#recently my knees have been worse than ever before and i feel held hostage by my own damn body

[lilakennedy]

[wiypt-writes]

Murder, He Wrote

Part 5.

Summary: The morning after the night before, and you’ve no idea what Ransom is going to greet you…

Warnings: Bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N:  So this is Part 5 to my submission for @Jtargaryen18 ‘s Haunted House 2020  Challenge. Recently my original partner Southerngracela left Tumblr, and as such I’m going it alone based on our notes and planned plot for this series. I hope I do it justice.

READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

Part 4

You woke the next morning, a warm feeling coursing through your body but with a deep ache in your cheek which was laid against a naked pectoral, as you had clearly shifted in your sleep during the night. Your left hand was resting upon a very naked and warm torso with well-defined abs, while a heavy arm draped over your equally naked body; across your shoulder and down your back, a large hand splayed over your hip, fingertips barely grazing the edge of the sheet which settled itself just below pelvic bones. 

As you blinked the sleep from your system, your barely conscious mind began to register exactly who you were cuddling up to. Your captor, the man who’d abused you and held you hostage for the past few months and you swallowed as your mind flooded with memories of the previous night and everything that had happened to the point of escalation and his return. He returned to you a completely different person, broken almost, a far cry from the stoic, cold asshole persona that he did his best to project to the world and you…well, you’d felt sorry for him.

You saw regret, for the first time ever, etched across his face, behind red, saddened and tired eyes. You were cautious, not forgiving, but cautious. You’d empathised, and moreover, you’d seen a chink in his armour that you’d exploited. Whilst he was in that raw, stripped bare state (both figuratively and metaphorically) you’d seized your chance. You’d taken the upper hand.

And now, you were struggling to comprehend exactly how you felt about it.

Despite the ache in your cheek and pain in your knee, your heart waged a war against the reality of your situation. For the first time in two, nearly three months, you felt differently towards him and that scared you. No, it terrified you. Had Ransom just been hiding behind his pain and fear, putting forth the beast before the man?

The memory of how he made you feel the previous night flooded behind your fluttering eyes and you felt a stir within, as if your feminine nature craved him unlike before. But your mind kept saying now, stay logical. Don't be part of the hunt, be part of the chase. But really, what were you chasing? You didn't know.

As if to curb that craving, you stretched out like a cat finding its patch of sunlight on the floor. And almost as if he reacted to your movement, he gave one of his own, his back arching a little as he jostled you on his chest, a deep sigh leaving his system as he gave a low rumble of contentment.

"Morning," you heard him speak above your ear. His voice was deep and raspy, sleep riddled. It made your stomach flutter and your thighs instinctively clench. 

You sat up in bed, pulling the sheet up your body to cover yourself a bit more. Then you turned towards Ransom, your better cheek facing him. "Hi," you spoke softly. 

"C'mere," he said, gently reaching for your forearm to pull you back into him. 

You were stopped short of completely covering him, your hair falling over your left side and as he tucked the obstructing strand behind your ear, his thumb caught your cheek and you hissed. He noticed it immediately and his eyes grew sorrowful. He pulled you to his lips, kissing you softly, slowly before he pulled away and sat up, kicking his legs over the side of the bed and standing, his naked body on display. 

You weren't in denial of the Adonis before you, but underneath the God-like physique and piercing blue eyes, still lurked a Demon waiting for his next opportunity to seize his moment. He turned to you and leaned on his hands, palms flat, against the mattress. 

"I'll be right back," he said softly, as he leaned in again for a gentle kiss before slipping into his boxers and leaving you. 

Ransom headed upstairs, taking two steps at a time emerging into the airy, well-lit hallway. He strode purposefully into the kitchen, running one hand through his sleep mussed hair, yawning slightly as he scratched at his bare chest with the other before he reached down to the front of his expensive boxers and rearranged the crotch of the fabric to make it slightly more comfortable.

The night he'd had was nothing short of amazing, mind blowing even. In fact, he'd go as far as to say like no other, how he felt, how he'd made her feel, hearing her call out his name more than once. But nothing, nothing was like the sound of his name across her lips for the first time. He felt his chest swell at even the slightest flicker of a memory, his skin blushing. 

But now, outside of his general reason for coming up to the main part of the house, Ransom was confused, unsure and uncharacteristically nervous. Riddled with guilt, he sought out ice and the first aid kit.

He headed to his bathroom upstairs and collected the items he needed; rubbing alcohol, swabs and bandages. Then he headed down and into the kitchen, bare feet making their way across the cold floor. He took a dish towel and pulled some cubes from the freezer and twisted the ends together, creating a pouch. Then with the items in hand, he headed back to Y/N.

It didn't go amiss that she hadn't moved from the exact spot he'd left her in minutes ago. He took note of her watching every move he made, each step he took, the twitches of his muscular frame and stare of his eyes. Her eyes watched him, suspicion reflecting in her stare. He sighed."You still don't trust me, Sweetheart?"

"I don't know." She whispered hesitantly. "It's.... complicated."

There it was again, her doubt in him. He looked her over and even in the dull light of the room, he could see the destruction on her face. The way the discoloring of her skin filtrated from her defined and now split cheek bone to her stunning eye, marking her for what he could assume would be a good couple of weeks. The split skin had started to scab but was no doubt painful and puffy even under the bruising. It looked angry and tender. Pain and regret filled his eyes as he felt them mist slightly. Leaning closer as he stood by the side of the bed, his thumb traced over the broken skin gently as if by touch he'd heal her. 

“Yeah, I suppose it is." He dropped down onto the bed next to her and handed over the ice pack. "Here..."

"Thank you," she winced as she held the ice to her cheek, sitting with her left leg covered and the sheet pulled up to her chest. 

He looked her over, looking for anything else amiss. Then he saw the scrape across her right knee. Her exposed leg was bent there at the joint. Ransom gently took her ankle and pulled her close, propping the leg over his thighs.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," he whispered, looking at the scrape and applying an alcohol swap. She hissed at the way it burned and Ransom's first instinct was to gently blow on the stinging skin. 

"Are we just talking about yesterday?"

He stopped the gentle blowing and sighed, dropping his head a little. "Does it matter?”

"Not really, it's not like I'm going to go anywhere either way, is it, Ransom?" She swallowed.

She called him by his name again, sending chills and flutters through him like a school boy with a hard crush. He swallowed hard and took her wrist holding the ice, "let me see."

She obliged, letting him pull her hand away as his other reached up and tilted her face round. She blinked a little, her eyes not leaving his face as he took a deep breath and his hand dropped down to the bed. He nodded at the ice. "Put that back on, it'll help with the swelling."

"Okay," she agreed, doing as he asked. They were in a limbo of sorts. He didn't know what to do, but he felt an unfamiliar, unnerving desperate need to be with her.

 And the silence was nerve wracking. 

The ice began dripping into your hand and trailing down your forearm. You pulled the pack away and handed it back to Ransom. "I... I need to shower, just take a few minutes to uh, freshen up.”

Ransom nodded, his fingers gently brushing yours as he took the pack off you. "Sure” He nodded. “I’ll be in the kitchen, come up when you’re ready.”

 “Okay.” You agreed, with a single nod of your head. 

Easing your legs out of the sheets you stood up, your limbs feeling a little stiff from the previous evening’s activities and you could feel his eyes on you as you walked into the bathroom, no doubt taking in how your backside looked. The remnants of the night before were still strewn about the tiled floor, and you sighed before you turned on the shower.

As the water warmed, you gathered yourself to gaze at your reflection. Surely your cheek was worse off than the night before. And a glance confirmed it were. A deep bruising shade of purple was working its way from your cheek bone to just under your eyes, a scab where the skin had broken had formed. You didn't want to see anymore. You climbed into the shower and allowed the heat of the water to relax your sore muscles.

You ached in a way that you hadn't in a long while. The way you knew you could after all nerves fired in pleasure and tingled your skin. Last night was interesting to say the least. It was the first time you felt anything outside of deep, gnawing despair. It was obvious that Ransom thought he had won, that you had given in. You had control of the situation nearly from the start, and it had felt good, so, so good. He'd called you baby and it made you shudder in... delight, so much so you’d called him Ransom, breathlessly moaning it as a pleasure coursed through you that you didn't try to stop or deny.

You didn't protest, you didn't fight back. You’d wanted it. And then, that warm feeling of him letting go inside you, filling you, and the look on his face as he did so, well you were shivering at the thought.

The question was, now what? Where do you go from here? You weren't stupid, freedom wasn't an option. But, there could be a bit more for you to work with. Nodding to yourself, knowing how to at least start, you shampooed your hair, inhaling and getting lost in its scent. Autopilot kicked in and you finished your shower, eventually stepping back into your room, wrapped in a towel.

You sorted through your wardrobe, deciding on a pair of dark washed jeans, one could say fit like a glove over your legs and hips, drawing your body in sharp curves and lines, pairing it with a black satin camisole and burgundy cardigan. You toweled your hair off more, collecting the remaining heavy water droplets in the terrycloth fabric and went to hang it back up on the hook in the bathroom. You noticed Ransom's clothes and items from the night before were gone from where they were discarded and no other remnant of him remained other than the distinct smell of him on your sheets and throughout your bed. Taking a look in the mirror, you replaced the butterfly closure bandaid on your cheek and dabbed some face cream gently around your bruise. You sorted your hair, brushing through it but leaving it to dry on its own, a hair tie now on your wrist in case you needed it. You took your time getting dressed and cleaned up, tossing your sheets around to make your bed and tidy up. It was obvious you were making him wait, and that was okay with you. You didn't know exactly what awaited you in the kitchen, which Ransom you'd get, but so far, the version of the man that took you seemed to remain far behind. 

After accepting you’d stalled as much as you could, you took a deep breath and headed up the stairs emerging into the well-lit, yet cold hallway and made your way through to the large kitchen. Ransom turned from where he had been filling up the coffee machine and his gaze flicked over your appearance before he met your eyes and his mouth twitched up at one side into a small, yet noticeable smile.

"What can I make you?" You asked softly, treading unevenly in your thoughts as they echoed in word around the room.

“Nothing.” He shook his head, “Come, sit.” He was now dressed, casually in a Henley and casual pants. His hair tossed back and from where you stood you could smell that distinct smell he had even over the freshly brewing coffee. You pulled at the sleeves of your cardigan as you stepped one bare foot in front of the other to take your seat at the breakfast table as directed.

Ransom placed a mug of coffee down in front of you, which you thanked him for, and he took a seat at the table, as you took a sip of your drink. A silence fell over the room, and as you watched him in the corner of your eye you could see his fingers flexing round his mug.

But he was the one that broke the stalemate, clearing his throat slightly as he shifted in his seat. "I thought, maybe, we could order in?" He offered. "I... I can call the bakery that does the almond croissants you've come to like? Or if you'd prefer breakfast sandwiches I can get those?"

The words came as a nervous ramble from him, and you could tell he had no idea how to navigate this new situation you both found yourselves in any more than you did. You quickly realized that Ransom Drysdale didn't know how to navigate "the morning after". 

“I, errr…" You began to speak and he shook his head.

“You don’t want those? Okay, that’s…”

“No, I mean, yes, I mean…” You took a deep breath before you licked your lips. “I'm just not hungry for breakfast, that is but maybe... maybe we could get Thai or something tonight? Or, if you'd prefer something else, like if you want me to make something, I...."

"We can do Thai. There's a small place not far from here, great food. What do you like?"

"I'm not picky."

"That's not what I asked." He looked at you with a glint of happy in his eyes. "What would you choose?"

"Coconut prawns, beef satay, chicken curry," You replied with a soft, hopeful smile, the feeling of happiness at the possibility you were going to get a treat, do something so normal, made your chest feel as warm as the time he’d returned your personal belongings, or the day the tree was delivered.

"Consider it done."

"Do you think I could maybe have a beer or a glass of wine with it?"

"Anything in this house is yours if you want it." He looked at you and your mind was suddenly taken right back to that moment in his study weeks ago, the day Blanc had paid you a visit.

“You know, it could all be yours, Sweetheart, if you just stopped fighting what you know you want.”

Had you stopped fighting? Or had you just merely taken control of a vulnerable situation? Is this what you wanted? You had to just sit in the silence for a second. This whole scenario was quickly becoming a kaleidoscope of feelings and you weren't sure where to start.

"You said anything, right? I'd assume that's within reason."

His eyes narrowed for a moment and he leaned forward on his elbows. "Anything, within reason."

You started to move your lips to ask of what you wanted but you stopped yourself, suddenly embarrassed at the thought. Ransom saw this and glided a warm hand across the table to run a finger over your thumb down to your wrist. "Tell me," he coaxed. His tone and look made your insides twist in two different directions, one in fear and the other in delight. It was a confusing juxtaposition at best.

 "I want to go outside. I want to feel the sun on my face, breath in the cold winter air." You had hoped the misting of your eyes wasn't visible nor the hope in your words.

 "I'll think about it," he replied after a small pause.

"Okay," you shrugged. It wasn't an outright no. Silence filled the kitchen again, neither of sure what to do or say and finally you stood to get more coffee and when you turned to face him, to offer him a top off, you were startled to find him right behind you.

In your start you have a gasp and warm hands cupped your face. Your heart raced through your chest. It was damn near impossible to read him. Soft lips touched yours. "I have some work to do in the study," he spoke softly.

"Sure." You nodded, your eyes locked onto his as he stepped back slightly. "Do you want me to be there with you or..."

"I have a better idea," well that worried you. What'd he want? A blow job under the desk? "I want you to gather your stuff, you're not staying down there anymore."

"So where do I go?" You tried not to sound too hopeful, as if he'd set you free that easily. Nor were you even sure you wanted to go.

"Upstairs, with me." He stated matter of factly.  "Come on, I'll show you. I'll move your clothes up later, but for now, after I show you around, get everything else you want or need, whatever."

 “Do I get a say in all this?” You blurted it out before you could stop yourself and swallowed, waiting for his anger to brew but it didn’t. Instead he simply raised his eyebrow at you.

“Do you wanna stay down there?” He asked.

“No, but-“

“Good, then we’re agreed.”

You opened and closed your mouth like a fish to protest but couldn’t think of what to say, not that it mattered anyway, it wasn’t like you had a choice. Not really. You followed him up the stairs and onto the expansive second floor. It seemed to be sectioned off into a handful of bedrooms and a couple of bathrooms. Ransom took great delight in showing you grandiose room after grandiose room, and to be honest you found it all a little ostentatious, why would he need all that room for just him. Well, him and you as it transpired… And he saved the ‘best for last’, according to him anyway, as he pushed open the heavy door into his room. Instantly you were hit with the familiar smell of his woody aftershave and you took a deep breath as you looked around.

Your eyes took in the space, the four post bed, the ornately shaped windows that were nearly floor to ceiling. There was a fireplace and above it, over the mantle, a mirror. The entire room was decorated in neutral whites and creams, with a touch of grey on the detailing in the alcoves and around the fireplace, a pale blue and white striped bed spread and matching pillow covers adorned the bed. It screamed Ransom to you, from floor to ceiling. Whilst the rest of the house wasn’t what you would class as warm, this was even less so. It was very open, very.... manly and stiff, a woman's touch never evident. Your eyes strayed upwards, half expecting to see a mirror on the ceiling, but to your relief there wasn’t one.

"What do you think?" He asked, his breath hot on your neck, and from the tone of his voice you could tell he was seeking approval. He was openly showing you around, almost as if he was trying to tell you this wasn’t his typical ‘fuck and duck’ scenario.  He was taking his time with it, and half of you felt relieved, the other, well, trapped.

"It's very different than downstairs, or my room even." You chose your words carefully as a strong palm in the base of your spine guided you through the doorway.

“Is that a good thing?” He asked, turning to look at you, brushing a hand through his messy hair.

You pop a shoulder, not knowing exactly what to say. He guided you through to the en suite and you felt your eyes grow wide as you took in the space. The floor was a grey and speckled marble which made you nervous immediately about the potential of slipping when wet. Mood lighting was set into the entire space, skirting around the edge of the flooring, shining up the granite tiles that lined the walls, except for the wall on the inside of the huge shower cubicle to your left, which sported the same tiles, only a gloss white. The whole thing was set off by a large chrome waterfall shower that was easily big enough for two people, maybe three, with immaculately clean glass doors and sides. Along the far wall was an enormous ornate tub, the sides so high there was a small step into them, and to the right stood two chrome basins fed by matching fancy mixer taps, all perched on top of a sleek, white marble unit with frosted glass cupboard doors underneath, and another large mirror over the basin unit, which was illuminated by bright LED lights.

"The sink to the left is yours, anything you want can be stored in the cabinet there, it's empty. So are the drawers on the side." He explained, leaning against his side of the sink basin.

"Erm, thanks." You nodded, your eyes flicking to where he'd directed your attention before you looked back at him, your fingers tugging on the sleeves of your cardigan as you licked your lips. There wasn't a spot of dirt, a single water mark or anything anywhere and before you could stop yourself you blurted out what was on your mind. "How the fuck do you keep this so clean? It would drive me mental even trying to polish the taps!"

It was his turn to pop his shoulder in such a blasé fashion, "the maid comes three times a week".

“You have a maid?” You asked, and even as you spoke you weren’t sure why it came as a surprise. Of course he had a maid. Not that you’d seen her, you were always responsible for cleaning your own space, but then of course you would be…

"Now, like I said," he pushed off the basin with his hips and stepped into your space, "I have some work to do. Move what you can up here and sort it all out. I'll be in the study if you need me."

"What I can?" You looked up at him. "Where should I put my clothes?"

"I told you, I'd take care of that later for you. Move the small stuff."

“Okay.”

With a satisfied nod, his hands gently dropped to your hips and he pulled your body flush to his, his lips meeting yours in a soft kiss. Without another word, he pulled away, turned and left you standing there, your mind trying to figure out exactly what was happening. With a deep sigh, you headed to your space. It didn't take more than two trips for you to bring up all you had and when you'd finished putting it away you sat down on the bed, your feet dangling over the edge.

Your palms felt the soft, cotton bedspread and you glanced at your small, leather bag which contained your few books and your journal. Not sure what side of the bed was yours, you didn’t know which nightstand to place them on so you decided to leave them where they were for the time being.

Which nightstand was yours…

You shook your head, letting out a sigh. This was all kinds of fucked up. You’d gone from his captor to his cohabiter, sharing a room like a couple who love and want to be with each other. You felt the tears stinging your eyes and with a soft sniff you moved and curled up in the middle of the bed, tucking your knees into your chest. You lay still, the strange room silent around you, and before long your eyes grew heavy as you thought to yourself, it is what it is. You just needed to concentrate on keeping things as they are now, as this Ransom was certainly a damned sight preferable to Asshole Hugh.

