#the only 'newspapers' that are free are the tabloids who desperately

[hermionesplants]

i get why newspapars have to have a subscription fee but like.... why

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

He Could Be the One

(Part Two of the Hannah Montana au that nobody asked for but that’s actually really fun to write)

---

Geralt slips into the alleyway behind the venue and clambers his way onto a pile of empty boxes outside the star’s green room. If he can’t take Jaskier to see Dandelion then he can certainly take an exclusive picture of Dandelion to give Jaskier. Hopefully his unrequited crush would be one step closer to, well, requiting things.

When Geralt finally reaches the top of the pile and peeks in through the window, though, that plan goes to shit. He watches with wide, shocked amber eyes as Dandelion removes what is, apparently, a heavily styled blonde wig. Underneath the disguise is a shock of messy, chestnut brown hair.

When Dandelion turns around to face the window again, his makeup removed and his wig clutched in his hand, Geralt gasps in shock and loses his grip on the rough bricks of the windowsill. 

“Fuck!” he cries, falling backwards onto his ass in the alley. The camera he’d rented from the school newspaper goes hurtling off into the darkness, probably broken. 

He knows that face. He knows that soft-looking brown hair.

Dandelion and Jaskier are one in the same.

A moment after he hits the ground, the venue’s back door bursts open and Jaskier glances around, brows furrowed with worry. “Hello? Are you okay out here?”

“Hnnn...” Geralt groans, rubbing the spot on his hip where his body had first connected with the ground. He knows it’s going to bruise; if this is even really happening. It feels like a dream. Like something that only happens on the Disney channel but never in real life (this cannot be real life). If it does bruise well...holy fucking shit, Jaskier is a pop star.

“G-Geralt!?” Jaskier glances between his classmate, still laying sprawled against the dirty asphalt of the alley in a state of apparent catatonia, and the wig still clutched in his hand. “Well shit.”

“You-you’re-” he gawks, pointing up at Jaskier. You know, like an idiot. “You’re Dandelion!”

“Ta da?” Jaskier half-smiles. The slender brunette is clearly exhausted from the show he’s just put on and now he looks anxious on top of it. Seeing just how vulnerable and scared Jaskier seems, Geralt’s heart melts in his chest. It always melts when he sees the cute junior; he’s had a crush on the other boy for months. Ever since he’d transferred into Geralt’s English class. 

The same junior who is, apparently, an internationally recognized pop sensation with a net worth somewhere in the millions. 

“G...Geralt?” Jaskier asks again, waving his hand in front of the older boy’s face. “Hello?”

“You’re uh...” Geralt is trying desperately to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth so he can fucking say something and stop staring like a fool. “Holy shit, you’re Dandelion. That’s why you’re always humming his - your songs between classes, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“I think I broke the school’s only camera,” Geralt says, gesturing out into the darkness. “But it was worth it.”

“Want to come sit in my green room and chat? My manager is probably going to want you to sign an NDA or some shit,” Jaskier sighs. “I don’t know. I’ll let him handle it. I’m too tired. That was fun, but I’m exhausted. And hungry.”

“I’m so sorry.” It’s the only thing Geralt can think to say as he stands up and dusts himself off. He hadn’t meant to encroach on such an enormous and personal secret; he’d just wanted a gift for... “I was trying to take a picture of Dandelion to give to this guy at school that I like.”

“Oh yeah?” Jaskier smiles, leading Geralt into the warmth of the green room. The shorter boy takes a seat on a very comfortable looking couch and pats the cushion next to him. “Come sit, I don’t bite.”

The nervous senior lowers himself onto the couch as if he’s afraid it might come alive and eat him. His ass is perched on the very edge; ready to take flight at any moment if necessary. “It was going to be a gift for him. His name is uh, it’s Jaskier.”

“What?”

“I thought you were busy tonight,” Geralt gestures vaguely towards the wig, “Although I didn’t think it would be anything like this. Since you couldn’t be here with me, I was going to take a one-of-a-kind candid picture of Dandelion as a gift for you.” 

“That’s incredibly sweet, Geralt,” the pop-star croons, placing a casual hand on his classmate’s knee. Geralt is very, very close to swooning (which he will never admit out loud). 

“Am I going to be in trouble?”

“No. Probably not. Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“I’d never do anything to hurt you or break your trust, Jask.”

The young pop icon smiles, ducks his head, and blushes. Geralt has never been happier before in his entire fucking life.

---

Dandelion has a show two towns over the following weekend. Jaskier gives Geralt a free ticket (complete with a backstage pass) and begs him to come along and see some kind of ‘cool surprise’. The senior is flabbergasted, holding the laminated papers in his hands as if they’re the holy grail. 

They might as well be.

---

“So I’ve got a new album coming out,” Dandelion announces towards the end of his set. “And since you’ve been such a wonderful and rowdy crowd, I think you deserve a sneak peek. What do you think?”

The audience’s response is nearly deafening. Geralt’s chest is being crushed against a black metal barrier by a wave of other giddy teens but he doesn’t give a shit. He wants to be as close to the stage as possible; he could wake up from this dream at any moment and he really wants to enjoy it until then.

“This one is for my homecoming date,” Dandelion states. He shoots a quick wink in Geralt’s direction and the senior’s heart stops rather suddenly in his chest. 

Jaskier is waiting for him to answer. To give him the affirmative. To reassure him that his declaration has been met with with agreement. 

Geralt nods subtly and watches the pop star’s beautiful, bright blue eyes light up with joy. “Alright!”

The beat picks up quickly and Dandelion is lost to the music. After every few words he glances surreptitiously in Geralt’s direction and the white-haired high schooler realizes rather suddenly how exciting this really is. A fucking millionaire pop star is masquerading as a regular kid at his high school. The kid he’s had a quiet crush on for quite some time. A kid that likes him back. Dandelion starts to sing and Geralt is jolted out of his thoughts by the pointed lyrics. 

“Smooth-talking. So rocking. He's got everything that a guy's wanting. Guitar cutie, He plays it groovy; And I can't keep myself from doing something stupid...”

---

When the show is over and Geralt is alone with Jaskier/Dandelion backstage, the younger boy steps forward and reaches out tentatively. Geralt takes his hand and twines their fingers together comfortably. Confidently. “So, would you perhaps be interested in being my boyfriend?”

“Which one of you?” Geralt teases.

“Both. You  might be in some tabloids. Gay celebrities are, unfortunately, still kind of a novelty. Especially young ones.”

“This isn’t fair,” Geralt whispers. 

“What’s not fair?” Jaskier replies, sounding panicked. Geralt pulls Jaskier and releases their clasped hands to embrace him tightly.  

“How am I supposed to impress you with a cool prom-posal if you ask me to homecoming like that?” he grumbles, “It’s not fair. I’m not a rich, hot pop star. At best you’re getting a public display of devotion and affection and at worst you’re getting dinner from McDonald’s.”

“You think I’m hot!?” Jaskier giggles, the rest of the context only slightly less important somehow. His fingers grip the front of Geralt’s shirt and the older boy barely resists the urge to shudder. He’s never really been this close to someone before and he really likes it. Especially since it’s Jaskier. Then the younger boy shocks him again by going off on a tangential monologue.“You’re insane if you think I’m the hot one in this potential relationship! You have the softest looking naturally white hair I’ve ever seen. Your shoulders are fucking beautiful and if you murdered me by suffocating me with your pecs then I would die a very happy guy.”

When Jaskier looks up into Geralt’s face he sees that the older boy is blushing furiously and desperately trying to avoid any kind of eye contact. His hand on Jaskier’s waist twitches anxiously. Aw, he’s shy! 

“I can’t wait for homecoming,” Geralt finally mutters. 

“I can’t wait for you to shut up and kiss me.”

“Really?”

Jaskier, the international pop star and millionaire, leans up onto the tips of his bedazzled converse and smiles. “Yeah. I would really like it if you kissed me.”

Geralt, the shy high school senior with an interest in photojournalism, presses their lips together slowly. Jaskier’s hand finds its way into Geralt’s hair and tangles there comfortably. Geralt’s hand squeezes against the younger man’s soft, slender hip. He lets himself feel a touch of velvet-soft skin here and there as Jaskier’s shirt rides up or moves along with them.

They stay wrapped up in each other like that until Dandelion’s manager knocks on the door. He calls through the door. “Well you’re going to have to sign some paperwork if you want to be his boyfriend for real.”

Jaskier bites his lip and looks at Geralt with nervous anticipation written across his face. 

Geralt smiles and pulls Jaskier close again. “Where’s the pen?”

[darker-soft-starker]

Gold Digger / Sugar Baby Starker AU 

Warnings: some nff mentions, mentioned erectile dysfunction

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

Tony isn’t Peter’s first wealthy boyfriend.

His laundry list of previous entanglements is by no means lengthy, however it is somewhat selective. The criteria is simple: men with money - lots and lots of money.

Four years ago Peter been desperate. Six weeks behind rent his landlord was threatening to have him evicted, electricity already cut off, he’d dropped out of school to work three jobs. The cost of his aunts cancer treatment was so high even the most dubious loans couldn’t cover them. Everything was beginning to pile up with no way out.

So, in despair, he became an escort.

It was high end and he got lucky. One of his very first clients was a man so wealthy he practically exuded dollars from his pores, dropping a ten thousand dollar tip on Peter on their first night. The man seemed to like him, hiring Peter again and again, dressing him up in designer clothes and taking him to the most exclusive venues. 

Peter would have enjoyed it, had the man not been the scum of the earth.

No matter exorbitant his gifts were it never made up for how bad a man he was. Money couldn’t cover up his drunken racist remarks. Lavish luxury couldn’t excuse how the man looked down on the poor, literally spitting on the homeless as they passed them on the streets.

By the time Peter had cycled through a few rich clients he’d more than covered the cost of his aunts treatment, their rent paid six months in advance. He could even afford to pay off his student loans and move out on his own. He resigned with the escort agency, keen to get his life back on the straight-and-narrow.

Except, he had a taste for it, now. The creature comforts, the luxury cars, the attention. The satisfaction he got from ripping off perverts who hired him because his young face made him seem underage.

The things he had seen made his stomach turn. How was he supposed to go back to a normal life knowing what he knew about Hollywoods seedy underbelly beneath its glistening city lights?

So, he went out looking for them. 

They were all the same. Incredibly privileged men with more money than humanity, morally bankrupt despite their bulging bank accounts. All wanting something young and pretty on their arm and warm in their bed - no matter how much they have to fork out for the illusion of a smitten partner. 

It only ever took a few sweet words, wide eyes and wandering hands to hook them in and drain them dry. 

Once Peter would have his fill he’d sell their secrets to rival companies, then to law enforcement. It was by no means a humanitarian endeavour, but it made him feel good in the same way donating to charity did.

And he looked damn good doing it.

------

Peter had met Tony on a cloudy Monday morning.  

He’d heard all about Tony Starks philandering antics and his acerbic personality and pegged him to be just like the others, just another playboy looking for something to play with.

So he managed to get hired as Tony’s personal assistant, hamming it up as a meek, clumsy newbie. As the weeks progressed, the more flimsy Peters’ outfits became, one too many buttons open on his thin dress shirts, voice soft, eyelashes fluttering as he leaned in close to the man to pass him his coffee or a contract. 

It was the same drawcard he’d used for all the affluent assholes he’d dated prior; whether a high powered lawyer or a CEO, they all seemed to have a weakness for simpering submissive types, those who dropped things too many times, those who played dumb, didn’t engage in intellectual conversation. 

It took Peter an embarrassingly long time to figure out that kind of behaviour didn’t interest Tony for anything more than a one-night stand. 

Sure, he’d caught the end of Tony’s prolonged stares more than once, had noticed the appreciative leers whenever he bent over a table or to pick something up, but it wasn’t enough to truly engage him.

It wasn’t until one day, Peter frustrated and exhausted from a poor nights rest, had spoken back to the man with a scathing remark that Tony had really started to pay attention.

Tony likes bossy. Tony likes being challenged by someone he considers an equal. Once Peter dropped the facade of wide-eyed innocence, proved his smarts and snarked back it was like reeling in all-too-willing fish.

They’d been bantering all day, mostly light-hearted, because apparently that’s flirting, according to Tony and Peter can’t fault him for that. 

Peter had been teasing Tony for hours, all his usual tricks. In the afternoon he’d squeezed behind Tony’s chair and set his hands on the mans shoulders, lightly massaging the tight muscles through his shirt. A treat for all his hard work Peter had simpered, going back to their discussion on quantum field theory.

“I know what you’re doing, you know,” Tony had said, but relaxed into the touch anyway.

“Do you? Is it working, Mr. Stark?” Peter had asked, hands coming down to stroke at Tony’s chest. The man had near purred as Peters hands trailed over his pectorals. 

“It’s definitely working. At least let me take you to dinner first.”

So he did. Peter had been wined and dined that night, followed by the best fuck of his life, riding the man in the backseat of Tony’s car. And the rest was history.

Back then he’d only forecasted the longevity of their relationship to be a few months. A fleeting romance, however long enough for Peter to get into Tony’s wallet and for Tony to show his true colors.

Except, Peter is still waiting, is the thing.

Despite all his expectations and his fevered observations, Tony hasn’t slipped up yet. With the mans combined net worth and reputation, Peter had expected more than one skeleton cluttering his closet, red flags and scandals waiting to be uncovered.

The only secrets Peter finds in two years are the ones Tony whispers into his skin at night, his deepest insecurities and worst memories.

As time drags on Peter is beginning to suspect that maybe he rolled the dice wrong and maybe Tony just isn’t a bad guy.

Not long ago they were in Paris. They’d sat upon their terrace drinking coffee in the morning sun, making up life stories of the people passing below. Tony snorted at a particularly funny one and looked at Peter with such unadulterated affection and said:

“I fucking love you, Peter Parker.”

That was new.

------ 

The guilt is also new to Peter.

It’s not that Peter has never experienced remorse, but he’s not once felt a single modicum of contrition for the men he’s played or the luxurious gifts he took with him.

Peter keeps waiting for Tony to give him a reason to cut him off. Keeps waiting for the incriminating tabloid pictures proving Tony’s infidelity, anticipates some white collar crime to sneak into the newspapers, or like his last boyfriend, a violent temper.

But it’s been two years and Tony has yet to slip up. His interest hasn’t waned, his hands haven’t wandered. Peter would know - he’d set Tony up on three seperate occasions and the man is unfailingly faithful. 

The only thing that has changed is the ever increasing way in which Tony softens for Peter, how the fondness reaches his eyes and is woven into his words.

Tony isn’t Peter’s first wealthy boyfriend, but he has been his longest. The longer their relationship continues it becomes considerably clear that Peter miscalculated terribly. 

Because, despite public opinion, Tony is a good man. A really fucking good man.

Peter is never left wanting for intimacy or possessions, the only absence in his life is misbehaviour. Of course Tony isn’t perfect, he has his vices. He drinks too much, works too hard, loves like it’s going out of style. He spoils Peter and values everything he has to say. It’s the worst.

So, the guilt.

Peter feels lied to. The public, playboy persona of Tony Stark does not align with reality at all. Peter went to Tony for his transactions but Tony ended up giving him his heart instead. 

It was Peter who was supposed to do the ruining, not the other way.

------

Galas were never really Peter’s thing.

There was too much ceremony and exaggerated decorum for it to be any real fun. Any entertainment was usually in the form of a high profile guest tripping over themselves or a rowdy politician overindulging on the free alcohol.

Tonight it was to commemorate some new arts centre. They’d been there for an hour already but it felt like entire night was dripping by in slow-motion, minutes bloated in boredom. 

Peter is sullen, given up playing nice with the socialites and pretending he has anything in common with these people. He just wants to be at home in the jacuzzi, being hand-fed caviar and truffles. Is that honestly so much to ask?

As he’s about to suggest as such to Tony, a hand touches his wrist to get his attention. 

He frowns, looking over as some guy gestures to him, eyeing him up and down.

“How much?”

Tony’s arm around his waist keeps him upright as he politely removes his arm from the strange mans grasp.

“Excuse me?”

The man, short, stout and wielding a fat cigar between his fingers like a weapon, points at the diamond encrusted necklace dangling from Peters neck. The pendant, a large bejewelled spider, rests heavily against his sternum, hung by a solid gold plated chain.

“My niece loves the creepy fuckers,” the guy says by way of explanation, smoothing his tie down upon approach. “Got a thing for them. Has her own pet tarantula, can you believe?”

The arm around Peters waist tightens.

“It was custom made,” Tony supplies, pressing a kiss to Peters cheek whilst squeezing his hip. “Just for Peter. Cartier were generous enough to make it for our anniversary.”

Peter smiles at the mention, looks every bit the doting boyfriend as he leans into Tony further, winding his arm around the older mans waist. The man never fails to exude an effortless, old-school debonair charm, the satin lapels of his tuxedo reflecting the lowlight of the chandelier glow.

The stranger nods, chest hitching with a laugh. 

“Anniversary, huh? Well, congratulations,” he commends, nudging Tony with his elbow. “How long? Six weeks? Six days?”

“Two years,” Peter says, voice hardening. 

“I’m sorry, who are you again?” Tony adds, flagging down a waiter and scooping two flutes of champagne from the tray. “Do you know this guy, baby?”

“Nope,” Peter replies, accepting a glass from Tony with his free hand, toasting their glasses together with a clink. “No idea. I think he works here?”

“Does your manager let you mingle with staff?” Tony adds. “Isn’t that so adorable, honey?”

“So adorable,” Peter agrees, smiling at his lover. 

He enjoys watching the scowl form, the flustered, sheepish twitch of the mans lips as he struggles to find something to say.

“Excuse me,” is all the man says, turning on the spot and disappearing into a crowd of haute couture.

Tony lets go of his waist to turn further into Peter, hand coming up to trace the delicate chain up to the bump of his collarbone. It really is an exquisite piece, Peter concedes as Tony’s fingers grip the pendant, using it to pull Peter closer.

Peter goes willingly, flushing their bodies together. He slips both of his hands onto Tony’s hips, wondering if he could get away with snaking them into the mans back pockets, if he could squeeze Tony’s ass in public view. There’s something arousing about being crass in a formal setting like this, surrounded by Los Angeles’ elite and foregoing all of their staged propriety.

Tony must sense the intent because his gaze surrenders to Peter’s, leaning in to place a placating kiss on the corner of Peter’s mouth.

“Tony, Tony,” comes the chiding tone of Obadiah Stane. “What have I said about being indecent in public?”

“To only do it if I’m getting paid for it?” Tony quips, but loosens his grip on Peter nonetheless to shake his hand with his associate. 

Obadiah gestures to Tony with the hand that holds a glass of whiskey, speaking to Peter. “Think’s he’s a wise guy, doesn’t he?”

Peter smiles demurely, hand coming to rest on the back of Tonys neck. He knows better than to think that the man actually wants to hear his opinion on the matter.

“And, please remind me, which of us graduated college at seventeen?” Tony retorts not unkindly. “I think I’m absolutely qualified considered to call myself wise, wouldn’t you say Pete?”

It’s not Peter’s function to be funny in this play, so he swallows the already formed quips and nods, fingers stroking at Tony’s hairline as he pastes a wide smile on his face. 

