#<- is not legally obligated but did commit herself to a bit

[fredbsmith]

Discovering My Father

A Memoir

My childhood memories contain no trace of my father.

He was present in my childhood only in the very earliest years, infancy years, before memories can form and stay with you.  He was away, in the Navy serving as a ship’s doctor in the Pacific during World War II while I was still in diapers.  He was never to return to us.  My mother learned of incidents of infidelity during his travels and banished him from the household forever.

Mama’s banishment decree created a vast separation between him and what remained of our nuclear family.  He was never to be spoken of at home, nor his existence acknowledged.   Mama remarried, after the divorce, a man 10 years younger than herself, and she arranged for my younger sister and me to be legally adopted by our new stepfather.  We took on his surname, and the order was given that we must now call him, and think of his as, our father. 

This radical restructuring of our family troubled me in the ensuing years.  My true father had had to sign off on the adoption papers, in return for which he was relieved of any child support obligations.  I found myself wishing he had refused, had angrily denounced this slashing of all bonds between us, we who were his flesh and blood!  Could I ever forgive him for that?

My stepfather came from the rural South; unlike my mother, he had received no education beyond high school; and he had always worked in blue-collar jobs.  He had been raised in a fundamentalist Christian family, and he saw the world in stark, black-and-white tones, full of wickedness and insolence, demanding draconian punishments.  He professed love for me at times, but even at my young age I could sense this was perfunctory, not genuine.  I remember more vividly how strongly he felt that I, a coddled Mama’s boy, was sorely in need of punishment, which he proceeded to administer liberally.  One of the cruelest punishments I received, a prolonged beating with a rubber hose, was for forgetting one of my assigned daily household chores.  I think he had interpreted my lapse in duties as an act of defiance of his commands; I look back on it, to this day, as a typical oversight committed by the absent-minded, day-dreamy sort of person that I have always been.

I was puzzled, as I grew older, by the obvious strength of the marriage bond between my mother and stepfather, and by the way she appeared to defer to him in so many family matters.  She was clearly more intelligent and more learned than he; she had a BA degree from the University of Chicago, after all, the sort of distinction which was quite a rarity among the residents of the small town in Western Colorado where we lived.  As the years went on, my stepfather proved a failure as a family breadwinner, and Mama then became our sole financial support.  I now wonder if Mama wasn’t doing a little bit of acting back then, taking on the role of subservient homemaker to make us appear more like one of the conventional nuclear families we were seeing on television.  I also wonder if she over-valued her marital relationship because, with the bitter memory of her first marriage, she knew my stepfather was not the sort of man who would ever betray her.

I am often troubled reflecting on Mama’s passive acceptance of the abuse I was receiving from my stepfather.  Did she really believe that the beatings, as well as his continual teasing and belittling of me, were in my best interest?  She had absorbed certain cultural attitudes of the American South from her own father, a Bavarian immigrant who had spent his first years in his adopted country there, learning American norms and customs in Slaughter, Louisiana.  Perhaps she really believed that boys needed to be physically beaten and verbally assaulted, to toughen them up, to grow up properly.  In any case, I never understood why this otherwise active, independent, outspoken woman, who seemed to have such a deep understanding of the world, never stood up for me.  Such thoughts created a barrier that prevented me from ever trying, as an adult, to develop and nurture the loving, open relationship with my mother that I would otherwise have wished for.

Throughout my teen years, I yearned for escape from the toxic environment I had at home.  Coming into young manhood, I was accepted at a prestigious college in the East, and I saw this as a kind of salvation, since I now had a practical excuse for minimizing my visits back to Colorado.  Thereafter, I maintained both a geographic and emotional distance from home, which initially brought me some degree of comfort.

As years went by, the distance sustained a sense of relief but not of happiness.  I was, in fact, quite a sad young man.  I came to learn that people who have been abused as children tend to develop the habit of self-blaming.  For some reason, it is easier to accept suffering as the predictable result of your own shortcomings, and therefore something theoretically you might be able to correct, than to acknowledge that you have been dealt a bad hand by the universe and that you are powerless to do anything about it.  In any case, I had become remarkably proficient at self-blame.  Feeling that all of the things that go wrong in the world around you are your own fault is a sure-fire recipe for perpetual sadness.

It took many years of life as a young adult, and processing of memories on a therapist’s couch, before I recognized that there was a step I could take which would help me to heal the wounds inflicted upon me in childhood.  It was to search out and find my father.  This seemed an important task in coming to terms with the reality of my situation and reducing the burden of exaggerated self-blame I had taken on.

I undertook the project during the years I was doing residency training, the beginning of the 1970’s, when I was in my late twenties.  I had little information about my father other than his somewhat unusual French-sounding surname, “Mafit,” the surname I bore through the first grade in school, and the fact that he had received medical training.  Assuming that he was still alive, was practicing medicine somewhere in the United States and that he would have become certified in some medical specialty, I was able to locate a promising candidate by searching the reference section of my medical school’s library.  There was an obstetrician-gynecologist in Roseburg, Oregon, named Mafit, whose dates of medical school graduation and of naval service seemed appropriate for my father.  I was interested to see that this Dr. Mafit had done his ob/gyne residency at Washington University in St. Louis in the years immediately following the end of the war.  That was the time period in which my adoption had been transacted.  If this was indeed my father’s record I was seeing, it meant that he would have made the decision to sign the adoption papers while employed, hundreds of miles from where his children were living, as a hospital resident, a position that in those days required literally residing within the hospital’s walls and being available to provide care to the hospital’s patients around the clock.   It would have provided little or no salary and he likely would not have been able to hire a lawyer.   This would not fully justify his willingness to give up his children, but it went part of the way as an explanation, providing a glimpse of how restricted he was in his ability to act and allowing me to imagine how painful it would have been to be a parent trapped by these circumstances.

I sent off a brief handwritten letter to this Dr. Mafit at his listed office address, saying that I believed him to be my father with whom I had lost touch many years back, and, if my supposition was correct, would he be interested in writing to me?  I received an immediate reply (“immediate” for the days of snail mail) saying that he was indeed my father, corroborated by the enclosure of an old photograph of him holding me as a baby.  He said that for years he had been hoping I would reach out to him, and he thanked me for doing so and praised the courage he thought it must have taken.  He understood the depth of Mama’s antipathy toward him and explained that that was the reason he had not taken the first step.  He anticipated I had been told many bad things about him growing up, which he hoped he would have the opportunity to counter.  (Actually, I had been told almost nothing about him; the worst I had been told was that he was a man who cared nothing for his children, which the reply letter itself seemed to disprove.)  He signed the letter, “your loving father, Ted.”

We wrote letters to each other periodically, he more faithfully and promptly than I, over the following years, the years of his life that remained, and we visited each other on both coasts once every year or so.  I learned much about him, although I was, of course, not seeing him from the perspective I would have had as a growing child.

He was a tall, tanned, white-haired man, who spoke slowly and softly and with a western drawl, which belied the enormous drive and energy that lay below the surface.  He had carried on a solo practice of ob/gyne in this small city for his entire professional career, which meant he could be called on 24/7, around the clock and around the calendar, to report to the hospital to perform a delivery or emergency surgery.

He was never inclined to take on a partner, or involve himself in a group practice typical of most of today’s ob/gynes.  I believe he was, in his heart, a committed loner.  He valued his independence; he was one of the original maverick practitioners in Oregon who made the national news when they resigned en masse from the state medical society after it started requiring regular continued medical education as a condition of membership.

He had a number of friends and professional contacts, with whom he had cordial but not close relationships.  I suspected he was a man who had difficulty with intimacy.  He married three more times after the breakup with my mother, each time to a successively younger woman.  He had three daughters with his second wife, my half-sisters, who are about half a generation younger than I.  They all had the experience of looking to him as a dad when little, and they told me that he had seemed distant to them in those years.

Ted's second wife, Melba.

It came up once in conversation that one of his teachers when he was in training was Dr. William Masters, who had later acquired national attention for his work, with Dr. Virginia Johnson, on human sexuality.  When I asked Ted what Masters was like, he remembered him as “a scrupulously honest man” and “a very dedicated researcher.”  He didn’t have much to say about the popular book and I was left with the impression that he didn’t do much sexual counseling in his ob/gyne practice.

In his early years of practice, he had traveled to New York to attend lectures at Cornell Medical School being given by Dr. George Papanicolaou, the originator of the screening test for cancer of the cervix of the uterus now known as the “Pap smear.”  Ted wanted to be able to offer this test to his patients, but many medical laboratories didn’t do it; there was a lot of skepticism in the medical community at the time, probably because Papanicolaou himself was a scientist who studied reproductive physiology in monkeys and not a medical doctor.  So Ted learned to do the test himself, and, after acquiring official certification, performed it in his office laboratory up until his retirement.

He incorporated elective abortions into his practice after the Roe v. Wade decision made them permissible.  He took referrals from the other ob/gyne specialist in Roseburg, who was a Roman Catholic and had personal religious objections to the procedure.  Ted himself professed no religion.  He did not believe in unlimited access to abortion, however.  Any woman who asked him to terminate her pregnancy first had to demonstrate that she had a reasonable plan for avoiding unplanned pregnancies in the future (he would, of course, assist her with this), and she was advised that he never performed a second abortion on the same patient.

He was passionate about his hobby of fly fishing, which he indulged in almost daily.  He had used much of the wealth generated from his practice to purchase an estate whose back lawn was bordered by the North Umpqua River, so that he could do fly-casting from his back yard. 

Ted was addicted to, but seemingly not impaired by, alcohol.  The addiction was integrated into another consuming hobby, winemaking and viticulture.  He purchased land for a vineyard adjacent to his home and acquired a second vineyard later, a few miles away.  When he retired from his practice, he became a professional vintner.  He drank a bottle of wine daily as a matter of course, and he believed it did not affect his ability to do a delivery or emergency operation when called on in his off-hours.  I realize this is a claim many would find implausible.  I certainly did not perceive any effect from his drinking when we dined together; he remained the quiet, reserved, dignified, soft-spoken man he always was.  His colleagues and support staff at the hospital, who had observed his performance over many years, appeared never to have suspected his alcohol use.  In his last days, after he was admitted to the hospital’s Coronary Care Unit with a coronary artery occlusion that was to prove fatal, he developed a seemingly bizarre neurological syndrome that mystified the hospital staff.  They discussed bringing in an outside neurological specialist to consult.  His daughter and wife had to quietly suggest that what they were witnessing was delirium tremens, and that it would disappear if he was given alcohol.  To make such a diagnosis on a respected senior member of their medical staff would never have occurred to them.

In addition to the character-defining traits I’ve just outlined, I also learned some things about my father that must, I suppose, be considered trivia, but which I’ve always found endearing:

He was spectacularly good-looking in pictures from his youth, with his dark hair and moustache making him resemble Douglas Fairbanks or Ronald Coleman.  Many NY friends to whom I introduced him on his visits here commented on how dashing he was.

His full name was Trowbridge Rudolph Mafit.  The Mafits seemed to have a penchant for giving their offspring colorful names.  My paternal grandmother’s first name was Theil, and she had had two sisters whose names were Leith and Devere.  My three half-sisters were named after them, Andrea Leith, Leslie Theil, and Dana Devere.

Ted had become famous among members of the fly-fishing community for the flies that he designed and crafted himself.  One such hand-tied fly was the subject of a feature article in Field and Stream, and it was later marketed commercially as the “Doc’s Fly.”

He also acquired fame among Oregon winemakers.  The local county museum to this day has on display a bottle of white pinot noir that he produced sometime in the 1970s, believed to be the first of this variety to originate in Oregon.

Ted owned 23 cats at the time of my first Oregon visit, three Siamese inhabiting the house, the remainder domestic short-hairs roaming about his estate.  They all had names.  He joked that he was emulating, and hoping to surpass, Ernest Hemingway in their number.

It was during his final days that my father and I once again became separated.  I actually did not realize it was happening at all, at the time, that he had begun the process of dying.  He wrote me two letters describing the coronary events that he had experienced.  He somehow managed to use descriptive medical language to minimize the seriousness of his condition; he made it seem as if he would be back on his feet, working his vineyards any day now.  I fell for it, and decided I would not plan my next visit to Oregon until he had recovered.

It came as a shock when I was notified that he had died.  I flew to Roseburg to attend the funeral.  My heart broke when I saw photographs of him in the days before he died, the days when he was writing me the cheery letters; he was gaunt, disheveled, in distress, and obviously a seriously ill man in those photos.  I re-read the letters and slowly began to appreciate his artful use of the medical language to alleviate my concern.  There was only one unequivocal deception on his part; he claimed in his letters that he was being told he was not a candidate for coronary artery bypass surgery.  My sisters and his wife, who witnessed the events in real time, let me know that the opposite was the case.  His doctors repeatedly implored him to consent to surgery, and, each time, he adamantly refused.

I’ve concluded that he simply wanted to die alone, and with as little revelatory conversation as possible.  He did not want me to come to say good-bye to him in person.  It would have been too painful for him.  The exposure of his alcoholism on his death bed must have been mortifying to him; he just wanted to slip away quietly.

This seemed to encapsulate the sort of man he was, a man to whom peace and preservation of his dignity was all important.  He was not a street fighter like Mama.  He could never have taken her on in a brawl. 

To return to my original question, the issue of forgiving him for abandoning his parental rights at the time of the divorce now seems irrelevant.  What I had earlier yearned for from him was simply not in him to give.  And I am at peace with that now.

[gumy-shark]

DUDE WTF THERE'S SO MANY

what can i say i love the sneef

[turtletotem]

AU where everything is the same except that it's traditional that Bright Moon royalty have a harem

aka why have ship wars when you can ship poly!

In season 1 Glimmer is too young to get married, of course. But she and Bow are definitely engaged already, because relationships tend to speed up a bit when you know you don't have to commit to only one spouse your whole life.

When Adora shows up in Bright Moon, she faces a lot of judgment and intolerance and even threats because she's from the Horde, right? But Glimmer has the perfect solution. A solution that will (a) give Adora official royal protection, (b) give Adora status in Bright Moon and the Rebellion, (c) be quite the political triumph in terms of binding She-Ra to the royal house of Bright Moon (this last one is the main reason Angella goes for it).

Glimmer adds Adora to her engagement harem.

Of course she's not going to force anything romantic on Adora that she doesn't want. She swears they won't even have to really get married, when the time comes, if Adora doesn't want to. But let's be real, Glimmer is definitely crushing on Adora, and in this situation? Where Glimmer feels free to act on that, and none of it's going to hurt Bow's feelings (he never expected to be Glimmer's only spouse, and he likes Adora), and Adora is lonely and everything about her situation is encouraging her to return Glimmer's feelings? Yeah, Adora starts reciprocating pretty quickly. I figure their first kiss is in the hot springsat Mystacor.

Of course Catra finds out; She-Ra's engagement to Princess Glimmer is big news. Her jealousy and hatred toward Glimmer and the Rebellion is gonna be dialed up to eleven. Princess Prom is even more intense than in canon. (For Glimmer and Bow, too—Glimmer has much better reason to be jealous of Bow's attentions to Perfuma, but since they're not married yet, she can't technically stop him.)

For what it's worth, I see Adora and Bow as having a relationship that is… romantic in some aspects, but not sexual? Adora's just not attracted to men, and Bow is too monogamous at heart—Glimmer's it for him, he's not interested in being with anyone else. But they still see themselves as romantic partners, because that's expected from harem-mates (at least nominally). They do love each other, and they enjoy things like holding hands, cuddling, and the occasional kiss.

Glimmer's not supposed to actually have sex with any of her harem until they're married, but just sleeping together is fine and even encouraged, so the three of them share a bed. It helps Adora's loneliness a lot, eases the pain of waking up without Catra.

(If, more than once, she sleepily calls one of them Catra, they're not about to bring it up.)

Very possibly, Adora advocates for adding Huntara to the harem. Glimmer is not in favor of this, however, and in the end the idea is dropped when Huntara goes back to the Crimson Waste.

The three of them get married when Glimmer becomes queen. Glimmer offers to release Adora from the engagement, just like she promised she would, but Adora won't hear of it. She loves Glimmer, and she loves Bow, and she wants this marriage. If a part of her is heartbroken over the final death of any hopes she had about Catra, well, that's all the more reason to marry Glimmer.

When we get to season 5, the Glitra subtext gets to be more than subtext. After all, it's totally acceptable for Glimmer to have three spouses, no one would even raise an eyebrow until she hit twice that many. But she feels weird telling Bow or Adora that she might have feelings for Catra, so she doesn't realize how much Adora is torturing herself with guilt about her own feelings for Catra. In addition to all the war-related reasons to feel guilty, Adora feels like she's being unfaithful to Glimmer.

Things might get very complicated after Catra is rescued. Glimmer, of course, proposes to Catra; marrying her will give Catra protection from anti-Horde sentiment just like it did with Adora, as well as helping establish peace between the two factions. Catra resists the idea, but Adora feels obligated to swallow her own feelings and talk Catra into it. Which, of course, devastates Catra, because now she thinks Adora doesn't love her. Poor Bow is the only one who sees what everyone isn't saying and tries, mostly without success, to mediate.

Events at the Heart go just as in canon, so Catra and Adora do face up to their feelings. But they're unsure how Glimmer's going to react. They're relieved and surprised when she's thrilled.

When all is said and done, Catra does marry into the harem. Like Adora, she has a romantic relationship with Glimmer and a close platonic relationship with Bow (even more platonic than Adora's; I'm thinking Adora and Bow eventually have a child, just because Adora wants one). (He and Glimmer probably have several.) Catra and Adora dig up an old tradition of handfasting, wherein members of the same harem can unofficially marry each other (or even marry outside the harem, with royal permission). It's not a legal thing, but it has meaning within the bounds of the harem itself. In their case, it's widely known and respected in the court of Bright Moon.

(Side note: What about Angella's harem? you might ask. Well, Angella's been around for a very long time. She outlived her entire first harem, and was too heartbroken by her losses to try again—until Micah. He got away with being her only spouse because she'd already fulfilled the harem tradition, and because he was able to finally give her an heir, and because the people were just happy to see her married again at all.)

