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youvebeenlivingfictional · 7 months ago

Text

the pro

part ii: what we're willing to accept

Pairing: Art Donaldson x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only. minors, please get off my lawn.

Notes: My brain chose violence this morning. Not beta-read because when is it ever.

Length: 4.8K

Warnings: Slow burn; unhappily married reader; divorced Art Donaldson; infidelity; oral sex (female receiving); vaginal sex; unsafe sex

Summary: Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch.

He's the biggest men's tennis star since Andy Roddick.

That’s what your husband says, as if it’ll entice you. As if you know anything about tennis, about the pro that your husband says will be coming to the house to teach you to play.

It’ll be good for you. You need a hobby.

You don’t gripe or argue. You don’t tell him that five months into your marriage shouldn’t have you looking for a new hobby. You should still be in the honeymoon stage, spending all of your time with him, hanging off of his arm, off of his every word. But he works so much and he’s away so often—

I don’t want you to get bored.

It’s a sweet gesture. The maid handles the housework; you have a chef that handles most of the grocery shopping and cooking, unless you insist on making something yourself; you have a housekeeper that arranges for anything you need—dry cleaning, maintenance. And it’s no wonder that with all of his money, his power, he can just order a retired pro tennis player up to your house, like you’d order a pizza. There’s a tennis court in the back of the mansion, a few feet from the pool. You’ll get some new outfits, the best sneakers, the nicest rackets. You’ll finally have something to do to fill your days.

Art Donaldson.

You know his name before the lean, fair-skinned patrician man turns up at your front door. He trails you through the house, politely declines your offer of a beverage.

“You ever played tennis before?” He asks.

You haven’t. Before your husband arranged this for you, you hadn’t so much as given the sport more than a passing thought. You don’t have the heart or confidence to tell that to a man that’s made tennis his whole life, so you just give him a small, guilty smile and say no, you haven’t. He nods, waves you off, insists that it’s fine.

“We’ll start with the basics.”

Two months of lessons on the basics make your arms tired, and your hands sore. But where your swings are clumsy and your grip is weak at first, you can see improvement in the way that you move. Your steps are less clumsy when you go after a ball; you’re more aware of the service line and the base line; your forehand stroke from contact to your left shoulder is smoother; your rotation and follow-through on your backhand is coming along, but has a long way to go.

Art’s instruction is calm and steady. He explains technique as much as he demonstrates it. When you get something wrong, he doesn’t scold, just lightly corrects. When you do something well, his encouragement is constant and free-flowing. Every accurate move and motion is met with, “Nice,” or, “Perfect,” or, “That’s it.”

On the days when you don’t have a lesson with Art, you practice. You order a tennis ball machine to work on your forehand and backhand. You attempt (and fail) to learn how to slice on your own. You try anyway—you can only imagine the way his eyes might light up if you manage to surprise him.

You’ve tried to ignore the rising interest that you have in Art, but you can’t help the little…Crush that’s developed. He’s just so attentive, and kind. When you find yourself smiling these days, it’s often because of something that he said, or did. You can’t remember the last time your husband made you feel giddy this way. It was probably when you started dating—before you’d made the decision to marry for comfort, rather than love. Your husband is practical, rarely physically affectionate, more heavily involved in his job and social circles than with you.

But you’ll have to find a way to thank him. He’s given you a hobby, and a man that grins at you like you just painted the goddamn Mona Lisa when you serve your first ace.

“So, tell me about the Mark Rebellato Academy.”

Art smiles, dipping his head as he reaches for his coffee. It’s taken a few months, but you finally convince him to have something to drink with you after practice. Your chef is blessedly out shopping for ingredients for dinner, so you have the kitchen all to yourself. Art has watched you putter around, seeming surprised that you know where everything is. You can’t blame him; the kitchen is chef-grade, and you don’t cook much these days.

“Did your husband tell you that’s where I went?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

You’re too embarrassed to admit that you’ve done some googling, and watched a couple of clips of him interviewing before and after his matches.

“I’ve just heard,” You fib. “Tell me about it?”

He leans back in his seat, eyes skating across your face as he seems to consider something.

“What do you wanna know?”

“Did you enjoy it? I mean—” It feels like a dumb question once it’s out, and you hurry to redirect, “With what you know now, if you had the choice, would you have learned how to play tennis somewhere else?”

He considers for a moment, trailing his finger over the side of his cup. Your gaze flits to his fingers, and your own flex around your mug handle. You’ve spent far too much time looking at and thinking about Art’s fingers—their length and quickness; the slight roughness of his calloused hands; the lingering tan line from where his wedding band used to sit.

“Yeah,” He admits, drawing your full attention back to his face. “I would. It was foundational, you know. I’ve been thinking of sending Lily there.”

“Lily?”

A bittersweet smile twists his lips. “My daughter.”

“Oh!” It catches you off-guard.

“Tashi, uh—” He clears his throat, “Lily’s mother, my ex-wife. She and I are thinking about schools.”

“I’m sure they’d be glad to have her. Does she play tennis?”

“Little bit. She didn’t start until last year, but she's a natural.” He clears his throat again, presses, “Are you and your husband planning on having kids?”

“Oh god no.” You blurt it out, and realize as he raises his brows that you’ve spoken too quickly. You lean back in your seat, stirring your coffee quickly to distract yourself from your growing embarrassment. “He actually has kids already. Two girls, seven and ten. They’re at boarding school and they stay with their mother when they're on vacation. I haven’t gotten to spend much time with them.”

“...He seems to be pretty busy.”

“He is.”

“So it’s just you in this big house?” He tips his head to the side, brows knitting with curiosity. “What do you do all day?”

“Play tennis.”

He grins, chuckling, and your stomach flips at the sound.

“It shows, you know,” He says.

“What do you mean?”

“I can tell you’re practicing without me. And,” He leans across the table, running his fingers lightly over the exposed skin of your bicep, “You’re getting stronger.”

You wonder if he can see or feel the goosebumps that break out across your skin at the gentle sweep, his gaze heavy on yours.

“I have a good teacher,” You murmur. Art’s lips twitch with a soft smile, his hand gently cupping your arm.

“Just good?” He plies.

“The best. A real pro.”

His smile widens, and the flash of his tongue sweeping across his lower lip makes your face go hot. You know that you’re caught when Art’s touch becomes firmer, pulling your arm toward him just a little.

The sound of approaching footsteps startles you, and you hurriedly tug your arm away. The sight of your husband makes your heart leap into your throat.

“There you are,” He smiles. “Art, how’s she doin’?”

“She’s killing it.”

You don’t dare look at him, but you can feel the weight of his attention lingering on you still. You just give your husband a smile, tipping your cheek up obligingly as he leans down to kiss it.

“Actually, Art,” Your husband straightens up, hands resting on your shoulders. “I’m glad I caught you. There’s a charity event for a local club this month. It’s for uh…What is it?” He squeezes your shoulders for answers, and you have to keep from rolling your eyes.

“It’s a charity tennis match to raise funds to fix up the local courts. They need resurfacing and they’re raising funding to keep the fees down.”

“We could use a sponsorship from the foundation,” Your husband adds.

“Honey,” You glance back, wary of insulting Art. But—

“I’ll do it,” Art agrees. “Send me the details.”

“Excellent,” Your husband grins. “Maybe we could coax you into a match or two.”

You don’t chastise him this time—not when you see something light up in Art.

“Maybe.”

You haven’t seen Art play before. You’ve specifically avoided it. You’ve known that when you saw it, you would be too intimidated to do a damn thing on the court with him. But now, you can’t stop watching him. You don’t even care that you probably look so out of place—where everyone else is watching the ball, you’re just watching him.

His movements are so neat, so precise. It’s like watching a dance. He’s running the poor guy on the other side of the net up and down the court. And the sounds that he’s making—god. Every little grunt and groan is weaving increasingly filthy thoughts in your mind. You already know that you’ll seek out the memory of those sounds, as you reach between your legs later. His shirt clings to his chest, showcasing the muscles that you’ve always suspected he has. Strands of hair plaster to his forehead as sweat drips over his cheekbones, down the bridge of his nose, over his jaw.

When he scores a match point and he looks toward the cheering crowd—when his eyes land on you instantly, without having to search—it’s like you’ve been hit by a bolt of lightning. You can’t think, or move. You barely have the focus to applaud, but you manage to raise your hands and clap.

Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch.

Coffee becomes a post-lesson ritual. He starts to stick closer and closer to you as he follows you into the house until he begins to rest his hand on your lower back, guiding you to your door. He keeps nearby when you’re making it, brushes droplets of sweat off of your forehead or neck. Every touch is electrifying; you have to make a concentrated effort to keep your hands steady, your face neutral as your heart pounds and your stomach floods with butterflies.

He pushes you harder on the court, and you force yourself to meet the level that he sets for you, even when you don’t feel confident in it. But you want to make him proud.

It spurs you to lunge a little too far.

The sharp stabbing pain in your left ankle makes you shriek, and you tumble to the ground, dropping the racket with a clatter. You hear the pounding of his feet, glance up just in time to see him clear the net before he’s on the ground at your side.

“What hurts?”

“My ankle,” You grit out, hissing softly as he helps you straighten your leg out. He smooths his hands over your calf, leaning over you and gently guiding your foot in a few different directions. You whimper as he starts to guide your foot to the left.

“Okay, okay,” He soothes, “Let’s get you inside.”

For as much as you damn the throbbing in your ankle, you thank it a little, too. You lean heavily against Art, making the slow, arduous journey back to the house with his arm wrapped tightly around your middle.

When your husband comes home, he finds you with on the couch with Art coming back in from the kitchen, an ice pack in your hand.

You’d hope for concern, but your husband frowns, glances at the swelling knob of your ankle, and simply asks: “What did you do?”

“She lost her balance.” Art sits down on the other end of the couch, soothing you as the chill of the ice pack makes you shift with discomfort.

“Are you going to be able to walk tomorrow?” Your husband presses. “We have dinner at the Fineman’s.”

“I'm still going, don't worry about that."

“...Tomorrow might be a bit soon,” Art warns.

“I’ll be okay. It’s just a sprain, right?” You tip your brows up, hoping, praying that he’ll agree for your sake. His fingers flex around the ice pack, jaw ticking as he clenches it. He doesn’t say a word as your husband sighs heavily, grumbles, “I hope so. Still, we should put a pause on the lessons until she’s fighting fit again.”

Art finally tears his eyes from yours, a tight smile on his lips.

“Of course.”

“How’s the ankle?”

It takes you a moment to scrounge up an answer. You can’t believe that he called. You knew that Art had gotten your number when you started taking lessons with him, but he’s never used it beyond texting to confirm a lesson time now and again.

You look down at the still-swollen flesh as it strains against the thin strap of your slingbacks.

“Fine,” You lie, “It’s um—” You glance over your shoulder, listening for your husband. “It’s not that bad.”

“Good enough to walk on?”

Hardly.

“Yes.” You think you’ve gotten away with it, but when you hear Art sigh and chastise, “You should rest,” You know that you haven’t.

“I have,” You insist, “All day.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes.”

“You can tell him no, you know.”

Your mouth works wordlessly, body going hot with indignation. You can’t think of a thing to say. You can’t tell him that he’s wrong, that your husband’s connections are the lifeblood of his business. You can’t tell him that if your husband’s business falls apart, you won't be able to afford those tennis lessons, and then how the hell are you supposed to see Art again?

You just yank your phone away from your ear and hang up.

I invited Art.

It shouldn’t be a surprise, but your husband’s statement makes you feel like you’ve swallowed your tongue. You haven’t seen or spoken to Art in nearly two weeks. Your doctor recommended putting off any physical activity, which your husband surely relayed to him. He was the one whose name was on Art’s checks, after all.

Your husband has always thrown a massive party to kick off the summer. Every year, 150 of your husband’s closest family, friends, and business associates flooded into the house. It shouldn’t be such a surprise that your husband invited Art after the performance he had given at the fundraiser—$25,000 from the foundation, and ticket sales went through the roof when it had been announced that the Art Donaldson would be making an appearance. Your husband owed Art a lot, and probably saw this as an opportunity for him to network, to take on more clients. He had been evangelizing Art’s training to any of your friends that would listen—how good you are on the court, how engaged and energetic you seem to be these days.

It’s one thing to know that you’ll have to put on a happy face for the crowd, but to know that Art will be among them makes your insides twist with nerves. You can’t stop thinking about the way that he had spoken to you when you were hurt; his calm, steadying demeanor as he’d gotten you inside; the careful coaxing and gentle touch that he’d used as he’d taken your shoe off and examined your ankle more closely.

You think about it now, as you strap on another pair of heels. Your ankle really is doing well, though you have a little lingering pain in shoes like these. You’ll likely be on your feet for the length of the party; it’s going to be a long night. You look over yourself in the mirror, self consciously tipping your ankle from side to side for anything that he may spot or catch out. But there’s nothing, you reassure yourself. You slide your hands over the skirt, plastering on a smile as your husband pokes his head into your dressing room.

“Almost ready in here?” He asks.

“All set!”

He doesn’t come over to you. On the crowded patio, you can feel him watching you—you’ve gotten so used to seeking out the sensation that you can’t ignore it now. The first true look at him is agony. He watches you from just a few feet away, a glass of champagne in hand as he speaks with your husband and the Finemans. He openly looks you over, eyes drifting over your body to the flash of ankle revealed by the slit in your dress. He tips his head to the side just a little, squinting before his eyes flit back up to your face, lips twitching with a small smile.

You want to hate how good it feels; you want to be angry with him for his smug knowing, his insistence of You can tell him no, you know. But it feels so goddamn good to have his attention again that you can’t bring yourself to be annoyed. You know that you’re staring—that you both are—and you force yourself to turn away and excuse yourself from the conversation you’re in. You go inside, murmuring your thanks for the waitstaff that pass you along the way.

