#i have no idea what the going rate is for a personalized wedding crossword. i could just quote her what the nyt pays constructors

[coquelicoq]

apparently one of the guests at my best friend's wedding this summer liked the wedding crossword i wrote enough that she would now like to commission me to write one for her wedding. we don't even know each other so i don't know if this is going to go very well lol. how do i write a crossword for someone i don't know? should we just start hanging out??? the wedding's not till march so we have some time to become besties i guess. would love to be like "yes my commission rates are you take me out to dinner as many times as it takes for me to understand you and your partner as people and as a couple. but it doesn't have to be anywhere fancy. mostly you will be paying me with Intimacy." yes. great idea. what could go wrong

[splendidlyimperfect]

Sting’s entire life changed when he was eleven years old and his best friend Rogue told a secret that he’d promised to keep. Taken away from the father who abused him and the best friend who’d tried to save him, Sting tried to start a new life with his uncle. But the trauma wasn’t easy to escape, and eventually Sting turned to drinking to forget the things that hurt.

Now he’s an adult, and he hasn’t been sober in years. But when drinking nearly kills him and a near-stranger saves his life, Sting has a chance to turn his life around, and maybe become the man that Rogue deserves to love.

Chapter Summary: Sting and Rogue's relationship progresses, and Natsu makes an important discovery.

Chapters (17/?): 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Rogue Cheney/Sting Eucliffe, Natsu Dragneel/Gray Fullbuster, Natsu Dragneel & Sting Eucliffe, Sting Eucliffe & Weisslogia   Additional Tags: modern au, childhood friends, angst, emotional hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, child abuse, alcoholism, drug use, recovery

**A/N: In light of the protests and the horrific actions of the police – currently and historically – I wanted to take the time to comment on the impact of those events on this story. First of all, I wholeheartedly support Black Lives Matter and ALL of the protests, including (and especially) defunding the police. Cops are bastards who use their power to hurt, oppress and murder people. It’s a racist institution that needs to be dismantled for so many reasons.

So, why is this story heavily feature the police if I feel that way? Honestly, it wasn’t originally going to. Sting wasn’t supposed to be a major character in how to become a wildfire and he didn’t have a backstory when I started to write him. Then he started to become a source of safety and comfort for Gray; someone he could trust to help if he needed it. It was an ideal – someone who was powerful enough to change things, but kind enough to use that power for good.

Sting’s story here is one of someone using their trauma to help other people. It’s not representative of real life, and I recognize that this isn’t the kind of relationship that police have with people. It’s not the kind of relationship that I’ve had with the police either. It’s wishful thinking.

I had considered not finishing the story, but it’s important to me, so I’ve decided on this, instead. I’m going to continue to follow the plot of how to become a wildfire, and then Sting’s going to make some different decisions that will involve him leaving the police force and focusing on working with people and trauma instead. In addition, for each remaining chapter, I’m going to donate $20 to Black Lives Matter.**

-----

home \ ˈhōm noun : a familiar or usual setting: congenial environment also : the focus of one's domestic attention

.

xvii winter age twenty-four

.

Sting proposes to Rogue completely by accident.

“I can’t believe it’s been five years.” Sting stares down at the sobriety chip in his hand, running his thumb over the raised ‘V.’ They’re sitting up in the tree house in Rogue’s parent’s back yard, wrapped in a blanket to stave off the chilly winter air.

“You’ve come so far,” Rogue says, kissing Sting’s cheek and shuffling closer to him. Sting returns the kiss, then looks out across the yard toward the house. The lights are off – it’s just past midnight – but Sting remembers the view from when he’d slept up here as a little kid. He’d stay hidden, watching Rogue’s mom kiss his forehead and Rogue’s dad help him with homework, wondering why his dad didn’t love him the same way.

Continue reading on AO3

The memories ache. It’s worse than usual today, tugging at his stomach and making him feel untethered, and he grips the sobriety chip a little harder. Then Rogue’s hand closes around his and he runs his thumb gently across Sting’s wrist.

Sting exhales, turning his hand and sliding their fingers together so that the coin is pressed between their palms like a promise. Rogue leans in and kisses Sting’s nose, and the memories of being lost and lonely are replaced with a quiet, gentle affection.

“I love you,” Rogue says softly. “And I’m so proud of you.” He leans back and gazes at Sting, lips curved up in the smile that Sting’s loved for so long. It’s the same smile he’d give Sting when they were little – when he’d pop his head over the edge of the tree fort, dragging up a bag of snacks and making Sting feel safe.

“I love you, too.” Sting reaches out and tucks a wayward strand of hair behind Rogue’s ear. “Thank you.”

Rogue shakes his head, turning and pressing a kiss to Sting’s palm. “You did all the work,” he insists.

Sting shakes his head. “No, for…” He tips his head back to stare at the constellations through the roof of the tree fort. He feels six and eight and eleven and twenty-four all at the same time, and all of those versions of him are deeply, desperately in love with Rogue. “For being my home.”

Rogue kisses Sting’s hand again. “Always,” he says. The moonlight plays off his hair and casts shadows across his face, and his lips are warm, pressing against the flutter of Sting’s pulse in his wrist.

They sit in silence for a little bit, watching soft flakes of snow drift down to the ground and melt almost instantly.