Tony tugs playfully on Peters pendant, pulling him in for a chaste kiss. “Why don’t you get us some more drinks, sweetheart. I’ll come find you.”

Glancing between the two men, Peter agrees, letting his fingers brush the back of his neck as he walks away.

It’s not the first time Tony has tried to shield business from him, won’t be the last. In the early days Tony would rave ad nauseam about his company, all the tech being developed, conjoined at the hip to his office. He’s been quiet about it, lately. 

Peter doesn’t know what that means and reminds himself that he shouldn’t actually care. He’s done nothing to earn Tony’s trust, after all. 

When he reaches the bar he orders himself a vintage wine, sipping it as he cooly observes the room. 

The elite. The upper echelons of society. Or so they call themselves, as if they aren’t just every bit animal as Peter, if not more. As if the room isn’t full of criminals and adulterers, their wealth built on the exploitation over the lower ninety-ninth percent of the rest of the world. 

While Tony talks shop Peter leans against the edge of the bar, sipping, observing. He spots Pepper Potts in the distance and raises his glass to her when she nods to him. 

She doesn’t make much effort to hide how little she thinks of him, which is a shame, Peter thinks. He is ever so grateful for her hiring him as Tony’s PA those two years ago. 

If she hadn’t taken a look at his heavily falsified resume and considered him a shoo-in then where would he be right now? Probably on the arm of some lower level wall-street rat, which would be comfortable, but not where he wants to be.

It doesn’t take Tony long to finish, clapping Stane on the back and ambling over to the bar. He takes in the curved line of Peter’s inelegant slouch with unashamed appreciation, loafers skipping with a squeak against the polished floorboards as his step falters.

“That just for you?” Tony asks, nodding towards his half drunk wine. “You ready to go home, doll?”

Peter tucks his elbow into his chest, protectively clutching the glass closer to him. “Mhmm,” he hums agreeably, taking a large sip and downing the rest, watching Tony watching him. Once drained Tony offers his arm.

Depositing the empty glass on the glass counter with a clink Peter takes his arm, rolling his eyes at their antics, grinning nonetheless. 

They wave to various dignitaries, trust fund babies and political hopefuls as they make their departure, promising nebulous future appointments and catch ups, none of which will happen, but they all like to pretend. 

Outside in the cool fall air Tony pulls a stack from his back pocket, depositing it into the hand of the nearest valet. The woman scurries off to retrieve their car as soon as the notes nestle into her palm.

A sleek sports car, a model that Peter has never seen, pulls up while they wait, a woman covered in silk slipping inside. Tony whistles at the seamless lines, the near silent growl of the engine as it takes off into an opportune gap of traffic.

“I want one,” Peter says, transfixed at the gleaming paintwork. He turns to Tony and tugs on his tie. “In rose gold.”

“In rose gold,” Tony echoes softly into the night air, rolling his eyes. Peter can already see him mentally pulling out his checkbook as he smooths his tie down. “Anything else, baby?”

Peter only smiles as the Audi pulls up, slipping into the far end of the backseat and pulling along with him. He still has an ounce of refinement from his aunts lessons in him, so he waits until they have left the parking lot to sink to the car floor inbetween Tonys knees. 

This isn’t a hardship for him at all. In fact, having sex with Tony is his favorite past time.

With practised movement he slithers his hands up Tony’s thighs, spreading them apart. Their driver turns up the music as Tony’s zipper slides down.

Tony is predictably soft when Peter pulls him out, lazily fondling his length, Tony’s eyes getting progressively hazier as his cock gets stiffer. Peter enjoys laving the head with kitten licks, Tony’s soft groan as he licks his way from the base back up before taking the entire head into his mouth. 

It takes a while for Tony to get fully hard. Peter knows he’s insecure about it but it makes their age gap more apparent - and incredibly arousing.

Seated like a king upon his throne Tony hums in satisfaction, gently brushing his knuckles against the high crest of Peters cheek.

“So good at that, darling. Want to push your pretty head down and fuck your mouth.”

Peter groans affirmatively around the flesh in his mouth, encouraging Tony to do just that as he reaches for the older mans hand. 

“God, I love you,” Tony breaths, gently thrusting up.

Peter’s glad his mouth is occupied with Tony’s cock so he doesn’t have to reply.

------

When they get home after the gala Peter has worked Tony up enough to get thoroughly fucked against the windows of their bedroom, come shooting all over the glass. They shower and stumble into bed shortly thereafter. 

Under the sheets Tony curls into Peter, placing a sleepy kiss on his bare sternum, the warm exhalations from the mans nose tickling his skin. 

It’s not until Tony falls asleep that Peter allows himself to return it, pressing his lips into the older mans hair and sighing into the greying strands. Not for the first time he wonders if he’s in over his head.

There’s a slimy feeling all over his skin. Tony loves him. Tony is good and he loves Peter. Peter, who came into this relationship because he thought the man was made of too much stone to bleed. 

Somehow under all of the glamour and supposed moral superiority he’s become the very type of snake he’s been trying to ruin these last years.

He’s been a fool for staying this long, allowing himself to grow fond. Peering down at Tony’s vulnerable form, Peter knows he shouldn’t stay. Can’t stay. Better late than never to do the right thing, isn’t it?

Tony deserves better.

------

It’s for the best, he tells himself.

Sad, but resolute, starts pulling away. He surreptitiously packs his things, stays longer and longer at their Beverley Hills apartment until Tony begins to notice his prolonged absence. 

One night they are having dinner out at some high-end restaurant, Tony preoccupied on his phone. It’s happening more and more lately. Once there was a time where the man would determinedly dedicate the entire night to making Peter see stars without touching his phone once.

Maybe he’s losing interest in Peter after all. 

The thought shouldn’t make his chest hurt.

“Sorry about that, baby,” Tony says as he hangs up, reaching over to take Peters hand.

“Work comes first,” Peter appeases, squeezing Tonys fingers before pulling away to re-arrange his napkin.

Tony looks at him, eyes searching for just a moment. 

“You come first, Pete. You mean everything to me, you know that right?”

Peter nods, throat tightening up. He offers Tony a smile he knows must look flimsy and sips his wine to avoid saying something stupid.

“Me and Obie are working on something, baby. Something big. I know I haven’t been around much, but trust me when I say it’s going to be worth it.”

The hopeful, earnest smile on Tony’s face makes Peter feel like the worst person in the world.

However fine their food is, all Peter tastes is guilt.

------

It takes a few weeks but he makes his arrangements. 

Every day spent apart feels like a sandpaper scrub to his heart, leaving him raw and aching. When they’re together Peter hides his the wet pinprick of his eyes until Tony isn’t looking, only allows Tony to take him from behind so in his head he can call it fucking instead of love-making.

Tony Stark loves hard. It isn’t fair of Peter to take advantage of that anymore. 

So he picks fights. Begins acting like the vapid airhead he pretended to be when they first met. He spends less time in their bed and watches as Tony looks at him with increasing sadness.

Peter wants to be the type of guy that Tony deserves, but he isn’t. He might not have much money of his own but the one thing he can give Tony is the opportunity to be with someone who didn’t use him.

Turns out it’s Peter that’s just like the others, after all.

------

More and more time is spent at their alternative apartment, then May’s apartment. He tries to figure out what his life is supposed to look like, after. The sadness is distracting, but it doesn’t have any right being there.

He scrolls through endless online job listings, but ultimately his efforts are fruitless.

How is he supposed to explain the gaping gap years on his resume? What are his applicable skills? Being a money hungry sugar baby?

Not only that, but Tony Stark is nothing but high profile. Over the last two years Peter has been in countless pap photos, endless grainy TMZ clips. How is he supposed to go back to a regular life when he’s had articles written about his relationship?

It makes him frustrated and depressed. It makes him miss Tony who best waved away all Peters worries with a kiss and stream of distracting words.

He tries to stay away.

The need to be in Tony’s arms again wins over his moral crusade.

-----

On a midday venture back to the the mansion in Malibu, Peter intends to only be there a little while. Maybe have lunch with his - with Tony. 

He thinks he really should pick up the last of his belongings until he stops dead in the living room, color draining out of his face as he spots the older man.

“Tony?” he slowly approaches, hovering by the sofa. “You okay?”

Tony sits hunched over upon the sofa, head buried into his hands.

“S’all gone,” Tony whispers, burying his face deeper into his palms. 

“What do you mean,” Peter asks cautiously, moving closer and sinking to his knees to kneel between Tony’s legs, loosely clutching at the mans wrists. “What’s gone, babe?”

Tony gestures vaguely to everything around them, lifting his face from his hands long enough to indicate at their surroundings. His hands shake as they are brought back to his mouth, eyes red.

“You. Them.”

Peter shakes his head, guilt coming at him for a whole different reason. “I don’t --”

“They voted me out,” Tony interrupts, voice hoarse. “I put everything we own into this new deal. It was gonna earn us billions, baby - and when they accepted the board voted me out - he fucking framed me --”

“Ssh, hey,” Peter soothes, leaning inwards to press a kiss to Tony’s jaw. “It’s okay, Tony - “

“After this deal I have nothing,” Tony shakes his head, refusing to meet Peters eyes. “I threw all our chips in knowing it was a good bet. Fucking Stane, I swear to god I’m --”

Tony runs out of steam, his head hanging low, the defeat making the man look smaller. Shame and fear roll off of Tony in waves, his hands visibly shaking, chest hitching.

Something in Peter snaps and he lets go.

“I know I don’t tell you this enough,” Peters voice cracks, “but I love you. I really fucking love you.”

“I’m losing you too,” Tony whispers, wrecked. “I can see it. You don’t want me anymore, and why would you? I have nothing to offer you.”

Peter shakes his head, peppering kisses over the glistening tear trails on the mans face, resolve solidifying. It breaks his heart to see Tony like this - how could he ever think of leaving him - the only thing Tony ever wanted from him was unconditional and free.

He may not be what Tony deserves but Peter has always been selfish.

“I’ve lost everything, baby. I’m nothing.”

Peter shuffles closer on his knees, tilting his head down to capture Tony’s red-rimmed gaze.

“You’re everything. I don’t care if you don’t have a single penny. I want to be with you, okay? You’re my Tony.”

Tony smiles wetly. “And you’re my Peter. You’ll stay with me?”

Peter nods, kissing him sweetly, an idea forming into his mind as his anger grows towards Tony’s former associate. The fucking nerve of anyone knowing the real Tony Stark and wanting to hurt him sets his cells ablaze. There’s one way to right this wrong, to prove himself.

"If you’ll have me - and... if you want, I’m going to help you.”

Tony blinks, expression going serious. “What do you mean?”

Peter grins wryly. 

“Let’s just say I know a thing or two about getting into someones skin. Stane won’t see me coming.”

[ingek73]

The Simon CASE: Throw Your Brother Under The Bus!

By Kristine Welby June 16, 2020 19 Comments

The Simon Case

Pool/Samir Hussein

The Simon CASE: Simon Says…Throw Your Brother Under The Bus!

“When Someone betrays you, it is a reflection of their character not yours.”

Last summer as Harry and Meghan were being slammed by the press literally for every breath they took, came word that they had flown to France on a private jet. They were dubbed hypocrites for taking a private jet after talking about the environment. Harry never told anyone not to fly, and Meghan never spoke about the environment. But they were both excoriated in the press and on social media. Of course, no fake outrage would be complete without fake pundits on various talk shows lambasting Harry and Meghan for the destruction of the environment.

When it was revealed that Sir Elton John had paid for the flight and paid to offset the carbon footprint, the conversation switched to “debunking the myth” of carbon offsets. Harry and Meghan were declared eco-hypocrites, despite the fact that William, in his efforts to outdo Harry, has spoken of the environment as much as Harry, and had even flown by private jet to Davos climate change forum. His attendance seemed nothing but grandstanding, since all he did was interview Sir David Attenborough. An interview which could have been done remotely, since environmental degradation is such a concern for him. This might sound trivial, but underscores the fundamental unfairness of the media’s attitude towards Harry. There is no shortage of perceived “hypocrisy” if one is determined to find it. But I guess it depends on where said hypocrisy needs to be found.

There was also the fact that William and his family had only just returned from their vacation on an exclusive private island, accessible only by private jet. And if that were not enough, we had the Queen’s favorite son flying hither and yon in private jets, in the midst of renewed outcry about his connection to convicted sexual predator Jeffrey Epstein and Prince Andrew’s alleged sexual abuse of a trafficked minor. No private jet outrage there. Instead, when they were not attempting to equate Prince Andrew’s amoral actions to Harry and Meghan flying by private jet, they were ignoring Prince Andrew in favor of berating Harry and Meghan.

Then, just as it seemed the squall was reduced to a drizzle, along came pictures of the Cambridge clan boarding a commercial flight to Balmoral. £73 flight they declared, with pictures of the Cambridge family cosplaying ‘regular’ folks, with father and children carrying their own bags. It was a double whammy! William and Kate were not only heralded as frugal but of course environmentally conscious for flying commercial. That of course ignores the fact that Meghan and Harry’s personal travel is always privately funded and Sir Elton had paid for their trip; you can’t get more frugal than free.

Rebecca English tweet

“Stunt, stunt, stunt,” cried the people. “Obvious,” said the blue check.

William and Kate flight stunt

And it was, but wait there’s more. In the fanfare of the tabloids erecting a statue in honor of William the conqueror of duffel bags, came word from a real reporter with the Scotsman – There were two empty jets. The now defunct airline, Flybe had flown two empty planes, 500 hundred miles so they would be sure to have a commercial jet befitting the man waiting for his father and grandmother to pass…on the scepter. If Harry and Meghan’s small private jet was going to destroy the planet, then two empty commercial jets should spell the end of our galaxy. Harry clarified that flying private was for security reasons, which also apply to the rest of the royal family. Remember, this was not long after two men went to prison for plotting to kill Harry, because according to them, he was a “race traitor”, not to talk about the threats to his wife.

Of course, the people who seem to embrace their role as mouthpiece for KP, came out. Fully recovered from directing their fake outrage at Harry and Meghan taking a private jet, they were ready to switch to fake outrage in defense of William and his obvious stunt.

Emily Andrews and Chris Ship flight pr stunt

As with the jet stunt, we saw the denials for what they were, “fake”.

And then nearly a year later, this happened. An article about Simon Case of Kensington Palace who is now off to support the non-elected ruler of Britain – Dominic Cummings.

The Spectator’s tweet of the article about his departure proudly proclaimed:

“Boris’s new man in No. 10 was behind Will and Kate’s budget flight to Balmoral – when Harry and Meghan were criticised for flying by private jet says Camilla Tominey”

Simon behind Will and Kate’s budget flight

What the tweet should have said was: “It was a stunt.”

And a poorly thought out and executed stunt. By any objective measure, it was a failure. People immediately knew it was a stunt, and treated it with the ridicule it deserved. It did not affect change, except with the people desperate for any excuse to think William and Kate worthy of their privileged position. For those of us who think privilege should be earned not gifted, we saw William as a backstabbing, entitled, duplicitous craven bully. In the middle of a propaganda campaign against his brother and (post-partum) sister-in-law, William decided (or agreed) that it would be an excellent idea to do that, to attempt to embiggen himself.

If, as KP’s press minions originally claimed, the flight had been arranged months in advance, why did Flybe have to scramble( moving empty jets hundreds of miles) at the last minute to position a Flybe-branded plane on a route that was operated by their codeshare partner Loganair (eastern airways) in order to “maximize press coverage for the airline”? Was there a prior expectation that their royal passengers will be pictured on the flight and hence the need to “maximize press coverage”? Had the flights been arranged far in advance as the press mouthpieces insisted it was, the airline could have positioned the planes without costing themselves money by way of 2 EMPTY flights. And why is Camilla Tominey now making special mention of Case’s role in that fiasco? Was he in his role, KP’s reservation specialist? If not normally, why did he take interest in that particular flight?

We do know that the flights arrangements were made on the eve of their departure per the Scotsman. A flight that was obviously positioned to portray William and Kate as “better” and more “responsible” than Harry and Meghan. And why are we now receiving confirmation of what we suspected from the beginning? Is it a coincidence, that revised versions of old rumors (tights-gate, private jet, KP leak) are being trotted out now? Revisions we suspect are closer to, (but still not) the truth. All these revisions still manage to position William and Kate as the victims. Apparently, Kate was justified in claiming to have a temper tantrum because the bride got the final say for her own wedding party; or that the backstabbing of Harry and Meghan via media propaganda was engineered by someone else and William and Kate merely went along? I don’t know why they think either proposition makes them look good.

If Simon Case was the ‘mastermind’ behind the media war waged by the future-future King against his brother and sister-in-law, then Mr. Case is an unfeeling, amoral manipulator. After all it was under his watch that the (pregnant) Duchess of Sussex was subjected to a coordinated campaign of harassment by the British Media. It was under his watch, that Tim Shipman of the times wrote in his famous article, excerpts below.

“This sense of embattlement has been entrenched by William’s decision to reach out to senior figures in the media as he prepares for kingship and by the apparent decision of those same newspapers to side with the palace over Meghan and Harry by peddling the most negative coverage of the duchess’s relationship with her father, Thomas Markle. “Harry sees that as part of the headwinds against him,” a friend said.”

It is Case who was credited with encouraging William to attempt to sideline Harry and his popular wife, which led to rumors of exiling them to Africa.

“…the Duke of Cambridge has been encouraged by his private secretary, Simon Case, who says he believed that a period of separation between the two brothers would help them to define themselves better and also improve relations between them.”

“In some ways it would suit William to get his brother out of the country for a few years and Meghan as far away as possible,” said one friend of the brothers.

Sending the couple to Canada was “mooted, then booted” given that Meghan spent seven years living there and for some it was “too close to the US” and the inevitable tabloid magazine coverage that would ensue. Making Harry governor-general of Australia was discussed and dismissed. The problems were obvious. “The trouble is that you effectively set them up as king and queen of a whole separate country,” according to one source. “And 24-hour media means that Australia is not as far away as it used to be.”

Here we are today, Harry and Meghan have stepped down as working royals, and moved to the United States of America, home to the media capital of the world. The public knew the economy plane trip was a stunt. We knew the leaks were coming from inside the Palace. No one but trolls believed the tights (or is it skirt length?) story. William will be remembered as a twat who on a state visit told the world that the media was hyping up COVID-19, even though at the time, hundreds were dying daily. Yet the apparent architect of the clusterf*ck, Simon Case, is credited with turning William into a statesman(yes) and it was his “success” at KP that lead Britain’s bumbling prime minister to invite him back to No. 10 Downing St.

As it were, the latest Spectator article only seeks to confirm what every rational and logically thinking person suspected was a calculated move by William’s court to hurt is brother. One has to wonder when all these facts became known to Camilla Tominey. Also is she the only reporter who is privy to these facts? Why were some in the royal rota adamant that flight arrangements were made far in advance? Did they question the seeming improbable coincidence(ahem) of the Cambridges and their brood being pictured boarding a domestic flight, whose exact price(£73) they seemed to know even after the fact? Or were they just willing to give William & Kate the benefit of the doubt, which they never extend to Harry and Meghan? So many questions still to be answered. If I were a betting woman, I will bet my last penny that there are more Cases to be unveiled. Stay tuned.