[harrys-reverie]

DOG YEARS // Harry Styles O.U.

PART 1: The Agreement

a/n: welcome! here is part 1 of my baby. I have been working on this for a while and I really hope you enjoy. Story is based off the song ‘dog years’ by maggie rogers, one of my favs. anyways, let’s get on with it! Any feedback, shares or likes are greatly appreciated! I want to get my work out there 🥺 ALSO PART 2 TMRW!

word count: 8k 

STORY PAGE // PART 2 CLICK HERE

Take a look at it and really read through thoroughly. Don't hesitate to come to me with any questions, okay?" Eve, my boss smiled warmly at me as she handed me the stack of papers sitting between us. "I'm counting on you."

I nodded back at her wordless, feeling a bit uneasy but eager to give the pages a read. It was just about 9 am in the English countryside and the sun was beaming through the wood paneled floor to ceiling windows — giving the already bright room even more of an angelic haze. Dried lavender bouquets were placed among scattered piles of paperwork Eve had yet to get through. The cozy scent of tobacco-vanilla candles, signature scent of the Soho Farmhouse property were dangerously lit among heaving piles of paperwork. Overall, the room was the true essence of peace, yet I was feeling far from it as I held onto the paperwork Eve had just given me.

I wasn’t quite sure how I found myself in this position, not one bit. But here I was, having to scan over a fifteen or so page NDA for some high end guest who I was suggested to look after during their 4 month stay here at the Soho Farmhouse. It made little sense to me because I didn’t even know that was possible to stay here this long. This was a membership hotel not an extended stay home. I could only imagine the sort of prestige this mystery person had to pull this off.

I had only gotten the job as a waitress at one of the restaurants on our premises last month. Like whoever this mystery person is, I was temporary here too. I had just finished my university studies back in my hometown in California months prior. My nan who happened to live way out in the middle of England was extremely apologetic about not attending my graduation, and instead offered me a stay in England for 6 months. I figured I was in no rush to adult, and my parents finally obliged and I found myself on a multi hour flight here. The first two weeks in her house were enough to send me bat shit crazy, and I knew I needed a job. Unfortunately I wasn’t near the hustle and bustle of a massive city, so finding this job was God sent.

I quickly learned I was shit at waitressing. Eve took a chance on me and I knew she instantly regretted it, she was desperate to find an opening for something more suitable for me. I was desperate to take on any other role at the Farmhouse besides waiting tables — watering and maintaining the plants in the gardens, cleaning the stables, working the phones, or even monogramming our robes we give to the guests.

Fortunately for me, I agreed to this "special job for a special girl" as Eve quoted it, without truly knowing what exactly I had gotten myself into. Now here I was, knees dip in a situation that seemed like the most work of them all.

The wooden door shut creakily behind me as Eve stepped out to continue her role of head of the Farmhouse and prowl around the land to make sure everything was running smoothly. She had left me alone so I could read through the paperwork in a comfortable and quiet room. Really though I was feeling anything but as I looked back down at the legally binding pages in front of me.

"This Confidentiality Agreement is executed effective 3rd, of September 2020 between Colette Adkins (Party A) and Harry Styles (Party B)...

WHEREAS, Party A can not disclose any confidential information regarding Party B..."

My mouth partially dropped when I had seen the name, Harry Styles. Like, THE Harry Styles. What was he even doing here for four months, did he not have somewhere better to be? Like possibly in one of his many houses? He could stay cooped up in those mansions for months on end without having to lift a foot in the real world, I’m sure of it.

Unfortunately the countless numbered paragraphs under his name were more than confusing to understand, and there was almost 12 pages of them. From what I had gathered through a quick skim was that, 'none of this and none of that and none of anything' was allowed when it came to Harry Styles. I had to wonder how much terrible encounters the man had gone through in order to have to have so many stipulations when it came to just being in his presence

The fancy terms were hard to follow, and I found myself googling phrases I had never even heard of. I was now dubbed as a 'party' and Harry Styles being the other, and apparently from the looks of it Party A and Party B were two different levels of hierarchy. I had doubts that even Eve could properly understand all these 'guidelines.' I always heard such positive stories in the media about THE Harry Styles, that he was easygoing and friendly, a gentleman — this NDA said differently though. He seemed like a real nightmare. A nightmare I wasn’t sure I’d want to be working with for four months. Is his reputation just a huge hoax and he’s pulling an Ellen Degeneres on the whole world?

I knew most would find it foolish to pass up on such a opportunity, but if there was one thing I disliked it was being in situations where I couldn’t be fully myself. I was beginning to feel as if this position would be stripping me away of who I was and I’d just be some young girl at a massive millionaires beck and call.

On the flip side, it was a job after all and not every job was enjoyable. If his reputation held any truth, then this experience would be  a breeze and I’d be stupid to not take it.

I reached for my phone at the bottom of my purse on my lap and clicked on Eve's contact to send her a quick text.

Colette: Harry Styles? This paperwork makes him sound like an ass. I’m not sure.

Eve: I'm coming back in to discuss this with you..

Just like that and Eve was already scurrying back into her office, a very serious look on her face, one of which I wasn't used to. I had a feeling she was just waiting outside the door the whole time.

"So what do I need to know? I mean, it can't be that hard...but...”I began casually, trying to understand what all her worry was for. Granted, I was just as much so.

She looked down at her phone that was pinging like crazy and then back to me. "It's not that it's hard, but this is a job that is strictly business. You have to live on premise in a 1 bed and 1 bath, always on the clock.” Oh.

"Not just that," Eve continued, "But, if anything and I mean anything gets out, legally there are repercussions. According to his manager, who you will meet — he's writing an album and has a few of his crew mates amongst the grounds in different cottages. It's very low-key, Colette. There's no room for a mistake or slip up."

Suddenly the morning sun seemed brighter than ever and I was squinting my eyes at her in confusion.

"So what, I’m basically Harry Styles little bitch for four months?" I didn’t mean for it to come off so harsh but I could see from Eve’s facial expressions she was a bit taken aback. Maybe that was a bad way to phrase it.

I was curious to know what my duties as Harry Styles' personal Soho Farmhouse assistant would be and if the tasks were just menial or true, hard work. I couldn't image it'd be more than popping up every hour or so with fresh coffee or tea, dropping off towels or bringing the cocktail bar on wheels over every once in a while.

"You know, I don't know," Eve laughed nervously. "It was a request from his management, he needed somebody to assist him with everyday tasks. So yes, maybe food requests and what not. He wants to maintain a low profile and if he's out biking throughout the grounds all the time, he won't have that confidentiality that he is requesting."

Oh, he got off lucky with not having to bike anywhere. If you know anything about the Soho Farmhouse, you know that it's hundreds of acres of land and to get anywhere on the grounds you had to bike there. Not that it was bad or anything, it was rather refreshing but could get quite annoying when you needed to be somewhere quick.

"Have you met him yet? Is he here?" I quipped in shameless excitement. It was Harry Styles after all, I couldn’t put a facade on forever.

Eve gave me a sly smirk, "He's incredibly handsome in person."

"No fucking way."

She put her hands up in defense, trying to reprimand herself and act more professional, "You know, I caught a glimpse. He had arrived only minutes ago but I hadn't properly greeted him yet. I want you to be the first one to introduce yourself..." She trailed off. "Any ways, we want him to be settled and comfortable first and I think a splendid thing for you to do is to bring him a robe and some coffee."

I felt my stomach tie into knots at her request and she looked back at me worried. "Well, just act casual," She suggested after I didn't reply automatically, almost as if she was reassuring herself as well. "There's a reason I picked you, you know."

"And what might that be?"

Eve grinned, "I think you and Harry would get on just fine."

———

I wasn't all to worried about how I would appear in front of Harry Styles. My fringe was a little all over the place because I didn't blow-dry it this morning and my blouse wasn't as ironed as it probably should be, but none of that mattered. I had decided to wait on signing the NDA until after I had met him and introduced myself. I wanted to make sure this job was the right fit for me.

I had his monogrammed fluffy grey robe tied up in a neat bow, sitting in the wicker basket attached to the front of my handy blue bicycle. To my dismay Harry's cottage was the farthest away and at the highest point on the premise, on top of the hill. So, it was a bit of a hike to say the least — I hoped that if I committed to the job that Eve would place me in a small cottage nearby to his so I wouldn't have to make this journey multiple times a day.

As I began the ride up the hill, I let my senses overtake me as I breathed in, listened and looked at the land that passed by me. Soho Farmhouse was one of the most beloved additions to The Soho company, an exclusive member only club made for the young creatives. To get accepted you had to pay a hefty application fee, be recommended by 2 existing members and do many interviews, but I reckon it's all worth it just for the Soho Farmhouse. I know I'd apply if I hadn't started working here. Forget the prestige Soho House's in New York and LA, this was the most beautiful of them all. There was something about the serene English countryside that blew all the others out of the water. The vibe was different, this was more of a retreat addition to the company, rather than the ones in big cities. When you went to those ones you expected overrated models and daddy funded 20 year olds. The Farmhouse was far from any of that.

The thing I liked most about the membership is that it isn't solely based on social or money status, although it may seem that way, but rather a safe haven for young individuals in creative industries. I had only been here for a month but have encountered endless amounts of interesting people, my own age which was a plus. Soho Farmhouse was the epitome of the ultimate British getaway, placed in the Cotswolds, composed of thousands of acred lands occupied by gardens and farm animals. The cottages, only 50, were each 50 yards distance from one another and faced views of slow running rivers giving you complete privacy. It truly is a scene out of a Jane Austen novel when you are here.

As I neared to the Farm Cottage on the very top of the hill, one of the biggest on the premise, I saw that there were 2 cars parked in the driveway. I became more nervous than ever, not so much because I had to meet him, but his management seemed even more intimidating. They were the ones who put that whole 15 page NDA together after all, and it came off pretty harsh. As I parked my bike amongst the two vehicles in the driveway, I kicked the stand up and grabbed the robe from the basket.

So this was it. I approached the front porch, the familiar creaky wooden steps of the cottages that felt so cozy were now being overtaken by fall leaves starting to pile up. Freshly cooled milk jugs were popped beside the giant wooden door — a small touch that we liked to do for all of our guests each morning. Using my foot I knocked on the door, my hands full from the oversized robe after all.

Almost as quickly as I had knocked, the door came rushing open and I was greeted with, well, not Harry Styles.

"Hey, I'm Jeff." He stuck his hand out, only to quickly realize my hands were full. "Uh, let me just take this for you."

"I'm Colette," I smiled back, handing him the robe that was keeping me quite warm being held to my chest.

"Come on in actually. I think you're going to be H's assistant throughout his stay here, if I'm correct?" I nodded back, quickly recognizing his American accent, like mine.

I allowed myself in. I started following Jeff to the front living area of the cottage and took a seat on the plush ivory couch. There was already an abundance of hefty suitcases and guitars scattered amongst the living room. The sound of a shower coming from the upstairs bathroom was where I assumed Harry may be.

"So, you'll be here checking up on Harry and all that?" He questioned, tucking his phone away and facing towards me.

"I believe so, I've never done anything quite like it before. Pretty nervous since it’s Harry Styles and all that. And you are?" I asked assuming he may be a close friend or a part of the band.

"His manager actually. And friend."

Oh. So he's the one who came up with all those rules and regulations? Maybe I should have been more enthusiastic answering his question.

"Oh, wow. That's great, sorry, I just..."I began awkwardly.

Jeff cut me short with a warm laugh, "Don't worry. We're like the same age, H and I. It's a great relationship we have but I make sure to keep him in line too and do what's best for him. Harry's a great guy, I promise he won't be overworking you at all."

"Well, I am very much looking forward to it. This opportunity is going to save me from being a waitress down at the Barwell Barn, now that is what I call being overworked," I joked nervously.

"You know actually, H is in the bathroom now. He's kind of had a tough day. I'll take the robe if you don't mind and then if you give me your cell I will text you with a later time today to stop by and introduce yourself," Jeff suggested kindly.

I nodded back at him, "Of course, I totally understand. It's been great meeting you, will you be staying here throughout the months?" I hated to prolong my stay, but I was curious.

"Only this week and then I'm back to LA, I've got my girlfriend back home and work waiting for me there. I'll probably stop by once a month though and check up on him."

"I miss California weather, I'm from there, actually. Just graduated university and I am visiting my nan here for a couple of months. That's actually what led me to this place," I spoke, becoming more and more comfortable with Jeff by the minute.

Jeff lifted his eyebrows, "I was wondering what may have lead you here. I was taken back by your accent...being not an English one and all that."

"Yep, this is a temporary thing for me, being here."

I didn't want to get too deep into a conversation or overstay my welcome so I stood up from the couch and offered my phone number as we approached the front of the cottage. Just as we reached the  door, I heard the bathroom door creak open behind me. I wanted so bad to take a look and peak, but I knew this wasn't the right time.

“You know what," Jeff smiled, removing his hand from the doorknob abruptly, "Let's have a quick introduction now. Take a seat in the kitchen if you'd like, I'm going to make sure Harry's decent for you."

I guess I couldn't refuse to his request, "Sure thing," I grinned back, plopping myself onto one of the wooden barstools in the kitchen. Jeff hurried upstairs, I'm assuming following after Harry who had rushed up the stairs only seconds previous. I heard murmuring and then a door shut, leaving me alone on the first floor. Just me and my thoughts.

I didn't feel nervous at the thought of meeting Harry earlier, but Jeff stating he had a rough day and to come back later and now insisting I meet him, made me a bit weary of the whole ordeal. I didn't want to say the wrong thing or act the wrong way. All this time I was so caught up on what if I didn't get on well with Harry and didn't want the job, when in reality Harry could feel the same about me. I now felt an added amount of pressure I hadn't felt earlier.

Waiting around in the kitchen I couldn't help but notice every single candle was lit in the room. There was a surplus, way more than the standard amount that was placed throughout the cottages. There must have been a request for extra candles because the smell of tobacco vanilla had never been so overpowering then right now.

My thoughts broke for a moment, interrupted by a thunderous laugh coming from upstairs. The walls were thin in the cottages, floors too, so the echo of the laugh was booming. I felt a sense of relief to think that perhaps Jeff put him in a better mood, he did state they were good friends and all, and I knew that laugh didn't belong to Jeff. A quick stomping on the ground above me and a few claps, accompanied by more laughter echoed through the space. Whew, a rush of relief to know that maybe his tough day was over.

I looked down at my blue jeans, which I was now becoming self conscious of. Had I known when I arrived at 7 am this morning what circumstances I would endure, I would have dressed maybe a bit more presentable. And maybe I actually didn't like that I had rushed and not blow dried my hair. This is what I get for always sleeping in till 15 minutes before my shift and having no time to get ready.

I had no time to rethink and self criticize because I was overcome by the sound of heavy footsteps stomping down the stairs. My heart was racing, mouth a little dry, because I only heard one pair of footsteps. Fuck, I really hoped it be Jeff.

"Where are ya hiding, love?" A thick British accent hollered. "Ah, there ya are."

I turned to look at him, putting all my focus on the tall, tattooed man making his way over. I instantly felt something in my gut burn, in the good way, but not the good sexual way. A different type of good. Maybe I'm crazy, maybe everybody feels this way when they see Harry Styles, he is gorgeous after all, and it's so weird to see someone in real life you've only ever seen in pictures. I knew I'd be crazy to insinuate anything but the way he looked at me — almost like he was taken aback or expecting something or someone else. I assumed myself crazy to think he'd even give me a second look, I was just here to supply him with more candles and drop off food. I stood up quick, walking closer and meeting him halfway.

"I'm Colette, very nice to meet you," I brought out my hand to meet his.

"Pleasure. I'm Harry."

He was wearing plain jane grey sweatpants and a cotton white tee shirt, hair sopping wet, looking marvelous. It was casual and a very toned down look, night and day from the outfits you see him in on all the tabloids. No bright colors or funky patterns, no Gucci emblems, just simple, cozy attire. He looked so human. I think sometimes it’s easy to believe celebrities are so much larger than life, but he was just a person after all.

"Now," He began, putting his thumb to his chin and looking off, " 'M gonna need ya to fetch me twenty silk infused towels, the finest coffee grounds ya got and uh..."

He began laughing...at his own joke, not able to even finish his sentence. I too laughed with him, nervously though. It probably was funny in normal circumstances, but I could barely even process anything right now.

"Look, don't be so worried. Jeff's up there doing all kinds of things, he wanted me to come say hello. You seem lovely and I promise to be low maintenance. This wasn't even my idea, if I'm being honest..." Harry began to ramble.

"Buuuuuut," He added with a huge grin, "Looking forward to having ya on the team, Colette. Would you like to sit down for some tea, coffee?"

"Shouldn't I be making some tea or coffee for you?" I insisted with a small smile.

"Please," He scoffed, already heading towards the kettle. "Take a seat. Your cheeks look red, it's bloody cold outside, plus, I hear you're from California, so you're probably freezing."

"You're right on that one."

"What brought you here?" He questioned, genuinely seeming interested. He had his back turned to me as he rummaged around with the kettle.

"If I'm honest," I started embarrassingly, "I just didn't want to fully 'adult' yet. I graduated college and just wanted to get out and explore a little before committing to the adult lifestyle. My grandma lives just 10 minutes from here, so..."

"Smart choice. You're lucky to have that luxury of choosing to not commit to 'adulting' right away," He chuckled, turning to me to put adulting in quotation marks. I couldn't help but stare at him, he was not sore on the eyes at all. He was so kind, welcoming, a true gentleman. He had even welcomed me on 'the team' which was a promising sign, I wanted now more than ever to just sign my name and rights away on that stupid NDA. Whoever made that document up, must've been somebody higher up who didn't understand what having human connection is all about.

"Listen," Harry started, grabbing the two steaming cups and taking a seat across mine at the kitchen table. "I'm glad you're here. Promise to make your time here enjoyable as possible."

"The same for you," I replied quickly. "Obviously, that's what I'm here for."

He let out a small grin, glancing down at his cuppa. "I know ya had to sign one of those fancy documents."

