#laundry is several things meant to be spread out over three or four days

[pumpkin-padparadscha]

putting away laundry is not "a" chore, thats four chores in a trench coat

you have your socks, your underwear, your pants and shirts, your pajamas

these things are going to different places! sortying the things into sub category piles is a whole chore of its own. and what about matching the socks?

[queensoybean0724]

Succession Chapter 17 (Karl Heisenberg/female reader) Resident Evil Village fanfic

Title: Succession Chapter 17

Characters: Karl Heisenberg, female reader

Rating: NC-17 for sex and language (spanking, cunnilingus, handcuffs, restraints, blindfolding, P in V, creampie, unprotected sex *wrap it up kids* )

Summary: you discover a long lost relative has died and made you his sole beneficiary.  While flying to collect your inheritance, you crash in a village in Romania.

Author’s Note: I do not own the characters from Resident Evil Village.  This is a work of fiction.  Anything remotely similar to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter 17

“Are there any clothes of yours that you would like me to wash?”

You were on your knees by the dirty pile of clothes next to your suitcases.  It had been slowly growing as the days went by and you needed to get them clean.  The shirt and jeans you wore were the only decent clothes you had, and even that was suspect seeing as they smelled of cigar smoke and various other odors from the factory.

“You do know that there is a laundry machine, right?  You don’t actually have to wash them by hand…” Heisenberg remarked, taking steps towards you on the floor, a cup of coffee in hand.  He felt tired after only a small amount of sleep the night before.  But it was nobody’s fault but his own.  The constant fucking and his inability to keep his hands off you were hindering his sleep schedule.

“Really?” you said, looking up at him, “oh wow, I just assumed…”

“...being a Lord in a small village has its perks,” Heisenberg quipped, “...it’s an older model, but it still does the trick.”

“Well, what I said still holds.  I can wash your clothes along with mine,” you offered.

He smiled at you. “I don’t expect you to do anything for me, dollface.  We can wash our respective clothes together.”

You shrugged your shoulders in agreement and gathered the dirty clothes in your arms, standing to your feet.  “Okay, let’s go!”

Heisenberg finished his coffee and set the mug down on the table, removing his sunglasses.  You could barely see his eyes under his wide brimmed hat, but what you could see of them gleamed in mischief.  Oh, shit, what did he have planned now?

“We can do that later,” Heisenberg murmured, taking a step closer to you, “but now...I’m calling in my favor…”

“What favor?” you asked suspiciously.

“Oh come on,” Heisenberg scoffed, “don’t tell me you forgot.  A few days ago when I took you to see Moreau...you said if I accompanied you, that you would make it up to me…”

Your throat went dry.  Your fingers dug into the clothes piled up in your arms.  Realization, a bit of dread, and a twinge of excitement started in your body.  You did say that you would do anything to make up for it.  But with Heisenberg and that mischievous smirk on his lips, that could mean anything.

“What do you have in mind?” you asked hesitantly.

“Oh, pussycat...you have no idea.  Put those clothes back on the floor…”

You swallowed the nervous lump in your throat, turned, and let the pile fall to the floor next to your things.  Turning back to Heisenberg, you watched him remove his hat and put it on the table.  His trenchcoat was next.  He tossed it across one of the chairs.  

“Take off your clothes,” he ordered as he unbuttoned his shirt.  You stood there dumbfounded for a second as you watched him untuck his shirts, letting the buttoned-up one slide down his arms.  He reached for his undershirt, pulling it off overhead.  The objects around his neck clattered noisily as he set them on the table.

“I said, take off your clothes…” he repeated, his voice low and menacing.

You quickly jerked out of your stunned ogling and began to unzip your pants, not wanting to try his patience..  Heisenberg grinned as he unbuckled his belt, pulling it from the loops of his pants.  He folded the belt and grabbed each end in his hands, making it snap noisily.  You jumped at the loud noise and he laughed.

“Oh, I am going to have so much fun with you…” he promised.  Your heart raced in your chest.  You felt equal parts apprehension and excitement.  He was intelligent and creative...the possibilities that this favor held were endless…

He watched as you finished removing your clothes and you stood before him naked.  His tongue slid along his lips as he stepped towards you.  You looked up into his eyes as he slowly moved to your left, circling your body.  He looked you up and down, admiring every inch of you.  His belt touched your skin and you yelped.  Heisenberg chuckled.

“Bend over the bed, your hands pressed to the sheets,” he commanded, sliding his belt up your spine.  An exhilarated thrill surged through you and you turned to the bed, bending forward from your hips.  Heisenberg took the belt and let it roam along your ass.  You bit your bottom lip, wondering what he had in store for you.

You didn’t have long to wait as his belt came down across your ass, giving you a swift spank. A shriek escaped your mouth and Heisenberg laughed.  “Did that scare you, pussycat?” he asked playfully.  You exhaled and turned your face to look at him.  He stood there with his folded belt in his hands, an amused smile on his face.  His shirtless torso showed off his toned chest and stomach, making him look every bit the dangerous dominant man he was.

“Karl...please, do it again,” you murmured.  With a low growl, he brought the belt down again.  The spanks stung as they connected to your ass, him waiting momentarily in between.  The pain was brief before giving way to pleasure.  You felt his hand caress your cheeks, squeezing each in his grasp.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Y/N,” Heisenberg marveled, placing one hand on the small of your back as he spanked you.  You moaned loudly, lifting your gaze upwards.  After every couple of hits, he would rub and massage your ass, making sure you were okay.  Your skin reddened and was hot to the touch.  His gaze looked over your body, watching as you shivered at the blows of the belt.  Your moans and whimpers were like music to his ears.  And he wasn’t done with you yet.

“Lie on your back on the bed, your head on the pillow,” he ordered.

You followed his command, unable to hide the excitement on your face.  Heisenberg noticed and laughed.  “Oh, you are enjoying this, aren’t you, pussycat?” he marveled.  He walked to the head of the bed and bent down.  The familiar jangling of chains made your eyes go wide.

Heisenberg stood up with the makeshift handcuffs in his grasp.  You looked up at him, his eyes boring holes into yours.  Without a word, he took the cuffs and wrapped the headboard railing with the chains, looping them around and around until they were tight.

“Give me your hands,” he ordered.  One by one, you lifted your wrists and let him restrain you with the cuffs.  Your heart pounded and your mouth was dry.  There had been several nights in the past that you had entertained the fantasy of a man handcuffing you to a bed and raining down torturous pleasure so intense that it made you go insane...you couldn’t think of any other man that you wanted to submit to like this but Karl Heisenberg.

“Oh, fuck…” you moaned as Heisenberg’s fingers slid down your forearm and tricep.  He trailed his fingers down your body to your feet, slowly walking along the bed.  Your skin shivered and peppered with goosebumps.  This man knew just how to touch you.  In the short time you two had been fucking, he memorized every spot that made you whimper and every move that had you crying out in ecstasy.

He pulled his hand away and went to your suitcase, rifling through your things.

“What are you doing?” you asked, lifting your head to look at him.

“Looking for this,” he replied, standing straight, a scarf in his hand.  You released a breath as he sat on the edge of the bed next to you.  Leaning forward, he took the scarf and covered your eyes, tying it behind your head.

“Karl…” you whispered, gripping the chains of the handcuffs.  He adjusted the scarf over your face so that you couldn’t see anything.  You were bound and blindfolded, completely at his mercy.  The arousal that swirled in your belly was astronomical.

“Let me know at any time if you want me to stop,” Heisenberg said, “if it gets to be too much, tell me.  I don’t want to do anything you aren’t comfortable with…”

“For fuck’s sake, Karl, please don’t stop!” you whined, pushing your hips upwards, “this is so fucking hot…”

Heisenberg laughed and stood to his feet.  You heard the zipper of his pants and the sound of him kicking off his boots.  The shuffling of fabric followed by the drop of the remainder of his clothing met your ears.  How desperate you were to look at him standing naked before you.  You wanted to see his muscles flex, you wanted to feel his body under your hands, and you wanted to watch his face contort as he fucked you.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he spread your legs.  He lifted your right leg, his hand circling your ankle.  You sucked in a breath and released an anguished moan at the feel of his lips kissing down your calf.  Wetness slipped from your pussy and dripped onto the sheets.  The man’s soft lips coupled with the roughness of his beard made your senses go into overdrive.

His lips kissed to the back of your knee and his tongue licked lazily along the skin.  You arched your back and groaned.  The area was sensitive and erogenous.  You didn’t know that it was a place on your body that could elicit such pleasure.

“Karl...please…” you mewled.  Your body writhed in waves as he kissed down your inner thigh.

“I meant it when I said I wanted to kiss and lick every inch of your skin, Y/N…” Heisenberg said, “...I could devour your flesh, suck the sweat off and drink it…”

You felt like you were on the verge of insanity by the time he kissed down between your legs.  His hand gripped the outer thigh of your leg, spreading it wide as he kissed along your pussy lips.

“God dammit, Karl, please...I need it...I can’t take anymore…” you pleaded, bucking your hips upwards impatiently.  Heisenberg simply chuckled as he took his other hand and placed the lightest of touches on the tip of your clit.  

You let out an anguished squeal, grinding your head back into the pillow.  His kisses and touches were surprising and unexpected.  You took advantage of your sense of sight before, always being able to know when and where he would touch you...but in that moment everything was unknown, surprising, and agonizing.

“This pretty clit…” Heisenberg said teasingly, looking up your body as he continued to lightly graze it with the pad of his finger, “...how desperate are you for me to touch it...to kiss it...to wrap my lips around it and suck?”

The scarf soaked up your frustrated tears.  The chains clattered noisily against the headboard as you bucked and writhed on the bed.  “Please, Karl...I’m begging you...please…”

“Mmmmm pussycat...I love it when you beg…”

His tongue snaked out and circled your clit.  He lifted your thighs over his shoulders, holding your hips down with both hands.  Your hips trembled and shook, desperate to ride his face.  His grip of your hips was firm, keeping you pressed to the bed, unable to move for any kind of friction.  You were completely at his mercy.

“Oh god Karl...oh fuck...yes...yes...keep licking my cunt…” you pleaded.  He chuckled as his tongue flicked slowly at your clit, looking up at you twisting and struggling for relief from his torture.  His cock was rock hard and desperate to fuck you.  Fantasies of you being cuffed to his bed while he fucked you had been flowing through his mind since he first restrained you.  At that time, it was to ensure you wouldn’t run away, but this...this is what he wanted from the moment he laid eyes on you.  You, submissive, desperate, and begging for him…

He finally gave you what you wanted and started sucking hard on your clit.

“KARL!!!!” you screamed, your legs quaking on either side of his head.  Your thighs squeezed his face and he became feral, licking and devouring the most sensitive part of you.  

The echoes of your pleasure reverberated in his room.  He growled deeply, continuing his assault on your pussy.  

“Karl...oh fuck, you’re gonna make me cum...I’m gonna fucking cum...please, Karl...please…”  

He held you to the bed and continued sucking...more...more...more...until you felt the world stop.  Your mouth flew open and you screamed as you came ferociously and intensely.  Heisenberg’s mouth left your clit as he laughed triumphantly, prolonging your orgasm with his fingers, applying pressure and rubbing.  Your eyes rolled into the back of your head under the scarf, aftershocks shaking your body in waves.

“Good girl...good fucking girl…” Heisenberg marveled.  Your arms hung limp from the handcuffs, sweat forming at your brow.  He kissed up your quivering stomach to your breasts, cupping both in his hands.  He kissed your soft skin, moving to your nipple.  Your legs wrapped around his waist as his tongue traced the hardened peak, flicking and sucking.

“Karl…” you moaned, your hips arching to his body.  Your orgasm was intense and incredible and already you wanted another one.  You wanted him inside of you, to grip his cock and pulse around him.  He had given you insurmountable pleasure and you desperately wanted to return the favor.

“Fuck me, Karl…” you begged, grinding your hips upwards, “...please...I want to make you cum...let me make you cum…”

“Oh, Y/N...I love it when you talk dirty…”  

He continued kissing your breast, palming and squeezing, as his other hand went to his cock, teasing along your wet pussy.  You cursed loudly and wriggled your hips, which made him laugh harder.  “You are quite greedy, dollface…” he marveled, “...yes...so greedy...bound and writhing on my bed...I ought to keep you like this forever…”

You bit your lip and whimpered as he sucked on your nipple, sinking his teeth into your flesh.  You were going to go insane if he didn’t fuck you soon.

Heisenberg sat up and inched closer between your legs.  Sitting back on his heels, he pushed the tip of his cock into your wet cunt.

“Karl!!” you shouted, feeling equal parts relief and dread...relief that he was inside of you and dread that there would be too much time between then and your next orgasm.

Heisenberg gripped your hips and pulled you forward to meet his thrusts.  He pumped deeper into you, his hands holding you flush against him.  Your breasts bounced with the force of his movement.  You clenched around his cock, going tight and pulsing rhythmically, which seemed to please him as evidence from the throaty growls coming from him.

“Fuck...fuck...oh god dammit, Y/N...take my cock…” he moaned.  He took in the sight of you:  your fingers wrapped around the chains, your tits heaving, your thighs quivering around his body, and those sweet, cock hardening moans that flew from your mouth.  You were a vision...a fucking goddess.

“Karl...don’t stop...I want you...I want to make you cum...oh fuck, please…”

His right hand slid up your stomach to your breast, squeezing and slapping it.  You shrieked at the sudden mixture of pleasure and pain.  “That’s it, baby...let me hear you...you filthy fucking little girl…”

You were close.  Heisenberg’s hands all over your body turned you on more than anything you had experienced before.  His lips and talented tongue could make you sell your soul for one last orgasm.  All you wanted was him and he was all you would ever want for the rest of your life.

“I’m gonna cum, Karl...please cum with me...cum inside of me…”

Heisenberg leaned over you and swiftly pulled the scarf from your head.  It took a second for you to adjust to the light before your gaze settled on him.  His body pressed to yours, his hips hammering down on top of you.  His arms pushed under your shoulders and his hands went to the back of your head, making you focus on him.

“Look at me, Y/N...look at me when you cum…” he commanded.  Your clit was trapped against his skin, providing perfect friction along with his cock rocking back and forth inside of you.  It felt overpowering, devastating, and unbearable.  This orgasm was going to destroy the both of you.

“Karl...I’m...I’m...gonna…” you screamed, your eyes wide, never leaving his gaze.

“Tell me...tell me you’re gonna cum...cum for me, Y/N...cum hard…” he yelled, his lips hovering over yours.  You wanted to toss your head back, but his hands on the back of your head kept you still; you had no choice but to stare into the eyes of your executioner.

“I’m cumming...Karl...KARL, OH FUCK, I’M CUMMING!!”

Your body flailed under him, your orgasm so violent that you bucked his body on top of yours.  Heisenberg shot his hot cum deep inside of you as you came around his prick.  Both of you moaned and yelled loudly, so loudly that you felt as if the whole village could hear you.  His hips continued to fuck you into the bed, eager to prolong your orgasm.  His lips clamped over yours, kissing you deeply.  You returned the kiss, your tongue voracious in his mouth.

His hips slowed their movements as he lowered his face between your breasts, kissing as much of your skin as he could.  “You’re gonna be the death of me, pussycat…” he marveled.  You laughed breathlessly, lifting your arms in the chains.  You winced feeling how tender your wrists were, not realizing how hard you were tugging on them.

“Karl...my wrists…” you whispered.  He lifted his head and inspected the handcuffs, seeing the beginnings of red marks on your wrists.  He unlocked the cuffs and wrapped his arms around you, rolling onto his back, pulling you with him.

Your head fell to his chest, too weak to do anything.  Both of your arms hung on either side of his body.  His hands caressed your hair, moving down the nape of your neck and up and down your back.  You smiled and melted into him.

“My sweet dollface,” Heisenberg praised, “...mine...all mine…”

[aimless-imagines-for-fun]

Tainted : Part One

Pairing  ::  Steve Rogers x  fem!Reader

Warnings  ::  Smut, Masturbation(M), Invasion of Privacy?(it’s an imitate moment walked in on) 

Word Count  ::  2,090

Summary  ::  Everyone teased Steve for being “a boy scout”, but you find out he’s not so innocent after all.

A/N  ::  Takes place before Civil War.....there’s probably gonna be a part two... i don’t know when... most likely soon... I must be cleansed.... 

Part Two

Steve Rogers, aka, Captain America. To the public, he was perfect in every way. He was strong, kind, never swore, and always did what was morally right. Everyone loved him, how could they not? Especially when he smiled with his perfect pearly white teeth. 

What mattered most though was the fact he was a damn good soldier. On missions he did everything by the books, doing his best to fulfill the mission without a problem. Even when things did start to go wrong, he never crossed the line.

You, on the other hand, got the mission done, to say the least. You did what you felt was efficient and got the job done without a hassle, even if it meant throwing a few guys out a window. 

-

Thanks to a certain incident, you and Steve were paired together for your latest mission. The two of you had to sneak into the dictator of Latveria’s home and help break free a US diplomat who was being held forcefully at the mansion.

Sneaking in was easy, especially with the help of a secret informant within the mansion who had planned everything. You would dress up as a maid, easily blending in thanks to the large amount that worked there, and go a few times to get a layout of the place. You had three days to learn and remember every room on all four levels and figure out where the asset was.

On the fourth day, Steve would be snuck in by you pretending to bring in fresh linen sheets for the many beds of the house. He was in a laundry cart, which made it easy to transport him around the place. That didn’t make your job any easier, as the bedrooms were on the second and third floor, and the diplomat was in the basement. 

“How did you learn that many names in three days?” Steve questioned as he began to throw the sheets off of him.

You took him to a room on the second floor where you were more than positive no one used. On the way there, you had greeted several other maids and armed guards.

“I say a person’s name three times when I meet them so it helps me remember them.”

Hopping out the cart, he gave you a confused look. “It took you a month to learn mine.”

You shrugged. “I didn’t say it worked very well.”

You removed a few more sheets revealing two guns. You lifted the skirt of your dress, revealing two leg holsters attached to your thighs, and put the guns away.

Looking up at Steve, you saw his brows were raised, staring down at the skirt that now covered your thighs. “I thought this was supposed to be a quiet simple ‘get in and get out’ mission.” His eyes moved up to yours.

You stared at him deadpan for a moment, then let out a long sigh. “Rogers, you’re here to make sure things are ‘quiet’ and ‘simple’, and these are here,” you patted the guns on your thighs, “for when that doesn’t happen.”

He seemed stunned for a moment, but eventually nodded and the two of you were out of the room. 

It was fairly easy, sneaking down from the first floor to the second floor. Sneaking down from the first floor to the basement entrance would prove to be difficult though, as there were far more guards on the first level. 

The two of you stood in an empty hallway, staring around the corner at two men with large guns guarding the entrance to the basement. 

“That’s the only entrance?”

“That’s the only entrance.” You took in a small inhale, hand instantly going to your holster. “I say we take ‘em out, rush in, get the guy, and rush out.”

Steve shot after your hand, holding it with a firm grip. “Are you insane? There are probably over fifty guys in here and you want them all after us?”

“Well I’m sorry, but do you have a better plan?”

“Why don’t you ask them for help.”

“At best, one will come to help me. At worst, they’ll know something’s up because there are plenty of other guards I could’ve asked for help.”

The two of you began to bicker quietly, trying to figure out how to deal with the guards. So distracted amongst yourselves, you almost missed the faint sounds of the guards talking.

“Shush.” You put a finger up to Steve’s mouth, silencing him.

You peaked around the corner, eyes widening when you saw the guards were trading shifts now. The ones who had previously been on guard began walking away, headed towards your direction.

‘We need to go now’, You mouthed.

You and Steve quickly moved to the other end of the hallway, ready to turn the corner and hide, when you saw another guard talking to a maid. You glanced back to see if the guards had come around yet, seeing one of their shoes come into sight.

In a panic, you grabbed Steve’s hand and rushed him into the one closet you knew was in the hallway. The closet was rather small, almost filled with cleaning supplies. Luckily, there was barely enough room for the two of you, even if you were directly against one another.

You pushed him in, then backed yourself in and shut the door as quietly as you could, seeing the guards fully come around just as you closed the door. Your back was fully against his chest and you could feel his warm breath coming down on you. Steve tried to adjust himself in an attempt to put some sort of distance between the two of you. You were pressed against him so much, he could feel your lower back against his dick. He quickly stopped, jaw clenching when he realized he was only rubbing himself into you further.

You, too focused on listening for the guards and anyone else that could pass by, had only vaguely noticed Steve move around for a moment before stopping. Besides that, you didn’t care all too much if he was comfortable or not.

Until this moment, you two had never been close, physically or as friends. You were acquaintances, at least, that’s how you saw it. You found him handsome, as most women seemed to, and he was always a gentleman around you. You were polite in return, but aside from work, you two didn’t talk. He was the perfect boy scout and you were the girl scout that got kicked out for punching a girl who stuck gum in your hair. You didn’t think your two personalities would clash very well.

Mistakenly, you moved one of your arms, elbow hitting a lobby dustpan and causing it to fall over and jab your side. You winced, jerking back against Steve. Instantly, he grabbed your waist, holding on with a tight grip.

You assumed he was angry. “Sorry Cap,” You whispered.

After a good few minutes of you two being stuck together, with Steve still holding on, though not as tight, the coast was clear. You each crept out silently and continued with the mission. You noticed Steve stayed at least two feet away from you since, however, you ignored it.

-

The mission went on with a few hiccups, but you and Steve were able to handle them and safely extract the diplomat. Then, you managed to escape, avoiding oncoming fire from the guards and took the man to a safe house where he would then be snuck out of the country by different agents.

You and Steve, instead of going to the safe house, went back to the hotel you two had been staying at. Your mission was to get the guy out and to the safe house, that was it. Besides, you couldn’t even leave with him as there wasn’t enough room to take you and Steve. You wouldn’t be staying long, already scheduled to meet at a secure location for the next day to leave.

The two of you didn’t speak much once in your shared hotel room. You were rather tired, and Steve, being the incredible person he was, already started working on the report.

After changing into your pajamas, which was a large hoodie and a pair of shorts, you flopped down on the bed and passed out immediately. Steve gave you the bed when it was revealed there was only one, and instead opted to take the couch that folded out into a springy mattress.