“It’s weird,” Rogue says after a while. “Thinking about someone else living here.”

Sting nods. He can just see the edge of the ‘FOR SALE’ sign in the front yard, put up three days ago when Rogue’s mom had told him they were moving to a smaller house. The idea of someone else sitting in Rogue’s old room, someone else’s kids playing in the yard, someone else drawing on the driveway with chalk... it makes Sting feel empty, somehow.

“I wish...” Rogue sighs, voice trailing off as a puff of white into the night air. Sting tips his head, studying the expression on Rogue’s face. His brow is drawn, the same as when he’s doing the crossword in the mornings before he asks Sting what an eleven-letter word for ‘destiny’ is. His hand is warm, thumb tapping out an absent rhythm against the back of Sting’s fingers, and he kicks his legs in time to the beat.

“What?” Rogue asks, looking over at him, and Sting is suddenly hit by all of his memories of Rogue’s smile.

Five years old and hiding in the playground together, grinning at each other and digging in the sand.

Seven years old and kissing Rogue’s cheek while he holds a bouquet of dandelions Sting picked for him.

Nine years old, cuddled under a blanket and giggling while reading ‘Hardy Boys’ books with a flashlight.

Eleven years old and lying up in the fort, listening to music and wishing they could be together forever.

“Marry me.” The words tumble out before Sting can think about them and he watches Rogue’s eyes go wide. “Marry me, and we’ll buy the house from your parents. We can live here.” Sting can feel his hand shaking in Rogue’s and he can barely breathe, but it feels so right. “We’ll get all the Pokémon games, and we can buy ice cream all the time, just like we promised. Remember?”

Rogue nods slowly, expression somewhere between stunned and ecstatic, and Sting can feel himself starting to cry, even though the smile that’s creeping across his face. “Marry me,” he says again, softer this time. “We’ll make a home here. And maybe…” He takes a deep breath. “Maybe our kids can play here, someday. Just like us.”

“Sting,” Rogue breathes, and then they’re kissing desperately as the snow falls around them. Sting’s hand finds its way into Rogue’s hair and he pulls Rogue closer.

“I love you,” he whispers, a promise against Rogue’s lips. “Marry me?”

“Yes,” Rogue says, laughing wetly as he presses their foreheads together. “Yes. You’re my favorite person.”

Sting holds Rogue tight, not bothering to wipe away the tears, and whispers, “You’re my favorite person, too.”

~

Natsu cries when Sting asks him to be the best man.

“I thought I was the one who cried at everything,” Sting teases as Natsu wipes his face with his sleeve. The picture on the computer screen is a bit blurry, but it’s better than a phone call.

“Shut up,” Natsu grumbles. “I’m allowed to have feelings, too, asshole.”

Sting laughs, swallowing down the lump in his own throat and blinking to keep back the tears. “So, is that a yes?” he asks.

“Of course.” Natsu looks up at him with wet eyes and a bright smile. “When’s the wedding?”

“We’re, um... not sure yet.” Sting leans back in his chair as Lector pads into the room and hops up on his lap. “I kinda proposed by accident.”

“How the hell did you manage that?” Natsu asks, laughing, then shakes his head. “Why don’t you tell me in person – I’m gonna be in town next weekend for Laxus’ bachelor party.”

Sting nods. He’d gotten the invitation as well – a simple text with a date, time, and the address of a nearby bar. It’s been sitting on his phone for nearly a week, unanswered.

“You don’t have to come,” Natsu says gently. “He’ll understand. We can have brunch or something together later.”

Sting reaches into his pocket and fiddles with the chip there. He’s been around alcohol since getting sober – Rogue’s parents have a drink of wine with dinner occasionally, or Rufus will get a beer when they’re out for lunch. This is different, though, and Sting has grown enough now to know that he can’t handle it.

“Brunch sounds good,” he says, looking back up at Natsu and smiling. “Text me when you’re here and we’ll figure something out.”

~

It’s nearly two o’clock on Sunday morning when Sting’s phone goes off. He groans, rubbing his face and reaching out blindly for the side table to grab it. Natsu’s name flashes on the screen and Sting sighs.

“I meant in the actual morning, dumbass,” he grumbles, moving to turn the ringer off. Then the words under Natsu’s name register and he’s suddenly wide awake.

Ellie is here.

Sting pushes himself up on one elbow, blinking the sleep from his eyes and opening the message. A blurry photo is attached to it of a young guy with short, black hair, leaning against the bar with a drink in his hand.  

He’s here, Natsu’s message says. I found him.

[johnny-and-dora]

darling, you’re my everything

for @amyscascadingtabs - happy birthday my love! <3

“Hey, Ames?” He begins, and everything is perfectly fine until she looks up at him and he literally feels any capacity for rational thought leave his body and he’s almost asking something stupid, like ‘wanna get married?’

or, april 29th, 2017.

read on ao3 -

The morning of April 29th is – unsurprisingly, given the shear dopeness of the romantic epiphany the night before it – mildly chaotic.

Later, when he’s drifting off on the couch while Amy makes flashcards for the sergeant’s exam, he’ll begrudgingly admit that he probably should have been paying more attention to his futile attempts at a romantic breakfast; for now, as Jake stands in their kitchen wearing his girlfriend’s pink fluffy dressing gown and daydreaming of Amy walking down the aisle, the burnt pancakes are very clearly her fault.