[cilldaracailin]

Another One Bites The Dust

Hello all my lovely Tumblr’s. I am back with the next part of the series of Robyn and Taron. It’s just a little one shot and follows on from where A Kind Of Magic left.

Hope you all enjoy :)

“Sometimes you meet a person and you just click--you're comfortable with them, like you've known them your whole life and you don't have to pretend to be anyone or anything.”

Two days after Taron had arrived home, with help from Lyndsey, he had made his press release from the comfort of his own sitting room in his home in Aberystwyth without his hat, all of his injuries on full show. Lyndsey had asked him to do so, showing that his slight disappearance had actually been for a reason, letting everyone see that he had actually been seriously injured. He read Robyn’s words along with his own, explaining briefly what had happened in the 7/11 and how his life had been saved by the quick thinking of Robyn, who selfishly came to his aid. He clarified that he would be fine and was under strict medical instructions to rest and take care of himself.

He also mentioned how filming for Kingman had been halted but would pick up when he had returned to full health and was able to film. Mathew had explained to Taron that the delay in filming shouldn’t push back the release date and he would make sure the film was released as planned as the end of April, meaning none of Taron’s press schedule had to be changed either and Taron had mentioned that in his statement too, as he knew it would be a question that would be hanging in the air if he didn’t address it. Taron had only filled everyone in on the necessary details of the last three weeks, not including anything about where he had been or who he had been with, keeping his secret getaway with Robyn completely undisclosed. Taron then asked for his privacy to be respected as well as Richard’s and Robyn’s and for everyone to understand that what they had experienced was still very raw and fresh for them and they were both still coming to terms with the whole ordeal.

He knew the story of the truth of what happened to him was going to be a headliner but he had not expected the newspapers to actually run with the truth and not try to twist the story too much. ‘Egerton on the edge of life’ and ‘Taron’s still standing’ were some of Robyn’s favourite’s and she had to find the articles online to actually read them as Taron refused to send her the English newspapers. The Irish equivalent of the tabloids weren’t as interested in Taron as the English ones and she wasn’t travelling into Dublin to get them from the big bookstore so had to find other ways to read the articles and stories that appeared after Taron’s statement. She was relieved to see that they were factual and used quotes directly from Taron’s own press release and of course her words too and her name was written right beside his, as the woman who had performed the CPR that saved his life.

Robyn had been incredibly proud of how Taron had handled his press statement and called him once he had made it, to reassure him that he had done the right thing and talk him off a ledge he was teetering on. She was worried about the backlash from the media for Taron’s sake as he had been almost making himself sick with the apprehension after his video was circulated but he was taking the attention really well and twenty four hours after he had made his statement, he wasn’t as stressed as she thought he was going to be about it and with constant support from his family, friends and Robyn herself, Taron was relieved with the positive outcome from the story

One paper tried to run with a version of how Robyn was stalking Taron and followed him from the set in New York to Florida, while another said she only did what she did to try and get into his pants. Robyn had calmed Taron down when he called her to vent by explaining to him that technically he did end up in her bed and his laughter filled the air as she pacified his annoyance and once the next edition of the paper was printed, those stories were long forgotten.

After meeting some reporters outside his home for the first few days, the news quickly changed to some other celebrity gossip and he had peace from hidden photographers and immoral journalists who snooped around his mams house too. Taron was delighted to hear that Robyn had very little fallout from the news too other than her family and friends wanting to know if the story that filtered across the ocean to her was true. Taron was so thankful that Robyn’s home country newspapers and magazines were not concerned with gossip and stories of the nonsense that came with his job and he felt slightly foolish for panicking so much in her bedroom three weeks ago and was so appreciative that everyone was extremely supportive of her in her work too.

Robyn had encountered two reporters at her gate who had travelled from the UK to try and track her down but she had actually stood at her gates and had a conversation with them and the story printed just confirmed Taron’s words and appeal for their privacy. Taron was furious with her at first for talking to the reporters but she had angrily shouted at him down the phone that turning them away was only going to ruin the hard work Lyndsey had already done to appease the media and it had done no harm to either of them. She was so angry with him, she had hung up the phone, Taron ringing back immediately with an apology. She accepted it but firmly told him she was a grown woman who could handle herself and if he didn’t realise that after what they had been through then he needed to get it through his thick skull very quickly. A bunch of flowers had been delivered to her work the next day with a card that read ‘I am sorry chicken’ along with a picture he had drawn of a rocket with stick man inside.

What had really helped Taron and Robyn with their luck was the fact that the video footage from what happened in the 7/11 had been leaked onto the internet four days after Taron’s statement and although it terrified Taron at first, it had only worked further in their favour as the media and fans actually got to see a first-hand real account of Taron being shot and knocked unconscious by the shelf as well as Robyn administer CPR on him. Taron hadn’t been able to watch that part of the video feed at first and it had really upset him mam when she saw it and then he had to watch it back for himself. Once the footage showed the seriousness of their situation, the media had almost backed off realising that Taron Egerton had nearly lost his life but was saved thanks to a stranger who was now a firm friend of his. It completely changed the emotional charge of the story and those journalists who had cheapened the story, wrote a more suited article about the footage, praising Robyn, Taron and Richard for their endurance and strength through it all.

The three had managed to get two quick skype calls together but with Richards work commitments in Chicago and the time difference, they had lasted only about ten minutes each. It was just enough time for them to talk over the lack of fall out from the media and ensure they weren’t frazzled by the papers and online platforms. Another promise had been made between them to meet up properly in person once they could arrange it to suit all of them. With Richard in the middle of filming, he had very little free time and it was unlikely their meeting would be before the year was out, especially with Taron going to back his own filming in the near future. Robyn was just as busy as them, her work schedule filling up fast and it only got busier for her the closer it got to the end of the year. They had to be satisfied with the few quick chats they had as a trio and were happy to have them rather than no contact at all.

Taron’s words and video had spread over social media initially like wild fire and Robyn took to twitter to inspect the damage the news has caused despite Taron’s desperate protests but with an ocean between them he couldn’t stop her. She had scrolled through many threads, posts and comments reading with delight, shock and horror at the words written. While the replies under his Instagram pictures he had posted of the rainbow cake and him posing with the stuffed dinosaur were positive and welcoming, once Taron’s name had been associated with her, a female woman, the attitude of some of the fans had changed and they tried to call Robyn out on stalking Taron, using the happenings in the 7/11 as a way to only get closer to him. However, despite the few negative comments, the majority of the fans had been supportive and grateful and even more so when the video recordings had leaked, most who had made a little fun of what had happened, quickly editing or adding a new comment to thank Robyn for what she did for him. However of course there was the one percent who had to be extremely nasty. After a while, Taron caved and skimmed through the judgements people had made about them and what had happened and had called Robyn every time to apologise each time he read one he found that was particularly upsetting for him.

“I am sorry about that comment Robyn.”

“If you say I am sorry once more Taron, I am going to catch a flight over to you and hold my hands so tight over your mouth to stop you from apologising to me, you won’t even be able to lick me.”

“I am sorry!”

“Funny and nice try.”

“So, when are you coming to visit me then?” He asked after Robyn had scolded him and he smiled when he heard her sigh. “Ok don’t cut me off. I just want to make sure you haven’t been reading every comment on Twitter and everywhere else. You really don’t need to be doing that.”

“Of course I have. I am making a list of who I am going to get you to write a strongly worded letter to.”

“Robyn!” Taron wished she was beside him so he could scowl at her.

“Taron you need to stop worrying about it all.”

“I know you are big girl and you can look after yourself but I do worry and I will worry and I always will worry about you.”

“If you think one little foul comment about me giving you the breathes being compared to kissing and used as an excuse just to kiss you, which by the way we actually have done, twice, is going to make me run away from what happened and our friendship, then your fans are going to have to come at me with something a little more imaginative.”

“Don’t even tempt them Robyn.”

She laughed and could imagine him frowning at her. “Maybe I should post the picture we took together at the piano on my Instagram.”

“Don’t you even dare.”

“But if it is a private one…”

“It will take about two minutes before it goes viral. I am just glad that footage in the 7/11 couldn’t be zoomed in.”

“They already know what I look like Taron.”

“Yeah I know.”

“And don’t get pissed off about it. I am not having this conversation again and again and again. It is what it is and it has been supportive and positive. Now what you need to do seeing as how it has been a week since the statement release and it has already completely mellowed out, is get into bed with a cup of tea and get some proper sleep.”

“My mam has been talking to you.”

“Of course she has.” Once Tina was able to compose herself after she watched the video footage, she was on the phone to the Robyn, thanking her once more for what she did for her son. “She has been telling me all about your time at home. I think I need to send cwtch to you to help you sleep.”

She could hear him smile on the other end of the phone but the tone of his voice was down. “It’s just been a bit stressful Robyn.”

“I know Taron but like I said, a week has passed and everything has calmed down. You can actually put your head down and get some sleep, some decent sleep.”

“Cosy in the duvet sleep?”

“Yeah that kind of sleep. You need to make sure you keep resting Taron.”

“I will and don’t raise that one eyebrow at me.” Taron might not have been able to her, but he knew her left eyebrow was raised in a perfect unapproving look. “I promise. Tonight, I will do my best to try and get a decent night’s sleep.”

“That’s all I can ask for Taron.”

It was Robyn who phoned him when he posted the picture two weeks later on his Instagram of the key lime pie he had made. ‘Learning new skills while I rest up’ was the caption he had written under the photo along with a love heart and chicken emoji.

“A chicken?”

“Well I had to get the nod to you in there somehow!” He laughed as he sat on his mam’s couch, with his sisters either side of him. He had wanted to bake something for his mam as even though he had insisted he stayed at his own home, she visited him every day and had made him many dinners he could freeze and re-heat. Once all the craziness of the media relaxed and he was able to catch up on much needed sleep, he wanted to repay his mam for all her kindness. Her hug had hurt him dreadfully when he got home but he didn’t dare let go and it was an extremely tearful reunion, his step-dad hugging him just as tight and Tina had been almost hounding him lovingly every day making sure he was resting, sleeping and eating. Taron brought the book Robyn had made with him over to his mam’s house and used the recipe she had wrote out for him for the key lime pie to make one in his childhood kitchen much to the amusement of his family. Tina was very interested in the book he was given as a present, and had hugged her son hard around his waist with one arm as she looked through it, laughing at the pictures of his and Robyn’s antic’s and giving him a kiss on his forehead when she got to the picture near the end where Robyn was leaning on his chest with her hand on his heart. Mari and Rosie had insisted that they sat together with him so he could talk to them about the book too and he had answered Robyn’s call as they drooled over the pictures of the rainbow cake. “My mam liked the pie by the way.”

“You do realise that if you keep posting chicken emoji’s someone is going to see a pattern of chicken emoji’s and wonder what on earth they mean.”

“They are just chicken emoji’s.”

“Who uses a bloody chicken emoji Taron?”

“I do and my mam loved how I baked a whole pie by myself.”

“Ok so let’s avoid the subject and I see my thorough instructions worked in your favour.”

“Very helpful.” He agreed. “Robyn I am going to put you on speaker. My sisters want to talk to you.” Taron’s sisters had hugged him tight when he arrived home and even though their arms squeezed his ribs painfully hard, he couldn’t ask them to let go. The arms were warm and comforting around him. They had questioned why his head had a big cut on it and both placed a kiss on his forehead to help make it better, Taron cuddling them both into him for a long time as he knelt on the doorstep of his mam’s house.

“Hey Robyn!” The girls called.

“Hello girls.”

“Robyn did Taron really make that cake in the book you gave him?” Asked Mari.

“He sure did.”

“And he really did throw flour at you.” Confirmed Rosie.

Robyn laughed. “I told you he was being a little bit naughty Rosie.” After speaking with his young siblings a few times on the phone over the past few weeks, she could easily tell their voices apart from each other now.

“We love the book you made for him.” She said. “You had a lot fun with Taron.”

“We did have a lot of fun.” Agreed Robyn.

“The girls want to know if cwtch can come and visit us.” Taron chipped in. “But I told them that he didn’t have a passport.”

“Taron teddy bears don’t need passports.” Laughed Rosie.

“Rosie cwtch is not a bear. He is a dinosaur.” Corrected her younger sister.

“Well dinosaurs don’t need passports either.” Rosie replied.

“Cwtch doesn’t really like airplanes.” Said Robyn.

“Told you.” Replied Taron as he watched the girls flick through the book to try and find the pictures of the plush Robyn had stuck in.

“Yes you did.” Robyn replied knowing Taron’s words were for her. She had wanted him to bring cwtch home with him but he had refused saying that his sisters would want him and how right he was.

“Taron you really loved cuddling him.” Said Rosie as she found the picture where Taron was asleep on Robyn’s bed with the dinosaur in his arms. “Robyn did you really let Taron sleep in your bed?” She asked.

“Should I not have?” Robyn asked back.

“No I am glad you let him. Mam said that we have to let Taron sleep just like you did. It is what the doctor says he had to do. Mari and I gave him one of our bears to cuddle but I think he just needs cwtch to help him sleep.”

“Oh, he does, does he? Rosie has Taron been sleeping in his bed?”

“In our house no. In his house sometimes. Mam has been telling him he needs to stop drinking coffee and sleep.”

“Taron…”

“Robyn, I need to go chicken. My mam is looking for me.”

“No she’s not Taron!”

“Love you!” He called and ended the phone call.

Robyn sent him a text with an angry smiley face followed by a bed, a rocket and a man and Taron’s reply of a love heart, chicken, sheep and a cloud made her grin.

A week later it was Taron who called her to first scold her from commenting on his latest Instagram picture and second to thank her once more for giving him CPR in the 7/11.

It had been over a month since he had left Robyn and he could finally feel his ribs starting to heal and movements that had once stung him and caused him to stop and groan, were much easier for him and he could sit and stand with an ease he had taken for granted before he was hurt. The bruises on his face had completely faded away and his forehead was finally looking healed and only a small thin scab was left as the wound fixed itself. His arm had repaired itself too and again only a skinny scab that he didn’t need to cover was left on his skin. It was taking every ounce of his restrain to not pick at the healing wounds. He didn’t want to be left with a significant scar compared to the small one he would have.

One of the first things he knew he wanted to do once he could move more freely was contact the British Red Cross and enquire about a CPR course that he could take part in and he did so during the first week of October. He had already spoken to his agent about it as well as Lyndsey, his parents and Robyn, who though were concerned with his willingness to throw himself into a course that taught the technique that saved his life so soon, they could see how much it meant to him and supported him with his choice and his need to follow through with his decision to do so.

When he explained who he was and why he wanted to learn such a vital skill to the lady on the phone, it only took three days for his team to work with the British Red Cross in Wales and organise for Taron to take a two day first aid course at home in Aberystwyth. He was extremely happy to share his experience on video for the Red Cross to use in their training, making sure it was ok with Robyn too before he donned the t-shirt with the Red Cross logo to explain how important CPR was and how it had saved his life. It was a campaign that he was proud to be a part of and the two days of training although had been very important for him, were extremely hard and he had to leave the room twice during the first day to compose himself before the instructor could actually show him and those taking the course, how to properly perform CPR. His hands shook and his breathing quickened as he took to his knees in front of the mannequin and he nearly didn’t do it but pushed himself and even when tears started to form in his eyes, he continued to push the compressions up and down. He was glad when the instructor let them take a break before they introduced the breathes as he needed to leave the room and get some air.

He quickly pulled out his phone and called Robyn needing his confident to sort his head out before he went back in.

“I am so proud of you Taron.”

“First off, I don’t know how you did that to me. I was working on a mannequin and my hands were shaking. Your hands were on a real person, on me and you did that. Second, Jesus Robyn, it takes so much energy. I am knackered and I have only done it a few times without the breathes. Thirdly, I can’t believe how hard you have to push down on a chest to ensure you do it properly and fourthly, could you have made it any more obvious on my Instagram that you are the Robyn who helped me? We are supposed to be avoiding social media contact.”

“Oh, how I am missed my rambling numbering things Taron.” Robyn wished she was there with him so she could give him a hug that she was sure he desperately needed. She thought he was crazy when he had called her to tell him what he was organising and only because it was so soon after he had been given CPR. She fully supported him and the campaign he wanted to be a part of and couldn’t encourage him enough for what he wated to do and learn. However, she really felt that learning the new skill would only bring unwanted memoires and pain back to him but he had been so insistent on learning it and she couldn’t talk him into waiting until the new year. “I am giving you a virtual hug now, rocketman.”

“Thank you because I need one.”

“Let go sort through those numbers for you. Firstly, I did it to you because I had to. Believe me, when you are faced with an unresponsive body in real life, it is a very different feeling than sitting in front of a mannequin. Adrenaline automatically runs through you when there is someone’s life depending on you and you do everything within your power that you can to help them. Second, yes it takes a lot of energy but again your adrenaline and instincts kick in and you will be doing lots of rounds Taron when you practise so you get used to the feel of it. I only did one on you but then it is good to understand how much energy it takes. You can tag team with someone else if they know how to do it too.”

“Yeah the instructor had said that.”

“Third, it’s a fair push down on a someone’s chest. You really have to put a lot of strength into those straight arms and thrust the compressions down.”

“And you didn’t break anything.” When speaking about his experience of receiving CPR from Robyn, the instructor was baffled by the fact that Robyn hadn’t broken any of his ribs.

“Still haven’t figured that one out yet Taron and thankful that I didn’t. It would have been a completely different story if I had of broken your ribs.”

“Something else I have to be thanking you for.” Agreed Taron. “The instructor told us to sing Baby Shark in our heads to help keep the beat so each compression is even and solid.”

Robyn laughed a little. “I actually did that.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yeah I did. It’s what I was told too and it’s a great tip. Really helps you with the rhythm.”

“Everyone laughed when he said it but I think I might go back and tell them that little tip works.”

“And fourthly, you expected me not to comment on the photo you posted of the campaign? I am extremely proud of you for doing this Taron and I am going to say so.”

“You have completely offered yourself up to the world now.”

“The world already knows who I am.”

“You read the comments?” He asked as he walked up and down the car park.

“Naturally.”

“And?”

“All good Taron. You have done such a wonderful thing with this campaign.”

“Well it’s very close to my heart.”

“Nice pun.”

“Wasn’t actually a pun, Robyn.”

“You ok though? This cannot be easy for you.”

She heard him take a breath. “It has been hard. Really hard but I need to do it and I need to it now rather than later when I will chicken out or don’t have the time and I am actually enjoying it, even though it scares me shitless. We are working on the breathes next.”

“Just take your time with it Taron. Everyone understands that this is a very unusual situation for you and won’t mind how long it takes you to get comfortable. I know I am going to find my next first aid training very difficult. At least you don’t remember the CPR.”

“Ugh Robyn what a fucking mess.”

“And here we go again.” Robyn smiled as Taron used his go to phrase when things got a little hard for him and he started to get frustrated when he couldn’t figure his problem out quickly. “Not a mess Taron. Hard and emotionally horrible but needed for healing for you. Seeing the video footage from the 7/11 and watching it makes it harder for you too. Now you have seen the actual CPR, it makes it so much more real for you.”

“Even with an ocean between us you can still read my mind.”

“I told you it was my gift to you.”

Taron looked at the instructor came out and gave him a wave. “Robyn, I have got to go. We are ready to start again.”

