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cafeacademia · 4 years ago

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His Favourite Gal | Part 1

Mob!Bucky x Shy!Reader

Summary: You begin working as a waitress at Bucky Barnes’ favourite club in town. Little do you realise that working on mob territory owned by the infamous King of New York, Bucky Barnes, comes with its quirks and you’re slowly pulled into the mobster life.

Warnings: Fluff, some mentions of drunk people, mentions of crimes (though nothing happens, it’s just mentioned).

Word count: Approx 3700

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A/N: Hi loves!! This is a remaster of my own original fan fiction that I’ve decided to take from my old blog and (hopefully) improve. I’ve been slowly remastering fics that I am particularly attached to and I worked quite a lot to get this one overhauled and rewritten!! There’s actually very little of the original writing left, it was interesting to see how different my style is now compared to three years ago! This was also my first ever series I’d ever written on my old blog, so aside from the fact that I love the story, it’s special to me in that regard. Enjoy! 💕

If you’d like to join my taglist, you can do so using my taglist form HERE

It was raining when you finally finished your shift three hours later than when you were supposed to be off for the night. It was tiring working for the dingy old bar, it looked just as sad on the outside as it did on the inside, the old brick discoloured, old panelling slowly peeling off the sides of the building. It was a wreck and so was your boss too. He couldn’t have cared less if you worked yourself down to the bone, as long as he had staff doing a job, he didn’t care.

“I’m expecting you tomorrow, we’re opening early.” He had told you on your way out and it took everything in your willpower not to groan and roll your eyes and tell him so eloquently to fuck off. It was almost a relief when you heard the heavy metal door slam behind you as you stepped out of the back entrance. The air was just as bad. It was thick with smog and cigarette smoke and something pungent, an overflowing bin or perhaps an unfortunate street animal, you thought.

You were glad when it began to rain harder. At least it seemed to make most of the drunkards along the main strip try to find shelter instead of bothering you on your walk home.

Pulling your jacket hood up, you stepped down from the doorway and made your way out of the alleyway and onto the back street. It was never good to walk home alone, especially at night and especially in the part of New York you lived and worked in. It was on the edge of mobster territory and while Bucky Barnes, the King of New York owned it, it didn’t mean it was safe at all. It was quite the opposite, the district was prone to all levels of crime, from pickpocketing all the way up to armed robberies, arson and shootings.

But, you realised as you walked up the street, spotting a group of drunk men up ahead, drink men with rifles too, that never ended well, that perhaps mobster territory might not be a bad idea, especially when there were people working for Barnes along the entire street and they were known to keep the peace.

You heard the casino before you saw it, but as you rounded the corner you saw the lights, the late night rain distorting some of the huge party lights that lit up the sky above the building. Stark’s was not the most prestigious club in town, but it was the most respected and most feared. And funnily enough, for a place called Stark’s, the billionaire did not own his own named club. As far as you remembered, you’d seen it in the papers a few years ago that Barnes had won it off Stark in a game of poker. You’d never know if that was really true, but it definitely seemed plausible.

As you passed the casino, you glanced over towards the dark tinted windows, watching as people came and went, mostly men in suits. But you noticed a sign from across the road that was taped onto one of the windows, huge bold letters making you stop in your tracks for a moment.

Waiting staff needed. And you stared at it for a moment, contemplating. You… A bar waitress, surely it was not wise for you to sign up to work in mobster territory. That would definitely land you in more dangerous places than you were already in.

But the longer you stood there and thought about it, you began to wonder if it was actually a good idea. You could at least try, what did you have to lose? And before you could even come to a full decision, it was as it was made for you, because a group of rowdy men walked towards you and you immediately took the decision to cross the road, putting you right in front of the casino.

How bad could it be? The worst that could happen was that you just had to return back around the corner to your miserable little bar job. So, with a sigh, you grabbed the flyer and walked towards the entrance.

The bouncer was huge and intimidating. Of course, you had expected as much with the club having the notoriety that it did. It wasn’t long before you were allowed to enter, the bouncer telling you, “speak to Natasha at the bar”, and as you headed through into the casino, you assumed the absolutely stunning woman behind the bar right ahead of you was Natasha.

The club was bustling with people, though it was not as stuffy and loud on the inside as you had expected it to be. There was a clear divide between people dining and drinking at tables around the bar and the casino side of the club which appeared to be behind a velvet rope and deep burgundy red curtains at either side of the bar. It was far more high end than you had expected, seeing as the outside of Stark’s resembled a kind of fancy nightclub, but you supposed the King of New York did happen to own it.

“Are you here about the job?” The woman at the bar asked as you approached her. You wondered if it was your very casual clothing in such a formal setting that gave you away or the flyer in your hand. Either way, you suddenly felt very intimidated and very underprepared. Perhaps this had been a bad idea. You were a girl dressed in the dregs of your wardrobe while trying to get a job in the most respected club in the entire city. Not likely.

“I saw the advertisement outside, I hope that’s alright.” You said as you lifted the flyer in your hand and she held out her hand to take it from you. “Are you sure? We haven’t had many applicants because of certain activities.” She told you, but you knew what she meant, it was obvious. This part of town, even outside of mobster territory was swimming in crime. “I’ve got nothing to lose.” You replied. And it was true, you did have nothing to lose. No family, no responsibilities outside of your current job, which this would replace, no children, no pets, no side hustles. Nothing. And that probably made you a good candidate.

The woman smiled at you, her lips curving up into a smirk as she took a moment to look you over before she extended her hand across the counter. “Natasha.” She introduced herself, smiling as you shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.” You mirrored her smile and gave her your name before she let go of you. “Let me just get someone on the bar and we’ll talk.” She told you.

And moments later, you were following Natasha through the casino, passing by all of the business men, mafia family members and rich men and women who were chancing it at gambling games. Suffice to say, you felt even more out of place than you had done just moments beforehand.

“Where do you work right now?” Natasha asked as she let you pass her into an office near the back of the building. “I work in an old bar just around the corner called The Rabid Dog.” It was not a pleasant name, it always made you cringe whenever you had to tell people where you worked and you didn’t fail to notice the way that Natasha seemed amused by the name of the bar too.

“So you’ve done bar work? What about waitressing?” She asked as she gestured for you to sit down on one of the chairs in front of the desk. Natasha didn’t sit behind the desk, instead she just dropped down into the chair next to yours and rested one leg over the other as if she was having a casual conversation with a friend. “My bar serves food, so I do it on a regular basis and I also used to work in a restaurant a few years ago.” You explained, but before either of you could say anything else, the door swung open and you nearly fell out of your chair.

“Who’s this?” Bucky Barnes, the King of New York himself asked as he walked through the doorway. What had you walked into? You knew he owned the club, but you’d never expected to actually meet Barnes. “This is our new waitress.” Natasha said proudly as she stood. You knew better than to interrupt, but you gathered that someone must have noticed the look of confusion on your face because just as a second man entered the room, he said, “Does our new waitress know she’s the new waitress?” The second man asked. He was blonde, just as tall and muscular as Barnes, though he looked at you with less of a poker face and more of an amused smirk.

“Really? You just hired her like that?” Mr Barnes asked as he approached you. “I like her.” Natasha countered, both men giving her pointed looks, though Mr Barnes raised his brows and nodded before turning back towards you. “She likes you.” He repeated what Natasha had said. You couldn’t help but send Natasha a questioning glance. She had just met you minutes ago and she’d already analysed you enough to know that she liked you and you wondered if Natasha was much more than just a bar girl.

“Have you done waitressing before?” Barnes asked. “I just asked her that.” Natasha huffed. “Yes sir, waitressing and bar work.” You responded. “And do you have any family?” He asked next. “No sir, none at all.” You replied. “And you know this isn’t the type of job cut out for ordinary people, right? This club sees a lot of things.” Mr Barnes went on. “I do, sir.” You nodded.

“Buck, maybe we should consider-.” But Mr Barnes casually held up his hand to silence his friend. “You’re hired.” He announced, the entire room falling silent and all you could do was stare at Barnes for a moment, stunned that he had just hired you right there on the spot. “I am?” It came out a little more hushed than you had intended, Bucky nodding as he smirked at you. “Whatever your pay is at your old job, I’ll pay at least double, more if it’s not enough. Natasha will contact your old boss and get you ready for your first day.” And with that, Bucky Barnes and his friend left the room and Natasha looked over at you, watching as the astonishment slowly dissipated.

“I’ll let you know when you start work.” Natasha broke the silence and you glanced over at her. “Just like that?” You asked, still surprised. “Just like that.” She responded. “Don’t worry, Barnes wouldn’t keep me around if I wasn’t a good judge of character.” She winked at you and you wondered again if she was something more than just a bar girl.

The job, you realised after your first couple of days working at the club, was far more interesting and a lot more rewarding than your previous job at the old bar. The club was a scene for all kinds of happenings and while nothing nefarious really went on, especially under Bucky Barnes’ nose, you did overhear an awful lot of conversation.

You learned as well in those first few days, that while this was not where Mr Barnes resided, he used the club as a place to carry out some of his business meetings and discussions as well as a place to relax.

Barely a week into your new job, you were getting ready for your shift in the little back room. Lockers lined the walls with a mirror at the side of the door and comfortable benches in the middle of the room. Dressed in a simple, but pretty black dress, you tied the strings of your little demi apron at the back, though you paused, a little startled when the door was abruptly pushed open and Natasha stepped in.

“Barnes needs you.” Nat announced with urgency and you frowned at her. “He does?” You asked. “He needs someone to waitress him and the family tonight, he’s asking for you.” She informed you. “I thought-.” “Yes, I know normally we have security taking orders to the waitresses, but he’s personally asking for you to waitress them tonight.” Nat told you and you paused with a slight air of confusion about you. “Alright, I’ll waitress Mr Barnes then.” You nodded, quickly fumbling with the ties of your apron before you shoved your jacket a bit more firmly into the back of the locker and shut it properly, letting Natasha walk you through the club towards the private dining space they were occupying.

Nat rushed you into the room and closed the door behind you, leaving you to stand rather flustered in front of a cosy looking dining room with a round table in the middle. Bucky was sat at the furthest end of the room, his chair seeming to have a higher back than all of the others. At his left was Steve, who you’d been properly introduced to on your first day at work and on his right was Sam Wilson, who you understood was a very close friend of his.

“Sugar, you made it.” Bucky enthusiastically greeted you as you approached the table. You hoped that you didn’t appear too flustered and intimidated, but you were aware that there was only so much you could play off with smiles when you knew your eyes might give you away. “Good evening Mr Barnes, gentleman.” You nodded, finally taking a step into the room and approaching the table, receiving polite hellos and smiles from all of them. “Are you looking after us tonight?” Steve asked, sitting forward in his seat and casually leaning his elbows on the table. “I am, Mr Rogers.” You nodded, lifting your notepad and pen as if it were proof. “Allow me to introduce you to everyone.” Bucky waved you over to him and you took a few steps towards him as he went around the table naming everyone. It was quite easy to distinguish that the people sitting closest to Bucky were of more importance to him as he listed Clint and Scott, who seemed to be his security and Pietro who appeared at first glance to be a mentee as well as the rest of the group.

“C’mere sweetheart.” Bucky motioned you to come and stand next to him once they were all done ordering food and drink. You stood where he’d pointed to and he turned in his seat to face you. You felt your cheeks warm intensely as Bucky smiled up at you, his eyes so soft and sweet and you questioned for a moment how exactly this man was the King of New York. He was incredibly sweet looking and for a moment you found yourself melting on the spot. “Is that everything, Mr Barnes?” You asked. “Not quite, sugar. Add whatever you’re having to the list, it’s on me.” He grinned at you. “I – uh, sorry?” You asked, a little confused. “Are you sure, Mr Barnes?” You hesitantly met his eyes though you immediately broke eye contact. “Absolutely, please eat with us, doll.” Bucky’s voice went soft as he tilted his head back a little to see you better, his lips pouting ever so slightly. “As you wish, Mr Barnes. Thank you.” You smiled at him, speaking softly before jotting your meal on the notepad and rushing out of the room.

You nearly bumped into Natasha as you made your way towards the kitchen. “He wants me to eat with them.” You blurted out before even making your presence known. “He what?” Nat frowned. “Mr Barnes wants me to order my food and drink and eat with them.” You repeated, more calmly this time. “Really?” She looked at you wide eyed. “Does he not do that with other waitresses?” You questioned, ripping the order out of the notepad and handing it to the kitchen staff. “No, he’s never done that before, never requested it either.” Nat shook her head. “Are you sure?” You surely couldn’t be the only one he’s ever asked. “I’ve worked here every night for three years and not once has he ever requested that.” Nat said with a single raised brow. It was definitely unusual. “I’ll get someone to call for you when the food’s ready. Let me get their drinks together.” She told you, waving you away before she went to look at the order you’d brought in.

You waltzed into the private dining room with a large round tray balanced expertly on one hand. The glasses on top gently clinked together as you walked. Handing out their orders, you took your drink last. You noticed quickly that all the men around the table had shifted and there was now an empty seat next to Bucky. “Come and sit with me, doll.” He patted the empty chair. Steve hopped up to pull it out for you and you obliged, gently sitting yourself down in the chair and turning slightly to face him. You didn’t want to assume you could speak unless spoken to, so you politely kept quiet while Bucky noticeably studied your face. “Tell us about yourself, sweetheart.” He smiled, sitting back in his chair as he picked up his drink and took a sip.

“I’ve been around and lived in a few different places. My parents passed several years ago and it’s just been me ever since, so I moved back to Brooklyn.” You did appreciate the soft look on Bucky’s face as he listened to what you said, almost like he felt sorry for you. Before you could continue though, Bucky rested his hand over yours and squeezed gently. “I’m sorry about your parents, truly I am.” He spoke just above a whisper. “Thank you, Mr Barnes.” You gave him a tight lipped smile. “Call me Bucky. We’re with family, which means we’re all on a first name basis, alright?” Bucky gripped your hand gently. “Alright, Bucky.” You nodded, mirroring his smile.

You told him more about yourself and for a moment, Bucky seemed anything but a mobster. He asked you about the books you liked to read and talked to you about the subjects that seemed to make your eyes light up and your smile a little wider. As the evening drew on, you became comfortable enough to share a few timid little jokes, which elicited chuckles and laughs from even some of the most scary looking men around the table. One of them, Drax, who was terrifyingly huge and angry looking, clapped his hand over his chest and roared with laughter the first time you told a joke, which completely took you by surprise. What surprised you more was how easy it was to make Bucky laugh and how down to earth and sweet he was.

By the time everyone had eaten and spent some time drinking and chatting and enjoying themselves, you had warmed up to all of them, especially Steve, Sam and Bucky. All of them though, were soft and charming on the inside, showing you a side to them you were unsure anyone else in the club was ever going to see. They were intimidating on the outside, exuding a terrifying confidence, but on the inside they were all sweet and gentle and caring and it absolutely melted you.

And after you had said goodbye to all of them and made your way back to the locker room, Clint, one of Bucky’s closer family members, followed you in. “Barnes wants me and Scott to make sure you get home safe.” He told you. “He’s requesting we give you a lift back in his SUV.” Clint added, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed over his middle. It definitely seemed unusual, especially to be personally driven home. As far as you were aware, not even Natasha, who seemed very close to the family was ever given a lift home. But then again, judging by her reaction to Bucky wanting you to dine with them earlier, you supposed this was all rather new for them, just as much as it was for you. “Alright.” You nodded as you opened your locker, pulling off your apron and putting it away before you took out your jacket and bag, quickly getting them both on before letting Clint escort your towards the back exit.

“Hey doll, hope you don’t mind the spontaneous ride home.” Bucky grinned, far too pleased with himself that he was having his men not only drive him, Steve and Sam home, but also you. Of course it meant he had a longer way home, but Bucky didn’t care. Seeing you all off to your houses was important to him and why seeing you off specifically was important, Bucky was starting to wonder why.

After sliding into the SUV and getting comfortable on the soft, plush seats, you were driven home with gentle, quiet chatter between Bucky and Sam, Steve joining in occasionally until you arrived at your apartment building.

“See you the day after tomorrow, sugar.” Bucky smiled, leaning towards the open door to speak to you as you got out of the car. “Thanks for the ride home.” You waved at all of the men in the car, Scott getting out to escort you up to the front door of the building, the car waiting until they had seen you safely into the building and the door shut behind you.

Sitting down in your bedroom, safely back in your apartment you laid down in the soft blankets, replaying the evening in your head, realising you were smiling to yourself when you remembered that Nat had said no one had ever been asked to dine with Bucky and his family before. It brought warmth to your cheeks as you settled in for the night, looking forward to your next shift at Stark’s.

Bucky Taglist (OPEN):

@losers-official @barneswidow @megantje123 @anchoeritic @struggling-bee

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x y/n #mob!bucky #mob!bucky x reader #mobster!bucky #mobster!bucky x reader #bucky #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #james barnes #marvel #marvel fanfic series

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pascalpanic · 4 years ago

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hi angel 🥺 i’ve had some time to think of what i want to request and i’ve finally come up with something ;-;

do you think you could write something comforting (doesn’t have to be long!) where maxwell is caring for a reader who is a little tipsy or drunk? the reader is the kind of drunk who’s giggly and playful. and he’s super sweet and gentle with her. maybe they already have a pre-established relationship? maybe some slimy guy is hitting on her and he gets all protective and takes her home? and i’d neverrrrr object to smut either. but i’m leaving it up to you to write whatever you think works the best. i just miss reading soft and protective maxwell yanno ;-;

Overdoing It (Maxwell Lord x f!Reader)

W/C: 1.5k

Warnings: alcohol obviously, sexual innuendo, Maxwell lifts reader so I know some ppl aren’t comfy with that

A/N: RACH MY LOVE I’m sorry this took so long but I’m glad I finally did it bc I love how it turned out! ALSO HAPPY WW84 DAY (July fourth) SO WHAT WONDERFUL TIMING!

You certainly had not intended to imbibe to the level you had tonight. The problem was Maxwell, really, although in the best possible way.

The man has a high tolerance; you, admittedly, have one considerably lower than his. You love seeing Maxwell when he’s tipsy. It’s rare that you get to see it and remember it. The times that he’s tipsy are the times where you’re next to vomiting.

But tonight was a celebration, and Maxwell spared no expense. You’d finally received a position in a job you’d dreamed of, one that caused the two of you to spend hours poring over applications and perfecting cover letters. It was a success for the both of you, you said, but Maxwell insisted that it was all you.

You’d said that takeout was just fine with you, so long as Maxwell was there, but he insisted that a bigger celebration was in order. You didn’t really mind; you love getting dressed up to go out. Max made a reservation at a nice place in downtown D.C. and kept the specific place a surprise from you until now.

As you walked inside, the gorgeous atmosphere made you lose your breath for a moment. Your eyes nearly watered as you looked at Maxwell, and he simply kissed your forehead. “You deserve it, my love. I’m so proud of you.”

The words aren’t exactly rare from Maxwell, but they mean the world to you. Having someone tell you that they love you is one thing, but having someone say they’re proud of you is a completely different one. “I love you,” you grinned and followed him to your table, lacing your fingers through his.

Dinner was wonderful, unsurprisingly. Maxwell had scanned the menu the last time he came here, with business cohorts, and been certain you would like it. The delight on your face as you scanned the menu confirmed it, and Maxwell mentally gave himself a little pat on the back.

You’d ordered appetizers and drinks, then more drinks with the main course (two to accompany the meal, to be exact), and then more with dessert. By then, you were starting to feel a little tipsy, but nothing you couldn’t handle. Slowly, as you left the restaurant, the alcohol sunk in. The drinks were stronger than they’d seemed.

Luckily, Maxwell has a chauffeur. He’d had as many drinks as you, but the man’s tolerance is quite high. He seems barely affected, if not slightly looser and more carefree. The two of you made your way outside, Maxwell holding his arm around your waist to ensure that you didn't stumble; just in case, he reminded you, but you didn’t believe him.

In the car, you snuggle into Maxwell’s side happily, resting your head on his shoulder. “Buckle please, love,” he insists and wraps an arm around you.

“No,” you whine, kissing the soft cologned skin of his neck. “You’re too cozy.”

Maxwell laughs and nestles into you. “I’ll excuse it this once, only because I trust Jeeves,” he teases you. “How are you feeling, love?”

“So happy,” you smile up at him, dazed but content. The alcohol has brought you to a state of bliss now; love for Maxwell, a full stomach from the wonderful dinner, pride in your achievement.

Maxwell nods. “Of course you are,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

“Ooh, do we have wine at home?” You ask, sitting up and looking at him. “You need a few more.”

“No, no more drinks,” he chuckles and pulls you back into his side. “I think we’re both done for the night, don’t you?” His hands slide over your shoulders, smoothing the bare skin that’s cold to the touch.