***** When you stirred from your nap, immediately you felt something was different and you moved your arm, realising that you were under the covers. As you blinked you sat up, the heavy eiderdown duvet falling down your body and you realised that Ransom must have been up and tucked you in.  As your sights came to you, you noticed you were on the left side of the bed, looking out, your things had been properly stowed on the nightstand next to you.

Curiosity pecked at your sleepy mind and you slowly came out of bed and padded over to the walk in closet. Sure enough, you saw your things hung and organized neatly across the space from his own. You couldn't resist your next move, your fingers trailing over the sweaters and garments hanging on his side, your tips curling over the camel colored coat you'd come to know so well. Tattered sweaters and crisp button downs hung impeccably straight on their velvet and wooden hangers, shoes, some well-worn and others not, paired and stacked in the organizer where they belonged.

It was a far cry from your old, small wardrobe in your apartment which was cramped full, things jumbled and piled all over the place, not to mention the constant pile of ironing you kept in the corner of your room, which you never seemed to manage to reach the bottom of.

Your stomach grumbled and you found yourself hungrier than when you'd fallen into bed. Now, you seemed famished. You left the master and headed down to see if you could find your newly minted cohabitant. As you walked, you noticed for the first time that there were no photos of anything or anyone, anywhere. The odd piece of art, no doubt ludicrously expensive, hung along the walls in a few spaces but other than that, nothing. No personal touches, no family photos, absolutely nothing.

Again, not surprising given his relationship with his family. And you doubt he had any friends, none beyond acquaintances anyway.

As you reached the final steps, you could hear furious typing on keys and realized Ransom was still in the study. You made your way there and as you stood in the doorway, you waited for him to take notice.

“You gonna stand there all day or come in, Sweetheart?” He drawled, not even looking up from the sleek screen on his desk. 

You came in, twisting your cardigan over your midsection and rubbing your arms. You walked over to the window and looked out. "It looks cold out there, beautiful, but cold."

You hesitated about thanking him for what he'd obviously done while you napped. But after a pause, you said it anyway. "Thank you... For getting my things."

"I told you I would so I did, you're welcome." He murmured, his attention still on his work. You glanced outside again, your eyes flicking to the light snow fall as it drifted down from the sky, settling down and melting into the ample, powder soft covering on the ground.

Ransom flicked his eyes toward the window and saw her staring out over the large grounds. He'd been furiously working away, trying to fix his current storyline for hours but parts still didn't feel right. He'd taken a break and taken Y/N's clothes upstairs, only to find her sound asleep in his, no, their bed. He'd hung up her clothes and tucked her in before retreating back into the study which brought him to now. A strange idea occurred to him, so he shut down his screen, stood and walked behind her. His eyes caught hers in the reflection of the window.

"I want to show you something," he said softly as his hands again found her hips, his lips pressed into that spot on her neck he knew she loved. Her eyes looked into his from over her shoulder and she replied with a small nod.

He took her to the back door, the one that led out into the garden and opened the closet door beside it. Inside were coats and boots. He grabbed a pair, creepily in her size, and a peacoat. A scarf of beige wool hung on a hook and he wrapped it around her neck before helping her into the coat. He waited for her to dip her feet into the boots and slipped into his own short, thick coat. Her eyes seemed to sparkle with excitement as he gripped the knob and pulled the door towards them.

"After you," he offered.

Her mouth went slack a little and her eyes stared at him now wide. The more she stared, the more his chest tightened and made the intimate moment grow uncomfortable for him. Ransom lightly scoffed and rolled his eyes, "Are you going to go out or not?"

He immediately regretted his outburst as her eyes averted from his down to the floor and she nodded. "Yes," she replied meekly. “I’m sorry.”

With one foot in front of the other, he followed her as she stepped outside. Immediately, the falling snow began to cling to the wisps of her hair and the shoulders of her coat. He imagined he looked just the same. He watched as she tipped her head back, raising her face to the snow as it fell, flakes clinging to her eyelashes as a huge smile crept across her pretty features. Then, he saw the way her shoulders began to shake as hot tears leaked from her eyes. But she was still grinning, her tongue popping out if her soft lips to catch the flakes of falling snow.

Ransom had read countless stories, heard many tales about people experiencing what they called a revelation, a sudden awakening to something emotional which you couldn’t control, and he’d scoffed. It was alien to him, not being able to regulate how you feel, but that was exactly what had happened to him yesterday, and it was happening again, but not because he was feeling those things, but because Y/N was. She wasn't crying because she was sad or scared, she was crying because she was experiencing the moment. And right there and then, he understood. You can’t control or make someone truly want anything. Sure, you could bully and coerce, but to truly make them feel it, that wasn’t possible.

A cold, wet feeling brought him out of his thoughts and he'd realized he was covered in snow, pieces of it dripping from his head, down the break in his coat and through his sweater. He gave a small yell of annoyance, looking up as he realised a large glob had dropped off the edge of the guttering straight onto his head.

A melodic sound quickly hit his ears and he realized Y/N was laughing, full body titled giggles at his expense. His nostrils flared a little as she continued, and then, in a movement that was almost automatic, he bent down and scooped a handful up snow at his feet and slapped it straight into her chest, his eyebrow raised.

Challenge issued, sweetheart.

She gasped and he couldn't deny the chill it gave him deep in his loins. He loved that sound. But soon that smug smirk on his face was wiped clean as Y/N flung a handful of snow right back in his direction sending her scampering across the garden.

"Oh, Sweetheart." His voice was low as he bent to scoop up more of the icy, cold snow. "You have no idea what you just started."

From there the chase was on, ducking and running for cover as he chased her and when he finally caught up to her, she was falling away from his grasp and into the deep snow at their feet, his body falling over hers. Ransom looked down at her, his hair falling over his forehead, chest heaving as she reached up and brushed the strand back, her hand cold as it fell to his cheek.

"Ransom," she purred, "you can smile.”

It was a point not a request. His chest tightened at the way she gazed at him. The snow continued to fall over them, but neither paid it any attention. His gaze was locked onto hers.

"Oh, what about? The fact I'm freezing cold and soaked when I could be inside, dry and warm by the fire?" He recovered with a tease, and she rolled her eyes, letting out a soft huff.

"It's almost Christmas, and it’s snowing." She looked at him, "what isn't there to love about that?"

He faked a puzzled look for a moment and then found a chuckle rising up from his chest as her other hand rested there against his coat. "This is probably this first Christmas I ever cared about." He admitted freely.

She frowned as she looked at him, before she shook her head. "That's really sad, Ransom."

"I don't want pity..."

"No, that's not..." She took a deep breath and licked her lips. "That's not what that was. I was just stating a fact, that’s all."

He began to stand and pull her with him. "Let's go inside. I'm freezing my ass off." 

Their moment was over and he started back into the house, Y/N following him, albeit at a slightly slower pace, clearly not as willing as he was to leave the outside space. And he supposed he couldn’t blame her all things considered, even if it was alien to him.

He shucked his coat off and then helped her with hers, "I'm going to order dinner."

"Okay, thank you." She nodded as she followed him back through the kitchen and into the warm study. 

The two of you sat around the study, him going back to work on his book and you reading a book you pulled from the shelves around the room, sipping your respective beers together after Ransom had offered you one upon one of his many breaks in typing. The sound of the doorbell rang through the house and Ransom picked up his phone. He glanced at the screen before he stood up, and before he could say anything you spoke.

“Is that our food?” Your tone was hopeful, revealing your excitement and he looked at you, the smile on his face mirroring yours.

“Yeah.” He ran his hand through his hair, brushing the strands off his forehead. “Do you wanna go to the kitchen and-“

“No.” You said quickly and he arched his brow at you, puzzled and you swallowed. “I mean, if it’s okay with you, I’d kinda like to sit by the fire. It’s what I norm-“ you paused, your eyes dropping to your hands. “It’s what I used to do, sit on the rug, eating out of the box, watching junk TV.”

“Lounge it is, then.” He shrugged. “Saves on the washing up I suppose.”

“Like you’ve ever washed a dish.” You looked at him and he snorted.

“Like I said before, the help only comes three times a week, Y/N. I don’t leave the dishes stacked up in between, what do you take me for?”

“You have a dishwasher.”

“Okay, so it saves on the loading of the machine.” He rolled his eyes, turning to the door. “Go grab whatever we need from the kitchen, and another drink. That last beer didn’t touch the sides.”

You did as you were told, your bare feet walking over the cold tiles of the hallway as Ransom paid the delivery driver on the doorstep. You grabbed a selection of cutlery, another bottle of his pretentious European beer, reaching for one for yourself when you paused. There was a bottle of Sancerre sat nestled in the cooler that was a damned good label, you’d had it once before with your parents. Hesitating, you bit your lip. You’d been drinking beer so far but…now, well, you really wanted a glass of that white. After a moment or two of grappling with whether or not it was allowed, you shook your head. Fuck it, the worst that could happen already had…  

You managed to juggled your drinks and cutlery in your hands, years of practice had made you an expert at making the least amount of trips to your own kitchen and back, and you walked into the lounge where Ransom had set the boxes on the oak coffee table and you placed the bottle of beer down first, then the cutlery before you set your wine down.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I didn’t fancy more beer and-“

“I told you.” He looked at you, shaking his head. “Whatever you want.”

He passed you a box and you dug in, eagerly. The first bite of satay hit your taste buds and you hummed in deep delight at the way it tasted.

"It's been so long since I've had anything Thai. This, you were right, this is so good."

"Good," he smirked, tilting his beer back and taking a long swallow.

You smiled at him, your words echoing in your head. Take-Outs had been common in your life before, well, before all this. Working stupid hours at the Newspaper often saw you visiting various places on the way home, or having it delivered to the office. But as you sat there, taking bite after bite, you vowed never to take it for granted again.

Taking a respite from your eating, you reached for your wine and took a sip, the crisp taste hitting your buds once more, making you smile in delight. You replaced your glass and watched as Ransom tucked into his food, his eyes focussed on the box he held in his large hand.

"Thank you," you said after a stretch of silence, the fire crackling in the background.

"For?" He seemed genuinely puzzled.

 "Today, the garden," you replied with emotion. "I wasn't expecting you to let me go out like that."

 He studied you for a moment, taking another forkful of his food before he swallowed and shrugged. "No big deal, it was only the garden."

"It's not merely just a garden when you haven't seen outside for days on end." You mimicked his shoulder pop, “and my parents always taught me to thank someone when they’ve done something you’re grateful for.” You dug back into your take out box and heard him let out a sigh.

“And mine didn’t, yes, I get it Y/N.”

“No, that’s not…” You swallowed your food and shook your head. “That wasn’t what I was implying.”

“Huh.” He raised an eyebrow, his attention moving back from you to another box which was on the table. Pulling out a coconut prawn he thrust the box in your direction as he swallowed his morsel in one easy bite. “Can’t say I’d blame you if it was.”

You watched him, once more silence falling across the room, the glow of the fire which burned in the hearth illuminating one side of his face and his gaze turned to it, his eyes following the dancing flames.

“Harlan taught me how to build a fire.” He suddenly spoke, and you watched as a smile flicked across his face. “There’s a huge stone hearth in the drawing room of his…well, what was his house. I used to toast bread on tongues, sat in front of it, wrapped in towel after a bath.” He paused, before he scratched at his nose. “Nanna would then butter it and I’d eat it in front of the fire, with a mug of cocoa and I remember always thinking it was the best thing I ever ate. Still is, shits all over this.” He gestured to the array of boxes biting his lip a little, clearly lost in the memory. You stayed still, watching, trying to stop the surprise you were feeling at his sudden openness spread across your face. He shrugged, taking another bite of his food. “Then she died. It was never the same after that. The house never felt right, you know?”

He reached for his beer, taking another long gulp before he shrugged. “Funny really, when I think about it. It was always my grandparents, they were the ones who taught me my minimal life skills. Fishing, pitching tents…”

“You, camping?” You arched a brow, trying to lighten the mood and it worked. He snorted and turned to look at you nodding.

“As a kid I loved being outside. Harlan’s estate was a huge, big playground.” He smiled again. “And on the rainy days when I couldn’t be outside, I used to spend hours with Nanna Wannetta, learning how to play ‘Go’, the goal always being to beat Harlan. When I finally managed it, it was the best thing in the world, that I’d achieved something.”

"Do you remember Christmas with her, your Nanna I mean? What’d she make?" You were eager to keep him talking, getting an insight into what made him tick on a more emotional sense was something you hadn’t been party to much. Sure, you’d figured out how to get a reaction out of him on an angry, primal sense, how his narcissistic nature worked, but this was an in-depth dive into his psyche, perhaps a way to unravel the enigma surrounding him, how he could flip between being someone you could actually like and understand, to the monster you’d seen on many an occasion.

Ransom paused for a moment. “I can’t really remember many, I was only nine when she died but she always did a roast, with potatoes, green vegetables, rolls.” He smiled. ”And pie. Apple. Always apples from the orchard. We’d pick them in the autumn and she’d stew them ready, storing them for Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

You thought about what was happening between the two of you, how open and, dare you think it, raw Ransom was being. The last two days had now given you an outright exposed forum to the man that hid behind so much wealth and privilege. A far cry from the man you interviewed.

An idea swung into the forefront of your mind, or two rather. "I know Christmas is so soon but, if I gave you a list of things to gather from the store, do you think you could do it?"

"I suppose," he stated flatly.

"Okay, good," you couldn’t help the soft smile as your plan unfolded. You picked at your food a bit longer, a piece of chicken curry chewing away in your mouth. He watched you and you watched him, a bite to the bottom of your lip when you swallowed under his stare.

His eyes diverted and he rose gracefully to his feet and moved to add fuel to the fire. "Ransom..." You watched him inhale deeply at the sound of his name, clearly still having a deep effect on him. He turned to you, a glint in his eyes, "Will you teach me?"

"What?"

"'Go'. Will teach me to play?"

"You want to learn to play? So you could play with me?" The way he asked you was so innocent and childlike, like he had never considered you willingly to do so.

You giggled, as you looked up at him. "Yes, Ransom, I want you to teach me how to play 'Go' so we can play together."

A genuine, purely innocent and genuine smile crossed his lips, teeth shining and he stepped the two steps away from the fireplace and took to his knees in front of you. His smile faded to a smirk as he leaned towards you, "You should know, I play to win."

 "I'd expect no less," you replied.

His brow arched a little and his eyes flickered to your mouth, before he nodded to the container in your hand. "Are you done?"

"Yes, thank you." In a slow movement he plucked the now almost empty takeout box from your hand, placing it on the table as he all but crawled over you, causing you to fall back onto your elbows, hands grasping at the soft shag of the thick rug.

Your breath caught in your chest, your throat going dry. You could feel his hot breath against your face. "R... Rans..."

But your words were stopped short as his lips pulled yours in, a soft sucking and his tongue tipped across your bottom lip.

As the kiss deepened he leaned over you further causing you to lay back completely on the soft rug, his hands planting either side of his head whilst yours gently gripped at his biceps.

A familiar but forgotten feeling pooled between your legs, the feel of his muscles flex and twitch beneath your fingers, igniting your nerves as his tongue danced with yours making you dizzy and breathless.

Soft lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, skating upwards to your ear, finding that spot that never failed to betray you and you gave a soft simper as he lightly nipped at your skin, your sound drawing a low, satisfied sigh from him.

“If you keep making those sounds I’m not going to be able to stop myself.” The words came out in a desperate tone as they crossed your ears.

"Do you want to stop yourself?" You whisper, knowing he's never stopped nor wanted to before. He stilled for a moment, pulling back to look at you and for a split second a spike of fear stabbed in your chest but there was nothing on his face bar a blank expression, as if he was grappling with something. 

“No, I don’t.” He admitted, a soft sigh rose from his chest as he hung his head and moved away a little. 

The encouragement left your lips before your brain processed it, a longstanding habit of yours, "so don't."

It seemed to shock you both and for a second time froze, before he was on you again, his kiss needy and heady. Your fingers curled around to the back of his neck as you scratched at the nape.  

His hand started traveling up the underside of your cami, your stomach muscles twitching at his touch. When your knee hooked around his narrow hips, he stopped and sat back in his haunches. "I... Why don’t you go and get ready for bed whilst I clear away this stuff.” He waved his hand to the table.

You licked your kiss swollen lips, and breathlessly nodded, sitting up and then standing on your own two feet before leaving the room, Ransom's back now to you as he stared into the fireplace, palms bracing himself against the mantle.

You left the study, almost in a daze and headed slowly back up the staircase. As you made your way into the bedroom you stopped for a moment, your head turning back to the door. What the fuck just happened? You’d given him the green light and instead of taking you he’d backed off completely.

It as an unnerving turn of events, because despite your little moment an insight into his past before you had no idea what was going on in his head at that point in time. When he was being forceful and angry it was obvious but now, well, it was impossible to get a read on him and if you wanted to keep him on side, that was going to be a problem. Ransom was an enigma wrapped in an unbelievably layered mystery, and you hadn’t even scratched the surface. 

*****

As the fire calmed beneath him, and deep inside, Ransom took two deep grounding breaths. This new sense of restraint and self-control fucked with his head, and what was even more frightening was that these were not thought through, these feelings were of instinct. As if a part of himself that he never knew to exist had been pried open in the depths of his soul over the last now forty-eight hours. He was deeply confused, especially now as he had towered over her, near ready to fuck her into the rug by the fire, not only with himself but with her. Twice now she'd given him a green light to do as he wanted with her. The first after he asked to be let in, in a manner of speaking, and just now, inviting him, no, encouraging him on. Then there was still that guilt that he'd tried to stifle back since the rose of their day. That guilt he harbored each time he got a look at that gash on her cheek, knowing damn well he put it there, the bruising growing darker as it started to show past the swelling.

He loathed this guilt within him, for Ransom Drysdale doesn't do guilt. Never cared enough, until now, until her and not until last night.

The world owed him far too much, his arrogance included, but Y/N, she was different. She was safe and safe was something he never felt. He used that same arrogance to posture at every given minute of the day, used it as his defense against all who crossed him, family included. Ransom couldn't remember a time in his life, not since his Nana passed, that he hadn't felt alone and angry, withdrawn purposely and defiantly. A grown man with mommy and daddy issues as Y/N had vehemently spat at him one night, yet she didn't know the half of it. If she hadn't pushed him, made him so angry, he wouldn't have hurt her, ruined her. No, no he wouldn't have. 

But Harlan, with Harlan he could be himself, arrogance pinned up against arrogance, he learned so much from his grandfather and all he did was ruin that too.

The thought of Harlan put a sour taste in his mouth as that guilt came back through, twisting his gut and make him balk. It angered him he held such guilt for his life circumstances.

Again taking a deep breath, he gathered the take out remnants and tossed what he had to in the trash and placed the rest in the fridge.

As he made his way back up towards his room, towards her, he stopped at a guest bathroom and splashed cold water across his face. He rinsed the taste of curry and coconut from his tongue and quickly made his way to his room.

