#the idea of being responsible for people's livelihood alone is too much

[shopwitchvamp]

I wanted to add a gentle reminder/explanation beneath this harsh one, haha. This is at no one in particular but just anyone that might wonder about these things:

I know it's frustrating when a design someone really wants is sold out, your size isn't available, or a different version of something you really like doesn't exist yet- but please keep in mind that we're a tiny 2 person business operating out of our apartment🙏

We don't have the space or the funds it'd take to keep everything in stock all the time (I'd have to do the math on it but as a very simplified example, let's say I have about 100 designs at 4 sizes each and want to have at least 10 pieces on hand in each size.. that'd mean needing to be able to store 4,000 pieces of clothing and just to be able to order them in the first place I'd need well over $100k liquid cash on hand 😱😵‍💫🫥).

This whole time I've built my business up one step at a time without ever taking loans, and I plan to keep going slowly and steadily and not trying to make any sudden leaps to scale 20 levels up like taking out a huge loan and renting a warehouse and buying a larger vehicle to be able to transport all that stuff and needing to hire employees to keep up with it all and.. etc, etc *tries not to have an anxiety meltdown just thinking about it*

I realize I operate in a way and on a timeline that isn't very compatible with the speed everything moves at these days, or with how business is often done in the US, or to be able to meet the expectations people have of "online shopping" in general. But overall it's really working for me, and I don't even know if I want my business to end up as big as it *could* be if I let things just barrel down the road totally uncontrolled.

I hope everyone can understand where I'm coming from and that I'm doing my best! There's also always a lot going on behind the scenes that isn't at all apparent from just looking at the shop or seeing a couple posts on social media. Things are growing and improving all the time, but it will take time ☺️

[ophelia-jones]

May

8, 1880

Isadora was dirty and exhausted from her travels and her heart was laden with a steely grief which people told her time would ease. She knew, though, that these were empty words meant to ease the pain of the early days of loss.  The grief would not go away, rather it would become a burden she was accustomed to carrying. 

Eight months earlier she had returned to El Paso with her beloved Madre' who wanted to die in the town where she was born and be buried beside her parents.  Her father was a surgeon barber and though he wanted to accompany Maria, he had not dared lose his livelihood to make the journey.

Though the idea of Isadora traveling alone terrified him, he had put his faith in God and allowed her to undertake the task of seeing her mother home.

At least she did not need to cross the border, Hank had said, much to Maria's chagrin. El Paso had been a Mexican city when she was a girl, though it had eventually seceded to Texas but Maria's heart had always been with Mexico.

Isadora had been born in Texas after her parents were wed, and they had moved around the southwestern territories most of her youth.  They had finally found a home in New Hope Wyoming when she was a girl of 11. It was the first place she had felt accepted as she was, and not shunned by the Hispanic people for being half-white or called cruel names by whites for the same. She understood how Madre' felt about El Paso because it was the way she felt about New Hope. It was her home . 

At least the majority of the travel had been able to be accomplished by train, the Union Pacific railway had made possible the sort of journey that had once been in a lifetime for many people more accessible. 

Now, however, the train had taken her as far as it could and she would need a stagecoach to complete her trek. She sighed with relief as she settled into the covered carriage, despite knowing it would be a far from comfortable ride home. The carriage shook as the driver loaded her luggage into the boot and strapped it down. 

An immaculately dressed, well-groomed young man with ash brown hair and soulful grey eyes boarded first, offering Isadora a polite but proper nod and smile of greeting. Outside the carriage, there was a commotion between the coach driver and a woman, presumably another passenger for the trip to New Hope.

Soon a woman with flaming red curls climbed into the coach with a dramatic sigh. She wore a suede riding skirt with no bustle and an almost scandalously high hemline that fell just below the knees, and a white linen blouse long duster made of the same buckskin suede as the skirt. She also had a prominent holster on each hip containing a Lemat revolver in each. As soon as the doors were closed the woman began loosening the buttons on the neck of her blouse and fanning herself. 

Isadora averted her eyes at the woman's lack of modesty and tried to focus on the landscape passing outside her window.

"Mary Kate, your immodesty is disconcerting to proper ladies, we've discussed this a great many times," the young man scolded his companion.

"Oh for feck's sake, Aaron just because yer an old niminy-piminy doesn't mean everyone else is. I've got nothing she hasn't seen afore!" the woman declared with a thick Irish accent.

"Allow me to apologize, madam. My cousin has never been one for proper etiquette I'm afraid. I hope it doesn't trouble you too greatly," the young man said. He was soft-spoken and seemed sincerely kind to Isadora and she smiled at him in response.

"It doesn't trouble me, it's one of the better things about being home. Expectations are relaxed when it comes to manners," she said, stealing a glance at the fiery-haired woman. The gentleman's accent said east coast - Philidelphia, perhaps. The pair could not have been more unlike. 

"Aaron Murphy, Ma'am. This is my unruly cousin, Mary Kathleen Byrne," he introduced himself politely and Isadora turned to stare at the woman, her jaw dropping at the name as she put two and two together. 

"Wildfire Kate, the gambler?" She asked, and Kate's blue eyes lit up.

"See, Aaron, she's not such an old sage hen. She reads the papers." Kate nudged her cousin.  Aaron pressed his lips together in distaste; he was not a fan of pulp fiction. 

"Did you really beat Doc Holiday in a shootout?" Isadora asked, the corner of her mouth twitching up in excitement.

"Ach, no. I could, t'be sure, but I've yet to meet the man. He's avoiding me, I say," she said playfully, her steel blue eyes dancing.  Isadora could not help but return her smile, the woman's effervescent personality hard to resist.

"What brings you up to New Hope?" Isadora asked the pair, genuinely curious. New Hope wasn't a particularly large place and not a tourist destination by any means.

"I hear there's a man up that way making a name for himself, has done so well at the tables he went and started buying property up this way, I wanted to test his mettle, if ye will," She replied.

"Are you talking about Negan Smith?" Isadora groaned. The man was a menace. 

"That's the man himself! D'ya know him, then?" Kate asked.

"I do. He was a cowhand that drifted from ranch to ranch when he was younger, did an apprenticeship as a blacksmith, then he tried his hand at mining for gold up in the mountains. He did well with that, and that's when he started gambling. He did even better at that, I suppose. Now he owns a ranch not far from New Hope with more cattle than anyone in the county but Herschel Green. He also owns the dance hall in town, and a lot of folks think he's aiming to run for Mayor next." Isadora informed her.

"A real Jack-of-all-trades, eh? How is he with a pistol?" Kate wanted to know.  Isadora scoffed.

"He considers himself the best there is, from what I understand. He has a Colt Peacemaker he calls 'Lucille' that he terrorizes people with." 

"Sounds like just the sorta fella what needs to be brought down a peg or two. Sounds like fun, time!" Kate winked at Isadora. 

Suddenly, the stagecoach lurched forward, they could hear the reinsman cracking his whip and trying to drive the horses harder. The shotgun guard was calling out, but they could not understand his words amidst the clatter and bang of the carriage as it bounced dangerously fast over rocks and holes. The wheels were term long on their axles and it seemed a sure thing that at least one would soon break or come off.  Then they heard the boom of the guard's shotgun.

"Is it Indians, do you think?" Aaron asked, his eyes nervous. 

"More likely road agents. Relations with the tribes that once resided here are mostly peaceful these days. The Indian wars were awful but things have been quiet since," Isadora said, shocking even herself with her ability to remain collected.

"Highwaymen?" Kate said, arching a ginger eyebrow. "Well they're in for a surprise," she drew both pistols and checked that they were fully loaded. There was another shot, and another, followed by a horrible thump as the shotgun guard fell from his post. 

The driver reined the horses in and they came to an abrupt stop, Isadora thrown forward on top of Kate. She had no time to right herself before the doors were yanked open on each side and two men with bandanas tied around their lower faces pointed pistols at them.

"Hands up! I don't wanna see none o' you reaching for NOTHING, ya hear me? You breathe the wrong way and it'll be the last breath you ever take!" the taller of the two men yelled at them. He was thin and had the darkest, most dangerous blue eyes Isadora had ever seen. She believed the man would follow through with his threats. 

As Isadora managed to sit upright in her seat once more, she caught a glimpse of Kate looking very frustrated with the fact that she had accidentally prevented her from drawing her weapons. Isadora couldn't think about it at the moment, her mind was on trying not to panic.

"Well, what have we here?" The highwayman announced, sounding more than a little pleased at the sight of the pistols. Kate cursed at the man but cooperated as he removed the pistols from their holsters and handed over a was of bills she'd had secured in her boot. While he busied himself with taking everything of value Kate had in her, the other man focused on Aaron and Isadora.

"Hand over your money and your jewelry, any weapons, too," he demanded, his voice a low growl. This man, still taller than average despite being slightly shorter than the other, had the broadest shoulders Isadora had ever seen.  He wore a brown leather hat with a broad brim and shaggy brown hair that covered nearly every bit of his face which wasn't hidden by the bandana. As she slipped the rings off her fingers and untied the purse from her wrist, she caught sight of his silver blue eyes and hesitated. She was struck with the thought that this man was just as frightened as she was. Just as trapped. 

"And the necklace," he said, gesturing to the gold chain around her neck with his gun.

"Oh, no, please sir, this is all I have left of mi madre, my mother. Anything else, but this is a reliquia de familia!" she was ashamed at how quickly the tears sprang to her eyes. She knew it was foolish to beg a robber, it was only delaying the inevitable and might well agitate him enough to get her killed. But there was something about this man, a kindness in his eyes…

"Don't fall for that boohooing bullshit!" the first man yelled across the coach as the long-haired man hesitated. 

"We got what we need, let's go!" the kind-eyed man retorted.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" the other robber demanded. He looked Isadora up and down for a moment, then reached out and rubbed a lock of her long black hair between his fingers.  "Although, she is a prize in and of herself, ain't she? Maybe you should come along with us, sugar. Then you don't need to part with your 'reliquia'." 

Isadora's chest tightened, her heart beating so quickly that she began to tremble. She couldn't even find the strength to speak.  Suddenly, a strong hand reached out and grabbed the locket firmly, and with a sharp tug the chain broke and the hesitant man snatched it away from her.

"You happy? Let's GO!" he yelled at the other man before turning to mount his horse. The leader of the highwaymen, she could see now that there were at least two other riders on horseback keeping watch over their brethren as they robbed the passengers, kept his eyes on Isadora for a long silent moment. When he finally turned and mounted his horse she finally breathed out - and began to sob.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph I coulda stopped 'em if I'd had half a chance to get me guns!" Kate exclaimed angrily. "I fecking hate being outdrawn!"

Aaron opened the door and stepped out quietly.

"And where are you off to?" Kate asked him, sounding annoyed.

"I'm going to see if there is anything I can do for the guard or the driver," he explained calmly.  He was the only one of the three who had kept his head during it all. His concern for the others brought both women out of their selfish reveries.

Isadora hurried from the coach to discover that the driver was uninjured but had been robbed, bound, and gagged in case he had any thoughts of giving chase. The shotgun guard, however, was on the ground with a broken arm and a shotgun wound to his chest. 

"He's still breathing, help me get him into the carriage!" Isadora said, the years of helping her father take over her thoughts. She moved with purpose as the four of them lifted the injured man into the coach. Kate sat up with the driver, taking the shotgun position even though the bandits had taken the shotgun. Aaron sat beside Isadora and they tried to keep the man as comfortable as possible for the rest of the bumpy journey.

"Thank the Lord they didn't steal the horses," Aaron murmured at one point.

"They knew what they could get away with," Isadora replied, "they'd be shot or hanged for stealing horses."

"Right. Of course," Aaron replied. He had only been west of Pennsylvania for a few months and still wasn't entirely familiar with the ways of the wild west.

When they arrived in the town the stagecoach pulled up to the station and Kate disembarked hurriedly, opening the door for the others.

"Aaron, would you go down the street and find my father? He's the barber-surgeon, his shop is just down there on the left!" Isadora asked her new acquaintance, then turned to Kate "And Kate, go to the jail and get the Sheriff." She herself was still applying pressure to the worst of the man's wounds to stem the bleeding.

********************************* 

Sheriff Rick Grimes was reading over a telegraph for the third time, trying to make sense of the why and how of the message. He had been doing everything within reason to catch the highwaymen who had been robbing the good people of this county for the past few months, and he was confident that he would catch the men in time. So why had Mayor Gregory sent for help from the Pinkerton Agency in Chicago? 

He was more than irritated at the man overstepping his place.  Rick was the Sheriff of the county, and Gregory was responsible only for what happened within the town limits. He was about to call into the man's home to demand some answers when a woman with wild red curly hair burst in.

"What the hell?" Shane cried out, standing up quickly from behind the desk where he had been nearly dozing. Shane was Rick's Deputy, and though other men were also deputies, Shane was the only one who was paid for his work. The others all made their living in other ways but could be called on when there was a need. 

"The stagecoach has been robbed, and a man has been shot, in case you were interested," she announced, her Irish lilt sassy and judgemental to Rick's ears.

He and Shane both hurried to follow the woman, arriving at the stagecoach at the same time as Beau Landry, the local barber-surgeon. Before long, they had the man carried into the jail and placed him on the cot so he could be treated for his injuries. 

Once they had done all there was to do, and Kate, Aaron, and the driver had filled the officers in on everything they could recall about the robbery, Rick watched through the doorway as the woman with the black hair and dark eyes washed the blood from the injured man's face and reassured him.  Her father had gone to the chemist for some laudanum to ease the man's pain and help him to rest.

"Miss Landry?" Rick said from the doorway. "How are you? Were you injured?" 

Isadora sighed and stood to face the sheriff. Her hair had come down from where it had been pinned up neatly on the back of her head when the day had begun. Her black mourning dress was dirty from kneeling on the ground to aid the man and stained with his blood. Her deep brown eyes were weary and filled with sorrow, and Rick's heart ached for her. He felt as if he had failed her by not stopping these robberies sooner. 

She was a striking beauty, even disheveled as she was, and there was a strength in her dark eyes he had rarely seen in most men, let alone a young woman. He found himself staring and yet despite knowing it was bad manners, couldn't quite tear his eyes away.

"I'm uninjured, Sheriff Grimes, gracias. Only tired." she smiled weakly.

"Do you think you can tell me about the men? Anything you noticed, anything at all no matter how small." 

"There were four of them. They were covered from head to toe, except for their eyes. I'm not sure I saw anything that would help," she replied, thinking of those blue eyes. She didn't know why, but she couldn't bring herself to mention them.

"I'll find them, they will pay for doing this to you," he told her earnestly. 

"Where are you from, Sheriff Grimes?" Isadora asked, noting his accent.  There was something about his presence, the way he stood, perhaps, that she found reassuring. A quiet strength in his eyes.

"Georgia, originally," he replied with a slight smile. "Before the war."

"You were a soldier," she said, as if this answered some question she had been asking herself.

"A sergeant with the 1st Battalion of Georgia Infantry," he replied, looking shyly at the floor. 

"You fought for the union?" she remarked, clearly surprised. "No wonder you left Georgia."Rick chuckled slightly, nodding slightly and looking up at her with his head still slightly bowed.

"That, and there was nothing left there for me. While I was fighting, my wife died in childbirth," he informed her.

"I'm sorry," Isadora told Rick sincerely.

"I'm sorry to leave you waiting so long, Izzy, but I'm back with the laudanum. Why don't you go home now and freshen yourself up? You must be exhausted," Beau told his daughter as he returned to the jail.

"Si, Papi. Thank you," she kissed the man on his cheek and moved for the door. 

"I'll walk you home," Rick offered, and Isadora was too weary to refuse.

[hybrid-machine]

[Tldr; depressive reflections on life, hope, various ideas on rebuilding society's infrastructure]

My reflections generally come from a place of realising much of my despondency comes from disconnection to a tightly-knit community of friends, family, and forest. Walking concrete streets in a gigantic metropolis, where nature is trimmed and controlled, where I can't explore nooks and crannies of mossy rocks and forage for berries for health and dopamine. Where everything costs to experience, where foraging is replaced with artificial shopping dopamine, and only the foot path and sports oval is the designated place to re-explore repeatedly in a hamster wheel cycle. Where everyone's a stressed stranger living in sub-standard, cramped housing or super-wealthy and sterile castles of hyper-individuality. Where barriers to connection involve friends that are all 30+ mins driving distance, and family is a 24hr flight. Where I've built a life for myself the best I know how, haphazardly and somewhat alone without some of the necessary supports but it is what it is. With neurodivergent development delay that has lead to some very confusing times. I'm not sinking, but I'm not above water, and I'm playing all these roles that make me feel like an impostor. I'm overwhelmed by life and people and endless concepts at our digital fingertips and the ever-increasing army of class disparity and economic warfare and corrupt power structures crushing me. But maybe, just maybe, if i invest in the right career and invest in the right people and act responsibly and with sincerity, with room to grow to let more people in, maybe life won't be so absolutely gut-wrenching. It feels like a big trap that was set about centuries ago, and we're living in the consequence of.

If I was a millionaire, I would immediately invest in land that has potential for community living. And surrounding areas to be re-forested. Food forests made available to people to eat. Well paid local jobs created to serve community. And remaining money donated back into community needs and projects. I would very much love to live amongst friends or kindred spirits. Where the general movements and activities of people is energising to anyone to participate, observe, be inspired by, or choose to simply be in vicinity of by default of sharing the property. There's less barriers to connection. Less commodification of life's needs. More opportunity to control how we wish to connect, for how long, and being able to retreat easily. More access to nature.

I know this is a very autistic description but this disability wouldn't have been such a problem in times when people lived in communities. I support autistic clients too who struggle with many of the aspects of non-communal spaces, non-quiet spaces, lack of nature, busy parents/family who work a lot or live far, difficulty making friends, executive dysfunction with choosing recreational activities, an anxiety around life in general with the socially assigned (ie. neurotypical) aims and goals to succeed as a hyper-indepent and able-bodied machine.

Our very livelihoods are centred around our infrastructures = our city planning, our city size, our public spaces, and our access to resources for basic needs. I think technology has a wonderful potential to solve some our problems in this area of infrastructure and dangerous/unwanted jobs. I think re-greening our world is a must to prevent environmental collapse. I think de-growing our 'rapid growth' mindset will help much of the infrastructure return to optimal levels of functioning. Where much of the excess work hours, excess profiteering, excess manufacturing, excess anxiety can be reduced by simply optimising the social & legal rights and limits around human output and corporate activities. Better shared transit, less individual cars, eco-cars all transit underground, safe and green walking spaces above ground (rip up the concrete, but maintain some paths with eco-engineered breathable pavement for all types accessibility). There's also accountability laws to be introduced to criminalise the corrupt people within systems of law, law enforcement, politics and corporations, for the benefit of humans, not the benefit of the ruling class. There's also the acknowledgement of earth as a living entity and to introduce laws to prevent harm, including going against scientific advice. Also revision of how politics is framed, where there are sufficient representatives from their areas of expertise (eg. Scientists, professionals) to have a big chunk of the approval or editing of policies. Where the locals and anybody with big ideas can also be involved to keep bias out of parliament.

.. 😵‍💫

This stuff goes through my head every day in some form, and it's absolutely paralysing to not actualise it. I'm exhausted.

[marzipanandminutiae]

The difference between Victorian prudery and 50's prudery is that Victorian prudery was a genuinely reasonable response to the situation women lived in, while 50's TV prudery actually was stupid.

I've let this percolate for a bit because I wanted to collect my thoughts on it. And they vary depending on what Anon meant.

What I think this is trying to say is that, given the emphasis placed on women's reputations back then re: sexuality, it made sense for them to behave in an extremely straitlaced manner. Because (for most women) their lives would quite literally be destroyed if their virtue were seriously called into question. They would struggle to find employment or a husband, might be cut off by parents or other supporting entities, and could find themselves alone in the world with no means of support. And with that general idea, I agree. Pretty logical to refuse to even kiss a man before marriage if your entire livelihood is on the line.

(Not to mention, a working-class white woman, a middle-class white woman, a white heiress, and a woman of color regardless of social status all had different standards for what they could get away with. While they all lived under similar unfair standards and systemic misogyny...intersecting axes of oppression and privilege definitely played a role here)

Except.

A. That was not the extent of extreme Victorian prudishness. While stories about table legs being covered for modesty are pure invention, you DO hear about some people in the 19th century going pretty far in the Prim and Proper department. I recall one 1870s issue of a fashion magazine by the renowned Madame Demorest where she cautioned her female readers about arraying their legs "like ballet dancers" in the wildly popular striped stockings. To do so, she implied, was to invite the stares of men when a lady lifted her skirt to go up steps.

And I honestly don't see any way that could be construed as reputation-ruining behavior, given that...well, like I said, the stockings in question were everywhere. I have two separate fashion dolls of the era who both wear their original striped hosiery. Clearly women weren't risking their means of support by wearing them, and yet at least one conservative writer considered them Improper. That, then, hardly seems justifiable prudishness to me- and that's just one example.

It leads well into my second point, namely:

B. Even the Victorians though some Victorians were too prudish. Etiquette manuals can tell us a lot about the ideals of an era, but they aren't a good record of real human behavior. Take, for example, the use of the word "limb" to substitute for "leg." Out of context, this seems like proof that our 19th-century ancestors were stuffy prudes who had the vapors at the slightest hint of anything remotely racy.

But if you actually look at sources from the era, most of them seem to be mocking rather than endorsing the practice (source)

That holds true for many other illogically prudish behaviors of the time- in my experience, many people seem to have rolled their eyes almost as hard as we do today at a lot of the "nice girls don't" edicts. The big one remained largely unquestioned: don't have sex outside of heterosexual wedlock and don't give anyone reason to think you have. And that latter part covered a lot of behaviors we- rightly -see as absurd and misogynistic today. But rules that got as minute as the appropriate number of times to dance with a specific man at a ball were often waived in reality- or at least, endorsed for reasons of potential rudeness rather than scandal.

Which is to say, not all Victorian prudishness can be justifiable if even they themselves thought some was ridiculous.

C. A lot of the pressures on women to remain chaste and morally unassailable remained- or had returned -in the 1950s.

I'm surprised I even have to say this, because I figured it was pretty common knowledge. But every reason a woman might shut down relatively tame amorous advances in 1850 was pretty much present in 1950: a woman known to be "ruined" could have a very hard time functioning in mainstream society. Things had loosened up a bit- although, to be honest, being caught in a kiss wouldn't even necessarily destroy a woman's reputation in the 19th century -but the central theme of Don't Let Anyone Suspect You've Had Extramarital Sex Or Your Reputation Is Toast persisted.

And as for things that were patently absurd in the 1950s- you mentioned "TV prudery," which I assume means things like married sitcom couples sleeping in twin beds -well. That sort of nonsense was present in the Victorian era, too. And as in the Victorian era, I expect plenty of people snickered at it in the 1950s.

TL;DR- To me, the idea of one period having Logical Prudishness and the other having Performative BS kind of falls apart because both eras had examples of both types. I can see a point of agreement here in the idea that some uptight behavior in women who wanted to do otherwise was a logical response to insanely rigorous moral standards, but the rest of your argument doesn't really hold water for me.

[sixofpomegranates]

Hi! I just want to say I’m absolutely in love with your writing, especially your fic Honey as I’m a black women named Honey haha😊 My birthday is this weekend and I would really love to know when you think you’ll have a part three up??👉�� again you are a beautiful writer❤️

Honey pt.3

•{One Shot Masterlist}***{Requests/Feedback}***{Guidlines}•

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Black!Fem!Reader Also, Plus-Size or not, both fit here! 👍🏻

A/N: Omg! Happy Birthday, Honey! You have no idea how much I love that information! So here you go, the final part of 'Honey' for Honey. Hope you enjoy it, thank you for liking my writing.🎂🥳

This is set in seasons 12 & 13!

CW: Smut/Angst - 18+ | Mentions of Spencer's Canon Trauma - ESPECIALLY PRISON/PTSD/Anxiety/Therapy/Recovery, Consumption of Food/Coffee/Tea, Penetrative Sex (Unprotected, Rough, Creampie, Emotional), Fingering, Breathplay (Choking), The End, Nickname for Reader (Honey/Hun, Baby, Good Girl)

"Dear Honey, I don't know if I even have the right to write you. I don't know if you're in a relationship, if you're happy, or if you hate me. But I need you, more than ever.