"Haven't yet," I joked back. I already felt a lighthearted and friendly vibe from Harry, as if talking to an old friend I hadn't seen in months.

Harry quirked his eyebrow up with a smirk, "Why's that?"

"Wanted to make sure we'd get on or whatever. Couldn't work for a complete dick — excuse my language."

"I guess that's up to your own interpretation. But I have a feeling you'll be sticking around."

“Are you that sure of yourself?”

“Oh yeah,” He grinned proudly

We both laughed and then silence. An awkward beat passed by, I was looking down at the creases in the wooden table but I could feel his gaze burning. When I looked back up, he was fiddling with the rings on his fingers, shuffling them up and done. Might I add he had a ring for every single finger, minus two. Some were filled with bright gem stones,  two of which were compromised of his initials H and S.

"Well, back to business," He awkwardly coughed. "What I was saying is that, I know in that document it said we can't exchange personal numbers. But I really can't be bothered to go thru Jeff to text you what I need 24/7. Soooo...can I trust you with my precious mobile number?"

He was obviously joking because a huge smirk was plastered on his face, his teasing face met mine. It was clear from these few minutes of knowing him, that he couldn't care to take everything too seriously.

"If you could ever so grant me with your sacred number, I'd be honored. Just give me a ring whenever you need me to draw a warm bath for you Mr. Styles."

"Hmph," He tugged at his lip with a smile. "Sounds good, now please, don't blow me up tooooooooo much."

“You afraid I might get all clingy?”

He rolled his eyes playfully, as if he’s dealt with something like that before. The two of us then exchanged contacts, casually sipping on our tea which he made fabulously, might I add. Jeff soon came back down to join us and the three of us talked amongst one another for 10 minutes or so before Harry's phone started buzzing.

"Ah fuck," He mumbled, Jeff peered over Harry’s shoulder to grab a glance at his phone and his face fell as well. The two of them stared for a second at whatever may have been on the screen, I could only imagine what it may have been. I'd never dare to ask.

"Right well, I've got some uh, stuff to take care of," Harry sighed, meeting my gaze. He  looked obviously uncomfortable, almost sad. I smiled a bit too hard back at him, trying to lighten the mood since it seemed to go down quite drastically. I realized not even a second later the smile wasn't necessary because he didn't really reciprocate it. Now I just felt like a pansy.

"Let me uh, drive ya back to the front. It's cold and that's a long haul on a bike, I'd feel like a dick to let ya bike down there with these winds," Harry insisted, beginning to stand up. I couldn't let him do that though, I knew his mood was back down in the tank for whatever reason. I didn't want to have him drive me all the way back down to the front and inconvenience him, after all I was supposed to be tending to him, not the other way around.

"Thanks, but no thanks. I actually have to return the bike to a guest," I lied looking down at my phone. "Like right now, actually. Right now."

I was completely lying but I knew he couldn't refuse that and I didn’t want to have him pry anymore. I quickly rushed to the front door, Harry and Jeff following behind my footsteps.

"So very nice to meet you both once again, just give me a ring if anything is needed. I'm on call," I cheered awkwardly, pointing at my cellphone.

"Bye Colette, great meeting you," Jeff spoke up as I opened the door.

"A pleasure!" Harry called after me, as I rushed my way down the front steps of the deck. I scurried out so fast, you'd had thought I seen a ghost. Just like that, I was back on the handy blue bicycle again, wind rushing in my face, ready to sign those papers and officially take the job.

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

It was close to 9PM as I was just finishing up setting up my temporary home on the premises in order to take on my new position. It was small, like the smallest cottage on the whole grounds. I didn't complain though, I was on a meal plan and had infinite variations of body washes to try out, so I was pretty content with my situation. Unlike I had requested, I was quite a distance away from Harry's cottage on the hill, so I'd have to continue those tedious bike rides back and forth very frequently.

I hadn't heard from Jeff or Harry ever since I had departed them this morning. Eve assured me that they were just settling in and that I should do the same. Eve had drove me over to my nan's house where I announced the good news to her, I think she was just thrilled to have her house back to herself for a little. I did happen to have a habit of never putting my dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and I didn't get on quite well with her two cats. So, I packed up an abundance of clothing and some essentials that I figured would be needed, I didn't overdo it though, I was only a couple miles down the road if I needed more.

I had taken a steaming bath, with all the windows open, my view was the running river in the back. Lit up lantern adorned the back garden and it felt like the epitome of autumn, my favorite season. I wasn't a huge fan of the tobacco vanilla candles, so I opted for the fall fragranced ones. I texted a few friends back home, letting them know to call me back whenever they had a chance, I was eager to let them know of my new position. Then I had a reality check where I realized I probably signed all those rights away in that NDA I never fully looked over.

So it was just me drowning in my thoughts, in a super oversized tin bath tub. I was more focusing on if I'd be busy at all tomorrow or if I just had all the time to myself in my new little home, and if so, what would I do? Should I start to Amazon prime myself some books or start a new series on Hulu? It was exciting, I was literally getting paid around the clock to just sort of wait for a request from Harry. I don't think I could have ever dreamt of a more better way to spend my months here in the English countryside.

Unfortunately, things were going too good too soon. I should've known that when Eve insisted she pay me around the clock that there was a reason. The slight vibration coming from my phone broke me out of my thoughts.

Jeff: Hey Colette. I know it's starting to get late, but we have a few friends at Harry's cottage here and it'd be awesome if you can bring the bar cart on over. Within the hour would be best. Thanks!

Fucking hell, not the bar cart. I had just gotten into my cozy PJs and was about to lay down to get an early's night rest —I guess that will not be an option tonight. The bar cart was one of the biggest pains in the ass, right alongside the breakfast cart. These carts where actually bright blue vintage-like vehicles, that are specially requested to the cottages. You drive them up, park them and hang out in the back of the cart and cater to whatever the guest of the cottage wants. They get hammered, you watch — exciting. For a full hour usually, and even more if they have the money to keep it past just one hour. I had never had the pleasure of taking on this role, but from what I heard, it was the worst of them all. I wasn't even trained for this, I could barely make a decent vodka soda, and now I have to go on up there and make a bunch of fancy drinks.

I started dialing Eve's number as I approached the bathroom to make myself somewhat presentable.

"Colette, what's up?" She spoke lazily on the other line.

"Jeff said Harry is requesting the bar cart to be brought up, isn't it too late?" I asked with a hint of annoyance.

"Oh, no. Not for Harry Styles darling.. I'll call up someone to drive it up, can you just be there when it arrives so you can cater and make the drinks?"

I rolled my eyes, there was no way of getting out of this and I suppose I was getting paid for a reason. "All right, I'll be there."

"Don't seem so down, people will kill for this opportunity," Eve quipped. "Now I got to tend to my children, shoot me a text if you need anything."

As soon as the call ended I began to freshen up and look somewhat presentable. Eve had requested someone to bring up the bar cart, and I'm sure she explained it was an ASAP type of request and I'd probably have to bike over as soon as possible.

I threw on a pair of jeans with a slouchy white tee shirt and a parka. I walked out and it was fucking crispy out, like I could totally see my breath when I breathed out. I wasn't so used to this weather in Southern California and I didn't know it would get so cold so soon here, it was September for fucks sake.

Hopping on the bike I began my journey up to the top of the hill. Despite the sky being so dark, the premise was brightly lit with a bunch of light posts. Opened cottage windows shined brightly onto the cobblestone, guiding me through. It almost felt like this place was a safe, utopian village where time stopped. It was everything you imagined when you thought of the English  countryside and I was becoming more in love with it each day.

I could hear laughter and cheers become more apparent as I began to reach Harry's cottage. Of course, the lovely blue bar cart was already parked in the road approaching the driveway. Eve really wasted no time at all when it came to catering to Harry Styles, I had never seen her so on top of things before.

"Hiya Colette," Michael, one of the porters who worked here waved at me as I went to approach the cart.

"I'm assuming you are the one who brought this on up here, are you staying?" I asked, hopping off my bike and planting it along the side of the vehicle.

Michael had a tight lipped smile splashed on his face, "Unfortunately, I am needed elsewhere tonight. Aaaaaandd... I kinda don't have a way back down to the main area so I'm going to need that bike of yours."

"Uh-uh, no way am I going to be held responsible for driving the cart back down after all this," I spoke back, pointing at the brightly lit up cottage in front of us.

"Just ring the front desk later, get somebody to ride up on a golf cart. We'll leave the bar cart here till morning, don't worry."

I gave him a harsh glare but allowed him to take my precious bicycle. "Good luck," He laughed as he started pedaling down the hill.

"Yeah, yeah," I mumbled to myself as I opened the back door of the cart, stepping up into the platformed area where a slew of alcohol bottles and mixers awaited me. Lucky for me there was a handy dandy drink recipe book laying around. I figured it would give me a rough outline for all these fancy drinks these fancy people would be ordering.

I grabbed my phone from my back pocket to shoot a text to Jeff announcing my arrival and that I was ready and waiting.

Colette Adkins: Hey Jeff. I'm here, pretty quickly too. Whenever people are ready they can come on out! :)

I hit 'send' and then took a quick look around to see what I was dealing with. A small opening with a wooden table was attached to the side, so I could hand over the drinks and they could order. Theoretically, this was a cute and great idea. Realistically, it was a total pain — not to mention very breezy. There was no sort of heating going on and I was so thankful I had chosen my giant parka in this moment.

The bottles to the right of me were adorned beautifully amongst one another, only the best of the best I presumed. I wasn't a huge drinker, I preferred a glass of Trader Joe's wine or an occasional white claw — mango flavored, of course. Did they even sell those here? Hmm, had to look that up when I got back to my room.

"Oi, oi!" A deep voice shouted out, happily walking down the driveway to my cart, arm wrapped around a beautiful blonde. Oh, so he has a girlfriend too? Harry strutted out from the house looking majestic, hair blowing in the wind with a big award winning grin. Jeff and another man with long hair tied up in a ponytail were following closely behind laughing and taking sips out of their crystal glasses.

I couldn't help but think that Harry looked extremely overjoyed, a huge difference from how I had left him earlier today. He wore a bright blue sweater with a baby chick on it and creme flowing pants — it definitely made a statement. And by the way he swayed when he walked, he was probably a little drunk, if not more.

As he approached me, his arm unravelled from the girl beside him and instead he plopped his elbows up on the wooden attached table and let his face fall into his tattooed hands. I couldn't help but notice a fresh coat of baby blue paint on his nails, sloppily done — I'm assuming done by him.

"So..." He trailed off with a beaming smile. "What are ya whipping up tonight Miss. Colette?"

I chuckled back at him nervously, 'not shit' I thought to myself. Maybe he'd be too drunk to notice how terrible my bartending skills will be.

"Oh and this, this lady right here is my lovely 'real world' assistant, Jamie. She's great," Harry added eagerly, gesturing towards the stunning blonde and bringing her back close to his side.

"Lovely to meet you both," I chirped. Jamie shot a smile back at me and reached out her perfectly manicured hand to me.

"Pleasure," She drawled with a thick London accent.

"We've been drinking a lot already but I think 'm down for some shots, yeah?" Harry called out to his small entourage surrounding the bar cart. Everybody laughed and I managed to throw a little wave to Jeff. I was relieved that it was only the four of them, I could only hope nobody else would show up. The smaller the crowd, the better.

"Well," I started, "I'm actually not a bartender and I have no idea what I'm really doing. A shot would probably be your best option, I can definitely fix that up for you."

"Pour it up then!" Harry exclaimed. "You got some tequila in there?"

I took a quick look to my side at the selection of alcohol, we had tons of varieties of almost everything. I mean it was quite an impressive collection for a little bar cart.

'Let me uh, actually, do you mind if I hop up in there with you?" Harry asked inquisitively, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were glossed over with pleading eyes, lips pouty pink and his hair disheveled. I knew I shouldn't let him, Eve would have a fit if she knew he was coming up to try and make his own drink. Eve would also have a fit if I said 'no' to Harry Styles, though.

I didn't have much time to answer because Harry was already hopping up the steps and trying to make space for himself in the small little enclave inside the wagon. I couldn't help but get a whiff on his divine cologne, it smelled so musky and cozy — manly, but not too much. I looked down and Jeff, the pony-tailed man and Jamie were having their own sorts of conversation amongst themselves paying no attention to Harry and I, they were probably used to his drunken behaviors.

"So, what we do we have here, hmm?" Harry glanced over at the alcohol options. "You reckon you can make me one of those Rusty Nail drinks they make over at the Soho House in New York?" He put on a serious face, looking at me inquisitively before letting out a small laugh.

"I don't have an actual clue on that one," I laughed, knowing he was most likely not being serious. "Didn't even know a drink could be referred to as a Rusty Nail?"

"Indeed there is a drink called the Rusty Nail."

"Sounds terrible."

"I beg to differ, buuut, a tequila shot will have to subside. Casamigos?" Harry questioned, picking up the clear bottle and raising his shoulders at me suggestively. Oh, oh...so he wanted me to take a shot with him? That was a big no.

"You want me to take a shot with you?"

"Why fuckin' not? It's a celebratory night and it wouldn't be fair for you to stay sober whilst we're all getting hammered, eh?"

He was very considerate, friendly, too friendly. Like definitely doesn't know the fine line between business and friendship and I was strictly on the business side.

"I guess I'm a little cold, maybe a shot would warm me up..." I bargained, looking at the bottle and back to Harry's face, it was hard to say no to a grown man with a baby chick sweater.

"Aha!" He exclaimed, "Now everybody, come take a shot with the lovely Colette and I!"

I gave a look to Jeff worriedly, feeling as if he was going to reprimand me for agreeing to do this, but instead he waved his hand shaking the whole thing off with a laugh. Harry grabbed the very, very expensive shot glasses all in one hand impressively, I closed my eyes afraid he might drop one. With a hard ding he somewhat arranged them in an even line, sloppily filling them all up to the brim.

"Tonight," He began happily. "We celebrate a new era...new songwriting, new ideas...a much needed break." Everybody nodded their heads silently in agreement. "Mitch, my best and most talented pal, happy to have ya here with me. Jeff, can't believe you're leaving me for Glenne in LA, I hope she says, 'yes.'" Jeff raised his shot glass up laughing. I too held one in my hand, was there such a thing as a dramatic toast followed by a tequila shot? I suppose, in the lavish world of Harry Styles and company there was.

"Jamie, you're bloody great but get back home to that husband and child of yours in London. Enjoy some well deserved time off. And..." Harry turned to face me, "Colette, I already know you are a great addition to the team. Looking forward to seeing you show up at my door with an abundance of those fresh candles every week...cheers!"

The four of us raised our shot glasses and downed them quickly, the burn of the liquor tingling my tongue and throat. Holy shit, I had not had a tequila shot in so long I forgot just how gross they were. I let a little cough out as the tequila sank in, the warmth itching my throat.

Harry turned to me looking down, "What do ya say we sneak a couple bottles and just head into the cottage? Its cold out here."

"Not sure if that's allowed..." I started.

"Fuck it. Come on, grab your favorite one," He insisted, pointing to the bottles. "Let me guess you probably like them white claws or whatever."

"How'd you know?" I deadpanned pursing my lips.

"You Americans really have a huge thing for those, they're shit by the way," Harry teased.

"No they're not! They're delicious...especially the mango ones or, hey, have you tried the watermelon ones?"

Good one Colette, smooth, nice, funny, never been done before. I wanted to face palm myself in that moment. Harry snorted at my little joke though, so it couldn't have been that bad.

"Very funny you. Okay so, vodka?" He questioned, wrapping a few bottles in his arm. "Don't even answer that because it's what you're getting," He added jokingly. I didn't even have the heart to tell him I hated straight vodka because it was quite endearing the way he was trying so hard to be all inclusive. With the bottles in his arms, he teetered out of the bar cart, me following behind.

"Oh, Colette, come here!" Jeff insisted, waving at me. I walked up to him as he embraced me for a quick hug, I could tell he too was plastered. "This is Mitch. He's Harry's guitarist, super cool, one of us."

I switched my gaze to Mitch, the mysterious ponytail man. "Nice to meet you," He said shyly.

"You as well!" I said back cheerfully. I had barely eaten a thing today and just that one shot had created a small amount of excitement in me that wasn't there when I had first arrived.

"He'll be staying here with Harry, so I'm sure you'll be getting to know him some more. What do you think of Harry so far though?" Jeff asked inquisitively. We were all making our way up the driveway, Harry and Jamie were already inside.

"I mean, wow, he's great. Didn't really expect him to be so welcome and inclusive, if I'm honest. Can't help but think I'm overstepping my boundaries a little," I replied worriedly.

Jeff brushed it off casually, it was just now me and him on the front deck, everyone else was already inside. "That's just how Harry he is, he is just nice like that. I hate to try to be serious and all right now but, Harry's going through a bit of a tough time. This is his getaway for him, you know? He feels uncomfortable with the fact that you're here at his beck and call these upcoming months...so he is trying to make you see that you're now a part of his circle."

"Oh, wow." I didn't really know what to say. I'm assuming Jeff is probably that super emotional drunk, who just talks and talks trying to make a lesson out of everything.

"H is a great judge of character, though. He see's something in you, you left an impression on him earlier. He felt terrible kicking you —"

"Oi!" Harry hollered, abruptly opening the door and almost knocking my head. "Mate, I hate to cut you short but we're doing another round. Get the fuck in you two!"

Jeff sent me a 'told you so' look and we both happily pranced inside behind Harry, ready for whatever was to happen inside those

PART 2: THE BAR CART

[whitecatindisguise]

Give Him A Chance To Mend 5

Time for another chapter, people 😁

AO3 link here

Chapter 5: Here In This Hell It's Sinking In

Varian didn't fight back, as the guards locked his arms in shackles and pushed him inside the prison cart. There was no point. His automatons were destroyed, he had no alchemy… and the Princess' hair didn't free his father, as he hoped they would.

Ruddiger, ever faithful, scrambled after his and climbed the alchemist's frame, curling protectively around his neck. The guards either didn't notice or didn't care. They locked the door and the cart started the slow journey back to the capital.