He stripped down, fully discarding his clothes to a pile in front of the bed and pulled he covers back, the cool, crisp sheets giving a chill to his skin. He heard the water tap shut off from the bathroom and suddenly he felt his stomach drop at the anticipation of what he wanted next. Would she have changed her mind? Was she no longer going to encourage him to continue with treating her for the night? What the fuck was he doing now? Doubting himself? Doubting how he could show a woman a really good fucking time? Ugh, all these emotional changes and challenges were absolutely exhausting for him. He needed a distraction, yes, a good nice long distraction and the way he'd get it was now walking toward him.

He watched her as she came out of his en suite from his position reclined in his bed, his hands behind his head on the pillow. The deep green silk slip negligee she chose fit in all the right places and as she stepped closer, he took note of the way her hips filled out the satin material, how her pert nipples tented the fabric. His mouth was salivating and he swallowed hard, sitting up as she was at the end of the four post bed, then at his bedside. 

 "Come here," he said, speaking in a low, gravely tone, seeing her hesitation. 

He forced more of himself to sit up to greet her, the clean, soft sheets falling to his hips, his naked chest on full display. His right hand curled around her hip while the other reached for her to pull her towards him. She gasped as her body fell into bed with him, both led out against the cushion of the mattress and pillows. Her legs were settled between his, her chest against his own but what he enjoyed the most was the way her lips fell in time with his. Both his hands cupped her face as he deepened their kiss. Tongue deep into her mouth, tasting the minty remnants of toothpaste. Lips soft against her own as they travelled down her neck to her spot that was just for him to know. He felt her move a little above him, as if she were pulling away. That not being in his plan for the evening, Ransom dropped his left arm to the mattress and used his strength to roll her to her back, his lips never leaving her own, sheets rustling round his legs as he kicked them away.

With one leg between hers, a knee so close to her core, his thigh settling against her mound, he moved her legs apart. Hooded eyes stared back at him and he watched as she visibly swallowed, lost in their moment. His body led over her, Ransom used one hand to prop himself up slightly while the other tantalizingly brushed one of the thin straps of her negligee down. His lips skated over her collar bone and back up her neck, a hot tongue against her spot and she quivered beneath him. The hand that moved the thin strap away from her shoulder glided over the outside of her thigh and under the hem of the sleep slip, skating up the outside of her thigh, up to her bare hip, thumb rubbing over her skin.

He pushed his knee up against her mound making her gasp a little. He didn't care to hide the smirk across his lips as they ghosted over her skin, moving back to hers. He felt her fingers curl around his neck before her hands slipped into the nape of his neck. As his tongue and body began to melt into hers, Ransom pulled the front of her negligee down, exposing her mounded breasts to the room. With his knee, he nudged up against her again and he couldn’t help the moan the escaped his mouth into hers when he felt her grind down against him. He wrenched his lips away from hers, sloppy kisses chaining down her neck, feeling the delicate muscles contract as she swallowed as he moved down, his tongue tracing a path over the swell of her breast before he took a pebbled nipple into his mouth, rolling it ever so softly between his teeth.

The hand that was round her hip gripped tighter against her soft skin, his eyes peeking up at her, her head thrown back against the pillow, eyes closed, mouth hanging open, soft whimpers flowing from her mouth and he pressed his leg further up against her centre, feeling her slick as it spread across his thigh as she rubbed up against him, seeking relief from the friction. Her needy nature was something he hadn’t seen to this extent before and he was hard as hell as she writhed beneath him, her back arching off the bed, pushing her chest upwards and he obliged, his mouth upping the ante around her sensitive nipple.

Again he felt her fingers against the nape of his neck as he nipped and sucked against her nipple, flat and hot tongue at the valley of her breasts. He shifted slightly, intending to turn his attention to her other breast, but the movement jostled his knee further against her and her fingers tightened around his hair as she gave a cry, grinding down on him harder.

“Atta girl, take it. Take what you need.” He all but growled out, his face hovering inches from hers as he watched her face, contorted in pleasure and desire, her eyes screwed shut. “Look at me.” He demanded, and obediently her eyes flew open, those deep orbs he could drown in locked onto his as he stared straight back into them.

“Ransom…” her voice was barely a whisper and once more the sound of his name from her mouth was enough to turn him feral and it took everything he had to keep himself from fucking her senseless. But somehow he did. He pushed his leg up against her as he slanted his mouth to hers, swallowing her moans and cries before he pulled back.

“Cum for me, Baby,” he whispered against her lips and seconds later her back arched and her entire body convulsed, his head shooting back almost painfully at the force with which she pulled on his hair and he groaned deeply as she cried out, tumbling over the edge of pleasure, her thighs gripping his, her pussy literally pulsing against his thigh as she soaked his skin with her orgasm, before she sagged back and lay trembling underneath him.

“I love the sounds you make when you come undone.”

As you came down from your high, you realised that your hands were tugging on his hair and you instantly let go, before you suddenly became aware of the fact that in your lust addled haze you’d basically fucked yourself against his leg. And, as you looked at him, that maddening smirk spread across his face and you knew the bastard was crowing inside at exactly how needy you’d been. How needy he’d made you, and you couldn’t even find it within yourself to be disgusted anymore.

You needed more, more of what he was offering, more of what had just transpired. And the only thing you could think of how to get it was to feel him inside you like he was the night before, how he filled you and gently caressed you. But was he willing to do it? You didn't know, not for sure anyway, for this wasn't the Ransom you had first met. This wasn't the man who tortured you, degraded you. No, this was a man who emerged from a cacoon of hurt, mental degradation, arrogance. This was gentle, so was... markedly different.

"Talk to me." His words startled you from your daze as you felt his gentle knuckle graze down your skin through the valley of your breasts and come to rest a flat palm over your belly.

You swallowed, desperately trying to calm the ocean of conflicting feelings within your brain as you looked down at him, your chest heaving. “I don’t know what to say.” You whispered, eyes not leaving his. The obvious conflict must have been etched across your face as his expression softened more, almost looking sad or worried he'd done the wrong thing. Who the hell was this guy?

“I’m trying.” He whispered softly, the tip of his nose brushing yours in a feather like kiss. “I’m trying to make you trust me.”

"Who are you?" You'd blurted it out before you could filter it, and you felt a faint tug of fear spike through you, but as quick as it had come it went when he leaned over you and pressed his lips softly to yours.

"Let me show you." He was asking once more, not demanding. “Please.”

The two of you were so close, you felt his hot breath on your face. The lump you swallowed hurt going down. All it took was a barely audible "okay." and no sooner had the permission slipped from your mouth, his lips were on yours, the kiss soft yet, deep and needy at the same time.

With one hand now entangled in your hair, the other holding his weight against your side, he positioned himself fully between your legs.

You could feel his tip at your entrance and your body took over, tilting your hips up, telling him just what you wanted, no, what you needed.

A second tilt of your hips met his as he found what he wanted, slipping right in, his lips leaving yours as he let go of a whimpering moan at the feel of your wet opening practically pulling him in. He moved slowly and deliberately, sliding in deeper with each thrust, like ocean waves rolling over the sand shore and back out to sea, his lips back on yours, down the column of your neck, sucking in that spot that made you shudder and back across your jaw and home again on your lips.

Your hands moved to his back, fingers dancing over the muscles which twitched with each gentle, deep rock of his hips, your nails lightly dragging as your hands made their way up to his shoulders where they stopped.

His eyes met yours as he paused his thrusting and you wondered what was passing through that fucking twisted mind of his. Was it an awakening that this was too much for him? Was it that the beast was ready to return? Or was it deep emotion he was struggling with? The calming of the storm inside?

"You're beautiful," he whispered with a blush pinker than his already flushes skin, almost embarrassed to give such a genuine thought out loud.

You leaned up, closing the space between you, your lips to his, accepting his compliment, hiding your own emotion from him. It twisted your gut and muddled your mind, it wakened your heart and flooded your core. Seated inside you, deep now at the angle, you breathed against his ear, "more".

The deep groan from his throat curled your insides as the vibrations from his chest rattled against yours. His hips moved back before they snapped forward, his movement powerful and sure and you gave a gasp as he drove into you, a dirty grind that had you clawing at his skin.

"Fuck, so good," he managed.

As his thrusts continued at their depth, grinding harder, your hands slid upwards into his hair, tightening around the longer strands and his head tipped back, a loud growl ripping from his throat. His lips crashed back to yours, your hands still tangled in his locks and almost curiously you gave another tug.

“Jesus Christ.” His words stuttered, punctuated by a groan against your mouth and he shook his head, his hands reaching for yours in his hair. “Imma lose it if you keep doing that, Sweetheart. And I’m not done with you yet.”

It wasn't a threat like you've heard countless times before, but a promise of what was to come and you shivered, your whole body jolting like you were chilled. 

“Call me selfish, but I don’t ever want anyone else to touch you.” His long fingers snaked between yours, strong arms pinned your hands on either side of your head on the pillow. Instantly you felt a flicker of panic and you gasped, moving your arms ever so slightly. But when Ransom didn’t react to your slight motion of resistance and allowed you to take his hands with yours, you realized this wasn’t about restraint. You could move, and moreover, in that instant you fully believed if you asked him to stop he would.

So you stayed where you were until you brought a knee up towards his rolling hips, toes on pointe against the sheets, opening yourself more for him. He gave another grunt of satisfaction, clearly crowing even more at your participation as his hips continued to drive into you over and over, coaxing you ever closer to your high. He was rubbing against that soft spot deep inside you and your cries were struggling to get out of your throat. The fire in your body was raging as you began to feel the flush hitting you.

"Oh... fuck... Ransom, please, I...." Her words were a rushed garble of pleas and he bit his lip, eyes fixed on those deep orbs, fingers tightening around her hands as he fought the familiar warm, tight feeling that was spreading across his abs and groin. His lips crashed back to hers, in a kiss that was deep and sloppy as she moaned loudly into his mouth. He felt her walls squeeze around him tightly, tighter than before. Her inner walls taking him for all he had to give and her outer, pulsing against his tightening sac.

“Fuck, baby...” he panted as she sagged underneath him, her body quivering with sheer pleasure for the second time that night. His hips drove into her, his pace quickening slightly as he neared his own release which hit him seconds later. “Oh, shit...” was all he could stutter as he came, his dick spasming and twitching inside her as he coated her insides, with a surge like nothing he’d felt before, the bliss rising from the very depth of his being and flooding his entire system with a white hot pleasure that consumed him completely.

It felt like it lasted forever, and he was certain his breathing stopped momentarily as he fell forward, his face burrowed into the side of her neck.

“What are you doing to me, Y/N?” a whispered voice croaked from his throat against her ear. She didn’t say anything, she couldn’t, she was still shaking under him. Gathering what little strength he had left he propped himself up on shaky arms, kissing her again before he shifted and pulled out of her, rolling heavily onto his back. 

His chest heaved along with hers, his mind foggy and spiked full of serotonin. And when he calmed himself enough, Ransom reached for her hand, entwined her fingers with his and pressed a soft kiss to the back of her hand. Then, with a gentle tug, he pulled her close as he rolled his chest to her back, led against her, his fingers still entwined with hers, his arm against her. He nuzzled into her hair, his chest taking in a deep, shaky breath, doing all her could to mask the emotion seeping out. 

You felt him rest his chin on the crown of your head as your body started to lull to sleep from the overload on chemicals and exertion. And as you drifted off to sleep, Ransom’s arm heavy over your waist as his nose nuzzled into the back of your hair you began to question just which one of you was the real captive.

**** Part 6

[swiss-cheeze]

(The Candyman Can) Rainbow Connection || Spencer Reid

Request: YES/NO // a part 2 was requested but I was going to do a part 2 anyway so, yeah. (@l0ve-0f-my-life)

Gender: none, they/them // I don’t believe there is any description, I tried to keep it nonchalant, the Sunflower song may be slightly suggestive because it’s sung by a female and have the aspects of femininity but overall is a non-gender affirming song.

Warnings: uhhh, slow burn, awkwardness? I honestly don’t know SEASON 8 SPOILERS, very long; seven pages on google doc lmao

Description: ten months after Maeves death you’re still singing for Spencer to help him cope, what happens when Garcia’s Dia De Muertos party brings to light your feelings?

Part 1: https://snitchthewitch.tumblr.com/post/621248749527760896/the-candyman-can-spencer-reid

Songs used:

It’s My Life - Bon Jovi

Hey There Delilah - Plain White T’s

Sunflower - Sierra Burgess

Rainbow Connection - The Muppets

———

Ten months.

It had been ten months since Maeve had left, ten months since a part of Spencer felt broken, crumpled and gone.

Ten months since you entered his life in a different way then he would ever think.

After your singing sessions things started to look better, brighter, lighter and happier.

Currently yourself and Spencer were jamming out in his apartment to It's My Life.

“It's my life! And it's now or never!” you screamed and jumped on the couch, Spencer followed you with a laugh and shouted at the top of his lungs.

“'Cause I ain't gonna live forever, I just want to live while I'm alive” Spencer sang, you grinned as you hoped down from the couch, grabbed his hands and started dancing.

“My heart is like an open highway, like Frankie said, ‘i did it my way’!” you grinned as Spencer spun you around and stepped onto the coffee table.

“I just want to live while I'm alive,” Spencer sang as you hopped up and onto the table next to the Doctor.

“ITS, MY, LIFE!” you exclaimed together and posed on the table as if there was a crowd gathered and you had just danced your hearts out; which you did. Your breathing was heavy as you let out a large laugh and jogged over to the CD player to turn it down as the next song came on from your playlist, going from a room shattering volume to a whisper.

“Drink?” Spencer asked with heavy breaths as he pointed to the kitchen, you nodded as you held your back and sat on the couch, Spencer came back a moment later with two glasses of water and handed one to you as you sat in the blissful aftermath of a singing and dance off.

“Are you going to Garcias Day of the Dead party?” you asked after a moment, it wasn't very risky to ask but it was still touchy as you both knew the background to the question. Spencer nodded.

“Yeah, yeah I am, I'm meant to be helping her with groceries sometime, she said she’d message me when she was ready” Spencer smiled as he placed the empty cup on the table and laid back against the couch cushions, “who are you bringing?” Spencer hesitantly asked as you grinned.

“I can't tell you that Spence, it's cheating” you shook your head before putting your cup down on the table and opening your phone to look at the time; you were meant to be home 10 minutes ago, “shit, sorry Spence i gotta head,” you said as you quickly gathered your belongings.

“Do you have to leave?” Spencer asked, he sounded so sad that you needed to leave, you bit your lip as you opened the door.

“I’m sorry Spence, i do, i've um…” should you tell him? “I've got a date,” you said with a tight lipped smile. Spencer hoped his face didn't convey the emotions he felt and hoped you didn't notice his change in demeanor.

“Oh, yeah of course,” Spencer said tightly, “you head ill...ill clean up here,”

“Thanks Spence, i'll see you at work!” you said with a grin and waved the Doctor a goodbye. The retreating of your footsteps seemed to echo in the surrounding walls of Spencer's apartment and his mind, your smile was flashing in his and out of his head a thousand times over in bright flashes as the room suddenly felt rather lonely and cold without your presence in it anymore. Spencer looked around the room as he felt his shoulders sag, emotions came back to him as well as memories of Maeve, Tobias, Nathan and multiple other people who impacted his life in some way, in a way of his work and in a way that's personal.

Alex.

Of course!

Spencer scrambled for his phone and clicked on Blake's personal cell number. It rang three times before the woman's voice floated through.

“Ried? Is everything okay?” the worry in Blake's voice floated through the speakers as Spencer took a breath.

“I…” Spencer sighed softly and sniffled, god was he going to cry again? “I think im in love...again”

“Oh Spence,”

---

You smiled tightly as your date talked about...what was he talking about again?

“And that's how I found out my family was a part of the mafia group in the nineteen hundreds!” the date exclaimed, oh god had you forgotten his name already?

“Thats,” you gave a fake laugh as real as you could, “that's amazing Matt!” you said with a clap of your hands.

“My name’s Michael…” your date reminded you, you sighed and put your head in your hands with a groan.

“I'm sorry-”

“No it's...I can tell your head is somewhere else,” your date said with a smile, “did you want to talk about it?” he asked, you bit your lip before responding.

“One of my coworkers…” should you be telling a story that isn't yours to tell? “One of my coworkers lost someone close to them ten months ago,” you started the story, you can't stop now, “and to be a good friend I started to sing for him!” you said happily, using your hands to talk, “i started singing for him because it made me happy when i was a child and i thought it would cheer him up as well, in the end it did and it helped him get better and obviously he is better but...that was ten months ago,” you sighed, “Micheal it was ten months ago that he lost what could possibly be his only love and here i am...in love with him,”

“Oh doll,” Micheal said softly as he put his hand on top of yours, “what do you mean his only love?” the man asked, “just so i can get a better understanding and idea of the situation,” he smiled politely.

“Hes...he has an eidetic memory, can read 20,000 words a minute, he has 3 PhDs and 3 Bachelors, he doesn't get along well with women in the romance scene a lot of the time but he's just...he's just so smart and he's so lovely and kind and works well with everyone,” you took a breath as you wiped a tear from your eye you didn't realise had leaked, “he puts himself on the line all the time; he’s been shot in the knee, shot in the shoulder, he got kidnapped and drugged, poisoned with a worse strain of Anthrax then actual anthrax, he's such a good hostage speaker, he delves into every case with everything he has as if its his last which it could possibly be, he helped a young boy, Nathan Harris, when he believed he was going to become a serial killer an-”

“Woah woah woah baby slow down,” Micheal said as he looked to you, “you’re getting so worked up over this boy, i mean, he's just a boy,” Micheal said with a grin, “you sing for him don't you?”

“Yeah I do,” you absentmindedly smiled, “it's amazing, just today we sung It’s My Life before I came here,” you said with a large grin, the memory still fresh.

“Okay so, how about, instead, you lean it to more romantic songs? Slowly give him hints and open up to him more?” Micheal questioned, you never actually thought of that but as you mulled it over it sounded a lot better than any other plan you would have had brewed anway. You nodded.

“Thats...thats really good Micheal,” you said with a grin, “thank you,”

“It’s alright; if i can't be the one then i'll help you with him,” Micheal said with a joking grin. You ended the night with the waitress coming over to take your plates as you asked for the bill, split it, giving a lovely tip and Micheal driving you home. He planted a kiss on your cheek before handing you his number on a napkin, “for whenever and whatever you want or need,” he had said, you gave him a kiss on the cheek and a thank you before retreating into your house and mulling over the next few songs to sing for Spencer whenever he wanted.

---

A few days passed after your date and Spencers emotional outburst to Blake (which she kept to herself and Spencer of course), you had been given a case and hadn't had time to sing to Spencer; you could tell this was taking a little toll on the poor doctor as he became distracted easily as well as the far off gaze he had on his face a lot of the time now, however, the plane had just landed back in DC.