You pout at him and Maxwell turns his face away, smiling. “No, I can’t look at that. I won’t be able to say no.”

“Please, baby?” You plead with big eyes.

“We have wine at home,” Maxwell tells you, even though he’s unsure whether or not it’s true. Either way, he won’t be allowing you to drink any of it.

Sighing, you snuggle into his side, shivering. “Car’s cold,” you murmur.

Maxwell removes his suit jacket and drapes it around your shoulders, kissing your head and smiling down at you warmly. “How’s that?”

“Smells like your cologne,” you practically purr like a satisfied cat as you wrap yourself in the expensive fabric. “I love you so much, Maxie-poo.”

“I love you too, darling,” he chuckles. The chauffeur brings you to his house not long after, and Maxwell offers you a hand when you get out of the car.

Sitting in the seat, you frown up at him. “I’m fine, Max.” Standing in your high heels, your wobbly legs thanks to the alcohol send you falling into Maxwell, who catches you.

“Fine, yes,” he chuckles and lifts you back to standing. “Take off your shoes and let me help you inside.”

Sighing and crossing your arms, you step out of your shoes, calves screaming a thank you for removing them from those torture devices. He reaches down and picks them up, ass straining in his suit, and you can’t help but give it a smack, giggling.

“Oh, no, little miss,” Maxwell playfully chides and grabs your arm. “Let’s get you inside, tiger.”

Your legs lead your brain without any thought, drunkenly stumbling your way inside. Maxwell’s arms are your support, really the only thing to keep you from falling. He purposely steers you away from the path leading to the kitchen, knowing you’ll ask for more alcohol should you see it. When you reach the foot of the stairs, you groan and look at Maxwell with puppy eyes. You know his back has been bad lately, his joints ache when the humidity rises, but you can’t do this without him. “Can you carry me? Please?” You ask him.

Maxwell chuckles and kisses your head tenderly. “I suppose. Climb on my back.” He stands with his palms the wall, squatting for you to jump up on him.

The formal dress makes it difficult, but you hop up, both of you groaning as you latch onto him. “I love you so goddamn much,” you babble happily, kissing along the skin behind his ears.

“You’re lucky I love you too,” he grunts as he makes his way up the stairs, his knees aching from the weight of carrying absolutely anything on his back.

When he reaches the top, you get down and sigh, kissing him sloppily. “You’re the best.”

“I’m wonderful,” he sighs and rolls his eyes, leading you to the bedroom and letting you plop down on his plush California king bed.

You strip off his suit jacket and toss it at him, and he catches it without even looking. “Don’t even think about seducing me tonight, darling. You’re too far gone,” he chuckles.

His words make you frown and stop in the middle of unzipping your dress slowly. “I wasn’t gonna,” you grumble and stand, slipping out of the dress and getting under the thick covers of the bed.

“Sure,” Maxwell smiles and retreats into his large closet. He returns in pajama pants and the white tee he wore under his button-up.

He looks so soft like this, and even drunk, you recognize what a privilege it is to see him like this. His large suits hide his frame, but you can see the soft curve of his tummy, his broad shoulders and narrow torso. “We should get married,” you blurt to him, your heart-eyes penetrating through to his center.

“You’re drunk,” he shakes his head as he wanders to the bathroom. He returns with his thick-rimmed glasses on, and it completes the look, his highlighted hair messy and beginning to curl.

He sits on his side of the bed and hands you a glass of water and some painkillers. “You’re going to feel like shit in the morning, and you’re not allowed to blame me.”

“I won’t,” you pout and take the pills, rolling onto your side to face him. His legs are beneath the covers, and one of yours snakes to his and wraps your ankle around his.

Max smiles softly at the gesture. He recognizes it. You need his touch, want to snuggle tonight rather than keep to your own in his spacious bed. He lies down and you quickly scoot over to him, resting your head and a palm on his chest.

“I love you, dear,” he murmurs and kisses your forehead, his hand stroking your back lovingly. “You sleep now. Please.”

“I want to cuddle a little longer,” you frown and look up at him, face barely peeking out from the covers.

Max laughs. “Of course. We’ll stay like this, but at least make an effort to fall asleep. Your headache in the morning will be better if you sleep more.”

“Fine,” you sigh and scoot your body as close to his as possible, kissing his chest through the plain white t-shirt. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he repeats and sets his glasses to the side, letting himself sink into the squishy bed. He’ll surely have to care for you in the morning too, but he doesn’t mind. It’s worth it.

taglist:

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#maxwell lord ww84 #maxwell lorenzano x reader #maxwell lorenzano #maxwell lord x you #maxwell lord headcanons #maxwell lord fanfic #maxwell lord #maxwell lord x reader #ww1984 #ww84 #ww84 fanfiction #wonder woman 84 #wonder woman 1984

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detroitbydark · 5 years ago

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Chp 13

Characters: Commander Fox x Mouse (reader), and more Jedi/clones/politicians than you can shake a stick at.

Summary: that one time Padme throws a big party, Bly cracks jokes, fox hates himself some more, mouse wears matching underwear, and Anakin has a heart to heart.

A/N: Snuggle up Fox Fanciers this boy is stupid long and full of yearning on a level I didn’t know I could yearn. You’ve been warned!

Special thanks as always to @skdubbs and @crimson-dxwn for being my sounding boards and supporters in all this. Love you ladies! 😘

————

“For the love of the Force…” Mouse curses quietly. Padmé was never going to let her live this one down. She turns, admiring herself in the floor length mirror. The kriffing dress was perfect. Like, absolutely perfect. Had she not lost a few kilos since Coruscant she may not have even fit it to begin with but she had and it did and it was all that mattered at the moment.

It was easier to admire the stunning red dress clinging to each curve, cutting off just below her knees than it was to think about him. Yeah, knowing Fox was going to be there and seeing him were two entirely different things. Seeing him had felt… complicated.

There had been a split second when she’d first laid eyes on him in that door, bucket slung under his arm, that she would have done anything he asked just to be near him. The loss she’d felt the first few days on Naboo was nothing in comparison to what she felt when he’d entered the Senator’s office. It was a blessing to be holding Leia, to have Luke as an excuse to leave as soon as she could.

She couldn’t think with him there. Her first instinct had always been to radiate to him, even before she’d really understood that was what she was doing. Fighting that instinct was hard and it hurt, but she didn’t think she had it in her to be that girl anymore. She didn’t know if she could give all of herself again and again to be pushed away when he got scared.

Padmé had said all the activity would be just a few days and then they’d be back to normal. Mouse just had to survive. She’d gotten good at that.

On the way out the door she questions retrieving a shawl. She’d be eating with warriors, battle hardened soldiers. She doubts their delicate sensibilities would be thrown into a tizzy by the sight of her scars. Maybe the more delicate socialites and their wives, but she doesn’t much care for their opinions.

She reaches up to touch the skin of her shoulder as an afterthought. It wasn’t the appearance so much as the feel of it she didn’t like. She hated rubbing the lotion into it, the almost rubbery feeling of the proliferative tissue there, but the doctors had said it was important to keep it softened to prevent it from tightening and contracting over the joint. So, two to three times a day, Mouse let go of her own uneasiness and pressed the special lotion into the skin, rubbed and massaged until the skin was pink with irritation.

The walk to the grand dining room is short and Mouse's heels echo softly down the large hallway. She can hear the conversation before the doors are even opened for her, punctuated by deep, masculine laughter. She’s fashionably late and Padmé raises a brow from her spot across the room. Mouse offers an apologetic smile and the senator returns it. Anakin stands a foot behind his wife. His attention is split between watching her and conversing with his former master.

It’s odd seeing the Jedi, both men, in formal wear. Tuxes just don’t look quite right on them. That’s not to say they don’t cut striking figures - General Kenobi would have his choice of Coruscanti society girls if he marched around the capitol like that. It's just a little wrong to see the Jedi not in their robes.

“Sweetling!” The deep rumble drags her attention from the senator who returns to speaking with the men in front of her, neither of whom Mouse recognizes.

“Marshall Commander,” she greets, turning and accepting a soft kiss on the cheek as Cody draws near.

“Mous’ika,” he chides, using the name he’d obviously heard somewhere.

“Yes, Cody?” she asks sweetly, managing to hold in her giggle until he laughs.

“That’s more like it! How have you been?”

Mouse falls into conversation with the Commander of the 212th. They’d met a handful of times now since she’d arrived in Naboo. The Commander had accompanied his Jedi on more than a few visits and while General Kenobi was spending time with his former Padawan, Cody had taken to having tea with Mouse and Padmé. He was a steady man who loved to gossip over holodramas and sip herbal tea. In another life maybe, Mouse could picture him as a professor, or maybe the owner of a bookshop. Something quiet, studious.

A server makes the rounds as they chat and Cody plucks a flute from a tray and hands it to her. She takes it with thanks. The bubbles tickle her tongue as she takes a drink. Something prickles at the periphery of her senses and she glances around, trying to figure it out what it might be. She shakes off the feeling and gives her full attention to the Marshall Commander in front of her.

“This isn’t either of our particular scenes, I believe. We’ve got to blend in somehow.” He holds up his own tumbler in show, amber liquid and round cubes of ice rolling around in its confines.

“That’s very true. I was afraid I’d get here and be relegated to a wallflower.”

“As if Padme would allow that,” he scoffs.

Mouse laughs again. “Are you always right, Cody?”

“Ask General Kenobi.”

Music plays quietly, a string quartet from Coruscant flown in for just the night, as Mouse falls in at Cody’s side. A few troopers in dress greys stop to chat for a moment here and there and Mouse dutifully smiles and offers polite conversation, laughs at the appropriate times. She recognizes some here and there, a scar or tattoo sticking out in her memory, all Commanders with the occasional Lieutenant thrown in for color. She feels the sensation again and can finally place it. It’s as if someone is watching her. Cody offers her a questioning look as she glances around again. She flashes a smile and shrugs. She was being silly. No one was watching her.

“Are you still sponsoring the little girl on Coruscant?” Cody asks, making polite conversation.

“Me’kar? Yes, I actually just received a comm from her guardian the other day. She’s doing well, picking up basic incredibly fast.” Mouse had started sponsoring the child shortly after her arrival, not able to get her bright smile and sweet eyes out of her mind. It wasn’t uncommon for the children’s home to accept sponsorships to supplement the small stipends they received from the Republic. It cost money to keep the children dressed and fed and extras could be more than the budget allotted for. Mouse was more than happy to do it and the updates and occasional holo from the little girl were bright notes in her week.

“Have you given more thought to adopting her?” Cody asks knowingly, as if it was a forgone conclusion.

“I’m still thinking.” Mouse shrugs. It wasn’t a decision to take lightly, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the little girl and what it would be like to come home to her everyday, to be a mother to a child that needed one. She’d once harbored a silly dream of a family with one clone commander and little Me’kar playing a starring role. Now she still thought of a family, but maybe just of two and not three. Cody glances over her shoulder, a smile splitting his features. Mouse turns and sees, arguably, the most beautiful Twi’lek woman in the galaxy wrapped in a body contouring dress that looks nearly painted on.

“Have you met General Secura? Let me introduce you. She may be able to answer some of the questions you have.”

———

Aayla Secura was wonderful. Mouse found herself completely enthralled with the twi’lek woman as she spoke of Ryloth, customs, and traditions. The Jedi didn’t think her idea of adopting Me’kar to be improper and encouraged her. Family was important for her people and she didn’t believe any child should grow up without the opportunity to have one.

“I would encourage you to fill out whatever application needs to be started immediately. Bring the little one here or raise her on Coruscant, either way it sounds like you’ve been thinking a great deal on it. You’ve asked such important questions. The rest is all just figuring things out as you go.”

Mouse can’t help the bright smile she flashes. Aayla glances over her shoulder as Mouse takes a swallow of her second glass of bubbly. It’s sweet on her tongue and reminds her of Fall orchard fruits, crisp and delightful. She’s just a little bit more relaxed than she’d been an hour ago as the alcohol works to relax her nerves when she thinks she feels eyes again. She’s quick to laugh it off as nerves - she hadn’t been around so many people in ages.

“Have you met my Commander Bly yet?”

Mouse wonders on “my” for a moment, but as soon as the Commander is at the Jedi’s side she wonders no more. He stands close, closer than to be expected and his hand rests along the cutout in the Jedi’s dress for just a moment longer than is proper as he greets her.

“I’m rounding up stragglers, sir,” he says with a half smile, turning and offering Mouse a nod. She holds out a hand and Aayla introduces her. Bly has a moment when his brows twitch up in unison before he takes her hand and shakes it gently. “If you ladies would care to, I believe we're supposed to take our seats for dinner.”

Bly offers his arm to his general and she slips hers through it, allowing him to guide her. Mouse follows a half a step behind as they move to the grand hall. Large round tables are set up under sparkling chandeliers. Mouse tries to break off to a smaller one, out of the way and to the side of the room, but it seems Cody has taken up the rear behind the trio. He takes her arm gently as she tries to veer off.

“I believe you were assigned a seat of importance, Sweetling.”

Mouse shakes her head. She really was only here because Padmé wouldn’t hear of her not being there. She tries to explain to Cody as Bly glances over his shoulder. A look passes between the two troopers.

“I’m sure there’s at least one seat left at the head table.”

Mouse watches as Aayla gives her Commander a questioning look. She swears she sees him wink.

She’s not watching where he guides her, still gently trying to plead her case. She looks to her left and sees Padmé smiling brightly and knows she won’t back her up in her decision to hide in the shadows. Cody pulls the chair out for her as she offers him a grumpy look. He chuckles and captures her hand, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss. Mouse feels her cheeks flame, too flustered to come up with anything in response. She doesn’t pay attention to the set of greys next to her as Cody nods and she slides into her seat. Not until he walks to his own seat beside General Kenobi does Mouse turn to introduce herself.

And comes face to face with the Commander of the Coruscant Guard.

Fox is leaned back in his seat, brow raised in her direction. He radiates slow simmering irritation.

“I- I’m sorry” she doesn’t know why she’s apologizing. She had nothing to do with this. Her eyes dart around frantically trying to find any other option, an escape, but all the other seats are full and the last of the guests are taking their places at the other tables. If she got up now she’d only draw more attention to herself.

Fox says nothing as he turns back to his drink and Bly on his other side. Mouse stares down at her plate, her stomach already twisting into knots. She throws back her drink, downing the rest in one swallow. A passing waiter offers her another and she readily accepts. Maybe if she’s just a little bit drunk this wouldn’t be so bad.

Padmé clears her throat and all eyes fall to where she stands at the head of their table. She’s resplendent, of course, in a loose cream gown that drapes her in the most eye pleasing of ways. Even if she didn’t have an air about her that demanded attention, her wardrobe choice alone would have done the job.

“I’d like to begin by thanking everyone for their company on this lovely evening. As I’m sure you’ve heard,” she says as if she’s letting the room in on a grand secret, “we’ve recently welcomed our first children into the world.” The small gathered crowd laughs as if on cue. Mouse glances to the other tables. She didn’t know faces, but she’d dutifully typed all the names into the guest list Padmé had dictated. They were some of the most influential individuals in the outer rim. Padmé has thought to treat this evening as a soft unveiling of the plan she’d eventually propose to the senate. It was a test crowd of her peers. She’d use their reaction to modify and gauge where to go from here.

“Now,I find being a mother is much like being a senator. There is always something that needs doing and a mother’s work, much like a senators, is never done.” She offers a smile as she glances from one side of the room to the other.

“The men and women I have invited here today,” she gestures to the clones and Jedi around her “are very familiar, also, with work that never seems to be done. These are the Marshall Commander and Commanders who keep the Grand Army of the Republic afloat. They and their men risk their lives for a Republic which has given them nothing in return, and for that,” Padmé gives a gentle smile around the table, “I want to be the first to openly admit that we have done them a grave disservice.”

Mouse glances to see the wait staff lining up along the walls with the first course. She really does try to pay attention to what the senator has to say, but Fox is so close. She can imagine she wouldn’t have to move far to be back against his chest, feel his hot breath against her skin. Maybe he’d wrap his arm around her, hold her tight, whisper sweet things in her ear-

Maker, she was pathetic. Her stomach turns in agreement.

“Throughout this evening I hope each and every one of you enjoy yourselves, and I also hope that you take a moment to give these brave men some of the gratitude that we, as a Republic, have denied them for far too long. Something I hope we will begin to change in the not so distant future.”

Polite clapping erupts as staff circles the tables and places the first course in one impressively synchronized movement. As Padmé sits, her husband leans in and presses a kiss to her cheek. Mouse looks away.

The food looks good. Or at least it should. Mouse had helped pick out the menu herself. Crudité, a small salad of exotic fruit, a light dressing. It should be perfect. Everyone else seemed to be enjoying it if the sound of silver clinking against china meant anything. She takes a bite and chews carefully - it has all the depth and flavor of sawdust.

“I didn’t realize you had a type.”

Mouse glances at Fox who is firmly staring at his own plate, chewing as if nothing is amiss. He’d always looked good in his greys but he looks utterly delicious now. His hair is longer and his face is shaved clean of its usual five-o’clock shadow.

“Excuse me?” Her voice is quiet, barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t take you for a trooper chaser.”

The food very nearly gets stuck in her throat as she attempts to swallow. She takes a pull of wine from her glass, coughing lightly.

“Everything ok, Mous’ika?” Cody asks from across the table, concern evident.

Retrieving her napkin from her lap, Mouse covers her next cough. “I’m fine, Cody.” She tries to give him a reassuring look from behind the fabric. “Must have forgotten to chew,” she jokes awkwardly. At her side Fox makes a low sound. Cody glances between the pair of them for a moment before turning back to General Kenobi at his side.

“Cody,” Fox says, and Mouse catches the quick flash of brown eyes. “I seem to remember it took nearly a year for you to say my name. You’re moving faster.”

“Why are you saying this?” she questions. Why would he think such a thing? She hadn’t done anything that deserved such an accusation. He shrugs before turning to Bly and asking him a question about field munitions.

It leaves Mouse's head spinning. No one else seems to notice as they all speak quietly to one another.

“Commander Bly? General Secura?” Bail looks to the other side of the table and the pair. “What are your feelings on Senator Amidala’s personhood bill I sent you?”

“Far be it from me to dislike a law that makes me human,” Bly cracks. A round of laughter rises among the other troopers present. Aayla rolls her eyes at her Commander in an unmistakably fond way.

“What I believe the Commander is trying to say Chancellor, is that it is a more than welcome change to the status quo.”

“I was trying to say that?”

“Yeah, the vocabulary seems a bit past him,” Fox cracks dryly.

Aayla looks from one to the other. “Force I wish General Koon and Commander Wolffe could have been here. Maybe than you’d remember how to behave.”

“The ori’vod is the one who taught us,” Bly offers with faux indignation.

Obi-wan manages to smother a chuckle, though a smile still tugs at his lips. “Master Plo Koon sends his deepest apologies. The Wolffe pack is still firmly entrenched on their mission and he didn’t feel it appropriate to leave them.”

There’s a general consensus of agreement among the group. Mouse catches General Kenobi's occasional glances around the table, the majority of them falling between Commander Bly and his General.

“Senator Amidala,” he begins, his voice pensive, “How do you propose to introduce your personhood bill?”

Padmé gives a warm smile. She’d been waiting for this; Mouse can tell by the way her eyes sharpen and the slight quickening of her voice. “I think we need to show the public that it’s not only the GAR that stands behind the Clones, but also the Jedi Order as well.”

Mouse makes a small sound of dissent, feeling Fox adjust next to her.

“Mous’ika?” Cody questions, “Do you not agree with the senator?” Mouse looks embarrassed as she glances Padmé’s way, but the senator looks more curious than anything. Mouse gathers her thoughts while she finishes her glass of wine. A passing server goes to refill the glass but, at her side, Fox waves him off. She wants to glare at him, but all eyes are on her, waiting.

“I’m no politician, so I’m not sure my opinion should amount to anything,” she begins, “but general public opinion about the Jedi Order is not…” She looks apologetically at the few Jedi at the table “Well, it’s not good right now.”

There’s some concerned looks flying her way. Bless. It was easy to miss what was happening at home when one was in a war zone the majority of the time.

She reaches for where her wine should be and grabs a glass of water that hadn't been there a moment ago. She takes a sip before speaking again.

“It would be a poor decision to align solely with the Order on this one, I feel. Just a look at the holonews and you’ll see articles and op-eds questioning the Jedi’s involvement in the war.”

Fox clears his throat.