I made a mistake, a bigger one than having us end contact. I was in Mexico, meeting a woman named Nadie Ramos who helped me with my mother's dementia.

I killed her. [y/n], I KILLED HER!

That's why I am in prison. I was on drugs of which I don't know why, I stabbed this woman, and fled the scene in a car full of drugs.

And as much as I try to deny it, try to tell myself I am innocent, there must be some truth to this. My hand is cut, Nadie Ramos is dead, we were the only people in this hotel room...

—————

Honey, I had to stop writing to you that night. I got jumped and beaten in my cell, once again. By now I know that I will not get out here alive.

I am too scared to close my eyes, every moment is filled with the knowledge that this is how I am going to die. I am going to die in prison.

Something a little more promising though, I remembered something. We had a case a while back surrounding an unsub we called Mr. Scratch. He had his own drug cocktail with which he would drug his victims and induce nightmares while playing with their minds.

I don't know what you know about the time Hotch was leaving, but this is the same man that drugged him and made him go into witness protection with Jack.

I am certain he is the one responsible. Yet I wonder, am I a murderer? Did I take the life of an innocent woman? All I ever wanted was to help people, have a family of my own, and be happy. Now, look where I ended up...

You were right, [y/n]. I should've come with you and quit the BAU. I should've started a happier life with you instead of trying to fulfill this self-imposed purpose of mine.

I should've never tried to take care of my mother all on my own.

I should've chosen happiness instead of self-imposed obligation.

I should've gone with you.

I love you, and I will die regretting that I was too dignified in my livelihood that I never gave us a chance.

– Spencer

—————

Dear Honey,

Nobody came to visit me in the last few days, so I wasn't able to give them my letter to you. But I have more to tell you, so I write you another one. Solely pretending that I am talking to you helps me keep my sanity through all this.

I haven't slept in what feels like forever. I befriended a former FBI agent and this friendship turned sour as he tried to extort me into taking care of cocaine deliveries inside the prison.

It's kill or be killed in here. I tainted their supply, more you don't need to know.

I now remember that I wasn't alone with Nadie, I also remember it not being Mr. Scratch. I know it to be a woman. Today I'll finally get to see my mother. I am ashamed of her seeing me like this but I look forward to seeing her.

—————

If you get this letter DO NOT REPLY TO IT!

Mom was kidnapped, this is bigger than I believed it to be. I don't know who is all involved in it. I don't know who I can trust.

All I know is that somebody holds a grudge against me and now goes after the people I love.

I am FUCKED and as good as dead. The noose around my neck just keeps tightening. If I wanna survive this I have to make sure I'll end up in solitude.

DON'T GET UNDER THEIR RADAR. Don't call ANYONE from the team, DON'T send any letters.

I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU"

*****

My hands have never shaken as much as they did when I read this letter. The multiple envelopes around it showed me that it first had been with JJ, then the new agent named Luke. From there it went to Morgan and from Morgan, it went to my parents who lastly had sent it to me.

I had waited for a letter to finally arrive and end the silence between me and Spencer but this had not been what I had wanted. Not at all.

Spencer in prison. Spencer.

The sweetest and most compassionate man on earth was supposed to be a murderer, was getting attacked by other prisoners, was locked up like a monster.

Halfway through the letter, I had been ready to book a flight and go to DC. Completely through the letter, I cried, wishing I could turn back the time and convince Spencer to come with me.

Three weeks had passed without any other sign of life. There were no calls, no letters, nothing. I had called my mother multiple times, crying, fearing that Spencer was dead, and now this psychotic bitch would be after the rest of the team.

I still loved him. I loved Spencer so much. After the initial pain had faded, I solely had missed and loved him. Sent him this stupid letter telling him in my own way that I would wait for him.

Once I would find out if he was still alive, I would move back to DC. Screw my happiness. I loved Spencer more than it and if I had to be miserable in America to be happy with him, I would do it.

But I had to wait. Wait until somebody contacted me and I knew that I was no longer risking becoming a target.

I had even gotten myself a gun, although I hated those things. If this unsub would show up here, I would kill her. Kill her for everything she had done to Spencer.

But until then, it was waiting. Waiting, hoping, and praying.

*****

A month after the letter arrived, it rang on my doorbell. Opening it without thinking twice, my eyes met the gaze of Spencer, standing there with his go-bag.

"Spencer," I whispered in disbelief, him scratching the back of his head.

"You should always check who's at the door first. You didn't know who was coming to see you-"

I interrupted him by launching myself at him and pressing my lips on his. For a moment he seemed surprised, then I heard the thudding sound of his bag hitting the floor and his arms wrapped around me.

Pulling away from the kiss, my hands cupped his cheeks. He looked so tired, so exhausted. But he was alive. He was alive and that was all that mattered.

"You're alive," I sobbed the obvious, knowing that I was definitely ugly crying right now. His teary eyes mirrored mine, while he solely nodded and smiled.

It seemed like he couldn't believe it himself.

As I stepped away from our embrace, I quickly took his bag and his hand, leading him into my house. He looked around, taking in the soft cottage vibes and many bookshelves.

Announcing I would make us some tea, I rushed into the kitchen, heating up some water. When I came back, Spencer was still busy looking around, now being in my living room.

It looked like he had forgotten what a home looks like.

"I got the tea," I said softly, luring him out of his thoughts, making him jump a little.

He quickly put the picture frame, holding a picture of us, back on the fireplace. "Thanks," he mumbled, taking one of the mugs from me.

I sat down on my couch, motioning to him to come to sit next to me. He promptly did so.

"Tell me," I said into the silence. "Tell me all about it."

He cleared his throat from emotions. "You don't want to know," he said.

But I insisted, "Yes I do, Spence."

What followed were hours of him retelling all the horrors he'd lived through. All that happened to him, all that Cat Adams staged to get her claws into him.

I could never come near this woman. I would slaughter her cold-heartedly.

Diana was alive and well. Thank god. The team and Spencer had managed to ensure her safety, and get Cat's little card house of nightmares to collapse into itself.

They also had caught Mr. Scratch... More or less. He was dead, not much of a loss if you ask me. I made a quick mental note to check on Emily as soon as Spencer was done letting out everything that he had bottled up over the last months.

He had been in prison for the last three months. And instead of having some time to decompress afterward, was thrown straight into the situation with Scratch. It was hard watching him struggle, even worse when he started to cry at some point, leading to me simply holding him in my arm until he fell asleep.

*****

The next couple of days, Spencer stayed in one of my guest bedrooms. He needed some time to adjust and learn to be himself again. The FBI had given him a couple of weeks to do so before reinstating him... If they would even reinstate him.

I loved having him around. He was mostly just reading books and watching TV, getting hooked on Downtown Abbey. In the mornings we would have breakfast and then walk into town to buy some groceries. His excitement for the farmer's market was heartwarming.

His time to recover was basically him living my life, following my tasks, and being close to me. And the more days passed, the more he became himself again. Now I could even approach him from behind without causing him to have an anxiety attack or accidentally whack me.

I almost cried from happiness one day because he had fallen asleep on the couch. Sleep was so important for him, and that he felt safe enough to sleep out in the open, right in the living room, was more than I had thought I could handle.

There was no sexual component in the time we spent together. It was the last thing Spencer would've needed right now. It was just us, tending to his broken soul, me washing his long hair properly to have his curls reappear, having his new scars checked on, us cooking and making sure he would eat, and Penelope sending us lots of flyers of mental health centers back in DC, so we could make sure he could tackle his PTSD.

Spencer hadn't given me a specific date on which he was going to leave again but as we reached week four, I expected it to be every day now. He wasn't going to stay here forever. Diana and his entire life waited back home for him.

One morning, I had just woken up and walked downstairs to have my first cup of coffee, I ran into Spencer who seemed to have just come back home.

"Hello?" I asked confused, looking at him in his neat suit and tie combo.

"Hey," he answered surprised, probably having thought I would sleep longer.

Walking into the kitchen, he tagged along after me as I asked, "Where have you been?" "Just taking a walk," was his answer.

I had my suspicions about it but I nodded. At least he had been outside on his own, it had been something I had worried about in the beginning.

"I will leave tomorrow," he suddenly announced as I handed him his cup, which I had simply made because I was used to it by now.

"Oh, okay," I answered completely caught off-guard.

"I- I just have things to take care of," he explained himself, and I forced down the part of me that wanted to cry and persuade him to stay.

With a chipper voice, I said, "Yeah, no, totally. I get that. I- I hope you enjoyed your time here though?"

Spencer nodded. "You have no idea how much," he smiled. Taking a sip from his coffee, which mix I knew by heart, he asked, "Would you like to go on a date with me tonight? As a little goodbye."

Raising my brows I questioned, "A date or a goodbye dinner?"

He chuckled, "A date. Definitely a date." Nodding, I said, "Yeah, I would like that."

*****

So the very first date Spencer and I were ever going to have was today since he would leave me tomorrow. Some things are simply not fair.

Two hours it had taken me to pick out a dress and get ready. We had agreed on leaving by seven and so I walked into the living room shortly before, to meet him.

As he turned around with this mane of pretty curls on his head, I knew he hadn't brushed them. They were everywhere. His suit was perfectly tailored and the stubbles on his face were freshly trimmed. If I wouldn't have known, I would've never guessed all the bad things that happened to him in the last months.

"Wow," he blurted out, looking me up and down. "You're so beautiful."

"Thanks, Spence. You look really handsome yourself," I answered, face becoming hot.

Reaching out his hand towards me, our fingers enlaced, and he pulled me closer. Looking up at him my smile echoed his.

"I..." he started but sighed, simply pressing his lips on mine. It was so beautifully gentle, the way his hands framed my face, how he was shaking a little. When he pulled away, his eyes took in every feature of my face.

"We should really get going," I said after a while, making him firstly nod but then shake his head. "Is everything okay?

Spencer clearly looked nervous, making me fear he would have an anxiety attack. Was it the night, the going out, or maybe that we called this a date? What had him like this?

"I- We need to talk," he said, and a frown popped up on my face. "Oh, okay?" I mumbled, sitting down on the couch where he joined me.

Taking my hands in his, he then took a deep breath before saying, "I love you."

I nodded, feeling myself becoming nervous, "Y-Yeah. I love you too."

Hand running through his hair, he stated, "I want us to be together."

"I want that too," I admitted, a sly smile of relief on my face. "I- I already looked at houses in DC to move back."

Spencer's eyes became wide from amazement, "You want to be with me that much?"

"If there's no right timing for us, we'll make our own," I explained. "You being in prison and potentially hurt made me realize that I can't live without you, and sometimes you have to make some sacrifices for the people you love."

The next thing I knew, was Spencer's lips on mine, hands on my body, and my back on the couch. The emotions it had triggered in both of us, knowing that we'd finally be together like this forever and not just for a night, made us lose track of time.

As my lips felt sore from all the kisses, he pressed his forehead against mine, smiling at me like I was the light of his life. "I- I want- Can we...?"

I knew what he asked, but I also knew the trauma it correlated with. "Are you sure you're ready?" I asked therefore carefully.

Spencer nodded. "I'm just scared of hurting you. I- I don't know if I remember to be gentle."

Despite his words, he softly let his knuckles stroke over my cheek. He wasn't the big, bad wolf he believed to have become. He was still Spencer. My Spencer.

"It's okay if you do, Spencer. I can take it, just let me be what you need," I whispered, knowing that he could never harm me in the ways he feared he would.

Climbing off me, he helped me stand up and let me lead him into my bedroom. His curious hazel eyes, looked around, taking in every detail, every little gimmick sitting around.

Then his eyes focused on my bed. "Hey, I know that guy," he cackled, walking over and carefully picking up my pink travel-size Spence. "Kept you company when I wasn't, huh?" Spencer asked cheekily and I nodded.

Dimming the lights, I crawled onto my bed and looked up at him. "Lots of lonely nights you'll have to make up for."

He laughed almost silently, setting the teddy on my dresser, facing away from us. "I love you so much, [y/n]," he said like it was commentary for my behavior that he had held back all the time, taking off his suit jacket and throwing it aside.

I was quick to pull him onto the bed, making him lay down in my ocean of mismatched pillows. Laying down beside him, I laid a hand on his creamy white cheek and kissed him lovingly.

Mine. Spencer was mine. It had taken us so many years to get there, but finally, he was all mine.

"Where do you wanna start?" I asked him, while his hand lazily rubbed over my thigh, lips attached to my neck.

"Where would be the fun in telling you, hun?" he hummed against my skin. "Now, as beautiful as you look in that dress... Please take it off for me, yeah?"

I nodded, ungracefully jumping off the bed and out of the dress. I had probably broken the zipper but that was an issue to be dealt with later. Solely in my underwear now, I looked at Spencer who had set down on the edge of the bed.

"Hi," I whispered, feeling myself becoming a little shy as he watched me with the eyes of a predator.

"Come here," he ordered softly, reaching out to me and making me straddle his lap. As he gazed at me with dark eyes, a low growling sound escape his throat.

It made me giggle out of instinct, while he just grinned. My hand slowly rubbed up and down his clothed chest. I wasn't sure if I was allowed to help him undress, wasn't sure if he was ready for it.

"C- Can I take off your tie?" I asked carefully, making him nod. So my fingers went to work, untying the long piece of fabric. But before I could throw it away, he stopped me.

"Wait a second," he asked of me. "Would it be okay with you if I'd tie your hands together? Not for long, just until I feel-"

I nodded, interrupting him, "Do it." He smiled, taking the tie from my hands, "Thank you."

Kissing me again, he became hungrier by the second. Meanwhile, I kept my hand to myself, letting him freely grope every inch of my body.

He had always needed control during sex, it had increased in amount over the years but I wasn't complaining. I loved him and giving my power up to him felt like the ultimate proof for it.

"Should you feel uncomfortable about anything at any moment, just tell me to stop, okay?" He told me gently.

"I will, Spence," I assured him, so his hands began roughly groping my butt and cupping my sex. The well-directed pressure on my clit quickly let me squirm on his lap.

Harshly putting me back in place, he snickered, "No moving away, baby. You're mine."

You're mine. God, that sounded good. I nodded with a grin.

"Open your mouth," he requested, moving his hand up from between my legs. I did as told, continuing to hold eye contact as he put his middle and ring finger into my mouth. "Get them nice and wet for me, hun."

I closed my lips around his long digits, carefully wrapping my tongue around them and worshipping them like I would do his cock if he'd let me.

"Fuck," Spencer whispered lowly, watching me with amazement. Then he pulled his fingers from my mouth, letting them wander down between my breasts, and over my stomach, right into my panties.

Coating my clit with my own saliva, he began rubbing circles into it, drawing out a long and needy moan from me. I began bringing myself into his movements, rocking my hips gently to cause more friction.

It had definitely been too long since I had let myself get touched by somebody. The last one had been Spencer. I didn't like the thought of somebody else's taste on me ever after the last moments we had shared in the park.

"Does that feel good?" He asked teasingly, while I was just bobbing my head in response. With a chuckle, he moved his fingers down between my folds and entered me with them.

This time I moaned louder, more unhinged. Spencer's thumb still began massaging my clit with the same circling motion his fingers had, and I began bouncing on those inside me.

When he curled his fingers inside me, I stopped for a second before I realized his ulterior motive. Every movement between us was now stimulating my G-spot.

"Come on. Keep going," he whispered, and against the rules I had set for myself, my arms went to his shoulders for support as I continued riding his hand.

Not soon after this stimulation had started, my legs began to shake and I came screaming his name. Trembling, I rested my head in the crook of his neck, making him praise me, "I know. What a good girl you've been."

He removed his fingers from my cunt and I sat back. Apparently just playing into his needs since his slick fingers entered my mouth staying there for me to clean.

I did so without hesitation, bobbing my head on his fingers, hoping to get a way to say thank you. "Such a good girl," he praised again. "Being as sweet as you are, you'd probably suck my cock now as a thank you, am I right?"

I nodded at the profiler, for once not getting annoyed by him reading me like an open book.

With a chuckle and his fingered leaving my mouth with a popping noise, he said, "On your knees," and I instantly melted onto the floor.

I became too eager. I knew I did, the second Spencer flinched at me touching his inner thighs. "I'm sorry," I whispered quickly.

Clearing his throat, he shook his head, "It's okay, baby." Holding up tie, he said, "But no more touching. Please give me your hands."

Behind his playful voice hid a beg for me to obey. Cat had hurt him so badly, had made him nervous about being touched, about not being in control.

I held my hands out to him, watching his swift movements as he bound them together with his tie, a little bow on top. I let them sink onto my lap and searched for his eyes once he was done.

"I love you," I whispered like a promise that I wouldn't go anywhere or do anything he was afraid of.

His hand stroked over my head and down my cheek, "I love you too."

Then he stood up, unbuckling his pants and dropping them before me. Eyes wandering between him and his clothes erection, I began biting my lip.

I could see his hands shake, eyes becoming fearful. A self-deprecating laugh left his lips as he said, "I don't even know what the fuck I'm so nervous about."

"We don't have to do this, Spence. It's okay if you want to stop right here," I assured him, but he shook his head.

"I really don't want to stop," he mumbled. "I thought it was a good idea because you couldn't touch me but it reminds me too much of the handcuffs they had me in," he began explaining, kneeling down and starting to untie my hands.

As I could use my hands again, I stood up and sat down on the bed. "Maybe undressing would be a smarter first step? To see if it triggers you."

Nodding, Spencer slowly began to unbutton his dress shirt, hands still shaking. Meanwhile, I took off my bra and panties to get this step out of the way.

As once more a button fell from his trembling hands, I asked, "Do you want me to do it?" Swallowing roughly, he nodded, "Please."

I crawled to the edge of the bed and piece by piece we slowly took off his clothes. The more items fell, the calmer Spencer became again. We lay back down into the pillows, my hands ever so slowly stroking over his chest and shoulders. As they finally came up to cup his cheeks, I kissed him with all the tenderness I had to offer.

We fell into a loving kiss that went on for a while before increasing in lust. The kiss became as wanton as it was gentle, a combination I had solely known to exist because of Spencer.

Losing our breaths, his hands started leaving my cheeks, wandering down my sides, and grabbed my thighs. Pulling them with one strong but swift motion over him, I found myself on top of him.

As we finally parted to let some oxygen into our lungs, he backed away, his face looking as red as mine felt hot. I didn't dare to straighten up on top of him, afraid the realization that he was beneath me could trigger some unwelcomed alarms.

"I want you to be on top," he whispered against my lips, bucking his hips up and having his erection rub against my wet core. "A-Are you sure?" I asked uncertainly but aroused.

Be nodded. "Very sure. Take control from me for a while, I know you would never hurt me." "Never," I echoed, pecking his lips. "Tell me if you need me to stop."

I sat up straight, lifting my hips and reaching between us, all under Spencer's careful eyes. Pumping him a few times, I lined him up with myself.

Our eyes met and as he nodded, I lowered myself onto him. When he was fully inside me, we both were uttering curses.

I slowly began rocking my hips, making him moan, hands grabbing my thighs, "Fuck, that's good."

I merely smiled in reply, my hands coming down on his chest while I roughened the rhythm.

This pace was driving me crazy, hitting the perfect spot inside me that made my toes curl. Spencer's hands moved from my thighs to grope my breasts, and when he decided that it wasn't enough anymore, he sat up and began plastering them with kisses and gentle bites.

"S-Spence," I moaned, feeling myself tighten around him, my orgasm only moments away. "I- I'm so close."

He moved his moved from my nipple and instead kissed me roughly, swallowing my moans. At the same time, I started to feel him thrust up inside me.

"Come on, Honey," he cooed. "Come for me, baby."

And I did. Completely overwhelmed by the feeling, digging my nails so hard into his pale skin that I left angry, red crescent moon shapes on him.

Hands rubbing my back, he kissed my cheek before rolling us over and being on top of me. "I love you," he told me before starting to thrust into me.

My legs promptly wrapped around him and started rocking against him to accumulate his hard thrusts. Hips snapping forwards over and over again, all that was to hear was the slapping of our skin and our moans.

Dropping to his elbows, Spencer kissed me deeply, one arm reaching down and helping to hold up my left leg. I cherished every moment he was close to me like this. It was wild and intense, loving and yearning. It was us.

At one point I had to reach behind me and press an arm against the headboard so my head wouldn't bump against it. Nails digging into Spencer's back, arm, and chest, I knew I was drawing blood, just like he knew he was ruining me for every other man.

As his hand left my thigh and moved between my legs, he began rubbing my sensitive clit again, coaxing overstimulated but excited screams from me.

"Come on. Come one last time for me, baby," he growled, the vein on his forehead deliciously prominent.

He was holding himself back. Something was still on his mind, and when his hand left my clit and instead wrapped around my throat, I knew what it was. At first, there was no pressure, his fingers just lingered there. But as I nodded, exposing my head further, he took my breath from me.

There was carnal lust in his eyes. It seemed to erase Spencer's memory of his hands around Cat's throat as he tried strangling her. It must've had something therapeutic for him to feel lust and love with his hands on my throat instead of uncertainty and wrath.

For the third time this night, an orgasm started to wash over me. Spencer's thrusts started to flutter as he felt it, only managing a few more thrusts before he came deep inside me.

As his thrusts slowed down, his lips met mine again, hand already gone from my throat but instead brushing over my head. With one more kiss to my forehead, he pulled out and laid beside me, pulling me into a tight embrace.

He had been wrong. At the end of it, all he was still gentle. He was still Spencer.

*****

This silence between us was beautiful. It held no other meaning than calming down after sex. There were no hidden feelings, broken hearts, or empty promises that this wouldn't change our friendship.

After cuddling for a while, I jumped up and walked to the bathroom, throwing on an oversized shirt. When I came back, Spencer still lay in bed but was dressed in his boxers. I covered us with the blanket laying down close to him, humming happily.

My happiness didn't hold on for long though as Spencer suddenly broke our comfortable silence by saying, "You're not moving back to DC."

I quickly sat up, looking at him confused. "What? But we said-" With a calming smile, he interrupted me while pulling me back down into his arms. "I wasn't done talking, Honey," he chuckled.

Just as I wanted to say something again, Spencer said, "The Bureau offered me early retirement. It's a very generous amount of money, and I could still be a consultant should the team ever really need me. Today I also visited a very nice full-time care facility that I know my mom would love and it's only thirty minutes from here. I wanted to talk with you about all this but... We kinda got sidetracked with our conversation."

"Does... Do you mean you want to move here?" I asked almost scared of the answer being uncertain or forced. But he nodded completely sure about his and even optimistic, "Of course, but only if you wanna have me here?"

"Of course, I want you here!" I exclaimed, feeling tears starting to prick in my eyes. "I always wanted you here with me."

Throwing myself on top of him, I pressed dozens of s butterfly kisses on his face, making him giggle and blush.

"I think we're going to be really happy. I can already see myself watching after the kids and mowing the lawn while you sit outside and draw," he began musing. "Maybe I'll start writing books like Rossi. Retelling some of the things I experienced during my time at the BAU. Give readers a deep dive into the mind of criminals and the people hunting them."

Happiness took over, my tear just running while I smiled and snickered, "That sounds like a really good idea, Spence."

He wiped my tears away, seeming so genuinely excited about our future although it was nothing like he had planned it for himself.

After a gentle kiss, I grin at Spencer, unable to hold back my corny idea.  "You could call the books 'Criminal Minds'."

Instantly pulling a face, he said, "I don't know. Sounds a little too 'Hollywood' for me."

"Fine. Your loss," I answered, pouting but starting to laugh as he pulled me closer and kissed my cheek.

"Hey, Honey?" He whispered. "I love you." Echoing the love in his voice, I answered, "I love you too."

*****

The next they Spencer flew back to DC and officially left the FBI. He later said that nothing had ever felt this right before... Of course, he's a kiss ass so he would always add 'except for loving you'.

The following month, he and Diana moved here. Diana actually loved her new home and the town around until her peaceful death two years later. It had taken a great toll on Spencer but we were glad that she had still managed to be at our wedding months before.

Now, five years later, the FBI is only a memory living in Spencer's books. He did end up calling them 'Criminal Minds' and they became bestsellers, teaching him to listen to his wife.