You fell into a deep slumber, sleeping for a good few hours without disturbance. The only thing that woke you, was the need to use the restroom. Your body on autopilot, you stood up, carefully heading straight for the bathroom in the darkness. 

With your mind foggy from just waking up, you didn’t think to knock before entering, nor did you hear the faint sounds of water sprinkling down. You opened the door quietly, your tired mind under the impression Steve was asleep as well until you looked in.

The setup of the bathroom was the toilet right on the right-hand side when you opened the door and was the first thing you saw. Then, right next to it, was the sink with a large mirror. Across from it was the bathtub shower combo, that had a clear shower curtain with a few flowers spread across. The showerhead was placed opposite the door, so whoever was taking a shower had their back to the door.

You saw Steve’s bareback, but in the mirror, you saw him fully nude with water falling down the back of his neck, and his fist wrapped around his cock. You blinked twice before your eyes widened with pure horror as you realized you just walked in on Captain America masturbating.

You clamp a hand over your mouth to stop you from saying a word. You backed away, carefully trying to close the door so he wouldn’t notice you had walked in, until…

“(Y-Y/N),” He groans out. 

You halt, heart speeding as you believe he caught you walking in. You had the door open only a crack now, but you could still clearly see him.

“Fuck… (Y/N).” His voice is low, and he’s using a tone you’ve never heard from him.

‘He doesn’t know I’m here,’ You thought at first, glad he hadn’t seen you. Then, your brain falls into chaos and something lights up inside of you. ‘He doesn’t know I’m here! He doesn’t fucking know I’m here!‘ Your mind screamed.

His right hand glides over his dick and his left hand his firm against the tile wall. Rapidly, his hand moves from the head that’s already leaking, down the long shaft, and to his ballsack before coming back up and repeating the motion. With his small ragged breath, it’s clear he’s desperate for a release.

Your panties grow wet, hearing his low moans and watching the water droplets roll down his muscular build. You clench your thighs, cheeks burning, and your breathing now heavy. Not a single part of you had been touched, but the arousal you were getting was ruining your panties. You feel extremely guilty for watching him during this very private, and extremely intimate, moment. However, he did say your name, whether he knew you were listening or not, still, under the belief you were in the bed sound asleep.

His breath growing uneven, his legs begin to spasm, and his left hand balls into a fist against the tile wall. HIs pumps become erratic and he throws his head back, eyes shut. 

“Fuck,” He groans out, his cum finally spurting out of his cock. 

You watch his load come out, only to be washed away and down the drain. Your legs become shaky, watching his dick pulse with each spurt that comes out. He pumps until his cock stops shooting out cum and he moves his hand against the wall. He slumps forward, his hands holding him up as he takes a few deep breaths.

You see the corners of his lips curve upward as he enjoys his small moment of bliss. When he reaches to turn the knobs, you finally shut the door, careful as to not make a noise.

You scurry back to your bed, jumping under the blankets and hiding your face. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to fall back asleep. Your racing mind wouldn’t allow it though. You had just watched the Steve Rogers masturbate, and you weren’t sure how to face him now.

[hailing-stars]

@febuwhump day 10 : I'm sorry, I didn’t know keep moving forward summary

“Oh, look who it is,” said Tony. “The amazing Peter Parker and Iron Lad.”

“I’ve asked you to stop calling me that,” said Harley. He put his laundry basket down on the porch.

“Shouldn’t you two be off doing college boy things? Like blowing up your dorm rooms or terrorizing your professors into retiring early?” Tony’s eyes shifted to Peter. “Or not studying for your Chem midterm on Monday?”

Peter frowned, and dropped his laundry bag from his shoulder. It landed with a thud, next to Harley’s basket. “How did you know about my test?”

“Think it’s hard for this genius and savior of the universe to hack a lousy MIT server?”

A gentle breeze fresh off the lake blew through Peter’s hair, bringing with it all the familiar and welcoming scents of his second home.

He shut the door to Harley’s baby, a vintage red Camaro with black racing stripes, and immediately locked eyes with Tony, who watched them both walk the dirt path up to the lakehouse from his favorite chair on the porch.

“Oh, look who it is,” said Tony. “The amazing Peter Parker and Iron Lad.”

“I’ve asked you to stop calling me that,” said Harley. He put his laundry basket down on the porch.

“Shouldn’t you two be off doing college boy things? Like blowing up your dorm rooms or terrorizing your professors into retiring early?” Tony’s eyes shifted to Peter. “Or not studying for your Chem midterm on Monday?”

Peter frowned, and dropped his laundry bag from his shoulder. It landed with a thud, next to Harley’s basket. “How did you know about my test?”

“Think it’s hard for this genius and savior of the universe to hack a lousy MIT server?”

“Morgan’s right,” said Peter, having flashbacks to that time, a couple of weeks earlier, when she had called him from her closet to complain that her dad spent the entire day at her school. “You have boundary issues.”

“And I’m called Iron Man 2,” said Harley.

“Yeah,” said Peter. “Cause he’s the sequel.”

“Well you know what they say about sequels. They’re never as good as the original.”

“It’s cold here,” said Harley. He turned to Peter. “Why did we come here, again?”

“I dunno, my memory’s sort of foggy…”

“Oh, let me try,” said Tony. “Maybe cause you’re both broke college students who haven’t had a solid meal since the last time you drove four hours to do laundry, and you know on Friday nights I make my famous lasagna.”

“Yeah,” admitted Peter. “Sounds about right.”

Tony pulled him into a belligerent hug, knocking the air of him, and ruffling his hair with his prosthetic arm. Harley was nex

t, though he tried, and failed, to get away. Peter lifted both heaps of laundry off the porch. The three of them went inside, where the aroma of home cooked lasagna filled the air.

Peter breathed it in, and a peaceful feeling spread through his body. He was home. At least for a while.

*

The garage was dimly lit, but that was the way Harley liked it. Reminded him of home, and all those nights he’d snuck out to the garage after his mother went to bed to tinker until sunrise, working quietly by lantern and flashlights only, to stay hidden and unbothered.

It didn’t matter how much noise he made at the Stark lake house. He’d always be drown out by Morgan’s chaos or Tony’s rambling or Peter’s frequently moody loud thoughts. It was comforting, and annoying, at all once.

“Burning the midnight oil?” asked Tony, and Harley poked his head up from insides of his beloved Camaro.

Tony wore a robe patterned with tiny Spider-Mans over his pajamas, and Harley had never really gotten used to that, to seeing Tony Stark, Iron Man, walking around in goofy dad pajamas.

“Something like that.”

“I can help you, you know,” said Tony. He patted the red Camaro, and Harley swatted his hand away.

“No way,” said Harley. He knew what happened when Tony started tinkering, even when he’d claim they were only minor upgrades. “Touch her and die. I like her the way she is.”

“That’s not what you said when you asked for my expert advice about your suit.”

“One of my biggest regrets,” said Harley.

“Brat.”

“Old man.”

“I’m not that old,” pointed out Tony.

“But you’re retired,” said Harley. “And that automatically ages you up about twenty years.”

“I’m not retired. I’m a dad, thus making retirement impossible.”

Tony sat on a stool, and with his latest statement, his mood shifted towards something more heavy, more sad. Just the way conversation tended to go lately, as if someone had died. That was about right. Someone had practically died.

“You’re worried about Peter?” Harley guessed.

“I’m always worried about Peter,” said Tony. “And Morgan. But I actually came in here to talk about you.”  

“Me?”

“Yeah, you,” said Tony. “How’s MIT? How’s your first semester going? I need all the details.”

Harley paused, wondered if it was alright to tell the truth, then realized he couldn’t help it. He broke out into a grin.

“It’s great,” said Harley. “It’s everything I thought it’d be.”

They spend the next couple of hours ignoring the Camaro in favor and talking about hated professors, loved professors, his favorite classes, parties, that girl in his Econ class that always seems to evade him whenever he’d worked up the nerve to ask her out.

“I’m glad you’re having a good time,” said Tony. “You don’t have to feel guilty about it just because -”

“-because Peter’s not?” offered Harley. “I’m worried about him, too.”

“He’ll be fine,” said Tony, but there wasn’t any reassurance in his words and his eyes looked a bit lost, evident even in the dimly lit garage.

“He’s depressed.”

Tony took a breath, as if he’d known along, but wasn’t ready to hear the simple, plain truth stated like that.

“Yeah,” said Tony. “I suppose he is.”

After several seconds of dead air, Tony stood up from his stool, and clasped him on the shoulder. “I appreciate you looking out for him, as long as you’re remembering to look after yourself.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Harley. “It’s really like we look out for each other, tough. Take turns being the responsible one. We’ve got a calendar for it and everything.”

Tony laughed, and got that far off look in his eyes. The one he usually got before launching into a story about his and Rhodey’s college days, but on that night, Harley was spared a story about good ole days. He suspected it was due to Tony worrying more about Peter than he was letting on.

*

Tony wanted to call May.

She was a beacon of parental wisdom, especially when it came to Peter, and Tony could really use the help. He was out of his league, here, but last time he’d call at this time of night, he hadn’t gotten advice about how to sooth Morgan through the sudden loss of her imaginary friend. He’d gotten yelled at, by her, and then by Happy, both of them grumpy about being woken up.

And since Pepper also didn’t like being woken up, Tony would have to go with his instincts this time. His instincts told him what Peter needed was a little bit of tough love.

So, he positioned himself on the stairs, just as Peter tried disappearing into his room for some sleep.

“Tony,” said Peter. “Please don’t be annoying.”

“Too late. I was born that way.”

“Please move. Tired.”

“MIT has really gone downhill since I left, huh,” said Tony. “Students can’t even speak in complete sentences.”

Peter groaned, and Tony slung his arm around him, directing him into the kitchen where’s set up the table with a variety of study aids and all of Peter’s school books.

“What is this?”

“Oh you know,” said Tony. He let go of him, and walked around the table. “You got your energy drinks, you sour gummy candy, your laptop, school books, day old pizza in the fridge, all the necessities for an all-nighter.”

“Why?”

“I’m teaching you how to be a real college student,” said Tony. “And I figured I could help you study for your Chem midterm, since you don’t seem to be interested in it at all.”

“I’m a genius. I don’t need study help.”

“Uh huh,” said Tony. “A genius who’s almost failing Chemistry, and will without a decent score on this test.”

Peter dropped his shoulders, and annoyance flashed across his face. Tony waited for him to yell, or start a fight with him.

He’d been so polite, for the most part, during his teen years Tony figured it was about time for them to be at odds over something, about time for Peter to go off the rails the way only a nineteen-year-old could.

“I was thinking,” said Peter, stating his discontent calmly. No yelling only meant it was gonna be harder for Tony to shoot this down. “I could just forget about school.”

“Forget about school?”

“Yeah,” said Peter. Like it was no big deal. “I could help you and Bruce figure what’s wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you. Except for your Chemistry grade.”

“You know what I mean, Tony,” said Peter, a bite to his tone. “Find out what’s wrong with my powers. So I can be Spider-Man again.”

“Kid, we’ve been through this over and over again. Bruce and I, we’re handling this. School is your job right now.”

“Well I’m tired of just sitting around, and waiting -”

“-hence you being enrolled at MIT.”

Tony pushed Peter towards the table, and they both sat down.

“Listen, Pete,” he told him. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what it’s like to have these powers and suddenly have them disappear. It’s been… rough on you. And May and I get that. We let you mope around New York all summer long, but it’s time to pick yourself up and keep moving forward.”

Peter stared at the table, at all the study materials, and it was hard for Tony to interpret what he was thinking.

“Think of it as a shot at having some normalcy,” he said. “Before you get your powers back and with them, all of Spider-Man’s responsibilities.”

“What if,” said Peter. His mask of uninterest started to crack. “And what if they don’t come back?”

“They will.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” said Tony. “I literally saved this whole universe, and our friend Professor Hulk brought half the population back. I think we’ve got it covered.”

“Yeah,” said Peter, though he didn’t sound convinced. He looked away from Tony, and at his school books. “I guess we better get started.”

Tony frowned.

He had been hoping for more conversation, or at least to break through to the kid, in some way, even if it was just a talk and a vent.

Instead he had an almost breakthrough. A tiny crack in the disguise. And that wasn’t good enough, even if Peter was studying and allowing Tony to help him.

When they’re done, Peter disappeared to his room to get some sleep, and Tony sat up, at the table, sipping on a god-awful energy drink and wondering who he’d have to bribe to become a professor at MIT.

[catalinaroleplay]

Gender & Pronouns: Cis man, he/him

Date of Birth: March 17th, 1983 (37)

Place of Birth: San Francisco, California

Neighborhood: Ventura

Length of Residency: Native — Returned December 2020

Occupation: CEO of Meadows Real Estate

Face Claim: Jesse Lee Soffer

BIOGRAPHY

TRIGGERS: Parental Abandonment, Death Mention, Infidelity.

If you would've told anyone 16 years ago that Sebastian Prescott would one day be considered the outcast of his family… they would've laughed right into your face. There was a time when he embraced the name and everything that came with it. Sebastian became a member of that kind of world by proxy through his father's networking and connections. The Prescott children all lived the fast life, the one where money can buy you anything and everything to the fullest. As one of the middle children, there was a certain kind of freedom where nothing was set in stone, and he was allowed the liberty of choosing his life. Well, until his father Hugh disowned him.

Hugh Prescott grew up one of five children in a lower-middle-class home in Nottingham, a city in the East Midlands region of the United Kingdom. Gabriel, his father, operated a small wholesale produce store while his mother Frieda stayed home, bringing up the children and washing the neighbors' laundry. Money was always scarce. Frieda kept the kids full with bread and vegetables, and when Sunday rolled around, the seven of them would share whatever meat had been cheapest at the store. Given how smart Hugh was, he attended Oxford University after graduation from school in 1955, juggling several jobs to cover expenses. Hugh ended up playing soccer professionally before quitting after a year because of his teammates' frivolous behavior. He then started working for a commercial real estate firm near London and left Nottingham behind. Ten years later, luck struck, and Hugh met Perry Richards, an ambitious man with money who was looking for a business partner with a brain. Wife and kids in tow, Hugh left the UK for what would become the Silicon Valley in the United States. 

Their business was to become Richards & Prescott. From years of working in real estate, Hugh had developed a good sense of what land to buy, and Perry handled negotiations with suppliers and tenants. Now a developer in California, he juggled the hard work, first wife Frances, and their now two children. In the following years, the former farmland turned into a considerable profit. It took time, of course, and time wasn't always easy on Hugh. After 14 years in the States, Hugh had to bury his first wife and take care of four children in total while working hard to turn his business into an empire. In 1980, he met Genevieve, a beautiful, smart woman fifteen years younger, and in 1981 he married her. Slowly but surely, the Santa Clara Valley was establishing itself as America's tech hub. As a family, Genevieve and Hugh added four more children to the mix in 1983, 1986, and then twins in 1991. 

Sebastian Prescott was born in San Francisco, and two years later, his family settled on Catalina Island, enjoying a private life where no one really knew the business of any of the Prescotts, aside from the fact that they owned a huge house that housed nine people. Given the vast age-gap between the siblings, Hugh's oldest was already attending Stanford University when Sebastian was only two. While the oldest Prescott was making headlines in San Francisco and the Californian mainland, people rarely associated that Prescott with those living on the Island. Not unless they were seen together. It took a couple of years, but things started becoming different once the other two entered young-adulthood. It wasn't hard for gossip to spread in such a small town, and with now more familiar faces being featured in tabloids, people quickly made the connection. They were seen for their money, and life as Sebastian knew it, laidback and normal, was over. The loss of privacy wore Hugh down and turned him into a different person over the years. Something the younger Prescott children always had a hard time dealing with. Genevieve remained the same on the outside but was always worried about her husband on the inside. The three oldest's actions had consequences for the younger: The once laissez-faire lifestyle was over, and rules and obligations followed everywhere. 

But rules are meant to be broken. Sebastian grew up in the lap of luxury. Everything he ever wanted was handed to him, regardless of the changes in the upbringing and education. When Bash was younger, he was always easy to get along with. He liked seeing people happy with the choices he made and the actions he took. He was bright and, frankly, the epitome of innocence: Looking to please people at whatever cost, wanting to do and be good. Sebastian felt like he was really getting somewhere with his father, who was so distant from him as he grew from boy to man. But the man Hugh turned into liked to see faults wherever he looked, always displeased and never satisfied. Sebastian could come home with an A, and Hugh would ask what happened to the plus. So, the boy gave up trying and searched for a different source to pour all of his energy into: Friends, girls, and parties. When the last two years of high school rolled around, his mother's role as principal ensured everything worked out perfectly for him regardless. Classes were jostled around to ensure her son would take all the right courses with the right teachers -- anything to make his grades look good for Stanford. 

He noticed something was missing by the time he turned eighteen. Once you tasted every kind of expensive liquor, went to California's best clubs, and hijacked a private plane to go to France... there was little else to live for. His life started feeling incredibly empty being surrounded by fake friends and people who only liked him for the money, and where once was the need to break the rules, now laid an inexplicable void that no amount of alcohol or sex could fill. The lack of real friends and a good relationship with his parents became apparent when school ended, and Sebastian was left with practically no one once he distanced himself.  

Sebastian's redemption arch would take place over the span of years. Entering college, it took a while until he settled into his 'new' self. By the time parent weekend had come, he'd managed to make one friend and managed to piss off three other people. Things really weren't working out well for him -- especially when he met the one girl that would change his entire life (or, well, a big part of it): Georgina Livingston. Upon meeting her, he used his usual tricks, and when they didn't work on her, he turned to the only other thing he knew to do: annoy the hell out of her. Honestly, she couldn't have been more disinterested. Up until the faithful moment, he'd accidentally tripped her, causing her to spill iced coffee all over her on parent weekend their freshman year. It could've gone better, but soon after the incident, they laughed about it together. Sebastian Prescott had never been in love before, but god, it was a wonderful feeling. 

Their relationship wasn't perfect by any means, but Sebastian was willing to work for it. It was honestly the first thing he wanted to keep in his life, wanted to see last forever. But given their ages and sometimes different opinions, their fights tended to escalate more than a couple of times. Of course, they never turned physical, but both knew where to hit to hurt the other person. During one of those altercations, they tossed the word 'break' around, and when Sebastian left that night, he made the mistake of taking it too seriously. All it took was a bar, a girl, and enough liquor to let him wake up next to a random girl the next morning, leaving Sebastian utterly distraught. It could've broken them, it could've driven Geo away, but Bash fought hard to get Georgina Livingston back. Sebastian Prescott bought a ring soon after getting her back, waiting for the perfect moment. But that moment… it never came. At least not until his one-night-stand called him up, informing him that he had an almost-two-year-old daughter and that she couldn't do it anymore. Torn and confused, Sebastian left his home almost immediately, leaving a confused Geo behind. 

The news of a kid didn't sit well for his family. In fact, his parents almost went above and beyond to keep him from getting to his daughter. Hugh Prescott was many things, but Sebastian never thought his father would keep him away from owning up to something he considered beautiful. The circumstances were, of course, anything but perfect, but Sebastian knew he had to own up to his mistake and take care of his kid. It was the right thing to do. When he returned home to Catalina, two-year-old Gianna in tow, his father practically closed the door in his face. Disowned; for doing the right thing. So he left Catalina Island and moved to San Francisco, got himself a job, and went to figure himself out as a father of a toddler. Once he felt secure enough, Sebastian returned to Catalina again on a mission to get the love of his life back, to fix what he had broken for a second time. But he came too late; someone else had already picked up the mess he made and fixed his girl. Geo looked so happy, and he couldn't get in the way of her happiness.

It was hard to juggle a job, toddler and dad duties, but Sebastian felt needed. Something he desperately searched for all his life. His daughter Gianna really was the turning point for him. A couple of years into living in San Fran, he reconnected with Gianna's mom Antonia on their daughter's eighth birthday. On a hunt for some happiness of his own, they began dating, first casually, and then it eventually became the real deal. Things looked actually good. Things felt good. At least for a while. They were a real family for about four years before Antonia confessed to being unfaithful. The mom role wasn't for her, at least not for Gianna, who was a full-blown child already. She wanted to do the whole being a mommy thing from the start and actually see her kid growing up without feeling ashamed of having abandoned it early into its life. So, she packed up and left. Leaving Gianna with Sebastian again. It felt like a blow to the face for a while, and while Bash would've loved just to let his disappointment in people take over his life, he couldn't let himself wallow in self-pity forever. Instead, he began to pour his energy into building a business. 

Just like his father did all those years ago, Sebastian began working on his business plan. Hugh Prescott always made sure to educate his children about the world they grew up in, which also meant taking them along to Richards & Prescott to show them the ropes. If it were up to Hugh, his children would take some position in his business, just like a couple of them already had. Given that Sebastian disowned, though, he used his knowledge elsewhere. Meadows Real Estate was born on a whim and after a couple of drinks with his friend-turned-business partner.

As Meadow is Gianna's middle name, they chose the name for her, who was the biggest inspiration in his life. His business focused on finding the best houses, apartments, and places for his clients, buying cheap homes and properties, and, most importantly, flipping them into something grand and beautiful. That was the part Sebastian enjoyed most about it. He also prided himself in actually doing the work (or, well, part of it) himself. Gianna's independence was a huge help. When Sebastian was asked about how he did it all while being a single parent, his answer was always easy. Gianna felt more like an adult than a child. She was the one making sure he didn't forget his lunch, did laundry on some days, and was always on top of her school activities. Sebastian got absolutely lucky. Meadows Real Estate turned out to be something outstanding. It didn't take long for it to be successful in the San Francisco area, so an expansion was next. 

Sebastian always wanted to return to Catalina Island, just not without having something up his sleeve. Returning home without showing his father he could do well on his own had always been out of the question. Expanding the business to the Los Angeles area, with extra office space on the Island, seemed like a great idea -- especially considering the properties and land the Island had to offer. It also opened the option to work on a couple Bed and Breakfast and vacation home ideas. The permanent move, however, was postponed until everything was sorted out. Gianna needed a place in school, they needed a place to live, and Sebastian needed to work out the client base's nature first. Honestly, so much of his thinking now is thanks to his daughter. While his parents may think stepping up to take care of an unwanted child had been the wrong decision, in reality, it was the best thing that could've happened to him. Gianna changed him for the better, made him a better man.