The house isn’t nearly as busy as the patio, and you're able to slip into your darkened study unnoticed. You leave the lights off, certain that if you turn them on, people will be drawn in to bug you, like moths to a flame. The party’s lights and music filter in through the partially-closed blinds.

You lean against the desk, circling your ankle and wincing a little. You’ll hide for a few minutes, let it rest—

Your breath catches in your throat as the door opens. You expect your husband, ready to scold and usher you back to the guests.

You only have a second to get a look at Art before he shuts the door behind himself, plunging the room back into darkness. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the desk as you use it to ground yourself.

“...Do you need something?” You ask, voice wobbling with nerves.

“Wanted to come say hi.”

“Well. Hi.”

You hear him chuckle, his footsteps muted by the carpet.

“Thanks for the invite.”

“It wasn’t my idea.” It’s not polite to admit, but you want it to sting him, just a little. Maybe it does; in the dim of the room, you can’t see Art’s expression as he comes to a stop just a couple of feet from you.

“Do you want me to go?” He asks. You know what you should say, but you can’t bring yourself to say it.

“No,” You whisper. You feel the heat of him as he comes closer, his hands resting on the desk and caging you in. You bite your lip as gently brushes his nose against yours.

“He isn’t taking care of you.”

“My ankle is fine.”

“I’m not talking about your ankle.” He lifts a hand, smoothing it over your hip as your breath mingles. Art’s fingers drift from your hip to stroke over the apex of your dress’s slit. His fingers slip further down, and you nod as he palms your thigh. Before you can say or do a thing, Art sinks to his knees. He curls his hand around your left calf, lifting it. You shiver as his lips press a gentle kiss to your ankle. His hand and lips travel up, easing the fabric of your dress higher with each second. The first brush of his knuckles against your panty-covered clit makes you jolt. Your hands dig into the wood of the desk as his fingers hook between the fabric and your skin. You lift your hips without a word, allowing him to draw them down.

Art presses a kiss to your mound before he lowers his head, giving your lips a sweet, sucking kiss. You gasp softly as his tongue swipes across your clit. You look down despite the fact that you can’t see him well. You can just make out his blissful expression, his eyes closed as his laps broadly across your aching cunt. You lower your hand to his neat hair, winding your fingers through it, unable to help grasping it. His heady moan vibrates against you and you nearly cry out at the sensation. You manage to just catch it, the sound dying in your throat as Art buries his tongue inside you. He sweeps his thumb over your clit in rush, harried circles, panting against your heated flesh. You rock your hips down against his lips, tightening your grip on his hair as you guide him. He lets you do as you please, whining against your skin as your movements become less controlled.

“Art,” You warn, “I—Oh, oh god—”

He hums in encouragement, sucking your clit back between his lips and lashing it with his tongue. Your jaw drops open, your hand shoving Art even more tightly against your skin as you cum suddenly. A stunned, breathy moan slips from your lips as Art leans back, smearing his lips against the inside of your thigh.

You use your grasp on Art’s hair to draw him back up off of his knees, giving him a crushing kiss as he catches his balance. You swipe your tongue across his lips, whining against his lips as you taste yourself on him. He presses close, his hard cock straining against the fabric of his pants. You reach down, palming and squeezing his length as you trade slick, messy kisses. He steers you back onto the desk as you fumble to undo his belt, button, and zip.

“Condom?” He asks.

“Pill,” You reassure, shoving his pants down. You lap broadly across your palm, grasping Art’s length and guiding him closer. He brushes the tip of his cock against your still-throbbing clit, smiling as you whine. You’re going to ache tomorrow, but you’ve never been so happy to be sore.

“Art.”

“Sssh.”

“Please—” It’s hardly out of your mouth before he shoves his hips forward, seating himself fully with a single thrust. You bite down on your lip to quiet your moan, curling your arms around your shoulders. He rocks into you with firm, quick strokes, his mouth covering yours. You can hear things on the desk rattling with each thrust, kisses growing less controlled as he hoists your thigh up around his hip.

“Oh, god,” You breathe, “We have to be quick—He’ll come looking—”

“Not until you cum for me again,” He urges. “I need to feel it, sweetheart.”

“Art—”

“When’s the last time he did this? Hmm?” He presses, “When’s the last time he made you cum? When’s the last time he tasted you?”

“Never,” You admit with a shiver. It seems to renew Art’s passion, his thrusts and hold growing more intense. You squeeze your eyes shut, hands hooking tightly in the fabric of his jacket. He yanks the front of your dress down, bowing over you and drawing one of your nipples between his lips. You whimper as he toys with the bud, tugging it gently with his teeth before swiping across it. You arch into the slick heat, using your leg to tug him even closer as you chased the swelling curl of your orgasm.

“Just like that,” You urge, “Ffffuck—yes, yesyesyesyes—”

Your eyes squeeze shut as your hips buck down against his, pussy pulsing as he spills into you. Your heart pounds in your chest as the two of you slow and still. Art rests his forehead heavily against your neck, peppering gentle kisses across the exposed skin. You have to move—now. You don’t know if anyone heard you, but if someone did, you’re screwed. If no one did, your husband will probably be looking for you anyway, ready with a scold for neglecting your hostess duties.

“...I have to go,” You warn softly. It takes Art a moment to move, but he does, gently drawing himself back from your still-throbbing cunt. You hear the clanking of his belt buckle as he tucks himself away, and you reach down, righting your dress where it’s been pulled away. You take up your panties from where they’d been discarded on the floor, tugging them on before you straighten your skirt and hurry out of the room.

“Can I see you?”

It’s only been an hour since the last guest has left, and you are so, so fucking tired. You glance toward the bathroom door. You know that you locked it, and you’re certain that your husband can’t hear you over the shower running, but you can’t help but be paranoid.

“You just saw me,” You remind him.

“Tomorrow,” Art clarifies.

“Where?”

“I’ll send an address.”

You bite your lip, toying with your earring. Your pussy is still aching from the stretch of him, your ass sore from getting fucked on the desk.

“...You regret it?” He asks.

“No,” You don't give your answer a second thought.

“I’ll send an address. Whether or not you see me is up to you. Just…think about it. Okay?”

“Okay.”

You lower your phone, hanging it up and watching his contact information blink away. It’s only a moment before a text with an address lights up your phone. You don’t have to think about it. You already know what you’re going to do.

You know that you’re staring, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. Art has spent so much time in your home, so you feel entitled to look around a little bit. You eye the row of trophies on his mantle, photos of him playing when he was young. You come to a stop at a picture of him with a young girl, a racket in her hand and a medal around her neck.

“Is this Lily?” You ask.

“Yeah,” He nods. “First competition.”

“Already getting gold,” You smile. “The Mark Rebellato Academy isn’t ready for her.”

Art chuckles, nodding as he steps around you.

“You, uh…You want something to eat, or drink, or…?” He trails off, tucking his hands into his pockets as he takes a couple of steps back toward his kitchen. You turn to face him, taking him in more fully.

“Art?”

“Yeah?”

“Why am I here?”

He doesn’t answer for a few moments. You can see him weighing his options before he comes closer.

“I…I’ve been thinking about last night.”

Fear shoots through you, but you force yourself to stand tall. “Okay.”

“I could lie and tell you that it should be a one-time thing, but I can’t remember the last time I got through a day without thinking about you. And I think you’ve been thinking about me, too.” Art stops as the tip of his shoes brush against yours, and you let your eyes slip closed as he rests his forehead against yours.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” He pleads. “Tell me to fuck off right now and I will never say another non-tennis related thing to you again.”

When he fucks you, he curls close, chest pressing against yours as he catches your lips in a kiss. You sink back against his pillows, your head cradled by his broad palm as he rolls his hips achingly slowly. You don’t bother to hide your whines and moans, and you revel in his. Every grunt and whimper and groan that Art lets out lights you up.

And when you cum, you don't have to quiet yourself. His name tumbles out of your mouth, cushioned between expletives as your nails dig into his shoulders.

"What time is he home tonight?"

You don't want to think about it. You want to stay in this cozy little bubble, trailing your fingers over his muscled chest as he massages your nape and kisses your forehead.

But you know that you'll have to let the world back in sometime.

"I don't know," You admit. "Late."

"...Could stay."

"He'll be suspicious if I'm not home when he gets there."

Art sighs softly, running his hand down to rub between your shoulder blades.

"This isn't going to be easy, is it."

"What?"

"Letting you go every day."

"Every day?" You tease, pushing yourself up to get a better look at him. "Don't get greedy, Mr. Donaldson."

He smiles, raising his hand and cupping your cheek. "Is it greedy to know what I want?"

You shake your head a little, lowering your lips to brush against his.

"Not when I want it, too."

part ii: what we're willing to accept

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity

@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ;

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#Art Donaldson x Reader #Art Donaldson x You #Art Donaldson/Reader #Art Donaldson/You #Art Donaldson fic #Art Donaldson imagine #the pro

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mostlysignssomeportents · 8 months ago

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How to shatter the class solidarity of the ruling class

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me WEDNESDAY (Apr 11) at UCLA, then Chicago (Apr 17), Torino (Apr 21) Marin County (Apr 27), Winnipeg (May 2), Calgary (May 3), Vancouver (May 4), and beyond!

Audre Lorde counsels us that "The Master's Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master's House," while MLK said "the law cannot make a man love me, but it can restrain him from lynching me." Somewhere between replacing the system and using the system lies a pragmatic – if easily derailed – course.

Lorde is telling us that a rotten system can't be redeemed by using its own chosen reform mechanisms. King's telling us that unless we live, we can't fight – so anything within the system that makes it easier for your comrades to fight on can hasten the end of the system.

Take the problems of journalism. One old model of journalism funding involved wealthy newspaper families profiting handsomely by selling local appliance store owners the right to reach the townspeople who wanted to read sports-scores. These families expressed their patrician love of their town by peeling off some of those profits to pay reporters to sit through municipal council meetings or even travel overseas and get shot at.

In retrospect, this wasn't ever going to be a stable arrangement. It relied on both the inconstant generosity of newspaper barons and the absence of a superior way to show washing-machine ads to people who might want to buy washing machines. Neither of these were good long-term bets. Not only were newspaper barons easily distracted from their sense of patrician duty (especially when their own power was called into question), but there were lots of better ways to connect buyers and sellers lurking in potentia.

All of this was grossly exacerbated by tech monopolies. Tech barons aren't smarter or more evil than newspaper barons, but they have better tools, and so now they take 51 cents out of every ad dollar and 30 cents out of ever subscriber dollar and they refuse to deliver the news to users who explicitly requested it, unless the news company pays them a bribe to "boost" their posts:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/04/saving-news-big-tech

The news is important, and people sign up to make, digest, and discuss the news for many non-economic reasons, which means that the news continues to struggle along, despite all the economic impediments and the vulture capitalists and tech monopolists who fight one another for which one will get to take the biggest bite out of the press. We've got outstanding nonprofit news outlets like Propublica, journalist-owned outlets like 404 Media, and crowdfunded reporters like Molly White (and winner-take-all outlets like the New York Times).

But as Hamilton Nolan points out, "that pot of money…is only large enough to produce a small fraction of the journalism that was being produced in past generations":

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/what-will-replace-advertising-revenue

For Nolan, "public funding of journalism is the only way to fix this…If we accept that journalism is not just a business or a form of entertainment but a public good, then funding it with public money makes perfect sense":

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/public-funding-of-journalism-is-the

Having grown up in Canada – under the CBC – and then lived for a quarter of my life in the UK – under the BBC – I am very enthusiastic about Nolan's solution. There are obvious problems with publicly funded journalism, like the politicization of news coverage:

https://www.theguardian.com/media/2023/jan/24/panel-approving-richard-sharp-as-bbc-chair-included-tory-party-donor

And the transformation of the funding into a cheap political football:

https://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/poilievre-defund-cbc-change-law-1.6810434

But the worst version of those problems is still better than the best version of the private-equity-funded model of news production.

But Nolan notes the emergence of a new form of hedge fund news, one that is awfully promising, and also terribly fraught: Hunterbrook Media, an investigative news outlet owned by short-sellers who pay journalists to research and publish damning reports on companies they hold a short position on:

https://hntrbrk.com/

For those of you who are blissfully distant from the machinations of the financial markets, "short selling" is a wager that a company's stock price will go down. A gambler who takes a short position on a company's stock can make a lot of money if the company stumbles or fails altogether (but if the company does well, the short can suffer literally unlimited losses).

Shorts have historically paid analysts to dig into companies and uncover the sins hidden on their balance-sheets, but as Matt Levine points out, journalists work for a fraction of the price of analysts and are at least as good at uncovering dirt as MBAs are:

https://www.bloomberg.com/opinion/articles/2024-04-02/a-hedge-fund-that-s-also-a-newspaper

What's more, shorts who discover dirt on a company still need to convince journalists to publicize their findings and trigger the sell-off that makes their short position pay off. Shorts who own a muckraking journalistic operation can skip this step: they are the journalists.

There's a way in which this is sheer genius. Well-funded shorts who don't care about the news per se can still be motivated into funding freely available, high-quality investigative journalism about corporate malfeasance (notoriously, one of the least attractive forms of journalism for advertisers). They can pay journalists top dollar – even bid against each other for the most talented journalists – and supply them with all the tools they need to ply their trade. A short won't ever try the kind of bullshit the owners of Vice pulled, paying themselves millions while their journalists lose access to Lexisnexis or the PACER database:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/24/anti-posse/#when-you-absolutely-positively-dont-give-a-solitary-single-fuck

The shorts whose journalists are best equipped stand to make the most money. What's not to like?

