#workplace disagreement

[xtrablak674]

Betrayed

[Originally published in Fashion Fag Magazine, Volume 3, Issue 3, Number 8, September 1996, has been lightly edited for clarity]

Fri 17 May 1996 Daily Assistant Company Manager Report #9

The show was nearly over, and on headset I could over hear Adam and Jim talking about a rehearsal for tomorrow. Adam's last words before calling his next cue, were "Well make sure we tell Trevor" Everyone for some reason has this feeling to always call on me to get things done. Norman had told me before he left that, that is a good thing and I should not feel abused. And I don't, at least not in that respect.

So on the bus back to the hotel, our bus ritual began, I got on the mike and made the announcements that I needed to make, to which I actually had none this evening to great cheers from the company. So I handed the mike over to Adam, who announced tomorrows schedule. And I followed up and said that, I would post the bus schedule. in the usual spot next to the touring people schedule by the elevator.

I stop at the front desk and check for messages, none. I get to my room to find a note stuffed in the door scribbled on a piece of hotel stationary. That says,

"Trevor- Please do not post B&B schedule in the hotel lobby. Please discuss this with me tomorrow at the production office I'll be in by 10:00 am -Jul Fri 5/17"

OK, this presented a dilemma, everyone was just told that by midnight there would be a schedule posted in the regular spot. Let's call Julie, for recommendations, cause I don't know where she's disappeared to after the show. Shit, phone's busy, Norman's words of wisdom about reliability echoed through my head, and I began to write out the schedule to post.

I had remembered from a training class when we were talking about relationships, and how in them, unmet expectations lead to anger and frustration, this schedule was expected from me, from the company and staff et. al, Frustration and anxiety also set in, when one does not know whats going on, and I had did my best to alleviate this energy in the company by trying to let them know what's going on to the best of my ability.

I tried Julie again, Busy. So I went downstairs and told stage management about the note and they said the posted schedule was very necessary. I agreed, and posted it. Then I walked Ms. Linda downstairs to get something to eat, I went back to the lobby phone to call Julie. Finally, 'Hi Julie, this is Trevor, how are you?

I explained to her that the company was expecting the schedule to be posted. Her voice raised and she started to yell, who told them that a schedule would be posted in the lobby? I calmly said that I did.

She began to go off about how we all could be robbed because everyone in the hotel would know when we were not in. and why weren't we using the PA system at theatre. I didn't want to provoke her again but the schedule didn't fully come together until after the show and half the dancers were already boarding the bus, I said,

"Julie, please do not yell at me."

Now my understanding was that there was a problem with the wire of money, so we couldn't get paid today, so Julie was more than likely stressing. But that doesn't allow the abusive yelling and condescending tone that I was getting from Julie. I deserve the equal respect for my knowledge and abilities that I give her and everyone.

Julie was a mother-figure for me of sorts, and as a child I was physically and verbally abused and the emotional scars were triggered when someone yells at me. So I always try my hardest to not provoke anyone to yell at me.

I hung up the phone and went to Julie's room. I've been more than patient with her and tried to understand her and be supportive of her needs to the best of my ability, my first question to her this morning was How are you today Julie?, which every one knows I ask with a sincerity that usually makes you respond honestly. She sort of mumbled a response.

At her door I could hear her still yelling at me, and she was screaming to her boyfriend that, 'He hung up on me he hung up on me'. I was very upset by this point, I don't know how many times I tried to help this woman and try to diffuse the very strong negative energy the company had towards her, but she didn't help any, making promises then not following through with them. No one to my knowledge could say the same of me.

Here I was at her door ready to do battle for my respect, of which she was giving me none by debasing me like a child and yelling at me like an incompetent.

"Julie if have anything further to discuss with me, I'm right outside your door."

There was more yelling, I stepped back from the door and it swung open and her boyfriend stood there and said,

"I think you need to leave."

I said, "I'm sorry but I need to talk to Julie, we need to clear the air."

"I think you need to leave, now." And he took a stance as if he was going to hit me. And I called his glove dropping.

"Are you going to remove me?"

I was furious, the last time a scenario played out like this was the husband of a producer, white man attempting to assault me during the intermission of a show. Why is it that white men love to try my patience? They probably see in my eyes that I don't like them, because most of them are lying, stealing, cheating, misogynistic, homophobic, racist assholes, excuse my French.

And there was nigger written all over his face. You uppity, smart mouthy darky get in your place and respect this frail, innocent, white woman your superior. And the door slammed in my face.

I stepped back took a deep breath, and said,

"Now Julie are we ready to be an adult and come out and talk about this like reasonable people?" My tone very even, not raising my voice a hair.

I turned to walk away and I saw one of the dancers who asked me if I was alright. I didn't have time to respond because I swung around to see Julie's door opening and Julie stepping out.

"You should be glad my boyfriend is not letting me near you."

"What does that mean? Is that a threat of physical harm to me Julie?"

"You should be glad my boyfriend is not letting me near you. We will talk about this in the morning."

Knowing that most of her promises never came true.

"Will we?"

"Trevor, I'm sick and tired of your attitude and your disobeying my orders, I'm your boss you work for me damnit, and I am tired of you and your fucking own agenda, whose side are you on? The companies or management?"

She had to go there, a white heterosexual, middle-class woman, trying to make her house-nigger choose between, the big house and the fields. Choose between white or Black, choose between gay or straight, choose Black or gay, CHOOSE!

"Julie there are no sides here, no wrong or right, if you are not satisfied with my work then you can send me home."

"Well I don't think you should go to the theatre until we settle this on Monday with Norman, I am your boss and that is a direct order."

"I'm sorry Julie, I'm not going to break my contract and shirk my responsibilities, I will continue to take care of Bunny and Olivette and the Divas as per my contract until the matter is resolved."

Another one of the dancers appeared,

"Hey guys, its really late, can we take this in doors the whole floor can hear."

Julie was still screaming at this point I just turned around and looked calmly at the dancer, and turned back to Julie who was smoking like a chimney, figuratively and literally.

"We will talk about this shit in the morning at the office."

"Are you still going to be grumpy, Julie? Because I'd rather wait until you're in a better mood."

"We'll talk in the morning damn it."

SLAM.

I took another deep breath and went downstairs to look for Francois to tell him what happened. I stopped to call Gayle and let her know what happened. And then I saw Francois walking by and waved him over. At exactly the same time Julie appeared with her boyfriend, and I went back to the phone, while Julie had a few words with Francois and then stepped out into the cool night air with her boyfriend trailing. I then proceeded to call the dancer who had asked me if everything was alright and told the dancer things were cool and not to worry. I grabbed Francois and told him again that I need to speak with him.

So me and Francois later joined by Adam talked about what had happened. And Francois told me that just yesterday Julie was praising my work as she had been doing for weeks. Once again mixed signals. I'm a very literal person. If you say something to me. I'm going to keep that in the equation until you tell me to remove it.

Julie's mixed signals are very confusing.

"Don't spend money on taxis," then "Why didn't you just put her in a cab?"

My behavior is very consistent. I try my best to keep her appraised of all my moves, but she tends to shrug me off for something that is more important. In looking at styles, I prefer Norman's, he has a very calming energy about him and the patience to listen to the whole story to understand the different angles. A quality some day I hope to master. And he has never promised something that he has not come through with. He also doesn't let loose ends go unattended. Norman realizes that he's not an expert and will relent to somebody else who he thinks may know better, which is a very noble quality. I really miss Norman.

You know I really feel like a child who is being abused by one parent, and I'm crying for help to the other parent, but he doesn't believe me. Does this make the non-abusive parent not responsible?

Afterwords: Wow, there's a lot going on here. You know I didn't recall that Julie had actually threatened to assault me. And just like a whyte woman twisted the actual facts of the incident to make herself look above and beyond reproach. But even at such a young age I fortified myself by immediately circling the wagons and making sure I touched base with the rest of the production staff informing them of the incident. I even followed up with the dancer who was a clear witness to the altercation.

There is one thing I have to wonder about myself then and even now, if I am a little bit on the spectrum. Because after Julie said we would speak in the morning, I should have remained silent. But I pointed out the obvious, she had been extremely unreliable in the things she said, so, would we? Now as a very grown person now, I am tickled by my brazen-ness but I could see how that just added gasoline to a four alarm fire.

I am also amazed that I suggested the paramount solution to Julie, if you're not happy with my work then send me home. Even in this context I realized that Ms. Crosby and me working together wasn't a tenable situation anymore. No matter what I did at that point nothing would ever be amenable to her, she was in a very high pressure situation that wouldn't resolve until the company was made whole financially.

This is something that I didn't state plainly in this piece or the other one from this time period, but its very relevant to the mood and disposition of the company. TCA International Productions had stopped paying everyone in the company back home for I think it was like three or four before it was discovered. Let me explain how it went unnoticed for so long. The agreement was that there were two disbursements to everyone in the staff, a per diem to cover expenses abroad and a pay check that was deposited in their accounts back home every pay day.

Due to some unforeseen circumstance, some investor or something had backed out and TCA found themselves financially short. They continued to pay our per diems but stopped paying us back home. What added to this is the fact that they never notified us that this was occurring even though they were fully aware of the situation.

This offense created a lot of anxiety and tensions, because the company no longer trusted management, rightfully so. In essence these whyte folks were fucking with people's livelihoods, student loans, mortgages, rents and other financial responsibilities were at risk when folks thought they were getting paid and weren't.

As I have pointed out, management was all whyte with the exception my tokenism, but I clearly had no real authority. All of the company was Black, the dancers, the Divas, the musicians basically all of the performing talent. There was a record of this in history, Black folks getting on stage and performing for whyte folks managed by other whyte folks and getting literally robbed. It wasn't my fault that I was a student of history to understand the larger implications of this infraction.

When reading this story I think its important to understand that this laced the subtext of everything I was saying. You want us out there every night dancing for our supper and we need to be fine with the fact that you're not actually paying us for our hard work. This is white supremacy at its finest in practice.

I had indeed chosen a side, the side of the people who looked like me and were probably in a similar financial situation as myself. Since no one else in management was looking out for their interest, I made sure that I was. I didn't abide double-talk or the non-follow through on promises made. I was there to hold management accountable and this whyte woman loathed me for it.

If I had the opportunity to go back and do it all again, I wouldn't change a damned thing except maybe I would sue TCA for slander and mismanagement of funds. Albeit this tour didn't have any major impact on my overall career I didn't like for an instance that someone had attempted to malign my reputation for doing my best in a very complicated, tense and frustrating situation.

Most of all I applaud my younger-self for being so totally and completely myself, covering my ass, creating my own records, and understanding when a good situation had gone bad. The thing I can see from this distance is that I was clearly a scape-goat for other things that were going wrong with management and the producers. In my other "bosses" words I was getting praise for weeks from Julie regarding my work, and only when her own work began to falter did I become some prodigal child.

I was betrayed but I overcame because ultimately as Maya Angelou said, folks won't remember what you said, but how you made them feel, and I made everyone on that tour feel seen and heard, and that is a good enough legacy for me.

[Photo by Brown Estate]

Me Interviewing for the job with TCA

[anatomical-puppet]

i love thinking about my organs :) like there’s a bunch of little guys in here and they work so so hard to keep my body goin!! and that’s just delightful

[autumnalhappiness]

Random tips for disagreeing with someone at work

Explain the problem with the plan they want to go with

Propose an option, and explain how the option may work better

Remember to ask for any thoughts on your plan, but be firm!

[vawtee]

Leaders, Are You Building a Safe Space or Breeding Fear?

The Line Between Leadership and Bullying

Here’s the hard truth: The real test of leadership is how you respond when someone disagrees with you.

Do you shut them down or invite them in?

Psychological safety and challenge safety are not just buzzwords—they are fundamental to creating a thriving team. If your team feels afraid to speak up or challenge your ideas, you may have a problem on your hands.

❗ Warning Signs You’re Leading Through Fear:

People agree with everything you say, no matter what.

You notice a lack of diverse ideas or innovation in meetings.

Your team gives you the bare minimum instead of their best work.

So, how can you create an environment where people feel safe to disagree?

3 Tips to Build a Culture of Psychological Safety:

🧠 Invite Dissenting Opinions: Actively ask for opposing viewpoints in meetings. Show your team that differing ideas are not just tolerated—they’re welcomed. You might be surprised at the innovative solutions that arise when you foster a space for debate.

🗣️ Listen Without Judgment: When someone disagrees, resist the urge to react defensively. Pause, listen, and ask clarifying questions. Leaders who can manage their ego and avoid defensiveness build trust and respect.

💡 Encourage “Challenge” Moments: Create dedicated times where team members are encouraged to challenge ideas, processes, or even you as the leader. This can be done in a structured, respectful manner, ensuring everyone’s voice is heard and valued.

The Bottom Line? Leaders who embrace disagreement aren’t weak—they’re the ones who create environments where creativity and innovation flourish.

What’s your strategy for encouraging healthy disagreements in the workplace? Drop your thoughts in the comments below!

#Leadership #PsychologicalSafety #Innovation #ChallengeSafety #TeamCulture #EffectiveLeadership

[ozzgin]

Its been 6 months😭😭 pleaasseeee make a part 2 of the android x human story im beggingggg😭

-H❤️

Yandere! Android x Reader (II)

Featuring your assigned android partner who is not as devoid of humanity as you originally thought.

Content: female reader, AI yandere, mildly NSFW, based on Caves of Steel

[Part 1] | [More original works]

The case had been solved.

Not only that, but you'd managed to prove that human officers were just as efficient as their robot counterparts. The Commissioner was beyond ecstatic, pacing back and forth in his office and finding new ways to praise your detective skills.

"That'll show those Spacers. They think some glorified tin box can match our skill?"

You frowned at his words and glanced to your side, where the android was sitting. He observed the Commissioner with the same polite smile, no hint of disagreement on his features. Was he not insulted? You questioned him once the formal meeting had finished.

"I have no reason to be offended, (Y/N). It is a personal opinion, and thus I have no control over it."

"So you don't mind people disliking robots to such an extent?"

He pondered your statement.

"I would certainly be upset if it was you who harbored the disdain. The beliefs of other humans hold no meaning to me otherwise."

You couldn't tell if he said it out of politeness, or if he actually meant it. Most likely the former, in order to part on good terms. After all, your partnership has reached its completion. He'd return to the Spacer Colony with his report on human customs, and you'd go back to your regular job.

Except he never left. Days later, he was still sipping on his morning coffee, lounging at your table. You fiddled with your cup in contemplation. Was there anything else left to do?

"When are you leaving, actually?"

The pale man raised his eyebrows in mild surprise.

"Is my presence here of such significant disturbance?"

"What? No!" you swiftly exclaimed, stumbling on your words. His lips widened in yet another cheeky grin. He was teasing you again.

"My assignment on Earth is done, thus I should have returned to the Colony already. That's what you're wondering about, yes? I am awaiting a response from my superiors."

"Whether you can go back?"

"No, whether my transfer has been accepted. I have applied to be your permanent partner."

You could feel your cheeks burning with heat. Was it that obvious to the synthetic that you enjoyed his company? Then again, he wouldn't have gone through such motions just for your sake.

"Why did you..." you probed sheepishly. There was no logical reason for him to keep working in a poorer, less advanced environment.

"Because I want to continue spending time with you."

Nonsense. An artificial being wouldn't make its decision based on such mundane, emotional reasons.

"I don't believe you."

"I understand. It is a faulty answer to come out of a machine. Though unlike common AI assistants, we have been invested with the capacity to develop likes and dislikes. Interests. Wants. It helps with variety and individualization."

"And you want to stay here? If I didn't know you any better, I'd say you have a crush on me or something", you attempted to joke.

A few moments of uncomfortable silence. Had you gone too far with your humor? Was it too cliché of a sentence? You turned away, tucking some strands of hair behind your ear. You just had to be witty, huh?

"I'm afraid I do not know what to tell you, (Y/N)."

"You don't need to say anything, it was a poor choice of-"

"Many social aspects have been implemented into my behavioral network. Workplace rapport, friendships, intimate relationships. What seems to be lacking is the transition from one to another. I know how to act as a romantic partner, but how does one achieve such a title in the first place?"

You gazed at him, incredulous. What was he trying to say?

"I am trying to convey that I am indeed infatuated with you. Which, then, makes my initial explanation dishonest: while I do appreciate our fruitful work cooperation, it is not a main reason for my decision. I hope this clears up any misunderstandings."

You'd never been a romantic. You sometimes flipped through sample pages of contemporary romance books at stores and community centers, but they always felt forcefully cheesy. Predictable. Consequently, you never had any grand dreams of passionate confessions under the rain.

On the other hand, you also didn't expect to be asked out in such a mechanical, calculated manner. Or that a machine would be the suitor. Yet there was something charming about his approach. For the first time since meeting him at the border, you saw him struggle. There was something human-like in his uncertainty.

You stood up from the table, and walked towards the android. Then, you placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, expressing the mutual feeling and understanding.

His eyes bore an eerie glint to them. It was most kind of you to offer a common ground, but he knew better. The affections you held for him were, with utmost certainty, a mere fraction of whatever overwhelmed him from the moment he encountered you. Limerence, obsession, compulsion, there were many definitions that aptly described his otherwise unexplainable desires towards you. Even more unexplainable was the fact they'd evolved from a blank slate, a programmed agent with no previous knowledge on feelings or humans.

You noticed his hesitation.

"Is there anything else troubling you presently?" you nudged.

Nothing of immediate urgency. Well, not for you, at least. The android remained thoughtful. What were the variables which needed to be met in order to initiate a sexual encounter? Would it have been inappropriate for him to suggest intercourse straight after this conversation? To him, it was a natural escalation he'd considered many times in the past. To you, it could've come as a sudden, crass, and hurried proposal.