Because it’s all he can think about, now, like someone opened the floodgates to a whole new subcategory of Amy fantasies he’s been deep diving into all night, unable to sleep – Amy showing off a sparkling engagement ring, Amy as a glowing vision in white, Amy laughing at him as he fumbles with the rings or his vows or otherwise somehow manages to make himself look like an idiot in front of everyone they know.

(And yes, when he pictures it currently their wedding looks suspiciously like something out of Tangled, but he can work on that. Or maybe not, except he’s not exactly sure where you buy that many lanterns from and if they need a permit for that and he has zero idea what they’re going to do with a horse and a chameleon afterwards so overall it’s probably best that he leaves the planning to Amy, if she…)

(Well, he’s pretty sure she’s gonna say yes. God, he hopes so.)

The point he’s agonisingly slowly lumbering towards is that he has not had a lot of sleep, wrapped up in fleeting dreams of proposing and weddings and maybe being actually, properly married, officially Not Dying Alone and all the euphoria that comes from realising that he’s ready for that, that he might have been lucky enough to have found someone to tease and to surprise and to love for the rest of his life. It’s a lot to process.

Therefore, his burning of what was going to be a super romantic breakfast is by his logic, completely and utterly Amy’s fault. That being said, he’s not a complete monster - it’s not like he has the heart to tell her that she’s entirely to blame when she traipses into the kitchen in her old lady glasses and his hoodie, looking hopeful at the promise of breakfast.

“Pancakes?” She asks – the hope quickly eases into familiar endeared exasperation the second she clocks the blackened breakfast crime scene he’s been caught red handed in. Jake rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, hoping that he’s not visibly radiating the I wanna marry you vibe that he can feel strongly emitting from his chest.

“Uh, they were formerly pancakes at some stage before they mutinied against me to become gross charred bricks.”

“Mmm.” She hums sarcastically as if they appear even slightly edible, then quickly kisses the pout off his lips.

“Sorry. I got…distracted.”

“It’s okay, babe, we’re out of milk and orange soda anyway – let me go.” She firmly dismisses his protests before he can even say anything, a sign of the truly spooky psychic link their partnership has naturally formed over the years; he sighs one last lament over his culinary failure as she disappears into the bathroom and quickly returns with contacts in, her hair in a messy bun and a soft smile on her face.

Just like that, the pancakes don’t even seem to matter anymore - then he has the disgustingly cliché thought of we’ve got forever for pancakes anyway, like forever with someone isn’t merely a faraway abstract Disney concept and more of a real, tangible thing. Jake feels the very strong urge to lie down and preferably take a day or two to process that feeling on top of all the other ones that seem to be clouding his ability to be a rational human being.

He hopes he’s not going to be this weird all the time now, but judging by the direction and speed of his current train of thought there seems to be very little hope.

She’s leaning over the kitchen counter scribbling down a shopping list when he comes to his senses, because of course she is -  he resists the urge to tease her now that he really, truly knows her and he knows her lists are an anchor that keep her organised, keep her steady, keep her sane.

Instead, he watches as she taps the pen against her lips, brows furrowed in deep thought as she mentally categorises the contents of their fridge, and imagines the glint of silver on her ring finger.

He’ll blame on overtiredness and being a general lovesick idiot, later; in the moment of mild chaos, it is absolutely her fault.

“Hey, Ames?” He begins, and everything is perfectly fine until she looks up at him and he literally feels any capacity for rational thought leave his body and he’s almost asking something stupid, like ‘wanna get married?’

Everything is perfectly great until before he knows it he’s almost asking ‘wanna get married?’ - like he’s asking what she wants for dinner or what the weather is going to be like today. Like he’s not asking the most important question of his whole life before 9am on a rainy Saturday while trying to waft away the smell of burning from permeating the kitchen, while half asleep and wearing her pink fluffy dressing gown.

Like he didn’t just have baby’s first romantic epiphany less than twelve hours ago and isn’t still very much almost giddily coming to grips with what that actually means. And all because she’s scribbling down a shopping list for three items that he knows she’ll remember, and how stupidly endearing and consistent and so very Amy that simple action is.

He almost says something very, very stupid – like ‘wanna get married?’ or ‘wanna secretly elope to Paris?’ or ‘we could just go down to the registry office, like today, because I’ve recently realised that you’re the one person I want to spend the rest of my life with, if that’s cool with you’ – and then he gets distracted practically praying that his poor, poor brain to mouth filter that has to deal with this shit on a daily basis hasn’t packed its bags and retired to Florida, because ‘wanna get married?’ is definitely absolutely not how you’re supposed to ask the love of your life to wed you in holy freakin’ matrimony, he knows that, and he doesn’t even have a ring yet and-

“…Jake?” Amy’s doing that face reserved just for him where she’s half amused and half genuinely concerned, and he expertly deduces that he’s been weirdly silent for far too long and therefore hasn’t just acted on one of the more questionable impulses of his life, brought to you straight from the guy who once owned six separate massage chairs. Small mercies.

“Yeah. Sorry, it’s nothing.” He waves a frantic hand in panicked dismissal, downplays it like his heart isn’t doing awe-inspiring acrobatics in his chest right now, bounces on the heels of his feet a little to try and dispel the nervous energy that’s coursing through his veins.  