“She’s right” How sweet it was to hear those words. “We’re dealing with domestic terrorism on an unprecedented level. Nothing that we can’t handle but it’s something to take into consideration. The public feels like the Order has overstepped its bounds. It lacks policing of its own.” Fox holds up his hand when Obi-wan goes to speak. “While that may not be the case, in the court of public opinion the Order is guilty more than it is not.”

Mouse can feel him looking at her, handing the reins back over. “The average Coruscanti already is apprehensive of such a large military force within their presence. It’s going to take some doing to convince them to see the troopers as anything but soldiers awaiting orders” she finishes diplomatically.

There are speculative looks and nods around the table. “Much to think about,” Bail agrees, taking a slow sip of wine. His eyes linger between her and Fox for far longer than she likes. “Thank you.”

Mouse nods, her cheeks glowing hot from the attention. Her hand brushes against Fox’s as she sets it back down on the table. Her fool’s heart skips a beat when he doesn’t pull away immediately. She fights the urge to lace her little finger with his. Luckily, the next course comes and they both have to adjust to the changing of plates.

Her stomach is still turning in loops and food is still not something that sounds appealing in the slightest as the main course comes out. She doesn’t even remember what it’s supposed to be. It looks like it was probably delicious, roasted meat and delicate fresh vegetables sautéed to perfection. She takes a few testing bites but her plate remains mostly untouched.

“Quit pushing your food around and eat”. Of course she hasn’t forgotten Fox is sitting next to her. It must have been too much to hope he had forgotten about her.

Again, when she glances his direction he doesn’t seem to be paying attention to her. She doesn’t acknowledge he’s said anything and listens in quietly as the others at the table chat.

She takes another bite and chews slowly before swallowing.

“Come on, another,” he says. This time something is softer about his voice. When Mouse looks she sees him glancing at her.

Her chest tightens uncomfortably. Why did she give him the power to do this?

“Mouse.”

She thinks for a moment that she just might be imagining things. Under the table Fox’s booted foot knocks softly against hers letting her know she wasn’t. This wasn’t fair.

“Eat.” It’s a soft plea. He didn’t get to be soft with her anymore. He didn’t get to give orders. He’d lost those privileges.

“I’m not hungry.”

Fox’s head turns slowly at her words. “You could have fooled me. You look like a strong wind could blow you away.”

“Let it go, Commander. You're being ridiculous,” she manages to whisper under her breath. She doesn’t realize the table has gone quiet, that half a dozen or more pairs of eyes are watching them. Fox hasn’t either.

“There are faster ways to kill yourself than starvation. I’m sure you remember at least one other way.” The sudden acid in his voice hides the sound of frustration and strikes a direct hit.

Mouse has never considered herself a dramatic person, far from it really. So the rapidly rising urge to turn and punch him in the eye comes as a surprise. The anger behind it is soon replaced by mortification when she realizes that everyone has gone quiet.

Cody’s jaw is set into a tight line, the antithesis of Bly’s slackened one. Both Aayla and Bail are staring down at their plates. Mouse doesn’t look at the others.

Fox is frozen at her side, unmoving and unspeaking. Horror is dawning in his eyes as she pulls the napkin off her lap and places it in her still full plate.

His hand fumbles reaching for hers under the table but she skitters out of his reach.

“If you’ll excuse me?” She addresses the gathered group, “I’ll be back shortly.” Hot angry tears are already starting to swell in her eyes as she pushes away from the table and makes her way from the great room. She manages to keep it together until she’s in the guest wing. She doesn’t slide to the floor in a heap til she’s in her room.

She doesn’t return to dinner.

————

“You know I remember it all.”

The words catch Fox by surprise. He picks up the tumblr resting along the stone terrace wall and takes a drink as he looks at the Jedi - former Jedi- he didn’t even know what Anakin Skywalker was anymore.

“Congratulations?” Bitterness is already brewing in his gut. First Mouse and now this? Could it get any worse? Could a man not drink away his self-loathing in peace?

“The first time I met the Chancellor I was a child, but I remember it like it was just this morning. He smiled at me. It was like having someone see me for the first time. Like my Mother. Like Qui-Gon-“

Fox isn’t in the mood for this.

“-as I got older his attention focused on me. He honed me. Groomed me for something-“

“That’s great, sir, really.” He’d failed to hold back his acidic comments when Mouse had been near. Now that it was Skywalker he doesn’t even care to try.

“Shift it Fox and listen to what the kriff I’ve got to say.”

Fox brings the glass to his lips and finishes it in one long, slow pull before taking it and throwing it out into the placid lake below. It would have felt better had it smashed. The urge to break something has been simmering on the back burner all night. Skywalker was bringing it to a rapid boil.

“And what are you trying to say Jetii? Your life story means to me about as much as sith spit.”

Something dangerous flares in the other man’s eyes. “We’re the same, you and I.”

Fox barks a laugh, a bitter stagnant sound as he feigns turning away for just a moment only to spin right back. “You and I are nothing alike. Are you one of millions? Does your order see you as interchangeable battle fodder? Tell me your serial number, sir.”

“Your loyalty is unquestionable. You would do anything for the people you care about.” Anakin seems undeterred by Fox’s growing ire. “We both love women who are far stronger than we gave them credit for-“

“Shut up.” Fox’s voice is low, a warning growl from a wounded animal. He’d already hurt someone he’d claimed to love, said something ugly and cruel. It wouldn’t take much effort to get him to throw a swing against the man in front of him.

“-we think we know best. Sometimes we do. Then we let our own ego get in the way and we hurt the ones we love with our good intentions.”

“What about shut up don’t you understand?” Fox takes a step forward, chest out. He wants this to escalate.

“What I don’t understand is how you can take a girl like her and purposefully hurt her. I watched her put a blaster to her-“

“ENOUGH!” Any cool Fox had left vanishes as he closes the space between them. His finger jabs into the other man’s chest, punctuating his point. “You don’t get to talk about her. You don’t get to talk about that night.”

How dare he. In the end, who was he but Sidious’s favorite lap dog? Rage boils over as Anakin steps into the jabbing finger, making Fox take an unwanted step back.

“Yeah? You want to go there? Pretty sure I remember being there just as much as you were. I was also there when your blaster killed Fives.”

Fox can’t hide the way he flinches at the name.

Anakin takes a slow even breath before he speaks again. “Fox, I’m not going to say I didn’t want to turn the damn thing on you and put two through your composite -Jedi way be damned- but I can look back and remember what your face looked like. When you stepped in the corner where you didn’t think anyone could see? You didn’t want to shoot Fives. You didn’t want to kill your brother.”

Fox closes his eyes, tipping his head up toward the night sky.

“She knew that too-“

“You think I don’t realize what she was doing? You think I don’t realize she was ready to sacrifice herself so I didn’t have to kill someone else I - “ He opens his eyes focusing back on the Jedi.

“But you didn’t feel her in the Force like I did. I was as much of a mess as any of us but you know what I felt coming from her?”

Fox shakes his head. He doesn’t want to know.

“Resolve. Love and resolve. She would have done anything to keep you safe. She was the only steady one of us all.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” He’d seen it in Mouse’s eyes, that decision she’d made and would have followed through with. For him. The nightmares where she had to follow through still found him, the ones with her wide eyes staring up blank and glassy while smoke rose in tendrils from her head.

“Because we're the same. Our love was used as fuel for manipulation. It was a tool to gain our compliance. I saw a future where Padmé died. Over and over and Palp- Sidious made me think I could stop it. If I did what he said I could stop it all. Then he was dead and I still had the dream. But you know what? She would have died at my hands because of me, because of my blind, fumbling attempt to prevent it in the first place and my children -” Emotion swells in his voice.

“When I watched you tonight, when I heard what you said, I saw those very blind steps I had been taking all over again. Stop it, Fox. She doesn’t deserve it.” Anakin stops and takes a deep breath,

“You don’t deserve it. Let the pain stop.”

Fox drags himself away from the Jedi, turning his back to stare out at the expanse of water below. “There’s no fixing what I’ve done”

“I think you’re wrong.”

“And I think you’re a fool.”

———-

Fox feels spent. Physically and emotionally exhausted, riding the fallout of an adrenaline surge down to rock bottom after his confrontation with Skywalker.

He’s ready for bed. He needs a solid six hours of sleep. Maybe a coma?

He wasn’t pleased with the continued attempts by others to force something with Mouse that was obviously not meant to be. He wasn’t pleased with his own behavior in response to it. He wasn’t a Hutuun, but he had certainly acted like one. Honestly, he'd rather take the butt of a blaster to his head as opposed to thinking about it anymore.

He tried to think of something else. Personhood. Not in a million lifetimes did Fox think someone as powerful as the Chancellor of the Republic or one of its most brilliant senators would take up the torch for him and his brothers. It was bound to be a controversial bill but after listening to Bail and Padmé speak, it didn’t seem so overwhelming. It was a real possibility that the end of the war wasn’t going to mean the proverbial scrap heap. The end of the war could mean citizenship, recognition, lives outside of battle and the GAR.

The thought left him a little lightheaded - or maybe that was the Alderaanian wine that had been flowing.

He tries to rein in his excitement at the thought. If Fox had learned one thing in his time in Coruscant and among politics it was that politicians were exceptionally good at dragging their shebs when it came to anything good. It would require finesse and more than a little debate for the good Senator to see her plans to fruition. If anyone could do it, it was Padmé. The time frame in which she could do it was up for debate. Fox raises a brow as he looks down the hall. If the sound coming from General Secura’s room meant anything, there was some very brisk debating going on between the General and her Commander.

Fox tries not to look at Mouse’s door as he goes to his own. He tries not to think about what personhood would mean for his vode that had broken regs and found something to fight for outside of the GAR.

Fox is barely in his door, already bending to remove his boots when he hears it, a soft plaintive voice in the hall. It’s instantly familiar. He’s already cursing himself. He’d done enough to her tonight. Obviously, he’d proven that he couldn’t be in the same room without hurting her. He hears her voice again and he’s pulling the door open without a second thought.

Mouse is leaning half in the hallway. “Hello?”

The disaster that had been dinner flashes in his mind's eye as do Skywalker’s words from a short time ago.

Let the pain stop.

Clearing his throat, he steps into the hall.

“Oh Maker...” it’s not the exact thing he was hoping to hear as she laid eyes on him, but he’s sure it’s no less than he deserves. “It had to be you, didn’t it?”

Fox gives her an appraising look. Her cheeks were hot and flushed even before she’d seen him and the gown she’d worn to dinner is still firmly in place. Her gentle eyes are rimmed in red. She looks just as stunning as she had a few hours ago.

The foundation his resolve has been built upon continues to crumble.

He chides himself. That foundation had never been strong, not when he’d asked Bail to transfer her, not when he’d seen her in her hospital room, certainly not when she’d given him the cold shoulder earlier when they’d arrived. It seemed everything about Mouse worked to destroy the barrier he’s tried to erect between them.

“What’s wrong?” He asks gruffly. He’s tired from travel and of the mental gymnastics he’d been putting himself through. Mostly though he was tired of feeling like he was fighting with both her and himself.

Mouse's eyes dart each way down the hallway as if looking for someone else to save the day. She isn’t that lucky. A particularly loud moan coming from Secura’s room emphasizes that point.

“My dress-“ a new wave of red blooms in her cheeks, “the zipper is stuck. I’ve been trying for nearly an hour and…” She glances down at the floor and her bare feet. He hates that she won’t look at him but he’s done nothing to earn that honor now has he?

He huffs taking a breath and a leap. “If you don’t hate the idea of my help, I’m willing to offer it.”

Mouse's eyes slowly rise back to his. “I-“ she’s making a decision as well. He can see it written across her face. Maker, he thinks, please give me this one chance.

“Yes. Please.” She stutters out her answer, pulling away from the door frame and moving into the suite. She glances over her shoulder as she moves as if she’s afraid he wouldn’t actually follow.

Mouse stops near a small dressing table with brushes and makeup laid out on its top. A full size mirror is immediately to its side. She watches him in the reflection. It’s the first time since the hospital on Coruscant that Fox has been alone with her. That feels like so long ago, another life and time. They’re two different people now.

He steps carefully into her space as if one off movement would spook her and this would all end. This close he can smell the soft floral perfume she’s dabbed on. He can feel the heat radiating from her. Equal parts comfort and temptation rolled in one.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he says suddenly. Skywalker’s words haunt him. “I shouldn’t have said the things I did.” Mouse’s head cocks to the side as she watches him.

“Why did you then? I’m certainly not Cody’s type and-“

“And what?”

She steals herself. Fox can see the deep breath she takes before she speaks again, “even if I was, my interest will always lie elsewhere.”

The meaning of her words strike home. “Me? After everything?”

“It was always you.” She admits softly.

She still- she still cared for him? After everything? After he’d nearly killed her. After he left her maimed. After he pushed her away over and over.

More of the wall crumbles. All he’d have to do now is take one big step and he could be over it.

“So, this zipper you were talking about?” He deflects, needs another minute to think because there's too much to sort through and he can’t make more mistakes. Not with Mouse. Not with them.

She nods softly toward her left side, pulling her arm forward to show the jammed apparatus. Fox closes his eyes. Her scars stand proudly from under the thin straps of her dress. When he opens them he catches Mouse watching him in the reflection, her look is sad.

“I can find someone else-“

His hand immediately drops to her hip as she tries to walk away, pulling her back and erasing the laughable space in between them. The shock shows on both of their faces.

“Easy,” he manages, and after a moment she settles against him. His thumb rubs small circles over her waist and he’s not sure if he’s trying to soothe her or himself. “I’m just coming up with a plan of action.” That draws a small smile from her but it’s all the encouragement he needs. “You need help taking your hair down?” He turns his head, the tip of his nose brushing against the soft strands still secured in their up-do.

It’s an absolute sithshit question, she had two working arms she could remove all the pins and clips herself, they both know this. Fox just wants- he wants more time. He wants to be ready to look at the damage he’s done and not feel repulsed by it. To maybe, just maybe, not hate himself when he looks at it.

“I- yeah, that would be helpful.” She says quietly after a moment. She sits on the stool in front of the mirror, her eyes following his actions with apprehension and curiosity. Fox takes a steadying breath and begins.

He’s never done this before, that is to say done anything more than held hairpins passed to him by senators like Padme and Chuchi on a transport after an event when they complained of the intricate styles giving them headaches or had simply needed to feel free of the bindings of senate formality. He’s seen enough though, and begins to work slowly from the base of her skull working up to the crown of her head. Mouse holds out her hand and he drops the thin pins in as he goes. As her hair begins to spill down, he watches her transform before his eyes back into the mouse he’d always known. Loose waves frame her face, still painted to perfection. Her red lips part and a soft breath escapes her as he massages his fingers along her scalp. Tension melts from her shoulders and she begins to lean back into him as his fingers rake through her hair, untangling strands until they slip smoothly through her fingers.

“You're going to make me fall asleep if you keep that up,” she says finally. The ghost of a smile crosses his face.

“Come on then. Stand up. Let’s get this thing undone before you have to sleep in it.” The stool is pushed to the side as she stands, and Fox moves a half a step back so he can see what he’s doing.

“The chain,” she says softly, catching his attention. “Unclasp it first, before the zipper. I can’t reach that at all.”

The thin gold chain hangs low on her bare back, spanning the distance between the straps of her dress. It glitters temptingly in the light, just like it had when he’d seen it earlier at dinner, when his mouth had gone dry at the mere sight of her.

Fox meets her eyes in the mirror as his hand moves softly from her right hip, up and over her back. His fingers drag feather-light over the bare skin they find. Mouse's eyes flutter shut and he can see her inhale deeply. Her skin was still as soft as he remembered. He gently scoops her hair to one side, over her right shoulder. Her eyes are still closed.

“Breathe, precious girl,” he orders softly, fighting a wince at the pet name that slips out. If Mouse cares, she doesn’t let on. She exhales slowly, opening her eyes at the end. Her pupils take a moment to adjust back to the light. “Am I ok?” he asks quietly.

“Are you?” There’s no heat or snark in her words. She’s staring at him, genuinely curious.

“I think so.” His fingers find the tiny gold catch holding the chain in place and it opens with ease.

“Can you- do you think you can do the zipper. If it’s too much to look at I-“

Fox stops her with a low sound. She hadn’t looked unsure or self conscious in the gown she wore all night. He wasn’t going to be the one to make her question it now. He’d already done enough.

“I’m good.”

He gently presses her left arm forward to gain access. He takes a steading breath as he looks down. The scarring spills across her shoulder, two shades lighter than her normal skin tone. He’s seen plenty of burns in his career and this wasn’t the worst but it feels like it is because he was the cause of it. A few centimeters more and he would have missed her entirely. A few centimeters the other way and-

His fingers move to the gown, easily plucking open the hook and loop closure at the top of the zipper. Mouse sucks in a sharp breath as the tips of his finger skim along the bare skin there.

“Is this ok?” he asks. She nods mutely. “I need words, Mouse,” he urges as gently as he can muster.

“It’s good.” Her voice wavers slightly as she speaks, “Go- go ahead.”

Fox can hear his heart beating in his skull. He can hear the rush of air through his lungs. Everything feels loud as his fingers slowly work at the jammed zipper. Mouse’s breathing is shallow as his fingers press into her, as they pull and twist until whatever has been keeping the closure jammed comes loose and it slides down. His fingers trail behind the zipper as it falls open.

He looks up to find her eyes on him again in the mirror's reflection. Her pupils are blown wide and her lips are parted. Fox feels the beginning wave of blood rush to his groin, the surge only becoming stronger as Mouse slowly - carefully - reaches up and slides the right strap of her gown down. She doesn’t look away from his reflection as her hand trails across her collarbone to the left strap. She pauses as if waiting for him to tell her to stop.

Fox puts the tips of his fingers over hers and together they lower the strap. He can see the rest of the scar now, can really get a feel for the size and the shape of it. It’s glossy compared to the surrounding area, as if her skin had been pulled too tight and frozen that way. She slides her fingers from the strap - laying flat against her lower arm - up, bringing his fingers along with it.

“Does it hurt?” The question slips out as her fingers glide over the surface.

“Not usually. It pulls sometimes,” she says softly, “They both do. I use lotion, try to get it massaged a couple times a day.” Fox’s eyes lock on hers. “The other option was worse.”

That’s right. She could be dead. He’s tried not to think of that the last few months, so trapped in his own guilt about hurting her that each time the psych droid brought it up he immediately countered with how she wasn’t and she had to live with what he’d done to her.

“Can I…?” He glances down and then back up. Mouse gives him a tense smile and a nod.

It feels different from how skin is supposed to feel. It feels thicker, less textured missing the fine hair that covered the rest of her arm. He traces the outline of it. It had only been glancing, the distal part of her shoulder taking the brunt of the burn from the bolt. His fingers map out the boundaries twice before he comes to a stand still.

He doesn’t want to stop touching her.

“Where’s your lotion?”

She doesn’t question him. He can see it in her eyes, in the split second of hesitation. She doesn’t want this to stop either.

One arm moves across her chest to hold her gown in place while the other reaches to the dressing table and wraps around a bottle. Fox takes it when offered and squeezes a small amount into his hand.

He’s taking that step over his wall, he realizes. It doesn’t feel like much of an obstacle anymore anyway as it lays in crumbles at his feet.

Her skin is warm under his touch, no real difference between the good tissue and the scarred as far as temperature is concerned. He works the lotion into her skin pressing his thumb in firm circles from the edges to the center. Mouse lets out a tiny sigh and it’s becoming more difficult to ignore the desire roiling in his belly.

“Fox…” he hums in response to the soft moan of his name, “it feels so good.”

“I missed you, Cyar’ika.” He offers tentatively as he presses in close, aligning her back against his chest. His free arm wraps around her waist holding her lightly against him. His hand falls away from her skin and his mouth descends to pepper soft kisses. She was warm. She was alive. she could be dead but she wasn’t and in the end it was because of his actions that he could still hold her, still hear the soft hitch in her breath as he sucks gently at the juncture where her shoulder and neck meet.

Mouse’s head tips, offering him more room. Her arm falls away from her dress and reaches back behind her, cradling the back of Fox’s while he sucks a mark into her skin. A sea of red flutters to the floor as the dress falls. Fox growls as he looks up and sees the pair of them, him still in his greys and her naked except for a small lacy pair of red panties. His red. From there his eyes travel up, finding the other shot he fired.

The scarring to her right flank is worse than the shoulder; he can see the puckered skin and the patterned appearance of healed grafting but he doesn’t feel the wave of guilt he’s felt earlier. She was alive and hot in his arms.

“Tell me to stop.” He demands quietly against her skin, “make me stop.”

Mouse’s hips press back against the hard line of his erection straining in his greys. Another low growl spills from his lips as he spins her around. Her lips are on his in an instant, messy and desperate as she presses up and into him. Her teeth pull at his lower lip. “Fox…”

His hands cradle her face as he slots his mouth over hers, breathing in the air she gives him like a gift from Fett himself. He can feel the press of her breasts against his chest, the way her hands wrapped around him and gripped at his back.