As I now reminisce on the porch of our house, writing in this journal I plan on gifting Spencer to our anniversary, holding all the memories of our story, he plays with your three-year-old daughter Blake, both trying to do cartwheels in the grass. Meanwhile, our six-month-old daughter Diana sleeps next to me.

I am happier than I ever thought I could be. This is it, the full package.

I don't regret a second of my journey, of our journey, because even if it was frightening at times and looking at Spencer, has left scars, we wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for all of it.

And missing out on our home, each other, and our children would be the biggest loss in the world.

And just because Spencer loves to start and end his books with quotes, I shall do the same before getting up and making dinner.

The English novelist & poet George Eliot once wrote, "What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined to strengthen each other and to be at one with each other in silent unspeakable memories?"

I love you, Spencer. Always have and always will. — Honey

Fin

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[petri808]

hiii i am absolutely obsessed with ur drabbles could u please do nalu #4 and #39 pls🥺

“Walk out that door and we’re through” + “Please come home, I miss you”

This was tough cause the questions could trigger a story similar to this one I also did for these prompt asks round. But I think I can make it different enough, albeit angst hell 😅 here we go! It’s a little rushed but longer then I expected for a ficlet lol

“Lucy,” Natsu knocked at the office door, “it’s time to go.”

“Where?” She answered without looking up.

“Levy’s birthday party.”

“Oh!” Lucy sat up in her desk chair and turned her body to face her husband. “Right! I forgot. Um, shucks, but I’m on a writing high right now and I can’t stop— tell her I’ll make it up to her, will ya?”

She always says that… Natsu sighed, “yeah, sure…”

Levy Redfox was Lucy’s childhood best friend and while the woman was also his friend, it just didn’t sit well with Natsu that she’d choose writing over the woman. But this had been an ongoing issue lately... Don’t get him wrong, he fully supported his wife’s career as an author, especially now that it’s really starting to take off. The issue was it had consumed her at the expense of everyone around her.

He knocked on their friends door, answered by Levy herself.

“Natsu!” Levy hugged the man excitedly, but when she noticed he was alone, frowned a tad. “Again, huh?”

“I’m sorry, Levy,” Natsu’s shoulders slumped. “Lucy’s in a,” he made quotation marks in the air, “‘writing high,’ and said she’ll make it up to you.”

“Well, I’m glad you came,” the woman smiled despite the sadness hiding behind her eyes.

All of their closest friends were in attendance and spent the evening talking, eating, and playing a few fun birthday games. It distracted him to some extent, but as the night wore down and the other guests had all left, Natsu, his best friend Gray Fullbuster, Levy, and her husband Gajeel sat around in the living room talking about the elephant in the room. Lucy.

“I’ve tried talking to her,” Levy said quietly, “but, I try not to make it sound too harsh.”

“Maybe that’s exactly what you need to do babe,” Gajeel chimed in. “Be blunt.”

“Yeah, I’m like you,” Natsu agreed with Levy. “It’s not easy to bring it up cause she’s oblivious about it.”

“But it’s hurting your marriage man!” Gray looked at Natsu. “And your friendship,” he switched to Levy. “I’m with Gajeel. If you aren’t honest with her, it’s not gonna get better.”

“Think I don’t know that?!” Natsu spat back. “Think I enjoy being the only one in that house in pain?! I don’t, but—” his voice cracked, “I’m worried I’ll push her away if I say something.”

“She’s already pushing you away dude. Do you still love her?”

“Of course, I do,” Natsu sighed. “I love her more than anything, but apparently it’s not enough… we haven’t even… you know, I can’t remember the last time.”

“Wow… Then you really gotta tell her. All of it,” Gray coaxed.

Levy who’d sat quietly through the back and forth, chimed in quietly. “Gray’s right. You should tell her, when you go home, just tell her how you’re feeling. And whatever happens, happens. We can just hope for the best.”

“You know you’ll be the first to hear from her if I do,” Natsu pointed out.

“I know. But… it’s time I come clean too.”

Natsu slumped back onto the couch and let out a depressed exhale. “And you,” he looked to Gray. “You know if it goes wrong I’ll be showing up at your door.”

“My couch has your name on it.”

“Gee, thanks.”

That had to be the longest drive home Natsu had ever taken, even though it was really just 10 minutes. He was a physical person by nature and never been very good at expressing his feelings in words. Words were his wife’s domain. There were a lot of things he wanted to say, but his biggest fear was saying things wrong. With his hand on the doorknob, Natsu took one last breath and opened the door to her office. He knew before entering, Lucy was still working by the clacks of the keyboard and interrupting would immediately cause friction. But he couldn’t wait anymore.

“I’m home,” Natsu called out… with no response. He sighed and spoke more sternly. “Lucy. I’m home.”

“Oh, welcome home,” she finally responded. “How was the party?”

He knew it was an empty question, because she never even looked up or stopped typing and it meant she wasn’t really listening. “Lucy… we need to talk.”

“I’m kinda busy Natsu.”

“I know, but you’re always busy Lucy. That’s part of the problem.” The moment the last word came out, Natsu knew instantly he’d picked the wrong one. Crap.

Lucy stopped typing, turned off the screen and shut the laptop. “Problem?” She turned the chair around with her eyes narrowed in a focused glare. “What do you mean, problem?”

“Lucy,” he ran a hand down his face, “I don’t want to fight, but we need to talk— there’s a lot we need to talk about.”

“Like what?” She crossed her arms. “What is so important that you need to mess with my job?”

There it was.

“I’m not trying to do that,” he sighed. “You know how proud I am of your career. But, it feels as if you’re choosing your career over everything else in your life. Me, your friends, we’re all just being pushed aside—”

“Are you kidding me?!” Lucy shot out of her chair shaking in anger. “I am not doing any of that! I’m not pushing anyone away! Y-You’re the one who’s acting selfish trying to tell me I’m not giving you enough attention! And don’t you bring Levy into this! If this was bothering her she’d tell me!”

“It does bother her! But she’s afraid of getting,” he gestured with his hands up and down at Lucy, “this reaction! Is it selfish to want to spend some time with my own wife?!” Natsu growled. “We never spend time together anymore! You’re just always hunched over that damn computer!”

“I’m doing my job!” Lucy shrieked. “I have deadlines to meet! This story ain’t gonna write itself! Research ain’t gonna materialize on its own! It’s a lot of work!”

“Lucy,” Natsu pinched his brows together, trying hard to stop from snapping further as well as to control the tears building in his eyes. “I love you, more than anything in this world, but I don’t know what happened to the woman I’d married. The old Lucy wouldn’t abandon her loved ones like this.”

“You’re just mad because I’m successful now.”

“That’s bullshit! And you know it! No job is worth losing the people you care about, and if you can’t understand that, then, I don’t know what else to say!”

“Then I guess there isn’t anything more to say,” she spat back.

“I guess not.” Natsu answered softly, turned and left the room.

He’d already assumed confronting Lucy about her precious career would not end well, and he was right. Staying would only cause more trouble. So, he quietly packed a suitcase to go to Gray’s house, making sure to bring anything he’d need because he had no idea how long he’d stay there. He’d said his peace; it really was all in Lucy’s hands now.

Back in her office, Lucy dropped back down into her chair as the full weight of what just transpired hit her like a ton of bricks. She cradled her face in her hands as the anger that had fueled her response suddenly mixed with sadness. Tears flowed free. Did that really just happen?! She could hear Natsu moving around in the bedroom, the opening of drawers, the closet, the zipping sound of the suitcase, each and every step driving a knife deeper and deeper. How dare he tell her to stop writing! This was her dream! Her livelihood! Why couldn’t he just support her instead of acting like a child who wasn’t getting attention!

When she heard Natsu walking towards the front door area, Lucy raced out of the room to confront him one last time.

“Walk out that door and we’re through!” She screamed. “Do you hear me? We’re through!”

Natsu ignored her words knowing it was the anger talking… hoping it was just the emotions fueling her rage. “I’ll be at Gray’s,” he simply responded with a hint of sadness in his tone. “You should really think long and hard about this Lucy, because if not, you’ll lose a lot more than you realize.” And with that, he closed the front door behind him.

Lucy crumpled to the ground and wailed— raged, banging the floor with her fists as the sobbing overtook her. She truly could not understand what brought this on. Hadn’t she been a good wife?! Faithful! Hard working! What more did he want?! All she was doing was trying to make it in the cut-throat world of publishing. Does he not understand how hard it is to make it in that world?! She pulled her phone from her pocket and started to dial Levy’s phone number. But just as she got to the last two numbers, she stopped. It was already 1 am, and it would be rude to wake her friend up. Lucy sniffled and hung her head in shame before dragging herself back towards the bedroom. She’ll just call in the morning.

When Levy answered the phone, Lucy was slightly taken aback by the response. Not a hello, just a, ‘I wondered when you’d call.’ Evidently the woman was expecting it, but she was too tired to let it add to her problems. She hadn’t slept much after Natsu left— no surprise. She was still angry, but also confused, sad, and just mentally drained of life. Her friend agreed to come over in a bit, so Lucy dragged herself into the shower hoping it would make her feel better.

“Wow, you don’t look good,” Levy remarked at her friend.

“Hi to you too,” Lucy mumbled as she moved to the side to let her friend in. “Who would after a fight?”

Once settled on the couch, Levy went straight to the point before Lucy could even begin. “I already know what this is about. I know Natsu’s side, so start with yours.”

“Wow— okay, well—” Lucy pulled her legs up and tucked them underneath her body in a protective mode. “He tried to tell me to stop writing and I thought that was bullshit,” she said bluntly.

Levy’s brow raised. “Is that exactly what he said? To stop writing?”

“W-Well no, but that what he implied!”

“What did he say exactly?”

Lucy looked away, a scowl growing on her face and to hide the renewed moisture in her eyes. “He said I’m pushing everyone away.”

“And you don’t agree?”

“No! I’m not choosing my career over everyone! It’s ridiculous to even imply that I would!”

“Lu, do you still love your husband?”

“Of course, I love him!”

“Are you sure he knows you still love him?”

“I—” Lucy crossed her arms over her chest and sunk further into the couch mumbling. “I don’t see why he wouldn’t.”

“I can tell you, he doesn’t. Lu, you’ve pushed all of us away.”

“So, you’re taking his side?!”

“No. I’m giving you reality. You’ve been wrapped up in your fictional world so much that you’ve forgotten this one and the real people in it.”

“I—” Lucy turned away to hide the tears slowly starting to trickle down her face. “I never meant to…”

“I know…” Levy placed a hand on her friends leg. “Lu, we all know. He knows, but he’s hurting and it’s in your power to fix this.”

“But how?! I can’t just stop writing. I have deadlines and— you know, its a lot of work to put a story together.”

“You have to find a balance. Right?” Levy coaxed. “You have to take breaks. You have to relax sometimes. Natsu’s not asking you to stop, and he knows there will be times you really can’t stop. But it can’t be all the time, and right now it’s all the time.”

“I know…”

“Girl when was the last time you…” Levy wiggled her brows and grinned. “You know.”

Lucy blushed. “Too long.”

“Well?!” Levy laughed. “Are you finally getting our point?”

“Yeah,” Lucy sighed. “I got tunneled vision.”

Levy leaned in, adding pressured from the hand on Lucy’s leg and a softening in her voice. “And it put your marriage in jeopardy. But it’s not too late to fix it.”

The tears exploded from Lucy. “I told him… when he left, I-I told him don’t come back.” She buried her face in her hands as the sobbing took control. “I-I was screaming at him… so angry, I just lost it and—”

Levy pulled Lucy into a hug. “Shhh,” she held tight. “I’m sure he knew you didn’t mean it. Shh, it’s okay. Sometimes we say things we don’t mean when we’re mad. But you can still get him back, I’m certain of it.”

“H-how?!” Lucy sobbed into Levy’s shoulder. “He’s gotta be so mad at me!”

“Hun, Natsu’s more sad then mad. He needs to feel like you still love him.” Levy pulled away and cupped Lucy’s cheeks, staring, searching the woman’s eyes. “Can you tell him you love him?”

“I can tell him I love him,” Lucy sniffled.

“Then go tell him that!” She hugged her friend. “You’ll be okay Lu, you two are meant to last.”

“Thanks, Levy.”

“He’s at Gray’s right? Want me to drive you?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Levy smiled. “Now clean up a bit, I’ll wait in the car.”

The whole ride over to Gray’s house was the most nerve wracking experience in Lucy’s life. As she sat there huddled in Levy’s passenger seat, all the ways she could ever apologize tried to funnel through her head. She was a writer, and yet for the first time in a long time, all the words dried up or mashed together like a broken verse. Levy did her best to keep Lucy calm, reminding her that it’s all about being honest— just let your heart do the talking for once and not her head.

“You got this,” Levy patted Lucy’s shoulder before she exited the vehicle.

Lucy sure hoped she did. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Seconds ticked by and with each chime, all the weight and worry crept closer to sending her over. He was mad. Too mad. He probably won’t answer…

Finally someone did. “You came?” Natsu’s voice was soft and low, his eyes still bloodshot and worn.

“I came,” Lucy hung her head in shame. “I’m sorry— F-For everything, Natsu please come home, I miss you. I love you more than my job, and I’m gonna make it up to you.”

“You always say that Lucy…”

Ouch. Straight through her heart. The tears broke free again as her knees weakened, causing her to fall against him. Natsu caught her, and she clung to him, gripped to his shirt. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please come home! I love you! Natsu please come home! I can change! I promise I’ll change!”

That’s when she felt his hold truly tighten around her body and his head come to rest against her own. Lucy sobbed harder from the acceptance, pouring her heart in her words. “I love you… I love you so much, I’m so sorry….”

Natsu cradled her head and closed his eyes, voice soft with an upbeat to its tone. “Now there’s the woman I married.”

He held Lucy tightly until her sobbing slowed, eventually pulling away just enough to wipe the tear trails away. “Shall we go home now?”

Lucy nodded. “Please….”

[heauxplesslydevoted]

Under My Skin (Ethan x MC)

Warning: 18+, NSFW

Summary: Set in the middle of chapter 6, Ethan and Naomi have it out over the current state of the diagnostics team.

Tags: @colourmeshy @virtualrain202 @fanmantrashcan @writinghereandthere @ao719 @x-kyne-x @paulfwesley @ramseyandrys @a-i-n-a-a-s-h @perriewinklenerdie @aworldoffandoms @thatcatlady0716 @drakewalker04 @canknot @hatescapsicum @lapisreviewsstuff @akacalliope @senseofduties @badchoicesposts @ethandaddyramsey @the-soot-sprite @chasingrobbie @zodiacsign1 @choices-lurker @miyakokurono @trappedinfandoms @my-heart-beats-for-ya @adrian-motherfucking-raines @riverrune ~v~

Naomi stares at the textbook in front of her, eyes tired and blurry. She checks the time on her cell phone and 3:22 AM stares back in bold, white letters. Craning her head slightly, she spots Ethan standing at his kitchen island, looking at something on his laptop. 

She never thought she’d be back in his apartment, but he invited the entire diagnostics team over so they could get some research done on Leland Bloom’s case. Ethan wants it to be solved as quickly as possible, and he wants to be rid of the tech billionaire, so after work they all congregated in his apartment, eating Chinese food, drinking wine, passing around textbooks and throwing out theories. 

They’ve been at it for almost 6 hours now. 

The energy in the room is off. Ethan’s been pissed ever since the board told him they’d need to be for-profit and start accepting wealthy clients and potential donors, and everyone feels it. June, Baz, and Naomi have been walking on eggshells around him, but aside from occasional snark from Naomi, they’ve been extremely curt.

Jenner likes her though. The golden retriever took a shine to her the moment she crossed the threshold to Ethan’s condo, sniffing at her feet and attaching himself to her hip. He’s now lounging with her, head in her lap and she pours over this book, and she’s glad. The friendly dog provides an excellent distraction and Naomi is thankful, because his owner currently sucks.

Naomi has dealt with a lot of Ethan’s moods before: upset, defeated, angry, happy, the works. But she’s never had his ire directed at her before. They’re in this mess because of her, and it’s a tricky space to occupy. It’s not fun.

“As much as I love reading, if I look at another word, I think my brain might melt,” June says, breaking the tense silence. She stifles a yawn.

“I’ve tapped out for the night as well,” Baz adds. “I’ve looked up every possible kidney and bladder disease and disorder known to mankind. I’m on sensory overload. I think it’s time I go home.”

Ethan looks up from his laptop. He knows his team is probably exhausted. He can’t believe they’ve actually stayed over this long. “Well, thank you for staying. Go home, get some rest, I’ll see you at the hospital.”

June and Baz gather their belongings and all of the study material they brought along with them, returning Ethan’s living room to its original tidy state. Muttering goodbyes, the two of them exit the apartment. 

And then there were two. Naomi ignores the tension, ignoring the fact that they haven’t been alone together in over a week. Instead, she buries her face in her book, trying to focus on the words.

Ethan doesn’t bother sparing Naomi another glance before asking, “You didn’t want to leave with them?”

“Why, are you about to go to bed?”

“No.”

“Then, no.” She’s not going to stop now, and give him the satisfaction of thinking she’s given up for the night. Her stubbornness won’t allow it. “I don’t want to disrupt the process. I want this guy diagnosed and treated as badly as you do.”

Ethan scoffs. “I doubt it.”

Naomi has been giving as good as she gets when it comes to the passive aggressive snark, but it’s just exhausting at this point. She refuses to be his emotional punching bag any longer. She whips around in her seat. “God, is being a petulant little crybaby a second full-time job for you?”

That manages to get Ethan’s full attention. He levels a cool glare at the young resident, eyebrow raised in challenge. “You’ve gotten real comfortable calling me out of my name recently. Care to repeat that, Valentine?”

“You heard me loud and clear, Ramsey. You’re being a petulant little crybaby. You’ve been trying to pick a fight with me for the past 2 weeks. Look, I apologized, multiple times, for going behind your back or over your head, but I will not apologize for doing what I believe is right, not just for the team, but the hospital.”

“And you’re an insubordinate know-it-all!” Ethan shoots back. “You’re the type to touch the hot stove despite being repeatedly told not to because you think you’re a special snowflake who’s above getting burned. You lack foresight and analytical thought and self-preservation.”

Naomi recoils, having not expected Ethan to snap at her like that. “Excuse me?”

Jenner recognizes the change in tone between both adults. Not wanting to be caught in the crossfire, he moves from his spot on the couch and trots out of the living room, disappearing into the hallway.

“You thought this was going to be easy, that patients would just come flocking to us, but look at us, and everything would be perfect. We’re part of some social media...something or another’s video diary, we’re competing with a subpar hospital for patients despite being better than them, wasting time and resources because he wants to treat this like a reality show contest, and who knows what’s next, because you’ve opened Pandora’s box. We’re whoring ourselves out to the highest bidder, and the integrity and core foundation of this team has been compromised. So please spare me the martyr act, Naomi, and while you’re at it, please remember that I’m still your boss the next time you want to spout off at the mouth.”

Naomi’s hands are shaking, and she can practically feel the anger boiling in her blood. The nerve of this man. She stands up, ignoring the heavy book that fall out of her lap and onto the floor as she does so. She charges over to him, and sizes him up. Ethan’s almost a foot taller than her, but Naomi doesn’t care about the height disparity. She tilts her head back so she can look him in the eye.

“I’m not a martyr, but you’re a self righteous hypocrite. You’ve been pouting and waxing poetic about Naveen’s mission when you were the first one to mess with his legacy.”

Ethan’s nostrils flare at the accusation. “Excuse me?”

“Last year, you got into bed with Declan Nash and big pharma, compromising your own shaky moral code in order to save the life of one person. I’m trying to keep the team around in order to save a lot more people than just Naveen!”

“That was different!” Ethan argues. It doesn’t even feel right coming out of his mouth, but they’re far too deep in the argument for him to do anything besides dig his toes in.

“The only difference is you were the one in control then. But because it is my idea, you’re rejecting it. You’re being completely unreasonable here, Ethan. We’re standing in the middle of a sinking ship. Edenbrook is in trouble. My friends and I didn’t get our new salaries upon becoming residents, there’s talk of them shutting down the free clinic, and they’ll be coming after our team next. Who knows, maybe they’ll decide that mental health isn’t important and the entire psychiatric department should go. And then the nurses. And then they’ll start ordering less and less supplies, just to stay above water. And maybe you don’t care, because you’re Ethan Ramsey, you’re so wealthy that you only get a one dollar salary from the hospital, you’re established, your livelihood isn’t on the line, and I’m sure any hospital in the world would kill to employ you, but the rest of us? The little guys? We don’t have that option, so again, if you’re looking for me to kiss your ass and grovel because I made an executive decision, you’re going to be looking for a mighty long time.”

Ethan studies her, his gaze coolly fixated on her as she rants because he’s waiting for the second she stops talking, so he can jump back into his own argument. He realizes that it’s not an effective way to debate, and he falters slightly.

“What’s wrong?” Naomi goads, her voice taking on a singsong tone. She’s embroiled in the fight now. “Cat got your tongue?”

In his 37 years of living, Ethan can confidently say Naomi Valentine is the most infuriating woman he’s ever met. A stubborn, impulsive, hot-head with a smart mouth. 

And fuck, he’s made a mistake.

Her mouth. Now his gaze is fixated on it, her full lips that she’s repeatedly bitten down on during this argument, the tackiness of her lip gloss, the way her tongue darts in and out.

Their argument is now the furthest thing from his mind, and he’s actually annoyed by it. What is it about this…woman that completely bewitches him? He wants to argue, not be transfixed on how pretty she is. She doesn’t even have to do anything and he’s under her spell again. 

A sharp jab in the middle of his chest pulls Ethan back to reality. He looks down and realizes that Naomi poked him in the chest, out of anger or to get his attention, he’s not sure.

“Hey!” The fact that he’s ignoring her only makes her more incensed. He started this fight, he doesn’t get the right to dissociate and shut down in the middle of it. “Have you listened to a word I just said?”

“No,” Ethan answers honestly. Naomi’s eyes darken at the response. He didn’t say that to piss her off further, but he won’t lie and say he doesn’t enjoy the sight.

He can tell she’s going to launch into another tirade, one that’s completely separate from their original issue, because that’s just how things are between them; they spiral before either of them knows what’s happening.

Before she can even fix her mouth to call him another name, his hand cups her jaw, tilting her head back, and he slants his mouth over hers, kissing her fiercely.

She gasps. This is the first time he’s ever caught her off guard and initiated a kiss. She’s usually the one to be in control.

All too quickly, Ethan pulls back, locking eyes with the young woman in front of him. She’s dazed, chest heaving and eyes glazed over.

“Did you do that to get me to stop talking?”

“No, I kissed you because I wanted to. But the fact that it got you to stop running your mouth is a personal bonus.”

Naomi huffs, but doesn’t say anything else. God, he could be such an asshole at times.

“I want to do it again,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. His blue eyes pierce into her own, and it suddenly becomes hard to focus on anything other than him. “Can I?”

She doesn’t know why it’s so sexy, him asking for permission, but she feels the butterflies in her stomach rumble at the question. She’s barely able to nod her head before Ethan launches himself at her, sending her flying back into the kitchen counter.

It’s so different from any other kisses they’ve shared. This one she can feel all the way down in her toes. His tongue darts out, gliding against her bottom lip and demanding access to her mouth, which she eagerly grants him.

Everything about him invades her senses: the feel of his calloused hands touching her jaw, the scratch of his beard against her face, the smell of his cologne (something by Gucci that she’s been yet to narrow down), his taste (she can still taste the wine on him, even though he drank it earlier), his sounds (the little groans that only she’s privy to, always gravelly and smooth, that make her knees buckle). It all culminates into this one man that is so all-consuming, it makes her lose her mind.

The kisses become shorter, more teasing, allowing Naomi the opportunity to actually breathe. He leaves kisses along her jaw and neck, making her whimper.

Ethan wraps an arm around Naomi’s waist and spins them, pushing her against the wall. She winces upon contact. “Warn a girl next time.”

“You want to know what’s been on my mind recently?” Ethan asks, nipping at Naomi’s earlobe.

“W-What?”

His hands find purchase underneath the grey Henley she’s wearing and he lifts it up. Her stomach clenches under his touch and it’s maddening just how responsive she is to him. “I haven’t been able to get the sight of you out of my mind since I came to pick you up from your apartment the other day.” With trembling fingers, Naomi helps him remove the shirt, and it’s tossed somewhere behind them.

