#now that the book of bill is out I’m frothing at the mouth

[abirthdayclown]

One of my biggest regrets is that when I was like 12 and in the peak of my Gravity Falls phase my ACTUAL GREAT UNCLE got me the special edition Journal 3 through some bookseller connections and I had to sell it in high school to pay for my supplies because my family couldn’t.

[calcifermovesthecastle]

Shared Language

Ghiaccio x Florist!Reader, gn pronouns, fluff ending

1000 follower giveaway for @therealcozyy after a million years I’m so sorry

Warnings: kind of angst, hospitalization and IV’s but nothing major

At the end of a busy day, all you want to do is close up shop and trudge to the apartment the floor above you, and collapse into bed. Thirteen Bridal Bouquets, Add on roughly six each for bridesmaids, as well as walkin customers have you frenzied and harrowed and exhausted, your hands aching with the amount of work you pulled today. Annoyance shoots through you when you hear the patronizing ring of the bell, signaling someone new, and you squeeze your eyes shut, collecting yourself before you turn around. 

"I'm horribly sorry, but we are closed for the night, so-" Your voice trails off when your eyes graze over the Passione pin glinting on the man's shirt, and you visibly wilt when your eyes travel up to his face. "Of course. How much do I owe you?" 

"It's a protection fee. It's not any lower or higher than it's ever been," He responds, looking just as annoyed with the situation as you feel. You sigh, biting your tongue, and crouch behind the counter, skimming the shelves for the envelope you usually keep the fee in. 

"Right, here you are. Um, let me count it out just to make sure I have it all, if that's alright?" 

His eyes meet yours, narrowing, before he shrugs, resting his hands on the counter. You flip through the bills, organizing them by every fifty euros. He watches you count like a hawk, his eyes flicking to your face when you purse your lips in a particular way and freeze. 

"Shit." 

You disappear into the back office, and he can see you rummaging around, looking more and more stressed as you go. 

"Is there a problem?" He calls after you, an edge to his voice.

"No, no, it's-" You come back out to the front, looking near tears as you open the cash register. Your voice cracks when you speak again. "No, there's not a problem. Give me just a moment." 

By the time you've finished counting, there's ten euros left in the register, and tears have started to pool into your eyes. You have to swallow to speak, and when you do, your voice is soft and catches on each word. 

"There. Ten-Ten thousand Euros." You recount once more just to make sure it's all there, tucking it back into the envelope and handing it over to him. His eyebrows knit as he glances to your register, and your lip trembles when you speak again. "Now, really, sir, I do have to close up for the night." 

Even though he's left your shop, he remains in his car, watching you lean over your desk and cry as you appear to do some calculations. Wordlessly, he drives away. 

    -

You're in the middle of arguing with a customer on the price of a standard funeral basket when the bell rings, and one glance over at the door has you panicking. 

"Shit, sir, you need to leave," You usher the fuming customer out the door and swivel, your eyes wide, at the man from last night. "Was it not enough?! Are you going to take my-" 

"Woah, slow down!" He holds up his hands. "I just- do you want- cazzo," He spits, shoving his hands in his pockets. You shift nervously, hysteria quickly threatening to well up past your throat. "Shit. I saw that you didn't have much left yesterday, so I wanted to- buy you lunch." 

You aren't sure if you heard him properly, but when what he says finally registers, your legs crumple underneath you. 

You wake to a concerned blue haired man, and a curious purple haired one who's taking your pulse and checking you over for injuries. 

"Oh, good, you're awake," The purple haired one smiles cooly, helping you sit up. You press a hand to the back of your head, wincing. "Ghiaccio here called me in a frenzy when you passed out. I'd pass out too if he ever asked me out to eat." 

The blue haired one- Ghiaccio, glares daggers at his companion, practically frothing at the mouth, his teeth grinding back and forth. The purple haired one pays him no mind, continuing his conversation with you as if you were old friends. 

"I don't think you need to go to the hospital, but my advice is close early and get some rest. 

"I- what?" Your mind is still trying to catch up to what's happening- two men from Passione acting so casual with you it's like you've known them for years. You frown, gingerly rubbing the back of your head. Not Ghiaccio chuckles, the corners of his lips quirking up with the action as he repeats himself. 

"I- I can't. I can't afford to close early. My rent is due in three days and I have 300 euros. That makes me 1700 euros short and if I'm short again I'll lose my business." 

"Have you eaten since last night?" Ghiaccio speaks up, his words harsher than he probably intends. You stare at him blankly. 

"No?" 

"Do you want to?" 

"I-" You glance at the clock. "I would, but…" 

"What if we brought you some food back here?" Not Ghiaccio coos, earning a death glare from his companion. You bite your lip, slowly getting to your feet. 

"I guess so? If you're offering." 

"I'll be back in forty minutes," Ghiaccio ushers his companion out of your shop, and you're left alone to mull over what happened. 

True to his word, he strolls back into your shop forty five minutes later, a bottle of water and a box of margherita pizza in hand. He sets it on your counter, biting his bottom lip nervously. 

"Are you pitying me?" You ask him quietly, reaching out for the bottle of water, pausing just before you grasp it.

"Since when is doing something nice for someone pitying them?" He looks genuinely taken aback, and you can see anger rising in his face. You decide to let the issue go, opening the box and taking a slice of pizza. 

"It's not something you had to do," You take a bite, feeling a little awkward that you're eating in front of him. "But thank you." 

He takes a slice of pizza for himself, looking uncomfortably stiff as he eats. You share a tense silence with him, your mind reeling with the possibilities of his presence. 

"Are you not enjoying yourself?" 

"I could ask you the same thing," You turn to him, pulled out of your funk. "You're standing in my lobby still as a statue, looking like I just gave you the worst news of your life." 

"What the hell does that mean?" He snaps, stiffening even more. You cover your mouth to hide the smile forming on your lips. Maybe you could enjoy his company after all. 

"It means if your eyebrows knit together any further, you're going to form a unibrow," You take a discreet sip of the water he gave you, laughing when he swivels to face the window, trying to see what you're describing. 

His heart stutters when he hears it, the way your mirth sounds so musical and carefree. God, he thinks to himself. He could listen to that forever.

"Hey, listen," You set the bottle of water down, moving around behind the counter for a moment. When you look satisfied, he watches as you come around the counter and present him with a small bouquet, mixed with white clover, pink sweet pea, Hydrangeas, and peach colored roses. "Thank you."

His face burns as he reaches out and takes the flowers, his heart hammering in his chest when his hand grazes yours. You smile gently at him, retreating back behind the counter. He can't find anything else to say, so he gives you a gruff goodbye and leaves your shop, sitting in his car long after he arrives home. 

-

"Who're the flowers from?" Prosciutto looks up from his book, eyebrow raised in question as Ghiaccio enters the hideout. Ghiaccio balks, stammering in a mix of embarrassment and indignation. 

"The florist three blocks down. Why do you need to know?" 

"Oh? They never give me flowers when I collect their protection fee," Prosciutto hums, tilting his head. 

"When's the last time you bought them lunch?" Melone drapes himself over the back of the couch Prosciutto lounges on, grinning coyly at Ghiaccio as he searches for a vase. Prosciutto hums again in understanding. 

"Their shop still not doing too well, huh? How much did they have left this time?" 

"You make it sound like you want their business to fail," Pesci whines, jutting his lower lip out. "They're always so nice to me when I collect the fee. They'd lose their home if they shut down." 

"They had ten euros," Ghiaccio answers, grabbing a cup and filling it with water, setting the arrangement of flowers inside and carrying it to his room. He gingerly places it on his windowsill, tilting it until he's satisfied that it would get the best amount of sunlight. Prosciutto appears in the door, entering without asking and leaning over Ghiaccio's shoulder to peer at the flowers. His mouth quirks up into a smile when he's satisfied and turns to leave. 

"What? What's that face for?" Ghiaccio stops him from leaving, his tone demanding. Prosciutto looks too smug for his own good, his eyes slanted downwards as he studies Ghiaccio's form. 

"Look up the meaning of those flowers and you'll understand," Prosciutto sidesteps and leaves with a wave of his hand, leaving Ghiaccio fuming. 

-

He had wanted to come by sooner, but unfortunately, got caught up in an odd schedule where he'd travel from job to job, and got stuck in Rome for a month on a hit that only paid One Hundred thousand euros. By the time he'd come back home, he did nothing but sleep and keep up on the paperwork for two days. 

The next time he shows up at your shop, you're not there, and the windows and doors have been boarded up. The sign on the entrance says "Gone out of business."    

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit!" He kicks the door frame furiously with each swear, earning some strange glances and some comments. 

"Christ, man, they weren't even the best florist in town. It's a wonder they stayed afloat as long as they did." 

"Heard it was because they couldn't pay their rent this month. Honestly, with how much Passione charges, it's not even a protection fee anymore, it's an eviction notice waiting to happen." 

"Honestly, they're just flowers. Why is he so worked up?" 

"The person running the shop wasn't even that personable." 

The crowd he'd accumulated falls silent when he turns around, his expression nothing less than smoldering. Some furtive glances at his pin, and soon, the street is empty. 

He meanders back home, kicking pebbles to the side, glowering at anyone even remotely in his way, and slams the door so hard it almost falls off of the hinges when he arrives, earning a displeased look from Prosciutto. 

"What's the matter with you?" 

"Where the fuck are they?" 

"That's rather vague," Prosciutto lights a cigarette and leans back on the couch, resting his ankle on his knee. "Did you have a hit go wrong, or-" 

"The fucking-" Ghiaccio all but stomps over to where his colleague sits, ripping the cigarette from his mouth and taking a deep dreg himself. Prosciutto's brow furrows in annoyance, but he doesn't say anything as he pulls out another from his silver case and lights it. "The florist. They went out of business. Where did they go?" 

"Like I should know the answer to that," Prosciutto scoffs, tapping his ashes into the tray on the end table. Ghiaccio follows suit, taking another deep inhale, sputtering when it goes up his nose. Prosciutto huffs again, shrugging. "What am I? A babysitter? I told you they were going to go under." 

"Well, who collected their fee last?" Ghiaccio throws himself into the chair perpendicular to Prosciutto, tapping his ashes out. Prosciutto hums. 

"Had to have been Risotto. The rest of us were all on hits at the time it's usually collected." 

Ghiaccio bolts up, putting out his half smoked cigarette, earning a glare from Prosciutto. 

"If you're going to steal my smokes, the least you could do is finish them. These are expensive, you know." 

"Then buy a cheaper brand," Ghiaccio retaliates, walking back towards Risotto's office. "We're on a budget anyways, aren't we?"

Just barely in earshot, he can hear Prosciutto telling him to fuck off. Inhaling deeply, he knocks on his capo's door. 

-

"No clue." 

"What the fuck do you mean, no clue?" Ghiaccio's voice is nearing hysterics, and he taps his foot fast, his eyes blown wide. Risotto's demeanor doesn't change, he just hums. 

"Exactly that. I collected their fee two weeks ago. I was in and out. I didn't even know they were shut down until just five minutes ago, when you burst in here screaming about it." 

"Cazzo. CAZZO! Fine, I'll find them myself!" 

"You said Melone went and helped you with a fainting spell they had? See if he can help." 

"See if that slimy- oh." 

-

Of course. 

Of course it had to snow. 

You sit against the brick wall of the alleyway, doing your best to ignore the drug deal to your left, and the way your stomach twists painfully. 

"Hey! Hey, you!" 

You hunker down, your brow furrowed miserably, and close in on yourself a little more to stave off the cold. 

"Hey, you, on the ground! Get the fuck outta here. This is my turf!" Your screamer's legs appear in front of you, and you look up at him, dead eyed. "Jeez, you look like real shit, you know? When's the last time you ate?" 

"Leave me alone." 

"What, not even a hello?" Your perpetrator sneers, crouching to your level. You don't have it in you to even glare. You're too hungry. He scoffs, eyeing you. "Tch. Find somewhere else to starve to death, huh? You're making it hard for me to do my business." 

"Do you have to humiliate me any more than I already am?" You sigh, trying to get to your feet. "Fine. Just leave me alone."

You lean heavily on the wall, your legs trembling underneath you. Homelessness has not treated you well, and the stares your emaciated body receive only further your spiral into despair. 

You've barely made it to the next alley over when your legs give out, and you collapse face first into the accumulated snow. Hazily, you think to yourself that you have to get something to drink somehow, and pull yourself up, grabbing handfuls and shoving it into your mouth, nevermind how cold you already are, your thin long sleeves and tattered excuse for pants clinging wetly to your body. The only thing you can do now is wish for death to come faster than it does. You fall down onto your side and stare blankly at the opposite wall, willing yourself to fall asleep. 

You think you see a pair of legs come to a halt in front of you before you slip into a haze. 

-

When you wake again, a flat white ceiling greets you instead of a cloudy sky, and you notice the weight of a blanket on you. Hazily, you glance over and notice an IV drip hanging out of your arm, and a somewhat familiar blond haired man in a suit sitting next to your bed, smoking a cigarette and absentmindedly reading a newspaper. His eyes flick over when he senses your movement, and his brow shoots up. The paper is set aside, and he takes a generous hit from his cigarette before speaking. 

"Good morning. We weren't sure if you were going to pull out of that or not. You've been asleep for almost four days. It's funny. You lose your business, and suddenly, you drop off of our radar. It was quite a chore to find you, you know." 

"Are you mocking me?" You croak, trying to pull yourself up into a sitting position. The blond appraises you for a minute, puffing smoke out of his mouth. "Are we in a hospital? I'm pretty sure you aren't supposed to smoke in hospitals." 

"I doubt the staff is going to give me a hard time," The man speaks lightly, lounging back. "You certainly are something. You've been awake two minutes and you already have a smart mouth?" A small smile lights up his features. "I guess you could say that you're a trooper." 

"I'm starving," You bite your lip, turning away, your eyes widening when you finally place the man. "Shit! You're from Passione! Oh my god, oh, I lost my-" 

"I already know that," The man waves you off. "I'm just here to keep an eye on you and take you home once you get discharged." 

"But I don't- I don't have a home," You place your thumbnail between your teeth, looking at him anxiously. He dismisses you again, snubbing out his smoke.

"That's why I'm here, kid." 

His vagueness annoys you, but one glance at the box of apple juice and ham sandwich on your bedside tray has anything you want to say dying in your mouth, and by the time you've scarfed it down, tears spark at the corner of your eyes, and any animosity towards the gangster has dissipated. 

"Thank you." 

-

The blond- he's since introduced himself as Prosciutto, drives in silence away from the hospital, not saying anything to you about where you're going. You fidget nervously in the passenger seat, jumping when he parks the care and tells you that you've arrived. 

You're still a little unsteady on your feet, so Prosciutto guides you down the stairs with a hand on the small of your back, and leans across you to unlock and open the door. The minute you step inside, you're greeted with almost everyone who's come to collect your protection fees. The only one missing is the blue haired one who bought you lunch- Ghiaccio. 

The...boss… Risotto, as introduced, gives you a quick tour of your new residence, telling you that everything is free range, that he's going to have you take on some of the deskwork in return, and shows you to your room. Inside is a bed and a few changes of clothes in the closet. At this point, you're teetering on the edge of bawling your eyes out, and you can barely choke out a thank you, giving him a wobbly smile. You swear you can see him smile in return. 

-

You're sitting on the edge of your bed that night, fidgeting nervously, your mind spinning 100 miles per hour, when there's a knock at your door. You practically jump out of your skin, and call out a shaky "Come In." 

The door creaks open slowly, and there he is, his hands hidden behind his back. 

Ghiaccio. 

You stand slowly, your eyes searching his face. 

"Did you-" You catch yourself, starting towards him hesitantly. He seems just as hesitant as he walks towards you. "Did you make this happen?" 

"Not really," His voice is soft and hoarse, and the way his brow is furrowed tells you just how worried he was, but the light in his eyes shows you how relieved he feels to see you in person again. "I just suggested it, really. Sort of… Panicked... When I saw your- your shop-" His voice falters when you reach out and grab his shoulder. Tears are welling in your eyes for what feels like the eightieth time today, and your lower lip trembles when your hand comes in contact with him. He's a little cold to the touch, but it's comforting and refreshing. 

"Thank you," You manage. He swallows thickly, revealing his hands and shoving something harshly in your direction. He's beet red now, and looking anywhere but you. You grab it, taken aback, and look down to inspect it. 

Now you really start to cry, tears spilling onto the arrangement of Daffodils, Daisies, purple lilacs, irises, and lavender roses. So much said in one little bouquet. A sob expels from your throat, and you look up at him, catching him watching you out of the corner of his eye. 

You set the flowers on your bed, stepping forward to wrap your arms around him. 

"They're good?" He sounds nervous, and stiffens at the contact. 

"They're wonderful," You confirm, your voice thick as you bury your face into his shoulder. His arms wind around you, then, and you can hear the relief in his voice when he murmurs to you again. 

"Welcome home."

[ninthhousedyke]

Nona The Ninth Live Blog - #5

Finished Day 4! Honestly really want to keep reading and I probably will because I don’t have class till 1 tomorrow but this got too long so I’m posting it!

Tamsyn Muir punching down the fourth wall with this line: “I want you lot to make that your motto. What we know is that we don’t know anything.”

Cam and Pal’s recording dialogue made me scream obsessively into my pillow. They’re so gonna die and I’m gonna send TM my therapy bill.

No don’t let these kids go off to war!! Dhslfhakfwhfkwbdf not my babies!!

Oh my JOD

PASH?!?!?!

Tamsyn Muir needs to stop writing the MOST FUCKABLE SIDE CHARACTERS or else I WILL send her my therapy bill! How am I supposed to focus on the literal battle for their lives when a blue haired, half shave, sword wielding, scarred up, well built, canonically wants to be called sir, handsome ass butch lesbian is STANDING RIGHT THERE? HMMM?? TAMSYN DID YOU THINK OF THAT?!?!

Literally did not even register that Cam and Pal got shot and managed to revive because I was still frothing at the mouth and imagining getting railed by Pash proposing marriage to Pash.

Also she literally reminds me so much of Gideon. Like the way she speaks, her guns blazing attitude, the self confidence, the “find a way out of this” mindset, the “it ain’t fucked up yet” outlook? Like I miss my baby Gideon so much since the end of book 1 and now I was all depressed over the weird corpse situation but Pash feels like a Gideon part 2 that made this chapter feel like I was reading GTN all over again. The warm fuzzy feelings are BACK! I hope she lives so her and Gideon can meet because oh my god those two as friends would have everyone running for cover.

Alright back to the thoughts:

If anything happens to Pash I will riot.

So Cam can now regenerate? Is this only because Palamedes was in charge or is their soul synthesis thingy becoming stronger? Are they not gonna be able to die? Kinda become immortal? At what point DO they become a Lyctor then?

Nona wanting to marry Cam and adopt a dog together is precious. I too fall in love with any woman who smiles at me, Nona. Or who glares at me (blinks adorably at Pash).

Y’all I cannot be this fucking horny for a book character.

It is a fucking CRIME we didn’t get so see Pash and Cam fight together.

I knew the Angel would be important, but I’m confused. Is she working for BOE? Pash was bodyguarding We Suffer earlier but now she’s also bodyguarding and driving Aim so is Aim on the same side as We Suffer? Are her and Pash secretly defecting to a more extremist BOE faction? Why didn’t Aim know about Nona and the Lyctor project? Why are the BOE people coming in and ignoring Aim’s command to back off? WHAT IS THE CHAIN OF COMMAND HERE?

But honestly the fact that BOE seems to be a mess of warring factions rather than an organized rebel operation is both refreshing and hilarious. Like we have YA books where teenagers are running and comprising huge rebel operations and there’s a perfectly rational and obeyed chain of command, very minimal and quickly resolved inner fighting, and almost no defectors from the main plan, which is WILDLY inaccurate to how humans actually work. As long as there’s a command chain there will be people who want to climb it because they feel their plan is better than what those actually in power are doing. BOE is mostly full of adults and they STILL can’t even agree on what to do with Nona, Pyrrha, and Cam or how to negotiate with John Gaius. It’s REFRESHING to see humans being humans and doing what we do best: argue until it’s too late.

Hot Sauce baby…

Like this poor kid. She watches her close friend get shot and is then quickly whisked off by a strange armed person to sit alone in a dark room not knowing what’s going on or who is on her side. She’s already been through so much and life just keeps shoveling shit on her.

I don’t blame Hot Sauce for shooting Nona. Like, necromancers took everything from her: her home, her family, her safety, her peace of mind, and even her body. Of course she reacts that way to seeing confirmation Nona isn’t exactly human.

Pyrrha telling John “We can write the history books to say you were a good wizard” is such a powerful section and I can’t fully articulate why. Like…..John and the others HAD the best intentions; they wanted to save the world, save humanity. They just so happened to make some horrible mistakes along the way, but their intentions began as so good. Something something the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Also the fact that in the current story John has mostly been seen as the enemy when he wholeheartedly began as the good guy while the BOE ancestors were the bad guys who are now trying to play it as the good guys themselves. *screams*

Tamsyn Muir is channeling that line “history is written by the victors” because both sides are writing their own histories where they are the victors and no one is really thinking ‘well what IS best for this universe and the people currently living in it?’

“Turns out nobody wants papers, nobody wants principles. They just want to be saved. I told them I’d save them. And I said, I’m a necromancer” CHILLS MAN!!!

[firefly-in-darkness]

Deception

Characters →Y/N, Steve Rogers, Jasper Sitwell, Sam Wilson

Summary → Captain America has come out of the ice and SHIELD sends you undercover to find out what he plans to do next.

Word Count → 3.8k

Warnings → 18+, Smut (Oral - fem receiving, unprotected sex - wrap it before you tap it!), Swearing, Angst.

Beta → the wonderful @princessmisery666​ - as always, my mistakes are my own.

A/N → This for @panicfob​​ 900 follower writing challenge - congrats on your milestone lovely and hope you enjoy this story! Heavily inspired by Hercules & Megara’s weak ankles conversation... You can also find the dividers @firefly-graphics​ (just a lil self promo of my side blog!).

You weren’t supposed to sleep with him. You weren’t even supposed to become his friend unless it was necessary. You were supposed to just be his neighbour and report everything back to Sitwell.

You gently unravelled his arm from over your waist, slid to the edge of the bed and fumbled around for your clothes as quietly as possible. Luck was not on your side as your attempt to not disturb the super soldier was thwarted. His body pressed against your back, his large hands glided the straps of your bra back down, the cups dragged against your nipples deliciously. 

Wet open-mouthed kisses were pressed into your shoulder, his soft lips trailed across your skin. Subconsciously, you rolled your head to the side to give him more access. His tongue slipped out and up your neck then he nibbled on your earlobe.

The moan that escaped your lips snapped you back to reality. “As much I’d love to stay. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

His hot breath fanned against your neck as he continued to kiss at the sensitive spot behind your ear and unclipped the bra, “Stay, you only live across the hall.”

You melted back into him, the guilt of spying on him gnawed away at your conscience. But all you wanted was to give in to the temptation, succumb to the desire that had grown in your core and pool into your panties. 

If this is the last time, then I might as well make the most of it. I know I’ve said that fifty times already, but this is the last time I spend the night with Steve Rogers. 

He pulled you back onto the mattress and laid above you, his hand cupped your cheek as he pulled you in for a kiss. Steve’s warm tongue slid along your bottom lip as his fingers stroked down your stomach, the light touch roused the pleasure at your core. You moaned against his lips and he didn’t hesitate to brush his tongue against yours before he continued the assault of kisses along your jawline.

He lifted his torso, knelt into the mattress and stared down at your half-naked body. The loss of his lips on your skin and the heated weight of his chest laying over yours had you craving his return. From the light that had to start to glow between the slats of the blind, you could just make out the lust blown icy blue eyes that watched you bite your lip. 

Steve’s fingers skimmed up your legs and then tugged down on your panties, you lifted your hips so that he could pull them away. You heard them fall to the floor, somewhere across the room, all care for leaving forgotten.

Steve parted your thighs and his head dipped to your core and his light stubble brushed against the delicate flesh. He avoided the spot you wanted most, it caused a whimper to fall from your lips. Steve smirked and huffed a laugh at your keening responses to his teasing, his warm breath fanned over your slicked pussy. Seconds later he licked a stripe up your lips, swirled around your clit and sucked at the sensitive spot. 

Your fingers curled around and gripped Steve’s sandy locks, the tug elicited a growl, the vibrations rippled across your skin and deepened your arousal, lifted your hips only to be pushed down into place by his arms wrapped around your thighs.

“Oh, Steve.” You gasped and clutched at the sheet, the pleasure flowed from your core, travelled to curl your toes and flutter your eyelids in ecstasy. 

Steve’s tongue swirled and his lips kissed your sex. You were so overwhelmed by the sensations that you hadn’t noticed one of his hands loosened their grip on your thigh until his fingers nudged at your entrance. You mewled at the combination of tongue and fingers stimulating you higher, it left you breathless in anticipation for more. 

His middle and fourth finger swirled around, lathered up the slick before he edged inside. Your back arched with pleasure from the way his fingers stretched you further and his tongue flicked at your clit. Steve’s fingers curled and stroked against a spot that caused your thighs to clench around his head, he opened them apart again and kissed the inside of your leg.

Steve watched his fingers pump in and out of you; a lopsided grin and then his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. He had you right where he wanted you, your climax edged closer and closer. It was the moment his thumb joined the attack on your pussy, he rubbed harshly against your clit, and that pushed you over the precipice of the orgasm. The euphoria washed over you; your back arched as you moaned out expletives and Steve. 

You hissed as Steve didn’t stop, the overstimulation sent you into a further orgasm, the force pushed the back of your head deeper into the pillow. Steve’s ministrations eased as you came down from the high. You slowly gathered your thoughts whilst he knelt above you, hooked his fingers into the waistband of his boxers and shoved them down his legs. His cock slapped against his abdomen; the thick length made your mouth water. 

He lowered back down, his arms caged you in and his hands cupped your cheeks. His lips crashed into yours, all tongue and teeth whilst his cock teased your entrance.

With a hook of your legs, you flipped him onto his back. His deep chuckle reverberated through you as you slid along his length and soaked him with your slick. You lifted, gripped the base of his cock and eased down onto him. Both of you gasped as he filled you in one swift motion.

As soon as it was announced that you were going to be Captain America’s babysitter the rumours began about what you had done to get the task in the first place. After the first few drop-ins to the office, you begged Sitwell to rearrange the location as you couldn’t handle the gossip or snide comments of being the teacher’s pet or giving blow jobs for missions. 

You always arrived at the pre-arranged location first, usually a coffee shop or library. You made sure to sit in a secluded part with your back to another chair or shelves. Sitwell always sat or stood behind you, asked for a quick update and then disappeared as his coffee order was called out or he found the book he required. 

The coffee shop was a small boutique; the usual off the beaten track place but the moment Sitwell stepped inside to the chime of the bell above the door, it was a different approach. 

He pulled out the chair opposite and sat down, leant back with his legs spread wide. “Spill it.”

You frowned and turned your lip up in a sneer, he attempted to intimidate you and be the man about business. It didn’t work, he’d hardly been in the field and you’d be able to take him out three times over before he knew what was happening.

You blew on the coffee and took a sip before you responded. “There’s nothing to spill. We have gotten closer, but I don’t have any insight into what he plans. In all honesty, I don’t see him as a threat and I’m not sure-.”

Sitwell raised his hand and leant forward, his harsh whisper spat through gritted teeth, “You work for me. Not the other way around. Whether he’s an active member of SHIELD, going rogue or a threat is for me to decide. You’re only here to give me information and if you can’t do that then we might have to end this mission.”

Sitwell shifted in his seat, scanned around the coffee shop and if anyone didn’t suspect him of anything, they did now. You rolled your eyes at his behaviour; you could tell he hadn’t done much undercover work in a long time. It wasn’t like Steve Rogers would be randomly roaming the back streets for this coffee shop.

At his paranoia, you glanced around the coffee shop and scanned the civilians around you; a group of teenage girls gossiped at the sofas in the window, a man put up a poster that you couldn’t read from here and a bunch of businessmen tapped away at their laptops or phones whilst dollar signs glowed in their eyes.

