#tofus mutual delight!

[decoysouled]

unprompted asks // accepting // @astrcls. "i see the way you look at him." baiheng is grinning broadly. she reaches out, patting the back of yingxing's hand reassuringly. "he's a real sweetheart, you know," she continues, "the rumors about him that would make him out to be cold and aloof are so inaccurate it pains me !" there's a beat; baiheng chews on her lower lip as if deep in thought, then leans in, her eyes twinkling with delight. "his favorite season is summer because it's warm and the days are long, though he loves to watch the flowers bloom in spring. he sleeps poorly most nights, but he'll never admit when he's tired. his favorite drinks are tea and xiāngxuě jiǔ, and not necessarily always in that order. ... speaking of, he can drink most of us under the table, but rarely does. ah ... what else ? he prefers tofu and seafood, never red meats, and he loves dessert. --- oh ! and when he blushes, it goes all the way to the tips of his ears !" she taps the tips of her own for effect. "you mustn't be afraid to speak to him, dìdi. he's an excellent conversationalist, and you'll never find a better listener. and i happen to have it on good authority that he is utterly fascinated by you, and would very much like to know you more --- but he's rather shy, if you can believe it. you may have to approach him first ... which i'm happy to facilitate ... " a wink and another gentle pat for yingxing's hand. "so ... what do you say ? will you let me arrange something for the two of you ?"

YINGXING WAS A PERSON WHO OFTEN AVOIDED OTHERS — while most would assume he is simply a busy man who prefers to spend his time toiling away in the forge, or perhaps someone so introverted he simply saw no value in the world outside of it, there was a far more simple truth: it was far easier to avoid indulging his obsessive need of knowing about others if he did not encounter anyone willing to give him such information in the first place.

( it is far easier like that. )

It is not exactly something he likes to mention, nor is it a part of his personality he relays to others. Such tendencies would be off-putting to most & truth be told, it isn't a facet of himself that he likes. Instead, it is a trait he pushes deep down into the recesses of his heart, never allowing it to see the light of day — yet today, it sings as he files away the ( rather useless ) trivia that Baiheng is offering to him, a moment of gluttony that he will surely regret later.

( he always feels a certain sort of guilt when it comes to such things, especially when he is sure yinyue-jun does not wish for him to know any of this in the first place. he is almost certain of that. )

He listens in silence to each fact she rattles off, far more intently than he wishes to & unable to find distraction in the drawings of his designs — the high elder had always seemed to be untouchable, a man above all others, & Yingxing had long since resigned himself to only gaining a glimpse of his radiance, for what business would a short-life species have with someone of such immense power & status?

Even with their shared friend group, he had found himself far too nervous to even try & speak to Yinyue-jun, often falling quiet during the outings that they both accompanied the trio of their mutual friends on. It is not necessarily that he is unwilling to speak, only that he hasn't a clue what to say & it is better to seem as if he is ignoring Yinyue-jun than to embarrass himself by stumbling over his words due to being flustered by his mere presence.

( let it never be said that dan feng was not a beautiful man, for yingxing is sure anyone else would be just as weak when faced with his gaze. )

Yingxing is patient as he awaits the end of her tirade, a luxury that he affords to few people — not necessarily out of rudeness, but he simply does not have the time to listen to long rants about trivial matters when he has a plethora of work to do & so little time to do it. His inspiration, while not a fickle thing, would run dry when he fell asleep & all his ideas of the day would be lost to the scattered stars in the sky above them.

Baiheng is an exception, if only out of respect & a lingering fondness for a friend.

❝Baiheng... Jiějiě, did you bother to ask his permission before rattling off his life story to me?❞ Yingxing's words are spoken with an exasperation that he lends only to her, although at times, Jing Yuan comes close to hearing his scolding words too — if Jingliu were any easier on the man, then perhaps Yingxing would feel a little less guilt for chiding him once she is done with her lectures.

❝Besides, I am well aware of some of the things you've told me. I've watched him drink all of us under the table on one of the few times I've joined you all.❞ He neglects to mention that his own lack of tolerance for alcohol, as compared to the rest of them, has often been the reason he has left quite early into the evenings. Yingxing is sure she's aware of that, anyway. ❝Though, I have to admit it's quite a skill. I couldn't keep up with you all if I tried.❞

( he is quite prone to making a fool of himself, too, when drunk. of that he is sure. )

❝Allow me to correct you on other things, too: I don't look at him in any way.❞ It is untrue, that much he is aware she knows — between her & jingliu, there isn't any chance that he has not been caught staring adoringly at the high elder, a melancholy in his eyes at the realisation that he will never be as close to Yinyue-jun as he wishes to be oft accompanying his softened gaze. His denial is simply an attempt to save face, although he's sure the pink tint to his skin says more than his words do.

( yingxing has never enjoyed being caught out, in the end. )

❝Secondly, I'm not afraid to talk to him. I could speak to him, if I wanted to.❞ At this point, it isn't quite obvious whether he's trying to convince her of such a fact or himself, considering he sounds uncertain at best — truth be told, it is less a fear of speaking to Dan Feng, more one of making a fool of himself in front of him. Then again, Yingxing probably did that the day they met, considering how he had tripped over his own name so many times Baiheng had been forced to tell Yinyue-jun what it was instead.

( he dislikes that he has any memory of that day at all. )

❝You're teasing me, jiějiě.❞ The accusation is spoken in a low voice, like the thunder that is called down from the heavens of worlds during lightning storms — this, too, is a denial, for Yingxing cannot think of any reason for which Yinyue-jun would be fascinated by him, nevermind enough so to wish to approach him. Yingxing is not anyone special & to catch the eye of someone like Dan Feng is so unbelievable he might have laughed if he weren't so sure he would cry instead in doing so.

❝If you want me to spend more time with the rest of you, then say so, but I highly doubt he would be happy to spend time alone with me.❞ His lips twist into a small frown at even the thought of the inevitable rejection it would bring, & he sets his pencil down before he has the chance to ruin the rough draft he had spent the last half a day working on. ❝I wouldn't be good company, either. I... am afraid I would be far too awkward to know what to do.❞

[tofumedic]

im rlly bad at...people things lol but you remind me of a golden retriever! ur really cool dude and i admire your energy sm ‼️ idk ur...ur just really cool lol

HWKAGAJAMAMAMAAAAA WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH THEN !!!!!!! I AM!!!!!!!!!! WAGGING!!!!!!!!!! IM ROLLING OVER THIS THE SPIN EVEN PLAYING DEAD THE PRIVILEGE AND HONOR

[peachysamu]

Law of Unintended Consequences

Summary: akaashi and the domino effect of misplaced frustrations and improper timing

Word count: 1.9k

Genre: angst

A/n: here’s to all my fellow empaths.

the visual I have of this is during those scenes in movies when one character is like on a train and another is running desperately to catch up and make it and then there’s a close up on their hands and they’re reaching for each other, tips of fingers trying to find purchase, until the opportunity dramatically slips.

Akaashi is security. He is home. A blind date set up from a mutual friend began with nervous careful strides. Stepping stones that eventually lead to a home, you bask in his warmth despite the cold, bluesy day.

“Why are you so good to me?” The comfortable silence is only interrupted because you feel grateful, blessed even, by the existence of him in your life. With your back pressed against his chest, and tightly snug and cozy underneath a quilted blanket he’s sewed, you think this is the epitome of happiness. The realization dawns on you as you watch snow flurries dance in the sky upon the makeshift reading nook you and Akaashi have made out of an ottoman and an abundance of plush pillows and quilted throws. You figure not everyone gets to experience this. This comfortable balance of being, this perfect fit of life, and when you glance up at blue eyes as striking as the backdrop before you, you affirm that these thoughts of yours are true.

“Because I love you,” The breath of morning coffee fans across your senses, “And I will always love you like I won’t be able to tomorrow.”

Akaashi loves you like a deadline. He’s loved you like so even before he knew he loved you at all. At one point, it made you feel distinguished. You felt as though you were a priority in his life, because there is value in the thought of temporary though you consider Akaashi forever. Into your relationship, you realize that maybe temporary might just be exactly what he means.

“Shit,” You mumble quietly to yourself when your scarf snags the edge of a door. A miniscule hole appears at the end of the beloved item. From poor sleep and lack of appetite, you almost want to cry at the tear but you’re able to contain it with trembling lips.