He reached for your wrist and discreetly pressed a thumb against your skin. Judging from your resting heart rate, facial expression, and localized temperature, there was a fair chance you wouldn't reject his advances. Once the statistical risk had been assessed, he pulled you in for a kiss.

"Would it be possible to continue this in your bedroom?" he inquired, standing up.

"Alright, just don't...ask for approval for every single step" you retorted. You'd rather not become a narrator of your own pounding.

You open your eyes with a squint, greeted by unexpected natural light flooding your bedroom. Someone must’ve lifted the hologram blinds.

“My apologies, I hadn’t considered the discomfort it would cause you. My Spacer colony uses artificial lightning, though I am becoming rather fond of the natural sun rays here.”

Your android partner is meticulously preparing his outfit for the day. Judging by the stark nakedness and the glistening skin, you suppose he’s had a shower while you were still sleeping. You involuntarily furrow your brows and blush at the sight. He notices your embarrassment. 

“A most surprising reaction. You have seen the very same genital organ…”, he says as he quickly checks his wristwatch, “...precisely eight hours and forty-five minutes ago.”

“It’s just…most people get dressed once they start doing other things. I also wear a towel for coverage when I come out of the shower.”

He processes your words.

“Hmmm. Illogical, but it explains your reaction.”

You stand up and stretch with a prolonged yawn. Suddenly, a revelation hits you: your mind flashes with images of the android fondling your body, your ears ring with the shameless moans you’ve let out throughout the night. Your face turns pale.

“Listen, when is your next functional inspection?” you ask, without waiting for the synthetic to answer. “Will they, uh…will they have access to all of your memories?”

You know that the android permanently records all data and saves it into a memory unit. It’s a pointless fear, of course. The Spacers couldn’t care less about irrelevant details. If the intended tasks are fulfilled, what happens on the side is out of their concern. Yet you don’t exactly appreciate the possibility of your personal deeds airing like this, before the eyes of multiple engineers. 

“You may rest assured, whatever involves your privacy will not be included in the examination.”

“Do you get to decide what is checked and what isn’t?”

“No, most data is sampled randomly.”

You stare at him, confused.

“Then how-”

“It is not common practice, nor encouraged by our code of ethics. I can, however, choose which information is available to begin with.”

“What? I thought you’re fully controlled by whoever created you. If they so desired, couldn’t they open you up and take whatever they require?”

The robot smiles at your assumption and takes a few steps towards you.

“Once an android model is finished, one can no longer modify the processor. Not without compromising everything else with it. It is not a device to be deconstructed, (Y/N).” He taps his temple, then continues: “I am a biocomputer. While most of my parts are mechanical, my processor is a cortical organoid developed in a laboratory. A human brain, if you will.”

Somehow, the discovery fills you with dread. A living organ, encapsulated within a machine. What does that say about consciousness? About self-awareness? The Spacers didn't just tinker with metal scraps and smart computers. They artificially birthed life.

You were always under the impression that your robot companion is closer to the computer you have on your desk. Billions of lines of code within a black box, which then lead to spontaneous, novel interactions with the outside world. To think that at the very core of his functions lies a clump of living cells...

Perhaps you weren't so different, after all. The line between machines and humans is suddenly blurred.

[sweatersexual]

@windrunnered you underestimate the amount that I also talk about Kaladin

I still don't understand how so many people can hate Lirin and love Kaladin when they are so very alike, more than either of them realize. Kaladin goes into WoR thinking he could've killed Roshone on the operating table and comes out of it knowing he won't willfully harm anyone entrusted to his care no matter how much he hates him

It's canon that what constitutes breaking an oath is based on each Radiant's (and to some extent their spren's) internal moral code. Maybe another windrunner could've been involved in the assassination and kept their oaths intact. But Kaladin internalized his understanding of the 3rd ideal when he saw Lirin save Roshone's life. He thought he would've done differently but he came out of it believing it was more honorable to save his worst enemy's life

The root of their conflict in RoW is that Lirin believes he trained his son too well. They both blame themselves for Tien's death, but Lirin also blames himself for Kaladin’s mental trauma. He believes that because he modeled for Kaladin how to stand up to people in power, he emboldened his son to constantly put himself in dangerous situations and Lirin sees how badly it's broken his son. He raised a son who received a shash brand leading slave revolts but he really wanted his son to come home healthy and alive. Hesina knew Lirin needed to understand the power and necessity of the shash mark and he listened to her like the good husband he is. It was the first step Lirin needed to take on the road to forgiveness and healing

Kaladin and Lirin are going to eventually come out of this with the strongest father/son relationship ever and everyone else better be taking notes

If you give lirin shit for staying in hearthstone you're wrong. It is made VERY clear in the text that while his family was under financial strain under Roshone, they were NOT starving. They weren't eating GREAT food but they were eating. They didn't go without any major necessities. And they could afford medical supplies on top of it. Also it's wild that people assume they could afford to move if they couldn't afford to eat. And Lirin says they could afford to move

Not going to downplay that financial stress is bad for a kid's home life but at the same time, you can tell that Lirin and Hesina were shielding Kaladin and Tien from most of it, which is what good parents do when they've fallen on hard times

And yeah, it would be a dick move to deprive an entire town of their ONLY medical professionals just because of a grudge. Do the lirin haters know what community building is and that you're not going to always get along with the people you're in community with. At the end of the day they were practicing mutual aid and I hope the lirin haters remember that the next time they call him a liberal centrist or whatever

[hermetiqa]

When and where will you meet your twin flame?

Reminder: it doesn't matter if you saw this reading a day or a week or a month or a year after posting this. My readings are timeless. You'll see this when you're meant to see this and receive your message.

MDNI.

Close your eyes and take a deep breath before picking a pile. If you feel drawn to more than one pile, it's alright, you may take the piles that you're drawn to. What's important is to take it how it resonates and leave what doesn't.

PAID READINGS | TIP JAR | FEEDBACK | MASTERLIST

PLEASE HELP IF YOU CAN

NOTE: Please feel free to give me a feedback on my asks about the reading! I would highly appreciate it and it'll be a huge help for me to improve as a reader.

Pile 1

I feel like you'll meet your twin flame when you already let go of your karmic relationship. You might be in a karmic relationship right now and it's toxic but it's a healthy relationship in disguise. So it could be near. But if you're not, then you might go through a karmic relationship first before meeting your twin flame. It's like your partner is telling you that they'll change when in reality, they don't and won't. This relationship is causing you so much anxiety and sleepless nights, and right now, you don't know what to do. You're confused about which path to take, whether you should break up with them or not because you're seeing so much potential in this relationship. But in reality, you're just too focused on this relationship that you don't see other relationships that you have, which is why you don't realize it's actually toxic and they're not the one for you. You have to let this relationship go first before meeting your twin flame. You might meet your twin flame in your workplace or someplace formal or a café/place you can eat near your workplace where you're wearing a blouse, trousers, heels, and blouse. I'm seeing a white long sleeves blouse, light brown trousers, light brown blazer that matches the trousers, black heels/shoes, black thin belt, and black handbag. I'm getting strong feminine energy from you so you might be the divine feminine. When you meet, it'll be too fast and too intense. You might have some disagreements when it comes to your opinions on some things, simply because you want to challenge each other, especially on an intellectual level. You'll both be intellectually inclined and connected deeply and you'll both feel like you're the one for each other when you meet. You'll need some strength on this one because your insecurities and dark sides will come out and you'll have to face them eventually.

Pile 2

As I was about to do this reading for you, Pile 2, I accidentally said "need" instead of "meet" and then there it hits me. I feel like you'll meet your twin flame in times of need. This is when you have to take the risk in making decisions. You'll be in a situation where the whole situation depends on your decision. My phone just automatically switches to dark mode so you might meet them at night. I'm seeing a bar where you might be drinking a lot because you're really stressed and frustrated and don't know what to do. You can't make a decision. You can't think straight. Then your twin flame will suddenly just come up and approach you and ask you if you're okay because apparently, they've been noticing you for quite a while in that bar. I feel like you might or might not be into alcohol right now, but if you're not, the time will come that you'll be influenced by people to be into alcohol and you might need to drink on some occasions. I feel like your twin flame will lend you some ear so you can talk about what's bothering you, which I feel like it could be related to your family, and then you'll refuse. But eventually, you'll open up to your twin flame because their presence is comforting already. Your twin flame will give you some advice and words that you really need to hear. There's this sudden strike of curiosity when you meet. You'll be interested in each other so much that you don't want the night to end. You might end up coming home to either of your own place, and you might do something sexual there because the attraction will be so strong that you might not be able to control it. Then the rest is history.

Pile 3

I feel like you're going to meet your twin flame when you feel like your life is falling apart and you want to start over. You might be moving out to your new place and you'll encounter them in the streets, specifically in front of a university or a church. I'm seeing that you might be carrying a huge box that contains your stuff, especially the ones that you use for work or studies (if you're still studying, specifically at university, taking master's). It'll be a sunny day and this could be during summertime because I'm seeing so much sweat here and they're holding a huge cup of iced coffee. You'll catch their attention because you'll walk past by each other and their eyes will follow you walk past them. I feel like they'll have the courage to approach you, talk to you, and ask you if you need some help. I feel like they'll do this in a good timing too, they'll try to "empathize" with you, they'll do their best to feel what you're feeling at the moment before approaching you because they're scared that you might take it negatively and just turn them down. I feel like your twin flame could be a professor at a university and there's a significant age gap between you, at least 5-6 years. When you meet your twin flame, you might decline their offer to help because you're confident that you can do it on your own. So they'll walk away and accept your decision, but eventually they'll come back and act like they're just heading out to grab some food. Then they'll see you there. But in reality, this is actually their way of approaching you again because they've been overthinking about your encounter and they're bothered that you didn't get to know each other, and they're really interested in you. So they thought of pretending to grab some food and walked your way on purpose, when in fact, the food they'll be grabbing is on the other street. You might notice this and realize eventually that they're doing this for you. You just have the "feeling" that they are so you accepted their offer this time.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Black Metal and Bourbon (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Biker/Mechanic!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Bartender!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 8.1k

WARNINGS: Alcohol consumption, drug usage, mentions of sex & intimacy, dark jokes/dirty jokes, rumors, gossip, past toxic relationship, a shitty Ex, protective!Simon, etc. (18+ mini-series)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You slapped the damp rag back into the bar top, the fabric heavy with spilled alcohol and other fluids that you didn’t even want to try and think about. 

“Jesus.” Your muscles ache, neck stiff from having to try and slap a dart from the ceiling where some jackass had been too drunk to attempt and hit the target. The thing was still up there, as you weren’t about to spend your entire night fruitlessly attempting to fix someone else's blurry mistakes. 

You glare over your shoulder, seeing the unconscious form of the man in question being dragged out by his friends presently, his slurring chuckles making him sound like a drowning elephant. Intoxicated yells of goodbye attached to your name make you roll your eyes slowly as they begin being said; you push through the waist-height door to allow you behind the front counter. Your middle finger flips the patrons off before boisterous flirting hits the air.

“C’mon baby, don’t be like that—!” Is cut off by the slam of the front doors and you couldn’t be more happy that your boss hadn’t gotten the bolts tightened. 

“Don’t get paid enough…” You grumble, eyes slithering over to the tip jar and seeing the overflow of bills and coins as your fingers wrap the neck of a bottle of Vodka. 

The profit would be split with your coworker even if she’d been gone for more than half a night getting railed by her new boy toy. You can still remember the look she’d given you as she’d walked out during rush hour, her sharp smirk and smug sheen of ‘you won’t say anything, will you?’

Grumbling under your breath, you slip the Vodka back into its slot on the wall racks, while telling yourself you can’t drink on the job; trying to forget the face of the man that had been attached to hers before they’d stumbled to the back alley.  

“Graham Whitaker, you’re such a five-cent sell-out,” you shake your head, sighing heavily into the air that smells like booze and sweat. 

Graham Whitaker—your Ex in every sense. 

You decided to tell your coworker, if she ever showed back up, that the only reason she was getting dicked-down was because it was that man’s plan to try and make you jealous. As if you’d be caught with your pants down over a prick that had cheated on you more times than you could count before you threw his ass out. 

“Not my problem anymore,” your hands move to display themselves in a motion of a settled disagreement before wiping them on your black pants. 

It was late now, of course, with the dart-drunk and his friends being the last patrons that you had to serve. But you’d been in this town a long, long time. 

Sorrel the construction worker came in an hour, Miss Anna-Lee accompanying for her nightly Gin and Tonic before she talked about her late love from the seventies. From there it was three more regulars before closing activities and fighting to get up tomorrow by noon only to do it all over again. 

Over and over and over. 

You lean back on the counter and look across the brown wood and warm overhead lights, behind you, the illumination from the drink rack gives off a dead glow. 

This was your workplace since you'd been of age, and over the years that seemed to drag, here is where you’d stayed. Nothing ever changed in this town—the biggest shock was when you’d broken up with Graham; people hadn’t stopped talking about it for months.

This place was like a prison of slow death and abandoned dreams. Safe to say this was not what you had envisioned for yourself.

You scoff, pushing off the back counter and snatching your rag back up before you can spiral once more.

The stains weren’t going to buff themselves out.

Maybe it was chance that the mechanics shop across the street had shut down, too few employees and too many drug busts. Chance, or fate, whichever it was you chose to believe in that still-air Sunday, it was still a shock to you when you looked out the front window as Sorrel called goodnight through his heavy accent. 

‘SOLD’

“Sold?” Sorrel pauses with one foot out of the door, and he chuckles when he sees where you’re looking in shock, your hand holding a dirty glass. 

“Haven’t heard, then? Few newcomers snuck in under our noses—they’ll be running the place; mechanics!” 

“New?” You laugh. “Who in their right mind would come here of all places?” 

Sorrel shakes his head, grumbling as he pulls a cigarette from his pocket. “You’ll just have to meet ‘em, Doll. Sure you’ll leave a glowing impression.”

“Take that shit outside, you ass. You know I hate the smell.” A smirk graces your dead eyes. 

“Like I said. Glowing.” You glare, but the man slips out of the door quickly and his form passes by the window outside to climb into his truck parked in the street. Two honks from the horn and the older man is off, grizzly-like beard gone just like your boredness. 

New arrivals? 

You blink at the blackened shadows of the street, illuminated by the lights and their tall tree-like bases—the sway of the planted bushes in the boxes outside. Your head tilts at the abyssal building that was once in working order. 

It was a shitshow now, years of abandonment not giving it any helping hand regarding upkeep. The concrete was cracked, the garage door was hanging off of one side, and the front windows had been broken by your Ex’s buddies when they had gotten into a fight like the three-year-olds they were. 

You hum lowly. A hard-chucked set of keys, you recalled. You’d seen it from here easily enough. Hadn't lied to Sheriff Russel when he’d come knocking, and, you suppose, that was why even now the immature posse still tried to scare you by following you home at night to this day.

As if everyone didn’t know where everyone else lived already. 

But back to the current interest for the night. 

“Let’s have a little look-see, then,” you breathe, knowing Miss Anna-Lee would be a good while away like always. You could chance five minutes—it was just across the street after all. 

Shuffling outside, making sure to hold the door until it closes slowly, you step down the single step and stick your hands into your pockets. The night wasn’t hot or cold, simply there like a metaphorical cut on your palm; it wasn’t surprising the more you lived with it, but it still made your skin itch. 

Feet padding, you cross the dead street and take in the long stretch of unkempt grass, stepping onto the broken curb as your shoes crunch broken glass. Long-gone cigarette butts are scattered here and there, the occasional stray bit of metal or trash. Your eyes shift slowly from one brick that makes up the frame to another, the peeling blue color that could use touching up. 

The mural you had painted in middle school had faded a long time ago, just like the great expectations of going into an art career. The eyes of a great gray wolf are only a dark outline that you can’t help but stare at as if a cancer was growing in your brain, hidden behind the reach of green ivy. 

Ripping your eyes away, you ignore the cry of tires from across the town and the pop of an exhaust pipe—the roar of either a car chase by the repeat offender Irene Chaney, or by some stupid kid related to Irene Chaney. 

“She’s gonna wreck one of these days,” you breathe, looking down at your object of intention—the sold sign in all of its red and white glory. 

Your hand snakes out and grabs the cheap plastic, stopping its swaying with a creak and a tilt of your head. 

You just couldn’t understand it—who in their right mind would buy this place? The only thing it would be good as is rubble, at least then some rabbit could make its very dusty home here. 

Sorrel had mentioned multiple people too. 

“Must be up at the B&B then,” your voice carries over the space, the stars twinkling above you as a shadow stands at the end of the cracked driveway. Its hands are in its pockets, tall form bulky with the dark brown leather jacket around its intimidating form. You’re none the wiser, letting the sign drop as you put your hands to your hips. “They better not be fuckin’ dickheads—”

“Mind explainin’ to me why I came to get a drink and now I’m talkin’ to some Bird on my property?” 

You startle, gasp peeling out of your lips as your head swivels as if attached to a string which, in turn, tracks back to the source of a heavy Manchester accent. Grass breaks under your feet, as the gravel of the tone makes you cringe. Your eyes lock on the man who looks like he just came back from a warzone. 

The first thing you noticed was the balaclava and the skeleton detailing, of course, how could you not—the lower half was an inch below those October eyes of the deepest shade of brown you’d ever witnessed. 

Your spine straightens in cautious surprise, hiding the way your hands had clenched as if ready to swing on your Ex if he so happened to be there instead of…this person. 

“Excuse me?” You say, quickly, as if it was forced out instead of a scream. Your face pushes that stern expression back to your face as your throat clears out the hoarseness.

A covered head tilts with its small sliver of pale flesh visible to you—the strong bones of his nose bridge and hidden jawline. The bulk of large muscles and thighs spoke to hard labor, and his booted feet shifted below loose black cargo pants. 