In the moment he realises he hasn’t just accidentally proposed to her, Jake also makes the executive decision to get some kind of proposal plan together soon so he doesn’t risk accidentally dropping a proposal into casual conversation – because yeah, ‘wanna get married’ is perfectly okay, but if he’s gonna do this, he’s gonna do it properly.

No ‘Celebration’ blaring loudly in the background or confetti cannons or cheap plastic one dollar rings this time. He’s going to do it right.

If he’s going to propose to Amy Santiago, certified actual most incredible amazing human/genius on the entire planet, it is decidedly not going to be while he’s wearing a pink fluffy dressing down and shoving a failed breakfast into the trash. That’s a Peralta guarantee.

“Okay, weirdo.” She gives him a smile with a fleeting hint with suspicion before going back to digging through her purse, and his heart rate slowly but surely returns to normal.

Jake’s going to need a binder. Maybe even with the good types of tab this time, if he can figure out what criteria makes a good type of tab first.

He also needs to calm down so he’s not on the verge of a cardiac arrest every time he’s in close proximity to his girlfriend, because he’s pretty sure that even if she wasn’t the best detective he knows she’d figure him out before he can even scrape the finances together to buy a half decent ring. Maybe he just needs to lie down in general.

“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Try not to burn our apartment down in that time?”

“Coming from the woman who seemingly insists on testing our smoke alarm twice a week.”

She rolls her eyes and gently reaches up to cup his face and kiss him goodbye, which is mostly sweet and only slightly satisfying because he knows that means she doesn’t have a good comeback. As the door swings shut behind her he busies himself with cleaning up the kitchen, overwhelmed with another wave of excitement at the idea of marrying his best friend.

Because he’s ready, now – really, he’s probably been ready for a while, deep down. Maybe the second that she kissed him in the back of the ambulance in Florida or when he forfeited yet another bet just to see her smile or when the Nine-Nine was saved from getting shut down and she showed him just how hot she finds his moral compass.

The typo in that crossword puzzle shines out like a beacon in the night; but thoughts of Amy and loving Amy and marrying Amy have been brightening up the darker corners of his life for longer than he’d care to admit.

It’s all her fault – all that determination and kindness and brilliant enthusiasm. The way she’s so stubbornly cemented herself into his heart a, refusing to leave just as she refused to let him work their first case alone, demanding to be taken seriously with a fierceness that both irritated, impressed him and slightly turned him on. She is warmth, joy, that bubbling kind of laughter that just lights him up every time he gets to hear it – but she’s also tougher than she looks and stronger than she knows. There is absolutely no-one else like her.

And the plan, absolutely, startlingly clear in his otherwise sleep deprived and cloudy mind, is to marry her.

(And, on an unsurprisingly extremely chaotic yet magical evening in mid-May, he does.)

[aisleb]

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The French Connection - Chapter 10

A HardyxMiller AU

Ellie Miller is left to go on her honeymoon alone after a devastating secret about her fiance comes to light - halfway through the wedding ceremony.  Sitting in St Pancras International in London waiting for her train, she runs into none other than her uni rival/best friend Alec Hardy, on the run from his own recent heartbreak.

They decide to make use of Ellie’s pre-paid trip, rekindling their friendship and escaping real life; yet, it turns out their years at uni are the hardest to outrun. Based on this prompt from @timepetalscollective  

Chapters will be posted every Wednesday and Sunday.  Beta’d by the wonderful @stupidsatsuma

This fic will remain at a T rating, but there is some steam.

Masterlist  |  AO3

---

Monday

Ellie sighed, sinking lower in her lounger.  After they’d finally dragged themselves out of bed and down to breakfast they’d agreed to a lazy morning by the pool, and so far, she was extremely pleased with the decision.  It was an indoor pool, relatively unremarkable, but they had it to themselves and that was enough.

Light spa music played through the speakers, sunlight poured in from the windows behind them, and she was perfectly content to drift on the padded chair, Hardy on the one next to her doing a crossword.  Opening one eye she turned her head to peer at him, smiling at the adorable expression of absolute concentration on his face as he carefully inked in an answer.

“Need any help?”

He shook his head before glancing over at her, expression softening.  Turning back to his paper he ran one finger down the page, humming for a moment before asking, “Four letter word, ‘song such as ‘Nessun dorma’.”

“Aria.”

“What?”  Pen at the ready he raised an eyebrow.  “And how do you know that?”

“It’s from a Puccini opera,” she said smugly, rolling onto her side to face him.  “A boyfriend and I- not Joe, the bloke before him- went and spent a weekend in London once and he took me to the opera.”

Hardy nodded, mouth tightening slightly.  Definitely jealous.  “How was it?”

“Beautiful.”  Her lips curled up.  “Also terribly boring.  Couldn’t understand a word they said- well, sang.  But it was… an experience. One I’m glad to have had but not particularly eager to repeat.  A bit posh for me, really.”

His tension eased, and he consulted his clue list again.  “How about… four letters, ‘perfect place, if you don’t mind the serpent’.  What the fuck?”

“Eden,” she laughed.  “Supposed to be perfect, until a snake convinced Eve to eat from the forbidden tree?”

“‘Convinced’,” he repeated, snorting.  “Since it was Eden, I hardly doubt the woman was trying to watch her figure; probably ate everything in sight.  Don’t deny it, I saw you at the buffet this morning.”