“I understand that sir.” You placed the mug down, lost in how much Steve had begun to mean to you. Sitwell’s accusation of Steve going rogue didn’t sit well with you. “I don’t think he’s who you think he is. He might have been a soldier back in the day, and he might have the serum in his veins but he’s honest and sweet. He just wants to get a grip on this life before starting a new one. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

You frowned at Sitwell; the lack of response had the hairs on the back of your neck raised. 

“Oh Y/N, you say he has no fears or weaknesses but that’s because you haven’t realised that it’s you. You are his weakness.”

Your eyes widened at his revelation and shook your head, “No, you’re wrong-”

The conversation was interrupted by the man that had put up the poster, you accepted the leaflet he offered. You glanced at it; a meeting at a community centre for war veterans. You shoved it in your handbag and looked back at Sitwell.

“Use it to your advantage.” He opened his wallet and dropped a few bills on the table then left.

Sitwell left, you stared into your coffee mug, lost in the froth that lined the rim of the ceramic. Your heart hammered against your ribcage as the weight of the consequences of how far you had taken things with Steve. You were going to break his heart. And your own.

As you wandered through the Waterfront Park and along the Potomac River, Steve recounted another tale of him getting into trouble, with Bucky at his side as always. Laughter erupted from you both and you sat on one of the benches that overlooked the serene water.

“Oh, what a day.” Steve smiled, “Thanks for coming to that art exhibition at the Kreeger.”

You knew you had to be focused, that you had to get as much from Steve as you could; to find out what he was going to do next after he got used to this new modern world. Sitwell counted on you to know whether he’d stick around or if he’d become America’s hero once more.

At that moment your phone’s ringtone interrupted the tranquillity of Steve’s company. You fumbled to get it out of your handbag and noticed the number, you glanced at Steve, “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.”

You walked away with the phone pressed close to your ear, you didn’t want the super soldier’s enhanced hearing to detect the voice on the other end; Sitwell’s unpredicted check call had you on edge.

“You know, for a secret agent, you’re doing a lousy job of staying under the radar.” Sitwell clipped, and you bit at your lip. I’m getting pulled, I just know it. “You need to find out what he plans on doing now.”

“I’ll call you when I have more information.” You sighed, glanced back at Steve with a weak smile then turned your back to him once more.

“The world is not a safe place Agent Y/L/N. If you know someone’s fear, you know them.”

“I’m on it.” You spoke through gritted teeth then hung up the phone.

You spun and walked back to the spot where Steve had remained, your voice strained. “Sorry about that. Family being a nightmare as usual.”

“Hey, no worries, we’ve all got our problems to deal with.” He smiled back at you.

This was an opportunity to open the conversation, you slid up the bench to get closer to him. “Yeah, they’re a bit controlling and even though I know they’re trying to help me make the best out of situations, I’d rather them just cut me some slack.”

“Is everything okay?” Steve’s face flushed and he rubbed at the back of his neck. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

You weren’t sure he could get any more endearing than this moment, yet, you were playing him. Sure enough, he made you putty in his hands whilst he tore orgasm after orgasm from your body, but when it came to feelings and talking, well this was the arena you were champion of.

“I love my job, being a nurse is amazing and self-fulfilling. The people you help along the way but then some days are just awful, asshole attacks or,” You were bending the truth but your heart swelled at the sight of his fists clenching at the thought of you being harmed, “or there’s a major injury and there’s just nothing you can do to save them. It sucks. And then my father just wants me to get the job done, make quick decisions as if it’s not embedded into my life like it’s a separate thing.”

Steve nodded, his fingers weaved between yours, “It’s okay to feel overwhelmed Y/N. You are one person and looking after yourself is important. Be selfish if you have to.”

You shook your head; real tears began to well in your eyes. No, this is supposed to be me getting to him, how is he doing this?! You used the back of your hand to wipe away the salty dew on your cheeks.

“So does Mr Steve Rogers have any problems that need solving?” You choked on the fake laugh, hoped he didn’t notice the distress. Your body pressed against his and your hand gripped at his thigh, desperately for more information.

“Nope, I’m all good.” Steve grinned and moved off the bench towards the edge of the water. He dropped to a squat and collected a handful of pebbles.

“Wow, America’s Golden Boy is perfect.” You scoffed and rested your chin in the hand propped up on your knee.

“Thanks.” He grinned at you before he turned back and skimmed a rock across the water, but you could see he was looking much further into the distance than the drop of the pebble.

I’ve got this, I can bring the conversation back to his problems, his weaknesses or fears. I can do this, years of training alongside Natasha Romanoff will pay off. You stood beside him, grabbed a collection of pebbles to skim yourself. 

After your fifth failed attempt to get the pebble to bounce more than twice on the surface, your shoulders sagged as you watched Steve’s sprint across the water several times before it disappeared into the depths.

Your skin heated up as he stood behind you, took your wrist in his large hands and guided you with your throw. Your breath caught as his body aligned with yours, his arm moulded along your forearm. The feel of his chest pressed into your back, his fingers linked with yours, it overwhelmed all your senses.

Thoughts were clouded as your mind drifted back to what had happened earlier that morning, amongst his bedsheets; the way he’d pushed your head into the pillow and lifted your hips and lined himself up from behind before he pounded you deep into the mattress.

As you watched the pebble skim across the water, his voice dropped an octave, “Y’know, when I was a kid, I wasn’t like this. I had every ailment going, and I was a scrawny little thing. I was then given this gift, and, well, I did everything to get into the army, so why not be America’s golden boy. Right now, though, I would give anything to be exactly like everybody else.”

“You want to be normal? To be self-centred and deceitful?” You turned around and folded your arms. The guilt of your actions simmered under your skin, ready to burst free onto him in a verbal assault but you kept your composure as you began to walk along the bank once more.

Steve walked beside you, “Some people might be like that but that’s not you.”

“You don’t know me, Steve, how do you know I’m not any of those things?” You stopped; an eyebrow raised to goad him further into the debate. His silence was what you needed, “That’s what I thought.”

“Y/N listen, you are one of the most amazing people I have ever met.” Steve pulled your arms away from their hold, his fingertips ran down your forearms and hooked your hands in his. “I came out of the ice and you were the first person that cared about Steve, not Captain America. When I’m with you, I don’t feel so alone.”

You couldn’t believe the words that tumbled from his lips, your heart hammered against your chest and your fingers trembled in his grip. His words pierced through your ribs and into your lungs, breath stuttered as you tried to reply. 

“It’s better to be alone. Nobody can hurt you.” You whispered.

Steve dipped his head to yours, “I would never hurt you doll.”

Steve placed his lips to yours, a light touch compared to the others you had shared; it was delicate and held so much more than desire. You pulled away and gave Steve a beaming smile. He pulled you closer by the nape of your neck, a chaste kiss pressed to your forehead before he winked and continued the walk around the river with his hand firmly in yours.

Luckily you had dropped Steve’s hand as you turned the corner to search for your keys in your handbag because as you reached the apartment building, Jasper Sitwell stood with another agent outside the entrance. Your heart hammered at the thought of him seeing anything that looked remotely like affectionate gestures that had been made in the park.

Jasper looked straight past you, pushed his glasses back up his nose, and focused on Steve. 

“Back in a minute.” Steve wandered off with your boss, he left you in the lobby as they talked in the parking lot.

You waited, leant against the wall, and thought of what had happened between you and Steve at the waterfront. The sharp pain from earlier had become a dull ache, and as you watched them from afar, you couldn’t help the guilt that continually seeped into your chest. 

Steve was toeing the forbidden line of this becoming more than sex, potentially a relationship. He laid himself bare, put himself out there for you to accept. And, regardless of the mission ending on your own or Sitwell’s decision, you were going to hurt him.

Whilst you pretended to check your phone, another figure caught your eye. A man stood across the street, you had the sinking feeling that you recognised him and that’s when he glanced at you, then back at Steve and Jasper. Your hand darted into your handbag; fingers curled around the Glock as you watched him stroll towards Steve.

“On your left!” the man commented, you watched Steve turn slightly and grin at the man.

You released the gun and straightened up, to watch Jasper nod at the men and walk off without another glance. You returned to the men he had left, they wandered over and you recognised the stranger as the man with the leaflets in the coffee shop. If you remembered him, was it likely that he wouldn’t recognise you? 

Panic bubbled up as they got closer and you could tell that they were more than acquaintances from the laughter. Steve gestured to you, and then the stranger, but you didn’t hear a word as the blood rushed through your head and echoed around your ears.

“Y/N, you okay?” Steve’s hand gripped your arm, a concerned look etched on his features.

“Yeah sure, miles away.” You shook your head and smiled at Steve’s friend; you hope it played off as a daydream. “Sorry, Sam was it?”

The man nodded, a slight grin on his face, “So how do you both know that guy?”

“Both?” Steve frowned.

“Yeah, I recognised your friend from the coffee shop near the community centre. That guy was there too.”

“Y/N, what is he talking about?” Steve no longer held the face of adoration from earlier or the confusion from Sam’s words. Now it had morphed into realisation as to who you were and your betrayal. “You’re one of them?”

You couldn’t find the words, your heart dropped into your stomach. The tears welled in your eyes; you knew you had fucked up and you knew it was wrong to spy on him, but you couldn’t lose him. 

“We need to talk.” You stuttered. “Inside.”

The walk up the stairs remained in silence, you chanced a glance back to Steve, his face was flushed with pain and you could see it glisten in his eyes. Once you reached the corridor to your apartment, you were pushed back against the wall, Steve’s forearm against your throat.

“I can’t believe I trusted you,” Steve whispered angrily.

Sam tugged at his shoulder, “Stop it, Steve, just hear her out man.”

“Why should I? She’s been reporting to SHIELD the entire time. What else is there to know?” He glared back at him, his jaw ticking with anger and not letting go of his grip.

“Please, Steve.” You begged, “Please let me explain.”

Steve released his arm, and moved away from you, straightened out his jacket and ran his hands through his locks, “Fine. Sam stays and we do this in your apartment. I don’t trust mine to not be bugged.”

You nodded and headed to the front door, your hands trembled as you put the key in the lock and pushed it open for them to enter. You followed behind and hoped you could turn this around. That you could tell Steve what you were asked to do and how much you had withheld from Sitwell and SHIELD.

And deep down, you hoped that Steve could forgive you, not now, but maybe at some point.

the end.

[qqueenofhades]

“This is because poor white people have been systematically conditioned to support white supremacy at the direct expense of their own economic and social interests; it’s terrible, but that’s how it functions.” Do you think the rich white overlords have also been conditioned to support the system?

“while disdaining the government as tyrannical the rest of the time, unless it’s Trump’s actively tyrannical lot, but hey, we don’t have time to unpack all that)” Can you unpack some of that? I don’t understand. Thanks. Love your political posts. 

Sure!

(If anyone’s wondering, this is carrying on from/in reference to this ask from yesterday on how to dismantle arguments about “I’m white and my life has been hard therefore racism isn’t real.”)

The third part of the white supremacist equation in America, aside from racism and capitalism, is religion, especially fundamentalist and evangelical Christianity. We didn’t get to that in the last ask, but it’s an equally important factor in the social and cultural landscape of this particular demographic -- especially because the GOP has essentially become its political manifestation, and religious conservatism has become tied so deeply to a set of hot-button social issues (immigration, the gays, abortion, etc). As a lot of social scientists and lay observers have noted, religious belief in America remains staggeringly high relative to the rest of the industrialized Western world. Ever since the rise of religious conservatives as a mobilised political force in the 1980s, we have had to deal with their influence and the GOP’s willingness to function as an eager and uncritical vehicle for their social agenda. Fundamentalist/evangelical Christianity in America has also served as a powerful tool of promoting white supremacy. In fundamentalist religions, it’s a sin to question anything you’re told and you have to trust that a “higher authority” has your best interests at heart. This lends itself easily to personality cults: think the charismatic mega-preachers and other high-profile figures that exist in mainstream and fringe American evangelicalism alike, as well as the cult of Trump that now exists around the Orange Fuhrer.

Some books on this:

The Sin of White Supremacy: Christianity, Racism, and Religious Diversity in America, by Jeannine Hill Fletcher

White Too Long: The Legacy of White Supremacy in American Christianity by Robert P. Jones (you can also read a Washington Post interview with him here, and his piece in The Atlantic here.)

The Cult of Trump by Steven Hassan

When you intertwine the moral imperatives of fundamentalist religion (if you don’t believe the right things, you’ll go to hell), with the centuries-old American system of prizing whiteness at the expense of everything else, with the belief that your rich white overlords are more “your people” than your differently-colored working-class peers, you get an incredibly powerful and coercive system of mental conditioning that works on multiple levels, constantly reinforces itself, and is very difficult to break away from. And frankly, it’s difficult to tell if the most high-profile mouthpieces of these views actually believe it (maybe to some degree) or if they just use it to obtain a comfortable life at the expense of vulnerable people. Honestly, I’m not sure if it matters whether or not the overlords believe everything they themselves teach (and I’m pretty certain that they don’t). They know that it ends up as a good deal for them, and so it’s in their interests to maintain the system as vigorously as possible.

You may have heard of “prosperity gospel” evangelists, who claim to their poor followers that if they give them, the evangelists, all their money as a demonstration of faith, God will automatically reward them/provide for their economic needs, and it’s a sign of too little faith if you don’t believe this, therefore you will stay poor. You may have also heard of the recent sex scandal involving Jerry Falwell Jr., son of the famous Jerry Falwell and current president (though he was forced to resign) of the ultra-fundamentalist Liberty University in Virginia. This, of course, goes up there with all the other hard-right politicians who preached family values and Moral Purity and then turned out to be hypocrites who were failing to live up to these ideas in private. American evangelicalism is a deeply weird and self-reinforcing universe that provides adherents with everything they need to live in a parallel version of reality and feel holier-than-thou about not interacting with “infidels,” and yes, a huge part of that, especially white Protestant evangelicalism, involves preaching the gospel of white supremacy, implicitly or explicitly.

So at the end of this, we have a system which orchestrates and indeed insists upon complete obedience to the overlords (be they economic, racial, or religious) by the underclass at every turn. As I noted above, the rich white overlords themselves know that they benefit immensely from this setup, so the question of whether or not they actually believe it is less important. As also noted, they sure don’t make any attempt to live up to it in private, or at least trust that they won’t be found out if they don’t. That’s because (at least in my opinion) they know perfectly well that it sucks. They don’t want to be poor either, but it’s useful for them if there are poor people. Fundamentalism is also deeply predicated on suffering: it’s holy to suffer, poverty is a virtue, you shouldn’t worry about this world so much as what you will get after you die, thinking about material things is Sinful, God will magically provide everything that you need, so on and so forth. So even if they’re voting against their own self-interests, white working class religious people have been assured that is a virtue anyway and they should keep doing it. Only heathens like socialism.

That also makes it harder to get any dialogue of social justice going in (white) churches. Black churches have obviously been at the forefront of social justice struggles in America for their entire history, but that’s because white and black American Christianity are often very different. There are overlaps in places, but the black church was founded in the slave tradition, rather than the slaveholder tradition, as the establishment church in the 19th century was often a zealous supporter of slavery for the “moral good” of the slaves -- hey, they might be in terrible bondage, but at least they had the chance to be saved by becoming Christians! White Americans tend to go to church to be reassured that what they’re doing is good and doesn’t need to change, or if it does need to be changed, it’s to outlaw abortion or gay marriage or whatever social issue is the order of the day. It’s founded on repression rather than liberation. This isn’t true of every church everywhere, of course, but the overall trend is one toward social and religious hyper-conservatism.

This ties into the “civic faith” of America, i.e. the sphere of cultural Christianity that everyone participates in whether they’re actively religious or not, and which has also been the subject of political studies as to how it has been twisted into an organ of feel-good jingoistic American nationalism with very little reference to what Jesus Christ is recorded as having actually taught. The point again is that this entire belief system prizes absolute obedience and adherence to a (white and male) Supreme Leader, which is really easy for a fascist to exploit with populist rhetoric draped in the shabbiest veneer of religious language. The enthusiastic evangelical support for Trump, and the way the religious right has bent over backward from trying to impeach Bill Clinton for a blowjob in the Oval Office to defending serial rapist Trump is... both enlightening and terribly depressing. (Not to say that Clinton isn’t gross, because he is, but that’s beside the point; the GOP went on a frothing-mouth moral crusade over his behavior and it’s absolute crickets over Trump.)

In the end, we have this entire subset of people who have argued that they need their guns and their paramilitary organizations to defend against a theoretical “tyrannical” (read: non-white, non-Christian) body politic or American government. That’s why we had constant claims that Obama was going to throw people into concentration camps or send federal agents to arrest people off the streets or turn America into a military dictatorship; these proud AR-15-waving nutcases were happy to inform us that they would rise up and prevent that from happening. Of course, Obama didn’t actually do any of that, but you know who did? Trump. And his supporters, of course, didn’t make any attempt to stop it from happening. Instead they actively went out to help it happen more. (Side note: a little racist shitstain literally named RITTENHOUSE being the face of armed and murderous white supremacy in the Kenosha protests is like... ridiculously on the nose, PAGING GARCIA FLYNN.)

So when I say they’re protesting “government tyranny,” we’ve already gotten a good look at what they imagine tyranny to be: i.e. anything except the actual tyranny we’re already enduring, because it’s coming from their orange messiah and it is the culmination of everything that their religious, political, social, and cultural values have taught them. They mean “tyranny” of anything that is not their extreme right-wing, white-supremacist, religious-fundamentalist fascist version of things, which means respect or tolerance or room for anyone who isn’t exactly like them, which they can’t abide. Totalitarianism never can.

Anyway, I hope that was helpful. Thanks for the question!

[nevermore-ocs]

Protective

Author’s Note: 7.3K words of a smut fic of my character, Internal and @flowerthornsart‘s character, Codec!!

Internal snarled to himself, the smell of the common dreg of the undercity of Daxton made him gag, walking rotten meat slabs that wore disheveled clothes they were to him. And now, the fact that Drake's great plan of getting information about their youngest brother, Blood, from these stains was working, he wasn't going to hear the end of it. He leaned against a wall, silently watching the discussion of the eldest vampire conversing with a masked man dressed in a long sleeve shirt, tattered and worn jeans, and sneakers coated in dirt. "And you're positive they were here?" Drake's voice rang through Internal's ears, "Yeah man they were here, that big bitch Blade and his little vampire sidekick were here like a week ago," even his voice sounded disgusting, it was rough to the ears like he's been smoking every day for the last three years. "Thank you for your information," Drake reached into one of his suit pockets and pulled out a wad of cash held by a small rubber band and handed it to the man who boisterously unbounded it and counted the bills with a wide-spread grin. He took another glance at Drake, putting the money away in his pocket. "'Ey I meant to ask, where's that cute girl that comes with y'all?" That's when Internal's attention was caught at full force. "How do you mean?" Drake could sense Internal's quick-growing anger, he had to quietly put a hand up to halt his hot-headed brother. "That cyborg girl, dude! The one with the helmet? She's fine as Hell, hehe!" Drake had to take a glance over his shoulder at Internal, he was fuming, his now unsheathed claws were slicing into the decaying wallpaper behind him, he was growling lowly to himself, drool was cascading down his chin. "Sucks how she didn't come with y'all, I would have LOVED to show her a good time, you know what I mean?" The man snickered, Drake opened his mouth to say something only to be interrupted by Internal's boots thudding against the creaking hardwood floor due to him stomping up to the two, however, he was halted yet again by Drake who outstretched an arm across his brother's chest, as security. Internal hunched over, he was baring his teeth, his eyes were wide and his pupils were in slits, and a rough, snarling growl emitted deep from his throat. "Drake..." Internal finally spoke, his voice laced with a dangerous amount of venom, it was practically dripping out of his mouth. "Yes, Internal?" Drake asked, already knowing what the question was going to bed. "Can I eat now?" The feral vampire hissed through his gritted sharp teeth, and after being mute for a moment or two, Drake lowered his arm back down to his side, freeing him. "You may." It was like the leash was taken off of a dangerous dog, Internal charged forward at the man with unnatural speed and a hissing roar, there was a loud sound of his teeth piercing through the flesh of the man's neck, right into the jugular, he dug his sharp, pointed, dagger-like teeth deep into his neck flesh in a ferocious bite. His jaw locked, the blood from the man's arterial vein sprayed thickly in Internal's mouth like a dense red mist and as the feral vampire heard the man's gurgling pleas for help, and his feeble, weak attempts to push him off of him, Internal sharply turned his head to the side, the man's throat was torn clear out, the blood spray continued heavily right onto Internal's face before he dropped the man's now limp body down onto the wooden, creaky floor. "Well that was-" Drake paused when Internal knelt to the body and started to use his claws to slice through the man's chest cavity, blood splattered in numerous pools around the fresh corpse, the feral vampire took a hold of the body's ribcage and with a grunt, and with a quite a show of strength, he splintered bones and broke them, tossing the pieces away to the side sloppily. Internal's mouth was practically frothing at the invading smell of human organs and that's when his stomach growled loudly. He glanced over his shoulder at Drake who gave one nod and Internal's feast began. "Violent." Drake finished his thought.

"You left the lungs?" Drake questioned, counting in his head while his fingers flicked through the dollar bills from before, when all was counted for, he folded the money back up, clasped them all together with that rubber band from before, and slid the payment back into his suit pocket. "He was a smoker, I could fuckin' smell it off of him. I'm surprised how you didn't." Standing up with the man's liver in his hand, Internal brought the organ up to his mouth and dug his teeth into it, tearing a bite out and he easily chewed and swallowed the meat, he slammed the door open with his elbow and as the scents of outside filled both of their noises, in which Internal scowled and Drake was already mapping out their destination in his head, he started to walk in that very direction with Internal next to him, shoulder to shoulder. 10 minutes of undisturbed silence, Drake spoke up, "Should we talk about what got you so angry in there?" The question was brought up, Internal stopped himself in pre-bite and he lowered his hand, his eyes narrowed somewhat and they drifted to the side, and his cheeks sported a very light dusting of pink. He didn't want to admit it out loud, he wouldn't if Drake wasn't there to witness the whole thing. "What's there to talk about?" Internal was already sounding hostile and defensive, which his brother should have expected, that was never new. Drake placed a kind hand on his brother's shoulder, "Internal, I know you did it to protect Codec's honor, there's nothing wrong wit-" Internal snatched his shoulder away from his brother's grasp. He tossed the organ from before to the side and turned towards Drake with a rumbling growl, "You don't breathe a fuckin' word about what happened tonight to her, ya understand me?! So help me, Drake, I'll beat your face in so fuckin' deep, they're not even gonna be able to tell we're related anymore, ya got it?!" Drake's gaze and overall body language was unfaltering, he barely moved an inch at Internal's outburst and his ruby-red orbs bored right into Internal's matching ones. "I won't. Though you can't beat yourself if she asks you what happens, lie to her if you want, but she'll be touched by what you did." Drake was looking at Internal's back now as the feral vampire pressed onward towards their destination, the feral vampire paused mid-step and truly thought it over. Could he tell her? He could tell her what he did and leave it at that, it probably wouldn't go to anything else, anyway. If anything, he was going to get a teasing from Codec about him being 'a big softie' around her. "...fine, whatever. Can we get there already?" Nodding, Drake used his unnatural speed to appear right next to his brother again, he read Internal like a book, he knew he wasn't used to these feelings, let alone towards a human, something that Internal despised with a burning passion ever since the attack but Codec was different for him. He's caught Internal smiling around her, yes they teased each other and butted heads, but it had a playful twist to it, for God's sake, Codec's poked Internal's nose when he was right up in her face with his fangs bared at full extension, it was different. Drake wasn't used to it and he knew for sure Internal wasn't. Their walk back towards the hotel they were staying at with Codec remained silent the entire time back, Drake's eyes were fixated forward for the most part but he couldn't help but take the occasional glance over towards Internal, he was staring directly at the ground, his arms were crossed firmly over his chest, even his claws were digging into the fabric of his jacket. He wanted to get to their room and relax, blow off steam, even if that might take the rest of the night and a midnight hunt to do so. "Here," When they were standing at the doors of the hotel, Drake pulled out a handkerchief from his front pocket, "Wipe your face, and hands, good thing you didn't get it on your clothes...this time." Internal gripped the rag and yanked it from Drake's grip and he did just that, he cleaned his hands off and then his mouth, the red liquid stained the white fabric a reddish-pink color. Without saying anything else after, Internal tossed the cloth back to his brother who caught with ease, balling it up, he slipped it into his slacks' pocket. "Can I go in now or do I have to fuckin' dress like ya too?" The feral vampire spat, earning an eye roll from Drake who went up to the double glass doors and he took hold of one of the handles. "No, but you could have manners," he pulled the door open and motioned to go inside with his free hand. "You could say thank you for this."

Even the elevator ride up to the suite was quiet, and again, Drake was looking forward and Internal's eyes were locked onto the carpeted flooring of the elevator. When the two metal doors squeaked open, Internal took a firm grip on one of Drake's arms which instantly caught the attention of the eldest brother. "Remember. Not a fuckin' word." The feral vampire's fangs bared ever so slightly but his mouth closed again when Drake put his open hand up in defense. "I promise, not a word, Internal, I won't say anything to her." Drake fixed his sleeve after Internal let him go, he did the same with his tie and his lapel to his liking. "If she asks you, you get yourself out of it, you either tell her or lie, whichever." Walking out first, Drake pulled out their room key from one of his inner suit pockets and the two approached the corresponding suite. Sliding it into the electrical lock, Internal impatiently shoved the door open, and walked in, "Hey there you guys are, how'd the meeting go?" Codec, pulling herself out of maintenance on her robotic arm, she watched Internal go to the main bedroom of the suite. "It went fine," Internal muttered too quickly for her liking, and she especially knew something was up when Internal went into the bedroom, took a hold of the tinted sliding glass door that separated the living room and the bedroom, and slammed it shut so hard, the door shook. Blinking rather confused, it even showed on her helmet, Codec faced Drake. "What the Hell happened? I said one thing and he's pissed off already!" Codec stood up from the couch, "I can't...exactly tell you, Codec," Drake saw Codec cross her arms, which easily meant she wasn't going to take no for an answer. "Drake, what happened? Seriously, I know he can be a real hot head but usually, he screams at us, and then he's fine, this is different! What's going on?" Codec couldn't hide it, but there was worry evident in her voice, she cared about Internal a lot; she would never admit that aloud and could never bring herself to do that, she was far too stubborn for that and she even knew that. With a sigh, Drake raked his fingers through his messy hair and took one more look over at the shut door with the frosted glass, then he looked back at Codec. "I promised him, but, I know him. He was truly bothered by what happened with the contact today. That man said some less than...appropiate things about-" "Blood?" "You." That certainly caught Codec off guard, "What? Oh God, I don't even wanna know but, what did he say?" She couldn't help herself but turn her head towards the door once more, she could see Internal's infuriated silhouette grabbing what appeared to be a pillow or blanket off of the bed and he threw it against the wall. "He said sexual things, disgusting things about taking you and making you feel good," she practically gagged at those words, she certainly looked disgusted. "However, Internal...snapped. He lunged at the human and killed him on the spot, he fed, of course, but he did it out of your honor, you weren't there to protect yourself and Internal wasn't having it." Codec's eyes gradually widened with surprise at Drake's retelling of the night's earlier events, she was used to Internal being violent but she was surprised by this, and touched, this was so out of character for him. Not the violent stuff, of course, but the whole thing of just protecting her name when she wasn't even there. "Should I, um, should I talk to him?" She was glad that her helmet was covering it, but her face was extremely red, the thought of Internal protecting her was definitely on her mind, she couldn't get it out of it, "I think you should, calm him down, it's the easiest thing for you to do when he's like this, just, be careful is all." Receiving a smile from Drake, Codec returned it with her small one, and the eldest vampire went over towards the couch and took a seat in the middle, crossing one leg over the other as he finally started to relax. Codec, with little hesitance, went up to the glass door, she gazed inward and saw the shadow of Internal's form sitting on the bed, hunched forward, he was probably steaming still but luckily he was sitting down now so he couldn't cause too much damage at the moment. She wrapped her hand around the handle and inhaled deeply. She held it for just a moment or two before breathing out through her mouth and she pushed the door open, "Internal?" She spoke up softly, stepping through the open door, she let it slide carefully and quietly behind her, now it was just the two of them. Internal knew she was in there now but he didn't look at her yet, he was leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together in front of him, his coat and undercoat was stripped off of him so it left a tank-top, his jeans, and boots, it looked like he tried to get comfortable but was still too angry to do so. "Vallen?" When Internal heard his real name flow from Codec's lips with that soft tone to it, that's when his eyes finally decided to slowly drift over towards her. "He told you, didn't he?"