Well, the issue here is whether the ruling class's sense of solidarity is stronger than its greed. The wealthy have historically oscillated between real solidarity (think of the ultrawealthy lobbying to support bipartisan votes for tax cuts and bailouts) and "war of all against all" (as when wealthy colonizers dragged their countries into WWI after the supply of countries to steal ran out).

After all, the reason companies engage in the scams that shorts reveal is that they are profitable. "Behind every great fortune is a great crime," and that's just great. You don't win the game when you get into heaven, you win it when you get into the Forbes Rich List.

Take monopolies: investors like the upside of backing an upstart company that gobbles up some staid industry's margins – Amazon vs publishing, say, or Uber vs taxis. But while there's a lot of upside in that move, there's also a lot of risk: most companies that set out to "disrupt" an industry sink, taking their investors' capital down with them.

Contrast that with monopolies: backing a company that merges with its rivals and buys every small company that might someday grow large is a sure thing. Shriven of "wasteful competition," a company can lower quality, raise prices, capture its regulators, screw its workers and suppliers and laugh all the way to Davos. A big enough company can ignore the complaints of those workers, customers and regulators. They're not just too big to fail. They're not just too big to jail. They're too big to care:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/04/teach-me-how-to-shruggie/#kagi

Would-be monopolists are stuck in a high-stakes Prisoner's Dilemma. If they cooperate, they can screw over everyone else and get unimaginably rich. But if one party defects, they can raid the monopolist's margins, short its stock, and snitch to its regulators.

It's true that there's a clear incentive for hedge-fund managers to fund investigative journalism into other hedge-fund managers' portfolio companies. But it would be even more profitable for both of those hedgies to join forces and collude to screw the rest of us over. So long as they mistrust each other, we might see some benefit from that adversarial relationship. But the point of the 0.1% is that there aren't very many of them. The Aspen Institute can rent a hall that will hold an appreciable fraction of that crowd. They buy their private jets and bespoke suits and powdered rhino horn from the same exclusive sellers. Their kids go to the same elite schools. They know each other, and they have every opportunity to get drunk together at a charity ball or a society wedding and cook up a plan to join forces.

This is the problem at the core of "mechanism design" grounded in "rational self-interest." If you try to create a system where people do the right thing because they're selfish assholes, you normalize being a selfish asshole. Eventually, the selfish assholes form a cozy little League of Selfish Assholes and turn on the rest of us.

Appeals to morality don't work on unethical people, but appeals to immorality crowds out ethics. Take the ancient split between "free software" (software that is designed to maximize the freedom of the people who use it) and "open source software" (identical to free software, but promoted as a better way to make robust code through transparency and peer review).

Over the years, open source – an appeal to your own selfish need for better code – triumphed over free software, and its appeal to the ethics of a world of "software freedom." But it turns out that while the difference between "open" and "free" was once mere semantics, it's fully possible to decouple the two. Today, we have lots of "open source": you can see the code that Google, Microsoft, Apple and Facebook uses, and even contribute your labor to it for free. But you can't actually decide how the software you write works, because it all takes a loop through Google, Microsoft, Apple or Facebook's servers, and only those trillion-dollar tech monopolists have the software freedom to determine how those servers work:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/04/which-side-are-you-on/#tivoization-and-beyond

That's ruling class solidarity. The Big Tech firms have hidden a myriad of sins beneath their bafflegab and balance-sheets. These (as yet) undiscovered scams constitute a "bezzle," which JK Galbraith defined as "the magic interval when a confidence trickster knows he has the money he has appropriated but the victim does not yet understand that he has lost it."

The purpose of Hunterbrook is to discover and destroy bezzles, hastening the moment of realization that the wealth we all feel in a world of seemingly orderly technology is really an illusion. Hunterbrook certainly has its pick of bezzles to choose from, because we are living in a Golden Age of the Bezzle.

Which is why I titled my new novel The Bezzle. It's a tale of high-tech finance scams, starring my two-fisted forensic accountant Marty Hench, and in this volume, Hench is called upon to unwind a predatory prison-tech scam that victimizes the most vulnerable people in America – our army of prisoners – and their families:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle

The scheme I fictionalize in The Bezzle is very real. Prison-tech monopolists like Securus and Viapath bribe prison officials to abolish calls, in-person visits, mail and parcels, then they supply prisoners with "free" tablets where they pay hugely inflated rates to receive mail, speak to their families, and access ebooks, distance education and other electronic media:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/02/captive-customers/#guillotine-watch

But a group of activists have cornered these high-tech predators, run them to ground and driven them to the brink of extinction, and they've done it using "the master's tools" – with appeals to regulators and the finance sector itself.

Writing for The Appeal, Dana Floberg and Morgan Duckett describe the campaign they waged with Worth Rises to bankrupt the prison-tech sector:

https://theappeal.org/securus-bankruptcy-prison-telecom-industry/

Here's the headline figure: Securus is $1.8 billion in debt, and it has eight months to find a financier or it will go bust. What's more, all the creditors it might reasonably approach have rejected its overtures, and its bonds have been downrated to junk status. It's a dead duck.

Even better is how this happened. Securus's debt problems started with its acquisition, a leveraged buyout by Platinum Equity, who borrowed heavily against the firm and then looted it with bogus "management fees" that meant that the debt continued to grow, despite Securus's $700m in annual revenue from America's prisoners. Platinum was just the last in a long line of PE companies that loaded up Securus with debt and merged it with its competitors, who were also mortgaged to make profits for other private equity funds.

For years, Securus and Platinum were able to service their debt and roll it over when it came due. But after Worth Rises got NYC to pass a law making jail calls free, creditors started to back away from Securus. It's one thing for Securus to charge $18 for a local call from a prison when it's splitting the money with the city jail system. But when that $18 needs to be paid by the city, they're going to demand much lower prices. To make things worse for Securus, prison reformers got similar laws passed in San Francisco and in Connecticut.

Securus tried to outrun its problems by gobbling up one of its major rivals, Icsolutions, but Worth Rises and its coalition convinced regulators at the FCC to block the merger. Securus abandoned the deal:

https://worthrises.org/blogpost/securusmerger

Then, Worth Rises targeted Platinum Equity, going after the pension funds and other investors whose capital Platinum used to keep Securus going. The massive negative press campaign led to eight-figure disinvestments:

https://www.latimes.com/business/story/2019-09-05/la-fi-tom-gores-securus-prison-phone-mass-incarceration

Now, Securus's debt became "distressed," trading at $0.47 on the dollar. A brief, covid-fueled reprieve gave Securus a temporary lifeline, as prisoners' families were barred from in-person visits and had to pay Securus's rates to talk to their incarcerated loved ones. But after lockdown, Securus's troubles picked up right where they left off.

They targeted Platinum's founder, Tom Gores, who papered over his bloody fortune by styling himself as a philanthropist and sports-team owner. After a campaign by Worth Rises and Color of Change, Gores was kicked off the Los Angeles County Museum of Art board. When Gores tried to flip Securus to a SPAC – the same scam Trump pulled with Truth Social – the negative publicity about Securus's unsound morals and financials killed the deal:

https://twitter.com/WorthRises/status/1578034977828384769

Meanwhile, more states and cities are making prisoners' communications free, further worsening Securus's finances:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/14/minnesota-nice/#shitty-technology-adoption-curve

Congress passed the Martha Wright-Reed Just and Reasonable Communications Act, giving the FCC the power to regulate the price of federal prisoners' communications. Securus's debt prices tumbled further:

https://www.govtrack.us/congress/bills/117/s1541

Securus's debts were coming due: it owes $1.3b in 2024, and hundreds of millions more in 2025. Platinum has promised a $400m cash infusion, but that didn't sway S&P Global, a bond-rating agency that re-rated Securus's bonds as "CCC" (compare with "AAA"). Moody's concurred. Now, Securus is stuck selling junk-bonds:

https://www.govtrack.us/congress/bills/117/s1541

The company's creditors have given Securus an eight-month runway to find a new lender before they force it into bankruptcy. The company's debt is trading at $0.08 on the dollar.

Securus's major competitor is Viapath (prison tech is a duopoly). Viapath is also debt-burdened and desperate, thanks to a parallel campaign by Worth Rises, and has tried all of Securus's tricks, and failed:

https://pestakeholder.org/news/american-securities-fails-to-sell-prison-telecom-company-viapath/

Viapath's debts are due next year, and if Securus tanks, no one in their right mind will give Viapath a dime. They're the walking dead.

Worth Rise's brilliant guerrilla warfare against prison-tech and its private equity backers are a master class in using the master's tools to dismantle the master's house. The finance sector isn't a friend of justice or working people, but sometimes it can be used tactically against financialization itself. To paraphrase MLK, "finance can't make a corporation love you, but it can stop a corporation from destroying you."

Yes, the ruling class finds solidarity at the most unexpected moments, and yes, it's easy for appeals to greed to institutionalize greediness. But whether it's funding unbezzling journalism through short selling, or freeing prisons by brandishing their cooked balance-sheets in the faces of bond-rating agencies, there's a lot of good we can do on the way to dismantling the system.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/08/money-talks/#bullshit-walks

Image: KMJ (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Boerse_01_KMJ.jpg

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

804 notes · View notes

goalieflashflight · 3 months ago

Text

Vimes:

You deserve a reward for putting up with me.

Sybil:

*smiles* You are my reward.

Moist:

(Not willing to be outdone) You deserve a reward for putting up with me.

Adora:

Yeah, you’re a real bitch sometimes.

Rincewind:

The path to inner peace starts with four words.

Rincewind:

Not my fucking problem.

Vimes getting a voice message from Sybil

Vimes imping back a text:

I’m a little busy, is it urgent?

Sybil imping a text:

No, don’t worry dear, just listen later.

Vimes in his office later:

*Presses play on voice message* Sybil’s voice: PUT OUT THAT FIRE FOR GODS SAK…

Background noise: Their newest hire Emily screaming and young Sam laughing

Magrat:

Hey, Granny! I made you this friendship bracelet.

Granny Weatherwax:

I’m not a jewelry person.

Magrat:

Oh, well, that’s okay. You don’t have to wear it-

Granny Weatherwax:

No, I’m gonna wear it. Forever. Back off.

Vetinari: I never tell people right off the bat my sexuality.

Vetinari: I wait.

Vetinari: I wait until they say some homophobic shit

Vetinari: And then I laugh and I’m like “you know I’m queer, right?”

Vetinari: And watch the look of terror on their face.

Vimes:

This is bad.

Vimes:

This is really bad.

Angua:

What is it, sir?

Vimes:

I kissed the patrician.

Angua:

Woah. I owe Cheery so much money-

Nobby:

I wanna make one thing clear. You mess with Fred you mess with me.

Colon:

Yeah

Nobby:

Because we’re boys

Colon:

…Yeah.

Nobby:

We’re friends!

Colon:

Yeah!

Nobby:

We’re boyfriends!!

Colon:

Ye…No. No we’re not. You can’t say that-

Nobby:

We’re boys and we’re friends

Colon:

Yeah that’s better.

Nobby:

So we’re boyfriends.

Colon:

No-

#discworld #sybil ramkin #sam vimes #moist von lipwig #adora belle dearheart #magrat garlick #granny weatherwax #rincewind #fred colon #nobby nobbs #they are a couple you are right FirepOwder!#this is for you #havelock vetinari #i refuse to put that man in one category but he is not straight #incorrect quotes #incorrect quotes part 2

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catoswound · 8 months ago

Text

what the HELL is this @/publius claudius pulcher?????? your coward ass is always hiding behind press releases. you are a SPINELESS LOSER. you're still patrician and that's FINAL.

#publius clodius pulcher

86 notes · View notes

jacevelaryonswife · 2 years ago

Text

Kneel to the Empire or die with the Republic

A woman cannot be left alone to her own fate. After the fall of what you used to know, your only option was to kneel to him.

pairing: Young!Gaius Julius (Augustus Imperator) x Fem!reader

warnings and a note: angst, grief. This story is based on Domina (tv show), I don't have so much knowledge about the historical facts that involve Augustus, so, for those who have more baggage I'm sorry if something sounds wrong from what happened, please be kind, or just don’t read. English is not my first language. 3,8k

In addition to grief, other factors tightened your chest after your father's death. A good man, a faithful supporter of the Roman Republic and power of the Senate, a patrician descended from an important aristocratic lineage, and the most aggravating: one of those responsible for orchestrating the assassination of Gaius Iulius Caesar.

When the military forces of Gaius Julius, born Gaius Octavius, great-nephew of Julius Caesar, began to act in Rome, you knew you had few certainties and much to fear. Perhaps you were executed with your family, dying in an honorable way and with your head held high against a dictator (in the words of your older brother), or just having your traitorous blood eliminated by the defended cause of the heir of the most important man in Rome. They said he was different, a restorer of the Republic, a supporter of power in the hands of the people and the Senate, a middle ground between Caesar and the most avid Republicans. In those days, nothing was clearer to you than your death, however, Gaius Julius' stroke of mercy in sparing women and children from those considered enemies was at the same time a breath of relief and a punch in the lung.

Relief to the fact that you would have a chance to live, since the fear occurred when your brothers did not have the same luck when they were sentenced to death.

"What are we going to do?" You asked scared.

The two looked at each other for a considerable time, with Nero lowering his head before answering: "you will stay here and we are going to fight.”

“What? I can't stay here! There must be somewhere where his men don't find us."

"And how would you live? Running away forever? It's not the fate our father wanted for you." Claudius said.

"That's exactly what he would do instead of kneeling to a dictator, what do you expect me to do?"

“We are trying to protect you! There is no gentle future beyond these walls and I’m sure that Julius' men will still be less kind if they capture you," Nero said, exalting himself before holding your hands: "we cannot risk your life beyond ours, our father is not here, our allies are almost all dead, there is no hope for the three of us, but there may be for you."