Ellie huffed, swinging her legs around and sitting up to face him.  “This is fun, commentary aside.  Keep going.”

“Fine.”  It took him a minute.  “Here’s one- Five letters, ‘right wrongs’.”

“Hardy.”

“Yes?”

She laughed, pushing up off her lounger and settling against him on his.  “Righter of wrongs,” Ellie repeated.  “Hardy.  At least, in my experience.”  Patting his bare knee, she watched in amusement as his face ran the gamut of shocked to pleased to bashful.

“I do what I can,” he mumbled, the tips of his ears turning red.  “Nothing to fuss over.”

Turning her head she leaned in to kiss him softly, smiling against his lips.  “Agree to disagree.  You’ve rescued me a few times, and not just on this trip.”

Hardy lowered the puzzle to his lap, moving a few curls away from her face, fingers lingering against the strands.  “And you, me,” he murmured, eyes impossibly soft and earnest.  “And not just on this trip.  I’m so glad I fou- I ran into you.”

“I’m glad I found you too.”

They kissed again, deeper this time, and her heart was pounding by the time they came up for air.  Her skin tingled pleasantly, and she was half-drunk on the taste of him.

“What d’you say to a kip before lunch?” she asked breathlessly, shivering when his fingertips trailed over her skin.

His eyes never left hers, but the corner of his mouth curled upward.

They didn’t make lunch.

-

“I’m sorry, what?”  Ellie stopped dead in the middle of the walkway, heedless of the swarms of people around them.  “You did not just say what I think you said.”

Hardy sighed, placing his palm on the small of her back and guiding her gently forward into walking again.  “Don’t be like that.”

“But that- that’s impossible!  Especially at your age!”

“What d’you mean, my age?  You are my age!”

“Exactly!”

He rolled his eyes.  “Why’re you taking this so personally?  So I haven’t seen a movie-”

“It’s a trilogy-”

“Okay, I haven’t seen three movies.  I’m hardly the only person in the world.”

Ellie tugged him to a stop and turned to the person walking next to them.  “Excuse me, sir?”

The man stopped, looking startled, his wife and children pausing as well.  “Yes?”

“Has anyone in your family- circle of friends- anyone you’ve ever met- not seen the original Star Wars trilogy?”

He just laughed, shaking his head.  “Not to my knowledge.”

“See,” Ellie turned back to Hardy smugly.

“Oh, come on,” he shook his head as they resumed their strolling tour of the Village, “my father wasn’t going to waste the little disposable income we had on- on going to the pictures.  And I never had any interest as an adult. I could watch Star Trek on telly. That was enough.”

She huffed.  “Fine.  However, I bet we can rent it at the hotel – we can watch one tonight.  No arguments.”

His expression pinched.  “No.  Miller, please- I don’t want to.”  A hint of something deeper than frustration entered his tone, and she realized that it was a sensitive subject, that she didn’t have the full story.

“Okay,” Ellie agreed softly, “if you feel that strongly.”

Hardy gave her a suspicious glare, and she tried to return it with a reassuring smile, hoping he could sense it was genuine.  “Thanks,” he grumbled.

He shifted closer to her, and they walked a few meters with their knuckles bumping against each other before she got the picture.  Heart leaping, suddenly shy, she twisted her hand so the next time they brushed their palms met, and she was pleased when he laced their fingers together.

They didn’t look at each other, continued exploring the shops of the marketplace, but their hands never let go and the warmth in her chest never faded.

This is what real happiness is.

-

Ringing slowly filtered through the fog, somewhat bursting the hazy, pleasurable cocoon Ellie was wrapped in.

“Wha’s that?” she mumbled, struggling to open her eyes.  “Hear it?”

Hardy grunted, not lifting his head from the sure-to-be-impressive love bite he was working on at her collarbone.

“I think it’s a phone.”

He continued to ignore her, only shifting to the other side of her neck.

“Hardy.”  She ran her fingers through his hair, using a gentle touch to tug his head up.  “Need to answer it.”

“They’ll go away,” he dismissed, propping himself up enough to reach her mouth for a kiss.  “We’re busy.”

Ellie giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him close as they continued to kiss.  “It’s ringing again,” she mumbled against his lips, “you should answer it.”  Incongruently, she hooked her knee higher on his hip.

He slowly pulled himself away, stealing kisses until he had to reach for the mobile.  “It’s you,” he barely glanced at the screen, thrusting it into her hands and sliding back down her body to align his mouth with her throat.  “Do what you want.”

The caller ID read Lucy, and she reluctantly answered.  “What?”

“Well hello to you too,” her sister snarked, “hope I’m not interrupting.”

That put Ellie on alert, automatically tensing to the point where Hardy sat up and mouthed ok?

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Did you really take your uni boyfriend on this trip with you?”

Shit.  “Where’s this coming from?”

“So it’s true.”

Ellie sat up, putting her back to the headboard.  Hardy, thankfully, moved as well, sliding next to her and laying his hand flat, palm up, on the mattress between them; she didn’t hesitate to take it, lacing their fingers together and squeezing gently.  “I ran into a friend from uni in London and asked them to come with me.  Where’d you hear this anyway?”  The obvious and only possible source was Joe’s call, and she wondered if her sister was dumb enough to admit she was still talking to him after her moratorium on it.