Varian doesn't remember the trip. There is a blank spot in his memory, starting from the moment the barred door locked and ending when they opened back at the castle square. He was flanked by two guards and escorted down to the dungeons, his apron, goggles and gloves taken away. He fought them when they were taking his goggles.

"They were my mother's!" He cried. "Please, it's the only thing I have left of her."

But they were deaf to his cries. They tried to take Ruddiger too, but the raccon growled and swiped it's paws whenever any of the guards got too close, sitting stubbornly on Varian's shoulders. They let it go after one of them got scratched and the other bitten. There was no way of capturing the raccoon. It was staying.

He was led down, down, down the stairs, passing corridor after corridor of cells. The prisoners looked his way in surprise, whispers trailed his path.

"Is this a child?"

"What is he doing here?"

"Did the King lose his mind even more?"

Varian clenched his teeth and kept on going, the familiar weight on his shoulders reassuring him of his animal friend's presence.

Finally, the guards stopped in front of the small cell. There was a tiny bed by the wall, and that's it. One of the men unlocked the door and the other pushed the alchemist inside. The metal door slammed shut behind him, the key turning in the lock.

"You will stay here until the King decides your fate." One of the guards said. Then, they walked away.

It was a moment later Varian finally let his facade drop. The tough villain act fell and what was left was a terrified boy, shaking like a leaf. He slid down to the floor, the severity of his actions finally getting to him.

Treason. He commited treason. He kidnapped the Queen, endangered the life of the Princess and attempted murder on both the Queen and Princess' Lady-in-waiting and the Captain of the Guards' daughter. He can be executed. He should be executed. That's what the citizens will demand, he was sure of it.

He didn't notice he was hyperventilating until his vision started to fog. Ruddiger chittered anxiously, pawing at his face to snap him out. He reached his hand, his ungloved hand, and buried his fingers in the raccoon's fur.

He didn't want to die. His dad was still trapped in that amber. He was the only one who could get him out. He has to save his dad.

The alchemist's whole frame shook, breathing becoming faster and shallower by the second. Suddenly, a piercing pain shot from his ear. He cried out and reached for it, his fingers touching something liquid and sticky. Drastic measure, but Ruddiger managed to forcefully stop the neverending spiral Varian got himself into. The teen took several more shaky breaths, no more being stuck in a terrified state.