When Internal read Codec's mind, she made her way to his side and she sat down next to him, her hands resting on her lap. "Yeah, yeah he did," that blush was coming back to his cheeks and it felt so odd to him, he wasn't used to the feelings and thoughts that he got whenever she was around, he acted differently around her, the teasing and usually vile words were playful, like flirting. God, he was even more handsy with her, like he'd push her helmet down her head further whenever he was done with her teasing, or whenever she won a round of them going back and forth and she was the same way, being handsy with him, hers usually included taking his coat from him when he least expected it, Hell, she's even gotten him to purr and he hasn't done that in a LONG time. It would make sense why he defended her, even if the feral vampire would deny it. He was just as stubborn as she was. "So, what about it?" He didn't mean for it to sound as mean as it was, but he was getting defensive all over again and he was going to move but Codec placed her hand on his upper arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. "First off, I wanna say thank you. I wasn't even there and you killed some asshole for me, I-thank you," she smiled up at Internal and the sight of Codec's face flushed with a smile made her look so precious in his eyes, it made his blush worsen. "Yeah, yeah, so fuckin' what?!" He grumbled, and then she giggled, and that made his face catch on fire. "You are a softie aren't you?~ But, seriously, Vallen, I appreciate what you did for me," Internal had to process what was happening, she felt like she had moved closer to him, her hand had moved down to his forearm and was holding it tenderly, "You didn't have to do it, you know? He was just some dirtbag who-" Internal stood up abruptly, "Are ya kiddin' me, Codec? Yes, I fuckin' did! The shit that, that fucker said, it was fuckin' disgustin'! And ya weren't there to stop it yourself, so I fuckin' killed him and fed!" Internal was pacing back and forth in front of Codec, he was pissed just picturing how scummy and shallow that guy looked, a copy cat in the undercity, if anyone else thought like that about her, he was going to feed a lot there. "Ya deserve better than some fucker who doesn't even deserve to mention ya talkin' about ya like that, okay?" The feral vampire's gaze fixated on the ground again, his face, even the tips of his good and torn ears were a blazing red too, "Vallen..." Codec was, beyond touched, she felt like she lost her voice, she heard her heart pounding away in her ears, she didn't expect Internal to ever talk like this to her, but she, she loved it, it made her eyes go wide and her face turn as red as his. "So, yeah, there ya go." He was about to sit down, but Codec's metallic hand going up to his chest paused his motions and he watched as she stood up from her seated position, her hands went up to her helmet, the digital eyes on the glass visor of it turned off when she slipped the helmet off of her head and she used a hand to fluff up some of her lilac-colored hair. She gazed up at him and her eyes locked onto his despite the uneven scar the took up the entire upper half of her face and Internal smiled, it was a real one, he never thought she looked bad or ugly whenever she had her helmet off, he truly loved seeing her without her helmet on, it was such a nice change from her wearing it pretty much 24/7 out of her insecurities that he wished she didn't have. "I'm being serious, I'm not trying to get under your skin or some shit like that I'm, I'm thankful for that."

It was like the rest of the world just faded away to Internal and he was sure the same happened for Codec, her pouring her heart like that out to him after his little outburst. All he could hear is his heartbeat pounding steadily away in his ears and how tuned his advanced hearing was, he could take in Codec's too and hers was just as bad as his. Both sets of eyes were darting around the room to try and focus on something else other than the person right in front them, the room was drenched with silence so thickly, nobody knew what to say right now and neither one of them dared to look at the other person, but after numerous failed attempts from both sides, Internal's ruby red orbs bored right into Codec's bright blue ones, his next action surprised himself. It was like he blacked out, but when he came to his senses, his arms were wrapped around Codec and she was held tight and close to his chest, there was a feeling of protectiveness in his embrace, how tight he was holding her. It was like he never wanted to let her go, he was even growling lightly to himself at the utter thought of what that guy would have done if Codec did show up to the meeting with them. If she did, and that guy had tried anything or even made a move closer to her, he would have killed him sooner and slower, to make him feel every single claw dig and rip through his flesh. "Vallen?" Codec's voice had a slight stutter like she was nervous to get her next words out and hearing that made Internal's voice do the same, "Yeah?" He wasn't sure where this was going to go next but how she was leaned against his chest and he could feel her hands moving from his back to his sides and waist, he had a feeling and he wanted it more than anything else in the world right now because nothing else mattered other than her and him in the same room. Her human and cybernetic hands maneuvered themselves from his sides to his chest, she grabbed at the fabric of his tank top, right at the dipped hem of it. "Come here, you dork~" Taking a firm grip of his tank top's hem, she pulled him down to her level, her lips collided against his in a passionate kiss, drawing a surprised but muffled grunt from Internal in the process. His eyes were wide as saucers, at the action out of nowhere, he's probably only ever daydreamt about this, he never expected it to happen, but it took a few moments and his eyes drifted, and they shut tight. He leaned into the kiss further, almost knocking Codec off of her feet if it weren't for one of his arms being thrown around her waist and keeping her held close to him. Their hands grasped at each other's bodies, Codec's had reached up behind Internal's head and she threaded her fingers through his dark red tresses took a handful of them, the other gripped at his shoulder, her digits digging into his skin ever so slightly. Internal's hands took almost selfish handfuls of her hips and backside, he felt her body fill his palms perfectly and he squeezed where his hands were positioned at, making her gasp out in between their tongues sliding and pressing against one another, allowing the feral vampire to lean forward and practically shove his tongue deep within her mouth, eliciting a breathless, muffled moan from her.

Exploring Codec's mouth with his tongue with such a burning desire, their teeth clashed together during the restless lip-lock, her hand at his head gripped and pulled somewhat on his hair, pulling a deep, suppressed growl from that was so sensual, it rocked through her whole body and made her tremble. Her thighs pressed up together and Internal took notice of it. Slowly retracting his longer than human tongue from her mouth, there was a thin line of saliva that stretched in between their open, panting mouths and it broke when he licked his lips. Hurriedly, he slid his arms down from her waist and placed his hands on the undersides of her thighs, easily hoisting her up and taking just a few steps, he carefully and gently, of course, threw her onto the bed. "Hmf-! How do I weigh like nothing to-" Codec's words were abruptly taken from her mouth at the tantalizing sight of Internal stripping his tank-top off himself and she got a full show of his toned torso on display, how scars were dusted here and there on both his front and back, her thoughts were screaming at her to just touch him already, more than she already was. "Because ya don't," Internal shot back with a chuckle, tossing the black tank-top away to the side since was it unnecessary at the moment and he climbed onto the bed, hovering above her, his hands planted on the bed at her sides and he grinned down at her, showing those dangerously sharp teeth of his. "And don't act like I didn't see ya gawkin' at me just a second ago~" He purred, "S-Shut up!" She turned her head to the side as an attempt to hide her flushed face, crossing her arms below her bust, but as she laid her head to the right, she revealed her neck as a price, and Internal saw the exposed area. With a soft chuckle, he leaned down and licked a long stripe up her neck from her collarbone to her jaw, drawing a shivering moan from her mouth, her hands also shot back up to his shoulders and back, gripping and holding onto him however she could. He locked his lips onto a certain spot, sucking at the small area and he ran his tongue over it numerous times too, he was so tempted to bite, his teeth were even grazing her skin. "A-Are you, hnh, gonna bite me?~" She breathed out, "Pull me closer I just might~" He responded, almost in a challenging way, his eyes even met hers again to further press it. Going over the dare put in front of her, she guided her hand back up to his head and pushed him more into her neck, he wasn't expecting that, but he wasn't complaining either. Leaning back up, he grinned, brandishing those fangs of his, even more so by running his tongue across the white, smooth surface and the sight of it practically set her face ablaze.

"Okay, well first, these are coming off~" Internal, initially, reached towards her to strip her of her clothes but she lightly batted them away, "Ah, ah, you're gonna rip them, you," she poked the tip of his nose, "feral cat," he narrowed his eyes after rolling them, but he listened to her wishes, albeit he was getting extremely impatient when he sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. "Hey I didn't rip my top, did I?!" Codec playfully stuck her tongue out at him, proceeding to strip herself right in front of her after her bit of taunting. Internal couldn't help but watch, his eyes were drinking up the sight of her body becoming more and more exposed, her breasts gently falling into place when her shirt came off, she unbuckled her belt and slipped it from her waist, and then her shorts were slid off next. It wasn't too long before she was completely nude in front of him, he saw her robotic leg and arm were connected to her human body, it was honestly a flawless connection, how smooth the rest of her looked to the touch, he was aching to touch her already and while he was sitting there, he could sense her self consciousness, how an arm was draped over her bosom, her thighs were pressed somewhat together and her other arm was across her stomach like she was hugging herself. "Oh no," Internal growled, moving his hand quicker than her eyes could pick up, he gathered her wrists together in it, he pinned her arms above her head, his free hand pressed against the mattress as like before, "Yer not hidin' anything from me. Yer fuckin' beautiful, I hope ya know that, and if ya think I give a shit about any marks or anythin' like that, yer fuckin' wrong," She felt her heart get filled with love all over again, her face was just on fire, it certainly felt like it, she truly didn't expect him to ever speak like that to her but how touched she was just tripled from the amount before. "Aren't you a flatterer?~ That means a lot though, Vallen, thank you~" Leaning up, only a little though given her pinned position, he saw her attempt to come closer to him, so he leaned down to meet her in the middle, she, at first, pecked the tip of his nose. She giggled and he chuckled before the two of them met in a kiss again, their mouths sliding against another, his tongue swiped across Codec's bottom lip, and with little to no hesitation, her mouth opened and his tongue returned to her mouth, slipping around and grinding up against hers. His grip on her wrists loosened until she was freed again, her arms hooked around his neck, and his hand from her wrists traveled downward from above her, to her shoulder, and then to her chest where he cupped one of her breasts, his tuned ears easily picking up a mute moan from her mouth. He kneaded her breast, squeezing gently and rubbing the mound in a slow, tender, circling motion, he could feel her nipple hardening against his palm, so he focused on that now, of course. Lifting his hand, he caught her nipple in between his index finger and thumb, pinching the hardened nub and he rolled it carefully, even pulling on it too. He could feel her body twitching, moan after moan that emitted from her just got swallowed in their mouths.

Breaking the kiss off for, Codec's face was flushed a bright red, her eyes were closed, her head was tossed to the side and buried in the pillows while she steadily panted, her hands moving from his back and down to his biceps where she gripped him, "Ya like it when I focus on these, huh?~" He purred, giving her breast a gentle squeeze to signal what he meant. He watched her nod, and when he saw that, he adjusted himself. Putting himself in between her legs with his crotch pressed right up against hers, he used his free hand at first to hike her legs around his waist and he let her tighten them around him, to hold onto him as tight as she wanted. Leaning down, his tongue flicked across one of her nipples, and she gasped out lightly at the feel of the wetness going across her like that. Opening his mouth, he took the nub into his mouth and started to suck on it, his teeth grazing over the risen flesh while his free hand held and tenderly rubbed and kneaded her other breast, he hummed against her skin, sending jolt after jolt of pleasure through her too. All Codec could do was just lay back and enjoy, her fingers were threaded in his hair again, gripping it, her free hand took a handful of the sheet they were laying on, her pants were getting quite breathless, "Ahhnn~ Vallen, tha-that's so good~ Mmmnnhff~" She gasped out, much to his pleasure, her voice was addicting so covered in pleasure and want, his own was practically filled with a natural, feral lust, only for her and her alone, he was purring, loudly, his voice had growls whenever he spoke. He kept her nipple in his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue across it over and over again, he even carefully pulled it with his teeth before letting it go with a breathless huff, his eyes cascading back upwards towards her flustered, red face, "Good~ I want it to be~" He opened his mouth and was in the process of leaning towards her other breast but Codec's hand cupping his cheek stopped him and his eyes instantly flicked back upwards towards her, he could see a glint in her eyes like she had a plan and determined as all Hell to carry it out. "As, whew, as much as I want you to keep going with this, I think it's about your turn to get something, hmm?~"

It took them rearranging their position for Internal to realize just what Codec had planned, he was leaned back against the numerous pillows on the bed, he still had his jeans on from earlier before, however, that look was still ever present in her eyes and now it was his turn to turn as red as all Hell, and he silently cursed to himself since his pointed ears, both torn and normal, were turning red too. Pressing a quick peck to his lips, Codec started to move down his body, her hands on his torso and caressing him the journey downwards until she was at his belt, "I think you might be getting redder than me, Vallen~" She teased, earning a growl deep from Internal's gut, "No one's done this to me before, alright?!" He shot back, making Codec giggle, "I can tell since your jeans are looking pretty tight down here~" She cooed, her hands went up to his belt buckle and she started to undo the metal loop, unbuckling it and after that, she unthreaded it from the loops of his jeans, tossing it to the side with the rest of the discarded clothes. She unbuttoned his jeans and unzipped them too, letting her fingers hook around the edges of both his underwear and jeans, she pulled them both down at the same time and let out a soft gasp to herself when Internal's cock sprung out of the prison that was his underwear and stood straight up at attention. She gazed at him, gulping to herself, out of her excitement and also on the fact that he was bigger than she's imagined before, not that she was complaining though. "Yeah, yeah, ya did this to me~" He chuckled, he sucked in a soft breath when her robotic hand wrapped around his length, the metal was a cold contrast again how warm he was down there. "Did I?~ Well I should take care of it, shouldn't I?~" Allowing her hand to glide downward, she tenderly held his cock by the base, squeezing it gently and she licked her lips too, probably hinting to him what she was going to do next. Leaning her body forward, she pressed her tongue flatly against his cock and she dragged her tongue up from the base, taking her time on his shaft so that she licked the entire length of it, ending her long lick at the head which she promptly pressed a kiss to it. Internal's eyes rolled back and closed while letting out a long, low groan, his claws had unsheathed and were currently digging into the sheet and the mattress slightly with how tight he was gripping. Gauging his reaction, Codec giggled, craning her head forward, she wrapped her lips around the head of his cock, starting suck on it whilst her tongue flicked across it too and as she did this, her hand steadily pumped what wasn't in her mouth yet. He groaned, sitting up again to stare at how she worked her mouth around him, feeling her mouth open up wider, she started to slide more of his cock deeper into her mouth, feeling the head of it press against the back of her throat is when she gagged lightly, knowing that's how much she could take. "Ghhnhfm~ MMmmhhffnh~" She moaned out around him, sending pleasurable waves up and down his body. She started to bob her head up and down as she sucked, her tongue swirling around his shaft buried in her mouth and her hand continued to pump what wasn't in her mouth, her other hand squeezed at his inner thigh, feeling his body trembling with the gasps and low groans that breathily escaped his mouth. "Fuck~ Hnnh~ Nnhg~ Yer, hah, really fuckin' good at this, Codec~" He whispered, his shut eyes were twitching before he finally pried them open to take in the sight of Codec's mouth wrapped around him, smudged and streaked remnants of her purple lipstick painted his cock, her eyes fluttered and landed onto his and made such a deep eye contact with him, it felt like it wasn't going to break. She took in just how cute he looked, his entire face was flushed, his eyes struggled to even stay open a little and if he wasn't letting out breathless groans, he would chew at his bottom lip to bite back any noise that attempted to seep through his lips.

Codec lifted her head off of his cock, she panted out heavily to catch her breath, her tongue was even hanging out of her mouth. She gazed at Internal again who was recovering from her mouth being pried away from him, his body was heaving with his panting, his defined, scarred body was coated in a thin sheen of sweat and he even had brushed his messy hair back and away from his face. With how he was twitching, that certain gaze in his eyes, and how he was panting open-mouthed with his fangs on display, he was close. "You, hah, whew, mmhf, taste good, Vall-oh!~" She had to remind herself about the vampires' unnatural speed since, in a blink of an eye, he was on top of her again, his body wantonly pressed up against hers. "I don't think, haah, ahhn, I can take too much anymore, Codec~ I have got to be inside of ya already~" There was a degree of need in his voice when he murmured that out, "Trust me, I'm, hnn, the same~ I want you, Vallen, please~" She pulled him down to her level again, her mouth right next to his ear, "I need you~" She pleaded. Letting their foreheads press together, Internal let one of his hands roam downwards and he grasped his cock by the base, letting his hips adjust and when he did, the head of his cock pressed against her slick, dripping slit, drawing a soft, sharp gasp from her. He dragged it up and down her folds, beginning to drench himself with her wetness, and when he was slick enough, he lined his cock up to her and moved his hips forward, sinking himself deep inside of her pussy and she wrapped around him tighter than he expected, but he adored it. Codec moaned out rather loudly, her hands shooting to the sheet and she took fistfuls of it while her back arched off of the mattress, "H-Haah!~" When he was buried inside of her, he let out a low, animal-like growl at the relief rushing over him at being inside of her already. "Fuck~" He drew the swear out, "Yer tight~" He husked out, he didn't move quite yet, he wanted the okay from her more than anything. He wanted her to love this. "Y-You're, hah, hnnh, oh~ Bigger than I thought~" She whimpered out, she could feel Internal's eyes fixated on her, they didn't break from her body jolting with enjoyment. It took a few moments to a minute and then she gave him the nod for him to begin moving. He pulled out of her almost all of the way, only to snap his hips forward again, his hands went back to gripping the mattress after wrapping her legs around his waist all over again and he started to steadily pound and thrust his hips downwards into hers, Internal's eyes were screwed shut, he was leaned over her and his head hung some while he kept up this steady pace of his hips while Codec gripped and grasped at his body, her hands were gripping and grasping desperately at his back and his shoulders, her heels dug into his hips as they slammed into hers. The sounds of his waist slapping up against hers filled her ears and the room, "Oh, fuck, unhnf~ Unhf~ Ya like that?~ Tell me, I wanna hear that, mmffhh, pretty voice of yers, Codec~" He growled, he glanced downward at the sight of his cock pumping in and out of her, how it disappeared inside of her over and over again at quite the fast pace. He instantly snapped his eyes back onto her face when Codec, attempted, to speak up again. "I-fuck!~ I love it~ Please don't stop, Vallen, please~ Please don't~" His ears flicked, he wasn't expecting her to beg but allowing a grin to dance onto his lips, he pressed his body up against hers again and it let him rock and slam his hips down into hers faster and harder than previously.

Their bodies pressed against one another in a heated embrace, the headboard to the bed was knocking against the wall it was pressed up against, most definitely alerting anyone in the room next to theirs about what they were doing. Internal reached down again, and he hurriedly collected both of Codec's wrists again and he pinned her arms above her head again, his free hand roamed up her rocking body, pausing a moment at her breasts to cup one and knead one tenderly before letting his hand continue until it made it to its destination, her neck. He wrapped his hand around her neck, he wasn't choking her of course, but he had a tender, loving hold on it as he kept her pinned like that, much to her approval, "Vallen~ Vallen~ MMhff!~ Ahn!~ Oh!~ L-Like that~ Just like that~ Oh please don't stop~ Please~" She whispered breathlessly, "God, I can, fuck I'm gonna come soon~" He leaned down, his forehead pressing against hers, "I plan on fillin' ya up to the fuckin' brim~ I want my cum drippin' from ya~" He grunted, the thought of that alone fueled him to do just that, and judging from Codec's numerous, begging nods, she wanted that too. Internal's pants were getting heavier, his thrusts turned needier, more desperate, and his pace that he had set prior was getting lost from him. His hips collided with hers erratically, "F-Fuck I'm gettin' close~" He rasped out, "M-Me, hah, anh, oh, me too!~ Fuck!~ V-Vallen-!~" Codec's gripped him tightly, her fingers dug into his and her thighs tightened around her waist, effectively trapping him and with one more strong, fast pound from Internal, she came, that coil that tightened in her abdomen snapped and released. Throwing her head back against the pillows and letting out a loud moan open into the room, she tightened around him, hugging him, and with how warm, wet, and velvety her slick walls felt around his cock, he wasn't that far behind her. He released her, both her neck and her wrists to get a firm hold of the sheets and his claws dug into them so far that when he was pushed over the edge, he tore slashes not only into the sheets but also into the mattress itself. He buried his cock deep inside of her, his teeth bared and he let out a roar almost of just pure feral pleasure, his orgasm hit him hard, it felt like wave after wave of fire rushing over his body, his hips jerking forward with every pump of this thick seed shooting and spilling inside of her, his hips planted firmly against her, his cock hilted inside and his plan of just filling her up all of the way didn't change at all. When he was done with his orgasm, he had to pull his claws out of the fabric of the bed, his cock slid back out of her and he fell limp down beside her, he was panting out loudly alongside her, he felt sweat accumulated all over his body, especially on his forehead and on his back but the bed was handling that right now. Codec shuddered, feeling Internal's cum eagerly drip out of her slit and onto the bed, she could barely move, a lot like him, but neither one of them was complaining. The scent of sex was strong in the room, there were feathers from the pillows and torn fabric evident on his side and when he caught his breath, enough, not fully, but enough to speak up, he glanced over at her in the corner of his eye.

"So, ya are a bottom, huh?~" "...You're so fucking lucky I love you~" "Hehe, love ya too~"

[thatesqcrush]

Candygram Wishes

Rafael Barba x Reader.  AN: Prompt #1 (Candycanes) from the @thefanficfaerie​ Christmas OTP challenge found here. CW: None.

Tags: @madpanda75​ @ottosuricato​ @delia26​ @dreila03​ @sass-and-suspenders​ @glimmerglittergirl​ @melsquared79​ @mommakat32​ @garturbo​ @southern-magnolia​ @niyashell​ @tropes-and-tales​ @imjustreallynosy​ @whyissvuruiningmylovelife​ @sweetsummertime99​ @evee87​ @scarletsoldierrr​ @kscarlett1 @cesarofangirl78​ @redlipstickandplaid​ @theenchantedgalleryofstories - anyone else just ask.

It started out by happenstance.

You were studying for your upcoming bar examination. A career change late in life; a second act, if you will. But bills were like clockwork and they came every 30-days. So when your friend Sonny, who was now a lawyer in his own right, said that his former boss needed a replacement nanny, you jumped at the chance. The job was straightforward and provided an opportunity for you to also squeeze in some extra study time while making some money.

And that’s exactly what you were doing tonight.

“Noah, did you finish your math homework?” you called out as you loaded Olivia’s dishwasher.

“Yes,” Noah replied walking in. A bright smile appeared on his face. “Can I show you the new moves I learned from dance school?”

“Well, I was going to make some hot chocolate before bed...” your voice trailed before sighing. “But now I don’t know if I should give you so much sugar if you’re going to be dancing,” you continued, teasing

. “Oh please, please! I want hot chocolate!” Noah exclaimed, jumping up and down excitedly, before spinning in a pirouette.

“Okay, okay,” you laughed. You reached into a cabinet and pulled out a frothing pot. “Go get changed Fred Astaire.”

Noah skipped out of the kitchen as you began making the hot chocolate. As the milk warmed, you raided the pantry for hot chocolate fixings. You found marshmallows, caramel sauce, chocolate chips, crushed sea salt, and three unopened boxes of candy canes. You then checked the refrigerator and found a canister of whip cream. You gathered your materials for the hot chocolate bar you were creating and set them on the table.You used the corner of your nail to pop the plastic open on one of the candy cane packages. You took one out to suck on while you stirred the cocoa powder into the milk.

Noah burst back in. “Y/N, those are for my candygrams for school!”

You cocked your head and raised your brow. “Candygram? What’s a candygram?”

“I’m selling them for $1.00. You give a candy cane to whomever and you write a note that goes with it,” Noah explained.

“Okay, well I’ll give you the $1.00. I just thought they would be good to put in our hot chocolate. But we have lots of other stuff to put in them.”

A staccato knock on the apartment door interrupted your conversation. You shut off the stove and wiped your hands on the dish towel that hung off the oven door handle. You looked at Noah. “Expecting anyone?” 

Noah shook his head and you made your way towards the door. You peeked through the peephole and staring back was a very handsome man outfitted in a camel coat and dark brown leather gloves. He had a briefcase in one hand and a stack of red-weld folders in the other.

Cautiously still, you opened the door and poked out your head. “May I help you?”

“Is Liv around? I have these files for her,” the man replied, giving you a once over.

“And you are?” you asked, your eyes narrowing.

“Uncle Rafa! Uncle Rafa!” Noah squeezed and pushed past you. You stepped back, and opened the door slightly wider.

“Hi Noah,” Rafael put down his briefcase and crouched to give Noah a hug.

“Come inside, Y/N is making hot chocolate,” Noah exclaimed and began pulling Rafael towards the apartment.

As Rafael walked past you, you caught a waft of his cologne. It was woodsy and musky, and you closed your eyes taking in the scent. ‘It should be illegal to smell that good.’ You thought as you shut the door behind you and followed Rafael and Noah to the kitchen.

“I’m Y/N - Liv’s new nanny,” you introduced yourself, extending your hand.

“Pardon me. Rafael Barba,” Rafael greeted. He removed his glove and extending his hand. You shook it and gave him a demure smile. “Pleasure to meet you.”

You tried to ignore the butterflies in your stomach. Rafael was strikingly handsome with piercing green eyes. His dark coiffed hair was peppered with grey that gave him a distinguished appearance and suddenly you knew why your own mother had a thing for Richard Gere in the ‘90’s.

“Care for some hot chocolate? Coffee, or water, or something else?” 

“No thanks,” Rafael replied. “I just wanted to drop these files off for Liv. I didn’t think she was on tonight.”

“She got a last minute call,” you replied. You poured some hot chocolate in a mug and blew on it before placing it front of Noah, who was sitting. You smiled as he squirted some whip cream onto his drink.

“Well, I won’t keep you,” Rafael replied, putting his glove back on. “I’ll text Liv that I came by.”

“Uncle Rafa, stay,” Noah requested. “Y/N, Uncle Rafael is a lawyer, just like you.” Rafael cocked his head at you. 

You felt your cheeks flush and you shook your head. “Not a lawyer. Yet. Studying for the bar.”

“Where did you go?” Rafael asked, a smile twitching on his lips.

“Fordham,” you replied. “You?”

“Harvard.”

“Impressive,” you quipped, with a raised brow. You found yourself subconsciously smoothing over your clothes.

“Uncle Sonny went to Fordham,” Noah commented, now sporting a whipped cream mustache.

You turned to Noah. “That’s right, that’s how I met Sonny.” Turning back to Rafael, you continued. “You’re more than welcome to stay but don’t feel obligated if you have other places to be.”

“I actually do have to go,” Rafael replied and you found yourself disappointed.

“I’m sure you have someone waiting for you at home,” you blurted out and then felt your cheeks redden at your social faux pas. In your head, you banged your head against Liv’s wall repeatedly.

“Uncle Rafa isn’t married!” Noah giggled. “Mom says he works too much.”

Rafael felt his own cheeks flush and he coughed, trying to clear his throat. ‘Out of the mouth of babes... or Olivia,’ he thought. “Um something like that. I just have to prep for my case tomorrow. It was nice meeting you.”

You moved to walk Rafael out, but he held up his hand. “Don’t trouble yourself. Noah, pórtate bien. Goodnight.”

Later that night, when you were in the confines of your own apartment, you looked up Rafael Barba. And you fell down the rabbit hole that was Google, learning all about the amazing things this do-gooder of a man had accomplished. And he was handsome to boot. He was quite the package. In an instant, a crush was sparked.

Sometimes you dropped off Noah at the precinct. On more than one occasion, Rafael was there, discussing cases with the squad. Sometimes he gave you a head nod of acknowledgement, sometimes you and he would engage in small talk about your studying or about law school. Sometimes Sonny was there and would teasingly regale with law school horror stories.

You needed help with studying; Sonny was too busy with Hadid and getting his footing in the DA’s office. You thought about asking Rafael for tips on studying but you never dared to ask.