She’s not wearing the grey bra he saw the other day, this one is a soft pink, and he groans at how it contrasts against her skin. There isn’t a color that doesn’t look good on her. “I stood there…” he only pauses to place opened mouthed kisses on her collarbone. “...like a floundering idiot…” this time he kisses slightly lower, earning a sharp inhale from Naomi. The noise does nothing to soothe the erection straining in his jeans. “...while you decided to tease me.”

“You’re the one who decided to stay,” Naomi shoots back with a shrug. “So I had to put on a little show.” He hums in agreement. His tongue darts out, flattening over her lace covered nipple. “Fuck, just take it off!”

“You still have no patience,” Ethan observes. He yanks at the material, until he hears a loud tear.

“That’s La Perla!”

Ethan blinks, struggling to find the significance in that statement. Was it supposed to mean something to him? “Okay?”

“It was expensive, you jerk!”

“I’ll buy you 10 more,” he replies with a shrug before resuming his previous activity, pulling one of her nipples between his lips, sucking lightly. Naomi’s breath comes out in quick bursts, and it’s becoming harder for her to stay grounded to reality. She reaches out, wanting to touch him, but he intercepts, catching her wrist. “Hands to yourself, Valentine.”

Ethan’s fingers make work of the button holding her jeans together, and he drags down the zipper. He yanks at her jeans with the same care he afforded her shirt and bra, tugging them down until they pool at her feet. Naomi does the rest of the work, hopping around until the pants are fully off.

“You and the thin scraps you call underwear, have been driving me insane all week,” Ethan confesses. “The other day when I came to pick you up, part of me was so mad at you because of your blatant defiance, but the other part of me wanted to push you onto that bed, and do very, very inappropriate things to you.”

The wetness that floods her panties is overwhelming. She clenches her thighs together in hopes of alleviating some of the tension, but it doesn’t help. Figuring out a new strategy, she wraps a leg around his waist, pulling him flush to her. She rolls her hips, grinding into him. The growl that escapes his lips only fuels her and strokes her ego. “You should’ve.”

Ethan kisses her again, reveling in the needy way Naomi claws at him. Her fingers are desperate, fingering into his t-shirt, twisting at the fabric. He’s unsure if she wants to take it off, or if she’s impatient enough to say ‘fuck it,’ and just rip it.

Whatever the case, he doesn’t let her continue. Grabbing both of her hands, he forces them on either side of her. “You really do have a problem with listening. No. Touching.”

The gruffness in his voice sends a shiver down her spine, but whatever rebellious side of her that wants to challenge the command is squelched with one look into his eyes. She can tell he means business and now isn’t the time to challenge his authority.

With restraint she didn’t know she had, Naomi places her palms on the hall behind her, and she stays as still as she can.

“Good girl.” Ethan smirks and drops her hands. He untangles himself from her and steps back an inch to admire his work. “You followed directions for once.”

Whatever smart aleck reply that was about to fly from her mouth is stifled by Ethan pulling her soaked underwear down and slipping two digits past her folds. The noise she lets out is a mixture of a high pitched yelp and a strangled moan, something that threatens to choke her.

The pace he sets is random and uneven, never giving Naomi a chance to settle into a rhythm, and she wonders if this is his way of punishing her, keeping her keyed up and writhing on him for what feels like eternity, trapped in her own form of purgatory.

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, and bucks her hips wildly into his hand, trying to keep pace with him.

“Stop doing that,” Ethan demands, using his free hand to pull her lip out of her mouth. “I want to hear you, Rookie.”

Something about the use of her former nickname makes her moan, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by Ethan.

“You like the nickname,” he states. “It’s funny, you know.  You take every opportunity to defy me, argue with me, and push my buttons, yet you get off on me controlling you.”

She can’t focus. He’s too close, it feels too good, and her brain can’t function properly under these conditions. He presses forward, the heel of his palm pressing into her clit, earning a hiss.

“Admit it.”

At this point Naomi would admit to committing armed robbery if it meant he’d keep doing this. She nods frantically. “Yes, Doctor.” He groans at the use of his title, and he pumps harder, curling his fingers inside of her. 

Naomi stands on tiptoes and desperately claws at the wall behind her. “Fuck Ethan, please!”

“Please, what? What do you want?” His lips find her neck again, and he sucks on her pulse point, only making things more hazy. “Use your words, Rookie.”

She wants a lot of things. She wants to cry out, she wants to dig her nails into his back until she draws blood, she wants him to keep talking her through this, his gruff voice in her ear as she shatters around him.

Unfortunately, Naomi cannot form a coherent sentence to save her life. She just rolls her hips, shamelessly grinding herself into his hand. “I...I…” The pleasure mounts, building in the pit of her stomach, spreading out. She’s so close, she can almost taste it. 

“Do you want to cum for me?”

“Yes! Yes, yes, please, I want–” Ethan rewards her for her honesty and his thumb drags into her clit and he rubs the sensitive nub in tight, quick circles. That’s all it takes, and she orgasms with a strangled cry and she’s thankful Ethan is right here because he holds her upright as her legs momentarily give out.

When Naomi regains the ability to stand on her own, Ethan lets go and slowly removes his fingers. Moving fast, Naomi grabs his hand, and without breaking eye contact with him, she slides the two digits into her mouth, licking them clean.

Ethan’s next breath is a shaky gasp that leaves his lung far too quickly. “Fuck, Rookie.”

“Why don’t we move this to the bedroom?” Naomi suggests, releasing his fingers with a loud pop.

Ethan shakes his head. “No.”

He registers the confusion on her face, but Ethan doesn’t give her a chance to respond. He grabs her by the waist and kisses her again, walking them towards the living room. He only breaks the kiss to pull his t-shirt over his head, and it joins the growing pile of discarded clothing scattered around. Naomi helps him speed the process along, getting rid of his belt and popping the button on his jeans. Her fingers hook into the belt loops of the pants and she pulls them down.

Before she can do anything else, Ethan stops her wandering hands. “Wait, wait.”

“Wait for what?”

Ethan knocks his forehead against hers and he sighs deeply. “Naomi, if you don’t want to do this, please stop me now.”

She thinks it’s cute that he’s giving her an out, but she doesn’t need it. Her fingers slip past the waistband of his soft cotton boxers, a warm dainty hand wrapping around him.

Ethan shudders as a warmth spreads through him at the touch of her hand, and he mentally curses himself. He pushes her hand away.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I’m not cumming into your hand.” Ethan spins Naomi around and bends her over the arm of his couch. 

While it’s not the desk in his office, Naomi won’t complain. She feels one of his calloused hands trace the length of her spine and her eyes flutter shut in anticipation.

No patience left, Ethan tugs down his underwear, letting the material pool at his ankles. Without another word, he lines herself up at Naomi’s entrance and thrusts into her all at once. He groans at the sensation.

Naomi has never been more thankful for couch cushions, as they muffle the scream that escapes her.

“Fuck, Naomi.” He digs his fingers into her hips before pulling out and slamming back into her. He doesn’t give her any time to adjust, but she doesn’t mind. They both know patience isn’t her forte. “You’re...so...tight.” His words are punctuated by sharp thrusts that threaten to steal the air straight from her lungs.

He leans forward slacking against her, but Naomi welcomes the weight. His beard scrapes against her shoulder blade, his breath warm against her ear, his fingers which are no doubt going to leave a bruise, all of it makes her dizzy, and god, this isn’t going to last much longer.

His thrusts become sloppier, more frenzied as the pleasure mounts, his blood boiling in his veins like molten lava. The only thing he can hear is the sound of the skin slapping, and his ragged breaths.

“Are you close?” He asks. But Naomi can’t think, let alone actually speak words, even if something monosyllabic would suffice. Why does he keep trying to make her speak? Her head drops with a thud and she mumbles something incoherent.

“For someone who had so much shit to talk earlier, you’re mighty silent.” Letting go of her hip, Ethan tangles a hand in her hair, yanking it back so she can’t hide her face in the cushions anymore. His other hand reaches around and he rolls her clit with his middle finger. Still way too sensitive from her last orgasm, she thrusts back, clawing at the couch with her nails, but he holds her in place, refusing to let her move.

“Ethan, fuck, don’t stop!” The words fly out all at once, shaky, fast and jumbled, but it’s all Ethan needs. 

With a burst of energy he didn't know he possessed, he drives into her, plunging deeper. “Cum for me, Rookie.”

Naomi screams. Loudly, and she’s sure his neighbors might be very annoyed, but she doesn’t care. Everything goes white behind her eyes as he all but pushes her over the edge. She clenches around him and Ethan hisses as she’s holding him in a vice-like grip. A few quick thrusts later, and he’s joining her in ecstasy, spilling inside of her. The hand holding her hair tightens for a second, then relaxes.

She’s pretty sure she blacked out for some period of time because when Naomi is finally able to focus, they’re no longer obscenely bent over the arm of Ethan’s couch. They’re on the floor, in the cramped space between the couch and the coffee table. 

She’s hot and sticky and absolutely exhausted. She places her hand over her heart, willing it to stop beating so erratically. Stealing a glance, Naomi peers up and looks at Ethan. He looks as disheveled as she feels, his hair tousled, lips swollen, chest and neck flushed red.

Her voice is horse and completely shot to hell when she finally speaks, “If that’s how our fights are going to play out from now on, I’ll let you pick more fights with you. And I’m a Cancer, we’re stubborn people.”

“I think we can find a happy medium somewhere.”

Naomi rolls over, until she’s nestled into his side and her head is on his chest. She can feel his heart beating rhythmically under her cheek. “Are we still fighting?”

“No.”

“Are you still mad at me?” He doesn’t answer the question right away, and a sense of dread fills her.

“I was never really mad at you,” Ethan admits after a long bout of silence. “I’m just mad at the entire situation. I’m mad at the budget cuts, I’m mad at our country’s healthcare system, I’m annoyed with your inability to listen to me. I’m mad at Leland Bloom’s obscene wealth and the fact that he gets to dangle his money in our faces like we’re horses waiting for carrots.”

“You made the right call, Naomi,” he continues. “But it’s a call you shouldn’t have been forced to make in the first place. I’m sorry for making you carry the brunt of my misplaced anger.”

“Apology accepted. And since we’re apologizing, I’m sorry for calling you a petulant little crybaby.”

Ethan chuckles. “Do you apologize for calling me a goddamn diva, as well? Don’t forget ‘entitled jackass’ and ‘spoiled child’.”

“You co-signed ‘spoiled child’ so I am not apologizing for it.”

“Fair point,” Ethan concedes.

Blindly searching with an outstretched hand, Naomi finds her cell phone and checks the time. She has to be at work in 2 hours, though she’d much rather get into Ethan’s bed and go to sleep.

“That happy medium that you mentioned? I think I have it figured out.”

Ethan raises an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “Oh, yeah?”

“First and foremost, I promise to never go over your head again, if you agree to do a trial run on whatever ideas I may come up with. You can’t shoot me down immediately.”

“I’m...willing to agree to that.”

“And once this all settles down and the hospital isn’t on the verge of complete financial collapse, maybe we can convince the board to only take on one or two billable patients a quarter.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea.” 

“Yeah, I tend to have those every once in a while,” Naomi teases.

Ethan stares at Naomi as she laughs at her own poor joke. Everything about her is an anomaly to him. She blew into his life a little over a year ago and here he is, willing to adapt his entire ethical code for her. And here they are, entangled together as if he didn’t spend 2 months on a different continent in order to get her out of his head. What is it about her that he can’t shake?

He gently cups her jaw and kisses her as if she’s a precious gem, like he didn’t just try to devour her. “What are you doing to me?”

Naomi smirks, recalling that it’s the same question he asked her in Miami. “Hopefully something good.”

He kisses her again. “Better than good actually.”

Realization washes over her that once she leaves this apartment, things are going to go back to being the way they were. He’ll go back to pushing her away. “So does this mean you want to have another reset?”

The question throws him off, but he soon understands what she means. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” Ethan repeats. If there’s a happy medium to be found between his team and the board, maybe there’s one for him and Naomi.

She doesn’t allow herself to get swept up by his words, but instead she braces herself for the chance that he pulls the rug from under her feet. “Well, what does that mean?”

“It means you and I are going to take a shower together, go to work, and we deal with our obnoxious patient. And after work, you’re going to put on something fancy because I’m taking you out to dinner. How does that sound, Dr. Valentine?”

Naomi can’t stop an annoying grin from spreading across her face. “I think it sounds pretty damn good, Dr. Ramsey.”

[toovirgins]

Le Rêve - Part 6

Summary: After an unproductive studio session, George and Ringo leave in a hurry. John later returns to find his glasses and another unwelcome surprise.

Things were different now.

Not entirely—they still had the band, the songwriting partnership, the united front for the media and press. It’s just that now, the tour was completed with determination and efficiency, becoming just another box to check off. Now, Paul relied much more heavily on George’s suggestions, and in a fit of jealousy or competition (Who could be sure? What was the difference?), John did the same. Now, Lennon-McCartney hardly wrote together and never wrote alone, needing George or Ringo to be in the space as a buffer.

When Paul had come back into the room that night, George knew he’d found John. He entered wordlessly, immediately throwing all of his belongings into his trunk, and George didn’t have the heart to ask where he was going. He and Ringo simply stared, too afraid to test the waters that were more tumultuous than they’d ever seen.

When Paul had finished packing, he’d looked pointedly at Ringo until the man understood. Ringo pushed himself up out of the armchair and followed him out of the room. He’d returned only minutes later with a sad smile in George’s direction that he assumed was meant to be reassuring, but instead was plain unsettling—a visual marker of the notion that something had changed within the group. Ringo had unpacked his things on Paul’s side, and that was that.

They weren’t allowed to talk about what happened. It was this unspoken rule, but a rule nonetheless—which was rather fine with George at first, anyway. But as time dragged on and the air grew no less hostile, George figured that he would rather talk about it for hours if it meant getting the old dynamic back. He was torn between two opposite poles of the spectrum, a futile effort of trying to please both Lennon and McCartney. There was a bitterness flourishing within him at the recognition of his usefulness only when they didn’t need each other. But objectively speaking, he was given more say, more credit, more songs. He couldn’t complain. Or he shouldn’t complain.

Something about the unspoken rule led George and Ringo not to talk about it with each other, either. George knew Ringo was absolutely dying to; at every uncomfortable or unnatural interaction between John and Paul, George knew a concerned glance from Ringo was coming his way. Ringo needed to talk about things, and George felt right guilty in deliberately ignoring the desire. He was just holding out hope that if no one addressed it in any context, the universe would wash away that it even happened, and the band—their livelihoods—would live on.

The quick succession of knuckles against the side of his head jerked him out of his daydream (nightmare?).

“Hello?” Ringo quipped. “Anyone home?”

George scowled and slumped deeper into his seat. “Barely.”

He and Ringo had been dicking about in the studio for the past half-hour. It was just the two of them—Paul hadn’t shown up, and John, already in a sour mood for the day, had cursed the man under his breath and stalked off. That had been about an hour ago, and when John didn’t return, the remaining boys gave up trying to focus. After a brief quarrel over who dropped the ball on bringing the marbles and playing cards, Ringo suggested a friendly competition over who could butcher “She Loves You” on their respective instruments in a funnier fashion. Which, credit where credit was due, was incredibly entertaining; only minutes before now, George had been rolling on the ground in laughter when Ringo had seemingly pulled a bicycle horn from his arse and honked it in place of the famed McCartney-Harrison “Ooh’s”.

However, as many things do when one has an attention span of about two minutes, the game soon grew tired—the song was only so long—and the pair had resorted to quiet, mindless fiddling on their instruments. In turn, the lapse into silence and thought had led George down his aforementioned neuro-rabbithole.

“Are you all right?” Ringo questioned, lifting an eyebrow in his direction. “Y’just seem a bit… off lately, I dunno.” There was an urge there, a pull. Ringo was nearly leaned forward off his chair.

“Off how?” George mused, entertaining the idea a bit. His tone was light, but his expression was stern. It was clear that they were both acknowledging the Unspoken Thing; it was also clear that it would remain as such.

Ringo bit his lip and shrugged back, evidently noting George’s reservations. “Y’know. Quiet-like. At least, more so than usual.”

George scoffed at the referenced nickname. The Quiet Beatle. As if! Give him a question worth answering, and they’d see who the quiet one was then. Certainly not him. “I’ve just got a lot on me mind,” he muttered, lifting a shoulder.

“You’re more in demand than before,” Ringo pointed out bluntly.

A rub of the temples didn’t do much to soothe the stress in his body. The weight of the emotional and mental burdens he’d carried over the last few weeks was beginning to settle on his shoulders with Ringo’s prodding. A sudden exhaustion clouded over him. “I know.”

“Is that bad?”

George looked at his friend with dull eyes. “Should it be?”

He didn’t need an answer, but it still stung a bit not to get one.

After a long beat of silence, Ringo hastily changed the subject. “Maybe we should call it quits for the day,” he suggested with a half-hearted grin, tapping the bass drum lightly and modestly. It was almost a tick at this point, the drummer seemingly wholly unaware of his actions.

George decided to play along with the shift in energy. “I agree, Ritchie. Feels a bit useless without Their Royal Highnesses around to conduct us,” he added with a roll of the eyes and a giggle.

Ringo hummed in agreement. “Oh, John, oh, Paul, please save us! We can’t even remember what album we’re supposed to be working on!” He cackled at his own joke.

“Help!, isn’t it?” George partly ignored the dramatic flair and turned to flick off the amp. He caught Ringo’s sparkling stare as he reached to unplug his Rickenbacker.

“No, mate. We’ve done that one already. Y’know, the whole ‘film’ bit?”

George blinked. “Right.”

“George Harrison, foremost Beatles expert,” Ringo chided. He glared reproachfully at an imaginary camera. “Don’t do drugs, kids.”

“Piss off!” George tried to glower, overruled by the laughter in his voice. Ringo offered him a hand and pulled him up out of the chair.

“Fancy a smoke?”

George’s lips drew into a wide grin. Based on the context, he knew exactly what kind of smoke he was implying. “Race ya to the car.”

—

“Mind telling me where everyone ran off to?”

Paul lifted an accusatory gaze in John’s direction as the man entered the room, his brow deeply furrowed in concentration.

“How should I know?” John answered, scanning the room fervently. His eyes hadn’t met Paul’s yet, Paul noted with a twinge of annoyance.

“Was there not a session today?” Paul hinted, irked by the idea that John too may have tried to skip out. Sure, Paul had been late, but at least he’d intended on coming.

John paused for a moment, shooting him a critical glare. “You tell me.”

He didn’t feel like trying to defend himself.

After a long moment of staring expectantly, John realized he wasn’t going to get an answer. He huffed and returned to his search, tipping over a chair to peer underneath it.

Paul rolled his eyes and offered the glasses at arm’s length, clearing his throat to draw the attention. John blushed and hurried over to snatch them up. He quickly stuffed them back into his pocket.

In response to the twinge of curiosity in his gaze, Paul only shrugged. “Left ‘em on the settee over there, you did. Just figured you would return for them sooner or later.”

John grunted in response.

Paul raised an eyebrow as the man began to head for the door. “All right, then. Mind at least telling me where you’re running off to?”

“I just came back for me glasses.”

“Came back?”

“You weren’t there,” John muttered, nearly inaudible. “I left.”

Paul stiffened, viciously reprimanding the sentimental twitch his heart gave to John’s response. “’M just late. Got caught up in traffic, is all.”

It was a silly excuse. John quirked an eyebrow at the boldfaced lie, knowing good and well Cavendish was barely a ten-minute walk. Paul watched him chew his lip for a moment before deciding to let it be.

Paul accepted John’s compliance graciously and returned to tuning his bass. His skin prickled as he felt John’s eyes on him, watching him closely. Tensions were still incredibly high between them, on account of the thing-that-happened-but-“never-happened”—and it was taking a lot of getting used to. The feeling was unsettling; time and again Paul would have to physically restrain himself, ignoring the twitching desire in his hand to touch John or biting back a witty comment that only John would understand. The emotional connection they’d had was gone, or at least dormant, and Paul couldn’t for the life of him figure out what was going through that thick head anymore. It even seemed that Ringo and George had a better guess than him.

It was miserable, really, having to pretend that everything was just dandy. There had been a substantial amount of press upon return from the tour, which was more of an irritation than anything else. There, he could slide into his Paul McCharmly persona, the façade already being somewhat of a character. The lie got quite easy to live when one was already acting. But the media circus was relatively quiet now (as it would ever be), and the hardest part was trying to pretend in front of the three people that knew him better than anyone else alive.

He wasn’t even sure who the pretending was for anymore. It certainly did nothing to quiet his mind or soul.

“What are you working on?” It was a half-arsed effort at conversation, but an effort nonetheless.

“Nothing, yet,” Paul answered, frowning in the direction of his instrument. “I’ve got a bit—real simple, for ‘Wait’. Might add some flare to it, might finish it. Might run it through and absolutely hate it and scrap it. Who knows,” he concluded, almost to himself.

“I think we should talk.” John’s voice, quiet, low.

Paul glanced up at him with a start, desperately trying to mask the surprise on his face. John was looking at him with an odd expression on his face, something Paul couldn’t quite put words to. Only then did he realize that it was the first time the two of them had been alone since the incident.

Heart pounding, he tensed. “When?”

“Now.” The answer was definitive.

“About what?” Paul responded sheepishly.

John’s eyes flashed.

Let’s just forget it ever happened.

Paul felt a sudden wave of stubbornness wash over him, feeling hollow at the abrupt activation of the memory. Of course he couldn’t fucking forget it happened. He couldn’t, and he shouldn’t be expected to. None of them should. Paul noticed the sad, wondering gazes from the other bandmates as well. Sweeping it under the rug had been wholly counterproductive to the entire group (though he didn’t entirely want to test the alternative, either). Best case scenario, the whole thing wouldn’t have happened.

But it did. And life was infinitely worse now because of it.

Paul swallowed hard. This was all John’s fault. Paul could have kept the dream a secret for the rest of his life. A few shameful wanking sessions was probably all it would take to get over it, and while he might look at John a bit differently after, at least John wouldn’t be looking at him differently. About a week of awkwardness would likely ensue, and John would make some offhand comment about how Paul was acting queer, and the two would laugh it off, only one of them knowing how much truth the comment carried. It was John’s fault, because Paul could have figured it out on his own.

“You know what,” John answered coldly.

John wanted to be cold? Paul could do cold. “I really don’t,” he countered with sickeningly false innocence. “What’s got you all worked up, Johnny?”

“Fuck off, Paul, you know what I’m talking about. Don’t try to fuckin’ skirt around it anymore.”

Paul’s heart was hammering in his throat, the blood rushing in his ears. After weeks of drowning in his own head, hearing the words come out of John’s mouth so… dismissively was blindingly infuriating. He had been driving himself mad trying not to talk about it, to think about it, to feel it. He’d shoved the memory down with so much force he’d thought his soul would pop, only to watch it helplessly bubble back to the surface. There was no forgetting it, and there was no addressing it. And now, John was breaking the number one Unspoken Rule of the Unspoken Thing like he never gave a shit about them in the first place.

“Skirting ar-? I’m not skirting around anything. I’m truly blanking, Johnny.” He paused, throat too constricted to swallow the massive lump in it. “Are you sure it’s not something I was supposed to forget?” The comment didn’t have near the effect Paul had hoped.

“Every conversation’s got to turn into a fuckin’ brawl with you, doesn’t it?” John crossed his arms, looking like nothing more than a pissed-off older sibling.

Paul was beside himself. His voice cracked, the words coming out in a near-shriek, but he was so furious that it hardly mattered. “With me? Every conversation is a brawl with me?”

“D’you need to bloody hear it again?” John looked minorly inconvenienced. If he’d had a watch on, he’d be sure to check it right now lazily. His demeanor was utterly vexatious, awakening feelings Paul didn’t even know he had. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this upset with someone.

“You think you get some type of medal, standing up in front of me and acting like none of this matters?” Paul was on his feet now, openly striding towards him. Startled, John stumbled backward a step before smacking his back against the wall. “You want a bleeding award?” Paul raised his tone an octave and fluttered his eyelashes dramatically, a mockery on all levels: “Oh, John, you’re so stony and brave, I bet nothing ever rattles my big, strong man!”