The mask alone caused you a hint of worry in those few seconds of fast study of this phantom’s anatomy. 

He blinks at you slowly, raising the small corner of a dark brow from a respectable distance away.

“Said you’re trespassing, yeah?” Your face gains a sheen of heat, and you glance at your bar behind the stranger, at the bright burn of the lights. 

Taking a stiff breath, your lips pull into a frown as you try to hide your embarrassment.

“Well…a holler would have been just fine.” A fake glare is put on. “What’s with sneaking up on a woman in the middle of the night? Are you some creep or something?”

Those dark eyes stay locked on yours, and for a moment you don’t know if you’ve encountered a statue or not because he doesn’t speak for a moment. 

A puff of breath from his nose. 

“You the bartender, then?” You motion to your nametag above your left breast and grunt. His gaze homes in before he simply says, “Good.”

Without another word, the man turns stiffly before he steadily begins making his way back to the bar; crossing the street with a swift check of the road. You watch him saunter off, jaw slackened and your cheeks hot. The span of his shoulder blades levels out as he rolls his shoulders. 

Where did this guy even come from? The answer was simple, the bed and breakfast was only four buildings down and to the left. Guy must have come in for a late-night serenade with a bottle.

A quick glance is thrown back to the rundown property behind you before you growl and hurry after this individual who currently pushes open the faulty doors of your work. Jogging across the asphalt, you catch the thing right before it closes and slip inside with a puff of air and a shoved-down snap of a sarcastic ‘thanks’. 

Yet, the man is already pulling back one of the bar stools and easing into it when you make it behind the counter. You study him yet again. 

“You’re one of the new mechanics?” Brown-Eyes blinks at you. 

Without missing a beat, he goes, “Bourbon—Kentucky.”

“I asked a question,” you cross your arms, not even for a moment looking away as the silence of the bar sneaks in around you and this strange creature. “Least you can do for a lady is answer it when you act like a damn cat and sneak up on her.”

“You were on my property.” This is leveled out through a grunt, and after a moment of staring, you scoff. 

“I was curious about who had bought such a piece of junk. Guess I have my answer.” Your hand grabs the bottle of Kentucky Bourbon, the amber liquid inside sloshing as you turn back and put it into the wood. There’s a fraction of a dead tease that makes the man seem more human than he looks.

“Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine?”

“I prefer a solar flair.” You comment dryly and set an engraved glass next to the bottle. Something flickers past the mechanic’s eyes, a quirk to the fabric of his balaclava. 

“On The Rocks or Neat?” Your brow raises and you tilt your head. 

“That even a bloody question? Neat.” You snort, splaying your hands before you grab the bottle as he watches you blankly. 

“Sorry, it's kind of my job to ask.” Your hand shifts and you pour a reasonable amount into the glass, knowing exactly when to stop. As you shift the bottle away, you leave it on the bar top and gently push the beverage to him as his gloved fingers take it up. You repress a small smile at the matching bone gloves to go with the detailing on his balaclava.

“Bartenders always have this much attitude?” The glass is kept in front of his person, carefully held in his large grip. 

Moving back, you go to lean on the back counter. This night was quickly taking an interesting turn. “Only if they’re me.” You sigh. “You have a name, then, Brown-Eyes?” 

The individual snorts at the title, but his eyes narrow on you at the same time as if he was held hesitant at the ability for you to make him. He had an air of casual tension around him, like a dog on a thin leash that can only just manage to meet others and stay his fangs. 

Danger, you pinpoint. The man felt like danger. A riptide; surface tension.

Then why was it that you felt more and more intrigued by the second?

“Simon Riley,” he eases, staring with those numb eyes of his before he tips the glass slightly your way. With the thumb on the same hand that holds the bourbon, he hooks it under his face covering and pulls it up until he can connect the glass to his lips and take down a sip as his Adam’s apple bobs in a swallow. 

On the way back, his thumb drags the fabric back to its previous position as if nothing had happened. The image of pale skin and stubble sticks with you, and your eyes shift away quickly without you realizing it as the glass is returned to the counter. 

“Well, Simon Riley,” you mutter, “welcome to nowhere.”

The man hums, eyes looking you over in a single glance before the gaze shifts to the wall behind your head. He says nothing, and the door opens to the next three familiar customers as you move to take their order. As you slip out from behind the barrier, you grumble under your breath before you slip past Simon to the corner booth. 

“For the record, Riley, I do enjoy seein’ that old place getting taken on. Don’t run it into the ground, would you? And if you need a fresh coat of paint, for the love of all things holy, don’t go down to the Schafersons’ place, you come right to me.” 

Walking casually, you greet the three ladies from the downtown library with a smirk and an easy comment about if their husbands knew they were out so late, to which you promptly got cursed out on good faith. Sharing a few chuckles, you get them started on what they need, all the while feeling those brown orbs now following subtly from the side of their sockets, intrigued. 

Simon wasn’t sure what to make of you, and the same could be said about this town as a whole. A woman with such a future trapped behind her eyes, adventure in her blood, why were you here in a place with nothing promised for it except dying businesses and old faces? This was a place where people came to hang up the coat, not try and rip it off of its peg. 

The children born here with ambitions leave, that was the common denominator. Even Simon could see that. But you? Here you were. 

The man peels his eyes away, taking up his glass again and re-hooking his thumb to his mask. Amber liquid seeps into his mouth, pulling the scars on his lips and cheeks as he swallows it down as easily as water. The bourbon pools in his stomach, sending its honied effects to the back of his mind; it would take much more to get drunk, but that wasn’t what Simon was looking for. 

Perhaps he was just out tonight wondering why he’d left the military for a mechanic’s job and come out here—asking anything for a sign that this was the right decision even as his head echoed with the screams and the gunfire. 

And then he’d seen you standing in front of the fuckin’ worst mechanics shop he’d ever seen that he’d signed the property deed for not three hours ago. Hell, he hadn’t even looked at the place before buying it—Price was responsible for the official financial actions, and the man had made him swear that it was worth it.

But fuck, he’d just needed a way out of the city. Too loud, too unpredictable in that previous shop of theirs right by the busy street. MacTavish and Garrick had been easy to convince; they’d all served together before and had no family over here either. 

A new start thousands upon thousands of miles away. 

Your head pulls up from where you chat with the librarians, hearing the slam of the door as the draft wafts in from outside—a small breeze has picked up. 

Inside walks in your very ruffled, and very well-pleased, coworker, Celina Bell. 

She brushes down her top and black skirt, blinking around with blown pupils until her eyes lock on you. A poisonous smile meets your eyes as you raise a brow slowly—Lord, if this girl didn’t realize that fucking your Ex over some workplace squabble wasn’t something to be proud of, she was really a lost cause. 

Simon only glances over his shoulder before turning back around and tapping his fingers against his glass absentmindedly. 

“You alright?” You ask out of due diligence, sparing the ladies an apology look for them being interrupted. 

“Better than alright,” Celina chuckles, walking over with a limp in her step. “Just scored Graham Whitaker.” She fake pauses, blinking as if in realization that a child would know was taking the piss. Your face is stuck in the expression of boredom. “Wait…you two were involved for a few years, right? Oh, I’m really sorry—I had no clue.”

“Yeah,” you look her up and down and blink at the disheveledness. “Sure. Quite the score.” A pause, her lips pulling back into that smug smirk that reminds you of a weasel. Yet your next words leave her face devoid of blood. “You know he got Chlamydia from Stacy Green a week ago, right?”

A pin could be heard dropping. Brown eyes are firmly stuck to the scene, unsure what to make of it. The ladies stifle their laughter.

“...W-what?”

“Y’know,” you motion a hand to her lower body, walking past her back to the bar. “STD. Chlamydia. Results in—”

“I know what the fuck an STD is, you bitch.”

“Woah,” you whistle, “language.” Your body returns to the counter as loud stuttering is left behind you, the frantic patting of a pocket to look for a phone before enraged feet rush to the exit. “Need a refill, Riley?”

“It can wait,” Simon utters slowly. The door slams shut.

You chuckle, shrugging. “Alright, suit yourself.” 

The man takes the names you drop and files them away, slotting them into his mental database for when he needs to work with these people. Yet, there’s already a sour impression just off of comments alone. Who better to get your news from than a bartender? 

You know everyone's dirty little secrets.

You diligently serve the drinks to the librarians, placing them down carefully before Simon once more has a re-filled glass of his drink. He moves it slightly up in a cheer and gives you a stare as you wipe your hands with a clean rag.

“Seems you know everything ‘round ‘ere.” His accent is what draws you in, and you find yourself eager to hear more from him. 

“I’m easy to talk to,” you respond, shrugging and leaning on the counter a foot or two away as you both watch the other. A smirk overtakes your features. “And I am the one that gives people the drinks.”

“So, what I’m hearing,” Simon raises a brow. “Is that you get ‘em dunker than a man on his execution date.” 

You click your tongue, tilting your head in a teasing manner while maintaining a serious face. 

“Afraid you’ll spill your secrets, Riley?” 

His eyes flash at you, and his lips flicker into a smirk you can hear in his voice. 

“It’ll take more than two glasses of Bourbon to get me talking, Sunshine.” 

Your face shifts away, but the sudden fight with a smile leaves you nearly breathless. 

Who is this man?

“Why are you here,” your question meets his ears as he takes back the last of his drink, stomach filled for the night and his searching, for the moment, abated. 

The glass meets the bar top. 

He grunts. “Needed a drink.”

Your lips pull in annoyance. “You know what I mean. You’re terrible at answering questions.”

“Hm, maybe.”

“Fuck off,” you grumble, shaking your head as a low chuckle makes your insides swirl. 

A stack of bills is placed on the counter, and the man stands, grabbing the hood of his black sweatshirt and pulling it up. His gloved hands go to the pockets of his leather jacket with a roll of his wide shoulders. From under the hood, the white of the painted mask glares out from under the shadows that now shroud him. 

You both sneak a glance at the mechanic's shop—a clear view from the front window. 

“See you around, then?” Your head is tilted at him, blinking. You hum under your breath. “I’m going to keep asking you why you showed up in this town, Riley, and I won’t stop until I get an answer.”

Simon quirks a brow, eyes glinting with interest. When was the last time someone had spoken to him like this outside of his boys?

“Look forward to it,” he utters slowly. With a blink and one more dead look, he’s already out the front door and walking back down the street—disappearing like a ghost the same way he had appeared. 

Picking up his cash and counting through it, the librarians across the way snicker, and one calls out, “So, the new mechanic, huh?”

“One more peep and I’m doubling your tab.”

But…you did have to admit, he had been charming…hadn’t he? At least someone here could juggle your attitude.

—

Three days pass with no sighting of Simon Riley, but just because you didn’t see him doesn’t mean you weren’t witness to his aftermath. 

The shop across the street was practically fixed up while you were asleep. 

Where there had been overgrown grass, there was now a cut lawn getting watered by the reach of an angry sprinkler. The fast movement of the spray reaches the sidewalk that was, somehow, still there under all that trash hiding away like a criminal. Stray bricks are gone and stacked into a pile as you pause outside the bar, staring wide-eyed with your breath caught in your throat in the late morning air. 

The ivy over your mural was peeled back—that faded wolf’s gaze locking with yours, unyielding to the calls of time as its canid body stool as a silent sentinel. 

But, on the third day, as you’re going on break before the night sets in, you manage to not only see Simon again but meet two of the other men who’d moved here.

You pick up your feet and jog across the street, hopping the curb as you blink, impressed at the open garage with its fixed and oiled bay door. Inside it was still dusty—remnants of what was left behind in the corners and scattered. But it was getting there. Quickly. 

“Didn’t know Simon was goin’ to sign on such a piece of rusted shite—where’s the fuckin’ outlets?” Gritted Scottish. You stick your hands into your pockets and enter the large opening. 

“If I remember,” you speak, finding the two men standing slightly off to the side as the bulkier one with a mohawk carries a series of extension cords. Cobalt and brown eyes dart to you in shock—the second man of darker complexion sharing a glance with the other in swift confusion. “When you manage to find them, they’ll all be burst.” 

Blank stares are sent your way. 

“Kids would come by and watch ‘em spark when they were bored. No one really cared enough to stop them.” A clearing of a throat meets your ears as you study the room more. 

It was small, with only one main garage for all the repairs, but that wasn’t new to you. The motorcycles were, though. 

Five in total all parked and resting next to one another near the back wall, all in varying shades of black and gray. Your lips twitch at the sight, imagining your late-night acquaintance riding one of them—you dare say that it fit him quite well, and you weren’t that surprised at all by this.

Biker mechanics. It fits the script. 

“Who’s this then?” The Scot asks you, raising a brow as a friendly smirk pulls his mouth up. “Can’t remember bookin’ any repairs today, Ma’am, might have to wait a few more days before we get it all up and runnin’.”

“I can see. No, I work just across the street,” you spare a friendly smile. 

“So you’re the bartender? The bartender.” The second man speaks, grinning kindly as he searches through a toolbox on a small table. He hums, looking playful. “So that’s why Ghost was gone so long.” 

Ghost…? Did they mean Simon?

The skeletal accents suddenly make far more sense.

“Johnny MacTavish,” A hand is leveled out ahead of you, and you take it casually with a muttering of your own name. “Soap’s just fine as well.” 

Your brow quirks, but you only share an amused nod.

The other individual stands and makes his way over, tall and leaner as to where Soap’s more blatant strength is. 

“Kyle Garrick—Gaz. Pleasure.” 

“Just came over to introduce myself,” your hand shifts back into your pockets as you motion with your head back to the bar. “I’m on my break.” 

“Ah,” Soap’s hands move the cables he holds as he loops them into a more storable shape vertically around his elbow and palm. “Last one to meet then is Price—man’s in town gettin’ lunch for us,” he grunts under his breath. “Hopefully a damn set of zip-ties, too.”

“Zip-ties, Mate?” Gaz breathes a chuckle with a fix of the backward ball cap on his head. “C-4 would bloody help more. At least then we can have a clean starting point.” 

“I think we’re fresh out of C-4, unfortunately,” you huff a laugh, motioning around as the men smirk at you, Johnny snorting a chuckle. “You guys have done a pretty good job so far. I can’t remember when it looked this nice in here.”

“Well, we’re honored, Bonnie,” Soap tilts his head as he ties off the cord with one of the ends. “Makin’ me blush.”

“If Simon had just looked at the place before buying it, we might have been able to open sooner.” Gaz huffs, thinning his lips as he glances over the broken window and the peeling paint—the door to the main lobby that has a punched dent in it. “Couldn’t be worse.”

“Well then it can only get better,” you breathe, shrugging. 

Gaz huffs affectionately. “Not wrong there, then.”

You lean forward, tilting your head. “You’ll find I rarely am.”

“Second time you’ve snuck on,” a Manchester accent scares you once more, head snapping to the side as the light spills in from the garage opening. “This a pattern, Sunshine?”

Simon’s brows are raised as those October eyes lock with yours. Gaz and Soap share a look, smirking before the Scot peels off to find a place to store his belongings. 

“Where have you been?” Gaz asks as you glare at the masked man for once again coming up behind you. 

A bag is presented, leaning off three fingers as a glance gets thrown past you. 

“Down the street. Needed these made.” The bag is tossed and Kyle catches it easily. 

You watch as the crinkly plastic is opened and the dark fabric of four black pairs of overalls is produced, each embroidered with their respective names. 

“What’s wrong with the old ones?” Johnny pipes up, brows furrowed. 

“Looks like you got fuckin’ mugged in ‘em.” Simon slides his attention back to you as Johnny curses with a glint of amusement in his blues. 

“Aren’t open yet.” Your face peels back to a stiff annoyance. 

“I can see that, Riley.” You motion to the other men. “I was being polite.”

He grunts while walking past, muttering through a brief smirk, “Doubt that.” 

Your jaw slackens, but you only growl and hold your tongue as you glance the mechanic over. He still had his leather jacket, but a loose shirt took the place of a hoodie. 

“You ready to answer my question?” Simon locks those eyes with yours from over his shoulder before sliding up to the black form of one of the motorcycles. 

Visible to the naked eye, you take in the lack of fairings around the frame—eyeing the pure black metal of the entire engine from any angle that you might move to you’d still be able to see. It was nice. Perfect, even; damn expensive too. While the thought was enticing, you can’t imagine Simon riding it—he seemed more rugged, more…classy. 

“Negative.” You roll your eyes, but Soap speaks before you can retort. 

“Finally takin’ out the CB1000R, Ghost? ‘Bout time.” The brute throws a blank look at the Scot as Gaz utters to you a few feet away before a casual ‘no’ is leveled out through the space.

“He got it months ago,” Kyle’s eyes crinkle. “Can’t seem to take it out for a ride yet. No one knows what he’s waiting on.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” your words confide. “It’s beautiful.”

“It was a fucking fortune—no use collecting dust is what I say.” You hum, shifting back to Simon who taps the seat of the CB1000R before moving past it to an older cruiser with dents and dirt along the sides. This was more him you thought. Rugged and more dated than the first; something you use on long rides to nowhere.

“Maybe he’s just waiting for a special occasion,” you guess.

“Better get on with it.” Gaz moves away with a shrug and a huff. 

Your lips pull in a small smile, and you watch Simon pull keys from his jacket and insert them as he moves to straddle the larger body of the cruiser, easing into it slowly. Staring, you think about how far that bike could take you—what you could see with it on the open road of possibilities and whipping air. Where would you go? Anywhere. Anywhere and everywhere. 

Eyes shifting away from the motorcycle, they widen as they softly meet Simon’s own—locked for a moment in a staring contest. His lids barely pull down, studying something. You clear your throat and exhale.