It was a dream. It had got to be. If it was, it was the first good one he’d had in months. Mouse whines quietly as his hands slide down and grips her hips as if they were the only thing tethering him to this reality. It’s too much and he should stop but he can’t because what he should do and what he wants to do are too wildly incompatible. His fingers graze over the pebbled skin of her right flank. Mouse inhales sharply.

“Stop.” The word leaves her mouth with sudden desperation, like it had been pulled from her body unwillingly. It’s like a bucket of cold water thrown over Fox as he jerks away.

Mouse turns from him, shaking her head as she snatched up a robe and quickly wraps it around herself. They’re both panting quietly.

He’d done something wrong, misread her signals. He was scum. He was an idiot. He should-

“I can’t do this again” She’s still breathless when she speaks, ruby lipstick smeared over swollen lips. “Fox look at me.” She demands quietly when he tries to turn away. “You can’t do this to me again.”

“Do what?” He can hear the desperation in his voice, he sounds pathetic.

She looks at him for a moment before she moves closer to him. He wants to turn away. He doesn’t want to hear how he’s ruined everything, how everything has become clear but it was now too late.

Her hand comes up softly to his cheek as she looks at him through dark lashes. Her voice is barely above a whisper.

“You can’t make me want you again, not if you're going to push me away when things get hard.” She has her free arm crossed over her chest. Her tone isn’t as strong as her words. They waiver as they fall from her lips.

He wants to make her every promise in the book before he even knows if he can keep them and it’s not about getting his dick wet.

He misses her. Has missed her every single day since the horrible event in the Chancellor’s office.

He misses her smile - the soft one she saved just for him. He misses the way she viewed the world from a different but similar way he did. He misses planning for a future with her even if he hadn’t told her any of it. Most of all he misses the quiet moments, the times when they would just lay together and enjoy being near one another.

“It was all for you Cyar’ika.” He says with force, as if he said it sure enough he’d convince her that every action he’d ever made in regards to her was completely selfless.

“Kriff” she curses, shaking her head. Her hand falls away and he misses the warm feeling of her skin against his, “you of all people-“ she mutters under her breath before speaking clearly.

“I get to make choices Fox. When it comes to my life, I get to weigh the risks and benefits and I get to make choices. You took that away from me. Have I loved being here?” she asks, gesturing around at the sumptuous suite, “I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t, but would I have rather been with you? Do you know that answer.”

Fox shakes his head.

“That’s right! Because you never asked. The truth is I would have rather been with you every minute of every day of the last three months. Doing paperwork, writing schedules, reviewing supply requisitions, it wouldn’t have mattered because I’d have been with you.”

“Cyar’ika, I didn’t-“

“No Fox, you didn’t think.” She sniffs lightly, her eyes bright with unshed tears, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything in my life and you pushed me away. You turned your back on me when I needed you and now? Now you’re here and we fall into our old patterns? Not again. Not unless you can promise me you are in this 100% because I can’t do it again. My heart just can’t.”

Fox reaches out and swipes a trailing tear with his thumb “I-“ She leans into his touch, her cheek resting against his palm as her eyes drift shut. Just one second. she allows herself that. She straightens and steps away before his eyes can memorize the image of her.

“No, don’t say anything right now. Leave. Think. Decide what it is you really want. If it’s me you can find me and let me know.” There’s a finality to her words that has him biting back any response he may have made. She steps into him, rising up on her toes and gently bumping her forehead against his own.

“I do love you,” he says quietly.

Mouse blows out a ragged breath. “I know. You just need to decide if that’s going to be enough.” She moves toward the door, opening it. “Goodnight Fox.”

#fox and mouse #commander fox #cc 1010 #commander fox/reader #tcw

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overheardatthecontinental · 5 years ago

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Part of the Endlessly collection that describes the endless possible meetings of Helen and John Wick. Can be read as a standalone.

When Helen realizes she'll have to drop out of med school after spending all her life's savings on her sick mother, she reaches a new level of desperate. With the help of her roommate, Helen creates an online account to get set up with a sugar daddy. Enter John Wick.

AKA the sugar baby! Helen / sugar daddy! John au that absolutely nobody asked for

Helen Kingston stared into the mirror. She was wearing enough makeup to hide the fact she hadn’t slept the night before and a little black dress she hadn’t touched since college. She had to admit, she didn’t look terrible. Even fifteen years later, the dress still clung to her curves and made her feel attractive.

But there were laugh lines around her eyes when she smiled and her skin didn’t look as tight as it had once been.

“Don’t men want younger women? Clear-skinned undergraduates or twenty-somethings with huge tits?”

“You’d be surprised .” Mac, her best friend had said after suggesting it. “It’s not about sex.”

Helen had snorted at that. It was always about sex.

“I’m serious! Some of these guys are just lonely. Some of them are gay and looking for a beard. And some just want to make it look like they have their lives together without actually having to have a relationship. ”

Helen wondered, not for the first time if this was not still a form of prostitution. Selling herself, her time and, for appearances' sake, her body.

But she was going to lose her apartment if she couldn’t pay rent. She would have to drop out of med school and go back to working full-time in a pharmacy. It had taken her years to save enough money to go to graduate school and all of it had been lost in the space of six months.

MacKenzie had interfered, as she so often did, insisting that she couldn’t handle three more years of med school without her friend.

Then Mac had said, “I know about this service. It pairs women with rich men and it pays ridiculously well. It’s how I managed to pay for undergrad.”

“I’m not going to fuck someone to stay in school. It isn’t worth it to me.”

Mac had rolled her eyes, “The fucking is optional. Most of the time, it’s not even on the table.”

She had continued to insist that she wasn’t interested until Mac pulled up the site and showed Helen the listings. “You get a grand for a single date, Hel.”

“Fuck me.” Helen had sat down at the computer, “ You’re kidding me?”

“Nope. And that’s just the initial meeting. Technically, you only get $900. The site gets a 10% commission off of whatever you make. And there’s no contract at the first meeting. If you don’t like the guy, you still get 9-hundos for two hours of your time.”

And for a woman who hadn’t had a full meal in weeks… that was ridiculously appealing.

So she let Mac set her up a profile and was shocked at the requests for meetings that came in.

“If I just took five initial meetings, I could make $4,500.”

“Possibly more, depending on the guy. I’m telling you, I had this regular guy in college who paid me extra for exclusive rights. I got two grand a week on top of money for individual dates.”

Helen exhales in the mirror. She looks as good as she is going to, she thinks, before grabbing her purse and slipping on her high heels shoes. Grabbing the keys to her POS car, she heads out.

It’s an hour drive into the city and to the restaurant he had picked.

His name was John.

There was no picture posted but his age was listed as early-forties.

If his description were honest, which she doubted, he had black medium length hair, brown eyes, and a beard. He selected ‘average’ for build and his height was listed at 6’1. His employment is listed as ‘contractor’, whatever the hell that meant.

He had sent her a polite request for a meeting.

Unlike so many of the other requests she had received, he did not wax poetic about her looks nor did he include any torrid ideas about what he wanted to do to her.

It was simple, respectful, and to the point. He proposed a time and a place and offered to send a car, which she declined. She still wasn’t sure that she trusted the service and, despite the cost of gas, she had just enough to get her there. And, once at the restaurant, $900 would be wired to her account.

She arrived early enough to park in a lot that stopped charging after six pm and Helen walked the rest of the way to the restaurant.

Maybe, she thinks as her anxiety builds with every step, that this was a bad idea.

Mac knew where she was so, hopefully, she wouldn't be murdered but...

Oh god… she could get murdered.

Well, at least that would take care of her debt.

She took her phone as she walked and shot off a text to Mac. "If I die, I'm haunting you."

She started to slip it back in her purse but it began ringing.

It's Mac.

"What?"

"You're not going to die."

"It's a possibility." The restaurant was in sight. "I'm strangely not that concerned. Either I die or I don't."

"That's the spirit."

"That said, if I end the night in someone's trunk, I blame you for getting me into this."

"Are you alive when you're put in this dude's trunk?"

"That's an interesting game you pose. Schroedinger's' Helen. Dead and alive in the trunk."

She heard a snort and glanced up. A man stood by the front of the restaurant with a smirk on his face.

He was tall and handsome and that smirk should be illegal. In a three-piece black suit, he looked like he just stepped off the cover of GQ.

"I don't get it."

"Well, I'm sorry it went over your head, but I assure you, I'm very funny."

The man's smirk transformed into a full grin and… fuck.

Helen looked away so as not to flush under his gaze. She reminded herself that she is there to meet someone who is paying very well for her time.

"You're really not." Mac told her but she barely listening.

Mister Tall-dark-and-handsome was making his way over.

"Helen Kingston?" He asked.

And...fuck.

"John?" She replied, hoping she was wrong. Hoping that the attractive man she just talked about being murdered and thrown into someone's trunk in front of is not the man she is going on a date with.

But he nodded and Helen decided she is, indeed, fucked.

"Ohmigod is that him?"

"If it would bring you and your friend comfort, I can assure you that you won't end up in my trunk."

Her goal to not flush in front of the attractive man was lost. Her face was red as she murmured a quick goodbye to Mac and stuffed her phone away.

"Hi," She said, lost and unsure of how to proceed.

He looked younger than his forties but it appeared as though he was mostly honest.

He had shoulder-length black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His eyes were brown and soft. In fact, the only argument she could think of was that he was anything but average. Even under layers, she could make out a trim and toned body.

This wasn't an ugly rich man who struggled to meet women.

Her first thought goes to beard. Is he hiding the fact he's gay and looking to keep his secret covered?

She can't think of another reason that he couldn't get a date. Unless he was a tremendous ass but her gut said that wasn't the case.

"Hello." He greeted back.

“Any chance you’d be willing to start over?” Helen asked hopefully.

“We could, but I think it would be a shame to not speak about Shrodinger’s Helen.”

Helen ran a hand through her hair. It was a fair blow but she still finds herself turning pink yet again.

John offered his arm, “Let me get you a drink.”

Helen takes it, “Yes. Please.”

They walk inside and John gives his name. Immediately, they are brought to a private corner of the dining room, far away from prying ears.

John held out the chair for her and Helen wondered if she wasn't in over her head with the kind of lifestyle that includes candlelit dinners and wine lists.

The waiter recited the specials and John ordered a bottle of wine which could not come fast enough.

Helen could still feel the burn in her cheeks as she glanced through the menu. She had never been to a restaurant before that didn’t include their prices next to the item in question. That, along with thorough descriptions of each item, made her think that the restaurant was far bougie-r than she had initially thought.

It was a good thing John was paying.

The waiter came back and poured them each a glass and she itched to down in a single gulp. But she didn’t, allowing the waiter to take their orders and leave before reaching for the glass.

Helen took a large sip and was aware that she was under the scrutiny of her date. He gazed at her with something akin to wonder or curiosity. It was far more intimidating than she had imagined, sitting at her computer.

“Relax.” John said, picking up his own wine glass, “You have the control here.”

Helen exhaled. Damn right.

“I think it’s obvious I haven’t done this before.”

“It’s okay. Neither have I.”

That surprised her. “Really?”

He nodded his head, once. “This is a first for me.”

“Can I ask… why now?”

“You can ask whatever you like. And to be honest, I don’t date. It’s never been a priority for me, but my work often requires attending social and formal events. I usually don’t mind attending alone but I’m getting tired of colleagues trying to set me up.”

And… it’s excessive to be sure, but practical. Helen knew she wasn’t in any place to judge but she had still been expecting someone… older, unattractive, and unpleasant.

“So you’re looking for someone to attend events with?”

“More or less. Were you interested, I would want to spend some time and get to know you beforehand.”

Again, practical.

What she did not understand was why he had reached out to her . There were plenty of other women on the site, Mac for instance, who had experience in that world. Mac knew how to waltz and curtsy and be proper. A practiced set of niceties that came from growing up with money.

Helen did not have those skills. Or any skills that seemed applicable to the world of wealthy men.

“I admit that I don’t have much experience with formalities.”

“I saw on your profile.” He said, appearing largely unaffected.

“Then why me? There are plenty of other women who specialize in that kind of world.”

“Anyone can figure out which fork to use. But not everyone has read Camus and Kierkegaard and Sartre. Not everyone can make jokes about being locked in a trunk and compare it to Shrodinger.”

Helen blinked, her lips twitching in a small grin, “You picked me because I like existentialism?”

“Because I thought that anyone who lists Camus as their favorite author would be able to hold a decent conversation.”

“I wouldn’t say that’s a guarantee.” Helen fired back. “Perhaps I’m just a narcissist. I am in med school, after all.”

John grinned widely, “Well, then, at least this will be interesting. What year are you in?”

“My second. Two and a half more to go before residency.”

“And what did you do before?”

“I was, and am, a pharmacy tech. It paid well and it gave me some medical experience while I saved for med school. Unfortunately, I ran into some financial issues and I really don’t have another ten years to save before I start over.”

John nodded, “May I ask about what happened?”

There was no reason, she decided, to not put everything out on the table. “My mother got sick just after I started med school. Cancer. I supported her the best I could but after paying for treatments out of pocket, I had blown through my savings within a couple months. Between that and school payments, I quickly ended up in over my head.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that. It must have been very frightening to have your life altered so drastically, so quickly.”

“It was.” Helen agreed, “I’ve always known that anything can happen at any time but it was the first time I really felt my entire life slip from my control.”

“Is that how you ended up here?”

On the site. At the restaurant. Not a judgment, just an assessment.

“Yes. I’m a bit short on school payments and Mac, my roommate, suggested this as a solution.”

He nodded and Helen reached for her wine again.

Thankfully, John turned the subject to simpler things and she exhaled in relief. “Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

“Yes. Ever since I was a kid, I knew I wanted to be a doctor.”

“Area of specialty?”

“Honestly, I’d like to work in a trauma ward or an emergency room.”

And for whatever reason, that made him smile. “Fast-paced.”

“I’ve waited a long time to make it to med school. I don’t want to waste any more time.” She offered a small smile in return, “What do you do?”

“I’m an independent contractor,” John told her.

“Doing what?”

“Whatever needs to be done.”

Helen inclined her head, “Are you always so elusive or is this just a first meeting kind of thing?”

“My work is… complicated,” John said, thoughtfully.

“Is that a polite way of saying illegal?”

His lips twitched and his eyes seemed to shine.

Helen flushed, "I'm sorry. That was inappropriate. Sometimes, when I'm sleep deprived, I don't think before I speak."

"That was delightful," John argued, "please don't feel like you need to hold back, however, you said you're sleep deprived?"

She shrugged her shoulders, "usually. Work, school, and homework tend to take more hours than there is time in the day. But don't think I haven't noticed that you still have not answered my question."

John continued to stare at her, assessing. And then, just when she thought he would elude her again, he answered with a simple, "Yes."

Helen gave him a nod but remained silent as the waiter returned with their salads.

"How do you feel about that?" John asked as the waiter left them in their private corner again.

"It requires less effort to condemn than to think.

And John grinned a full, true smile that made her heart skip a beat.

"Emma Goldman."

"I think I butchered her words, but I believe it just the same."

"Tell me, sweet Helen, are you an anarchist?"

It was unfair, she decided, the way he could make her cheeks burn.

"I am not sure I fully align with any political thought. I'll admit that anarchy has its merits, but laws have their place."

"Laws can be confining."

"They can but, since we have yet to find a system that works, majority rule is the best we have."

"Unless you take into account the collective stupidity of mankind, in which case, majority rule can be just as harmful as anything."

"But what would you have to replace it? Rules are necessary, a contract is required."

"Rules or consequences?" He seemed genuinely interested in her opinion and it completely threw her from the small talk she had anticipated.

By the time their dinner had arrived, Helen had forgotten that it wasn't a real date. That their meeting was not chance but an arrangement.

She was more than full after her meal, feeling as though she would burst. She ordered dessert only for the sake of lengthening their conversation, which stemmed from politics to philosophy to art.

John was… brilliant. Utterly brilliant and completely captivating and… not what she had planned for.

He walked her to her car, even though she warned him it was blocks away. He carried her leftovers in one hand while the other rested at her lower back.

Anyone who saw them might think they were an actual couple.

It made her heartstrings ache because… they weren't a couple. This wasn't a real date.

As if she had time for such luxuries.

All too soon, they reached her car and Helen put the leftovers in the front seat before turning back to John.

"I had a wonderful time with you tonight."

Helen swallowed, noting his proximity. "I had a great time too."

"And I would like to see you again. My only concern," John said after a moment, "is timing. You already have work, school, and obligations that come from your studies. I worry that time spent with me would be subtracted from your sleep."

Helen flushed and tried to not let the disappointment show on her face.

He was wonderful. Smart and funny and a perfect gentleman. Perhaps the most handsome man she had ever gone out with.

But she understood.

She came with too much baggage.

He needed someone with fewer commitments, someone better suited to his needs.

"I understand." She said, looking down. "Thank you for a lovely evening."

"I think you misunderstand," and John stepped closer and caught her chin in his hand and angled her face upward, his dark eyes staring into hers. "I have a proposal for you and I hope, in offering such, that I do not come across as if I'm trying to manipulate you or your life. You still hold all the cards and still have the opportunity to walk away if you desire."

It was hard to breathe with him so close. He smelled like whiskey and cologne and it made her salivate.

"What's your proposal?"

God, he stood so close to her now.

“I know that my situation is less than ideal. What I do,” which he still had not told her, “is highly illegal. Many of my associates are criminals, even if they are widely respected. Between the time constraints and the subpar company, I know I ask a lot. In return, I would like you to consider allowing me to play for the rest of your schooling.”

Her lips parted in shock.

“And expenses. So you don’t have to work instead of sleep.”

Her head felt light because… this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

She feels his cool hand touch jaw before cupping her cheek.

“I know it’s a lot to consider.” John says softly, “And I don’t want you to answer now. I want you to think about it. If possible, sleep on it.”

Her lips twitch in a smile.

“I would like to kiss you.”

Fuck. Me. She thinks and then nods, “Then you should kiss me.”

John bends down, obliging her, and presses his lips to hers.

And she can’t describe it. It’s not fireworks because that would be too distracting. Music doesn’t start playing somewhere in the background but it doesn’t need to.

His mouth is warm and soft and… claiming. God, it feels like she is being branded by his lips.

And her heart is racing as if it suddenly understands why kissing other people had never felt right. Because this was right. Kissing John was right.

All too soon, it’s over. And when her eyes open, they are staring into his.

She thinks although she isn’t sure, that he doesn’t want to leave it at this either. But he moves back slightly.

“You know how to reach me,” John says, pressing a final kiss to her forehead. “Drive safe, sweet Helen.”

And he walks away, heading back down the street towards the restaurant.

Her hand rises and she brushes her lips with her fingers.

She is in far over her head.

#john wick #helen wick #john wick fanfiction #john wick fanfic #fanfic #helen x john wick #john x helen wick #endlessly yours #endlessly series #overheard at the continental #incorrect john wick #helen wick fanclub #helen wick deserved better #sugar daddy! John Wick

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believerindaydreams · 4 years ago

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Does it count as a slow burn if it's been less than 15000 words I dunno anyway here be the shagging chapter.

"Arcade Gannon, you're extremely drunk."

That he's saying it aloud seems to confirm the validity of the statement. Good.

Boone looks up briefly from his compulsive scribbling. It seems backwards somehow that he's sitting here with the drink while Boone is writing, but he can't entirely think of why. Tomorrow Arcade's problem.

Tomorrow along with the hangover and scavenging for survival and getting to one of the people they're meant to be rescuing. He giggles, tenderly adjusts the angle of his new glasses. They're utterly priceless, at least until he gets back to the Old Mormon Fort and can grab one of the three pairs he's put by for emergencies.

"What are you doing?"

There is a definite moment during which Boone has decided not to answer, but then he does. "Letter for my wife."

"Oh. Uhh, sorry about her...I can't, you know, take too many more emotional shocks before falling asleep. The-" he frowns abruptly, feels at his neck to see if the collar is still there. It is. "The thing thing. Enough for one day."

Compiling a list of the variables causing him to have hit this level of coherency would take long enough he'd be sober before finishing. Never mind.

"That thing," Boone says, sharply enough to break his pencil between words. He takes out a knife and starts whittling a fresh point. "Don't ask about the thing."

"Understood." He is absolutely dying to know what science involves making targets glow, but that's not Brotherhood or Legion business and it might not even be his. Much as he wants to find out. Man has a right to secrets.