And at night when you were all alone, you would indulge in a fantasy which would revolve around Rafael helping you go through flash cards. It would eventually take a dangerously naughty turn with the end result of the two of you in between the sheets. ***

Rafael knocked on Liv’s apartment door. Ever since he met you that first night when he went to drop off the files, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. He always counted his good fortune on the days he got to see you at the squad room.

When the door opened to Liv, Rafael was somewhat disappointed. Liv didn’t miss a beat and saw the flash of disappointment across his face when it registered you weren’t at the sort. She raised a brow, and smirked. “You just missed her.”

“What are you talking about?” Rafael asked as he made his way in.

“Rafael, you may be a lawyer, but I’m a cop. It is my job to read people. And I know when people are lying,” Olivia continued as she shut her door. “I know you like Y/N.”

“Y/N and I are just friendly. That’s all,” Rafael replied, removing his coat. 

Liv walked into her kitchen. “I’m going to get some wine. Want some?”

“Please.”

Liv walked back out with two glasses of red wine. She handed a glass to Rafael and joined him on the couch. “I’ve watched you and Y/N interact. She’s single in case you wanted to know. And I think she likes you too.”

Rafael took a sip of the wine. “I don’t know.”

“This job - you give and you give and you give. And it also takes from you. I know. I’ve been there. Think about it. Don’t you think you deserve to be happy?” Olivia questioned.

Rafael swallowed a large gulp of wine, unsure as to how to reply. ***

“Uncle Rafa, uncle Rafa!” Noah exclaimed as he burst through the ADA’s door. The curly haired boy ran towards Rafael’s desk, throwing his coat and book bag onto the floor in process.

“Noah!” Rafael greeted. “Where is your mom?”

“Talking to Carmen. I have a candygram for you.”

“For me? Who’d send me a candygram?” Rafael questioned. Noah dragged his book bag over and unzipped his bag and dumped the contents onto the floor. Pencils scattered about song with folders, notebooks and various textbooks. Among the pile was a single candy cane, taped against a folded note.

Noah handed the candy cane to Rafael. Rafael opened it surreptitiously in order to avoid seeming too eager.

Call her. 917-555-6859 xo, Liv. At that moment, Liv walked in. “See you got my note.”

“Clever, Liv. We’ll see,” Rafael replied, tossing the candycane onto his desk. 

“She’s off tonight,” Liv added for good measure.

“I said we’ll see.” ****

You used your teeth to remove the cork from the already opened wine bottle. It had begun to snow; white flurries fluttered against your windowpane and the wind howled fiercely. You dropped to the floor and sat against your couch, one leg outstretched and one pressed against your chest. Study materials decorated your floor.

You felt defeated. The exam was less than a month away and you didn’t feel anymore ready or prepared. You figured you’d give it another hour before calling it a night, when your phone began to buzz. You didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

“Hi, Y/N, it’s Rafael Barba. Liv gave me your phone number.”

“Why would she — um, is everything okay?”

From the other line, Rafael could hear the concern in your voice and he felt his heart race. “Everything is fine. I just wanted to see if you were busy and maybe... perhaps... grab dinner.”

You felt your cheeks pink and your stomach fluttered. “I’d like that.”

“What are you up to tonight?” Rafael pressed.

“I’m free tonight.” After a beat, you continued, looking at your study materials. “It would beat studying.”

“I could bring dinner and we could go through it together,” Rafael offered. You agreed, requested an hour and rattled off your address. “Or we could just do dinner; whatever.”

You rattled off your address and requested an hour, to which Rafael agreed. 

Rafael spun the candy cane between his thumb and index finger. He made sure to save your number in his phone, before placing an order of Chinese to pick up. He unwrapped the peppermint candy before placing it in his mouth. A smile twitched on his lips, and he let himself smile. 

*** You smiled as you disconnected, before rushing to change. You couldn’t wait to see what was to come.

FIN

[plantfeed]

        ok turns out i am 100% that dumbass bitch who still aint posted my intro on main....... so for reference.....  hello! im nora ( she / her ). im a 24 year old creative writing graduate currently residing in sheffield, south yorkshire. when i’m not hunched over a keyboard writing, i enjoy independent cinema, chinese food, and big nights out that i’ll remember only in fleeting snapshots. i currently work as a barmaid and a tutor for a filmmaking project.  

without further ado, here is my interpretation on the skeleton ‘ophelia’, a development of a character who’s been brewing at the back of my mind for absolutely AGES now so thank u for giving me the push to actually flesh her out. 

ive included a full biography, but please feel free 2 skip to bullet points if TLDR because it is LOOONG..... and im so happy 2 be here.... new home.... chefs kiss.... yes lov u all

IN CHARACTER.

skeleton: ophelia name: theresa rigby. (goes by diminutives tess, tessa, tea or thea. the only time she’s theresa is when she’s in trouble.) age: 21, born july 10 (cancer) faceclaim: diana silvers. gender: cis-female. pronouns: she/her degree: comparative literature & ancient history (joint honours)

INTRO.

trigger warnings.

loss of a parent. missing person / disappearance. drugs and alcohol reliance. death.

BIOGRAPHY.

i. narragansett, rhode island.

              1999, an Austrian sunrise, it is the year of the Water Monkey.  A water baby, first screams under the surface, the catch of it gargled in your throat. A birth mark the size and shape of a door handle pressed into your pelvis like a lover’s badge. Born like a clenched fist. Annie always wished you’d be more like an open palm. You still carry that tension with you, an unreadable kind of silence when you slink around the edge of a room or perch on an arm rest like a bird about to startle and fly off. Nobody knows a thing about you and you like it that way. Conceived in the winter, some of that coldness still lingers in you. 

              The only perfect girl is a dead girl. That’s what you learned, last-born runt of the litter growing up in the bedroom of a girl who would be forever cold, young and pretty. In the beginning, they thought you were a blessing — Bet’s soul reincarnate, the same pale face they’d seen as they’d signed her into the pick ‘n’ mix family. You were given her clothes, her room, even her middle name, stripped and rebranded like a toy doll bought after the last one’s head was chewed off by the dog. Four boys, a dead sister, and you who — with your birdlike features and unrelenting eyes — was merely a walking ghost. Tennis skirts, nail varnish, a shag rug, a rotten corsage; these were the staple reminders that you were living in a shrine, the room never quite your own lest you disturb the lingering presence of Bet. Soon, you began to see it as not a room but rather a prison cell caging you in the imprint of a sister you never met.

              Your mothers met at an undergraduate socialist meeting when the fall semester fell into winter, Kath in a mustard coloured beret, Annie in a blood-orange duffle coat, a philosophy major and an art historian respectively. Your childhood was a montage of potato printing eels onto the walls of a Rhode Island boarding house next to the sea. Five children — some adopted, some surrogate — a permanent rotation of rooms and always a handful of lodgers to foot the bill. Travelling salesmen, students on gap years and tinkers in search of odd-jobs became a flipbook of faces etched into your memories like fleeting figures in the wings of a theatre; you sketch them into the body of your work. They become the characters to haunt the pages of your notebooks, stashed beneath floorboards lest they fall into too-hungry flour-caked fingers, scones baking in the oven two floors below. A house that seemed to physically inhale every time a new body entered it, tall and thin, too small to house all that weight. The gaps beneath the floorboards are the only spaces that feel like your own, untouched by a girl who’s shadow you were born in. In your diary, you scribble her name until it tears through the pages thinking that if you wish hard enough, you’ll make yourself her. It’s never enough.

              At twelve, you lose Annie to a boating accident. You lose a piece of yourself with her and stop wearing yellow. Grief makes a better writer out of you though it sounds selfish to admit it. Kath remarries the following spring, a man named Peter. He is ordinary in all the ways Annie was magical and when he sits in your mother’s chair you feel yourself slip out of your skin and into the body of a raven cawing in the woods, scratching at the dustmites. You try to teach yourself how to be a girl, though you’ve always felt more like a wild thing crouched in the attic window of the lighthouse, screaming at the crash of the waves. You wanted to love the sea as closely as it owned you. In the sea you were rewritten into a tide, into a shell, into the swell of a rockpool around the body of a crab. You wanted to be like the ocean —a tangible, changeling thing —making paper boats and setting them out to sea, wishing you could shrink yourself into one, sail away. For a while, you toy with the idea of starving yourself into something the size and shape of an eel; of growing gills in the night and darting into the ebbing current. They’d think you crazy if you told them.

ii. concord, massachusetts. 

              You butt heads with Kath on a daily basis. She tells you you resent her for moving on with her life when you seem unable to move on with yours. That maybe a clean break would be best for all the family. A fresh start. A change of scene. You lock yourself in the bathroom and cry for an hour until your mouth feels raw, like running a cheesegrater down the inside of your throat. The following September, they send you to boarding school, two suitcases and an armful of Annie’s jumpers. Kath has decided they don’t compliment her skin tone, and she’s not twenty-five or studying philosophy any more. New England becomes the best decision for you that your family have ever made. You thrive on the independence of living in a dormitory on a corridor of Alison’s and Margaret’s and Ruth’s. From the names on their doors, you paint them into people in your head, red-haired Ruth who collects birth stones and can count to twenty in Mandarin. They turn out to be nothing like the versions of them you’ve spun. You love them anyway, their rough-softness, the scuffed knee thrill of growing up half-wild. There’s a brightness in their girlhood that you try to capture in your words. 

              Though you never quite find yourself settling into a group, Dr. Franklin becomes the anchor to which you tether yourself to, a little girl leeching onto her Literature professor for a sense of stability in a tempestuous world. The others might think it sad, but she sees something in you — an inner restlessness, a need to analyse and observe and contain everything within poetry and prose — that reminds her of herself at your age. You begin one-to-one sessions after the school day has closed, whisper about Proust and O’Hara over frothed lattes in a campus-run coffee shop, ink blots on the pages of dog-eared copies she’s gifted to you on an indefinite loan. Sometimes, you think you love her. You run your fingers over the buttons of her typewriter, close your eyes, and imagine yourself pulling on her skin like a new coat.

              The woods become your saviour. In Narragansett you never knew woods, only harboursides, seafood restaurants, the smell of the ocean breeze and a lighthouse calling you home. You learn to love the smell of the earth after rain. The feeling of soil between your toes. The sense of belonging you feel trailing through the woods in stark white nightgown, twigs catching on the mud-stained hem. Massachusetts becomes a place of revision. You remake yourself as a fawn, elegance in your limbs and hunger in your heart. You learn how to write yourself into being. There’s a violence in your grace — simultaneously glass and the hammer that shatters it — and despite the ethereal way you move it’s the leonine stature of a tigress, claws bared, teeth sharpened into fangs, but a smile like butter wouldn’t melt. Lady Macbeth was always your favourite of Shakespeare’s heroines. There���s something dark in her that resonates with you, the way when a pimple appears you have to squeeze it until it bleeds. You tell yourself that everybody has a morbid fascination. 

              Each night you take a torch, a book and a bottle of Merlot, and you wile away the hours reading in the woods. At home, sleep never came easy to you. You’d pace the floorboards counting sheep and wake having barely slept a blink. This, on the other hand, seems useful, though when you’re never asleep, you’re never quite awake, floating through the school day like a ghost, part removed, the dark circles pulling your eyes to a close. It’s a tiredness you carry in every aspect of your life, limbs heavier than usual, pen slower when it grazes the page. Soon you start taking tablets each night. Two white ones, no bigger than a baby’s fingernail. For the first time, you begin to dream.

              When February rolls around you take your exams. Pass with the grace of a swan in everything except AP Calculus. You say you’ll try again next semester, but you don’t. You apply for Yale, Cambridge, Harvard, Columbia, Ashcroft. You wait. And wait. And wait until it feels like your skin has shed itself since the letters left your hands, before an envelope comes marked Theresa. No one ever calls you that name. Right from the start it’s been Tea, Tess, Thea, common names in your house as fickle as the tide that swallows it. Billy’s never been a William, and Sebastian sounds all wrong. You can scarcely remember what Brodie’s short for. Rejection after rejection until Ashcroft answers the call, a cawing in the dark of a wasteland you’ve not yet walked. You’ll read literature, follow in the footsteps of Ginsberg who you clumsily try to quote as you bid the girls goodbye, a bonfire and the smell of cinnamon whiskey. 

iii. ashcroft university, edinburgh. 

              You’d read of a boy who went missing there. It happened in the woods. Seventy years and all they’d found was an emptied bottle of wine and one shoe. Newspapers claimed involvement in an elite society, perhaps a hazing gone wrong, and you imagine them burrowed in underground tunnels wearing wellington boots and tweed. This is what draws you to Ashcroft ; to Imperium. It’s not so much the mystery of it —you’ve never seen yourself as a Nancy Drew — but more the idea of living in a place where people can disappear. That’s always been an idle fantasy of yours. One day, you wonder if you’ll write yourself out of the world and into the pages of a book, nestled between a title and contents page.  

              From Concord to Boston, then a ten-hour flight ; for the first time in months, you sleep through the night. A line break cancels your train and you have to take a replacement bus service instead. By the time you reach the school, the open day is almost over. You feel it at the gates, like a tingle on the back of your neck, something crawling down your spine. It only grows as you close in on it. It feels like it knows your own heartbeat. You’ve never known a building to have so much soul. You imagine yourself walking the cobblestones on the quad each day, climbing the steps to a dormitory, sprawled on a library table, scribbling frantically, willing the clock hands backwards. It’s a life you want to lead.

              In a matter of months, Ashcroft has become not only your home but your life. You are utterly consumed by it. You meet Lysander at a poetry reading. You recite Shelley. He recites Keats. He compliments you on the steadiness of your voice, clear as a bell. A voice for the stage. You tell him your father had a powerful voice. It’s a lie. You’ve never had a father, but it’s fun to imagine one slouched on the couch, wire-rimmed glasses on the end of his nose. He invites you to dinner the following week. Grilled sea bass and risotto. You don’t have the heart to tell him you’ve become a vegetarian, swallow each mouthful with your pride. You try out for the orchestra, though your hands shake a little too much and you hear more from the inside of your own head than the keys. You leave without waiting on an answer. It’s too contained for you, anyway. You need something more chaotic, like jazz. You wish for chaos, so Imperium opens it jaws and swallows you whole. They like you because of your voice, a voice that speaks scarcely more than a low whisper in life, but when written wins you a Bysshe-Shelley Prize. In poetry, you give that voice to the voiceless ; bring dead girls buried in the woods out of the ground and into being, like soil in your hands. A voice like that is a powerful thing to have in your ranks. It becomes every page in your diary, every catch of your skirt on a tree branch, every rap of your fingertips against the desktop, imperium, imperium, imperium.

              You’ve never been able to do things by halves — you always let them consume you. One glass becomes a bottle. One paragraph becomes scrawling until sunrise. Obsession takes its form in Hamlet, strong in all the ways you appear weak. You like the smell of his breath when he tells you to stub out your cigarette. That’ll kill you one day, he says. I know, you reply, and your pretty lips curl upwards. One drunken night, you fall into his bed and imagine stitching yourself into his sheets so you can sleep with him every night. Tongues on your thighs like a voice in your throat. Touch me, touch me, touch me. Never been held like this before. Like you’re not glass, but something material and robust. You like the way his hands feel under your skin. Perhaps you’ll keep him there like a splinter. Tall for your age but thin as a rail, he makes you feel like more than an eel of a girl. You like the way he catches on your spindly elbows where others have snagged leaving trails of cotton. At first, it’s only physical, but you get greedy and want more. You’re not sure when a love of beauty became something more than skin deep. You’re not sure if you even loved him until he’d stopped loving you. In October, you find the body. The day all the clocks stop ticking. The day something inside of you snaps like the branch of an elm.

              You become a cocoon, velvet ribbons in your hair and rope around your throat. Or maybe it’s lace, and you’re only imagining it that way. You drink wine, stumble blind-drunk through the woods, lose textbooks to nature and curse when you can’t find them the following morning. Most nights, you appear like a ghost in the wood, a linen nightdress with mud clinging to it’s hem and feet laden in soil. You’re not sure if it’s conscious at this point, or mindless sleepwalking. Everything you do feels like sleepwalking these days. Shadows move in the corners of your eyes at night and you turn to the tarot cards for answers. They tell you only of that which you already know. Death. The Hanged Man. High Priestess. You think of Octavia, of Lysander, and of you pulled like a ragdoll between them, with the intuition that comes from living by the sea but without the evidence to execute it. The pills have stopped working. You wake in sweats, guilt swelling in the pit of your stomach. In a therapist’s waiting room, you watch as a girl scratches the skin off her own arm.

              Soon news of your occultist proclivities becomes gossip on everyone’s tongue. Witch becomes a synonym for your name, and one you’ll happily wear like a noose until you’ve stolen Lysander from the drop. Finding the truth becomes the only thing keeping you sane, runes scrawled on the walls of a dormitory where pages of novels are tacked up like wallpaper. And still, you can’t shake the fact that she hasn’t come to you when the others who scarcely believe in such phantomed are rattled by her ghost on a nightly basis. Competing and girlhood go hand in hand, but the longer it gets, the more it feels like she knows your desperation to absolve Lysander isn’t entirely selfless. Perhaps she saw you lingering in doorways, waiting in the wings for him to change his mind and tell you it was you all along. Or maybe the sight of her corpse is making you search for answers in places they don’t exist. You’re hanging on my a single thread, one glimpse away from fleeing to the woods to plant yourself into the earth.

              The snow is crisp on the November ground when you learn to love melancholy like a dance you were taught as a child. You think it adds depth to being a writer. How can a person write about pain if they live in a state of blissful oblivion? You tell yourself that all of the best writers were depressed; Plath, Fitzgerald, Dickinson, Rice. If you say their names each morning, followed by your own, perhaps you’ll become one of them. 

BULLET POINT SUMMARY.

here is a bullet point summary of theresa, as i understand my writing can get a little dense.

Mother always said that people who grow up near water are different to other people. That there’s something more primal in their bones. A kind of knowing.

In Theresa, the knowing is a kind of silence. She’s always struggled with verbal communication, and it’s rare that she can ever let herself go in a conversation. She’s the one on the outskirts of the group, only speaking up to deliver a poignant metaphor, before fading off again. On a good day she’ll ramble, perhaps, on morbid longings and fascinations, but it’s like she’s always skipping around words she can’t quite pinpoint. 

Writing’s different. When she’s writing, she feels like all the dead souls of Emily Bronte and Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath are all rising up from their graves to possess her. It is, perhaps, a rather egotistical thought -- but it makes her feel less alone. Like writing isn’t so much a solitary pursuit as it is a reigniting of what’s been lost, a way of listening to the dead. She’s militant in the way she writes, has been for as long as she can remember -- every night when the clock strikes twelve. Even if she’s rolling on mandy in an abandoned warehouse or dropping acid in a shipyard with her toes in the sand, she’ll start scribbling at twilight, for as long as she can. Back home, there weren’t too many bars that allowed underage kids, and the ones that did would nail your phone to the wall like you’re living in the eighties, so they made their own fun getting high in places long since infested with rats on baggies bought cheap in the back of the dry-cleaners shop.

Theresa’s always felt more able to relate to dead people than to living ones. That might sound depressing, but she doesn’t think so. Death has never been far from her. She grew up in the room of a foster sister who had died the previous winter. She lost her mother to a boating accident at twelve years old. She lost Octavia last year, found her body in the woods, and was thankful that she -- and not someone else -- had seen her crumpled like a fawn. Because even though it clings to her and burrows under her skin, she knows how to drown it out now. In words. In wine. In pills crushed against the veneer of a sink and snorted through a twenty-dollar bill. She’s getting good at losing herself completely. Theresa herself feels like a girl half-dead, like something ghostly, trapped between two planes. Which is why it hurts so much that she still hasn’t seen Octavia’s ghost. She’s supposed to be the special one. The one who’s vision isn’t clouded by idle dogmatism. The one who believes in all that fate, juju, third eye stuff that the others seem to scoff at. It feels like a personal attack. Like somehow, in keeping hidden, she’s blaming Theresa for her death.

Theresa is the month of November. There’s something mysterious about it, something cold. It’s on the cusp of the end of the year, but it doesn’t quite reach it. I feel like that’s what Theresa’s like. Always reaching for the apples that are just out of her grasp, or perhaps, reaching for apples which aren’t even there. 

She knows grief like an old friend, but somehow, she still doesn’t trust it. When she was twelve years old she lost one of her mothers. Annie was always the brighter of her parents, and Tessa never really believed that someone so full of life could just disappear. Her soul had to be somewhere. When Kath remarried, Theresa never forgave her. Between grief and anger, their relationship became fractious, and Kath decided to send her to boarding school. She went to a New England college where she learned art, history, literature, english, athletics, the sciences and the classics. Boarding school was probably the best decision for Theresa that Kath had ever made. She became fascinated with the girls around her, so feral and wild in their girlhood. She fell in love with another girl more than once. She fell in love with the freedom of New England, of being in the woods, of a gaggle of girls with bottles of wine sat around a campfire, scared half to death that the matron would find them.

But death’s never far from her. She’s been searching for Annie in the linebreaks between poems, in the chaos of clutter under her bed, under lace and linen in her underwear drawer, but somehow she can never quite find her and never give up.  Finding Annie was perhaps the reason she came to Ashcroft at all. She intended to go to Columbia, read Literature, and clumsily follow in the footsteps of Ginsberg. But Annie had spoken of Edinburgh with such a childlike awe.

Lysander was the first of the society she met, at a poetry reading in the autumn of her first semester. He brought her into the club because he saw something in her, an otherworldliness, a still but powerful voice. Her eyes saw more than they let on, always glinting at something more. She thinks her closeness with Lysander is the reason she still hasn’t seen Octavia’s ghost, and now Hamlet’s out of the picture she’s starting to think she might love Lysander. Or maybe she just needs to be loved by someone, and absolving him of blame is the key.

She was never really sure how she felt about Octavia. One moment they were friends, the next they were rivals. It was something like love and hate combined, but perhaps that’s just the curse of being a woman. A fierce sense of competition in everything you do, even if it’s just competing for air.

She likes old French music, European cinema, art that doesn’t come in her mother tongue. She’s always thought English pointless. The French say things so much better.

Her favourite TV show is Twin Peaks. She likes the absurdist truth in it, the style, the colour, the oddness. She likes the mystery of it all. She loved the woods in New England and it reminds her of that. A kind of home away from home. Tea brings a pocked dictaphone out with her, for she’s so often absent-minded that she misses half the day. That way, she can replay conversations, the sound of a bird in flight, the particular inflection in the voice of someone she loves. She’s obsessive when it comes to lovers. She doesn’t want to be loved -- she wants to be respected, understood, devoured. She thinks love is a kind of mutual lying.

She finds truth in the unusual. In tarot cards and horoscopes, in the position of the planets through a thrifted telescope. She’s a night owl, never in bed before 3 or 4 in the morning. She visits the woods each night to write until her fingers ache. Sometimes with wine, sometimes with mushrooms, sometimes with a tab against the flat of her tongue, imagining herself to be Alice in Wonderland. She feels like she’s getting close to the truth, but maybe she’s just closer to losing her mind.

LETTER TO OCTAVIA.

My dearest O,

I wish I could find an adequate way to write you an epitaph. You saw a poet where everyone else saw a foolish dreamer and yet you’re the only one I can’t put into words. But in truth, there is no word large enough to contain you. You were the ellipsis I was always looking to conclude, and it’s so like you to steal even that from me. Some days, I think I could love you.  

Please know that death cannot touch girls like us. That you’re more than just skin, teeth and bone. Death itself has you only on a short-term loan. As Thomas puts so eloquently, Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Thank you for filling me with life. I’ll see you in the next one.

Tea.

anything else?

mock blog.

 pinterest 

wanted plots.

someone who theresa knows purely from seeing them at the library. recently, she hasn’t been visiting as often. she’s less in the world and more in her head. her schoolwork is suffering. someone who feels this absence like a missing tooth.

unlikely bc ashcroft is in scotland but if they’re from rhode island maybe distant relatives.... ophelia / theresa is adopted so could work regardless of heritage. her family lived in narragansett, but she went to boarding school in vermont. could have met if ur character is new england based??? maybe

give me fellow wanky pretentious art-lovers and poets and historians who will go to museums and galleries with her and listen to the velvet underground on vinyl

people she gets mortally fucked off her tits with at parties bcos this baby is not alright. she drinks at least one glass of wine every night. sometimes a bottle. she’s always a little bit high or a little bit weary with a comedown. she can’t seem to keep her feet on the ground.

theresa was pretty numb after finding the body, as you would be. she stayed in her room listening to enya for three days straight and just eating cereal straight out the box. then thalia broke up with her and that fuckin shook her too, and now she just thinks she’s unlovable. she’s always been pretty bad at sleeping but now she just wanders about in her white nightdress looking for a door with light spilling beneath it so that maybe she can find someone who’ll hold her for the night and make her feel like she’s still alive

she’s currently hooking up with a lot of people. a lot of very detached sex, so if she has any sort of close connection with your character this might not work. could be good for angst or awkwardness though, or she cld get like.... super attached after a one night stand and complicate the shit out of everything. theresa’s kind of obsessive when it comes to her affections, she loves with her whole heart or not at all

people she used to date or unrequitedly likes, but to them it’s just a physical thing, give me all the thirsty angst plots, and maybe some softness too, i need some religion in this girls life jesus 

honestly everything just give me all the plots

[spaztronautwriter]

Arrow S7 Spec Fic

A/N: I'm so !!!!!! about that BTS picture of Felicity with the pink hair that I actually wrote a thing. I hope you guys enjoy it!

Read on AO3

###

Felicity was having flashbacks to college. And not only because of the dyed hair and nose ring she was sporting.

When she was eighteen and trying to support herself while at MIT, Felicity had taken a part time job as a barista. Her love of coffee aside, it was a pretty sucky job, so the fact that she was serving coffee, once again, at twenty-eight? Yeah, not exactly a step forward in her career.

Just another pitfall of being in witness protection.

With a sigh, Felicity pushed back a strand of long blonde hair that faded into a brilliant pink, and finished up the espresso for the guy waiting patiently at the counter. He’d been a regular since Felicity started working at Radu’s Coffee and she knew his order without even having to ask.

“Thanks.” The guy smiled as she placed the cup in front of him and then took a sip. The froth left a little mustache behind and Felicity grinned.

“You have a little...” She gestured to her upper lip and the guy’s eyes went wide. He swiped the back of his hand over his mouth and she grabbed him a napkin out of one of the holders.

“Thanks,” he repeated, his smile a little embarrassed. “I’m Justin, by the way. I don’t think I’ve ever introduced myself.”

Felicity bit her lip. Whenever they introduced themselves they were about to hit on her. It had happened several times in the past few months and it never got less awkward. But this guy had always been nice, she reminded herself. And they’d hit the midday lull, so he was the only customer currently sitting at the counter. Maybe he was just making polite conversation.

“Stephanie.” She’d almost said Felicity. She always almost said Felicity. It had been nearly five months since she’d been handed a brand new identity, you’d think she’d be used to it by now.

Justin smiled, and he had a really great smile she couldn’t help but notice. For just a second she let herself consider what it would be like if things were different, simpler. A cute guy smiles at her and maybe it’s the start of a coffee shop meet-cute. But things weren’t different, and despite how sucky everything had become in the past six months—and they were sucky. Her husband had gone to prison, a psychopath had all but certainly put a hit out on her and her stepson, and she was now living under a false identity and getting hit on by strangers she served coffee—she still couldn’t say she’d change a thing.

The bell above the door chimed, followed by an excited, “Stephanie!”

The grin overtook her before she’d even fully turned to see the newcomer. “Did you do it?”

William hurried over to the counter, hopping up onto the stool beside Justin and handing her a sheet of paper. “First place!”

A quick glance at the paper told her it was an award for first place in the Hope Springs Middle School science fair, written out to Clayton Anderson. Felicity had requested William’s new name, hoping the familiarity would make the transition easier on him. She’d also wanted him to be able to retain something of his mother, since she had no idea how long they’d be forced to live under their new aliases.

“That’s awesome, buddy.” She grinned, handing him back his award. “My shift is almost over, so why don’t you grab a table and start your homework and I’ll bring you over a hot chocolate.”