Sensing your company was most likely a hindrance at this point, you turn to leave as the engine flares—you wave easily behind your back with a call of well-wishes.

“Come have a drink one time, boys, yeah? I need stories that come from strangers for once.” A ruckus of ‘affirmatives’ and ‘will do, Ma’ams’ sparks up from Johnny and Kyle as you exit to the roar of the motorcycle behind you, your feet kicking a stray rock into the grass before you make it to the curb. 

Before you can cross, a steel body blocks your path. 

“I’ll be needing a drink later tonight, then.” Simon watches from atop his seat, one booted foot to the ground to steady himself as he comes to a slow halt. His fingers curl the handles, twitching.

“Let me guess,” you tilt your head, smirking, “Bourbon?”

“A woman after my own heart,” he draws numbly, October browns as dead as mulch. As dead as dirt.

“And do you have a heart, Simon Riley?” You question, blinking at him as your mind tells you to walk away. Your brain doesn’t need a repeat of Graham—you already had enough problems on your plate right now besides some attraction to this stranger. This push and pull made your heart jerk, even when you know it shouldn’t.

You’d only just met him.

The man hums, thighs shifting on the black metal frame. He says the easiest answer he can. 

“A cold one.” 

Pushing on the ground, he takes off down the road back into the main town for whatever errand he was on this time. Your eyes follow until the figure is no more than a memory of the smell of oil and the metallic tinge of caution.

—

You hated the smell of cigarette smoke. 

Like a pregnant woman’s aversion to the scent of meat, you grew nauseous at the very hint of cheap tobacco and paper on the air—loathed the burn of it. It had to do with your Ex, of course. The man had been a habitual chain smoker, lighting up one after the other until you had to leave his house entirely to puke on the front lawn. If you thought about it hard enough, you could still taste the ash on your tongue from when he kissed you after lighting up. 

But that was only one of the reasons you’d never moved in with him despite being together for years—the cheating was the other problem. 

Girl after girl, broken promise after broken promise, you’d still held onto him as if he deserved it. Hell, all that Graham Whitaker deserved were the copious amounts of STDs he probably had after sleeping with as many women as he could to try and get back at you. You didn’t have ample reason to ban him from the bar—him or his loud-mouth friends, you should say—so the problem, like a bad rash, persisted. Cars following you after work and all. 

But, the here, the now.

Simon had, in fact, come in for that drink that night—just as he had for the last week up until the grand opening of the boys’ shop. You’d both spoken throughout these encounters and formed some sarcastic and sly-looked bond that the other locals couldn’t understand. You had even learned about his military service. 

The both of you were just…different, people said. No one else really argued with it. 

You finally met John Price before the party that you’d heard from Simon that Soap and Gaz had been eager to host for the town—‘come meet the bastards that bought that old shitty building and see how they fixed it up all by themselves. You should come and give us your money.’

It was there that a proposal was offered. 

“Simon says you told him to come to you about paint.” John was late thirties, keeping a well-trimmed beard with a mustache that was the same shade of brunette as his head of hair. Tall, as well as built, he had found you as you were closing up the bar early for the town-wide party, Celina having already slipped out. 

You were dressed in a long skirt and a nice shirt for the occasion. 

“John Price, I’d imagine,” you comment, stuffing your keys into your pocket as your purse hangs from your shoulder. A throaty grunt tells you all you need to know as you move down the step. “Yeah, I did say that. Do you need some?” You look over his shoulder to the still peeling color on the outside of the bricks as the men are dragging out folding chairs and long tables. There was the clatter of laughter and loud calls. 

John’s blue eyes shift behind him, and he raises a brow slowly. 

“Thinkin’ we’d just hire you,” a side-eye. “If you’d be interested.” 

That was a surprise. 

You begin walking across the street, the man beside you and awaiting your answer. 

“Hire me?” Your voice asks, but you aren’t against the idea. “How do you know I’ll be any good at it,” you chuckle in question. 

“Simon says he found your initials next to the mural—the wolf.” Your feet pause, stuttering for a second before you catch yourself. The blood on your face stops its circulation in shock. “Not a bad piece, then.” John grunts. “...Think you can do a skull and wings?” 

So, you sat with your sketchbook in front of the wall, a portable camping chair below your bare feet as your legs folded under you. Your slip-on sneakers rest in the green grass, kicked off with a sigh. Blinking, the chatter and mumble from the party surround you in a sheen of community and calmness. You can pinpoint every voice, every story being re-told as if new news when it goes in one ear and out the other like a breeze on the wind. 

Humming under your breath as the sun is low in the sky, you hear the silent feet still from over your shoulder. A smirk flickers your lips.

“Snooping, Riley?” 

“My building.” He grumbles, “Seein’ what you plan to do to it.”

You snort, looking over your shoulder and smiling. “If I recall, you’re the one who took up my offer and told Price about it.” 

Simon was dressed in cargos and a compression shirt pushed up to his elbows, the swell of his forearms on full display along with the scars and…tattoos. You blink at them, the swirl of black skulls and guns; barbed wire and dog tags—the dark images that fit him as his motorcycles did on his left limb. Brown eyes flicker from yours to the painted wolf.

“Good at that,” the man says, balaclava shifting. 

Your expression slowly shifts to something far softer than you can remember it ever being; inside of your chest, your heart tightens. 

“Thank you.” 

He levels you, the corners of his eyes easing out of the numb nothingness to show something akin to shielded affection. Molten sunlight on the side of his face, making the color of his irises glow amber. Simon nods to your sketchbook, clearing his throat. 

“I able to see it, then, or is it some secret?” You huff.

“Come here,” your hand motions, palm brushing away eraser shavings as your fingers get stained with graphite. The shadow comes closer, leaning over you as the scent of oil pools in your gut. You blink at the side visage, swiftly looking back down to your sketchbook as a slight wind ruffles your skirt. 

“Price was talking about a skull with wings beside it—later on he made mention of a sword through the top.” While you explain the concept, you inadvertently study the tattoos on the flesh beside you, one scarred hand coming out to lightly grab the armrest of your chair as Simon leans even closer. 

As your face begins burning, breath caught in your throat, he blinks down at the image as he looms, head tilting. 

Simon breathes, chest rising and falling as his eyes go far off. You know the symbol means something, though you also have a good guess that it’s related to this group’s time in the service. 

He hums, and you see his lips open, the rough grate of his vocal cords as he begins to form words for you. 

“It’s—”

Your name is loudly called from across the way, both Simon’s and your heads snapping back as you both realize exactly how close you two have become. The stealing of the other’s warmth like wraiths of hidden longing ceases when you wrench your attention to the man you wished would leave you alone. 

Graham raises the dark bottle of a cheap beer from the dollar store in your direction, walking over. Now, your Ex wasn’t anything spectacular, but even you had to admit it was the best you could do around here if you didn’t want to date men only five years from the grave. Graham was tall, strong, and heavy-willed like a bear. In the day hours, he worked as a farmhand down the way. 

Your body tenses, eyes going tight. Simon sees.

“Who’s this,” he asks slowly, fingers twitching. 

“Ex,” you mutter, grimacing. “He’s going to make a scene.”

Already gazes had started drifting over, conversations lapsing into mute silence as orbs shifted to three different individuals all stuck in the same storm. 

Simon grunts, standing up to his full height and crossing his arms over his chest, legs shifting below him and thighs trading weight. His moving leaves half of you kept firmly behind him and your eyes study his stance as you notice that fact. You blink, and feel something stir in your ribcage, blooming like a flower. 

“Hey, Bartender!” Graham takes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it as his fingers fumble over the neck of the bottle. “Though I’d seen you over here missing all the action. Nothing’s changed I see.” 

Your face pulls in with disgust.

“Graham, you’re drunk. Go home.” It was true—his words were slurring, his limbs loose with drink. He smirks at you, taking a drag of his cancer stick and puffing it directly at you. Your hand snaps to your nose to try and cover the horrendous smell.

“Nah,” he breathes. “I’m here with Celina, see’s a pretty nice lookin’ broad don’t you think? Not as good of a fuck as you, but, hey, I take what I get.” His expression shifts to hidden anger and Simon takes a heavy step forward before he can finish the rest of his sentence, hands shifting to grasp his biceps harder. Those browns simmer with low ferality—a warning.

The air gets heavy.

“Pretty good little lie you spread about me gettin’ that shit from Stacy.”

“That was a lie?” You drawl lazily and watch your Ex’s eyes flash with rage. But he should know you don’t take shit from him anymore. “Oh,” your fingers tighten over your flesh and make you sound stuffy. “Maybe I heard wrong, you’re right. You don’t have Chlamydia.” You glare. “It was Gonorrhea, wasn’t it?”

“Bitch!” Graham barks, moving forward, but before anyone can realize it, Simon already has him shoved back with a stone-like push to your Ex’s chest.

“Not smart, Mate.” The former soldier utters, arms falling back to his sides. The party by this point had entirely halted in sharp gasps and bated breath. 

Graham’s beer bottle shatters as it hits the ground, the grass not able to absorb the way it slams down to dirt. Your wide eyes stay stuck on Simon’s figure, who’s now entirely hiding your view of your Ex—the wide expansive back that shows the writhe of his shoulder blades and how his spine shifts under the tight shirt. 

Your hand lowers from your face.

“What the fuck?!” Graham spits. “You made me drop my fucking drunk, man!”

“Be thankful that was all, yeah?” Simon’s dead voice is a cold chill on a winter evening. Any sane person would turn and leave immediately. “Cut your losses.”

No one breaths for a long minute, and you can see the other new mechanics inching closer from the sides. All of the locals are deep into the scene, fingers to their lips in surprise. There’s going to be talk tomorrow—the bar will be busy. 

“Graham,” you try to sway the pig-headed man once more from behind Simon. “Go home.”

“So this is what I get,” your Ex spits, head trying to peek over the larger man’s frame to look at you. Simon’s hands clench into tight fists. “I’m with you for years and this is how you treat me? I gave you everything!”

“Those are years that I never want to think about again,” you say with a stiff finality. “And it’ll be a cold day in hell before you ever see me worrying about where you are or who you fuck.” 

Knowing that the situation is over and done with, Simon takes a single step forward and leans into the man. 

“You heard ‘er,” he levels, unblinking. “Scatter.” Simon’s accent made it sound more like a threat, but maybe it was. 

Graham growls and takes a long drag from his cigarette, staring Simon down. 

“Fuck you, you piece of shit.” But all he does is turn sharply on his heel and stomp away, crossing the street to his truck before he opens and closes the door with a violent slam. From across the way, Celina gasps and calls his name, but the engine has already started and Graham is down the road with a roar from the exhaust. 

Everyone is watching you and Simon, and the staring peels back your skin until Simon grumbles and grabs your arm. 

Blinking in shock, he only gives you a moment to steady yourself and slip on your shoes before he drags you inside the garage. You huff and look up at him as you close your sketchbook–trying to not look at those tattoos again. Your finger wanted to trace them—to study the ink down to the layer of skin where it ended and became red flesh and weeping veins. How far up his left arm did they go? Did they only stay at his forearm, or up to his shoulder?

Inside he lets you go, head slightly tilted to the outside as the sounds of hushed whispering pick back up; hurried and filled with electricity. Simon grunts, blinking. 

A heated silence encompasses the two of you, and as your eyes lock, neither can speak for a moment. 

“Sorry about that,” you glance at your feet. “Should have guessed he’d show up and do something.”

“Don’t apologize,” Simon crosses his arms again, boots righting themselves. “That’s not your fault that some bastard can’t act right, yeah? Forget about it, it’s all nothing.”

“You shouldn’t have to be involved—”

“Bloody cut it out, would you?” Simon glares, brows pulling in. “I said it’s nothing.”

He was very passionate about this, it seemed.

You sigh, shaking your head before a tiny chuckle makes the mechanic blink in confusion. “Suppose I can call you my guard dog now, huh?”

“Piss off,” you laugh, covering your mouth with your hand while your eyes narrow down. Simon's own crinkle along the edges, lowering his hands to push them into his pockets. 

A second leads into another, but neither of you has any particular interest in re-joining the others, even if Soap is smugly passing looks and Price smirks into his drink. Gaz fixes his hat while he tips back a beer bottle, hiding a glint of amusement. 

Simon’s voice lowers, seeming to hover closer. 

“You alright, then?” You nod, face heating up as you stare at his shadow-tainted visage and how the face-covering obscured him from your eager eyes. 

“I’m used to his drama. I have no problem giving it back.” Simon hums, October browns glinting like Halloween lights. 

“Seems so.” He pauses, and pushes out a joking, “Not surprised, Sunshine.”

“Good, Brown-Eyes,” you lean back on your heels and smirk. “I’d be offended if you were, with all we’ve been talking to one another.” 

“Getting familiar, Bartender?”

“Of course, Mechanic. Haven’t you heard?” He tilts his head, prodding you on as his eyes soften that candle-like smidge. “I keep everyone’s secrets—and you still have to tell me yours.”

Simon chuffs a low chuckle, and the fabric of his mask pulls as he shakes his skull. “Maybe one day, yeah? Need to stick ‘round to know ‘em.”

Then perhaps this town was worth wasting away in.  

—

“Bastard won’t cause any problems, will he?”

“No, no, he’s too much of a coward to try and get back at anyone. He won’t do anything.”

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @aldis-nuts, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

[honestsycrets]

omg sex worker miguel o’hara? 🤧🫡

grande | sex worker!miguel o'hara x assistant!reader

❛ pairing | sex worker!miguel o'hara x assistant!reader.

❛ type | extended drabble; 2kish words; explicit

❛ summary | you probably shouldn't tell a man that he's small. even if you've known him a very long time-- and especially if you see him fuck every day.

❛ tags | sex worker au, improper use of belts, male receiving oral, slight disagreements, workplace argument, Spanish is not translated

❛ sy’s notes | ...i now have an escort!miggy x rich girl!reader in my drafts to be finished at some other time because it became a bit depressing and plotty. needed something light to get back into writing for a bit.

He doesn’t play fair. Most women understand that about him. They know Miguel to be the man who bends the delicate boundaries of rules for a good fuck— be it a place, be it a position. Miguel would do what he had to for a better clip. 

“Miggy?” You said, hands behind your hips. He should have known then that you were up to some shit. You hover somewhere in his vision with a sugar-sweet smile. You’ve worked with him alongside him since he chose this profession. Most days, he watched you sit by your favorite window that cast a warm midday sun, tacking away with fingers that flew across the keys. Some days, you’re watching him-- mounted on another woman. He cocked his thick brow at you. 

“What?”

“I… it’s just… fuck. Elena had something come up.” 

“Like I said she would."

Miguel set his fist to his cheek, swirling his protein shake in the other hand. This woman was your idea, not his. There’s a reason your voice choked on the words. You were anxious about your news the way your hands rounded to the front of your body, clammy hands plastered onto your tablet.

“I just thought—“

“I know what you thought. You thought my followers would like her.” He took a swig of his drink. “Not if she’d like me.”

That was exactly the issue. You do too much worrying about what the viewer likes, not enough about what he would like. He was well aware from every ping from Elena and the contorted little face you made that she was scared of him. As to why, he was not certain. He's grumpy, not dangerous.

“She does like you— it’s just your dick,“ you fumbled with your tablet, nearly spilling it over on his lap. “I told her you weren’t that big. She’s just— dramatic.”

“Not that big?” 

You’re not winning this fight. He threw a look at the tablet, finding your suggestion more egregious than your description of it. Too thick! She complained. He’d stretch her out. Or, so she feared. He sincerely doubted that. She took enough dick that if that were the case, she’d have an issue long before now.

He’s not that big in real life. All that big dick crap is just marketing. I see his dick all the time. 

Then you fuck him!

His mouth flattened into an unmoveable line, clearly unappeased with your response. For a moment, he did not move. He did not fidget. Nor respond. He simply stared down at you with those sharp, unhumored eyes. What little security you had in convincing him flitted away. He abandoned his drink on the table and leaned in close. Close enough that his thick strands of dark hair tickle your skin. Enough that you can smell the perfumed oil that lingered on his tanned skin. He always smelled so good.

“Until you’ve fucked me onscreen,” he brushed past. “Don’t tell women who will what I’m like.” 

Oh. You made a mistake.

You don’t like it when Miguel is angry. 

Most days coming to work, Miguel has a hot coffee on the table for you as you edit his finest ball-busting work. When the days stretch a little too long, he tells you when enough is enough. And, if you were lucky, he hovered at the stove and made you something to eat. It gave you a perfect sight of his toned shoulders and the long column of his spine-- which he so graciously allowed you to drool over day by day. Today, there was no half-dressed hunk making your delicious meals in sight. 

He’s still angry. You pulled up his socials, scrolling through the responses to the latest video. A teasing blooper of a clip with a woman with Miguel’s length halfway down her throat, coughing up his seed all over her chest as you mistakingly giggle behind the screen. 

“Keep laughing and see what happens,” Miguel drifted to yours, eyes hazy and soft, chest rising violently with the sundering sensation of his orgasm. He watched for the span of only a few heartbeats, a decadent warning exchanged between the two of you immeasurable before the camera. He reached for a tissue.

“Perdóname, papi.” 

Does anyone know if they’re fucking? A user asked. It’s as if Miguel’s co-star was but a fading character. Any chance of seeing him fuck her?? Whats her @? 

She’s just his employee.

Need this.

Just an employee. The words pulled on a string of connection that could at any time be cut. Miguel had no interest in wielding the scissors to do so, rather, over the past few years the string only became stronger. He’ll get over it. You stared at the reflection of your poorly made cup of cafecito, undrunken because no one made it like Miguel made it. He’s there, hovering around the sink, but you feel all the more alone in the room. Producer, editor, friend-- your eyes fell back to the cup. 

“Are you done?” Miguel hovered by your coffee cup. It was cool to the touch. 