The fall of tears marked your face until they flowed into the union of your hands. “I don't want to be alone,” you whined.

"You won’t”

It wasn't known at the time, but that was the last time you were with your brothers. The soldiers of Gaius Julius broke into your house the same night, looking closely for any fresh trail of male presence. The soldiers responsible for your safety were murdered without any chance of defense, with the exception of those who submitted quickly, fearful for their lives. You didn't judge them, how could you, after all?

When a man pressed you incisively on the whereabouts of your blood, shaking your shoulders rudely, an authoritarian voice interrupted him with a short message:

"Not her."

With wide eyes and irregular breathing, you were released immediately. The violence on the inside was mirrored on the outside, being the clearest reminder of those destined to die with the Republic. Your inert body remained in the sights of the man who guaranteed your release, the same facing you a few seconds after his order.

“My men will do your protection tonight,” he said.

The confusion in your frightened face was clear on the tip of your tongue when you asked a simple question:

"Why?" That didn't happen to other women.

"You'll know at the right time."

That's all the man said.

You remained static for long minutes after the departure of those who vandalized your home, with your father's servants — ordered by them — to remove the corpses from the house and sanitize the rooms to their original. Impossible. Doesn’t matter if the blood is removed, the death will be marked forever in each piece of furniture and corridor. One of the soldiers responsible for "your protection" approached with fear and touched your arm with delicacy, hitherto unknown to you, to get you out of the trance.

“We will assume from here, go back to rest,” he said.

"What's going to happen?" Your question was weak, almost like a meow.

"The house will be cleaned and the perimeter protected."

"From who? Why do you want to protect me?"

He remained silent for a few minutes before answering: "I'm not allowed to say."

Permission? What was going on? What was being planned for you? And by whom? Gaius Julius himself or one of his trusted men? Would you be held hostage? Would you marry any of them? Would it be sold as a slave or prostitute?

The rest of the night was spent in torment, with you pushing the internal lock of your door hard and putting on a clot to try to hide some jewels and coins with you in case you needed it and managed to escape. Sleeping was not an option, but a part of you wished that sleep would erase the horrors experienced and the departure of his brothers, so nervousness and fear partially succumbed to sleep. You allowed yourself to stay in the room a little longer that morning, ashamed of facing your servants and guards (no longer yours, but of the men of Gaius), only to receive a knock on the door of the same man you spoke to for the last time.

“I would like to sleep a little more,” you said through the door, afraid enough to open it.

His breathing was perfectly audible, followed by a moment of silence. "You will have some time, but you will need to leave soon to feed yourself and receive the lady Octavia's visit."

Octavia? Octavia Minor? Brother of Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus? What the fuck was going on?

If there was any pretension of tiredness in you it was in a distant past, your mind had just been set on fire with what was going to happen, with what that woman might want with you. She was no stranger, visually speaking, since the glimpse of her red hair and elegant posture were seen by you at the wedding of Livia Drusila and Tiberius Claudius Nero. She, Scribonia, Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa and him, the reason for everything that is happening, with his hair and eyes dark as the night, with cheap charm and indecent actions.

You didn’t forget how you caught him having inadequate relations with Cicero's wife during the celebration, how he didn’t seem intimidated or embarrassed by his wide eyes, or how he went to you discreetly after your escape, so calm and carefree that it seemed unreal.

It's too unreal to have him by your side. Too unreal that he approached the daughter of one of the men responsible for the death of his great-uncle.

“I'm sorry you saw that, I should have chosen a place with a door,” he said when he settled comfortably standing next to him.

Your breath froze when you heard such a lack of respect, was he making fun of you?

"Don't worry, the time will come when you will do that for your husband," he provoked again, not receiving silence in response.

"Have you finished yet?" Your question was irritated, although low, without looking him in the eye.

"Yes, I did."

You didn't notice his pertinent choice of words, keeping yourself in the same place while waiting for him to leave.

“A beautiful thing like you deserve a better husband than Livia's,”

And so, he left your side.

Everything that preceded your departure from the room to the bath and to the food resulted in a constant tension in every room of your house. You felt eyes accompanied by you at all times, both from the soldiers of Gaius and from your father's slaves. It seemed that another series of murders would happen and was only prevented, for the time being, by the visit of the dictator's sister, which happened in the early afternoon.

A comforting smile directed to you was present before and after the hug given. "I'm sorry for what happened yesterday, the war usually gets the best of us."

That couldn't be said to her, you thought.

“Thank you.”

One of the guards guided the way to his father's conversation room, where there was some fruit and wine waiting. Quick flashes of happy memories made you walk slower before sitting next to her, it seemed like an eternity from full happiness, and maybe you would never fully recover it.

“Your house is quite beautiful,” Octavia began, looking around, “I always imagined it was, but it's different when being inside.”

“Has had better days,” you said apathetic, looking down.

Holding your hands, she held your chin to face her. “Again, I'm sorry for what happened. It has been a difficult period for all of us, on both sides, and I imagine that being alone in a world of men is more aggravating. That's why I'm here." Your silence made her continue, although she did not mention of stopping. "I believe you follow your father's ideas, perhaps not because you understand what a republic means, but because you accept what your blood believed-"

"I know what the republic means, just as I know what your brother is doing, but I don't think he came here to ask for my opinion," you interrupted her.

“Not an opinion, but a decision,” she rectified.

“And what decision is that?"

She looked down, displaying a strange smile as she took a deep breath. Her response took a while, as Octavia calmly took a bunch of grape in her hands and picked up a berry before resuming the subject.

"Your father's decision to delay choosing a suitor for you was quite risky for your reputation, rumors could have been made about your purity instead. I like to think he was kind, to the same extent as a fool. But maybe, all this time serves a greater purpose,” she took another break, waiting for you to guess, but everything seemed too absurd to unravel.

"What purpose?"

"A woman cannot be alone in the world, especially one with your birth. When the news that your brothers are gone is spread, men of all regions and ages have prowled your carcass and will force a marriage to get your dowry. Maybe some of your uncles or cousins, or any of them. I come here today to offer a better proposal than any of them: Gaius."

The self-control over your expressions was not well executed, since your eyes frowned and your mouth opened. No, it couldn't be. It was a fucking joke. How... how dare she?

"What?" You asked out loud. “Gaius? Your brother Gaius?"

"Yes, he in person." Octavia answered.

“Why? Why do you want me to marry him? Why me?"

“Although many claim that Gaius intends to end the Senate and Republic, this has already proved to be a fallacy. In his trajectory, he showed that he did not conquer power alone. In fact, the Senate is on its way to deliver this power to him, because it recognizes his virtues. He is a merciful man, who wishes to restore the Republics to their glory days.”

“Merciful?” You asked. “Where is the pity in sentencing my brothers to death? How nice would it be to marry the heir of the man my father helped kill? How good would it be to marry the man who is the reason why all this is happening?” Your voice came out exalted again.

Octavia, in turn, restricted herself to looking down. “All the men who remain in Rome will be supporters of Gaius, maybe yes, some dissatisfied rebel can remain, but in the end, their opinion will be worth nothing, so any husband they arrange for you will be loyal to my brother, it’s no less worse.”

“Gaius decreed the death of my brothers, that’s bad enough,” you answered.

“But what will be worse for you: to be unhappy with a bad stranger or to be the wife of a young sovereign leader? My brother was not very favorable to your family, but he would not do the atrocities that could happen to you being alone and vulnerable at this time.”

No answer was formulated by you, maybe a punch in the stomach would be preferable when facing your reality.

“Gaius himself suggested this idea,” she added.

Before or after declaring your brothers as enemies? How could he think of something like that? The memory of your family and your dignity was insulting! You would become what you wouldn’t like to say and that your father would vehemently deny.

“It’s a lot to assimilate, I know, so you have until the rest of the day to think about, tomorrow one of the soldiers will take your answer in writing,” Octavia said.

“No,” you said. “I’ll come to you. Papers can be tampered with, not my word. But I ask you to order your brother’s men not to touch any woman in this house during my absence.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

It was a deal. A marriage proposal by Gaius Julius Caesar. Not a request, an agreement, that’s what it was, an arrangement to improve his image. That was your function, to improve the lives of men, and unfortunately, even if you don’t choose it, there is no way to get out of this situation unscathed, because Octavia didn’t lie when she referred to the fate that awaited you. But that was worse, he was to blame for the chaos and violence that Rome witnessed, the reason why your home was destroyed. You were truly scared between choosing such options. They were all bad in many ways, but Gaius’s was disrespectful and humiliating. And yet you were still considering it. Was surviving so important?

Or was it that you were too cowardly to face your destiny. Between running away and getting married, you preferred death, but you were too cowardly to cut your throat. Maybe one of Gaius’ men could do this after you rejected the proposal, or Octavia herself could meet someone who messed with poisons. By the Gods, you were desperate.

“I don’t know what to do,” you told a personal servant while bathing.

You still didn’t know what to do when you went to sleep, when you woke up the next day, when you ate nothing more than a few grape berries, when you were taken to where Octavia was and when you faced her. You believed that years could pass and you would not yet have a concrete answer to that situation, but even so, the known evil (Gaius) seemed less worse than what could happen if you rejected it.

Even though it is a simple word, it has never been so difficult to make a statement before.

“Yes.”

You accepted him as yours.

Gaius’ sister’s smile was warm, wrapping your body in a hug while saying that from now on you would be sisters. Your dresses and goods would be sent to your new home, and a few maids could be taken too — at your insistence.

“We have our trusted servants, no need to worry,” Octavia said.

And then it became clear that the evaluation of his company was not only for capacity, but for loyalty and security.

“Gaius will be back soon, I’m sure he will be pleased with your presence here,” she said next. “You couldn’t have chosen better.”

Choices. No, you didn’t want to keep torturing yourself by thinking about the other options.

However, a curious fact was noticed by you in the days that followed in Gaius’ house, under the company of Octavia and other ladies: they would die to be in your position. Or rather, they would kill to be the wife of the next leader of Rome. It was one of the certainties you came to believe, Gaius Julius would not lose the war and those women would do anything to be in youe place. The feeling of danger that filled you on the other days was terrifying, restless and too tense to remain surrounded by other people. Turning to Octavia about the possibility of being poisoned, she eased your fears by saying that everything that arrived on your plate was tasted by others noticed. It wasn’t so comforting when you realized that people could die for you. No, that was insanity. Everything related to what you were living was insanity.

Long days and long nights were bathed in fear in your new home, but nothing compared when the news of his return echoed through the walls. Next to your faithful friends, men, family and servants, there you were, in the center, next to your new sister. The smile that stamped his front was raised when he saw your serious and nervous figure waiting for him. The son of a bitch looked like he had won the biggest of the prizes. And in fact, he did it, after all, his image was built for that.

For the reconstruction of the Republic.

No word of his speech was heard by you, just waiting for such torment to end. But the celebrations were just beginning. At first, he did not go directly to meet you, but in the middle of the night, when you were away for too long in a distant room, he approached surreptitiously with gentle steps.

“Even though it was a generous proposal, a large part of me thought you would refuse it,” he said, calm with a breeze.

A sigh was your first reaction.

“A large part of me thought about refusing.”

He stood next to you, or in front of you (depending on the perspective) in the hallway.

“And what made you change your mind?”

“I don’t know,” you replied.

“Don’t you know?”

“No, I don’t know.”

“So why are you here?”

“I was afraid of being alone, not that I’m not at the moment. Not that the other option was less worse, in fact, both were bad enough.”

“And what was the other option?” He asked with a mixture of humor, surprise and curiosity with his sincere answer.

“Your sister can answer that.”

He didn’t hold his smile this time, even if weak and nasal. After that, he was silent for a while, posture changing up before speaking even lower:

“I’m sorry for your brothers.” Perhaps it would have been better to have been silent since your only reaction was to walk in the same direction that he came, leaving him behind, or trying. “Wait, wait! I’m sorry, it was something stupid to say.” He held your arm firmly, but without being rude, as he got even closer.

“Yes, it was,” you agreed and showed the frown you fought so hard to disguise.

“There was nothing to do about them,” he confessed.

“No? Did your supporters say that or was it your idea to declare them as enemies?” You asked (accused) him.

“Would they accept to be loyal to me?”

Of course not.

“I thought you was doing this for the people and the Senate, to restore the Republic,”

“And I am, but would they accept this if it was done by me?”

You smiled with mockery, looking the other way and leaving him unanswered.

“I know you have enough reasons not to trust me, or hate me, but I don’t intend to fail as a husband, and I don’t intend to disrespect you,” he said, trying to soften.

“Just like you disrespected Cicero?” You remembered the incident at Livia’s wedding.

It was his turn to sigh, releasing your arm to hold your hand.

“Cívero married her because her family is rich. That’s why everyone gets married: money, power and family. That the only thing that’s matter.”

“That’s why we’re getting married. Money, power and family,” you said bitterly.

“Yes, it’s. But I know it wasn’t an easy decision fot you to make.”

If your conscience wasn’t trying to push him away, you could have noticed a certain compassion in his beautiful eyes.

“No, you don’t know. You don’t.” That was too much, no, it was an excess of what you could handle. “You have no idea what it’s been like to live with this burden. The people I loved are dead and I feel that at any moment I will be next, and I will still marry you. No, you don’t know how I feel. My father would bitterly deny me if I were alive, my brothers too, because I’m going to marry you, because I’m a fucking traitor!” Tears collapsed violently from your eyes. “Because I have nothing else, there’s nothing left.”

Oh no. He advanced on you with a tight hug, holding your head against his chest. “It’s ok, it’s ok, you’ll be fine, I promise, I’m sorry, I’m sorry for all this. I promise I won’t betray you, I promise, I’m sorry.”