Sleep has been having a hard time reaching you lately. With Akaashi’s arrival becoming later and later thanks to the upcoming launch of a well awaited manga, you find yourself tossing and turning to the LED flickers of your TV. He cameos in your dreams in weighted dips and brief kisses atop your forehead. You make those same appearances when you wake. Fleeting touches might placate your slumbering self, but it’s not enough for the conscious you. You decide to take matters into your own hands despite a sour attitude and slight rip of your scarf.

Akaashi is greeted by you and two mapo tofu bentos from the konbini three streets down. You don’t have enough time to curate a home cooked meal having gotten home only an hour earlier yourself, but you’ve put a lot of thought into this. Akaashi, for some reason, enjoys it when the two of you sit down eating the same thing and one of the things he enjoys is mapo tofu. With careful research, the both of you have decided that the corner store three streets down is worth the walk and effort if only for the delicious meal. Well, as delicious as it can get for being premade.

“Welcome home,” You smile and greet him with a kiss.

Habit finds his hands at your waist and the warmth they bring provides the ease you’ve been looking for.

He looks past you and with observant eyes, whispers, “You bought dinner?”

When you hum, Akaashi takes a moment to sniff the air. “Mapo tofu? From the corner store three streets down?”

Eyes crinkle in delight and a small, but tired smile adorns his lips. The sight of it brings you joy and you think this is all you need to bring back balance in your life. But when he fails to match the excitable energy you have during dinner, a small tinge of annoyance begins to swell in your chest.

“There’s a hole in my scarf now.”

Silence follows your statement.

You set your spoon down a little too harshly that it finally disturbs your lover’s deep thoughts. A fissure opens between you two and shakes the harmony that the both of you have tried so hard to cultivate.

He glances at you with a wide eyed look, unapparent to your irritated behavior.

“Are you even listening to me?”

He gives you a wearied sigh accompanied by a look of regret. “I’m sorry. I’m exhausted, sweetheart, but go on. I’m listening now.”

You want to accept it, because you know he means no harm. You want to understand him, and if you were in a healthier state of mind, you would have. But you’re not. You’re tired too. You’re touch starved and you miss him. You thought it was evident in the dinner you quickly scrounged up. He must not miss you as much as you miss him.

At the thought, you get up without a word, each movement of yours exemplified by pettiness and hurt. The sharp ring when you clatter your plate against the table makes your partner visibly wince and you, unaffected.

“Sweetheart,” Akaashi tries one more time when you all but throw your leftovers into the fridge. He gets up from his seat but you make a move to avoid him. You wanted to spend time with him, but not like this. You wanted love, sweet moments full of yearning and kisses. Neglect makes the sichuan spices across your lips hot and your heart numb. You want what you desire or none at all.

“I’m tired.” The seethe that escapes you is unrepentant. “I’m going to bed.”

Though you are tired, an unrelenting thought leaves you restless. A man who loves you like a deadline, you figure, wouldn’t care for a scarf he may not even see tomorrow.

Akaashi loves you like a deadline. He knows that he may not have the chance to tell you he loves you tomorrow. Coupled with anxiety and overthinking, he makes it a point to call you during the smallest break he has. Though he’s been eating meals at his desk, he finds reprieve when Tenma makes his way to the bathroom, skipping his own bathroom break to talk to you.

The thought of your voice is enough to bring peace in his mind. You always know the right things to say to make him feel better, but instead, the sound of your voicemail leaves an acrid taste in his mouth because he’s reaching out and you fail to grip him. In the busyness of his own day, Akaashi makes a point to hear your voice. You fail him in your own sense, ignoring him inadvertently when all he has is good intentions. All he wants is to mend this rift created by poor timing but is instead neglected, forgotten, and unappreciated. He throws his phone across his desk, slicing through the work that has been plaguing him for the past week, and beelines for the bathroom.

It feels colder. Disgruntled, Akaashi rolls his sleeves down. He makes a move to clasp the button at the cuffs of his sleeve. The hole catches then slips. He fails a second, a third, and at the fourth failed attempt, Akaashi relents his anger with a heavy slap of palms against the ceramic sink. The slap is resounding, but the sting in his fingers cannot compare to the ones that appear between his eyes. The pain spews, runs down his cheeks in hot tears, proof of frustration.

Akaashi wastes time breaking down in the bathroom and when he sits back down at his desk, he has no time to return your phone call he’s missed.

The polyester blend of your scarf is soft to the touch as you take great effort to remedy the hole that continues to widen. A quick google search tells you that you can keep the ramifications of your recklessness at bay with clear nail polish along the edges.

Your back is pressed against a cabinet in your bathroom, knees to the chest as you take great effort to fix the mess you’ve made. Usually you’d ask Akaashi to sew it back together for you, but you don’t want to trouble him with the trivial matters of your scarf. Though you and Akaashi played a failed game of phone tag today, you’re excited to know that he’s missed you just as much as you miss him. It gives you the strength to wait up so that you may not miss the mundane retellings of his day.

He greets you with aggravation. Irritation ripples at the edges along your skin, but the idea of him and missing him outweighs it. “What are you doing up still? You should be sleeping.”

“I missed your call.” You stand and place your scarf on the counter, “I wanted to stay up for you. So we could hang out for a bit!”

“That wasn’t necessary,” Akaashi states flatly as he peels off his work attire. “You should have just gone to sleep. I know you’re busy.”

It’s easy to feel slighted at the passive aggressive tone. It’s the way his words on paper sound kind. But when you match it with his expression, the roll of the eyes, the accusatory tone, the way he evades your touch in preference of slicking back his clothes, frustration builds inside you.

It tumbles in your chest, like a swarm of wasps stinging at your lungs before sweeping into your throat.

“I was just trying to do something nice.” You explain, though you’ve never had to before. Why can’t he see that you miss him? Why does everything feel so unstable? It feels like walking along the crooked edges of a cliff. “Why are you being so mean?”

“I’m not being mean.” Akaashi busies himself by scrolling through his clothes and preparing for the next day. His back is still turned to you and having been home for minutes now, he still hasn’t looked you in the eyes. “I simply know you’re busy and you have a lot of work. You need to rest.”

“Why does it feel like you’re trying to put that against me?” Crossing your arms and keeping your stance behind him, aggressively awake now. “You’re busy too. I haven’t seen you or even talked to you either.”

One final swoosh of the hangers, Akaashi finally turns around. He softens at the sight of you and your heart trembles at the evidence that the Akaashi that you’ve known and loved, the one whose presence brought you peace and purpose, exists. Then, with a clink of his teeth, he doubles down, returning the frigid cold encompassed in his eyes.

“You’re right,” He grits and then breaks gaze once more. He swipes a palm along his work pants. “I’ve got a deadline. I’ll be in the other room working on it.”

Watching him walk away, the energy slips from your bones. You lay yourself to sleep absolutely numb.

Akaashi loves you like a deadline, but it seems like deadlines have been the bane of his existence.

[emmaswanchoosesyou]

CSBB: Part of the Narrative (10/17)

Emma Swan just wants to write the follow-up to her bestselling debut novel, that’s all. But when she gets off to a rough start with her new editor, Killian Jones, she knows it’s not going according to plan. Then, an unexpected figure from Emma’s past reappears and life begins to mirror the crime thriller she’s penning. Suspicion and secrets abound–but love might too. A writer/editor AU with a thriller twist.

Rated E. Includes sexual content, kidnapping, some gore, and minor character death–not to mention salty language! On Ao3 here.

Chapter warnings: Weeping, feelings, confrontations, and revelations.

Happy Halloweek, have some pain! And more revelations!  Thank you for all the likes and kudos and reblogs that have been cherished and squealed over. Thank you to all the wonderful ladies at @captainswanbigbang for all you’ve done to make this possible, and all the support you’ve given. Sophie @shady-swan-jones made the delightful banner and another photoset that I adore. Kayla @bleebug did some incredible art for the first and sixth chapters, which you can check out here and here. And all the love and thanks to Kris @sambethe for beta-ing this and making it a ton better. Like seriously, she’s the best.