“Spence!” you called for the doctor, he turned for a moment and slowed his walking for you to catch up, “did you want me to call tonight?” you asked with a grin.

“Yes please (Y/n),” the doctor said, he seemed sad but also desperate.

“Are you alright?” you questioned as you stopped the doctor with your hand on his arm, “i'm here for you,”

“I’ll be alright after tonight (Y/n), it's okay,” and without another word Spencer left you, spoke to Hotch for a second and then headed out the door.

“Are you two okay?” Blake asked as she came up next to you.

“I think so, I think it’s just because we haven't had a lot of time recently for our normal sessions,” you said with a tight smile.

“He misses you (Y/n),” Blake said, “a lot more than you know,” the two of you dropped the subject pretty quickly after that as you walked to the parking lots and headed home, the road seemed to go in a blur as you drove, forming colours and paint strokes against the harsh greys of the DC city buildings.

---

Another few days passed and your singing sessions went back to normal, except this time you added more romantic songs, adding a more soft tone or even adding your uke like one of the first times you sang for Spencer, and right now you were finishing off Hey There Delilah.

“Hey there, Spencer,” you had changed the lyrics for the last ‘hey there’, you heard Spencer give off a little breathy laugh, “You be good, and don't you miss me, two more years and you'll be done with school,” you couldn't help but laugh slightly at the school part seeing as Spencer had...well you know what he’s got, “And I'll be makin' history like I do. You know it's all because of you…” you trailed the end of your sentence off slightly, “We can do whatever we want to…” you sighed softly, “hey there, Spencer, here’s to you,” you trailed off again as you felt tears well in your eyes as you spoke the last words instead of singing them, “This one's for you” and with that the song ended and you smiled into the phone, Spencer clapped loudly into the phone’s speaker.

“That was beautiful (Y/n)!” the doctor exclaimed with a smile, “I haven't heard that song before,” you laughed, of course he hadn't heard the song before.

“It's a classic but not the type of classic you know of,” you said with a smile as you heard Spencer laugh along with you too, “I’m sorry Spence but i have to get to bed,” you sounded so sad.

“Right, of course,” Spencer said as he finally glanced at the clock, god it was past 12 already? You'd been on a call together since 10, “goodnight (Y/n), i'll see you at Garcias tomorrow?” Spencer asked, shit. You'd forgotten about tomorrow completely.

“Y-yeah of course! I'll be there don't worry,” you smiled into the phone, “goodnight Spence” and with that you hung up the phone and got ready for bed. Spencer did the same in his apartment.

---

You smiled sweetly at Spencer as he placed Maeve's photo on the altar as everyone gave him a sympathetic look and then another person's photo.

“This is uh, Nikola Tesla,” he said, you couldn't help but smile, “i just hope he's still having fun inventing things wherever he is” Spencer said with the little smile and laugh he does every now and then as he stepped back from the alter; allowing you to place your photo. You gulped as you fiddled with the photographic paper.

“This uh,” you started, nobody actually knew who this was, you sniffled as Garcia held you hand and you smiled to her as thanks for the reassurance, you cleared your throat, “this is Gene Wilder,” you grinned as Spencer chuckled softly, of course it was him, “i don't uh, i don't really have any family that i'm close to that has passed but, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory has always been my childhood, it was always close to my heart and when the movie came out i fell in love with it even more and the more i watched it the more i felt Gene Wilder become apart of me, my family and my life.” you took a breath as you placed the photo onto the altar, it was of his iconic Willy Wonka pose, “of course he has become a meme icon,” you laughed as everyone did too, “but i know for a fact he looks at everyone from wherever he is and he looks at them with such passion and love and admiration for whatever they're doing and i know he fills me with hope and confidence whenever i need it” you smiled as you finished and stepped back and the line continued.

You all gave your thanks, gave a blessing or a prayer depending on who it was, sent your respects and then went your way with drinks and conversations and music. Spencer smiled as he came up to you when Hotch walked away, your conversation about Henry becoming dwindled as the food looked more appetizing to Hotch.

“Hey,” Spencer said with a little wave as he held a cup of...cordial?

“Are you really drinking cordial Spencer?” you asked with a laugh as Spencer nodded.

“Believe it or not cordial is a lot healthier than wine,” Spencer spoke with a laugh as he stated the obvious, you smiled as well but it was tight, “are you okay?” you nodded.

“Yeah i'll be alright,” you said quietly, where was this sad emotion suddenly coming from?

“Considering the circumstances it's okay to be sad (Y/n)” Spencer commented as he saw your saddened expression but before he could say anything else you put on a fake smile.

“Spence i promise, im okay” you said with fake confidence, “promise” you held out your hand for the doctor and took his warm palm in his, you could tell Spencer didn't believe you but nodded anyway, but your whole demeanor changed as soon as the song did and you grinned, “dance with me Spencer?” you asked as you set down your wine and dragged the poor doctor to the ‘dance floor’.

“N-no i'm not really- i haven't ever-” Spencer stuttered but with your glowing smile and laugh he found himself not finding the words to excuse himself before nodding and placing his drink down on the nearest surface. You brought the doctor close to your body and rested your head in his neck as his arms wrapped around your waist hesitantly and yours wrapped around his neck, you danced in a slow circle as the rest of the team gave suggestive glances to each other.

“Rose girls in glass vases, perfect bodies, perfect faces, they all belong in magazines” your voice floated through the air softly and Spencers voice hitched, “Those girls the boys are chasing, winning all the games they're playing, they're always in a different league” you continued to sing and sway with Spencer, his grip tightened on you as he buried his face into your hair as Hotch pulled Alex in for a dance, Rossi with J.J. and Derek and Garcia all walked to the dance floor; slow dancing and holding one another softly as your voice continued, “Stretching toward the sky like I don't care, wishing you could see me standing there” god was that directed to Spencer? It was, wasn't it? Spencer bit his lip at the thought as he continued swaying as he looked up for a second and saw everyone else slow dancing, a smile gracing his lips as your voice flowed through the air again, “But I'm a sunflower, a little funny, If I were a rose, maybe you'd want me” your voice wavered as you buried your face into Spencers neck, “If I could, I'd change overnight, I'd turn into something you'd like but i'm a,” your voice came out a little stronger now as you looked up and saw your co-workers now switching dance partners; Rossi with Hotch (which made you laugh a little), J.J. and Derek, and Alex with Garcia, “sunflower, a little funny, if I were a rose, maybe you'd pick me” your voice sighed at the end as you broke away from Spencers neck to look at the beautiful man in front of you, wording the lyrics to him, “But I know you don't have a clue, this sunflower's waiting for you,” both of you leant in as your eyes darted to Spencers mouth, his eyes doing the same to yours as he licked his lips without realisation, “Waiting for you” with your mouths inches apart and your eyelids slowly closing, you could feel Spencers breath fanning over your lips...almost...almost…

“(Y/n) that's a beautiful voice you have!” Alex exclaimed, the song continued in the background as yourself and Spencer jumped away from each other, smiling awkwardly as you wiped your sweaty palms on your hips and thighs. Your teammates all broke away from each other; Blake must have been the only one to see and realise what was going to happen, you looked to Alex with a mix of emotions including anger and appreciation; anger because she stopped you and Spencer from kissing, appreciation because she stopped you and Spencer kissing in front of the others.

“Thanks…” you smiled as you scratched the back of your head with an awkward smile, “well i gotta start heading!” you exclaimed suddenly, the crushing feeling in your chest getting too much for you to stay.

“Ohhh what what what?” Garcia asked as she came forward, “oh come on i can get the blow up mattress, we can all sleep here, take tomorrow off; Hotch we can take tomorrow off can't we?” Garcia suddenly exclaimed, you all smiled as did Hotch but he didn't say a word; Garcia was tipsy, if not already drunk.

“It’s okay Penelopie really,” you said with a smile as you walked to the girl and hugged her close, “i'll see you guys tomorrow though,” you smiled as you hugged everyone, of course Spencer being the last.

“I’ll drive you home,” Spencer said quickly as he picked up your coat as well as his, you stuttered as Spencer opened Garcia's door but decided against it; instead blushing and thanking Spencer as the two of you walked out of the apartment building and to Spencers old timey wimey car.

“Think those two will realise?” Derek said off-handedly with a knowing grin.

“They’re profilers, they'll figure it out,” Rossi said with a grin.

-------

Yourself and Spencer had already discussed you would sleepover at his house in case you got drunk or tipsy off of wine, that and the fact you used public transport to get to Garcias rather than a car and Spencer didn't want you to go onto the tubes at this time at night.

“No, Spence, I already told you I'm not taking your bed!” you exclaimed with a laugh as you got a drink from Spencer's kitchen.

“(Y/n) please, my couch is complete rubbish and i know!” Spencer exclaimed from his bedroom where he was getting dressed in. You scoffed jokingly.

“Oh yeah Spencer, you've slept on your couch you germaphobe” you said with a smile as you walked to Spencer's bedroom.

“I did! When…” as you entered the bedroom the air turned cold as Spencers smile fell, you looked at him from across the room in all of his shirtless-and-low-hanging-pyjama-pants glory, he cleared his throat, “when Maeve…” he choked as his sentence drained off the way it does when Spencer is emotional and about to cry.

“Oh, Spence im...im sorry i didn't think,” you said softly, you stayed in the doorway unsure of what to do. Spencer cleared his throat as he threw his side of the covers back and started to get into the bed.

“Please?” Spencer questioned, you knew what he wanted as he bunched the sheets at his waist and played with his fingers while looking at the covers, you nodded. Whether Spencer saw you nod or not you weren't sure but you went through the same motions as you would when going to bed; brushed your teeth in Spencer's connected bathroom, tugged off your work clothes, put on your pyjamas as Spencer waited patiently in the bed, unmoving. Your feet padded on the floor as you brought back the covers on the other side of Spencer and sat on the bed next to him, the covers bunched up around your waist as you waited, waited for Spencer to lay down, hold your hand, something.

And then he did.

“Spencer i know-”

“Can you sing for me?” Spencer suddenly asked, his voice on the verge of breaking as he looked to you with teary eyes, you nodded quickly and began to smile.

“Yeah, yeah of course i can Spencer,” you said quickly, “did you want to get under the covers?” you asked softly, Spencer nodded and sniffled softly as the two of you maneuvered to lay down. You laid on your back as Spencer clutched onto you, his head rested on your chest as your arm wrapped around his back and to his shoulder, “what do we want tonight?” you asked in a soft voice into Spencer's hair.

“Anything, anything happy,” Spencer mumbled into your chest, you nodded and thought for a moment.

“Why are there so many, songs about rainbows, and what's on the other side” you started to sing, Spencer doesn't know the muppets very well but he has heard this song play in your headphone while on the jet home after a tough case once or twice, this was the second song you used to calm yourself down next to The Candy Man, “Rainbows are visions, they're only illusions, and rainbows have nothing to hide” your voice was soft and filtered through the air as Spencer closed his eyes, envisioning himself in a wonderful forest, just like Kermit the frog with you by his side, your uke in your arms, the cords coming through seamlessly, “So we've been told and some chose to believe it, but I know they're wrong wait and see” you squeezed Spencer softly as you started on the chorus, “Someday we'll find it, The Rainbow Connection” you tilted Spencers chin up from your chest and moved back from Spencer a little so he wasn't arched weirdly nor where you bent weirdly, “The lovers,” you pointed a finger into your own chest, “the dreamers,” you pointed a finger into Spencers chest as he smiled softly, his tears dripping into the creases of his smile, “and me” you cuddled back into Spencer as his arms tightly wrapped around you again.

“Who said that every wish,” Spencer's soft voice filtered in the air, you smiled and hummed the instrumentals, “Would be heard and answered, when wished on the morning star” you smiled and kissed Spencer's head again and joined in with singing.

“Somebody thought of that, and someone believed it, look what it’s done so far” you shrugged jokingly as if the ‘look what it's done so far’ was someone really saying it, a soft chuckle came from Spencer, “What's so amazing,” you shrugged again as you looked to Spencer, “that keeps us stargazing, what do we think we might see?” you brought your unwrapped arm up towards the ceiling and cupped it around as if you were cupping Spencers chin, “Someday we’ll find it,” you looked back down to Spencer as your arm came down as well, “The Rainbow Connection,” you cupped Spencers cheek as you moved forward, Spencer doing the same as he looked down to your lips like he did at Garcias before gliding back up to your eyes, “The lovers,” you cocked a small smile as the lyrics came out in a whisper, “The dreamers,” you tapped Spencer cheek softly as the gap finally closed and your lips pressed against Spencers for a short moment before you both pulled back slowly, “And me”

[epicstuckyficrecs]

Weekly Recap | March 9-22

Didn’t even realize but I completely forgot the recap for the week of March 9th to March 15th because I was too busy trying to find a flight home from Scotland (fuck coronavirus and bojo!!!) So now you get two weeks worth of fics!

Complete

good on my own (needed me) by mcwho (Modern AU, Teacher Bucky | 12K | Explicit): There are some mistakes that could be made by anybody. Anybody. Bucky taught high school pretty much his whole life, and that was fine, those were kids, and he knew all of them anyway, which meant there was very little chance of him accidentally fucking any of his students during an impulsive post-marital-breakdown Grindr hook-up. Which is exactly what he had done with Steve.

💙 The Conservation of a 17th Century Painting by birdjay/ @bird-jay (Modern AU, Artist Steve | 13K | Explicit): Well. He does live alone, and it’s not like anyone would find out. He could safely stick his hand down his pants right now and not have to worry about it. He’s jerked off loads of times in his own apartment. It’s...healthy to let stress out this way...right? And the fact that it’s to a doctor of art history isn’t weird. Or at least, not super weird. People have masturbated to weirder things. Steve knows that for sure. And it’s not like Dr. Barnes is rough on the eyes or anything, either. He’s quite possibly the most handsome man Steve’s looked at in months. And, well, there’s the whole art side to things, as well. (Part 1 of The Met: Art Conservation Studies)

Re-framing the Canvas by birdjay/ @bird-jay (Modern AU | 4K | Explicit): Steve and Dr. Barnes's first date. (Part 2 of The Met: Art Conservation Studies)

Perfectly Mad by ClaraxBarton/ @claraxbarton​ (PWP, Shrunkyclunks | 2,2K | Explicit): Whoever had decided to seat Steve beside Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes - eldest son of President Winifred Barnes, war hero, recently returned from a three month stay as a hostage of an offshoot of the same terrorist group that had once held Tony Stark - was clearly an idiot. Actually, in Steve’s opinion, whoever had thought Barnes attending the dinner at all was an idiot. Whoever had thought inviting Steve to the dinner was an idiot.

own me, i'll let you play the role (i'll be your animal) by voxofthevoid/ @voxofthevoid​ (Werewolf Steve, PWP | 6,7K | Explicit): He wanders into a clearing, the same one where he stood, almost three months ago, watching the Quinjet while waiting for Steve to come running to him. It was the start of something…educational. It’s one thing to take Steve as he is, another to love it the way Bucky did. He has no regrets. He’s been worse things than a monster-fucker. - Bucky’s not wearing red, but he’s got a big, bad wolf on his tail. (Part 3 of 💙in this story, you have claws)

i look like all you need by howdoyousleep/ @howdoyousleep3​ (PWP, Daddy Bucky | 4,9K | Explicit): “Steve,” James starts, voice so low and so deep, a shiver running down Steve’s spine, “Baby, you can either come here and stand in front of me…or I’ll drag you by your fucking hair and put you there. Choose.” (Part 1 of Daddy James Bucky Barnes/Twink Steve)

i'm seein' the pain, seein' the pleasure by howdoyousleep/ @howdoyousleep3​ (PWP, Daddy Bucky | 1,8K | Explicit): Steve had barely been able to keep up, gasping and trying to ask what James was doing, his thigh pulled up and hiked around a thick waist, a filthy roll of James’ hips. James had whispered low in his ear, “Wouldn’t be a good Daddy if I didn’t make sure my sweet boy got to bed…” (Part 2 of Daddy James Bucky Barnes/Twink Steve)

💙 No One Else by howdoyousleep/ @howdoyousleep3​ (Sugar Daddy Steve | 12K | Explicit): And now here he is, walking up the steps to Steve’s brownstone at 12:03 in the morning on a Thursday night. He’s standing there like a fucking idiot with his tail between his legs, his hand coming up to ring the doorbell and falling back to his side maybe 8 times, and he lets out a shaky sigh. What if Steve wasn’t awake? Was this out of line? Showing up to his house in the middle of the fucking night? Fuck. (Part 1 of Modern Daddy Steve Rogers/Young Bucky Barnes)

Never Before by howdoyousleep/ @howdoyousleep3​ (PWP | 5,6K | Explicit): Before Steve, Bucky enjoyed sex, engaging in it frequently with various partners, enjoying himself and the pleasure he could bring others. But when Steve came along his world was flipped upside-fucking-down. Bucky had never felt so desperate, so needy, so pathetic for someone. He had never once been brought to tears during sex or because of sex but Steve brought them out of him almost every time, whether it be from the sex itself or for begging for it. He had no idea what his body and what his mind were capable of during sex until he came along. It was like Bucky had never had sex before Steve entered his life. (Part 2 of Modern Daddy Steve Rogers/Young Bucky Barnes)

Slumber by howdoyousleep/ @howdoyousleep3​ (PWP, Daddy Steve | 4,1K | Explicit): “Bucky, honey. Can’t get enough even when you’re sleepin’, huh?” (Part 3 of Modern Daddy Steve Rogers/Young Bucky Barnes)

Mad With It by howdoyousleep/ @howdoyousleep3​ (PWP | 3,9K | Explicit): “Bucky, come here.” Fuck that. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t move and he finds himself gritting out, “Make me.” He knows he’s being a brat, knows he has been all damn day. He knows Steve is being as sweet as can be, trying to be supportive, but he can only take so much. (Part 5 of Modern Daddy Steve Rogers/Young Bucky Barnes)

Cyclone by howdoyousleep/ @howdoyousleep3​ (PWP | 4,9K | Explicit): “Listen to those manners, baby, so good. You can have all of Daddy’s cock you want but you better fucking work for it.” (Part 6 of Modern Daddy Steve Rogers/Young Bucky Barnes)

Delirious by howdoyousleep/ @howdoyousleep3​ (PWP | 2,8K | Explicit): “Fuck, honey you look so good takin’ it for me. That little cock has come twice already and look how hard it is for Daddy. Said you couldn’t come and look at you about to come all over my cock.” (Part 7 of Modern Daddy Steve Rogers/Young Bucky Barnes)