“Just breath and take your time. Concentrate on the reasons why you would have to learn this and call me when you are done.”

“I will. Thank you Robyn.”

“Anytime.”

“Before you go, can I ask you something?”

“You know you can ask me anything.”

“Have you thought any more about coming to Elton’s charity benefit with me? And remember it wasn’t me who invited you but Elton himself and you know you can’t turn Mr Elton John down.”

“Taron…”

“I don’t want to put you under pressure but I would really love for you to come.”

“I know Taron. You have already said that to me the last four times you asked me this question over the last week.”

“You would get to wear a fancy fancy dress.”

“You said that too.”

“Please think about it. It is only two weeks away and it’s on a Saturday so you won’t have to miss work.”

“And again, you have told me this already.”

“And it was Elton who invited you, not me.”

“And yes, I know this too. I got the invite in the post.”

Robyn had been confused when the gold envelope arrived in her letter box and opened it, shocked to see that she had been invited to the auction for Elton’s AIDS foundation at his home. Taron had sworn blind that he had nothing to do with the fancy invite when she called him and that Elton had only asked for her address.

“Robyn?” He asked when he heard her go quiet on the end of the phone. He heard his name called and turned to look at the instructor and he gave him a two-minute sign with his left hand. “Hey, look, I don’t want to pressure you into it. I know it is a huge ask for you.”

“It’s only one of the most important charity events of the year being held in Elton John’s home with an array of celebrity faces. Meant to be the soirée of the year. Full of press and media.”

“It’ll be my first event since Florida.” He said quietly.

“Taron…”

“I am not guilting you into it Robyn. I promise I am not and I honestly had nothing to do with the invite. Elton wanted to invite you himself. He knows how much you mean to me and he thought it would have been a nice ‘treat’ as he called it for you.”

“You know I believe you. I just need to think about it Taron. It’s a lot and I thought we were keeping me away from the media.”

“We are and I just miss you. Today has been hard and it’s just bringing some emotions back.”

“I miss you too. I just need some more time to think about it ok and I am always here if you need to vent some emotions.”

Taron hoped Robyn hadn’t heard his sigh into the phone. “I really need to get going Robyn. They are waiting for me.”

“I don’t think you should go back to that course with your mind set the way it is.”

“I will be ok.”

“Yes you will be but you need another ten or fifteen minutes to clear your head.”

“Always looking out for me.”

“And always will be.”

“I should go.”

“Yeah I know. Please call me when you are finished ok?”

“I will.”

“I am still stupidly proud of you Taron.” She enjoyed the small laugh he gave her. “Just remember to breathe and it’s ok to stop if it gets too much for you.”

The call ended and Taron wandered slowly back towards the building where the training was taking place. He had slipped his phone into his pocket but pulled it back out when he felt it ding against his thigh. He was confused when he saw a message from Robyn and unlocked the phone, sliding the screen to open the message.

‘I will be there.’

Four little words brought the biggest grin to his face and he replied quickly with his most used emojis lately: a chicken and a heart.

[richincolor]

2020 Reads

Sure, it’s 2019 still, but I figure it’s never too early to add some must-reads to your TBR pile. There are so many books I’m excitd for next year. It wasn’t easy to narrow down the list to just 6, let me tell you. But I did it! And here you go, my top 6 books I’m look forward to reading in 2020:

Scavenge the Stars by Tara Sim [January 7, 2020]

When Amaya rescues a mysterious stranger from drowning, she fears her rash actions have earned her a longer sentence on the debtor ship where she’s been held captive for years. Instead, the man she saved offers her unimaginable riches and a new identity, setting Amaya on a perilous course through the coastal city-state of Moray, where old-world opulence and desperate gamblers collide. Amaya wants one thing: revenge against the man who ruined her family and stole the life she once had. But the more entangled she becomes in this game of deception—and as her path intertwines with the son of the man she’s plotting to bring down—the more she uncovers about the truth of her past. And the more she realizes she must trust no one…

Packed with high-stakes adventure, romance, and dueling identities, this gender-swapped retelling of The Count of Monte Cristo is the first novel in an epic YA fantasy duology, perfect for fans of Sarah J. Maas, Sabaa Tahir, and Leigh Bardugo. [Image and summary via Goodreads]

The Iron Will of Genie Lo by F.C. Yee [January 21, 2020]

The fate of the heavens is at stake in this hilarious and highly-anticipated sequel to the The Epic Crush of Genie Lo

Genie Lo thought she was busy protecting the Bay Area from demons. But now, as a Heaven- appointed Guardian, even the well-being of demons is her responsibility—and their numbers are multiplying. Guanyin and Quentin are doing their best to help; but what they really need is for the Jade Emperor to get off his butt and deal with the crisis. While he’s AWOL, Genie nominates Guanyin to fill in his shoes, unaware that the role will go to the god who can defeat a mysterious threat to the supernatural order. Along with a few other contenders for the throne, including a former enemy, Genie and her friends embark on a Heavenly quest to an in-between world. But when faced with true danger, the group realizes that what will save the universe this time is sacrifice, not strength. [Image and summary via Goodreads]

Loveboat, Taipei by Abigail Hing Wen [Feburary 4, 2020]

For fans of Crazy Rich Asians or Jane Austen Comedy of Manners, with a hint of La La Land

When eighteen-year-old Ever Wong’s parents send her from Ohio to Taiwan to study Mandarin for the summer, she finds herself thrust among the very over-achieving kids her parents have always wanted her to be, including Rick Woo, the Yale-bound prodigy profiled in the Chinese newspapers since they were nine—and her parents’ yardstick for her never-measuring-up life. Unbeknownst to her parents, however, the program is actually an infamous teen meet-market nicknamed Loveboat, where the kids are more into clubbing than calligraphy and drinking snake-blood sake than touring sacred shrines. Free for the first time, Ever sets out to break all her parents’ uber-strict rules—but how far can she go before she breaks her own heart? [Image and summary via Goodreads]

When You Were Everything by Ashley Woodfolk [March 10, 2020]

You can’t rewrite the past, but you can always choose to start again. It’s been twenty-seven days since Cleo and Layla’s friendship imploded. Nearly a month since Cleo realized they’ll never be besties again. Now, Cleo wants to erase every memory, good or bad, that tethers her to her ex–best friend. But pretending Layla doesn’t exist isn’t as easy as Cleo hoped, especially after she’s assigned to be Layla’s tutor. Despite budding new friendships with other classmates—and a raging crush on a gorgeous boy named Dom—Cleo’s turbulent past with Layla comes back to haunt them both.

Alternating between time lines of Then and Now, When You Were Everything blends past and present into an emotional story about the beauty of self-forgiveness, the promise of new beginnings, and the courage it takes to remain open to love. [Image and summary via Goodreads]

Running by Natalia Sylvester [May 5, 2020]

When fifteen-year-old Cuban American Mariana Ruiz’s father runs for president, Mari starts to see him with new eyes. A novel about waking up and standing up, and what happens when you stop seeing your dad as your hero—while the whole country is watching.

In this thoughtful, authentic, humorous, and gorgeously written novel about privacy, waking up, and speaking up, Senator Anthony Ruiz is running for president. Throughout his successful political career he has always had his daughter’s vote, but a presidential campaign brings a whole new level of scrutiny to sheltered fifteen-year-old Mariana and the rest of her Cuban American family, from a 60 Minutes–style tour of their house to tabloids doctoring photos and inventing scandals. As tensions rise within the Ruiz family, Mari begins to learn about the details of her father’s political positions, and she realizes that her father is not the man she thought he was.

But how do you find your voice when everyone’s watching? When it means disagreeing with your father—publicly? What do you do when your dad stops being your hero? Will Mari get a chance to confront her father? If she does, will she have the courage to seize it?  [Image and summary via Goodreads]

You Should See Me in a Crown by Leah Johnson [June 2, 2020]

Liz Lighty has always believed she’s too black, too poor, too awkward to shine in her small, rich, prom-obsessed midwestern town. But it’s okay — Liz has a plan that will get her out of Campbell, Indiana, forever: attend the uber-elite Pennington College, play in their world-famous orchestra, and become a doctor.

But when the financial aid she was counting on unexpectedly falls through, Liz’s plans come crashing down . . . until she’s reminded of her school’s scholarship for prom king and queen. There’s nothing Liz wants to do less than endure a gauntlet of social media trolls, catty competitors, and humiliating public events, but despite her devastating fear of the spotlight she’s willing to do whatever it takes to get to Pennington. The only thing that makes it halfway bearable is the new girl in school, Mack. She’s smart, funny, and just as much of an outsider as Liz. But Mack is also in the running for queen. Will falling for the competition keep Liz from her dreams . . . or make them come true?   [Image and summary via Goodreads]

[precuredaily]

Precure Day 158

Episode: Yes! Precure 5 10 - “Save Nuts from Starvation!” Date watched: 13 November 2019 Original air date: 8 April 2007 Screenshots: https://imgur.com/a/L8xVIxB Project info and master list of posts: http://tinyurl.com/PCDabout

“Nuts hasn’t eaten in two days, Coco!”

“Look, we all have different life experiences-coco. That’s what makes us each special and unique-coco. So forgive me for not knowing that two days is APPARENTLY a long time to not eat food-coco!”

We’ve established Natts House as a base of operations and a store, we’ve got a school journalist with a very questionable sense of ethics and integrity with the hots for Nuts, and now we have a store in desperate need of some business. Time to put the pieces together!

The Plot

Nuts is starving because his shop isn’t getting any business, so the girls try to figure out how to advertise for him. Karen reminds them that they aren’t allowed to bring jewelry to school, meaning they’ll have to work indirectly. Nozomi and Rin try to get Mika to run ads for the shop in the school newspaper, but she insists that this would violate her journalistic integrity. Komachi tries to talk to random girls at school and tell them about the store, but they aren’t very receptive to her. Karen gushes to the student council after a meeting but they seem taken aback by her unusual enthusiasm. Urara even tries wearing a necklace while making an appearance on a local variety show. Unfortunately, she’s just a face in the crowd, and doesn’t appear for long.

for once, “spot the main character” is actually difficult

Having all failed spectacularly, they decide to fall back on the classic approach: handing out fliers! They collectively design one, get a Pinky to duplicate them (I guess it’s cheaper than a photocopier), and hit the streets to hand them out. Nozomi gives one to a man that turns out to be Gamao, who is upset that the girls defeated him and (in his mind) kept him from getting a paycheck, which would have allowed him to buy food. In his anger, he decides to suck all the girls into a chasm in the ground and try to defeat them, whether in an attempt at petty revenge for his own poor life choices, or to try to get the Dream Collet and return to Nightmare. He turns his coin purse into a Kowaina and throws them around a little bit himself, but Urara seriously scolds him for blaming his faults on them, rather than himself. After all, both he and Nuts are in a position where they can’t afford food, but Nuts is actually taking action while Gamao is moping around and shifting blame. Rouge and Aqua defeat the Kowaina while Dream handles the toady bastard.

They escape the chasm and return to handing out fliers. Masuko Mika happens to be passing through the square and absentmindedly takes a flier from Nuts, doing a double take as she recognizes him as the mysterious hottie she devoted the paper to. Next thing we see, Natts House is flooded with students from L’ecole Cinq Lumieres and Nozomi and Rin are talking with Mika about her apparent change of heart. She insists that she isn’t promoting Natts House, she’s reporting on important news to the community. Rin snarks that she’s just fangirling, but regardless, Nuts is making money and he genuinely smiles as the episode closes out.

The Analysis

In the first place, I like the continued world-building in this episode. Natts House doesn’t magically attract customers simply by existing, so they have to advertise for it. It’s a little lesson in business for the audience, and it also makes room for a lesson about the value of Hard Work (and Guts). On the one hand, you have Gamao, who failed at his job, ran away instead of telling his boss that he failed, and as a result, has not been paid and cannot eat. Instead of trying to find another job, he mopes around and blames the girls for his failure. On the other side, you have Nuts, who works with the girls to find customers for his store in order to afford food. I don’t agree with his attitude towards charity, but he’s always been stubborn. You also get to continue Mika’s little story arc from the previous episode, where she claims journalistic integrity but basically just runs a tabloid. Fortunately, her infatuation with Nuts works for the girls’ benefit again, essentially advertising Natts House by reporting on its owner and his place of work. The contrast between her words and actions makes for a fun source of ironic humor.

We also get to see a new side of Urara here. She is almost scary in her conviction to the need for advertising. All the other girls are taken aback by her abrupt change in personality.

Being an actress, who not only has to market herself as a product, but also markets products for other people, it makes sense that she is the most attuned to the importance of advertising. We see this aggressive sincerity again during the fight with Gamao when she scolds him for being lazy, contrasting what he and Nuts have done to alleviate their hunger. She is righteously indignant, and it’s wonderful to see this normally aloof girl take a firm stance. I don’t mean to suggest that her morals have ever been in question, as we saw her strong will in action from her first transformation, but her typical behavior is a bit more quirky and less aggressive than this.

In a related case, this episode has some fantastic facial expressions and reactions from most of the cast. Here’s the group’s reaction to Urara’s sternness:

Karen telling Nozomi that no, she cannot bring even just a few accessories to school to showcase:

The girls’ reaction after Urara’s TV appearance turns out to be miniscule:

Mika declaring she will NEVER allow advertising in her paper:

Mika recognizing Nuts:

And Nozomi and Rin recognizing Nuts in Mika’s paper:

There are a lot of good moments though, and I can’t bog down this post with ALL of them, so check out the gallery link at the top of the post for a better rundown.

This episode also gives us a merchandising opportunity! Nozomi completes work on the flier, but Rin points out that they can’t hand out a single flier, and Nuts and Coco drop two huge stacks of paper in front of her for her to draw on. Her reaction to being told she has to make a few hundred copies by hand is......

in a word, exploitable (feel free to save this and use it as a reaction gif)

However, it turns out that one of the Pinkies they’ve caught can, as Nuts put it, “Call in customers” in such ways as being a photocopier. This involves the very detailed and well-animated process of pulling a Pinkie card out of the storage case, inserting it into the Dream Collet and pulling it out, with accompanying lights and sounds.

It’s a pretty transparent toy plug, and you really kinda wonder how the girls don’t have access to a photocopier anywhere. I mean sure, maybe not IMMEDIATE access, but it would have taken less time to find one and make 500-1000 copies than for Nozomi to hand-draw them all. Oh well, toys.

This is a really good episode in a lot of ways, and even the brief pause to advertise the Dream Collet toy in the middle isn’t that intrusive. We get to see these girls just.... exist, and interact, and it’s fun. I forgot how much I enjoyed this part of the series because it’s been so long since I watched it, and all I really remember in detail are the episode where Urara hosts a stage show at an amusement park, Milk’s introduction, the mid-season climax, and the Christmas episode because I watched it last year. I really enjoy the little episodes that dive into the characters’ lives a little bit and show us how the world works, and they also take the time to give a lesson on personal responsibility and drive without making it too ham-fisted. Side note, since Gamao's last appearance was in episode 3, he hasn’t fought the full assembled team, and he’s surprised that there are five girls now. Also, since he did only appear the one time, Rin barely remembers him, as she turns to Urara to ask who he is. It’s an amusing moment that sells how terrible he’s been at his job so far.

This episode could have been preachy and hamfisted, but they deftly balance all the necessary elements, inject just the right amount of comedy into it, and make good use of their animation tools. It’s solid art and animation for Precure, with some wonderful facial expressions and no noodle people. Even Nuts, eternally the tsundere, cracks a few genuine smiles in this episode. It gives me the warm fuzzies inside. The next one, however, is even better. Next time, on Precure Daily, Nozomi and Coco’s hot air balloon ride. You know the one. Look forward to it!

Pink Precure Catchphrase Count: 2 Kettei!

[tisfan]

Why do you have to go (and make things so complicated), 2

Title:  Why Do You Have to Go (And Make things So Complicated) (Chapter 2) Collaborators: @27dragons and @tisfan AO3 Link Square Filled: B2 - Trope: Playboy Tony Stark Ship: WinterIronWidow Rating: T Major Tags: polyamory, relationship discussion, Bucky is an idiot, do not get on Pepper Potts’ bad side, paparazzi, bad press  Summary: picks up a few weeks after chapter one with the relationship being outed... in the worst way possible Word Count: 3454 Created for @mcukinkbingo

They were Avengers, so having a routine wasn’t anything like stable, but excepting in cases of world-ending villainy, Natasha slept in on Wednesdays, and her roomate-lover -- as opposed to her other lover who had not yet moved in with them, or invited them to change their living situation at all -- went for a run with his best friend.

Running, Bucky firmly maintained, was a sport usually reserved for being chased or shot at, but he did it anyway, because Steve liked to, and because Bucky found it slightly less tedious than watching baseball games, or watching Steve draw things, which were the other things Steve liked to do. So, they went for a marathon every Wednesday, had a huge brunch somewhere, and came home, letting Natasha sleep in well past ten. Decadent.

And since Tony was never awake before noon unless Pepper was poking him with a cattle prod, Natasha got to lounge around in bed, take a long, lazy shower, and generally enjoy the advantages of living in a civilized city.

Which is why it was so disruptive when Bucky came in, still sweaty from his run, holding something tucked under his arm. At seven fifteen.

Natasha looked at him through one eye, still sleep-blurred, and then rolled over and pulled the covers over her head. Delivery Not Accepted.

(more below the cut)

“We got a problem, toots,” Bucky said, flopping on the bed next to her and bouncing her on the mattress. Probably on purpose, because it was Bucky and he liked living dangerously.

“The only problem here is that you are waking me up. On Wednesday.” Natasha peered out of her cocoon of warm blankets to glare at Bucky. “Why are you not chasing Steve around Long Island?”

Bucky waved the newspaper, because that’s what it was, at her. “Because we happened to run past Stop the Presses! first and I saw this. I thought… you might want to do damage control.”

Natasha growled, but Bucky didn’t take the hint and go away. She wormed one arm free of the blankets and snatched the newspaper from him so she could look at it.

Playboy Tony Stark playing Russian Roulette? teased the headline. Below that -- but well above the fold -- were a pair of pictures. On the left, Tony with his arm around Natasha’s waist, offering her a flower with the other. It was a cute picture, for a pap-shot. They’d had a nice afternoon together.

On the right side of the page, Bucky was crowding Tony against a wall, clearly leaning in for a kiss that Tony looked all too pleased to give. Unfortunately, despite the slightly grainy quality of the picture, both their faces were clearly visible.

“They haven’t hauled out the playboy moniker in a couple of years,” Natasha said, suddenly chilled despite the layers of blanket.

Bucky snorted. “I’m not Russian, either,” he pointed out. “But they’re not entirely wrong. It’s not too much of a stretch to suppose we’d be angry. If he was cheating. On one of us with the other.”

She’d managed to keep her and Bucky’s relationship out of the papers -- especially given the circumstances when they’d first met and become lovers -- but that was only because no one cared as much what she was up to. Or they were afraid she’d stab them if they talked about it. (Not untrue.) And Bucky’s murder-face tended to dissuade paps from following him around.

Tony, on the other hand, was a pap’s wet dream. They’d been foolish not to take that into account before now. “Tell me he’s not up yet,” Natasha demanded. “Or still.”

“Still,” Bucky said. “But he’s in the workshop, so he hasn’t, you know, seen sunlight. Probably in a few days now.”