[Ch. 1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9]

Chapter 10

Emma confronts growing suspicions that Regina is hurting Henry. Killian thinks she might wrong and overreacting. When she doesn't handle his reaction well, she runs into Cleo, who has more news to share.

Emma

“Henry? Are you okay?” Emma asked, worried at how quiet the phone had gone.

They had talked three or four times in the past couple of weeks, about every imaginable topic they could--school, their respective interests, tentative things they wanted to do if they had a chance to see each other again. Emma got the impression Regina wasn’t thrilled, but she was just happy to have the opportunity to chat with her son.

The silence continued a few more moments before Henry finally said, “Yeah.”

“What’s wrong?”

He sighed. “Nothing, really. I just feel...weird.”

Emma’s brow furrowed and she paused, trying to decide how to get him to tell her more. “What kind of weird? Are you sick?”

“Cool it, okay?” Emma could practically hear his eyeroll. “I feel fine like that. But you know how I told you when we first met that I feel like somebody’s watching me? I feel like that, but more now.”

She bit her lip. “Is there a reason you think that?” She didn’t want him to be right, but she also really didn’t want him to be wrong either. Being right would be awful, and scary, and she didn’t know what they could do, or how she could protect him.

But if he was wrong, she worried Henry would be upset with her, would think she didn’t believe in him and trust him. Worse, Henry might decide he couldn’t trust her and would push her away. She couldn’t abide that.

“It’s mostly a feeling, but a couple of times I’ve seen the same person waiting outside my school. He never picks up a kid, and he is always gone when I turn to look back,” he said, his voice carefully neutral.

That was worrying, and he didn’t sound completely crazy. It bore looking into, even if there were plenty of explanations for the behavior he was describing.

“That makes sense,” Emma reassured him, “but is there a reason you think they’re watching you?”

“I mean, it makes sense, right? Between Mom’s job and you being famous? And sometimes I think I see them other places too.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t argue with that--she was well-known, even if she loved her privacy, and Regina was pretty damn well-off. Of course, it could be someone watching another kid--acrimonious custody battles were definitely a thing, she’d learned during her stint as a bail bondsperson. Not that it made this any better. “Hmm. Have you talked to Regina about this?”

Henry gave another long pause. “I did once. She told me I was probably imagining things.”

That was worrying.

“Yeah,” Henry said. She couldn’t tell much from his tone, but he seemed to be fishing for some kind of response from her.

If only she knew what that response should be.

“What does this person look like?”

“Well, I think it’s a man. They seem fairly tall, and they always wear a hat. They’re white? And not all that noticeable.”

“Hmm,” Emma muttered.

&&&

"Hey, can we talk?" Emma asked, stepping through the open door of Regina’s large, corner office, the nicest in the building, without waiting for an answer. The floor-to-ceiling windows let in plenty of natural light, which shone warmly on the ornate ash furniture. The room was decorated in whites, greys, and blacks with hints of red throughout, managing to make it look inviting and imposing at the same time. Emma was impressed all over again, even if it was her second time in the office.

Regina looked up from her computer, seemingly unperturbed at Emma’s unannounced intrusion. She was as poised as ever, clad in black and cobalt, not a single hair astray. "Do I have much of a choice? You're here, and you're talking, so...by all means, continue with this undoubtedly deeply important interruption."

Emma clenched her fists, willing herself not to respond to her baiting. "I'm here to talk about something that should interest you. Or someone, rather. Henry."

Taking her hands away from the keyboard and swiveling in her chair to face Emma directly, Regina leaned back in her chair. "Oh?"

"When I was on the phone with him last night, he mentioned something’s been bothering him. He feels like someone is watching him," she said, settling into the uncomfortable visitor's chair across the desk from Regina.

"A lot of people are watching him, Miss Swan. I'm in the running for mayor of the town, and I'm quite well-known. I'm a prominent member of the community, and Henry thus has a correspondingly large number of eyes on him."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it." Emma gritted her teeth.

"No, I don't know what you mean."

Crossing her arms over her chest, Emma continued, "Then let me explain it. Henry feels like someone is watching him. In a hostile, spying-on-him, following-him-home-from-school kind of way."

Regina's lips tightened. "He brought this up to me a few weeks ago."

"I know. He said you brushed him off, telling him you thought he was imagining things."

Regina flipped her hair back over her shoulder. "And maybe that was a poor choice of words and a childish oversimplification on his part. Because he's a child, Ms. Swan. He sometimes sees things that aren't there, and children his age tend to think, on some level, that the world revolves around them. Something you might know if you had ever actually raised a child before."

Her smug tone had Emma's jaw clenching, her teeth grinding. Don't punch your boss, don't punch your boss, Emma silently repeated to herself. Taking a deep breath, she asked, "Did I offend you in some way? I can't think of any reason for you to be so hostile to me. We've made each other a ton of money, and I'm the person who gave birth to your son. I happen to think you've done a decent enough job raising him since he's a pretty polite, interesting kid. I just thought you’d want to hear about the concerning thing Henry told me."

Regina sat back in her chair, her shoulders relaxing as she thawed a little at the positive mention of Henry and her own hand in raising him. "I'm not offended. I have no reason to be offended."

"So it doesn't bother you at all that Henry sought me out?"

It was Regina's turn to clench her jaw. "I'm not thrilled about the manner in which he did so. I would have wholly supported him looking for his birth mother--you--had we done so together, had he not done it behind my back."

"Is there a reason he might have felt it necessary to do that, Ms. Mills?"

Regina narrowed her eyes at Emma’s change from her first name. "I don't like what you're implying."

Emma couldn't resist the taunt, her pride still smarting from Regina’s earlier words. "Oh, I'm not implying anything. I'm saying that I think there's a reason Henry didn't tell you," she said cockily, a smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth.

"Get out," Regina said coldly. Her volume was controlled, but there was no mistaking the fury in her voice. She stayed in her chair, gripping the corner of her desk tightly. "Get out of my office right now."

Emma stood leisurely, exiting the office without looking back.

&&&

“Jacob glanced back over his shoulder, hurrying through the alley. He prayed he could outpace the man following him, that maybe this time his foster parents and Raisa would believe him,” Killian read aloud from her draft on his screen. “But god, what if it was his foster mother? What if she were the one actually responsible for all of this chaos?”

He was sitting next to her on one of the stools at the kitchen island, pushing up the reading glasses that had fallen down his nose. They were working on her latest chapter and polishing off Chinese takeout while they did so. Emma’s heart clenched at the pleasant domesticity of it.

“I’ll never get over how weird it is to hear someone reading the words I wrote,” she said, taking a huge bite of her mapo tofu.

He smiled at her. “I can’t imagine that. Didn’t you read a good deal of it yourself at signings and readings with Bonds of the Past?”

“Sure, but that was just me reading it? Hearing someone else? That’s incredibly strange.”

“It can’t be that odd, especially in my melodious, accented voice,” he said, winking at her.

Emma rolled her eyes, biting back a smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You like it Swan, admit it,” Killian teased, his emphasis on each of the “t” sounds getting her hotter than any elocution had the right to.

“I might,” she said, staring at the way his tongue waggled at the corner of his mouth. Seriously, it was unfair.

He took a long drink of his watered down old fashioned, the ice having long since melted. “Then I shouldn’t have to tell you that it’s probably mutual.”

Her face reddened, and she bit her lip. “Then it won’t be too forward of me to ask you to stay over tonight?”

The warmth in his eyes turned hotter, his eyes darkening. He cleared his throat and replied gruffly, “I’d be honored to.”

“Honored? What are you, three hundred?”

“What I am is a gentleman,” he said, waggling an eyebrow at her before he sighed and looked back at the document on his screen. “A gentleman who is probably going to regret saying this, but we should finish looking over this chapter.”

Emma grimaced but nodded. “Work first, play later? Fine, fine, be responsible like that.” She looked wistfully at the page count, realizing they were only halfway through the chapter.

She really wanted to take him to bed. They’d been dating for about a month and a half, and Emma couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this hard up. She definitely hadn’t waited this long since she was a teenager, and she half-regretted suggesting they take it slow.

It had been going slowly, all right. Too slowly. Honestly, she was shocked she hadn’t jumped him when he’d come in the door earlier, looking adorably earnest and unbearably attractive in his black jeans and black and muted purple floral button-up.