He was still scared, yes. But he no longer hyperventilated, so that was an improvement. Ruddiger climbed down from his shoulders and made himself comfortable on Varian's laps instead. The alchemist hugged his furry friend close, awaiting his fate.

~~~~~

He didn't know how much time he spent in that small cell. Guards came and went, checking up on him, bringing water and plates of some grey goo for him to eat, and glaring at him from behind the bars. Varian, for the most time, didn't pay attention to it, curled up in the corner, Ruddiger in his arms.

A sound of the lock opening took him by surprise. The guards didn't open the door when they brought food. Did that mean he was finally getting the trial?

Two guards were standing outside of his cell, the third one walking inside, a pair of shackles in his hand.

"Stand up, hands where I can see them." He barked. Varian obliged, seeing as his chances of escape were close to none.

The shackles locked around his wrists with a metallic click that sent shivers up the teen's spine. The guard eyed him warningly and motioned for him to start walking. As soon as he left the cell, the other two guards flanked him, each putting a hand on one of his shoulders, while the third led the way. To Varian's surprise, they didn't go up, but down again, descending to the lower level of the dungeons.

"Where are we going?" He asked. Wasn't he supposed to get a trial? Isn't that how juridical system worked?

"Your cell has been decided." The guard at the front replied, not sparing a glance at the teen.

"The cell- what about a trial? Don't I get one?" He questioned, confused about the situation.

"Shut up, alchemist." The guard barked back, anger seeping through his teeth. "Be grateful the King didn't order execution. Not for now, anyway."

"Not for now? I don't-" Varian was getting more and more confused by the second.

Before he could say anything more, the guard stopped in front of one of the cells.

"Back up and face the wall." He said. Varian was just about to oblige, when another voice sounded from behind the bars.

"Alright, alright. What's the rush?"

"You're getting a cellmate." The guard simply said and unlocked the door. He turned to Varian, unlocked his shackles and pushed the teen inside, before slamming the door shut again.

"Wait! What's going on?" The alchemist ran to the bars and gripped them, shouting after the leaving guards.

"Get used to the cell, boy." The guard called back, a smirk on his face. "Because it will be your home for the next four years."

The sadistic smile he got in response made the teen freeze in terror. The implication was obvious. In four years, he will be eighteen. A legal adult. And once that happens… there will be nothing holding the King back from ordering his execution.

"Is that a joke?" A male voice sounded from behind and Varian whirled around to face his cellmate. "Is Corona throwing kids into prison now?"

The man was in his early twenties, dark hair tied in a high bun, green eyes and wearing a fur overcoat. He stared at the alchemist with a mixture of bewilderment and annoyance.

"I'm not a kid!" Varian bit back defensively.

"Sure you aren't." The man chuckled and sat at one of the beds. "What did you do, anyway? Stole a candy or something?"

"I stole the Sundrop Flower from the Royal Vault." The teen replied angrily. "Amongst other things…" He added more quietly.

"You stole the-" The criminal stared at him dumbfounded. "Woah, I guess good old Freddy didn't take it kindly."

"Actually I'm here because I also drugged held of the castle with truth serum, kidnapped the Queen, forced the Princess into using her hair in a drill of my design, and almost killed the Queen and Princess' Lady-in-waiting." Varian blurted out, since he might as well share the full scale of his abilities to his cellmate.

"Oh, so you're this Alchemist everyone has been going on about recently." The man exclaimed and looked him over, shrugging. "I thought you would be taller."

"I'm just a proof Corona's security is so bad even a child can get through." Varian mentally slapped his face for referring to himself as a child, but it served its purpose.

The man grinned at the choice of words and laughed.

"Good one. You definitely did that." He nodded and reached out a hand towards the alchemist. "I'm Andrew."

"Varian." The teen replied but didn't shook the man's hand. Ruddiger growled at him from his place on Varian's shoulders and the teenager patted him comfortingly.

"Well, Varian." Andrew's grin never left his face. "I have a feeling we're going to get along just fine, buddy."

"We'll see about that." The younger mumbled in response and made his way towards the other bed, siting on it, Ruddiger jumping down to claim his laps instead.

They sat in silence, thoughts of imminent death by execution returning. He tried to shake them off, but how can you ignore a threat like that. So he opted for a distraction instead.

"So what are you in for?" He asked, looking at the man on the other side of the cell.

"Tried to steal a journal. Got caught." Andrew replied mysteriously. Varian wrecked his brain, trying to remember something about stealing journals. It took a few seconds to click.

"Oh, you're that Saporian guy who tried to woo Cass...andra and steal Herz Der Sonne journal, but for your butt kicked instead." He said and watched the man's face morph into an emotion he couldn't quite place.

"They got lucky. And I was alone." Andrew tried to argue. "If my team was here-"

"I got half of the Corona wetting their pants in fear and the other half scrambling to fight my automatons." Varian countered. "You got caught because you didn't plan for other possibilities than the one you hoped for."

"Should I remind you were caught too?" The Saporian tried to argue.

"The only reason I lost is because the Princess touched those stupid rocks and somehow now decided to control them, and not months ago when they were destroying my village!" The alchemist yelled, acid seeping from his voice. "And now she is on her merry way to sun-knows-where, happily oblivious to everyone she hurt just because she didn't want to be the one hurting."

"Seems to me like you got a bone to pick with Her Royal Hairness." Andrew smirked.

"She broke her promise, ignored me for months and only started to pay attention to me when I threatened everything she loved, because she was oh, so happy, she couldn't see all the bodies she left behind her." Varian's anger was growing and he clenched his fists in frustration. "She's all about friends and promises, but in truth she's just a liar, like all of those upper-class jerks. She only indulges herself into things that benefit her and don't force her to leave her little bubble of happiness."

Andrew listened to the younger's ranting, nodding once in a while. The alchemist once in a while thought he saw his cellmate grin or smirk, but it was gone as soon as he blinked, so maybe he was imagining things.

"Woah, they really did a number on you, buddy." The man said finally, after Varian finished his monologue. "But that's royalty to you. They don't care about anyone but themselves and their happiness. So what people are getting hurt in the process."

"I know, right!" Varian exclaimed in agreement. Ruddiger chittered on his lap and the teen took to petting the raccoon again, the action comforting to him. "The moment you try and get actual help, you're treated like a villain and hunted like a wild animal." He huffed angrily. "I want them to pay for what they did."

"Maybe one day, buddy." Andrew said mysteriously, to which Varian rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, right." He buried his face into Ruddiger's fur and didn't say anything else. He missed the smirk that appeared on Andrew's face, as he observed his new cellmate.

[moonbeambucky]

Safe

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Word Count: 4878 Warnings: fluff, angst, attempted sexual assault 

Summary: The ride home turns dangerous until you find safety with an unlikely stranger.

A/N: This is my submission for @beckzorz Becca’s 1k Writing Challenge. My prompt was Public Transportation. Thank you as always to my Sam 💕 @buckyofthemyscira for beta reading! gif not mine

Routines have become a healthy part of Bucky Barnes’ life. Not to say his routines are really healthy but he tries. When Bucky’s not on a mission his day is executed the same way; get up, hit the gym, ignore Sam’s bullshit, hit the kitchen, hit the showers, ignore more of Sam’s bullshit, train a bit, hit the kitchen again, clean his guns, threaten Sam with his newly cleaned guns, attempt to learn about modern day media (What’s a mee-mee?), give up and read a book because thankfully those haven’t changed, hit the kitchen again because truthfully he loves eating and finally after getting into his final squabble with Sam he gets in bed.

Bucky doesn’t sleep though, he wants to but he can’t. He doesn’t understand how people can just lay their head on their pillow, shut their eyes and fall asleep. It seems simple and he used to be able to do it but now it would be like asking him to magically transform his metal arm back to flesh. He just can’t.

It’s frustrating. The bags under his eyes have happily settled in, Sam has reminded him over and over again that he looks like shit and even Steve has started to worry. All of these thoughts swirl in Bucky’s head, getting louder by the minute as he stares at the ceiling with eyes wide open.

Has that crack gotten bigger? Why is there a crack in the ceiling anyway? Does Stark know? Is Banner above me? Did Hulk make the crack? Will I wake up to Hulk falling through the ceiling?

Wake up. If only he could fall asleep.

After too many restless nights Bucky decided he’s heading out. He needs to get rid of this anxious energy and walking around the city seems like a good idea. He hadn’t seen much of it since, well since he’s been himself again after everything. There have been times he’s wanted to go out but the Avengers generate a lot of attention and Bucky hates the spotlight.

A dark shirt stretches across his frame and he slides his legs through the pair of jeans that were crumpled on his floor. His feet slide into well worn boots as he shrugs a leather jacket over himself. It’s warm on the streets of Manhattan, even in the middle of the night but he doesn’t mind. The leather is cool and comforting against his skin which always seems to run hot.

On Bucky’s first night out he walked a dozen miles and along the way he found a bar. It was full of people that didn’t know who he was nor did they want to know him. Bodies hunched over, deep set wrinkled mouths sag even further pulling their lips down to a tired frown. They wanted to be left alone and relatably Bucky obliges.

He ordered a drink, savoring the taste as he sat for a bit, listening to music he’s pretty familiar with thanks to Tony. Bucky had heard enough disco courtesy of Steve’s “must do” list, seeking out the sounds of heavy drums and electric guitars coming from Tony’s lab instead. Music brought them closer and although there is a long way to go before they can call each other friends at least their journey will be filled with a great soundtrack.

He walks a bit more until he reaches Lower Manhattan, looking off at the blur that was the Statue of Liberty in the far distance, barely visible through the fog. It’s late and Bucky should be getting back. He feels a bit lazy and doesn’t want to walk all the way back to the Tower.

Descending the damp stairs, Bucky heads into the subway. The turnstiles block his entry to the platform. No one is around and he could easily jump over them but he knows there are cameras and the last thing he wants is to add another charge to the list of crimes he’s committed, especially one as silly as fare evasion.

His finger presses at the screen to purchase a MetroCard that allows him to legally pass through the turnstiles. A few people are spread out across the platform, a young couple smiling at each other as the taller man wraps his arms around the shorter one.

A flash of bright blue catches his eyes from the nurse who shifts the weight of her aching feet back and forth. Despite her earbuds she glances over when the couple burst out laughing. The shorter man shushes his boyfriend playfully, and when they catch Bucky’s eye he gives a friendly smile.

Wind from the arriving train whips Bucky’s hair around which he tries to comb back into place with his fingers. There is a downside to being enhanced as Bucky gets an intense whiff of the foul smelling man passed out on the opposite end of the train.

He passes through to the next train, sniffing a few times to ensure the air quality before sitting in the corner. The ride is pleasant and somehow comforting. By the time Bucky gets back to the Tower he barely takes his clothes off before plopping face first into his bed and sleeping for a few good hours.

This routine continues each night, with Bucky riding the subway for a few hours at a time, back and forth all over Manhattan until the point where he’s lulled just enough to get some rest. Sure sleeping until noon might be a problem, especially if there’s a mission on the horizon but on the bright side he’s seeing less of Sam so this may not be a problem at all.

Moving to New York was Y/N’s dream. While submitting applications for law school she imagined herself sitting in a cafe in the heart of the city, laptop and books sprawled out on the table with a delicious cup of coffee warming her hands as she studied. When she got accepted she eagerly packed her things and couldn’t wait for her dreams to come true.

There were struggles along the way. A glitch in the system caused her to miss out on the already limited student housing and the list of affordable student rentals off campus had no availability. The small amount of money she had in savings served as a cushion for her to get a room rental.

During the day she went to school, at night she worked at a bar and every moment in between she studied until she could barely see, all while pushing the boundaries on caffeine consumption and sleep deprivation. It was worth it though she reminded herself.

She was in her last year of school and soon she’d be living in a real apartment and sleep normal hours in a bed; not facedown drooling on the desk of the library, not on the subway with her head rolling forward and jolting her awake and certainly not standing up behind the bar during work while patrons called for her attention. (She was nearly fired over that!)

Y/N no longer falls asleep on the subway, especially not when she’s headed home in the middle of the night. Sure it would be easier to take an Uber but she can’t afford the cost. Instead she sits in the corner at the end, right across from the conductor booth. Occasionally an MTA worker will pop out and either give a nod her way or ignore her completely as they go to the booth on the opposite end of the train to prepare themselves for the next stop.

Her seat is usually available at this hour which is comforting. Y/N feels safer with her back against the metal wall, with the exits right beside her as she overlooks the rest of the train. She’s on alert at all times, armed with her keys in between her knuckles, just in case.

Riding the subway during the day is a lot better. Sure it’s very crowded and sometimes she struggles to find a seat, occasionally squeezing to a spot in between manspreaders who touch her thigh, by accident. Other times she’s stuck in between a huge group of people, holding on to the pole for balance as someone else gropes her ass, not by accident.

It’s much easier to call out these perverts when the train is crowded; she feels safe. Other people have her back, just as she has theirs in similar situations; everyone working together to scream and sometimes push the pervert off the train at the next stop. Occurrences like these were definitely not part of Y/N’s dreams when she pictured living in New York, but she can’t blame her dreams for the faults of others.

Y/N walked to her preferred spot, the bright orange seat welcoming her under the yellow tinged lighting. At the opposite end of the train is someone else in the same spot. Arms crossed over a broad frame, the hood of a sweatshirt pulled down covering almost their entire face with just a peek of stubble sticking out. She places her keys between her knuckles, keeping her hand in the front pocket of her hoodie and waits for the long journey home to begin.

A few stops later two men get on the train, one is tall and slim with a shaved head and the other a bit shorter with a stocky build and a mess of dark hair. She stiffens in her seat watching as they sit diagonally to her, skipping a seat in between each other and spreading their legs out wide. The bald one leans his head back as he rubs his eyes, listening as the other one turned his head to speak.

The jagged end of the keys scratch in between her fingers as she grips them tighter, watching carefully as the one with dark hair gets up and crosses towards her, eyeing the subway map to her right. Y/N doesn’t make any eye contact with him but she still sees his frame standing there from the corner of her eye. She flinches as he shouts unexpectedly at the rough and shaky ride, swallowing a nervous lump she holds her breath until he sits back down next to his friend, except he doesn’t.

He walks to the door at the end of the train right in front of her and stares through to the next train. Is he looking for someone? Will he pass through? No. He leans against the conductor booth standing two feet away from Y/N, jutting his hips out a bit that are unfortunately at her eye level.

She ignores him, looking towards the rest of the train seeing his friend, now wide-eyed and smirking. Whatever game they’re playing Y/N wants no part of, she just wants to go home.

From the corner of Y/N’s eyes she sees the man in front of her moving his arm. Cautiously she looks, regretting what she sees. He’s rubbing himself through his jeans, eyeing her like she’s a piece of meat.

Y/N looks back to the bald man, his legs are spread even wider, with his hands down his pants. He blows a sickening kiss her way as he twists his wrist up showing the very tip of his erection at the top of his pants.

The man in front of her moans as his own hands travel inside his pants as he starts to rub himself harder.

Panic floods Y/N’s veins, rushing through like a coursing river, drowning her in fear. She’s alone. She’s alone with two men, no– two monsters, who could easily overpower her. She’s alone on this train. The conductor booths are empty, the sleeping man is still asleep and even if she called out to him would he care? Would he help or would he join this group of demons and think with his primitive, carnal brain?

It was humiliating to sit there, knowing what they were doing as she did nothing. The keys between her fingers turned to jelly. She couldn’t fight them, she couldn’t stand up for herself and she hates it. Y/N hates every minute she sits there in silence, wishing she had the help of strangers crowding around her to support the verbal lashing she would give them. Y/N hates that she has to rely on safety in numbers, that she can’t even speak up to stop this.

The train slows down as it approaches the next stop and Y/N decides she’s getting off before they do. She calms her nerves, shifting slightly in the seat so she can briskly leave the train, hoping above all that there are other people on the platform.

An automated voice informs arrival at the station and as soon as the doors open Y/N gets up without looking back.

The platform is empty, not that she expected a crowd but even one person would make her feel more at ease. She heads towards the nearest set of stairs, walking faster as she now hears voices behind her.

Y/N knows it’s them. She feels it in her gut, the sickening feeling, her stomach twisting into uneasy knots at the threat behind her. She doesn’t dare look, she can’t slow herself down in any way.

“Where’re ya going sweetheart? We just wanna talk.”

Y/N moves faster up the second set of stairs. She’ll be safe as long as she stays ahead of them. If she gets to the street she can pop into a deli or a bar, anywhere where there are people, where she’ll be safe.

“Get back here bitch!”

They stampede behind her like wild animals, chasing after their prey. Y/N’s panting, rushing up the remainder of steps, her eyes filling with hope as she sees the metal turnstiles to exit. She’s nearly there but hope is pulled away. They’ve caught up to her, one of them grabbing her leg.

Y/N collapses against the stairs, her arm stinging at the pain of how she landed but she doesn't care. Her keys clang as they drop from her hands.

They’ve got her, pulling her up by the loops of her jeans and back towards them, arms wrapping tightly around her waist. Her skin crawls as she feels the press of his hardness against her but she doesn’t stop fighting.

Her arms try to break the hold, her legs kick wildly as she’s dragged back towards the landing trying to break free. Her cheek collides with the cold tile as they slam her against the wall, holding her arms back so she couldn’t move.

They’re laughing. Y/N doesn’t need to see them to know there’s a smile spread across their faces. They’re enjoying this, enjoying her pain as she bites back a sob.

Tears burn their way to her eyes as she hears a zipper being pulled down, buzzing like a bee in her ear. She braces herself for the sting.

A cry of agony echoes in the stairwell but it’s not hers. The bald man was charged at; a stranger came towards him like a bull, fierce and focused as he speared him down. The other man behind Y/N let go of her arms, quickly pulling his pants up so he could fight.

She moves away with her back pressed against the wall watching the scene unfold like an action movie come to life.

Long, dark hair blankets the face of the man who came to her rescue, who shoves her assailant face first into the wall. Tiles shatter as he crumples to the ground unconscious.

The bald man groaned as he got up, pulling a small knife from his pants but the stranger dodges the poor attempt at an attack. Quickly he disarms the man, retrieves the knife for himself with an expert flick of his wrist, flipping the blade midair to catch it again by the hilt.

He forces the man to the wall with his left forearm, cutting off oxygen as he leans in with extra pressure.

“Think you're so tough, huh? You don't look so tough now," the long haired man snarled, threatening the man’s eye with the blade.  

He gasps for breath, begging for his life through fear laden eyes that reveal a deeper truth, he’s a coward. The long haired man knocks him out with a nose shattering punch.

The stranger takes a breath, calming his nerves that were electrified the moment he realized the girl was in trouble. She’s still behind him, he can hear the fast rhythm of her heart, the shakiness of her breathing.

He turns slowly to face her, his heart breaking at the small abrasion on her cheek. He saved her but he wasn’t fast enough, they had still hurt her.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly, keeping his distance because there was no way he was going to force himself into her personal space after what happened.

Y/N was frozen against the wall, wary of the man in front of her. She should be thankful he stopped her attackers but the way he did it… he was dangerous and she’s not sure if she should trust a dangerous man.

She stares him down, her eyes following the curve of obvious muscle even through the thick sweatshirt down to his hands, one tainted red, dripping blood that is not his own, the other a dark metal.

Her brows furrow as her eyes travel upwards to his face confirming his identity. Ocean blue eyes that hold more than a lifetime of memories, good and bad, a soft smile, just a hint pulling at his bright pink lips that stand out against dark stubble.

Y/N’s eyes widen in further recognition. The man who saved her, Bucky Barnes, an actual Avenger was the sleeping man from the train.

“You…” she said, unable to articulate herself further, not when she thought about everything; what almost happened, what did happen. “You were on the train.”

Y/N glances at her superhero savior. She had seen firsthand a small glimpse of his strength and yet he stands before her looking anything but. His shoulders are slumped down, his head hangs low as sadness swims around the deep blue pools of his eyes.

Bucky was her hero but he definitely didn’t feel super.

He was on the train and he could have stopped this sooner if he hadn’t fallen asleep. Bucky’s train rides gave him enough comfort to rest when he was home but never before has he let his guard down like this and fallen asleep in a public place.

The guilt eats away at him and he lets it, offering every part of his aching soul willingly. If he was awake this wouldn’t have happened. He would have tackled these guys to the ground a lot sooner. She would have been safe.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, staring at her shamefully. “It shouldn’t have come to this.”

“Don’t.” Y/N takes a step closer to him, “You’re not responsible for what they did.” She glances briefly behind him, checking that the men were still knocked out. “Thank you Mr. Barnes.”

Bucky smiled softly, “It’s Bucky, and you’re welcome...” he quirked his head, wordlessly asking for her name. “You’re safe now Y/N,” he promised.

Pulling his phone out Bucky places a call, following protocol in the event an Avenger was involved in a civilian altercation. He panics when he turns around not seeing Y/N anywhere until she reappears, taking slow, measured steps down the stairs, still wary of the men on the ground.

“My keys,” she said, holding them up to him; a simple explanation as she had gone to retrieve them but the thought of her disappearing still worried him. Sure there were statements to give but Bucky cared more about her state of mind, knowing this type of situation can have a long lasting impact.

Bucky explained SHIELD would be coming to process the scene, assuring her things would be handled more efficiently than the NYPD.

“You’ll just need to give your statement once and everything will be handled. Pressing charges and all of that… it’s a lot easier ‘cause I got involved.”

The words leave a bitter taste on Bucky’s tongue; the fact that Y/N would get justice easily only because of his involvement. She won’t have to worry about being questioned as to why this happened, as if anything she did or the clothes she wore would ever be justification for this to happen. It’s not, not to her or anyone.

SHIELD arrives quickly after, beginning to take photographs before they handcuff the men. Bucky doesn’t leave Y/N’s side as she details the full encounter, his stomach twisting at what those sick fucks did all while he was asleep. He bites his tongue, swallowing his anger. This isn’t about him.