“Ah. Sí.” 

You gazed up at him, regret seeping from your features. If you apologized yet again, he’d simply leave the room. There are no good words. No ones that would make sense, no words that would… be good enough to make him come back when he’s in this mood, unmoveable and distant. You’re so close to him-- but all alone.

He takes the cup away.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

Miguel dropped his phone on your office desk. It thumped over the tablespace, his expression morphing into something wrong. You turn his phone upright, knowing the contents before the information actually registers in your mind. 

“It’s a picture of me,” you closed the top of your laptop and whirled around in the chair, knocking your knees against his. He’s closer than he’s been in days. 

“Yes. But what else?” he rumbled. 

You’re not stupid, remembering the launch of merch that Miguel sincerely doubted anyone would be seriously interested in. How many people wore a male sex worker’s merch? This was all your idea, of course. Your lip is bitten fat, stripped of skin. Your eyes wandered across the table to the cabinet with an array of different cameras. Miguel rapped his scarred knuckles over the table, blocking your desperation for an escape. He wanted a substantial answer.

“You told me to make sure it sold.” 

“And that meant model with your ass out on my page.”

“You don’t like it?” 

"Dios," that’s not the point. He breathed a forceful breath, navigating your rolling chair up against the bed in the room. Typically the bed was used for a late night at the office or one of Miguel’s performances with any number of women you cast him with. Or, as you preferred, when he masturbates by himself-- squeezing his hand along his length as your phantom hand poured more wet lubricant over his cock. The sheets are always stained and consequentially changed.

“I don’t like that they know what you look like,” Miguel supplied, his chest cresting into a fall. His gaze fell to your hands, settled in a clasp over your short skirt. Now he knew what you looked like. “Do you know how many requests I have to…”

“Fuck me.” 

“Sí,” Miguel said, your name dying on his tongue. “To fuck you.” 

“Then do it. You have a camera.”

What-- his gaze read. It’s in the way his brow pushed together, how his lips fell just so lightly apart. He would say something more, but your hands are on his dark slacks, tracking up toward his sturdy leather belt. In only an hour or so, Miguel was meant to record with Elena, who, you convinced. He should be saving his stamina for that, not this. Even so, his hands hovered atop your own, grunting slightly in response, unable to stop what you were doing. 

“Don’t ask me to ruin you.”

“I think you already have,” you murmured, finding his soft cock. You stroked him through his pants, drawing along his length, getting him where you want him. With every scene you recorded, you knew what Miguel liked. You knew he liked scenes where he could take his time, as short and far between as they were. You want that too. You drew the belt loose and unbuttoned the little spry button. So close, you could almost taste him.

“Are you going to record it?” You gestured toward the desk, pulling his cock into the free air. He’s an impressive length, just as you recall, you think he has to be to be an adult actor. The real treat is Miguel’s thick girth, swirled with delicious veins. You had seen his dick at least a hundred times, delighted in watching him meet his orgasm time and time again, and touched yourself to the thought of being just like his many girls. 

“No,” Miguel pulled his belt from the loops and tugged it around his wrist. He let the other hand find the back of your head, weaving through smooth locks of hair, guiding your lush lips to his cock. “This is all for me.” 

When he spoke like that, all you wanted was to make him happy. Your moist mouth separated, warm breath tickling the length that he shoved into your wet mouth. Maybe Elena had a point, you think, suckling around his length once, drawing to his fat tip. He hums in response, bucking back deep into your mouth. Miguel didn't want to wait, causing you to gag over his length, a terrible coughing resonating about his dick. Now that he had you here, he would show you how wrong you were.

“I thought I wasn’t that big,” Miguel’s hand left your head, stretching his belt across the back of your neck. Bucking forward, you gagged around his length, scratching his clothed hip for some mercy. If he wasn’t so big-- you could take it, couldn’t you? “Just like that. Hm? Cómo?” 

He was gracious enough to allow you off his cock, gasping for air as you were, the depth of his plunging cock having pricked a few oversensitized tears on the sides of your eyes. You’re beautiful like that, overwrought and needy. Your heart rattled in the confines of your ribcage, wheezing as you jerked him pathetically. How certain you look now, tugging on him for a moment of relief.

“I’m sorry--” 

“Ya sé.” 

Your eyes fluttered shut, guiding him back into your mouth. Your cheeks hollowed out, drawing him in fast and hard. If not for the belt around the back of your neck, he might have stumbled, stuck between the warmth of your mouth and the pleasured groans tickling his length. You’re well-accustomed to what the girls do, stretching your palm around his dick.

“Harder,” he remarked, throwing a half-chewed-up curse aside. Unlike with the other girls, he’s weak before the pleasure, usually focused and refined, his jaw clenches. He’s gotten weak-- has it been that long since he’s had sex outside of the roll of the camera? 

“Miggy,” you pulled back, your sloppy tongue swirling about his fat tip. He catches the moan in his chest, refusing to let it crest over, not yet. His eyes catch yours, muscular stomach flexing, he’s listening. “I want to taste you. Can I taste you?” 

You’re such a good niña. Miguel forces you back to your rightful place on his cock, the band stretched so tight around his fists that he might break it. Your name becomes an unbearable, pleasurable slur on his tongue. He’s a trained man, knowing to cum when you say to come on each shoot. In many ways, he's your trained dog: cuming when he's told to.

His length pulsed in your mouth for one final thrust before he gave you what you wanted, strands of release spraying the back of your warm little mouth. You suckled him up, even as he tried to pull free. You cleaned his cock, sucking him nice and clean. Miguel brushed off your attempt to zip him away.

“Don’t bother,” Miguel breathed, pulling at the black-tie strapped to his throat. His white dress shirt was soaked, causing him to roll the sleeves up to his elbows. His voice dropped, well-fucked out but nearly ready for another round. “Your cunt is next.” 

“But Elena is on her w--” 

“Fuck her,” Miguel waved his hand, slouching into your chair. “Fix the camera. We have a video to shoot.” 

If nothing else-- now you can tell her how big he really is.

[saphronethaleph]

“...because the council did not trust you, my young apprentice, I believe you are the only Jedi with no knowledge of this plot,” Sidious said, pulling on his cloak.

He frowned. “What are you doing, Vader?”

“I’m going to get proof,” Anakin replied, pressing some buttons on his comlink. “I don’t know if Obi-Wan was involved with the plot, and – I have to know.”

“Don’t-” Sidious began.

The comlink beeped, interrupting him, and Anakin lifted the device to his mouth.

“Obi-Wan!” he said.

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan replied. “Good news – General Grievous is dead. I’ve lost my lightsaber, though.”

Anakin hid a snort. “Right – that’s, uh, really funny. Listen, I’ve got some good news too.”

“You have?” Obi-Wan replied. “Let’s hear it – down, Boga, down! Sorry, Anakin, she’s a bit excited… you were saying?”

“The Chancellor’s dead,” Anakin said, winking at Sidious.

“What?” Obi-Wan asked. “How is that good news – how did he die? I swear, I leave Coruscant for two days-”

“The Jedi killed him,” Anakin explained.

“Why?” Obi-Wan said, sounding completely and honestly baffled. “Which Jedi? I don’t think they could all do it, after the first couple of dozen there simply wouldn’t be any politician left if nothing else – but why would they do that?”

“Because he’s a Sith, I think,” Anakin said, then corrected himself. “Was a Sith, I mean. Because he’s definitely dead now.”

There was silence from the comlink for a couple of seconds, interrupted by a sort of rippling hwaa hwaa sound from some kind of animal, and some blasterfire.

“Obi-Wan?” Anakin said.

“I’m sorry, Anakin, you did just drop an extremely large bombshell on me,” Obi-Wan said, sounding quite distracted now. “I’m rethinking the last several years. That means he was behind – he was behind the war, behind the invasion of Naboo, behind the assassination attempts on Padme, behind everything.”

Anakin blinked down at his comlink.

“...that’s… a good point,” he said, slowly, then glanced over at Sidious.

Who wasn’t where he’d been before.

Anakin kept turning, and saw that Sidious had pulled a bookshelf off the wall of his office and was halfway through getting into a concealed escape pod.

The Dark Lord of the Sith froze, staring back at Anakin.

“...there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this,” he said, waving his hand.

In hindsight, this would be the last error he would ever make.

Anakin was never one for perfectly reasonable explanations.

“...Anakin? Anakin?” Obi-Wan said, frowning at his comlink. “Anakin, you can’t just tell me something like that and then disappear… or, well, apparently you can but it’s very inconvenient.”

There seemed to be an awful lot of noise coming down the comlink, but none of it made much sense. In fact, it sounded like someone was testing a lightsaber in the middle of a thunderstorm, and Obi-Wan frowned at the little device before nearly losing his grip on it as Boga skidded to a halt next to Commander Cody.

“Sir,” Cody said, with a nod.

“Commander!” Obi-Wan replied. “Contact your troops – tell them to move to the higher levels. We’ll want to clear out this force and then move on Mustafar, though since the Sith Lord is dead that might actually mean this war is over soon.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” Cody replied, then tossed Obi-Wan his lightsaber.

Obi-Wan caught it. “Thank you, Commander! I do apologize-”

The comlink crackled again, and Obi-Wan dropped Boga’s reins so he could hold both devices at once without potentially cutting his head off. “Anakin!”

“Sorry about that, Master,” Anakin replied. “Bit of a workplace disagreement. Anyway, uh… Masters Windu, Fisto, Tiin and Kolar are all dead in the fight with the Chancellor. Please send help, there’s not many Councillors left and I don’t want to have to ask Master Nu what a quorum is…”

“Oh, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, fondly. “I’m sure we’ll be able to rescue you from the deadly perils of procedure. Until then, ask Padme if you need advice.”

He paused.

“Do you have any names picked out yet, by the way? I’m quite partial to the name Ben. It has a nice sound to it, even as a middle name.”

He clicked the comlink off and set it to silent, smiling slightly.

“Getting the last word, General?” Cody asked.

“It’s about the only way I can, with Anakin, I find,” Obi-Wan agreed, pocketing the comlink. “Now, let’s see about clearing those upper levels. Come on, Boga!”

[ollieolliewrld]

How The DMC Men Enter Relationships (SFW)

How your relationship with the Sparda Trio start~ gn!reader

1.4k words

Dante 

❥ How you meet

♡ You meet Dante late at night 

♡ You were both lonely and looking for a body to ease that pain

♡ He has no intentions of having feelings for you, and you were not looking for a relationship

♡ At first, all that is exchanged are first names and phone numbers 

♡ Conversation is limited to simple greetings and partings 

♡ The interactions are mainly physical 

❥ How the relationship begins

♡ As time goes on Dante begins to miss you when you leave and starts asking you to stay the night

♡ He starts to ask you about yourself, questioning about your hobbies and favorite foods

♡ As much as he does not want to admit it, he is starting to develop feelings for you

♡ He doesn't outright ask you to date him instead he asks if you would like to leave some things at his place 

♡ Late-night phone calls turn into him inviting you to dinner 

♡ After some time Trish refers to you as his s/o in conversation and Dante is taken back

♡ He hadn’t thought of it that way but you two are doing all of the relationship things, but more importantly, he really enjoyed hearing you referred to as his s/o

♡ A few days later Dante is lying in bed with you when he asks if you would like to put a label on things 

♡ He explains that he would like mutual commitment and to pursue a future with you but he understands if you want to keep things more casual

♡ Although he has no interest in anyone else and would not be ok if you were seeing other people no matter if there was a label or not 

♡ When you do agree to put a label on things Dante becomes a little cocky about now bringing you up specifically as his s/o in most conversations

❥ Early relationship dynamics

♡ Dante would want you to stay at home more, not locked in there or anything but more just not overworked

♡ He likes to come home to you, it brings him peace of mind and motivates him

♡ Small disagreements take place when you move in with him, Dante has never had a long-term serious relationship so he is unsure of how to split up housework and tasks like cooking

♡ Nothing ever gets too heated as he comes to an agreement with you pretty quickly

♡ He wants to be in charge of breakfast and dinner when he is home, but would really appreciate it if you could make dinner when he comes home late and you are already home

♡ It’s decided that you will both use Saturday as the day to get all of the house cleaning done together

♡ It takes about a month for you two to settle in together but once the adjustment period is over you two work fluidly together with very few arguments

Vergil

❥ How you meet

♡ He comes into your work by accident, he had no reason to be there but the rain outside was terrible and he wanted to find reprieve for just a moment to get himself together

♡ You very kindly offered him your umbrella seeing the state he was in

♡ Not being used to this kind of kindness he simply stares at you unsure of how to respond

♡ Silently he takes the umbrella and walks out 

♡ After this, he happens to wander into your workplace more often hoping to see you again

❥ How the relationship begins

♡ Vergil does not start the conversation but rather you do as you come up behind him

♡ You jokingly ask if he’s stalking you and his demeanor changes to be very flustered with a slight blush appearing across his cheeks 

♡ He stops coming to your workplace after this but you catch him reading a book in a park not too far away about a week later

♡ This time he begins with a simple hello

♡ To his surprise, the conversation flows very naturally and learns that you actually missed his random appearances at work

♡ Never did he expect to be able to talk to anyone like this, casually and freely

♡ Not knowing who he was and what he had been through allows him to start fresh not feeling any levels of judgment

♡ You two stay as friends for a while, he never makes a move as he does not want you to leave when he opens up to you

♡ After a few months, Vergil cannot keep secrets from you anymore and he finally tells you about who he is and what he has done expecting you to be scared and leave

♡ But you are not scared and when he turns to see your reaction you lean in to kiss him

♡ The feeling of your lips on his sets him free, he can finally be his entire self around you without fear

❥ Early relationship dynamics

♡ That day was the start of your romantic relationship, but Vergil does not like to refer to you as his s/o preferring terms like “My light” and “My love”

♡ You two would move in together shortly after that first kiss 

♡ A lot of time is spent teaching Vergil the ways of average human life 

♡ He enjoys taking care of the home and finds a passion for cooking 

♡ Doing things like furniture shopping brings him a lot of joy and finds it to be a very important time with you

♡ He likes to take you on dinner dates at nice restaurants and to museums 

♡ Overall the beginning of your relationship is pretty smooth the only potential issue being that Vergil is a bit reclusive not liking to be in very high-energy areas like a concert or club 

Nero

❥ How you meet

♡ Nero is still young and has not gotten the hang of relationships fully yet

♡ The dating world is still pretty new to him

♡ He meets you in the most cliche way, you were carrying boxes in your hands and Nero was sprinting around the corner knocking into you and sending the boxes to the ground

♡ Dropping what he was doing he cleans up your mess while apologizing and then turns to help you up but when his eyes met yours, the ability to speak the English language left him

♡ Stumbling over words he attempts to introduce himself not making a lot of progress

♡ With a smile you tell him your name and that he can make up for the incident by buying you a coffee

❥ How the relationship begins

♡ He is very nervous around you at first, before getting coffee with you the first time he changed his outfit three times and brushed his teeth twice

♡ Despite the nerves, he was able to talk to you and your sweet demeanor helped to calm him down

♡ You were kind and confident and that combo worked on him as he asked when he could see you again right after you both finished your drinks

♡ Nero is a very sweet guy making sure to hold doors open for you and following the sidewalk rule

♡ His age shows though when he tries to show off in front of you by doing things like attempting to do tricks on a random skateboard despite him having zero experience 

♡ Or telling you very over-the-top embellished stories about his Devil May Cry work

♡ After going out a few more times he asks if he can start calling you his s/o

♡ You agree and the smile that forms on his face tells you how long he has been waiting to ask you that

❥ Early relationship dynamics

♡ Neither of you are in a rush to move in together 

♡ Instead, it’s a lot of sleepovers and him tagging along to run errands with you

♡ Nero discovers that he enjoys going to stores like Target not looking to buy anything and instead just looking around

♡ He also loves to binge shows with you

♡ If you watch any level of reality TV, Nero will become the biggest fan but will deny it if you ever ask him

♡ Finds it romantic to know all of your orders at your favorite food places, Nero likes to surprise you with them whenever you are feeling sad

♡ Some fights happen when he has to leave for work, you don't want him to go and he doesn't want to leave you and because he is young the emotions are a little hard to navigate 

♡ But with proper and open communication these problems fade away

Author's note: This was so cute to write! I had a lot of fun taking my time with this and really feeling the characters out and I hope you all have fun reading it!

[imagineredwood]

Daddy Yandere Chibs with A? Number 3?

I have a HUNGER for Daddy!!!

Summary: Chibs has honored your foolish wishes for a separation for the last month, but you still haven't come to your senses yet, so it's time for Daddy to bring you back home; by any means necessary.

Warnings: ...it's a yandere drabble 🧍🏻‍♀️ So stalking, manipulation, what could be perceived as emotional abuse because of the manipulation. As always, these are just for fun, not to be taken as a healthy or safe relationship. No means no and turning up at someone's work when they don't want you to or anywhere they're at for that matter is creepy af in real life!! Also daddy kink. I wrote it with somewhat of a big age gap in mind but it doesn't have to be read like that 💕

Also just as a reminder, since dark content isn’t for everyone, I don’t use the regular tag lists for these, only specific taglist for those who want to read the darker content. I wouldn’t want to expose someone that didn’t want to read it. So if you DO want to be tagged, let me know

"You shouldn't be here. This is my workplace. I don't have time for this."

Chibs didn't flinch as you rejected him, his stance relaxed as he leaned against the wall of your breakroom. He'd been dying to see you. He'd given you the space you had asked for, knowing that of course that wasn't what you truly wanted. But he'd given it to you anyway. You would see soon enough that being apart from him wasn't actually what you wanted at all. Yet it was going on a month now, and he had decided that enough was enough.