“Fuck you,” John whispered, his eyes begging the conversation to slow down. But Paul was on a roll now, and he’d be damned if he didn’t let out all of the pent-up pain John and John alone had caused over the last few weeks.

“No, fuck you. Do you know how hard it’s been? News flash, John. Not everything is about how you feel. Hard to believe, I know.” John opened his mouth to speak, but Paul cut him off. He was practically on him now, pushing John against the wall as he helplessly cowered under Paul’s alarming tirade.

“Do you know how hard it’s been for me? Trying to figure out if I’m a goddamn queer because of you? And how about the sleepless nights, eh? You’ve had those too, I know it.” A sick sense of pride effloresced in Paul’s chest as John’s eyes shot wide with recognition. “Lying in bed and wondering if you’re not who you thought you were. Wondering what when wrong along the way to make you this way, and what the hell you can do about it now. It’s maddening. And you took my right to get an answer, John.” Paul’s voice broke a bit at the next part. “Talking to you was my only hope at figuring this out and you took it away from me. And now we can’t talk about anything anymore.”

When John started to speak again, Paul lifted a final triumphant hand in his face. “I’m not done. Because let me tell you, Lennon, I don’t care if you need to bawl it out or never think about it again. But don’t stand here and fucking bullshit me like this. I know you.”

John straightened against the wall, eyes flashing with a hatred that almost made Paul’s knees buckle. “You don’t have a bloody clue what’s bullshit. Your whole foundation is bullshit. You’re not pissed at me because you’re upset that our pretty union wasn’t consummated, and thus I robbed you of a chance to explore this bit of newfound sexuality.” John’s tone was mocking, saturated with pretentiousness and exaggeration. “You’re pissed at me because I was just another shag you didn’t get to fully add to your sexual conquests. Grow the fuck up, Paul. You want to talk about knowing each other? I know you. You’re the one who’s bullshitting yourself, not me.”

Attacking John back felt like a safer bet than trying to defend himself. “Like you were there for some miraculous consummation? Some beautiful, heart-wrenching dénouement to a tragic love story? You’re full of it. Don’t come for me like you had some higher ground to speak from. We’re not special, John. We don’t have some kind of cosmic soulmate connection where we can read each other’s minds and desires. You and I, as anything, aren’t going to live happily ever after. Go buy into some other fuckin’ fantasy.”

“You were a mistake,” John spat.

“Mistakes happened,” Paul concluded. “I didn’t.”

John gaped at him as Paul pushed off. His chest was heaving, tight with unrestrained breaths, looking like a cornered animal. Though it was impossible to explain, Paul watched in real time as something shattered in John’s soul. He didn’t know what it was, and it didn’t seem like John knew, either. Paul turned on his heel before he could give the sight any more thought.

“You told me to forget it. So that’s what I’m doing. For good.” Paul stalked back to where his guitar lay on the ground. He began to gather his belongings and pack up for the day. “This conversation is over.”

“So that’s it? You don’t want to talk about it?” John called out to him, planting himself in the doorway as Paul made for the exit.

“Get out of the way, John.”

He held his ground and spoke honestly for the first time in a long, long time. “You’re not gonna talk about it, yeah? That’s fine. Fuckin’ beautiful. I’ll talk about it. I love you.”

[lyriquette]

RWBY farming au

Conceived in the Frosen Steel server, a RWBY farming / hydroponics AU. I’ll probably use some of the ideas in this for Rising Snow. Mostly background with scattered pieces of actual fic. - lilac 

If people don’t mind this format, I’ll probably post similar world-building AUs in the future.  

Featuring: Penny Polendina, Oscar Pine, Whitley Schnee.  

Because of the freezing cold and the years of industrialization in Mantle, Mantle/Atlas soil is incredibly poor for growing plants. Most food product is imported from Vale, and in turn Atlas supports Vale in terms of sharing their technology. It's why the two Kingdoms are more modern in appearance than the other two kingdoms, not to mention that they were originally good allies during the Great War.

In this AU, Watts develops his murder machines first and ends up winning whatever contract Atlas was offering. The Penny Project is later realized by Pietro, and Pietro later resigns as he picks up on the increasing militarization in Atlas as if General Ironwood was preparing something big - and he wanted his daughter not to be involved.

Pietro decides to move down to the Crater in Mantle to facilitate that. That way no one would know about Penny. He then creates a small shop to help repair electronics and create prosthetics for the unfortunate. It’s through this change in locale that Penny learns how bad things are down at Mantle. 

The main reason is food. Though Atlas and Mantle do have greenhouses, they're only able to supply food for a small amount of people - and it's usually just to the rich who want to eat fresh produce up in Atlas. The rest of the food is imported and thus expensive. In a way, food is a means to keep Mantle underneath Atlas's thumb because if its citizens don't work, they can't eat. If they quit, someone else would gladly take that job just to feed themselves and their family. Thus, a cycle of control is created where people simply can't break free of the poor conditions nor could they really complain, because to them it's happening everywhere. 

The SDC is the main actor in that, given their non-essential businesses are everywhere. If they decide to forcibly close down those businesses, many many people would be out of a job and likely die. Whether the government would act or not is a coin flip - the SDC needs Mantle for labor, but Atlas could run effectively without it - they have robots for labor, the rich for funding, and a military arm in the form of Atlas Academy. 

---------------

Most of the Faunus who lived in the Crater did not trust Penny and Pietro at first, but given Pietro's generosity and Penny's kind demeanor, they slowly warm up to them. The White Fang within Atlas is more of a community hub that supports each other because they can't afford to be militant; attacks of SDC buildings end up having extremely bad repercussions on Mantle Faunus which includes unofficial anti-Faunus hiring policies or firings - the whim of the SDC can easily kill a couple thousand of them from that alone. 

----------------

Penny initially started this project, not because she wanted to change the world, but because her father had been getting more sick lately, getting thinner, and starting to get sores in his gums and bleeding more easily. She later on would learn that these were signs of malnutrition - scurvy - things that those living more centrally in Mantle or up in Atlas didn't get but was a problem now because of where they lived. Though buying vitamin supplements did help, it didn't quite replace actual food - and nutrients were often better absorbed and palated in the form of food, especially when it came to the nonessential but still important minerals. 

However, she knew that things simply did not grow in Mantle. And the things that did grow were usually hardy weeds turned poisonous due to absorbing heavy metals from the ground. It was all too common to see a desperate man or woman just collapse shaking from eating too many wild weeds because they couldn't eat anything else. Maybe one day, they could plant enough weeds to help improve Mantle's soil quality, but it didn't help her dad now. 

She's heard of hydroponics before. It wasn't exactly a secret; however, the science was in its infancy stages. Part of it was because people in the food importing business did not want others to grow cheap, domestic food - greenhouses were already bad enough for them. However, the main reason was that people didn't quite know what made plants succeed in growing and creating produce (farmers were the least likely people to work in permanently cold Solitas) - usually the plants failed to germinate, died drooping (overwatering), or end up growing but don't create produce (never bore fruit). Even though there was limited success, the yield would be extremely poor, and the amount of time and energy could've just be used to create another greenhouse instead.

But this was okay for Penny cause all she really had was time and energy. And it wasn't like she was selling food. She just wanted to grow produce, so her dad could eat healthier. 

Her dad supported her efforts by getting the short experiment logs of the initial hydroponics projects at Atlas. And it became clear to Penny that there were many holes in that research with the main factor being that there was not an actual farmer to help with the research. And with the arrogance of Atlasian scientists (Watts being the archetypical example), who would bring a down-to-earth farmer who knew nothing of science and the like? Lacking expertise and knowing that the entirety of Atlas would be of no help, Penny sought the CCT for assistance. 

--------------

Oscar didn't particularly like farming. He wanted to become a Hunter, but his aunt wouldn't let him. Too dangerous, she said. He might end up mixing with the darker elements of Mistral because of it, not to mention the fact he’d be fighting the Grimm on a regular basis. Better to be a farmer in central Mistral with a nice stable income like how his parents and their parents and their parents' parents lived. 

Still, he never complained out loud. After going to school in the morning, he helped worked the fields in the afternoon, the same as the other farmhands like his uncle and his cousins.  He was living under their roof, and he knew it was hard to provide for a thirteen-year old who was just starting his growth spurt. He probably ate more than his aunt and his baby cousins combined now. And their family generously paid for his living conditions without forcing him into anything he didn't want to do. 

As of late, he's been a bit happier with his lot in life. Using the CCT, someone from Solitas had contacted him in regard to farming - about how they wanted to grow things in Mantle and potentially revolutionize the lives of people there. But they couldn't due to the soil being bad. In what way, he didn't particularly know. They discussed the issue with each other through voice-chat, talking about their very different lives and even the possibility of something called hydroponics - honestly, it felt like finding a kindred spirit. And he looked forward to the days he could talk things out with his new friend. 

"Hey, wait. Check this out," Oscar said as he checked the CCT forums, "Your thread got replied too." 

"Really?" said a bewildered voice on the other line. 

"Yeah, a Penny123 is asking about farming in Mantle too. Even mentioned hydroponics." 

"...Let's try bringing this Penny in." 

"You sure, Whitley?" 

"Yeah. As much as I want us to keep the credit, it's not like we're going anywhere right now. Maybe this person will have new ideas." 

==========

So a duo became a trio. And Whitley was right. What Penny brought to the table was the scientific expertise. She might not know how hydroponics actually worked, but she did have the means to analyze the soil content (retrofitting some of her sensors for more specialized purposes) and simply put - she was a scientist. On the other hand, Oscar had the farming expertise - he knew what soils worked well with which crop, the habits of each plant he grew, he knew what plants liked more water and which ones preferred less, and what a plant should like when it was growing well.

Whitley was the odd duck in the group. First of all, he wasn't quite doing it for altruism's sake. He was doing it because he disliked his family - and really hated the Schnee Dust Company, seeing that it's responsible for his mother's drinking, his parents' loveless marriage, Winter abandoning the rest of the family for Ironwood and the Hunters/Huntresses, and Weiss's likely plans to abandon ship on him too (he's angry at her for that, but after having Oscar to confide in, it wasn't as bad as being left alone and isolated completely.) 

He's also responsible for making sure that his two partners weren't murdered in their sleep. Going this route infringes upon the interests of several major corporations including the SDC and the food import companies. Seeds and food products coming from and going to Solitas were tracked very closely. Penny is also given some chilling news from Whitley: people have tried building greenhouses at the Crater before, and all of them were destroyed without a perpetrator to be found.

The danger was serious enough that Oscar was also planning to move to Solitas to not implicate his aunt and uncle when he and Whitley finally started the project in earnest. With Penny around, Oscar potentially had a place to stay (Oscar also was like "i can do heavy lifting, the dishes, cooking, farming, etc" as part of his self-advertisement). 

Even Whitley acknowledges that he himself might not be safe. One wrong move on his part - and well, if his father was able to endure nearly a decade of loveless marriage just to take over the SDC, there's no telling what he'll do when he realizes he's working against his interests. 

Penny needs some time to think. She now knows that her tiny project of letting her father eat better is connected to the livelihoods of so many and also brings a lot of danger along with it. Not just to herself but to her father - her dad would also be a target if things go south. With her partners’ agreement (since it's inevitable Pietro would get wind of things since the project will be occurring in his house), Penny talks to her dad about the hydroponics / farming project. He's worried for her but understands what she wants to do - she's filled with purpose now and wants to help the people out. As much as he's scared for her and doesn't want her to do this, he can't help but feel a bit of pride about his daughter growing up. Still, he makes her promise that as soon as things start looking bad, they'll stop. They'll quit and not look back. He asks to speak to the other two, not quite realizing they're a pair of thirteen-year olds, and extracts the same promise for their sake. 

------

As plans for moving and gathering soil samples are being made, Pietro starts building Floating Array. 

Penny begins dragging several abandoned shipping containers to the "backyard" of their store, saying her dad needed some raw material for experimentation when in reality it's gonna be where the heart of their project is. 

Weiss starts getting worried about her younger, now constantly sneaking around and speaking to the scroll in hushed tones. She overhears part of his conversation - about how he'd get in a lot of trouble for a certain course of action (directly smuggling goods in using his authority) - and worries that he's getting bullied. 

Oscar tells his family that his friend found him a job working as an engineer's assistance in Solitas, and he'd like to stay there for a year. His place of employment has already paid for the transcontinental ticket.

[k-writer1998]

Rebel Hours (15/18)

Kwon Jieun always fit her parents’ image of the “perfect” daughter… at least to their knowledge. Away from prying eyes she was like any other girl living life to the fullest doing what she wants. When a little someone named Bang Chan comes into her life priorities are changed, mistakes are made, and her life finally becomes her own.

Angst this chapter

w.c: 2.2k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      It took a week to get everything in place. Having to make calls and pull strings for the plan, on top of having to keep up with my school work, left me little time to do much else. I texted Chan when I could and he understood, especially with the situation at hand. He’s tried to figure out what exactly I was planning but I wanted to keep him in the dark about most of it. I’m not proud of what I have planned but it’s what needs to be done in order for my parents to listen. Knowing Chan, if he knew how extreme this was he definitely wouldn’t let me do it. Family is a big part of his life and he would hold himself accountable if I lost mine for what I’m about to do.

      Taking a deep breath, I step out of my car and head to my parents’ front door. My nerves were buzzing and it didn’t help that I basically had to schedule an appointment to see my own parents. Mother took the chance to berate me for the "extra work" I caused them before actually giving me a date and time. At the door one of the maids greeted me and escorted me to father’s office before leaving me. I straightened my blazer to give me a smidge more strength after taking a deep breath and entering the room. Father seated in his chair and mother stood beside him, their glares followed me as I took the seat across from them.

“What does an unfilial child want? Going as far as making an appointment,” mother scoffed.

“It’s only fair to do since you both decided to treat my life as an object for transactions.”

“You-”

“Mother please. I think we both know there is some truth to those words.”

“Insolent child, how dare you?!” 

      Father boomed, slamming his hand on his desk. Internally I flinched but on the outside I leveled my gaze with my father’s as sparks flew in the air between us. Focus on the goal, no feelings. After silent affirmation I readdressed my parents.

“Let us discuss what I came here for, my unofficial engagement to Kyunghoon behind my back.”

“Look at this behavior! If we didn’t act, who knows what kind of trouble you would get yourself in. Do you know how much work was put in to cover for you and save your father’s reputation?”

“Mother the articles were harmless aside from a few small comments. There wasn’t much you needed to fix anyways but I will reiterate what I spoke of last time. I am in a relationship and will not be accepting the matchmaking you’ve arranged and definitely not Kyunghoon,” I bit back.

“This is precisely why we made the decision to pair you two up. Kyunghoon and his family are thankfully still willing to agree and that’s what you’re going to do. Do you understand?”

“I understand clearly but that does not change my response. Mother, if you continue to push this matter, I will have to make an extreme move that I believe neither of you would enjoy.”

“Are you threatening your parents right now? Children really are shameless these days… We’ve given you every connection you have, who would dare go against us?”

“Actually there were quite a few interested parties, father. People want to know if things are as perfect behind closed doors as they seem in public.”

      I reached into my purse, pulling out three business cards, and displayed them on father's desk. With trembling eyes, he picked up and read each card before crushing them in his fist. Mother stumbled back to lean against the wall, shocked by my brazen behavior as I continued.

“The interview dates are set. As long as you drop the engagement and allow me to live my life as I wish, without intervening, these interviews will be nothing more than good press to bolster your campaign.”

“You wicked child! Now you want to bite the hand that fed you?! Fine, live as you wish but do not call us your parents because we did not raise a child like you!”

“I apologize for going to the extreme but I keep my words, and I swore to myself I would protect my happiness. I hope one day you’ll accept me for who I am rather than be seen as a tool to support your campaign.”

“Get out. I no longer want to see your face.”

      My father’s words were harsh and short, cutting deep within my heart. I got up and bowed to both of them before turning to walk out but then I stopped. I reached into my purse and contemplated for a moment as I fiddled with the flash drive in the pocket. Walking back to my parents, I carefully placed the flash drive on the desk.

“There is a strong reason why I am against Kyunghoon. I understand that you’ve disowned me but if you’re ever curious about the girl who was your daughter and that reason, it’s all in here.”

      Once I was safely in my car, all tension left my body as frustrated tears poured from my eyes. So many questions spun in my mind. Why were my parents like this? Why don’t they trust me… If I was honest, all that "exposing the truth” was all a bluff. I didn’t have the heart to throw away my parents’ hard work. I’ve seen enough to know that I wasn’t the only one the campaigns were having a toll on. I understand just how much time and effort was put into this, it hurt the most that they believed I was ungrateful and spiteful enough to ignore all of that. All I asked of them was for a little room to just be me, for once in my twenty-two years of life.

      I don’t know how long I sat there like that until my tears finally exhausted themselves. When I looked in the mirror I was a mess as I covered my closed eyes in an attempt to ease the stinging the tears had caused. I needed to get rid of the puffiness and the red rimming my eyes ASAP. I’m meeting Chan later and he’ll already be able to tell that something happened, I don’t want him worrying too much if he sees I cried too. Luckily by the time I reached his university most traces of my tears were gone. As I walked onto the campus grounds Chan called and directed me to his location through the phone. The moment I laid eyes on his figure I put my phone down and weaved through the crowd as I knocked into him, wrapping my arms around him and letting out a sigh.

"That bad?"

      I nod into his chest in reply. He gave me a squeeze before gently pulling away to examine my face. Looking into his eyes, I pulled a smile hoping he didn't notice the lingering puffiness. Thankfully he didn't as a soft smile graced his face.

"If it's that bad did the plan work? It's okay if it didn't, we can figure something else out."

"I'm definitely out of my engagement and they’ll leave us alone so I would say it worked."

"You must've had a hard time, you look drained. Wanna grab a coffee?"

"Yes please."

      The coffee and just spending time with Chan helped soothe my guilt. Guilt for doing that to my parents and guilt for not being transparent with my boyfriend. Trust me I know it's gonna blow up in my face, the thought constantly nags me in the back of my mind, but there was no other way. Chan would definitely try to find another option but with the rumor and not knowing how long I had before they made things official, I needed to take the fastest and most effective route. Ignoring the little voice in my head, my attention was drawn back to the boy in front of me. We’re together and there’s nothing trying to break us up. Enjoy it… and that’s exactly what I did.

      Two weeks fly by and it feels almost too serene. With my recent track record, I was expecting some type set back or accident or some drama to come up and send a ripple through the peaceful pond. Aside from classes and the interviews where I put on smiles to show I’m still the good child, explaining how supportive my parents are to me trying new looks, everything has been… normal. I’ve even had time to ponder a certain four letter word. The idea has danced across my mind on a few occasions but I’ve never really examined the thought. Am I in love with Bang Chan? From the indescribable force that draws me to him to the spirit that kindled itself in my resigned heart… love doesn't seem that far off but it seems as though fate didn't want me to dwell on the thought. Chan sent an urgent message to meet him… did something happen? As anxiety and fear swirled in my chest, I rushed over to the park between our two campuses. When my eyes landed on him,  concern flared at his listless form as I moved closer to him.

"Hey what happened? Why did you need to see me so urgently? Are you okay?"

"So were you just going to keep this from me too? I thought we were over this."

      Shit. No no no no no. I didn't tell anyone, how did he find out? The only people who knew were me and-

"Did my parents come looking for you?"

"They did but that's not the problem. When we got together we agreed, no more secrets."

"I know we said that but if I told you I knew how you were going to react-"

"If you knew how I would react, the more reason you should’ve told me! We could've found another way."

"There was no other way Chan! There was no time for an alternative. My parents don't listen until there is something on the line."

"It makes sense," he scoffs, "why you were so upset that day… you abandoned your family for-"

"Let's get one thing straight. They were the ones who disowned me because I wanted to take control of my life rather than let them make all of my decisions," I cut him off.

"But you did so by threatening them. How else would they react to their child acting like that?"

"If they took the chance to know me, they would’ve known. No matter how angry I am I would never put their livelihood at stake. I know how hard they worked to get my father where he is."

"Exactly Jieun and because of me you’re not only hurting your parents but also yourself… "

"If that's what it takes then so be it. I'm more scared of losing you than upsetting my parents. They will get over it if they want to keep me as their daughter," I stated stubbornly.

"But I'm not okay with that. How do you think that makes me feel? Knowing that I’m the reason you and your parents don't speak anymore?"

"That was their choice. All I could do was oblige with their request and let them know my door’s still open. Those were their actions that you have no control over, it's not your fault."

"I just- so much has happened and I don't know if I can keep doing this."

      It was like the world slowed down. My heart screamed at me to tell him how losing him would be like losing a piece of myself and I wouldn’t recover… but my mind knew better. I’ve been in his place before so I should understand but I need to be sure what was at stake.

"Chan you don't mean…"

"No? I don't know, I just need time to figure things out. Even if I get over being between you and your parents, there is still the fact that you kept this from me."

"I messed up, I know that, and I’m sorry but Chan please," I begged.

      I didn’t mean to say that but his doubt, although well deserved, cut deep within me and I lost my resolve for a second. It's just scary when you realize you’re in love and now you might just as quickly lose it. The desperation in my voice was evident and there was enough running through his mind, he doesn't need to add my wreck of an emotional state to his problems. Pulling my internal state together, my feet stepped away from him as I gave him a slow nod.

"I'm sorry for that behavior just now, it’s nothing. Take all the time you need, you know how to find me when you’re ready.”

      I tried to give him a smile but I could tell by how his eyes softened that he didn’t buy it. We stood there in silence for a moment, unsure how to end this conversation? Argument? Do you just walk away? My mind was a swirling mess when his voice cut through the chaos.

"It’s getting late you should head home…”

[blackmissfrizzle]

Worth It (The Prelude)

Worth It- Pt 1

Summary: The reader meets Marcel for the first time. This a prelude for the Worth It series.

Characters: Marcel x black!reader

A/N: I couldn’t get out of my head how the reader and Marcel first met, so I just had to write it. I think I love this series the most. I love writing for Marcel and I’ happy y’all are enjoying it too. I already got ideas for Part 3 so hopefully it’ll come out this week.

“Baby girl, you bet not be doing any magic in that shop of yours. Just sell your herbs and elixirs and go on about your day.” Your dad warned you for the fifth time today.

When you returned home yesterday, you learned that Marcel had forbidden the witches from doing any magic or there would be deadly consequences. Poor Ophelia didn’t believe him, and she paid for it with her life. Ever since then, the witches have been scared.

Hence, your parents nagging you about not using your powers. Naturally, you had a rebellious spirit and they knew that you would have no problem testing Marcel.

“Daddy, I promise.” You lied through your teeth. It may not be today, tomorrow, or anytime soon, but you knew eventually you’ll give into using your powers.

Before grabbing your keys, you kissed your mom and dad goodbye. “Be careful and no magic!” You heard right before the doors closed on them.

—

“Oh wee, chile, I swear you’re a miracle worker,” Mrs. Jackson smiled as she wriggled her fingers around.

Laughing at the older woman, you handed her the mix of thunder god vine and eucalyptus. “No ma’am, I’m not. I just know what to mix to help that arthritis of yours.”

She hugged you and rocked you back and forth. “Either way, I don’t feel any pain and can move my fingers.” Mrs. Jackson checked her watch and quickly let go of you. “Oh, look at the time. I gotta go. Paula’s bringing my grandbaby over. Take care of yourself Y/N.”

“I will and remember apply the ointment twice a day!” You called out to her before she was out the door.

After, Mrs. Jackson you had a steady flow of customers until towards the end of the day. It was so slow you decided to close the shop early and head to Rousseau’s to have a drink with your sister. However, your new set of customers thwarted your plans.

“Took you long enough to show up,” you told Marcel and his gang.

“You were getting busy. Didn’t want the tourists to see all the commotion.”

Clasping your hands together and bashing your eyelashes, you replied with faux gratefulness, “Oh my god, how sweet.”

He smiled at your sarcasm, revealing a blinding smile. It was the type of smile that made girls swoon and weak in the knees. Too bad he was dick.

“You’re funny, but that’s not going to save you. I’m sure that the other witches told you that there is absolutely no magic to be done.”

Walking to where he was, you slapped his hand away from touching your herbs. His friends were about to attack you, but he held up his hand to stop them. “I know and I really don’t care about your stupid ass rules. If someone is in need, I’m helping them.”