“A mutual friend,” Lucy said vaguely, proving she was smarter than she sometimes seemed to be.  “You’re not denying it.”

“I had already paid for two, and found a willing plus one,” she shrugged, grip tightening on Hardy’s hand.  “It’s nice, been catching up on old times.  We lost touch after uni because I didn’t have his details; he says he left them for me but I never got them.”  She leaned closer to Hardy, tilting the phone so he could hear as well.

The silence on the other end of the line was as good as a confession to Ellie, and she was both annoyed and pleased to be right.

“Still there?”

“Well I don’t know anything about that,” Lucy said stiffly, and Ellie had to fight back a laugh when Hardy rolled his eyes.  “But really, taking up with an ex so quickly?  Can you say ‘rebound’?”

Her jaw clenched, the question hitting too close to her secret worries.  “He’s not an ex, we didn’t date in uni,” countered, setting the record straight even as she wondered why everyone thought they had.  You never even met him except for when he gave you the letter, what’s this based on?  “And we’re friends, travelling together.  Nothing’s going on between us.”

Hardy tensed next to her, and she rubbed her thumb against his, hoping he knew it was just a lie.  Not that I know what is going on between us.

“Bullshit.  You ought to be ashamed of yourself; your fiancé is-”

“Now he,” Ellie cut her off, ”is an ex.  I’ve no idea why you refuse to see that, but it is absolutely over with Joe.  Out of the realm of possibility.  And I’m not having this conversation again, understand?  The next time you, or Mum or Dad, say anything about him, I am hanging up.  You hear me?”

Whispers on the other end made her sigh, and it wasn’t until Hardy winced that she realized she had his hand in a death vise.  Forcibly relaxing her grip she leaned over to rest her head on his shoulder, some of her tension seeping out when he kissed her forehead and leaned his head on hers.

For as bony as he is, he’s wonderfully comfortable.

“Hello?” she prompted after a solid minute of semi-silence.  “You there?”

“We just don’t want you to make any rash decisions that you’ll regret,” Lucy bit out.  “You have to consider what you want your future to look like. We love you, El, and want you to be happy.”

“I appreciate that.  Listen, I’ve got to go, but I’ll be home Sunday afternoon and we can talk then if need be.”

Both Lucy and Hardy said, “What?” at the same time, and she had to pinch him to remind him to be quiet.  “I thought you’d be home Wednesday?” her sister continued.

Ellie shrugged despite knowing Lucy couldn’t see it.  “I need a little more time.  I’m going to stay in London for a few days, do some sightseeing there.”

“If you must… have a good night.”

Not bothering to respond Ellie simply ended the call, letting her mobile drop to her lap and leaning her head back, groaning.

“Since when are you staying on in London?” Hardy asked, and she rolled her head to the side to look at him.

She gave him a sheepish smile.  “Since I said it.  I just couldn’t face the idea of going back on Wednesday.  I’ve got those days off anyway, though they were supposed to be used for moving.  But instead… instead, I’m going to go around and see all the art and history I want to, without worrying about boring anyone.”

He nodded slowly, a distant gaze in his eye for a moment.  “On your own?”

Not bothering to even consider the idea, she rolled over to straddle his lap.  “Why, you don’t want to go?”

“Not if I’m not wanted.”  His hands settled on her hips, providing her stability without clinging to her.

Ellie searched his eyes, saw the longing and hesitation there, and leaned forward to kiss him, bracing herself against the headboard behind him.  “You are definitely wanted,” she whispered against his mouth, rolling her hips against him.  “I haven’t- I can’t, yet, think too hard about the future, but I won’t lose you again.  Whatever it looks like, I want you in it.”

A slow smile spread across his face.  “Good enough for me,” he murmured, kissing her again before sliding his hands beneath the hem of her shirt and lifting.  “We’ll figure it out.”

“I know.”

And she proceeded to show him just how wanted he was.

[lazarol16459128-blog]