PERSONALITY

Positive: Outgoing | Responsible | Kindhearted

Negative: Stubborn | Competitive | Impulsive

Sebastian Prescott is portrayed by Nessa.

[revisionaryhistory]

Three Days ~ 63

~*~Sebastian~*~

Sightseeing was not code for strip club. I have nothing against strip clubs. Having a new girlfriend and going to a strip club is a hard pass. We did go to a bar. I drank, but not enough to get drunk. I didn’t want to be hungover on a plane tomorrow. I also did not want to be dehydrated or tired. None fit with my plans.

I was up at the ass crack of dawn to make my flight. Part of the time was spent with the hotel's florist getting instructions and supplies to get my roses home with me. Sweet talking the flight attendant got them and my carry on an overhead bin of their own. I flew into the small airport near Beacon. The pain in the ass layover was more than made up for by the ease of customs and baggage claim.

My mom picked me up. The half-hour drive was filled with conversation, but it still felt like it took forever. Since I knew the key code to her CRV I threw my shit in the back and pulled the roses out of their travel box. I wrapped them in the white paper the florist gave me, stuck one side of the headband ears into my back pocket, and headed into the school. The office staff must have thought I was a delivery man because they buzzed me right in. One woman sat at the counter and another at a desk set back several feet. The one at the counter smiled, "Can I help you?"

I leaned onto one elbow, my flowers in the other arm. "I hope so. I'm here to see Emma Marcum." I whispered, "She doesn't know I’m coming." I returned to my normal voice. "Any way, you can direct me to her or take me without telling her?"

Desk lady spoke up, "Are you the boyfriend who sends flowers and cookies?"

Counter lady added, "Those were good cookies."

I smiled, "Oh good. I was hoping." I looked at the desk lady, "She liked the flowers?"

"You did good. They just got back from lunch. Emma went to her room." She pointed down the office hall. "Go out the door, turn left, and keep walking. She's the last room on the right. Her name's above the door."

I gave them my best smile. It was real. "Thank you." I headed down the hallway. "I'll send more cookies for just you two."

It had been a long time since I was in an elementary school. There was no work on the walls, but the backgrounds were still there. I looked in the rooms as I walked. Lots of little chairs on tables, carpeted areas, and bookshelves. I was excited to see Emma's room. A little nervous to see Emma. I hoped she liked surprises.

Right outside her room, I could hear music. I shoved the polka dot ears on my head and quietly walked just far enough in to find Emma. She had on black shorts, a Pearl Jam tour shirt, and her hair was hanging long down her back. I couldn’t wait to get my fingers there. Everywhere. “Cake by the Ocean" was playing and Emma was dancing and singing as she pulled laminated words off the wall. I crept a little closer, "You know this song is about sex on the beach, right?"

Emma spun around and her surprised smile lit up my world. It felt like I'd been hit in the chest with Thor's hammer. She held a hand, palm up, toward me, "And here you are."

"Were you trying to manifest a provider?" I’d be more than happy to provide any and all sex she needed.

"You're a lot more than that."

We closed the distance and I put the flowers on the nearest flat surface to get both hands on her. I don't know if it was the touch of her lips, her hand on my waist, or the one on the back of my neck, but I took another shot to the middle of my chest. When her hand moved up to my chest I covered it with mine. "You're beautiful." I smiled, shaking my head. "Fuck... I love you."

I hadn't expected that to happen.

Emma bit her lip, "Te iubesc, Sebasti-an."

To say we kissed would be an understatement. We melted into each other, a slow-motion wrapping around and holding on. Emma sighed against my mouth as our tongues touched. I pulled her in as close as possible, enjoying the feel of her in my arms, and her fingers back in my hair. I missed her touch. When we parted she ran her fingers over my beard and looked at me like I was the only person on earth.

Emma's eyes shifted to the flowers on the table, "Did you plan this?"

I blew a raspberry, "You know better. Those are the ones you sent. If I'd planned this it would have taken three days and you would have had to rescue me." She laughed with me. "But you did. When did you learn te iubesc?"

"After we hung up the morning I signed the NDA. Because I fell asleep on the plane to Atlanta before I could look it up."

I went to kiss her, stopping a breath away to say it again. "I love you, Emma."

"I love you, too."

While we kissed I heard a commotion behind us, like a group of fans coming down a hall. Then a chorus of "Ooops", "Oh shit.", and a lone "Fuck."

I back away from her mouth, "I don't think we're alone."

Emma smiled and turned her head to see them, "Longer than I expected."

A pretty blond at the front shrugged, "I tried to hold them back."

A redhead shoved her shoulder, "While leading the pack."

Emma unwrapped from around me and took my hand, "Come say hello."

The redhead gasped, "Fuck me."

I chuckled, "Elementary teachers cuss a lot more than I expected."

The four women spread out as they came closer. Emma started at the end with blonde, pointing with her free hand. "This is Mallory, Nia, Dawn, and Cindy." I shook their hands ending with the redhead, "Lunch crew, this is Sebastian."

Lunch crew tapped into a memory. I looked at Emma, "You sent me a picture of them with the cookies." She nodded. "Nice to meet you all. Glad you liked the cookies." I squeezed Emma’s hand. "Remind me to send some to the office ladies for letting me sneak back here.”

"You didn't know he was coming?" Nia looked from Emma to me.

Emma shook her head, moving a step closer and putting her free hand on my forearm. "He was supposed to be back tomorrow and I was going to him."

Looking at Emma I said, "I had Emily move tonight’s dinner to Sunday. That's why I left earlier." I looked at her friends and shrugged, "I wanted to surprise her." I let go of her hand to put my arm around her. I pulled her in and kissed her head. Not that I wasn't happy to meet her friends, but I'd just unexpectedly told her I loved her, and I was not done with the kissing. "How was lunch?"

They started telling me and talking to each other. Lunch with them would be full of laughter.

Dawn asked Emma, "You still playing tonight?"

I answered for her, "Part of why I came back early." I pointed at myself, "Head cheerleader and beer bitch." They laughed. “We do need to go shopping. All I have are work clothes. Is there a Target nearby?”

Emma nodded, “We can do that.” She looked around, “Where’s your suitcase? And how did you get here?”

“Threw my stuff in your CRV. I had my mother pick me up at the airport.” I rolled my eyes and looked at Cindy because she was the most star-struck, “Extra glamorous.”

Cindy smiled, “Life of an actor.”

Mallory reached out and touched Emma’s arm, “We’ve interrupted your reunion long enough. Pretty sure we won’t be the last.” She looked at me, “Word of a boyfriend in the building travels fast.”

“The nice office ladies outed me?”

Everyone nodded and headed out the door. Mallory was last and pulled the door closed behind her, “See you later tonight.” She gave Emma a thumbs up. No idea what that’s about.

I yelled, “Thank you,” as the door closed. I sighed, “She’s my favorite person.” I folded my arm in, bringing Emma against my chest, “Besides you.”

I laid my cheek on her head and savored the feel and smell of her. It had been a long since I’d been in love. Feels really good. It’s felt really good for weeks. Now it feels extra good. Like I want to explode good. Or pull her in to take up as little space as possible.

Emma’s hands let go of my back and I let her go. Her hands went to my face and she pulled me in for a kiss. A very long, slow, and deep kiss. I felt that kiss all over my body and everywhere inside. When she backed away I licked the taste of her from my lips. All I could do was stare at her. All I wanted to was look at her and say I love you over and over. Well, not all I want to do.

“You have a decision to make.”

“I do?”

She nodded, “I have to have the room packed before Friday. Do we stay and get part of it done now or power through tomorrow?”

“I’m a procrastinator. Option two. How far away is shopping?”

“Ten minutes. I like to get things done then relax.”

“Are you saying you want to stay here?”

Laughter filled the space between us, “Oh hell, no. Shop, go home for a couple of hours, then go play volleyball.”

“Sounds kinda boring. What are we going to do at home for a couple of hours?”

“Your laundry. Wash your new clothes before the game.”

“Have you met us?” She looked at me strangely. “We don’t have a good record of doing things, like laundry, when we see each other again.” I’m sure she understood what I meant. Our clothes don’t stay on long enough to do anything besides each other. That won’t be changing today.

Emma folded her arms around my neck, “Wouldn’t want to break our streak.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you. I have tan lines to lick.” I pressed my lips into a tight line and shook my head. She kissed me again and I slid my hands down to her ass. I mumbled against her mouth, “The sooner we leave the sooner we get home.”

The speed with which she leaped away was alarming. “Let’s go.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the door. “Shit, I need my purse.”

“Flowers. A lot of trouble to get them here. They need water. Do you have a vase?”

“I do.” She opened a cabinet under the kid-sized sink and water fountain.

“Get a lot of flowers at work?” I hoped she could hear the humor in my question.

“Yep.” She pointed out the window. “First and fifth have a flower garden.”

While she filled the vase, I unwrapped the flowers. I showed her the little plastic thing filled with water attached to the bottom of each stem. “These had to be empty going through security. So I was in the men’s room pulling off the little rubber top, filling it with water, putting the little rubber top back on, then shoving the stem through the little opening.” I pulled one off while I talked and demonstrated shoving it back on.

She smiled, her tongue between her teeth, “Did you wear the ears on the plane too?”

“Oh shit!” I started laughing and patted the top of my head. “I forgot I put these on.” I pulled them off and looked at them. “Shit.” I opened my eyes wide then rubbed my hand across my face before letting out a groan. “I told you I loved you for the first time while wearing Minnie Mouse ears. Met your friends. And made out a little bit.” I closed my eyes, “This is so typically me.”

“Good thing I love typically you.” She stretched up and barely brushed her lips against mine. Then she yelled, “Mallory.”

The door opened, “Yep.”

I looked between them and started laughing, “How’d you know she was there? You’ve been guarding the door?”

“I got your back.” Mallory walked into the room, “What’s up?”

Emma picked her phone up off the desk, holding it out to Mallory, “Picture, please.” She took the ears from my hand and put them back on my head.

I started to protest, but quickly realized I wanted a picture of this moment too. I moved in behind her, wrapping my arm across her chest. Emma grabbed my arm and turned to smile at me before we looked at Mallory. She took the picture and walked to us to give Emma back her phone. She looked at me with a smile, “It’s ridiculous how cute you are.”

Emma hugged her, “Pick you up about five.”

We finished putting the roses in the vase, and since we were going shopping first, decided to leave them at school overnight. We’d take them home tomorrow. She gathered her purse and we headed out the door by her room, walking across the grass to the parking behind the other side of the building. It was like a U, with Emma’s room at one end.

Emma pointed to the other end of the U, “That’s Mallory’s room, where I’m moving.”

“Really is the same view from the other side.”

When we got close to the car she looked over, “You wanna drive.”

“Nope. I wanna look at you.” I opened her door and kissed her before closing it. I spoke while I buckled my seat belt, “You know I have to wear these ears to the game now.”

“Why?”

“So it looks like I meant to have them on.”

Emma backed out of her parking place and paused before putting the CRV in drive, “Are you really embarrassed?”

“Not at all.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Can I get your phone to look at the picture Mallory took?” She handed me her purse and I pulled her phone out of the side pocket. Mallory had been taking pictures the entire time she had Emma’s phone. The last one, with us looking at the camera was good, but a few pictures back was one when Emma turned to look at me. We both had the slightest smile like we had a secret no one else knew. Except anyone who saw the picture would know. The way we were looking at each was obvious. Mallory had caught a moment.

The ears made it perfect.

Target wasn’t far and I waited until we’d parked to show her the picture. “Check this out.”

Emma looked, her face instantly softening to a slight smile, “She’s my second favorite person today too.” She kissed me then her focus shifted up, “You going to wear them into Target?”

“Shit, I forgot they were there again.”

Target wasn’t my go-to clothier, but for some shorts, t-shirts, a pair of swim trunks, and some flip flops we were good. I tossed things into a cart. “Mom wants us to come over. Lay by the pool and have a barbeque.�� I looked at her, “By the way, you are much more tan and much more blonde than last time I saw you.”

“Thank you?”

“Definitely.” I raised my eyebrows and smirked, nodding my head. “Tan lines.”

“I want to take something to your mom’s. Food for the barbeque.”

“Potato salad.” I started salivating at the thought. That was delicious.

“That’s what you want. What would your mom like?”

I pulled my shoulders up and spoke in a high voice, “Something lemon?”

“Lemon cupcakes or a lemon berry cake?”

My eyes lit up, “Cupcakes. Much more barbeque than a cake cake. Plus they’re fun.” She nodded and we headed toward the food aisles. “You’re gonna make me some potato salad too, right?”

[let-me-love-you-loki]

Welcome to Oblivion--Ch. 12

Chapter 12

           Grand Mountain didn’t mess around when it came to football. The home side of the stadium was packed out with students, families, staff, and supporters from town. People had been tailgating in the parking lot for hours, and the scent of brats and burgers still wafted over the field.

           There was a section in the front, right at the 50-yard line, filled with students decked out in purple and gold. They had banners, pom poms, vibrant felt pirate hats, and plastic hooks for hands. They called it the Captain’s Quarters, where the best and loudest of the Pirates fans sat. It was mostly seniors, but there were some underclassmen there, too. I was pretty sure it was a raffle to get in and you had to sign up.

           But I didn’t need to worry about the Captain’s Quarters. No, I was tucked beneath the stands in the locker rooms in the Pirate’s Den. The football players were down the hall. It was impossible not to hear them yelling and roaring. I sat next to Peyton in the girl’s locker room with the rest of the Poms. They spent the last few minutes before the game adjusting their uniforms and making sure their hair was curled and bound with giant gold bows.

           I’d spent the last month with the team, training and practicing with them as if I was one of them. Coach Helmsley had put me through my paces early on. Only when I’d been able to go through an entire practice with the Poms and keep up did she agree to let me work as a choreographer. It wasn’t a bad deal, not really. Sure, it meant that I had to get up early and might have to travel for away games, but it also meant that I was getting work study. I actually had some money coming in.

           I could actually afford to buy food.

           “Let’s see how that choreography works out, Holloway,” Coach Helmsley said, her arms crossed over her chest. “Low key home game should be a great place to practice.”

           As she walked away, I looked over at Peyton, who was grinning. “This is low key?”

           She patted me on the thigh and stood up, tightening her pony. “Your moves are great. And you’ve trained us perfectly. It’s going to be great.”

***

           I’d missed sitting on the sidelines of a football game. I was in a folding chair against the concrete wall, settled several feet behind the Pirates bench. The team had run by me as they came out of the Den. Roman and Drew led the charge, both looking twice as big as normal with all their gear and padding. Jimmy, Jey, and Baron were deep in the throng of players.

           The last time I’d watched a football game from the sidelines, I had been on crutches with a braced knee and forced to watch my teammates perform my choreography without me.

           I’d forgotten how fantastic it was to be so close to the action. The sound of heavy bodies wrapped in protective gear was one that you never forgot. And truly, it was one of my favorite sounds in the world.

           Thirty minutes into the first half, I was out of my seat and standing just behind the bench, shouting and clapping as they set up for a difficult play. The Pirates were fourth and fifteen and already down by a touchdown and two-point conversion. They’d been pushing hard toward their opponent’s endzone, but the Cougars had a good defensive line.

           Drew was the first-string quarterback, and he’d been shouting plays at his teammates during the huddle. I could hear his angry Scottish tone from where I stood. I bounced up and down on my toes, clapping hard, cupping my hands around my mouth and shouting, “Come on, boys!”

           The play slammed to a halt when Jey, the left side running back, got tackled six yards from the fourth down. Cursing and yanking his helmet off, Drew led the offense back to the bench. Roman, the lead defensive tackle, grabbed his helmet and started toward the field. As he passed by Drew, he smacked his friend hard in the chest and shrugged. Well, as much as someone can shrug wearing football pads.

           Roman was a beautiful thing on the field. He was brutal and quick.

           The offense was back on the field in ten minutes, Roman and his line having shut down the Cougars’ push.

***

           Peyton and the Poms took the field for halftime, and I was a nervous wreck. I was terrified that it would fall flat—not because they weren’t amazing athletes, but because my choreography just wasn’t good enough. My hands were caught in a nervous knot as I watched them from the sidelines. Coach Helmsley stood a few feet away, her arms crossed over her chest, frowning as she watched the performance on the field.

           It was my make or break moment. If this didn’t work, I’d be off my work study and back to square one.

           When the performance was over, the Captain’s Quarters erupted with cheers and applause. The Pirates, having just come back out of the Den, whistled and called playfully as the Poms jogged off the field, bouncing their pompoms in the air and smiling. Peyton rushed over to me as soon as she could break the line, grinning from ear to ear.

           Her Australian accent was thick as she hugged me tightly and squealed, “It was so good, Addy! Seriously! It was amazing!”

           She squeezed me one more time before disappearing down the tunnel to the locker room.

           “She’s right, baby girl,” rumbled Roman’s voice nearby. I glanced over, feeling heat rush into my face, and saw him grinning lopsidedly from the bench. His hair was tied up in a knot, and sweat streaked down his neck. “You did a great job.”

           He stood up, looking taller than ever, bulky in his pads and gear. A few steps later, he was right there, towering in front of me, one arm slithering around my back to tug me in. The plastic of his protective gear dug into my flesh, and I could smell the sweat and heat coming off him. His black eyes were bright and teasing.

           Roman leaned down and, in front of God and everybody, kissed me soundly on the lips. He chuckled when he drew back, watching my face go beet red. “Let’s get some pizza after the game.”

           All I could do was nod, dumbstruck and dizzy with the realization that he’d just kissed me in front of an entire stadium of people. Sure, most of them probably hadn’t noticed. But he’d done it. He certainly couldn’t have staked his claim on me any more adamantly.

***

           We sat across from one another at the Mom and Pop pizza place in town, a basket of breadsticks in the middle of the table. He was surrounded by an overwhelming scent of clean. I didn’t know if it was body wash or deodorant or cologne, but it smelled wonderful. Sharp and sweet, with a bit of mint underneath.

           “Have fun at the game?” he asked a few moments after we sat down.

           I felt the smile as it spread slowly over my face. “Yeah. You were great. Just… you were amazing.”

           He chuckled and looked away, his cheeks turning red. Roman ran his hand over his goatee, trying to hide his smile. It was cute that I could make him blush. I wanted to do it more often.

***

           “Sorry,” Roman mumbled as he unlocked the door of his apartment. “I’ve been meaning to take this over to Drew for weeks. Just let me grab it real quick.”

           I nodded, following him in the door. He flicked on the light as he tucked his keys in his pocket. The apartment was small and sparse, though it was clearly lived in. To the right of the door was a wobbly-looking table with four mismatched chairs. Straight ahead was a kitchen, sectioned off from the rest of the room by a long, low counter. The left side of the room was taken up by a large TV on a black table, a Playstation on the shelf beneath, and a squishy looking couch and chair. A hallway went back deeper into the apartment. I could see one door from where I stood.

           Curiosity pulled me closer. I peeked around the wall and saw another three doors in the hall. One stood open, and I could see a mirror over a narrow sink. Another, the one at the far end, stood wide open, lights on. Roman appeared as he moved around, trying to find whatever he needed for Drew. He glanced up, and I tried to slip back into the living room, but he saw me.

           “Come on in, Addy,” he said, laughter in his voice. He stood at the door waving for me to join him.

           I tiptoed past both closed doors and stopped just on the threshold of Roman’s bedroom. It was roomy, the walls painted a soothing sort of blue. A queen-sized bed was shoved into one corner. A desk was tucked against the other wall with a lamp, a stack of textbooks, and a half-open laptop. Instead of a regular desk chair, he had a worn high-backed armchair.

           He stood at a battered wooden dresser, digging through the top drawer. On top was a framed photo of Roman with who I assumed were his parents and a few worn paperbacks. A pile of DVDs teetered on the ground beside it.

           “You can sit down if you want,” he said over his shoulder, still digging through one drawer after another. He muttered to himself, swearing that he’d just had whatever it was the day before.

           I slipped past him and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. It gave beneath my weight and the scent of laundry soap and that sharp-sweet-mint that was wholly him wafted up. The urge to curl into the pillows and just breathe in the scent of him was almost more than I could manage.

           He turned around, his smile slipping a little when he saw me sitting on the edge of his bed. I was reminded again how tall and broad he was as he stepped closer. My fingers gripped the edge of the mattress, suddenly afraid to move.

           Roman brushed his fingers against my cheek, brushing my hair back behind my ear. I leaned into his touch, my eyes slipping closed. His thumb brushed along the curve of my cheek and the line of my jaw, soothingly warm with long, slow strokes. My heart jumped into my throat, and I suddenly was desperate to kiss him.

           “Addy.” He said my name like he couldn’t believe I was there. It made butterflies take off in my stomach.

           I skimmed one hand up his chest and over his shoulder, curling my fingers behind his neck. Before I could second-guess my courage, I tugged him down, meeting his mouth with my own. He let out a groan that rippled through his chest.

           The hand on my cheek slipped into my hair, fingers pressing firmly and sweetly against my skull. The other leaned into the mattress, bearing his weight as he kissed me like it would be the last time. I forgot everything except the feel of his hands and the taste of his lips.

           He broke away, forehead pressed against mine as he panted to catch his breath. I looked up at him and caught sight of his face, his eyes shut, cheeks flushed, brow furrowed as if he was concentrating very hard on something. Warmth spilled into my limbs, dragging me toward something I didn’t have the words to describe.

           “Ro,” I murmured, brushing my lips against his gently, barely. “Kiss me like that again. Please?”

           He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut tightly. His breath came in faint panting gasps. I let my nails scrape against the back of his neck as I tried to pull him closer. “Please?” I whispered again.

           Roman leaned into me, pressing me back against the mattress as he kissed me. His tongue swept across my lips, demanding entrance. I sighed and wrapped my arms around his neck as he settled over me. One arm tucked beneath me and lifted me fully up onto the bed. My sandals caught on the edge of the mattress and fell off, thumping to the floor. A moment later, two other muffled bumps followed.

           He gathered me against him. The heat that radiated from him made my head spin. I dug my fingers into his hair, working the knot loose and pulling the elastic free. His hair fell around us, tickling against my cheek.