I Just Wanna Tell You Somethin' by howdoyousleep/ @howdoyousleep3​ (PWP | 1,4K | Explicit): Bucky had been so preoccupied at the library studying with Natasha that he hadn’t even realized his phone had been ringing. Or that he had missed quite a handful of text messages. Luckily it was only one missed call, but his stomach clenched nervously when he saw that there was a voicemail. A long voicemail. (Part 8 of Modern Daddy Steve Rogers/Young Bucky Barnes)

Lately You've Been on my Mind by howdoyousleep/ @howdoyousleep3​  (PWP | 1,8K | Explicit):  As soon as Steve’s office door is closed behind him, he lets out an incredibly deep sigh, his tense shoulders slumping, his eyes falling shut. Meeting after meeting after meeting had consumed his day and most of them had unfortunately been arduous with difficult clients and a test of patience. Steve needed to go home for the weekend and it felt like he needed it more than he needed to breathe. He slips his phone from his pocket and immediately curses. He missed a call from Bucky. (Part 9 of Modern Daddy Steve Rogers/Young Bucky Barnes)

💙 Gym Day by howdoyousleep/ @howdoyousleep3​ (PWP | 19K | Explicit): He sits up and rolls his neck, hands planted on either side of his hips on the wooden bench beneath him, focusing on his posture, and looks over at the man sitting with him. Oh shit. (Part 1 of Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Solider Bucky Barnes| Shrinkyclinks)

Easy Like Sunday Mornin' by howdoyousleep/ @howdoyousleep3​ (PWP | 3,2K | Explicit): Today is a Sunday and the universally-accepted laziness of the day may be why Steve finds himself wanting it slow and sweaty and deep. Bucky didn’t ask questions. (Part 2 of Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Solider Bucky Barnes| Shrinkyclinks)

💙 Right in my Space by howdoyousleep/ @howdoyousleep3​ (PWP | 9K | Explicit): Fuck. Steve’s head falls against the door with a gentle thump that he knows Bucky has to hear from the other side. Bucky was the absolute best and the absolute worst thing he could have seen on the other side of his door, especially with his slightly muddled red-wine-filled brain. He has worked so hard to avoid this moment, has hurt himself over and over again, and here he is feeling vulnerable standing at his door at midnight while the guy he definitely doesn’t want to date and definitely might not be in love with stands on the other side. (Part 3 of Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Solider Bucky Barnes| Shrinkyclinks)

life is but a dream by howdoyousleep/ @howdoyousleep3​ (PWP | 2,3K | Explicit): “Beg for it.” The phrase bounces around in Bucky’s brain like a pinball, off different sides, rolling around the curvature of his skull. His eyes are open, but his vision is a little hazy, can make out Steve’s slim backside as it hovers over Bucky’s angry erection, his amused but hot facial expression. Steve lets go of Bucky’s dick, smacks his hand down hard on his stomach instead, “Gone on me already, honey?” (Part 4 of Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Solider Bucky Barnes| Shrinkyclinks)

Edging Closer by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)/ @leveragehunters​ (Modern AU | 1,4K | Teen): Bucky had an apartment of his very own (okay, technically he co-owned it with the bank) and a neighbour of his very own: Steve Rogers, tall, blond, built and ridiculously kind. Sure, Bucky had accused said neighbour of being a butt-pic snapping pervert, but amazingly enough he'd been forgiven. In fact, he'd been more than forgiven, but even after dating Steve for not-quite-a-year, Bucky's eyebrows shot up when Steve dropped down next to him on the couch and casually asked, "Do you want to try edging this weekend?" (Part 2 of Two Men and a Single Entendre)

WIP

💙 Like it's the Only Thing I'll Ever Do by howdoyousleep/ @howdoyousleep3​ (ABO AU | 3/4 | 22K | Explicit): When Steve opens the door, Bucky feels like he’s been living in clouds for the past few days, maybe even his entire life. Steve is life, Steve is happiness, Steve is the sun. He has such a visceral reaction to seeing the Alpha that he feels his knees go weak, feels his body draw tight towards the other man, pulled in. Or big Alpha Steve moves into sweet little Omega Bucky's apartment building and a roller-coaster build of a romance ensues.

💙 the reverie was not of me, you never saw nothing (so good for you and good for me) by voxofthevoid/ @voxofthevoid​ (Canon divergent | 2/? | 15K | Explicit): S.H.I.E.L.D and the Red Room throw Captain America and the Winter Soldier together for yet another mission. Serendipity is a tricky thing. (Part 2 of lay your heart into my perfect machine)

The Mnemosyne Project by onymousann (Post-WS | 2/? | 4,5K | Explicit): Someone's trying to talk to the Winter Soldier. Steve intends to find out who. (Part 2 of ocean eyes)

Paradise Lost (& Found) by JJK/ @trenchcoatsandtimetravel​ (Modern AU | 28/? | 62K | Mature): Meeting at a tropical resort AU where Steve is there on a 2-week honeymoon package after his fiancee left him at the altar, and Bucky is there for his sister’s destination wedding but doesn’t have a room because there was a mix up with the reservations in the system.

💙 Whip Crack by Quarra/ @quarra​ (Tentacles AU | 109K | 13/? | Explicit): Tentacle Monster Steve is captured by Hydra. They send in the Winter Soldier with a bull whip to break him, but as far as Steve's concerned the most beautiful creature he's ever seen walked in to his cell and started waving a sexy black tentacle at him. It's love at first sight.

Re-read

wild at heart by spacebuck/ @spacebuck​ (Shrunkyclunks, Soulmates AU | 11K | Explicit): Steve's volunteering when he meets his soulmate, and the cheetahs Bucky's responsible for make pretty good matchmakers, too.

[inferior-fairy]

Whumptober 2020 Masterlist

Day 1: Waking Up Restrained | Shackled | Hanging

Hanging on by a Thread

Obi-Wan didn’t know how long he’d been hanging there, only that it had been long enough for him to lose all feeling in his arms. Blood dripped down from his wrists, the weight of his own body held just above the ground causing the shackles to cut into his skin. It was starting to get harder to breathe with his arms above his head, but stretching his toes down to rest on the ground hurt too much to try and do anymore.

The sound of Obi-Wan’s breath in his cell was his only companion for a long time. He could feel himself drifting off, exhaustion overpowering the pain keeping him awake, when his cell door slammed open.

Day 2:  "Pick Who Dies" | Collars | Kidnapped

A Rock and a Hard Place

“And now the great Jedi General Anakin Skywalker is presented with a choice,” the queen grinned. Her words were barely loud enough for him to hear even though she was only a few feet away from him. There was a slight echo as her words were projected to the rest of the audience. “There are two in the arena now. Which will you choose to survive? Your master, or the slave? Who do the Jedi value more, an innocent life or one of their own?”

Day 3:  Manhandled | Forced to their Knees | Held at Gunpoint

Falling to Pieces

“-Jedi Knight!” The queen, Miraj Scintel, was the one speaking. Her gold jewlery glimered in the sun as she continued to talk with Anakin and Ahsoka by her side. Obi-Wan continued to be paraded into the arena, pushed around if he wasn’t moving quite fast enough for the guards’ liking. “My friends, my good friends, do not fear the Jedi! They are no different from others we have forced into submission. For they have forsaken their ideals to serve a corrupt Senate! Every Jedi has become a slave to the Republic. The Jedi Order is weak and we will help break it.”

Day 4:  Caged | Buried Alive | Collapsed Building

Bird Born For Joy

Ahsoka remembered being forced into a cage on the Kadavo mission. She remembered dangling over a high drop, with large animals shaking the cage trying to get to her. Her cage was secure- and when did it become her cage instead of the cage?-  but that didn’t stop her heart from pounding at every movement.

She’d tried to stay calm and meditate, remembering the lessons she’d been taught as an initiate and later as a padawan by Master Kenobi. Cross-legged in an easy and comfortable position, hands resting lightly on her knees, focusing on breathing. Letting everything go to listen to the Force and feel it flow around, in, and through everything.

But eventually her thoughts drifted to that which she had been avoiding. The auction.

Day 5:  On the Run | Failed Escape | Rescue

Windows to the Soul

You’re celebrating when it happens. Another battle, won with fewer casualties than is unfortunately regular. You look around to your men and you think- we might win this. One day this war will be over, and you can rest.

You can go back to your Temple with your family, mourn those you’ve lost, and celebrate the brothers joining. You can lay down your lightsabers, let them rest- for they are tired too, the kyber just as worn as the Jedi they have bonded with- and you can go back to your art. To studying history and literature, helping those who need it rather than senators who demand your attention and reduce your faith in the Force to mere parlor tricks. You can raise your younglings in a time of peace instead of sending padawans to war and you can sit and just breathe. You never missed the quiet before.

Day 6:  "Get it Out" | No More | "Stop, Please"

Please...

“Stop, please,” Obi-Wan said quietly. Anakin had endured everything they'd thrown at him for so long- the cuts, whips, bruises, stabs, but Obi-Wan wasn’t sure how much longer he could last. His limbs were shaking and his eyes had gone hazy and unfocused. Anakin hadn’t been able to look Obi-Wan in the eye for hours, but recently he hadn’t even been staring at his general vicinity, just into the middle distance. It was most likely a combination of the head injuries and blood loss and the Seperatists still would not let up.

Obi-Wan didn’t know if their torturer hadn’t heard or was making Obi-Wan beg for the privilege to turn over classified information. The man twirled a knife between his fingers and lightly traced the skin of Anakin’s arm with it. Anakin didn’t let out a sound as the tip slowly parted his flesh and bright red drops of blood spilled out to cover dried old trails. He was far too used to this type of pain now.

“Please! No more,” he begged without shame. Obi-Wan would say anything, so anything to stop the man before him from hurting Anakin more. “I’ll do it.”

Day 7:  Support | Carrying | Enemy to Caretaker

I’ve Got You

Obi-Wan remembers the battle. He remembers the sight of blaster bolts flying across the field. Clones screaming in fear and agony all around him. He remembers desperately blocking the shots and killing droids as they overwhelm him and his men. He remembers thinking that there’s nothing he can do to protect his padawan behind him.

It's a surprise to open his eyes again.

Day 8:  Day 8: "Don't Say Goodbye" | Abandoned | Isolation

Stages of Surviving

Pain. Death. Despair. Insanity. Darkness. Revenge.

It swirled around him like an angry snowstorm

All of them, the other would feel like he himself had.

Day 9:  "Take Me Instead" | "Run!" | Ritual Sacrifice

sharpen your knife

Anakin didn't know where he was, who had him, or what had happened.

All he knew was pain.

The pain in his head, pounding in time with his heart.

He couldn't even scream as he was strapped down against the stone altar and blades pierced his arms.

Day 10:  Blood Loss | Internal Bleeding | Trail of Blood

don't leave me

Bright red drops stood out starkly against pure white snow. Everywhere Anakin looked the planet was stained with the blood of his men, those dead and those still dying.

“Obi-Wan!” He yelled into the after-battle haze. Clones barely looked up from where they laid, far too used to their commander’s screaming. Normally he might stay and help comfort a few, but Anakin could barely think past his panic and the fading bond in his head. “Master!”

Anakin tugged on their bond and limped off in the direction it led as fast as he could. Everything he passed was a blur, clones blending into the background as he focused on finding exactly where Obi-Wan had ended up after being separated from Anakin. Not even a few moments later Anakin hurried his pace, the sight of smears of dark red spurring him on.

Day 11: Defiance | Struggling | Crying

break me down/build me up (to what you want me to be)

Figures walk behind the bars of Anakin’s cell, his cage. That’s what it is- a space designed to keep him in and show him off, break him until he’s little more than a feral pet in captivity. They want his mind torn in half and his body in pain, willing to do whatever they want in order to have a few more seconds of peace.

It’s too bad that they won’t get what they want.

Day 12:  Broken Down | Broken Bones | Broken Trust

Even Stars Burn Out

“No no no- Anakin!” He fell to his knees next to the body of his former padawan. Up close Anakin looked even worse, golden skin pale and breath shallow. “Oh, Anakin,” he whispered as he saw the damage to his chest. Whatever had hit him had been large and heavy, enough to break nearly every rib and cave in his chest.

“Shh, no, dear one, I’ve got you,” Obi-Wan whispered as he brushed blood off of Anakin’s lips. 

“Obi- I don’t-” Anakin coughed again and more drops appeared. They stained his skin even after Obi-Wan desperately brushed them away with shaking hands. This couldn’t- no- Obi-Wan choked back a sob as Anakin choked back blood.

Day 13:  Delayed Drowning | Chemical Pneumonia | Oxygen Mask

Breathe In, Breathe Out

Obi-Wan started to panic as Anakin couldn’t stop coughing. It seemed to be getting worse as Anakin’s entire body started to shake with the force of his it.

“Anakin- Anakin what’s wrong-”

Anakin coughed again in response. He looked up at Obi-Wan with watering eyes as he forced out a quiet “Master- it hurts-” before doubling over.

Day 14:  Branding | Heat Exhaustion | Fire

Burn

Anakin had been born in the desert. He was used to the heat of two suns beating down upon his back at all hours of the day.

OR

Anakin and fire, through his life.

Day 15:  Possession | Magical Healing | Science Gone Wrong

symphony of stardust

Anakin was still just barely stable when they arrived on Coruscant.

Healers swarmed them the second they touched down, voices overlapping with each other as they did their best to help Anakin while rushing him along to the Halls of Healing.

Obi-Wan wasn’t sure what caused it to finally happen. After hours of staying as still as the grave Anakin finally moved, his back arching off the bed as he screamed and the lights flickered.

Day 16:  Day 16: Forced to Beg | Hallucinations | Shoot the Hostage

Hold On

“Beg me,” Maul sneered, “To spare your padawan’s life.”

Obi-Wan panted from where he was standing. He couldn’t focus on the monster threatening his former padawan, he was too focused on Anakin. On the cuts and bruises on his face, the tears in his clothing, the concussed look in his eyes. Maul’s hand threaded through Anakin’s hair was probably the only thing holding him up at the moment.

“Or should I run him through like I did your master? Let you watch the life bleed out of his eyes? Should I cut him and half and see if he can survive like I did all those years?”

Day 17:  Blackmail | Dirty Secret | Wrongfully Accused

what do we have at the end of the day? / each other, and hope

"Do you understand, Vader?" Palpatine- no, Sidious- hissed. This wasn’t the grandfatherly facade Sidious had donned to fool the Jedi, the Senate, and the public- this was who he really was, the Sith behind the mask.

Anakin shook from where he was kneeling. His Master hadn’t been pleased with him ever since he’d let Kenobi escape nearly a year ago- he’d been in the med bay for weeks after that incident, recovering from what his master had done to him. He could barely walk when Sidious had sent him on another mission. Since then Anakin’s punishments for failure had been harsher and become more frequent as more and more Jedi ‘escaped’ his grasp. Anakin knew this was his last chance- leading the clones to the Jedi Temple and killing their young and their old. Or Sidious would kill him and his mother.

Day 18:  Panic Attacks | Phobias | Paranoia

should have been me

Obi-Wan stumbled back to his room when everything was over. He’d been exhausted for days after Naboo but he hadn’t been allowed to break down by himself. There were too many things to do- stay and help the Noobians then head back to Coruscant with Anakin in tow, explain everything to the Council and fight for the right to teach the boy Qui-Gon had found, then put together a schedule on how to teach a boy who hadn’t been raised in the Temple and who had never been taught their customs…

Obi-Wan kept busy enough to ignore the growing panic in his chest. He ignored the looks of pity the other Jedi gave him as he showed Anakin around the Temple. Obi-Wan had enough to do, he didn’t have time for a breakdown, and Anakin’s joy kept away the cold well enough for now.

Day 19:  Grief | Mourning A Loved One | Survivor's Guilt

sandstorm

There was nothing left, Obi-Wan finally realized weeks later. He’d known the fact earlier, of course. He knew everything he had lost with a pain deep enough to settle into his bones and keep him warm through the desert nights. Obi-Wan remembered that one night, his siblings in the order, his brother-son who he’d raised, the Republic he’d served his entire life.

He knew that he’d lost it all, and yet it still didn’t fully hit him until he was laying in his cot, alone in his hut, staring at the ceiling and wishing he was back on Coruscant. Obi-Wan knew with a sinking in his heart that manifested through the tears in his eyes that he could never go back to the home he once knew.

Day 20:  Lost | Field Medicine | Medieval

stitches

Kix was a trained Medic. It was his job, what he had literally been born to do, and he was good at it.

So why did it feel that more of his patients died in his arms than survived?

Day 21:  Chronic Pain | Hypothermia | Infection

every day (rinse and repeat)

Anakin woke up in the morning and immediately took two pills. They were small, white, round things, and though he knew it would take a little while for them to kick in and actually do their job, he could swear that he felt better immediately.

He hissed as he stepped out of bed and the light from his open window hit his face. It was more jarring than it usually was and Anakin felt a spike of pain shoot through his skull. A hand reached up to rub at his forehead and Anakin groaned as he realized how dry his mouth was and how sore his throat felt.

Fierfek.

If he was already feeling this bad it would be a Force-blessed miracle if it got any better.

Day 22:  Poisoned | Drugged | Withdrawal

sap

Anakin reached out to Obi-Wan, both in the Force and with his flesh hand, but his limbs were moving like molasses. Now that he was paying more attention to it, it felt like his head had been drenched in something heavy, a weight that was dragging his eyes down and telling him to fall asleep, to drift off and to dream. Panic rose in his chest and stayed there as he wasn’t even able to push it down his training bond with his master.

“Obi-Wan?” Anakin heard his own voice speak from far away. It felt like he was underwater and not, everything muffled and yet sharpened around him. It was confusing to wrap his head around, the sensation of polar opposites occurring at the same time in his own mind.

Day 23:  Exhaustion | Narcolepsy | Sleep Deprivation

no rest for the wicked

Obi-Wan swayed on his feet even as he tried his hardest to keep steady. It was more difficult with every passing moment. The need to collapse grew stronger, as did the pounding in his head and the need to yawn. He was only hearing every third sentence spoken around him and at this rate he’d be lucky if he remembered anything in a few minutes.

Day 24:  Forced Mutism | Blindfolded | Sensory Deprivation

the cold/the warmth, the void/the light

Voices, muffled behind the metal of his prison. Words he couldn’t make out and wasn’t sure he wanted to. The last time he’d heard voiced it hadn’t been pleasant- he’d been locked here, after all. He tried to move, either closer to or further from the voices, he wasn’t sure- but he couldn’t twitch a muscle. Instead he resigned himself to whatever his fate might be.

Day 25:  Disorientation | Blurred Vision | Ringing Ears

smoke

Smile couldn’t exactly recall when he’d been hit. He remembered dropping onto the field behind General Skywalker and the others. He remembered firing his blaster at the droids, and avoiding the bolts fired back. He remembered the grunts of his brothers around him and the screams as they were hit, and most of all, he remembered the silence when they couldn’t speak anymore.

