photo ops. It takes away from the job at hand. The media entertains the local politicians, or the high-profile individual, and it detracts from what’s trying to be done, and it pulls resources. Bit of a problem.

David Sweat (left), Richard Matt. Courtesy New York State Police

The media also were quick to judge. Basically, a little better than two weeks had passed, with no confirmed sightings of either of these two escapees. An off-duty prison guard goes up to check a hunting camp a mile-and-a-half off a backwoods road and he encounters an intruder, and possibly two intruders. He calls them out, they flee from the scene, he notifies authorities, and a day later, the media is standing in this man’s camp, without an invite and (pursuing) conspiracy theories, such as “Isn’t it odd that these two escaped convicted killers were hiding out in a prison guard’s hunting camp?”

That started speculation. “Did this off duty prison guard know that they were there? Was he harboring them?” And you can’t pull the story back. The media has to take a breath. I understand everyone’s fighting for that first glimpse, first picture, first headline. That was the stuff that drove me nuts.

TCR: It drove you to write this book!

Gardner: It did! There was so much misinformation. The guy (who owned the camp) brought this search back from nationwide, to 25 miles from Clinton Correctional where it originated from, was a hero one day, and then a zero the next. I have had the privilege and pleasure of working with this man, and he’s a standup guy. He never even worked in the facility that either one of these guys had ever been in. So he had no contact. He didn’t know the two inmates. Just like all the other prison guards up in northern New York, he owned a hunting camp. But that wasn’t the way the story was written.

TCR: I assume you’ve seen the mini-series that Showtime put out, Escape at Dannemora, which was directed by Ben Stiller. What did you think of it?

Gardner: It was disappointing, the photography of the area was breathtakingly beautiful, but then again the Adirondacks and the Adirondack mountains are breathtakingly beautiful, so that goes without a lot of banging of the drum. Giving him his artistic leeway, it was a nice fiction, based on a true story, I guess would be the best way to describe it. It won a lot of awards. The lady (Patricia) Arquette, who played Joyce Mitchell, did a hell of a job, but as you watch the show, again, they didn’t give you the true story.

They portrayed the prison guards as a bunch of miserable, foul-mouthed individuals. Please understand, on any given day, you have a few hundred [corrections officers] working in these facilities that contain approximately 3,000 convicted felons. On any given shift you have a few hundred watching a few thousand. Those few hundred I can guarantee you are not walking up and down those galleries bad mouthing and swearing and cursing and threatening, and all but spitting on these inmates. That will never happen, because it won’t last long, because people will get hurt quickly. The corrections officers in New York are very well trained, they’re very professional at what they do, and they do not conduct themselves as Mr. Stiller portrayed them.

It was shameful, and it was maddening, to watch him portray these corrections officers as racists, miserable, cursing, unprofessional. That is not what these men and women do on a daily basis. They are better than that, and they deserved better than that, from this [film].

Here’s another thing. Ben Stiller and the film crews approached New York State, and said, “Hey, we would like to go inside Clinton correctional and do some filming inside the Clinton Correctional facility. And New York State governor [Andrew Cuomo] gave it the green light, and the New York Department of Corrections allowed multiple days for the state’s largest maximum security prison to be shut down, so that they could film a movie. Understand that just months prior, when superintendent Steve Racette, Deputy Superintendent (Stephen) Brown, Deputy Superintendent (Don) Quinn had asked Albany leadership to shut down that same facility for security concerns, they were denied. Just chew on that for a while.

Editor’s Note: A New York State Inspector General’s report in 2016 found that widespread “complacency” about prisoner security contributed to the breakout. Read the report here.

TCR: Have the culture, practices or policies changed in any drastic way since you were a corrections officer?

Gardner: It’s gotten worse. It has absolutely gotten worse. And I sarcastically talk about it in the book, you know, the walls are not there to keep the inmates in there in; it’s to keep the public out, if they only knew what was going on inside those facilities. The health care facilities inside the prisons are second to none. If any man has a toothache, any kind of an ache or a pain, they’re seen by medical staff within literally minutes. Go to your local hospital, let me know how long it takes you to be seen by anybody, but these guys are on the scene within literally minutes inside every single facility I’ve ever worked in.

You know the honor blocks, the basketball courts, the football field, the baseball diamond, the handball courts, the weightlifting facilities, the law libraries, the general libraries. The opportunities, the recreational facilities, the meals, the medical facilities are second to none in these facilities. [Inmates] go without nothing. Different facilities that I’ve worked in, they have HBO, Cinemax, I mean, a lot of these people are living better than a lot of people on the streets that are working two jobs.

TCR: I just want to parse that parse that a little bit, I think not necessarily you’re saying that, you know these inmates aren’t entitled to decent living conditions, but you would like to see at least equal if not more attention given to staff and… (the general population).

Gardner: Absolutely, I don’t begrudge the inmate population a thing. I absolutely do not… Treat these men and women who are incarcerated firmly, fairly and consistently, and I’m a firm believer in that. They have what’s known as the commissary in the correctional facilities, it’s an in-house grocery store, where they buy their food items for less than you or I could ever dream of. Again I don’t begrudge these men and women any of that. But it should be made a little bit more fair for the people who are working every day and doing the right thing every day. You’re almost encouraging people to go to jail to for a break, I mean it’s kind of crazy.

There are some things that are just overdone, and it’s ridiculous. I love the fact that we do the educational programs that we do, I love the fact that we do the vocational programs that we do, and it gives these folks who are going to re-enter our society a skill set. Those are wonderful, wonderful, wonderful aspects.  But the policy makers, the politicians, need to sit back a little bit, take a look at some of this stuff that’s also in there and just say, “This is ridiculous.” It’s absolutely ridiculous some of the fluff that’s in there now. Absolutely ridiculous.

Additional Reading: The Strangest Details from that Report on Dannemora Prison Escape

Sweat tells guards how he would escape from another prison

Dane Stallone is a TCR contributing writer. Readers’ comments welcome.

Dannemora Escape: In Defense of the Prison Guards syndicated from https://immigrationattorneyto.wordpress.com/