You didn’t know how many tears you had saved for that moment, for him. Because of him. You couldn’t imagine leaning over to seek comfort in him, squeezing him so hard to prevent him from running away. But he wouldn’t go anywhere, no, he wouldn’t. He wrapped you in a cocoon while holding the back of your head. The inconvenient thought that incriminated him for your situation was unpleasant to deal with, for him, and unconsciously, for you, a small relief was present in the back of your mind because no one was around.

“I promise you, nothing less than respect. I can’t get back what was lost, but I can guarantee new things,” he said when you calmed down.

“I don’t need jewelry, Gaius, or dresses, or maids. I already have that, I’ve always had it,” you countered it.

“I’m not talking about material goods. Some things need interference to be solved, others can be remedied by time, or mitigated. I don’t intend to put pressure or do little of you, I know it wouldn’t work, and that’s not how I want to solve things between us. I hope one day you can forgive me, I’ll be waiting for that.”

Taking a risk by kissing your forehead with affection was dangerous, but touching your lips was off limits. He has waited so long for you, since he saw your wide eyes and beautiful face at Livia Drusilla’s wedding. A beautiful girl from an important family, the same family involved in the size of her great-uncle, yet a beautiful girl to have by his side. He knows it was cruel to have made such a proposal, but it would be even more cruel to leave you for your luck. He could not allow this, not when your fragility was exposed to him in a more frighteningly palpable way, not when even in suffering you confronted him. Call him a fool or hopeful, but he believed that eventually, taking time or not, you would be totally his.

The confusion was evident in your eyes when he felt for the first time the slight landing of soft and gentle lips against your own. His lips... kissing you. Your eyes closed in the final seconds, before a whispered statement was sworn to you in a serious and masculine tone:

“Everything will be fine.”

————————

I didn’t like this as much as I imagined.

general taglist: @chompchompluke

tag for this fic: @lovelykhaleesiii @arcielee

#gaius julius x reader #young!gaius julius x reader #domina hbo #tom glynn carney #gaius octavius x reader #gaius julius caesar #emperor augustus #fanfiction #tom glynn

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the1975attheirverybest · 1 year ago

Text

Being Funny In A Foreign Language

Chapter 1- Never Gonna Love Again…

Warnings: smut.

read all aditional chapters here.

———

“So, where is it, then?” Amelia’s eyes darted between Patricia and Matty, both of whom looked puzzled.

“Where’s what?” Patricia frowned.

“The- the naked Matty. The body double! Matty, The Second? You know, the better Matty.”

Matty rolled his eyes. “Are you finished?”

“Ummm,” Amelia looked into the distance, pretending to think. “The One True Matty? Eh. That's lame. Okay, guess I am finished.” She gave him a charming smile, batting her eyelashes at him, jokingly. Matty tried to ignore the beating in his chest and play along, but his love for her was like second nature by now. He couldn’t help it.

“Seriously, where do you guys keep him?”

Matty started to respond, “Oh, not here. we don’t-“ but Patricia had already spoken over him.

“Right this way, he’s in the storage room.” She gestured.

Both ladies gave Matty a quizzical look. They made their way down the hall, Matty trailing behind them, dreading the inevitable.

“You’ve literally just landed. Haven’t even been to the hotel yet, and this is what you want to see?” He attempted to distract her.

“What? You think I flew all this way just to see you?… well I guess I kinda did.” Amelia giggled to herself, “but like….to see the better you.”

Patricia flicked the lightswitch on in the storage room, waiting a moment for lights to flicker.

“How’s he the ‘better me’?”

“He’s naked. And he doesn’t speak.” She grinned, throwing him off.

“Here he is.” Patricia pointer to a box in the middle of the room, surrounded by clutter, and labeled, “peanut. EXTREMELY FRAGILE.”

Matty watched Amelia’s eyes scan over the text, and turned around, looking away timidly.

“Awwww, are you fuckin kidding me?! That’s so sweet.” She chuckled, a hand on her heart.

Patrician unclasped the lid, dragging it to the side and opening the box. “Here he is. Amelia, meet Peanut.”

Amelia took small, hesitant steps towards the box. “Gosh I’m a little nervous. I think starstruck.” She stood over the box, peering down, as if at a treasure chest.

Matty rolled his eyes.

“Awww” she smiled, melting Matty’s heart. Then her expression changed as she leaned over to get a closer look. “Oh. Would you look at that. He’s got your penis. Surprisingly, anatomically accurate.”

Patricia was startled. “Okay. That’s my cue to leave. Have fun you two.”

Amelia smiled at Patricia as she walked out the door, turning to Matty once they were alone. “How’d you get it to be so life-like? Did you have to show your dick to the sculptor?”

He retrieved the box cover, shutting it closed. “Wanna join me for dinner? Took about the show?”

***

As they rushed into the room, Matty couldnt help but recall his conversation with Ross earlier that day.

“Please tell me you did not hire her to come along on tour just so you could sleep with her….” Ross had tossed the rash guard into the designated hamper, eying the gym showers for an available one.

Matty had scuffed at the mere suggestion. “‘Course not. That’s despicable!”

Despicable though it may have been, Matty found himself in a compromising position, a bulge forming in his pants as Amelia’s hot breath tickled his neck. He almost allowed himself to think about how much he’s missed her, her body, pressed up against his, her fingers, tugging at his hair with just enough urgency to send a sting through his— fuck! No, he can’t repeat the same cycle of events all over again. He must choose character growth.

“Erm…..Amelia,” he sighed out, the feeling of her kisses all over his skin almost melting him. “We- should…listen, Amelia-“ would it really be so bad, he wondered, If he let them both have this?

He finally mustered enough self-restraint to pull their bodies apart, “Amelia, slow down.” He flashed her a smile. “You’ve only just landed.” His voice shook in his throat as he spoke. “We- uhh- we should get some drinks or something?”

“Oh, I’m not thirsty.” Amelia brushed off his suggestion. “The beauty of a Dirty Hit funded, all-Expenses-paid, first class ticket is that the meals on the flight tasted nothing like airplane food came with drinks too. Nice drinks. If the flight attendant had walked up to me with a plate of Caviar, I wouldn’t have been surprised.”

Matty smiled.

“So, if this is what it’s like to work for your label….I might like it.”

“It’s not my label,” Matty eagerly corrected her.“Well….a small portion of it is. But- Jamie’s in charge, so-“

He lost his train of thought when he felt her finger tracing patterns in the skin of his hand, softly, but deliberately.

“Anyway,” her lips, were, once more, by his ear, whispering, “not in need of any drinking. But I do have a craving for something else.” Her soft, seductive voice was making his knees buckle. He leaned against the wall, his head pushed back.

This wasn’t how he’d envisioned his do-over going. The romcom-esque arc that he’d planned in his head. He was going to spend time with her. Show her that he cares about her for more than just sex. Earn her time and attention by being worthy. Not because she was in love with him and found it difficult to stay apart.

“Been thinking about your hands around my neck since I got into that car that you sent for me.” Amelia’s voice pulling him in again. “Have I said thank you for that yet? Eh. why say it, when I could,” she sank to her knees, “just show it,” undoing his belt.

Shit, he’s in trouble. He tried talking himself out of it but, instead, he found himself looking down into her eyes, his hand gently cupping her face. “Fuck me, I’m the worst.”

Matty felt like the devil, conjuring up sinful fantasies as he looked down at Amelia, who somehow, looked just like an Angel kneeling between his legs.

His belt-studded jeans hit the floor with a thud, Amelia cupping his clothed crotch and delighting in his hissing.

“How long has it been?” She asked, grinning and looking up at him through her lashes.

“Wh-wha- what?”

“How long has it been since the last time that you’ve had sex?” She repeated, nonchalant, rubbing the fabric of his briefs.

Matty swallowed harshly, “no- not since- not since you and me.” He blushed and closed his eyes, not baring to look at her as he confessed.

If Amelia was thrilled about this news, she made no show of it. By the way that she carried on her teasing without a hitch, Matty wasn’t even sure she’d heard him.

She sighed, after a long silence, “that’s ages ago.” So, she did hear him. “Why?” She looked him directly in the eyes as she waited for his answer.

In the heat of the moment, Matty considered simply blurting out, “because I’m in love with you.” But that’s not how he wanted to tell her. He’d been fantasizing about it for a long time. He wanted the moment to be perfect. “Just doesn’t- doesn’t feel right anymore”

Amelia hooked a finger into the waistband of his underwear pulling it as far away from his body as possible, then releasing it to snap against his skin.

“Ah- shit!” Matty cursed. “Not interested in chasing something that- erm…disappears as soon as you finally get it. Don’t wanna do that.”

“Oh, so you want me to stop, then?”

The coyness in her voice lit a fire within him, like an old, stale matchbox lighting up a cold room. He repressed the urge to whine and beg her not to move an inch. A smile across his lips, he chuckled, amused, his thumb delicately brushing her lower lip. “Open up, Amelia.”

Her mouth open, tongue out, just like he’d taught her months ago. Matty grinned, pleased with her responsiveness.

Amelia’s hands reached for his briefs to rid him of them, but a sharp tug of her hair fixed her in place. “Who said you could move?” His voice was sharp, admonishing, but his smile gentle. She knew she’d be a sticky, wet mess between her legs if he kept this up. “Sorry, I- just eager, I guess. Missed you in my mouth.”

Fuck. He was done for.

Ignoring the shaking of his knees, Matty remembered his aim. “Hands behind your back, c’mon.” He nodded, “good girl.”

His briefs slid down his legs; he pushed her head down on his hard cock. “Breathe, deep breaths, Amelia. Remember what I’ve taught you.”

***

“So…what happened after dinner?” Ross smiled, amused, “the two of you-“

“We fucked. Yes.”

Ross held back a giggle as his bicep relaxed, setting the weights back down. He sat up on the bench, gradually getting off it, and dabbing the sweat off his forehead with a towel. He nodded for Matty to take his place, patting his shoulder as his friend walked by him. “Mate,” he shook his head in disbelief. “You are so-“

“I know.”

Matty laid on his back, where Ross had been moments ago, staring up at the high ceiling.

“You ready?” Ross hovered by Matty’s head, ready to spot him.

“Let’s fuckin go.”

Deep breath in as his arms pulled down. His mind taking him back to the night before, as he laid there, breathing deeply, by her side.

“Cig?”

Amelia shrugged. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Ever the gentleman, Matty lit her cigarette first, then his.

Amelia looked into his eyes, not saying anything. He blushed, turning away. “What?” The cigarette dangled from his lips as he spoke. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

“You look… tired.” She cupped cheek in her hand, caressing it slowly.

Butterflies fluttered in his stomach. He was surprised to feel his emotions bubble to the surface. The urge to cry lingered for a moment before he repressed it again and put on a smile.

“I haven’t really slept since….2022.”

Amelia’s hand let go of his face. He felt the loss of her touch keenly.

“Yeah, I don’t blame you.” She sat back against her pillow.

“What’s that mean?”

“I mean if my name were in the tabloids as often as yours has been….I’d have trouble sleeping, too.”

“Oh, that? I don’t care about that.”

Amelia giggled. “Yeah, that’s why you’re making a whole show about it.”

Matty tried to spit out a quick retort but stuttered instead. “ that-

Is- it’s not- You know me…”

“Yes, I do know you.” She kissed his cheek, “you’re sensitive. You care so much about a lot of things. You’re somewhat of an idealist. which is why I know that you pretend not to care. But deep down? It bothers you” she spoke in between kisses inching closer and closer to him until she was back on top of him, kissing his face and neck.

“A-Amelia?”

She took the cigarette out of his mouth, setting it down next to hers. She kissed his lips. “Wanna go again?”

“Amelia, I-“

“A second round? Please?”

Matty felt himself melt into the mattress at her small, gentle plea. His arms wrapped around her, rubbing her bare back.

“Need to talk, first.” He whispered against her lips at after a breathless kiss.

She opened her eyes, looking at him to assess his seriousness. He looked genuine. “Okay,” she got off of him. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Well- erm. I think we need to set some ground rules. F-for….I mean, we’re friends. We’ll be working together. I don’t know if- we should be having sex.”

Amelia frowned, “why not?”

“‘Fraid it’ll get too complicated.”

“We’ve done it before….” She shrugged.

“Yes. We have. And it went well for a while. You know, until…”

He let his sentence trail off, not quite finding the right words for ‘you told me you loved me following a particularly emotional

fuck and I never said it back.’

“Oh, that!” Amelia seemed to pick up on what he meant. “If that’s what you’re worried about.” She chuckled, “then worry no more. I’m over it.”

“You’re over it?”

“Yeah, I mean- we’re friends above all else, right?”

“R-right.”

“Yeah, good. So, I’m over the whole thing.” She watched his face shift into an unreadable expression. “Sorry, I’m confused. So are you saying we’re having sex or no?”

Matty stumbled over his words, “I- erm- I don’t- know.”

Amelia took that as her cue to get off the bed. “Well,” she spoke with her back towards him, collecting her discarded clothes off the floor. “Figure out what you want, and then let me know.”

Exhale….

“It’s never happening again.” Matty pushed his arms upward, grunting at the weights.

“whatever you say, Matty.”

“ I mean it.” His breathing quickened. “She said she’s over it. Like- like I’m a horrendous case of the flu or something.”

Ross rolled his eyes. “Oh here comes George.” They spotted him walking through the door. “George- I’ve got a quick fire question for you: should Matty tell Amelia that he loves her?”

George’s brows shot up. “You mean he still hasn’t told her? Matty, bro..”

“It’s- complicated!” Matty reached for his water bottle, taking a quick sip.

“No it isn’t. It’s quite simple actually.” George insisted. “Find a time and a place when the two of you are alone, look her in the eyes and say ‘Amelia, I love you. I want to be your boyfriend. If you’ll have me’ and just like that….it’s done. You’ve done it.”