He shuts up and just watches for a while. The scratch of pencil lead. The way Boone's frowning over the letters, a hint of pink tongue at the corner of his mouth, so profoundly earnest. The slight glisten on one side of his jumpsuit, catching the light-

oh. Oh! Fuck.

"I was crying on your shoulder earlier." The whole chain of memories pops up obediently, now he's looking for it.

"Don't worry about it."

"I-", Arcade starts, and promptly stops, because he was going to say he's sorry now but that might be misconstrued as rude, and why can't he offload some of this eighteen-caret vocabulary right now except making his mouth say it sounds difficult. "So you don't mind."

"In your position I'd have beaten my brains out against a Legion tentpost ages back. You're pretty coherent for a prisoner of war."

Now isn't that rich, being told he's coherent by...why is he thinking like this? That's Enclave talk, isn't it?

He firmly shoves that whole line of thought into a box and locks it away. "I should shut up and go to sleep now."

"Probably," Boone agrees. He folds the letter up, tucks it in a pocket. "I'll wake you when I can't stay awake any more."

"A watch? Do we really need one?"

"I'd rather not risk it."

It's either argue or go to sleep. He falls asleep trying to decide.

***

"Wake up before I pass out."

A return to the land of the living. Not as rough as it could have been, he's drunk so much water in ecstatic indifference to lurking radiation. Rads can be cured, dehydration can't.

He returns to the sink for more and turns around to find Boone already out, small and vulnerable the way people are when they sleep. Dragging the mattresses from the cells into this kitchen had been a good idea, there's a double layer to sleep on, another to sit on.

Compared to the life he was living, sustenance on sufferance and a guard every moment, this is the lap of luxury. Even the slave collar-

he feels the harsh metal against his throat again and shudders, returning sobriety hitting hard. This is not normal. This is not a state to get used to. He deserves better than this, as does Boone.

For a moment he considers crawling right back into a bottle, but they don't have an infinite supply and besides, Boone's trusting his life here. Best keep steady hands.

Old world poetry marching through his skull. Center cannot hold. If he has to get to terms with what's been happening to him, he will fall apart right here in this kitchen.

Focus, Gannon. Focus.

Boone turns over in his sleep, emits a soft snore, and it's silly to say that does it when it's the weight of death pressing down on them, attraction formed out of raw aching need, spending the most stressful hours of his life wrapped up in concern for the life before him; and something turns over and now he's in love. Or at least lust. His body, fed and watered and rested, is absolutely desperate for release.

A jumpsuit's not ideal for this sort of activity. Arcade removes it, adjusts his position to be able to see the entryway and Boone both, the other man's body gently rising and falling with each breath. The rhythm of it is steady, reassuring, makes for a fine counterpoint to his own meditative movements.

If an enemy comes in now, his senses are on high alert. Listening, seeing, it's an acceptable risk.

Boone isn't asking for this.

Boone doesn't need to know. They're keeping enough secrets from each other, he can have one more.

The crescent-shaped scar trailing down past the ear, normally covered by the beret. Rounded curve under the ribcage, a callus on the forefinger of indeterminate origin, every small detail whispering him on as he pulls and pulls and comes-

- the whoop of pleasure as he does so, clutching the butt of the holorifle for support, is tremendously unintentional.

Boone opens one eye, fixes his squarely.

"Huh. Nice to know you're human like the rest of us."

Sitting naked and covered in cum is so far past any reasonable course of denial or explanation, truth will have to serve. "I do find you very attractive, but we seemed to have enough to deal with without me dumping that on your head."

"...how about you give me a handjob, and we'll call it quits."

There are so many more extravagant ways to show a man a good time, but- this is Craig Boone. No surprise if he likes to keep it simple.

Arcade wipes himself off, ruining the lining of a poorly made fedora in the process, and crawls over to strip his lover.

(Can you say lover, etymologically, before actually committing the act? Never mind, it's bound to be a moot point shortly.)

He struggles to get the jumpsuit off- it's tight and Boone isn't helping much, limp with exhaustion- doesn't give him much to work with here. They might not get very far.

Nevertheless, it's incumbent on him to make the attempt.

Arcade teases the soft uninterested cock into a slightly more pliable form, careful application of fingertips that have touched more than their share of yielding flesh. Back and forth, back and forth, the hold is blessedly familiar after the holorifle grip and rightly so.

Still not getting very far. He lies down, tests a quick light lick along the shaft for a sounding before putting his mouth to work.

Boone twitches beneath him, shifts his weight, like the whole world turning over just for him. "Thought you'd just do it quick, not massage and swallowing thrown in."

Arcade doesn't hurry his investigation, the gentle play of tongue and lips, before withdrawing to reply. "Do you want me to argue or get you off?"

Boone does the thing he does best and shuts up.

He does quicken the pace after that, though- manipulation here, delicate squeezing there, minimizing the exploratory touches he would quite like to linger over- and it really is much too soon, when the warm rush hits his mouth.

Normally he would swallow, but the act ends in an anti-climatic puddle of spit and less attractive flavors, drooled out into a rusted tin can. "Tastes like cloud. No offense."

"None taken." Boone does, actually, sound relaxed now. He's unconscious in seconds.

Arcade clambers back into his jumpsuit and covers Boone best he can, before picking up the holorifle to keep a proper watch this time.

Everything that's stewing between them right now, he's not even sure this will change the dynamic between them. Death is the only thing more intimate than sex.

In the Sierra Madre hell, though, it's nice to have one thing to simply feel good over.

#fallout new vegas

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antoine-roquentin · 5 years ago

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Like the US president, Jair Bolsonaro has raged against the quarantine implemented by his own government and has just dismissed his level-headed health minister, Luiz Henrique Mandetta. A few days after the first shutdown measures were announced in São Paulo, the president blatantly defied them by encouraging his supporters to attend a mass rally on March 15, filling part of the megalopolis’s wide Avenida Paulista in support of Bolsonaro and against Congress. Covid-19 is just a gripezinha (sniffle), he insists, while heading a campaign on social media to reopen the economy under the slogan “Brazil cannot close.” On Sunday, he headed a second small rally in the capital of Brasília, where social distancing was replaced by manic jostling to get close to the president, along with chants demanding that the army intervene to get people back to work.

Bolsonaro has dismissed as “hysteria” the lockdown measures, implemented swiftly in Brazil despite the president’s rhetoric. “Let’s face the virus like men, not kids,” he urged, as he visited a Brasília street market last month. Perhaps the only head of state able to out-Trump Trump in sheer recklessness and social-networked delirium, Bolsonaro has mobilized his three loyal sons, two of them members of Congress, to help peddle conspiracy theories concerning China and snake-oil remedies such as chloroquine. Ironically, Bolsonaro, 66, was lucky to escape infection on March 7, when he attended a neoconservative get-together hosted by Trump at his Mar-a-Lago mansion in Palm Beach, after which several members of the Brazilian delegation came down with severe symptoms.

The terrifying implications of such a cavalier approach to the pandemic in a country with a stretched health care system and vast slum cities where social isolation, and even the routine precaution of washing hands, is an impossible challenge, soon forced the Brazilian establishment into action. When Bolsonaro—following the Trumpian script—announced that he would reverse the lockdowns in São Paulo, Rio, and other cities, the Supreme Court reiterated that under Brazil’s federal system, it is state and city authorities who decide such matters. Leaders of both the Senate and Chamber of Deputies supported Mandetta, while governors like João Doria in São Paulo and Wilson Witzel in Rio—allies of Bolsonaro in the presidential elections of 2018—maintained the city lockdowns. Justice minister and super judge Sérgio Moro, who led the “car wash” anti-corruption probe and sentenced former president Lula da Silva to nine years in prison, dared to defy the president whom he had helped into power.

The other super minister in the Bolsonaro government, billionaire financier Paulo Guedes, whose global investment funds are now staring into the abyss, also seemed skeptical of Bolsonaro’s antics, despite his concern that the lockdowns and a pandemic-driven 5 percent drop in GDP this year (an IMF forecast) might scupper his plans to privatize the Brazilian economy. Pots and pans were banged from the balconies of locked-down apartment blocks in middle-class districts of Rio and São Paulo in protest against Bolsonaro, just as they had been five or six years before against the soon-to-be-impeached President Dilma Rousseff. Like Trump’s health adviser Anthony Fauci, also a doctor, Mandetta had emerged as a voice of reason, with better ratings in the polls than Bolsonaro’s, and appeared to have cleverly outmaneuvered the president. At least, until his dismissal last week.

Even the armed forces—well represented in the Bolsonaro cabinet—seemed prepared to intervene against the madness of President Jair, despite the Bolsonaristas’ calls for military action in favor of the president. A report in DefesaNet, an online media outlet used by the military to get its message out, said that effective control of the government’s strategy on Covid-19 had devolved to the chief of staff, Gen. Walter Souza Braga Netto. “The president will thus be able to behave democratically as if he did not belong to his own government,” explained DefesaNet, a contorted phrase that perfectly captures the Brazilian establishment and military’s paternal approach to Bolsonaro’s childish outbursts.

When Mandetta was confirmed in his post after Bolsonaro’s initial threats to oust him, many concluded that the lunatic had been removed from control of the asylum, or at least the intensive care ward. “The general feeling here is that Bolsonaro is a puppet,” remarked an employee early last week at the country’s state development bank, BNDES, whose role in successfully fending off the global economic crisis in 2009 will be sorely missed this time, after Guedes’s decision to downsize it. But the removal of Mandetta, and Bolsonaro’s paranoid appeal to his base Friday to help him fight off an alleged coup attempt orchestrated by Doria in São Paulo and Rodrigo Maia, the head of the Chamber of Deputies, suggest an alternate reading. Could the president glimpse opportunity in the chaos?

“There is method in the madness,” explained the anthropologist Luiz Eduardo Soares in an interview. Soares is co-author of Elite da Tropa, a gripping 2006 account of police brutality and extreme-right-wing death squads in Rio’s favelas that was turned into two blockbuster films, Elite Squad and Elite Squad 2. Soares, whose latest book, O Brasil e Seu Duplo (Brazil and Its Duplicate), explores the origins of Bolsonaro and Brazilian neofascism, says Covid-19 will either stop the Bolsonaro project in its tracks or accelerate its progress. “Bolsonaro has been advised to deny the threat of the pandemic,” said Soares. “He feels sure of himself, in part because he’s mimicking Trump. But his authority has diminished, and he’s in danger of becoming a lame-duck president only a year into his term.”

But the president has a plan. Behaving, as the generals suggested, “as if he did not belong to his own government,” Bolsonaro may be able to escape the blame for the devastating economic crisis now unfolding. A brutal recession triggered, as elsewhere, by the pandemic, comes after seven years of stagnation. Even before the pandemic, 60 million Brazilians had fallen back into poverty (defined as earning less than $5 a day) after the advances of the Lula years. “The plan is to transfer responsibility and accuse the others for allowing the tremendous crisis which we are going to encounter,” said Soares.

The worsening social conditions will undoubtedly create fertile ground for Bolsonaro’s bid to capitalize on discontent. A survey cited by piauí magazine found that 72 percent of Brazilians have enough savings to cushion lost earnings for just one week before entering serious hardship, and 32 percent already report problems buying essential goods like food. “We are staying in, but food is scarce, and without work there is no money,” said a mother of two who lives in the enormous Rio favela of Rocinha, where at least 50,000 inhabitants are packed into the hillside above Ipanema and Leblon. “Practically everybody in the favela works in the informal economy, so the lockdown doesn’t really apply here; businesses are open but close earlier. People are wearing masks; there is little information,” said Macarrao, a rapper from Cinco Bocas, a favela in the North Zone of Rio, whose daughter has Covid-19. “She got treatment fairly quickly,” he added. This may not be the case now. Epidemiologists at five important institutes in Brazil forecast recently that the health system could reach the point of collapse by late April.

The Bolsonaro government has guaranteed a basic monthly income of 600 reales ($112) to those with no income, but the electronic application has failed, and long lines of people—practicing scant social distancing—have waited outside the public savings bank Caixa Econômica, only to discover that their transfer has not arrived. In any case, $4 a day is a pittance, and Guedes seems reluctant to take any other measures to soften the blow for Brazil’s poor, even though he has passed tax cuts for business. There is a logical link to Guedes’s neoliberal stance, as millions descend into poverty and hunger, and Bolsonaro’s populist plan to blame it all on Mandetta and the governors of the two big cities: Both governors are potential rivals for the next presidential elections, and Bolsonaro will use his media to pinpoint them as responsible for the hardship.

While registered cases of the coronavirus in Brazil are 40,000, the real figure is probably over 10 times that, as indicated by the current unnaturally high mortality rate. According to official data, by the end of last week some 2,600 people had died from the virus—low compared with Europe and the United States, but Brazil is late in the curve. And Brazil’s intensive care units are fast approaching capacity, just as they have in Europe. Manaus, the Amazon metropolis where the reports of contagion in the indigenous territories make harrowing reading, is already at 100 percent capacity and is transferring patients to other sites. A survey by the University of Pelotas in Rio Grande do Sul, in the south of the country, estimates that there are at least seven times more cases than the official figures suggest.

Bolsonaro will try to build a strategy from his base of support among evangelicals and people in the orbit of the police and military. Evangelicals have been another element of the Covid-19 denial, but they are fired by conviction rather than nonchalance. Edir Macedo, the billionaire pastor whose TV networks are used by Bolsonaro in preference to the establishment Rede Globo, said the WHO’s warnings on Covid-19 were the “work of Satan.” “Our position from the first moment has been to keep the churches open, because God will defeat the virus,” said Washington Reis, the evangelical mayor of the Rio working-class district of Duque de Caxias last week. Days later, God had spoken, and Reis was hospitalized with Covid-19. The tactic may be working. Bolsonaro appears to have maintained support in the pandemic, despite the pot banging and international horror at his stance. A poll by Datafolha last week showed that 36 percent of Brazilians believe his management of the health crisis is “good or great,” slightly more support than before the pandemic. And 52 percent say he’s capable of leading the country through the crisis.

There may even be a second phase to Bolsonaro’s strategy of leveraging Covid-19 to stay in power, said Soares. “Building on the contradictions of his own government and the coming crisis in the health system and the economy, Bolsonaro may be hoping for some kind of a social explosion in the streets,” he said. “That would create the conditions for a state of emergency and the end of democratic institutions that are still blocking the path of Bolsonaro’s basic project: a dictatorship and the perpetuation in power of his family.”

The call for a coup against Congress—pitched, at Sunday’s rally, at more extremist elements in the armed forces—may be a first step in this direction. By first denouncing an alleged coup plot against his own presidency, allegedly planned by Congress and the big-city governors, and then calling for military action in his defense, “Bolsonaro is following the example of many authoritarian presidents, starting with Hitler in 1933,” writes Nabil Bonduki, former São Paulo culture secretary, in an article in Folha de S.Paulo. “The allegation of an attempted coup is thus the pretext for a coup planned by the president himself.” The idea might sound fanciful, and as paranoid as Bolsonaro’s own rhetoric. But the former army captain was a reluctant recruit to democratic politics even before the devastating arrival of Covid-19.

Bolsonaro’s close links to right-wing militias made up of former military police and firemen, which run whole swaths of the West Zone of Rio, may help. “The militias have always been close to the Bolsonaro family, and now they are becoming more ideological, part of a Bolsonarist movement. They could help in a coup if he wants that,” said Soares. The militia Escritório do Crime (the Crime Office) is known to be implicated in the assassination of left-wing Rio city councilor Marielle Franco over two years ago. To square the circle of fascism and Covid-19, reports are just out that the militias in Itanhangá and Rio das Pedras, adjacent to the kitsch beach resort of Barra da Tijuca, where the Bolsonaro family has its base, are forcing businesses to stay open during the lockdown so they can continue to charge for protection.

as ian kershaw points out, the latin american cold war governments that were called fascism don’t really correspond with the italian and german examples because they lack the mass movements that brought hitler and mussolini to power. they, like salazar and franco, used symbols of fascism to exude power, but did not share the key characteristics of the movement. for instance, the nazi party numbered in the hundreds of thousands before it took power, while the falange only had 10,000 members at the outbreak of the spanish civil war. bolsonaro, in contrast, has a mass movement behind him, with the parties that back him having membership in the millions. his supporters are not older men, like most conservatives, but men in their 20s and 30s who are willing to go out and rally and brawl for him. like nazis, they have developed an intellectualized but conspiratorial and religiously-imbued notion of national salvation from international threats. they are often armed and control territory, with more favelas actually being under control of paramilitary groups than drug gangs.

on the other hand, many definitions of fascism, particularly on the left, require an economic component. a crude form of trotsky’s theory of fascism essentially labels these groups as pinkertons who took over a state, who come when the rate of profit is low and force labour to give up more of its share of national income. brazil is indeed experiencing a low rate of profit, but its labour movement is not well organized enough to seriously defend its prerogatives from a traditional state-backed approach. it can be pointed out that PT, which was attempting such an approach, was removed from power by those who viewed the party as defenders of labour. this grouping, based in the traditional military power centres of the brazilian regime, did not have any real support on their own among the brazilian populace, with temer’s government having a 5% approval rating. bolsonaro was seized upon by this grouping because it offered the chance for a government that largely agreed with its goals but could muster a far greater base of support among the populace. this partially mirrors the rise of hitler, who was also seen by supporters of the former military dictatorship as their ticket back into such a situation. the combination of hitler’s love of the military contrasted with the disdain of him by actual military figures (hindenburg called him “the little corporal”) can be seen in the current bolsonaro-generals dynamic. it took the nazi party leadership a year and a half to subsume the military to its own prerogatives, while bolsonaro has done far less in that time. however, bolsonaro’s base has been primed for a coup they view as a countercoup, with rumours of a military takeover having spread across the pro-bolsonaro blogosphere starting in march along with rhetoric of defending him from such an event.

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alls-fair-in-pride-and-prejudice · 5 years ago

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The Star King’s Labyrinth Part 1

part 2, part 3

As promised, here is part one of my Dragon Prince/Labyrinth mashup fic. Aaravos is in the role of the lovely Goblin Elf king, and my OC Lyra is the lucky poor unfortunate human to be whisked away. The plot of this fic will largely mirror that of the original Labyrinth, but I went ahead and changed a bunch of things. For one, I spent longer on exposition than the movie did. (In which we will see professors Viren and Opeli - which made me wonder if people in The Dragon Prince have last names?)

Rated T on AO3 because cursing.