           Something burned through my body. It was a want more than anything I’d ever known. I returned his kiss with wild abandon, wriggling until I was pressed firmly against him. He groaned and snatched at my waist until I could feel every muscle in his chest and every expansion of his ribs as he breathed.

           “Addy,” he mumbled, his mouth leaving mine and trailing down toward my ear. His beard scratched wonderfully against my throat as he kissed and nipped at the curve of my jaw. He panted against my skin, and his fingers dug into the flesh of my hip in a wonderful way.

           I ran my fingers through his hair, feeling the strands slip like silk along my skin. My body was suddenly too heavy, too warm. Every nerve ending was alive and singing with sensation.

           “Roman? Can I stay the night?”

           He pressed his forehead against my collarbone and groaned. “Please.”

[nyc-uws]

12 Shocking Things I Learned by Working as a Butler at the Plaza Hotel

You’ll never look at hotel staff the same way again.

Bloomberg Brandon Presser

Old-school service is alive and well at the Plaza: High tea treats are served in brass birdcages, tuxedo-clad bellman whisk away luggage to gilded suites, and chefs bear toques that tower above their heads. But in the age of Amazon Prime—when we all want everything now—what is it really like blending vestigial aristocratic assistance with light-speed wish fulfillment? In order to properly find out, I accepted an offer from New York’s iconic Plaza Hotel to join its team of butlers, a coterie of 10 servicemen (and one woman!) who trot around the property’s 20 floors day and night, making sure 282 rooms’ worth of guests feel like royalty. For two hot days in July 2017, I raced around with a team that, like the city itself, seemingly never sleeps—hearing tales of the trade from the department’s director, Emma, and serving guests alongside some of her most experienced staffers.

This is an elite crew: It bears a combined 147 years of experience, and many have served as house managers for affluent families all over the world. Me? I got express credentials for my two-day residency—unprecedented for the Plaza. They included a detailed orientation of the property and a uniform fitting for my hotel-issued attire (gold-plated name tag and all).

Over my short tenure, I delivered laundry to Middle Eastern princesses and fetched lobsters out of wishing wells—and listened to colleagues delight in the oddities of their jobs, from fielding requests for Viagra or comforting a weeping woman over spilled blueberries. Serving the world’s rich and famous, it turns out, plumbs the depths of an alternative universe that readily embraces the absurd without even batting an eye. And that was only the beginning of what I learned.

Here, 12 secrets to keep in mind the next time you check into a five-star hotel.

One VIP List You Don’t Want to Be On

Hundreds of butler requests roll in each shift—mostly to fill ice buckets, handle laundry, and shine shoes. Complimentary packing and unpacking requests are also common, though they can turn into day-long affairs. A surprising number of international guests will purchase adjoining suites: one to sleep in and one for their luggage.

By matter of corporate philosophy, every guest should feel like a VIP at the Plaza. But a hierarchy still exists among those who check-in at reception. At the top of the pyramid are kings, queens, and heads of state—or as butlers call them: V1s, and they are ever-present on the property. Then come high-payers, long-stayers, guests booking a large block of rooms, and recognizable celebs. They’re called DVs, or distinguished visitors. On the bottom of the VIP totem pole is the SA group, known complainers or otherwise difficult and demanding guests who require “special assistance.”

Bath Time Can Be Awkward

Another common request for the butler team is to draw baths with a signature blend of salt, oil, and roses—especially during the colder months of the year. But the butler’s duties aren’t necessarily complete once the tub is full. Bal, the Plaza’s resident bath-time specialist, said that 95 percent of the time, he’s asked to remain within arm’s reach as bathers suds-up. Most of them, he said, want more hot water or scented oil, and are happy to keep him on hand while they relax in the nude. He is often left to pull the plug from the drain, elbow-deep in leftover water.

It gets weirder. One of my butler colleagues at a previous job in London was asked to ship in and set up a guest’s order of fresh oysters in the bathtub. He diligently filled the tub with ice and laid the oysters out, only to discover that the guest wanted the oysters placed in the tub around his soaking body. Eventually, the client seemed satisfied: He purchased the room next door for his butler so he’d always be near.

Hotel Guests Are Pretty Predictable …

The Plaza’s guest relations team researches everyone staying at the hotel on an individual basis, using a variety of social media tools. (The favorite is LinkedIn.com.) Butlers, on the other hand, often use past trends to size people up on the spot. They send electric kettles to the rooms of arriving Asian guests, who often bring noodles from home to cook in their suite. They keep an eye on the minibar when tending to Americans in their thirties and forties—they’re considered the partiers of the hotel, likeliest to plow through the booze. Middle Eastern VIPs get what is called an “Arabic Amenity”—a tray of dates, dried fruit, and nuts; they tend to prefer these to chocolates, cakes, or other sweet desserts. And the butler staff knows to immediately ask Western businessmen if they have shirts or suits that needs servicing upon checking in; they’re always the ones who treble the quantity of laundry in the basement.

… Except When They’re Totally Unpredictable

Despite the overwhelming regularity of guest behaviors, travelers can mystify even the most experienced of butlers. During my shifts, lobster shells kept appearing in the fountains of the hotel’s interior courtyard. Every day, the staff would fish them out, only to find a new one a few hours later. It turned out that a Middle Eastern prince was ordering cooked lobster from room service for every meal and then throwing the empty shells out the window to land in a fountain below. (Emma asked him to stop—nicely—but pieced together the mystery only on the day of his departure.)

Another time, a woman called Emma hysterically crying “as though her husband died and she just discovered the body.” When Emma finally calmed her down, she comprehended the real reason for the guest’s tears: There was no more Kleenex in her suite, and her young daughter had been forced to blow her nose on toilet paper.

Sex, Drugs and … Come Again?

As at any hotel, requests for drugs and prostitutes do happen—but not frequently. Bal has been asked for drugs only two or three times in his 10 years at the Plaza, and he is careful to stick within the boundaries of the law. Condom needs are another story: Mouhsine, one of the other butlers, always carries a pack with him, especially in the evenings. On being called to fulfill one such late-night request, no one answered the door after several knocks; he gently entered the room to find the two guests in the “go” position, waiting to be walked-in on.

Far more interesting than sex and drugs are the more outlandish client requests. Recently, Emma fielded a service call from a woman searching for some missing chocolate-covered blueberries, which had fallen off a window ledge. Emma offered to obtain replacements from the same brand and store, but the guest was adamant about retrieving her exact snack. Emma and the security team trawled the hotel’s interior courtyard for hours, blueberry-hunting, to no avail. During my brief tenure, the weirdest request was for two liters of intravenous saline solution—meant for a doctor’s ailing wife, who was presumably on the wrong side of a stunning hangover.

Some requests are even more bizarre. One butler told the story of how he was asked to replace all the furniture in a suite because the guest didn’t like the color blue. Another was sent off to scout the city’s reliquaries for a justice of the peace trophy—a prize for a newly minted lawyer. Another arranged for a live tarantula flown in from Africa to be served as a meal. Of course, butlers always deliver with a straight face.

Mind the Pillowcases

Missing pillowcases can be a real issue at the Plaza. But it’s not the tourists that have sticky fingers. And it’s not hotel pillowcases that are getting stolen. At least once a week, a white pillowcase that was brought from a guest’s home gets mistaken for a hotel-issued version and is sent out for cleaning. Sometimes they’re never seen again, in which case Emma dispatches a bellman to purchase new coverings, drawing on the hotel’s coffers, no matter the price.

Christmastime: Not so Merry

“Party season,” which spans October to December, feels like a constant carousel of functions, banquets, and events at the Plaza. Every evening, there are four or five requests for assistance at looping bow ties and zipping up cocktail dresses. And in the last few years, requests for holiday-themed decorations in the rooms have become so commonplace that the hotel now offers a standard Christmas package that includes a fresh, fully decorated tree, assembled by the butlers pre-check-in for $500.

The Customer Is Not Always Right

Complaints follow regular patterns. Every day, a guest will complain about too-slow laundry service. Though forms clearly offer standard and expedited return times, they’re not fast enough for some.

Minibar charges also lead to regular disputes. A full raid of your room’s bar runs $600 at the Plaza—something that happens at least once a week. The likelihood that guests will not want to pay is almost guaranteed.

This requires butlers to document everything with pocket cameras, whether it’s open booze bottles spread across the room, stains on laundry that existed before washing, or evidence of damaged furniture. Every ticket is verified on a computer and photos are attached, so when TripAdvisor.com lights up with a fiery review, the butlers are able to provide evidence to dispel any falsehoods.

The Easiest Way to Get Banned

It’s a lot easier than you might think. The hotel has a strict anti-discrimination policy, and zero tolerance is given to guests who mistreat the staff because of race, gender, age, or creed. Even now, guests sometimes request that staff of a certain ethnic extraction not be allowed to service their rooms; others will ask service members if they are legal in America. Emma, the director of the butler team, cited several incidents of sexism, too, such as the time guests asked to speak with a manager but grew angrier when she showed up instead of a man.

The refusal of services goes all the way up the ladder to DVs. At least two specific celebrities are permanently banned from the Plaza—one, a pop diva expelled for excessive drug and alcohol use and a belligerent attitude towards the staff, the other a sitcom star who took his anger issues out on a suite’s worth of furnishings.  

Afternoon Tea Leftovers Don’t Go to Waste

Hidden within the Plaza’s secret back-of-house corridors and tunnels is a cafeteria reserved for the staff. Open during lunch, dinner, and late-night hours for (surprisingly good!) hot meal service, the canteen offers bagels and drinks for the peckish throughout the entirety of the day. But the savviest snackers know to visit the cafeteria at exactly 5:30 p.m., because that’s when the leftovers from high tea at the Palm Court upstairs are put out for the staff. (They serve only the food that was prepped but not plated.) Emma said she practically lives off mini cucumber sandwiches. I liked the tiny blueberry cheesecakes.

A Good Tip Can Make It Worthwhile

New York City’s hospitality workers are protected under a spectrum of different unions. While bellmen and room service are considered “tipping staff,” the butlers do not expect fiscal rewards for their work, beyond the Plaza’s paycheck. But Bal and his colleagues still see a few ex-presidents from time to time.

His biggest tip during the last 10 years? It came from a French model-actress keen on setting up a romantic weekend for her boyfriend, a well-known fashion magnate. Bal placed flowers on every flat surface throughout their suite, organized lunch in a helicopter over Central Park, and tracked down a very specific, very expensive bottle from a specialist store off-site. By the end of the weekend, she handed him $8,000 in cash.

Seven months later, the founder of the fashion label was back at the hotel with a different girlfriend.

When to Call It a Night

The Plaza maintains a Betsey Johnson-designed suite in honor of Eloise, the capricious six-year-old that fictionally lived on the property. It was here that Nimer, another member of the butler team, had his most bizarre service experience to date. A request was put in for someone to come up and read the beloved children’s book as a bedtime story, but when Nimer arrived there were no children to be found. Four thirtysomethings were neatly tucked into one, large bed. Concealing his shock, Nimer read to them for 90 minutes—then tracked down Eloise on video, in case they hadn’t had enough.

This post originally appeared on Bloomberg and was published August 8, 2017.

https://getpocket.com/explore/item/12-shocking-things-i-learned-by-working-as-a-butler-at-the-plaza-hotel?utm_source=pocket-newtab

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Hope in Change - Epilogue

Murtagh stumbles across a couple arguing in the street and quickly realizes the young woman is Brianna.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five

Murtagh, Jamie, and Ian were at work building a cabin for Fergus and Marsali and Claire had taken Lizzie to help deliver a baby at one of the settler’s cabins several miles away, so Brianna volunteered to run back and forth fetching spare or replacement tools, bringing food and water, leading Clarence back to his pen when they’d finished moving the heavier logs into place for stripping and cutting.

The mule was stubborn and reluctant to return to captivity after having a chance to stretch his legs and do more than pull a cart. Each time Brianna disappeared around the house to grab him some more food or check to see how the laundry was drying on the line, he made a ruckus when she came back into sight and stamped his foot to get her attention.

“You’re like a toddler throwing a tantrum,” she muttered before rolling her eyes and heading to check on the goats and horses for their midday meal.

This time he started making noises before she’d even reached an area where he could see her. But when she rounded the corner he wasn’t alone.

“Roger?” she gasped, dropping an empty pail to the ground and running to him as he tried to dismount before his horse had stopped walking. She threw herself in his arms and buried her face in his neck. He held her tightly, sighing with relief.

“You need a bath,” she told him, her words muffled by his coat.

“Nice to see you too,” he chuckled, pulling back to look at her. She smiled then stood on her toes to kiss him.

“Did Bonnet or his men give you any more trouble? They didn’t hurt you, did they? Is that why it took you so long to find your way here?” she rambled, her eyes roving over him taking in the details of his appearance to be sure he was really there and truly in one piece.

He laughed again taking a step back to spread his arms so she could better see him. “I’m no injured. They gave me a hard time but it wasna anything I couldna handle—no after spending all that time wi’ them at sea. And it took me so long to get here because it’s a long bloody way from Philadelphia to Fraser’s Ridge when ye’ve naught but yer own two feet for much of the way—it has to be close to a thousand miles… or at least, it feels that far. I didna manage to find a horse I could afford till I’d nearly reached Virginia.”

Convinced by his cheerful indignation, Brianna grinned and moved to lead his horse to the barn while she filled him in on what she’d been up to in his absence.

“Mama probably won’t be back until tomorrow but Da and the others will be home a little before dark. Come in and help me make supper and maybe I’ll let you have some too,” she teased.

There wasn’t much left to be done as she’d accomplished the more difficult preparation earlier—dough for a pie crust, the meat (venison) cleaned and cut as finely as she could manage, kept that separate from the potatoes and carrots she’d diced. She rolled out the dough and began piecing the elements together while Roger built up the fire in the hearth.

“How are ye doin’ wi’ everything?” Roger asked, taking a seat on the bench opposite and watching her closely.

“It’s… been interesting. I’ve been hunting with Jamie and we’ve talked a lot. It’s strange, but not in a bad way… just… disorienting,” she told him, her attention entirely on the food in her hands as she stacked and arranged the pie’s filling, careful to make sure all the ingredients were distributed in equal measure. “It’s hard to explain. Every time I feel like I’ve got a handle on the past—on my childhood—I see something or hear a story and it shifts all over again. Like when I see him come up behind my mother and rub her neck… and she leaned into it and… I remember all the times I saw Daddy try to do that and she shrugged him off… until he just stopped touching her that way. I don’t think I’ll ever stop being surprised by him—by them. You’ll hardly recognize Mama when you see her.”

“Bein’ in this time… it changes ye,” he agreed. “Makes sense now, how different yer mam could be after she returned—and no just because of Jamie. I ken I’ve a newfound appreciation for many a convenience I took for granted back home. Indoor plumbing and modern transportation bein’ verra high on that list. I’ll say a prayer of thanks each and every time I so much as look at a proper toilet.”

Brianna gave him a weak smile as she crimped the crust on the pie and turned to set it into the brick oven at the side of the hearth. The rebuilt fire was beginning to warm the space but it would take a while for the pie to be thoroughly cooked.

“I’ll get you some water you can use to clean up,” Brianna said, puttering around the cabin to locate a bucket and fill it with warm water from the enormous cauldron near the hearth. She led him out the door and in the direction of a small hut. “Since Lizzie went with Mama and they shouldn’t be back till tomorrow, you can borrow her bed tonight. We can figure out something else in the morning. You’ll want to rest and brace yourself for meeting my father and cousin. Murtagh shouldn’t be too intimidating for you at this point. Blankets,” she exclaimed after setting the bucket down. “I’ll go find some.”

By the time she returned, Roger had managed to clear most of the sweat and dust from his face, neck, and arms. He’d pulled his shirt off as well and was splashing water over his chest and dribbling it down his back, not caring that it was soaking into his breeks and continuing on its way down the rest of his body. He had a single change of clothes in his pack but those weren’t in much better shape than what he was wearing.

“Here,” Brianna said, showing him the quilt and furs she’d brought. She set them down on the bed along one side of the hut’s walls. She stepped closer to him, taking the ragged stock he was using as a washcloth and wringing it out thoroughly before wetting it again and helping him reach the difficult spots on his back. “Hmm. Much better. I’ll show you the creek we use for bathing in the morning. It’s a bit chilly but easier than trying to heat the water for a hot bath.”

“If that’s Lizzie’s bed,” Roger nodded to the one she’d put the blankets on, “then the other would be yers, I’m guessin’?”

“You would be guessing right,” Brianna confirmed. “And… you don’t have to sleep in Lizzie’s bed if you don’t want to. It’s small but it’ll be warmer and cozier in mine.”

“Bree… I’ve missed ye—Lord knows I have—but… have ye changed yer mind? About marryin’ me?” he asked quietly.

“I can’t,” she told him, tears in her eyes. “I just… it wouldn’t be fair to you. Not when things are so different now.”

“Different?” he asked, taking a step closer to her. “Different how? Ye still want to take me to yer bed. Tha’s no different, or am I misunderstandin’ yer invitation?”

Her cheeks went pink with embarrassment.

“No, I still love you and want you to be the first man I… take to my bed, as you put it. But… spending these last weeks with Mama and Da… I told them about the fire. They’re not sure there’s anything that can be done to keep it from happening either. And we don’t know when exactly it’s going to happen. It could be this year or the next or five years from now… But just in case we can’t stop it and the worst does happen… I don’t want to regret that I didn’t spend more time with them when I had a chance to.”

Roger took a step back, his expression going slack as what she meant sank in. “Ye’re stayin’ here. Ye mean to stay no just for a few weeks or months… but years.”

“Yes. I remember what it was like to lose Daddy and how much I wished I’d agreed to go with him when he had to run errands or that I’d stayed at the office with him while he worked and I’d gone off with my friends instead. I want to know that I’ve done everything I can to save my parents and that I spent every second with them that I could.”

“And ye dinna think I’d stay with ye?”

“It wouldn’t be fair for me to ask you to,” Brianna pressed, her face getting redder as she forced herself to confess, “and I don’t want to lose you without knowing what it’s like to be with you, to show you how much I do love you.”

Roger laughed and the redness in Brianna’s face switched from the self-conscious shades toward those darker shades born of rising fury. But he rested his hands on her shoulders and smiled at her narrowed eyes and furrowed brow.

“Ye’re not askin’ and ye dinna need to. Ever. If ye’re goin’ to stay then so am I. Ye love me enough to let me go? I love you enough not to care where—or when—we are, so long as it’s together.”

Her face softened and tears pooled in her eyes as she beamed at him a second before throwing her arms around him and kissing him silly.

They laughed and held each other tight, Roger lifting her off her feet and spinning her around in the cramped quarters of the hut. Setting her down again, Roger kissed her softly, then again longer. She clung to the damp, bare muscles of his back, pressed herself against the length of him. They pulled back to look at each other, the simple joy replaced with the deeper yearning both felt. Neither said a word as Brianna pulled him toward her bed.

“The spare head should be right inside the barn door,” Jamie told Lizzie while Claire fussed with the dressing around his hand. “Be quick about it. Murtagh will be lookin’ for it. We wanted to be done wi’ preppin’ the beams ‘fore givin’ up for the day and he’s stubborn enough to try workin’ in the dark… And Ian’s foolish enough to go along wi’ it.”

“Oh, give them more credit than that,” Claire suggested, frowning at the cut on the back of Jamie’s hand from when the head of the hatchet came loose mid swing and flown off the handle. His reflexes were fast or he might have been in danger of losing the hand altogether. Instead it was superficial and shallow, a scrape across the back with deeper gouges at the knuckles. “Or give yourself fewer airs. If it weren’t for your mishap here, you’d be just as determined to work whatever the light conditions might be. Let’s get inside so I can clean and bandage this properly.”

“I need to tend yer horse,” he objected, moving to take the reins even as she reached to release the straps that held her medical box in place.

“I can tend the horse while you go in and rest a few minutes,” she insisted. “See what we have for supper and—”

“Bree came back to make supper some time ago,” Jamie reminded her. “We hadna thought ye’d be back tonight.”

“Well, that’s what happens when the baby arrives before the midwife. All it took was a quick check on mother and child, a small glass of whisky to wet the baby’s head, and we were headed back the way we came.”

“Mistress Claire, Mister Jamie,” Lizzie exclaimed, running toward them with the spare hatchet head in her hand. “There’s a strange horse in the barn,” she informed them, her eyes wide and frightened.

“Never mind about that,” Jamie told her calmly. “Get that back to Murtagh and Ian and stay wi’ them until they come home. Perhaps wi’ you waitin’ there for ‘em they’ll decide to just be done for the day.”

Lizzie nodded and headed off down the path.

When she was out of sight Claire began calling for Brianna and Jamie went to check the house when she failed to appear.

“There’s a pie cookin’ in the oven,” he told Claire, “so she’s no likely to have gone far.”

“And the ‘strange horse’ is in the barn so whoever it belongs to must be nearby as well. Perhaps they only went to fetch wood or to get more water,” Claire suggested hopefully.

A moment later, Brianna emerged from the hut she shared with Lizzie. She brushed some loose curls out of her flushed face and smoothed her hands down the front of her bodice.

“Mama… What’re you doing home? You weren’t supposed to be back till tomorrow,” Brianna remarked.

“The baby came quick,” Claire explained, her eyes narrowing at her daughter.

“D’ye ken who the horse in the barn belongs to, a nighean?” Jamie asked.

“Actually… yes. Roger arrived a little while ago. I was making up Lizzie’s bed for him since she was supposed to be with you all night, Mama. But I can put it back the way it was and he can sleep somewhere else. He’s cleaning up a bit from being on the road so long,” she told them, glancing back over her shoulder.

Roger poked his head out. “Good to see ye, Claire. I’ll right there. Dinna want to be sayin’ ‘hello’ still smellin’ of horse.”

“Mmmhmm,” Claire murmured, trying to keep a straight face as she turned to look at Jamie. He looked torn between laughter and shock. “We’ll be in the cabin when you’re ready,” Claire called to them, nudging Jamie in the other direction. “Your father hurt his hand and I need to clean it.”

[sapphicscholar]

Happy birthday, @argyle-s! Hope ya enjoy the tooth-rotting fluff as I sneak in right under the deadline!

Chapter Text

“73 down: apparel company whose first letter stands for a three-letter word in this clue. Four letters. F-blank-B-blank.”