Marcel looked at you curiously. Most of the witches he knows are only out for themselves and their coven. “So, who was worth your life?”

“Mrs. Jackson. She’s a seamstress and her granddaughter is deaf, so she uses ASL to communicate with her. But unfortunately, for Mrs. Jackson she’s has really bad arthritis, so I give her an ointment, but the pain relief spell helps a lot too; she doesn’t have to come here as often if I perform the spell. So, if you’re gonna kill me because I helped a sweet old lady keep her livelihood and talk to her only grandchild so be it. You’re the one that’ll have to live with that on your conscious, not me.” You knelt down before him to make the job easier for him.  The other witches may live a life with fear, but you weren’t.

Looking at his friends, he wordlessly told them to leave your shop and they reluctantly obeyed. Diego and Thierry didn’t trust witches at all, and they didn’t want to leave Marcel alone with you, but they had no choice. Once his friends left, Marcel knelt down in front of you and lifted your chin, so your eyes could meet his brown ones. “You’re telling me that you cast a spell on a woman that makes her come to your shop less often. Doesn’t that make you lose money?”

“Its not about the money. Its about helping the people of New Orleans, specifically the brown ones. I can’t cure cancer, but I can lessen the pain and that’s more than our government is doing. Its more than you’re doing. You call yourself King of the Quarter, but who are you helping specifically? The vampires? Because last time I checked there’s more humans than vamps.” Self-preservation obviously wasn’t an attribute you had to be speaking to Marcel like this. Easily he could wrap his hands or sink his fangs into your neck, sucking the life out of you.

“Have dinner with me.” Marcel offered you. It’d been so long, since he’s been genuinely intrigued by a woman. Yeah, he’s slept with other women, but this was the first time in a long time he wanted to get to know a woman. If he wanted to be honest with himself, he knew he wanted to know more about you as soon as he laid his eyes on you. Even though, you greeted him with an attitude he knew there was a kind spirit in you.

Marcel was staring you down and it was beginning to be too much. His gaze was stirring things up that shouldn’t be stirred up at all. He was a vampire, you’re a witch, there should be no attraction at all, but damn it he had you interested.

To a degree you knew Marcel was good. He saved Davina Claire from being sacrificed during that Harvest Festival, which your momma called a bunch of nonsense and that’s why she don’t fool with those white witches. “They always wanna sacrifice somebody. Unless it’s the good Lord telling me to, which he ain’t done since Abraham, I ain’t killing nobody,” she would always say.

You took a good look at Marcel to assess if he had any ill-intentions towards you. He seemed that he didn’t, but you had to make sure. “Like eat dinner with you or be dinner for you?”

He laughed at you, big time. Your inflection, the look on your face, and body movements were hilarious. Marcel knew for sure he had to get to know you.

“Nigga, I’m serious! I know I look like a snack and all, but that’s not the way I prefer to be eaten.”

Marcel tongue darted out across his lips, which made you zero in on them. They were so damn kissable, that you had to stop yourself from leaning in once Marcel began talking again. “No, we’ll eat a dinner and I much rather have you for dessert anyway.” He said suggestively, licking his lips again.

Lips were moving, but no words were coming out. You must’ve looked like an idiot, but Marcel didn’t think so. He thought you were adorable being struck speechless for the first time during this encounter.

Lifting you to your feet, Marcel got within a tenth of a inch of your ear and whispered, “I‘ll pick you up at 8,” and just like that he left leaving you stunned.

Quickly, you pulled out your phone to text your sister.

YOU: Change of plans. Meet me at my house. I have a date!

—

Bianca stood in front you, working here magic on your face. She was the best makeup artist in the state, and you got all her services for free and you earned it too; you were always her test subject.

“And he ain’t even ask you? Just told you what time he’ll pick you up without asking where you live.” She asked, waving the powder brush. In response, you shook your head yes and she kept going. “Whew, that’s some big dick energy!”

“I know, right?! If he hadn’t zoomed off, I probably would’ve given him the panties right then and there.” It was true. Marcel had a hold on you and you were sure you’d lose all common sense around him.

“I heard sex with a vamp is top tier. I’ve been trying to get at Diego, but he ain’t having it.” Bianca’s had a crush on Diego as long as he’s been in New Orleans and at first he was interested until he found out she was a witch.

“He’s just scared that’s all. Maybe he’ll come around.”

Bianca was applying the finishing touches when she went on a rant. “That’s what I told that nappy-headed ass nigga! I told him stop being scary because the only thing that’s gonna put a spell on him is this pussy!” She stuck her tongue out like her idol, Cardi B and you joined in with her laughter.

“Oh, look at my big sis, looking all fine.” Turning you around to face the mirror, Bianca revealed her handiwork. She kept your face to a light beat, going for the natural look, highlighting your best features.

Shooting out of your seat, you hugged her thanking her profusely. “Girl, ain’t no problem. You know it ain’t hard to make you look beautiful. Now turn Marcel back to the dark side.” You furrowed your eyebrows at her, you had no idea what she was talking about. She leaned into you and whispered like you weren’t in the privacy of your home. “He’s known for dating white girls. Rumor has it he dated Rebekah Mikaelson back in the day.”

The knock on the door stopped you from asking anymore questions. Damn a nigga for being on time.

On the other side of the door, stood a delicious looking Marcel Gerard with a bouquet of Swamp Azaleas. “I heard these are your favorites,” he handed you the flowers, but Bianca took them instead.

“They are. Now, don’t have her back until the sun is up. Good night!” She pushed you out the door so hard that you stumbled into Marcel’s embrace and god did he smell good and felt even better.

Feeling like you were overstaying your welcome in his arms, you tried to pull away, but he pulled you back. “No, I like how you feel in my arms.” For a while, Marcel just held you until you reminded him you would like to go on the date and for the first time you noticed a nervous smile from him. “Sorry, I just get caught up in you,” he stated, before he escorted you down to his car.

--

Thank god, Marcel didn’t take you to an overpriced date. He could tell that you enjoyed the simpler things in life and took you to a local restaurant. It required you to dress nicely, but not like if you were dining at a Michelin star restaurant.

The conversation never got dull and he never got insulted by the jokes you cracked about him unlike some of your previous dates. What you truly bonded over was your love for New Orleans. There was no place like NOLA and even if you visited other cities, states, and countries, New Orleans would always be your number one love. It was the same way for Marcel.

The only thing you disagreed on was how to run the city, but it wasn’t a disrespectful debate. He even challenged your thoughts by bringing up that you weren’t heavily involved with the coven, so why fight for them so hard. The man was good, but you couldn’t let him know that.

Dinner was coming to an end and you couldn’t help but think about what Bianca said about Marcel dating white women. You knew she didn’t mean it as malicious, but it was causing doubts in your head. If it was true, then you were shit out of luck because you were far from his usual dates.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” His voice pulled you from your thoughts.

“Nothing. What makes you say that?”

“Your eyes.” He pointed to your irises, holding out his forkful of dessert for you to taste. The mix of warm, gooey brownies with ice cream, whipped cream, walnuts, and chocolate syrup had you moaning and rocking back and forth in happiness. “That right there is what I’m talking about. Your eyes are so expressive you can’t hide what you’re feeling. That’s why I knew you would go on a date with me, you felt the same attraction I did. So, I’ll ask one more time, what’s going on in that head of yours.” This time you could tell by his tone that a nothing wouldn’t suffice.

“Do you typically date black girls?” The words were so jumbled together that Marcel almost didn’t catch the question.

A slow smile crept on his face once it did register and he gripped your hand and rubbed small circles into it. “Thinking back on it, my more recent partners have been white, but don’t let it get twisted, I will always love black women.”

Satisfied with his answer, you let the topic go. Easily, y’all finished dessert and then went out to walk down Bourbon street. Marcel let you pulled him into dancing when you heard the familiar sounds of Zydeco. He kept up even when they switched up to bounce music and you began twerking on him.

Unfortunately, the night had to come to the end. Marcel walked you back to your front door and you both just stood there not wanting to end the date. “Want to come inside?”

“I can’t,” he replied. Your mood immediately saddens at the rejection and you turned the doorknob to go inside, but Marcel closed it. “You and these damn eyes,” he murmured. “Its not that I don’t want to come inside. Its that you have work in the morning and we both know if I come inside, you won’t get any sleep.”

“Oh,” you deeply sighed at his explanation. Now you had to try to get him inside somehow.

“Its not happening, so get those dirty thoughts out of your mind.” He smirked at you, loving how emotive you were. “But if you let me, I can kiss you.”

Eagerly, you shook your head yes and he chuckled at you. Marcel grabbed the back of your neck, bringing you closer. His eyes flickered from your lips to your eyes repeatedly, just making the tension that much more intense. He finally descended his lips onto yours, releasing you from that torture and bringing you into bliss. His lips were softer than you imagined, his beard tickled your face, but you loved it.

Remembering that you needed to breath, Marcel reluctantly pulled away with a small bite to your bottom lip. Your eyes fluttered opened and there was no denying the lust in them. Marcel leaned his forehead against yours and whispered into your ear, “You’re going to ruin me.”

You weren’t sure if he was talking to himself or you, but you responded either way. “I’ll be worth it,” and you went inside leaving both you and Marcel frustrated.

Tags: @twistedcharismaaa @l-auteuse @nightgirl250 @cocooned-butterfly @thickemadame @artsninspo @titty-teetee

[arcticdementor]

“One fire drives out one fire; one nail, one nail; Rights by rights falter, strengths by strengths do fail.” — Coriolanus, Act II, Scene VII

This brief excerpt from Coriolanus cuts to the quick of the Intellectual Dark Web (IDW), and their exaltation of individualism over tribalism and rationalism over ‘barbarism’. Coriolanus carries a dubious honor Shakespeare’s other works do not. The Roman tragedy was his only play formally banned under a liberal democracy; Its militarism troubled Allied censors in post-war Germany. In the play, Shakespeare elucidates the essential nature of all conflict: “strengths by strengths do fail.” Only a power can overcome another power, only a tribe another tribe.

The IDW can be divided into three principal factions: The New Atheists, led by Sam Harris, are vociferous critics of Islam, ‘Trumpism’, and woke fervor. The ‘Hard Liberals’, flagshipped by Bari Weiss and the Weinstein brothers, share many of the same viewpoints as the ‘wokeists’ they oppose, but seek to advance their position through discourse and persuasion. Finally, there are the Right Liberals, embodied in polemical figures like Ben Shapiro, Dave Rubin, and to a lesser extent, psychologist Jordan Peterson.

Almost every ‘member’ is concerned with the threats unfettered tribalism pose to civil society. In response to the January 6th Capitol events, Weiss asserted that America’s “liberal consensus is dying because of ideologues on the left and the right who hate the other side more than they love the country.” She goes on to call for respect of “our common identity as Americans.” But Weiss has her diagnosis of American decline backward. There is no ‘America’ as she describes. The liberal consensus scrapped American identity for parts during its sixty-year campaign of deindustrialization and deterritorialization. Regional identities were evacuated for hagiographic narratives of migration. Offshoring hollowed out once-proud cities and towns, annihilating regional elites and common livelihoods. Secularism disintegrated Americans’ shared moral universe, and catapulted cosmopolitans and heartlanders in opposite directions. The issue is not too much identity, or too much ideology, but too little, and of little quality.

As media theorist Marshall McLuhan believed, weak identities produce violence. Without metanarrative frameworks, senses of belonging, and ties to somewhere, man becomes violent to prove to himself he exists. The frontier, the high seas, the contemporary Middle East, are all replete with “people minus identity.” What Weiss sees as overactive tribalism is its obverse: a multitude of weak identities struggling to prove to themselves that they still exist. If you put swathes of the country under spiritual and material siege, they will lash out. The solution, then, is not to embrace a sort of vacuous pluralism or individualism, but to create strong collective identities, and remove the threats to these identities currently provoking violence.

On some level, Weiss knows this is the case. Her hero, Natan Sharansky, chaired a clandestine committee that removed Palestinians from East Jerusalem so Israelis could settle there, and consistently rebuffs taking any actions that may limit Israeli sovereignty. Fair, but the luxury of nationalism isn’t extended to Weiss’ American compatriots, the Trumpists she considers beyond hope. The civil strife and violence of today is, as ever, ‘a quest for identity’, something that civility and moderation themselves can never provide. These are the fruits of strong identities and political order, not its preconditions. There is no middle ground between evangelicalism and transgenderism, nor nationalism and globalism. Not even facts themselves supersede this tribal paradigm, and have themselves all but disappeared.

In honor of Caius Martius’ conquest of Corioli, he is given the name Coriolanus. After being urged to campaign for consul, he is ejected from Rome by envious patrician demagoguery. Rather than retreat into glum hermitage or inglorious sinecure, Coriolanus claims it is he who forsakes Rome and its people: “that do corrupt my air, I banish you!” He throws in his lot with an enemy tribe, the Volscians, and plots to destroy Rome. The IDW, almost entirely liberal to its core, is incapable of following him, because ultimately they’re true believers. Despite their own banishment, their own disdain for BLM and Antifa vulgarity, they’re unwilling to part ways with liberalism. If their cause was noble, or even viable, their antagonism toward political reality would be admirable.

…

The relationship between power and knowledge runs down to the very foundation of every society. At its metanarrative heart, there will always be something beyond criticism, justified by itself alone. Blasphemy laws arise to defend this core from injury, and to protect the people from being led astray. Today, the ‘seamless garment’ of kaleidoscopic minority ‘rights’ are this unquestionable center in American public life. This, the IDW understands — but their response is woefully inadequate. They seek a revival of an open public square, in which they will compete and triumph in a ‘battle of ideas’. Joseph de Maistre saw clearly in his Generative Principle of Constitutions that society’s spiritual core is not determined by elocution or intellectualism. As he writes, “fundamental principles of political constitutions exist prior to all written law.” It is not that a critical mass of Americans was persuaded to support abortion, gay marriage, or Black Lives Matter. These were victories delivered by judicial fiat or mass intimidation. Power inscribes new constitutions in man’s heart, and moves society in its stead. The IDW, an elitist project without elitist influence, can not change society with either podcast or polemic. Only power can do that.

This isn’t to say the IDW is all pacifism and pusillanimity. Sam Harris, for one, is perfectly fine with vituperation against an enemy. The targets of his ire are typically religious yokels, either domestic or foreign. His lengthy defense of torture and belief that “some propositions are so dangerous that it may even be ethical to kill people for believing them,” show that Harris is, as any other tribal, focused on rewarding friends and punishing enemies. Carl Schmitt’s friend/enemy distinction expresses itself among rationalists as well as zealots. What is different is that erstwhile IDWers are spectacularly bad at discerning ‘friend’ from ‘enemy’.

Brett Weinstein — who was famously forced to flee Evergreen College with his wife after protesting a banishment ritual inflicted on white students — recently waded into a ‘Wokeism’ Clubhouse discussion, brandishing his anti-racist credentials, only to be coerced into a struggle session, silenced, and pressured for Venmo reparations. Weinstein appealed to the purported common moral framework shared by those in the discussion, saying “I’m not a classical liberal, I’m an actual liberal.” Despite his protestations, his on-command affirmations of BLM and transgenderism, he was utterly routed. The Clubhouse coup against him isn’t fantastically unreasonable. Brett is claiming ostensible membership in the tribe, only to object to their victories on the grounds of procedure or politeness. He agrees with the leaders’ underlying premises regarding white supremacy, but refuses to take the radical action which necessarily accompanies that claim, for this tribe. IDW Girondins will proceed to the guillotines apace, in lockstep with the out-groupers.

Coriolanus’ mortal hamartia, his error in judgement, fell along the same lines. On the precipice of conquering Rome, besting his foes, and securing eternal glory, his mother intercedes with him on the city’s behalf. Rather than proceed with the siege, Corioalnus makes peace between Rome and the Volscians, and is promptly sentenced to death for his service. Unlike the IDW, he dies in heroic defiance of his captors. The error, however, is the same. In an attempt to remain tribeless he slights both sects and engineers his own destruction.

…

Postmodernity is a thoroughly haunted epoch. Dead ideologies are revived as kitsch, and past visions of the future hang over popular consciousness and political projects. We are a society in the void between history’s end and its rebeginning. History is idling, waiting to be restarted. The public square is a battleground, and only one tribe will enjoy it as their own in victory. Peterson knows this, though his tyrannophobia prevents him from understanding it fully. While his postmodernization of traditional symbols and stories provides the postliberal right a new means of popular interface, his politics provide neither solace nor solution. For civil society, facts, and ‘normality’ to reemerge, a decisive victory is necessary. Strong collective identities build strong societies, and these identities do not emerge from individualism or rational pursuit.

By and large, the IDW is a spent movement subsisting on podcast sinecures, fractured by Trump, incapable of accepting America’s tribal realities and lacking the understanding to resolve them. In a desperate attempt to escape from ideology, it only tumbles further and further into its maw. As facts themselves fade into ether, its members are left advertising an Enlightenment project long since dissolved. There are no longer any facts, only data flows to be instrumentalized or ignored. Collective identities are in terminal decline, desperately scrambling against deterritorialization through violence. Rights by rights are faltering, and discourse cannot save us.

As we explore our haunted and stagnant era, searching for exit, pining for unity, we see as T. S. Eliot did: “Only at nightfall, aetherial rumors/Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus.” A resurrection of Coriolanus, one who refuses to turn back, will be necessary for America to survive until the Final Resurrection. Those ready to leave the dark will light the way.

[7deadlycinderellas]

Cabin Fever

(in which I write a quarantine fic that I actually manage to set in the canon universe)

AO3 link

 Day 1

The journey was only supposed to last three weeks.

There were business deals that needed their word in Dragonstone. Far too many of them for Gendry’s liking, but the deadline on them coincided with a wedding for one of Davos’s sons, so the trip could at least kill two birds with one stone.

And so, him and Arya had packed, checked with the twins (who, at ten years old, were actually ecstatic that they trusted them to be left home alone, ignoring of course that the whole staff had been tasked with keeping them busy and safe, and that the actual business of Storm’s End was being handled by the Castellan), booked passage on a merchant’s ship, and set off for Dragonstone.

The voyage there had been smooth, as had the work once they got there. Both of them were ecstatic to see Davos and Marya again, and the deals went smoothly, and it seemed like no time at all before they were on the ship back.

As befitting a lord and lady, their cabin was nicer than pretty much any of the others onboard. There was a bed wider than a bunk, a nightstand big enough for a basin and candle, a desk with two chairs, and even a window that could be opened.

Arya was lounged out on the bed, and Gendry at the desk the morning the knock came on the door.

Arya glanced up when Gendry got up to answer. They were set to reach Weeping Town later today, but they’ve made great time, maybe they’ve got there already.

“Milord,” she hears from the door. She’s even more confused to see the sailor standing as far back as he could.

“Is there a problem?”

“We’ve reached port early... but it appears several of the men below deck have come down with purple-spotted fever-”

Arya sees Gendry wince. She doesn’t have to ask- neither of them had had purple spotted fever as a child, but he’d told her the story of the year it had spread like wildfire through the orphanage, leaving scars upon the afflicted and rendering about half of them blind or deaf.

“What’s there to be done?” he asks the sailor.

“Standard procedure is to quarantine the ship for two weeks,” Arya feels her breath leave her chest, “No one comes in or out until we find out if anyone else is sick.”

After a moment, Gendry nods.

“Food will be brought in the morning. Please wait until the person who brings it has left to retrieve it. Rain buckets for bathing will also be brought- please empty them as well as your chamber pots out the window. I will come again when the ship has been cleared.”

Gendry closes the door behind him, and glances over his shoulder to where his wife is laying on the bed. She groans.

“Two more weeks…”

Gendry sighs.

“I do have a bunch of proposals I need to write out. And I need to send a letter to the woman running the orphanage we started up in Weeping Town.”

Arya nods.

“I have a ton of letters to keep up with too. I guess we should be able to spend these two weeks working.”

She nods again, and reaches into her bag and pulls out a stack of papers she’d brought with them.

After he finishes the first paragraph of the letter he plans to send back to Storm’s End, Gendry feels Arya’s eyes watching him.

“What?”

“Aren’t you hot? You can take off your jerkin in here, it’s just us.”

As it was spring now, the Stormlands could get quite hot, even through the frequent rains. He supposes she’s right, so he unties and shrugs off his leather jerkin, leaving him in just his linen undershirt.

Sometime later, when he’s finishing up the letter and looking it over, he hears a noise and tilts his head.

Arya has the top tie of her breeches unlaced, he can just see a tiny flash of peachy skin, covered in soft hair, and her fingers disappearing underneath the fabric.

He raises an eyebrow.

Arya sits up a bit on one elbow, but her fingers do not still.

“It occurs to me,” she starts, “That there is no castle staff here. We’re not supposed to be anywhere in five minutes. We have no responsibilities that must be completed today. Our daughters are not going to unexpectedly barge in. We have, in fact, been ordered not to leave our bedroom for two whole weeks.”

Gendry breathes in, then out, and places his quill on the desk. He stands with deliberation.

Slowly, he says, “Take off your pants.”

That first day, she rides him no less than a half dozen times. When his cock demands rest, she rides his fingers instead. And once their muscles have begun to slacken, he lays lazily on one side and licks her cunt raw.

Gasping, and dripping in sweat, he barely manages to roll over and kiss Arya on the head.

“Now that we’ve exhausted ourselves,” he starts, “ I really should work on those proposals tomorrow.”

He wakes up the next morning with his cock in her mouth

 Day 2:

Arya’s bent over one of the rain buckets they’d been brought that morning.

“Are you seriously doing laundry?”

Arya smirks at him.

“If I don’t, these sheets will smell worse than we ever could, and I’m not looking the gift horse of this nice, big, latching window in the mouth.”

She wrings it out best she can, and throws it over the open window, using the edge to hold it in place.  Might as well take advantage of the brief lack of rain.

“And you laughed at me for packing soap.”

 Day 3

“What proposal are you working on now anyway?”

Gendry raises his gaze from the paper to the bed where Arya’s finishing the soup that had been brought for supper.

“I’m sending out notice to several tradesmen in the area, to see if they’re willing to take in apprentices from the orphanage. They wouldn’t be required to house or feed them, since they would go back there at night, so I’m hoping that I can convince them not to charge for the training.”

Arya is thoughtful.

“We would have to vet them pretty harshly, and make sure the women at the orphanage know how to question the children when they return. Don’t want anyone just using them for free labor, or worse.”

They both nod, thinking of the horrific story they’d been told of the ship builder who’d taken Daron in as an apprentice after his parents died.

Gendry nods.

“I know. But it makes me so mad to see these big masses of children with no futures.”

Arya agrees.

“Sansa’s been trying some things up north, seeing if there are any farm families willing to take in orphans. She fears much the same as we do. There are too many orphans, but there are too many things that need doing to.”

It does seem, that there are an endless number of things that need doing when your livelihood is looking after an entire land's people.

 Day 4

“Arya are you...using that paper just to draw cocks?”

Arya makes a face.

“No- I was making a list of all the places back in Storm’s End where we’d fucked, but I think I actually ran out.”

He reaches over the desk and grabs her paper.

“Library, stables, cave, godswood…”

He keeps going. And going. Lot of fun memories in this list.

“I actually think you got them all.”

Her cocks are actually pretty good too, all thick and veiny with huge balls.

“Can you draw me some tits too?”

Arya huffs when she takes the paper back.

When she’s working on it, his mind is piqued, wondering what she’s coming up with.

But when she slides it back across the table with a smirk, he is pleased. She’s no artist, but the crude drawing of herself (he assumes, and he won’t imagine anyone else), nude, tits heaving and knees spread wide with her fingers buried inside herself is perfectly adequate.

“Hmm,” he says, unlacing himself, and taking his cock in hand. He doesn’t usually get roused so quickly, but something about this quarantine is making him feel young and carefree.  “Might need some alone time with this.”

“Oh come,” Arya groans, trying to reach over and grab it.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” he says, jumping up and out of her reach. He’s already pretty damn hard, and the picture is actually strangely arousing. His cock is at full mast now, and he tugs on it with fierce determination, moaning obnoxiously.

Eventually, she manages to yank the paper away, but it’s too late, Gendry’s stretched himself out on the bed, tugging rapidly at his cock, letting every nasty fantasy run through his head in her rough stick figures, and well before she can celebrate, he comes across his belly.