Tagging: @psijics and @king-bito (since you were the first I mentioned this idea to I figured you’d want to see I did the thing)

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged for future parts!

~~~

Lyra was already stressed after her physics class earlier that day. She knew Professor Viren strict, but she had no idea it was this bad.

“I have made myself clear in the past, no late work is accepted in my class,” the physics professor said, not even looking up from the work on his desk.

“I’m not asking for credit; I’ll accept the zero. I just want to be able to do the online assignment to make sure I learn the material,” Lyra explained. She needed to master her understanding of gyroscopes to move on to future material, but the online problems were closed the moment the due date hit, and she could not even check her answers. “Please, I was sick. There was only so much schoolwork I could do before the cold medicine knocked me out.”

Professor Viren shot her a withering look from overtop his glasses. “Then perhaps you should have worked on this material earlier so getting sick wouldn’t have been a problem. If you want to succeed, you have to prepare in advance in case of these things.”

Lyra gritted her teeth, wanting to say something like “Since it’s clearly been a while since your student days, maybe you’ve forgotten how hard it is to keep your head above water in the day to day work.” Or maybe even something like, “I know they had only just accepted the heliocentric model when you were in school, but we modern day students have a lot more to cover, so some fucking basic empathy would be appreciated you pretentious asshole.” She held her tongue, only muttering to herself once out of his office, “it’s just not fair.”

At least she had multivariable calc afterwards. It was always entertaining if they went over something with applications in physics, because then they would witness one of Professor Opeli’s legendary anti-physicist rants. “You do not need to understand the underlying concepts. In fact, you’re probably better off not trying to. You just have to do the math and you’ll sail right through the classes. Don’t even bother with physics professors, they’re virtually useless.” she said once. A student said that Professor Viren would probably be offended to hear that.

Professor Opeli simply gestured to her stony expression. “Does this look like the face of a woman who cares what he thinks?”

Any good feelings Lyra had towards Professor Opeli were immediately dissipated once she decided to assign extra work for the fall break. It’s so unfair! Do these people not understand the concept of a break? Lyra wondered.

The answer, of course, is “yes,” but college professors do not see days off from school as breaks, but more as lost time that must be made up.

Lyra, a fool that did not yet know that expectation is the root of all heartache, had set her hopes on a relaxing trip home for the four-day weekend. She wanted to go to the pumpkin patch and catch up on some reading while drinking hot apple cider. At the rate she was getting homework assigned, it appeared that she would be lucky to get the cider as a comforting treat while she worked.

At least her parents would help her with laundry and meals… she hoped.

But, as we have already established, Lyra was one to set her hopes too high. Her mother had forgotten that her daughter was coming home that weekend and had booked a gig that would require her and Lyra’s father to travel out of town for the weekend. “At least the dog doesn’t have to go in the kennel now,” Lyra’s mother said over the phone.

“Yeah, so on top of all the stress I’m under, I can also spend the weekend picking up dog shit,” is what Lyra wanted to say. Out loud, she said, “yeah it’ll be nice to cuddle with him this weekend.” Which, she supposed, was true. At least she had a furry companion to help ease her stress levels.

After a two-hour drive Thursday night, Lyra decided she could afford the rest of the evening to relax in the empty house. After taking Orpheus the labradoodle out to do his business, she made herself a cup of hot chocolate and curled up with a fantasy romance novel. It was extremely cliché and an easy read – by no means a great literary work – just how Lyra liked it.

It had just enough spooky elements in it to feel suited to the season too, a gothic vampire romance. The heroine rescued by a creature of the night and taken back to his castle (never mind that there were not castles just laying around in colonial United States, where the tale takes place).

Still, Lyra could not completely keep her mind on the story for her stress. She was already considering what online resources she would have to practice with since Professor Viren had such a stick up his ass that he couldn’t even leave the practice problems open to the students. Khan Academy maybe? It was invaluable in her high school days. Did they have college level coursework on there? How would her grades survive if she couldn’t learn this?

Lyra sighed, trying to turn her attention back to the fantasy world in hand. This was supposed to be her one chance to relax and she was not about to waste it. She reached for her mug only to discover the greatest of all tragedies: her hot cocoa had gone cold, and the marshmallows melted into a sticky inconvenience around the rim. Setting the mug back on the coaster, Lyra groaned. Orpheus, awoken from his nap on the floor by the noise, trotted over to Lyra, apparently deciding he needed belly rubs.

Lyra obliged him, making room for him to curl up next to her on the couch. Of course, despite his size, Orpheus was under the impression he was a lap dog, and there had to be careful maneuvering for Lyra to get some semblance of comfort once he decided she was his new bed.

Cuddling her dog had always been comforting in the past, but it was not long before Lyra wondered about her future, and she could fell the loneliness creeping in sitting in the otherwise uninhabited house. She couldn’t blame school stress for her inability to enjoy that moment, now could she? Why could she not enjoy what moments of rest she had? How was that fair?

Lyra could not deny that her grades were falling apart, and she wasn’t even sure that astrophysics was what she should pursue, but if she was not an academic, what was she? What else did she have going for her in this world after devoting her life since elementary school to good grades and academic success? Despite being a junior, she lacked any social connections that lasted more than a few months. Friendships were hard. She could never really figure out where she stood with people, always being as accommodating and friendly as possible to be safe. After the fact she always worried she came across as clingy, which would set the whole cycle of isolation over again.

“Wouldn’t it be nice if I could just run away from all of it?” Lyra mused aloud as she rubbed Orpheus’s ears. He did not respond, since he was a dog, and this isn’t the kind of story where animals start talking out of nowhere. “I guess that’s what I was hoping to accomplish by coming home this weekend, but my problems followed me here.” She inspected the art on the cover of the cheap paperback. “I want a castle. No, not a castle, I just want to run away somewhere that my problems don’t follow me. Where hot cocoa doesn’t get cold and gross and I don’t have to deal with stuck up professors and unreasonable deadlines.”

Lyra leaned back on the sofa, throwing her head back to look to the ceiling. She was not often one to talk to herself aloud, but perhaps it was the need to fill the empty space that made her voice her lamentations. Maybe some part of her, an instinctual part left over from the days when humans had to evade large predators, knew she was not really alone, that someone was listening in.

“I just wish I could leave this world altogether,” Lyra shouted to the (seemingly) empty room.

All the lights in the house flickered for a moment, then went dark, the only light coming from the streetlamps and moon outside. “It is my pleasure to grant your wish, Lyra,” replied a voice from the shadows.

Lyra leapt off the couch in alarm, spinning around to see where the intruder was. From what she could see, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Orpheus confirmed for her that something was wrong, raising his hackles and growling softly. Lyra grabbed a nearby decorative candlestick as an improvised weapon for self-defense. “Who’s there?”

There was no answer in any sort of verbal language, but Lyra felt an instinctual pull towards the entryway of the house. She crept along cautiously, Orpheus keeping close by her. She gave him a soft pat on his head as thanks for his loyalty.

In the entryway, across from the coat closet, was a small end table where keys and other assorted odds-and-ends were kept, with a mirror above it to check one’s appearance before leaving. As Lyra approached, she saw a figure in the mirror alongside her own reflection that became clearer bit by bit, as if emerging from fog.

She knew she had to be going insane at that point. The first thing she noticed about the figure in the mirror was that he was purple with silver freckles across his skin. Then his horns, curving against a head of silver-white hair, became clear through the mist, and Lyra wondered if she was dealing with some sort of demon. The sclera of his eyes was black, and his irises were golden and almost glowed in the dim light. Those eyes carried, like the rest of the figure, a frightening sort of beauty, like lightning that strikes a little too close for comfort.

In the mirror, the strange figure stood next to Lyra wrapped in a black cloak with gold trim. Whatever he was… he certainly was not human. Against perhaps her better judgment, Lyra reached out to touch the glass of the mirror in disbelief of what she was seeing. The figure glanced down to where Lyra’s hand met her reflection and smirked.

The person in the mirror reached forward, and Lyra saw a sparkling violet hand reach out to touch hers on her side of the mirror. She screamed and whirled around, swinging the candlestick. The stranger caught her by her wrist, seeming only mildly annoyed at most.

“Is that any way to greet the one that just granted your heart’s desire?” the stranger asks, with a deep baritone voice like honey.

“Granted… what?” Lyra sputtered, taking a moment to find her voice, and managing to wrench back her wrist from his grip in the process. Lyra realized that at some point in her shock, Orpheus had disappeared. So much for a loyal companion. She took a cautious step back from the very strange man in her house, finally settling on one question to start: “Who the fuck are you?”

The man took Lyra’s hand, bowing and placing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. She tried to ignore the fluttering of her heart at the gallant gesture. “I am Aaravos, king of this realm. You wished to leave your world, so I brought you here.” He stood, snapping his fingers, and the walls dissipated like mist, leaving the two of them standing in a twilit forest.

Lyra looked around, taking in the ethereal surroundings: the lights like tiny multicolored stars hanging in the branches, and the floating bits of stardust around them. They stood on a hillside, and in the distance, atop another hill, a gleaming castle with impossibly tall and spiraling spires reached into the night sky. Surrounding it in the valley below was a labyrinth so large and twisted it could rival Greek myth.

“And… where is here?”

Aaravos leaned against a nearby tree that bended and curved upon his approach to something more comfortable to rest against. “This was once a realm that served as a prison, but those that sent me here underestimated my power and my ability to mold this world into something more suitable. These days, I find I prefer my new home to the one that banished me. You would be advised to stay close to me, and I can help you avoid the areas that still serve as places of torment.”

“Torment??” Lyra laughed, a tense and nervous sound that grated even on her own ears. “This is just a weird dream. I fell asleep on the couch and I will wake up any minute now… right? Right? I just… I want to go home.”

Aaravos’s face scrunched up in confusion, and a darkness took hold of his gaze as he stalked toward her. “Not five minutes ago, you wished to leave your home. I have graciously granted your wish, and now you would rudely refuse my gift to you?”

Lyra gulped, debating whether she should appease this being with an apology, or whether she should try to reason with him and defend her right to go home. When looking up into the face of this man that radiated dangerous power, Lyra’s sense of self-preservation demanded she choose the former. “I’m sorry,” she said, voice quiet and shaky, “I did not mean to offend.”

Aaravos smiled, reaching up to brush his fingers along Lyra’s cheek. The sweet caress made her shiver, though she was not sure if it was from fear or… something else. “Nothing in this world or any other, dear Lyra, is truly free. I will admit I had an ulterior motive for bringing you here.”

Lyra sucked in a deep breath, staring up at Aaravos with as much courage as she could muster. “And what was that, exactly?”

Aaravos grinned. “I am terribly bored, and you little humans are so interesting.” He took a lock of Lyra’s dark hair that had fallen from her bun and twirled it around a finger. “I could get a lifetime’s worth of entertainment just watching how you react to magic that is so commonplace for me. Do you really wish to go back to your dull human world with your deadlines and lonely nights? Reading books about magical adventures instead of having your own?”

Lyra hesitated, tempted by the offer... but it all sounded too good to be true. There had to be another catch, and she knew she could not trust this Aaravos to be transparent. Besides, as frustrating as it was at times, she loved her studies. She loved her family and her dog and she could not give that up forever. “Please, let me go back. I didn’t mean it when I said I wanted to leave. I was just frustrated. Let me go, please.”

Aaravos sighed melodramatically. “Oh, if you insist… I suppose I shall have to amuse myself some other way.”

Lyra almost laughed in relief. She began to say her thanks, but Aaravos cut her off with a look that carried a sadistic glee to it. “Let’s play a game, then,” he said, his tone sharp and without any of the softness it carried moment before. With a wave of his hand, a clock floated above his palm. “I will give you thirteen hours. If, in that time, you can make it through that labyrinth to my castle, I will send you home. If not, you will stay here forever.” With a snap of his fingers, the second hand on the clock began ticking.

“Wait!” Lyra cried, “I never agreed to that! What kind of deal is that?”

Aaravos cocked a snowy white eyebrow. “You seem to be under the impression, little star, that I was asking your permission. No. I have simply informed you of your current predicament. If you wish to return home so badly, I suggest you get moving. After all,” he gestured to the floating clock with a nod of his head, “the clock is ticking.”

In a flash of blinding white, Aaravos disappeared, and Lyra was no longer on the hilltop, but staring at an elegantly carved stone archway possibly thirty feet tall. She stomped her foot and shook her fist at the sky. “YOU BASTARD,” she screamed, “That’s not fair!”

Left with no other option, Lyra stepped through the archway into the labyrinth.

A/N: Opeli’s disdain towards physics professors is based off an actual calc professor I had. The physics and calc professors I had that semester talked shit about each other and their departments. It was great.

Lyra is a college student because an immortal elf hitting on a 21-year-old is less creepy than one hitting on a 16-year-old. In her original universe, Lyra’s parents were bards, so I decided to leave them as vague performers/musicians in the modern world.

#Labyrinth #aaravos fanfic #tdp aaravos #alls fair creations #oc lyra

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razieltwelve · 5 years ago

Text

Directive (Final Rose)

Elsa backed away slowly. Averia had overused Saviour, so she was supposed to be catatonic for at least a few more days. She should have been in bed. Instead, she was standing by the window staring up at the stars.

"Averia?"

Averia turned and smiled. It wasn't her smile. "Not exactly."

Ice began to creep along the walls, floor, and ceiling. "Who are you?"

"I think you know." Not-Averia made a show of sitting on the windowsill, her lips curved into a smile that reminded Elsa far more of Diana than Averia.

It took a moment for the pieces to fit together in Elsa's mind. "Saviour?"

Saviour grinned. "Yep." She tilted her head to one side. Elsa was struck by how inhuman the movement looked. There was absolutely zero wasted motion, not a single iota of unnecessary movement. It was like watching a statue come to life. "Averia is… a little occupied right now, so I thought I'd take our body out for a bit of a spin. It wouldn't be good to let it atrophy or anything."

"But… she'll be back, right?"

"Oh, yes." Saviour smiled. "She'll be back in exactly fifty-three hours, twenty-one minutes, and twenty seconds. To be honest, our body would be fine just staying still for that long, but I wanted to have a chat with you."

"With me?" Elsa was still debating calling for the others. Saviour didn't seem hostile, but if the Semblance did turn aggressive, it might be better if the others weren't here. She wasn't stupid enough to think they'd have a chance even if she, Anna, and Claire all fought together.

"Please," Saviour said gently. "Don't be afraid. You are safer here than anywhere else on the planet." Her lips twitched. "Which is actually one of the things I want to talk to you about. You see, Averia really hasn't explained how a lot of this works to you, has she?" Elsa shook her head. "And it makes you worry. Of course, Averia being kind of an oblivious idiot, hasn't noticed that yet, but when she does, she'll feel awful, so I thought I'd just save you both some heartache."

"Is that so?" Elsa found herself relaxing ever so slightly. Despite the inhuman way Saviour moved, there was still enough of Averia's mannerisms in her to put Elsa at ease. "What do you want to talk about?"

"I think the best place to start is by explaining the Directive System. It's kind of what makes Saviour operate the way that it does." Saviour held up one hand. A glass formed, and although it was empty at first, it soon filled with water. "Here," Saviour said. "You look a bit thirsty."

"You just made water." Elsa's eyes narrowed. "I haven't seen Averia do that before."

"She totally could if she wanted to. It's just she only ever bring Saviour out to fight and just making water is such a wasteful way to use Saviour's powers. Technically speaking, Saviour has the ability to transmute matter directly from Aura, so making a glass and some water is not very hard at all."

"Fraise can do that."

"Yep. She got that particular shard of Saviour. Unfortunately, she didn't get the mental filters that go with it, so she's had some… difficulties. Averia was quite upset when she realised that." Saviour floated the glass over to Elsa. The queen raised one eyebrow. "How am I doing that? It's a simple application of force and vector control. Remove gravity's effect on the cup and apply a small velocity vector to it. Easy. It's kind of like how I can shoot objects at relativistic speeds in combat only nobody is getting killed."

"I see." Elsa took a sip out of the cup. "This tastes like fresh spring water."

"Pure water doesn't really taste nice. It's the trace impurities that actually give it a sort of pleasant flavour. That particular batch is based on the stream we stopped at during one of the hikes we took on our honeymoon."

"…"

"Yes, Saviour keeps track of everything - everything - it encounters." Saviour chuckled. "But back to the Directive System. In simple terms, Saviour is driven by goals. More often than not, these are related to combat. For obvious reasons, though, you need a way to settle conflicts between competing goals. The key to that is the Directive System, which sets the rules by which Saviour seeks to achieve its objectives. The directives are basically grouped into tiers. Primary Directives are those that will be pursued, provided they don't entail the death of the person with Saviour. Secondary Directives have lower priority, and they will typically only be pursued if they do not conflict with any of the Primary Directives. Tertiary Directives are those below Secondary Directives. There are more tiers, but you should get the idea."

"Can you give me an example of a Primary Directive?" Elsa asked.

"Sure. Primary Directive #11 states that any powerful Grimm are to be eliminated immediately. In the event that such Grimm are capable of killing or significantly injuring Averia, the recommended course of action is to retreat until reinforcements can be secured. This is contingent on not conflicting with any higher directives." Saviour chuckled. "For obvious reasons, that one doesn't come up very much."

Elsa sighed. "I can't remember the last time Averia fought a Grimm and actually took damage once Saviour was active." She paused. "Higher directives? I assume that means higher Primary Directives, but is there anything higher than those?"

"Very good. I was hoping you'd notice it." Saviour smiled. "Zeroth Directives are those so important that they override all over directives. What makes them especially unique is that they are basically axiomatic to how Saviour views the world and operates. They are, in essence, the things that Averia considers so important that Saviour is under orders to obey them even if it means her death."

Elsa's eyes widened. "What?"

"Zeroth Directives are to be obeyed even if it means her own death," Saviour repeated. "That is how important they are. Thankfully, there's not that many."

Elsa was almost afraid to ask. "What is the oldest Zeroth Directive Averia has?"

"You could probably have guessed it. It was the very first order that Averia ever gave me after she awakened her Semblance. Zeroth Directive #1 states that Diana must be protected. Any and all means are authorised and there are no restrictions, limitations, or regulatory mechanisms in place. In the event that Diana goes berserk in her Ragnarok state, lethal force is not authorised even if it means sustaining serious injury or even death."

Elsa gaped. "Are you serious?"

"Averia would rather be dead than seriously injure or kill her sister. It's a valid concern too since Saviour is probably the only thing that can actually kill Ragnarok once it's reached the level Diana is at."

"That's… exactly what Averia would do." Elsa sighed. "What about the newest Zeroth Directive."

"Hmmm… the newest one is actually one that's been amended fairly recently." Saviour smiled. "Protect Elsa and the children. Again, no restriction, limitations, or regulatory mechanisms in place. The amendment was because Sigrid was born, so she's mentioned specifically in the directive. Basically, if the entire world declared war and tried to kill you and the kids, my response would be to exterminate the entire world."

"That is…" Elsa tried to find the word. It was immensely comforting, yet vaguely horrifying. Saviour was arguably the most powerful Semblance in the entire world. It could wipe out entire civilisations with ease, and Averia had authorised it to do whatever it felt was necessary if she or the children were threatened. "Interesting."

"Not all the directives are that serious. She's actually got a Tertiary Directive in place that ranks her entire extended family's pets in order of how she should try to save them if they're all in danger and she has to choose." Saviour's lips twitched. "The ranking system is actually extremely complicated since there are some amusing cases. For instance, Fury is Taren's chocobo, so he should be right at the top of the list. However, he's also huge and more than capable of taking care of himself, so someone like Professor Radical might go higher than him because he's a hamster and basically cannon-fodder in a fight."

"Any other amusing ones?"

"If it helps, keeping you sexually satisfied is actually a Primary Directive."

"… are you serious?"

"Yep."

"I'm not sure whether to be pleased or horrified that she ranks that up there with saving the world."

"Technically, it's not quite as high as saving the world since she can't keep you satisfied if the world blows up, but it's pretty close."

"…"

"Anyway, that's enough for now. I might be able to come back in a few hours, but there's some stuff going on that I need to help Averia with." Saviour sighed. "There's so much work I have to do to make sure our brain doesn't melt due to information overload."

X X X

Author's Notes

Elsa is getting a crash course in how Saviour works… from Saviour. Averia may or may not want to strangle her Semblance when she wakes up.

#final rose #fanfiction #elsa #averia yun-farron

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shortstoriesmk · 5 years ago

Text

Who Called The Uber?

by Massi Kabir

Of course, I could tell you now, that my natural curiosity for everything outside the walls of everyday dullness brought me here. That I love flirting with one of my many fears, seducing her, just to slit her throat during one of our first dates.

I could tell you that I think of my comfort zone as a purple ugly pajama, which, whenever my courage lets me, I happily trade for nudity.

There is certainly truth to these points, and yet, they all would undermine the immense irrational power of a man's lust in his early 30's.

So, if you are really wondering who called that Uber last night, let me tell you:

My dick did.

So this is how it went:

One last check in front of the mirror. I like what I see and tell myself silently, "You look fresh, brother".

It's probably mostly my nerves talking, but yes, I did somehow find that sweet spot between under- and overdressed. I can tell that my white button-up shirt and black leather shoes are happy to know that funerals are not their only reason to exist. I promise them something special for tonight. The casual green jeans and a black blazer add to my contentment and make me put my shoulders back. I do that because I recently read that we, humans, derive from the lobsters. Apparently, their postures tell a lot about their ranking within their dominance hierarchy. Low posture, low rank. A balanced upright posture is supposed to increase serotonin levels, which ultimately results, along with other benefits, in better mating opportunities. I believe that, and hence, push my chest out, eager to kiss the world with my nipples.