Day 26:  Migraine | Concussion | Blindness

blink

It was dark when Anakin entered the hall. Pitch-black except for the blue of his saber, held up in front of him. The kyber inside hummed, anticipating a fight, and Anakin tensed at every sound. Water dripping in the corners of the halls he walked, rodents scuttling in the background. Anything could be indicative of an incoming attack, and Anakin would not be deterred from rescuing his master.

Day 27:  Earthquake | Extreme Weather | Power Outage

snowfall

He took everything in and tried to memorize every detail. Anakin’s lips, normally full and soft, were chapped and bleeding. His closed eyes covered their deep blue coloring. His skin, pale when it was once golden. Snow coated it all, even for the short time they’d been lying down.

Once, Obi-Wan might have brushed the flakes off but now he barely had the strength to keep his eyes open and breathe at the same time. Still he endured to watch over Anakin. He would not close his eyes until he physically couldn’t any longer.

The moment came much sooner than he would have preferred, but Obi-Wan was expecting it at the same time. With Anakin’s face clear in his mind, Obi-Wan drifted off into the cold.

Day 28:  Accidents | Hunting Season | Mugged

Accidents Happen

It was an accident.

It was an accident.

It was an accident, Padmé repeated to herself as she covered her mouth in horror. It wasn’t her fault at all, it was just an accident- Somehow she couldn’t convince herself of that fact.

Day 29:  Intubation | Emergency Room | Reluctant Bedrest

stay safe

Ahsoka sighed as she squirmed in the bed she’d been forced into. It wasn’t comfortable no matter how she turned, and Ahsoka huffed as she collapsed back onto it. She couldn’t believe Anakin had sent her to the medbay, instead of letting her tag along on their mission. Ahsoka wanted to be with her men, fighting, instead of being trapped here in the medbay. She needed to protect them. Far too many of their men had died in this war already, and Ahsoka didn’t know how she could take the constant losses if this war lasted years, or even decades. No matter how safe Anakin promised that they would be, Ahsoka needed to be with them and not in the medbay.

Day 30:  Injury Reveal | Hiding an Injury | Internal Organ Injury

innocence died screaming

Shmi shoved down all of the hurt and anger rising in her chest again, and smiled. - Obi-Wan ignored the aching in his chest as he forced himself to calm slightly and smile, though no one could see it. - Anakin knew this was nothing that he couldn’t deal with on his own, and so, he smiled. - "I'm fine."

Day 31:  Experiment | Whipped | Left for Dead

spill my blood on this sand

Anakin knew how he looked in the center of the small square. It wasn’t anything unusual to see a slave tied up at the whipping post, to hear the crack of the whip, the cries of the slave, and the laughing of the masters. You never heard the slaves speak in the square. They prayed for the life of one of their own, averted and closed their eyes from the sight of their sibling tied to the post. Many of them knew what it was like to be tied there for punishment or for entertainment, and many knew that they might be next.

Anakin looked up to the sky, wishing that Leia the Great Dragon or one of the other goddesses might come and save him now. He prayed just like every other slave before him had, with all their hope and fear, until it shattered on the ground below him. Then he looked to the stained sand, and with his despair, he asked the gods to grant him the will to survive one more day.

[alexandralyman]

Beyond the Horizon: Chapter 40

Fic Update: Beyond the Horizon

Summary:  When Princess Emma's ship is captured by the Jolly Roger and Captain Killian Jones, she offers herself as a hostage for ransom if he will let the ship and the other passengers go. With Emma, Killian remembers the honour he once held dear, and Emma catches glimpses of the gentleman Killian had been. Against all odds, the pirate and the princess begin to fall for each other.

Read this chapter on ff.net here

                                              Chapter Forty                                                 Pixie Dust

Killian took a deep breath when he came up on deck, inhaling the sweet scent that perfumed the air in the small cove where the Jolly was anchored. Lieutenant Courtice’s accusations had burrowed under his skin more than he wanted to admit, each expertly-aimed barb reminding him of the man he used to be. Or the man he still was, a few recent good deeds could hardly be enough to wash away the considerable sins of his past. The lieutenant clearly didn’t think so, and neither did Emma’s father, Killian could tell. There was no sign of the the two of them or of Emma’s mother, and he wondered if Courtice had gone to tell the king and queen about his many crimes, letting them know exactly why the name Killian Jones was feared and reviled across the sea. Perhaps he was even pressing his own suit, putting forth his name as a possible match for their daughter once they returned to the Enchanted Forest and regained their kingdom at last. He wasn’t a prince or a lord, but Killian was sure the lieutenant came from much more honourable stock than he did. The glory that would have redeemed the Jones family at long last had died along with Liam, when he’d been cast adrift in the world to forge his own destiny alone.

It was warm in the cove but not humid, not like the thick jungle on Neverland where sweat had beaded on his brow and plastered the linen of his shirt to his back as he’d followed Liam unknowingly into danger. Everything about that island had been wrong, it had felt wrong, it had looked wrong, it had even smelled wrong, though lush and green there had been an unmistakable whiff of decay hanging in the air like the rotting of overripe fruit left too long on the vine. But the Fairy Queen’s domain was as beautiful as a perfectly cut jewel and when he took another deep breath the smell was like a mix of all the good things he could think of. Freshly baked bread and highest quality rum, and the sky after a heavy rainstorm, when the clouds parted and everything had been washed clean and fresh from the downpour. But most of all it smelled like roses, a scent he was rather more intimately familiar with now than he ever had been before thanks to the soap he bought Emma every time they made port. The floral aroma was particularly stubborn, it clung to the collars of all his shirts, lingered in his bed linen and permeated the handkerchiefs she unabashedly stole from him while he pretended not to notice. Would the scent of roses remain even after she was gone, another ghost to taunt him in the dead of night when he was left alone in a cold bed and sleep wouldn’t come no matter how much rum he drank?

“Captain on deck!”

The crew all snapped to attention at the cry from McIntyre until he released them with a flick of his wrist and an order of, “Back to your stations, lads.” The deck was a hive of activity under the bright afternoon sun, the men preparing the ship for departure so they’d be ready to set sail the moment the tides turned the next morning. Ropes were tossed back and forth, the lines were being checked and rechecked, but the sails were still down. They’d be raised last, to catch the wind that would carry them home.

Emma was standing at the rail, seemingly oblivious to the hustle and bustle around her while she stared across the water at the narrow gap in the forbidding cliffs. It was the only passage back out to the open sea, and Killian supposed the Fairy Queen would use her magic to widen it again so they could leave. As it stood now, a rowboat couldn’t even squeeze through it at the moment, let alone the much wider bulk of the Jewel.

He blinked, his stride faltering for a moment at the mental slip. An old memory drifted through his mind, of a dark beach littered with flotsam and jetsam and white sails raised high against a stormy sky.

“She’s very pretty. What’s her name?”

“Killian?”

Emma had turned to face him, appearing completely calm and unruffled despite the chaos that had followed them at every turn. She was the only one who called him that now, he was “Captain” or “Sir” to the crew, “pirate” or “scoundrel” (and...worse) to men like Courtice and those who had been forced into surrender at the point of his sword, but never Killian, not anymore. Nor had anyone defended him so vigorously as she just had to her own parents, like he was worthy of more than fear or scorn. He’d almost believed it, too.

“That was quite passionate back there, Princess. Reminded me of the day we met, though I find I much prefer being your ally instead of your opponent.”

This time he leaned against the rail next to her, crossing one foot over the other and watching her own memory of that day play across her face with the echo of her voice in his ear.

“Withdraw your men or I will throw myself in and you will lose your prize!”

Now she smiled instead of threatened, looking up at him with a teasing gleam in her eye, “What would you have done if I’d had jumped off the ship?”

“Gone in after you, of course,” he answered , with a wink, “What kind of pirate would I be to let such a valuable treasure slip through my fingers?”

He reached for her hand and their fingers twined together easily in the space between them. Killian felt a tiny spark like the strike of a match to flint, a pulse of magic leaping from her palm to his that stole the breath from his lungs and made his heart skip a beat. Loose wisps of golden hair had escaped from her plait and stirred against her cheeks while he brought their joined hands to his lips again, brushing a kiss to the white skin that was as soft and seemingly as fragile as a rose petal.

Leather danced around his knees and he felt a cold draft on the back of his neck that made him frown with Emma’s hand still tucked in his. The wind was picking up, making crewmen shout as hats were almost snatched off their heads and a loose kerchief took flight like a bird, rising high in the air amid the rigging while the water in the lagoon started to move. Waves formed, tiny ripples that quickly grew and crashed white against the hull. Killian frowned, with the island on one side of the cove and the cliff on the other to give shelter there shouldn’t be more than the slightest breeze and he looked up, expecting to see stormclouds rolling in over the main mast. But the sky was still clear, a brilliant blue as far as the eye could see without a single cloud in sight. It was perfect weather for sailing, the wind was even coming in from the west now and if they were out on the ocean they could be making good headway towards the Enchanted Forest in the east with such favourable conditions. The gold and silver leaves on the trees fluttered towards the east as if pointing the way, while the tide began to run out and the beach grew so rapidly that a few fish were actually left behind, flopping on the sand until the next wave washed them back out. It was all happening so fast, too fast, and the Jolly drifted with the pull of the tide until it strained against the anchor line that kept them tethered in place. It held, but he could hear the thick chain begin to squeak and groan in protest and was almost afraid the links would snap from the sudden force of it.

“She’s coming.”

Emma’s voice and her hand squeezing his tight drew his attention and he followed her gaze, to the ball of violet light that heralded the Fairy Queen’s imminent arrival. It was crossing the lagoon towards his ship and was followed by dozens of smaller white ones, like a swarm of fireflies that spilled through the trees and skimmed low over the water, heading straight at them. The crew all stopped and stared, googling like schoolboys at the sight of them all while high, tinkling laughter echoed in the air.

No, not just tinkling. Knowing laughter.

“It is time.”

The Fairy Queen appeared in a gown that was even more fanciful than the last, her skirts wider than she was tall and lavishly trimmed with lavender ribbons that fluttered and danced on the breeze while she hovered above them. She wore a different tiara and a necklace even more elaborate than Emma’s sapphires, made up of hundreds of diamonds that cascaded down like a waterfall to cover her deep decolletage and sparkled brightly in the sun. But for once he had no eye for the jewellery, ignoring the display of wealth in front of him to glance from side to side at the other fairies surrounding his ship. They were too small to make out even at a squint and he groped for the hilt of his sword with sudden unease. He couldn’t see them, but he could hear them, still laughing and giggling as they darted around his men. This wasn’t Neverland...but old habits died hard and he couldn’t shake the feeling that the little queen knew far more than she was letting on.

“We’ll sail first thing in the morning with the tide,” he assured the queen, keeping watch on the others from the corner of his eye, “As you can see my men are making haste as we speak to prepare for our departure.”

“No, Captain, I’m afraid that time is no longer on our side. You must leave and you must leave now, I can feel the Dark Magic rising more than it has in decades and I fear that Regina is attempting once more to enact her terrible curse. Our only saving grace is that she does not yet possess everything she needs, but if she gets her hands on the final missing piece and you don’t stop her in time then all will be lost, and so it will remain until the day that was prophesied.”

She stared at Emma with a significant look that made her stiffen beside him, her free hand reaching up to clutch at the lapel of his coat.

“My twenty-eighth birthday,” she whispered, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Emma was still nineteen, he’d taken her ship in the spring and she’d been born at the end of fall, she’d yet to celebrate her twentieth birthday and her twenty-eighth was nothing but a distant speck on the horizon.

“Yes,” the Fairy Queen nodded, “Until then time itself will stop, all the Happy Endings will be undone, and no more will come. No one will wish upon a star and even magic itself will be forgotten.”

The cold feeling ran right down his spine and it wasn’t from the wind. The Happy Endings will be undone….he’d been happier than he ever dreamed possible and with each word the queen spoke he could almost see it being snatched away right before his very eyes. He never backed down from a fight...but he’d been unable to stop his father from abandoning two small, trusting boys like a thief in the night, he hadn’t stopped the poison from reaching Liam’s heart and taking away the only person in the world who’d loved him...he couldn’t lose like that again. He couldn’t. More than the cut of any lash…it might be the thing that finally broke him at last.

Her strange violet eyes met his while his thoughts raced ahead. If they kept sailing west they might be able to outrun this Dark Curse and he could shelter Emma safely for the next decade, keep his own happiness close and leave the rest of the kingdom to suffer under Regina’s thumb. He was selfish enough to want it with a desperation that clawed at his belly, while a little voice whispered in his ear that her own parents had planned for it when they’d sent her away in the first place, and he’d promised her mother to follow through if push came to shove. “Take her and run”, the voice whispered, “You’re no great hero, Killian Jones.”

“Even if these winds hold all the way back to the Enchanted Forest, the Jolly will be lucky to break twenty knots and we can’t sustain that pace for more than a day, two at most, or the ship will start to break from the stress. It will still take us weeks to return.”

Killian glanced down at Emma, steeling himself for another argument. He told himself it wasn’t a push, exactly, just a tiny nudge and not a lie. She’d know if he was lying, but that didn’t mean she’d be happy about what he was about to propose. She still hadn’t said yes to his tentative offer of marriage, even though the sea diamond continued to reside on her finger. He’d been tempted to ask her again, to do it properly, like a gentleman, and get down on one knee, but-

He was no coward, but he was afraid to hear her answer. Taking him impulsively as a lover while alone and stranded far from home was one thing, but a husband...that was forever. Emma looked up at him and her hand splayed across his chest, over his heart. He told himself it didn’t matter, his sword was hers either way by his own sworn oath. If she wouldn’t be his wife, she was still his queen.

“I’m sorry my love,” he murmured, willing her to accept this, at least, “If there was any other way to get us back in time-”

“Leave that to me, Captain.”

His head jerked up and he saw that the Fairy Queen was still watching them close, a tiny smile on her rosebud lips.

“Your Majesty?” he asked, alarm bells starting to ring in his head. He’d never sat at the gaming table with a fairy before, but he could tell that she was still holding trump cards close to her chest.

“Raise the sails and bring up the anchor, and I will show you,” she said, a cryptic statement that revealed absolutely nothing. The question of how she planned to get them across the whole of the western sea when she couldn’t leave the island raised to the tip of his tongue but he hesitated. The little queen had said that it was his belief that had brought him to the place when others faltered and Killian sensed that this was another test of his faith. His hand twitched and he felt the weight of his rings, two conflicting orders warring within him as the smooth metal rubbed against his skin.

“Mr. Smee!”

Smee was trying to bat away the little fairies away from his face as if they really were flies, without much luck. He muttered something under his breath that only made the giggling louder, eyes crossing comically when one flew right at his nose and banked at the last possible second before darting away again beyond his reach.

“Aye, Captain?” he replied absently, clearly distracted by the balls of light taunting him.

“Raise anchor. Hoist the sails.”

That got the first mate’s attention and his hand abruptly fell back down at his side while a fairy lifted his knit cap and dropped it back down so that it flopped heavily over his forehead, “Captain?”

“You heard me. Relay the order.”

His lips disappeared into his beard as he blinked rather owlishly at them a few times, but then he quickly fixed his cap and bellowed through cupped hands, “Raise the anchor! Hoist the sails! Captain’s orders!”

“Raise the anchor!”

“Hoist the sails!”

“Captain’s orders!”

The cry was taken up by the rest of the crew as the men still up in the rigging began to climb down, calling back and forth as they tied off lines with grim determination. With the high winds and the rapid current if the anchor was raised and the sails were hoisted into place then there’d be nothing to stop them from slamming right into the cliffs, the cove was too small for any kind of maneuvering that would save his ship from being smashed to pieces against the rocks. Whatever the Fairy Queen planned to do, she would have to do it quickly.

“I should go tell Mother and Papa that we’re leaving now,” Emma said, pulling away from him. He immediately felt colder and it wasn’t from the whip of the wind. His shoulders hunched under the heavy leather while she picked her way over the thick ropes that snaked across the deck and disappeared down below.

“Captain.”

The fairy swooped down so that they were face to face and the cacophony surrounding them seemed to fade at once into a muted hum, as if it was coming from a great distance. She looked both young and old with her unlined face and white hair and he could feel the magic that emanated from her like the darkening of the sky before a lightning storm, crackling with immense power despite her tiny form and fanciful dress. When she spoke it was with the air of a pronouncement, a royal decree that was tinged with a hint of warning.

“Our pasts do not define our future, Captain Jones, and forgiveness is a gift. Remember that, and remember that love will always be the most powerful magic of all.”

“Even for a pirate?”

His voice cracked on the words and he turned, forcing a cough to avoid the piercing stare of her violet eyes. His whole plan hinged on dredging up the dark past that Courtice had thrown in his face and once Emma saw him like that...finally saw him for the man he truly was, how could she possibly forgive him? How could she still love him, after all was said and done?

The queen’s voice softened, going as gentle and as soothing as a long-forgotten lullaby, “Take heart, dear Captain. There’s a Happy Ending out there for everyone, even pirates. You just have to believe.”

With that she flew off, across the deck to where Emma had returned with her parents in tow. And Lieutenant Courtice, but Killian ignored him and watched as the queen spoke directly into Emma’s ear for several long moments, hovering in the air with her wings beating in a quicktime rhythm that made them nothing but a blinding blur of lavender against her back, a bright spot of colour that drew all eyes to the sight. But whatever she was saying was clearly meant only for his princess, her mother and father both hung back when the fairy raised her hand to keep them at bay and it was impossible to hear anything above the snap of the ropes in the wind and the shouts of the men.

“Captain! We’re ready to hoist the sail!”

The Fairy Queen kissed Emma on the forehead, a shower of violet light falling over the both of them and the feel of magic pricking under his skin again as he watched, before she rose up with a smile and came back to the middle of the deck.

“You’d best take the helm now, Captain. Keep to the east, and the wind will carry you home.”

Killian glanced at the cliffs and the narrow passage between them, still completely impenetrable for the Jolly, and over the expectant faces of the crew, all in position to set sail. They would follow his orders to the death, he knew, he was the captain, and he held all the lives aboard in the palm of his hand. Not for the first time, but never quite like this. Another test of his mettle, he supposed. You just have to believe.

Emma’s hand slipped into his again and she looked at him with nothing but absolute trust. She believed, and it was time to fulfill the other half of the vow he had made all those months ago when she’d returned to him against all reason and sense, and take her home. He took his place at the helm with her standing behind him, resting his hands lightly on the well-seasoned wood.

“Hoist the sails!”

“Aye, aye, Captain! Hoisting the sails!”

There was a great rattling noise as the men pulled on the lines and the sails began to rise up both masts, filling at once with the wind as they went. In the same instant, the Fairy Queen and all the little fairies rose up high in the air as well, above the top of the main mast and the crimson flag that hung there. The grinning skull and crossed bones disappeared under what looked like a sudden fall of snow, raining down from the sky. Only it wasn’t snow and there still wasn’t a cloud in sight, it was-

“Fairy dust,” Emma breathed, one hand resting on his shoulder.