She gets her revenge later that night, retrieving the sculpted cock she’d obtained in a port in Essos during her years at sea. It was made of some sort of glass, solid and heavy, and shaped by a hand that obviously knew what it was going to end up being used for. Extremely easy to keep clean she’d said too. She’d shown it to him plenty before, often even letting him use it on her himself, though she insisted that it paled compared to the real thing.

“Why’d you even bring that?” he asks over his supper as she peels off her breeches, kneels over the cock and buries it deep in herself, bouncing up and down on it and moaning, deliberately meeting his eye.

“I thought you might be busy when we were in Dragonstone and I would get lonely.”

And he somehow manages to finish his supper in due time, despite the sounds of her pleasure and the squelch of it sliding in and out of herself echoing through the cabin.

 Day 5

“Seven hells, what day is it?”

“I have no idea,”

 Day 6

“How do you think Lyra and Lysa are coping without us?”

Arya sighs and sets down her letter.

“It probably sounds strange, but I don’t think they’ll even miss us at all. They’ve both gotten so independent lately.”

Neither of them have to say that they’d both missed the twins every single day since they’d been gone.

After a long silence, Gendry admits.

“Lyra told me before we left she wants to be a knight.”

Arya chuckles. She’s so pleased that her daughter is growing up where it might even be a possibility.

“In two years, if she hasn’t changed her mind, we can write to Brienne, see if her or Podrick could use a squire.”

They know it’s only a slim possibility that their child will still be on the same dream in two years time.

Gendry sighs.

“I suppose that would give us the answer for which one to name as heir.”

Arya frowns.

“It would, but it doesn’t mean Lysa would be ready for it. I don’t know why she’s so convinced that we would automatically pick Lyra. She hasn’t had a tantrum in years, and Maester Elric says they’re both good students.”

Gendry shrugs, and scoots back over to the bed so he can kiss her head.

“I don’t know. You’re still convinced you’re not beautiful, even though no one’s called you horseface in years.”

That makes her smile.

 Day 7

Gendry comes all over his hand almost as soon as he gets his breeches undone.

Arya wrinkles her nose.

“Seriously?”

“Hey I told you not to tease me so much.”

She had too, been teasing him all morning. Pouring water over her linen shirt and leaving it half buttoned up. Idly mentioning that she hadn’t bothered putting on smallclothes. Leaning over the desk so her tits were right in his face.

She sighs. Then gets a glint in her eye.

“How many times do you think you can get me off before you can go again.”

The glint is now mirrored in Gendry’s eye.

“Is that a challenge?”

She comes underneath his fingers, one.

Then under his tongue, two.

His tongue on her nub, stuffed with three fingers, three.

Three fingers, he curls and presses them up while sucking her nub. Four

She’s twisted onto her stomach now, and he gets four fingers in. Five

She’s stuffed full and grinding back against his hand, panting and swearing. He’s using both hands now, one in her cunt, one on her nub. Six, then seven.

She’s sweating and bleary eyed now, so Gendry pushes her back onto her back, and soothes her swollen, quivering flesh with his tongue. Eight, slowly, gently.

He only idly notices when his cock actually is hard again. This whole challenge thing is too much fun.

“Eight,” he announces, proudly.

Breathing heavily, Arya looks over her knees to his erection, big and purple and bouncing proudly.

“Well, come here and get on it.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“You want to keep going? Don’t you want to take a rest.”

Arya huffs, sits up and pushes him on his back, straddling him.

“Never.”

She can’t walk right for the rest of the day, but even as she reclines with a cloth soaked in cold rainwater on her groin, insists that it was completely worth it.

 Day 8

Arya is stymied.

“I don’t know how to respond to this letter Sansa sent me.”

Gendry looks up,

“What’s her trouble?”

“She’s thinking of getting married again and wants to know how she can find a husband who’s actually only interested in men.”

Gendry’s rendered speechless.

“She...wants a husband who doesn’t want her?”

Arya smiles grimly.

“That’s about it. She was hurt so badly by Ramsey, she doesn’t know if she’ll ever want to be with a man physically again. But the other northerners are pressuring her to marry and because there must always be a Stark in Winterfell…”

Gendry frowns in thought.

“I would say ask Daron and Tim for advice, but I don’t know if either of them can read.”

Arya sighs again, and picks up her quill.

 Day 9

“Is it raining again?”

“Did it ever stop?”

 Day 10

“Bella’s doing well, she says.”

Gendry raises his gaze. A year or two ago, with King Bran’s assistance, Gendry had been reaching out to and meeting his few remaining half siblings. Mya and Bella had both come to Storm’s End for a time, though both had chosen to move on now, they had both learned to read and write enough to keep in touch.

“Did she say how she’s liking Mistwood?”

Arya nods.

“Says it’s much nicer than where she was in the Riverlands, and the woman who’s training her is teaching her a ton. She especially likes that no one there knows what she used to do for a living.”

That had been the day Arya felt most like a proper lady. The day she had managed to subtly ask if Bella really in fact liked her line of work, or if she’d rather be spending her life doing something else. Her words still rung in her head.

‘It’s easy work to like when you’re young and want the acknowledgement that you’re pretty, but it really grinds on once you start to get older.’

And the old midwife in Mistwood had been happy enough to have a student.

Gendry grunts.

“Good, so she can stay there being all judgemental.”

“You’re still mad that she said we sounded boring?”

“All because we said we’d never invite a third person into our bed!”

“You’re too sensitive...beside, she wouldn’t understand that we’d still have to go about our lives and look that third person in the eye and talk to them afterwards, that would be weird…”

 Night 10/Day 11

Gendry wakes after dozing off by his wife whispering in his ear. Opening his eyes, he sees that she’s lit the candle on the bedside, and is standing beside him in her shift.

She moves to the desk, and pulls out the chair, before kneeling upon it. She leans forward onto the desk and lifts her shift over her hips, baring her arse and cunt to him. She looks back over her shoulder.

“Quick,” she whispers, “Before my husband gets back.”

Gendry stands, and slips into character as he sheds his sleep pants.

He runs his fingers over her cunt, which is dripping wet already (what on earth had she been up to before he woke?). He bends forward and mutters in her ear,

“What would your husband think if he saw you down here wiggling your arse for a bastard like me?”

He takes himself in hand and plunges into her roughly from behind.

Arya leans forward and presses her cheek against the wood of her desk as her breathing becomes rougher.

“He can’t make me feel like you do.”

Gendry grips her hips tightly and keeps thrusting faster and harder, making her moan.

“Bad little girl,” he says, “Leaving your lord husband to come and fuck a lowborn bastard. Someone should punish you for that.”

He can’t see Arya’s face, but he can practically see her eyes begin to twinkle.

“I have been bad. Maybe you should give me a spanking.”

He runs his hand along her smooth skin, considering, before raising it.

His hand lands across her bum with a ‘crack’.

“I’m not sure that quite got the message across.”

He slaps her bum twice more, each time earning a grunt and a rush of wetness around his cock.

He leans forward to whisper to her again.

“Let go then, come for me like he could never make you.”

He spanks her once, twice, three more times. Then he puts his hands on both her shoulders and pushes her to the desk so he can get better leverage. He fucks her like she’s a bit of metal on his anvil- hard and deep, but with skill and finesse. Arya’s moans rise almost to a scream and he feels her fluttering around his cock, not only once but twice, and he’s just about to-

She reaches back and grabs one wrist.

“I can’t have a bastard,” she cries out, still in character, “Come here, I’ll suck you off.”

She slides off the desk to the floor and kneels at his feet, looking up at him through her lashes in a way Arya never once has, before taking him in her hot little mouth. She sucks him with her sweet lips, moaning as she tastes herself on his cock. Gendry’s hands find the back of her head, winding his fingers in her hair, and thrusting against her face, moaning loudly, letting her know just how close he is.

When he comes with a yell, she swallows him down, his seed spilling out over her lips, which she licks. She stands, and kisses him, letting him taste the both of them together.

Later that night, back in bed, Gendry mutters.

“We’re going to have to come up with some better scenarios, I’m starting to feel bad for these made up men you’re cheating on.”

Arya snorts.

“Well we don’t have enough room in here to play wildlings.”

“I still don’t know why you had me run me ragged for that.”

Arya props herself up on one elbow to glare at him.

“If you think a wildling would just let you pick her up and have your way with her, you’ve got another thing coming.”

She’s pensive for a moment.

“We should come with something new though.”

“We could be knight and squire again.”

“That was a good one...I want to be the knight this time though.”

“Alright.”

“Also, keep thinking. We don’t have rope, so we can’t do pirate captives.”

“You fell asleep last time we did that.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“It’s not my fault that you make me so comfortable when you tie me up. Besides, who said I was going to be the captive?”

She’s having him on. Seeing him tied up still sort of makes her want to cry, all these years later, instead of making her hot. She suspects admitting that was actually what made Bella call them boring. She segues back into her point.

“I want to be able to spank you next time.”

Gendry laughs.

“You can just ask, I’ll let you do it, we don’t have to come up with a story.”

Arya opens one eye, looking at him. She remembers once having confided in him that it wasn’t even the whole “idea of being punished” that got her off, it was just that she thought being slapped on the bum felt good.

“You don’t mind?”

“Arya, I trust you. I let you put my balls in your mouth, You can slap my arse all you want.”

Which is how Gendry ends up on his hands and knees the next morning, his breeches pulled halfway down his thighs and Arya’s hand leaving red marks on his arse, again and again.

“Would you like another?”

Gendry nods, before Arya’s hand lands again.

His cock is hard and leaking, begging for a single touch.

Arya was right though, he thought, it did feel pretty good.

 Day 12

The sun shines on day 12, and Gendry wakes up with a tickle.

“Shh,” Arya tells him, “Don’t move.”

Gendry blinks, realizing he’s on his stomach and she’s running something along his arse cheeks.

“Is that that ink you got from that Essosian trader last year?”

Arya nods in assent. The man had espoused the plant based ink as being much cheaper and easier to obtain, but when she attempted to write on paper with it, it became clumpy and thick very quickly.

Then she remembered seeing men in Braavos with dark marks, words and pictures, drawn onto their skin, and it hit her what the ink was likely mostly used for.

“What are you drawing?”

She snickers, having drawn two smiling faces on each side of his arse. The sheet had slipped down past it overnight, and with the sun shining through, it made far too perfect a canvas to resist.

“Nothing really.”

Several more minutes pass with her idly doodling when he asks.

“Does it dry fast?”

“Pretty much as soon as it’s spread.”

Another moment.

“Can I try?”

She blows on his skin and rubs at it to make sure it’s all set, before handing him the bottle and rolling onto her side of the bed.

“I want to do your front though, so you can see.”

On her back, she watches as Gendry’s deft hand with the brush turns her nipples into the centers of sunbursts, and trees, vines and flowers emerge from the nest between her legs.

“You’re pretty good at this you know.”

Gendry smiles bashfully.

“Well, you have to be able to draw if you want to get someone’s design exactly as they want it, it was a skill I sort of had to develop and then never really thought about.”

She’s quiet for a long time.

“Ever think of doing it properly, on paper or a canvas?”

He snorts.

“I don’t know. There’s so much else I have to do, and I doubt the other lords who still look at me like I’m pretending would be at all impressed by some nice pictures I drew.”

Arya frowns.

“It would hardly be the most eccentric hobby I’ve heard of a highborn having...and besides, if it makes you happy, it’s worth it.”

Gendry chuckles as he recaps the bottle of ink. He scoots up, takes Arya’s face in his hands and kisses her warmly.

“Maybe you’re right,” he murmurs against her lips, “But I still think you’re my favorite canvas.”

She murmurs softly back her agreement.

“Hey, this stuff washes off in water right?”

“Yes”

“...so if we get too sweaty, we’ll just smear it all on the sheets.”

“Hmm,” Arya mutters when he kisses her jaw, “I need to wash them again anyway.”

 Day 13

Arya’s studying him from her spot on the pillow. It’s raining outside again, and the cool air filters through the cracked window into the cabin.

“Something on your mind?”

Arya flops onto her back and stares at the pattern of beams on the ceiling, for the millionth time these past two weeks.

“I want another baby,” she blurts out.

Gendry rolls on his side to look at her.

“I thought we decided to leave that up to the gods?”

Arya laughs.

“It seems we are, I ran out of the ingredients for moon tea three days ago,”

Something in Gendry’s mind clicks and he nods in recognition.

He leans in and kisses her chin.

“I’d happily raise a whole village of babes with you, but what makes you think this now?”

Arya frowns, almost to a pout.

“I just keep thinking of the twins back home, completely fine without us. They're our daughters, we love them, but they’re past the point where they depend completely on us. And I guess...I miss when they were tiny and needed me.”

“They’ll always need us,” Gendry assures her, hands on her shoulders. “But maybe this timing is a blessing. We’ve had more time together these past two weeks than I think we managed in the last six moons.”

Arya murmurs in agreement.

Gendry grins, mischievously.

“And we’ve got a whole ‘nother day left”.

His expression drags a smile back onto Arya’s face, and she reaches to pull her shift over her head.

Later, he presses his lips to the back of her neck, wrapping his arms around her middle and snuggling up against her back.

“I’m not tired, if you’re not.”

Arya laughs, shifting her leg and letting him slide into her again.

“If I had known talking about babes would get you going this much, I’d have thrown away my moon tea weeks ago.”

 Day 14

“Everything’s all packed up?”

“Yup.”

They sit together on the edge of the bed.

“Any time now.”

It feels like forever before the sailor comes and knocks to tell them the ship has been cleared and they are not free to leave.

It feels like forever, but it’s barely past breakfast.

They’re off board as fast as their feet can carry them. Arya steps off to find one of the sailors about sending their bags ahead to Storm’s End.

Gendry stops to thank the captain while Arya fidgets in the background.

The captain eyes her.

“She your wife? I’m surprised you two are even in the same room after these two weeks, the men below deck have been at each other’s throats since day one. “

Gendry smiles.

“No, I think we got on fine.”

They step out on solid land, and Arya takes his arm as they walk towards where they can borrow a pair of horses to return.

“I love you to death,” she whispers against his arm, “But I cannot wait to talk to people who aren’t you.”

He smiles, and throws an arm around her.

“Soon we’ll be home, our daughters will run to us,” he muses.

"We'll have fresh food for supper, be able to use the privy without anyone watching, have someone else to do our laundry," Arya sing-songs in response.

“Our castellan will share with us everything that has no doubt caught on fire since we left. There will be a pile of ravens as thick as my hand to dig through, people will come to us with problems every hour of every day, we’ll be expected to actually get dressed properly every morning…”

He feels her still.

“Do you think the captain will let us back onboard?”

[nijiirorhyme]

NaruMitsu/WrightWorth Fic: Lights, Camera, Action! Chapter 3

NaruMitsu/WrightWorth Fic: Lights, Camera, Action!

Fandom: Ace Attorney

Ship: Mitsurugi Reiji | Miles Edgeworth/Naruhodou Ryuuichi | Phoenix Wright, Ayasato Mayoi | Maya Fey/Karuma Mei | Franziska von Karma

Warnings: None

Tags:Alternate Universe - Actors, Other Additional Tags to be Added, More characters to be added

Description: Rookie actor Phoenix Wright can not believe his luck as he  scores his first major acting role in one of the most anticipated movies  of the year. But, what was better than starring in one of the most  anticipated films of the year? Starring in one of the most anticipated  films of this year with famous actor Miles Edgeworth.

A Wrightworth acting au where two dorks (eventually) fall in love!  

Chapter 3/?

Alternatively, it can be read here!

Text below cut!

 October 5th 1:05pm

Cafe Aroma  

It finally made sense to Phoenix. As he was staring at the two of them chatting in their own little world along with the light blush that appeared on Franziska’s face, the strings that Maya pulled were actually the heart strings of the young manager.

‘Who would have thought…’ Phoenix brought his hot cup of coffee to his mouth, gingerly taking a sip before setting it back down. Phoenix casted his gaze at the man that sat across from him. He wished that the two of them could talk as animatedly as the other pair did.

The cafe Maya chose for the four of them to meet at was one she often frequented, Cafe Aroma. In fact, she went there so often that the majority of the employees would recognize Maya’s vibrant voice the moment she walked through the door with the little jingle of the overhead bell. It was a short distance away from the studio-- about a ten minute walk from the front gate. And it was because of this distance that it would be no uncommon feat if one saw a celebrity here. The first thing one would notice when opening the door was the warm and rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air. The entire cafe gave off a very intimate atmosphere, further accentuated by the warm, cozy array of colours that painted the entire place; the dark cocoa brown wooden panels that hugged the bottom portion of the walls paired with a lighter-- almost beige shade that filled in the space above it. Above each black stained table with the exception of the widow seats that faced outward towards the street, several abstract paintings aligned the walls, most of them too abstract for Phoenix to even tell what they were. From the dim lighting, to the warm comforting atmosphere, one could stay here for hours while listening to the soft piano they played over the speakers.

All of that was nice and all, but what really got Phoenix’s attention were their cinnamon sugar donuts. Seriously, paired with their signature blend, they were amazing.

Taking a bite of the fried pastry, Phoenix dusted his crumbs off on his pants before trying to engage in small talk with the man. “So,” he awkwardly laughed, scratching the back of his head like he usually did when he was nervous. “This cafe’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Quite.” Edgeworth responded in a deadpanned tone, taking a sip from his own mug, one filled with tea instead of coffee.

Phoenix took another sip in hopes that it would dispel the awkward atmosphere from the two before attempting to strike up a conversation once more, “So… How long have you been acting?” He asked, which he instantly regretted right after because he already knew the answer. He inwardly cringed at himself, ‘Nice going, Phoenix. You just had to ask.’

Edgeworth paused momentarily, giving his answer a thought before he spoke. “I can’t quite remember, but I started sometime when I was six.”

Phoenix was pleasantly surprised at the honest response. It seemed that Edgeworth truly had a passion for the art that he put the majority of his life into. He couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes softened as it looked like he was reminiscing upon the several memories he had created throughout his career. Phoenix made a mental note, talking about acting was the way to get Edgeworth to speak to him. After all, they both had it in common seeing how it was both of their livelihoods (though one was more successful than the other).

“Wow, you must’ve acted in a lot of movies, huh…” Phoenix trailed off, when suddenly another question popped into his head. He wanted to keep the conversation going as much as he could, even if it meant he sounded a little bit like an interviewer. “What was your favourite movie to work on?”

A pause once more, followed by an answer. “There are several movies that I’ve enjoyed working on, but the one I particularly liked working on was The School of Dreams.”

“Oh! That’s one of my favourite movies! An oldie, but a classic. But funny you should say that because…”  Phoenix stroked his chin. “I don’t remember you being in it…”

Edgeworth paused mid-motion as he was taking a sip from his mug. He set it down, pointing his eyes into one of the glares he had shot at Phoenix the moment they first met. Phoenix seemed to have offended him. “I was one of the main characters, Wright.”

Suddenly, it all came back to him. The grey hair, those stone grey eyes… How did he blank on such an important detail? It was one of the first movies he ever remembered watching. In fact, he could even recall the exact time in his life he watched it…

It was a Saturday afternoon in his sophomore year of high school. A sleepy Phoenix who had not a single clue what he was going to do after high school found himself alone at home that day. Sitting on the couch as he cradled a bowl of cereal and milk with one arm and held the TV remote in his other hand, he flipped it to any random channel he found, stopping when he saw the title of the movie pop up on the screen. Sure, he missed the opening of the movie, but there was at least the rest of the movie to enjoy-- and enjoy he did. As a young Phoenix continued to watch, he couldn’t help but notice how phenomenal the actor who looked to be the same age as him was. His eyes gravitated towards him, as if the young man on the screen shined the brightest in the movie. He knew nothing about acting and once it was done, all he could do was remain awestruck.

This movie revolved around a delinquent—played by the young Miles Edgeworth—who continues to get mixed up with the wrong crowds at school. Without telling his parents anything, he continues to live a life where he receives blow by blow and delivers blow by blow to those who seek to challenge him until he is the most feared high schooler among his peers. One day, he meets a boy who transfers into his class and changes his life for the better. By the end of the movie, the two of them are the best friends and plan on attending the same university together. Not only did the transfer student teach the delinquent boy how warm it was to have a friend that understands you, but more importantly, the feeling of belonging he had always dreamed of having with someone. It was a beautiful and touching story of how the two helped each other grow individually, as well as together.

Phoenix recalled trying to blink the tears that pricked his eyes away. He had never felt so moved by a movie before. At that moment, something in his soul had ignited, as if he had finally found what he truly wanted to do. So, he wanted to follow the footsteps of the young man portraying the delinquent and become an actor of the same caliber.

‘Who would have thought that same actor that inspired you would become your co-worker…’ He was a bit shocked at how fate had a funny way of playing tricks on people.

It took a moment for him to recollect his thoughts before he spoke again, “Oh… That’s right that’s right-- heh, no pun intended. How could I have forgotten?” He let out an awkward chuckle to mask the heat he felt creeping up onto his face, dusting his cheeks a rosy pink. It would feel a bit embarrassing to admit that watching a movie that Edgeworth starred in when he was younger was the reason as to why he became an actor after that blunder, so he decided it was best to stay quiet on the matter.

He saw Edgeworth roll his eyes at the pun he made with his own last name. Get it, “right”, “Wright”? It was the oldest joke in Phoenix’s book. Usually, this elicited two reactions from the people he told it to: they either chuckled a little bit because the realization dawned upon them that they sounded the same, or they awkwardly chuckled alongside him in order not to make him feel bad at such a lousy pun. This man surely was neither of those people.

“Though honestly, I don’t know how you do it,” Phoenix looked down at the table at his hands clasped together. He was about to say something sort of embarrassing, but he might as well. It wasn’t like he didn’t make himself look out to be a fool already or anything. “You’ve brought so many characters to life over the years, but I’m still having trouble trying to figure out what I should do to make Ruth Liss believable.”

Edgeworth cleared his throat, “Well, it certainly isn’t an easy task, Wright. After all, there are a lot of eyes on us to make sure we do it right.”

“Yeah, there are.” Phoenix agreed. In the end, that was the goal for all actors once they picked up a script. It was their job to bring a character to life. But that was something he definitely needed to work on. Just then, an idea popped into his mind. What Phoenix was about to say was indeed, a long shot, but at least he could say he tried. “So… since you know all the ropes… I was wondering if you could, you know… give me some advice maybe? Or maybe we could practice together some time?”

Ever so slightly, Edgeworth’s eyes widened. He seemed taken aback, which made Phoenix nervous. Would he decline? Accept? The man looked as if he had the response on the tip of his tongue, when an oddly familiar ringtone sounded from across the table.

Maya gasped, “Is that the Steel Samurai opening?!”

Then, the most unexpected thing happened. He witnessed Edgeworth fish his phone out from his pants pocket, then after checking the caller id with a tsk, set the phone on the table, completely disregarding the call he received on his personal cell phone a few seconds ago. The ringtone went silent, leaving Maya’s voice to be the only thing ringing in Phoenix’s ears.

“Mr. Edgeworth, you’re a Steel Samurai fan too?!” Maya’s eyes were practically sparkling. One glimpse at her could tell Phoenix that she was ecstatic.  

‘Here we go again…’ Every time Maya happened to meet another fellow Steel Samurai fan, she would lock them into conversing with her about it. This was not a hard task though, as Maya was the one who tended to carry the conversation when speaking about her favourite show. Usually when this occurred, Phoenix would be waiting for at least half an hour.

“Perhaps a little…” Edgeworth mumbled. Was it Phoenix, or did he look slightly embarrassed?

“A little?!” Maya scooted her chair closer to Phoenix, their shoulders touching as she reached over to point at the dangling charm that was attached to his cellphone. “You even have the limited edition steel Steel Samurai phone strap?! How did you even get one of those?! I tried to have Nick get me one, but they sold out just as he was about to get to the front of the line.” She looked at him, her eyebrows furrowed and cheeks puffed up.

“Hey, it wasn’t my fault someone couldn’t leave the house on time.” Phoenix retaliated.

“Yeah, it was you!” Maya accused. “You couldn’t find where you put your house keys!”

Phoenix paused, that was right. He was the one at fault. “... Oh, you’re right. Sorry, Maya.”