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Advertisement The Opinion Pages | OP-ED COLUMNIST Giving Away Your Billion David Brooks JUNE 6, 2017 Continue reading the main storyShare This Page Share Tweet Email More Save 265 Photo Warren Buffett, the billionaire investor and philanthropist, last year. Credit Andrew Harnik/Associated Press Recently I’ve been reading the Giving Pledge letters. These are the letters that rich people write when they join Warren Buffett’s Giving Pledge campaign. They take the pledge, promising to give away most of their wealth during their lifetime, and then they write letters describing their giving philosophy. “I suppose I arrived at my charitable commitment largely through guilt,” writes George B. Kaiser, an oil and finance guy from Oklahoma, who is purported to be worth about $8 billion. “I recognized early on that my good fortune was not due to superior personal character or initiative so much as it was to dumb luck. I was blessed to be born in an advanced society with caring parents. So, I had the advantage of both genetics … and upbringing.” Kaiser decided he was “morally bound to help those left behind by the accident of birth.” But he understood the complexities: “Though almost all of us grew up believing in the concept of equal opportunity, most of us simultaneously carried the unspoken and inconsistent ‘dirty little secret’ that genetics drove much of accomplishment so that equality was not achievable.” His reading of modern brain research, however, led to the conclusion that genetic endowments can be modified by education, if you can get to kids early. Kaiser has directed much of his giving to early childhood education. Continue reading the main story ADVERTISEMENT Continue reading the main story Most of the letter writers started poor or middle class. They don’t believe in family dynasties and sometimes argue that they would ruin their kids’ lives if they left them a mountain of money. Schools and universities are the most common recipients of their generosity, followed by medical research and Jewish cultural institutions. A ridiculously disproportionate percentage of the Giving Pledge philanthropists are Jewish. Older letter writers have often found very specific niches for their giving — fighting childhood obesity in Georgia. Younger givers, especially the tech billionaires, are vague and less thoughtful. A few letters burn with special fervor. These people generally try to solve a problem that touched them directly. Dan Gilbert, who founded Quicken Loans, had a son born with neurofibromatosis, a genetic condition that affects the brain. Gordon Gund went fully blind in 1970. Over the ensuing 43 years, he and his wife helped raise more than $600 million for blindness research. The letters set off my own fantasies. What would I do if I had a billion bucks to use for good? I’d start with the premise that the most important task before us is to reweave the social fabric. People in disorganized neighborhoods need to grow up enmeshed in the loving relationships that will help them rise. The elites need to be reintegrated with their own countrymen. Only loving relationships transform lives, and such relationships can be formed only in small groups. Thus, I’d use my imaginary billion to seed 25-person collectives around the country. Newsletter Sign UpContinue reading the main story Sign Up for the Opinion Today Newsletter Every weekday, get thought-provoking commentary from Op-Ed columnists, the Times editorial board and contributing writers from around the world. Sign Up Receive occasional updates and special offers for The New York Times's products and services. SEE SAMPLE MANAGE EMAIL PREFERENCES PRIVACY POLICY OPT OUT OR CONTACT US ANYTIME A collective would be a group of people who met once a week to share and discuss life. Members of these chosen families would go on retreats and celebrate life events together. There would be “clearness committees” for members facing key decisions. The collectives would be set up for people at three life stages. First, poor kids between 16 and 22. They’d meet in the homes of adult hosts and help one another navigate the transition from high school to college. Second, young adults across classes between 23 and 26. This is a vastly under-institutionalized time of life when many people suffer a Telos Crisis. They don’t know why they are here and what they are called to do. The idea would be to bring people across social lines together with hosts and mentors, so that they could find a purpose and a path. Third, successful people between 36 and 40. We need a better establishment in this country. These collectives would identify the rising stars in local and national life, and would help build intimate bonds across parties and groups, creating a baseline of sympathy and understanding these people could carry as they rose to power. ADVERTISEMENT Continue reading the main story The collectives would hit the four pressure points required for personal transformation: Heart: By nurturing deep friendships, they would give people the secure emotional connections they need to make daring explorations. Hands: Members would get in the habit of performing small tasks of service and self-control for one another, thus engraving the habits of citizenship and good character. Head: Each collective would have a curriculum, a set of biographical and reflective readings, to help members come up with their own life philosophies, to help them master the intellectual virtues required for public debate. Soul: In a busy world, members would discuss fundamental issues of life’s purpose, so that they might possess the spiritual true north that orients a life. 265 COMMENTS The insular elites already have collectives like this in the form of Skull and Bones and such organizations. My billion would support collectives across society, supporting the homes and retreats where these communities would happen, offering small slush funds they could use for members in crisis. Now all I need is a hedge fund to get started. Follow The New York Times Opinion section on Facebook and Twitter (@NYTopinion), and sign up for the Opinion Today newsletter. A version of this op-ed appears in print on June 6, 2017, on Page A22 of the New York edition with the headline: Giving Away Your Billion. Today's Paper|Subscribe Continue reading the main story RELATED COVERAGE BOOK ENTRY The New Gilded Age in Philanthropy MAY 1, 2017 WEALTH MATTERS How Top Philanthropists Wield Power Through Their Donations APRIL 14, 2017 TRENDING Trump Grows Discontented With Attorney General Jeff Sessions Intelligence Contractor Is Charged in First Leak Case Under Trump Op-Ed Columnist: The Lawless Presidency Some U.S. Diplomats Stage Quiet Revolt Amid Tensions With Trump Education Disrupted: The Silicon Valley Billionaires Remaking America’s Schools DealBook: Marc Kasowitz, ‘Toughest of the Tough Guys,’ Stands Beside Trump Feature: America’s Hidden H.I.V. Epidemic U.S. Islands: On a Georgia Island, a Lot of Good Food and Plenty of Nothing Aid Coordinator in Yemen Had Secret Job Overseeing U.S. Commando Shipments Op-Ed Columnist: Giving Away Your Billion View More Trending Stories » David Brooks Politics, culture and the social sciences. Donald Trump Poisons the World This White House is an axis of selfishness, which explains its suspicion of cooperative global arrangements, like NATO and the Paris climate accord. The Politics of Clan: The Adventures of Jared Kushner All his life he’s served his father or father-in-law. But Kushner is ill-served now by an approach that focuses on tight and exclusive blood bonds. More in Opinion DAVID LEONHARDT The Lawless Presidency EDITORIAL Where Are the United States Attorneys? ROGER COHEN A Case for Jeremy Corbyn THE CONVERSATION The Polar Bear in the Room Recommended for You No, ‘Covfefe’ Was Not Trump Speaking Arabic THE PUBLIC EDITOR The Public Editor Signs Off Go to Home Page » SITE INDEX THE NEW YORK TIMES Site Index Navigation NEWS World U.S. Politics N.Y. 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[hollywoodjuliorivas]