Killian took off his glasses and scratched behind his ear. “I’m probably going to hate myself for this later, but you might not want to extend that invitation once I say this.”

“Oh god, editorial bullshit I’m not going to like.” Her face remained impassive and her voice light, but her shoulders tightened at his words.

“Unfortunately.”

She sighed. “Well, let’s hear it, then. Let’s get this over with.”

He hesitated. “I…I don’t think you’ve really established a good motive for the foster parents’ culpability with Jacob. Why would they do it when they’re already acting as his guardians? It just seems unlikely to me.”

Okay, that’s annoying, she thought, trying to bring back the calm she’d felt a couple minutes before. “You don’t think I’ve established how shady they are?”

“You’ve talked about them being shady, but haven’t given much evidence or textual support for it beyond it being a feeling Jacob has,” Killian said, sounding apologetic. He was clearly feeling the pain of the tentative balance of their professional and personal relationships, and she might have felt badly, if he weren’t completely wrong. “But they are guilty of it. Can’t you just wait and see how it plays out over the next couple of chapters?”

He leaned back in his chair. “I’m just trying to make your book as good as it can be. I do have faith in your ability to get the reader there, just…this is the process.”

Emma felt a rush of irritation surge through her. “It might be the process, but I’m pretty damn sure it’s obvious they’re shitty parents. I would think you of all people would understand the need to trust the protagonist. Just because he’s a kid doesn’t mean the adults around him shouldn’t believe him. Or that the reader won’t.”

He paused, seeming to consider his words carefully. “Are you sure this is about the chapter? I’m starting to think this might be about something else, something closer to home.”

At that, she deflated, her burgeoning rage dissipating. Averting her eyes, she twiddled her chopsticks. After a few moments, she finally nodded. "I--well, there might be some stuff going on with Henry."

"What kind of stuff?" He reached out and took her hand, and her heart clenched.

"The kind of thing where he thinks someone is following him and has decent reasons to think so. But Regina doesn't believe him, and she blew me off when I tried to bring it up with her."

"Ah."

Chancing a peek at Killian, she saw he was avoiding her gaze. "What does 'ah' mean?"

He bit his lip before answering. "Keeping in mind that I don't know all the particulars and haven't had a good deal of time to think about it…I can think of several reasons that might be. And don't you think that--and this is me inferring from what I read from your chapter--that suspecting Regina of some kind of involvement in this is rather ludicrous? You might be overreacting."

She saw red. "Ludicrous?! Overreacting?!"

He didn't seem to notice, or at least acknowledge, her increased agitation. "Well, as I mentioned, why? Why would she do such a thing, Swan?"

"Oh, gee, maybe it could have something to do with my sudden appearance in Henry's life. If he was really happy with her, do you think he would have sought me out?" Emma bit out, unable to keep the sarcasm from her tone.

"Don't you think that's a bit…self-serving, love? I can think of plenty of reasons Henry might have sought you out even if he was 100% thrilled with his relationship with Regina. After all, you seem happy now, but wouldn't you like to at least know your parents?" Killian kept his tone even as he said this, but all it did was serve to further infuriate Emma.

"You were right, I don't want to hear this. And I don't want you to stay over tonight."

He looked at her, brow furrowed in worry. "Do you…are we okay?"

For the second time that night, she slumped back in her chair. "I…I think we will be. I'm just really fucking furious right now and don't want to look at you."

"You want me to leave."

"That's about the size of it."

Killian put his glasses away and closed his laptop, placing it into his messenger bag. He stood slowly and went over to where she was still seated, leaned over and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. "Very well, Emma. You know where to find me."

She sighed. "Yeah. I'll call you tomorrow?" Suddenly sounding unsure, she reached for his hand and squeezed it before pressing a kiss of her own to it.

"I'd love that," he said, smiling sadly as he walked to the door.

But Emma didn't respond. Lost in thought, she didn't acknowledge his departure.

&&&

Emma slowly dragged herself out of bed the next morning. She hadn’t slept well and now had a crick in her neck, the product of having spent most of the night tossing and turning.

And she was embarrassed. She had, in fact, overreacted the previous night. Slightly. As far as she was concerned, Killian was still mostly wrong, but he’d brought up the topic in as diplomatic and tactful way as he could. Like a reasonable adult in a grown-ass relationship…something she just wasn’t used to.  

Once she fortified herself with caffeine--coffee, she didn’t deserve hot chocolate--and made herself presentable, she would go to Killian, and they could talk it over. She’d heard a rumor once that that’s what adults did when they disagreed with someone they cared about, and she was willing to give it a shot.

She stepped into the bathroom and grimaced at the reflection in the mirror of her snarled, disheveled hair and blotchy face. (So she might have cried a little after Killian left, what of it?) Okay, so maybe she’d have to push back the timeframe for the day a little, the whole “making herself presentable” portion was going to take longer than she’d like.

Emma was going to need breakfast. And, she could admit to herself, moral support. She brushed her teeth and took a quick shower, throwing on a simple outfit that was comfortable, reassuring, and still cute. The flowing material of the tunic was soft, and the leggings tucked into the boots provided that edge of familiarity she needed for what was sure to be a trying day.

Eggs, bacon, and humble pie were on the menu.

&&&

She slid into her favorite booth, the smell of coffee, grease, and breakfast food in general making her feel at home and soothing her anxiety. Granny’s may not be fancy, but it was as unmistakably her as a place could get.

That sense of well-being deepened when a small whirlwind moved across the diner and into the seat across from her with astonishing speed. The expensive perfume she wore was at odds with the casual environment, and the heels too high and the outfit a tad too tailored, but Belle’s presence was always a welcome one in Emma’s book.

The artfully arranged curls framed a small, delicately beautiful face, and her blue eyes peered at Emma with concern.

God, she wasn’t going to cry just from Belle giving her that caring, motherly look. She wasn’t.

“Ruby will be out in just a second. She had to check on some things with the dairy supplier,” Belle said, fiddling with the wedding ring that matched the one on Ruby’s hand. “But how are you?”

Despite her earlier admonition, Emma’s eyes welled with tears. “I’m fine.”

The only response she got was a doubtful glance and a raised eyebrow that challenged her to continue.

“Okay, maybe I’m not fine,” she admitted.

Ruby arrived then and silently poured three full mugs of coffee. “You’re obviously not fine, Emma. You’d never text me before ten in the morning if you were.”

Emma looked up at her blearily. “Point made,” she said, and Belle and Ruby exchanged a look.

“What can I get you, sweetie?” Ruby asked. “I could even do a grilled cheese if that'll help.”

“No, but thank you. Maybe some waffles? And some advice and a hug?”

“We can do that.”

In a startlingly short period of time, she was polishing off her plate of waffles. Ruby sat next to her, arm draped over her shoulders, while Belle sat across from them, listening intently as Emma filled them in on the previous day’s happenings.

“It sounds like you have a lot on your plate. Metaphorically, that is,” Belle commiserated.

Emma sighed. “Yeah. I just…did I mess things up with Killian? Am I totally off base with the whole Henry and Regina situation?”

Ruby tightened her grip on her. “No, I don’t think so. From what you said, Killian seemed fine last night. Sad, but okay with you needing a little space. And with Regina and Henry…you need to follow your instincts. You’ve always had good ones. Remember that doctor I went out with a couple times? You totally called it with how weird he turned out to be.”

“Rubes, no one could have guessed that he would be into experimenting on dead bodies.”

Belle turned to her wife, intrigued. Ruby just shrugged. “Sure, but not even Granny tried to stop me from dating him.”

“That’s because every time she told you not to do something, you just…intensified the thing,” Emma said.

“Still, points to you. Just take what you can get, Emma.”

“I will. For starters, another hug?”

Both Ruby and Belle obliged, embracing her tightly and packing her a large takeaway bag full of a pie Ruby had made for the diner along with cookies Belle had made that morning.

Heart and arms fuller, she made her way home. Arriving at her apartment she was startled to see a familiar face outside her door--Cleo.

&&&

Emma stared at Cleo, confused. She had rarely--if ever--seen her outside of work or work-related events, and she was a little puzzled to find her outside of her apartment. For starters, how did she even know where she lived?