Lastly, I grab my deo roller. I tell it that I need some more tonight and that armpits ain't enough. It knows I quit perfume a long time ago and hence, complies loyally doing the extra shift while I take it on an extended trip over my body's skin.

Finally, in the Uber, I count my breaths like a Zen Buddhist despite knowing I'll never be one. I admit to myself that I'm a nervous bloke under the leadership of his lust and throw the driver a grin through his stained rear-view mirror. With every inhale, there is a hail of bravery echoing inside of me. ‘14 minutes till arrival’, says the app that managed to erase my interest in public transport forever. Enough time for me to consider changing the number of open shirt buttons from two to three.

It's a gamble, I know. But, it could pay off. I mean, they will see that my chest has not given birth to much hair yet, but, on the other hand, 3 open buttons demonstrate a sense of willingness and availability. And, in a place like the one I am about to enter, these two attributes are dominating currencies.

So, three it is.

The Uber drops me in front of number 73.

I ring the bell. 80 seconds later, a shrill tone cuts off my stream of doubts, whether this is the right address or not, and lets me open the gate. My balls are hoping it's the gate to heaven. Everything is possible right now. I feel it. I head towards the house.

A plum, too dry to open doors like that, welcomes me while I gaze at her face. The sperms I brought, that a minute ago were still arguing about who would be the first in line, suddenly start to sympathize with the idea of retreat. Within seconds, the old lady's hands swallow my €80 while her noisy décolleté goes fishing for my eyeballs. My deep Zen breathing turns all the sudden shallow and, my pulse climbs a little mountain, while my face tries its best to not give it away. Then, I stare through the second entrance door, which is out of glass. I already get the feeling that it probably does a better job of serving as an exit.

Whatever. It's too late to get my bucks back and too early to decide to remain clothed, so vamos.

I'm somewhere in the outskirts of Lisbon inside a villa that will probably never live up to that title.

The smoke in the air forms a maze for my vision. But, it's ok. It doesn't take much vision anyway to understand that pants are outnumbering skirts in this cave that smells like filth. During its amateur application process for this event, I raised the question on WhatsApp of how many people would attend.

‘100’ was the answer. Now, finding myself looking at an empty dance floor, I feel this strong urge to sue the former math teacher of whoever typed that ridiculously inaccurate reply.

The plum, sensing the swelling of my disappointment, urges me to come with her for a little house viewing before I start mingling. If her whole outfit wouldn't scream so loud, "Please, fuck me!" I might have understood her real name when she mentioned it earlier on my arrival. The syllables of her name, however, got swallowed instantly by the kanon that her different overexposed body parts sing tonight. Off-key, sadly.

I follow her walking up the stairs. Her moment to wave her ass cheeks right in my face. She knows what she is doing and does so in pride, reminding me of a patriot waving his country's flag. It has to be a patriot from somewhere within the European Union, though, ‘cause, something is telling me that the borders of her ass must be equally open. The upper floor is dark and arranged with cold walls that shape rooms that are meant to host strangers engaging in the warmest act that God has ever invented for us.

In the aisle, we pass a closed wooden door. "We can't go in here, right now," she informs me, "there are people inside, fucking!" She says that in a fashion more causal than a 'Fruit of the Loom' shirt. In particular, the word "fucking" and the way it sounds trespassing her slightly chapped lips has me irritated immensely. I mean sure, there is not much romance to the word by default anyway, never was. But her tonality and the way she lets the word roll over her tongue makes me somehow want to commit to vanilla sex for the rest of a monogamous life.

The tour through the upper floor continues. She calls it her 'dream villa'. I get introduced to Dark room, glory whole wall, various single rooms, two open fucking spaces, and a little cage. Except for the one room that was closed, it is all still empty here; no sweat yet, no moans, no ripped condom packages. She goes on about how she built it all on her own, how this is all a product of her imagination, and how it took her 6 years to bring this place to where it is right now.

I pretend caring while she keeps massaging her ego. I am too caught up to be real with her. I am still disturbed. I mean, why would she treat the word "fucking" like that? It was this cold aggression in her voice that bugged me. As if she had stored it inside the bottom freezer box of her vocabulary's fridge and made it a habit to bend for it whenever she felt like rebelling onto the world. The hobby psychologist inside me senses that trauma made her a rebel – a rebel that fights with the weapons of vulgarity, just to cover up scars of a past encounter with a cheap replica of love. We all have been there, some way or another, so I try my best not to judge her. And still, I hate her.

The f word always was something holy for me, especially out of a woman's mouth. A real lady chooses to use it scarcely, and that's where the magic lingers. Only when a man has already done the necessary, to own the right to hear her language go south, will she choose to dip her words in dirt. Nothing is sweeter for a man than having a well-spoken lady using the f word for the first time while whispering in his ear the request to penetrate her so she can lose her brain. Needless to say, this plum seems to have lost its sweetness a very long time ago.

We go downstairs again, and I drop my blazer at the cloakroom. Her "see you later" is featured by a gaze of her eyes that tells me that she has plans to liberate me from more than just my blazer at a later point this night.

With her leaving my side, I have finally arrived at my first swinging party. Officially. I welcome myself with a beer that I order from the bar. I speak from my balls while I do so, oiling my vocal cords with some fabricated confidence. The truth, however, is I am nervous.

I came alone tonight in order to not to be alone tonight. I came to let my lust off its leash. Yes. Nobody can see it, but I wear a mask at this moment, one of my favorite ones; it's called anonymity. I am leaning at the bar facing the dance floor and nervously swim in this sensation this mask provides me with, all while sipping on this lukewarm beer. Being anonymous means being a nobody to everybody. It's a chance to flip your skin and dance life with a different set of steps for a little while. You can be a dervish under the disco ball of life, at least temporarily.

But here is the downside: anonymity is a very fragile phenomenon, it cracks the longer you stick around. People get to know you, open their boxes and throw you inside one of them, without caring if you break or not. This makes life easier for them and harder for you.

Right now, however, leaning on this bar, sipping on this bottle, I can feel that I am box-free. I can be whoever I want to be, or better, whoever I am.

This sense of freedom, mixed with the alcohol that starts curving through my veins, calms me down, and I decide to make my way to the other end of the room. My chest stays out, of course, it's mingling time.

I scanned the room already for all its potential and could only find one young lady that I really desire to undress instantly. I am heading towards her, and position myself next to her, and her male companion, who could be her husband, it's hard to tell. Sure is, they are close to each other and seem to have found a nice way of throwing and catching each other’s smiles. I can tell by the way they treat each other. It looks like love that already ripened for some years. 'Their sex must be good', I am thinking. At the same time, I wonder, 'Why are they here then? Why are they not at home with some candles and a record player spinning a Marvin Gay vinyl?’ They are in their early 40's, I am guessing, which makes me wonder if they have children. If so, what did they tell them where they are going tonight? Theater? Cinema? Dinner with friends? And did they hire a babysitter? The nerd in me wants to know now how many millions have been spent in the history of the world on babysitters so parents can go and exchange body fluids with strangers in a place where glory holes adorn walls. 'The world is sick,' I am thinking, 'in a sweet way. And so am I.'

I heard once that one should always stick to the '3-second rule' when planning to approach his object of desire. That means it should be avoided at all cost to spend more than three-seconds contemplating on the execution of the approach. Now all this thinking got me already to second 42 and I am feeling how hesitation gets the better of me. What if they reject me? What if they don't speak English? What if I am not their type? What will the others think of me when they see how I am getting rejected? All these amateur questions start to vomit over my mind and leave me crippled in the corner, three meters away from the couple my dick would like to have a threesome with.

I tell myself, 'there will be another, better chance later' and shift my focus back to the poorest dance floor I have seen in years.

There is some movement happening. The light is getting dimmed and the plum tells people to make some space for what is about to come. Then she starts speaking with a man whose size reminds me of a vintage wardrobe. His arms are filled with ink and his veins tell an ugly story about steroids. All of a sudden, mid through the conversation, she starts pointing at me and explains to him eagerly something which clearly involves me and my presence. After her briefing, he promptly makes his way towards me. While he does so, he reminds me of a big dog who is going for his bone, which Mama just threw for him. His eyes are getting bigger and there is a rising amount of saliva flowing in his mouth. I dislike the fact that she chose me to be the bone in this scenario, but I guess our brief sighting-seeing tour made her believe that we have a special connection or something. My fault, I should stop being nice to people I hate.

I'll never know his name, but there is a 99% chance that his name is Joao, Pedro, or Miguel. The Portuguese are special people, very sensitive and creative. I love them. But when it comes to naming their children, it seems like creativity and originality are two players they constantly put on the bench.

The walking wardrobe, who looks like a 'Pedro' to me, reaches me and screams in my ear:

"Come! She wants you to come."

Maybe he even said:

"Come! She wants you to cum."

Not sure about it, but honestly, in this place, these two sentences point in the very same direction. His right palm eats my left arm as he tries to pull me closer towards his plum, who is waiting on the edge of her small yet still under-crowded dance floor. I brush his hand off my limb and tell him to chill, asking what he wants from me. Pedro repeats his sentence in his broken English and lets eventually go off me. There is some tension between us, I can tell, and so can the few people around us. I'm not a short bloke, but Pedro's height exceeds mine by minimum seven centimetres and he is certainly physically stronger than me. Now that he is so close, I can witness the distinctive features in his face and start reading a bit of the story that is written inside his mime. It's a story of pain, I can tell by the tension of the muscular tissue in his face and the corners of his mouth, which seem to travel more often south rather than north.

I always thought of pain as a huge house, something like a villa. And if sadness is the main hall inside that villa, then aggression is something like the entrance hall or lobby. Behind aggression always lives sadness. Behind every fist always hides a tear. Looking at Pedro now makes me believe that he somehow got stuck in that lobby of pain and that for every tear he swallowed, one of his enemies had to swallow one of his jewelry-adorned fists. I don't want to swallow his fist. Not now, not here, not in this filthy cave that he calls his kingdom.

So, I walk up to the plum with him and ask her, “What's the matter?” She tells me: "You are way too sexy to be standing there all on your own, honey. Sit down here next to my friend". She points at the small sofa next to her, right on the dance floor. Her friend is a lady in her late 30's, a couple of years older than me, who refuses to hide her crooked, brownish teeth, while she grins at me. A small wave of disgust breaks inside me. I usually feel great sympathy for people who carry their imperfections with dignity and some sort of pride because it can show confidence, and confidence has always been a sexy thing to me. But like with everything, there is a line. And unfortunately, her set of teeth is crossing that line by miles.

Despite the lack of resonance I'm feeling, I decide to sit down next to her. I guess Pedro and the plum left some sort of intimidating impression on me, otherwise, I can't tell why I would ever sit on this couch. On her right sits another man, roughly my age, who seems, besides me, to be the only man that picked a white button-up shirt as his attire for this night, which was supposed to be a glorious one. He looks happier and way more at ease compared to me. 'Why am I sitting here? What the fuck am I doing here?' I'm asking myself, while I feel this pressure inside my body. In my mind, I'm comparing this pressure, with how a woman must feel when she is pregnant. I came here, being impregnated by lust, trying to give birth to one of my shadows that lingers in a room inside of me, where society and all its conventions have no access to. But now, sitting on this damn couch, getting my thigh stroked by a woman that never believed in dentistry, I'm starting to come to terms with the fact that tonight, this pregnancy is about to end in a miscarriage. ‘What the fuck am I doing here?’

My pulse climbs again this mountain as I'm starting to understand what is about to happen here. The light is being dimmed, even more, a new song, even worse than the one before, is being played and the plum approaches the pole, which is decorating the center of the dance floor. Her time has come. The plum strip show is about to happen. Finally or, sadly. Depending on whom you ask in here. I stay with my opinion that she is way too old for these type of things. There should be a universal pole dance law in place, forbidding women with a certain amount of wrinkles in her face to ever touch a pole and charge money for it, I'm thinking. I reminisce about my €80 entry fee and what else I could have done with it. There was a commercial by a charity, which I spotted the other day, claiming it would cost only €40 to save a life in Africa. And here I am now, watching these two old white breasts stroking a pole in an unpopular swinging club, somewhere in Portugal, all while I could have saved two beautiful black twins, somewhere in Africa. Bravo!

The strip show continues, and I'm carefully watching her movement and the way she carries herself, sliding around this pole with her 10 cm high heels on. I need to give her some credit even though I struggle somehow finding the right words for it. Maybe for the effort. Or maybe, for the past potential that used to be there. I can imagine how, at a time, when her body didn't show any plum resemblance yet, this pole and these heels used to be her key into a world full of decadence and successful businessmen, who liked to spoil her with material things, after they got their naked part of the deal. Time took this key from her one day like it does to all pretty ladies. Time threw that key overboard into the inevitable ocean of evanescence, and she jumped right after it trying to catch it again and again, without notable success to this day. No anti-aging cream, no surgeon, and no dance pole can prevent that key from hitting the ocean bed. Thinking about this, I almost feel sorry for her. Maybe, it was not her fault. Maybe, we are to blame; we men, by tricking pretty ladies into betting all their chips on their beauty, and making them believe this winning streak will last forever. Sadly, it doesn't.

Physical beauty serves the eyes. And the eyes of humans are little hungry monsters. Monsters that like to eat only one thing and one thing only: Symmetry. Like a dog loves to chew on a bone, our eyes enjoy chewing on symmetry; the more, the better. We simply can't get enough of it. Take the face of Kate Moss, for instance. It's like a five-star dish for these two monsters inside our face, especially for the heterosexual men among us. Scientists discovered that the length and width of a face, as well as the distance between and women's mouth and her eyes, determines how attractive she is to men. Ms. Moss apparently got extremely lucky the day that God handed out facial length and width measures because the distance between the middle of her eyes and her mouth is about 46% of the width of her face, which is supposed to be the "golden ratio". The face of this pole dancing plum in front of me, however, has, apart from those oval over-sized earrings hanging from her lobes, literally nothing golden to offer any more. Time has eaten her symmetry.

As she continues to chase her younger self on this pole, with movements that were not invented for a body aged like hers, she starts looking in our direction. We, the three people on this purple couch, are having the courtside seats in this arena of filth. No one is closer to the action. I'm feeling a bit like Jack Nicholson in the Staples Center or Spike Lee in the Madison Square Garden. Probably more like Mr. Lee, to be honest, since the Knicks seem to have performed equally bad in recent years, just like the plum is now. She starts walking up to us. I'm surprised how stable her walk is, considering her age in combination with those stupidly long heels she is wearing. Personally, I never had a thing for heels; it never did much to me, seeing a girl walking around all stiff and unnatural like that. Marilyn Monroe supposedly said once, "We owe the man who invented high heels so much." I never had a clue what she was talking about until I read again about some scientists that claimed high heels make women's feet look more petite and therefore overall, more attractive to men. Well, I'm a man, and one of the coolest girls I ever dated, came in flip flops to our first date, and instantly gave birth to a butterfly in my belly. But that's maybe for another story. Sure is, I would have made Marilyn wear some Birkenstock's before starting to penetrate her.

So, as the plum arrives at the sofa, she grabs the hand of the other guy and pulls him towards a chair that Pedro, in the meantime, has put right next to the pole. A new song is being played, and she starts lap dancing on the guy who might share with me the affinity for white button-up shirts but certainly not the taste in women. Some people start whistling and yelling little sounds of excitement while her ass takes a hike up his lap, planting a little lump between his legs. I stare at the grin he parked in his face and discover, to my surprise, that it's really a genuine one. The muscles in our face have always fascinated me; they are like a lie detector. I can always tell by someone's facial expressions how close they live to authenticity in a given moment. A fake smile relaxes fast, too fast. On a genuine smile, the corners of the mouth go back calmly and smoothly, to its neutral position, it relaxes slowly. As I keep witnessing this, for me, rather tragic performance, I can clearly see that the guy is genuinely happy and pleased. Pleased by a woman that I named plum the first minute I caught sight of her; a dry plum to be exact.

I feel like an alien that is stranded on a planet that is illiterate to the language of sex and erotic. Where lust is a hyper-inflated currency, making anyone a millionaire, whipping his ass with bills whenever his hormones hand him a dose of horniness. An alien always feels lonely. A feeling of loneliness can only flourish when there is, for whatever reason, no ground or space for sharing. We share by communicating, mostly through language, which is mostly transmitted spoken or through our bodies. My genitals clearly speaks Suaheli compared to the others in here, so how on earth would I ever be able to communicate and share anything in this cave?

Next to me, still sits the lady with the crooked smile, still rubbing my thigh, still refusing to see a dentist. Just like the interior design of her mouth lacks order and alignment, I am starting to lack some patience. Nothing of what my five senses have been absorbing in the last 70 minutes has been really to my liking, and something is telling me that the worst is yet to come if I don't take immediate action. The little mathematician inside my currently confused brain starts doing his job and calculates the probability of me being next in line for a lap dance, like the one I am forced to watch right now. Considering the fact that I'm the only remaining male on this couch, which feels like a substitute bench, the chance of me being the next player on the lap dance field seems alarmingly high. So high that my heartbeat starts mimicking some dub step rhythm and I actually start feeling a bit scared. "I need to get the fuck out of here" is what my inner voice starts shouting. The thought of me sitting in the middle of this dance floor, being watched by all these horny eyeballs while a dry plum slides down my crotch, lets my heartbeat go even higher, approaching more and more the tempo territory of some ‘drum n bass’ track. This cocktail of emotions my spirit is sipping on right now doesn't taste well- I feel scared, disgusted, and ashamed all at the same time. Not good. I need to leave. Now!

I stand up, fast and assertive. In doing so, I brush off the lady's hand of my thigh, who then tries to stop me by reaching for my wrist, while mumbling some, for me, indigestible syllable salad. She is obviously trying to convince me that I should be staying. That I should be patiently waiting for this present they got prepared for me. I quickly look back at her and can tell by her surprised look that she has no clue of how I'm feeling. She must really be thinking that I'm letting go of some sort of once in a lifetime chance here.

I rush to the cloakroom, just to find out that it's locked. Fuck. I just want my blazer and escape this place. I look around, trying to find someone who could help me with my dilemma, and see Pedro approaching me. He must have seen how I rushed off the couch and also seems surprised about my sudden change of plans. "What's wrong, my friend?" he asks. For a split second, I'm considering to tell him, that we are further away from being friends than the pope from ever using a pack of condoms in his life, but then, discard that idea quickly and just reply: "I need to leave. Can you open the door? I need my blazer." He pulls a set of keys out of his pocket and opens the door, visibly disturbed by my ambition to leave his cave. He almost seems to take it personally and wants to know, "Why do you want to leave? You don't like it here? What's your problem, my friend?" As I take my blazer off the hanger, I tell him that he doesn't have to worry about my problem and that all he needs to know right now is that I need to leave. He senses that I'm serious and decides not to continue his Q&A session with me. He assists me to the exit, where I decide to turn around for one last time and give this place a final look. One last observation that shall be burned into my memory forever, reminding me what I don't want in my still young, erotic life.

I look at the men in here, who are all still excitingly following the narrative of the plum's strip show. She seems to have found another victim that she is now arousing with her clumsy movements. It's a man in green shorts and a blue tank top, who reminds me again of the fact that I'm embarrassingly overdressed tonight. He also seems to have the time of his life, receiving what is, in my view, still Portugal's poorest pole dance performance. I stare at his happy face one last time, observing this sincere, lustful joy that is being displayed in there.

A line from my favorite rapper comes to mind and I whisper it to myself while I finally walked out of my

first swinging party:

"One man's pain is another man's pleasure.

One man's trash is another man's treasure."

Outside, I button my shirt all the way up to the collar button, grab my phone, and open the Uber app.

This time, it's me who orders the Uber,

not my dick.

#shortstory #intrigue #literature

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matthias-meijer · 5 years ago

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WOR Task 003. Palace Profile.

BASICS

Full Name: Matthias Cornelius Meijer Pronunciation: Mah-tee-as Aliases, if any: Some people call him Matty but he hasn’t been appreciating it lately. Date of Birth: February 28th, 2089 Age: 31 Gender: Male Nationality: Dutch Religion, if applicable: He’s not religious. Parents’ names: Father - William Meijer, Birth Mother - Juliana Meijer, Stepmother - Eloise Meijer Siblings: Katrien Meijer (half sibling) Current relationship status: Single Previous relationships: Margarita Romanova, ex-betrothed, Unnamed villager, a few past hookups when he was in the depths of his heartbreak from his broken betrothal.

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

Height: 6’2 Build: Athletic Hair colour: Brown Eye colour: Blue Glasses/contacts: Needs prescription glasses but mostly wears contacts. Tattoos: None Piercings: None Typical clothing style: Business casual is his go to style. Slacks and a button up is his everyday look and sometimes he’ll wear a sports coat with it along with some nice dress shoes. Every now and then if he has a need to be more comfortable he’ll just throw on a sweater. The only time he wears jeans is when he’s going to the village. Distinguishing features (scars, birthmarks, freckles, etc): He has plenty of scars from his childhood, the most noticeable being a rather large one on his left knee from when he fell out of a tree at age six. There’s also a tiny scar on his abdomen after getting his appendix removed. His ears also have a weird shape to them where they curve in around the lobes. Dominant hand: Right