Advertisement The Opinion Pages | OP-ED COLUMNIST Where’s Ivanka When We Need Her? Gail Collins MAY 5, 2017 Continue reading the main storyShare This Page Share Tweet Email More Save 1004 Photo Ivanka Trump and her husband, Jared Kushner, walking along the South Lawn of the White House on Thursday. Credit Carlos Barria/Reuters Ivanka’s got a new female empowerment book, and Dad’s going to war against women. Great week, gang. In just the last few days, the Trump administration has taken steps to restrict health insurance coverage for contraceptives, while bullying the House into passing legislation that could send insurance rates for maternal health care soaring. Meanwhile, the president picked a new official to disseminate the administration’s thoughts about public health, and it’s a woman who believes that abortions cause breast cancer. Triple score for the extreme right. I believe in hockey they call that a hat trick. And wait, there’s more: Trump’s reported choice to run the government’s programs on family planning is someone who doesn’t believe contraception works. And of course that House-passed health care bill is going to defund Planned Parenthood. The measure now goes to the Senate, where Republicans have put together a special 13-man committee to draft their version. It was, at minimum, deeply ironic that while all this was happening, Ivanka Trump released a new book that calls on readers to fight against “barriers that disproportionately affect women” at work. Everybody who thinks unwanted pregnancies are a barrier, please raise your hands. Continue reading the main story ADVERTISEMENT Continue reading the main story Under normal circumstances, we’d give Ivanka’s slim tome, “Women Who Work,” a pass. Or link you to Jennifer Senior’s review in The Times, which calls it “not really offensive so much as witlessly derivative.” It’s stuffed with obvious tips and multitudinous inspirational quotes on leadership, one of which comes from John Quincy Adams, an unsuccessful president who nobody liked. His wife was so empowered she wrote a White House memoir titled “Adventures of a Nobody.” One of his sons called him “the Iron Mask.” Do you think Ivanka’s a John Quincy Adams fan? Or has another Trump ghostwriter been over-Googling? Sign Up for the Opinion Today Newsletter Every weekday, get thought-provoking commentary from Op-Ed columnists, the Times editorial board and contributing writers from around the world. Sign Up Receive occasional updates and special offers for The New York Times's products and services. SEE SAMPLE MANAGE EMAIL PREFERENCES PRIVACY POLICY Ivanka’s a major power in the administration, and she ought to be mobilizing support for things like easy access to contraceptives. “Women Who Work” isn’t exactly aimed at the people who have problems paying for their prescriptions — its target readers need tips on massage priorities and getting the nanny to send Mom pictures of how the kids are spending their day. But she’s not witless and she obviously knows that birth control plays an important role in working women’s lives. You think she’d put in a word. No sign. The president has directed departments like health and human services to consider whether the government should allow employers who cite religious objections to cut contraceptives out of their health care plans. What do you think said agencies will decide? Here’s a hint: The new head of H.H.S., Tom Price, is a guy who once claimed there was “not one” woman who had ever had a problem paying for birth control on her own. (Getting an intrauterine device implanted can cost $1,000 in some parts of the country.) The reproductive rights war is always promoted publicly as a battle against abortion. But many religious conservatives hate birth control in general. Some just want to stop sex outside of marriage. Some don’t believe even married couples should use artificial methods like pills or condoms. Some believe that all fertilized eggs are humans and that many forms of contraception, from IUDs to morning-after pills, cause the equivalent of murder. It’s a theological principle that most Americans don’t accept. “Personhood” amendments giving the eggs constitutional rights have been defeated even in very conservative states. Yet the president has just named, as one of the top officials in H.H.S., a woman who believes IUDs kill. Charmaine Yoest described intrauterine devices to Emily Bazelon in a Times interview as having “life-ending properties.” Yoest, who’s going to be assistant secretary for public affairs, also refuses to consider whether increased access to contraception will actually help reduce abortion rates. It would, she told PBS, “be, frankly, carrying water for the other side to allow them to redefine the issue in that way.” Teresa Manning, a former official at National Right to Life, is said to be Trump’s pick for another high post at H.H.S., deputy assistant secretary for — are you ready? — population affairs. Manning, who, like Yoest, has argued that abortions cause breast cancer, is going to be in charge of all federal family planning programs. She’s the one who once claimed in a radio interview that “contraception doesn’t work.” The idea that “contraception would always prevent the conception” was, she said, “preposterous.” 1004 COMMENTS Nobody thinks these appointees reflect Trump’s own personal convictions, and the president doesn’t need to go this far to satisfy his voter base. It’s just that he doesn’t care, and figures he can concede to the ultraright on women’s reproductive issues in return for stuff he really wants. So he’s working toward a world where low-income women won’t be able to afford contraceptives. And aren’t allowed to have an abortion if they get pregnant. Where there’s no Planned Parenthood to go to for help, or insurance to cover prenatal care or delivery. Other than that, no problem. I invite you to join me on Facebook. Follow The New York Times Opinion section on Facebook and Twitter (@NYTopinion), and sign up for the Opinion Today newsletter. 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