“But I’m not ready yet. I- haven’t shown her that I’m different now. I’m not ready.”

George turned to Ross as he spoke, hoping for backup. “There’s no such thing as ‘ready,’ Matty. You’re never going to achieve perfection. No human is ever perfect. What’re you waiting for?”

“For her to get a boyfriend? A husband? The birth of her second child?” Ross added, then whispered something to George about having taken it too far.

“Relationships aren’t songs, Matty.” George placed a gentle, firm hand on his shoulder. “You can’t control and edit every single moment to achieve a flawless result. If you wait for things to be just right, you’re gonna find yourself waiting forever.”

***

Matty felt his heart skip a beat every time that the elevator beeped, indicating that it had passed another floor. He checked his hair in the mirror and straightened his leather jacket, fiddling nervously with the collar. By the time that he’d stepped off the elevator and onto Amelia’s floor, he was practically giddy, floating on the ground. He smiled, excitedly, as he stared at the room number on her door. He knocked on her door as his heart knocked against his chest.

“Oh, hey, Matty.” Amelia opened the door wider once she’d realized who it was. “Come in.”

“You look nice.” He smiled, Watching her walk over to the hotel safe and take out her jewelry bag.

“Thanks, Matty.” She struggled to hook the necklace around her neck, feeling blindly for the edges of the clasp.

“Oh- here- let me.” Matty rushed over to help. Unable to resist running his finger along the curve of her neck and watching the hairs on the back of her head stand.

“Thank you.” She turned around to face him. “Did you- need something?”

“Oh, right. I actually- well, I….had wondered if you’d like to watch a film or something. Maybe get some dinner?”

“I’d love to, Matty. I really would. But I can’t tonight. I have a date.”

The blood drained from Matty’s face. His heart dropping into his stomach. “A date?”

“Yeah, in an hour actually. Hence the…” she gestured at her outfit.

Matty felt his mouth run dry. He stared at her, wide-eyed, for a long moment. “I- erm- I thought you’d said that…you didn’t know anyone in this part of the country. That…you’ve never been here before.”

“Yeah, I haven’t.” She stood in front of the mirror with an eyeliner pen in her hand. “And what better way to explore a new place than with a local handsome boy who’s lived here for ages.”

Matty stood there, tongue-tied and frozen watching her apply her makeup.

“Rain check on the film?” Her eyes met his through the mirror.

“Uhh-yeah. Yes. Yes, of course.” Matty felt his mind spiral in circles, not a single discernible thought. “Well…I guess I should leave you to it, then.” He waited for his body to muster up the strength to walk away. It took him a moment, but eventually, he managed to step towards the door. “Have fun, Amelia.”

Her attention remained focused on the task at hand, but she mumbled an expression of thanks as he walked out of the room.

Outside of her room, Matty leaned against the wall, running a hand through his hair. He was already too late.

#matty healy fanfiction #matty healy fanfic #matty healy smut #matty healy fluff #matty healy angst #matty healy x oc #matty healy writing #matty healy oneshot #matty healy one shot #matty healy imagine #matty healy fic

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slippinmickeys · 7 months ago

Note

Prompt: the first time Mulder and Maggie meet in Proof of Life verse (obvs no pressure if you don’t fancy this but I’ve been wondering what she’d make of him once she found out about what happened in room 1055)

Mulder stands on the stoop, holding a bowl of pasta salad with plastic wrap pulled tightly over the top. Scully looks up at him with a nervous smile and presses the button to ring the doorbell. From inside the house comes the sound of a vintage Miami-Carey Westminster chime, muffled by wood and drywall and insulation. Mulder hasn’t been in the US for almost three years, and suddenly he feels launched back into the patrician hallway of his childhood home. But it is Scully’s mother who opens the door, who pulls her daughter into a tight hug. She then turns to Mulder, giving him a long, assessing look.

“Mom, this is Fox Mulder,” Scully says, pressing her lips together.

Mulder awkwardly shifts the bowl to the crook of an arm and holds out his hand for a handshake.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Scully,” he says.

Margaret Scully gives his hand a brief, polite squeeze and takes a step back. “Come in,” she says. “Please.”

***

The table is covered in classic red gingham, citronella candles guttering in a breeze that curls around the back of the house and through the flowering dogwood trees that are planted beside the garage. The meal is largely over, having hummed along with small talk that waxes and wanes with occasional awkwardness. Though Scully has talked about her family at length, Mulder is still categorizing who these people are; how they fit into his life, and where he fits into theirs.

“So you were embedded with the 41st?” Bill Scully Jr. asks him, his arm around the back of his chair, his posture artificially lackadaisical.

“And the 103rd,” Mulder answers.

In front of them are the remains of an elegant picnic lunch; a pitcher half full of lemonade, salt and pepper shakers, two leftover ears of corn beginning to wrinkle in the shade of Mrs. Scully’s back yard. On the plate in front of him are the oily remains of a charbroiled hamburger and a glob of potato salad he couldn’t bring himself to finish.

“They saw some shit,” Bill says, a little bit of challenge in his voice.

“Bill,” Margaret Scully says lightly, scolding him for language.

Mulder glances at her and turns back to the man.

“We did,” he says. He might not have been fighting next to the troops he was embedded with, but he saw all the same horrible things they saw.

Bill gives him a tight nod, and Mulder thinks he’s maybe won Scully’s brother’s approval. Or at least they’ve dispensed with the lekking ground enmity of their first 90 minutes.

“He doesn’t do that anymore,” Scully says from beside him. She’s sitting up straight, and tilts her chin up at her brother.

“What are you doing now, Fox?” Tara asks from next to Bill. Her voice is bright and conciliatory.

“Wildlife photography,” he says simply.

“I’m sure that’s a big change,” Tara says. “Is it as peaceful as it sounds?”

“It’s nice shooting something that doesn’t shoot back,” he says.

He hadn’t meant to distress anyone, but Mrs. Scully swallows audibly and puts a hand to her chest. Scully takes a deep breath and stands.

“I’ll go cut the pie,” she says, standing from her seat and brushing her hand along Mulder’s arm. “Is the ice cream in the garage fridge, Mom?”

Margaret blinks several times and then nods.

Tara stands as well. “We’ll clear the table. Bill?”

Mulder half rises to help, but Tara tells him to sit, and in a moment, it’s just him and Scully’s mother sitting at the outdoor table, songbirds calling to each other from the maple trees overhead. There is a long, awkward silence that stretches out between them, punctuated by cheerful chirps. Mulder doesn’t know what to say, unused to the social graces of family dynamics. Finally, Mrs. Scully rescues him.

“Dana seems to be doing well?”

Mulder feels a small smile lift his cheeks. “She’s happy,” he says softly. “We’re happy.”

The woman nods, a long, slow, drawn out gesture.

“For a long time, she wasn’t,” Margaret finally says. So this isn’t polite small talk. It’s something else entirely.

“And you’re together now, the two of you?” she goes on.

Mulder’s eyes find his lap. He isn’t sure what to say to that. Perhaps the woman is looking for reassurance that he won’t intentionally hurt her daughter after everything she’s been through. If she wants to be upfront and open, he can be too.

“Dana means more to me than anyone will ever know,” he says thickly, looking up to meet the woman’s eye. “I’ll never leave her.” He holds her gaze. “Never.”

The emotions swirling on Margaret Scully’s face are varied and intense. She reaches up to pull on her earring and seems to settle on determined.

“Then where were you?” she says with a slight tremble of emotion. “Where were you when she came home? She went to a place so dark I feared we couldn’t get her out.”

It’s not necessarily a time he likes to think about. “With respect, Mrs. Scully, I went to that place too.”

Her face immediately registers regret. “Of course. Of course you did, my apologies.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” he says, reaching for his glass of lemonade, which bites at the back of his throat when he swallows.

She takes a deep breath and sits up straighter, holding both hands together and putting them in her lap.

“Nevertheless. I’m sorry, Fox,” she goes on. “I’m still dealing with everything that happened. It was a hard time.”

“It was hard for everyone,” Mulder agrees, more earnest and honest than he’s been with anyone other than Scully. Her mother loves Dana as fiercely as he does.

“It’s just that…you were and seem to still be her only lifeline. And I found out about what you were to her on TV.”

Her honesty is straightforward and he feels a connection begin to form between the two of them. “The interview?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He sighs, remembering. “I think that interview gave Dana a chance to communicate what she needed to with everyone that was important to her.”

“You think that was her cry for help?”

“I think it was her call to arms,” he says.

From inside the house, Mulder can hear the gentle clamor of dishes being moved around the kitchen and then Tara’s high, friendly laugh. A bumblebee buzzes lazily over the table, pausing briefly over Mulder’s lemonade before moving off into the yard.

Margaret Scully looks at him with an emerging respect. She softens and leans forward. “Were you able to get help? After?”

Mulder thinks of his time in Paris. “I was able to reach a place of peace,” he says after a long moment.

Margaret nods thoughtfully. “Did you have someone to help you?”

There was Langly. There was Asuka. He gives her a gentle nod. “In a manner of speaking.”

The older woman reaches for her own glass and shakes the ice loose before taking a long drink. “Ethan was…” she starts.

At the name, Mulder pulls back a bit. He remembers the moment he saw the man on the base TV. The way his stomach dropped. He’s never told anyone about it other than Scully. He has to give her mother credit for talking about hard things. It’s something neither he nor Scully are necessarily good at.

“Ethan was no help,” Mrs. Scully finishes. “I suspect their relationship was done long before Dana was…before you were…before,” she finishes somewhat lamely.

Mulder merely nods, somewhat stoically.

“What must you both have gone through,” Mrs. Scully says thickly, shaking her head. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like in that hotel room.”

Mulder returns his gaze to her, and after a moment, she looks embarrassed. Margaret Scully knew about her daughter’s miscarriage. She knows what they did in the hotel room, but perhaps not all of what they were to each other.

How to tell her? Mulder thinks. How to tell Dana Scully’s mother that in the dark winter of that prison, her daughter was the ultimate apricity. That he found his salvation in her arms, in her mind, in her quim. The coarseness of the revelation makes it no less true. Without the love they’d found in each other, neither would have survived.

“Things there were…simple. Barring everything else… things were simple,” he says.

Mrs. Scully nods at him sadly.

“And we got out,” he says with finality.

At this, the older woman’s eyes mist over and she leans forward, reaching for his hand. He has to lean toward her to bridge the gap, but her small hand gives his a hard, reassuring squeeze. They have reached an understanding that will last through all of their days, Mulder knows this somehow, fundamentally.

The moment, though significant, is brief. The sliding door opens and Tara comes out, followed by Bill and Scully, each of them with small plates in their hands gobbed high with cherry goop and bright white clouds of ice cream.

“Who’s ready for pie!” Tara calls out.

Plates are passed out and everyone retakes their seats with loud scrapes of metal chairs being pulled across concrete paving stones.

“Shit, I forgot the forks!” Bill says the moment he’s finally pulled up to the table, and he pops back up.

“Bill!” Margaret scolds, though with a smile.

Scully, who had clocked the handhold of her mother and Mulder when she came out the door, holds Mulder’s gaze as she sits down. And, ignoring Tara’s chatter and Bill bumping the table and her mother asking if anyone needs another napkin, Scully slowly leans in and presses her lips to Mulder’s. The world turns, as does everything in it, arcing towards chaos. Arcing towards light.

#the x-files #fanfic #my fic #msr #au #prompt #asks #proof of life universe

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evilasiangenius · 4 months ago

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Rumination was beginning to feel like damnation, and so Aziraphale made himself a makeshift broom from some straw from the fields and a stick, and began to sweep. He cleaned out the broken bed in the windowless servant’s room. Somehow it was nicer without a bed in it, the blankness of chipped plaster walls was comforting.

He cleaned out the kitchen which was surprisingly easy given that all the foodstuff had been taken a long time ago. He carefully picked up and discarded all the broken sherds and oyster shells. In the process he and even found a few plain pieces of utility ware that could be used: bowls, cups, and a few pots. Anything metal or genuinely nice had been taken a long time ago.

He left most of the cobwebs hiding in dark corners alone, letting the spiders do their quiet work, only brushing away old abandoned webs that were no longer occupied.

While cleaning the oven he found a soft nest of grasses that hid a snoozing dormouse. He held the chirp-snoring creature in the palm of his hand for a while, entranced by the loud whistling snores (so unlike Crowley who snored very politely if at all), before setting the creature and her nest in a warm corner, tucked beneath the rim of a cracked pot.

He swept the bit of upstairs hallway that still remained, revealing beautiful flooring made of expensive imported cedar, which in the past would have been swept and polished daily. He touched the wood, and wondered – if he were to press his nose near the wood, could he still smell that sweet scent? But instead, he went into the storeroom, after some hesitation.

It was daytime so he opened the shutters, and the light that came in through the high window was wan and weak, leaving a patch of grayish light over Crowley’s face.

There was not very much dust here and he wondered if it had to do with Crowley’s influence. The demon always seemed so orderly and neat. But then, the sharpest memory of Crowley came to mind; that black-winged demon upon the gates of Eden, the edge of his robes torn and tattered, the stardust-stained black fabric looked more like a silvery gray.

What changed, Aziraphale wondered? From that barefoot wanderer, to this sleeping figure in black patrician boots, draped impeccably in a serpent-pinned chiton and a lustrous black pallium that covered dark curling hair.

He tried to remember the other times he had seen Crowley before this time, and it felt as if his mind balked at the curiosity.