She crossed her arms, “When they release the steeler Steel Samurai limited edition keychain, you owe me one.”

‘... How could something be “steeler than steel”?!’

Phoenix sighed, “Alright, alright, I do. Next time, I’ll just ask Will instead.” Since he was close enough to the man at this point, he could at least ask him to do him a solid.

“So, Mr. Edgeworth, you like the Steel Samurai too?” Maya turned the conversation back to him with absolute delight evident on her face.

“It’s not like that-”

“Indeed he does.” Franziska interjected, cutting Edgeworth off. Her usual smug smirk remained plastered on her face as she rested her chin in her hand, the index finger on her other hand wagging pointedly. “Let’s not forget about the Steel Samurai statue that you have in your office-”

“Enough, Franziska.” Edgeworth snapped back, his face gradually turning redder and redder as the conversation continued.

Taking this new information into account, an idea popped into Phoenix’s mind. If he knew Will Powers, the man who played the Steel Samurai himself, then perhaps he could strike a deal… “Edgeworth, if I got you a Steel Samurai autograph, would you practice together with me?”

Not a single second passed when, “I don’t suppose I have a reason to refuse such an offer.” He answered, a bit too eagerly. “Franziska and Ms. Maya can work out the details later, but I believe I should have some time next week.”

“Great, I’ll see you then,” Phoenix couldn’t help the smile that seeped out onto his face from the satisfaction of success he felt on the inside. He outstretched his hand again. This was the ticket, the way he could finally get some hands-on experience. With Edgeworth’s guidance, he was going to make Ruth Liss the most nefarious man to exist.

Much to Phoenix’s surprise, he felt a warm, but firm hand grasp his own. “I, as well.”

As the conversation concluded, Franziska pushed herself up from her chair, “Well, our business here is done. Come now, we have a photoshoot to attend to. That foolish fool will be here any minute with the car.”

“Aw, leaving so soon, Franny?” Maya pouted.

“Unfortunately, I must. But next time, I will try to stay longer.” Franziska gave the girl a small, but gentle smile. “Oh, and Phoenix Wright…”

Phoenix’s ears picked up on his name being called. “Hm? Ow! Ouch! What was that for?!” A cool, leather whip thrashed at him, causing the skin underneath his suit to sting. He had just gotten a thrashing from Franziska’s whip and for no reason he could think of, at that.

“Just because you sport the face of a fool who deserves it. Now, the two of us will be off.” Grabbing her binder off the table, the two took their leave, leaving a satisfied Phoenix, and a satisfied Maya to their own devices.

“Well, what did you think, Nick? Isn’t Franny just the nicest person in the world?” She asked, her voice as sweet as honey. Phoenix could practically see the hearts in her eyes; she seemed quite smitten with one Franziska von Karma.

‘Nicest?! She just whipped me!’ “She was… something to say the least.” He opted to say instead. He downed the rest of his coffee, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. For some reason, this conversation renewed his spirits, his motivation to get better replenishing by the second.

 ‘A week from now. I have a week to show him what I’ve got!’

 October 5th, 11:00pm

 Edgeworth’s Penthouse

Miles Edgeworth was something of a busy man. No matter how many times his schedule had been packed to the brim, the tiredness he would feel after a day’s work was something that he would never get used to.

He unlocked the door to his place, greeted by the energetic dog he had meticulously raised since he had found the time to do so.

“Pess, it’s late. Why aren’t you asleep? Were you waiting for me?” Looking down at the dog with loving affection softening all of his facial features, a tender smile graced his face as he reached down to pet the pomeranian nuzzling against his leg. Edgeworth’s heart practically melted when he heard him bark back in response.

He set down his keys and scooped him up in his arms, to which he took the opportunity to lap at his face. He chuckled, “What did I do to deserve such a loyal dog?”

Miles gently set Pess back onto the floor, who darted from the front door to the slightly ajar bedroom door. He turned to look back at Miles, which Miles perceived to be his dog’s own way of telling him, “come here”.

Miles’ smile widened, “Alright, alright. I guess it’s time to get ready for bed.”

11:25PM

Miles slipped off his slippers and settled into bed, pulling the covers up over his entire body. At night right before he fell asleep, this was the time his brain was the most alert. Most of the nights where he had trouble falling asleep, for he was afraid of the nightmares that would plague his dreams, he would reflect on the day’s events, this one being no exception. All in all, talking to the man wasn’t such a bad experience in itself. Surely, he was a bit clumsy and awkward and just a little bit of an idiot, but what today’s conversation showed Miles was how dedicated he was. It truly seemed as if Wright wanted to improve and it made him feel a bit guilty for treating him so coldly the first time he met him. It had been a while since he had interacted with someone as inexperienced as Phoenix. After all, he had been taught that people of his stature shouldn’t interact with people like him.

“You don’t need to talk to any of these nobodies; you are leagues above them. Friends? Forget about such a notion. In this industry, you can never trust a single soul.” The words of his late mentor echoed in his mind.

He exhaled at the memory. Hopefully in a week from now, Miles could bestow upon him the advice he had been given throughout his years of being an actor. Would Wright succeed with his help? Miles wasn’t so sure, but did he want that Steel Samurai autograph?

Of course.

Hopefully, just hopefully, next week will be a good one.

[scrambledgegs]

Too Late the Hero

    It was Harvey Dent who uttered the famous lines, “You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.” A foreshadowing statement, as Dent later on personifies his very words when he goes on to become Two Face in the “The Dark Knight” Batman movies.

     This statement cannot be any truer, and we all can recount both real-life and fictional characters who easily represent this notion. The true-to-life “villains” we know of today may have actually started out as idealists, heroes, or savior-like archetypes that we used to looked up to – and looked past whatever side blemishes they also possessed in order to justify their actions. I think the best contemporary example of this – is the person whom Filipinos notoriously love to discuss nowadays – the person that needs no introduction, President Duterte.

About to Croak?

     President Duterte has recently been the talk of the town all the more when rumors circulated that he may have contracted COVID-19, while other rumors pointedly said that he was already on his deathbed. To augment such rumors, it was said that he may have allegedly even flown to Singapore to have himself checked. His office was quick to quash any such news by posting proof of life photos of the President, where he is seen to be eating a meal with the first family in Davao. Well, one thing we can all agree on however, is that he did not look his best. 

     The more significant and underlying message in this recent raucous is that, the general consensus on social media is that many had their fingers crossed for a new President. It looks like Duterte’s star power is quickly fading.

RUDY and RODY

   I was reminded of a conversation that a friend and I had around three weeks ago. During our usual, light political banter, I suddenly remembered how my parents used to compare President Duterte to American political icon, “Rudy” Giuliani. Quite serendipitously (and as though Netflix read my phone messages or possibly my mind), minutes later, I came across a new Netflix documentary entitled “Fear City: New York vs. The Mafia” where Giuliani is documented to have played a significant role in.

     This true crime documentary examines the rise and fall of organized crime in New York in the 1970s to early 1980s. It narrates the dark tale of how the Big Apple once transformed into the playground of underbelly operations of The Mafia – composed of the five major Italian-American crime families and their sophisticated network of ruthless henchmen. Law enforcers could not put a stop to their rings of crime, or even implicate them, and others that dared come close, found themselves or their loved ones in a rather, messy situation. These crime families of Italian descent were basically your true-to-life gangsters from which The Godfather Trilogy was based on.

 Batman, Robin and Commissioner Gordon in Gotham City

     Bringing down the Mob back then was a feat everyone thought impossible. Nevertheless, joint forces between the FBI and Giuliani (then U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York; 1983 -1989), and his handpicked team of prosecutors were able to do so – and with much required grit and tenacity. Giuliani especially, was credited to be the single piece of rice that tipped the scale in this momentous moment in the history of criminal justice. After which, Giuliani’s political career began to skyrocket. Despite losing his first election in 1989, he eventually gets elected Mayor of New York in 1993, and then reelected in 1997 to hold the position until 2001.

    During his term as Mayor of New York, Giuliani’s most popular platform was his “toughness on crime.” Such that, the gentrification, revitalization and “clean-up” of New York and significant decrease in crime rates during those heyday years are largely attributed to him. His appointment of NYPD Chief of Police, Bill Bratton also proved effective, and is often the popular topic of business case studies today. Bratton did not resort to brute force alone. In fact, he was said to be data-driven, resourceful and efficient. His non-traditional, out-of-the-box thinking, many would agree, had indeed brought about real, lasting positive change in New York.

    Giuliani was also known for making popular what is known as the “perp walk”, wherein he would orchestrate public arrests, worthy of media frenzies and major headlines, of high-profile suspects, usually of white-collar crimes. The nature of these arrests garnered some criticism of course, but it was not enough then to tarnish his image and push him far away from the good graces of the American people, especially New Yorkers. He is also highly commended for his post-9/11 (2001) disaster responses and was even knighted by Queen Elizabeth II for these tremendous efforts. He was even named TIME magazine's Person of the Year in 2001.

 Fall from Grace   

    However, fast forward years later to now 2020, many of Giuliani’s constituents and longtime supporters who once held “America’s Mayor” of the highest esteem, often say that the Rudy Giuliani of the past is long gone. Embroiled in various controversies and investigations, not to mention issues that involve being President Trump’s current legal adviser, he has said to have become the very type of white-collar “perps” he used to round up and arrest. It is quite unfortunate, isn’t it, these kind of tragic hero to zero stories. Time is not on his side now, but who knows if there is still a chance for a comeback.

 Rudy Giuliani’s story sounds very familiar.

Rody

    Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, in Davao, Philippines to be exact, during the same time that Rudy Giuliani was rising to fame, there lived and breathed another Mayor with a very similar tough guy image – Rodrigo “Rody” Duterte. An attorney as well, he also began his career in the prosecutor’s office.

Photo taken from The New York Times: Rodrigo Duterte posing with an Uzi submachine gun in 1994, when he was mayor of Davao City in the Philippines.

 Duterte Harry

    Duterte “made his bones” by allegedly taking crime into his own hands. Before assuming the Presidency, he was known as the gun-toting, smart-talkin’, fearless and tough Mayor who cleaned up Davao which back then, was supposedly a war-torn region due to the emergence of the New People’s Army (NPA) post Marcos-regime. People nodded in approval because he produced “quick” results.

    If Rudy Giuliani had his Chief of Police, Bill Bratton and the NYPD, Rody Duterte had a comparable squad as well. With the help of his elite unit of police enforcers, coined as the “Davao Death Squad” (DDS), they were able to arrest crime suspects, such as alleged (but non-convicted) drug dealers and petty thieves and parade them throughout the streets, for behold, all to know and see. This sounds like the Filipino version of a perp walk. In extreme cases, sometimes suspects were allegedly found dead in alleys or eskinitas, their bloody bodies mutilated.

     Yet, it could be said that quite a number of Davaoenos, as well as Filipinos beyond the Mindanao region, supported this kind of vigilante method because they felt safer, and they felt that finally, the wheels of justice were turning. To simplify this narrative by using a fictional analogy again, it is the same train of thought on why we have a great admiration for Batman and the like.

     Many believed this was what the Philippines truly needed - a “strongman” to discipline the country, which to be fair, is an idea that can understandably seem like the right and sound solution, given the Philippines’s web of problems. Not many are willing to further dissect, assess and accept what is truly needed to lead the Philippines. Duterte’s notoriety thus gained much popularity, and his savior persona spread like wildfire throughout the country, propelling him to the Presidential seat in 2016.

One-Trick Pony in a Small Pond

    Four years later, come 2020, and here we are, amidst a terrible pandemic with no signs of turning the tide in favor of a victory. I’ve heard one too many times, friends and colleagues say how they despise being a Filipino, and are looking for opportunities to leave and start a new life elsewhere immediately. I can’t say I blame them.

     The once highly respected and beloved Davao Mayor has become the Philippines’s Public enemy number one, for reasons we all know today such as, but not limited to:

Militaristic and shotgun approaches instead of “comprehensive, scientific and systematic policies” to mitigate the pandemic  (Read: Lives vs Livelihood Tradeoff?, August 5, 2020)

Lack of economic and fiscal planning and No transparency on stimulus packages and foreign loans (Read: A Perfect Storm, May 22, 2020)

Preferential treatment towards those in positions of power and unequal application of the law (Read: On lockdown and pushed over the edge, April 30, 2020)

Playing Russian Roulette on community quarantine implementations

Deflecting faults and shortcomings through the “Pasaway citizen” narrative

Demeaning local government leaders/efforts when they come up with their own local initiatives

Putting China’s interests ahead of the Philippines (Read: From Ugly Duckling to Black Swan, April 3, 2020)

And some of the more specific controversies that we can’t help but feel overwhelming emotions for:

Trial of Maria Ressa and his attack on free press and journalism

Shutdown of ABS-CBN which includes 11,000 employees to lose their jobs during a time like this

Inaction of recent PhilHealth scandal

  Perhaps si Mayor should have stayed as Mayor, or perhaps evolved to a different role beyond public service, instead of eyeing gargantuan tasks too big for him to handle. He may have been “effective” as Davao’s Mayor, but running a country is a whole different ballgame.

     It was in fact, the late Miriam Santiago, during the final 2016 Presidential debate held in Dagupan, Pangasinan (April 24, 2016) who pointed out, “We are not choosing a manager, administrator, etc. We are choosing the next President of the Philippines for the next 6 years.“ She even went on to enumerate three minimum criteria that a President must have in his or her arsenal in order to effectively lead, such as “1) Academic Excellence; 2) Professional Excellence, and 3) Moral Integrity” – all of which majority Filipinos flippantly shrugged off as useless qualities. I agreed with her which is why I voted for Mar Roxas. Maybe those who voted for Duterte regret this decision now, and hopefully see the wisdom behind Santiago’s statements.

     As I’ve said many times over, Duterte peddled a dream that the Philippines can only be great again with an “iron-fisted” leader, and sadly but quite expectedly, our misinformed voters ate it all up - hook, line and sinker. (Read: ORAS NA, April 26, 2016).

    I’d like to believe that Duterte perhaps started out as an idealist, with the genuine desire to carve out change where he thought he could. However, somewhere along the way, he lost himself and what he stood for when he let his ego get in the way. I think he himself now knows, but cannot admit to the public, that a one-trick pony has no business leading a highly complex, difficult and problematic country such as the Philippines.

More Analogies in 2020: The Year of the Rat led by the Pied Piper

    Other than Duterte, three other political personalities that will forever be remembered as the shameful faces of the COVID-19 situation in the Philippines are Presidential spokesperson Harry Roque, Speaker of the House Allan Peter Cayetano and the ever-infamous, Department of Health Secretary Francisco Duque. I surmise history will not be so kind to them, and their roles and decisions in this crisis will continue to be told on, even when “this is all over.”

Infestation of Rats

    These three loyal lackeys of Duterte can be likened to the rats in the children’s fairy tale of the Pied Piper who is no less than Duterte. Roque, Cayetano and Duque seem like educated and smart people, leaving no other explanation for their horrible decisions, except that they have long sold their souls to Duterte, and are in too deep to back out now. They’ve let themselves fall under some kind of spell. A consolation in the story of the Pied Piper, is that the entranced rats follow the Pied Piper’s hypnotizing music to their eventual demise and drown at sea. The Pied Piper however, just leaves them there and walks on. Seems like a foreboding scenario, figuratively speaking.

      It would be best if the story ended there. However, we find that the Pied Piper, like our very own version, is a vengeful one, and will stop at nothing until he has accomplished a personal vendetta towards whomever crosses him. In our Pied Pier’s skewed view, he feels that his opponents have gravely wronged him, or have been incredibly ungrateful for all the “work” he has achieved. His next plan of action is to hit them where it hurts the most – by getting to the children or those “most vulnerable and without a voice”. Seizing the power of his position, he is able to demonize multitudes through his filthy words, terrorizing laws and drug wars. (Read: Dead Kids, February 20, 2020).

     In so many dark metaphors, in the dead of the night, while everyone cluelessly sleeps, the Pied Piper plays his hypnotizing song that “vulnerable communities” are uncontrollably drawn to, forced to follow, or fooled into blindly following, until they all disappear without a trace, possibly never to be found again.

Light at the end of a Long Tunnel    

    However, I think our Pied Piper may have made a costly miscalculation. He may have robbed the country blind and killed countless lives (directly and indirectly), while we ignorantly slept, but he has ignited a fire. He has seemed to awoken a sleeping giant – a sleeping giant, unified in anger against this administration and what it stands for. Is Change Coming?

[cpeacephoto]

This is kind of a moody post. So if you’re not into long winded, incoherent rants about nothing just enjoy the photos and move on. No one’s blaming you.  

There’s an episode of the TV show Firefly that I think about from time to time. The shows been off the air forever so if for some reason you hate spoilers, this is the only warning I feel socially required to give you.

The show’s premise is a group of sort of rag tag people on a ship out in space. It’s a lot like space cowboys. There’s an old military guy and his former underling acting as the ship captain/owner and 1st officer. The 1st officer’s spouse/pilot, a mechanic, a doctor who’s hiding from the law along with his sister, a hired gun, a preacher, and a professional companion. They take whatever jobs they can moving cargo or passengers to try and make a living. Doesn’t matter if the job is legal or not, so long as it’s not out right morally disgusting. Like they won’t steal medical supplies from those that need it.  

Specifically there’s an episode I think about a lot called Out Of Gas. It is kind of a slow episode but it is also a very heavy episode. In the episode the ship runs into a major malfunction early in the airing. The engine is down. Without the engine they are dead in the water. More importantly without the engine they are out of air. There’s two shuttles attached to the ship, but they themselves have limited range, capacity, and air.

Even if the shuttles could support absolutely everyone they have another very big problem. The ship is their livelihood. Being out in the middle of nowhere means there’s not exactly a lot of reputable people or even law enforcement around. Assuming, anyone comes at all. Should someone find the ship, they’re far more likely to see it as an opportunity for themselves to survive and just scrap it. If someone’s on board, they may be willing to injure, kidnap, or kill that person so they can scrap whatever of value is left on the ship.

So they’re boned. They can’t stay as they’re basically in a stationary coffin. They can’t all go, or there’s good chance there’s nothing to come back to. It’s with that the captain decides he’s going to stay behind. Despite being a little bit of an asshole, he means well. And he does have a moral code. He doesn’t hurt the innocent and he feels responsible to keep his crew alive. When tough decisions need to be made, like taking on risk or making sacrifices, he feels it’s his place. By sending the others off in the shuttles he saves them and gives them the best possible chance to find something better. By staying behind he’s giving his ship the best possible chance that someone will come by and actually help him.

Before everyone leaves he asks the pilot to deploy a communications beacon. There’s just a depth to this action. Space by definition is vast and empty. It’s similar to being on a ship in the middle of the Pacific and throwing a beacon overboard. There’s a very, very slim chance anyone is ever going to hear your beacon. Or if they do that they’ll hear it in time. If someone does hear it, there’s no guarantee that this person will be helpful, or even not malicious.

What that beacon is, is hope. It’s not super high tech, it’s not particularly wonderful. It’s just a small repeating signal. A shot in the dark that maybe, maybe the right person will hear it. Maybe you’ll get lucky enough that at your lowest and most vulnerable point the right person will save the day. But the odds of that happening are so overwhelmingly against you. So in almost desperation you deploy it. The last shred of hope slowly beeping in the dark. “beep……………beep………………beep………….beep……” because what else are you going to do?

I think about that beacon a lot. That against all odds shot in the dark at the hope of being heard by the right person. I talk a lot about my old friend. I always talk positively about them. And I mean every word of it. They have had the biggest effect on my life. And I’m amazingly fortunate that it was a positive one. Despite all the things that have happened in my life, particularly self-inflicted, for better or worse, they are the greatest and most positive effect.

And despite all logic, I do feel connected to them. Whenever I get to see a photo of them it really does just sort of make me feel complete, or normal. Which I usually don’t day to day. And yes sometimes it makes me feel happy too like their art usually does. Knowing they are okay, and safe, and happy even around people I’ve never met brings me a kind of comfort. There have been at least 3 different times I’ve suddenly gotten anxious for no reason and out of the blue started thinking of them only to find out later during that time frame something had happened to them. Like a breakup, or a car flat. I’ve had countless dreams about them, and the worst are the ones that are all too real. So real it takes a moment to figure out it was just a dream and didn’t happen. And they are someone who frankly makes me incredibly nervous, anxious, even scared. Something that when we talked would go away the moment they said hi to me and I knew it was all okay. But since we don’t talk anymore, I just sit there and spin.

I think about the Firefly episode because that beacon. I feel like so much of my life has been spent waiting for someone. Someone who for all I know may never come. Someone who I don’t know if it would be worse if they hate me, or if they’ve just forgotten I even exist. If they honestly don’t care about me anymore. I don’t even hit the radar. The last time I talked to them they said while I wasn’t the only thing bad to ever happen to them, I was by far the worst. And I by far had the largest effect on them. That statement, particularly from them, radiates with me daily. Almost 20 years daily. That they can’t remember why we talked or see what the point in talking to me was.

I think about the beacon because so much of what I do I feel like is just a beacon, that slow beeping in the dark, hoping beyond all hope that they hear it. And that if they did, they’ve be kind. I know the odds are overwhelmingly against me. But I have to put out the beacon. I have to have something that says, “I’m still here” floating out in the vast abyss and darkness. I have to hold on. I don’t know what else to do. I’ve been waiting for so long.

It’s made even harder when I know how to contact them. But I feel like I’m not allowed to. Nothing physically stops me. But I’ve always felt like part of that whole need to wait feeling, was that this all wouldn’t be over until they were ready for it to be over. I couldn’t force the issue. They had to make contact with me first. So I’m just sitting here, putting out beacons into the void. Hoping they’ll hear one of them and make the move I don’t think I’m allowed to break. And complete a cycle that started 20 years ago with a “hello”.

In the episode, the beacon does eventually get heard by someone. That someone is a group of people looking to scrap out the ship and seeing someone is on board, isn’t too particular about killing the captain to do it. With a bullet hole in his side the captain manages to convince his would be killers to vacate the ship AND leave him the part he needs to repair the engine. He’s now alone, not a mechanic, bleeding out, in massive amounts of pain, and running out of air. But if he can endure it, just fucking endure it, repair that engine and call back the shuttles then maybe everyone including himself has a chance. Even if he ends up dying at least when everyone else came back, they’d all have a chance.

I feel like that sometimes. Like I’m alone, and I have to just fucking endure it. If I can just endure it long enough, my friend will be happy. Even if I run out of time at least my friend will be happy. They’ll be safe, and healthy, and hopefully happy. But I’m really hoping that if I endure all of this long enough it’ll be okay. My friend will come back for me. I’ve seen them defend and come back for so many other people. I just know they have to come back for me. Tell me it’s alright now. Tell me to stop being so hard on myself. Ask me how my day is. Let me ask them how their day is. I just have to hold on a little longer…

The captain spends the episode from here on out flash backing to how he got the ship. Why it’s so important to him he’s willing to risk everything for it. And sure enough by the end of the episode he ends up fixing that engine, restoring the air, and calling back the shuttles just in time to pass out. By TV magic the shuttles make it back in time to save him before he completely bleeds out and dies. It’s a happy ending. But for the entire length of the episode it was really about hope, against all odds. And the length one man will go through for a fighting chance.

I think about this episode from time to time.

If you’ve read this far you’re probably wondering about the photos I’m posting. The out of focus shot is a digital portrait I did back in Salt Lake City. The fact it’s a woman in a tank top out of focus is really what spun me out on all of this. The fact it’s intimate, but she’s out of focus, out of reach, is what got me moody and thinking. The lavender was something I found at Pike’s Place market in Seattle. My old friend liked Lavender and I still use lavender scented soaps and air fresheners because of it. The digital shots of the woman with the blue coffee cup go back to a reoccurring theme with me and the idea of comfort. Knowing someone so well you don’t have to wear fancy lingerie or be all dressed to the 9’s. As well as perfectly imperfect. The girl in pink is a set of digital shots taken in my house. A fine example of how I won’t allow myself to have friends, and at this point don’t know how to have friends anymore. The girl in the bear was back in Salt Lake City. The graffiti was something on the back of a building we happened to wonder by. And the last shot is from way back in college. A fellow photo student who was probably the age I am now, and was the wife of a Michigan State Trooper.