William agreed eagerly and, choosing a table near the front window, he pulled a few books out of his green backpack and got to work. A pang shot through her at the sight. He’d been wearing a lot more green recently, she’d noticed. It reminded her of how she used to cuddle with her dad’s old MIT sweatshirt every night after he’d left her and her mother.

“That your little brother?” Justin asked, pulling her back from her thoughts with a warm smile.

“My son, actually.”

His eyes went wide for just a moment before he composed himself. She couldn’t blame him. She was far too young to have a nearly thirteen year old. In fact, she would have had to have been fifteen years old when she had William, the exact same age her mother was when she had her. Just another one of the striking similarities her new identity had to her childhood.

Justin shook his head. “He calls you by your first name?”

Forcing a smile, she said, “We’re a… progressive family.”

To be fair, Justin’s was one of the more tactful responses she’d gotten to introducing William as her son. In contrast, their neighbor—Old Lady Cramer—had given her a dirty look and said, “I bet now you wish you’d kept your legs closed and gone to college?” Felicity may have hacked into her bank account later that night and donated a hefty sum to a charity focused on helping single mothers afford college. It was a lot kinder than what she’d been tempted to do.

Justin went back to his espresso as she started foaming the milk for William’s hot chocolate. “He seems like a good kid.”

“He’s the best,” she said with a nod.

“And his father?”

It was another question she got a lot. Something she should be used to answering by now, but it still gutted her every single time. “He’s... not in the picture right now.”

That was the nicest way to say it that would get people to back off. She’d started off saying he was away, but that left open too many questions about where and why and when he’d be back. This way people assumed he’d left her or she’d left him or whatever and that she was just in denial or embarrassed about it. She didn’t mind, as long as she didn’t have to say that he was dead or that she was never going to see him again, because he wasn’t and she was.

She’d been in near constant contact with John and Lyla since Oliver was sent to prison. They’d discussed a lot of scenarios, including staging a prison break. The problem was, she knew Oliver wasn’t interested in becoming a fugitive, which meant they had to work the system until they found a legal way to get him out. Her husband was nothing if not stubborn. The fact that he was in prison at all attested to that fact.

Eventually, they’d find a solution that worked, they just needed to keep looking.

“That’s a shame,” Justin said, snapping Felicity out of her thoughts. She glanced back up to see his smile had turned sympathetic. He nodded toward William. “I bet he misses him.”

The back of her eyes prickled with tears as she looked over, watching William hunch over the table writing something in his notebook. “He does,” she said, her voice carrying more emotion than she would have liked. “We both do.”

As if he felt her staring, William glanced back over his shoulder, meeting her gaze. She threw him a big smile, motioning that she’d be over with his hot chocolate in just a minute. She grabbed a to-go cup and got to work, not wanting to keep him waiting.

“Thank you,” Justin said just as she was fitting the lid on William’s drink. She looked up to see him pulling out a few dollar bills to leave on the counter. “And… I know it’s none of my business, but...” He paused, hesitating just a moment. “For what it’s worth, I hope he comes back into the picture soon.”

The tears were back, this time even going so far as to catch in her eye lashes. “Me too,” she breathed, caught off guard by the kindness in his voice. “Thank you.”

Justin gave her one last smile and headed out, the bell above the door chiming as he left. She set William’s hot chocolate down and collected the money on the counter, smiling at the generous tip he’d left her. Sadly enough, she actually needed the money. Lyla had gotten them new identities and some cash to get them started, but it was up to Felicity to make ends meet. At least until Diaz was off the board.

She sighed, wistfully, wishing she wasn’t stuck here in this tiny little town in the middle of nowhere. Her hands itched to have a keyboard in front of them, but she’d been told more than once not to try to track down Diaz on her own. She doubted he’d be able to track her location—she was so much better than Lyla gave her credit for—but she’d agreed nonetheless. It was one thing to risk her own safety—however little risk it actually was. It was another to risk William’s, and that she wouldn’t do, no matter how much she longed to go home.

Forty-five minutes later, after stopping at a local burger place that just made her miss Big Belly Burger that much more, she sat down to watch some tv and decompress. William sat beside her on the couch, quietly watching the newest episode of Doctor Who. He’d never been the most talkative kid—she couldn’t blame him with all that he’d gone through in his short life—but tonight was different. She thought he’d be rambling away about the science fair with the way he’d been going on about it all week, but nothing. Just a sullen expression and closed off body language that reminded her way too much of Oliver when he was brooding.

“Alright,” she said, pausing the show, “what’s wrong?”

His reply was as instantaneous as it was shocking. “Are you going to divorce Dad?”

Felicity’s mouth fell open and it took her a moment to process what he was asking. “What? Why would…? Why would you even think something like that? No, of course not.”

William nodded, but he looked unconvinced. “I saw you talking to that guy at the cafe before. You were smiling a lot and you haven’t smiled a lot since we moved here and I know you’re mad at Dad for leaving—”

“Oh, William, no,” she said, cutting him off before he could spiral any further. “Yes, I’m mad at your dad for leaving, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love him. And it doesn’t mean I would ever… leave him.”

She thought back to the split second in the coffee shop where she’d imagined how much easier things would be if she’d just been a girl flirting with a cute boy over coffee. Guilt rolled over her, causing her gut to clench. She’d never cheat on Oliver, and she’d meant it, what she’d told him after their wedding reception last year. She’d wait for him, for as long as it took.

“Your dad, he…” She sighed, still trying to make sense of Oliver’s decision herself. “He thought he could protect us by making that deal with the FBI. It didn’t work out the way he meant it to, but he did it because he loves us. You know that, right?” William nodded, wiping his palms on the legs of his jeans. “The thought of losing you, of losing us, scared him and he made a really stupid decision. And I’m mad at him because he didn’t consult me about it, but I think I understand, at least a little, what he was thinking, because I would do anything to protect you. Just like I will do anything to get your dad out of prison. So don’t worry so much, okay? Your dad and I… we’ll work it out, we always do.”

William nodded, but still wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. “I just don’t want to lose you, too,” he said, quietly.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, she dipped her head, forcing him to look at her. “You’re not gonna lose me.”

“That’s what he said.”

William was watching her with the expression of a boy that had lost everyone he’d ever loved. A boy that was petrified of losing the only person he had left. In that moment, Felicity could truly kill Oliver. If he wasn’t already locked away in a prison cell he would wish he was by the time she got through with him.

“Listen to me,” she said, tightening her grip on his shoulder ever so slightly. “I love you. That’s why we’re here. If it was just me I never would have agreed to protective custody, but I have you to think of now and I will do anything to keep you safe.” She moved her hand up to cup his cheek. “You are my whole world and I am not leaving.”

There was a brief moment of complete silence as they looked at one another, quietly processing the full scope of Felicity’s words. And then William shot forward, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in her shoulder. He’d shot up like a sprout since they’d left Star City, so the position caused him to hunch over awkwardly, but he didn’t seem to mind. “I love you, too,” he murmured into her shirt.

She ran her hand over the back of his head, swallowing back the lump in her throat. They’d get through this. They had each other, and she’d make sure it stayed that way. And when she finally got Oliver back, she was going to make sure they never lost him again either.

[aw-a-ke-blog]

It’s You

a/n: i wrote this ages ago for a friend of mine, before she convinced me to start posting my writing on here, so this scenario is close to my heart 💓

summary: Your best friend, Namjoon, owns a tiny book shop, where you go to study while he works. One day while sitting in his office to work on a paper, through a clumsy accident, you realize that he may not be just a friend to you anymore…

word count: 3.2k

masterlist

The block you’re walking down is short and narrow, with a stretch of small shops lining the brusque sidewalk. The bookstore on the corner is set back slightly from the rest, with a thin blue door that has a small window framed with patterned curtains, looking in on a dark, mahogany room. You open the door and step inside. The soft wood surrounds you, and the bookshelves rise up overhead, stacked tightly between the floor and the ceiling, the small room barely able to support the furniture stuffed into it. As you move toward the back of the shop, you run your hands over the spines of the books, touching the soft feathered pages and the worn-in covers, breathing deeply.

At the back, Namjoon, your best friend since before you can remember, is hunched over the cash register with a notebook beneath his elbow, scribbling something furiously. He looks up when he hears your footsteps and reaches to push his glasses back up on his nose. The motion feels familiar to you. His mouth turns up at the edges into a soft smile that grows into a grin slowly, also familiar. Namjoon shoves his ink-stained hand through his hair and sticks the pen behind his ear, coming out from behind the counter. You smile at him, and a soft, exhausted sigh falls out of his mouth. “Hey, Y/N.”

You reach over to fix his bangs, which are falling over into his eyes, almost covering them. “Joon, you’re a mess.”

He grins again and leans back. “Look who’s talking.”

You make a face at him, and he rolls his eyes. “Come on, Y/N. You can study in my office while I finish inventory.”

He grabs you by the hand and laces his fingers through yours, gripping tightly. The feeling is warm, like being inside somewhere while it’s snowing. A familiar feeling that seems like home.

Namjoon

Her hand is warm in mine. Her thin fingers wrap around mine, and I can feel my heart beating heavily in my chest. She smells like lavender, and part of me wishes I could stay like this, wrapped up in the books and the shelves and her lavender smell, overwhelming me, always. Shaking my head, I quickly snap my mind away from those thoughts. She’s your best friend, I think to himself. Stop thinking like this.

I lead her through the store to my office in the back. I close the door, and she falls into the chair behind the desk, dropping her backpack on the floor. I reach over to turn on the desk lamp so that she can see.

The room is small and dark, with wide mahogany floors that eat the little bit of light that comes into the room from the small window on the wall. For some reason, Y/N loves it in here. She likes the books and the desk and the warm smell and the creaky chair and the small window and everything else. I watch as she unpacks her things, pulling out her laptop, her planner, her folder, her notebook, her pencils and pens and highlighters. After a few moments, she catches me staring and turns to glare back at me. “What?”

I shake my head and smile again, rubbing the back of my neck nervously. The habit eats at me, making me more nervous, until I don’t know what to do with my hands or arms or mouth or body or anything else. I just stand there nervously, staring and smiling at her. “Nothing. I’m going to go finish inventory, okay? I’ll be back in an hour or something.”

Y/N

“Okay,” you say, nodding. As you speak, your voice almost seems to fill the small space; you feel magnified in the room, between its close walls and heavy wood. Joon smiles at you again and walks out, closing the door quietly behind him. Leaning back in the chair, you look up at the ceiling, dreading opening your laptop to finish writing this paper for your Education class.

Instead of starting on your work, you look around the room, eyeing the small shelves and piles of books and papers, the messy but somehow organized desk, the soft light coming from the lamp, the posters and notes on the walls, the boxes stacked in the corner. You get up and wander around the room slowly, distracting yourself by fingering the stacks of bills and statements, the books he has stacked on the floor beside the desk, the post-it notes stuck to the walls with scribbled reminders. Eventually, you end up sitting on the floor beside a small stack of books in the back corner, reading through the different titles. In the middle of the pile, a book of Walt Whitman’s poetry pokes out from the rest. You tug it out of the pile and flip it open, landing on Whitman’s poem Song of Myself.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,

Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,

I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,

Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,

Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,

I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,

Nature without check with original energy.

The words protrude from the page, the ink hard and smooth beneath your fingers. You read the passage over and over, letting the words fill the small room with something that feels like nature. You can almost smell soil, nurturing the grass and the earth. You turn back to the book and keep reading.

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes,

I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,

The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless,

It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,

I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,

I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath,

Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine,

My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs,

The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,

The sound of the belch’d words of my voice loos’d to the eddies of the wind,

A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,

The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,

The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides,

The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the earth much?

Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?

Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,

You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,)

You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,

You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,

You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

The poem seems to fill the floor around you; you can taste sweet air, the dewy earth of outside seeming to come in through the walls. Whitman’s voice moves like glass, soft and smooth, or like water, rushing. You flip through the rest of the book, skimming the lines, picking out phrases here and there to read again and again in your head, letting them sit inside you, filling you up with the soft-spoken art.

After a while, you put the book back on the pile and stand up again. You stumble slightly and fall back, tripping over your feet and catching yourself quickly on the desk--your foot accidentally knocks a pile of boxes over, and a mess of papers and cards and books spill across the floor. You groan, exasperated with yourself, and bend over to scoop them back up and put them back in the box. You shuffle all the cards and papers back into one box, and begin to put the books away in the other one. But as you stack them, something catches your eye and you look closer--Joon’s handwriting is all over these books. You grab one and open it--on every page, Joon has written things in his messy, scribbled writing--some of it is Korean, some of it English--you look closer.

she is an ocean

black waves,

crashing

purpling veins between

white frothing lips

they call her soft

like silk,

lost heavens

sinking

in the dark

the black

mountain skyline

kisses her, rolling

sunken ships

she quenches

the earth

of its

sallow thirst,

she is

airy

steadfast, and

free.

At the bottom of the page, still in his messy, scribbled handwriting, he’s written two words, followed by a date.

for her, august 7

As you flip through the pages, you see small sketches of a girl and sometimes a character that almost looks like Joon. You feel a smile pulling at your mouth, stretching it widely over your face, almost bursting. You keep looking, keep reading.

when i sleep, i can see

something soft in your eyes.

lush green forests used to grow

between them,

and it felt something like

heaven breaking apart

in my hands.

you touch the storms

in my stomach, and

kiss the black oceans in my chest

calm.

your hands melt me,

and your eyes bring me

home.

i never believed in god, but

when your eyes closed as i

touched you, i thought i could feel heaven

between my hands.

Again, the same words, followed by a date.

for her, august 10

You hear something at the door, and you almost throw the book in desperate fear, caught red handed in your snooping. There’s no time to hide any of it. The book is open in your hand, wavering, and the rest of them are still scattered on the floor as Joon comes in, rubbing his tired face.

“Hey, Y/N. I--” When he looks up, he sees you. He sees the book. You can’t recognize the look that crosses his face--it’s abrupt and silent and stricken--you smile at him nervously, clearly caught in the act.

“Joon, please don’t be mad--I tripped, and the boxes fell, and I was putting the books away, I promise. I’m--”

“Did you read that?!” He shouts, his eyes wide. His voice reaches at the ceiling, like it’s too big for this room. You flinch at him and set the book down into the box quickly, moving away from it. You start to stand up again, feeling guilty and intrusive. A deep nervousness spreads out into your arms and legs, reaching desperately throughout your body, jumping anxiously at the anger in Joon’s voice, the way he’s looking at you.

“Joon, I’m sorry, really,” you stutter. “I didn’t mean--”

“Y/N--”

“I really didn’t mean to, I’m...sorry. I’m so sorry, Joon.”

“No, Y/N--No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell, I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m sorry. Just--here, give me the box.”

You set all the books back into it quickly and push it toward him. “Here.”

He rearranges them carefully, like he’s afraid they’ll break. Picking the box up, he sets it on a high shelf and turns back to look at you again--his eyes are set back, shy and embarrassed. You roll your eyes at him and smile, swallowing the heavy air in the room.

“So, who is she?” You ask, sitting on the edge of the desk, facing him.

He looks at you sharply. “What?”

“Who is she? Who did you write all those poems for, who did you draw those little doodles for? Come on, Joon, I’m not stupid. I know all of that was for someone. That wasn’t your regular writing...You never write poetry. I’ve never seen you write anything like that, ever.”

He just stares at you. His mouth opens, closes, opens again, like he’s going to say something, but he just closes it, silent. You laugh a little and stand up. “You can tell me, Joon. Who is it? Who do you like so much? You can’t write poetry like that for just anyone. It doesn’t happen like that, and you know it.”

He shakes his head, almost smiling but biting it back quickly, keeping a straight face. You lean in, trying to draw it out of him; you look up at his wild brown eyes and smile, trying to entice him, trying to open him up so that he’ll tell you. “Come on, Joon. Please? Tell me who it is. Do I know them?”

Namjoon

I can’t look at her. I can feel the air building up around my head, and the anxiety tightening in my stomach; it’s violent and tense, stretching between the muscles in my chest, bracing around my heart, beating wildly. I can’t look at her. How do I look at her? Her hair falls over her shoulder as she leans in toward me, and her hand on my arm feels like it’s burning my skin--she’s so warm, and I want to hold her. God, fuck, no. I can’t think like this, I can’t feel like this, fuck, just stop, this is stupid.

There’s too much silence. I can see her slowly giving up, and I don’t know what to do or what to say. Where do my hands go? What do I do with my hands now? Where do I look? Am I breathing? Everything feels too real, in this small room, in this tight air, under this short ceiling--I can’t look at her.

“Okay, fine, don’t tell me,” she says jokingly, grinning. “You know I’ll figure it out eventually.”

I can’t help myself. As she turns away from me to grab her bag, I feel the words fall out of my mouth, uncontrolled, tumbling, breaking, small--“It’s you, Y/N.”

Y/N

You feel your breath catch, and then it ceases in your chest, caught beneath your throat, pulsing--you stare ahead at the wall, your back to him, your hands frozen on the straps of your backpack--What did he say?

“It’s...you, Y/N.”

You feel your body turning slowly--you didn’t tell it to do that. Suddenly you’re facing him, and his eyes look different than before--they’re warm and soft in the way they’re looking at you, but he looks scared. I can’t speak, you think. What do I do? I don’t know how to look at him.

His hands reach out slowly, touching yours, tracing small, concentrated circles on the backs of your fingers. You don’t stop him. He steps closer--you feel warm now, and you can’t breathe. Joon, Joon, Joon. His name repeats itself over and over in your mind, and you can’t stop it.

He takes another step closer. You can hear his soft, staggered breathing. Finally, his voice fills the space again, quietly. “Please say something, Y/N.”

“I...Joon, I--” Your voice stumbles, caught beneath your tongue.

“I love you,” he says, cutting you off. “I’ve been in love with you for so long...I never thought I would ever say it out loud...especially not to you. I never want you to leave, Y/N, but now I’m scared you’re going to, so I have to tell you. Okay? It’s been years that I’ve wanted to stand this close to you, telling you these things, touching your hands like this...I don’t want to lose you--but I can’t lie to you. Those poems, those stupid drawings, those books, they’re all for you, I can’t...I can’t breathe when I look at you. I can’t think about anything else. I...I love you, Y/N.”

Your hands move slowly upward, touching the edge of his chin, the crook of his jaw, your thumbs laying softly against his cheeks. A warmth swells in your stomach, and it knocks the wind out of you. You stare at him, open-mouthed, wordless. You can’t think.

You feel yourself leaning up, standing on your tiptoes, your mouth so close to his--you press a soft, gentle kiss to the corner of his lips, letting a heavy breath fall out of you. Your forehead falls against his chin, your feet falling back to the ground, and the breath in your chest knocks out three soft words: “I love you.”

There’s a moment of shock, and you can feel it under your fingers still pressed against him. His hand moves quickly, his thumb and forefinger lifting your chin up, his brown eyes staring. “You love me?”

His voice is so soft that you almost don’t recognize it. You feel another swelling wave in your stomach, crashing, gasping, and you still can’t breathe. You suck in your stomach, willing yourself to speak. “I didn’t...know. I didn’t know, Joon.”

His head bows down, so that his face is almost level with yours. Your chests press together, and your proximity presses out the last bit of breath left in your chest. He whispers, softly, almost desperately, “Can I kiss you?”

You can only nod. His mouth touches yours, engulfing you quickly, and suddenly you understand the tender Whitman poem--you feel the nature crowning in your chest, blooming up into a wild forest. You feel the soil, nurturing. “A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms, / The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag, / The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides, / The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.”

It feels too soon when you both pull away from each other, breathless and grinning, with the gentle light of the desk light glowing around you. You breathe out against his neck, pressing your forehead against his collarbone, reaching desperately for his hands. His fingers grip yours tightly. “I love you, Joon.”

He lifts your face and you see the broad, wild grin stretched out on his face, pushing back his cheeks, scrunching his nose. “So is this...are we...?”

You kiss him again, unable to help yourself. “Only if you keep writing me poetry like that.”

He grins at you, and a laugh jumps out of him, shaking both of you. “Anything for you, Y/N...Always.”

You lean up to press another small kiss to the end of his nose. You whisper softly, quietly, “Your eyes bring me home. I think that’s my favorite line.”

masterlist

[thesportssoundoff]

“A damn good local guy main event on a card with plenty of latin flavor” The UFC Fight Night Argentina Preview

Joey

November 12th, 2018

The UFC schedule churns onward and upwards and we're back on the international loop, fellas! After toe touching in Chile, the UFC heads to Argentina for what feels like a way overdue debut. They're not bringing their A game card (and injuries have hurt it) but like some of the other Fight Nights we've seen recently; a really decent top three filled with prospects underneath give the illusion of depth and intrigue. It helps that this card has a ready made main event with Ponz heading home to Argentina to take on Neil Magny in a battle of bottom top 10 welterweights. Darren Elkins vs Ricardo Lamas is an acceptable if absolutely dull co-main event. Helping assist the main card you got a tremendous women's strawweight fight and an intriguing light heavyweight fight. The rest of the card is a combination of debutants, short notice dudes, filler fights with "local" guys and a few intriguing lighter weight fights.

Fights: 12

Debuts: Anderson dos Santos, Jesus Pinedo, Ian Henisch, Johnny Walker, Laureano Staropoli

Fight Changes/Injury Cancellations: 7 (Veronica Macedo OUT, Ariane Lipski IN vs Maryna Moroz/  Maryna Moroz vs Ariena Lipski CANCELLED/Enrique Barzola OUT, Sergio Giglio IN vs Nad Narimani/Sergio Giglio OUT, Anderson dos Santos IN vs Nad Narimani/Tom Breese OUT, Ian Heinesch IN vs Cezar Mutante/Alessio DiChirico vs Jared Cannonier CANCELLED, Claudio Puelles OUT, Jesus Pinedo IN vs Devin Powell)

Headliners (fighters who have either main evented or co-main evented shows in the UFC): 6 (Neil Magny, Santiago Ponzinibbio, Ricardo Lamas, Darren Elkins, Cynthia Calvillo, Cezar Mutante)

Fighters On Losing Streaks in the UFC: (Austin Arnett)

Fighters On Winning Streaks in the UFC: (Santiago Ponzinibbio, Neil Magny, Poliana Botelho, Michel Prezares, Bartosz Fabinski, Cezar Mutante)

Main Card Record Since Jan 1st 2016 (in the UFC):   35-14-1

Neil Magny- 4-2 Santiago Ponzinibbio- 5-0 Ricardo Lamas- 2-3 Darren Elkins- 6-1 Cezar Mutante- 5-1   Ian Heinesch- 0-0 Khalil Rountree- 3-2-1 Johnny Walker- 0-0 Guido Cannetti- 1-1 Marlon Vera- 4-3 Poliana Botelho- 2-0 Cynthia Calvillo- 3-1

Divisional Breakdown:

Welterweight- 3 Featherweight- 3 Women's Strawweight- 1 Flyweight- 1 Middleweight- 1 Bantamweight- 1 Light Heavyweight- 1 Lightweight- 1

Too Low- Poliana Botelho vs Cynthia Calvillo

What if I could make an argument, somewhat compellingly, that this fight should be the co-main event. Think of it this way; the 115 lb division is beginning to start to take steps towards bringing in a new crop of talented female fighters. Calvillo and Botelho are apart of that run---compared to Ricardo Lamas and Darren Elkins who have basically been checked back to the outskirts of the elite at 145 lbs. What's more, these two are proven finishers at 115 lbs and could be what's needed as women's strawweight is the division that throws the most strikes with the least amount of KO/TKO finishes behind it. This is a more compelling fight than Lamas vs Elkins is.

Too High Up- Michel Prezares vs Bartosz Fabinski

This fight is the prelim header and I'm disappointed.  I simply can't imagine this fight being remotely entertaining to anybody. Fabinski and Prezares are like minded grapplers who just sort of collide into each other willingly at short distances. It's not for me, man.

Stat Monitor for 2018:

Debuting Fighters (Current number: 28-36-1):  Anderson dos Santos, Jesus Pinedo, Ian Henisch, Johnny Walker, Laureano Staropoli

Short Notice Fighters (Current number: 29-25):  Ian Heinisch, Anderson dos Santos, Jesus Pinedo

Second Fight (Current number: 36-29-1): Hector Aldana, Nad Narimani

Cage Corrosion (Current number: 22-37):  0

Undefeated Fighters (Current number: 31-22-1):  0

Keeping An Eye On But Not Really: 0

Twelve Precarious Ponderings

1- This main event is all kinds of intriguing, even if the names on the billing aren't going to  make you consider this destination viewing. Neil Magny has been pretty damn tough to topple since about 2014 or so. His only losses are to Demian Maia, Lorenz Larkin and Rafael Dos Anjos and those three are no small jokes. In between that time he's got wins over Carlos Condit, Kelvin Gastelum, Hector Lombard, Johnny Hendricks and Erick Silva which may not sparkle now but were credible quality wins then. He's a tremendous "test" opponent who comes prepared, has the grappling to trouble anybody, is blessed with outstanding cardio and just wears on fighters. He's a blanket I suppose (3 finishes in his last 10 fights) but he has the tools to finish dudes and lit up Kelvin Gastelum a bit before opting to go with his wrestling. The danger with Magny is this feeling of inevitability whenever he's on the feet. You just get this sense that eventually something is going to touch him and he's going to lose his legs or have to fight off a big barrage. Against Lombard and Gastelum it worked; against Lorenz Larkin it didn't. He's the sort of guy who makes the best with what he has while also potentially hiding some hopeful untapped potential. Even if this is who he is, he's sort of a poor man's version of Kamaru Usman which is still a really good 170 lber.

Santiago Ponzinibbio is a different story entirely. It's not a joke to say that around this time last year, there were some who were frothing at the mouth of the idea of an all violence sort of takeover of 170 lbs led by dudes like Ponz, Darren Till, Mike Perry, Colby Covington and other members of the meatier parts of 170 like Elizeu Zaleski, Lyman Good, Vicente Luque and others. Ponz is the one dude of that group who hasn't had a chance to prove us either wrong OR wrong in 2018. We saw Till in two fights this year, we saw Covington (ONCE), we saw Perry perhaps more times than we've needed to and we've seen the action glut at the bottom half of the division have brawls while Covington, Usman and Maia have hurt out feelings at the top of the heap. Ponzinibbio beat Mike Perry in a Rock Em Sock Em war (after finishing Gunnar Nelson in the first round) and then disappeared. A late May headline spot in Chile vs Kamaru Usman was derailed due to a hand injury (the same hand Ponz broke on TUF and the same hand he might've hurt vs Mike Perry as well if memory serves) and now he gets the chance to headline in his native country of Argentina. Ponzinibbio is not without his flaws; he's defensively woeful at times, way too willing to engage and gamble on his hands and he often times lacks the back up plan needed if he gets hurt. That said, he's one of the funnest strikers in the UFC's 170 lb division and he'll be at home with a marquee win needed to make one final push into the real top of the 170 lb class. He's not quite on the level of Till, Woodley and Covington but outside of those guys, it's Wonderboy and Usman who might have a better claim to being contenders.

If Ponz wants a blueprint on how to give Magny troubles, the likes of Gastelum and Lombard provided one that he can follow to fruition; be patient, land when Magny willingly gives ground and then avoid pressing the issue when he's hurting. Conversely if Magny wants an easier gameplan on how to beat Ponz, Ryan LaFlare's idea of taking advantage of Ponz when he got too aggressive and finding the time and energy to put him on the canvas repeatedly would fit just fine. It's an intriguing fight; not one to pop a rating but one worthy of sinking your teeth into on this card.

2- The best part of the hometown advantage aspect of this fight is this; Ponz will be 'at home" but Magny has fought Maia in Brazil, Lombard in Australia, was willing to fight Nelson in Europe and fought Gastelum in Mexico. Those may not be perfect "hometown crowd" settings but the point is that Neil has never had an issue fighting a road game where he's the enemy to the audience. The pressure is probably on Ponz if we're being fair and honest.