So he'd ridden over to your job to get you back and now here you were, acting as if you were simply too busy to speak to the man who had loved and protected you these last few years.

"Oh course ya do, Lass. You're on break. You've got,"

He made a show of looking down at his watch and calculating.

"Got 24 minutes left of break, I reckon."

You swallowed dryly, realizing that he did have a point. You took your break at the same time every day. You'd used that break to talk to him on the phone most days. Of course, he would remember. So you tried a different tactic.

"How did you even get in here? It's employees only back here."

The Son nodded, eyes warm as they regarded you, a hint of playful ridicule there as well.

"I've lived in this town a long while, love. Longer than you. All I had to do was ask."

He pulled off the wall then, standing at his full height, taking each slow step one at a time.

"Everyone knows me here. Knows us. All that yellin' about me being so controlling, yet you didn't tell your work to keep me out?"

You gulped as he stalked toward you, eyes on you every second.

"Didn't put me on some kinda list? Didn't tell them that if they saw me to call the cops? None of that?"

You stared at him as your heart pounded in your chest. He wouldn't hurt you; never. But you wouldn't put it past him to somehow manipulate you and the situation into ending with you giving him another chance. All if would take is the feeling of his hands, warm and loving as they caressed you, and your resolve would fall apart. And he knew as much.

You took one more step back and bumped against the wall, the giant silver fridge blocking you on one side, and Chibs arm coming up to block the other. You whimpered, willing yourself to be strong as the scent of leather, cologne, and cigarette smoke flooded your senses. It all smelled just exactly as you remembered and you ached for him, the stone you'd fortified around your heart beginning to crumble.

"Even with all the arguments and disagreements, you know you've always been safest with me. Safe, and at home. You've proven your point. It's time for you to come home with Daddy now, yeah?"

You hesitated for a moment before your head was nodding slowly of its own volition. The Son clicked his teeth and offered you a smile then, eyes trailing down your front. He brought a ringed finger up and traced down the valley of your breasts, eyes raking over you how a lion would a gazelle. His voice was low when he spoke again.

"Twenty minutes left."

"Huh?"

The sentence threw you off, your break no longer on your mind as you looked at him.

"You've got twenty minutes left before they start looking for you, so I've got time. You look delicious. I won't stop until I've tasted every bite."

Dark fiction taglist 

@whitetxilwxlf @kikijackson-blog @ben-c-group-therapy @ravennaortiz @mama-mischief

[piscespetals]

summary: in which sevika becomes your roommate. read part one here and two here

content: angst, more lesbian disaster

word count: 6k

Chapter 4 should be up next weekend!

Chapter Three

Apologizing is hard for you...

You have too much pride—too much ego.

Apologizing displays a depth of vulnerability that you've never quite been good at.

With Mel, it's easy. Because besides your parents, she’s the only other person that's been a constant in your life. Besides your parents, she’s the only person that has stayed—that has loved you—despite all of your flaws. 

You haven't known Sevika for long. In fact, you can argue that she probably knows you more than you know her.

From the very beginning, you made an effort to show her all of your faults. She ultimately gets on your nerves at times, the Monica situation excluded, with her being bossy and too clean and too nit picky. In the past, she’s voiced her opinion of you being slightly loud, and easily bothered, and easily distracted. There’s fundamental differences between the two of you—differences that you picked up on within the first week of living together. Differences that should make you want to chew each other’s heads off.

Yet she still wakes up every morning and eats breakfast with you.

She still listens to your endless rants about your workplace drama. 

She still shows you grace when you forget to unload the dishwasher, during the times you accidentally play your music a bit too loud, and during the moments you disrupt her sleep for an ice cream run. 

Apologizing is hard for you, but when it comes to Sevika, it's easy.

She makes a lot of things easy for you, even when you don't want to admit it.

Even when you know that you make everything so much harder for her.

That's why you're overcome with guilt for the rest of that night. 

Every atom in your body screams for you to march across your flat and make things right. After all, you've had many disagreements with Sevika but never this. Never something so hurtful.

So that's what you do. 45 minutes have passed since you’ve stormed into your room, and 45 minutes is how long it takes for you to wipe your tears and open your bedroom door. You're trying to calm your breathing and unblur your vision when you stumble through the pitch black apartment.

You stub your toe on a piece of furniture, which causes you to curse and halt your steps before you force yourself to limp the rest of the way.

It’s only when you reach Sevika’s bedroom that you realize her door is halfway shut, and her lights are off. Your knock is met with dragging silence. Then you knock again and there’s no reply.

Frowning, you crack open her door, “Sev?” Your voice echoes off of the walls. 

Switching on the lights, your heart plummets when you see that the room is empty. You check her bathroom—also empty—and her balcony with rising panic. But it's to no avail.

When did she leave?

You're usually able to hear the closing and opening of the apartment door from where your bedroom is located. You're certain that you would have heard her. There's never a time when you don't.

“Sev?” 

The answering silence makes your chest hollow.

And it's only when you're swallowed by soul-crushing despondency when you realize the true weight of tonight’s quarrel.

When you text Sevika, wondering about her whereabouts, she takes her time to reply. The message marks as read for 42 agonizing minutes before you receive a simple word:

Out.

Your stomach tugs and your heart drops, because you know that there’s not much else you can say before overstepping boundaries. 

Sevika is receptive to almost everything that you dish out, but you aren't quite sure she'd handle clingy as well as she does your other traits.

It’s barely been two months.

You don't want to suffocate her.

Similarly, sending an apology text seems low. Disingenuous. 

Not only is that cheap but it’s the last thing she deserves. You’ll apologize in person, when she’s home and (hopefully) in better spirits. You’ll make a whole ordeal out of it: order her favorite pizza, some beer and butter her up with nauseating kindness.

Yes—that’s it.

That’ll do the trick.

For now, you’ll allow her to cool off. You’ll give her the night. You’ll give her space.

And when dawn strikes, you’ll push away your pride and make it your mission to win back her good graces.

But the issue is that Sevika never returns.

When you wake in the morning, you're greeted with the chirping of birds by your window. Your bedside clock reads 9:16 AM; an hour that Sevika is usually awake for. 

After washing your face and teeth, you expect to see her hovering over the toaster while the kitchen television streams the morning news. You've grown accustomed to that kind of morning. During these past two months, you've caught yourself wondering how it's taken nearly two decades for you to find that kind of peace.

But today’s not that.

The toaster sits untouched and unplugged, kitchen lights off as well as the television, and apartment Sevika-less.

Your mouth twists as a low huff escapes you.

Okay. Maybe you were being unrealistic to think that she’d return first thing in the morning.

Lunch time is more practical.

Except noon rolls around and she’s still gone. You have to leave for work in a few hours, and you begin to feel uneasy by the shrinking window of Sevika’s arrival. You feel like you’re running out of time. You feel like you won’t be able to make things right if she doesn't return before you leave. 

You don't want to do this tomorrow.

You don't want to experience the agonizing misery of waiting for each hour of your shift to tick by tonight; wondering, hoping, that she’s already home.

And maybe that's a little selfish—because you shouldn't be apologizing for the sole reason of lessening your guilt. You should be apologizing because it’s the right thing to do. Because that is the least she deserves. 

So, you swallow your guilt and head towards your balcony. Maybe some fresh air will help clear your mind.

It’s 11:45 PM when you hear jostling from the entrance door.

You pause the movie on your laptop, craning your neck to get a better listen. 

That familiar click resonates through your room before you hear the creaking of the hinges. Your breath hitches, eyes widening and chills running along the hair of your spine. 

She’s home.

Suddenly, your pre-planned speech is thrown out the window. 

Your feet are taking you across the floorboards before you can fully register what is happening.  You think that you are about to throw up from the amount of anxiety currently flowing through you right now. You don’t believe you’ve been this worried about someone’s absence throughout your entire adult life.

“Sev?” You call.

There’s shuffling in the hallway, which spikes your heart to an unprecedented rate. 

There she stands, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and beanie on her head. She's toeing out of her boots, breathing slightly labored and hallway filled with her cologne. There’s a chilling presence about her, probably from the cold temperatures from outside, but it makes you freeze nonetheless.

The only indication that she’s heard you is when her movements slow upon your approach. But she doesn’t look up.

“Sev?” You call again, this time quieter. 

Where’s that impish smile that makes you want to roll your eyes and hug her breathless at the same time? 

She begins to shrug off her coat.

“I was worried.” You add. Tentative. Scared.

You watch apprehensively as she hangs her coat on the garment rack. Her back is facing you. It stretches upon movement; broadening and flexing through the material of her peach button up. 

You didn’t know that she had packed a bag. 

The thought creates layers of unsettling emotions.

“....Nothing to be worried about.” Sevika replies. But despite her reassurance, her tone remains unwelcoming. Your eyes fall shut momentarily as you fight off a wave of remorse. There’s the slightest bit of warmth that spreads across your shoulder. When you open your eyes, you realize that she’s brushed past you. 

Her footsteps travel towards the other end of the apartment, where the kitchen resides. 

You follow after her, desperate to say anything–to do anything that will relieve this tension.

“I’m sorry.”   

Your apology wavers; the crack of an iceberg. 

“I really am,” You continue, rounding the corner of the kitchen. Her arms are folded as she leans her weight against the counter. “...I was being so ridiculous. I mean truly, Sev. I don’t want…” You’re shaking your head. “I don’t want something like this to come between us.”

Her gaze remains planted on the floor. She purses her lips, expression purely contemplative. Then, “Why don’t you like her?”

“I never said I don’t…like her.”

That’s when she peers up at you, lips twisting into a scowl and eyebrows furrowing. 

Your hands raise defensively and you sigh. “Okay, okay.” You shift your weight, struggling to recover from the ice in her stare. “Sev, I’m sorry for how I acted. Truly. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t bring her around. I want you to feel comfortable. This is home. Your home.”

Her glare warms by a small degree. But she doesn’t relent. “Why don’t you like her?”

Your lips part. You’ve been backed into a corner.

You have to answer. “I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know,” She parrots, voice low and disbelieving. Accusatory. Her head tilts, grey irises inspecting every inch of your face. “I don’t believe you.” She shakes her head. “Try again.”

“I don’t know if I can tell you.” You rephrase. “If I should tell you.”

Immediately, she pushes off the counter and grows closer. Her hands fall into the front pockets of her jeans, neck hanging to look down at you. Your jaw locks shut, keeping you from speaking and saying anything more. Sevika stays that way for a long time, never really moving any closer but also never pulling away.

When you break your gaze, you notice that her hands are working their way in and out of fists. 

“Will you let me apologize to you first?” You ignore the bobbing of your achy throat and the burning of your eyes. You can't cry. That won't solve anything.

“You already did.”

“Well, I truly am sorry.”

“I heard.”

“And I’ve missed you.”

The corner of her lip twitches. “It’s barely been 24 hours.”

“Still missed you.”

She hums. Acknowledgement. That’s a good sign. 

“I have a tendency to, uh, overreact sometimes.” You clear your throat. “I was being really fucking ridiculous. An idiot. I mean, really, I realize how unnecessary this all was and that we’re too old for this.”

Another moment of hesitation lapses into the conversation. It’s not as heavy as before, but still intensifies the standstill that you two have reached. 

“I’m sorry.” You add. 

Those words, a cry in your throat, have been haunting you all day.

You’ve never been the sort of individual to apologize easily.

But right now, as you stand in front of Sevika, you realize that it’s as effortless as blinking. 

You’ll apologize for the rest of the night if she asks you to.

“You’re an idiot. You know that right?” There’s a smile playing at Sevika’s lips. She reaches forward and pinches your nose; something that she likes to do to annoy you. You groan as you try to breathe through your mouth. 

“I’m the worst idiot ever,” The tone of your voice is now disgustingly nasally. “Who's incredibly sorry and will do anything to ma-”

“If you keep apologizing, I’ll burn your toast tomorrow morning.”

“Oh no. Burnt toast. How frightening.”

In the morning, your toast is warm and spread with butter. Your tea is sweeter than usual too. 

The 9 o’clock news plays on the kitchen television.

You hold onto your mug tightly. Sevika is beside you, the sound of her even breaths reminding you of the beauty in sweet, suspenseless mornings. 

You blink through heavy eyelids, muscles still fatigued when she turns to you and says, “Will you apologize to Monica too?”

And you’re slightly gutted by that. 

It’s a question that you knew she’d ask. 

It’s a reasonable thing to want.

But still…

You’d be lying if you said that this entire predicament didn’t make you feel sick.

But you have no one to blame other than yourself. 

This is the sensible solution.

“Yes,” You respond, giving her one short nod. “I’ll apologize to her.”

And you do.

The first half of the apology begins with a terrible pot of Chili that you try to make as a peace offering. You manage to botch it half way through. 

Sevika ends up helping. Everytime she peers at your face, she snickers. At one point, you catch her muttering that she, “Doesn’t know what to do with you.”

When Monica arrives, it’s awkward. You stand off to the side as Sevika hugs and kisses her. Then, when Monica turns to you, you give her a small smile and wave. Her greeting isn’t nearly as cordial, which says a lot. But you figure that you deserve it. After all, you haven't been very welcoming to her.

When Sevika leaves momentarily—to buy some beer from the store—you take that as an opportunity to apologize. Monica is scrolling on her phone silently, sitting in one of the dining room chairs.

She peers up at you with large eyes when you approach her. “I feel like we got off on the wrong foot, which is mostly my fault. And I’m really sorry for that. Do you think, maybe, we can start over?”

She regards you for a few moments, jaw clenching and unclenching before she says, “I accept your apology.”

Your smaller smile stretches into a bigger one. 

“But,” She adds. “I think that it was truly unfair that you didn't give me a proper chance to know you. At first, I thought it was me. I realize now that it has everything to do with Vika, and I think that's sad. I think that she probably shouldn't be staying with someone who is willing to impede on her happiness so much. But I also think,” Her lips tug into the ghost of a smirk. “That if I was in love with my roommate and had to watch her find happiness with another woman, that I too would become bitter.

“So, yes, I accept your apology.” Monica continues. “But I hope you can understand that I have no desire to be friends with you. We can be cordial on Vika’s behalf. But only that.”

Your thumb absentmindedly fiddles with the plate of your belt. You wonder, for the umpteenth time, how you've gotten yourself into such a predicament. And it almost feels like a flock of self-wallowing birds are surrounding you at that moment. You bear through the pitiful feeling nonetheless and give her a curt nod.

“Okay,” You respond. “Cordial is fine with me.”

Later in the night, when Mel has left and Sevika bolts the door shut, she asks, “How did the apology go?”

You hesitate for a moment, brain replaying all of the words that Monica spewed. You feel a familiar weight press into the center of your chest, and your skin prickles as realization dawns on you. 

But you can't allow Sevika to pick up on it. You can allow her to see you like this. So you clear your throat and blink through blurry vision.

“It went well.” You pull your blanket up to your chin, stretching your legs out on the living room recliner. “She accepted it.”

The fridge opens. You hear shuffling.

“That's great!”

Yeah.

Great.

“You know I love you,” Mel begins. “But what the fuck.”

You wince, bracing yourself for the reprimanding that is sure to come. This is the very reason why you’ve been avoiding telling Mel everything that has happened. Usually you are able to talk to her about dilemmas that you’ve put yourself in. But something about this feels different. Besides the fact that you almost royally fucked up your friendship with Sevika, there’s another emotion lingering within you–something heavier–that’s been making you want to avoid the topic altogether.

You take another bite into your pizza, allowing your silence to be an answer within itself.

“I think we need to address the elephant in the room,” Mel says. 

You're shaking your head before she can even finish her sentence. You already know where this is going. 

“There’s nothing to address.”

“From the first night I introduced you to Sev, when you were giggling with her on the couch like a schoolgirl—”

“Oh my god.”

“I spotted it from day 1, that you two being roommates would either end really great or…really badly.”

“Mel,” Your eyes squint shut once more as you grimace. “No. It’s not like that.”

“How else could it be? You put two lesbians that want to fuck each other in the same apartment and all hell breaks loose.”

“She has a girlfriend.”

“Which just makes it worse!” An incredulous chuckle leaves her as she begins to rub her temples. She’s sitting in the recliner chair in the corner of the living room while you’re sprawled out on the loveseat.

Sevika is at work, which has given you the perfect opportunity to catch up with Mel. And despite the fact that you hate how candid Mel’s being, you know that you need to hear it.

She’s always been your voice of reason.

“Are you going to say something to her?” You mumble, gazing up at the ceiling.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see her shift in the chair. She hugs her knees to her chest. 

“Of course not. You need to figure out whatever the hell this is without any meddlers.”

You shrug. “I wouldn't mind a little bit of meddling.”

“You're doing that thing where you ignore your emotions until you absolutely can't anymore.” Mel sighs. “Unless you want shit to blow up in your face for real, I suggest you come to terms with your feelings towards Sevika and find a way to deal with them. Healthily.”

She’s right.

A huff leaves you. “I prefer my way, you know…”

She snorts. “Your way will have you roommate-less and heartbroken.”

“...You really think Sev would leave? Permanently?”

“Well, I don't know.” She feigns shock, palm sprawling across her chest. “It's not like I haven't known Sevika through the in’s and outs of her parents death and real estate issues, and divorce. No—I totally have no idea that she’s been through enough—”

Your body shoots up. “Wait.”

“...You're right. You should asolutely continue to terrorize her girlfriend and be, quite possibly, the worst roommate that could ever happen to her. For fucks sake babe. Wake up! I mean, truly, after everything she’s been through, don’t you think she deserves—”

“Mel.” 

“...If I was her, I would have packed my bags too. I love you. But do you realize how infuriating you can be? I thought I psychoanalyzed you enough in our friendship but clearly it hasn't been very eff—”

“Mel!” Your voice cracks, embarrassingly so, which causes you to clear your throat. 