Incredibly things have cleaned up quickly, the only evidence of anything happening was the cracked subway tile. An agent approaches Y/N asking if she would like a ride home. She wants to trust them but she can’t bring herself to.

Bucky sees the apprehension in her eyes. “If it’s alright with Y/N,” he began, looking at her so she understood he knew what she was thinking, “I’d like to personally make sure that she gets home safely.”

Y/N nodded as she looked between the Agent and Bucky, her lips pulling in the faintest smile as she stared at the man she felt safest with.

They were alone again, standing in the silence of the stairwell. Y/N doesn’t know what to say. Bucky’s supposed to be taking her home but the thought of being alone terrifies her. Sure she has roommates and everyone is friendly with each other but they aren’t really friends. They’re not the type you wake up in the middle of the night to tell about your assault on the train and rescue by an Avenger.

Actually they might think the last part is pretty cool but Y/N would much rather be saved by an Avenger for something mundane. The Falcon could save her from a wild cyclist or maybe Iron Man could scan her yogurt and prevent her from eating it past the expiration date, or Bucky… Well, she can’t lie to herself, it’s definitely nice being around him, even if the circumstances were awful.

“I don’t want to go home,” she finally blurted out, her words echoing throughout the empty stairwell.

Bucky understands. He’s had seventy years of suffering he’s still dealing with, the reason for even being out in the middle of the night. He hates knowing sleep will escape her too, that she will beg her brain to turn off but instead it will force her to relieve the trauma.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, happy to see her nodding without hesitation.

They ascend to the street, feeling the cool wind refreshing their skin. The sky is just beginning to lighten, with the darkest, deepest blues retreating, breaking away to give the smallest hint of an orange glow in the distance.

Together they walk silently, with Y/N leaning close to Bucky, bumping into him every now and then but he doesn’t mind; she needs to feel him beside her and he kind of likes it.

“Where were you coming from?” he asked, breaking the silence.

She explained her schedule of school and work, and Bucky wonders if he’s ever been in her bar during one of his midnight strolls. He doubts it, he would have remembered her. He thinks to himself that taking the trains in the middle of the night isn’t safe. No shit Barnes, look at what happened. Instead he asks if she considered taking a taxi home.

“I wish!” she laughed. “They’re too expensive, even Uber. I’m struggling enough as it is.”

Money is a luxury Bucky hasn’t had to think about. Sure when he was younger he started working to help his folks, taking a newspaper route with Steve, working twice as hard that winter when his friend was stuck in the house with pneumonia. Now he doesn’t worry about anything. He has a home, two homes technically, not that he’s been to the compound in a while. Food is always stocked in the fridge and he’s never worried about it running out. Money is just available to him if he needs to buy clothes or the childhood candies he likes to occasionally treat himself to.

Bucky apologizes but Y/N ensures him there’s nothing to apologize for. He may live a luxurious life now but she would not trade her path for his.

A small bodega is the only store open for blocks so they stop in, greeted by a grey and white cat sleeping across the newspaper rack. Colorful packages of candy and chips surround the register, the junk food seems very tempting but before she can pick something out Bucky confirms if it’s alright to place an order for coffee and sandwiches. He pays but can’t leave until the man behind the counter takes a picture with him, excited to have a real “Vengador” visit his store.

They walk two more quick blocks until they reach Battery Park, strolling through the paths until they find the perfect bench to sit on. The coffee is still nice and hot, and the bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches are possibly the greatest thing they’ve ever eaten. A much better choice than the junk she would have chosen.

Napkins sop up the gooey cheesy from the corner of her mouth as Y/N makes conversation. “What were you doing on the train anyway?”

Bucky swallows a mouthful. “Helps me sleep,” he answered, looking at her with big, innocent eyes.

“Like a baby? In a car?”

Bucky nods, “Yeah, somethin’ like that.” He felt embarrassed until he saw a genuine smile pulling at Y/N’s lips as she brought the coffee to her lips.

“When do you finish school?” he asked, wanting to know more about her.

“I’m in my last year, then it’s study for the Bar, hope I pass and then I won’t need to risk my life every night on the subway. I’ll just go back to the daytime groping.”

Bucky stops himself from taking a bite, putting his sandwich back down on the paper in his lap. He shifts himself to turn towards Y/N, “You shouldn’t have to deal with that. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. Not everyone is as kind as you, then again you’re from a different time.”

Bucky shakes his head. “The time has nothing to do with it, pigs will be pigs. During the war my sister Rebecca went to work. She wrote to me saying how she had to quit because her boss was putting his hands on her. That’s what they taught her back then. Well I’ll tell you, Becca didn’t quit without sockin��� him right in the eye!”

Y/N likes the way Bucky’s face lights up like the sun while reminiscing about his sister. Bucky likes the way she laughs at his story, how a smile suits her face so much more than the anguish he first saw on her.

“It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay after this.” His eyes are determined in that truth and Y/N smiles, wanting to believe him.

They finish their food and sip coffee as people pass them by to jog along the water. Despite the caffeine Y/N covers her mouth as she yawns but Bucky is wide awake, thanks to the coffee and the early morning ass kicking. He supposes she’ll need to go home soon but the thought that she’ll have to repeat this subway routine again tonight makes him uneasy.

“I wouldn’t mind making sure you get home safe every night,” he said, breaking the soft silence between them. “Since I’m up anyway.”

Her lips pull to a short lived smile. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking, I’m offering. As long as I’m here, not on a mission or something, I really don’t mind.” Bucky smiled sincerely, and Y/N saw nothing but truth in his sweet blue eyes. “We could take the train… together?” he suggested, “or I could drive you home.”

Y/N chewed on her lip as she examined the hopeful look on Bucky’s face, patiently waiting for an answer.

“I don’t know… Should I really trust a sleep deprived old man?”

Bucky’s mouth dropped open at her words as she graced his ears with the sweet sound of her laughter. Still, he shook his head in disbelief.

“That’s… that was cold. You been talking to Falcon behind my back or something?” he joked.

“Fine, I will accept your offer of driving.” Y/N yawns again, leaning her head against Bucky’s shoulder. “I don’t think I’ll be taking public transportation at night for a while.”

He’s happy, not that she is avoiding the subway because it shouldn’t have to come to that but because he knows she’ll be getting home safe each night with him.

“Where do you live anyway?” Bucky questioned. “I should have asked this before offering. Hope I haven’t committed myself to driving to Jersey or something,” he scoffed jokingly.

“Brooklyn.”

Bucky smiles, his heart swells like a balloon and he feels like he needs to grip the bench so he doesn’t float away.

“Brooklyn it is.”

They sit for a while longer, putting the long night behind them as the sun rises on a new day.

A/N: Thank you for reading! Reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated :)

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[alexeiadrae]

Thoughts on Evil

I finished watching Evil. For reference, I am an atheist and was raised in a secular household and I am a skeptic who loves folklore and scary stories and who also loves debunking paranormal claims. My husband is Catholic and believes in demonic possession and the end of days stuff, and somehow we work, just like Kristen and David somehow work. I am also a counselor so I am familiar with the mental health aspects that Kristen deals with, and since she was the skeptic and the atheist related to her on those levels, as well as balancing motherhood with a professional career even though I have a private practice and do not testify in court, and my husband is not an adventurer in any sense of the word and has been in the trenches with me for years.

That said, I wasn’t sure if I would finish it. One thing I have noticed about atheists who were raised in secular homes is that we tend to not find the demonic possession end of day stuff scary, and if anything we find it overacted to the point of ludicrousness if it isn’t boring as hell (can’t speak for all of us, but the overwhelming majority that I have talked to about it feel that way). My parents were both raised Methodist and found The Exorcist scary even though they had been atheists for years, so I think if you are raised Christian it is still scary even if you leave the faith, but if you are never raised to believe in it then it’s silly. Both my sister and I found it silly, even though other people our age who were Christian thought it was terrifying. And it extends to other movies and shows that feature demon possession and end of day stuff. While I love horror, it’s not a subset of horror that works for me.

So I don’t know if people raised in other belief systems like Islam or Buddhism find it scary (but would be interested in finding out!), but lifelong atheists tend not to. So for those reasons I wasn’t sure if I would finish it, and for the first few episodes I still wasn’t sure because, bluntly, the demon possession stuff just has me rolling my eyes with how over the top it is if I wasn’t laughing at how preposterous it was. So those elements definitely dragged it down for me. Yet there were elements that I really appreciated, and it did have one episode that terrified and disturbed me. So I finished it. Do I want to watch the second season? Not sure. Spoilery thoughts below.

-I did appreciate how at the beginning it illustrated how someone like Kristen would have a massive amounts of student loan debt and would be working her ass off to pay it. They sort of drifted from this. But at the beginning there was the sense of how it is hard juggling career and kids and paying the bills.

-While I did like some of the psychological aspects, there was some stuff that fell victim to me knowing the ins and outs of Kristen’s profession. Most counselors and psychologists, or the good ones at least, do see a therapist of their own to work on their own issues, get what they need to off their chest and ensure that they are in a good emotional state to practice, so I am glad that they showed Kristen going to therapy and working on her issues. That said, if someone stole a therapist’s client files, that would be a BFD, for both the practitioner and the thief. A practitioner could lose their license if they were shown to be negligent in handling the files. They could have also filed a lawsuit against Leland for stealing the files. And if I was a practitioner, I would want to know how the files were stolen. 

-Which is one of the weak points of the show. Why did Kristen feel like she had to take on Leland and LeRoux on her own? She hardly exhausted her options. She didn’t even tell her mother that Leland had threatened to kill her daughters, much less document the threat and work to get a restraining order against him (yes, I know, those don’t always work well but they give her a legal recourse). Ditto with LeRoux. One of my specialties is domestic violence and harassment so I am very familiar with the steps you would take to document all of that and get help before abandoning the idea, but Kristen didn’t try any of those. And while domestic violence and the like doesn’t appear to be her specialty it pops up frequently enough that it would be alarming if she didn’t know that. It took away a bit from me. Also, if someone had threatened my children, I would tell my children. Yes, I get you wouldn’t want your kids to be anxious, but in a case like that they would need to know. I would tell my husband. I would tell the police. In fact, as a mandatory reporter, Kristen would be legally obligated to call the police if someone made threats on someone else’s life, especially a child’s life. It blew my mind that she just kept it to herself. Especially as Leland did it in a public courthouse surrounded by people. I would find someone to corroborate.

Now a problem in these cases is someone making threats to harm or kill someone, being reported, and then denying it to the police and leaving them unable to do much. They could have written that in, but they didn’t, and it did not reflect well on Kristen IMO.

-Another counselor nitpick, a good counselor/psychologist would not start out by challenging a client’s beliefs but take time exploring them and mapping out how they think. This is two fold, helping the client to trust the counselor and feel validated by them while it helps the psychologist understand how they see the world and build a map of their thoughts process and belief system and give them clues to how to utilize it to help them get better. Basically if someone came into my office and said they were possessed by a demon I would go with it even though I don’t believe them because understanding how they think is more important than challenging everything right off the bat. 

-There were a few episodes that were very effective. The Halloween episode with the masked girl was chilling. The episode that really did it for me was when David was in the hospital and subjected to the whims of a sadistic, racist nurse. And what is interesting is what made is so chilling is that none of it was supernatural. But that thought of being held captive, drugged to the point of being unable to advocate for yourself and ask for help and at the mercy of someone who wants to hurt you was terrifying (and not to mention hard to watch). I also have a history of sleep paralysis, and the thing that would terrify me most when I was paralyzed was the thought that someone was in the room or outside my home wanting to hurt me and I couldn’t defend myself or even call 911. So David being medically paralyzed captured that feeling. I also hate IVs, absolutely hate them and have this fear that they will tear my veins out, so there were several scenes I could not watch. Finally, this happens. There have been nurses who have tormented and killed patients and they got away with it for years because they were able to cover it up. And my husband, who is mixed Pacific Islander, Asian and European but appears a racially ambiguous brown, is nervous about hospitals for that same reasons and because of mistreatment his father received when he was treated for lung cancer (they broke a mercury thermometer in his lungs) that likely contributed to his death. So that episode chilled me to the core for a number of reasons.

-That said, Kristen’s sleep paralysis stuff was not an accurate depiction of how it works at all. You can’t even talk when you have sleep paralysis. I was usually laughing at the scenes with George. George. I mean, how the fuck can you take a demon named George seriously? I laughed my head off when he said his name was George and wondered if I was suddenly watching a comedy. If I had sleep paralysis and a demon came in and said his name was George I would laugh myself out of it. 

-The episode with the boy who tried to drown his baby sister in the pool brought back memories of working in a children’s mental hospital. I saw something similar with a kid who was even younger. And that kid suffered abuse so horrific that it gave me and one of the other therapists working with them nightmares, and with the knowledge that we don’t have good treatment options for someone who exhibits the symptoms that kid did it was a horrible case. If I wake up one morning and see on the news that they were arrested for a string of murders or killing their kids I will not be surprised. You don’t need possession to explain this stuff. The truth, that someone would be so sadistically abusive to their own child, and that despite all of the red flags that this child’s parents were allowed to raise and abuse them for as long as they did and to the extent that they did, is far more terrifying. I guess that’s another reason I don’t like the demonic possession stuff. It gives abusers a way out. 

-So there were things I liked about it, and there were things I hated about it. I think I’ll see what the plot synopsis and reviews of the second season are like before committing.

[iredreamer]

Thank you so much for your insights on Anne's life and the details of social norms back then! I really enjoyed reading your posts, and it's absolutely fascinating! I have seen some controversy around her relationship with Ann. Aside from the show of course, what is your perspective on their relationship?(I have read in a couple of places that Anne kind of just "settled" for Ann and her heart really lied with Mariana) So I was wondering, as someone who read about both the Ann(e)s what you think?

hey :) I’m finally answering you! Thank you so much, I’m happy you’re enjoying the history facts haha.

Okay, this turned out to be waaaay longer than I thought, so grab a cup of coffee (or tea I guess) and sit comfortably!

First of all, I think this is a difficult answer because I do feel like everyone could elaborate their own opinion on the matter, and at the end we would never know were the truth really lies. To have some kind of unbiased opinion one should read every single entry of Anne’s diary about Miss Walker and Mariana and compare how she acts with both of them and how she writes about them, and of course that can’t be done (at least for now) so…this is my opinion and it’s of course based on what I have read (my sources: Gentleman Jack: The Real Anne Lister; Presenting the past: Anne Lister of Halifax, 1791-1840; Nature’s Domain: Anne Lister and the Landscape of Desire and Female Fortune: Land, Gender and Authority: The Anne Lister Diaries and Other writings). We should also consider that these two women [Walker and M] were really different from each other and Anne meets them in two very different moments of her life, when she meets Mariana she’s in her 20s and when she meets Ann she’s 41, in twenty years a person changes, their priorities change and even the way of showing love and affection changes.

Okay, now, about the Mariana-Anne-Ann thing…I already wrote something about the matter and you can find it here, it summarizes a little what I think about Anne & Ann’s relationship and also has some facts about how things went between them and with Mariana.

I also posted some extracts from Anne’s 1832 diary in which she says more than once that she feels like she’s falling in love with Miss Walker and that: “I really am getting much more in love than I expected to be again”. So let’s debunk the myth that she didn’t give a flying fuck about Ann Walker.

Now, let’s dive in, I have many thoughts about all of this and I tried to organize them as best as I could but I probably failed, so this might be a bit of a rant and all over the place, I hope you enjoy reading it anyway! And, one more thing, most of this long rant focuses on the Ann(e)s relationship and what are (some of) the things and facts that make me think that they did love each other and that Anne Lister did care about Miss Walker. Here we go…

Anne Lister wanted a wife. She says it many many times. She’s always writing how she wants someone to spend her life with, and when she comes back to Shibden at 41 she wants to settle down. She’s tired of all those women who used her for sex, company and sometimes even money without seriously committing to her (and yes, Mariana is one of those women). I love when at the beginning of Nature’s Domain Liddington writes that Anne Lister could have adapted the opening of Pride and Prejudice: “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman in need of a good fortune must be in want of a wife”. So, she was in search of a wife…

In 19th century marriage was a “legal agreement”, you didn’t marry for love but for money, so, yes, that’s what Anne was looking for in a woman: money and status, but also the desire of a happy life together. When she meets Ann and decides to court her she writes many times how she likes her company and how she wants to make her happy and how happy that would make her in return: “I really think I can make her happy & myself too”. And: “She [Miss Walker] falls into my views of things admirably. I believe I shall succeed with her - if I do, I will really try to make her happy - & I shall be thankful to heaven for the mercy of bringing me home, having first saved me from Vere, rid me of M-, & set me at liberty.” I think the fact that she was looking for happiness and thought she could really achieve it with Miss Walker is often overlooked and it shouldn’t be, it’s an important fact.

One of the things that struck me while reading Anne’s diary is that, when things don’t go as she planned, she writes again and again how she doesn’t care about Miss Walker, how she doesn’t care how things will turn out in the end, how she doesn’t care if Ann decides to commit to her or not, but her actions and her behavior conflict with all that. It seems as if she’s trying to convince herself that she doesn’t care, to protect herself from going through another heartbreak. This is an example, Ann had to give Anne a final answer about their commitment, Anne writes:

November 2, 1832 / We fretted ourselves to sleep last night - she lay on me as usual to warm her stomach & then lay in my arms – but I was perfectly quiet & never touched her queer – the tears silently trickling from my cheeks down hers. Somehow I was shockingly attendri [softened] tho’ perpetually saying to myself ‘Well, I care not how she decides…’. On awaking found myself as tearful as ever (…) We wept (& kissed) – I thanked her & she left me. (…) Both of us attendries & the tears starting perpetually I said my mind was made up for the worst – she said ‘Well, but she had not given her answer yet’…. She would (& did) mend my gloves – begged me to promise to let her have a night-chemise for a pattern – but she saw I declined promising. She hoped she should do many more things for me – never knew till now how much she was attached to me. I made no reply… she hung upon me & cried & sobbed aloud at parting… ‘Well’, said I to myself as I walked off, ‘a pretty scene we have had, but surely I care not much & shall take my time of suspense very quietly & be easily reconciled either way’.

The most important fact (I think) that gives us some insight on how Anne felt about Miss Walker, is that Anne was the only one who genuinely cared about Ann’s health. Anne Walker’s mental health was really bad but Anne stayed close to Miss Walker and helped her for months, trying to make her feel better, trying to restore her health. At that time the engagement was off, so it’s not like she [Anne Lister] was acting like that because she hoped her kindness would convince Ann Walker to marry her, it’s not like she was doing it for the money, she was doing it because Ann needed her. In her diary she says how the situation is unbearable for her, but still, she doesn’t leave Ann’s side. Why do this? It was all off, she didn’t have any obligation to look after Ann. Why take such responsibility? Why stay in a situation that threatened her happiness and mood if she didn’t care?

Anne Lister writes, again, how she doesn’t care about Miss Walker but then ends up crying when the thought of her crosses her mind: “Seeing her always unhinges me…I was low and in tears at dinner and could not get her out of my head and why? For if I had her what could I do with her?” Come on…it’s hard for me to think that the sadness she felt was only because things didn’t go as she planned, it’s hard for me to think that she cries only for the money. Do we really have to think her that cold? I think Anne couldn’t stay away from her really: “This girl, without really having my esteem or affection, somehow or other unhinges me whenever I see her…“.

When they see each other again, after being away from each other for 10 months (during that time they kept a correspondence even if it wasn’t a direct one), they are very happy to reunite and they end up together again: “Much talk last night till 4 this morning and then not asleep for a long while. She [Miss Wlaker] repented having left me”. Anne Walker starts talking about wanting to commit again and at the end they marry each other. Was their journey an easy one? No. Was it an happy one? Not always. But I do believe they cared for each other.

And I just wanna say, in those 10 months they spent apart, Anne Lister never tried to find a serious partner, she was always flirting and shit because that’s who she was, but she always wrote how she didn’t want to go too far with anyone and she just kept thinking about Ann Walker, even if she didn’t want to think about her, even if it was all off. She worried when letters about Ann Walker stopped coming. I mean, come on…

So, fast forward to their marriage and what happened after it. Mariana tried to tempt Anne but with no luck. Anne went to visit her for Christmas and this is what happened, from Anne Lister’s diary:

December 23, 1834 / I led the conversation to A- [Ann Walker]; said I liked [her], was more than comfortable and whatever might be said, money had nothing to do with it. M- [Mariana] asked if it was true that she has three thousand a year - I said no, but our fortunes would be about equal and that we should have five thousand a year… I was thankful things were as they were, for I was determined to have [some]one and certainly could not have done better.

December 25, 1834 / M- [Mariana] came to me a little before eight and staid till nine in bed with me - rather in the pathetics - she cannot get over her love for me - but I behaved with perfect propriety

Anne comes back home to Ann Walker (they were already living together, Ann Walker moved in at Shibden Hall after their marriage, going against her family) I think they’re cute:

December 26, 1834 / A- [Anne Walker] jumped up & came to me in her dressing gown & clock, delighted to see me back again - had given up in despair. Had tea - the 1st thing we did was to laugh aloud at her droll figure & the bustle I had made - explained, sat talking - told her I myself was astonished how little I had thought of M-, either of going or returning - very glad to be back again - mentioned how I had offered her the use of Shibden in the event of Charles’s death. 

Reading her diary entries (from 1833 till 1836) it’s clear that she and Ann talked a lot, their sex life was great, Anne introduced Ann to her social circle, they had fun playing backgammon (fun fact: Ann Walker was really better at it than Anne Lister ahaha), and yeah, they were just like any other married couple. There were also bad things in their marriage: Anne Lister had to be the one introducing Ann Walker to new people, Anne Lister read all Ann Walker’s letters and always suggested how to answer, and more…

So, what’s the point of all this? I do think that Anne Lister cared and loved Ann Walker. For sure the relationship with Ann Walker was not the most romantic one she had, but it was the most serious one, they found each other. Both of them wanted a “traditional marriage” and by traditional marriage I mean a marriage in which the roles were very clear. Ann Walker wanted someone who could take care of the business estate, manage social relationships and basically “play the husband” and Anne Lister was more than happy to take on that role. They were polar opposites but they wanted the same things in life.

For sure their marriage wasn’t perfect, but Anne behaved as she did because she saw their union as a serious one, “she saw absolutely no reason why property should not be as important a consideration for Ann and herself as it would be in any heterosexual alliance.” [J. Liddington, Female Fortune] at the same time we shouldn’t forget that “she did often demonstrate a warm affection and care for Ann” [J. Liddington, Female Fortune].

About her relationship with Mariana, I haven’t read much of Anne’s entries about her, but from the little I’ve read and from various commentaries, I can say that she for sure loved her (and yes Mariana was her first real love and their relationship went on for something like 20 years). Mariana manipulated her and led her on for years. The two always talked about how when M’s husband died they would live together, but from 1830 Anne Lister kinda stops caring about it, she’s tired of the situation and hates to be second to anyone. Their relationship deteriorates with time. She even wrote about Mariana that their passion turned into friendship or something along those lines. If you wanna know more about Anne & Mariana’s relationship I really suggest watching this video of Helena Whitbread talking about it, it really sheds some light on their relationship, their dynamic and how badly Mariana hurt Anne.

What I believe: Anne’s love for Mariana was disinterested and wholeheartedly felt, there’s no doubt about that (I mean, she saw her when she was 19 and fell in love with her right in that moment), if Mariana hadn’t been the bitch she was, Ann Walker would have never came in the picture. But the truth is that Mariana was always ashamed of Anne, used her and kept her close, taking advantage of her love but never committing to her, always and only concerned about her status. So, in conclusion, I’m happy Anne found someone like Ann who was brave enough to be with her and make her as happy as she could, and I think that must have meant something in the end.

I hope this long thing I wrote gives you an idea of the dynamic between Anne and these two women. There’s for sure a lot more to say and to analyze and there are still many Anne Lister’s words that haven’t seen the light of day so, who knows what else is there to know about how she truly felt about these two.

And one more thing, I think we shouldn’t expect Anne Lister to be the romantic heroine we would like her to be, because she wasn’t. She was a flawed, not “very nice” woman who lived in the 19th century and tried to do all she could to be happy.

[smallnico]

Does Sofiya like a specific kind of tea aside from just sugary? What's her family like? Why does Dom (presumably) like tropical print shirts? What are Lani's top five countries she would be banned from if she got to choose which ones? What's Chris's favourite sport if any and why? What got Candace into baking? Is she competitive at the bake sale? What are Erol's opinions on sci-fi as a genre? Would Leandro star in a musical and if so what kind? What does he think about musicals in general?

:D

sofiya’s favourite kind of tea is milk tea, but when she drinks other kinds, she adds a lot of sugar and milk. she doesn’t really have a preference aside from preferring less caffeine, as she has a low bitter tolerance and is paranoid about setting off psychotic symptoms. i, personally, know that you need a lot more caffeine than anyone should reasonably digest in order to cause said symptoms, but sofiya does not, or at the very least, she’s so worried about it she refuses to even chance it. 

how her family is depends on which family you’re asking about! her current family consists of the theatre dads -- her biological father miko and her not-yet-legal-unmarried-stepfather theo -- and her two honorary siblings -- theo’s estranged-but-reconnected daughter grace, and beau, a former student of his who he got legal custody of a few years back due to Circumstances. they’re a weird family, the members of which adopted one another into their lives at some point and just ran with it. they have a surprisingly natural and healthy family dynamic, all things considered, with the exception of grace, who is newer and less on board with the whole situation (she really only considers their house a temporary place to stay, though she warms up quickly to beau and miko). sofiya really likes grace and frequently tries to engage her and persuade her to be less mean and intimidating. it doesn’t really work. sofi’s one of a few characters in the group who wasn’t born in canada! she and her dad are russian-ukrainian, with her dad having lived and worked in russia most of his life, and having moved to ukraine after sofiya was born in order to live with her and her mother. sofiya’s dad and mom were in a tumultuous relationship from the start, and it only got worse after sofiya was born, since she was kind of an accident. she remembers her mom being cold, bitter, and deeply unhappy, when she wasn’t having spells of paranoia and intense emotional outbursts. miko and sofiya’s mom split on good terms when she was ten, then he took custody of sofiya and they moved to canada. 

dom does like horrible loud shirts, yes. there are a few reasons for this, but none of them are very compelling: he’s gay, he likes thrifting, he likes that vibrant energy, and they make him feel better about himself. he has about a half dozen equally questionable fashion choices in his wardrobe, and a handful of quieter clothes he wears when he really needs to do laundry. 

honestly, the only reason lani hasn’t made this list is because she’s allergic to planning ahead. her chaos is the sort that comes from impulse rather than conscious thought and self-awareness. i think it takes a lot to be banned from a whole country, but i also believe lani’s the kind of presence to somehow manage to do it by a colossal series of spontaneous mistakes. she has been suspended from school before, and she has been kicked off the bus on at least three separate occasions. if she had to choose a country to be banned from it’d be australia, because she’d think it’d be hilarious to be banned from a country that used to be where the british shipped criminals.

chris used to play rugby in high school. she initially got into it on a whim, but really committed to it after it became the thing to finally persuade her dad to say no to her -- see, she really wants to rebel and used to act out a lot more than she does now that she’s a bit more mature, but it’s hard to rebel against your parents when they spoil you unconditionally. her main sport is now kickboxing, for purposes of self-defense and good cardio, but she’s still a fan of rugby and women’s soccer in particular. she refuses to watch men’s soccer because she vocally thinks it’s overrated.

baking is candace’s go-to de-stressing activity. she’s a fundamentally high-strung person, so this means she got really, really good at it. for a long time baking was the Thing She Did For Herself, though it eventually got folded into the miasma of taking care of her younger siblings while her mom worked full time and late into the night. she’s kind of a duty elemental, though she hates being passively obligated to take care of people more than she hates anything in the world, except when people bring premade store-bought goods to bake sales. (”it’s lazy, it’s lying, and it’s disgusting”, she says. “some of us got up at five in the morning to make sure their homemade cinnamon bread rose and got into the oven in time to be warm for this, you animals.”) she loves her siblings, but literally the second they got old enough to take care of themselves, she left for university and resolved to never have kids of her own. she now truly bakes for herself, though she usually ends up bringing stuff in to the theatre and to parties, because baking a tray of delicious hazelnut chocolate cookies is absolutely no good if you can’t share them with the people you really want to be friends with. she does stay hyper-vigilant of everyone’s dietary needs out of habit.

erol really enjoys it, but only a certain kind of it. they see science fiction as a genre that should be fundamentally humanist, it should say something about human nature, rather than just being fantasy in space or “hey look at this cool robot”. they’ll get snitty and correct you if you say star wars is science fiction (”it’s space opera, it’s a whole and fundamentally different genre!”) but they’ll accept that star wars exists. erol’s more of a star trek kind of person for sure, but their real love of the genre is classic science fiction, your isaac asimovs and your phillip k dicks and your ursula leguins. overall their taste in literature skews toward either “shit you’ve never heard of” (which if i’m being honest, when i write erol, i just make up on the spot) or “classics that you’re allowed to be a snob about”. they haven’t read a piece of genuine young adult literature since they were 13 and read twilight. they refused to admit they enjoyed it for years, and now they’ll defend its place in the literary canon, past the point where any reasonable person would cave to the popular insistence that it’s just a book for teens that blew up and that’s Fine.

leandro fucking loves musicals and would kill to star in a big one. he’s actually a good singer and performer, too, so it’s not a far-fetched dream for him, though round river doesn’t put muscials on very often. they’re more expensive than non-musical stage shows to make good quality, and not all of the cast members can actually sing, so whenever they put on a musical, they have to bring in... the choir.(horror chord) leandro and erol are on opposite ends of the spectrum when it comes to the sorts of shows they prefer, with erol preferring thinky highbrow stuff, and leandro being completely swept up in spectacle and drama and performance. he’d make a great phantom, according to himself. in the two musicals round river’s put on while he’s been around, he was billy flynn in chicago, and kenickie in grease. when i did my little heathers fancast (which is outdated, sofiya can’t sing and neither can lani), i set leandro to play jd.

thanks for asking! :>

[romanticatheart-posts]

King Sized Revelations 11

From Queen to Nurse - Part 1 of 2

Okay. This chapter got pretty long pretty quick so I am making it a two part. Part 2 will be posted soon after this one.

Special credit to @lodberg for the phenomenal edits and giving me some inspiration and advice on a certain section I was struggling with. You are awesome! Thank you!!

Pairings: Liam x MC (Catherine)                Drake x Olivia? OC:         Maxwell, Hana, Mara, Dr. Stevens

No special warnings.

Disclaimer: Pixelberry owns all characters except for the ones I created for the story. You rock PB!

Tags: @umccall71 @3pawandme @indiacater @katurrade @lodberg @heatherfilliez @eadanga @missevabean @furiousherringoperatortoad @flowerpowell @cheeseedreams47 @tornbetween2loves @smalltalk88   @hopefulmoonobject @stopforamoment @blznbaby @ao719 @cocomaxley @perfectprofessorherokid @femmeshep @sarwin85  @wannabemc2 @gardeningourmet @krsnlove @mrsdrakewalkerblog @annekebbphotography

Master List

It’s the last day at Applewood and after lunch, Liam invites Catherine on a private tour of the orchard. They walk hand-in-hand, chatting and laughing and occasionally stopping for a kiss or two. Liam seems more relaxed than he has in while and Catherine is thankful that he and his father were able to finally have the ‘talk’. 

Looking around at the landscape, Catherine is in awe of how it seems to mimic the peaceful aura that surrounds them. “Liam, I know why you love it here so much. It’s so serene… and just look at the progress so far. It’s beautiful.” Liam looks around with a smile. “Yes. I’m anxious to see the orchard restored to what is was before the fire. All the farmers’ hard work seems to be paying off.” 

“I guess it’s back to the palace in a few hours, but this has been a wonderful end to our weekend.” Liam’s expression sobers somewhat. “Yes, and unfortunately we’ll not have much time to settle back in once we get there. An urgent matter with the trade policy has been brought to my attention and it can’t be handled over the phone…”  

The next morning at the palace -- Catherine reluctantly helps Liam finish packing for the week-long trip to Italy. It was unplanned but Cordonia can’t afford to lose this momentum. “Liam, I wish I could go with you…” After zipping up the last piece of his luggage, he calmly turns and wraps his arms around her waist. “So do I, but with your prior obligation it couldn’t be avoided. However, it’s going to be a long week without you.” He leans down, kissing her tenderly then sighs. “A very long week indeed...”

She had already committed to another project. Namely Maxwell’s new dance studio. He was having some trouble getting things moving and since Bertrand was busy helping his new family get settled in at the Beaumont estate, she had offered her support. That was before either of them knew about the problem in Italy. The timing couldn’t have been more disappointing, but this was important to Maxwell and with only a small window of opportunity left to launch the opening, she knew staying behind was the only option.

“The longest… but I did promise and he’s counting on me. It’s just… I’m going to miss you so much…” With his hand on her chin, he tilts her head up and she eagerly touches her lips to his. When they part, Liam sighs in resolve. “I certainly understand and it’s only for a week… if all goes well, I’ll be back before you know it.” “I hope so…” He smiles lovingly at her. “I can only stay away from you for so long my love.” He kisses her soundly before he lets go to reach for his luggage. 

She follows him anxiously to the door. “Wait!” He turns sharply, only to be met with her poignant expression. “You’ll call. Right?” He drops the suitcases, keeping eye contact with her and moves to pull her close. “Of course I will…” He cups her face in his hands, looks deep into her eyes and drops a slow but passionate kiss on her lips… she is left breathless. A smile stretches across her face. “You’re not making this any easier you know.” Liam smiles mischievously back at her. “Just consider that a sample of what you’ll get when I return…” 

After Liam departs, Catherine heads to her office and soon there is a knock on the door. Before she can respond, it opens. Maxwell pops his head in and his eyes dart around the room to make sure she’s alone. “Hey little blossom!” She smiles as he enters and plops down on the chair in front of the desk. “Hey Maxwell. I was just about to call you.” “Oh yeah? What about? Ahem… ahem.” 

“Uh, weren’t you needing my help with the dance studio?”

“Oh yeah, that…ahem… so, what have you done so far?”

“What have I done?”

“Yeah, I thought you were working on it… ahem…”

“Maxwell why do keep clearing your throat?”

“I dunno, it feels kinda scratchy… kuh, kuh…”

“You should gargle or something…”

“It’s probably nothing.”

“Well, anyway… How can I work on it when I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing? You never told me anything specific.”

“Oh, right! I guess I did leave out a few details.” 

Maxwell takes something out of his pocket and hands it to her. 

“Here, I made a list.” 

As she scans over it, he gives the narrative. 

“Ahem…Well… there’s this thing with the plumbing… and then, there’s this other thing…. It’s probably more than just a thing actually… but hey, you know how to work around this legal stuff. Ahem…”

“What legal stuff?”

“You know, permits and stuff… I kinda need one when the plumbing and electrical get fixed… or maybe several. And then, there’s the thing about proof of ownership. Oh, and I need registration affidavits… I think they used the term ‘contract’. And then, I have to present a detailed price list by the type of lessons, etcetera. Ahh…AHH…” 

Catherine quickly hands him a box of tissue as he grabs one just in time. “…CHOO.” He takes another and blows his nose and then tosses them both in the trash as if he were shooting the winning three pointer. 

“Bless you… you don’t sound so good.”

“I don’t feel so good… Would you mind if I stayed here tonight? I don’t think I have the energy to drive back…”

“Of course Maxwell, but you should really see a doctor.”

“Nah. I just need a little rest and I’ll be good as new… ahem… Do you think you can use the list?”

“I can try… it’s a start I guess…” 

After Maxwell leaves, she shakes her head in frustration as she sighs. ‘I missed being with my husband for this?’ She sits for a while deep in thought, trying to piece together Maxwell’s list into a workable solution. Once she figured out what the objectives are, she immediately starts making the necessary phone calls to her colleagues and before long, the day has turned to night. Even though Maxwell could have been more helpful, she is almost thankful for the distraction with Liam being away. As she heads to her room, her thoughts wander to Liam… had he arrived safely? Is he missing her too? After a long bath, she collapses into bed and then the phone rings. 

C: Liam!

L: Hello love.

C: Oh Liam… I miss you so much.

L: Not nearly as much as I miss you.

C: I’m glad to hear your voice though... How was the flight?

L: The usual, although… in my haste, I did forget one very important thing.

C: Oh no! Not your binder? I could send--”

L: No, no it’s nothing like that… I forgot to tell you how much I love you.”

C: Aww, I love you too Liam... 

After nearly half an hour of catching up on each other’s day, Catherine stifles a yawn, but it does not escape Liam’s notice. 

L: It appears you’ve had a trying day love and I should probably let you get some sleep.

C: I don’t know how I’ll be able to do that without you here.

L: I know the feeling... For now though, I still have to organize a few things before tomorrow.

C: Well, don’t stay up too late, you need some rest too.

L: I won’t. Sleep well my queen.

C: Good night my king. 

She sets the phone aside and turns off the light, sighing as a loneliness begins to wash over her. After several minutes of tossing and turning, she finally reaches for Liam’s pillow and buries her face into it taking a deep breath… with the lingering scent of his cologne she slowly drifts off to sleep. 

The next day, she starts off with a morning jog and then a light breakfast. Hana joins her soon after arriving to the dining room. “Hey Hana.” Hana walks to the chair across from Catherine and almost falls into it, clearing her throat before speaking in a less than enthusiastic tone. “Ahem… Good morning Catherine.” “Hana? Is everything alright?” 

Hana scoots herself up to the table. “I think so… ahem… why do you ask?” She pours herself a cup of coffee as Catherine looks on curiously. “Well, you don’t seem like yourself. Are you okay?” She holds her neck as she swallows. “Ahem… I didn’t sleep well, and my throat is a little sore… ahem… but it’s probably nothing to worry about.” 

“I’m not so sure about that… Maxwell said his throat felt scratchy and he ended up staying at the palace last night… Hana, do you have a fever? You look a bit flushed.” Hana touches her cheeks and then leans across the table. “Maybe. What do you think?” Catherine reaches her hand to Hana’s forehead. “You definitely have a fever.” 

Hana frowns, “Great… just great!”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve got an appointment today… ahem… and now I’ll have to postpone it.”

“Oh Hana, I’m so sorry. Is there something I can do?”

“No, I’ll be alright. I just need to re-schedule.” Hana suddenly shivers.

“Let me take care of it. And while I’m doing that, why don’t you go back to bed? Maybe a little rest will do you some good…”

“Catherine… I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Well, you didn’t ask me to. I insist.” 

Hana looks at Catherine, both sad and thankful. “Well, I’m not really hungry anyway… and I can’t exactly say no to the queen, can I?”

“You can… but I wouldn’t recommend it.” 

Hana heads toward her room and meets Drake on her way out. “Hey Hana. Ahem… is breakfast over already?” Hana stops in front of him. “Uh, oh.” Drake looks at her puzzled. “Ahem… what?” Hana reaches up to his forehead and he moves to avoid her hand. “What are you doing?” “I’m checking your temperature. You look sick.” He reluctantly leans forward. “I do?”

“Drake, you have a fever too. I guess we’re both sick.”

“Ahem… you too? Kuh, Kuh.” She nods as he feels his own forehead. “I guess I didn’t notice that, but… ahem… I’ll be fine.” 

Catherine walks over to both of them. “Here, let me see.” She reaches to touch Drake’s forehead. “Drake is your throat sore?” He clutches his neck.

“Well… yeah. A little, but--”

“No buts… I’m calling the doctor before this goes too far.” 

Before Drake can respond, Catherine is already on her way to the study, still giving orders as she goes. “You two get back in bed and I’ll send him up when he gets here.” 

“But… wait… What about--?”

“I don’t have time to answer your questions Drake. Now go, both of you.” 

Drake turns to Hana. “Is it just me… ahem… or has she gotten even bossier since becoming the queen?” Hana half smiles. “I hadn’t noticed. She’s just worried about us Drake... ahem…”

He sighs, not quite convinced. “Well, maybe…” Drake and Hana head to their respective rooms and wait for the doctor as Catherine instructed. After making the call, she checks on Maxwell. 

Standing outside his door, she knocks, but there is no response. She knocks again, a little harder this time. Still nothing. Finally, she eases the door open and immediately hears him snoring. “Maxwell?” He doesn’t budge. She moves closer only to see used tissues strewn on the bed table and the floor. She manages to avoid them and nudges him slightly. “Maxwell…” After a few more pushes, he finally opens his eyes. “Catherine? What are you doing here?”  

“To check on you of course.” She peers down to the floor at the scattered debris. “I was going to ask how you are but judging from all these tissues I’d say not so good.” He places his hand on his head and grimaces. “Yeah… It feels like my head is going to explode. Like literally.” 

“Well, I called Dr. Stevens and he’ll be here within the hour. It seems whatever is ailing you, also got Hana and Drake too.” “Aww man…” “Can I get you anything?” “Hot tea sure sounds good right now… if it’s no trouble?” 

“Not at all, but what about an ice pack for your head?” “Yeah… that’d be great.” “Okay. I’ll be right back.”  

After delivering the ice pack and tea to Maxwell, Catherine walks to Hana’s room. After knocking on her door, there is a faint reply. “Come in.” She walks in to see Hana propped up on pillows with a tissue at her nose and she is wrapped in the blankets up to her neck. “Dr. Stevens will be here shortly. How are you feeling?” She frowns. “Terrible.” She daintily blows her nose and then places the used tissue in the trash bin beside her bed and reaches for the hand sanitizer. She then takes the offered ice pack, placing it on top of her head. “Aww Hana. I’m so sorry.”  

“It’s okay. I’m just disappointed about that endorsement.”

“Oh right! Your clothing designs. I need to get that rescheduled. Here, write down the number.”

“Catherine, you don’t have to do that for me…”

“But I want to Hana. Now, what’s the number?” 

Hana hesitantly scribbles it on the note pad Catherine gave her and then hands it back to her. 

“Thank you, Catherine. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Hey, you can’t help that you’re sick… and besides, that’s what friends are for.” 

Soon, she leaves Hana resting comfortably, heading back to the study to make the call. When that task is complete, she retrieves another ice pack from the kitchen, then goes to check on Drake. 

“Drake?” Catherine knocks on the half open door. “Yeah… it’s open.” She walks in and finds Drake sitting upright on a bunch of pillows. Not surprisingly, he is wrapped in blankets up to his neck with an old-fashioned thermometer in his mouth. “Here.” He takes the ice pack gratefully and places it on top of his head. “Thanks… how’d you know I needed this?” “I guess you could call it intuition.” She takes the thermometer from his mouth. “I can’t believe they still make these…” Squinting to see the numbers she reads it aloud. “101.9. Drake, you definitely have a fever. Dr. Stevens will be here soon, and we’ll find out what’s going on with you guys.” 

“It’s probably just a cold…”

“It’s obviously more than that... Can I bring you anything before the doctor gets here?”

“Well… I could use some water.”

“Water? And you call yourself a whiskey connoisseur…?”

“Ha. Ha.”

“Want it on the rocks?”

“Actually… yeah. Thanks.” 

Once that task is complete, she takes a quick shower and then rushes downstairs. Mara announces that the doctor has arrived. 

Catherine graciously greets him in the grand foyer with a smile and an outstretched hand. “Thank you for coming on such short notice Dr. Stevens. I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience.” “Not at all, Your Majesty. I’m happy to be of service… Now, where are my patient’s?” 

“Oh yes. Mara, would you mind showing Dr. Stevens where everyone is? I have a few things that need my attention.” Mara bows. “Certainly, Your Majesty.” 

After approximately an hour, there is a knock on the office door. “Come in.” Mara opens it slightly. “Your Majesty, Dr. Stevens would like to see you.” “Of course. Send him in.” 