3- We joke about 205 lbs but let's talk about 170 right quick and have a chit chat about its top of the division, using the UFC rankings for emphasis:

Tyron Woodley- Mid 30s, coming off shoulder surgery, likely fighting Covington Colby Covington- Fighting Woodley whenever, coming off some sort of nasal surgery Darren Till- Is he a WW? Will he go to MW? RDA- Fighting Kamaru Usman in late November, turned down Ponzinibbio in Argentina, already smoked Magny Wonderboy- Went from fighting Robbie Lawler in January to MIA in the interim Robbie Lawler- Ben Askrin in Jan Kamaru Usman- RDA in late November, seems like the sort of dude who will sit out if need be, apparently Covington turned down an interim fight with him back in the earlier parts of 2018 Demiam Maia- Smoked Magny in 2016, retiring in in two fights Neil Magny- Booked obviously Jorge Masvidal- Filming a reality show, apparently he and Magny have issues but they can't agree to a fight Ponz- Yoooo booked

Where does the winner go? If you're Neil Magny, you're not getting Woodley or Covington, Till is probably not an option, RDA beat you, Maia beat you and Usman is probably not fighting anybody outside of a title fight if he beats RDA. That means your best choice is who? Wonderboy feels like an easy fight to make but who knows if that's possible. If you're Ponz. There's a lot of opportunities available to you but how many of them are realistic? Lawler's booked up, RDA turned you down, Till and Ponz would make some sense since they were in preliminary talks to fight before Till got yanked to fight Cerrone in October before anything was official. Like most divisions, the title seems to be at a serious standstill and the contenders are just farting around in the mean time.

4- Really curious to see how this audience responds to Ponzinibbio. It's worth remembering Ponz fought on TUF Brazil and on the show spoke about having to fight in Brazil due to needing better support for his career. He's sort of the guy who might be stuck between two audiences BUT I do hope he gets a tremendous ovation in the main event. Things are more fun when crowds are engaged and excited.

5- Anybody get the feeling the winner of Lamas vs Elkins is going to get the Zhabit fight?

6- Putting Darren Elkins on a main card seems to bring bad vibes to cards so here's hoping Elkins doesn't have to bare the brunt of an impatient Argentine crowd.

7- Poliana Botelho vs Cynthia Calvillo is such a great little fight that I'm almost mad they put it together because it means some really good young fighter is about to ake a serious knock backwards in the division. Calvillo is so toolsy but Botelho seems to have a better understanding of how to use those tools. That said Calvillo probably learned more in a loss to Carla Esparza than Poliana learned in every fight she's had as a professional so it's going to be a fun toss up. Getting some Grasso vs Suarez type vibes from this one.

8- Shout out real quick to the Latin American countries represented on this show:

Argentina (Ponz, Guido Cannetti, Laureano Starpoli) Peru (Jesus Pinedo, Humberto Bandenay) Ecuador (Marlon "Chito" Vera)

Plus of course Mexico and Brazil repping Spanish America and South America as well. I still believe that the more good young talent we can bring in from counties in Latin America, the better off this sport is. MMA is better and has the propensity to potentially make a lot more money for a lot of people if everybody feels welcome and invited. Let's hope some of these guys and gals turn out to be pretty damn good.

9- I cannot believe the temerity to do Prezares vs Bartosz Fabinski. The fight equivalent of setting your pubes on fire.

10- Johnny Walker vs Khalil Rountree is an action fight between two fun flawed fighters. Rountree has basically saved his UFC career and turned it around in a big way with a 3-0-1 record in his last four fights. Walker is similar to Rountree just not anywhere near as athletic. Could make for a tremendous little slugfest in a division that plenty of folks are dragging right now.

11- Alexandre Pantoja and Ulka Sasaki are two guys who could be successful up in weight at 135 lbs but the way this division is going, the loser needs to be REALLY REALLY impressive.

12- Does Argentina get a follow up show after this?

[tardispowered]

Book Review: The Day She Saved the Doctor

Summary

Spoiler Warning: If you don’t like spoilers, don’t read. (That being said, it’s basically a one star read) 

So, I had an issue with this book as soon as I saw the title. “The Day She Saved the Doctor”. A lot of this has to do with my near contempt for the majority of the back half of Moffat era Who. It’s not that they’re progressive because I am all for that- but there’s this big act like being progressive in Who is this NEW THING BOUGHT TO YOU TODAY BY MOFFAT! NEVER BEEN SEEN BEFORE!

And… it has.

I mean, yes, Classic Who has its problems. It’s as much of its time as anything. However, DW has always been progressive and that includes Her Saving Him all the freaking time! How many times have Sarah Jane and/or Leela saved four’s ass? Even in Nu!Who, 9 wouldn’t be alive if Rose hadn’t pulled his ass out of the fire more often than not. There are instances of her saving him throughout the series so this is not new and to act like it is feels like an insult.

Still, I support women writers of Doctor Who because we need more of them. It’s still very much a boy’s arena. And the fact that I have contention with these stories is partly the writers but also partly the editor who decided these were good enough. Because they aren’t. They really aren’t. And it makes this book seem like a gimmick to shine the spotlight once more on HOW GREAT WHO IS NOW SEE WHAT HE HAS GIVEN US WE SHOULD BE GRATEFUL

Well I’m not—because this is bullshit.

Ok, to be fair it caps off at about 90% bullshit with 10% being decent to pretty good. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?

Sarah Jane and the Temple of Eyes – Jaqueline Rayner

Props where props are due, I started out really enjoying this one. Sarah Jane and Four were both well characterized and it made me laugh out loud in several parts. Some bits made me side-eye a little, such as Sarah getting jitters over the mention of Blindman’s Bluff… but as she’d been blinded and fairly recently I imagine, given the weight of it in the story, I went along with it. There were a few Moffat Era (from here on out abbreviated to ME) bits that me sigh but otherwise, yes fine.

And thennn Sarah Jane gets kidnapped. Which okay fine sure.

And four gets kidnapped trying to rescue Sarah okay sure

The antagonist wanted memories, Sarah offered to give them memories of hers, the antagonist declined saying  they didn’t need them, Sarah said the antagonist wouldn’t have memories like hers. Now, this is set in Ancient Rome so I was thinking, right, makes sense, modern girl and all

But no. Because SJ has memories of the DOCTOR and the DOCTOR is the BEST THING TO EVER EXIST and she would HATE TO LIVE WITHOUT HIM

And this is the one ME thing that consistently bugs the shit out of me. This CULT OF THE DOCTOR where everyone falls at their feet salivating in love or fear at his very presence. He is even called a God in this narrative to fit the lonely God title that 12 gets. And I hate that. He’s not a God. He’s not a hero. He’s a guy who likes running around the universe and not being told what to do.  And he does help and save the day and that’s what makes him a good person.

But no he has to be THE MOST AMAZING THING EVER AND LET US ALL WORSHIP HIM BECAUSE HE IS GOOD AND RIGHT and so on

Moreover, I am assuming this book is bent toward one of a more feminist ideology, and I have no problems with that.

Only it’s hard to believe that when Sarah Jane has a line like: Oh the Doctor is talking down to me but he’s 700+ so it’s alright.

Also I hated that the Doctor, the fourth Doctor of all of them, said out loud that Sarah Jane is awesome and so good and he trusts her and so on and so on. Because nothing says subtlety like a ham handed asspat right? And ooc for four too.  

But one thing that really bugged me near the end was the Doctor saying: “After all, if we can’t trust a bunch of women with the secrets of the universe, who can we trust?” And not even tongue in cheek. I imagine it’s supposed to be feminist or something but iit’s really not because HEY GUESS WHAT Women can be evil too and use that knowledge against others. And in fact the main antagonist ALREADY HAD but she was a scheming woman who wanted power and not like these who… are apparently better or something. I don’t even know.

It also felt really patronizing to women of ancient Rome who were, apparently, so shackled by the patriarchy that they couldn’t do anything else but be Oppressed. And, granted, it probably wasn’t great being a woman in Ancient Rome compared to modern day, but it showed nothing of their strengths and what they did have. What they could do. It was all: Poor Women Oppressed Doing Terrible Things.

It also didn’t help that Ancient Rome was just a set dressing. Like I’m not asking for a historical epic but it was just presented so slap dash and very little effort was put into making it seem like a real historical place.

Finally, Sarah Jane read a bit young to me. She generally has more confidence then that. (BUT IF SHE HAD THAT CONFIDENCE FROM THE BEGINNING, HOW CAN THE DOCTOR INSPIRE HER? /gag) Though it feels to me (and I could be wrong) that she just wasn’t used to writing Sarah Jane.

 Two out of five stars

 Rose and the Snow Window – Jenny T. Colgan

This is the only good story of the lot. The author’s bio says that Colgan writes for Big Finish and done 10th Doctor stories so it makes sense. It’s nicely paced, nicely plotted (more or less) and it’s clear she knows what she’s doing. Though I will say as a bit of an aficionado of 9, the writing in the story does tend to shade more to 10 at times, so the characterization, for me, isn’t as on point as I’d like it. Also there were some weird lines that made me go: bzuh? Overall though, it was entertaining, and Rose was well written and Nikolai was adorable (if not fleshed out terribly well). The ending was a bit more rushed than not but I actively liked reading it. Enough so I’d give the book overall one star rather than just a half.

Because, most importantly, Rose actually actively saved 9’s ass. So well done there

Three out of five stars.

 Clara and the Maze of Cui Palta- Susan Calman

Calman’s bio mentions no previous involvement in Doctor Who and, yeah, I can kinda tell. I mean, far be it from me to say someone has to have official endorsement to be a good writer for Who (If that were the case I would be able to watch S10 without frothing at the mouth. Not to mention the awesome fanfiction writers out here) but it’s sort of clear she doesn’t work with these characters often.

You could tell that she at least got the gist of eleven and knew what he was supposed to be like but in reality he was really skewed.  But not as bad as Clara. Hooh boy. Clara was not done well. The basics seem to be okay but she’s entirely too giddy in a girlish kind of way (which isn’t really suit her at all.) Laughing and clapping hands and things of that nature. And then I feel like far too paranoid being lost in the maze.

Because that’s all the story is. Them lost in  maze. Granted there’s a skeleton suggesting they should probably leave sooner than later, but nothing chases them. There’s no real danger but them being lost. In a maze. It was kind of a boring read to be honest.

And then it ends with another ASSPAT FOR FEMINISM with 11 saying:

‘Clara, I was wrong to have not listened to you sooner. It was the maze, doing funny things to my judgement…. But I do trust you, I hope you know that’

Because if you don’t have it down in Writing that the Doctor loves and respects Clara and knew he did wrong then it’s just not enough. Gotta hammer it in there. Also it undercuts itself by him apologizing then blaming the maze. If it really was the maze, then he’s got nothing to apologize for. If it wasn’t, then don’t bring it up.

Anyway, she sort of saved the Doctor in this one. Kind of. But she mostly saved herself. I mean, yes, they could have been wandering around that maze for a very long time but she would have died of natural causes long long long looooonng before he would’ve.

So, go team, I guess. /shrug

One out of five stars.

 Bill Potts and the Jackets-Dorothy Koomson

To start out, I have to admit that while I love the idea of Bill Potts and Pearl Mackie knocks the acting out of the water—I don’t think S10 gave her much character to work with. Oh she had some but to put it simply, S10 was mostly concerned with Missy and PROGRESSION POINTS. (and I am 1000% for a black gay woman as a companion, but hey give her something to do beside saying she’s gay in every episode and then have her wait ten years being slowly turned into a cyberman before ‘fridging’ her in the end to fuel 12 angst. Yes, she want off with Heather. But she’d only known Heather for maybe MAYBE a handful of hours.)

Still despite my extreme dislike for S10 I am always willing to give new writers a chance.

But unfortunately in this story it was clear that the writer had no idea what they were doing and it showed. MAN did it show. Bill was portrayed alright given the circumstances of her characterization (or lack thereof) but 12 was so badly done it’s not even funny. Forget the 12th regeneration, he’s not even the Doctor.

For example

Upon confronted with someone who claims to be Bill (who is the real one) when he already has a Bill in the TARDiS (and nothing otherwise wacky or dangerous is going on) he flat out refuses to consider any possibility but that it’s not Bill and tells them to go home. There’s no investigation. No nothing.

I mean it COULD BE that I missed something in reading (because I was annoyed so I did skim) that fake!Bill was using memory alteration on him or something but if she was it doesn’t stand out.

But even if that’s true, 12 is just acting like an asshole through most of this. Moreso than he even did in S8. It’s like that’s the only version that the author knows and they ran with it. But it’s not 12 and certainly not s10 12 who had learned a lot through Clara. (and retains it despite not remembering her)

Like he is severely mad at antagonist and agrees to help her but tells her to, to paraphrase: Get in the TARDiS now before he changes his mind.

Which fine, if she had been someone murderous or had tortured people or whatever. But there is clear indication at that point in the story (and the narrative supports the idea) that she was going to give Bill herself back but she didn’t trust the Doctor to help her. She didn’t hurt anyone. She just wants to get home. Even grumpy 12 would be more compassionate than that because guess what? Compassion is the Doctor’s default.

Also the real kick in the teeth is that Bill didn’t even save him. There was nothing to save him from. She more or less saved herself which is all well and good but when the title and idea of the entire book is: ‘When She Saved the Doctor’, you’d expect her to do a little saving.

It didn’t help either that the story was poorly constructed to and overall just an aggravating read.

No stars for this one. I’d be tempted to give it negative stars but rather blame the author, I’d rather blame the editor who thought this one was ok.

Because it’s not.

It reallllly fricking isn’t.

  SO YEAH I wouldn’t recommend this book at all. It has a decent 9/Rose story where Rose is cute as hell but beyond that, it doesn’t even live up to its own hype. It’s sad too because it could have been so much more.

[star-trekkin-across-theuniverse]

Escape, pt 1

Author’s Note: This fic is part of a series, all titled off the songs on Awesome Mix Volume 1. I am not finished it - there’s still 3 or 4 songs to go. PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY, let me know if you like this one or not - I don’t have to post it if you all hate it. <3 

TAGS ARE OPEN FOR THIS - LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT ADDED :)

Summary: When Peter Quill wears out Awesome Mix (Volume 1), he drags the team to Terra to find someone to repair it.

Word Count: 3179 Tags: @samaxraph99 @shewhorunswithfandoms @distinguishedqueenofbooks @anyakinamidala @anotherotter @little-study-bug  @rampant-salamander @goodnightwife @wanderingkat77 @bluebird214 @superwholockedbeauty @eyeofdionysus @all-time-foes @girl-next-door-writes @feelmyroarrrr Warnings: This is a lot smuttier than I usually write? But not this chapter.

“Pinnnnnnaaaaaaaa Coooooollllaaaaadaaaaaaaaaaaas –“ The tape was distorted, stretched. It was to be expected after 25 years of constant use. In fact, it was a miracle it had last as long as it had. Peter knew that, but it made his heart ache to know that Awesome Mix (Volume One) was worn thin. It was one of the only things he had left from life on Terra. He had even less to remind him of his mother, who was beautiful right up until the last breath escaped her. He rubbed at his chest absently and wondered out loud if the air filters in the Milano needed changing. His eyes were irritated, and kept watering. He walked out of the cockpit, muttering about space dust and allergies.

Gamora rolled her eyes, but elbowed Rocket in the ribs when he moved to contradict Peter. Rocket scowled at her. “What? He’s crying!” He whispered.

“And you watered Groot for months with your tears. Yet you won’t let us remind you of it,” she scolded. Rocket glanced at Groot, still and stoic. He was growing at least. It was a good thing the salt tears hadn’t killed him.

Peter reappeared and took over the controls, keying in a long sequence of coordinates wordlessly. Rocket shot a worried look at Gamora, then one at Drax. They weren’t coordinates that he recognized immediately, and they were distant. He brought up the destination on the console in front of him and threw his hands up in disgust.

“Terra? A whole universe to look after, and we’re headed to Terra? Shoot me now!” Rocket bellowed. Drax looked up, concerned. He was slowly becoming used to the rest of the group’s use of hyperbole and exclamation, but he still had difficulty discerning when they were serious. When he saw that neither Peter nor Gamora had moved to kill their crewmate, he relaxed.

“Someone there will know this tech. Someone there will be able to help me restore my cassette,” Peter explained. They shot into hyperdrive and left Knowhere behind.

A jangle of bells warned Roxanne that she had a customer. She ran her hand through her hair and tied it back before leaving the shop books in the backroom and coming to the counter. The music store had been her salvation for years, and as much as she hated to admit it, it wasn’t making money. Not anymore. Not now that mp3s and iPods and digital music was taking over. She kept it open as a hobby, paid her staff because they were passionate about music. But sooner or later, she was going to have to consider closing the doors. It would be the end of an era. When the store had opened, in 1978, it had been part of a big chain. When the chain had gone under in 2001, Roxanne had been quick to buy the location. It was a standalone shop on a busy retail street. At the time, the street was on a downturn, but the whole hipster thing had happened and now it was the cornerstone of a quirky consumer renaissance. They specialized in vinyl, but also carried used CDs, cassettes, and stereo equipment. When Roxanne had purchased the building, she’d gained access to the basement. That turn of events had been what made keeping the store open worthwhile. There were literally thousands of dollars of merchandise that had never seen the light of day down there. Albums that had been critical failures by bands that had fallen apart and then gained cult status, band t-shirts that had been written off for loss because there were only three size smalls left. They’d rebuilt the store into something new, and gained a reputation as being helpful, friendly and having a quirky variety of hard to find items. It made them one of the most popular music stores in Portland. And if Roxanne wasn’t crazy about the hipsters that paid the bills, she never really let anyone see it. It just wasn’t her scene. At thirty-four she’d already seen the world, been chewed up and spit out and found out what was important in life. She remembered the music the hipsters were frothing at the mouth for when it first came out. She often laughed to the guys that she was a hipster before it was cool to be a hipster.

The guy who’d walked in was not a hipster. His legs weren’t skinny enough, first off. His pants were some multi-pocket variety, but they weren’t loose like cargos usually were. They very nearly clung to his thighs. Roxanne felt her mouth go dry, and she quickly looked up. T-shirt, ox-blood leather biker jacket. Definitely not a hipster. His t-shirt was just a touch too tight, and his pecs were just a touch too perfect. She swallowed thickly and looked at his face. Guys with bodies that great usually didn’t have great faces.

“Oh, fuck,” she breathed. He was gorgeous. She couldn’t tell if his hair was red, or brown, and settled on calling it auburn. It didn’t matter really; it was his jaw that knocked her out. Strong, chiseled, and with the exact perfect amount of stubble. He walked with confidence, and Roxanne felt her interest deflate. Hot guys with that much swagger were usually total d-bags. She plastered her best customer service smile on her face, cursing the Sunday girl for no-showing for her morning shift.

“Hi, how can I help you?” She tried to look as bland as possible. It wasn’t going to be hard. She was dressed for bookkeeping in the back. Ratty band t-shirt that was three sizes too big, garish print leggings. No make-up, hair up in a severe ponytail. The guy leaned on the counter, and smiled. Predatory. Roxanne shuddered.

“My cassette needs repair.” He had a peculiar accent that she couldn’t place. Midwest maybe? Sorta-south?

“Your cassette? The deck?” She tried to clarify.

“No, the tape. It’s stretched.” He pulled it out of his jacket and placed it reverently on the counter between them. It was well worn, the plastic case scuffed, the hand-lettered label peeling up on one corner. It had to be twenty years old if it was a day, but it was in better shape than any of the cassettes she might have had hidden away under her bed.

“You can’t repair tape that’s stretched. You need to replace the whole thing,” she explained. Cassettes were really old technology. Maybe he didn’t remember. Or maybe he was younger than he looked. The rumpled vulnerability that fell across his face took at least five years off her guess. She’d figured he was her age. But thirty would be young enough to not quite remember cassettes well enough to remember how easily mix tapes got wrecked.

“But I need to repair it.” His accent was really distracting. Roxanne made eye contact with him, and immediately wished she hadn’t. There was panic in his eyes, and she watched him blink, trying to stem the tears that were welling up.

“The best I can do is burn you a CD of the stuff on the tape or load it to an mp3 player. If the case has liner notes from whoever made it for you, I could probably do that by tomorrow,” she blurted, trying to stop his reaction. He blinked slowly and narrowed his eyes.

“A CD?”

“Compact disc. It was the industry standard for, like, 20 years.” Roxanne quirked an eyebrow at the guy. Hot, but weird. They always have something wrong with them. No matter how pretty and flawless they seem, men always had something wrong with them once you peeled back the layers.

“Right,” he responded. He almost looked like he was following her. “My, uh, vehicle. It doesn’t have a CD player.”

“Ooh! Well no wonder you seemed confused. A CD’s not gonna help much, is it? And really, CDs aren’t the industry standard anymore anyhow. If you have an mp3 player, I could load it on that, and if you don’t have a cassette converter, I just so happen to have a few on clearance,” Roxanne felt a bit like an idiot, but the feeling passed quickly, as she realized the guy was staring blankly at her again.

“You’re gonna have to start over. And this time, speak English.” He was definitely weird. And where was that damn accent from, anyhow? She’d been all over the States, and through Canada, and she couldn’t place that accent.

“Where’ve you been for the last ten years? Russia?” Roxanne realized it sounded rude, but the guy was weirding her out a little. And after nearly twenty years working at this particular music store, that was saying something.

“Something like that. Listen. How about you pretend I am a complete idiot. I will also pretend I am a complete idiot. But I am a complete idiot that wants the music on that cassette, and I’m a complete idiot that will spend a ridiculous amount of money to ensure I have it. Can you set me up with a way to have that music, and listen to it, in my vehicle and when I’m out? You know, doing stuff?” He asked. Roxanne nodded.

“Sure. I’m going to assume you need a whole digital set-up. Gimme twenty-four hours and I’ll have it sorted for you,” Roxanne said. “Actually, make it 48. I have some stuff tonight.”

“It have anything to do with this?” He pointed at a flyer sitting by the cash register. “Starlady and the Astronauts, Live at the Aladdin.”

“It might.” Roxanne smirked.

“They any good?” He asked. Roxanne took pity on him. She was curious what she was going to find on the cassette because the guy seemed oblivious to modern technology. So maybe the rock he crawled out from under hadn’t kept up with the times.

“Can I tell you a secret? On their last tour, the lead singer from Pixie Stix discovered that one of the guys in their opening act had a master’s degree in astronomy. They then discovered that another big band had a guy with a PhD in metallurgy. When the tour was over, they all got together and started jamming about space and stuff, and one thing led to another and they decided to do a show. They’re all still with their bands and all. But it’s like an alt-pop Traveling Wilburys. And maybe the names involved are smaller,” Roxanne explained.

“Who are the Pixie Stix?” He asked. Roxanne quirked an eyebrow again.

“Russia? Or outer fucking Mongolia? They’re the biggest thing to come out of Portland in years,” Roxanne exclaimed, pointing to a life-sized cardboard cut out from the band’s recent release. The guy shrugged. She felt a shudder of embarrassment for her outburst, but he didn’t seem the least bit fazed.

“I guess I just love the classics,” he admitted. Roxanne smiled.

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with that,” she agreed. “I’m gonna need your name, and some way to contact you.”

“Peter Quill. I haven’t set up contacts yet. I’ll just come by in a couple of days.” He picked up a copy of the concert flyer and stuck it in the same pocket he’d been storing the cassette.

“Okay, Pete. I’ll have your system ready for you on Tuesday. If I’m not at the counter, ask for someone to grab Roxanne.” She scribbled a few notes on a post-it and stuck it to the cassette. He smiled, and once again, Roxanne was struck with how hot he was.

“I’ll see you Tuesday, Roxanne.” He wandered over to the Pixie Stix stand-up. “Why can’t you see their faces?”

“Look at the name of the album,” Roxanne explained.

“Everyman?” He read off the bottom of the stand-up. “Oh, I get it. Cool. How big are they? Like, local gig big?”

“Major label and selling out stadiums big. Triple platinum album big.” Roxanne could feel herself blushing.

“And they did their most recent record launch here?” Peter asked, as though he didn’t think it possible.

“They’re really active in the local scene, despite their success. Give back to the community, and all that,” Roxanne blurted.

“And the lead singer is sneaking out to do a concert with a bunch of other dudes tonight?” He pressed.

“Yeah,” Roxanne nodded. “It’ll be pretty awesome. But remember, it’s a secret.” Roxanne contemplated correcting his assumption that the lead singer was a guy, but changed her mind. He probably wasn’t going to the concert anyhow. Mr. I guess I just love the classics was probably going to sit in his mother’s basement and listen to Barry Manilow.

“Sure,” he nodded. Roxanne rummaged around in the box behind the counter to try to find a cassette deck while Peter looked around the store. The bell jangled, letting her know he’d left, and she headed to the back to find what she was looking for.

The din in the bar was just as loud as anything he’d heard in any bar anywhere else in the galaxy. Some things were universal, he supposed. He made his way to the bartender and ordered a beer before he made his way through the crowd of people and over to a table near the front of the stage. He was glad he’d left his jacket on the Milano. It was hot, and either there was no air conditioning or it couldn’t keep up with the crowd. It seemed, to Peter, that maybe more than just he knew about this special band line-up. The crowd was filled with excited conversation. But when he strained to listen in, he discovered that most people had come just because they loved live music. He never once heard the name Pixie Stix, and he almost thought maybe they weren’t a big deal until a girl in a tank top splashed with their name sat down at his table.

“This seat taken?” She dropped her purse on the table and started rooting around for something inside it.

“Well, no, but –“

“Awesome. Have you heard of this group before? I haven’t heard of this group before. At least, I don’t think I have. But the Aladdin always books good bands, so I figured, even though it’s a Sunday, it’s worth coming. I hope it’s a good band.” She spoke too quickly, and Peter had a hard time keeping up. She pulled a tube of lipstick from her purse and lined her lips, making an elaborate show of blotting on the cocktail napkin beside Peter’s drink. He raised an eyebrow. “I heard that the guitarist tonight is from Dr. Schrödinger’s Kitty.”

“I have no idea who that is,” Peter admitted.

“Oh my god, seriously? They opened for Pixie Stix on their European tour last spring,” she explained. “The guitarist is some sort of super smart science dude. Apparently everyone in the group is. I think I’ve figured out where the bass and drum players are from, just by googling Portland science and music, but I can’t figure out the lead singer.”

“What the fuck is a google?” Peter asked. The girl looked at him and shook her head. Before she could answer, the band came out on stage and launched into their first set. The audience cheered as they recognized some of their favourite local musicians, and Peter took a slug from his beer. They were good. There was no singer on stage, which Peter thought was weird until he heard the vocals starting. When the singer ran on stage at the swell of the end of the first verse, the crowd went nuts.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, THAT’S ROXY RAIN!” The girl grabbed his arm and shook him. When he looked blankly at her, she pointed at her chest and flicked her tank top at him. “From Pixie Stix!”

“The lead singer from Pixie Stick is a woman?” He asked. The girl furrowed her brow and shook her head.

“Where have you been for the last five years?” She grabbed her purse and moved to another table, closer to the stage. Peter felt himself getting more into the music as the set progressed, and when the opening riffs of Moonage Daydream came on he realized that they’d been alternating covers of space-themed songs with original music. He liked it all, but the familiarity of some of the songs caused a flood of memories to rush forward. Things he hadn’t thought about in years, since leaving Terra. The lyrics of the song pulled at him back to reality and he found himself watching the lead singer, watching her movements, and the way she sang. It was no wonder her band was huge. Her stage presence was amazing and she was hot. He felt a tug of lust and recognized that that feeling also probably helped boost album sales. The lead singer of Pixie Stix was sexy, she knew it, and she used it.

He got lost in the music and roared to his feet with the rest of the crowd at the end of the concert. On the way out, he willingly dropped the cash for a t-shirt before heading back to the ship.

Once back on the Milano, he flopped down in the pilot’s chair and spun around to face the crew, dopey grin plastered on his face.

“Did you meet a woman? I thought you said you were going to go listen to music?” Gamora immediately began interrogating him.

“I saw a band play. They were awesome,” he sighed. “Their lead singer was super hot. I want to meet her.”

“So meet her,” Rocket shrugged.

“Not really that easy. She’s a rockstar. Like, hugely famous,” Peter explained.

“How do we find out more about her? Track her down? I would take her for you,” Drax offered.