Once, long ago, the Jewel of the Realm had flown on the feathers of the last remaining Pegasus, second star to the right and straight on til morning. The magical sail was gone, but a fine glittering powder drifted down and coated the lengths of waxed canvas with a sheen of pure gold. The sails billowed and snapped, and Killian kept both hands firm on the wheel as the prow started to lift. Crewman rushed to the sides of the ship and looked down, open-mouthed, while he could see the king and queen quickly grasp hands and Fergus whooped, pulling off his hat. The cliffs loomed and Killian felt his jaw tighten even as a thrill ran through him at the feel of soaring into the air, wind in his face and sky instead of sea.

You just have to believe.

The Jolly Roger sailed over the top of the jagged rocks with room to spare and when he glanced over his shoulder the island was gone. White mist rolled over the ocean as the Fairy Queen and her little kingdom disappeared, hidden once more by the magic that kept them shielded from the rest of the world. Or not, Killian thought, remembering the queen’s warning about the Dark Curse and wishing that he’d thought to ask what it was that Regina still sought, the missing piece the queen claimed the powerful sorceress still needed. A few faint shouts were heard as they flew over the Mermaid’s Song, still anchored and waiting off the now absent coast and undoubtedly stunned by the sight of the Jolly soaring overhead. The other ship quickly retreated into the distance as they kept climbing higher and higher, into the very clouds themselves. Some part of him realized that he was now saddled with Liam Courtice for the rest of the journey, there was no way the man could survive the drop, let alone swim back to his own ship, and he gripped the wheel a little tighter, knuckles going white. The winds filled the golden sails almost to bursting as he laid in a course to the east, back to the land of his birth and the destiny that awaited them all.

There was no turning back now.

                                                  ......

“Emma?”

Killian came into the cabin and shut the door behind him, an expression she couldn't quite decipher on his face. He looked a bit nervous, which was rare, but she supposed everyone on the ship was a little nervous at the moment. The shock of it hadn’t worn off yet and Emma didn’t imagine that it would, they weren't sailing, they were flying, high in the air above the clouds themselves. The Fairy Queen had given the ship wings, a parting gift like the ones bestowed in the many tales of her kind. Emma wondered if she’d ever see Violet again, somehow, or if she’d have to remain forever hidden away on her strange isle.

The price she paid for being queen.

“Where’s Fergus? He was supposed to stay here with you.”

He glanced from side to side as he spoke, looking for the boy while one hand disappearing inside his coat.

“Galley,” she explained, drawing a pattern on the table with the tip of her finger, “He said he was hungry.”

That got a hint of a smile, “He always is.”

In truth, she’d also sent Fergus to fetch a bite because she’d needed a few moments alone to think. Everything had happened so fast and her head was still spinning with it all, the Fairy Queen’s warning, the Evil Queen’s curse, she wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep, to wake in her lover’s arms with his kiss on her lips and her great destiny forgotten as nothing but a dream.

“He loves you, you know. Fergus. He’s always loved you.”

“Hmm,” Emma mused, “Is he the only one?”

She loved him too, the boy with the sandy mop and the large dark eyes. He was like Killian, but dark where he was fair and fair where he was dark. She loved them both, just as she loved Red, and Melody, they weren't blood, but they were family.

Killian leaned against the ladder with one booted foot propped against the bottom rung, watching her. Her skirts rustled with a whisper of silk when she stood up from the table and went over to the window, looking out through the panes of glass to the endless expanse of blue beyond the hull of the ship. She could feel the magic of the fairy dust, running through the wood under her hand like the vibration of distant hoofbeats on an empty road. The path ahead was shrouded in mist and at the end of it lay only uncertainty. A woman Emma had never met, a power she didn’t understand, a destiny she didn't want...a stray rose petal lay on the ledge below the window like a drop of blood, red, and curled at the edges that were just starting to turn black.

“It’s difficult to be certain, but I believe that at this speed we’ll reach the Enchanted Forest at some point before sunrise tomorrow morning. Once we land, your parents will have to remain hidden down below while we search out a ship flying the Evil Queen’s flag.”

She nodded without turning around, that made sense. Regina still believed that her parents were dead, they would have to maintain the ruse when they returned.

“Emma…I….when we,” he said, somewhat haltingly, as if each word pained him to speak, “When we make contact with the queen’s men, I will have to act in a manner that betrays nothing of what I truly feel for you. I will have to say things that I don’t mean, perhaps even threaten you-”

“It doesn’t matter,” she interrupted, twisting to face him.

The dark eyebrows rose while his voice dropped and took on an edge that made her back go straight, “Doesn’t it?”

A knife suddenly appeared in his hand as if by magic, gleaming in the light as he turned it to and fro. He touched the edge to his thumb and she gave a sharp inhale, feeling her nostrils flare and a burn in her lungs, but the blade only pressed a line into the skin without breaking it.

“Blunted,” Killian drawled, looking at the knife and not at her, “Wouldn’t even cut through butter now. But will it feel that way if I have to hold it to your throat?”

Emma felt a cold shiver run right down her spine at the image his words conjured in her mind. She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, and his chin dropped, long lashes resting dark against his cheeks as his eyes closed. The distance between them was small, but it loomed suddenly more large and forbidding than it ever did before. It was so quiet without the crashing of the waves outside to break the silence, the only sound was the faint echo of the wind.

He looked up when her hands landed on his chest, a shadow slashing jaggedly across his face. She’d been afraid of him once, fearful of the darkness that clung to him like the long leather coat. Now she reached up and touched her fingers to his temple, sweeping down and tracing the strong line of his whiskered jaw. He went utterly still save for a ragged breath, knife still clenched tight in his fist. His lips began to move, but she laid a finger over them before he could speak.

“No matter what you have to say or do, I’ll know that you’re lying.”

The knife fell to the planks with a clatter that she ignored, pushing the hilt aside with the toe of her shoe. Blunted edge or not, it couldn’t hurt her.

Night was beginning to fall outside the ship and the shadows lengthened around them even more. A few stray flecks of fairy dust glittered in Killian’s hair, catching the last of the light and bright against the inky locks. She went to brush them away and his hand seized hers, his eyes going wide.

“Where’s your ring?”

The fourth finger on her left hand was bare, or at least, that’s how it looked. Both their heads bent over it and she covered it with her right hand, making the sea diamond appear again in a brief flash of magic.

“Glamour spell,” she whispered, “To hide it. I knew I couldn’t wear it once we got back home...not in front of the Evil Queen...but...I didn’t want to take it off.”

The look that crossed his face at that almost broke her heart, staggering relief that had him slumping against the ladder at his back as his knees began to buckle and a hand flew to her hip while the other curled around the ring.

“It. Doesn’t. Matter.”

His eyes flew to hers as she said it again, as blue as the stone held between them. A mermaid’s tear, and another slipped down his cheek and over the scar that marred it in a damp trail. Emma told herself that this would be what she remembered when the time came, when his face was hard and his mouth was cruel. The memories were seared into her skin like a brand, the first dinner at his table, the night he had gambled for a kiss and lost, a hot bath and his arms around her in the dark, promises whispered into her hair while his heart beat softly against her chest. It fluttered under her fingers now when he pressed their joined hands to the rich silk of his waistcoat, brilliant red, the same one from that first night. Captain Killian Jones of the Jolly Roger, pirate, jailer...she remembered the harsh turn of the key in the lock, the fall of the shadows through the iron bars of the cell. When the time came she would remember the shadows that played across his face now, how open and soft he looked with a smile curling at the edges of his lip even as another tear joined the first. They don’t turn to diamonds when they fall, but then, he’s the sailor and she’s the princess.

“I thought we’d have a bit more time,” he sighed, “More time before I had to...I never wanted you to see me like that again.”

“Like what?” she asked, thumbing away the tear.

“A villain. I wanted to be a hero for you, Princess.”

She shook her head in disbelief, cupping his cheek, “You are a hero, Killian.”

“If you believe that, then maybe it's true.”

His arms went around her, drawing her to him and enveloping her in the warmth of his body as he rested his chin on top of her head. She felt the rise and fall of his chest under her cheek, “I can’t do this without you. I can’t face….her, alone.”

“You won’t, I promise. My sword is yours, always.”

“I love you.”

It came out as the barest whisper, but he heard it, his arms tightening and lips pressing to her hair.

“Say it again.”

Her eyes drifted shut, the spreading heat of him making her limbs slack as she was lifted off her feet as easily as if she were a small child. Flying without wings, but that’s what love was, wasn’t it? The words slipped easily over her lips while he carried her with his sword at his hip and fairy dust in his hair.

“I love you.”

[flauntpage]

Bruce Maxwell Had the Courage, and Credibility, to Take MLB's First Knee

On Saturday, the ACLU tweeted a quote from Jackie Robinson's 1972 memoir, I Never Had It Made:

"I cannot stand and sing the anthem. I cannot salute the flag; I know that I am a black man in a white world."

On Saturday, Oakland Athletics rookie catcher Bruce Maxwell, a black man, became the first MLB player to kneel during the national anthem. In a moment that faintly echoed Robinson and white teammate Pee Wee Reese's iconic embrace seven decades ago, Mark Canha placed his left hand on Maxwell's shoulder. The game went on. Oakland beat Texas 1-0.

Maxwell spoke eloquently about his reasons for taking a knee. Following his tweets from the weekend, you can see that Donald Trump's fixation on Colin Kaepernick and Steph Curry rather than national issues like the destruction of Puerto Rico struck a chord with him.

Why did it take so long?

The conservatism that has always held baseball hostage is a short, serviceable answer. It's nothing new. Back when Muhammad Ali was embracing the Nation of Islam, and Tommie Smith and John Carlos were raising their fists in black solidarity at the Olympics, the most meaningful activism among baseball players was economic—the fight to unionize and to earn free agency. Even the leaders of those movements faced backlash from their fellow players, not to mention owners, the media, and the public at large.

In the decades since, we have witnessed the repeal of the Fairness Doctrine, the imposition of internet filter bubbles, the optimization of soft news—of which sports is a crown jewel—and the deterioration of the American education system. Today, the average citizen cannot readily discern fact from fiction. They revert back to their trusted information troughs that validate their biases and make them feel better, smarter. Baseball players are like extreme versions of this, only with more confidence.

In the company of a few players last year, for example, I mentioned the (once again relevant) Paid Patriotism in Sports investigation led by Republican Senators Jeff Flake and John McCain from Arizona, which revealed that the Department of Defense paid MLB and other major sports leagues millions of dollars to stage many of the boutique military exercises we as players had all become so accustomed to being accessories to, standing at attention with our hands over our hearts along the foul line. One player told me that this was "liberal fake news," and that "John McCain would never do no kinda shit like that."

Baseball may value shut-up-and-play guys more than any other sport. The patron saint of that archetype is Derek Jeter, the most beloved baseball player since Babe Ruth, whose farewell tour was seen by many as excessive. What had he done but win championships? But to celebrate Jeter was to celebrate kicking ass and taking names, the Crash Davis school of never saying the wrong thing (not to be confused with saying the right thing) and only making waves off the field in heterosexual sex scandals that ultimately add girth to the legacy.

Orioles veteran centerfielder Adam Jones is one of the few players to consistently speak out about issues of race, from talking about Freddie Gray's death in 2015 to calling out fans who shouted the N-word at him in Fenway Park last season. A year ago, Jones said that Kaepernick–style protests hadn't made their way to MLB because "baseball is a white man's sport."

Jones was one of just 58 black, African American, or African Canadian players on active rosters for Opening Day this season, according to the 2017 Major League Baseball Racial and Gender Report Card. That number doesn't include Maxwell, who was called up from Triple-A later in April, nor several players who were on the DL, but the report still calls attention to "the relatively small and declining percentage of African-American players" in baseball.

It should be noted that Afro-Caribbean players born in the U.S. are not always counted in that group. I am both African and American—my parents' native Cuba was only a few stops on the Atlantic slave trade away from the Alabama of Maxwell's youth—but on the only Jackie Robinson Day in which I was in the Major Leagues (2009), I was not tabbed for that photo opportunity.

The same 2017 report card notes that there are more players of color in the league now than ever before. And the growing Latino presence in MLB creates more racial complexity that is especially hard to follow for people who don't see race and want all this race stuff to go back into the shadows. Many Latino people are racist. Many Latino people deny their own blackness. For every white-passing Latino with less than a quarter of African blood in them who speaks with an alarming NPM (niggas per minute) in public spaces, there is an undeniably African Latino who doesn't believe they're black. The individual desires of people of color to defer participation in "race" chips at the solidarity of the black community as efficiently as racism itself does. This is hard for anthropologists to follow, much less ballplayers.

Black solidarity is difficult to negotiate with a language barrier, and one should understand what might dissuade, for instance, a Venezuelan Afro-Latino from criticizing any aspect of American culture when matters are worse in every sense, including race issues, in their own country. Black people who are well traveled, especially Afro-Latinos who've traveled to many Spanish-speaking countries, eventually come to the glib conclusion quicker than anyone else, that despite our longtime and recently stoked problems here in America, there is perhaps no better place in the world to be black.

Kaepernick's protest spread slowly but surely across the NFL, where African-Americans made up 69.7 percent of players last year. Athletes in the NBA and the WNBA—two more leagues with majority black rosters—have also become fluent in peaceful protest in the last few years. Demographics may have kept the Kaepernick movement from catching on in baseball, but it's important to note that baseball conservatism has many layers.

In baseball, conformism is subconsciously enforced by the martial law of the purpose pitch, and by the ingrained biases of the people in power who make personnel decisions and drive its culture. When you wear your hat a certain way, a coach may say, "Why do you have to be different?" Your hair may irk him, and when you miss the cutoff man, it may be more irksome to him than when the guy who looks more like his son does it. There's the crappy .220 hitter and there's the scrappy .220 hitter, and the formula for who goes to AAA and who stays on as the good clubhouse guy is subjective at best.

It takes a special person to stand up, or kneel down, when you consider the full weight of the baseball institution.

Why was it Bruce Maxwell?

Three weeks into the NFL season, Colin Kaepernick is still unemployed. NFL insiders have been more reticent to say he's being blackballed than non-insiders like activist Shaun King. While Kaepernick is probably as capable as most starting NFL quarterbacks, he is not in the elite, irreplaceable strata of athletes. This gives the owners who don't sign him (i.e., all the owners) plausible deniability. It complicates the issue of Kaepernick's unemployment.

John Hefti-USA TODAY Sports

As a player, Bruce Maxwell is even more replaceable than Kaepernick. Though the Oakland A's were swift to defend Maxwell after he kneeled on Saturday, it is important to note that if he were to be blackballed, it would be virtually impossible to prove. To date, Maxwell has proven he is a light-hitting catcher worth about half a win above replacement over the course of a season. Though many ballplayers are late bloomers, Maxwell's 300 at-bats represent a sufficiently large enough sample size for him to slowly fade into journeyman status without a second thought.

But whether he noticed or not, Maxwell's path was eased by other circumstances. The Oakland A's were mathematically eliminated from the playoffs on September 22, though they were never in the race at all, and even sold off their best pitcher at the trade deadline. The length of MLB's season holds that half its teams engage in dozens of meaningless games, such as Saturday's historic, meaningless contest between the Rangers and the Athletics. Maxwell has enjoyed the luxury of relatively low stakes—in baseball terms.

Along those lines, a story:

The morning after my club, the Tampa Bay Rays, beat the Red Sox in the 2008 ALCS, a handful of teammates and I supported then Senator Barack Obama at a rally in Florida. As a rookie, I was "hazed" by being volunteered to introduce the most famous political figure of our generation with a short speech before a capacity crowd at Legends Field. We were criticized for associating the team with a political party, but it was manageable—World Series stakes or not, Tampa is a tiny sports market. At the same time, had there not been several senior teammates with me, I might not have gone to the Obama rally. I might have caved under the pressure of fitting in that Maxwell overcame. And despite a military veteran father of my own, had all of what's happening now been happening in the middle of a playoff race I was in as a rookie, especially in a major market, I would probably not have taken a knee—by myself no less—during the national anthem, either. You don't want to be labeled a "distraction" by the media, and then become one in a superstitious, cliquey clubhouse as a rookie who is a new actor in a championship run that is years in the making. We have yet to see a major baseball star in a major market make a major political engagement. We have yet to see a Kaepernick–grade athlete use the platform of a championship run, with its larger audience. The "distraction" is perhaps entirely superstition, which especially pervades sports, but its effect is real.

My money would have been on Jones to be the first player to take a knee, despite his comments. My number two choice would have been Rays pitcher Chris Archer. But Maxwell was the right guy at the right time. He was born on a military base in Germany. His father is a veteran. For a certain kind of person watching these protests—which many critics have mischaracterized as being about "the flag" or "the troops," instead of racial inequality and police violence—he had the credibility, along with the courage, to do something.

This is what Archer told the press on Sunday after Maxwell took a knee:

"It did take a while in baseball, I think mainly because the other sports that do that are predominantly black," says Archer. "Our sport isn't, so I think the criticism might be a little more harsh. It took somebody really special that had a unique background to take that leap.

"The way he went about it was totally, I think, as respectful as possible, just letting everybody know that this doesn't have anything to do with the military, first and foremost, noting that he has family members that are in the military. It's a little bit tougher for baseball players to make that leap, but I think he was the right person to do it."

What Happens Now

Maxwell was cheered by the home Oakland crowd in his first at-bat since kneeling, a line-out to left field. In Mariners veteran Felix Hernandez, he was not forced to face the kind of (white, surly) pitcher one might expect to throw at a guy to send a political message, though it's not at all implausible a pitcher of Felix Hernandez's background could have thrown that purpose pitch "for America" after reading a tea party blog during pregame.

In the last week of the season, more teams will be eliminated (including the Rays), and their players will officially have no distraction superstition as a deterrent. For these players, there will be fewer games after which to face reporters. Here is what Archer told me in a text message: "What [Maxwell] did was tasteful & respectful to all parties. I wouldn't be surprised if more guys start to follow suit."

Bruce Maxwell Had the Courage, and Credibility, to Take MLB's First Knee published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

[amtushinfosolutionspage]

Bruce Maxwell Had the Courage, and Credibility, to Take MLB’s First Knee

On Saturday, the ACLU tweeted a quote from Jackie Robinson’s 1972 memoir, I Never Had It Made:

“I cannot stand and sing the anthem. I cannot salute the flag; I know that I am a black man in a white world.”

On Saturday, Oakland Athletics rookie catcher Bruce Maxwell, a black man, became the first MLB player to kneel during the national anthem. In a moment that faintly echoed Robinson and white teammate Pee Wee Reese’s iconic embrace seven decades ago, Mark Canha placed his left hand on Maxwell’s shoulder. The game went on. Oakland beat Texas 1-0.