Belatedly and somewhat superfluously, she realized that Cleo had access to her HR files, which was probably how she learned her address. But that still didn't answer why she was here.

Cleo met her eyes wordlessly, looking more torn and indecisive than Emma had ever seen her. Her hair wasn't in its usual orderly, business-like ponytail, and she wasn't wearing her usual carefully tailored leather or wool. She was wearing jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, her hair was wild and wavy, and she looked as exhausted as Emma felt.

Emma's stomach clenched, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Finally, she spoke, stepping towards her front door. "Uh, hi, Cleo. What's up…on a Saturday? Outside my apartment?"

Cleo grimaced. "We need to talk. Can we go inside?"

"Yikes, that phrase doesn't usually lead to good things," Emma said, motioning her inside and leading her to the couch. She sat at one end and Cleo at the other, neither looking at the other.

"I wish I could say this would be an exception, but I can't imagine this conversation will be fun. Or easy."

Emma tilted her head, considering. "Okay, well, would you like some coffee first? Or tea? I can get you a slice of pie, too."

"That…sounds good."

Emma carefully cut the pie while the coffee brewed, the gurgling of the percolator the only sound in the apartment. As soon as it was prepared, Emma brought out their mugs and pie and rejoined Cleo on the couch.

She cleared her throat, unsure of how to begin. "So..."

"August has been spying on you," Cleo blurted out.

"What?" Whatever she'd been expecting, that hadn't been it. She put down her mug, splashing some of the coffee on herself. She winced, but made no motion to get anything to clean it off her top.

"He's been digging for information on you, colluding with at least one other person. For reasons I can't entirely figure out."

"The fuck? What? Spying on me? With another person? And uh, how do you know this?" She stared at Cleo, her mouth gaping open.

Cleo's mouth twisted. "August has been giving all this information he's gotten about you to a woman. I'm not entirely sure who. I’ve heard them on the phone, her voice sounds familiar, but..."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

Emma sat there, stupefied. She didn't get it. August had brought her into the publishing house, making it possible for her to not have an agent. He'd essentially acted as one for her, providing a mutually beneficial professional relationship that been good for both of them. She would have probably answered any relevant questions he might have. So what the hell was he asking?

"I don't know what to say."

"I'm sorry, Emma. I didn't want to burst in on your Saturday, but I thought you needed to know. And I'm afraid that's not the worst of it," Cleo said, looking truly apologetic.

"What could be worse than that?"

"The person August was using to get a lot of that information, at least for a while, was Killian."

Fuck.

Emma wasn't sure how to process the information Cleo had just given her. She had sat motionless while Cleo told her how she'd gotten the information and what had tipped her off that something might be wrong with the entire scenario. It had seemed pretty clear.

She just didn't get why.

"Jones seems to have been involved initially because August expedited his immigration to the US. He could have gotten it done otherwise, but he seemed to want to get out of England fast, and August somehow made that possible," Cleo explained.

"How? I wouldn’t have thought August had much pull with any sort of governmental organization. He's good at marketing and making connections, but Regina is the one at Mills & Booth with the ties to deep pockets and the power players."

Cleo looked at her sympathetically, taking in the lost and confused expression on Emma's face. "Well, I can postulate he's made some connections that might help. And the money seems to have come from his silent--or rather, unseen--partner."

Emma sighed. "Who might actually be Regina."

"It could be, yes, but I don't know for sure," said Cleo.

"Jesus. Just...why? Wouldn't it have been easier to just ask me stuff?"

"Would you have told him? You're not the most forthcoming, and I'll be honest, I don't know whether August's motive is personal or professional. All I know is that he asked Jones for as much information as he could get about you, from personal stuff to what you were working on with your novel."

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Emma chewed on her thumbnail while she considered everything Cleo told her. "So Killian told him everything? Everything I've been telling him for the last few months?"

"I'm not sure," Cleo replied carefully. "What I can tell you is that Killian seems to have stopped providing any information about a month or so ago. At that point, he functionally ceased communication with August beyond the usual professional progress updates you'd expect." She hesitated before continuing. "I'm sorry. I know you two were getting closer."

"We've been dating for the last month and a half, basically," she said bluntly.

Cleo winced. "That…I don't really know how to say much beyond 'I’m sorry', but I can't help but think you'd want more of an explanation from Killian than from me."

"Yeah," Emma said, pushing aside her growing pain and swelling rage, "I do want to confront Killian. But what about August? Do I ask him? Do I tell him? Hell, can I sue him?"

Averting her eyes, Cleo shook her head. "I'd wait until I knew more, if I were you. I have to say that I might not have acquired all of my information through the most straightforward or, uh, legal methods."

Emma let out a startled laugh. "I never would have guessed, Cleo."

She smiled sadly. "There's a lot you don't know about me."

"I guess there's a lot all of us don't show each other," Emma mused, a storm raging inside her as she finally realized how much Killian had hidden from her.

[plumoh]

[HaiKise] Bright meeting

Word count: 2415

Summary: Shougo and his family are invited for dinner at the Kise’s.

Note: AO3 link. Originally written for haikiseweek16 for the prompts family & food.

One-shot: Bright meeting

There is something awkward in being invited over for a dinner that is probably twice as expensive as the food they normally eat at home. Shougo is incredibly nervous. And Kenta's behavior isn't smoothing things over with the way he's smiling and acting like a sweet and charming man. Not that he isn't kind in general, but he's too stiff and if Kenta is stiff, Shougo is bound to be as well. Only their mother seems perfectly at ease, chatting with Ryouta's parents, radiant and happy and making such a good impression on them Shougo is surprised that Ryouta hasn't made a comment yet. Maybe because he already knows that his mother is too nice for her own good.

“I've always known our Ryou-chan had a thing for bad boys,” the younger sister sings. “He's playing like a good boy but deep down he likes an adventurous life!”

“Chika-nee!” Ryouta whines. “Stop saying stuff like that!”

Apparently this isn't the first time it happened, and strangely enough it doesn't surprise Shougo despite the fact he has just met his boyfriend's sisters. The younger, Chika, seems closer to Ryouta's personality than the older one, Akemi. Well. At least they all share beautiful physical features, with perfect and smooth hair of a blonde hue that would make the sun jealous. Why is this family so pretty?

Akemi chuckles and pats her brother's head. She's sitting on his left, while Shougo sits on the right, and Chika faces directly Akemi. The table is still full of food, as if everyone is way too engrossed in their conversations to properly eat what is on their plate, even though it looks delicious as hell. Somehow Shougo can't see his boyfriend cook all this.

“Well, he has good tastes,” Akemi says. “And Shougo is very respectful. Too bad we couldn't meet him sooner.”

At this Shougo can't repress the snort that escapes his throat, because they really don't want to see how he was a few years ago. He likes to think he's changed for the better, or at least matured a bit, and his teenage tantrums as well as his very quick temper (quicker than now) probably wouldn't have agreed with Ryouta's sisters. Or the other way around. Whatever.

Both sisters raise an eyebrow while Ryouta rolls his eyes, and Kenta joins in by softly laughing behind his glass of water. Even his brother agrees on this, tsk.

“He was a brat, I'm glad you meet him now,” Kenta chuckles.

“Worse than a brat, you wouldn't have stood him,” Ryouta adds. “I didn't stand him.”

“The feeling was mutual,” Shougo grumbles.

Chika gasps and clasps her hands together, and Shougo can see the fucking stars in her eyes.

“A love born from dislike! Oh my god, it's like a movie! Ryou-chan you're such a cliché!”

“A cliché? What does that mean?! At least it's not love at first sight!”

Shougo honestly doesn't know if he should be offended by this comment, but considering he hated Ryouta's guts at the beginning he can't really complain. But he had a good reason to.

“I bet you're not the one cooking,” Chika continues with a smug face. “You've always been the worst at cooking among us. Do you remember that time you mistook the dishwashing liquid for—”

“Aaand that's not a necessary story!” Ryouta interrupts with a wave of his hands—he almost smacked Shougo. “You're the worst, Nee-chan!”

“What are older siblings for, do you think?”

“I can second this,” Kenta pipes up.