“Somebody said something about the google tonight. I don’t know what the google is, but it apparently has information about musicians on it,” Peter offered.

“Seriously kid, how long has it been since you’ve been back to Terra? Google is a online information system, linking most of Terra,” Rocket explained.

“Like the info bank on the Milano?” Peter asked.

“Yeah. Only with information exclusive to Terra,” he continued. Peter leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin.

“I’ve got another day to wait until my cassette will be fixed. We should find a google portal so I can search for her.” He chewed his lip.

“You said yourself she’s hugely famous. You won’t be able to find her using this info bank. Famous people guard their privacy, Peter,” Gamora scoffed. Peter shrugged. “If you want to work your questionable sexual magic on the women of Terra, maybe choose one who is more attainable.”

“Well, maybe I can just get a new poster then.” He pushed himself out of his chair and headed to his bunk. His ears were still ringing from the concert and he had a lot of questions for Roxanne from the music store when he saw her next. He’d apparently missed out on a lot of music, if the concert was any indication.

[adorebughead]

Multitudes - Part 1

Well, hey! I’m back again with a brand new fic! After the lovely response to For Better or Worse, I felt super inspired to continue with my writing - and I am actually really excited about this one. I’m being painfully self critical of my writing as always, but I really hope that you enjoy! The name comes from one of the most well-known poems by Walt Whitman, A Song of Myself. Hopefully that’ll make more sense as the story progresses. Let me know what you think! 

(edit: I also forgot to mention originally that this isn’t just a one shot; there’s lots more to come!)

*Read on AO3*

——————————–

“Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes.”

There was something about the month of October. The amber hue of the afternoon skies, the lingering scent of cinnamon and pumpkin, the scattering of autumn’s colourful leaves leaving fragments of a summer stripped away. A falling, a letting go, an end intertwined with a new beginning.

These were the things that Betty Cooper found herself thinking about every morning as she perched on a bench beside the harbour with her favourite book in hand before heading to work, inhaling the welcomed breeze as the day started to unfold. How beautiful the world seemed as the year began to close.

A few moments of solitude were so warmly welcomed before a six hour shift in the coffee shop. It’s not that she hated it, but she didn’t love it, either. She was indifferent. It was a job. It paid the bills. And that’s about all it did.

“Can I take a name?” She smiled, the pen lingering in the air between her fingers.

“Uh, sure,” he laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s Trev.”

“Nice to meet you, Trev,” she said playfully, scribbling his name with an added love heart and placing the cup to the side. “Pumpkin spiced latte with extra cream, your favourite.”

He smirked then, leaning across the counter to plant a brisk kiss on her lips.

“Are we still on for later?”

Her perfectly slicked back ponytail sprung as she passed the cup over to her colleague and friend a few feet away, currently fighting with the coffee machine.

“Of course,” she replied, returning to her original spot in front of the cash register and smoothing down the front of her navy blue ‘Oakwood Bay Coffee’ t-shirt. “What do you have in mind?”

“I’ve booked dinner reservations at that little seafood restaurant just outside of town.”

Betty winced. She hated seafood. “Sounds great,” she chorused, flashing her most convincing smile. He always bought it.

“But it’s probably best you don’t stay over,” he said quickly, “just because I have to be up so early tomorrow morning for my flight.”

“Yeah,” she said, her gaze momentarily shifting onto a regular customer walking in and mouthing ‘hi’. “I get that. No worries.”

“It’s only a few weeks,” he assured her, “then I’ll be back.”

“Yep,” she smiled. “A few weeks.”

Retrieving his drink with a quiet thanks and taking a sip, he offered her another quick peck and swiftly bounded out of the door, humming an offhand ‘see you later’ as Veronica turned around and crossed her arms. Betty rolled her eyes.

“Don’t.”

“Look,” she started, “I’m your friend so I can tell you things straight.”

Betty raised her eyebrows, grabbing the damp cloth draped over the sink and wiping away the remnants of cinnamon and sugar. Somehow, Veronica saw this as a prompt to continue.

“It’s probably best you don’t stay over?”  She repeated satirically. “Geez, I know you guys have been together for two years now, but do you even ever stay over anymore anyway? And don’t you hate seafood?“

“V,” Betty interjected, “I appreciate you looking out for me, I really do, but I’m fine. He’s fine. We’re fine. Everything’s… fine.”

A brief paused followed, nothing but the sound of plates and glasses clinking along with the hushed tones of an incredibly apt ‘Acoustic Coffee Shop’ Spotify playlist, which both of them had now heard so many times they were slowly losing the will to live.

Veronica huffed, throwing her hands up in defeat.

“Ok,” she muttered, leaning down to grab a bottled water from the small fridge beside them and subsequently taking a swig. “Where’s he going anyway?”

“London,” she sighed. “He’s taken a four week course to build up his business skills, or something.”

“Or something?”

“I kind of tune out at times,” she admitted, biting her lip.

“Well, it sure sounds riveting to me.”

“It’ll be a great opportunity for him.”

Veronica shrugged dispassionately in response.

Betty had met Trev just over two years earlier in their local college. She was studying English Literature at the time, bright-eyed and determined, dreaming of becoming a professional writer. They were introduced to one another during an open evening in which Betty was helping out at, and they hit it off almost instantly. It was all very easy, actually.

They initially went out on a few coffee and movie dates, making their relationship official only a couple of months later, and, as they say, the rest was history. They were pretty settled by this point, so much so that they didn’t need to be around each other at every waking moment. In fact, they often savoured the time alone. That’s what Betty kept telling Veronica anyway. And, as much as she hated to admit it, herself. On more occasions than one.

“Black coffee to go.”

The deep, monotone request pulled her out of her fleeting reminiscences as she shook away thoughts that were much too in depth for three o’clock in the afternoon after running on only one shot of coffee. She instinctively reached to grab a cup and her trusty pen from beside her, removing the lid with a click.

“You got it. Can I take a name?”

“No.”

The abrupt answer made her eyes shoot up in astonishment.

“Excuse me?”

“Not to be rude, but I assume I’m the only person in this something-out-of-a-Nicholas-Sparks-novel town who would even dream of drinking something other than a cup of frothed milk drowning in sugar-drenched syrup, so, no. I don’t see much of a point in giving you my name.”

She blinked, her brows furrowing as she tilted her head, attempting to conjure up a response. He looked back at her, showing no signs of remorse for the fact, despite his initial statement, he had indeed been exceptionally rude. Instead, his face was entirely nonchalant. It infuriated her.

“Right. So, that’s $2.85,” she uttered after a momentary silence, biting her tongue in an attempt to not lose her job, actively choosing to ignore Veronica’s background snigger as she handed her the cup. It only took a few moments before the freshly poured coffee was passed back again.

“Keep the change,” he mumbled, not even bothering to strain himself to look at her again as he chucked the money onto the counter, seizing his drink and stomping back outside.

“Please, come again,” she quipped under her breath, turning to face Veronica who was shaking her head with a smirk. “I should’ve written asshole.”

“Tourists,” she replied with a subsequent eye roll. “Anyway, I need to ask you something.”

Betty leaned up against the counter, taking a moment to relieve the pain that came with standing on her feet all day long. Late Friday afternoons were always pretty chilled, even if the mornings were an overwhelming rush of madness. But by now, people were getting ready to either go out on the town or spend a night in front of the TV with takeout pizza. Betty sure knew which she’d prefer. And it definitely didn’t involve seafood.

“Sure,” she replied.

“So,” Veronica pursed her lips together and raised a brow hopefully, “there’s this party-“

“No.”

“What? Betty-“

“You know I don’t go to those things, V.”

“Oh, come on,” she replied, clasping her hands together. “Trev’s leaving, and this can be a chance to reconnect with that fun, independent woman inside of you.”

Betty ran the cloth under the tap before rinsing it out. “Am I not those things already?”

“Look,” she sighed, “I just think it would be nice to let your hair down once in a while.”

“Veronica, you know that I like my hair well and truly up, secured with ten bobby pins and half a can of hairspray.”

They both chuckled then, Betty folding her arms across her chest and waiting for Veronica’s inevitable persistancy.

“It’s tomorrow night, anyway. I’m kind of crushing on the guy that’s throwing it. A friend’s support would be great.”

“And by that you mean someone to stand outside the door and keep guard as you make out in the downstairs bathroom?” Betty scoffed.

“Hey,” she shrugged, “that was one time. It was a nice bathroom.”

Betty shook her head with a grin, retrieving her pen as the bell on the door sounded. “I’ll think about it, ok?”

-

The evening rolled around relatively quickly, the sun setting just before six o’clock as Betty stood outside of her apartment waiting for Trev to pick her up. A cold breeze brushed over her skin, raising goose bumps as she tightened her black cardigan across her chest.

She’d decided to keep her hair up, twisting her signature ponytail into a neat, perfectly sculpted bun, and running a light pink gloss over her lips. She’d thrown on her slightly worn black jeans and a short-sleeved white lace vest, placing her heart-shaped necklace neatly over the top. When he finally pulled up, he was ten minutes late, not that she was keeping tabs.

Luckily, the drive to the restaurant was a short one at that.

“Are you all packed?” Betty questioned once they were seated at their table and served their food, picking at her salmon and taking small bites every so often. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah, pretty much,” he replied, covering his mouth as he swallowed his coconut shrimp, the sight in itself making Betty feel a little queasy. “I just need to sort out my hand luggage when I get home later.”

She nodded, gently stabbing her fork into a cherry tomato and popping it into her mouth. “Well, it’ll be weird not having you around.”

“It’ll fly by,” he replied.

“Yeah,” she agreed half-heartedly, studying his features that she had grown so used to. She knew his face better than anyone’s. She threw him a faint smile, something inside of her shifting. She ignored it.

“I guess that brings me onto my next point,” he uttered after a few moments.

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?

“I know we’ve been together for two years now, and they’ve honestly been amazing,” he began, “I just think that maybe we need a change.”

She placed her hand down beside her plate, still clutching onto her fork, and sat back a little in her seat.

Oh shit, she thought. He’s breaking up with me.

She guessed that she had seen it coming for a while. The both of them were close, very much so, but there was always something a little out of place. She was in a constant battle with her thoughts, because she knew they were supposed to be together.

She loved Trev. She really did. She felt a familiarity and safety with him that she had never felt quite ready to let go of. He had been there when her parents had split and he had supported her whenever she needed him. They leant on one another and had done for so long that they’d almost forgotten what it was like not to do so.

They were comfortable.

She shifted in her seat, placing her hands in her lap and softening her eyes. “Look, Trev-“

“I think we should get married.”

There were few things that had shocked Betty Cooper in her life so far. Everything had always been rather predictable, a simple, perfect life plan for the perfect girl next door. She had always excelled in school, running the school paper and involving herself in every after school activity she could find, she had gone off and gotten her first class degree, and she was now training to be a teacher; temporarily working in the coffee shop for a steady-ish income. She was only twenty-two, but her whole life had practically already been mapped out for her. Trev included.

That was why, in that precise moment, in front of her utterly untouched salmon, she was speechless. Of course it made sense for her long-term boyfriend to propose to her. Her parents were married at twenty-one, ignoring the fact said marriage had gone to shit, so surely she should’ve seen it coming. Nobody in Oakwood Bay would expect a Cooper to be unmarried in anything other than a white picket fenced house past the age of twenty-five. Despite of this, she couldn’t quite put her finger on why, but she had not once even thought about it during the past two years.

For once in her life, she was completely unprepared. Her fork fell onto the table with a loud clink.

“Wow,” was all she could manage, her eyes widening at the large diamond ring he had retrieved from his jacket pocket. He hadn’t gotten down on one knee, which Betty was actually quite thankful for, seeing as the few eyes that were already watching them were making her uncomfortable enough. She was embarrassed, suddenly. Anticipating a feeling in the pit of her stomach; the one they always write about in songs and in poems. It never came.

She looked back up at him and expected to see fireworks in his eyes, but there were none. Only the smell of dead fish.

“Is that a yes?”

-

Veronica inspected the ring for a good ten minutes, her jaw practically wedged open as the large, sparkling diamond got lost in her dark, brown eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” she declared.

“Yeah, it is.”

“So, remind me why you’re not wearing it?”

Betty sighed, plonking herself down onto her bed beside Veronica and pulling her legs into her chest. “I told him I’d think about it.”

Veronica raised a brow, carefully placing the ring back onto the bedside table. “What’s there to think about?”

“I’ll tell you when I figure it out,” she replied, sinking back onto her pile of cushions.

“At least he’s leaving in the morning so you can avoid any awkward run-ins.”

“We’re still together,” Betty defended, closing her eyes as she ran everything over in her head, “I think.”

“Well, you did just say no to his marriage proposal.”

“I didn’t say no.”

“But you didn’t say yes.”

Betty grabbed a pillow and proceeded to face plant it, turning over onto her stomach. She’d lost count of how many times she’d screamed into this thing.

“Hey,” Veronica said leaning over to gently place a hand on her shoulder, “you know what will make you feel better?”

“Binge-watching Gilmore Girls and eating ten gallons of ice-cream?”

“Ok,” she replied, “aside from that.”

Betty propped herself up onto her elbows, turning her head and wrinkling her brows.

“Buying a puppy?”

Veronica laughed, sticking out her bottom lip and nodding. “I was actually referring to the party, but yeah now that you mention it…”

“Oh, V,” she rolled her eyes, hopping back up off the bed and pushing her hair out of her face. “Does it really mean that much to you? All for this random guy?”

“I really like him.”

“Have you ever even talked to him?”

“I blurted out this really weird high-pitched laugh when I accidentally bumped into him in the store the other day. We did that thing where you both go to walk the same way about three times over. I think he thought I was having some sort of stroke.”

“So, it’s getting serious then?”

Veronica threw her head into her hands, her shoulder-length black hair veiling her inevitable expression of both mortification and disappointment.

“Ok,” Betty said softly with a sigh, smirking faintly. She’d never seen her best friend so dejected over a guy she’d never even spoken to before. Weird creature-esque laugh aside.

Her head shot back up in delight. “Ok?”

“I’ll go.”

Veronica squealed, heaving Betty into a rather abrupt embrace before hopping up off of the bed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She cried. “Ok, so let’s talk outfits. I’m thinking sexy, but still classy, something simple but not so simple that it’s boring. Is red lipstick too much? What am I saying, red lipstick is never too much.”

As Veronica started to trail off into a debate with herself over the appropriate height of her heels, Betty lay back down and pulled her phone out of her pocket. No new messages. She turned her head to catch another glimpse of the ring lying beside a photo of the two of them holding ice-creams in a floral printed frame and sighed.

Why didn’t she say yes?

-

Betty allowed herself to awake much earlier than usual the following morning. Saturday shifts were her least favourite, and the truth was that she hadn’t slept at all. Trev had texted her not long after she’d gotten dressed to tell her that he was boarding his flight. It was a little cold and a little awkward, but at least he was still associating with her after she’d basically publicly humiliated him in his favourite seafood restaurant, of all places. She knew going there was a bad idea. When was seafood ever a good idea, anyway?

She loved visiting the harbour when the majority of the town were still asleep; watching the boats leave and allowing her anxieties to leave with them. Not only this, but the autumn sunrise was always the most beautiful, somehow. She found a comfort in this place, one that she had never quite found anywhere else

Taking a sip of her morning coffee before placing it onto the ground beside a small gathering of colourful fallen leaves, she propped her feet up on the bench and opened up her book to where she had last finished off. She exhaled, savouring the satisfaction of a peaceful morning paired with her favourite poet. Somehow, his words ignited something inside of her that she often worried was slipping away. These strings of sentences, masked by hidden meanings, were sometimes all that kept her sane.

‘There is that in me—I do not know what it is—but I know it is in me.

Wrench’d and sweaty—calm and cool then my body becomes,

I sleep—I sleep long.

I do not know it—it is without name—it is a word unsaid,

It is not in any dictionary, utterance, symbol.

Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on,

To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me.’  

“Whitman?” A voice sounded a few centimetres away from her, prompting a loud gasp.

“Jesus,” she cried, sitting up abruptly and clutching the book which had almost fallen to the ground.

“Nope,” he said dryly, “pretty sure it’s Whitman.”

She twisted her head then, meeting with a set of unfamiliar, vacant green eyes. His hair was tucked inside a grey beanie, a couple of dark curls peeking out of the front. It took him a few moments, but he smirked. Betty’s face was that of utter disgust as she reached down, realising she had seemingly instantly kicked over her coffee, cursing aloud at the realisation.

“I know you,” she spat, sitting upright and perching on the edge of the bench, narrowing her eyes. “You’re the asshole from yesterday.”

He folded his arms, taking a small bite out of a half-eaten, red apple. “You’ll have to elaborate on that.”

“Really?” She laughed sarcastically. “In the coffee shop? Your weird and incredibly rude speech when I asked for your name?”

He shrugged. “Oh, yeah.”

“Oh, yeah?” She repeated, expecting another snarky response which he suddenly held back on, something boiling up inside of her as a result of his inability to converse like a decent human being. Shaking her head, she tucked her book back into her bag and threw it over her shoulder, standing up and tightening her pony tail. He wasn’t even worth it.

“Can I help you with something?” She asked after a few seconds, folding her arms as he stood in front of her, much taller than she’d originally anticipated, showing no intention of moving out of the way.

“Actually, you’re in my spot.”

“I’m sorry, your spot?”

He nodded, squeezing past her and sitting down in the exact place she had previously been, finishing his apple with one more large bite and chucking the core onto the ground. The simple action made her cringe.

“Well, you were. Thanks.”

She furrowed her brows, glancing around in disbelief, her ponytail bouncing at the brisk movement. “I come here and read every single morning. I have never seen you. Not once. Are you just trying to irritate me?”

“Potentially,” he replied, prompting her to roll her eyes and drop her jaw ever so slightly. “But no, you’d have had a job seeing as I only actually moved here yesterday afternoon. Tell me, is your town slogan ‘the place people come to die?’ Because, if not, that was really a missed opportunity. I’d like credit for that one.”

Betty was speechless, this stranger who she had never met before yesterday already pushing buttons she didn’t even know that she had. He stretched his legs out, his scuffed combat boots perching on the concrete as he retrieved a pen and a notepad from his bag before throwing it onto the ground. He opened up to a page which had already been half-scribbled on and paused, craning his head to see that she was still standing, staring at him. He raised an eyebrow.

“Can I help you with something?”

She groaned, abruptly turning on her heel and storming away as far out of sight as she could possibly get, shoving her hands into her pockets. How could someone possibly be so rude and self-entitled?  She’d be damned if she let him take her morning spot away from her again. Once she had made it back towards the main road, she felt a text buzz through the material of her gloves, startling her ever so slightly as she began to lose herself in mental re-runs of her previous infuriating conversation.

Veronica: Party starts at 8 tonight. I’ll come over at 6 to get ready?

Betty: Ok. Enjoy your Saturday off. Think of me slaving away.

Veronica: Ha ha. Hopefully you won’t be serving any more black coffee today.

Betty: Funny you should say that. Guess who I just bumped into?

Veronica: What? I-refuse-to-conform-to-society-and-give-you-my-name-for-a-damn-cup-of-coffee guy?

Betty: That’s the one.

Veronica: Is he hot? I can’t remember.

Betty: Oh, god. I’ll talk to you later.

Veronica: So that’s a yes.

Betty: He’s a total dick.

Veronica: So that’s a yes.

Betty: Bye.

Veronica: So that’s a yes.

Locking her phone and rolling her eyes, she picked up the pace as a few raindrops started to bounce off of her cheeks. Her morning had already started off so horrendously, so, naturally, why wouldn’t the heavens open and make it just that little bit worse? She was still pretty riled up from her previous encounter with black-coffee-guy, whose name she still did not know, and had no interest in knowing, but when she made it into work, she painted on her favourite fake smile as she greeted Ethel and Kevin waiting for her behind the counter. All she knew was that she needed to shift her attention to serving customers and cleaning tables in order to take her mind off of not only that, but of Trev’s dead-fish-scented proposal, suddenly grateful for the busy Saturday shift that she usually so desperately despised.

Because her perfect plan was already faltering.

And because it was most definitely a yes.

[thanksanonymous]

early bird dinner [erotica]

I bat my eyelashes at the diner busboy in the hope that he’ll give me a booth to myself. I forego a menu in favor coffee and smile as he roughly slides a lukewarm dark roast across the warped wooden tabletop. The walls are painted different shades of mustard yellow: Dijon, Honey, Grey Poupon. I sip my brown water and look out the window advertising “BreakFast ALL DAY!!!” to the tune of a tinny 80s playlist, the effeminate male singers sounding constantly on the brink of orgasm.

I reach to pull a curl behind my ear and catch the unmistakable scent of myself on my fingers. I smile, Eve straight out of the Garden, and wonder who can make out the snakes in my windswept hair. The stooped, scowling man and woman here for early bird dinner? The pierced teen threesome eating Belgian waffles? The busboy himself, watching me from the corner of his eye and busying himself re-folding the napkins, re-stacking the menus?

Billie Jean comes on. I dream of splattering my sexuality across the canvas of this bleak, whitewashed town like a fistful of green fingerpaint.

I’ll talk about sex over scrambled eggs, but I want the act of sex to be sacred. Pull my hair until I crick my neck, slap my ass and leave a deep red welt, but trace my face with the tip of your finger as if I were porcelain. And don’t you dare call it role play. This is divine. The beast of prey inside of you howls at the wolfess inside of me. You split me from the inside out and dip your wet tongue inside my raw, pink places. You thrust between my soft red lips and fill my mouth with you.

Midday, when I’m hungry, I fold my body over my bureau and slip a finger inside of myself. I gaze empty-eyed at my delicate perfume bottles as I frantically stroke my g-spot. My face contorts, I arch my back and moan for you, “Please.” Sometimes after I come, I imagine you wiping wet strands of hair from my sweat-streaked face and pulling them back in a firm fist, covering my panting mouth with your open lips. “Again,” you growl, and force my eyes to meet yours as you roughly shove your fingers inside of my swollen pussy, loud and wet. My juices drip down your wrist.

The bartender coughs phlegm into a paper napkin as the TV news anchor warns against a batch of tainted vaccinations. “Superman, where are you now?” whines Genesis. The sun has gone down and I’m the only patron left. I order a Deluxe Egg and Cheese for $4.99. It arrives hot and dripping, strands of sautéed purple onion dangling over the sides like spider legs. I will eat this sandwich, wipe my oily fingers, pay in small bills, and shrug on my winter coat, exiting into the cold as an ambulance speeds by. 

---

Submission is as intrinsic to me as being a woman, as being attracted to men. It’s not a flavor of my sexuality; it’s my total sexuality. Submission is all 24 tubs at Häagen-Dazs, not just the butter pecan. Every glance, every touch is a wave in this invisible tide. Ebb, surrender. Flow, possess. 

But I’ve been swimming in shallow pools. I’ve given myself to men who can’t receive me. Men who nudge me against bedroom walls and cough up commands that sound like questions. Men who shove themselves to the back of my throat but avoid my gaze as I choke for air. Men who spank my ass with limp wrists to test its buoyancy, not to remind me that I am theirs. 

I’m not sure who these men are performing for. Me, in some desperate attempt to satisfy? More likely their own idea of who they ought to be - the looming shadow that polices their masculinity. I imagine a darkly lit auditorium, a hogtied woman spread center-stage, a hairy, naked man nervously stepping from the wings, sweating. “Well?” bellows the lone audience member, the tall shadow, tapping his gleaming black dress shoe on the linoleum floor. “You like this, don’t you?”

Perhaps in the way women are quick to fake orgasm, men are quick to fake dominance. They believe it should come naturally to them. When it doesn’t, they risk falling out of an unspoken natural order, an order that persists in spite of our attempts to revise cultural narrative over the past century. Behind closed doors, we still expect men to have a glint of unrestrained savagery in their eyes. And most women are still not prepared to hear: “Actually, dear, I was hoping you could handcuff me to the four-poster and call me a filthy slut.”

So non-dominant men who find themselves in bed with submissive women narrow their eyes, inflate their chests, and experiment with dirty words, blushing all the while. But these performances are in vain. Dominance is a presence: it is either there, or it is not there, the way Susan is either in the room, or not in the room. There is no wondering. Dominance is a holistic way of being hinted at by language, movement, and the color behind one’s eyes. The series of actions, the methods of touch - that’s just the butter pecan.

I know this because the same is true of my submission. Girlish deference is my second skin. I tried to outrun her once, the hot tongues of feminism licking at my ankles, but she remains inseparable from me. I’ve come to enjoy her, this self who tilts her chin and volunteers the delicate skin of her neck to her lovers in the dark. She is deftly compliant. She is wickedly unrestrained. 

Many forget that, in spite of our docility, submissives are pleasure seekers. Perhaps the hungriest of all. Our submission is misconstrued for passivity. In reality, surrender is actionable and opportunities for pleasure are boundless. When a lover’s stare lingers on my body, I acquiesce to the power in his gaze. I’m wet before he lifts a finger. The simplest phrases, even when spoken benignly, electrify: “Come here.” “Look at me.” 

There are infinite ways to be taken, so many more than there are ways to be touched. Impatiently, I wait for a man who understands the eroticism of subtle ownership - whose posture and gaze bind me as aggressively to him as nylon rope binds my wrists to wooden bedposts. I wait for a man who is unafraid of the sacred intimacy of utter surrender and control. 

--

My body sinks into the living room couch, a soft vee from head to toe. I honored November’s arrival by wearing oversized everything: woolen socks, argyle sweaters, men’s sweatpants. I spend my evenings swimming in fabric. Four months single, I am haunted by the manic-depressive phantom that is my long-term partner’s absence. As the nights grow colder and the pain of our separation hardens and shrinks in tightening concentric circles, I take comfort in these fabric silhouettes. 

Cold rain streaks down the window. I dip a silver tablespoon into a jar of peanut butter and peer halfheartedly at the book sitting tent-folded on the table. Proud of my good intentions, I sit the spoon on my tongue and defer to my phone. I open a kinky dating app and peruse a parade of strangers’ faces. Simultaneously intrigued and mindless, I meet Mr. Buttons (long-haired, snaggle-toothed teddy bear), Daddy Dom (bearded, tattooed weightlifter), and M&M (gothic couple with matching apathetic gazes). I’m quickly bored. Dating apps have proliferated so widely that not even the social experiment holds my attention anymore.

Bored, feeling anonymous and emboldened, I send messages to two men. Their interests range from “rough sex” to “spanking, gagging, and orgasm control.” I muster all of the sex positivity I can recall from Bitch Magazine and Advanced Gender Theory to form a protective shield against the jarring sensation of talking about sex with strangers online. Our conversations begin with pleasantries, comedy and anecdote serving as dry cobblestones between deep puddles of lust and craving. I spend a few hours this way, eating peanut butter by the tablespoonful and tiptoeing, then stomping, through puddles without galoshes. When I pull myself from the couch, my heart is beating and I am drenched in rainwater. 

My pupils dilate and replace the glimmer of pixels with the dim outline of the couch, the windowsill. Disoriented, I turn off the light and make my way to bed. 

---

The city bus wheezes down the street, the driver cursing fluently under his breath at rogue pedestrians. It’s Monday afternoon and I’m on my way to a date. I peer at my translucent reflection in the bus window, self-conscious of my body, of the way I’m presenting my body to this stranger. Blue sweater and blue jeans veiling a living, hungry woman. I am a character in a movie called Social Convention. I am performing.

The cafe is crowded, overrun with bright-eyed academics and conventionally unconventional twenty-two year olds. To my right, two women lean forward in their high-top stools. They talk at a breakneck pace and gesture with manicured hands, aggressively inspired. Behind me, two male students argue unironically about the elitism of modern university education, spouting vocabulary words as if their professor were sitting idly by. I never knew sentences could contain so many clauses. Surrounded by Hamlet, Willy Loman, and Lady Macbeth, I am suddenly complacent in my role as an understudy. 

Visibly bored, the pierced barista hands me an overpriced coffee in a mason jar. I weave through the herd of black coats, nondescript faces buried in their devices, impatiently awaiting their froth and foam. I promptly douse my drink in cream and sugar. One, two, three heaping teaspoons. As I reach for a stirrer, the man I recognize as my date comes in from the cold. 