Maggie let her head drop back against the headrest, her gaze flitting along with the countryside flying past the train window. “I don’t know. You know it’s hard when I can’t see the grid.”

Alex turned, angling her whole body towards Maggie. “But I’m reading you everything you need!”

“Yes, and some things I don’t need,” Maggie muttered, biting back a smile at the furrow in Alex’s brow.

“What don’t you need?”

“Alex, sweetie, the love of my life, I have told you 9,000 times that I do not need to know what number across or down it is. I can’t see the grid. It doesn’t matter.”

“Right.” She tapped the tip of the pen along the side of the newspaper, finally pushing it towards Maggie. “Fine, I guess you can take a turn reading the clues.”

“Thank you.” She pressed a soft kiss to Alex’s lips as she took the pen and paper before Alex could change her mind. “Alright, let’s see…” She scanned the list of clues. “Ooh, four letters: injure, as a bear might.” A moment’s hesitation. “Maul!”

Alex smiled and tried to peer over at the paper.

“Ooh, another good one. Apt rhyme of ‘sliced.’” She grinned up at Alex as she announced: “Diced!”

“Maggie,” Alex whined. “You’re not giving me all the information. Like…how many letters was it? And which letters did we have? Also none of the letters in diced are in maul.”

“Well, no…”

“So then one is wrong. Maybe maul could be maim. Where does it intersect?”

“They don’t.”

Alex blinked over at Maggie. “You don’t go in order?”

“Do the ones you know first. Then you’ve got a bunch of spots already filled in.”

“But—but—” Alex stammered, her mouth opening and closing as she fought the urge to reach over and snatch the pen back.

“Oh boy. Maybe we take a break from the crossword before your brain breaks.”

“It’s just…if you go in order you’re literally building a structurally sound foundation.”

Deciding the next several hours of their trip would go a lot more smoothly if they didn’t bicker through them, Maggie changed tactics, putting down the newspaper and twining her fingers with Alex’s. “Hey, let’s play a new game.”

“Like what? We already did 20 questions and I Spy and the alphabet game and all the things Kara used to make us play on long car rides.”

“Hmm…fuck marry kill with the cast of The L Word?”

Alex glared, and Maggie couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped. “So many hours of my life I’m never getting back.”

“Okay, but might I offer in response: pretty ladies kissing other pretty ladies on your screen?”

“Not enough to make it worth my while,” Alex grumbled.

“I told you from the start that it had its issues.”

“Maggie Sawyer, you did not once tell me that I would go from being like oh, maybe I was a little bit like Jenny to oh, I’d like to push Jenny out a window.”

With a loud gasp, Maggie spun around in her seat, locking her hands around Alex’s wrists like makeshift handcuffs. “Oh my god, you’re the one that killed Jenny Schecter!”

“Oh shut up. Also, that was some bullshit bringing in Lucy Lawless for a single episode. I’d rather watch an entire series of her interrogating them than the last season of the actual show.”

“Mm, so say we all.”

“That’s just because you had the world’s biggest crush on Xena.”

“Duh.” Maggie dropped her head to Alex’s shoulder as she released her hands. “I still say you should go as her for Halloween next year.”

“You gonna be my Gabrielle?”

Maggie’s fingers trailed along Alex’s thigh, inching a bit higher than was appropriate for being in public. “You just want me to spend the whole night in a crop top.”

“Your abs are a gift to the world, but I think I’m gonna be selfish and say no one else gets to enjoy them.” Alex’s fingers itched to reach out, to run up and down Maggie’s sides, curling under that soft henley and finding the even softer skin beneath it. After a week of too many crises at the DEO and a week before that of overtime at the NCPD for Maggie, it felt like ages since she’d gotten to spend time with her girlfriend that wasn’t out in the field. And of course Maggie had to go and be responsible the night before, insisting they do laundry and pack and all the things that, Alex begrudgingly admitted, did make their morning trek to the train station rather easy. Still. Now they were left with hours upon hours of limited touching as their train trundled out of California and meandered towards the next stop.

“You’d deprive the world of that joy?”

“Oh hush, maybe I only suggested you go as Gabrielle because you’re short enough.”

“Yeah, yeah, make all the jokes you want, but we both know who the little spoon is at the end of the day.”

“You love it.”

Maggie shrugged. “Easy access to your butt? Yeah, I’m not complaining.”

For a while, they fell into a comfortable silence, watching as the train passed through rolling hills and sprawling acres of the countryside. Even though Alex had been uncertain about the idea of a multi-day train trip across the country when airplanes that could get them to Metropolis in a matter of hours existed, even she had to admit that there was something sort of romantic about the protracted journey.

“Hey,” Alex whispered after what felt like nearly half an hour, wondering if Maggie was really asleep or just closing her eyes. “Sawyer.” She poked her shoulder, deciding she didn’t really care either way.

“What?”

Asleep then, if the raspy quality to Maggie’s voice or the slight scowl Alex was getting meant anything.

“I’m bored.”

“Seriously? You have a phone.”

“The wifi’s shit out here.”

“I packed books.”

“I don’t wanna read.”

“Oh my god, Danvers. Seriously?”

“C’mon.” Alex nudged Maggie’s shoulder with her own. “I’ve missed you.” There it was—the softening of Maggie’s features, the way her whole body seemed to melt further into Alex’s.

“I don’t suppose I can coax you into a nap with me?”

“Too much coffee.”

“Fine, fine.” Yawning loudly, Maggie drew the curious gazes of a few of the passengers who shared the compartment with them. She toed at Alex’s foot, then leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Old dude, front of the car. See him?”

“A threat?” Alex’s hand flew to her sidearm, but Maggie was already there, anticipating Alex’s reaction.

“Not that kind.” She cast a meaningful look at Alex as she pulled her hand away. “But maybe he’s another kind of threat…tell me what you know? What’s he doing on this train anyway?”

“Oh!” Alex’s lips curled up into a smile. Maggie had first taught her to play the stranger game during a terribly boring week-long stakeout that had yielded absolutely nothing of use. Apparently it was the best way to pass the time in a small town, although, Maggie conceded, eventually it was also a pretty good way for rumors to get started. She still carried a bit of guilt around for making people think that Sally Wilkins’ parents had tried to send her to a convent. “Well…he’s taking the train because he can walk to the station from his house, so his neighbors won’t see that his car is gone and tell his wife…who’s traveling for work all week.”

“Yeah? Why can’t they know?”

“Oh, well, the guy across the street is a total busybody ever since he retired. He keeps tabs on all his neighbors.”

“And obviously this guy doesn’t want anyone to know where he’s off to. But why’s that? Affair? Secret family? Totally paranoid?”

Alex tapped on her lower lip as she surveyed the man in question, watching as he spilled a bit of the tepid train coffee on the back of his hand. Shaking it off, he grumbled to himself and went back to his seat. “Hmm…I think it’s a secret job. Corporate espionage or something like that. But he’s not really good at keeping secrets. Makes him queasy 24/7. So he’s gotten really paranoid.”

“Ah yes, the guilty criminal. Really, they’re the best kind. So easy to pluck out of a crowd.”

“I give him…three weeks before he turns himself in or gets caught.”

“Sounds about right. Though, ya know, if we were on the case, I think his odds would be more like three minutes.”

“Yeah, well,” Alex shrugged her shoulders, an easy grin spreading across her face, “we make a pretty unbeatable team.”

Maggie’s voice dropped into a lower register as she leaned in, breath hot against the shell of Alex’s ear. “And how would we celebrate our hundredth team victory?”

“Only a hundred?”

“This year.”

“That’s more like it.”

Throwing her arm around Alex’s shoulders, Maggie pulled her in close. “Have I mentioned lately how much I love you?”

“Mm, you know, I think it’s been several hours.”

“Well that simply won’t do. I need to know that anyone else on this train playing the stranger game is absolutely positive that we are together.”

“Let’s make it really obvious,” Alex whispered as she leaned in, her breath ghosting across Maggie’s lips before she claimed them in a searing kiss that left Maggie dizzy with want.

“If we really wanted to make it obvious…” Maggie’s fingers skirted along the waistband of Alex’s jeans, her short nails dragging along the skin and making Alex shiver.

“You could literally be inside of me,” Alex managed, though her breath hitched on the last word, “and I bet at least one person on this train would ask if we were sisters.”

Maggie groaned, drawing her hands back as she buried her face in her palms. “Ugh, the Straights are fun.”

“So fun.”

“I bet you…20 bucks we get asked if we want two twin beds tonight.”

“I’ll see your 20 and raise you another 20 for not even being asked before we get those twin beds.”

“So that’s 40 on us having sex dorm-room style?”

“Shh!” Alex put a finger to her lips, but she couldn’t quite help the snort of laughter at the scandalized looks they were getting from the woman sitting directly behind them.

---

As it turned out, they received very sincere apologies from the hotel staff—“We’re so sorry! For some reason we had the reservation listed as needing a king-sized bed, and all of our double rooms are booked.”

Before Alex could roll her eyes and correct them, Maggie graciously accepted their offers for free room service, insisting that they could “make do.” She’d mouthed “free dinner” to Alex the moment they turned around.

When they arrived, Maggie gasped dramatically and turned to Alex, announcing: “Oh no! There’s only one bed!”

“What?”

“Oh god, sometimes I forget that you’re still kinda new to the being gay thing, and then you say stuff like that.”

“Can you just tell me?” Alex huffed, resisting the urge to cross her arms and stamp her foot. “It can’t be worse than when I told you that no, I’ve never seen Imagine Me and You.”

“It’s just a trope in fan fiction. You have two characters who are secretly pining after one another, only neither of them thinks the other one could ever like them back, but then they have to go somewhere—maybe undercover as a couple or something, or else it’s just for work or a trip or really any excuse to be not at home, ya know?—and they show up, only to find out that the second room was given away, and there’s only one room left that only has one bed.”

“One person could always sleep on the couch.”

“Oh, Danvers.” Maggie let out a sigh as she shook her head. “Danvers, Danvers, Danvers. What will we do with you?”

“What? It’s a reasonable question.”

“Reasonable, maybe. But where’s the fun in that?”

“Let me guess, the fun is in having them both fall into bed together?”

“More like awkwardly crawl in while the other one is in the bathroom, spend hours not really sleeping, and wake up tangled together because secretly they’re both cuddlers.”

“Ah, I see. I suppose these are a bit more PG than I imagined.”

“Yeah, get your head out of the gutter, Danvers.” A beat. “Sex happens the next night.”

After the laughter subsided, Alex nudged Maggie. “Well…I’m not really up for waiting a whole night, but what do you say? Should I go claim my side of the bed and pretend to be awkward while waiting for you?”

“Pretend?”

“Oh fuck off.”

Maggie grinned. “Ooh, would you rather reenact an old fashioned enemies to lovers?”

“Maggie,” Alex groaned.

“Fine, fine. I’ll stop.”

“Good. Because I think”—Alex unzipped her jacket, letting it fall to the floor—“there’s really only one scenario”—Maggie’s jacket followed her own as they inched closer and closer to the bed—“I have any desire to act out.”

“Oh yeah?” Maggie’s voice had taken on that throaty quality that never failed to make Alex’s heart skip a beat.

“Mhmm,” Alex hummed, as she carefully guided Maggie down to the mattress, settling one knee on either side of Maggie’s thighs.

“Which one is that?”

“Two girlfriends”—a kiss—“who are very much in love”—a longer kiss that time—“who have gone far, far too long without a night to themselves.”

Maggie’s fingers moved slowly down the front of Alex’s shirt, undoing buttons one after another. “You know…I think I could make that work.”

[aserilla1]

White Rose

*This is a long backstory, but it’s worth reading the whole thing to understand the next few chapters!*

Pages Typed: 6 Full, single spaced

Word Count: 3,106

Time Writing This: 65 Days - August 31 to November 3

Next (Coming Soon)

Chapter 1 - Copper Chains & Shattered Trust

One of the oldest legends from ages past tells of the existence of a tree that gave two types of apple-like fruits. One side bore fruit as dark as the midnight sky and as vibrant as a swirling galaxy. The other bore golden fruit as bright as the midday sun and glowed like a searing flame. The tree was guarded by two brothers; one tended the dark side and the other tended the golden. The golden fruits represented the hops, dreams and positive memories of all living things. The dark ones represented their worries, fears and negative memories. Like Yin and Yang. With the brothers taking care of the ancient tree’s power the land remained peaceful for many years.

Illia Village. A small piece of a massive world. A world where the most important thing is a tree. I wish I could have seen more of this world before it was lost. He thought. Trying to make himself more comfortable on the high branch as the sun peeked over the trees. The same place he sat more then 26,000 years ago.

♥️ ♥️ ♥️

“Brother can you hear me?” A small skeleton called, searching the branches above him yet finding nothing.

“Coming!” He called back before leaping down in front of him.

“Oh! My big bro is so smug.”

“No, I’m not! Shut up, Rosen Dream!” He snapped then tried to regain his composure. “So? What do you want, dork?”

Rosen giggled and looked up at his brother’s pout, “I found an old book that mentions a White Shadow. And... I thought it was talking about you, a White NightMare!”

White stared blankly back for a moment, watching him excitedly bounce in place. A dumbfounded look sat plastered on his face

“What are you going on about? Were you looking through those old prophecy scriptures in the Eon Library again?” He shook his head, a disapproving look on his face. “You should take those with a grain of salt, Bro.”

“But-!”

“No butts here!” he smirked. “Eon has been in ruin for a several hundred years now. All that those old things are good for is to be moth food. Plus, they didn’t have magic as strong as what we have now. It couldn’t possibly be true, or anywhere close to accurate. They’re only fairytales.”

“Alright, Brother.” He whimpered.

White hugged his little brother and nuzzled his skull. Despite what he said, the prophecies made him uneasy. The more Rosen spoke of them, the more dread he felt. Though, he knew little of what his brother was reading this time, something about it didn’t bother him as much as usual. He straightened up and held the smaller skeleton at an arm’s length.

“The Autumn Fair is starting at 7: 00. The sun just started to rise so, we have about ten minutes to get there.” White chirped, trying to take his brother’s mind off the book’s words.

The gold-eyed little angel looked up at White’s indigo orbs, “But we didn’t have breakfast yet. Shouldn’t we go after?”

“Really? Ms. June was going to be giving away free jumbo caramel apples and chocolate oranges to the first 20 customers. Mr. Wood is selling ginger-almond cookies, pumpkin-maple muffins and cinnamon coffee. But if you want to skip all of that sweetness for buttered toast…” White cood.

“Well…” Rosen hesitated.

“And all the vendors are handing out recipes for what they’re sellin’.” He added.

“Move it! Let’s git going before they sell out.” Rosen shouted and started to shove White down the trail, towards the village.

“Ok! You don’ need to push me. But! Whoever gets there first doesn’t have to do this week’s laundry!” White chirped, running ahead of his little brother. Despite his lax, carefree & somewhat smug attitude he couldn’t shake the feeling that something big was going to happen. And It would be sooner rather then later.

🟈🟈🟈

White glanced down at Rosen, peacefully sleeping on his shoulder. The smaller cuddled into the left side of his older brother’s ribs. White put an arm across his back and pulled him closer. He glanced over to the new ivory-emerald bag, over-stuffed and overflowing with new recipes. The day had gone by easier then it usual would for them. He couldn’t have been more relieved for that.

White watched as the sun began to set. He couldn’t help but think of the way the villagers would normally act around them; they always loved, adored and admired Rosen. They saw him as their guardian, they felt safe with him around. No matter how bad they felt he could cheer them up in an instant. But it wasn’t really like that; HE wasn’t the one making them feel better. IT was. And White? They hated, feared and loathed him. They saw him as a mistake, an abomination that wasn’t supposed to exist. They didn’t want to be near him, they never felt safe when he was around them. If he tried to cheer someone up they would amediantly feel immensely worse. And making them despise him far more, causing more deceitful rumors to spread. But it wasn’t really as it seemed; HE wasn’t the one making them feel worse. IT was. They thought Rosen was cute, lovable and sweet. They saw him as a brave, smart and reliable person. But their vision was hazed.

When it was just the two of them it was totally… mostly different. Rosen was shy, mischievous and still adorable. But was someone who would freeze up in the face of danger and would become worried over little things. He was a little self absorbed at times. And there was very little he knew about the world outside or in their village. He was naive to a lot of things. He wasn’t the type to be able to focus on one thing at a time. He would be working on something, or helping someone with something just to get sidetracked by something else. But the thing that the villagers always seemed to forget? Rosen was only a child, just 10 years old. This really wasn’t something he should be involved in. Not yet, not so young.

White on the other hand was almost the complete opposite. The villagers would normally act like they feared, hated and loathed him. But he was the one who was always the one doing all he could to protect the village. At only 13, he was the one who was the true guardian of Illia. But they never saw him as anything more then a nuisance. On the surface he was fairly lax, mostly carefree, more then a little smug and coldly serious at times. But if someone really got to know him they’d see he’s very kind, sly, mostly fearless, a bit head-strong, dependable and extremely loyal. He’d risk his life for those he cared for, especially loved ones. Though the villagers would still favored his brother, Rosen Dream. And that was it.

He shook the thought outta his head, looking back at the book Rosen had shown him after winning it at one of the Fair’s competitions. His little brother’d been so excited and happy to be there, and knew he’d drag him around during the next four days the Fair’d be going on. He sighed, shoving the book back into the royal blue bag he’d won. He snuggled up to his little brother as his eyes grew too heavy to keep open. As he drifted off he thought of their bond, their roles and responsibilities an’ this being the first time in months they’ve had a chance to just relax. Will this really last? Being his final thought before sleep overcame him.

♥️ ♥️ ♥️

But the peace, tranquillity an’ happiness weren’t meant to last. One day, the brother that looked after the MidNight fruits felt envy because the Golden ones were much more eye-catching then his. He tried to deny it, but he wasn’t above jealousy. People came from far off lands to catch a mere glimpse. But criticised his all day, never staying long enough to see the true beauty they held in the darkness.

“Mine are just as good!... Right?” He’d wonder.

One night, with his emotions at a breaking point, White went behind his brother’s back to the ancient tree. He could hear a voice telling him to take the Fruit, that he would be happier if he did. Telling him to prove that he’d be able to do just as good, if not better then his brother could! Making him focus on a particular golden fruit. Though, something seemed off about the way it looked. But... at the last moment he turned away, shaking his head.

♥️ ♥️ ♥️

“What am I doing?! I could never do that to my own brother!” He growled.

Why not? Doesn’t Rosen deserve it? To understand what it’s like to be in someone else’s shadow for once? A voice came like a whisper, no owner to be seen.

He couldn’t see them, but would NEVER let someone speak poorly of his brother.

“No, not at all! I’m his older brother. I’m supposed to have his back, to be there for him. He doesn’t deserve to have me ruin his future. I WON’T allow it! He deserves to be happy.” Anger rose in White’s voice.

Why should his emotions matter? But! He’s not worthy of…

“But NOTHING!” He shouted, storming away and thinking to himself. He doesn’t need to know of this. It’ll only scare him.

🟈🟈🟈

The thing watched as he huffed away, smirking to itself. Wanting to laugh, but staying silent and nearly unseen from a wandering gaze.

You won’t do it? But I WILL! I’ll just have to be a little more DIRECT…

♥️ ♥️ ♥️

A two weeks later, it struck! On a cloudless night with Rosen’s emotions at a fever pitch, he went behind his brother’s back to the ancient tree. He could hear a voice telling him to take a particular Fruit, that he would be happier if he did. Telling him that this will prove that he’d be able to be stronger and wiser then his older brother. He’d do just as good, if not better then White at protecting their Village! Making him focus on a Golden-Amber Fruit with a Copper chain of three thin rings encircling the vibrant peel. Something seemed very off about the way it looked. He’d never seen anything grow between the very start of a branch’s fork before. It didn’t seem natural, like it was feeding off on his regret. But... it was too late he was entranced by it, he couldn’t turn away.

He grasped it in his small hands and sunk his teeth into the tender, juicy flesh of the Apple-like Fruit. However, when touched by someone full of envy and jealousy they rotted away and consumed. Each Fruit being lost to the child possessed by the copper rings. Soon, the Ancient Tree withered, most of the MidNight Fruits left crushed. Only a single, premature Golden Fruit left hidden behind two Dark ones.

The villagers filled with panic and fear as they gathered to see the tree in the sunrise’s light. They not to blame the brother of the MidNight Fruit, for only his brother stood in the wreckage. An Amber Fruit in his hand, they knew he was responsible for the fate of their beloved relic. They tried to corner him, but out of desperation he reached out to the Rings. A blood curdling shriek rang out as the rings wrapped around his small figure, but did not harm him. His new form was almost unrecognizable to those who saw him. Its power and corrupted light consumed him, becoming completely corrupted by its influence. He could feel the power growing by the second.

♥️ ♥️ ♥️

It’s too late now!! A demonic voice howled.

🟈🟈🟈

“Where is he?” He ran through the Village, not a Soul in sight. Soon he looked toward the tree, a horrified look spread across his face.

“NO!” White screamed. “Rosen! Where are you?! ... Brother?”

He cautiously approached the path to the tree. Dust and red smears covered everything in sight. The remanence of their owners lay scattered in the grass.

“Rosen! Is that really you? What happened here?!” He called to his younger brother. “Rose-!”

“Stay Away From Me You Traitor!” Rosen shrieks, thunder crackles from a neering storm.

His sorrowful and saddened eyes beg for a chance of redemption despite his words.

“I don’t want you here. You’re just a mistake!” he hissed, his gaze becoming hollow.

He froze in my tracks, shocked to hear such a thing from my own brother.

“I HATE you. You’re not important... YOU SHOULDN’T EXIST!!” Rosen screamed in absolute rage.

His hateful screams swirl with roaring thunder. He began to sob as his apologies are lost on the howling winds. His fallen lavender tears mix with the pouring rain. Shrieking cries of betrayal flow like a rushing waterfall. Words pierced his soul like sharpened blades. His hatred explodes like an erupting volcano in front of him. The last flicker of love & admiration in his eyes burnt out like a flame. His rage spread like a wildfire.

Pleas of “I’m sorry” & “I never wanted this” are lost to deaf ears.

Lightning shatters the sky as the copper chains take over and tighten their grip on him. Thunder cracks the air as the guilt thickens. White feels him losing the fight against it. But he knew this is where something terrible begins. He knew that today two fates would be left in shards.

🟈🟈🟈

White, now knowing what the new form of his brother had done he wanted to panic, but knew it wouldn’t help.

Before he could react Rosen flared out large, wing-like, diamond panels and lunged towards him. Tossing him into the branch with the small cluster of Fruits. He knew he needed to think of something, but what? As Rosen’s footsteps grew closer he noticed a faint energy radiating from the cluster. Without thinking he stuffed the three Fruits into the utility bag on his hip and jumped behind the tree. Disregarding the consequences, he ate one of the MidNight Fruits. Knowing if the tree couldn’t restore it that he’s have to plant the Midnight and Golden seeds somewhere safe.

He took a breath and stood, ready to confront his brother. He tried not to show worry as he summoned his scythe. How could this have happened? What went wrong?

♥️ ♥️ ♥️

“What happened big Bro? Aren’t you gonna give your li’le bro a good hug?” Rosen hissed sarcastically, arms open.

“You’ve brought suffering and sorrow to this innocent world! Why?!” White shouted, not able to hold back a few tears.

“You know what they say, White. In order to make an omelette ... some ‘eggs’ must be cracked! You were the chef between the two of us after all!”

“That has nothing to do with it! They weren’t eggs... they were innocent People. They’re Souls are lost now ‘cause of you!”

“So what? Get your head out of the clouds! They had it coming.” Rosen growled his temper rising.

“Rose, I know this isn’t anything like you. Let me help you. Please, I don’t want to fight you!”

“SHUT UP! YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT ME!!!” Rosen Howled.

Smaller, sharp panels being sent towards White. Only to be dodged.

“That’s the corny thing i’ve heard all day!” He added. “What!?”

“I have no other choice now. I will fight you. AND YOU WON’T BE FORGIVEN!” Tears ran down his cheeks as he made the next move.

Sharp panels, shadowed arrows and gleaming blades flew from hour to hour. Tempers burned brightly throughout the chaos. But even with his immense power Rosen still wasn’t as fast, skilled or experienced as White was.

“I may be beaten! But you are too weak to finish what you started... You’d never shatter another’s Soul!” Rosen screeched.

“I won’t have to...” White hissed.

The younger tried to escape, but was too slow from fatigue.

“And you can’t stop me!” Now pinning him to the ground with the withered tree’s shadow.

“NO! THIS WON’T BE THE END! YOU CAN’T DO ANYTHING! YOU DON’T HAVE THE GUTS!!” He yowled, trying to struggle out of the shadowy tentacles.

“Just stop… There’s no way out. You must pay for your Sins, NOW!” He wheezed.

“NO! NEVER!!”

“It’s too bad we had such fond an’ good memories together. And so many positive feelings, too!” A small smile faded just as it appeared.

“THAT DOESN’T MATTER!!”

“‘Doesn’t matter’, huh? You really aren’t him...” White breathed. “That’ll make this a lot easier.” A smirk spread across his face as he glared down.

♥️ ♥️ ♥️

Fortunately, the power of a single Dark Fruit, and a little too much fighting experience, was enough. Rosen couldn’t match him no matter what tricks he tried.

He wrenched the Copper Chains off Rosen, reverting them back to being a treo of rings. Leaving him gasping for air and barely able to stay concourse. At a moment’s notice, White sealed the Rings in stone and encased them in as many layers of his own crystallized magic as he could form. But when White turned back to his brother he was gone, only distant wing beats before an eerie silence.

That day, he left his world to seal the Rings away in an ancient library. One so vast none who dared enter could find it in the extensive and winding labyrinth of shelves. Left to be forgotten in time as he closed the heavy stone doors. Only to collapse from exhaustion where he stood. Yet, faintly seeing a figure running towards him in the distance as the world went black.

It is said that that one day the cursed Copper Rings will re-awaken and free itself from its stone and crystal prison. But at the cost and corruption of a new ‘Puppet’ and many, many millennium of tireless war. Yet peace will be restored on the final day. Bringing a new era of hope to those who faced the terror and loss.

At the door of Eon, carved into the aged stone a warning lays to all who enter its broken walls:

Of all who come past this point! Be careful of what you’ve come here for it could be a Blessing, a Curse or the Untold. Only the fearless may proceed. Brave ones, Foolish ones, Both walk not the middle road.

Good luck to all, Your Fate Changes Here!

[stunudo]

Needed: A Criminal Minds Fan-fiction

Requested: Anonymous

Featuring: Hotch x Female Reader   Setting: Season 5 

Warnings: SMUT,  small violent flashbacks

A/N: The concept became a bit longer than the request, I hope this is alright. Also I have been working on four other stories, so this one took me a sec to wrap my head around. Thanks for the request! xoxo Stu

Italics are flashbacks, bold is flashback inside a flashback

Your name: submit What is this?

Aaron held his chest as he caught his breath, feeling the tightness from the healing wounds yet again. He was alone in his apartment, trying to do some push ups. He was so frustrated with struggling through every step of his recovery. Aaron Hotchner did NOT do mediocre. He exhaled, deciding that he just had to focus up and put more effort in at his next Physical Therapy appointment the following day.

You came home after work to change and shower before heading over to Aaron’s place for dinner. He said he wanted to cook for you since you had been helping him through his recovery process. You were touched that he wanted to spend time with you, besides just needing your help. It had been a month since he had been released from the hospital and neither of you had brought up that night since.

It was twilight when you had rolled Aaron to the passenger side of your Chevy Traverse outside of the hospital. He hadn’t said much, but you could feel the darkness that had settled inside of him. The fact that he had asked you to drive him home meant that he didn’t want his team to see him still so frail. This strong man had been attacked and left to bleed out in his own home. Though you knew he was more evolved than this simple explanation: his ego and his moral compass had taken a severe beating.

You had always been very fond of Hotch, but as you knew him both professionally and socially you found it hard to understand why he was asking for your help. Perhaps it was because you weren’t in the FBI and you weren’t family. When Haley left him, you got the impression that he had lost a lot of their mutual friends as well. Being a federal prosecutor gave you more insight into Aaron the man versus Hotch the legend.

He was a stubborn sonofabitch, you reminded yourself as he refused your help getting into your waiting vehicle. You tsk-ed your tongue and shook your head as an orderly took the wheelchair back inside. Once you were driving, heading towards his apartment, you felt the tension building in him once more.

You knew you were going to be late to dinner, so you called Hotch on your cell. “Hey, it’s me.” You began, the incoming excuse coating your voice. “I am stuck in traffic, sorry. I am going to be another twenty- thirty minutes, Aaron.”

”Uh, that’s actually perfect, because I think I burnt the garlic bread.” His voice was light, he almost sounded like he could laugh. “I am going to have to run and grab some fresh bread from the market.”

You were relieved, “Alright then, please don’t go to too much trouble. It’s just me, after all. I don’t need all the trimmings.”

”Nonsense, Y/N.” Hotch’s voice was certain. “Just get here safely.”

Aaron tried to pay attention to what case Y/N was discussing, but once she had parked outside his home, he began to flashback. The shadows inside the apartment. The righteousness in Foyet’s voice going on about the deal he had denied. His certainty in his abilities never wavered, not until the first slash found its way into his flesh. The grappling between the serial killer and the FBI agent was a blur. Eventually Hotch was down and he was not getting back up.

Fear flooded his mind, not being about to see Jack again. Not being able to see Y/N again, though he doubted she saw him as he saw her. Now he would never get the chance to show her. Mostly it was the pain, coupled with the frustration that though he had done the right thing, he was still going to lose.

She was calling to him, shaking his shoulder back to the present. Aaron looked into Y/N’s concerned face as if she had appeared out of thin air. His dark eyes softened, reaching to pat her hand on his chest. “Would it be too much trouble to stay at your place tonight?” He asked quietly. “I don’t think I can go back inside just yet.”

Her eyes were asking questions, but her mouth was a soft, sad smile. “Of course, whatever you need.” Y/N let her hand slide down into his lap, holding his larger one protectively.

You were trying not to get your expectations too high. You had shared one night together. There were hours upon hours of time spent together since then and now, yet no inkling that Aaron wanted more. There wasn’t any hint that he wanted ANYTHING. As a lawyer you appreciated his composure, as a one night stand harboring romantic feelings, you detested it.

You parked your silver SUV in front of the well maintained grounds of Hotch’s place. You wore heels to make up for the height difference and to give your confidence a boost. Sometimes outfits were for every party involved, not just the wearer. You were anxiously fondling the bottle of wine you brought as you waited for the numerous locks to snap open. Then there he was, Mr. tall dark and handsome with a law degree and gun permits on the side.

His mouth did the almost smile he had been perfecting. But you could feel it in his eyes on your dress as well. Butterflies be damned.

You had not cleaned your condo and hadn’t remembered until you were giving Aaron Hotchner the grand tour. You quickly shoved some laundry in to the hamper and cleared the assortment of beauty supplies off the bathroom counter. You showed him the guest room, ensuring he had everything he might need. Once you had set his bag on the bed, you felt his hands on your shoulders. He carefully removed your long coat, tossing it onto the settee in the corner.

You turned slowly, your brows raised in confusion of his intimate gesture. His eyes were heavy, and a sly smile was on his lips. “I just want to make sure you’re comfortable with me staying here, Y/N. All things considered, I could be endangering you by just seeing you.”

“Aaron, I think between the two of us,” You began as he closed the distance between your two bodies. “We can make it through the night unharmed.” Your voice trailed into a whisper. His presence was intimidating, but his body was warm. You could smell his aftershave as he leaned down to reach your face.

“Y/N, thank you,” Aaron whispered into your ear as his breath snaked over your skin. You took his mouth without another over analyzed second.

Dinner was impressive; three courses each more delicious than the last. You guessed that the tiramisu was purchased, but Aaron did an excellent job of plating it. You would have guessed he had culinary training on his already decorated resume. You moaned with pleasure as you took your first bite. Aaron smiled at your enthusiasm.

“This is to die for, Aaron.”

“Thanks, it was impossible to get the recipe from Rossi, so he just brought some over this morning.” He chuckled. You knew Dave Rossi from trying some of the BAU’s cases. You also knew that he was one of the few people Hotch trusted, especially now.

“How’s he doing?” You asked making conversation. “Writing anything that I can take on my next cruise?” You and Hotch kept up the easy chatter the rest of the night, polishing off two bottles of wine between you. The warmth of the alcohol was pushing expectations back into your casual thoughts.

Aaron had walked you backwards until your calves brushed against the guest bed. His mouth driving the kiss. Your hands splayed against his chest as he held you closely, almost painfully so. Quickly he was unbuttoning your blouse, not losing contact with your lips. You felt dizzy with the hunger he shared for you. Your own desires fueling the impulsiveness. Your hands wrapped around his neck, scared to fall backwards.

After he had removed your top, his sure hands moved to your waist. He deftly picked you off your feet and tossed you onto the bed. You thought you heard him whisper a gentle “I need you” as he stood. Aaron’s breathing was ragged, you knew he shouldn’t be straining himself just yet. You let the worries float away as he wrenched off your dress pants and panties in one quick motion. His dark eyes were drinking in your body as your nervous laugh calmed the moment.

Aaron was lost in her body. The smooth skin, the imperfections that made her Y/N. He was learning her body as it was, giving him more to adore. His heartbeat was stuck in his throat as he slid his suitcase off the side of the comforter. Y/N was laying there, exposed and waiting. He lingered above her, scared to move forward, but unable to stop himself in the same instant. His hands took a thigh each, roughly gliding up their curves.

He locked on to her eyes, watching them flutter in arousal. She nodded him onward, whimpering as the chills shook her naked body. Once his hands looped back to find the orbs of her ass, he palmed them, falling to his knees at the end of the bed. He dragged her pelvis to his needy mouth, diving into her folds. She threw her head back calling to him, “Yes, Aaron, Goddamn!”

Her desire was intoxicating, coating his rough skin. He dragged his right hand over the curve of her stomach, the arch of her rib cage and on to the peak of her breast. With his left hand he gently spread her lips, to reveal the tiny bud, his sure finger focusing on its satisfaction. She was loud, though she was trying to hold in her pleasure. His tongue dipped inside of her core, as his finger rubbed her further. When he switched hands, left on her taut nipple and right on her clit was when her breathing began to hitch.

He placed his two knuckles bent over her entrance and lapped diligently at her bundle of nerves, humming into her ecstasy. “Oh, God, Aaron fuck-ing Hotchner,” She bleated. “daaaaamn, hmmmmm.” Her naked body shook, his hands finding her hips, sliding her back completely on to the duvet. He stood, his hands slippery, rushing to remove his belt. To be inside her warmth. Y/N was gorgeous even after an orgasm and he just had to feel her himself.

“So what’s on your agenda for the rest of the week?” Hotch asked, clearing the plates. His face was as relaxed as you could remember seeing him, which gave you confidence. You stood, grabbing the silverware and glasses.

“Preparing for a few parole hearings, I shouldn’t be in the courtroom again until next week.” You explained, following him to the the kitchen sink. You watched as he began loading the dishwasher. With slight inspiration you, less than gracefully, slid backwards onto the island counter top. You sat with the heels of your shoes on the cabinets below. Your cocktail dress ended at your knees, making the back of your thighs visible to the hunched over Hotch.

He finished his task and closed the machine. His face had become discouragingly blank. You leaned back on to your palms, displaying yourself unashamedly. Thanking and cursing the wine as your breath waited for his next move.

You were a mess; a knot of exposed wires set to send a charge pummeling through your body at any possible moment. Aaron was now as naked as you were. His body was firm with muscle, despite the few bandages he was in great shape. His chest was surprisingly not hairy, as his arms were rather so. His strong hand found your ankle, and slowly traced the bones with his finger tips. Your body jerked against the teasing, but he held your leg firmly.

Slowly he inched his hands up your quaking extremities, causing every profanity you knew to come to the tip of your tongue. But soon enough his mouth had found it before you would have given him a piece of your mind. He was taking another piece of your body instead. His kiss was deep, he held your face with his left hand. His thumb caressing the apple of your cheek up towards your ear and back again.

His long body covered you like a shield. Slowly you lifted your legs, pulling his hips towards yours by looping around his waist. He paused, his dark eyes searching you. Aaron’s look softened as you stroked his face, “Please, Aaron.” His determination returned to him, soon his face was buried in the crook of your neck.

His large hands pulled your pelvis up and off the bed. He spun you 90 degrees so your body was propped up on the pillows. Your glistening lips waiting for his entry. He secured the protection and centered himself. As his length nudged your core, you tossed your head back. In a mind-blowing instant you were filled, your walls tingling with the penetration. A whimper escaped your lips, but Aaron kissed it away, rolling his hips in a deepening rhythm.

He remained across the tiny room, casually leaning against the counter top. You really didn’t have any conversation starters left. You just wanted him. You suddenly felt self conscious sitting alone, blatantly flirting. So you rocked forward, clutching the edge of the counter with your sweaty palms. You stared at the floor, hoping for something to break the tension.

“Y/N?” His deep voice called. “What just happened? You completely shut down.” His hand had found the crux of your arm, his palm was warm. You didn’t look up at first, only after a few clicks of your heels against the wood.

“Aaron, I’m at a loss.” You began, voice clear and face a mask. “I thought we were great together. Actually I thought it was fantastic. But here we are, a MONTH later, tiptoeing around each other in your kitchen.” His eyebrows furrowed as his mouth tensed.

Aaron had to stop, his body was screaming at him while he continued to slide his length in and out of Y/N’s sensitive heat. He groaned and hid his face in the sheen on her neck. He kissed her as the rhythm of their bodies slowed. He gasped, trying to control his heartbeat. There were scabs on his torso that he knew could be reopened at any moment.

After calming down, he slowly withdrew from Y/N’s body. He drooped onto his side, but continued to kiss her slick flesh. “I’m so sorry, Y/N.” Aaron begged her. “I just need a few moments.” She rolled to face him, her shorter body fitting below his chin now.

“Can I do anything?” Her voice was concerned, but not pitying. “Do you need some meds, or water or anything?” Her voice asked as her hands roamed his strained body, gently massaging him.

“I know, this is ridiculous.” Aaron said reassuringly. “I just wanted to tell you how much you mean to me. This isn’t just about the recovery, but believe me I am beyond grateful for your aid. This goes back before that night.” Aaron looked away for a moment; Foyet’s laughing face had crept into his mind. He willed his mind to clear, to focus on this beautiful woman in front of him.

She tilted her head, seeing the battle of emotions play out on his features. “Aaron, I am happy to help you, this wasn’t just about that night for me either.” She loosened her grip on the counter top and pawed at his jacket.

“I didn’t mean that night, Y/N.” Aaron started darkly. “I meant before the, uh, the attack. Before Foyet. I wanted you then, but I need you now.” His voice rose in pitch with his confession. His throat constricted with his exposed heart.

She sighed, “Thank God,” it was nearly a whisper. “I’m right here. Are you in for it all?” Her steady gaze challenged him.

You didn’t want to stop, but knew it was the best thing for the recovering stabbing victim to take it easy. “I am guessing your doctor didn’t say you were allowed to do all this, quite yet?” You teased the grown man ignoring medical advice. His soft chuckle met you snuggling against his chest.

“Not exactly,” he admitted. You smiled up at him, the darkness of the room barely noticeable after the time spent within. “Please stay with me? I can’t be alone, not tonight.” His eyes were endless and pooling. He kissed you hard before you could answer. His arms held you close, leaving indentations from his bandages on your skin.

“Yes.” You whispered in to the night.

“Yes.” Aaron answered you.

@hotchnerfuckmeup @reidsexualwriting @dontshootmespence @criminallyoddsocks @cherry-loves-fanfic

[dippedanddripped]

A piece of paper in the backpack of Bob Marley's grandson.

See, that's how this all began. One afternoon in 2014, Cedella Marley, Bob's eldest daughter with his wife Rita, was handed a flier by her son, Skip, after he came home from school. The flier was from Skip's soccer coach, and it asked parents to consider donating money to resurrect Jamaica's women's soccer team.

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Cedella was startled. She lives outside Miami but is still royalty in Jamaica, leading Tuff Gong, the record label her father started, as well as the foundation named for him. She made some calls. Turned out, the women's soccer team hadn't existed for much of the previous four years because the country's soccer federation cut the funding.

There were still girls youth teams, sure, but no senior national team that could try to represent the country at the Olympics or the Women's World Cup.

Cedella bristled. Was it a soccer thing? she asked. Nope. The men's team, known as the Reggae Boyz, had its funding fully intact.

"People were saying no to [the women], and it was for no reason," Cedella says now. "The more I got involved, the angrier I got."

Cedella thought about it. And made some more phone calls about it. And then decided to fix it, thrusting herself and a few dozen determined players on a journey that involved raising hundreds of thousands of dollars, challenging stifling gender norms, surviving tense elimination games and persisting despite a haunting feeling that their dreams might die anyway.

"They are pioneers now," Dalton Wint, general secretary of the Jamaica Football Federation, says of the women's team. He shrugs. "And they will suffer from it."

In Conversation, Cedella, now 51, laughs easily, sauntering into the backyard of her South Florida mansion with an iPad full of notes and canned sound bites that she never consults. Instead, she riffs on travel, food and music as we sit under her gazebo.

Asked if she was at all surprised to hear about the decision to get rid of the women's team, Cedella snorts. "Coming from Jamaica? Not really." She laughs. "I think they would like to see girls in bathing suits and tennis skirts versus cleats and soccer gear."

She isn't exaggerating. Sashana Campbell, a 28-year-old midfielder with the Reggae Girlz for the past five years, says she grew up playing with boys because there weren't any high-level, organized opportunities for girls. She worried about getting too good "because you think, at some point, they're just not going to allow you to play."

This reality, Cedella says, is why the revival of the Reggae Girlz has been a multi-stage process. In spring 2014, with qualifying for the 2015 Women's World Cup in Canada underway, the initial goal was to simply exist. At the time, the Jamaican team wasn't even part of FIFA's rankings because it hadn't played a real game in years. Cedella donated plenty of her own money but also tried to create a buzz around the team, largely by releasing a song, "Strike Hard," featuring her and her brothers, Stephen and Damian. An accompanying Indie-gogo campaign gave the Reggae Girlz just enough money to re-form, though calling it a bare-bones operation would be kind.

The players did their own laundry. They rode in rickety vans. They practiced for a day or two on one weekend, then broke for a few days so many of the players could work at their jobs before regrouping the next weekend. Even the common practice of exchanging jerseys after international matches had to be abandoned.

Sine qua non: Cedella's grit helped resurrect the Reggae Girlz.

"People would be like, 'Can I get a jersey?' and I'd be like, 'I don't even have one for myself!'" Campbell says. "We had to give everything back to the federation: training gear, jerseys, everything."

Despite it all, the team didn't play badly that summer. The Reggae Girlz dominated tiny Martinique 6-0 before losing a tight match to Costa Rica, and they even led Mexico in the qualifying tournament's final group stage match before being eliminated in a 3-1 defeat. The next summer, in 2015, the team tried and failed to qualify for the 2016 Rio Olympics.

It didn't matter; after all, the Reggae Girlz had never made it to the World Cup or the Olympics in their history. They were just glad to be competing. It felt like something had changed, Cedella thought. It felt like progress.

It wasn't. In 2016, the Jamaican federation disbanded the team again.

Khadija Shaw grew up praying for rain. She acknowledges this was a strange wish, particularly for a kid in the gritty St. John's Road community of Spanish Bay. But rain meant the soccer game her brothers and the other neighborhood kids played every day wouldn't be held at the field -- too sloppy -- and would instead take place in the street. Since Khadija's mother had told her she wasn't allowed to play herself, Khadija prayed for rain so she could watch the sport she adored from her front steps instead of having to stare, grimly, as the boys took their ball and trooped off toward the field.

"Is that crazy?" she says in Kingston one day this spring. "Maybe. But that's how much I wanted to be close to the game."

Eventually, she persuaded one of her brothers, Kentardo, to teach her to juggle a soccer ball. Once she got to grade school, she began playing soccer with the boys and dominating, telling her mom her clothes were so filthy because she fell in the dirt on the way home. One day, a neighbor from a few blocks over stopped her with a pointed question as she came home from school: "This guy," she says, rolling her eyes, "he was like, 'Do you know soccer is for men?'"

She was unfazed. The only thing Khadija loved as much as soccer was carrots, which, in combination with a formidable set of front teeth, earned her the nickname Bunny. As she grew to an imposing 5-foot-11, it became clear she had an innate talent for scoring. She scored 128 goals in four years of high school and, as a 14-year-old in 2011, played for Jamaica's under-15, under-17 and under-20 women's teams.

As with other talented Jamaican women of her generation, there was no senior team for Bunny to dream about at that time, but she still believed soccer could be her life. Recruited by American universities, she played two years at a junior college before joining the University of Tennessee in 2017. As she flourished in the SEC, her family was being devastated back home.

During her time away, three of her seven brothers were killed by gang-related gun violence; another brother died in a car accident. One of her nephews was shot and killed, and another died after being electrocuted when he chased a soccer ball into the bushes and stumbled onto an exposed wire. "He was barefoot because that's how we play in Jamaica," Bunny says.

It felt like every time she spoke to her family there was another tragedy, another grief endured without her. "What am I doing here?" she asked herself, as she considered packing up and returning to Kingston.

Her dad wanted her to stay. Her mom too. And the more she thought about all that had happened, the more she kept repeating to herself the only thing that made her feel better: "Would it help me if I was sad? Would it help me if I didn't play soccer? Would it help me if I didn't do the thing I love?"

Her life was complicated, but the answer wasn't. In 2018, during her senior season at Tennessee, she scored 13 goals in 15 games and was named SEC Offensive Player of the Year. That year coincided with a revival of the Reggae Girlz, who identified Bunny as a star they could build around. She began to think of the possibility of a homecoming on her own terms.

When the federation defunded the team a second time in 2016, Cedella -- unbowed -- simply redoubled her efforts, pushing for a complete culture change within Jamaican women's soccer. First, she persuaded Alessandra Lo Savio, a co-founder of the Alacran Foundation, which does arts philanthropy work in Jamaica and elsewhere, to become a major contributor. Then she identified Hue Menzies, who gave up a career in corporate finance to become a full-time soccer coach, to lead the re-formed team.

There was nothing in the Jamaican soccer federation budget for a women's-team head coach, of course. That meant Menzies -- who runs a very successful youth soccer club near Orlando -- would have to be a volunteer. He didn't hesitate.

Imposing and skillful, Shaw will be the key to Jamaica's performance this summer.

"The Marleys, when they pick something, it's supposed to work," Menzies says. He is trying his best, over lunch, to explain why he would take a job that pays no money to coach a team that has no money. With a syrupy speech pattern and a lolling shuffle of a walk, Menzies seems perpetually unbothered. "That's just our culture," he says finally. "If the Marleys are doing something, it's real."

With Menzies on board, Cedella wanted the spotlight to shift to players like Bunny and Campbell and Konya Plummer and a young star-in-the-making, Jody Brown, who was barely old enough to drive but scored goals in bunches. Unlike the 2014 reboot, when she traveled to most of the team's games and thought it was important to be visible, Cedella stepped back.

The players understood Cedella's retreat -- she wanted to show that the Reggae Girlz could stand on their own without the proximity of the Marley name, that the team could be a self-sustaining program, not a charity case -- but a tradition was born: After every game, the team FaceTimed its benefactor from the locker room to tell her about what happened.

There was plenty to tell. In their first qualifiers last spring, staged in Haiti and against teams from the Caribbean region, the Reggae Girlz had a clear talent advantage but were (literally) weakened by a lack of food. The spreads provided to the team at the hotel were sparse and largely inedible. Several players came down with food poisoning symptoms almost immediately. The players and staff complained, asking for different food, but were told this was all that was available. They weren't so sure.

"They just kept giving us like a rice thing with some sort of cheese layer on top that you couldn't see what was underneath," recalls Dominique Bond-Flasza, a Jamaican defender. "It felt like it was on purpose. We would ask for something else, but there was nothing. We even stopped drinking the water they gave us."

Campbell shudders at the memory. "It was horrendous."

"I think I ate some bread," Bunny says. "Maybe."

Hungry and underhydrated, Bunny still scored eight goals in three games to push Jamaica to the next round and added eight more in the four matches of the second round to send Jamaica to the CONCACAF Women's Championship.

Those games were in Texas against top-tier teams, including the United States, Canada and Costa Rica. With Bunny still scoring at her regular clip and a breakout performance from Brown (who scored four goals of her own), Jamaica beat Costa Rica and Cuba before a loss to the United States set up a winner-take-all game against Panama. Victory meant qualification for this summer's World Cup in France. The game was played just north of Dallas on a chilly night last October. Cedella resisted the urge to go to Texas for the match and ended up not watching most of it, choosing instead to calm her nerves by doing yoga and meditation in the garage.

The contest was wrenching. Jamaica led in regulation -- Bunny scored, naturally -- only to give up a late goal that sent the match to extra time. The Reggae Girlz scored again, but Panama tied it at 2 only minutes before the final whistle. There would be a shootout.

That was when Cedella came in from her garage. She watched as substitute goalkeeper Nicole McClure made two critical saves to set up Bond-Flasza for the potential game-winning kick. When the ball rippled the net, Cedella, in her own words, "hit the floor." On the pitch, Bunny took a moment to look around -- to see what unbridled joy looks like -- before jumping into the dog pile.

To celebrate, the Reggae Girlz feasted on cookies at the hotel that night -- "They were huge," Bond-Flasza says -- while in Florida, Cedella's phone wouldn't stop ringing.

Grinning widely at the memory, Cedella says, "It was like an out-of-body experience."

It is a steamy February morning in Kingston, and Dalton Wint, sitting uncomfortably behind his desk, delivers the buzzkill. "I might not be a very popular guy at this time," the federation's second-ranked executive says. "But remember, after this euphoria wears off, the real deal continues."

Ask anyone connected to the Reggae Girlz what they want and the answer is always the same: sustainability. "We want to know this can happen again," Cedella says. And she has real concerns that it can't.

The Reggae Girlz are on a quest for victory and sustainability at the World Cup.

At the Reggae Girlz's training camp this spring, the mood of elation at being the first women's team from Jamaica and the Caribbean to qualify for the World Cup is tempered by a fair bit of wariness -- particularly when it comes to the federation.

Bunny shakes her head when she talks about the JFF: "All they do is have a bunch of promises that will never be fulfilled."

The sentiment is understandable. The JFF -- which is ostensibly in place in part to support the Reggae Girlz -- has disbanded the team twice. And even with the boost that comes with reaching the sport's biggest stage, the federation has made no guarantees about the viability of the program going forward. "That's what we want," Wint says. "But it's money that makes the mare get up."

Wint then lists some of the expenses related to running the team: $200,000 to run a single training camp that includes an exhibition match, $60,000 for flights to a road game. "It's crazy money," he says.

No one disputes this. International soccer is expensive. The problem is that the Reggae Girlz don't understand why their program, which just qualified for a World Cup, is the one at risk while the Reggae Boyz -- who have qualified for just one World Cup of their own, back in 1998 -- are immune.

"Tradition," Wint says when pressed on why the Reggae Boyz have exactly the guarantee that the women's team craves. "We're used to the men, and so that kind of support has been a little easier and forthcoming."

He continues, "The truth of the matter is, I blame some of the women [in Jamaica] because they are not coming to the games, they are not supporting the way they should." He believes a "societal issue" remains in Jamaica when it comes to women's soccer because "some people do not yet even approve of women playing football."

He says that what the Reggae Girlz have done "will change a lot of perspectives" but that it takes time for society to catch up.

For now, he says, the Reggae Boyz generate income -- the men's team might receive an appearance fee of more than $100,000 to play a game in another country, for example -- that the women can't match. The men's team also draws bigger crowds because the players are professionals with a greater degree of fame.

For the Reggae Girlz, this sounds like goalposts moving. Initially, their survival was largely about results -- why pay for a senior women's team that isn't competitive? Now the team clearly is competitive, yet that hasn't translated into any more security.

Bunny talks ruefully about how the JFF ran training camps for the Reggae Boyz last year in the run-up to the World Cup in Russia even though the men had failed to qualify for the tournament. "The boys were in camp and we weren't," she says. "We're trying to qualify for the [Women's] World Cup, right? And the boys missed it." She waves her hand. "Stuff like that just gets us mad."

There is always -- always, always, always, the players say -- a lingering doubt. What if they don't make it out of the group stage in France? What if they don't win a game? "Knowing the JFF," Campbell says, "I just hope they don't turn their backs."

That is why, with their unease lingering, the players continue to look to Cedella as the one they can count on. It's also why Cedella, for all the satisfaction she'll feel this summer in France, knows the reality: Even after the happily-ever-after ending against Panama, the job isn't close to done yet.

"It's a choice that the girls have made to play," Cedella says, "and we should give them an even field to go out and kick 
the ball."

She smiles. "Football is freedom. That's a quote from Bob Marley."

[iviolingirl]

Numb

The past day and a half has been very stressful. Last year just before I turned 23, I found out that my GG (great grandma) was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. At first we thought it was lung cancer, (which didn't make any sense because she is not a smoker) but we now think it was probably ovarian cancer. Even though she was stage 4, she elected to begin chemotherapy treatment because she wanted more time and wasn't ready to say goodbye to all of us. She only has one daughter, but my grandma has six children, and there are 18 of us grandkids so we have quite a large family. For awhile her treatment was helping her buy more time, but of course it eventually began to take its toll on her and make her sick. So, after her doctor told us that her cancer was spreading rapidly, he advised us to discontinue treatment, set up hospice care, and enjoy the time with her we had left. He gave her an expected three to six months left. This was around the middle of October, I believe. (The time has all run together due to my emotions so I don't exactly remember the time frame.) On November 1, my GG turned 85 years old. She had already stopped her treatment, and was spending lots of time with us. We took her out to dinner for her birthday and then gave her a birthday cake. I went to visit my family for her birthday the week previous to her actual birthday, so the last week of October. I travel two and a half hours to see my parents and such since I don't live at home anymore. I moved for college. Since I work retail, I of course had to work the Black Friday sales, so I went home for thanksgiving with my boyfriend on Monday and Tuesday of last week. My GG was getting much weaker, I could tell the cancer was taking its toll on her, but she was still able to get around with her wheelchair and use the bathroom alone. She wasn't eating very much, and her voice was pretty faint, but she was still strong willed as ever. All of the women in my family most definitely got our stubbornness from her. So after thanksgiving on Monday, my boyfriend and I headed back home the following day so we could be back for work. My mom told me she would call me if GG started taking a turn for the worse. My family celebrated their thanksgiving at my moms house this past Saturday, since most of us work for the same retail company and so would be working on thanksgiving day. My family posted pictures on Facebook. In just the few days since I had last seen her, my GG looked much worse. She was either lying down or in the rocking chair constantly, and had to have help going to the bathroom since she couldn't walk anymore. I could see in the pictures that it wouldn't be much longer, but I hoped at least she had a few more weeks, and would at least make it to Christmas Day. However, this was not to be. Yesterday, I was at work. I usually keep my phone in my pocket and have it on vibrate in case someone needs to get a hold of me. I work at the service desk, so if I feel my phone go off, I usually just go to the bathroom to see what it is. But on Monday, I got asked to cover the lunch on the smoke shop register, which you can't leave unattended at all. While I was over there, I felt my phone start vibrating from a fall in my pocket, and I thought it might have been my mom calling about my GG, but I assured myself if something was wrong, she'd either keep calling me or call the store and ask for me. Neither of these happened, so I decided to just wait until my break and check my phone. About half an hour later, around 11:30 AM I got my break, checked my phone and saw it was a missed call from my mom, just like I thought. So I called her back and she told me what I had feared. GG had begun to take a turn for the worse the previous night. She was no longer eating, drinking, and was barely talking. She was in a lot of pain. I asked my mom if it was time for me to come, and she said yes. I said okay mom, I'll come. So I hung up the phone, and after having a meltdown in the middle of the front end, went and found my store manager, explained why I was leaving, and left. I went home, calmed down a bit so I could make the drive, threw a bag together, put some gas in my car and got on the highway around 12:45 or 1 pm. Everybody was at my aunts house, since that's where we had GG. I got to my aunts just before 3:30 and went inside to find all of my aunts and uncles, my mom and my grandma, plus most of my cousins (the ones that weren't at school). GG was on the couch with her oxygen cannula in her nose, with her legs twitching due to her restless legs. She was somewhat able to communicate still, and she was able to recognize that we were there and tell us she loved us, although it was mostly mumbling. She was being given several different medicines to keep her as calm and comfortable as we could. She was starting to get bed sores. I sat with her and held her hand, told her I loved her and I came to see her. Later that evening, we made the decision to move her into the hospital bed my aunt had rented and set up in the living room. My mom, my brothers and I headed back to my moms house around maybe 9pm, I needed to do some laundry and my brothers both had school in the morning. I had barely eaten much that day due to my anxiety making mg stomach so upset, but I decided I was up to getting something so I put some shoes on, grabbed my purse and headed upstairs. At this exact moment, Braeden (my 16 year old brother) told me that mom was going back to Cathy's (my aunts house.) I asked what was happening, mom said she was having trouble breathing and the morpheme may have been upsetting her stomach. So we jumped in the car, leaving Braeden to stay with my younger brother since he was in bed. We got back to my aunts house, and GGs breathing was much more labored. We eventually got her comfortable again by giving her more medicine and lying her flat on her back. Then for a couple hours, it was a cycle of her sleeping and then waking back up when her medicine wore off, then us giving her more medicine. At this point, we really thought that she would be going soon, so all of us started to say our goodbyes and told her we loved her. I was at her bedside with my mom and my grandma, four generations all together. My mother tearfully asked my grandma if anyone had told her it was okay to go, and grandma said she had. I decided to tell her myself. I got down and whispered in her ear that it was okay for her to go now, that we loved her, and it was going to be okay. I really thought she was going to leave us last night, but true to my GGs stubbornness, she stayed with us. My mom and I eventually left my aunts house after 1 am, and went back home after stopping for me to get a snack because I was very hungry. I went home, ate my snack, and went to bed around 230. I actually didn't sleep too bad once I fell asleep. I woke up shortly after seven this morning to my mom calling me to say she was taking my younger brother to school and then was going back to GG. I told her I would take a shower and then head out there myself. So I got up, showered and left. When I got to my aunts house, Around maybe 830-9 am, my GGs breathing was much more raspy due to all the fluid in her lungs. She was no longer responsive to us and her breathing was beginning to slow down. She was beginning to turn grey around the mouth. We were giving her medicine hourly to keep her comfortable. Due to her no longer being able to swallow, her saliva was building up in her mouth so my aunts would suction it out with a syringe every so often. Throughout the day, her breathing began slowing down even more and she was taking more time in between her breaths. Around 6pm I decided that I was most likely going to spend the night at my aunts because we all pretty much knew she would pass sometime with the next day. I ran back to my moms to grab a few things, and my computer just so I had something to keep me occupied and my mind busy. When I got back, dinner was about ready and they had stared making the younger kids plates since they made them something different. So just after 7pm, I sandwiched myself between my grandma and one of my aunts in the corner of the couch I'd been sitting in all day, and we started eating dinner. 7:12 PM. I had a forkful of food on its way to my mouth. All of a sudden, everyone jumped up. Although I didn't hear it, two of my aunts heard the machine noise that meant GG had stopped breathing. She had left us. We threw our plates aside and rushed to her bedside. My poor grandmother was leaned over her saying "oh, mama" over and over and over. I just leaned over her and rubbed her back, saying it's okay and GG isn't in any more pain. We all told GG we loved her and all us adults were at her side as she left us. We cried and told her we loved her and held her and stroked her hair and leaned on each other as the moment we all dreaded had finally arrived. Someone called the hospice nurse, and eventually the funeral home came to take her. I had notified some people close to me shortly after she passed, but other than that I had not left her side. The only person I was unable to get a hold of was my boyfriend, because unbeknownst to me his phone was dead and he was making the drive from his parents house back to where we live. My aunt had her hand under GGs chin because she didn't want her mouth to be stuck open. Eventually her hand got sore, so I took over. I don't really know how long I stood there with my hand under her chin, telling her I loved her, how strong she was, and crying with my family as we all said our goodbyes. Eventually the people from the funeral home arrived and it was time to take her away. I was still standing at her bedside holding her chin so her mouth would be closed. My Grandma came up to say her final goodbyes, and my aunts all comforted her and told her she wasn't in any more pain, she was okay, her family was taking care of her now, she was listening to Elvis. She had such a wonderful life. My mother had paperwork to sign since she is my GGs medical power of attorney, but when she was done I reached out for her. My mother, my grandma and I leaned over my GG and I said that we had all four generations together. I still had my hand under GGs chin. At this point, my boyfriend returned my phone call. With my hand still on GG, I picked up the phone and told him that GG had died and that I was still holding her, but now I had to let go so they could take her. My mom and my aunt were telling me it was okay, and I let her go and went outside to cry on the phone to my boyfriend. After I was done, I went inside to give GG one last kiss before the funeral home took her away. And the she was gone. We will meet tomorrow morning to make funeral arrangements. I am in so much emotional pain. I am exhausted. The past day and a half has been such a blur. I have never watched someone die before. But I am so glad I got to be by her side and she passed peacefully, surrounded by her family. I am emotionally numb. The next few days will be difficult. RIP GG. I love you so much.

[ralphmorgan-blog1]

12 Shocking Things I Learned by Working as a Butler at the Plaza Hotel

Old-school service is alive and well at the Plaza: High tea treats are served in brass birdcages, tuxedo-clad bellman whisk away luggage to gilded suites, and chefs bear toques that tower above their heads. But in the age of Amazon Prime—when we all want everything —what is it really like blending vestigial aristocratic assistance with light-speed wish fulfillment? 

In order to properly find out, I accepted an offer from New York’s iconic Plaza Hotel to join its team of butlers, a coterie of 10 servicemen (and one woman!) who trot around the property’s 20 floors day and night, making sure 282 rooms’ worth of guests feel like royalty. For two hot days in July, I raced around with a team that, like the city itself, seemingly never sleeps—hearing tales of the trade from the department’s director, Emma, and serving guests alongside some of her most experienced staffers.

This is an elite crew: It bears a combined 147 years of experience, and many have served as house managers for affluent families all over the world. Me? I got express credentials for my two-day residency—unprecedented for the Plaza. They included a detailed orientation of the property and a uniform fitting for my hotel-issued attire (gold-plated name tag and all).

Over my short tenure, I delivered laundry to Middle Eastern princesses and fetched lobsters out of wishing wells—and listened to colleagues delight in the oddities of their jobs, from fielding requests for Viagra or comforting a weeping woman over spilled blueberries. Serving the world’s rich and famous, it turns out, plumbs the depths of an alternative universe that readily embraces the absurd without even batting an eye. And that was only the beginning of what I learned.

Here, 12 secrets to keep in mind the next time you check into a five-star hotel. 

One VIP List You Don’t Want to Be On

Hundreds of butler requests roll in each shift—mostly to fill ice buckets, handle laundry, and shine shoes. Complimentary packing and unpacking requests are also common, though they can turn into day-long affairs. A surprising number of international guests will purchase adjoining suites: one to sleep in and one for their luggage.

By matter of corporate philosophy, every guest should feel like a VIP at the Plaza. But a hierarchy still exists among those who check-in at reception. At the top of the pyramid are kings, queens, and heads of state—or as butlers call them: V1s, and they are ever-present on the property. Then come high-payers, long-stayers, guests booking a large block of rooms, and recognizable celebs. They’re called DVs, or distinguished visitors. On the bottom of the VIP totem pole is the SA group, known complainers or otherwise difficult and demanding guests who require “special assistance.”

Bath Time Can Be Awkward 

Illustration: Zohar Lazar

Another common request for the butler team is to draw baths with a signature blend of salt, oil, and roses—especially during the colder months of the year. But the butler’s duties aren’t necessarily complete once the tub is full. Bal, the Plaza’s resident bath-time specialist, said that 95 percent of the time, he’s asked to remain within arm’s reach as bathers suds-up. Most of them, he said, want more hot water or scented oil, and are happy to keep him on hand while they relax in the nude. He is often left to pull the plug from the drain, elbow-deep in leftover water.

It gets weirder. One of my butler colleagues at a previous job in London was asked to ship in and set up a guest’s order of fresh oysters in the bathtub. He diligently filled the tub with ice and laid the oysters out, only to discover that the guest wanted the oysters placed in the tub around his soaking body. Eventually, the client seemed satisfied: He purchased the room next door for his butler so he’d always be near.

Hotel Guests Are Pretty Predictable …

The Plaza’s guest relations team researches everyone staying at the hotel on an individual basis, using a variety of social media tools. (The favorite is LinkedIn.com.) Butlers, on the other hand, often use past trends to size people up on the spot. They send electric kettles to the rooms of arriving Asian guests, who often bring noodles from home to cook in their suite. They keep an eye on the minibar when tending to Americans in their thirties and forties—they’re considered the partiers of the hotel, likeliest to plow through the booze. Middle Eastern VIPs get what is called an “Arabic Amenity”—a tray of dates, dried fruit, and nuts; they tend to prefer these to chocolates, cakes, or other sweet desserts. And the butler staff knows to immediately ask Western businessmen if they have shirts or suits that needs servicing upon checking in; they’re always the ones who treble the quantity of laundry in the basement.

… Except When They’re Totally Unpredictable

Despite the overwhelming regularity of guest behaviors, travelers can mystify even the most experienced of butlers. During my shifts, lobster shells kept appearing in the fountains of the hotel’s interior courtyard. Every day, the staff would fish them out, only to find a new one a few hours later. It turned out that a Middle Eastern prince was ordering cooked lobster from room service for every meal and then throwing the empty shells out the window to land in a fountain below. (Emma asked him to stop—nicely—but pieced together the mystery only on the day of his departure.)

Another time, a woman called Emma hysterically crying “as though her husband died and she just discovered the body.” When Emma finally calmed her down, she comprehended the real reason for the guest’s tears: There was no more Kleenex in her suite, and her young daughter had been forced to blow her nose on toilet paper.

Sex, Drugs and … Come Again?