Shougo shoots a glare at his brother (sitting next to him), who in turn sweetly smiles at him. The bastard. Kenta seems to become more comfortable in the Kise household, and soon he's going to get sassy and tease the life out of Shougo just because he can, and then his mother will catch wind of this and join him in what will be dubbed 'the Delightful Embarrassing Records of Little Shougo' (and gods know how much of a troublesome kid he was). He really doesn't like the way the conversation is turning. He clears his throat, maybe a bit too loudly, and gestures to the food.

“I may be the one cooking at home, but I sure can't prepare all that. I know basic stuff.”

“Oh, you know, even though food can win hearts, I'm sure that meals cooked with love are the best!” Chika squeals.

Does she ever stop?

“Chika, be nice,” Akemi reprimands, but her voice lacks any kind of actual scolding.

Chika tries to look sheepish, but her excitement is way too overwhelming for her to conceal completely, and even Ryouta starts to get really annoyed at all the teasing, if Shougo can read his pout correctly. Families meeting for the first time seem to be lively but also really painful if you don't steer the conversation in the right direction. But Shougo is relieved, or jealous, or both, he doesn't quite know what he's feeling, because he's glad Ryouta's family doesn't hate him and gets along with his mother and his brother. Then he thinks that the same scenery could have been depicted in his own house if his father has stuck around. He quickly represses the thought, though, because he's not here to contemplate the what ifs of a life that clearly wasn't his, and he eats a piece of tofu to distract himself.

“Well, I'm just happy we get to meet the boyfriend our baby brother has been dating for the last eight months,” Chika clarifies. “Take care of him, Shou-chan, alright? Ryou-chan can be a little hopeless at times, so bear with him.”

“Technically, I'm the one who looks after Shougo-kun,” Ryouta interjects with a—is that a smirk?

“I'm not the disaster who can't even remember where I put my make-up,” Shougo mutters.

“That's because you're messy and my stuff gets buried under yours!”

“I'm the messy one? Get your facts fucking straight, Ryouta.”

Kenta elbows him in the side with a quiet warning and Shougo groans. This is stupid, Ryouta's sisters aren't delicate damsels who are going to get offended by a swear word. So he elbows his brother back. Honestly, at this point it seems like everyone is trying to one-up each other with teasing and embarrassing stories from forever ago, and it started getting old thirty minutes ago.

Ryouta catches on the little interaction and chuckles, his eyes telling Shougo that this is highly amusing to him. Shougo doesn't see why but he doesn't care.

“I think we've known each other long enough to know what is annoying and what we have to bear with.”

“Ha, you admit you can be impossible to live with.”

“Well, you aren't perfect either!”

As childish as it is, Ryouta sticks his tongue out while Shougo snorts, and just like this they show what kind of relationship they have—if someone had told him he'd be bantering with Ryouta in front of their families so naturally, he would have laughed at their face and labeled them as dumb. He can't see Kenta's expression but he's pretty sure he's smiling like an idiot, and Ryouta's sisters are displaying equally disgusting happy faces, like they just witnessed the cutest shit ever. That's why he doesn't like family meetings.

“In all seriousness, it's nice to be able to have this dinner together,” Akemi says. “Let's hope we can keep doing it in the future, alright?”

“Yeah, Shou-chan, you can even call us nee-chan!” Chika chirps, and Ryouta chokes. So does Shougo.

“You can't say that to my boyfriend you just met!” he screams.

“And why not? Aren't you calling Kenta 'nii-chan'?”

“No!”

Listening to Ryouta and Chika talking to each other is exhausting.

Shougo turns to his brother, who flashes him a thumbs up. In Kenta language, it can mean everything and nothing, but in this particular case, it's probably reassurance, because his brother is weird and has a sixth sense for detecting Shougo's moods, telling him that this dinner is going on the right path and that they shouldn't have worried.

“You were the one who looked constipated at the beginning,” Shougo points out.

“Like you can talk,” Kenta replies with a smile.

***

After two more hours of eating and bonding over all kinds of stories, Shougo can finally breathe and get away from the incessant chatting of Chika (she's worse than Ryouta and that is something he didn't think possible at all). He is sitting on the couch, considering asking his mother if she wanted to leave since she looked tired, but suddenly the space next to him sinks and when he glances at it, he meets Ryouta's radiant face.

“Did you like the dinner?” he asks softly.

Shougo shrugs. “It wasn't bad. The food was good. Your sister is fucking annoying though.”

“Yeah, she can be... overwhelming.”

“And you're the one who says it, I can't believe there is someone worse than you.”

Ryouta rolls his eyes and scoots closer to Shougo, who grumbles but doesn't move away. For a few seconds they don't say anything, the faint voices of their siblings carrying over from the kitchen, while their parents are still seated at the table talking. Shougo thinks he didn't show much of his true self during the evening, too occupied with how comfortable the Kise household is; it will certainly bite him in the ass in the future, and he doesn't know if he should care or not, but right now he decides there are no consequences.

“To be honest I wasn't expecting it to go that well,” Ryouta chuckles.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Exactly that, I was afraid you'd spout out some crap and my family would think you're some asshole or something.”

Shougo stares at Ryouta, face blank.

“Have you met me?” he deadpans.

What kind of question is that? It was extremely stupid and borderline smack-worthy, but Shougo figures that he should restrain himself if he doesn't want to see Ryouta's fucking smug face.

Ryouta's lips curl into a smile, nothing telling him that he's mad or satisfied, there's just this ridiculous content air around him.

“They saw our matches in high school.”

Shougo doesn't know what he was expecting. It's a given families watch the games, because basketball, as far back as he can remember, has always been a constant in their lives, even more so for someone like Ryouta who barged into this world without being invited. Shougo isn't surprised, nor is he particularly upset, so he looks at Ryouta, waiting for an explanation.

“I did tell them you somewhat changed, and that we fixed things. Doesn't mean they weren't worried. But I guess that eight months are enough to show them we're getting along, now.”

Ryouta doesn't wait for Shougo to say anything back, and pokes him on the nose like the child he is, which earns him yet another grumble from Shougo accompanied by a low “what the fuck”.

“Chika-nee wanted to give you the shovel talk, just so you know” he laughs.

“As if I couldn't handle some shovel talks, give me some credit Ryouta,” Shougo mutters.

“I know you can handle it!”

As if on cue, Chika comes back in the living room, pretends she wasn't eavesdropping (Shougo recognizes the look of someone trying to act innocent and miserably failing), and grins at them.

“Since you're Ryou-chan's boyfriend, don't hesitate to come to us if you need help with anything, alright Shou-chan?”

“Yeah,” Shougo answers as flatly as possible. “Even if I don't ask people for their help.”

“You'd be surprised to know that one day you're going to need ours!”

That sounds very ominous, judging by the expression Chika wears, so Shougo mumbles a “whatever” to drop the subject. In all seriousness, he knows that Chika is the kind of woman who doesn't let anyone walk all over her and means every word she says; Akemi looks more subdued, but she without a doubt shares the same determination as her siblings. A Kise thing, probably.

“Time to go,” Kenta announces, shooting a knowing look towards their mother.

Shougo nods, and gets up, with Ryouta following suit. They head directly to the entrance, letting Shougo's mother and Kenta saying goodbye first. Akemi though stops them, quietly drawing their attention while Chika and the parents are occupied. She smiles softly at Shougo, while Ryouta just shrugs (did a fucking silent conversation occur in the span of two seconds).

“Chika has said everything that needed to be said, I think,” she begins. “But I'm still the big sister, and I know what happened a few years ago. So Shougo, I hope you know full well what you're getting into.”

And at last, Shougo loses it and bursts out laughing, to both Ryouta's and Akemi's confusion. This isn't the quiet type of laugh that fades after the initial reaction, this is the one that makes the stomach hurt and the throat close up at each intake of breath because it's just so unexpected, or too expected, and somehow Shougo can't help but think the situation is hilarious.

“Holy shit,” he wheezes. “The sisters are scarier than the brother.”

Shougo, of course, doesn't take their threats lightly because he'd be a dumbass for doing so, but having the two sisters telling him to be on his best behavior strikes him as kind of amusing, and maybe a bit ironic.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he says, still laughing. “I doubt you'd need to make an intervention.”

“Well, I hope so,” Akemi replies, a bit perplexed, but she doesn't make further remarks.

“Shougo-kun can be rude, but don't mind him, that's how he is,” Ryouta pipes up.

“Shut up.”