Your brain begins to short circuit as you try to hold onto the remnants of all the information she's just fed you. It processes and processes, and your world spins around you. You feel like you’ve just found the last wedge of a 500 piece puzzle; the full picture is finally complete.

“Sevika’s divorced?”

You never would have thought that Sevika was a romantic. Not romantic enough to be married, at least. And surely, not a divorcee. She’s tight lipped about a few things, her past relationships being one of them, but you always chalked it up to the possibility of her being reserved. 

It's a weird feeling to be shocked by such a revelation. It's merely a divorce. 

But you feel like that piece of information holds weight. 

Because Sevika has told you a lot of things, including the intricate details of her parents death, yet has seemed to leave out the entire fact that she’s been married.

For some reason, she hasn't wanted you to discover that part of herself.

That's all the more reason why you feel guilty. Because, not only have you found it out, but Mel is the one to have told you. Surely, that wouldn't make Sevika feel the best.

“You didn't know that?” Mel looked at you with an odd expression.

“No,” You were feeling self-conscious under her scrutiny. 

Mel’s response was delayed. She gazed at you further, eyebrows furrowing and lips frowning, before she muttered, “Oh.”

Then she dropped the subject, probably because she didn't want to accidentally spill any more of Sevika’s secrets to you.

Later that night, Alicia is invited over for dinner. She walks in with two bottles of wine and a cheeky grin. She hugs you obnoxiously tight.

“I see that you and Sev finally made up!” She exclaims. This calls for a celebration! Hip! Hip-”

“Ugh,” You groan. “Really, A?”

“Yeah, seriously, hun.” Mel interrupts. “The energy’s a bit too much. Can you lower it a few notches?”

Something bad must have happened.

There’s that feeling in the pit of your stomach materializing again; a horrible mixture of panic and existential dread.

And that feeling spikes when a loud horn sounds. It's painfully close; close enough to split your eardrums in half.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Hello? Oh my god. Are you okay?”

For some reason, that question isn't enough to alert you. You're too focused on the blur of colors you're seeing. 

“Hello?”

You lean back against your seat and the blaring horn comes to a halt. You had been laying on your steering wheel.

Then you remember it all at that moment.

You were supposed to be going to the store. You had convinced Sevika to stay home because she had been doing the bulk of the chores lately and that was making you feel guilty. It had only been three weeks since the two of you made up, but you found yourself still wanting to apologize to her in the smallest ways.

You were driving with your window down and had come to a four-way stop. A butterfly fluttered towards you and perched itself on your nose.

It was a vibrant orange butterfly, with bold black stripes and white dots. After that, everything began to grow fuzzy. Were you supposed to be moving? Your foot was on the gas but you hadn't remembered moving it there. You must have been moving. You weren’t paying attention. You should have been, but you weren’t. The butterfly had distracted you.

Pretty soon, a car was hurtling towards you on your right, too fast to be able to slow down. The both of you crashed.

Now, the driver is standing right outside your vehicle, trying to gain your attention.

“Are you okay?” They call again.

You blink once more. Subconsciously, you try to bring your right arm up to your face. Nothing happens.

You lift your left hand to your face, sighing in relief when a pair of callused fingers fall directly onto your eyes. You’re still alive.

“Are you alright? Please answer me.”

Another knock.

“I’m calling 911.”

You don’t like hospitals.

One time, your mom had taken you to the ER due to severe stomach pains. You were 12 years old. It felt like someone was trying to slice your belly open with a machete. You spent hours in the waiting room doubling over and clutching your stomach. Your mom sat beside you, lips permanently pulled into a thin line. She went on about how much of an inconvenience this night had been; that she was tired from working a 12 hour shift and was hungry. She also threw in a comment about how much this ER appointment would financially cost.

The longer you both sat in the waiting room, the more agitated she became.

“I can't catch a break.” She had muttered. You struggled to understand if she was angry at you or anxious for you. Or maybe she was projecting due to the long day she had at work. You didn't fully know. All you could recognize was that she was in some kind of distress. “I just hope nothing serious is going on.” Then her hand fell to your back, lightly rubbing circles into it.

Your eyes prickled with tears during that moment. But you didn't know if it was due to the pain or the immense guilt you felt for incurring a hospital bill.

The stomach pains eventually began to subside after that. Once a health professional was ready to see you, the pain was quite tolerable. You even struggled to push away the fit of giggles you felt every time the doctor skimmed her fingers across your tummy; feeling for “tenderness.”

After being questioned by her, she told your mom you had trapped gas and dismissed you.

Your mom had been angry. It took a few weeks before she stopped berating you about the amount of money her and dad would have to pay the hospital for “something as simple as trapped gas.”

You weren't sure if she was mad at you or the hospital. Your mom often grew upset like that but you could never quite understand who she meant to direct her feelings to. After those weeks passed, you began to assume yourself as the fault for most of her moods.

The following month, you dealt with really bad stabs of pain in your legs. Everytime you wanted to open your mouth to tell your mom, you were instead flooded with memories from the night you had trapped gas. Then you would close your mouth and count to 50 to try and block out the pain. 

Any health concern after that was something that you tried to ignore. Whether it was illnesses or crying spells, you often hid in your room until you could collect yourself. Then you would re-emerge in the living room where Mom and Dad often were.

By the age of 14, it took you a while to notice your body cues. It was sophomore year of highschool when Tasha Koshman, one of your classmates, accidentally broke your left ankle during the soccer unit of P.E. She was 6 foot and 2 inches.  Tasha had one of the strongest bodies you had ever seen—pure muscle—and was one of the star players on the varsity football team. During the soccer game, she tried to kick the ball into the goal. But instead, she missed and her foot slammed right into your ankle. You heard a snap. There was a sharp pain—and then nothing at all. You fell to the ground.

Tasha carried you–bridal style–to the nurse’s office. She wouldn't shut up the entire time. Her eyes swimmed with worry, and a combination of sweat and tears dripped from her chin and onto your shirt. 

You supposed it was a bit freaky for her to know that she could do such a thing to another human without even trying. She apologized profusely during that 8 minute walk across campus.

“There, there.” You mumbled. You used your left hand to pat her shoulder reassuringly. This was how you often saw TV characters consoling one another on shows. “Don’t worry. The bone will heal back together eventually.”

The creases in her forehead deepened.

Tasha cried harder.

You knew it was bad that you didn't feel much of the pain. But finding out the reason for that meant another healthcare visit and therefore another bill. 

Your parents definitely wouldn't appreciate that.

You were 22 when you met Mel. She worked at the same elementary school that you were volunteering at. She was one of the administrators in the front office.

The work relationship between you two developed into a budding friendship, and then a perfect roommate dynamic.

Throughout the ten years of Mel being your roommate, she never made fun of you for crying. In fact, you have her to thank for identifying your emotional constipation.

Mel also was the one who’d take you to the doctor whenever you’d fall ill. She was annoyingly maternal the entire time and probably lectured you a bit too much. It was something you were skeptical of at first. But you soon grew to be fond of it because you knew that it came from a place of love.

She'd usually never leave your side until you felt better.

You never told her, but gestures like that meant the world to you. 

"Does this hurt you at all?" The doctor asks you. She's staring at you with big and round brown eyes. Her eyelashes are coated with electric blue mascara. Pretty.

Outside the room, there’s a rush of loud screaming sounds. The word intubate gets passed around by a pair of voices. The interruption fades just as quickly as it comes.

You hum unintelligibly. Your blinks are slow as your gaze drags down to the way her pudgy fingers delicately feel for injuries.

"Hm." You pause, thoroughly thinking through her question. Are you hurting? "I'm not sure."

There’s a couple of cheesy posters on the walls about the importance of mental health. A bottle of soda sits on a countertop beside the sink. 

"Okay." The doctor stares at you for a few more seconds. “Well nothing is broken. All of our scans have come back with no results of serious trauma. Your body is in shock right now. Sometimes I have patients that feel absolutely nothing during a crisis. The brain is able to block out the signals that the body sends during those moments. Isn't that remarkable? Anyways, the adrenaline will probably wear off soon. Victims of car accidents usually encounter some fatigue and muscle aches for a while afterwards. You'll need to have pain medication for then."

When Mel comes flying through the door, she’s sporadic, seemingly out of breath and frazzled. 

Tears stream down her cheeks as she rushes towards you. "Oh my god!" 

“I’m okay.”

Despite your reassurance, she wraps her arms around you and pulls you into a bone crushing hug. “I was so worried.”

“I’m okay,” You parrot, this time gentler. You can’t blame her. 

You had called her on the way to the ER and briefly told her what happened. You couldn’t say much because you were still so shaken up, so she was only able to understand a generalization of the car accident. If the roles were reversed, you’d be just as frantic.

“Nothing’s broken,” You continue. Your voice wavers but you figure that’s a normal reaction in a situation like this. “I’m waiting for the doctor to come back. She had to get something… I can’t remember. It was so much information.”

Mel pulls away, cradling your cheeks with the palms of her hands. Her eyes are bloodshot and her bottom lip is split from being chapped. “You scared us so badly. Do you have any idea what Sevika is putting herself through right now?” Then she grimaces and stops herself, gaze unfocusing from you.

Your breathing falters. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…’ You struggle to blink away the tears. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone. I wasn’t in the right state of mind when I had called you. I just knew that I needed to reach out to someone in case it was serious, I didn-”

“I know, I know.” She pulls you in for another hug. “I didn’t mean to yell. I’m sorry. You just,” Her voice grows thin and she tightens her grip around you. The squeeze almost knocks you breathless but you don’t have the heart to say anything. “I was scared.”

“I get it.” You swallow thickly, hoping that it’ll help to dissolve the lump at the back of your throat. 

The door opens and an ivory-white lab coat comes back into view. The doctor smiles at the pair of you, greeting you by your full name once more. She’s carrying a clipboard in one hand and a ballpoint pen in the other. She mutters a small hi to Mel when she reaches your bed, then she begins jotting something down on the clipboard. “I’m going to send your paperwork over to your GP so they can review everything. I want you to do a check up with him next week, just to make sure everything is okay.” Swiftly, she places the pen back into her coat pocket and sets the clipboard on the edge of the bed. “If you start to feel any excessive sleepiness, confusion or troubles with balance, please come back immediately.”  

When you’re released, Mel helps you walk back to the waiting room where Alicia and Sevika are apparently waiting. 

You’re grateful to have a friend like her by your side. You don’t quite know what you’d do without Mel; you don’t know how you would have gotten through life if you hadn’t met her at all. 

Her arm around you is firm as she guides you through the hospital traffic. Nurses are rushing back and forth between rooms. Curtains are being drawn unexpectedly and there’s even a distant screech from someone. The air reeks of bleach and despair. 

You want to get out of there as soon as possible.

“Just down this way.” Mel croaks. Her voice is hoarse from crying so hard. 

“Mel,” You begin. “I want to thank you.”

“Not here.”

“You know I don’t have anyone else. You’re my family. You know that, right?”

The door squeaks as she pushes it open. Her eyes are swimming again, gaze avoiding yours, and throat bobbing from swallowing thickly. “I know.” She squeezes you once more. “You’re mine too.”

You rest one of your hands over hers and return the gesture. 

The waiting room is filled with people who display similar variations of distress. Alicia is the first one that you recognize. She’s wearing one of her trademark flannels, leaning against the wall while staring up at the ceiling. Her foot is tapping exceptionally fast; hands balled into fists. That’s when you realize that this is the first time you’ve ever seen her look so…grave.

Sevika sits beside her in a chair. At least–the figure looks like Sevika. It’s hard for you to know for sure. The woman is hunched over, head in her hands, and body cloaked by a black trench coat. The coat is familiar. Her hands, which cling to the roots of her hair, are what stand out to you the most.

Alicia see’s you before Sevika, and pushes off the wall with a heavy exhale. “Thank God.”

Mel let’s go as the two of you draw closer to them. Sevika’s head shoots up upon your arrival, eyes locking with yours instantly.

They’re bloodshot red. 

Just that sight alone causes something to unwind within you. The knot between your shoulder blades loosen and that ache around your ribcage dissipates. That nagging feeling of danger withdraws and is replaced with unbearable tugging. 

Your eyes flood. 

Sevika reaches for you, as if she knows, as if she senses the tugging herself. “Fuck.” Her lips barely move, voice laced with sickening horror and relief. “You-” Her breathing stutters.

She stands to her feet, hands wrapping around both of your wrists and pulling you towards her. Your heart refuses to calm down. 

Her voice is so quiet that you barely notice it, “You’re here.” When she embraces you, your ear presses against her chest. She’s firm. All firmness.

“I’m here.” The burning in your eyes return and the tears threaten to spill over.

This time, you let them.

Chewing your tongue, you hold your breath and fiddle with the material of your comforter. 

You’re hanging on the edge of panic. The air around you feels too thin. 

Your forehead gathers with pools of sweat, as well as the back of your neck. And a shiver runs through you, despite feeling pure heat all throughout your veins.

“What the fuck, Vika!”

“It just…” Sevika mumbles. There’s a small lapse of silence. Then, “It’s just not working out.”

Your nerves are shot.

You want to bang your head against the wall. Not that it will help. But you want to do something–anything. This is not what you expected to hear when Sevika told you that Monica would be stopping by for a brief visit. She had slipped into your room to tell you, barely giving you a chance to respond and barely looking you in the eyes, before leaving and closing your bedroom door. 

It’s only been a day since the accident and you've never seen Sevika so frayed. She barely left your side last night. And when you finally went to sleep, you’d wake to the sound of her occasionally peeping into your room before she’d subsequently head back to her own.

Sevika is a pretty caring friend.

But she never hovers.

Well–not until now.

“What has changed?” You hear Monica ask. Her voice is muffled from the thickness of the walls. But you’re still able to pick up on how rigid it sounds. “Have I done something wrong? Is it because of what we talked about the other night? If so, I was just joking. Kids are only something I’d want if my part-”

“It’s…” Sevika’s voice is lower than Monica’s. Quieter. You try to crane your neck to hear better. “I would like to explain it all. There’s a few reasons why-”

“Is it because of her?”

Your blood runs backward at the accusation. 

Shuffling happens from the other room.

The sound of footsteps draw closer to your room.

“Don’t.” You hear Sevika say.

“Is she here?”

“Monica–”

“Don’t fucking bullshit me, Sevika! I can’t…I won’t do this with her here.”

More shuffling. 

The footsteps direct their pace away from your door. You hadn’t even realized that your muscles were tensing until they relax.

“This is unbelievable,” Monica adds. Her voice has raised several decibels, borderline yelling. “Are you fucking her?”

“I’m not–Jesus Christ. I’m not sleeping with her. Let’s talk and I’ll tell you all the reasons–”

“I’m not talking with her here.”

“Then let’s go somewhere else. I’ll drive?”

There’s no reply.

“I’ll explain it all, I swear.” Sevika continues. “I just…I need to be honest with you.”

Dust swirls the air around you as the sun shines through your window. It’s only 10 A.M. It’s only a Tuesday morning.

Two days into the week and so much has already happened.

You sigh, pulling your blanket over your shoulders some more, as you try to register everything that you’re hearing. Sevika wants to break up with Monica? So suddenly? 

You’d be lying if you said that you aren’t surprised. 

If you were Monica, you’d be gutted. 

You jump, completely startled, by your door barging open. Sevika stands in the doorway, dressed fully in her coat and boots. She’s clipping her carabiner to one of her belt loops, brows furrowed and eyes searching yours desperately. Words have run out.

She knows that you’ve heard it all.

“Sev,” It’s a broken mumble since you’re still groggy. 

She shakes her head. “I’ll explain when I come back.”

You watch her slip her phone into her back pocket. It makes no sense, the way that life has seemed to flip upside down for the both of you; the way that this past month consisted of more chaos than you’ve ever experienced before.

And yet that tugging from yesterday still remains. But this time, tenfold stronger. So strong that it’s a separate being within itself. Rather than a feeling, it’s become second nature. It takes every fiber in your being to ignore it.

“Why today?” You find yourself countering.

Her lips part, irises burning a silver-fire. The kind of silver that you’d bury yourself in forever if you could. 

“I’ll be back soon.” This response is all that she can give for now.

It’s the respectful thing to do.

Monica deserves to hear the answer first; she deserves to hear it without you there.

You understand. “Okay.” 

She hovers again. For a few more seconds. “Okay.” She echoes.

You can only stare when she leaves.

And when the apartment door slams shut, you're left to sit there and ponder over what the fuck has just happened.

[starstruckbyacomet]

A Feedback to ABC

🎄All I W❄️nt for Christm⭐️s Is L❤️U☃️

Below is a copy of my feedback to ABC. I wrote the feedback on a Microsoft Word document, because it was too long to be written on the description column of ABC's feedback page.

I'm not suggesting people to read the whole thing (it is a long-ass letter). However, there are some points in it which I think worthy to be mentioned, if anyone still want to write feedback to ABC:

1)) Criticism on the writing of Season 7 and Season 8. I made a list of '13 reasons why' 🙄 I thought the writing of Season 8 was crappy, and actually called it 'crappy' on my feedback. The list included everything which has bothered me, except 2 things: Ortiz and Eddie storylines. There is a possibility that Ortiz would come back as a stronger villain in the future, and Eddie's issue with Shannon might be resolved in Season 8B. Thus, I withheld my judgment. It's important to tell ABC how bad the writing was, because you wouldn't guess it from all the positive publications and adulation about the show out there. The higher ups on ABC might also not be aware about it.

2)) Mentioning that fans have noticed the three-baitings: the thrill-baiting, the Buddie-baiting, and the Tevan-baiting. Even if the show or ABC didn't mean to bait anyone (which honestly I doubt 🙄), at least ABC would be aware of the distrust and negative perceptions on the show, and hopefully would take actions to counter them.