I’m flooded with observation. He is a person, and somehow this surprises and disappoints me. He is slightly taller than I am. Lively green eyes and expansive, curly hair that reaches from scalp to ceiling, a few grey hairs mixed casually with brown. He looks pleasantly electrocuted. I’m not used to men with this much hair. I imagine what it would feel like to have his beard between my legs.

I smile in greeting as we exchange a warm hug. His smile is unassuming and he smells vaguely of lavender. We sit and open our mouths to recite our scripts. To my surprise, he brings out a particular color in me; my script begins to feel less like a script and more like a blurry afterthought. I forget what character I’m playing. He is easy to talk with. Our conversation dances intelligently between topics, sewing tiny stitches of tentative connection between us.

He holds a Ginger Steamer loosely in his hand: ground ginger, sugar, hot water. He lives in a cabin in Vermont without running water. He is here for a month-long musical engagement. 

I pull a curl behind my ear and watch his eyes follow my fingers. I watch his lips as he tells me about his travels to Turkey. He asks me how I take my coffee.

“Heavily creamed, heavily sugared,” I reply, unabashed. 

I ask him how he takes his coffee.

“Black,” he replies, unabashed. 

We smile and look down at our drinks. I wonder, are we always having two conversations at once, all of us?

---

I try to quiet my mind before therapy but the minutes bend and morph defiantly. Every mundane distraction is tempting. The year-round air conditioner sits unplugged in the foggy window. Last month’s faded issue of Time whispers my name from the chipped glass tabletop. I tap my feet impatiently on the carpet, battling my restlessness.

Patrice opens her office door and ushers me inside. Four feet and eleven inches, she is a powerful force, a no-bullshit woman. But Patrice stalks her prey. Every session begins with identical small talk: a comment on the weather followed by a short eulogy to the broken radiator. I wonder what we’ll discuss when spring arrives. We sit.

“I went on a date today,” I begin. 

She is a falcon, feather to talon, and dips through the sky, biding her time.

“Really?” she asks, widening her eyes. This is news. I’ve been mourning my breakup dedicatedly for months. I kick my feet up on the scuffed grey ottoman and tell the tale, smiling. As often happens in therapy, my story resists the grasp of convention - a floundering fish -  before landing squarely on my kinks. I reveal that this date represents a side of my sexuality I’ve been desperate to explore.

Patrice nods in an attempt to reserve judgment. Visually, anyway.

“So you’re… submissive.” She draws the words out slowly, testing their flavor. I nod.

“So what does that mean for you?” she asks, her eyes narrowing. “Do you like chains? Do you like to be whipped? Beaten up?” 

As she edges closer to hyperbole, her tone reveals the movie reel flickering behind her eyes: crackly images of dirty basements, rusty handcuffs, meek women crying and men with bulging forehead veins. 

I pause. Swallow. I attempt to provide a description using affirmative language, speaking conversationally as if to say, “I’m alright with this, and you should be, too.” I’m a virgin to this world, I explain, but even virgins dream of sex. Our lizard brains know the ancient temptation of forbidden fruit. We know we will enjoy it before sucking the juice from its folds.

I can tell by her face that Patrice doesn’t like this. She doesn’t like that I want my hair pulled, my lips used, my surrender offered. She wants to talk about my meditation habit and the boundaries I’ve set this week. 

She sighs. “Why do you think you enjoy this sort of thing?” she probes. “Most of my clients who are into submission have terrible self-esteem.” 

The space heater wheezes on. I point my toes, relax my toes. Cliche loves this conversation, devours it greedily, but arguing with a therapist is more complicated than arguing with the misogynistic comment section. Patrice sits silently, waiting to see whether I’ll drop my golden token into “Daddy Issues” or “Codependency.” Or perhaps, in a moment of profound insight, both. 

Instead, I explain that my submission is intrinsic, simply a variety of sexuality. It’s not a personality defect, I assert.

But I wonder. 

“Well,” she honks, “it sounds like you’re asking to be raped.” She throws her hands up with an unapologetic shrug and a heavy metal grate falls between us, landing certainly with a clatter and a thud. I peer at her from between the rusty slats. I wonder what she sees when she looks back at me.

---

10:30pm. A bitter wind whips against my shoulders as I stand beneath the awning of a busy Mass Ave bar. Sparkling in the thin air, the full moon looms wide above the street. I lean against the brick siding. Skateboarders speed by and pink-nosed couples pass, mittens holding mittens. In front of the bar entrance a group of hefty, bearded men in black hoodies pass a cigarette, barking laughter, their gravelly voices moistened with beer.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to face him. His hair is pulled thickly into a curly bun atop his forehead. In the bright light of the passing cars he is more attractive than I remember. His reflective green eyes are stunning, still. 

“Hi,” I say, smiling. We hug, plush coat to plush coat. I feel a calm, stirring anticipation as our shadows join and separate on the sidewalk. Our words are genuine but easy. They veil the busy work of our eyes, dancing over each other in the streetlight glow. We begin to walk, destination-less, down the sidewalk. 

“Where to?” he asks. We scour the quieting street for a place to nest. A nearby creamery, five minutes from closing, catches our eye. The unspoken implication of a late-night date is gently postponed in favor of Brown Butter Brownie and Cardamom Vanilla. We place our orders to the tune of rags wiping plastic tables and chairs scraping across the linoleum floor. 

We sit in the warm dark of his car spooning sweetness onto our tongues. To my surprise, my words make the journey from heart to mouth without interception. We exchange the details of our lives. He tells me his parents raised him in a cabin without television. They divorced when he was 28. I tell him that I used to work in politics, that sometimes my family feels like a constellation of disconnected satellites in space. We both separated from long-term lovers this past summer - him in June, me in August - and we trade stories of that brand of black pain reserved exclusively for heartbreak.

Mid-conversation, I imagine that I’m a spectator to our exchange. I realize that this moment is a precious moment: this initial sharing, this first discovery. These are the details of a person’s life that, by repeated exposure, become your own, taken for granted over time. But upon first hearing, these details are golden groundwork - the continents on the maps of our lives. Later come the countries, states, and cities. But there is such pleasure in glimpsing that landscape for the first time.

An hour later finds us sitting in warm silence, our cups long empty and the dashboard flashing 12:03. The sidewalks are barren. Stoplights dance between green and red.

“Would you like to come over for tea?” he asks.

I feel my cheeks heat in the dark. 

“I’d love to,” I say. He turns to face me. 

“I have no expectations about tonight,” he offers, smiling. He shifts the car into gear and begins the short journey back to the guest house where he’s staying this month, quarters traditionally reserved for travelling faculty and distinguished alumni. Gingerly, we enter the front hall and climb the eighteenth-century staircase to the second floor. When he opens the door to his room, I can see it’s a humble space - barely larger than a hotel room - but in the short time he’s been here, he’s made it his own. A sprawling potted plant sits on the mahogany desk beside a leather journal and a short stack of books, most of which I’ve read. Boxes of teas adorn the counter. A window beside the bed peers out onto the quiet residential street. 

I take off my boots and climb enthusiastically onto the bed. 

“Comfy,” I say. He smiles and hangs our coats in the miniature closet. 

“It is,” he agrees. He faces the counter and prepares the electric kettle. Voyeuristically, I watch his shoulders tug his sweater as he reaches for a pair of mugs. Strong, lean, certain. His movements lack any trace of ego. My steady heartbeat echoes in my chest. Despite the unmistakable sexual tension, I feel at ease, like we could be old friends preparing for afternoon tea on the terrace. This space feels free, creative - like anything could happen here. 

He hands me a mug boasting the scent of lavender and thick clouds of steam.

“For you,” he says. We sit cross-legged on the beige duvet, kneecap to kneecap. Our conversation leapfrogs from the personal to the spiritual, the political to the sexual. An hour later we are lying upside down, our socked feet splayed messily over the pillows, our heads resting at the foot of the bed. Shoulder to shoulder, our curly hair frames our faces like Chinese fans. In a moment of silence, he lifts himself to rest on his elbow and looks into my eyes. 

Instantaneously, the question is is asked and answered. He lowers his face to meet mine and our lips graze tentatively, then certainly. His mouth is warm and inviting, his presence embodied. We trace each other’s upper and lower lips with our tongues, sucking softly, and when our mouths open and our tongues meet, I feel a fierce stirring in my stomach. Every sensation feels amplified in my awareness.

As his mouth covers mine, he reaches his hand into my head of curls, grasping tightly at the root, and pulls my hair firmly to the side. I moan softly, involuntarily, feeling a roiling cascade stampede through my stomach. The small act of dominance intoxicates me, a swift hit of pleasure to a first-time user. I’m momentarily lost in the sensation of certain arousal coursing through me.

 He releases his grip and I exhale, returning to my body. He kisses me softly, and then suddenly tugs my hair again, exploring my reaction as I shut my eyes and wince, moaning. He leaves his hand grasping my hair as he runs his tongue along the delicate skin of my neck that has been exposed to him. 

I am dripping.

He reaches for my body, moving his hand from my waist to my thigh. His hand is hot through my jeans and my skin tingles beneath his touch. His body is lean but muscular. Exploring, ignited, I run my hands over his shoulders as we kiss. Coils of heat rise up through the fabric of his t-shirt. He tugs my blouse up an inch to reveal the pale skin of my stomach. With his hand pressed to the small of my back, he leans and kisses the small constellation of freckles there, traveling slowly upwards. When he has tired of the game, he uses both hands to pull my shirt effortlessly over my head and tosses it to the floor, lost.

He moves to lie fully on top of me. I feel protected, safe, my body small and warm beneath the firmness of his form. His lips move down the steep tilt of my jawbone. As if I were an exotic delicacy, he tastes me, running his tongue teasingly along my skin and then returning to kiss the same spot with care. Barely audible, my half-moans intermingle with my breath. At once, he pulls my hair back, hard, until the whole of my neck is exposed up to him, my head pushed down into the duvet. My moan is full-bodied, audible now. He devours my neck and collarbone without hesitation as his hand reaches down to my jeans, tracing up from my inner knee to the apex of my thighs. He lets out a soft chuckle of appreciation as he feels my heat. I'm warm and wet through the denim. Already I'm overwhelmed by sensation, his hand in my hair, his lips at my chest, his hands between my legs.

He runs his hand from my ass to my clit through my pants. His touch is void of the tentativeness so commonly found among men of my age. He has touched women before, he knows what to do, and I know he knows, and this arouses me intensely, this partner who knows, this partner who can solicit the reaction he wants.

I moan, opening my eyes in my pleasure as he rubs me. He is watching my face, watching the formless vowels escaping my open lips, taking in the tightness in my temples as my face contorts. He is worlds apart from the men who are too focused on their own pleasure to delight in someone else's. He delights in my pleasure because his hands coax it from me, demand it from me, and the moans escaping my lips and tightness contorting my face are his; my body is his canvas, my pleasure his painting.

It's not long before I'm left in just my knee socks and underwear. He removes his own shirt, his pants. I reach to pull my socks off, but his hands hold mine. "I kind of like them. They're cute," he smiles, shrugging. I leave them on.

He pulls me down beneath him and kisses me again. Our skins touch for the first time. He is warm on my cool skin. I feel my breasts pressed against the firmness of his chest. We explore each other slowly. He runs his hands softly but confidently up my sides; I bring my palms flat against his stomach, run my fingers through the hair on his chest, kiss his collarbone gently. He brings his lips to my shoulder, raising goosebumps on my arms. His tongue finds my earlobe and he licks, softly, before tracing my ear completely with his tongue. He brings his lips to lick, then suck, my nipple. He is gentle, and I arch my back and run my hands through his hair, thick and curly between my fingers.

He reaches beneath my underwear and traces me slowly with his finger as he kisses me. His hand feels shocking on my skin. I haven't received a touch this intimate, this intentional and present, in so long. I am positively wet, dripping for him, and he kisses me as he slowly enters me with his finger. I moan softly, feeling every centimeter of him moving inside of me, feeling my tightness around him. He breathes out, moderating his pleasure, and slowly removes and inserts himself again, this time deeply, until his finger is fully inside of me, his hand pressed to me. From within me he pushes firmly and moves his finger back and forth, exploring me and triggering twinges of pleasure and intimate sensation; he is reminding me that my body, my most intimate places, belong to him. I moan and breath into his mouth as his lips cover mine; we share the same breath, the same air.

As I pant, his finger deep inside of me, he brings his other hand to my hair and reaches to the root. He pulls my hair back as his finger moves inside of me and deep, primal shivers exit my spine, up through my sides, my arms. I feel my face contort with pleasure and when I open my eyes, he is watching me, his eyes hungry. He knows his hold on me is complete.

"Your pleasure is beautiful," he says richly in my ear. I feel exquisite, being watched this way - it feels too good to be true, that my pleasure - this simple expression - is enough to arouse him, to please him. These moans come from the core of me. I have never felt more authentic in bed with a man.

He removes his finger from inside of me and brings it, dripping to my lips. I smell the musk on his fingers, Eve liberated from the Garden at last, and keep my wide eyes fixed on his as I open my lips obediently. I welcome his finger into my soft mouth, and he exhales slowly, his eyes nearly golden in the dim light, watching my every move. I wrap my tongue around my own wetness and hold his gaze as I savor every drop, sucking his finger fully until it is buried in my mouth to the hilt.

When he is clean, he pulls his finger gently from between my lips and pulls me toward the pillows. He lies on his back, an invitation, and I climb on top of him, straddle his waist and bend over to kiss his lips, enjoying the gentle trace of my breasts on his chest. I pull his hair gently, submissively, and bring my soft lips to his neck, his chest, his stomach, fluttering kisses along his body. I take my time discovering him. I ask to remove his boxers and he lifts himself from the bed and he is lying, finally naked, before me. His hair is dark, black, against his skin.

I lean up to kiss his lips, meet his eyes with a smile, before returning my lips to him, kissing again down his side to the softness of his skin on his uppermost thigh. He is hard before my mouth but I wait, kissing either thigh, holding his hips in my hands and tracing the skin there. I kiss his pelvic bone and his hair skims my lips. I reach for him with my hand and feel the warmth and hardness of him throbbing against my fingertips.

I want to tease him. I want to pleasure him. I hold his cock to my cheek and tease his shaft with the tip of my tongue, savoring his warmth. I lick the head of his cock softly, once, with only the tip of my tongue, and he exhales deeply as I bring my tongue to tease the other side of his shaft. My mouth is screaming for his cock, but I try to have patience as I savor this part of him, taking my time and teasing his body.

His breathing quickens and he reaches down to encircle his hands around my hair, pulling it atop my head so he can my eyes, see my mouth pleasuring him. I look up to meet his gaze and our eyes lock - his stunning green to my deep blue - before I kneel between his open legs and open my mouth to him. He lets out a full-bodied moan as I take him slowly, fully, coating him with me, and slide my tongue up his shaft, circling the head of his cock fully with my flat tongue. I moan with him in my mouth as I run my mouth up and down his shaft in full, over and over, grazing the head of his cock with my tongue every time.

I pull him from my mouth, coated in my saliva, and bring both hands to encircle his shaft. I knead him slowly, covering his cock completely with my hands, tonguing the tip of his cock with my tongue. My palms are covered in saliva; he is rock hard beneath my hands. With a slow, tender motion, I knead him and lick the head of his cock rhythmically. He allows me free reign for only a few moments before he reaches for my hair and pulls my mouth down to cover him entirely. He directs my movements firmly, surely, pulling my mouth down to cover his cock in firm, rhythmic motion. When he releases me, he pulls me up to his face. I rub my hand across my lips before he pulls me down roughly and kisses he hard on the mouth. His energy is tangible, aroused, and he whispers into my ear, "I want to be inside of you."

Goosebumps spread across my arms instantly. I nod.

I hop from the bed ungracefully, aware of my nakedness and his eyes on me, as I bend over and reach for my wallet. The light blue Trojan condom that has sitting silently for a few weeks, awaiting a moment like this. It is slightly tattered around the edges after cohabitating with my debit card and cash. 

I crawl back onto the bed and rip open the wrapper. He pulls me beneath him with one arm, and puts the condom on swiftly. In a moment he is resting in a bowed plank above me, the skin of his chest grazing my hardened nipples, his eyes looking into mine from above. I spread my legs beneath him, my thighs coming apart with the sound of a gentle wetness unfolding; they are already coated with me. He holds my gaze as he reaches down with one hand and guides himself to my pussy. He traces the head of his cock back and forth across my wetness deliberately, watching my eyes grow desperate and pleading beneath him, and in a moment he pushes the head of his cock inside of me. I feel the wide head of his cock splitting open my folds, entering my tightness. I close my eyes and tip my head back with a cry, a fierce fusion of pleasure and pain, and he reaches for my hair and pulls, facing him, eyes locked with his, again.

"Look at me," he commands, pushing fully to the hilt inside of me, holding himself there in ownership, and slowly, tantalizingly, pulling out. My tightness grips him like a glove but I am leaking around him; I feel my juices dripping out of me, down my thighs, my ass. Faint, breathless moans escape my lips as he fucks me with the greatest restraint. I feel my face contorting in pleasure, my eyes closing to protect myself from the overwhelming ownership of his gaze, but every time he tugs me back to face him, and our eyes lock in an unbearable intimacy. I am swollen and throbbing around him.

The pace is too slow to bring me to orgasm and all the more torturous for it. I can't endure much more for fear of splintering, or breaking into color, or forgetting where I am. Suddenly he pulls me to him and flips us over so he is lying on the bed, his hard cock still pressed to the hilt inside of me as I straddle him in the lamplight. It takes me a moment to remember my surroundings in the stillness, but when our eyes meet, a furious hunger seizes me and I begin to move slowly atop him. His hands encircle my waist, directing my movements.

Every inch of my body is electric; I am tingling from within. Our bodies are shadow and muted yellow light. I arch my back and lean, farther, riding him, seized by a primal energy. Goosebumps flare on either arm. For seconds at a time, I return to myself long enough to realize the moans floating through the air are my own, and then I'm lost again, captive to his right hand around my waist, his left hand that reaches behind me and slaps my ass with a hard smack, urging me on as I ride him harder, obediently. I can't tell whether we've been in this position for 30 seconds or 30 minutes; the frenzy of our pace clouds my mind with sensation, color, and the occasional sound of his low, steady "Good girl" as he reaches up to tug my hair and fuck me from below.

After a while I feel myself tiring, growing lightheaded, and without saying a word he grabs and moves me so we are side by side, him behind me, holding me. He moves in and out of me from behind, and with every slow thrust, I hear the sound of my wetness tightening around him and releasing him. I feel the heat of him behind me as my left hand drifts above my head, entangled with his right. 

[citizentruth-blog]

Is James Comey Just the Guy Who Helped Donald Trump Get Elected? - YOUR NEWS

New Post has been published on https://citizentruth.org/is-james-comey-just-the-guy-who-helped-donald-trump-get-elected/

Is James Comey Just the Guy Who Helped Donald Trump Get Elected?

I was not a huge fan of Hillary Clinton the presidential candidate, and throughout her apparent postmortem attempts to deflect blame about losing the 2016 U.S. presidential election to someone she arguably should’ve handily beaten in Donald Trump—I know she won the popular vote, but this is beside the point, not to mention largely inconsequential given that a straight popular vote does not decide presidential elections (though it probably should)—my reaction has been one of irritated refusal to indulge Clinton in her finger-pointing after the fact. Not that she likely needed it, but Hill-Dawg had a pronounced head start in the form of pledged superdelegates, as well as the unspoken but totally believable and real backing of the DNC in her bid to secure the Democratic Party presidential nomination. Regardless, and ultimately, I feel the onus is on the candidate to own the lion’s share of the blame when losing or graciously accept and show thanks when winning.

James Comey has a new book out. For all its juicy tidbits of information, though, what is Comey’s legacy and how credible are his views on leadership after the Clinton E-mail fiasco?

This aside, even I recognize that a complete story of the 2016 election can’t be told unless we talk about former FBI director James Comey and his decision to inform Congress of the Bureau’s reopening of an investigation into Clinton’s use of a private E-mail server.

Comey is currently at the forefront of the 24-hour news cycle because he wrote a book and he was interviewed by ABC News’s George Stephanopoulos. His book, A Higher Loyalty: Truth, Lies, and Leadership, released earlier this week, is less a memoir and more a treatise comprising his views on what constitutes ethical leadership and what makes a good leader, utilizing anecdotal experiences from his career.

As for the interview (you can read the transcript of the exhaustive full interview here), Comey’s insights, even if they aren’t wholly original or surprising, are nonetheless notable for their candor. He thinks Gen. David Petraeus should have been prosecuted more vigorously for lying to the FBI. He views Rod Rosenstein’s pretext for his (Comey’s) firing related to his handling of the Clinton E-mail scandal as untrue and “dishonorable.” He considers—or at least considered at the time of meeting him—Jeff Sessions to be “overmatched” for the role of Attorney General. He disagrees with how Barack Obama insinuated his opinions on Clinton and her E-mails into the investigative mix. He claims to have told John Kelly, then-Homeland Security chief and current White House Chief of Staff, not to resign when called over the phone by Kelly, but offers that he would support a decision to do so now.

Most notably from a headline-grabbing standpoint, his characterization of Donald Trump as someone who is mentally fit to be President, but “morally unfit” for the position, is not the kind of depiction #45 and his cronies want to hear. Comey essentially refers to Trump as a mob boss without all the leg-breaking, and it’s no wonder Trump has responded in quick fashion by labeling Comey an “untruthful slimeball” (Pot, meet Kettle), and the White House has trotted out Sarah Sanders to refer to Comey as a “disgraced partisan hack.”

The lingering question then, is how much we value James Comey’s insights on Trump, particularly his reflections on Trump’s efforts to get him to let investigation into Michael Flynn’s role in the Trump campaign’s possible collusion with Russia go, in light of his questionable decision-making regarding sensitive information involving both the Clinton and Trump presidential campaigns.

For a study in comparisons and contrasts, let’s take a peek at three recent editorials/opinions from USA Today on the subject. USA Today’s editorial board, for one, regards Comey favorably overall, though this largely seems predicated on Comey being rated as more credible than Trump, a distinction that is akin to being labeled as less sleazy than Harvey Weinstein; the former FBI director kind of wins by default on that one. Otherwise, the esteem for the Comey-Trump “blood feud” is like that of a rubbernecker watching a burning car wreck. Just because we can’t look away doesn’t necessarily mean we should be watching.

Imaginably, not everyone writing for USA Today agrees. With the obligatory pro-Trump rebuttal—why do major news outlets feel they need to cater to his base?—Chris Buskirk, editor and publisher of a journal called American Greatness, which very humbly bills itself as “the leading voice of the next generation of American Conservatism,” assailed Comey for penning a book “full of smarmy, self-serving, mendacious claptrap,” and suggested Comey has a vicious anti-Trump agenda and seeks only to “undermine or destroy the duly elected president of the United States.” Much like some Hillary Clinton supporters will never be able to abandon the narrative that she had the presidency taken from her, Donald Trump’s most fervent backers will continue to see him as the most persecuted POTUS in history. Never mind that he’s enjoyed more advantages in life than you or I are likely to, but this is apparently the age of hyperbole and superlatives aided by ignorance of even recent history.

For the sake of a less conservative critique, meanwhile, we have the thoughts of Jill Lawrence, USA Today commentary editor, who gives James Comey no credit for his scathing criticisms of the President, insisting that his decision to make news of the reopening of the Clinton E-mail investigation was not good leadership, thus rendering his views on leadership in her eyes and many others’ suspect, and opining that Comey is once again inserting himself into another presidential race, only with more time in advance of the election. Lawrence’s reservations echo those of other Comey detractors across the political aisle. That Comey’s revelations are ego-driven and made with a flair for the dramatic. That his ends-justify-the-means propensity for public disclosure ignores his culpability in bypassing DOJ policy and the rule of law. That his soon-to-be bestseller could not only galvanize report for GOP candidates, but hinder Robert Mueller’s investigation that has long been—fairly or unfairly—accused of anti-Trump bias.

As far as Lawrence is concerned, all she really cares to hear from James Comey is an apology—not just to Hillary Clinton and those who stumped for votes for her, but to America as a whole—that he helped elect Donald Trump. I’m sure she’s not alone in this yearning. Whether or not this is the ego in Comey talking, a self-confidence he himself copped to at different points during the ABC News interview, though, this seems unlikely anytime soon. When prompted by George Stephanopoulos, Comey said that he would do what he did again without regard to thought of whether someone as potentially dangerous to American politics as Trump might win, and likening #45 to a “forest fire” that’s “going to do tremendous damage,” but will give “healthy things a chance to grow that had no chance before that fire.” Presumably, Comey is talking about the growth of political engagement by the American people, especially young people, but it’s one thing to appreciate a wildfire for its restorative properties and quite another to be the one holding the matchbook.

One wonders by the time we are done dissecting the 2016 presidential election whether we’ll be at or even past the 2020 election. Speaking of Hillary Clinton, recall that she had her own promotional book tour relating to an insider account published but a few months ago. What Happened has had its fair share of praise and scorn since its release from those across the political spectrum. Among the Breitbart crowd, well, you wouldn’t really expect many to review it favorably. An oddly pleasurable consequence of Clinton’s continued prominence is that on FOX News and elsewhere, the mere mention of her name causes commentators to all but froth at the mouth—even though she lost. David Weigel of the Washington Post referred to this effect as her “shadow presidency,” and this seems all too accurate. Heck, if you wanted to, you could probably make a drinking game out of it. Go to the FOX News website. Wait for something about Hillary or Bill to pop up. Drink. Chances are you could get hammered in a short period of time.

Among liberals and even moderates, though, critique has been abundant. Certainly, Bernie Sanders supporters did not take kindly to her characterization and blame of the senator from Vermont that accused him of not being a “true” Democrat and of engaging in character assassination rather than a substantive debate about the issues. From their standpoint, this slight was fairly disingenuous considering Sanders a) campaigned for her after suspending his presidential bid (much to the chagrin of the Bernie or Bust crowd, to stress), and b) that she enjoyed such a strong backing from the Democratic Party establishment. Otherwise, observers found fault with Clinton’s apparent defense in her memoir of running as a product of a moneyed political system that voters rejected—narrowly, yes, and in favor of a fake populist in Donald Trump, but even so. For a subset of the American electorate that already saw Hillary Clinton as out of touch, What Happened hasn’t really done much to change this perspective.

Owing to Clinton’s recent polarizing account, one is left to consider what will become of James Comey and his legacy. The level of discourse between Donald Trump and the former FBI director has been characterized by various sources as being remarkably catty given the stature of these two men, and whether this is a product of their egos, a social media-fueled culture of tit-for-tat personal attacks, or both, for those of us among the American public growing weary of pettiness between political figures without substance—will we never tire of hearing about the size of Trump and his hands?—this whole business gives us a reason to tune out.

Certainly, Comey is detested by people on the left and the right, with Republicans attacking him as a liar and leaker of information, and Democrats and other members of the anti-Trump crowd deriding his actions as indefensible. Their effect on the 2016 election notwithstanding, those familiar with DOJ policy were highly critical of the decisions to both disclose that the Bureau doesn’t recommend prosecuting Clinton for her “extremely sloppy” handling of her E-mails while as Secretary of State and to make it known that the investigation was being reopened. For all of Comey’s waxing philosophical on the desire for governmental transparency, in these instances, perhaps such disclosure was unwarranted. After all, the Federal Bureau of Investigation often requires confidentiality as a product of the type of work it does, and if Comey was concerned about a potential backlash from conservative circles if he failed to be more forthcoming about matters involving the Democrats’ presidential hopeful, this fear may likewise have been misplaced or overstated.

Evidently, James Comey sees A Higher Loyalty and his criticisms of the President as necessary given the present political climate, much as Hillary Clinton feels compelled to explain What Happened and to be a leading voice against Trump despite her stated desire not to run again for public office. Just the same, with the likes of Claire McCaskill and others cautioning Clinton about unabashed attacks on #45 and his loyal “deplorables” when midterm elections are fast approaching, it is worth asking how valuable Comey’s dissection of ethical leadership is when his own leadership skills are being brought into question. Comey served this country within the Department of Justice for nearly 25 years. Maybe he would best serve it now by showing more restraint.

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