Akemi shakes her head at the exchange, and though Shougo can now see the doubts that are still plaguing her mind, he thinks that perahps it's best she doesn't trust him right from the start, given his history. He will be able to prove her wrong, that way.

His mother and Kenta join him in the hallway, both sporting smiles. There is a promise of a next time, at the Haizaki's though, and that makes Shougo quietly guffaw because like hell Kenta is going to step into the kitchen to prepare any dishes—the only thing he'll be allowed  to do is wash the vegetables.

They leave the house, the image of a bright home burned into Shougo's mind. Well, he won't be opposed to the idea of getting used to so much light.

[polystumbles]

Diary 7/31/2016: Jamming.

I head over to Z’s and walk in to her wearing a super cute dress. Fuck yeah summer! She loves her halter tops, showcasing those perfect shoulders . With good reason. It works for her. However, she is having a low energy day and kind of sleepy. So I get right to planning a project while she slowly moves. I plan a project for the apartment. We’ll make miniature shelves and we’ll encode a message in them! Z doesn’t quite see my vision for it. In fact, she’s asleep when I come up with my plan: I used morse code to create the shelf pattern, spaced out the shelves, Each dash becomes a shelf. Each dot, to be determined. The encoded word: Lady Grey. She won’t know the code until the end. But I stenciled out the positions on the wall. I see it coming. Not all of it, but I have a vision of where it will go. Tiny mementos of the kind she has collected in this little rainbow covered clear box, instead on display. Photos of loved ones and loved events. It’s going to be unique and ours. 

BUT at times this morning, I laugh at it the non-collaborative nature of it all. On paper this is probably a totally boring date but now I have a vision of what it will be there is no stopping it. She’s not sure why I laugh, but in part its also because I’m nervous about what is probably one of the biggest projects we’ll undertake in decorating this apartment.

We run out to home depot to pick up the supplies. Is she bored? Maybe, but definitely tired, the two aren’t mutually exclusive. $70 later (she’s surprised a simple wood project can cost so much) we have everything, head home, and make dinner. 

Over tofu, veggies, rice, Z admits that perhaps this weekend was too much packed into one. I wonder if she and Duane had been up late or had walked around a ton as seems to be there thing. But rather she mentioned that she stayed in. Had things gotten raucous? Had she broken things off? I was careful to let her continue talking at her own pace. She seems careful not reveal a thing. She has in the past seemed almost embarrassed at not connecting with others. I’m somewhat laughing inside at the range of possibilities and how little I know, she could have either had sex for hours or broken up with someone. I didn’t know what kind of support to give or what kind of reassurance to need…looking back I find that a special kind of comical. Last week, she had let out two cryptic comments, “I’m dating quite enough,” at the offer to attend a Poly event, and “I’ve got enough dick” on another occasion. (Did she really say that, I’ve got it noted…lol… but it seems out of character!) The only thing I know is that if she has had sex with Duane, she is to let me know before we make love again. It’s procedural really, just a reassurance check that they used protection well, and if I need to do anything else to protect myself, and therefore Amy.

We cut the wood, sand the cuts, and prepare for staining. She’s so cute now with safety goggles, a flower dress and her bosom overflowing the halter top. We prepare for painting next and…

I mean, “you can’t get any paint on that dress!”

So I remove it.

“Those jeans are new aren’t they,” she says.

As she unbuckles my belt.

Keeping her hands at her side she reaches in a sucks my cock from her knees. She is the using the change of angles to change the sensations masterfully. But I don’t want to cum this way. It’s one of those blow jobs where you know, if you cum, you are done. There is no coming back. I turn her around and fuck her from behind. I lean in close, because either my cock is big, or her cervix is riding low — but I’m in too deep. I grab her hips as I enter, and watch as she is both wet and slick, and gripping my cock with all the concentration she can muster. I don’t last long. I can’t last long, and in 10 minutes I’m cumming on her back. She bends her torso across her legs, her arms outstretched. He body looks like cello: hips flared, thin waist, gradually increasing to her song shoulders, and together we just made music.

She lays her body across her legs, bending in a prone position. her body looks like a cello, hips flared, thin waist up to her shoulders and out arms slightly outstretched as she recovers. Eventually, we make it as far as staining the wood shelves. Several coats. It is coming together fabulously. I hit the shower and remove the paint from body.

To my surprise, Z is turned on in bed. Her gentle, slight kisses, playful plucks at my strings, deepen in timbre and linger like those bass notes drawn slow over that cello. I’m soon exploring her body with my hands, and run my finger around the outer edge of her labia, letting her desire build do the work, listening to the tuning of her notes. Eventually, I climb on top and slowly enter, almost just to listen to her moans. Only occasionally do I reach up to kiss her, but yield again to the sound of her deep pleasure and keep her lips closer to my ear than my own.

I vary my strokes little as it seams that the rhythm itself is working from the start. The composition writes itself. We jam for a good while, maybe a whole hour in this session, most of it spent deliciously grinding away in the same 3 basic strokes. Soon after she cums, and has composed her self for a moment, I let the song build to its next crescendo, rapidly fuck her harder and faster. With a final splash on the timpani of her hips and ass, I collapse on top of her almost gasping. I feel her body still trembling post separation. I sit beside her and take her pussy in my hand. Grasping with a bit of steady firmness as her legs and body continue to quiver involuntarily. I hold her as the waves pass, the sweat dripping form my body. The echoes of our music, in the now less occupied chamber.  

I lay there with one thought: there is nothing like us, not sexually. Perhaps at all. When we’re in sync, there is no sexual connection like this. I mean its true in a technical sense–every connection unique– but I mean something else. I’m not afraid of others she dates because this, this is our art, this is our truth. That’s is not a knock on Amy or any other partners I’ve had. That part of my life will be wonderful again. It’s just different. This morning Z was unhappy, tired, and sad. Now she is devoured, delighted, and quivering in my hand. I have an effect on her. It is demonstrable. She has an effect on me it is demonstrable.  There is something rewarding in knowing that this moment exists, and it is real. That we are real. I don't need to worry about anyone else changing that.

The next morning, l pick up after myself, the now dry shelves are not yet mounted and yet I decide to leave them on the floor.  I’m reminded of picking up after myself carefully for many years in my poly practice, as if trying not to leave a mark on a partners life. I would take even used condoms back home with me. This time I am home. Another home, but home, and heading home to my other home. No sense in rushing to pick up the shelves – this time I know I’ve left a mark, and the mark is indelible.

[billybennight]

All Right Reserved Billy Bennight Photography

Living in LA has its advantages and this week here’s my accounting of cool things that happened. I’m a big fan of being active during the week because it offers smaller crowds, eliminates amateurs and offers greater intimacy with new acquaintances and friends alike. The larger the event the less promising the possibilities has been my experience. This will be a regular occurring write up in my Extravagant Behavior blog.

Monday found me at the Residence of  Belgium for drinks and bites mixed with a cultural and history lesson from the Consul General of Belgium, Henri Vantieghem, sponsored by The Los Angeles Press Club. The dress recommended for the evening was “Smart Casual” and I found myself in Hancock Park outside the residence with a smart look around 5 pm. Henri welcomed all of us in a formal and cordial way. He started to inform us of the interesting history that precipitated the state of Belgium and offered highlights on what makes his country unique in European history.

After his enlightening talk, we were all invited to the garden and pool area of the residence for beautifully presented light bits and beverages that reflect Belgian culture and tastes. From the bar, I chose the Chimay presented in a Chimay branded glass. The was a cauliflower soup presented in a shot glass, baked mussels with herbs and tasty brazed steak cubes. I had a number of interesting discussions where I moved from porch to pool. On my second visit to the bar, I happened to run into Mario-Max Prinz Zu Schaumburg-Lippe as I was about to order my beer. It’s been a while. We engaged in pleasantries and our mutual interest in red carpet events. Of course, Prince Mario-Max is often on the other side and the subject of the red carpet step and repeat activities. After that, I returned to my poolside table to continue my talk about men with women. There are secrets and opinions women will share with a sympathetic male that most men will never hear because they are too busy being “men” being controlled by the penises. Penises never negotiate subtle and nuanced conversations well and rarely take other’s feelings or thoughts into consideration. It was a satisfying end in this phase of my evening.

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My next move was to the private media parté at HATCH Yakitori + Bar at The Bloc in DTLA for some progressive Japanese cuisine. I arrived in my Lyft to the side of the main entrance of The Bloc. There’s this staircase you can slip through and descend via an escalator that ovoids prying eyes for a discreet entrance and exodus from the establishment. I arrived in a quiet seductive manner and the festivities were in full swing when checked in. Inside it was crowded, buzzy and energized with foodie frivolities with bites and beverages, cameras and phones mounted to capture moments of food ecstasy and cocktail provocations. Over at the end of the bar was Executive Chef Daniel Shemtob, under amber heat lamps, with torch in hand searing the special A5 Nigiri Wagyu Beef on a bed of sticky rice. Chef Daniel set ablaze those tasty morsels of expensive Japanese beef for everyone who made it to this grand performance of culinary ecstasy in DTLA. Fire, food, and libations dominated the rest of my evening that included: Hamachi, Avo Tuna Toast, Agedashi Tofu, Black Karaage Chicken, Chicken Meatball with Egg Yolk Stick, Thigh and Green Onion Stick, Mushroom Party Stick, Pee Wee Potato Stick, and Pork Belly Stick. These delicious bites were paired off with a curated Sake List, selected premium Japanese Whisky, and various Japanese Beers. Of all of these goodies, I had the Chicken Meatball with Egg Yolk Stick, Mushroom Party Stick, Pork Belly Stick, and A5 Nigiri Wagyu Beef. These bites were interspersed cocktail moments with the Matcha Highball, Mangorita with 2 shot of Saki: one was unfiltered in a pearl-ish white and the other clear. Both were not aged and delicious. The Chicken Meatball with Egg Yolk Stick was pure Japanese ecstasy and A5 Nigiri Wagyu Beef “TDF”! the Toward Chef Daniel shared his thoughts and aspirations for HATCH Yakitori and the experience he wanted to have people enjoy.

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More After the Break

The party reignited Thursday with a special grand opening rooftop party at the Santa Fe Lofts. I arrived at dusk with the party already a couple of hours old with DJs spinning people swinging in the midst of cocktails and bites. I just can’t say no to a festive gathering that synergistically pulls together food, drink, music, and the arts. James Peter Henry transformed the Santa Fe Lofts’ rooftop with lively murals created by him. There was a fun deck that offered a place for the DJ and a delightful 280 view of Los Angeles, a place with sofas and fire to warm yourself in the evening air and rooms where James Peter Henry canvases could be viewed in a gallery fashion adjacent to a small kitchen where the bites were being prepared. It was a comfortable embracing atmosphere designed space where you could dance, explore or find a place to rest. It so happened with all of these good things swirling around I ran into some of my compadres Art critic Shana Nys Dambrot and clothing designer Victor Wilde. It’s always good to see friendly faces to exchange funny quips and giggles in the golden hour’s air atop the city.

Saturday was the beginning of the Memorial Day weekend and happily a night of Art and exploration. I’ve been fascinated by the Bendix Building for well over a year with that grand neon sign spire jutting up into the DTLA night sky glowing red over the city. I regarded it as rather inaccessible until I saw artist Osceola Rentoff‘s post about his exploits there about a month ago. Of course, I was intrigued at the prospect assailing the venerable structure to discover its secrets and explore its ancient halls. Osceola was showing one of his photographs from “High and Dry” on the second floor at the Von Lintel Gallery for the “Does Not Reproduce” show. I took that in and then decided to hop on the elevator to find more and explore further. On my assent huddled in with a group of art lovers a young gentleman, artist Mark Acetelli of 1717 Collective, suggested anyone who wanted to see the roof and his art should join him on the 10th floor. That was the cue! I continued with him not wanting to miss this opportunity. I love the LA Skyline. As a photographer I keenly interested in seeing the LA skyline from different vantage points. Mark was kind enough to open the window to allow me access to the roof just under the iconic Bendix sign as the sun was setting. The skyline is most magical at dusk. It was marvelously revelatory taking in the view of LA from east, north, and west in the glowing orange light of the fading sun. I joined Mark in his studio where he spent time explaining his latest work, a series of ghostly apprehensions he’s painting on canvas.  He referred to them as guardian but it’s a detailed and complicated concept I won’t detail here.

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I descended to the 10th floor to find Track 16 Gallery.  The first thing in sight welcoming me was this odd organically inspired ceramic piece glazed in muted tones. I really didn’t know what to expect from the initial viewing of the art. Once inside I drifted towards the back in a circuitous manner seeing more of these organic ceramic forms by artist Galia Linn for the “Evidence of Care” show. To my surprise, Heidi, Victor, and Shana appeared while I was nesting in the back nursing a Tecate beer while digesting the people and the art they had come to see. A chit chat ensued and they soon introduced me to Paige Wery of The Good Luck Gallery. It wasn’t long till we a caravaned to the lower levels together. For a while, we took in the different galleries and artist’s work passing from level to level. There is always a joy being surrounded by sharp-witted folks with a gifted vocabulary that can add insight and an unexpected twist to a thought or observations while strolling the halls of an ancient building regaled with art and creative ideas actualized. But with all good things, I was pulled away by other interest landing me in the Durden and Ray Gallery where I ran into Paul Redmond. I hadn’t seen Paul in a while given he left Getty Images for a career as a realtor selling high-end properties. We caught up a bit and talked about some of the art in the “Repeating Fragments.” show. It was a bright concoction of paintings and geometrically inspired installations. From there on out the fade was gaining its own momentum and I called it a night. If you’d like to have a full rundown on the galleries and artist showing in the Bendix Building I highly recommend Shana’s overview in the LA Weekly.

Monday was Bob Rickett’s annual Memorial Day offering with notable people within the LA underground music and art scenes. Bob hosting the shindig with a for Memorial Day with a combination of solemnity and celebration. For those of you not in the know, Bob is a driving force in both Groovy Rednecks and Talking Teason. He’s an aficionado of American music that includes the knowledge and application of this fine tradition of Americana. The musicians I’m familiar with who were in attendance were: Tex Troester, Taquila Mockingbird (LA Beat Art Editor), Jeff Boynton, Ken Huntington, and Pat Hoed. This is by no means a complete list because there were many more talented folks there than I can shake a stick at. I was joined by Lisa and it was nice to see Cake, Dave, Peter, Steve, Josefina, Rose Mary, Dirty Ed, Merry, Mona Jean, Bob, KXLU Stella, Senja and Margaret. All luminaries in their own right added to the joyful reunion and festivities. Food was plentiful and outrageously delicious. There were great beers and divine whiskeys to inebriate and lubricate.

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Peter and Denice discused LA’s music scene of the 80’s from an A&R and publicity perspective as Atlantic Records and William Morris Endeavor point of view. There were name dropping and intricate details were exposed in the table talk episode setting in the kitchen. It was an enjoyable flashback to the thriving LA music scene of the ’80s.

The music and the alcohol took over and the sun was setting in Plams in West LA. Bob and a cluster of fine musicians gather in his back yard and they unwound some of the best folk and country songs of the 20th century in a way that sparked memories of my own growing up in Blythe. My folks with other family and close friends would gather often in my youth to sing and play the songs the loved. They’d jam song after song till the very wee hours of the night. My brother and I along with my cousins would fall asleep to similar tunes Bob and his cohort of musical friends were playing in the backyard at his place rounding Memorial Day. It’s comfort music and like comfort food, it’s filling and satisfying in ways other entertainment can’t ever touch. When Lisa and I departed I left being fulling satisfied and comforted by something that goes deeper than a clever joke or a chummy conversation. It drills into my consciousness and reaches into me in ways few things can. It’s like being bathed in warmth and love on a cold winters night. It’s community and safety that affirms human dignity beyond the constructs of words.

Socially LA has its advantages and here's my accounting of things that happened. Party Party Party is a fun overview of things I cover mixed with a fine gathering of friends. This will be a regular occurring write up in my Extravagant Behavior blog. Living in LA has its advantages and this week here's my accounting of cool things that happened.

[mikeormond0003-blog]

The Continuing Implication Of Skin Tone In "The African-american Community".

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[whpnina5025956-blog]

' Ladies' Is actually Going back As A 3.

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