Natasha struggled free of the blankets and sat up, pushing her hair out of her face as she contemplated the tabloid headline again. “If he sees this, he’s going to guilt-spiral on us again.” The first few weeks they’d all been dating, Tony had gone through at least six separate panic attacks before they’d managed to convince him that yes, they really wanted him, and no, he wasn’t too old, and yes, he was allowed to enjoy this, and no, they did not think they’d be happier if he let them go back to being a couple. “I’m not doing that again.”

“I’m not sure he wouldn’t find it funny, if we were to pretend to fight over him,” Bucky said, tapping the paper where it opined that Bucky was more likely to shoot Tony than any other outcome. “But everyone else seems to think we will be the ones breaking his neck.”

“It’s a fair assumption,” Natasha said. “If you cheated on me, I’d definitely strangle you.”

“It’s not cheating,” Bucky said, his eyes going a little wide. “I mean, do you think Tony is going to feel that way? That… we kinda are cheating. The system. Which is set up stupidly, so people can’t have what they want. We’re not hurting anyone, why do they even care?” Bucky flopped forcibly back on the bed and hid his face with a pillow. The fluffy thing did a little bit to muffle his frustrated scream, but really, too loud for no coffee yet.

“Stop that,” Natasha snapped. “We do not have time to panic and rail against the archaic and obsolete societal insistence on pair-bonding. We need to make sure no one else has brought this paper home, and keep Tony from checking his news feed for the rest of the day. At least.” She reached for her phone.

“There’s always time for panic,” Bucky insisted from under the pillow. “Steve thinks the photos are doctored. He thought I was mad because of some fake pictures.”

Natasha paused, her finger hovering over the phone screen. “What did you tell him?” They hadn’t come out to their teammates as a trio, yet, largely because Tony still seemed a little nervous about the whole thing.

“I didn’t tell him anything,” Bucky said. He pulled the pillow off his face and gave Natasha his I could kill you with my pinkie and a paperclip look. “I made that face until he stopped asking questions. Tony hasn’t said it’s okay to tell anyone yet.”

“Okay.” Natasha pulled up her contacts list. “You go sweep the common areas and make sure no one else has brought this thing home, as a joke, or something. I’m... going to call Pepper.”

Bucky gave her a disbelieving look. “You brave soul.” He didn’t dispute her decision, though, raking his fingers through disheveled hair until he looked mostly civilized, and fleeing the room before she could change her mind.

Natasha’s finger hovered over the Call button for a moment. If Pepper had seen this -- and there was little hope that she hadn’t -- then she was going to be pissed.

But Natasha had to get to Pepper before Pepper got to Tony. Resolve firmed, she pushed the button.

“I assume,” Pepper’s voice came crisply out of the phone, “that you are calling to grovel, because if I had the ability to fire you, rest assured, my advice would be to polish your resume.”

“Pepper, I can explain. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“It could not possibly be as bad as it looks!” Pepper practically shrieked. “And while reckless and foolhardy are both words I usually use to describe Tony, he’s not so criminally negligent of other people’s hearts. His own reputation, he could care less, but he’d gone through a lot of work to keep you and Barnes, and the other team members from being smeared by the press. Even when, I might add, some of you desperately deserved it.”

“I know,” Natasha tried, placating, “I know, he’s been so incredibly generous with us, and he’s a good man. He wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt someone, not like that. And I promise there’s a good explanation for those pictures.”

“I’m breathless with anticipation,” Pepper said.

Natasha winced. “The thing is,” she said carefully, “I can’t... tell you what it is.”

“I really don’t think I can take the stress,” Pepper said in that matter of fact voice that always worried everyone. Especially since Natasha was pretty sure she meant that. That one day, all of Pepper’s hair was going to turn white and she was going to fall over on the spot. “Is it classified? Don’t tell me it’s classified, Romanoff, don’t you dare say that.”

“It’s not classified,” Natasha said. “It’s just, I don’t... I don’t have Tony’s permission to tell you. And it would be a dick move of monumental proportions to jump that gun. Stark Tower sized dick.”

“I wish everyone would remember that I designed Stark Tower,” Pepper said in a huff and then hung up the phone.

“Well. That could have gone... worse.”

Natasha got in the shower, an excuse to not deal with the issue at the present moment. And sometimes she did her best thinking in the shower.

She was out, wrapped the brilliant red towel around herself, twisted her hair up into a dripping knot at the back of her neck when the door crashed open again.

“Do you think we will need some of our teammates? I can make it look like an accident,” Bucky promised.

Natasha considered it thoughtfully. “We could probably make do without some of them. Why? What have they been doing?”

There was a thud in the living room, followed by a slither of what sounded like a whole stack of papers. “Clint. And Sam. And Thor. Exist.”

“Thor would be difficult to replace,” Natasha observed. She walked out into the living room and then stopped, arrested by the number of gossip rags on the ground by Bucky’s feet. “Did they buy out the nearest three newsstands?”

“I think that’s where Thor came into it,” Bucky said, kicking one of the papers extra hard. It hit the wall with enough force to vibrate the picture frame hanging on it. “Clint doesn’t have money, even when he has money, he doesn’t have money.”

The paper slid down the wall and landed with the offending article face-down. Which really didn’t help, since Tony was staring up at her from at least forty copies of the damn paper.

“Well... at least Tony won’t spot it if he goes across the street for coffee?” Natasha tried. “What are we going to do with all of these?” She bent to recover the nearest one. “There’s no way we can stuff them all in the garbage chute.”

Bucky watched her, eyes gleaming as the towel slipped. “We have a very nice grill on our balcony,” he suggested. “As Sam says; some men just like to watch the word burn.”

Natasha suppressed a smile. “I don’t think that’s how the saying goes. Besides--”

Knock knock knock.

Well, it wasn’t Clint. Clint didn’t bother knocking. “You answer it,” she told Bucky, backing toward the bathroom door. “I’m not decent.”

“You’re never decent,” Bucky said, smacking her thigh on his way to the door. “You just--” The door opened half an inch, not enough to give anyone a look and then-- “Shit! Tony!”

And Bucky slammed the door, turned the knob and leaned on the door.

“Fuck!”

Natasha stared at him, wide-eyed in surprise. “Tony?”

“Uh, he, yes, but--”

“But he’s never come to us before! He always waits for us to go to him!” That was a good sign, if Tony was coming to them, right? It meant he was beginning to trust them. It meant he was opening up, relaxing, letting himself believe in this relationship... “You just slammed the door in his face.”

Bucky made a sweeping gesture at the floor. “This does not look good, Tasha!”

“Okay, I know, but... All right. You... do something with these!” She dashed past Bucky to the door, opened it a sliver, and squeezed out into the hall, closing the door behind her. “Tony?”

Tony had stepped back at the door and was staring at it in something like confusion. Of course, as soon as he saw Natasha’s lack of attire, his eyes were drawn elsewhere. “Oh, uh. Hi. I was just-- But it looks like you’re busy.”

From the other side of the door, Bucky yelled, “I am an idiot. Don’t hold it against Nat.”

Natasha nodded. “He is an idiot. But we’re glad to see you!” She reached out to catch Tony’s hand and pull him closer. “It’s a nice surprise. I thought you’d be in the workshop all day.”

“Well, I was, but then I thought, you know, I haven’t seen you guys for a while, so I thought I’d just kind of... check in? Maybe make out a little, you know. But if you’re, you know, busy...”

“I like this idea,” Bucky yelled again. “Happy to be a part of it… just-- give us a minute!”

Natasha leaned against the door, partly so she could better afix the towel (Tony seeing her mostly naked was one thing, Thor wandering by at the wrong time was something else entirely) and so that Tony couldn’t go around her. “What are you working on in the shop?”

Rarely was that a question ever ignored; Tony could talk for hours about his work in the shop to any and everyone who wanted to listen. A masterful strategy, if one’s purpose was distracting Tony from pretty much anything.

“Oh, lots of things.” He perked up a bit. “I had this idea for a new mesh weave for our body armor, so we’re hashing out the cross-section on that. And Thor fried another communicator, so I’m working on insulating that a bit better. Oh! And there’s this new...” He trailed off, frowning at the door. “Is that... paper?” He raised his voice. “Bucky, I thought we cured you of Steve’s old-man obsession with physical newspapers!”

“Yes, yes, you’re absolutely right--” more crunching sounds, crumpling noises. Natasha was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be able to burn it without setting off the fire alarm, and there was not really a good place in the apartment to stuff it, unless he put it in a closet--

There was the faintest chime as the balcony door slid open. What the hell was he doing in there, anyway?

“Just-- a minu-- fuck! minute!”

Tony frowned. “What... what is he doing in there? Does he need help?” He reached for the doorknob.

“I’m quite sure Bucky needs a lot of help,” Natasha said. “Equally certain you’re not qualified for that level of disaster.” Bucky, hurry up. She probably wasn’t telepathic, but it couldn’t hurt to try, right?

Tony cocked his head at her, then reached for the doorknob again. “Come on, whatever he’s doing, it can’t be that bad.”

“Uh, well, you know, it’s--”

Tony rolled his eyes and nudged Natasha out of the way so he could open the door. “Don’t know if you know this, but I’m a superhero. I can handle a little bit of--” He broke off as he pushed into their living room.

Bucky was standing by the open door to the balcony, arms folded. All the newspapers were gone.

Tony looked around, slightly confused. “Are you... Is everything okay?”

“Fine, great, better now that you’re here,” Bucky said, turning away from the door hastily. He moved across the room to drop a kiss on Tony’s mouth.

Tony returned the kiss, but then pulled away to look at Natasha. “What’s going on in here?”

Natasha straightened up, tugging her towel back into place with a little more production than, clearly, it needed, but hey, Tony was often distracted by a good pair of breasts, too. “Nothing,” she said. Which was true, because there was, currently, nothing going on.

“And you’re... sure I’m not interrupting anything,” Tony said cautiously.

“Nope,” Bucky said, curling up around Tony like the world’s biggest cat. “Everything’s just--”

A piece of one of the newspapers blew in from the porch door, drifted around the room, and settled.

Face up.

Right in front of Tony.

And of course it was the front damn page.

“You what, threw them off the balcony? All of them?” Natasha couldn’t quite help shrieking.

“Uh, yes?” Bucky confessed.

Tony looked up from the paper at Natasha. And then at Bucky. Then he carefully extricated himself from Bucky’s embrace and went out onto the balcony and looked over the edge. “Huh. That is... that is a lot of newspapers.”

“I would like to state for the record that this is at least… thirty percent Barton’s fault,” Bucky said.

Tony nodded, still looking over the balcony. “I believe that.” He came back into the living room, shutting the door behind him. “So... What? You were trying to keep me from seeing that, I guess?”

“Well, yes?” Bucky pushed his foot around on the floor like a little kid that had been caught stealing out of the cookie jar.

“It’s not-- certainly the whole situation is a little awkward, and I don’t think anyone really wanted to come out… it’s rude to out someone,” Natasha said.

“And we haven’t really settled exactly what this is,” Bucky continued. “So, what’s to tell? It’s not anyone’s business anyway.”

“Well, that’s true,” Tony said. He picked up the lone sheet lying on the floor and studied it. “I should probably fill Pepper in, though, or she’s going to burst a blood vessel when she sees this.”

“She already did that,” Natasha confessed. “Sort of. Mine. A little bit.”

“How can someone burst a blood vessel a little bit?” Bucky wondered.

“You’ve met Pepper,” Tony pointed out. “So it’s okay if I tell her that we’re... dating?”

“Of course it’s okay,” Natasha said. “We just-- didn’t think you were comfortable with that, yet. A relationship is always harder when it’s in the public eye like this. We should have been more careful. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “We didn’t mean to make things awkward.”

Tony blinked. He looked back and forth between them, and then burst out laughing. “Awkward? Have you ever googled me? Even once? This doesn’t even scrape the surface of awkward!” He chuckled again and pulled out his phone, thumbs flicking as he sent a text message.

Bucky exchanged a rueful glance with Natasha. “Well, I mean, we’ve seen--”

“But you’re not with any of them anymore. And… we wanted… especially since everything’s so new. It’d be-- easier to move on, I suppose.”

“Which, if we get a vote on that, I am not in favor.”

Tony looked up. “You thought I’d cut and run? Over a little bad press? Seriously? Well, now I’m hurt.”

“We, uh--” Bucky pointed between Tony and Natasha and himself. “We, uh, need to work on our communication skills, I guess. I thought you might be angry, or upset.”

“Or feel guilty,” Natasha said, because they might as well call a spade a spade at that point.

“Well, I’m pretty angry with the damn paparazzi,” Tony said. “Jesus, a guy can’t have a quiet outing anymore. And it’s... possible. Just barely. That I might have freaked out a little bit when I saw it. If only because I know neither of you want to be dragged into the spotlight.”

“I care about you very much,” Bucky said, with that face, the one that was basically all his feelings on display, like some sort of labrador billboard. “And I don’t care who knows this.”

Natasha rubbed at her face, trying to push away the headache. “I care who knows it because I wanted it to come out on our terms. Once we were… more comfortable with it. Why make a flash in the pan, if it doesn’t work out? I want it to work out, of course I do, don’t look at me in that tone of voice, Bucky. But if it doesn’t, things are going to be awful enough without everybody and their uncle commenting on it.”

“So, we just make it work out,” Bucky said. “She always has to make it complicated.”

Tony looked at Natasha. “He may have a point.”

“It’s just that simple? We make it work?” Natasha wanted to believe that, but she’d wanted a lot of things, and rarely ever got them. And she really, really wanted this.

Tony reached out and snared the top of her towel, using it to pull her closer. “We make it work,” he agreed. “We can do this.”

“All in favor, the motion passes unanimously,” Bucky said, sliding one arm around Natasha’s waist, the other going around Tony’s shoulders, bringing them all together for one nice, safe, warm hug. And if the towel fell off in the process, well…

That was just moving everyone in the right direction. 

[afjakwritesarchive]

cardverse au with queen arthur longing for his playboy husband. :D

Title: The Same Bed Pairing: USUKWords: 1,705AU: Cardverse AUGenre: Romance/DramaStory summary: Queen Arthur is madly in love with his King, but he’s certain the King doesn’t reciprocate. A/N: Thanks for the request boo!

Queen Arthur was madly in love with his King. 

Alfred was exactly what the Brit had always wanted - charismatic, happy, optimistic, kind, and so much more. He was funny, boisterous, affectionate, honest, and undeniably handsome. Arthur would have been blissfully happy in his marriage if it weren’t for one simple problem. 

King Alfred was not in love with him. 

Even before their marriage Alfred had gained a reputation as a playboy. Every week there were pictures in the tabloids of Alfred with someone new, kissing in alleyways or empty shops or the balcony outside his bedroom. He clearly had an insatiable appetite - one Arthur was happy to try and fulfill, if only he was given the chance. 

Alfred treated him well despite their arranged marriage, this much Queen Arthur couldn’t deny. The King spent much of his free time with Arthur, making sure to compliment and support his husband in all that he did. He showered Arthur with gifts, making sure that he wanted for nothing no matter the cost and assuring that Arthur was living in the lap of luxury at all times. 

But at night, it was not Arthur who Alfred went to bed with. Arthur knew it shouldn’t matter to him - it was an all too common scenario for an arranged marriage such as theirs - but it did. He wanted more than anything to be with Alfred, to take their relationship from an affectionate friendship to the romantic partnership it was intended to be. Instead he laid alone at night, wondering which of Alfred’s many partners would get to cry his husband’s name that night. 

Arthur couldn’t understand why Alfred had never given him the chance to prove himself. Arthur had done everything he could think of to make himself desirable to his husband, but Alfred had yet to so much as flirt with Arthur. It was clear that he wasn’t at all attracted to Arthur, a thought which devastated the Queen. He knew it could never be, and yet he was desperate to love and be loved by his King. 

He was such a fool he even turned down other suitors. Many had pursued the Queen, knowing very well that he was in a loveless marriage and knowing that the King carried on his fair share of extramarital affairs. Although no newspaper had gotten pictures of King Alfred with anyone aside from his Queen since they’d been married, Arthur knew the affairs were still taking place. If not, why wouldn’t Alfred at least attempt to seduce him?

The latest man to approach Arthur with the intention to seduce him was a high-ranking member of Alfred’s court, a single man with a good fortune and a reputation much like the King’s in terms of his sexual appetite. 

He was anything but discreet about his proposition; he approached Arthur while the King sat on the opposite side of the room, leaning over the desk where Arthur was reading with a sly smile. After a short conversation in which Arthur was quick to shut down any notion of an affair, the man left with a dejected look upon his face. 

Within moments, Alfred approached Arthur’s desk. The Queen’s heart began to beat rapidly as it always did when the gorgeous blue eyes of his husband focused in on him. 

“Did he want to sleep with you?” Alfred demanded, looking somewhat annoyed for a reason Arthur couldn’t place. 

“Yes,” Arthur answered immediately, not bothering to hide what had happened. He couldn’t bear to lie to Alfred. Not that it would matter anyway; Arthur was well aware that the King didn’t care who he carried on with. 

“And you turned him down?” 

Again, Arthur gave a short reply, “yes.”

Alfred tilted his head to the side and frowned at the Queen, regarding him as though he were a puzzle. “Why?”

“I don’t want him.”

The King frowned. “You don’t seem to want anyone,” he muttered grumpily, turning away. 

Arthur’s brows furrowed, confused by Alfred’s attitude. “I beg your pardon? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Alfred turned back to face him and shook his head. “Just that I haven’t heard of you accepting a single person who wanted you. Why do you reject everyone?”

Arthur wanted to pull his hair out. He wanted to scream in Alfred’s face. Isn’t it obvious, you idiot? Why would I bother with anyone else when they can’t be half of what you are? How could I bear to be with anyone but you? How could you expect me to be with any other man when I’m so mad for you? 

But he contained himself and stood up, meeting Alfred’s eyes with a steely gaze. “I believe in loyalty in a marriage, unlike you.”

“Wh--Unlike me? What the hell are you talking about, Arthur?” Alfred demanded, eyes narrowing with anger. It was clear he was offended by the Queen’s words, though Arthur couldn’t see why. It wasn’t as though he’d ever hid the fact that he didn’t love his Queen, nor had he been discreet about his frequent lovers before their marriage. 

“Oh, God, Alfred, do you think I’m totally stupid? You think that just because you’re not getting caught by the press anymore that I believe you’re not sleeping with anyone else?” Arthur huffed, the heat of anger beginning to overtake his usual icy demeanor. 

He moved around the desk and began to walk away, unwilling to loose control of himself in such a way. He’d already revealed too much by showing Alfred that he was hurt by his affairs. If he said any more, he ran the risk of having his feelings discovered by his King. 

Alfred ran forward, dashing in front of Arthur before the Queen could leave. “Who the hell told you I was sleeping with other people?!” He demanded, fuming. 

“Does it matter? I’m not an idiot, Alfred! You think I never saw the news? You’d slept with half of Spades by the time we were married!” Arthur shouted in return, face red with anger.

“That was in the past! I didn’t even know who you were! I don’t care about what I did then--I want to know who the fuck told you that I’m having an affair!” 

“Why the fuck do you care so much?!” 

“Because I’m not having an affair!” 

Arthur threw his hands up in the air. “God, Alfred, how much of an idiot do you think I am?! We sleep in different bedrooms, for god’s sake! I know you had more than one person over in the month after our wedding! Why the hell would you quit now?!”

“Because I love you!” Alfred roared. Arthur froze, astonished, but the King continued to shout. “I slept with one person after we got married and it was a mistake! I thought I could pretend I didn’t care that I would never get you to love me, but I couldn’t! I couldn’t sleep with anyone else when I wanted you, alright?! So don’t tell me what you think you know about me, because you have no idea what you’re talking about!” 

Arthur stood stock still, frozen in shock. He could hardly process what he was hearing, let alone think of any type of intelligent response to it. When he did manage to speak, his voice came out in a whisper. “Why... Why did you insist on separate bedrooms, then?”

Alfred’s face fell and he ran through his hair. “God damn it,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I asked for separate rooms because I overheard you telling one of your older brothers that you were disgusted by the prospect of being with me. You told him that you’d rather marry anyone else than me, that you detested the idea of an arranged marriage, and that you would rather spend the rest of your life alone than with an arrogant idiot like me. I didn’t want to force you into anything when it was obvious that you didn’t want to be with me, so I asked for separate rooms.”

Arthur stared at Alfred in stunned silence, mind whirring. He could hardly believe his ears! 

Alfred sighed heavily and continued. His voice was quieter now, sad and defeated. “Look, you don’t have to respond. Just don’t... Don’t act like you know what’s going on. I value loyalty, too. I just knew that yours would never lie with me.” 

With that said, Alfred hung his head and turned away, setting a hand on the doorknob. Desperate to keep Alfred where he was, Arthur jerked forward and grabbed Alfred’s arm, pulling him back. The King turned toward him, bewildered. 

“Don’t go,” Arthur said quickly, breathlessly. “Please let me explain myself. What I said then was a mistake, I swear. Just like you and that women after the wedding. I only said it because I didn’t want to admit to my older brother that I was excited to get married. I-I’d been smitten with you since I saw your picture for the first time, Alfred. When I found out that I was going to get to marry you, I was ecstatic. But Alistair teased me about it so often and I didn’t want him to see how much of a fool I really was. I swear what I said wasn’t true.”

Alfred nodded slowly as he processed this. “So... So you did want to marry me?”

“Of course I did. I admit that it was puppy love at first, but the more time we spent together the more I wanted you.”

Alfred paused for a moment and then reached out, slowly slipping an arm around Arthur’s waist. “D’you still want me?” He asked hesitantly. 

Arthur couldn’t help but to struck by the sudden shyness the usually bold King possessed in that moment. Alfred touched him with such gentility and tenderness, he was half surprised he didn’t melt on the spot. 

Arthur reached his hands up to cup Alfred’s tan face between his pale palms. “Of course I do. I... I love you too, Alfred.”

A giddy grin split Alfred’s face. “Does this mean we can sleep in the same bed now?”

Arthur grinned, tugging Alfred closer. “Darling, we can do more than just sleep in it,” he purred. 

[myselfinserts]

❝ Lions and tigers and bad taste, oh my! ❞

The rise of quirks and heroes in society had cause a great deal of change since their birth. One great change, the resurgence of arranged marriages. Quirk marriages to create powerful offspring.  Most countries have now outlawed them. Others have simply reworked them into a new way of making it seem appealing. Rather than matching people by quirk, they were also looking into rank, family, and so on. At a quick glance, it felt almost like an arrangement you’d find in a dime store romance novella. Everyone got dressed up, and were presented to the public as both suitor and savior.  Marriages would be arranged by both the couple and their respective associates. 

And thus, Reginald Gladstone found himself at the front of the new social season. Despite not wanting to be. 

Lucky for him, this year’s first major event was a diplomatic ball held in Paris. 

"Okay,” Regi said, “so I think I have a solution to this whole arrangement ball debacle."

"And that is?"

"Marriage."

Étienne rolled his eyes, not taking his attention off the stove. "Reginald, I already told you, I'm not going to marry you so you can get out of your responsibilities. I'm a happily married man already, and I'm not going to serve Ceri divorce papers just to-"

"Not what I meant!" Regi groaned. "I don't have to marry you specifically. I just have to find someone else who'd be willing."

"And then what? Break some poor sap's heart when you're finally free of this? That's low Gladstone."

"Not if this person also wants out of the situation."

Étienne turned around, shooting him a look. "…You're seriously dumb enough to try and cheat the system like this?"

Regi smiled, leaning against the counter playfully. "How long have you known me?"

"Too fucking long. Now get out of my kitchen and go set the table."

“I’m serious, E!” The technonaut did as he was instructed, though he refused to let the conversation drop. “I just need to find someone to keep the public off my back!”

“You mean to keep McMiller off your back.”

Regi winced. Before the start of this year, the two had been inseparable. Him and Mary had made Elspie’s biggest news story. Everyone was certain they’d get married. But Regi broke it off not long after encountering Étienne at a conference with an acquaintance of his. The lovely lady was of sharp wit and had great insight on many things. Including when it came to boundaries. Something, he realized, Mary lacked. 

“Look, Étienne, I’m serious.” Regi sighed, setting down the last utensil. “If I don’t find someone, the EHA is going to insist on me and Mary becoming a match. And unless you know someone who’s in need of a beard, I’m at a loss as to what else I’m supposed to do.”

Étienne set the lasagna pan on the tray in the center, staring pensively at the set up. “...Perhaps I might know of one or two people in attendance tomorrow. I could introduce you, at least.”

“Really?!”

“I’m only doing introductions, Gladstone. How you humiliate yourself in front of everyone is up to you.” 

Regi smiled brightly. “That’d be more than enough. Thank you.”

Étienne pinched the bridge of his nose, trying hard to ignore the oncoming migraine. “I really don’t want to attend, but L insisted. Ceri is excited. Might as well try and do some networking.” He narrowed his gaze on Regi. “Just don’t do anything stupid like get stuck like a stray cat.”

“I won’t do anything stupid, Étienne. I promise.”

Étienne raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing more and continued finishing up preparing dinner. Regi hurried in to grab the drinks, smiling widely from ear to ear to the point where his cheeks hurt. 

There was no doubt in Étienne’s mind. 

That man is going to get himself into all kinds of trouble.

They tried hard not to laugh. They really did. But L and Phoenix couldn’t stop looking at each other in between the photographs of all who would be in attendance. Most were in casual attire, but some were photos of what the guests would be wearing that night. The costumes and arranged dresses for some of the VIPs were the most gaudy, unflattering things they’d ever seen. Bright colors in sickly shades that would no doubt cause even Regi to flinch back in horror. 

“Can you believe some of these things?” Phoenix asked, snacking on the deli platter. “I mean, really.”

“Well, you know how it goes,” L giggled. “When in Oz, find a house of a different color?”

“Pretty sure thats not how it goes.”

“Oh you’re right. It’s more ‘Lions and tigers and bad taste!’”

“Oh my!”

They burst into laughter, nearly spilling their food. The two almost regretted having to be there on the job. A party like this would have been a great time to relax and just enjoy the night air. Sadly, they’d been offered a gig that was too good to pass up. The King of Estmund, King Davis, was to be in attendance with his heir, Prince Mirakel. As well as the island kingdom’s only hero, the Peaceful Shepherd Hero; Amaryllis. And they were to help the Estmund hero guard the royals. A decent enough assignment on its own with a high payout, and if the gossip surrounding them were true, the Prince was supposed to be a delight to be around. 

What really sold them on this job was the perks. Phoenix and L were both offered, along with the usual payment, a two week vacation to one of the manor houses by the coast. They’d be waited on hand and food, have free range of the grounds, and of course, they’d be allowed to spend time at the castle. A building infamous for being filled with cats. 

More than worth a few days babysitting a prince. 

A knock at the door brought the them to their feet, and they straightened up to meet the young prince at last. The doors opened, and the Peaceful Shepherd walked in, face partly covered with their mask and hood up. With a bow, their hand held out, gesturing to the person walking in as the doors closed quickly behind them. Dressed in lovely shades of navy, with bright bubblegum blue hair and soft spinel eyes. 

“Introducing their Highness, Prince Mirakel of Estmund.” Amaryllis motioned for the Prince to step forward.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” the Prince said. “Phoenix, Lady Lazarus. I understand you are to be my guards tomorrow evening?”

L and Phoenix exchanged a look, turning their attention to the Shepherd and in eerie unison, “We are, your Highness.”

Amaryllis and the Prince stared at them in shock. “I’m sorry?”

“Cut the act,” L said gently. “It’s not going to do us any good if you want us to actually do our jobs.”

“What, is this a parent trap situation?” Phoenix grumbled. “Really not up for that kind of gig.”

“No, I assure you, it isn’t anything like that.” Amaryllis sighed, removing their hood and mask. “Lucien Adaire is the name I go by legally. You can call me Luci. I only take on the Mirakel name when doing royal duties.”

The ‘Prince’ shrugged, moving a hand over his face, changing his eyes from spinel to snow white. His other hand reached up, removing the wig he’d been wearing and shaking out his long, tawny hair. “Count Gossamer, at your service. Lauris will suffice. I’m the prince’s body double.”

“Please don’t tell anyone about this.”

“Please do tell us how you figured it out.”

Phoenix paid them no mind, simply looking at L with a cocky smirk. “Alright, pay up.”

L let out a huff, reaching into her pocket for her wallet. “How much?”

“Enough for a five gallon tub.”

“Really? Would have thought it enough for ten.” 

Luci stared at them, slack jawed. “How...what?”

L looked over at them, her mask perfectly reflecting their bewilderment. “Oh, Phoenix and I had a bet going. She thought that trick would be enough to get you both to drop the ruse. I said it wouldn’t. My mistake.”

Lauris bit his lip, trying not to laugh. “Sneaky indeed.”

Phoenix laughed. “Yep.” She wrapped an arm around L’s waist. “Don’t worry. I’ll share.”

“Wait,” Luci insisted. “How did you-”

“Oh, it was a guess,” she said. “Based on some news footage of the Helsinki incident. Where you instinctively did the reach for that crook of yours when the embassy got attacked and ‘Amaryllis’ was trying to drag you away.”

“....Ah.”

“I warned you that I should have taken over for you that day,” Lauris chided. “Let’s hope no one else is as smart as these ladies.”

“Don’t worry,” L assured. “Only about five of the people on that guest list would qualify. We won’t tell anyone.”

Luci smiled softly. “Thank you.”

“No sweat.” Phoenix sat back on the sofa, picking up a copy of the newspaper. “Now, how about some ice cream and we discuss how we’re getting you both out of the marriage debacle?” She held up a finger to silence them. “You’re as obvious as a romcom movie to us. Silence and we shall save your ass.”

L curled up beside her, humming contently. “They really are as predictable as one of Ceri’s novels, aren’t they?”

“You love a good romance.”

“That I do.” She leveled her gaze on their charges, smirking. “I’m guessing you are in a desperate state to find true love but don’t want to both trap your potential partner in such a responsibility and want the freedom that comes with being Amaryllis, not Mirakel.”

Luci looked over at Lauris. “Am I really that obvious?”

Lauris smirked. “No comment, your Highness.”

Phoenix flipped the page of her newspaper, not even looking up. “And you’re not interested in marrying because you both don’t like it in concept and also because you’re not able to be with the person you want to be with. Political obligations?”

The cheerfulness in Lauris vanished completely. “Not everyone is lucky enough to find someone and stay with them.” He narrowed his eyes warningly. “You certainly do your research.”

“No, you’re just really easy to read. Much more than this newspaper.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Far too much. Now about that ice cream?”

“Do sit down,” L insisted. “Look, we’re not going to blab about this to the tabloids. We just want a full understanding of the situation before we go forward.” She reached over, picking up a glass of juice that had been left for her. “Makes our jobs all the simpler. You both want what’s best for you, right?” They nodded. “Then just leave it to us.”

Luci put their hood back up, sighing in defeat. “Very well. We are in your care.”

“Excellent. Now, let’s discuss your plan for escape, shall we?”

[clubofinfo]

Expert: “The truth, carefully crafted, is the biggest lie of all.” One of the most important lessons to be learned from the Brexit fiasco has scarcely been picked up on, and that lesson is this: the mainstream media are not only wholly unfit for purpose, they are primarily responsible for this unfolding slow-motion catastrophe. It’s not just the misinformation that was widely pedalled at the time of the UK referendum on Britain quitting the EU, it was the years, and years, and years of misinformation before that which did the real damage. This issue about our mainstream media is desperately serious. People cannot form sound opinions or make good decisions unless the information they receive is beyond reproach. The overwhelming majority of us obtain most of our information about the world around us through the mainstream media, therefore it’s abundantly clear that the duty to provide good, faultless information is a very serious responsibility. But the hard fact is that day in and day out, year in and year out the mainstream media not only fail in this critical duty, their output frequently borders on criminality. The evidence for this is so voluminous that it actually provides a good example of the expression about not being able to see the wood for the trees: there is so much proof of the routinely irresponsible, occasionally-criminal activities of our news providers that it’s difficult to see the fact, and effect of it. It’s not the purpose of this article to provide detailed and comprehensive examples supporting my case; such proofs are easily found elsewhere. But it is, of course, relevant to cite a few examples. Once people see the truth, there’s no further need to keep on proving it. Like the little boy who pointed out that the emperor wasn’t wearing any clothes, doing it once was sufficient. Journalism is, or should be, a fine and very important vocation. There have been a number of truly great journalists, people who value the truth, together with a sense of humanity above all else; people who frequently endanger their own lives in order to try to communicate to us the awful truths they witness, and the importance of those truths to humanity. Phillip Knightley was one such journalist. He wrote a book titled “First Casualty”, which is an excellent comprehensive account of the routine deceits and deceptions of news providers, and those who control them, going back to the very earliest days of newspapers. One of the numerous examples he provides is an account of a cinema newsreel that was shown to British audiences during the Boer War at the dawn of the twentieth century. It purported to be film of a savage Boer attack on a largely defenceless British Red Cross tent. What those cinema audiences didn’t know was that the film was a fake, shot with actors on Hampstead Heath, a suburb of London. Falsehood in Wartime is a book written by Arthur Ponsonby, and published just after the First World War. It’s a fairly comprehensive account of some of the outright lies told by the press about the war, whose purpose was to trick the British people into supporting what everyone now knows was an horrific and unjustifiable abomination. These are just two sources of the abundant proof which supports the central argument of this essay: that our mainstream media must be completely reformed. There are many other sources of proof of this need: Chomsky and Herman, for example, William Blum or John Pilger. Nor is this a case of isolated historical wrongdoing that should be consigned to the history books because it was once a problem that’s now been eradicated. Media Lens, the most excellent media watchdog in Britain, continues to document some of the many current lies and deceptions of today’s so-called “news” providers. Media Lens’ tireless efforts provide a continuous litany of examples of the deliberately cynical manipulation of information by those we trust to tell us the truth. The impending disaster of Brexit is a shining victory for Britain’s tabloid press, because it is they who, over many years, decades even, have poisoned the minds of British voters. It’s the tabloid press that never miss an opportunity to stoke the flames of racism and xenophobia, so that when the economic austerity policies so loved by capitalists inevitably inflict hardship and suffering on the poorest and weakest sections of society, their anger and frustration can be easily directed to focus on immigrants, asylum seekers, and “foreigners” generally. There’s no escaping the fact that most of those who voted for Brexit did so for xenophobic reasons, blaming Eastern European workers for the economic austerity policies of British elites. This distraction of voters’ attention away from the real causes of Britain’s economic woes was the singular achievement of the tabloid press – which, unsurprisingly, are mostly owned by the same elites who benefit from the distraction. The mind-numbing banality, stupidity and outright lies that have long passed for news in the tabloids influenced and changed the so-called “serious” broadsheet papers about fifteen years ago, when they began to use the tabloid format. But it wasn’t just the size of the pages that followed tabloid form, the quality of journalism in the broadsheets quickly deteriorated too, adopting the sensationalist style of what was known, with good reason, as the gutter press. Local newspapers, radio and TV news all copied the growing trend. “Dumbing down” became a widely recognised phenomenon all over the country. The editor of the local newspaper where I once had a weekly column told me that I should imagine the readers of my articles all lived on the most deprived council estate in the town (a mere 5% or so of the actual population), suggesting that my pieces should not be intellectually challenging. I pretty much ignored him. The fact that a sizeable number of people are clearly impervious to the best efforts of the mainstream media to treat them like dribbling idiots is always a source of comfort to me, for that shows there is hope. When the iniquitous Blair regime frogmarched Britain into an illegal war with Iraq in 2003, for example, it relied on, and received, wholehearted unquestioning support from all the mainstream media. But even so, over a million people marched through the streets of London protesting what they knew was wrong. The majority of Britain’s politicians, and nearly all the nation’s press, lied, and claimed to believe the lies of the US empire, but still a million people marched. The Brexit referendum was quite different. For that, both of Britain’s main political parties advised voters to remain in the EU. So too did the US, the IMF and World Bank. But Britain’s main tabloid papers all promoted the “leave” campaign. Most British voters will usually support the status quo, and seldom go against their rulers. So the only plausible explanation for them defying their leaders must surely be that they believed the vitriolic misinformation and outright lies about Brexit that were published in the most widely-read tabloids. To repeat myself, however, it wasn’t just the misinformation and lies about Brexit that did this, but also the years and years of racist and xenophobic bile produced by the tabloids long before the referendum that had already prepared the ground. For years beforehand the tabloids churned out countless sensationalist stories about immigrants defrauding the welfare system, for example, or about new European rules that appeared to be ridiculous. Many of these stories were no doubt based on truth (although many were not), but their unimportance and extreme rarity, compared with the far greater number of cases where immigrants benefited society, and European rules helped protect the weak, were invariably ignored altogether. And, of course, the real cause of Britain’s economic woes – a corrupt and criminally irresponsible system of government, was hardly ever suggested. Thus were the minds of British voters softened up to believe that their hardships will all disappear by the simple expedient of Britain quitting the EU. “Taking back control” was one particularly false slogan that was widely promoted by the Bexiteers and their propagandists. It’s highly significant that the one individual who, perhaps more than any other was responsible for Brexit, Nigel Farage, ran for the hills and immediately quit the leadership of UKIP, his political party, once the result was in. Not for him the task of resolving the disaster he almost single-handedly created – with the full support of the tabloid press. So there can be no real argument about the detrimental effect of the mainstream media in general, and the tabloid press in particular. This communication system, upon which most voters totally rely for their information about the world around them, is not only wholly unfit for purpose, it is also deceitful, dishonest and often criminally culpable. It’s obvious that it must be changed. Some might think that this is an argument for censorship. It isn’t. Freedom of expression and freedom of the press are absolute fundamentals in a free society, which is the only acceptable type of society. Furthermore, censorship of the media is simply unnecessary. All we need is, firstly, proper education of the citizenry to better understand the role of news providers; and secondly, a state-operated public information service whose standards are second to none, and beyond any reasonable reproach in terms of accuracy and ethical values. At the moment we have nothing like this. Our citizenry are poorly educated in the cynical wiles of government and their active complicity in providing poor information; and the one public information service we have, the BBC, has never been anything other than a solid supporter of Britain’s corrupt and frequently criminal system of government. The privately owned media should always be free to produce whatever rubbish they like; but the people should be properly educated to recognise rubbish, and to be careful about what they believe. The public information service should be driven by two goals – to produce the truth, and to provide it with a humane perspective. This is no trivial matter. The BBC frequently promotes itself as being honest and impartial in its news reporting, as do many other so-called news providers. But there are countless examples which disprove this claim, and Media Lens, for example, has a sizeable catalogue of proofs. One standard trick used by these honest purveyors of “news” is the telling of the half-truth, whereby they relate with a fair amount of accuracy one side of an issue, but ignore, minimise or distort any other side that doesn’t conform to their propaganda model. Take, for instance, the many British wars the BBC has reported on over the years. From their positions as routinely “embedded” with the British army, they provide endless coverage of a war through the perspective of the troops. This creates a massive popular base of support at home for the war. What the BBC almost never does is provide the perspective of the victims of the army, or challenge why there’s a war at all, why British troops are even in some foreign country killing defenceless people. There are countless examples of this. What we need is a news provider that tells the real truth about war – the real reasons wars are fought, and the many horrors inflicted on the many victims of wars – on all sides. A properly organised state news provider would do this, as well as the many other serious issues which are currently improperly reported, or hardly reported at all – the disastrous effects of capitalist economics, for example, or the catastrophic situation with our fragile, overpopulated planet’s dying ecosystem – all things the BBC routinely fails to do. Although our education system is also a major problem in that it fails to teach people how to think rationally, and how to search for truth, and how to apply a sense of humanity to knowledge, the single most important area for reform is our so-called news providers. Because even with poor basic education, people could soon begin to properly understand the world as they grow into adulthood if the world was always being properly explained to them by a thoroughly reliable public information service. The great journalist John Pilger recalled the words of American journalist TD Allman who once said, Genuinely objective journalism’ is that which ‘not only gets the facts right, it gets the meaning of events right. Objective journalism is compelling not only today. It stands the test of time. It is validated not only by “reliable sources” but by the unfolding of history. It is reporting that which not only seems right the day it is published. It is journalism that ten, twenty, fifty years after the fact still holds up a true and intelligent mirror to events.  (My emphasis).1 That says it all in a nutshell. Those words should be the guiding principle of a new public information service, and engraved on the hearts of everyone who works there – but perhaps add the word “humane” to the type of mirror we use. During a recent BBC “news” bulletin the presenter was talking to a couple of politicians about Brexit. He asked one of them if he thought that voters had properly understood the issues involved before they voted. The politician waffled and never answered the question. The answer was, of course, no they didn’t, and still don’t. A couple of days later, the same BBC newsreader said the programme would be discussing the subject of “fake news”, and asking whether viewers would recognise fake news if they saw it. The answer once again is, in the main, no they wouldn’t. The question was related to the supposed influence of the Russian government in the election of Donald Trump, and the Brexit result. The “news” item focussed on information obtained mainly through social media – especially twitter feeds – and never went anywhere near the far more important role of mainstream news providers. It was actually a little gem of fake news in its own right. Although the misinformation and outright lies of most of the mainstream media are frequently infuriating to endure, I wouldn’t support any move to silence them – because we don’t need to. What we do need is a properly-funded, properly effective public information service. * Hidden Agendas, John Pilger, p. 525. http://clubof.info/