Maxwell spoke eloquently about his reasons for taking a knee. Following his tweets from the weekend, you can see that Donald Trump’s fixation on Colin Kaepernick and Steph Curry rather than national issues like the destruction of Puerto Rico struck a chord with him.

Why did it take so long?

The conservatism that has always held baseball hostage is a short, serviceable answer. It’s nothing new. Back when Muhammad Ali was embracing the Nation of Islam, and Tommie Smith and John Carlos were raising their fists in black solidarity at the Olympics, the most meaningful activism among baseball players was economic—the fight to unionize and to earn free agency. Even the leaders of those movements faced backlash from their fellow players, not to mention owners, the media, and the public at large.

In the decades since, we have witnessed the repeal of the Fairness Doctrine, the imposition of internet filter bubbles, the optimization of soft news—of which sports is a crown jewel—and the deterioration of the American education system. Today, the average citizen cannot readily discern fact from fiction. They revert back to their trusted information troughs that validate their biases and make them feel better, smarter. Baseball players are like extreme versions of this, only with more confidence.

In the company of a few players last year, for example, I mentioned the (once again relevant) Paid Patriotism in Sports investigation led by Republican Senators Jeff Flake and John McCain from Arizona, which revealed that the Department of Defense paid MLB and other major sports leagues millions of dollars to stage many of the boutique military exercises we as players had all become so accustomed to being accessories to, standing at attention with our hands over our hearts along the foul line. One player told me that this was “liberal fake news,” and that “John McCain would never do no kinda shit like that.”

Baseball may value shut-up-and-play guys more than any other sport. The patron saint of that archetype is Derek Jeter, the most beloved baseball player since Babe Ruth, whose farewell tour was seen by many as excessive. What had he done but win championships? But to celebrate Jeter was to celebrate kicking ass and taking names, the Crash Davis school of never saying the wrong thing (not to be confused with saying the right thing) and only making waves off the field in heterosexual sex scandals that ultimately add girth to the legacy.

Orioles veteran centerfielder Adam Jones is one of the few players to consistently speak out about issues of race, from talking about Freddie Gray’s death in 2015 to calling out fans who shouted the N-word at him in Fenway Park last season. A year ago, Jones said that Kaepernick–style protests hadn’t made their way to MLB because “baseball is a white man’s sport.”

Jones was one of just 58 black, African American, or African Canadian players on active rosters for Opening Day this season, according to the 2017 Major League Baseball Racial and Gender Report Card. That number doesn’t include Maxwell, who was called up from Triple-A later in April, nor several players who were on the DL, but the report still calls attention to “the relatively small and declining percentage of African-American players” in baseball.

It should be noted that Afro-Caribbean players born in the U.S. are not always counted in that group. I am both African and American—my parents’ native Cuba was only a few stops on the Atlantic slave trade away from the Alabama of Maxwell’s youth—but on the only Jackie Robinson Day in which I was in the Major Leagues (2009), I was not tabbed for that photo opportunity.

The same 2017 report card notes that there are more players of color in the league now than ever before. And the growing Latino presence in MLB creates more racial complexity that is especially hard to follow for people who don’t see race and want all this race stuff to go back into the shadows. Many Latino people are racist. Many Latino people deny their own blackness. For every white-passing Latino with less than a quarter of African blood in them who speaks with an alarming NPM (niggas per minute) in public spaces, there is an undeniably African Latino who doesn’t believe they’re black. The individual desires of people of color to defer participation in “race” chips at the solidarity of the black community as efficiently as racism itself does. This is hard for anthropologists to follow, much less ballplayers.

Black solidarity is difficult to negotiate with a language barrier, and one should understand what might dissuade, for instance, a Venezuelan Afro-Latino from criticizing any aspect of American culture when matters are worse in every sense, including race issues, in their own country. Black people who are well traveled, especially Afro-Latinos who’ve traveled to many Spanish-speaking countries, eventually come to the glib conclusion quicker than anyone else, that despite our longtime and recently stoked problems here in America, there is perhaps no better place in the world to be black.

Kaepernick’s protest spread slowly but surely across the NFL, where African-Americans made up 69.7 percent of players last year. Athletes in the NBA and the WNBA—two more leagues with majority black rosters—have also become fluent in peaceful protest in the last few years. Demographics may have kept the Kaepernick movement from catching on in baseball, but it’s important to note that baseball conservatism has many layers.

In baseball, conformism is subconsciously enforced by the martial law of the purpose pitch, and by the ingrained biases of the people in power who make personnel decisions and drive its culture. When you wear your hat a certain way, a coach may say, “Why do you have to be different?” Your hair may irk him, and when you miss the cutoff man, it may be more irksome to him than when the guy who looks more like his son does it. There’s the crappy .220 hitter and there’s the scrappy .220 hitter, and the formula for who goes to AAA and who stays on as the good clubhouse guy is subjective at best.

It takes a special person to stand up, or kneel down, when you consider the full weight of the baseball institution.

Why was it Bruce Maxwell?

Three weeks into the NFL season, Colin Kaepernick is still unemployed. NFL insiders have been more reticent to say he’s being blackballed than non-insiders like activist Shaun King. While Kaepernick is probably as capable as most starting NFL quarterbacks, he is not in the elite, irreplaceable strata of athletes. This gives the owners who don’t sign him (i.e., all the owners) plausible deniability. It complicates the issue of Kaepernick’s unemployment.

John Hefti-USA TODAY Sports

As a player, Bruce Maxwell is even more replaceable than Kaepernick. Though the Oakland A’s were swift to defend Maxwell after he kneeled on Saturday, it is important to note that if he were to be blackballed, it would be virtually impossible to prove. To date, Maxwell has proven he is a light-hitting catcher worth about half a win above replacement over the course of a season. Though many ballplayers are late bloomers, Maxwell’s 300 at-bats represent a sufficiently large enough sample size for him to slowly fade into journeyman status without a second thought.

But whether he noticed or not, Maxwell’s path was eased by other circumstances. The Oakland A’s were mathematically eliminated from the playoffs on September 22, though they were never in the race at all, and even sold off their best pitcher at the trade deadline. The length of MLB’s season holds that half its teams engage in dozens of meaningless games, such as Saturday’s historic, meaningless contest between the Rangers and the Athletics. Maxwell has enjoyed the luxury of relatively low stakes—in baseball terms.

Along those lines, a story:

The morning after my club, the Tampa Bay Rays, beat the Red Sox in the 2008 ALCS, a handful of teammates and I supported then Senator Barack Obama at a rally in Florida. As a rookie, I was “hazed” by being volunteered to introduce the most famous political figure of our generation with a short speech before a capacity crowd at Legends Field. We were criticized for associating the team with a political party, but it was manageable—World Series stakes or not, Tampa is a tiny sports market. At the same time, had there not been several senior teammates with me, I might not have gone to the Obama rally. I might have caved under the pressure of fitting in that Maxwell overcame. And despite a military veteran father of my own, had all of what’s happening now been happening in the middle of a playoff race I was in as a rookie, especially in a major market, I would probably not have taken a knee—by myself no less—during the national anthem, either. You don’t want to be labeled a “distraction” by the media, and then become one in a superstitious, cliquey clubhouse as a rookie who is a new actor in a championship run that is years in the making. We have yet to see a major baseball star in a major market make a major political engagement. We have yet to see a Kaepernick–grade athlete use the platform of a championship run, with its larger audience. The “distraction” is perhaps entirely superstition, which especially pervades sports, but its effect is real.

My money would have been on Jones to be the first player to take a knee, despite his comments. My number two choice would have been Rays pitcher Chris Archer. But Maxwell was the right guy at the right time. He was born on a military base in Germany. His father is a veteran. For a certain kind of person watching these protests—which many critics have mischaracterized as being about “the flag” or “the troops,” instead of racial inequality and police violence—he had the credibility, along with the courage, to do something.

This is what Archer told the press on Sunday after Maxwell took a knee:

“It did take a while in baseball, I think mainly because the other sports that do that are predominantly black,” says Archer. “Our sport isn’t, so I think the criticism might be a little more harsh. It took somebody really special that had a unique background to take that leap.

“The way he went about it was totally, I think, as respectful as possible, just letting everybody know that this doesn’t have anything to do with the military, first and foremost, noting that he has family members that are in the military. It’s a little bit tougher for baseball players to make that leap, but I think he was the right person to do it.”

What Happens Now

Maxwell was cheered by the home Oakland crowd in his first at-bat since kneeling, a line-out to left field. In Mariners veteran Felix Hernandez, he was not forced to face the kind of (white, surly) pitcher one might expect to throw at a guy to send a political message, though it’s not at all implausible a pitcher of Felix Hernandez’s background could have thrown that purpose pitch “for America” after reading a tea party blog during pregame.

In the last week of the season, more teams will be eliminated (including the Rays), and their players will officially have no distraction superstition as a deterrent. For these players, there will be fewer games after which to face reporters. Here is what Archer told me in a text message: “What [Maxwell] did was tasteful & respectful to all parties. I wouldn’t be surprised if more guys start to follow suit.”

Bruce Maxwell Had the Courage, and Credibility, to Take MLB’s First Knee syndicated from http://ift.tt/2ug2Ns6

[flauntpage]

Bruce Maxwell Had the Courage, and Credibility, to Take MLB's First Knee

On Saturday, the ACLU tweeted a quote from Jackie Robinson's 1972 memoir, I Never Had It Made:

"I cannot stand and sing the anthem. I cannot salute the flag; I know that I am a black man in a white world."

On Saturday, Oakland Athletics rookie catcher Bruce Maxwell, a black man, became the first MLB player to kneel during the national anthem. In a moment that faintly echoed Robinson and white teammate Pee Wee Reese's iconic embrace seven decades ago, Mark Canha placed his left hand on Maxwell's shoulder. The game went on. Oakland beat Texas 1-0.

Maxwell spoke eloquently about his reasons for taking a knee. Following his tweets from the weekend, you can see that Donald Trump's fixation on Colin Kaepernick and Steph Curry rather than national issues like the destruction of Puerto Rico struck a chord with him.

Why did it take so long?

The conservatism that has always held baseball hostage is a short, serviceable answer. It's nothing new. Back when Muhammad Ali was embracing the Nation of Islam, and Tommie Smith and John Carlos were raising their fists in black solidarity at the Olympics, the most meaningful activism among baseball players was economic—the fight to unionize and to earn free agency. Even the leaders of those movements faced backlash from their fellow players, not to mention owners, the media, and the public at large.

In the decades since, we have witnessed the repeal of the Fairness Doctrine, the imposition of internet filter bubbles, the optimization of soft news—of which sports is a crown jewel—and the deterioration of the American education system. Today, the average citizen cannot readily discern fact from fiction. They revert back to their trusted information troughs that validate their biases and make them feel better, smarter. Baseball players are like extreme versions of this, only with more confidence.

In the company of a few players last year, for example, I mentioned the (once again relevant) Paid Patriotism in Sports investigation led by Republican Senators Jeff Flake and John McCain from Arizona, which revealed that the Department of Defense paid MLB and other major sports leagues millions of dollars to stage many of the boutique military exercises we as players had all become so accustomed to being accessories to, standing at attention with our hands over our hearts along the foul line. One player told me that this was "liberal fake news," and that "John McCain would never do no kinda shit like that."

Baseball may value shut-up-and-play guys more than any other sport. The patron saint of that archetype is Derek Jeter, the most beloved baseball player since Babe Ruth, whose farewell tour was seen by many as excessive. What had he done but win championships? But to celebrate Jeter was to celebrate kicking ass and taking names, the Crash Davis school of never saying the wrong thing (not to be confused with saying the right thing) and only making waves off the field in heterosexual sex scandals that ultimately add girth to the legacy.

Orioles veteran centerfielder Adam Jones is one of the few players to consistently speak out about issues of race, from talking about Freddie Gray's death in 2015 to calling out fans who shouted the N-word at him in Fenway Park last season. A year ago, Jones said that Kaepernick–style protests hadn't made their way to MLB because "baseball is a white man's sport."

Jones was one of just 58 black, African American, or African Canadian players on active rosters for Opening Day this season, according to the 2017 Major League Baseball Racial and Gender Report Card. That number doesn't include Maxwell, who was called up from Triple-A later in April, nor several players who were on the DL, but the report still calls attention to "the relatively small and declining percentage of African-American players" in baseball.

It should be noted that Afro-Caribbean players born in the U.S. are not always counted in that group. I am both African and American—my parents' native Cuba was only a few stops on the Atlantic slave trade away from the Alabama of Maxwell's youth—but on the only Jackie Robinson Day in which I was in the Major Leagues (2009), I was not tabbed for that photo opportunity.

The same 2017 report card notes that there are more players of color in the league now than ever before. And the growing Latino presence in MLB creates more racial complexity that is especially hard to follow for people who don't see race and want all this race stuff to go back into the shadows. Many Latino people are racist. Many Latino people deny their own blackness. For every white-passing Latino with less than a quarter of African blood in them who speaks with an alarming NPM (niggas per minute) in public spaces, there is an undeniably African Latino who doesn't believe they're black. The individual desires of people of color to defer participation in "race" chips at the solidarity of the black community as efficiently as racism itself does. This is hard for anthropologists to follow, much less ballplayers.

Black solidarity is difficult to negotiate with a language barrier, and one should understand what might dissuade, for instance, a Venezuelan Afro-Latino from criticizing any aspect of American culture when matters are worse in every sense, including race issues, in their own country. Black people who are well traveled, especially Afro-Latinos who've traveled to many Spanish-speaking countries, eventually come to the glib conclusion quicker than anyone else, that despite our longtime and recently stoked problems here in America, there is perhaps no better place in the world to be black.

Kaepernick's protest spread slowly but surely across the NFL, where African-Americans made up 69.7 percent of players last year. Athletes in the NBA and the WNBA—two more leagues with majority black rosters—have also become fluent in peaceful protest in the last few years. Demographics may have kept the Kaepernick movement from catching on in baseball, but it's important to note that baseball conservatism has many layers.

In baseball, conformism is subconsciously enforced by the martial law of the purpose pitch, and by the ingrained biases of the people in power who make personnel decisions and drive its culture. When you wear your hat a certain way, a coach may say, "Why do you have to be different?" Your hair may irk him, and when you miss the cutoff man, it may be more irksome to him than when the guy who looks more like his son does it. There's the crappy .220 hitter and there's the scrappy .220 hitter, and the formula for who goes to AAA and who stays on as the good clubhouse guy is subjective at best.

It takes a special person to stand up, or kneel down, when you consider the full weight of the baseball institution.

Why was it Bruce Maxwell?

Three weeks into the NFL season, Colin Kaepernick is still unemployed. NFL insiders have been more reticent to say he's being blackballed than non-insiders like activist Shaun King. While Kaepernick is probably as capable as most starting NFL quarterbacks, he is not in the elite, irreplaceable strata of athletes. This gives the owners who don't sign him (i.e., all the owners) plausible deniability. It complicates the issue of Kaepernick's unemployment.

John Hefti-USA TODAY Sports

As a player, Bruce Maxwell is even more replaceable than Kaepernick. Though the Oakland A's were swift to defend Maxwell after he kneeled on Saturday, it is important to note that if he were to be blackballed, it would be virtually impossible to prove. To date, Maxwell has proven he is a light-hitting catcher worth about half a win above replacement over the course of a season. Though many ballplayers are late bloomers, Maxwell's 300 at-bats represent a sufficiently large enough sample size for him to slowly fade into journeyman status without a second thought.

But whether he noticed or not, Maxwell's path was eased by other circumstances. The Oakland A's were mathematically eliminated from the playoffs on September 22, though they were never in the race at all, and even sold off their best pitcher at the trade deadline. The length of MLB's season holds that half its teams engage in dozens of meaningless games, such as Saturday's historic, meaningless contest between the Rangers and the Athletics. Maxwell has enjoyed the luxury of relatively low stakes—in baseball terms.

Along those lines, a story:

The morning after my club, the Tampa Bay Rays, beat the Red Sox in the 2008 ALCS, a handful of teammates and I supported then Senator Barack Obama at a rally in Florida. As a rookie, I was "hazed" by being volunteered to introduce the most famous political figure of our generation with a short speech before a capacity crowd at Legends Field. We were criticized for associating the team with a political party, but it was manageable—World Series stakes or not, Tampa is a tiny sports market. At the same time, had there not been several senior teammates with me, I might not have gone to the Obama rally. I might have caved under the pressure of fitting in that Maxwell overcame. And despite a military veteran father of my own, had all of what's happening now been happening in the middle of a playoff race I was in as a rookie, especially in a major market, I would probably not have taken a knee—by myself no less—during the national anthem, either. You don't want to be labeled a "distraction" by the media, and then become one in a superstitious, cliquey clubhouse as a rookie who is a new actor in a championship run that is years in the making. We have yet to see a major baseball star in a major market make a major political engagement. We have yet to see a Kaepernick–grade athlete use the platform of a championship run, with its larger audience. The "distraction" is perhaps entirely superstition, which especially pervades sports, but its effect is real.

My money would have been on Jones to be the first player to take a knee, despite his comments. My number two choice would have been Rays pitcher Chris Archer. But Maxwell was the right guy at the right time. He was born on a military base in Germany. His father is a veteran. For a certain kind of person watching these protests—which many critics have mischaracterized as being about "the flag" or "the troops," instead of racial inequality and police violence—he had the credibility, along with the courage, to do something.

This is what Archer told the press on Sunday after Maxwell took a knee:

"It did take a while in baseball, I think mainly because the other sports that do that are predominantly black," says Archer. "Our sport isn't, so I think the criticism might be a little more harsh. It took somebody really special that had a unique background to take that leap.

"The way he went about it was totally, I think, as respectful as possible, just letting everybody know that this doesn't have anything to do with the military, first and foremost, noting that he has family members that are in the military. It's a little bit tougher for baseball players to make that leap, but I think he was the right person to do it."

What Happens Now

Maxwell was cheered by the home Oakland crowd in his first at-bat since kneeling, a line-out to left field. In Mariners veteran Felix Hernandez, he was not forced to face the kind of (white, surly) pitcher one might expect to throw at a guy to send a political message, though it's not at all implausible a pitcher of Felix Hernandez's background could have thrown that purpose pitch "for America" after reading a tea party blog during pregame.

In the last week of the season, more teams will be eliminated (including the Rays), and their players will officially have no distraction superstition as a deterrent. For these players, there will be fewer games after which to face reporters. Here is what Archer told me in a text message: "What [Maxwell] did was tasteful & respectful to all parties. I wouldn't be surprised if more guys start to follow suit."

Bruce Maxwell Had the Courage, and Credibility, to Take MLB's First Knee published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv