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universitypenguin · 3 years

Note

What happened to u? U okay?

Hello!

First off, thank you for your concern. I appreciate it and I needed it after the past two days. To answer your question - I'm doing great.

I don’t have a lot of context about your question, but I’m guessing your concern is due to my recent blocking spree. A day ago, I went through my followers list and found some minors. I’ve previously seen smut fanfic writers concerned by underage people interacting with their posts. Until I had to block a few of them, I wasn’t aware how uncomfortable it would make me feel.

Since the blocking spree, I've had a lot of thoughts. I'm about to spew them everywhere. You might regret asking me if I was okay. Sorry about that. No one needs to read this whole manifesto about my rollercoaster of emotions the past few days. But in the interest of transparency, I'm posting this very long note.

What I want my readers to know is the following:

Tumblr is both a place for fanfiction and a social media site.

When I interact with followers and write explicit content, I have to be careful about what I'm saying and who I'm saying it to.

I don't intend to block or purge my followers in the future.

As long as I appropriately tag and put warnings on my work, that is adequate protection for my blog. Everything I write containing explicit content is tagged.

However, I won't interact with users who don't have an age stated in their bio.

There have to be boundaries, given the content of my writing. But I've also come around to the realization that I'm not capable of policing every interaction. Tumblr is a public forum. Minors following me makes me uncomfortable. But by the same token, my work is clearly labeled at 18+ and so is my blog.

There's a lot of explicit content out there for minors if you really think about it. In my high school freshman English class we talked about the book "The Color Purple." Believe me, that was explicit and we were only 14. Any minor with a library card and a Google browser can access a lot more intense content than what I write. I hope they're all being safe, but I can't have a melt down blocking spree again.

I'm not a cop, I'm not a parent, and what minors consume is down to them and the adult responsible for them. If I know someone is a minor I'll block them, should I notice they're trying to interact with me. Otherwise, I'm not purging my followers ever again. It's too much drama. I'd rather leave Tumblr than do that twice. I'm tired and I'm starting to work on my post graduate classes, I work full time in a demanding job, I'm in the process of editing my novel, and trying to keep up with my personal life. Quite literally, I don't have time to block. Writing fanfic is supposed to be my fun time. Let's keep it that way.

Due to the fact that some people I blocked were later unblocked after I took a closer look at their blogs, I'm posting a full explanation below. A quick summary is this:

After only writing for three months, I'd amassed 500 followers. On Monday I blocked almost 200 of them. Then I reviewed my block list and editing down some people who were prematurely blocked. [I assume the anon is one of the unblocked who had me disappear from their dash. Sorry!] This blocking thing isn't sustainable. In the future I'll run my blog differently as far as interaction goes in an effort to be responsible.

Continue reading for the saga of:

The Great Blocking Spree and Existential Crisis of an Erotic Fanfic Writer.

The Blocking Spree:

On Monday I realized a thirteen year old was following me and interacting with my work. This creeped me out.

*Commence blocking spree*

Then I realized how daunting my followers list was. I had 500 followers prior to Monday. That day I blocked about 200 people (some of them prematurely - more on that later.) So after the daunting task of trying to assume, to check bios for ages, to review blog content and determine the user's age, I was tired. Today, I even took a moment to reconsider if I wanted to use Tumblr. Because if all this is my responsibility, maybe I don't have the time or dedication to manage it. When I can be chill, I try to be. This attitude also affected by blocking. It contributed to me unblocking people. When I was doing the blocking spree, I'd give people with no age in their bio a fair shot by reviewing their posts.

I blocked some bot accounts, then a bunch of blank blogs, some ambiguous people who very well could be of age. For the first 100 followers I was pretty aggressive. Then my attention span dropped off and I was a bit more ambivalent. I realized I was doing a crappy job of moderating and wondered what the point was.

The point was that the thirteen year old interacting with my work freaked me out. When I found two sixteen year old followers, it pushed me to continue the purge.

So on I go, blocking. I'm so responsible for doing this, right? But my methodology is crap. What is context for being an adult? Someone had posted about budgeting advice. I thought the budgeting advice was too good for it not to have come from an adult. But my father's a financial advisor and to be honest, I could have given that level of advice at fifteen just from osmosis. Someone had pictures of themselves entering their marijuana plants in the Oregon State Fair. Okay, you've got to be over 18. I didn't block them. Someone else complained about their stats professor and I didn't block them. But in retrospect, one of my high school friends got permission to take college level math courses when we were seniors. She was seventeen when she had a stats professor. The thought circles back - what am I accomplishing here? Next, I went back and unblocked someone who ranted about her Tinder matches being 60 year old men. I wondered if their post was even real. I've lied on the internet before. Nonetheless, I persisted and worked through all 500 followers. When I was done I had 312 followers left.

Post Blocking Spree Existential Crisis:

I know that all the blocking in the world can't stop a teenager who wants to read smut fanfic. I'm not much for posting on social media and I'm not used to a lot of anonymous interaction online. Honestly, I got rid of my SM accounts during college when I felt it was wasting my time. This is the first time I've really use a social media site to post content since college. My twitter account is unused, my Instagram is for close personal friends only, and my TikTok is for mindless consumption of cat videos. (I've trained the algorithm to feed me only cat videos, it's great and I highly recommend it.) I don't post on TikTok, so I don't consider it full use, just lurking.

Okay, Alice, get back to the point....

Right, being anonymous on social media. My blocks are a fence and it's based on self identification from the blogs that follow me. I have little faith in underage consumers to out themselves. I have even less faith in their honesty or respect for an adult's boundaries. They're at a stage in life where they want to push the boundaries. Telling them no is all but inviting them in. I did my blocking spree because I was worried about backlash from someone's parents. But what reasonable judge would come after a fanfic writer? Come on. Logical thoughts but me emotional distress was still brewing.

Why I am the one responsible for who clicks the follow button on my blog? I've always clearly identified what I write and tagged my work as smut.

That thought snapped me out of my whirlwind of anxious thoughts. So I started looking into the laws. My regular work involves medicine, not the legal profession, so I was lost. I found some state level laws that made me glad I'd gone on a blocking spree. California and Florida have specific language in their laws about 'providing minors with explicit content.' But what exactly is that? What I researched applied to the following activities: co-writing smut fanfic with other people, sexting, roleplaying and online messaging.

I run a fanfic blog with limited interaction. I've never done an ask. I don't roleplay on here and I don't want to.

The blocks weren't personal. They were partly based on the awareness that Tumblr is an interactive site and a place that's had a problem with child pornography in the past. But I'm not the smut police. I suck at blocking, and I doubt I did a good job of purging my followers list. This is when it hit me that boundaries are only what I can enforce. They've never been about how other people relate to me, only how I relate to them. (Wow. I've never sounded more like my mother in my life...) After this thought, I started considering what actions I ought to take if I wanted to keep posting fanfic on Tumblr.

My Post Blocking Spree Clarity...

It's up to me who I interact with. I don't have to reply to every comment and re-blog, but I'd like to. I'm stuck between wanting to write for everyone and handling interactions on a social media site that's mostly anonymous.

The fact remains: I can't be the smut police because I suck at it.

What I've decided is that I'll make it very clear on my blog that this is an 18+ space where I publish erotic fanfiction. Smut will always be appropriately marked. I'm not going to interact with reviews, re-blogs, and messages from accounts who don't have their age in their profile. I won't include them in my tag list either. The internet is a public forum. Just as with publishing erotica, once it's out there online for download, it's done. As a ghost writer and an author, I don't control who buys my original fiction, which is just as spicy as my fanfiction. (Trust me, it's explicit. I once had a romance editor tell me I should dial it back on the smutty parts of a novel because "it's a lot of sex for a non-erotica market.") The key difference on Tumblr is about interaction. And that's something I can control. I can decide when I reply to other users. What brought me around to this was the realization that even after the blocking spree, I can't review every single like I get. That's an amount of time and mental energy that's beyond me. Just the past two days have been exhausting and sapped my will to write. Which sucks because I need to go write the next chapter of "Restitution" before tomorrow.

I think the reasons I went on the blocking spree are nuanced. The thirteen year old freaked me out. So did the other underaged people who had ages in their bios. But it also relates to my work. In my job I've seen some nasty child abuse cases. Early on in my career, when I was a 23 year old new hire, I was working on an autopsy for a child abuse victim who'd been murdered by their parent. It was so terrible and graphic, I had to ask one of my older colleagues to take the case. This colleague didn't like me. But she took one look at my face and took the file. She closed out the review without a question and never brought it up again to anyone. I was very grateful. Where I used to work (and where this incident took place) was a major city that holds the unfortunate title of being the human trafficking capital of the US. And something I learned working there was that most human trafficking victims go with their captors willingly. In two years at that job, I never saw one who'd been kidnapped from a dark alley like you see on TV. They were all groomed on social media and thought they were escaping their families (who were often overbearing, toxic, or dysfunctional) for a get away with friends. It was a fun adventure with their internet buddies, until it wasn't.

In retrospect, the underage interaction I found on my blog made me react because of what I've been through. The autopsy case kept coming back to me today while I was at work and I've finally untangled my emotions enough to figure out what caused my melt down. When I was blocking, I was feeling an anxious motivation that I know can only stem from the stress I deal with at my job. Don't feel sorry for me about this - I know my work in medicine helps a lot of people and it's a tremendously satisfying career.

Our Saga's Resolution & How I'm Going to Deal With This In The Future...

- - - - -

In post block clarity, I offer this conclusion:

I'm writing on a public forum. My work is appropriately tagged as smut. In the future, I will also use the tag #no minors to help with filtering. I've always asked underage people not to interact. And on a public forum, what more can I reasonably do? Going forward I will only interact with those who have their age posted in their bio. But blocking sprees and policing every interaction isn't feasible.

I'll review how I'm going to run my tag lists as well. I need to think it over and let my followers know my decision as to if I'll continue using them. Because tagging is definitely interaction and my current tag list was not screened at all. *face palm*

Finally, to my readers who have blank blogs or don't have an age listed. I respect your right to privacy and I'm careful with my personal information as well. But I've also had an uncomfortable two days. If you've lasted through this venting session until now, you must understand that I'm upset by underage interaction. I'm setting my own boundaries and going forward, I'll own my side of the internet. No interaction from me, unless I know your age. Full stop - no exceptions. I think it is reasonable for me to suggest that you leave something on your blog that signifies you are not a minor, whatever that may be. Someone who I didn't block that stands out in my memory had a bio that said "90s baby." It was simple, direct, and left no doubt they were over 18. No age reveal and not even a name. If you put something like this on your blog it'll help explicit content creators feel more comfortable about their interactions.

I went on a spree this Monday and I admit to being heavy handed and aggressive about pruning followers. I had an emotional reaction due to work stress and I didn't think things through logically. I'm relieved for the chance explain myself and set new boundaries that I'm capable of sticking to in the future. But remember - the block button is on my side of the screen. At the end of the day, you might be unhappy with me for the block, but it's my button, it's my blog, and I'll use it as I see fit.

Thank you for reading.

#tw vent #tw child abuse #tw trauma #tw violence #tw human trafficking #penguin blog update #new rules #i'm sorry #its been a long week #I almost left tumblr over this #blocking spree #clarity #smut #no minors #smut fanfiction #smut writing #smut blog #I talk about my work trauma from medicine #boundaries

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notmydayjob · 4 years

Text

Requited

This is my manifesto of my love for criminal minds and the lovely Dr. Spencer Reid. Also I know some of the ages are a little fucked up but just suspend your disbelief for a second.

Summary: You grew up with Spencer but after meeting again years later due to one of Spencer’s cases you find yourselves rekindling an old friendship and maybe a little more.

Warnings: all the angst you’d expect from a CM episode, and sassy sexy Dr. Reid being adorable.

It’s been five, no- six years since you’ve seen him. You tried not to keep track but that was easier said than done. He was your best friend in Elementary and Highschool but as you both grew up you grew apart as well.

You and Spencer were the most unlikely of friends as kids, the same age but nearly three grades apart. That of course was Spencer’s fault. You met in the third grade after your family moved to Nevada and Spencer was the only kid who was also sitting alone. After a while, you made more friends but none of them were as interesting as Spencer. He could read so fast and he knew so many things and sometimes you could even get him to recite books from beginning to end for you. He asked you things that you’d never really thought about like why the sky is blue or why the grass is green and when you said you didn’t know he’d explain it to you with big confusing words until you’d make him simplify it for you. You weren’t dumb but you weren’t Spencer, and part of you always knew he wouldn’t stick around. When you went to the fourth grade he went to fifth, spent two months there, and then went to sixth. You thought that would be the last time you saw him.

On your first day of Freshman year, you headed to the cafeteria with your friends and when you sat down and looked up you saw a kid your age, with long hair that curled at the ends, and big glasses, and was rapidly flipping through the pages of a book. One of your friends made a snarky comment and the other laughed but you stood up and quickly walked other to the boy, you honestly didn’t know why. Maybe it was because you hadn’t seen him since third grade or maybe it was because he had gotten so handsome in your time apart.

“Spencer?” You said to the boy which made him shoot his head up in confusion. You waited for a second to see if he’d recognize you but after a moment of silence, you continued. “It’s (Y/n), we knew each other in elementary school.”

“Oh, yeah I remember. I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you.” He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and smiled up at you. Spencer didn’t really smile that much, not at people at least, but he always smiled at you. You sat down next to him, eager to get caught up.

“I figured you’d be finished with college by now,” You joked which caused him to chuckle softly.

“Next year, I’m a senior now.” He recognized the apprehension in his voice. Even when you were little Spencer got teased a lot for being ahead you couldn’t even imagine what it was like now.

“Are you even human?” You giggled. “What are you even reading that you haven’t read before?”

And so your friendship picked up again, exactly where it left off. Now instead of why the sky was blue, it was theoretical mathematics and physics.

The two of you spent the whole year together, you’d go to the library and he’d finish three books in the time you could finish chapter one, and still, if you were lucky you could get him to read to you. You were there when he got his acceptance letter from Caltech, he was so nervous when opening the email but he’d never admit it. Once you forced him to open the letter and you began to read it but by that time he had already finished it.

“I got in.” He said almost too calmly.

“What?” You gasped. He spun around in his swivel chair and looked up at you with a smile.

“I got in!” He shot up and wrapped his arms around you. You were taken slightly aback at the physical contact. Spencer was a slight germaphobe but you still found opportunities to invade his personal space...respectfully.

And then again he left. The good news was Caltech was only a few hours away, you still saw each other on weekends, sometimes you’d come to visit his dorm and sometimes he’d come back home and visit you. You were also there when he had his mom hospitalized, you both knew it was the best thing to do but it was still hard for him to do. That was the first time you ever saw him cry, not when his dad left although you were sure that he did just never around you. Now Spencer cried, he tried to hide it from you but he couldn’t, you would wrap your arms around his waist and let him lean down to cry onto your shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” He’d say to you after he had calmed himself.

“Why?” You asked as you ran your fingers through his long hair.

“I never want you to see me weak.” He’d always say.

“You’re the strongest person I know.”

As your senior year came to an end this time it was time for you to make the decision, stay, or go. Ultimately you stayed, applied to somewhere local, you didn’t want to admit that it was because Spence was close or because the town reminded you of him but you couldn’t deny it played a role. You hated Las Vegas, it was full of gamblers, pimps, and prostitutes and the heat was terrible. Sometimes Reid would take you to the Strip and you’d watch the people come and go, maybe that’s when he decided he wanted to be a profiler, you could sit there for hours and listen to him get all into people's business. Those were the memories you stayed for.

Your third year was when Spencer left for Virginia, two Ph.D. 's in Math and Engineering, working on a third in Sociology and he chose to go to the FBI Academy. You were so proud of him but your heart broke to watch him get on that plane. You both cried when you said goodbye at the airport.

“I’ll call you every day.” He said, and for a while, he did but after that first night when you stayed up past midnight waiting for him to call but he never did. That was when you realized it would never be the same. You spoke to him every day, every week, every month, once a year, but now six years since he left and you haven’t even spoken to him in five. Until today.

“What the hell is happening?” You asked your boss as you saw a group of men and women going through the files in your office.

“The Feds,” He nodded at the group on the other side of the windows. “They wanted information on a kid you used to work with...David...Dave… the last name started with an O I think.”

“Davies Ortega?” You knew exactly who he meant.

“Yeah, yes! They want everything you have on him, they have a warrant but you weren’t here-”

“Yeah well, I am now.” You sighed as you pushed through your colleagues who were watching with confusion.

“If you wanted to see my files you could have asked nicely.” You said as you came through the door.

“Dr. L/n, I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner with the FBI, were you Davies Ortega’s psychiatrist?” A tall man with dark hair turned to you.

“Yes sir, I was.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “You have a warrant?” A dark-haired woman handed you the paper.

“You got something to hide?” A fit man with dark skin questioned.

“The Ortega’s are a rich white-collar family and the father is the DA, I’m protecting my practice.” You quipped back. “Your warrant says you have the right to the Ortega files and the files you’re going through aren’t those so if you’d please stop invading my client’s privacy I’ll show you what you’re looking for.” Each of them dropped the files they were holding.

“Thank you,” You said and then made your way to your desk, opening the locked cabinet beneath it and pulling out several thick files.

“That much?” The dark-haired woman said. You chuckled softly and then pulled out yet another stack of files.

“That much.” You corrected.

“Ma’am we’re going to have to go through all of this and ask you a series of questions, I think it would be best if we did this at the police station… for privacy.” Agent Hotchner motioned to the crowd around your office.

“I think that’d be best.” You agreed.

The ride to the police station was horribly quiet and incredibly awkward. Luckily though it was very short. You walked through the front doors following Hotchner, you caught a glimpse of Davis’s photo pinned to a board next to the photos of several women dead. You couldn’t make out too much because someone called out your name from behind you, not Dr. L/n but Y/n. You quickly turned to see a tall thin, brown-haired man with his hands awkwardly in his pockets, Spencer.

“Oh my god,” You smiled as you rushed towards him, standing up on your toes, practically jumping and wrapping your arms around him. He wrapped his arms around your waist in return and tucked his face into the crook of your neck.

“The two of you know each other.” An unfamiliar voice said from your left side. You and Spencer jumped apart like two teenagers caught together behind a closed door.

“Uh, yeah,” Spencer spoke up. “We grew up together. We were uh… close.”

“Close, huh?” The blonde-haired woman smirked.

“What are you doing here?” Spencer turned his attention back to you.

“Davies Ortega,” You said simply to gauge his reaction. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, that’s not good.

“You’re his doctor?”

“I was,” You nodded.

“Dr. L/n, we shouldn’t do this here, follow me.” You grinned at Spencer before following Hotchner to a small room with a table and mirror, you were sure it was a window from the other side. You were left alone to fiddle with your thumbs and try to work out what was happening. After about 15 minutes the door opened...and Reid came in.

“I’m surprised you’re allowed to talk to me.” You grinned, that probably didn’t look good because of the circumstances but you couldn’t help it.

“I spent the last ten minutes convincing them that you would tell any of us what we need, but you’d be more comfortable with me, wanna prove me right?” He cocked his head at you.

“Anything for my genius.” Although it had been five years it felt just like you’d been teenagers walking on the strip just yesterday. “You think Davies killed those girls, he’s your unsub.” Spence talked about this stuff all the time even when he was in college, you knew how this worked.

“Yeah,” Spencer spoke softly and nodded. “That doesn’t surprise you?”

“No,” You said hesitantly. “I know this is being recorded, will the parents see?”

“No,” Spencer said, slightly confused. “Are you afraid of them?”

“I’m not afraid.” You said quickly and defensively and he raised his eyebrows at you. “ I told them that Davies needed to be institutionalized and they nearly got me fired. Rich people can do whatever they want no matter if their child is a total sexual sadist.”

“Sexual sadist?” He repeated. “Do you really think he is or are you exaggerating?”

“Oh come on Spence, you don’t need to do that.” You sighed. “I know he’s messed up, you know he’s messed up it doesn’t matter who says it doesn’t change that.” He chuckled slightly, he should have known he couldn’t pull anything without you knowing.

“Why did Davies come to see you?” Reid continued.

“He was adopted when he was six, removed from his birth mother’s custody for neglect. The Ortega’s adopted him not long after, he went from having nothing to anything he wanted, he began to act out and they couldn’t handle that. He killed the family cat too.” You explained. “Even they knew that was a warning sign.”

“Why’d he stop coming?”

“I suggested hospitalization, they didn’t like that so they found a new psychiatrist. No matter where they took him it was the same though. Eventually, they got him institutionalized just last year he turned eighteen and there was nothing they could do. With this kid, it was never a matter of if… it was when.”

“Alright, thank you, we’re gonna need to keep the files for now but you can go soon.” He sighed and stood up to leave.

“Wait, Spencer.” You stopped him. He turned to look at you and it nearly took the breath out of your lungs but you still continued. “You’re about to go to his house right?” He nodded.

“He used to write stories, they’re in my files, he wrote about killing but they all ended the same way. He said before they could take him he would kill as many officers he could before and then himself.”

Reid nodded slowly, understanding that was your way of telling him to be careful. You followed Reid out of the room and he told you to wait with the blonde-haired woman who would clear you to leave.

“My name’s J.J.” She offered you her hand. This wasn’t the introduction of an FBI agent but instead the introduction of a friend of a friend. “Wanna help me go through these files?”

You sat down with J.J. and helped her go through the files, every once and a while she’d ask you about Spencer.

“So were you ever...with… Spencer?” She asked with a hint of suggestion.

“No,” You chuckled. “I had a crush on him when we were teenagers but that was all.”

“Did he feel the same way?” She pushed a little further.

“Spencer is about as transparent as glass, I never got the feeling he did.” You tried to leave as much emotion out of your voice as possible.

“If I’ve learned anything from working with Spencer it’s that he can lie if he has to.” She chuckled.

Not long after you saw Spencer, Hotchner, the agents whose names you learned were David Rossi, Emily Prentiss, and Derek Morgan. They were all rushing out, wearing blue FBI vests, and fully armed. Spencer walked over to you.

“Hotch and the Sheriff said you can go, what are the two of you up to?” He said as he looked at the messy table of papers.

“I’m just helping J.J. with the files.”

“Well, we uh- gotta go.” He held out his last word, you knew he was just as worried he wouldn’t see you again as you were. “When we’re done… I’ll call you. I swear.” You just nodded and wrapped your arms around his waist before once again watching him leave.

“Doctor,” Hotchner called you. “You’re free to go,”

“Yes, sir I know…” You said apprehensively.

“But?”

“I think I’d like to stay until you get back,” Maybe you wanted to know what would happen to Davies, maybe you wanted to make sure Reid was okay, either way, he didn’t ask, he just nodded and left.

You sat there with J.J. for an hour as the team checked out the house and confirmed Davies was inside. J.J. got a message on her radio that they were going in, you both sat quietly at the table holding your breath and waiting for more news. Ten minutes went by before you got the next message.

Shots fired; Federal Officer down.

J.J. clasped her hand over her mouth and put her other over yours reassuringly.

Suspect has been injured and is in the ambulance but should make it.

A small wave of relief washed over you but the words Officer down were still stuck in your head. After about half an hour people began filing into the station, Hotchner, Prentiss, Rossi, Morgan, and finally Reid.

You and J.J. let out a sigh of relief seeing the whole team alive and well. Reid smiled at you, clearly amused by the worry on your face.

“You seem stressed.” He grinned.

“Oh shut up.” You smacked his chest before wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in it. “What about the officer?”

“SWAT got hit in the leg, he'll be fine.”

“I was worried.” You finally admitted before pulling away. “So, when do you guys go home?”

“Tomorrow morning, maybe tonight if Hotch is in a hurry.” He shrugged and you felt his demeanor change. “Y/n… I have to finish up here but afterward, would you want to… I don’t know, hang out?” His hands sat uncomfortably in his front pockets and his shoulders tense.

“Yeah Spence, I’d like that.” You smiled up at him.

“Cool,” He nodded with a proud and yet relieved smile on his face. “Meet me at The Strip...our spot, at 10 o’clock.”

“Of course Dr. Reid.”

“I’ll see you then Dr. L/n.”

The Strip was huge but you knew exactly where he wanted you to meet him, at the corner of the fountains facing the Ferris Wheel. By the time you got there at ten, you saw him leaning against the railing waiting for you.

“You got off early.” You said to alert him that you were there.

“Yeah,” He seemed relieved that you showed up. You stood next to him and leaned onto the railing as well. “I didn’t know you got your doctorate.”

“Yeah, I got my masters and started working but did online courses for my doctorate while I was practicing.” Sometimes you got self-conscious talking about education with Spencer and he seemed to notice.

“That’s impressive.” He said genuinely.

“I never would have done it without you.” You shrugged off his compliment.

“Me?” He turned to face you, his attention now peaked.

“Yeah, I mean...yeah, you always used to talk about Dahmer and Gacy and how fucked up their childhoods were. It just wanted to stop it before it happened but clearly… that didn’t work.”

“Hey,” He placed his hand on your shoulder. Spencer shockingly hadn’t changed much in the six years you’d been apart. His hair was longer than it used to be and much messier and curlier, he dressed slightly different as well. As a teenager, Spencer rarely wore clothes that accommodated his tall but thin stature, and he never quite knew how to style his clothes. Now, his clothes fit well, his long sleeves were rolled up to reveal his forearms and he wore a black sweater vest and a dark blue tie. He looked mature and put together but at the same time, still kind of looked like his mom dressed him for the science fair. His socks still didn’t match.

“That’s not your fault Y/n,” He looked you in the eyes making sure you were really hearing him. “Like you said it was just a matter of when. I talk to these kinds of guys every day, they’re irrational.”

“Yeah… I know.” You sighed heavily. A silence hung in the air, neither of you wanting to talk about the events of the day but not knowing how to proceed.

“So you like Psychiatry?” He said with genuine interest.

“Yeah,” You said unconvincingly, causing him to raise his eyebrows like you. “Well, yes and no. My boss is a total pushover and my co-workers are dramatic and invasive. I like what I do but not necessarily where I do it.”

“So what keeps you here?” He furrowed his eyebrows and leaned all of his weight on his right arm so that he could face you.

“Honestly,” You sighed and looked around, trying to come up with the best answer. “Nothing.” I guess that was easier than expected.

“What about your family?”

“Everyone’s all spread out by now, retired in Florida, the woods in North Dakota, you name it.”

“You hate it here, why have you stayed so long?” Spencer said, obviously confused now. He knew better than anyone that you should have gotten out of Vegas the second you turned 18. “Why did you even go to college here?”

“Cause you were close.” You looked down at your hands, suddenly feeling how long it had been since you’d talked to him.

“You stayed because of me?” His voice softened and was nearly inaudible.

“Yeah, I guess I did.” You looked into the fountain, squinting at the lights shining in your eyes. “We have good memories here, I guess that’s why I stay.”

When you finally looked back up at him he was already staring at you. You were tempted to dart your eyes away but you found it impossible to look away from him. And then faster than anything you’d ever experienced his hand was on the side of your face and lips were on yours. His hand was gentle on the soft skin of your face and it traveled slowly to the back of your neck desperately bringing you closer to him. Your hands rested on his chest, fingers digging into the coarse wool of his sweater in an attempt to keep him there. With one step towards you, he closed the gap between your bodies and pressed you against the railing. You arched your back, pushing your body against him to prevent you from bending back over the railing. Spencer’s other arm wrapped around your waist pulling you impossibly close to him.

The kiss had started slow and unsure but once you reciprocated it became desperate and hungry for what both of you had been wanting since you were teenagers. Spencer’s tongue grazed against your bottom lip requesting entrance which you gladly gave him. Your tongues danced together, not a fight for dominance but a dance between two equals trying to explore every piece of their partner. Spencer’s teeth softly grazed against your bottom lip pulling it between his before he reluctantly pulled his face away from yours but still kept his body pressed against yours. Both of you stood there not daring to move away from each other as you gasped for breath.

“I think I’m ready to leave.” You said between breaths.

“And go where? Virginia?” Spencer was obviously kidding but the way you looked up at him to gauge his reaction showed that you were completely serious. “Oh, Y/n no, you can’t uproot your life for me.”

“Oh come on Spence!” You slipped out from under him getting space to gain some confidence in your argument. “I hate it here, it’s hot, the people are terrible, I’m ready to quit my job after today’s fiasco.” Spencer just shook his head and chuckled, you continued.

“Come on Spence I love the East Coast, the people, the seasons.”

“The seasons? That’s why you want to come?” His smile turned into a proud smirk as he placed his hands on either side of you, pressing you against the railing.

“And good company.” You smiled before pulling him down to meet your lips.

“I missed you so much.” He said between kisses. You went to say something back but before you could Spencer’s phone went off in his pocket. He dropped his head and let out a loud sigh that made you giggle.

“Yeah, Hotch.” He said formally but rolled his eyes and grinned at you. There were a few seconds of silence but you could hear a deep muffled voice through that phone. “Actually, I was planning on staying for a while, I’ll catch my own flight back.” The two men exchanged a few more formalities before Spencer casually put his phone back in his pocket.

“You’re staying?” You looked up at him with a timid smile before he wrapped his arm around your shoulder and leaned his body against yours.

“Well, I gotta help you pack.”

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid imagine #mgg x reader #mgg imagine #mgg #matthew gray gubler #matthew gray gubler x reader #matthew gray gubler imagine

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sachigram · 5 years

Text

Hearts Like Ours Chapter 12

((click here to read on ao3!!!))

The thing about Izaya is, he's nothing if not adaptable. Shizuo would probably make some crass comment about parasites adapting to harsh conditions to stay alive no matter what, and Izaya really wouldn't be able to refute it. Shizuo can have his finer intellectual moments, and Izaya really would do whatever it takes to stay alive because he's too afraid of an alternative.

He sighs wearily from under the hood covering his face. He's definitely been in this situation before, and having been kidnapped again certainly gives him a headache, but otherwise he's just annoyed. It's really not the most opportune time in his life for this, but Izaya left his apartment to clear his head, and he's always done his best thinking on his toes, after all.

“One of the most unpopular men in the city, and you walk around alone after dark,” an annoyingly familiar voice says. “Unwise, Izaya-san. You've grown sloppy in your hubris.”

“Living in fear is hardly living at all, right? Not that you're particularly scary, Watanabe-san. I was speaking metaphorically,” Izaya responds breezily. The noise of someone approaching him has him bracing himself for impact, and he isn't surprised when he's punched across the face.

“We should have gagged you, too.”

Izaya could point out they could have done a lot of things differently. They could have knocked him unconscious so he didn't know exactly how far he had been taken, could have been more subtle in their approach, could have announced their plans less...theatrically. Izaya isn't used to dealing with amateurs so seriously; it's not something he lowers himself to, but Junichi forced Izaya into this, and Izaya isn't one to play his cards until he's got a winning hand. He smiles.

“Why would you gag me when you want so desperately to hear what I've got to say?” Izaya asks. “You might as well take off the bag over my head, too. I hardly care where we are.”

“Might as well let you look at my face before I kill you,” Junichi agrees. He inhales, probably smoking a cigarette, from the sounds of it, and it reminds Izaya of Shizuo, even more so when he smells the scent wafting over him. Izaya blinks when the bag is removed, his eyes sensitive. He gets a good look at Junichi for the first time in a long while.

Junichi is on the shorter side, not that Izaya considers himself tall. What Junichi lacks in height, he makes up for in muscle, and on his arms and likely his torso are typical winding tattoos usually found on Yakuza members. Junichi might have been considered attractive at one point in time, but age hasn't been kind to him, and his hairline is receding almost comically. The lines on his face are even worse than the last time Izaya saw him, but then again Junichi has been through a great ordeal thanks to Izaya himself.

“You're looking well, Izaya-san,” Junichi says with a grin. He puts his thumb under Izaya's chin, swiping at the blood dribbling from Izaya's busted lip.

“Yeah? You look like shit,” Izaya says, still smiling, and Junichi laughs.

“So will you very soon. A pretty face won't do you much good here. None of my boys swing that way. Unlike you, right? You've been fucking around with that bartender.”

“He lost that job a long time ago, actually. I got him fired from it because it was funny. The two of us aren't exactly friends.”

“Trying to protect him, huh? Good plan, but it won't work. He's hardly left your side these last few months. You're really going to tell me he's been staying at your place and hasn't had his way with you yet?” Junichi crosses his arms and looks down, one of his bushy eyebrows raised in disbelief. “You've got a reputation for being a slut.”

“Oh, have I?” Izaya asks. In all honesty, sex has always bored him. It wasn't required to get what he wanted in his line of work, but he never said anything against the rumors that circulated around him. He's spent a lot of time behind closed doors with many higher ups, and if people thought he was being fucked, why did it matter? If anything it cemented him as someone powerful, someone who was important to the Awakusu-Kai and various other factions, even lowly color gangs rising by the day. Izaya never cared what they said about him so long as they knew he wasn't easily expendable.

“Yeah. You do. Gotta say, I do see the appeal in stuffing your mouth, but unfortunately I don't want your last moments to be enjoyable.” Junichi takes another drag on his cigarette and smiles before he reaches down and rubs the cigarette out against Izaya's hand. Izaya doesn't give him the satisfaction of flinching.

“A missed opportunity for you, I'm sure. I'm good with my tongue,” Izaya says, focusing on his anger and refusing to yield to the pain. This is nothing. He's been through worse and he'll go through worse still. He thinks briefly of the monster-like version of Shizuo with dead eyes that's been haunting his dreams, and he laughs because that version of Shizuo is so ridiculously inaccurate that Izaya can't believe he was ever frightened.

The human mind is funny like that.

His laughter earns him another punch, but all in all, it was worth it.

“So,” Izaya says, licking at the blood on his lip. His right eye will likely be swollen shut later, but he'll deal with that once it happens. “You decided to snatch me up and bring me to your...hovel. What's next? Are you going to reveal your tragic backstory and try to make me feel contrite for my actions? Because honestly, you've been pathetic until now, and I'd like to add more dimension to you for my own sake. Nothing in life is worse than being bored.”

“You really don't know how to shut up, do you?” Junichi leans down, putting his hands on the chair Izaya is tied to. He looks into Izaya's eyes, and the crazed glint is obvious, but Izaya is anything but afraid of him. “You think this is boring? I've got five guys outside this door who could tear you limb from limb without lifting a finger. I've got copies of your precious files from your personal desktop. I've got your sisters' school schedules and your little boyfriend is being paid a visit from some of my boys as we speak.”

“I'd be more concerned about these boys of yours, if I were you. Not just because of who you sent them after, but because referring to them as your boys is very creepy.”

Junichi glares at him, scrutinizing Izaya's face as if he's trying to decipher whether Izaya is truly afraid or not.

“Are you really this angry at me for getting you arrested? I've done it to Shizu-chan and he just tried to kill me outright, none of these silly games. Or is this about your nephew's death? You realize I wasn't even here when it happened. How could I have been involved?” Izaya asks. If Junichi truly wants to kill him, stalling for more time will be in vain, but Izaya doesn't think that's the case. Extremists always have a manifesto of some sort, and Izaya is literally a captive audience.

“You're always involved,” Junichi hisses. He pushes away from the chair and turns his back to Izaya, lighting another cigarette.

“People assume I'm always involved, you mean. So you didn't get to blow up a building, so what? As if I'd go along with something like that. I don't like plans with no point to them, and if you truly knew me at all, you'd know the only side I'm on is my own, therefore betraying anyone is impossible.”

“You were involved!” Junichi snaps, whirling back around to face him. “I know you were! He died after I got out of going to prison, and you thought I hadn't suffered enough. You're involved with every gang in this city, and you think I believe you didn't send them after Ryu?”

“This paternal love of yours is truly sickening. As if you cared about that boy before he died. He only got involved with your schemes to impress you, and you never noticed him until he died for it. But it's easier to blame me, right? You can't own up to your own failures, and now—“ Izaya is struck once more, this time hard enough that he sees stars. Not good. He needs to stay conscious.

“Shut the fuck up, Izaya-san. Whatever you say now doesn't matter, don't you get it yet? I'm gonna make you suffer the way I have. You're going to lose everyone you care about and I'm gonna make you watch it happen.”

So this was the plan all along, then. Well. Izaya has to say, starting with Shinra was the obvious choice, because Shinra is a weak moron. But Junichi didn't include Celty, who defies all logic, into his plan, and of course Celty was the first person Shinra called after being stabbed. An incredibly powerful fairy bodyguard would scare anyone away from finishing the job.

As for his sisters, Izaya knows they've got their own means of protection. He keeps tabs on them at all times, and he has them trailed often, sometimes just for his own enjoyment because he knows they hate it. They also can hold their own in any fight. Izaya receives phone calls often from the academy because Mairu has been caught fighting and “terrorizing” other students. It makes him incredibly proud, though he's lectured her repeatedly on not being caught.

“If they're telling on you, you're not threatening them enough.” That's what he told her. She just rolled her eyes and told him he was a shitty brother.

And Shizuo... The idea that he could be done in by anyone in relation to this is laughable. Izaya is almost positive someone could drop a bomb directly on Shizuo, and he would survive just for the hell of it, not even knowing he almost died.

“Your plans could use a little polishing,” Izaya says after he spits out a mouthful of blood. “Then again, you haven't paid me to make them for you.”

Junichi merely grins at him, shaking his head.

“Bruised and bloody is a good look for you, Izaya-san.”

“Ah. I'll consider wearing it more often.”

Izaya watches Junichi pace around the room, likely waiting on a phone confirmation that Shizuo has been dealt with. Are they trying to kidnap him? Shoot him outright? Shizuo has been shot before and it barely fazed him, but if there are a lot of men, all with guns...? Izaya's stomach drops a bit. He doesn't want anything to happen to Shizuo because of this game he's been playing with Junichi. It's time to do something.

“So, you want me to suffer. The plan was to get rid of Shinra, set fire to my things, and then kill my sisters? But Shizu-chan was a wildcard here. You didn't expect him to be around, just like you didn't expect Celty to be there with Shinra. You're sloppy. Anyone who has ever spoken to Shinra knows about Celty, and as for Shizu-chan, I don't blame you there.” Izaya shrugs as best as he can. “He's always a wildcard. He messes up plans all the time.

“But even so, you haven't counted on so many things, like who exactly you're messing with here. Don't you know how dangerous it is to underestimate your opponents? Especially one so out of your league. I worried I was doing so to you, but then I remembered how stupid you are, and being here with you now has only solidified my suspicions. You're pathetically basic, Watanabe-san. Laughably so.”

“Oh yeah?” Junichi laughs, his grin wide and leering. His crazed eyes settle on Izaya. “And what have you got in store for me, Izaya-san? From your place tied up in that chair, it seems like you've been beaten already.”

“For starters, Shinra does business with the most dangerous men in this city, and he's made himself an asset for them. Shiki-san, in particular, found it in poor taste. I went directly to him upon my return and we negotiated some terms in dealing with you.”

“Bullshit. One of my guys was in that club when you sat with Shiki-san. He dismissed you. Heh, he called you a brat. I agreed with that.”

“As if that was our first meeting. We knew you had eyes on us, and I wanted you to believe Shiki-san didn't give a damn what happened to me. And truthfully, maybe he doesn't. But he likes my information, and he likes having Shinra around to tend to the injured, so it was bullheaded of you to overlook.”

“Where is he, then? If he's so invested in this, why the fuck isn't he here to save you and stop me?”

“Something else,” Izaya continues, “your little fire in my apartment. I had my secretary back up all my files onto her personal computer once I realized you were tragically obsessed with me. I kept the old, unimportant ones for you to peruse, and I allowed the fire to be set. I was on the couch, after all. Really, did you think I would be asleep with my door unlocked? Shizu-chan always forgets to lock it, because he's not used to being stalked. It's how I always got into his place before!”

It's clear Junichi doesn't buy it.

“So you were awake and you laid there while your things burned? You expect me to believe that?”

“I don't care if you do or not. It served its purpose, which was you thinking you had the upper hand, and as an added bonus, it made Shizu-chan more protective. With him hanging around, you'd hardly have the gall to attack me physically.” Izaya grins widely, remembering how it felt to be picked up and held tenderly by Shizuo that first time. He felt invincible.

“You're out of your mind, Izaya-san. I knew that already of course, but I don't know which is worse, you actually allowing all these things to happen to yourself, or you being desperate enough to lie about it to have me believe you're some untouchable god. I think you're a liar, and I think you're crazy enough to believe your own bullshit half the time.” Junichi moves closer, his hand reaching into his pocket. “Should have done this from the beginning. I'm gonna gag you so I don't have to listen to you anymore. Whatever it is you think, Izaya-san, you're still here, helpless. You've lost.”

Izaya can't help it. He laughs. Of all the ridiculous concepts, all the things he's gotten himself into, this takes the cake. He was just so bored before, and Junichi really is fun to mess with. But like all his toys, Izaya is tired of him now.

Oh well. Not everyone can occupy him like Shizuo. It's too much to ask of anyone.

“About that,” Izaya says, his arm stretched out in front of himself in an instant, the gleam of a knife at Junichi's throat, “next time you kidnap someone, maybe disarm them properly. And don't use rope, you has-been. Don't you know they're a relic?”

Junichi's face goes through a myriad of expressions, settling on fury. Izaya keeps the knife at Junichi's throat, reaching down with his other hand and cutting the ropes that bind him to the chair and the rope around his ankles.

“I've been kidnapped before, you know? Is this your first time holding someone captive?” Izaya laughs as he stands up, his back popping from his prior position. “How cute. Unfortunately, I'm the more experienced party here, so let me take the lead, ne?”

“So you were just fucking with me?” Junichi asks. He seems lost for a moment before his narrow. “You won't kill me. You don't have the balls.”

Izaya doesn't dignify that with an answer. He throws his knife directly down into Junichi's foot, another in his hand as soon as the first one left it. Junichi doubles over in pain, blood pouring from his injury, and when he looks up again, his eyes are full of malice.

“I told you already that you were beneath me,” Izaya says, leaning down to better look Junichi in the face. “You wanted to lecture me about hubris and not getting involved in things I don't understand, but here you are, at my feet where you belong.”

“I'm going to kill you,” Junichi hisses at him, spitting at Izaya's feet. “You hear me? If it's the last thing I do, I'm going to make that pretty face of yours twist in agony. You'll beg me for forgiveness as I take everything away from you, and my face will be the last thing you see.”

“A fate worse than death, truly, having to look at you in my final moments.” Izaya shrugs. “You really are cruel. I'll keep your threat in mind.”

“FUCK you!”

Izaya winces, narrowing his eyes. “Ah. I hate being yelled at.”

From his peripheral, he sees the door in the corner opening, some of Junichi's thugs gazing inside from all the racket. One of them lifts a gun, pointing it at Izaya while the rest of them trip over themselves trying to get inside and help their boss. Izaya runs for it, finding a pillar to duck behind. Where is he? An abandoned building? He looks around, thinking of how far he was driven, what around this area could be used as a hideout. He didn't see which direction they drove off in, but from the distance he supposes he's either in the old hospital scheduled to be demolished in a few weeks, or the local school that was recently shut down because a newer, better version was built instead a few blocks over. From the look of things, it's likely the hospital, as it seems unkempt and like it hasn't been cleaned in ages, and his suspicions are confirmed when he looks up at the pillar he's hiding behind, a sign above his head saying which direction the cardiovascular ward is in and which direction leads to the lobby.

“What to do...” Izaya muses to himself. He can keep running, try to make it out, but there are likely more men stationed at every exit. Jumping from the window could work, but he'd really rather refrain from keeping this charade going any longer. Still, he's outnumbered, and Izaya is quick on his feet, but not much use in an actual fight.

As he's deliberating, he hears a wrenching noise, and then some confused screaming. He blinks, gripping his knife tightly before he's peering out from behind the pillar. It's suddenly eerily silent, and it puts him on edge.

The sight he's greeted with is as comical as it is bizarre. Celty stands with her scythe drawn, some shadows binding the arms and legs of the men who were chasing him. At her feet is Junichi, who is being stared down by Shizuo, who is holding a door above him, threatening to crash down over Junichi's head. Behind them is...Shinra?

“Where the fuck is Izaya?! Tell me before I bash your fucking brains in!” Shizuo roars.

“He's over there! Over there!” Junichi is practically sobbing, pointing in Izaya's direction. “I barely touched him!”

“You expect me to believe you? HAH?! You send some goons after me to shoot at me, and you think I'll believe a goddamn word you say?!”

“Shizu-chan!” Izaya calls, stepping out so Shizuo can see him. He gets a good look at Shizuo, who appears to be bleeding profusely from his abdomen.

“Izaya!” Shizuo tosses the door down and leaves Celty to deal with Junichi as he sprints to where Izaya is. His relieved expression shifts to anger as he looks Izaya over. “He did this to you?”

“Did...? Oh.” Izaya remembers his own injuries. “I'm fine. Did you get shot?”

“Yeah. Real pain in the ass. Some guys showed up outside your building and shot at me. I beat their faces in and got this location from one of them before he passed out. I figured you were in danger.” Shizuo reaches out, fingers the bruises on Izaya's face, his eyes hard. “You're okay?”

“I'm not the one bleeding everywhere.” Izaya looks over to Shinra and Celty. “You really brought the whole cavalry. All for me? I'm touched.”

“I'm pissed the fuck off,” Shizuo growls. “Why do you have to get into shit like this all the time?”

“Isn't it fun to never be bored, Shizu-chan?” Izaya asks playfully, and he matches Shizuo's intensity when their lips clash together, Shizuo lifting him easily and devouring his mouth in a hungry, almost sinful way.

“You crazy bastard. Fuck you, making me worry. I'd kick your ass if I thought it'd do any good,” Shizuo huffs between kisses.

“You still could. Who knows, maybe I'd be into it?” Izaya smirks against Shizuo's mouth when Shizuo growls at him in warning.

“Oh, look! I knew it, Celty! They're a real pair of lovebirds now!” Shinra announces in a chipper voice. Izaya and Shizuo separate to glare at him. Celty is politely looking away, her posture seemingly bashful.

“Why are you here, Shinra? What good are you in a situation like this?” Izaya asks. He reaches his hand out to curl into Shizuo's hair, tugging lightly, and Shizuo hums at the contact.

“Every team needs a doctor!” Shinra says, flailing his arms a bit. “Besides, Shizuo-kun asked Celty and I both for help in dealing with you!”

“It was really more of your knowledge of where Junichi-san was,” Shizuo grumbles at him, carrying Izaya over. He kicks at Junichi's tied up body, rolling him over so they can look into his wide eyes. “What do we do with him now?”

“Hand him over to Shiki-san. He can deal with the dirty work.” Izaya hops out of Shizuo's arms and leers at Junichi. “I wasn't lying when I said Shiki-san had plans for you. You've really made him angry. Our agreement was that I'd lure you out, and here you are.”

“Izaya-kun, please don't tell me you've planned all this,” Shinra says with a frown. “Of course, I'd expect nothing less from you, but I really thought you'd learned at least one lesson about meddling in affairs.”

“I didn't plan any of it,” Izaya says breezily. “I'm just an informant, Shinra. I don't know why you paint me as some sort of mastermind. Look at my face! It's bruised and bloody. What mastermind lets themselves get beaten up?”

Shizuo is glaring at him openly, his expression saying exactly what he thinks of that explanation.

“Would you believe that I only planned a little of it?” Izaya amends.

“Don't do stuff like this by yourself anymore,” Shizuo says. “You could've died.”

“Ah, Shizu-chan, are you my partner in crime now?” Izaya taunts.

“Something like that. If I have to be.”

“Ahaha, Izaya-kun! Your face is priceless!” Shinra laughs until he doubles over from Celty's fist meeting his side.

Sorry about him.

Izaya glances at the typed message before returning Shizuo's steady gaze. Somehow, he has someone who cares this much about him and his antics, so much so that Shizuo roped Celty and Shinra into saving Izaya, who really isn't used to being saved. He could have gotten out of this alone, but having others is...easier.

“I'll tone down the theatrics, alright?” Izaya says, finally looking away from Shizuo's dark eyes.

“Damn straight. This could've been over months ago if you'd just told me where the crazy fucker was,” Shizuo says.

“There's no fun in that, Shizu-chan. You've got no eye for the finer details.”

“I'll leave those to you.”

Izaya laughs, shaking his head. He doesn't hesitate in taking Shizuo's hand when it nudges against his own.

“What a team we'll make, then.”

#shizaya #hearts like ours #izaya orihara #shizuo heiwajima #drrr!! fanfiction

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chickensarentcheap · 4 years

Text

Sanctuary - Chapter 21

Warnings: profanity but that’s about it

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @alievans007, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @valkyrie-of-the-light

They meet in a coffee house two clocks from their hotel; arriving separately, hoping not to draw attention to themselves. There was no way of telling of how far word had spread. If the news that a solider for hire had travelled out into the general community or if the people responsible very keeping it on the downlow in fear of escalating tension. There was already longstanding angst between the IRA and everyday folk; their acts of brutality and domestic terrorism were decades old and while silent, still had the propensity to flair up at a moments notice.

Tyler is already on his second extra large black coffee when Yaz arrives; the younger man casually slipping into the bench across from him, iPad in one hand, his own SAT in the other.

“That shit will kill you,” Yaz remarks, wrinkling his nose at how incredibly strong the brew smells; the colour as dark as fresh black ink.

“Too late. I’m already dead inside.” Tyler retorts, and removes his sunglasses and places them on the tabletop, followed by his personal cellphone.

Esme had sent him videos that the kids had made for him: Tanner bragging about how many popsicles he ate in one sitting, TJ showing off his black eye and swollen nose, and Mille proud as shit that she’d been the one who had inflicted the damage. She had no shame; she wasn’t sorry and refused to apologize and declared she would do it again in a heartbeat if he so as much breathed on her the wrong way. And then the baby; with his very first haircut, freshly erupted teeth, and a handful of words that seemingly cropped up over night.

The loneliness is intense. Those beautiful little faces and those cute, soft voices telling him how much they missed him. How much they loved him and couldn’t wait for him to come home.

He rubs his hands over his face. He’d managed to trim the beard. Had taken the clippers to his hair. Followed by a long, cold shower that did little to calm his nerves and worry but had successfully managed to aggravate every bit of arthritis that existed in his body.

“You look like shit,” Yaz comments, and then peers into his mug. “Black, huh?”

“Yeah. Like my soul.”

Yaz smirks, then orders a caramel latte from the waitress that drops two menus onto the tabletop. His eyes following her as she walks away; eyebrows arched as he admires the way her hips sway from side to side and the way her skirt just seems to hug each and every curve. “You look like shit,” he says, as he turns back to Tyler. “Get any sleep?”

“Not really. You?”

He shakes his head, and pushes one of the vinyl bound menus across the table. “Eat something for fuck sakes, can’t have you wasting away on and perishing from starvation in the middle of a job. Nik would beat my ass. And your wife would kill me.”

“You realize I could break you in half with my bare hands, yeah?” Tyler smirks, as he flips open his menu.

“I do. And do you realize I’ve actually had nightmares where that’s happened? Where I’ve pissed you off and you’ve just gone medieval on my ass? I’m not ashamed to admit that you scare the ever loving shit out of me. I’m glad we’re friends, man. I’m just saying. Because I really do not want you to kill me with a garden rake.”

“That’s played out. I’d use something more creative. Like a tire iron. Or a pitchfork.”

“Nothing surprises me about you anymore. So after we talked, I couldn’t turn my brain off. It was like it was in overdrive. Firing on all cylinders. I can’t wrap my head around this. I can’t figure out how they made us that quick. We didn’t go through any airports, we didn’t have to check through customs, there was no flight manifesto. At least not one with our real names. How?”

“They had us made before we even got off the plane. Probably before we even left Colorado. There’s someone inside. A mole. There has to be. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Maybe McCann? Maybe he is in on this. Maybe this is some big game.”

“I think it’s someone on the team. He even told me when we first met that he’d paid to get my information from someone and that’s how he tracked me down all the way in Guatemala.”

“How fucked up is that? That he actually showed up there and followed you? Like a goddamn stalker.”

“How fucked up is it that that’s not even the most messed up thing in all of this?” Tyler counters, and casts a glance towards his cell phone as it vibrates against the table. Taking the opportunity to check on the notification as the waitress returns with Yaz’ drink, and her phone number. The latter she boldly tucks into the breast pocket of his shirt before flashing a dazzling smile before taking their orders as if nothing even happened.

“Well shit…” Yaz’s eyes once more follow her backside as she heads to the kitchen with their requests. “…and she’s’ cute too!”

“And legal,” Tyler smirks, as he types out a quick reply to his wife’s text message.

“Fuck you,” Yaz mutters. “That was a complete mistake. I didn’t realize she was that young. You could have been my wingman. Had you not gone into the bathroom to get laid. And thanks for that, by the way. I had to piss in an alley out behind that bar.”

“Take it as a badge of honour to know your godson was conceived while you were taking a leak outside and taking one for the team.”

“You two conceive your kids in the most fucked up places, I swear. Is anything normal with you guys? Or did you just figure, ‘hey, we started this shit out during some craziness, let’s keep the trend going’?”

“Excuse me for not being vanilla like you. Which is why I have a very satisfied wife at home and why you have callouses on your palms and carpal tunnel.”

“Sometimes I really hate you, you know that? Think I should call her?”

“Why wouldn’t you? She’s cute. She’s obviously into you. She was brave enough to give you her number. Maybe she’s brave at other things.”

Yaz smirks. “I like the way you think. Maybe I don’t hate you after all. This never happens, you know. When we go somewhere together. You’re the one that is usually getting all the phone numbers. Which you don’t even use, by the way.”

“Why would I? I’m married. Happily.”

“At least pass them on to your boy. What is wrong with me? How long have I had to struggle as your sidekick? How long have I had to witness women tripping over themselves to get your attention? You and the blue eyes and all the muscles.”

Tyler grins. “I’m flattered, Yaz. I never knew you had a crush on me. If I swung that way, I’d probably give you a chance. I’d probably split you in half though. I don’t think you could handle all this.”

“You’re a very disturbed individual, did you know that? There’s something seriously wrong with you. You’re not my type anyway You’re too...pretty.”

Tyler snorts. “I’m pretty? You have some pretty messed up definition of pretty, then. The tattoos, the scars. How’s that pretty?”

“The eyes. The hair. The smile. The big arms.”

“Alright, alright. I’m getting a complex here. Quit flirting with me and let’s get down to business. What did you find out?”

“Quite a bit actually,” he powers up the iPad and leans it against the napkin holder and condiment dispenser at the edge of the table, so they can both see it. “It wasn’t that hard to find. And I’m honestly surprised none of us thought of doing it before. Looking into the wife. There’s some good stuff. First…” he taps on the screen and brings up a side by side picture of Heather McCann; one from her earlier years (either high school or college, Tyler can’t say for sure) and a current photo, before she’d been taken.

“She’s from New Zealand. Which we already knew. Born in Christchurch. May 29th, 1979. Her mother was heavy into the activism scene; protesting shit like pollution in the oceans, nuclear arms, animal cruelty, women’s rights. So on and so forth. A couple arrests under her belt. Nothing serious. Creating a public nuisance, assault on a police officer, vandalism. Nothing too scandalous. The father however, had quite the extensive criminal record.”

“He’s dead?”

“Killed. Ten years ago. While on vacation on the Bahamas. It was a hit. No doubt about. One to the back of his head.”

Tyler sips his coffee. “Execution style.”

“Exactly. Now, I couldn’t figure out what the hell he could have been involved in that led to that. So I did some more digging. His name was Alphonse Buckman, and this criminal record of his, there is some pretty serious shit. Racketeering, four counts of assault with a deadly weapon, money laundry, trafficking…”

“Another Amir Asif.”

“New Zealand’s own. And there’s more. Much more. We’re talking uttering death threats, threatening a public official, conspiracy to commit murder, accessory to murder. It just goes on and fucking on.”

“How was he even out on the street? With a list like that? He should have been doing at least fifty years if you add all of that up.”

“Money, Tyler. Money. This isn’t just some normal guy. He was the head of very prominent crime family in New Zealand.”

He frowns. “Didn’t McCann say that he met his wife while trying to extract someone from a crime family down there?”

“He wasn’t just extracting someone from any crime family. He was extracting them from this crime family.”

“Jesus fuck,” Tyler runs his hands over his face, rakes a hand through his hair, holding it away from his forehead.

“It gets better. So much better. Or worse. I’m not sure which. Remember what McCann told you? About his wife being a shop keeper?”

Tyler nods.

“That’s bullshit. Her grandmother was the shop keeper. Grandmother on the mother’s side. Remember that part, okay? Heather wasn’t just some innocent caught up in all of this. Just some random off the street. She’s the daughter of an international criminal mastermind. We’re talking a guy that was even wanted by Interpol and still managed to get off. Heather was the extract.”

“Wait…wait…you lost me. What?”

“Heather was who McCann was hired to extract. He was hired by the father. Because the mother had taken off with Heather to get her away from him. He wasn’t there to get someone away from a bad guy. He was working for the bad guy. A bad guy with extensive ties, to, you guessed it, the IRA.”

“This is fucked,” Tyler concludes. “This is quite possibly the most fucked up thing I’ve heard in a long time. That I’ve been mixed up in.”

“It was his very first job. As a mercenary. He left the IRA to become a soldier of fortune. And they took that as a huge slight. Because of all that he knows about them. And because he’s no doubt had to go after some of their members. He’s a traitor to them. But…”

‘Nothing good every comes after ‘but’, Yaz. Nothing.”

“He hasn’t just pissed off the IRA. He’s pissed off everyone associated with the ex father in law. Because he took money from them to do jobs that he never followed through with. We’re talking big money, Tyler. Like millions of dollars. Huge cash. So he’s got the IRA after him and everyone that still has ties and loyalty to his father in law. They both want him.”

“So there’s a huge pissing content going on between the IRA and these other guys.”

“Exactly. This is messed up. And I have seen some messed up shit. One word. Dhaka.”

“Still doesn’t explain the weird feeling I get from the wife,” he gives the waitress a polite smile as she returns with their food and cutlery.

“This is where it gets really interesting,” Yaz says, as he digs into his food, then shoots the waitress a thumbs up from across the coffee house. He swipes left on the tablet, bringing up school pictures of the McMann children. “This is Emma and Nicholas McMann. Michael and Heather McMann’s two children. Born here in Belfast. Not that that means anything, really, but just bare with me here. So McMann came home on the twelveth and found his place tossed. Completely trashed. And his wife and the kids missing and a letter, claiming to be from the IRA, saying they were responsible and that they’d be in touch. But he never called the police. He never once reported that his kids or his wife, had been taken.”

“Because he knew that the cops would find out about his own illegal shit.”

“Precisely. He spends a few days trying to take them down. Stirring up some real shit here in Belfast with the IRA, who in turn, turns around and says they have no idea what he’s even talking about. They say it wasn’t them. That they had nothing to do with it and if they wanted him dead that badly, they would just do it. They wouldn’t do that to kids.”

“So they say. We’ve seen a lot of screwed up shit involving kids, Yaz.”

“I agree. Or normally I would. But I’m starting to think it isn’t the IRA. They’re a proud bunch. When they’re involved in something, they admit it. They adamantly refuse to take any responsibility for this. Which leads us back…”

“To the father in law,” Tyler concludes.

“Which in turn, leads us back to her,” he brings another picture of Heather McCann on the screen. “Guess who runs the books for dear old dead daddy’s people back home. Guess who is the only child of said dead mobster and the executor of his estate and his power of attorney.”

Tyler sighs. “I need something stronger than coffee for this.”

“She’s the ring leader. Supposedly. I can’t really prove that. Not yet. You know, some of this shit would be a lot easier to dig up it we had an actual experienced intel person. Someone with real hands on experience. That has done all of this before. And really awesomely, I might add.”

“Forget it, Yaz. Don’t even say it. There’s no way I’m agreeing to that and you know it.”

“Esme has tons of contacts,” he reasons. “All over the world. She’s dealt with this kind of thing. Organized crime. In New York City and Philadelphia. I’ve seen her file, Tyler. From the people in North America.”

“You ran a background check on my wife? Just now or…”

“Back when Nik was going to hire her. We had to check things out. Check references. Things like that. You haven’t seen her file but I have. And it’s not just impressive. It is super fucking impressive. The circles that she’s infiltrated, the people she’s got to trust her, the mercenaries that she’s helped get people out of some horrible shit. She doesn’t just know things that regular people know. She knows things that could get a lot of people killed. And if we had her here…”

“Yaz, I said forget it. I am not getting her involved. We have four kids at home. That need their mother.”

“They need their father too. But here you are.”

“I’m not taking their mother away from them. I’m not doing it. So drop it.”

“Tyler, both the IRA and this family know we’re here. They know our names. Our faces. They know we came here and they are pissed. I am not going to be able to get all the information out of them that we need. Esme could come in here and get everything we need and then leave just as fast as she got here. Look what she was able to do in Dhaka. How successful that part of it was. Now tell me why this is a bad idea.”

“Because she isn’t just some random intel person, Yaz. She’s my wife. The mother of my kids. That’s why. This is insane. Even thinking about dragging her into this. Wasn’t Dhaka enough? Wasn’t that enough bullshit for her to go through? You want me to just bring her into this?”

“It would work. You know it would. You’re just too scared to admit it. Bringing Esme in would save us a whole lot of time.”

“And possibly get her killed.”

“She could have been killed in Dhaka. But she wasn’t. Because you were there to protect her. Just like you would be here.”

“Jesus…” Tyler drags his hand down his face. “…I can’t believe I am listening to this.”

“But you’re considering it. Aren’t you.”

He reluctantly nods.

“It’s the best idea I have. And it’s the only one that will work. And you know that. That’s why you don’t want to admit it. Look, I know it probably scares the shit out of you. Her getting back into this, but we need her Tyler. I know it. You know it.”

“This is insane,” he drops his fork on his now empty plate with a clatter and leans back in booth, hands clasped behind his head.

“What’s the worst she can say? No?”

“How about ‘you’re fucking insane and I want a divorce’.”

“That won’t happen and you know it. Give it some thought. We don’t have a lot of time to play with here. McCann is going to start to wonder why we’re stalling, He’s already getting impatient. Give it a couple hours. Think it over.”

Tyler nods in agreement. “Back to the wife. Explain to me how she’s involved.”

“Like I said, I think she’s the one running the show for dear old dead dad. All signs point to her. I can’t prove it. At least not yet. I think she’s exacting revenge on her husband.”

“For what?”

“Apparently he’s got quite the wandering eye. And a wandering dick.”

“So set all this up…use her children as bait…because her husband can’t keep it in his pants? Seems a little extreme, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think it’s just that. I think she knows he had something to do with her father’s death. And she’s pissed because he’s screwed over all kinds of other people by not doing the jobs he was hired to do. Just pocketing the money. Which in turn, puts targets on her and her kids’ back.”

“So she stages all of this to make it look like she’s not involved but uses her kids for leverage?”

“Like you said, we’ve seen screwed up things involving kids. And this wouldn’t be the worst. Unfortunately.”

“This changes everything. You know that, yeah?”

“You need to be the one to get the kids out, Tyler. They have to be your priority. You’re responsibility. They’re the only innocent ones in all of this. It has to be you.”

“And if I can only get one?”

“One is better than none.”

He gives a derisive snort, then waves the waitress over and orders another coffee.

“Let McCann go for the wife. Let them kill each other. Who gives a shit at this point. The bad wiping out the bad. But you have to get those kids. They have to be your extracts.”

He sighs heavily, then nods.

“Now call your wife,” Yaz slides Tyler’s cell phone towards him. “Tell her we need her help. Tell her what’s going on. Let her be the one to decide if she wants to get involved or not.”

“If she asks me for a divorce and I get kicked out of my house, I’m coming to sleep on your couch, mate,” he’s only half joking, then palms his cell phone and slips out of the booth.

“Good luck,” Yaz calls after him as he heads for the exit.

****

She answers on the third ring; sounding exhausted, yet still excited to hear from him.

“I thought you wouldn’t call until much later your time,” she says. “It’s only eight am there. It thought for sure you’d be busy. Tracking people down, kicking some ass. All that kind of stuff.”

“We’ve hit a bit of a roadblock,” Tyler admits, as he slips his sunglasses on and leans against the red brick of the coffee house. Seeking peace and quiet from the hustle and bustle of the main street by tucking into the neighbouring alley. From here he can keep an eye on the road; observe those coming down the sidewalk from each direction, leaving different store fronts. The alley leads to a dead end, nothing but dumpsters and back exits. “And maybe I just wanted to call because I wanted to hear your voice. Maybe I miss you.”

“Maybe?” she challenges, and he grins.

“I miss you,” he admits. “A lot. A hell of a lot.”

“I miss you too. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he assures her. “Did I wake you up? What is it? Like eleven there?”

“I’m sitting outside. On the swing. It rained for the better part of the afternoon and it so beautiful out now. There’s a really nice breeze coming in off the mountains. I wish you were here. I miss this part of our night. Sitting out here together. How many times have we actually fallen asleep on this swing?”

“Too many to count,” he says, a smile of reminiscence curving his lips. “The kids were good?”

“Mille finally chilled out. She was much better after I told her to record that video for you. It calmed her right down. She cried a little. At bedtime. Because you weren’t there to tuck her in and read her stories. Maybe you can record yourself reading her one and send it to her. She’d love that. If you find time.”

“I’ll find all the time in the world for her, you know that. How’s the boys?”

“Hanging in there. TJ has his ups and down. Tanner is still being the calm and consoling one. And Declan is Declan. He’s such a little ham. He’s so funny. He’s quite the character already. But what a temper! I’ve never seen anyone pitch a fit like he can! And so strong! I wonder where he gets that from.”

“The being strong or the having a bad temper?”

“Both,” she laughs. “I’m glad you liked the videos. We had so much fun making them. And can you believe the baby has four words now? He’s so smart Tyler. Crazy smart.”

“Like his mom.”

“And he is so close to walking already. You said he would be the one that would walk the earliest. Because of his insanely strong legs. I hope you don’t miss it. I’d really want you to be here when it happens. You missed it with both Millie and the twins. I’d like you to get the chance to see it this time.”

He swallows down the lump of emotion that’s wedged in his throat. “I’d like to see it too. I hope I’m back in time.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks. “You don’t sound like yourself. There’s something in your voice. I don’t know what it is. But it’s something.”

“I need your help,” he just spits it out. No chill whatsoever. Just straight to the point. “Actually, we need your help. Yaz and I.”

“Okay…” he can hear the squeak of the swing as she stands up. “…with?”

“We’ve been made. Both of us. We were made before we even got off the plane.”

“Shit,” she mutters. “Are you sure?”

“One hundred percent. I got a visitor in the middle of the night. From whoever is behind all of this. Telling me that I stuck my nose in business I don’t belong in and that I needed to watch my back. They know my name. Where I live. They have pictures. Of all of us.”

“Which is why Nik decided out of nowhere to stay here along with two of her guys. Tyler…”

“I asked her not to tell you. I didn’t want to get you all worked up if it just turned out to be idle threats. They’re just trying to scare me. So I’ll abandon things here.”

“But you’re not. Abandoning things.”

“I’ve got a job to do.”

“The job is obviously fucked. Tyler, you need to come home. Right now. Get on the next plane and get home. Please.”

“I can’t. I need to get those kids. I don’t give a shit about the wife. But I can’t leave those kids. And I know you understand that. Would you want someone leaving our kids?”

“Of course not.. But…”

“Esme, we need your help. I need your help. I can’t get them without you.”

“Tyler, I’m not a mercenary. I wouldn’t know the first thing about extracting someone. And that’s not something I can just learn on the fly.”

“I don’t need help with that. I can do all that stuff. I need your help with intel.”

“You have Yaz there,” she points out.

“Yaz doesn’t know the things you do. He hasn’t done the things you have. I know you’ve been in this before. I know about New York. And Philly.”

She sighs. “How?”

“Yaz told me. He saw it in your file. When Nik did background on you before she gave you the job. I don’t care that you kept that from me. There’s things I’ve done on the job that you don’t know about either. This isn’t about keeping secrets or protecting each other and keeping info away from one another. This is about me needing your help to rescue those kids.”

“I have to admit, there is a perverse satisfaction in hearing you admit you actually need my help something,” she chides, and he can’t help but grin.

“Babe, I wouldn’t call you about this if I had anyone else,” he continues. “You’re the best at this. I know it. You know it. You’ve helped bring down better and bigger. I won’t go too much into it right now. It’s better if I tell you everything in person.”

“Whoa…whoa…in person? Tyler, I have four kids here. They’re already without their father. Now you want me to leave them without their mother too?”

“Look, it’s not what I want. I know it’s not what you want. And the thought of taking you away from them kills me as much as it kills you. But I need you. McCann’s kids need you.”

“Tyler…” another heavy sigh.

“Esme…please…I really need you to do this.”

“Who do I get to watch the kids? I can’t just pull a babysitter out of my ass.”

“Ask Ovi if Chloe would do it.”

“She works.”

“She owns her own business and has her own employees. I’m sure she can trust them to run shit while she takes time off. Or call your mom.”

“Oh right,” she laughs. “That will go over well.”

“I’ll call her then.”

“That would just be even worse! What would you say? ‘I need you to watch your grandkids so your daughter can come to Ireland and help me kick some ass’?”

“Something like that. Babe, this is serious. These people know who we are. We aren’t going to get anything out of them.”

“And you think I’ll be able to?” she inquires.

“I know you’ll be able to,” Tyler confidently replies.

“You are something else,” she mumbles, and then falls into a long, almost painful silence.

“Esme?”

“I’m here. I’m cursing you out, but I’m here. Are your ears ringing? Because they should be. Jesus, Tyler. You honestly can not be serious about this.”

“I am. Dead serious. You’re the best at this type of thing. And we need the best. Especially with the kind of people we’re going against.”

“Which you’ll tell me all about when I get there,” she concludes. “I need a few hours. At least. I would need to call my mom and have Ovi get a hold of Chloe. This isn’t going to be an instant thing. I have to book a flight and…”

“Ask Nik. She’ll arrange one for you. She’s got great connections.”

“Fine,” she huffs. “I’ve got to and get shit together. I’ll call you. As soon as everything is ironed out and I know when I’ll be there. This is insane, Tyler. You’re insane.”

“Maybe. But you love me.”

“Only one days that end in Y. I’ll call you. Soon.”

“I love you,” he tells her. “And thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And I love you too. I’ll see you in a little while.”

“I’ll see you when I see you,” he says.

“Yes,” he can hear the smile in her voice. “You will.”

#tyler rake #extraction #sanctuary #chris hemsworth character #tyler rake fan fiction #tyler rake fan fic #extraction fan fiction #extraction fan fic

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dearlazerbunny · 6 years

Text

Second Chances

Pairings: Kylo x Reader

Genre/Rating: Modern AU; G

Words: 2900

Summary: Requested by anon, who wanted an mean-to-the-reader-but-secretly-likes-them Kylo let me know if you enjoy it anon and if there’s any changes you’d like made!

Sitting back from your desk, you stretch your arms above your head, barely avoiding a groan. You’d been working nonstop all day- time for a little break. You grab your coffee mug from its place of honor to the right of your computer and head to the break room, where you can smell a fresh pot brewing. Unfortunately, you pause in the doorway. Looks like someone beat you to it.

Kylo Ren, also known as the world’s biggest pain in the ass and infinite thorn in your side, is staring intently at the coffee pot waiting for it to finish dripping, completely blocking the countertop. How just like him.

“Ahem.” You clear your throat, and he turns. When he see you, his eyes immediately narrow.

“Y/L/N.”

“Ren. Would you mind moving your- sorry. Would you please consider moving your entitled self a few feet to the left so everyone can enjoy the coffee?”

“Wow, you even said please this time. Just for that- no.” He continues staring at the pot.

Why is it this man’s goal to make your life as difficult as possible? Through gritted teeth, you ask, “did you at least put those papers I requested on my desk?”

“I gave them to Janet.”

“I- specifically asked that you give them to me.”

“But I don’t like you, so. Easy decision.”

God fucking- you intentionally take a deep breath as he finally fills his cup. Calm down, Y/N. This is nothing new, just the usual back and forth. No need to get upset. That is, until he pointedly looks at you, takes the brand spanking new pot of coffee, and very deliberately pours it down the kitchen sink, casually sipping from his mug in the other hand as he does so.

“Enjoy your coffee.” He drops the pot into the sink with a clang of finality before sauntering out of the kitchen as your anger simmers into overdrive.

Stalking back to your desk, you slam your mug down and sit yourself down, rubbing your hand over your forehead to ward off a migraine. Why does he insist on being such an asshole? And why does it bother you so much? Maybe it’s because to absolutely everyone else in the office, he’s perfectly decent towards. Well, maybe not decent, but certainly not hostile. He’s always been a bit of a loner, never really making any friends or talking to anyone throughout the workday. Kind of awkward around people, if you think about it. But still, being friendless is no excuse for the amount of shit you put up with.

You retrieve your papers from Janet, which is actually a very important set of documents crucial to closing a project you were assigned months ago. Work of this magnitude meant a raise, maybe even a promotion- if you did it right. The only problem is, it meant you had to work directly with Ren’s department, and Ren himself. It was a struggle to get him to do anything for you, but apparently he eventually got the papers done.

So you thought. Looking over the first page, something seems… off. And studying it more closely, your heart sinks with every line. All of the data you requested is either complete gibberish or definitely not what was actually aggregated, and most of the graphs look like they were done by a kindergartner on Microsoft paint. Entire paragraphs are copied and pasted from random internet articles that have nothing to do with the topic at hand, and it’s all written in what looks like comic sans. Worst of all, at the end of the twenty-plus page document, is his own signature- Kylo Ren- signing off on the report.

All at once, your chest grows tight, and tears begin to well in your eyes. This project was due in two days, there was no way you’d have time to redo all this work. What had you done to deserve this? You were perfectly pleasant to everyone- until Ren started being rude, and then you could give as good as you take. But this- this was the final straw. Snippy comments were one thing, but there’s no way you’re letting some lowlife asshole jeopardize your career.

Wiping away water with one finger, careful not to smudge your makeup, you pull up your email and begin typing a manifesto that you should have started a long, long time ago.

“Ren.” You stand by his desk, rigid, but internally triumphant. “If I could please speak with you in the board room.”

“Bit busy here at the moment, sweetheart.” He isn’t, of course, just dicking around online that doesn’t look like anything work related, but you take a deep breath and plaster on your best pretty-please falsetto.

“I really need to speak with you. I’m sure your… work can wait.”

Taken aback by your tone- your voice never got nicer than a growl when talking in his general direction- he finally nods and stands, following you to the meeting room. It’s private and not scheduled to be used for another hour, which is all you need to get your point across. You even hold the wooden door open for him as he walks in.

“What is this about? I’m more important than you, I’ve got actual work to complete.”

“Oh, because scrolling through tumblr counts as work. Right,” you shoot back.

“If you brought me in here to snark at me, I’m more than happy to oblige, but I have a meeting right about now, so I’ll see you in the break room-”

You hold out a hand, effectively stopping this six foot something man in his place. “No, you don’t. I checked your schedule. Sit your ass down.”

He does so, crossing his legs with a smirk on his face. “Such language. I could have you reported for that.”

You slam his bogus report down in front of him onto the table. “Mind explaining what this is?”

He smiles. “Just the report you asked for.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response. Did you know the CEO asked me personally to handle this for him?”

Suddenly, his face seems to turn a little somber. “The CEO? He-”

“Did you know.” You cut him off, tears wavering in your voice, “That this project could have meant a raise for me? Maybe even a promotion?”

“No, I- are you crying?”

Damnit. You blink them away. “No. Of course you didn’t. Because all you are is a twelve year old child who insists on pulling bully pranks on someone who doesn’t deserve it.” You tap the papers in front of him. “I reported to to HR. Expect to hear from them very, very soon.”

Now he’s paying attention. “You did what now?”

“You heard me. I reported you. I’m sick of the abuse, Ren. I’m sick of the pettiness, the anxiety, the useless arguing. And once I show them what you handed me for this project? They won’t have any choice but to believe me.”

“Y/N-”

“No, don’t you Y/N me, Ren. It’s over. You’re done.”

“I can explain.”

That stops you short. “You- you can explain? Explain what, exactly? Why you’re hell bent on making my life miserable? I might accept that after one bad joke, Ren, but not after an entire year of putting me down. If you have some sort of excuse, it better be a damn good one.”

“I- I like you.”

You stare at him. Wonder if you heard him right. No, that’s definitely what he said. Then slowly, take a seat across the table from him in one of the big leather armchairs. Your voice is dangerously calm. “You. What?”

“I like you.” He’s wide eyed, almost like he’s begging.

You laugh. You laugh so hard tears come to your eyes, but this time from sheer glee rather than frustration. You laugh so hard you’re almost out of breath and have to gasp for air. “You like me. You like me! Well, that clears up abso-fucking-lutely everything now doesn’t it?” You stand and straighten your skirt. “Get out of here. I assume you might want to start packing your desk.”

“No, Y/N, wait-” he grabs your wrist, which you wrench away.

“Don’t touch me, you creep.”

“Hear me out, then. Please. One minute.”

You sigh. Might as well give a dead man his final wish. “Fine. One minute.”

“I…. like you. I’ve liked you from the moment you’ve stepped foot in the office. And I thought I could get your attention by-”

“By what? Being horrific towards me?”

He winces. “Am I really that bad?”

“Try worse.”

“God.” He runs his hands through his hair, mussing the curls. To think when he first started here you thought he was attractive. “ I really fucked everything up, didn’t I?”

Unexpectedly, a tiny sliver of sympathy runs through you. “Even more than you could possibly imagine.” And with that, you march out of the room, head held high.

…..

Ren did indeed get fired the next day. You tried not to feel sorry for him as he slowly packed up his desk- after all, he brought this on himself. But you couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit guilty. You didn’t know if you’d actually wanted to get him fired- having the abuse stop probably would have been enough? But no. Now you wouldn’t have to see his face everyday as a reminder of what you went through.

It’s been a month since then and you can honestly say you’ve never been happier at your job. No more constant aggravation or anger directed towards you has done wonders for your productivity, and you’ve actually started to make friends around the office. As time went on, Ren became a distant memory, and you quickly rose to one of the best workers in the office. However, on the off days, you couldn’t help but wonder if he had found another job, or if he was doing okay. Hell, even going to the coffee machine was a little too quiet for your liking now that he was gone. It was almost like you… missed him? But that couldn’t be right.

“Y/N?” You look up and see Phasma, the CEO’s assistant, standing by your desk. “If you’re not busy at the moment, Mr. Hux would like a word with you.”

Oh, damn. “No, I’m not busy. Is he ready now?”

She nods, and gestures for you to follow her. You do so, down the carpeted corridor and to the big imposing glass office that rules that floor of the office. Hux is sitting at his desk in an ever-polished suit, writing something on a notepad, but he looks up when Phasma knocks on the door. “Y/N here to see you, sir.” He waves you in and you go through the big doors and stand behind the chairs opposite his desk, unsure if it was appropriate to sit down or not.

“Please, have a seat.” You do so at the very edge, trying not to wring your hands nervously. “So, Y/N, how goes the project?”

Said project is the one that Ren almost ruined, but luckily the contractors were very understanding and let you have an extension to complete the work. “Exactly on schedule, sir. And I promise this time it will be done right.”

“Ah, yes. That is in the line of what I called you in here to talk about.” He drops his pen and steeples his fingers. “I’d like to speak with you about Ren.”

“R- Ren?” You ask, confused. “What about him, sir?”

He sighs. “I thought I might provide a bit of…context, to the situation. If you would like to hear me out, of course.” You nod, unsure of where this is going. “You see, I personally hired Ren. He and I are friends, from our college days. And as his friend, I would like to be the first to apologize for how he’s treated you.”

“Um, thank you, sir.”

He nods. “You see, Ren has always been… troubled, when faced with human interactions. He doesn’t really know how to handle people, or their emotions… or his own. In fact, it’s because of this he was having difficulty finding a job, and so I took him on as a favor. He’s smart, you see, and good at what he does. But he doesn’t know how to interact on a basic level.”

“…what are you saying?”

Hux smiles thinly. “My point is, how he interacted with you is the only way he knows how to interact with people he likes. I ad to cut off communication with him at work because if anyone saw him snarking at me, they’d wonder why I didn’t fire him immediately. But it’s just his way. He doesn’t know any other.”

“So you’re telling me when he told me he liked me, he was telling the truth. And by harassing me, he was showing me that he liked me?”

Hux raises an eyebrow. “He told you he liked you?”

“Right after I told him I was going to get him fired, yes.”

“Interesting. He’s usually a very closely guarded person. To tell you such a thing…” there’s a vague twinkle in his eye, an expression you’ve never seen on your boss’ face. “You must really be something special to him.”

“Something- forgive me if I’m having a hard time believing you.”

“I know it can be difficult to understand. All I ask is that you think on what I’ve told you.”

“I- sure. I will. Thank you.”

He nods. “You’re free to go.”

You leave the office more confused than ever.

…

That night at home, after ruminating over several glasses of wine, you had to admit part of what Hux had told you made sense. Why Ren never had many friends in the office, why he only seemed to rag on you. You almost felt like you were going soft, but you felt like you owed him some sort of apology. Maybe you had just missed the right cues and picked up on all the wrong ones. You even felt a bit sorry for him, if you were being honest.

A knock on the door takes you out of your thoughts, and you go to look through the peephole. Lo and behold, none other than Kylo Ren stands there, hands behind his back. You open it, ready to apologize before he could say anything, but are surprised by him shoving a big bundle of flowers right under your nose before you could even take a breath.

“Ren…? What are..?” You take them from his grasp and hold them out- a beautiful arrangement of assorted blooms and blossoms. “They’re lovely.”

“Do you like them?” He’s looking at you anxiously, like a child who’s expecting a scolding.

You have to smile. “Yes, I do. Do you want to come in?”

He looks surprised, but nods, following you inside. He stands quietly in the living room as you bustle to the kitchen to put the flowers in water.

“I know Hux talked to you.”

You sigh. “Yes, Kylo, he did. And-”

“Wait. What did you just say?”

“I’m- sorry?”

“Kylo. You called me Kylo.” He looks mystified, but also insanely happy. “You’ve never called me that before.”

“I guess I haven’t. Is.. that okay?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely. I was just… surprised, I guess.”

You nod. “Hux did talk to me, Kylo. But to be honest, I’d like to hear it in your own words.”

He sighs. “That’s what I was afraid of.” He sits down on the couch, running his hands through his hair. “I’m not good with… words. Or people. Or how people might think of me, when I do certain things. I’ve never liked anyone like you, Y/N. All my friends, they know me, they know how I talk, and they know to just brush it off and call me a dick when I do something stupid. But you… aren’t them. I never stopped to think that you wouldn’t know how to take it when I was being a jerk.” He takes a breath. “And I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. For everything.”

“I like you a lot, and I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I went to my default.” He looks up at you. “Hux explained to me that that probably wasn’t the best idea.”

“Well, you’re spot on about just about everything. How was I supposed to know tormenting was your way of being friendly?”

“You couldn’t have, Y/N, it’s not your fault, it’s mine. And I hope, someday… you’ll let me take you out. To show you how sorry I am, and maybe make up for all the times I made you cry.”

“How about tonight?”

His eyes widen. “T- tonight?”

“Kylo, just by explaining yourself you’ve shown me how sorry you are. And I believe you, trust me.” You take a deep breath. “So maybe we can just start over, okay? Starting tonight.”

His smile could have lit up the entire city. “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”

#star wars #Star Wars fanfic #star wars requests #reader insert #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x you

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reginasrandomthoughts · 7 years

Text

So.... I know that I always drop by, say what I am going to put on my blog, disappear and the thing I said will flood the blog never does... yeah.... this is another of those posts. Longer post under the cut.

tl;dr: I am writing an essay on Cinderella and if you don’t want to see my rantings and side notes/comments on it blacklist(?) the “Cinderella essay text” tag. I will post and reblog gifs too, which will get the “Cinderella essay gif” tag.

So the post this time around is Cinderella related because I am writing an essay on Cinderella for school because I honestly think that it is an affront what feminism did to her, tearing her down worse than the step-sisters did. Sure it is not the feminist manifesto and does not meet with today’s standards of female representation but it has a nice message if you care to understand it:

If you work hard, remain kind and don’t let the world around you to dictate who you will become things will get better. Cinderella worked hard all her life, put up with all the abuse and still she managed to avoid breaking and becoming bitter the way many others would have done so. She does not have the opportunity to leave,so she endures and survives and in the end she is rewarded for it. The Prince is just that: a reward, a kind of shorthand for all the things people aspire to achieve: better social and financial status, love, a happy home, a break from all the hard work.

It makes me sad to hear people say that the entire story is just about “waiting for your Prince to come and save you”. Cinderella always made the best of the hand she was dealt.

But okay, I admit, Cindy is not the most feminism friendly icon. So my essay is going to be about taking a look at how later films tried to fix it. This is relevant to the blog only, because all the stuff and rants that cannot go into the essay will probably find their way onto here in semi-incomprehensible text post form. Also, I plan on reblogging and posting gifs. A lot. I’d prefer making my own bc I need practice but we will see. There are so many gorgeous ones on this site.

So, my current roaster of films I wanna take a look at is:

Cinderella (1950) Cinderella (1997) (the one with Whitney Huston as the fairy godmother) Ever After: A Cinderella story (1998) The Princess and the Frog (2009) Cinderella (2015)

So, those who paid attention saw that one of those things is not like the other. Fact, Tiana’s name is not Cinderella or any derivative of that. BUT! Her story is a Cinderella story and from the above options, is the best. Or so my argument goes. We will see if it will stand up to the scrutiny.

I am sticking to these 5 films bc it is a 8k-12k characters long essay. It cannot fit more. So, if anybody bothered to read to this point, you are free and invited to drop into my askbox or wherever you send messages on this site and talk to me about it.

#cinderella essay text #plans #long post #nevermind me

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changingthedefinition · 7 years

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22/5/17-23:57

Ok, so, back to the point I meant to make..... and please don't hate on me- I'm entitled to my opinions as are you! I just read a comment on a Facebook post which said something along the lines of: why would you vote for someone who stands along side terrorists...... and this is my answer..... Good old jez is an out of the box thinker in many way, opposed to the traditional 'politician'. He isn't afraid to be his own person and do what others might see as controversial and honestly- that's what we need. All through out history, we have tried to solve many ' political'/ international problems by fighting. Nations have fallen into the trap of killing many innocent people for their own gain. But honestly, what has that achieved? Because the way I see it, all it's done is create more problems. For example, we saw the situation in Iraq as 'wrong' because it wasn't our norm. So We went into Iraq with the intention of helping, instead we created a war which in many ways is still on going and has created more problems than it's solved. And I'm not saying war isn't necessary at times, however I personally believe the only real way to solve problems through out the world is through conversation. We can go into a situation and we can drop bombs and cut lives short, but what does that achieve at the end of the day? Or we can sit down with individuals and nations and have discussions. And yes, there discussions might be slow progress, and take time... but in doing so we create peace, through peace. Be honest, how can destruction create long term peace and settlement? And I personally see it as a good thing the This so called 'not credible' labour leader is sitting with this terrorists. Why? Because he is opening up channels of communication. He is closing the divide, so instead of it been us and you, which only strengthens the problem, he is strengthening the chance of really achieving peace, with a lot less blood shred in the mean time. And I might be completely out of line saying this. But you know what, we something have to do things differently to get the desired result. Because doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result is insanity! Plus I just love jezz and yes his manifesto is possible TOO perfect! But I would much rather aim high and fall short than live in hell. I'm actually genuinely terrified about this up and coming election, especially after the USA elections last year. However, we in the U.K. Do have a good option, if only we stop been so British and cynical and for once look on the bright side. Where I live is your postcard conservative area ( @interestingly-pale knows this) it's mostly middle aged and old people, who are relatively well off. It's an area the conservatives see as 'in the bag', but noting is certain. And honestly, if all us younger folk got out there and voted we really could turn this election on its head! Because my dad is a life long Conservative voter (we don't let him get away with it too easily) and even he is considering voting labour this time round. So please go and vote on 8th June! And if your reasons to vote for one part over another are things such as 'but where will the money come from' or 'he sits with terorists' please please look at it from a different angle! I would rather hope for the idea world, which is labours manifesto and get a few positive changes, than to play it safe with conservatives and kill everyone and everything that makes Britain great off! And I hate politics and it scares the life out of me! Honestly, it makes my wish to be dead feel more time limited and urgent! But if conservatives win, I'm creating my own country with good old jezz as my leader and you are welcome to come and join me!!

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gloss80 · 7 years

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General Election 2017 - Man Like Corbz done good!

I am certain when the Exit Poll dropped on Thursday night shortly after polling stations closed there was a collective amount of jaw dropping across the nation and I can imagine several near heart attacks across CCHQ! I know Labour HQ were quietly jubilant but wanted to wait to see how the night transpired. No one saw this coming…. It was seriously a “where were you when you heard..” moment!! I stared at my TV screen thinking “Please, please, please let this Exit Poll be correct!” Why? Because it predicted a Hung Parliament and showed a brilliant Labour surge in the vote against all the odds. Many political commentators were urging caution whilst some remained steadfast in their belief that May would win the majority she needed to carry forth her mandate into the Brexit negotiations. I could feel something brewing in the air. Big crowds would turn out to see Corbyn at events across the country. He even packed out a football stadium with the crowd shouting: “Oooooh Jeremy Corbyn!” People wherever I went were talking about Corbyn and Labour’s Manifesto. On Thursday afternoon I was walking out of Wembley Park Tube Station and a group of School girls ran up to me and stopped me. They said “please vote Labour!” I answered “already done!” They cheered “Team Jezza! Bun the Tories!” and we all high-fived! That really warmed my heart! Young people engaged in politics and realising how politics impacts on every single facet of their life. I honestly felt like their proud Aunty! Anyway I digress….back to election night…. I could not sleep…optimism in my heart had me glued to my TV screen for the entire night. Was this really happening??? The results started to roll in and it was becoming clearly evident that the Exit Poll was indeed correct! Yes, I punched the air a few times as Labour Gains across the country materialised including Scotland where we took seats from the SNP. Canterbury went red after being Conservative since 1918! The Tory MP Jane Ellison was ousted in Battersea by Labour’s Marsha de Cordova! It was a stunning 10% swing from the Tories to Labour. The Tories dreadful manifesto author Ben Gummer gone! Nick Clegg gone! Amber Rudd was onto her 5th recount and almost had people rummaging through the bins for votes when it became clear that this was shaping up to be an extraordinary night for Corbyn and Labour! Long standing Labour activist Eleanor Smith made history by becoming the West Midlands’ first African Caribbean MP in a seat that used to be held by the racist Tory MP Enoch Powell! He of “Rivers of Blood” infamy. Kensington and Chelsea where the average house prices are 1.4 million now has the red flag flying high! The same constituency where Dacre’s Daily Mail HQ aka The Daily Heil sits in now has a Labour MP! Oh the irony…. Labour’s success saw it almost completely wipe out the Tories in London and more than double majorities in seats that were previously considered marginal. Remember that Theresa Mayhem had promised again and again that if she lost six seats, Jeremy Corbyn would be walking into number 10! On election night the U-turn Queen lost more than that yet is still desperately clinging on to power! Blaming everyone but herself for taking a reckless and arrogant gamble in calling a General Election that no one wanted. She has also lost the mandate for a hard Brexit and solidified just how weak and unstable a leader she actually is. British politics has suffered a Youthquake! Corbyn offered a real vision and hope to a younger generation who had often felt marginalised by politics. He connected with their aspirations and they mobilised and came out in force! Big up the #Grime4Corbyn campaign and all the Grime artists and rappers who helped inspire young people to go out and vote. This is just the start! Let’s build on what we have achieved! I am so proud to see the young voices rise up and just want to send heartfelt thanks to all the young people up and down the land who came out to vote. I am an actor and a movie geek so here is what I think: Corbyn in many ways epitomises Obi-Wan’s classic line in Star Wars - A New Hope: “If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.” I’m serious. Why do I make this correlation? Well Corbyn has survived strike after strike! He has survived constant attacks and challenges from within the Labour Party as well as vicious, poisonous and relentless assaults from the Tories and their right wing media cheerleaders and he has always comes back stronger than before and with a bigger mandate than before to boot! It is clear in this election that the more people saw of Corbyn the more they liked what they saw. Calm, compassionate, dignified, principled and always on the right side of history. Also the Labour Manifesto with the vision “For the Many Not The Few” successfully resonated with so many across the country. Hope, a feeling last seen in British politics in 1997 is on the rise again. In contrast Maybot decided to base her election campaign around herself under the “Strong and Stable” robotic mantra. She ducked away from the TV debates like a coward, tried as much as she could to avoid the public and trotted out soundbite after soundbite to the point that she sounded like a Dalek. It was either “Strong and Stable” or “Nothing has changed.” Repeat!! She relied on the tabloid press to sing her praises and was in desperate need of reboot but it never happened. The more the public saw of Maybot the more they did not like what they saw and the more they realised how distant, insincere and indecisive she was. The Conservative Manifesto was a disaster and the U turns kept coming soon after. It was clear you could not trust a word uttered. So here we are. People will say “but the Tories won! They got the most seats.” The reality is Mayhem was humiliated! She called this election with a 24 point lead over Labour and was so arrogantly complacent that Tories would win a landslide and Labour would be demolished at the ballot box. Mayhem did not get the majority she needed so she went with her begging bowl to the hard-right, racist, sexist, homophobic, terrorist linked and thoroughly unpleasant DUP to ask them to prop up her tory government. This in itself reeks of desperation and is doomed to fail. It also highlights her blatant hypocrisy. Jeremy Corbyn is a ‘terrorist sympathiser’ we’ve heard the right wing tabloids and their sheep shriek. So what now do you call Theresa Mayhem getting into bed with the DUP??? This is a regressive alliance with potentially far reaching implications for Northern Ireland and progressive politics in general. Instead of clinging on for dear life it would be far better if she resigned with what little dignity she has left. I have my popcorn out watching this mess unfold! Recriminations, resignations and Tory civil war no doubt! No matter which way you look at it this is the beginning of the end for Mayhem. She is toast! Anyway I am very encouraged by Labour’s election result. My support for Corbyn has never wavered and for the first time in ages I feel optimistic about what politics can achieve. First phase for Labour was winning UKIP votes back, attacking Tory seats/votes and galvanising young people which has worked brilliantly for us as we out performed expectations at this Election. The next phase now is securing a Labour victory at the next General Election which may well be sooner than you think….. Time for unity within Labour, this is our time. We must continue to organise and be a strong opposition! We must be the powerful voice for the many that this country so desperately needs. @gloss80

#Corbyn #Labour #GE2017 #JC4PM #Grime4Corbyn

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theletterunread · 6 years

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Protest

This story follows Flame and precedes Beliefs.

“Those are nice shoes,” I said to Fia while we waited for the light at Eighth Street. I spoke mildly, deliberately not using that annoying inflection adults often employ when they talk to kids – “I love your shooooes!” – because I remembered from my own youth that children always pick up and resent being talked down to, and I had the sense that Fia was somebody whose respect I wanted to keep.

“Thank you,” she said, obviously trained in manners for she added, “I like your shoes too,” even though mine were just ratty sneakers.

“It’s so exhausting for me to walk around these days,” I explained, “so I just wear these comfortable shoes instead of…” I corrected course, realizing how on guard you have to be for opportunities to teach kids well or poorly. “Not that I need to have an apologetic reason for wearing whatever I want. I can wear whatever shoes, whenever. And so could you.” Clumsy, maybe, but at least I’d passed on the right lesson.

“Would you wear those even if you weren’t exhausted?”

“Oh, I have no idea.” I looked back and forth before we jaywalked over Ninth. “I’ve never liked picking out shoes. Or wearing them. Or the attention on them.” This is true, and I’m gratified for the chance to say so, since I said as much to the fashion reporter for New York magazine, only to find he’d cut it from the final profile. I’m not affecting a false effortlessness, claiming that I happen to dress as well as I do; I do select my wardrobe conscientiously. (Go ahead and read that profile if you want a more thorough explanation of my fragile, minimalist style, though honestly, it still astounds me that, given what I did for this city, my attire would be a primary subject of interest for anyone. But I suppose that’s New York City – or at least, that’s New York magazine.) But I never developed an eye for footwear. At whatever point I was supposed to integrate that knowledge into the rest of it, I zoned out.

However, the more plain my shoes, the less attention I suffer from foot fetishists. Half of my readers don’t need to be told, but to the men reading this: once you know to look for it, you will see foot obsessives everywhere. If a woman takes a walk around the block in anything more revealing than combat boots, ten guys will hesitate and pass a happy moment gawking before she gets back to her front door. At least one will surreptitiously snap photos. During the summer, when it’s a city of sandals, you can see the erotic overload almost exploding heads.

“Are you tired because of the weather?” asked Fia as we cut down Tenth Street. “I get really tired when it’s too hot out.”

“No, but that’s a good guess. I feel the same when it’s the deep summer. I’m tired because I’m pregnant, so I’m…” I realized that I didn’t know how much a ten-year-old knows or is supposed to know about the details of pregnancy. “I’m carrying more weight. It’s like walking with a 12-pound…” I didn’t even know what noun a kid would best register. “…backpack. On your front.”

Fia didn’t say anything because we had turned onto University Place and her attention was taken by a group of protestors marching up towards Union Square. It’s hard (at least, it’s hard for me) to really remember how thick and fast the protests were coming in those days. Now that that president is gone – and gone in such a spectacular, maximally gratifying way – the relief is so great that it’s obviated all sharpness from my memories of how trying it was to have that waxhead running the country, dominating our experiences and thoughts and conversations. But we were still in the middle of it this weekend.

Fia craned her neck to look at the protest signs all around us.“‘Girls just want to have fundamental rights.’ What does that mean?”

“Well, it’s a reference to a song, ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun.’ Fundamental rights are…well, do you know what either of those words means?”

“Yeah, both,” said Fia, already on to the next sign. “‘Nasty woman.’”

“That’s something the president said once. So that person is flipping it around on him.”

“That one has a picture of Garfield. And it says ‘grabs back.’”

“Yeah…same thing. It’s something the president said and they’re using it against him.” I’d like to think that if it was my own daughter, I’d have been more thorough with my explanation, but you never know the rules other people’s parents have set down about what words or concepts are out of bounds. When I was a kid, my mom got in trouble with our neighbors for recounting in front of their son a scene where Bugs Bunny drops an anvil on Marvin the Martian. “Negative conflict resolution,” was their issue with it.

“What’s a ‘glass ceiling?’” asked Fia. It was another challenging concept to explain, so I just pretended not to have heard, pretended to be reading the other signs myself. Having been in plenty of protests, I had seen most of these slogans before, but Fia was experiencing them for the first time, and her fascination with the determination of the amassed people was obvious and renewed my populist sentiments. I was then immediately dinged by one of the more wearying aspects of a protest.

A blue-haired clippie had fallen in step with us. At a break in my remarks to Fia, she turned to me and said, “You’re such a great example for your daughter.”

I said, “Okay.”

“Taking her out to just feel and breath the change we’re gonna make.”

“I guess so.”

“But at the same time you’re somebody who wants to take concrete action and to be part of a community that’s setting up real solutions today.” She handed me her clipboard, which carried one page of manifesto and an optimistic ten pages of sign-up sheets. “Words of Insurrection isn’t just a bookshop. It’s a salon for new, effective action.”

The documents explained that Words of Insurrection was looking for small donations to finance research for the development of alternative energy sources to "break the petro-fascist hold on democracy,” to produce campaign literature for the bookshop’s own independent candidate for governor, and to buy an air conditioner, as public readings in the store were getting too stuffy. I agreed with their tenets, but I still put down a fake email address. This is why the revolution is stalled, I suppose, but I do feel bad about it, and if anyone from the bookstore is reading, please get in touch with my publisher, and they’ll give you the right email address.

I handed back the clipboard, took Fia’s hand, and we slipped through the crowd to the southern end of Union Square. Up the steps, somebody was speaking on a dais. I could barely see over the heads of everyone else, and Fia was really struggling. She wanted to be picked up, but was too polite to ask. Being unable to lift her, I suggested that she hop up on a flowerbed wall and gave her my phone, set to record, so she could periscope over the protesters. For those of you who are just reading this book to check off plot points leading to my triumph at the Strand, you should make a note of this moment.

I sat on the wall and read more of the handmade signs around me. I preferred the angry ones to the humorous ones. In the taxonomy of political comedy, liberal protest signs are leagues above the clumsiness and bile of conservative comedy, and markedly less aggravating than the libertarianism-disguised-as-common-sense musings of old-media columnists who style themselves “humorists” – seriously, has there ever been a funny “humorist?” – but we’re still dealing with the one-celled organism stage of comedy.

My eye was drawn to sign reading “Hands Off” around an illustration of a woman throwing a punch. I recognized the picture: it was an illustration of a friend of mine, done by her husband, from the webcomic he draws about their relationship. I’m not a big fan of his cartooning style. It’s a little too manic, a little too much sweat flying off the brow. But his love for his wife comes through, so she always looks good. I was glad to see her being used for such a message, so I introduced myself to the woman holding the sign and asked her where she got the image.

“From the internet,” said Sarah. “I follow a lot of other artists on Tumblr, and I saw this image pop up, and I was like, ‘Yep, that’s it.’ Plus, I didn’t want to use one of my own drawings, because this isn’t really the right time to be self-promoting.”

“I think it would have been fine,” I shrugged. “But this is a good sign anyway. And it stands out among all the pictures of you-know-who.”

“Yeah. I mean, officially, it’s a protest about him. So I get it, I’m kind of off-brand. But, you know, it’s all tied together. We gotta get this message out, too.”

“Sure. And it’s not like he’s not also guilty of that.”

“I hate to give him credit for anything, even accidentally,” said Sarah, “but at least he got people out into the streets.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but I think we were headed in this direction anyway.” I told her that about five years before, I had learned that a beloved novelist I won’t bother naming had been known to make comments like, “the smell of cunt is in the air,” when walking through college campuses. He said book tours were good for getting “audience pussy,” and wondered aloud if his time on earth was best used “to put my penis in as many vaginas as possible.” You could come up with worse remarks easily, for sure, but pretty negative stuff nonetheless. When I brought this up to people back in 2012, though, I was pooh-poohed and scolded for being insufficiently sex-positive.

“So, you’re saying…what?” asked Sarah when I finished. “That we used to let things slide so we wouldn’t seem like prudes…but now we’re shifting things back?”

I felt awkward hearing my own ideas articulated back to me. I don’t think of myself as having any necessary insight into cultural issues. “Shifting back isn’t really what I want to say. More just finding a more refined level.”

I didn’t really like how that came out. The phrase “refined level,” sounded like something to be followed with excuses. In those months, I, and everyone I knew, had had many conversations about the wave of reckonings coming for shitty men. And even among likeminded people, the subject generally got hot. Everyone could agree on the general premises, but specific stories caused debate. Parsing the details of an assault or an encounter or a remark gave infinite opportunities for dispute, and people’s emotional attachments to celebrities who’d been spotlighted were another hurdle to get over. (For whatever it’s worth, I actually had the opposite problem: while I never let my existing admiration for a celebrity lead me to make excuses for him, I admit that sometimes I got happy when a man I didn’t like for other reasons got popped for being a pig.)

The problem, as I saw it, came from our societal sense that there are “good people,” and “bad people.” Take your pick as to where this comes from – history books that oversimplify conflicts, a steady diet of moronic movies and TV shows with antagonists so flat and featureless that it’s easiest to just remember them as “the bad guy” – but it does us no good. I always argued that there are no “good people” or “bad people” (though admittedly, many of the later events of this day tested my theory). There are good and bad actions, and just plain people who set them in motion, people motivated by impulses and ideas and desires and influences and self-images too manifold to be summed up in one-syllable adjectives.

A trusted and smart friend told me this was a sterile and cold and emotionless way of looking at things, and maybe a lot of readers will agree with her. But I think it helps me to keep a generic sense of goodwill and empathy for humanity in general, while keeping me off the road of waving away specific, real-time crimes just because I’ve been fond of the perpetrator.

While something like these thoughts was going through my head, Sarah was reflecting on my last remark and giving me a squinty stare. I had either blown her mind or she was preparing to tear my argument apart. I changed the subject. “I noticed your sign because I actually know the guy who drew that picture.” 

“Really? Me too.”

“Well, I know his wife. So I’m more of a friend of a friend.”

Sarah smiled. “Yeah, he seems like somebody who has more ‘friends of friends’ than ‘friends.’ That’s how I met him, and why I follow him on Tumblr.”

“What’s your connection?” I asked.

“I’m friends with a guy he went to high school with. Actually, though we’re – Kyle and I, that is. The guy he went to high school with and me – we’re not really ‘friends,’ exactly. We’ve hooked up and dated and broken up and been friends and collaborators and tried…all kinds of different ways of being.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t know what the right word is. ‘Lover,’ maybe, if it wasn’t so stupid sounding. I think of us as magnets. If there’s something in the way, we're separated. But when there’s no obstacles, we’re always – click! – drawn back together.”

“Sure.” I said. “I know about that.”

“It’s not always like that, though, I guess. Like two weeks ago, I reached out to him to ask him to take a look at these opening pages I’d drawn…fuck. That opened a whole bag of worms.”

I smiled, because I always like it when people mix up their idioms.

“He told me that he didn’t want to look at them, and reminded me that six months ago he tried to get me to read part of this script he was writing…he’s a filmmaker, right? And I just sat on the pages and never responded. But it wasn’t because I didn’t want to read them, or was trying to put him in his place…I mean, there was a little of that, maybe. Because right around when he sent the script, I had seen him raving about some-person-he-knows’ album on Facebook. And he’s never hyped me up like that. Right? Maybe I was mad about that, subconsciously?”

“It’s hard to know with subconscious things,” I said.

“Well…so, he let me know he was mad at me about that, because the script was something really personal and he trusted only me to read it…and I kind of knew he would say all this when I reached out to him…I was probably provoking a reaction by asking him for his notes. Well, not ‘provoking’ him, but…you know, I wanted to talk about how I felt when he sent me the script, so I was setting up this conversation that could get us there.”

I “yeah”ed and “mm-hmm”ed through this.

“But it’s not totally phony. I really did want his thoughts on my pages. It was the first thing I’d been able to draw in months. I’m so crunched for time now, and I can’t devote the headspace to get into my work. And it freaks me out because, if I’m not drawing, it’s like, what’s the point of me? I used to be turn out so much work, and maybe it wasn’t great, but I was getting better. Now…I mean, I am better, when I can get the work done…but I want to do more. I don’t want to just draw for my own satisfaction anymore. I want to get it out there. But that’s selfish, right? I should be happy to do creative stuff at all.”

“No,” I said, “that’s an okay feeling to have.” I was referring to her whole speech. This happens a lot, and at first I thought it was just me, that I had some kind of blank demeanor that encouraged people to spill their guts, knowing I would listen without editorial comment. But it turns out to just be a feature of American life: every stranger you meet is pent up, dying to give you her prepared admissions. At first I thought this trend was depressing, but now I’m starting to see it as hopeful. If we’re all secretly aching, we’ve all got something in common. Which is one less thing to ache about.

“I don’t think it’s greedy to want to be seen,” I went on. “I’m not a creative person, but I imagine it’s frustrating to keep finishing work you like and putting it right into a dark drawer.”

“I send stuff out all the time…not saying I’m better than everything that gets published. But I know I’m at least as good. And sometimes better. But I can’t even get a courtesy read.”

It shames me to tell you she said that, given that only weeks later did publishers come pounding down my door making all kinds of offers to put out this book – before there was even any book to speak of. “Maybe it’s not about quality. You have to tick some other box for the company. They’re not publishing the work, they’re publishing you. They’re just looking for a certain person – or a certain kind of person – at a certain time,” I said (with dramatic irony, it turns out). “Maybe it’s just all political.”

“Yeah, and I’ve tried to be political. I can do caricatures of the president if that’s what people want to see. Still can’t get any traction. And if everyone’s doing political material today, maybe my only chance is to stand out going the other way.”

I started to say that wasn’t what I meant, but the crowd around us had fallen into a hush, and my voice sounded very loud to me. Everyone was standing reverentially, and a few people had their hands over their hearts. Up on the dais, a woman was singing “America the Beautiful,” which happens at a lot of protests in the city to preempt any accusations that “liberals hate America.”

All those songs give me a sinking feeling in my stomach, because they remind me of being 16 and letting my popularity go a little too much to my head and volunteering to sing the national anthem at a high school basketball game. When I got to “O’er the land of the free,” my voice squeaked and I lost the pitch. Looking back, the crowd probably would have let me get out “and the home of the brave,” but I was embarrassed and certain I’d lost them, so I just trailed off and left. I can’t remember whether I got any pity applause or just a considered silence as the whole gym watched me take the long walk off the basketball court.

In the middle of “America the Beautiful,” an older protester whipped around angrily. “Who’s humming?” she demanded to know, like a math teacher snapping during a quiet study session. “She’s up there singing a song for us. Who’s making that noise?”

It was Fia, and she looked so scared and guilty (that combination you only get when you’re a kid “in trouble”) that I got in the older woman’s face. “You can’t be out in the world if you’re gonna be screaming at people,” I said. “So either watch the stage or move along.”

She looked over my shoulder at Fia and pouted a bit. “Oh, okay. I didn’t realize it was a kid.”

“It doesn’t matter how old anyone is. You can’t be that rude.”

“That’s just how I am. My family’s Greek, that’s how we talk.”

“Yeah, I don’t accept that, though. I have Greek friends with manners. And there’s a whole array of people who will attribute being rude to being Israeli or Colombian or French or…it doesn’t matter what their background is, they just won’t own up to having no manners.”

Sarah broke in with a “Hey, hey! It’s okay, relax, we’re all here on the same side.” I stepped back, a little astonished at how quickly I’d got worked up. Already I was feeling very protective of Fia.

“Sorry,” I said, adding for credibility, “it must be referred frustration from all this.” I waved my arms in every direction, suggesting the targets of the protest.

The older woman introduced herself as Eleni and told me she understood, having been to a lot of protests in her life. “I know how easy it is to get hot at one of these. I know your emotions are running high. I’ve been there. Once you’re older, though, you learn that’s not actually the right answer.” I won’t quote her at length, because you’ve heard variations on this theme throughout your youth: somebody with more age and more experience assuring you that your sentiments are worthy of a pat on the head, but that in time you’ll grow out of them.

“Take a look at some of these signs,” she said, pointing to Sarah’s. “We want to make a change, but we don’t want to throw the baby out with the bathwater.” She pointed to my stomach. “I’m sure you’d agree.”

“Saying that the president shouldn’t grab women by the pussy, that’s washing the baby in the bathtub?” said Sarah, forgetting her seconds-ago attempt to calm me down, and getting worked up herself. There was an amazingly needling quality to Eleni’s speech, in content and tone.

“No, no, obviously not,” soothed Eleni. “That’s wrong, I’m not here to defend assault. I’m just saying let’s keep in mind what’s assault and what’s just rudeness. Actually grabbing somebody is a problem. If it’s just talking about it, if somebody’s just saying it to you…maybe it’s crass, but it’s something you just have to deal with. And a lot of it is just men being men. A lot of things, you have to remember – or maybe you have to learn – are biological.”

Then followed another familiar argument I won’t bother relaying in full. There were lots of exhortations to “look to the animals,” and phrases like “genetically dominant and genetically submissive.” I know very little about the ins-and-outs of any branch of science, so I’m unarmed for these arguments. But appeals to nature are down there with appeals to heritage in my list of least acceptable defenses.

I thought that Sarah would punch back at this, but there was just silence, and when I looked over I saw that she was glazed. A moment later she came to. “That just reminded me of something Kyle said. We were talking about exes and he was saying that no relationship he was in ever lasted more than a year.”

I didn’t know that that was unusual, since that was my record, too. “Yeah?”

“He said that he figured it was biological. A year was just enough time to get somebody pregnant and stick around long enough to protect her and the newborn.” She threw up her hands like tiger paws. “Rawr! Like that, that’s exactly what he did with his hands when explaining it…anyway, I’m not an idiot, I know he was saying this as a prelude to ‘We’re never going to last.’ But I so didn’t want to have that conversation. At least not then. So I just went off on his paws gesture and used that to talk about big cats. Stories about going to the zoo, talking about The Lion King…just forced him onto this huge tangent and would not let him get back to his point. Just tiring him out.”

Eleni looked impatient for us to start listening to her again. “Well, he was right, there is a natural calendar of–”

“Not to be glib,” I interrupted. “Sorry Eleni. Not to be glib, but that’s great material, Sarah. You could put that in a comic and it would be wonderful.”

The crowd cheered, and it was clear that somebody big was getting on stage. Everyone was jumping up and down, so I couldn’t see the speaker. “Fia, would you take a picture for me?” She held my phone up high, snapped a shot, and handed it back to me.

“Oh, weird,” I said, showing the photo to Eleni and Sarah. “It’s Anne Wysie.”

“Wysie?” repeated Sarah.

“I was just reading her…” I twisted around to pull the book out of my bag, which kept swinging out of my grasp. “See? That’s funny.”

Eleni looked at the book, then looked at me. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“Are you okay?” she said again.

I didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about. One thing that I hope will become clear by the end of this book is how, despite concocting an amazingly elaborate plan, the conspirators were incredibly stupid, and their use of “Are you okay?” as a code phrase is part of that. Any phrase even slightly less generic would have be better.

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “I’m just trying to show you this book.”

“Ugh, I’m so tired of that bitch,” said Sarah, looking from the stage to the book. “She needs to just shut the fuck up and retire already.”

Eleni slapped Sarah’s cheek. “You need to have more respect.” She was smiling, and I think she would have defended her slap as “light,” or even “playful,” but there really isn’t such a thing.

Sarah grabbed Eleni’s still outstretched arm at the wrist, and said, “Don’t touch me,” or something to that effect. It was hard to hear over Eleni’s squealing. She was really freaked to be stood up to, and she squirmed and thrashed to get out of Sarah’s grip. She wrenched herself away and fell to the sidewalk, wailing in what I thought was a pretty theatrical way.

The protestors around us turned to look and help her up, asking what happened. “She threw me down,” said Eleni at the same time that Sarah said, “She slapped me.” People started to form ranks with both women, and it was self-preservation, or intuition, or just a happy coincidence, but at that moment, I remembered that I still had a doctor’s appointment to keep. I scooped Fia off of her perch and hustled out of the crowd.

The violence that broke out at the protest, sparked by that initial confrontation, was soon overshadowed by the rest of what happened that day, and it’s been completely forgotten now. But people were hurt, so I have to take responsibility for my part in it: I introduced Anne Wysie into a conversation between two unstable parties and left without even trying to cool them down.

An earlier draft of this part of the story went past my editor who said it was silly for me to insist on taking blame for a few fractures and chipped teeth, that it would muddy the image of me as a hero, and that it was nothing compared to the lives I wound up saving. But come on. “What are you? An accountant?” Besides, there are already enough stories out there that deal in black and white, in good guys and bad guys.

#short story #union square #protest #time's up #me too #slap #foot fetishists #biology #heritage #revolutionaries

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