[newstfionline]

Hostage Taking Is China’s Small-Claims Court

By David Dawson, Foreign Policy, August 8, 2017

When dozens of men stormed the Shanghai branch of USGFX, an Australian foreign currency trading firm, in July, the employees were terrified. Held hostage as assailants sealed the exits, the 20 employees--all Chinese--had their phones seized and only got food and water after they begged for sustenance. While 17 of the staff were freed within 24 hours, the remaining three were held for five days.

But despite the hostage drama, there were no SWAT vans at the premises, nor did local media show any interest. The company tried in vain to get the police involved, with initial reports suggesting that up until the day the situation was resolved, the police presence was limited to a visit by a few--possibly just one--officers from the local economic crimes unit.

In China, where it’s utterly unremarkable for one side to take hostages when financial disputes crop up, the story was no more interesting than a civil lawsuit. Given how reticent the authorities are to intervene, taking hostages is frequently seen as a better route than appealing to the courts. In fact, the courts are sympathetic to certain types of hostage taking: When debt is involved, the law considers it a lesser offense than taking hostages for ransom, and it is classed as “unlawful detention” instead. In practice, police often don’t even consider it to be an offense at all.

In 2010, one government hospital even refused to hand over a newborn baby to his parents so they would pay up for the birth costs. The baby was kept in the hospital for more than three months.

“Virtually all of the time, the police studiously seek to avoid getting involved,” said Dan Harris, a high-profile lawyer who specializes in Chinese law. “They see their job as maintaining social harmony.”

“The most common reason, by far, for someone to get taken hostage is when their company allegedly owes money to a Chinese company. They are typically resolved by the foreign company paying every dollar allegedly owed,” he said. “I am not aware of any instance in which there has been a compromise. Sometimes, though, when a company pays enough, we can line up a team and free the hostage.”

It makes a lot of sense for Chinese police to avoid getting involved in financial disputes, even when hostages are taken. One side of the dispute might be connected with a local government office or powerful business. Even if they’re not particularly powerful, they could launch protests, and the police might be blamed. It’s also fairly cheap and easy for one side to hire thugs, who may be better prepared for a fight than the police.

But the police are also predisposed to see it as none of their business. Public security is broken into two areas: minshi and xingshi. Translated loosely, they can be considered civil and criminal issues, respectively. When it’s a financial dispute, rather than a hostage taken for ransom, police generally consider it more of a minshi issue and thus more in need of mediation than law enforcement, if it requires any police input at all. Debt kidnappings aren’t the only situation this applies to: Even in fights with quite serious injuries, the police often attempt to negotiate a payoff to the injured party instead of bringing charges.

The theme of the wise official mediating among disputants has long been a staple of Chinese literature. In the modern context, the strangeness of the police’s dual role as social mediators and law enforcers has been noted by Fordham University professor Carl Minzner. Minzner attributes it to the authoritarian system’s top-down approach to dealing with tensions between citizens and the state and to the Chinese Communist Party’s refusal to allow the development of independent legal bodies that could deal with such disputes.

Harris’s China Law Blog repeatedly stresses the risks of being taken hostage in China over debts. In many cases, the best move for foreigners facing such circumstances is simply to get out of the country before the thugs reach you.

Often, precious little can be done to protect alleged debtors from thugs, and the courts and the police are of little help. This helplessness was on full display when two Indian businessmen were taken hostage for 20 days in the Chinese trading hub of Yiwu in 2012. The case came to a head when a court ordered that the two businessmen--who had been taken to court by the angry locals who had seized them--be released. The enraged mob proceeded to ignore the ruling. Authorities later managed to spirit the two men to Shanghai while the case was processed.

The case, of course, stirred up alarm in India--not least because an Indian diplomat sent to try to resolve the situation became caught in a violent fracas and was subsequently hospitalized. But Chinese authorities were, and still are, ill-equipped to understand the foreign perspective on these cases. Nationalistic Chinese tabloid the Global Times was oblivious to the root cause of Indians’ distress and was instead content to chalk it up to nationalism. The editors couldn’t grasp that most countries don’t see kidnapping as a legitimate response to debt.

As for the people who decide to take hostages, there are a pretty clear set of incentives--sometimes it works. In 2015, when investors around the country were left high and dry by Fanya Metal Exchange--a fraudulent government-backed trading scheme that was even advertised by staff of top banks--they formed a mob and grabbed the CEO, Shan Jiuliang, themselves, delivering him to police custody. In that instance, he was not arrested, but investor representatives managed to extract promises from him regarding their investments.

The lack of police involvement in these debt-hostage situations, coupled with the economic downturn, makes China a ripe environment for loan sharks. One case that occupied headlines this year involved a debt collector who hired a gang of thugs to terrorize a 23-year-old man named Yu Huan and his mother to get a debt repaid. The police did not intervene, and Yu ended up grabbing a knife and killing one of the attackers after they pushed his mother’s head into the toilet.

Yu was initially sentenced to a life sentence, though this was reduced to just five years after a public outcry. The Southern Weekly newspaper suggested at the time that the death had only occurred after police had left the scene of the scuffle, leaving Yu desperate. Yu’s attorney indicated during the proceedings that they were considering suing the police for dereliction of duty.

This, it would seem, was finally enough to spur police action.

The authorities examined the case and exonerated all the police involved, saying they had only left to call for backup.

[anavoliselenu]

Stepping stone chapter 5

I awoke to the early dawn sunlight streaming through the curtains of the cabin window. Justin lay still beside me, a pleasant change from how he had been throughout the night.

 I gave in to a silent yawn, exhausted from not getting nearly enough sleep. When we eventually climbed into bed, it had been well past midnight. Justin passed out within minutes. However, I lay awake for hours contemplating everything that he told me. I dozed off sometime around three in the morning, only to be startled awake an hour later by Justin’s thrashing.

 He had obviously been having a terrible dream of some sort, but I had been afraid to wake him. Justin’s words about his sister’s posttraumatic stress had echoed through my mind, and I worried about the possibility that Justin might suffer from the same. It would certainly explain the unprecedented choking episode from the night before. However, I didn’t know enough about the disorder to make that diagnosis. I only heard of the dangers that could occur upon waking a person who could potentially have PTSD.

 I watched him sleep and listened to the sounds of his breath coming soft and even. His face was so peaceful that it was hard to believe how restless he had been just a few hours earlier. I wanted nothing more than to snuggle in closer and stay in his arms all day.

 Unfortunately, nature called. I shifted my weight slowly towards the side of the bed, careful not to disturb his slumber. Tiptoeing as quietly as possible, I made my way to the bathroom.

 When I looked at my reflection in the mirror, I winced. I had worn one of Justin’s t-shirts to bed and it sagged limply over my shoulders. My face was pale from exhaustion, only emphasizing the dark rings circling my eyes. My hair was an absolute disaster, with ends sticking up every which way. I sighed.

 Will mornings ever agree with me?

 I splashed some water on my face with the hope that it would shock a little bit of life back into my pale complexion. I tried to smooth out the unruly curls, but they refused to be tamed. I knew that nothing short of a shower would suffice this morning.

 Thankfully, there was a shower stall in the bathroom. It was small, but larger than I would have expected a boat to have. I turned on the faucet, adjusted the temp, and stripped out of Justin’s t-shirt. As I was pulling it over my head, I paused to breath in the scent of it. The shirt smelled like him – that familiar sandalwood scent that never failed to make me quiver inside.

 After showering quickly, I wrapped myself in a towel and headed back out to the bedroom in search of clothes. Justin was awake, but still in bed. He was propped up by pillows and looking at his phone. He appeared extremely relaxed. If he recalled having any sort of bad dream, he wasn’t showing it.

 “Good morning, angel. Sleep well?”

 “Like a baby,” I lied. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to mention his tossing and turning during the night. We shared such a tense and stress filled evening. I didn’t want to start the morning off on the wrong foot.

 “Come here,” he said and patted the mattress next to him.

 I went over to the bed and plopped down next to him. I tried to ignore the way the sheet slid down around his hips to reveal the beginning of the delectable “V” that would leave any woman swooning.

 “What’s up?”

 “Are you familiar with The Stonework’s Foundation?” he asked.

 “That’s your non-profit charity, right?”

 “Yes. Our latest project is a woman’s shelter in Queens. Justine is heading it up. The final fundraiser before the grand opening is on Friday. It’s a charity gala. I’d like you to accompany me.”

 Woman’s shelter?

 I vaguely remembered reading something in a newspaper article about Justin opening a shelter for battered women. At the time, I half wondered what his interest in that would be. Now it all made much more sense.

 I hesitated with my response as I recalled the many press releases that I read about Justin. Some were about business dealings; others were about the women that decorated his arm. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for our relationship, as shaky it was, to become open to public speculation. The last thing we needed was a gossipmonger’s scrutiny while we were trying to work things out.

 “Is this a black-tie sort of thing?” I asked, trying to gauge how big of an event it would be.

 “Kind of. Think more along the lines of Moulin Rouge, the French cabaret. Justine is taking advantage of the post-Halloween season to spice things up. She’s hoping to make it stand out from the typical charity gala, which can be extremely dull and boring. She decided to go with a turn of the century costume theme – tuxedos and top hats, feather boas. I must say, I was skeptical at first, but her idea worked. At a thousand dollars a ticket, the event sold out.”

 A thousand dollars a ticket!

 There was no doubt about it. This event was a huge deal.

 “It sounds like it will be great, but I’m not really sure if it’s something that I should go to.”

 “That’s completely absurd. Why wouldn’t it be?”

 He ran a hand through his hair and regarded me carefully. His brow furrowed in confusion. I shook my head and sighed.

 “It’s the press, Justin. You’ve said it yourself – you are often in the public eye. We haven’t made any sort of public appearance together. I’m not sure if I’m ready to see my picture in the morning newspaper. Or the tabloids for that matter.”

 “There’s no reason for you to have concern. Let me worry about the press.”

 “I’m not necessarily concerned about the press per say. It’s just that we are still trying to figure out us, you know? I don’t know if I want us to be so public yet.” I shrugged like it was no big deal and moved to get off the bed, but he rolled over and pinned me beneath him. “Justin, what are you doing? I need to get dressed.”

 He ignored me and kissed the tip of my nose.

 “Angel, the press is always going to be around in one way or another. I usually do a good job of avoiding them, but sometimes it can’t be helped. You need to accept that.”

 “Yes, but –,” I stopped short when I saw his gaze drop to my chest. The towel that I had wrapped around me had fallen open to expose one of my breasts. I would have moved to fix it, but my arms were trapped in the grip of his powerful hands. I held my breath and waited to see what he would do.

 His lips parted slightly and he leaned down towards me. His eyes were a violent inferno of desire. He took the lobe of my ear between his teeth before tracing the outline with the tip of his tongue. A shiver ran through me.

 “What was it that you were trying to say?” he whispered. His breath was hot as he nibbled his way down my neck. A rush of heat crashed between my thighs.

 “No – nothing,” I gasped out, my voice barely recognizable as another shiver raced down my spine.

 “Are you sure?”

 Using one hand, he positioned my arms above my head and worked his way around my collarbone.

 “Yes.”

 “I thought maybe you were going to start a fight with me,” he teased. His free hand softly brushed over the side of my breast, down to my belly, and then back up to flick at a rigid peak. My breath caught in my throat. “You wouldn’t want to have a disagreement over something as silly as the press, now would you?”

 “Never.”

 Wearing nothing but his boxers, he continued to straddle my hips and kept me pinned in place. He made another trail down my belly with his fingertips, never quite reaching the mark because of how he was positioned. I pushed up with my hips and strained against him, but that only served to send another rush of heat to the junction of my thighs. He was driving me absolutely mad.

 “A bit eager this morning?”

 Yeah, ya think?

 The man had the ability to turn me on in an instant. I couldn’t control my need for him if I tried. I wrenched one arm free from his grip and pulled at the waistband of his boxers, suddenly desperate to have nothing between us. I tugged until he finally shifted so that they could be removed. I reached to pull him close to me, only to have my grasp come up empty when he climbed off the bed.

 “Don’t move,” he told me.

 “Wait. What?”

 Where the hell is he going?

 “Be patient, angel. I’ll be right back.”

 He was only gone for a minute or so when he returned with a bottle of champagne set in a bucket of ice and a glass of pinkish-red liquid. I assumed it to be cranberry juice, as that was one of the few things remaining in his near empty refrigerator. I bolted up to a sitting position.

 “Poinsettia cocktails?” I asked incredulously. “You left me hanging so that you could mix a damn drink at six-thirty in the morning?”

 He chuckled.

 “We’ve already established that you’re a terrible submissive, but the least you could do is try. Didn’t I tell you not to move?”

 I scowled at him as he placed the bucket and glass on the nightstand. To my surprise, he turned and left the room again.

 Now where is he going?

 I was completely exasperated and full of impatience. With a harrumph, I tossed myself back onto the bed and waited.

 When he returned this time, he was carrying a black silk scarf, a towel, and a tapered candle. I wanted to point out that the ambiance of candlelight usually worked better during the evening hours, but curiosity swayed me to keep my mouth shut.

 “Sit up and close your eyes, angel,” he told me. “Don’t open them or I might have to punish you.”

 I frowned, but did as I was told.

 This better be good.

 I closed my eyes and could hear him moving about the room. I chanced a tiny peak at what he was doing. He was fashioning a knot in the black silk scarf.

 What’s he going to do with that?

 However, I had my answer a moment later when he covered my eyes with it. After it was secured at the back of my head, I was one hundred percent blind.

 Blindfolded sex. Now this could be interesting.

 Taking hold of my shoulders, he slowly lowered me back down to a laying position on the bed. Gone was the cool silky feel of the sheets against my back. Instead, I felt a coarser texture of woven cotton. I could only assume that he placed a towel behind me before I laid back. It struck me as somewhat odd, although I had yet to figure out what he was up to.

 I waited for what he would do next, but everything went dead quiet. I couldn’t even hear footsteps about the room. Only silence. Just as I was about to speak, something ice cold slid across my abdomen. I jumped and gasped from shock. But as soon as I felt the icy sensation, it was gone.

 “That was freaking cold! What was that?”

 I jerked my head to the side when I felt his breath near the side of my face. With his stealthy movements, I didn’t realize that he had come so close to me.

 “It doesn’t matter what it was,” he whispered in my ear. A shiver raced down my spine. “This is about how your body reacts and feels without being able to see. That’s what sensory deprivation is, angel. I am going to fuck your mind and watch as your body collapses from arousal."

 Holy shit!

 That one statement was the most profound aphrodisiac, lighting every square inch of my body on fire. The heated pulse between my legs turned into a fervent ache. I didn't think it was possible to want him more than I did at that moment.

 Justin went silent once again. The only sound that could be heard was my labored breathing as I waited in anticipation for what would come next.

 Goosebumps pebbled my skin as cold drips of some unknown liquid made impact with my erect nipples.

 Melted ice? Juice maybe?

 The cool liquid slid down the sides of my breasts. I quivered again, but not in a bad way. It was a thrilling sort of sensation.

 “Open your mouth, Selena.”

 I did as I was told as his fingers traced the outline of my lips. He dipped his finger into my awaiting mouth and the tart flavor of cranberry reached my tongue. Almost simultaneously, something shockingly ice cold landed between my legs.

 I sharply sucked in a breath. I may have protested, but I was prevented from speaking by his finger that was still lolling about in my mouth. Whatever frozen object he put between my thighs was held in place against my sex until the cold was almost burning.

 Icy rivers flooded down my seam as he dipped more cranberry into my mouth. The taste was followed by something crisp and bubbly.

 Champagne.

 Wet fingers roamed down my belly, pressing against my abdomen and intensifying the ache in my pelvis. His teeth latched on to one of my nipples, his mouth both cold and warm as he rolled a piece of ice around with his tongue. I arched against him as his hand traveled further south between my legs.

 I was rewarded by his sharp intake of air.

 “Oh, angel. You’re so wet,” he appreciated. He pinched my icy cold clit between his fingers before plunging them inside me. Instantly, heat crashed over my body. I strained my hips up against him, only to be disappointed when he pulled out.