Illustration: Zohar Lazar

As at any hotel, requests for drugs and prostitutes do happen—but not frequently. Bal has been asked for drugs only two or three times in his 10 years at the Plaza, and he is careful to stick within the boundaries of the law. Condom needs are another story: Mouhsine, one of the other butlers, always carries a pack with him, especially in the evenings. On being called to fulfill one such late-night request, no one answered the door after several knocks; he gently entered the room to find the two guests in the “go” position, waiting to be walked-in on.

Far more interesting than sex and drugs are the more outlandish client requests. Recently, Emma fielded a service call from a woman searching for some missing chocolate-covered blueberries, which had fallen off a window ledge. Emma offered to obtain replacements from the same brand and store, but the guest was adamant about retrieving her exact snack. Emma and the security team trawled the hotel’s interior courtyard for hours, blueberry-hunting, to no avail. During my brief tenure, the weirdest request was for two liters of intravenous saline solution—meant for a doctor’s ailing wife, who was presumably on the wrong side of a stunning hangover.

Some requests are even more bizarre. One butler told the story of how he was asked to replace all the furniture in a suite because the guest didn’t like the color blue. Another was sent off to scout the city’s reliquaries for a justice of the peace trophy—a prize for a newly minted lawyer. Another arranged for a live tarantula flown in from Africa to be served as a meal. Of course, butlers always deliver with a straight face.

Mind the Pillowcases

Missing pillowcases can be a real issue at the Plaza. But it’s not the tourists that have sticky fingers. And it’s not hotel pillowcases that are getting stolen. At least once a week, a white pillowcase that was brought from a guest’s home gets mistaken for a hotel-issued version and is sent out for cleaning. Sometimes they’re never seen again, in which case Emma dispatches a bellman to purchase new coverings, drawing on the hotel’s coffers, no matter the price. 

Christmastime: Not so Merry

“Party season,” which spans October to December, feels like a constant carousel of functions, banquets, and events at the Plaza. Every evening, there are four or five requests for assistance at looping bow ties and zipping up cocktail dresses. And in the last few years, requests for holiday-themed decorations in the rooms have become so commonplace that the hotel now offers a standard Christmas package that includes a fresh, fully decorated tree, assembled by the butlers pre-check-in for $500.

The Customer Is Not Always Right

Illustration: Zohar Lazar

Complaints follow regular patterns. Every day, a guest will complain about too-slow laundry service. Though forms clearly offer standard and expedited return times, they’re not fast enough for some.

Minibar charges also lead to regular disputes. A full raid of your room’s bar runs $600 at the Plaza—something that happens at least once a week. The likelihood that guests will not want to pay is almost guaranteed.

This requires butlers to document everything with pocket cameras, whether it’s open booze bottles spread across the room, stains on laundry that existed before washing, or evidence of damaged furniture. Every ticket is verified on a computer and photos are attached, so when TripAdvisor.com lights up with a fiery review, the butlers are able to provide evidence to dispel any falsehoods.

The Easiest Way to Get Banned

It’s a lot easier than you might think. The hotel has a strict anti-discrimination policy, and zero tolerance is given to guests who mistreat the staff because of race, gender, age, or creed. Even now, guests sometimes request that staff of a certain ethnic extraction not be allowed to service their rooms; others will ask service members if they are legal in America. Emma, the director of the butler team, cited several incidents of sexism, too, such as the time guests asked to speak with a manager but grew angrier when she showed up instead of a man.

The refusal of services goes all the way up the ladder to DVs. At least two specific celebrities are permanently banned from the Plaza—one, a pop diva expelled for excessive drug and alcohol use and a belligerent attitude towards the staff, the other a sitcom star who took his anger issues out on a suite’s worth of furnishings.   

Afternoon Tea Leftovers Don’t Go to Waste

Illustration: Zohar Lazar

Hidden within the Plaza’s secret back-of-house corridors and tunnels is a cafeteria reserved for the staff. Open during lunch, dinner, and late-night hours for (surprisingly good!) hot meal service, the canteen offers bagels and drinks for the peckish throughout the entirety of the day. But the savviest snackers know to visit the cafeteria at exactly 5:30 p.m., because that’s when the leftovers from high tea at the Palm Court upstairs are put out for the staff. (They serve only the food that was prepped but not plated.) Emma said she practically lives off mini cucumber sandwiches. I liked the tiny blueberry cheesecakes.

A Good Tip Can Make It Worthwhile

New York City’s hospitality workers are protected under a spectrum of different unions. While bellmen and room service are considered “tipping staff,” the butlers do not expect fiscal rewards for their work, beyond the Plaza’s paycheck. But Bal and his colleagues still see a few ex-presidents from time to time.

His biggest tip during the last 10 years? It came from a French model-actress keen on setting up a romantic weekend for her boyfriend, a well-known fashion magnate. Bal placed flowers on every flat surface throughout their suite, organized lunch in a helicopter over Central Park, and tracked down a very specific, very expensive bottle from a specialist store off-site. By the end of the weekend, she handed him $8,000 in cash.

Seven months later, the founder of the fashion label was back at the hotel with a different girlfriend. 

When to Call It a Night

Illustration: Zohar Lazar

The Plaza maintains a Betsey Johnson-designed suite in honor of Eloise, the capricious six-year-old that fictionally lived on the property. It was here that Nimer, another member of the butler team, had his most bizarre service experience to date. A request was put in for someone to come up and read the beloved children’s book as a bedtime story, but when Nimer arrived there were no children to be found. Four thirtysomethings were neatly tucked into one, large bed. Concealing his shock, Nimer read to them for 90 minutes—then tracked down Eloise on video, in case they hadn’t had enough.

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[krissysbookshelf]

Enjoy An Exclusive Sneek Peek of: Gem & Dixie by Sara Zarr!

Gem has never known an adult she can rely on, the one constant in her life has been her sister, Dixie. Gem grew up taking care of her sister when no one else could. Even as Gem and Dixie have grown apart, they've always had each other. When their dad returns home for the first time in years, Gem finds herself with an unexpected opportunity: three days with Dixie—on their own in Seattle and beyond. But this short trip soon becomes something more, as Gem discovers that that to save herself, she may have to sever the one bond she's tried so hard to keep.  

LEARN MORE

  WHERE ARE we going? Dixie would ask.

The forest, I’d say. Or, Space.

She never questioned me.

We need to pack survival rations, I’d tell her.

What’s that?

Food and water and gum and stuff.

She’d help me make butter-and-jelly sandwiches on soft, white bread. If we had chocolate chips, we’d sprinkle those in, too, and mash the bread down hard so they wouldn’t fall out. I’d lift her to the kitchen sink so she could fill a bottle with water, and I’d roll up a beach towel; then we’d put it all into the picnic basket that was really just a paper grocery bag on which I’d drawn a basket weave pattern with a green marker—badly, crookedly.

We would put on our jackets and shoes, and I’d make her close her eyes and I’d lead her around the apartment and spin her in circles and then say:

We’re here. Open your eyes.

I knew, and she knew, we weren’t in space or the forest or Narnia or anywhere other than our shitty apartment. Still, when she opened her eyes, they’d go big and bright. She was good at make-believe. My favorite thing was how she always skipped into whatever fantasy place we’d gone to. As soon as her eyes were open, she’d start skipping all around the living room and up and down the hall.

We’re in space, I might say. You can’t skip in space.

I can.

Okay, but you can only skip really slow in space because there’s no gravity.

Mid-skip she’d switch to slow motion and try to make her arms and legs more floaty. Then she’d get tired of it and get hot in her jacket and say it was time to go home.

No, we’re not going home. We’re never going home. I don’t remember when I started saying that part.

She’d stop squirming. What about Mom? And Daddy?

We’ll leave a note.

Then we’d spread the beach towel on the living room floor and if I forgot to bring crayons or markers to space I’d run into our room and get them, and we’d draw a good-bye note, our stick figures flying up to the moon and holding hands as we waved good-bye forever to our parents. Dixie liked to draw stars behind our heads like halos.

She used to play along. She used to believe everything I told her, and do anything I said.

She used to need me to take care of her, and I liked doing it. I liked doing it because, then, I thought I was the one who could. Even though nobody was taking care of me.

1.

NINE QUARTERS.

They were the last of what had been left in the jar of laundry money that Dixie and I kept in our room, the jar that had never quite lost the smell of pickle relish. I counted and recounted the quarters in my pocket with my fingertips as the lunch line moved forward, as I’d counted and recounted them through English, physiology, and government. I counted because things in my life had a way of disappearing on me, and I’d learned not to trust what I thought was there.

What was there wasn’t enough—three quarters short of the cost of lunch—but I stayed in the line anyway as it moved me toward the food. Lunch roulette. Luca, the cafeteria worker on the register, might find seventy-five cents for me in his pocket. Or someone else in line might cover it, out of impatience or pity, which were just as good as kindness on a day that hungry. I hadn’t eaten more than a candy bar since the potluck in my fourth-period Spanish class the day before.

Denny Miller and Adam Johnson—freshmen—stood right in front of me in the line; Tremaine Alvarado and Katy Plant, juniors like me, stood behind. Tremaine was on my PE volleyball team. She’d stare through me on the court, or jostle me while we rotated to the serve, without saying sorry or excuse me or anything else that showed she thought of me as an actual person with a name. Katy Plant thought it was funny to call me “Jim” and got other people to do it, too. I don’t know what’s worse—people acting like you don’t have a name, or them saying it wrong on purpose. The point is I wouldn’t be asking Katy or Tremaine for a handout.

Not that I wanted to ask anyone for a handout. But being hungry—I mean really hungry—had a way of erasing a lot of the embarrassment. And Denny and Adam were easy, being the kind of undersized freshmen who still looked more like seventh graders.

“Denny,” I said.

Both Denny and Adam turned around. I could see them wondering how I knew his name. I knew it because they were both listed on a program from the last band concert, and it was posted in one of the display cases outside the counseling office, under a picture of the band. I spent a lot of time there. I knew not only their names, but that Adam played clarinet and Denny played trumpet and had a solo in “Stars and Stripes Forever.” They both had floppy hair and bad skin. Adam was taller, which helped me tell them apart.

“Can I borrow seventy-five cents?” I asked quietly.

“Me?” Denny pointed to himself.

“Either of you.”

The line moved and the smell of ravioli and garlic bread got stronger. My stomach seemed to fold in on itself.

“I use a lunch card,” Denny said.

“Yeah,” Adam said. “Me too.”

They turned their backs to me. Just because their parents loaded up cafeteria cards with money didn’t mean they didn’t also have some cash. I checked on Katy and Tremaine behind me; Katy was busy showing Tremaine something on her phone. I leaned closer to Denny. “But maybe you have some change or something?”

He drew back and shook his head. I wondered whether I’d tell Mr. Bergstrom about this in our appointment later and if I did, how I would describe it in a way that made me not look too bad.

I tried Adam. “Do you know Dixie True?”

That got his attention. “Um, yeah.”

“She’s in our social studies class,” Denny added, facing me again. “And English.”

“That’s my sister.” Maybe if they knew that, I would seem more interesting than weird.

They exchanged a glance.

“Really?” Denny’s voice cracked on the end of the word. Adam laughed through his nose.

“Ask her next time you see her.”

They wouldn’t, not boys like this, zit-faced and probably still playing with action figures in secret. They might sneak looks at Dixie but they wouldn’t dare say a word to her.

Denny pulled a wrinkled dollar bill from his pocket. “You can pay me back tomorrow, though, right?”

“I’ll look for you,” I promised, taking the money.

A couple of minutes later I had my tray of ravioli and garlic bread, a sad iceberg salad with two croutons, and a carton of milk. When I got to Luca at the register, he shook his head. “I saw that.”

I handed him the bill plus eight of the quarters. He shifted on his stool, the sleeves of his green school jacket swishing against his sides while he rang me up. “If you don’t have money,” he said, “you should get your parents to fill out the form online so you can get free lunch. How many times I gotta tell you?”

I stared at the peeling yellow school logo over his heart. Half of a lion’s mane, a third of its face. “Okay.”

“‘Okay,’” he said, imitating me. “You say ‘okay,’ then you’ll be back here hustling quarters in line tomorrow, these poor little freshmen.” He wasn’t talking loud but not quiet, either, and I imagined Katy hearing every word.

“Those are my sister’s friends,” I said, and decided that’s what I’d tell Mr. Bergstrom if it came up. “I’m going to pay him back.”

 “You always had money in the fall. What happened?”

 “I saved from my job last summer. That’s all gone.”

Since January.

His hands hovered around the register drawer for a second. Then he said, “Here’s your change.”

“But—” I was sure I’d given him three dollars exactly.

“Here’s your change, Gem,” he said again, putting four quarters in my palm.

“Thank you.”

He waved me away, and I took my ravioli to a quiet corner to eat.

“Is that supposed to be me?”

Mr. Bergstrom had gotten a new whiteboard. He’d drawn a stick figure, falling. I knew it was falling from the way the stick arms and stick legs pointed slightly upward, like gravity was pulling on its stick middle.

“I’m not a great artist but, yes, it’s meant to represent you. Here . . .” Bergstrom added some strands of hair that flew up, then capped his dry-erase marker and sat back down. “Is it at least close? Is this how you feel?”

“I don’t know.” In the way that she was alone, maybe, but even falling she looked more free than I felt. I got up and held my hand out for the marker. I drew a box around the falling girl. That didn’t look right, either. “This is dumb.” I picked up the eraser and wiped it all away.

“Maybe.” He smiled. He had a good smile and a good face, and a way of looking right at me without making me feel like I was being studied in some lab. He was way better than old Mr. Skaarsgard, the school psychologist he’d replaced at the beginning of the school year. Skaarsgard would always furrow his white eyebrows at me and make me feel like nothing I said made sense. Maybe it didn’t, but at least Mr. Bergstrom tried.

Normally I saw him a couple of times a week, not always on the same days, sometimes after school and sometimes during it, depending what was going on. I know it was a lot. Some kids at school could go a whole semester, even all of high school, without seeing him once. But right at the beginning of freshman year I sort of had this incident in pre-algebra, and my teacher referred me and then I was on the permanent rotation, first with Skaarsgard, now Bergstrom.

“What’s the box?” he asked. “That’s what it was, right?”

I shrugged.

“You feel . . .” He trailed off and I knew I was supposed to complete the sentence.

“I mean, you can’t put me on there with nothing else,” I said, pointing at the blank whiteboard. “You have to draw Dixie and my mom, and our apartment and school.”

“Earlier, you said you felt alone.”

“I do.” My hands curled up on my knees, my nails pressed into my palms. This office was always hot and small. I shook my head, not knowing how to explain feeling alone but also trapped in the middle of people and places that didn’t let me move or breathe.

Mr. Bergstrom had plain brown eyes, a little bit small for his face, but I could almost always see sympathy in them, like now. “It’s okay, Gem,” he said. “I know it’s hard to put into words.”

I opened my hands and took a breath.

“Do you want to update me on things with your mom?” he asked.

“They’re fine.”

“Fine? Last time we talked you seemed pretty worried about her. And Dixie.”

Sometimes, at our appointments, I’d tell him a lot, and it felt good in the moment, finally saying the things I’d had stuck in my head all that week. But then I’d be in bed those nights, and a smothering kind of panic would settle on me that I’d said too much. Like I’d given away something I needed and couldn’t get back.

“You said not to worry, so I stopped.”

“Well. I think I said it wasn’t your job to worry about your mom, it’s her job to worry about you. But I know it’s not that simple. Especially with Dixie.” He smiled again. “And I know you didn’t just stop worrying, Gem.”

I looked at the clock. “I have to go to detention. My bus was late this morning.”

He nodded. “Okay.” He wheeled his chair back. “We’re not scheduled again until next week, but come say hi anytime.” That’s how he always ended our meetings. Come say hi anytime. I liked knowing I could.

By the time I got home, it was twilight. Detention had made me miss my bus connection, so I’d walked, the chill and damp of Seattle a force I pressed against with every step. It was March, and things would get better and lighter soon, just not yet. Having to walk meant I missed my afternoon cigarette, too, on my bench in my park. The smoking time, which no one but me knew about, was when I didn’t feel the cage or the box or whatever it was. It made space for me and my thoughts. Without it I felt like part of me was left behind, trying to catch up.

The security gate at the front of our apartment building stood ajar despite the signs all over the entryway reminding residents in capital letters to MAKE SURE the gate stayed LOCKED SECURELY because there had been CRIMINAL INCIDENTS. The dark corridor between the gate and our stairwell always scared me, especially when the gate was left open.

I pulled it closed behind me, then checked the lock. Then I checked the lock again and told myself I could stop checking. But halfway down the corridor I went back to check it again. Then, grasping the pepper spray on my key chain, I went up the three flights of stairs—past all the handwriten notes old Mrs. Wu left everywhere about noise, garbage, pets, smoking—and into our apartment.

Dixie was home. She had the TV on and a sandwich in one hand, her phone in the other, homework all over the floor where she sat. She’d changed clothes since I’d seen her at school that morning—from jeans and a hoodie to shorts over tights and a green V-neck T-shirt that showed a lot. I had on baggy jeans and a plain blue sweater that would have hidden everything if there’d been anything to hide. As usual, she looked like the older sister.

She looked up. “I heard you stole money from some freshman today.”

Dixie had ways of knowing nearly everything that happened to me at school.

“Borrowed money,” I clarified.

“Why’d you have to tell them I was your sister?”

“You are my sister.”

“Thanks for embarrassing me.”

“You’re welcome.”

In our bedroom I put my backpack on my pillow with the straps toward the wall. My keys went on top of the cardboard box on its side that I used as a sort of nightstand. My shoes went inside the box, laces hanging out. I hung my jacket on the closet doorknob and put on the thick socks I always wore around our apartment. Whenever Dixie saw me doing this stuff, or checking the gate lock more than twice, she’d tease me and say I had OCD. But Mr. Bergstrom asked me a bunch of questions about it and said I didn’t fit the diagnosis, that it was more like I had a few rituals that helped me feel in control, and they didn’t interfere with my life, and it wasn’t the same thing. “Plus, from what you’ve told me about where you live,” he’d said, “checking the gate lock sounds like plain common sense.”

I confirmed one more thing—that my stash of cigarettes was still under the bed—then went back to the living room. The onion smell of Dixie’s sandwich made me salivate.

“Did you get that from Napoleon?” I asked.

She chewed and stared at me like, Obviously. Napoleon was the older guy who worked at the deli down the block and had a crush on Dixie—like a hundred other guys.

“Can I have some?” The ravioli from lunch seemed forever ago.

“No,” she said, but held it out anyway. I sat on the floor next to her and took a bite. Then another. Roast beef. Avocado. Cheddar cheese. Thin-sliced red onion and a hard sourdough roll. It was perfect, as if all of Napoleon’s craving for Dixie had been slathered onto that sandwich. I swallowed huge pieces of it, half chewed and sharp with mustard.

Dixie watched me eat. “You can finish that if you’ll go down and get the laundry from the dryer.”

“You did laundry? With what money?”

“Money I had.”

“I’m not going down there at night,” I said.

“It’s not night.”

She tried to take the sandwich away from me; I held it out of her reach. “It’s dark, though.”

“I washed some of your clothes, too, Gem. Do you want them to get stolen?” She lunged again for the sandwich.

“O-kay,” I said. I finished it and went the five steps to the kitchenette to throw away the white paper it had been wrapped in.

“Did you see your shrink today?”

“He’s not a shrink. He’s just a school psychologist.” I opened the fridge. There were a few stale corn tortillas, an opened bag of green beans, ketchup, and a white plastic butter dish with maybe a teaspoon of butter left, crumbs stuck all over it. Same as that morning.

“You should get him to send you to a real shrink. Say you need Adderall. You could sell it at school and then you’d have some money.” I’d heard that Dixie helped some seniors sell their prescriptions at school. I didn’t want to know. “I can tell you what symptoms to have,” she said.

“No thanks.”

I imagined going down to the laundry room. The lights could have burned out again. Sometimes there were noises that might be a zipper clanging against the dryer door, or might be rats or a creepy neighbor.

“Let’s go get the laundry together,” I said to Dixie.

She looked up from her homework. “You always do that.”

“What?”

“‘What?’” she repeated, in a bad imitation of my voice. “I already took my shoes off.”

“So did I. Put them back on.”

I went to the bedroom to get mine. When I came out, Dixie stood by the door forcing her flip-flops over her tights.

“You’re going to fall down the stairs and die,” I said as she shuffle-walked to me.

She shrugged.

I knelt to tie my laces. “Where’s Mom?”

“Out.”

“I know. Out where?”

“Work, I guess?”

I straightened up and we faced each other.

“Do you think Napoleon would give me a sandwich?”

She laughed. “Well, you might have to flash your boobs.”

“Is that what you do?”

“No! I’m joking, Gem, obviously. Do you really—” She shook her head. “You never get my jokes.”

It didn’t matter. I knew exactly why Dixie got sandwiches and why I wouldn’t.

Dixie is pretty. No one in our family is beautiful the way movie stars are beautiful, but she’s the type of girl who gets second, third, fourth looks—as many looks as people can get away with before she stares them down. She’s soft in the sense of being curvy, and hard in the sense of not taking any shit. She’s cute—her hair, her clothes, the faces she makes when she’s surprised or mad or thinks something is funny. And intimidating. She exudes a sexuality, but in a way where it’s like it’s for her, not for anyone else. It started in junior high, and by the time she got to high school, people couldn’t spend five minutes with Dixie before they wanted to give her things, feed her, touch her, get her to smile, be her friend, be her boyfriend. She got sandwiches, she got her cell phone bill paid, she got attention when she wanted and deflected it when she didn’t.

Whereas I still hadn’t figured out how to make and keep a friend.

I stared, she stared back. For her it was a game. She thought I was trying to get her to look away first. But really it was me trying to see who I was through Dixie’s eyes, me wondering if she evaluated me and my face and clothes and body, the ways I made it through the world, like I evaluated hers.

Did she look for herself in me, the way I looked for myself in her?

Finally she broke, and laughed. “You’re such a weirdo, Gem,” she said. “You probably scared that freshman with your creepy eyes.”

I didn’t want her to see I couldn’t take a joke, so I bugged my eyes at her to make them even creepier.

“Ew,” she said with an exaggerated shudder. “Let’s go downstairs before the rats come out.”

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