HEALTH

Health issues or illnesses, if any: He’s been fortunate enough to stay pretty healthy throughout his life other than appendicitis. Allergies, if any: Hazelnuts Exercise habits: Most of his exercise usually comes from swimming, something he’s enjoyed since he was a kid, but lately he’s been working out in the gym and favoring the punching bag and free weights. Dietary habits: He tried being a vegetarian for a little while when Kat took it up but ultimately went back to eating meat when protein supplements didn’t seem to be enough for him. He’s not really picky about anything he eats but he wouldn’t be seen eating sweets very often. He prefers a salty treat whenever he wants a snack that veers from his regular eating habits.

PERSONALITY

Accent: His Dutch accent isn’t as thick as it used to be since he went to college and mixed in with others from around the world. It’s still pretty noticeable but he’s easier to understand when he’s speaking other languages. Speech style: He’s careful with his words, often choosing to pause so he can think of what needs to be said before just blurting anything out. When he gets nervous is when he speaks quickly and just says whatever comes to mind. Most used word or phrase: “Honestly” and “Is there anything I can do to help?” He says them all the time. Do they curse?: Only the occasional ‘damn’ but other than that he’s got a pretty clean vocabulary unless he’s drunk. Any secrets? His past relationship with a villager. His tryst with a Meijer personal guard that caused the loss of his betrothal is a major one with no one knowing who it was her he had cheated on Maggie with at this point. This cheating resulting in a daughter that he has no idea exists (so not really a secret yet?). His resentment of Kat for being able to just live her life and be herself. Top priority/ies: To keep Kat safe and happy, to become a great leader like his father (a future goal would be to come into his own as a leader instead of trying to be like his dad). Most treasured possession: The cross necklace he wears that belonged to his birth mom. He feels like it’s the only thing he has that connects himself to her. Addictions, if any: None. Phobias: He has a fear of being ‘stuck’ forever. He likes to think he’s accepted his position in life but he really acts out (the affair in the village, trying to be a ‘commoner’ when he’s not at the castle.) so he can feel a little relief from that realization that his life feels like a prison. Compulsions/ habits: Rubbing the back of his neck when he’s nervous. Zodiac Sign: Pisces Jung personality type: INFJ-T (the Advocate) Moral alignment: Lawful Good Primary intelligence type(s): Verbal/Linguistic and Interpersonal Love language(s): Quality words, gives full attention Hogwarts house: Hufflepuff

PERSONAL

Birth order (royal): Oldest of two. Crown Prince. Education level: Bachelors in European History and Political Science with a minor in language studies. Languages spoken: He’s fluent in Dutch, English, German, Papiamento and he can hold conversations in Russian. Special skills: Interpersonal skills, diplomatic, communication Hobbies: Krav Maga, swimming, can cook a little bit, horror movies.

#wor.task #task number 3 #{Matthias: the dinner tables full and theres no room for me to sit}

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legobiwan · 6 years ago

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Whumptober #7 (isolation)

TW: none

Fandom: Star Wars (Padmé Amidala, Count Dooku. Yes, you read that right.)

Notes: So, this happened. Probably some suspension of disbelief is necessary for this whole conceit, but it’s more of a character study than anything else. Also, damn do I love writing Dooku he’s such a creepy shit I love him. Alright guys, LET’S. GET. WEIRD.

—–

“The galaxy is an open wound, my friends, and the Republic is the infection which must be lanced if we are to secure a future for your homeworlds. Make no mistake, the bureaucrats in the Galactic Senate care not for your governments, for your banks and farmlands, for your schools and businesses - except in how they may extract what they need, as a parasite feeds on its host. Alone, in isolation, you will suffer, will bleed out, and when the Republic has taken their fill, they will discard the empty, pale carcass of your beloved cities with barely a thought.

Together, we will rise, will fight the corruption of a self-indulgent galactic government which cares only for its own appetites. Together, we are the Independent Movement for Self-Determination, the Confederacy of Independent Systems. Together, we will throw off the shackles too-long endured by our masters on Coruscant, and secure a prosperous future for generations to come.

Thank you.”

The auditorium erupted in applause, students, professors, and government leaders rising from their apple-plush seats, a wave of sentients cresting like the tides on Varikyno.

Padmé slipped out the back door, soft hood of her violet cloak pulled low. The Count would have felt her presence already, would have known with a single tilt of his head the invitation had been accepted, along with the rules of engagement. Still, it would not do for a high-ranking, high-profile member of the Galactic Senate to be seen attending a political rally of an enemy of the state. (The enemy of the state, she reminded herself.)

The restaurant was a few blocks to the east, tucked away on the top floor of a small shopping complex boasting a holobook emporium and a few fashionable clothing outlets.

A perfectly understated setting.

Padmé paused, taking in her reflection in the glass storefront, her cloak draped across her shoulders, falling long to the ground, fabric bundled in little hills and valleys in the fashion of the local populace. Her eyes were hooded, fuchsia irises settled beneath furled, copper eyebrows.

She barely recognized herself.

Anakin would be furious if he knew what she was doing.

Anakin was furious a lot, these days.

Right now, however, her husband was deployed on the other side of the galaxy, leading a campaign against General Grievous and his endless armies of battledroids. There was no need to worry him with her extracurricular activities, not when his life was already on the line every day, when blaster fire singed his long, brown hair and lightsaber welts branded his tanned, strong arms.

No, Anakin didn’t need to know. Not about this.

Her chrono chimed. 19:20. Just enough time to make a cursory sweep of the restaurant. Padmé reached into the satchel hanging off her shoulder, her hand drifting past holobooks and data readers - all innocuous items, typical for a graduate student out on a night on the town.

She slid a hand under Alone Among Many, feeling for the second, hidden pouch, her fingers closing around the handle of a mini-blaster and a signal disrupter.

Right, then.

Padmé took a steadying breath, laying her other hand on her upper abdomen. It twinged in an unfamiliar, uncomfortable sensation.

A silver-haired head glided past in reflection of the window. Padmé counted, one second, five seconds, ten, finally turning away from her own strange image, following Count Dooku up the dimly-lit stairs.

———

“An interesting choice of disguise, Senator. You seem to have quite the flair for clandestine work.” Dooku sips at his wine, blood-red, glistening in the wide-mouthed crystal glass.

“A Senator’s work is rarely confined to an office suite,” Padmé counters, raising her own glass to her lips, suddenly very aware of the bright, copper hair falling from her hood.

Dooku chuckles. “Ah, if only more of your colleagues felt the same way, my dear. In fact, I imagine you might be alone in your singular dedication to your work and your people.”

“There are plenty of other Senators who devote their lives to - “

“And I daresay,” Dooku interrupts with a hint of irritation, “you are in close contact with those few sentients who possess the ability to see past their own gluttonous ambitions.”

A question hidden in an offhand comment. Pure diplomacy, pure politics. Padmé excelled at this aspect of her job - reading subtext and hidden meanings in a curved word or the inflection of a comma.

She allows the silence to stretch, taking a lingering sip of her wine as she glances around the dark room.

Dark wood-paneling complements the deep green of the wall coverings, the edges glimmering with the tasteful application of bronzed borders. It’s an understated kind of affluence, the kind which comes as naturally as breathing to those brought up in a certain station.

Anakin never was able to dull his rough edges, as uncomfortable as a purrgil in the desert at any function requiring more than two pieces of silverware. Obi-wan, ever the diplomat, had nearly everyone fooled, all soft charm and etiquette. But even he wasn’t raised in this culture, this world of unspoken rules where customs are less taught than absorbed.

In this, she shares common ground with the man across from her.

“I doubt you extended this invitation to hear idle gossip from the Senate. What do you want?” A tactless approach, but Padmé is already growing impatient. She is alone, on a foreign planet, ruled by an enemy government, sitting across from a man who would just as soon see her and everyone she loved dead.

“You are mistaken, dear girl, but I will allow the false assumption to continue for the time being.” Dooku neatly folds his hands on the table, leveling his gaze at Padmé.

“I want to negotiate.”

Padmé meets his eyes with equal intensity, the gears in her mind spinning.

“What makes you think I would barter the future of the Republic with a terrorist?”

“Because you have done so before.”

It’s said without ire or malice, but Padmé feels the words as blow to the stomach. They both know to what Dooku is referring, the debacle on Mon Calamari, only a few short months ago - how she allowed General Grievous to go free in exchange for a single Jedi.

Her Jedi.

Padmé swallows, her throat dry. “Perhaps I’ve reconsidered my position.”

“Doubtful, seeing that you are here, on Reena, sipping wine with the most wanted man in the Republic.” Dooku spreads his arms with an easy, false smile.

She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t need to, the evidence of her presence in the restaurant is damning enough on its own.

“You prefer diplomacy. As do I, Senator.” Dooku continues, waving his hand in a conciliatory gesture. “And in the spirit of said diplomacy, let us return to the seemingly unimportant matter of the idle, chattering gossip in the Senate. As you stated, you are devoted to your job, to your people, to the foundations on which the Republic was built.”

Padmé nods, careful. So far nothing Dooku has said is wholly disagreeable, even if the man himself is.

“And you have made certain connections with those who share similar viewpoints, no? A wise move, if I may say so myself. To rock the proverbial boat takes a singular strength of will, but to move oceans around said boat requires the strength of many. As you have witnessed over the past few years.”

The war, the secession. From Dooku’s point of view, it makes sense, but Padmé cannot condone the pointless bloodshed, the death and suffering brought about by the desire for change.

Dooku leans forward, voice lowering, conspiratorial. It takes all of Padmé’s considerable control to not recoil.

“You don’t trust the Chancellor.”

Her leg jerks, knee hitting the table with a muffled thud. The movement disrupts the wine glasses, red liquid sloshing back and forth, little bubbles coalescing on edges. Padmé smooths her expression in a second, hoping Dooku can’t hear the pounding of her heart in her throat. She hopes he mistakes her reaction for anger.

“I will not sit here and be accused of treason - “

“And you are right to, Miss Amidala.”

Dooku speaks just loud enough, with just enough will to silence Padmé. She wonders if he is using a small compulsion on her, as she is never one to back down from an argument. The thought sickens her, leaves her nauseated. It’s a rank violation, to be forced into silence by another man.

“The Senate is corrupt,” Dooku continues as if nothing has happened, although his words gain urgency. “But no one more so than Chancellor Palpatine.” The Count pauses, his eyes darting to the side, a rare concession to discomfort, to perhaps even fear of retaliation.

“An understanding between two groups, whose primary aim would be to end the war with as little bloodshed as possible, might be a proposition worth considering. Especially if they were to be on opposing sides of this conflict.”

Padmé’s mouth dries. How could he have learned any of this? Yes, she and few other Senators harbored worsening doubts regarding Palpatine’s mounting powers, his extension of the war, his seeming reluctance to engage in even the most rudimentary diplomacy.

But they had only met a handful of times and - if there was a mole in their group, an double agent…

She straightens, chastising herself for falling prey to Dooku’s manipulations. “You are mistaken, Count. The Senate trusts the Chancellor.” After a beat she adds, “As do the Jedi.”

“The Jedi are fools,” Dooku hisses, hand tightening around the stem of his wine glass. Padmé swallows a smug grin.

I can play this game, too, Count.

“Unless you have anything else to add, I believe our negotiations have come to an end.” First lesson in negotiation - make the other side reveal themselves first. To be honest, she’s not so interested in Dooku’s response. The game has played long enough, and the urge to leap from the table is real. She needs to get out of here, needs to get on a transport, get back to Coruscant. Needs to contact Anakin, hear his voice, needs to not be alone.

Dooku says nothing, taking his hand to his chin.

Padmé stands in an abrupt movement, throwing her satchel over her shoulder. She halfway considers reaching into the bag and pulling out her blaster. Dooku’s death wouldn’t end the war, not even she is so naive, but it would certainly slow the seemingly inexorable march of the Republic towards destruction.

She abandons the idea almost as quickly. Dooku was, at one point, a Jedi, and he can still call on the Force, even in its corrupted and dark form.

She would be dead before her hand even touched her weapon.

Padmé turns to leave when she hears the words.

“You’re alone, you know.”

Her lips purse, teeth grinding against each other. She should leave. Not all negotiations are successful, and rule two is to know when to walk way from the table, in this case quite literally.

She can’t let it go, however.

“I have the Republic. I have friends in the Senate. Family whom I love.”

If the words are shaky, if they are shadowed by doubt, it’s meaningless, only the stress of an invitation she should have never accepted.

“I can feel it, Senator. The blank void, the ragged edges where it was ripped away. Something used to be there, and now there’s not. And that nothing is growing, a virus inside you.”

Padmé’s hands shake.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Something rustles. Suddenly there is a presence at her back, an insidious warmth and she realizes Dooku is a mere breath from her, soft words hot on her ear.

“I know isolation, Senator Amidala. I was raised on the teat of it.” She feels every sharp consonant in her bones. “You reek of it, that terrible elixir of misplaced affection and desperation.”

Dooku’s words root Padmé in place, her feet bound by ice, her mind by fire. It’s not true, it’s never been true and yet the accusation pulls at a loose thread in her chest, the one that unraveled every time Anakin demanded she turn down a social engagement, or spoke of her in a way which crashed past the boundaries of romances into possession.

Dooku steps closer, somehow still not touching her, a gesture for which she is both grateful and disturbed. If the Count’s motivations had been more base, more carnal, his accusations would carry little weight, but she knows he leers only to add gravity to his words.

“*He* is the cause of your isolation, Senator Amidala. I can feel it in you,” Dooku whispers, barely audible, his lips hovering a molecule removed from her skin, silver beard a whisker from her uncovered head, so still Padmé almost believes he has stopped time itself.

Her knees buckle when he steps back.

“Do consider my proposition, Senator,” he all business again, as if the last few minutes had never happened. “It would be a mutually beneficial arrangement, in more ways than you can fathom.”

Padmé readjusts the satchel on her shoulder and rushes from the restaurant, not looking back, nearly knocking over a server droid in her panicked haste. She does not tarry on Reena, piloting her starship with reckless speed back to Coruscant, as if a pack of Lothwolves were chasing her across the stars.

It was nothing. Manipulation, and she curses herself for almost falling prey to it. She’ll be back on Coruscant tomorrow, she’ll get back to work, she’ll meet with Mon, have dinner with Leeth, organize her next speech, perhaps do a bit a charity work...

She will not be alone. Not anymore.

legobiwan does whumptober

#whumptober #whumptober 7 #padme amidala #count dooku #writing #uhhhhhh #so this happened?#yes i'm behind again i had a LONGASS day at work yesterday and basically came home drank some wine and fell the fuck asleep #good news #is that whump 8 is drafted in whole so i just need to edit so i think i can get it up tonight #LETS GET WEIRD IN LEGOLAND

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insurrectionist-fetishist · 5 years ago

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What is Difference Between Using an Epilator and Waxing?

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Compare -- That lasts more

1. Compare -- Price

2. Compare -- Anxiety

3. Assess -- Skill required

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Want to find out more?

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1. Compare -- That lasts more

Lets assume you have a fantastic waxing procedure and a fantastic excellent epilator and you aren't breaking hairs in the skin and actually are pulling them out from the origin: Hair removal by the epilator or waxing ought to continue both long, which is anywhere from two weeks to 4 months.

However, once you epilate or wax along with the hair grows back , how soon will you wax or epilate? To wax , you are going to want the hair to return into a 1/ 4 of an inch or longer. Otherwise, the wax won't have the ability to hold the hair. On the flip side, a fantastic epilator can catch hairs which are just 1/ 2 of an inch. That means you might epilate sooner.

But some folks might discover that should they epilate hairs as they come , they should epilate more often. Hair grows back in phases, which means you can always have hair growth in. It is likely that throughout your own regrowth, all of the hair which you pulled out did not regrow. That means you might end up epilating more frequently for each time hairs cycle during their stages and return in. With waxing, since you need to wait till hairs achieve a certain period, you might realize that you are ready to eliminate more hairs since hairs have grown back in as you continue removed hair.

So each has its own advantages and disadvantages. Based upon your lifestyle or needs, you could find that one works best for you.

The epilator or waxing triumph on the premise that they continue equally long. However, you are going to have the ability to epilate new expansion sooner than you will have the ability to wax fresh expansion.

2. Compare -- Price

Let's suppose you bought a mid sized best epilator for approximately $100. Epilators are a 1 time purchase and should you take good care of these, you do not need to get replacement heads or alternative parts to get a lifetime. So that's a 1 time price of $100.

If you are waxing, you will have to change out your wax since you workout. If you are using hard wax, then all you want to wax is your wax. But if you are using wax, then you are also utilizing disposable wax strips and waxing applicators such as popsicle sticks. Gigi brand's replacement wax prices $10-20 and ought to last about 3 weeks even when you're using it 2x per month. Replacing strips and applicators might cost $25 complete but will last the entire year. So doing the math, you could invest $80 maximum for your initial year of waxing at home when you're tough wax and $105 maximum for your initial year of waxing using soft wax.

Obviously, we contrasted epilators versus waxing in the home for our example . Obtaining a wax performed professionally will cost a great deal more than that.

The price of epilators versus waxing is exactly the exact same for the initial year, but you are going to see your prices increase linearly annually with waxing while an epilator is a 1 time price.

Wish to attempt an epilator?

Evaluate -- Pain

Both the epilator and wax pull out the hair from the root so are more debilitating than shaving or a depilatory lotion which merely removes the hair at the skin's surface rather than below.

Epilators can be especially painful if you generally shave or use a depilatory (compound shaving) lotion like Nair in which the hair isn't eliminated from the origin but just in the skin's surface. That is because over the time your own hair follicle (or root of the hair) regrows more hair every time that it's shaved and the hair follicle becomes quite powerful over time since it regrows and regrows. When you yank out the hair from its origin, the hair which grows back in seems nicer.

This really is what causes people to believe that waxing or epilating makes hair grow less and nicer, but that's really a myth. In fact, shaving leaves a thicker follicle (appears darker), and pulling it from the origin cause a thinner hair return. There is not less hair consequently.

Therefore, in the event that you've just shaved to date then you attempt using an epilator, you are pulling out this thicker follicle that will hurt more than if you're pulling out a follicle which was yanked out lately and regrown. Tweezing those hairs out can be debilitating.

If you would like to epilate long term rather than wax, but possess just shaved thus far, we advise that you wax off all of the hair after then epilate the regrowth. The epilator will harm much less in this manner.

This brings us into the pain of waxing. High powered epilators may have near 100 tweezers and may pull a great deal of hairs with every pass. Waxing additionally brings out a great deal of hair simultaneously. On the other hand, the procedure for placing warm wax onto skin, pressingand then immediately removing the wax sends a great deal of sensory info at once to your mind and a great deal of individuals discover that waxing may hurt less. Some waxes are soothing to the skin too and may decrease redness while cleansing the skin. In comparison to epilating for the very first time, waxing hurts much less and is much simpler.

Waxing hurts a bit less than the epilator. The senses are distinct, however, and several men and women discover they are fast accustomed to epilator pain and also find it a lot easier to address than waxing.

Save cash by waxing home -- Start using our reviews of the Top 5 in home Waxing kits →

Compare -- Just how long each takes Employing an epilator is extremely straightforward. Pass the epilator in skin against the hair growth and it'll remove double-digit quantities of hairs with every pass.

Using wax, you need to do a little bit of planning to prepare for waxing. Namely, you have to heat your wax that could take 5-15 minutes depending on the wax.

If your accounts for heating up wax, then the epilator can eliminate hair quicker. But as soon as the wax is heated up, a seasoned waxer will eliminate hair equally as quickly as somebody who utilizes epilators regularly.

Wish to attempt an epilator?

If you are a newcomer, you likely will get rid of exactly the identical quantity of hair quicker using an epilator compared to waxing.

But if you've crushed often, it is going to take you the exact same period of time to remove hair as though you were using an epilator.

So there's less of a learning curve using an epilator compared to waxing. But that learning curve may be well worth it since you're much less inclined to break hair through waxing since wax does a fantastic job of pulling out hair at the origin with very little work. Having an epilator, it's simple to get started but there's some skill involved in really pulling out the hair rather than breaking it. A fantastic excellent epilator helps for this.

Evaluate -- Convenience

Lay a towel down and you'll be able to epilate anywhere. Particularly in case you've got a battery billed epilator. You're able to epilate before the television as you catch up on the most recent show. You may even take an epilator with you once you travel and epilate at a resort.

To wax, then you have to cover the ground using a more durable cover of any sort (paper, a paper bag, etc) to catch drips. In addition, you require a reliable heating source and might want to be close to a microwave to reheat your wax or a socket to plug into your wax warmer. It'd definitely be awkward to attempt and choose your wax kit along with you while traveling. But, none of them are inconveniences if you are home.

The epilator wins just as it's simpler to pack for traveling.

The epilator wins hardly complete. If you're searching for a fast, simple electronic gadget, possess pain tolerance, also enjoy the ease of having the ability to remove hair on the move, then the epilator is the buddy. In case you've got extra sensitive skin, do not mind the further preparation of waxing, and favor a tried and classic process of hair removal, then waxing is the go-to.

Nevertheless, you might prioritize 1 attribute or attribute over another, so only you can choose that may be a much better way of hair removal for you. We expect this breakdown helped you to decide which attribute was important and make an educated choice.

Know more about epilators or waxing in home

If you would like to find more information, take a look at our Complete Guide to Epilating with testimonials of the top epilators here.

Or you wish to try your hands in waxing at home since these salon visits are adding up? We have written a handy manual to Wax in the home . Take a look for tips on getting started and which wax choices are offered for various skin types or lifestyles.

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