She stands as Dr. Stevens walks in and then she motions to the chair in front of the desk. “Please, have a seat.” They both take a seat. “So, what’s the verdict?” He smiles. “Well, you were right to call me when you did. All three have the Cordonian flu.” “Oh my gosh! Really?” “Yes, I have prescribed an antiviral and took the liberty of requesting it be delivered within the hour. The instructions are self-explanatory and the sooner it reaches their system, the better.” 

“I’ll make sure they get it as soon as it arrives… I can’t thank you enough Dr. Stevens, and is there anything I should do? I mean, while they recuperate?” 

“Not necessarily. I have explained the importance of rest and staying hydrated and I was assured that they will heed my words. I’ll return in a couple of days to check on their progress. I might suggest that they be moved somewhere away from the hub of the palace… maybe a bit quieter.” “That is a great idea and I have just the place.”  

After the doctor leaves, she enlists Mara’s help in setting up a room on the north wing of the palace. By the afternoon, Maxwell, Hana and Drake have all settled into their new accommodations, away from the hustle and bustle of the palace, but close enough that she can check on them easily. 

“So… what do you guys think?” Maxwell is the first to speak. “A big screen, and game system? Cool! This is going to be like a slumber party... but maybe not so much slumber.” Drake rolls his eyes and grumbles. “I should’ve stayed where I was.” Hana looks around with a pleasant expression. “Catherine, thank you for putting this together for us. I feel better already.” 

“I’m glad you like it. This part of the palace doesn’t get used much so it should be a lot quieter here.” Drake glares at Maxwell who is sitting in the floor excitedly sifting through the games. “Cool! Megaman!”

“I’d agree with you Beckham, but then we’d both be wrong.” “Surely you can manage for three days Drake.” He opens his mouth to say something but sees the scowl on her face and decides against it. 

After Catherine leaves the room, Hana scolds him. “Drake none of us planned to be sick and in this predicament, but since we are, I think we should make an effort to get along.”

“Well no offense Hana, but I’m glad I’ll be asleep for most of it.” 

Even sick, Maxwell seems to be more energetic than usual and it’s just enough to keep Drake annoyed. 

“Hey Drake, wanna play a game?” Drake lays in bed with his eyes closed. “No.”

“But it’s a two-player game… Hana? What about you?”

“No thank you Maxwell… I wouldn’t even know what to do anyway.”

“I could teach you…”

“Maybe later. Okay?” 

Maxwell lowers his head in disappointment. “Oh, okay…” Noticing a pack of cards on the table, he eagerly grabs them and begins shuffling. “Would anyone care to join me?” Drake sighs and without opening his eyes, he retorts. “Why? Are you coming apart?” 

“Oh! I know, we could talk and find out what’s been going on with each other.” Drake quips, “How about we don’t, and say we did?” 

“Man, you’re pretty funny Drake. Too bad looks aren’t everything…” Drake cocks an eye at Maxwell. “Was that supposed to be funny?” Maxwell swallows hard. “No… I’m not afraid. Wait, are you smiling?” Drake’s lips curl into a menacing grin. “Yes Maxwell. That alone should scare you.” 

Hana shakes her head in empathetic disbelief. “You guys…” Soon Catherine returns with a food tray and Hana’s eyes light up. “What’s this?”

“I thought you guys might be hungry, so I had the kitchen staff prepare you something special.” She lifts the lid from the tureen as Hana tries to inhale the scent. “I can’t smell it, but it looks delicious. What is it?”

“It’s a good old American comfort food. Homemade chicken noodle soup.” Maxwell stares at it hungrily and rubs his hands together enthusiastically. “Wow! I can’t wait to dig in.” 

Drake moseys over to the table and grins. “Mom used to make tons of this stuff when we were kids. We liked it so much that sometimes me and Savannah would fake being sick, just so she’d make a pot. Thanks Beckham.” “It must have been pretty good if you faked an illness to get it.” “Trust me, it was.” 

Obviously, they were all hungry because in no time at all the tureen is completely empty. Not long after, someone knocks on the door and when Catherine opens it, Olivia is on the other side.

“Hey Olivia! What are you doing here?” She saunters in and looks around. “Well, I’d heard you were playing nursemaid… and I know you have plenty of staff for assistance, but I wanted to offer mine if you’ll have it.” 

“That’s very kind of you Olivia. Thank you.”

“Well, I know how demanding these boys can be and--” Drake interrupts. “Boys?” She whips around and glares at him but ignores his rhetorical question and then turns back to Catherine. “As I was saying, you are already stretched thin with your duties, so I came to offer an extra hand.” Hana sniffs. “Olivia, that is so sweet of you.” “Well, it’s only temporary... just until I know Catherine no longer needs my help.” 

Maxwell leans over to Drake and whispers, “Now I really am scared…” Drake’s eyes settle on Olivia as she talks to Catherine and Hana. When there is a break in conversation, he speaks. “Hey Olivia, since you’re here, can you grab me an extra pillow?” She smirks as she strolls over to the linen chest. “Just one? Even the princess felt a pea on several layers of mattresses.” He scowls at her. How dare she question his manhood in his hour of need. “Princess? Well, this ain’t about some child’s book... it’s about comfort...” She walks over with the pillow ignoring his hostility and he reluctantly leans forward as she places it carefully behind him, fluffing the others as he lays back. She smiles. “How’s that? Comfortable?” A small smile reaches his eyes. “Kinda, yeah.”

For a moment, Drake and Olivia lock eyes and it seems as if time stands still. Maxwell clears his throat, causing both Olivia and Drake to snap out of their trance. Drake mumbles something when he realizes everyone is staring at them. “Uh, thanks.” Olivia tries not to smile. “That’s what I’m here for I suppose…” Catherine, Hana and Maxwell give each other a ‘what the hell just happened’ look, but neither of them are brave enough to question it aloud. 

“Hey Olivia? I’m going to take this stuff back to the kitchen, would you mind helping me?” “Sure, you can catch me up on what happened around here to make everyone sick.”

Part 2 of this Chapter will be posted later today (still tweaking it)!

[ecotone99]

[RF] Whistle-blowers (A WikiLeaks Fanfic) Chapter 2

The Solitude Before the Tempest Toss

In a concrete dungeon of four, hard, scream-proof walls, cut off from the world, & alone, lied a tortured & broken soul, on an equally hard surface – though it felt harder. A nightmare made reality. The aching body & weary mind belonged to Chelsea Manning, while the boiling blood & the fighting spirit belonged to us all.

She awoke from a restless sleep, finding herself in the same position she had been in, when she first closed her eyes. Her body had naturally fallen into the recovery-position shortly after being, almost literally, thrown into her cell. The narrow surface of her bed only barely accommodated her slender form. Chelsea’s way of coping with being shut-in for 22 hours a day was to sleep. Unfortunately, in a room that knew no change in light or sound, it was hard to keep abreast of time at the best of times, but when frequent napping was used in order to best manage the torture of solitary confinement, all sense of time was lost.

She alternated between sleeping & exercising while in her cell, but her mind was still not stimulated enough most of the day… or night.

She was wide awake now, but did not alter her position. The less she moved, the bigger the room appeared to be. She tried thinking of ways to distract, or entertain herself. She didn’t want to relive past memories, as if playing home movies in her head, as the current situation has a way of imprinting itself on a memory whenever said memory is recalled for perusal.

Her own brain took her by surprise when a song floated in from an unknown corner of her mind. It was the type that wouldn’t be satisfied unless sung aloud. So, after some time of the same tune going round and around, like a goldfish in its bowl, it finally rose up her throat & sprouted through her lips, like a rose’s blossom. And it was as sweet as one in too. The tune lifted into the air & expanded into every nook & cranny of the small room, until all the space had been filled, after which it burst forth into the hall, almost drowning out the approaching footsteps.

The only time anyone even got near her door was to either feed and water her, or let her out temporarily at a set time every day, if she had “behaved”. They never came if you called, cried, or screamed, no matter how loud, or for how long.

A skeleton-key jingled for a moment & then clanked within the lock, before creaking as it turned, signalling its opening mechanism. Next, the bolts around the doorframe were unfastened. Normally when this happened Chelsea would spring to her feet, not wanting to waste any of what precious time she was allotted outside her cell in a day, even though it was only 2 hours. During those 2 hours she was allowed to make personal phone calls & attend to hygiene needs. On those occasions the guard would usually tell her, through the door, to assume the conventional pose: facing the far wall, with her hands behind her back. But not this time.

The hard door swung open & the heavy boots stepped in. What could only be the prison guard, though Chelsea made no effort to confirm with even a passing glance, did not move from that spot. He had come in, no doubt, to bark at her for singing, & who knows what else. It was always something, even if it needed to be invented. But not this time. This time, there was nothing. Again Chelsea was taken aback by this remission in routine. Curiouser & curiouser. Her eyes tentatively peered out from under their lids in order to scrutinise her intruder, who appeared to be studying her in return.

He was of tall, solid stature & in his thirties. His facial composition was plain & not one to reveal much. His expression was like that of a man looking at a woman in the prone position. She didn’t know him, but this was not unusual. There was a high-turnover rate among guards.

“Don’t stop”, his bassy timbre bellowed, without warning. The abrupt command gave her a start. She hadn’t noticed that she had stopped singing. The tune had continued playing uninterrupted in her head regardless. She obeyed & resumed her tune from the point at which it was playing in her head. She watched his face as she did so. What it expressed was an incongruity with its surroundings, caused by her song, which was a sound, an expression of its own that too was discordant with its time & place.

The drudgery of patrolling, & with it, it’s attitude of resolute solemnity was slowed to a halt, & in its place materialised an appreciation of her authentic beauty. He was mesmerised by her. Her eyes lowered to his pants, as if her stare could coax his rigidity out of its flaccid state. Almost unconsciously she began to slowly turn her lower half away from him, while arching her back, gradually lifting her arse. After it was fully distended, she began bucking her hips, just as slowly. First in, then out. In his eyes the subtle signs of arousal had transformed into a blazing fire of desire. Her own body began to respond to the light, rhythmic caresses of her garments against her intimate areas. She had to start taking sharper intakes of breath between notes. In has pants, his member was swelling, until it strained against the fabric that secured its length in place. It snaked along the front of the left side of his hip, hugging it. Spurred on by want, he approached her writhing body. She bit her lip. He licked his. Her song was transforming into a series of sighs and breathy moans. His bulge was very close to her arse. She could almost feel the heat emanating from it. He had stationed himself there, almost barely able to contain his yearning, yet he was not willing to advance further, lest his occupation was made forfeit. So that is where he remained. His heavy chest heaved. Her movements picked up in speed, testing him. His desire mounted, but physical contact did not follow.

This was the man Chelsea had been waiting for – one who desired her, yet had the self-control not to act on that desire, despite her invitations. Other guards, in the past, had either been one, or the other, but now she had found her perfectly balanced man. A man who had principles, strength, could stand for something, while wielding a burning passion.

Chelsea let out one last sigh, but this time one that signalled despondency. As if deflated, her bottom sunk back into its original position – motionless. Her wanton expression drained from her face, leaving a look of peaceful dejection in its place.

“Is something wrong?” the hormone-logged male inquired.

“I have no speech”, Chelsea responded, being deliberately cryptic.

“You have a beautiful singing voice. I never knew.”

Chelsea blushed “I don’t share it with just anyone.”

“I guess I’m lucky. It’s enough to drive a red-blooded man insane.”

“I’m glad you kept your composure, it means you can stay. And share in… well, what we shared together. But I warn you it may not be as easy next time” She winked at him.

“I don’t know if that’s a bane or a blessing.”

“See it as a potentially fatal perk”, she giggled, evilly.

“Man, you’ll get a guy in trouble.”

“Can you do me the tinniest of favours?”

“Let’s hear it”

“Say my name”

“Your name?”

“Mmh.”

“Chelsea.”

Her name glided off his tongue, sending shivers down her spine. She relished the short, but sweet moment.

“Was that okay?”

Still reeling from the pacifying effect it had had on her, she responded: “Yes, thank you. I just wanted to feel human again, connected with myself again.”

“Happy to oblige.”

“Outside, the most visible trans-woman is Caitlyn Jenner. And I’m here. Invisible & muted. I have no online access, no journos can visit, & even if they could, I would be legally unable to talk, comment on, discuss, or even look at any of the material I helped leak.”

“You should have left this country when you had the chance.” He added, nonchalantly, as if it was a matter of fact. But she had never considered it before that moment. She had felt safe in her own country for some reason. Now she knew better. She was coming to a realisation. One of her original charges, for which her country threatened to kill her, was: ‘aiding the enemy’ – what enemy? It wasn’t a war, it was a massacre, the victims having no way of defending themselves. The butchers were the enemy – the same that had locked her up. Only villains lock up heroes. If only she had left the country when she was still free, as the guard had suggested. Then she would be free to talk about everything to an unbiased press.

Chelsea decided that it was now, or never. “Could you help me get a message out?”

“No, I’m sorry, Chelsea.”

His hormone levels were evening out again. He was sobering up. She would have to find that sweet spot again.

Coyly she asked: “Tell me your name?” No! No sooner had the words left her mouth, she had realised her mistake. She had made too many requests in too short amount of time.

“I’m sorry ma’am, that won’t be possible.”

Ma’am? Oh no, she thought. Her mistake was confirmed as one. The delicate spell she wove was in danger of breaking. His eyes shifted downwards. He was shaking his head & began shifting his weight away from her. She was losing him. Panicked, but with the need to act quickly she considered all her options. She had exhausted the sex-appeal option, since, if she had reintroduced that now, she would be viewed as inauthentic & manipulative. She could not make any movement that rose her from her position without rousing his defences even more than they already were. She finally decided to do what came naturally: turn her face away from him and begin sobbing.

“I’m really sorry, ma’am.” He drummed on.

She could feel his discomfort go up a notch. He began a more conscious retreat, but before committing 100% to this action, she undermined his agency with: “Just go. Please just go” she sniffed.

Shortly afterwards she heard the door shut behind him. As he was locking it back up, she threw away her inhibitions, her composure & vaulted out of bed & sprinted to the door, after which she began imploring him, overwrought:

“Promise me just one thing: look me up. When you get home, look me up. Look up Julian Assange. Follow WikiLeaks on Twitter! Follow Edward Snowden! Follow Suzie Dawson! Follow Jen Robinson! That will give you all the info you need. Please at least recommend this job to friends you trust! Spread the word! Please!”

His bolting of the door had been completed. He walked away without another word. Had he been listening? Only time would tell.

submitted by /u/SnowAssMan [link] [comments] via Blogger http://bit.ly/2GyBN0r

[babywizarddream-blog]

Science EBooks

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[gravitascivics]

WHAT WAS THE ORIGINAL INTENT?

This blog has been revisiting the basic ideas that have organized its overall aim:  to introduce the reader to a construct it proposes for selecting content in civics education.  That mental construct is entitled federation theory which served as the dominant view of government and politics from the nation’s beginnings till the end of World War II.

         A functional way to view the concept of federalism, at least in terms of the purposes of this blog, is to consider it a cultural quality not a structural arrangement.  Most references to federalism relates to the governmental arrangement between the central government and state governments. But that is not the best way to see it from the perspective of this blog.

Daniel Elazar writes that American federalism reflects more of a basic approach to governance: “... as something close to what the French term 'integral federalism, that is to say, as the animating and informing principle of the American political system flowing from a covenantal approach to human relationships.”[1]  This is less a structural perspective than a cultural one.

To add a bit more substance:  traditional federalism reaches the standard of an “integral federalism” in that it is a comprehensive explanation of US’ political origins.  It refers to a conscious agreement of a group or society to unite under the provisions of a covenant or a compact.  The Declaration of Independence is a covenant; the US Constitution is a compact.  “Integral federalism” morally binds the parties as exemplified by these founding documents.  Those that agree to this type of promise are morally bound to live by its provisions.

These agreements are not contracts, quid pro quo arrangements – something for something else.  They are covenants or compacts that call for lasting moral commitments.  In every case, that quality is understood by the parties who sign such an agreement.  An individual party is basically committing him/herself or themselves (in case the joining entity is a group) to a course of being and/or action irrespective of what the other parties will subsequently do.

Gordon Wood argues that in the years surrounding the writing of the Declaration of Independence there was an especially strong popular commitment to federalist ideals. Particularly, the political group of that time, known as the Commonwealthmen or Whigs (not to be confused with the nineteenth century Whig Party), demonstrated an inordinate level of support for republicanism which can be described as a type of political beliefs that include federalist thought.[2]  

The Whigs are credited with leading popular support for independence from Britain.  They emphasized citizen participation – especially at the local level – representative government, liberty, equality, and public virtue.  In other words, citizens bound to this cultural view lived their social lives as Tocqueville described them in an earlier posting.  

According to Wood, these Whigs conflated the ideals and ideas of the Enlightenment and religious traditions into an ideology that encompassed a moral wholeness for society.[3]

With this view in mind, how did early Americans define liberty?  A good summary term for their version of liberty is communal liberty.  It is a belief in people being highly engaged in the political decision-making process.  This is essential to traditional federalism as it both promotes social capital and operationalizes civic humanism; i.e., that communal linkages were to be taken seriously and actively encouraged among the citizenry.

         It is safe to believe that if the Whigs were around today, they would judge American views of liberty as foreign and dangerous.  Primarily, they saw liberty as a protection against governmental tyranny or despotism, not as the right of individuals to do what they wanted to do.

They promoted their view of virtue – civic virtue – in which, unlike under a tyrannical regime, one was to be virtuous because of his/her choice to be so.[4]  Choice and consent becomes central.  Consent, for them, is a precursor to being virtuous and this was essential to identifying what was acceptable political and social behavior.  There was the notion that one was free to do what one should do and this ideal is captured by the term, communal liberty.  

Juxtapose this notion of liberty with the natural rights view – the dominant view today – which holds that the individual has the right to make life decisions irrespective of community needs and ambitions and to have the legal prerogatives to carry out those decisions.[5]  

To the extent to which natural rights advocates hold this a-communal view today, the Whigs would have seen this perspective as undermining the bonds that bind the social community together.  How?  By individuals having mostly unfettered access to individually defined goals, each person is given mostly unrestricted ability to abuse his or her powers and pervert a healthy sense of liberty.  The only restraint is that a person cannot interfere with others doing the same.  

What results, according to Whig logic, is what pretty much exists today:  a social reality in which too many are engaging in licentious behavior and one that is driving toward anarchy, though the nation is not near that eventual state at present.[6]  

Were Whigs supportive of individualism and, if so, how? In accordance with their beliefs, Elazar instructs us that Americans, from the time of the nation's origin, were socialized, at least up to the mid-mark of the last century, to support a federalist individualism, “not the anarchic individualism of Latin countries, but an individualism that recognized the subtle bonds of partnership linking individuals even as they preserve their individual integrities...”[7]

From the days of the ancient Greeks, a concern with democracy has been that they devolve into anarchistic conditions.  Elazar claims that federalism is a way to stem this trend.  In short, one needs, according to federalist thinking, a popular and widespread belief in this more socially oriented and communal view of liberty and individual prerogatives.[8]

In Elazar’s own words, here is how he describes this communal view of individualism:

...[F]ederalism was extended into most areas of human relationship shaping American notions of individualism, human rights and obligations, Divine expectations, business organization, civic association and church structure as well as their notions of politics …  All agreed on the importance of popular or republican government, the necessity to diffuse power, and the importance of individual rights and dignity as the foundation of any genuinely good political system.  At the same time, all agreed that the existence of alienable [or limited] rights was not an excuse for anarchy, just as the existence of ineradicable human passions was not an excuse for tyranny.  For them, the covenant provided a means for free men to form political communities without sacrificing their essential freedom and without making energetic government impossible.[9] (emphasis added)

“Public liberty was thus the combining of each man's individual liberty into a collective governmental authority, the political liberty equivalent to democracy or government by the people themselves …”[10]  Wood writes on, “the people participate in it. Without the pooling of each man's liberty into a common body, no property would be secure.  'For power is entire and indivisible; and property is single and pointed as an atom.'”[11]

Unlike what current libertarians claim, that as defenders of constitutional principles they are offended by an active government, there was no early bias that the government is the problem or that a citizenry can't count on government to meet legitimate common needs.  Instead, the Whigs called for citizen participation in deciding what government was to do and not to represent solely the interests of the advantaged, the wealthy minority.  

In place are structural elements to prevent tyranny, e.g., voting.  Protection is secured by representation not governmental inaction.  This concern against tyranny was heightened with the creation of a strong central government in 1787.  There was no meaningful concern with government protecting the poor or other disadvantaged populations, because there was no historical record of such a thing.

Instead, the Whig’s concern was with those, generally called “Federalists,” who advocated for a strong central government. The Whigs assumed a powerful central government would advance the ability of the rich to become richer.  For example, they could threaten the interests of the yeoman farmers.  And in this, there was agreement between the Whigs and the followers of John Locke, the early advocates of the natural rights view.

[1] Daniel J. Elazar, “How Federal Is the Constitution?  Thoroughly,” 8.

[2] Wood does not use the term federalist, but as he describes the beliefs of the Whigs and the way Elazar and others define and describe federalism, those beliefs and federalism basically mean the same thing.  The republicanism refers to a more general form of political thinking and federalism is a more specific form of republicanism.

[3] Gordon S. Wood, The Creation of the American Republic 1776-1787.

[4] Ibid.

[5] Jeffrey Reiman, “Liberalism and Its Critics,” in The Liberalism-Communitarism Debate, ed. C. F. Delaney (Lanham, MD:  Rowman and Littlefield Publishers, Inc., 1994), 19-37.

 [6] Gordon S. Wood, The Creation of the American Republic 1776-1787.

 [7] Daniel J. Elazar, “How Federal Is the Constitution?  Thoroughly,” 10-11.

 [8] Daniel J. Elazar, “Federal Models of (Civil) Authority.”

 [9] Daniel J. Elazar, “How Federal Is the Constitution?  Thoroughly,” 26-27.

[10] Gordon S. Wood, The Creation of the American Republic 1776-1787, 24.

 [11] Ibid., 25.