3)) Reasons why we don't want to see Buck with any love interests other than Tommy.

4)) Suggestions of possible storylines for Tommy. Initially I was hesitant to write this part. I thought, these professional writers surely didn't need suggestions from someone like me. But then I remembered how they'd botched Season 8A (*shudder*), and I was afraid that they wouldn't bring Tommy back, because they didn't know what to do with him. So, fuck it! Someone, anyone, got to tell them. And if that someone had to be me, so be it.

5)) There was no mention of the online harrassment. In my criticism about Buddie-baiting, I called the Buddie fans "obsessed", instead of "toxic" or "hostile". I want my feedback to be read pass the social media team. Mentioning the online harrassment might make the social media team tossed my letter to the garbage bin, because they didn't want to be blamed on their passivity.

I'm sorry that I couldn't participate in financial donation this year. I've been out of job for quite a while, because I was bullied on my previous workplace. This is also the reason why I've been so adamant against online bullying. I hope however small what I do for this movement, it still helps somehow.

🎄..☃️..✨️..❄️..🎄..⛄️..✨️..❄️..🎄..☃️..✨️..❄️..🎄

Dear ABC,

I've been watching 9-1-1 show for years, and have been involved in its fandom for quite a while. There are growing concerns among the fandom about the show, which is the reason why I'm writing this letter:

A. THE WRITING

The writing of Season 7 was not good. Shannon's doppelganger storyline was hard to believe, and Amir storyline was rushed. Buck was the only character who got a decent story with his new relationship with Tommy. However, most of us were willing to look past those shortcomings because it was a shortened season, with only 10 episodes instead of the usual 18 episodes.

We'd expected Season 8 will be better, alas, it's been worse:

Gerard was retconned to be a bumbling old relic. It's hard to believe that he was the same menace who had ruled the 118 firehouse with iron fists in the Begins episodes of Season 2.

In episode 8x05 "Masks", Hen and Karen had a disagreement about Hen's working schedule. Why did this issue come up now, after their 7+ years of marriage? Hen never changed her job during their marriage. Karen has even been very supportive when Hen was enrolled in a medical school, while also working as a firefighter from Season 4 to Season 6. At that time, she was notably busier than she is in this season.

In episode 101 "Pilot" Abby mentioned that Tommy was her ex-boyfriend. Why did in episode 806 "Confessions" Tommy say he was Abby's ex-fiancé?

In episode 8x06 "Confessions" Maddie told Chimney, her husband, that she was pregnant. After her unexpected pregnancy back in Season 3, we expected the couple would be more careful with birth controls. Apparently they didn't. It is a running joke within fandom that birth controls don't exist in 9-1-1 universe. Also, why didn't Maddie have a discussion with her husband before she got pregnant? A pregnancy should be a couple's decision, not forced by half of the pair to the other half.

In episode 806 "Confessions", Tommy gave Buck two Lakers tickets as anniversary gift. It is implied that Tommy didn't know that Buck did not like basketball. We're not sure what the show wanted to tell with this scene. If it meant to imply that Tommy was not a good boyfriend because he didn't know that fact, it achieved the opposite effect. Buck was the one who had given the impression to Tommy that he liked basketball on episode 804 "Buck, Bothered, and Bewildered". Thus, if Tommy still didn't know that Buck disliked the sport after 6 months into their relationship, it was Buck's fault for not coming clean to Tommy.

Buck was flustered when talking with a woman on his anniversary date with Tommy in episode 806 "Confessions". Buck is 33 years old, not twelve. He's been dating a lot of people before. Buck should have known better than showing his attraction to other people while being on a date.

Still in episode 806 "Confessions", Buck asked whether Tommy was attracted to women. At the time, they've been dating for 6 months. Previously, in episode 705 "You Don't Know Me", Buck told Eddie that Tommy was gay. If Buck had known that his boyfriend was gay, why did he ask Tommy whether Tommy was attracted to women? Buck might be not the brightest bulb in the box, but we didn't think he was so stupid or ignorant that he couldn't differentiate between being gay and being bisexual.

Again, in episode 806 "Confessions" Tommy broke up with Buck because he was afraid to go further in their relationship. Tommy that we knew was mindful to other people's feelings. In episode 704 "Buck, Bothered, and Bewildered" Tommy visited Buck to clear the air after he'd sensed that he might have inadvertently created a wedge between Buck and Eddie. This mindful Tommy wouldn't date Buck in the first place, if he knew that he couldn't go to the next phase.

After Tommy broke up with Buck, Buck didn't seem to fight for their relationship. In episode 405 "Buck Begins" Athena said that being Buck meant never give up. In the past, we have seen Buck fought for things which mattered to him. He sued LAFD to get his job back. He broke the law to save Maddie when she was in danger. However, after Tommy broke up with him, Buck didn't even try to communicate with Tommy like an adult. Instead, he was... baking? This is not the Buck we have known.

In episode 807 "Hotshots" and episode 808 "Wannabes" Buck didn't even look sad when he was not baking. He did look anxious when Tommy was mentioned, but other than that, he acted normal. Tim Minear mentioned in interviews that Tommy was important for Buck, but we didn't see it on screen. Fans have been mourning the relationship harder than on-screen Buck.

After the break up, why didn't any of Buck's closest people encourage him to clear things up with Tommy? In episode 709 "Ashes, Ashes" Bobby told Buck that Tommy was good for him, and Chimney has asked Tommy to fly into a hurricane, practically made Tommy risked his own life for the 118 team. However, after Tommy broke up with Buck, none of them told either Buck or Tommy to talk with each other and clear things up.

In episode 807 "Hotshots", Chimney encouraged Buck to "jump back in the pond", and Buck answered with "I don't know which pond to jump back into." The conversation seemed like a subtext that bisexual Buck now could sleep with both men and women. As a bisexual person, I am very offended by this scene. Like other people, bisexual people cannot control to whom we fall in love to, regardless of the gender. The implication of the scene is that bi people are 'easy' or 'loose' and used to pick partners to sleep without giving much thoughts on it. It is a common prejudice which we've been fighting against for a very long time. Watching it implied on the scene is insulting, to say the least.

The prolonged screen time of Brad Torrence. Initially fans didn't hate Brad. However, we couldn't help but notice that a big portion of Season 8A was spent on Brad, while other main characters we actually cared about were put aside. Now, Brad Torrence becomes a bitter joke among fans. Most of us couldn't stand him any longer. On top of that, the scene of Brad saved a suicidal Hotshots fan in episode 806 "Wannabes" felt like an undeserved pat-on-the-back to the show, considering the crappy stories the show has been giving us since Season 7.

B. THE BAITING

B.1. THE THRILL-BAITING

Fans have noticed that 9-1-1 has been seemingly baiting new viewers to watch the show, but didn't give them what they were looking for. One example is the big disaster emergency stories at the beginnings of Season 6 and Season 7. There was no other big emergencies during the rest of the seasons and audience knew that. Long term fans like me were delighted by those stories, and ratings indicated that the big emergencies have attracted additional viewers. However, surely you've noticed that ratings were back to normal right after the big emergency stories had ended. The drops were not even gradual. It's because new viewers knew that the thrill ended after the 3rd episode of the season. And with such crappy storylines which I have explained in Part A, new viewers hardly wanted to stay.

B.2. THE BUDDIE-BAITING

Another baiting that we've noticed is the Buddie-baiting. There are fans who want to see Buck and Eddie (a.k.a. "Buddie") in a romantic relationship on screen. These fans are not subtle about what they want. Tim Minear, Kristen Reidel, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Oliver Stark, and Ryan Guzman have acknowledged the existence of the fans in various occasions. The Buddie fans have been voicing their demand since Season 2. Unlike normal fans they are very obsessed about the pairing they root for. Other 9-1-1 fans like me, who don't root for Buddie, have concerns regarding how the show has been portraying Buck and Eddie's interactions on screen. In our opinion, if the show didn't want to pair Buck with Eddie romantically, then it should stop giving nods or hints about them as if they were a couple or a couple to-be. Those nods or hints only give false expectations to the Buddie fans. For examples:

1)) In episode 7x06 "There Goes the Groom", there was a Buck & Eddie drunk karaoke scene. The scene should include Henren and Ravi, or at least Ravi in the scene, to avoid misinterpretation by Buddie fans.

2)) In episode 8x06 "Confessions", Eddie talked about beards, right after he mentioned that he was straight. Buddie fans has interpreted this scene as a clue that Eddie was hiding his sexuality. Here's the actual conversation on screen:

Father Brian: "And you, you have that... very handsome mustache." Eddie (chuckling): "Do you wanna know why I grew this?" Father Brian: "Tell me." Eddie: "Because the LAFD doesn't allow beards. Too flammable. Otherwise, I'd have gone full mountain man." Father Brian: "So, it's a disguise?" Eddie (averting his gaze): "Something like that." Father Brian: "What're you afraid of seeing when you're looking in the mirror?"

The conversation could be done without mentioning beards at all. For example:

Father Brian: "And you, you have that... very handsome mustache." Eddie (chuckling): "I'm glad someone likes it." Father Brian: "Nobody else likes it?" Eddie: "Well, sometimes my friends tease me about it. But I think they're just not used to see me with a mustache." Father Brian: "So, it's new? Is it a trend that I didn't know about?" Eddie (chuckling): "No, not a trend. I just want to see something different when I look in the mirror." Father Brian: "So, it's a disguise?" Eddie (averting his gaze): "Something like that." Father Brian: "What're you afraid of seeing when you're looking in the mirror?"

If a non-writer like me could come up with an alternative conversation with the same ending without talking about beards, so could the writers. Even if the conversation became longer, the show could cut some time off of Eddie's dancing scene at the end of the episode. Inserting beards in the conversation feels like baiting Buddie fans without actually giving them what they want.

3)) In episode 8x06 "Confessions", a pantless Eddie opened his door to Buck after Buck was dumped by Tommy, and proceeded to let Buck sat next to him. Eddie was pantless because he had been doing the Risky Business Dance. There are other iconic dances which Eddie could do without losing his pants, like Michael Jackson's Moonwalk, the Footloose Dance, John Travolta's Staying Alive Dance, etc. This sexual innuendo only gives a false message to Buddie fans.

There is a growing concern that the show has been baiting Buddie fans to keep watching without actually making Buck and Eddie a couple. This feels deceitful, exploitative, and manipulative. Fans don't need 'nods' or 'hints' or 'subtexts'. A few decades ago, when homosexuality was a taboo, giving nods and subtexts about the subject on TV shows seemed brave. It doesn't work that way in this modern era, when marriage equality has been a law for quite a while. On the contrary, it feels deceitful and cowardly. As if the show was afraid to upset its queer-averse audience, but also wanted its queer-leaning audience to keep watching.

B.3. THE TEVAN-BAITING

After 9-1-1 re-introduced Tommy back in Season 7, a lot of fans were captivated by this character and his love story with Buck. We dubbed the couple as 'Bucktommy' or 'Tevan'. In the fandom, a lot people have shared how they could relate to Tommy. I'm one of them. Like Tommy, I came out later in life, although only to selected people in my life. Like Tommy, I also have done less than honorable things to cover my sexuality, which I still regret even now. A lot of fans, including me, also relate to Tommy's longing for a family who could fully accept him. That's why we were rooting for his relationship with Buck.

We were shocked and heartbroken when the couple broke up in episode 806 "Confessions". To add salt in our wound, everyone involved acted out-of-characters like I mentioned in Part A. It makes the break up felt like a rushed afterthought, instead of a well-prepared storyline. It's very contrast with how the story of Brad Torrence and Hotshots were told. Furthermore, Tommy had been portrayed as a loving boyfriend to Buck in the previous episode (ep. 805 "Masks"). We felt that the show has played with our feelings, and for what? To make us cried our hearts out on the internet and gave the show hypes and online engagements for free? Once again, it feels like the show has deceitfully baited us. Looking back at how it has seemingly baited thrill-seekers viewers with emergency scenes only at the season openings, and how it gave 'nods' to Buddie pairing without ever make it happened, the thought doesn't seem outside the realm of possibility.

A lot of fans have noticed a trend of ship-baiting in TV shows. Unlike queer-baiting, these TV shows have included openly queer characters from the start, so people don't accuse them of queer-baiting. However, there's usually only one queer couple who has a long-term relationship which lasts until the end of the show. Other queer characters either end up single or appear single (e.g. Guilermo de la Cruz of What We Do in the Shadows), have elusive romantic partners who appear very rarely on screen (e.g. Paul Strickland of 9-1-1: Lone Star), or have a string of failed romantic relationships until the shows ended (e.g. Travis Montgomery of Station 19). The story of Travis Montgomery of Station 19 is very telling. He was the only main character who didn't get a 'soulmate' at the end of the show. He was dragged from one failed relationship to another during the whole 7 seasons. This was a notably different treatment compared to other main characters in the show. It has made fans wondered whether the fact that Travis was gay had something to do with it. There had been one queer couple, Maya Bishop & Carina DeLuca (a.k.a. "Marina") who was prominently on display and got a happy ending in Station 19. Why didn't Travis get a lasting relationship like other main characters, instead of being paired with a brand new partner in the end? As if there was a diversity quota, where only one queer couple per TV show was allowed to be prominently on display and got a happy ending.

C. WHAT NEXT FOR BUCK

Reflecting from what happened with Travis Montgomery of Station 19, some fans have predicted that 9-1-1 planned to drag Buck to a string of failed relationships before pairing him with a woman at the end of the show. There's also a speculation that Buck would be paired with Tommy or even Eddie right before the show ended, because by then the show would not have to portray his queer relationship on screen further. Until then, the audience might have to watch Buck jumps from relationship to relationship again.

There are several issues with this scenario:

1)) Buck has gone through FIVE failed relationships since the beginning of the show (with Abby, Ali, Taylor, Natalia, and Tommy). It would be NINE if we include hook-ups and kisses (the unnamed firetruck hookup, the snake-keeping lady, his ex-therapist, and Lucy Donato). Giving Buck another failed relationship is beyond repetitive. It screams "we run out of ideas what to do with this character." A lot of us simply don't want to watch that repetition.

2)) It would be hard for any other partners to measure up to Tommy. Tommy shared a unique connection with Buck: Buck was Tommy's replacement in 118 firehouse and they shared a same ex, Abby. Tommy also had a good relationship with Bobby, Chimney, Hen, and Eddie, and has been portrayed as a good boyfriend for Buck. If an ideal partner like Tommy was thrown out of the window, why should we care about Buck's next love interest(s)?

3)) Tommy's unique connection with Buck and how Tommy has been portrayed on the show have given a lot of potential stories for Buck and Tommy together. For examples:

Tommy has done terrible things in the past, probably while he was in the military. This would give Buck a dilemma: would he leave Tommy, or would he love and trust someone with a checkered past although that person has repented.

Tommy could have a trauma or PTSD from his time in the military, probably related to DADT. This would give Buck a new role as a caregiver to who tried to help his partner struggles with a serious issue. It would be more serious than accompanying Taylor Kelly to meet her estranged father.

Tommy might apologize to Abby. Not only Buck and Abby deserve a closure, Tommy and Abby do too. Buck might even facilitate this.

Those examples have never been shown before. Any of them would feel fresh and better than having Buck goes through several romantic relationships again.

4)) As I mentioned before, a lot of us feel that the show has been baiting us, the queer-leaning viewers, to watch the show without giving us the queer relationship that we want. Our experiences with TV shows like Supernatural, Station 19, and the latest one, What We Do in the Shadows, have taught us to recognize the baiting signs. A lot of us refuse to be exploited again. Several fans have quit watching the show after episode 806 "Confessions", others were waiting until the half season hiatus to see whether Tommy was coming back or not, before quit watching it for good. We plan to watch the show again only if Tommy and Buck get back together.

This is not the first time I was disappointed by a TV show. Several years ago, I quit watching Grey's Anatomy because it messed up Jackson and April (a.k.a. "Japril")'s relationship with a love triangle story for too long. Although disappointed, at the time I didn't care enough to express my concern to ABC. I simply quit watching the show, because it didn't give me joy anymore. However, I care more about Tommy and his relationship with Buck, hence this letter. I hope the show will bring Tommy back and restore his relationship with Buck once more in Season 8B. I know a lot of fans have a similar hope.

#All I Want for Christmas Is Lou

Best regards,

[My name]

[spiceflow]

how to solve disagreements in the workplace

[loki-zen]

I don't know if this is a real change or a change in who/what situations I'm encountering, but it seems more and more that people have this pathological inability to accept the existence of disagreement.

I'm thinking of a few different kindsa thing here. like on the one hand, people inventing authority they don't/shouldn't have to police other people's behaviour -

E.g. you have discord servers for a hobby you're in, and you can't have a mild disagreement with someone else over whether a particular image of a giant anime basketball titties chick feels right as a culture's depiction of its god without the guy that runs the event you're both planning to attend wading in and trying to stop you like you're two guys outside a pub about to whip yourselves up into a concussion and a GBH conviction.

(and this never used to be the way in the old email groups for RP groups, which got super contentious sometimes!)

And on the other hand you have people who seem emotionally incapable of wielding the authority that they have - for example when the tutors at my university had decided they weren't going to accommodate my disability, they kept dragging me into meeting after meeting about it anyway and it took me a while to figure it out, but basically what I believe was going on was that they simply couldn't let this be a situation in which I maintained my belief that they ought to accommodate me, and they decided not to. They wouldn't be satisfied until I said that the way they were behaving was okay, which was never going to happen no matter how much they explained their reasoning over and over!

And I see a lot of similar stuff in the workplace, where people demand fake consensus or in fact make decisions by vote or committee when that's a bad idea, wastes time, is clearly stressing them out, and they possess the authority to simply say "we are doing it this way".