 “Ah,” I moaned in frustration.

 His fingers entered my mouth once again. They tasted like cranberry, yet different. It took me a moment to realize that it was cranberry mixed with my own juices. It was a philter like no other, and I vigorously sucked his fingers clean.

 “Good girl,” he appreciated.

 He pulled his fingers from my eager lips and the room fell silent again. I heard a slight rustle to my right, before recognizing the chafing sound of a match being lit. I half wondered what the purpose of lighting the candle would be since I wouldn’t be able to see it, when the memory of a list that we made not so long ago flashed before my eyes.

 Wax.

 I recalled what he wrote about wax on the list of soft and hard limitations. He said that he wasn’t a fan of wax play.

 He wouldn’t mess with that. Or would he?

 “Justin,” I began to protest and sat up.

 “Shh. Lay back down,” he scolded.

 Feeling extremely nervous about what may or may not be coming, I lay back on the bed and tried to relax. I breathed a sigh of relief when I felt a feathery soft material trace the outline of my sternum before moving down by body. Whether it was silk or satin, I couldn’t be sure. I was just grateful that it wasn’t something burning hot running over my skin.

 Ice-cold liquid found it’s way to my breasts once again, as Justin continued to run the material down the length of my torso and between the juncture of my thighs. The cold didn’t come as too terrible of a shock this time, as I was beginning to adjust to the sensation.

 Suddenly, a splash of flaming hot hit my ribcage and I hissed through my teeth. Even though I knew that it might be coming, the contrast was like an assault. The wax puckered and hardened, adhering to my skin while Justin continued to trace soft lines up and down the length of me. My senses were overwhelmed with touches of warm and cold, soft and hard.

 He continued his torture on my body. Eventually, I was beyond the point of wanting. He was driving me insane and I was desperate, completely lost in an ocean of sensations. I couldn’t think. Nothing seemed real anymore. I was panting, unable to concentrate on anything other than the blind sensations that he made me feel.

 He slipped a finger inside me. Then two.

 Finally! Release!

 Justin circled my walls as his thumb pressed against my clit. Within seconds, I could feel the orgasm on the horizon as he plunged his fingers deeper and deeper into my core. He kept me on edge, never quite allowing me to get there. I bucked involuntarily, craving the relief that I was so close to getting.

 Oh, please!

 I wanted to scream out of pure frustration.

 “Tell me what you want, Selena.”

 “You! Now! Let me feel you inside me!”

 I felt the bed shift as he grabbed hold of my knees and roughly pushed my legs apart. He moved in so that the weight of his erection settled just outside the mark. My need was quenched when he plunged into me, filling me to maximum capacity with his magnificent length. I tugged at his hair and clawed at his back, the avid tightening in my belly intensifying with every thrust. He released a satisfied moan.

 “I will never stop pleasing you, angel. I will stretch you and bend you in ways that are beyond your wildest imagination. Now give it to me, Selena. Come for me.”

 Instantly, my insides constricted and my mind went hazy. His words sent me over the edge and I was lost to him. I burst apart beneath him in a splintering orgasm as his hips continued to power forward. I tossed my head from side to side and let out a harsh cry of fantastical release.

 I had barely caught my breath when the blindfold was unexpectedly removed from my head. I squinted against the harsh light that assaulted my vision. I moved a hand to cover my eyes. When my vision returned to normal, my gaze rested on the face of Justin. He was hovering above me, his skin was shiny from the sweat of exertion and his expression was hooded with a dark carnal need.

 Without saying a word, he took hold of my hips and flipped me around onto my stomach. He leaned down so that his long, hard body was pressed against my backside.

 “I’m going to spank you now, Selena. It’s going to hurt. Do you remember your safe word?”

 Burning with unexplainable need, I choked out the word.

 “Sapphire.”

 “I want to see the pink imprint of my palm on your ass. Get on your hands and knees.”

 My already rapid heartbeat increased in rhythm, fueling my veins with even more desire for him. I quickly did as I was told and braced for the assault that was imminent.

 Placing his hands on my backside, he slowly eased into me.

 “Oh, god,” I sighed from the feeling of being full once more.

 SMACK!

 Even though I was braced for it, I jumped from the shock of the sting. He continued his assault with another swift slap to the other cheek, before pulling back and slamming hard into me. I jolted forward onto my stomach.

 “Stay on your knees!” he roared. He gripped my hips, yanked me back up, and landed another hard spank. I locked my elbows in place by gripping the headboard. Confident that I wouldn’t fall forward again, I matched him thrust for thrust. It was rough and hard, yet so undeniably erotic.

 He brought his hand down again and a glorious sensation spread. I groaned, reveling in his possession. Over and over again, he pounded into me until my arms began to ache. I was right on the edge, ready to come again, but I knew that I couldn’t without collapsing under him.

 Another smack to my behind, and the tightening in my core intensified. I was almost out of energy. I wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer.

 “Justin,” I began to plead.

 “Hold on, angel. I’m almost there.”

 I clenched around him, provoking his release, needing him to give in. I was only seconds away.

 “Ah!” he thundered out a cry.

 With one last plunge, Justin’s body jerked behind me and I was spiraling into the abyss of mindless release. Completely and utterly spent, he collapsed down on top of me. A rush of breath escaped my lungs, as my hammering heart worked its way back to a normal rhythm.

 “Goddamn, Selena,” he breathed into my ear. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

 He rolled to the side and pulled me into his arms. With a content sigh, I snuggled in closer.

 “What is it that I do, Justin?” I purred.

 He didn’t respond right away, but pressed his face against the top of my head and breathed deeply. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

 “You completely unravel me.”

We lay together, relaxed and sated. Selena’s arm was tossed lazily over my chest, and I found the weight of it to be comforting.

 My phone vibrated on the nightstand. I frowned at the intrusion. It was most likely a business related incoming text, and I was reminded of how little I accomplished over the past few weeks.

 It can wait.

 Choosing to put off work for just a while longer, I pulled Selena in closer to me. She had me completely bewitched. Nothing was more important than being with her in that moment.

 “Why did you name the boat The Lucy?” she asked out of the blue.

 I turned my head to look at her. Her cheeks were a delectable shade of rosy pink as she looked at me with inquisitive eyes. I brushed away a lock of hair that had fallen over her brow.

 “That’s an odd post-sex question,” I said with a small chuckle.

 “Well, maybe. I was just thinking about your boat.”

 “What about her, angel?”

 “I was thinking that it’s a shame the boating season is over and that we can’t come back here for a while. I kind of like it here…away from the rest of the world. No distractions are nice every now and then.”

 “She is a great escape,” I began, agreeing wholeheartedly with Selena’s sentiments. “But to answer your question, Lucy was my grandmother’s name. Why do you ask?”

 “Oh. I thought maybe…well, never mind.”

 I sat up, curious over her hesitation.

 “You thought what?”

 “It’s silly, but I thought that it might have been an old girlfriend’s name or something,” she muttered. Her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of scarlet.

 For some odd reason, I found her embarrassed jealousy to be endearing. I was suddenly filled with a heady combination of mischief and delight. I flashed her a devilish smile and dragged her towards the side of the bed.

 “I already told you. I never dated before meeting you. Now come on,” I said, giving her bottom a light smack. “Get dressed while I take a quick shower. I have to go to work for a bit this afternoon and I want to show you something before I take you home.”

 “Um, I think I need another shower too,” she said and looked pointedly at the wax that was covering her abdomen and breasts. I laughed.

 “It’s paraffin wax. It should peel right off. But, if you insist on needing another shower, you’re welcome to join me.”

 My suggestion earned me a tossed pillow to the head.

 “You’re a sex fiend!” she joked.

 “You make me that way, angel. Just wait until later,” I promised. I ducked when she threw another pillow at me.

 I laughed to myself as I headed towards the bathroom. Before going in, I took one last look at her. Her hair was wild and curling over her shoulders. Her eyes were luminous with that I’ve-just-been-properly-fucked sort of look. I had half a mind to keep her here all day.

 Oh, Miss Cole…the things I would have done to you if I had the proper tools on the boat.

 I smiled as I closed the door for the bathroom, thinking of all the possibilities we could explore once I had her back at the penthouse.

 After we dressed and gathered our belongings, I led her out to the entertainment suite and we climbed to the top of the spiral staircase. The walls disappeared and the open deck surrounded us. I squinted at the wash of sunlight and pulled my sunglasses from my pocket.

 I inhaled deeply, taking in the crisp morning air, and looked around. Even docked, the serenity that The Lucy offered was exquisite. When I took her out of the confines of Lake Montauk, away from everything and everyone, there wasn’t anything quite like an Atlantic wind when I opened up the throttle.

 Selena is right. It really is a shame that The Lucy is going to dry dock in a few days.

 A vision of Selena’s long brown curls, blowing in a salty Caribbean breeze, came to mind. I pictured her on the bow with the morning sun behind her, casting a glow around her angelic face.

 I could make that happen.

 I pulled out my phone to send Laura an email about having The Lucy commissioned to go south, rather than storing her in dry dock. I knew that I might be hard pressed to find a crew this late in the year. But if there was any decent company available to handle the job, I knew that my assistant would be able to find them.

 “It looks so different in the daylight with the sun sparkling off of the water,” Selena observed, looking out towards the shoreline. “Is this what you wanted to show me?”

 I held up my finger to signal that I would be with her in a minute. I quickly reread what I had typed. Satisfied, I hit send and turned back to Selena.

 “I wanted to give you a quick tour of the upper deck, seeing as it was too dark last night.” I placed my hand at the small of her back and led her around the deck. She remained unusually observant while I pointed out various attributes of the boat. When we reached the pilothouse, I explained how I had it modified to create a more open floor plan. “The switchboard design, captain’s chairs, and extra wide console have all been redesigned according to my specifications. The emergency mechanisms –.”

 I stopped when I saw the blank look on her face.

 “I’m sorry, Justin. I really don’t mean to be rude,” she apologized with a shrug. “I can see that you’re really proud of this. Talk to me about cars and I can hold my own. But I know jack about boats.”

 I raised an eyebrow, amused by her confused expression. Wrapping my arms around her waist, I pulled her tight to my chest.

 “Am I boring you, Miss Cole?” I asked into her ear.

 “Oh, no! I just –,”

 I bit down on her lobe and she gasped. Backing her up slowly, I pinned her against the main console.

 “Don’t you want to hear about Lucy’s state of the art navigation system?” I teased.

 I worked my way down her neck, nipping and swiping my tongue over her delicious skin as I went. She leaned back, bracing her weight on her hands. Her hips pushed against mine as she tilted her head back.

 I felt as if all the blood in my body went straight to my groin. I groaned, wanting to take her again. Right here and right now.

 She shifted slightly and there was a click. I froze.

 What did she hit?

 When the deck merely flooded with loud music, I breathed a sigh of relief.

 Just the stereo.

 Fucking her up against a half a million dollars worth of equipment probably wasn’t the brightest idea anyways.

 “Oh, no! Sorry! How do you turn it off?” she asked, sounding completely mortified. I laughed as she scrambled around to find the switch that she accidentally pressed.

 “Don’t worry, angel,” I assured as I reached to lower the volume to a less deafening level. “I may have bored you to tears with Lucy’s specs, but you may appreciate her sound system.”

 Her eyes lit up.

 “Actually, the sound is great!” she admired and began to hum. “I love this song, too.”

 I smiled at the way she swayed in place, her hips moving subtly but not quite so much that it could be considered dancing.

 “Dance with me,” I said and took hold of her hand.

 She snorted.

 “That’s the craziest suggestion you’ve ever made!”

 “Oh, is it now?” I said with a wink. I positioned an arm around her waist and spun her in a circle.

 “Justin Stone! Let go of me right now!” she squealed. Her hands shot up in resistance as she grabbed my biceps, but I was steadfast with my hold.

 “Never, angel. I plan to have many dances with you. This is only our first,” I murmured into her ear.

 She stopped squirming and tilted her head back to look at me. Her eyebrows were raised, as if she were shocked by what I had said. I half surprised myself with the truthfulness of my statement. I truly did want Selena dancing in my arms for a long time to come. I pulled her tighter against me and we fell into a rhythm.

 The feel of her body pressed against mine was soothing. I breathed in the scent of her hair, enticing and familiar, and so uniquely Selena.

 “Early morning waltz with the Captain of the ship. Is this how you impress all the ladies?”

 “You’re the first,” I admitted.

 “Yeah, right,” she laughed in disbelief.

 I pressed my lips together in tight line. The fact that she didn’t take me seriously was annoying.

 “It’s the truth,” I reinforced. “I’ve never brought a woman aboard The Lucy before.”

 “Then I guess this is more than just a first dance, isn’t it?”

 So it is, baby. So it is.

 “I seem to have a lot of firsts with you,” I whispered, more to myself than to her.

 “What am I to you, Justin?”

 Her question caught me off guard and I pulled back so that I could see her face.

 How can she not know what she is to me?

 After everything that we had been through, she had to have some idea. I chased her. Begged her to come back. Bared my soul. She unnerved me with her ability to tear me apart, yet keep me whole at the same time. No woman had ever affected me the way that she did. She was the sunshine in the darkness. The lightning to my thunder.

 Holy hell. Since when did I become such a damn poet?

 Perhaps it was Dan Reynolds’ heart wrenching ballad about smoke and mirrors. Or maybe it was because I found myself unexpectedly in love. I pursed my lips and frowned.

 Careful, Stone. Find the balance.

 I needed to get back on track. I made my position perfectly clear in the beginning. I told her no strings attached and she was in complete agreement. However, what I wanted had unexpectedly changed. I wasn’t sure if Selena was on the same page as I was. There was a very real possibility that she didn’t want more.

 “You belong to me. There’s no question about that,” I began cautiously. “But I don’t like the terms boyfriend and girlfriend. It sounds childish.”

 “Um, okay…” she trailed off and her brow furrowed. She appeared disappointed by my response.

 “You don’t sound okay.”

 “I guess I’m just concerned over how I’m going to be introduced to others at this charity gala thing. If the press is going to be there, I’d kind of like to be prepared with an answer.”

 Ah, now I see.

 I smiled to myself, pleased that she had come to her senses and decided not to argue further over going to the gala.

 I may just tame her yet.

 “We could say that you’re my date, but I’d like you to be distinguished as more than just that.”

 “Okay, significant other maybe?” she suggested. “No, never mind. That sounds lame.”

 “Perhaps I could introduce you as my plus one? Or arm candy might work,” I joked with a wink and spun her in a circle.

 She scoffed and swatted my arm.

 “Be serious!”

 I grinned, having only just gotten started.

 “Okay, how about my old lady?”

 “Old lady?” she laughed. “Now you’re just talking nonsense!”

 “My paramour? My steady?”

 “Ha! Did we just transport back in time to a different century?”

 She was laughing hard when the song came to an end, the sort of deep belly laugh that left your sides aching.

 I took her face in my hands. She stopped laughing when she saw the serious set of my jaw. I kissed her softly on the lips, sealing the end of our first dance together. I lingered for a moment before pulling back to look into her rich chocolate eyes.

 “Angel, as long as you know that you are mine and I am yours, we can be whatever you want us to be.”

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[thesedays-posts-blog]

In Response • Chicago Sun-Times Embarasses Itself, Further Alienates Young Readers with Irresponsible Chance The Rapper Cover Story

In 2017, the City of Chicago has found itself in need of heroes. With skyrocketing shootings, rising socioeconomic disparities and a city teetering on the edge of bankruptcy where fraud runs rampant, the city is desperate for someone to show us a way forward. Lately, 23-year-old Chancelor Bennett has emerged as the catalyst for what's next by championing individual rights, helping organize communities from the ground up and, just this week, putting $1 million dollars of his own money towards closing the massive funding gap within the Chicago Public Schools. So, it seemed odd then to pick up the Chicago Sun-Times, the paper I first wrote about Chance The Rapper for, to see a story by Mary Mitchell essentially belittling the Grammy winner's contributions by pointing to problems he allegedly had with the mother of his child. That the story, which is wrought with reporting holes and an honest understanding of the situation, ran on the front page is an affront to not only what Chance is doing, but where many of those living here would like to see the city go.

Since taking the stage alongside Kanye West at Saturday Night Live in January of last year, Chance has been visible just about every minute of his life. A quick look at his Instagram will reveal dozens of photos and videos of Chance with his daughter, Kinsley, who was also a central theme on his most recent project, Coloring Book.  As far as rappers go, Chance is fairly tame, eschewing gaudy jewels, big-rimmed cars and oversized homes for humble snapbacks, throwback sweaters and a small gold cross around his neck. Likewise, he's been careful to put family first since the first day of his career with #10Day which he partially embarked on after an emotional ride home with his father after a friend's death in high school. It's been that careful understanding of the importance of relationships that has driven Chance to the lane he's in now as much as the music has. It's an instrinsic reason for why he's found himself in such lofty positions and one we previously noted could have helped Kanye West in his own rise to the top. 

Not only is the sentiment that Chance The Rapper is disqualified from participating in the betterment of the city because he has a less-than-traditional arrangement with the mother of his baby, but the story itself is terribly under-reported and reads more like something rushed onto TMZ than a cover story for one of the country's largest newspapers that had to pass by several editors for approval. At the end of the day, Chance's personal life is none of our business. Who cares what he does in his personal time, he just gave seven figures to the public school system. The fact that his personal time is most often spent with his child and longtime friends or in a studio making gospel-inspired music just serves to further the point that his privacy is especially deserved. By comparison, Kanye West has been in the limelight for more than a decade, years marked by scandals, sex tapes, outbursts and more. While everyone has an opinion about 'Ye, he chose to put his family in the public eye and decided not to give aid to his city in the way Chano has. But, despite that, we haven't seen cover stories condemning Kanye, or anyone else for that matter that has looked to do good within city limits.

Let's be real though, Chance has been selling newspapers and it appears the powers that be felt they ran out of happy things to report on, instead turning to an abstracted farce to keep the flatlining revenue stream afloat for another week or so. Ironically enough, it was back to praising the young rapper after news broke later in the day that he was donating an additional $10,000 to nine CPS schools. The soul was sucked from the Sun-Times years ago and with this latest piece it just proved to further alienate a young demographic already weary of established news mediums.

TheseDays is a group of friends, citizens, fledgling journalists utilizing all of our free time in an effort to accurately report on the happenings in the city and beyond while working jobs, piecing together rent and taking care of the daily interruptions life offers. Bottom line? We're not getting paid for this. Mary Mitchell is. Despite that fact, she and the publication she represents ran a piece that was less researched than your average blog post as representative for the paper as a whole. Last week in the Thompson Center Chance pleaded with traditional media outlets to "do your job" it appears that idea fell on deaf ears as tabloid mentality took over.

The prevailing sentiment is reminiscent of this city's ability to eat its own. Reflective of a previous generation those that make up the Chicago Renaissance have been working hard to replace. Fact of the matter? There was no story here, it was a hack job. 

Stories like this one are why athletes don't talk to "journalists" anymore, why right-wingers think the media is a farce and why journalism as an institution is failing more every day. Until journalists can honestly and accurately report on the happenings around them without unannounced bias, they will continue to be ignored by the very readers they're attempting to reach.