So Aziraphale looked away from the sleeping figure of the demon and went back to sweeping. He picked up some pieces of broken pottery and threw the sherds out the window. Soon enough, the room was clean.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanwork #gomens #mistakes were made #it's the dark ages #and crowley is the sleeping beauty #depression napping #completely unaware that #aziraphale is nesting for both of them in the ruins of a roman villa

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startrekfangirl2233-writes · 11 months ago

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In Sickness and In Health

Part 13 of Sometimes All You Need (A Getaway Car)

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x Reader

Description: You've been feeling oddly off ever since you woke up in the morning. But you'd powered through your feelings, knowing that you have responsibilities you can't otherwise put off. A few hours later, you're cursing your own stubborn nature. Your head aches and every inch of your body is uncooperative. Taking a nap against your cold desk sounds like the perfect idea. What you're not expecting is your fiancé home early when he's supposed to be in Nevada at a training camp. What he's not expecting is a delirious Gorgeous Girl. Disclaimers: None! This is a sick-fic. Warnings: Female Reader. Gorgeous is delirious and leers a little bit at Jake. Word Count: 3387 Author Note: You all can forgive me for this fic, right? It's sweet and hilarious and I desperately needed a little bit of comfort and cuddles with Jake when I wrote it. I would apologize for one scene in this, but it's hilarious, so I'm not going to! AO3: Cross-posted Here! Wattpad: Cross-posted Here! My Masterlist Previous Part | Series Masterlist | Next Part

There’s a sour-smelling desert in your mouth, and papers are stuck on your face when you wake up. At first, you feel disoriented, your mind swimming as you sit up again. There’s a dull ache in the base of your spine, and goosebumps are covering your arms. You’re not sure why you woke up. Your laptop is closed in front of you, and all of your papers are carefully put away. Everything looks like it should. But you’re not sure why you woke up. Your brain feels like it’s barely working as you blink blearily, and then you see that someone is standing in front of your desk. Your eyes must be crossing because you can’t clearly see who they are. Mostly, they’re a khaki-colored, tall, broad blob. You startle when they get closer to you, squinting up at their face as the bright light sears into your eyeballs. Their hand cups your cheek, and your eyes flutter closed. Your eyes snap open when you feel something get pulled away from your forehead, smacking your lips as you try to remember what you were thinking about before this person touched your face.

“What’re you doing here?” You slur, trying and failing to stand up as the blob moves towards you. “You’re not supposed to be here.” They catch you under your armpits, easily bearing your mostly dead weight, and they’re so warm that you cuddle into them for a few more minutes. “How’d you get inside my house?” You ask all of the questions plaintively. Your voice is weak and croaky, but you need to know even though speaking makes your throat ache. You can hear the rumble of their voice in their chest as they respond. You press your aching head against the broad expanse of their chest, a delightfully muscular, masculine chest until the throbbing in your skull subsides a little.

“C’mon, darling.” Your entire center of gravity tilts as this stranger picks you up and walks you carefully up the stairs. Your body is limp as you rock with each of his footsteps, and when you look up, you can make out a patrician nose and bright green eyes. His hair is golden and looks incredibly soft as it curls over his forehead. You raise your hand clumsily, suddenly filled with an urge to touch this beautiful stranger’s soft-looking hair. It feels like silk under your fingers, and the soft look on his handsome face makes something warm light up in your chest.

“Let’s get you into bed, sweetheart.” You flop over where he sets you down, and oh. Oh, that feels nice. The sheets are perfectly cool against your feverish skin, and everything smells like sunshine, fresh laundry, and something citrusy and bright. The pillow is delightfully soft under your heavy head, and you could fall asleep right here. In fact, you are nearly asleep when the stranger comes back and, oddly enough, seems intent on stripping you out of your clothes.

“Wha-” You try to push his big hands away. “What are you doing?”

Your hands are ineffective at pushing him away because the hands don’t budge from their steady divestment of your clothing. He even reaches around behind your back to unfasten your bra, and that’s when you cross your arms across your chest. He can’t just do this! You’re not sure why he can’t, but you know there is a reason. It comes to you slowly, your mind not working as it should. You have a fiancé. That’s right. You have a fiancé. His name is Jake! Jake! Where is he? The soft washcloth he’s running across your fevered skin feels so good, though, and there isn’t any heat in his gaze. It still doesn’t feel right to have this stranger’s hands on your skin. But before you can object, you’re redressed, now in a soft t-shirt and cool cotton shorts and tucked under those frigid sheets.

“Go to sleep, darling.” The stranger presses a soft kiss against your brow. “I’m going to make you something to eat and get you some medicine.”

It feels so good, that gentle press of lips against your skin, and your eyes slide closed of their own volition as sleep drags you under.

You wake up disoriented. The last thing you remember is sitting in your office and feeling like you were going to collapse. Since you couldn’t see another way to keep yourself from actually collapsing, you’d logged off of work early after taking a partial sick day and tried to take the few steps to the couch in the corner of your office. That obviously hadn’t happened. You remember deciding on a quick nap instead and feeling like the soft wood of your desk was cool and delightful. But that doesn’t explain how you got to your bed. Nor does it explain why you can faintly smell something delicious emanating through the house. More to the point, you’re decidedly not sure why your shower is running, either.

But who could be in the house? The only person who has keys other than you is Jake. But he’s supposed to be in Nevada until the weekend. When you lever yourself up, the entire room spins. But you try to steady each step because you need to protect yourself. Jake played baseball over the summer in a travel league, and you’re sure there’s a baseball bat somewhere in his closet. In fact, you know there is one because the man can’t put anything away if his life depends on it. You’ve tripped over the bat, his cleats, golf clubs, and more soccer balls and golf balls than you care to think about. But in this one situation, maybe your irascible fiancé’s wayward sports equipment will come in handy.

You’re just rummaging through the closet when the bathroom door opens with a snick and an outpouring of fragrant steam. The figure wrapped in one of your fluffy towels is not familiar. How can he wander into your house and avail himself of your fancy soap and moisturizer? You already have one man in your life who does those things. At least the man who does that pays you back in other ways!

“Hi, Darling!” You glare blearily at this stranger and stride balefully forward, brandishing the heavy baseball bat. “What’re you holding my baseball bat for, honey?”

“I’m not your darling, nor am I your honey.” You huff and try to ignore the droplets of water dripping gorgeously down his torso. “I don’t even know who you are!”

It’s even more confusing when that gorgeous face twists into a pout and then into a heart-stoppingly beautiful smile.

“I think you’re still a little delirious, sweetheart.” You push the end of the baseball bat into his sternum. He lifts his hands as you press the bat closer.

“I think that you’re some crackpot that has found his way into my house!”

“Baby Doll, it’s Jake.” You snort.

“I’m not going to fall for that!” You growl as you press him up against the bathroom counter. “You’re not my Jake!”

“Of course I am! I came back from Nevada early! Just for you!” You snort and rub at your blurry eyes.

Whoever this man is, you can’t deny that he’s beautiful. He’s all bright green eyes and golden skin. There’s a smirk growing on his face as you rub at the firm planes of his abdominals vacantly with your other hand. You’re starting not to be so sure anymore. Well, at least there is one thing you know you can use to test out who this stranger is.

“My Jake’s just as pretty as you are. But there’s a part of his body that I know better than my own!”

Your hands are steady and sure as you yank the towel away. He’s beautiful, alright. He’s got miles of firm golden skin, strong and smooth. Then there is his length, soft and protruding gently out of a bed of curls just as golden as his hair. You leer because he’s gorgeous, and if you didn’t feel so terribly, you definitely would consider cheating on Jake with this man because this man isn’t Jake. He doesn’t have the little birthmark on his right hip that Jake loves to have you kiss.

Your head is spinning even more when you look up into those gorgeous green eyes. You're not sure where you muster the energy for a snappy comeback, or if you're thinking at all, because you snap out, "Well, hullo there, handsome. You look good, but my fiancé looks better. Get your unfairly pretty dick out of here before I cheat on him with you."

You reel back when this stranger laughs, standing proudly naked in your bathroom. It sends an unwanted shudder of mortification through you. It also makes you feel awfully sad.

“What are you laughing at me for?!” You whirl around and march out of the bathroom while trying to hide how sad his laughter makes you feel. You're more than aware that you're out of this stranger's league, that you're out of Jake's league, too.

His hand, still damp, curls around your wrist as he reels you in. His arms curl around your waist, and you can feel the heat of his skin as he wraps himself around you. He says your name gently, softly, the words muffled against the soft cotton of your t-shirt.

“I'm laughing because you're so sick and delirious you can't see straight. The things falling out of that pretty little mouth are hilarious. But, c'mon, sweetheart. Back to bed with you.”

You let yourself be led, your fever making your body shudder as you walk. The stranger’s wearing sweatpants, and his torso is still kind of damp, but they look like they were painted onto his skin. He's probably not even wearing boxers under them. You let him tuck you into bed as you recline onto the mountain of pillows you always keep at the head of your bed.

“Stay right there, darling.” He cups your face in his big hands and brushes a kiss against your forehead. “I made chicken noodle soup for you. My mama’s recipe. I’m going to bring you a bowl of soup, a mug of tea and your medicine. Don’t fall asleep on me now.”

You nod placidly and try to will away the exhaustion. Normally, you’d adore a half-naked man waiting on you as you reclined in bed. Of course, usually, that fantasy involves far fewer clothes and you actually being energetic. Still, you’ll take what you can get. He returns with a tray laden with a bowl of soup, a mug of tea, and a bottle of cold medicine. You dutifully sip on the medicine before washing the acrid taste away with a few mouthfuls of chamomile.

“Go slowly, darling.” He settles onto the armchair on the side of your bed and watches with eagle eyes as you sip hungrily on the soup. It’s light but filling, and each mouthful makes you feel warm and sleepy. Just as you finish your meal, he’s there to pull the tray away. He even helps you into the bathroom, waiting outside the door as you take care of business, and walks you carefully back to your bed.

“I’m going to be right here if you need anything, sweetheart.” He tucks you in with another soft kiss on your brow. You drag your eyes across his visage as he lounges comfortably in the armchair. He’s pulled on glasses of all things and tugged out a book. You’re still a little confused at the sight of a stranger so comfortable in your house, but you can forgive this trespasser so long as you don’t find yourself dead in your bed.

It's not often that you wake up mortified. You can't believe you acted like that when you were quite literally out of your mind. You keep a photo of Jake on your desk. How come you didn't recognize him? He probably came home early to surprise you and found you sick. What if he had plans for these extra days, which you spoiled? You squeak at the thought, tugging the sheets up over your shoulders and burrowing in.

Your bedroom is bright, morning light diffusing through your gauzy curtains. There’s a covered glass of water on the nightstand, and you reach for it with creaky, groaning muscles. You feel like you’ve been recently run over by a freight train. There is a wasteland of crumpled-up tissues on the bed, and Jake’s asleep on the armchair next to the bed. You know that armchair is comfortable, but it can’t be when you’re six feet tall, and it looks like your ass is barely able to stay on the seat as you doze on it.

You crawl carefully out of your cocoon of sheets and cup his cheek. His eyes fly open with a start, his hair sleep-mussed as he blinks groggily up at you.

“Good Morning, darling.” His smile, you're sure, must be like the sun. You've never had a bad day when faced with that grin.

“How do you feel today?”

You smile in return, sure that you look a dreadful mess with your hair all over the place and your nose all clogged up.

“I’m better than I was the day you got home.”

The amusement in his voice makes you groan because you know what he's going to say next.

“I suppose I should be flattered, Gorgeous.” His laughter is rich as you flush with heat and walk into the bathroom to brush your teeth. You know he's following behind you, so you leave the door open. He lounges against the door jamb and smiles at you as you stick your toothbrush into your mouth.

“You attacked me with my baseball bat, darling!” He snickers good-naturedly as you flip him off in the mirror.

“And you tore my towel off and told me to get my pretty dick out of your house before you cheated on me. With me!”

You squeak and bury your face in your hands as he continues regaling you with all of the ways you made a fool of yourself while you were deliriously sick.

“How do you feel today?” There's worry in his eyes as he pulls you into his arms. You're still feeling a little cold and feverish, a fact you're sure Jake knows with how his hands are trailing over your bare, gooseflesh-covered arms.

“I'm alright,” You shrug a little in your fiancé’s arms and cuddle up to him a bit more. “I feel a bit like I've finished up with a workout from hell. All of my muscles hurt, and I'm starving.”

Jake's hands are gentle as he tugs you downstairs and settles you on your sofa.

“Hmm, ‘m not surprised, baby doll.” He's doing something in the kitchen, which smells amazing. “You've only eaten soup for the past two days and only a bowl or so a day.”

“Some toast and soft scrambled eggs will fix you up.” He's practically bouncing on his feet as he brings you a tray with two plates on it, two mugs, and, inexplicably, a small vase with a single rose in it. “As will a good long snuggle session on your unfairly comfortable couch and a movie marathon with your fiancé.”

“What movie series are we watching then?” You sip carefully on your hot coffee, toes curling in your blanket burrito in pleasure.

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

You narrow your eyes at him because you’re not sure you believe his offer. Pointing a finger at him, you ask, “Even if we’re watching Star Trek?”

“Which ones, darling? The Chris Pine ones? Or the William Shatner movies?”

Your grin is a little feral as you turn towards him after depositing your mug on the coffee table.

“The Chris Pine ones.” His face falls, even as he valiantly tries to reign his expression back to that peaceful grin.

“Are you sure, Jay? We can watch The Lord of the Rings or the Marvel movies if you’d prefer.”

“I’m sure, Gorgeous.”

“Even when I pause the movie partway through and start expounding on all of the ways Kirk and Spock are perfect for each other?”

“Oh, I know exactly what you’re going to say, sweetheart.” He lifts his hands up to make air quotes as his voice goes all high-pitched, “That’s just UST, Jay! UST. They should just bang and get it out of their systems?!”

He’s got an indulgently fond smile on his face as you flush and burrow under the blanket. Maybe it’s telling that this man would want to watch your favorite movie even though he knows exactly what you’re going to rant about.

“I’m sure, darling.” You squeak as he finds his way under the blanket, petting your side with cold hands, and pecks you soundly on your lips. “Now, let me queue up the movie. You eat your breakfast and keep those pokey little fingers and toes on your side of the sofa. I don’t want to feel them on my person until the academic hearing, at the very earliest!”

You giggle and settle into the sofa, unable to hide your smile as Jake wraps an arm around your shoulders. You bury your feet under the warmth of his thigh and sip your coffee. It’s the most peaceful morning you’ve had in a long time. You’re wiping away tears with a couple of tissues when Kirk has to crawl into the warp core to re-calibrate it when Jake pauses the movie and turns to you with open arms.

“C’mere, doll.”

You launch yourself happily into his broad chest, smiling against his collarbone as you get settled. You feel a million times better as your fiancé wraps his arms around you.

Taglist:

@love2write2626 @little-wiseone @eli2447 @f1maverick @djs8891 @shanimallina87 @chaoticassidy @kmc1989 @dempy @mamaskillerqueen @abaker74 @marvelouslyme96 @daddymack01 @desert-fern @horseshoegirl @dakotakazansky @sarahsmi13s @teacupsandtopgun @cherrycola27 @thedroneranger @roosterforme @mak-32 @beyondthesefourwalls

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN ON TUMBLR, ON WATTPAD, OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN THESE WEBSITES, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

#star writes #top gun fanfic #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun maverick fanfiction #hangman x reader #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake seresin x reader #sometimes all you need (a getaway car)

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aloysiavirgata · 1 year ago

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Dancing that ISNT the PMP scene. Fucking love you gorgeous. ❤️❤️❤️

3 AM finds him waking up stiff and disoriented in the vinyl chair of her hospital room, his feet propped on an upside-down plastic wastebasket. His tie is hanging from the IV pole.

Mulder tests his joints, grimaces at the left shoulder. He’d overstretched it at the pool, shredding 2000 meters in under 30 minutes. He’s been lifting more, been running until he vomits. He doesn’t know if he’s punishing his body for being fit or trying to radiate so much health she’ll absorb it.

Perhaps if it’s the second he’ll need to feed it something other than coffee, Diet Coke, and sunflower seeds. Must be the first.

He examines her narrow form in the bruised light. Scully’s breath snuffles a bit at the cannula and he scans for blood at it but sees none. Her cheekbones curve resolutely past her patrician nose, down to her full, dry lips. There is a small tin of Smith’s Rosebud Salve on the fake wood nightstand. He resists the urge to rub a layer over them. He resists the urge to kiss her beautiful, cracked mouth.

Mulder sighs a bit, runs a finger around the back of his collar. She looks warm to him, looks safe and cared for and utterly beyond his ability to be of use. But he stays anyway, like one of those dogs that sleeps at the grave of its master.

He roams past the nurse’s station, where Jane and Esther give him sympathetic looks. They aren’t supposed to let him sleep in Scully’s room, but Esther is from Yorkshire and calls him lamb and duck and love, and he’s pretty sure he could get the lithe Jane in bed if he wanted to.

He’s drowned his sorrows in lanky brunettes before though, and it never quite took. Turns out he’s a man for dainty gingers.

The radio at the nurse’s station plays “Carolina In My Mind” and he hums along softly, making a styrofoam cup of tea. His father was happy in Raleigh. He was too, as much as he was happy anywhere. He thinks he might move down when Scully goes into the ground, a truth he can only admit at 3 AM. At all other times he will save her.

“Nah then, duck,” Esther says. “Tea from the machine, yer daft ‘apeth, when I’ve a proper kettle ‘ere? ‘Ow’s thy lass?”

He shrugs, smiles vaguely. Jane smiles back. Vaguely.

Mulder presses his head to the faded green wall as his tea steeps. It’ll be terrible, but strong. That’s good enough for him.

He hears a soft shuffling and looks up.

Scully in her spotless white robe and soft slippers, Scully like a Willow Ptarmigan approaching winter. The skin around her eyes is the delicate color of sublimated iodine.

“Scully,” he says, at a loss. She is beautiful in the way of alabaster vases, of all things that can shatter.

She yawns, lips shiny with the salve. Her hands are very thin when she covers her mouth. “Wonderful Tonight” begins on the radio now.

Esther smiles, looks away. Jane checks her watch and walks down the opposite corridor.

“Tea?” Scully says. “That’s more my brand. Why are you still here?”

He gulps the bitter brew. Winces. “I fell asleep,” he says, which is an answer but no answer at all.

“Mmm,” Scully says. She prepares herself some tea as well. Her white hands on the cup, her lower lip snagged between her teeth.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” Mulder says.

“You didn’t. I just woke up. I do that a lot. My circadian rhythm…”

They don’t talk about her suprachiasmatic nucleus of the hypothalamus deep within her brain. Of what it might mean if it’s off kilter.

“I was noisy,” Mulder lies, looking at her nose again. He moves like a cat in her room. Like a thief in the night. “Banged into the bed.”

Scully smiles serenely. “It’s all right.”

Jane stalking the perimeter, Jane frowning at her clipboard.

The moon out the window like a scythe in the dark.

He loves her, does she know? Does he know what he would do to save her and how he’d do it and that he’d swim through blood and blood and blood for her, 2000 meters and back again in a heartbeat?

Scully puts her tea down, Scully looks at him with her late summer eyes in this month of her birth. Scully is dying.

On the radio, The Beatles begin “Let It Be,” and what the fuck, he draws her in, her tousled hair and fluffy robe and her rattan ribs.

“Mulder,” she says, peering up. She clutches his left hand with the pale garden spider of her right.

He twirls her beneath the fluorescent lights. He kisses her her forehead because if he kisses her mouth like he wants to she will die.

Jane does another lap and Esther pretends to read a chart and Scully murmurs along with Paul McCartney.

Mulder watches the flat light bounce off her hair, watches her sway, watches her smile for a moment. She tucks her head against his chest as the song ends, doesn’t withdraw.

“Angel Is A Centerfold” begins, which is hardly the mood he wanted, but they both laugh and the scythe of a moon fades away as they sing Na-na, na-na-na-na, Na-na-na, na-na-na-na in something like harmony.

He doesn’t know what song is next, but he holds her through it and the next one and a few more and Esther and Jane are replaced and the sun begins to burn the blackness away and Scully is warm and awake and alive in his arms for at least another day.

#xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #my fic #msr #prompt #cancer arc #memento mori

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sylvesterelle · 12 days ago

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Ode to Kate Laswell and her hot wife

I, a person who knows fuck-all about video games, have found myself totally enamored with several COD characters snowballing from one (1) compelling Tiktok edit. I then hallucinated an entire novel-length fic on a 12-hour drive to Colorado, which is new for me, and am now writing that fic for NaNoWriMo, which is also not a thing I’ve ever done before.

Naturally, in the middle of it I got distracted and wrote an entire teary 1.4k backstory chapter for Kate Laswell and her hot wife. They are very, very important to me.

Enjoy.

TW: Homophobic language, physical assault, WASP parents

“Are you sure she’ll be alright? I don’t know if I like the idea of her all alone up there with four strange men.”

Kate snorted, leaning down to press a kiss on her wife’s crown. They were curled together on their bed in their small, whitewashed cottage outside of Brighton. Close enough to London to get her anywhere she needed to be and far enough away that this space could just be theirs.

Well, theirs and Goose’s—their Bernese Mountain dog, dumb as a stick and the embodiment of everything good in Kate’s life. Even after the worst missions, she could come here and feel whole again, watching him play in the surf or dig potatoes in the garden, Bea crowing with approval as dirt caught all along his nose and paws.

Kate tugged Bea a little closer, reveling in her warmth. “You know she’s more than capable of protecting herself if she needed to. How many poisonous seedlings did you give her, again?”

“They have legitimate medicinal uses,” Bea grumbled, but dissolved into laughter when Kate pressed kisses wildly over her face. “Okay, okay! Mercy.”

Kate pulled back, tucking her wife securely under her chin. Breathed in the scent of lavender and other herbs that always carried in her hair and perfumed the house.

“I promise I would never put her in danger,” Kate said now, more seriously. “And you know John nearly as well as I do now.”

Bea sighed, burrowing her face deeper into Kate’s neck, muffling her acknowledgement. “I know. It’s the others I’m worried about. Unknown quantities.”

“Known to me, love, I promise. It’s past time you met the rest of the lot—especially now they’re ‘officially’ considered KIA. Even if we sort this whole mess out, I can’t see a future in which they go right back to work for the SAS, no harm no foul.” She passed a hand over her lover’s hair, soothing. “They’re good boys, Bumblebee. You’ll like ‘em. Bit rough around the edges, but so was she when we found her.”

“You and your strays.”

“I was your stray once, remember?” Kate smiled at the memory.

Bea had found her wandering around Brighton Pride nearly two decades earlier, sheepish and awed, in England on temporary assignment. Just happened to be there in August, when hundreds of thousands flocked to the “queer capital” of the UK. Took one look at the reserved American and rapidly adopted her, welcoming into her home and her community and her bed.

Kate had always known who she was. Knew when she played soccer in high school (“football,” she could hear Price’s phantom correction) and nursed an embarrassingly enormous crush on Hannah Wells, both center backs that were devastating when they took the field together.

Knew when she had her first kiss on her college dorm bed in Ithaca, just a shy press of lips over open poli-sci textbooks and highlighters, the call of the wood-thrushes pouring in through an open window.

Knew it when she tried to come out to her patrician mother and was told you can have your little indulgences, but keep it out of the spotlight. Wouldn’t want to risk your father’s reelection campaign, now would we?

The good senator was such a distant figure in Kate’s life—rarely home, cloistered in his study when he was—that she hadn’t bothered to try to tell him. Didn’t tell anyone for years after that, actually.

Not until a superior officer found her hiding a bloodied eye and lip and a few cracked ribs while returning to the Farm—the CIA training base in Williamsburg.

A group of rowdy men outside the bar hadn’t taken kindly to her attempts to brush them off. Had taken it worse when her temper flared (“What, you one of those fucking dykes or somethin’?” “So, what if I am, asshole?”).

She’d gotten in more than a few solid hits, but four-against-one were never good odds.

The officer who found her was on temporary assignment, an expert in clandestine intelligence assigned to teach recruits how to cultivate international assets. An intimidating man—tall and severe, face giving nothing away. He had ordered her to tell him what happened, didn’t let her wiggle away with half-truths.

Didn’t know what she expected when she finished—these were firmly the days of “don’t ask, don’t tell.”

But the man simply nodded, finished cleaning up her wounds, then bundled her off to his small family off-base. Ignored Kate’s protests when he introduced her to his wife and young daughter as a guest who would be staying with them while she recovered and ambled away pleasantly any time she brought it up afterwards, looking for all the world like he didn’t hear her.

The six weeks it took for her ribs to heal were some of the happiest in Kate’s life. The man who had inspired terror among the new recruits became someone else entirely at home—boundless energy, easy to laughter, a smile that creased his eyes and caused a dimple to furrow one cheek when he danced his wife around the kitchen, crooning in her ear.

She was Russian, to Kate’s complete surprise, though well-practiced in disappearing her accent outside of those walls. She was a total firecracker with a wicked sense of humor and Kate maybe, possibly developed a huge hero-worship crush on her, enamored as much with her wide, freckled face and gap-toothed smile as she did the eleven languages she spoke.

Never learned the details at the time, but Kate knew she was much more than the stay-at-home mother she pretended to be—only years after her death found out the true breadth of what she and her husband were working on. But the love in that little family was no cover, and the little girl was at the center of it all.

Kate had never wanted children of her own, never even considered it, but she grew undeniably fond of the little troublemaker over those weeks. The kid was a cornucopial life-affirmer, running full-tilt at the world while the rest of them chased after her.

Her mom joked that she had been born laughing instead of crying, and her father insisted it was true. He would know; she had her mother’s eyes and penchant for freckles, but her smile and her laugh were all her dad’s. Her talent for “adventuring” herself out of the house to be found up trees and inside goat pens and once even wandering around on base after hiding in the car trunk, well. That was probably a bit of both of them.

God, Kate missed them. Missed her. Hadn’t seen her nearly enough lately, nowhere enough to make up for all those years she lost, gone so thoroughly to ground that not even Kate could find her. And even after, she hadn’t often seen her happy—not in the way she always imagined that scraped-knee little adventurer should be.

The way she would be again, if Kate had anything to say about it.

“I know you’re worried love, but I think this will be good for her—for all of them. She’s been alone too long and needs more in her life than just her father’s old friends, his old projects. They need a place where they can remember how to be more than soldiers. Remind themselves what they’re actually fighting for.”

Kate buried her nose in her wife’s silky strands, inhaling deeply once more for strength.

“I almost lost them all, Bea. I knew John was running himself and his team ragged, that they’d forgotten they weren’t just bodies to be thrown at a problem. I should have put a stop to it long before—.”

Well, long before she had to spend 72 hours scrambling to put together a covert rescue. Not knowing who to trust, forcing herself not to wonder every second if they were alive or dead, bodies crushed beneath a mountain.

“I know my love, I know,” Bea soothed, running a hand against her wife’s back, gentling her. “But they’re safe now, you saved them. You saved them.” She hummed into Kate’s throat, biting a little when her wife squirmed at the ticklish sensation. “You know, I find I’m rather attracted by your silly, audacious, dare-I-say optimistic plan. Now stop sniffing my hair and come and kiss me,” she ordered.

Kate was only too happy to comply.

#kate laswell #call of duty #modern warfare #task force 141 #ode to queer elders #i will make these characters anti-imperialist through strange and convoluted machinations

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